I Have A Dream

I have been asked countless times, especially since being pregnant, “are you guys going to have more kids?”.  Fuck no!  That is my canned response.  Their automatic assumption leads to their next question of “Oh!  So, are you going to get your tubes tied when you have this one?”.  Fuck no.  That is my canned response.

First of all, why is the default assumption that women will or should be the ones responsible for birth control, permanent or otherwise?  I have yet to encounter one person that jumps to the conclusion that my husband will be the one going under the birth control knife.  Truth be told, even my husband, during my last pregnancy, assumed it would be me.  “If they are doing a c-section, they can just do all that then, right?”, he asked.  After I killed him a million and one ways in my mind and shot daggers at him with my eyes, I sweetly informed him that he was sorely mistaken.  I lovingly explained to him that we had three children and his junk had nothing but fun on the road to bringing them into this world.  My junk and the rest of my body, on the other hand, had been through hell and back during that journey.  Now, with the fourth one on the way, I think it is about time that his junk took one for the team.

As I have sought out someone to perform this procedure on my husband, I have discovered that dick doctors are a lot less supportive of family involvement than vagina doctors.  My husband has been allowed, even encouraged, to be in the same room with me during every step of our family planning.  When I have been laid out, spread eagle, in a hospital bed, being violated seven ways to Sunday, he was there.  When I pushed for over two hours to squeeze out a screaming human larvae, the nurse kept directing his attention to the upskirt view so he could have a front row seat to all the action.  When I was strapped down to a table having a child surgically removed from my body, he was there and was encouraged to peek over the curtain to watch it all.  In each instance, he was also invited over and handed a pair of surgical scissors and permitted to cut through the umbilical cord, taking an active role.  So, pray tell me, why are these dick doctors  being so fucking weird about me wanting to take a similarly active role in this part of our family planning journey?  Here is my vision, as I explain it to them when I call:

I want to be in the room with my husband when they do the procedure, from the first shot of dick numbing medicine to the last stitch.  I want to tell him “breathe!  breathe!  Can you feel that?  Does it hurt?  Oh my god!  YIKES!!  This has to hurt!  BREATHE!!!”.  I want to take pictures.  I want the dick doctor to hand me the scissors and let me cut the “cord”.  After the procedure is complete, I would like for someone to take a picture of me posing with his newborn dick.  I am thinking I want it wrapped in a blanket and me cradling it in my hands.  I want to have a hospital gown and I want the doctors, after the procedure, to rub ink on his newborn dick and press ball prints and maybe a mushroom print on my hospital gown.  I just want it to be special, dammit!!  Why is every fucking dick doctor so uptight?  Just because men refer to them as their “jewels” does not make it true.  They are dicks.  If my husband is allowed to shimmy up a front row seat in the birthing room, inches away from the baby cannon and then handed a pair of fucking scissors to start cutting shit, why don’t I get the same treatment from the dick doctor.  It is bullshit.

I am still looking for a doctor.

An Open Letter

Dear Husband,

You are the light of my life, the heart of my heart.  After all these years you still make me laugh more than anyone else can and you still make my heart go pitty-pat.  The next time that you wake me up at the ass crack of dawn while you are getting ready for a golf tournament, though, I am going to shank you.  Prison style.

You know those drawers that you don’t seem to realize CAN be closed quietly?  They can. This morning, when you were opening and closing drawers, LOUDLY, I looked over at the back of your head, lovingly, and considered pushing your face into the drawer and slamming it a few times.  But I didn’t because I love you.  After that, love of my life, you sat on the bed to put on your shoes and I am not sure if you were wrestling an alligator while putting on your shoes but you were moving the bed around like a cheap midway ride.  When I asked, “are you fucking kidding me?”, it was just my way of saying “I love you and I will miss you while you are gone.” but if that happens in a few months while I am holding a sleeping infant, I will kill you.   And, I don’t mean “I’ll kill you”.  I mean, I will stop your fucking heart.  And I don’t want to do that because it would be like killing a piece of me.

Just remember how much I love you and how much I love the family we have built together.  While you are at it, my love, please remember that I am an unpleasant bitch in the morning, after the sun comes up.  What I am capable of upon being rudely (yet, I know mistakenly) awaken prior to sunrise is unknown and I absolutely cannot be held responsible for what I may do to you, center of my world, if you end up inadvertently waking up the newest bundle of joy that we are expecting later this year.

All my love,

Your wife

The secret to my happy marriage…

I often hear people say that the secret to a happy marriage is “trust”, “respect”, “shared interests”, “spending quality time together”, etc.  Well, that is all bullshit.  Ask a divorcee.  Most will tell you that they had (or thought they had) some, if not all, of these characteristics or efforts within their previous marriage(s).  Few will say they thought they had anything but a normal, average marriage before deciding to purchase their ticket to the “Big D”.

