Tag Archives: kids

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

The Road to Hell

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There aren’t too many things that irritate me. Okay, after writing that out and saying it in my head, I have to say that isn’t even a little bit true. I guess if I had to make a list, the list of things that DON’T irritate me would take less time. A perfectly good day can be completely, if not temporarily, ruined by nothing more than an unexpected task or errand that requires me to put on a bra. From that moment, up to a point in time in the forseeable future, you know what will piss me off? EVERYTHING.

Some people, like Husband, will say that I’m overly irritable but he is wrong. It’s actually everyone and everything else that is overly irritating. Not my fault. I could be in a perfectly good mood most of the time if other people could just make maintaining that mood a bigger priority. See? I’m easy.

Let’s take DJs as an example. I realize that the music chosen and played by the radio stations are based on the billboard charts but why can’t they ever take a stand and inform the public that their taste in music sucks when they are forced to play shit over and over again. It would be a public service. OCCUPY THE RADIO! As it stands, they are either playing utter crap or completely ruining a good song because they play it to death. I’ll be driving around, singing along to a song I love like this:

 

and then, BAM! The next song completely ruins my mood and for the next day or two, in my head, I will be singing, “hey, I just met you and this is crazy but here’s my number so call me, maybe…” until I am begging anyone and everyone to twist my wine opener into my skull just to make it stop.

My children are, of course, a source of frustration from time to time. Fortunately for them, the comedy of most of their moments cancels out the frustration but not all the time. I can never find a pen when I need one. Like ever. Number Three, however, can find markers, nail polish and crayons that I was unaware we possessed until I find the evidence all over my walls. After the first time, I went through the kids rooms and removed all these items and put them away,  most were thrown away, to avoid any more walls falling victim to Number Three’s antics. A week later, here he comes walking out with a sharpie and I discover it all down the hallway. I tell the older two that they are not to remove any of the markers or colors without my permission. I take inventory and seem to have it all. A few days later, here he comes out of his room with a few map pencils and a few more walls with his mark on them. A week later, he has found a bottle of nail polish that Number One had stashed. 

It is in the carpets and on the tile and a few baseboards got some pink accents. My only guess is that he has a secret stash somewhere that someone is replenishing because he NEVER seems to run out of shit to use in his effort to ruin everything. I can’t find a pen to save my life when I have a school note or permission slip to sign or just a list to make but he seems to have an endless supply of writing utensils and art supplies, some I have no memory of ever buying.

I am not a “type A” person by any stretch of the imagination. I wish I was, just a little bit. I am, unfortunately, quite the opposite, armed only with the inattentive form of ADD. There are certain things that I am particular about and for whatever reason I can’t get my family to fall in line. The toilet paper roll, for starters. It takes nothing short of an act of Congress to get anyone else to even replace an empty roll onto the dispenser and then on the oh-so-rare occasions that anyone does, it is on the wrong way. Most of the time, though, the new roll is balanced on top of the cardboard skeleton of the previous roll that is still dangling on the dispenser.  I’ve aired my frustration over this issue time and again, to no avail.

When I was single, I used to love my loofahs. Since being married with children, I have had to abandon loofah usage. You see, when Husband and I first lived together, I would get into the shower and grab my loofah only to discover one of two things:

1) It was wet.

2) It was hanging from the knob or it was on the soap dish.  I ALWAYS hung it from the faucet head because, unlike Husband, I just couldn’t use it if I thought it had touched any of the surfaces for any extended period of time. If I even suspected that it could have become mildewed, it went in the trash. As it was, I barely kept loofahs for more than a couple of weeks.

I finally asked Husband if he was using my loofah, a suspicion that he then confirmed. I was thoroughly appalled. I think I just stared at him in disgust for a minute or two.

He didn’t get my indignation, at all. I unleashed into a tirade that covered everything from the intermingling of his Irish Spring with my Bath and Body Works to how he should keep his dead skin to himself and I would do the same. He still used it a time or two but finally caught on and then Number One discovered loofahs and she would use mine, even though she had her own. She would just grab whichever one she saw first. I couldn’t continue and I had to end my long relationship with these shower accessories.

If you happen to be the cause of my pissy mood, there is one sure way to smooth it all over: Wine. I’ll even sing along to Carly Rae Jepsen after some wine, use the neighbor’s loofah that is in their trash can and give Number Three a can of spray paint.

The Penis Game

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Anyone else remember playing “the penis game” in high school or college? You would take turns saying the word “penis”, each time saying it louder than the person before you. It was best if done in a public place. If you laughed or refused to say it louder or at all, you lost. It was cheap entertainment in those days. Now, it is the story of my life. With three boys, specifically Number Two and Number Three, I find myself inundated with penis talk. Number Two, especially, will take any opportunity to mention the word penis, whether discussing his, specifically, or just making general small talk. It is one of his favorite subjects. Thankfully, he has stopped showing it to everyone that came over for a visit within the last year. There is nothing like having to issue a disclaimer to potential guests that your child might leave the room wearing pants and return, minutes later, full Monty. If you were around my son for more than two minutes, he wouldn’t hesitate to inform you that he had a penis and inform you where it was located. You may be asked if you have a penis. If you answered, “No”, he would express true sympathy for you. Evidently, we are really missing out.

