When I sat down to write both my first book, and Kids Are Turds, what I wanted to do was to be so honest, so real, that the parents reading would sit back and say to themselves “Holy shit! That’s me!”
In fact, I wanted them to relate to it SO HARD that they then sat forward and said “Is this bitch watching me from outside my window?”
THAT is the level of real-ness I aim for, not just in writing, but in the memes I choose to share with all of you.
It’s not that we’re not ALWAYS real here, but we’re getting real with the parenting memes. Here are the most honest, “OMG THAT’S ME” memes on the internet right now. Enjoy!
More our speed
We’d all be filthy stinkin’ rich
I’ve also used it as a reward system for when the kids do extra chores, and as a way to get them to vacate the frickin’ room.
“Sorry kids, this isn’t appropriate, go play with your toys”
Yes, it actually works. It’s a miracle worker.
Now, with the school year over, Netflix has a new way of keeping the people in this house sane: Decompression.
There’s no summer school here, and no summer camp they’re interested in to send them to, so my boys — who honestly don’t really get along — spend most of their time with one another. We all know that spending that much time with anyone is likely to make you nuts, and make them the most annoying person in the world, even if you love them and typically enjoy their company. Think about that, and then imagine siblings, who even on a good day, can’t stand each other, being stuck together. At least when school is in session, they get enough time apart to at least make each other tolerable, but summers are very trying, especially this year when their sibling rivalry has been at an all-time high.
It’s only the beginning of summer, but I’ve found that the best way to get my kids to decompress from fighting all day long, if all the chores have been done (because I have absolutely been known to send them to clean if they don’t quit arguing over nonsense), is to divide and conquer. Typically, I don’t let either of them in my room without an adult, but the only two TVs in the house are in the living room, and my bedroom, so when they just need some alone time (don’t we all?) I’ll send one up to the bedroom to watch something they love and everyone else can’t stand.
Of course, I should have known, Parker started watching movies we all wanted to watch together (Secret Life of Pets & Trolls, to name a few) but it’s a small price to pay for relaxed minds, kids that get along, and days that don’t end in screaming matches. I’ll take it!
New on Netflix this summer!
On the last day of every school year, we have a tradition: GO GET ICE CREAM! It’s pretty simple. We’ve lived in the same area since the kids started going to elementary school, so we always go to the same ice cream shop on the corner.
This year, I decided to mix things up. WHY THE HELL NOT, RIGHT?
Since early dismissal had me all screwy (still mad about it) on the last three days, serving lunch when they shouldn’t have been, I told the boys if they just skipped lunch and didn’t eat, I’d take them out for a celebratory meal after school and THEN we’d get ice cream, too! Score, right? Nice mommy, right here. Above and beyond the call of parenthood! Celebrate small victories! Or… just celebrate to celebrate, because the end of the school year means 2.5 months of parental hell, YAY!
And what a perfect time to also teach my children something they can really perfect over the course of the summer. Someone has to teach while the teachers recoup for the summer, right? It’s my job, right? To enrich, enlighten, and keep them on track so they begin the school year in the fall with sharp minds ready to learn!
For lunch & ice cream, I decided to kill two birds with one stone. WAWA. My kids are obsessed with making their own sandwiches, so while it isn’t exactly a meal fit for celebrating, it’s something they love, and we can grab some cheap ice cream bars at the same place.
I pick them up, announce our Wawa trip to a chorus of “YAY!”s, and we’re on our way. All is right with the world as they punch in their orders (we all get paninis ’cause we’re fancy), pick out some tips, and they both grab a good old fashioned Choco Taco. Yeah, they still make those damn things!
My only qualm is that Wawa is way more expensive than I thought it’d be. $30 for three paninis, 2 choco tacos, and 2 bags of chips? This is highway robbery! I only fume for a few seconds about how we should have gone somewhere else before our sammies are ready and we’re back in the car and on our way home. I’ve learned a lesson for next time. Hey, everyone learns this summer!
Everything is PERFECT, we’re all happy, the smell of hot delicious over-priced paninis has filled the vehicle, and I attempt to get out of the parking lot. I’m stopped by basically a wall of cars. They just don’t stop. They keep going, and going, and going, and I’m confused until one of the kids yells “WHY IS THERE A LIMO?” and I come to the realization that this is a funeral procession. The longest funeral procession I’ve ever seen in my entire life. A king’s funeral procession. The entire damn city has come out for this thing, and they’re all driving down the only road I can exit this Wawa from. I can’t even go the other way, because I’m being blocked by a minivan. I can’t back out and try a different exit, because now there’s someone behind me. I’m stuck behind this stupid minivan with it’s stupid stick figure family stuck to the rear window until this 5,000 car long funeral procession has passed.
