So 'tis the season...full parking lots, assholes who won't move out of their spots for you, long lines, maxed out credit cards, last minute scrambling for a gift for your significant other because in your frenzy of buying Lalaloopsy dolls, PS3 games, and Star Wars lego sets you completely forgot about him/her, baking, wrapping, standing in the godforsaken line at the godforsaken post office, and of course...holiday cards.
I truly love getting holiday cards in the mail, I look forward to it every year; I love seeing the pictures, seeing who loves me enough to send a card, etc, etc. And for the most part, I even love those damn letters. Those newsy letters filled with fun little tidbits about people I never see...good times. But invariably a letter will show up in my mailbox that makes me feel like a total asshole. You know the one I'm talking about...you get them too (or god forbid you SENT one)
Dear wonderfully amazing family and friends sent to us by our blessed savior:
Another blessed year has almost passed us by and we feel so very blessed to be able to share with you, our wonderful family and friends, all how incredibly wonderful we all are and how we spent the blessed year of 2011, year of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
Chauncey is almost 13 and it's so difficult to find words to describe our amazing little boy who is rapidly becoming a wonderful young man, right before our eyes. He has had a fabulous year at the St. John's Preparatory Academy for Overachievers and excels at calculus, chemistry, physics, world literature, political science...well, there's nothing this boy can't do academically. Next term he has been invited to co-teach several of his courses, so of course we're ridiculously proud and he is making the astronomical tuition fees worth it! I guess mom won't be upgrading her BMW this year! HA HA! He started the fall football season with the freshman team but was rapidly moved up to varsity, as the coaches were astounded by his athletic prowess. I'm sure the senior quarterback was a bit disappointed to be benched for the season, but when Chauncey needs a break, he does get to see some playing time and is learning quite a bit from our boy. Looking forward to baseball season as well; Chaunce can't wait to spend the summer at two highly overpriced, exclusive sport camps, all the while making time for reaching his goal of 150 hours of volunteer work and rescuing wounded and abandoned ferrets...so proud!
Our little Penelope Rose is quite the astounding young lady. She turned 10 in October and was able to jet off to New York City with mom for a girls' weekend. Nothing says Happy 10th Birthday more than tea at the Plaza, a suite at the Waldorf, a shopping spree at the American Girl doll store, and an appearance on the Today show! Will be hard to top that for the big #11 but we're working out plans as we speak! Paris, anyone?? ;) So far she's impressing all of her teacher's at Miss Emmaline's School for Young Debutantes with her impressive knowledge of well, EVERYTHING! Won't be long before she's challenging Chaunce at his academic pentathlon competitions! She is still masterfully juggling ballet, flute, honor chorus, student council, yearbook, and fitting in yoga sessions every other day to stay in balance. She'll be going on her first mission trip this summer to teach young orphans in Zambia the importance of staying connected on the world wide web and maintaining physical beauty in an otherwise tough world...our little do-gooder managed to procure several thousands of dollars in donated beauty products from MAC and Estee Lauder to bring to the lovely little darlings of Zambia...she's always thinking of others! We'll round out 2011 with her 24th pageant of the year, fingers crossed she'll bring home another Grand Supreme crown to add to her collection!
James and I have had another busy year, as expected!! James received many achievement awards from his company and has garnered yet ANOTHER promotion! Along with those awards and promotions clearly came quite the pay raise (yay!) and the added bonus of several work related trips around the world, many of which I was able to join him. We spent several weeks traveling around Europe (the south of France is GORGEOUS and now James wants a bigger yacht..maybe next year?) The all inclusive resorts of Thailand really are something and we can't wait for another trip back to Fiji...maybe this time the kids can come too! Thank goodness for their team of nannies at home to help hold down the fort while we're away! I'm still involved with many charities and organizations and spend my days scheduling social teas and luncheons, auctions, and balls...all of course to benefit the many groups we support and sponsor. I feel so blessed to be in positon to help all of those less fortunate, it's amazing to see how exciting a "day at the country club" can be for those who wouldn't experience it without the tireless work of our committee...so rewarding!
If I haven't mentioned it already, we are blessed beyond measure for so many wonderful things this year. We can only hope that the good Lord has blessed all of YOU, our dear family and friends, as plentifully as He has blessed us. We wish you all the happiest of holidays and implore you to remember the reason for the season...look for a postcard from the Bahamas sometime soon! Love to all, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you all!
With love and prayers for a prosperous New Year that you can be thankful for,
The Snootington family
Ok, so MAYBE a bit of stretch...but you KNOW the letters I'm talking about...we are wonderful, our kids are fucking amazing and accomplish more in 20 minutes than your little spawn will EVER achieve, my husband is rich and successful and I get to buy shoes and bags and jewelry like it's my job, all while fitting in trips to the spa and salon...barf, barf, barf. I get being proud of your kids and your husband but seriously...SOME people take the holiday letter a little too far with the whole blowing of the sunshine up one's own ass. It makes me want to send them a singing telegram in which I pay extra for the giver of said telegram to assault the receiver.
And what they do/accomplish/achieve over the course of a year makes me feel like a total asshole. A bottom-feeding, mother of delinquents, underachieving asshole. My drafted out holiday letter would probably sound a little bit like this:
Dear family and friends...
Odds are good my family and I will be taken off of your holiday card list after you read this but I figured for this year, hey...why not jump on that holiday letter train just this once?
Where do I even start? Kind of hard to wade through everything that has happened in the past year in my mind...I guess a fog of valium, vicodin, ritalin, and Jack Daniels will do that to a person, huh? But I DID get myself a new Keurig so that makes mornings more bearable...of course the Bailey's added to each cup of coffee sure does help too!
Samantha is our oldest and will be turning 11 this coming April. We're ready to pack her off to boarding school because the pre-teen years are upon us and will likely result in a homicide here sooner rather than later. She pretty much sucks at school, she's fighting to keep her head above water...we're just happy she has maintained 50% attendance so far. She WAS in band for a while but was asked to be removed from the class when she "accidentally" hit a few other students in the head with her flute. We tried art classes for some time, but apparently sniffing glue was the only thing she got out of those. So we're working on her, slowly but surely.
Alex turned 7 in September and is trying kindergarten for the 3rd time, we're hoping the old adage "third time's the charm" holds true! Fingers crossed!! He loves playing with legos and riding his bike, we think we've nipped the "ride around the neighborhood chucking legos at unsuspecting passers-by" game in the bud...HOPEFULLY! We like to encourage creativity and activity but apparently other parents didn't like HIS method of combining the two, so we've made it a requirement that the legos stay INDOORS for the time being. He enjoys rough-housing with his sisters but we need to curb the number of knee drops and choke holds, the plus side of that is that he is really doing well in the Parks and Recreation wrestling program!
Ryan is a 3 1/2 year old little spit fire. Her cute little blonde pigtails and big brown eyes are deceiving...she's um, well, she's something. We've got her enrolled in a preschool program 3 days a week and we've only had a few issues so far. Thankfully no parents have chosen to press charges! She loves to paint and draw, hopefully a few gallons of Kilz will mask the "artwork" she has created throughout the house that we are currently renting! But we don't like to curb creative energy so we just kind of go with it...gotta choose those battles wisely, right? :) MOST of the play-doh has come out of the carpet, doors can easily be replaced, and I THINK the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser will really come in handy!
As for Vince and I...it's been an average year. Vince is still hanging in there in the USMC, working on a Naval Base has been a challenge for him but he's muddling his way through. I'm still staying at home with the kids, which, given their current "issues" is probably a good thing. Our legal "troubles" are hopefully almost over...send prayers that the case DOESN'T make it to court! My personal habits are getting under control, my support group really helps with it most days. I keep busy with the kids as often as I can, they finally lifted the ban on me volunteering at their school which is great!
We're hoping that 2012 shapes up to be a good year for us and the rest of you as well! We are so blessed to have you all in our lives and hope that we can continue to maintain our relationships throughout the coming years...we need as much as support as we can get! Love and holiday blessings to you all in the coming year!
From our family to yours...
So there ya go! Unfortunately time got away from me and I wasn't able to print these babies up and get them in the mail...I'm a little bummed but pleased that you all can read about my wonderful family on this forum.
Again, I need to reiterate that I really truly enjoy reading the holiday letters that I get in the mail...mostly because I'm friends with normal people who don't enroll their kids in intensive language programs for "fun" or have them involved in every activity imaginable in the hopes of early acceptance in an Ivy League school...So if you sent me a holiday letter, I read it and enjoyed reading about you and your kids. I also enjoyed that you are NOT one of "those people" but I know you all know some of "those people", so not only do I thank YOU for not being one of them, but I thank THEM for giving me something to write about...Merry Christmas to all! Cheers!
Smack it, flip it, rub it down...
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So my husband and I just returned from a blissful week-long vacation in Mexico...without kids (there will be a separate blog post about this and the scathing I received from not one but TWO people) and unfortunately the weather did not cooperate and it rained the last 3 days we were there. Suckage. But we made the most of it (get your minds out of the gutter, people...there will NOT be a blog post for this one) and one particularly gloomy, blustery afternoon we decided to book massages in the resort spa.
I've had many a massage in my day and I'm a big fan. Some people get weirded out by a complete stranger not only rubbing them down with various slick oils but rubbing them down with said oils whilst barely clothed is just crossing a line for them. I get that. Clearly it doesn't bother me since I would strip down buck naked in the middle of Times Square and roll around in a drainage ditch of vaseline if someone wanted to give me a massage then and there.
The spa was pretty booked considering the shit weather so we were asked if we wanted our massages in the "couples" suite. Yeah, whatever. I had no intention of spewing words of love and holding his hand, I was more focused on my 80 minutes of pure bliss that were awaiting me just beyond the frosted glass doors and waterfall. So, NORMALLY I've done my massages completely nekkid. There, I said it. I'm covered with a sheet so why would I need to mess with undergarments? A bra would get the in the way so off it goes and who's gonna sneak a peek of my vajeej? Um, likely no one and I wear a thong anyway so it's not like it's hiding a lot. Off it goes. Welp, apparently that's not the policy here so she handed me a set of "disposable underwear" to put on. Hmmmm. 3 minutes later I was wearing a paper tube top and a diaper.
Awesome. Once in the room she told me to remove the top so off went the elastic, newspaper tube top. Bummer, I was hoping to hold onto that. Clearly it was pointless but I guess they all wanted to laugh at the stupid ass American who put it on because they told me to. It's like the Asian ladies who talk shit at nail salons. I was tempted to ditch the Pampers but I didn't want to get yelled at in Spanish so it stayed on. Did the standard climb on the table face-down in the blow hole thing and waited for them to come back in the room (I was just flat out ignoring my husband (who didn't have to wear a diaper thank-you-very-much) laying on the table next to me and fully focused on the 80 minutes of happiness and relaxation that were about to be bestowed upon me)
Now, our resort was VERY spa-zen-peaceful so there was aromatherapy shit EVERYWHERE. We should have expected it. What I did NOT expect was to be smothered with what I suspect were rags soaked in choroform and held right under my nose via the blow hole. WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?! Make it stop! I was trying not to cough and gag because it was so strong, she was already trying to kill me. This should have been a HUGE red flag. I just stopped breathing altogether hoping it would go away, but not before the pure strength of her "aromatherapy" invaded my nasal cavity and my nose started snotting all over the place. She is lucky her feet weren't right underneath me. I was wishing I still had on my paper bra so I could use it to wipe the river of snot that was flowing freely at this point mixed with tears from being gassed. Once I started breathing again I tried to relax but then I realized I had to pee. Shit. I had 79 minutes to go and although I wasn't uncomfortable yet, I knew I would be in about 13 minutes, give or take. I briefly considered peeing in my diaper but they weren't particularly "absorbent" and I didn't want to lay in that for 80 minutes. I didn't give a shit what they would have thought when the time came to clean up the room and realized what I had done...what were they going to do, walk upstairs to room 7009 and dump my diaper and peed on sheets in the hallway? I think not. But I chose not to, despite having to pee REALLY badly. And so began my massage...
The beginning was pretty fucking awesome. She started on my feet and legs which was very relaxing and I wanted to hug her and bring her home with me...that blissful feeling lasted a grand total of about 3 minutes. Then she started doing some weird-ass yoga shit on my leg and I'm convinced she was trying to see if my big toe could touch my left ear lobe. Then she grabbed my calf and started shaking my leg back and forth. Not sure if that was part of the therapy or if she just WANTED to gross herself out while seeing what my cellulite looked like in motion. I just wanted it to stop. Immediately. The bending, twisting, and whipping my leg around like an al dente spaghetti noodle was NOT my idea of massage. There was no rubbing involved; pretty sure she was trying to jump rope with my leg. My hip was dislocated and I couldn't feel my toes. I don't know what she was doing but it hurt, it wasn't relaxing and I was PISSED not to mention a little frightened when I realized she was going to do it on my other leg shortly. I almost kicked her in the face but I couldn't move my leg. And I still had to pee.
