Snapping our way to Paris

Just enjoying the luxurious train ride to Paris in first class, texting and snapping away. Looking forward to three days in Paris, a city I recently read is like a young man in love with a much older woman. I’ll need to keep that in mind as I tour around. 
In the meantime, add me on snap chat to see any videos I make of harassing the French. 


The Produce Man

So in Germany, the most problematic person that comes to your door is not a Jehovah, though they come occasionally and always unexpected, when my door is open, when I’m in my towel, when I have no fucks to give about pamphlets and how I’m living life in sin.

The worst offender in Germany is the Produce Man from a farm far away.  He pulls up in a truck, has bundles and bundles of things you never wanted in life, brings samples to the door, cuts produce in front of you with a sharp knife I think meant to inspire cooking or threaten, and has the charm of a man selling sand to a camel.  The Produce Man is my worst nightmare.  I can never tell him to go away, and he knows I need less carbs and more protein and vegetables and fruit in my life.  He preys on me.  I’m sure he saw my name in a European fast food registry somewhere and was like, Yep, we found her. Initiate produce attack.  Get her while her bathing suit is tight and her judgement and blood sugar is weak.

In the States, the worst door bell ringing offense was obviously the Jehovah, with the children they bring around, their weirdly seeming progressive paper Bible that is unlike the scary and leather-bound Catholic Bible, their pleasant disposition and their unlimited amount of smiles.  I have never trusted unlimited smiles in the name of anything, most certainly not religion.

I once dated a Jehovah, in sixth grade, and I was as perplexed then as I am now about a religion founded on a lack of gift giving and going door to door for anything more than the selling of candy bars or mascara.  I’m sure they claim to resonate with something greater than the lack of cake giving on birthdays, but to this day, I don’t fucking get it.  Jesus never wanted children to be without cupcakes on their birthdays, never wanted them to sit in halls during other people’s celebrations, I’m positive about that, and so I don’t fucking get the Jehovah’s.

So today.  I’m upstairs trying to shave my vagina and calm my hair for a trip to the spa.  I hear a grown man shouting HALLO into my house space as I’m standing wet and vulnerable, and I’m thinking, stop it Germans, stop the noise and why are you in my house? I’m wet but in a bathing suit coverup and a head towel at the time, the Mr. is at the dump and Sawyer is the only child in the house, but he is intently watching Zou, mimicking Zebra capabilities, and so I have literally no backup in the house.

“Hi!” I exclaimed and assume he’ll leave upon confronting me since i am not wearing normal clothes  or makeup and thus must not appear like a normal parent who buys produce for their child.  I am wrong.  Wrong on all accounts.

We work through the broken English and establish that he is from a far away far, but has a truck nearby, one that wants to sell me produce.  I obviously want to send him away but Sawyer, that small and prevalent dick in my life demands, “APPLE, APPLE, APPLE”. He is literally going to kill me slowly.

So. I say to the Produce Man, I only want your SMALLEST batch of everything.  He showed up offering apples and oranges and potatoes and I fell for the trap of fresh produce and was all, I WILL TAKE ALL OF THE PRODUCE.

Then, after giving me said produce, I got a slap in the face.  Apparently, when you say “small” or “small box” or “trial” in Germany, you are handed a 163 euro tab.  Let’s discuss.  163 euro could buy anyone two nights at the Hilton. A month in U.S. daycare.  4 brunches. 1 fancy tattoo.  4 grocery trips.  2 Argentinian steaks.  10 SIM cards. A flight home.  A boat for 4. A MOTHERFUCKING PILE OF APPLES AND ORANGES.

So I’m a farmer’s market groupie dream.  Join me.

I used to think that as a resident of Germany, as a hater of all children but my own, I’d never give in to this nonsense that is the guilt of The Produce Man.  But, I did, there is no recovery, and I should never be allowed to open my front door again.

“how much did this cost us?” asked the Mr. tonight.

“Almost nothing,” I said proudly, as i tucked the 163 euro tab deep within my bottomless purse.

“Good. I just love produce.” he said.

“Me, too.” And then I slammed back the wine in my glass and knew tomorrow would be a new day, a new fight.

And so now, at the end of the day, I am the proud owner of 40 kilos of apples, 20 kilos of oranges FROM GREECE (because the are different) and 10 kilos of potatoes.  I’m not going to lie.  I have always believed that kilos are a counting reserved for cocaine. So, while I have crates of these products, I literally have no measure for selling that makes sense.

