Eating Cake Alone

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

Dear Perfect Parents on Your FaceBook Feed:

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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.

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.”

Gooooal.

 

First of all, fuck you Disney. We should have collectively stopped you at Snow White. We all saw what was happening. And we are all responsible for allowing this bullshit to continue.

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“I.Can.Only.Turn.Left.”

 

The first second we saw her meet Prince Charming and run around in circles swatting birds instead of going into her house- We should have collectively pushed that whiny, brain dead princess into the wishing well. But we didn’t. You loved her, and despite she’s only “medium pretty” you kept buying your kids her shit. I’ll tell you a secret: NO ONE WANTS TO BE HER.

These are the only BADASS exceptions to the Disney farce.

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“So many… of the feelings.”

Mulan: (Badass)

for example. She didn’t run away so she could seduce a man by brushing her hair with a fork. She went to war  not ONLY challenged typical gender norms, but she made Shang question his own sexuality

Brave…?:

Not this adorable and lovable (mother hating bitch) from Brave. MRSA or Sars or whatever her name was, challenged nothing except the flat ironing industry.

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This bitch.

“Finally. A female lead WITH CURLY HAIR. Feminists unite.”

Enter Elsa and Anna. First, I have two daughters, so don’t get me wrong. I have been just as delighted as the people rediscovering intimacy in monistat commercials, frolicking freely in the waves, holding hands, laughing with perfectly white teeth. FINALLY. We get to see two women bond together and pick each other over a guy they literally JUST met. I’ve painted freckles on my daughter and stared into her eyes while singing tearfully about building snowmen.

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“Get behind me, bitch.”

I’ve braided my hair, and every who will stand still for two minutes hair, into that amazing Pinterest fish-tail thing she’s got going on. That being said:

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Fuck this guy. So hard.

In the true story of the Ice Queen, Elsa is a HORRIBLE, vicious sub-zero queen that embodies the essence of cruelty and pure evil. I know this because this was my mothers nickname for me as a child, “the Ice Queen.” You know, the one that was frozen, impenetrable soul. She made Malicifient look like a Goddard school daycare teacher. Disney whisks up Elsa and Anna, with the main ingredient being seizure inducing sparkles. And some flaccid story about some chilly bitch who can’t figure out how to harness the power of making frozen freaking margarittas (or wear gloves appropriately). It was incredible, and terrifying all at one. Little humans everywhere started frolicking in the streets, pulling their hair-ties out in defiance and transforming into a complete and total drama queen in a Lisa Frank designed castle. the child version of the book. Meanwhile, her freckled, delusional younger sister needs someone to sit her down and read her “He’s Just Not that Into You.” You’re a mother fucking princess, I don’t care if you haven’t seen plates or humans in a decade.

 

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This is the equivalent of cocaine for children.

The moral of Elsa’s story is now- treat yo’ self- get that ice cube penthouse and live there in an amazing dress. THAT NO ONE WILL SEE. WHY ARE YOU ALL GLAMMED UP ELSA? You were borderline Amish before when people gave a shit about you, knocking on your door, asking you to feed them. Feed your sister, Elsa. Feed her.

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Do you want to make me a sandwich? Or maybe go to the store. My parents are dead, I’m starving and can’t eat the curtains anymore. (nailed it) 

Disney is the worst. And yet I’m still looking for the perfect wave to splash behind me.

 

 

 

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Mine is obviously the elaborate castle. The bottom is GARBAGE.

My castle is clearly better. Look at the pathetic attempt beneath my clearly superior piece. Stop crying, I told them. WHAT DO THEY KNOW ABOUT SACRIFICE? I kneeled on acorns until my knees bleed. I bent little fingers, pulled them off chalk one by one, to secure the last green piece. I’M STRONGER. AND I WANT IT MORE. I spent an hour creating important elaborate details- throwing curious and excited toddlers out of my way. Screaming at them to do their own castles. They wanted to add a giraffe on the top of the castle for Gods sakes. A GIRAFFE. There are no giraffes here. I told them they were all dead to me. Go collect leaves or something if you can’t cut it in this chalk game. Not everyone is a winner. Maybe that will teach them to compete with me.

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Eating Cake Alone

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

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