The MotherF-cking Circus

I spent the weekend with my parents and my aunt.  Upsides were a cookout in the park, a fair amount of bourbon consumption and a very pleasant two hours at the pistol range.  Those last two weren’t concurrent, in case anyone’s concerned.    

And then there was the rest of the weekend.  The pollyanna comments about the adoption.  “Everything will work out.  You’ll get the baby you’re meant to get.” etc.  The pregnant women and little children *everywhere* we went.  Mom’s insistence that we go to the f-cking circus.  Yes.  Let’s take the woman whose adoption is on the skids and has been trying for a child for two f-cking years to the motherf-cking CIRCUS.  No kids there, or anything.  And better yet, let’s ask “gosh, I wonder where our kids are?” when we see that we’re the only group made up entirely of adults (other than the group from the local group home for the developmentally delayed.)  Y’know, I wish I knew where my family’s “kids” are.   (Or why you decided to drag four grown adults to a children’s activity.)  But I don’t.  And while you’re at it, why don’t you give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice in it?

Damn I’m glad it’s over.  Expect more rampant pissiness tomorrow in honor of the two-year anniversary of starting TTC.  Bleh.     

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