Mean mommy

“YOU’RE A MEAN MOMMY! WE SHOULD’VE GOTTEN A NICER MOMMY! I HATE YOU! YOU’RE STUPID! MOMMY! TALK TO ME! YOU’RE HURTING MY FEELINGS BY NOT TALKING TO ME! ANSWER ME, ONE OF YOU GUYS! NAAAH NAHHH NAH NAAAAH NAH!”

—the H-Bomb, going off on the stairs, locked and howling to me and Sophie behind a child safety gate that she is kicking to smithereens

@#$#%!!!!

I don’t FEEL like being a mommy AT THIS POINT IN TIME, all right?

It’s CRAP that money can’t buy happiness.

Total B.S. Because if I had me some money? I’d have a daily dog-walker so the dog wouldn’t bolt when let out into the yard at dinnertime. Tonight I had to tromp around the freezing wooded hill behind the house to get her back, while H-B started her explode-tastics.

I’d have a maid who would clean the kitchen weekly and mop the disease-ridden floor so my children wouldn’t smell my freakin’ desperation when I dump canned ravioli into the only clean pot or bring home another effin’ Unhappy Meal.

H-B’s rocket liftoff became truly impressive after the wanton dog was finally corralled. And I swear it is because she can sense my kitchen/mealtime despair. Part of it, at least. I’d get some cooking lessons!

And I’d have a live-in nanny, sure! Why not? One who would help impose more structure in this household and handle bedtime with H-B, which is, often, the worst part of the day. She hates brushing her teeth. She hates the toothpaste. She hates peeing. She hates getting into her jammies. She is not yet Ferberized, and she’s FIVE YEARS OLD.

It’s shaping up to be another miserable night right now. Spitting, kicking, Exorcist-style ranting and raving. I told her she lost her chance to go to E’s birthday party tomorrow. And she told me she hated me. And that I didn’t care about her. And that I don’t let her do ANYTHING. Ha! Ha ha ha!

I would have a bigger house so H-B could be far, far away from me right now as she flips out. A fenced-in yard for her and the dogs! A garage so I didn’t have to dig out my frickin’ car every snow morning, so I could leave them with the nanny and zip off to Jamaica! I would have steps that weren’t cracking and crumbling, and a car less than 11 years old, one with a CD player so I could wail my favorite songs when H-B makes me FRICKFRACKING INSANE. More insane than usual.

Best of all, I would have a Room of My Own with My Own Bathroom. And I would thank God for these things, every day. And I would float around serenely like 2009 Glinda the Good Witch in pink cocktail dresses with ostrich feathers! BECAUSE I COULD. I WOULD NEVER HAVE TO SHOP AT LANDS’ END AGAIN, LANDS’ END WITH ITS STUPID UNNECESSARY QUOTEMARK.

Money buys a lot of happiness, do not be fooled. If you have spawned, money is particularly helpful. All idealism is gone here, people. How do I become a radiologist?

And: How do I stop caring so much? How do I feel perky instead of exhausted? How do I go back to the Victorian era when CHILDREN WERE RAISED IN NURSERIES BY MARY POPPINS?

If I were a radiologist? I bet I would know all the answers as money fluttered gracefully out of my chic trouser pockets. Seriously. I think everything would feel better.

P.S. DID I MENTION SOMEONE WANTS TO ADVERTISE WEDDING BANDS ON MY SITE? HA! HA HA! HA HA HA!