Tag Archives: husband

The Good Wife’s Guide

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ALLEGEDLY, this is an excerpt from a 1950′s magazine, though its origin is undetermined, according to Snopes.

Regardless of its origins, I was led to another blogger’s post via Pinterest the other day, which was endorsing the same marital advice for any other Stepford wife in training. I’m using this list, rather than link the blog because:
1) It is pretty much the same list, just in different words.

2) I don’t like the idea of rewarding the aforementioned blog with traffic, given the values that the author espouses in regards to a woman’s role.

In the 50′s, this brand of advice would be expected. Disappointed doesn’t begin to describe how I feel knowing that there are women that still subscribe to and endorse this school of thought.

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.

Look, if you want me to cook dinner you can’t put all these conditions on it like, it needs to be ready on time and/or it has to be delicious. Do I look like a fucking magician? If I make plans to serve Fruit Loops for dinner the night before, do I still get my ‘good wife’ award?

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

Hold the fucking phone. Did I get married or take a job in the hospitality industry? Touch up my make up? Put a ribbon in my hair? Are you kidding me? I would love to be “fresh-looking” but with 4 kids, including a toddler and an infant, anyone that crosses my path, including my husband, should take it as a compliment if I find the time to put on deodorant and a bra. Guess what, honey–the baby still isn’t sleeping through the night so you’re coming home to a work weary person too.
Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.

Dance monkey, DANCE!

Bored? Suck it up, buttercup, or find something to do. I’ve been doing everything short of juggling knives to entertain these children all day, it isn’t my “duty” to entertain or amuse any adult unless I am being payrolled as a performer.
Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dust cloth over the tables.

Trying to clean up, even just clear the clutter, with four kids on the loose is like trying to shovel the driveway in the middle of a blizzard. If Husband wanted an orderly home every night when he got home, he shouldn’t have kept knocking me up.
During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.

For starters, no one would ever describe this household as a “haven of rest and order”. I mean, for fuck’s sake, we have four kids. Furthermore, I cater to the comfort of the 8 month old because when he ain’t happy, nobody’s happy. As a matter of fact, EVERYBODY caters to Number Four’s comfort. That’s it. Everyone else in the house can kiss my ass. You’re on your own. If the love of my life wants a fire, he can march his ass over to the fireplace and turn the lever. BAM! Fire. Unwind away. While you’re at it, rub my feet. PLEEEEEEAAASE!!
Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet.
If Husband wants to walk into a quiet house, he better go somewhere else.
Be happy to see him.

I assume this requires me to be VISIBLY happy to see him. Our dogs go nuts when he gets home. They are wagging their tails, whimpering and licking his feet and face. Should I act like them or will a simple, “hi” suffice?
Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.

So, knee pads?
Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first – remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.

No, they’re not.

By the way, this was the premise of one of the tips from the offending blog that really got under my skin. It pains me to know that there are so many women out there that truly believe that they are incapable of having any relevant thought or opinion when conversing with men, much less a spouse. It truly makes me sick.
Don’t greet him with complaints and problems.

If Number Three found a bottle of nail polish and used it to do a remodel of the kitchen cabinets, Husband is  going to hear about it the second he comes  home. If I’ve spent the day wading through a sea of vomit and shit, you can bet your ass that I will be bitching about it from the moment he steps through the door.
Don’t complain if he’s late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through at work.

If he’s going to be late for work, all I need is a heads up via phone call or text. Wevs. If he stays out all night, he’s got a lot more than me complaining to worry about. I don’t care if he wants to go grab a drink or go watch football at a friend’s house. On more than one occasion, he has stayed at his friend’s house after a game or fight so as not to drive after drinking. HOWEVER, if I am not told of such plans and he were to just not come home all night, there will be hell to pay. I don’t give a flying fuck what happened at work. If he doesn’t call me or text me and just doesn’t come home, he better be in the muthafucking hospital because, if not, I will put him there.
Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or lie him down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.

I’m going to hand him a kid and go take that piss I have been holding for four hours. If he wants a drink, he has arms and legs with which to get it his goddamn self. If he asks nicely, though, I’ll oblige. He’s a grown ass man. I don’t need to “lie him down in the bedroom”. What the absolute fuck? Do these women wipe their husband’s asses for them?
Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.

Ladies: Give birth to children, don’t marry one. Unless he is disabled, he can take off his own damn shoes. I’m not saying it is degrading if you want to help your tired, sore or sick husband take off his shoes. I’ve helped Husband pull of his work boots. You just wont see me donning pearls, fluffing pillows and removing shoes, while speaking in a sweet, soothing voice, as part of any routine, especially not all at the same time.
Don’t ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.

This was the gist of another bullet on that blog and was the other that really raised my hackles.  If I have cause to question Husband’s integrity or actions, you can bet that I will raise questions.

