Do you ever grow tired of being the one who’s supposed to know?

by renegademama

Being a parent is a truly ridiculous task. Let’s think about this for a moment: Everyone is a jackass. Everyone has major, seemingly irreversible character flaws that land us in jail at worst, in hot water with other humans at best. Nobody knows what the fuck they’re doing, and then we’re handed a tiny human who the world has decided we are totally and completely responsible for turning into a sparkling gem of humanity.

And of course, this is mostly on mothers. Let’s be real. What do we say to asshole trolls online spewing nonsensical vitriol in grammatically incorrect comments?

“What? Did your mother not love you properly?”

Sure, we’re joking. But are we fucking joking?

What do we blame for men who rape? BAD MOTHERING. “Oh, he must have been abused by his mother.” “Oh, his mother must not have loved him and now he hates women.”

Kids who shoot up schools? Bad mothers.

Kids with bad manners? Bad mothers.

Overall, nondescript assholes? Bad mothers.

I asked my husband, and he can’t recall a time when he read in a men’s website, Instagram feed, or other male-dominated platform a meme in neutral colors saying something like, “Everything a child becomes is based on a mother’s love.”

I HAVE SEEN TWELVE IN THE LAST WEEK.

“Oh, fathers, it goes so fast. Enjoy every moment.”

“Hey Dads, you become the voices in your children’s heads.”

Nah, we just get excited when they bathe a baby or brush a kid’s hair – How devoted! How amazing!

Meanwhile, we shred mothers for not balancing work, the rearing of a child’s body, heart, and mind, household cleanliness and organization, no paid maternity leave, diminishing rights over our own bodies and increasing maternal death rates – we shred mothers for not doing all that with a goddamn smile in size 6 jeans.

Actually, size 6 is probably plus-sized among the ones who make those sorts of decisions.

Why the fuck is this all my job? And more importantly, when did we start believing we are cut out for such a thing anyway?

 

Today, I am tired of being the one who’s supposed to know. I am tired of being the one who can’t fuck up lest I ruin the inner children of my children, resulting in the type of people who yell at the checkout guy at Target because shit is priced too high.

I am tired of love not being enough. Of adoration and devotion and deep, deep longing for safety and serenity for my children – of that not erasing my penchant for yelling, impatience – and my indescribable need for solitude and silence.

I don’t know how to help all my kids. I don’t know how to surrender to my inability to help them.

I don’t know how to save them from themselves. I don’t know how to save them from me.

I look at their faces and I want the answers. I want to say just the right thing to set them free, and teach them truth, and help their little souls become what god or the universe meant for them to become. They feel like diamonds on loan from the cosmos. No, fuck diamonds.

Like planets that fit in my pocket.

Like whole universes and stars and gravity. Massive, ridiculous things.

And me, this tiny ball of bones and skin, standing before them and chattering on with nothing more than my own mistakes to guide them, my own fighting attempts for serenity, meaning, peace.

I know a few things. I know what honesty looks like. I know what the truth is. I know how to work hard and keep working even when you can’t. I know what loss is, what shattering grief feels like, and how fast people depart this earth.

I know what love is, that it’s built, not found, and I know we fuck it up, and hurt each other in spite of it.

I know it’s best never to leave angry. I know the fights are rarely worth it but we do it anyway. I know lasting friends are rare and sometimes, they leave too.

But I don’t know how to save my children from themselves, to wrap them in protection from their own demons, to show them how to see what their young eyes cannot yet see, what life may have to teach them through the serious of mistakes and gut-punches it offers.

And I’m tired. I’m tired of looking into myself to find just the right action, just the right words, the perfect ball of brilliance to illuminate, teach, and heal.

I’m tired of looking in and finding just me.

It’s too much, you know, what they expect of us. It’s too much to think we can do it. People pretend they can. I’ve noticed they generally have the most fucked up kids of all.

So here I am, kids. Your mother.

I think of my own mother. So desperately imperfect. So cracked in places I thought as a teenager would destroy me.

The other day I started a fight with her. I was a real asshole. The next day, I called, and she asked me out to lunch, and I cried actual tears when I said, “Yes, please, Mom. I want a do-over. I want to do that night again.” I felt like a child.

And she said, “Of course, honey.” And I thought I had never felt more loved than in that very moment.

I suppose at the last, that is what we mothers have for our children – the chance for a do-over, the chance to try again, to love through our sins, and theirs. To be loved in spite of them, even, and show up again, when nobody else does, until the tables turn and we are in their arms, asking for a final, meaningful goodbye.

