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 motherhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label motherhood. Show all posts
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Lots of Filler
Hello. I am currently not at home. This means I don't have Photoshop to draw stupid pictures with. And MS Paint sucks a hairy ass. So, here's a few things to keep you occupied:
First, here is my dog, Gizmo, chasing the cursor:
Next, here are some old posts. You need to read them. Or I'll cut you.
Real Mom Dress Up. And then post them on the SASMA Facebook wall. I'm serious, man, I'll cut you. Or punch you in the taint. Whichever I'm in the mood for.
If Mom and Kid commercials told the truth 2.
Ah, Memories.
Are you reading this shit yet?
And one more:
This is why I have anger management issues. Also, I like ludicrously long titles.
My work here is done. You're welcome.
First, here is my dog, Gizmo, chasing the cursor:
Next, here are some old posts. You need to read them. Or I'll cut you.
Real Mom Dress Up. And then post them on the SASMA Facebook wall. I'm serious, man, I'll cut you. Or punch you in the taint. Whichever I'm in the mood for.
If Mom and Kid commercials told the truth 2.
Ah, Memories.
Are you reading this shit yet?
And one more:
This is why I have anger management issues. Also, I like ludicrously long titles.
My work here is done. You're welcome.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Special Superhero edition
Look! Standing over there! It's a zombie! It's a hobo! No! It's...WONDER MOM!!
Faster than projectile vomit! More powerful than a screaming offspring! Able to leap piles of shit and toys in a single bound!
The powers of Wonder Mom never cease!
Able to detect wrongdoing from 100 yards!
See out the back of her head!
Identify what the fuck that smell is!
She can clean the house, answer the phone, save her child from drowning in the toilet! All at the same time!
Can hear the slightest indication that her spawn is about to fuck some shit up!
With her tool belt of paper towels and Hammer of Reality, Wonder Mom can do ANYTHING!
Woooonnndddeeerrr Mooooommmm!!
Faster than projectile vomit! More powerful than a screaming offspring! Able to leap piles of shit and toys in a single bound!
The powers of Wonder Mom never cease!
Able to detect wrongdoing from 100 yards!
See out the back of her head!
Identify what the fuck that smell is!
She can clean the house, answer the phone, save her child from drowning in the toilet! All at the same time!
Can hear the slightest indication that her spawn is about to fuck some shit up!
With her tool belt of paper towels and Hammer of Reality, Wonder Mom can do ANYTHING!
Woooonnndddeeerrr Mooooommmm!!
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.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
If mom and kid commercials told the truth 2
Continuing on the TV commercial moms vs Real moms thread, today I bring you: What TV commercial moms look like vs What REAL mothers look like. Moms on commercials all look so put together. Their hair is brushed and styled. They have on a cute, conservative sweater outfit. Their makeup is flawless. They're actually wearing socks and/or shoes. What a load of shit. Unless you're the type of mother that lives in Suburban heaven, and thinks her children are angels of joy and rainbows, you're probably not going to look like you just stepped out of a JC Penney's catalog. Sort of like this:
Real mothers, the kind that actually realize their children aren't little cherubs of butterflies and sunshine, who think June Cleaver was a simple-minded, subservient idiot, usually look like they've just stepped out of a Hobos R US catalog. At least I do. As we speak, this is my ensemble: A stained purple tank top, and maroon panties. That's it. And my hair is 7 degrees of fucked up, and my legs are so hairy, I could shave them and use the hair to knit a blanket . For example:
Real mothers usually don't give two fucks about what they look like as they change shitty diapers, and clean vomit off the walls. My first priority is not my hairstyle when I'm elbow-deep in a sink full of two week old dishes, and Layla is in the next room screaming or trying to use our dog as transporation. But can you imagine what commercials would be like if they featured the above image of a real mother? Either people would think it was genius and buy the shit out of the product, or they'd start boycotting the product for scarring their target audience for life.
Now, I have to go wash the dishes, in my underwear. Have a good day, my lovely readers.
Real mothers, the kind that actually realize their children aren't little cherubs of butterflies and sunshine, who think June Cleaver was a simple-minded, subservient idiot, usually look like they've just stepped out of a Hobos R US catalog. At least I do. As we speak, this is my ensemble: A stained purple tank top, and maroon panties. That's it. And my hair is 7 degrees of fucked up, and my legs are so hairy, I could shave them and use the hair to knit a blanket . For example:
Real mothers usually don't give two fucks about what they look like as they change shitty diapers, and clean vomit off the walls. My first priority is not my hairstyle when I'm elbow-deep in a sink full of two week old dishes, and Layla is in the next room screaming or trying to use our dog as transporation. But can you imagine what commercials would be like if they featured the above image of a real mother? Either people would think it was genius and buy the shit out of the product, or they'd start boycotting the product for scarring their target audience for life.
Now, I have to go wash the dishes, in my underwear. Have a good day, my lovely readers.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
If mom and kid commercials told the truth
We've all seen them. Those hideous, deceptive, sugary-sweet commercials where mothers are portrayed. Little Timmy makes a godawful mess? Smile and hand him a roll of ultra-obsorbent paper towels. The paper towels's absorbency should totally make up for the ant infestation that will result from Timmy doing a shitty job of cleaning up the mess. Sweet little Susie coughs and hacks all over her sister? Hand her a tissue and some disinfectant. Who knows? Maybe having the ebola virus is fun!
