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Category: pets

Destroyer the Hero

www.rookiemoms.com  This is not Destroyer, FYI.

http://www.rookiemoms.com
This is not Destroyer, FYI.

I can only imagine how hard the past few weeks have been on my Twee Destroyer.  Life changing event?  NO problem?

Well sort of.  She has changed a lot.  Of course, she’s also turned two and been busy growing a new molar, which I am determined to use an the excuses for her new ability to throw an absolute shit fit over the smallest thing out of the blue.

But she’s changed in some other ways too.  Her vocabulary has finally started to grow with more real words and less animal sounds, thank God.  And she is able to express her sweet loving self in such a way that I feel like I know why people have kids, and then have more kids even when already spent the last so many years sleep deprived and covered in someone elses spit up.

It is indescribable to be loved back so purely by a child.  And in those moments of true love, you don’t care about the jam in your hair or the 5000 crayons all over the floor.

The other night I was have a really tough time with Buddy.  The kind where he’s screaming, and I’m crying and contemplating my escape route.  And little Destroyer looks up from her book that I was unsuccessfully trying to read at bedtime, and strokes my arm.  Then she stands up and wraps her arms around me.

How she knew that it was exactly what I needed in order to keep my sanity, I don’t know.  But it helped me to realize that infants aren’t infants forever, and the screaming nights won’t last forever.  They will eventually turn into that.

Yesterday I handed Buddy over to Daddy and spent a big part of the day just her and I.  I needed to care for someone who is able to give back a little more ( no offence Buddy) and we had a really great day together.  Shopping, visiting, bike ride and just one on one time.   I have really missed her.

Then it happened.

We were playing next door with a tennis ball and the dogs when my daughter dropped to her knees on the pavement and picked the ball up in her fucking mouth.  Like a dog.

And I laughed really, really hard.  Kids are super retarded sometimes.

I also decided that it meant we need to spend more time with other children.  So she knows that she is a child, and not a dog without a tail.

Oh Destroyer of Hearts.  You save me from my shit sometimes.  My tiny superhero.

Dogs, Babies. They’re All The Same.

I’m not sure that this is going to qualify as a HOTTF post.  Maybe we can just give me a break because each day that I gestate, my IQ drops 2-3% lower.

But I read a lot of parenting articles.  Not because I really follow a lot of other people’s advice, but because I’m curious about how everyone else survives the shitty moments.  How the rest of you decide on rules and boundaries and discipline.  I like to watch on the sidelines and make mental notes about how not to raise an asshole.

And as I read and observe, I am starting to come to the same conclusion over and over again.

We are making life way too fucking complicated.

I have an uncle who always raised dogs.  And the dogs tended to be obedient and good-natured and well trained.  So I asked him one day what his secret was to raising such easygoing, pleasant pets.  And his answer was really simple.

Just spend time with them.

And you know what?  I think he is absolutely right.  And I think it applies to our children as well.

I mean really, what is the biggest difference between this generation and a couple of generations ago?  Time.  Family dynamic.  Supervision.  Imaginative play.  Free play.

Now, in our busy lives, we are always looking for “30 minute meal ideas”, or instructions on how to raise a kind or compassionate child.

Here’s a 30 minute meal idea:  Defrost chicken.  Add sauce.  Bbq said chicken.  Toss salad.  Cut bread.

Seriously.  Do we need an entire article describing to people how to keep life simple?  They key to keeping it simple is to stop thinking/worrying/wandering helplessly about while your kids are in the video game abyss and just make it simple.  Right?  Or am I being entirely too optimistic?

I am guilty of allowing my child to watch too much tv, I think.  I’m not sure exactly what to do about it.  I wonder if there is a plan somewhere to help me wean my child off of the tv and teach them to be happy playing outside or colouring.

Or I could just turn the fucking thing off and pay attention to her.  Take her for a walk.  Or to the park.

So anyway.  I think I will raise my children the way I raise my dogs:

1.  I am in charge.  Non-negotiable.

2. I will spend lots of time with them.  Just hanging out.  Making myself available.  Making them feel supported and secure.

3.  I will say no and correct them.  Sometimes they won’t like it.

4.  They will eat what I feed them, whether it is from the 30 minute list of things kids will eat or not.

5.  I will keep it simple, so they always know what is expected.

What do you think?   Do we go too far to get this parenting thing right?  Or is it necessary in this age?

