Perhaps my favorite thing about very young children is their utter and complete cluelessness — they have no sense of real embarrassment yet, of self-consciousness, of what society expects of them. Sure, they have a general sense of right and wrong, of what Mommy and Daddy want and don’t want from them… Sort of. But they don’t get why, and generally don’t care.

So it’s not unusual for a preschooler to randomly grab or talk about her privates, her potty needs, etc. Before I had kids of my own, I found this mildly terrifying. When I was a teenager, a cousin of mine asked his 3-year-old son why his hand was in his pants. The boy told his father coolly, “I’m playing with my pee-pee.” There were no fewer than sixteen people watching this exchange, and not one of them could keep a straight face, least of all me. Gotta love the kid’s honesty.

Well, it was funny when it wasn’t MY kid, of course. Luckily, I haven’t had quite as bad an experience, and I think it’s because I have girls. I could be wrong about that, and if you have boys and disagree, then shit, I’m sorry. I’m just guessing. Relax. Go have a glass of wine and a Xanax. (That, by the way, is my cure for everything. And if it kills you, you didn’t hear it from me. I’m not a fucking doctor.)

So I do this thing with my girls when they’re bare-assed naked — I playfully tap their little butts and go “TUSHIE! TUSHIETUSHIETUSHIETUSHIE!” Before you call CPS, let me be clear: It’s a TAP, not a slap. And they think it’s hilarious, to the point where they stick their little bottoms out for me to tap and then run around giggling when I try to. It’s sort of a game that takes place at bath time, and it started because I found their little bare bottoms so irresistibly cute. Come on, can you blame me? Tell me baby tushies aren’t cute, goddammit. So a couple weeks ago Ava and Nora were in the bathtub together, and Nora lay on her stomach in the water, crowding Ava into a corner, which Ava did not like. She fussed a bit, then stopped when she realized Nora’s bottom was sticking out of the water directly in front of her. Ava squealed with delight and cried, “TUSHIE! TUSHIETUSHIETUSHIETUSHIE!” and proceeded to smack Nora’s butt with her chubby little hand.

Who doesn’t love baby tushies? Now if these were adult tushies, we’d be grossed out. Photo by JoshuaBloom via Flickr.

Twenty-month-olds don’t understand the concept “gentle.” When they hit, they HIT. So this is what the episode sounded like: SMACK! SMACKSMACKSMACKSMACK! WAAAAAAAAAAAA! Nora was sobbing and rubbing her bottom, which, by the way, bore Ava’s handprints.

Then, a couple days ago, Nora was standing in front of Ava, once again naked, and both girls were waiting to get into the tub. Ava once again was face to face (cheek?) with Nora’s bottom, but this time she knew she’d get into trouble if she played the “Tushie” game. So instead, she stuck her finger in Nora’s butt crack. Nora jumped and laughed, and had I not intervened, what would have followed would have been a game entitled “Stick Your Finger In Your Sister’s Butt Crack and Make Her Giggle.”

A part of me felt sad, destroying this sense of innocent fun. No, no, don’t get me wrong, I don’t want them sticking their fingers in random strangers’ butt cracks, ok? But taboos are taught, society’s behaviors are learned, and we TEACH our kids to be embarrassed by certain things, to be ashamed of others. And that period in life before those things are absorbed into those little brains is so fleeting and sweet.

Now for the not-so-sweet. (Not that sticking your finger in anyone’s butt crack, let alone your own, is sweet, per se, but… Well, you’ll see what I mean.) Tonight I was getting out of the shower (cue porn music — and incidentally, there is ALWAYS porn music playing when I am in, and getting out of, the shower), when Nora walked in with a playful grin on her face and a hand hidden behind her back.

“Mamaaaaaa,” she sang, “Guess whaaaaaaat!”

Toweling myself off (porn music gets louder), I asked tiredly — er, sexily (is that a word?), “What?”

Nora was silent for a few seconds longer, I guess building the suspense or something, and then whipped her hand out to me, her forefinger extended. “I GOT POOP ON MY FINGER!”

(Porn music screeches to a halt).

My internal dialogue was as follows: Yep. That’s poop, alright. Now, don’t panic. But don’t let her touch you. Grab her by the elbow and hold her finger in the sink, under running water. Wait, not YOUR sink, TH’s sink. Awesome. Damn, some of it isn’t coming off. Forget it, I’m not touching that shit. Explain to Nora how to do it, and lend her a bar of soap you will never, ever use again. That’s right, LOTS of bubbles, kid…Keep scrubbing… Where’s my hand sanitizer?