Until then, we try.

I can’t always be the one who knows. I am not. But I can be the one to love you.

I’m here for the do-overs, kid. Take my hand.

 

***

TWO WEEKS FROM TODAY, MY BOOK DROPS INTO THE WORLD! 

Preorder it now to have it May 1

And make sure you email me a copy of your confirmation so I can send you a cut chapter called “I Can’t Even Be Fat Correctly.” I think you’ll like it.

 

 

 

31 things we all do while thinking we’re the only ones

by renegademama

I’ve been a mother for 16.5 years, and I still do things that shock me, experience things I never thought would happen, and every time they do, I think, “Am I the only one? I bet I’m the only one.”

I know intellectually I’m not. My brain is like, “Obviously, Janelle, you are not the only one. Don’t be silly.”

But my heart seems to ache a little, as if I could avoid mistakes or missteps or outright bad behavior were I a better person. A better mother. A low-grade saint of some sort, perhaps.

So, let’s just clear the damn air here.

And look, maybe you won’t do all these things – although I have because I’m something of an overachiever (don’t be jealous) – but there will come a time when you wonder am I the only one struggling so royally here? And the answer, my friend, is NO, and that is my fucking point here.

Okay fine here we go.

31 things you’ll do as a mother while vaguely suspecting you’re the only one 

  1. You’ll have some bulletproof theory or plan to which you are staunchly devoted. And then you will abandon it. This may be conscious, or you may just forget it one day and be like OH RIGHT I WAS SUPPOSED TO DO THAT.
  2. You will sometimes feed your kids super unhealthy food even though you know better, and when asked, you may low-key lie.
  3. You will swear you won’t co-sleep. And then you will. You will swear you’ll co-sleep and then not. You will swear that devil dust formula shall never touch your baby’s golden tummy, and then you’ll try pumping at work and be like: “Oh fuck this all the way to Christmas” and that formula will transform into manna from heaven.
  4. YOU WILL ADHERE TO A PARENTING PHILOSOPHY WITH ALL YOUR HEART THEN ABANDON THAT SHIT BECAUSE, well, a variety or reasons, really.
  5. You will forget birthday parties and realize your child has to go to school the next day and get reminded of how she missed it. You will make a solemn oath to put that shit in your calendar.
  6. You will put that shit in your calendar and forget anyway.
  7. Your kids will say things so fucked up and disgusting relating to hygiene that you’ll wonder where, truly, you went wrong in their rearing. For example, you may realize your kid doesn’t wipe “because it takes too long.”
  8. You’ll wonder if perhaps you aren’t even raising humans, but instead some weird version of formerly unknown mammal.
  9. You will go to the beach and not bathe the kids for three days and therefore the sand will stay in their hair and they will go through life like that.
  10. You will hook your kids up to television so you can clean the house or have them contained or simply can’t parent today.
  11. You will walk into a room fully intending to clean it, look around, and walk out.
  12. Same with laundry.
  13. You’ll wash the same load 4 times because it keeps mildewing in the washer.
  14. You will make vague, impossible threats.
  15. You will make legitimate threats.
  16. You will fail to follow through on both.
  17. You will cave after establishing legitimate punishments because you fuckin feel bad for some reason.
  18. After doing that a few times, you’ll be like, I really need to follow through on these punishments or my kid will grow up to be an asshole and I’ll lose all credibility and MAYBE THEY ARE ALREADY RUINED.
  19. You will sometimes cave to tantrums even though you know this is a horrid way of parenting. You will do this because the end of the tantrum in that moment is worth more than your child’s overall character.
  20. You will let your toddler scream in Target and not give a shit because you’re too old and tired.
  21. You will probably not tell the truth about how often you feed your kid shit food, cave to tantrums, release yourself from the bonds of parental standards, and/or not follow through on STEADFAST PUNISHMENTS.
  22. You’ll ruin a vacation by fighting with your partner.
  23. You’ll ruin some high-stakes event by yelling or being a nondescript asshole.
  24. You’ll know you are the asshole but find yourself unable to stop.
  25. You’ll say you’re sorry.
  26. You’ll try to be better.
  27. You’ll do it again.
  28. You’ll forget something super major that no way normal mothers forget. For example, the school enrollment deadline. Wait. Is that just me? Seriously. It might be.
  29. You’ll try to make it to two events at once, for a friend and your child, and you will not make it the child’s event, and that event will be your son singing in a school play, and you will walk in the door just as he says his last line, and then you will walk back outside, and cry until you can’t cry anymore, because you let him down and fucked up and knew better.
  30. You will wonder if you’re the only one who could possibly screw up like that.
  31. You will hope you aren’t, and rely on honest friends, and ignore the ones who say I WOULD NEVER.

