Tag Archives: children

Mommy Martydom

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Some friends and I were chatting and the the above meme card came up, which has been posted around Facebook, and we discovered that we were unanimously annoyed with the implied sentiment. Listen up ladies, this isn’t the 1950′s! Your goal in life no longer has to be landing a husband so you can spend the rest of your life finding shoes to compliment your newest apron or dedicate yourself solely to dispensing little humans out of your vagina like Pez. Supposedly, the sky is the limit–okay, well the glass ceiling is the limit (wink, wink). You can go to college, and not just for your M.R.S. degree. You can have a career. You can have an active social life and go out with friends. The world is your oyster! That is, until you have a child. At that point, you are only supposed to concern yourself with all things mommy. You are allowed to go back to work BUT only if you NEED the income. I’m sure there is a meme card somewhere that says, “Sorry I quit my job and can’t afford my mortgage, I was busy being an awesome mom!”  If your combined household income affords you material purchases like designer handbags or new furniture, you’re not putting your child first. Awesome moms don’t care if the garage apartment is furnished with fabric covered crates, as long as she can spend every waking moment staring at the fruits of her womb. What do you mean Jane called and wants to have a girl’s night out? You’re a mommy! Unless Jane is wanting to meet up at mommy and me yoga or the La Leche League luncheon, what is the point? Don’t you know, when good mommies have babies, their selfish desires and personal need for things like social interaction not related to children is expelled with the placenta? Everyone knows that any mother that would be willing to abandon her child for any amount of time for selfish endeavors like work or socializing with friends or, dare I even say it, imbibe in an adult beverage with other adults is negligent, if not completely unfit.
Here is my confession: This may come as a total shock to some of you but being a mom, in and of itself, does not always make me feel completely fulfilled and blissful. I know that the sanctimommy handbook says that I shouldn’t want anything beyond birthing, breastfeeding and wiping shit from a litter of baby asses but, for some reason, I need to get away from time to time. As much as one would think that watching the school themed episode of Blue’s Clues for the 14th time today would never get old. It does. I know it’s hard to imagine that explaining to a toddler for the 20,134th time why poop goes in the potty and not in his pants could ever get annoying but, believe it or not, it does. I know when I tell people that the wake up, make breakfast, nap time battle, house keeping, bath and bed time routine can get monotonous and mundane, they stare at me in utter disbelief. Alas, I don’t find it as riveting as other moms claim. Look, I love my children. I’ve never loved anything more in all my life. I would literally give my life for any one of them without a moment’s hesitation. They make me laugh every single day. At times, though, they make me consider which kitchen gadget would be best suited for rendering myself completely deaf. That thought ultimately always leads me to my electric wine opener, at which point I reconsider because it is a bad ass wine opener and I’d hate to ruin it so, instead, I decide to call a friend or two and put it towards its intended use.

Wake up and smell the mimosa! Achieving awesomeness in the mommy department doesn’t require women to sacrifice friends and a social life. I can be a great mother and a great friend. I can be a good mother and still have a social life. If your cup of tea is spending every  moment of every day holding or hovering over your children and your idea of socializing with friends is instagramming your latest dinner creation, who am I to judge? If you aspire to be the “perfect mom”, good luck with that goal. A little secret, though: There is no such thing.  I’ll settle for being a pretty good mom, well, most of the time. Sometimes, I am just an “okay” mom. Whether I’m tired, irritated or, at times, overwhelmed, I have my bad days. Usually, I find it is quickly cured with nothing more than a couple of phone calls or texts to decide who’s providing the porch and who is bringing the wine. I like to spend time with my friends. These nights allow me to decompress. I get to be around adults. I get to talk about adult things. Our drinks don’t need to be punctured with a tiny straw; they need cork screws and everyone can pour their own. A night with the girls is the best and cheapest therapy available. We open a bottle of wine or four and talk, gossip and laugh. Truth be told, very little of our conversation centers around our children now that I think about it. We may tell a funny story or two about something they said or did but then it is on to the other topics like husbands and the latest gossip.  Stories will be told about husband fights and we’re going to tell each other when we we’re on the right side of the fight and totally wrong and acting like a spoiled ass. We drink, we laugh, we curse, we vent, we bitch. Karaoke is often involved, even if we are just singing along at the top of our lungs to someone’s play list. Usually, when I get home, my cheeks are almost sore from laughing and, somehow or another, my children are sound asleep, oblivious to and unfazed by my adults only play date.