I want $5 a bag of fruit i barely love.  come to my door, ask me to deliver, let’s talk.  I need to fix my stupidity in a bad way. My mental illness is your welcome home gift.

Apples and oranges for everyone. xxx.

The Produce Man’s bitch





When I grow up

Sawyer told me what he wants to be when he grows up this morning, and it’s obvious he will make terrible decisions for himself.  After he told me and we fought about whether or not he can be what he named, I wondered what I wanted to be when I was two and a half.

In fifth grade, I wanted to be President, mostly because I actually ran for class president and won, in a weird twist of events where I feel like I must have strong armed or tricked people into voting for me.  Also, I spent a lot of time that year sitting in a closet writing letters to President Bush to discuss how I thought we could change the world while submitting my yearly donation of $1 to contribute to the reduction of the national debt.

In Junior High, I wanted to be an AIDs activist, and to this day, I’m still not sure what that role plays in society.  I’m hardly capable of relating to or taking care of anyone with AIDs but I blame this on one of my school counselors, bringing in a bunch of hippies working in Portsmouth, do-gooders of the world.  I even recall some sort of visit I made to an outpatient facility which scared the living fuck out of me.  I was going to stick to not making the world a better place.

I also wanted to be a lawyer, after prosecuting the Wizard of Oz case, taking down the witch and winning, because my debating and argumentative skills are unmatched.  I’ve recently picked this hobby of mine back up, offering my legal skills to a friend that got fired without cause and going Erin Brokovich on the system.  I was reminded recently that very little in life energizes me a like a good fight and taking down the man when he fucking deserves it.

In high school I wanted to be a doctor but I don’t actually like blood or the thought of saving people and Grey’s Anatomy didn’t exist yet so I’m not sure where this one came from but it was short lived.  I wanted to be an English teacher, mostly because I was in love with my English teacher, but I heard they make no money and I don’t like mouthy high school students.

In college, my first major was journalism because I wanted to be a sports broadcaster but then I realized I could only talk about football and I had never played and maybe I just wanted to sleep with football players, not talk about them as a profession.  Then I was going to be an Arabic translator, which I’ll have you all know was before anyone was fighting terror so yay for being ahead of the game but boo for never fucking doing anything with it.  Then I was going to work for the State Department, a very vague ambition.  Then I lucked myself into a Senate internship and the rest is history.

Sawyer, though?  He is going to save me a huge amount of money on university.  That kid is adorable, athletic as fuck, funny, charming and 100% blue collar.

There is nothing that motivates that child more in life than a garbage truck, an excavator, a tool box and a vacuum.  A life in sanitation is right up his alley and so I’m hoping my thoughtful Sully will find his way in something more artistic, but I pulled a rock, a cherry pit and a piece of dog food out of his mouth in the same handful the other day and so I’m guessing these kids aren’t going to make me refinance my house down the road for their education.

This morning, though, Sawyer, chatty Kathy himself, was blabbering on and announcing to the air my every move while eating jelly toast topless.

“Wanna watch Handy Manny?” I asked, knowing it would buy me 20 minutes of coffee drinking time.  I couldn’t find that channel, though, but the show with the zoo animals, ZOU, popped up and Sawyer shouted, STOP STOP STOP.  He was clapping like a seal.  I was confused why this zoo show was causing such an excitable response.

He sighed and tilted his head to the side, thinking really hard.

“What’s wrong, Soy?”  He obviously was resting up to announce something really important.

“Mommy?  I want to be a Zebra when I grow up.  A big one.”  Then he slammed his hand on the coffee to show me how serious he was in his career choices.

“You cannot be a Zebra, Sawyer.  You are a person.”


“You need to wear clothes.  You need to sleep in a bed.  Zebras don’t do those things.”

“Zebra.”  He shouted, picked up the rabbit stuffed animal in arm’s reach, tried ripping the head off with his teeth and then threw it on the floor.  He then gave me a very stern look, pointed to the rabbit on the ground and shouted one more time for good measure, fist raise high above his head,


I deserve this.


Sex Ed and other advice for our Youth

This is a very different version of some rant I went on the other night on FB.  I’ve updated it with a few personal stories, as I’ve had time to think of what I would have added after I posted, so here’s some extended advice for anyone between 7-18 years of age who would ever need sex ed advice from a grown ass woman.

