The one day a year that kids are supposed to try their hardest to not act like raging a-holes, and husbands are supposed to pick up the household duties, and the Moms of the world get to (hopefully) lay back and not lift a damn finger has passed! Mother’s Day! My newsfeed filled with paragraphs from everyone insisting they had the best moms ever, photos of flowers and homemade cards, and jewelry, and baskets of gifts awarded to women for another year of surviving motherhood. I applaud them. It’s well-deserved! Momming ain’t easy! SHOWER US IN PRAISE, AFFECTION, AND GIFTS! And then shut the hell up!
Anyone who says that moms should just be thankful to have children and that gifts aren’t necessary are full of shit. They’re totally necessary. And as fabulous as all of your gifts are, as heartfelt and touching, and sweet, I’m sorry to tell you, but my gift was better. It wasn’t one that you could just run out and grab at Walgreens, or a bouquet of flowers or a diamond “mom” necklace. What my kids gave to me reminded me of the exact moments they were born–our very first moments together in the hospital. The love, and the closeness, and the pain.
What did my kids give me? Hemorrhoids. And not just ANY hemorrhoid, but the crown jewel of hemorrhoids– the
resurgence of the Mount Rushmore sized hemorrhoid I got while giving birth to them. That’s right- I spent Mother’s Day with a punching bag hanging off of my butthole. I’m sure you’re thinking- But, Jenny, how could your children POSSIBLY cause the return of the hemorrhoid without the act of physically squeezing out of your vag again? And I’ll tell you. It was caused by the greasy breakfast they brought home when I woke up and they hadn’t gotten me a single thing for Mother’s Day. Not a card, or a shitty clay thing brought home from school that you have no idea what it could possibly be but you keep it forever because it was made just for you. Not even a hug or a “Happy Mother’s Day!” Nope. Nothing. So, to keep from being sold on the black market, they rushed out and grabbed some food, which my stomach decided to reject in the worst of ways.
If you’ve never had hemorrhoids, not only do I hate you, but you really have no idea just how awful the feeling is. It’s like having your ass torn in half every time you sit on the toilet. It’s praying you don’t have to go poop because you know your poor butthole is going to go on strike instead of having to endure the pain of pushing a turd past an angry sack of flesh blocking the way. I never had the pleasure of experiencing them before giving birth, and I remember very vividly sitting on the toilet in the delivery room crying about having to poop but not wanting to rip stitches or tear my asshole in half. And crying every single poop after that until the monsters shrunk and went back into the cave where they belong.
To be reminded, on Mother’s Day, of my very first moments as a mother, by shitty food my crotchfruit brought home for me to feast upon on my very special day- it’s just poetic perfection, isn’t it? But the story doesn’t end there.
You see, before my not-so-little friends came to visit, I’d mentioned very briefly wanting to go play mini-golf, and if you have kids, you know that if you DARE mention something funny out loud, you’ve basically signed a contract saying that, unless you’re dead, you will absolutely do it- and since I was just dealing with some danglers and not unconscious on the floor, we were going.
Even though eight hours had passed since breakfast had been consumed, my stomach was still PISSED. Mini-golf was the absolute wrong thing to be doing. The bending, the walking, the climbing- each with a cringe, and gurgle of the gut. And then came the gas. Typically, the angry hot-farts would be no big deal, especially considering we were outside with a lovely breeze and perfect weather, but when you’ve got an angry airbag on your butthole, every bit of air squeezing past it makes it flap like a door-stopper, and you basically wish you would have died so you didn’t have to be there.
I didn’t honestly think I’d be able to make it through all 18 holes with my delightful inflatable crack-buddy, until something magical happened. And maybe this makes me a horrible, terrible person- but when you feel like you’re going to pass out from pain every time you pass a hot fart, you’ll take what you can get.
It’s hole 10, and I’m clenching like my life depends on it at the end of a long green watching Parker get ready to hit his ball toward me. Thomas makes the mistake of stepping behind him and Parker swings that mofo like it’s the last of the World Series, directly into Thomas’ face. THWAP! Like something out of a cartoon, he flails wildly and goes down, and in that single second, my ass unclenched and I said “Now, THAT’S a gift!”
He’s fine. He didn’t spit out a tooth, just lost a little blood- and maybe next Mother’s Day, he’ll think about getting me a gift (even something tiny) instead of having to run out and grab me food that explodes my asshole like the children he impregnated me with!
@DianeAuten I'm so glad you're enjoying it!
I don't know what I want for dinner, but I can guarantee it's not any of the 14 things my husband will suggest.
@ThisIsAstartes Best worst little shits on the planet.
What's that smell? A lot of pants on fire. pic.twitter.com/bVK0FnJgeB
I'm officially done parenting. Here's how I did it: holdinholden.com/2018/01/im-o…
I’m Officially Finished Parenting. Here’s how I did it goo.gl/fb/TBJQPJ