Category Archives: parenting

School’s Out For Summah!

There are only 4 days of school left.

As I argued with a sleepy 6-year-old this morning about getting ready for school, I yearned for the upcoming lazy summer days. I can smell the sunlight already, even if it is a cloudy, wet, chilly day today. That will change the minute school lets out, I’m sure. 

School's Out For Summer

School’s Out For Summer

The weather is not the only thing that will change during summer break…

    This morning:

    Thing 1: “Just 5 more minutes.”

    Thing 2: “uuunnngggghhhhh”

    Thing 3: “No. I don’t want to get up.”

    Summer mornings:

    Thing 1: *sleeps till 3 p.m.*

    Thing 2: *sleeps till noon*

    Thing 3: *pops out of bed at 7 a.m. yelling, “IT’S MORNING! IT’S MORNING!” *


    This morning:                                                  

    Thing 1: “Did you wash my jersey?”

    Thing 2: “I need socks. No. Not those socks.”

    Thing 3: “These pants feeeel funny. Take them oooooffff! This shirt is too____ (boyish/sparkly/pink/any color or texture known to man).”

    Summer mornings:

    Thing 1: “Did you wash my jersey?”

    Thing 2: *wears only gym shorts all day, every day.*

    Thing 3: *alternates between no clothes, a princess dress with heels, or the pants that “felt funny” when she had to wear them to school*


    This morning:

    Thing 1: “Have you seen my shoes?”

    Thing 2: “Someone stole my shoes.”

    Thing 3: “I want to wear my boots/high heels/your shoes/no shoes. And these socks feel funny.”

    Summer mornings:

    Things 1, 2, and 3: *Run outside on a moment’s notice, wearing shoes and socks they found themselves and put on with no assistance or ‘funny feelings’.*


Ahh, I can’t wait for summer, with the joyous sound of children’s laughter, the playing outside in the warm sunshine, sleeping in and swimming and barbecues…

…and the endless requests for three-course meals, the constant nitpicking and fighting, the crispy red sunburns, the incessant whining, itchy bug bites and tangled fishing line and talking, talking, talking….

*Ahem.* When does school start again?

Shit My Family Says to Me, Part 98

Yesterday was my anniversary. Neither I nor my husband remembered it until my mom told us congratulations. This is just one example of how bad my memory is. I’m telling you this because I’m about to share some comments from my smartass loving family, and I can’t remember which ones I’ve already posted. Basically, it’s two times the funny. Or a rerun and you’ll wish you had changed the channel.

Either way.


Shit My Family Says to Me

I think they want to drive me crazy, but it is far too late.


Husband: I think I confuse you sometimes. It’s like you just don’t get what I’m trying to tell you.

Me: *Argues for awhile.*

Me: Whatever, you’re confusing me.

Husband: Um. That’s what I said.



Me: *Hears something fall in the kitchen*

Thing 2: I found a great place to put the sausage.

Me: *Ignores him*


Me: *sees something nasty hanging half out of the ice dispenser.*

Me: What on earth is that?

Thing 2: Oh! That frozen tube of sausage fell out and I found the perfect spot for it!

Thing 2: *Goes on his merry way*

Me: So this is a tube of sausage that has been hanging out of the freezer all day.



Thing 1: Is no one going to address the fact that he is a dumbass?

Me: *almost wet myself laughing, try to get rid of mushy, thawed sausage, almost cut my hand off, can’t figure out what to do with it.*

Husband: Is no one going to address the fact that he gets it from her?



Thing 1: *Looking at his ACT admission ticket.* What is this on the back?

Me: Oh. Well, I ran out of paper so I had to print it on part of a book I was reviewing.

Husband: You can’t do that.

Me: Why not? It’s fine.

Thing 1: The first line is, “terrorizing the city or some such bullshit.”

Me: They don’t need to look at the back. They just need the front. Who cares?

Thing 1: *I* care! This is my future we’re talking about here!

Husband: *nods knowingly*

Me: *muttering* I was just trying to be resourceful.

Thing 1: Don’t do that!

Husband: Don’t ever do that.



Daughter: When I grow up I want to have kids but I don’t want a husband.