Can we just make rules that need to be followed and consequences that are given out when these rules are broken?  Can we spend a little less time in the car chauffeuring our children to spend time with other people and allow them to just be kids a while longer?  Can happiness come from simplicity?

I sure hope so.

1000 Months Pregnant And Counting

I know, I know, it’s Hot on The Titties Friday.  But the truth is I used up all my hot yesterday on Fuck You Thursday.  The other truth is that I am just really really really tired.  And getting all hot like that takes energy.  Energy that is being sucked out of me like gas being siphoned out of a fuel tank.

Do you want to know what it’s like to sleep when you are 1000 months pregnant?

So do I.

Cause the fact is, I’m not really sleeping anymore.  Now please, please, with a cherry on top and all of that shit, resist the urge to tell me how it’s a good way for my body to get used to all the sleepless nights approaching with Little Buddy.  Because I have a toddler, remember?  So been there, done that, haven’t slept all the way through the night since 2009.

There are a couple of patterns that happen these days.  The first scenario is that I go to bed, and while I lay there contemplating whether or not to read a book, I fall asleep.  This is probably the lesser of the evils.  But guran-fucking-teed, I will awaken a couple of hours later to be irritated by one of the three dogs.  Someone will need to go out.  Someone will piss on the carpet downstairs.  Someone will be pacing around, click clacking their fucking nails on the hardwood floor.  Someone will get threatened with amputation and/or the sausage factory.

I will try to go back to sleep, and discover that my feet are unbearably itchy.  Or I have this super cool thing called a hot flash.  (Yeah, preparation for menopause, thanks dickwad).

I finally doze off to hear the screaming of the Destroyer.  We are in nightmare phase right now, so I have been sharing the bed with a bed hogging toddler some nights.  I have broken my own rule of no co-sleeping.  I suck.

By 6am I just give up.  Fuck it.  I am doomed to be tired for ever. And ever.

The other delightful scenario is when I can’t fucking sleep at all.  When I am so uncomfortable that I lie in bed all night tossing and turning, needing the cool air from a fan, but kept awake by the noise of it.  When every little sound sends me into a hormonal tantrum.  When I wish someone could just sedate me until Little Buddy arrives, and I can drink a little lullaby called rum when I can’t sleep.

Rum. The difference between a dream and a nightmare is that a dream has rum in it.  At least according to Jack Sparrow.  So I guess I am living a nightmare.

So yeah.  I’m not hot on my tits today kids.  I’m resting my tired, sleepless, beached whale, pregnant head on them.

Trying to figure out what sleep feels like when you are 1000 months pregnant.

If anyone has some advice that actually works, I’d love to hear it.

Knowing The Meaning Of Loyalty And Love

nymag.com This dog was guarding the body of his human after the Oklahoma tornadoes.

nymag.com
This dog was guarding the body of his human after the Oklahoma tornadoes.Kno

Over the past little while I’ve been seeing the odd story about the loyalty that some dogs have for their owners.  There was one about a dog in South America ( I think) who ran away and lived near his Daddy’s grave for years after he passed.  Same with a pooch in England.

Reunions between military dogs and their handlers on American soil after each had finished their tours.  The picture of a dog standing guard over the body of his fallen companion in the Oklahoma tornadoes.

And I think to myself, how can anyone be so blind to miss out on this kind of unconditional love in their lives?

I know some people just aren’t animal people.  I get that.  But if you knew just what you meant to your furry companion, how could you possibly say no?

Sometimes I feel really bad about how hard it is to find the time to spend with my dogs since having a baby.  I just don’t seem to have  enough arms.  Not enough arms to walk all of them and push a stroller at the same time.  Not enough arms to make sure all their bellies get rubbed daily.  And having to shoo them away in fear that they might accidentally step on the kid.

When I went into labour with Destroyer, the pug and the lab did not leave my side the entire time I was home.  All day they sat in bed with me.  After the hospital foolishly sent me home the first time, they were right back with me.  When I was lying on the bed, grunting (unknowingly) through transition I had one of them pressed up against either side.  One putting pressure on my lower back, the putting pressure on the front.  It offered the smallest bit of relief, but they heard my pain and understood what was happening.  They were both momma dogs at one time….one almost certainly from a puppy mill.

The hound, however, sat in the hallway looking absolutely terrified.  She didn’t know what to do.  Which is weird, because she is the plucky one normally.  Maybe it was the screaming.  Or the blood.  She just had no idea what to do but cry, because she thought I was dying.

