I want my epidural back, p.1

I Want My Epidural Back, page 1

 

I Want My Epidural Back
 


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I Want My Epidural Back


  Dedication

  Dedicated to my awesome family.

  I couldn’t do it without you.

  Then again, there’s no way in hell

  you could do it without me either.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Introduction

  BE THE BEST DAMN MEDIOCRE PARENT YOU CAN BE You might be a mediocre mom if . . .

  Girl Scout troop leaders F’ing rock, which is exactly why I shouldn’t be one

  Shit I do that I know I shouldn’t do

  A love letter to another mediocre mom

  A completely unscientific study about multitasking

  Twenty-eight ways being a mom is like being in prison

  TELL THOSE OVERACHIEVING MOMS TO SUCK IT Only a-holes send chain letters

  A bunch of things I do that would make overachieving moms think I’m a shitty mom, and maybe they’re right but I don’t care

  Yo douchebags who constantly brag on Facebook, this chapter’s for you

  But all you did on your birthday was slide out my hooha

  YOU WANT TO WATCH MY CHILD? BWHAHAHAHAHAHA!! OH WAIT, YOU’RE SERIOUS A letter to my kids’ teachers

  Halle-F’ing-lujah, both kids are finally in school

  What NOT to F’ing do when you’re taking care of your grandkids

  The really serious chapter about something that sucks big-time

  AND FOR DINNER I GAVE MY KIDS AN EATING DISORDER Every. F’ing. Night.

  How to properly ruin a friend’s BBQ

  Dear parents who don’t think it’s fair to ban nuts from school

  Once upon a time there was a green bean

  Conversations I’ve had with my picky eaters

  Allllllllll the things my kids won’t eat, even if they are literally starving to death

  HERE AN ORIFICE, THERE AN ORIFICE, EVERYWHERE AN ORIFICE ORIFICE One SINGLE trip to the bathroom with my kid

  Introducing the newest Olympic event . . . Synchronized Pooping!!!

  Well, that was fun. Not.

  Shake it off, shake it off (and if that doesn’t work, get a sponge)

  I TRIED THE CRYING IT OUT METHOD . . . I’M STILL CRYING Bedtime is for succccckers

  How NOT to keep your kiddo awake in the car

  I lovvvvvve sleepovers . . . when they’re at somebody else’s house

  Reasons my kid wakes me up and what I say back, sometimes out loud and sometimes in my head

  HOW THE F TO ENTERTAIN YOUR RUGRATS WHEN YOU HAVE NOTHING TO DO Dear Sesame Street, I LOVVVVVVE you

  It’s up to you: die of boredom or die of Ebola

  Peeew peeew peeewww and other sounds that make me want to chop my ears off

  All in favor of feeding rat poison to Chuck E. Cheese, say aye!!

  Gag me with a 5-Minute Spider-Man Story

  MY HUBBY IS AWESOME (BUT NOT AS AWESOME AS ME) What you should REALLY F’ing look for in a husband

  Men are from Mars, where apparently they don’t make PB&Js

  A bunch of shit my hubby does better than me

  Et ee um a-er owls

  When I stopped liking sex (Grandma, please don’t read this chapter)

  You didn’t think I’d just write a chapter about all the shit he does right, did you?

  TEACH YOUR DOUCHENUGGET TO BE LESS DOUCHEY AND MORE NUGGETY Make sure people don’t like you for your bagina

  I’d totally kick your ass if my toenails weren’t still drying

  Boy, was I wrong

  Thinking outside the penalty box

  One of the worst feelings in the world

  One fish, two fish, red fish, gross fish

  AWWW SHIT, WHATTA YOU MEAN THEY GROW UP?? If you have a vajayjay and she has a vajayjay, you’re on the same team

  Dear lady I just saw breastfeeding at a restaurant

  Twelve things I will always miss about being preggers

  Just a little sumpin’ sumpin’ I had Zoey sign before she could read

  The last chapter

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Karen Alpert

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Introduction

  BEFORE I BECAME A MOM, I used to hear people say that having a kid is hard. I was always like, no shit, Sherlock, you’re pushing an eight-pound bowling ball out something that’s the size of a donut hole. And FYI, I mean the actual hole in the middle of a donut, not the delicious holes of awesomeness that are really donut balls and have no calories because they’re so small and easy to pop in your mouth until suddenly you’ve eaten forty of them and you have a massive food baby. But I digress. Shit, I totally want a donut. Anyways, now that I’m a mom, I know the hardest part isn’t about getting something giant through your hooha. It’s about having a real live child—a one-year-old, a two-year-old, a three-year-old, a four-year-old, etc., etc., etc.

  Because there might be a class that teaches you how to push and breathe and do all kinds of stuff that will help you deal with the fact that Satan is squeezing your uterus to death every four minutes, but there is NOTHING to prepare you for the pain of what comes after the doctor rips that epidural out of you.

  Parenting is hard as shit.

