Cars

Life likes to request weird sex acts (like enacting foot fetish fantasies with peanut butter and a pumice stone) just when I was expecting a romantic cuddle, especially when it comes to vehicles.

I should have known that this was going to be a recurring issue.  Charles and I were married for less than 24 hours when, on our way to our honeymoon, the transfer case on his 4 wheel drive broke.  On the frightening and confusing stretch of highway that is otherwise known as the PA turnpike.  In the middle of a construction zone.  At 4 PM.  On a Sunday.  Super fun times and not at all a stressful way to start life as a married couple...

Then, about a year and a half later, I get t-boned and total my car.  It was the first time I've had the wind knocked out of me AND had my back thrown out at the same time and again, super fun times were had by all involved.  A month later?  Charles hits a concrete pole and totally dents in the side of his truck.  A year later?  Driving to grad school in the Jeep Liberty I got (you know, to replace the totaled car...) in a snowstorm and I ditch the fucker.

Really, we aren't as bad of drivers as I am making us out to be.

Things get really exciting now that there are THREE licensed drivers in the house.  Elizabeth drives the worst car ever.  No seriously, it's a piece of shit.  1990 Geo Prizm.  The bumper is zip tied on.  Well, mostly.  There may also be some drywall screws holding it into place as well.  It is fabulous in its awfulness. 

The wheel bearing was going out in the car.  Like, the wheel had a distinct diagonal tilt.  Thank God for a handy hubby, who was fixing it.

But...foot fetish.

He had to take the bearing to work to press it in.  Then realized that he needed a seal or some shit.  So he drove around to three different auto parts stores.  Got the part.  Opened the box.  It was wrong.  The box LIED.  He took that back, and, like the two other stores before, was told that they could have it tomorrow.  Not gonna mothafucking work, buddy.  There is school and work tomorrow.  Shits gotta get fixed today!  Decides to go to another store...they have it.  Hallelujah!  The cuddle and romance are coming!

Just kidding!

On the way home, he slams on his brakes to avoid a collision with a bale of hay that comes flying off the back of a truck in front of him.  Something goes crunch, and it ain't the hay.  Not a good sound to hear.  Then...trying to turn into the driveway, he does not get very far.  Something is not right.  No time to figure it out as there is dance and dinner to contend with.

I get home to a flat tire on the Jeep (when he changed the brakes this weekend, he did not screw a bolt down enough and it came loose, putting a small hole in the rim), the Prizm jacked up with the wheel off, and a harried husband who is trying to calculate the odds of rain in case he needs to drive the motorcycle to work tomorrow cause all the other vehicles are broken.  Super duper fun times!

I hope I am still respected in the morning.  I will never look at peanut butter the same again.

Insanity

If doing the same thing and expecting a different result is the definition of insanity, then any person who has ever cleaned their house is likely to be certifiable.

I spent the better part of three hours today scrubbing my floors and baseboards.  Like, on my knees, and not in the way that makes my husband really happy.  Moving furniture, sweeping with a broom AND a vacuum, physically scrubbing the floors till they shined...the whole nine yards.

Then the family came in from outside.

Now, it's spring.  I hate spring to the point I felt it necessary to document why on the Internet.  And while the weather is unseasonably cold so the ground is still frozen, the snow has already melted, and we have not gotten any rain for the past few days (AKA, no mud), there is still all kinds of shit to track in on my nice clean floors besides mud.  Like pine needles.  Dried, crumpled leaves from last fall.  Or dog hair.

Dear God, the dog hair.  Who had the great idea to get both a border collie/husky mix and a Malamute mix?  Plus a cat and a Jack Russell Terrier?  Animals fucking shed, people.  And its not all nice and contained like when a snake sheds their skin.  Oh, no.  That shit gets everywhere.  Even when the fuckers aren't in the house, I still find dog hair.  I've considered opening my own dog toupee making business or donating to Locks of Love, Doggy Style.  Is that a thing?  If it isn't it should be.  I'd totally donate, and not just because I am sick of the hair all over my house.  Strictly because the name is made of awesome.

