This shit has gotten real and I have no complaints. I have a good life. By no means perfect or flawless… but, good. Aside from the unwavering temptation to throat punch Daddy P. when he does his hourly walk-by boobing or grab my thirteen year old and say “What the FUCK is wrong with you?” — I’m good. All is well in my world.
Okay – so there is a few things I would to discuss. One is PTPS. Not P.T.S.D. – Post Traumatic PREGNANCY Syndrome, most commonly known as motherhood. I’m not a single mom. Well, I am .. it just depends on the day and whether or not the Army has decided to capture Daddy P. and upset the order in my house. By upsetting the order things get rather chaotic. The kids loose their minds, the dogs eat shit they shouldn’t, everything stops working, I can’t find anything and well …. it’s Daddy P.’s fault (kind of, not really).