I did get a few comments about the post. My dad left this on my Facebook page: “You said on your blog that I might not be the bio father of all of you kids. Notice how your mother didn’t point this out until you were all at least 18 years old…dammit.”
I had to delete it because it was on my personal Facebook page and obviously my dad is trying to get me fired. I went anon for a reason, DAD (?).
My little sister commented, alright. As soon as I answered my phone, she screamed into my ear, “Are you making fun of my bio father and me on your blog again??”
Honestly, my peeps, I didn’t realize she’d learned how to read since I took down my last blog, or else I’d have been a lot nicer. Okay, you’re right, no, I wouldn’t have, but still. It helps to know these things. Next time someone should let me KNOW when my younger sister has learned how to sound out words.
My youngest brother texted me this: My lazy eye was fixed ten years ago, Skank. Don’t you remember the patch I wore?
Oh, yes, the pirate eye patch with the elastic cord that kept it fastened securely around your face. I do remember that. NERD.
Lastly, my mom called. “Your dad said you wrote something about me on that computer thing you do?”
Of course he did. Shit disturber extraordinaire, that one.
“No, I didn’t,” I lied.
“I knew it. You always were the sweetest of all of my kids. In fact, I’m pretty sure your biological father was the kind-hearted man I met in church one of the weekends back in ’76 that your father was traveling for work.”
“Holy shit, it wasn’t the priest, was it, Mom?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Mom sighed, and I could tell she was mulling it over. “Although you do love praying the Rosary...do things like that get passed on genetically?”
I didn’t press the issue, but I really didn’t have time to, since she was on a roll: “Really, though, if it’s the guy I’m thinking of, he was one of the song leaders. Such a pretty voice. I always wondered why your sisters got the good singing voices and you ended up with a voice like a dump truck driver. I mean, the sanitation guy didn’t come until much later in the lineup—“
“Okay, Mom. Okay. Well, did you at least happen to catch the singer’s name?” I asked.
“Why?” Mom replied, confused. “I thought you were really happy I pinned paternity on your father.”
“Of course I’m happy with Dad (?). It’s just…you know, for health reasons. I might be predisposed to diabetes or heart disease or something…”
I could hear the shrug in my mom’s voice on the other end of the line. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, sweetie. He looked really healthy.”
Obviously my mom’s comments left me emotionally disturbed and I’m trying to forget them, so they don’t count for the giveaway.
I was just getting ready to pin the book/pickle prize on reader Tricia, who commented—but on the wrong post. (I’m thinking that was no accidental slip-up.) Suddenly, though, I noticed a comment from Jules McMurray of My Mom's a Whack Job!!
Jules—I’ve gotta say it for everyone here: Thanks for taking one for the team, man. If I haven’t already, I am more than happy to hop on over to your blog and give it a follow. Everyone reading—you should, too. You owe her one. This shitty prize could have ended up on your doorstep as part of your own Christmas gift this year.
But Jules took it like a champ. You’re the best, Jules. J
I had a regularly scheduled post about what an asshole my older sister was a couple of Christmases ago, but this one has run long. So I’ll save my asshole sister post and instead share a short story about an incident that happened around our house this week. It's sure to warm your heart, Debbie Macomber-style. (Well, maybe not exactly...)
I have to wake up very early in the morning to do some freelance work that I simply don’t have time to do—in peace and quiet—the rest of the day. The morning hours are not just bad for me; they’re bad for everyone. I try not to miss an opportunity in any conversation to complain to everyone about how tiiiiiiiiired I am because I have to get up so eaaaaaaaarly.
One of my good friends actually said to me once, “Nobody cares. Either quit or shut up.”
And so I did shut up about it, but I find other ways to make my pain known. As soon as my alarm goes off at around 4:30 AM, I’ll drag a long sigh out into a whooping cough as I flop out of bed, landing loudly on the floor and taking all of the covers with me. Hey, if that a-hole hubs gets to sleep in another whole HOUR AND A HALF before the kids get up, then I’m going to find little ways to make him pay—besides having to live with me for the rest of his life. (I mean, seriously, peeps, 6 AM? Who does he think he is, Lindsay Lohan after a red bull and cocaine binge?)
The other morning, as I was downstairs working my tired sausage fingers off at the computer, I discovered a perk to getting up early, alone, while the hubs takes care of the kids for a couple of hours. Because at about 6:15 AM, I heard the most beautiful words an “off-duty” mom can hear:
“Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaddy! I just farted and some poop squirted out.”
Was it just me, or was there a sweet sing-songy quality to the words?
It got even better, though, peeps. Because about one minute later, those adorable words were followed by a huge, disgusted groan from the hubs.
I’m a pray-er, folks. I think I get it from my biological father, who might have been a priest. As the silent tears of laughter rolled down my cheeks in perfect coordination with the shaking laughter of my shoulders, I took a moment to thank God, once again, for His perfect timing. God is truly good.
And if that wasn’t enough of a poop story for your Friday, I have another—because I’d hate to leave my younger son out of the fun. A few weeks ago, we were visiting friends who have moved out of state. They hadn’t seen my boys in close to a year, so my 17-month-old looked huge to them. He is, in fact, very tall for a 17-month-old.
As my baby walked by the dinner table, we all caught a whiff of dirty diaper.
“Uh-oh,” I said. “Looks like Daddy has a diaper to change.”
The hubs rolled his eyes at me as we wordlessly began Rock, Paper, Scissors to see who would have to change the diap. As the hubs beat me on a rock/paper combo (dammit), our friend said, “What do you use to change a diaper on a kid that big?”
I looked at him, confused, as I stood up to grab the wipes, diaper cream, and diaper to show him. He continued: “Because I’d imagine you’d need a dump truck and a garden hose.”
I laughed, but then said, “I think we’d be okay if we did. I hear my mom knows a good dump truck guy…”
Be sure to join me next week for some heartwarming Christmas stories—and by “heartwarming,” I mean totally not nice at all. See you then!