Empty fridge and broken hangers.

Right now I have an empty fridge and I don’t mean an “Oh my God, please excuse the mess!” when your house is fucking perfect-empty kind of fridge. I mean, if you opened the door, there would be several bottles of salad dressing and some pickles and the sad soup I tried to make out of our Thanksgiving leftovers that I’m just going to call, “Well, I tried.” Come on over and get your hot, fresh cup of Well, I tried!

I could have gone to the store today, but, instead, I spent the entire morning putting away clothes. 3 hours of bin sorting and shirt shaking and hangers under beds including the few broken ones I found hidden in the stuffed animal bin because my kids know that I will, in fact, flip out if you break perfectly good hangers because you are too lazy to lift your hanger out of your closet.

By the way, money still does not grow on trees kids and even your crappy plastic hangers are worth something.

But, I can’t blame them because we’re all lazy right now. They’re too lazy not to pull their clothes off of hangers with such force that plastic shatters and I’m too lazy to go to the store. I’m finding we’re all shifting our priorities.

For dinner, I found a bag of frozen ravioli in the back of the freezer and I took the last of the very stale bread and made croutons for the sad, lonely bag of pre-chopped lettuce that expires tomorrow. And this is the best I can do today.

Also, we got the tree today. The tree this year is small in comparison and eldest complained about the size and I was disappointed that lately I see my failures in her words and action. Because that shit stings. Seeing your failure and then riding home with it and then tucking it into bed and still telling it you love it because you do and because you have to. It’s yours, after all.

So, I have this feeling of “Whoa.” now that the small-ish tree is up and those kids are finally in bed and I don’t have to face my failure again until tomorrow morning.

And for anyone reading this thinking, “Stop being so hard on yourself!”, please know that I’m not disappointed with how things are going. This is where you say, “What?” No really, I’m actually quite pleased with the empty fridge and the little bit of growing pains/attitude from the small person I sometimes want to strangle.

It’s all so fantastic and awful all at once. I know she won’t remember complaining about the tree and they won’t remember the empty fridge. Shit, they’ll probably even sing my praises to their college roomies, “My mom made her own croutons!” like it was more Pinterest-y than Necessity.

And even with the empty fridge and the sometimes shitty kids, we want for nothing. We have it all. The little house and a lot of love and those crappy moments are so startling because, really, they just aren’t happening enough to become our normal.

The fact that the empty fridge and shitty attitudes still startle me is good. It means we’re mostly not empty and shitty.

And something about that feels so right.





And there you have it.

Balance, the myth and the wonder.

When I was home full-time, my house was a mess. I had days of complete shut-down. I’d be in my pajamas, working constantly and unwilling to work on myself. Showering was optional. The laundry would get done. The chaos would swirl as swiftly as I let it. I was so busy keeping people alive; literally catching children as they jumped off of counters that were too high for them to climb. It was all or nothing. At the end of the day, I’d collapse into a pile of flannel and think about what I’d accomplished. We all lived another day. Success.

I’m at work full-time now. My house is a mess. The laundry trails down stairways, but, my hair looks awesome. I’m working constantly and not showering isn’t an option anymore. I have to look presentable even while my home life resembles ancient ruins. Something resembling organization once happened here. Now, it’s the constant clicking of a clock telling us we’re late…again. We’re always late and it’s bills I find under other neglected mail and they are, for the first time in years, well, what do you know…late. It’s missed doctors appointments and mildew on a shower curtain that I painfully and purposefully ignore; hoping I find some internal well of give-a-shit that loves bleach and the pride that comes after cleaning things.

I’ve been on this hamster wheel for a long time and I’ve begged the universe, internet and friends for answers. Balance…I want it. I need it. It doesn’t fucking exist.

The thing about this whole idea of being everywhere and everything to everyone at the same time OR, the further idea of doing pieces of all of these things in a timely manner and, by the way, exceptionally well is my own personal, pretty unicorn.

It’s like someone once wrote on my brain with permanent marker: “Balance is rewarded to those who try the mostest hardest!” and I’ve been staring at this unkind graffiti for so long that I actually believe it.

Because if I just worked harder or longer or cleaned more efficiently or ate more locally sourced food or gave more of my income to charity or knew more about the political landscape or stopped buying Honey Nut Cheerios or invested in the right pair of jeans for my ass size, I’d be a better person. I’d be a more balanced person.

