I am substituting “shirt” for the other word so I won’t be wracked with guilt for being a total potty mouthed mommy.
Life is filled with “oh, shirt!” moments.
Oh, shirt… I picked the wrong major.
Oh, shirt… I forgot my best friend’s birthday.
Oh, shirt… I am getting OLD!
But, parenting is just one big, long, drawn out “oh, shirt!”
Oh, shirt… my babies have already outgrown the sitting on my lap phase. I will never again have the need for a glider.
I will never again know the bliss of a chunky baby in a milk coma on my chest.
I will never again be idly playing with chubby toes while watching something wildly inappropriate for children to view. (unless my toes end up super chubby, which is entirely possible)
Oh shirt… my kids are outgrowing the time period when they shout “mommy” with joy when I walk through the door. My daughter has officially started calling me “mom.” My son’s first words when I come home are generally, “I want cheese stick” or “I want nilk.” (he still can’t master that “m.”)
Oh shirt… my daughter is inching closer to entering real school. This is terrifying on multiple levels. Already, my toddlers are getting sent home from day care with “homework.” Homework at this stage just means work for parents.
Sorry, I don’t REALLY have the time to hunt down pictures of things that begin with the letter “J.” We don’t have magazines in our home. Who has magazines anymore? So, now I have to BUY a magazine in the hopes it contains jewelry or a jump rope, but will probably end up with Jack Daniels and maybe a celebrity Jew.
Teacher Appreciation Week is coming and some overzealous mom from my son’s class has sent us home with a sheet of things to buy for the teachers.
It’s a tour of the world!
Monday, we’re supposed to find three items inspired by Italy like pasta, olive oil etc to put in a gift basket.
Tuesday, we’re expected to move on to France and choose flowers or perfume, but non-scented because the teacher has a “sensitivity.”
The week rounds out with a request for ten dollars to give them gift cards to “enjoy dinner on us.”
Let me digress from “oh, shirt” for one moment.
First of all, I don’t actually think they should be called “teachers” when their primary responsibility still includes wiping shirt (hehe) off my kid’s ass.
Yes, they teach them. They teach them letters and numbers and how to be angry without biting.
They can have an apple.
Day care for two children costs as much as a second mortgage and now they want me to give them more money?
Yes, they are underpaid.
I will make sure my kid does a special crappy drawing of a unicorn just for them.
Oh, shirt… this is only going to get worse. The expectations for crafting and field trips and extracurricular activities and the cost and the bullying and the boyfriends and “the talks” and the FCATS and the applications to college and the…. oh shirt, I am getting ahead of myself.
Oh shirt, I have two children who are entirely my responsibility to try and shape into wonderful grownups. They are not “ideas.” They are not “something fun to think of a name for.” They are tiny little people with the potential to become psychopaths, serial killers, drug addicts, teen parents… or geniuses. (just as scary)
Oh shirt, I still think of myself as able to wear flip flops to work and eat Ramen noodles.
Was I really ready for all this?
You never are.
So, oh shirt… here we go.
Sure, not a single bird has visited and I am starting to wonder if as the weeks pass they are more likely to die from eating old moldy peanut butter, but WE DID IT!
We even did finger painting! It was a mess and a logistical nightmare to get the kids cleaned up, but WE DID IT!
Last night while my husband finished cooking ropa vieja, I took the kids outside to blow bubbles.
Sure, our front porch is now coated in sticky bubble stuff that got tipped over, but it was undeniably the best part of my entire day.
I was sick, sans makeup, exhausted and hearing my son’s ear-piercing joyful shrieks was worth every minute.
These are the moments I want to bottle, to multiply, to recreate forever.
I have an Easter hangover and it has nothing to do with alcohol.
I’ve had the revelation that far too many holidays or special occasions involve parents not sleeping.
Christmas: Buying presents without the children knowing about it is nearly impossible unless you shop online. Then you open the boxes to discover damaged goods, wrong sizes etc. but it’s too late to send it back and get the right stuff on time.
You also have to hide the wrapping paper or you will end up concocting some bullshit story about Santa having the room for a bazillion gazillion presents, but needing the hookup on wrapping paper.
You spend all night stuffing stockings, putting presents under the tree so your kids can wake you up before dawn and destroy EVERYTHING you worked so hard on.
The Tooth Fairy: It’s the ultimate test of your parenting ninja skills. You have to be sure they’re soundly asleep and then sneak like a burglar into their room and steal something under their pillow. If THAT doesn’t wake them up, then you have another shot when you place the actual money under the pillow.
Easter: Again, waiting until the kids fall asleep so you can put candy in Easter eggs and hide them all over the house.
The kids literally have chocolate for breakfast. I caught my son sneaking chocolate eggs on his own several times before 9am. He had a chocolate clown face smile.
Then, it’s off to abuela’s house where she has jelly beans and cupcakes and ice cream. The kids are eating bunny shaped lollypops and skipping naptime.
Back at home that night, it’s a complete fiasco. They’re hopped up on sugar, bouncing off the walls, refusing to eat any real food or take a bath.
My husband actually started to time it during dinner. They could only go about 5 to 10 minutes between crying jags.
By the time they finally go to bed (kicking and screaming) I am starting to get a sore throat.
This morning, I wake up sick and am so tired at work my eyes are rolling back in my head like I’m possessed by a demon.
Three cups of crappy station coffee later and I feel like I’m having a panic attack. I’m pacing back and forth in the break room like a zoo animal held captive too long. My leg has Parkinson’s. It’s doing a solo Lindy Hop.
Last night I asked my husband, “Did they have fun?”
What I am really asking is, “Did they have fun, because I’m in holiday hell right now and if they DIDN’T have fun we are officially becoming Atheists so we don’t EVER have to celebrate a holiday again!!”
