I know. It's been two years since I last wrote for this blog. Well, a lot of awful shit has happened in those two years. This blog is going to be taking on a whole new purpose. See, THREE years ago, I was diagnosed with an incurable, rare autoimmune disease called Behcet's (look it up, fuckers). This disease has turned my world upside down, almost killed me, gave me a vast knowledge of my local ER, and changed me in positive ways that I never could have expected.
Well, I'm now going to share that experience with you. You're welcome.
I'm going to share hospital experiences, doctor visits, daily struggles, not only with being sick, but being a sick mother. All in a completely hilarious and sarcastic way, of course. I'll also being sharing notorious Layla incidents. She's the first kid I've ever know to get suspended in Kindergarten, but we'll get to that story later.
This is my way to see my illness in a whole new light, and to make fun of it, myself, life, and my kid as much as possible. :D
I'll be changing the subheading of the blog "Brutally honest motherhood" to possibly "Brutally honest motherhood; without a cure." If anyone has a better suggestion, please share.
Now Share the shit out of this entry, so I can get the word out that SASMA is back! (Well, I'm excited about it.)
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
The Demon Mouse Saga continues!
Today, Dear Readers of Wonderous Magicalness, I bring you...GUEST ART from JRose from Da Cheeseblarg! OMG!
I know I know, you admire me for knowing her personally (for ten years), and now you want to worship me and have my babies and have hot sex with me. But really, you should already want to do all that. What's wrong with you?
Sorry. Moving on.
Today, I also bring you the next installment in the Demon Mouse saga. Sadly, since my last post, I think the mouse either moved out of my walls, deciding they really weren't all that tasty after all, or died a horrible death of suffocation and starvation. Either way, I'm not being woken up anymore by the little bastard having his midnight snack. Why yes, I AM heartless, thanks for noticing. :D
Anyway....
One night, after watching the Green Hornet, I was just about to go to sleep, when suddenly, I heard the loudest, most violent scratching and chewing yet. It sounded like Demon Mouse was trying to claw its way out of my closet. It SOUNDED like he was just on the other side of the closet door, waiting for me to open the door so he could launch himself onto my face and begin devouring my eyeballs.
Upon hearing this disturbing noise, first I peed myself, then after cleaning that up, I went in search of a weapon. This "weapon" turned out to be my broom. Hey, what would you choose when facing a closet-dwelling mouse with evil intentions? The gun was INSIDE the closet with the mouse, and my landlord would have serious problems if I shot holes in the closet. (Stupid bitch)And all the sharp knives that were bigger than a steak knife were ALSO inside the closet with the mouse. Hmmm. Seems The Mouse has more than just claws and fangs for weapons. I've now armed it with a gun and several large, sharp daggers. Way to go, self. Why not just give it a damn flamethrower while you're at it?
So, armed with my broom, I stood in front of the closet door in my granny panties (totally mouse-defeating armor. If it doesn't scare him to death, he'll laugh himself to death instead) and tried to work up the courage to open the door.
This is when I realized that I had shit for courage, and needed back up. Since my three year old was asleep, I decided to go in search of my brave and totally-going-to-eat-the-mouse-and avenge-my-closet dog.
Once I found her, we both stood in front of the closet. Me with my trusty broom, her with her fucked up teeth. She's a shih tzu, you see. But once the mouse started clawing and chewing again, it became apparent very quickly that my dog wasn't going to do shit to back me up or avenge my closet.
Upon uttering this, she took one look at me, eyed a "fuck this shit" look at me, and crawled under the bed.
This is when I realized that I wasn't about to open that closet door. Not in this lifetime anyway, and set aside my broom. Then, for the next 5 minutes I tried convincing my pussy dog to come out from under the bed. But after uttering 80293842 profanities, including things like "You're in the room WITH IT, you stupid fuck!" and "Fine! Stay here with the demon mouse! I'll collect your remains in the morning!' and she STILL wouldn't emerge, I gave up, closed the bedroom door, and camped out on the couch.