Girls night at my house with some of my favorite bitches

Moms: There is nothing wrong with you if you want to spend time away from your children. Being a great mom doesn’t require you to sacrifice your identity as an individual. I am a mother but that is not the only thing that defines me. I am more than just a mom. These times, with my friends, serve as a reminder of that. We support one another through everything; the trials of parenting, fights with our husbands, losing a member of our wine gang and my best friend, Misty, to ALS.  We can’t always drop what we’re doing and meet on the patio but we have all proven our ability to one another to come through in a pinch. At the end of the day, these girls and the time we spend together centers me.  My marriage and my family are my top priorities but I also make my friends a priority. I am actually a much better mother because I have them in my life. Is there really any such thing as having too much support? I am a good mom.  Having and spending time with friends, doing things that don’t revolve around my children, doesn’t change that. I’ll go so far as to say it makes me a better mom.

One of our last girls’ nights all together with Misty

My Calgon is Broken

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I have taken dozens of bubble baths over the last couple of weeks and when I open my eyes I am still sitting in my tub in my fucking bathroom. Want to know what else is in that bathroom when I open my eyes? A bunch of little people, staring me down, with questions or demands.

“What are you doing?”

“Can I take a bath?”

“Can I play on the computer?”

“Can I watch TV?”

“Will I have a big butt like you one day?”

“Your wine shakes all over when you cry.”

I can barely remember what it feels like to go to the bathroom without a captive audience.

My children can be completely occupied but they will drop everything and magically appear the moment I walk into the bathroom. They can be in a different room! With the door closed! They will appear out of thin air to demand snacks or kick my self esteem down a couple more pegs. I had figured out when Number One was a newborn that the sound of me relaxing caused children to go batshit crazy. It didn’t take me much longer to discover that children also have a psychic link to a mother’s bladder that compels them to her side anytime it is being emptied.

Number Four is adorable–light of my life and all that jazz. He has, so far, been the easiest baby of all four. It is amazing what he can sleep through, too. Number Three can raise hell, all four dogs can be barking at the suspicious presence of oxygen in the room, the television blaring, the vacuum running—none of it disturbs his slumber. Things that will wake my little angel from a deep sleep: my hand turning the bathroom doorknob, me lifting food to my mouth and the sound of me gently laying my head on a pillow. I shit you not. He will, however permit me to lay down and get some rest, so long as he is allowed to sleep at the breastaurant.. I have agreed to his terms.As much as I love Husband, I have fantasized about the part time privacy I would acquire through divorce. Ahhhh, a girl can dream.

Just Sayin’

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Things that puzzle me:

Who coined the phrase “slept like a baby” to describe a restful, fulfilling night of sleep? Did they not have a baby? Had they never met anyone with a baby? Based on my experience with four babies, the phrase makes, absolutely, no sense. “I slept like a baby” should be used to describe a restless night of sleep, that occurred in 2 hour increments that has resulted in complete exhaustion.  I move that we change the meaning of that phrase, immediately!  All in favor, say “Aye”.

My son had told me he wanted a toy vacuum. Has anyone else ever noticed that all of the cleaning toys are in the girls’ toy aisles? Up until recently, Number Three’s favorite toy was a baby doll and a stroller. He loved his baby and loved pushing her around in the little stroller. Others would shake their heads in disapproval and say, “that’s a GIRL’S toy”, to him. A statement directed at me. I know, I know. Letting my SON play with vacuums and baby dolls could have dire consequences. I mean, he could grow up and—dare I say it?–Hold a REAL baby or *GASP* vacuum!?!?! What would become of society?

Then, there is my husband. He showers for any and every plan and event. I mean ANY AND EVERY. If he is going to the store, he takes a shower.  If we are going out to dinner, he showers. If he is going outside to do lawn work, he takes a shower. If he is going to run or to the gym, he showers first. After the doing the yard or working out, he will shower again. Okay, so I get showering before going out and I get showering AFTER working outside or exercising. I have always been thrown, though, by the pre-yard work/running shower. Can anyone explain this to me? Bueller? Bueller? Even though I know it is stupid, when the batteries are going dead in the remote control, I just try mashing the buttons really hard for days, rather than take the time to just change them.

