Bomb Fixins. Or Making Snap Judgments in Traffic

It’s been awhile since I blogged. Issues, ya’ll. Anyhoo….

So the Big Man and I were headed to the grocery store because it’s the only place we ever go. I looked out the passenger side window when I see this old Ford pickup with all kinds of militia bumper stickers and blasting Lil’ Wayne. He had three large and strange-looking canisters in the bed, each one a different color. I turned to the Big Man and said, “What do you think he’s got in those? Bomb fixins?” He laughed. “No sweetheart, those are actually gas cans.”

Huh. Then it occurred to me that I often make snap judgments in traffic based on what someone is driving. I mean, you already know what I think about ALL hybrid drivers. Even though I know it’s not true. The Destroyer’s friend’s mom drives one, and she may be the only parent in the school district worth talking to. She actually has a commute where driving anything else would be ridiculous. Oh, and she’s really cool, so I feel cool by proxy.

I digress. Here’s my list:

1) VW bug drivers. They think they’re automatically cute because the car is. They wear clothes that are somehow to big and too small at the same time. They are always on their way to somewhere that was trendy last year. Listen, Bug drivers, unless you are younger than 27 or older than 57, the “cute” is null and void and turns into words like “silly”, and “no”.

2) Honda Odyssey drivers. They try to act like because it’s a nice minivan, that’s it’s not a minivan. Especially the men who drive them. I know that you’re dads, and it’s great that you’re actively participating in parental chauffeuring duties, but it’s still a minivan, homie. Same goes for Toyota Sienna drivers. Also, your kids aren’t better than mine, so stop thinking that.

3) Giant truck drivers. Yes, we are all a-holes. And you have to live with it. Because we are awful enough to make you and we know you can’t do anything about it. There’s a word for that…

4) Mini Cooper drivers. For some reason, they seem to think their cars are not clown cars. Why, I don’t know. If I asked someone to randomly draw a clown car, they would without fail draw a Mini Cooper. Oh, and they seem to believe that driving around with your car painted like a Union Jack isn’t douchebaggery at all. It is, though. You might as well paint Massengil on the side of the thing.



5.) Subaru drivers. They are all terrible people who somehow think that they are saving the environment by driving around with bikes attached to the back of their hatchback. They always wear high waters with hiking sandals, and are always on their way to somewhere that will be trendy six months into the future. Stop trying to get me to trade Gretchen for a hatchback like yours. Remember: lifted Excursions eat their dead. (That had nothing to do with anything, I just wanted to say it).

6.) Classic car drivers. Usually cool cats. Some are older cool cats having mid-life crises. This is case where you have to get a good look at the significant other. If she looks like her name ends with two vowels—definitely mid-life crisis.

7.) Muscle car drivers. I don’t really think anything about them, since I am busy being jealous really hard. That pure, unadulterated jealousy. Except for Mustangs.





Passing of a Legend.

Usually I’m all fun and games over here.  Not today. 

The great Maya Angelou passed away today.

Her books and poems showed me what words could do, how powerful they can be.  What a little Black girl who loves to write can become.

Thank you, Dr. Angelou.

I don’t need no stinkin’ advice.

This is for the parents who mistakenly believe that I am in need of their unsolicited parenting advice. Welp, I’m not.

But Vida, you say, are you so narrow minded that you can’t see when your kids need help? Nope. I just don’t want help from these groups of people (who seem to feel very comfortable just handing out advice):

1) Hipsters. Yeah, I know it’s easy to rag on hipsters. Because no one likes them. I daresay they don’t truly like each other because they are always trying to out-hipster each other. I’ve seen it happen, and hipster fights are pretty funny. Hipster parenting advice, however, makes me want to do murder. And quote B.A. Baracas while doing it.


