I finally did something I have wanted to do since I was a kid. I peed in the staff bathroom at my old elementary school. When I was in the second grade I saw two teachers walk out of the bathroom laughing. They are having fun in there. I imagined parties with candy, gold sinks and fancy soaps. Why else would they forbid kids to enter?
I volunteer every Tuesday to read with the students in my son’s class. You haven’t lived until you’ve listened to the same story over and over and over again. I could recite the book, “Kit’s Mitt” with my eyes closed. It’s about a girl named Kit who shows up to a baseball game without a glove. Yet, she is still allowed to play and ends up using her hat to catch a ball. I’m calling bulls**t on that one. The kids in this class are great. They are sweet and make me laugh. Plus, a few of them think Kit’s story is bulls**t, too.
I was exhausted during today’s session. So, I drank a lot of coffee. Clearly, I cannot use the toilets in the children’s bathroom. They are way too low. I don’t think I would be able to stand back up. My legs are burning from my latest workout. That’s right fellas, I am going to be rockin’ that mom swim skirt at the beach this year.
I had to use the staff bathroom before I coughed or sneezed. (You know what I am talking about ladies) I half expected to hear someone scold me for going inside. (Cue: orchestra music, orchestra music comes to a halt) It turns out it’s just a regular bathroom. The wall is adorned with framed pictures from the 1980’s. There’s a fake floral arrangement on a small table that would make Oprah Winfrey cringe and a few bottles of lotion. This is it? This is what I have waited thirty years to see? Maybe when Kit makes it into the major leagues she can give the bathroom a makeover and give the hardworking teachers the serene space I imagined as a kid.
Mommy Dearest doesn’t have anything on this woman. (Wire hangers still make me nervous.) The children of a Nevada woman wrote a scathing obituary for their deceased mother. Basically, they are glad she is dead. The obit appeared in The Reno Gazette-Journal, which was published on September 10. Clearly, their editor was kidnapped that day. I guess my 3-year-old daughter doesn’t have “the worst mother ever” after all.
Marianne Theresa Johnson-Reddick born Jan 4, 1935 and died alone on Aug. 30, 2013. She is survived by her 6 of 8 children whom she spent her lifetime torturing in every way possible. While she neglected and abused her small children, she refused to allow anyone else to care or show compassion towards them. When they became adults she stalked and tortured anyone they dared to love. Everyone she met, adult or child was tortured by her cruelty and exposure to violence, criminal activity, vulgarity, and hatred of the gentle or kind human spirit.
On behalf of her children whom she so abrasively exposed to her evil and violent life, we celebrate her passing from this earth and hope she lives in the after-life reliving each gesture of violence, cruelty, and shame that she delivered on her children. Her surviving children will now live the rest of their lives with the peace of knowing their nightmare finally has some form of closure.
Most of us have found peace in helping those who have been exposed to child abuse and hope this message of her final passing can revive our message that abusing children is unforgiveable, shameless, and should not be tolerated in a “humane society”. Our greatest wish now, is to stimulate a national movement that mandates a purposeful and dedicated war against child abuse in the United States of America.
I think I am having somewhat of a midlife crisis. Don’t panic. I have not purchased a Corvette or gold chain. I guess I just thought that, by now, I would know what I want to be when I grow up. (Obviously, I’m not going to be one of the Fly Girls after all.) There are 38 candles on my cake today and I am still searching for my passion. I started this blog not only as a way to vent, but because I like to write. I walked away from the news business after a decade because I couldn’t write about death and destruction anymore. I don’t regret my decision to quit and stay home with my children. If I were at work today I wouldn’t have witnessed by daughter breaking every etiquette rule in the book.
I turned my back for a moment and she dove face first into her soup. “Look, I’m a dog,” she said. Stay classy honey.