Yeah, so I'm not willing to face an evil, face-eating mouse. But if zombies ever attacked or vampires, I'd be SO kicking some ass then. Or hiding under the bed with my dog. Whichever.
I know I know, you admire me for knowing her personally (for ten years), and now you want to worship me and have my babies and have hot sex with me. But really, you should already want to do all that. What's wrong with you?
Sorry. Moving on.
Today, I also bring you the next installment in the Demon Mouse saga. Sadly, since my last post, I think the mouse either moved out of my walls, deciding they really weren't all that tasty after all, or died a horrible death of suffocation and starvation. Either way, I'm not being woken up anymore by the little bastard having his midnight snack. Why yes, I AM heartless, thanks for noticing. :D
Anyway....
One night, after watching the Green Hornet, I was just about to go to sleep, when suddenly, I heard the loudest, most violent scratching and chewing yet. It sounded like Demon Mouse was trying to claw its way out of my closet. It SOUNDED like he was just on the other side of the closet door, waiting for me to open the door so he could launch himself onto my face and begin devouring my eyeballs.
Upon hearing this disturbing noise, first I peed myself, then after cleaning that up, I went in search of a weapon. This "weapon" turned out to be my broom. Hey, what would you choose when facing a closet-dwelling mouse with evil intentions? The gun was INSIDE the closet with the mouse, and my landlord would have serious problems if I shot holes in the closet. (Stupid bitch)And all the sharp knives that were bigger than a steak knife were ALSO inside the closet with the mouse. Hmmm. Seems The Mouse has more than just claws and fangs for weapons. I've now armed it with a gun and several large, sharp daggers. Way to go, self. Why not just give it a damn flamethrower while you're at it?
So, armed with my broom, I stood in front of the closet door in my granny panties (totally mouse-defeating armor. If it doesn't scare him to death, he'll laugh himself to death instead) and tried to work up the courage to open the door.
This is when I realized that I had shit for courage, and needed back up. Since my three year old was asleep, I decided to go in search of my brave and totally-going-to-eat-the-mouse-and avenge-my-closet dog.
Once I found her, we both stood in front of the closet. Me with my trusty broom, her with her fucked up teeth. She's a shih tzu, you see. But once the mouse started clawing and chewing again, it became apparent very quickly that my dog wasn't going to do shit to back me up or avenge my closet.
Upon uttering this, she took one look at me, eyed a "fuck this shit" look at me, and crawled under the bed.
This is when I realized that I wasn't about to open that closet door. Not in this lifetime anyway, and set aside my broom. Then, for the next 5 minutes I tried convincing my pussy dog to come out from under the bed. But after uttering 80293842 profanities, including things like "You're in the room WITH IT, you stupid fuck!" and "Fine! Stay here with the demon mouse! I'll collect your remains in the morning!' and she STILL wouldn't emerge, I gave up, closed the bedroom door, and camped out on the couch.
Yeah, so I'm not willing to face an evil, face-eating mouse. But if zombies ever attacked or vampires, I'd be SO kicking some ass then. Or hiding under the bed with my dog. Whichever.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
I know you were worried. You WERE worried, right?
Hi! I'm not dead! *cheering ensues*
The reason for my long absence is twofold:
1. I'm poorer than shit and lost the internet at home. There's a reason why I'm poor, but if I start talking about that, I may have to go and murder something, set it on fire, and piss on its still smoking ashes. *ahem*
2. Life has been kicking the holy shit out of my ass. This is too depressing to talk about. Especially since this blog is all about teh funny. And stuff.
ANYWAY
Right now, I'm staying at my parental's house. So, I plan to make a post very soon. And it shall be awesome. (duh) And you'll laugh until you pee, shit, or spontaneously give birth. :D
Until then, I have absolutely no filler. I know I suck. You better love me anyway. OkGoodbye.
