Three Mother F*#king Days

Three Days. Three mother fucking days is all you get for bereavement time. It doesn’t matter who died, a parent, a spouse, or (heaven forbid) a child; all you get is three days. In three days you are supposed to grasp the fact that an immediate family member has passed away, organize their funeral/wake/memorial service/celebration of life, and get your ass back to work. Three mother fucking days. What cold, heartless twat fuck came up with that number?

I lost my father two weeks ago. He had been “sick” but I honestly didn’t think it was going to kill him. Actually, it wasn’t even his “illness” that killed him, it was complications after surgery. I called him on his birthday to sing a poor, yet loving, rendition of “Happy Birthday” as he chuckled in the hospital bed. We then talked about his second surgery scheduled for the next day, and I told him I would talk to him afterwards. Instead of talking to my father afterwards, I found myself driving three hours to the hospital to stand by my mother as we waited for the doctors to tell us good news. There was no good news. He had stopped breathing that morning, and two days later he was gone.

The next day was a Friday. I took it off, using personal time, because I wanted to be with my family. That Monday and Tuesday I was back at work, trying to pretend the most important man in my life hadn’t just left me. Why was I back so soon? Because I felt my three bereavement days were better spent at the end of the week when the funeral was. Those three days were a whirlwind. So many details, making sure my mother was ok, people, people, and more people. You don’t have time to grieve during that time. The only thing you have time for is spinning. And that’s exactly what I did, spin.

The spinning quickly turned into anger. So, for the past week all I have been is angry…at everything. My head wants to explode, my chest feels as if it may actually crush from anxiety, my body is exhausted, I’m messing up at work, I can’t sleep, and all I want to do is yell and blame people. However, I have to keep going because my three bereavement days are over and done with. I am now expected to “get over it” and “carry on” with my everyday life. Enough sulking, Brandi. Pull your head out of your ass and grieve on your own time.

I am a strong person. Some would say I am an extremely strong person. Yes, I cry at tv commercials and YouTube videos, but I am rock solid when it comes to my family. I am a mother, that is my job. I show the strength, courage, and fortitude needed to raise little humans. But my father dying…that totally rocked my world. I have no idea what to do, and I’m having trouble momming. I go through the daily motions because I’m supposed to, but with no honest effort. I’ve lost that desire. I thought getting back to our daily routine would help, but it hasn’t. Instead the anger and anxiety inside of me grows with each passing day. All because I only get three mother fucking days.

I’m hoping the holidays will whip the grief out of me. I plan to sit around, crying into my mashed potatoes as my kids wonder why mommy is falling apart. I mean, I have to get it out of my system somehow, so I might as well use my paid holidays to do so. *throws up double middle fingers at the twat fuck who decided three days was enough*


Things You Want To Say To Your Kids, But Can’t

We’ve all been there. That moment where we teeter on the brink of saying the worst thing ever something inappropriate to our children. We get lost in the heat of the moment. Tight lipped, we inhale sharply through our nose as we prepare to let loose on our unsuspecting, yet deserving, child. Suddenly, at the very last millisecond, we pause and rethink our words. Later we laugh at what we wanted to say versus what we actually said. So, here it is, my list of what we want to say to our kids but can’t.

1. Omg! Shut the fuck up already!
2. I swear to god, I’m going to throat punch you if you don’t stop.
3. There are days I wish your father had pulled out. This is one of them.
4. I’m about to put my foot up your ass if you don’t hurry the fuck up.
5. If you don’t eat what’s on your plate, I’m going to shove it down your throat myself.
6. If you don’t clean your room now, I’m going to burn the whole house down. Then you won’t have anything to mess up.
7. Quit acting like your fucking father!
8. Quit acting like me!
9. Holy shit! What the fuck were you thinking?
10. If you don’t do your homework, you’re going to end up an uneducated worthless piece of shit.
11. If you throw yourself on the floor one more time, I am going to throw you out the window!
12. I’m about to beat the whine out of you. Your choice.
13. Traffic, go play in it.
14. There is a black market for children, and it pays very well.
15. Fuck! Just…FUCK!!!

To those of you who just got their panties in a bunch because of this list, get over yourself. We all want to say these things. It’s 100% natural. The key point is, we don’t say them. We all get frustrated as parents it’s why we drink, and sometimes we even hate it. That’s ok. Just remember to keep your mouth shut, count to 10, and say the appropriate thing. Also, you may slip from time to time…that’s ok too.