Example: I’m telling the Weirdo that he can’t have a donut at the store. Unfortunately, the bakery is right next to the organic food section. This very organic looking lady comes up to me—uninvited—and suggests that I explain to him all of the horrible ingredients that were in said donuts and then he would decide for himself that he wouldn’t want that yucky donut. I looked at her like she just talked bad about Oprah. And I’m so petty, ya’ll, that I stared at that lady while buying the Weirdo that donut. She looked at me like I just talked bad about Oprah, turned up her nose, and took her vintage reusable bags elsewhere. Yeah, heifer, just worry about being a good parent to little Elmer or Mavis or whatever that kid was. All I saw was hair and high-water corduroy pants.

2) Tiger Moms. Okay, so I have to admit: sometimes I wish I had a little more Tiger Mom in me. Even if it’s just so that my kids are successful enough that they never come back after they move out. But Jaysus, sometimes it’s all a slacker mom like me can do to make sure my kids have on matching shoes. (That’s right, I said shoes, not socks. Socks are negotiable.)

Example:   I am picking the Weirdo up from school. He is developmentally disabled and is in speech therapy. He is trying to tell me about the fascinating day he had at school (they had kiwi for snack! Kiwi! How exciting!) And I am trying decipher what he is saying. The Tiger Mom stepped off her pedestal for a moment and deigned to tell me, “Ignore him until he slows down enough to tell you what he has to say.” Then she got back on her pedestal to continue being a better parent than everyone else in a fifty-mile radius. What do I do? Do I thank her facetiously, or do I get a little ghetto, which is something I hate to do because there are only about ten Black people where I live, and four of them are in my family? As I have previously stated: I am extremely petty. I calmly told her “Thanks for your advice. I think your daughter is crossing the street without you.” Satisfying, so very satisfying it was watching her dash out into the street in her Burberry heels. The only thing that would have been better is if Hipster Mom had hit Tiger Mom with her electric bike.

3.) Ghetto Moms.  And I’m not just talking mothers of color, either, or even moms who are a little bit hood—like I am. I’m talking the smoke-while-I’m pregnant-cuss-at-my-demon-spawn-without-actually-doing-anything-close-to-discipline-I’m-25-and-able-bodied-yet somehow-on-disability ghetto mom. These people always want to tell you how to get money from the government for your kids, without ever actually talking about parenting in anyway. This may be because they refuse to parent, and therefore don’t really have anything to do. Look here, LaQuavia or Brandeelynn, I’m not taking any advice from anyone whose children’s names have punctuation. Or if the child is named after a brand of liquor. (Poor, poor Ali’Ze Hennessy.)  I don’t have an example for this one; I have far too many examples.  I will not subject you to any of them.  You’re welcome.


It costs HOW MUCH?

So I was reading an article with the oft-quoted statistic that it, on average, costs $241,080.00 to raise a child.  So for me and the Big Man, to properly raise our three would come to $723,240.00.  That pissed me off, because even when they get jobs, I highly doubt that they will be paying any of that back, less long the interest.  BTW, I think those numbers are based on kids who have normal appetites–unlike the Wierdo, who I am pretty sure is part goat.  On his father’s side.  (This is not a joke–he once ate a part of the light switch cover.  No, I don’t know how.)

The last time I went to the grocery store, I spent $141.85 on nothing.  Seriously, I only bought food for the weekend. Two Days.  And I don’t buy fancy, organic, this-and-that-free stuff.  Nope.  The vegetables and fruit I buy are chock full of pesticides, which explains why mosquitos die instantly after biting us.  I am positive the chickens that lay the eggs that I buy live in the poultry equivalent of Shawshank; free-range my booty.  And everything is store brand. My kids eat honey-nut toasty o’s. Sandwiches are made with Kroger mayonnaise, on Kroger Bread, or with Kroger Peanut Butter.  (Although we get a little high-falutin’ with our lunch meat–Oscar Mayer all the way.)

Oh, and having to feed Gretchen, too.  I love her, but she’s a pig.  And when I take all three kids somewhere, I have to take Gretchen so that no one is near anyone else.  So, when gas is 3.75 times 8 miles to the gallon, that equals a butt load of  money.  In technical terms.