And according to their babysitter, she cried through the entire night. Running from the bedroom to the window  From the window to the door.  All. Night. Long.

And when I got home from the hospital a few days later, I have never, ever,ever, seen such relief and happiness on a dog’s face.  In that moment she greeted me, I realized true doggie love.

I wonder if I had died, if she would have guarded my urn?

Anyway, I just wanted to tell you all to stop and give your doggies an extra hard hug today, and let them kiss you with a bit of tongue once in a while no matter how bad their breath is.  Their love for you is unshakable, undeniable and incredible.   They truly are the only ones who look past our faults, forgive us freely and believe we are better people than our actions prove us to be.

They can be taken from us suddenly through disaster or sudden illness.  Can we show them the same love they show us?

Yeah. I’m On The Phone, And My Kid Is Still Alive.

So.  I’m trying not to swear.

Fuck it.  I saw this little diddy on Facebook last night and it got my titties all hot.

You know why?  Because I am so sick of these mommies who walk around and pretend like they have all the answers to everything and meanwhile their kids are just as annoying and fucked up as the next one.

So before this brood or anyone else judges me for whipping out my phone when Destroyer is happily buzzing around a playground, or playgroup or (GASP!) watching tv, here’s a few examples from a million reasons why I might be on my phone and why you should mind your own fucking business:

1. I’m texting a picture of said twirls or “watch me” antics to Daddy.  Because I was watching, bitchface.

2. I answered the phone because my other child’s school was calling and my other child is sick.

3. I work from home to spend more time with my kids, but from time to time need to manage my email/messages/whatever in order to facilitate this.

4. I’m bored.  Because you know what?  What’s fun for kids repetitively for hours gets boring sometimes.  So there.

Here’s the thing.  Parenting is hard.  I’ve said this a thousand times.  Not so hard that it isn’t worth it, because believe me it is.   The Destroyer might be able to take out a tidy room in under 60 seconds, but that is just par for the course.  I’m willing and able.

And I am lucky that I get to be here to see it all.

But I am a human being.  An adult human being.  And that requires a certain amount of stimulation that doesn’t include pointing out pictures in the Elmo book, or deciphering the latest tantrum of a mostly non-verbal expert on animal sounds.  It’s draining some days.  On worse days it’s annoying.  On really shitty days you wonder how parents before you survived and escaped with their sanity.

Bestie was telling me the other day about a friend of hers whose child is about 5 months old.  The woman has only left the child once to go for a dentist appointment that was unavoidable.  Once.  And by once, I mean not even to the store for an hour, not to mail a letter, not to a movie, nothing.  5 months of constant company of an infant with no relief.

Goddamn, woman.  How are you still sane?  When Destroyer was twee, I used to love that hour a day I went out for a bike ride or trip to the store just to get out and have a little bit of alone time.

Now I know that when the baby is new and especially if you are breastfeeding it is hard to plan evenings out and even harder to leave your child with a babysitter.  But what about with the child’s father?  And never?

My point is balance, balance, balance.  We have to be honest with ourselves about what we need too.  And creative about how to meet everybody’s needs.  And for me, that includes whipping out my phone on occasion while my child is happily playing and safe and content.

And you know what other horrifying behavior I exhibit?

1.  When I say “no” it stays no.

2.When a meltdown is happening, I try to figure out the cause and solve it for her.  And sometimes, when it is apparent that a fit is happening for the sake of having a fit, I walk away.  And I tell her I’ll be waiting with “X” when she is done.

3. Bestie plugs in a set of earphones and an audio book when she babysits.  Destroyer is none the wiser and is free to do the same game for 5 hours, or tantrum or whatever.  Bestie is then calm and happy, and able to tolerate miserable amounts of bratty behavior without breaking a sweat.  I endorse this tactic wholeheartedly.

4.  I use the word fuck in front of my kid.  It is what it is. I’m not perfect, but at least I’m real.

5. I leash my kid.  Sometimes we go for a walk and I have the dogs in one hand and her on the other.  My kid may be on a leash, but at least she’s not on a milk carton.

Do you all feel better about yourselves now?  Good.  Parent of the Year still comes this way though.

Right?

