I Suck
Posted by admin | Filed under Motherhood, Stay At Home Moms, Uncategorized, Womanhood, parenting
Generally speaking.
Now, before you start feeling sorry for me, realize that I say this in a perfectly even, non-emotional, matter-of-fact way. Not in a "woe is me, I plan on killing myself" sort of way, but in a "Oh well, life's a bitch" sort of way. Because I plan on doing absolutely nothing about my self-professed suckage. Other than write about it.
Why do I suck, you ask? Oh, let me count the ways. Where do I begin?
I know — I'll begin with "snack day." Nora's mommy was supposed to bring snacks to Nora's preschool class on Monday, and Nora's mommy sucks so badly she FORGOT. Yep. Fifteen 3-year-olds went snackless because I SUCK. Luckily, the teachers had an emergency snack at hand. I guarantee the next time Nora's mommy is signed up for "snack day," the teachers will be sure to have another emergency snack available. Which is good, since I'll probably forget then too. "Forget." *Snicker*
Do you think bite-size Milky Way bars count as a "snack" to these people?
On Friday, I am supposed to bring Valentines to Ava's class. I've even written it down on the back of an envelope of some junk mail I plan on tossing soon. How much do you want to bet I forget about that, too? I feel a little less worse about forgetting Valentines for a class of 18-month-olds, though, since they can't read, don't care, and will probably try to eat them anyway. And who wants their baby eating paper? Hell, I'm doing everyone a service by forgetting the fucking Valentines. Right?
I don't doubt that the staff at my girls' school thinks I am a moron who should not, under any circumstances, have been allowed to procreate. Whatever. Anyone who thinks that can go blow a goat. (Particularly if they're taking my money). I'm cool with my suckage. I've embraced it wholeheartedly. I'm at peace with it.
Bitch.
I am easily the mom who shows up to playdates without having brought a sippy cup, snacks, extra diapers, etc. for her kids. I am easily the mom who mooches off of everyone else, should I need any of the items listed above. (I consider this fair warning to anyone interested in having a so-called "playdate" with me.) On the upside, if I just so happen to have these things with me because I took my meds that morning, and it just so happens that YOU forgot, I will cheerfully give you mine. I may suck, but I am a generous soul nonetheless. I understand mommy suckiness, and embrace my fellow sucky mothers. We are one. Sucky mothers unite.
I am the "hostess" who throws goldfish in a bowl and "serves" it to her pint-sized guests, whose house is already a disaster so there are no unnecessary worries about little Suzy making more of a mess. My house is the one where you can hear muffled, creepy Christmas music playing even though it's February.
Trust me – kids have a BLAST at my house. Moms do too, so long as they don't have sticks up their asses. Ass sticks are not welcome at my house — please leave those in the car.
So yes, I suck…. Unless, of course, you think I rock. It's all relative.
Photo by TW Collins via Flickr.
Tags: hostess, playdate, snacks, snow globe, suck, suckage, Valentines
The Hotness
Posted by admin | Filed under Insane in the MOMbrane, Stay At Home Moms, Womanhood
There is very little less sexy than being the mother of a toddler and a preschooler.
Seriously. People tell you that "motherhood becomes you" when you have children, but I am convinced that this is said only to make new mothers feel better about their deflated, saggy, distended bodies. It's kind of a pat on the back, like a "Buck up, you look like shit, but that shouldn't matter any more, right? You're a mother."
Fuck that.
I will be the first to admit that my body is not what it was before I had kids. I think the body part that has most suffered are my boobs. Once upon a time, I rocked those tiny little spaghetti strap tank tops — while bra-less. I wore tube tops and didn't have to worry about looking flat-chested. I had a tight little belly button, and a perky little ass.
That's right, beeeeeeeotch!
