There comes a moment in every parent’s life where they regret having children. In my 8+ years of child-rearing, I’ve had plenty of moments where I wanted to sell the kids to the gypsies or list them on Craigslist, but I’ve never actually REGRETTED bringing them into this world. Until yesterday.
Before you go all CPS-Calling Sanctimommy on me, read on. I think you’ll agree, children were a bad choice.
This past week has been a bit of a mixed bag for me. I had high-highs (Yay! My book came out!) and some low-lows (my lady parts decided to be a real peach–no pun intended– and start my period days early, causing busted can of biscuit level bloating and volcanic eruptions on my face the likes of which teenage me was lucky enough to never know.)
My girl dog is kind of an asshole. She’s got this nasty habit of rooting through trashcans and leaving a trail of tissue-crumbs leading back to her kennel. Not a very sneaky asshole. Though she’d never gone after my “sanitary” products before, I wasn’t about to take any chances. All tampon paraphernalia went into the can in my upstairs bathroom with a lid that couldn’t be opened without stepping on a floor pedal. My kids can’t even figure that shit out.
I spent the whole week smiling and wanting to throw things, and picking up pieces of booger tissue and ripped up toilet paper rolls off of the floor on both levels of the house. It was fun times, I tell ya.
Yesterday, as my uterus decided it had had enough fun and games for one month and I was finally feeling less stabby–yet still wanty of all things salty–I found myself rooting through the pantry when Holden came walking up behind me.
“Hey Mommy, what’s this?” he says, holding something just out of my line of sight. I turn around, and inches from my face am greeted by an empty USED plastic tampon cartridge.
“WHERE DID YOU GET THAT?” I yell, immediately snatching it from his hand. He looks surprised, taken aback, even.
“I found it in my room.”
Reality hits me. That fucking dog! She somehow managed to get her enormous blocky head into the trashcan with the lid and dragged my used tampon cartridge into my 8 year old son’s room and left it there for him to find.
“The damn dog is going through the trash again! If you ever find one of these, don’t touch it, just call for me!”
Holden still looks puzzled. “But why? What is it?”
“It’s a tampon, and it’s dirty, so just don’t touch it, okay?”
“Okay,” he shrugs, “Well, it looks like a whistle to me.”
I swear to the sweet baby Jesus the world stopped spinning at that moment. Did he just say what I think he said?
“Oh my God….” The words just kind of tumble from my lips, as I’m now in a state of shock.
Holden starts walking away, and just when I think the mortification is over, that it can’t possibly get any worse, he calls over his shoulder- “At least I didn’t blow into it!”
I’m dead. My face is on fire. I’ve never been so horrified and mortified and disgusted in my ENTIRE LIFE. At this point, I’m standing in the doorway to the pantry screaming “OH MY GOD” over and over again so loudly that it causes Holden to come back into the room and ask me what’s wrong because he’s pretty sure I’m having a mental breakdown (which I am), and then I think about having to explain that I’m thinking about the possibility of my child putting a used tampon cartridge in his mouth, and I’m pretty sure at that very moment my uterus shriveled up and died, and I’ll never have another period again–thereby preventing me from any further children or tampon whistles.
I know what you’re thinking. It’s not that I’m the type of person who isn’t going to teach my sons about women’s bodies leading them to go into adulthood as weirdos who believe women poop and give birth from the same hole (yes, those actually exist), I just know that once they learn about menstrual cycles there’s no turning back and I’m not ready for that kind of commitment yet. Judge me if you’d like- perhaps if I’d told him about tampons in the first place, he wouldn’t have touched the damn thing– or maybe he would have and when he touched it and brought it to me and I re-informed him of what exactly he had his hands on it would have scarred him for life- but how about you just don’t have kids at all and avoid this situation altogether. Problem solved.
@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