Sorry, where were we? Oh yes, blogging. Did I mention I'm going to start blogging again?
Hold on, I have to go wipe my kid's butt.
Ok, I'm back!
Butt wiping offers a nice segue. When I was a kid/teenager, I LOVED kids. I loved to play with them, hold them, pretend other people's children were my own (but not in a "Hand That Rocks the Cradle" kinda way). LOVED kids. I couldn't WAIT to have children of my own. Until I had children of my own...
Hold on, I'm refereeing an argument over a donut.
Ok, I'm back!
Please don't take this to mean that I DON'T love my children. Despite the fact that I gave birth to them minus pain meds and they destroyed my once precious vagina...I love them. And thank god they're cute, else I'd be eating them with my morning coffee right now.
When I was that glossy-eyed kid that loved children, I didn't realize that giving birth to these minions meant that you would be thrown-up on, pooped on, peed on, bled on, snotted on, screamed at, smarted off too, defied...and forced to ass wipe. Sometimes I feel like I'm being tortured out of a confession. I DIDN'T DO IT!
A lot of times, I think life would be a whole lot easier if I just developed an affinity for prescription painkillers or took up drinking heavily. But nooooooooooooooo, somebody has to have a clear head or else they'll end up wiping a mouth off with the same wipe used to wipe the baby's butt.
It's a thankless job. Well, until you get that sweet little hug and a "Mommy, I love you!" or "You're the best Mommy ever!" (little liar!) And it's totally worth it. Sometimes.