I have officially taught my daughter to be petrified of poop. I think I can call it a day.

There is no place on earth as disgusting, bacteria and virus-infested, or generally filthy as McDonald PlayPlace.

Trust me on this.

I am fairly certain that a public toilet seat is cleaner. I am fairly certain that actually dunking your child in a public toilet is a better idea than allowing them to play at the PlayPlace.

That being said, I go there all the time.

Look, it’s not my fault. Nora actually wakes up asking for it. And it’s fairly convenient, since 1) it’s near my house, 2) I can feed my children in the same place with highly-processed chicken and pure lard, 3) technically my fat ass doesn’t have to leave the chair, since everything is contained in a small area, and 4) technically, once Ava is a bit older, I’ll be able to take my laptop and do something productive for 30 minutes (or just take advantage of the free Wi-Fi and surf for porn. Er, I mean the latest toy recall. Riiiiiiight).

Well, about the “Ava getting older” part. It’s kind of key, as I discovered today.

I should have learned my lesson the time Ava was bopping around the play contraption (which consists of tunnels and slides and tons of nooks and crannies) and saw a half-eaten chicken nugget lying UNDER the bottom platform. Covered in dust and dirt and feces and God knows what else. “Oooooooh! Yummy!” she cried, and before I could throw myself at her (imagine this in slow motion, with me screaming “Nooooooooooooooooooo!”) she had put it in her mouth.

I still shudder thinking about it.

But I’m a persistent fucker. I still took them there, because I was convinced that sooner or later, everything would work out, just like the gym, and it would become a pleasant experience, despite the diseases we would all catch.

Today may be the last I go there until Ava is five — at a minimum.

So normally I get Ava onto the second platform and let her just kind of wander back and forth while I watch her, since she’s too little to climb the whole thing by herself. She piddles around and squeals as the older kids rush past her, and she generally enjoys pressing her face against the mesh walls, peering down at me and calling, “Mamaaaaaaaa! Hiiiiiiiiiiii!”

But not today. No, my intrepid little one-and-a-half-year-old decided that today she was going to climb to the top, and find out where her sister goes that seems to bring her so much joy. As she crawled her way through a tunnel and to the side I could not see, my heart started to sink. I could see where this situation was headed, and it involved me climbing into the playmathingie myself. I called her name repeatedly to no avail — Ava was going where no toddler had (purposefully) gone before. And as I called, debating as to whether my child was smart enough, with the help of her sister, to find her way down one of the many slides, I heard something that sounded all too much like “POW! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

The scream Ava emitted was nothing short of agony. Let me tell you, folks, you have never seen a grown woman climb into a McDonald PlayLand playscape as fast as I did. I wiggled my ass through those tunnels, following the sounds of my screeching child. (Who the fuck invented this fucking maze? Which tunnel do I go in, for God’s sake? The red one? No, the blue one… Fuck! My ass is stuck in the green tunnel!) I finally made it to the end, only to find Ava bleeding from her lower lip. Apparently, one of the older kids was hanging from whatever-the-fuck-that-is (is that a steering wheel?) and accidentally kicked Ava in the mouth.

Using my sleeve to dab at her lip, I wondered (between pants) how I was going to get myself and my bleeding child down. (Why isn’t there a slide on this end? And which tunnel is the shortest way back? MOTHER. FUCKER.) Luckily, I had Nora to help out. “Follow me, Mama!” she said heroically, leading the way down the blue tunnel.

FYI, the blue tunnel is not the shortest way back. It’s actually the longest. I think Nora thought it would be fun.

With Ava screaming bloody murder, I wrapped one arm around her (hopefully it wasn’t her neck) and started inching BACKWARDS through the tunnel. I now believe that at least ONE circle of hell is a playscape that is too small for the offender’s ass. We finally made it to a slide, and with Ava flailing about, I managed to twist around, plop her on my lap and skid my way down to terra firma. (Can you hear the angels singing?) It was only eleven in the morning and my day was DONE. Ready for bed. Seriously.