  Which is why sometimes I slack off. Like I order a pizza if I don’t feel like cooking. Or I fish my daughter’s leotard out of the hamper. Or I walk on the carpet if I have crumbs stuck to my feet. Or I give my son the iPad because he’s driving me insane and I need him to STFU otherwise I might pick up the nearest sharp object and use it to stab out my eardrums. And a bunch of other shit I’m not proud of but I’m really not ashamed of either.

  Because if I didn’t do things half-assed then I’d have to do them full-assed, and I would probably burn out in about point two seconds. Like those crazy overachieving mommies who do stuff like offer to be the president of the PTO AND the vice president of the PTO because no one else wants to. Or they pack their kids’ recycled lunchboxes with homegrown organic veggies that have been shaped into little designs that resemble masterpieces at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  OVERACHIEVER’S KIDDO: Oooh, look, Mommy made my kale and quinoa look like Van Gogh’s Peasant Woman Against a Background of Wheat!!

  MY RUGRAT: Wahh, all I got is a candy bar.

  OVERACHIEVER’S KIDDO: Ohh, you poor, poor child. I’ll share my flaxseed smoothie with you if you would like.

  MY RUGRAT: Bwhahahahaha, I was just bullshitting you. Snickers really satisfies. And it doesn’t taste like cardboard.

  Speaking of rugrats, I’ve got two of them. Zoey is six and she is AWWWWESOMMMMMME. I also have a three-year-old named Holden who kicks ass. I don’t mean he literally kicks ass. He’s more of a hitter and a puncher. But not a biter, thank God. The last thing you want is a call from the preschool nurse telling you your kid just pulled a Mike Tyson. Anyways, I love my kiddos and without them I would be lost. On a Caribbean island lying in a hammock with a giant-ass piña colada. But as amazing as that sounds, I like my life just the way it is. Hard and loud and full of a lot of gross shit like saliva and poop and other stuff. Clearly I’m a little insane.

  So there you go. I guess I could write more and include an intelligent conclusion to this profound introduction, but remember, I do things a little half-assed. So if this book sucks, that’s why. Now that I’ve set your expectations really, really low, happy reading!!

  Be the Best Damn

  MEDIOCRE PARENT

  You Can Be

  I’M MEDIOCRE. NOW YOU MIGHT BE LIKE, UHHH, why would you admit that? But let me tell you something: I am damn proud of being mediocre because I’m really awesome at it. And that’s no easy task. Like if you’re an overachieving mom you can be all “doo doo doo doo doooooooo, I’ll just hop on over to Pinterest and
copy some cool shit off there and impress the socks off everyone.” But there ain’t no Pinterest for mediocre moms like me. Nope, there is no website to show us how to fix it when the tooth fairy forgets to come two nights in a row or how to make dinner from the contents of your fridge when it only has a stick of butter and a jar of olives and an unidentifiable tinfoil package. I mean I can’t even use cookbooks. I crack one open and it says to get out your parchment paper and I’m like, WTF is parchment paper? Is that the crinkly brown paper pirates draw maps on? But here’s the thing. At the end of the day, I’m doing a good enough job. At least according to my rugrats. They give me shit that says “#1 Mom” on it and I’m like, bwhahahahaha, joke’s on you, I’m more like the #1,297,279 Mom. But they truly think I’m the best mom on earth. And that’s all that matters.

  You might be a mediocre mom if . . .

  You can hear the word “Mommy” sixteen times before reacting.

  You know the frozen pizza goes in at 400˚F for 19 to 22 minutes without looking at the instructions.

  You think pretty much anything your kid’s wearing is acceptable as long as it covers the genitals.

  You know the best organic cleaning fluid is saliva.

  You can gather lunch for your children from the contents of your car floor.

  You make the kids sleep in their clothes if you’re going somewhere early the next morning.

  You would take your coffee intravenously if it were an option. And your vodka.

  You find yourself sitting at the PTO meeting wondering WTF you’ve gotten yourself into.

  You can stealthily bury the kids’ artwork in the trash can while they are sitting in the same room.

  You do the laundry in cold water because who the hell has time to separate whites from colors?

  You sometimes eat the Cheerios that fall out of your bra when you get undressed at night because it’s easier than walking allllll the way to the trash can.

  You lie to your children’s dentist every 6 months 12 months 18 months.

  You’ve failed miserably at doing at least one Pinterest project.

  You haven’t gotten a single photo printed in years.

  You accidentally wear your slippers out of the house and realize it when you’re in the garage but don’t go back inside to change them because who gives a shit.

  You don’t have time to take showers every day (or even every other day sometimes) and just use baby wipes on the stinky parts.

  You use your microwave oven more than your oven oven.

  You don’t have a 5-second rule. You have a 5,000-second rule.

  You have to stack dirty dishes next to the sink because it’s already overflowing with dirty dishes.

  You write stuff on your to-do list that you’ve already done so you feel productive.

  You cook three-course dinners, but only because no one in your family will eat the same thing.

  You couldn’t braid your daughter’s hair to save your life, but you can totally braid your leg hair.

  You have to ask if your kids can get a different Happy Meal toy because they already have that one.

  You kick ass at being a parent even though some people think you don’t. And if you’re one of those people, F off and die. No wait, don’t die. That’s totally mean. Just F off.

  HOLDEN: Mommy, can you blow me?