It is always this way though.  I get the house clean and everyone around me comes and systematically undoes what I just did.  Then I fume and grumble, and clean it again.  And the cycle goes on and on, like the housekeeping version of Groundhog Day.

I'm really bad about making my family clean up after themselves.  Mostly because I know (and unfortunately they know) that I will go crazy with the mess way before they will.  And of course, no one in the house ever actually makes the mess.  It's the gremlins who apparently come out when I've just fucking cleaned to spill that juice on the floor and leave it for Mom to clean.  Because we just like to really fuck with her head and see exactly how well her meds are working today.  Those gremlins are ASSHOLES sometimes.  Why can't they do something useful, like leave random margaritas lying around the house instead of random dishes that you may or may not need a haz-mat suit on first to be able to safely put them in the dishwasher?

So yeah.  It makes me feel a little bit better, though, to know that at least some aspects of my crazy aren't unique to me.  It's the feeling of community and of having a tribe, doncha know?  You aren't in this fight alone.  You aren't the only one who secretly wishes the family would stay outside just for an hour longer so you can enjoy the fruits of your labor for more than 5 minutes.  You aren't the only one who despises the gremlins who anonymously leave a sticky, crumb filled trail of destruction in their invisible wakes.

Makes me wonder, though, if a better definition of insanity is doing the same thing, knowing the result you are going to get is not a satisfactory one, yet doing it anyways.  Either/or.  I think I've made my case.

Cleaning is insanity.

Judging

I never knew the sting of a contemptuous stare until I had to stand in line at DJFS to resubmit my paperwork for the voucher for daycare so I could finish college.

I never knew the frustration of wanting to defend myself to those people because I was getting government help until I had to pretend to hold my head high as I walked past them and heard their not so subtle comments about the teenage mother.

I never knew that fake tattoos only stay on a child's cheek forever if you have pictures scheduled until I had to scrub one off of a pissed off child.

I never knew the struggle of infertility until I lost pregnancy after pregnancy.

I never knew that there would be women jealous that I could even *get* pregnant until I lost pregnancy after pregnancy.

I never knew the knife that twisted in your heart as a bereaved parent until I had to pick up the remains of a dead child from the crematory.

I never knew the soul crushing weight of depression until the day I did not want to get out of bed.

I never knew the hurt of losing a pet until I had to bury a dog.

I never knew that alcohol was not, in fact, the answer until I woke up the next day with a splitting headache and vague memories of what (and who) I *think* I had done the night before.

I never knew the stats about sexual abuse were so under reported that they are practically useless because they do not show the true story until I started to hear the victim's stories.

I never knew that people with schizophrenia DO want to work until I saw it be done.

I never knew that it was so hard to be poor until I was actually poor myself and had to figure out how to feed my child.

I never knew that yes, it is important to get regular oil changes until I blew up the motor.

I never knew that the parents who's child is screaming in the aisles at the grocery store may not be lazy, worthless, abusive parents of said child but may have a special needs child.  Or a difficult child.  Or a child who is simply having a really bad day.

I never knew that children had so much personality until I started to work with them.

I never knew that I would be judged on the quality of my womanhood if I had my uterus removed, until I had it removed.

I never knew that the food I was eating was slowly killing me until I lost, then gained back, weight.

I never knew the extent that men feel entitled to women's bodies and the extent to which they feel free to comment, stare, and then be pissed when they don't get what they feel entitled to, until I lost a bunch of weight.

I never knew the price often exacted from our servicemen and women until I had family members have to pay that price.

I never knew the agony of sleepless nights worrying about money until I had to rob Peter to pay Paul who was robbed last month to pay Samuel...

I never knew how much I judged others until I realized how much I in turn was judged by others, despite feeling that I had no reason to be judged.

And...I never fully understood the idea of not judging other's battles until your hands are clean until I was judged, found lacking, and then realized that their hands were just as dirty as mine.

Ice

Completely non-weather related ice, that is.