Me: *seeing opportunity to teach her to be a strong, independent woman* You don’t have to be married to have babies. There are special doctors you can go to who can help you have babies without a husband.

Her: Really?! Will you take me there?

Me: *Fondly* Of course I will.

Her: And then I can live with you and Daddy and you will help me take care of my babies?

Me: Uh. I guess so?


Husband: So, do you want our daughter to be an unwed teenage mother who lives with us so we can raise our grandchildren?




Me: I think I’ll pick up the yard tomorrow.

Husband: I don’t think so. You’ll be hurting for days afterward.

Daughter: You can’t work outside because Daddy said so.

Me: *seeing opportunity to teach her to be a strong, independent woman* No, I can if I want to, because I am a free woman and I don’t have to do what any man says. And when you grow up, you will be the boss of yourself!

Her: *excitedly* DADDY! Mommy says she’s a free woman and she doesn’t have to do what you say!

Husband: What? Oh, okay. Pick up the yard then. You want to weedeat too? Or do you want to load the old washing machine into the trailer? Since you’re a free woman?

Me: Um. No thanks.


Her: Will you get me some more milk?

Me: Go ask your dad.

Her: *excitedly* He said you are free to get me some milk yourself.

Me: Shit.



Reasons That I Should Be Supervised At All Times

1.  I wrote a bunch of stuff with a black ink pen, then went to see my psychiatrist. She suggested increasing my meds. I did not realize until I got home that I had ink tattoos all over my cheek, chin, and neck.


2. *Home alone, untangling cords*

Me: *screams* I will fucking kill you!


3. *Home alone, cleaning up bits of deodorant out of the carpet*

Me: *cries out to universe* WHY? WHY?


4. *Uses visual aids to demonstrate the Monkey Kingdom movie*

Me: It was so disturbing. All these long, floppy nipples and monkey penises everywhere! They all had them!

Husband: Yes. All monkeys have nipples and penises.

Me: Well, I don’t think it was appropriate for kindergarteners. They should’ve shown the one about tigers.

Husband: Did any of the kids say anything?


Husband: So there were hundreds of 6-year-olds and you were the only one concerned with monkey parts?

Me:  I think maybe that one little monkey pervert jerking it at the zoo must’ve scarred me badly.


Boys, Otherwise Known As Destroyers of Bathrooms

This little guy is 12 now. *sigh*

This little guy is 12 now. *sigh*

I have three boys—two children, one husband—and I can say with some authority that there is no other creature who can be at once so adorable and so utterly disgusting.

I’m not saying that girls can’t be super gross. I have one of those too and she peed in my bed last night and once blew her nose into her own hair. So girls have their moments, but for the most part I don’t think they come equipped for maximum bathroom carnage.

I rarely use the boys’ bathroom because I don’t like sitting in other people’s urine. Or my own, for that matter. Also, even if I was in a desert with no food or water, I would never drink my own pee.

I’m getting a little off track.

Anyway. Men supposedly lift the toilet seat up and leave it up and that is a big problem in other households. In THIS household the only problem is a huge lack of aim and probably laziness. Otherwise, why wouldn’t they just lift the fucking seat and point the urinator at the toilet bowl? I just made up a word. But seriously, who just pees everywhere, willy-nilly, and doesn’t even care? Boys, that’s who.

Our house has two bathrooms. Two of my boys currently have some sort of facial hair. At no time is either bathroom free of small, wiry hairs decorating the back of the sink, the cabinets, the walls, the floor, and even the mirror. Neither of my boys can shave or even trim an area the size of half a head without the sink looking like they tried to shove Chewbacca down the drain.

As bad as I hate to, let’s talk about shower etiquette. Now, there are some things boys may or may not do in the shower that I don’t want to know about AT ALL, let alone talk about.

But there are some things going on in there that can be heard from two rooms away with the water running full blast, and I ain’t talking about singing.

I shudder to even speak of this, but here we go. Blowing of the nose IN THE SHOWER FOR FUCK’S SAKE! WHO DOES THAT? BOYS! BOYS DO THAT!

The sound alone is enough to send me gagging, but what really grosses me out is the left-behind-evidence of this shower boogerfest. It is so awesome when I am taking a relaxing bath and someone else’s snotwad floats by.


