Event 2: Food-cutting
CHILD: Wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
What’s that the sound of? That’s your little poop machine crying his head off because you can’t prepare his food fast enough. In this event you will be given a bagful of grapes and a dull plastic knife. First mom to quarter every grape wins! And while you do it, you will be subjected to the grating sounds of a crying baby, either from an iPod or a real crying baby. TBD.
Event 3: Cheerio explosion
Moms, take your marks. Get set. Go! There are thousands of Cheerios spread throughout the yard. The moms will have thirty seconds to gather as many Cheerios as possible using nothing but her hands to collect them. There are no rules. Kicking, wrestling, tackling, grabbing, pulling, whatever you need to do to come out with more Cheerios than any other mom and prove your momlihood. You thought mud-wrestling was bad? You ain’t seen nothin’.
Event 4: Blowout Bonanza
For the love of God, stop wriggling!!! It’s just one of many things you’ll hear screamed during this event where each mom is given a greased pig covered in poop. She must clean the pig with only three baby wipes and then outfit the squirming pig in a fresh diaper. The winner will receive a lifetime supply of Purell. All of which she will use that day.
Event 5: Poop poop pee doop
She who poops the fastest wins. I shit you not. Moms will each go into a restroom and a timer will start the second the door closes. Don’t come out ’til you’re done. And to make it realistic, someone will be banging on the door and yelling, “Mommmm!” the entire time. Contestants must have a smart phone with a camera to provide proof so as not to subject the referee (me) to any unnecessary odors.
Event 6: Beginners breastfeeding
Last one to take the battery charger clamps off her nipples wins!
So brush up on your skills and practice practice practice because one of you will soon win the Momlympics and be anointed Mom of the Year! Yeah, I’ll bet you thought Gwenyth Paltrow or Oprah or someone like that handed this shit out. Well, you’re wrong. I do.
(Before kids)
(After kids)
Why I’m a worse mom than you
Fifteen things I do as a Mom that will make you feel better about yourself:
1. If the kids spill a little milk and I’m too lazy to get a paper towel, I wipe it up with my sleeve. Or my foot if I’m wearing a sock.
2. Sometimes when I don’t know where a toy goes, I just throw it away. Especially doll clothes. We have a lot of naked dolls in our house.
3. Speaking of naked, sometimes I take pictures of my kids’ tiny tushies because I know I’m going to miss them one day. If someone were to open up iPhoto on my computer, I’d be arrested for pedophilia.
4. Last week I accidentally left the baby gate open and found my thirteen-month-old standing at the top of the stairs just staring down them. I think he was there for about 40 seconds before I showed up.
5. If the kids are crying too much at night sometimes I just give them Tylenol with blind hope that it fixes whatever is wrong.
6. When I want a bite of my daughter’s food, I lie and tell her I have to check and make sure it’s not poisonous.
7. Speaking of lies, sometimes I lie and say I have stomach upset just to get a few minutes to myself. Especially when I get a new People magazine. I call it FIBS (Fake Irritable Bowel Syndrome).
8. I’ve practically given up on finding the kids’ nails when I cut them. I do a half-assed search and hope the vacuum cleaner gets the rest, even if I’m not vacuuming for two weeks. Or more.
9. Sometimes I realize I’ve been looking at my cell phone for the past ten minutes and haven’t once looked up at my kids.
10. I’m so bad at geography I’m already worried about when my kids take it in school and they discover that I don’t know where all the states are in the United States.
11. Back when I nursed, there were times I’d drink a glass or two of wine in hopes that it would help my son sleep better.
12. In the supermarket I hand my kids random items to occupy them (i.e. a package of straws or a jar of sprinkles) and then I leave those items all over the store when they get bored and I have to give them something new.
13. When I find a Cheerio on the ground at home if I don’t have pockets or a trashcan, I just eat it. Provided it’s not mushy or covered in fuzz. Or one of those small, hard ones that was once in someone’s mouth.