Last year, I got a note from his teacher that read: Please make sure Number Two wears underwear to school. That is when I found out that he was going “commando” to school. I would give him underwear to put on in the mornings and, as it turned out, he had been choosing to forgo that item for quite some time before I got the heads up. I had never imagined myself having to perform daily “underwear checks”, much less having to debate with my five year old on the issue. The most embarrasing moment with him took place when he was about 3 years old and we were sitting in a waiting room. I saw his pants had come unsnapped and called him over to me and when I grabbed the snap on his pants, he yelled “YOU’RE TOUCHING MY PENIS!!”. I could have died. Right there. No lie. I was frozen, everyone was looking at me, trying to stifle their laughter and my son just went right on back to playing with his toy.

Now, with Number Three beginning to enjoy conversing about and showing off his penis, I see my life turning into one long round of the penis game. It has become a daily event for me to walk into his room in the mornings and/or after his nap and find that he has removed his diaper and is standing in his crib, with his junk pushed through the bars of his crib, lining up a shot at the toys on the floor. I can’t pay this kid to piss on the toilet but put him in bed and leave a few targets on the floor and leave the room and he is suddenly a fucking marksman.

By the time Number Four gets to this point, I envision myself in a catatonic state, walking the streets in my pajamas and yelling, “PENIS”.

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.

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.

Halloween Candy Heist

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You know, I don’t think I am an unreasonable person.  Every year, on Halloween, I get the kids into costume, including makeup, and I take these hellions on the tour of the neighborhood.  Last night was no exception.  Even though I am 200 months pregnant, I took these hellions to every house within a 30 mile radius.  True story.  When we got home, they dumped their stashes out on the living room floor to take inventory and trade with their friends.  I simply told them, in my nicest mommy voice, “if you have Butterfingers, they are mine”.  They looked at me like I had just instructed them to cut off  their thumbs.  Number Two got really upset, as was evidenced by the protruding lip and the tears that began welling up in his eyes.  Number One handed me a Butterfinger and sweetly said, “Here you go, Mom.  I only have one but you can have it”.  I was touched until I noticed about 10 more stashed behind her back.  If she had pulled that with anyone else, I would have been proud.  I had to come to terms with the fact that they weren’t going to willingly share.  I knew I could handle this one of two ways:  I could just say “I’m the mom and I will take whatever I want”.  I could even pepper in comments about the length of my labor or threaten to show them my scars.  My other option was to be creative.  It would have to be Door #2. 

We have all heard the urban legends about razor blades, nails and needles being hidden in Halloween candy.  It has been around for ages.  When I was a kid, my mother would allow us to trick or treat but we were not allowed to eat any of the candy, for fear we would ingest a razor blade or be poisoned and die.  I remember the year I was allowed to have my candy was because the hospital was x-raying the candy for free.  Seriously.  This story is the premise of my entire plan. 

I decided to tell the kids the stories about strangers hiding razor blades in Halloween candy and that I would need to inspect it all before they could cram it down their throats.  I told them, by the time they get home from school, I should be done and will be able to let them have all the “safe” candy back.  It would buy me some time so I could get what  I needed to make this happen and it would easily carry over year after year.  I planned it out.  I would go to the store and buy some razor blades and put them in a few pieces of candy.  I can’t have them calling me a liar!    I wanted to be able to provide proof.   My plan is fool-proof!  The BUTTERFINGERS ARE MINE!!  MINE!!  (insert evil laugh)

UPDATE:  I couldn’t find razor blades.  Do you think this is convincing enough?

So, You’re Building Your Baby Registry

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Isn’t it fun?  They give you that little gun and you walk down aisles and aisles of crap, scanning every other item.  If this is your first, you think everything is a necessity and your registry will probably end up being 12 pages long.  Of the 487 items you have bogged down your registry with, you need about 7 of them but, rest assured, you will have soap, pacifiers, wash cloths and nipples coming out of your ass by the time the baby shower is over.

If you are expecting, I am going to tell  you what you are going to actually need and use as a mother.  Tell your friends that if they stray from the registry there will be hell to pay and the cake better be good.

Look, if you are having a baby, hopefully, you can afford to buy a few bottles of baby soap and some wash cloths.  If your friends and family are willing to shell out the cash to make life with baby a little easier, let’s tell them to put it towards some actual necessities.

