My tiny human is 3 months old, finally. I was hoping she would get easier, and there have been some great moments of ease, but for the most part she is still the life sucking leech she has been since day one. Adorable, evil little demon child wanting to literally suck the everlasting life out of me through my breasts.
I am dying, and I chose yoga pants as my outfit of choice for the demise. At one point I had gotten comfortable with the idea of jeans, and then I realized that Mother Law requires that your ass crack hang out at all times, and not even the tightest belt will help it.
Being a stay at home mom does have it’s rewards. I get to see all of the milestones my children reach. I don’t have to look nice, hell I probably wouldn’t shower if it weren’t for the looks my husband gives me on a daily basis. I also get to at like a two year old all the time (who doesn’t want to roar like a dinosaur in the backyard for hours on end?)
But, there are a lot of things that just generally suck when it comes to being a stay at home mom.
Friends? Does Barbie count as a friend? I moved down to Boise, and went straight to stay at home motherhood. It is hard to find friends when you don’t ever leave your house except to go to the grocery store and Hobby Lobby. I did make friends at Hobby Lobby once, and I danced in my car like my fourth grade self was just invited backstage to meet N*Sync. I do have friends, I am not some crazy cat lady, but said friends all live a million miles away, or don’t understand the concept of children. What do you mean you can’t have a shot with us at the bar? Can’t you just put a pile of cereal in the car and just lock them in there for a little while? Not a real suggestion, but you get the idea.
I am a human wipe. Everything from boogers to curdled spit up. You name it, it’s probably been wiped on my shirt, or my arm, or rubbed into my pant leg. The dog puked up God knows what all over the carpet? Yeah, it’s been wiped on me.
I have a new language. I normally curse like drunken sailor, but since the Monster has reached an age of comprehension, yelling “Mother Theresa’s Titties” when I stub my toe has become frowned upon. The day my child ran into the living room shouting “Mommy my toy fuckin’ broke damnit!”, Alex gave me the no go on swearing. So I now say the most ridiculous shit when I feel the urge to swear. Biscuit snatching monkeys. Darn it all the Candyland. Poop on a popsicle. And common household items have the weirdest names in our home. Monsters are ‘cary pookies’. Sippy cups are ‘tippies’. Diapers are ‘dippers’. The list could go on…
Cleaning is my job. This one blows, but it has become common knowledge for me that sitting on the couch all day drinking vodka and letting the children destroy the house is unacceptable. Alex works 12 hour nights, and the last thing he wants to do when he wakes up is search the house for dirty underwear, diapers, and toys galore. And avoiding the cleaning only means there will be more cleaning for myself since no one else could do it.
Privacy? There is no such thing as privacy. My daughter asks to watch me poop on a daily basis, I can’t even shower without having her comment on my “big butt”. Although, I think working or stay at home, being a parent is automatically losing your privacy. I realized this when I had 7 people staring at my vagina birthing out my first Monster.
I am not a chef. And my child is the most judgmental food connoisseur I know. I have only just recently learned how to cook more than tacos and mac n cheese in the last few years, and my child just wants to insult my every meal. It’s already a task having to think of a meal to cook for every night of the week, and I almost daily Google the different delivery places in our area, but have resisted the urge for the most part. Then add in to the fact that the Monster hates everything but chicken, breakfast sausage and McDonald’s fries makes cooking impossible. I have just begun telling her that every meat is either chicken or sausage, and did that help? Let’s just say I have the best fed dog on the block.
Laundry. Laundry. More laundry. Why has no one invented disposable clothing? I would totally wear garbage bags if it meant I didn’t have to do laundry. Then I made the genius decision to cloth diaper my tiny human. I think I just subliminally chose to torture myself in the form of piss and shit.