Trust-Seriously?  Do you really need someone to tell you that you should trust the person you marry?  If you can’t trust someone, you shouldn’t be friends with them, much less have sex with them and/or commit to spend the rest of your life and possibly raise children with said person.  If you need this explained to you, please remove yourself from the gene pool.

Respect-Sure, you should respect one another.  Respect is such a broad term, though.  My husband can piss me off like no one else can and vice versa.  If I get annoyed and tell him he is an asshole or he tells me to shut the fuck up, obviously we are not being respectful but if you are willing to throw in the towel because you or your spouse lost your cool and called you a name, you need to grow the fuck up.  I respect my marriage, regardless of whether I am pissed at my husband or living in wedded bliss.  I took vows, among those I vowed to love him in sickness and in health, I vowed to love him for richer or poorer, I vowed to be faithful, I even vowed not to step on his blue suede shoes.  I never took any vow not to call him a fucking douchebag when he would pretend to be asleep and unaware of our newest infant awakening for the third time in 5 hours.

Shared interests-You can shove this one up your ass.  I am not going to even try to give a fuck about golf or Nascar.  In return, I will not expect him to give a fuck about my shoe collection or how to improve said collection.  He is also not expected to notice when I have my hair done or when I am wearing a new outfit.  As a matter of fact, it is preferential that he not notice so that I am not expected to answer any questions about spending.  Everyone is happy.

Spending quality time together-This does not take that much effort, people.  Men:  Exchanging bodily fluids does not, in and of itself, constitute “quality time”.

The fact is, people, some of that shit I listed above is important but do you really need to be told not to fuck other people or to spend time with one another?  If you do, you are doomed.  I am going to tell you the real secret.  You want a happy husband?  Here is the key:  LOW EXPECTATIONS.

-Do you have the house spotless and dinner on the table every night when hubby gets home?  Well, stop that shit.  Depending on how long you have been acting like Donna fucking Reed, it may take you a little more time to reset his expectations.

*When you do this shit every fucking day, you and your efforts get taken for granted.  It becomes expected and, most often, your husband’s expectations increase at a more accelerated rate and he has the audacity to begin expressing disappointment, like “I was hoping you would make mashed potatoes and gravy from scratch” or “this would have been better with a little more pepper.” or “is the vacuum not working today?”.  When that happens, I want you to squash the urge to slap him with the chicken breast you have hand seasoned and marinated all day and strangling him with the vacuum cord.  You have no one to blame but yourself for his inflated expectations and resulting insulting advice.  You can fix this, though.  It is not too late.  You have to decide, here and now, that you are committed to retraining him.  Men are like lumps of clay.  They can be molded and remolded.  If you let him sit for a while molded in a particular way, you may have to pound it a little harder or knead it a little longer but, rest assured, he can be reshaped.  Let tears and sex be your sculpting tools.

This house is never spotless.  Damn!  I have three kids and now I have another one freeloading in my uterus.  I pick up the living room, seemingly, just to make more room for these little tornadoes to destroy.  Guess what, if you think that I suck at housekeeping, I don’t give a shit.  If you think my floors could be cleaner, feel free to grab a vacuum.  If you see I missed a spot or 10 on my counters, grab a fucking sponge.  If you expect this place to sparkle and for me to greet you with my hair pefectly coiffed, wearing makeup and pearls, you married the wrong woman.  If I want to look nice, I will put on a bra.  That is dressing up.

If you come home and smell something burning, dinner is ready!  If not, feel free to help yourself to leftovers, make a sandwich or have cereal.

The 2-3 times a week that I do make an actual dinner, it is like Christmas for my husband.  When the kids spend more time outside on certain days and I actually get the house to look really nice, he notices.  You see, I keep his expectations low and he appreciates and acknowledges those things that Donna fucking Reed’s husband takes for granted every day.   He is happy because he has a giant hunk of delicious roast on his plate and I am happy because he can’t stop telling me what a wonderful cook I am.

This, my friends, is the key to a successful marriage.  You can thank me later.  Now, start pounding that man clay.

You wish you could just do nothing all day, like me?

I can't tell you how irritated I get when people attempt to camouflage their blatant effort to marginalize and insult me with feigned envy.  Give me a fucking break.  I am not an idiot.  If, however, you think that being a stay at home parent, one with three children, no less, is a cake walk, you have another thing coming.  The next time you think to yourself or say out loud to friend or relative that is a stay at home parent, "It must be nice to not have to work." or "I wish I could just sit home all day and do nothing, like you.", do me a favor and punch yourself in the face.  Let me walk you through a typical day of this stay at home mom:

1)When I wake up in the morning, I feel NOTHING like P. Diddy, unless Diddy is used to being gently waken by the shrill, unwavering sounds of a two year old yelling “MOM! MOM! MOM!”, demanding to be released from his crib at 7:30 AM.  Most of the time, when I walk in to release my pudgy alarm clock from his bed cage, I am slapped in the face with the overwhelming aroma of the good morning gift he has provided for me in his pants.  On a couple of occasions, he has gone that extra mile to wish me a happy day by removing his diaper and painting me a beautiful shit mural.

