Guess Who’s Back Bitches

1 06 2010

Backstreet.

Hah.

No.

I’m back. If you wanna be my friend you have to endure a little self pitying withdrawal fest once in a while. That’s just how I roll. You’ll get used to it.

Anywhoz,

I was driving along the other day, when I notice in front of me a van with the following lettered across the back window:

‘ChildProofers of Wisconsin- Simple Solutions for a Safe Home’

What. The fuck.

It really takes a professional to tell you to put the knives away and move the lighters and bong to a higher shelf?

For starters, when I was a kid I sure as hell don’t remember ever seeing a baby gate or outlet cover in my house.

When little caveman babies got too close and fell into the fire, did they start fencing them off with little prehistoric baby gates? No. That baby didn’t grow up and contribute to the gene pool.

And our species is better off for it.

If you must insist on reversing natural selection, at least use common fucking sense instead of paying some douchebag who calls themself a “professional babyproofer.”

For fuck’s sake!

Oh, and expect me to get back to stalking all your asses too.

See you soon! ❤

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Guess what. I don’t give a fuck.

8 03 2010

Four years and almost four months ago I stepped out of the hospital and was unknowingly claimed as member of a cult. A cult with an overwhelming number of members, who walk beside you through your every day. The cult of Mommyhood.

I use the term mommyhood versus motherhood because I don’t believe the two are one and the same. When you have a baby, you become a mother and add motherhood to your resume of life. But more and more women choose to take motherhood to an extreme (and extremely annoying) level,which I call mommyhood.

These are the women who cease to exist as people the moment that squealing, bloody mess of a human is yanked from their tattered loins and placed into their overly eager arms.

If you have ever joined a play group, you know the mommies I’m talking about. Every trace of the person they were before having kids is gone. Every word that comes out of their mouth has to do with their kid(s), and probably one of their “milestones.”

Guess what, mommies. I don’t give a fuck.

I don’t want to hear about how many times baby whatsherface spit up today every time I talk to you. I don’t care how many teeth she has, and it means nothing to me that she sat up way earlier than most babies. Get a life.

Mommies now have a platform with witch to annoy the shit out of address the masses: mommy blogging.

The title of my first blog contained the word ‘mommy’ and I occasionally wrote about the challenges of raising a toddler with learning disabilities and secular parenting. I realize that parents are going to mention their kids and their experiences with parenting.

However…

If I’m reading your blog, I want to know about you. I want to get a feel for your personality and your views on life. I don’t want to look at eleventy billion pictures of the same kids, or read about how sore your nipples are, or how many diapers little Joe Joe went through yesterday.

At least when I stumble upon a 100% mommy blog, I can click the red ‘x’ and get the fuck out of there. Not so easy in person, which is why my stint in a playgroup lasted all of about two meetups before I wanted to shoot myself in the face and decided that complete social isolation would actually be a more enjoyable option.

Call me a bad mother, call me what you will, but my kid is not my life. I can’t think of a more unhealthy, unbalanced approach to life than the “my children are my life” one. I am an individual first. A person. Not a faceless robot programmed to spit out babies, wipes noses and asses and whip out a wallet full of kid pictures ever time another adult stumbles into my 6 foot radius of awareness.

I am a mom and my child is my main responsibility. But I still have my own interests. I still have an adult sense of humor. I still posses intellect that I like to exercise.

And I still say ‘fuck’.

Meh, deal with it.





If you host a children’s show you’re creepy and I hate you

7 03 2010

What on Mother Nature’s green earth is wrong with the hosts of childrens’ TV shows?

If you thought the disturbing disturbingness of kids’ entertainers disappeared along with Paul Ruebens‘ career, you obviously haven’t had young children in your house in the past ten years.

Case in point:

Yo Gabba Gabba, hosted by the creepiest host ever to grace any form of entertainment evereverever: DJ Lance Rock.

Is there really any explanation necessary? I mean, the WTFuckery is just overwhelming. DJ Lance hangs out in green screen land with his crew of freak-show companions, named things like Foofa and Muno, who looks like a lot like one of those Giant Microbes VD dolls. He sings songs to your kids telling them to send him naked pictures Look Both Ways and Please Don’t Throw Things at Friends.

He also weighs about 85 lbs, wears an orange microfiber mop weave, a unitard and Revlon 630.

Take it back a few years and we have the king of both 90’s preschool entertainment and green stripes: Steve, of Blue’s Clues.

Steve* lives in a house with no human companions. That’s okay, though, because Steve loves LSD. Or at least that’s the only explanation I can come up with for why he takes advice from his household appliances. Steve’s best friends include his end table, salt and pepper shakers, and of course, his blue cartoon dog, Blue. Unlike the house’s furniture and even the cat from next door, Blue can’t speak. So she plays a little game where she leaves clues for Steve to find to figure out what the hell she’s trying to say. But Steve is so incredibly high that he can’t ever quite grasp what’s going on, so he invites your kids over every day to help him put it all together. At the end of Steve’s run on the show, he went off to college to learn about space and music……wha?

Back to present-day creepology, sometimes freaky kid hosts are a package deal. And sometimes these packages play hideous, creepy music that will haunt your dreams for years to come. Enter The Wiggles.

The Wiggles are four grown Australian men with a passion for creating annoying songs for kids. And primary colors. The creepiest part about The Wiggles (apart from the fact that they descended from a failed 80’s pop band called The Cockroaches) is the droves of soccer mom Wiggles groupies. I hope I never find out just how deprived you have to be to start finding a middle aged man wearing one of the colors in a Denny’s four pack of crayons, driving a red plastic car and singing about Bouncing Balls sexy.

*I don’t really hate Steve Burns, and in fact I actually kind of love him post Blue’s Clues. Check out his album (for adults), Songs for Dustmites.





Kids Say the God Damndest Things

30 11 2009

As a way to get my creative juices flowing here on Le Meh, this post is part of the {Write} of Passage writing challenge. This week’s topic: Your most embarrassing moment.

By the time time my son reached his third birthday he had been in speech therapy for 18 months. In this time he had gone from almost completely non verbal to slightly above his age level in vocabulary. There were still issues for him to work on, however, so the program passed him on to the school district’s early childhood development program. This meant my barely-three-year-old riding the bus to a big elementary school all by himself. Being the fantastic mediocre parent that I am, I thought it would be an easier transition for him if I took him to see the school and meet his teacher and class before his big first day.

We walked the halls hand in hand until we reached the door that read “3”. We were greeted warmly by his new teacher, who showed me to a table full of enrollment paperwork and him to a play area lined with toys.

There was only one other student present in the class of 6 that day: a non verbal 3 year-old with thick glasses strapped to his head and Winnie the Pooh overalls. The boys played quietly next to each other on the floor as the teacher and I got down to business on our respective piles of papers. Breaking the silence, she remarked, “I’m so excited to have A. in class. All of our other students are non verbal or close to it, so his impressive vocabulary will be a great influence on them!”

As if on queue, my darling child crashed the truck he had been driving around the classroom. He then shouted, loudly and clearly enough to prevent any kind of cover-up on my part, “GOD DAMN IT!”

My son, the great influence.

Join the {Write} of Passage challenge here . There should be a linky below this post, but WordPress and Java don’t get along, causing me to sadface. See it at dianaprichard.com after you read her {Write} of Passage post I (Used To) Do My Own Stunts