Among the many talents that my family has, including the ability to completely ignore a pile of used paper towels that did not make it to the garbage can and the ability to tolerate television volumes that the partially deaf would only *just* be able to hear, the most disappointing is the lack of ability to fill up the ice cube trays.

What's that, you say?  People still USE ice cube trays?

Yes.  When we moved into our house, we had to buy all appliances.  Mostly because the place we lived in before, the appliances were olive green.  Plus they were older than we were.  Plus I'm pretty sure that the appliances were worth more than the trailer (yes, feel free to make the jokes about trailer trash.  I'd do it again. Lot rent was $145, bitchez, and when we moved we sold the place and pocketed the cash.  We sold it to a registered sex offender's father, unfortunately, who then rented it out to the sex offender...but we did not know that at the time.  Imagine my surprise when signing up for the alerts for our area and having our former address come up.  Uh, honey?  Something you want to tell me?)

Seriously, how have I never been evaluated for ADHD?

Anyways, new appliances.  Since we were still living just above the poverty level, we bought a pretty basic fridge.  It had an ice maker; however it did NOT include the equipment to hook it up.  We kept saying, "Oh, we'll go get that eventually..."  But never did, obviously.  Since it is now, ahem, 10 years later.

Which leads  me to ice cube trays.  They more often than not look like this:

Yes.  One ice cube.  Been that way since Thursday.

I once let the ice situation go for an entire month.  ONE MONTH.  I was really curious as to how long it would take.  Then I remembered that my children are blood related to me and I *might* be known for my stubbornness.  Plus it was getting warmer out and I might have wanted vodka and lemonade instead of wine.  I filled it up.  Pick your battles, bitchez, and this one involved alcoholic beverages.  In a roundabout way.

I guess it is nice to know that my family knows that I will take care of the little shit, like the ice cube trays, immunizations, and preparation for the zombie apocalypse (though to be fair, the small arsenal my hubby has really contributes to zombie apocalypse preparedness).  But of course, the anxiety then takes over and makes me fear that I am being a helicopter parent and creating codependent, helpless leeches on society.  And that we will all succumb to the zombie apocalypse and end up scruffy, unbathed, craving brains, and with rotting flesh hanging off of us.  Dammit, I work super hard to make sure we don't look like that!  And I've never been a fan of organ meat either...what will I eat???

Then I remember how Elizabeth once, at the age of five, stood up to someone who's kid had broken a (Spanish speaking and very expensive) Barbie of hers and then had falsely accused her of making the story up....and she totally held her ground.  And won, and was proven right.  I remember how Alexis is perfectly content to do her own thing at home, school, and dance, and honey badger don't give a shit what others think.  I remember how Charlie, at the age of 10 months, learned how to crawl up the stairs before she could even walk because her sisters were up there and that was where she wanted to be and dammit, she was tired of waiting for her slow ass parents to take her up there.

Then I go and get the last ice cube and pour myself a drink.  Because pretending to parent responsibly tends to leave one parched and emotionally drained.  Gonna kill two birds with one stone with this drink here...

Snow

So I am supposed to be recuperating from my hysterectomy, right?  And part of that is that I am supposed to be resting.  Not cleaning, vacuuming, doing laundry, sweeping the floors. 

Right.

It is kind of hard to do this when the children keep NOT having school.  I mean, seriously, where the fuck was all of this snow during Christmas?  You know, when it would actually be welcome?  It started snowing early Sunday morning, and it did not stop until Monday afternoon.  Some places even got the joy of snow, then rain, then snow on top of that.  Because Mother Nature apparently got cranky at the horrible play calls for the Superbowl so she decided to torture everyone.  Way to take your aggression out on Northeast Ohio, MOTHER.  Other people who do that get charged with felonious assault.

We don't even live in the fucking snow belt, where they expect this kind of snow.  Not that we were unprepared for it.  I live in Ohio, land of the really really crappy weather no matter what season.  Snowpocalypse does not scare me.  Hell, chances are if it is above 20* I'll be heading to the grocery store without a cumbersome coat.  I get annoyed when school is closed just because of snowy roads (ice is understandable).  In other words...It's old hat.