And I think, at some point, that will almost be enough to convince us.

I forgot one: YOU WILL THREATEN TO ANNIHILATE YOUR KIDS IF THEY DON’T SMILE FOR THE FUCKING GROUP PHOTO, which will totally ruin the holiday moment.

 

***

You know what comes out in 21 days? 
MY MOTHERFUCKING BOOK.

Check it out, and preorder now to have it in your mailbox on May 1:

 

 

 

And don’t forget to email me a copy of your confirmation (to fatcorrectly@gmail.com), or a screenshot, so I can send you the chapter I had to cut called “I Can’t Even Be Fat Correctly.” It was very sad to cut, for obvious reasons.

***

Twenty seven days until this book enters the world. Here’s what readers are saying.

by renegademama

Friends, I AM SO FUCKING EXCITED. My book comes out in 27 days. Twenty-seven of them. Less than a month.

That’s why I haven’t been around much. There is a lot to this “book launch” thing. Who knew?

I have written quite a bit about this memoir – here, on Instagram and Facebook. I even made a video about it. So today, I’m not going to share more of what I think about it. (In case you’re new here, it’s a memoir on motherhood and alcoholism. I am both the mother and the alcoholic.)

Instead, I’m going to share what early readers are saying, because I’ve been waiting for this for, oh, I don’t know, TWO FUCKING YEARS?

You all are the reason I kept writing, or even started, for that matter. Though I didn’t know you existed, I wanted to find you. Your opinions mean more to me than the fancy book reviewers – although, let me take a moment to thank them for the positive reviews, too, because jumping off a bridge sounded like an unfortunate plan. Whew. Dodged that bullet. Am I mixing my metaphors?

It’s fine. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. I am completely stable, a stable genius, even.

Lord help us all.

My point is, we write to connect with people. Well, I do, at least. But writing is a solitary act. I wrote most of my book locked in a motel room with nothing but Thai food and cacao bars and coffee. So you write it alone, and then you put it into the world and pray it will resonate with people. Not everyone on the planet. Just some people, deeply. That’s what I want, at least.

Anyway, here are some excerpts from reviews from readers, and if you need me I’ll be in the corner trippin’ the fuck out in gratitude and relief and – dare we say it? – joy.

“It is delicate at times and raucous at others but it carries us through her journey in a beautiful and heartbreaking way. It is not a self-help book, it is not a good mother’s guide to recovery. It is broken down and raw and searing and at turns it is joyful. It is a glimpse, no, a wide-eyed look into what makes us human…I finished it last week and it hasn’t left me.” – Amy S.

 

“It’s the story of a woman who, despite so many things, managed to pull herself out of the deepest of pits… She tells us things that many would never EVER admit to, and that’s part of what makes this book so heart-wrenching. There have not been many books in my life (if any) that have made me ugly cry, complete with snot running down my face. This book broke through my stony heart and made me feel so many things. The love of family, the desperation and heartbreak of losing them, and somehow finding the strength to change herself for the better.” – Paige

 

 

“With incredibly raw candor and humor, Hanchett takes us through her journey into the cringe-worthy bottom of addiction and back up, where she finds herself still struggling daily, still bored. If you’ve ever gotten to that place you wanted to be (married, dream job, homeowner, whatever) and still found that life is often hard, boring, and contradictory, then this book is for you. This is a story that embraces ambiguity, paradox, and the unknown like nothing I’ve ever read before. – Jen

 

“Janelle Hanchett’s memoir held me hostage while reading because I could not put it down. Housework piled up, my family ate takeout, nothing got done until I turned the last page (and what a last page!) of this heart-wrenching, perspective-altering book. Every chapter tells nothing less than the absolute truth in gorgeous, straight-forward, astonishing prose. Her explorations of her life in addiction, her difficult childhood, and her struggles in motherhood are unflinchingly honest. Many times while reading I thought that this author was seeing right into the heart of me even though our experiences have been very different. This sense of recognition across human experience is, to me, the mark of a highly successful memoir.

