My Fantasy Mother’s Day

I love my life. Most of the time. I love my kids. Most of the time, I even like them. Most of the time, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere but home with them. Okay. That one was a flat out lie. Life as a stay at home mom can be awesome. I get to witness every milestone. I watch my kids grow, centimeter by centimeter and inch by inch. I get to be with them for every triumph and comfort them when they are disappointed or in pain. I wouldn’t trade that for a minute. Well, I would trade it TEMPORARILY! AMIRITE?! They are loud and they don’t get along. Ever! Every day, I’m cleaning shit off of little asses and, the big asses are clogging the toilets every other week. They may or may not mention that the toilet overflowed because they used an entire roll of toilet paper and hopefully, I’ll  notice the shit handprints all over the walls before company does. They want to eat, like EVERY FUCKING DAY! Several times a day! Give me! Give me! Give me!

“I need lunch money!”

“My creeper shirt is dirty and I want to wear it”

“She ate the LAST piece of bread and I wanted it!”

“It’s my turn!”

“He just had a turn!”

Look, sometimes my castle can feel like a prison. It can be so mundane and, at the same time, so stressful. The kids aren’t the best conversationalists, unless you’re into My Little Pony, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, play-doh, paw shaped clues, or zombies. The conversations are long winded but are anything but intellectually stimulating. They’re such lightweights, they’re no fun as drinking buddies. (for all you humor impaired readers, before you go calling CPS, that was A JOKE) The only thing that, aside from drinking wine over adult conversation, that I fantasize about is silence. Total silence. Not the kind of silence that makes your heart pound in your throat when you hear it, because the only explanation is that the kids are fucking shit up real bad or they are dead. I mean the relaxing silence that means you can pee or bathe with the bathroom door open because the silence is safe. I long for those times when I don’t have to drink a bottle of wine to relax enough to enjoy a glass of wine.  I just want to sit in it. Unafraid. I want to do nothing but think random, pointless thoughts. The thoughts that usually pop up around 11PM when I’m laying my head down to go to sleep, but can’t because my brain has been saving up shit all day and opens the flood gates, resulting in me lying awake for hours, obsessing over what I should have said in the course of an argument 20 years ago.

So, here comes Mother’s Day! All over, husbands and children are preparing for Sunday. They’re going to get the same old shit they always get and moms are going to have to fake smile and act like they are so excited about the cliche gestures and bullshit gifts. Stop listening to Hallmark. Don’t listen to the television. Don’t let the radio DJ tell you what I want. Tell your friend or the neighbor or anyone else that gives you advice to cram it in their cram hole. Get off teh Google.  All wrong. Now, I want you to listen to ME. I’ll explain some dos and don’ts for this Mother’s Day. Pull up a chair:

DON’T:

– Buy flowers. This also applies to birthdays and anniversaries.** This is a colossal waste of money, for starters. Why, why, why, are you going to spend $100 on a gift, so that I can watch it die over the next week? I can’t wear it. They serve no real purpose. As it dies, the leaves and petals wilt and fall off and, want to know what that “gift” has turned into? Another fucking thing I have to clean up. Thanks.

– Buy clothes or shoes. Unless you have been instructed specifically exactly what to purchase and what size, do NOT attempt this purchase. For starters, it’s very likely your style palette is very different from hers. Second, if you don’t know the correct size, beyond a shadow of a doubt, you’re playing with fire, son. Don’t think that you can just walk into her closet and grab something to get her size. Are you fucking new here? Unless she has never gained a pound during pregnancy, this is NOT a reliable system. Those pants may be the right size or they may be that pair she is hoping to fit into one day, probably in vain, or, worse, they’re her fat pants that she wore while pregnant, when she was too big for her own clothes but too small for maternity or the ones that she wore right after giving birth when she didn’t want to wear maternity. It’s a crap shoot. Walk away from this idea if you value your life.

– Get her a gym membership. Even if she has expressed a desire to join a gym, you DO NOT give a woman a gym membership as a gift. EVER! You might as well call her “Bessy”, throw some hay at her and start trying to milk her.

– Gift her cleaning gear/appliances. Yeah, I think that washer/dryer set with the steamer and drying table is pretty sweet. If you get me that as a gift, I’m going turn all of your shit pink and teeny tiny. Mark my words.

