kids are people too dammit

By the age of ten, I had experienced every form of abuse possible at the hands of my two dads (a biological and step-father.) Though I wouldn’t remember some of it until a later age, it certainly affected my thoughts, perceptions and feelings throughout life. The effects of abuse, for me, wouldn’t come to a complete head until I had my own children.

The past couple of days I have jokingly or rather light-heartedly referenced how I can “lose my shit” over someone correcting or speaking to my children in a way that I don’t necessarily like. Some of you may be thinking, “Jeesh, woman! Get over yourself. I would want to send your kids to the corner if I were around them too!” And that may be true.

The thing is, no matter how much my kids may be misbehaving, I never want to make them feel disrespected or small. Do you know what I mean by small? The way a child feels when someone who is twice their size gets in their face and pokes them in the chest with their finger? It doesn’t hurt them or terrorize them, but it makes them feel out of control physically. You’re in their space and yelling and, frankly, when I see it happen to my kids I go right back to being a ten year-old little girl with no rights or respect. Just an object to be yelled at.

I know the people around my kids would never purposefully make my kids feel that way. And hell, my kids may not even take it the way I see it. But when I feel it for my kids, I see red. My mama bear instinct kicks in and I will protect my kids from whomever, whenever, wherever. It’s happened between my husband and I on more than one occasion. He gets stern with the kids and has a gruff voice and all I want to do is protect them. I know I’ve undermined him and pissed him off beyond words, but I can’t help it. I know he would never harm our children and has no intention of making them feel small, but my knee-jerk reaction takes over and it happens.

There are some things that I definitely have to get over. And then there are some things that I know may not be the big deal I make them to be, but I don’t care. I will always strive to make my kids feel respected and safe. They may be little hellions in the process. They may piss everyone around them off, including me. And I will deal with that too. But I hope to do so in a way that creates a conversation, and understanding. Not in a way that just scares the shit out of them.

I don’t want to be my kids’ friend. I honestly don’t, but I do want to have open lines of communication that stems from mutual respect. If they can’t respect me without fearing me then I don’t know what to do. But I don’t really want to be feared. I spent my life in fear of the authorities in my life. I don’t like the insecurity I felt from that as a kid and I don’t like who that made me as an adult. There has to exist a happy medium somewhere. I know my kids’ grandparents and older people in our lives absolutely don’t agree with me. They think I’m soft and a less than great mom at times. That bothers me, but I’m not sure it bothers me enough to want to change it or apologize for it.

My kids aren’t out skinning cats or flaunting their boobs. If that starts, I guess I’ll have to reconsider.

I know this is a break from my usual irreverent and childish behavior. I just want my voice to express from time to time the things that are important to me. And, right now, my kids and their state of well-being are heavy on my heart. I want them to know that their mom believes that kids are people too dammit.


and then she lost her shit

Remember a couple of days ago when I warned you of the impending shit losing?  Today is the day.  I know, it’s only taken a matter of hours.  I can’t help it.

I am not the kind of person that can just bite her tongue and grin and bear it.  I try.  Man, do I try.  And sometimes I last a long freaking time.  And then I blow.  I have been irritated about some things for several days.  None of it is big.  It’s just your average six adults and two children under one 3000 square foot roof for weeks on end.  Shit will get ugly.  And nerves will be raw.  But no matter how much one person knows this, when you lose your shit you just lose your shit.

So someone takes out the trash and doesn’t put a liner back in the can.  And then all hell breaks loose.


“You’re lucky that XBox doesn’t belong to you or I would take it and throw it up against the wall just like the last fucking time you decided to go on a veg fest while I was busy being a damn slave.”

“Do you KNOW how long it’s been since I’ve had sex?  Let’s just put it this way, I’ve gone through two boxes of tampons since there was any action around here.  A girl starts to lose her shit when sleeping on a blow up bed with no release whatsoever.  WHATSOEVER.  Can you say that? WHAT.SO.EVER?”

“The next person that tells me my kids are out of control is going to get a sharp fist to the groin.  AND THEN WE’LL SEE WHO’S OUT OF CONTROL AROUND HERE BITCHES.”

And then the person that lost her shit might go in the bathroom and sob into a towel for an hour or so.


I feel I should warn you, in case you happen to be within 100 square miles of me and should happen to run across me in public, or whatever:
The next person that did not push my child through their reproductive organs that decides to physically touch or yell at my child will suffer some sort of consequence.  I cannot even fathom the severity of that consequence at this time because I am not a stable situation, but there will be a fucking repercussion.  I don’t care if my kid threw a baseball threw your window and called you fatty mcgee, there is absolutely no reason for anyone that isn’t paying for their college tuition to physically manhandle my child.  I will lose my shit all over again.

So you’ve been warned.