First, I wouldn’t say 7 year olds need sex ed advice but then again, I think if there are kids getting knocked up at 12, someone should hit those poorly parented children up early and do the world a favor and either, 1. educate them or 2. bleach their insides so they are incapable of breeding more millennial type non-contributors to society.

Also, what the fuck is happening to the world when 12 year olds don’t have enough shit to do that they’re out and about whoring around with each other?  You want to know what the fuck I was doing when I was twelve?  I was deciding what rainbow colored elastics to decorate my metal braces with.  I was attending sleepovers where I wore metal head gear that wrapped around my fucking head while I slept in a sleeping bag, the highlight of the night was eating chips and ice cream and cookies AND brownies, and drinking mountain dew, and called boys using a see-through phone, yet never talking to boys because the minute one would answer, we’d hang up the phone and scream. I was wearing three pairs of socks scrunched down and carrying around a backpack and writing book reports about Hiroshima and I was convincing my parents to let us get a new cat because the old cat, Sprinkles or Surprise or Bailey was hit by a car again we lived on a road that killed so many damned cats.  Also, a strawberry shortcake pop from the ice cream truck, not sucking dick, was the highlight of my day, so I find today’s kids fucking bizarre.

I was not letting any grimy handed, skuzzed headed, dirty, mouthy, snorting, drooling, non-bathing, eating like a pig, dressing like a moron, 12 year old boy stick anything in me, and certainly not up my vagina, which I thought not only dumped urine straight out it but anything went up it went right to my stomach and then if blasted hard enough, into the empty cavity above my stomach, which somehow contained my heart and lungs.

I have an overwhelming insane comprehension of the human body.

So why are we in the middle of this conversation that seems like me just yelling exactly how my brain thinks? (That is exactly how I write, by the way)

Well, someone asked me how I’d phrase sex ed/womanly advice to their daughter, which is honestly the first mistake.   No one has ever asked me to give their child advice on Shark Week, like I’m some sort of motivational speaker for anyone who bleeds out of their legs once a month. I have no idea why anyone in the world would ever consult me about this, and this is the PERFECT reason why I was not given girls. I am unqualified because I barely girl good enough to keep me alive. But, if I was going to give advice, I got to thinking….

Once upon a time, we were all sitting in a circle in Health Class, and in waltzed an additional teacher with a big box of something, set it on the table and then  separated the boys and the girls.  The boys were taken outside to the football field where they could spend the hour beating the shit out of each other and the girls were presented with this box of gifts—an individual purple pack of fun that included pads and pamphlets on how to deal with your lady bits, some of the language tip toeing around men and women spending time with each other, inserts with terribly drawn diagrams and literally no information of value that was approvable by any authority of health.

Yet this was the school system’s attempt at providing some sort of sex ed, preparing us to start A Lifetime of Bleeding, why this should be considered a gift, a gift of blood shooting from your flower, all commemorated with this tiny bag of heavy, purple covered pads, a bizarre drawing of a girl with no face that modeled a simple diagram of the inside of your body (seriously, I literally could not tell you to this day the insides of my body, and yes, I have two children), but surely no advice on what would happen if you liked some boy enough to get it on with and have The Sex and have The Baby?

That was sex ed.

Lucky for me, my mother had already done a better job at explaining sex to me the day I was ten when she made me come sit in her room, look at a different pamphlet that contained faceless people hugging naked, and told me that, and I quote, “When two people love each other so much and want to show each other with more than hugging, they hug each other on the inside, too.  Do you have any questions?”

No, I did not.  I did not because I had heard her having sex before and it did not sound like two people doing any outside or inside hugging.  It sounded like a moving company trying to move the bed from one room to the next one by jamming the headboard through the wall, the kind of sex where you forget you don’t have kids or fucking volume control and I was not interested in knowing more about that.

I’m not scarred, though.  We had sex once with Sawyer sitting on the couch  in a hotel room and in fairness I had distracted him with TV and a snack but then in a moment of distraction, I missed the fact that he had gotten off the other bed and walked over and there he was, slapping my thigh, asking me what I’m doing, and you can’t just answer that, so I told him to go back to the other side of the room to watch Handy Manny because Mommy was just sitting on Daddy’s lap backwards and would be right over.


If we could just adjust the teaching methods a bit, I’d love for this education to include a really detailed class on tampon use, perhaps a class on the use of vibrators and dildos, so no one has to screw any boys, we can all just screw ourselves until college.