– Make a huge breakfast surprise. Unless you’re going to clean it up, which we all know you’re not. You’re really just dicking me with this “gift”. Serve me Shipley’s donuts in bed.

DO:

– Take the kids. Out of the house. Away. For HOURS. Maybe even the day. Hell, the weekend! That’s all. Best gift ever. Here is what I’m going to do while you and the kids are gone:

Not a fucking thing.

As a bonus, while I’m doing nothing, I’m going to do crazy things like:
– Eat all my meals and snacks without having to share a single bite or solitary sip of my drinks.

– I’m going to lay in bed, watching television or sleeping or playing on my phone, without listening for feet or fighting to signal when to hide under the comforter.

– I’m going to go to the bathroom, while NOT refereeing arguments and/or answering questions about why I won’t buy another phone app, which ninja turtle is the best or what happened to my penis.

– I’m not going to make cereal, pour a drink, make a sandwich or blow on food for anyone.

– I’m going to eat my meals and snacks without being interrupted and having to take a break to go get someone else a new drink or a condiment or to blow on a plate.

– I’m not going to have to play “find the poop smell”.

– I’m not going to clean up any shit (which reminds me, you need to take the dog too).

– I’m not going to watch any Dora or Blue’s Clues and worry about going to movies in the future, with a generation that has been taught that yelling answers and opinions at characters on the screen is normal.

– I’m going to have two free hands. With two hands, I’m going to be able to do so many activities!

Now you have the key to the perfect gift.  These rules apply to any occasion.  This is not to say that actual gifts are not acceptable. Feel free to leave the gifts on the table or in the bedroom prior to your departure.  Anything along the lines of a case of wine, a Tori Burch bag, a Visa gift card, or spa treatments are all welcome additions to this stay-cation.

The Joys of Motherhood

Yesterday morning, I woke up to such a wonderful surprise: I was getting ready for the day when I heard a knock coming from one of the bedrooms.  I realized it was Number 3 and the sound of him knocking on his door meant he had learned how to climb out of his crib.  I thought that would the bad news for the morning but I opened his door and realized how wrong I was.  There he stood, smiling up at me, with those big, handsome eyes and then I  took inventory of the situation.  Not only had he climbed out of his crib but he had also removed his diaper and shit all over his bedroom floor.  Like most people, there is nothing I like doing more, right after getting out of the shower in the morning, than cleaning up fresh piles of shit from my carpet.

I know, I know, some of you read this and think, “DAMN!  How did she get to be so lucky?”.  Well, let me tell you my friends, I don’t like to brag but that is just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the spoils of motherhood.

• This is not the first time he has managed to get his diaper off after filling it up.  On more than one occasion, he has finger painted me beautiful murals across his bedroom walls, made entirely of paint he made himself, in his pants.
• Number One, Number Two and Number Three are complete and total fucking pigs.  When George Bush was looking for weapons of mass destruction, he didn’t have to go to the Middle East, he just had to come to my house.  Even on housekeeper day (my favorite day of any week), these WMDs can destroy this house in no time flat.  I don’t know how they do it, either!  I swear, it will look like they have been watching TV for an hour and then I look around and every room in my house is a shit hole.  I know that they only explanation is that they have magical, destructive wizard powers.
• Everyone always says, “you have to watch what you say in front of children.”.  What the fuck do these people know?  Certainly nothing about children or, at least, not my children.  I can pretty much say whatever the fuck I want in front of my children because they don’t fucking listen to a damn thing I say.  It doesn’t matter if I say “stop pulling your sister’s hair!” or “Gah-dammit!  Stop fucking pulling your fucking sister’s fucking hair!”.  I might as well be reciting a fucking recipe for pea soup.  It is like talking to toast.
• 
• Did you know that “Go clean your room.” actually means “Go fuck off in your room or watch tv.  Whatever you want.”?  Neither did I!
• If mothers wore uniforms, those with more than one child would be wearing a black and white striped shirt and a whistle because a large portion of the day is spent breaking up sibling brawls and refereeing decisions on everything from what will be on the tv to who gets the last cracker.
• When you have your first child, and every subsequent child, for that matter, you cannot WAIT to hear them say “momma” for the first time.  Give it a couple of years.  The sweetest sound you have ever heard is soon to become nails on a fucking chalkboard.  That sweet cooing of your baby first saying “momma” that melted your heart, soon evolves into the word that will make you consider drowning yourself in the mop bucket.  “Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! MOOOOOOOM!!  MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!” will soon drive you to the brink of insanity.

