Because I’m happy

Since when did we (human beings) start to care SO much about what others say or think about us? I guess since we evolved but when did it start directly affecting our lives? Why do I STILL at the age of 31 NEED to have the approval of my parents? Or be scared to tell them something without judgement? Or why can’t my husband tell his Mother the truth? Is her opinion THAT devastating to you to us? Or perhaps it’s the other way around. It really doesn’t matter. I look at my life and can say OPINIONS DO NOT MATTER. I don’t want to hear anyone’s advice unless I SPECIFICALLY ask for it. So WHAT if I change my hair color, even though you KNOW it won’t look good or if we get ANOTHER dog we can’t afford, when did it become YOUR worry? Why are you wasting time on this? I TRY to make the best decisions for my family and I. PERIOD. Unless I ASK you, DON’T TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK. Be happy for me and say “Wow that is a UNIQUE look” or “Wow your dog is so good with your girls.” Also WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU TO SAY A GOD DAMN THING! I am going to make mistakes, but unless those mistakes are going to harm me in a way the is detrimental to children’s or my life, SHUT YOUR MOUTH! I SERIOUSLY don’t want to take the time to tell you how FUCKED up your life is and the choices you make are fucking BOGUS, on top of that who am I to do so? Why waste my time on something that degrades you and makes me feel like shit.  I want to live my life HAPPY. HAPPY FOR NO REASON. Just blissful and heartwarming.  I want to see the GOOD in every situation, every person. Have the positive shine through. Maybe ignorant a bit? Would it be that awful to do so? I have up until this moment lived my life on what is next? What is NOT enough now, and how something else will make me happy. Getting to that next goal and feeling EMPTY. Why because I didn’t enjoy the ride, I didn’t stop to take in the pure and sweet beauty and innocence of THIS MOMENT.  So this is my plea, perhaps my warning, if you start that gossip bull shit drama, negative ass attitude on my life, your life or ANYONE IS THIS WORLD’s life, move the FUCK on. I AM DONE.


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