One might be wise to assume that if you need advice on a certain subject- you would consult a person with more experience than you in that field. Someone who works with or on or around whatever it is you need help with. Someone who earns a living in that field and would get their ass fired if they fucked up. That would be the kind of person you’d ask for help- right?
This little bit of logic apparently did not rub off on my husband, and many other husbands universally whose wives stay at home with the kids.
We’re around these whiny little Klingons around the frackin’ clock, rarely ever getting a break, seeing each and every move and becoming acutely aware of the ins and outs of their
obnoxious budding personalities.
We, the stay at home mom, are responsible for the majority of care for our children, and therefore, in most cases- know what works and what doesn’t.
We know what causes tantrums and what they enjoy doing the most. We know just how quiet it has to be in order to be concerned about the imminent destruction of the house, we can tell just by looking at them when they’re in need of a nap or don’t feel good, and we can even tell by stance or facial expressions if a trip to the bathroom is in the immediate future.
Even with ALL of that, and it being common knowledge- even though (in my specific case) he can’t ever remember which clothes actually fit or even which one they go on- instead of LISTENING to me when I say
“Hmmm- you probably shouldn’t do that”- he chooses instead to ignore me. And it ALWAYS ends up bad.
I hate saying “It must be a man thing”- but they leave me no choice. It seems like dudes always think that they just HAVE to try their own way instead of the tried and true way. Because it’s their way.
It’s like marking a fucking couch. There’s no good reason to do it, it’s instinct. It’s like stopping and asking for directions, not gonna happen- their internal compass will guide the way… or some stupid shit like that. Thank the sweet baby jesus for GPS.
Ok, I know i’m being horribly and maybe obnoxiously stereotypical. I don’t mean to be in my quest to prove my point.
Not all men are grunting ball scratching sexists who would rather go 100 miles in the wrong direction than admit to being lost.
But you have to admit there DOES seem to be a trend of insisting on doing shit their way even if it’s wrong (just like there’s a trend of women being catty bitches- the stereotypes are there for a reason, yes?)
Allow me to stop rambling and get to the point here: I know my fucking kids like the back of my hand. And being that I type all the time I have those bitches memorized (my hands, not the kids, but by relation- I guess you could say I have the kids memorized too, but I wasn’t calling them bitches).
Due to the insane amount of time I
am held in captivity spend with my children- I know, for a FACT, that as soon as we go to play outside in the afternoons, Parker insists on coming back inside to take a massive dump. I also know for a fact that it can get… ugly.
For this reason (and maybe a couple of others, one of which included being horribly lazy), we stay close to the house.
On Friday I was feeling like super shit, and by super shit I mean I HAD the super shits. I don’t usually make Thomas come home from work, but it had gotten to the point where I threw breakfast at the kids and told them to fend for themselves while I went to battle with the toilet (i’m pretty sure I won). I don’t have a clue if the hell I was experiencing was contagious, but I don’t see how a shit like that could be self contained.
Moving on- by “time to go play outside and wear you the hell out so you aren’t as obnoxious” time, my stomach felt better, but my head was killing me, so even though I went out with the boys I knew I wasn’t going to stay out with them for the entirety.
Like clockwork, just as I said, not even 10 minutes in to playing outside, Parker had to take a dump. I am not sure if there was anything unusual about this dump as I refused to move from my seat to take him- I just know it happened.
Shortly after that I carried myself inside for some couch-sitting and other not so interesting or productive things. Unbeknownst to me, Thomas thought it would be perfect timing to take the kids all the way across the field outback to the playground at the elementary school.
Being that I did not expect them to leave the yard (it was already nearly dinner time by the time I went back in), I did not warn against leaving the yard- but I did warn of poop. Isn’t that warning enough?
Noooo no, not for him. He’s gonna do what he wants to do, no matter my warnings from experience (aka shit sprayed walls).
It wasn’t long before he came busting through the door yelling about Parker shitting himself at the top of a jungle gym followed by something incoherent about needing help, but I didn’t really catch that part, if you catch my drift.
That’s what you get for ignoring my warnings, and letting a kid with a habit of afternoon diarrhea climb to the top of a jungle gym- complete unleashing of the bowels right at the top.
I couldn’t help but to feel a slight sense of satisfaction imagining Thomas running through a field, carrying a shit soaked toddler… leaving a trail of liquid bowels behind him like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs.
It’s a disgustingly satisfying mental image, is it not? The physical smell-o-vision representation of “I told you so”
Perhaps next time he will think twice before not heeding my warnings. That will be my new catch-phrase, and should be a catch-phrase for mommies all over the world:
Listen to me or you will get pooped on.
Person on tv: Age is just a number! 10yo: Yeah, a number that pulls you closer to death.
Party animal over here pic.twitter.com/OVpKPuu4Yc
Proving to my kids that they ARE Friends goo.gl/fb/QbSSNp
Writing my next book Me: My period inspired a whole new chapter! Husband: Your lack of period inspired a whole book... Me: pic.twitter.com/fpNHwnYeAF
The card my kid made me at school. I truly don't know why I expected anything different 😂😂 pic.twitter.com/T7nai0ycqS
Valentine's Day before 4pm and I'm already putting on pajamas because my uterus is bloated to the size of a Buick and erupting like Mount Vesuvius so I guess you could say I'm feeling PRETTY romantic.