I absolutely CRINGE at the thought that there are women that truly believe that their worth is solely contingent upon someone’s opinion, subject to change on a whim if the wrong mood strikes. The fact that so many of these women have daughters that they are passing these “values” on to is beyond disturbing. The basic message for these girls is that if you want a man to recognize  value within her, she must demonstrate in all her thoughts and every action that she is utterly worthless.

A good wife always knows her place.

I’m going to smash my computer.

Here are a list of values I hope to instill in my daughter when she considers future relationships:

You, and you alone, determine your worth. Not your peers. Not some man.

Don’t be afraid or ashamed to demonstrate free thought or intelligence. Worthwhile men appreciate a woman with whom they can hold an intelligent conversation.

A worthwhile man will treat you as his social and intellectual equal. He will value your opinion and will view marriage as an equal partnership, not an imbalanced hierarchy.

A worthwhile man wont derive happiness from the subjugation of your own. In a healthy relationship, achieving happiness should be treated as a common goal.

Having a penis does not make one’s contribution to society any more relevant than your own.

It is not your “duty” to subjugate yourself to or serve anyone. Anything you do for your spouse should be carried out willingly of your own volition, not out of fear of reprise from your “master”.

You should respect your husband but never become convinced that you are unworthy of the same.

It’s okay to be in a shitty mood from time to time.

If you have a complaint, complain. Don’t be one of those people who do nothing BUT complain but never be fearful of airing your grievances.

If your husband goes MIA for an entire night or engages in any other brand of douchebag asshattery and asserts that you have no right to question him or his behavior, tell him to go pack his shit and kick fucking rocks. He can then decide, somewhere else, whether to beg for your forgiveness or continue to act like a caveman.

A good husband knows when to bring home wine.

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.

It’s Nice to Have a Husband Who Listens

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I’ve been telling Husband for several YEARS that I would like to upgrade my wedding ring. To be fair, since we were first married, we agreed that at our 5 year anniversary I would get a ring upgrade. Well, fast forward 8 years and I have brought up “the deal” on more than one occasion. The week of Valentine’s Day, I thought was the day our deal would come to fruition.  For several days leading up to Valentine’s Day, Husband had mentioned that “one of” my gifts had been something I had been requesting for quite some time. His exact words were, “you have asked me for this so many times”.

On Valentine’s Day, I got one package. It was a gift package of Euphoria perfume, which smells amazing. Husband told me that the gift I was waiting for was yet to come. The next day a package arrived. When I opened the package, I was so excited when the packing peanuts revealed a small velvet box. I just KNEW it was the new wedding band I had been requesting for the last couple of years.

*DRUMROLL, PLEASE*

There it is, folks. He was so proud of the new “dime and ring” he bought me.

 

I’m going to get him a rubber vagina. When I get the real thing, he can have the real thing.

Romance Isn’t Dead

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My husband and I have been together for 11 years and have managed this in spite of our four children. At the end of the day, it is all about keeping the romance alive. You have to avoid taking each other for granted and keep the home fires burning.

When my husband wants to be romantic, you think he buys me flowers or surprises me with jewelry? My husband is too romantic to waste our time and money on those tired clichés. He puts real thought into how to woo me and gets creative. One of his signature romantic overtures is to wait until I am leaning over to empty the dishwasher and to come up behind me and start humping me from behind. That makes me melt.

Another thing, he is always focused on me and my well being and health. For instance, if I tell him that my throat hurts, he doesn’t hesitate to inform me that semen will make me feel better and to offer me a dose of the cure. NO STRINGS ATTACHED. Or if I complain about being fatigued, he immediately concerns himself with my protein intake and, again, doesn’t hesitate to offer the opportunity to get my “protein injection”. He is nothing if not a giver.

Our fourth child just turned one month old and he is always checking on me from work. Just the other day he sent me this text:

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Seriously, I love that man. People don’t get our senses of humor most of the time but it is what makes me love him so much. He cracks me up. Making me laugh is the best romantic gesture he can make. Okay, aside from that wedding band upgrade I have been bringing up for the past year, making me laugh is the second best gesture.

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If a Man Is Standing In the Forest and No One Is There To Hear Him, Is He Still Wrong?

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You know those people that will be telling you a story about people  you have never and will never meet but, for some reason, they feel compelled to derail from the point of their story to fill you in on the entire life story of every total stranger that has a supporting role in their story?  That person is my husband.

