On today’s episode of Dubious Compliments from Stumps

“Mommy your face looks like a sandwich ’cause it has moles all over it.”

I assume she is referring to my sun damage age spots large pores freckles.

Um. What types of sandwiches have they been feeding my children at daycare?

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In unrelated news, I am pleased to discover that Stumps and Beans are quite creative and am veritably bursting with copious amounts of understandable mommy pride.

For example, just today Beanie repurposed a pair of toenail clippers into a shank.

“No Beanie. Stop Beans. STOP!!! Mommy she got the clippers! Mommyyyy she is trying to clip meeee!!!”

It is worth mentioning that they are both sick so I am home from work and we are quarantined to the house. Only 170 more minutes until Husband comes home. Not that I am counting. Or completely disgusted from doing many hours of post-puke laundry. Or entirely out of BRAT diet ingredients, Florastor, and Pedialyte.

Or going stir crazy and slowly rapidly losing my grip.

I would be a really shitty SAHM.

Much, much respect ladies (and the occasional gent). I don’t know how you do it.

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Unfortunately I can’t unremember any of this

One of my children has been throwing up all afternoon and the other has a 102 degree fever. Pretty certain the one who has thus far not started vomiting just has not started yet.

Alarmingly, cleaning up multiple episodes of The Pukes off of all of our belongings is only the second most disturbing reality of my Monday evening.

Having one of my children ask to have her “bottom temperature” taken (repeatedly) this evening unquestionably topped the list.

What. The. Hell. Kid.

Demulletting

The only thing Beanie hates more than boundaries enforced by her loved ones to ensure her well-being is having her picture taken.

Which is why I had to snap pictures of her fresh shearing and deshagging while she  stuffed her face.

I give you a sweet bob on a sweet rotten baby:

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Regarding the crap mountain situation that may or may not be occurring on my sofa in the background of these shots:

1) Pretty certain there is a note in the Bible about being sin-free to cast stones at hoarderific suburban glass houses. Or something. Judgy McJudgerpants, God totally disapproves of your judging and critical ways.

1) I posted the majority of the pictures in sepia so I maintain that Crap Mountain is cleverly camoflaged and almost completely invisible. What pile of not-yet-folded laundry, cast-off-outerwear, and shit my children dragged home from daycare? I have no idea what you are talking about.

comedy

“Toilet head. Toilet head! Bottom privates pooping peepee toilet head!! Bahahhaaha!! Mommy isn’t that funny?? Bahahahaha!!”

Questioning whether I should humor Stumps’ terrible sense of humor in favor of preserving her developing four-year-old self-esteem and say yes. Perhaps force myself to laugh.

She thinks she’s hilarious. I’m at a loss.

I’m on it

Let’s be honest.

I think we all know that I am the last mom to, say, create a from-scratch leprechaun trap, have a leprechaun hunt, and dye the water in the toilet bowl green.

After I microwave a dinner out of a can, I may or may not have a history of bragging to Husband about how I lovingly toiled to prepare the family meal.

Nevertheless, let us state for the record that today is March 27, a full three days before Easter, and this year…

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the Easter bunny has got her shit together.

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In 1776 when our founding fathers declared our independence by stating “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men (and I would venture to add, “women”) are created equal…” I think they were onto something.

While I myself am probably not Christian, I have a young daughter who most certainly is. Whether I buy into it all 100% or not, this post from Momastery represents everything that I could not myself properly articulate, but truly and sincerely agree with and believe.

If it were mandatory to take a class before becoming a parent (and in a perfect world, it probably would be), and I were the instructor (let’s pretend for a moment that I would be anything other than laughably unqualified to teach such a class), Glennon’s hypothetical letter to her son would be required reading.