Fart noises at the table. My arch enemy.

Some of you will remember my blog that I wrote about two years ago that was on teaching my kids table manners. The head writers of a Facebook blog and group for ” natural minded” Mothers came across my blog. They read it out of context, got their panties in a wod and ripped my blog apart. Not just that one, but many others after that. They had a JOLLY good time bashing me social media style. Back then it hurt. Lots of you stood up for me, even those who hadn’t met me. I cried a little. Ok, I cried a lot.

Tonight, two years later, I could write the same blog. Actually, I kind of will. 

And this time. THIS time if I am ridiculed I will poop in a bag, and light in on fire on your doorstep. I’ll poop as many times as I need to. I have fiber bars.  I’ll ring your doorbell like a Jehovah’s witness during Saturday morning cartoons, then light it on fire.  


I could hear the Angels singing glory to God in the highest as I took my victory walk down the steps. All my wildies were in bed, and asleep before 7:30 pm.

It was one of those nights I wanted to drink an entire bottle of wine, in my underwear watching Friends. Alas, I am with child. Sleepytime tea can kiss my ass. I would need three gallons worth to calm my blood pressure tonight.

Allow me to rewind to a lovely dinner I was preparing this afternoon. The crock pot chicken was simmering all day , lingering its aromas around the house to torture me. While preparing the sides to go with my heaven chicken, the girls were fighting over two bibles. You read that right. I literally had to threaten to take their bibles away.

What kind of Mother am I? They will grow up with some sort of complex of writing their names in their bibles on every page to make sure no one takes it. Then they won’t be able to actually read their bibles and they will blame me when they are in jail.


After the bible fight was solved by placing their bibles on top of the refrigerator to think about what they are REALLY fighting about, we ate dinner.

I say ate, but what I really mean is that I sat down and scarfed down my food while the kids acted like they were on a game show.


 They literally took three bites each, and the rest was spent fighting and laughing. Making fart noises. Still fighting over the bibles. Purposely falling out of their chairs. Spitting out their water. You name it, they spit it out.

Listen, I love laughter. I think it’s the one thing that keeps me sane most days. My kids are HILARIOUS! But listen, at the dinner table I want my kids to have respect. To eat their food politely. Semi quietly. I’m not asking for silent dinner here. I just want to hear myself chew. Or no wait, that makes me gag. I just want to enjoy my meal I worked my butt off for.

After AT LEAST ten warnings each I had had enough. I sat one in the kitchen. One in the laundry room. ( TO EAT , not to fold laundry or eat the laundry.. Y’all chill. ) and one remained at the table with me. The trouble maker. I won’t name names but it’s my only son earth side.

They still remained laughing and being blatantly disrespectful to my wishes, so I did what any loving, responsible mother would do.

I threw a piece of fried okra at my sons chest and walked out of the room. I then sobbed in the hallway, alone. With the sound of their laughter still filling my tired ears.

Because that is the kind of example I like to set. A real mature one. 

My parenting book will be out this Fall, you’re welcome.


Some days are not something you are proud of as a Mother. Like if you throw okra at your kid. Sometimes your kids do things that make you wonder why you had sex in the first place. Was it worth all this? I mean, don’t get me wrong. I like sex with my husband, but it’s nights like these that make me want to order the biggest chastity belt I can find.

Monogram my name in glitter and rhinestones on the front, and on the back it would say something like-


Cheers to you lucky Mothers that can drink a glass or three of wine for me tonight. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be sucking the alcohol out of a deodorant stick. 


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