The funny thing is that the parents who were sitting (on their fat, lazy asses) in the room failed to notice that anything odd was going on. They were reading their papers, playing with their phones, completely oblivious to the fact that 1) a kid had been kicked in the face or 2) one of their own was stuck in the playscape. It is possible they thought I had everything under control, I suppose.

Ha. When have I EVER had anything in my life under control?

Remember, people, embrace the chaos. It’s the only way you won’t end up a few fries short of a Happy Meal.

Oh my God, I’m hilarious. Going to drink now.

Looking at it makes my ass twitch.

Come ON. I know I’m not the only one who’s ever done it.

Ok, you bunch of liars, it’s besides the point anyway. And for the record, I always get back in the shower and do said washing, just in case I did happen to forget. That is, unless I’m REALLY tired. Fuck it, I never get back in. You happy now? I’M FILTHY. Bastards.

And to think my husband’s colleagues read this shit while at work. Hey guys. How you doin’? Get back to work, you slackers.

SO ANYWAYS, the whole “forgetting to wash important bits while in the shower” thing reminded me of the times I COULDN’T wash the important bits while in the shower — like after having a baby. And that led me to wonder whether I had ever posted about childbirth, and lo and behold, I hadn’t. So for those of you who haven’t experienced the joys of childbirth yet, brace yourselves. Because MB is tackling this horrific subject matter.

Are you ready?….

It really isn’t that bad, relax. I mean childbirth. It really isn’t that bad.

Now, I know this is a very individual thing, and some women have terrible nightmare experiences, while others (you suck, by the way) push like they have a bit of gas to expel and TA-DA! baby is born. But the truth is, most of us end up somewhere in the middle. Meaning, while it’s neither a terrible nightmare nor the passing of a bean burrito, it sucks giant monkey nuts, but eventually ends with you holding your baby in your arms. (And with any luck, that baby is sleeping blissfully for the next eighteen years).

Now, let me qualify the whole “it’s not that bad” comment by saying one word: DRUGS. Take every. Ounce. Offered. And then ask for a bit more. Because seriously, ladies, there is no medal at the end of all this — just a squalling baby. And if you’re black and blue from the battle, how are you going to win the war? And yes, I just compared child-rearing to war. Sure, I admire the women who do it all without drugs, in a barn, out in a field, while on a yoga ball, in a jacuzzi, or whatever. Props to you. Really. But don’t tell me you’re better than me, or that your kid is better off than mine. I’ve known too many women who started out with the noble desire to have a “natural” childbirth only to end up in labor for days, having to have emergency c-sections. Look, go with what feels right, not what you think you should be doing. It’s your vagina that is getting demolished, after all.

My personal experiences with childbirth were pretty good (and by “pretty good” I mean they were one notch above getting my eyeball gouged out with a mechanical pencil. Not that it’s ever happened to me. I’m simply assuming). It was a lot easier the second time around, since I knew what to expect and wanted to delay my trip to the hospital as long as possible. With Ava, I was far more relaxed, annoyed, and reluctant. I was ordering the doctor around (“No, you MAY NOT cut my lady parts! And there is no way in HELL you’re using that thing to suck out my baby’s head! You know what? Just sit there and be quiet, goddammit. I can do this myself.”)

To be honest, the worst part for me was the immediate aftermath — taking the baby home and having to sit on a donut for days while my boobs threatened to explode everywhere. Let me make a recommendation to you ladies who have vaginal births and episiotimies: DO NOT take a mirror and look down there. BAD. IDEA. Refrain from looking, directly touching, or even thinking about your bits for a couple months. Because trust me, doing so will make you cry.

Now, before I wrap up this post, let me say a word about having everybody you know plus a camera crew in the delivery room: Another BAD. IDEA. Do you really want tons of people watching your vagina stretch to gargantuan proportions? Or possibly see you poop? Actually, come to think of it, tell your husband to get lost while you’re at it. Really. Husbands are totally worthless in the delivery room, unless they’re doctors. And even then – no point in having the hubby in there if he’s a, oh, ophthalmologist. TH really didn’t do anything helpful while he was in there. As a matter of fact, he scared the living shit out of me by turning white and muttering, “Oh my God” one too many times. The nurses had to ask him if he needed to lie down. Men are so goddamned worthless.

To those ladies who have had a baby: What was the worst part for you?

To those ladies who have yet to experience it: What scares you most?

Like the time Nora said to me, “Mommy, I love you, because, you know, you’re not so old.”