She moved on to my lower back and I had mentioned to her previously that I suffer from sciatica so I wanted her to avoid mainly the right side but I apparently that translated to "I like your unibrow, I will likely fart in your general direction, and please use all tools at your disposal to hurt me you sadistic bitch". Not only did she NOT avoid that area, I'm convinced she had hot pokers hiding under the table that she jammed repeatedly into my body, or it could have been a wrench or crowbar...tough to tell. Then she moved onto rolling small John Deere-like tractor vehicles with spiked wheels up and down my back, taking special care to REALLY dig in near the lower back/butt area, because again "please avoid the sciatic nerve area" loosely translated REALLY means "use 40 G's of pressure to make every effort to sever my spine" then I think she added a knee drop for good measure. Beating me with wooden spoons may or may not have been involved. Good times.
Once she got to my upper back and neck I was in tears and think I may have peed a little, or I was bleeding internally, it was hard to tell. I was more tense at that moment than I had been in college when I had 4 finals within one day, hadn't slept, hadn't studied for any of them, and was still drunk. She stopped using her hands and resorted to her pointy, little elbows. I came up out of the blow hole for air at one point (to try and work out a kink, ironically) and glanced over at my husband who was being gently kneaded and massaged into a blissful state while I was being beaten into submission by the most sadistic bitch Mexico has ever seen...HIS side was was like rainbows and unicorns with the gentle sounds of Enya flowing through the speakers. MY side had anacondas and Nine Inch Nails. No sooner had my head popped up then she was ramming her forearm into my upper back forcing me back into the blow hole. Then I think she sat on me and put me in a head lock. She was pissed and now not only did I have to pee, but my internal organs had been crushed, she had broken my sternum and I was trying desperately not to fart and/or pee on her.
I think I blacked out at this point because I don't really remember her doing much of the same to the left side of my body. Either that or she temporarily severed some nerves, thereby rendering me unfeeling of all sensation. Fine by me. And yes, I did try a few times to ask her to lighten up the pressure but again...I believe that was translated to "Me love you long time... smack it, flip it, rub it down" At one point on the left side I believe nunchuks and cleats came into play, then she used the sheet to bodily toss me in the air...allowing me to flop helplessly back down onto the table in a bruised, battered heap and the next thing I knew I was being suffocated with more chloroform. In retrospect, I would have welcomed being unconscious for the last 80 minutes. My husband sat up on his table, yawned, stretched, and rubbed his eyes ever-so-gently looking so content and relaxed, and I just rolled off the table onto the floor. No Tonka trucks, no chloroform, no elbows, no sternum-crushing, no internal organ damage were involved on his side of the room. Not even wooden spoons. Whereas my diaper-clad self nearly peed all over the table, was paralyzed from the waist down, couldn't turn my head to the left, was cradling what I suspected were broken ribs, and was gasping for air as a result of my crushed sternum. Oh, and I couldn't walk. He got an 80 minute aromatherapy massage as the brochure stated and I got a crash course in Lucha Libre.
People smiled at us sweetly as we left the room together with our arms tightly wrapped around each other; likely thinking "aw, so cute and in love". Nope, he was holding me up and I had to shuffle because she had severed my sciatic nerve, my bladder was reaching critical mass, and my diaper was rapidly working it's way down my legs. Super romantic. He would have carried me out potato-sack style but it would have snapped my already compromised spine so we nixed that idea.
I somehow made my way back up to our room where I promptly pounded 5 advil with a Corona. The spa called later to ask how our experience was and I informed them that my instructions to avoid a certain area were ignored and I was actually in a bit of pain and they offered to book me another massage....yes, please...the internal bleeding has slowed, my left side isn't completely paraylzed and I can still feel my toes on my left foot and turn my head to the right. Sign me up...right after I hunt down a certain massage therpist named Valeria and go vigilante on her ass.
I've had many a massage in my day and I'm a big fan. Some people get weirded out by a complete stranger not only rubbing them down with various slick oils but rubbing them down with said oils whilst barely clothed is just crossing a line for them. I get that. Clearly it doesn't bother me since I would strip down buck naked in the middle of Times Square and roll around in a drainage ditch of vaseline if someone wanted to give me a massage then and there.
The spa was pretty booked considering the shit weather so we were asked if we wanted our massages in the "couples" suite. Yeah, whatever. I had no intention of spewing words of love and holding his hand, I was more focused on my 80 minutes of pure bliss that were awaiting me just beyond the frosted glass doors and waterfall. So, NORMALLY I've done my massages completely nekkid. There, I said it. I'm covered with a sheet so why would I need to mess with undergarments? A bra would get the in the way so off it goes and who's gonna sneak a peek of my vajeej? Um, likely no one and I wear a thong anyway so it's not like it's hiding a lot. Off it goes. Welp, apparently that's not the policy here so she handed me a set of "disposable underwear" to put on. Hmmmm. 3 minutes later I was wearing a paper tube top and a diaper.
Awesome. Once in the room she told me to remove the top so off went the elastic, newspaper tube top. Bummer, I was hoping to hold onto that. Clearly it was pointless but I guess they all wanted to laugh at the stupid ass American who put it on because they told me to. It's like the Asian ladies who talk shit at nail salons. I was tempted to ditch the Pampers but I didn't want to get yelled at in Spanish so it stayed on. Did the standard climb on the table face-down in the blow hole thing and waited for them to come back in the room (I was just flat out ignoring my husband (who didn't have to wear a diaper thank-you-very-much) laying on the table next to me and fully focused on the 80 minutes of happiness and relaxation that were about to be bestowed upon me)
Now, our resort was VERY spa-zen-peaceful so there was aromatherapy shit EVERYWHERE. We should have expected it. What I did NOT expect was to be smothered with what I suspect were rags soaked in choroform and held right under my nose via the blow hole. WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?! Make it stop! I was trying not to cough and gag because it was so strong, she was already trying to kill me. This should have been a HUGE red flag. I just stopped breathing altogether hoping it would go away, but not before the pure strength of her "aromatherapy" invaded my nasal cavity and my nose started snotting all over the place. She is lucky her feet weren't right underneath me. I was wishing I still had on my paper bra so I could use it to wipe the river of snot that was flowing freely at this point mixed with tears from being gassed. Once I started breathing again I tried to relax but then I realized I had to pee. Shit. I had 79 minutes to go and although I wasn't uncomfortable yet, I knew I would be in about 13 minutes, give or take. I briefly considered peeing in my diaper but they weren't particularly "absorbent" and I didn't want to lay in that for 80 minutes. I didn't give a shit what they would have thought when the time came to clean up the room and realized what I had done...what were they going to do, walk upstairs to room 7009 and dump my diaper and peed on sheets in the hallway? I think not. But I chose not to, despite having to pee REALLY badly. And so began my massage...
The beginning was pretty fucking awesome. She started on my feet and legs which was very relaxing and I wanted to hug her and bring her home with me...that blissful feeling lasted a grand total of about 3 minutes. Then she started doing some weird-ass yoga shit on my leg and I'm convinced she was trying to see if my big toe could touch my left ear lobe. Then she grabbed my calf and started shaking my leg back and forth. Not sure if that was part of the therapy or if she just WANTED to gross herself out while seeing what my cellulite looked like in motion. I just wanted it to stop. Immediately. The bending, twisting, and whipping my leg around like an al dente spaghetti noodle was NOT my idea of massage. There was no rubbing involved; pretty sure she was trying to jump rope with my leg. My hip was dislocated and I couldn't feel my toes. I don't know what she was doing but it hurt, it wasn't relaxing and I was PISSED not to mention a little frightened when I realized she was going to do it on my other leg shortly. I almost kicked her in the face but I couldn't move my leg. And I still had to pee.
She moved on to my lower back and I had mentioned to her previously that I suffer from sciatica so I wanted her to avoid mainly the right side but I apparently that translated to "I like your unibrow, I will likely fart in your general direction, and please use all tools at your disposal to hurt me you sadistic bitch". Not only did she NOT avoid that area, I'm convinced she had hot pokers hiding under the table that she jammed repeatedly into my body, or it could have been a wrench or crowbar...tough to tell. Then she moved onto rolling small John Deere-like tractor vehicles with spiked wheels up and down my back, taking special care to REALLY dig in near the lower back/butt area, because again "please avoid the sciatic nerve area" loosely translated REALLY means "use 40 G's of pressure to make every effort to sever my spine" then I think she added a knee drop for good measure. Beating me with wooden spoons may or may not have been involved. Good times.
Once she got to my upper back and neck I was in tears and think I may have peed a little, or I was bleeding internally, it was hard to tell. I was more tense at that moment than I had been in college when I had 4 finals within one day, hadn't slept, hadn't studied for any of them, and was still drunk. She stopped using her hands and resorted to her pointy, little elbows. I came up out of the blow hole for air at one point (to try and work out a kink, ironically) and glanced over at my husband who was being gently kneaded and massaged into a blissful state while I was being beaten into submission by the most sadistic bitch Mexico has ever seen...HIS side was was like rainbows and unicorns with the gentle sounds of Enya flowing through the speakers. MY side had anacondas and Nine Inch Nails. No sooner had my head popped up then she was ramming her forearm into my upper back forcing me back into the blow hole. Then I think she sat on me and put me in a head lock. She was pissed and now not only did I have to pee, but my internal organs had been crushed, she had broken my sternum and I was trying desperately not to fart and/or pee on her.
I think I blacked out at this point because I don't really remember her doing much of the same to the left side of my body. Either that or she temporarily severed some nerves, thereby rendering me unfeeling of all sensation. Fine by me. And yes, I did try a few times to ask her to lighten up the pressure but again...I believe that was translated to "Me love you long time... smack it, flip it, rub it down" At one point on the left side I believe nunchuks and cleats came into play, then she used the sheet to bodily toss me in the air...allowing me to flop helplessly back down onto the table in a bruised, battered heap and the next thing I knew I was being suffocated with more chloroform. In retrospect, I would have welcomed being unconscious for the last 80 minutes. My husband sat up on his table, yawned, stretched, and rubbed his eyes ever-so-gently looking so content and relaxed, and I just rolled off the table onto the floor. No Tonka trucks, no chloroform, no elbows, no sternum-crushing, no internal organ damage were involved on his side of the room. Not even wooden spoons. Whereas my diaper-clad self nearly peed all over the table, was paralyzed from the waist down, couldn't turn my head to the left, was cradling what I suspected were broken ribs, and was gasping for air as a result of my crushed sternum. Oh, and I couldn't walk. He got an 80 minute aromatherapy massage as the brochure stated and I got a crash course in Lucha Libre.
People smiled at us sweetly as we left the room together with our arms tightly wrapped around each other; likely thinking "aw, so cute and in love". Nope, he was holding me up and I had to shuffle because she had severed my sciatic nerve, my bladder was reaching critical mass, and my diaper was rapidly working it's way down my legs. Super romantic. He would have carried me out potato-sack style but it would have snapped my already compromised spine so we nixed that idea.
I somehow made my way back up to our room where I promptly pounded 5 advil with a Corona. The spa called later to ask how our experience was and I informed them that my instructions to avoid a certain area were ignored and I was actually in a bit of pain and they offered to book me another massage....yes, please...the internal bleeding has slowed, my left side isn't completely paraylzed and I can still feel my toes on my left foot and turn my head to the right. Sign me up...right after I hunt down a certain massage therpist named Valeria and go vigilante on her ass.
Not breaking down any barriers here...
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There is a YouTube video floating around of a couple "breaking the barrier"....have you seen it? If not, you should watch it, it's pretty damn funny...go HERE...quite entertaining. And of course it got me thinking about that "barrier" that may or may not exist between husband and wife, boyfriend and girlfriend, or whoever makes up the other half of your couple. Is there ANYTHING that is kept only to you in your relationship? Or is your significant other privy to EVERYTHING, right down to the last skid mark?
My husband and I most definitely have our "barriers". There are things that we don't care to know about each other and things we have absolutely NO desire to share. It's ok to not know EVERY.SINGLE.THING about your spouse. I'm not saying you should keep vital information from your significant other. Obviously the number of sexual partners should probably be shared (although I know quite a few women who have fudged that number one way or another) if your vajeej is a hotbed of communicable diseases...may want to passt that one along...are you deathly allergic to latex, farm animals, or Brut cologne? Again...may warrant some sharing.
BUT there are things that you and your spouse can most certainly keep under wraps. My husband is well aware of the fact that I suffer from irritable bowel syndrome (aka: spastic colon). That is ALL he needs to know. Do I need to inform him that our most recent meal at TGI Friday's had me clinging to the shitter about 7 minutes after my plate was cleared? Does he really need to know that a trip to Taco Bell SHOULD require a diaper (for me)? Does he really NEED to know how spastic my colon REALLY is? Nope. Just like I don't need to have any insider information about what goes on when he closes himself into the bathroom with his dog-eared copy of "War and Peace" for 45+ minutes. I don't want to know what it looked like, what it smelled like, what it resembled, or how long it was. I'm just not comfortable sharing that with anyone...a girlfriend told me that her latest bout with diarrhea was shared with her husband and 2 out of 3 children who refused to leave the bathroom. That's got barrier written all over it.