I may bitch and moan, but I cherish every moment with my children. I know that tomorrow isn’t promised. Am I starting to sound like an office desk calendar? I am just searching for what will make me happy when they grow up and abandon me for some whore. Um, I mean, wife. Maybe someone will stumble upon this website and pay me to write. I am guessing it won’t be the person who sent the email with no greeting or signature that read, “unsubscribe”. It turns out not everyone gets my sense of humor. (I don’t know what the hell is wrong with them either.) I know one thing for sure, I am blessed. I have an amazing family and friends. Most of the time, my children think I am the shit. Plus, I live in a day and age where a simple injection can make you look something other than 38. I am exactly where I should be on my birthday… stuck inside my daughter’s toy house. At my age it’s a lot easier getting in than getting out.
Wow! This kid can sing. He takes an extremely irritating song and makes it enjoyable. Now, some of the lyrics are even more ridiculous in this soulful rendition of “I’m Sexy and I Know It.” (i.e. “I’m in the Speedo trying to tan my cheeks.”) Still, it works for me. LMFAO!
My kids have asked me what hell is like. I tell them it is a very hot place where the only thing on TV is “Keeping Up With the Kardashians.” Clearly, I am not a fan, but I know the characters. It is hard not to when they are on every magazine rack. Tabloid Magazines chronicle their every move. It pains me to talk about that family, but what happened on a recent episode really pissed me off. I read about this scene online. Kourtney’s husband, Scott Disick (minus the “is”), is unhappy with his wife’s post body baby. She weighs all of 115 pounds. I weighed that in 7th grade. Scott ordered her to lose the weight faster, “You’re my piece of machinery.” He says he fell in love with her when she was super skinny. He would like to see her weigh around 93 pounds. Are you f-ing kidding me? Here is a guy who wears more hair gel than Pauly D. I don’t think he has a job. If I had that kind of money I would kick his a** to the curb. My daughter is three and I am still trying to lose the last 10 pounds. The only lingerie I own is Spanx. Kourtney wears a size 4 or 6 at the most. Meanwhile, Jessica Simpson is eating buttered Poptarts and her baby daddy thinks she is beautiful. If Bruce Jenner was able to move the muscles in his face he would frown on Scott’s behavior. You can see what a tool he is here: Keeping Up With the Kardashians
I love how the mind of a 5-year-old works. Tonight my son demanded I explain step by step the proper way to wish on a star. I didn’t know there was a right and wrong way either. Apparently, some snotty kid at school told him his wishes weren’t coming true because he wasn’t following the “wish making rules.” Clearly that kid broke the rules too because he is still living in a trailer park. (Oh, no she didn’t!)
I thought about telling my son wishing on a star won’t guarantee anything. I couldn’t burst his bubble. I only tear down people I don’t know. Besides, I am guilty of wishing on stars every now and then. Well, a few were airplanes, but I’m still hopeful I will have Ryan Gosling’s baby.
My son listened to my every word with bated breath. I told him he had to find a star, close his eyes tight and jump around like a monkey. After watching him go airborne a few times I admitted that part was a joke. “Mom, this is serious,” he warned me. My father once told us we had to say “Schuz-butt” every time we hit a card in the game Slapjack. My sister and I would argue while my Dad laughed in hysterics, “I said Schuz-butt first! No, I said Schuz-butt before you!” If you can’t use your kids for your own entertainment what good are they?
I told my son to put his hands together and say, “I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish come true tonight.” Then, he made his wish. Was it for peace on Earth? Did he want to end world hunger? Nope. “I wish,” he paused. “I could be the real Spiderman.” This is going to end in tears.
Once you have children it takes a lot of planning to coordinate a girl’s night out. Last night our calendars were empty. The men would stay home with the kids. My husband assured me he would leave work on time. I took off the yoga pants and put on clothes. I was even going to wear heels. I was as giddy as a child on Christmas morning. Would I really have adult conversation tonight?I wonder what it is like to have hot food? Alcohol?
The time I expected my husband to arrive came and went. Then, I got the call, ” I ran out of gas.” Let me repeat. He ran out of f-ing gas! How does that happen when driving by a dozen gas stations on his route home. Well, he forgot his wallet. My husband can answer every question on Jeopardy, but couldn’t figure out he didn’t have enough gas in the tank to make it home. I would love to tell you I was an understanding wife. I wasn’t. I was pissed. I am with my children 99.9% of the time. This was my night.
