I never imagined myself as
such a mom. Like a real mom. Like a mom mom. Living in a house. In the burbs. Driving
a minivan. Seriously, my whole existence at the moment is all for the kids. Or
the three little assholes as I affectionately refer to them. It’s a term of
endearment really. My life is spent planning. Planning when to do the laundry.
What to have for dinner. Making playdates. Making lunches. Sweeping the
kitchen. Making doctor appointments. Grocery shopping. Sweeping the kitchen.
Changing diapers. Reading books. Playing with toys. Driving the kids to school.
Picking the kids up from school. Wiping boogers. Wiping the counter. Washing
dishes. And sweeping the kitchen.
It’s a far cry from my East
Village days. No doubt.
But it’s all good. I’ve kind
of embraced the whole mom thing. I figured, fuck, if I’m gonna be a total mom,
I should really BE a total mom. So yeah, I’m like the best mom ever. Ask my kids. My
sister always refers to me as a total “Mrs. Stewart” in a playful, almost
annoyed but maybe a little jealous kind of way. I made cake pops (like a little
ball of cake on a stick) and mummy juice boxes (juice boxes that look like
mummies) this year for Halloween. A Dora the Explorer lollipop tree for my
two-year-olds birthday. We’ve made home made playdoh. And many other things of
that ilk. You get the picture. It’s kind of fun sometimes. Allows me to be
creative. Bond with the little shits.
You know.
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