Kay. Thanks?

Or the time I was getting dressed and Nora was eying my naked chest with interest. (FYI, naked bodies invite a host of hilarious, offensive, and often entertaining comments from preschoolers. Just be prepared to have your ego beaten into a pulp. And remember that they are usually eye-level with your crotch, so keep that shit covered.) After watching me remove my bra, Nora asked, “Mommy, are those your little boobies?”

LITTLE? Well, fuck. At least they’re bigger than hers.

My friend “Claire” tells a similar story that had me rolling on the ground with laughter. Her daughter “Anna” was watching Claire get dressed one day and said with a smile, “Mommy, I hope I have a big belly like you someday.”

Apparently, preschoolers’ sense of beauty is inspired by the fertility goddesses of ancient times.

She is HOT. Except for the hairdo. And the fact that she has no face. Photo by mharrsch via Flickr.

If only ours was too, goddammit.

Today was classic. I was driving back from my parents house which is three and a half hours away (ROAD TRIP!) and we had to stop to tinkle. For those of you who don’t have kids, “tinkle” = “pee-pee.” So anyways, we stopped at a gas station and as I carried Ava into the bathroom stall, Nora said, “It smells like Nana in here!”

“Nana” is what the girls call my mother. I found this so utterly hilarious that I called my mom while standing in the stall.

ME: “Hey, mom? We’re here in Podunk, Texas, in a gas station bathroom, and Nora thinks it smells like you in here.”

My Mom: “Oh my God. Are you serious?”

ME: (snorting) “Yeah.”

My Mom: “What does it smell like in there?”

ME: “What does it smell like? It smells like ass, mom. Ass.”

Nora: “ASS! HAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Ava: (sticking her hand in the tampon mailbox) “E-I-E-I-O!” (Ava is currently into “Old MacDonald.” It’s all she ever says these days — along with “mine” and “no.”)

Then there are the times Nora gets in trouble for doing something she knew she shouldn’t have been doing — oh, say, wrapping Ava in an entire roll of toilet paper — and when confronted with my wrath, can think of nothing better than to tell the truth.

ME: “Nora, WHY did you do that???”

Nora: “Because it was fun.”

Well, there you go. And I ignore stop signs because it’s fun.

Like mother like daughter.

Now, before you start feeling sorry for me, realize that I say this in a perfectly even, non-emotional, matter-of-fact way. Not in a "woe is me, I plan on killing myself" sort of way, but in a "Oh well, life's a bitch" sort of way. Because I plan on doing absolutely nothing about my self-professed suckage. Other than write about it.

Why do I suck, you ask? Oh, let me count the ways. Where do I begin?

I know — I'll begin with "snack day." Nora's mommy was supposed to bring snacks to Nora's preschool class on Monday, and Nora's mommy sucks so badly she FORGOT. Yep. Fifteen 3-year-olds went snackless because I SUCK. Luckily, the teachers had an emergency snack at hand. I guarantee the next time Nora's mommy is signed up for "snack day," the teachers will be sure to have another emergency snack available. Which is good, since I'll probably forget then too. "Forget." *Snicker*

Do you think bite-size Milky Way bars count as a "snack" to these people?

On Friday, I am supposed to bring Valentines to Ava's class. I've even written it down on the back of an envelope of some junk mail I plan on tossing soon. How much do you want to bet I forget about that, too? I feel a little less worse about forgetting Valentines for a class of 18-month-olds, though, since they can't read, don't care, and will probably try to eat them anyway. And who wants their baby eating paper? Hell, I'm doing everyone a service by forgetting the fucking Valentines. Right?

I don't doubt that the staff at my girls' school thinks I am a moron who should not, under any circumstances, have been allowed to procreate. Whatever. Anyone who thinks that can go blow a goat. (Particularly if they're taking my money). I'm cool with my suckage. I've embraced it wholeheartedly. I'm at peace with it.

Bitch.

I am easily the mom who shows up to playdates without having brought a sippy cup, snacks, extra diapers, etc. for her kids. I am easily the mom who mooches off of everyone else, should I need any of the items listed above. (I consider this fair warning to anyone interested in having a so-called "playdate" with me.) On the upside, if I just so happen to have these things with me because I took my meds that morning, and it just so happens that YOU forgot, I will cheerfully give you mine. I may suck, but I am a generous soul nonetheless. I understand mommy suckiness, and embrace my fellow sucky mothers. We are one. Sucky mothers unite.

