This is the way it is goin’ down, yo.

Dear Family,


Mothers Day.

Day of mother worship.

Mother. That would be ME.

You know, that chick that does your washing and feeds you and drives you around and shit? Yeah, well she wants a freaking day off. And that day is gunna be Sunday.

And this is the way it is goin’ down.

Sunday morning, I ain’t getting up till I am READY to get the fuck up.

I don’t care if Boo has painted the walls in his own excrement or has eaten half a jar of peanut butter with a twig he found in the garden, or if you are hungry or your favourite *insert some article of clothing that from the piles and piles on your floordrobe you have decided is essential to your very exsistence to wear today here* is missing or has a stain or your sister/father/brother/bunny is wearing, DO NOT wake me.

And Moo and Too? You are taller than me. So this burnt toast, soggy eggs shit doesn’t wash with me anymore. I ain’t choking down a crappy breakfast and watery freaking coffee any more. I want good stuff. Cooked properly.


I am thinking poached eggs, yolk still a little runny on an English muffin with wilted baby spinach and mushrooms, juice, latte and chocolate dipped strawberries.

Brought to me HOT when I deem it acceptable. And not in bed. I hate eating in bed. I have always hated eating in bed and I especially hate eating soggy eggs and burnt toast in bed with 3 bouncing children.