I am sitting in the bathroom. Allowing her to tear an entire roll of toilet paper (one ply — we ain’t fancy). Because I just need like, two seconds to piss and wash my face. Not at the same time. I’ve tried. Shit gets weird. And my aim is God-awful.
I’ve made you uncomfortable. I do that. Please don’t run away from my blog.
The point is, I see her doing the bad thing. And I do not stop the bad thing. And I can pretty much guarantee you that the world will not end and we’ll still be invited to the cool parties.
But this revelation did not come without a fight. And mom guilt is a big ole B.
I am very aware of how much she looks up to me. How I have the ability to mold and shape this tiny being with the edible cheeks. How everything I do, affects and influences the woman she will become. That supreme, terrifying responsibility. The reason I seldom go for beer #4 on week days.
And I have high hopes that this latest bathroom episode won’t lead to a passionate life of rampant toilet paper tearing.
I pick my battles.
As a mom, I’ve likely let you down. As a human, I am damn sure of it. Because the the way I live my life, while balancing two babies on da hips, is not exactly the way the book told us to. The one with all the sleep training answers and some sensational “mom” on the cover; perfect tits, no bags, and a week old baby. She’s clearly doing it right.
Listen, I don’t suck ALL the time. I know how to not burn the cookies (for da kids) and the right amount of Vermouth for your martini (adults). And I have almost figured out how to use Google Home.
As a (somewhat) reluctant stay at home mama, I’ve just found new ways to sin.
So, I am here, telling the world how very well aware I am of the following momming transgressions. And to let the other knocked up broads know, you are NEVER alone in this. No matter what they say.
Forgive me, for I have allowed the coffee to cool and grow bitter. Like my soul. An hour from now when I remember said beverage and attempt to chug.
I had such high hopes this morning when I turned on the dispenser of life and watched it pour its dark magic into my not sure if this was properly cleaned but it has a Disney Princess on it so I am gonna use it mug. I carried my precious all the way into the living room, sat down, held it to my awaiting mouth, and… almost dropped the f’n thing twice as my daughter pulled my robe sleeve, begging to dip her fingers into the glorious black lava I longed for. After setting the mug down, far out of range of her Cheerio-clad fingers, I had just enough time to run over to my son and stop his glorious drawing of what can only be described as Van Gogh-esque doodles on our pantry door. Around this time, the rouge-headed one, begins her banshee cry because I have left her eye-sight and she fears the worst. I run over, comfort and kiss, and bring her over to her brother who has opened the greatly flower enhanced pantry door and located the hastily stored Scooby Doo fruit snacks. He is on his second one. Just as my daughter eyes the Oreos. And I step on the PJ Masks toy that no one really likes. Screaming a word that will surely be repeated in the wrong kind of company.
Everyone ends up with a banana. I find the last remaining Magic Eraser and make that pantry door shine. And somewhere, forgotten and fearful, is a dirty Rapunzel mug, keeping a dead fly company.
Forgive me, I can’t recall the last time I showered. It certainly could have been last night. Most likely, it was within the last two days. Does thoroughly scrubbing the dishes count? I suppose not since I prefer the washing device that does the dirty job for me. What about being vigorously splashed and bubble tortured from two small creatures that have my eyes and temperament? Surely, that washed away some of yesterday’s wine.
Do you think I want this for myself? I hate when I realize I am almost to the grocery store and for the life of me, I cannot recall if a brushed my teeth or hair before leaving the house. Thankfully, for the most part, I seldom forget that my kids need to do those things daily. And sunglasses and a hat are better than any IG filter.
Eating bad shit
Please forgive me, today my lunch consisted of my son’s last nugget, my daughter’s squeeze pouch of slop, and whatever the hell I found under the coffee table (I named it Grapish Delight Crunch). I know that had I used my time more wisely (this new snapchat took longer to conquer than most), I could have prepared a meal of substance for myself. But the day got away from me and the hallucinations started around 3:00 and I grabbed the first things I could find and woke up in a corner somewhere, picking crumbs out of the stroller cup holder, humming the ole’ Bagels Bite ditty.
Forgive me for oversharing. You really didn’t need to see 17 pictures of my son’s ice cream headache face.
Or did you? The lines aren’t really clear for me.
Yes, I have heard of Google. Yes, I have close friends I can call. And YES, our doctor is very familiar with my name and will dial back shortly. However, I don’t know the faces behind The Google. My close friends may not have gone through the ordeal I am currently terrified of. And my doc is popular and not my health slave and I will likely have to wait over an hour for a callback (“by the end of the day, sweetie”). So, if I want to jump on the Facebook and throw up a question as my status (“Yo yo yo. My baby has this super funky thang going on. Suggestions?) and get 15 replies from people I personally know (but perhaps I wouldn’t have thought to call my sorority sister from years ago OR the chick I used to drink with) and I can use those provided answers to actually ease my babies aches a bit quicker, well then HOT DAMN, social media win and if you are honest with yourself, my questions affected absolutely nothing about your day.
Yeh. I am going to go ahead and say I like the way I sin on this one. I relish your discomfort. Proceed.
I seek not forgiveness.
TV as babysitter (and best friend, cousin, step-grandpa, etc).
Forgive me for the comfort I have found in the glowing box of animated children doctors and Pixar brilliance. I turn it on and BAM, the tantrum has ended, the nagging is quieted, and that lukewarm coffee will be sipped slowly and enjoyed.
I’m only human. And mama likes to watch her stories, too. The kids will totally benefit from another Vanderpump Rules binge.
Forgive me, I totally value your friendship but I have no plans about calling you back. It’s not you. It’s me. I just have like a 30 minute pause in my day where the kids are independently playing (pure myth until recently) and I must cram as much selfish things into as possible. Phoning a friend, even a very very dear one, just isn’t as important as NOT folding the clothes and allowing myself to feel guilty about it for the next 28.5 minutes. I give myself a minute to open the Cheetos bag. And a good 30 seconds of productivity.
I’ll text later. Promise.
NOT cleaning while they nap
Forgive me, can you repeat the statement? Nap? Can you sound it out? Use it in a sentence? And you are quite sure kids do this… often? Sounds kind of shady.
But it’s my fucking cake.
Being in public
Forgive me, I just really don’t know what to do with my hands. I use to LOVE meeting new people, any chance for public speaking, and conversations with adults. But I’ve been out of the game for too long. And after living in a foreign country (never learned Dutch, never will), having two babies back to back, and staying home to raise the suckers, my social graces are in need of attention and fine tuning. Drinking only makes it worse. Combine the awkwardness with lots of ugly girl crying and no one wants you at their 3 year old’s party.
Basically, I’m just finding ways to make it through the day. Using methods that are less than impressive. Sharing only the good stuff. Keeping the eye twitching at bay.
Whatever it takes. Because my love for them is outstanding. And I am learning to love myself, too.
So for the moments I fail, the times I give up, or the occasions where I have simply ran out of all the fucks in my arsenal — I would like to apologize to the universe and the ones so clearly offended.
Be kinder, people. Perfecting your Elmo voice while building a castle made out of pipe cleaners is much harder than it looks it.
Always worth it, though. Even if they won’t remember your poorly formed dragon.
And I hope I have garnered enough forgiveness today, that no other mom, rookie or vet, needs to justify the methods she relies on to shit in peace.