Ass in the Air

As parents, we sometimes have to do some dirty work and incredibly unappealing acts.

Wiping asses and snotty noses. Combing lice nits or washing barf out of hair. Scooping a poorly timed turd out of the bathtub while trying to keep it all in one solid piece so that it doesn’t break up into several smaller turds forcing you into a desperate struggle of getting the baby turds to somehow squeeze through the drain while you retch and then have retch induced tears fall from your eyes and into the bath water that is now basically turd soup.

You know, nasty-ass parent stuff.

Let me tell you, my friends, I have very recently experienced something that tops all that. All of it.

Do you know how it is suggested that one check their child for pinworms? You can skip Google and I’ll tell you:

If your kid is complaining of anal itching (mostly at night) and barnacle butt has been omitted as the cause of this anal itching, you’re to grab a flashlight and check your child’s anus for signs of teeny, tiny white pinworms waving at you from your child’s asshole.

In order to do this, the kid needs to be on their back, their knees close to their ears with anus fully exposed. It is uncomfortable and undignified and I’m sure the kid feels pretty ambivalent about this situation as well. The pinworms are supposedly attracted to the light of the flashlight (or miner’s hat if you have one lying about) and will come out to greet you. Once you’ve visually established the presence of these little parasites in your precious child’s bunghole, there’s an inexpensive over the counter medication to treat the nastiness. You might want to buy it from a store that also sells a lot wine and or beer so that you can try to drink away the memory of what you just had to do as a parent. How did this become your life, you’ll wonder. You never imagined this scenario as you held your wee little baby in your arms for the first time- that you’d be asking them to try to fart but not actually fart because you need their anus to open up a bit but you don’t want the added insult of having intestinal gas all up in your face while you already have asshole all up in your face so that you can diagnose an active freaking worm infestation.


This has been my story of the most horrifying experience in the history of my role as a parent.

Can you top it? Please leave your upsetting story in the comments.

You’ll feel better… or at least I will.

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It’s My Gift To You

I suppose it was when I witnessed our daughter crack open an egg by squeezing it into submission that I realized I’m wholly responsible for widening the line that separates my children from the likes of the caveman or the velociraptor or The Hulk.

This weekend, I’ll be lecturing on a wide array of subjects including “Playing with matches = bad”, “Wiping front to back- it’s all in the wrist”, “Green teeth will not get you married”, and, of course, “It’s really simple, dumbass or how to crack an egg.”

Send your kids over. There’s no charge. It’s my gift to humanity.

You’re welcome, civilized society, you’re welcome.

Maybe a Little Bit Fruity?

*From the archives; originally published 3/29/2014

 

I’m not sure why, but strangers will talk to me about almost anything. Maybe I release a scent that lets them know that I’m desperate for adult conversation. Maybe my eyes say “Please, random stranger, tell me about your sinus infection or your cousin’s closed head injury…and don’t leave out the gross details!” I’m not complaining, y’all. I consider it a gift. I’ve met some amazing people and heard some incredible stories because of this stranger- attracting gift I’ve been given.

Just a couple of days ago, I had a fun encounter with a lovely older lady in the grocery store. I was in the aisle picking up Diet Coke and she was staring blankly at the vast wall of wine. I had to ask her to move her shopping cart over a bit so I could get by.

Me: “Excuse me, M’am, could I just scoot by?”

Older lady: “Oh, sure, honey. I’m not paying a bit of attention.”

Me: “No problem. Thank you.”

Older lady: “May I trouble you a moment? Do you know anything about these wines? Which is your favorite?”

Me: “I don’t drink but I can try to help you. Do you want red or white wine?”

Older lady: “Hmmmm…I’m not really sure. I just need something that’s sweet. Maybe a little bit fruity? I don’t really want it to taste like wine.”

Me: “I’m not really sure there are any that don’t taste like wine…Maybe you should get a flavored vodka and mix it with a fruit juice?”

Older lady: “No, vodka is for people who want to get drunk. I just want a little something that I can mix with my husband’s strawberry Ensure. He’s lost that “loving feeling”, if you know what I mean. I’m just trying to give him a little kick in the rear. We ladies have needs too, don’t we honey?”

Me: “Wow! Good for you! It’s good to keep the romance alive.”

Older lady: “I just want the sex every couple of weeks or so. Does wine spoil or will it keep in the pantry for a while?”

Insert Your Concern Directly Into Your Ass

Just a little friendly banter in the check-out line:

The woman in front of me was surveying my grocery cart filled with $350 worth of stuff.

Lady: “I hope you’ve got coupons for all that!”

Me: “No- I’m not smart enough to figure out the coupon game.”

Lady: “What’s all this for?”

Me: “My family.”

