They say it’s the little things in life that count… which naturally got me thinking of the Women’s March! You know… THAT little thing? That little thing that was the biggest protest in US history? That little thing was awesome. And it was necessary. And it was time!
As I watched with giddy exitement as this historic event unfolded, something kept nagging at me. It was like Dèja Vu. It all seemed so familiar, but I couldn’t quite put a finger on what. That is until dinner time that same night…
You see, dinner time with my 3 Beasts is like involuntarily being thrown into a MMA cage fight. Because toddlers are little tyrannical dictators… or, as I like to call them, Dictoddlers. They have a false sense of entitlement and no ethical morals. They lack the ability to differentiate between reality and Lala fucking Land. They govern without consequence or fear. They are ruthless, but at the same time a donkey could outsmart them. Sound like *cough* someone else who’s recently… Oh, I don’t know… become President?
If you think about it, these little unstable 2-foot DicToddlers have been marching all over us since Adam and Eve. For centuries, we strong-ass, nasty mothers have been silently protesting against these little shits in hopes of regaining our sanity, our basic human rights, and our ability to have a SOLO shower from time to time.
Everyday I mentally march against my DicToddlers. But the Women’s March gave me the courage and motivation to act. I’m ready! I’ve made up my Mommy Madness March signs. As of tomorrow, I’m gonna hike up my maternity leggings, throw on a vomit-free sweater, and I’m gonna march around my goddamn house chanting ” Keep Your Tiny Hands Off My Junk!”
As your mother, I just want to pee… ALONE! And I want to walk without a screaming parasite attached to my leg. I want to go a day without being asked why “Mommy’s arms flap like a flag”, or if “Mommy really IS Santa Claus” (as you gently stroke my stomach).
My kids have a comprehensive health care plan of their own. It’s called the Mommy Mommy Mommy Vomit Plan. And it ensures they get sick… anytime… anywhere… all the time… all 3 at the same time. And the only guaranteeing provision is when, in turn, Mommy suffers from their cold, flu and plague, none of them will give a shit.
To be quite fair, these DicToddlers do not throw shade when it comes to race, religion or sexual orientation. ‘Cause really, they don’t give a rats’ ass if you are white, black, green or blue… gay, bi, Trans, straight, crooked or zigzag’ed… Catholic, Jewish, Muslim, circumcised, not circumcised, pierced, tattooed, inked, Crayola’ed or Sharpie’ed… They will come for you! They will sniff you out. They will find you. And they will suffocate you with their irrational demands. They will spit their venom at you. They will squeeze the life out of you, slooowly and with great pleasure. There are no prejudices when it comes to toddlers. They are very accepting of us all… until they turn on you. Hail hath no fury like a scorned toddler! To a toddler, we are one…we are ALL victims!
But at the end of the day there are two fundamental difference between my Mommy Madness March and the Women’s March that we just witnessed. One, as much as Trump himself behaves like a toddler, real toddlers… our toddlers… have hearts of gold. They ooze out innocence and genuine love. So really, there is no comparison. Secondly, and more importantly, this post was written with good-intentioned humour. I would never want to diminish the power of what took place on Jan 21st.
So, is it the little things in life that matter? ‘Cause sometimes it’s the little things in life that make me think of Trump’s penis… Oops, I meant Pence. All of whom are lacking in the “mighty” department. Toddlers are little, but they are mighty. The Women’s March… THAT little thing?!? It too was mighty. Because sometimes it’s about taking a mighty stand to make change. Whether it’s a parent to a child, a woman to a man, or a nation to a leader. We all need to unite and stay strong in the face of adversity, be it a DicToddler or otherwise. And THAT, my Whinos, ain’t no “alternative fact”.