Pandemic Parenting...WTF

Good lord, how are y'all doing?
I think I speak for most of us when I say these last four weeks feel like it's been going on for a good six months at least.
So far 2020 has been a real kick in the ass, wouldn't you agree?
Within a matter of weeks, all of our lives were turned upside down. Schools started doing e-learning, people were working at home, and almost everyone started following states' stay-at-home orders. Toilet paper suddenly became as rare as a nun in a strip club.
When I realized that my kids weren't going to be going to school for the foreseeable future and would do their homework online, I was secretly relieved. Relieved because my two youngest are in high school and pretty self sufficient. I wasn't going to have to do much, unlike those other poor souls. And by poor souls I mean the parents who are going to have to actually HOME SCHOOL their kids. I would fail my kids so miserably if I had to do that, they'd undoubtedly be repeating the same grade next year.
I'm sure there are parents out there who are CRUSHING it with this at-home stuff.
I am not one of those parents.
I'm letting them sleep in, stay up late. I don't hound them about their homework unless I get an email or call from a teacher. Then I try to pretend I'm totally aware of it and assure them it will be turned in.
I don't know what I'm doing when it comes to parenting during this pandemic. Am I talking about it enough with them? Should I bring it up more? I know they're aware of what's going on.
Before the school shut down, my daughter Chloe, a senior, said "It's bad enough we have to worry about school shootings, now we have to worry about a virus that can kill us too??"
I had no answer for her. Maybe that's why I keep things lax at home. Half the time I don't even know what day of the week it is, I just wander around the kitchen aimlessly and open the fridge 17 times in an hour. We're all just kind of surviving in our "new normal."
The other day as I was taking a shower I raised my arms to wash my hair and let out a little scream. I can't remember the last time I had that much armpit hair. I glanced at my legs and shuddered. Yikes.
"Okay little buddy," I said as I picked up the razor. "Get ready. You're gonna have your work cut out for you." Once I got done weed-whacking my legs, I felt a little more normal.
Aside from my grown out roots and my disastrous attempt to cut some layers and trim my bangs, I'm just settling into my new identity of quarantine chic.
As a mom of older children, I have to admit there are some incredible benefits of everyone being forced to stay home.
I can't remember the last time we all had a movie night, so I suggested one at the beginning of all this. At the time a couple of my daughters weren't really talking to each other; they had been mad about something for a couple weeks and it was tense at times. You can't force teens and young adults to get along like when they're little and you can threaten them with both having to wear a single over-sized  "Get Along" shirt . But when everyone was sitting on the couch watching "Contagion" and eating snacks and laughing and getting along, I actually teared up because I was so giddy. Of course they made fun of me but I didn't care. Different things make me happy as a mom now.
When I told Chloe she couldn't go on the spring break trip to Florida with her friends at the end of March, I felt awful. She was already missing prom and her birthday party and all the fun at the end of senior year.
I may have felt awful, but Chloe was furious. For some reason I was the only mom sounding the alarm on this trip. I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone... none of the other moms seem worried.
Luckily Clearwater's beaches officially closed, so I quickly sent the article to the mom planning the trip.
"Ok, we'll reschedule" she replied.
Whew, at least it wasn't just me being the overly cautious mom in the group.
Chloe was still angry. She stormed down to her room when I told her.
"Why are you mad at me?" I asked incredulously. "The trip HAS to be postponed, the beaches are closed. It's not just me saying you shouldn't go."
"Well, you saw to that didn't you?" she yelled back.
"So now I'm to blame for a GLOBAL PANDEMIC?? Ok, got it." I rolled my eyes.
If I'm getting blamed for things out of my control, then maybe things aren't all that different after all in our house. It's a little bit of"regular life" creeping back into our lives, and I'll take it.
I know in my heart things will go back to normal eventually. So I'm going to try not and beat myself up for watching too much Netflix and not enforcing stricter routines with the kids. I'm going to enjoy the nights home when we're all together, and make peace with my continual wardrobe of sweats.
We're all going to get through this, that's what is important.

So THIS is the Most Wonderful Time of the Year?!

Tuesday, December 17, 2019

Oh, December. Sweet, deceptive December. 

For more than 11 months of the year, I think of December with a nostalgia filter. I can't help but smile when I envision all the happy memories I've made with my family over the years, and all the happy memories I'm sure are to follow. In my mind the entire month is some type of Hallmark movie with twinkle lights, lightly falling snow, and apple spice candles burning.

