Tax Season – Holy Fuck

Tax Season is different in our house.
I know that you are panicking and experiencing all sorts of procrastination agony.
You’ve rediscovered afternoon soap operas rather than look for that envelope with the receipts.
That new Oprah network has some mesmerizing shit on it if instead you should be putting together your mortgage interest for the year. (Which is painful, cuz if you’re like us, you are paying interest on a HOUSE THAT ISN’T WORTH SHIT any longer. But I digress.)
And all of a sudden you’ve taken up a new zeal for housecleaning. I understand that speaks to how agonizing it is to put your money shit together and FACE FACTS.
But in our house? This is Hell Week. Except Hell Week lasts 8 weeks.
This is the time where I get to experience the intimate joys of being a single parent.
Cuz Daddy? He’s doing the Green Lightshade Thing. Every day. And night.
And me? I’m trying to hold everything together and “not bother Daddy.”
By hold together? I mean yell at the kids more, wish I hadn’t gotten that third dog, try to be in two places at the same time. (Ballet/Soccer; Band Concert/Dance Rehearsal-- you get the picture.)
There is weeping. “I miss Daddy.”
And it appears the children miss him also.
It is long hours.
When my youngest wrote a story about the seasons for school, she wrote that there are five seasons: Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall and TAX Season.
For her? It is an immutable Law of the Universe that for a couple of months a year, everyone hunkers down with a siege mentality and goes without sleep. (But not without nourishment. Oh No! There is PLENTY of BAD FOOD CHOICES being made!)
But Hey! This is OUR season. You know, the season where we make the money to pay our bills.
Honey? I’ll see you on the other side…The other side of April 15th.