Category Archives: Mom Fails

Telework Chronicles 2020

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Today was day one of teleworking for me and virtual classroom for the kids. We had a few hiccups, the teenager somehow missed “missed” math class, and the tween forgot half his stuff when he went to his mother’s. However, I would consider today an overall success.

People on the internets have been joking around calling their children and pets coworkers, a theme I highly enjoy and will obviously take part in. Before I do, I will introduce you to my cast of characters in case you need some sort of reference in the future.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Coworkers: Three kids ranging in age from 11 to 13. Each varying in their own level of obnoxious, gross, but someone cunningly wonderful.

Office Security: Two idiot dogs obsessed with barking at potential dangers from outside the house and napping.

Office Assistant: One not-so-tiny baby goat full of mischief and mayhem.

Vice President: My husband

Day One

The new office setup went surprisingly well. Only two of my coworkers were here today, and they mostly kept to themselves. One of them is a bit of an overachiever. She showed up for work 30 minutes early and then spent the morning bragging about her writing ability. I have to say though, she is an amazing writer. I might have to steal some of her work at some point and pass it off as my own. My other coworker claimed to have a meeting at one point. I’m guessing it was a meeting about purchasing because he kept yelling about medical kits and being in the wrong house. I’ve asked him to keep his purchasing meeting scheduled at the end of the day to help avoid distractions for the rest of the staff.

I was a bit worried about the office security staff at one point. In the past they have been known to be a bit high strung and kind of obnoxious. However, I didn’t realize how much they napped all day! At one point they did come around to do a security walk through. one of them ate the cat food and the other one ate the cat turds.

The office assistant is really pushy. He is always trying to break into the snack room and steal treats. I’ve decided I should start hiding the treats just to see what he does. I think he figured it out earlier today when I hid the treats in the kitchen, because he tried to break in there too. I will have to find better hiding places in the future.

Overall, the new setup is working well. No day drinking happened, so I consider that a win, and no one was crying by the end of the day. Tomorrow my third coworker comes and will be sitting next to me, so I can’t promise the “no day drinking” thing will continue, but there is hope.

Our Lives Revolve Around Our Children

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In the past week I have driven 850 miles, only 118 of them were for work. Why? Soccer. My oldest in on two different traveling soccer teams. Each week we drive hundreds of miles, spends hours in the car, hours in the cold and rain watching games, and eating various meals made either in the back of the car or bought at a drive through because French fries. For the past two years, this has been our spring.

Our fall season is even more chaotic. Three kids going in three different directions because heaven forbid anyone was on the same soccer team. Winter slows down with only one playing basketball although a second one is threatening to play next year and a ski/snowboarding program on Fridays. One would think that maybe summer would mean some sort of reprieve, but it doesn’t. Summer camps, family trips, holidays, and soon jobs.

As parents of school aged children, this is our job…our main objective. We juggle housework and alter work schedules to be able to get our kids to their various activities and school functions. When we can’t get them there, we beg family members and other parents to shuffle our kids around for us. There are late nights and early mornings, especially on the weekends. Long days with junk food for dinner because there wasn’t even enough time that morning to prepack anything. In short, our lives revolve around our kid’s schedules. We may be the adults, but their lives are dictating what we do.

A few weeks ago, I had a conversation with an acquaintance about schedules and kids, and how they were upset about having to revolve their schedule around their children’s. At the time of the conversation I didn’t really address the comment in detail. Maybe it was because I was distracted, or maybe it was because I wasn’t expecting a comment like that. Either way, I didn’t give it much thought at the time, but the more I drive my kids around when I could be home doing “things” think about it, the more I realize it bothers me.

I am 39 years old, arguably the prime of my life. There are so many concerts I could be going to, lady’s brunches I could be attending totally not a brunch person, camping trips I could be on, bars i could be dancing on, and so much more. But you know what? I can’t do all those things I “could” be doing. Why? Because, as a parent, my world completely revolves around my children. Their sports schedules dictate my work hours. Their summer camps tell me when we can take a family vacation. Their school plays show me when I can stay late at work. Their sleepovers with friends as random as they can be make my date nights. Even my kid’s bedtimes tell me when I can watch “my” shows and go to bed. Every morning I have to get up earlier than I would of I weren’t a parent because I have to get myself and three other humans ready for the day before I leave for work.

