Saturday, December 18, 2010

Holiday Confessions of a Tired Mom

My Facebook Status: "The ONLY good thing about my kids being at their dad's for Christmas this year is that I will not be rushing around at 5 am Christmas morning in a panic setting out Santa presents and trying to dispose of cookies and milk without leaving the evidence somewhere the kids can find it (trying to eat a dozen cookies within a two-minute period makes my stomach hurt, I know, I've tried it) because I couldn't stay awake longer than them on Christmas Eve and I suddenly woke up with a full out panic attack that the kids will find out Santa isn't real and the Easter Bunny isn't real and the Tooth Fairy isn't real and the world is just full of shit-filled reality and no magic at all and it will be all my goddamn fault."

Yes, I am obviously the worst mom ever. The last time the tooth fairy had to visit, I also fell asleep on the couch completely forgetting to put money under my son's pillow. Luckily my kids write nice, long, sugary-sweet letters to the tooth fairy asking to keep their teeth so I just went into his room, palming a dollar bill, and miraculously found it under the bed. I would like to tell you that is the only time this has happened, but I don't want to insult your intelligence by lying to you. Come to think of it...I wonder where the kids are keeping all their teeth? Maybe I should check on that. There have been some close calls on Easter in years past too. I can't actually put the eggs out before I go to bed. The last time I did, the cats misplaced an egg after batting it around and it took me a week to find it. Small children get up insanely early on holidays so I now know I can set up an entire Easter morning celebration/egg hunt in less than eight minutes. I think this is why Halloween is my favorite holiday. There are no secret agent type missions involved with Halloween (except for when you sneak into the kids' room after they have fallen asleep to steal all their good candy, which they really deserved because the little brats wouldn't share with you). You just have to spend a trillion dollars on an outfit your kid will never wear again (and only actually wears for a half hour because "it's itchy mom!!!") and you get a bunch of free candy for your troubles.

I am kind of looking forward to the day when the kids finally find out that I have been lying to them for years about mystical beings invading our home in the middle of the night. I think my daughter knows about the whole charade and is probably playing me at this point. We live in an upper middle class town, which means my children have plenty of spoiled classmates. Last year some rich kid got something spectacular from Santa, like a helicopter or something, which left my daughter wondering why Santa only got her a crappy blanket with armholes for Christmas. I wish I could send a memo out to the other parents telling them that Santa is not universally rich and ask for a spending limit to be set on Santa gifts. Also, one of my daughter's bratty friends told her that she got an elf for Christmas last year. That's right...a fucking elf. How am I supposed to compete with that? Plus, what do you say about that to your kid? Well honey, your friend is a fucking liar because elves don't exist. I think not. This year, my daughter was using her Christmas money to pick out video games and she kept asking me what I thought Santa's spending limit was (you can tell my kids have heard the word "budget" come out of my mouth way too many times). Is Santa going to get her one or two video games this year? And could I just tell him which games to get? You should probably write it down mom, you don't have a very good memory. Right. Got it. I'll text Santa right away before I forget.

I have to stop writing now and go buy Santa presents. I think I am just going to punch some lady out in the toy store parking lot and steal all of her presents. Not because I can't afford presents, but because I cannot stand the holiday induced idiocy and rudeness of my fellow shoppers. The reality of it is that if I go in the store, I probably will assault someone for being a not-holiday-spirited jackass. Therefore, I might as well plan the whole thing ahead of time so I have a good escape route. Does anyone happen to know where I can find an Elf who works really cheap?

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Vagina Whisperer

My Facebook Status: "My biological clock is telling me that I just turned 30 and I NEED to have kids NOW because time is running out. I think it forgot I already started having kids 10 years ago. Anyone want to explain to my loins that two kids is just fine and I don`t need any more?"

When I posted the above comment one of my best friends suggested that perhaps I need a "vagina whisperer" to help me out. Maybe I do need the help of someone who can speak in my vagina's secret language to dissipate the aching need coming from somewhere deep in my body, or more specifically my pelvic region. I imagine the conversation between My Vagina and the Vagina Whisperer would go something like this:

My Vagina: "I just turned 30 and I NEED to find any loser with a penis (hopefully a large one) to give me a baby NOW!!!"

Vagina Whisperer: "Look here Vagina, this isn't going to be one of those super trendy vagina monologues…we need to have a frank discussion. You are out of control. You have life plans to be a rich and powerful vagina. You don't have time for any more babies. The ones you already have keep you busy enough as it is.”

My Vagina: "More. Babies. NOW."

Vagina Whisperer: "But don't you remember what babies do to you?"

My Vagina: "I don't care! I must have a baby to squeeze (not too hard) and cuddle and kiss and love. I am an empty shell of vacuumy, voidy, nothingness without another baby!"