I’m sure we know how to prevent liquid from shooting out of us.  How about we tell young women that one disadvantage of having children if you have unprotected sex is that your vagina no longer works for fun things like sex because it is too busy leaking out a liter of Elmer’s glue each day, causing you to sit on the toilet for a half hour at a time, staring at your oversized and dirty underwear, smelling the crotch part by bringing IT TO YOUR NOSE AND SMELLING INTENTLY, rubbing your finger around in the glue mess because you’re trying to figure out if you have a disease more like the clap and not just side effects of breeding kids.

Or you could do women a solid and bring a whole bunch of realistic dildos in and have them all inspect them, get used to different sizes and textures and colors, yes COLORS BECAUSE PEOPLE HAVE BROWN AND PINK PARTS and if you are from White America, brown parts will surprise you because you surely think all penises are pink.  Also, let us put our mouths on them so we know what the fuck we’re working with.  Give some of them hoods, for those women one day that get with guys who have dicks that look like anteaters.  Give some massive bushes so you figure out how to press forward and end up with no pubes in your teeth.

Do us a favor, and teach us the lesson I learned from my best friend, while we sat around eating the salad bar during lunch.  She had gone to the school dance on Friday like the rest of us.  She had also done more than dancing and on Monday sat down at lunch and promptly, and quietly announced to all of us, whisperingly knowingly,

“You guys will NOT believe this. You will not. THE SKIN MOVES WITH YOUR HAND.”

And to this day, that is the most important lesson I have ever learned, that when you give a hand job, the SKIN MOVES WITH YOUR HAND.  Do you know how many fucking heart attacks we all could have avoided having if only someone told us that BEFORE we touched a penis?

So yeah, if you’re going to ask me for advice for your child, this is going to be the conversation, with the highlight, THE SKIN MOVES WITH YOUR HAND.

**School nurses feel free to email me and provide me an update.

The World According to Sawyer

No one ever tells you before you have kids what a great source of entertainment they’ll be.  They focus on the really terrifying and awful stuff and never really spend time detailing the amount of full blown belly laughs you’ll have, compliments of your children, and how truly hysterical the innocence of childhood is.  Well, this is when they’re not being assholes.

Sawyer’s favorite teacher is a gal named Miss Lauryn.  I am guessing she is the favorite by the way he responds to her, loves being around her, and talks about her after school.  That’s the thing with Sawyer.  There are only three people he wants to talk about outside of his brother Sultan, and those people are his male best friend Garrison, his three year old girlfriend Addison and Miss Lauryn.  Every day it’s the same.

How was school, Sawyer?  Did you have fun today?

Garrison, Addison, Lauryn!  Garrison, Addison, Lauryn!  We play.  Toys. Noodles. Trucks.

You saw Garrison, Addison and Lauryn?  Wow. Great!

And then he ignores me and stares out the window silently until he decides he doesn’t like which way I’m taking home and  then instructs me, NO MOMMY, NO NO NO! THAT WAY! and the ridiculous part about it is that he fucking knows how to get home and he actually has an opinion about which way he prefers.  I apparently had no idea what two years old was.

One thing Sawyer HAS NOT mastered yet in life, though, is anything having to do with race, ethnicity or culture.  It was ok until now, but now all he does is talk, and so I asked Miss Lauryn the other day,

Hey, when do you think we can start some sort of race relations lesson going in the classroom?

She looked at me like what happened now and laughed and said, Well, they are reading books about slavery down the hall.  What happened now?  

We probably don’t need to talk about slavery quite yet, but I continued with my story to make a point.

So you know how I told you a few weeks ago that he thinks every black women around the world is Miss Lauryn? 

This is a true story.  Everywhere we go, doesn’t matter the country or city, if there is a black women in eye sight, Sawyer starts pointing, then shouting, then shrieking, MISS LAURYN!  HELLLOOOOO! MISS LAURYN!  MISS LAURYN! And if we’re close to this poor, unsuspecting person, he actually tries to break free to go run and see “Miss Lauryn” which results in my dragging him away by the arm giving some sort of life lesson sit down like,

No, Soy, remember we said not everyone that looks like Miss Lauryn IS Miss Lauryn, remember?

And no, he doesn’t quite understand and so every black woman remains Miss Lauryn, which is actually probably flattering.  Or not. It’s probably the start of terrible racism later in life.  I don’t know but somehow I feel like I’m failing at this shit.  I continue with my story.

