Hi, I’m a grade D Mom.

I think this morning if the Health Department would have come to inspect my kitchen, I would have gotten a 70. 

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate that grade at all. That grade helped me graduate high school, and allowed me to walk in late to graduation. A 70 is passing, which I feel that in my Motherhood I am just “passing”. 
There isn’t a certain day that I would say I’ve made an A +. Possibly a C at the end of the day when I have a glass of wine in my hand and I’m saying bedtime prayers. 

” Lord bless them and help them grow up to be A, B, and even C parents. Help Momma’s grades to rise as she grows older, and please don’t send her extra credit work. Amen.”


The homemade hash browns were simmering on the gas stove while the blueberry muffins from a box we’re baking. The eggs were scrambling, and the sausage getting done. What do you call that?

Lightly burning. 


Trying to potty train our two year old my husband and I took turns taking her to the toilet , as she relentlessly was making the turd face wearing nothing but a T shirt. 

” You cannot poop on the floor Adah. Go with Daddy to use the potty.”


” No! I not pooping.”

Without warning , or a complementary shot of vodka , my toddler starts pooping on the kitchen floor. We rushed to her side and ran to the toilet, holding the crapping child. 
After she was finished, I set out to clean the spots on the floor she sharted on. 
With great confidence I told my husband I ” got all the poop up!”
Washing my hands and then shivering from the rank smell, I set off to serve the plates of breakfast. 

A blissful meal was had by all around the small kitchen table. I laughed, threatened spankings and rather enjoyed the company of my family. Though still smelling the scent of shart, I continued eating and serving. 

Hours went by , and I began laundry. Loading the washer up with soiled panties from the day before my toddler says: 

” Mommy you have POOP on your foot!”


” No baby, that’s just a boo boo. Remember Mommy stepped on fire ants. “


” No Mommy look!”

My four year stares in disgust of who birthed her and just hours before served her scrambled eggs. With a side of crap. 
Low and behold there it was. A dried up shart on my left foot. Not only was it there, but on my other foot and leg. 
Both daughters glaring at the Mother they wanted to trade in for a more respectable one, so I laughed insanely loud. I finished up the load of laundry , and I even brushed my teeth before cleaning it off. 
I don’t know who I have become , but it’s definitely a grade D mom. Not for purposes of bra size, to my dismay.

  
Grade D in all my glory
  

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