Even with all this, I still find time to myself and quality time with my husband even if the kids are convinced our dates consist of going to the animal feed store and shopping for power tools. I’m not a stranger to having a girl’s night out, enjoying date night, or even going to get a massage. To me, as a parent, it’s just something we do. We understand that our children’s schedules dictate everything we do. From the moment they are born and demand to be fed when they are hungry even when we are sound asleep at 2am, we automatically start to mold our lives around theirs. We may be the adults but they are in charge. And you know what? We do it without even thinking about it unless we really need a nap or want them to finally stop talking about Fortnite. We do it because we know that our time with them is so limited in the long run.

Before kids, 18 years seems like such a long time. Once you’re a parent of a 10 year old, you realize that 18 years is nothing. You start thinking about 8th grade and high school graduations. First girl/boyfriends, driver’s ed and licenses, first cars, college applications, and all the fights you’re going to have with your teenagers. TEENAGERS!!! Ypu just had a baby, and now you’re going to have a teenager!

I guess what I’m trying to say is, yes, your life HAS to revolve around your children. You really don’t have a choice in that now that you’ve actually had them and started raising them. In the moment, this revelation feels like such a burden. We catch ourselves daydreaming and begging for it to stop. All we want is a few minutes to ourselves!!! But you know what, we are going to get all the minutes we have ever desired when they are older. In fact, if we’ve raised them right, we will be surprised at just how many minutes we actually have once that they have flown the nest.

We’re Day Sex People

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My husband and I love bedtime. I’m not just talking about when the kids go to bed, although that bedtime is pretty kick ass I’m talking about when WE go to bed. That time when we take off all our clothes, smile at each other from across the bed, slide between the cool sheets, press our naked bodies against each other, kiss each other tenderly, and fall asleep. It doesn’t matter what time we go to bed, that is typically the routine. We love our bed. We love to go to sleep.

Fast forward to the morning. Unless my husband has to go to work early, I am typically up before him. On the weekends, I get a good 2-3 hour headstart. He loves to sleep in on the weekends and I love to enjoy a house where no one talks to me for several hours. All in all, we have a great bedtime routine. From PM to AM, we rock the hell out of sleeping. There’s just one problem, all this sleep leaves very little time for the sex.

We will joke around after work about having a little hankie pankie after the kids go to bed. We will steal passionate kisses in the kitchen and grab each other’s butts. I will deliver my best porn star one liner and he will give a little growl and pull me close. We tease. We flirt. We even wink at each other. But when it’s time for bed, we typically go right to sleep.

Every now and then we will muster the energy to compensate our marriage after the sun goes down, but it really takes a lot of energy. My husband plows in the winter. All the snow plowing leaves very little time in general to plow me. When there is time, I’m generally too lazy because…I’m not really sure why, I’m just lazy.

Either way, the chances of the night time vertical tango are slim to none. When it does happen, it’s either with the lights off or with blaring LEDs. Both are equally unappealing. That brings us to morning sex, which is even rarer.

15 to 30 minutes of stanky bodies smooshed together while trying not to breath on each other because no one likes the smell of cat shit in the morning. Then you add in trying to be active before coffee.

All in all, we fail at the whole sex thing. That is unless it’s the middle of the day. It’s the weekend and the kids are running around outside and around the neighborhood. It’s also known as the best time to sneak away for a roll in the hay. As soon as the kids run out the front door, we are naked in bed. Afternoon showers on a Saturday afternoon quickly turn into a quick vertical sport session. It’s that time of the day where the words “I did the laundry,” become seductive. Where the sounds of the dishwasher gets the juices flowing. It’s also the only time during the day where we are utterly exhausted or running around to some random sports event for the kids. Day off during the week? We are naked by the time the kids step on the bus.

It took us some time, but we finally realized we are day sex people. This means that when we are older we wont have to rearrange our sex schedule to go to BINGO or watch our programs on TV. It also means that if one of us injures a hip during our bed sheet rodeo, we will still have time to go to the doctors without having to wait until the next day. It’s all about planning, my friends. It’s also all about getting an adequate amount of sleep.

Dear Dad

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Dear Dad,

I got married. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but I couldn’t find the words until now. I think you would really like him. He reminds me of you in a lot of ways, but at the same time, he is completely different. His name is Chris and he has a son. His son falls right between my two in age and has blended in almost seamlessly. He is a lot like Pheobe. A wild imagination and a flair for the dramatic. He would have you in stitches.

