7 Days

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This is how I imagine I looked as I just lost my shit on the kids. Except without the bangin' bod, and red hair, and leather. Yeah, I didn't look anything like this.

This is how I imagine I looked as I just lost my shit on the kids. Except without the bangin’ bod, and red hair, and leather. Yeah, I didn’t look anything like this.

It’s been 7 days since my kids were in any type of camp setting and I just hit my limit. The constant bickering, and competition, the “he hit me’s” and “no, he hit me firsts”, the insolence, the taunting, the name calling, the unbearable heat, the tattling, the fact that leaving the house takes 45 fucking minutes every time because no one can ever find socks – while I spend every waking hour washing and folding and putting away laundry like some younger and more surely version of Alice from the Brady Bunch.

I just snapped.

I just broke.

It wasn’t pretty.

Not only wasn’t it pretty it probably was a bit scary as well. Today was not my best mommy moment and I might not be proud of my meltdown, but I’m also not ashamed. These kids, the loves of my life, my DNA flowing through their veins at warp speed, need to understand that I might be an adult, but I’m not a machine. Mommy has feelings too and mommy can only be pushed so far before she lets out a scream.

Tonight, we have dinner plans out with our extended family. Tomorrow, a baptism for my beautiful niece, and on Monday I am planning to drive 1200 with these little assholes on a trip to see my parents. Without their father. I know, I know. I’m insane.

So yeah, I might currently be about 2 cookies short of a bakers dozen but at least I got it off my chest. I do feel a bit better calling them out on their bullshit and explaining to them that although I love them with every fiber of my being I didn’t become a parent to deal with the ridiculous shit they are currently doling out on me. Even as I’m writing this they are both coming to me and offering hugs and apologies.

But this isn’t about being sorry.

And I told them so.

These guys are brothers, not sworn enemies, and the sooner they figure that out the better.

But I’m not holding my breath.

 

 

The Other Four Letter F Word

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Brian the foot guy.

“I’m sorry, Atreyu. Your father was a rock biter, and your mother was a SNOWBLOWER.”

Years ago – back in 2013 – I read some blog lore written by my girl, RachRiot, about Brian the foot guy. Yeah, feet are like tits to Brian. But to me, they are the way I work through a Zumba class, or walk to the fridge, or hike to the bar, or run to pick up my kids.

You get my drift. My feet are just a means to an end; tacos, a glass of wine, a trip to go potty. And I don’t think that’s the same end that Brian means.

Brian the foot guy likes feet; the way my husband is an ass guy, and I think my brother is a boob guy. This shit isn’t talked about so much between us because my husband and my brother aren’t trolling on the internet asking for pictures of their preferred lady parts from strangers, unlike Brian. He want’s to see your feet. Pictures of your feet to be exact, and he’ll trade those pictures online with his foot fetish buddies. It’s like Garbage Pail kids, but for feet and old dudes.

And if you’re into showing your feet to Brian, he’ll give you 50 smackers in return. 50 bucks is a lot of money and what could a picture of my feet hurt.

Unless you’ve seen my feet.

When I got Brian’s foot text I was astounded. Continue reading

Kentucky Clerk In Rowan County: Kim Davis, Needs to Quit

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Partners for 17 years are refused to be married.

In one of the greatest landmark decisions of the Supreme Court in the 21st century, marriage is finally legal for members of the same-sex in the United States. Unless you live in Morehead, Kentucky and Kim Davis is your County Clerk. Here is an awful video of the happy couple  being turned away at the licensing counter (read: now, the unhappy couple). Courtesy of Gawker. 

I really can’t recall the last time I was seething this much. It might have been when one of the kids pooped in the bathtub, or the time I was bitten by a rabid dog (that didn’t actually happen) or the other time one of the kids drew sharpie marker all over their baby brother… NOPE.

Listen, everyone deserves to be married and miserable, just like us straight folks. (That was a joke, but it’s only because it’s true.)

I have never been this pissed off. Because if same-sex couples want to have the legal ability to be married. And the SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES agrees. Then I agree. Then the Kentucky clerk In Rowan County: Kim Davis, needs to agree. Or quit her job. Continue reading

How About You Refresh My Drink

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margarita

Thank you, sir! May I have another?

