I Just Want to Pee Alone Read online

  So first you're flying through this dark room, and then you're flying through this darker room, and then you're flying through a room that's pitch black and then there's a crocodile eating a man, and then your three-and-a-half-year-old is shitting her pants and screaming at the top of her lungs. Well, that was a good way to start the day.

  Me: I'm sorry, I'm sorry, honey. Mommy screwed up. I promise this next ride is going to be amazing. And not scary at all.

  Daughter: (sobbing) Noooo, I don't want to go on any more rides.

  Well, that's awesome. So basically we just paid $300 for a 2 minute Peter Pan ride, but really thousands of dollars considering the months years decades of therapy my kid's gonna need after this.

  Next stop, It's a Small World. Yup, there's nothing like watching a bunch of animatronic kiddos from Israel and Iran singing arm-in-arm to cheer you up.

  Daughter: Agggggghhhhhhhhh, nooooooo! There's a crocodile again! Get me the fuck out of Africa!!!!

  Yeah, who would have guessed that Africa would have an animatronic crocodile like the one in the Peter Pan ride?

  Me: How about the Mad Hatter Tea Cups, sweetie?

  Daughter: Yeah! I've always wanted to go on those. (Even though she has no F'ing idea what they are.)

  Question: How many gallons of vomit do they clean at the Mad Hatter teacups every year?

  Answer: Infinity.

  You should have seen her adorable little face light up as it started to spin.

  Daughter: I lovvvvvvve the teacups!!!

  OMG, did she LOVE this ride! The first 1/10th of it. And this is what she screamed for the next 9/10ths of the ride.

  Daughter: It's too fassssssst! Make it stopppppp!

  And when it finally stopped, the people who ran the ride had to peel her out of the teacup where she lay in the fetal position foaming at the mouth.

  Of course, there were plenty of things she did love at Disney that day. The Swiss Family Robinson Treehouse (basically just a bunch of stairs, we could have done this for free in an office building), a show with Mickey, Minnie and like 200 princesses (made me throw up in my mouth a little. Correction: a lot), the $30 Rapunzel hat we caved and bought for her (anything with fake hair should be illegal), and this giant vending machine in the bathroom that sold tampons and pads. ("Pleeeeeease Mommy can I have one pleeeeease, I'm STARVING!")

  And then after we got home from our vacation someone asked her, "What was your favorite thing at Disney World?" And guess what she answered?

  Daughter: A Mickey Mouse ice cream bar!

  I have one word for you. WTF? I'm not even sure if that's a word. But I'll say it again. WTF?

  But yes, all in all, our day at Disney was great. Not at all what I expected (pixie dust, rainbows, unicorns, my daughter hugging characters left and right, my son holding in his poop all day, and not a single tear except for the one that I would shed in complete utter joy). But great nonetheless. A lot like parenthood. Not at all what you expected and full of bumps and hurdles and projectile poops, but still great. Usually. Well, sometimes. Occasionally. Once in a while. Okay, I'll stop there.

  * * *

  Karen Alpert is the ridiculously hairy, self-deprecating writer of the usually funnyish (oh yeah, spell check, then how the F do you spell that?) blog Baby Sideburns. She lives with her two amazing kiddos and a very forgiving husband who's kind enough not to call her "Cousin It" when she undresses for bed every night.

  Eat Poop, Laugh.

  No, I Did Not Forget a Comma.

  By Patti Ford

  Insane in the Mom-Brain

  Until my son was four, he was at home with me all day, every day. This was a time in our lives when one day felt like ten. Nearly every day spent at home was like that movie Groundhog Day, but instead of being awakened by the horrific vocal stylings of Sonny & Cher, I was awakened by a whiney shorty with a poopy diaper. To be honest, I don't know what's worse: crying and crap, or Sonny & Cher. The jury is still out on that. But if you have survived life with a child up until this age, then you know that the days can get a bit monotonous. And by "a bit," I mean that there's so much freaking monotony that sometimes you wanna spork yourself in the eyeball just so you can take a field trip to the hospital to shake things up.

  During this time, I was obsessed with having somewhere to go every day. Every. Single. Day. That was the only thing (besides the eyeball sporking) that could change up the routine and make a day go by faster.

