Tag Archives: parent

Sh*t My Kid Says

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Some of the things that fly out of their mouths leave me speechless, other times they crack me up. My daughter has been the obvious protegé in the sarcasm department. She has always been funny in that unintentional way that most kids are funny but she has also had sarcasm nailed from a pretty early age. It makes me so proud. *sniffle*

My little smart ass has grown so much since this picture. She looks more like her father but takes after me in almost every other way.

When Number One was about 6 years old, we were driving home from a visit with my grandmother and it was raining so hard, there was barely any visibility. I, of course, was leaning forward with my face practically pressed into the windshield, trying to see past the hood of my car. My daughter, out of the blue, wanted to have a conversation.

Number One: At the beginning of ‘The Suite Life of Zach and Cody’, is that a real house or a fake house?

Me (dismissively): I’m watching the road. I don’t know.

Number One: Is it a real house or a fake house?

Me: I have no idea. I’ve never really watched it.

Number One (growing more and more annoyed): Mom! Just answer! Is it a real house or a fake  house?

Me: Honey! I am trying to concentrate on driving! I don’t know!

Number One: IS IT REAL OR FAKE?

Me: If you just want an answer, then I will guess real. I haven’t watched the show but I will just give you an answer. It’s real. Okay? Now, I need to concentrate.

This was followed by about 20 seconds of very obvious silence, in which I could just sense that my daughter was pissed.

Number One (with her eyes lowered and monotone voice): Do you know what I want to do right now?

Me: What is that?

Number One: I want to go home, dress up like you and punch myself in the face.

I nearly lost it. When the rain cleared a few minutes later, I called my friend, laughing so hard I was almost crying, and told her about the conversation. She laughed and said, “I’m sure she is in big trouble”. I told her that, aside from being hilarious, I was pretty sure that she had  me on a loophole, since she hadn’t actually threatened me. My daughter remained in her seat, glaring at me, increasingly annoyed by my amusement and my audacity to discuss it right in front of her.Another of her more memorable statements, albeit unintentionally hilarious,  was, while walking through the mall with my mother and sister, she asked, LOUDLY, “Why do men have nipples”, which almost sent me to my knees in laughter.

Yesterday, she tells me that one of her friends told her that the dictionary said that “the ‘B’ word” meant “a female dog” and she asked me if she was telling the truth. I told her that was correct. She looked at me, stunned and visibly excited, and asked why everyone says it is a bad word. I explained that it is the name of a female dog but it is also used as a curse word. She points to our dog, Zoey, and asks, “well, if I am talking about Zoey, I can use it”. Good try. That was a negative, though. Even if I had green lighted the appropriate usage, she would have stayed up at night thinking of different ways to work the word “bitch” into her daily vernacular. Sometimes she will say things that make  my jaw drop and set off alarm bells in my head. Until I begin an interrogation and it is suddenly put in context and all becomes right in the world. While driving around recently, she starts talking about her friends. Kim does this and Joey does that. Then she says, “And Sadie, my demon lover…”.

Me: Your what?

Her: Demon lover.

Me: What is a demon lover?

Her: She loves demons. I mean, she isn’t goth or anything but she likes monsters and demons.

Me: OOOOOOOOHHHH!

The kids may drive me nuts but they can be hilarious at times.  Also, the toilet humor starts young but boys just never seem to outgrow it, do they?

A Memo to Parents

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I saw a news story the other day about some parents that were petitioning to have an ice cream stand banned from the public park they frequented with their children. Their reason, apparently, is that ice cream isn’t healthy and can lead to childhood obesity.  No argument here. The glaring problem to me is that, to these parents, the practical solution to mitigating such risks for their children involves navigating legal channels to have this ice cream entrepreneur banished from the park, as opposed to—oh, I don’t know—telling their child, “NO”.  Personally, if my child were to ask for ice cream at the park and I didn’t feel he/she needed an ice cream, I would just say, “no”. That’s it. Sure, there might be a little pleading that occurs, maybe some bargaining, Number Three might even shed a few tears.  They’ll get over it. I swear. There is no need for legal action to replace basic parenting. It’s like demanding that toys be banned from Target because your child asked you for Legos.

