dear ungrateful children who call me mother,

i know it seems like i’m here to serve your every whim, but let me be the first to set the record straight.

i HAVE to take care of you. i don’t necessarily WANT to…all the time, or on weekends, or during prime time television. we all make sacrifices–get used to it.

if i don’t “meet your needs” then the state of texas will send you to live somewhere else and i will only get to visit on weekends. don’t tempt me.

but let’s clear up what the phrase “meet your needs” actually means…to me. and because i’m the oldest and the only one with a credit card and a driver’s license, my vote is the only one that counts.

you older ones text me regularly (while you’re supposed to be in class) and ask me to bring you lunch. not lunch like from taco bell, but lunch from the trendy sushi restaurant where every dish begins in the double digits. the only person who gets to spend $30 on lunch will be me. and i am smart enough to keep it from the husband. i certainly don’t need you coming home bragging to the big guy that mom brought you sushi. i can dig my own holes, thank you very much.

you also dump your laundry off in front of the washing machine as you’re flying out the door to go with your friends. in the past i’ve always put your smelly clothes in the machine, added the soap and turned it on–but no more. from now on, if you leave it there, it stays there, unwashed and molding. and here’s a question i need answering–why do your clothes smell like a boys’ locker room? you better not be going in there! boys are icky gross and usually have fungus on their feet–and on their…well, you know. do you want to get fungus? i’m just sayin.

now you little ones are no better. i do not want to wipe your butt, scratch your butt, or kiss your butt–so stop asking! i mean, your butt is smelly for obvious reasons, and why you want me to pay so much attention to it is a little unsettling. yes, e-man, i’m talking to you. i love that you love mommy, but i prefer to NOT scratch your butt. i will gladly scratch your back, but not at 2 in the morning. please stop waking me up.

i do not enjoy that you come in my room around 1am every night–to MY side of the bed, and poke me in the arm until i wake up. it’s a good way to get smacked. for all i know you’re a burglar–proceed with caution. my question is, what’s wrong with waking up your dad? why is it always me? if you want to sleep in our bed, go to the bottom, crawl under the covers, and go to sleep! see how simple that is? there’s no need to wake me up at all! climb in and shut up! no more poking. got it?

oh, you laugh middle schooler. but here’s what i have to say to you. you’re a beating. the day you turned 13 you became some other alien life force that i don’t even recognize anymore. you suck most days and your attitude is the absolute WORST! you seem to have a scowl permanently fashioned on your once pretty face and i got news for you—it ain’t attractive. i miss the girl who used to think i was the coolest mom on the planet. now i wish you would live somewhere else until you snap out of it. here’s a tip: uncross your arms and soften your ever furrowed brow and stop telling me i’m not funny. cuz i am funny and you know it.

littlest one, i adore you, you know that. but you changing your clothes 14 times a day is taking a toll on me. you tell me to pick out your outfit and then throw a fit when it’s not the one you want to wear. PICK OUT YOUR OWN CLOTHES! and stop obsessing about how your food is arranged on your plate. ps. i’m sorry your dad has messed you up. i had such high hopes for you. oh well, good luck in therapy.

aahhhhh, i feel so much better. please read this…memorize it…live it.

you’re welcome.

signed,
your loving mother

it’s happening.

my oldest daughter is about to start…..driving!

she informed me that she is now eligible to sign up for driver’s ed.

is it too late to shove her back up into my uterus?

yeah, i thought so. she’s WAY bigger than me now. that would look weird. and it would be like the world’s worst wedgie. people would stop me on the streets and shout, “oh my god, is that a person crammed up in there?”

and i would be all, “don’t pay any attention to it, i mean her, and she’ll stop screaming for help.”

and then i might end up in jail–or worse, my own reality tv show. they would call it something ridiculous like Back Where You Belong. she would be allowed to take 2 things with her on her *journey* and with my luck, she would choose her ipod and her flat iron. and then i’d never get away from that blasted hip hop music. ok, you can’t really call that music.

so anyway, putting her back where she came from seems out of the question.

plan b. i let her take driver’s ed but i don’t let her drive. that would be cruel, right? don’t tempt me, teenagers suck and seeing her unhappy might thrill me.

ok. so i let her drive but only to become my personal slave. she takes over picking up this one at ballet, dropping off that one at soccer practice, grocery shopping, errand running….wow, this is sounding better by the second.

you know what i have to do next, don’t you. i have to take her to the vet and have him put one of those tracking chips in her ear so that i know her whereabouts. i’ll tell her we’re going to get one of the dogs vaccinated and i need her help holding him down. then at the last second, the vet will shove the dog out of the way, strap down my freakishly strong teenager and zap! micro chip inserted! oh, she’ll be mad at first, call me a terrible mother, say she hates me, yada yada. she does that now! that’s called wednesday. i’ll tell her to think of it as another piercing. she’s always wanted one at the top of her ear–voila! wish granted!

and then i’ll know when she’s strayed beyond the stringent parameters i’ve set for driving. no going to the liquor store, a boy’s house (ANY boy–i don’t care if they’re related–boys are horny and they don’t mind if you share dna–those are just details to them), or dallas.

yep. i think i can let her drive under those conditions. i won’t be happy about it, but shoving her back in my uterus doesn’t sound like a european vacation either.

friday i came home and tommy pulled me aside and said, “i bought you a present,” and the way he said it in that-hey, little girl, want some candy?-kind of way, i was sure i knew what kind of “present” he was talking about. i thought, he totally has a bow wrapped around his penis. and then i wanted to say, “thanks babe, but have you ever heard of a gift card?”

turns out, there was no curly ribbon wrapped penis, but there was a huge sack of sex toys sitting on the bed. and that’s when i realized, tommy needs a hobby.

he was excited to show them to me. he pulled them out of the bag, one by one, and explained how they worked. i looked at him and thought, who ARE you? he went on to tell me that the guy working at the sex shop had been helpful in assisting him on what to get. great. now tommy and random perverts and discussing the very essence of my va-jay-jay.

i laid out the fine array of accoutrement on the bed and wondered how i got here. we used to have sex without power tools, but somehow now, it’s me, tommy and the snugglepuss (which by the way is quite snuggly).

we took everything out of the packages and as i studied them up close, i hoped we wouldn’t burn our house down using these. how would i explain to our insurance company that the electricity from ‘jenna’s pleasure knob’ sparked a flame which lit the maximum-strength astroglide on fire?

i put the new loot in the safe next to the loot we already had in there and said to tommy, “if burglars ever broke in this safe, they would be very disappointed to find that we only have vibrators and lube.” he replied, “don’t forget about the porn.”

how pathetic are we?

so anyway, we had to rush off to my high school reunion (will post about THAT later) and i forgot to dispose of the bag that had all the boxes from all the goodies. it was still sitting on our bed and i knew that if harley and ethan saw it there, they would think it was stuff for them. tommy’s mom was here from out of town and had them out doing stuff together. panic set in as we were getting close to the place where the event was being held. it was too late to go back home. i had to think fast. i immediately called my friend from down the street and when she answered i said, “i don’t have time to talk. i need you to go to my house and in my room, there’s a huge sack that once had sex toys in it. don’t snicker. the empty boxes are in the bag. get rid of the bag before my mother in law gets back with my kids.” i didn’t have to say anything further. she said, “i’m on it!” and we hung up. disaster and therapy averted.

i don’t even want to think about how i would explain the snugglepuss or the tantric sex video to my six year old AND my mother in law.