I **know** one day when all the kids are grown and off living their lives outside of my house I’m going to be sad, like “oh remember when I used to find dirty kid socks tucked in my recliner?” But today is not that day. Not after the 568th time of telling them not to leave their things out or the tiny dinosaur dog will shred them to pieces. #momlife

Can someone please please please invent something for parents of teenagers that we can tap into, like a fountain of youth, but spews patience instead? It should have a sign that reads “free for your needs of today, take as much or as little as you need so that you do not, in fact, kill your teenagers”. That would be a lovely public service. Maybe farmers could help. We could grow it, liquefy it, burn it, I don’t care. All I know is that I have reached the point of numb. I feel like if my biggest failure today is that I didn’t get the kids to bed on time, then I am a-ok, mom of the day.

From the time they are violently shoved or pulled from your womb, it seems as though they are on a mission to kill themselves. Seriously, SIDS – forget it, you don’t even know or have a heads up, it’s terrifying. The only time they do sleep, you are checking every 10 seconds to make sure they are breathing until they are 12-18 months old! Then there’s crawling. Let’s scrape our tender bodies across everything imaginable and wonder if they didn’t get scratched or rug burnt, hopefully they didn’t pick up e-coli or MRSA off the freakin ground. AND the choking hazards, let’s be honest, I choke on my own spit all the time, imagine if I had to worry about tiny legos too. They put everything in their mouths. Life is a hazardous highway, my friends.

Then there’s walking… don’t even mention stairs… I don’t care how many gates you put up, if it is more than you and that baby in the house, that baby is going down those stairs with a wing and a prayer and also in slo-mo… more than once. It’s a miracle my youngest doesn’t have brain damage and or a gumby body from as many times as she hit the one-way ride to the less than forgiving front entry way of our house. Not a thing you could do but watch… in slo-mo. Don’t forget, there’s the ramming their heads into everything because it’s so heavy, it leads their steps and acts like a bouncer at a bar removing or destroying itself or walls and tables. You always think that everyone else is certain that CPS is following you, or that they should be because of the black and blue goose-egg lumps everywhere, when in reality, I removed all the possible tables, side tables, padded the ones that can’t be removed (fireplace) and sat on the floor ready to catch my kids at a moments notice, only to be shit-can surprised when your baby falls opposite you and slams their head into the fancy glider rocker base because their big ass head moved the seat part out of the way on the way down to tripville.

Then they get reaaalllly good at walking and can somewhat outrun your exhausted ass and WHAT DO THEY DO WITH THAT NEW POWER? That’s right. They run into the street. See? They are really trying to kill themselves at all times. I respect their lack of fear when they just run into the pool with no cares in the world and also no fucking floaties – HELLO. It aged me quite a bit, all of this, and they aren’t even in school yet. Dreading and waiting for phone calls from teachers or administration on how much of a shit your kid was for the day. Shit de jour, that’s what those phone calls feel like. Or the really good ones where they tell you that your child used a very racist word towards another child, that’s awesome. Your child went to a private montessori school and therefore did not learn the “N” word and all of its representations in his world. His friends are calling each other that on the basketball court before and after school and now you have to teach them that it’s okay for them to say it to each other, but is NEVER okay for a white boy to say it. He truly doesn’t understand because why would he? He wasn’t raised during that period in time, neither were we, and his parents are friends with many colors, genders, essentially people-are-people in his home.

So you do all of this to protect them from killing themselves or getting themselves beat up, and.then.they.become.teenagers and the tables turn and you want to kill them. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t ACTUALLY want to kill teenagers. That is wrong and also against the law. Nobody wants to go to jail here. I’m just saying you feel like you might want to kill them some days because you can’t for the life of figure out how you raised this precious, beautiful child that came from your loins of love, into a selfish, self serving, s

Can someone please please please invent something for parents of teenagers that we can tap into, like a fountain of youth, but spews patience instead? It should have a sign that reads “free for your needs of today, take as much or as little as you need so that you do not, in fact, kill your teenagers”. That would be a lovely public service. Maybe farmers could help. We could grow it, liquefy it, burn it, I don’t care. All I know is that I have reached the point of numb. I feel like if my biggest failure today is that I didn’t get the kids to bed on time, then I am a-ok, mom of the day.

From the time they are violently shoved or pulled from your womb, it seems as though they are on a mission to kill themselves. Seriously, SIDS – forget it, you don’t even know or have a heads up, it’s terrifying. The only time they do sleep, you are checking every 10 seconds to make sure they are breathing until they are 12-18 months old! Then there’s crawling. Let’s scrape our tender bodies across everything imaginable and wonder if they didn’t get scratched or rug burnt, hopefully they didn’t pick up e-coli or MRSA off the freakin ground. AND the choking hazards, let’s be honest, I choke on my own spit all the time, imagine if I had to worry about tiny legos too. They put everything in their mouths. Life is a hazardous highway, my friends.

