The world can get crazy. Especially with Tom being gone. Granted, I am grateful for all that I have obviously. But I can’t help but get annoyed at times. The following things have been giving me a headache lately:
The stuff that Tommy likes to build around the house. I love his imagination but it gets aggravating when his ‘creations’ take over my living room and he gets upset if I ask if I can move one. “I made that!” he’ll say incredulously. And heaven help my eardrums if Natalie dares to touch one. (This creation was a runway for his airplanes, by the way.)
How commercials and labels such as these always talk about the mothers doing the cleaning and cooking. Hello, it’s 2010. Maybe men would take the initiative to cook and clean more if society wasn’t shoving ‘Mom this’ and ‘Mom that’ down their throats. Maybe MOM wants a break and would love if DAD offered to whip something up for the latest bake sale.
The fact that Tommy always puts his underwear on backwards. He’s beyond the cartoon-ish underwear and wanted boxers. So fine, I got him some, and he doesn’t get that the flap goes in front. This is probably due to the fact that he doesn’t use the flap, that he actually pulls down his underwear when he goes and I’m not about to further explain it to him. That’s an awkward conversation that Tom can have with him on Skype.
How food companies feel the need to explain to me exactly what my kid is eating when I buy their product. They have to do this because of all those uppity moms (probably the same ones who whined that Katy Perry’s outfit was inappropriate when she sang with Elmo on Sesame Street ) out there who just need to learn to relax and enjoy motherhood and not fret about every little thing. So long as my kid likes it, I don’t need to know the protein content, thanks.
Glen’s poop. You remember Glen, the annoying antelope who likes to eat my tree and gets further enjoyment from defecating on my driveway. I have to clean that, by the way. If I don’t, I get a citation from base housing for having animal feces in my yard. MY YARD IS NOT YOUR PERSONAL TOILET, GLEN.