I Heart My Little A-Holes Read online

  So the other day I was surfing porn in the living room while the kids were in the kitchen having their snack (I just said that to sound cool. Really I was probably shopping on Zappos), and I heard them giggling in there.

  A loud bang = get the F in there fast

  Silence = get the F in there fast

  Giggling = take your time and check out the heels section

  So after about ten more minutes on Zappos (translation: $230, but in my defense I will probably return it all because all I wear anymore are ugly flats) I decided I should pretend to be a good mom and see what they were up to. La la la la laaaa, going into the kitchen. Holy mother of God what the fuck happened in here??!!! What sucks is since my kids were there I couldn’t actually say this out loud and could only just scream it in my head. I also had to restrain my middle fingers from twitching away from my tightened fists.

  “What did you do?!!”

  But neither of them answered me. Not with words at least. Zoey knew she was going to be killed, so she averted her eyes and wouldn’t look at me. But Holden was too young to know he was going to die, so he kept laughing and showed me exactly what they had been doing. Flick. He pulled back the rubbery straw on his sippy cup and then let it go. And again and again and again. Flicking purple smoothie dots from the floor to the cabinets alllll the way across the ceiling. And judging by the way the room looked, I’d say they had done this about, oh I don’t know, 2,000,000 times. Are you F’ing kidding me?

  I can’t tell you how much I wish I had taken a picture so I could share it with you, but I was too busy calling the suicide hotline. Eight hours later after I could finally start breathing again, all I could say was thank F’ing God for 409. And tall husbands. And laws against killing your children.

  Some people see a weird child who likes to wear her coat backwards.

  I see a brilliant genius who’s figured out how to turn her hood into a feed bag.

  Mom, can I put the strawberries in?

  Yes, when it’s time.

  Mom, can I put the strawberries in?

  Yes, hold on.

  Mom, can I put the strawberries in?

  Yes, in two minutes.

  One. Two.

  That’s two seconds, not minutes.

  Mom, can I put the strawberries in?

  Aggggghhhh, stop asking, stop asking, stop asking!

  Mom, can I put the strawberries in?

  Oh my God kid, I’m about to tell you where you can put the F’ing strawberries if you don’t stop asking me.

  (pause)

  Mom, can I put the strawberries in?

  The conversation ends here because this is when I killed myself.

  The kiddos were just playing downstairs when I heard my daughter say, “I don’t want my brother to die.” I can’t decide whether I should be:

  1. Really freaked out ’cause maybe she’s like that redrum kid in The Shining and knows something.

  2. Really touched because it might be the nicest thing she’s ever said about him.

  3. A little concerned that she’s plotting something and she’s hoping it doesn’t go horribly wrong.

  The other night I did something I swore I’d never do

  Here’s the thing. I could give a rat’s ass if my three-year-old gets to bed on time. She can stay up until the crack of dawn for all I care. And yet at 7:29 PM I’m ready to explode like a ticking time bomb as she dilly-dallies before I read her my favorite bedtime book—Go the Fuck to Sleep. Congratulations Zoey, you just got into the Guinness Book of World Records for the slowest person to ever put on a pull-up.

  So if I don’t really care what time she goes to sleep, then why the hell am I freaking out at 7:29? Because do you know what happens at 7:31? Me time. Uninterrupted, sit on the couch, eat my ice cream and vege (vegge??? vedge??) out in front of the shittiest television I can find time.

  So the other night when my daughter came out of her room and screamed, “Mommy!” at 7:42, 7:58, 8:03, 8:15 and 9:10, I was livid. Remember Glenn Close at the end of Fatal Attraction? Multiply that by 1,000 and you have me.

  P.S. Please don’t try to figure out my age based on my movie reference. I’m old. When the other mothers bitch to me that they’re turning 30, I punch them in the face. Just inside my head of course.