Let me give some advice: PARENT YOUR CHILDREN, PEOPLE! Your precious angel is going to survive hearing the word, “no” from time to time. Say it with me: “I’m the parent. My child is not the boss of me. I am the boss of him/her. I am the adult.”It is the same thing with celebrities. My daughter used to be a HUGE Hannah Montana fan. She sang all of her songs, had a costume, wore her clothing line and never missed the show or her movies. Then parents started making a buzz and a stink about Miley Cyrus, the actress that played Hannah Montana. They didn’t approve of her being photographed in public wearing provocative clothing. Photos of her partying were leaked. Parents were indignant and seemed to think Disney should have her flogged because, to them, she was not being a positive role model to Hannah Montana fans.  I mean, it begs the question, why the fuck are you letting your 5-11 year old read Perez Hilton and Star magazine? Put some parental controls on your computer.  As long as Hannah Montana isn’t posting panties pics on the web and smoking Salvia in her secret closet, parents should not be concerned with the antics of Miley Cyrus off camera—at least, not as a relevant issue to their young daughters. Parent your own children! It is not the responsibility of celebrities to teach your child values. It is yours. If Selena Gomez wants to make a sex tape and snort coke, that’s her prerogative. I won’t get my parent panties in a bunch as long as character, Alex Russo, doesn’t start snorting adderall and prostituting to fund her wizard school tuition. At the end of the day, it’s all pretty easy. Don’t look to celebrities to be role models for your children. You’re the parent! Your goal should be that they look to you as their role model. If your child tells you that she wants to make a sex tape so she can be like Paris Hilton and you need someone to blame, look in the mirror.  If you are concerned that a certain character, celebrity or athlete could negatively influence your child, it is your job, as the parent, to eliminate or, at least, mitigate the influence.  Step up to the plate.  I may think Vanessa Hudgens is a total dumbass for having nude cell phone pictures leaked to the public on more than one occasion but Vanessa Hudgens didn’t squeeze any of these kids out of the vagina she loves to photograph. Her personal life can only be a relevant influence on my children if I am asleep at the wheel.

Celebrities and athletes are not obligated to you or your children. If you have deferred to Miley Cyrus, Michael Vick or Rhianna and Chris Brown to instill morals and values in your child, you, the parent, are the only person responsible when or if they emulate their value systems and behaviors.  Celebrities are far better to be used as cautionary tales, not role models.

As If I’d Pay Him

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Why do so many people think that the paternal obligation and responsibility in parenting begins and ends with ejaculation? I am home day in and day out, managing the lives of four children. If you ask anyone, I am “just a stay at home mom”. As far as most are concerned, I have nothing but time since I don’t work or anything. Sure, I have four kids but I just sit at home with my thumb up my ass all day, every day. If, however, I venture outside of these four walls and leave my children at home with my husband, you know–their father–the whole world says he is—-wait for it—- babysitting.

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“Oh! Is your husband babysitting”?

“You’re so lucky. My husband never babysits”.

“That is so awesome that their daddy is babysitting them so you can get out”.

What the fuck is that shit? Look, a babysitter doesn’t contribute sperm to his charges. If my husband is home with the kids, he isn’t babysitting, he is PARENTING. When I cook dinner, no one says, “oh, I didn’t know you became a chef”. You think when I drive my litter around, anyone says, “when did you become a chauffeur”? I can promise you, no one has ever congratulated my husband on getting me to BABYSIT our kids. When I stay home with the kids, I am just doing my “job” as a mother. When he stays home with the kids, people want to nominate him for sainthood and seem to think I’m supposed to run home and pay him in blowjobs. .

Husband, of course, finds it hysterical when someone refers to him “babysitting”. Mostly because he knows it makes me want to punch puppies. Fortunately, he doesn’t expect special treatment for just being a great dad.  Of course, if he rinses off a plate, he seems to think I am supposed to strap on my knee pads as I arrange a goddamned ticker tape parade but that is a different blog.