The reason for my long absence is twofold:
1. I'm poorer than shit and lost the internet at home. There's a reason why I'm poor, but if I start talking about that, I may have to go and murder something, set it on fire, and piss on its still smoking ashes. *ahem*
2. Life has been kicking the holy shit out of my ass. This is too depressing to talk about. Especially since this blog is all about teh funny. And stuff.
ANYWAY
Right now, I'm staying at my parental's house. So, I plan to make a post very soon. And it shall be awesome. (duh) And you'll laugh until you pee, shit, or spontaneously give birth. :D
Until then, I have absolutely no filler. I know I suck. You better love me anyway. OkGoodbye.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Demon Mouse, or A break from our regularly scheduled maternal angst
I know it's been a week since I last posted. I suck. But I was sick with bronchitis, and the copious amounts of albuterol I've been inhaling has killed a few million brain cells, and rendered me retarded.
And today, I don't bring you a woeful tale of motherhood, or a f-word riddled post about another Layla misadventure. In fact, this post has nothing to do with being a mother at all.
See, I have a mouse living in my bedroom walls. At least, that's what we ASSUME it is. For the past week, I have woken up in the middle of the night to the sound of chewing and scratching. In my sleep-deprived stupor, upon hearing this sound, my brain does not make the obvious and logical statement of: "Awww, a cute little mouse living in my walls. Hope it doesn't chew my shit up." It doesn't imagine an innocent little rodent, trying to free itself.
No, it immediately jumps to images of a demon mouse, fangs slathered in blood and the remains of its former victims, furiously trying to claw its way out of my wall so it can come and eat me alive.
I know it's not REALLY the Freddy Kruger of rodents living in my wall. But the fucking thing is so loud, my neurotic brain immediately imagines torture and death and maiming at the claws of a mutant mouse.
I'm perfectly stable, really.
So, my lovely and illustrious readers, I have a question for you. Would you like me to post MORE stories of random shit that goes on in my life/house/vagina (not really), or would you rather I stick to tales of Layla's destruction and other observations of cynical motherhood?
This certainly does not mean there will be no more posts making fun of my child. But having a random post everyone once in a while about something completely off-topic would be amusing, and my brain might cooperate more if I have a wider range of possible subjects. (That crack I smoked in the 90s is coming back to haunt me)
I'll most likely do whatever the fuck I want, no matter what you answer. But I may stop being an asshole long enough to consider your opinions. :D
**ETA: There shall be a part 2 to this story, because I totally forgot about what happened the other night. Ooooh! Suspenseful!
And today, I don't bring you a woeful tale of motherhood, or a f-word riddled post about another Layla misadventure. In fact, this post has nothing to do with being a mother at all.
See, I have a mouse living in my bedroom walls. At least, that's what we ASSUME it is. For the past week, I have woken up in the middle of the night to the sound of chewing and scratching. In my sleep-deprived stupor, upon hearing this sound, my brain does not make the obvious and logical statement of: "Awww, a cute little mouse living in my walls. Hope it doesn't chew my shit up." It doesn't imagine an innocent little rodent, trying to free itself.
No, it immediately jumps to images of a demon mouse, fangs slathered in blood and the remains of its former victims, furiously trying to claw its way out of my wall so it can come and eat me alive.
I know it's not REALLY the Freddy Kruger of rodents living in my wall. But the fucking thing is so loud, my neurotic brain immediately imagines torture and death and maiming at the claws of a mutant mouse.
I'm perfectly stable, really.
So, my lovely and illustrious readers, I have a question for you. Would you like me to post MORE stories of random shit that goes on in my life/house/vagina (not really), or would you rather I stick to tales of Layla's destruction and other observations of cynical motherhood?
This certainly does not mean there will be no more posts making fun of my child. But having a random post everyone once in a while about something completely off-topic would be amusing, and my brain might cooperate more if I have a wider range of possible subjects. (That crack I smoked in the 90s is coming back to haunt me)
I'll most likely do whatever the fuck I want, no matter what you answer. But I may stop being an asshole long enough to consider your opinions. :D
**ETA: There shall be a part 2 to this story, because I totally forgot about what happened the other night. Ooooh! Suspenseful!
