"I hate you!" Shane glared at me and stomped his feet when I refused to turn the TV on for him yesterday morning. "You are not my mommy anymore. I don't even love you!"
If I had a nanny cam on me, I would immediately get fired. I would throw my a$$ in jail.
No matter how many crunches, hours of cardio, and yoga booty ballet classes I attend, my "cat tummy" persists. Those of you who have given birth and not yet paid $6000 to have the skin severed off your stomach know exactly what I mean.
The other day I met my good friend Karen for lunch at one of those trendy, Los Angeles cafes where ridiculously thin and overly-Botoxed women pick at their salads with dressing on the side. The waitress came over to take our drink order and Karen flipped through the menu.
"How did I get inside of your tummy?" My son Shane and I were driving to the La Brea Tar Pits in Los Angeles for our Saturday outing.
My daughter's weekly toddler group is a hotbed of maternal angst. For the first half hour, the facilitator leads a discussion with the moms while the children play. The overarching theme is Let Us Count The Ways In Which We Are F$#*ing Up Our Children.
I just received the invitation via Facebook, which ironically has reunited me with all the people from high school that I have spent my adult life hiding from.