wednesday night rant

It's like they think birthday parties JUST HAPPEN.

Sure, they might see you taping a streamer or stuffing a goody-bag. They probably helped you do some of that stuffing with a non-chocolate component like stickers or temp tats. #MyKidsHelped #WishTheyHadn't #StillUnclearOnTheRulesSurroundingApostrophesInHashtags

Sure, they understand that Mommy "sets up" the party.

Sure, they get that you set out the plates.

But they seem to have no fucking idea whatsoever that the plates had to be ordered at least 2 business days prior to the party, unless you had an insane fucking theme like Elf Nachos in which case Mommy had to special order your shit from the one Mexican family in New Zealand 3 weeks ago. #ThanksOliverGarcia

They seem to have zero understanding of the fact that even if you had a standard theme like Trolls or Trains, Mommy STILL has to make an Evite at least 2-3 weeks  before the party if you have a summer birthday LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE, which means that Mommy has to know:

a) The date
b) The time
c) Who the kid wants there
d) A sketchy outline of the activities planned for said gathering

TWO TO THREE WEEKS before that tape hits the streamer. This is a month of labor, you guys. It might not be 24/7 but don't get it twisted, unless you are the Duke and/or Duchess of Seattle and you send out a text 24 hours beforehand casually inviting people to a "BBQ, nbd" with 1,000% confidence that you'll have an 85%+ response in the affirmative, you are WORKING on this party for a month.

Kids don't get that.

They also don't get that if they want dinner they have to leave me alone long enough to chop a goddamn onion.

It's a problem of relativity, I think, at the end of the day.

I took Buster to TJ Maxx today to look for some goodies for his birthday party, which will be super small because:

1) He is the second child
2) He is not yet in a school class that would necessarily expand the invitation list to 18 families that we may or may not know/like/have dads that we are able to pick out of a lineup.

We're seriously looking for water squirters and a rainbow cake topper. These are the requests of an almost-three-year-old. These are the days of my life.

But Katie, you're surely thinking, you can find those things with a few keystrokes on Amazon. Why on earth are you pretending it's 1997, store-hopping in a crew-neck daisy-print tee while humming TLC's Waterfalls, when you could solve this problem with seriously 7 minutes of Internet?

Katie here, with a response.

1) There are many parts of 1997 I'd not choose to repeat. I was 13 in 1997, 'nuff said. But the prevalence of the daisy-print baby tee is one of the few elements of my burgeoning (ugh that word) adolescence that I do not regret.
2) I see no rainbows, yesterday, but too many storms have come and gone leavin' a trace of not one God-given ray
3) If you didn't just say "Is it because my life is ten shades of gray" in your head, just STOP. Stop what you're doing and go listen to T-Boz, Left Eye, and Chilli BREAK IT DOWN.
4) Chicken still goes to a school 45 minutes from our new house. Buster had the shits this morning so he stayed with me. What the fuck else we gonna do with that 3 hours? When your life becomes out-pricing Amazon.com you know you have to think hard about your commute.

ANYWAY, Buster was so pissed we were at TJ Maxx, and that was after I let him pick the squirters and sprinklers and the gift wrap that we will use to wrap HIS BIRTHDAY PRESENT.

And later that day Buster would start crying - not screaming, whining, or yowling, not an expression of aggravation or pettiness, but rather the bone-melting sobs of genuine grief - when I wouldn't blow on his Starbucks sausage breakfast sandwich WHILE MERGING onto the highway in moderate traffic at 65 mph.

And I FELT LIKE A MONSTER. I reached my hand back to pat his knee and he took my hand and pressed it to his eyes. So I could feel his tears. All I could see from beneath my beast-paw was his little pink mouth, the lower lip still jutted in the universal expression of adorable sadness.

He seriously didn't even understand WHY I took him to TJ Maxx? WHY MOM? WHY?

And it's not just the birthday parties.

It's like they think CHRISTMAS just HAPPENS. They want Santa/Jesus' magic but whine when you get on the laptop to make sure Crate and Barrel has the right spelling of their names for the monogramming.