  And then last night happened. “I need water. My leg hurts. My book fell out of bed. I’m missing something. I want the other pillow. My skin hurts.” When she came out for the six or seven-thousandth time, I lost my shit. Which blows when you have a one-year-old sleeping in the bedroom next door and you have to whisper and not use curse words and still seem mad as hell.

  ME: (like Cujo if he spoke English) If I see your face one more time tonight, young lady, you are going to be in so much trouble I’m going to, ummm ummm, it’s so bad I can’t even say (translation: I have no F’ing clue).

  Man, how I wish I were one of those parents who used middle names when I got mad. It’s so much cooler than saying shit like “young lady.” But when you’re this pissed off, you say whatever pours out of your mouth. You just pray it’s not the “c” word.

  Anyway, barely two seconds after I shut her door did I hear it open again. No, that’s a lie. It was at least thirty seconds later. Just long enough for me to get my dessert that I would now have to devour quickly so she wouldn’t see it, which sucks because then I’d have to get another one later that I could take some time to appreciate. That was it. No one messes with my chocolate. She pushed me over the edge. And that’s when I did what I swore I’d never do. I stormed upstairs, ripped the doorknob lock off my husband’s office door, and attached it to my daughter’s door. Yes, I put a lock on her door. Something I swore I’d never do.

  Needless to say she was not happy. And neither was I. As I listened to her scream and cry and snot and slobber all over the place, all I could think about was what a horrible mother I am. Did I seriously just lock my daughter in her room? I’m like that evil old lady from Flowers in the Attic, only worse because my daughter doesn’t have siblings in there to keep her company.

  And then all the next day I hated myself for it. Until bedtime, when I removed the lock from her door and calmly threatened to put it back on if she came out of her room. She wasn’t perfect. She came out once to complain that her cells hurt. But just once. After that she stayed in there.

  Not only did I start to feel justified for my child-abusive punishment the night before, but I got to watch Masterpiece Theatre completely uninterrupted. No, that’s lie. I saw about a millisecond of it when I was channel-surfing looking for Honey Boo Boo.

  HUBBY: (to Zoey) Do you want to take a bath alone tonight or with Holden tomorrow night?

  ZOEY: With Holden tomorrow night.

  HUBBY: Awww, I love that she wants to take a bath with her little brother.

  ME: Ennnhhhh, wrong. She just doesn’t want to take a bath tonight. Watch. Zoey, do you want to take a bath alone tonight or tomorrow night with Satan?

  ZOEY: Satan.

  ME: (I told you so look)

  Why traveling with kids sucks ass and totally isn’t worth it but I still insist on doing it

  Does this shit even need an introduction? I mean who doesn’t know that traveling with kids sucks ass? Remember back when it was awesome, before you gave birth to your poop machines? Packing was always a bit of a chore, like figuring out which summery clothes fit you since you’ve packed on a few (translation: ten) winter pounds, and of course you hated sitting in the airport if your flight was delayed. Wait, you mean I have nothing to do but go to a bar and get drunk while I wait for my plane? I thought THAT was a BAD thing??? WTF? I’d kill for that now.

  But now that I have two little rug rats in tow, going to the airport is worse than being waterboarded. And if you think I’m wrong, you’re wrong. I just saw that Zero Dark Thirty movie so I know. Traveling with two kids under the age of four is worse. Way worse.

  Anyways, let’s get to the good stuff, or rather the bad shit. So here goes. Ten things th
at suck ass about flying with kids:

  1. So after a morning of hell because I had to wake the kids up two hours early (which should feel awesome because they do that to me every day), I get to the airport only to find out we don’t have seats together. “Don’t worry, ma’am, we’ll do our best.” Do your best? So if you don’t succeed, what, my 3.5-year-old daughter is going to sit in row 27 next to a child molester while I’m in row 12? I’ve got one word for you, American Airlines. Lawsuit. Yup, there’s nothing more American than that.