You Didn’t Thank Me For Punching You in the Face

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On a somewhat serious note today because of a conversation the other day:

I am sure every girl can recall, at least once as a child,  coming home and telling their parents, uncle, aunt or grandparent about a boy who had pulled her hair, hit her, teased her, pushed her or committed some other playground crime.  I will bet money that most of those, if not all, will tell you that they were told “Oh, that just means he likes you”.  I never really thought much about it before having a daughter of my own.  I find it appalling that this line of bullshit is still being fed to young children.  Look, if you want to tell your child that being verbally and/or physically abused is an acceptable sign of affection, i urge you to rethink your parenting strategy.  If you try and feed MY daughter that crap, you better bring protective gear because I am going to shower you with the brand of “affection” you are endorsing.

When the fuck was it decided that we should start teaching our daughters to accept being belittled, disrespected and abused as endearing treatment?  And we have the audacity to wonder why women stay in abusive relationships?  How did society become so oblivious to the fact that we were conditioning our daughters to endure abusive treatment, much less view it as romantic overtures? Is this where the phrase “hitting on girls” comes from? Well, here is a tip: Save the “it’s so cute when he gets hateful/physical with her because it means he loves her” asshattery  for your own kids, not mine. While you’re at it, keep them away from my kids until you decide to teach them respect and boundaries.

My daughter is `10 years old and has come home on more than one occasion recounting an incident at school in which she was teased or harassed by a male classmate.  There has been several times when someone that she was retelling the story to responded with the old, “that just means he likes you” line.  Wrong.  I want my daughter to know that being disrespected is NEVER acceptable.  I want my daughter to know that if someone likes her and respects her, much less LOVES her, they don’t hurt her and they don’t put her down.  I want my daughter to know that the  boy called her ugly or pushed her or pulled her hair didn’t do it because he admires her, it is because he is a little asshole and assholes are an occurrence of society that  will have to be dealt with for the rest of her life.  I want my daughter to know how to deal with assholes she will encounter throughout her life. For now, I want my daughter to know that if someone is verbally harassing her, she should tell the teacher and if the teacher does nothing, she should  tell me.  If someone physically touches her, tell the teacher then,  if it continues, to yell, “STOP TOUCHING/PUNCHING/PUSHING ME” in the middle of class or the hallway, then tell me.  Last year, one little boy stole her silly bandz from her.  He just grabbed her and yanked a handful of them off of her wrist.  When I went to the school to address the incident, the teacher smiled and explained it away to her, in front of me, “he probably has a crush on you”. Okay, the boy walked up to my daughter, grabbed and held her by the arm  and forcibly removed her bracelets from her as she struggled and you want to convince her that she should be flattered?  Fuck off.  I am going to punch you in the face but I hope you realize it is just my way of thanking you for the great advice you gave my daughter.  If these same advice givers’ sons came home crying because another male classmate was pushing them, pulling their hair, hitting them or calling them names, I would bet dollars to donuts they would tell him to defend themselves and kick the kid’s ass, if necessary.  They sure as shit wouldn’t say, “he probably just wants a play date”.

I will teach my daughter to accept nothing less than respect.  Anyone who hurts her physically or emotionally doesn’t deserve her respect, friendship or love.  I will teach my boys the same thing as well as the fact that hitting on girls doesn’t involve hitting girls.  I can’t teach my daughter to respect herself if I am teaching her that no one else has to respect her.  I can’t raise sons that respect women, if I teach them that bullying is a valid expression of affection.

The next time that someone offers up that little “secret” to my daughter, I am going to slap the person across the face and yell, “I LOVE YOU”.

 

EDIT: One of my readers made a very astute critique of this post and I wanted to include his whole comment, rather than just make the edit.

“Love it! Do have one small criticism
“And we have the audacity to wonder why women stay in abusive relationships?” I think could be better rephrased as “And we have the audacity to wonder why abusers are able to keep women in abusive relationships?”

One is a line of reasoning that blames the abused women “Well, she’s the one choosing to stay, I guess she’s getting what she deserves!” The other better illustrates that society’s conditioning may have made them better targets, but someone had to come along to take advantage of that.“

Say It to Me, Not My Kids

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If you have a child, you have experienced this.  It doesn’t matter if your child is 5 years old or 5 hours old.  Getting unsolicited advice, in and of itself, is, at minimum, annoying.  When, however, people try to disguise parenting critiques and advice as innocent conversations with my children, it makes me want to kick puppies.  First of all, did I accidentally put on my cone-shaped hat with the word “DUNCE” stenciled down the front or did you forget to wear yours?  When we were in the grocery store check out line and you looked at my infant son and said to him, in that annoying baby talk voice, “you should tell your mommy that you need to be wearing a hat”, are you so stupid that you expect him to relay this message to me or do you think that I am too stupid to recognize that you are critiquing me as a mother?

