Yesterday our kids were being jerks. Little a-holes. Douchenuggets. And yes Miss Trolly McTrollypants, I know you think I suck for calling them those things, but it’s true. They were. All day long they fought and fought and fought. And the few seconds they weren’t fighting, they were constantly asking us for shit. Can I have a snow cone? Can I have a candy bar? Can I play on my iPad? Can I have a shark tooth necklace?
And my hubby and I were both like ennnnh, F that. We love you but you’re being jerkwads, and you don’t get jack shit when you’re being jerkwads. Seriously, I must have said the word “no” 9000 times. And it sucked. Partly because it sucks being angry and having to say no over and over and over again, but mostly because we’re on vacation and they should be soooooo grateful that they even get to come to a place like this, but instead they’re being ungrateful butt turds.
July 4th. It’s not about parades. It’s not about fireworks. It’s not about picnics or BBQs or long days at the pool or baseball games or carnivals. It’s about this. Celebrating this awesome country and all of the people that make it possible.
And it’s pretty F’ing amazing if you think about it. There was a small group of people who literally started this country. Like they woke up one morning and said heyyy, I have an idea, let’s start a country today. So they wrote the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution, and badabing badaboom, America! Just like that. I mean the biggest thing I ever started was a book club and even that was pretty much a failure because no one read any books and we just sat around guzzling wine and yapping. But these guys invented this amazing COUNTRY.
And every year what do we do to recognize it? We eat a crapload of hot dogs and stay up a little late to watch fireworks and we clap and yell thank you when the soldiers and veterans roll by in the parade. And yeah it’s fun. But it’s NOT enough.
1. I want to take a nice long bath. But I don’t want the bathtub filled with water. I want it filled with melted chocolate and surrounded by romantic candles so I can roast marshmallows and dip them into the tub.
2. I want an unconditional get-out-of-jail-free card. If I murder someone because they’re chewing too loudly or because they put a piece of trash in the trashcan I just emptied, I want to be acquitted for PMSIM (Premenstrual Involuntary Manslaughter).
3. I want a giant barrier in the middle of our bed so my hubby won’t bother me. Don’t ask me for sex. Don’t ask me when my period’s ending so we can have sex. And whatever you do, do NOT ask me if I can just give you a BJ in the meantime.
Dear camp directors,
I’m worried. Like seriously worried. I mean you’re supposed to be taking care of my precious kiddos every day, but I’m questioning your sobriety. Nahhh, not our bus driver. She rocks the Casbah. But I’m seriously worried that the people who are in charge at camp are smoking something.
Because I just took a look at the summer calendar and I have four words for you: WTF were you thinking? Or drinking? Or inhaling? I mean yeah, I get it, it’s super fun for the kiddos to dress wacky once a week, but what is wrong with NORMAL dress-up days? Like crazy sock day, or funny hat day, or backwards day?!
I miss my old kitchen. Shhhhhh, don’t tell my hubby. He would KILLLLL me if he heard me say that. He’d be like WTF, we spent all that money and dealt with all those headaches and you’re not grateful? No, schnookiepants, I AM grateful. I love our new kitchen. But I miss my old kitchen.
Sure it had water that was leaking behind the cabinets and probably growing mold. And it had a dining table that was in a room we never used so it was just a giant shit collector. And it had an oven that smelled like the charred corpse of a rotting dead elf. But it had something else too. It had memories. So many amazing memories.
Dear annoying million-questions mom,
Okay, so I get it. All of our kids are starting kindergarten next year for the first time. It’s new. It’s scary. But when we go to an informational session about it, do you seriously need to ask SOOOOO many questions??? The teachers are like are there any more questions, and every time we think it’s over, nope, your arm shoots up again. And again and again and again.
And do you know what I’m thinking? I don’t F’ing blame you.
So something kinda weird just happened. I popped into this store to buy a birthday present and the lady’s like can I help you find anything? So I tell her I’m just looking for a present for someone, and she says who’s it for? I say it’s for an eight-year-old girl. And she says, what’s her name? And I’m like that’s strange, is she going to show me something that’s personalized? I tell her it’s for a girl named Belle and she says oh yeah, Belle McPartypants (FYI, that’s a fake name… thankfully). Random that she knows this, but yes that’s the girl.
So I’m looking at a cute disco ball on the shelf and the lady is like, oh no no nooo, Belle already has that. Hmmmm, okayyyy. So I go over to the arts and crafts section instead and just as I’m about to choose something, the lady comes over holding a few different items.
Do you have these cups? Everyone I know has these cups. They’re from IKEA which means they’re super cheap and awesome. Except for one thing. I can’t help from paying attention to which color I’m giving to the kids. I know, I know, I’m not supposed to teach them that color matters, and I’m just supposed to grab the two cups from the top of the pile and put them on the table without thinking about it. But I don’t.
Because do you know what happens when I put the pink cup down in front of my son? A shitstorm of monumental proportions. And I can try to reason with him and tell him color doesn’t matter, but by this point he’s wailing and past the point of no return and he’d rather die of thirst. So for the past year or so, if there’s a pink cup or a purple one on top of the pile, I’ve been intentionally pulling a different one from the middle. But I think I’m going to stop. And here’s why.
I know it just seems like a stupid Hallmark holiday. But it’s MY Hallmark holiday. 364 days of the year are devoted to YOU. All I’m asking for is one teeny tiny little day. I don’t need a lot. Just a card or a slice of toast in bed. Heck, I’ll even take a slice of untoasted bread or a dandelion you picked from the yard. Something. Anything. Pretty please don’t forget. Let this be your warning. Here are ten reasons you better acknowledge me on Mother’s Day:
1. Because you ripped me a new one. I don’t care where the baby comes out, there’s not a single orifice on the human body that can fit an 8-pound bowling ball through it. Well, maybe Judd Nelson’s nostrils.