F*#% You Teresa

I’m so tired.

My husband just stomped off to bed angry. I snapped at him. Any human would have.

I’m exhausted.

I’ve had kids in my face all week. I do not mean whining and saying “Mom” repeatedly, I mean actually physically in my face. At every turn someone wants to show me a new karate move, eat my nose, or just hug me. It’s exhausting.

So forgive me if I snap when you happen to walk in at the precise moment the baby had FINALLY decided to get off my lap and crawl toward the electrical outlet. I was soaking up the 1.07 second of not having someone in my lap before I made myself turn around and go back to reality.

I mean it’s not like I’m not here with them 24 hours of the day or anything. I obviously need you to tell me how to take care of them since ya know, they die while you aren’t here and all.

I came over here to my computer to vent out my frustration only to find my note book full of lists, works notes, and the 6 years old curriculum goals lying in the floor with a big pile of puppy piss on it. In my attempts to save what I could I managed to spray myself with said piss. The whole note book had to be trashed and I can only hope it was nothing super important in there.

I’m not tired as in I need sleep, though I could easily sleep for 5 days straight. I am tired in that my mind can not focus. My body hurts. My creativity is road blocked. My happiness is hidden. Just trying to phonetically form words in the correct order takes concentrated effort and will. I sound drunk if I’m not putting all my effort into speech right now.

**The 3 year old is at this very moment begging to tell me a secret. He’s pulling on my shirt trying to pry my head down to a lower level so he can whisper it entirely too loud into my ear…… the secret was he wanted a corndog. A corndog of which he’ll just peel off the bread and eat only the wiener and cry if I only offer him a regular wiener.**


“Look mom! Look at this game I have no idea how to play and need you to explain every move to”

This week I have been covered in feces of both human and animal, urine of both human and animal, numerous spit ups, mud, kitchen grease, and mystery liquids. I did finally shower tonight removing the shirt that contained 3 days of my own dandruff from my neglected scalp and no less than 5 different varieties of foods. Ironically it said “Mom of Boys” across it.

“Take care of yourself. It is so important to take care of yourself as a mom”

Fuck you Teresa! When? When the hell are we suppose to fit self care into this daily routine? When I shower? Yeah that’s 10 minutes of me trying my damnedest to shave at least a whole leg before I start hearing screams in the next room.  Join a gym? When Teresa? When the fuck am I suppose to join a gym? Let’s say I even could afford a gym membership in the first place, when do I go? The 5 minutes before my baby realizes I’ve left the room and its time to fall into something head first? Maybe that 3 minutes when I’m walking through the house cutting off the lights for bed? Or maybe in the time it takes me to write this post? Surprise, this is being written in small intervals because my kids keep needing something “right now”.

“Pamper yourself! You deserve it!”

I know I fucking deserve it! I haven’t killed anyone yet and I’m doing motherhood unmedicated.  How the hell am I suppose to pamper myself? After lights, cars, insurance, rent, and the wi-fi that fuels my sanity, that last $40 isn’t going very far. Get my nails done? Get a massage? Yeah I’ll squeeze that in right after I go to the damn gym. I feel the most pampered when I get to finish my cup of coffee while its still hot, which is never.

“Date nights are imperative to a happy marriage and happy parents”

Once again, FUCK you Teresa. I can’t afford the sitter much less the date night. My nearest family (aka Free Sitter) is 3.5 hours away. Shes wonderful and amazing but she has a life also therefore scheduling ……………………………..

*Sorry kid almost smashed his penis in the toilet seat and needed to tell me all about his brush with death.*

…………………. any sitter plans with her takes at least a months notice and are usually followed with me feeling tremendously guilty for needing her help so much and having nothing to offer in return after her long ass drive.

I’m tired.

I have three, yes three kids still in diapers pretty much. The 6 year old has problems with not shitting himself. DO NOT come at me with “Why?” because I assure you, even the doctors, psychologist, and psychiatrist can’t figure it out so you can’t either. The 3 year old is one of those defiant disorder kids you read about and good ole southern folks say “He just needs his butt whipped more” well FUCK YOU TOO Teresa’s dumbass cousin, because that it not the case here. I will not beat my kid black and blue. Guess what, it wouldn’t change him anyway!

Did I mention my vagina is still broken? I’m one week from my second post-op, the 10 week mark where I thought I’d be getting the all clear, only to find I still have undissolved stitches tonight. It may be closer to healed but it still looks like something Dr. Frankenstein created in his lab, a mangled mess of what once was a pretty OK looking perineum if there is such a thing.