Oh, and then.  The Destroyer’s feet grow approximately every 5.7 seconds.  Do you know how much men’s sneakers cost?  Enough that I have considered armed robbery at Foot Locker. I am afraid to go to sleep because when I wake up, all of the clothes that I just freakin bought for the Weirdo will be too small.  So I stay awake at night and look at the clothes to make sure they aren’t shrinking.  While I am keeping my anti-shrinkage vigil,  I can hear in the background the sound of him in the next room growing.   It infuriates me.

It’s Friday.  The post is short.  And I have to go spend money on more nothing.


The Worst. Just the worst.


The Worst. Just the worst.



As a stay-at-home mom, I see a crapload of kids TV, and I am telling you some of these characters should be killed.  Not murdered; murder is for civilized folk.  These people should be drug (dragged?) out in the street and shot.  Oh, and yes, I know that some of them are children.

1.)  Boots the Monkey.  First of all, I hate monkeys. All of them.  None of them are cute and they all look disease-ridden to me.  That being said, who the barnacles got Dora a monkey?  That doesn’t sound like some child protective services mess AT ALL.  For some reason, the monkey feels like it’s perfectly fine to walk around naked (which is something that monkeys do) but that his feet need to be protected.  From what, Boots?  FROM WHAT?  Diseases?  Guess what, BOOTS–the diseases came from you.

2.)  Sir Toppem Hat.  How does this guy still have a job?  His engines are always messing up and causing “confusion and delay”.  Tidmouth sheds should be bankrupt and Hat collecting unemployment.  Thomas is the worst one of them all and should have been turned into scrap, he’s so incompetent.  Gordon is a pompous jerk and James is a metrosexual.  The only likable one is Percy.

3.) O the owl.  Yo, I actually like the Daniel Tiger show.  It actually teaches kids useful stuff, like take your tail to the bathroom when you have to go, take turns, and just because you’re upset doesn’t  mean you’ll get your way.  However, this flippin kid.  I swear.  He doesn’t want to do anything. It’s not just that he’s a fraidy-cat–I have a fraidy-cat.  Name it and the Weirdo is afraid of it.  No, this kid is neurotic.  On today’s episode, all the kids were playing with a cardboard box, like kids do–imagining spaceships and racecars and the half-yearly sale or whatnot.  This kid?  He decided he just wanted to read.  Now, as a person who has more books than she can count, I am all for a kid reading.  But what the green beans does this kid read about?  Boxes.  He is reading a book about boxes.   What the heezy?  Although I suspect he has some deeper issues–his parents named him O the Owl.  That’s pretty awful–they didn’t even try.  That’s like naming your kid H the Human.

4.) Elmo.  Good LORD how I hate this jerk.  He is a narcissist; he speaks of himself in the third person.  Who does that?  THEN, he creates an entire world consisting of himself and his imagination and forces kids to watch said universe because it’s the entire last quarter Sesame Street.  Cruel.  All of his “original” songs are set to the melody of Jingle Bells.  (Feet, feet, feet. Feet, feet, feet.  Feet, feet, feet, feetfeet.  Actual lyrics.) Fraud.  His voice makes me want to suicide.  That’s right, I turned suicide into a verb.

5.) Uncle Grandpa.  I think this speaks for itself, as the man is OBVIOUSLY a product of incest.  Uncle Grandpa?  So someone’s sibling reproduced with  someone’s parent and this is the subject of a children’s show?  And he totally acts like an inbred, too.  One of his friends is a slice of pizza that wears sunglasses.  If that doesn’t smack of meth, I don’t know what does.

6.)  Steve Songs.  Okay, so this isn’t a show. It was more like an interlude, and I don’t see it much anymore.  Which s good, because…it’s a guy who sings to kids on PBS.  But what kind of man sings to random kids on a random playground without parental supervision?  For real, if this dude showed up at a playground in real life, 911 would be shut down with calls.

7.)    Sid-the-freakin-Science-Kid.  How is it that no one feels like this is elitist?  I mean, the kid goes to preschool that focuses only on science and only has four kids in the entire school. What?  And every last one of those kids in annoying, but none more so than Gerald.  Who the bee-knees names their kid Gerald?  And why does he only have hair on the very top of his head?  And why do the adults on this show never just say “Shhhhhhhh”?  They don’t get headaches?  They don’t have to be sad about the bills this month?  Bills that must be astronomical, considering that Sid’s preschool must be the most exclusive preschool in the United States?

