Parents Please STOP! You and Your Child Are NOT a Special Snowflake

I love STFU Parents Blog http://www.stfuparentsblog.com/. I may have posted things as a parent in the past that are considered overshare  But honestly, nothing as bad as some of the things I’ve seen up there. Some of those posts, whether it’s crazy mommyjacking, or a picture of somebody’s hoohah wide open until you can look up the canal and see the baby’s living room, are just super insane.

Speaking of insane, I give you this link:

http://www.ksdk.com/news/world/article/380371/28/Starbucks-diaper-change-ends-with-call-to-police?sf12781216=1

Yeah. If you feel that this okay, I’d like to come to your house and poop at your dining room table. I swear I’ll be quick and clean it up right afterwards.

I’m so confused… do I eat here or go potty?

Because this is what these privileged parents did. They changed their child’s diaper in an eating/drinking area, had a hissy frackin fit when they were told to clean up. And then threw their coffee on the ground because the workers there were so rude!

I hate people.

Seriously, there is one thing I really can’t stand in the world, and that is privileged parents that think that their children are gods and should be allowed to do whatever they want, whenever they want. If little Bobby decides to come to your house and murder your cat “while playing” you shouldn’t be pissed. He’s just precocious!

This isn’t exactly that situation, but why do you think other restaurant goers want your baby’s potty particles all up in their nose and mouth? I don’t want to smell my own bathroom mess, let alone your child’s stanky Similac behind.

A friend asked the question if I was against breast-feeding in public too?

No. NO. Two VERY different things!

Feeding makes sense because guess what? You are in a restaurant! Everyone should eat. Whip out your giggles and feed your monster baby.

But, how does the saying go? You don’t sh** where you eat, and neither should your spawn.

My monster teen, when he was a little nuisance, had complete blowouts whenever he went in his diaper.  As a young parent I got peed and number 2’d on. Just think if I was the parents in the story above changing one of THOSE diapers in a public place where people are eating and drinking. Yeah, that turns my stomach too.

Take that changing pad back to the bathroom with no changing table and lay it on your lap in a stall, or lay your child on the floor or sink. Take your monster out to your car and change their diaper.  Do not make this an accidental scat or golden shower moment while I am sipping my latte.

And frack Starbucks for apologizing. You are just allowing these kind of idiots to continue to act this way.

Makes me wish that there was a law that you couldn’t have children unless you passed a common sense and common decency questionnaire. I swear, it would cut down on welfare lingerers. And parents that think children should be worshiped.

We need… Willy Wonka.

 

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I am NOT made of Money!!! I am Made of Pissyoffedness

I have a boatload, a shipload, a starship full of love for my mommy. We may not have a traditional relationship since I’ve been calling a lot of the shots for years, but it works for us.

What does not work is her reliance on MY money.

Since I joined the military more than 10 years ago, I’ve helped my Momster in any way I can. Especially because she raised my son as I went playing in other countries. Especially because my sperm donor father could not be bothered to pay child support for her 2 underage children she still had to raise.

But that meant my accounts were in the negatives a lot.

See, my momster, with all her innocence and naivety, does not understand money. Sure, she can do math better than me, but actual saving, not living above her means, well, I guess you don’t learn that in the hood. Because the father unit didn’t either. And he taught her some very very bad habits.

On top of her having to pay rent for a house she really can’t afford, my brother who lives with her has no job, has never had a job, and is 20. I on the other hand give her money EVERY FRACKIN month, even when my son is not staying there because of military happy times. And, in addition to the set amount I give her every month, I give her over when she is behind on bills… Which is pretty much every month.

Let’s review: momster works two minimum wageish jobs, has a house she can barely afford, a vehicle she barely affords, an adult male who eats her out of house and home that has no job, and goes to a tech college maybe 3 days out of a week (and has a loan out for like $60 thousand for it), and doesn’t even do frackin chores, AND me, who is paying for these failings.

ARGHHHH!

It is to the point that for Mother’s Day I almost didn’t give her jack shitTAKE mushroom. Why should I? I am depleting my savings for her whims!

Let’s not even mention the family wedding in Vegas that she just assumed I would pay for her to go. Plane ticket and hotel. Let’s not even talk about the insane idea she had of me paying for a ticket to fly to my state and then fly with the Monster Teen and I so she didn’t have to fly alone.

We are for serious here, and I have loss some blood vessels. They are leaking out of my ears I swear to you.

I love my mother. But I have frackin spoiled her. I knew this a couple of years ago when she was upset that I got her a kindle for her birthday instead of an over $1,000 treadmill. More than half of the things like the frackin flooring and other furniture was paid with my money.

