Let me go ahead and start out by saying that if you find muttering four letter words under your breath around your Offspring and/or maybe sometimes flipping them off behind their backs offensive, you should just stop reading this now. Go ahead and have yourself a nice, curse-free day. But...if you’re like me and often think to yourself, wow...my Children really bring out the F-bombing in me, then keep reading and maybe we should consider being Best Friends. Now, if you DO find this offensive and are STILL reading, then I take no responsibility for your choice and think maybe you should lighten up a little and that you might be lying about the words you may or may not be muttering under your breath or thinking in your head during the more...trying times of child rearing.
Get out of the car please...come on guys...let’s get a move on.
Fucking seriously get out of the fucking car. I could have brokered a fucking peace treaty by the time it has taken you to slowly, tortuously, slide your body out of the damn car.
You know what, guys? I’m not really in the mood to be jumped on right now. Let’s find something else to do that doesn’t involve Mama breaking a rib.
Get.The.Fuck.Off.Of.Me. I gave both of you my BOOBS for twelve fucking months. Would it kill you to give me some PERSONAL FUCKING SPACE ALREADY?
Yes. That’s what we’re having for dinner. Eat it or be hungry. Your choice.
MAYBE IF YOU LIKED TO EAT MORE THAN TWO FUCKING THINGS YOU WOULD NOT COMPLAIN ABOUT DINNER EVERY FUCKING NIGHT.
I’m sorry that you think you’re not tired, but it’s time for bed and you may not come out of this room again. Good night. I love you.
We just spent every possible damn second together today and now I need to have a very large glass of wine on the sofa and watch some terrible fucking television. Good fucking night. Go the fuck to sleep. And I fucking love you so fucking much it makes my heart fucking hurt.