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Thursday, February 13, 2014

Open Letter to Mothers Who Like Snow Days

Open letter to the psychotic mom on Facebook who was all excited for a snow day with her kids.

Let me start of by saying: Fuck you.  Fuck you, you crazy ass psychotic lunatic.  I don’t know if you had a big glass of cray cray with your oatmeal or if you are a masochist, but what the fuck are you thinking?  Maybe you have 2 girls….maybe there are about 12 and 14 and maybe your idea of a snow day is drinking warm hot coco with your tween girls while doodling and painting each others nails.  Is that it?  Please tell me it is, because then maybe I wouldn’t think you inhaled a giant bong full of batshit crazy smoke?!

Cause here’s out is going over at my place:  My day started bright and early before the fucking sun with my 4 year old waking up, stripping naked and peeing in the shower instead of the toilet because “Daddy does it”.  As soon as I utter those words all kids love to hear and all parents (Except Mrs. Supersappy Mom) “no school today” my son decides it’s the perfect time to dump the giant box of blocks only to wake up my other son, the 15 month old TIT (terrorist in training).  Howling from his crib, I go to retrieve him. He smiles that devilish telling grin and lifts his arms to be removed from his cell.  And then the day begins.

By 7 am I had already diffused two big fights but I had yet to shower or brush my teeth.  I had found 3 missing Star Wars telepods under sofa cushions, behind the plunger in the bathroom and under a pillow.  I had changed two enormous poop diapers which leads me to wonder what the hell my son eats that possibly can come out of him like explosions in a quarry.

I served three full meals at home.  Mealtime goes something like this:  Food is placed neatly on the high chair serving tray.  One starch, one protein, one fruit or vegetable. I commend my own parenting in my head and applaud myself on a well-balanced meal.  I think ahead to the Olympics in 2030 and my son mentioning me as he accepts his gold medal and attributes it to his proper and healthy upbringing. And just as I daydream that precious thought, the TIT tosses every fucking item on his tray on to the ground except for the squeezy pouch.  Osama Bin Pestronk saves that shit.  That’s his shock and awe as he prepares to launch it up missile-style.  Of course he has great aim and it hits the upholstered dining chairs with Jackson Pollack splatter.

While I want to bang my head into the refrigerator hoping it knocks me unconscious and that 911 can get here in the snow, I instead grab for the broom and dustpan to do the laborious and chronic task of sweeping up every meal.  I assemble a beautiful pile of gunk, which includes 3, or 4-day-old macaroni remnants, a twist tie from the loaf of bread, chunks of lunch and those quartered grapes so TIT won’t choke.  In the two seconds it takes me to turn for the dustpan, TIT decided the buffet of swept up lunch looks a lot better than it did beautiful placed on his tray and goes to town eating.  As a second time mother---I don’t care.  I let him eat.  At least he’s getting his fruits and vegetables…and dust.

The next 7-14 hours trickle by so painfully slowly that it seems like every drop of blood is slowly bleeding out my eyeballs.  This may be a good time to mention that yes, I do love my kids.  If they needed a lung or a kidney or semi-functioning liver, I am there for them.  But do I need to love them, be with them, ALL FUCKING DAY?  No!??  My answer is most definitely NO!!!!!  My older son then screams my name, “MOMMMMMY, come here! Come here!! Come here!!” I rush over to the bathroom where I find him with his superman underpants around his ankles. “Look at my poop!!!” He points to the toilet bowl with the kind of excitement I save for a Louboutin find at Last Call. “Is it big? Is it huge? What’s it look like?  It looks like an alligator tail, right?”  I am at a loss for words.  He is a budding abstract artist. 