It's like they think WEEKDAY MORNING FROM SCRATCH BANANA PANCAKES just HAPPEN, and they're pissed as fuck that you're fucking around looking for a spatula. If my sons had a FB there would be a pic of me in PJ's looking in kitchen drawers muttering "The spatula goes right by the stove, Ryan, COME ON," and the caption my sons would write is Just wanted banana pancakes, why is everything so hard?

WHY INDEED MOTHERFUCKERS.

It's like they think LUNCH just HAPPENS. They want PB&J but do not understand why you're lollygagging around the cabinet with a g-d jar of PB in your hands.

It's like they think bike helmets just HAPPEN. It's like they think VITAMINS just EXIST. It's like they think CLEAN SOCKS are the horny bunnies of that one hamper.

it's like they think
BLOG POSTS
and THAT BOWL THAT ONCE HELD ICE CREAM
and THAT BOTTLE OF AIR
THAT USED TO BE WINE
just HAPPEN


It's like they think SAFE OPERATIONAL TRAINING WHEEL BIKES are a GOD-GIVEN RIGHT, and when the handlebars go wonky and you need the special wrench to fix it and you can't do the ride you promised this afternoon, it's because you're CHALLENGING THEM to a duel of ASSHOLERY, but nobody wins that duel. Nobody.

Because after you convince Chicken to do the bike ride because Buster already has his helmet on, and you pull out the balance bike from the back of the garage and sure he's sitting a little low but he can ride it, in fact he can ride it all the way out into the street while you're running behind him screaming STOP STOP STOP CHICKEN DON'T MOVE BUSTER I SAID DON'T MOVE and Buster's sitting on the corner outside the post office, so alone, watching you drag his big brother off that bike 4 feet from the intersection with the mph posted at 45, and after you march Chicken home with his upper arm in one hand and his bike in the other hand, and you put him in his room until dinner, and you get Buster set up with a puzzle, you go out on the porch and you fix the handlebars on that pedal bike.

Like I said, nobody wins.

It's 11:19 pm on a Wednesday and I'm half a bottle of wine deep, and I worked so fucking hard today to do nice things for my kids and in return I got Buster's silent tears, Chicken's teeth, and scared half to death at that intersection.

I always try to think of their ingratitude as a compliment - they are so well-loved that they believe banana pancakes can exist on a Wednesday morning.  I am such a great fucking mom that my kids are like "Uuuuugh mom no raspberries" when they open the fridge door and reach for a cold sparkling water from the #ContainerStore #CanRoller. THEY EXPECT RASPBERRIES IN FUCKING NOVEMBER. That's how fucking amazing I am. That's how fucking off the chain their sweetass lives are.

But no matter how I try to spin it, some things will always be true:

- Waterfalls is truth.

- Kids will never understand how much fucking work goes into the events that we WANT to feel effortless.

- Parents are the fucking unsung heroes of our societies. We get shit on nonstop by family members, strangers, and thinkpieces shared to FB by non-parent friends who are like "I think this non-parent dietician makes some really good points about how many spinach and mushroom smoothies our kids should be eating."

And we now have THAT VOICE added to the chorus in our heads singing a constant opera battle like from Bohemian Rhapsody:

Villagers: YOU ARE NOT GOOD ENOUGH
Me: I am fine.
Dude Chorus: YOU. ARE. NOT.
Villagers: YOU ARE NOT GOOD ENOUGH
Me: I am fine.
Dude Chorus: YOU. ARE. NOT.
Villagers: YOU ARE NOT GOOD ENOUGH
Lady Chorus: GOOD ENOUGH!
Me: I AM FINE FINE FINE FINE FINE FINE FINE FINE FINE
Villagers: Oh Mamma Mia Mamma Mia you are not doing enough

But we show up every fucking day with our scratch pancakes and our "saving our children from fatal car accidents," and we message @OliverGarciaNZ on Etsy about those clutch Elf Nacho plates. Three weeks early.

HEY.

Birthday parties are streamers you bought at Target while the kid was whining, and grapes you washed while the kid watched one more Paw Patrol, and goody bags you stuffed while your kid was like MOM TEACH ME CHESS. RIGHT NOW.

Hey, Mom?

YOU ARE GOOD ENOUGH.

YOU ARE FINE.

Love you. Good night.

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