• Children, as it turns out, are equipped with some sort of sensor.  I haven’t determined where the sensor is located but it is there.  This sensor signals your child every. single. fucking. time. you are beginning to relax, when you are in the middle of an important conversation, when the automated system for the light/cable/water/internet/phone company is asking you to “please say what you are calling about so I can direct your call.”, etc.  They can be in the middle of anything and they will drop everything to run out and interrupt you, making sure that you re-tense, have to stop your conversation or have to repeat your issue to the computer twenty fucking times before it just hangs up on you.  I swear, the slightest sign of relaxation from a mother could wake a child from a fucking coma.

• Do you have any idea how many times a day a kid shits?  Number three goes, at least, 341 times a day.  True story.  Also, for some reason, potty trained children cannot grasp the concept of flushing a fucking toilet.  It is like Christmas every day when I walk into the restroom and see the gifts my older kids left me in the toilet.

Don’t be jealous.

Dang, Anything Else?

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.

Can’t Talk to a Psycho Like a Normal Human Being

Have you recently found yourself saddled with a knocked up wife, girlfriend, sister or friend?  Men:  If you put the baby in there, you have  no one to blame but yourself.  You didn’t talk her into the abortion.  Suck it up, buttercup.  You pulled the trigger, you finish the race.   Here are some tips and warning signs to help you get through these nine months alive.

You may ask yourself, “what the fuck is her problem?”.  Let me tell you a few of her problems:

• She has, most likely, been forced to disregard the slightest degree of germaphobia the moment her body decided to reject the Taco Supreme with extra sour cream it had been screaming for only moments earlier, forcing her to embrace and shove her head into a receptacle that has hosted almost as many asses in its career as Richard Simmons in his.
• Do you enjoy being stabbed repeatedly in the pubic area?  If so, you would LOVE round ligament pain.
• Not having a period is one of the touted benefits of pregnancy.  Don’t put those tampons in storage just yet, you can still find a use for them now that your nose is going to be the one with a period!  If you are like me, it will be almost daily!!
• Weight gain!  Because nothing says “I’m bringing sexy back” like elastic waistbands.

If you are interacting with a pregnant woman, don’t ever assume you are safe.  Always consider her armed and dangerous.  Even if the only weapon in her arsenal are the countless hormones surging through her body, be afraid.  Be very afraid.  Signs you should abandon your mission and run:

• Tears.  Even if it just looks like her eyes might be watering, take no chances.  Run.
• She suddenly stops talking or responding to you and only stares, even if she is being directly addressed or questioned.
• Her only response or contribution to the conversation is a flat “whatever.”.
• Her stomach growls.

Dads:  Are you feeling neglected?  Left out?  Have you tried to give her the business only to find she has closed up the shop?  Maybe she wants the business but the realization that her vagina is soon going to transport a tiny, screaming human larvae into the world has rendered you impotent.  Either way, you can revive your sex life.

Are you being rejected?  You are going to have to play a little hardball but, remember, all is fair in love and war.  You have to make her want you to want her and that is going to mean you have to hit her in the ego.  It is kind of like high school:

• Strategically but noticeably  place stretch mark cream amongst her beauty supplies.
• When you both get in bed, pull out the latest issue of “Hotties with Vacant Uteri” and your favorite lotion and go to work.  If she interrupts, take your tools into another room and tell her that she is spoiling the moment.
• Look at older photos and compliment her pre-pregnancy hips.

If the problem is that you can’t get the soldier to salute, there are a couple of solutions:

• Admit that you are gay.  I mean, seriously.  Pregnant or not, most men won’t turn down an available vagina.  Not to mention, her boobs have, at least, doubled in size.  That is nature’s distraction.  If this is the case, get her to pull her hair up in a baseball cap and roll her over.
• Medicine

You are welcome.  This could end up being another series.