But, despite the brainffiti, the thing that life and this world keep telling me is that in order to do something, you must give something else up and when you give something up, you can’t be expected to find some sort of suppressed ZEN in doing something you once did really well in a really half assed way. You can’t do all things well because the world gives and takes and perfection must always be denied. Because we’re human and it needs to be this way for us to grow.

I imagine that one day my house will be incredibly clean and I’ll have really nice stoneware. I imagine we’ll travel and eat fancy cheese and maybe one or both of us will have gotten our shit together enough to have a viable retirement plan. I can see this. And, I can also see that my kids will be gone and a part of me will probably really want to see dirty socks trailing down my stairs. But, you can’t have it all. Balance is absurd.

Right now, I just want to figure out how to grocery shop on a Wednesday instead of a Saturday and how to make sure we don’t get down to just one diaper before realizing we’re also out of toilet paper.

It’s just going to have to be chaos and no matter how desperately I look for balance, it’s never going to return my calls.

It would probably call right at dinner and try to sell me something anyway.





“Why I do that?”

There was this PBS documentary mini-series titled: Mormons.  I had to watch it. I was two glasses of wine in and walking the line between buzzed and pretentious buzzed. “Oh yes, a PBS documentary. What else would I watch?” *adjusts imaginary glasses*

Because if you watch a PBS documentary while buzzed, and no one is there to admire your choice in programming, does the tree falling in the middle of an empty forest make a sound?

I argue that of course it still counts when you incorrectly recount the facts of said documentary later that year at holiday parties. It still counts.

And I wondered if I was watching the documentary because I wanted to or because someone once told me that well-rounded people watch documentaries. Honestly, I couldn’t be sure exactly why I was watching it. I couldn’t differentiate between my likes and desires and the desires of “the panel”. I always imagine there is an invisible panel…monitoring the decisions we make. Holding up numbers; grading our performance.

Grilled cheese and carrot sticks for dinner? 4.5

Cereal? 0.9

PBS documentary watching? 7.5

I’ve never medaled in anything.

But this whole idea of why we do things…this has been consistently gnawing at me for a few months. Do I do anything for the pure joy of it? Do I stop and say, “Fuck it! I don’t care that laundry is smothering my will to live. I don’t care that my toilet bowl looks like a Before shot. I don’t fucking care!”

But, I do care. I just don’t know why I care.

So, I’ve been breaking it down. I’ve been thinking, hard, about why and to what benefit and, how this relates to womanhood and personhood and motherhood.

I’ve been mostly considering how it relates to my reign as dictator over these four, small people. It’s not a democracy. They had no choice. It’s just me. I’m the hand they were dealt.

And because my desire to become a mother was so primal, it felt less like a choice than a reckoning. I HAD to be a mother. It wasn’t a choice. It was a calling. My bones told me I had to be one and so, I obliged. You don’t ever say no to your bones.

But, the rest of motherhood doesn’t feel like that. It taunts you because there are no right answers. You don’t feel it “in your bones” when it’s time to talk to them about sex or drugs or toxic friendships. Your bones don’t jump in to help when they tell you they hate you or ask you to stop dancing because the mere idea of you moving makes them want to dig their eyes out with a spoon. Your bones forsake you and then, it’s just YOU and THEM and nobody has the answers (no matter how many organic crackers you bought when they were toddlers).

And they are always asking you “WHY?” as well. Like we have any idea at all.

When my eldest was about 16 months old, she ate her own poop. I walked in and she was in a shit covered room, with a shit filled diaper turned upside down on a shit stained floor. She was in hysterics screaming, “I eat it! WHY I DO THAT?”

My bones didn’t help out then either.

That’s just it, we don’t know “why we do that”.

And we are always looking for answers. Begging for answers. TELL ME THE PARENTING ANSWERS. Fuck it. There are none.

There’s just your toddler eating poop and you wondering if you can bleach your baby and then figuring it out as you go.

There is no why. There are no answers.

Fuck it. You can do laundry tomorrow.

Your bones will help you push the “dry-clean only” comforter into the washing machine.

 

 

 





You may remember me from Walmart.

I’ve never told this story in print. It’s my own version of the (sub)urban legend; that time everything goes stunningly wrong to the point of absurdity.

I’m telling it now because frankly, I can’t remember where I put my keys and, I want my great-great grandchildren to one day sit around a fire-lit room and give thanks that I’ve long since passed and am no longer around to serve as a constant scourge on our lineage.

I was pregnant. I was in Walmart. I was wearing a see-though dress. Hold up, this sounds like the beginning of a country song!

