How I love my boy. The rest doesn't matter

yo, bitches. urban mommy here. today is one of those days that just doesn't seem to end. but. yo. sometimes it sucks, right? sometimes, your going about your day, dropping the kids off at school and preschool and running to costco for giant hunks of cheap cheese to melt into wraps, cuz that's all the kids eat, and then to work for the Man--we all do it. Sucks. But, yo! once i get ad words up and running, i will make buttloads of money on my adVICE column. Anyway. You go to work for the Man, like you do because dry-cleaning one fucking shirt out here cost nearly six bucks, and then you go to pick up your kindergarden kid because the school is closer, and there's no way to go get the little one first, and he tells you he hit the teacher by accident, but that she's a butthead and gave him a note. And that kind of sucks, but its nothing, cuz when you get to the preschool, which costs more than a porche EVERY FUCKING YEAR--a used porche--the preschool director pulls you aside and says, yo, urban mommy, your kid has a learning difference.

And your like, what? my kid is like, three. he's in preschool. This is a preschool but she says that she's seen hundreds of kids and your kid is on the spectrum. she knows. she's seen it before. He has to go to a special place for special people, not here, not her school, where, god knows, he might infect the other kids with autism. What. Ever.

Urban mommy is fucking furious. Urban mommy can't sleep. Urban mommy has had nearly an entire bottle of wine, and doesn't feel drunk. Urban Mommy did, however, print out a photograph of the preschool director so she could scratch out the face with a ball point.

I love my boy. The rest doesn't matter.

Don't give me the finger

It’s 9:30 in the morning, I’m on my fifth coffee, I changed THREE craps this morning and threw away an entire plate of heart-shaped pancakes because I was out of maple syrup and, fuck, my kids can’t eat pancakes without syrup. But, you know what I want to know? What's distracting me, nearly to the point of madness?

Fingernails.

That’s right, bitches. WHEN DO THEY START CLIPPING THEIR OWN? Every time I pull out the clipper, I need a drink. I would have poured myself one this morning, but I do my best to wait until at least noon.

But the screams. I thought the neighbors might call the police. That’s what happens when you live in a apartment. Last week, our downstairs neighbor confronted me because she heard our toilet running and had to take a moment to pull me aside and accuse me of WASTING WATER.

Anyway, there I was, three poops into the morning, clipping talons between the metal jaws of my baby-first clipper and trying not to start screaming myself. I’m exhausted, and it’s not even ten am. What do you say, parents? When can I pass along this responsibility? Four? Five? Eight?

Cast your vote. 

Bar Crawl!

Break out the aspirin. Urban mommy is hitting the crawl...  Mark your calendars for San Francisco's only child-friendly bar crawl this Saturday night!

I've got two words: Hee Haw

Where: Mission and 16th St. (Yo! Bart it, bitches)
When: June 19, 2011
Time: Whenever you get there till you have to crawl home