I Heart My Little A-Holes

by Alpert, Karen

  So here’s what I think of this one. Unless you just randomly opened this book right now to this page to see if you want to buy it (you do) you probably know that I’m like the complete opposite of attachment parenting. I mean this is what I said when we moved to our neighborhood. “WTF do you mean it’s only half-day kindergarten?!”

  And these attachment parenters choose to have their kids home ALLLLLLLL day. And not just plopped down in front of the TV. I mean just the thought of having my kids at home all day every day for the next 16 years makes me want to stab my brain with two screwdrivers, one through each ear.

  After having them at home all day teaching them shit like Algebra that you can’t remember how to do so you have to relearn it, you have to let them curl up with you in your bed at night too? No thank you. I mean my husband and I have a king-sized bed so that we don’t have to touch someone else’s skin while we sleep, so the thought of being jabbed by some little rug rat’s elbow in the eyeball in the middle of the night is just not cool.

  And what about sex? Can you imagine? We’re doing it in the laundry room or the basement at 3 AM because all the kids are in our bed, and one of them starts calling, “MOMMMMMYY, I want some cheese!!!!” And I have to be like, “Hold that orgasm, honey, I’ve gotta go unwrap some Velveeta for poop machine #2 right this very second because I’m an attachment parenter. I’ll be right back.”

  Helicopter Parenting

  Definition: Helicopter parents hover over their kids like a helicopter (duh) basically doing everything for them and constantly making sure they don’t get hurt.

  Hmmm, yeahh, as if I don’t have enough shit of my own to do, I’m going to go ahead and do everything my kid is supposed to do too. WTF? You know what happens to these kids? They’re in college and Mommy’s still doing everything for them.

  ME: Awwww, darn it guys, I can’t go to pilates today. Holden just texted me and I have to run by the dorm to wipe his ass. He just made poopies.

  Authoritative Parenting

  Definition: These are parents who expect their kids to follow the rules they make, but when the kids stray, the parents tend to be more supportive than punishing.

  Bwahahahaha! Okay, I have two things to say about this. First of all, I’m not stupid enough to think my kids are going to follow my rules. I mean, my kid’s the one who outlined every corner in our house with a purple crayon. And the kid who wiped poop on her nightstand last week. And the kid who purposely spilled her yogurt down the heating vent.

  And second of all, you want me to do WHAT? Be supportive and NOT punish her ass for this stuff? I’m like sit the F down in that corner young lady, and you can get up when the timer goes off, and then I go set the timer for two years. But apparently I’m supposed to speak sternly to her and then go enroll her in art class or something. I have three words to say about this. F that shit.

  Permissive Parenting

  Definition: These are the totally badass awesome parents who bought us kegs and shit in high school and taught us how to make Jello so we could make Jello shots. They act more like friends and less like parents and don’t really discipline their kids.

  Okay, so I already have enough friends and even if I were looking for more, I’m not sure I would pick my kids. I mean my kids can be total a-holes (duh, check out the title of the book), and would you be friends with someone who pees on you in the shower and throws the perfectly good dinner you cooked across the room?

  ME: Wow, Jen, your potato salad sucks balls. But it makes an awesome Frisbee.

  And here’s another thing, hell if I’m going to give away my alcohol. I mean, yes, sometimes I bring my friends bottles of wine and shit like that, but they return the favor. But where the hell is my sixteen-year-old going to buy me a six-pack? ’Cause Tarjay cards like anyone under the age of 97. I know because I was all psyched when my best bud Arnie carded me last week there and I was all excited that he thought I looked under 21 until he explained to me that they pretty much have to card anyone who breathes. Dude, Arnie, we’re supposed to be friends. Just act like you think I look 20, capiche?

  So there you go. All five parenting styles. So which one are you? One of the Baby-shakers, Codependent granolaheads, Nervous nellies, Dicktators, or Enabling A-Holes? I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with any of them. Basically the way I see it, we’re all just doing whatever it F’ing takes to survive and not go to prison for killing a child and not raise someone who will go to prison for killing a child. Right?