I was pregnant
In the Walmart
Folks saw my panties
Oh the shame
Oh the shame
Ohhhh the shaaaaaaaaaaaame

I’ll get back to those lyrics later.

So, I was pregnant inside of a Walmart. So far, so good. Pretty par for the course. I was in a see-through dress. Well…still not that atypical. I mean, Walmart. BUT, what was atypical about my People of Walmart experience is that I didn’t know my dress was see-through.

AHA! FUN!

I also was wearing my very last pair of underwear because I had been too ill to do laundry. It was an adorable pair of incredibly stretchy boy short undies that I’d bought before I got married. They were black and had giant, white bubble letters printed on the ass that said: I LOVE ROBERT!

So, I’m hobbling through the Walmart proclaiming my ass’s love for Robert when all of a sudden, I feel ill. I mean, really ill; leave the shopping cart full of cheese and Preparation-H in the aisle and run to the bathroom ill. I made it just in time to vomit in a stall with the door wide open….with a baby strapped to my chest.

Oh, I didn’t mention the baby. Right. I had a baby in a pack strapped to my body.

I was pregnant
In a Walmart
Folks saw my panties
I then vomited
In the stall
With my baaaaaaaaaaaa-aaaa-bbbbb-y

This song is getting really good.

I stumbled to the sink, rinsed out my mouth, re-adjusted my baby and went back to my cart.

Then, people started to stare. I must have really looked ill. I can only image. Thankfully, I didn’t need to imagine for long. I passed a mirror in the Home Goods section. My neck was bleeding – blood was all over my neck and my baby’s hand. Apparently, while I was vomiting, she’d scratched a mole on my neck.

To recap: I was pregnant, carrying a baby with a bloody hand. I had blood dripping down my neck. I had just vomited. My ass loves Robert and everyone knows it. This is all happening in Walmart. We all on the same page?

Good.

I ran back to the same bathroom and cleaned off my neck. Nothing else could possibly go wrong now.

Oh, what a silly woman I am.

At check-out, the young cashier seemed very uncomfortable. I chalked it up to breath. I realized she’d probably seen worse. I was still feeling pretty good about myself until she said, “Ma’am, your…ummm…dress.”

I looked down and one breast was hanging out. A complete breast. At some point between blood clean-up and check out, my baby had pulled down one side of my dress. How long had I been walking around with an exposed breast? Some of life’s mysteries are better left unanswered.

I fixed my dress, mumbled something about the day I was having and sauntered off letting her and everyone get one last look at my Robert lovin’ ass.

I arrived back at my sister-in-law’s house. As I relayed this story she said, “Do you know your dress is completely see-through?” and I laughed and said, “Yeah right. That’s hilarious.” and she said, “No. Really. I can see your underwear.” and it was at this moment that I realized that not only was I eligible for the People of Walmart website, I was the People of Walmart President. You can call me Madame President, thank you very much.

I was pregnant
The day my baby
Scratched my neck mole
And I puked in a public restroom
STAAAAAAAhhhhhhL
Then my boob, it was out
While I wandered about
And my rear
Told the secrets of my heart

I was pregnant
In a Walmart
I had hemorrhoids
My baby
Made me bleed
In the aisles
It wouldn’t be so bad
If I had just stayed in bed
Now I’m President
Of People of Walmart

Ok guys, is this good enough to sing now?

Until next time, you’ve never shown your panties in a Walmart and you’re a lady goddammit.

Yours until the end of time,
Bad Parenting Moments





Give up a little.

I’m going to talk a bit about marriage. If you haven’t started rolling your eyes yet, just give me 2 minutes. Hang in there.

My husband and I are entering our 10th year of marriage. It does not get easier. It’s a little like the sand in the bottom of your shoes at the end of a beach day. Persistent and sometimes annoying and mostly, a lovely reminder of that great day at the beach.

And then there’s the changing. No one is ever done changing. As Michelangelo said at age 87, “Ancora imparo. [I am still learning.]”

We were 25 and 32.

We are now 35 and almost 42.

A lot of learning happens. A lot of changing happens. And yet, we’re still here.

The thing about binding yourself in perpetuity to another is really the whole permanence of it. Our generation is not one of sticking. We are into growing and changing. We are into development. We are into our kids; epically into our kids. We are not so much into ourselves. We are not so much into each other. Therefore, we stick like those craft googly eyes to yarn – not very well.