Thursday, May 26, 2011
"So, you're gonna suffer, but you'll be happy about it."
So, this August, Layla will be starting preschool through the Head Start program. I enrolled her today. Her starting school will mean that I'll have to get up EVERY DAY around 5:30am. But, of course, I am willing to do this, because Layla needs to go to school, and I can come back home and sleep my ass off.
But this also means, that this is the first phase of Letting Go. Every parent faces this dreaded time when little Jr. starts school. Part of you wants to rejoice and praise Jesus. You make ridiculous promises, and almost get high on your new-found freedom.
But the other part of you wants to break down and sob and wonder why God hates you so much as to let your child grow up.
But then you come to your senses again, and realize you'll have 5 and a half hours of completely child-free time. You could...sleep, or shave your legs, or clean the house (yeah fucking right) or run around the house naked. Or shave your legs while cleaning naked. The possibilities are endless!
I'll probably just sleep and fuck around on the intranets. Because my fat ass needs a break.
**ETA: If Blogger is being a douchebag and not letting you comment, email me your comment at the email address on the very bottom of the page, or head on over to the SASMA Facebook page and comment there.
But this also means, that this is the first phase of Letting Go. Every parent faces this dreaded time when little Jr. starts school. Part of you wants to rejoice and praise Jesus. You make ridiculous promises, and almost get high on your new-found freedom.
But the other part of you wants to break down and sob and wonder why God hates you so much as to let your child grow up.
But then you come to your senses again, and realize you'll have 5 and a half hours of completely child-free time. You could...sleep, or shave your legs, or clean the house (yeah fucking right) or run around the house naked. Or shave your legs while cleaning naked. The possibilities are endless!
I'll probably just sleep and fuck around on the intranets. Because my fat ass needs a break.
**ETA: If Blogger is being a douchebag and not letting you comment, email me your comment at the email address on the very bottom of the page, or head on over to the SASMA Facebook page and comment there.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Ah, memories
Did I ever tell you about that one time, at band camp...
Wait, start over.
As Layla's fourth birthday approaches, I'm starting to catch myself being a little nostalgic. Remember the days when she couldn't walk? Everything stayed where I put it, more or less. Remember when she couldn't talk? When she didn't tell me to shut up, or that she didn't care? Ahhh, bliss. Remember the days when the only things you had to deal with were dirty diapers, mixing formula, and waking up in the middle of the night? It was like a vacation!
One thing I definitely remember, maybe not so fondly, was the first time Layla and I were home alone together. My hetero-lifemate was off doing something. Wrestling trolls, ripping trees up by their roots, slaying dragons, whatever. I was sitting on the couch, rocking Layla, when I felt a distinctly warm sensation somewhere in the vicinity of my stomach. "Hmmmm" says I, "something seems amiss." Damn fucking right something was amiss. She had shit all over me. I don't know how a baby that only weighed a little over 7 pounds could hold that much shit. Or how the force of that much shit didn't manage to blow her diaper completely off. Sort of like this:
This was my face when I discovered that I had been shat upon:
I leaped off the couch, in a single bound noless, and rushed my almost newborn infant to the nearest bathroom. All the while screaming, and flailing (in a completely safe way, of course), and uttering profanities. I turned the water on at the sink, testing the temperature on my wrist of course (what do you take me for, a bad mother?...Don't answer that.), ripped the shitty diaper off my baby's ass (in a completely gentle...you get the idea) and began bathing her in the sink. She did not like this. Not even a little. She screamed her tiny head off. We both stood there (ok, so SHE didn't stand) crying and wailing and wondering why God hated us so much. Ok, so maybe only I was wondering that. After this fun adventure, I took her back to the couch, dried her and diapered her again.
When hetero-lifemate came home, he had had a perfectly wonderful, magical day. And I hated him with every fiber of my stumpy (I'm 5'2") being for it.