14. Once there was a time I forgot to seatbelt my baby daughter into her infant car seat and we drove five blocks before I realized it.
15. I’m thankful for a lot of things, but mostly the speckled countertops in our kitchen so I can’t tell how dirty they really are.
I don’t know what they’re serving for snack at school today, sweetie.
At home I’m serving mimosas.
A letter to my daughter in the future, but none of that sappy crap you see on Huff Post
To my daughter when she turns 18 (many many years from now),
Well, hey there kiddo. Remember me, the mom you used to love but now probably hate with every bone in your teenage body. If you’re anything like the little shit I was at that age, you’re barely speaking to me right now, much less listening to my brilliant words of wisdom.
The way I see it I’ll be hitting menopause at about the same time you’re in the thick of puberty so basically we’re F’ed, so I figured I better write you this letter now before we’re not speaking to each other. Then again if I’m wrong and we’re like totally besties, I’ll just tell you this shit over a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and give you this letter so you’ll have it in writing too.
Before you move away from home (at which point I’ll be locked up in the bathroom drowning my tears in a bottle of vodka) I wanted to make sure to pass along some words of advice to you. Here are a few things to do in your early adulthood before life sucks the life out of you:
Get shitfaced once in a while. Some of my best bonding moments were when I had one (translation: four) too many cocktails with my girl friends. Just don’t do any of the following while you’re shitfaced: walk home alone, drive drunk or sleep with a guy. Even if he’s like ridiculously hot. No, not because he might turn out to be fugly when you’re sober. Consider this shit, if he’s that attractive, guess what else might be attracted to him. Herpes, genital warts and crabs. Going home with a hangover the next morning is doable. Going home with the Red Lobster menu crawling all over your hoo-ha not so much.
And while we’re on the subject of bonding, try to make a lot of great friends in your twenties. Here are a few things that happen when you’re a young adult: you go out a lot, you drink, and you hang out on people’s couches. As you get older these things happen less and less. Not that you can’t bond with a friend over a stinky diaper change. It just doesn’t quite bring you together the same way dropping your pants to pee in an alley does. Not that I’ve done that.
And speaking of dropping your pants, let’s talk about your career choice. Yeah, picking something you love is important, but here’s some shit the career counselors won’t tell you. You know how you say one day you want to get married and have babies and all that junk and give me little grandbabies I can cuddle and love and hand back to you when they take a shit? If you can, pick a job that’s going to be flexible with hours one day and let you work from home. There’s no such thing as a part time investment banker. Or a part time cardiac surgeon. They’re fabulous jobs and yeah, I’d be proud as hell to say my daughter is doing a heart transplant, but I’d also be watching your kiddo all day, and I’m not sure how cool it would be for me to walk into your OR and say, “Here, take your rug rat. He just made a doodie and I ain’t changing it.”
Notice how in that last paragraph I said you want to get married one day. I didn’t say you want to find a husband. Yeah, if you’re a lesbian, just tell us. Don’t beat around the bush. Wait, yes, beat around the bush but tell us you’re beating around the bush. It’ll actually make us feel better, espe
cially your dad who has a gun ready for the first guy who asks for your hand in marriage.
Which is a great segue to dating. Whether you’re into men or women, you’re going to date a bunch of assholes along the way. They might break up with you in a text message or cheat on you with their ex who they broke up with in a text message. And they’ll probably make you cry and feel like crapola. Just know that they are not a waste of time. They are all there to teach you what you DON’T want in a partner.
Because one day your boobs will droop so low they touch your ankles, and your elbows will make you wonder whether you’re ¼ elephant, and your eyesight will be so bad you’ll fail to notice your one-haired goatee until it gets tangled in your necklace, and that’s when you’ll want a partner who’s not going to throw up in their mouth a little when they see you naked. You want to end up with someone who thinks you’re more gorgeous than the day you first met.