Vagina Whisperer: "Remember how big those babies’ noggins are? Remember getting split in three different directions? Remember there being fifteen strangers in the birth room staring at you in your least glorious moment? All those interns went straight out to a party that night and told hundreds of people how the site of you ruined vaginas forever in their minds. You made those interns celibate, Vagina."

My Vagina: "Ooooh...yeah, that wasn't one of my better moments."

Vagina Whisperer: "Remember how you used to look like a glorious flower? Now you look like a flower but all dried up and dead and CRUSHED in anger. You know that every time you have a baby, they tend to be bigger than the last one right? Your last baby weighed almost nine pounds...if anything bigger than that comes out of you then I guarantee you will be reduced into a pile of flubbery pieces. You will be of no use to anyone after that. You will be nothing but a fond memory. No one wants to play with a memory, Vagina."

My Vagina: (frowny face)

Vagina Whisperer: "Do you remember being pregnant? All you wanted all the time was for someone to touch you but this was the only time in your life that no one really wanted anything to do with you. Remember when you were told that pregnant vagina doesn't taste as good as not-pregnant vagina? Remember the heartbreak? Remember the utter devastation? That was one of the worst times of your life."

My Vagina (with tears rolling down her, well...sides): "Let's not go over that again."

Vagina Whisperer: "Remember not having the energy to "play" when the babies were young? No? Me neither, that didn't happen. BUT you're really fucking old now Vagina, who knows what would happen this time around. Remember that six-week waiting period after the babies were born? I know you really only waited three weeks but that really sucked. Do you want to go through that again?"

My Vagina: (staring abashedly at her teeny tiny vagina shoes)

Vagina Whisperer: "If you just wait another fifteen to twenty years (God willing), than you'll get grandbabies that you don't have to constantly yell at and will not participate in your final demise. There...won't that be nice? It's time to retire vagina. Let's just cement in a permanent diaphragm here and you'll be good to go....wait...wait...just a few more bolts...there, isn't that better? Move to somewhere sunny, learn how to surf, and just relax. Your grandbabies will be here soon enough."

Ummmm...anyone know any good vagina cementing quotes I can finish this up with? Anyone? Anyone?

Friday, December 3, 2010

To the Bullshitters

My Facebook Status:  “I just had the kids’ parent teacher conferences.  The teachers said my kids are better than your kids and every other kid that ever existed on the face of the earth at everything.” 
I would like to tell you a secret about all those people who say things like: “my kid should be in the baseball hall of fame”, “pregnancy is great; I have never felt better in my life”, “my girlfriend is the most beautiful woman you have ever laid eyes on” and “I have the most wonderful husband on the face of the earth”.  These people are lying because they cannot deal with their reality, and they definitely don’t want you to know what is really going on.  For the ease of explanation, let’s call these people the bullshitters.  Bullshitter One’s kid is awful at sports.  His coach prays before every game that the kid got the flu and won’t show up.  Bullshitter Two’s pregnant feet are four times their normal size.  Bullshitter Three’s girlfriend is so homely, even her mother won’t carry around a picture of her in her wallet.  As for our last bullshitter, the one who says her husband is so fabulous…she and Mr. Fantastic are in marriage counseling because one of them is fucking the neighbor.  This particular bullshitter is most definitely on the verge of divorce. 
Please don’t confuse my disdain for the bullshitters with contempt for optimists.  Everyone needs some hopeful optimism in their life.  The optimists are the yin to my yang, I need them.  The bullshitters are not optimists, they are the people who tell you in public that everything is so great that they actually shit rainbows on a daily basis, but when you are in private all they do is complain about how bad things are.
I blame these compulsive deceivers for young people jumping into marriage because they think marriage is the key to lifelong happiness.  I blame these fabricators for not telling childless women how hard it is to actually raise children.   I blame them for the inevitable sadness that comes when reality hits you like a slap from a righteous bitch at a bar who thinks she’s too good for you. 
Save your bullshit for your coworkers, don’t do your friends and yourself the disservice of not simply being yourself.  It is fine if your kid is better at chess than at baseball.  If his only talent is irritating the hell out of everyone in his vicinity, that is okay too.  We will still accept you if you are pregnant, your ass is elephant sized, and you just want to be done with it.  It is alright if your girlfriend resembles an orangutan, you are not so hot yourself.  We expected this.  It is okay if your husband stays out until midnight because he is screwing his coworker.  We will hate him or sort-of-accept-him-and-make-him-suffer-for-it-with-our-witty-retorts-and-never-really-trust-him-again-for-the-next-thirty-years-until-the-god-damn-bastard-finally-dies-of-a-heart-attack-thank-god-because-we-were-just-about-to-poison-his-dinner-because-we-can’t-stand-looking-at-him-anymore right along with you…no matter what you decide to do about it. 
Come on over to our side, everything will be fine.  Who knows…maybe the truth really will set you free.