Why are people so grossed out by the very idea of tasting milk that came out of a human being but don’t think twice about guzzling liquid that came out of a cow’s tit?

Now you’re all up to date on what has been running through my mind these last few days. Anyone else have random thoughts like these?

You’re Barking Up the Wrong Tree

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If you have come here expecting to be regaled with tales of perfect children being raised by perfect parents, you are in the wrong classroom. If you have come here thinking I am going to share parenting tales that will make you feel like you are being sprinkled with skittles and unicorn piss, you took a wrong turn. I am a mother of, as of recently, four. I am a stay at home mother. Let me state, I am a stay at home parent by choice. For the record, since so many fail to comprehend satire or sarcasm, I adore the fuck out of my children. The fact that I am afforded the OPTION to be a stay at home parent is not lost on me. With that said, if you expect me to blow sunshine up your skirt and feign that every fucking second is the best minute of my life, you are going to be disappointed. Suck it.

Number One is a huge help but she is too close to being a teenager for my comfort and her attitude is a reflection of the upcoming teen years, much to my chagrin. Talking to Number Two is like talking to toast. Number Three is full blast into the terrible twos and proving that the worst is yet to come, since his response to every request is, “why” or “no”. Number Four is a boobaholic. He is tiny but, DAMN, this little boy spends more time at the tit than all my other children combined.

When you are sleeping in two hour increments, you can tell me not to bitch. When you combine that sleep deprivation with multiple children, you can preach to me about my voicing my exhaustion , much less drawing any humor from all of it.

Take a fucking joke. If you say that full time parenting is a breeze or that stay at home parents should shut up and color: get bent. If you spent any significant time with your children you would realize that parenting is not absent of frustration and, dare I say it, fucking boredom. I love my kids but day after day of Super Why and Caillou could break Ghandi. When you spend the majority of your day refereeing arguments over the last juice box or who gets to pick the next movie or who’s turn it is to play Angry Birds, let’s talk. Until then, your opinion is a “moo” point. It’s like a cow’s opinion. It doesn’t matter. It’s moo. (-Joey Tribbianni)

Stand Up to Bullying—Or Just Stand There and Do Nothing

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I had received the letter about a month ago from the school, informing me that “Stand up to Bullying” day was approaching and as a show of solidarity in the anti-bully message, the students were all to wear pink shirts.  The order form for the screen printed pink shirts was attached or students could wear their own pink shirts.  Fine.  No problem.  As the day approached, Number Two was getting very excited and informed me that he needed a pink shirt for “No Bullies” day.  I went to the store and found a simple pink shirt for him to wear and he loved it and couldn’t wait to put it on the next day.  He woke up the following morning and dressed himself in his jeans and new pink shirt and proudly headed into the school.  That afternoon, a different little boy walked into my home.  He looked deflated, defeated–just the exact opposite of the way he had left for school.  He came into the house, climbed into my lap and said to me, “all the kids laughed at me today”.

“Why”, I asked.

“They all laughed at me and teased me because I was wearing a pink shirt.”

He went on to tell me that the teacher did nothing.  My five-year old son went to school, on “Stand Up to Bullying” day, wearing the pink colored shirt that was designated for this day and was, ironically, bullied throughout the day and not a damn thing was done.  What would have been a perfect opportunity to have a dialogue about the day’s message, was dismissed and not even my son’s teacher stood up for him on “Stand Up to Bullying” day.

See, Number Two has always loved the color pink.  He has never seen it as  a “girl’s” color.  I mean, why would I tell him he can’t like a certain color because he lacks a vagina?  That is just stupid.  Psychologically, pink is a very soothing and calming color.  Number Two has a genetic disease (X-Linked Juvenile Retinoschisis) and, as a result, he is legally blind and could potentially go completely blind at any time.  If he wanted his entire room painted and draped in  pink, you can bet your ass I would oblige him.  My point is, he still doesn’t understand WHY he was teased about the shirt because he doesn’t realize that it is viewed as a “girl’s” color.