My husband knows that I get my period. He has more than enough basic information about what it entails. Enough that it makes him want to stay far, far away from me for about 4-5 days and he cringes everytime a tampon commercial comes on. I was folding laundry one day and he made the colossal mistake of asking me what I was doing as I sorted my underwear into two piles. "These are my period underwear" as I pointed to the pile on the left. He turned white, gagged, and walked away. That was more information than he ever wanted to know...when I told him I know women who have changed tampons/pads/etc. in front of their spouses, pretty sure he sent up a silent prayer that my period would go far, far away...forever. He likely aso prayed that my "period underwear" would go up in flames and the girls on the Kotex commercials would meet an untimely demise. I like to pretend his barrier is constructed entirely of tampons.
One barrier that we agreed upon years ago is the one that was the topic of the YouTube video. We DO NOT fart in front of each other. It is highly likely I let one rip as I was giving birth but when you are squeezing something the size of a watermelon out of an opening the size of a lemon and it feels like you're shitting knives, odds of a little gas escaping are pretty good. But I have held some in that have been so incredibly painful because I just don't need to share that with him. And vice versa. My brothers are disgusting people and their wives have dealt with their "scent" for years, it was a barrier that was blasted down in a gassy explosion...likely on the first date. They find great pride and pleasure in sharing that with others and I'll never know why. There is nothing pleasurable about sitting in someone else's fart cloud. Contrary to popular belief it does not dissipate as you walk away from it, they cannot be masked by couch cushions, and I don't know of any women who enjoy dutch ovens.
People may think that because we have these barriers with each other it means we are not comfortable with each other. I would politely disagree with that. Just because I don't tell my husband when I'm about to shit myself, change my tampons while he is brushing his teeth, or let him waft in the gassy cloud of today's lunch does NOT mean I am not comfortable with him. We think it's more of a show of respect that we do not share these things with each other. We KNOW they happen, we KNOW less than pleasant things exist about the other but I'm content in not getting the details about his junk chafing the inside of his legs after a run. Just like I'm sure he's totally fine NEVER knowing that my hemorroids flare up after I shit myself. We like our barriers and have every intention of keeping them firmly in place.
My husband and I most definitely have our "barriers". There are things that we don't care to know about each other and things we have absolutely NO desire to share. It's ok to not know EVERY.SINGLE.THING about your spouse. I'm not saying you should keep vital information from your significant other. Obviously the number of sexual partners should probably be shared (although I know quite a few women who have fudged that number one way or another) if your vajeej is a hotbed of communicable diseases...may want to passt that one along...are you deathly allergic to latex, farm animals, or Brut cologne? Again...may warrant some sharing.
BUT there are things that you and your spouse can most certainly keep under wraps. My husband is well aware of the fact that I suffer from irritable bowel syndrome (aka: spastic colon). That is ALL he needs to know. Do I need to inform him that our most recent meal at TGI Friday's had me clinging to the shitter about 7 minutes after my plate was cleared? Does he really need to know that a trip to Taco Bell SHOULD require a diaper (for me)? Does he really NEED to know how spastic my colon REALLY is? Nope. Just like I don't need to have any insider information about what goes on when he closes himself into the bathroom with his dog-eared copy of "War and Peace" for 45+ minutes. I don't want to know what it looked like, what it smelled like, what it resembled, or how long it was. I'm just not comfortable sharing that with anyone...a girlfriend told me that her latest bout with diarrhea was shared with her husband and 2 out of 3 children who refused to leave the bathroom. That's got barrier written all over it.
My husband knows that I get my period. He has more than enough basic information about what it entails. Enough that it makes him want to stay far, far away from me for about 4-5 days and he cringes everytime a tampon commercial comes on. I was folding laundry one day and he made the colossal mistake of asking me what I was doing as I sorted my underwear into two piles. "These are my period underwear" as I pointed to the pile on the left. He turned white, gagged, and walked away. That was more information than he ever wanted to know...when I told him I know women who have changed tampons/pads/etc. in front of their spouses, pretty sure he sent up a silent prayer that my period would go far, far away...forever. He likely aso prayed that my "period underwear" would go up in flames and the girls on the Kotex commercials would meet an untimely demise. I like to pretend his barrier is constructed entirely of tampons.
One barrier that we agreed upon years ago is the one that was the topic of the YouTube video. We DO NOT fart in front of each other. It is highly likely I let one rip as I was giving birth but when you are squeezing something the size of a watermelon out of an opening the size of a lemon and it feels like you're shitting knives, odds of a little gas escaping are pretty good. But I have held some in that have been so incredibly painful because I just don't need to share that with him. And vice versa. My brothers are disgusting people and their wives have dealt with their "scent" for years, it was a barrier that was blasted down in a gassy explosion...likely on the first date. They find great pride and pleasure in sharing that with others and I'll never know why. There is nothing pleasurable about sitting in someone else's fart cloud. Contrary to popular belief it does not dissipate as you walk away from it, they cannot be masked by couch cushions, and I don't know of any women who enjoy dutch ovens.
People may think that because we have these barriers with each other it means we are not comfortable with each other. I would politely disagree with that. Just because I don't tell my husband when I'm about to shit myself, change my tampons while he is brushing his teeth, or let him waft in the gassy cloud of today's lunch does NOT mean I am not comfortable with him. We think it's more of a show of respect that we do not share these things with each other. We KNOW they happen, we KNOW less than pleasant things exist about the other but I'm content in not getting the details about his junk chafing the inside of his legs after a run. Just like I'm sure he's totally fine NEVER knowing that my hemorroids flare up after I shit myself. We like our barriers and have every intention of keeping them firmly in place.
Little white lies...
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Obviously as parents we have taken on the role of raising our children to be good people (well...MOST parents). We want them to be kind, compassionate, hard-working, empathetic, moral...blah, blah, blah. But I'm a walking oxymoron. I tell my kids that I want them to always be honest with me and daddy and to never lie to anyone. Well...I'm a fucking liar. I do it often and I do it well. But I always have the best of intentions and if they never find out then I'm STILL being a good parent, right?!?!?! (humor me...) These are just a few "lies" that have rolled off my tongue in order to maintain what little sanity I have left.
WHAT I SAY:
"Oh no! I'm so sorry you can't find it! Of course we can try to find a new one!"
WHAT I MEAN:
"Oh honey, we LOST that toy that makes mommy want to rip her own ears off? I'm so sorry! Yes, uh-huh...we ABSOLUTELY will buy you a new one! Right after pigs fly out of my ass to retrieve the original that is buried at the bottom of the garbage can sitting at the curb"
WHAT I SAY:
"I don't know what happened to it? Oh no! Look at that scratch (insert mom's sad face here) it probably won't work anymore but you bet we can sure try!"
WHAT I MEAN:
"Really? That super irritating movie that makes mommy want to drink herself into a stupor has a BIG ASS SCRATCH in it? I wonder how that happened! Couldn't have possibly been the pair of kitchen scissors that I just hid behind the coffee maker! What a bummer, I know how much you love it!" (insert big hug and hair petting here for effect)
WHAT I SAY:
"No sweetie, I'm not sure where that skirt is. I'll go dig in the laundry quick for you"
WHAT I MEAN:
"Oh NO! The skirt that you wear at a minimum of 3 times a week that matches nothing in your closet has turned up missing? What a shame...get a sense of style and self dignity and stop wearing shit for days and days"
WHAT I SAY:
"Buddy, there's some toothpaste on your shirt...here, put this one on instead so I can wash that one."
WHAT I MEAN:
"Hey, you need to go put on a different shirt that actually has the same fucking colors as the plaid shorts that you have on because it got some toothpaste on it and mom needs to wash it immediately and then go color coordinate your closet using pictures so you can actually see what outfits WON'T make you look like a tool" Child looks down for supposed toothpaste stain and before they get a chance to inspect closely I am ripping the shirt off of them and running like hell. **I will pause here to defend myself and say that I don't do this all the time (I'm not THAT shallow...often)...have any of you SEEN some of the pictures I've posted on Facebook of my kids' chosen outfits??? Sweet Jesus...
WHAT I SAY:
"Nope, it's over...it'll probably be on again later though. Should we DVR it?"
WHAT I MEAN:
"No I just checked Disney channel and the godforsaken show with weak plot lines and horrible acting that rots your little brain is NOT on and if it WAS on it'd be the same goddamn episode that they've aired repeatedly for the last month straight. Want me to act it out for you instead?"
WHAT I SAY:
...while rummaging through the pantry "No, I guess we're all out! I can get some more the next time I'm at the store honey!"
WHAT I MEAN:
"Oh bummer, if I'd known that you liked that snack so much I wouldn't have hoarded them all for myself in the super-secret-only-known-to-mom location in the pantry. I'll get more at the grocery store for you when hell freezes over, how's that sound? Get your own goddamn 100 calorie packs you little leeches!"
Those are just a few...I'm sure I could think of more given enough time and alcohol. I really don't think of it as lying...I think of it as self-preservation. I can only handle so many viewings of Thomas and the Golden Magical Acid Trip Railroad or whatever the fuck that movie is called. I can only handle looking at some of the less-than-favorable items of clothing that my children seem to get as gifts and develop an unhealthy attachment to a few times before I snap. There are just some snacks that are mine and NO I will NOT share (again, I get that I should be teaching my kids to share but if they don't know that a package of Pepperidge Farms Mint Milanos is stashed behind the crock pot it's not hurting anyone!!) I'm telling YOU guys how I roll so that's gotta count for something right? My kids will figure it out eventually...my parents spent YEARS lying to us and I'm just now figuring it out and I get it. I'm ok with it and clearly I've embraced the concept...have you? ;)
WHAT I SAY:
"Oh no! I'm so sorry you can't find it! Of course we can try to find a new one!"
WHAT I MEAN:
"Oh honey, we LOST that toy that makes mommy want to rip her own ears off? I'm so sorry! Yes, uh-huh...we ABSOLUTELY will buy you a new one! Right after pigs fly out of my ass to retrieve the original that is buried at the bottom of the garbage can sitting at the curb"
WHAT I SAY:
"I don't know what happened to it? Oh no! Look at that scratch (insert mom's sad face here) it probably won't work anymore but you bet we can sure try!"
WHAT I MEAN:
"Really? That super irritating movie that makes mommy want to drink herself into a stupor has a BIG ASS SCRATCH in it? I wonder how that happened! Couldn't have possibly been the pair of kitchen scissors that I just hid behind the coffee maker! What a bummer, I know how much you love it!" (insert big hug and hair petting here for effect)
WHAT I SAY:
"No sweetie, I'm not sure where that skirt is. I'll go dig in the laundry quick for you"
WHAT I MEAN:
"Oh NO! The skirt that you wear at a minimum of 3 times a week that matches nothing in your closet has turned up missing? What a shame...get a sense of style and self dignity and stop wearing shit for days and days"
WHAT I SAY:
"Buddy, there's some toothpaste on your shirt...here, put this one on instead so I can wash that one."
WHAT I MEAN:
"Hey, you need to go put on a different shirt that actually has the same fucking colors as the plaid shorts that you have on because it got some toothpaste on it and mom needs to wash it immediately and then go color coordinate your closet using pictures so you can actually see what outfits WON'T make you look like a tool" Child looks down for supposed toothpaste stain and before they get a chance to inspect closely I am ripping the shirt off of them and running like hell. **I will pause here to defend myself and say that I don't do this all the time (I'm not THAT shallow...often)...have any of you SEEN some of the pictures I've posted on Facebook of my kids' chosen outfits??? Sweet Jesus...
WHAT I SAY:
"Nope, it's over...it'll probably be on again later though. Should we DVR it?"
WHAT I MEAN:
"No I just checked Disney channel and the godforsaken show with weak plot lines and horrible acting that rots your little brain is NOT on and if it WAS on it'd be the same goddamn episode that they've aired repeatedly for the last month straight. Want me to act it out for you instead?"
WHAT I SAY:
...while rummaging through the pantry "No, I guess we're all out! I can get some more the next time I'm at the store honey!"
WHAT I MEAN:
"Oh bummer, if I'd known that you liked that snack so much I wouldn't have hoarded them all for myself in the super-secret-only-known-to-mom location in the pantry. I'll get more at the grocery store for you when hell freezes over, how's that sound? Get your own goddamn 100 calorie packs you little leeches!"
Those are just a few...I'm sure I could think of more given enough time and alcohol. I really don't think of it as lying...I think of it as self-preservation. I can only handle so many viewings of Thomas and the Golden Magical Acid Trip Railroad or whatever the fuck that movie is called. I can only handle looking at some of the less-than-favorable items of clothing that my children seem to get as gifts and develop an unhealthy attachment to a few times before I snap. There are just some snacks that are mine and NO I will NOT share (again, I get that I should be teaching my kids to share but if they don't know that a package of Pepperidge Farms Mint Milanos is stashed behind the crock pot it's not hurting anyone!!) I'm telling YOU guys how I roll so that's gotta count for something right? My kids will figure it out eventually...my parents spent YEARS lying to us and I'm just now figuring it out and I get it. I'm ok with it and clearly I've embraced the concept...have you? ;)
"Um, mommy? What happened to you?!?!?"
