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.
Dear friend who sells LuLaRoe leggings (or is it LuluRa or LoLaRu, I can’t F’ing remember),
You’re smart. You know better than to ask me to host one of your parties. But the other day you were even more brilliant than I knew. You had leggings with scary clowns on them and for some reason you thought my hubby and I would each like a pair. HIGH-larious!!! Well, I thought they were hilarious, but I knew there was no way in hell my hubby was going to put them on. After all, they’re A. tight leggings and B. they have scary clowns all over them.
But much to my surprise I took them home and my hubby was like whatever, I’ll try them. Wha-WHAT?!! Color me shocked. Anyways, what ensued after he put them on had me soiling my own scary clown leggings I was laughing so hard.
So the other day I was having a girls’ day with my daughter Zoey and we were in the restroom together and she saw the tampon machine on the wall and asked me what it was (she sees anything with a coin slot and automatically thinks treats are gonna come out). Because I was totally unprepared, I panicked and failed miserably at explaining to her what a period is.
ME: Uhhh, that’s a tampon. When you get older, you’re gonna start bleeding out of your you-know-what and, ummm, that’s what you use to stop the blood.
Now that we have kids, vacations are not vacations anymore. They’re basically just a way to spend nine million dollars to be trapped inside a small metal capsule with two douchenuggets for hours only to arrive in a faraway land where the beds are smaller and sleep sucks donkey butt and I eat so much that my clothes don’t fit and I just need another vacation after my vacation. But for some reason every year I have amnesia and book one. Anyways, this is what I REALLY F’ing want on my next vacation:
1. I want my hubby to do all the packing. I’m happy to help out by writing a shitload of post-it notes that remind him not to forget important stuff like bathing suits and to leave me the F alone.
1. When you play any game, never ever keep score. If someone’s a winner, someone else has to be a loser, and you don’t want to teach your kid how to be a loser, do you? Losing in Chutes and Ladders has been known to cause a lifetime of failed marriages and binge eating.
2. If someone says even the smallest mean thing to your kid at school, call the principal immediately and demand they do something about the bullying or you’re going to call your lawyer. The best way to teach your kid to stand up for himself is to fight his fights for him.
Swish swish swish. What is that noise? Swish swish swish swish, WHAT is that??? Oh, wait a sec, I know. It’s my thighs. Awwwesome. Yup, my thighs make a noise when I walk. And if you don’t know WTF I’m talking about, please stop reading this now because you must be one of those women whose thighs have never touched before.
Like once I had this cute pair of black linen pants that I wore almost every day after I was preggers and I LOVED them (translation: they were the only pants that fit without squeezing my gallbladder up into my esophagus). And then one day I took them out of my closet and put them on and I must have bent over for some reason and that’s when I saw it. Nooooooooo. Two gaping holes, one on each thigh, up by the crotch. Eww, isn’t crotch like the worst word on earth? Moist crotch. There, I just made it worse. But I digress.
Dear Thing 1, Thing 2 and my hubby,
I LOVE you guys. Like I LOVVVVVVVVE you. But even though I love you more than life itself, sometimes I just need a break. Not like a six-night trip to the Caribbean (although that would be amazing). Just a wee little bit of “alone” time. Because it seems like someone CONSTANTLY needs something from me. Wiiiipe me, can I have some water, where is the milk, pick me up, is it sexy-time yet, where are my shoes, can I have it Mommy, can I, can I, can I??? Until I’m like AGGGGGHHHHHH, leave me the F alone!!!!! Puhleeeeease, can I please just have a little space? So here are ten things I REALLY want to do alone once in a while:
1. I want to sit on the toilet ALL BY MYSELF. I don’t want to hear someone body-slamming the door, pummeling each other outside, or yelling MOMMMMMMM at the top of their lungs. There’s only one thing I want to hear for seven straight minutes. My own precious grunts.
This is not political. This is personal. You see these two faces? These are the faces behind the Affordable Care Act (aka Obamacare). That’s right. My sweet kids Zoey and Holden are on Obamacare. And so are me and my husband. And I am scared shitless right now.
Years ago before Obamacare, we applied for health insurance. And guess how long it took us to get it? Six months. SIX. One hundred and eighty days of waiting to see if we would be eligible to get healthcare. And not for free. Not subsidized. We waited six months to see if a healthcare plan would accept us so we could pay full price for it.