Plus, My Tween Doesn't Give A F*ck About Fashion And I'm So Glad
I only get 18 years of fingerprints, and crayon marks, and dirty clothes, and milky counters, and smashed blueberries, and messy baths, and strange smells, and glue covered tables. Then, when peace settles on our home as our last child steps out the door, I know I will desperately yearn for that dirty house once more. I’d easily trade my dream Fixer Upper house for another 18 years with my children … maybe. For the signs of their life, of their exploration, of their growth, of their happiness … my happiness. | |  | As soon as I was old enough to understand the word “pedophile,” I knew my grandfather was one. | | |  | She’s less quirky, but my kid still doesn’t give a fuck about her fashion or overall looks and I’m thrilled. | | | |  | I was—emphasis on “was”—that parent who didn’t understand why other parents would complain about picky eaters. | | |  | Plotting tasks across a timeline has always come naturally to me, so when I had a son for whom it didn’t come naturally at all, it boggled my mind. | | | "Fuck Apple and its constant coming out with new iphones." | | Subscribe to our YouTube channel for new Scary Mommy videos every week! | | View this email in your browser
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