Now, my boobs are… *DEEP SIGH* My belly button is… *SNIFFLE* My ass is… *SOB* *GASP* *SOB*
However. I am not even close to throwing in the towel. No way, dudes. I go to the gym and abuse those butt and chest machines. I take my vitamins. I try to eat well (minus the occasional Amos cookie binge. And macaroni and cheese binge. And… shit, people I have kids. I've got junk food all over the place). I MOISTURIZE. That's right. For those you not in the know, read this and begin to moisturize, or die a premature death by dry skin. You didn't think the situation was that dire, did you? Ha! Clearly you haven’t been reading Lisa Rinna’s books. Tsk, tsk.
At some point, I may even get some of that botulism toxin injected into my face and those sacks of saline inserted into my boobs. It all depends on how shitty I get to looking in the future. I guess we’ll see just how successful Nora and Ava are at sucking the life force out of me in the course of the next several years.
But rest assured, I will fight to the death. Yes, yes, I know, looks aren’t important, what’s important is family and inner beauty and WAH WAH WAH WAH (a la Charlie Brown). That’s just what ugly people say to make themselves feel better. *Snicker* Plus, what woman doesn’t want her husband (and that hot dude at the coffee shop wearing the scrubs) to look her up and down and think, “Now THAT is a MILF.”
Yeah, baby, that’s what I thought.
So. Yes, I get up in the morning and take care of myself, even if it means letting my girls eat deodorant while I apply some mascara. And I put on some nice-fitting jeans and a push-up bra, even if the only place I go the entire day is to my mailbox while my 8,000-year-old neighbors peer out their windows and probably mutter something about me being a “hussy.” (For the record, I have no evidence that my neighbors think I’m a hussy. A wedgie-picking bitch? Yes. A hussy? Not yet. I’m working on it. These things take time.) And while it’s not the most practical thing, carrying around a toddler in a v-neck top and a push-up bra, since you never know when she’ll grab you and your boobs will tumble out, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.
What about you, you saucy little minx? Come on. MILF status is just around the corner…
Tags: boobs, botox, Charlie Brown, implants, Lisa Rinna, MILF
The Crazies
Posted by admin | Filed under Depression, Insane in the MOMbrane, Motherhood, Stay At Home Moms, Uncategorized, Womanhood, parenting, schizo
I am a desperate housewife.
Have I ever mentioned how much I hate those words? Individually, they suck. Together, they suck worse. I mean, they are totally offensive together. I cringe admitting that I am, in fact, desperate. And because I hate the word "housewife" so much, I will go with "home economist." I am a desperate home economist. Ahem.
Fuck.
So here's the story, in brief: I went off my happies, a bunch of shit happened at once (including various illnesses that included my girls and me puking together in unison) that would have driven a normal, sane human being to the brink, and I went on birth control pills. Now, I will address each of those shit-storms separately:
1. I went off my happies. Aka, my happy pills. What? I thought I'd be fine without them. And I was, until….
2. A bunch of shit happened. Where do I start? The holidays. I'm not sure when the holidays were considered fun, but they have become a fucking nightmare at this point. Suicide rates are apparently high during the holidays, and while I hear it's because lonely people feel even lonelier during the season of cheer, I think it's parents of small children deciding they simply cannot take it anymore. My parents were meddling in my parenting and heaping guilt on me and TH, my kids were throwing tantrums because I wouldn't let them have yet ANOTHER candy cane for dinner, no one was sleeping in his/her own bed… Additionally, we all caught a nasty, snot-ridden cold (I'm still snotting from said cold) AS WELL AS a violent stomach bug. Snot for Christmas, puke for New Years. Oh, it was fun. I was sleeping in the same room as Nora, trying to puke quietly into a bucket so as not to wake her. God, I wish I was making that shit up.
3. I went on birth control pills. Look, my periods are wacky, and I will absolutely go INSANE if I get pregnant. So all these women are on the Pill, telling me it's fine, and oh, it's the lightest, bestest one around, so I said, OK! Let's do this thing. Bring on the hormones.
Huh.
In hindsight, I should not have gone off my happies during the holidays AND started BCPs. You're right, you're right. I set myself up.
