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This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things

I first started uttering this sentence last year. I never really got it until I took a good look at my house and saw it in such disarray and I wanted to ugly cry. I only have a 7 year-old but she makes the mess of twenty frat boys. Add to that a husband and holy shit, I’m done for.

Burps and farts galore – We instilled in the hummingbird at a young age that these things were funny. Now, it’s come back to bite me in the ass. My husband came from a “prim and proper” household where they NEVER did that and I honestly don’t think my in-laws have ever let out a good burp in private which could be why they are the way they are.

There’s no farting at the table but it doesn’t stop the hummingbird to let one rip which then makes me gag. The hubby will follow that with a large burp which he never usually did until we had the bird and poop and barf were a big subject between us when she was a baby. I’ve created gassy monsters.

Clothes everywhere – Asking kids to put their dirty clothes in a laundry basket is apparently one of the most difficult tasks since they end up leaving them all over the bedroom floor and scattered throughout the house. There’s a dress laying by our front door, dirty socks by the stairs, and shorts and a skirt just lying on the floor in the kitchen.

No matter how many times I stress to my 7 year-old that she must pick up her clothes, I end up being the one to pick all of that up. Her room on the other hand is her responsibility, which is why I try to avoid it. Her complaint is that “I can’t clean all this up myself” and my response is “But, you made the mess so you need to pick it up.”

Itty bitty Lego all over – The hummingbird and hubby love playing with Legos. I’ve never gotten it and have tried to be involved too but I’m just not into you, Lego. I have found there is something more painful than stepping on a lego. A few months ago, I stepped on a small My Little Pony and I’m not sure my foot will ever recover.

The shoe fight – Not only has the hummingbird acquired more shoes than I have, which is totally my fault, every damn morning, we still go through the shoe struggle. It starts off with the simple request of her getting her shoes on and ends up with me practically on my knees, begging for her to just put on shoes that fit.

Somehow, the shoes she outgrew keep coming back in the mudroom, even after hiding them from her, and it goes back and forth with me telling her she needs to wear shoes that fit. But no, that would be too easy. She wants to wear the shoes that just a week before, were hurting her feet. Oy!

Food on the floor that looks like someone went on a drunk eating binge – The little bird is currently going through a growth spurt which is awesome but most food seems to make it on the table and the floor than in her mouth. I wasn’t sure how that happens until a few nights ago after being at summer camp all day, she came home like she had been given red bull.

She couldn’t sit still at dinner and kept on hopping up to show us some dance moves she learned or she would sing us a song. She was bitten by the acting bug last year when she saw a school play of an older friend. And, just last week, after months of rehearsals, she was in a children’s stage production that she loved doing. So, she has been singing non stop for the past few months.

I’m all for that put please don’t fling your food around at the dinner table while getting up to belt out songs. It’s not just the food left under and around the dining room table but a buffet also starts forming around the couch and coffee table. The worst things I’ve stepped on, besides pee, is grapes and macaroni and cheese. The mushy feeling on the bottom of my foot is nasty.

I farted or I’m pooping – Even when it isn’t apparent, the bird has to make it known that she farted. Then, I get a whiff and run like hell from the room which she finds hysterical. When I can finally come back to the room, I’ll ask her what she’s been eating because damn, with all the food she leaves on the floor, one would think she has nothing to release that’s so stinky and awful. I also thought after the whole potty training experience, I wouldn’t have to deal with poop anymore but nope. She has to announce it every single time.

Parenthood isn’t for the faint of heart and the smells and sounds will knock your ass out.

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Being Four: The F*ck You Fours

If you’re still standing after four years of parenthood, or tilting over a little, congratulations. Break out the champagne! This is the fuck you fours. You should check your child’s head for 666.

This age made me feel like a ball in a pinball machine. One second, my daughter would be playing peacefully and 30 seconds later, she would throw whatever she was playing with in anger or frustration. Kind of like a mic drop.

So, here I am, the little pinball being whacked here, there, everywhere when it came to dealing with my 4 year-old’s emotions and attitude.

This was also when the door slamming started, like the hummingbird was 4 going on 14. The fuck you fours isn’t as what the fuckish as the toddler pms stage but it did seem to be more emotionally draining.