How the hell are we supposed to help our children learn to avoid being bullies or becoming bullies if the adults in charge of the main battleground aren’t participating?  I was impressed when I received the letter explaining “Stand Up to Bullying” day and proud that my children’s’ school was really taking a proactive stance.  As it turns out, though, it was just a chance sell some t-shirts.

Tell Me About the Babies, George

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Twelve days ago, Number Four arrived into the world.  He was four weeks early but no worse for the wear, at a whopping 6lbs 6oz and 19 inches.  My precious, screeching little larva and I spent four days, alone, safe in our hospital room.  Then the day came that I had to bring him home and introduce him to THE OTHERS.

This past week with him home has been a bit overwhelming, to say the least.  Number One finally resigned herself to the fact that she has another brother and her help is still the main reason I have managed to stay sane.  Number Two is completely enamored with his new baby brother.  He says “I hope our baby stays little forever” and he wants to hold him as much as possible.  He is both fascinated and puzzled by breastfeeding.  Although I breastfed his little brother for close to two years, I guess he was too young to fully comprehend what I was doing but I digress.  Several times a day, he asks or makes observations about breastfeeding.
“I don’t know how that milk gets in your boobs!”

“How did you make milk in your boobs?”

He always makes it a point to specify that the milk is in my “boobs”.  Whenever Number Four makes any hint of a whimper, he is the first to inform everyone in the room that the baby wants to drink my milk.

That brings us to Number Three.  I was actually worried about what kind of reception he would give the newest addition that would be replacing him as “the baby”.  Considering that he has practically been attached to my hip since he was born, I didn’t think he would be very accepting of this newcomer monopolizing my attention.  Much to my surprise, he is completely infatuated with his tiny sibling.  My concern has since changed to protecting Number Four from Number Three’s shows of affection.  He demands “gimme baby”, with hands outstretched.  The main problem with fulfilling this request is that his desire to hold the baby, coupled with his less than gentle handling techniques, can only be matched by Lenny’s affinity for the rabbits.  Number Three is, as well, confused by breastfeeding.  He thinks the baby is biting me.  He pats me and asks if I’m alright, then softly scolds his brother for biting and tries telling him, repeatedly, to stop.  He gives up after a few seconds and goes after whatever shiny thing has caught his eye elsewhere in the room.

So far, so good.  Four children has been an adjustment but it has definitely not been as scary as I had envisioned all these months.  I am not letting my guard down just yet, though.

My Ransom Letter

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Dear Family,

I am running away.  It’s not you, it’s me.

Okay, that is an outright lie.  It is not me, it is you.  I am not sure how long I will be gone.  Maybe an hour, maybe longer.  Really, I have decided that the answer to that all depends on you.  I am ransoming myself.

Here are my demands for the children:

  • If you look on the back of the toilet, you will notice this shiny handle.  This may come as a shock but that handle is NOT just decorative.  If you push down on it, the toilet water and anything you deposited within will swirl around the bowl and disappear down that hole at the bottom.  If you are going to drop the kids off at the pool, for the love of Pinot, flush the damn toilet!!  Just push that magic handle and it will all go away and then I won’t be forced to stifle my gag reflex every. single. time I walk into the bathroom.
  •   I know this is going to sound like crazy talk but I just want you to try to hear me out and give it a shot–stop treating the entire house like it is your personal trash can.  I am not sure if you guys just wouldn’t care if we lived in filth and squalor or if you are convinced that there is some magic maid fairy that follows you all around and picks up after you.  Whatever the case may be, you are wrong.  There is no magical force picking up the trail of shit you leave in your wake, it is me.  Even if you don’t, I do happen to wish to avoid living in a house that looks like it could appear on an episode of “Hoarders”.  CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELVES!
  • Stop expecting me to referee your arguments every 10 minutes.  I don’t give a rat’s ass if you were playing school and Sam isn’t doing his pretend homework assignment.  I could not care less if, in the course of pretending to camp, Macey put out the imaginary fire when you were roasting an invisible marshmallow.  You want to know how I am going to solve these issues?  I am going to send you to your rooms and drink mass quantities of wine.  It won’t solve your problem but it sure works as one hell of a band-aid for me.
  • Stop touching the television screen.  I am tired of cleaning peanut butter fingerprints off of the flat screen because Super Why asked you where the “super letters” were and you felt you had to touch them directly or else he wouldn’t know where you were pointing.  The next time I see you touch the television screen, I am going to take your arm off and beat you with the wet end.  Are we clear?
  • You are more than welcome to lift a finger and clean shit up without me telling you to do so.  Take a little initiative.
  • I don’t know where the confusion began but it is time to clear this up, your bedroom is limited to the four walls behind your door.  I did not allot any extra “spillover” space for you outside of your actual bedroom.  If your room becomes too cluttered because you have thrown all your laundry into a big pile, along with papers, art supplies, shoes, books, etc and have discovered that, as a result, you don’t have anywhere to put your backpack, more laundry, toys, etc, you do NOT have permission to extend the perimeter of your space to the hallway and/or living room.  Here is a novel idea:  CLEAN YOUR ROOM!!
  • Pushing things in your closet, does NOT constitute cleaning your room.

