“This story will make my husband 1000% fall back in love with me.
It’s been 3.5 weeks since this has happened to me, and I feel that I am now strong enough to talk about it. So, let’s just dive right in…
It’s September 13th, 2019.
2:00 a.m.
Y’all, I LOVE a good thunderstorm. I lie in bed while I listen to the sweet, sweet thundery tap of drip drips against my window. I think to myself…’Damn, I love a good storm!’ I don’t think about much. The open poo bag of 7 days worth of Rudy’s chocolate hostages crosses my mind, but I think…’No worries…it’s Friday. Friday’s are for winners.’ (I was wrong about this.)
7:23 a.m.
Quinn: [Gently tapping me] And by ‘gently tapping,’ I mean driving a Wet Brush as deep as she possibly can into my left breast. ‘MOM!!! The basement is…like…leaking!’
Me: Christ, Quinn…what does that even mean? Did you pee? Did you pee the basement?
Quinn: Ummmmmm…no Mom…it’s raining down there.
7:24 a.m.
*Why is this my life?*
At this point, sh*t got real weird, and I stopped keeping track of time. The next 90 minutes were a giant blur. I called Kev. No…I take that back. I HATE calling. I texted him…
As you can see, I’m CLEARLY an incredible texter of words.
Things got hectic after this. It’s now 7:30 something, my basement is flooding, and my children have to catch the bus in a little over 30 minutes. Who am I really kidding though? What’s a bus? I drive their sorry late asses every day. Neither here nor there. Moving along…
Kev has me playing with a bunch of electrical bullsh*t. At this moment, I feel he’s testing my will to live. I’m a housewife…not Bob Villa. The kids still have to get ready. I’m panicking. He has me plug other crap into the sump pump outlet to figure out if it’s the pump or the receptacle. I’m starting to question my job title as an electrician at this point, given I’m fluently using words like ‘receptacle.’ No worries though. After 15 minutes of failed ‘electrical’ attempts, I once again realize that I am, INDEED, still just a housewife. I’m not good at things.
I remember at some point trying to plug a phone charger into the same outlet to see if that would work. As I plugged it in, I remember falling backwards. No worries though. Just a rug. (I’ll tell you why this was a bad idea in a few minutes here.)
The kids now have 20 minutes to get 100% ready. This is a trying moment given they can only 10% wipe their asses. Quinn’s hair feels ‘junky’ and her sock seams aren’t aligning like the GD moon and stars. Penny’s a complete helpless mess and can’t eat her super healthy Lucky Charms because the milk is too heavy to pour with her tiny T-Rex arms. Their teeth look as if they’re wearing winter cardigans, and I give no sh*ts as to what latchkey child typa’ outfit they’ve mustered together. Dress like monkeys…I don’t care. (Clearly shouldn’t be judging ANYONE on their outfit choices…you’ll see.)
I run upstairs and somehow pull 2 lunches out of my asshole. Pretty sure I filled up 2 used water bottles, tossed some Captain Crunch, a Starburst, and a 3-week-old nurse’s used ice pack into their lunch bags. Obviously killing this Mom game.
We stumble to the car. Rudy just HAS to come because being even 10 feet from my vagina causes him to go into full on cardiac arrest. Not doing TOO bad. We have 7 minutes to get to school. NO PROBLEM. (Insert countdown to ACTUAL problem.)
Pull up into the drop off line. Liiiiiiisten. I’m a tuck and roll kinda Mom. I can’t get them out of that car fast enough. And then I hear it…
‘Mom…my hair.’
SON. OF. A. B.
I jump out of the car. Not curbside though.
NOOOOOOOOO.
I’m now 100% blocking passer byers as my pajama’ed ass gets out of the car to pull a quick VSCO bun. As I stand there KILLING the bun game, I hear…
Wait for it…
‘Mom….Why are you wearing Dad’s underwears? MOM!!! Get back in the car!’
Y’all. I’d be a Monkey’s Uncle if I wasn’t just standing there fixin’ a messy bun in a pair of Hanes boxer briefs and a sweet 3 sizes too small Xhiliration tank. You guys…Not just boxers. Noooooooo. Boxer briefs. That certain special typa’ underwears that have a LITERAL house for the penis and balls. A HOUSE!!! I now have a penis.
Jesus be near at this moment. I am NOT OK.
You guys…sh*t got worse. I leave…roll through a Dunkin’ because there is NO way I’m making it through this Friday uncaffeinated. I get home and run upstairs to take this sweet pic pictured above. You’re welcome. It gets better. Remember that rug I sat on?
Neat.
I need a life coach at this point.
I go to the closet to find some pants. In that 3.5 seconds my doorbell rings. It’s the plumber I completely forgot I called. What do I do, you ask? I run downstairs because my pea-sized, Dory ass, royal-blue-tang-like BRAIN forgot to ‘process’ the ‘put on new pants before you answer that door.’
You’re welcome, Steve. Do you like my penis house pants?
Steve goes downstairs. Steve comes upstairs. Steve has to get a part.
Coffee kicks in. I figure I have at LEAST 15 minutes.
Guess who was wrong? Yup. Me again.
Steve forgot something. Steve done come BACK into the house while I’m laying down a quick colombian hot sloppy. (I should add…my bathroom is literal inches from my front door) I JUMP up and shut the door. He says, ‘So sorry ma’am!’ I get out of the bathroom, and let him back in. Not only did he get to witness this the first time around, but now he gets to walk RIGHT through my steamy fresh poo cloud. Perfect. Enter me into the witness protection program. I no longer want to be me.
I don’t remember anything else about the rest of this day. I can assure you though, it was sh*tty (pun intended).
Feel free to share with dysfunctional parents EVERYWHERE!!!”
From podcasts to video shows, parenting resources to happy tears – join the Love What Matters community and subscribe on YouTube.
This story was written by Meghan Oeser of The Ultimate Spoon . You can follow her journey on Facebook and Instagram. Submit your own story here, and be sure to subscribe to our free email newsletter for our best stories.
Read more hilarious parenting mishaps:
Give others a good laugh. SHARE this story on Facebook with family and friends.