8.)The Cat in the Hat.  He kidnaps the same two kids on a regular basis on the pretense of asking their mothers for permission.  He knows for a FACT that the moms don’t think he’s real.  He just doesn’t care.  So he takes these two kids all over the world to meet dangerous animals, and all he needs is the disclaimer that “your mother will not mind at all if we do.” Well, I think the Jamaican mom is high on weed, and the white mom is on straight up Valium.  So The Cat in the Hat is the best option for these kids.

9.)  I don’t think this show is on  anymore, but Big, Big, World was made of cocaine and nightmare.  Especially Snook the Sloth.  Just Google this creep.  What voice is that?  I’m not even sure of the mechanics of this thing?  He looked and sounded like a child molester in monkey form.  Aaaaaand we’re back to how I feel about monkeys.

10.)  Caillou.  Because he’s the devil.  That’s all I got.


Strange questions. Or, is Wondergirl a sociopath?

It was a lovely May evening–a perfect 70 degrees outside, breezy with the smell of fresh-cut grass in the air.  The family had decided to eat dinner on the porch, just munching and enjoying a comfortable silence.

And then:

“Mom, what part of  your body bleeds the most?” Wondergirl asked.  I swallowed my bite of steak, trying to buy time and think of what to say. 

“Um, the neck, I think.”  What the heezy?  Where did that come from? Had she just been sitting here thinking about bleeding the whole time? Why the green beans did she need to know that?  While sitting here with her family?  Maybe it doesn’t seem strange to you, but here’s what (I’m pretty sure) the rest of us were thinking about:

The Big Man:  Bills

Me: Why everyone’s clothes got too small all at once and who was going to have to walk around looking homeless for a while.  It will probably be me.

The Destroyer:  WWE 2K14.

The Weirdo:  Thomas the Tank Engine.

You see?  These are the things normal people think about. (Although I wish that the Weirdo would outgrow Thomas already.  He’s six, it’s time to grow up.) My nine-year-old daughter is thinking about bleeding.

I know what you’re thinking.  “Maybe she’ll be a doctor someday,” or something innocent like that.  Maybe, but here’s the thing:  Wondergirl is always saying crap like this.

For instance:   She revealed in a conversation with my sister, Birdie, that she fully expects her death to be avenged by her father, in the event that someone kills her.  She then elaborated that even though she would be dead, it would be okay because the person who killed her would be dead too.  And she would be glad that they were dead because they deserved it for killing her. My Wondergirl says, “But I can’t die because too many people love me and they would be too sad.” 

Birdie later told me, “And then she was silent for about ten minutes.  I stopped for a minute, and was like, ‘Um, what are you thinking about?'”

Or:  While watching the Simpsons, Moe was threatening to jump of a building and no one cared.  That was the joke.  Wondergirl says, “If I saw someone who wanted to jump off a building, I would push them.” And that was all she said. No explanations.  I thought maybe she was joking; our family has a pretty dark sense of humor.  But she just got up, made herself a snack and went to her room, leaving The Big Man and me in mute shock. The Destroyer sat up, stretched, and said, “That’s about right.”  The Weirdo kept playing trains.  He doesn’t talk much.

I don’t know.  Wondergirl likes animals, so we haven’t found any random dead or tortured cats.  She can be the sweetest thing in the world at times.  She loves to help me when she feels like it. She has stopped scratching up her brothers’ faces.  (For about five years, it looked like Wolverine lived at our house.  I threatened, punished and threatened some more, but in the end it just took one good shove from The Destroyer and she cut that mess right out.)



I have seen her smack one brother in the head, elbow the other, and then skip away in her pink tutu, ponytail a-swishing. Like some straight up violence didn’t just go down.

I tried to talk to her about bullying at school.  She cut me off mid sentence, (because I was apparently wasting her time with this nonsense) looked me dead in the eye, pointed her little thumb at her chest and said, “Nobody bullies ME.” And that was the end of that conversation.