  One morning, when my son was about three-years-old, I decided to take him to the zoo. It was a spur of the moment decision, brought on by being awakened way the heck before dawn, and already having had a mother-son discussion with him about the importance of actually pooping IN the potty, and not in his pants while standing NEXT TO the potty. Not to mention, I'd already lost at least 11,274 more brain cells from listening to Caillou whine like the little, bald, bitch that he is.

  I seriously had to get out of that house. And since, for some stupid reason, it's illegal for a mother to leave her child home alone, even if he's clearly shown that he's a helluva lot smarter than her, I had to plan a trip for two. Sometimes it's just best not to be home alone with a child who was seemingly sent to this earth for the sole purpose of finding your breaking point. Every now and again you honestly need the prying eyes of the public so that you don't duct tape your spawn to the ceiling fan, in the hopes that it "gently" lulls them to sleep.

  Normally I would plan out these little sanity-saving excursions ahead of time by sending an email to my friends on Sunday so that we could organize our outings for the week. To observers, I'm sure we looked like an amazingly awesome and organized group of Super Moms, taking our kids here and there and giving them social time, fresh air, and fun experiences. In reality, those things were just a lucky by-product of something that we were actually doing in order to keep us from finally snapping and pawning our wedding rings for a one-way plane ticket to Fiji.

  This time I didn't plan things out and I didn't have time to invite friends. We just got the hell out of Dodge.

  On the 30 minute drive to the zoo, we listened to "Tappy Tappin' With Elmo," approximately 10.3 times, which made the journey extra harrowing and long. Seriously, Frodo's trip to Middle Earth seemed like a breeze in comparison. Giant spiders and big, murdery, bird thingies? Bitch, puhleeze. I see your big-ass walking trees and raise you a squeaky, red, puppet voice that never freaking stops. By the time we arrived at the zoo and I finally found a parking spot, my brain was pretty much liquefied. When I got out of the car and opened the back door to grab The Boy, I discovered that he wasn't wearing any pants. Or shoes. You might think that since he was a three-year-old, and three-year-olds are total a-holes, he just stripped himself of the claustrophobic confines of his clothes while he was in the back seat jammin' out to Elmo. That wouldn't be the first or 100 time that he had decided to be free of fabric on a whim. That little dude liked nothing more than letting his stuff get some air. But after looking around the backseat for a while, I realized that for once he wasn't practicing for his future as a stripper, and that in my crazy "Momma's about to lose her mind, up in here, up in here" dash to get out of the house, I had completely forgotten about an important little thing called clothes.

  This is one of the many odd and unexpected little situations where you kinda find out who you are as a mother. Will you collapse onto the parking lot in the fetal position and cry for the days when you had perky boobs, bladder control, and alone time? Or will you laugh because you see the funny in being a spaced out, overwhelmed, mess? It's got to be a test masterminded by the aliens who stole you out of your bed that night four years ago, and impregnated you with this annoying little creature that likes to eat chalk, and write on his chalkboard with ketchup. You know they're just floating around up there in their UFO, waiting on pins and needles to see how their human subject is going to react in the latest edition of an ongoing experiment called, "How much can one human mother take until she totally and completely loses her shit?"


  This was at least the 80-bazillionth time that I had been given this test in keeping my sanity. My passes and fails had probably been a pretty equal split so far.

  The first time I nearly lost my mind was long before The Boy had vacated my belly. He was still mooching off of me, and doing everything within his power to drive me insane. Not only was I so sick that I had to crawl everywhere because I couldn't even stand up without getting vomitty, but I was fat, my boobs hurt, my gums were bleeding, and my brain (like my only barf-free mode of transportation) had regressed to that of a two-year-old. I was also constipated, had hemorrhoids the size of a fist, and my uterus was being kicked like it was the set of a mother-flippin' Jean Claude Van Damme movie. The Boy was HUGE and he insisted on trying to flip himself over even though he was way beyond the acceptable, or physically possible, size for that crap.

  The second time I nearly lost my mind was when I was finally getting to push the giant parasite out, and reclaim my body once and for all. The only thing that I can possibly say about that experience within the allotted space that I have here is this: Holymotherfuckingbullshitfromhelltimesamillion. That DID NOT go as planned. Oh, and I will give you just seven more words: My hospital room had to be repainted.

