Arts and crafts are…horrible, despicable things. Glitter gets everywhere, and I mean everywhere…I wiped my tushie the other day and viola, a piece of shining gold glitter. Unless I’ve actually learned how to pee urine or contracted hepatitis-f (f stands for fabulous, of course) it’s from that damn ornament my kid brought home from school.

You’ve probably seen one – or even have one – yourself. It’s a red plastic drinking cup (way to go green, preschool!) turned upside down, slathered in glue, and coated in glitter with a bell inside. Because nothing screams Christmas like disposable cups with glitter and a bell.

I asked my husband if I could tell the magical tale of the Christmas Cow to my children. (I tend to check in with him before doing something that could potentially scar my children or send them to therapy later in life. Just so it’s not ALL my fault. I can say, “You could have stopped this madness!” I’m basically covering my ass…but back to the story of the Christmas Cow…)

Every Christmas when the fields are dead and the cupboards are bare, little boys and girls who have been good receive a visit from the Christmas Cow, who comes bearing warm milk and sour cream. If you’ve been bad, your milk will turn sour and clumpy the second before it is consumed, thus creating a horrible and gross Christmas for naughty little children.

My husband said, “Sure” – which is what he always says when he hasn’t been listening. So I told my kids the story of the maaaagical Christmas Cow – and now if I think they’ve done something bad I immediately offer them a glass of milk. If they say no … I go look for evidence of the deed that has been done.

I swear everything I do is a setup to figure out what the hell my kids have done wrong when I wasn’t looking.

Oh, and for those that might be wondering, the Christmas Cow says “Moo! Moo! Moo!” just like Santa says, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” – I wasn’t original enough to come up with something better.

Got any suggestions for how I can incorporate the Christmas Cow into more Christmas stuff in my house? I tried to get cow-patterned stockings but that was vetoed by the husband. (Guess he was listening that time, damn!)

me.

For being such a dipshit that I couldn’t get my mouth to form the word “NO” when asked if I would babysit for a spunky, opinionated 3 year old.

I’m a decent babysitter, if they are of a certain age. The age that doesn’t require a constant, vigilant eye to catch the little turds before they start themselves or the house on fire.

But I just couldn’t say “No”. I couldn’t just mouth that one word that would have saved me from this horrible despair that is life with a toddler. And for three fucking days I agreed to this.

Things probably wouldn’t be so bad if the mother of this little angel didn’t think it was wise to lay down with the child every night in order to get her to go to sleep. What kind of a life does this woman lead? I mean we all know that by the end of  a long day, the very act of getting horizontal elicits instant slumber. So why would you make it a point to train the child that going to sleep requires mommy laying next to you for several minutes. Because where I come from, this usually mean that mommy is asleep before that kid is 9 times out of 10.

So I just spent over an hour laying with a dear sweet kid, in the dark, counting all the things I could be doing to get my house ready for the morning spectacular, waiting for the breathing to become regular, for the restless little body to stop moving and for the sweet sound of little kid snoring.

The only thing that kept me awake was the conversation I am planning on having with this child’s mother when she returns in a few days. It will go something like this….

I know you are single right now and your child is all you have to live for, but trust me when I say that in the future there will be another man (or woman) who you will want to spend your short, precious evenings with, perhaps even get naked with. But this will not be a reality because you have trained your child to only sleep when your body is nuzzled up against hers. Nothing kills passion like a kid that won’t go to sleep. So start now, work on it every night, and although it may seem hard at first, life is better when you sleep in your bed sans the kid.

But who knows, maybe its just me. Perhaps I’m just the only parent that thinks my kid sleeping with me when they are over 2  is just creepy. But I like my adult time, and in this world that time occurs after the kids go to sleep. In their own beds. Alone.

Buttercup was sick. Throwing up all over me and herself. It was a nasty mess. The fact that I was on vacation some 1,500 miles from home with no one but my mother-in-law to rely on wasn’t making matters any better.

“Oh honey,” the MIL cooed to the baby, “do you want some Pepto Bismpl?”

“She can’t have any,” I said.

I got a raised eyebrow.

“What do you mean, she can’t have any?” the MIL asked indignantly.

