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Why My Kids’ Chores Don’t Make Me Lazy

Why My Kids’ Chores Don’t Make Me Lazy

Let me start by saying I can be a lazy mom. If you haven’t gathered that by now, I think you might need to seek some counsel. Either way, I was laying on the sofa this week, eating Bon Bons and watching my shows (you know, just like all of us lazy moms) and read this article about a mom chastised for showing pictures of her kids doing chores.

Sanctimommies lit their torches and charged the gates on this woman’s child-rearing techniques. She was called lazy, told to hire a maid and lambasted for being the next Miss Hannigan.

Like, I know you sanctimommies love being right, but I am going to have to tell you you’re fucking insane.

First of all, have you ever tried to teach a kid to clean something? Let me just bring you up to speed since your maids seem to be taking care of the lion’s share of things, lately.

This took place four minutes ago at my house:

Me: We need to pick up these crayons.

4: Oh man! All of them?

Me: Yes, all of them.


Me: I don’t want the dog pooping the rainbow again. It’s gotta be done.

4: Okay. *picks up three of the 347 on the floor* Done.

Me: *Deep breath* You need to get them all. You see that one by your foot?

4: Where? *Looking at ceiling*

Me: *Eyeball twitching* By your foot. That grows at the end of your leg.

4: *Looking directly at it* I don’t see it.

Me: *Sweat dripping down my forehead* Wiggle your toes. You’ll touch it.

4: …

Me: …

4: …

Me: …

4: Ohhhhhh! Got it.


This is what it’s like teaching a child to clean up after himself. If you think this is the lazy parenting approach, you’ve got another thing coming. I would 100000% rather pick up the crayons than have to go through that routine another 346 times.

Secondly, here’s the thing, for your argument of “let kids be kids” and play games and lay around like Julius Caesar. My plan is to not let adults be kids. Meaning, I don’t want my adorable four year old who can’t find a crayon become an unfortunate 40 year old, living in my basement and on Hoarders season 63 amongst his newspaper collection and tribe of hamsters.

It is important to teach your kids to clean. I am living proof that if your kids don’t know how to clean they become parents who don’t know how to clean. No, it isn’t fun. Yes, it’s easier to pick it up yourself, but I will be DAMNED if you’re going to tell me this is the easy way out.

Now, back to these crayons. *Cleansing breath.*

8 Ways to Learn My Mom Cleaning Methods

8 Ways to Learn My Mom Cleaning Methods

I follow a lot of my fellow mommy bloggers on all social media platforms. I have to say, last night I broke out in a cold sweat after reading some of Housewife How-To’s blog entries. With every entry on weekly sheet washing, daily vacuuming, and monthly baseboard scrubbing I sunk deeper and deeper into an anxiety-riddled panic attack.

People change their sheets weekly?

Wash their dishes after every meal?

What the fuck are baseboards? 

Not only was I on the verge of a mental break, I felt quite less like the trophy wife I pictured myself being. My poor husband! That poor man is stuck with a stinky wildebeest when he deserves a delicate flower who presses his undies.

Then I snapped out of it.

There have to be more women like me. So, I googled “brilliant messy women” and a quote from the glorious J.K. Rowling popped up.

People very often say to me, “How did you do it? How did you raise a baby and write a book?” and the answer is, I didn’t do housework for four years! I’m not Superwoman, and living in squalor that was the answer. -J.K. Rowling

THIS! This is who I want to be! I am not June Cleaver. What I am good at is half-assing this housework thing like a boss. 

So, without further ado, here are Mrs. Mommy Mack’s tips on How to Cut Corners Like a Mom since you have better things to do than scrub. Like, anything. You don’t have to be writing The Sorcerer’s Stone. You could be taking a well deserved fucking nap for all I care.


Scary Mommy

Comment below with your half ass techniques!

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Undomesticated Goddess: Learning How to Adult

Undomesticated Goddess: Learning How to Adult

I lack life skills. I don’t know what happened in my life that made me unable to adult, but somewhere along the way when everyone else was learning how to take care of adult things and be responsible, I remained in the infancy stage.


For normal adults, college would have been a time to be “dropped in the deep end” of life and it’s sink or swim. I chose to float. While I managed to finish four years of school on my own, I did so by paying people to do things I didn’t or couldn’t do. I’m not just talking changing my oil or raking leaves. I paid my best friend countless times to clean my bedroom, organize things and wash dishes. My entire junior year I was too idiotic/lazy to fix my bed so I slept on a gangster lean smashed against my wall.


I flat out refused to give in to the notion that I was going to have to grow up. I gambled on my chances of finding a man that would (hopefully) be a prince and I would have a full staff to get me through my day-to-day. Well, this week marks six years since my husband and I met and it has been nothing short of unglamorous.


My husband told me even before we met that he had no man skills. He told me he doubted his ability to even hang a picture. He quickly became aware that my homemaker skills were about on par with his carpentry skills. Maybe not immediately, but when my cleaning lady showed up, he got the message.


We lived that first year in a bubble of bliss. We worked, came home to a clean home (thanks to my maid), ordered whatever delivery meal we wanted and however much we wanted and thought we had this grown-up thing all figured out. Our fridge held one half-full bottle of margarita mix and our cupboards had one lone, dusty box of Hamburger Helper. We were helpless.


Then kids happened.


The remaining five years of our relationship have been a vicious wake-up call. We spent a long time pretending we still didn’t have to face the music. Our beds didn’t have sheets. Our grass was 14 inches tall. When things broke we threw them out. That was about all we could handle. It was all too much! Where is my maid?! What happened to Pizza Hut every night?! How does this oven turn on?!


But, after many burnt dinners, lots of calls to our family, and endless amounts of tears, we teamed up and shit got handled. I don’t know where or when but this week I looked around and saw that we actually resembled adults. Our bed is made with actual sheets that are actually clean. Our dryer broke and instead of throwing it on the curb and heading to Sears like we did with our washing machine, my husband fixed it. All.On.His.Own. Like, with tools and everything.


What is happening?!


We have a family calendar. We own a weed eater (and use it). While, I miss my maid more than I miss my perky breasts, she is no more. I clean the top AND bottom of the toilet (who knew?). I’m an adult! He’s an adult!


We are doing it.


Who knows, in another six years, maybe we can learn how to change our own oil? The possibilities are endless.


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