But not when I am supposed to be relaxing.  And that is hard enough to begin with.  And the little girls have picked up a new habit.  Of fighting.  Over everything.  Constantly.  It's super cute, in the way that that stupid groundhog is super cute until you realize that the fucker is predicting 6 more weeks of winter.

I was running out of ideas to entertain them.  I gave them Mr. Clean Magic Erasers for a while, and that kept them busy for an hour.  (Bonus:  the walls going upstairs are now clean!)  I even turned the TV on, but that only led to a fight over what to watch.  In desperation, I did what any good Ohio mother would do.

I bundled their asses up and made them play outside.

It was 17* with a foot of snow, plus it was still coming down.   I really could not go out there with them, as that would involve me actually putting real pants on vs the yoga pants I have been living in for the last two weeks.  Plus, you know:  supposed to be resting.  I sent them out by themselves and left the door open to watch them.

It wore their asses out.  By the time they came in, their cheeks and noses red as can be, I could see it.  The cold took the fight right out of them.  They were ready to behave, if only because they were too tired to try to start an argument.

It's almost enough to make me wish that there was snow year round.  Then I mentally wallop myself upside the head and remember:  Swimming pool does the same in the summer.

Score one for another awesome parenting moment!

Hysterectomy

On Friday, I went into the hospital to have a few spare parts removed in what my work apparently deemed to be a solely cosmetic procedure based upon their reaction to me taking three weeks off after having a couple of organs removed.  This has got to be one of the most solid adult decisions that I have ever made. I have zero regrets about the surgery. I tried to get my doctor to do some additional rummaging in there to remove any other potentially problematic spare parts, like my appendix or the excess stomach fat I have, but he wasn't as excited about that as I was.  He was more about the fact that a robot named DaVinci was going to be doing the surgery.  This isn't as sexy as it sounds, folks...really the doc is the one controlling it, so it's more like a really big, expensive remote control car.  Or scalpel, if you will.  My sister was all disappointed that it was not an actual robot doing the surgery, but I was kinda glad because I recently had a conversation with a client about when the robots become aware and take over the world, and that woulda just hit a little too close to home for comfort...

Despite her disappointment, my sister did her best to comfort me in my time of need.  She did it in the only way the Lambkins family knows how:  through food and humor.  She totally would have brought me alcohol too, I know she would have, but I was still on the Vicodin at that point and that might not have been a good idea.  Or maybe it would have been a good idea because I keep trying to do shit around the house like laundry and picking stuff up, and if I don't sit my ass down and stay still my lady parts are gonna end up getting further mauled when they have to re-stitch me back together.  But maybe then I could convince the doctor to do some extra nipping and tucking....or perhaps I should have had this conversation with the robot?

I digress.  She made me a cake.  A wonderful, sparkly, purple uterus (because naturally, that was what my uterus looks like.  Duh.). And cupcake ovaries.  With RIP written on the right one because that one was removed. Then she printed off Happy Hysterectomy because she couldn't get it to fit on the cake in frosting.


Here is the inspiration for the cake:

Notice the boring, flesh colors.  Not fun at all.

Here is the actual, far superior cake:

 Purple, sparkly, and fabulous.  It was amazing.

Folks...I come by it honestly.  But in all seriousness...why aren't hysterectomy cakes a thing?  Or cards, for that matter...personally I would like one that says "That wonderful moment, when you realize...you will never have to ever worry about pregnancy again."  Now I realize that not everyone is as excited about reproductive organ removal as I am...but I really feel that there might be an overlooked market here for an aspiring entrepreneur.  

Only downside...the laughter makes your incisions hurt.  But that is where the Vicodin comes in.  And the alcohol.  Just not together, bitchez...safety first!

Insidious

As I was driving home from work tonight, I was admiring the way that the snow was drifting and blowing ethereally across the roadways, kinda wispy and mystical.  Then I started to skid a bit and my immediate thought was "Imma find that bitch Elsa and cut her frozen ass."