  You can use your imaginations on that one.

  The third time I nearly lost it was when The Hub and I brought The Boy home from the hospital. We honestly marveled at how passive he was, even high-fiving each other for having such a perfect peach of a baby. We were totally rockin' this procreation situation, and we felt like the luckiest bastards on the planet. That is, until a few days later, when his real personality came out and we considered a middle of the night, top-secret move to Lithuania, or somewhere just as equally nowhere.

  There had been many more times like these, when I thought that I was going to spontaneously combust from the exhaustion and aggravation. Times when I would have possibly even welcomed combustion, because not only would that be an excitingly kick-ass way to exit the planet, but also a way to end the sleepless stress-fest, that is motherhood.

  But there is a key to handling everything from accidentally eating a blob of poop off your hand that in the sleepless, zombie-like state of new mommyhood, you thought was chocolate, all the way to experiencing the wrath of the check out lady at Target who looks like she seriously wants to kick your ass because your child just told her that he has a sister (which he doesn't) that you keep locked in the attic (which you don't).

  That key is humor.

  I have absolutely zero concept of how anyone without a sense of humor can actually survive the task of raising a child, or for that matter, how a child can survive being raised by a bummer of a parent. When you're a mom, crazy shit happens every single day. Your child will do things that you would probably beat the crap out of a grown-up person for doing. They will destroy everything of value. They will shit on your floors. They will draw on your walls. They will spill drinks on every upholstered item in your home. They will vomit on your clothes. They will swallow your earring, and shove a blueberry in their ear. They will refuse to wear anything other than some stupid Peter Pan costume and their froggy rain boots to the store with you. When you get to the store, they will go balls to the wall, Shirley MacLaine/Terms of Endearment CRAZY in the cookie aisle if you won't let them have a freakin' bag of Oreos. They will also drop trou in the crowded play land of a local restaurant, and shake their moneymaker like there's no tomorrow.

  But they will also love you no matter what. Even if you yell at them. Even if you spank them. Even if you say "no" to the cookies. They will love you even if you cry, look like hell, and accidentally eat some of their poop.

  So you have to laugh. You have to laugh at these little creatures and all the shit they pull and the tantrums they throw. You have to think of it as Personality Training 101. Not for them, but for you. And you have to realize that even if they sometimes drive you so insane that you can't even remember to put pants and shoes on them before you take them out in public, that shit is priceless. Plus, there's a Target three blocks away, and a funny story to tell when they grow up. And when you tell it to them then, they will laugh their butt off, because they will have a good sense of humor. Just like their poop-eating mom.

  * * *

  Patti is a wife, mom, blogger, cook, cat box scooper, and dirty underwear picker upper. In her spare time, she performs musicals for her cat, daydreams about owning her own unicorn ranch, prepares for the Zombie Apocalypse, and practices her Karate Kid Crane Kick. Someday she hopes to own a miniature donkey that she can dress up like a dandy English gentleman. She will call this donkey Duke Dudesbury Donkelson III. You can read her blog at www.insanemombrain.com.

  Kids and Cleaning: Just Kill Me Now

  By Teri Biebel

  Snarkfest

  I don't understand the way kids think, especially when it comes to cleaning. You know what I'm talking about. You tell your teenager to clean her room. An hour later, you check on her and not one thing has changed about the condition of her room.

  However, she was finally able to find her yearbook from 5 grade and has spent the better part of the last hour pouring over it and laughing at how dorky everyone looked. And for crying out loud, how many times does a teenager have to be taught that in addition to clothes being washed and dried, they also need to be folded and put away?!?!

  Hey daughter, you know that big thing that you precariously pile all your shit on? You know the one I mean. There's a mirror attached to it that you use every day to look at yourself (once you move all the shit piled on top to one side). The long rectangular one with about eight tons of girl shit piled on top of it. Yeah, that thing we bought you that had a matching desk and headboard. That's for clean clothes. No, the floor wasn't meant for clean clothes Or dirty clothes, Einstein. No, putting them on your bed, then "accidentally" knocking them onto the floor does not count as "putting your damn clothes away." And another thing. It's called a goddamn clothes hamper. Don't be afraid to use it!!