2)By the time I have him up and changed, the other two are up and are already fighting over breakfast or television or chairs or who is going to get what bowl.  I can ignore them for a little while but, eventually, their bickering penetrates my ignore field and I have to intervene and referee just before or by the time it comes to blows.

3) I think about doing laundry.

4)I have to stop the older two children, at least 22 times, from killing each other over whether or not purple is better than green

5)I become convinced that the youngest must have some sort of intestinal disorder because I do not remember either of the other ones shitting as often as he does on a daily basis.  Seriously.  He should not weigh this much, given his output rate.

6)I decide to do laundry and as I am heading into the laundry room, I hear a blood curdling scream and must promptly redirect my attention to peeling the youngest off of his older brother’s head, who is apparently paying the price for riding his younger brother’s alphabet choo-choo.

7)At least 10 times a day, I have to figure out why the youngest has suddenly fallen to his knees, screaming, as tears stream down his face in the middle of the living room.  It usually ends up having to do with one of the older ones having the audacity to expect him to share his crackers, popcorn, cereal or whatever other snack he is in possession of at that moment.

8) I think about doing laundry but decide I will do it later because the kids are being quiet and I want to enjoy the peace.

9) I discover they are being quiet because they have found a pack of red kool-aid and are eating it like fruit-dip with their fingers, huddled in the pantry and that kind of discretion requires a lot of quiet concentration.  My children and my floor are blood red.  It comes off the floor with  bleach spray and an entire roll of paper towels.  The children are a different story.

10) I get the kitchen clean and in the time it takes me to put the the floor towel in the laundry room and walk back to the kitchen, it is already a disaster.  The same goes for every other fucking room in the house.

11) I give up.  Fuck laundry too.  I decide I’m going to throw all the fucking clothes away and just start over with everyone’s wardrobes.

12) The little one has shit his pants, AGAIN!

13) The dogs have scavenged the last shitty diaper out of the trash and have made it their afternoon snack in my formal dining room.

14) Well, shit!  It is almost time for my husband to be home.  I think about making dinner.

15) I see the little one hunched down in the living room with his face squinched into that very familiar “I am taking a shit” expression.

16) Fuck dinner.  They can eat cereal.

17) I hear a chorus of yelling, screaming and crying and find all three children embattled into a full on brawl over the last fruit roll up.  To solve the problem, I take it and cram it in my mouth.  Now, rather than being angry and hateful with one another, they are united in their hatred of me.  That’s just called good fucking parenting/problem solving skills.

My day is filled with fights, tears and I am up to my elbows in toddler shit.  I may, one day, come and write another day in the life but, next time, I will outline a day when vomit and diarrhea with the older kids has been thrown into the mix.  Those are more fun.  I bet you will wish you had my life then, for sure!

You get to interact with other adults.  Unless you consider answering Nina’s questions as she introduces new cartoons on the Sprout channel as adult interaction, I don’t get a whole lot of that during the day.  You get to take breaks.  I can get 20 minutes of quiet but it requires me to watch Caillou or Peppa Pig, so I wouldn’t really call it a break.  My kids just will not take an interest in whether or not Maury’s guest, Jessica, finds her baby’s daddy among the 7 men she brought to the show to be tested.  It doesn’t matter how hard I try to get them invested in her story.  You can call in sick if necessary.  It doesn’t matter if I have a cold, if I am vomiting or if I have kidney stones.  My kids are tyrant bosses and refuse to grant me any time off.  You get to clock out.  I don’t.  I don’t even get a change of scenery.

Although my children are slave driving bosses.  I wouldn’t change it for anything.  Is it easy?  Hell no.  It is the most thankless job I have ever had (and, believe me, I have had a LOT of jobs).  I won’t get any bonuses.  There is no Christmas party with awesome door prizes.  No one asks if I had a good day or bad day “at the office”.  There are no health benefits or vacation time or sick days.  There is no promotion opportunities and no one is giving me a paycheck.  I am not going to be a fucking martyr by claiming it is the hardest job in the world.  It isn’t.  It can be frustrating, it can be stressful, it can be overwhelming, it can be sooo mundane but I find it nothing short of rewarding, however, don’t you dare look me in the eye and dismiss my contribution to society as invalid or effortless by insinuating or blatantly stating that I sit on my ass all day and cram peanut butter cups in my face, while watching soap operas.  Most people that think that wouldn’t make it a day in my shoes.