But Jesus Christ on a cracker, if I could have videotaped myself yesterday. I was a raving lunatic, a deranged person. I was snapping at my girls for little things, ripping into TH like there was no tomorrow, throwing a fit because I got in the shower only to find that I’d run out of soap and had to get out, dripping wet, and rummage through the cabinets… My girls heard me say the word “motherfucker” at least twice, and if they grow up to need therapy, it will be because of yesterday, I swear.
Can you say INTERVENTION?
I think TH tried, by coolly asking if I was going to go Andrea Yates on his ass, and as you can imagine, that didn’t help things.
Men.
Anyways, I am doing much better today, thank you. I am getting some writing done, actually put some makeup on this morning, and I am wearing clean clothes.
It’s the little things.
That being said, I’m attacking my doctor soon.
Tags: birth control, crazies, crazy, Desperate Housewives, doctor, happy pills, insane
It’s About Time…
Posted by admin | Filed under Babies, Insane in the MOMbrane, Motherhood, Pregnancy, Stay At Home Moms, Uncategorized, Womanhood, parenting
…for another baby.
*Bursts out laughing, shoving an entire packet of birth control pills down throat with glee, washing it down with some vodka.*
NOT!
Have you ever met the woman who treats having kids like some sort of Olympic sport? Yeah? No? If not, I can introduce you to her. She's annoying as fuck. She's kind of like the woman who treats motherhood as a competitive sport, except that Preggo (what I will heretoforthwith call her) really stops caring about her kid the minute she has another one. Ok, not completely stops caring, of course. But kind of just removes the earlier-born child from her focus.
God, I'm a judgmental bitch.
But it's almost like… they aren't truly happy unless they're pregnant. Or have just been pregnant. Or are trying to get pregnant. As though their very self-worth teeters on their ability to make babies. Constantly.
I am happy / proud / thrilled to say that I think I may be done with having kids. I mean, I don't want to rule it out, as several years from now, preferably before my ovaries dry up, I may reconsider. It really depends on how drunk I am at that point. But I'm definitely not even going to think about it until I've completely forgotten how fucking miserable Newborn Land is. And guess what? I am not even close to forgetting at this point.
Plus, there's the whole Nip/Tuck issue. I want fake boobies eventually, so I have consider that as well. No point in lifting everything just to watch it drop again.
And for those of you who are thinking, "But you have to try again for a BOY!" No, I don't. NO, I FUCKING DON'T. I was given two beautiful, healthy girls. Why the shit would I complain? I'm sure having a son brings all sorts of different joys, but seriously, I'm fine. I'll survive. Really.
Plus, I've heard the stories about the shooting pee at diaper changes, and would rather not have to worry about it. I'm not sure I would know what to do with a baby that has those kind of parts to it.
So the other day I overheard a Preggo gushing, "We're pregnant again!" while I was at the gym. I happen to sort of know this woman, and I sort of know that her youngest (she already has two) is younger than Ava. And her oldest is younger than Nora. So she already has a three-year-old and a fifteen-month-old. And I have a question: Why? Don't tell me you love every second of it. Don't. Because I won't believe you. I'll think you're full of shit, dissatisfied with something in your life, and therefore use procreation as a coping mechanism.
Oh, and for the record, I am in a great mood tonight. *Beams*
Tags: birth control, boobies, competitive moms, Nip/Tuck, Preggo, pregnant, vodka
A Thankless Effing Job
Posted by admin | Filed under Motherhood, No One But Your Mom, Stay At Home Moms, Womanhood
I mean Motherhood.
Now before you get your granny panties in a wad, realize that I do believe motherhood has its rewards, and those are tremendous and earth-shattering and all that. The smiles. The wet kisses. The "I RUUUUUV YOU, MOMMY!" (even if said to con me into buying yet another princess toy).
But seriously? For the most part, it's a thankless fucking job. I didn't really start thanking my own mother until I became one myself, and those "thank you"s come, for the most part, when my mom is helping with the girls. To be perfectly honest.
Which is fine. We didn't go into motherhood expecting to be treated like martyrs. We were driven by this very basic instinct, as well as societal pressures, combined with cultural innuendos. This NEED to have babies, to hold a tiny thing in our arms, to nurture and to care for.