You should have seen mom at the wedding. I had asked her to be a flower girl, a role she was not immediately thrilled with but you know me, I always have to stir the pot somehow. Instead of throwing petals or holding a traditional bouquet, I decorated a bubble gun with large silk flowers. As she walked down the aisle, she covered everyone in bubbles. You can only imagine how much fun she had doing that. Although I didn’t get to watch her do it, everyone said she was the best bubbler ever.  She wore a simple blue dress and looked beautiful. She would have taken your breath away.

Pheobe has grown so much since you last saw her, you would hardly recognize her. She is a true beauty inside and out. She was my maid of honor, a role she gladly took on.

I wish you had been there, Dad, but because you weren’t, Theo walked me down the aisle instead. He was a little confused at first as to why he would be the one walking me down the aisle, but soon got used to the idea. He stood so tall and was so proud as he waited to give me the sign that it was our turn. I had considered other people, like my brother, but ultimately I knew you would approve of Theo taking your place.

I wish you could have been there, Dad. I wish you could have been the one to give me away. I screwed it all up the first time I got married by eloping. An act I know you and mom were very unhappy with. I wish I could have found Chris sooner. Maybe then, I would have had my father there by my side. It has been hard without you here. You were on my mind every day leading up to the wedding. I don’t know if you heard me or not, but I tried to talk to you every day leading up to the big day. If only I could have heard your voice just once that day.

I know I’m not a little girl anymore, heck, I’m pushing 40 already, but being an adult always seemed easier when you were just a phone call away. I could talk to mom about things, but you know how she is, always quick to have an opinion. She means well and I value her opinion but you always knew that what I really needed when I called was to talk myself through the issue, finally coming to my own conclusion. Then you would give me some sort of advice most people wouldn’t expect from you. Somehow, you always made it better.

In any case, I could ramble on and tell you all the things I’ve wanted to tell you over the past three years but there isn’t enough time and I would never be able to get the words out the way I would want them. Just know that your little girl grew up a little more and you are missed by all of us. Although you aren’t of this physical world anymore, I know that you are here in spirit. I know that if you were still with us, you would be proud of all I have accomplished, who I have become, and the family Chris and I have created.

I will miss you always but I know you are always here with me.

Love, Foof

dad

In memory of my dad, Jimmy Fossett.

Touch Me And You Die

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Most people wouldn’t look at me and say, “Wow, you’re fat.” Actually, most people wouldn’t look at people in general and say that. Unless, of course, the person saying it is a complete asshole with no compassion or verbal filter. I was casually dating a guy a few years ago and he creatively told me I was fat. His exact words, “You’re not exactly the most petite woman. You  know that, right?” Shortly thereafter I casually dumped him. Regardless of how big I actually am (pushing 200 pounds on a 5’6″ frame), my weight, coupled with my Northern European bloodline, make me and summer not the best of friends.

As soon as temperatures hit 80 degrees, my mom thighs stick together and rub like a Japanese Sumo Wrestler competition and my body swells as it retains all the water it can on the off chance I find myself in the middle of a desert. I look at the summer sun and sob. I will sit there and curse that yellow bastard until I realize I’m still standing outside like an idiot when all I have to do is walk five steps to go inside where the AC is waiting to greet me with open arms.

My fiancee hates driving me anywhere in his car because he doesn’t usually put the AC on. This means he has to put up with me moaning in agony as if I were on my last breath after a horrific, life-threatening accident all because I’m fucking hot. I’m sure this makes the three-minute drive to the store feel like an eternity. I’m not even sorry. This also explains why he looks at me with panic in his eyes before we go anywhere, and asks me which car we are taking. I know his internal monolog is saying, “Take her car, please God, take her car. Don’t let her say my car.” We may actually be one trip away from him making me take a separate car altogether. Which is fine, as long as I get to have the sweet cold air of the AC blowing on my overweight body like a chocolate fountain.

When you’re a bit overweight like I am, summer helps you discover all these hidden parts of your body you didn’t even know had sweat glands. Like my belly apron. I had no idea I could sweat out a shot glass of sweat from there just by looking at the sun. You want me to sit in a lawn chair…outside…at the beach? There are another 2 ounces. Walking in the sun makes the back of my knees sweat. Suddenly it feels as if my armpits have moved down to my legs and I spend the entire walk wondering why I didn’t put antiperspirant behind my knees…again. It’s not long before my shoes start to fill with sweat droplets, causing them to squeak and cause blisters. If I were to lay out in the sun, after 5 minutes you would think someone had snuck up on me and sprayed me with the garden hose. 10 minutes, I’ve basically melted into the chair, never to be seen again.

