Mama B*tch

imagesLast night I was at the mall when I ran into someone who looked so familiar. We made eye contact and said, “I know you from somewhere.” [Pause, head cocked, brow furrowed.]

I got it! She was the girl who got pissed at me at the front desk of the YMCA when she mistakenly took me for the person who snaked her precious parking spot.

That episode happened about a year ago, and with arms full of kids, being in the first trimester, and feeling like I had to regain control of my life somewhere, I started with that girl who wrongfully told me off and I retaliated.

No b*tch slap. No yelling either. But there was swearing. And then there was crying.

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This week as we were waiting for preschool to start, a gaggle of 4-year-olds (mine included) were running little circles at top-4-year-old-speed. I wasn’t bothered, because it was zero f*cking degrees outside and I figured they had to get the wiggles out somehow.

Just when I was admiring the giggly bunch, another mama yelled loud and at length at the kids to stop running. Her kid must have been angelically sitting on her carpet square waiting for class to commence. I can’t recall.

However, being the recipient of a foreign and harsh disciplinary action, my kid lost it. He ran to me crying, clinging to my legs, saying he didn’t like school anymore. I had to run out the door, leaving an anxious kid in the arms of the preschool teacher, disappointed that this happened.

When I picked him up from school a couple hours later, that yeller-mama asked if my kid cheered up about school, and I replied with a heavy dose of condescension, “He was shocked and hurt that you yelled at him to stop running. That’s not how we do it in our family.”

What I almost said was, “Do you even know how much self-control it takes me to not yell at this kid?!? And then you go and waste a good yell on a little ring-around-the-rosie?!? B*tch, please.”

This Mama B*tch is getting harder and harder to contain.


Vicarious nesting

The other day I loaded up the dishwasher, then walked across the kitchen and told Josh, “It’s ready to go.” His eyes got huge, he stood straight up, and whimpered, “She’s ready to go?”

I laughed, “The dishwasher, not the baby.”

We’re waiting for the baby’s arrival. Which is usually when nesting kicks into high gear – when you want to do something really productive (like produce a human) and you settle for other tasks that would otherwise elevate you to superhero status but in nesting phase only whet the appetite.

As a very pregnant and stubborn woman on bedrest, fighting my desire to complete home improvement projects, and knowing I still have a month to go before the bedrest sentence is lifted, I’m undergoing hard times. I said as much to Josh a couple of days ago.

My Superhusband has already jumped to my rescue. Yesterday he single-handedly moved the boys’ beds downstairs so I can make their old room the nursery. Then he moved my favorite chair into the master bedroom. Today he installed our handrail – which I had taken down a year ago to paint the wall and failed to reinstall. And then he re-caulked the kitchen sink – another project we’ve been meaning to do for a year. And as much as I try to negotiate, he’s not letting me lift a finger.


My Superhusband says I’m not allowed to show his face. Not sure why. But since he’s doing all the grunt work of nesting for me I’m not going to fight him on this one.


Note the newly-installed handrail thanks to my nesting husband

I am so thoroughly impressed. It’s almost as good as first-hand nesting. Almost.