I’m hungry! I’m not hungry! I’m tired! I’m not tired! I’m hot! I’m cold! Pick me up! Put me down! Fix me some food! I’m thirsty! I want ketchup! I didn’t like it because it had ketchup on it! I need to potty! I already pottied! I peed in my pants!
BREATHE! 1…2…3…4…5…fuck this counting shit. It only takes me 3.5 seconds to open a bottle of wine.
These three curtain climbers can be the source of my greatest joy and my greatest stress. I know that there are those sanctimonious martyr mom bitches that say “Children are gifts from heaven. I like to spend every waking second with my children and any mother that takes two seconds to herself is selfish and she should have thought about that before she had kids.”. Well, to her, I say: fuck the fuck off. I love my kids but I don’t have to like my kids 24/7. Any parent that says they do is either A) Lying or B) Full of shit. You see, I don’t think admitting that makes me a bad mother. I would give my life for any of my children and there are days when I feel like my children are trying to kill me themselves, with a plan they have secretly concocted to make my fucking head explode.
My husband works out, pretty much everyday. Whether he runs or goes to the gym, that is his daily time to blow off some steam. For some reason, some group of uptight bitches got together and decided that squeezing a kid out of your vagina suddenly rendered women impervious to stress. These are the same bitches that decided that admitting that being a mother was hard or a mother needing her own personal time out was a sign of failure. They got the word out and it spread quickly. Women are so fucking afraid to admit that they aren’t perfect mothers or that they don’t ever feel overwhelmed or that they want to be able to have a little time to themselves. Well, guess what? I’m not. At times, my kids make me want to stand in the middle of the street and scream a steady stream of expletives. I want to pull my damn hair out! I think to myself, “I wonder why kennels for kids never caught on?”. So, I make sure that I get my own “time outs”, at least once or twice a week. If that means that one or a few of my friends gather on my patio or on one of their patios, as God as our witness, we are going to gather, dammit! And, there will be wine! Oh yes! There will be wine. It is our therapy. We bitch and vent and then we end up laughing about all those things that we thought were going to push us over the edge a few hours earlier. Thankfully, I have surrounded myself with a group of friends that are equally as honest about how imperfect they are as mothers. There isn’t any judgment, just wine. You have to have wine!
I jokingly tell my husband that I am going to the gym when I have plans for a girls’ night in. Becoming a mother doesn’t make your needs suddenly irrelevant. It doesn’t mean that you are no longer entitled to or in need of some personal time. If anything, it makes it even more necessary. Adults need to interact with adults. Adults need to have conversations in which the words Caillou, Sprout, poopy diaper and Toy Story are not brought up. Adults need to have times when they are not required to break up fights between preschoolers. Adults need to have friends to drink wine and bitch with because drinking alone is frowned upon.
If you want to hole up in your home and immerse yourself only in your children and their interests and topics of conversation, be my guest. My money is on your future admission into a mental hospital. Good luck with that.
I love my bitches.