Hetero-lifemate: "How was your day, baby?"
Me: "Fuck off and die."
Him: "Alright then. What's for dinner?"
This is when I jumped off the couch, laid Layla down, and beat him to death. Ok, not really.
And that, my faithful readers, is the Tale of the First Time I was Home Alone with Layla. (TM)
some parts of this story may have been embellished a tiny bit, or a complete lie.
Wait, start over.
As Layla's fourth birthday approaches, I'm starting to catch myself being a little nostalgic. Remember the days when she couldn't walk? Everything stayed where I put it, more or less. Remember when she couldn't talk? When she didn't tell me to shut up, or that she didn't care? Ahhh, bliss. Remember the days when the only things you had to deal with were dirty diapers, mixing formula, and waking up in the middle of the night? It was like a vacation!
One thing I definitely remember, maybe not so fondly, was the first time Layla and I were home alone together. My hetero-lifemate was off doing something. Wrestling trolls, ripping trees up by their roots, slaying dragons, whatever. I was sitting on the couch, rocking Layla, when I felt a distinctly warm sensation somewhere in the vicinity of my stomach. "Hmmmm" says I, "something seems amiss." Damn fucking right something was amiss. She had shit all over me. I don't know how a baby that only weighed a little over 7 pounds could hold that much shit. Or how the force of that much shit didn't manage to blow her diaper completely off. Sort of like this:
This was my face when I discovered that I had been shat upon:
I leaped off the couch, in a single bound noless, and rushed my almost newborn infant to the nearest bathroom. All the while screaming, and flailing (in a completely safe way, of course), and uttering profanities. I turned the water on at the sink, testing the temperature on my wrist of course (what do you take me for, a bad mother?...Don't answer that.), ripped the shitty diaper off my baby's ass (in a completely gentle...you get the idea) and began bathing her in the sink. She did not like this. Not even a little. She screamed her tiny head off. We both stood there (ok, so SHE didn't stand) crying and wailing and wondering why God hated us so much. Ok, so maybe only I was wondering that. After this fun adventure, I took her back to the couch, dried her and diapered her again.
When hetero-lifemate came home, he had had a perfectly wonderful, magical day. And I hated him with every fiber of my stumpy (I'm 5'2") being for it.
Hetero-lifemate: "How was your day, baby?"
Me: "Fuck off and die."
Him: "Alright then. What's for dinner?"
This is when I jumped off the couch, laid Layla down, and beat him to death. Ok, not really.
And that, my faithful readers, is the Tale of the First Time I was Home Alone with Layla. (TM)
some parts of this story may have been embellished a tiny bit, or a complete lie.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Evil Filler
This is the face of evil, folks.
I've got a post in the works, but my brain is currently not functioning at normal speed, so here's a little distraction. You're welcome.
Now I'm going to go duct tape my child and throw her in the closet. She has spent this ENTIRE day irritating the holy fuck out of me. On purpose. She has screamed, scratched my arm repeatedly, hit me repeatedly with the shitty computer chair that is right next to me at this very moment. She has squealed, called my name repeatedly, only to ask me the SAME FUCKING QUESTION 209832094820398 TIMES. From the BATHROOM. (Mommy! Mommy! MOMMY! MOMMY! *now screaming* MOMMY!!!!!! Me: WHAT?!?! Her: What you doin? AND repeat. *bangs head repeatedly into wall*) And of course, she's played the game of the previous entry. Getting completely shit-faced is looking pretty inviting right about now.
I've got a post in the works, but my brain is currently not functioning at normal speed, so here's a little distraction. You're welcome.
