Hello loves, it’s me, your dear old mother — the finder of all things, the master of mating socks, the ass-wiping goddess who scrubs these floors after you have tracked in mud and other questionable debris which, magically, you never seem to stop and notice.
Last night I saw you eat a peanut M&M that has been on the floor of our car since Halloween, and yet you think my delicious semi-homemade dinner is inedible, and you make it known by drowning it in ranch dressing and choking it down while I am sitting right next to you.
So guess what? Tonight this wine I am sipping is kind of making me feel like you can make your own damn dinner. Slap together a PB&J. You can do it. I will even let you get crazy with the jam, load it right on there. Just don’t forget to clean up your mess, mmkay?
The ordinance in this house is if you make the mess, you clean it up. Although you all seem to forget this cardinal rule, I know you are capable of remembering, especially since you remember your birthday five years ago when I didn’t buy you that Lego set you really wanted even though I searched every website and store trying to find it for you.
I did this because I am madly in love with you, and that is what you do for the people you love. You want to make them happy. So do me a solid, and make me happy by finding your own damn shoes.
If I am in the bathroom with the door closed, the bedroom with the door closed, talking to your father, or for the love of all things holy, if I am in any of these places with your father, it’s not the time to ask me if we have any chips. You could open the pantry, and take a peek for yourself. That would solve all your problems.
Apparently you believe my hobbies include dabbling in pee— your pee, because you always seem to leave it in the same place for me to enjoy. Only, guess what? I do not enjoy it. If you spray on the seat, near the seat, or the wall, you clean that piss up before anyone sees it. It is not a work of art. It is a damn mess of bodily fluid and needs to be wiped up by the person who made it. I don’t care if it made a lovely design next to the bowl, nobody is interested.
I am beginning to think you love the sound of my yelling. You just keep begging for it by not doing something when I ask you once or twice. Hell, you wait until I have said it 20 times and sound like a skipping CD, so yeah, things get crazy up in here when you propel me to this point.
I have heard your eyes roll at me when I go to the bad place. You have actually used the words, “OK, calm down, Mom,” but there would be no calming down needed if you would just do the ultra-simple things, like put on pants so I can get your ass to school, and holy crap kid, why do you need step-by-step instructions to make that happen?
Don’t ask me where your sweatshirt is. I have no fucking idea. My mind is loaded with things like how I am going to get you all from basketball practice to your dentist appointment in under three minutes because there is no way I am going to reschedule the damn dentist appointments again. But I can tell you this: If your sweatshirt is not on your body, it should either be in your drawer (I don’t even care if it’s folded) or in the hamper when it’s soiled. I am guessing you can not find it because it’s in a ball under your bed, or the back of the car where you left it.
I can also clue you in on something else: You are having trouble finding it because a sweatshirt does not belong in any of those places.
If the trash can is overflowing and there are coffee grounds and banana peels making drippings down the sides of the can, a nice gesture would be to take it out instead of telling me how every time you throw something away, you puke in your mouth a little bit.
So pull your own weight, find your own damn socks, stop staring into the fridge and asking me if we have any blueberry yogurt when the blueberry yogurt is practically touching your nose. You are pushing me to the literal brink of my sanity, darlings.
You are capable, you are able, you are strong enough to do things on your own without asking for assistance. So before you are tempted to ask me for, or about something, ask yourself if perhaps you can find out on your own. And watch me morph into Mary Poppins right before your eyes. It really will be a magical experience for all.
Your loving mother
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