I’m Gonna Do It. Just You Wait And See…

I’ve had a hell of a couple of weeks, y’all. As of today, I’ve had it up to *here* with this whole being an adult/parenting gig. I’m done. Fini. Caput.

After much consideration, I’ve made a life-changing decision – I’m running away from home and joining the circus. Who’s with me?

Ahhh…just think about it. The freedom. The thrills. The sparkly costumes. Not to mention all of the travel and potential for adventure. I mean, who hasn’t fantasized about a late-night rendezvous behind the big-top, with a toothless carny? No one? Really? Hmm…odd.

Of course, I’m going to need some sort of a talent. Knife juggling, maybe?

Is it me, or does she look nervous?

Nah. I need something with a bit more glitz and glamour. How about joining a super-cool trapeze act?

The girl on the top is certainly limber, isn’t she?

I don’t think so. I’m not all that fond of heights. Hmm…this looks fun.

The horse looks less than pleased, no?

I’ve got it! Now this is what I’m talking about! Glamour! Excitement! A really neat-o co-star!

It takes a special lady to look this sexy while riding an elephant’s trunk.

That outfit is a tad skimpy. I may need to start working out.

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I Should Have Just Been a Zoo Keeper

I’m pretty sure that raising young boys is a lot like working in the primate exhibit at the zoo. Boys are really just chimps with less fur, right?

Screaming, running, jumping, swinging from curtain rods…I’m just waiting for the day that someone throws poo at me.

Do you think Child Protective Services would take issue with me building a little boy habitat in my back yard? I’m thinking something indestructible  that could perhaps be hosed down with a power washer.

There’s a Lot of Talk About Lady Bits in This Post

I have six children. Yes, they’re all mine. Stop looking at me like that. No, I’m not crazy, just really fertile. I mean…well, I suppose I’m a little crazy. Just a smidge.

Drawing of the Nursery Rhyme "There was a...

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe. She had so many children that she eventually went completely bat-shit crazy and ran away from home to join the circus.(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What really kills me about having a large family, is how some people seem to think that my fertility is any of their business. The announcement of my sixth pregnancy was met with such incredulousness, that you would have thought that I had just proclaimed that I would be giving birth to the anti-Christ. Which, for the record, he is not. He is almost 2 though, so he seems a little like the anti-Christ, but I’m guessing he’ll grow out of it, like his siblings did. But I digress…

Potential demon spawn...

Potential demon spawn…

Upon the birth of my adorable baby boy, we were greeted by such congratulatory phrases as, “Aww, what a cute baby. You’re done now, right?” and “Look at his precious face. Have you gotten your tubes tied yet?”. It makes my heart swell to think of the joyous welcome our son was given by various family members. Not.

For the record, yes, we are “done”. I am hanging up my ovaries and having my uterus bronzed for posterity. But, for a short bit, all of the nosiness just made me want to squeeze out a couple more kids. That’d show ’em, right? Hmm…except, then I remembered that we’re really close to being done with diapers, and late night feedings, and all of that other shit that makes parenting no-so-fun.

But, if I decided I wanted to be the next Michelle Duggar and pop out another 10 or so, and my husband was on board with it, why would it be anyone else’s business? No one else is paying for or otherwise supporting them. They are well-fed, clothed and loved. How is the size of my family affecting anyone else? Do tell…I’d love to know.

The other thing that really gets to me, is how people will actually make comments about the vagina of a woman who has had more than a couple of babies. I’ve seen Michelle Duggar’s vagina referred to as a “clown car”. Personally, I had an ex-co-worker of mine compare my birth canal to a “slip and slide”. Stop laughing. That shit’s not funny. The only people who are currently allowed to talk about my vagina are me and my husband. And seeing as he would probably like to continue having visitation rights with said vagina, he’d best keep his yap shut. The same goes for Michelle’s and every other woman’s hoo-ha, cha-cha, vajayjay, cooter, etc. If you don’t have a personal relationship with the vagina in question, than you probably shouldn’t be talking about it. Christ, leave us poor moms with some dignity. We’re barely hanging onto the last shreds of it as it is.

Clown car

NOT Michelle Duggar’s vagina! (Photo credit: joshuaheller)

I guess what I’m getting at, is that people people should really think before they speak. Don’t judge a woman, until you’ve walked a mile in her vagina. Umm…driven in her clown car? Shit. You know what I mean.

 

 

I don’t understand your Lord of the Rings/Hobbit/Harry Potter/Doctor Who References

9439d89626563cac05898a520aaa9e00                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   I want to, really. And I’ve tried. Seriously. Stop looking at me like that.

I did make it through the first season of Doctor Who, but things happened, people changed (died?) and I never went back. I may give it a shot again, but major character changes are a lot for me to handle.

I’m a book reader. If a movie is released that began it’s life in a literary form, chances are I’m going to insist on reading it before I see the movie. I cannot even begin to tell you how many times I’ve tried to read the the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings. At one time, I actually owned the entire boxed set. Every once in a while, I’d get a bee in my bonnet and decide that I needed to read those damned books. I’m pretty sure I never made it past the first 50 pages. Super-duper-boring-snooze-fest. Every time.

I made far less of an effort with Harry Potter. I figured they were written for children, right? Wrong. There are grown women who would sooner gouge out my eyes, than to hear me speak ill of Young Mister Potter. So me, feeling like I surely must be missing out on something, downloaded the first book (do NOT ask me what the official title is, please) onto my Kindle and prepared to be dazzled. After it sat, completely untouched for an entire month, I gave up and returned it to the Kindle library.

Okay, so I can’t handle the damned books. No biggie, because hey, I can just watch the movies, right? Nope. Every time I’ve attempted it, it’s as if some sort of film induced ADHD sets in and there are suddenly 50 gagillion other things that really need to be taken care of. Now. Maybe even yesterday. That toilet ain’t gonna scrub itself.

So I’m sorry, my lovely geeky friends. I do not understand your film/book references. Your literary quotes are completely lost on me.

This is where you revoke my membership to the geek club, isn’t it?

Momma’s Little Stalker

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Ugh…I’m exhausted.

My youngest kiddo, Jude (aka Juder, JujuBe, Baby Jude or Scrud), is going through the most heinous case of separation anxiety I’ve ever seen. And the object of his very intense affection, would be your’s truly.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to know that I’m so completely adored. I’d just like to pee by myself occasionally. Or, shower without him pounding on the bathroom door, while shrieking “momma” over and over, as I race to lather and rinse. There’s no time to repeat. Shave my legs? No time.

My poor husband takes a fair amount of abuse at the hands of our little tyrant. Nothing says “I love you, daddy” quite like your precious son screaming and attempting to backflip out of your arms as he tries to reach his beloved momma.

You’d think after raising five children prior to him, that I’d be an expert in child psychology and have some magical “cure” for his mommy issues. Yeah, right. You want to know how I’ve dealt with this in the past? I suffered. I waited. I let each of my little monsters blessings work through their anxiety in their own time.

Martyr you say? Maybe. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.