Crafty

When I signed up for this crazy thing called mothering, I knew that there would be sleepless nights, heartache, frustration, and various bodily fluids that I would wear at certain points in life.  No one told me, however, that it would also require mad Martha Stewart skills.

The explosion of sites such as Pinterest has led to super cute ideas circling the web faster than a line of coke goes up Charlie Sheen's nose.  Now don't get me wrong...I love Pinterest and the various ideas that it has given me.  Hell, I can wield a hot glue gun with the best of them.  What I really resent is the notion that we are going to pile on overworked, underpaid, and perpetually stressed mother's one more "requirement" to feel guilty about.  This activates in me some latent Oppositional Defiant Disorder and makes me want to give the universe the finger.  Then I feel guilty and sink to the depths of despair, convinced that because that one time when Charlie was three I didn't take the time to make a homemade (insert holiday) treat for her to take to class, she will be forever ostracized and bullied and will then become the next serial killer and end up getting arrested wearing her victim's skin as a fur coat while playing solitaire with a short deck.

Fuck that shit.  I sent in store-bought Valentines for the little girls.  I didn't even write names on the fruit snacks that I sent into Charlie's preschool class.  I felt a bit guilty about sending in those little bombs of high fructose corn syrup and artificial flavorings and colors, but then decided that it wasn't enough to make me look for something else or to create a cute handmade valentine with an organic banana and a card that says "I go bananas for you, Valentine!"  I didn't have to feel so guilty about Alexis...her first choice, Airheads, was devoured by Spartacus because he is an asshole sometimes who emotionally eats everything that he can find because his owners don't pet him enough.  The second choice, purchased a half an hour before we had to leave for school, was temporary tattoos.  Let's ink all those bitchez in the second grade up, fo' shizzle!  What can I say; she didn't choose the thug life, it chose her.

If I have anything to feel guilty about, it is going to be my poor parenting choices and the amount of wine I consume to deal with my children's whining.  Not some fabricated requirement perpetuated by the craft industry to generate more sales in the pursuit of the almighty dollar.  I am going to have burnt fingers, be slightly high from paint fumes, and be covered in glitter on my own terms, dammit.  Not because some jackass in marketing decided that I needed something imaginary to feel guilty about...I do enough on my own to feel guilty about.  I certainly don't need any help, thankyouverymuch!