“So we have a new twist to the story.  So I’m pulling up to daycare and I have both boys alone so I have Sawyer waiting on the sidewalk while I try to get Sully out of his side and all of a sudden I hear Sawyer shouting,


and I look up and am horrified because we all know I’ve never met the daycare worker’s Daddy and it’s actually some guy I work with in my office, and he’s trying to get his daughter out of the car and take her to school.  So now I’m like JESUS STOP WITH THE YOU CAN’T TELL THEM APART SHIT SAWYER because seriously, he can’t really be that white kid that is running around acting like this and I have no idea what to do and so I walk really fast over to Soy and grab his hand and wave to the guy and smile, knowing he probably wasn’t listening anyway, and said,
Soy, we’ve never met Lauryn’s Daddy.  That’s that little girl’s Daddy.”  And then it occurred to me that he meant Daddy as in  like, he’s my Daddy, in the he gives it to me, sense, not that Sawyer would think of it that way because that’s perverted, but I suppose I refer to HIS Daddy like, hey Daddy, want to come watch TV or hey Daddy, can you grab me a drink, instead of Hey Chris, so then I’m like OHMYGOD he thinks that man is Lauryn’s boyfriend and he has chosen Daddy to be the way he refers to boyfriends or husbands which is an issue itself and fuck, I have no idea how I’m going to fix all this.

I finish the story to Lauryn with, “So I think he thinks now every black man is your husband.  I’m just guessing.” She shakes her head, says GOOD LORD, and picks him up and takes him to the breakfast table.  He waves.  At least he’s cute.

So because not much else is going on in my life this week, I tell my friends, who find this funny.  I tell Chris, who is horrified and tells me to stop telling people this stupid shit because we don’t need people thinking we are raising a racist child.  Anyway, I obviously ignored him because I continued telling the story for the whole week.

Yesterday, the guy Sawyer mistook to be the lover of his favorite teacher happened to be at his desk when I walked by and so I stopped and said to him, and no, I don’t know his real name so I just kind of jumped in with the details and kept talking.

“Hey. So you know how we drop off our kids around the same time at daycare?”  He just looks at me and says yea and like, why are you talking to me for the first time in a year for no reason?  I just carry on.

“Well, here’s a somewhat inappropriate but kind of funny story for you.”

The six guys that sit behind him, who love a good story, perk up, stop typing and push their chairs back away from their desk.

“So the other day? Did you hear my son shouting at you?  You know which one he is, right? Sawyer, the blonde one?” 

“No, I didn’t hear him but I know who he is.”  His daughter is in Sawyer’s class so I was hoping this story would be received well.

“Well, so, Sawyer may or may not think all black women in the world are Miss Lauryn.”  All of the guys looked at me with big eyes and humored.

“I mean, he’s not racist or anything, he’s only two, but apparently he thinks every black women is Lauryn from school and whenever he sees someone, he yells and waves and causes a goddamned scene and the worst part is that when they don’t respond, he is actually fucking defeated and I can’t really fix that because I have to spend a few minutes talking to him about how that woman is actually nothing like Miss Lauryn but he’s more upset that she didn’t say hi back and so the whole thing is sad and weird and awkward. “ I pause to take a breathe and the guys are laughing, including the one I’m about to get to in my story personally, so I’m assuming everyone agrees that this is a nice afternoon story to tell.

“So back to you.  So the other day, when he was yelling at you, he was shouting LAURYN’S DADDY! LAURYN’S DADDY! LAURYN’S DADDY! and I was horrified like OHMYGODSTOP because now apparently all black men are dating Lauryn because I think he means it like Baby Daddy, not like Father Daddy, I mean, I’m just guessing because sometimes I call his father Daddy instead of Chris and his grandfather is Poppy or Papa so if he thought you were her actual Daddy, he would have shouted Papa so the point of this is really that you, because black, are now Lauryn’s boyfriend and so if this continues, let’s just ignore it and have a good laugh and I’m sorry.”

He laughed and the rest of the office laughed and then I had a good laugh and was like phew, good. We’re all laughing at the tiny racist.  I start to walk away and the guy stops me.

“Hey Heather.”  I stopped.

“Yeah?” I turned back.

“My daughter is Lauren.” I looked annoyed and like, har har, shut up and when he kept staring at me with raised eyebrows like ? and then I was confused and just shrugged my shoulders.

“Lauren, my daughter? The one in Sawyer’s class?  Her name is Lauren.  I AM Lauren’s Daddy.”

And so again, the moral of this story is that I am the fucking idiot.




Surviving a week with kids

My kids. I survived another week with children who behave just like me. This week, though, was a fucking train wreck. 