Then, about a week after Thanksgiving, reality bitch slaps me across my face and it all sinks in. Like a horrible form of muscle memory, I remember everything that has to get done before Christmas. So with the determination of a worn and weary Russian peasant, I lower my head and get to work.

Lists are made and presents are bought. So many presents. It seems like we always have to buy for more people than we originally planned. And no ~ I don't want to be in your Secret Sister Santa Gift Exchange or whatever it's called, so please don't even ask. I can barely remember to put gas in my car at this point, much less buy and ship a gift for some woman I don't know in Indiana.

And then there's the baking. Facebook and Instagram are flooded with photos of these massive cookie baking sessions. As far as the eye can see, it's row after row of dozens of cookies. And everyone looks super happy and pleased with themselves. Like, no one's yelling and there's this aura of happiness and butter and togetherness.

I don't get it. 

Baking cookies is such a fun Christmas tradition, and of course I want to continue it. But seriously, I don't know what's more exasperating...baking with little kids or teenagers. Little kids have less of an attention span and make a bigger mess, but teenagers have their own challenges. I was so excited when all four of my kids were home on Sunday afternoon and agreed to bake cookies with me. I was downright giddy. This is going to be so great, I told myself. I am the Memory Maker extraordinaire! My children will talk about me fondly and share stories of my incredible nurturing tendencies for generations.

And it was a lot of fun for the first hour. We ditched traditional Christmas music for some old school hip hop, and everyone was laughing and getting along. I was deliriously happy. Sweet, sweet December. But eventually everyone drifted out of the kitchen into their own rooms, and I was left wrist deep in a bowl of sticky, marshmallow nuclear-waste-green Corn Flake hell.

"I'm never making wreath cookies again!" I yelled to an empty kitchen. "I mean it. I don't care how much you want them. No one helps!"

After finishing up and cleaning, I was still pretty impressed with everything they made. I warned them all that I expected them to not demolish all the cookies within a week. "Use some restraint, and try not to eat every single cookie when you get home from school. I would like the $80 I spent in baking ingredients to last more than a day."

And yesterday, not even 24 hours later, I got home to a supply of cookies that could fit into a business sized envelope.

Jesus, take the wheel.

I guess my currency for that amazingly fun time with all four of my children was paid for with sugar, Rolos, and a whole lot of almond bark. Eh, I'll take it. I know I'm on borrowed time when it comes to corralling all of the kids at home with me for certain activities. One's on her way to grad school, one's working full time, one's a senior in high school and even my youngest is 15 and has a job. Time with them is a precious commodity and parents know that all too well.

But that doesn't make what happened to me Friday night acceptable. Before I explain to you why I am so absolutely butt hurt and indignant, let me go on record and state I am a great mom when my kids are sick, especially when they were younger (as long as I don't think they're faking an illness to stay home from school). I coddle them, bring them medicine, put a cool wash cloth on their foreheads and make sure I check on them pretty regularly. And when they were really young I would catch their vomit in my hands without even flinching. Even now that they're older and they get sick, they'll still want to know when I'm coming home. Everyone wants their mama when they're sick. I get it, I do. I'm not speaking for all mothers and certainly not all women, but it makes me feel good to take care of people. 

Now let's talk about Friday and how I was betrayed by the fruit of my loins.

About two hours before I left work Friday afternoon, I started feeling like something wasn't quite right. My stomach felt weird, and I didn't have an appetite for a single thing. Nothing. That's how I first knew something was off. My fat ass is always hungry and I'm never not up for a snack, especially during a workday afternoon. I kept walking outside in the 20 degree temperature thinking I needed fresh air.

After work I ran some errands, and by 6:30 I decided to just go home. I was feeling worse and worse. By the time I got home, I walked straight past my 17 year old daughter Chloe and headed toward my bedroom. "I don't feel so good," I told her. At this point my mouth started watering like a Saint Bernard puppy and I crawled into bed. "Remember what you always tell us," Chloe called after me. "If you're not sure which end it's going to come out of, always always SIT."