White Trash Lobster Night

magazine.foxnews.com

magazine.foxnews.com

Yesterday was an average Wednesday.  Except for the morning part where I had to sit drinking sugary drinks and get bled from the same hole in my arm every hour.  And the starvation before that.

I decided to pull out a couple of lobsters out of the freezer for dinner and let them defrost while I was teaching.  Yep.  Lobster for dinner on a Wednesday night because we are that classy.

The truth is I had bought them a while back on sale for a special occasion that never seems to happen.  So I thought fuck it.  Let’s eat em.

And so began White Trash Lobster Night.

Just for a little background information, I have been bugging Husband for years about getting a lobster for a pet.  We used to have all kinds of fish tanks in the house and I thought they were just the neatest little guys.  I was also a vegetarian for many years, in another life.  So I still have some unresolved feelings about eating things while they still have a face.

Anyway, these lobsters were whole.  I’d never cooked a whole lobster before, so I wasn’t sure exactly what to do with them.  I was intending to just chuck them in a pot of boiling water for a while when Husband asked aren’t you going to clean them first?

It hadn’t actually occurred to me.  Plus I was having a little trouble with the smell as it was, and their faces still being attached.  My plan was to get them in the pot as fast as possible without having to make eye contact.  So he volunteered to do it.  Clean them, that is.

I couldn’t believe it.  But he really really really likes lobster.  And he must, because at the lake, I’m the one who cleans the fish and hands him the fillets to be bagged and frozen.  So I hand them over with a giant meat cleaver and suggest just hacking off the tails and leaving it at that.

Are you nuts?  he says.  There’s a lot of meat in those claws.

Now I know that when he makes a bold statement like that he’s gonna do what he thinks is best.  So when I look over and he has the first one taken apart and there is green shit leaking all over the place and it looks like he is doing some weird Nazi surgical experiment, it’s more than my pregnant body can handle.

I excuse myself to take a shower before I never eat food again.  I was having flashbacks to my university zoology labs and there was no way I was going to eat those fucking things if I didn’t get out.

He did a good job actually.  And an even better job at clearing up the guts by the time I got downstairs.

So I toss a salad and make some garlic toast and set the table for dinner. I pluck the little fucker’s tails and claws out of the pot and bring them over.

Where’s the nutcrackers? he asks.

I have no fucking idea.  We’re not exactly a chestnut roasting over a fire type of family.  We’re more of a paper cups and beer breed over here.

No problem.  I’ll go get some pliers from the garage.

Cause that’s how we fucking roll around here.  We are solution oriented, matter a fact type of folk.

So I sit down at the table.  With my maternity sweatpants that won’t stay up around my belly, and my too short tank top letting my gut hang out all over the place.  One bowl of garlic butter for dipping, one set of pliers for cracking and a giant roll of paper towel on the table to clean up the aftermath.

And I have one bite only to discover that my pregnant body will absolutely not eat this fancy feast of ours.  The baby wants it not.  I don’t know if it’s the taste or the smell, or the fact that I saw it’s face before we cooked it.  But I am not eating this thing.  Period.

So I trot over to the freezer pop a little treat in the microwave and return triumphantly to the dinner table 2 minutes later.

With a pizza pop.

So much for our fancy meal, I says to Husband.

It’s ok.  I think lobster used to be something poor people ate years ago anyway. 

That’s why I married him.  He always knows just what to say to make me feel better.  Whether we’re white trash once in a while or not.  For better or worse, right?

 

 

 

I Think She’s A WereFerret

wafflesmccoy.deviantart.com

wafflesmccoy.deviantart.com

It’s not that my kid hasn’t been sick before, she just hasn’t been sick before, you know?  Oh yeah she’s had some colds, but the kind where she smiled and played through the congestion and the tap dripping out of her nose.

This weekend, I had a a puking, fevered, cling-to-mommy-for-dear-life sick child.  It’s one part sad, one part pathetic, one part sweet.  There’s this tiny little part of you that feels smug about being the only thing that comforts her.  Then this part of you whose arm is asleep, and back hurts from carrying her.  And the other part that is freaking out because she’s never had a fever before and the Tylenol  came right back up and what do you do?  Give her some more?

And of course, if you are part of our family, we have this rule about never getting sick or injured until a Saturday evening when the only thing that is open is the fucking emergency room.  Just ask the dogs.  Bee stings, allergic reactions, ate some poisonous mushrooms.  Always on a Saturday night or long weekend when we are 2 hours out of the city.  I did find something out though.  Dogs can get stoned.  And you can make them puke by giving them a spoonful of salt.  But that’s a whole other post.

