WARNING: This blog post is out of character. It is not funny, or witty, or publicizing any of  my 500 embarrassing moments. It is something that has been eating away at my gut for months. Years, even. Like, literally melting my insides in to a big ball of nerves and unease. I have been stewing for awhile now about whether or not to make this post. But maybe, if I can dole out a dose of blunt reality, then a ripple effect can take place. Maybe then we can start to change the way we approach life. Maybe, we can be perfectly happy. Or maybe, it will simply be cathartic to type this out in my, very public, electronic journal.

I see it everywhere. At the store, at my job, at my niece and nephews sporting events, at the doctors office, even at the preschool that my daughter has only been at for a very short time. It’s in me, like a virus I just can’t shake. I will no doubt offend someone, but I’m pretty positive that my posts do that anyway so what the hell. I apologize in advance for breaking character and failing to provide you with your daily dose of funny. (Have no fear, the funny will  be back faster than Richard Simmons can run from a donut). If the lack of humor is irritating to you, stop reading now. Get ready, it is about to get heavy. 

If you can do ONE THING for you AND your children, PLEASE let it be that you celebrate the successes. I am begging, on my hands and knees legit begging, that you stop comparing  your children and yourself to what others have and start recognizing what YOU have. 

I get it, this is hard. REALLY hard. This is something that I struggle with on a daily basis. Every day that I wake up I have to actively remind myself to do this. When I feel the comparisons start to creep in, I have to give myself a mental pep talk that goes something like this:

“It does not matter what this person has. It does not matter what they can do. It does not matter that you or your kids do not have the same. IT DOES NOT MATTER. YOU have enough. YOU are enough. YOUR KIDS have enough. YOUR KIDS can do enough. YOU ALL HAVE ENOUGH.”

And it works. Every time that I just stop for a minute and REALLY think of all of the positive things that our family has, it works. Without these daily (hell, sometimes hourly) mental reminders, it is very difficult to look at what other people have and NOT compare that to you or your children. But there needs to be a serious shift in the way we think about our lives and the lives of our children and I am BEGGING to start that shift.

NEWSFLASH: Someone is ALWAYS going to have more than you. Some child is ALWAYS going to have more than your child. YOU WILL NEVER GET EVERYTHING YOU WANT, AND THAT IS OK. This is what keeps us grounded. This is what keeps us level headed and appreciative. This is what prevents us from sitting in a perpetual state of disappointment. This is what keeps us from constantly having to chase the “Joneses” in an effort to have the same.

Guess what? The hard reality is that maybe the Joneses are unattainable for you. You weren’t meant to have the same things that they have. We all have a different destiny. And if we were MEANT to have everything that everyone else has, then we would have it. But what kind of life would that be? DIFFERENCES ARE BEAUTIFUL. But please do not confuse this with settling. Settling is being perfectly fine putting forth a mediocre effort level and receiving mediocre returns. I am not a proponent of settling. But at some point, in SOME venture of life, you will put forth 100% effort and still not be the absolute best. At that point, it is time to recognize your efforts and celebrate your successes. With you living this example for yourself, your children will follow suit with this mentality as well. And what could be better than seeing your child HAPPY with who they are and HAPPY with what they have?

Everyday, every choice I make, I have to force myself to stop and think:

“What is this teaching my children?”

As you know, the struggle is REAL. I screw this up all the time.

If I change my clothes 700 times a day because I do not like how they fit my less-than-perfect-slightly-plump figure, what is that teaching my daughter? Is that teaching her to love her own body? No. It is teaching her to be ashamed of her flaws and to hide them. JUST PUT ON THE DAMN CLOTHES, SMILE,  AND SHUT UP ABOUT IT. You are beautiful. CELEBRATE YOUR SUCCESSES.

If I make seemingly harmless comments like: “Look at their car. I wish I had that car.” or “I wish I had the money to go on vacations every year like they do.” Then what is that teaching my kids? It’s teaching them that we do not have ENOUGH. That other people have MORE money and possessions and we should yearn for what they have. Instead, I should be remembering that I am currently in a car. A very nice car, actually. And how many people do not have cars at all? You have more than most. CELEBRATE YOUR SUCCESSES.