But occasionally often I am reminded that, as a mother, we givegivegivegive and get NADA in return. Now, if you're one of those women who takes offense to this, then just stop reading. Seriously. Just stop and go back to scrubbing your kitchen floors while your kids track mud in, and then smile and June Cleaver your asses to the laundry room, where a pile of clothes await folding, and oh, don't forget to put some lipstick on before your hubby gets home from work.
When I haven't seen my girls in a while and miss them so much I could eat them, I hug and kiss and smoosh them while they try to pull away, asking, "Did you bring me a present?" Yeah, I brought you a present. MYSELF – and not just a small part of myself, but ALL of me, my energies, my heart, my soul, my LIFE. What, you'd rather have the Play Mobil princess castle?
We really deserve more than just one day a year to be celebrated. We should get, like, one day a year in which people can STOP celebrating us for a moment. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to deck myself out in princess gear, complete with tiara, and await my praise.
And now, for your viewing pleasure, a closeup of an elephant's anus taking a dump. Because it describes my mood today.
Tags: job, June Cleaver, Motherhood, princess toys, princesses
911
Posted by admin | Filed under Babies, Insane in the MOMbrane, Just plain funny, Motherhood, Preschoolers, Stay At Home Moms, Uncategorized
I readily admit that I am one of those mothers who totally freaks out when her kids hurt themselves. I tend to be fine until I see blood, and then I lose it. I think it's safe to say that most mothers lose it when their kids hurt themselves, but I really go off the deep end. Especially when I'm exhausted, emotional, and haven't had any drugs or alcohol. Or drugs AND alcohol.
One thing that really gets me is nosebleeds. The only time my nose ever bled was when I was pregnant. But I never got nosebleeds as a kid. So when one of my girls gets one, I really am beside myself. The sight of one of my little girls gushing blood from their nostrils… *shudder*
So the other day Ava decided it would be fun to slam her face as hard as possible against the wall. When Ava gets excited, she tends to headbang, for lack of a better word. No, I don't get it either, and yes, I'm fairly certain she's not retarded. Anyways, she and Nora were playing on my bed – something they love doing – bouncing in the pillows, when Ava face-planted into the wall. Her scream was mind-numbing, and when I picked her up, blood was gushing from her tiny nose.
Has anyone tried to stop a toddler's nosebleed? Because, shit, it's near impossible and shit, Ava IS a toddler now. You hear all these instructions about what to do – lean them forward, pinch the bridge of the nose, blah, blah, blah… But let's be honest, a flailing toddler does little to help the situation. As I tried to quench the bleeding, Ava was screeching and kicking and twisting, and I was lucky if I got to so much as touch her nose. As a result, there was blood everywhere – on the floor, on my clothes, on her clothes, on my face… It didn't help that Nora started screaming, "WHAT'S WRONG WITH AVA??? WHAT'S WRONG WITH HER??? MAMA, HOLD ME! MAMA, I'M SCARED!!!"
It was around four in the afternoon, and I'd had a long, exhausting day. I wasn't thinking straight. As Nora screamed and Ava screamed and both fueled each other's screaming, I thought Ava was losing too much blood. And I thought she was looking like she might faint. And how much fucking blood is in a one-year-old? Like twelve pints? I swear, it looked like there were at least five of those pints on my clothes alone. So what did I do? I called 911. I explained what was happening, and the operator said she would send over an ambulance. As I hung up the phone, still trying to stop Ava's bleeding, TH called. I told him what happened, and then admitted that I'd called an ambulance. He was pissed. "WHAT? Why the fuck would you call 911 for a nosebleed??? Call them back and CANCEL the ambulance! That shit ain't free!"
Ok. Ava's bleeding seemed to be stopping, and her crying was less urgent. She was actually starting to eye a couple toys with interest, losing patience with my frantic mothering. Nora, on the other hand, had flung herself on the floor wailing. All in all, however, I began to think I'd overreacted.