The sweet side to this age is that although they act like they want you to fuck off, they love hard. The hummingbird also started writing more at this age and seeing her write “I love you” on a card turned me into a puddle. I also love all the talking she did. It was cute.

Sure, I didn’t know most of what she was talking about and even though she’s now seven, I still don’t. It’s like this:

Mom, do you see me in the back seat? Mom? Mom?? Mom, I like this song. Do you like it? Mom, do you like it too? Why did you wave to that car? Do you know them? Mom, why did you wave? At school today, Tess and I played this game where we threw a ball and then hopped on one foot but if you don’t hop high enough, you have to take 10 steps back and then Spencer and that crazy boy came over and we decided to play chase and whoever won actually loses and then you have to take 5 jumps to the right and lose a turn while the rest of us hit a baseball and the other person has to shout woohoo each time we take a step….

I don’t know what it is about kids and games but they have 10,000 instructions.

Anyway, while the fuck you fours can be trying and I occasionally thought during this age how much longer until she’s 18 and out of the house, they are also at a very lovable age. Because they know if they weren’t, we would eat them.

*One Week

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When My Daughter Gets Older, I’m Going To Her House And Turning All Of Her Clothes Inside Out

Laundry sucks. Obviously. There’s always at least one basket of clothes that is always sitting outside the laundry room for at least a week before we end up washing it again, usually because by that time, we can’t remember if that was a clean basket of laundry or not.

Then there’s the folding of the laundry. A whole shit ton of it. Especially since my 7 year-old changes about three times a day. Every time I fold her laundry I always find that every. single. flipping. piece of clothing is inside out. Yes, I know. First world problems over here. Her socks in particular drive me bat shit since I have to turn those around one by one.

Maybe it’s just my anal retentive ways or my OCD but I always make sure to leave my clothes ride side out. Kids… not so much, or I’m sure some adults as well.

I’ve asked her to help me by turning the clothes the right way but I may as well be talking to a 7 year-old. It goes in one ear and immediately dissipates into oblivion so whatever I just told her has been forgotten in 1.3 seconds. Just like when I ask her to put the clothes back on the hanger if she decides not to wear something after she’s gotten it off the hanger.

Oh my god, how many more times do I have to keep telling her to do these things? When the bird was about 2 or 3, I thought that was a messy phase but holy hell, the bigger they get, the bigger the mess they make.

So, not only am I going to her house to turn her clothes inside out, I’ll take most of the clothes from their hangers and leave them half way off from hangers in the closest. When I’m done with that, I’ll whine that I didn’t want tacos for dinner, I wanted spaghetti and was really looking forward to it and why, oh, why did you not make spaghetti?

Good plan!

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Being Three: Who Pissed In Your Sippy Cup?

being-three

Being three. Holy shit. This was a tough age.

My kid would be so sweet one second and the next, had an attitude and looked at me like she was going to shoot lasers out of her eyes. I remember that it seemed impossible to make my 3 year-old happy.

It’s like me when I’m pms’ing and really want a snicker’s but all we have are peanut butter cups and I’m thinking fuck this, I want a snicker’s. That’s the attitude of a 3 year-old.

And the tantrums. Holy shit, the tantrums are epic. This is the age where vodka came into my life a little more frequently.

They really love to test the limits and figure out how to push your buttons.

But, there are the really cool things that balance it out. When they’re not throwing themselves on the ground screaming, they actually talk to where you can have conversations with them.

With my daughter and I, it was about poop because it made her laugh and my god, handling a 3 year-old is like handling a bomb so you love to hear a laugh from them. It’s much better than the ear-piercing screeching you have to deal with.

The hummingbird wasn’t a terror 24/7, like I’m making it sound. We got pretty lucky with her as she has a pretty even temperament. It could just feel like she was a devil on wheels through much of being three because when your kid acts like that, it feels like the moment is never-ending.

But then she would laugh at a poop joke and my sanity was restored for a short time.