If I do not get the big promotion, and I come home angry and rambling that Betty Lou got the job instead of me, what is that teaching my children? It is teaching them that I am better than Betty and Betty didn’t deserve what she got, regardless of her talents or work ethics. Is Betty better than me at what she does? Does she work harder? Chances are, if she got the job instead of me, then yes. She has some quality or asset that currently sets her apart from me. And that is O.K. I still have a job and I am still good at what I do. And this is just no for now, not no forever. CELEBRATE YOUR SUCCESSES.

When my child does not get the grade she was hoping for in school and I immediately contact the teacher for an explanation instead of asking her what she could have done to improve, what is this teaching her? It is teaching her that she does not need to own her mistakes. She does not need to recognize that maybe she didn’t study hard enough. Or maybe she didn’t put enough effort in to her homework. Or maybe she needs extra help to understand the material. It is not the teacher’s fault. She did not EARN the grade she wants. There is no vendetta from the teacher against my child.  Luckily, grades are not set in stone. Work harder and reap the benefits. She is still smart, sociable, and hilarious. CELEBRATE THE SUCCESSES.

When my child does not make the highest level sports team and I make comments like: “You deserve to be on that team! You work harder than Billy does! Your coaches are wrong!” What is that teaching my child? It is teaching them that it is someone else’s fault. That deflecting responsibility on to others is appropriate. That it is not their lack of work ethic or raw talent that landed them there, it is someone else’s poor decision. It is creating an entitled mentality in my child. Am I sitting in on every minute of every one of my child’s practices? Is my child’s stats the best in the league? Am I an expert in that particular sport? If the answer to any of those questions is no, then I must trust that the placement is appropriate for my child. Instead of being mad that Billy made a BETTER team than my child, stop and remember that my child ALSO MADE A TEAM. And not every child was bestowed the same honor. Some kids won’t be playing at all. Be happy with what my child was given. CELEBRATE THE SUCCESSES.

If my child whines because one of her friends has a toy that she does not have, do NOT promptly go to Target to surprise her with the very same toy she was whining about. Do not teach her that she deserves everything that every one else has. You know what? SHE DOESN’T DESERVE EVERYTHING SHE WANTS. Instead, try this. Make her wait for her birthday or Christmas or an appropriate gift-giving occasion and then see if she still wants that same toy. Chances are, she simply wanted it because she didn’t have it at the time and has already forgotten all about it. And if she still does, then she will be receiving it appropriately and not in an effort to fill a void that actually NEEDS to be there.

Whether we all like it or not, we NEED to deal with disappointment. We can not expect other people to provide us with everything we want. NO ONE OWES US ANYTHING. Before we get mad about what we do not have, let’s all stop and think:

“Do we TRULY deserve this? Are we confusing DESERVE with WANT? Did we work as hard as we POSSIBLY could? Maybe we worked very hard, but did someone else work harder?”

Chances are, the answer is yes. If I am being brutally honest with  myself, I know that most of the time someone DID work harder than me. And just because I work hard for what I have, that does not mean that someone else did not work even harder for what THEY have. We don’t really deserve what we want. DESERVE and WANT are two totally different things, and we must not confuse the two. 

And whatever happened to just being happy for other people? When did this mentality shift from “YAY! Good for you! I am so happy for you!” to “Why didn’t I get what HE got?” If I could wish to instill one thing in my children, it would be to CELEBRATE OTHER’S SUCCESSES AS WELL AS YOUR OWN. Believe me, it is O.K. to be happy for other people without diminishing your own accomplishments. The success of another person does not define a lack of success in YOU.

I’m exhausted, aren’t you? I am exhausted from the constant stress and struggle of playing the chasing game. I am utterly tired of the feeling that sits inside of me when I feel like I need to try to be someone other than myself. People are constantly comparing everyone else and I am OVER  the resulting feelings of inadequacy. I am officially breaking the way my brain thinks and hoping to start the trend for others. We CAN be TRULY happy with right where we are at in life.

We can not spend our lives chasing what other people have. We can not raise a generation of children that feel that the world owes them something. We can not magnify our own insecurities and passively teach our children that they DESERVE WHAT THEY HAVEN’T EARNED. We can not move our children from house to house, school to school, or activity to activity in an effort to be better than everyone else.  Work hard, reach your personal potential, trust your village, and be happy with what YOU have. And teach your children the same. We owe that to ourselves, our children, and future generations.

Our houses are ENOUGH. Our schools are ENOUGH. Our possessions are ENOUGH. Our appearance is ENOUGH. Our talents and interests are ENOUGH.