The number of times that I find myself in very adult situations and come up with a reference to children's programming is truly alarming.  And get your mind out of the gutter, pervs...while I'm as nasty as the rest of y'all, I'm actually just referring to every day adult situations and not just the boudoir.  What's really sad is that I actually watch very little TV.  I am *that* parent that is always making my children do things like get off their asses and go play, preferably outside.  Or at least get Mama a refill on her wine to wash down this Xanax.

I can't tell you the number of times I have had to restrain myself from asking "Do you need to poop?"
when someone complains of stomach pain.  I distinctly remember one time in a graduate class, working on a team project with three other women (all in their early 20's, single, with no children).  Something did not go right and I let loose with a "Rut-Ro!" in my best Scooby-Doo voice.  Two of them looked at me like I grew a third nipple out of my eyeballs, but the third just laughed and said, "I can tell you have kids."

Those sneaky little bastards totally take over your life.  I don't know that I know how to have an adult conversation any more without some kind of reference to kid stuff.  I probably have bored my coworkers to death and back to life again with my stories of my children.  (Wait...does this mean I work with zombies?  Freaky, but explains A LOT...especially the irritability as I would imagine being the undead would make one pretty cranky...)  I'm willing to bet that there is probably an underground betting pool of when my kids will finally drive me to the psych ward or to get arrested.  Or maybe even to get arrested on the way to the psych ward.  Hell, go big or go home, right?  I mean, most parents are bumbling idiots according to children's shows, right?  So truly, I AM kinda expected to do both at some point in my life.  May as well kill two birds with one stone.

And let's just discuss how parents are portrayed here for a minute.  Now, I am not necessarily a goddamned ninja or anything, but I like to believe that if my beloved (new) spouse was trying to poison my ass or to drive a wedge between me and my children, I'd go all seriously pissed off Samurai on their ass and boot them to the curb.  But how many times are either the marriages seriously dysfunctional because one partner is totally unaware of the other trying to off them, or is there some other really evil adult lurking in the shadows waiting to take over the kingdom?  If that were to happen now, I'd be all like, "DUDE.  LOOK AT MY HOUSE.  YOU ARE INHERITING MY MOUNTAINS OF LAUNDRY AND THE MANY JUICE BOXES MY CHILDREN LIKE TO HIDE IN THE COUCH CUSHIONS TO FUCK WITH MY SANITY, ALONG WITH THE PILES OF DOG SHIT IN THE YARD.  IT'S ALL YOURS, MOTHAFUCKER."  Do children really view their parents as this inept?  I like to think that I recognize evil.  And that I am only inept enough to add, say, 6 months of therapy to my children's ever growing time.

Perhaps this is the way that the nebulous "they" are going to take over the world.  It starts with the insidious but seemingly innocuous Disney songs that get stuck in your head.  "Do you wanna build a snowman?"  I dare, DARE, any parent out there to read that last sentence and not sing it.  You can't fucking do it, can you?  It's THAT pervasive.  Next thing you know you will be a slave to the likes of Dora, Callilou, and Elmo, while secretly admiring the style of iCarly characters and thinking that Steve from Blue's Clues is kinda hot.

Perhaps there is more to the Doc McStuffins theme song than meets the eye..."This will only tickle a little"...perhaps they are referring to the insertion of their characters into the very fabric of our being...

Or maybe I just need to get out of the house more.

Accessorizing

I am trying to wrap my mind around the whole idea of wearing scarves as accessories.  I just don't get it.  Who came up with the brilliant idea to put some fabric around your neck so you can pretend to be strangled every day?  Plus, that shit is usually all flowy and whatnot, so it is all free flowing and moving and, in my opinion, really really annoying.  Like dangly earrings.  I don't want that shit pulling at my earlobes every time I whip my head around because I have caught Charlie trying to hog tie her sisters again.

