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I Am THAT Kind Of Mother After All

While we were packing up last year for the move into our new house, I found something very interesting that highlighted just how anal retentive detailed I can be, especially when it comes to my child. It was a three page instruction manual for the babysitter we had in California when my daughter was three-years-old. I wanted to die of embarrassment after reading it.

It was very, how would I say it? Hmmm. “Specific” would be a nice way to put it but I’ll go with a bitchy control freak with a generous helping of mad crazy.

Just the first page alone is a listing of meal and snack times and the specific foods that should be eaten at these times as well as in what way the food needs to be prepared and cut up.

Grapes need to be cut in half and banana slices cut in fourths because if they’re not, holy shit, there will be hell to pay, apparently.

This shit comes off more as a threat to the babysitter. Poor lady.

On the second page, half of it details what we do to fill the days i.e. trips to the park, different parks, play with her riding fire truck, etc.

Oh my god. I put in very, very specific terms of the activities that my 3 year-old could do during the day, specifying what options she had to choose from.

Talk about me being the helicopter mom from hell.

The second half on the second page details her favorite television shows, The Wiggles, Elmo, Caillou – that little fucker-, Max And Ruby, and what channels they’re on, plus, what time they come on. I put that in there in case of emergencies.

My biggest worry was that after my husband and I would leave our daughter, she was screaming and crying for us and in a tizzy.

In reality, the hummingbird was probably saying “Bye, bitches! No hurry!”

The third page of this absolutely ridiculous and comical instructional for the babysitter are several different sample schedules of play time, nap time, park time, when to change her diaper, what to do if she gets fussy, what if she doesn’t take a nap and on and on.

Oh my fucking god.

I was that crazy, overbearing, control freak of a mother.

I would like to think that I have improved over the years but I still want to know absolutely everything, even if she’s just going to our next door neighbor’s house, which she’s been to hundreds of times.

My mom was like that when I was younger and it embarrassed me so much. Especially when she would ask to speak to my friend’s mom or dad.

I swore I would never be like that.

Well played karma. Well played.

I’d like to think I don’t have this huge stick up my ass and should just chill out from being such a panicked parent but that sucker is in there tight.

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How Slow Can You Go?

I have a very active 8 year-old who can’t sit still for very long. I also found that 8 is the new 12 when it comes to attitude. Oh, man… the attitude is strong with this age.

She runs circles around me and wears me out in an hour. The hummingbird has the energy for gymnastics, soccer, ice skating, and skiing. But, when it comes to her getting ready for bed, holy shit, she goes so slow.

She’ll be bouncing off the walls and I’ll ask her to clean up her room and then, holy shit, she’s way too tired. The bird will be over at her friend Jake’s house next door for two hours and will come bouncing down the driveway but when I tell her she needs to get some homework done. Holy shit, she’s way too tired.

I would think after four years of her being in school that we would have a morning routine down but, holy shit, it’s a rush to the finish line every damn morning and I run around the house getting her to do her morning things like I’m being chased around the house by rabid dogs.

I would ask if this going slow thing when it comes to our kids gets easier as they get older and they actually speed up but I’m sure the answer is holy shit, girl, it gets worse. I imagine there will be more yelling and me still saying “pleeeeeease, hurry up!”

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Basketcase

Dear laundry,

I’ve been trying to bite my tongue about this but I’ll just come out with it. Why do you gotta be such a dick? You fill up within hours of me finally getting the laundry done for the week. It would be nice to let me bask in the “I’ve got all the laundry done, hallefuckingluluah!”, glow. But, nope. I’ll slide open the dresser drawer, put the clothes in, and a minute later, you’re laughing in my face with the basket halfway full within minutes.

During the winter, it’s especially hellish because my husband has thick, flannel lined everything where only one of his outfits takes up the entire clothes basket. We live in New England after all, and for half the year, our clothes are super bulky.

Oh, joy!

It seems the colder it gets, the longer it takes me to get around to folding the laundry. Actually, I take that back. It always takes me a long time to fold the laundry.

I’ve tried keeping up with the laundry by doing a load every day but that just makes me want to burn all our clothes and join a nudist colony.

So, I do the laundry in one big haul over the weekend.

Friday rolls around. Oh, what the hell. Let’s get a load of laundry started because I want to get a leg up and it’s usually around 8 pm and after a few glasses of wine. Anything sounds fun after a few glasses of wine. Even laundry.

By 9 pm, I’m about ready to drop dead from the insomnia I’ve dealt with all week and leave the laundry in the washer overnight.

My husband, my very sweet husband, I might add, lets me sleep in late on the weekends since he knows I deal with insomnia. I get up ready to tackle the several more loads of laundry for the weekend.

Kidding.

It’s all I have to properly function like a semi-productive human in the morning. I don’t seem to fully wake up until 2 pm on the weekends because I’ve been doing tedious, mind-numbing shit all week. Just making sure my kid gets to school in the morning feels like I’ve run a marathon.

