My back door is broken again.
And if by “back door” you think I mean the thing in my family room that opens up to the patio?
I mean my Asshole. My Asshole is broken. Again.
It worked perfectly fine before I had kids.
Then they came along, did what kids do when they’re all growing in the uterine kiddie pool, and they broke it.
When pregnant with my son, he made my happy hiney hole swell and make sad faces. Then I got pregnant with my daughter, who made me so ill I had to take Zofran the entire pregnancy. Which means I pooped maybe 3 times in 9 months. Guess what that does to one’s already tender tushie?
Nothing pretty. I’ll tell you that.
Earlier this year, I shared what it was like having the shock of my life recieving Hemorrhoidectomy #1 a couple years ago.
Spoiler alert: makes for amusing material now, but it was No Fun At All then.
[insert creepy haunted house music here]
I just made an appointment for Hemorrhoidectomy #2 on Friday.
[insert frowning, nervous expression here]
Which means this fiber-loving, veggie-eating, water-guzzing, coffee-slurping, former Ninja Pooper is going to get another piece of her asshole sliced & diced by some old dude in a white coat who looks into the darkest, saddest part of strangers’ undercarriages on a daily basis.
Which makes me think that my ass? Is absolutely an example of Shit My Kids Ruined*.
*I love this site. Go visit and laugh. NOW.
I just don’t think they’d let me put a photo of the broken item on their Facebook page.
And I wouldn’t blame them one bit.
My kids have written on the walls, cracked a tendon in my finger, dragged my once-perky boobs down to my knees, chipped away at my sanity, knocked my Coolness Factor down about 200 notches, scratched a hole in my eye, and inserted crumbs in every corner of my home.
This one deserves the Gold Medal in things they have ruined.
And the kicker of it all? Is that they’re just friggin’ cute enough to get away with it.