I don’t watch much news, but I heard that somewhere in Wisconsin or someplace not close to Texas, people or teachers or worker bees or something are striking or talking about striking or throwing some serious strikes in bowling. I tried to do some hardcore “research” on the interwebs, but instead I was inundated with large blocks of text that had me skimming over words like “socialist agitators,” “mass mobilizations,” and “leaflet.” *Yawn*
When I startled awake again, I ventured outside where Big C was hosting a very low stakes poker game. I figured a table full of “men” would have all kinds of newsy information. Before long I was being inundated by my friend Chris, AKA “Fast Facts,” spewing large blocks of verbal text, and as I tried my best to appear as if I was paying attention and not eyeing the cooler of beer I really sought, I mentally collected words like “deficit,” “retirement,” and “democrats.” Oh, and I did hear the word “teacher” in there, which was all I really came out for.
While we have no teachers or bowlers in this house, which is nowhere near Wisconsin, there is a bit of a strike going on.
It’s a strike against pants. And Rachel is the union leader. I think. I still don’t really have my newsy facts right. (Fast Facts? Where are you?)
Apparently the pants aren’t paying enough, or they oppose budget repair bills, but whatever the deal, Rachel is waging a naked class war against her pants. And it’s making me want to pull a democrat and leave the state. Upon completed diaper changes, she loudly proclaims her hatred of pants, kicking and begging me to put the pants away because these pants burn! They burn! [insert tribute to KLZ here]
When it’s time to sleep? The strike becomes vicious. The pants burn hotter. They must be removed! Picket lines form. Vicious and slanderous anti-pants signs are fingerpainted by children who cannot yet write their own names. Innocent bystanders (read: Claire) are pulled into the ranks, proclaiming that yes, their pants burn too! Mom, in a desperate attempt to get some damn peace and quiet, bargains with the strikers and their demands of reforms, or no taxation without representation, or pantless nap times.
She gives in to their demands. She’s tired. They’re persistent. And loud.
She spends that afternoon cleaning up a lot of pee and poop, doing lots of laundry, and giving baths at 3 in the afternoon. Oh, did I forget to mention that of course they know how to take their diapers off and it was only a matter of time before this came back to bite me, I mean her, in the ass? No pun intended.
And here’s where the government had the discussion about who is really in charge around here. To which Big C replied, “Fine! You’re in charge! You’re always in charge!” [defensive much?] and I had to use small words to explain that it was not a contest between me and him — it was between us and them. And we are in charge, right? RIGHT?
Well, ok, really just me because I’m a hardass who hates giving in when I know it’s something that could potentially form a bad habit or cause me to have to clean up more feces, and he’s a big old softie who lives in the moment, especially when it’s a moment that he wants to NOT deal with the kids. And because he was conveniently outside losing his $10 bankroll.
Oh the crying. The moaning. The screaming! The stuffing of pizza in the face and guzzling of beer! [That’s me. Did I mention I stress eat?] But finally the picket lines diminished and the strikers all went home. Or to sleep.
I hope this strike doesn’t last too long. I’m all out of leaflets. And pizza.