127 reasons I absolutely *could not* be a 1965 housewife. (v.1)

You may have heard a little something about me.  I’m no longer a full-time worker.  For the first time since the mortgage industry went tits up in a punch bowl, this girl? Doesn’t have to bring in a paycheck.  Be jealous, folks.  Suuuuper Jealous.  I give it till September 27th… a few days after school starts and I’ll be losing my freaking mind.  Because, this girl?  Is so not a housewife!  I may become one, you know… when I actually get a house.  (We’re getting there, folks.  Only a couple more weeks!)  But for now, I so don’t fit the role.

I’ve been watching the show “Mad Men” on Netflix- it’s set in the suburban 60’s.  Have you seen this?  I’m on season one.  I’m not sure how long I’ll last because, well… it PISSES ME THE HELL OFF!  I just want to shake those women and tell them to get the hell over it!  I am a little jealous of the chain-smoking and cocktail consumption without the guilt.  (Even while pregnant!)  I am not jealous of the doting wife, you do whatever you want and I’ll be here waiting for you crap.

Here’s a few things this girl just doesn’t do as housewife:

1.  I don’t iron shit.  If your clothes need to be ironed, you need to find yourself an upstanding little facility that loves to wash and press and dry clean the hell out of it for you.  Or you need to learn how to work the iron.  I have better things to do.  Like… anything.

2.  Yard work is not for me.  I don’t care if I’m home 24 hours a day with absofreakinglutely nothing to do and you work 22 hours a day and only come home to poop and shower; I will not mow the lawn.  If you don’t have time for it, there’s a shit ton of hispanic fellas parked outside of Home Depot just aching for a job.  Go pay one of them to come over and push the mower.  Seriously, those guys are hard workers and they need a job!

3.  I absolutely, positively 100% do not take kindly to a man making his job his first priority and his home life an after thought.  I am so fortunate that my hubs is a family man.  He is a great dad and takes great care of us.  I will say, for a couple of weeks there in starting a new job, he was very focused on work.  I know it wasn’t his intention, but he was an idiot.  I had to smack him back into reality and he was fine, but I’m telling you, if that was my life on a daily basis I’d come unglued!

How the hell did women do it?  I don’t consider myself to be particularly “women’s lib” for the most part.  I am just dandy with caring for my family and letting my hubs take the lead in a lot of things.  I don’t feel like I’m a woman who tries to make a point about women’s rights, but I could lose my shit over being treated like a second class citizen.  A marriage is a partnership, and if I were treated like a silent partner, I’d probably do a hell of a lot more than take my kitchen shears to someone’s genitalia.

Maybe that’s just me.

homeless no more…

If you listen carefully you will hear the angels in heaven singing whatever the hell angels sing when they are rejoicing over a woman narrowly rescued from losing her damn mind from living with her in-laws for too long.  (I say this in partial jest, as I am so grateful for loving in-laws who opened their home to us for as long as it took to find a home.  None of us were expecting it to take in the ballpark of two months.  So, the angels are singing for my MIL’s sanity too.  I’m sure.  Actually, I’m reasonably positive she wants to kill me right now.)  Where was I going with this…?

Oh right, we found a house.  HOLY SHIT WE FOUND A HOUSE!  It’s tiny and so totally different from what we originally set out to get but as the previous paragraph/babble fest would suggest, our standards were drastically altered and the plan completely changed so we could get the EFF off of the blow up mattress in the in-law’s place and into our own space, even if it is under 1500 sq ft.

Have you ever lived with your in-laws?  Most women I know would rather ride bare back on a horse naked for 3 days than live with her mother-in-law.  I will admit, of all the shit my hubs has put me through over the years, this one tops the list.  But, we are all surviving.  Well, there’s two more weeks left so we’ll see, but so far… everyone is still alive and no one has thrown a punch.  My MIL has been more than gracious and if the kids can just hold their shit together for two more freaking weeks, we may all make it.

You know how people used to live as one big family compound?  Moms, dads, grammas, grampas, aunts and even creepy uncles?  There’s a reason that shit just doesn’t fly this side of the Mississippi.  Too many adults directing the kids is just a shit show.  My babes are so confused as to what the rules are and who to listen to I just want to wrap them up in a blanket and swaddle them to sleep.  They are losing their shit on the daily and (even though my husband begs to differ) I just really have a hard time being too hard on them.  Which of course means they are losing their shit even more.  I just want to throw in the towel and curl up in the fetal.  Which means I am weak and an inconsistent mom and therefore a total loser as a wife and mom.  Which means I’m losing my fucking mind and will most definitely lose my shit soon.  And we all know that will be ugly as hell.

Okay, I feel better now.  I’m scared to even go back and re-read this because I know it’s just a pathetic mess.  If this post were a picture it’d be some sad excuse of a woman in her bathrobe and curlers with snot and drool all over the place while she bends over and shows half of her ass searching for the bottle of vodka she hid behind the toilet.