How to be a good parent with good kids:

• Use your resources.  The TV, for instance, is better and cheaper than a nanny.  You turn it on, it keeps the kids quiet and occupied and, in most cases, it is even teaching them something.  Then, at the end of the day, you don’t have to hear the television tell you about where you are falling short as a parent. 
• There is nothing wrong with a little healthy competition.  Make a ranking chart and put on the refrigerator.  You can call it the “Mommy’s Favorite Board” or something to that effect.  At the beginning of every day, gather the children around and rank them from top to bottom on the chart.  Explain that the top spot is mommy’s favorite and go on to explain why/how they made that position (they did this favor, they didn’t talk back, etc).  Let all the children know that this order can change at any moment, without notice.  Make sure to take any reason to go switch the order and appoint a new favorite.  This is even more effective if the favorite gets some sort of privilege.  It really gets the kids in line.  Sure, the experts will rag on and on about damaging their self esteem, long term damage and blah, blah, blah but fuck that noise.  If they maintain the “mommy’s favorite” position, their self esteem will be fine.  It is a long term goal to teach them to strive for along with the short term reward.
• Drink.  If you haven’t already, after having children is a good time to take up drinking.  Don’t listen to these fuckwit sanctimommies that go on and on about it being irresponsible or that the minute your piss makes the line on the magic plastic stick, you are no longer allowed to be remotely selfish.  I like my “me time” and I like it a lot better when there is a bottle of wine to keep me company.  You thought alcohol was important the day after you turned 21?  It is a requirement of a good parent.  They should hand out bottles of wine and liquor to parents in the hospital. 
• Force your children to subscribe to gender stereotypes from birth.  Do not let little boys like pink or even touch your purse or a doll, regardless of whether he is 6 months or 6 years old.  If he does any of the above, he will most likely grow up and want to fondle and marry other boys.  If he shows interest in a toy kitchen, for instance, slap his hand, tell him that cooking is woman’s work and make him look at a Playboy magazine, while holding a truck in one hand and a hunting rifle in the other.  If your daughter wants to play with her brother’s toy tool set and you let her, you might as well go buy her a wallet chain and a Melissa Etheridge album.
• Do not talk to children about sex.  That is sick and inappropriate and it should never be discussed.  If your children express any curiosity or ask questions regarding sex, tell them that sex is bad and thinking about sex, talking about sex or having sex before marriage is a one way ticket to hell.  Discussion over.  
• If your children yell at you or talk back or are disrespectful in general, buy them something and apologize for angering them. If you tell your child to clean his/her room and he/she screams back “NO!  Fuck you, mom!  You clean my fucking room!  I hate you!”.  Obviously, you have done something to upset or offend your precious angel and it must be resolved.  In order to make amends, you should clean his/her room and/or go buy a present for your disgruntled child/teen and beg for forgiveness.  This can also apply to incidents when teacher call to discuss your child’s behavior.  You know that bitch probably has a vendetta against your precious little baby and/or is jealous of you and is taking it out on him/her.  When she tells you that little Junior told her to shove her book up her ass, you make sure and ask her what she has against your child and what she did to provoke his/her response.

This is parenting, people, not rocket science.  Now, go have a drink.

How to recognize people with a death wish:

• You ring my doorbell-because only people who want to die a horrible, violent death ring the doorbell of a pregnant woman with a toddler.  You see, you doorbell ringing jackasses, sometimes babies SLEEP!  When you come and ring my muthafucking doorbell, not only does that “DING DONG” reverberate throughout my home but it also causes my fucking dogs to go batshit crazy and whether it was the “DING, DONG” or the yapping dogs that wake up my toddler, your decision to push that doorbell is the root cause of why the closest thing I get to quiet time has been interrupted and why I am staring down the barrel of a really pissy, cranky two-year old that I now have to deal with for HOURS, as he gets pissier and crankier until bed time.  Someone must pay.
• You call me before 8AM and everyone is alive and well-because the only reason to EVER call me prior to 8AM is if someone is bleeding or dead.  Yes, most mornings I am up prior to 8AM but, on occasion, the baby sleeps past 8AM and I enjoy those days.  May God have mercy on your soul if you happen to call me on one of the days that my little, chubby alarm clock has decided to let me sleep late. 
• You tell my kids you are going to do something and you don’t-because I realize flaking out on a little kid may not seem like a big deal to you but, for me, it is the seventh level of hell.  I am the one that has to listen to them obsess and prepare for the details of the plans you made with him/her/them.  I am the one that has to make up some bullshit excuse to cover your ass when they realize that you have sold out so that they don’t think you are a complete lying asshole, even though you are.  You will be punished.
• You critique/correct my parenting -I really don’t give a fuck if you disapprove of me laughing so hard that tears are streaming down my face because I am telling my toddler to say “you fish” and he is complying.  You can kiss my ass.  Truth be told, I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks of my parenting and, frankly, if I want to instruct my kid to say “shut the fuck up, bitch.”, that is my prerogative.  As it stands, however, my youngest child’s speech development just makes some every day, normal words, like “fish” sound like he is saying “bitch” and that is just good, clean fun.  Get the stick out of your ass and wipe that face off your head before I do it for you.