Now I'm going to go duct tape my child and throw her in the closet. She has spent this ENTIRE day irritating the holy fuck out of me. On purpose. She has screamed, scratched my arm repeatedly, hit me repeatedly with the shitty computer chair that is right next to me at this very moment. She has squealed, called my name repeatedly, only to ask me the SAME FUCKING QUESTION 209832094820398 TIMES. From the BATHROOM. (Mommy! Mommy! MOMMY! MOMMY! *now screaming* MOMMY!!!!!! Me: WHAT?!?! Her: What you doin? AND repeat. *bangs head repeatedly into wall*) And of course, she's played the game of the previous entry. Getting completely shit-faced is looking pretty inviting right about now.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
This is why I have anger management issues
There is an aggravating, rage-inducing trend beginning in my house. Granted, this trend started as soon as she could talk, but it's steadily gotten worse. It's so bad now, that I have actually contemplated hitting her repeatedly with a blunt object. What is this trend?
The "I want that, no I don't want that" trend. This is how it goes: Layla says she wants something, say...cereal. Then when I make it for her, she suddenly, and very firmly does not want it anymore.
Layla: "I want to eat!"
Me: " Awesome. What do you want to eat?"
Layla: "I don't want to eat!"
Me: "Ok then."
Layla: "I'm huunnngggrrryyy!"
Me: "Alright! What would you like?"
Layla: "I want chocolate cereal!"
Me: *takes chocolate cereal out of cabinet*
Layla: "Noooooooooo, I don't waaaannntttt thhaaaattttt!"
Me: "You said you did! OMG! So, what DO you want?"
Layla: "I want chocolate ceeerreeaaallll"
Me: *bangs head against cabinet repeatedly* *pours cereal*
Layla: "Noooooooooooo!" *whines and screams like I'm setting her on fire. Which isn't a BAD idea*
Me: "You're going to eat it, or I'm going to take all your teddy bears and build a bonfire with them!"
Layla: *wwwhiinnnneeesssss some more*
Me: *violently pours milk into cereal, slams it down on table and throws Layla in chair* Eat! For the love of jlksjdf*&%#( JESUS, eat!"
Layla: *pushes cereal away* "I don't WANNA EAT!"
Me: "You'll eat that cereal, or I'll dump it over your head and throw the bowl at you repeatedly! EAATTTT! NOOWWWWW!!!!"
Layla: *grumbles, throws me murderous glares, eats the fucking cereal*
Me: *overdoses on nerve pills*
So. Yeah. I think she finds some sadistic pleasure in doing this to me. And everyone else in the house. There have been times when she's actually had a horrible, violent temper tantrum because I MADE HER WHAT SHE FUCKING WANTED. Why?! She is the only child I know (so far) that actually has a tantrum when she gets what she wants.
It sort of happens likes this:
This trend will, inevitably, lead to me drooling and throwing myself against a wall repeatedly. All while screaming "But she WANTED it! Why wouldn't she eat it? WHY??!?!?! *screams hysterically*
Kind of like the "post trip madness" drawing, but with more drool and screaming.
At any rate, the teddy bear bonfire threat was an empty one, because she already started the teddy bear torture without me:
Well, on to plan B, I guess.
The "I want that, no I don't want that" trend. This is how it goes: Layla says she wants something, say...cereal. Then when I make it for her, she suddenly, and very firmly does not want it anymore.
Layla: "I want to eat!"
Me: " Awesome. What do you want to eat?"
Layla: "I don't want to eat!"
Me: "Ok then."
Layla: "I'm huunnngggrrryyy!"
Me: "Alright! What would you like?"
Layla: "I want chocolate cereal!"
Me: *takes chocolate cereal out of cabinet*
Layla: "Noooooooooo, I don't waaaannntttt thhaaaattttt!"
Me: "You said you did! OMG! So, what DO you want?"
Layla: "I want chocolate ceeerreeaaallll"
Me: *bangs head against cabinet repeatedly* *pours cereal*
Layla: "Noooooooooooo!" *whines and screams like I'm setting her on fire. Which isn't a BAD idea*
Me: "You're going to eat it, or I'm going to take all your teddy bears and build a bonfire with them!"
Layla: *wwwhiinnnneeesssss some more*
Me: *violently pours milk into cereal, slams it down on table and throws Layla in chair* Eat! For the love of jlksjdf*&%#( JESUS, eat!"
