Consider yourself blessed if you have not been graced with the presence of family members who, since you gave birth to your child/ren, have made a habit of taking responsibility for every little trait your wee one/s might possess, things they do, say, like- faces they make. Basically, be fucking thankful if you don’t have someone in your life who thinks they gave birth to YOUR kid/s.
There’s a lot that annoys me in life, i’m easily annoyed (but not easily angered)- but THAT annoys me the most. It’s not just because I carried the little shits in my belly for 9 long and incredibly painful months. It isn’t that I pushed them out of my nethers and brought them into this world. It’s not even that I don’t want to give credit where credit is due, because clearly it takes two to spawn (yes, even in lab situations, still gotta get the sperm from somewhere)- and therefore there are two sets of genes at play here- but DAMNIT. Give a woman a break. If we went through the hell (yeah yeah, and JOY, whatevs) of taking the reigns after the egg was fertilized and all of the uncontrollable bodily functions, cellulite farms that begin to grow in random places, swollen faces and sausage toes and everything else I could go on for DAYS listing that happens to us and only us- shouldn’t the credit swing a liiiiiittle more in our favor? Even just 51/49? Can ya toss a girl a bone?
There are some people, who shall not be named, who refuse to take any of that into account. To them, you were nothing but an incubator with legs. Ok, maybe that’s a little harsh for most cases. I KNOW it’s just being proud, blaahhh blah blah justify it any way you want- when placed in a situation where you feel as though you are being discounted as the one to actually force these children onto this planet- try not pulling a spork from your waistband.
Believe it or not, I try to be nice to everyone that I meet, and out of respect for certain people- even when I want to kick someone straight in the joy-maker, I don’t. That’s what I have this blog for, right?
I give kudos to those who are graceful when handling family members who annoy the ever loving piss out of them with ease. Or those who just don’t care. I don’t know how you do it. I bow to thee. I also ask thee to give me lessons, though I can’t promise to be a good student. Or receptive. Or not sarcastic. I also can’t promise not to make inappropriate jokes.
Due to the fact that I am sure no one will be giving me any “gracefully biting your tongue” classes any time soon, I have had to resort to other ways in order to deal with the frustration. And how I deal with most things like the mature adult that I am is to make lists. And in this case, ways that my kids are like me that if anyone else took credit for they’d look even crazier than they already are. Things OTHER than, y’know, THEY CAME OUT OF MY VAGINA.
Ahem. Anyways. On with it.
1. Peanut butter love- No one on this planet loves peanut butter more than me. And more specifically than peanut butter- Reeses cups. Even when I had my tongue pierced and peanut butter would make it swell (trust me, that was attractive) i’d eat it anyway. Like a boss.
No one on this planet loves peanut butter more than me…. except my kids. Parker won’t even touch ANY sandwich unless it’s a peanut butter sandwich. And if you have a Reeses Cup in the house you’d better fucking hope those kids don’t even SMELL it or it’s theirs. They’ll ask you for a bite, sweetly, and because you don’t want to deprive them of the delicious peanut butter chocolatey goodness that is the perfection of a Reeses Cup- you give them a bite…. only their bite is the ENTIRE THING.
Yeah- who’d they get that from? Me. Duh.
2. A fondness of all things poop- Look, it isn’t that I LIKE poop. It’s just a fact of life that if you don’t laugh about it, you’ll be disgusted by it, especially once you pop out little creatures that seem to do nothing BUT poop. I choose to laugh, ’cause it’s better.
I know that people like to assume that poop and boys just kind of go hand in hand, but to have the … unique… sense of humor that I have about poop? Well, that’s not just something that everyone has. It’s … special… I’m the girl who nearly wrote an entire BOOK on poop, but instead kept it down to a chapter. A long chapter. I’m the girl who is known for the poo-talk. The one people come to for poo-advice. Just called me DOCTOR POO!
When Parker’s very first sentence EVER, Parker the kid who doesn’t really speak real words, is “Mommy, Wipe my butt”- and when Holden went through a phase where he would name his shits based on color and consistency and insist I look at them? Yeah.. i’m gonna say they got that from lil’ ol’ poopy me. Would anyone else really WANT to take credit for that?
3. Pale ass skin- It doesn’t matter if I have Italian in my blood, I glow in the fucking dark i’m so pale. You’re lucky you can’t see THROUGH me. If it weren’t for the freckles I could have been cast in “Powder” – there’s no denying that Holden is ghost white just like his mama. Especially since his Daddy is tan. Even if it’s just a farmer’s tan, it’s still a tan. And I don’t do that.
4. Paranormal obsession- We all know I love ghosts, aliens, the supernatural… really everything that is unexplained, i’m down with it. Let’s just say that when I went to a paranormal conference, Thomas had ZERO interest in attending. Holden, however, cried for hours because he wanted to go with me. He also begs to watch ghost shows on television. And Parker sits and ‘reads’ a book about aliens for an hour at a time- which is quite the feat for a 2 year old, whose attention span is usually about the same as a potato. Oh, and they both dress up like ghosts and run into walls like idiots every single day. Who’s gonna take the credit for that? Oh I can just tell you’re just itching to!
5. Hair- It’s as simple as not having a brillo pad on my head to be able to tell why I say the kids hair comes from me. I mean really, the husband should be thanking me for having non-brillo-like hair. You can bla de bla bla about their hairlines (trust me, it’s been in contention before. YEAH, hair lines. Give me a f’ing break)- but those soft luxurious, albeit incredibly thick manes are all me. Deal with it.
6. Belching- Look, i’m beginning to think that perhaps, minus the farting, I was meant to be a man. I don’t WANT to be a man, but I think somewhere the chemistry got fucked up and I have a bunch of dude traits I shouldn’t have as a woman. Plus, the boob fairy, that cunt, skipped me. If that’s not proof I don’t know what is.
There is good reason behind why I call myself the belch queen. I can out belch ANY man I know, any man I have ever met. I can belch the alphabet, full sentences, I can even belch on command- and the boys aren’t far behind. And not only do they enjoy belching, but they find mine absolutely hysterical. I don’t think Thomas does… but if I have to deal with his ass, he has to deal with my mouth. And the kids’. Ahhh heredity, ain’t it grand?
Y’know, I could claim their smarts and assholish senses of humor are also mine, but i’ve gotta leave something for someone to attempt to take credit for. I’m not greedy after all
A love of the outdoors, Holden’s gigantic ass, eczema, reflux, LEAVING THE SEAT UP, being staunch morning people, oceans of ear wax, and booger eating?? Well… i’m more than HAPPY to let someone else take the credit for all of that. Have at it, womb invaders!
What about y’all? What is it about you that your kids take after that you insist NO ONE ELSE can lay claim to?
@Julieannefiu I still sing WRAPPED UP LIKE A DOUCHE. I think they're lying about the "real" lyrics
I sang SO many embarrassingly wrong song lyrics with such confidence. pic.twitter.com/Ww5TaAxY3r
@AndreaPerez0217 Not that I'm biased, but I highly recommend ;) Hope you enjoy!
Parenthood: you think it's gonna be all hugs & booboo kisses, but it's really cooking food everyone hates & scraping boogers off of walls.
School system: Here! Have a half day on Friday the 13th! Me: pic.twitter.com/Dy18C8R3dD
Spooking the Kids Without Scarring them for LIFE With Netflix! (and a giveaway!) goo.gl/fb/tkeWgB