WE HAVE ENOUGH.   

 

 

 

 

Let’s just start out with this one burning question of mine:

“Why am I the ONLY mom at preschool drop-off that looks like a stray cat after a severe thunderstorm? But seriously….WHY?”

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It finally happened. My oldest love nugget started preschool this past week and I AM SO EXCITED. I get three full, glorious hours, THREE TIMES A WEEK, free from my patience-testing-almost-four-year-old! And since my one year old is yet to speak in full sentences, that means it is three full hours of NO ARGUMENTS AT ALL.

CAN I GET AN AMEN!?

This is the best day of my life, I’m sure of it! Ok, ok, that is dramatic, this is the fourth best day of my life!

1. My wedding day.
2. The birth of my baby patience-sucker girl
3. The birth of my baby wrinkle-inducer boy
4. The first time I attended Baconfest (scratch that, that’s embarrassing)
5.  (#4 for all intents and purposes) THE FIRST DAY OF PRESCHOOL!

I mean, I completely forgot just how easy it is to get things done with just a one year old in the house. I know, I know, all of you “moms of one” are wanting to cut off my mammories right now. BUT TRUST ME, when you have two (or more) miniature gremlins running around the house spilling all the food and using your body like a magnetized jungle gym every moment of your life, then having just the baby at home seems like a friggen’ vacation. I am NOT saying that having one child is easy, I am simply saying that my brain is only having to function at 50% normal capacity right  now and I AM STOKED. And when that baby goes down for his morning nap?! SCHLABLOOUU! I’M FREE!

I’ve got to admit, I was feeling pretty damn proud of myself on that first preschool drop-off morning, too. I managed to get both kids up, dressed, fed, and pictures taken with over a half hour to spare. All while running on approximately 4 hours of sleep and 19 cups of coffee. There weren’t even any tears shed, from EITHER party. Everlee couldn’t have run in to the classroom faster with barely a goodbye and I couldn’t have ran out any faster in hopes to enjoy every free moment I could. It all went swimmingly. It was like the skies opened up and God himself came down to make sure that I could pull it together. Thanks, God, you’re the shizz.

But quickly upon arriving at my first attempt at preschool drop-off, I started to come to a very obvious and unflattering realization about myself: I look bad. Like REAL bad. And the saddest part? I didn’t think that I looked that terrible when I left the house. But now, I know.

All of these parents look….well……GOOD. They are positively put together in a way that only happens for me if I am ACTUALLY going somewhere of importance. But let’s be honest, that’s about twice a year. They are a glaring example of my inadequacies as a female.

The hair is all curled.

The makeup is all done and fresh.

The clothes are all clean, wrinkly free, and somewhat trendy.

The smells are all nice.

And then… there is me.

 

Yea, for real. I literally just took that picture of me upon arrival home from preschool drop-off. And see that yummy morsel on my shoulder? That is baby puke.

Now, HOLD UP JUDGY JUDY, go easy on me. That little shoulder deposit happened sometime after I left the house and before I got home. I have to carry the fat baby in for drop-off and despite me catching the relatively-frequent waft of vomit, I DIDN’T KNOW IT WAS THERE. This photo was the exact moment that I finally found the source of the gag-worthy smell. I promise I would have changed my shirt had I known. (At least, I THINK I would…) And since I haven’t officially checked my yoga pants yet this morning, there is about an 80% chance that there is a hole somewhere in them.

And see that makeup? Yea, that is left over from the night before. See how one eye is slightly smokier than the other? Yea, I didn’t know it looked like that, either. OOOF. Do I make a habit of sleeping in my makeup? NO. But both stubborn children had a photo shoot last night and well… you can imagine how that ended. It ended with both of them going IMMEDIATELY to bed and me cracking open a nice, large bottle of Pinot and then falling asleep on the couch. CONFESSION: when I wake up on the couch at 2am, the LAST thing I am going to do is rejuvenate my energy level by splashing my face with water and delicious, orange-smelling makeup remover. HELL NO, H2O! So instead I sleepily climb the stairs, pray to the Mom God that my children won’t wake up (the little chubby one will, you bet your sweet booty he will), and hit the bed as fast as I can. BUT, because of this bad makeup-removing-choice that I made last night, you can see the evidence of it ON MY CHIN. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice, the damn thing has a brain! But I digress…

That brings me to the hair. Ugh, that hair. I have no good explanation for the hair other than the fact that I am stressed and exhausted and refuse to wake up an hour earlier than normal just so I can straighten and style my luscious locks for PRESCHOOL FRICKEN DROP OFF. Sure… I run a few errands after dropoff but HyVee and Target do not require black tie attire, so it is what it is and I SAY GOOD DAY.