Many of our parents divorced. Hey, we all turned out alright. And, we did. It’s true. We turned to Annie and The Neverending Story and E.T. – the real-life stories of broken homes healed us. We found a way to be resilient. And it worked because our parents were happier apart than they were together. We learned that if you cannot be happy in your own skin, you should never inhabit the skin of another.

And like elephants, we remember.

Marriage is hard. It’s give and take and mostly, it feels like you’re the one doing all the giving. Of course, both parties feel this way. It’s love and unrequited love and both parties take turns feeling the pangs of rejection. It’s the day-to-day with small children and nights when you want to talk, but, then sleep wins. Because sleep always wins.

It’s sex and no sex and not enough sex. The sex, it matters.

And it’s hard. And, it’s wonderful. And, it’s fucking hard.

Then, there are times when you come to a cross-road. It’s not about one thing. It’s about all things. You look at that face you know so well and wonder if you really know it at all. You do a lot of wondering…

The changing is happening every moment. You have very little control over how you change and how you grow. You just do and you expect the people you love to come with you.

Sometimes, they don’t. But, sometimes…they insist upon it.

I’ve only packed a bag once and I meant it.

And yet, we’re still here.

It’s not perfect and it never will be, but, it’s really quite beautiful in its difficulty.

My husband and I had a stand-off last week; a This Is Who I Am vs. I May Not Like Who You Are Becoming. It was intense and there was no give.

And then, there was give. Because someone gives instead of giving up. It’s part of the growing. It’s not all synchronized swimming. It’s bloody knees and stopping to help each other back up.

This is my marriage. It’s ugly and beautiful and hard and ultimately, perfect.

But, it’s never easy.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.





Mercury is in retrograde.

Every time someone tells me that Mercury is in retrograde, I wonder what I should be feeling. We are always looking for simple answers for our big emotions. We don’t want to feel them. We want to explain them and tuck them into neat boxes to be filed away later by an overzealous intern.

“Ahhhh yes, you’re feeling longing? File that under Mercury in retrograde.”

It’s just what we do. We want the illusion of order and the simplicity of categorization. When we are ill, we want medicine. When we feel big things, we want structure.

Feelings are chaos. We don’t like chaos. We’ve been told time and time again that chaos is bad. BAD chaos, BAD.

So the big things and the ugly things often get pushed under the beautiful area rugs in our mind. If it doesn’t fit, you must hide that shit.

I’m done with that part.

It was the end of the year at my new job. Students were leaving. Staff were leaving. There was exit and newness swimming in the air. There were tears and the emptying of desks and the changing of the guard. It was heavy on everyone’s shoulders.

Watching the timid steps of small feet mourning the loss of a teacher they loved or a desk they’d just grown used to. Or, the holding on so tightly to a woman who has put band-aids on their knees for over 7 years. Just another day. We weave in and out of each other’s lives.

It’s not seamless, but, we want it to be. We put our heads down when we cry. We wait until the last moments to wear our big feelings on our faces. We wait for an embrace before the flood gates open and we turn our insides out.

We are so ashamed of our sadness. We are so angered by our longing.

We wait until the last of all moments to say, “Thank you!” and, “I love you.” and, “I’m sorry.” and, “I’ll miss you.”

I watched the students linger in the hallways; holding papers and books close and tight to their chests. It was as if they were sure that if they moved their protective shields, their bare hearts would be exposed.

And I watched all of this unfold marveling at how much we all just need each other and how much we try to fight it.

Mercury may be in retrograde, but, that’s not why our bare hearts are hanging out.

I love you. I’m sorry. I’ll miss you. Thank you.

I’m not waiting until the bitter end to say it.





I dreamed a dream.

Every time I meet a woman, we go over the basic 4:

What is your name?
What do you do?
Are you in a relationship?
Do you have children?

Inevitably, if they have children, we sink into a warm bath of camaraderie. Thank God, we speak the same language.

It’s the silk blouse of a woman’s pant suit and it’s also Eve’s apple – the full implication of guilt, knowing we connect ourselves to others by only the idea of who we are.

We are mothers.

And that means we do things like pretend that is all we are.

It’s easier for conversation.

I met this incredibly intense and interesting woman and I was drawn to her. And, when gifted with a lobster BLT and all of the time in the world, I still drew back to something in common. I started talking about my son’s inability to wipe himself and my feigned disgust – because, as a mother, there is nothing truly disgusting about “the cling”. We loathe it and embrace it so fully that we are nothing short of comical. GROW, but also, never leave. We are insane.