Oopsies.
"Uh, yeah, operator? I'd like to cancel my request for an ambulance… The baby seems to be doing better…"
Operator: "Well, we've already sent one out there, so they're just going to stop by. Don't worry, they won't charge you."
Ok. Well, that's good. But God, I felt like a tool. Before I had a chance to change my shirt, Ava's shirt, or even wipe the blood from either of our faces, EMS was at the door.
As Ava tried to struggle out of my arms to get to the choo-choo train that Nora was now playing with, I opened the front door, an apologetic smile on my blood-splattered face.
Holy. Shit. I wondered, briefly, if I had accidentally called an L.A. modeling agency / male strip club instead of 911. Yeah, hi, can you send over a couple hotties in EMS outfits? Thaaaaaanks.
One of them smiled kindly. "Is this the baby you called about?" he asked, indicating Ava who, despite being splattered with blood, was blowing bubbles and cooing at her sister.
ME, grinning idiotically: "Well, yes, um… I think I overreacted… There just seemed to be so much blood…"
The other guy nodded sympathetically. "Any amount of blood is too much blood for a mother."
Uh-huh. At that moment, I felt like the biggest. Idiot. EVER. Oh, I forgot to mention – the biggest, most UNATTRACTIVE idiot ever. My hair was crazy, my face, chest, and shirt had blood all over them, and I must have looked like a victim in a horror flick. The "ugly girl who didn't have a life anyway" victim in a horror flick. To add insult to injury, my so-called wounded baby was FLIRTING with the EMS guys, batting her eyelashes and flashing her dimples.
You know, just as an aside, had I needed an ambulance when I was hot, young, and single, I would have gotten the fat, balding EMS guys. Granted, the injury would have to be a delicately twisted ankle or fainting or something. Something non-fatal, which still allowed me to look good. You know.
Tags: 911, blood, EMS, hotties, injury, nosebleeds
A Break From the Kids
Posted by admin | Filed under Insane in the MOMbrane, Motherhood, Stay At Home Moms, Womanhood, parenting
This past weekend, TH did a wonderful thing – he took the girls on a road trip to visit his parents for one night, without me.
*Cue singing angels, slow-motion jog on a beach, Scottish cries of freeeeeeeeedoooooooooom…*
I packed them up, buckled them in, blew kisses to them as they drove off, and then very nearly shat myself, I was so excited. So much free time, so many things to NOT do! Where to begin? I, for one, began by going back to sleep – without the monitors. *Angels still singing, me flopping joyfully into my bed of fluffy pillows in slow motion, like Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady.*
I spent those amazing, glorious 32 hours with a good friend, lounging about the pool, getting burnt to a crisp and eating uninterrupted meals. And drinking margaritas. Lots of margaritas. Truth be told, I thought I'd miss the girls more than I actually did. Had their visit been longer, I probably would have started missing them, but one night? Jesus, that's just enough time to shave my legs and get wasted.
So anyways, MY weekend was glorious, but TH's… This was the first time he'd ever left the house alone with both girls at the same time, the first time he'd gone on a road trip with them sans Mama… I was a tad worried about him and how the experience would cause him to NEVER DO IT AGAIN. On the other hand, I was smug in the thought that finally he would see just how much more my job sucked than his. I know, I know, it's not a competition. I know that each job poses it's own challenges. Blah, blah, BLAAAAAHHHH. My job is fucking harder, end of story.
One of the things I love about TH is that he doesn't blow smoke up my ass – he tells me exactly what he thinks. Which isn't such a good thing when I ask him what he thinks of my web design (ME: "Do you like it?" TH: "Nope.") When I called TH on the phone and asked how he was, he answered with a very cool, "Oh, I'm in hell." He called around 3:30 on Saturday afternoon to ask if it was too early for bedtime. He only bathed one of the girls, because bathing both in an untested bathtub was too much. He fed them chocolate Pop Tarts for lunch and dinner. He let Nora run around my in-laws' house bare-assed the entire time. He had no idea when, where, or if either girl slept at all. When I would ask if they'd pooped, he'd start sniffing and looking around the room. It was like Lord of the Flies, except the adults on the island were all killed off by a preschooler and a one-year-old.