Last week, my husband came home from watching a football game and was excited to inform me that he had won a little cash on the game.  I was completely satisfied with that amount of information.  It was good news, no more details necessary.  So, I have no idea why my husband deemed it necessary to elaborate any further but he did.  He went on to begin explaining the details of the bet and why he won–some crap about “the spread”.  You would think my blank stare would suffice in making him realize he was talking to the wrong person but NO.  He just kept on about some play and some player that almost cost him the money and more crap about the spread.  Finally, I stopped him and reminded him that I don’t follow football and I had no idea what he was talking about but, hey, YEAH to winning money.  You would think the man didn’t know me at all or had not spent the last 11 years with me because he  began explaining these details and concepts to me.  Pan to me, wearing the same blank stare.  I stopped him again and told him that not only did I not know what he was talking about with all this football crap but, furthermore, I didn’t care.  Not even a teeny, tiny bit.  He looked at me, a bit stunned and then began trying to break it down even further.  When I stopped him, AGAIN (Seriously–11 years), I reiterated that I didn’t understand all the rules, details and jargon because I don’t care to understand any of it, not because it has never been effectively explained to me.  I told him it would be similar to me explaining to him why some of my shoes could be worn with jeans or a dress and others were not so versatile.  My point was made and we both moved on.  I give it one month before we have the exact same conversation because, believe it or not, this conversation has taken place countless times.  The details may change but the story is all the same.

The hubs is a crane operator and will often try to tell me stories about the job.  I try sooooo hard to feign interest.  I do.  It just never fails, though, that he will get sidetracked from telling the story to explain to me the logistics of some piece of machinery or the inner workings of some generator and I just can’t keep up the charade. 

I don’t know how a generator works or why X,Y,Z would cause it to malfunction or explode.  More importantly, though, I DON’T CARE!  Bless his heart, though, he thinks I do.  Well, at least until I tell him that I don’t.  I think I am going to start explaining to him why I put my make up on in the order that I do.

He is lucky I love him.  Most of the time.

 

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.

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”.

I Have A Dream

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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.

Dang, Anything Else?

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I’m hungry!  I’m not hungry!  I’m tired!  I’m not tired!  I’m hot!  I’m cold!  Pick me up!  Put me down!  Fix me some food!  I’m thirsty!  I want ketchup!  I didn’t like it because it had ketchup on it!  I need to potty!  I already pottied!  I peed in my pants!

BREATHE!  1…2…3…4…5…fuck this counting shit.  It only takes me 3.5 seconds to open a bottle of wine.

These three curtain climbers can be the source of my greatest joy and my greatest stress.   I know that there are those sanctimonious martyr mom bitches that say “Children are gifts from heaven.  I like to spend every waking second with my children and any mother that takes two seconds to herself is selfish and she should have thought about that before she had kids.”.  Well, to her, I say: fuck the fuck off.  I love my kids but I don’t have to like my kids 24/7.  Any parent that says they do is either A) Lying or B) Full of shit.  You see, I don’t think admitting that makes me a bad mother.  I would give my life for any of my children and there are days when I feel like my children are trying to kill me themselves, with a plan they have secretly concocted to make my fucking head explode.

My husband works out, pretty much everyday.  Whether he runs or goes to the gym, that is his daily time to blow off some steam.  For some reason, some group of uptight bitches got together and decided that squeezing a kid out of your vagina suddenly rendered women impervious to stress.  These are the same bitches that decided that admitting that being a mother was hard or a mother needing her own personal time out was a sign of failure.  They got the word out and it spread quickly.  Women are so fucking afraid to admit that they aren’t perfect mothers or that they don’t ever feel overwhelmed or that they want to be able to have a little time to themselves.  Well, guess what?  I’m not.  At times, my kids make me want to stand in the middle of the street and scream a steady stream of expletives.  I want to pull my damn hair out!  I think to myself, “I wonder why kennels for kids never caught on?”.  So, I make sure that I get my own “time outs”, at least once or twice a week.  If that means that one or a few of my friends gather on my patio or on one of their patios, as God as our witness, we are going to gather, dammit!  And, there will be wine!  Oh yes!  There will be wine.  It is our therapy.  We bitch and vent and then we end up laughing about all those things that we thought were going to push us over the edge a few hours earlier.  Thankfully, I have surrounded myself with a group of friends that are equally as honest about how imperfect they are as mothers.  There isn’t any judgment, just wine.  You have to have wine! 

I jokingly tell my husband that I am going to the gym when I have plans for a girls’ night in.  Becoming a mother doesn’t make your needs suddenly irrelevant.  It doesn’t mean that you are no longer entitled to or in need of some personal time.  If anything, it makes it even more necessary.  Adults need to interact with adults.  Adults need to have conversations  in which the words Caillou, Sprout, poopy diaper and Toy Story are not brought up.   Adults need to have times when they are not required to break up fights between preschoolers.  Adults need to have friends to drink wine and bitch with because drinking alone is frowned upon.

If you want to hole up in your home and immerse yourself only in your children and their interests and topics of conversation, be my guest.  My money is on your future admission into a mental hospital. Good luck with that.

I love my bitches.