That’s all just because of heat. Add in the humidity and I basically turn into a Disney villain on crack. Don’t talk to me, don’t look at me, and sure as fuck, don’t TOUCH me. Touch me and you die. I am not afraid of going to prison because someone touched my skin or tried to hug me when it is humid out. I don’t even let my children touch me during these times. I will look right into their dark brown eyes and tell them to piss off. They can touch me again in October.

The only time I enjoy the heat is when I am in the water, preferably a lake, river, or the ocean. Even then, you won’t typically see me above the water. I am usually the one floating, doing my best impression of a Sunfish or Harbor Seal. I have actually reached a body size, mainly because of my monstrous breasts, where I am able to float upright without the use of a floatation device. I don’t even have to spend money on a fancy river tube, I could just float down the river using nothing but myself. I have basically become a buoy and I am ok with that.

So, until the air grows crisp again and I can wear clothes without feeling like I’m wrapped in plastic wrap, I’ll be sitting in the AC or shade, dreaming of the days where I can build a snow chair. One I can sit in throughout the day with my Bailey’s and hot chocolate while wrapped in a winter jacket, snow pants, and my latest crocheted scarf. If you need me, I will probably be in my room talking to my jeans and sweaters, telling them how much I miss them and how will be together again soon.

Do What You Love

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As adults, why do we keep settling for jobs that don’t make us happy? My father used to tell me that your job wasn’t supposed to make you happy, and for the lonegst time, I believed him. I kept pushing through jobs tryong to figure out if they make me happy or not. Then I would remember that my job wasn’t supposed to make me happy. So, I would settle into different possitions and be miserable because that is what I was supposed to do.

 

As I sat miserable at work, I would try harder and harder to fill my home life with things that made me happy. I found an amazing man who agreed to spend the rest of our lives together. Happy. That man came with the best bonus son anyone could ask for. Happy. My two kids have grown into resposible, mature young people. Happy. Rooster crows and duck quacks are my alarm clock. Happy. I get dog snuggles whenever I want them. Happy. I have FIVE goats. Happy. My homelife has made me happier than I could ever imagine. But, no matter how happy I am at home, I am still miserable at work.

For the past five years I have spent 40 to 50 hours a week sitting at a desk with minimal face to face interactions with people. I have become complacent, overweight, and miserable. It used to be only Monday mornings where I would be filled with anxiety, dredding to go to work. Now it’s every day. My complacency has caused me to faulter on my attention to detail and work ethic that I’ve always prided myself on. Despite all that, I keep pushing along.

About a month it hit me. I spend half my time at work and commuting. That means half of my life is spent in misery. Is this REALLY how it’s supposed to be? Was my dad really right in what he said? Am I really destined to be in a job I hate for the rest of my working career? I love my dad with all my heart, and he taught me some amazing life lessons, but I’m going to cal bull shit on this one. There is no way I am supposed to be miserable in my work. Therefore, I am going to do everything I can to change my current situation.

I have no idea what I am going to do, and I know it won’t happen over night, but I am going to get my shit together and find something I am passionate about. Maybe it will be working in retail again. Maybe it will be working in healthcare, dealing with patients. Maybe it will be wokring for myself. I have no idea. Whatever it is, I refuse to be miserable doing it. I need be working with people and having face to face interactions with clients. I need to be active. I need to be HAPPY at my job. I WILL be happy at my job. I am going to do what I love.

Valentine’s Day Bull Shit

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Ok, so you hate Valentine’s Day…we get it. Someone pissed in your Cheerios and now you’re all kinds of upset. It sucks to be you, truly. All you have done for the past week is bitch and complain about how single you are, how you won’t get any presents, how stupid the cards are, and how you should show someone you love them all the time. I get it.

What you don’t get is that this day actually means something to some people. However, you shit all over their little heart filled day so you can feel better about your current situation. Let’s take a look at why this day of red, white, and chocolates is so important.