Anyway, I was sort of thinking about our ferrets.  We used to have a few, back when we lived in the apartment.  We brought them to the house when we moved in.  They had run of the house when we were home, and when we weren’t, they lived in The Destroyer’s room.  Ferrets are feisty little fuckers.  A wild weasel will attack and take down a prey three times its size.  They are hard to catch, and they do most things on their own terms.  They were at the top of the animal hierarchy in this house and all three dogs knew it.  They all have the scars on their snouts to remind them.

The Destroyer is a lot like our ferrets, actually.  I mean, she’s bigger and has less fur, but there are some eerily similar traits that make me wonder if she has the spirit of one of them in her from being in that room.

She is devastatingly beautiful.  I mean really, really adorable.  I know I’m supposed to feel that way, but seriously.  And you know what else?  She is trouble, trouble, trouble.  That’s why she’s cute. It’s some sort of law of nature.  The ferrets could also give you a look that could break your heart.  They are surprisingly affectionate and sociable with their people.  The Destroyer too, knows how to lay it on thick.

She has oddly sharp little incisors.  NO, really.  They look like fangs.  And she wanted gnaw on a steak bone since about birth.  And she’s had most of her teeth since birth.  Did I mention she bites?

She likes to steal things and find a new location for them.  Somewhere out of the way.  And not anything useful like a wallet.  Shit like bottle caps and styrofoam.  Under the bed, in my shoe.  Sometimes she steals the whole shoe.

And the thing that sealed the deal for me, totally reminded me of the ferrets was when she got sick this weekend.   One day, years ago, our male ferret, Boomer had an allergic reaction to something.  On a Saturday night, of course.  So we took him to the Emergency Vet.  Yeah, the one that charges you 200$ just to look at the animal.

“I have to take his temperature”  said the vet.

Oh yeah?  Well good luck with that.  Has she ever handled a ferret before?  Even a sick ferret?  I was gonna ask for my money back.

“Well, if you manage to get that thermometer up his ass and hold it there long enough for a reading, I’ll fucking pay you double.  Because there is no way he is letting that happen.  But go ahead and try. I could use some comic relief.”

And try she did.  And bleed she did, through several wounds before giving up.  I wasn’t gonna help her for 200$.  Fuck that.  Give me a discount and I might think about it. Trying to make a ferret do something they don’t want to is not worth the blood loss.

Anyway, apparently trying to get the Destroyer to have her temperature taking was in line with her ferret like tendencies.  Then the nurse on the phone suggested Tylenol suppositories.  You mean, like up her ass? 

Cause that was gonna happen pretty much never.  I couldn’t even get a thermometer under her armpit without a freak out and puke fest.  Fuck that.

And that’s what convinced me that she is possessed by the spirit of Boomer.  Cause even in her fragile state, you can’t fuck with her.

That’s my girl.

Growing Up Is Hard To Do

Yesterday took a lot out of me.  It got me all hot and feisty, and so today I think I need to calm things down a little bit.  I’m feeling kinda empty, so today I think I’ll tell you a story.

This is the story about how I became a grown up.  Or at least I tried. It is also about the one and only time I have ever successfully lied to my parents about anything.  I am a horrible fibber, you know.  My eyes give me away every time.

So a few years back, before we had human children, We packed everyone up in our Subaru and headed out to the cottage.  Sounds like a normal time right?  Of course not.  This time was exciting .  Special even.  Husband and I were to be in charge of some shit out there.

You see, my parents lived at the lake in the summers back then.  (Since then my mom’s health has been too poor to even go out).  Even before Dad retired, he had so much holiday time that he could be out there for almost 3 months straight.  So whenever we went up, we would do some grocery shopping, but everything else was already set up.  It was so easy.

Anyway, this time they weren’t there.  It was early June, and I had already finished up with my studio for the summer and Husband had some days off to use up.  So we went during the week, before school was out, no parents, no neighbors, just us in the bush.

It was the height of the mosquito season.  The day had absolutely no fucking wind, and was muggy as hell.  I couldn’t wait to get the truck unloaded and get my ass in the water.  But first we had to unpack.

I unloaded all the animals first.  Kinda like a travelling zoo.  Three dogs and a carrier full of ferrets.  I put them in the cabin so they would be out of the way, and not fucking off into the bush.  I threw my purse and shit in there too, needing all my hands to unload all the supplies.

