Did My Kid Come out of Your Cooter?

Let’s just dive right into it, shall we? (Not my cooter…just keep reading).

Every morning I get on the internet because my job requires being on the internet. I usually make an effort to scroll through my personal newsfeed on Facebook for five minutes to live vicariously through others. Shut up, you do it too. Anyway, my five minutes is always cut short because I never fail to see a bunch of catty, self-righteous, ‘my way is better than your way’ mom posts. God, those suck. It’s like these women spend their days on their throne, waiting for another mom to post something. They just love giving unwanted advice and answering questions that are not being asked. So I’ve finally come up with a question that I’m just dying to know the answer to.

Did my kid come out of your cooter?

So many judgmental little twits are telling other adults what to do. Why? I don’t know. I believe it is because they legitimately have no fucking clue what boundaries are. I’m just like dude, worry about your own kids that came out of your own downstairs mix up.

I’m sorry if this upsets you, but I don’t pretend that motherhood is a piece of cake-Kosher cake-Organic, gluten free, Free of GMO’s, Hell, it’s free of everything, cake. I don’t upload pictures of that shitty cake on Instagram and caption it as, “If you would just put a little more effort and cared about your children, they could be eating healthy cakes such as this one!” #STFU.

Instead, I use paper plates because, fuck dishes, I pile those paper plates high with Hamburger Helper and then I set the masterpiece before my family followed by a sarcastic ‘bon apetit.’

“Did you know that fluoride is horrible for your children? It is SO easy to make your own toothpaste or do you not care?” Eh, I often forget to brush her teeth anyway, so fluoride would be the least of my worries.

“But didn’t you know that growing a garden and making your own baby food is just so much better for your child than the jarred baby food you get at the store? Who even knows what’s in that stuff?!” Everyone who reads the label, derrrrrrp.

“Why wouldn’t you breastfeed your child? I just don’t get it. It’s natural and breast is best.” Why you care so much about my milk wagons is what I don’t get. You wanna suckle on ’em or what? Because if you do just ask, no need to beat around the bush.

In all seriousness, I’m an adult and I don’t appreciate self-righteous attitudes when having a conversation I don’t even want to be in. All I’m thinking about is how badly I want to clamp that bitches tit wrinkles (she breastfed Sally until she was 60 months old) with a chip clip and twist. Seriously.

I can’t even begin to imagine being so consumed in other people’s parenting because I’ve got shit I need to get done. I have dishes to do, laundry to fold, asses to wipe, a husband to feed and water, floors to sweep, walls to wash, etc. Besides, I pay my bills, so unless you would like to pick up my Nipsco tab this month, your opinion is irrelevant.

(If you seriously want to help pay my bills just so you can tell me what to do all day long, I’m in. Hell, I’d do anything to save $200 a month. Dress me up like a pussy cat and call me cooter, I don’t care. Seriously go ahead and pet your brand new cooter. MEOWWWW!)

Anyway, I am getting way off topic here so just answer the question.

Was your butt-hole and vagina one stitch away from becoming one big black hole of ‘what the fuck’ in order for my kid to enter the world?

My cooter, my rules.

Sit down. Shut up. Inserts Emoji. Eat an organic dick. Bye Felicia. Mic drop.



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