• You talk during a movie-Seriously.  Shut the fuck up.  I don’t care what your predictions are on any surprise twist, who the murderer is or who is going to die next.  If you shut your fucking mouth and let me watch the movie, I will bet you a hundred dollars we will find out.
• You come to my door selling shit-If you rang my doorbell, you already have one foot in the grave.  If you are selling shit, you better have made a will before you darken my door step.  You are a perfect stranger.  I don’t want to talk about how you are selling magazines to be the first person in your family to go to college.  I don’t want you to demonstrate your vacuum cleaner.  It is none of your business whether or not I have accepted Jesus Christ as my lord and savior.  You see and hear these kids running around like wild animals, screaming and yelling?  They weren’t taking precedence over the phone call I am currently on or the status update I was in the middle of posting, why do you think I am going to hang up or close my laptop for you?  Keep on walking.

This will probably end up being another series, much like the grammar entries.  It will give you bitches something to look forward to in the future.

Time out or a wooden stake?

He is so adorable and so chubby and sweet looking, I never saw this coming.  He runs over, staring at you with his big brown eyes, and at the last minute he opens his mouth and sinks in those teeth.  Yes.  It is true.  I can barely say it out loud but here goes:   My youngest child has OBVIOUSLY turned into a vampire.  At the slightest provocation, he is willing to sink his teeth into any exposed patch of flesh to satisfy his thirst for blood.

I have been doing some research, since coming to terms with my son’s transformation into one of hell’s minions but the information is conflicting.  One researcher says that vampires cannot go out in daylight or they will spontaneously combust or something similar, while another says that vampires can, in fact, go into the sunlight and their skin will sparkle as if they had their entire body vagazzled.  So, I am confused.  My son can go out into the sunlight without bursting into flames but he does not look like a fairy that was rolled around in a truckload of glitter, either.  Do you think he might have some form of vampire eczema that could explain this or do I accept the other research that says that the glitter skin is bullshit?

Most of the research tends to agree that vampires possess some degree of powers and some research indicates that they can hypnotize or “glamour” their victims.  He DOES possess this ability.  He can look at you and you will believe that he is going to approach you and hug you or kiss you and then, suddenly, he is going in for the kill!  I need to create some sort of warning system so that unsuspecting innocents can be made aware that he is a demon cleverly disguised as a little, chubby angel.  Don’t be fooled.
I have tried to time out and he continues to try to make meals of the family.  I am conducting further research on how to remedy or tame him.  I would prefer to consider staking as an absolute last resort.

The secret to my happy marriage…

I often hear people say that the secret to a happy marriage is “trust”, “respect”, “shared interests”, “spending quality time together”, etc.  Well, that is all bullshit.  Ask a divorcee.  Most will tell you that they had (or thought they had) some, if not all, of these characteristics or efforts within their previous marriage(s).  Few will say they thought they had anything but a normal, average marriage before deciding to purchase their ticket to the “Big D”.

Trust-Seriously?  Do you really need someone to tell you that you should trust the person you marry?  If you can’t trust someone, you shouldn’t be friends with them, much less have sex with them and/or commit to spend the rest of your life and possibly raise children with said person.  If you need this explained to you, please remove yourself from the gene pool.

Respect-Sure, you should respect one another.  Respect is such a broad term, though.  My husband can piss me off like no one else can and vice versa.  If I get annoyed and tell him he is an asshole or he tells me to shut the fuck up, obviously we are not being respectful but if you are willing to throw in the towel because you or your spouse lost your cool and called you a name, you need to grow the fuck up.  I respect my marriage, regardless of whether I am pissed at my husband or living in wedded bliss.  I took vows, among those I vowed to love him in sickness and in health, I vowed to love him for richer or poorer, I vowed to be faithful, I even vowed not to step on his blue suede shoes.  I never took any vow not to call him a fucking douchebag when he would pretend to be asleep and unaware of our newest infant awakening for the third time in 5 hours.