But. Even though they are often filthy, sweaty, hairy, and stinky, they are my boys and I couldn’t live without them, no matter what that rotten odor is coming from their bedrooms or their butts.

More Shit My Family Says

Hi there.

As you can see, I survived the Holiday Season, fraught with human interaction though it was. It has taken me this long to reach some semblance of recovery…you know, back to my normal state of pajamas and pony tails and questionable hygiene.

I’m just going to dip my toes into the blog in this first post, and maybe next time I will plug my nose and jump all the way in.

Here are some of the Most Ridiculous Things my family has said to me during my break.


From my 6-year-old.

From my 6-year-old.


Thing 1: I slept for like 13 hours!

Me: I know. I thought about waking you guys up, but I knew you’d want me to feed you.

Thing 1: Wow…the maternal instinct is so strong…I can’t even.


Husband: *speaks only in puns for a damned hour*

Me: Your puns are not making me happy.


Thing 3: Boogycalla.


Thing 3: A long time ago, ancient people used that word for ‘hello.’


Me: I hate everything that’s on my desk.

Husband: You also hate everything that’s not on your desk.

Me: Excellent point.


Thing 1: So…food?

Me: It’s one o’clock. I’ll make dinner at dinnertime.

Thing 1:

Me: I can’t feed you twice a day! WHAT DO YOU THINK I AM?

Thing 1:

Me: Anyway, dinner is the most important meal of the day.

Thing 1: We’ve been talking for like 10 minutes and you’ve lied to me three times.


*You may have noticed a theme here regarding my children and their near-constant demands for nourishment. I don’t know if all kids are like this, but mine like to eat at least 12 times a day. I personally don’t care how much they eat, it’s how much they expect me to cook that appalls me.

I would like to point out that these kids are 16, 12, and 6.

1.5 of them are fully capable of cooking for themselves without supervision.

**Thing 2 is missing from this post because all he says anymore sounds to me like, “Football, football, yardline, pass, interception, football, that guy, football, some guy, Madden, football, football, football.” It is barely English.

We are in a state of emergency

Operation Thanksgiving was a success, thanks to my mother and my mother-in-law (the cooks), two bottles of champagne, and many pies.

There were so many pies that my subconscious has woken me up every night at midnight to eat a slice two slices. I consider this taking one for the team. The pie team. Of which I am the leader.

Now with Thanksgiving barely over, the time for Holiday Shenanigans has commenced.

I have to LEAVE MY HOUSE every day for the next four days.

Let that sink in.

Although I do want to see my daughter sing today and I wouldn’t miss Thing 1 in the play and I’m sure the band program of Thing 2’s will be phenominal…I would much rather watch these things from my couch. And let’s not even speak of the parade.

Can you even imagine the amount of bathing and getting dressed this is going to entail? More than I’ve done in the last week, I can tell you that.

Then you throw in that it is cold and rainy outside and when it is cold I don’t like to get out of my bed. I may be part bear.


And I have to wonder how I will make an ass of myself at these various functions. SO many opportunities to be weird and awkward!

Being an introvert with anxiety almost guarantees that I will say or do something idiotic…in public…with no place to hide.

I’ve narrowed it down to two possibilities. The first and best-case scenario is that I won’t speak at all and will avoid eye contact with anyone I didn’t give birth to. If cornered, I will answer questions only with “yes” or “no” and will fidget and bolt at the first opportunity.

The second and least desirable and therefore most likely is that I will start nervous talking. This is the one I’d really like to avoid because once I start nervous talking, I can’t be stopped and my subject matter leaves much to be desired. For instance, I need to not talk about the zombie apocalypse and the fact that once the meds run out I will be a dead weight but I still don’t want to be eaten so I’ve been practicing with a sling shot, the only weapon I will be allowed. When people say, “How have you been?” I’m pretty sure that is not the answer they are expecting.

I also shouldn’t talk about my pets bowel habits (though they are very interesting) or say, “You are making me anxious.” and then walk away.

Basically, the next four days are a damned social minefield and I’m not fully equipped to navigate it. Or even partially equipped. I have no equipment.

Are you already sick of holiday engagements or is it just me? Is crawling under a chair a viable option in an auditorium?