  • Chocolate: Women need chocolate to function much like men need steak. Can we live without it? Sure. Is life better if you give it to us? Abso-fucking-lutely!
  • Cards: They’re dumb and we don’t need them to function like normal humans. However, have you ever noticed how horribly most men describe their feelings? Let’s be honest, 80% of them are shit at it. Therefore…cards. Hallmark does fabu job at putting words in their mouths…words that won’t land them on the couch again this week.
  • Lingerie: What says “I Love You” more than a push-up bra, crotchless panties, and a piece of string up her ass? Pretty much nothing. Don’t deny it, men. If your woman walked into the bedroom tonight wearing see through anything with her nipples showing, you would want Valentine’s Day every fucking day of the year. Also, women rarely get headaches when wearing lingerie. You’re welcome.
  • Flowers: They wilt. They die. Dumb, right? Well, kind of. I’ve said this about flowers before, it’s not the actual flowers that mean something, it’s the act of getting them that means something. It means that someone took a moment out of their busy day, thought of you, and then acted on that thought. That’s pretty fucking cool because how often do people actually ACT on their thoughts? Other than serial killers, not very many people. She doesn’t like flowers? Fine. Whatever. Remember what I said about chocolates?
  • A night out: Sure, you can go out any night and, chances are, you will probably have a better chance getting a reservation at that place she likes any other night as well. Unless, of course, Metallica is in town. But answer me this, how many places are set up to be all romantical shit every other night? That’s right, none. They probably won’t have that Prosecco she likes either. Suck it up, dude, and take her out. You can complain to your fellow penis people about it on the 15th.
  • Oral sex: Steak and a blow job day is on the 15th. I think you can take the plunge into her nether regions for a few minutes on the 14th. She will thank you tomorrow.
  • Sex: I don’t think I have to explain this one, but as a warning, if you don’t do at least one of the things above…you’re probably not getting the sex tonight and you can kiss your steak and a blow job tomorrow goodbye as well. Whispers: Lingerie doesn’t cause headaches.

Basically, all roads lead to sex and sex is important to couples and booty calls and one night stands. Our world revolves around sex. THIS is why Valentine’s Day is so important to some people. Some of us want to get our rocks off tonight. Some of us NEED to get our rocks off tonight! So, while you’re all over there getting pissed off at people for being in love on a Hallmark holiday, remember we’re all just trying to get laid over here. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go shave my everything because I’m planning on a little V-day lovin’ tonight.

OES: Old Egg Syndrome

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I need to explain something to all of you. It’s something I feel goes unnoticed on a daily basis by the majority of people, but it’s plaguing more than most people realize. I’ve only just come to terms with the fact that I myself am struggling with it on a daily basis. Because it is my struggle, it is also my family’s struggle because they have to live with me. This struggle is called “Old Eggs Syndrome.” I am now in my 6th month of being 37 and Old Egg Syndrome has taken hold of me and my life. It makes me confused, anxious, and weak.

Symptoms of OES include:

  • Weeping when seeing pregnant women
  • The urge to adopt all the cats
  • The urge to adopt all the dogs
  • The urge to adopt all the rabbits, guinea pigs, hamsters, mice, and chinchillas
  • The urge to hatch chicken eggs in your kitchen
  • Rubbing your belly when someone talks about babies
  • Feeling your ovaries try to lash out when you ovulate
  • Excessive hugging of small children who aren’t yours
  • Excessive morning kisses for your own children
  • Holding your 10-year-old like a baby
  • Failing at reminding your 7-year-old what it was like when she was a baby
  • Fighting the urge to suddenly let all your kids sleep in bed with you because pretty soon they won’t even try to come into your room unless they are looking for your hidden whiskey stash
  • Asking your kids if you can  hang out with their friends while they all still think you’re a “cool mom”
  • Insisting your kids listen to your 90’s grunge playlist because Kurt Cobain was the shit
  • Staring at your old maternity photos in bed while sobbing into your wine glass after the kids go to sleep
  • Talking to all dogs like they are toddlers
  • Cradling your bottle of wine before opening it
  • Warning your significant other when you are ovulating
  • Wondering if this will be the last time you ever ovulate
  • Thinking you’re having a hot flash every time you break a sweat
  • Wondering if your IUD is destroying your ovaries

I see pictures of babies, and I want all the babies. I see pictures of goats, and I want all the goats. I go to a friend’s house where I am approached by their dog…I now want all the dogs. I sit on my couch at night thinking back to the cat I saw at the animal shelter last month and can picture myself covered in all the cats. This morning my left ovary whispered to me, “Time’s almost up,” and then kicked me.

My kids already tore my stomach muscles and gave me arthritis in my hip, but my ovaries don’t seem to give a shit. They just keep pumping out little old eggs like it’s nobody’s business. Other people drink because of life’s stresses and struggles. I drink to shut my ovaries up. The struggle is real. So, if you know someone suffering from OES, do at least one of the following:

  • Buy them the world’s biggest box of condoms
  • Buy them a vibrator that will put all penises to shame
  • Call them every time your baby wakes up in the night to remind them what no sleep feels like.
  •  Offer to pay for their hysterectomy
  • Bring them all your poopy diapers
  • Keep them drunk until they are done with menopause

You’re Fucking Wrong

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For those poor, suffering parents of unruly bedtime toddlers who think “Go The Fuck to Sleep” was written for you, guess what? You’re fucking wrong.