While I try not to compare myself to others around me because I truly am my own person, I am having a hard time being the only mom in the church that looks homeless. My mind IMMEDIATELY starts to analyze the situation in an effort to make myself feel better. Sure, a few of them are clearly headed to work. I can tell you that the dad in the suit and tie is not heading to Target after this. And that’s cool, because I do not have to immediately head to work. Therefore, there is no immediate reason that I should have to look like a celebrity to take my kid to school. But the rest of them? WHO THE HELL KNOWS WHY. One of them was hanging around talking about how she needed to mop the floor while the little one was away. ARE YOU EFFING KIDDING ME? MOP THE MOTHER FLIPPING FLOOR while looking like THAT?! You know what I look like while mopping the floor? SEE ABOVE PHOTO. Jeez, my poor husband. Apparently I am doing this whole “mopping the floor” thing all wrong. My inadequacies are showing again… 

Also, the moms stay to hang out. THEY STAY FOR A LONG TIME after the designated drop off to chat, catch up, get to know one another, yadda yadda. Don’t they highly value their free time? I sure as hell don’t want to waste ONE MORSEL of a second of the free time that preschool has so lovingly awarded me. You know what I do? Run out as fast as I can so as not to allow anyone to figure out that I am, indeed, the reason the room smells like puke. No offense to the other moms, it’s not personal, I’m sure you are just great. But do you think that I want to stay there and mingle with the mom models while I look like Gary Busey?

The other Preschool Moms:

ME:

You know that movie “Bad Moms”? Yea, I am POSITIVE that the writers followed me around for a week and got their entire screenplay. I should get royalties. I am a walking, breathing “bad mom”. Most of the time, I don’t even feel bad about it. But, just for a split second, I became very aware of the differences between me and them. However, I have NO INTENTION of ever waking up earlier than my allotted five (on a good night) hours of sleep per night so that I can curl my mane prior to preschool. See those bags under my eyes? Yea, waking up any earlier won’t help those babies at all. Also, I have NO INTENTION of putting on my cutest sundress and sandals in a feeble attempt to keep up with the Joneses. Again, no offense Joneses. You do you, boo.

I will normally improve a little and PROBABLY take my makeup off most nights. However, that means that most likely I won’t be wearing ANY at drop-off the next morning. Say hello to my chin zits, world!

Since I have no intention of making much effort to improve my morning appearance, I think I’ll just have to find a new way of dropping my spawn off in an effort to make me feel more adequate. Do you think the teachers will be ok with me ducking down below the window, smacking the name placard up on the window with my Go-Go-Gadget arm, and cracking the door so she can run in? All while I army crawl down the hallway and out the side door before any of the Beautiful Bettys see me? I think for Everlee’s social sake, it’s best that she not be claimed by the hobbit of a mom that birthed her.

But then again, as I was sprinting out, I heard Everlee loud and clear on the playground:

“You should watch where you are going!”

Ok……scratch that. Maybe we deserve each other.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I know it’s been awhile since my last post. I am not happy about it and am currently failing at time allocation. Summer time for me used to mean time off, warm weather, beer drinking, and body relaxing. Not anymore. Now, summer time for me means even MORE work, book work, class teaching, butt wiping (my kids’, not my own. Gross, you sicko), macaroni and cheese making, and email answering. I am not complaining, I love what I do (most of the time) but I DO believe it is taking a hard, grey-haired toll on my used-to-be-youthful 30-year-old body. I mean, I NEVER get I.D.ed anymore when I am purchasing my much-needed adult beverages. NEVER. I used to have my I.D. out and ready to go when I got to the cashier. Now, if I even start to pull it out, they giggle and use their best “shoo”ing hands to indicate that the I.D. is not necessary and can make it’s way back in to my old-a** wallet. I mean, for real. I recently went to the best grocery store on the planet, HyVee (shameless plug, I know. I regret nothing), and unloaded some beer and wine on to the conveyor belt. With my head still down towards the cart, I kept unloading food and random crap that I grabbed in the heat of a donut-loving-moment, without looking up or making any eye contact with the cashier. I could tell that he was hesitating and had not yet scanned my alcohol, he was waiting for me to look up first. This got me excited. I thought to myself, “FINALLY! Someone who sees through my new-found wrinkles and sprouting grey hairs and recognizes that I am NOT decrepit and he shall ask for my I.D.!” So, like a giddy school girl, I decided to end his hesitation and I grabbed my purse from the cart in anticipation. I turned to look at the cashier (who was damn near my age, none-the-less) and we finally locked eyes. We locked eyes JUST LONG ENOUGH so that this little a**-bag cashier could quickly reply “OH! (::giggles:: )Nevermind, you are fine.” He then quickly typed a bogus birthdate, which I can only assume was 01-01-1910, in to the computer and scanned the beer without any further hesitation or morsel of though.

