Just Stop, Universe

I saw a tweet somewhere earlier this week and I wish I knew who posted it because OMG. It said something like "Nobody works harder than a woman who doesn't like to ask for help."

I just ...

Yeah ...

THAT. Sit in that statement for a minute because it's totally and completely true.

And with that, THIS WEEK CAN GO TO HELL.

My plate is full. See also: That tweet. On top of my perpetual state of excess, May is always filled to the brim with end-of-the-school year things. That includes a series of concerts, recitals, shows, contests, and all of that. Basically, everything related to having kids is set up to have a check-in point in May. Sprinkle Mila's birthday on top of that plus the mountain that is summer childcare planning, and woof. I need a nap. I haven't even gotten into how extra everything is at work at the moment. Just ... woof.

So what did I need to have plop right on top of that plate NOW? NOTHING is the correct answer, but that's not how it's going. Instead, I have a lovely scratch down the side of my BRAND NEW car because someone forgot to look before changing lanes and uuuuugh.

Nobody was hurt. The damage is minor. It's still a giant freakin pain the butt that requires dealing with insurance, repair shops, and rental cars. I'll get to that in between the five dance recitals I need to facilitate this weekend, I'm sure.

Did I mention that it was my NEW car? Because it was. I have this weird thing where I prefer to be the first person to nick or chip or scratch the paint, but apparently it was not meant to be. It will get fixed, but I will forever hold a grudge that someone else caused my preeeeshuuuuus new Rogue even an ounce of pain.

Alexis, however, is DELIGHTED. There is no other word to describe her reaction to the whole thing (she was in the car when it happened because OF COURSE I was driving her to dance). Delighted. She laughed and grinned and was absolutely overjoyed.

Why?

Because she's had her drivers' permit for a while now, but I'm hesitant to let her drive my car too much for the simple reason that a 16-year old cannot possibly understand the joy that is finally buying a brand new car. Like, that's rich people stuff. Who knew I would ever be doing rich people stuff? NOT ME. Therefore, I'm a mess when she's driving my car because I'm all, "YOU DO NOT APPRECIATE HOW HARD I HAD TO WORK TO BUY THIS CAR STOP TURN LEFT SLOOOOOOOW DOWN STOP JUST PULL OVER ALREADY." She hadn't yet caused harm, and now she can safely say she won't be the first to cause harm.

It won't stop me from freaking out. Just watch.