Layla: *pushes cereal away* "I don't WANNA EAT!"
Me: "You'll eat that cereal, or I'll dump it over your head and throw the bowl at you repeatedly! EAATTTT! NOOWWWWW!!!!"
Layla: *grumbles, throws me murderous glares, eats the fucking cereal*
Me: *overdoses on nerve pills*
So. Yeah. I think she finds some sadistic pleasure in doing this to me. And everyone else in the house. There have been times when she's actually had a horrible, violent temper tantrum because I MADE HER WHAT SHE FUCKING WANTED. Why?! She is the only child I know (so far) that actually has a tantrum when she gets what she wants.
It sort of happens likes this:
This trend will, inevitably, lead to me drooling and throwing myself against a wall repeatedly. All while screaming "But she WANTED it! Why wouldn't she eat it? WHY??!?!?! *screams hysterically*
Kind of like the "post trip madness" drawing, but with more drool and screaming.
At any rate, the teddy bear bonfire threat was an empty one, because she already started the teddy bear torture without me:
Well, on to plan B, I guess.
Monday, April 18, 2011
....and I'm back
Well everyone, I'm back way sooner than was planned. Why, you ask? Was Layla trying to set things on fire? Were YOU trying to set things on fire? Did the car spontaneously start losing parts on the way out of town? OMG, did you kill your child and you're now a fugitive from justice?
No, none of these. Granted, the 14-hour car ride was pretty interesting. And nervous-breakdown-inducing. And being jammed in the back of a two door car with a three year old who thinks poking mommy to wake her up every time she falls asleep just to amuse herself was pretty fucking hilarious. And let's not forget her constant insistence that she needed to pee, upon which we'd try to get her out of her car seat and she'd scream like we were trying to feed her to a pack of ravenous bears: "I already pee peeeeeeeeeeeedddd", and then screaming AGAIN that she had to fucking pee as soon as we got her all buckled in again. *twitch*
But none of that is why we're back early. I got REALLY sick. The third day we were there. I was puking up everything like the damn exorcist. I ran a fever off and on. My whole body felt like it was being beaten with a sockful of marbles. There's a reason for this, but it's way too depressing and not nearly as amusing as making fun of my child, and inundating you all with her various escapades. Just wait until I tell you about our experience of trying to get her to pee outside. Fun times.
I have a few entries planned. And I'm going to respond to all your comments, for which I love you long time. But for now, I'm still trying to get over being struck with the plague. I just wanted to let you all know I was back early, so you can rejoice or run screaming or cry or stab me in the face. Whichever you prefer. But for now, here's a pointless post to distract you. You're welcome.
No, none of these. Granted, the 14-hour car ride was pretty interesting. And nervous-breakdown-inducing. And being jammed in the back of a two door car with a three year old who thinks poking mommy to wake her up every time she falls asleep just to amuse herself was pretty fucking hilarious. And let's not forget her constant insistence that she needed to pee, upon which we'd try to get her out of her car seat and she'd scream like we were trying to feed her to a pack of ravenous bears: "I already pee peeeeeeeeeeeedddd", and then screaming AGAIN that she had to fucking pee as soon as we got her all buckled in again. *twitch*
But none of that is why we're back early. I got REALLY sick. The third day we were there. I was puking up everything like the damn exorcist. I ran a fever off and on. My whole body felt like it was being beaten with a sockful of marbles. There's a reason for this, but it's way too depressing and not nearly as amusing as making fun of my child, and inundating you all with her various escapades. Just wait until I tell you about our experience of trying to get her to pee outside. Fun times.
I have a few entries planned. And I'm going to respond to all your comments, for which I love you long time. But for now, I'm still trying to get over being struck with the plague. I just wanted to let you all know I was back early, so you can rejoice or run screaming or cry or stab me in the face. Whichever you prefer. But for now, here's a pointless post to distract you. You're welcome.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Expected vs Reality 3
Well, I know it's been a few days, but here I am! Today's milestone is potty training:
That last few days I've felt like ripping my hair out by the handfuls. She has spilled medicated powder all over the dining room and living room. She's constantly whined, so I feel like bludgeoning her into unconsciousness. And she will NOT take a fucking nap! I need a vacation. And a hysterectomy.
