1. I would be thankful if you DON’T judge me for using disposable plates. Yes, I know I got perfectly good china for our wedding, but I wanted to spend an eternity with my hubby, not an eternity standing at the sink washing dishes.
2. If you notice I’m wearing maternity pants, I would be thankful if you don’t go blabbing to the whole world that I’m preggers. I’m not. The only baby I’m pregnant with is a massive food baby that I’m making sure there’s room for.
3. If you’re bringing wine to dinner, I would be thankful if you brought two bottles. One for dinner and one for me. And if you’re too cheap to bring two bottles, bring two boxes.
I am sorry. Like really REALLY sorry. I don’t know what is wrong with me. One minute I’m pouring Cheerios into a bowl and the next minute I’ve turned into some scary-ass hybrid of Stephen King’s Cujo and Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.
It’s like there’s this little switch inside my brain or something and all morning I’m holding my shit together, holding my shit together, holding my shit together, and then one of you won’t stop blowing bubbles in your milk or won’t brush your teeth or won’t put your shoes on and suddenly the switch in my brain flips and I go ballistic on you. I’m like, AGGGHHHHH, GET YOUR F’ING SHOES ON OR I’M GOING TO LEAVE THE HOUSE WITHOUT YOU AND YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO CHASE ME DOWN THE STREET BAREFOOT!!!!!
1. I want a plexiglass divider in my car like they have in limousines. These stupid car companies are all braggy like, “Our minivan was designed by a woman.” And I’m like yeah, brainfarter, maybe she has a vajayjay, but I’ll tell you what she doesn’t have. Two rugrats screaming at the top of their lungs in the back seat playing a game of Let’s-See-How-Close-I-Can-Put-My-Finger-To-My-Sister’s-Face-Before-It-Annoys-The-Crap-Out-Of-Her-And-She-Starts-Screaming-Like-A-Banshee.
2. I want a law that says fathers are legally required to take care of their newborns for the first nine months of their lives. To make up for the fact that we had to deal with them for nine months in utero. And in vagino. I mean no, I didn’t have to change any diapers while I was preggers but I did have a hemorrhoid the size of a soccer ball. So unless Mr. Baby Daddy’s giving me permission to shove a soccer ball up his ass, he’s changing this poop machine’s diaper for the next nine months.
So yesterday I had CNN on and I usually try to turn it off when the kids come in because it’s full of scary shit like Syria and Isis and gun-wielding maniacs, but it was talking about the presidential candidates so I left it on and the kids started watching. Now Zoey is ecstatic about the possibility of a woman becoming president. EC-F’ING-STATIC. I don’t think she cares if it’s Hillary Clinton or Carly Fiorina or Miss Piggy or Doc McStuffins. As long as the leader of the free world has a vajayjay, she’s gonna be bouncing off the walls with excitement.
Now please don’t get your panties all in a wad because you think I’m suggesting you vote for someone. I’m not. I don’t care who you want to win. Or don’t want to win. I’m not even saying who I’m voting for. But at this point it’s impossible not to think about the repercussions of a woman winning. I’m not talking about political repercussions. I’m talking about social repercussions. Because there’s a big F’ing difference between this:
So this is how it all begins.
ME: What’s the matter, buddy? Did you have a bad dream?
HOLDEN: My tushy itches.
ME: Awww, I’m sorry. In the morning I’ll take a look.
I mean yeah, I know I should probably take him into the bathroom right now but it’s 3AM and I don’t really feel like waking up completely and looking down the eye of the bunghole. So I convince him to go back to sleep, and by the time we wake up I forget about it.
And then it’s the next night.
So I know some of those Muffy McPerfects are all braggy braggy that they never let their rugrats watch TV, but not me. No way no how. Because TV F’ing rocks and I let my kiddos watch TV all the time. Wanna know why? Here you go. I have conducted my own scientific study and figured out a bunch of ways that TV is actually GOOD for your kids:
1. Guess how long it takes the average kid to poop on the potty. Sixteen minutes. Guess how long it takes the average TV-watching kid. Two. Yup. Because that’s how long commercials last. And if you’re not back fast enough because there’s a logjam, the show must go on without you.
So I know this is going to come as a complete surprise to you, but I’m like a total Super Mom… when someone else’s kid is at my house. I don’t know why, but for some reason when someone else’s rugrat comes over to play, I feel this crazy need to impress them. Maybe it’s because I want them to tell their mom what a kickass mom I am. Maybe it’s because I think they’ll like my kid more if they have a great time. Or maybe I just want to make sure they’ll want to come back again to play so my kid has friends. But whatever the reason is, the second they walk through the door I turn from Big Ass Crankymom into Little Miss Niceypants.
ME (WHEN WE DON’T HAVE SOMEONE OVER): Ummm, no, you can’t have dessert because you didn’t eat your liverwurst sandwich and drink the pureed kale vomit smoothie I made and please can you just go watch some TV and leave me the F alone?
Five things that have changed since I was a kid:
1. When I was a kid, people celebrated their birthday and just their birthday. But not today’s kids. Today they’re all “It’s my golden birthday!” Or “It’s my half birthday!” I’m like, yo kiddo, there’s no such thing as a half birthday. Unless of course your head and shoulders (actual body parts, not the dandruff shampoo) came out of your mom one day and six months later the rest of you came out. In which case by all means celebrate your half birthday. By buying your mom tons of awesome presents and cake because she was in labor for six months.
2. When I was a kid, you knew exactly who won and who lost a game. But noooooo, not today. Today the kids come off the soccer field and the parents are like, “Oh, I have no idea how many goals there were. I wasn’t counting, honey. Here’s a trophy.” Because God forbid your kid finds out she lost and is sad for point five seconds until someone whips out the snacks and juice boxes. Hellllooo people, teaching a kid to lose nicely is a HUGE skill. I mean I’ve lost TONS of things in my life (cheerleading tryouts, running for the class VP, lots of soccer games) and look at me now!
Awwww shit. I F’ed up. Like I went against all my own rules and did something totally stupid and now I’m pissed at myself.
So Zoey plays soccer. Correction, Zoey puts on a uniform, stands on the field and runs around once in a while but rarely kicks the ball and is usually making funny faces at one of her friends and then the ball flies past her as I’m yelling, “Zoey, ZOEEYYY, turn around! Get the ball!!!” from the sidelines. It’s super frustrating to watch because A. I played soccer. And B. I want to be a soccer mom. Like I REEEEEALLY want to be a soccer mom.
I mean I LOVE watching soccer and cheering with the other parents and hanging out with them and freezing our tushes off together and bringing snacks and my hubby is the coach so I’m kind of like the wife from Friday Night Lights but not as tall or blonde or pretty and it’s not a kickass high school football team in Texas. It’s a bunch of six-year-olds playing soccer. And I LOVE it. But I’m pretty sure my kid doesn’t.
Okay, so the other day I went to an apple orchard with my kiddos and you’re not gonna believe what happened. And yeah, I know I posted this on Facebook the other day, but I have more to say about it now. So if you already read this, just skim the italicized story and jump down to the bold part. Okay, here’s the story.
Awww shit, I’m feeling guilty. Today we went apple picking and there was this big corn box thing there where the kids can play in all this dried corn and bury each other and dig in it and catch ebola and typhoid and shit. It’s really cool and basically great for little kiddos and big kiddos.