While I was distracted investigating fecal matter like cloud patterns, the TIT has escaped and his running loose from room to room wailing and carrying my older son’s prized Angry Bird telepods.  The older one, still naked from the waist down gives chase. “Give me back my birds. Mommmmmmyyyyyyy, get him. Put him away!!!” His favorite line. As if I could pick him up and put him on the top shelf of a cabinet.  “Get him. He took my things.” TIT doesn’t have that many words yet, but he is bellowing “MINE MINE” as he plows head first into the corner of the sofa.  We all pause for a minute as TIT recovers and when I realize there is no blood and TIT only stumbled the chase continues with my older one now wielding a light saber and swinging it at him.  It seems futile to try and resolve this fight. Besides, I think they’ll be better for it later if they can work it out between themselves….and my wine glass is empty. 

I rebound around 2 and make a conscious decision to be the best fucking mom EVER!!! And I do what any great Martha Stewart loving mom does: I consult Pintrest (and pour another cocktail).  I locate some crafty ideas and and prep my area to make some amazing DIY Valentine’s Day ideas.  “Max, we are going to make some cool gifts for Daddy for Valentine’s Day.” I inform my son that he needs to stop his naked acrobatics and do some arts and crafts with mommy.  And what I basically got from him was Fuck that Noise.  “I hate arts and crafts. I am a superhero. I don’t do arts and crafts.”  I basically hold him down with brut force and cover his hands in red paint to make my L-O-V-E poster with handprints.  He’s slapping the canvas, slapping me and takes off running with hand full of paint. I see the future, I see my new sofa covered in red paint and my own mother giving me holistic cleaning tips to revive the fabric and I take off after him with a wet wipe.  TIT comes forward with his toddler curiosity and fingers at the paint left unattended and I am in overdrive. “STOP,” I shriek to deaf ears. And the blood red paint of creativity is covering my living room. 

Amazingly I finish the project of handprints and footprints and marvel at it briefly before the next calamity.  I hear a crash. I wait for a minute to see if there are tears or screams. Tears means someone is hurt, screams mean nothing and I’d continue to ignore it and continue trying to remove red paint from my couch that now looks as if someone has been dismembered on it. Instead, I hear nothing.  Nothing is worse. Nothing means that someone could be pinned unconscious under a bookshelf or that they are both choking on small pieces of glass from a smashed table.  So I sprint into the playroom to find TIT and the commander have dumped the entire shelf of board games.  2000 cards from Candyland, and Scrabble and Sequence are scattered across the room, which makes it look like a Yankee tickertape parade.  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do it,” the Commander bats his long eyelashes at me praying on my one sympathetic cell.  “It was an accident.”  I know that it was no accident but I take a deep breath and summon my strength – to reach for the wine bottle.

And before I know it, it’s dinnertime. I am grateful knowing that I am only 130 minutes away from TIT’s bedtime.  I consider for a moment just tossing dinner on the floor and serving it in the dustpan to cut down on the steps of the meal, but then I think happy thoughts and try to picture his graduation from Harvard and all those healthy meals he ate/threw.  I prepare exactly 4 dinners for two children.  First, the grilled cheese sandwich, which was requested, by the Commander and then homemade Cheerio-coated chicken for TIT.  “I hate grilled cheese,” the Commander informs me.  “I want dinosaur chicken.”  So I throw the grilled cheese into Tupperware and toss 10 pieces of dino nuggets into the microwave while TIT picks the Cheerio pieces off the chicken and heaves everything else on to the floor.  The Commander is happy with the dino chicken and engulfs enough to satiate a sumo wrestler.  But TIT is hungry and unhappy.  “How bout macaroni?” I ask TIT who answers only with a shake of the head NO.  “You want to win the lottery and get a $100 million dollars?” No headshake.  “Do you want to go to Disneyland and eat cotton candy all day?” Headshake No.  So I make him some frozen pancakes ---- which he throws at his brother.  I give up and figure he can dustpan dine on remnants. 

I am now minutes away from bedtime and only down one bottle of wine and few cuts and bruises for the day. I survived. Barely.  But guess what?? I get to do it all again tomorrow because it is another fucking snow day!!!

So happy lady on Facebook, is that kinda how your snow day went? 

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