But I’m.Just.Through.

I can’t do this anymore.

I can’t continue to be unhappy looking at my accounts because they’re not as pretty looking anymore. I’m not a money hungry person, but its my daggone money! And she’s frackin bleeding my accounts and my happy frackin spirit :-/

 

Well… when I’m sad, only one thing can make me happy nowadays:

 

Girly Men… The Rise of the Metro… And my thoughts on it

Let me be clear right now. This is in no way a post about LGBT men. This is all about straight boys and men. And my thoughts on them losing their identity.

Being a woman raising a young man is a truly trying situation. And many women end up fracking those boys up. And with the rise of single mothers, I think this is also we have a larger generation of punk men. My son also has the fact that he’s a black man against him. You can’t argue the facts of how many are in prison. But, I’m rambling. Kinda. Maybe.

Anyway, some single women raise their boys like how they always fantasized the men who knocked them up should be. Some baby the heck out of their boys with a subconscious fear that they will leave them like the other men in their life. First off: your son is not your man, or boyfriend, or husband. That is gross and the beginning of either incest porn, or your child becoming a serial killer.

They also do not instill the fact that you have to work for things. I can’t believe how many times I’m met with surprise that I don’t take out the trash, clean my son’s room, wash dishes, or wash my son’s clothes. Those are HIS chores. He also knows basic cooking skills. And he’s been doing all of this for a while now. Why? So he doesn’t expect a woman to take care of him. So he can stand on his own two feet.

The other thing parents seem to be teaching their sons is that it’s never their fault and that the rules in place do not apply to them. How many times have I heard or read online some mother (and sometimes father) complaining that their child should be excused for their actions, or that a teacher was rude for not caving to a parent’s expectations. Let’s not even go into the “everyone’s a winner so no child is left out feeling like a loser mentality.” Or, its okay for Johnny (probably spelled JahnNee because that’s what’s hot nowadays) to stay in and play video games instead of going outside and playing. I mean, you don’t want your little precious to get dirty right?

So it’s my belief that with those combinations of things, more men are being raised to be soft men. Its okay now for men to look more like girls than girls. It’s okay that they expect the world to be handed to them. Why can’t a man carry a purse and eyeliner and pants tighter than mine? I’ll tell you why:

Because when I’m a military female and have your soft-*ss son as my troop that cries when he gets told off for not having his hair cut to the standards, when he cries at being made to work longer hours, cries when they failed because they’ve never failed at ANYTHING at life – well I’m tempted to check if their balls have dropped.

My son is not allowed skinny jeans. He is made to respect women, and knows that the one thing I will turn into a monster about is it he does. My son is not my friend. He is my child that I raise to be strong and self-sufficient. My son knows at 18 he can go straight to work or go to college but he is getting the frack out of my house. My son knows that yes, having emotions and being able to express them are okay, but no one takes a male blubbering all over the place seriously (women either). My son knows that he should accept people for who they are, but at the same time he must decide who HE is and what HE stands for on his own. He knows life is not fair, and that you must work for what you want. He may slip up here and there and make me want to bust him upside the head for things, but I have to let him learn from his mistakes. One day my son will make a woman very happy to be his wife. Heck, even if some day later he decides he’s gay, he’ll make a man happy to be his partner. Because he will not be weak.

Children are Evil – My monster just fracked up my awesome mom track record

So no matter how great a job you are doing as a parent (or how well you THINK you are doing as a parent), your idiotic teenager can just frack up your track record.

You didn’t know this was a contest? OF COURSE IT IS!!!

And now I’m behind in the race like a fat kid trying to win carrots. Shut up. It DOES TOO MAKE SENSE! Ahem, yes, my mind is wandering, I can’t sleep (Clowns will eat me… not in a good way).

My MonsterTeen (patent pending), now has a juvenile record. And not for doing something cool that he can tell stories about when he’s my age. Oh no, he will have a lame “I was a follower that didn’t want to be looked at like a punk” story.

Let me set the scene for you: The other night, I’m chilling on my couch, half out of uniform, flexing my online shopping muscles while buying Christmas presents for the MT. As soon as I pressed the “place order” on my favorite site (really, I’m not sure if I love Amazon.com or bacon more) there’s a knock on my door. A policeman. A cop. A cute cop, but a cop nonetheless. And I think cutecop maybe got the wrong address until he asks if I am MonsterTeen’s mother.  Oh sweet baby Hay-soos. What is going on.

