I’m by no means one of those amaze-balls mums – and to be honest, I don’t even believe there really is such a thing. I can honestly tell you that my intentions are (almost) always pure, my heart is full and I love my family with a wildly ferocious heart.
Do all of these magical fairy dusted emotions stop me from being an absolute arsehole to my children and husband at times?
Nope. Not at all.
I yell and carry on like an absolute arsehole…and not just any arsehole, I’m talking about a big ugly one with sweaty hairy balls hanging down the crack while flipping the bird to the world.
I don’t even mean to carry on like the proverbial bum-bum, but there are random occasions when I imagine yelling “farrrrk you” to them all while running away to a deserted Island with Adam (I’m actually referring to Adam Levine here – not my husband) drink cocktails and then just ummmm…stare at him.
My arsehole moments are admittedly random, erratic and generally wildly unwarranted. I don’t really even sweat the big stuff – the big stuff I can take care of easily with my stress levels intact. I just crack it over the tiniest of things because apparently, that’s what mum’s do.
Could it be because the little stuff is out of our control? Like when I actually resented the crap out of my hubbie for not having a big cut under his balls from delivering our babies into the world. Yup.
How ridiculous was that sad but true thought in my head?
I’ve even been jealous that my hubbie can jump up and down on a trampoline with the kids without piddling himself.
I’ve resented my kids for never sleeping in. For the love of God small insomniac children, just sleep-in for one fucking day so that Mummy can play catch up on sleep… and maybe even have a languid sexual encounter with my husband (and his non-delivering balls)
I sometimes crack it that we can’t go out for dinner without having to book a babysitter 2.5 years in advance.
I get the ferocious eye-roll combined with teeth-gritting grimace when I see a Facebook post of the braiding, Lorna Jayne, muffin baking, label wearing, always smiling mum when she posts perfect photos of her neat-arsed children in her perfect house. Liars Liars pants on ummmm, ‘fires’
I crack it at the remnants of toast on the kitchen bench
I become an arsehole sometimes when I can’t do a poop by myself without having to zip up a dress, talk about school or even just be stared at mid-strain by an adoring trio of primary schoolers.
I crack it at the husband for fondling me when I’m unpacking the dishwasher…and then I’ll crack it at him if he doesn’t fondle me when I’m unpacking the dishwasher. HUH?
I’ve even been mad at a school shoe.
A. School. Shoe.
I’ve picked it up and thrown it against a wall because the stupid bastard MOFO thing hid itself when we were late for school.
These things are utterly ridiculous to get mad about, but hey, if that’s all I’ve got – this stupid random shit that only ever bothers mums – my life can’t be too bad, can it?
I have a spunky, helpful, loving sexy beast of a husband who is an amazing father, three well balanced and healthy kids that adore the hell out of us and I have my health, wealth (haaahaaaaa – that wealth part isn’t true!) food on the table, two arms, two legs and a heartbeat.
Maybe I should just take a deep breath and remember that the next time I’m yelling at a shoe.
Surely I’m not alone in the psycho tantrum stakes?
Bueller? Beuller? Bueller?