If you have come here expecting to be regaled with tales of perfect children being raised by perfect parents, you are in the wrong classroom. If you have come here thinking I am going to share parenting tales that will make you feel like you are being sprinkled with skittles and unicorn piss, you took a wrong turn. I am a mother of, as of recently, four. I am a stay at home mother. Let me state, I am a stay at home parent by choice. For the record, since so many fail to comprehend satire or sarcasm, I adore the fuck out of my children. The fact that I am afforded the OPTION to be a stay at home parent is not lost on me. With that said, if you expect me to blow sunshine up your skirt and feign that every fucking second is the best minute of my life, you are going to be disappointed. Suck it.
Number One is a huge help but she is too close to being a teenager for my comfort and her attitude is a reflection of the upcoming teen years, much to my chagrin. Talking to Number Two is like talking to toast. Number Three is full blast into the terrible twos and proving that the worst is yet to come, since his response to every request is, “why” or “no”. Number Four is a boobaholic. He is tiny but, DAMN, this little boy spends more time at the tit than all my other children combined.
When you are sleeping in two hour increments, you can tell me not to bitch. When you combine that sleep deprivation with multiple children, you can preach to me about my voicing my exhaustion , much less drawing any humor from all of it.
Take a fucking joke. If you say that full time parenting is a breeze or that stay at home parents should shut up and color: get bent. If you spent any significant time with your children you would realize that parenting is not absent of frustration and, dare I say it, fucking boredom. I love my kids but day after day of Super Why and Caillou could break Ghandi. When you spend the majority of your day refereeing arguments over the last juice box or who gets to pick the next movie or who’s turn it is to play Angry Birds, let’s talk. Until then, your opinion is a “moo” point. It’s like a cow’s opinion. It doesn’t matter. It’s moo. (-Joey Tribbianni)