The thing is, this happens all the time.  Truth be told, my own mother does it.  (Don’t look so indignant, Mom.  You know you do it.  I love you anyways but, seriously, cut that shit out.)  Where strangers get off, though, dishing out parenting advice and criticism in general to people minding their own business, I will never know.  Why there are those that think it is acceptable if the criticism is delivered to children, in front of parents, is a total mystery.

For starters, haven’t these jackasses ever heard of how most parents try to teach their children NOT TO TALK TO STRANGERS?  Yet, it seems every time I take my kids anywhere, strangers are trying to strike up conversations with them.  Honestly, I don’t really mind it, within reason.  What has always shocked me, though, is how many strangers have offered my children CANDY!  Two major rules of thumb: Don’t talk to strangers and don’t take candy from strangers, being broken by adults and right in front of my face.  No, lady!  You can keep your candy!  And not just because I fear my 11 month old would choke to death on that peppermint but also because if my kid needs a snack, I am not going to go looking for a handout from some stranger in the auto shop waiting area.

A little insight: my 2-year-old could not care less about what his hair looks like.  Even if he gave a shit, he is incapable of transporting himself to or scheduling a hair appointment.  I am his mother and his father and I have decided that we think his little, long bowl cut is absofuckinglutely adorable.  So, the next time you are taking my order at Denny’s and the urge overtakes you to lean over and say to my toddler, “Oh my!  When are you going to get your hair cut”, don’t get upset when I shank you.

You cannot tell me that this is not one of the cutest kids you have ever seen in your life.

The next time you are standing in the checkout line and you tell my daughter, “Your mommy shouldn’t let you bite your nails or you’ll get worms”, don’t be surprised when I turn to your husband, standing next to you, and say “Your wife should mind her own damn business or she is gonna get her ass kicked in Wal-Mart.”

If you think my kid needs a nap, chances are I am aware that he needs a damn nap.  Don’t talk to my kid to inform him that his mommy needs to get him home for a nap.  He will adamantly disagree and now you have made the next five minutes of my life a little more of a hell because you said the “n” word to his face and he is going to express his opposition to your suggestion in the form of a Level II meltdown.  You say it again, and it escalates to a Level IV/Code Red and I will be forced to respond violently.  You just better hope it is not my nap time when you pull this shit. 

If it bothers you that my 5-year-old opted out of socks with his tennis shoes, keep it to yourself.  If you say to him in a “wittle” voice with “wittle” words that his mommy should go get him some socks, I am going to give you a “wittle” kick in the taco.

Mind your own business, people.  You can go have your own kids and be a perfect parent and raise perfect kids.  Please don’t interrupt me while I am busy screwing mine up completely with long hair and stinky shoes. 

Dear Mom: I Get it Now

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I remember, as a child, my mother saying things like, “Can’t I just eat my own food/drink my own drink”?  I remember her saying, “Can’t I just have one minute to myself”?  Growing up, I just thought my mom was being a selfish asshole. After all, I just wanted a drink or a bite!   Now that I am a mother, though, I understand.  Completely.

I am convinced that I could prepare a four course meal of my children’s favorite foods, like chicken nuggets, mashed potatoes, macaroni  and chocolate chip cookies with ice cream on top, then make myself a dog shit sandwich and they would turn their noses up at their plates and beg for a share of what was on mine.  I don’t remember what it is like to not have to share my food or drink.  If I try to refuse to share, you would think I had just told my children that I was going to Disneyworld without them.  The moment the food hits the plate, I hear, “I want a bite”.  The minute I stop filling my glass, I hear “I want a sip”.  For the love of vodka, I don’t want to share anymore!

I look back now and realize other things I took for granted before becoming a mother.  I never really appreciated things like going to the bathroom alone.  Now, every time I go to the bathroom, I have a captive audience.  It never fails that there is some urgent need the moment I need to pee.  Sometimes, it is just a bout of separation anxiety that compels my child to reunite with me seconds after I leave the room.  Maybe they are checking on me to make sure I am not slipping out the window.  Other times, they suddenly have one or one hundred questions and/or observations that simply cannot wait until I am finished relieving myself.