“OH! Nevermind, you are fine.” Meaning: woah nelly, the back of your head looks way younger than the front.

What….the….actual…..F.

Thanks a lot, “Cody-the-middle-aged-Cashier”. You just ruined my life. 

So… now that you have wasted 3 minutes of your life reading my whines about my  lack of youthful beauty, I will get back to my original point: I am a busy mother trucker. And now I am thinking, “What the frick did I spend all this hard-earned money on a real-life website for if I wasn’t going to update it more than once a month?” Well, I prefer “quality” over “quantity”. I would rather REALLY have my thoughts gathered and a good story line set before I update so that no one wastes their precious time reading the random, everyday events of me at HyVee (shameless plug #2. NO RAGRETS!)

But, when I need new material, I can always count on my weirdo daughter to pull through with the penis jokes. That’s right, you read me, PENIS JOKES. Dear Lord, she figured out what a penis is. Sort of. Not really. Well….let’s just say she’s on the right track and I’m terrified. 

Ever since the birth of Leyton, Everlee has had slightly more body awareness. During his newborn and infant stages, she really didn’t want anything to do with the changing of a diaper and was therefore clueless on the differences in anatomy. Once she heard the quintessential “RIIIIIPP” of the velcro diaper tabs, those little legs went scrambling as far away from the “gross, stinky, yucky poop” as they could. I’m not gonna lie…with the way this boy loves to eat, I usually wanted to go a-runnin’ with her. But I am the Mom, and he sure can’t wipe his own a**, so I digress.

That is, up until recently.

Recently, Everlee has decided to be more helpful with Leyton. 

She has decided that, most of the time, he is NOT the devil incarnate and she ACTUALLY likes him. She simply got smarter with her diaper-time interactions. She started standing outside of the nursery doorway and yelling (yes, YELLING. Anyone that knows Ev knows that this is her only volume.) “MOM! Is it poop or pee?”If the answer was poop, sayonara suckers. She gone. (CONFESSION: sometimes, when I really just don’t have the energy for both kids to be punching each other while I wipe bodily excretions from a tiny human, then I would say “poop” even if it wasn’t just so she would stay in the hallway and let me wipe the tiny tush in peace. NO REGRETS.)  If the answer was pee, she decided it was safe enough to enter the doorway. And with that, came the sloooooow walk towards the location of the boy and the slooooooooow peek of the giant blue eyes over the changing table during a routine diaper change. And then BAM! Her first inquiry about his “parts” and my first parental anatomy obligation. I REALLY was hoping this would wait until she was 25…

“Hey, Mom. What’s that?”

Me (getting nervous and sweaty and knowing EXACTLY what she was referring to): “What’s what, Ev?”

“That!” ::points to Leyton’s opened diaper::

“Well…that’s his penis.”

“His WHAT?”

“His penis.”

“His ‘pernish’?”

“Penis.”

“Peanut?”

“PENIS.”

“Parsnip?!”

“PENIS! IT’S HIS PENIS!”

“OOOOHHH, PEEEEEENIS!”

::::::places finger under her chin and sits in long, contemplative thought ::::::

“Nope, you’re wrong Mom. That’s his PACIFIER!”

:::insert giggles that I simply could not hold back::: “They only wish, hunny.”

Was my response appropriate? No. Was it HILARIOUS? Yup. You bet your bottom dollar that I laughed about that interaction for quite awhile. Ever since that first introduction to the difference in bodies, Everlee has been very inquisitive and I try my BEST to answer her maturely and honestly.

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“Mom, if Leyton has a pernish, what do I have?”

“A vagina.”