Wondergirl, my cute sweet baby girl said to her brother, “Weirdo, don’t come in my room.  There is nothing but pain for you in here.”

Yesterday she asked me a follow-up question, “So, if you neck bleeds the most, do you have to cut it or just poke it?”

Whaaa? The boys are getting locks on their doors. 

It’s not all bad.  I’m sure if Wondergirl ever got kidnapped, she’d be home within hours, filling up a deep hole in the backyard and telling me, “You didn’t see nothin.”

Sure didn’t.





I am officially a horrible person.

Today’s hate is reserved for a small, helpless creature.  If you are soft-hearted in any way, please stop reading–otherwise you will try to find out where I live and commence with the fisticuffs.

My husband, the Big Man, is known as the Big Man for a reason.  He’s six-foot-three and 340 pounds of bricks.  The man can bench press 700 pounds.  People avoid speaking to him and cross the street when the see him coming.  He rarely talks, smiles, or emotes publicly.  These are all reasons that I love him.

Oh, but this post is about a small and helpless creature, isn’t it?  Well, I’m getting to that, keep your shirt on.

A couple of days ago, my husband leaves the house to take The Destroyer to school.  Just like any other day.  Except on this day, he comes in the door holding what I at first thought was a dirt clod. I would have been happier had it been a dirt clod.

It was a dog. Kind of.

Okay, quick backstory.  The only two dogs we have had have been monsters.  One was a hundred-pound Doberman ; the other is a 150-pound Great Dane/St. Bernard mix.  Those were dogs.

This?  This was a closely shaven gerbil covered in God-knows-what.  And my big, hulking, menacing husband brings him into the house.

“I almost ran it over.”  The Big Man is all sheepish because the look on my face…LIVID.

“Okay, sooo….why is it in my house?”

“I couldn’t just leave her there.”  Hold up, wait a minute. One, HER?!?!  How on earth could he tell what it was?  I still wasn’t sure it was a dog, let alone gender. Two, YES YOU COULD HAVE LEFT IT THERE….because that is exactly what I would have done.  I would have felt sad about almost killing it, glad I didn’t, and moved on with my life.  But then I would have had nothing to write about.

So he bathes it in the bathroom sink. And even though the thing is clean… doesn’t look much better.  It. Is. Still. Gross.


And then.  It doesn’t bark.  You know, because maybe a cute little yip may have warmed my shriveled, black heart.  Nope.  It emits the same exact sound as the squeaky wheel on the jacked up shopping cart you got at Fred Meyers because you decided to go at 5:30 when everyone and their momma went so you were stuck with it.  (Run-on sentence perfection.) That sound.  Con-freaking-tenuously.

Let’s be clear.  I really don’t have anything against small dogs.  I just like big ones better.  Because you can make them do things.  Like plow the yard.  (I don’t really do that.  Please don’t call Animal Control.)  But this dog, I mean, come on.

And of course, of course, this happens on a Monday and the Humane Society isn’t open.  So my hopes of getting rid of it before the kids get home were dashed to the ground and shattered.  I wasn’t too worried about The Destroyer or Wondergirl, but I knew if the Weirdo caught sight of–

“We have a new dog?!?!” Dang it.  Before his backpack even hit the ground, he named it Squeak.

“No we don’t have a new dog.”


Okay, so look at these eyes:


Now you tell them that we don’t have a new dog.  Because that is just what the green beans I did.

“NO.  And stop touching it.  It will think we like it. It is going to the Humane Society tomorrow.”

Then the Big Man picks it up, takes it over to his chair, and flippin’ cuddles with it! “Stop being so awful. She wants to be your fwiend.”  Fwiend?  FWIEND!?!?

I swear. Everyone is against me.


I’m so petty, I am actually pointing at the dog, glaring at it, and pointing at the door.  Repeatedly.

I slept way angry that night.

I find out where the Humane Society is, and of course it’s on the other side of town.  Which in a regular car isn’t a big deal.  In Gretchen, however, you can see the dollars flying out of her exhaust pipe.  Whatever, this thing is out of here.  TODAY.