“Who is your favorite?”

“Do you like green or blue?”

“Where is your penis?”

“Your butt looks big.”

If you have a fragile self-esteem, I suggest you avoid parenthood.

Even when I am just sitting on the couch, watching television, I feel like a mother possum.  My boys, especially, are right on top of me.  Number three is on my lap, laid back against my huge pregnant belly, only putting more pressure on my teeny tiny bladder.  Number two is huddled up to me, his arms flung across me and holding on tight.  At this point in my pregnancy, I barely remember what feeling comfortable means.  Add a couple of layers of little people on top of the one kicking my ass from the inside and I am practically claustrophobic.  Killing a puppy in front of them would get me the same reaction I get when I kiss their heads and affectionately tell them, “I love you so much.  Now, get the hell off of me before I throw you off of me.”  I just don’t get it.

If they aren’t right on top of me, they are calling me from across the house.  “MOM”!  “MOM”! “MOM”!  Then, when I kindly reply, “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT”?  They seem indignant as they tell me, “nevermind”.  What the hell do they want from me?  I answered you, didn’t I?  Unless it is an emergency, do NOT yell across the house.

I’m sorry, Mom.  I get it now, though.  I get it.

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!!

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.

Can’t Talk to a Psycho Like a Normal Human Being

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Have you recently found yourself saddled with a knocked up wife, girlfriend, sister or friend?  Men:  If you put the baby in there, you have  no one to blame but yourself.  You didn’t talk her into the abortion.  Suck it up, buttercup.  You pulled the trigger, you finish the race.   Here are some tips and warning signs to help you get through these nine months alive.

You may ask yourself, “what the fuck is her problem?”.  Let me tell you a few of her problems:

  • She has, most likely, been forced to disregard the slightest degree of germaphobia the moment her body decided to reject the Taco Supreme with extra sour cream it had been screaming for only moments earlier, forcing her to embrace and shove her head into a receptacle that has hosted almost as many asses in its career as Richard Simmons in his.
  • Do you enjoy being stabbed repeatedly in the pubic area?  If so, you would LOVE round ligament pain.
  • Not having a period is one of the touted benefits of pregnancy.  Don’t put those tampons in storage just yet, you can still find a use for them now that your nose is going to be the one with a period!  If you are like me, it will be almost daily!!
  • Weight gain!  Because nothing says “I’m bringing sexy back” like elastic waistbands.

If you are interacting with a pregnant woman, don’t ever assume you are safe.  Always consider her armed and dangerous.  Even if the only weapon in her arsenal are the countless hormones surging through her body, be afraid.  Be very afraid.  Signs you should abandon your mission and run:

  • Tears.  Even if it just looks like her eyes might be watering, take no chances.  Run.
  • She suddenly stops talking or responding to you and only stares, even if she is being directly addressed or questioned.
  • Her only response or contribution to the conversation is a flat “whatever.”.
  • Her stomach growls.

Dads:  Are you feeling neglected?  Left out?  Have you tried to give her the business only to find she has closed up the shop?  Maybe she wants the business but the realization that her vagina is soon going to transport a tiny, screaming human larvae into the world has rendered you impotent.  Either way, you can revive your sex life.

Are you being rejected?  You are going to have to play a little hardball but, remember, all is fair in love and war.  You have to make her want you to want her and that is going to mean you have to hit her in the ego.  It is kind of like high school:

  • Strategically but noticeably  place stretch mark cream amongst her beauty supplies.
  • When you both get in bed, pull out the latest issue of “Hotties with Vacant Uteri” and your favorite lotion and go to work.  If she interrupts, take your tools into another room and tell her that she is spoiling the moment.
  • Look at older photos and compliment her pre-pregnancy hips.

If the problem is that you can’t get the soldier to salute, there are a couple of solutions:

  • Admit that you are gay.  I mean, seriously.  Pregnant or not, most men won’t turn down an available vagina.  Not to mention, her boobs have, at least, doubled in size.  That is nature’s distraction.  If this is the case, get her to pull her hair up in a baseball cap and roll her over.
  • Medicine

You are welcome.  This could end up being another series.