Omg, we are those people. Tonight we did what I vowed never to do and that is to take a person under the age of 20 to a movie with us. Blast! We screwed up and we screwed up big time. My husband had gotten free tickets to Fantastic Four (probably the producers of the movie should give everyone free tickets; it isn’t quite right charging for that movie) and the baby is not quite four months so we took the little fella along with us. We discussed it in length beforehand and analyzed the potential outcomes, none of which were that great, but decided we would likely never see these people again and that makes them not real people. Oh the shame! You ever walk into a big movie theater with a baby strapped to your chest? Don’t do it. The sheer hatred that greeted us was palpable. A weaker person would have melted by the power of it. And I can’t say that I blame them because I had always believed there was a time and a place for babies and movie theaters is never the time nor the place (a nail salon is another one of those places and yet another place I’ve desecrated with the presence of a baby; hey, I’ve lost all semblance of pride with this fourth child). I don’t care how quiet they are, just knowing they are there, ready to make baby noises upsets me (says the mother of four…). Uh huh. So here I am on the other end of things, avoiding all possible eye contact with any possible person, and shamefully trying to sit as close to the exit as I could, meanwhile feeling absolutely torn the entire time. I was torn between being ashamed and being defensive of the loathsome parent I had become. Look people, I’m tired of hiding away. I’m tired of not going to movies, not going out with friends, and not doing crack. Kids have already ruined whatever personality I used to have, the least I can do is pretend I still have the will to put jeans on and make it to the theater, baby or no baby! So take courage parents, I support you! Take your babies to the movies! Endure the glares and side comments made! You are not alone! Be brave! Be stalwart! Just don’t you dare do it when I’m there because I will burn a hole in your head with the look I can give. Hey, I paid a babysitter, you can do the same.
I’m sort of tired of taking care of kids, or rather I’m sick to death of battling over food. Feeding kids is likely the second worst thing about parenting, falling just under potty training, of course. My kids often express their excitement over all the possibilities of when they themselves are grown up and can choose to eat whatever crap they can get their grubby mits on (I sure hope they don’t still have ‘grubby mits’ by then though). Ha! Good luck kids. By the time you actually reach that point, all the dreamy sweets you’ve been fantasizing about eating endless amounts of will either make you sick or fat or both. Life is cruel that way.
I’m no vegan soldier mom or anything (No, I will never ask my children to eat that dried seaweed; it looks disgusting, smells disgusting and was meant to be ingested by sea turtles, not humans), but I do try to make sure my kids get their fruits and veggies, and it is outright exhausting. I can almost always coerce/threaten them into eating their veggies at dinner but the coercing/threatening is wearing me down; I think I’ve aged 20 years in the last 6 weeks. I know there are a million theories on this but if you’re going to try to convince me to spend hours reading about getting kids to eat after spending hours coercing/threatening to eat, I’m going to punch you in the throat. I aint got time for that. I don’t want to spend any additional energy into thinking about feeding kids because based on what I’ve heard from other parents, it just sucks and it will continue to suck until they are old enough to understand that candy for three meals a day is not a viable option. Until then, I will keep coercing/threatening. You vegan soldier moms are welcome to keep your opinions to yourselves. And enjoy your seaweed.
I have two kids’ birthdays next week. I cannot stress how much I dread their birthdays, and not because of the ‘stay little forever’ crap I hear people blubbering about; I hate the expectations. I look at my five year old, soon to be six year old, and he has these grandiose plans filled with 35 of his closest pals and cakes that are in the actual shape of a zombie brain. First off, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even know 35 people and second off, what the hell does a zombie brain look like? I’m assuming it looks like a regular brain but only green. TBD. Either way, he has seen enough cartoons to have some pretty wild ideas of what birthday parties are. Hey kid, when I was turning 5 there was certainly no themed birthday cake and I’m almost positive the party was a couple neighbor kids playing in the backyard. I may or may not have even liked the neighbor kids.
For real though. What has happened to the birthday cakes? Suddenly it’s no longer acceptable to throw a couple candles on a cake, one must have a themed cake that doesn’t just have a picture depicting the theme, it must actually be the theme. Last year one of my kids asked for a Thomas the Train cake. Oh, so a sheet cake with a picture of Thomas on it? No. A thousand times no. It must be an actual train and it must be able to carry passengers. Come again? I cannot get behind this. Not just because I’m a minimalist (ie lazy), but because I firmly stand against Pinterest and all it’s evil undoing. If not for Pinterest, no one would even know you could spray paint an empty coffee can, throw some glitter on it, and make it into a candle. Hey people of Pinterest, go buy a flipping candle. I am not impressed by your homemade coffee can version. And if not for Pinterest, no one would look up these damn cake pictures and try to replicate them! But now I find myself trying to solve the riddle of what a zombie brain cake would entail and how to explain to the 2 year old that his cake is also a zombie brain because mommy cannot possibly do two themed cakes in the span of three days. Sorry third child, should have tried harder to be born first. Bottom line? We need to boycott Pinterest and cake making in general. Let me just buy the kid a donut. Somewhere out there one of the Pinterest moms is fainting. Faint away overachieving Pinterest mom. Faint away. But before you faint, would you mind making my son a zombie brain cake?
I feel so defeated. You know how there are those people in your life that were either once your friend but for some reason or another you hate them, only they don’t know you hate them? Well, I’m human too and have one of those people, only I know exactly why I hate her and it has everything to do with the fact that I hate her social media persona. In fact, I hate most people’s social media personas, but hers is especially nauseating. Like, keep a bucket by your computer because this girl almost seems intentionally nauseating.
