Home Again, Home Again

Sorry, folks.  Despite my little lapse in posting, I have not yet been banned from the interwebs.  I was on vacation, and while there, I started a class that’s required some actual time and cerebral activity on my part (it’s likely going to kill me, fyi), then I came home to enjoy jet lagged single parenting, and getting ready for back to school, and I’m really really lazy, so, here we are; over three weeks since I last posted.

At some point during the past month Chris mentioned to me that the post where I talked about the end of soccer and baseball season made me sound pretty unhappy and gave the appearance that I don’t like watching my kids play sports.  My initial response was OH SHIT, I don’t want that to be the case, I will most definitely work on changing my tone!  What a good little woman I am!

That lasted for maybe 24 hours.  Moving to a kinder, gentler version of blogging bitch momma Anne was an admirable goal, but that’s not really why I’m here.  Speaking of why I’m here, don’t ask because I’ve already told you it’s completely effing nebulous and I don’t want to talk about it.  At any rate.  I’m back.  From vacation and that oh so brief interlude of having to decided to write in a friendlier, more mother-like (whatever the hell that means) tone.

Now that I’ve further established that I’m a terrible person and an even worse mother, here are two highlights from my recent days of living with adolescents:

  1. If you search #MyKidsAreAHoles on Instagram, I’m currently responsible for one fourth of the content you’ll see; though the first post that pops up has a monster truck in it.  That one, sadly, ain’t mine.  The pot with the radioactive looking remnants of mac and cheese sitting in the featured image/Instagram example of this here blog post?  STILL FUCKING THERE, waiting to be cleaned. And, as an added bonus, it’s been joined by a smaller pot with organic (thus not radioactive and surely healthy) Annie’s shells and white cheddar (that Annie isn’t me, btw). Maybe I’ll break down and wash them.  It might happen.  Yeah.  And maybe monkeys will fly out of my butt.  Also, I’ve blocked my daughter from my truthhole instagram feed, because “Instagram isn’t for rants, MOM.”  It’s like she thinks I’m clueless about what is and what isn’t appropriate on social media.  Whatevs.  I do not need that kind of negativity in my life.  Also, that’s a lot of damn mac and cheese.  Clearly I’m back on track with feeding my kids balanced and nutritious meals now that school’s back in session.  
  2. I learned last week that my high school freshman will be going to the homecoming dance.  Which will include a suit, dinner at a fancy restaurant or country club; and, I shit you not, a party bus to transport them from dinner to the dance and then to the after party (if there is one-it’s apparently yet to be determined if said after party would be over the top or not).  I feel like there’s a lot to unpack here.  How the hell do I have a freshman? Why is he going to what seems to me like the mother effing senior prom?  Why is the homecoming dance not on homecoming weekend?  I ask this because, of course, I am going to be out of town the weekend of the dance; because anytime I plan anything not completely centered around my progeny, they inevitably end up having some occasion a good mother probably shouldn’t miss.  Also, this may or may not be a good time to mention that I never went to prom, because I was entirely too cool for that nonsense. And also maybe because no one ever asked me, because the exquisite beauty, poise, and sunshiny attitude I enjoyed back then left me completely and utterly unapproachable to high school boys. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that was why nobody asked me?   Anyhoo, my lack of experience in all things normal for a high schooler could possibly be tainting my view of this whole dog and pony show.  Hashtag clueless.

So, yeah.  That’s some news from suburbia.  I’m back from vacation, clearly a completely changed woman.  Or something.



One thought on “Home Again, Home Again

  1. I used to work with a very intelligent woman who described her dish cleaning routine as soaking things for more or less a week. All the time. You’re in good company.
    The dreaded high school dance: sorry, I’ve got nothing. We are hoping to learn from your example!


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