*If You Ever Want To Be In Love

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Orange Gatorade Is Considered A Fruit

orange-gatorade-is-a-fruit

I’ve been feeling lazy uninspired in the kitchen lately, plus we’ve been going at full speed ahead with the hummingbird’s extracurricular activities. She recently auditioned for a children’s play and rehearsals are three nights a week. Plus, there’s gymnastics and to make things even more oh my god I’m going to pull my hair out crazy, she has her bi-weekly girl scout meetings.

Dinner has been pretty craptacular lately since I don’t have much time to cook and I’m tired from being a taxi driver all week. I still try to give the bird plenty of fruits and veggies but then there’s the whole thing of not being able to have time to go to the store and finding in the fruit and veggie bins that the cucumbers I was going to give my kid has liquified in the bag or the blueberries have turned to mush.

As we were eating dinner one night at the end of the week, I was wiped out and just plain being lazy with dinner. I made chicken strips and french fries and thought about microwaving a veggie. Yes, just thought about it but said fuck it because we’d have to wait five more minutes for dinner and I was just over the day. I spaced out, the oven timer beeped, and I served up dinner.

That’s when I realized I didn’t make any veggies and thought about at least getting up and grabbing a handful of grapes for her but my ass wasn’t moving out of the chair. Because lazy. And exhausted. And holy fuck, I don’t know how long I’m going to make it through these rehearsals three nights a week for the next two months.

The bird didn’t care either way or notice but I got mom guilt because OH MY STARS, I’M NOT GIVING MY CHILD A BALANCED MEAL. I felt like all the sanctimonious mommies knew there was a mom out there who was taking the easy way out and they were going to come after me with pitchforks and torches. I don’t know why I get the guilt, especially when I let her have junk food that I said I’d never let her have before I became a mom.

As I was staring at her plate, I was giving myself the mom guilt trip and was looking over her plate. That’s when I thought to myself “We’ll she is having ketchup so, check, there’s the veggie. But the fruit, omg, the fruit?!! I can’t take this mom guilt so she needs a fruit of some kind!!!

While I was mom guilting myself to death over something so lame that I don’t normally trip out about, I eyed her glass. She was drinking gatorade, which was left over from earlier that day. And it was orange flavored.

So, that’s when I told my mom guilt trip to chill the fuck out, deduced that orange gatorade qualifies as a fruit, and finished my dinner in peace and mom guilt free.

*A Legend

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The Mall Is A Place That Is Hell On Earth

carousel

I recently took my daughter to the mall and it reminded me why I hate the mall. The hummingbird loves it so I endure it after taking a xanax. Not only is the drive 40 minutes away, and I hate driving, but crowds just aren’t my thing either. But, there’s always queso at the mall so besides dealing with the mall bullshit, I eat my beloved tortilla chips and queso at a restaurant that’s in the mall.

That cheesy, delicious, creamy, spicy queso makes me do it.

Cheese has superpowers over me.

But, I’m getting off topic.

The mall fucking sucks and I hate it but I go because after spending half a day at home with a 7 year-old that’s bouncing off the walls and running me ragged, I need to get the hell out of the house. The library is usually our go to place in that situation but on those beautiful, glorious paydays, I have to buy shit I don’t need.

Enter the mall.

Straight away, I have to get my queso and tortilla chips. If I’m full of cheese, I won’t have as much desire to ram people with my body while walking through the mall. It’s the people who stand there talking and are completely oblivious to the fact that other people exist. This person is usually standing in the middle of the aisle so you can’t get past even though you’ve said excuse me twice. They can also be right in front of a store blocking the walkway but you can’t pass because a herd of people decide to come in the opposite direction.

My daughter usually rides the carousel twice and I stand there waving at my daughter every single time she comes my way and take a picture. And usually, half way through, she starts to ignore me while I continue to wave and take 30 pictures of her, none of which turn out.

Then, she’ll ask for a punching balloon thingamajig and each time, I’ll say no.

On we go to one of the stores but wait, what’s that ahead? It’s the fucking Build-A-Bear. That damn store. The hummingbird tries to drag me in while I drag her away and look at that, a small group of people or a family is standing in front of the store, talking, while in the opposite direction, a crowd of people come by like a swarm of bees so we have no choice but to stop and wait which is just enough time for my daughter to use her super strength to get a few feet into Build-A-Bear and just long enough for me to glance at the prices and think what the fuck, break into a cold sweat because an employee of the store eyes us and starts walking our way, and then over-riding my stuffed to the gills stomach full of queso to find my super strength to zoom out of there.