I”ll never send another dirty photo to my husband again. Ever. Oh and his phone crashed so every photo I ever had of myself in the days of no lumpy baby belly, a pretty vagina, and somewhat less saggy tits, are all gone. No evidence of the person I once was.

I tried to go shopping yesterday, something I hate. I have an event coming up and my sister requested we all dress nice so we can take photos together. I went with $20 in my pocket, refusing to spend more, because honestly I can’t. After three stops I discovered I have absolutely no clue what size I am. I poured coffee down my legs and my husbands work van, because we missed the insurance payment on my car, before even getting to the first store.

I realized I also have no clue how to dress this new body I am in. There was a time I had the seriously the most killer closet in Louisiana, just ask my friends. Years of living with a bargain shopping mom had me set. I could go two years and never repeat an outfit or ever have an outfit cost more than $30 head to toe. All gone.

After getting stuck in one dress and having that moment of sheer panic thinking “I’m about to have to ask a stranger to help me pull this sequin dress off from around my neck and I can’t even see who I am asking. Oh God I’m wearing hospital issued panties today too!”, I just said “Fuck it” and went home.

That was my monthly allotment of “me-time”, running around town in my husband work van crying in dressing rooms for approximately two hours.

My 6 year old asked me what was wrong today when I was trying to put my makeup on for a second time. I really just wanted to hide this anxiety induced acne so my husband wouldn’t have to pretend so hard that I am somewhat attractive.


Tell me I’m pretty anyway and I will hunt you down and cut you.

I just asked him “Did you know I use to be really pretty?”. He replied, “Yeah, then you had babies.” He went on to tell me I shouldn’t try to be pretty I should just try to be myself which sound great but I think myself is pretty on the inside, so why can’t I can’t be myself on the outside too. I think “myself” would be a wardrobe of glitter and rainbows. This week maybe more along the emo goth Hot Topic line, but most days definitely an adult version of the Justice line.

Turns out I’m fairly positive I have body dysmorphic disorder. The good kind though. The kind where I look in the mirror and see a size 6 but look on a camera or dress rack and realize I’m a size 12 built like a short linebacker. Camera adds 10lbs, my ass. Amazing how everyone else looks exactly the same size in that photo as they do in real life.

I’m just tired. I’m sorry if this isn’t funny or if you made it this far that there isn’t some happy surprise twist or realization about how I had some great epitome that it’s all wonderful and worth it and yada yada yada, but my husband did get me Oreos and hid them in my super secret spot so that’s happy right?

“Motherhood is Magical!”

Fuck you Teresa. Fuck you and the fairy tale that guilt inducing society rode you in on.

**The 3 year old just tried to remove his own pull-up, getting poop all down his legs. I quit. Good night**



*Cries into this morning’s cold coffee*



Categories: Uncategorized | 2 Comments

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2 thoughts on “F*#% You Teresa

  1. Ashleigh

    Man I get this. All of it. Could have written it myself.

  2. Holy crap, it’s like you’re living my life. I cannot stand it when someone tells me “you gotta take care of you, too”. Yeah, I’ll do that when my kids are out of the house which won’t be for another 18 years AT LEAST. I showered yesterday for the first time in days. Like, days-days. Went through the big can of dry shampoo-days.

    It’s incredible how, even when the kids aren’t getting into everything, utterly exhausting it all is. I’m never alone. I never have 2 minutes to even pee by myself, let alone do any extra “pampering”. I loathe that word, by the way. Freaking pampering. Either a woman without a clue and 30 nannies or a man who naively believes all women are capable of are pushing babies out of their hoo-ha’s and cooking semi-decent pot roasts came up with that term.

    Pamper yourself. Psh, please.

    I adore my kids. Don’t get me wrong. But three boys ranging from 3 months to 8 years is exhausting. The eldest is legitimately ADHD (not trendy ADHD, where people medicate for the sake of medicating) and also has Sensory Processing Disorder, so every day life has been a battle for 8 years, although he’s much improved; the four year old can’t NOT be in the center of everything and is wedged so far up my ass most days that I’m positive he’ll have a career in proctology one day; the infant is sweet as can be but, like my elder two, is an early teether, so I’m flipping sleep deprived and gross.

    I know it’ll all be worth it in the end and I’d knock anyone’s head off in true momma bear fashion if they so much as side-checked my kids, but I’m spent.

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