Around an hour later I bolted up in bed, with my hand firmly clamped over my mouth. I ran as fast as I could to the bathroom and barely made it before I threw up. Over and over again. It was like a bad movie. Just as I'd wearily lift my hand up to flush the toilet, I'd puke again. Now I'm clutching the bathroom rug and barely able to get up from a fetal position. I hadn't even had time to shut the bathroom door all the way, and our house isn't all that big, so it's not like you can't hear what's going on. The bathroom is literally less than 20 feet from the living room couch. In my delirium I turned into Caroline Ingalls and told myself surely the children will come looking for me. 

After what seemed like an eternity but was probably more like 25 minutes, I dragged my sweaty self back to my room and prayed to the baby Jesus to spare me from such a horrific, literally gut-wrenching experience. I eventually fell asleep, with dried vomit at the ends of my hair and wearing one sock. 

The next morning I felt almost 100% better so I knew it wasn't the flu, and was most likely a nice little bout of food poisoning.

I cornered Chloe in the kitchen not long after she woke up. "Didn't you HEAR me last night when you were watching tv? I had food poisoning and was in the THROES OF DEATH puking my guts out and you didn't even check on me! I could have hit my head and been laying there for hours unconscious and no one would have even known." 

"Oh for real?" she asked. "I heard you but I actually thought you had the soupy poopies so I just turned the volume up on the tv remote. Because you know, gross." She shrugged.

Any other time of year I would be horrified at my apparent lack of instilling basic empathy into my children, but in December I'm just trying to survive. Physically, financially, emotionally... this month takes a toll on us parents but let's be honest - it can be brutal for moms. We want our kids to have the best Christmases - not just with gifts but with holiday experiences and memories - and we work ourselves to the point of exhaustion trying to make it happen.

I don't know about you other moms out there, but starting at 11 am on Christmas I am reclaiming my sanity. And all of January is going to be about ME. I will not bake anything, I will not decorate anything, I will not wrap anything and I for sure will not be holding anyone's hair back when they barf. I mean it.

Not unless they ask really nice. And then when I'm rubbing their back and putting a cool washcloth on their sweaty little brows, I'll lean forward and whisper "See how nice it is when someone doesn't leave you writhing in pain and despair on the bathroom floor all alone?"

I'm sure they'll appreciate my nurturing even more.

That One Time I Accidentally, Almost...Tried to be a Porn Star

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...YOU taught ME...