So now I will push publish and run away from the computer.  And you all will leave comments about how you love me and I’m doing a good job and you’ll come visit me in the nut house.  YOU WILL DAMMIT.  OR I WILL BLOCK YOU FROM THIS BLOG FOREVER!  (And you’ll be sad about that once I find my funny again and am actually writing shit worth reading.)


you put what? in where? can i see?

My daughter is eight.  Sometime, a few months ago, we had “the talk.”  I can’t even remember what inspired the momentous occasion.  I wish I would have written it down.  I decided not to blog about it because I didn’t want to be one of those mommy bloggers that embarrasses the crap out of her kids.  Yet, here I am.


As part of the talk, Elle had an epiphany.  “OOOHHHH, so that’s what those tubes are that you stick up your butt.”  Uhhhh… not exactly Elle.  And nothing should EVER go in your butt.  E-V-E-R. (I like to indoctrinate my children at an early age, okay!?!)  So, after a few more minutes of anatomy and the more icky facts of life we had the purpose of tampons down pat.

A couple of nights ago we were out to dinner.  My kids went off to the bathroom at the end of our meal while the Hubbs and I enjoyed the only 5 minutes of silence I experienced all day.  My son, 5, went into the ladies’ room with Elle.  He has a broken leg and needs a little help.  I was feeling lazy and just let her take him.  I will forever regret that decision.

A few minutes after the kids went to the bathroom my daughter came out telling me Jordan needed help finishing up (that’s code for butt-wiping time.  Yep, I’m pretty sure I’ll have to accompany him to college to wipe his ass.  This broken leg thing has done no.thing to help that problem.)  When I went in there were tampon wrappers and applicators on the floor all around him.  This mother promptly freaked the freak out thinking he’d been digging around in the garbage can that we have had numerous discussions about never touching.  (The child may not know how to wipe his ass but he knows you can get syphilis from touching the small silver garbages.)  He quickly put me at ease by informing me those tubes were new, and Elle gave them to him.  (A moment of investigation confirmed that there was a basket of tampons for the use of whomever- especially unattended children- on the counter.  Brilliant.)

My tiny little baby then went on to ask me a million questions about tampons, and suzies (our code word for girl privates,) and a myriad of other things I am blocking out at this time.  This is the synopsis of the discussion:

  • I successfully avoided telling any actual facts about tampons, suzies or anything else.
  • I successfully discouraged my child from wanting to see any suzies in the foreseeable future.  Hopefully.
  • I am plotting the murder of my eldest child for putting me in this position at this point in my life, when I can. not handle one more thing.
  • What I thought was a successful avoidance of all topics until my hubby could handle this for our BOY since I handled it for our GIRL seems to be backfiring since Hubbs has decided that too now falls under my job description.  (You may remember a previous discussion about this in regard to dental appointments and him being the chief breadwinner and this shit falling on me.  We will be rectifying this situation as soon as I come up with a plan that makes his life a living hell.)
  • My son will most definitely need therapy.  Lots of therapy.
  • So do I.

it’s shark week and we’re going to the dentist.

Apparently, it’s shark week.  This may mean something different to me than it does to you.  In my normal day to day, thanks to my hilariously funny bestie (i totally hate that word), shark week means I’m on my period.  If you sit and ponder that for a moment you’ll see the terminology is suiting for oh so many reasons.

Okay, time’s up.

Those crazy asses at the Discovery Channel (or is it National Geographic? Meh- they’re basically the same thing.) think their shark week is better than mine.  They might be right.  But at least no one loses their damn limbs during mine.  (for the most part.)

My sister was at a bar the other night and saw three girls with t-shirts that had shark fins glued to the back and “It’s Shark Week” plastered to their asses.  What the hell?  My drunk sister told them what it means in our world.  They thought it was funny.  (Until they realized no men were coming within 10 paces. Dummies.)

I could care less about the TV version of shark week.  Until I was in the shower getting ready to take the kids to their dentist appointment.  They are way overdue and I better not get any lip about it.  You probably know by now I have a freaky phobia of the dentist (and little people.) so I have been putting this off.  I don’t want to pass my idiocy on to my kids, but now I have to just buck up and do it.  The Hubbs has informed me that now that he’s the chief bread winner, this shit falls squarely on me and I need to get over it.


So, as I was saying, I was in the shower getting ready and realized maybe it’s not a good idea to take the kids to the dentist during Shark Week.  I’ve heard all sorts of stories (probably) about weird things that (may or may not) happen during Shark Week and I’m not sure I’m willing to chance anything Wonky happening to my kids while we’re there.  (No matter how freaking crazy they are making me right now!)  WHATEVER DO I DO?

I guess I’m just going to have to call a cab and pop a Xanax and a shot of the Goose.  Because REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED ON FINDING NEMO???

*If I were in my right mind I’d apologize for all the () and the YELLING.  But I’m not. (Which is why it’s there.)