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----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Pretty sure I'm not babysiting material Sitting at the table, stuffing my face full of Cheetos and writing this before my husband calls/comes home from work. Once he arrives, I have to sacrifice the laptop and phone to Netflix, then won't get my phone back until mid-day tomorrow because I need to appease the children with cartoons in the morning, lest I end up in the cornfield...or something like that. I often wonder if I'm the only one who thinks crunchy Cheetos look like tiny orange penises. Then I wonder if that's some type of inside joke by Frito-Lay, or if I'm really just that off in my assumption. Speaking of penises, my brother tried to teach Amara a new word today. She repeated it back twice, but luckily I managed to avert the situation by quickly changing the word to "pants." I know that some parents teach their children the PC word for their privates, but I think it's rather weird to hear and I don't even refer to my own genitalia in that way (I prefer to use the more "adult" terms). My girls have the cutesy name that I use as if speaking some type of code and I remember my mom doing the same with me (usually referring to it as a "cookie", though I have no idea why). Karl's been talking with his friend from South Carolina, who says she and her boyfriend need to find a place to rent quick because his parents are moving. He says there's always the possibility of us all renting together, at least temporarily. Honestly, I don't care to have roommates because I enjoy my privacy and ability to unleash my crazy in the privacy of my own home. Then there's the fact that his friend, who also happens to be a stay-at-home mom due to the same circumstances, wants me to watch her child while she goes to work. I'm sorry, but what part of any decent parent wants me to be left alone with their child for hours a day? Mine are stuck with me, but I've always felt odd about being around other people's kids. Still, for some reason, they seem to gravitate toward me like I have a giant neon arrow above my head. I have no clue what the etiquette for dealing with another person's child is- how to discipline them without the parent getting offended, how to speak to them without cursing at some point during the day, or what type of lunch or dinner meets their parent's "nutritional needs" approval. Then there's still the fact that want to shove a foot up her ass for even asking. You know what lady? I've got two kids of my own, plus the fact that I'm pregnant with a third. I'm also stuck being a stay-at-home mother because I too cannot afford the cost of daycare, yet you complain about how stressful it is staying at home with one. What the hell makes you think I want to add another to that equation? I may not be Supermom, with a Pinterest full of craft ideas, fun recipes and decorating tips or a happy Mormon mother blogger, but I'd like to think I'm not the worst mother out there. Whenever I'm feeling crappy about my mothering skills, I always think how much worse some kids have it. My children are always fed, bathed and dressed with a roof over their heads. They seem to be happy overall, judging by some of the photos I've taken of Amara flashing her wide-mouthed grin, and Heather with her more modest one that mirrors mine. I'm not on drugs, prostituting myself, neglecting or abusing them and as stressed or pissed off as I can sometimes get toward them, they're still my babies who I love. I grew them in my body, pushed them out and now we're stuck together until they move out and eventually grow me some granbabies, who I get to enjoy, then promptly give back when I'm done. 12:33 am - September 23rd, 2013 |
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