It takes a solid 10 minutes.
When I finally manage to get the hell out of the parking lot and pull onto the main road, I find myself stuck in more congestion because OF COURSE the funeral procession is headed the same way I am, and all trying to turn right onto a tiny dirt road with no stop sign or light to help the flow of traffic.
I’ve lived in this area my entire life. I know all the back roads, so the first thing I do is pull off the main road and onto a back road to get away from the traffic and get our food home so that we can feast and rejoice the fact that my children are going to cause 74 more wrinkles to appear on my face this summer. WHAT JOY!
Three miles from my house and I see blinking lights. Many blinking lights. It’s construction equipment, going 10 mph down a two lane road, and zero ability to pass.
It’s at this time I should mention that my car has no air-conditioning. It’s been about 30 minutes we’ve been stuck in the car with choco tacos.
To make a long story short, my kids drank their choco tacos, and when they go back to school calling the slow walking kids who block them in the hallways “Shitass Dickwhistles!”- you have me to thank. It’s all a part of their summer educational program! Road Rage 101.
They’re going to learn soooooo much this summer!
THREE days. THREE days until the end of the school year here. I figured… the school system has fucked with me enough, the teachers are almost free, we should be in the clear! They should be relieved, just ready to get it over with. Get out clean. Get out relatively unscathed. Just pop on a movie and give the kids some popcorn and ride these last few days out.
For me, it means I’m at the days of no more fuckery! No more minivan mafia trying to run me over, or judgy grandparents making condescending comments about how I look.
No more PTA meetings disguised as “concerts”. No more calls from the teacher telling me that my kid hasn’t turned in his homework for two damn weeks. No more waking up at 7 in the damn morning to drag my kids to school. No more picking them up in the afternoon when there are NO spots left, and some turd with a brand new car decided to take up the final 2 that remain.
Yes, it means 3 months of my kids bitching, whining, complaining, and fighting, and I probably won’t get to sleep in any later, but it’s at least a relief not to deal with school shenanigans.
The first red flag that these last three days were not going to go as swimmingly as I’d hoped should have been when I heard that they were half days. This means release at 11:30am. This means no lunch served, and crapping all over my day to stop and go and get them at an awkward time, only to come home and have to feed them both. I spent a lot of time bitching about this to pretty much everyone I know. What’s even the point of going? There’s zero time for learning, not that any learning gets done in the last week of school. There’s not really even enough time to sit down and let the kids zonk out to a movie. So WHY? What purpose do these half days serve other than to make the parents adjust their entire days around them? (and I’m sure there is a logical reason according to teachers and administration, but let’s not muddy my rant with logic!)
I don’t have a problem with the school system. I think they do a fine job for the most part, but I’m gonna bitch about shit that disrupts life for seemingly no reason. I’m gonna bitch a lot, because it makes me feel better, and makes me less likely to play bumper cars in the school parking lot. I’m gonna bitch as much as humanly possible… but I’m still gonna do it, because what choice do I have?
My whole day rearranged around pickup. I did a shorter workout, a faster shower, I drank my coffee while I put on my makeup and dry shampooed the fuck out of my hair. Pretty sure I drank some of that. I didn’t even get to watch some of my favorite Netflix shows while I write (brain food!) Instead, I sat in silence, trying to get a little work done before having to rush out the door.
Red flag #2 should have been when I got to school and didn’t see any of the other parents walking in like I usually do. I didn’t have to fight for a parking spot, or curse about the twat taking up two spaces. It was completely unsettling.
Red flag #3 should have been when I got to the lunch room and kids were eating lunch. When they shouldn’t have been eating lunch. And when a little boy said to me “Parker’s right in there!”
The only thing in this damn hallway other than me and random crotchfruit is a pile of peas and carrots I legitimately can’t tell whether have been thrown angrily or puked up.
After waiting for a few minutes and still seeing no other parents, I walk back toward the office, all while Googling what the hell time kids get out during half days. Wouldn’t you know it, I can’t find a single. damn. thing. Just that these 3 days are shortened. The hell?
If you ask me why all of these red flags didn’t add up to something being wrong, I have no idea other than to blame having to cram my entire day into 3.5 hours. It wasn’t until I walked into the office and ASKED what time dismissal was, and was told “It’s at 1:20” that it finally clicked. I’d arrived two stupid hours early. BUT HOW?