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The 3 year old encountered an unfortunate incident with a sippy cup of milk last night and her hair was the casualty. I didn't notice it until they were brushing teeth and I was trying to brush her hair...wasn't happening. It was damp, stiff, sticky, and getting a brush through it was impossible. Being the stellar mom that I am, I pulled it back into a ponytail and sent her off to bed, telling her she was taking a shower with mom in the morning.
She has showered with me before, she loves showers, loves being naked, loves turning around and shaking her little butt at me telling me to "looka my booty tushy". So I figured today would be no different. WRONG. I start the water, get undressed, she does the same and in we go. She normally totally ignores me and hangs in the water singing random songs about it raining and unicorns and butterflies and other nonsensical 3 year old shit. Not today. I'm busy washing my hair and she turns and gasps...
"MOMMY!!!!!!!!! What happened to you?!?!?!"
I look down, thinking I had cut my leg shaving and was gushing copious amounts of blood down the drain. Nope.
"What do you mean what happened? I'm fine!"
"NO you are not....WHAT is that?!?!?!" (pointing to my vajeej region)
"That's my vajeej (ok, didn't use that term with her but I like it better for some reason) you have one too"
"WHAT IS WRONG WITH IT? That is BASGUSTING, put it away, ewwwwww....I don't wanna see your hairy butt mom OH.MY.GOSH"
At this point I'm feeling a gamut of emotions...mostly torn between amusement at her apparent horror at my BASGUSTING hairy vajeej (which was just recently maintained, thank you very much) and depression at being called basgusting by my preschooler. Preschooler = 1, self-esteem = 0
This carries on for several minutes, I'm trying to wrap up the shower quickly so I can put my nasty, hairy, basgusting self in a towel and then partake in hours of hair removal and exfoliation to restore even a shred self-esteem. She keeps going on and on and on and on about how gross and ewwwwww it is, she's covering her eyes, pointing and acting as if the Elephant Man is standing in the shower with her. I've never felt so grotesquely disfigured in all my life. But then it got worse...
"OH MY GOSH mommy...your boobies are falling onto your chubby belly!!!!!"
Wow. Awesome. So now she's carrying on about my hairy butt and my sagging boobs and I'm near tears. Having been reduced to a hairy, drooping, chunked up mess with a mom-gut I can't get dried off and dressed fast enough.
"WHY do you have those boobies? Why are they down?"
Because of YOU you demonic little spawn. YOU made my boobies hang down to my navel. YOU gave me this unsightly midsection. I BLAME YOU.
"All mommies have boobies and all mommies have hairy butts" (granted to varying degrees...some are partial to being bushwomen and some prefer Brazilians...I fall somewhere in the middle...we won't discuss the boobies right now)
"I don't want a hairy butt and I want nice boobies" (don't we all???)
"You'll have a hairy butt and nice boobies when you're a mommy too"
This is when she starts crying hysterically at the thought of even slightly resembling the horrific display standing before her.
"BUT I DON'T WANT A BASGUSTING HAIRY BUTT LIKE YOU!!!! IT'S SO GROSS MOMMY!!!"
"You won't have them until you're bigger and you're a mommy, it's ok"
Sniffling now, she manages to get out "When I turn 43 like you?"
Knife through the heart....NOT that there is anything wrong with being 43, but I'm still 10 fucking years away from that. So my rapidly aging, hairy vajeej'd, saggy boobed self wrapped us both up in towels and snuggled her onto my bed and reassured her that the hairy ass, drooping tits, wrinkles, stretch marks, and being old would NEVER happen to her. Boy is SHE gonna be pissed in a few years...
She has showered with me before, she loves showers, loves being naked, loves turning around and shaking her little butt at me telling me to "looka my booty tushy". So I figured today would be no different. WRONG. I start the water, get undressed, she does the same and in we go. She normally totally ignores me and hangs in the water singing random songs about it raining and unicorns and butterflies and other nonsensical 3 year old shit. Not today. I'm busy washing my hair and she turns and gasps...
"MOMMY!!!!!!!!! What happened to you?!?!?!"
I look down, thinking I had cut my leg shaving and was gushing copious amounts of blood down the drain. Nope.
"What do you mean what happened? I'm fine!"
"NO you are not....WHAT is that?!?!?!" (pointing to my vajeej region)
"That's my vajeej (ok, didn't use that term with her but I like it better for some reason) you have one too"
"WHAT IS WRONG WITH IT? That is BASGUSTING, put it away, ewwwwww....I don't wanna see your hairy butt mom OH.MY.GOSH"
At this point I'm feeling a gamut of emotions...mostly torn between amusement at her apparent horror at my BASGUSTING hairy vajeej (which was just recently maintained, thank you very much) and depression at being called basgusting by my preschooler. Preschooler = 1, self-esteem = 0
This carries on for several minutes, I'm trying to wrap up the shower quickly so I can put my nasty, hairy, basgusting self in a towel and then partake in hours of hair removal and exfoliation to restore even a shred self-esteem. She keeps going on and on and on and on about how gross and ewwwwww it is, she's covering her eyes, pointing and acting as if the Elephant Man is standing in the shower with her. I've never felt so grotesquely disfigured in all my life. But then it got worse...
"OH MY GOSH mommy...your boobies are falling onto your chubby belly!!!!!"
Wow. Awesome. So now she's carrying on about my hairy butt and my sagging boobs and I'm near tears. Having been reduced to a hairy, drooping, chunked up mess with a mom-gut I can't get dried off and dressed fast enough.
"WHY do you have those boobies? Why are they down?"
Because of YOU you demonic little spawn. YOU made my boobies hang down to my navel. YOU gave me this unsightly midsection. I BLAME YOU.
"All mommies have boobies and all mommies have hairy butts" (granted to varying degrees...some are partial to being bushwomen and some prefer Brazilians...I fall somewhere in the middle...we won't discuss the boobies right now)
"I don't want a hairy butt and I want nice boobies" (don't we all???)
"You'll have a hairy butt and nice boobies when you're a mommy too"
This is when she starts crying hysterically at the thought of even slightly resembling the horrific display standing before her.
"BUT I DON'T WANT A BASGUSTING HAIRY BUTT LIKE YOU!!!! IT'S SO GROSS MOMMY!!!"
"You won't have them until you're bigger and you're a mommy, it's ok"
Sniffling now, she manages to get out "When I turn 43 like you?"
Knife through the heart....NOT that there is anything wrong with being 43, but I'm still 10 fucking years away from that. So my rapidly aging, hairy vajeej'd, saggy boobed self wrapped us both up in towels and snuggled her onto my bed and reassured her that the hairy ass, drooping tits, wrinkles, stretch marks, and being old would NEVER happen to her. Boy is SHE gonna be pissed in a few years...
Give me a break..I'm MAINTAINING here!!
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I was out running errands the other day and my husband called me in a panic: "WHERE ARE YOU? ARE YOU OK? WHAT HAPPENED?????" Um, I'm not sure...I know they're out of the kind of bread the kids like at Target and that Jada and Will are breaking up according to People but other than that I'm not sure what happened? Which prompted me to ask "WTF are you talking about?!?!?" Dead silence...long painful pause...."Um hello?" He cleared his throat and informed me that he had just gotten home. He didn't need to say anything else because I knew what the problem was. I had abandoned ship in the middle of the day and the ship was a wreck (pun intended).
He was likely standing in the middle of a war zone. The battle had ensued earlier that morning and there were many, many casualties that had yet to be dealt with. The Cheerios that had dropped from someone's bowl had likely created Cheerio concrete on the kitchen floor, the various lunch fixings were still on the island countertop...but whatever, the youngest was going to need to eat lunch eventually so why NOT leave out the bread, peanut butter (including the pb that was smeared ON the countertop) jelly, cheetos, juice boxes, and baggies; for whatever reason the vacuum was smack in the middle of the front entryway (doesn't EVERYONE keep theirs there? No? No one? Hmmm...weird...) Pajamas were flung over the back of the couch, the arm of the chair, and strewn across the ottoman...and OH SHIT I'm pretty sure the youngest child's Pull Up was left on the floor by the tv...and we can't forget the container of hair accessories that got dumped in the upstairs hallway because the oldest couldn't find the exact one that she was looking for...discarded outfit choices were scattered haphazardly on bedroom floors, of COURSE no one's bed was made, I'm PRETTY sure the dryer was hanging open and half the contents were on the floor of the laundry room, toothbrushes were cemented to the bathroom countertop in a pool of Crest, a REAL battle between Jango Fett, Darth Maul, Anakin Skywalker, and ObeWan Kenobi had taken place earlier that morning as well (when middle child was SUPPOSED to be getting a clean pair of socks...which he never came downstairs with because DUH...Anakin needed some sort of battle cruiser and what better than a pair of Hanes???) so the victims of said battle were strategically placed along the stairs (along with a wide variety of weapons, back-up troops, and vehicles) So traversing the stairs was like battling a Galactic Heroes minefield...good times, good times.
So basically the house was a shit hole. The scene that particular day was not normal (I had to leave immediately after putting the older two on the bus for an appointment and then stayed out to run errands after) but you're not going to find it spit-shined and polished every day before 9 am either. I typically like to keep up with it during the day, I MAINTAIN if you will...dishes are done, meal preparations are cleaned up, kids rooms are tidy enough...but I'm guilty of maintaining a "lived in" home. At any given time you could walk into my house and odds are pretty damn good you'll trip over a pair of shoes, step on a Lego, walk through a patch of mystery stickiness on my kitchen floor, have to move a jacket/backpack/blanket/stuffed animal/barbie to find a spot on the couch...you get the idea. I have three kids and it's damn obvious. It also drives my husband CRAZY. He can't stand the pile of the kids' school paperwork in a certain spot on the kitchen counter. Finding shoes/toys/sippy cups under the couch drives him to the edge. The stack of DVDs that have yet to be returned to his alphabetical orderliness in the basement makes him want to hurt someone. But keeping up with that shit ALL DAY EVERY DAY is akin to keeping the ocean back with a broom. WHY THE FUCK SHOULD I BOTHER???? I clean up one mess, turn around to deal with another and the first mess is all fucked up again! Ocean...broom.
Yet it's been our most consistent battle since we first got married. I grew up in a "lived in" house...there were 8 of us...no freaking way could my mother have kept up with it all day every day. She MAINTAINED. I do the same. My house is clean, it's usually pretty tidy, 90% of the time I would not be embarrassed by unexpected guests. My husband is a little different though. He grew up in a house where his bed was made before he had completely gotten out of it, a discarded tissue was removed from a bathroom garbage can to be placed in the larger kitchen garbage before the snot even had a chance to dry, and dishes were washed, rinsed, dried and IMMEDIATELY put in their proper place, couch pillows were re-fluffed and re-positioned as soon as he had abandoned his spot. So he's had a bit of a difficult time adjusting to the fact that shoes in the front hall and GI Joe guns wedged in the couch cushions don't bother me. Sure they get dealt with eventually but I refuse to deal with every mess the second it happens. I'd go crazy. I'd drive everyone else crazy. THERE.IS.NO.POINT but he doesn't see that. He doesn't understand why the kids backpacks, papers, toys, shoes are still in the family room at 6 pm on a Wednesday. We always do a quick clean up as we head upstairs for bed...everyone grabs their shit and puts it away. It works. Shit gets picked up, everyone is happy.
I've proposed that he stay home for a week straight with the kids day in and day out so HE can get a firsthand look at what a huge pain in the ass even MAINTAINING can be. He doesn't think it's that hard. He CLAIMS that if I'm out for a few hours and he's left in charge the house is kept clean (um...yeah...that'll be reserved for another blog post entitled "My husband can't clean up after the kids for shit when left alone but I should be thankful that our children are still alive upon my return") So in summary, Star Wars, Cheerios, ocean...broom...MAINTAIN my friends, MAINTAIN.
He was likely standing in the middle of a war zone. The battle had ensued earlier that morning and there were many, many casualties that had yet to be dealt with. The Cheerios that had dropped from someone's bowl had likely created Cheerio concrete on the kitchen floor, the various lunch fixings were still on the island countertop...but whatever, the youngest was going to need to eat lunch eventually so why NOT leave out the bread, peanut butter (including the pb that was smeared ON the countertop) jelly, cheetos, juice boxes, and baggies; for whatever reason the vacuum was smack in the middle of the front entryway (doesn't EVERYONE keep theirs there? No? No one? Hmmm...weird...) Pajamas were flung over the back of the couch, the arm of the chair, and strewn across the ottoman...and OH SHIT I'm pretty sure the youngest child's Pull Up was left on the floor by the tv...and we can't forget the container of hair accessories that got dumped in the upstairs hallway because the oldest couldn't find the exact one that she was looking for...discarded outfit choices were scattered haphazardly on bedroom floors, of COURSE no one's bed was made, I'm PRETTY sure the dryer was hanging open and half the contents were on the floor of the laundry room, toothbrushes were cemented to the bathroom countertop in a pool of Crest, a REAL battle between Jango Fett, Darth Maul, Anakin Skywalker, and ObeWan Kenobi had taken place earlier that morning as well (when middle child was SUPPOSED to be getting a clean pair of socks...which he never came downstairs with because DUH...Anakin needed some sort of battle cruiser and what better than a pair of Hanes???) so the victims of said battle were strategically placed along the stairs (along with a wide variety of weapons, back-up troops, and vehicles) So traversing the stairs was like battling a Galactic Heroes minefield...good times, good times.