My demands for my husband:

  • Stop snoring.  At this point, I don’t care what it takes.  If they say that removing your left leg would solve the issue, you should go through with the procedure.  My happiness depends upon it and, as you know, your happiness is contingent upon my happiness.  I used to have a lot of fun holding your nose and watching you gasp for air after a few seconds but the novelty has worn off.  Fix it.
  • Stop putting shit on top of the refrigerator.  Seriously.  It is not your storage shelf.  You are more than welcome to put your keys and wallet in a drawer or in the bedroom.  Stop moving my decorations aside for these things and your loose change.  Just because I can’t reach it, it does not become acceptable.
  • I have pushed a baby out of my vagina and had two others (and another in the near future) surgically removed from my abdomen.  In return, I ask that you take out the trash when it is full without me asking.
  • Setting folded laundry on top of the dresser does not constitute putting laundry away.
  • You fold towels incorrectly.  Do it my way.  They should look almost like a terry cloth burrito, not a messy square.

    This is how towels look when folded correctly.

    This is how you fold them and it is wrong.

  • Maintain a constant inventory of Dr. Pepper and Nutella in our home.

If my demands are met, not only will I  come home but I won’t be such a bitch all the time.

Hope to see you soon.

Raising Girls vs Raising Boys

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Some people refuse to acknowledge a distinction between raising boys and raising girls.  I want to point my finger at them and yell “BAD PARENTS” but sometimes I hesitate, thinking maybe they are just stupid.  I decided to put this all down in print, so there is no longer an excuse.  Take my advice and be a good parent, destined to meet every good parent’s goal of bringing up girls who are sure to grow into popular young women that know how to attract a good husband and boys who will undoubtedly develop into alpha males who get laid.  Keep your eye on the prize, parents!  It’s for the kids!

This process must start at birth.  Boys, from birth to adult hood, need their egos stroked.  When people come visit you and your newborn son or call to check on you, never miss an opportunity to tell friends and family or strangers in the checkout line that your infant son is packing an impressive hog and/or huge set of balls inside his diaper.  FYI, ladies–this ego stroke is two-fold since, for whatever reason, your boyfriend/husband will view you bragging about your newborn son’s junk in the exact same way he would you telling anyone that will listen that he has a huge dick. 

For girls, dress them in pink at all times, since it can be hard to tell the difference between infant boys and girls.  That doesn’t always do the trick, though.  Some people are really stupid and you can have your baby girl decked out in pink taffeta, covered in ruffles and bows and you are bound to run into one person that is going to approach and say “Awwww!  How old is he?”  Everyone knows that an infant girl, if mistaken for an infant boy, will be scarred for life.  It is imperative that you take any and every precaution to avoid a horrific, humiliating and traumatizing incident in which a stranger at the mall refers to your precious little girl as a “he”.  Of course doctors get a little weird when you inquire about plastic surgery to avoid such humiliation but you no one can tell you that you can’t poke holes in her ears, get a wig or even use some makeup to tell the world “I’M A GIRL, ASSHOLES!”  For some guidance, check out Toddlers and Tiaras.  Those parents know how to raise ladies!

