Tag Archives: meme

Rollercoaster of Love (& Anger & Guilt & Exhaustion)

“So, how was your day?”

Has there ever been a more loaded question?

Yes. But for my purposes here, I need you to ignore that.

Because I get asked this on a daily basis. Sometimes multiple times during that daily basis. And it stumps me every single time.

How was my day? How was my whole, entire, day? Well, nothing is currently on fire. That’s how my day was.

Asking a parent how their day was is a futile exercise. Because no matter what they say— Good. Bad. Fantastic! I’m currently drinking rum mixed with Kool-Aid and expired Nyquil–the only true, honest answer is “I don’t know.”

Every day with children is one giant rollercoaster ride. All super highs and wicked lows. A roller coaster that is equal parts fun and horrifying. And is always breaking down. And needing to pee. Again. With bony elbows and knees coming out of nowhere to hit you when you least expect it.

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It starts from the minute you hear those first rustlings coming from the baby monitor at some ungodly hour—click, click, click—and goes all day long—wheeeeeee! Oh god, I’m going to die!—until you put them down at night for the third, and final, and I MEAN IT, time that night.

He peed in the potty!

WHEEEEEEE!

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He pooped in the corner!

AHHHHHHHH!

He’s napping in his bed!

YAAAAAAAAAY!

She finally fell asleep in her crib! …aaaaaaaand she’s screaming again.

NOOOOOOOO!

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He actually ate his lunch!

YESSSSSSSSSS!

Oh. No, wait. That’s avocado on the ceiling, isn’t it?

God damn it

He listened to me when I calmly explained why we don’t bite people.

*smug smile*

He just bit me again.

SON OF A…

She’s feeding herself!

SQUEEEEEEAAAAAAL!

Oh god, she’s choking to death.

crap crap crap crap please don’t die crap crap crap

They’re both on my lap, peacefully listening to me read them a book!

Sigh! Life is perfect.

She just pulled his hair and he slapped her leg and everyone is crying and screaming and the dog is barking.

I’m in a hell of my own making.

They’re both quietly playing in the corner by themselves!

Pffft…and people say parenting is hard.

He pooped in the corner again? And got it on his shoes? And then dragged the poop all over the house? And his sister is now playing in it?

*sound of whiskey being poured*

Happiness. Frustration. Joy. Anger. Sadness. Bewilderment. Contentment. More anger. Guilt. More happiness but swiftly turning into anger because SO HELP ME, IF YOU DON’T PUT THAT DOWN, I WILL END YOU.

And those emotions were all felt in the past 30 seconds just while I was trying to type this sentence.

Is it any wonder we parents are braindead at the end of the day?

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But there’s a reason people will stand in line for three hours at an amusement park for a single rollercoaster ride. It lets us know, in the most intense of terms, that we are alive.

Or, at least, that’s what I’m telling myself as I stop my son’s third bloody nose of the day because he won’t stop sticking his goddamn finger up there.

I’M ALIVE, BABY! WHEEEEEEEEEEEE!

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It’s funny if it’s not happening to you

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What the “Dog Days of Summer” really means

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As it turns out, it is the little things

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I am an inferior woman! Hear me roar!

Ugh. Why? Why do stupid people have to keep saying stupid crap, making me dust off my soapbox YET AGAIN?

Now I have to go looking for it YET AGAIN and …(grunting sounds)… it’s probably buried under a huge pile of dirty onesies and empty wine bottles and …(rummaging noises)… I could be using this time to do something much more productive …(floor scooting squeaks)… like drinking wine while doing laundry.

…(out of breath wheezes)… All right, let me just dust this bad boy off and step up …(more grunting sounds)…

I don’t know if you’ve seen it yet, but there is a meme making its way across the Internet that brings a whole new level to the term “Mommy Wars.” Allegedly created by some religious group, it essentially tells women who have given birth via cesarean section that they are weak and didn’t “actually” give birth and that they should bow down to the superior women who did have vaginal births.

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And angry female rant in 3…2…1…

Only in a country that so devalues its women can the idea that having a baby via major abdominal surgery be considered lazy. Can the idea that being sliced open and having a nine pound baby plucked from your womb before your organs are returned to their rightful place and you’re literally sewn back together be considered the easy way out. Just look at that inconsiderate lady, lying on her back, letting her doctor do all the hard work of ripping her body apart and plunging his hands deep inside her farthest recesses while she is fully awake.

Chicks, man. Am I right?

I feel this should go without saying but obviously it doesn’t, so, here it goes. There is no easy way out of giving birth. There are only two choices and they both suck. Because you either have your baby’s head ripping an exit through your vagina or you have a scalpel ripping an exit through your lower stomach. Both involve a lot of pain, a lot of fear, a lot of blood and a whole lot of strength.

And sure, I can understand on some level how a woman who had a natural, drug-free birth might want an extra pat on the back. And I’m more than happy to tip my hat to her. Cause that is some Wonder Woman-level of strong right there. Especially when you can, such as in my case, holler for a nurse at 3 a.m., grab her by the lapels and gently but firmly yell directly into her face “GIVE ME THE DRUGS!” and ten minutes later some guy is shoving a very large needle through your spine.

However, all of us moms went through the same war. And none of us are less of a hero for how we fought in that war.

