Don’t worry…

So at dinner one evening I’m talking to my husband about how I’m feeling melancholy and bored and like what I spend every day doing doesn’t matter. (It does, I get it. I just am used to being fulfilled not by wiping butts but by caring for sick people…okay, so wiping butts. But at least I get paid well for it…)


Susan pipes up: “Don’t worry, Mama!! You’re not the worst mother ever.”


Thanks, kid.



So this may come as a shock, but at this point in our relationship you may have gathered by now:

I have a fairly foul vocabulary.

I know, you’re floored.

In my efforts to not be the parent of “that child” that constantly says “fuck this shit” and “shut the hell up” and other really awful ones like “jizz receptacle” on the playground, I’ve started creating my own curse word abbreviation substitutes. I know, I’m not original, but whatevs.

These include:

The basics:

B – bitch

Effer – fucker (also has other variations of which I am sure you are familiar: effed, eff, effing, etc etc. “Fuck” is a very versatile word that way. It applies in every part of speech)

Shiz – shit


The more complex:

STFU – shut the fuck up

GTFO – Get the fuck out


And the cosmically impressive:

SOMFGYCB – seriously, oh my god you fucking crazy bitch (<- okay this one’s not real but it would be awesome if I could remember that many letters in the correct sequence on the regular)


So this evening, I’m on the phone with a friend and Kathryn the (no longer a but we still call her a) baby is talking on and on and on in her crib, which prevents us from putting Susan to bed, as they are currently sharing a room. (We’re living in my mom’s basement for the moment. It’s long story. We are grateful. And cramped.)


So I say to said friend on the phone “Can you hang on a second? I need to go tell Kathryn to STFU.” (see above dictionary)

My husband says “I’ll go try to settle her.” (or something like that. I fully admit I wasn’t really listening…)

And Susan (the four year old) pipes up with: “Tell her to STFU, Daddy!”



Is that better? I’m not really sure….



And I totally need to pay homage to one of my favorite, awesome mom bloggers: MWDAS. Another combination of letters!! (It’s “Moms Who Drink and Swear” for you newbies). Check her out. She’s fan-fucking-jizz-recepticle-tastic:


AND you should buy her book. Or get like ten friends to follow my blog and I’ll lend it to you a-la-kindle style. ūüėČ And no, she’s not paying me to say this or is even remotely aware that I have posted this. She’s just been a total inspiration regarding what it’s like to be a mom who….drinks and swears. It’s like my mecca. Anyway, check it out. You won’t regret it.¬†


Vagina Monologue

And the vagina monologue with my wonderful daughter Susan continues.


So let me set this up for you:


Today, my daughter painted her hair in preschool (or her friend did it, or she accidentally slung it, depending on what story you believe) so she came home with stiff, blue hair. This was a decent amount of paint as her hair is dark brown and the color was still quite noticeable. She did however, pay homage to my friend Rane and her awesome, brightly colored hair. (Yes, Rane, you!!).

Also, while she was in preschool, she announced that I have a lot of curly pubic hair on my vagina to the world during snack time. For more details, see this post: https://parentingseatpants.wordpress.com/2014/06/03/my-mamas-vagina/

And, I’m training for a 5K, which means that about 3 times a week I get to disappear and run [the fuck] away from my family for about 30 minutes or so. Tonight was one of those nights. (Hooray!!)

Being the ingenious, smart, excellent-at-time-management parent that I am, I elected to shower with the paint covered four and a half year old to conserve both water and time. We showered and removed copious amount of sweat and blue paint from our persons in less than ten minutes: record time.

