Drops the F Bomb kind of Mama
mum and kids at KFC

You know that moment when you just, snap! This was my moment (well, one of many but this is as good an example as any!)

I love my kids but the shopping mall is perhaps one of the places that love can be heavily tested. They repeatedly ignore my very existence in the face of simulated vehicles at every turn into which I empty my life savings in order to keep the peace. Like an idiot I’ve not brought any food with, stupid me for thinking a quick jaunt to the supermarket would be anything but a tedious, long, drawn-out shit-fest of nagging and not listening, to the point we’ve now been here three hours and morning has shifted into noon! The best available (read: cheap and not messy) option is the crappy fast food place because the last time you were here the sandwich place next door skimped so badly on the Nutella you ended up paying for two slices of holy bread with a hint of chocolate spread allegedly holding them together.

So to KFC you go where your attempts to place a simple order turn into torturous hell as your 6yo’s incessant demands for nuggets drown out the very thoughts in your own head, let alone the words you’re trying to make heard over her din! So what you end up with is a confused, pimple-faced teenager cowering behind the till while you yell at the 6yo to “SHUT THE F&*$ UP” all in the name of a shitty meal of overly salty chips and 6 pieces of popcorn chicken which the 3yo doesn’t even eat!!!! And all this with a baby strapped to your chest in the straight jacket serving as a baby carrier!

So yeah. I swear. I use the F word. A lot. My 3.5yo may or may not have been overheard muttering “for f&*$’s sake” when I told him it was time for bed… I’m not proud of it but sometimes saying FUCK is as effective a stress-reliever as punching a wall.

Don’t tell me you haven’t been there! What about when the toddler’s taken her felt pen collection to the hallway of your rented flat and made herself the star of that very expensive exhibition? Or the potty-trainee takes a dump in the middle of the street and all you’ve got on you is the picture he made for you at kindy? Or both kids are having a punch-up in the back of the car while you’re trying to concentrate on not CRASHING THE F&*#ING CAR?!

Trust me, the rational part of you might be saying “oh bother, look at all that egg you’ve just cracked over the kitchen floor” but the real part of your brain has only one word for your mouth, and that word is “FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Are you a fellow F Bomb Mama? Come confess at the land of no judgement and I understand, email me at hadassah@threelittlehines.com