And while I’m hoping that the person or people behind this ridiculous meme are on the far, far, FAR fringes of society, it can’t be denied that we as a country have an unhealthy attitude toward reproduction and all the baby-havin’ in general. Hell, take the actual reproductive cycle itself. We treat periods like they are the most shameful thing a woman can admit to.

Is that a tampon I just saw fall out of your purse!? A blood stain on your pants?! A commercial for feminine products!? On the TV where anyone can see it!?

AVERT YOUR EYES, CHILDREN (even though none of you would exist without the presence of a monthly period)! BURN THE BLEEDING WITCH! OR AT LEAST MOCK HER MERCILESSLY!

And then there’s our whole “I guess you can have an entire six weeks off to heal your traumatized post-pregnancy body while also keeping your tiny infant alive but we sure as hell ain’t gonna pay you for it, ya bum” attitude.

We belittle stay-at-home moms and yet in the same breath say working moms are selfish. We insist that true moms breastfeed their children but oh dear god, woman, not where I can see it. Gross. We want to know why you haven’t lost the baby weight yet but also why are you at the gym and not at home spending time with your baby?

Moms truly are damned if they do and damned if they don’t. But this particular meme is perhaps the cruelest way we’ve thought up to punish moms yet.

Babies are born every day. But to the woman giving birth, it’s a miraculous, painful, beautiful and utterly terrifying experience. And no should have the right to take that away from her.

No matter how the baby finally gets into her arms.

How I feel when someone asks me to watch their laptop at Starbucks

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BREAKING NEWS: White girls love fall

I don’t know who the first white girl was to publicly declare how much she loves fall, but if I ever find that idiot, I’m going to strangle her with the string from my totally comfy Urban Outfitters’ hoodie. She’s ruined everything for the rest of us.

Everything.

Because now, thanks to her and all her idiot friends, the new national pastime is making fun of white girls who love fall.

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Oh sure, you could argue (and you would, in fact, be correct in arguing this) that us white girls brought it on ourselves. What with our “first Pumpkin Spice Latte of the season!” selfies and our daily “Finally time for boots and leggings! Squeeeee!” Facebook posts. Our mid-June tweets of “Is it fall yet? #ugh #readyforsnuggleweather”. Our arty Instagram of a lone red leaf held up against one of our eyes while we coyly look up and to the left with the other eye.

So yes. Yes, on some level we deserve this ridicule.

But ultimately, making fun of ALL the white girls who love fall is not OK. Because, one, us white girls have feelings. Lots and lots of feelings. That we have to tell you about. All the time.

So, please, don’t make us have more feelings.

And two, we’re not all like that. For instance, I love fall. I also happen to be a white girl. But I am not a white girl who loves fall.

And yes, it is an important distinction.

Do you think this Aprill spelled with two L’s wants to be lumped in with all the Britanni’s spelled with an “i” and Megyn’s spelled with a “y”? That I want to wear vintage T-shirts featuring books I’ve never read or bands I’ve never listened to underneath my infinity scarf (an infinity scarf that is just one of the 67 in my collection)?

Do you think I want to race to my closet as soon as September 1st arrives and pull out my favorite vintage sweater while wrapping both of my hands around a mug of green tea and sighing contentedly while I look out a window? Or that I want to curl up with a good book and read all day as soon as the temperature drops below 70?

Do you think I want to spend hours scouring Pinterest for fall-themed craft ideas; ideas that I will never, ever do but nonetheless share on social media like I totally did do them? Or that I want to eat only gourd-flavored baked goods for every meal for the next three months?

No. No, I don’t. I don’t want to do any of this. I don’t want to be a part of this cliché.

But I do. And I am.

I wasn’t raised this way. I was raised in a home where hoodies were merely something you threw on when it got cold, where coffee was something you drank black, where fall was simply just another season. My mom didn’t own Ugg boots or oversized, non-prescription, black frame glasses. No one in my family drank beer that was any flavor other than beer. The only candles that burned inside our house were birthday candles.

Do you think when I was a little girl growing up in the 90’s, wearing my torn flannel shirt and my purple lipstick with my Nirvana CD blasting from my gigantic boombox, that I dreamed of someday becoming that white woman who lights 43 pumpkin candles on chilly nights and asks her husband to cuddle on the couch in their “jammies” while they watch a “Girls” marathon on HBO?

No. Hell no. That little girl would kick my ass with her Dr. Marten boots if she knew what she became.

But I just can’t help myself. I don’t know if it’s nature or nurture. If I was brainwashed by the powerful pumpkin farmer lobby in Washington or if Eve herself made an apple scented candle with the forbidden fruit before she took a bite and then knitted a cozy sweater out of fig leaves.

All I know is that, as much as I try to fight it, I love all this fall crap. And now, courtesy of Brittani and Megyn and Jyssycah, I am the butt of several thousand Internet jokes.

So thanks a lot, ladies. You just couldn’t keep quiet, could you? Couldn’t just let us white girls continue to worship this time of year secretly in the privacy of our own homes. Had to blast it out all over the Interwebs, complete with winky faces and penguin emoticons (even though PENGUINS have absolutely NOTHING to do WITH FALL!).

I swear to God, I’d throw this Starbucks’ Pumpkin Spice Latte in your faces…

…if only it didn’t taste so good.

…(Sip)…