School Fundraisers Suck


The beginning of the school year was filled with sales. Girl Scout sales, PTA sales, band sales; everybody was selling something and basically driving me crazy.

So. Fast forward to last week when I started getting these notes home saying that the cookie dough order would be in on Thursday and HAD to be picked up on THURSDAY between the hours of 3:30 and 6:30.

I threw every one of them away. We, I was sure, had sold no cookie dough. These increasingly threatening letters were not meant for me, and I trashed EVERY ONE OF THEM.

Fast forward again to Thursday night. Imagine my surprise when the school calls me at 6 pm to ask if I am going to pick up my cookie dough order. Or rather, to TELL me to get my ass down there and pick it up. I tried telling them that we didn’t sell cookie dough. They replied with yes, you did, you sold it to yourself and so-and-so and so-and-so. I couldn’t argue with that kind of logic.

I sent my husband to pick up the “cookie dough” explaining to him that they were calling it the wrong thing. WE had never sold cookie dough, so this must be that other stuff we sold and they were IDIOTS and were calling it cookie dough which is why I THREW AWAY ALL THE LETTERS.

So he brings home this giant box of stuff we allegedly sold and I ignore it. Because I was sure it was full of nuts and magazines and whatever else we had sold but CERTAINLY NOT COOKIE DOUGH.

This morning the box is still sitting in my chair so out of curiosity I opened it.

Guess what was in it. Guess.

FUCKING COOKIE DOUGH. We DID sell cookie dough. I even BOUGHT cookie dough. Then I argued with the school about it and left it sitting out overnight in my warm house instead of the fridge because I was SO CERTAIN that we didn’t sell cookie dough.

I have obviously lost my mind. I blame the school and their “cookie dough.”

YES, Bring Your Fucking Jacket!

Ode to that most frustrating creature, the teenager who would rather freeze his bits off than wear a goddamn coat.

wear a fucking jacket

Teenagers everywhere

Freezing off their derriers.

Wear a fucking coat

It’s wintertime you dolt.


They are impervious to the cold

Until they get so old

Hoodies are not jackets

I’ve tried every kind of racket.


They don’t even care

As long as they have good hair

They don’t give a shit

About being frost bit.


This mom is wearing layers

But her boys are being players

Put on a fucking coat!

You are not a fluffy mountain goat.


You are a boy who this mom loves

And she worries because you won’t wear gloves

So please for the love of God

Put a fucking jacket on.

Aging Ungracefully

I went to the doctor this morning and she wants to give me some injections in my neck. There was a question of whether or not I wanted to be sedated. Silly question. I ALWAYS WANT TO BE SEDATED. In any given situation, I can pretty much guarantee you that I would rather be sedated. I have two teenagers. I’d like to be sedated for the next 6 to 13 years.

My neck has been giving me problems for years but now that I’m getting older it is getting worse. I know that it’s getting worse because I can feel it and I know that I’m getting older because my kids NEVER STOP MENTIONING IT.

My birthday is this month. Most days I feel about 80, 85, but I’m actually only going to be 35.


My family and I saw an old friend of mine the other day and Thing 2 couldn’t wait to say, “I can’t believe you guys went to school with her! She looks so much younger than you!”

No, I didn’t smack him but I thought about it.

Then today we ran into another old friend and here he goes again. This time he says, “How come everyone you went to school with looks younger or older than you?” Um, because they have to be one of the two? Knowing I wasn’t going to like the answer, I asked the question anyway.

Then this happened.

This was a full cup of chocolate milk.

This was a full cup of chocolate milk.

How I managed to do that, I will probably never know, but I do know that 20 ounces of chocolate milk can cover a lot of territory in a car and it’s very, very sticky.

Since my birthday is coming up, my husband has been giving me little gifts all month long. (I KNOW, RIGHT?) This was his latest and I absolutely love it for so many reasons. It is warm and cozy. It has pockets. It has a hood. And it embarrasses the crap out of my kids who deserve it because they keep calling me old.


Is there a better gift in this world than a bright blue adult onesie WITH POCKETS? No. No, there is not.