From the moment you arrived in this world, one week late and taking your own sweet time, I knew my time with you would be different from what I expected. Your sister was an easy baby, an easy toddler.
Not you.
The second I held you in my arms, your dad and I burst out laughing. "Look at her face," I said, "she is so dang angry!" And your perfect little mouth was pursed and you had your brows all furrowed...and then you let out a howl.
And oh boy, did you howl. And didn't stop.
You were a colicky baby, and for two hours every night I had to carry you with my hand on your stomach and you facing forward. I walked back and forth in the living room non-stop...it was the only thing that would make you stop crying. Those were the days before a Fit Bit would have told me how many steps I had taken. All I knew is that it made you feel better, and the howling would stop.
From the very, very beginning, you made your presence known. If you weren't happy with a situation, you made sure we all knew it. I felt incredibly inadequate with you at the beginning. Why weren't you happier? What was I doing wrong?
I tried nursing you and had to give it up after a couple weeks. "Oh my god," I'd whimper, with bags of frozen peas on my chest. "She's chewing my damn nipples right off."
Then you grew out of the newborn stage and couldn't wait to get to the next stage.
You crawled.
You walked.
You ran.
One time I had you at my aunt Patti's house and my cousin Jenni and I were watching you while you kept walking to the stereo and pressing buttons that you weren't supposed to. You were about 18 months old.
"Sophie Rose," I'd admonish, trying not to laugh. "You are being naughty and going to get your hand slapped if you keep doing that." And you'd look over your shoulder to make sure I was still watching and then you'd press all the buttons again.
You always loved seeing our reactions when you did the unexpected.
All through your toddler and pre-school years you challenged me as a mother. I used to laugh and say to others, "Oh, she is my firecracker for sure. She is a pistol." But deep down I used to worry, "What was I doing wrong? Why can't I get through to her?"
Before you started kindergarten I had convinced myself that I wouldn't be the blubbering mess that I was when your older sister had started. I knew that independent streak of yours would make you so ready for school, there was no doubt in my mind. I knew school was the best thing for you.
Your first day arrived and I was fine, smiling as you raced ahead of me down the hallway heading toward your classroom. Something happened to me though once I saw your name on your little cubby.
My throat tightened up and I felt tears well up in my eyes. "Jesus Christ, pull it together," I told myself. I went into the room where the teachers and principal talked to the parents. I heard the opening speech's lines of "We know you are entrusting us with your most prized possession..." and then I lost it. I cried so hard one of the teacher's took me aside and tried to console me. I couldn't figure out why I was such a wreck. I mean, I know I'm a crier but jeez...
It was so much fun seeing you get that excited for school. After a couple days though I got a call from your teacher. Turns out you were pretty homesick for your momma. You'd cry during class and they even called your sister Frankie in from her 2nd grade class to comfort you. That night after I got that call, I knelt down next to you and gave you a cross necklace of mine. "Wear this," I told you. "And whenever you get lonesome for me doing the day, just touch the necklace and think of me and know I'm going to see you soon." And you wore it every day for weeks, until you no longer got sad.
Throughout your years of growing up you continued to never back down for what you wanted. Your love of horses showed early, and we made sure you were around them as often as it would allow. I was always so impressed by your lack of fear.
If I could think of one word to describe you, it would be 'Fierce.'
You've been fierce in your determination, fierce in your loyalty, and fierce in your beliefs.
Out of all my children, you have been my biggest challenge. You had no fear in standing up to me or challenging me. But also out of all my children, you remind me the most of myself when I was younger. That insane desire to keep things private, the need to go against authority or fight the status quo. I get it, I do. You are my mini-me in that regard.
I see you now, so ready to conquer the world. Your determination impresses me.
Don't get me wrong...I have spent many, many days and nights wondering if I was screwing it up with you. Why didn't you listen? Why didn't you care if I was mad or grounding you? What was I doing wrong? How would I ever teach you life's important lessons if you were constantly challenging me?
But in the end, it was YOU who taught ME.
You taught me that parenting is an ever-evolving process.
You taught me just as no two children are alike, no parenting style is as well.
You taught me that success in parenting is measured in many ways.
And most of all, you taught me that one of my greatest joys is being your momma.
I can't wait to see how you conquer your world, Sophie Rose.
I love you fiercely.

The Ultimate Relay Race of Parenting (or How 'bout Helping your Mother out and Grabbing the F'in Baton?!?)

Ah, the Olympics.
Every four years the event comes around and I am hooked. My addictive personality kicks into full gear and my obsessive little competitive soul gets the nourishment it craves.
That's right. For 16 days my ass rarely leaves the couch during the evening hours.
I suck up all the statistics and devour all the back stories.
"For crying out loud," I'll say to an empty living room, since the kids aren't nearly as enticed as I am, and have long disappeared from my view. "That poor girl was a REFUGEE and swam three hours to GREECE to flee to safety. Now she's competing in the Olympics. Can you even believe it?"
Silence.
"Hey, did you guys know Michael Phelps arm length spans 80 inches from finger tip to finger tip?"
Crickets.
I know they're all just biding their time until this whole thing is over and their mother returns to "normal."
I'm pretty sure they haven't had anything more than a Hot Pocket for dinner since opening ceremonies. Whatever. They're still better off than that poor Syrian swimmer when she was in the refugee camp.
Now my latest fascination has been the women's 4 x 100 relay race. The determination, the importance of the hand-off, the do-over, the finish...
Makes me think of the stages of parenting.
All the stages, all the roles, all the sprints - they're all important.
Your first stage- the beginning position... that's like when the gun goes off in the race and the baby is born. You're just running like crazy, especially if you're a first time parent. You're not even sure if you're doing it right, you just know you have to survive. You have to survive the sleepless nights, the endless worries. "Lord, Jesus," you think to yourself. "Just let me get through this and get to a stage where this baby is sleeping through the night and I have time to shave my legs again."
Then comes the second position. In relay races, this is often the fastest sprinter. And in parenting, this strategy makes sense. Because as a parent you're always sprinting to get things done in this stage - you're running them to school, you're racing them to activities, you're always on the go, go, go. You think this stage of your life will never end. You look at couples who don't have young children and practically go insane with envy.
There are some race theories that state the worst runner is in the third position of a relay. I don't like the term "worst." I think that runner may not run as fast as the others, but they're just as important. Just like when the third stage of parenting starts. As a mom, I may not be sprinting as fast as I was earlier, but my work is just as important. I have to continue with the baton, and keep racing toward the hand-off. Now I have to make sure my kids have the all-important life skills necessary to continue on their own leg of the race. While I'm still running around and making sure their basic needs are being met, I'm now trying to install a sense of pride, hard work and social responsibility into their incredible little personalities. I'm still running in this third position, determined to do my role on this relay team. But it's tiring, all this running. You still want to make sure you're doing your part so they can win this race.
And one of the most physically and emotionally exhausting things you can do in the parenting relay is when you finally reach the next runner's extended hand, and hand off the baton of responsibilities. In this case, the next runner is your teenager. You watch them sprint off, the so-called "best runner", and take off at an unbelievable speed toward their future. You're wiped out, bent over with your hands on your knees, watching them.
Finally you stand straight, take a deep breath and yell after them, "Now go win this bitch!"