  I love when those annoyingly perfect moms brag that they ONLY give their kids all-natural shit. You know what’s all-natural? Poisonous berries and ’shrooms.

  Mom’s Serenity Prayer

  God, grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change (that 4-year-olds are a-holes);

  Courage to change the things I can (the clock so I can put her to bed earlier);

  And Wisdom to know the difference (between scolding and unleashing every curse word I know on her).

  Living one day at a time (until my husband comes home so I can dump her ass on him);

  Enjoying one moment at a time (that precious few seconds when she has her brother in a headlock and it’s totally quiet);

  Accepting hardship as the pathway to peace (at 8 pm when I can finally shut the bathroom door and poop and read People magazine all by myself);

  Taking, as He did, this sinful world as it is (children born with vocal cords),

  Not as I would have it (children’s vocal cords surgically removed);

  Trusting that He will make all things right (that one day she will have her own daughter– karma!),

  If I surrender to His Will (waving the white flag from the three-week-old fort I’m not allowed to take down in the living room);

  That I may be reasonably happy in this life (define reasonably),

  And supremely happy with Him (as long a there are cheeseburgers and foot massages and no 4-year-olds, I’m happy to sport a perma-grin),

  Forever in the next (whoa whoa whoa, forever is like some serious commitment, but WTH).

  Amen.

  There’s no place like home. Unless you have kids, in which case there’s no place like a bar.

  Yayyy, our Girl Scout cookies arrived! Boooo, our Girl Scout cookies arrived. See, not only do they make me gain weight, but they make me think like a schizophrenic.

  I think it’s F’ing hysterical that they call them THIN Mints. A more appropriate name might be Lard-Ass Mints. Fine, I guess the cookie itself is thin. Maybe that’s why I can eat like nine of them in one bite.

  This is the conversation I just had with myself.

  ME: Ohhhh, I really want a Girl Scout cookie.

  ME: Don’t do it. You want to be skinny, don’t you?

  ME: Yeah, but I really really want it.

  ME: Which lasts longer? One cookie, or being skinny?

  ME: Yeah, you’re right.

  (ten seconds later)

  ME: I still want it. I’m having it. One cookie can’t hurt.

  ME: That’d be true if you could have just one.

  ME: (mouth full) Fuck you.

  Have you ever noticed that thin mints don’t taste as good as they used to? Like 27 cookies ago they were absolutely delicious.

  Awww shit, I just HAD to grab a thin mint before getting ready for bed. Now I either have to wait a long time to brush my teeth or my spit’s gonna be all brown.

  When a sweet little innocent Girl Scout comes to my door and says, “They’re only $4,” do you know what I say? “Bullshit.” Because I’m going to eat that whole F’ing box and then I’m going to have to go buy more transition jeans at Tarjay, and we all know that when you go to Tarjay it is physically impossible to spend less than $100, so really one box of Girl Scout cookies costs me $104.

  If Caillou were a real person I’d gladly go to jail for killing him

  I love how the experts tell us if we’re gonna let our kids watch TV we should watch it with them. WHAT?!!! Why on earth do you think I’m putti
ng her in front of the TV in the first place, Mr. So-called Expert? To get some shit done. So yes, sometimes some inappropriate shows slip between the cracks when I’m not looking. No, not shows like Free My Willy and Batman in Robin. Shows like Caillou. Not Blow me Caillou or Caillou goes to the local Whorehouse. Just Caillou. Because Caillou sucks and can eat my shorts and I hate his F’ing guts.

  Now if you’ve never seen Caillou, you might be inclined to watch it to see WTF I’m talking about. Well don’t. This is not like one of those times when I tell you NOT to do a Google image search of placenta artwork but I know you’re going to just because I said don’t. I am 200% dead serious when I say, DON’T WATCH CAILLOU. You will hate it, you will hate me, and most of all you will hate him. Wanna know why? Here are ten GIANT reasons I hate Mother-F’ing Caillou:

  1. What the hell kind of name is Caillou? The only people who can pull off names that weird are really good-looking people. People like Hermione. But two-dimensional, round-headed bald kids? Not so much. Ordinarily I’m crazy lazy (Uggh, I hate when I inadvertently rhyme) but since I’m writing about him I decided to look up his name. Apparently Caillou is French for pebble. Well, there you go. He is about as lame as a rock.