I am the "hostess" who throws goldfish in a bowl and "serves" it to her pint-sized guests, whose house is already a disaster so there are no unnecessary worries about little Suzy making more of a mess. My house is the one where you can hear muffled, creepy Christmas music playing even though it's February.

Trust me – kids have a BLAST at my house. Moms do too, so long as they don't have sticks up their asses. Ass sticks are not welcome at my house — please leave those in the car.

So yes, I suck…. Unless, of course, you think I rock. It's all relative.

Photo by TW Collins via Flickr.

And don't doubt for a second that she doesn't take every marble I lose and put it her mouth. My marbles, as I lose them, become choking hazards, therefore causing me to lose more marbles. Are you seeing the problem here?

Ava is at a delightfully horrific age: 18 months. Only 18 short months of life, and already she's learned, all too well, how to get what she wants. The fact that she is a second child, and a second girl to boot, well… That just adds fuel to the fire. She's got to be sassier, louder, and more obnoxious than her sister to ensure she gets noticed.

She is succeeding. I have never, ever witnessed a child throw as many public tantrums, scream as loudly, or shove as brutally. Ava does not fuck around — get out of her way, dudes, or your ass is hers. The infuriating part is how goddamned CUTE she is. Yes, I know I'm her mother and I am biased, but seriously, she's adorable (looking). She smiles a lot, and has these dimples that will suck you in like black holes. She's got these enormous blue eyes with long eyelashes, a cute little button nose, and a head of light brown curls. Trust me, meet Ava and you will not emerge unscathed — she will whip you.

So. The other day was a particularly crazy one: Playdate, three-year-olds fighting over princess dresses, toys and food everywhere, and darling Ava, who just wanted someone to notice that she was there. When she realized that smacking the older kids with their princess wands wasn't working, she took an entirely different approach. She took this snow globe that plays music (with a single push of a button) and dropped it in the toilet. While it was playing. I found her peering into the john, going "UH. OH!"

Uh-oh is right, especially considering Nora had gone in the potty and chosen not to flush the toilet. The snow globe was, miraculously, still playing, and the music was muffled and… downright fucking creepy. So I fished the urine-soaked snow globe from the toilet and threw it in the sink, where it continued to play a now very sad, very off-key, very disturbing version of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." And it wouldn't stop playing. Pushing the button did nothing. And when, after a particularly macabre version of "Jingle Bells," I tried to take the batteries out of the piece of shit, I found that they were screwed in, and I'd have to whip out the toolbox to get the fucking thing to shut up. Considering I was in the middle of "hosting" (ha!) a playdate, I just decided to let it run itself down.

Seriously, no one will ever want to come over again. This may actually be a good thing, since I have no furniture and generally suck at playing hostess.

Do you know, the snow globe played for SEVERAL MORE HOURS. If my home wasn't a madhouse before, it certainly became one with the sound of screaming children and super-eerie Christmas music in the background. Background? I mean foreground. Shit.

Why isn't anything else I own built like a fucking Home Depot snow globe? I accidentally drop my car keys in a puddle of water and the remote stops working instantly. What the hell?

Ava, back before she was mobile, had an attitude, and lady-with-twenty-cats crazy hair. I never thought I would miss those days…

Oh yes, I won again — this month. My mothering practices are so offensive that I am actually awarded the Mother of the Year Award every month.

You thought you won, didn't you? Ha! No way. Eat my dust, bitches.

So I've actually worn Nora and Ava down, and they now enjoy going to the gym with me. Remember this story, in which I couldn't leave my girls at the gym childcare center for five minutes before the folks who worked there paged me? Well, I have managed to break my children. Nora now asks to go there, and Ava is simply accepting. I think she may actually like the people who work there better than she likes me, but I try not to dwell on it. I am finally able to work out, take a yoga class, or simply sit in the cafe and stare at a wall if I want. And yes, I can get a bikini wax in peace. Thank Jesus. The maximum amount of time a child is allowed to remain in the childcare center is two hours, which means I leave the girls there for approximately two hours and five minutes. Ok, fine, I wait until they page me.

Ha! I'm just kidding. Ahem.

So today I took the girls to the gym and watched, with considerable glee, as they waved good-bye to me and rushed off to play with the other little kids. I worked out at my leisure and thoroughly kicked my own ass. It was great.