Grey hair and Perky Boobs

My mother is beautiful, inside and out. She has amazing skin, which is unbelievably soft, and only three grey hairs. She was truly blessed in the “aging gracefully” category of life. When she turned 60 she got her first hair. It was almost like she gave up and told Mother Nature, “Alright, fine. Go ahead and give me a grey hair, but just one. Ok?” And so it was. She has since been adding, on average, one grey hair a year. Like I said, blessed. Me, on the other hand, that’s a whole different story.

I got my first grey hair shortly before my 30th birthday. The day my daughter was born, to be exact. As I pushed my last push on March 19, 2009, out came the devil my daughter along with 10 grey hairs. Yes, I said 10…all at once. This is probably why I could actually FEEL them popping out. Ever since then my grey hair has been growing in, on average, about one every other day. I may or may not be keeping a running tally. At this point in my life, aged 36 wonderful years, I can honestly say that I am a hair dying master. It’s not that I don’t “want” grey hair, please don’t think that. I LOVED my grandmother’s hair. It was white, and shiny, and beautiful. As a kid, I used to brush it for her. I would sit there, with the brush in my hand, daydreaming of the day my hair would look like hers. So why the big upset about it now?

Remember how I said I am “aged 36 wonderful years”? That’s why. I’m ONLY 36. I’m a mom of two kids, NOT a grandmother.I have to admit that over the summer I was letting it grow! I was ready for the grey hair! I would go to bed at night excited for what I would find in the morning. Come on grey hair, show me what you got! Then it came time to go to my younger sister’s wedding. Younger means younger people everywhere at the wedding…everywhere. At the rehearsal dinner. At the ceremony. At the reception. Younger. People. Everywhere. Beautiful, sun kissed younger people from Florida. It was somewhere during the week leading up to the wedding that I was no longer ready for grey hair.

Put on the breaks! I’m getting off this ride! My vanity took control of me, and took me for a ride to Walmart to reunite with my old friend, L’Oreal. A box of dye, couple glasses of wine, and 30 minutes later…hello 25 again! Suddenly my boobs were perkier. My butt was firmer. My stomach was flatter. That’s a lie, but I did feel better about myself. So there you have it, call me vain, but I’m really not ready for all the grey hair. I’ll take the stretch marks that come with gaining weight due to child bearing, and the crows feet by my eyes, but the hair is going to have to wait.

Bathroom Battle – Over vs Under, You Decide

The battle of who hangs their toilet paper correctly has raged on longer than the battle between Republicans and Democrats. Does it go over the top? Obviously the correct answer. Does it go underneath? Obviously a practice of heathens. I say, for sanitary reasons, it hangs over the top. That way you’re not fumbling around the entire roll with you grubby finger tips, trying to find the bitter end. No one wants grubby finger tips on the toilet paper, which is essentially like fumbling with their crotch.

I’ve heard the argument from the heathens under people about the cat or dog can unravel the roll faster if it’s on top. Seriously? What in the hell is your cat or dog doing in the bathroom? If they are in their just to spite you, it’s possible you should reevaluate your pet parenting techniques because Fido might be mad at you.

So, I want to know your opinion especially since I keep picking on my friends about their heathen ways. Which way is the right way? Before you answer, I will leave you with the original patent for toilet paper yes, it has a patent showing the proper way to hang your anal tissue.


The Worst Mommy EVER!!!

I’ve concluded that I am the worst parent ever…as in EVER! My kids may or may not have told me this a time or two. I try not to compare myself to other parents, and I certainly try not to compare my kids to other kids. However, living in the “well to do” area that I do, coupled with my natural judgmental state of mind, the comparisons often start buzzing through my head. I start to look at what other parents are doing. Is it working? Is it not working? Do I even like these people? Do I hate like their kids? As a reminder, I only like my kids…and that’s questionable at times. Often times I find many of the parents around me looking at me when I tell them about my parenting techniques. They can’t believe I do some of the things I do. To them, I am a bit of a drill Sargent. That’s where the comparisons come in. I let myself make these comparisons, from time to time, because I am confident in the areas I “fail” at in their eyes. Because I make these judgmental comparisons, I figure it’s only fair for me to share with everyone the top 10 reasons I’m the worst mommy ever.