And one last thing. Even if you’re not talking to me right now, know that you can always tell me anything. ANYTHING. I’ve probably been there myself, even if I never told you about it. I might want to kick the shit out of you and lock you in a room forever, but I won’t actually do it. I will always be there for you (with a bottle of something hard if you’re 21 or a pint of something chocolatey if you’re not).
I love you.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXO
Love,
Mommy (Of course I realize by now
you’re probably calling me Mom.
Or shithead.)
I love when I blow my nose while I’m peeing. Not only am I multitasking, but the pee comes out faster so I’m saving time. Awesome.
A letter to my son in the future, you know, if he hasn’t disowned me for this book
To my son when he turns eighteen (a lonnnnnng time from now),
Hey, little buddy. Can I still call you that even though you tower over me now? BTW, I appreciate you not saying anything about my gray roots, that is if you’re saying anything at all to me these days. The truth is I don’t know jack shit about boys since I came from a houseful of mostly vajayjays, so who the F knows whether they talk to their moms or not when they’re teenagers.
So as you pack your bags (or more likely as I pack your bags) to head off to college (dear God pleeeeease let it be a local one or you might find me curled up in one of your boxes), I hope you don’t mind but I’ve pulled together a list of shit you SHOULDN’T do while you’re there. Sure, I should totally take you fishing or some crap like that and tell you this to your face, but screw that. I’d be embarrassed, you’d be embarrassed, and this way you can pin this letter above your extra long twin-sized bed so you’ll never forget. Okay, I’m just gonna dive right in here.
Don’t ever sleep with a girl without a condom on. Not just protection. A CONDOM!!! I don’t give a rat’s ass if she says she’s on the pill or wearing a diaphragm (and if she says she’s wearing a sponge, run like the wind ’cause that girl’s not a girl, she’s a dinosaur). Because here’s what can happen when you don’t wear a condom. You can get all kinds of shit. Like AIDS or herpes or chlamidia. I have no F’ing idea how to spell that word and I’m okay with that because anyone who knows how to spell chlamidia has probably had it. In fact, I will quiz you every time I see you to make sure you can’t spell it.
Oh, and here’s another thing you can get if you don’t use a condom. A baby. That’s right, a pooping, shitting, crying, peeing, never-sleeping, attached-to-its-ho-bag-mother baby. And believe me, you don’t want one of those. I can’t tell you how annoying babies are. Uhhh, except for you of course. Nahhh, even you were a pain in the ass.
Plus, if you get a girl preggers, you’re going to be her daddy-slave FOREVAHHH. And I know some hot little chica might look awesome now in her Vic’s Secret panties that say “call me” on the crotch, but really that’s just a sneak peek into the irritating nag she’s going to be if you get her preggers. “Call me when you’re leaving the office. Call me in case I need you to pick up milk. Call me and tell me you love me. Call me when you’re out with the guys. Call me just because I want your ass to be at my beckon call.”
So I cannot say this enough. Do not get a girl preggers. Do not get a girl preggers. Do not get a girl preggers. Do not get a girl preggers. Do not get a girl preggers. Do not get a girl preggers. Do not get a girl preggers. Do not get a girl preggers. Do not get a girl preggers. Do not get a girl preggers.
And while we’re on the subject of getting laid (gasp! yes, your mama just said getting laid), if you don’t really like a girl, like really really like her, don’t spoon her. I know it seems like a stupid little thing, but there’s like some weird switch in women and as soon as you spoon them, they start to picture things like the L word and marriage and shit like that. I know, it’s weird. But women are weird. Duh, look at me.
Okay, so let’s move on to a different subject. While you’re in college, I probably don’t have to tell you this, but it’s okay to drink your face off once in a while. And there are lots of fun, harmless things to do while you’re shitfaced. Like swallow a goldfish (I know all the PETA people reading this are like WTF, but seriously people, it’s a goldfish). Or come up with some annoying accent with your friends and annoy the shit out of everyone around you all night while you talk like that. Or pass out and have your friends draw with Sharpies all over you. Does it suck waking up with a Hitler mustache? Sure. But it’s important to laugh at yourself once in a while.