Finally, we’re a few stores down and safe. Or so I thought. There’s a kiosk that has these smushy balls that are sticky and splat on the table and that sounds perverted. For some unknown reason, there’s a magnetic pull that brings kids to this place. After navigating my way from the sticky balls, we head into one of the clothing stores and even though I say we’re just going to look, there’s a cha-ching of some of that payday money.

We start walking to the next store and things are all shiny and calling my name like Sephora or The Body Shop but my daughter’s whiny “MOM” voice that is so bad, dogs can hear, either gets me out of their quick or makes me avoid those places completely.

But wait.

There’s a lipstick I just have to get and that lip balm that I’ll lose in the next few days smells really good so I can’t leave without that.

“MOM!”

Around this time, my mind tunes the whiny voice out because there’s too many shiny, pretty things to look at. That’s when I do what I said I’d never do as a mom but have done since she’s understood it. Bribing is a beautiful thing when you’re in that kind of situation.

I promise her she can buy one thing at the other clothing store within a certain amount of money “if you give mommy a few minutes more.”

Cha-ching!

Oh, there’s the cocoa butter body butter. I must get that too!

Cha-ching!

Before going into the hummingbird’s clothing store, I remind her that we’re only getting ONE thing. That’s it. Just one thing.

Cha-ching! Cha-ching!

Finally, sweet freedom from hell on earth is just out the door but wait. I get the puppy dog eyes and “please, please, please mom, can I ride the carousel once more?”

Okaaay.

While I’m waiting, we’re by the food court and all the smells start making my stomach rumble. The queso has done it’s job in the beginning but now I’m starving and there’s pizza, and Chinese food, and burgers, oh my.

Once the hummingbird is done, we head to the frozen yogurt place in the food court because it’s so smart to sugar your kid up before our 40 minute drive back home. I’m smart like that.

After that, fresh air and freedom from food court smells, crowds, and spending lots of money, we head to the car.

Oh shit, where is the fucking car. I always make a mental note of where I parked but forget it in less than five seconds. Fortunately, my very hyper, sugared up 7 year-old sees our car and it’s home at last.

But what’s that sound? It’s my bank account gently weeping. If only it knew that if we were to get into the clutches of the Build-A-Bear employees, it would be doing the ugly cry from buying all the overpriced bear shit that the place involves.

So, I reassure my bank account that we won’t experience the mall again for another few months. I do leave out the fact that there’s plenty of stuff just sitting there waiting to be bought in my Amazon shopping cart.

Cha-ching!

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Being Two: Like A Puppy Who Had A Six Pack Of Red Bull

being-two

If humans ate their young, this would be the age that we’d do it. At this age, they’re fine one second and screaming on the floor the next second because you cut their fruit up the “wrong” way. This is the toddler pms stage and I barely survived. I was also in a deep depression so that made it even worse.

It sucks ass. But when you’re about to run from the house with plans to move to the Bahamas, they do something really cute and then I would feel like such an asshole. I’m certain that kids have some kind of radar for this and it alerts them to enter the cute mode.

They also love saying “NO” at this age all the fucking time. Everything is no with them. For instance, you know they’re tired and need a nap but those little monsters will say no and refuse. Since tying them to a bed is forbidden, you end up with a very cranky, toddler pms’ing 2 year-old on your hands.

On top of that, “the witching hour” comes and that’s when you feel like sprinting out of the house again. No matter how much you prepare for it and try to avoid it, there was always those 2 hours, between 3-5pm, when the hummingbird acted like a lunatic.

I would bribe and beg and bribe some more but nothing ever works with the witching hour.

Finally, my husband would come home from work and I’d hand him our daughter and take off running upstairs. Later on that night, I would tell him what a hell of a day I had and he’d make some remark that she seemed fine when he got home. And then, I smothered him with a pillow.

Kidding. Maybe. Of course.

*Use Somebody

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