Mothership Meditation.


Trying to find my zen, harness the chi, summon the wine gods to make it rain a nice, dry white, in & around my mouth.
This week has ripped me a new asshole.
The last week of the school term always does. It feels even more hardcore when I’m flying solo. Hence 0 sign of me & my thoughts. Surviving was the #1 goal. 

We made it. Just.
Everyone is tired. Patience is at an all time low. Along with all fucks given. Throw in a fortnight of school swimming lessons & the level of bullshit goes up 17 notches.
I’m pretty sure the boys were tag teaming each other to forget their swimming gear this week. Their teamwork skills are always strongest when it’s my sanity at stake. I received 3 phone calls from the school to let me know they were upset in the office because they didn’t have their stuff.
Little fuckers!

I bought the shit, washed the shit, organised the shit, named the shit, folded the shit, packed the shit, reminded them not to forget the shit.

Reminded them again not to forget the shit.
They forgot their shit. Of course.
It made it to the car & no further. By the 3rd consecutive phone call from school, I refused to drop their stuff off. Let them sit out as a consequence. I could feel the judgement. I hoped she could feel the lack of fucks I gave in return.

This is the circle of my life as a Mother.
I organise them,
They don’t listen to me,

I ask them to listen to me,

They don’t listen to me,

They forget their shit,

I lose my shit.

And as a result, outsiders question my parenting.

Like I said, little fuckers.
The only other thing I could of done to help prepare them more was ram it up their backsides with a note on their foreheads.
“Pull string hanging from anus, to locate swimming essentials.”

Yeah, I’m raising giant babies. And I’m not helping their future wives who will one day live with said giant babies. When they were adorable little boys who let me cuddle them without having to sell my soul, I would always say, in my ‘ignorant-know-it-all-but-actually-have-no-idea tone’, “I want to send my boys out into the world, ready to be good men & husbands”.
And I still do, very much so. I feel it’s my responsibility.

But right now I’m in survival mode. Especially when they don’t meet me halfway. Not even a quarter of the way. They can be their wives problem come that time. Like the Fathership was for me. Because really, are there any men out there who don’t have a hint of giant baby in them?

I’ll give my future daughter in law a sympathetic smile, wish her luck & pester her for grandchildren.
Then I’ll fly to Greece & drown in cocktails.

And very possibly miss these days.
But very possibly not too! Not every part of it anyway. 0.

Mid breakdown, also known as mid week, I caught the boys talking about sex on the trampoline. It was all very innocent & there was 0 knowledge or substance to their talk, but it was daunting. Suddenly the forgotten swimwear didn’t feel as bad. I asked them if they knew what sex meant & they told me “It’s when a boy & a girl hold hands”. Half of me wanted to say “Fuck yes it is my boys, you are correct!” high five them & then continue my day dodging bullets. The other half of me started to panic wondering where the fuck they are getting their information from. Or lack of information. I spend my days avoiding all things sex, so while their extensive education on swear words may come from me, the sex talk certainly doesn’t.
I knew this one was on me.
Fuck.

The pressure was real.

And dealing with pressure is not one of my stronger points. My talents lie more in the area of binge drinking, taking over dance floors & forgetting to take my contraception.
Usually in that order too.
I needed guidance. So I contacted my mentor. My wealth of knowledge. My go-to.
Google. We go way back.
It pointed me in the direction of the book store. Straight to the anatomy section. I flicked through the books feeling like I was going to be swallowed by a huge undiscovered sex cult that lives in the dirty corner of the bookstore. Similar to the dirty mag stand at petrol stations. A one way ticket to the land of dicks. My worst nightmare.
While experiencing these irrational fears, I questioned my own knowledge. All I really know is that after a bottle of wine I like to engage in the reverse cowgirl & then I can’t look the Fathership in the eyes the next day. The shame!
I sat the boys down that afternoon. I felt so nervous. And we read our new book.
“Who has what? The difference between girls bodies & boys bodies”

This will go down as one of the real Motherhood moments I will recall perfectly, purely for its awkwardness.

All was going well, & then we got to page 2.
The scrotum page.
Straight away I regretted doing this without the Fathership to back me up. Especially considering I don’t have a scrotum. I have lady balls, but they are different. They are concealed & only come out when shit gets real. Scrotums are a full time companion for men. And judging by the 3 males I live with, its also a full time toy.
So unfortunately/fortunately, we were unable to continue past page 2, because now instead of talking about sex, they are obsessed with the word scrotum. I would love a dollar for every time I’ve heard that word since Wednesday. I certainly wouldn’t be drinking my $7 SSB. We will readdress this when the biggest scrotum in the family returns home from work on Wednesday.
And finally, I must address the white dot in between my eyes.
I have started my own religion. A religion of kindness. A religion of no judgement. A religion of drinking wine instead of water. A religion where toddlers don’t scream at us for helping them put their shoes on properly. A religion where its ok to wear ugg boots & tights to the shop & not get looked at like you’re homeless with a protruding camel toe.
A religion of giving absolutely no fucks.

I also have a giant pimple growing, thanks to the hormonal pimple party that took a road trip North after spending a few days South, & my old mate Google told me to put toothpaste on it. Apparently that kills it. But I feel like it might actually be feeding it. I’m lucky like that.

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