But here’s the real reason I’m talking to you about getting shitfaced. Here are some things NOT to do while you’re tanked. Get in the car and drive somewhere. If you are drunk and need to get from point A to point B, call me. Go ahead and say you’re at your drug dealer’s and you’re going to a whorehouse. I don’t give a shit, just call me. I will come drive you there because I would rather do that than let you drive drunk.
And here’s another thing NOT to do while you’re drunk. Get into a fistfight at a bar. Because here’s what happens to a-holes who fight in bars. They die. Or they get thrown in jail and they have to call their parents to bail them out and their parents kill them and guess what. They die.
And last but not least, one last thing not to do when you get shitfaced (Side note, I LOVE that spell check totally recognizes the word shitfaced. It doesn’t recognize dreidel but it does recognize shitfaced. WTF?). Anyways, last but not least, when you’re shitfaced do not get a girl preggers!!!
Aww shit, this letter is like a novel already so let me just rattle off a few more. Don’t forget to wash your sheets sometimes, at least once a semester, especially if you’re busy NOT getting girls pregnant in them. Don’t pick a girl for her boobs because one day they will be around her ankles. And don’t forget to hug me when you come home to visit. Every single weekend.
I love you and will be drowning my sorrows in red wine until I see you again on Friday when you come home to hug me.
Love,
Yo mama
P.S. Just in case you skimmed this letter because it’s too long and just read the last line, do not get a girl preggers.
Okay, I know a bunch of those perfect moms say that love is cooking a three-course meal for your family and shit like that, but I’ll tell you what love is. Love is when you call the pediatrician’s office to ask about the symptoms of a UTI and the nurse tells you to check your daughter’s pee to see if it smells foul, and then you practically bury your nose in her pull-up or in the still steaming toilet water and take a deep whiff. That, my friends, is love.
I don’t read no stinkin’ parenting magazines
So the other day I was reading some sappy crap on Huff Post when they started talking about helicopter parenting and I was like WTF is that so I decided to look it up. Holy shit, there’s like a name for every kind of parent out there. Who the hell knew?! Well, probably half of you because you read parenting books and shit, but I all I ever read is People magazine so I had no idea.
Anyways, it’s kind of like how ten years ago everyone was trying to figure out whi
ch Sex and the City character they were. I was like Carrie but fatter and with a little Miranda and Samantha mixed in but ZERO Charlotte. But I digress. So as soon as I see this parenting styles list, I scan it to see which of these styles I am.
Not me. Not me. Not me. Not me. Not me.
Awesome, so basically I don’t fit in anywhere and I belong on the island of misfits. What else is new? So here goes. My very scientific analysis of the five different parenting styles and why I’m not any of them.
Instinctive Parenting
Definition: This is when parents pretty much just go with their gut and listen to their instincts as they raise their kids.
Uhhhh, yeah, this one is not me. Like right now as I type this, my four-year-old is purposely running as loudly as possible down the hallway either trying to imitate a herd of elephants or attempting to wake her napping brother, and you know what my gut is telling me? Go the F out there and kill her.
If parents like me went with our instincts, we would all murder our kids sometime between the ages of 2 and 4 and the human race would eventually die out. What killed the dinosaurs? An asteroid. What killed the humans? Instinctive parenting.
That’s why they literally teach you at the hospital before you leave to never shake a baby. Because at some point when your poop machine is screaming at the top of her lungs no matter how much you swaddle her, sing to her or bounce her on an exercise ball, instinct tells you to shake the F’ing baby.
Attachment parenting
Definition: These parents are all about answering to their children’s every need like ASAP. And they’re into shit like the family bed, homeschooling and that regurgitation crap Alicia Silverstone did with her kid (Remember when she fed him chewed up kale like a bird right out of her mouth? Blagggh, I won’t even eat kale before it’s chewed up by someone else).
I Heart My Little A-Holes Page 9