  2. Why is he bald? I’ve heard a lot of people joke that he has cancer. Because you know, leukemia is so funny. But seriously, someone once told me that by not giving him a hair color, all kids could relate to him— blondes, brunettes, redheads. What?! That makes about no sense at all. Then why not give him hair in ALL different colors? Or clear hair? How many four-year-olds have no hair? None. Well, maybe kids with alopecia, but if that’s what they’re going for then have an episode about it or something.

  3. Caillou has the most annoying theme song in the history of television. As if we haven’t heard him say “I’m Caillou” enough times throughout the song, he says it like 9 times at the end of it. “I’m Caillou, Caillou, Caillou, Caillou, Caillou, Caillou, Caillou.” For the love of God, stop singing! We know who the F you are already. The show is named after you for Pete’s sake.

  4. I’m inventing a new drinking game. Whenever Caillou whines you take a drink. The last person to get their stomach pumped wins. And once your kid watches Caillou, it’s not just Caillou’s whiny-ass voice you have to listen to. Your kid starts to sound like that too. Remember the scene in Reservoir Dogs when the guy gets his ear cut off? Sometimes I wish that were me.

  5. I’ll tell you what really irks me. The way the narrator calls Caillou’s mom “Mommy,” like it’s actually her name. The narrator says crap like, “Mommy is very good at making Caillou feel better.” The only person who should call someone Mommy is the kid who came out of her vajayjay. Period. I know some husbands do it too, but they shouldn’t. It’s wrong for so many reasons.

  6. The narrator is so F’ing annoying she gets #6 too. Have you ever noticed how she’s constantly cutting in to say things like, “Caillou felt sad.” No shit Sherlock, he’s crying.

  7. What is up with all the dowdy moms on this show? Like Caillou’s mom (see how that works, narrator?). Not only does she dress like she’s 9,000 years old, she constantly looks like she’s free-balling. Did the illustrator forget to draw a bra on her? And if this show is all about characters we can relate to, is she supposed to look like me? Talk about insulting. Do I walk around with my muffin top protruding beneath my shirt? No. I do what all the mothers do. I squish it into my jeans where no one can see it.

  8. Musical interludes. ’Nuff said.

  9. Why is he bald? Yes, I know I already did this one, but it’s so annoying I think it merits being mentioned again.

  10. I’m trying to think of one more thing to make this list an even ten, but I’m totally distracted. All I can think about is getting a snack right now. It’s 4:43 so I can’t put dinner on the table for 17 more minutes. The 17 longest minutes of my life. Besides when I’m watching Caillou.

  Half the characters on Mickey Mouse aren’t wearing pants, and yet the way we can tell if they’re guys or girls is whether they have eyelashes and bows. WTF?

  Oh hello anatomically correct doll that should never have been created. Here are a few things I think about you:

  1. There’s one thing and one thing only that plastic penises should be made for. And a baby doll ain’t it.

  2. Can’t you totally hear the conversation when they were designing this doll?

  DESIGNER 1: Whatta you think? Circumcised?

  DESIGNER 2: Nahhh, I was thinking he should have that straight-out-of-the-womb look.

  DESIGNER 1: Bloody and covered in a cheese-like substance?

  DESIGNER 2: Gross, no. I just meant uncircumcised.

  DESIGNER 1: But isn’t it healthier if it’s snipped?

  DESIGNER 2: Dude, it’s a plastic doll.

  DESIGNER 1: Good point. Uncircumcised it is.

  3. Look at that itty bitty ballsack (ball sac??? ball sack??? The Internet spells it like 9 different ways). I can’t help but be a little jealous of this baby’s mom who doesn’t have to hire a crane operator to lift his scrotum (insert heebie jeebies emoticon here) out of the way when she changes a nasty poopie diaper.

  4. If they were going for realistic, shouldn’t it be erect the way they are like 90% of the time when you’re changing them?