So, laundry.

I look forward to thee as much as I do constipation.

Never!

And there you sit, overnight, in the washer because the wine made me feel like I’m queen of the world so I will tackle these several loads of laundry.

Oh, but what’s that? My husband is going to throw in a “quick” load of his work clothes after putting the other load of laundry into the dryer. Meaning, he’s going to throw them in the damn washer, start the damn washer, and take off doing everything except the damn laundry he just put in the damn washer. I know I shouldn’t complain and that’s more than some husband’s do but seriously. Seriously?!

I want to say thanks for making me do an extra load I didn’t know existed and that you will now forget it until Sunday night.

This laundry isn’t going away no matter how much I try to conjure up my fairy godmother and the woodland creatures that help around the house in fairy tales. This shit isn’t doing itself.

Finally, with two cups of coffee, I get the momentum to conquer this tower of dirty clothes. And then… then, I’m like fuck this shit by the last load of laundry that’s finally finished on Sunday evening. The “quick” laundry load my husband started on Saturday morning has long been folded and hung up.

I just can never seem to fold that last load of laundry. I have good intentions to fold it and put it away but that dies off day by day.

It starts like this:

Oooh, I’m a nice, fresh load of laundry straight out of the dryer. I want to be folded.

And I’m like “Eh, I’d rather watch “The Handmaid’s Tale” again or “13 Reasons Why”, I’ll do it tomorrow.

Monday morning comes around. After being awake for a few hours, I turn on the dryer for a couple of minutes to de-wrinkle the clothes. Then, I fold them and put them away.

Kidding.

I forget about it. Until, later that night when all I have left for my underthings is my period underwear. That’s when I know I can’t procrastinate much longer. When I hit that part of my panty drawer, I know it’s time to get serious about laundry.

So, I turn on the dryer again and put it in the basket. I’m so close to folding that last damn basket of damn laundry but what happens? There’s usually some excuse for my 8 year-old to get out of bed 50 times a night.

I push the laundry basket to the side of the closet and tend to the hummingbird. Finally, I just want to crawl into bed and fall into a coma.

Tuesday. The basket is still sitting there.

Wednesday. I’m in quite a pickle because I’m on my last pair of period underwear.

Thursday. Time to fold. But, the clothes are so wrinkled and have been sitting there so I’ll deal with it later. I start a new load of laundry. I even actually dry it, fold it, and put it away. And yet, there in the corner of the closet is the basket of whites that is begging for attention, wanting to be folded and put away.

Next thing I know, it’s the weekend and more damn laundry. That poor basket of clean clothes that has been sitting in the closet are there until Monday.  I want to just throw them in the dryer but there’s usually someone in this house, my husband, who mixes the dirty clothes with the clean clothes basket.

I know there’s an easy solution, just fold the damn laundry in the first place, but that’s no fun. So, I wash it again and this time, I grab a few things out of the dryer and put them away because it’s past bedtime and I will end up lying awake in bed for a few hours before I get up and watch Teen Mom 2 on the DVR instead of folding laundry.

I’ll fold the laundry in the basket tomorrow. Or maybe by next Saturday.

Definitely by next Monday.

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I Thought I Was So Cool With My Cassette Player And Smurf Tape

When I was about 8 years-old, I was given a cassette player. It was during the height of smurf popularity in the 80’s and I was given a smurf tape that I played over and over and over again. Singing the smurf songs at the top of my lungs made me feel like a fucking rock star.

Now, when I come across pictures of myself during that time, I was a total dork. But, at the time I thought I was so cool. Yeah, sure. The picture of me in a mullet hairdo and an obnoxious Cosby Show sweater tell me otherwise.

I soon graduated from the smurfs to Rick Springfield, then my biggest loves of all… John Taylor and Duran Duran. Those were the days.

I didn’t understand the level of annoyance that playing those cassette tapes over and over must have caused my mom.

I have an 8 year-old and my eardrums are being tortured by Kidz Bop. I’m now understanding what my mom had to go through with my musical phases.

We listen to the Kidz Bop satellite station most of the time when we’re in the car. I can’t even put into words how much Kidz Bop annoys the fuck out of me. It’s almost as bad as my daughter’s Calliou phase, although I don’t think it’s possible that anything can annoy me more than that little asshole.

But, Kidz Bop is up there.

My daughter has even schooled me on the names of the Kidz Bop kids. Yes. I now know which one is Brianna. Okay, I don’t really but when we see her in a video, my daughter excitedly says that’s her and I just say mmmhmmm.

I never knew so much about parenthood was about pretending like you know what the hell your kid is taking about, shaking your head in agreement, and saying mmmhmm.

My most embarrassing moment this past week was when my daughter and I were driving home from the library. Whenever I hear Ed Sheeran’s song, Photograph, I tear up every damn time. No, I’m not ashamed of it! That’s a really great song and nobody can tell me any different. Nobody, I say!!