So basically the house was a shit hole. The scene that particular day was not normal (I had to leave immediately after putting the older two on the bus for an appointment and then stayed out to run errands after) but you're not going to find it spit-shined and polished every day before 9 am either. I typically like to keep up with it during the day, I MAINTAIN if you will...dishes are done, meal preparations are cleaned up, kids rooms are tidy enough...but I'm guilty of maintaining a "lived in" home. At any given time you could walk into my house and odds are pretty damn good you'll trip over a pair of shoes, step on a Lego, walk through a patch of mystery stickiness on my kitchen floor, have to move a jacket/backpack/blanket/stuffed animal/barbie to find a spot on the couch...you get the idea. I have three kids and it's damn obvious. It also drives my husband CRAZY. He can't stand the pile of the kids' school paperwork in a certain spot on the kitchen counter. Finding shoes/toys/sippy cups under the couch drives him to the edge. The stack of DVDs that have yet to be returned to his alphabetical orderliness in the basement makes him want to hurt someone. But keeping up with that shit ALL DAY EVERY DAY is akin to keeping the ocean back with a broom. WHY THE FUCK SHOULD I BOTHER???? I clean up one mess, turn around to deal with another and the first mess is all fucked up again! Ocean...broom.
Yet it's been our most consistent battle since we first got married. I grew up in a "lived in" house...there were 8 of us...no freaking way could my mother have kept up with it all day every day. She MAINTAINED. I do the same. My house is clean, it's usually pretty tidy, 90% of the time I would not be embarrassed by unexpected guests. My husband is a little different though. He grew up in a house where his bed was made before he had completely gotten out of it, a discarded tissue was removed from a bathroom garbage can to be placed in the larger kitchen garbage before the snot even had a chance to dry, and dishes were washed, rinsed, dried and IMMEDIATELY put in their proper place, couch pillows were re-fluffed and re-positioned as soon as he had abandoned his spot. So he's had a bit of a difficult time adjusting to the fact that shoes in the front hall and GI Joe guns wedged in the couch cushions don't bother me. Sure they get dealt with eventually but I refuse to deal with every mess the second it happens. I'd go crazy. I'd drive everyone else crazy. THERE.IS.NO.POINT but he doesn't see that. He doesn't understand why the kids backpacks, papers, toys, shoes are still in the family room at 6 pm on a Wednesday. We always do a quick clean up as we head upstairs for bed...everyone grabs their shit and puts it away. It works. Shit gets picked up, everyone is happy.
I've proposed that he stay home for a week straight with the kids day in and day out so HE can get a firsthand look at what a huge pain in the ass even MAINTAINING can be. He doesn't think it's that hard. He CLAIMS that if I'm out for a few hours and he's left in charge the house is kept clean (um...yeah...that'll be reserved for another blog post entitled "My husband can't clean up after the kids for shit when left alone but I should be thankful that our children are still alive upon my return") So in summary, Star Wars, Cheerios, ocean...broom...MAINTAIN my friends, MAINTAIN.
Why going to the movies sucks...
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I don't even have it in me to come up with a witty title for this one...taking a family of five to the movies sucks ass. Period. I have yet to figure out why, everytime we have a low-key weekend without a bazillion different activities and destinations on the itinerary, my beloved insists on suggesting a movie. Of COURSE he does it when the kids are within earshot so I look like a raging-party-pooping-Mommy-Dearest-pissing-in-everyone's-Cheerios BITCH if I say no. Don't get me wrong, I like movies...ones I only pay a dollar for and can enjoy whilst wearing flannel. I like hitting pause if I (or someone else) needs to take a potty break, I like perusing my pantry for affordable snacks. Apparently my family does not enjoy these things as much as I do.
They LOOOOOVE going to the movie theater. The smelly, sticky-floored, bacteria-infested-stadium seat movie theater. Ewwwww. I just threw up in my mouth. But I digress. My family loves movies, we have a lot of them, and yes, we GO to a lot of them despite my best efforts to redirect them into other activities. Apparently the art of underwater basket weaving and making bottled sand art isn't nearly as entertaining. Assholes.
So off we go...and it goes the same way EVERY.SINGLE.TIME. I insist that we stop at a convenience store so I can purchase drinks to smuggle in. This mortifies my husband beyond belief. I bring the biggest fucking mom-bag I own, I could easily fit a small child in there but for these little outings, that baby is reserved for Gatorade and Diet Coke. We argue for about 15 minutes about why I bring our own drinks in, he acts all irritated and whiny. And even though I always smuggle in a soda for him, he always buys a small bucket at the concession stand as if to say "HA! I can get my OWN drink bitch...I just spent $8 on flat, watered down soda that will have me pissing my pants 30 minutes into the movie..TAKE THAT!" Yeah, good for you buddy, too bad I only brought Pull-ups for the youngest of the brood. I also bring in snacks (yeah, it's a BIG.ASS.BAG) but again, he will buy a barrel of popcorn once we're in the theater.
After we sign over part of a college fund contribution to buy tickets and my man-child stands in line for his snacks (for which the total rivals a small grocery bill) We make our way to the theater, stand in back while the man-child and the two oldest spawn argue about where to sit. Let's face it, the 3D glasses are going to make me want to puke 5 minutes in regardless so I could give two shits if we sit in the back on the right, smack in the middle, or up front with my head cocked back at a 90 degree angle. What's that you say? You want to sit in the parking lot??? OK!!!!!!!!! Sign my ass up! I'll race you!
We make our way to our seats and more arguing ensues about who is going to sit next to whom and then we listen to a chorus of :
"MOVE YOUR ELBOW"
"THAT'S MY DRINK HOLDER"
"SHE TOOK MY GATORADE!"
"YOU'RE GOING TO KNOCK OVER MY POPCORN!"
"YOU GOT TO SIT NEXT TO DAD LAST TIME!!"
"I HATE YOU ALL I HATE THE MOVIES AND I WANT TO GO THE FUCK HOME!!" (oh wait, that last one was me...)
And a whole bunch of other bullshit that makes me want to knock heads together and just rouse them from unconsciousness once the movie is over. But the real nightmare begins once the lights go down and the movie starts. After of course 15 minutes of previews...those stupid BASTARDS know my kids are suckers so of course they show previews for 10 more movies I'll have to drag my ass to. Fuck my life. So the movie begins and I WILL say, there are a few times when I've actually WANTED to watch the movie that we paid a small fortune to see. However, it NEVER turns out that way. I typically spend 1 hour and 58 minutes listening to various requests/demands/bitching/whining/random-stupid-bullshit talking so I actually get to pay attention to MAYBE 58 seconds of every movie we go to.
"Mom, can I have more popcorn?"
"Mom, can you open my drink?"
"Mom, I don't like popcorn, what else do we have?" (which requires me to dig in the big ass bag...not an easy task in the dark)
"Mom, remember in the first movie when the one guy had the thing that he took to the place to bring to the other guy? Was he a bad guy or a good guy? Did he have a different weapon? Because that one doesn't look like the one he had in the first movie. Can you check on your phone and google it and see what he had in the first movie that he brought to the guy at the place?"
"Mom, did you bring my jacket?" Uh NO...I reminded you as we were getting out of the car.
"Mom, can I have your jacket?"
"Mom, can I play with your phone?" OH HELL NO! The tickets cost more than the GDP of some small countries! Your ass will watch EVERY.SINGLE.GODDAMN.SECOND of this movie or so help me God...
"Hey..mom...did you look that up yet? Cuz now there's another guy going to a different place and the other guy has a different thing and he's taking it somewhere else with another bad guy and they're going to the same place as in the other movie and I want to see if it's the same one or a different one so did you look yet?"
"Mom? Did we bring M&M's?" (to which I replied that I did NOT bring any M&M's...only to discover that child #1 was asking because she was suspicious of whatever floor snack child #3 had just unearthed from under her chair...HOLY SHIT)
"Mom, what did he just say?" this happens repeatedly and USUALLY about 12 seconds into the movie so they spend the next 2 hours confused because they missed something during the opening credits.
"Mom, I have to go to the bathroom" OF COURSE you have to go to the fucking bathroom. Because your father shared his vat of diet coke with you so not only are you going to spend the next 6 hours bouncing off the goddamn walls, you'll be pissing every 20 minutes too. Awesome. So as any mother would do, I ask ALL THREE if they have to go so I can just get it over with. The other two say no but it never fails...I get back, sit down and someone else announces that they have to go. I've started wising up and just dragging all of them with me. It will get to the point where I will put them ALL in Pull-ups so I don't have to miss anything because I missed the last 10 minutes of Transformers 3 and I'm still pissed.
Occasionally their father will drag himself out of his popcorn bucket stupor to pitch in for 37 seconds of the 2 hour long movie but most of MY 2 hours is spent refereeing/handing out more snacks/mopping up spills/passing out napkins/prying mystery floor snacks out of the 3 year old's hands/etc...etc....etc.
So this is why I don't enjoy going to the movies. I LIKE movies. I just don't like them with my family. Now I know why people go to movies alone. I used to feel sorry for them. Now I wish I could be them.
They LOOOOOVE going to the movie theater. The smelly, sticky-floored, bacteria-infested-stadium seat movie theater. Ewwwww. I just threw up in my mouth. But I digress. My family loves movies, we have a lot of them, and yes, we GO to a lot of them despite my best efforts to redirect them into other activities. Apparently the art of underwater basket weaving and making bottled sand art isn't nearly as entertaining. Assholes.
So off we go...and it goes the same way EVERY.SINGLE.TIME. I insist that we stop at a convenience store so I can purchase drinks to smuggle in. This mortifies my husband beyond belief. I bring the biggest fucking mom-bag I own, I could easily fit a small child in there but for these little outings, that baby is reserved for Gatorade and Diet Coke. We argue for about 15 minutes about why I bring our own drinks in, he acts all irritated and whiny. And even though I always smuggle in a soda for him, he always buys a small bucket at the concession stand as if to say "HA! I can get my OWN drink bitch...I just spent $8 on flat, watered down soda that will have me pissing my pants 30 minutes into the movie..TAKE THAT!" Yeah, good for you buddy, too bad I only brought Pull-ups for the youngest of the brood. I also bring in snacks (yeah, it's a BIG.ASS.BAG) but again, he will buy a barrel of popcorn once we're in the theater.
After we sign over part of a college fund contribution to buy tickets and my man-child stands in line for his snacks (for which the total rivals a small grocery bill) We make our way to the theater, stand in back while the man-child and the two oldest spawn argue about where to sit. Let's face it, the 3D glasses are going to make me want to puke 5 minutes in regardless so I could give two shits if we sit in the back on the right, smack in the middle, or up front with my head cocked back at a 90 degree angle. What's that you say? You want to sit in the parking lot??? OK!!!!!!!!! Sign my ass up! I'll race you!
We make our way to our seats and more arguing ensues about who is going to sit next to whom and then we listen to a chorus of :
"MOVE YOUR ELBOW"
"THAT'S MY DRINK HOLDER"
"SHE TOOK MY GATORADE!"
"YOU'RE GOING TO KNOCK OVER MY POPCORN!"
"YOU GOT TO SIT NEXT TO DAD LAST TIME!!"
"I HATE YOU ALL I HATE THE MOVIES AND I WANT TO GO THE FUCK HOME!!" (oh wait, that last one was me...)
And a whole bunch of other bullshit that makes me want to knock heads together and just rouse them from unconsciousness once the movie is over. But the real nightmare begins once the lights go down and the movie starts. After of course 15 minutes of previews...those stupid BASTARDS know my kids are suckers so of course they show previews for 10 more movies I'll have to drag my ass to. Fuck my life. So the movie begins and I WILL say, there are a few times when I've actually WANTED to watch the movie that we paid a small fortune to see. However, it NEVER turns out that way. I typically spend 1 hour and 58 minutes listening to various requests/demands/bitching/whining/random-stupid-bullshit talking so I actually get to pay attention to MAYBE 58 seconds of every movie we go to.
"Mom, can I have more popcorn?"
"Mom, can you open my drink?"
"Mom, I don't like popcorn, what else do we have?" (which requires me to dig in the big ass bag...not an easy task in the dark)
"Mom, remember in the first movie when the one guy had the thing that he took to the place to bring to the other guy? Was he a bad guy or a good guy? Did he have a different weapon? Because that one doesn't look like the one he had in the first movie. Can you check on your phone and google it and see what he had in the first movie that he brought to the guy at the place?"
"Mom, did you bring my jacket?" Uh NO...I reminded you as we were getting out of the car.
"Mom, can I have your jacket?"
"Mom, can I play with your phone?" OH HELL NO! The tickets cost more than the GDP of some small countries! Your ass will watch EVERY.SINGLE.GODDAMN.SECOND of this movie or so help me God...
