I am deliriously happy having two daughters. (Disclaimer: "Deliriously happy" is code for there is fucking way in Hell I will ever shoot any more demon spawn from my cooch.) They are the same gender thus built-in playmates. They are only two years apart so it's still cool to hang with each other. This will change soon, I know. But for the time being I am A-OK with my uterus having a "Closed for Business" sign hanging above it. That's right, Molly's Baby Factory has been shut down due to circumstances beyond her control.
The first "circumstance" I cannot control is my six and a half year-old's mood swings. No one can seem to imagine that this doe-eyed little charmer could have a dark side. Trust me, it's darker than Darth himself. And unlike in Star Wars where you hear the "dunn-dunn-dunn-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun" music before Vader appears, there is no warning system, no alarm, no sounding whistle. It's like, "Hey sweetie! How was your day?" And suddenly Linda Blair is standing before you with head spinning and foreign words spewing forth with tears and flailing. Usually no pea green barf thank God.
She has been a challenge, or as my mom says a "pickle" since she was a toddler. I should have seen it coming. She never slept well, hated nursing, only wanted to be held upright, refused to sleep in anything but her bouncy seat with mega-vibration mode on, sucking the energy from three D batteries every other day. She started really demonstrating willful spitefulness at around 18 months. How could a child so young be that bad? Surely you jest! No jesting and stop calling me Shirley.
As I am writing this, she is upstairs screaming her fool head off. All because I told her it was time for bed. I just threatened no souvenirs for Florida and no tucking in tonight. She is screaming, crying, and stomping. She is throttling her body upright then propelling herself back at full velocity to her pillow. Three inches further back and she'll smack her head on her headboard of the bunk bed. I am not sure I am willing to take her to the hospital should stitches be required. Duct tape might be in order for her entire head, mouth especially. What in God's name did I do to deserve this?!!! Don't answer that because it could involve any one of my moody rage episodes from the ages of 16-20 years-old. Retribution is a bitch and all of you who knew me as a teen are laughing right now. Yes you fucking are.
"Circumstance" number two, which goes hand-in-hand with my first one, is my terrible lack of patience. Patience to me is like the eggs in my ovaries. There is a certain amount I was born with and little by little it flushes out of my system. And it is accompanied often time by blood and cramps. Motherhood is like God damn boot camp except the rock hard abs and cardiovascular endurance are taken AWAY from you. You are left with a flabby scrotum gut, little energy, and not enough willpower to resist giving your child Coca Cola straight from the 2-liter at dinner. I have become a quivering mess of "What the Fuck-ness". I give up!!!
Recently it has come to my attention via a close family source that I should perhaps consider having another baby, perhaps to grace this earth with a Ghahtani son. HAHAHA-FUCKING-HAHAHA!!!!!!! First of all, my husband is a girl shooter. Period. He is 3-0 and not a boy in sight. I ain't taking any chances my uterus might produce a replica of my "Little Pickle" who was so horrible I wouldn't even give her a goodnight kiss. Don't even call me a mean mommy (already been said so there) because if you even saw the Oscar-award-winning shenanigans I just witnessed you would #1) declare me a saint, #2) hand me cash to get a hysterectomy AND a vasectomy for the hubby, and #3) a 3-hour massage appointment and margarita fountain.
For those of you who believe little old me can mentally handle another baby, perhaps I could rent and infant to prove my point. Doesn't Rent-A-Center have something to offer me? Shit, give me one of those computerized babies they pass out to seniors in high school. I guess Bristol Palin skipped that semester or she wouldn't have a scrotum gut to contend with herself. Oh my bad, my last little ounce of patience was just flushed down the toilet. No more babies for the Jivemommy! Trust me, the world will be a much better place this way. No if you'll excuse me I think I need to go perform an exorcism on someone...
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