Of course, the Murphy’s Law of Children (which I really should get around to writing about – but Murphy ironically keeps getting in my way) dictates that for every situation¬†well time-managed with children, there is an equal, but completely opposite situation that’s time is¬†completely, the fuck, wasted. (I get that that particular “the fuck” doesn’t really flow well here. It’s a work in progress….but it bears emphasis)

So, because of old Murph, once we finish with the shower it takes my daughter nineteen hours to dry herself off and brush her goddamned teeth. While she’s doing this, I take stock of my private area and agree that I do, in fact, need to get out the weed wacker and calm some things down. So I figure since she’s taking a year to brush her teeth I’ll just do a little personal hygiene in the meantime. I dust off the mustache trimmer that my husband and I share for our various hair care and get to work. (For those of you that think “eeeeew” – I feel really, really saddened by your sex life…)

[I’m going to take this moment to address those of you that are skeeved out by me not only showering with my child, but also taking care of my “lady patch”, as it were, with her present. To those of you who feel this way I say this: screw you. I refuse to live in a world where it is unacceptable for my child to see my naked body. I feel no shame about it (okay, a little shame, but I’m really working on that for the sake of my daughters) and neither should they. I don’t believe in “introducing modesty”, I don’t think my child should be shielded from appropriate nudity, in appropriate situations/circumstances, by appropriate people (read: trusted adults, parents, doctors). I think that to teach my daughter to love them selves and not worry about the things that can plant seeds for eating disorders or lifetimes of poor self esteem and sadness, I need to be as comfortable in my own skin, in their presence, without fear¬†or shame or a societally imposed sense of propriety as I hope them someday to be. Yes, even at four years old, do I feel strongly about this message and how my actions of hiding my naked (GORGEOUS) form from her may convey that message (that is frankly of far greater importance than that of ‘modesty’, if you ask me. Which you didn’t. But I don’t care). And yes, she often sees my husband naked, too. Nope, this is not wrong, either. The human body is¬†normal, people!! NORMAL!! I want my daughters to grow up confident and comfortable with the words and sights and nuances of the human body. Jesus, she’ll have to have a pap smear some day, and she does¬†not need the traumatizing experience that I had at fifteen. After I had already had sex. Go ahead: ruminate on that for awhile.
And point #2 regarding me shaving my junk with my child present: STFU. I don’t hide brushing my teeth from her. Or washing my face. Or nursing her sister. Or her dad combing his hair. It’s all about taking care of yourself. I certianly don’t go out of my way to ensure she is present as that’s a different kind of creepy. But if she’s there, I think of it the same way I do when I’m brushing my teeth which is: “Whatever. I’ve got like sixteen seconds to think about this shit and I actually should get it done so this doesn’t keep getting all in the way when my husband and I actually get around to doing it” Tooth brushing and pube trimming: it’s all the same ilk, inmyveryhonestopinion. Kinda like the breastfeeing/bottle feeding debate. Whatever, dude.
Okay, I think I’m done for the moment.
 *climbs off soap box*]
But I digress. Back to the incident at hand.

Anyway, I’m about halfway done (this process takes like 3.79 minutes) while Susan hasn’t even made a dent in six of her teeth….

and the power goes out.





I’m not even going to tell you what happens next. I think your imagination can probably fill in the blanks far better than I ever could.






I will mention that I may need to call my waxer first thing in the morning….


“My Mama’s Vagina…”

So, we’re back to the (now) four and a half year old who is (yes, still) obsessed with vaginas (and penises, and boobs, and butts…..the list goes on and on).

The preschool my oldest attends is an fan-freaking-tastick Unitarian Universalist cooperative. This means that all the parents participate in the program as classroom aids in lieu of hiring an assistant. It’s a very cool, cost effective way to have a closer hand in your child’s early education. (if you’re local to Frederick check it out: http://www.frederickuu.org/circleoflife )

This also means that you become really close to the other parents in the program, so when your daughter announces (at snack, with all the students, teacher and volunteer present) that “My Mama’s vagina has curly hair ALL over her vagina. There is a LOT of it. A lot.” you get a text immediately informing you of this interaction…..


The problem is, she’s right. I need to take care of some landscaping.



My daughter has an imaginary friend. His name is Eel. He is not, in fact, an eel. She very sternly reminds us of this on a regular basis. “Eel is NOT an eel, Mama. His name is just Eel.”

He does however, change shapes (sometimes he’s a bird, or a tiger, or a ghost pirate). And he shows up at the most inopportune times.