"Hey..mom...did you look that up yet? Cuz now there's another guy going to a different place and the other guy has a different thing and he's taking it somewhere else with another bad guy and they're going to the same place as in the other movie and I want to see if it's the same one or a different one so did you look yet?"
"Mom? Did we bring M&M's?" (to which I replied that I did NOT bring any M&M's...only to discover that child #1 was asking because she was suspicious of whatever floor snack child #3 had just unearthed from under her chair...HOLY SHIT)
"Mom, what did he just say?" this happens repeatedly and USUALLY about 12 seconds into the movie so they spend the next 2 hours confused because they missed something during the opening credits.
"Mom, I have to go to the bathroom" OF COURSE you have to go to the fucking bathroom. Because your father shared his vat of diet coke with you so not only are you going to spend the next 6 hours bouncing off the goddamn walls, you'll be pissing every 20 minutes too. Awesome. So as any mother would do, I ask ALL THREE if they have to go so I can just get it over with. The other two say no but it never fails...I get back, sit down and someone else announces that they have to go. I've started wising up and just dragging all of them with me. It will get to the point where I will put them ALL in Pull-ups so I don't have to miss anything because I missed the last 10 minutes of Transformers 3 and I'm still pissed.
Occasionally their father will drag himself out of his popcorn bucket stupor to pitch in for 37 seconds of the 2 hour long movie but most of MY 2 hours is spent refereeing/handing out more snacks/mopping up spills/passing out napkins/prying mystery floor snacks out of the 3 year old's hands/etc...etc....etc.
So this is why I don't enjoy going to the movies. I LIKE movies. I just don't like them with my family. Now I know why people go to movies alone. I used to feel sorry for them. Now I wish I could be them.
Don't "sweat" it...at least not often...
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Ok, so I fully admitted via Facebook one day last week that I was unshowered and SO greasy that the water was probably going to repel from my hair...and it did. I should have taken one poster's suggestion of using Dawn dishwashing liquid because after all "it takes grease out of your way". Duh...I should listen next time. It took about 6 rounds of "lather, rinse, repeat" to get myself looking somewhat human again. Whatever it takes, right? Many of you told me that you had been in the same boat...which makes ANY mom feel better to know that other moms had been there, done that.
But here's the thing...the homeless woman, greasy, non-showering, unpleasantness is NOT a regular occurrence. Spending the day in sweats does not happen on a consistent basis. I do not make it a habit to schlub around in my scrubbiest clothes multiple days out of the week. Simply put, I do NOT try to look like shit semi-weekly. Yet many moms do. Scratch that. I shouldn't say they TRY to look like shit. We all wake up looking like shit. No one wakes up pretty. If you think you do, you're full of yourself and delusional and we're probably not friends in real life because you suck for thinking that highly of yourself. It's the women who MAINTAIN the overall shittiness day in an day out without any effort towards making it go away. On a regular basis. More than once a week...or twice or even three times a week. Shit is just WRONG.
I work from home, as many moms do, therefore this lends itself quite nicely to staying in jammies maybe once a week. MAYBE once a week. No need to shower, shave, and get all pretty if I'm not going anywhere but my basement to work with only the two-year-old for company, right? Even if I AM staying home to work I at least still shower...maybe put pj's back on but whatever, don't judge...But if I am leaving my house you bet your ass I'm in the shower, put on some decent clothes, make-up and am looking relatively decent to go out amongst the public. I cannot wrap my brain around the moms who go out in public looking like they just rolled out of bed. Familiar with the concepts of self-respect and self-worth? Don't you feel better about yourself if you take some time to look even a tiny bit attractive? I'm not talking Real Housewives of Orange County shit in full make-up and an outfit suited for a night out clubbing. Hell, you can make yoga pants and a hoodie look good if you TRY.
Riddle me this...why are some women's kids decked out in head-to-toe matching outfits, shoes, hair accessories, with perfectly styled hair and mom looks like she got dressed in a dark closet after just having pulled what was crammed under her bed and stepped from the nearest wind tunnel? I just don't get it, I really don't. I can't tell you how often I read of moms who admit having gone DAYS...multiple DAYS without showering or changing clothes. Yummy. I'm a mom too. I get it. I get how overwhelming and exhausting it can be and how difficult it can be to even find 3 minutes to take a shit by yourself (and that rarely, if ever, happens) let alone take a shower. But don't you just feel better about yourself as a woman and a mom if you can find time to take a 2 minute shower and dig out some clean underwear? Maybe slap on some mascara and some jeans instead of sweats? Put on a cute shirt instead of digging a grubby sweatshirt out of the hamper that has lunch leftovers smeared across the front or are those boogers? Hard to tell...but does it really matter? Shit is just WRONG...
If someone can PLEASE clue me in to the mystery that is the schlubby, frumpy mom...I would be so appreciative. Please explain to me the phenomenon that is the mom who does not give a shit the majority of the time. I've heard the "I'm not vain" or "I don't care what other people think" bullshit before and I'm not buying it. There is a direct correlation between LOOKING GOOD and FEELING GOOD. So moms who are having a shitty ass day, sometimes all it takes is a little bit of make-up, a cute outfit, and getting the fuck out of the house...can't hurt, right? Might even help...ya never know...so please, if you have some insight into the habitual schlumpadinka, do tell...I'm dying to know..
But here's the thing...the homeless woman, greasy, non-showering, unpleasantness is NOT a regular occurrence. Spending the day in sweats does not happen on a consistent basis. I do not make it a habit to schlub around in my scrubbiest clothes multiple days out of the week. Simply put, I do NOT try to look like shit semi-weekly. Yet many moms do. Scratch that. I shouldn't say they TRY to look like shit. We all wake up looking like shit. No one wakes up pretty. If you think you do, you're full of yourself and delusional and we're probably not friends in real life because you suck for thinking that highly of yourself. It's the women who MAINTAIN the overall shittiness day in an day out without any effort towards making it go away. On a regular basis. More than once a week...or twice or even three times a week. Shit is just WRONG.
I work from home, as many moms do, therefore this lends itself quite nicely to staying in jammies maybe once a week. MAYBE once a week. No need to shower, shave, and get all pretty if I'm not going anywhere but my basement to work with only the two-year-old for company, right? Even if I AM staying home to work I at least still shower...maybe put pj's back on but whatever, don't judge...But if I am leaving my house you bet your ass I'm in the shower, put on some decent clothes, make-up and am looking relatively decent to go out amongst the public. I cannot wrap my brain around the moms who go out in public looking like they just rolled out of bed. Familiar with the concepts of self-respect and self-worth? Don't you feel better about yourself if you take some time to look even a tiny bit attractive? I'm not talking Real Housewives of Orange County shit in full make-up and an outfit suited for a night out clubbing. Hell, you can make yoga pants and a hoodie look good if you TRY.
Riddle me this...why are some women's kids decked out in head-to-toe matching outfits, shoes, hair accessories, with perfectly styled hair and mom looks like she got dressed in a dark closet after just having pulled what was crammed under her bed and stepped from the nearest wind tunnel? I just don't get it, I really don't. I can't tell you how often I read of moms who admit having gone DAYS...multiple DAYS without showering or changing clothes. Yummy. I'm a mom too. I get it. I get how overwhelming and exhausting it can be and how difficult it can be to even find 3 minutes to take a shit by yourself (and that rarely, if ever, happens) let alone take a shower. But don't you just feel better about yourself as a woman and a mom if you can find time to take a 2 minute shower and dig out some clean underwear? Maybe slap on some mascara and some jeans instead of sweats? Put on a cute shirt instead of digging a grubby sweatshirt out of the hamper that has lunch leftovers smeared across the front or are those boogers? Hard to tell...but does it really matter? Shit is just WRONG...
photo courtesy of Fussy Pants
Like I said, I've had my days. We all have. We have our days when our periods make us feel fat, bloated, and miserable. A cold has us so run-down that getting dressed is not an option. Being awake all night nursing a baby makes showering seem like an impossible task. I GET THAT. I really do. I've been that mom that has spent the day smelling like sour milk. I've been that mom who is so congested from a head cold I'm only grateful that I can't smell myself. I've been that mom who is so cranky and pms'ing and feels so "fluffy" that sweats are the ONLY FUCKING THING that are going on my body that day. I've had to schlep the older two to school after they missed the bus wearing ladybug pajama pants, a pink hoodie, my winter coat, Uggs, glasses, and MIGHT have brushed my hair...but I didn't get out of the car, I just slowed down long enough for them to roll free of the back tires. Anyway...the point being, I GET IT. I'VE DONE IT. But we ALL know moms who have way too many days like this far too often and just claim that "there is no time" and they just don't bother. I feel sorry for them. I feel sorry for the moms who forgot what it was like to make themselves LOOK and FEEL good. Not only for themselves but for their spouse. I do myself up for myself AND my husband. He doesn't need me to be in a housedress, high heels, fresh lipstick, and pearls everyday when he gets home but shit...I can at least have showered and have on a pair of clean underwear for God's sake...how hard is that?If someone can PLEASE clue me in to the mystery that is the schlubby, frumpy mom...I would be so appreciative. Please explain to me the phenomenon that is the mom who does not give a shit the majority of the time. I've heard the "I'm not vain" or "I don't care what other people think" bullshit before and I'm not buying it. There is a direct correlation between LOOKING GOOD and FEELING GOOD. So moms who are having a shitty ass day, sometimes all it takes is a little bit of make-up, a cute outfit, and getting the fuck out of the house...can't hurt, right? Might even help...ya never know...so please, if you have some insight into the habitual schlumpadinka, do tell...I'm dying to know..
Prankster Friday
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That's what my kids are calling today...creative geniuses, huh? They're huge fans of those cheesy, lame-ass shows like "Funniest Home Videos" and we saw a program on some other channel that was all about pranks and they just about pissed themselves watching it. SO they were consipiratorial and giggly last night when they went to bed and BOTH woke up without prompting today which instantly put me on my guard. Luckily those little shits aren't out to prank me (because I would have been PISSED if they had tried to Saran Wrap my toilet...because #1 that shit ain't cheap and #2 I usually stumble to the bathroom half asleep so I would have been an excellent candidate for that one to actually work...they would have been scrubbing the toilet/floor with their toothbrushes).
They are out to prank each other...yet keep talking TO EACH OTHER about different pranks. See, creative geniuses..I told ya. I've been watching and listening and wanting to point out the HUGE flaw in their plan. Really fucking hard to prank someone when the someone you are going to prank is your accomplice. Oh yeah, super smart. I'm so proud. So child #2 comes down into the kitchen and his first "prank" on his sister is to....wait for it...put her juice box in her lunch box for her. Wow. Seriously? He was so freaking excited about it I was not about to piss in his Cheerios with the insight that that was one of the lamest fucking pranks I had ever heard. SO I preemptively went upstairs to clue #1 in on what the "prank" was so she would respond appropriately. WELL...let me just say she will NOT be up for an Academy Award for her acting skills anytime soon. #2 ended up in tears that his prank was dumb (yeah, ya think???) and #1 was NOT helping by telling him "well buddy, that's not really a prank" which just made him cry harder. I wanted to punch her and sign her up for acting classes.
SO fast forward a few minutes to scrambling to get ready for the bus...#1 asks #2 where his fake spider is. WOW...again. Super fucking geniuses. He goes and gets it for her out of his room and she giggles and runs away to the bathroom. 12 seconds later she asks him if he has to go to the bathroom before they leave for school. You have GOT to be fucking kidding me. I am inwardly screaming at them how lame they are and how much they suck balls at pranking. He looks at her like she's got a penis growing out of her forehead and says no. She asks if he's REALLY SURE??? Sweet Jesus Lord above you guys are HORRIBLE and I'm embarassed for you. So she tries another tactic to get him into the shitter (where, DUH she's got the fake spider that he HAD JUST HANDED HER sitting on the toilet seat) WOW.
"hey buddy, do you need a tissue"
"no" (rolls his eyes at her)
"are you sure"
"uh, yeah I'm sure" (now giving her looks of total disdain)
"UM, can you get ME a tissue?"
"probably not"
So she is watching her brilliant prank unravel before her very eyes and asks me if I need a tissue. HOLY FUCKING SHIT. No, I don't need a tissue and you need to get your lame ass on the bus...get out of my house before I disown both of you and your sad, pitiful, sub-standard skills. So as they leave, they start conspiring about what pranks they can pull on me when they get home from school. Oh boy, I can't wait...but in the meantime I'm going to come up with some KICK ASS pranks for those little shits that will make them terrified beyond any reasonable doubt to come anywhere near me with a prank...no matter how lame...
Now I just need some ideas...bring it on... ;) THEY ARE GOING DOWN MUTHAFUCKAS!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Yep, I'm *THAT* mom...
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I went grocery shopping the other day and the spawn was making it difficult to get through the bowels of super Hell-Mart so I bribed her with my iPhone and powdered sugar donuts. I drew the line at sharing my diet coke so I got her a Snapple instead...yeah, way better. Other mothers glanced my way with looks of disgust as they eyed my offspring covered in processed sugar while she stared glassy-eyed at Dora the Explorer blaring out of my phone via Netflix while their little darlings (who were manufactured in petri dishes, no doubt) were reciting Neitzsche and enjoying an package of organic fruit snacks (that mom had brought from home, not ripped from the shelves then handed half eaten to the girl at the register).
