Pre-Preschool, I shipped her off looking like this:
Post-Preschool I got her back looking like this:
Damn kids and their germ sharing ways.
Share Animal Crackers, NOT PINK EYE!
We had been married about two years.
We had been given “Free Meal” certificates to a local Mexican restaurant.
We had two.
Not “Buy One Get One Free” but “Free Meal.”
But there was fine print:
“Limit one per table.”
After the server told us this, my husband piped up,
“What if we sit at different tables?”
Oh yes he did.
And yes we did.
Separate tables for the duration of our meals.
This was the night I realized I may very well be married to the CHEAPEST man alive, and it is the night he learned that cheapness doesn’t get you laid.
In fact all it really gets you is a lividly pissed off wife.
And who wants one of those?
***UPDATED 2/28/2008***
Did you get here from StumbleUpon? Yes? Well hey, how are you? If you’re thinking I’m some sort of two bit whore you’d be sorely mistaken. This was written with sarcasm, unfortunately first time readers (especially you men) who don’t know that I regularly employ sarcasm and don’t know that I joke on a regular (healthy) basis with my husband don’t see this as the funny little story it was meant to be. I adore my husbandand he adores me no matter how much money is or isn’t spent. We ordered, received and ate our food from different tables, then moved and sat with each other for dessert and never went back to the restaurant mentioned. So there is no need to call me a floozy, whore, tramp or bitch. Thank you very much. xoxo-Casey
*****
Hi.
I’m not such a huge big fan of being the mom today.
I don’t even want to utter the two words that are befuddling my everyday life and filling it full of needless motherly stress and guilt. Let’s just say in involves redirecting the bodily fluids of someone small into an appropriate vessel of defecation.
Final score for the day:
Appropriate vessel of defecation- 1
Floor - 1
*sigh*
It doesn’t help that I’m going all out balls on this one and quitting the diaper cold turkey. Day and night. What’s a few more loads of laundry? A spare pair of panties in my purse?
As if it weren’t bad enough that the entire internet announced their overall general state of pregnancy, now it seems the entire internet is also announcing the fact that their children just decided one morning to get their bodily fluids in the right place with no problem.
Either you’re all liars or the world is out to get me.
Or both.
Why haven’t I read a single freak out post yet? HUH? WHY?
Why does nobody write about how exasperating it is that the small person needs a STRICT ORDER TO THINGS? A strict order that is ONLY to be performed by said small person?
I HAVE TO TURN THE LIGHT ON!
I HAVE TO PULL MY PANNIES DOWN!
I HAVE TO GET THE PAPER!
I HAVE TO FLUSH!
I HAVE TO PULL MY PANNIES UP!
I HAVE TO TURN THE WATER ON!
I HAVE TO GET THE SOAP!
I HAVE TO TURN THE WATER OFF!
I HAVE TO GET THE TOWEL!
I HAVE TO THROW IT AWAY!
I HAVE TO TURN THE LIGHT OFF!
Fast forward five minutes.
“MOM! I HAVE TO POTTY!”
Oh.
my.
H-E double hockey sticks.
I know this will all be over in the blink of an eye and I’ll look back someday with warm fuzzy memories and laugh at how wound up I was about this whole thing blah blah blah.
But why does nobody else come clean and tell you that the more independent your child gets the more pain in the rear they get? HUH? WHY DOES NOBODY TELL YOU THIS?
Here goes, the more independent your child gets, the more of a pain they are (only for a bit, thank heavens.) You see, they will want to do EVERYTHING by themselves, and you’re going to have to be the one to teach them how to do everything.
Only you’re not going to be allowed to help them.
At least not until they are a weeping ball of frustration lying on the floor.
And you’ll have to be the one to keep your composure and calmly explain why you can’t pull your skirt over your head and show the checker at Costco that you have Belle on your big girl panties. And then you’ll hear,
“BUT WHY?”
“Because we don’t show our panties in public.”
“BUT WHY?”
“Because they are not for anyone to see but you.”
“BUT WHY?”
“Because we keep our panties and our bums to ourselves.”
“BUT WHY?”
At this point you grind your jaw to avoid bopping your kid in the head or telling horror stories of kidnapped children.
And then you’ll say this, (which you swore you’d never say)
“BECAUSE I SAID SO. THE END.”
And then you realize you’re one step closer to becoming your mean grandma that you hated to go visit because you weren’t allowed to touch any of her stuff and the only thing she knew how to make was macaroni and cheese with lots of pepper.
The older the moosh gets the more I realize how lucky I am my mom didn’t leave me at a roadside fruit stand.
And maybe I’m not infertile, maybe my body has truce with my uterus I’m not in on.
“Uterus, you don’t let her get pregnant, then she won’t get even more bat crap crazy with two kids and I’LL LET YOU LIVE TO SEE ANOTHER DAY.”
That’s got to be it.