The radio was playing a Kidz Bop version of the song. I thought to myself, “Oh, please. This is going to be awful.”

Two minutes later, tears were rolling down my face.

Damn you, Kidz Bop!

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P

ETA: I changed the name of this post because I didn’t want pervs googling people peeing in their pants and getting off on it. Ewww.

I’ve had a cold for the past three days. I am such a fucking baby when I get sick and feel the need to tell my husband I feel like shit every hour. He, on the other hand, is made of steel. Steel, I tell you! I practically have to beg him to help him out on the rare occasion he gets sick.

The thing that pisses me off (pun intended) about being sick, well, besides being sick, feeling like shit, and coughing up my lung is peeing every time I cough. My 15 year-old self would have laughed at my *mumbles* year-old self the first time I had to buy pee pads. I started out with period pads but after the hummingbird and then Ben three years ago, I can pee myself so bad that it goes through my underwear and pajama pants.

So, I held my head in shame when I first bought pee pads and it’s all thanks to my darling children. Damn it.

This is totally fucking karma because when I was a teenager and was at the store with my mom, I would ask her why she bought pads since I knew she used tampons. Like any young person or child, my voice level came across as “WHY ARE YOU GETTING THOSE PADS, MOM?”. I pretty much knew why but teenagers are assholes so there you go.

There are those extra embarrassing times when I may sneeze my nose off or get into a coughing fit and actually pee my pants and the pee might start running down my leg while I haul ass to the bathroom. Just one of the many things to love about motherhood.

Since I’ve been sick this week and coughing my head off, I’ve gone through several pairs of underwear and pajama pants that I’ve been washing every day. I could just easily wear pads (which I occasionally do) during times like this but my vagina is claustrophobic. Or, so that’s what it tells me but I can’t really understand what it’s saying while being crammed up against whatever the hell pads are made out of.

For some reason, I also shun pads because I’ll think “My vagina can handle anything!”

Why can’t men pee their pants also once you have kids? What’s up with that?! Then you can both share the embarrassment together. When are they going to have their vagina stretched out so much that a clown car could drive through? Granted, they don’t have the genitalia, but still.

What really gets me is while coughing and sneezing set off the crotch fountain, there have been times where I’m not doing anything that I deem strenuous but then what do I know? A little pee will just randomly come out. Really, vagina, REALLY?

I used to think those vaginal rejuvenation surgeries were laughable and now I want to kiss whoever came up with the procedure.

Yay to motherhood for making me piss myself.

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Go To Bed. Go To Bed. Go To Bed.

By the time my kid was seven years-old, I didn’t think sleep would be an issue for her.

It is.

Fucking fuck.

There’s always some ailment that needs tending to and is causing her to stay awake. Like that invisible scratch on her ankle, or she needs a hangnail cut off, or another good night kiss.

Well, a new bedtime hell has taken over the house and it’s all Bloody Mary’s fault. A classmate of her’s told the hummingbird how if she says Bloody Mary in the mirror three times, she appears.

Now, it’s all about Bloody Mary coming to get her and she’ll get up out of bed three or four times before she falls asleep.

Also, a few weeks ago, we had two power outages a few minutes apart. It was early in the morning and it woke her up.

So, besides Bloody Mary, we have to assure her that if it rains or snows, there’s most likely not going to be a power outage.

It doesn’t matter though. It’s just one more excuse for her to use to try and get out of going to bed. If only she knew that I know ALL of the tricks. But, she seems so sure that she’s pulling one over on me.

Sleep, how I miss you.

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A Hairbrush In My Coffee Cup

Me:*Sips coffee* C’mon, brush your teeth and hair! The bus will be here soon!

Hummingbird: Okay!

Me: Please, hurry up! Brush your teeth and hair!

Hummingbird: Okay!

Me: *Sips coffee and thinks to self to record this mantra that I tell my daughter so I can play it back every morning*

Me: What are you doing?? You need to brush your teeth and hair!!

Hummingbird: Okay!

Me: C’mon! Let’s go!

Hummingbird: I did it! Can I brush your hair now?

Me: *Sips coffee* Sure!

Hummingbird: *Leans over me on the chair* *Hairbrush PLOPS right into my coffee*

Me: Me on the outside… That’s okay, it was an accident. Get your shoes on because the bus is going to be here soon. Me on the inside… *OMG, I’m actually drinking warm-ish coffee and I’m almost at the delicious bottom of my awesome coffee and a hairbrush falls in my cup. What are the fucking odds? Dammit! I almost had a whole cup of warm-ish coffee. Bahfuckinghumbug! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. And this is part of the reason why I’m drawn to the icky crack liquid of Red Bull. It’s already cold and you can chug it in between yelling at your kid to hurry up and get ready for school.

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*Ed

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