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T is for Tired

Where's that white flag?
Sweet Lincoln's mullet, I am tired.
Mrs. Shife left yesterday to go to a continuing ed conference and I am all alone.
Things were going pretty well until bedtime.
Kyle and Hayden decided they wanted to sleep in my bed and that was an adventure.
I felt like I was fighting Mike Tyson with all the body blows and head shots I got during the evening.
Oh, and Ms. Frizzle was in the bed also.
And she's a blanket hog.

She lays on top of them and then spreads herself out like she's in the final round of Twister.
Unless you keep your Craftsman 2-1/2 ton floor jack under the nightstand in the bedroom, you aren't getting the blankets back.
But there was a light at the end of the tunnel.
I took the afternoon off today so I thought I could probably squeeze in a nap before the kids get home from school.
Then I forgot that we were watching Nash, the almost 1-year-old golden doodle, today.
You remember Nash, right?
The last time we watched him we had an awkward moment with Kyle dry-humping pillows.
Feel free to read all about it right here.
I'm not going anywhere.
And you're back.
I tried napping but Frizzle and Nash are about as subtle as a fart in a crowded elevator.
They have been going at it the minute Nash walked through the door and it doesn't like it's going to end anytime soon.

It's like they know I want to take a nap and once I start to doze off then it's ... 
Knock down something.
Lick private parts.
Hear Mr. Shife use new and exciting cuss words.
Repeat until evening.
Happy Friday, everybody.

I will persevere. I will keep moving forward. I will be the stream.

This post first appeared on Confessions Of A Dumb, White Guy, please read the originial post: here

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T is for Tired


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