"Bitch, don't even think about it. I'm not worth the trouble."

“Bitch, don’t even think about it. I’m not worth the trouble.”

Last month, the family said goodbye to our beloved family pet, a 3-year-old Beta fish named Kelme. Kelme lived a shit-ton longer than any fish I’ve ever had, but yet, he too inevitably met the same fate as countless goldfish from the County Fair before him. As Kelme swam over the rainbow bridge to that great toilet in the sky, I promised the kiddos we could get another fish when we came home from vacation.

Unfortunately for me, the kids cashed in their fish chip today.

Look, I’m not a horrible mommy, I want my kids to have a pet. But I am completely allergic to anything with fur – besides my husband – and while a fish is the lowest possible maintenance for a pet alive, there still is some maintenance. Maintenance that gets added to my plate because I know my kids would completely fuck it up and I really don’t feel like throwing money down the toilet (pun intended) on buying a new fish every month because they can’t figure out how to correctly clean a bowl.

So off to the pet store we went. Once there, my older 2 kids couldn’t decide on a fish unanimously which was a pain in my ass not much of a surprise. As we needed a new bowl too – because I threw out all reminders of Kelme upon his death –  I realized that my best option would be to pacify everyone. 2 fish, for 2 brothers. Yay. Problem solved. Happiness ensued. The end.

Nope, not that easy.

After purchasing everything it would take to keep 2 overpriced fish alive for as long as possible, we settled into the car and started the trip home.

“So guys, what do you want to name your fishes?” I questioned. The 4-year-old spoke up first, “I’m calling mine Dog. Because I wish that’s what he was.” Touché, kid. “Dog… nice. Good name. How about Fido? That’s a dog’s name.” Then he rethought, “Actually, I think I’ll call him Sushi.”

Sushi? OMG, the laughter came from my gut in waves. “A fish called Sushi! That’s an awesome fish name. You are so funny, buddy!”

The 10-year-old was holding back his laughter as he said, “That’s a terrible name. It’s so offensive.” I laughed even harder at that. Something about offending a fish seemed a bit hysterical.

“It’s not offensive,” the 4-year-old balked. “I like sushi and I like my fish.”

“Dude. Sushi is fish. It’s made from raw fish.”

“Is that true, Mom?” I looked in the mirror to see wide 4-year-old’s eyes, filled with horror.

“Yeah, buddy, that is true. But that’s what makes the name super funny.”

Once again my 10-year-old’s voice of reason cut me off at the pass, “That’s like getting a pet pig and naming it Bacon, or a cow named Cheeseburger. OFFENSIVE!”

At this point, I didn’t even want to look at my preschooler’s face. I could just picture our next family meal. He’s not currently a good eater and now that he’s been introduced to The History of the Origin of Meat, Part II, I couldn’t see that stage coming to an end in anytime soon.

I shouldn’t have been worried.

“Wow, Mom! So we can get a pig?”

Oy Vey.

PS. The fishes are very happy in their new home and have been nameless for 12 hours. I’m really pushing for Bacon and Cheeseburger.

"Bitch, don't even think about it. I'm not worth the trouble."


My 4-year-old usually lays down after preschool and takes a nap while watching Curious George. Today, he laid down and then came to get me because he wanted something different on the TV. This wouldn’t have been a problem normally, but today, he didn’t know what else he wanted to watch. For real… he shrieked, “I want to watch something else but I don’t know what it is.” That doesn’t make sense.


The situation became a 2 hour temper tantrum. I felt like my 9th grade boyfriend had dumped me all over again, but in a venomous argument (unlike the shitty note he actually passed me in Earth Science). When my spawn of the devil adorable angel finally finished his wrath of terror, he collapsed into a heap on the living room couch and passed out.

Like a drunk. A drunk, 4-year-old without a care in the world.

I was left with the chip on my shoulder.

I compiled this list while he slept; For sanity’s sake, y’all. Because you can’t rationalize with a 4-year-old. You just can’t.

They don’t give a shit, but they will give you shit.

I’m really looking forward to the end of his terrorist regime. Yay 5.

Here are 20 things that are easier than rationalizing with a 4-year-old…

  1. Shaving your lady bits while 9 months pregnant
  2. Stealing a golden egg from a fire-breathing dragon
  3. Cooking a gourmet meal with a 30 pound baby on your hip
  4. Menopause in the Florida heat
  5. Understanding the rules of Curling
  6. Working for the Sea World public relations firm
  7. Ruling the galaxy
  8. Being Barack Obama
  9. Shopping at Whole Foods on welfare
  10. Flying a plane through the Bermuda Triangle
  11. Common Core Math
  12. Teaching public school
  13. Sharing an apartment with Sheldon Cooper (knock, knock, knock… Leonard)
  14. Fact checking for The Daily Show
  15. Anal bleaching Ron Jeremy
  16. Trying to talk to my 9-year-old while he plays Minecraft
  17. Declawing Hemingway Cats (they have 6 toes)
  18. Shopping at Target without spending $100
  19. Douching with Brillo
  20. Accompanying Billy Joel (on piano)

Once, I was able to rationalize my way out of a speeding ticket. A couple of times, I’ve been able to have a rational discussion about American politics in a Southern bar. Someday in the future, the same passed-out, drunken-like 4-year-old who is currently driving me to a state of mental discord will try to rationalize with me about curfew, or girlfriends, or a D on his Chemistry midterm… and I’ll listen.

But I’ll have this list in mind the whole time.

And paybacks a bitch.



Having more than one kid has turned me into a white, maternal version of Rodney King. “Can’t we all just get along?”

These little bastards will fight over anything and everything. Then they try to play it off in the most contemptuous manner. As if they have no clue how they’ve gotten into this mess in the first place. The look on their faces is a cross between Elle Woods and Forest Gump. “Who me? What did I do? No, my brother’s face just fell on my fist.”

I’m over it.

The latest power struggle is about seating placement on the couch. It starts from the moment they wake up to the moment they go to sleep. Personally, I could care less who sits where, but these fights aren’t quiet and throughout the day I find myself hissing through clenched teeth and an angry voice, “DON’T WAKE UP THE BABY!” I can’t seem to get a handle on it and I’ve tried everything. Assigned seating, couch rules, strict monitoring of couch placement, nothing is working. They are the sneakiest little couch bandits. One minute, everything is fine, I go to the bathroom, and all hell breaks loose. I’m about one more fight away from getting rid of the couches all together. “Here you go suckers, sit on the floor.” That’ll teach ’em. Let’s be honest though, I’d be cutting off my nose to spite my own face, and ass, and circulation. I need a better plan than that.

I’m thinking of investing in a barrage of whoopee cushions and strategically placing them all along both couches. The look of complete surprise on their little argumentative faces would be priceless. Crap, that won’t work. These are boys. Fart noises are their national anthem. This is not a good idea.

Ohh, maybe I can try a shit-ton of water balloons… Haha, you wanted yummy comfort and now you’re soaking wet. But…. guess who’s going to be the one to clean up the couch, change everyone’s wet clothes and have to do an extra load of laundry? Yup, you guessed it… me. Backfire city.

OH MY G-D!!! I’ve figured it out. This idea is going to win me a Nobel Peace Prize for sure. I’m taking the cushions… ALL OF THE CUSHIONS. If you want to sit on the couch you can come to me for a cushion. You may only have one cushion at a time (this will stop all the fights over who was laying down first, who is touching whom, who’s butt is in the other brothers face, eyes, foot). This idea is parenting gold right here.


Now I’m off to test operation cushion.

But first, I have to vacuum the couch.

I hope it doesn’t wake the baby.