After coming off my happy pills back at the beginning of this year, I think I’ve adjusted fairly well. No major issues to speak of, but, I have noticed a tad bit of anxiety, as of late.
Rationally, I know much of it is my new schedule, and the stress of school, but, some of the anxiety was manifesting over little shit.
Not just one cup…I’m talking no less than 20 cups, that would be on my kitchen counter by the end of every day.
I SWEAR it seems that my children get a new cup, for every fucking sip of water they ingest! They must, for that is what the evidence shows at the end of every day, when my dishwasher is filled to the brim with a myriad of cups from around the globe.
Some from Dickies barbecue down the street, in all shapes and sizes. Kids cups from Chili’s. Cups from Fuzzy’s taco stand. Cups from Bourbon street that’s original purpose was not for milk. Cups from a Cowboy’s game back in 2002. Cups from Chuck E. Cheese. My favorite cups from Rudy’s barbecue that we collect on our trips to Austin.
All of them would be strewn across the counter by nightfall. While I did, just a smidge, appreciate the nostalgia of it all, the daily plastic trip down memory lane…mostly it boiled my blood.
I would rant and rave like a lunatic, day in, and day out…”ONE CUP…ONE CUP…YOU ONLY NEED ONE CUP FOR A DAY. MAYBE TWO DAYS. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS SANE AND HOLY…ONE FLIPPIN’ CUP PER PERSON! THAT’S FIVE CUPS…I JUST PICKED UP THIRTY-FREAKIN-SEVEN CUPS!! WORK WITH ME PEOPLE!!”
They would listen to me wide-eyed, nod in agreement, and go get a cup out of the cupboard and get a drink of water.
On top of it all…the fights that would break out over one of the any given 37 cups that were on the counter.
“MOOOOOOOOO-OM. He just drank out of my cup!”
“NO I DIDN’T! The little Dickie’s cup is mine. Yours is the big one.”
“NU-UH!! Ave’s is the Fuzzy’s cup, YOURS is the big Dickies cup!”
This would go on for seemingly hours. These cups were causing chaos, and I was at my breaking point. I had to do something to save my sanity. So, I bought these…
No more fights. No more fusses. No more eighty seven cups on my counter each night. Now, there are only these three. These three aesthetically pleasing cups.
I’m an idiot for not thinking of it sooner…it’s just that no one tells you that you’re at risk for offin’ yourself over plastic flippin’ cups, when you become a mom!