I Am Your Mother, Not Your Maid – Scary Mommy

I Am Your Mother, Not Your Maid

clean your room

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Hey there, kids,

I know I lost it this morning when I decided to peek in your rooms, but it is your fault. The thing is, when I asked you all — as you were gazing deeply into your phones — if your rooms were clean and you all mumbled something that sounded kind of like a yes, something felt off so I was compelled to go up and check for myself. I realize I got crazy, but for the record, this is not an apology letter. Nope. This is a “How It’s Going to Be From Now On” letter, so listen up, buttercups:

News fucking flash, kids, I am your mother. I am the queen bee of this motherfucking hive. I am not the maid, the butler, or a goddamn door mat. You are old enough to know better. I have told you so many times to clean up after yourselves that it physically hurts me to remember just how many times I have said it. I am done. I set the tone up in here, and I am setting it now, and you will follow my lead.

You were all wondering why I got so worked up over “a few things being out of place,” well, let me tell you why: It is because I just got down on my knees and started raking dirty underwear and socks that were under your bed. I saw things a mother should not see. Things that made my toes curl and made me throw up in my mouth. Oh, and P.S. your curtains are not a to be used as tissues!

After that charade, as I was storming down the stairs with arm loads of crusty laundry, I proceeded to trip over the shoes that you left in the middle of the floor. You know, that special place right in the center where there should not be something to roll your ankle on and send you splatting on the floor as soiled clothing lands in your mouth.

While shoving the laundry in the machine, I almost slipped (again) on the piss that came out of your body and landed on the floor that I vacuum and mop every single day. Don’t tell me you don’t hear that shit splatter all over the place. After all this time, after I have told you to wipe up anything that doesn’t make it into the toilet, you still just walk out of there and don’t look back, just like it never happened.

I am done with your excuses. I am done reminding you. And if I see another candy wrapper under another bed, sofa, or chair, I am going to freak the fuck out. Oh wait, that is what I am doing now! And you know what? This is going to be the last fucking time this woman loses her voice from yelling because you slobs can’t pull it together and take care of what is yours — and that especially includes urine.

I am the gatekeeper of all things fun, so I will not be yelling anymore about this subject. I will just take things. I will take the devices, all of them. Friends coming over will be a thing of the past, and if you think I will get you an ice cream just because I have a craving, think again. I have no problem sucking back a chocolate cone in front of you, all by myself. Kind of the same way you don’t have a problem watching me scrub bodily fluids off the floor, all by myself.

Don’t think it will slip my mind either. I will remember the dirty underwear on the floor, the towels that never get hung up, and the apple core you hid under the sofa cushions. Some things you just can’t un-see and so I will shut the fun zone down in this house faster than you can put your piece of chewed gum on the windowsill.

It is not too much to ask. These things do not happen because you “forgot” or you “didn’t know.” Everyone knows that toothpaste does not belong on the window and used floss should not be seen on the edge of the sink. It is called being lazy and not giving a fuck if you live in filth. So kiddos, you should believe me when I tell you I have a cure for that. I know all the cures for being lazy.

Are we clear? Great. Now go clean your room.

Mom