As they get older, you need to put a lot of thought into appropriate recreational toys and activities.  Boys should be given trucks, cars and footballs.  It is okay if they play with stuffed animals but NEVER let them play with dolls.  What would people think?  You want him to grow up and think it is okay to hold a baby?  Boys should be encouraged to fight and wrestle as much as possible.  You wouldn’t want him, in later years, to be unprepared for how to handle some asshole trying to hit on his bitch at the local bar, do you?  What if he is at the gym and some guy looks at him, you know, “that way”?  You don’t want him just going on with his life!  No!  You want him to kick that mother fucker’s ass!  If he doesn’t, it is probably because you let him touch a purse as a child and now he is a friend of Dorothy’s. 

For girls, you want to get them baby dolls, kitchen toys and dress up gear.  Don’t let her climb trees or play in dirt, unless you are prepared to just give her a mullet cut now and can’t wait for the day that she brings home her life partner.  I would also suggest that you find your daughter(s) something that can be used as a dancing pole.  While you don’t want your daughter to be a stripper, you do want her to learn how to work the pole for her future days at the club.  You want her to be able to attract the attention of the guys, right?  Make sure she knows, real ladies don’t take their tops off for dollar bills, they take them off for plastic beads. 
Also, if you start noticing her eating too much in general or eating too much junk food or starting to gain weight, make sure to point it out.  Grabbing a fistful of her love handles will speak volumes.  You could also start making pig noises when you see her go into the kitchen.  Offer her some laxatives for dessert.  I would also suggest putting a scale in front of the refrigerator.  Remind her that most boys don’t like girls with fat asses.  Look, it will make it a lot easier for boys to objectify her if you teach her from an early age to objectify herself. 

You want to teach your daughters that only dirty whores have sex before marriage.  You want her to know that it is okay, even desirable, to look and act like a dirty whore but not be one.  Boys can respect a dick teaser, not a dick pleaser.   Her hymen is, in essence, the air tight seal that contains her value.  If that seal is broken, she is damaged goods.  For a visual, chew up a piece of gum and, after you are done with it, ask your daughter(s) if she would like your gum.  She will say, “no!  I don’t want it after you had it!”  Then you say, “and that is what the boys will say about you!”  You can tell people that you have taught your daughter to respect herself through these teachings. 

You want to teach your boys that their goal in life is to fuck as many girls as possible.  You want to teach them that girls are not “people”, per se, but things that are fun to stick their dicks into.  You want them to realize that girls that will fuck them before marriage are dirty whores but they should nail as many dirty whores as possible.  Let them know they will get cool points for referring to women as “bitches”, “hoes” and “sluts” and referring to himself as a “pimp”.  It is best to fool yourself into thinking that you can teach your son(s) this philosophy while, simultaneously, teaching them to respect women. 

Follow these guidelines and you are bound for success!  If your daughter ends up with an eating disorder and in an abusive marriage, give yourself a gold star.  Hey!  She is married, right!  If your son ends up with illegitimate children all over the city, pat yourself on the back!  Shows he was getting laid and, let’s face it, condoms are for wusses!!

Other Things My Family is Physically Unable to do

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Every. Single. Day. I am faced with the cold, hard fact that my family is practically helpless to complete the simplest and most mundane tasks.  I am confused because, based on my own unprofessional opinion and observation, they all seem to possess average or above average IQs and all are completely capable on a physical ability level.  For some reason, though, their ability to perform the most basic daily tasks is completely impaired.  It goes well beyond changing the empty toilet paper roll.