Yeah, whatever...I'm THAT mom. Just these minor indiscretions made me think of all of the other things that make me THAT mom and how little I actually give a shit...cuz guess what? My kids are still alive, healthy, and for the most part, happy and well-adjusted...(yes, their college funds can be earmarked for therapy, just in case...) Some of the issues that MOST parents seem to be overly concerned with or focus a great deal of attention on and my take on them, just a little glimpse into how I do shit 'round here (this could explain A LOT...)
TV:
Well, we tried the no cable thing...that lasted ALMOST a year, not too shabby huh? It's not on 24 hours a day but I don't set timers for how long they can watch, I just can't get on board with that shit and let's be honest, if I shut the TV off that means *I* have to do something with them and that's just not always appealing. I DO however put some limitations on what they can watch. My husband feels if it is animated it means kids can watch it...hmmm...ever watched Family Guy? A drunken dog stumbling around with a martini and a perverted baby trying to pick up hookers from his carseat does NOT scream Playhouse Disney to me...but TV isn't all bad, the 2 year old can count to ten perfectly...in Spanish.
FOOD:
They eat junk food. Yep, they do. If I went to take a picture of my pantry right now you WOULD see sugar cereals, processed foods, and shit with ingredients you can't pronounce. Yes, they eat fruits and vegetables and I make relatively decent meals for dinner. Does dinner come from a box sometimes, you bet your ass it does! I love some of my friends dearly but do you REALLY need to make EVERY.FUCKING.THING from scratch??? That Little House on the Prairie bullshit ain't my style. They get fruit snacks, pizza rolls, and Cheetos. We've done a "totally popcorn dinner" before and I was the coolest fucking mom EVER (for like a day). They've tried soda, the toddler gets more juice than she probably should, and yes...more than one of them has had Doritos for breakfast. I'm admittedly too cheap for organic and according to some, that makes ME the asshole because I'm not concerned with where our food comes from and what I feed my family. Whatever. I'm a good cook and a good mom but if they decide they want *GASP* hot dogs 3 nights in a row when dad is out of town and the two year old wants a cheeseburger for breakfast...what the fuck ever...I choose my battles and sometimes those little shits win. No one is malnourished or morbidly obese so YAY me, everyone is still alive and moderately healthy. Score. Should probably incorporate more fiber into the toddler's diet though because she cries at the thought of taking a shit...
PLAYING:
I became a middle school teacher for a reason, I don't have the patience or the tolerance for being hands-on for hours in a row. I couldn't do preschool or anything with little kids, just thinking about it makes me want to drink. God gave me independent children for a reason. My kids like to play on their own, half the time if I try to engage in a tea party with Barbie and the Zhu Zhu pets or a battle I get yelled at because I'm doing it wrong. Okie dokie, you're on your own you tiny little tea party Hitler. Yep, I play with them...we play games, we color, we go outside. But I'm not a fucking Gymboree instructor therefore we will not be playing with sensory toys from 9:00-9:30, finger painting from 10:15-10:45, with a light snack at 10:46. So do I play with them constantly? Will you walk in my house at any given time and see me fully engaged on the floor with the Little People farm playset? Do we hold hands and sing nursery rhymes all day long? Nope, because I'm *THAT* mom.
TREATS:
Technically this could go under the food category but this tends to be such a HUGE issue for so many parents I figured it deserved it's own moment in the spotlight. I'm a treat person. I LOVE me some sugar. I can be painfully full from a huge meal but if you walk by me with a tray of cupcakes, I will take your ass down. Period. My kids know that treats don't flow freely in my house and they need to ask for them. However, my petite little demon baby chewed through the lock on the pantry door and has been found literally SCALING the shelves in the pantry to help herself to a snack. Whatever, she didn't fall AND was so proud of herself for her success who the fuck am I to take away her fruit snacks??? But the standing rule is you must ask...Do they always get what they ask for? Nope, if that was the case they'd have cupcakes for breakfast, Oreos for lunch, and pudding for dinner. But yes, they get "treats" every now and then. They each get a little sweet thing in their lunchbox every day and we occasionally have dessert after dinner. Ever seen what happens to those kids who aren't allowed to eat that shit? They are the ones who hide under the cake table at little Johnny's birthday party and every now and then you'll see a grubby little hand reach from under the tablecloth to snatch a handful of the forbidden fruit because mommy won't let him have it. Why the fuck not? Everything in moderation folks, little Timmy and Susie aren't destined to a life of obesity if they get a fucking Twinkie in the lunch box every now and then. The parents who fuck with their kids food and so rigidly control what they can and cannot eat are raising kids with eating disorders. There, I said it...because I'm *THAT* mom.
I'll just leave you all with that glimpse into my life and what kind of mom I am, you all know my take on sleeping...those demons do NOT belong in my bed. Period. Don't need to go into more detail than that :) So yes, I'm *THAT* mom. My kids watch too much TV, my son turns EVERYTHING into a weapon, they've had their fair share of Little Debbies, and they ALL know what Diet Coke tastes like (and probably beer too...yep *THAT* mom). Haven't killed 'em yet, have I?? I do my "good" parenting in other ways, my kids will remember the fun shit I did with them and for them. I want them to tell their children and their children's children that I did cool shit like popcorn and root beer for dinner...not lame shit like "my mom broiled me tilapia and braised organic asparagus" Whatever. I'll eat that but if I tried to serve it to my kids they'd look at me like I had a penis growing out of my forehead. No mother is perfect, the good moms are the ones who can admit that they cut corners and that we are bound to screw them up in SOME way, despite our best efforts. So yep, I'm *THAT* mom and I'm ok with that. ;)
Yeah, whatever...I'm THAT mom. Just these minor indiscretions made me think of all of the other things that make me THAT mom and how little I actually give a shit...cuz guess what? My kids are still alive, healthy, and for the most part, happy and well-adjusted...(yes, their college funds can be earmarked for therapy, just in case...) Some of the issues that MOST parents seem to be overly concerned with or focus a great deal of attention on and my take on them, just a little glimpse into how I do shit 'round here (this could explain A LOT...)
TV:
Well, we tried the no cable thing...that lasted ALMOST a year, not too shabby huh? It's not on 24 hours a day but I don't set timers for how long they can watch, I just can't get on board with that shit and let's be honest, if I shut the TV off that means *I* have to do something with them and that's just not always appealing. I DO however put some limitations on what they can watch. My husband feels if it is animated it means kids can watch it...hmmm...ever watched Family Guy? A drunken dog stumbling around with a martini and a perverted baby trying to pick up hookers from his carseat does NOT scream Playhouse Disney to me...but TV isn't all bad, the 2 year old can count to ten perfectly...in Spanish.
FOOD:
They eat junk food. Yep, they do. If I went to take a picture of my pantry right now you WOULD see sugar cereals, processed foods, and shit with ingredients you can't pronounce. Yes, they eat fruits and vegetables and I make relatively decent meals for dinner. Does dinner come from a box sometimes, you bet your ass it does! I love some of my friends dearly but do you REALLY need to make EVERY.FUCKING.THING from scratch??? That Little House on the Prairie bullshit ain't my style. They get fruit snacks, pizza rolls, and Cheetos. We've done a "totally popcorn dinner" before and I was the coolest fucking mom EVER (for like a day). They've tried soda, the toddler gets more juice than she probably should, and yes...more than one of them has had Doritos for breakfast. I'm admittedly too cheap for organic and according to some, that makes ME the asshole because I'm not concerned with where our food comes from and what I feed my family. Whatever. I'm a good cook and a good mom but if they decide they want *GASP* hot dogs 3 nights in a row when dad is out of town and the two year old wants a cheeseburger for breakfast...what the fuck ever...I choose my battles and sometimes those little shits win. No one is malnourished or morbidly obese so YAY me, everyone is still alive and moderately healthy. Score. Should probably incorporate more fiber into the toddler's diet though because she cries at the thought of taking a shit...
PLAYING:
I became a middle school teacher for a reason, I don't have the patience or the tolerance for being hands-on for hours in a row. I couldn't do preschool or anything with little kids, just thinking about it makes me want to drink. God gave me independent children for a reason. My kids like to play on their own, half the time if I try to engage in a tea party with Barbie and the Zhu Zhu pets or a battle I get yelled at because I'm doing it wrong. Okie dokie, you're on your own you tiny little tea party Hitler. Yep, I play with them...we play games, we color, we go outside. But I'm not a fucking Gymboree instructor therefore we will not be playing with sensory toys from 9:00-9:30, finger painting from 10:15-10:45, with a light snack at 10:46. So do I play with them constantly? Will you walk in my house at any given time and see me fully engaged on the floor with the Little People farm playset? Do we hold hands and sing nursery rhymes all day long? Nope, because I'm *THAT* mom.
TREATS:
Technically this could go under the food category but this tends to be such a HUGE issue for so many parents I figured it deserved it's own moment in the spotlight. I'm a treat person. I LOVE me some sugar. I can be painfully full from a huge meal but if you walk by me with a tray of cupcakes, I will take your ass down. Period. My kids know that treats don't flow freely in my house and they need to ask for them. However, my petite little demon baby chewed through the lock on the pantry door and has been found literally SCALING the shelves in the pantry to help herself to a snack. Whatever, she didn't fall AND was so proud of herself for her success who the fuck am I to take away her fruit snacks??? But the standing rule is you must ask...Do they always get what they ask for? Nope, if that was the case they'd have cupcakes for breakfast, Oreos for lunch, and pudding for dinner. But yes, they get "treats" every now and then. They each get a little sweet thing in their lunchbox every day and we occasionally have dessert after dinner. Ever seen what happens to those kids who aren't allowed to eat that shit? They are the ones who hide under the cake table at little Johnny's birthday party and every now and then you'll see a grubby little hand reach from under the tablecloth to snatch a handful of the forbidden fruit because mommy won't let him have it. Why the fuck not? Everything in moderation folks, little Timmy and Susie aren't destined to a life of obesity if they get a fucking Twinkie in the lunch box every now and then. The parents who fuck with their kids food and so rigidly control what they can and cannot eat are raising kids with eating disorders. There, I said it...because I'm *THAT* mom.
I'll just leave you all with that glimpse into my life and what kind of mom I am, you all know my take on sleeping...those demons do NOT belong in my bed. Period. Don't need to go into more detail than that :) So yes, I'm *THAT* mom. My kids watch too much TV, my son turns EVERYTHING into a weapon, they've had their fair share of Little Debbies, and they ALL know what Diet Coke tastes like (and probably beer too...yep *THAT* mom). Haven't killed 'em yet, have I?? I do my "good" parenting in other ways, my kids will remember the fun shit I did with them and for them. I want them to tell their children and their children's children that I did cool shit like popcorn and root beer for dinner...not lame shit like "my mom broiled me tilapia and braised organic asparagus" Whatever. I'll eat that but if I tried to serve it to my kids they'd look at me like I had a penis growing out of my forehead. No mother is perfect, the good moms are the ones who can admit that they cut corners and that we are bound to screw them up in SOME way, despite our best efforts. So yep, I'm *THAT* mom and I'm ok with that. ;)
Now, where does THIS part go?
Posted in on by
***Make sure the kiddos are out of the room for this one!!!!!!!!!!!!! Inappropriate picture content!!!!***
A conversation with a girlfriend about thigh high nylons and comments about crotchless panties on our Facebook page got me thinking about a certain drawer in my bedroom...a drawer that is rarely opened...a drawer that houses a few items that my husband is unaware of but he'd probably be pretty damn excited about them if he was. SO it got me thinking about the usage of those items and in the spirit of Valentine's Day I started perusing your run of the mill websites looking for "attire" and then started finding some...well...for lack of better phrasing, I started coming across some freaky shit.
Let me just say I am not a sexy person. I don't DO sexy. And I'm not just saying that because my mom reads this blog. Sexy for me is wearing just a tshirt to bed instead of a tshirt, socks and pajama pants. Remember the scene from the movie "True Lies" where Jamie Lee Curtis tries to do the sexy dance for Arnold Schwarzenegger and just as she's getting sexy she throws herself onto the floor in a clumsy heap? Yep, that's me...except I'd never even attempt the dancing because my husband would piss himself laughing before I even pressed play on the iPod. However, I have done some Victoria's Secret stuff...but there is some shit out there that I just could never bring myself to try, hell I was cringing just looking at them on the computer; a few of them I had to turn my laptop different ways to figure out which way they were supposed to go. And of course I need to share them (and my observations of said "outfits") with you all...
Who is more likely to get tangled up in THIS mess??? How the fuck do you even get it on let alone get it OFF? We'd need to keep scissors by the bedside and that's just not a good idea for several reasons...and stilettos in the bedroom are never practical...just sayin'
For those super sexy, romantic moments when you're making out under the frat house black lights you've recently installed in your bedroom...
There are no words...