That last few days I've felt like ripping my hair out by the handfuls. She has spilled medicated powder all over the dining room and living room. She's constantly whined, so I feel like bludgeoning her into unconsciousness. And she will NOT take a fucking nap! I need a vacation. And a hysterectomy.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Take 2
Hello. First post after renovation. If you're in any doubt about what this blog is now about, I shall clarify for you. This blog is about motherhood. REAL motherhood. Not the kind you see in paper towel commercials, where little Timmy makes a hideous mess, and the mom smiles indulgently about it, as if she's saying "Oh, you little TYKE. Now you clean that mess up. Hehe." *shoots her in the face*
Real motherhood is not blissful. And if that kid in the commercials were my kid, I'd be yelling and throwing paper towels at him until he cried. Real motherhood will make you feel like you're going fucking insane. And then your little cherub will turn around and do something sweet. And then you turn around again and there are M&Ms in the VCR, and there's shit in the hallway, and there's a brand new crayon mural in the kid's room, and there's toys strewn all over the house, and the phone is ringing, and someone's at the door, and your kid is currently trying to bathe in the toilet. And then the day ends, and you start all over again the next day.
Real motherhood will make you cry, scream, pull your hair out, and wish your child had a mute button.
I'm not one of those moms that acts like their kid was shat out of god's ass, and is the perfect little angel. Nor am I one of those mothers who feels "fulfilled" and "rewarded" by being a stay-at-home mom. I'm real. I fully admit my kid is a pain in the fucking ass. And being a stay-at-home mom is slowly sucking out my soul. So, if your another June Cleaver, you should probably leave. This blog isn't for you.
And now, to introduce you to the little princess.
This is Layla. She may look cute and sweet and innocent, but it's just a clever disguise to lull you into a false sense of security before she punches you in the eye, and runs your foot over with her bike.
Now, just to be clear, I love my daughter more than anything, but some days I want to loan her out to some unhappy, barren couple, so they won't feel so bad about not having kids. She'll cure you of that unhappiness in less than five minutes.
So I'll be bitching, ranting, sharing advice, drawing stupid pictures, and other stuff. And that's all I've got for now.
Real motherhood is not blissful. And if that kid in the commercials were my kid, I'd be yelling and throwing paper towels at him until he cried. Real motherhood will make you feel like you're going fucking insane. And then your little cherub will turn around and do something sweet. And then you turn around again and there are M&Ms in the VCR, and there's shit in the hallway, and there's a brand new crayon mural in the kid's room, and there's toys strewn all over the house, and the phone is ringing, and someone's at the door, and your kid is currently trying to bathe in the toilet. And then the day ends, and you start all over again the next day.
Real motherhood will make you cry, scream, pull your hair out, and wish your child had a mute button.
I'm not one of those moms that acts like their kid was shat out of god's ass, and is the perfect little angel. Nor am I one of those mothers who feels "fulfilled" and "rewarded" by being a stay-at-home mom. I'm real. I fully admit my kid is a pain in the fucking ass. And being a stay-at-home mom is slowly sucking out my soul. So, if your another June Cleaver, you should probably leave. This blog isn't for you.
And now, to introduce you to the little princess.
This is Layla. She may look cute and sweet and innocent, but it's just a clever disguise to lull you into a false sense of security before she punches you in the eye, and runs your foot over with her bike.
Now, just to be clear, I love my daughter more than anything, but some days I want to loan her out to some unhappy, barren couple, so they won't feel so bad about not having kids. She'll cure you of that unhappiness in less than five minutes.
So I'll be bitching, ranting, sharing advice, drawing stupid pictures, and other stuff. And that's all I've got for now.
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