“A vagina?! Ah, yes, a vagina. Mine is all up inside and Leyton’s is all stuck outside and weird.”

“You’re exactly right.”

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“Mom, do YOU have a parsnip or a vagina?”

“I have a vagina, Everlee.”

“Oh, do girls have vaginas and boys have parsnips?!”

“For the most part, yes. There is some grey area, but we will cover that when you are a little older.”

“OOOOOH, OK. So YOU are a girl.”

“Yep.”

“And I am a girl.”

“Yep.”

“And Leyton is a BOY.”

“Yep.”

“And DADDY is a dog.”

“Correct.”

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“Mom, if boys have pernishes and no vaginas, how do they go pee?!”

“They pee from their penis.”

“UUUGGGHH, THAT’S NASTY!”

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“Mom! We HAVE to take a bath tonight otherwise my butt in the front will start to stick out like Leytons!!”

“What makes you think that if you don’t take a bath then you will grow a penis?!”

“Because, MOM! Boys are dirty and BEE-SCUSTING and THAT’S why their p-p-pernises stick out!”

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The inquisitive minds of the young are endearing. Hilarious and endearing. And while I am happy that she is smart, in tune to the differences in the world, and comfortable enough to talk to me about it, I am scared to death to send her to preschool at the local church in the coming weeks. I CAN’T WAIT to see the notes that come home about her lack of mouth filter (stay tuned for the future blog posts on that one). She comes by it honestly, but we are working on that.

And while most of the questions are legit and very fitting of the mental capacity of a 3, almost 4, year old; I am slightly concerned that I overheard her, standing fully clothed in front of the bathroom mirror repeating “vagina, vagina, vagina” over and over again. All while making a different crazy face during each successive “vagina” chant. I think we might need a professional to handle that one, I wasn’t aware that parenting was so awkward and I’m ill-equipped for vagina chants. And when she is 20 and reading all of these highly personal quotes that are archived right here on the interweb, I will remind her that she once stripped down naked, opened the front window, and yelled “POOPY PENIS” as loud as she could right as the neighbors walked by. Payback is a fickle biotch, baby girl.

 

 

 

 

 

“Mom, look, I wrote you a NICE note! It says: ‘Hi, Mom! Please help me clean.'”

*shows me a piece of paper with scribbles*

“Oh, really Everlee? What are you going to clean? I will help.”

*giggles*

“OH! I read it wrong. It says: ‘ Dear Mom. I am NOT going to clean.”

*throws note on the ground and walks away*

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And that is it. THAT is how my dear daughter decided to put the turd icing on top of the crap cake that is July. To say that the Hansens have been busy is a COMPLETE understatement (I know, I know…preaching to the choir, right?!) But seriously…if your body can instantly fall asleep once it hits the taco pillow you brought home from Vegas, then you know that you are worn down. Yes, that’s right…I BOUGHT A TACO PILLOW AND CARRIED IT HOME FROM VEGAS. I regret nothing…

I mean, we have a king sized Tempurpedic bed in our room and my body would rather sleep on a taco pillow on the couch rather than tackling the two flights of stairs that stand between me and that king sized square of heaven. Although, that taco IS really soft…..and fluffy….and ergonomically perfect for my neck….but I digress.

(PS. the innuendos here are astoundingly hilarious. Don’t say you didn’t think it… Fluffy. Taco. Pillow.)

So in true “bad things come in three(hundred)s” fashion, my actual house decided to get in on the action and fill my basement with approximately 4 inches of water. THANKS, HOUSE. NOW I HAVE TO TAKE A FRIGGEN PADDLE BOAT ACROSS THE TOY ROOM JUST TO GET MY BUNDT PAN FROM THE STORAGE ROOM. cool. ALL I WANTED WAS A BUNDT!

It can always be worse. I know this. But a swimming pool for a basement on top of the death of my Grandma, working a million hours a week, sick children, having to file quarterly taxes for two businesses in the throes of switching computer programs, and having those taxes be due on the same days as many various social obligations for both my children and myself, is enough to get my blood pressure higher than Snoop D-O-Double-G.

SO, I decided to attempt to make this a learning experience for my three year old.

HELP. It’s time for her to really learn how to help out around the house. 