The first word out of my son’s mouth this morning, “Chocolate.” He can’t even pronounce his own name properly, but says “chocolate” with impeccable diction.
From now on we will only celebrate National Lazy Day. It involves not cooking, not cleaning, not consuming sugar, remaining horizontal and periodic naps. At this moment, I despise all of you childless bastards because you can have Lazy Day WHENEVER YOU WANT.
Alma has absolutely reached the “why” stage.
She’ll ask it over and over and over until my response is to ask her “why” she’s asking, which makes her little brain nearly implode.
I realized today that I am actually still in the “why” stage myself.
My inner dialogue always includes questions.
Dumb ones, weird ones, pointless ones.
The only different between me and my 3 year old daughter is that I have GOOGLE.
Here are some of the bizarre things I contemplate in my spare seconds:
1) Why do birds repeatedly fly into glass windows? Wouldn’t the first smack on the glass impress them enough to head the other way?
2) Why do worms always show up when it rains? Why don’t they even attempt to move on when the scorching sun shines down?
3) I see alligators everywhere. I never see them eating. There can’t possibly be enough fish and birds in those tiny man-made lakes to sustain them. (Alma suggested they also eat grass)
4) So many birds. Where do they go when they die? Why aren’t there thousands of bird skeletons everywhere?
5) Why did they think it was a good idea to put tampons in plastic wrappers? Putting ladies in public restrooms on blast is NOT COOL.
6) Why in God’s name are they bringing back the unflattering high waisted shorts? They make anyone look like they have a long, flat ass and perpetual camel toe.
7) Why do people think they can get away with murder? (not hypothetical, not hyperbole… I mean, seriously. I had a nightmare recently where I was a child trying to dispose of body parts without getting caught and it was REALLY REALLY hard to do)
8) What if dogs actually know that they’re dying? I mean, I know they tend to seek out a hidden spot like under a house to pass away. So, who is to say my dog isn’t walking around thinking, “I’m so effing old. My back hurts. I can’t see out of one eye. Eating hurts. It must be dying.”
9) Why can’t Netflix start live streaming the next season of the series I love so much since the season after has already ended on the network?
10) Why oh why did she swallow the fly? (perhaps she’ll die) Why was this EVER a good idea to sing to children?
All I want to do is make a pine cone bird feeder with my kids.
I snagged two pine cones on a bike ride a week ago.
We’ve got the peanut butter.
I got bird seed at the grocery store. (It’s for parrots, but can they REALLY tell the difference?)
I got yarn to hang it with from my sister-in-law in the hopes that the birds won’t choke to death on some tougher kind of string. (blue yarn can’t be great either, but at least I’m considering their health)
Now, when will I have the time to do this?
The current state of things has allowed for a complete lazification of parenting. (yeah, I made that word up.)
We’re ALL working. We have NO TIME.
Hate making lunch for your kids? There’s Lunchables.
Want to avoid any paint or marker stains on your furniture or table tops? Invisible ink markers!
Hate spending hours shopping for bloomers for toddlers that don’t exist because suddenly it’s a.o.k. for little girls to go flaunting their My Little Pony skivvies on the playground? ONLINE SHOPPING.
Life has gotten so convenient. Too convenient.
I want to have kids that have fingerpaint trapped under their nails.
I want my kids to be like, “Dang, my mom sent me to school with carrot sticks!”
The other day as I strolled through Target with my 3-year old fashionista, I realized I absolutely love shopping with her. I LOVE it. She points out 300 things she wants and I deny all but one. This is so much better than me buying 6 things she will NEVER wear.
I’m not saying I want to be June Cleaver, but it would be nice if we could bleach sand dollars or make bracelets or just make those stupid pine cone bird feeders already.
And here comes Easter.
I adored Easter as a child. Not the whole going to a super long church service to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ, but dyeing Easter eggs was ahm-azing.
I can still smell the vinegar.
We had egg salad for a week.
It was way more fun hunting for hard-boiled eggs that were starting to sweat in the Florida heat than finding plastic eggs filled with sugary shit. (Seriously)
No time to put together an Easter basket for the kids? Well, they put them together for you now at the Walgreens.
Feel compelled to put a little energy and thought into it? Target has an entire section dedicated to Easter and every other seasonal holiday.
I feel like I might as well just take my kids there and say, “Go ahead. Pick your Easter out.”
Are you a terrible gift wrapper? Who wraps gifts anymore? Don’t you know EVERYBODY is now just throwing stuff in a store bought bag and shoving some colored tissue paper in there?
BAM. Best parent EVER.
Or not. You just stole the very best part of a birthday celebration. Everyone knows unwrapping a gift is the ultimate kid high.
I’m gonna get on that bird feeder. And buy wrapping paper. Dangit.
I’ve been thinking a lot about getting old. Because I am.
I’ve been thinking a lot about plastic surgery. Because I’d never do it.
I’ve always had the utmost respect for beautiful women who allow themselves to age gracefully, but it seems to be a process you don’t see very often anymore.
There’s Elizabeth Taylor who spent her final days looking like a clown and obsessing over Michael Jackson.
There’s Meg Ryan. America’s Sweetheart went from fresh-faced to freak show.
Oh, and the self-proclaimed “world’s first supermodel” Janice Dickinson whose hideous face is only rivaled by her foul demeanor.
I long for the days of old, when gorgeous Hollywood starlets embraced their wrinkles and graying hair.
We all grow old, God willing.
We all die.
So, here’s to the glamorous ladies who didn’t waste their later life waging the uphill battle to look like a teenager.
They didn’t all end up looking gorgeous, but that is the real beauty in how they lived.