So... How Does One Resign From Parenting? #Fail

Two days ago was not a happy day. Nothing dramatically awful happened, no one was hurt or anything.

I just realized that I am not cut out to be a patient mother and that I really suck at the "terrible twos" with a child. For those of you who call this stage the "terrific twos" I have only two words for you: Fuck you.

There have been many mornings where I wake up and immediately begin the internal judging/berating/belittling inner voice to myself about how I should be doing so much more for my daughter. Or that I can't believe I'm late again for something. Or that I've plopped her in front of Paw Patrol or Toopy & Binoo or the Price is Right (if I am feeling especially selfish that morning and don't want to listen to that annoying talking rat any longer), in the hopes she will eat her sugar-laden Mini Wheats and put SOME TYPE OF FOOD in her little, running, crazy, fearless, adorable little body today.

But two days ago was just so bad. Nothing particular really happened. I just had little patience, high irritation, and low will to live. I made several depressive revelations in succession, and had no energy to deal with any of it.

A vague run down of where my life is at now:

• My house always ALWAYS smells vaguely of shit. Occasionally it's my own aroma being shared with the house, since my child is vehemently against me doing anything personal with the door closed. But usually it is a combo of festering poop diapers in her fancy odorless Diaper Genie pail (HA, odorless her ass!), the random droppings of my ancient blind Great Dane, or the random droppings from my child's butt in failed potty training attempts. No candle can burn all of that shit smell away.
• Dishes. So many fucking dishes. Spanning all the counter tops, and hiding on every other ledge in the house. Dishwasher not quite full enough to run right now with dishwasher safe items? Imma just plop all this highly meltable plastic kid shit in there and a few non-stick pans and fire that baby up!
• Laundry. Always. Then more laundry. My system includes forgetting clean stuff in the dryer for days, having to redo Hubby's stuff (I ALWAYS look like a bag lady, so what's a few more wrinkles to me?), and putting the clean clothes in a pile on the downstairs couch until inspiration strikes and I fold it. (Side note: possibly another 3-5 days until it is carried upstairs when one of us discovers we are totally out of something, like, say, pants).
• Insomnia. So tired I can fall asleep almost instantly, but dammit I cannot stay asleep despite all the sleeping medication in the world.
• No childcare breaks. I am at home with my daughter. I am perpetually battling injury/illness. Pain is exhausting and toddlers give zero fucks about your problems. She never stops. She sprints, she jumps into water, she tests me every 5 seconds, she fights 80% of diaper changes. I am so fucking tired ALWAYS (see above), and have family help for a few hours (often during nap time) maybe twice a month. My family lives provinces away, so when they come, I wanna hang out and visit and not sleep the time away. But I need breaks from my monkey.
• I am horribly impatient. Toddler games are cute for the first five or ten minutes. Then I don't want to play tea cups that spill all over, or pretend to eat mudpies. I have limited patience, and I feel shitty about it, but it's true. Nature walks are fun! If you're idea of fun includes repeatedly wiping gravel out of your child's mouth, standing still while they "fix" leaves with sticks, and don't mind moving 40 feet in about an hour. It's cute, but let's be honest: it's booooring day after day. Or maybe I'm just an asshole. Probably both.
  
• My child subsists on sugar alone, or sugar-laden wheat. I have begged her to finish her chocolate muffin or to at least eat her fries for our Mother's Day meal in the park (spoiler: she ate neither). She won't eat veggies, she rarely eats meat, she feeds mostly off of my desperate offering of every conceivable healthy food option in the house. That seems to satiate her; she has no need for food.

Oh, my Sweet, the world is your jellyfi- I mean... oyster.

I love my little monkey bum. She's so cute, and smart, and charming. I WANT to be a good parent for her, and give her all she needs to thrive. But it's tough not being able to leave and do anything for more than a few rushed hours to get back to relieve someone else. It's tough that she's such a handful that we don't trust many people to watch her, and worry when we leave her. It's tough that hubby and I can rarely do anything together outside of the house. It's tough that I want to keep breastfeeding her, and love the time, but that her latch seems to be getting worse and my boobies are sore all the time. It's sweet that she ALWAYS wants mommy, but tough to always be the one to soothe her despite how hard the Hubs has worked into her good books.

I know the days are long and the years are short. And there are more times when I feel so overjoyed with her. But I think the intense combo of everything above is just burning me out. Suck it up, buttercup. I know.

I just had to get it off my chest.


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Classy Blogging

You know your blog is classic, classy and well written when people are arriving via Google Images after searching for "the+ass+band+will+play+a+song+of+farts+to+celebrate+your+failure".

Yep.

I've made it. Big Time. Obviously.


Also? Cleaning your back yard of dog poop in the dark of night with a gardening shovel, plastic bag and flashlight is never a good idea, kids. NEVER.

Three items and two hands.


Keepin' it classy...

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Dear Person... & Cyclists Terrify Me

Dear Person who walked their dog to the top of my driveway, allowing said dog to poop in between my car and the garage door,

Congratulations on an incredible level of passive-aggressiveness.

Very bold, and very baffling. My front door is literally steps away.

You are a fucktard. We clean up our dogs' crap without fail, and the one time Feyoncé™ ran out of bags (after 3 consecutive dog poops), he walked the dogs home quickly, grabbed a bag, and LITERALLY SPRINTED BACK to scoop the mess.