In fact, I’m Just Happy to Be Here is one of the finest memoirs I’ve ever read.” – Maureen

 

“Took my breath away… It’s raw. It’s real. Just when you think you know where it’s going, you find out you’re wrong. It’s a bold memoir. Janelle is unflinching and fearless. She stares herself straight in the eye and then generously shares her story with us.” – Sarah

 

“I am in awe after reading this book. Anyone who has read Janelle’s blog has gotten a taste for the irreverent sacredness of this woman’s life and writing. Her blog is fantastic. Her book is even better.” – Katie

 

“It’s so deeply personal, at times I felt like I should look away as she is someone I feel like I know from her blog. It’s also really funny – her perceptions and writing style are smart and wry. I laughed and cried all the way through this book…I keep thinking about it, even though I finished it a week ago. This is one I’ll read again.” – Denise

 

I mean, I can’t speak. It was hard posting this because it feels a bit self-congratulatory – like hey, hi, here is a wall of praise for my writing – but I had to share the words of the people for whom I wrote this book. It means everything to me, and I can’t believe this thing enters the world in 27 days – on May 1. That is no time at all.

If you preorder it now, it will be in your mailbox one month from today. You can do so on Indiebound, Amazon, Barnes & Noble (and other places). You can also request that your local library order it. I would be super grateful.

And, I am very fucking excited to tell you that if you preorder it, or already have, I will send you a full chapter that was tragically cut from the book. 

It’s called “I Can’t Even Be Fat Correctly.”

That’s why it’s tragic. How the fuck does a person cut a chapter called “I can’t even be fat correctly?” I laughed for ten minutes when that shit popped into my mind.

But it didn’t fit. Such is writing. Kill your darlings, et cetera. But I knew it wasn’t going eternally in the trash, and I thought this was a perfect chance to get it to you.

So yes, email a screenshot or confirmation number of your purchase to fatcorrectly@gmail.com (WHAT?!) , and you’ll get that chapter. 

I am, also, of course, encouraging preorders because they really help out authors. So if you’ve been holding off on ordering, I would be infinitely grateful if now is time.

I hope with my whole heart that you like this book as much as the early readers. I cannot thank you enough for your support the past eight years, and I will be posting tour dates (mostly West coast, – I gotta get to NYC DAMNIT), so I hope to meet many of you.

This is all a goddamn dream.

Really fighting the urge to say “I’m just happy to be here.”

DON’T DO IT JANELLE DO NOT.

But it’s true though.

***

PREORDER I’m Just Happy to Be Here now and I’ll do a pole dance in a Facebook live video to a Bon Jovi song.

That was a lie. I’m not doing that.

Nobody wants to see me do that. 

9 Comments | Posted in what the fuck is a writer | April 3, 2018

Why aren’t we talking about parenting teenagers? I’m lost AF.

by renegademama

Can somebody please explain to me why we aren’t supporting the hell out of parents of teenagers?

We have pregnancy groups, newborn groups, baby groups, toddler groups. All the mommy groups. Of course, who knows if those are good for much beyond increasing insecurity and vague shame, but whatever. At least there’s a place to go to meet other parents sitting on the outside of the group wondering what the hell is going on.

There are endless articles and forums – again, most of which are useless – but still, they offer a sense of everyone going through the same shit.

I have a teenager and a near-teenager and I’m going to say something really loud so it’s really clear: Parenting a teenager is the hardest, loneliest, most emotionally trying phase I’ve ever experienced as a mother, and by far puts the biggest strain on my marriage, and our family as a whole.

There. I said it.

And it’s LONELY. Did I mention that? Because there seems to be an expectation or idea that the kid is “already raised,” that they’re “done.” That since they can bathe and dress and feed themselves, parenting them isn’t as difficult as caring for a newborn.

Of course this isn’t Parenting Struggle Olympics, but I have to say, in my experience, newborns don’t have shit on teenagers. Okay, they may literally have shit, and newborns are physically more exhausting, but when it comes to emotional and mental toil, teenagers have proven significantly more trying than those tiny bundles of squishy milk breath.

And here’s why: Setting aside postpartum depression and anxiety, newborns are relatively simple. They’re difficult, but overall, kind of simple. They need clothing, holding, feeding, changing, bathing. It’s an incredible amount of work, but it’s a clean difficulty, a straightforward work, and if we surrender, and stop trying to control the little monsters every waking moment to FIT INTO OUR EXCEL SPREADSHEET OF BABY, we settle into a little groove.

