Today’s bus note, proof of my bad parenting.
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.
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.
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.
- 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.
- 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!
- 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.
- 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…
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.”
- 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.
I ask my kids to do stupid things. I’m a mom, that’s my job, it’s what I do. I understand that kids have an easy enough time embarrassing themselves, but I often feel the need to aid in this process. I blame my mother 100%. The number of times my mother has embarrassed me by showing up at my work dressed in bizarre costumes and acting like a lunatic in public is a number I lost track of long before I even hit 21. I come by it naturally, obviously. Now before anyone gets their panties in a bunch because I take
serious joy in humiliating my kids, let take a moment to discuss this. Kids are simple and vulnerable. Admit it, they are. Not a single parent, aunt, uncle, or grandparent hasn’t used this fact to satisfy their own comic needs. Grown-ups are pure evil like that, and we love it! We make kids shove marshmallows in their mouth and say “chubby baby”. We make them say “truck” over and over again because it comes out as “fuck”. We make them do silly dances as we record them, and promptly post in on the internet for the world to see.
If we engage our kids in this kind of embarrassment and humiliation while they are young, they end up being well rounded jokers as they get older. In short, they play along! Congratulations, you have just raised a kid who can laugh at themselves and make light of every day situations. Seriously though, what’s better than that? I love the fact that my kids will now play along with all the stupid things i have running through my head. Granted, my daughter plays along more than my son because she loves attention, but my son now understands what is really going on. He enjoys it, not for the attention, but because it makes people laugh.
I’m not sure what it is about new shoes that gets kids so excited. You buy them clothes and they shrug it off as they mumble something about “more new clothes, yuck.” You buy them new shoes and it’s like you just brought home rocket boosters. Coolest thing EVER!!! You could have the most tired kid in the world, but as soon as you put new shoes on them, they take off like a rocket. “Look how fast I can go!” “Mommy! Look at how cool l look in these shoes!”
I’m pretty sure a new pair of shoes every time I failed as a parent would make me the best mommy in the world.
School starts back up again next week.
Praise the lord! Back to school means back to school shopping. Despite upcoming trips threatening to drain my back account, I knew I had to at least get the kids new shoes for school. Especially seeing as how Theo’s current shoes smell like cat piss and cabbage…at the same time. So away we went to go buy new rocket boosters shoes. Naturally that day became the best ever as the kids got to wear the new shoes out of the store (shopping highlight for all kids) AND for the rest of the day. Mind you, this was not until I threatened them both with their lives if they so much as got a speck of dirt on them. “Run, jump, whatever…but get them dirty and you are both done. Got it? Good.”
Both pairs of new shoes made it through the day still looking like new. Mission accomplished. Well done, minions! While folding laundry that night, I kept getting a slight whiff of poop. I knew Pheobe had pooped before she went to bed, so I naturally blamed the odor on her typically pungent poo. The next morning I woke up, went down stairs, and happened to look down at the pile of shoes. There it was. Dog poop. On the bottom of Theo’s new shoes. When I woke him up for the day
being the awesome mom I am I whispered to him, “Theo, there’s dog poop on your new shoes.” I’m am fairly certain I have never seen Theo wake up so quickly.
“No way,” he said. “Not my on my shoes. Maybe on Pheobe’s, but not on mine.”
I assured him it was, in fact, on his shoes and walked out of the room. Fast forward a half hour. “Mommy, you were right, there IS dog poop on MY shoes.”
“Told ya so.”
“Mommy, I checked because I thought you were lying to me.”
Because I obviously lie about dog poop all the time. What? “I would NEVER lie about something as serious as dog poop! However, when we get home from camp today, you get to clean it off. Awesome, right?”
Needless to say, he hasn’t worn his new kicks since. Instead they sit by the entryway, quietly and dress neatly next to one another. I can’t figure out if he scared of getting them dirty again, or waiting to completely destroy them the first day of school. With school stating in two days, we shall soon find out.
It’s a common known fact that women tend to crave certain foods during different points in their lives. When I was pregnant with my son, I craved butter. With my daughter it was sour cream.
I may or may not have subjected myself to eating both with a spoon out of a tub. With each woman it’s different. However, when it comes to PMS, all women crave the same thing: fat, grease, and more fat. It’s almost as if we can live without it. We crave it to the point of driving ourselves mad until we finally fold and fill our mouths with mounds of cheese, bacon, and anything fried. Once we have fulfilled this craving, we can go back to nibbling on our salads and sipping our seltzer waters.
When I get that animalistic craving for all things unhealthy it you, Wendy’s, that I turn to. I picture Dave Thomas with his arms out stretched, beckoning me to the drive through window where mounds of food wrapped in a crisp red and white bag await me. Yesterday my PMS grabbed a hold of me once again. I made my way through the wind and the rain on the back roads of New Hampshire, and found myself on your doorstep with dreams of Baconator Fries dancing in my head. As the drive through window slid open, and the red and white bag touched my hand, I could almost taste the salty fries on my tongue and the gooey cheese sliding down my throat.
My eyes followed the sharp edges of the bag, and plunged inside with desire. Encased in a steaming plastic cocoon, where my Baconator Fries. I popped the top so I could finally taste heaven in my mouth. Once the steam had cleared, this is what I saw.
Disappointment. The cheese, barely melted, was no bigger than a sneeze and the bacon was maybe one whole piece…maybe. The fries were soggy, and resembled the fresh cut fries promised on tv about as much as a chihuahua resembles a cat. My need for cheese and grease compelled me to eat it, but not until after I nuked it in the microwave to finish the cheese melting process and warm up the soggy fries. Even then, I was left with nothing more than complete and utter disappointment in my mouth.
The whole event has left my PMS induced inner fat girl distressed and still craving anything that will clog my arteries thus causing a heart attack. The fact that the “new” Wendy’s girl is so slender and healthy no longer baffles me. With food this hard to swallow, it’s any wonder she has eaten anything in the past year. i am sad, Wendy’s, so so sad.