So I’m a civil human being, I can be polite and make polite comments on her instagram feed, although usually there is a little bit of a bite to my comments (I said I was civil, not perfect). She usually is busy posting pictures of her exercising or the current salad she is ‘just so obsessed with!’ or some ridiculously titled pic of her husband with a hashtag that reads #suchababe. Gag me. I like salad. I try to exercise. I even like my husband. But I don’t sugar coat it and shove it down your throat. I also don’t try to pretend my life is always dreamy and wonderful. Shocking, I know. I’m a bit of a snark. Well, not anymore because she won. She won plain and simple. She posted a picture of her in a bikini and it pretty much shut me right up. Ugh. Fine, unnamed frenemy. You win. You may be the most annoying social media person out there but you are able to show your stomach and people aren’t gagging at the site of it so you automatically win. Damn. I can’t be bitchy about someone wearing a bikini after kids if they can pull it off; It feels wrong. I suddenly am not laughing so hard about her salad posts.
There was a terrible smell coming from the garage this last week. Every day it got worse and worse, until I decided to take a little initiative and find the inevitable dead animal. Secretly I was hoping it was one of my weird neighbor’s cats, but immediately felt guilty thinking that since he’s a single 40-something with little or no social life and on more than one occasion I’ve caught him sitting in his front yard in full discussion with his multiple cats. Yeah, the guy can hardly speak two words to me but to the cats that continually hide in my yard he can’t shut up.
So anyway, I’m trying to develop a soul and stop hoping my neighbor’s cats are dead and I start pulling everything out of the garage. Nada (that means nothing you ignoramus). So I do the responsible thing and tell my husband the ball is in his court and it is now again his job to locate the stinking animal carcass (hopefully a cat carcass; I’m the devil). Within three minutes he discovers the dead animal (not a cat, dammit) and discovers what comes along with a stinking dead animal carcass -maggots. Loads of them. I cannot even describe how disgusting both the smell and the sight of this rat was, and not only that, but how huge it was! So gross. I sort of wish I would have taken a picture, just so that every time I was tempted by a donut or some other tasty version of a donut (I really love donuts) I could flash this nasty picture of maggot rat and immediately be relieved of any appetite. Unfortunately, I did not have that initial prompting and have already eaten one brownie and one donut today; maggot rat would have saved me the calories. Now I’m just hoping that one of my neighbor’s cats accidentally dies in my garage. This about sums up the kind of person I am.
I’m raising cavemen. Seriously. Today I walked into the bathroom to find my four year old using the toilet. No big deal until he started talking to me and while he was talking and waving his arms wildly (he’s very expressive), he lost focus on the task at hand. It was like an interactive water park in there, pee shooting every which way and hitting all surfaces minus the intended target, the toilet. Meanwhile I was shouting at him to stop looking at me (shouting, screaming, same thing) and focus on where he was aiming that thing. Unfortunately, this isn’t rare or even unusual and with three little boys sharing a bathroom… let’s just say I avoid that bathroom like someone who has cleaned that bathroom before.
So they pee everywhere. Big deal. That doesn’t make them cavemen you say. You say wrong. Getting out of the house with these kids is like a six hour ordeal. It’s exhausting and almost never worth it. So I decided I was going to enlist the help of the 5 year old. Please keep in mind that if I allowed it, the 5 year old would still be sucking on a binky and wearing diapers; he has zero desire for independence or progress. That being said, I recognize him as not a great option but my only option. I was trying to get to the grocery store so I asked the 5 year old to help the 2 year old put his shoes on. As the 5 year old went to help the demonic 2 year old get his shoes on, he reached for the 2 year old’s fat foot and immediately got punched straight in the face. Without even looking up the 2 year old replied, “I gonna be mad at you.” What? Why so violent, little psychopath? Why so threatening? What as parents are we doing wrong? I try to keep the screaming to a minimal shriek, but maybe I could up it to a moderate shriek? Would that civilize them?
Tonight while taking the kids to a casual restaurant, we continually took turns telling the kids to put their shoes back on and stop climbing the lamppost. Seriously. I look around and see the other kids behaving much like regular human beings and I wonder why in the hell our kids are so savage. We frankly are not soft parents, we definitely do not shy away from discipline, but I fail to see why my kids cannot go 10 minutes without wrestling or climbing or jumping off crap. I get that they are kids and have, to put it in a cute but not accurate way, wiggles, but come on guys! Stop ripping the neighbor’s fence open just so you can get inside their backyard and climb their trees. These boys are so wild. So wild! I often think they were born 3.7 million (I looked it up; thank you google!) too late. Either way, I can’t wait for the day they grow up and come home and say, “Mom! The girls think it’s gross that I pee anywhere and everywhere outside. What gives?” Yup kid. You’ve got a lot of civilizing to do.
I was thinking today about my luck and how I actually have terrible luck. My first instinct is to blame my husband, because, well, that just seems like the obvious choice. But then I realized my luck is terrible because I have little kids. Little kids immediately quadruple your chances of getting any kind of stomach bug (I’ve had it twice in the last month; it’s summer btw), double your chances of getting fat (the only thing that can ease the pain of a day full of high pitched squealing and fighting is an enormous bowl of ice cream; it’s been scientifically proven), and they most certainly ensure that you will never get to do anything really and truly fun ever again. I might just be bitter after a night of soccer camps where two kids suddenly had a bout of diarrhea that sent me scrambling but still ended up throwing underwear away.
I was talking with my sister and we were discussing what we used to be like when we were kidless and still had personalities. Ahh… the good old days of personalities. I think I used to be sort of patient too, maybe even kind? I can’t be sure since it has been so long. Now I’m just sort of an angry lunatic now.