For example:

One evening I was cooking dinner in the kitchen, and Susan was helping me. Suddenly she announces she needs to poop. “Oh, bug, go potty. Hollar if you need anything.” (Poor choice of words on my part, of course).

She leaves and goes to the potty. (She’s been doing this for ages and it’s like 10 feet away from me so no, I didn’t send her off to injure herself or drown in the toilet because I wasn’t watching her, so chill).

After about 90 seconds I hear her screaming in the bathroom. This child is seriously yelling at the top of her lungs. I immediately drop the knife I’m using (almost cutting off a finger in the process – motherhood is a hazardous undertaking) and rush over to the bathroom. As I run over there I realize these are actual words she is yelling, not just screaming.


This goes on for a solid 60 seconds with me standing outside of the bathroom alternating between blinding rage at the screaming that doesn’t even involve one of my actual children (it’d been one of those kind of days) and stifling hysterical laughter (I mean, after all, she’s flipping out because her imaginary friend that’s entirely fabricated from her own imagination, won’t give her privacy so she can poop. I mean, Susan has always been very private about her poop. Other people’s genitalia, running outside naked, asking her daddy about his penis, that’s all fine and dandy, but walk into the bathroom while she’s trying to drop a deuce – oh hell no.)

I am thisclose to yanking open the bathroom door and screaming at her to STFU. I, somehow, manage to take a deep breath and think about the positive parenting, hippy bull shit that I try to employ every day when dealing with the ridiculous, high strung, hyperactive, ball of emotions that is my three year old.

I knock on the door.


“Honey, is there a problem?”

“Eel won’t turn around so I can poop.”

“Okay, I’m coming in.”

I slowly open the door and address the empty air in front of the toilet.

“Eel, I think you need to come out of the bathroom. Susan is having a difficult time using the toilet with an audience. Why don’t you come out here and wait with me until she is finished?” I extend my hand, again, to the THIN FUCKING AIR in front of the toilet.

“Mama, he’s over there.” pointing to the stool next to the sink. I redirect my attention.

“Okay, Eel. Let’s go. Susan will be done soon and then you guys can resume playing.”


“Mama?” she pipes up in a very calm, quiet, rational voice.

“Yes, bug?”

“Eel can stay.”

“Oh, are you sure? It seemed like you were needing some privacy. Eel is welcome to stay with you but I’m going to need you to not scream at him while you’re trying to use the bathroom. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes, Mama. Eel can stay.”

“Okay. Let me know if you have any other problems.”

“Thanks, Mama.”


I call that one a severe parenting win. However, it doesn’t change the fact that I had to escort a figment of my daughter’s imagination out of the bathroom so she could have some privacy while taking a dump.


Yup. This is my life. Good thing I love it.


Tic Tac Toe

My husband recently had a hilarious conversation with our not quite four year old about playing tic-tac-toe. The transcript of that conversation is here:

Susan: “Dad, Will you play tic-tac-toe with me?” She has just discovered tic-tac-toe, you see.
“Absolutely, Bug.”
“Okay, but first I have to poop.”
“All right, I’ll wait.”
(from the bathroom) “Dad, you’re not playing without me, are you?”
“No, no. You can’t really play tic-tac-toe by yourself.”
“I play tic-tac-toe by myself.”
“Oh, really… do you win?



Twinkle, twinkle little….

Yes. Another penis post.

My three year old has decided that it’s fun to make up words to songs that she knows to be silly. It’s cute. Sometimes I think it’s unintentional, but no less hilarious. For example:

Row, row, row your boat

Gently down the stream

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily

Life’s your butter dream

So this evening she decides to start singing “Twinkle, Twinkle little star”. Which apparently, goes something like this:

Twinkle twinkle

Twinkle twinkle

Twinkle twinkle little penis


So she’s singing this song and surreptitiously goes into the kitchen where my husband is cooking dinner after working all day (yup, he’s amazing, be jealous) singling “Twinkle, twinkle little penis” over and over again. I’m playing on the floor with the baby in another room and can’t see the interaction.

Suddenly my husband announces: “No, you may NOT touch my penis.”


Apparently she needed visual aids?