Under the threat of going to jail this is the story that came out: He was hanging over in his “girlfriend’s” neighborhood with her and another dude. We’re just going call her Shanaynay, because that’s just as ghetto as her real name. The other dude is going to be called Oomfoofoo Jr. So, they are all on the stairs and Oomfoofoo Jr. asks to borrow a pen from my son. My son gives it to him and then he an Shanaynay proceed to just stand there and watch as Oomfoofoo Jr draws male and female body parts in health class detail, writes that he’s fracked the wife of whoever lives there, and many other crude and violent things – ending with “and this was written by to black guys, you better be scared!”

Are you frackin kidding me. -_-

So MonsterTeen now has a record, because he was a punk, and didn’t tell on the little bustard, or just walk away. He is lucky as heck that cutecop didn’t take him to the station as he threatened. He is lucky that the man who’s door was defaced only wanted an apology. He is lucky that the housing complex isn’t pressing extra charges, fees, or kicking us out of our home. And he is lucky that I didn’t murder him.

Instead I took away all electronics: TV, cell phone, PSP, PS2, PS3, Wii, Nintendo DS, laptop, ipod (yes, the little bustard is spoiled). No TV, no going outside, no sodas, no desserts, and no candy even though we’ve got a lot leftover from Halloween. He’s grounded until Christmas… unless he fails any classes on his report card.

Meanwhile back at the ranch… in my brain that is… I’m starting to go into somewhat of a depression. I don’t want my son to ever turn out like his biological genetics donor. I was stupid, but my son should not pay for it. He has all the tools to be better than the both of us. So I may sip a little more wine than usual this weekend. And I may shed a tear or two where he can’t see. I already have. And I’ve also had friends that have been very supportive by understanding that I don’t just take this as “oh, boys will be boys, he got in trouble, and it’ll be cool.” My real friends have been either talking to the Monster Teen, or taking him out for some male bonding. Because mom just might lock him in a closet somewhere.

So Monster Teen has ruined dimensionthe5th’s mom track record of awesomesauce. Back to training. And torturing. Maybe I should reinforce the story that he’s cloned and tell a new story of what happened to the first version of him.

Awesomesauce Parenting from a Slightly Weird Mind

Today’s text conversation with my son is pretty darn normal for us:

My monster teen: (sends picture of  tall closet mirror by the trash dump by our home) “Mom, this was beside the trash cans. It looks brand new.”

Me: “You have a new mirror coming in with your new bedroom furniture tomorrow. We don’t need it.”

Monster Teen: “Ok. I thought it would look good over my bed on the ceiling.”

At this point I choke on my spit. W…T…Frackadoodle in hot fudge does my 14 year old want with a mirror on the ceiling?!?!?! He’s PURE! He’s still able to touch a unicorn PURE!

Me: “What! Why would you want a mirror on your ceiling? You know who puts mirrors on their ceiling? Perverts. Or people that want a horror movie monster to come out of the mirror and get them.”

Monster Teen: ” -_-”

Me: “I’m just saying. Weirdo.”

Monster Teen: “Never mind. I don’t need to know all that.”

Me: “hahahahahaahha”

Monster Teen: “I’m going back to work on my chores. I don’t want that mirror anymore.”

Sometimes, I like to think my son was put into my life as a fun torture object. He has about 3 grey hairs he swears is from me hiding in closets and under his bed to scare him. He still threatens his friends with the fact that he has a psycho mom.

I’m a single mom, that was a single mom from a very young age. I was young and dumb and full of… juices… just like every teenager. Hormones and parents divorcing and arguments made me lash out, but the only person I hurt was myself, with drugs, and alcohol, and sex. So I did the very not smart and academically gifted thing I was known for, and got Cinemax with a guy, and pregnant. And became a teenage statistic.

Or I could have. Instead of becoming the whore meant for welfare and 5 more kids like my “wonderful” father predicted, I finished high school, started to work as a preschool teacher, and took night courses at the local community college. When I realized that it wasn’t enough money to really take care of my monster, I joined the military. I vowed that although I was a selfish bastard and never wanted children, I would raise try and raise a child better than I could ever be.

And so, my child-raising style may be a little unconventional, especially for this day and age. I’d rather my son fear me a bit, rather than be his friend. We talk when he’s done something wrong, but I still take my uniform belt off and spank him afterwards. We also spend loads of time together, watching anime, or heading to a museum or amusement park. I talk logically about him NOT going to college because school is so hard for him with his reading disability. Not right away anyway. We talk about sex, and not becoming a statistic. He knows how he came into being, and knows that he is very much-loved, but it’s a hard road that I took. And when I’m bored, I like to stare at him with a maniacal grin and do the sound of the scary monster chick from The Grudge. Or tell him that he was cloned. Or describe how I would cook him if we were stranded in our house without any food.

Meh, he seems well-adjusted.