And oh, they offer so much in return, and so immediately: Smiles, coos, new developments every damn week. Baby breath. Chubby thighs. Their little bottoms in the air when they sleep. Omg I want another baby.

And babies, well, they tend to not go for the jugular.

I can’t recall a single time my infant said a thing that touched my deepest insecurity as a parent, a personality trait I’m ashamed of, a real flaw I have that is suddenly being held against me by a human whose cell phone bill I pay for.

I can’t remember a time when my newborn pushed my button so hard I texted her father and said, “I’m kicking your child out of the house today, so say goodbye.”

They are complicated, these teens. They are mercurial things with a sense of what about me that defies all reason. Your whole day can revolve around a teenager’s activities, needs, and wants, and at the end of it, if somebody does something that doesn’t align perfectly with the teen’s idea of what he’s owed, he’ll look at you and scream: YOU DON’T EVEN CARE ABOUT ME and slam the bedroom door.

Leaving you wondering what, exactly, you just did all day if not demonstrating my care for you.

 

Even when they’re in a good mood, they’re a lot. Talking constantly about themselves, or not at all. The former is exhausting. The latter causes great worry that they’re smoking meth under a bridge while selling illegal porn to minors.

Mmmkay.

Teenagers can clear a room in 30 seconds with their attitudes. And about the most immature shit. They look so much like regular humans, but then you see them entitled and arguing with a 7-year-old or toddler or getting pissed because the family movie isn’t the one they wanted and you’re like: Would you please make a decision: Are you 16 or five?

Yes, these teenagers are going to need you like no kid has ever needed you, and they’re going to need you no matter what else you have going on that day, or how badly you need to get out the door, or how many other kids need you.

Sometimes, I spend so much on my teenagers, I have nothing left for my other kids. My husband and I fight. The little kids get forgotten. There’s a lot of guilt there, for me. The teenager tantrums fill the house with a gray, heavy angst. We all feel it.

And then, when you try to point this out to said teenager, they defend themselves with their last breath and just can’t see their own attitude while they roll their eyes and talk to you like a rat the cat just dragged in. It’s dizzying, and you wonder if you seriously fucked up somewhere.

 

But that’s not all, and this is the part that makes the whole thing so excruciating: They are these soaring, powerful creatures who you look at sometimes and cannot believe they’ve grown so strong, so whole, so complete in themselves. You see them standing against a wall, doing nothing, and the way their body holds their fire – you can feel it, the way it fills space in the room, pushes against the world with all the hope and newness and life you once had.

They are your past, and they are your future, and the days are so numbered. A glimpse of your own mortality. A glimpse of what you could have done at their age, when the world was yours to conquer.

The pain I feel looking at my child and knowing she’ll be gone in a couple of years, that the magical “eighteen” is right around the corner, the one I saw when she was a newborn as a distant fantasy that could never possibly come – when I held her in the crook of my arm and she seemed she’d always be mine – yeah, well, it’s almost here.

She’s pulling away, and walking away, and the end is right there.

We text. We talk shit. We send messages to each other on Instagram. She legitimately makes me roar in laughter and beam in pride. These kids are remaking the world. They’re loud, critical, politically informed, and know how to use the motherfucking internet. Their voices are roaring and they will be heard.

And…one of them just screamed at me for requesting they do the dishes.

I don’t know how to parent teenagers. I don’t know how to hold myself up in the face of their scorn – some of which, let’s be real, is valid. It’s a swallowing of my pride when I know they’re right, when they point out my own hypocrisy or irrationality, and I owe it to them to say, alright, you’re right. And I owe it to them to stand my fucking ground when they are wrong, and to try again and again and again and again to address the character flaws in them I know will cause them pain, to smash the entitlement, to teach them to work. To teach them to love. To teach them never to leave the house without saying “I love you.”

This is the complexity that sits in me and I feel alone. To shift from a rage I never knew was possible toward one’s own kid to a sadness so deep my bones ache at the thought of her leaving – once again, nobody prepared me for this shit.

And I suppose that’s really it, what feels so different about this stage: That when they’re newborns, we look ahead and we see so much to come. We see toddlers and preschool and grammar school. We see so much time.

But now, I look ahead and I see an end I never want to arrive. I wonder if it’s already here. I wonder where the time went, beg for it back, and watch her move through the world with a power I recall from when it was mine.

I suppose the answer, again, is in the surrender, and I suppose I’ll find it, again, because there is no choice, and ultimately the mother’s job is in the letting go.

