Let me start of with saying that I may not be completely sain… I might be thinking that I am completely sain until the point that I get shipped of to a padded white room. Granted, listening to the war that’s curently raging in the kitchen about a leapard print cup, the nuthouse sounds like an awesome get away….
Welcome to the nuthouse Mrs Smit. Here’s your room. As you can see it’s covered in white because we know that the last time you owned anything white was on your wedding day. As an added bonus we have a lovely view of absolutely no mess. We promise to keep you medicated to the point of passing out, we’ll feed you (for a change), and restrict all visits from your loved ones (aka the offspring)… fuck, if that doesn’t sound beter than a paid trip to Mauritius then thank the holy spirit we are not friends.
Don’t get me wrong. I love the boys. But sometimes I can’t help but think… Ciska you fucking idiot. Kids will probably outlive you, get a fucking dog!
… (there goes the leapard print cup, followed shortly by the “you broke my favorite cup” ((that has been hidden in a cupboard for roughly 5months and no one even noticed)), and the “it was mine since I was a baby”….. and all I can think is that someone better be cleaning that shit or I might need to go nuclear on their asses)…
Well I’m still in my PJ’s, wishing I had some coffie and watching the time knowing that we will be late for school, again. After many wine induced conversations with my friends I’ve decided to start this blog..
Parenting is the hardest job in the entire world. It’s messy, it’s noisy, it’s all consuming and for some reason every one is so shit scared to be judged that no one is honest about the struggles we all face. It’s time to lay it all out. To show up.. tits hanging out and ready to stand up for your self. To say it as it is and screw the stupid lady next door. To call out the bitch that destroyed your husband from ever being emotional. To be brave. To admit that you loose a battle with a four year old more often than you whipe your ass after mexican food. To be silly, crazy, emtional.To be at fault. To be real… to be mom.