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.
We ran out of toilet paper. Yayyyyy! Time for a Target run!
It was starting to drizzle a little so thank God for Target’s complimentary valet parking. I got that new guy again, the one who looks like Channing Tatum. His chest was extra glisteny in the rain today and super tan. I guess running around topless in the reflective parking lot every day can do that. He winked at me and said he would vacuum out my car while I was inside shopping. I think it’s hilarious that I used to think parking next to the cart corral was rock star parking. Not.
So my son and I headed inside and straight to the daycare. One of the British nannies came over immediately and took Holden inside and handed me a claim check ticket to pick him up later.
We are rich. With happiness. No, I know that’s not what you meant when you looked at the new house two doors down from us and said you wish we had THAT house. Duh, I mean look at it. It’s like three or four stories with a three-car garage, practically has turrets, and it’s MASSIVE. Its bonus rooms have bonus rooms.
I see a house like that and I get heart palpitations thinking about what the utility bills must be, but I know people who build houses like that don’t have to worry about utility bills. And if they do they can just sell their Tesla or their Louis Vuitton luggage or rent out a room in the East wing.
Dear woman who’s deciding whether or not to breastfeed,
So here’s the thing. I don’t give a rat’s butt what you choose. It’s none of my business whether you decide to feed your little poop machine via silicone nipples or skin nipples. You’re gonna bond with your baby no matter what and they’re gonna be a-okay if you give them formula. But before you decide, there are actually a few other reasons to breastfeed you might not have thought of, reasons I liked doing it.
Let’s start with the most obvious one. It’s FREE. I mean call me a cheapskate, but I’m the woman who likes to brag when she gets something for half price at TJ Maxx. Check out my breastmilk. It was 100% off and I got it from God. Plus, I feel like starting your babies out on free beverages is a great way to teach them to appreciate the important things in life, like complimentary drinks and free samples at Costco.
There it is. Sitting there. That blank line. With two of the most annoying words in the history of popularity. Friendship request. Yup, I was filling out the camp forms last night and there was that line staring up at me. And it says it has to be reciprocal. Oh shit, I better make that totally uncomfortable phone call to Betty McBoopypants and ask her if our kids can request each other. I feel like I’m in the 9th grade again asking a boy to go with me to Homecoming.
ME: Hi Betty, so I have a question. Do you maybe want to write down our girls for the camp friendship request?
OMG, so last week I was scared. Shitless. My period was two days late. Not really but stupid February only has 28 days and it threw me all off. And for 48 hours I was convinced I was preggers. For the first 47 hours I panicked, but by the 48th hour I had convinced myself that having a third baby was going to be a wonderful miracle. I went to bed smiling and thinking about our new family, but alas, I woke up in the morning cramping and spotting… and screaming hallelujah from the rooftops.
ME: I’m not pregnant!! I’m not pregnant!!! Hallelujah, I’m not pregnant!!!
Zoey is pissed. Pisssssssssed. I got to order a bunch of stuff from thredUP (the most badass online consignment store!) and I only bought stuff for myself and I didn’t get anything for her. How dare I think about myself for the first time in seven years!!
And now she is insisting that I share it all with her. “Uhhhhh, no, it won’t fit you.” But she’s claiming it doesn’t matter and that it’ll look great on her anyway. I’m like duhh, because everything looks great on a cute seven-year-old girl. Seriously, I can order her 9,000 pairs of jeans online and every single one of them will look good. Grrrr, it’s not fair.