 

a scratched-up photo of my first kid and me, when there was more time

 

*****

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The three-year-old explains how to do mornings without pissing him off

by renegademama

Hey, Mama.

Look, I know you raised three toddlers before me, and I’m sorry it’s come to this – truly, what is wrong with you – but I’ve noticed you really suck at meeting my needs in the morning. I’m a giver, though, so I’m going to tell you how to stop being awful.

I’ve broken this down by topic so your questionable brain can comprehend it better, and you can use it as a sort of reference sheet when you grow confused, which, as far as I can tell, is often.

Waking up:

Thanks for letting me crawl into your bed at 2am to use daddy as a pillow and you as a footrest. I like that. Please don’t wake me up, though. I don’t like that. If you wake me up, I will either be so fucking adorable you could cry, or I’ll behave like a weeping squirrel on methamphetamine.

I like to wake up when I wake up, which is usually 6am, unless you have to be somewhere, in which case I like to sleep longer than I’ve ever slept in the entirety of my life.

Getting dressed:

I like pants with “soft stuff” inside. Nobody knows what that means but me. I hate some clothes, a lot. Which clothes I hate changes daily, but you’ll know if I hate it because when you try to put it on me, I will throw myself onto the ground with my face on the carpet and bottom in the air. This is because your sartorial choices are so awful they cause me physical pain.

Like bowel cramps. That’s why I’m writhing.

Also, the person I want to get me dressed is whoever isn’t available. Daddy is at work, you say? Well, he’s who I want to dress me. Since he’s not around, I will refuse to get dressed.

If not him, I want the teenager who already left for school.

Third-tier choice: The 7-year-old, because at least with her I get to laugh a lot and everything takes nine times longer than it should.

Lot of motion, no progress. That’s the way I like it.

Basically I want anyone in the world other than you to dress me because I hate you and you’re always rushing on account of your shitty planning skills, which aren’t my problem. I hate rushing. I AM THREE.

Brushing my hair:

I will never know who’s fucking idea it was to grow my hair out. What are you? Hippies? Hipsters? You’re almost 40. Pull it together. I hate my hair. I hate that you think you need to brush it. I only like daddy’s beard brush. I can’t believe my father has a beard brush.

The reason I like it is because it’s boar bristle and therefore does absolutely nothing against the wads of dried whatever the fuck is in my hair.

The best thing for you to do would be to NOT TOUCH MY HEAD EVER but look, I’m reasonable, so I’ll settle for an iPad in front of me and unbridled wailing while you attack my head with small, ineffective bristles.

Breakfast:

I hate breakfast, unless you don’t feed me breakfast, in which case I feel starving, downtrodden, and abandoned, even though daycare feeds me breakfast. Once you feed me breakfast, though, I remember I hate it.

So what’s best is that you make me food then let it sit at the table so I can reject it.

Shoes:

I prefer shoes that do not fit the season. In the winter, I like sandals. In the summer, I like rain boots. I’ve observed you’ve gotten on board with the summer rain boots but really hold fast to this “your feet are going to get cold, honey” nonsense.

Fine, I’ll wear closed-toed shoes, but only the pair that has one missing. Oh, you can’t find it? Look harder. I NEED THE ONES THAT ONLY HAVE ONE, Mother. And I need to put them on myself, which I don’t know how to do.

Jackets:

Fuck jackets.

Carseats:

Fuck those too.

Lunches:

I need a lunch like the other kids even though a wonderful woman named Amanda makes me home-cooked lunches every single day and you pay for it. And I need three items in that lunch. If I spot sweets, I need three sweets. You never let me do this. This enrages me. If you would just give me the three sugary items in my lunch, I wouldn’t have to remove the shoes that just took me ninety minutes to put on the wrong feet.

Walking:

Sometimes I will walk to the car or up to the door at daycare. Sometimes I will tell you, “My legs deflated,” and collapse in a pile on the sidewalk.

I ain’t mad. My legs just deflated.

The car ride:

I like to listen to The Greatest Showman soundtrack with my lunch in my lap, or I like to scream about how you fucked up my morning again. There are just so many details you forget. Stick to this reference sheet, JANELLE, and I’ll just sing, okay? I’ll sing show tunes and be the cutest little ratty-headed toddler in the world.

Like God intended.

You’re welcome.

Love,
Arlo

what sort of bullshit you gonna serve up today?

***

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29 Comments | Posted in bitching about the kids I chose to have. | February 28, 2018