Berries: the asshole fruit

Berries. I try to be your friend. I buy you even though your 1,000 times more expensive then a banana, yet you continue to fuck me. My son will go to school with his third Cheetos sandwich this week because you decided to commit suicide 5 minutes after I bought you. Please, try to stay alive long enough to at least get packed in the lunch so Augie has a chance to trade you for more cheetos.

Thanks.

 

 

When you know you should be grateful

Sometimes I love being a stay at home mom. Other times I feel like I can feel my brain ozzing out of head. I know I should be actively working on finishing my masters, so I can go back to work eventually. But it all seems daunting. The idea that I may have to enter a world were other adults exist seems terrifying.  I’m scared I’ve been a SAHM mom so long, I won’t know how to be a normal functioning adult. Being around toddlers all day doesn’t exactly hone your conversational skills. I was at a party recently and I brought up how odd it was Daniel Tigers doesn’t wear pants and instead of killing it with my witty observation, people just stared. Then talked about Syria. Which made me tear up because anytime some brings up Syria, I think of the god awful picture of the toddler on the beach. So that was my contribution: Daniel Tiger’s clothing choices and crying.

I do love my kids and I do know I’m lucky to be home with them. I just get down about my contributions to the world, esp. on days when I’m not crushing it as a mom. I know the answer is to go outside and or study or just turn the damn tv off but it all feels so counter-intuitive. When I just want to be a zombie and scroll facebook and be jealous of all these moms taking their kids to the zoo or the park. I get it: it’s nice out, now kindly fuck off. When I’m down or feeling like a shit mom, going on facebook is my way of emotionally cutting myself. No one ever posts pictures of their kids watching their 4th hour of TV while pounding some Wendys.  I know this but this does not stop from rage porning through my newsfeed categorizing people as people who think their better me or people who are trashier then me. It’s not the prettiest way to spend an afternoon.

Luckily, I do know this will pass. I will take my kids to the park. I will make a plan to study and I know I’m mostly a good mom. Sometimes thinking about how I should be grateful just makes me feel worse for not feeling grateful. So I just need to feel what I feel and know it will it pass. And stay the fuck off Facebook.

Preschool photo gone right.

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Me: “Augie’s first school pictures are in and he looks like he showed up for his real estate photo late and hungover.”

RE: “Holy shit, he looks like his father.”

Me: “It’s frightening, I can see him in 20  years. “Hi. I’m Augie. I got a great new listing, sorry I’m late, I had four martini’s last night”

RE: “I’m showing my friend your facebook feed.”

Me: “Perfect. Let her know if she’s looking for property, my son’s not as drunk as he looks.”

RE: “Will do. She’s wondering where he got his blazer.”

Me: “Well, I jammed my husky 3.5 year old into a slim fitting 2t blazer.”

RE: “Well done. Definitely slimming.”

Me: “Then I made him do the “fat guy in a little coat” dance. I figure he can pay for his therapy with all his real estate money.”

RE: “Did you get him drunk first?”

Me: “I’m sure one of us were drinking.”

Diva Cup Discussions. (A group text)

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SA: “Why is it packaged like that? Is it in the Barbie aisle? Model 2.”

AO: “Haha. Yeah, why is it packaged like that?

Me: “Please tell me it’s for bigger vaginas?”

SA: “It’s for “women over 30 and/or those who have given birth vaginally” Do we just get looser over 30? No body told me?”

Me: “Nooooooo!!!!”

SA: “The package is blue, for sadness.”

SA: “Did I miss age based tampons? Like we old ladies just use rolls of Brawney now.”

AO: “The blue one doesn’t have daiseys.”

Me: “What if your over 30 and had c-sections?”

AO: “I think just diapers at that point.”

SA: “How do c-sections affect the vag?”

Me: “I think they make them smaller and prettier.”

SA: “The model 1 probably comes with free XXL condoms for the fabulous sex lives of those under 30. And a plane ticket to Miami.”

Me: “Those whores. And they get the pink cup. That’s ageist and sexist.”

LN: “Yeah, weird. Kids or no kids does your vagina increase in size as you age?  I must have missed that in sex ed.”