Shared interests-You can shove this one up your ass.  I am not going to even try to give a fuck about golf or Nascar.  In return, I will not expect him to give a fuck about my shoe collection or how to improve said collection.  He is also not expected to notice when I have my hair done or when I am wearing a new outfit.  As a matter of fact, it is preferential that he not notice so that I am not expected to answer any questions about spending.  Everyone is happy.

Spending quality time together-This does not take that much effort, people.  Men:  Exchanging bodily fluids does not, in and of itself, constitute “quality time”.

The fact is, people, some of that shit I listed above is important but do you really need to be told not to fuck other people or to spend time with one another?  If you do, you are doomed.  I am going to tell you the real secret.  You want a happy husband?  Here is the key:  LOW EXPECTATIONS.

-Do you have the house spotless and dinner on the table every night when hubby gets home?  Well, stop that shit.  Depending on how long you have been acting like Donna fucking Reed, it may take you a little more time to reset his expectations.

*When you do this shit every fucking day, you and your efforts get taken for granted.  It becomes expected and, most often, your husband’s expectations increase at a more accelerated rate and he has the audacity to begin expressing disappointment, like “I was hoping you would make mashed potatoes and gravy from scratch” or “this would have been better with a little more pepper.” or “is the vacuum not working today?”.  When that happens, I want you to squash the urge to slap him with the chicken breast you have hand seasoned and marinated all day and strangling him with the vacuum cord.  You have no one to blame but yourself for his inflated expectations and resulting insulting advice.  You can fix this, though.  It is not too late.  You have to decide, here and now, that you are committed to retraining him.  Men are like lumps of clay.  They can be molded and remolded.  If you let him sit for a while molded in a particular way, you may have to pound it a little harder or knead it a little longer but, rest assured, he can be reshaped.  Let tears and sex be your sculpting tools.

This house is never spotless.  Damn!  I have three kids and now I have another one freeloading in my uterus.  I pick up the living room, seemingly, just to make more room for these little tornadoes to destroy.  Guess what, if you think that I suck at housekeeping, I don’t give a shit.  If you think my floors could be cleaner, feel free to grab a vacuum.  If you see I missed a spot or 10 on my counters, grab a fucking sponge.  If you expect this place to sparkle and for me to greet you with my hair pefectly coiffed, wearing makeup and pearls, you married the wrong woman.  If I want to look nice, I will put on a bra.  That is dressing up.

If you come home and smell something burning, dinner is ready!  If not, feel free to help yourself to leftovers, make a sandwich or have cereal.

The 2-3 times a week that I do make an actual dinner, it is like Christmas for my husband.  When the kids spend more time outside on certain days and I actually get the house to look really nice, he notices.  You see, I keep his expectations low and he appreciates and acknowledges those things that Donna fucking Reed’s husband takes for granted every day.   He is happy because he has a giant hunk of delicious roast on his plate and I am happy because he can’t stop telling me what a wonderful cook I am.

This, my friends, is the key to a successful marriage.  You can thank me later.  Now, start pounding that man clay.

You wish you could just do nothing all day, like me?

I can't tell you how irritated I get when people attempt to camouflage their blatant effort to marginalize and insult me with feigned envy.  Give me a fucking break.  I am not an idiot.  If, however, you think that being a stay at home parent, one with three children, no less, is a cake walk, you have another thing coming.  The next time you think to yourself or say out loud to friend or relative that is a stay at home parent, "It must be nice to not have to work." or "I wish I could just sit home all day and do nothing, like you.", do me a favor and punch yourself in the face.  Let me walk you through a typical day of this stay at home mom:

1)When I wake up in the morning, I feel NOTHING like P. Diddy, unless Diddy is used to being gently waken by the shrill, unwavering sounds of a two year old yelling “MOM! MOM! MOM!”, demanding to be released from his crib at 7:30 AM.  Most of the time, when I walk in to release my pudgy alarm clock from his bed cage, I am slapped in the face with the overwhelming aroma of the good morning gift he has provided for me in his pants.  On a couple of occasions, he has gone that extra mile to wish me a happy day by removing his diaper and painting me a beautiful shit mural.

