Eating Cake Alone

Life: I can have it all. But it will probably kill me.

Dear Perfect Parents on Your FaceBook Feed:


Thank you for reminding all the rest of us about how much more vigilant/cautious/perfect you are than the rest of us. As we toss our young children into alligator-infested waters, and leave them baking in car with their little faces squished up against the windows…we can always rely on you to chime in during times of great sadness, to remind us that everyone else is terrible, absentminded, selfish- and that you have just made glow-in the-dark homemade playdough- you Pinterest queen. Because all of us aren’t trying hard enough or loving hard enough…and you never feel mommy guilt, make mistakes, or go to bed crying wondering if you’re a good parent. May all of our children be gluten-free. In your name. Amen- Love, Shitty Mom.


Tomorrow, while the rest of you parents ready your little fruit-snack infused toddlers for school, I will be plotting to punch a child. While you usher your children off in their 12-point harness car-seats to enjoy a day full of self-discovery and exploration- I will be getting ready to fight a preschooler. Don’t try and talk me out of it.

You’d hate her.

First, I’m aware that as a grown-ass woman I shouldn’t fight a child. That being said,  I don’t need lessons from people who decided  that “Time-Outs” and gluten hurt our children- you’re the reason this kid is a dick. We’ve replaced “time-outs” with “re-direction”,  and now no one has any idea what’s acceptable children’s behavior, and who are the future serial killers torturing rabbits in the schoolyard.

Time-Outs help our kids learn that when they do something inappropriate, we remove them from the situation and deliver a consequence so they can think about making better choices. SOMEWHERE along the way, telling your douchebag kid that biting another child wasn’t the ‘part of the curriculum”, so we now “re-direct.”

Redirection looks like this, for those of your fortunate enough to have adult lives and not know what this all means:

The teacher pries open the feral clenched jaws of one kid clamped onto another one,  then points the psychopath to look at some pretty colors on the wall instead. That’s your fucking plan? “Hey, Frank, instead of shoving Billy down the hill, I bet you would excel at puzzles.” What about the kid still rolling down the hill? What about his desire to redirect his fucking head trauma? Well, because of the people that have done this, my hands are tied- I have to fight someone’s kid tomorrow.

I’ve never hit my kids, I haven’t spanked them. Yes, I’m fucking proud of that.  Have you MET children?

Yet suddenly, I’m ready to throat punch “re-direct” another little kid. She’s not any kid. She’s a bully, and I’ve heard of her antics for weeks. Today during snack time, she crossed the line. She told my kid she was going to kill her mother. Me. Over goldfish crackers and juice, this disgusting serpent of a child, decided she was going to kill me.

I’m fucking ready for you, Elizabeth. Enjoy those goldfish while you can.

Although your REAL name is less regal and more “Walmart”, I’ve decided to change it for the purposes of this blog. Not because I should protect your identity because you’re a minor. Or because you are one of Gods precious, perfect little creations. I’m using a fake name for you because when I knock you on your ass tomorrow, I want the element of surprise.

Clearly, I can take you. I’m faster and taller, and can operate heavy machinery. Tell you what, you can even bring your little entourage of glitter-shoed followers, for support.

I’m ready for you, Elizabeth. And I will revel in the irony of the positive message on the ‘My Little Pony’ back-bag you’ll be dangling upside-down from. Because guess what, Elizabeth, Friendship is not fucking magic.

**Update: Following this post, I was “re-directed” by my husband. He used wine. I won’t be fighting anyone’s child. I will however be drinking more often.



My precious golden-hair bundle of cuteness proclaimed tonight, without any formal warning, that she is now fucking nocturnal. Time after time, she called frantically to be saved from her padded, sheep-themed torture-box of a crib.

Picture me- Patient, loving- the type of mystical fucking softness that only a mother can conjure. I’m like the mother on a tylenol commercial, touching her face gently, pushing her blond curls aside. Does she have a fever? Maybe she’s thirsty? I held my writhing, kicking child thoughtfully and sang to her with vacant eyes as she bit holes into my arm.

CUE TO FIVE FUCKING HOURS LATER. She’s not sick. She’s just an asshole.

Don’t think a 22 month old can be an asshole? In the TWO seconds I walked away to play “Friendship Is Fucking Magic My Little Ponies” for the 32 time tonight,  she was gone. I found her wrapped up in a toilet mat, eating an entire JAR of rainbow sprinkles.

Did I mention this is not my house?  These are not my sprinkles. That is someone elses toilet mat. The entire tube of fuschia lipstick she ate, was also not mine. Fortunately, I can color match for a replacement for my friend, as my child used it to make her sofa and eggshell walls “pretty”. Fuck this, it’s not pretty, and you know it. Panic begins to set in when I realize in horror, she may have not actually eaten the entire tube of lipstick- leaving me wondering in horror where the rest could be. What if it’s under a rug somewhere… or melting in my friends laptop? My friends were kind (read: stupid) enough to let us sleepover tonight, and my beautiful child looks like this and smells faintly of urine.


Photo on 1-6-18 at 7.28 AM #2

That’s it. I’ve achieved all greatness today. I woke up with an extra “pep” in my step, I even put on a “sporty” pink zip-up. I’m officially a soccer mom, and I’m officially in the mom club. Now everyone around me knows I’m capable of elbowing people out of the way at Dicks. I probably get places on time, wear panties and a bra that match and make muffins and shit. Unrelated, but a plus I think- I gained ten pounds this month. Just to add to the overall feeling of losing myself to mediocracy.  I wore that sports jacket thing and looked at myself in the mirror and announced: “I am the kind of person that remembers not to send peanut products to school. I am now a mother whose kids always often wear shoes.”I will make friends and have clothing swap parties. I will find a gay best friend. He will do my hair. All of my posts on the Loudoun Real Housewives page will have ‘likes’. All of them.”

You know what. It’s FUCKING BULLSHIT. I’m exactly the same, except I have a kid that runs around with a cone on her head and crying that someone took her ball. Being a soccer mom is just another opportunity to showcase my parental incompetence- in an open field where I can’t hide my child behind a tree to pee because we forgot. I look at all the mothers with lawn chairs with cup holders and beverages. Are those…caps? I haven’t seen a cap to a travel mug in 4 years.  I was the mother of the younger child running barefoot in the field, peeling off her clothes. I was rolling around in grass with no fancy chair. I decided then and there- if I can’t be the put together mom, even now- I’m going to be myself.

I screamed YELLOW CARD at a child that ran with the ball in his hands. “But Diana, he’s three”-HE’S A DICK and he should know it. I argued with a toddler that it was Football, and not soccer. I yelled at my child in Romanian to kick it as hard as she can and :”aim for his head!” Freya shouted out loud at some point, “Which one is my ball?” And you could hear my voice screaming from across the field, “THEY ARE ALL YOUR BALLS. ALL OF THEM.”




Diana Veseth-Nelson

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Eating Cake Alone

Life: I can have it all. But it will probably kill me.


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