The reactions of these "mothers" is complete fucking bullshit. Unless those bitches are high, there is no way they would react the way they do. Any sane mother would throw a roll of paper towels at motor skill deficient Timmy and tell him to clean up the mess until he can see his face in the linoleum. Or until he starts college. Whichever. And if Layla hacked all over some other kid, first I'd make sure the kid wasn't a little asshole, and then if he wasn't, I'd tell her to stop being a disgusting pig, and pour cough syrup down her throat. Because that's what loving mothers do.
So, here is my version of how a REAL mother would react in these situations:
Made a godawful mess
Mom's reaction
Being a disgusting pig and coughing all over your sister
Mom's reaction
Now I have to go spill something all over the kitchen floor and make Layla clean it up, and then cough in her face. Have a good afternoon, folks.
And no, I wouldn't actually hit my kid in the face with a hammer. Unless she really deserved it, and then I might consider it. :p
**ETA: If you have a commercial that just irritates the holy fuck out of you, and you'd like an illustration of the REAL version of that commercial, send me an email at sugarandspicemyass @ gmail . com (without the spaces, of course), with a link to a video of that commercial, and a description of what you'd like portrayed in the illustration. Or you can just leave it up to my creative genius. Whichever you prefer.
The reactions of these "mothers" is complete fucking bullshit. Unless those bitches are high, there is no way they would react the way they do. Any sane mother would throw a roll of paper towels at motor skill deficient Timmy and tell him to clean up the mess until he can see his face in the linoleum. Or until he starts college. Whichever. And if Layla hacked all over some other kid, first I'd make sure the kid wasn't a little asshole, and then if he wasn't, I'd tell her to stop being a disgusting pig, and pour cough syrup down her throat. Because that's what loving mothers do.
So, here is my version of how a REAL mother would react in these situations:
Made a godawful mess
Mom's reaction
Being a disgusting pig and coughing all over your sister
Mom's reaction
Now I have to go spill something all over the kitchen floor and make Layla clean it up, and then cough in her face. Have a good afternoon, folks.
And no, I wouldn't actually hit my kid in the face with a hammer. Unless she really deserved it, and then I might consider it. :p
**ETA: If you have a commercial that just irritates the holy fuck out of you, and you'd like an illustration of the REAL version of that commercial, send me an email at sugarandspicemyass @ gmail . com (without the spaces, of course), with a link to a video of that commercial, and a description of what you'd like portrayed in the illustration. Or you can just leave it up to my creative genius. Whichever you prefer.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Dance, monkey, dance!
So, Layla has this little "dance" she does whenever she's not getting her way. I have no idea why she does this, but it's fucking hilarious. And I decided to share it with you. You're welcome. And yes, that's me snorting in the background. The deep, manly voice belongs to my Big Burly Man-Beast (TM). Enjoy. :D
And yes, we were totally baiting her. And she fell for it. Mwhahahahaha!
And yes, we were totally baiting her. And she fell for it. Mwhahahahaha!
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.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Expected vs Reality
In the course of parenthood, our child reaches many milestones. We rejoice that our child is capable of doing the same things every child has done since the beginning of mankind. Minus the humped backs and fur.
But, with every milestone comes consequences. We THINK we want our child to learn to walk. We THINK we want them to learn how to use the potty and wear underwear. But what we never anticipate in our blind optimism, is that when little Jr. learns to walk, that means he can use his legs, and that means he's going to use his legs to destroy, and pillage, and plunder. And while learning to pee on the potty is definitely a yay moment, the huge turd you found in Jr's closet after he ripped off his pullup is NOT a yay moment at all.
So, I will be posting a series of crappy, half-assed paint drawings to illustrate the expected reaction to certain milestones, and other happenings, vs the ACTUAL reaction to certain milestones, and other happenings, etc. etc.
I may post one at a time, or seven. I'm unpredictable like that. Here are the first two:
(click to make big)
(I made them too big. I will rectify this in the next post so you don't have to indulge my retardation by clicking.)
New baby
Learning to walk
Goodnight all. Remember to spay and neuter your pets, and use condoms.
But, with every milestone comes consequences. We THINK we want our child to learn to walk. We THINK we want them to learn how to use the potty and wear underwear. But what we never anticipate in our blind optimism, is that when little Jr. learns to walk, that means he can use his legs, and that means he's going to use his legs to destroy, and pillage, and plunder. And while learning to pee on the potty is definitely a yay moment, the huge turd you found in Jr's closet after he ripped off his pullup is NOT a yay moment at all.
So, I will be posting a series of crappy, half-assed paint drawings to illustrate the expected reaction to certain milestones, and other happenings, vs the ACTUAL reaction to certain milestones, and other happenings, etc. etc.
I may post one at a time, or seven. I'm unpredictable like that. Here are the first two:
(click to make big)
(I made them too big. I will rectify this in the next post so you don't have to indulge my retardation by clicking.)
New baby
Learning to walk
Goodnight all. Remember to spay and neuter your pets, and use condoms.
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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