First of all, I blame home. It all started with one kid sick, who got another kid sick, who got a third kid sick. They all got me sick and between that and jet lag, fuck trips across the pond. That shit is not happening again until 2017. Yes, that means the double baptism is cancelled, let’s all keep our fingers crossed that my kids don’t go to hell. 

Now. They’re back, they still don’t sleep and Sawyer has been a gem all week. In fairness, he was outrageously sick. In my head at the end of a 9 hour day being bossed around by him, he’s a been a needy dick with a super attitude problem and control issues. Like he can’t fucking control himself to not launch a glass of nicely poured juice on my lap while he looks me in the eye, or to behave like a sane person when I tell him no shoes on the bed, under my covers, on my side, and instead decides to use stomach to practice kicking on, all while screaming for his father. Begging for his father like I’ve done something other than take off that stupid pair of sneakers that he insists on wearing 24 hours a day. 

Oh, your father can come home and take you to a place where I can’t hear your ungrateful cries, you, child who painted my couch with yogurt and then ran and hid when I asked you if you thought it was funny. Hid and laughed extra loud, which made me want to sit in a corner and try acid. 

The day he vomited on himself like an adult three times, I felt terrible for him, even though he refused to be picked up and wanted to sit in the awful smelling pile of sour milk smelling bile. I didn’t even get  mad at him when he stopped sobbing long enough to shout, Go Mommy Go!, something he usually shouts while I vacuum in a condescending tone, but this time while I dry heaved on my rug at the smell of the insides of his foul stomach. I forgave him, though, and we both got naked and sat in the tub, playing with his ducks until he poked my nipple, smiled and said, nice boobie, Mommy. I was proud, then slightly uncomfortable and then decided maybe only naked bath time with Daddy from here on out. 

The worst of the days, though, was the second day I was stuck home with the sick kids, when both were home, because the tiny one can crawl now and he is also usually hangry and while tending to the big sicko, #2 spent most of his time trying to eat something that would cause him to choke to death.  Seriously, I went to the bathroom for 4 seconds, half peeing down my leg in an attempt to pull my pants up so fast, and STILL came out to hear him choking. Jamming my finger and sweeping his throat I pulled out a banana sticker. No idea when the last time I bought bananas, but sure as fuck, a sticker found its way in the choke zone of Big Red. 

That’s it, I sighed, everyone is getting a diaper change and then Elmo is babysitting for the rest of the day. I put Sully on the couch and asked Saywer to kindly hand me the wipes as he stood next to me. I could smell a poo and upon opening the diaper, I saw what resembled bouncy balls and deer pellets of assorted sizes and colors. Real food was making this child shit like a man. I turned my head to find his new outfit, then back to Sully, who has a passion for grabbing himself aggressively each diaper change. “Sully, PLEASE stop yanking your walnut like that.” He giggled as I removed his super strong fingers from his walnut. I was considering how much earlier Sully took an interest in his bits than his brother  when i heard Sawyer shriek, “I got it. I got it. I got the egg.”

“You already ate. We are not having eggs,” I stated firmly. Sawyer loves eggs like I love ice. It’s a sickness and I hate eggs. I will not make eggs. 

“Here, mommy. Sultan’s egg.” He calls Sully that, and it is sometimes cute and sometimes annoying. I looked at him. “Sully does not…”

He had shit in his hand. He had a medium sized ball of shit in his hand proudly and I could tell he was one second away from squeezing it out of excitement. 

“Oh! Nice,” the fucking fake games we play. “Give mommy the egg!” I was smiling so big my fucking face was going to break and I stuck out my hand flatly to receive the egg. 

It’s our fault he thinks to call it an egg. From a year on, we’d change his diaper proudly and squeal, who laid a dinosaur egg? And now I was fucking paying for it. 

I wanted to toss him out on the porch and hose him down with hospital grade bleach. Instead,  I used an entire bottle of baby wash on his upper body, washed all the laundry in the living room, put them down for bed and ate an entire pint of pistachio B&Js because I am a grown ass woman who emotionally eats in sweatpants and doesn’t feel an ounce guilty about it. 

And today? Today, tonight actually, the bloodshot eye that the doctor told me is due to dehydration two days ago looks suspiciously like that anthrax pink eye and I swear to God if his eye is crusted over tomorrow morning, we are bleaching him, the house, lighting the place on fire and starting over by living in a tent. 

Otherwise, though, it was a pretty standard week.