This is not a sponsored post. I just really like the wine. And sometimes it’s necessary.
Disclaimer: This is a blasphemous post. I know this. I am familiar with my catechism. But whether you devoutly attend mass every first Friday or worship at the altar of the great spaghetti monster, this is meant as humor. Please donâ€™t send me angry hate mail telling me Iâ€™m going to hell. I already know this. Thatâ€™s the point of this post.
Intense desire; excessive sexual wants. Baby-making.
Well letâ€™s just get the obvious out of the way. Where do you think babies come from? Thatâ€™s right. Lustful sexytime. And letâ€™s not kid ourselves, after achieving the joyful results of our lustful loins lusting for that pre-baby body. (But first, a cookie.)
Over-indulgence and over-consumption of anything to the point of waste. Ardenter: eating too eagerly.
You can always tell whoâ€™s the toddler parent of the group. Weâ€™re the ones who wolf down our food at mach speed because otherwise our tiny brethren will demand bites and then throw the plate on the floor. And grubby rug rat hands totally negate the 5-second rule.
Excessive or rapacious desire and pursuit of material possessions. Spoiling the child.
I have once seen the floor of my living room. Legend tells it lives beneath the frenetic chaos of toys and trucks, books and blocks tossed wildly about by Hurricane Muppet. Grandparents have moved in en masse. The children want for nothing. And they havenâ€™t even started playing sports yet.
Physical or spiritual laziness. Mommyâ€™s tired.
I fantasize about the day I will once again sleep in again and lounge around the house. Dare to dream about being lazy. And admit it â€“ youâ€™ve put off errands or tasks because it was just too much trouble to bundle everyone up out of the house. Mohammad may have moved a mountain, but Iâ€™ll deal with the laundry tomorrow(ish).
Rage; uncontrolled feelings of hatred and anger. Hurt my child and I will cut you.
A mother bear with her cubs is in her most aggressive state. Mother bears are dedicated to protecting their cubs and will attack if necessary. Forget the fury of a women scorned, may the hellfire rain down upon any germ, bacteria, virus, medical malady or other harm â€“ mental or physical â€“ that threatens harm upon a motherâ€™s child.
Jealousy; discontent toward anotherâ€™s traits, status, abilities, or rewards. Puking your guts out green.
Freud and the fact I have boys aside. I have never denied being green with envy throughout my pregnancy (not to mention envious of all those who WERENâ€™T green around the gills). I was jealous of the pregnancy experience prematurity robbed me of. And for those who enjoyed the blissful ignorance of what a miracle it is that any child is ever born, who among us isnâ€™t occasional rife with envy of the enchanted life devoid of adult worry as we watch our kids play in the mud.
Desire to be more important or attractive than others. My kids.
Donâ€™t even try to deny it. My children are obviously brilliant; they only needed two trimesters to gestate instead of the traditional three. They are also the cutest, most amazing million dollar muppets ever. And you think the same about your own. Â I’ve heard pride cometh before the fall – and my boys are presently competing for Olympic gold in standing and leaping from the sit-n-spin.Â Iâ€™m proud of my kids. And I’ve got my eye on them, because there’s no way this will end well.
It does appear Iâ€™ve embraced each of the above wholeheartedly. Soâ€¦Iâ€™ll see you there. Bring sâ€™mores?