It was not to be.

I yell the F-word at the top of my lungs.  “FISH STICKS!!!!”  (We stick to SpongeBob cussin’ around here.) The Destroyer had a track meet and we had to be supportive parents and such, so getting rid of the dog had to wait until the next day. Fish Sticks, indeed.

The next day.  This is it.  Homeboy is gone.  I gassed Gretchen up and burnt SR-14 to a crisp getting to the Humane Society.  I am mumbling like a crazy person, “They better take this dog.  I am not playing, they better take this dog. I even had a plan for if they tried not to–I was going to throw the dog at them and run out. That’s how horrible I am.

But they took the dog.  Turns out it was a Chihuahua.  And it was a boy.

That’s it, I guess.  Don’t judge me.

I almost kill someone every week. Because they do not respect the laws of physics.

So, today’s hate is directed at people who ignore the laws of physics.  Those of you that know me well are rolling your eyes right know, cause you know where this is going.  That’s right, we are going to talk about my truck. Stop rolling your eyes.  I’m talking to you, Baby Sister. 

Anyway, I drive this:

Ain’t she beautiful?

Her name is Gretchen.  Also known as the War Wagon.  Because if Wondergirl is in it at the same time as either The Destroyer or The Weirdo, and they happen to be looking at, touching, or existing too close to her, war breaks out.  Then I have to intervene with threats of going nuclear and wiping everyone out.

But I digress.  Back to hating. 

Where I live, Gretchen is fine.  Admired even.  She doesn’t bother anyone and they respect her.  But let me cross the bridge into Hipsterville, USA.  Somehow, as soon as Gretchen’s mudders come in contact with the pavement over there we get problems. From two groups:


1.) The microcar/hybrid driver.  These effin people.  I swear.  They like to be in Gretchen’s personal space.  For instance,  they are so busy being smug that, even though they know for a fact that they see Gretchen in the next lane, they just don’t care.  They just straight up cut her off. And then REFUSE to speed up. Then look in their rearview mirror and are shocked to see her moose-guard inches from the back of their head.  SHOCKED, I tells ya.  Or, (man I’m getting worked up now) OR Gretchen will be parked on the street, and one of them will be parked under her bumper.  Then, because Gretchen doesn’t have eyes in the back of her head and they were invading her personal space anyway, the smug driver comes out and is shocked, SHOCKED to find a dent in their hood. The nerve.  Gretchen doesn’t want to hurt you guys, but the laws of physics dictate that if you don’t respect her size and velocity, she probably will.

2.) Bicyclists.   Man, oh man.  First off, can I just say, that nobody likes these people.  They are even complete douchebags to each other.  I’m not talking the casual bike rider here. Or even the person who rides as a means of transportation. No. Oh, no.  I’m talking the “I-am-who-Lance-Armstrong-took-drugs-to-try-to-be-even-though-no-one-knows-or-cares-about-who-I-am” bicyclist.  They cause accidents and somehow, SOMEHOW, are never, ever, ever, at fault.  (Sorry about both the caps and italics, but the hate is real in these streets.)  These mickey-frickeys actually feel like they can lay hands on Gretchen.  That’s right folks, they actually hit her. With their hands. While she usually takes it well, THIS is how angry it makes me:

Except angrier.

How come they never consider the fact that the only thing keeping me from following them until they are one block from their destination and running them down is my that I am a Christian and murder is not loving your neighbor?  And that I would probably run out of gas.  Honestly, just those two things.  Not even the fact that my kids are always in the truck with me would be considered during my vehicular rampage.  They do not respect the laws of physics, because if they did, they would know that if Gretchen hit them back, blood and Lycra would be everywhere. So much blood and Lycra.

Well, you will probably see a Gretchen-and-I-almost-killed-someone-today story every once in a while.  It happens more often than you would think.   

It’s Friday.  What are you hating on today?



…or I will wash your mouth out with soap

Today I am going to hate on a group that would definitely accuse me of hating, because accusing people of hating is what they do. 

