It would be interesting to see if you can macrame after 7 or 8 beers, but count me out.

It's funny how Friday nights as an adult take on a whole new meaning. When you are young, you SWEAR you are gonna drink every night and party with your friends and marry the hot romantic Old Spice Commercial guy and live on a yacht while you vacation off the coast of France and buy diamonds and horses and 50 pairs of shoes and shit.

So you grow up, and yeah - you party it up a lot and eventually get married to, well, not the Old Spice Commercial guy but someone who at least uses Old Spice body wash. Okay, so maybe not Old Spice - Lever 2000. And he's just so cute you forget about buying the damn horses. The diamonds and shoes still get bought. Even though they come from Payless more often than not and those diamonds are really chips. The vacation is a weekend at friggin Dollywood - not exactly Monaco. But that shit's expensive when you're buying the house in the suburbs and paying off student loans. Still, it's all good.

Then you realize the older you get the hangovers get worse from all that partying you are still trying to accomplish. You get bored one day and decide "Gee, lets add some kids into the mix." So you 'party' again, but this time its a better party because there is just two of you and well, I digress.......

You have kids. You love them and worship them and SWEAR that you will step out in front of a Monster Truck Rally sized gaggle of rabid hilljacks before you ever let anything happen to them. But you still feel that urge to let loose from time to time, even though the hangovers are REALLY bad now and there's that 'thing' that you have to have your kid at in the morning and there is only a plate of butter and some 28 day old eggs in the fridge so you have to grocery shop with the $24.72 left in your checking account so you really can't afford the beer (diamonds and shoes ARE expensive, after all...) and the other kid has a project due but they are puking everywhere due to some violent-ass flu that he got while attending the fucking party at PukeECheese the day before and............

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!!!!!!!!

I guess my point is this: When did becoming a parent mean that you have to instantaneously surrender your sense of self?

This question popped into my head last night and haunted me for hours afterwards. My Friday now consisted of hanging out with some good friends downing a couple beers (who CARES that it was on Facebook and I was actually AT home, IN jammas, DOING THE GODDAMN LAUNDRY). We were childishly poking fun at a group of mothers who were discussing fucking coloring pages you can print off and the joys of cornstarch, water, and food coloring to create quality family time and how you can turn your goddamn rotting christmas tree into a sanctuary for springtime birds. We laughed and drank and commented on how we felt the sudden urge to macrame sex toys (Thanks SO much Cindy F. for that one...). We joked about rumbling with these bitches, West Side Story style. Martha's and Ho's.

Then I just got PISSED. Ghetto style, old fashioned pissed. Who the hell is anyone to determine how good or bad of a parent I am simply because I have a drink or two or keg and still want to wear shit from Abercrombie and act like a MILF? So I cuss sometimes. A lot. Okay, every other friggin word. I CAN turn that shit off whenever I need to - not like I go into parent teacher conferences with a 44oz in my hand and asking where the fuck the classroom is. So I have a warped and very deranged sense of humor. Does that mean I am going to burn in the depths of hell? Please tell me so I can grab my tanning lotion real quick.

If printing coloring pages and doing weird shit with corn starch and whatnot is in fact your cup of tea, more power to you. If you are happy catering completely to your family with a friggin sunshiny smile on your face while wiping their asses daily, then I am thrilled for you. If you think that not cussing or drinking is going to produce better children in the future than I can turn out, well, now you have got another thing coming.

I could simply laugh and say, "Don't Judge me!!! I WANT YOU TO LOVE ME!!!!", but I cant. Not my style. Gotta say it.

I stated once before I already won your dammned Mommy Olympics when I gave birth to twins vaginally. I also won Best In Show when I gave birth to my 9lb 11oz 'midget' with no fucking drugs. I bake cupcakes for fucking birthday parties until the sun comes up. I coached soccer. I do shit with colorguard. We have family game nights and movie nights and go hiking. We color with chalk on the driveway until you cant see the ass-tastic driveway underneath. I wake my kids up at 1:30 in the morning to drive to the middle of nowhere to watch the fuckin meteor shower, and then we have pancakes afterwards. We have cupcakes for breakfast on birthdays because its AWESOME. Ive gotten up at 3 AM to sprinkle glitter from the windowsill to my daughter's pillow so she will think the tooth fairy is real. I've nursed every flu, chicken pok, skinned knee, earache and nightmare and YES - I have gotten completely shitfaced after each trial and tribulation and STILL managed to have three children on Honor Roll who at least SEEM to be very happy, well rounded individuals. They have huge aspirations in life, want to be doctors and lawyers and shit, and my oldest refuses to have sex until she accomplishes what she wants in life FIRST. And guess what?? I did that LAST one without even stepping foot in a church. Is that GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU??

So you can take your corn starch, go have a good time, and let me have mine. Talk about me behind my back, feel good in the fact you think we are doing a horrible job with our children, and rest assured in the knowledge that I don't give a shit WHAT you think.

Besides, my children are so damned 'well-rounded' that it will be my daughter taking care of your old ass someday. Put THAT in your glass and drink it.