2)By the time I have him up and changed, the other two are up and are already fighting over breakfast or television or chairs or who is going to get what bowl.  I can ignore them for a little while but, eventually, their bickering penetrates my ignore field and I have to intervene and referee just before or by the time it comes to blows.

3) I think about doing laundry.

4)I have to stop the older two children, at least 22 times, from killing each other over whether or not purple is better than green

5)I become convinced that the youngest must have some sort of intestinal disorder because I do not remember either of the other ones shitting as often as he does on a daily basis.  Seriously.  He should not weigh this much, given his output rate.

6)I decide to do laundry and as I am heading into the laundry room, I hear a blood curdling scream and must promptly redirect my attention to peeling the youngest off of his older brother’s head, who is apparently paying the price for riding his younger brother’s alphabet choo-choo.

7)At least 10 times a day, I have to figure out why the youngest has suddenly fallen to his knees, screaming, as tears stream down his face in the middle of the living room.  It usually ends up having to do with one of the older ones having the audacity to expect him to share his crackers, popcorn, cereal or whatever other snack he is in possession of at that moment.

8) I think about doing laundry but decide I will do it later because the kids are being quiet and I want to enjoy the peace.

9) I discover they are being quiet because they have found a pack of red kool-aid and are eating it like fruit-dip with their fingers, huddled in the pantry and that kind of discretion requires a lot of quiet concentration.  My children and my floor are blood red.  It comes off the floor with  bleach spray and an entire roll of paper towels.  The children are a different story.

10) I get the kitchen clean and in the time it takes me to put the the floor towel in the laundry room and walk back to the kitchen, it is already a disaster.  The same goes for every other fucking room in the house.

11) I give up.  Fuck laundry too.  I decide I’m going to throw all the fucking clothes away and just start over with everyone’s wardrobes.

12) The little one has shit his pants, AGAIN!

13) The dogs have scavenged the last shitty diaper out of the trash and have made it their afternoon snack in my formal dining room.

14) Well, shit!  It is almost time for my husband to be home.  I think about making dinner.

15) I see the little one hunched down in the living room with his face squinched into that very familiar “I am taking a shit” expression.

16) Fuck dinner.  They can eat cereal.

17) I hear a chorus of yelling, screaming and crying and find all three children embattled into a full on brawl over the last fruit roll up.  To solve the problem, I take it and cram it in my mouth.  Now, rather than being angry and hateful with one another, they are united in their hatred of me.  That’s just called good fucking parenting/problem solving skills.

My day is filled with fights, tears and I am up to my elbows in toddler shit.  I may, one day, come and write another day in the life but, next time, I will outline a day when vomit and diarrhea with the older kids has been thrown into the mix.  Those are more fun.  I bet you will wish you had my life then, for sure!

You get to interact with other adults.  Unless you consider answering Nina’s questions as she introduces new cartoons on the Sprout channel as adult interaction, I don’t get a whole lot of that during the day.  You get to take breaks.  I can get 20 minutes of quiet but it requires me to watch Caillou or Peppa Pig, so I wouldn’t really call it a break.  My kids just will not take an interest in whether or not Maury’s guest, Jessica, finds her baby’s daddy among the 7 men she brought to the show to be tested.  It doesn’t matter how hard I try to get them invested in her story.  You can call in sick if necessary.  It doesn’t matter if I have a cold, if I am vomiting or if I have kidney stones.  My kids are tyrant bosses and refuse to grant me any time off.  You get to clock out.  I don’t.  I don’t even get a change of scenery.

Although my children are slave driving bosses.  I wouldn’t change it for anything.  Is it easy?  Hell no.  It is the most thankless job I have ever had (and, believe me, I have had a LOT of jobs).  I won’t get any bonuses.  There is no Christmas party with awesome door prizes.  No one asks if I had a good day or bad day “at the office”.  There are no health benefits or vacation time or sick days.  There is no promotion opportunities and no one is giving me a paycheck.  I am not going to be a fucking martyr by claiming it is the hardest job in the world.  It isn’t.  It can be frustrating, it can be stressful, it can be overwhelming, it can be sooo mundane but I find it nothing short of rewarding, however, don’t you dare look me in the eye and dismiss my contribution to society as invalid or effortless by insinuating or blatantly stating that I sit on my ass all day and cram peanut butter cups in my face, while watching soap operas.  Most people that think that wouldn’t make it a day in my shoes.