I have never been much for accessorizing, though.  I have one purse.  I wear the same jewelry every day (and ironically, for someone who does not wear much jewelry, 3/4 of it is stuff my husband has bought me...my wedding ring, the anniversary band, and the mother's ring.  The fourth piece is my necklace that I have for my son.)  I do have a bit of a shoe thing going on, but even then I am more likely to buy shoes for my kids than for myself.  Hell, let's face it...most days my job is lucky that I show up clothed, including pants, and looking at least a step above a hobo living behind Aldi's in the dumpster.  To try to pick out jewelry, a purse, a belt, AND shoes?  That is simply too high of an expectation for me.  Sorry not sorry.

(And sorry again for that last sentence.  I just always wanted to use it and never got the chance, so I took this one and not only embraced it, I french kissed it and dry humped its leg.)

Elizabeth always manages to look put together.  She does her hair all cute and always has a nice, classy outfit on that is appropriately accessorized. She clearly was able to figure that shit out on her own because she sure as hell got zero guidance from me with that.  I'm hoping she passes that down to her sisters too, cause otherwise people might mistake us for a band of miscreants and throw rotten tomatoes at us.  And by God, we could be COMPOSTING those tomatoes!

My hope for the little girls as adults is that when they go out in public with me, people will smile at all of us and say to themselves, "What lovely children to take their obviously senile mother on an outing!"  My inability to accessorize has its perks, because really I have set the bar so low that when I am old, people won't be like "Oh remember when she was so put together?"  Instead, they will all be like "Holy fuck, she finally went completely crazy!"  I want to be the old lady who wears her bathrobe and slippers to the gynecologist because one may as well be comfy, amiright?  I also don't want my children to have to go through mountains of accessories when they stick me in a home, on top of all of the other shit I will have accumulated and the other concerns they might have, like finding my sex toys or dead bodies in the walls.  It's really just one less thing for them to worry about.

See?  My lack of fashion sense is actually me caring deeply for my children.  And that, bitchez, is how a therapist helps reframe irrational cognitions to be more helpful.  Except it's not usually that delusional.  And honestly, that's not really an irrational thought.  And it's more a rationalization than an appropriate reframe.

Sorry not sorry.

(YESSSSS!!!!  TWICE!!!!)

Simplifying

It's Christmastime!

This is actually one of my favorite times of the year.  I distinctly remember my father bringing down all of the decorations and getting the house all gussied up; the lights all on the outside.  I remember going to get the tree and decorating it while listening to Christmas Carols.  I remember having to put the goddamned tinsel on one piece at a time, which contributed to  my totally irrational fear of tinsel and why we never ever have any in my house.  I remember the seemingly endless nights of baking Christmas cookies and nut rolls and poppy seed rolls.

It was so magical when I was a kid.  It seemed so easy.  This was before I knew that Christmas could be a stressful time.  Before I knew what it cost.  The stresses of having to deal with family members that you don't really like.  Before I knew that there were people who did not have Christmas.  Before I knew that for some people, Christmas was a symbol of how they have failed according to the American Dream of having more and more.  Hell, before I was even aware that there were people who did not celebrate Christmas...

Given that I am now working as much as I am, I was forced this year to simplify our Christmas.  I never do Christmas cards, because even before this  year I refused to send them unless I was able to write a personal note in them (which of course, I was not.)  I don't do a Christmas letter because...well, it's probably good I don't.  I am not baking much of anything.  We decorated, but I did not go crazy.  I did almost all of my shopping online this year.  Send that shit right to my door without me having to leave my house, deal with people, or put pants on?  Fuck yeah!

I am still, however, room mom for Alexis's class party.  Even her teacher must have known I was simplifying because all I have to bring in is hot chocolate.  Score!  However, I am also in this purging stage of my life and I  have had up in my attic for a few years now a bunch of shit I bought on clearance one year...some Christmas cups, straws, erasers, stickers, and bouncy balls.  I decided that I was going to go ahead and throw some "goody cups" together for the kids using this stuff to get it out of the house.  Yes, I am *that* parent...not only am I going to give your kid cheap Christmas shit for you to have to smuggle out of your house but I am not going to give you any chocolate or candy to steal from them to make up for it.