Oh. Right. Because the school was getting in one last throat punch, and today wasn’t a “half day”, it was an “early dismissal”, and they never thought to really specify between those two things, they just expected us tired, end of the year, already exhausted parents to know this somehow.
Back home, only to wait two hours, nearly forget what time “early dismissal” was, rush out the door, fight the minivan mafia, and wait 20 minutes just to get out of the parking lot because NO ONE EVER LETS YOU BACK OUT.
I always thought the best part of the school year was the beginning. FINALLY summer is over. FINALLY I get my house back. FINALLY I don’t have an audience when I pee, or people bothering me as soon as I sit down, or picking apart the lunch I make them as soon as I give it to them. School usually means I get my house back. But school also means I have to deal with school, and all the BS that comes along with it.
Which is better? The peace and quiet of having an empty house? Of your kids spending the day bugging someone else? Or, is it the day you don’t have to deal with drop off, pick up, homework hell, PTA Pirates, Minivan Mafias, and parent teacher conferences?
No… I’m seriously asking… because I have no damn idea anymore.
There are some weeks in marriage where it’s basically peaceful bliss. You get along great, their jokes are actually funny… you don’t argue incessantly over where/what to eat. Totally in sync. Then there are the weeks where you wonder if you kill them, it’d be justifiable homicide.
If you don’t understand that joke, this blog is probably not for you.
This is what went down this week that makes me think I’d totally get off with a warning.
The week started out fine. Until Monday. So, yeah, one day. One day was blissful marriage happiness. Monday, there were torrential downpours. The kind where you can hardly see two feet in front of you, and driving in it looks like you’re in the damn Millennium Falcon going warp speed, but when you’re an adult, and you need food, you can’t exactly stay home and listen to it pound down on your roof and think “well, I guess groceries can wait”.
Thomas was home, and it was school pick up time, so we grabbed the kids and made our way to the store while there was a lull in the storm. With four people, we could get in, and out, and home before it picked back up again. In a perfect world, anyway.
As we’re leaving, the sky fucking OPENS. UP. Lucky me, I thought to bring in my umbrella. My only umbrella. My seriously over-priced Disney World umbrella. Since Thomas is being all gentlemanly and running to the car to bring it to the curb so no one else gets drenched, I give it to him. I watch him run out into the rain with it, and the car pulls around a few minutes later. Out of the car is my chivalrous husband, who braved the rain to save my makeup, with my umbrella. Broken.
Mad would be an understatement, but the storm is getting worse, we’ve got whiny kids, and cold groceries. This is where I should tell you that we’re driving my SUV, yes- mine- it’s under my name, I paid for it, and it’s not great (Thomas has the better vehicle since he has to drive a stupidly long way to work every day). That being said, I’m not a HUGE fan of driving. Especially not in storms. I have crap eyesight and I don’t like wearing glasses or contacts, so if I don’t have to, I’m not going to drive.
I find myself sitting in the passenger seat of my SUV with my broken ass umbrella and a scowl the size of Australia. BUT, we’re only a few minutes from home, and I like home. Home calms me… when the kids aren’t screaming, but, yeah, I’m really looking forward to not being stuck in a car with the husband who just broke my Disney World umbrella.
For some reason unknown to me, the man decides to take back roads to get home. Wait, no, I remember. He doesn’t want to wait at a stoplight. Perfect, rational reasoning, am I right?
The farther we got back, the closer to our house, the less drainage there seemed to be. It was looking bad. I knew it had rained a lot, but this was insane. Yards looked more like lakes. We turned a corner to what looked like a not too deepish flood type situation on a road. We’re in an SUV, it didn’t look so bad…. until it did. It was when the water was above the tires that I realized this was a bad situation. And then I saw the car in front of us– a VW Golf, with water up to the windows.
That’s when the screaming started.
TURN BACK. TURN AROUND. THIS IS BAD. THIS IS GOING TO FLOOD THE ENGINE. JUST TURN AROUND.
It wasn’t too late, he totally could have backed up, no harm no foul. He maneuvers the car up onto the curb, and I’m thinking he’s about to rip a U-Turn in this bitch. Nope. He’s trying to get leverage over the water. It doesn’t work. The water on the curb is just as fucking high. I’m still screaming.
WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? TURN AROUND!
He not only doesn’t listen to me, in MY car, he plows ahead, past the poor VW, with a wake of water around us like we’re a gatdamn boat.