The bugs were horrendous.  The muggy weather was irritating.  We both started to slowly slip into foul moods.

We have a screened in porch where I started leaving all our shit in between trips up the hill to the car.  And then I grabbed the box with shit going into the boathouse.  The one with the paint in it.

The one I fucking dropped.  The one where the lid popped off and spilled paint everywhere. All over the bumper of Husband’s new truck. All over me.  Oh.My.God.  I thought for sure he may beat me to death and hide my body somewhere in the bush.  So I went the one place I knew he wouldn’t follow.

The water.

He went into the boathouse to get some turpentine and rags to clean up after me as usual, because sometimes, I am a useless human being.  And found that it had been broken into.

This is getting better by the second.  I contemplated going home.  For reals.

Now keep in mind that during all of this, the animals are all inside the cabin, wondering when the fuck we were going to let them out.  This is where our day got fun.  I climbed out of the water and went to go inside.

And the goddamn door was locked.

And I looked inside to see my purse with our keys, phones, wallets, everything on the kitchen table.  And the fucking door is locked.  And I’m dripping wet.  And Husband already wants to strangle me.  And I think to myself “Please say the box with the gin is outside still.”

What the fuck are we gonna do?   Remember no neighbors?  Fack!

Luckily, someone had broken into the boathouse to steal gas, which gave me access to every tool ever invented by man.  So I ran and got a crowbar.  And took a swig out of the gin bottle. And started to beat the shit out of the door handle. It made me feel a lot better.

Then I realized there was a better way.  There was no way the dogs locked the deadbolt, so it was only the push lock that got locked.  I could break into that in a heartbeat!  I used to do it all the time as a kid whenever my brother was in the john. I knew being an asshole in my youth would come in handy someday.

I went and got a screwdriver, removed the handle and unlocked the door.  Perfect, no one needs to know about this except me and Husband and the animals.

Except I had beaten the shit out of the doorhandle, remember?  Fuck.

So this is where the lie comes in.

I was too embarrassed to tell my Dad what really happened.  I figured they would never, ever, let us go up by ourselves again until we were like 50.  So when I called to tell him the boathouse had been broken into, I told him it looked like they tried to get into the cabin too.

And then I told the RCMP the same thing.

I am going to Hell, right after I’m done serving my jail sentence.

And that, kids, is how we realized that owning a cottage was a lot of work.  Up until then it had sorta been like a hotel, you know?

Growing up is hard to do, and sometimes, it really sucks.

 

Winter: Fuck You Edition

memegenerator.net

memegenerator.net

I am seriously in need of a change in weather.  I don’t want to be one of those losers that has nothing to say and so they talk about the weather and nothing interesting ever.   But seriously, people it is March the fucking 19th and we just had a blizzard here yesterday.  I can’t fucking take anymore. Let me give some very good reasons I need spring, and I need it now. 

1. I am too fat to chase my toddler around the house every time we have to get dressed to go outside.  She wants to go out, but as soon as we actually have to get ready it turns into this annoying game which is fun for no one except for her.  Put the hat on, the hat comes off.  Try to put the mittens on, she shakes them off.  She is the devil.

2.  I am also too fat to keep having to wear boots to go outside.  I need to be wearing flip flops, people.  I can’t bend over far enough to get the fucking boots on anymore.

3.  AND I am also too fat to do up any of my winter coats.  I wasn’t about to go spend a couple hundred bucks last month on a maternity winter coat for like 2 weeks of winter.  If I would have known this was going to be a fucking ice age, I may have reconsidered this.

4. Dairy Queen has Blizzard treats on sale this month for buy one, get one for .99$.  I know I talk about this a lot, but the month is going by so fast!  Who wants to eat a goddamn Blizzard treat in a blizzard?

5. The snow in the backyard is so deep I can’t even take the dogs back there to play.  The pug can’t even take a shit because her ass in under the snow.  And when the dogs aren’t getting out enough, they get super annoying.  They pace.  They follow you around incessantly.  And they do what any true member of our family does when they’re bored.  They eat.  And by eat, I mean they eat the child’s crayons.  Do you know what it looks like outside in the potty zone?  It looks like Rainbow Brite  has been taking a shit in my backyard.  Please.  Spring. Please.