Shit My Family Says To Me, Again

Well, I survived another Halloween. In protest, I attended two fall festivals sans makeup and hair styling. I thought if anyone asked I would say I was dressed as a frazzled mother with too many festivals to attend, but no one asked. I did however get mistaken for a sorority sister. That makes me think that the girls who hosted the festival must be heavy partiers and are often seen about town looking next-morning-rough.

In other news, my family has come through for you guys yet again, by way of constantly harassing me and giving me grief.

I tried to tell my son that I was funny and he didn’t believe me.

Me: I have over 2000 followers on my blog.

Thing 2: Stop it. You do not.

Me: Yes. Yes I do. Because people think I’m funny.

Thing 2: The funniest thing you ever said to me is what you just said.

My husband and I were discussing handwriting analysis.

Me: According to my handwriting, I have about five different personalities.

Him: I think at least two of them don’t like me.

Me: *chortles* I have to write that down!

Him: I like how I gave you ample time to dispute that, but you didn’t.

Me: …cause I think you’re right.

Trying to convince my oldest son that I am the coolest mom he knows.

Me: I’m awesome and you know it!

Thing 1: Yeah, if by “awesome” you mean “hard to love.”

Pedi Egg

Halloween is Stupid.

Halloween, I’ve decided, should be an adult-only holiday. As a parent, Halloween is just a giant pain in the ass. Kids stuffed into costumes that are itchy or tight or too hot or too cold, driving to a subdivision and then walking for miles in the freezing cold to get candy that I’m either going to sneakily eat myself or throw away because it’s “bad.”

And I didn’t have it any better as a kid.

In this picture, I had just cried out, “Don’t hurt him, Pop!” But I was talking about the pumpkin, not my little brother who is clearly about to lose a hand.

pumpkin carving

And here’s me as the saddest black cat you’ve ever seen:

sad costume

Or maybe I was supposed to be a pumpkin. I’m not really sure what the hell that was.

Then there was the year of the butterfly. As far as I know, no pictures exist of The Butterfly Costume.

That year my mom bought a yard of the most beautiful, shiny fabric for my wings. Then, instead of making me wings, she draped the fabric over my shoulders and sent me on my way. I was a kid in black tights wrapped in a yard of satin, more cocoon than butterfly.

I believe that same year my brother wore, taped to his chest, a piece of yellow paper from a legal pad with an ‘S’ drawn on it.

Then you’ve got pumpkin carving. I always start out with such high hopes. Then I spend an hour pulling gooey strings out of 5 pumpkins and I remember that I hate pumpkin carving. This year my oldest kids didn’t even participate and my youngest spent most of the time crying because we wouldn’t let her use a knife.

Next you try to actually carve the damn things and realize that pumpkins were not meant to be carved.  They are hard and dangerous and I don’t even know why this is a thing. When you’re finally done, your pumpkin ends up looking like the jackass no one wants to hang out with and the other pumpkins are giving him the side eye.

Guess which one's mine.

Guess which one’s mine.

Before kids, I used to leave haunted houses laughing and shrieking as the chainsaw-wielding clown chased us out. The last haunted house I went to, I had a kid wrapped all the way around me and I was literally yelling at the actors to “LEAVE US ALONE! WE ARE DONE HERE!” I almost got into a fight.

This week at school my daughter gets to dress up EVERY DAY. The school wants me dead, I just know it. She’s already been to one Fall Festival and has two more left. The boys have parties to attend. And of course Friday we will load up and go trick or treating.

If Halloween were just for adults, I would have exactly one event to attend. I would only worry about my husband’s costume and whether or not it was offensive. I would drink beer by a large fire and not eat any candy. I wouldn’t knock on a single door or attend any Fall Festivals.

I wouldn’t hear my children laugh as they dunk for apples. I wouldn’t take a picture of my daughter smiling proudly by three half-assed jack o’lanterns. I wouldn’t pick my oldest up from a party and listen to him laugh about all the fun he’d had. I wouldn’t hear a sweet little voice say, “Trick or Treat!” and “Thank You!” at every house. I wouldn’t watch them dump their candy bags in the floor for inspection and theft. *sigh*

At least there’ll be candy.

Are you dressing up this year? What was the worst Halloween costume you ever wore?


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