  2. Okay, so you’ve finally made it into the airport, they’ve checked your IDs and you pick an X-ray line. Then some woman steps up in line behind you. ARE YOU INSANE, WOMAN?!!! Who the F chooses to go behind the four-person family with a baby because here’s all the shit I have to deal with:

  Putting the stroller on the belt while holding the baby, taking off the kids’ coats, thanking F’ing God I don’t have to remove their shoes anymore, taking our laptop out of the bag, finding our baggie of liquids, oh no wait that’s our baggie of Cheerios, finding the real baggie of liquids, taking off my own goddamn shoes and wondering what disease I’m picking up by walking barefoot on the ground that 9 bazillion people have walked on today, getting the ginormous car seat to fit through the X-ray machine, getting the kids to go through the metal detector and walk towards the scary TSA guy on the other side who can’t crack a smile, and dealing with the TSA lady who wants to “check” our milk which makes me wonder whether the kids should drink it after it’s been swabbed and radiated (or whatever the F they do to it).

  Oh, and then I have to put all our shit back together on the other side like a one-billion-piece jigsaw puzzle. Just typing this makes me have a panic attack. Worst. Experience. EVER.

  3. Holy crap, did you know that when you travel with a baby, the airlines lets you bring an extra “diaper” bag on the plane? They LET you. Yippeeee, as if carrying two kids plus alllll the shit you already have to deal with isn’t enough, the airlines is like, you’re so damn special we’re going to give you the privilege of carrying one more F’ing thing. Oh, plus that stupid humungous (wow, I spelled that right!) stuffed animal your daughter swore to death she’d carry but now refuses to, and you soooo want to leave it behind to teach her a lesson, but it’s just not worth the repercussions tonight at bedtime when she doesn’t have Brownie or Whitey or Horny or whatever his name is.

  4. There are three kinds of people I never want to sit next to on a plane. A. That guy who hasn’t showered in like four weeks and whose hair literally leaves a mark on his seat when he sits forward. B. That lady who’s chomping at the bit to have a conversation from wheels up to wheels down and doesn’t even stop talking when you close your eyes and pretend to sleep even though you’re just dreaming up ways to kill yourself. And C. A family.

  So as I’m walking on the plane with my kids, I’m trying to apologize to people with my eyes while their eyes are telling me, I hate your F’ing guts and for the love of God don’t sit in my row. And then when you pass them you can literally feel them breathe out a sigh of relief until you sit in the row behind them, which is actually worse because sound doesn’t travel sideways. It travels forward. Plus, kids are like professional experts at kicking the seat in front of them. So yes, I’m that asshole, the #1 most hated person on the plane. Totally misplaced anger because really they should hate my baby but you’re not allowed to hate babies so I’m the patsy.

  (Look at me, Mom, I’m going limp!)

  5. You know what’s awesome about traveling with a 16-month-old? That you don’t have to pay for their ticket. You know what’s not awesome? EVERY OTHER FUCKING THING. Your ticket says infant on lap, but that’s a goddamn lie. Infants sit on your lap. Toddlers arch their back and pop their shoulders out of their sockets and kick you over and over again in the crotch because they don’t want to be contained. You know how they won’t let parents with kiddos sit in the exit row? It has nothing to do with safety. They’re worried you might open the emergency door and throw your kid out.

  6. The tray table. Can some airlines pleeeeeeeease invent a detachable tray table for parents traveling with kids? Because this is what kids do with a tray table. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. The whole F’ing flight. And same goes for the stupid window shade.

  7. Question: What’s the first thing your baby does the moment you sit down in your seat? Answer: He puts the metal part from the seatbelt in his mouth. Ohhh Mommy this feels so nice and cold on my gums. Well, kid, I hope it’s worth it because you just got Ebola, avian bird flu and Typhoid all in one fell swoop. Yup, for the last two weeks I’ve kept you in a bubble away from every germ-infested place so you’d be healthy on our vacation, but you just canceled all that out in about two seconds. Now open your mouth so I can pour a gallon of hand sanitizer on your tongue.