And THEN, once I was done, I got my stuff out of my locker and started walking out the door.

As I approached the front door, it occurred to me that I had forgotten something. Hmmm. Keys? Check. Membership card? Check. Sweatshirt? Check. Well, what the hell….?

I started laughing aloud when I realized what I had nearly done: I'd nearly left my kids at the gym.

That's right, people. Mother of the Fucking Year, right here. You got nothing on me. I will win EVERY TIME.

"Me? AGAIN? Oh, I'm blushing! I'd like to thank my difficult children, my self-indulgence, my lack of medication, and my fine, well-toned ass — which is currently hanging out of my mini-skirt!" Photo by Malven via iStockphoto.

That, my friends, is a big question for a three-year-old. But since I know she means right this second, I answer, "Yes, baby, I am happy. You make me happy." And the goofy grins persist for a good several seconds… Until they do something to piss me off.

One of the cute things: No matter what they are eating — it could be pretzels, bread, a fucking rock, for God's sake — they manage to smear it around their mouths. I don't know about you, but I am amazed at this ability. I mean, how the fuck do you smear a PRETZEL around your mouth? There's nothing to smear. It's a pretzel. And yet, I promise you, there will be a brownish tinge around their mouths afterward. I really should watch more carefully to see how this evolves: How many times can you salivate on and rub a pretzel around your mouth before you actually get it IN your mouth? I should try this some day. Anyone want to join me in this experiment?

There are certain things, however, that are very Toddler Bizarre, and they make me want to impale myself on one of the gazillion princess wands we have lying around the living room. For instance, Nora will eat a cookie until there is only a tiny piece left, and then hand the crumb to me and say, "Mama, I'm finished." Um, no you're not. There's still this crumb left. For some Godforsaken reason, Nora will NOT eat that last crumb. Can anyone explain this to me? She does this with everything: sandwiches, bananas, cookies… WHY WON'T SHE EAT THE LAST TINY BIT?

Ava has entered the Terrible Two's (contrary to popular belief, this phase in Small Person development actually starts at around a year and lasts until the age of fifteen, thereabouts.) She throws tantrums — full body, fist-pounding, hair-pulling tantrums — but only if she is certain I can see her. If I leave the room, she stops trantruming, follows me, and then starts over. This would be cute if it wasn't, well, fucking irritating as shit. I swear, Ava has screamed more in the past couple months than she did the first year of her life put together.

I'm sure I'll come up with more stuff later. I'll keep you posted (HA! GET IT? POSTED? Yes? No? Maybe? Shut up?)

I need a No-Doz.

Photo by Brungrrl via Flickr.

Have I ever mentioned how much I hate those words? Individually, they suck. Together, they suck worse. I mean, they are totally offensive together. I cringe admitting that I am, in fact, desperate. And because I hate the word "housewife" so much, I will go with "home economist." I am a desperate home economist. Ahem.

Fuck.

So here's the story, in brief: I went off my happies, a bunch of shit happened at once (including various illnesses that included my girls and me puking together in unison) that would have driven a normal, sane human being to the brink, and I went on birth control pills. Now, I will address each of those shit-storms separately:

1. I went off my happies. Aka, my happy pills. What? I thought I'd be fine without them. And I was, until….

2. A bunch of shit happened. Where do I start? The holidays. I'm not sure when the holidays were considered fun, but they have become a fucking nightmare at this point. Suicide rates are apparently high during the holidays, and while I hear it's because lonely people feel even lonelier during the season of cheer, I think it's parents of small children deciding they simply cannot take it anymore. My parents were meddling in my parenting and heaping guilt on me and TH, my kids were throwing tantrums because I wouldn't let them have yet ANOTHER candy cane for dinner, no one was sleeping in his/her own bed… Additionally, we all caught a nasty, snot-ridden cold (I'm still snotting from said cold) AS WELL AS a violent stomach bug. Snot for Christmas, puke for New Years. Oh, it was fun. I was sleeping in the same room as Nora, trying to puke quietly into a bucket so as not to wake her. God, I wish I was making that shit up.

3. I went on birth control pills. Look, my periods are wacky, and I will absolutely go INSANE if I get pregnant. So all these women are on the Pill, telling me it's fine, and oh, it's the lightest, bestest one around, so I said, OK! Let's do this thing. Bring on the hormones.

