Mom, STOP LAUGHING!!!!!!

OK folks, this week(well actually it was SUPPOSED TO BE on Friday) I am linking up with http://www.mommamadeitlookeasy.com/
I am sharing my AWESOME with her…and please..do it too..its a great way to meet some fellow bloggers….

Since becoming an adult, there are very few “normal” things I believe in. When you are a kid you believe in Santa, the Tooth Fairy and the fact that if you make ugly faces and someone smacks you in the back of the head when you are making the aforementioned ugly faces, your face will stay that way. Until you are about 12, you believe your parents actually KNOW what they are talking about, and then that belief resurfaces right about the time you become a parent yourself. Usually when you are calling your mother/father and telling them about a certain escapade your little tyrant angel has instigated in your house. Usually their response is raucous laughter. Yeah.

Back to what I believe in as an adult. I believe in Murphy’s law and its evil, sinister counter part. The Mother’s Curse. Yep that nasty little piece of devilry. I am sure at one point in everyone’s childhood,their mother shouted it out. “I hope you have a child that drives you nuts!”
“I hope you have ten children just like you!” This statement was usually precluded by a prayer to whatever deity your family believed in, asking said deity to “Give me strength”. And you just laughed. Ignored it. Did not give it a second thought. Right?

Now if you were a decently behaved child, chances are, you have had the misfortune to marry a man/woman who was a hooligan growing up. So your mother in law not only laughs at him/her, but they laugh at you as well. No support whatsoever.
I was not only a hooligan growing up, but my husband, Suburban Cowboy, he was the boy king of the Smart Aleck Hooligans Tribe. We are so screwed.

Two weeks ago, Stinkerbell went to bed with her big sister Princess Bacon. The boys were downstairs playing a game together. EmoKid goes upstairs to go to the bathroom and immediately comes rushing down the stairs, horrified look on his face. Crap.
“Mom, you have to go upstairs now!!” he yells. I look up at him from the couch, where I am FINALLY reading a book that does not involving Dick, Spot and Jane fetching something.
“What. Happened. Just tell me,” I reply. I can feel the aneurysm already. He shakes his head and I follow him upstairs. I should have just left the house altogether.
Stinkerbell is lying on her bed in her underwear(her preferred summer sleeping attire) and her skin, her creamy white skin, is COVERED in dark navy blue ink!!! I struggled to breath as I looked down at the WHITE wall to wall carpet in her bedroom(yeah my landlord’s idea…brilliant eh?) and I try not to scream. She had taken an exploded pen from the bathroom garbage and pretty much finger painted her body and the carpet. I finally managed to breath, tried not to cry and hauled her into the tub. She is staring at me, waiting for me to snap and I am scrubbing her, crazed out of my mind. I am washing my inky child at 9:30 at night and its NOT COMING OUT!!! I finally get her out of the tub. The white tub is now also a bluish gray and the baby looks like an outtake from Miami Ink. I dry her off and put her to bed, and stare at the carpet. I use my rug cleaner that I ran out and bought at Walmart , Resolve and some carpet stomping pads…and it still looks like a Smurf massacre occurred in their bedroom. We are going to have to replace the carpet when we move out. Yay.
So I call my mother and relay the crisis to her. And guess what the lunatic mother of mine does? You’re right if you guessed she laughed at me. And here is why.

When I was four, she left me alone for a half hour in my playroom while she started dinner. There was a tv in there and apparently Michael Jackson was on the tv. I was a HUGE fan of Michael. So what did little old me do? I grabbed my NON-WASHABLE brown Crayola marker and stripped down to my underwear. I then proceeded to cover what exposed flesh I had with the brown marker. She walked in to find her precious baby looking like she had just come back from Carnival in Rio. And it was not washable. She scrubbed me and scrubbed me, and it would fade a little, but that’s about it. My father came home, saw me and walked out of the house and back in again. I had rendered the man speechless. My mother just shook her head and searched in the cupboards and drawers for her emergency pack of cigarettes. It took over a week to fade. Preschool loved me though. About as much as the time I gave myself a haircut and a shave.
So yeah, the mother’s curse works. Very.well.