Dear Kids, Stop Complaining About Me Or Else

Hey, precious children of mine, you better pay heed to these words about to spew out of my mouth, as annoying as it may be for you. All this complaining about me (you know, your fucking mother) had better come to a screeching halt because I am about to freak out.

You have made me almost lose my shit 657 times this week, and that’s not even counting the four times I lost it for real. I know your life is really hard with all the sitting in the car and listening to your music while playing on your iPad while I drive you all over kingdom come, but you all need to realize how amazing I am and shut it with all the complaining.

I know all my “I love you” and “Have a good day at school” nonsense as I reach out to squeeze your arm and pull you in to give you a quick cheek kiss while dropping you off somewhere is basically the same as killing you softly, but it’s my rite of passage. And as your mother, I will do this until my last days.

I expect you to take it without complaint, just as I took you in my arms every night and held you because you wanted to be held and needed human contact in order to fall asleep. I need contact too — in the form of kissing you and smelling your head because I am so in love with you all. And it makes my heart split right down the middle every time you pull away and tell me how annoying I am.

Oh, and taking family photos — I know, fucking brutal, right? I mean, how dare your mother want to capture some of the special moments of our family adventures. The time it takes for you all to hold still must be pure torture. But believe me, it’s nothing compared to those hours I spent in some romper room with 400 kids who have all lost their damn minds, as I sat in the corner craving hard liquor while searching for the pencil in my purse and contemplating stabbing my eyes out because this is what hell on earth feels like. Posing for a freaking picture is nothing. Deal with it.

I know it sucks the big one when I won’t let you stay after school to “hang,” but there is a reason: I fucking wrote the book on staying after school to “hang,” and I won’t be having my children doing that. Sorry for your luck, kid.

And making you change your dirty clothes when we are going to dinner or to your school performance (or simply because it has been three days) takes a lot of nerve on my part. I realize this. Only the worst mothers would make you do such a thing because you are entitled to your choices. You guessed it kids: I am one of the worst mothers, and you are stuck with me.

How dare I ask you to use your manners when you are eating, talking, or asking me to take you somewhere?! I know you think I expect perfection, but honestly, I would just be thrilled with you not farting on your brother’s leg every time you walk by him or maybe cleaning up the Nutella you smeared across the kitchen.

Don’t bother me, interrupt me, or look at me the wrong way if I am chatting with a friend in Target. You just be patient and don’t breath a word about me making you “suffer,” ya hear? Remember all those playdates that were so hard for you to leave, and I let you stay a bit longer? And remember all those times I tried dragging you off the playground, but you talked me into staying for a few more minutes so you could show me how you could go down the slides backward 65 times? Well, this is my playdate, kid — so back off and let me enjoy a few more minutes of playtime without you tugging on me, getting in my face, or lying on the ground curled up in a ball under the rack of coats and moaning.

And yes, I realize I have to piss all the time, and this is a bit inconvenient for you since your schedule is so full and you are very busy and important, but you should remember I did push three of you out of my body and that does things to a bladder. Also, I need to drink copious amounts of caffeine just to make it through the day. So the next time you have a problem with your mother using the loo, keep in mind I could be your mother who wets herself a few times a day because your life can not stop just so I can take a fucking whiz.

And just so you know, your mama knows how to get down, and my dancing and singing isn’t going anywhere. I don’t care if three of your friends are in the car — when I hear a song that makes me want to move, there is no stopping me. I will let it rip, even if it makes you feel like you are dying a thousand deaths.

Don’t get sassy with me when I take some of your French fries. I did pay for them, so I am just going to help myself. The same goes for your dessert. I mean, you must not want it that badly if you don’t suck it down right away. You should know by now if you don’t eat things fast enough, they get eaten for you.

If you could start holding the door open for me without being asked, that would be fabulous as well. It’s just a small price to pay to someone who used to wipe your ass, for like, years.

Stop getting so embarrassed by the way I dress too. I mean, why are boxers hanging out, mismatched socks, holes in your tights, and using your T-shirt as a napkin acceptable — but my fashion sense is all wrong for you and might really damage your reputation? Culottes are in, dammit. They are not called “puffy pants.” Besides, nobody is even looking at me. They are looking at your fucking boxers — the boxers that should be under your pants. They are not an accessory to be shown atop your trousers. So, spare me your fashion advice, son, because Tim Gunn, you are not.

So let’s try to reel in the complaining about your old ma who has a weakened bladder (due to your large heads) and who doesn’t know how to sing, dance, dress, or apparently, do anything else. I know in your world I am totally uncool, but you will look back one day and realize how astounding I really was — especially when you have kids who complain about you and want to spend time with their super hip grandmother because she dances around the kitchen and lets them eat frosting out of the container with a spoon.

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