When Your Mom Learns to Text

Isn't it amazing how certain things come full circle?
Back in the early 80s, my younger brother and I would sometimes be home alone while our mother was working as a nurse at the local clinic. She always gave us the same instructions: "Only call me in an emergency."
Right.
We had that number memorized within a hot minute and would call her up in record speed, on a rotary, the second either one of us pissed each other off. Which happened often, since one of our games was called War, and the sole purpose was to inflict the most amount of damage on each other.
She would answer as soon as we paged her and all she would hear would be this gurgling statement, "He is KILLING.ME. Mom!!!"
And I'm sure she'd tilt her permed head down, close her eyes, and sigh. I can't believe she didn't come home and throttle us both, because we sure deserved it. And every day it would be rinse and repeat.
Fast forward a few decades.
Now it's me at work, sitting at my desk. A big part of my job is answering the phones and talking to clients. And I've had to tell my mom eerily familiar instructions: "Mom, only call me during the day if it's an emergency." She's retired now, so maybe our versions of emergencies are different. Don't get me wrong, I love my mom...but we will admittedly drive each other nuts some times. That's the soul of the mother-daughter dynamic.
One of her last "emergencies" was declared after I answered my cell phone hurriedly at work one day. "Hey Mom, what's up?"
"Well, I'm at Kohls..."
The funny thing is, almost all of my friends can share the exact same story about their moms. It truly comes full circle. But in this case, once the vein in my forehead stopped throbbing, I immediately texted my dad. "You need to teach Mom to text. Like ASAP. Thx."
Shortly thereafter my mother learned to text. And it was a glorious thing. My next suggestion to her was to text me when at all possible, rather than call. Mainly because my house is like a bunker and it's hard to get reception.
"But I like to hear your voice," she said. Ok, I get it. I like to hear her voice too sometimes.
My next strong/fierce suggestion to them was to call before they just randomly showed up at my new house. And in full disclosure, my parents were almost always stopping by to do something generous and wonderful - like installing a microwave or dropping off banana bread.
But one time my dad showed up on a Saturday morning and I had to have a come-to-Jesus with my mom.
"Mom, you guys cannot just show up. Especially on weekends. What if I had a dude over who had spent the night?"
My mom looked at me hopefully, "Do you?"
"Well, no. But I could. And it is certainly not going to help my dating life if I have to worry about my dad having to introduce himself to some guy in the hallway."
Message received. As of today, I'd say their compliance rate is a strong 90%.
AND my mom has become a pretty efficient texter, too. She even handled herself remarkably well when one of my good friends, let's call her Sylvia, somehow - inadvertently - mistakenly texted my mother instead of me. How Sylvia had my mother's cell phone number, we will never know. But Sylvia ended up texting my mom (thinking it was me) about her recent frustrations with online dating. "Seriously, all they want to do is fool around and eat your ass. Doesn't anyone buy a girl dinner anymore???" Trust me, the three of us have been laughing about that for MONTHS. Truly though, I think part of my mom's innocence was forever crushed that day she received the accidental text.
Things have really changed with texting the last few years. You can basically have full-blown conversations with minimal words and lots of emojis. And emojis will run the gamut, too. It's no longer just a couple versions of the smiley face. Now you can use the eggplant emoji when you're describing, um, a man's genitals. And you use the kitty cat when you're describing the woman's um, "kitty cat." Sexting with emojis...how cute.
I'm not sure if my mom knows all of that yet. She just started using the coffee cup emoji correctly when she tells me to come over.
She's been working a lot outside this summer. What if, god forbid, she sends me a text: "Ur dad and I are going 2 work in the garden. I hope he shows me his (eggplant emoji)."
If that happens, I think I'll tell her to skip the texting and just call me from now on.
I promise I'll pick up the phone.
Every. Single. Time.

