What started off as a regular Saturday night in our house, didn’t last long. It never does…

The kids were happy doing what they do, destroying whatever it is they can… so my house and my soul. I was barefoot and braless, slaving hard over a mean pot of KD. And Big J was apparently busy tripping over a hose in the garage and managed to fall on a shovel. Blade side up. Off with his finger! And that was when our regular night turned into a fucktard kind o’ night.

I didn’t hear him fall. There was no loud thud. I just heard a soft plea from the laundry room, “Hon’, can you come here”. Now normally I would ignore such a needy “husband’ish” request, especially when I’m slavin’ hard to feed my ole’ family. But there was something “off” in his voice.

So I went to the laundry room. And that’s when I entered the scene of the crime. It was as if someone had been murdered. Blood was everywhere. And not just on the floor; it was spraying like those circular lawn sprinklers. On a side note, I had done about six loads of laundry that day. Whites. Blood spraying. Everywhere. Whites. Just sayin’.

He needed something to stop the bleeding. So I grabbed the closest thing. And all of a sudden, I was faced with a Sophie’s Choice Linen Vs. Husband moment… ‘Cause the first thing I grabbed happened to be my white LuLu sweater. I paused. Blood spraying, still. But I just couldn’t hand it over to him. I know, I know… I’m a horrible wife. My eyes flashed from the spraying blood to my sweater… blood to sweater… blood to sweater… I assessed the situation and concluded it was not a life or death situation. We wasn’t getting my LuLu. Period. I did however managed to eventually find a towel… a white one, no less.

Next up. Go back to the first paragraph for a quick sec’. Notice I am braless? There are 4 things in life you can count on… Taxes, death, and that I won’t leave my house without my eyebrows painted on, and I most defintely will not ever leave the house with my Girls on the loose. Not even for my bleeding, fingerless husband. I know… I’m now in the 7th circle of hell, right? Anyways, panic set in. I cannot… WILL not… go into the hospital braless. Not gonna’ happen. And as Murphy’s Law would have it, I couldn’t find one f-ing bra. SIX loads of clean now bloody laundry, and not one bra to be found. And it’s not like my bras are little hot sexy things either, they take up half the real estate in this house for f’s sake.  So I had to go all Ninja Mom and inconspicuous run my white ass upstairs to get one, and then slip that boulder-holder on, unnoticed. Fortunately I had my eyebrows on, faded but on.

And lastly, the kids. The friggin’ overtired kids who are happily destroying my house. The friggin’ overtired kids who are happily destroying my house WHILE NAKED…! When you have an emergency hospital run ahead of you and time is of the essence, and you turn and realize you happen to have three children who can’t wipe their own asses, let alone put their shoes on… a tidal wave of fear sets in. Tread lightly, my friends… ’cause one wrong move and you’ve got 3 pissed of toddlers to contend with. And let me tell you, even Mr Arnold Schwarzenegger got nothin’ on a pissed off toddler. But this Ninja Mom has been ’round the block a few times, yo’. I put a turbo engine up ma’ ass, and got ’em diapered and dressed in a proud nanosecond.

Next hurdle is getting them into the car. My children tend to disburse like feral squirrels once they’ve broken free from the house. On the daily, I feel like I deserve a Nobel Peace Prize when I successfully load those Fuckers into the car for school runs. So I gave them the “I need you guys to be big boys and listen to everything mommy says” talk. Which is usually about as effective as a condom with a hole in it.

Somehow… and I don’t know how… but within 4 minutes, our friggin’ overtired destructive naked Family of Five was in the minivan en route to the hospital to save Daddy’s sacred middle finger.

The moral of this post is not to remind you to put your snow shovels away come June. And it’s not to remind you that noone needs to see your triple-fed boobs without a bra on. And it’s not to advise you to dress your children for dinnertime. It’s also not to discourage you from doing too many loads of laundry in one day. It is not to make you question your loyalty towards your husband and your Lulu sweater (no one should ever be put in that position!).  Nor is it to suggest that maybe karma is paying you a visit for trying to serve KD to your kids. Oh no… none of the above. The moral of this post, my friends, is that I now have scientific proof that kids have the cognitive and physical ability to get dressed, and out of the house, and into the car in less than 3.12 hours, with 1,021 reminders, and 3,234 new grey Mom hairs (in all bodily regions). OH YES THEY CAN!

And so Moms… we need to rise up. Just like Big J’s middle finger, which has now been stitched back on, and will no doubt be prominently on display behind my back in no time. We need to rise up to our little Beasts, and get their cute little asses out the door in record time, with maybe a little middle finger giving of our own behind their bloody adorable backsides.

Cheers, Red Whino

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