There comes a point during every single month where I just feel the uncontrollable urge to rant. I can’t stop it. My body and brain take over my fingers and unleash upon the interweb for the world to read, like it or not. I’ve tried to stop it- OH how I have tried… but eventually, we all give in. It must be done. If it is not done on occassion, we explode. Kind of like an infected bladder (okay, I don’t really know if bladders DO in fact explode… I kinda doubt it. But go with me here). It’s best just to pee regularly and keep things normal. Even. Balanced.
This monthly rantiness has nothing to do with the rising and falling tides of my uterus. Nope. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Don’t even ask! Just sit back and enjoy it- for the wrath is not aimed at you. Well, maybe…
I don’t like to beat a dead horse- I mean, after a while that thing starts decaying and then you get dead horse on your shoe- and I love shoes too much to cover them in liquefied animal insides- so no, I don’t like to do it… but sometimes that horse is stuffed and you can kick it as many fucking times as you want and your shoe stays awesome. It’s an awesome horse kicking shoe. A really annoying horse with a broken voicebox that won’t shut the hell up and someone has to do SOMETHING and that someone is gonna be you. I mean me- today that someone is me.
This loud obnoxious stuffed horse we speak of that I chance scuffing up some cute shoes on? Anyone who chooses to respond to a parent who is simply venting about their child’s daily antics with negativity.
While I’m okay with kicking the obnoxious stuffed horse with a nice pair of FMHs- I am really getting tired of saying certain things over and over again. BUT- I have made it my cause, my steam- I have let the slight anger I get over having to repeat this shit to the judgy idiots who inhabit this world become my motivation. For if they are there saying it, I will be there dropkicking them in the face. And if I wanna say my kid is being a terror, I will fucking SAY it. And you should be able to too. Without snap judgment.
“Well, if you call them a ‘terror’ you must be an unfit parent.”
Oh really? Must I, now? Here all this time I just thought it was my sense of humor and way to let off a little steam at things that frustrate me- oh my, how I have been wrong all of this time!
Contrary to a small narrow minded view of life and parenthood-
Just because I call my kids ‘terrors’- does not mean I do not love them. It just means I’m not afraid to admit how I feel and hopefully am raising children who are open with their feelings as well.
That’s right- I love them AND I can call them a terror, and I don’t see anything wrong with that. Truth is truth is truth no matter how you sugarcoat it. So why bother?
I love my kids- but they CAN be bad, and they are damn good at it.
I love my kids- but sometimes they are SO bad I threaten to sell them online. And yes, I think it’s funny to say so. This does not mean I’m actually offering them up to you, and it certainly does not give you the right to judge me as any less of a parent. My kids will have a sense of humor because I have a sense of humor with them- yeah, even the bad stuff.
I love my kids- but I have no problem being a “mean mommy.” I am their mother first, and their friend later.
I love my kids- but they are NOT perfect. Neither am I. I’m okay with that, why aren’t you?
Saying that my kids are terrible a times, assholes at other, are being so bratty that I am considering selling them on Craigslist does not mean I do not love them- it means that I am honest with them and myself about how hard parenthood is. It means that I am not ashamed to feel and express what I’m feeling, and not afraid to call them on their shit. It means we have a mutual respect of honesty and openness in this house. It means we have a mutual respect of each other, as a whole. As people, as family members, as soul mates.
Having bad moments does not make us bad mothers or fathers. Having rough days where we swear we’re going to lose our fucking minds doesn’t mean we love our children any less. And being able to say all of those things out loud when others are too afraid to express it doesn’t make us less or more of parents than them. Or you. Or me.
I LOVE my kids. That is what is important. Love. The never fading, never questioning, never faltering, eternal kind. So why the hell do you care about what I say?
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