Zippers in lingerie just don't strike me as a good idea...fumbling with a zipper in the "heat of the moment" is probably not the best move...knowing me and my not-so-graceful ways I'd end up unzipping a nipple, catching something of HIS in it, or something equally as disastrous...
Odds of someone getting fatally tangled up in either one of these are pretty good...and her pigtails do not distract from the potentially hazardous strangulation likelihood with these ensembles...but matching his and hers death traps?? Awwww....
Remember that scene in "Something About Mary" where Ben Stiller gets his frank and beans caught in his zipper??? Yep...disaster written all over this godawful contraption...nothing about this makes me want to unleash the beast from it's pleather cage...I just threw up in my mouth...
So does it come with instructions like an IKEA bookshelf? Strap A connects to hook F after looping through the back portion of the left side of the underwire of the first part of the second strap B2. DO NOT connect the first strap before unhooking the second underwire before detaching the looped hook connector, but NOT strap B1. Seriously....how the fuck do you even get this on? I'd be sweating in some very unattractive places when it was all said and done and then I'd want to take the goddamn thing off and take a shower...
Hm....is it there? Can you find it? Aren't the items on these kinds of pages supposed to make the guys looks super virile and masculine? Yeah, not so much for this poor bastard...it's like they took a "Pee-Pee Tee-Pee" off of the Babies R Us website and turned it into a leather thong...are the somewhat chiseled features and kind of there abs supposed to distract us from the barely there manhood (total dimestore novel term thank-you-very-much) hiding under that pleather scrap...poor guy...love the manly bicep band though, I bet his boyfriend does too.
Hmmmm....knowing my luck anything I glued to my nipples would rip one of them right off or I would end up with glue in the wrong places or gluing things together that don't belong glued together so I just can't get on board with the whole idea...and the hat would just fall off so that just seems silly to me...and anything made of "pleather" is bound to make for some awkward, uncomfortable noises if you know what I mean so that material should just be avoided altogether...
I could have gone on and on and on...I saw things that were crotchless (like a FB reader said, why bother...just go commando) things with metal studs (potentially resulting in eye gouging and other fatal injuries) whips and chains (blunt force trauma is always sexy) furry and other "faux" materials (one word for ya there: CHAFING)...the list goes on. Maybe I'm just not adventurous enough. Maybe I need to take a trip into Victoria's Secret sometime soon, or maybe even branch out a little bit more and go all out for Frederick's of Hollywood. But I MUST give credit where credit is due, for those who are wondering, the lovely pieces showcased here today can be found HERE at Wicked Temptations...very appropriate, doncha think? It all scares me to be perfectly honest and I'll probably just keep the drawer closed and stick with the tshirt and MAYBE, just MAYBE if I'm feeling really saucy I'll venture into the Gilligan and O'Malley section at Target today...
A conversation with a girlfriend about thigh high nylons and comments about crotchless panties on our Facebook page got me thinking about a certain drawer in my bedroom...a drawer that is rarely opened...a drawer that houses a few items that my husband is unaware of but he'd probably be pretty damn excited about them if he was. SO it got me thinking about the usage of those items and in the spirit of Valentine's Day I started perusing your run of the mill websites looking for "attire" and then started finding some...well...for lack of better phrasing, I started coming across some freaky shit.
Let me just say I am not a sexy person. I don't DO sexy. And I'm not just saying that because my mom reads this blog. Sexy for me is wearing just a tshirt to bed instead of a tshirt, socks and pajama pants. Remember the scene from the movie "True Lies" where Jamie Lee Curtis tries to do the sexy dance for Arnold Schwarzenegger and just as she's getting sexy she throws herself onto the floor in a clumsy heap? Yep, that's me...except I'd never even attempt the dancing because my husband would piss himself laughing before I even pressed play on the iPod. However, I have done some Victoria's Secret stuff...but there is some shit out there that I just could never bring myself to try, hell I was cringing just looking at them on the computer; a few of them I had to turn my laptop different ways to figure out which way they were supposed to go. And of course I need to share them (and my observations of said "outfits") with you all...
Who is more likely to get tangled up in THIS mess??? How the fuck do you even get it on let alone get it OFF? We'd need to keep scissors by the bedside and that's just not a good idea for several reasons...and stilettos in the bedroom are never practical...just sayin'
For those super sexy, romantic moments when you're making out under the frat house black lights you've recently installed in your bedroom...
There are no words...
Zippers in lingerie just don't strike me as a good idea...fumbling with a zipper in the "heat of the moment" is probably not the best move...knowing me and my not-so-graceful ways I'd end up unzipping a nipple, catching something of HIS in it, or something equally as disastrous...
Odds of someone getting fatally tangled up in either one of these are pretty good...and her pigtails do not distract from the potentially hazardous strangulation likelihood with these ensembles...but matching his and hers death traps?? Awwww....
Remember that scene in "Something About Mary" where Ben Stiller gets his frank and beans caught in his zipper??? Yep...disaster written all over this godawful contraption...nothing about this makes me want to unleash the beast from it's pleather cage...I just threw up in my mouth...
So does it come with instructions like an IKEA bookshelf? Strap A connects to hook F after looping through the back portion of the left side of the underwire of the first part of the second strap B2. DO NOT connect the first strap before unhooking the second underwire before detaching the looped hook connector, but NOT strap B1. Seriously....how the fuck do you even get this on? I'd be sweating in some very unattractive places when it was all said and done and then I'd want to take the goddamn thing off and take a shower...
Hm....is it there? Can you find it? Aren't the items on these kinds of pages supposed to make the guys looks super virile and masculine? Yeah, not so much for this poor bastard...it's like they took a "Pee-Pee Tee-Pee" off of the Babies R Us website and turned it into a leather thong...are the somewhat chiseled features and kind of there abs supposed to distract us from the barely there manhood (total dimestore novel term thank-you-very-much) hiding under that pleather scrap...poor guy...love the manly bicep band though, I bet his boyfriend does too.
Hmmmm....knowing my luck anything I glued to my nipples would rip one of them right off or I would end up with glue in the wrong places or gluing things together that don't belong glued together so I just can't get on board with the whole idea...and the hat would just fall off so that just seems silly to me...and anything made of "pleather" is bound to make for some awkward, uncomfortable noises if you know what I mean so that material should just be avoided altogether...
I could have gone on and on and on...I saw things that were crotchless (like a FB reader said, why bother...just go commando) things with metal studs (potentially resulting in eye gouging and other fatal injuries) whips and chains (blunt force trauma is always sexy) furry and other "faux" materials (one word for ya there: CHAFING)...the list goes on. Maybe I'm just not adventurous enough. Maybe I need to take a trip into Victoria's Secret sometime soon, or maybe even branch out a little bit more and go all out for Frederick's of Hollywood. But I MUST give credit where credit is due, for those who are wondering, the lovely pieces showcased here today can be found HERE at Wicked Temptations...very appropriate, doncha think? It all scares me to be perfectly honest and I'll probably just keep the drawer closed and stick with the tshirt and MAYBE, just MAYBE if I'm feeling really saucy I'll venture into the Gilligan and O'Malley section at Target today...
The family that sleeps together...
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I'm exhausted...painfully, deliriously, mind-numbingly exhausted. I have diet coke to my left and coffee to my right...I'm considering snorting a 5 Hour Engergy shot soon. Has anyone ever successfully started a coffee IV? Just curious...
Why am I so tired, you ask? A child slept with us last night. I know that is not a big deal to MANY families but in my house, that shit does not happen. Children do not belong in my bed. Children do not enter the inner sanctum that is my sleep chamber. Children do not infiltrate my nest. In the last 9+ years of being parents, yes we have broken that rule...as rarely as possible. We don't typically allow the kids in our bed, I try to avoid it at all costs (my beloved is the worst offender of this...the kids will go to his side of the bed because they KNOW I won't let them in...he's too lazy to take them back to bed, he gives in) I HATE sleeping with my children. I detest it. I loathe it. I would rather sleep in my car in the driveway or curled up on a chair on the deck, or shit, I'd even just lay out on the deck itself before subjecting myself to sleeping with one of my kids.
I like cuddling with my kids...on the couch...in a chair whilst somewhat upright...but NOT in my bed. My kids don't cuddle while they are sleeping. They embrace their inner ninja and go Bruce Lee on my ass. Many parents swear they sleep better when their kids are in the bed with them. They are liars. How one can sleep better while getting a roundhouse kick to the larynx is beyond me. A knee drop to the uterus is just what I want at 3 am, and I don't know how the fuck it happens but my children's joints seem to multiply at night like little zombies. They have so many knees and elbows it's frightening. And those little knobby knees and elbows manage to find every sensitive part of my body between the hours of 1 and 4 am. Why not my skull? Nope, right in the eye socket. Fucking fantastic. I am clinging to the edge of the mattress for dear life while a 24 pound 2 year old is jamming her knees into my kidneys and then drops and elbow into my temple for good measure all while her father is blissfully snoring away on his half of the bed. HOW 24 pounds of toddler can take up half of the bed is beyond me, but she managed quite succesfully. My little human X kicked my ass right up to the edge of my Tempurpedic mattress to the point where I was using every muscle to keep myself on that edge. So not only do I have internal bleeding and bruises but every muscle aches from trying to maintain my 1/16th of an inch on the bed. At one point I DID manage to fall asleep only to find my feet pinned down. WHAT THE FUCK??? The 9 1/2 year old had joined us at some point. Sweet Jesus Lord above. I was now curled into fetal position IN my pillowcase because that was the only free space in the bed. I hate my children. I hate sleeping with my children.
At 6 a.m. I am groggily shoved awake by my beloved on my side of the bed shoving me towards the middle because the 2 year old "took his spot" Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME??????? The alarm is on HIS side of the bed so in order for the alarm to be shut off, *I* will have to reach over said 2 year old to shut it off for him?? Awesome. I hate them all. Alarm goes off and he has the balls to ask for me to hit snooze...I hit him instead. I hate sleeping with my family. The family bed can suck it. I don't sleep better with my kids. Some nights I question if I sleep better with my husband. I TOTALLY get that some people can sleep very successfully with their kids and that works for them...SOOOOOOOOO does not work for me. AT ALL. I am sleeping in the basement tonight, where no one can find me.
Why am I so tired, you ask? A child slept with us last night. I know that is not a big deal to MANY families but in my house, that shit does not happen. Children do not belong in my bed. Children do not enter the inner sanctum that is my sleep chamber. Children do not infiltrate my nest. In the last 9+ years of being parents, yes we have broken that rule...as rarely as possible. We don't typically allow the kids in our bed, I try to avoid it at all costs (my beloved is the worst offender of this...the kids will go to his side of the bed because they KNOW I won't let them in...he's too lazy to take them back to bed, he gives in) I HATE sleeping with my children. I detest it. I loathe it. I would rather sleep in my car in the driveway or curled up on a chair on the deck, or shit, I'd even just lay out on the deck itself before subjecting myself to sleeping with one of my kids.
I like cuddling with my kids...on the couch...in a chair whilst somewhat upright...but NOT in my bed. My kids don't cuddle while they are sleeping. They embrace their inner ninja and go Bruce Lee on my ass. Many parents swear they sleep better when their kids are in the bed with them. They are liars. How one can sleep better while getting a roundhouse kick to the larynx is beyond me. A knee drop to the uterus is just what I want at 3 am, and I don't know how the fuck it happens but my children's joints seem to multiply at night like little zombies. They have so many knees and elbows it's frightening. And those little knobby knees and elbows manage to find every sensitive part of my body between the hours of 1 and 4 am. Why not my skull? Nope, right in the eye socket. Fucking fantastic. I am clinging to the edge of the mattress for dear life while a 24 pound 2 year old is jamming her knees into my kidneys and then drops and elbow into my temple for good measure all while her father is blissfully snoring away on his half of the bed. HOW 24 pounds of toddler can take up half of the bed is beyond me, but she managed quite succesfully. My little human X kicked my ass right up to the edge of my Tempurpedic mattress to the point where I was using every muscle to keep myself on that edge. So not only do I have internal bleeding and bruises but every muscle aches from trying to maintain my 1/16th of an inch on the bed. At one point I DID manage to fall asleep only to find my feet pinned down. WHAT THE FUCK??? The 9 1/2 year old had joined us at some point. Sweet Jesus Lord above. I was now curled into fetal position IN my pillowcase because that was the only free space in the bed. I hate my children. I hate sleeping with my children.
At 6 a.m. I am groggily shoved awake by my beloved on my side of the bed shoving me towards the middle because the 2 year old "took his spot" Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME??????? The alarm is on HIS side of the bed so in order for the alarm to be shut off, *I* will have to reach over said 2 year old to shut it off for him?? Awesome. I hate them all. Alarm goes off and he has the balls to ask for me to hit snooze...I hit him instead. I hate sleeping with my family. The family bed can suck it. I don't sleep better with my kids. Some nights I question if I sleep better with my husband. I TOTALLY get that some people can sleep very successfully with their kids and that works for them...SOOOOOOOOO does not work for me. AT ALL. I am sleeping in the basement tonight, where no one can find me.
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