“I mean she can’t have any,” I calmly replied. “I’m not a doctor so I don’t remember all the medical reasons behind it but the bottom line is I was told by multiple doctors and pharmacists that children this young cannot have Pepto Bismol.”

This did not sit well with the MIL, who does not enjoy being contradicted. Instead of responding by shutting up and going with my “Mommy Call,” she got pissed off and responded with something I promise you can shoot me over if I ever utter anything baring any resemblence to it: “Whatever…I raised 4 kids and they all survived…that’s just stupid.”

Stupid? Excuse the fuck out of me?

I don’t care if the words that had come out of my mouth were, in fact, stupid. She’s my kid. I pushed her out. And last time I checked, that means I get to make the rules and the rest of the world gets to shut the hell up and mind their own damned business.

Shit like that grinds on my last nerve (and I promise you I only have that very last one left). Sure, the woman may have raised her own kids and watched them thrive and grow into fully capable adults, but things have changed in the last 35 years.

But this post is not just a bitch against the MIL. It’s my promise to myelf and the rest of humanity that I will never say any of the following Ten Things that Piss Me Off that I have heard from family, friends, and strangers to anyone I ever meet.

1:”Well, I raised 452 children and 1,999 grandchildren and they all survived.” (Good for you. Now step back and let me take care of this round on my own. Your job is done.)

2: “You’re going to have a natural birth/epidural/selective C-section/V-BAC/midwife/home birth/water birth/pop the kid out while swimming with the dolphins? That’s just stupid.” (No, it actually isn’t. It’s my choice. But thanks for sharing your opinion.)

3: “Oh, how far along are you?” (I’m actually not even started. I’m just fat. But thanks for asking!)

4: “You want to name your baby what? Are your crazy?” (Yep! Let’s just leave it at that and move on, shall we?)

5: “I would never let my own kids do that…(Well yippie-fucking-do for you. I myself have no problem wth my children literally playing in traffic. Next!)

6: “Oh you think “pregnancy/labor/post-partum/the newborn stage/teething/sleepless nights/insert your current state of being here” is bad? Please! Just wait….(Ya know what? I loathe that “been there, done that, got the T-shirt” attitude from well-meaning friends who think they are actually doing you a favor by being condescending. This isn’t a race and you aren’t winning cuz your kid hit puberty and turned into a pain in the ass while mine is still in diapers.)

7: “My kid would never do that…” (Ya know what? I’m sure I could bribe him to, so get off your high horse already. A fiver and a hershey ba goes a long way. Besides, if you have that kind of attitude, your kid is probably already doing whatever it is you think he isn’t, anyway.)

8: Your not breastfeeding/Your STILL breastfeeding? (Oh make up your mind already. Either way, I’m content knowing my very existence annoys you.)

9: Well, MY little Suzie/Johnnie was rebuilding engines and working on high school math before she/he was even six months old! (Oh, and mine is still sitting here smiling in her own dirty diaper. What kind of mother am I?)

10: “Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you…” (I’ll make you a deal…if you shut up and let me raise my kids the way I want to, I’ll do the same for you. And I promise not to remind you that you warned me.)

I was not feeling the Christmas spirit this year. I really wanted to stay home in my ratty pj’s and let the kids run around in their diapers all day but I made the obligatory 2 hour trek to my dad’s. I could go through the typical martyr’s laundry list of reasons of how Christmas isn’t the same anymore and it’s too commercialized but that’s not my reasons (because I sure don’t cook and I could care less about trying to make everyone happy).

We’ve got 3 kids under 3 (yes, you read that right) so any out-of-town traveling is honestly a big hassle. Well, they were hoping we would spend the night and all. That’s a nice idea, Dad, but where are we going to sleep? Your guest room has a full size bed, which could barely hold me, DH, and DS last Christmas. We could try camping out in the living room but you try getting 2 little ones who are hopped up on sugar to go to sleep on a sectional couch. I kept seeing the kids waking up and getting off the couch in the middle of the night, leaving a path of destruction on the first floor.

Oh, and trying to have DS sleep in my little brother’s room with him? Yeah, tried that last year, he was crying for us as soon as the door closed. And, besides the sleeping arrangements, I can only hold a fake smile for so long and Momma needs a nice stiff drink after being around you guys all day.

So, thanks for the invites but I think I’m taking a vacation from Christmas next year.