  8. “Agggghhhhh, my ears, my ears! Someone’s stabbing my eardrums out with a screwdriver!” Yup, as the plane goes up or down, this is what my kids are screaming as the pressure pops their ears. Coincidentally it’s the same thing the people in front of us are yelling because my kids won’t shut up. What’s that you say? Give them gum? Oh that’s a GREAT idea, three years from now when they’re older and I know they won’t spit it out in my hair and then purposely rub it all around.

  9. Can the airplane lavatory get any smaller? Or stinkier? The answer is yes and yes. If you don’t have kids, maybe you haven’t noticed that there is a changing table in the airplane bathroom. Yes, in that two-foot space. Or rather a flat plastic shelf that pulls down over the scary ass toilet. You know how hard it is using the lavatory when there’s turbulence? Now try doing that with a screaming, wriggly toddler on a plastic shelf.

  The only good news is the lavatory is so small even if you hit a big bump there’s no room for either of you to go anywhere. The bad news is the bathroom was just contaminated by an old lady who spent 14 minutes in there (so long you almost told the flight attendant in case she died. Alas, she didn’t die but it smells like something did), and your kid’s poopie diaper manages to make it smell even worse. I know some people choose to forgo the lav and change the baby’s diaper in the seat itself, but you know what happens then? I mean besides everyone who already hates you stabbing you with their eye daggers even more. The baby pees mid diaper change and 27D is suddenly 27PP and you have to sit in urine for the rest of the flight because every other seat is booked.

  10. Dear people who sat in our row after us, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the goldfish all shoved in between the seats where the airplane cleaners couldn’t get them. I’m sorry for the funky smell of my kid’s vomit that will probably linger for weeks. I’m sorry for the lollipop you may have found on page 46 of the Sky Mall magazine. And most of all I’m sorry you reached into your seat pocket and accidentally grabbed the rest of a mushy, slobbery, spit-covered banana that my kid put in there because he wouldn’t eat the brown spot. I meant to hand it to the flight attendant but I have like 9 million things I’m trying to remember when I get off the plane.

  Well, that’s ten and I’m too lazy to write any more since this is practically a novel already, but God help you if your kid decides to flush the airplane toilet while she’s sitting on it. And God help you if your flight is delayed especially while you’re on the tarmac and they turn off the AC to conserve energy. And God help you if they lose your luggage and Binky the F’ing cuddle bear is packed in that suitcase. And God help you if your kid drinks the whole can of apple juice and it gives her the runs on the airplane seat. So basically just hope to God that God helps you because flying with rug rats is pretty much hell on earth. Or rather hell 10,000 feet above earth.

  Minivan for the week: $650

  One tank of gas: $60

  Three tickets to Disney World: $277

  Seeing my daughter’s face on the Teacups: priceless

  You know those pregnancy tests that show a smiley face if you’re preggers? Do they have ones that show a frowny face for teenagers? Or for moms wh
o already have kids and know what the F it’s like?

  ME: Zoey, why didn’t you go to the potty? Why did you poop in your Pull-Up?

  ZOEY: Well, I tooted and then I pushed and pushed and pushed and it just came out.

  ME: Thanks Zoey. I’m so glad I know how a poop works now.

  This one doesn’t have any pictures.

  You’re welcome

  You know the feeling. You’re standing in the middle of Gymboree walking around a parachute singing the Farmer in the Dell and wondering three things:

  WTF is a dell?

  Is this seriously what my life has come to?

  Why does my kid have that weird look on his face?

  Oh shit. Literally. You can read the signs from a mile away. The watery eyes, the vein popping out of his forehead, the look of determination. Yup, he’s pooping. OMG, kid, didn’t I just change your dipe dipe like thirty seconds ago? How many times can you poop in a day? And then about ten minutes later when Chippy McChipper is singing Gymbo the clown waves bye bye bye, your kid is finally done. Wait, nope, a little more. And now he’s done. Hopefully.

  So it’s off to the public restroom you go with your adorable Petunia Picklebottom diaper bag only there’s really nothing adorable about this scenario. Because let’s face it, changing poopie diapers sucks ass.