Last month I attended my first blogger’s conference. BlogU was a completely amazing time, and a truly life changing experience.

Just the fact that I had traveled on a plane, to a foreign place and was actively anticipating spending two whole days without my children, was in itself nothing short of a miracle. I looked forward to learning all the things and meeting all the faceless people I’ve been talking to on the internet for so long. The first day was a whirlwind. Between traveling and unpacking, attending classes and getting my bearings, I was ready to unwind and relax.

For the evening activity, the organizers held a pep rally. I got the joke. Blog University, a pep rally. Cute. Cichy. Upon check-in that morning we received two drink tickets for the evening’s event. My first thought, “Um, two drink tickets isn’t going to cut it.” And it didn’t. At least not for me.

The room was buzzing with excitement and anticipation. We listened to loads of different speakers: faculty introductions, conference attendees who were writing contest winners, words from the conference sponsors. I sat and listened, reminding myself to take baby sips of my rationed chardonnay rather than the huge gulps I would have normal swallowed in an unfamiliar situation where my children were thousands of miles away. The next speaker began informing the group of a writing contest. Money? The collective ears of the conference perked up. She had our attention, and then we were shown this video. Continue reading

No, Motherhood Is Not a Job

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I could go for a glass of wine and a day off right about now.

We’ve all heard it a million times, “Motherhood is a thankless job.” Well, I’m here to tell you, that’s some straight up bullshit. Yes, motherhood is the most thankless situation in the history of time; you do everything for everybody and they only realize this awesome feat when you fuck something up, but motherhood is not a job.

 

Prime example, today was spirit day at the 4-year-old’s school which means he’s supposed to wear a specific shirt. I vividly remember, washing this shirt, folding this shirt and putting it in his drawer. Of course, we couldn’t find it today. Of course, it’s misplacement was a disaster of epic proportions and of course, my middle child went off to school, in the wrong damn shirt, thinking that I sit on the couch and eat Cowboy Bark from Trader Joe’s all day (which I really should start doing if shirts are gonna grow fucking legs and walk away).

By definition, a job is a situation where you work… and earn money. Shit, unemployment in this country is more of a job than motherhood. And with a job you get vacation time (I can’t remember the last time I had a vacation from motherhood) and sick days (SICK DAYS!!?? I currently have a sinus infection and a double ear infection, still doin’ the mom thang) and mental health days (don’t even get me started on how bad I need one of these).

Nope, I am not working at being a mom. There is no severance package. There is no 5 o’clock whistle. There is no lunch break. Some days, when my head hits the pillow, I close my eyes and recall some adorable moment shared with my children: a funny little nuance, a real belly laugh, a “thanks mama,” or a sincere, “I love you,” and my heart is full with payment. But most days… most days I don’t remember getting into bed; body heavy with the physical and mental labor I’ve shelled out with every fiber of my being.

This isn’t a job because it never ends. My life could be equated with being the janitor at the mall. You mop the mall floor, over and over and over again, just to watch a heard of people walk over the spot you just mopped, leaving a trail of muddy footprints in their wake. Never able to rest the mop against the wall and examine your completed handiwork. Except even that guy GETS PAID!

I really wish I could listen to that sage advice of the old lady at the supermarket. The one who grabs the baby’s cheeks as he gives her a megawatt smile and she touches my arm and whispers, “Enjoy it darling, it goes by so fast,” because I know she’s right. It is going by at a rapid pace, but I can’t even savor that fact because it’s all I do. Motherhood has swallowed me whole and while sometimes I wish it were a job, just so I could throw a basket of laundry on the damn floor and scream, “I QUIT. TAKE THIS JOB AND SHOVE IT!” I can’t. I don’t. Because it’s not a job, it’s my life.

A mental health day would be nice though.

 

© 2014 Amy Hunter, as first published on Scary Mommy.

Photo Credit:”0260″, © 2009 CIA DE FOTO, Flickr | CC-BY | via Wylio

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