I’m watching a giant chicken harass Elmo.
Something about Elmo’s perpetual perkiness is killing me right now. I want that chicken to eat Elmo. I want that chicken to crunch him like a cracker between his flappy beak.
But, of course, Elmo can’t die. When Count Waffles asked what happened to the Little Mermaid’s Mom and Chicken Little’s Mom…I gave him the Kaiser’s answer, “They are at the spa.” If the wee ones were to actually watch Elmo be crunched into tiny, red pieces I’d have some explaining to do. I suppose I could say the chicken was just making a puzzle out of Elmo to put together later. Or that Elmo was just pretending to be hurt. We’re big on pretending these days. Just this morning I pretending to eat an ice cream made of blocks and cars.
mmmmmmmmmmm yummy plastic wheelie goodness.
But there are days when I just don’t have the energy. I don’t have the energy to come up with fun games. Or smiles when I am asked, for the 50th time, to put a shoe on. Then take it off. Then put it on. Then take it off. Then put it back on. Only to take it off.
Some days, I want to knock the children out with cough syrup, wear big heavy boots so I can’t feel the toys under my feet, drink 3 martinis, do illegal drugs, have wild sex, and forget I’m a Mom. Not because I don’t want to be a Mom. Not because I want the kids to be gone forever. But for just, one, brief moment…I want this job to be temporary, not constant. I want to not be responsible.
Of course, that will never happen. Motherhood is forever. The responsibility is endless and the whining and crying and tugging and needs never stop.
Although I’m really excited at the possibility of hate mail from those last few paragraphs (I’ve gotten some really great ones lately…did you know I was an evil baby killer??) I dare any of you to deny those fleeting thoughts in your own parentbrains.
And while I may dream of drunken debauchery and no responsibility, I’d never actually do it.
Instead, I silently root for the giant chicken to eat Elmo. To tear him limb from fuzzy limb. Then to dance on his head to some old school nasty rock while he downs a fifth. I picture myself partying next to him. We eventually hold a bonfire with the rest of Elmo’s body. Others join us. The chants of ELMO DIES! ELMO DIES! don’t stop even when the cops try and bust up the fun. FUCK THE POLICE! FUCK THE POLICE! yells the crowd as we throw more booze on the fire and get naked and piss on things.
Or maybe I just need to take my over active imagination to the spa. Not that spa. The real one.
***I’m over at The Huffington Post!
The Spa with the Martini’s by day and Bailey’s by night? Come on over. Sarcastic Journalist and I were just planning an escape to my booze-filled home. 🙂 Bring Sarah.
I’d hate to see what you’d do to Barney. Then again, maybe I wouldn’t…
That’s the hard part – the constant parenting. Constant. Trying to think of the last time I took a crap and someone wasn’t beating at the door.
Wow, you really don’t like Elmo. I don’t like that Disney characters never have living mothers-what gives, Disney?
Sounds like you need one of those Spa Days. You hear that, Kaiser? The Queen needs a DAY OFF!
From one evil baby killer to another, I think you rock. The reasons you cited are the exact ones that make me know that I don’t want to be a mother enough to actually go for it. Your honesty is so refreshing.
Keep the killing coming!
We all feel that way sometimes. You are just brave enough to admit it.
Are we getting drunk at the spa and peeing on things?
I’d better get my plane ticket to Canada right now. (We’ll catch a hockey game while we’re there, right?)
I would tell you to cheer up, but I can’t handle Dawson’s constant need for attention sometimes.
But I guess that’s part of motherhood and I have to learn to accept it, but yes, I want to not be responsible sometimes, too.
Well, of COURSE you are an evil babykiller. And an Elmo-hater. And a member of the g-d liberal media that is ruining this country and everything we stand for, like God, war and huge trucks.
And that is why I love you.
Yeah, I heard about you being a baby killer, and it’s OK with me. I still love ya.
Can I join the bonfire and chant ELMO DIES! with you? And can I throw in Dora, too? Or would that be more baby killing? Damn, now I’m going to get hate mail.
Take a spa day, lady. You deserve it. If I wasn’t pregnant, I’d be sipping martinis with you.
(Karen – can I come? I mix a wicked martini.)
I sooooo hear you, QofS. SO HEAR YOU. With you in beleaguered solidarity.
I know that chicken well, and I, too, root for him. Every. Single. Time.
The missing mother thing – it’s an element of folklore on which many a dissertation have been written.
But a day at the spa (with much drinking and funeral pyres fueled with red furry monsters) sounds like a lot more fun than my analytic literary mumbo jumbo…
Ha! I think a spa day is deeply, deeply in order.
Karen, make room for my wide ass. I’m leaving now.
When watching a truck load of cattle going ‘somewhere’ we used to say there were going ‘to visit their mommies.’
This gets hauled out a lot.
And i need a spa month I think….
sigh.
LMAO AT “Mom’s Not Dead, She’s At the Spa” ROFL TY lmfao
Anyone who doesn’t agree with you at having those moments is in deep, deep denial. Or on percocet…lol!
Die, Elmo, Die!!!
I’m with Christina — throw Dora in, too!
Just slippin’ on my engineer boots as I type….ready to get irresponsible. My hood or yours? Wait, I’ll spin by in my Trans Am…..
I have an intense desire many days to be in Hawaii with a lover.
A hot lover who only talks to ask if I need something or tell me I’m beautiful.
Oh, and I would be skinny while I’m there.
I freely admit that I will tell my kid that if he doesnt back off every now and then and give me a break for just 5 minutes I will sell him on ebay and move to the bahamas and have a cabana boy named Jose or Juan to serve my every whim. The kid laughs and says Yeah sure whatever and the dynamic is restored. But then again I suck at being a single mother somedays.
This day spa you speak of….. I have read of them and fantasised about going to one just once in my life but then sadly reality kicks in 🙁
a one day spa still sounds delicious!
Oh man, this part is soooo me:
Some days, I want to knock the children out with cough syrup, wear big heavy boots so I can’t feel the toys under my feet, drink 3 martinis, do illegal drugs, have wild sex, and forget I’m a Mom.
Again and again and again.
Luckily, I loooove Elmo… but I never had my fill of him since I didn’t discover him until I myself had kids… before then, I didn’t know who he was! But I grew up in Spain half my life so it figures…
Barney though? I want to beat that purple freak and those Stepfordish asshole kids with a bat until they die!
*GASP* I’d best run and hide! I forgot the government is tailing you! Dios mio! ;-P
every day since i gave birth i’ve told myself “it’s just for a little bit longer”. . . before i know it i’m SURE he will (choose one) sleep through the effing night, wean himself, play peacefully alone for just a FEW minutes, not throw everything in his reach . . . but no. two years later, no, to all of the above. i’m gonna sell the kid on ebay and BUY a spa. because i could get that much for him.
ps the freaks at huff post have scared me off. i don’t like it there . . .
LMAO!! I think there are many many moms there with you {chanting in the background}!!
You totally rock. I keep wondering if it’s just me, if I’m a bad mom, or if we all feel this way sometimes and it’s okay… Thank you for letting me know, once again, that I am not alone. :o)
Count me in!
Girls Gone Wild- the Bonfire Edition
I’ve just been letting everything wash over me recently. So it goes. What can I say?