  1. My kids don’t get “screen time” during the week. WTF is that anyway? Who the hell thought up the term “screen time”? I remember the big uproar when I first had my son about people using the TV as a babysitter. Well guess what parents, your “screen time” is a fucking babysitter. You know who my babysitter is? Their imagination and occasionally the Disney Channel when I want to smack the shit out of my daughter. Here are some crayons and paper. Here is your bike. No, I don’t care if the tires are still flat. Here is a shovel, go dig a hole and let me cook dinner.
  2. Bed time is 8 o’clock, Sunday through Thursday. Soccer practice went until 7pm? I don’t care. Inhale your dinner, brush your fangs, and get your little carcass into bed. We’re not staying up until 9pm to grumble and mumble about homework and whatnot, that’s why I pay for you to do your homework at after school. You’re going to sleep so I don’t have to use a god damn air horn to wake you up the morning. Now shut and and go the fuck to sleep!
  3. My kids eat breakfast every morning, and they have to get it for themselves. Not hungry? I don’t care. You will be in a few hours when you’re sitting in class and snack time isn’t for another hour and a half. And you know what? When you’re a teenager, you won’t even have snack time. Then what are you going to do? Eat your pencils? No! Yes, I said they have to get their OWN breakfast, with the exception of the weekends. Why? Because they can wipe their own butts, that’s why. If you can wipe your own butt, (as parents, we know how difficult it can be for small children to execute a proper wipe) you can sure a shit fill a bowl with cereal and add milk. Feel like being fancy? Get some yogurt, you need the calcium anyway.
  4. I don’t buckle my kids in the car, they do it themselves. Why? Because they are 9 and 6 years old, that’s why. Again, if you can wipe your own butt…
  5. My kids don’t dictate our schedule, I do. Why? Because I’m the fucking adult. I’m sorry, 9 year old boy. You don’t “feel” like going to the grocery store this morning? That’s too bad. I suppose you’d rather starve to death? No? Good. Now get in the fucking car.
  6. I let other people discipline my children. If you ever see one (or both) of my children doing something wrong, being rude, or simply being an idiot; you have my full permission to say something to them. They need to learn that everywhere they go, there are people watching. Their actions, especially outside of my line of view, dictate how people view them and they need to know when they are in the wrong. It takes a village to raise a child, and I am but one person.
  7. They’re brussle sprouts, eat them! I make one dinner every night, ONE, and you better believe it includes a vegetable other than potato which is a starch, not a vegetable. I’m not a fucking short order cook in a diner. What you see on your plate, is what you get. You don’t like the vegetable? I don’t care, you’re eating at least half of it. You don’t like the entree? Eat more vegetables, but be warned…the entree will be in your lunch box tomorrow if there are leftovers. Your choice. Either way, eat your damn vegetables. Oh, and we’re eating them at the table…like a family should because I’m not going to talk over the TV to try and get your attention just so I can ask you how your damn day was.
  8. I folded your clothes, now you get to put them away. It’s called team work. Kids can’t fold clothes to save their lives. Remember the whole butt wiping thing? I figure if I can take the time out of my day to wash and fold the clothes, they can put them away. That also relieves me from any responsibility of finding certain garments when they are getting themselves dressed for the day. Can’t find any shorts? Did you put your clothes away, like I asked? No? Check the basket or borrow some from your sister.
  9. Here’s a shovel/broom, use it. While you’re at it, here’s a sponge. That’s right, chores for everyone! Wait, what was that? It’s not “fair” that I’m making you pick up the living room because you didn’t make the mess? Do you think it’s “fair” that I have to pick up everyone’s mess all over the rest of the house? I’m your mom, not your maid. I don’t get paid for this shit. No start cleaning! “Yes, Mrs. Hanigan.”
  10. This is MY house, bitch! I pay the rent and the bills. I make the meals and clean the majority of the living areas. Therefore, tiny people, unless it is your bedroom, you are borrowing space from ME! This means your shit stays in it’s own areas. Go ahead, take out your craft supplies and legos, but you’re putting it back when you’re done. We all have to use this living room, and I’m not having friends over for ladies night and making them sit among all your crap. I shouldn’t have to move your do-hicky to put my wine glass down. You have a “toy bin”, craft closet, and bookshelf. THAT is where your stuff goes. I refuse to have my house taken over by all your shit. “Mine” and “Ours”, NOT “Yours”. Start paying rent, and we’ll talk.

So there you have it. I’m really kind of a bitch. Call me a dictator. Call me a slave driver. Call me whatever the hell you want. There was a time in my life when all I wanted was to be was a “fun” parent, but those days have long since passed. I am now the queen of my domain, enforcing the rules and punishment, while kissing the boo boos and chasing the monsters away. I kiss my kids good night every night, and I plan on tucking them in for as long as possible. Believe it or not, there are nights where we are all so exhausted and stressed, we make the group decision to forego all vegetables and just have pop corn for dinner. Pick your jaw up off the floor. Every day someone is going to end up in tears, and I’m going to yell at least ten times twice. That’s how life goes, and if that makes me the worst mommy ever…I’m ok with that.