So go fuck yourself.

I clean up enough dog poop on my own.


Piss-off-ed-ly,
Me

~

Dear Hypothetical Old Man on a bicycle who I possibly didn't see this morning as I backed out of my driveway going 4 km/hr,

I swear to mother-effing-Jebus I checked both sides of the road, my mirrors, my rear view. I constantly remind myself that although the street I live on is not busy, there are always people/kids/cyclists/dogs out and about, so to be very aware.

Your hypothetical white hair and blue shirt somehow manifested into the stealthiest camouflage I have ever seen. My windows were even open and I never saw or heard anything, except my own completely startled hypothetical voice, apologizing wholeheartedly and calling you sir.

I looked and I have no idea how I didn't hypothetically see you. I am very sorry. Very, very sorry. I still feel awful and probably more afraid than you were of my meep-meep sedan. The fear is increased by the fact I still understand how I hypothetically didn't see you. I vow to be EVEN MORE terrified of driving now than I was before.

I swear I looked everywhere I needed to, yet failed.

Apologetically (hypothetically),


Me


p.s. Did you come back with a small dog and poop in my driveway? You or the dog? Just curious...


~



Dear Cyclists,


I was going to write you a letter a few days ago and didn't. This morning's hypothetical cyclist incident got me thinking.


YOU TERRIFY ME when you are on the road. I know you are supposed to be, you are allowed to be, I know you have every right to be, and I honestly try my best to watch out for you, give wide leeway around you, and basically stay the fuck away from you as much as I can, because... well,

YOU TERRIFY ME.

I DO NOT WISH TO HURT YOU.

Also? If you are going to ride on the road, then you should be ADHERING TO TRAFFIC RULES, and be wearing a MOTHERLOVING HELMET for Chrissakes. (I saw a man with his skull cracked open, who surely died, from a bicycle accident. I don't blame the man and didn't see the actual accident, but I would like to think that his chances would have improved with a helmet). That being said, drivers can't be DERP DERP and not be aware.

Don't run stop signs or stop lights. It's MOTHERLOVING dangerous. And it makes you less predictable, increasing the danger factor.

Ride on, cyclists! Hey... where's your... helmet? (Image Source)

I am also afraid when I am walking and see a cyclist with headphones in. I understand the desire for and enjoyment of music, but if you are riding in traffic and are not following traffic rules, then at least leave one motherloving earhole free to hear the sounds around you! Please!!!

Mutual respect folks. Even though you TERRIFY me.

Curled up in the fetal position,


Me

~

Dear Google.ca Image Search,

Thank you for showing me that the number one search following the word "RIDICULOUS" is....

"pictures of Céline Dion".

My very own Canadian. How I beam with pride.

And on that note, a ridiculous photo of Céline Dion:

In all fairness, there are A LOT of ridiculous photos of Céline Dion on the interwebz. (Image Source)

Ridiculously,


Me


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Oscar The Grouch Gets A Poop Slushy

So the weather here was quite "balmy" compared to the -19°C weather we've been having lately, with the wind chill.

Most of you know that we got a new puppy two weeks ago. What most of you probably don't know is that said puppy poops. A lot. I mean, a lot a lot, and only if I go outside with her and encourage her.

I can only imagine what I sound like to the neighbours.

Me:     "C'mon hon, hurry up, pee pee poo poo. Hurry up."  (I am all shrill and excited and super-happy sounding)

Puppy:   *tilts head.... runs back to back door*

Me:      "C'mon puppy, hurry up, pee pee poo poo. Hurry up. Go pee pee."

Puppy:   *drops and gives me a 3-second pee*

Me:    "Yay! Good pee pee, good girl! Good pee pee! okay, hurry up, go poo poo."

Puppy:  *runs around yard, eats bunny poop, smears it on my fingernails as I try to sweep her mouth, dives under the patio table*

Wash, rinse, repeat.

You get the idea.

Sort of. With less snow in your eyeballs/eardrums/nostrils and chills up your spine.

So, after two weeks of laziness and general disdain of all temperatures cold and colder, I realized the multiple poops (that were followed with loud cheers by me and congratulatory messages to the puppy) were starting to really pile up.

So out I went today to start to shovel them into a bag for garbage night. Let's just say at the best of times, this stuff isn't solid, as we changed her food. So add in snow melt, paw squishes, and other lovely-dog-poop-related joy, and you've got yourself a shifty substance.

IF YOU HAVE RECENTLY EATEN, OR ARE ABOUT TO EAT, YOU MAY WANT TO SHUT THIS BROWSER WINDOW RIGHT ABOUT NOW....






SERIOUSLY






YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED










THIS ISN'T GOING TO END WELL.






ALRIGHT, BUDDY, I WARNED YOU.




I was dealing with something between 10 and 60 on the scale below. Moundfuls and moundfuls (no, not mouthfuls).

This is why I don't like tootsie rolls.  (Image source here, 'cause someone else blogs about crap, too.)

So... yeah. The garbage man tomorrow is going to have a melty-slushy-soupy mess. And the backyard doesn't look much better.

Oscar's shit-eating grin is about to become a whole lot more appropriate....

Why do I blog about dog poop so much? Who knows?

How long until someone finds my blog because they will inexplicably search google with that exact phrase? I give it two weeks.

Who has to deal with the aftermath tomorrow morning? The garbage collection man.


Poor garbage collection man.


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