Girls.  Specifically girls in the 12-14 year-old age group.  Specifically the ones that go to The Destroyer’s school. 

Attention, ladies, I am aware of how awkward and weird that you feel in your bodies. I understand that you want to be liked.  I also understand that you are nothing but hair and hormones. I get that you want to be grown.

Alas, you are not grown.  You really are still children.  Dropping f-bombs every other word is not necessary. Why?  Because F-bombs are reserved for grown people problems

This is a discussion that my sister and I had the other day. Unless you have a seriously messed up childhood, at thirteen, you really have no reason to say the F-word. You are fed, clothed, housed, chauffeured, and generally catered to within your parents’ ability. Your education is still free (for you, anyway) and your metabolism is still high. Even if you mess up at school enough to get kicked out, homelessness isn’t a worry for you; getting kicked out of work, however, is a different story. So yeah, all in all, no real reasons for f-bombs. Especially since you think it’s cute to scream it at the top of your lungs.

No, hon. THESE are reasons for f-bombs:

1. Overdraft fees.
2. Eviction notices.
3. Having your car backed into and finding out the other driver has no insurance. You know this because the other driver fled the scene.
4. Realizing the only thing you have left to eat for dinner is Ramen. And you already had Ramen for lunch.
5. Locking your keys in a running car.
6. Dropping your baby.
7. Your crazy in-laws pull into your driveway. Even if you invited them.
8. Your transmission goes out the day after your warranty expires.
9. Your health insurance premiums go up. Again.
10. Realizing you might have to move back in with your parents. Or they might have to move in with you.

See, girls. You really don’t have it that bad. Clean it up a little bit. BTW, a couple of these things HAVE happened to me, and I didn’t even drop the f-bomb then. But then, I’m just a decrepit old woman.

And stop hitting on my son. He’s only twelve and the poor thing already has a crazy mother. He doesn’t need a crazy mother in prison. You have been warned.

Greener Grass

I hate my kids.  At least between the hours of 5:00 and 9:00.  When there’s homework and dinner and bath time and bedtime MMA (by the way I am the bedtime MMA heavyweight champion.  King Kong ain’t  got ISH on ME.) 

Then my friend in Georgia calls me about how her and her husband want to plan to have another kid.  I simultaneously feel happy, bad, and infuriated.

I feel bad and happy because I know everything they went through to have their first child.  I will never forget when she called me and was like,

“Guess who’s pregnant?”


“Me.”  There was so much joy in her voice.  And I have never, ever, not one time in my entire life, felt that way.  Never.  Because  I didn’t just have unplanned pregnancies (yeah, all three of them), I had planned-against-pregnancies.  Seriously, this chick here has NEVAH, EVAH, been off birth control.   And I have three kids.  Baby Pill, Baby Depo, and Baby IUD (even the doctor couldn’t believe that one). 

Yeah. The pregnancy test commercial where everyone is all happy?  Never once experienced that.  I was so tore up and broke down after finding out about Kid #3, (hereafter referred to as the Weirdo), the clinic called me the next day to make sure that I hadn’t killed myself. (Side note: I love the ground my kids walk on. Most of the time.) 

Was I happy for her?  Sure, because she’s my friend and it was something she wanted so bad.  But at the same time, I felt WAY smug.  Why?  Because I knew what the cabbage was about to go down.  When ol’ boy turned two, ish was about to get real. 

And it did. 

And I was like “Yeah, trick.  You thought being a mom was gumdrops, lollipops, and rainbows. You thought you were going to reason and time out your way through this, huh?  NOPE. HAHAHAHAHA!  What now, HO?”

Well, what I actually said was, ” Oh, girl, he’s two.  It’ll get better in a couple years.”  LIES. LIES. LIES.  Actually, it would get better–if she only had the one kid.  The next kid throws off the timing.  And then life sucks again for another four years.  And the third?  Fuhgettaboutit.  You got six years detention homie. 

So it does get better.  For about a year and a half until that first kid hits puberty, and you catch him looking at naked fake boobs.  Hilarious naked fake boobs that only a twelve year old would find fascinating.  But that story is for another day.