So I was making these goody cups, all proud of myself that I was being health conscious AND simplifying at the same time, when I caught a glimpse of an elf eraser that I had tossed into one of the cups:

Yes, this is a decapitated elf eraser, in what appears to be the red tube of death, AKA, the red snowflake cup.

So not only am I simplifying this Christmas season, I am contributing to your third grader's psychological issues via inadvertent elf decapitation.  Merry Christmas, bitchez!  May all your dreams (but not your elf-related nightmares, which are apparently super creepy...) come true!

Hacks

There is a trend that I have noticed lately of people posting these "life hacks" on various social media.  Basically, these hacks are supposed to be ways that make your life easier, but being the eternal pessimist that I am, I read them as pointing out all of the ways that you are doing life wrong.  This varies from how you cut your avocado to how you fill up your mop bucket.

Fuck that shit.  I feel inadequate enough on my own, thanks to Pinterest and the voices in my head.  I want some kind of life hack that is going to not only make people feel better but is actually going to be useful to me in my day to day life.

Thus, the idea for parenting hacks was born.

Here are my top five:

1.)  Tired of fights on rainy days between the children?  Invest in some bubble wrap.

Seriously.  That shit is so entertaining, not only for them but for you.  There is a certain satisfaction in popping those tiny bubbles and pretending that they are the heads of people you want to punch in the throat but can't cause you will totes get fired.  Plus the children can get creative with it.  Like Charlie did the other day:

Always said that Charlie was either going to be President or a serial killer...but super successful either way.  Looks like we are leaning towards serial killer.

2.)  Tired of struggling to get your toddler dressed?  Do you feel as though you have wrestled a greased pig after getting them dressed?  Do you sweat and ache after like you have just completed P90X?

Fuck clothes.  Seriously.  Most toddlers would rather be naked anyways.  Pants optional?  Why the hell not?

3.)  Pizza cutters can be your new best friend!  From trimming fondant from the bottom of cakes, to quickly cutting quesadillas, to easily removing those pesky crusts that some asshole kid told your kid were the devil...they can do everything it seems.  Including, oh...actually cutting pizza!  Because let's be honest...that pie you grabbed on the way home from work is not actually cut all the way through.  And nothing is more irritating than the pointy part of your slice ripping off because some pimple faced teenage boy was too busy staring at his coworker's butt to pay attention to actually cutting all the way through.  And if one kid's pizza slice is pointy and the other's isn't...dear sweet mother of God, the wailing and gnashing of teeth that will ensue...

4.)  Two words:  Santa Claus.  Seriously.  Even if you aren't Christian and/or don't celebrate Christmas, you need to exploit the fuck out of this dude.  When singers of yore were merrily trilling about "the most wonderful time of the year" they certainly weren't referring to the birth of their lord and savior Jesus Christ.  No, they were referring to the fact that the creepiest of traditions was about to start.  No better way to get your children to behave than to instill in them a healthy fear of stalkers.  And seriously...since Christmas shit starts coming out in stores in like August now, you  may as well milk the shit out of the Santa situation and use it to threaten them into submission.  If I am going to be forced to smell cinnamon pine cones and look at glittery ornaments and blinking lights at the same time as I am forced to see the dregs of humanity that inhabit the local Walmart on 90* days in the dog days of summer while simultaneously trying to buy the stuff needed for the school supplies list (really?  A two pocket orange folder with prongs?  THEY DON'T FUCKING EXIST!!!) I am sure as shit going to shamelessly use the idea that some old guy in a red suit is judge and jury of a kid's behavior.

5.)  You know how when you get sick, those pesky children still expect things like meals, immunizations, and a free and appropriate public education?  And you know how you are just about dying and your mom isn't around to tuck you in and pour medicine down your throat?  And you know, just know, that one goddamned day of rest will make you feel so much better?

TV.

Yes, it rots your kid's brain.  Yes, it is totally bad parenting to expect the television to babysit.  Yes, the shows are annoying as hell but have the equivalent effect of a powerful drug.  You need to get better to be able to parent.  Use the fucking boob tube, ignore the children for a day, and heal.

These, bitchez...these are REAL life hacks.  You're welcome.