Then there’s walking… don’t even mention stairs… I don’t care how many gates you put up, if it is more than you and that baby in the house, that baby is going down those stairs with a wing and a prayer and also in slo-mo… more than once. It’s a miracle my youngest doesn’t have brain damage and or a gumby body from as many times as she hit the one-way ride to the less than forgiving front entry way of our house. Not a thing you could do but watch… in slo-mo. Don’t forget, there’s the ramming their heads into everything because it’s so heavy, it leads their steps and acts like a bouncer at a bar removing or destroying itself or walls and tables. You always think that everyone else is certain that CPS is following you, or that they should be because of the black and blue goose-egg lumps everywhere, when in reality, I removed all the possible tables, side tables, padded the ones that can’t be removed (fireplace) and sat on the floor ready to catch my kids at a moment’s notice, only to be shit-can surprised when your baby falls opposite you and slams their head into the fancy glider rocker base because their big ass head moved the seat part out of the way on the way down to tripville.

Then they get reaaalllly good at walking and can somewhat outrun your exhausted ass and WHAT DO THEY DO WITH THAT NEW POWER? That’s right. They run into the street. See? They are really trying to kill themselves at all times. I respect their lack of fear when they just run into the pool with no cares in the world and also no floaties – HELLO. It aged me quite a bit, all of this, and they aren’t even in school yet. Dreading and waiting for phone calls from teachers or administration on how much of a shit your kid was for the day. Shit de jour, that’s what those phone calls feel like. Or the really good ones where they tell you that your child used a very racist word towards another child, that’s awesome. Your child went to a private montessori school and therefore did not learn the “N” word and all of its representations in his world. His friends are calling each other that on the basketball court before and after school and now you have to teach them that it’s okay for them to say it to each other, but is NEVER okay for a white boy to say it. He truly doesn’t understand because why would he? He wasn’t raised during that period in time, neither were we, and his parents are friends with many colors, genders, essentially people-are-people in his home.

So you do all of this to protect them from killing themselves or getting themselves beat up, and.then.they.become.teenagers and the tables turn and you want to kill them. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t ACTUALLY want to kill teenagers. That is wrong and also against the law. Nobody wants to go to jail here. I’m just saying you feel like you might want to kill them some days because you can’t for the life of figure out how you raised this precious, beautiful child that came from your loins of love, into a selfish, self-serving, super messy, not forward thinking, tricking, lying, mela-dramatic, hormonal stealing shithead. I mean, “where did I go wrong” and “I’ve failed as a mother” enter my head at least once or twice a day, on a GOOD day! I love my friends and I love their posts about their little scholarly angels of God feeding the homeless and making the super-duper honor roll, like might have half of college done when they graduate high school, honor roll genius’. But that’s not my little situation I have got going on here. I am proud of them but on some days, man, I really want to scream “LIFE IS NOT THAT PINTEREST PERFECT BITCH, I KNOW YOU ARE LYING YOUR ASS OFF”. But I don’t, because I’m not a hater. I just go back to my little angels, with all the patience I can muster from my hemorrhoid-laden ass (that unpleasantry also came from birthing my sweet little stockings of joy) and say nice things to them before bed, slowly nudging them towards sleepy time like a snail racing a Camaro. I become numb with the procrastination of every single thing that must be done before they nighty night for the night. I pray to the dear baby Jesus that he grant me the patience to complete this last step of the day with my little love muffins without incident. I wish upon a star for a fountain of patience to renew me for the next day, to do it alllll ovvvvveerrrr again. And this kids, is why mommy <INSERT COPING VICE HERE> (DRINKS, RUNS A MILE, DRIVES AIMLESSLY FOR HOURS) – pick your calm and serenity poison of preference really, it is whatever mommy has to do to stay sane for today and also for tomorrow. We need a patience potion, STAT. And also, we need to stop with highlight reel on our social medias. Nobody is fooling anybody. Get real, people love real life and honesty because that is what makes us human, that’s what makes us the same and ultimately sane because we can relate and help each other.

Sleepovers are super cute. I remember making some great memories at sleepovers. That’s a lie. No I don’t. You know why? Because no one sleeps at sleepovers. They might as well call them awake-as-fuck-overs and eat-all-the-sugars-all-at-once-times. And when you don’t sleep, I believe some science says somewhere that your brain doesn’t file shit correctly, especially affecting short and long term memory so no wonder I don’t remember shit. I.hate.sleepovers.

Occasionally I cave and put on my mom-host-big-grandma-panties and let the kids have friends stay, but I am on them like flies on shit to go to bed. But seriously, do they really go to sleep the first, third or seventeenth time you tell them? Nope. If I didn’t think they’d freak out and tell their parents, I might even play Go The Fuck to Sleep narrated by Samuel L. Jackson. But most parents don’t really know me all that well. The ones that do would laugh their asses off, but the others might not get me. That’s just too much explaining. I’m the introverted extrovert or whatever that fancy new phrase is. All that talking is not necessary. Plus my kids are getting to that age where they may or may not stop talking to me one day for capturing their lives the way I do. Thing is, one day they will love these stories about their lives, our lives, my life and my perspective. They may think I’m cool one day when I’m not just MOM. But for now, it’s one of the only things I look forward to, teaching them about life and then one day about me. I will keep on the anti-sleepover bus as long as I can with the occasional exception, but man, they are such  a-holes the next day. It’s like someone took your kid and dipped them in hatorade, gave them little emotional daggers and grenades and then brought them to the edge of your last fucking nerve and left them there to tap dance. Seriously, f*** sleepovers.