  I can’t begin to tell you how relieved I was when I looked up and he was holding a tissue. Holy crap, heart attack averted.

  Girl Scout troop leaders F’ing rock, which is exactly why I shouldn’t be one

  OKAY, SO THERE ARE MOMS who organize shit like fund-raisers and book drives and other annoying important stuff, and then there are moms who organize shit like MNOs. If you don’t know what that is, go look it up. Whoops, never mind, I just Googled it and Google says MNO stands for Money News Online, Mobile Network Operator, and some random inorganic chemical compound. Yo Google, I usually think you’re like a total genius but today you are wrong. MNO stands for Moms’ Night Out. Only like the most important thing on earth.

  Those PTO moms might feel all superior and shit for organizing their big ol’ bake sales, but the way I see it, they’re just making a profit off getting people fat. When I organize an MNO, I am single-handedly saving the planet because moms are like the most important people on earth and if we don’t occasionally get a break where we can drink a little vino and bitch about our problems to each other, we will literally go insane and all be thrown into an insane asylum and the planet will go to shit.

  So a few weeks before Zoey started kindergarten, I sent an e-mail out to all the other kindergarten moms inviting them to an MNO. Here it is, paraphrased:

  Dear slutbags (I can call you that because for the next thirteen years our rugrats are going to be in school together and we’re going to become good friends),

  Instead of all of us meeting in the carpool line and only talking to the people we already know and then some people don’t know anyone and they feel like outcast losers for the next thirteen years, let’s get together for a beer or four so we can meet each other when we’re a little less sober and a little more buzzed so it isn’t as awkward. Here’s the info of when and where we’ll meet, blah blah blah blah blah.

  Love,

  A mom who’s looking forward to your having my kiddo over for lots of playdates because she’s perfect and always well behaved despite what you may have heard

  Anyways, the night of the big MNO I wonder what to wear but then I realize it doesn’t matter because who the hell am I trying to impress? I’m going to be with other moms who are pretty much only going to see me wearing pajamas in the carpool line for the next thirteen years. I get to the bar right at 7 p.m., because I’m the organizer and I have to show up on time and that sucks because I have to sit down at a table all alone and wait. And wait. And wait. And pray to the beer gods that I am not the only one who shows up to my own event. And then someone walks in. And then some more people. And then the whole F’ing class of totally badass moms. Wahooooo!!! People came! I’m not a total loser!! At least not for this reason.

  So we talk about our kiddos and our fears about them starting kindergarten and we share our stories about giving birth because MNO conversations always include stories about giving birth for some reason, and within an hour I know which moms gave birth naturally and which ones used drugs (aka which ones I’ll probably be friends with), and by hour two I’m having a conversation with a woman who chose not to have an epidural who’s either very strong, has a very stretchy vagina, or is clinically insane.

  OTHER WOMAN: I was thinking about starting a Girl Scout troop for their class.

  ME: Oh, that’s a great idea! I loved being a Girl Scout.

  OTHER WOMAN: Do you want to do it with me?

  ME: Sure!

  If you’ve read this book chronologically (holy crap is that a hard word to type) and didn’t just randomly open it to this page, you’re probably like, WTF? You’re probably wondering why on earth I would think it is any of my business being a Girl Scout troop leader. Well, I can answer you in one word. Beer. Duh. Isn’t alcohol the reason we commit to pretty much everything in life?

  RANDOM GUY: Will you go home with me?

  ME: Sure!

  Beer’s fault.

  HUBBY: Will you marry me?

  ME: Yes!

  Beer again.

  ME: Whoopsies, I’m preggers!!

  Beer.

  WOMAN: Do you want to be a Girl Scout troop leader with me?

  ME: Sure!

  Beeeeeer.

  Because I know it seems like an innocent question, but if you read between the lines, this is what she was really asking:

  OTHER WOMAN: Do you want to be a troop leader and be responsible for twenty loud kindergarten girls and do all sorts of things outside of your comfort zone, like come up with annoying Pinterest-y projects at the last minute and iron badges on uniforms and stand in a circle holding hands and singing stupid songs and stand outside the supermarket selling coo
kies to random strangers in the freezing cold and then deliver those cookies to the strangers and use all of your willpower not to eat their boxes of cookies before you deliver them?

  ME: Sure!

  Beer. Beer. Beer. Beer. Four bottles, to be exact.

  I mean I kind of want to call up this mom today and be like, FU, you totally tricked me into becoming a Girl Scout troop leader because you knew I was drunk and more likely to say yes. But the truth is, all she knew was that I was the mom who organized this big MNO and probably thought I was the kind of person who organizes shit, when really the only kind of stuff I organize is events where people drink together so I don’t have to drink alone.

  So now I’m roped in for a year. Ennnnh, wrong again. I just finished my first year and now realize I’m actually roped in for FIVE more years because if I quit now, Zoey’s gonna say shit like, “Mom, why did you stop being my Girl Scout leader?” and “Do you still love me?” and make me feel like the worst mom on earth. So Girl Scouts is basically a SIX-year sentence!!! AGGHHHHHHH!!!!

 
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