  5. So most dolls just have a weird smooth, hill-like area where the genitalia should be, kind of like a faceless mannequin. Totally weird, but for some reason this attempt to make a plastic baby penis is even more disturbing. I know the Supreme Court is busy, but can’t they just take like five minutes and write a law that says all plastic dolls must be wearing painted on underwear?

  6. I’ll bet a plastic penis is so much easier to clean than a skin one. And that it doesn’t get those gross hairs wrapped around it sometimes that make you feel like a pedophile while you’re picking them off.

  7. If I wanted a plastic penis, I’d go to Times Square, not my kid’s toy box.

  Guess I should have given hubby a BJ after all. Look who I found in our bed this morning. And she soooo has sex hair.

  Calling Dr. Snow White, DDS

  So a couple of months ago I decided it was probably time for Zoey to have her first dentist appointment. I know she was supposed to start at age three, but A. I’ve been busy, and B. she’s going to lose those stupid teeth one day anyway so why waste a lot of time on them when she pretty much gets a do-over at age six, and C. WTF is a dentist going to do for a three-year-old besides charge us a boatload of money?

  I know every dentist and hygienist (damn, that’s a hard word to spell) reading this wants to jump through the F’ing page and beat the crap out of me for saying that, so I’m sorry. I promise that if I win the lottery or find an oil well in our backyard, I will take Holden to the dentist when he’s three.

  Anyways, I’m looking at dentists online and their pictures are popping up when Zoey walks in.

  ZOEY: Who’s that?

  ME: I’m looking for a dentist for you.

  ZOEY: I want one that looks like a princess.

  Ummm, yeah, that is exactly what you should look for in a dentist, kiddo. Good looks. Not where they went to school or how close is their office or whether they’re open on weekends. Nope, looks are definitely first priority. Although truth be told, I was intentionally looking at the pictures because I wanted to find someone who’s not a dinosaur and going to retire in like three years. But okay, I’ll start looking for one that looks more like Rapunzel or Ariel.

  Do you know where she gets this shit? Yeah, you know. Dis to the Mother-F’ing Ney. Uhhh, sorry, that’s like my lame attempt at being cool and totally doesn’t make sense. Yeah, Disney has single-handedly taught my kiddo that being good-looking is like the be-all end-all.

  Like the other day I was reading one of those Little Golden books to Zoey about Beauty and the Beast. Ahhh, it actually is such a beautiful story. This totally hot-to-trot, book-loving bittie falls in love with this guy who looks like he needs a nose job, a wax job and a visit to the chiropractor. She
falls in love with him for everything he is on the inside. And then when he’s dying, she kisses him and says I love you and she saves his life with her undying love. Awesome. Amazing. Shedding a tear. End of story. Ennhhh, wrong.

  Nooo, Disney can’t leave it there. God forbid someone isn’t good-looking in one of their stories. So at the end of the book Mr. Beast suddenly transforms into a runway model (although not half as good-looking as Flynn Rider if you ask me). I actually thought about ripping this last page out of the book, but then the page before it would be gone too and the story would end with Gaston plunging a knife into the Beast’s back. And Gaston’s an F’ing asshole so I’m not giving him the pleasure.

  And this Disney crap doesn’t stop with Beauty and the Beast. The other day I was reading about Merida, you know the princess from Brave who’s like the only normal princess. I mean that’s the kind of girl I’d like to shoot the shit with over a margarita. The kind of girl who’s not perfect and takes like 9,000 hours to straighten her hair sometimes. I’d be like, “Heyyy, did you straighten your hair? It looks good,” and she’d be like, “Yeah, I got it blown out the other day at my haircut so I haven’t showered in like 6 days or else it’ll get all frizzy again.”

  Anyways, I was reading the other day that Disney is changing her to look more like a sexpot. Her shirt is cut lower, her hair is lustrous curls instead of a frizzy mess, and either she’s wearing a corset or she went on the Atkins diet because just a couple of weeks ago her waist was like two inches bigger. You know what I would like to see just once? A Disney princess whose weight yo-yos like a normal person.