  • Tile in the nursery-I am not talking about a tile floor, I am talking about tiling the entire room.  Top to bottom.  Make sure and include a drain in the floor.  You see, babies shit.  A lot.  As they get older, they find new and inventive ways to let you know that they took a shit.  Number three, for instance, likes to let me know by removing his diaper and smearing it across walls.  Fucking adorable.  If his nursery was all tile, I would just have to stand him in the middle and hose him and the walls and floors down all at the same time.  You could upgrade this further with a built-in sprinkler system.
  • Large kennel-Who doesn’t need a little “me” time?  Throw some toys or cheerios into the kennel and go read a book.
  • Electric wine opener-Look, drinking has never been as important as it is once you have children.  Most of the sunrises that my children have lived to see is due, in large part, to the existence of the nectar of the Gods.  When you are in the midst of a crisis or meltdown and you need wine STAT, you do not want to have to fiddle with a manual opener.  Hell, you can’t waste that kind of time! 
  • Noise canceling headphones- Whether it is the a wailing baby or the incessant “mom, mom, mom, mom, mom, mom, mom, mom, mom” from your older children, these will ensure that you get the quiet time you so desperately need.
  • Vasectomy gift certificate-To make sure that this doesn’t happen again.
  • Air freshener-Again, kids shit.  A lot.  Trust me, you are going to need to stock up.
  • A wig-Face it.  You will be lucky if you find time to shower.  Don’t be overly ambitious and unrealistic and think you are going to have time to wash AND fix your hair.
  • Steam Cleaner-Kids are capable of messes that your mind cannot imagine.  Just this morning, number three got a hold of pancake syrup and poured it all over the living room.  He is so fucking precious.
  • Childcare- Because you are going to need a break.  It doesn’t have to cost a ton of money!

Sure, sure, you need blankets and socks but you don’t need 50 of them and you don’t need 20 identical onesies.  Don’t waste your time on bunk items like a wipies warmer or a vibrating crib.  Get the items necessary for surviving parenthood.  You’re welcome.

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”.

The Joys of Motherhood

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Yesterday morning, I woke up to such a wonderful surprise: I was getting ready for the day when I heard a knock coming from one of the bedrooms.  I realized it was Number 3 and the sound of him knocking on his door meant he had learned how to climb out of his crib.  I thought that would the bad news for the morning but I opened his door and realized how wrong I was.  There he stood, smiling up at me, with those big, handsome eyes and then I  took inventory of the situation.  Not only had he climbed out of his crib but he had also removed his diaper and shit all over his bedroom floor.  Like most people, there is nothing I like doing more, right after getting out of the shower in the morning, than cleaning up fresh piles of shit from my carpet.

I know, I know, some of you read this and think, “DAMN!  How did she get to be so lucky?”.  Well, let me tell you my friends, I don’t like to brag but that is just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the spoils of motherhood.

  • This is not the first time he has managed to get his diaper off after filling it up.  On more than one occasion, he has finger painted me beautiful murals across his bedroom walls, made entirely of paint he made himself, in his pants.
  • Number One, Number Two and Number Three are complete and total fucking pigs.  When George Bush was looking for weapons of mass destruction, he didn’t have to go to the Middle East, he just had to come to my house.  Even on housekeeper day (my favorite day of any week), these WMDs can destroy this house in no time flat.  I don’t know how they do it, either!  I swear, it will look like they have been watching TV for an hour and then I look around and every room in my house is a shit hole.  I know that they only explanation is that they have magical, destructive wizard powers.
  • Everyone always says, “you have to watch what you say in front of children.”.  What the fuck do these people know?  Certainly nothing about children or, at least, not my children.  I can pretty much say whatever the fuck I want in front of my children because they don’t fucking listen to a damn thing I say.  It doesn’t matter if I say “stop pulling your sister’s hair!” or “Gah-dammit!  Stop fucking pulling your fucking sister’s fucking hair!”.  I might as well be reciting a fucking recipe for pea soup.  It is like talking to toast.
  • Did you know that “Go clean your room.” actually means “Go fuck off in your room or watch tv.  Whatever you want.”?  Neither did I!
  • If mothers wore uniforms, those with more than one child would be wearing a black and white striped shirt and a whistle because a large portion of the day is spent breaking up sibling brawls and refereeing decisions on everything from what will be on the tv to who gets the last cracker.
  • When you have your first child, and every subsequent child, for that matter, you cannot WAIT to hear them say “momma” for the first time.  Give it a couple of years.  The sweetest sound you have ever heard is soon to become nails on a fucking chalkboard.  That sweet cooing of your baby first saying “momma” that melted your heart, soon evolves into the word that will make you consider drowning yourself in the mop bucket.  “Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! MOOOOOOOM!!  MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!” will soon drive you to the brink of insanity.

  • Children, as it turns out, are equipped with some sort of sensor.  I haven’t determined where the sensor is located but it is there.  This sensor signals your child every. single. fucking. time. you are beginning to relax, when you are in the middle of an important conversation, when the automated system for the light/cable/water/internet/phone company is asking you to “please say what you are calling about so I can direct your call.”, etc.  They can be in the middle of anything and they will drop everything to run out and interrupt you, making sure that you re-tense, have to stop your conversation or have to repeat your issue to the computer twenty fucking times before it just hangs up on you.  I swear, the slightest sign of relaxation from a mother could wake a child from a fucking coma.

  • Do you have any idea how many times a day a kid shits?  Number three goes, at least, 341 times a day.  True story.  Also, for some reason, potty trained children cannot grasp the concept of flushing a fucking toilet.  It is like Christmas every day when I walk into the restroom and see the gifts my older kids left me in the toilet.

Don’t be jealous.