Huh.

In hindsight, I should not have gone off my happies during the holidays AND started BCPs. You're right, you're right. I set myself up.

But Jesus Christ on a cracker, if I could have videotaped myself yesterday. I was a raving lunatic, a deranged person. I was snapping at my girls for little things, ripping into TH like there was no tomorrow, throwing a fit because I got in the shower only to find that I’d run out of soap and had to get out, dripping wet, and rummage through the cabinets… My girls heard me say the word “motherfucker” at least twice, and if they grow up to need therapy, it will be because of yesterday, I swear.

Can you say INTERVENTION?

I think TH tried, by coolly asking if I was going to go Andrea Yates on his ass, and as you can imagine, that didn’t help things.

Men.

Anyways, I am doing much better today, thank you. I am getting some writing done, actually put some makeup on this morning, and I am wearing clean clothes.

It’s the little things.

That being said, I’m attacking my doctor soon.

Just kidding. I think being a mom is hard, and no matter what you do, someone is going to rip you a new one. Really. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: So long as a child is loved, the rest is just details. They may not grow up to be completely balanced adults, but truth be told, I have yet to meet a completely balanced adult. Do they exist? I think it's an urban myth, this well-balanced adult bullshit. The more "well-balanced" an individual tries to look, the more fucked up they actually are, if you ask me.

Back to ripping moms a new one. Right. So I don't mean to talk shit about certain parenting styles, because in the end, we're all trying to do the best job we can and keep our kids out of therapy. I think we can all agree on that. BUT. There is this certain type of parent that is driving me batty, and I just want to grab her (or him), tie them down, and yell, "STOP! JUST STOP, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY!"

The "hands-on" parent, or, the parent that won't let their kid do ANYTHING on their own.

You've seen them at Gymboree, at the park, on the playground, in the classroom: They hover over their kids, directing every move. "Don't touch that, don't do it that way, do it THIS way, you're doing it wrong, this is how you do it, be careful, watch what you're doing, no, nononononono! YES!"

When Nora was around two-ish, I took her to an art class. And there was this mom I was dying to taser. The kids were supposed to be making hand puppets out of paper bags, but considering they were TWO YEARS OLD and couldn't follow instructions to save their short lives, they were smearing glue everywhere, coloring out of lines, making a mess of the yarn and paint… This mom was apoplectic. She could not deal with the fact that her two-year-old didn't understand that she was making a puppet, and dear God, the yarn goes on the head, and no, don't put the glue THERE!

I have a bit more sympathy when it comes to safety, because I tend to go overboard with the "be careful's". But as TH points out, sometimes I need a fucking chill pill. He'll tell me, "It's OKAY if Ava falls trying to climb that little step, because she'll just fall a short distance and she won't hurt herself – badly." Of course, TH takes the concept to a whole new level, as he doesn't seem all that concerned if Ava crashes down two flights of stairs and gets a bloody nose.

But back to my point. I see these parents everywhere, doing these bizarre, over-bearing things that make me cringe. There's this mom whose twins are in Nora's class, and I swear to God: I get there in the morning, she's there instructing the teacher on what her kids can and can't do, eat, etc. I get there in the afternoon to pick her up, and she's there asking the teacher about her children's every move. I'm beginning to think she never really leaves, she just hovers at the window, watching.

There's this other mom, who drops her kids off at the gym childcare center often at the same time as me. She comes in with this long list of things her boys (who are both over the age of five) can and can't do. "Keep them away from this, make sure they don't do that, if they get thirsty please let them drink ONLY from the cups I brought, NOT from the water fountain…"

For real, lady? Is all of that necessary? I mean, you are going to work out for HOW LONG? And you're afraid that they'll climb the jungle gym and MAYBE enjoy themselves, or drink Houston tap water (a legit concern, I must admit), or… WHAT?

To these two women, I'd like to say: If you're really THAT worried about your kids, then don't send them to school or childcare at all. Just sit your over-protective asses at home and keep your eyes glued to your kids, to make sure they don't do anything you don't like. And then, when they turn thirteen and can't take your ass anymore, they'll rebel with a fury and leave you stunned, confused, and feeling betrayed by the children you so "lovingly" raised.

What do you gals think? Am I being a crazy bitch? Don't answer that – it's totally off topic…

She looks FUCKING TERRIFIED. I don’t blame her.