Look, we’ve all been through the toddler years, and everyone knows they are the worst years in the history of ever. They don’t want to get in the bath. They don’t want to get out of the bath. Fuck, they don’t even want to put on the fuzzy jammies you bought them after they practically threw down at Target because you weren’t going to get them. All you want to do is yell at them and say, “Look, you little shit. I’ve had enough. Go the fuck to bed!” And then there are times when you are 100% willing to just let them climb on the counters, eat ice cream, and shit themselves while you hide in the closet with a bottle of wine, because the fight just isn’t worth it. I get it, your life as a parent between the hours of 7 and 9 pm sucks some serious ass. Boo hoo, we will all be over here singing a sad song for you…right after your kid hits 9 years old. Why? Because a 9-year-old at bed time is 10 times worse than a toddler.

Did you know that a 9-year-old only has to shower once a week? Once every two weeks if they don’t smell “that” bad. At least that’s what they will have you believe. You, “Take a shower.” Them, “Why?” You, “Because you stink.” Them, “But I took one yesterday.” You, “I don’t care. You stink. Take a shower.” Them, “Why?” You, “Because you smell like my ass, your feet are black, your hair is grey from who the hell knows what, and because I fucking said so.” Guess who’s going to bed without a shower? It’s not going to be you. You might as well use all that hot water you just saved by them not taking a shower, and draw yourself a nice hot bubble bath…to drown yourself in.

Tell me honestly, have you even had a conversation with a 9-year-old? I’m talking a real, honest to God conversation? Unless you’ve had one, I’m going to go ahead and guess you haven’t. First of all, they’re fucking smart. They will talk you out of anything if you’re not actually paying attention. You know that half-ass listening thing you toddler parents do? Yeah, stop doing that. If you don’t learn to be an active listener now, you’ll find yourself at 9pm with a 9-year-old sitting next to you playing Minecraft on the couch because you thought it would be cute to lie and say didn’t know what 12 times 12 is, losing a bedtime bet. 12 x 12 is 144, in case you didn’t know. By the time you realize you’ve been had by someone who isn’t even 5 feet tall yet, it will be too late to renege on your bedtime bet.

Even if you do decide to renege on your bedtime bet, what are you going to do? Carry them upstairs like when they were 3? Yeah…no. Aside from being fucking smart, they’re fucking squirrely little bastards. A three year old in the middle of a tantrum has nothing on a wiry 9 year old who just ate their weight in macaroni and cheese, yet could slip through the smallest of holes. They’re like Gumby, come to life. They will bend and twist their way out of the strongest of choke holds. All the while taking full advantage of their low center of gravity, and taking you out at the knees as they duck and run. Unless you sit on them, as they are playing Minecraft, you will not be able to overpower them.

Let’s say you actually get them showered, up the stairs, to their room, and in bed. Remember how I said they were fucking smart? Now they’re going to remind you just how smart they are. “But mom…can’t I read just one more chapter in my book?” You know, the book that has been sitting on their desk for over a month with a half inch of dust on it? Yeah, that one. Regardless, you puff up your chest, stroke your ego for raising such a scholastic child, and them, “Of course you can!” Thirty minutes later, you go to check on them. That fucking little shit is playing Minecraft! You burn all the books, and send the tablet to some third world country for kids without internet to play with.

Once you’ve gotten used to them smell of the stank child you gave birth to 9 years ago, talked your way out of a bet, drop kicked said 9-year-old, and burned everything in their room, you finally get them tucked in and quiet. You try to hug them; they duck out of the way. You try to kiss them on the forehead; they magically slip under the bed. Holy shit! Get the fuck back into your bed, you unruly child before I make you breathe deeply with this pillow shoved in your face. And for fucks sake, give your mother a fucking hug and a kiss!

So, parents of toddlers, heed my words. Start paying attention to what is actually coming out of that little shit’s mouth, go to the gym to get swoll, and start carrying around a portable camping shower because your gonna fucking need it in 6 to 8 years. Enjoy your time, and your excuse to drink, now because once they hit 9…you won’t have enough brain left to figure out how to even pour that wine into a glass.