I’m a multitasking mofo. I plan. I punish. I pin shit on Pinterest, and then sometimes, I actually make that shit, for chrissakes! Most of the time, I mom so hard, y’all. I’m on the ball. Wearing a freaking bra and everything. I do. I’m a mom. Most of the time. But sometimes? Sometimes I am simply a very tired person—a person too damn tired to juggle it all.
I’m exhausted. I’m all mommed out.
When motherhood has left me barely functioning, I start phoning it in. These are not my finest moments, but over the years I’ve noticed a few signs that I am officially too tired to mom:
- I’m throwing in the towel.
Literally. Because invariably, some little a-hole is peeing in my bed in the middle of the night. The first few incidents, I woke right up and thought, “Oh no! Oh, heavens me, I must change these sheets immediately!” Uh huh. The fifth time it happened, I threw a towel over that shit and went back to sleep. Cat vomit in the hall?
Throw a towel over it. Someone spill an entire Icee in the car? Towel. My gut spilling over my bikini bottoms at the pool? Giant towel.
- Parties: Kill me So fun in theory, right? No. For birthdays, I’m that mom, sweaty and sprinting through Target, wrapping a present in the parking lot 10 minutes after the party has started. My own children’s parties over the years have mostly been torturous affairs that we farm out to places with names like the “Trampoline ‘n’ Pizza Petri Dish” and “Build-a-Bankruptcy.”
- My FOMO is gone-o. FOMO (or “fear of missing out”) is that feeling you are not in on the latest thing friends are posting about or special activities other moms are doing to make their kids’ lives sooo magical, 24/7. To that I say eff you, FOMO.
-I no longer give a shit. Empathy…yeah…no, that’s gone too. The other day I saw a large pile of some child’s vomit while walking into the mall. How do I know it was a child? It was 90% Goldfish crackers. My first thought was not, Oh, poor little lamb. It was more like, YAY, NOT MINE!
-Climbing laundry mountain Just pick your clothes out of the dryer, kids, and be grateful they finally made it to the actual dryer.
- None-trition When the Lunchables and Hot Pockets make an appearance in the fridge, you know mamma has tapped out for the week. (See also: No. 5, Ice Cream at 9 a.m.) This goes for dinner too. I made a roast on Sunday; they said it was gross.
I made pasta primavera on Monday; they picked out the pasta. I made turkey tacos on Tuesday; they complained about the guacamole.
Who the hell complains about guacamole?! By Wednesday, I am all out of kale and fucks. Except I’m just out of fucks because I’d never even attempt to get my kids to eat dirt salad if they won’t eat guacamole. On Wednesday we are driving straight through the golden arches, or if they’re lucky, I might reach into the deep recesses of the freezer and pull out an array of the finest processed protein I can find and slap it on a paper plate. Boom! Maybe I’ll give them a courtesy squirt of some ketchup, you know, as a vegetable. Crap: It’s what’s for dinner!
- Shortcuts become my life. Why rack your brain coming up with original bedtime stories when you can just relay the movie plot of the ’80s classic, Can’t Buy Me Love?
-Why pull out the vacuum when you can just call the dog over? He licks all the stray crumbs, gets a meal and the floor gets clean.
-Multitasking! See also: No. 1, the towel. See also: I am disgusting.
- My son is sleeping in his clothes. Again. My toddler son is finally, finally asleep. Are you gonna wake him up to put the proper sleepwear on him? Yeah. Didn’t think so. Shut up.
- Sometimes I drop the F-bomb. Sometimes, I am too fucking tired to censor myself. Netflix is my babysitter. Pretty sure my son watched Netflix for six hours straight while I wrote this article. Haven’t you heard? Netflix is very educational according to a fascinating article I tried to read before falling into a deep sleep.
- I tell my son to go away. Often. My darling son, you are the light of my life, the very reason I breathe. Now get the hell out of my face. I would rather have cruise ship diarrhea than read "where's my nose" on more time. Right this minute, I’m hiding in the bathroom to avoid you spitting car noises at me, which you will tell me about through the door anyway.
- Buying my freedom Yes, yes, fine, whatever, I will gladly buy you both Mango Tango Twist and Waikiki Coconut Splash spray and the coordinating candle to avoid spending one more second of my life inside the smelly hell that is Bath & Body Works. Yes, son, go ahead and get two shark-tooth necklaces before they turn out the lights and lock us in this souvenir store and we have to live under this hermit crab habitat. Fine. I just want to go home. *cries softly* I'll be a better mom tomorrow.
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