not my circus, not my monkeys

I had one of those fleeting "I've got everything under control! Circus smirkus! Why do I ever complain about anything? I'm so silly!" moments last week.

I loaded the boys into a cart at Walmart, made it through the store relatively quickly with .97 meltdowns about why we couldn't carry the toilet brush from the cleaning aisle around the whole store. (Gosh darn it not fun me.) Mama was happy, the toddler sloth was happy and the permanently pointing baby was happy. Winning. Definitely winning. I marched triumphantly outside to the car to find Rhett's car door left very much ajar by a Ms. Neverforgetsathang. Thankfully the suburban parking lot thieves weren't in the market for a car crusted in gold fish crackers, fruit snack wrappers and smelling of adorable toddlers. #dirtycarforthewin

Speaking of other things car related. Rhett has slight...road rage. Maybe it sounds better if I say passive aggressive road rage or maybe that just applies to the overly dramatic eye rolls Speed Racer gives other slower vehicles.

Surely nothing that was learned from any parental figures who spend 16 hours a day with them.

Surely.

And then there was this.

Trying to catch cars with his net.
We breed em...competitive.
Rhett loves to yell "blue lighting!!" which signifies the designated driver must punch the gas for an added zoom zoom letting Rhett tell the other cars he's sorry they're soooo slow. Again with the passive aggressive little boy. Judge me. Judge me hard.

Sometimes my sanity goes on hiatus, the hiatus happing usually enroute, in a car with two grumpy boys in the back seat. But really. Truth or truth...driving with kids when they are content, driving is the BEST. Windows down, a good playlist, your thoughts. Bliss.

And then you go around the bend and the sun hits the sensitive little eyes and all bliss hits the pavement. Splat. I eternally debate pulling over and resolving whatever the trauma drama is, but usually I toss whatever I grab out of the diaper bag and pray that Roar is on the radio.

These boys? Baby geniuses. Where else could they pull all the wipes out and have me be cool with it.
Or shake their snack baggies maraca style and let all the fishy crackers confetti the car seats.

The other day a bearded motorcyclist pulled up next to us. Rhett rolled his window down and yelled "Jesus! I like your motorcycle! And your muscles!" (No, no - I don't worry about him ever.)

Not my circus. Not my monkeys.

I think.
I can.