I enjoy all the moms I’ve “met” in blog land. I really do.
I like to tease, but I know it’s not easy to be a mom, especially a stay at home mom. I mean, those Baby Einstein dvd’s don’t just jump into the dvd player on their own, right? And who wants to feed the kids raw hot dogs? No, pressing buttons on the microwave is a must, and since the microwave didn’t come with a remote, you have to get off of the couch to operate it!
I have to admit though, that I’m always a little turned off by moms who talk about their children nonstop in a positive way or about their children being their “everything.”
If you do your job correctly, then one day those kids will leave your house and then what will be your “everything?” Your grown kids? That’s fine if you’re an Italian or Jewish mother to a son, I guess, but everyone else will be screwed!
I’ve read some good posts and comments this week and I’d like to respond to a few of the common mom blurbs I’ve read just this week alone.
“Oh, my kids are the best thing in the world to me!”
Really lady? First of all, your husband is standing right over there. I’m sure he appreciates being relegated to third string on your roster of best things. And him being third string assumes your mother isn’t in front of him on the squad. Secondly, your kid over there with snot dripping from his nose wearing only one shoe and eating the purple crayon because his stupid butt thinks it’s candy is the best thing in your world? You haven’t been laid in awhile or eaten at a good pizza joint or steak house, have you ma’am? Certainly not correctly.
“Oh my God, being pregnant and giving birth is the most amazing thing I’ve ever experienced”
Really? My wife and I went to a brewery and then home for some drunk sex to make our first born. That’s a pretty great experience, I’ll agree. I’m sure the other two were created under similar circumstances. She spent nine months getting bloated and more miserable each day. It was difficult for her to sleep comfortably from all the heartburn and kicking/moving around in there and she had to piss all of the time. She couldn’t eat certain things or drink any alcohol. Her pregnancies were certainly not atypical and if I asked her if she’d want to do it again, I bet she’d punch me in the face and then stomp my balls while I was on the ground. Millions, yes millions of women before you have spit babies out of their uteruses. They used to do it in caves or in the woods or in tepees. You probably did it while medicated in a hospital, or in a bathtub, if you’re some sort of hippy. It’s not amazing. Running a marathon to lose that baby weight would be amazing. Climbing a mountain or sky diving sounds amazing. Having a baby is like taking a dump, only slightly more painful. There’s nothing amazing about it.
“I don’t know what I’d do without my kids!”
How about nap? Get a job? Have a clean house and disposable income? Be able to go out on weekends and out to eat whenever you want? Not have to sit through parent teacher conferences or pray before bed that you get to sleep through the night without being awaken by one of the cretins? Buy motorcycles and sports cars instead of minivans and diapers? Listen to big boy music in the car instead of whatever mind numbing crap the kids are into that week? Never step foot into a Chuck E Cheese or have to buy a gift for some kid who invited yours to a party, but who you’ve never met and never will? Vacation on a whim? Go wherever you want on said vacation, even places that aren’t “kid friendly.” I could go on and on, but you get the point.
“I just want 5 or 10 minutes to go potty or take a shower!”
I don’t know where you live, and if you live in a barn or a hut, I’m sorry, but I live in a house. My house has bathrooms with doors on them. The doors have locks. Many apartments also have this convenience. If not, locks are pretty affordable. Lock the fucking door and you don’t have to worry about your toddler being fascinated by what’s going on with your between the legs business. If you’re honest with yourself, you’ll admit that you like to make yourself suffer ever so slightly at your own hands so that you have something to write/bitch about when your husband gets home from work.
“Oh I just hate those groups of women at the playground with their designer clothes and nice hair.”
Oh you mean those really pretty women who take the time to care for themselves, lock the doors on their bathrooms so they can shower and get dressed up to leave the house? Well, I’m sure those women appreciate the fact that you took several seconds to at least put pants on, even if they are sweat pants or yoga pants (I don’t know what yoga pants are, but they’re discussed a lot). Maybe they’re excluding you from their little clique because you have vomit and red Franzia stains on your tshirt and it’s not even noon yet! You should be glad they simply ignore you instead of contacting family services so you’ll have someone to talk to.
Time out! Time out! I’ve been saved from going any further with this! I just noticed something.
Blogger friend Kate at Sass and Balderdash (who doesn’t have any children, probably because she doesn’t believe in God…I mean, who do you call out to during sex if not Oh God, oh God?) chose me, from a group of one, to be a guest blogger on her blog this month!
It’s a mild honor to post elsewhere while my own blog lies dormant since Monday.
She had a list of things that she demanded any potential post not contain, but I dropped the ball on that and included each one. Oh well, go check my story and her blog out now! NOW!