So, we are talking about ass wiping and I realize…my God, I am “that woman”.

I actually have thoughts outside of my maternal realm. But, it’s hard to step outside of that box. We paint our Motherhood on our bodies so completely that, by the end of every day, as much as we rail against the idea of, “I am not ONLY a mother.” (And, by the way, how fucking dare you for even implying it!), we are just that – in thought, word and deed.

And, it must be true because when a beautiful, intelligent woman corners me into conversation, I… talk about wiping asses.

So, I invited her over for processed cheese because that is what one does when forced with being authentic. You can only offer up the least real part of yourself as tribute. “I eat processed cheese. It’s not even food. Hence, I have shown you my weakness.” and then you hopefully talk about shit other than wiping your 6 year old’s ass.

I dreamed the dream. *cue starving (yet very humble) Les Mis understudies*

I made a pact with myself for Tuesday. We will not once talk about our children. We will talk about failed romance and drinking too much and the sight of our thighs in those fucking, god awful Target mirrors or a million other things. But, I have sworn to not talk about my kids. We have more to say to each other.

SHIT.

We must have so much more to say to each other.

Here’s to mold breaking and “processed cheese product”.





Karma chameleon

My grandmother was a firm believer in the idea that what was going around was definitely coming back around; to the point that decision-making left me worried. But, she always had a way of flushing out fear by making absolutely everything an adventure – even dark, corner diner booths. We always ordered the Monte Cristo. Sometimes, we’d have a view of the attached bar. She would point out the happy umbrellas dancing in the drinks instead of the sad people drinking the drinks. It was her way. She could melt even the saddest sod into a pool of happy.

She believed in “juju” like I grew to believe in well-tailored pants. They could do anything. Make a believer out of the most well-spoken skeptic. Karma holds its own special magic.

We learned that with enough of the good juju, you could pull rabbits out of hats or meals together with an empty fridge and seats and parking spaces were always available to those who tipped well.

It wasn’t just the act of being polite…it was her code of ethics and she insisted you pay in kindness, conversation with the sad, dollars for the people in need right in front of you or good intentions. Every bridge had a toll. And if you were selfish, you paid the toll. If you were disingenuous, you paid the toll. You paid what you could in spades because “the juju” would find you.

That was the bit of self preserving selfish that taught us empathy when we weren’t quite old enough to understand it. You didn’t have to feel it at first, but, eventually, you would.

And 6 and 7 and 8 held no empathy. It was duty. Duty to “the juju”.

But, at 9 and 10 and 11 and 12, the duty turned to service and service turned to something old, something new, something borrowed and something…

Juju.

Juju is harder to teach now because she is gone and I lack her ability to tell a story. I write and she lived the words and lived loudly out in the world.

She never met a stranger. She was the master of juju, spreading light and beautiful little bits of herself everywhere she went. She went a lot of places. She garnered a whole lot of juju.

This Spring, I started my Call to Juju 2014 while my wary children snarfed and heckled from the sidelines. Right now, for them, it’s purely cause and effect. If A, then possibly B. And, if B is a solid and immediate karma gold for them, the juju lightbulb goes off with an audible cartoon *DING*.

For me though, the call to my grandmother’s juju is about living the joy of your actions even when joy is a hidey-hiding-hidden bitch. Because if you offer yourself up, you open yourself to the world’s juju and I think, a lot of it is already there waiting: the universe has been so sprinkled with the juju of the people who came before.

Long live joy. Long live good juju. I miss you, Grandma.





Just like riding a bike.

I sat on this very absorbent couch – my feet barely on the ground and this stranger across from me asked incredibly personal questions. We spoke unencumbered and without pretense because she is bound to me through weekly billing cycles and confidentiality. I immediately trust her understanding of our contractual obligations. Like a friendship should feel, but, with more paperwork and legal binding. Safer.

My shoulders are generally up. My arms are generally crossed, but, after 5 minutes I give up and surrender myself deeper into the flesh eating couch. I consider moving in.

I think we could talk forever, but, then she hits me with the series of social questions and I clench my hands. I explain that I’m a terrible friend. I explain that reaching out is hard. Trust is hard. Being friendly is not hard, though. I generally and truly love people. She nods. I look to the right. She keeps looking at the space that moments ago held my gaze.

This is apparently hard for lots of people.

Somehow, that’s not reassuring, but, she is at least reassuring.