6. I think we have this thing called cabin fever.  Have you ever tried to entertain a toddler in the house all day while Daddy tries to sleep during the weeks he’s on night shift?  It’s super fun except all of those moments when the child is using screaming for a sound effect.  It doesn’t matter if she is displaying happiness, or discontent, or excitement.  The appropriate reaction is to scream.  So she pretty much screams all the time.

7.  I need to Bbq.  I mean we still can, but seeing as I’m challenged in the winter gear department, and part of the fun of Bbq-ing is sitting outside together while dinner cooks and the Destroyer sleeps peacefully, this shit needs to melt ASAP.  I need a flame broiled steak.  I need fire on my meat.  And I need to stop making such a mess of the kitchen, because then I have to clean it afterwards.  Bbq means defrost meat, place potatoes, toss salad.  No mess, lots of eating, and a trip to DQ after.

One more dump of snow could break me.  I’m crumbling as it its.  Yesterday I watched Breaking Dawn Part 2 and cried like a baby.  I need to get outside for some fresh, unfrozen air, and empty some of the crazy out of my sauce.

Please.

Am I Doing It Wrong?

memegenerator.net

memegenerator.net

I think I might have been born in the wrong generation.

Either that, or I missed out on the memo clearly outlining all of the neurotic hovering loving precautions one must take in order to keep their child alive and thriving in today’s world.  My favourite Mother In Law and I have often laughed about my how my kids will likely be the ones riding their bikes without body armor, ringing the doorbells of other kids in the neighbourhood to see if they want to play.  Sending my kids out the door with the instruction to be home by dinner and letting the dog be in charge of watching them.

Gone are the days of such freedoms.  Children have to be strapped into a car seat until they’re old enough for Driver’s Ed.  You have to arrange “play dates”.  (Which I won’t even start to rant about because I’ll never fucking stop).  Which means I potentially have to hang out with some shit ass parent I don’t like for the sake of my child.

Daycare.  Never ending onslaught of extra curricular activities.  Parent council.  Volunteering for A,B,and C.

Don’t let them eat sugar.  Or wheat.  Or anything white.  God forbid you have peanut butter for breakfast and then go to school and send someone elses kid to the hospital in anaphylactic shock.  Bullying. Drugs.

Wait.  What was the rule about car seats again?

Seriously.  Was parenting always so complicated?

I think I missed out on being June Cleaver.  In the days where you popped out a few kids, your husband went to work and you spent the day cooking pot roast and wearing cute aprons over your poodle skirt.  Life seemed simpler.

The only thing missing back then was tv.  Cause let me tell you about my favourite rule to break.  “Don’t let your kids watch tv. Especially before the age of 1, it will give them ADHD.”  I honestly can’t remember who fucking told me this.  But I will tell you a secret.  If this bullshit  statement is true, then my kid is fucked.

We love tv around here.  And music.  There is never, ever, silence in this house unless we are all sleeping or it is during my morning coffee and internet time.   The Destroyer happily watches an episode or three of Elmo’s World while she has breakfast.  The we usually do some chores in the morning with the tv on in the background, or the radio on upstairs.  Every now and then she’ll take a break from helping with laundry to go and dance to the music on some commercial on the tube.

Daddy has turned her into quite the sports fan.  Doesn’t matter what the game, that plucky little monster will scream “GOGO GOOOO!”  at the top of her little lungs for it.  And consequently every time she sees a team logo.

Toopy and Binoo are like family.  I’ll just leave it at that.

And the newest thing is Baby Einstein.  Have you ever watched that shit?  It’s like LSD for babies.  She goes nuts for it.  Completely. Mesmerized.

Anyway, I will admit that this winter is starting to feel very long, and we have been relying on the tube a little more than necessary.  Destroyer would rather be outside playing, but Daddy likes his nuts unfrozen, and I am too fat to do up any of my winter attire.  Thank God Grandma comes prepared for the weather.  I think that’s why she’s the Destroyer’s favourite.

But it’s March, and spring is right around the corner.  And then I can send her up and down the street on a tricycle with no helmet, covered in peanut butter with her forward facing carseat, and all you fuckers can go back to shaking your head about that.

Cause we do things the old fashioned way around here.  Which is why my most commonly used phrase seems to be “Why?  Am I doing it wrong?”  Apparently the answer is yes.  But you know what?  My kid is fucking awesome.  So around here, wrong is right.

Mother of the Year, right?

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