Sure, she cleans the living room from time to time (usually in a back-handed attempt to get a pull on the ‘ole M&M slot machine that ALSO made it’s way home from Vegas. I flippin’ love Vegas.) Or we will make her pick up her toys or clothes that are scattered around like tiny foot grenades. But she has never really had to get down and dirty and help me clean a disgusting, water-logged toy room before. So the time is now, kid. GET EXCITED. I know I am. *makes fart noise with my mouth*

At this point, the adults have already cleared the entire contents of our basement and taken them up in to the garage and front yard (Sorry neighbors, see my facebook post for apology gifts) and have drained and dried the basement floors. All I was asking of Everlee was to help me put the toy room back together and re-lay the foam squares that cover the floor. Easy enough, right? WRONG.

It started off rough right from the get-go. The incessant whining and piddle-farting around the basement just about sent me to a ‘Mommy Wine Timeout’ right there at 11 am on a Sunday. I’m confident that God would totally understand and side with me on that one. When I asked her to gather the foam blocks and hand them to me so I could lay them, I got “I don’t want to.” When I asked her to do the fun part and gather the foam letters and numbers and put them back in the squares they came from, I got “Ugh, Mom, you always make me do horrible things!” When I asked her to take her Doc McStuffins cell phone and set it on the new shelving we installed, she picked up her cell phone and ‘called’ Grandma to tell her how mean of a mom I am and how SHE MUST BE PICKED UP! All of these resulting in firm death stares and reprimanding by yours truly.

By now I was more exhausted from trying to make her help me than I was ACTUALLY putting the basement back together. She was getting toys out to play with, knocking over boxes I had stacked, eating fake plastic chicken wings, throwing tennis string across the basement, and tearing through the garbage piles with a big plastic crocodile on wheels. Having her there to ‘help’ me was the equivalent of going to the zoo, wrangling a baby chimpanzee from it’s habitat with my bare hands, strapping him in to a car seat, and setting him loose in my house. Those two scenerios ARE THE SAME DAMN THING.

When I told Everlee that in order to stay in the basement she would need to help me, OR she had to go upstairs and leave me to get my work done, she insisted she would help. She “didn’t want to go upstairs by herself and play with Leyton who probably pooped his pants and smells like a big turd”. (I can’t really blame her here. She was probably right.) The one time she actually did go upstairs was also the time she brought me that “super nice note” about NOT CLEANING that I shared earlier. So, in the angriest voice I could possibly muster, I demanded she grab some toys from upstairs and bring them down to put away.

So she did. She went upstairs without a word. I should have known this would not be as easy as I first thought. Once I heard her tiny body sliding down each stair slowly one by one, I decided I needed to go up and check on what the hell was happening in my house.

 

This. This was happening. She found a STUPID A** PURPLE WIG AND PUT IT ON AND THEN FOUND A STUPID A** PUMPKIN STICK THING AND DIDN’T BRING ONE DAMN TOY DOWN TO PUT AWAY AND WAS GIGGLING LIKE A FRIGGEN HYENA. Wtf kid, help me! THIS IS NOT HELPFUL! Funny.. but NOT HELPFUL.

And as I stifled my laughter and continued to enforce some structure and life skills in to my nutjob kid, I realized that this lesson is going to be a hard one for her to learn. She is simply too smart and knows exactly how to buy a few minutes of manipulated time. But NO, Everlee, YOU DO NOT WIN. Where do you think you learned that manipulation from? That’s right, Big Mama Ali! So get downstairs. And bring the damn purple wig, I have just the box for that!

Attempt #78 ended as follows:

 

ARE YOU EVER-LOVING KIDDING ME? A GIRAFFE COSTUME? That sure as hell doesn’t look like the seven dwarfs that I asked you to bring down, CHILD! And stop peeking at me from behind the wall, that won’t protect you from the mom rage (and giggles) that are about to ensue! Down the stairs you go, and wear the giraffe costume because it’s damn funny!

*Two hours later*

I am sitting on the sofa, just moments away from passing out face first on the newly-laid foam floor. Everlee is taking toys OFF of the shelves to play with while I demand she leave them be. The garage and front yard still look like a hillbilly yard sale. But we FINALLY have a decent looking, DRY basement again. And after we drag our limp legs up the stairs and in to the kitchen, THIS happens:

She’s washing dishes. She’s washing dishes! SHE’S MOTHER-FREAKING WASHING DISHES WITHOUT PROMPT, WHINE, OR CRY! I am the master of the universe!!

Mom for the win, bitches. MOM FOR THE WIN.