Netflix, I love you

The decision has been made. Between the cost of "services" going up at Time Warner and the simple fact we watch one channel in this house, cable will be cut from my list of bills.

We have something like 700 channels and we watch channel 58. All.Day.Long. Or we did until I got wise and moved the bigger TV and ROKU upstairs to the living room. Thank you, Netflix, for having things like BabyFirst and Veggie Tales at the ready. They're educational and captivating and when I need a break or don't have the patience to sit down and educate, you've been my rock. Netflix, you're like another member of the family. And since we pay so littler for you each month, I'm keeping you. You're special to me and are one of the bigger factors to the "cancel cable" decision.

But, for now, let's talk about children's television programming instead of how stoked I am to save money.

Unless it's rated TV-Y or on PBS, kid's TV makes me slightly angry.

OK, it doesn't make me angry. It gets me down right pissed off sometimes.

I'm not talking about Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and cute little shows with some educational value like Sofia the First or Little Einsteins or even Phineas and Ferb (I love those guys!). Hell, I can even handle Secret Agent Oso on repeat on Netflix. What I have a problem with are some of the shows played during the day that my kids have come to love but I am beginning to hate with passion.

A.N.T. Farm. Jessie. Dog With a Blog. Those are just a few.

20 minutes in a normal day

Parents everywhere understand that having two youngsters at home and trying to do anything productive really aren't conducive to one another. Either you're paying attention to your kids or you're paying attention to the thing that will make you feel productive. The kids are upstairs doing God knows what right now, so I wanted to share with you a snippet of a day in our house.

Lend me your ears! Show me your placentas!

Birth is sacred. It is an emotional experience unlike any other.

Breastfeeding is sacred. It is a bonding experience that goes beyond snuggling.

Placentas are amazing powerhouses that maintain a tiny little ecosystem mothers carry around inside them for 10 months. Let's forget they exist. Please, whatever you do, do not feel empowered in your birth or like this "thing" matters one bit. Let's just not talk about it.

Actually, on second thought, I want to see pictures of them. I want to hear stories of placenta encapsulation. I want to know if you had a print made with your placenta after your child was born. Lotus birth is going a little too far for me, but if you did it - more power to you.

Where am I going with all this? I guess you could say I'm jumping up on my mother freakin' soapbox - the very same one my mother would probably like me to come down off from during a majority of our conversations. I'm heated.

Am I really gonna miss this?

There are some pretty ridiculous things that get me riled up. The kids mixing Play-Doh colors, people putting ketchup on good steak ... and then the giant population of parents who forgot just how much it sucks to have at least two headstrong little people under their care. The last one is a doozy and it's been on my mind for a while. This post has been coming for weeks. This has been milling around in my brain since before I wrote this. And this one, too.

I hear way too often how much I'm going to miss it, or some version of that statement ... and honestly? Am I going to miss the screaming and fighting? The screeching for no reason? Scolding them for sitting too close to the TV? Fighting at bedtime because they don't want to sleep?

No.

Not at all.
 
In fact, I want people to stop making parents of young children believe these are things that will be missed by making overarching statements like, "It's hard right now, but one day you'll look back and really miss these moments." I'll miss it like that migraine I had in college that landed me in my bed for 24 hours, dry heaving and unable to peek out from under the covers.

It's so Pintrest (un)worthy

Yesterday was the furthest thing from what our society deems "Pintrest Worthy," despite how awesome my ham broccoli braid looked before and after it was baked.

It's like the moment my feet hit the floor the Goob had it out for me. I went to shower and get ready to go to the gym (yeah, I shower prior to getting sweated up) only to come downstairs and smell ... something. Definitely a smell from my primary school years. So familiar I could almost taste it.

Rubber cement. Only not. Vinyl patch glue. More like it.

All over her hands. On the carpet. On the kitchen floor.

I was more mad than anything because I was afraid, at first glance - she had her hands in a prayer pose - that it was super glue and it flashed through my mind that 1) I have no idea the quickest way to the hospital from here and 2) there's no way I would have gotten her safely in the carseat if her hands were glued together.

You've never seen someone have a full on conniption fit until you've witnessed a raving 31-year-old mother dealing with a glue covered child who thinks she's just "washing" her hands with some stinky soap.

If I stopped for just a moment

If I stopped what I was doing and actually listened to my children as they played

I wouldn't hear a child coloring outside the lines;

I would experience a child creating a masterpiece.

If I stopped moving around so much and actually held my child when she got frustrated

I wouldn't be angry at her lack of understanding;

I would learn that my arms are a comfort to her.

If I stopped criticizing how my children mix the Play-Doh colors

I wouldn't see a giant mess;

I would understand that life isn't black and white ... it's purple mixed with green and rolled in teal.

If I stopped being so unhappy because of my responsibilities

I wouldn't raise my voice as often,

I wouldn't scold so easily,

I wouldn't so readily wish I was one of those supposed SuperMoms

And I wouldn't give a fuck if the toys never got put away;

I would simply enjoy the ease of being a child.