And when we start to dip toes into that sea, I suddenly worry about the inevitable undertow and the imaginary sharks. There isn’t enough time. I can count on 2 hands the people I trust and 4 of them came out of my body. One gave me the people that came out of my body. That leaves 5…it sounds like a lot. It doesn’t feel like a lot. Most of them are so far away.

I start to gesticulate wildly – overcompensating verbally for my social failings. She smiles. I realize she may be waiting for a break in my monologue to speak.

I stop short. I look at the clock. I look at her. I say, “I’m not good at this.”

She says, “Ok.”

She says, “Do you want to be?”

I say, “I don’t know.”

She says, “Ok.”

The truth is, if not for my kids, I’d be fairly content living a life with minimal adult interaction. I like people just fine. They are incredibly fun to watch. It’s just that…well, I like them most from a safe distance.

I’ve had more than enough experience to know that it doesn’t always end well.

But, that doesn’t mean that I should opt-out of trying. Except I have. And I’m getting ok with that.

The brain like its deep, well-traveled paths. Having to re-learn sounds difficult. Being vulnerable anywhere other than on paper sounds impossible.

Today I leaned down to help my newly turned 4-year-old with some sneakers. She’s a big kid now. She wants laces to commemorate her transition. She sat on my lap with her still small head nestled into the space between my neck and chin. I held up her foot and rested it on my knee.

“You grab the laces and you bring them all the way up. You put one under the other and pull them apart. It makes the beginning of your bow! We’re ready to tie!”

She said, “I can’t do this. It is too hard!”

I said, “You just have to practice. You practice until it doesn’t seem so hard after all.”

She looked at my warily.

Trust me, baby. I understand.





Hair!

I walked in my bathroom this morning and a strange man was lurking there. I said, “Sir, who are you and how the hell did you get in my house?”

I was looking at myself in the mirror. I have a mustache.

I can’t exactly pinpoint when I started morphing into a bear, but, it’s happening and I’m worried that I’m now on some sort of grooming hell fast track. Is all of the postpartum hair I lost going to reappear spontaneously and with interest and, not on my head?

I got as close to the mirror as possible to survey my upper lip thinking that Tom Selleck would have been jealous. What I lack in sex appeal, I make up for in impressive lip hair volume. Size does matter ladies, especially when it looks like a family of woolly bear caterpillars colonized on your face.

I was panicked. I stood there, forehead pressed against the mirror going over every inane bit of hair removal advice I had ever heard. I pulled deep into my soul and remembered the hushed whispers of female relatives after dinner and their third Wild Turkey on the rocks.

1) I must NEVER shave it or it will grow back thicker and darker.

2) I must never wax it or I will damage the delicate skin above the lip. I would end up with scars or wrinkles or scurvy.

I can’t remember all the details. I was 8 and hiding under a coffee table, ok?

I suddenly realized that my drunk relatives had this all wrong because I have a mustache. ON MY FACE. I think we can all agree that, removal method preferences aside, something must be done. And quickly before I surrender and buy sculpting wax and start auditioning for civil war battle reenactments.

While I played the world’s most frightening game of “What if…” in my mind, I decided to shower. I took off my clothes and..WHAT THE EVER LOVING FOLLICLE was that?

I have hair. On my nipples.

You have got to be kidding me.

How long was I playing the role of Chewbacca in the bedroom and why didn’t my husband ever tell me? I suddenly questioned our entire marriage. If he wasn’t telling me that I looked like Planet of the Apes in a bra, how could I trust him with anything.

Sinking into a pit of desphair (see what I did there?), I knew what had to be done.

Walmart. With my 6 year old.

We stood in the shaving and hair removal aisle while he shouted, “Why do you need to look at so many things in this aisle? You already have razors. What is this thing? What does W-A-X spell? Why does that lady have something on her face? Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?”

I had to get out of there so I bought one of everything. I will probably have to use them all to make a dent.

Sinking even deeper still into my pit of desphair, I knew what had to be done.

The liquor store. With my 6 year old.

Now armed with vodka and enough hair removal products to effectively war against a livid nation of Wildebeest, I am finally ready to tame the mane.

Of the stages of grief, I think I’ve made it to acceptance. Make yourself useful and hand me that weed whacker.

Until next time, this is Bad Parenting Moments hoping you don’t mistake yourself for a male intruder in your own home.

I'm on the Faculty! I can't wait to meet you.

I’m on the Faculty! I can’t wait to meet you.