  1. Flush the fucking toilet-Seriously.  This one has got to be the one that bothers me the most.  That little handle on the backside of the toilet is not just a pretty silver decoration, it actually fulfills a very important function.  Once you finish “your business”, push that handle down and it all goes away down the magic hole.  Then, I don’t have to dry heave when I walk into the bathroom and see and smell a bowl full of shit.  “I forgot”, by the way, is an unacceptable response when I ask why the fucking toilet isn’t flushed.  Don’t fucking forget! 
  2. When you take the last pop tart or the last bag of popcorn or the last waffle or the last Coke, remove the fucking box from the pantry/refrigerator/freezer and put it in the muthafucking trash.  This is not rocket fucking science.  Simply, remove the last item from the box and then remove the package from wherever it is we keep it stored, walk the 5-7 steps to the trash can and place inside the big hole at the top of the trash can.
  3. When you remove a trash bag from the trash can, fucking replace it with a new one!  If there isn’t a trash bag in the trash can then DON’T PUT ANY FUCKING TRASH IN THERE.  Why is this such a hard concept to wrap one’s mind around?  The trash bags are stored on the lower shelf of the pantry.  Simply, remove one from the box, shake out to expand and then place inside the trash can.
  4. Unless you have hired and scheduled a maid to come here, clean up your own fucking trash.  The floor, by the way, is not a trash can.  The dishes are not going to walk themselves into the dishwasher.
  5. If you pull a load of laundry from the dryer, do NOT pull out one shirt and leave the rest in the laundry room mixed in with dirty clothes!  Get it out of the laundry room and, I know this is going to sound crazy but here goes–fold it and put it away!  For the record, the tops of the dressers, on the beds, on the couch on the floor does not constitute “put away”.
  6. If you go to make a sandwich and, upon removing the bread, realize it is a) stale or b) moldy, throw it the fuck away!  Do not return it to the pantry.  Really?  The trash can and pantry are equidistant from the counter area you were preparing to make said sandwich. 
  7. When you open a bag of lunch meat, a loaf of bread, the bag of shredded cheese, etc CLOSE IT!

We all know that when mama ain’t happy, nobody is happy, so learning how the above will make mama a lot happier.  We will hold weekly workshops on these tasks.  If anyone else is interested in enrolling their own family members into these workshops, we can work something out.

Important Instructions for My Family In Case I Die

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I need to make sure that I leave this important information for my family, in the event of my sudden death.  The very idea that something could happen to me before any of them were given these instructions keeps me awake at night with worry.

I can only hope that they will remember these instructions, in the event that I am not around to perform this difficult task.  I can only imagine the total chaos and disarray that would result if this information was not passed on, forgotten or disregarded.

Step one:  Observe.

I know, I know but don’t be frightened.  I am going to walk you through this.  Now, calm down.  This can be fixed.  I know you have always believed that resolving this issue requires some pretty heavy maneuvering.  Given that not one of you has ever even attempted to resolve this problem, I assume that you think it entails phone calls, paperwork, awaiting approval letters, etc  or that a toilet paper fairy visits and replaces the empty roll but, rest assured, such is not the case.   I have been told by others that it is because no one else gives a fuck but I just KNOW that my family does give a fuck and would never be so lazy and would want to do whatever is necessary to help with these trivial tasks to keep me from having to do everything!

Step two:  Remove empty cardboard roll from toilet paper holder. This is truly simple.  Just gently squeeze both sides of the middle dispenser bar and be shocked and amazed at the realization that you possess super strength that makes the metallic tube that you once considered indestructible shrink.

Step three:  Lift the holder containing the empty roll from the mounted base.  Be careful not to drop either of these.  If you do drop one or both of these items, please refer to the set of instructions titled (How To Pick Up Shit That is on the Floor) that, hopefully, I had the chance to write out in detail prior to my demise.

Step four:  Carefully remove empty cardboard roll from dispenser bar.  Again, hold on tight.  If either item is dropped, refer to instructions mentioned in Step three.

Step five:  Get new roll of toilet paper.  Hopefully, someone has kept inventory of the stock of toilet paper and replaced if necessary and you can find a replacement in the linen closet.  Perhaps someone has moved it to the bathroom cabinets.  Most likely, though, you will have to go buy some or steal some from a fast food joint.

Step six:  Slide new roll onto dispenser bar.

Step seven:  Return new roll and dispenser bar to wall mount. To do this, again squeeze the sides of the middle tube to magically shrink it, allowing it to be fit into the wall mount.  As you get better, you can focus on proper installation direction:

Practice, practice, practice.  You can do it!  Refer to these directions anytime that you observe an empty toilet paper roll.

Now, I must begin working on the manual I mentioned in step two, as well as “How to Replace a Trash Bag” and “How to Throw Away Empty Food Containers”.