Humility and High Blood Pressure...Courtesy of your Teen Daughters

"What the daughter does, the mother did." ~ Jewish proverb

Could that possibly be true? That saying, that proverb?
"What the daughter does, the mother did."
If it is true, then I need to fall on the ground and immediately offer my deepest apologies to my own mother for my teen years.
I feel like it is probably true, you know, especially because it's attributed to being not just any old proverb, but a Jewish proverb. That instantly lends credence to it, don't you think? Much more than if I were to spout something off that I thought was wise. It would just be followed by "German Lutheran proverb" and I don't think it carries as much weight. Unless it's something my Grandma Tillie says, and I always listen to her words of wisdom because that shit is usually SPOT ON.
Anyway, back to my teen daughters...
Right now, I have three of them.
Let that sink in - Three. Teen. Daughters.
Three onsets of puberty. Three sets of drama. Three sets of attitude.
When they were little I would dress them in coordinated Easter dresses and have a professional photographer take adorable photos with real bunnies. My family and friends would ooh and ahh over the photos, then shake their heads knowingly and say, "They're sweet now. Give 'em another 10-12 years."
I secretly thought that this was said by people who didn't know any better. At the very least, they didn't know ME. They didn't know I would parent with a stern but loving hand and my daughters would always look to me for guidance and advice.
Jesus, I must have been totally high.
I had no idea that not only would they openly laugh at helpful suggestions I gave, they would actually perfect their own teenage response to me: Snarl and scoff, followed by an immediate eye roll. This move has been made so efficient it's usually completed in less than a second. And for good measure, sometimes they throw in an extra treat. It's called Mocking. And they love to do it when it's two or three against one (me).
Whatever, I quit worrying what 13 year old girls thought of me once I turned 14.
But as a parent, sometimes their words have the ability to not only humble me, but make my blood pressure skyrocket.
For instance, a few weeks ago I took two of my teen daughters out of town on a weekend away. I was actually driving my 16 year old to spend time with her long distance boyfriend. Pretty cool of me, right? I would think that would earn me some points.
Before we left, I asked what I should pick up from the store.
"Tampons," one replied. "Right," the other one agreed. "And get the slender or regular sized ones for us. We don't have super sized big vaginas like you do."
At that, they both started laughing and my left eye started twitching uncontrollably.
"Oh yeah?" I replied. "Just wait until you have four kids and we'll see what size you need then. And for the last time, it's about absorbency, and NOT the size of your hoo-ha."
"Ok, whatever Mom."
I felt myself getting sucked into a high school argument. "And just so you know, I had a surgery after your brother was born because he was 10 pounds and now it's like brand new down there."
"Ack! Quit talking about your vagina."
"Whatever, you little shits brought it up."
So you see how easy it is to get humbled and mortified by these amazingly beautiful creatures? The same girls who have no problem taking videos on the sly of me dancing or yelling and then sending them out via Snapchat (all to hilarious responses from their friends), are the same sweet and loving creatures I will occasionally get a glimpse of. They'll ask me to play with their hair or they'll lay their head in my lap. Sometimes they're quiet, sometimes they're talkative. Sometimes they show their vulnerability and their fears. Sometimes they ask me questions or confide things to me. Sometimes they just want to hear what I have to say about my thoughts about the scary things going on in the world.
The bombings.
The plight of all those refugees.
The unknown future.
Sometimes I just look at them and am rendered speechless by how beautiful they are, how funny and witty and generous with others they are (just not always with me).
I know I can be witty and sarcastic and when I'm on a roll...I can be pretty damn funny sometimes. I should be happy and proud that I'm raising teen daughters who have no problem saying what's on their minds. This is what we want, right?
"What the daughter does, the mother did."
At this point I should just be eternally grateful they haven't followed my footsteps and thrown such incredibly big high school parties when my parents were gone that I STILL can't believe we didn't all end up in jail.
Sorry, Mom.
And to my daughters with no filters and no fear of offending me, you're lucky me and my super big vagina are so forgiving.