Lady: “My word! Will this last you several weeks?”

Me: “No- this will last most of the week but then I’ll have to come back to pick up a few things that we’re sure to run out of.”

Lady: “You have a bunch of kids?”

Me: “Yes, M’am- we have six kids.”

Lady (clutching her chest): “Good heavens! And you’re pregnant again?!”

Me: “I am!”

Lady: “Well haven’t you learned what causes that by now?”

Me: “I’m guessing it’s because we have a lot of sex and don’t use birth control. Am I right?”

Lady: “Well, yes, I suppose you know. I just hope you can afford them all.”

Seriously, guys, she said “I hope you can afford them all.”

What I WANTED to say is “You can take that douche you’re buying and your opinion and stick them both right up your ass you rude, presumptuous twit.”

But I’m a lady and said “We get along okay. Thank you, though.”

Sheesh. Balls much?

Magic Man

It was only a matter of time….

Leo: “So you’ve got, like, a real baby in your belly?”

Me: “I do, yes.”

Leo: “How long ’til we meet it?”

Me: “Well, it takes 9 months to grow so you’ve got about 6 more months to wait.”

Leo: “How did you get it in there?”

Me: “Mmmmmmm… oh God. What?”

Leo: “The baby- how’d you, like, get it in there?”

Me: “Uhhhhhh….magic?.”

Leo: “That’s so cool. How did you learn magic?”

Me: “It’s your Dad. He has a magic wand but only his wife can see it.”

Leo: “And you’re his wife?”

Me: “That’s right.”

Leo: “Gotcha.”

You’d think that I’d have a better explanation for a 6-year-old but since they seem not to question magic or ninjas, I went the magic route. He’d never believe that his Dad’s a ninja- ninjas don’t nap.

Like a Light Bulb

File this under “Sometimes Kids Can Teach Us Stuff”:

Leo: “You know what Christmas song I don’t like?”

Me: “Which one?”

Leo: “Rudolph. Somebody shoulda stood up for him. You can’t not play with someone ’cause they’re different and you shouldn’t call them names. Where were his ‘real’ friends? Why did Santa not notice that the other reindeers was being mean to him?”

Me: “Well…”

Leo: “Oh God, is this going to be one of your (doing air quotes) “teaching moments”?”

Me: “Nope- sounds like you have it all figured out. I think it’s awesome that you noticed Rudolph needed someone to stand up for him.”

Leo: “And that Santa kinda sucks at taking care of his reindeers…but don’t tell him I said that. I still want presents.”

Dear Santa-

There’s a 6-year-old in Georgia who thinks you need to step up your sensitivity training. This should be taken as constructive criticism and in the most loving way possible. Kid is just looking out for the marginalized among your herd and definitely still deserves that RC car.

Love-

A Proud Mom

That Kid Gets a Bar of Soap

Ronan had all but dropped ‘shit’ and ‘son of a bitch’ out of his vocabulary. There was still the occasional ‘What the shit just happened?’ when he was playing a game on the iPad but, aside from that, there had been no cussing.

On the drive to his preschool a few of days ago, there was a dead deer on the side of the road. “That son of a bitch reindeer didn’t make it”, he said. I cringed a little and hoped that this wasn’t the beginning of another cursing spree.

Later that night, Leo was aggravating Ronan and he responded a well-placed hammer fist and “Stop it- you a shit!”

I reminded him that it’s not okay for a 4-year-old to use those words- although the laughter coming from his siblings completely undermined my gentle reproach- and he seemed to understand.

When Santa came to visit the preschool yesterday, the parents were invited to attend- partly for the photo-op but mostly to corral their kids until it was their turn to sit on Santa’s lap and receive a gift. Ronan and Norah were among the last two names called and their initial excitement at the thought of meeting the fat guy gradually turned into impatience and frustration with me continually telling them “just a few more minutes/you have to wait until you hear your name called.”

When it was their turn, Norah hopped on Santa’s lap and happily smiled for the camera. Ronan, however, started toward Santa but then turned on his heel and ran back to me. Santa, trying to coax him to come closer, shook the gift bag in Ronan’s general direction and said “Come on over and get your gift, young man.”

“It’s okay, buddy- go get your gift. You don’t have to sit in his lap if you don’t want to”, I said.

Ronan hesitantly walked over to Santa but then suddenly, through clenched teeth, grabbed the bag and said “Gimme that shit you son of a bitch.”

Thankfully, another kid’s crying drowned out my son’s profanity and no other parents were close enough to hear it either. Nonetheless, I was mortified and packed it up real quick-like and hit the road.

Sorry, kind and gentle Santa. I have no idea where the shit this little son of a bitch gets it from. It’s a real shame.

I blame his father.