I brought him a gas can, wallet and look of death. Then, I drove away. Five minutes later my phone rang again. “My battery is dead.” Okay, where is Ashton Kutcher? I must be getting punked. Nope. He left his lights on for 25 minutes while waiting for me to alert oncoming cars he had broken down. He isn’t driving a Ford Model T. His SUV came equipped with hazard lights, right?
I lined my minivan up with his SUV.
Unfortunately, we quickly discovered his jumper cables were dead. I am not kidding. I had to drive him to an auto parts store. At this point, by the time I got to the restaurant I would be an hour and a half late to dinner. I called my friends to cancel, but they insisted on waiting. I have great friends!
We had incredible food and conversation. I’m also pretty sure the valet parking attendant was checking me out. What’s sexier than a Mom stepping out of a minivan in knee high hooker boots? Nothing.
Bath time sucks. The advertising gods have a way of making it look like the highlight of each day. Children are gently splashing in the water while Mom looks on with a twinkle in her eye. Don’t get me wrong, my kids love hopping in the tube. Literally. They love to hop in the tub. I would be a millionaire if I got a $1 each time I said, “Sit down. You’re going to fall.” The other popular phrase is, “Don’t put the water in your mouth.” Do they realize they are drinking their own filth?
I spend 10 minutes hunched over the tub trying to get shampoo out of their hair without getting water in their eyes while they squirm from side to side. I have a better chance of winning the lottery. Tear free shampoo? False advertising. They are going to cry whether it burns or not. Well, when they are not crying over who had what cup first. People without children are puzzled. Why does she have dishes in the bathtub?
Clearly, you’ve never poured water from cup to cup. It is hours of fun. So much so, that they never want to get out. It doesn’t even phase them when their skin wrinkles like a raisin. Whatever happened to that dancing California raisin? Remember the “Heard It Through the Grapevine” commercials? Now, that was stellar advertising. A commercial that makes me want to eat a raisin is well done.
I’ve tried lying about the tub drain being broken. My kids aren’t buying it and refuse to take a shower. They usually skip to the bathtub and come out screaming. It would be much easier to hose them down outside.
My son came home from school and demonstrated the proper hand washing technique. The school nurse visited their classroom and gave a lesson on how to be Germ Busters. The same child who complains daily about going to school loves pretending to be a teacher. He squirted two pumps of soap in his hand, lathered it between his fingers and asked, “Do we rinse our hands now?” He cut me off before I could speak. He didn’t really want an answer. “No, we don’t,” he said. “Say it together. No. We. Don’t.” Really? This is turning into a game of Simon Says? “No. We. Don’t,” I echoed slowly. His hands will be clean, but my water bill is going to skyrocket. He also discussed why we cover our mouth and nose when sneezing or coughing. Plus, they learned what foods to eat to stay healthy.
Then, he dried his hands on my shirt (the towel was two whole steps away) and said, “Mom, the nurse needs to realize we can’t be Germ Busters. We are just kids. Gosh, we are just kids.” He acted like she was sending him off to war. Kudos to the nurse for her preemptive strike against winter’s cold viruses. However, you can’t stop Mr. Freeze. I am going to the store today to stock up on tissue and cold medicine.
My son has a loose tooth. He is excited, but a little terrified at the same time. Can you blame him? The kid has grown accustomed to using all of his teeth to chew food. Now, five years later I inform him they are going to fall out. “What day will they fall out?” he wondered. As a parent I would like to have an answer for everything. If I don’t have an answer to a homework question I secretly Google it. If it can’t be answered on the internet I call my Mom. “I don’t know,” I said. “It will come out when it’s ready.”
He knows what happens each time a tooth comes out. His friend lost one this past week. The tooth fairy gave him a baseball. How the hell do you sneak that under a pillow? I’m guessing the kid woke up with a stiff neck. My son thinks the tooth fairy makes jewelry out of teeth, (I throw it away.) “The tooth fairy is small. (Thank You, I have been running.) She will tiptoe into my room (I will walk) and leave a nickel.” Hold up! A nickel? Does he think this is 1940? Thomas Jefferson can’t even get you a gumball these days. He is going to lose his shit when he finds Abraham Lincoln under his pillow. Whenever it happens.