When Friday comes rolling along, I have to think that I am so exhausted from a week filled with running around and whiny kids, and whiny husbands, and whiny me- helping with schoolwork or being yelled at NOT to help with schoolwork, freezing my ass off, writing, thinking, planning, making food and eating food and being tired of eating the SAME food again- that my brain turns to mush. More mush than it usually is. It’s like pureed bananas left out on the counter kind of mush. Oh, and the bananas had to be overly ripe bananas, otherwise it’s not mushy enough for the kind of mushy I’m referring to here.
You get the point- MY BRAIN NO LONGER FUNCTIONS AS IT SHOULD. Which is really bad news for me, because my brain function never really came all the back after popping out crotchfruit- so losing any more of it is detrimental to how I trudge through my days.
When I’m this drained, it’s almost like I grow a second pair of eyes that sees the world completely differently- which turns on the silly switch in my brain (and I’m pretty sure I got that term from Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, if that tells you anything). Instead of just making breakfast, I think about how I sure do hope I don’t get any cereal dust into my cereal because I really hate to have to fish that sawdusty shit out. I wonder if all blueberry waffles get the same amount of blueberries or if it’s totally random and one waffle in the box gets the shaft. Oh, and that crust on the lip of the milk jugs that tends to go flying off when you’re about to pour the milk into your cereal that generally you ignore and go about your day? I search for it. Sawdust cereal and milk crust sounds like a match made in hell- and then I wander on to think about how that sounds an awful lot like something they’d feature on Ren and Stimpy; and then I miss Ren and Stimpy.
This morning, however, my random train of thought down the rabbit hole started while I was getting Parker dressed. I let him pick out his shirt, and popped it over his head only to realize that his arms are FAR too long for it. Only… it should be the right size, the next size up he swims in- except for his arms. He got this uber annoying trait from me- something that has been a mega biatch to deal with my entire life. All of that got me to thinking about all of the other NOT so awesome things my poor children inherited me (you know, all the things that aren’t SUPER AWESOME? Yes, shameful, they do exist). Things my kids are going to get older, look at me, and say “This is YOUR fault!”- and I suppose technically they’d be right, so I decided in my fit of randomness, to get a jump on that malarkey and write them a little list of things I’m sure they will want me to apologize for as they grow.
If I do it now, I can throw it in their smarmy lil’ faces then and not have to say a word. Winning, right??
I call this list “Sorry about Genetics kids, they sure are a bitch”
1. Monkey arms. I don’t know why my arms are so long- but I can tell both of my kids have them. I’m honestly surprised I haven’t learned to walk with my knuckles like a regular ol’ caveman.
Sorry kids, you will never find a shirt that fits correctly- ’cause unlike pants, they don’t make “long” in sleeves. Someone should. I’d say the person who does will end up rich beyond their wildest dreams but it’s quite possible we’re the only ones on the planet with these gangly limbs.
2. Speaking of Cavemen- how about them flat wide feet? Yeah, those are my fault too. But my kids are dudes, so really they should suck it the hell up and be thankful they don’t have to try and find heels for those paddles.
3. An overabundance of hair. Yeah, I said it. I’m a hairy lady. I have a TON of hair on my head and good lord I can’t follow the trend of fellow women and not shave during the winter. I’d end up tearing my way out of my pants with my gazillion sharp, coarse leg hairs. It’s lovely, really- and the children seem to follow suit right along with me. Of course, when they hit middle age and don’t lose a damn bit of it- they will have to bow to my hairy legs.
|My brother was so kind|
4. When I was little, my brother used to make fun of me by drawing me as Bramstoker’s Dracula. You know the one, don’t you? The dracula with the giant bouffant hair and ginormous forehead? Apparently that is me. I used to cry and cry and insist my forehead was one of normal proportions- but alas, I have come to terms with the fivehead and been thankful it’s not a sevenhead. Upon giving birth and the screaming my vajay did- I knew the lil’uns (or not so lil’uns) took after me, and some shitfaced doctor confirmed by saying Parker has a “protruding forehead”- Sorry kids, my fault too.
5. My husband might be able to come within a millimeter of shitting his pants with the power of his disgusting anus bombs- but there is one thing he cannot do that I can: Belch. Not some weak-ass “lady” belch- but a full on drunken man belch. I only tentatively have this on the list of things the kids will blame me for… because.. well, I’m not grown up enough to consider it a bad thing. And I have boys. And boys are disgusting, and I’m pretty sure they will love this hereditary talent of epic proportions no matter how old they get.
I’m sure they will find plenty of things to blame me for as the years pass. I’m also sure that most of that shit will be in their best interest and they won’t realize they were being a-holes until they have kids of their own (That’s right- it comes full circle!!)
As far as this other stuff? Like everything else- over time they will learn that it’s just easier to blame my uterus and be done with it. Evil uterus.
So, tell me- what makes your list of the NOT awesome things your kids got from you?
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.