Ahem. Behold, Bonnie's guide to surviving single parenthood:
1 - Recognize sugared cereal as a legitimate food group.
2 - Take long bathroom breaks. As far as my kids know, it takes me a minimum of fifteen minutes to pee.
3 - No nonsense at quiet time or bed time. If you stick your sweet little face out of your door once you're supposed to be in your room, I will tell Santa Claus that we don't believe in Christmas.
That's right, I said it. I will destroy Christmas. Bwahahahahahaha!
Whew, sorry. I think it's the effect of the straitjacket...That's right, I said it. I will destroy Christmas. Bwahahahahahaha!
Mostly I survive because there aren't a lot of other options. (Option one: survive. Option two: Die. Um, door number one, please).
And besides, like I have it so hard? My ancestors would be like, "Oh, your husband works 16 hours a day and can't help you with the kids? You poor baby. I'll be crying for you when I'm dragging my starving family across the plains and amputating my frozen toes."
Seriously, our lives are soooo comfortable. We go from heated house to heated car, we have machines to wash our dishes and laundry, we don't ever have to chop any heads off of chickens or rip out their insides, our toilets are indoors and flushable and we have things like contact lenses and ibuprofen and antibiotics and tampons.
I guess what I'm saying is that I really can't complain. Mostly because if I do, when I get to the other side, Mary Fielding Smith is going to whack me in the face with a baseball bat.
But hopefully we could at least chat after that.
I could use some adult conversation.
And besides, like I have it so hard? My ancestors would be like, "Oh, your husband works 16 hours a day and can't help you with the kids? You poor baby. I'll be crying for you when I'm dragging my starving family across the plains and amputating my frozen toes."
Seriously, our lives are soooo comfortable. We go from heated house to heated car, we have machines to wash our dishes and laundry, we don't ever have to chop any heads off of chickens or rip out their insides, our toilets are indoors and flushable and we have things like contact lenses and ibuprofen and antibiotics and tampons.
I guess what I'm saying is that I really can't complain. Mostly because if I do, when I get to the other side, Mary Fielding Smith is going to whack me in the face with a baseball bat.
But hopefully we could at least chat after that.
I could use some adult conversation.
1 comment:
Ha ha ha! So true!
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