Last night I took a bath. It was a nice bath … Sabine had been quite the pill all day and I needed to time to unwind. Pre-Sabine I used to take long, hot baths in our jet tub. I would light some candles, pour myself a glass of wine, and relax to whatever was the soulful music du jour. Sometimes Brandon would join me and we’d have a romantical bath, complete with long discussions about our future and kissy faces.
Last night I took my bath in a jet-free, short tub. When we moved we decided no more jet-tub for us. I’m short and they’re deep. Bathing a baby in one is practically impossible. My short tub bath left me with cold boobs and a cold post c-section pooch. I no longer have any candles in the house because they make my child sneeze so there was no flickering candle light. Instead of music, the sounds I heard were Sabine banging on the bathroom door screaming, “Mama! Where y’at?” and Brandon saying, “Peeeeu! Did you poop?” My drink? Budweiser. In a can.
And yet, this was likely the most relaxing bath ever. I can’t remember a time when I NEEDED a bath quite as much as I did then and, although the soundtrack has changed, I love the “noise” that is my life.
I have no excuse for the crappy beer though. You got me on that one.
My name is Humpty. Pronounced with an Umpty.
Check her profile for more … like here and here and here. She’s apparently not well received but, screw it, I love her. I have to say that I am categorically anti-troll … but not this one. She made me snort on a morning where I really needed a good snort. She reminds me of New Years and blue cake. Thanks, goingplatinum, whoever you really may be.
I try not to judge other parents. Really. I try not to. I know a lot of my parenting choices are outside of the mainstream and judged so I try to not give that back. I do, however, admit that I judged the HELL out of some moms on Mother’s Day.
Mom at bunch – you told your eight year old to “sit (his) ass back down in the seat!” when he got up to throw away some garbage. You didn’t just slip up and curse around your kid. It wasn’t an “Oh, shit!” when he spilled his milk. You cussed directly AT him. And you did it in the middle of a crowded restaurant. On Mother’s Day. I judged you.
Missing mother of the 10 year old girl who’s jean skirt was so short I could see her undies at the park – your 10 year old girl’s jean skirt was so short I could see her undies. I judged you.
Missing mother of the boy who hit my daughter in the head with his bouncy ball at the park … twice – YOUR KID HIT MY KID IN THE HEAD WITH A BALL!!! TWICE! And you weren’t even there! I majorly judged you. I also judged your kid for being a big ol’ meanie, which in turn made me judge you again, for letting your kid be so mean.
I judged you all. It’s true. Watch your language, buy your daughter age appropriate clothing, and actually be PRESENT when your son is playing. Especially when he’s playing with toys that could hurt other, much smaller, children. Or else I’ll continue to judge. And blog about you. A lot.