My life is shit

  • Let me clarify as my life is not shit or shitty but rather it revolves around shit, poop, caca, poo, turds, yacca (in our house), etc. I suppose now looking back being a mother poo would be apart of my daily routine with changing diapers and all, but never would I never think I would become a POOP EXPERT. I know all colors, textures, styles, and forms. I know what is normal, what is not, when it happens and even if I didn’t know when my children will promptly announce it TO ANYONE AT ANYTIME.  I am some what of a mutant in the fact that I can smell a load within a quarter mile radius (up to a mile if pregnant) and can distinguish between baby, animal or adult feces. Professor X would be impressed. Besides my mutant supermom powers, I also have a husband that thinks it’s hilarious to send me pictures of his fresh deuce through text messages. He also announces to me when he is going and how much or how many flushes it took to get it down.  I hear the awesome sounds of my dear husband yelling “Why is baby’s poop black?”, “God damn it, I got shit on again!” “What the hell did you eat kid?” “Why is it my turn to change her?” All. The. Time. We even have silly names for the types such as “Mega turd”, “rabbit turds”, “baby turdies”, or “the Rhea”. I guess what shocks me most is that we all accept this as normal in our house. Without hesitation my kids will talk about how large their turd was or if they have a hard time getting it out or “Mom Dada has diarrhea again!” Wait! What?! How do you know this? Oh I know, because they hover outside the bathroom door as if Disney World were on the other side, but that is only when someone is in it. I can eat a cookie and change a butt without fail or dry heaving. I can eat dinner and talk about shit as if it were proper/appropriate dinner conversation.  I don’t know how, why, or when all of this became our normal, I suppose it doesn’t matter, but I guess being a poop expert, in some weird way, is an important life “skill” to have, but sometimes it’s just plain shitty.


Mother CC


It’s cold in the D

We live in Michigan and it’s February and it’s FUCKING COLD, UGH good lord I am SICK of it. The snow and the shoveling. You would think being life long Michiganders we would have a snow blower. Right? We have 3. Now ask me if any of them work? HELL TO THE NO. Why? I don’t know, something about the gas/oil mixture or spark plugs. To be honest I don’t know how to start the damn thing and even if I did I would probably trip and shred my leg or something horrific. So shoveling it is, but again that MOSTLY falls to the husband, yet I will bitch about it because I am the wife. It’s art form really. Bitching that is. Not all are good at it or understand it’s TRUE beauty. It is a rare and mysterious, like a griffin or a unicorn (in our house at least, fucking unicorns rule). Once a woman becomes a wife there is this excitement having a PARTNER to share well everything with. Chores shared. Bed shared. Closets shared. Life. Shared. Until you realize you really adopted a large man child that refuses to put his clothes in the basket, clean the toilet, and shares his flatulence with you then proceeds to giggle about it. As you adjust to your new SHARED life, you say to yourself I will just ask him to help out a bit more or just pick up the slack because you are in LOVE and while that works for a while and you are content, you add in children. Yeah let’s complicate the whole GD situation, add little midget home destroyers. Then one day, it comes out WORD VOMIT aka bitching. “I am NOT your mother pick up your damn clothes”, “How hard is it to take the trash out”, “How long does it take to shit?” (25 to 45 minutes for the average husband/father). At first I cringed at the word vomit that was spilling out of my mouth, but now I accept it as a side effect of a healthy marriage. If he can AFTER 5 YEARS still allow himself to leave his clothes on the floor, then I can allow myself to bitch about the snow I am not shoveling.

Mother CC