  In one particularly memorable moment, my oldest, 15, decided that all of her tee shirts should be hung on hangers in her closet. Tee shirts. Tee-flipping-shirts, taking up every clothes hanger in my neighborhood, hanging in her closet. Sweaters? On the floor. Pants? Floor. Socks? Undies? Bras? Floor, floor, floor. But damn, those tee shirts look good hanging in the closet!

  Not impressed yet? How about the fact that she had them all lined up according to color??? What the bloody snot is that???? It was like a My Little Pony threw up in her closet with all the shades of red, orange, yellow, green . . . You get the idea. All colors grouped together, going from lightest to darkest. Good Lord. Why for the love of God can she spend time doing that, but not putting her shit in her dresser?? Does she not realize how much extra time that takes up? Time better spent, oh, I dunno, looking for your fucking floor???

  Let's move onto the kitchen, shall we? Because I'm going to have an aneurysm if I concentrate much longer on her bedroom. I'm going to start with the dishes. My oldest child has no issue letting the dogs kiss her on the face, she'll eat food off the floor (five second rule!!) and has no issue with eating a cheese stick that has been sitting in her lunch bag for two straight weeks.

  However, ask that same child to load the dishwasher and you'd think I'd just asked her to perform a colonoscopy on the cat using a straw and a flashlight. The kid has to put on Playtex rubber gloves because God forbid she should touch a fork that's been in someone else's mouth. Pay no mind to the fact that it's her mother's fork. The same fork that she just used to take a bite of her mother's food. In the mouth is okay, but touching it with bare hands is a fate worse than death. She is grossed out to the point of nausea. And for crying out loud, why does it take an hour to load six dinner forks, five dirty bowls, four spoons, three juice glasses, two knives, and a coffee mug in a pear tree? Oh, maybe because she is like a cat with a laser pointer. One fork in, then oooooh shiny!! Back to the dishwasher, rinse a plate, load it into the dishwasher, and then ooooooh is that One
Direction on the computer? It is pointless to have the oldest load the dishwasher if the youngest is on the computer, because nothing productive will ever get accomplished. It will continue to be a steady stream of one fork in, one "Hey come here and look at this!" It makes me scream. And it doesn't matter how many times I ask: in her mind, that plate is obviously going to walk itself over to the sink, rinse itself off and load itself into the dishwasher if it's left on the table long enough. Just ask my oldest. She "forgets" every night to take her plate from the table, rinse it and put it in the dishwasher. Every. Single. Night. And the next morning, it's magically off the table and in the dishwasher. It's like magic! I truly fear for her future husband. That kid had better marry money so she can hire a maid, because I'm certainly not moving in with her. I spend my nights trying to imagine how many college roommates she's going to piss off with her slovenly habits. I can hear them now. "Ew, you're a pig. Didn't your mom ever teach you how to clean??" and I'm positive she's going to say "Nope, she never did." I could just scream.

  Now that I've gotten my blood pressure up above stroke level, let's move onto the family room, or as I like to call it, "Shit Central." Got shit? You've come to the right place. If I were to invite you over and say "Wanna sit on my love seat?" I'd have to follow it up with "Sorry, you're gonna have to move that hoodie, the basketball, the gym bag, the book bag, and the three week's worth of newspapers that my husband has left sitting there." Crap, let's go sit at the kitchen table. No, wait, dirty dishes still abound there. OK back to Shit Central, we can always move the dogs off the couch and sit there. I'd tell you to put your wine glass down on one of the end tables, but those are covered with paper from last month's science fair project, tape, scissors, glue sticks and, would you look at that? More newspapers. Seriously, husband? What the hell is the problem? When you're finished in the bathroom, you get rid of that shit, right? So when you're finished reading the paper, can't you follow that same line of thinking? It's not rocket science. It's called a paper bag. We recycle. This isn't new. Put the papers in the bag. I'll ask the oldest to put the bag of recycled newspapers in the garage, and oh, wait, while she's doing that, perhaps she could remove the basketball from my loveseat and put that out in the garage where we normally keep all sporting equipment. Oh sorry, not enough hands. Oh, sorry, I was just out in the garage, I don't feel like making a second trip with the basketball. I suppose it would be considered child abuse to throw said basketball at said teenager's head, right?