When they returned on Sunday afternoon, they all three looked like shit, and two of them smelled like shit (I'll let you guess which two). TH smiled and said, "Well, THAT was miserable. I can't wait to go back to work." On the upside, he had a very grateful and tanned wife.
So share with me: How does your husband handle the kids on his own?
Tags: break, freedom, margaritas, road trip, TH
I’m A SAHM, Bitches
Posted by admin | Filed under Stay At Home Moms, Womanhood
I’m at a dinner party, being introduced to a doctor and her husband. The doctor beams when she discovers that we are both Ivy League alums, and asks me what I’m doing now.
ME: “I’m a full-time mom.”
Doctor, clearly dismayed: “So you’re not working?”
ME, grinning icily: “Oh, I’m working.”
Doctor, looking annoyed: “Of course you are. What I meant was…”
ME: “I know what you meant.” Watch yourself, sweet tits.
Has anything similar ever happened to you?
Tags: doctor, Ivy League, SAHMs, Stay At Home Moms, work
Babies ‘R Us Ad
Posted by admin | Filed under Stay At Home Moms, Womanhood
So I got this in the mail recently:
And all I have to say is DAY-YAM. Now he is probably just a pretty boy model who lives in NYC, actually prefers men to women, and doesn't only NOT have children, but would rather make out with his schitzu than cuddle with a baby.
But. Babies R Us is oh-so-wise, targeting us horny, home-bound moms with eye candy. A smiling, toothless baby dressed as some sort of cuddly animal works as well, of course, since I'm not one to ever turn down a baby-related coupon, but having a hot dude encourage me to spend money on my kid is even better. Because it makes me want to maybe put some mascara on, because you never know what hot dads are hanging out with their progeny at Babies R Us on a weekday.
Now that's hot.
Tags: ads, advertisement, Babies R Us, hot guy, porn
I Look Like Shit
Posted by admin | Filed under Motherhood, Stay At Home Moms, Uncategorized, Womanhood, vintage ads
This is a sentiment us mommies often feel. And by "often" I mean ALL THE TIME. Because once upon a time, we were able (and willing) to blow dry our hair, shave our legs, and tweeze our eyebrows to perfection. Now, as 50% of you point out, we don't have time to brush our teeth let alone put some makeup on.
Look, when you're up all night with a screaming baby/toddler/preschooler, and then spending your days juggling said demanding baby/toddler/preschooler, not to mention keeping some semblance of order to the household, something has to give. And most often that something is your personal appearance. Hell, we're in bodies we don't remotely recognize as our own – leaky, ginormous boobs; saggy, wrinkly skin; vaginas that swallow tampons whole – so what's the point in putting on some mascara? AS IF mascara is going to help the fact that we haven't bathed in three days.
The truth is, putting on some makeup, even on days when we don't go anywhere, makes a difference. First, you're doing something for YOU. Second, it makes you feel just a tiny bit better about yourself. I, for one, put concealer on every day, even if I spend the entire day scrubbing feces from the carpet. Why? Because I can't stand walking by a mirror and seeing the dark circles under my eyes, or the zits that have magically appeared overnight. Putting some concealer on deceives me into believing that someday, I may actually have the time and desire to put some mascara and blush on, as well. And while I'm on the subject, those 3-in-1 makeup products are awesome for times like these – I'm a big fan of this stuff because it makes you look, well, undead, and it's as easy as slapping on some moisturizer. Trust me, it's worth the price.
To the reader who puts "everything" on every day, even when she's just home with the kids – you rock, girlfriend!
Don't forget to check out the new poll question in the right-hand column…
Because nothing says "man-oriented" like flowers in the hair. Gotta love the 60s. Photo by Lobstar28 via Flickr.
Tags: appearance, concealer, make-up, makeup, mascara, poll, polls, self-esteem, vagina, vintage ad