SHOCKINGLY, we make it through to the other side. Immediately, the check engine light turns on. I’m convinced he’s successfully flooded my engine & destroyed my car to the point where it won’t start ever again. So now he has his fancy new car and my poor old ass vehicle is ruined. I’m livid. I don’t help bring in the groceries. Groceries can suck my ass. Everything can suck my ass. Except him.
Of course, he insists repeatedly the car is fine, blah de blah. I’m concerned I will have no way to take the kids to school in the morning. Even if the car isn’t damaged, driving through that shit in MY vehicle when I’m repeatedly yelling not to, when turning around is totally doable, was not okay.
I grumble my way through making a seriously delicious dinner. I guess hatred and anger really motivates me. The rage I radiated into the turkey burgers made them amazing. I’m feeling proud, AND I have one left over for lunch the next day. I’m an absolute genius. Maybe this day is perking up! Maybe this week won’t be so awful. Let the magic of the turkey burger will my car to start again!
Much to my surprise, and to my husband’s delight, the car starts in the morning. Check engine light is still on, but it seems fine… other than the hunk of plastic now hanging down from underneath of it that some lady in the school parking lot decided to flag me down and make a huge fucking deal about. Only to be followed by my husband seriously patting himself on the back because in his intensive Google searching (he has a Google doctorate, don’t ya know?) he found out that he really “did me a favor” because now my engine has been “steam cleaned”.
THE MAN IS PATTING HIMSELF ON THE BACK FOR NEARLY RUINING MY DAMN CAR.
I am only calmed by the fact that I have my delicious, magical, hate-filled turkey burger in the fridge waiting for me. FOOD SOOTHES ME, OKAY?
I usually hate food prep, like, a lot, but knowing what the result is going to taste like? I didn’t mind it much that day. I cut up tomato, I get the bun all buttery and garlic-y and toasty, I slice some onion and slice two kinds of cheese, and then I go back to the fridge to grab my glorious Holy Grail turkey burger.
It’s nowhere to be found.
I’m not the one who put the leftovers away, so maybe I’m missing it.
I do that shit where you leave the fridge only to go back to it and look again, hoping that by some magical miracle, what you’re looking for will appear.
Shit didn’t work.
Turkey burger is MIA.
It dawns on me… there’s only one place the beloved turkey burger could be.
In a blind fit of rage, I fire over a message to my betrothed. The man who is supposed to be my support. Care about me when I’m down and out, and after he nearly RUINED. MY. CAR. he couldn’t possibly, could he?
“DID YOU TAKE MY TURKEY BURGER?”
“THAT WAS LITERALLY THE ONLY THING I WAS LOOKING FORWARD TO ALL DAY”
Yeah, uh huh. You’re over there enjoying the burger I put ALL OF MY HATE INTO to make it extra delicious, and me? I had to have a soggy ass sandwich.
A SOGGY. ASS. SANDWICH. It was the saddest sandwich I’ve ever had. And unfortunately, this time, the hate did NOT make it taste better.
I’d get away with it. I’d TOTALLY GET AWAY WITH IT. After the engine steaming and the magic burger eating…. yep, they’d let me off with a warning.
BUT. I wouldn’t do that.
Let me explain my position on this– marriage, and venting about it (and I feel the same way about parenting)
I always have slight hesitation writing blogs like this, because some people have the tendency to get all butthurt about it– like how dare I disparage the sanctity of marriage and my poor husband! Like I’m SO LUCKY and it must be torture to be married to such a horrid bitch. As though it’s a chore to be married to someone who doesn’t post sappy Facebook updates about the man sitting right next to me, BUT THEY DON’T HAVE TO LIVE WITH THE MAN. I’m kidding. Kind of. Look, marriage isn’t real unless you can talk real talk. The good and the bad. And sometimes the weird. And the annoying. We’re humans. We live together. We annoy each other, and sometimes to the point where we want to smother one another in their sleep. Yes, me too! I am incredibly irritating. I have constant anxiety. I have stomach issues that plague everything we do, and chronic pain that stomps on plans. I’m EXTREMELY DRAMATIC (ya don’t say?)- but that’s the thing. We put up with each other. It works. You have to take the ups with the downs, the good with the bad. DIDN’T YOU LISTEN TO YOUR VOWS?
So, screw the butthurt. Sorry, not sorry.
This is marriage. REAL marriage.
How you win at parenting pic.twitter.com/vFxCsfqmh7
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