Tag Archives: mom humor

It’s been a mother of a year

Hey, you know how every year us mothers significantly lower our expectations when it comes to Mother’s Day? How every year you all just skate by on your adorableness, doing the bare minimum? It’s only Mom, afterall. She’s so grateful for anything and everything. Her love is completely unconditional. 

Well, not this year, you filthy urchins. There are now conditions. 

Oh sure, when you were born we played the saintly martyr when you kept us up all night, every night. We faced the fact you wouldn’t let us eat a single hot meal for an entire year with gentle stoicism. And we showed incredible grace and restraint by not throwing you out the window the first time you screamed “I HATE YOU” into our faces. 

We did all that because we love you. And you’re amazing. And we’d die for you. 

But this is 2020, you little wretches. We are done being humble and doting and noble. There is no more “oh, it’s enough of a gift just to be your mom.” It’s not. Not even close. We have spent two months stuck inside this house with you. Two VERY LONG months. With no sleepovers at Memaw’s house, no daycares or schools, no playdates, no library storytime, no playgrounds to give us even one tiny bittersweet gasp of freedom. There is only the constant drowning in your endless waves of needs and demands in a house that is growing more ramshackled by the day. 

Time to step it up, you bitty hellions.  

First things first, do not try to pass yourself off as charmingly incompetent and present us with burnt toast and water mixed with coffee grounds for breakfast. Here’s “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” by Julia Child. Careful, it’s heavy. Now start studying. That hollandaise sauce better make us cry tears of joy. 

Speaking of studying, your report card is one big lie. You are far from a delight in class. Which is why the card you give us this year better contain a heartfelt three page letter about how friggin’ gorgeous and phenomenal we are, which you will hand deliver to us on a silver tray that also contains a Bloody Mary. 

While we are on the subject of food and drink, you always want to be fed. Note we did not say “want to eat.” Note we did not say “always hungry.” No, you want to be fed. You want us to make you something. 

Well, guess what we want? 

A swimming pool. 

Start digging. 

And no, we will not watch you dig. A full one third of our lives is now devoted to “hey, mom watch this!” and then watching this. It doesn’t matter if we’re cooking, or if we’re showering, or if we’re on fire. We must watch. We must watch and then watch again and again, every time acting just as delighted as the first time you jumped off the couch and onto the couch cushion. 

Which is why we’re gonna need a life-sized chocolate sculpture of ourselves. 

Then there is the issue of the farts. We have smelled all your farts. All of them. On a constant rotating basis. There is just a constant low hanging miasma of fart essence wherever we go in this house because there is nowhere else for you to fart. So there’s tiny baby farts and gross boy farts and gigantic dad farts and ancient unholy dog farts, all mingling together and creating horrifying new scents. 

Buy us our own island. 

Oh, you can’t afford to buy us our own island? Well, we are the sounding board for every single thought that crosses everyone’s mind. We don’t get to have our own thoughts anymore because we’re too busy listening to all of yours. So you best find someone to bankroll this entire operation. No one’s cuteness is getting them out of this. We are on Week Eight of this crap. Ain’t no one cute around here anymore. 

We moms have not only kept this household going in a global pandemic, but, more importantly, have kept everyone from killing each other. We are freaking warrior goddesses. 

BUY US AN ARMORED UNICORN TO RIDE ON. 

So, in conclusion, we love you all so much. More than life itself. You are the best thing to ever happen to us. Don’t mess this up or we’re setting your room on fire. 

 

Free at last, free at last

Hi. How’s your day going? I have cabbage leaves in my bra.

And no, this isn’t some fancy new way to make coleslaw I learned from Gwyneth Paltrow on Goop (although I wouldn’t put it past her). Oh no. My bra is stuffed with produce because it allegedly has healing powers. Which I need because after nine long months, I am …(drum roll, please)… finally weaning my youngest, and last, baby!

I’m WEANING, you guys!

And I’m WOVING it!

Well, not the actually weaning part. Weaning, for those of you who have never experienced it, is incredibly painful. Sure, you look like a porn star for roughly five days, but you can’t enjoy it because when you turn off the spigot and don’t tell the 500 gallons of breastmilk that is still trying to squeeze into your medium-sized chest, it makes even breathing a daunting task. Here’s a horrific visual for you: Take any body part or organ and imagine you can blow it up like a balloon to mass capacity. And then blow a little bit more air into it. And then a little more. And then imagine that area is constantly under attack from tiny, yet brutally sharp, little elbows.

But I am loving that my breastfeeding days are coming to an end.

My boobs are mine again!

All mine!

I am the Boob Nazi! No boob for you!

Now, according to every other “last breastfeeding post” ever written, I should be sad. Very, very sad. Oh, my last baby is growing up. Boo hoo. I’ll miss the closeness and the blah, blah, blah. I want to remember every moment of my last time. Tear. Sigh. It all went by too fast.

But not me. Oh god, not me. I am practically jumping for joy (and would be literally if my boobs weren’t currently two swollen beach balls straining to explode off my chest). As soon as my nipple was out of her mouth that last time, I started running around the house screaming “FREEEEEEDOM” like Mel Gibson in “Braveheart.”

Don’t get me wrong. I love babies. My own especially, but pretty much all other babies as well (except for my neighbor’s baby Jaslynn…she knows what she did). It’s just that babies are so. much. work. The best, most rewarding, work I’ve ever done. But the hardest. With absolutely no overtime pay. Or any pay. Or even a lunch break.

So I tend to celebrate as my own kids grow older and become more independent. I mean, that’s the goal, isn’t it? Getting them to the point where they can navigate the world without me? As the old saying goes, a mother’s job is to make her job obsolete. So, as much as I adore being my toddler’s No. 1 Juice Bitch, I look forward to the day he can get his own and I can drop that title from my resume.

And as amazing as it is that I was able to provide food for my baby using my own body, I’m glad to no longer be her main source of nourishment. Mostly because I just want to be able to eat a cheeseburger with two hands again.

Of course, this attitude will most likely change the second my kids are old enough to no longer want to cuddle, or hug me in public, or realize I am not, in fact, the funniest person on the planet. I guarantee I will immediately turn into the dad from “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” and start wailing “why you want to leave me?”

But for now, I am celebrating. With cabbage leaves. And vodka. And a series of nude selfies I’ll be sending to my husband because, seriously, my boobs will never look this amazing again.