Me: “Who ever branded this was def a man or a teenager. Who thought identifying your vagina as older and bigger, misidentified their market. ”

SA: “Probably that Martin Shukli guy.”

SA:” Imagine if they sold condoms in that packaging.”

Me: “They should be in two separate sections of the store. Pink ones with booze and condoms and the blue ones next to the diarrhea medicine and reading glasses.”

LN: “Hahaha and depends.”

LL: “I think the daiseys are meant to distract you from the fact you are jamming what is equivalent of a dental swish up your vag.”

LL: “By the way- 32 text messages. Well done you old whores.”

SA: “If we were under 30 we’d have used snapchat or something.”

LL: “Is that the one where you take pictures of your vaginas? I don’t have that app. And for the record-no cup was purchased although I considered sending one to each of you but that seemed like a expensive prank.”

SA: “That’s where you draw the line on frivolous spending.”

LL: “Everyone has a line. Turns out mine was spending $100 on menstrual cups to send anonymously to my friends.”

Me: “I think we all know where we stand with Liz. I bet her fancy law school friends are getting all types of anonymous menstrual cups. Just bc we’re not lawyers, doesn’t mean don’t bleed. Monthly.”

SA: “Diva cup discrimination.”

Me: “As if my feeling weren’t hurt enough by qualifying for the blue cup.”

 

YOU LIKE ME. YOU REALLY LIKE MEEE!!!!!!

If I could give one piece of marriage advice (which I have no business doing) it would be this: Marry someone you like spending time with. There is pressure out there to find someone who makes the same money, or who have the same interests. I don’t think any of that is as important as if you simply enjoy each others company. If you feel at home when your with each other. There is no one who gets me more then my husband. And that seems impossible if you look at our pedigrees or our DVR choices. He comes from a science background and I barely know what the periodic table is. Our familys (though both crazy) are crazy in very different ways. The love we have has got us through the rough moments in our marriage but the like has got us through the day to day. I’m able to forgive his excessive farting (and it’s fucking excessive) and he’s able to move past my ability to only watch full blown psychos on TV. I’m using our zero divorces as evidence.

I’ve seen men who marry women who are beautiful but lack substance. Women who take pride in their husbands money and their own beauty.  But they didn’t earn the money. They married it. And it can (and usually does) divorce them. Also, men who marry trophy wives HAVE to know beauty is fleeting? I mean, we all grow old dummies. We can fight it as much as want but it’s coming for us. I’m not saying we should all go become mud people, throw dirt on our faces and stop courtesy farting in the bathroom. I shower and sometimes shave my armpits but being beautiful or having money can’t be your everything. It will destroy you. Our society has created this belief that if you look good for you husband, your relationship will stay intact. It’s total bullshit. The days I felt the most connected and in love with my husband were right after I gave birth to my son. I was in mesh panties, there were lots of discussions about my pooping (they don’t release you until you poop) and I was 30 pounds heavier. And it was the most intense love we ever shared. It was me and my husband against the world. We were learning how to care for this tiny human. Our sweet baby. It was our journey and not one single fuck was given about how I looked.

Not that there is nothing wrong with looking good. I get a little pep in my step when I know my hair is clean and I’m wearing something that doesn’t have urine or spit up on it. And you WILL NOT see me outside my without concealer under my eyes. But I know that true intimacy isn’t about how I look, what my job is, or where I went to school. It’s about being vulnerable and honest and making a commitment to stand by each other.

Also, I don’t worry that my husband will leave me for some pretty young thing. (I worry more he’ll leave me because I talk about the New York housewives too much) I know that there are younger, prettier, more educated woman out there. They don’t pose a threat because there is one thing they will never have: our history. They weren’t there through the tears, the laughter, the nights in the hospital after giving birth, our children’s first words. These moments matter. They matter more than any number on a scale or wrinkle in my face. I heard once someone say, that trying something new with your partner was the best way to save a marriage. At first glance I thought, what cheap marriage advice (and that I should stop getting marital advice from Vh1 reality shows), but the more I thought about it the more it made sense. It’s not the task or activity together but the time together. If you enjoy that time, then that’s a really good sign you have something special.