How to: Get your Home Clean(er)

Pre-germaphobia, I was pretty messy.

Messy may be an understatement- just ask my mom. When I lived at home, she would always shut my door when she had guests. It was embarrassing. I didn't care much. It's not like it was dirty per se, more messy. Stuff everywhere. When my mom got rid of the encyclopedias to get new ones, I took the old ones and put them in my closet. Cuz you never know when you need to look something up. Encyclopedia- this means google before google was invented, for all of you kids.
Flash forward to parenthood, where I gave exactly two craps about the state of my house. Now it was dirty too, well at least dirty dishes. I knew someone who cloth-diapered and they would remove the kid's diaper and throw it towards the hamper pile of cloth diapers and cloth wipes, wipe diaper cream on the kid's butt with their hand, and then go about their business, dirty cloth diapers near a giant pile of dirty cloth diapers in the middle of their living room, butt cream on their hands. That's dirty. Mine was more like toys everywhere, clothes everywhere, crumbs everywhere, and piles of dirty dishes.
When I found a job, we hired a babysitter to cover the gap time between when I went to work and when my husband came home, generally never more than 4 hours. We hired her with the mindset to entertain and play with the boys, and to not clean. This was probably the ideal job, since we were paying her $10 an hour to play and chase after some kids, while I hear most parents want the nanny to cook and clean and on and on. So our house was a pit (to the degree my mom told me I should apologize about the state of the house every time she came over) but I didn't care. And then came the sickening when my fragile concept of childhood illnesses was realized and the anxiety stepped in.
So now I have a very clean house. Granted, there are still signs that children live here. Like right now, there is a pile of giant bubble wrap on the living room floor. There is an empty wrapping paper tube that has been brandished as an instrument of pain-infliction, and I see a sock under the couch. But for the most part, tidy. How do I keep it tidy? How can you start an adventure of tidiness? It's not that hard. You definitely don't need to shoot for anal retentive as I have. But to have a house that is clean enough you don't mind if a friend stops by, your inlaws, or even the mailman, that would be ideal.

HOW TO:
Have a tidy house

First, learn this mantra: It is up to me. I have mentioned this before, but my rude awakening of parenthood came when I realized that it was up to me. That toilet paper scrap on the bathroom floor would only be picked up by me. The grape that is under the cabinets by the sink would only get picked up by me. That sock laying under the couch will only be picked up by me. Maybe you are one of the lucky ones that has a husband that enjoys helping around the house, or at least has a strong sense of guilt. Mine has neither. And seeing as how he lets me stay home (for the moment), I try to do all the other crap. And also- news alert- men and women have different standards of cleanliness. My husband will "do the dishes" by placing whatever in the dishwasher that he can without too much thought, run the thing, and leave the kitchen. I am strategic to get all the dishes in before I run the dishwasher, put the leftovers away, and then I wipe up the counters, the dining room table and high chair, clean the high chair tray, clean out the sink. That to me is cleaning up after dinner. My husband has stated that I don't need to fold his laundry and should just cram it in the drawers or heap it in the closet. Like I said- different standards. and because of these standards, I know that if I want my husband to go to work and not look homeless, I have to fold his laundry. If I want my jeans to stay the right size, I need to do the laundry (surprisingly, men, hot is not a good setting for all clothes).

Second, work smarter.
There is always a way to do something that will save you hassle. The trick is to figure out what you want to do and how you can best achieve it. For example, if I am doing laundry (which involves a trip to the basement), I make sure to take down things that live down there. The boys are always dragging toys from the basement up, and there are certain ones that are just basement toys (it will save you trouble to designate certain toys to certain areas). I know when I'm heading downstairs and I see imaginext toys on the floor, to grab a few and toss them in the basket. When I get downstairs, I unload them and start my wash. On the way back up, I grab empty glasses, spoons, trash, whatever I can quickly see on my path back upstairs. Why would I make special trips to the basement to sort and clean when I can just do it as I go? I have a little counter space by the basement stairs where I also place things that live downstairs (like my husband's tools, stuff that needs to go in the pantry) to grab for trips downstairs. When I have to go pee, I check the kitchen counter for hair clips, socks, loose toys, to place them in the appropriate room on the way there. Sure, it takes me an extra minute to get done what I need to get done, but it saves my sanity. And it goes back to my first rile- it's up to me.

Three, get storage.
We have a man cave (furnace room with storage room off the side) that had built-in shelves. I bought bins and a label maker, and what a smart decision that was. If you have more than one child, this will save you trouble. After baby #1 grew out of 0-6 month clothes, into a bin they went with a 0-6 month label. Maternity clothes met a similar fate. Clothes that I sized out of while pregnant, clothes my husband sized out of while I was pregnant, all went into labeled bins. Winter coats and boots, etc. Saves so much time. I then got bins for the boys toys. Many sized bins, and see-thru- VERY important that they are see-thru. Like kind items, such as legos, dinosaurs, trains, all have their own bin. I need a better storage system for them at the moment, but they are stacked up behind a baby gate so they can't be completely dismembered. When we are playing downstairs, we get out a project, like trains, and play. When we are done, in theory, the toys go back in the bin and order is restored. I have bins in my youngest's room, for smaller items and ones that don't group together as well. These are the "toy" bins. If we are upstairs and the boys want a toy to play with, we head in there and they get to pick a couple to play with for the day. Eventually they end up on the bookcase in the living room or on the floor, and I eventually herd them back into their bin.

Four, have spaces for things to live.
Be realistic. You can clean and you can put away, but there is realistically no way you can keep everything packed up and clean and tidy at all times. Especially if you have kids. So you need places for things that you use to live when they are out. Because the floor or the couch or the counter is a terrible spot for things to just hang out. We have a low bookcase in the living room that I actually bought from Urban Outfitters when they were re-doing their displays. It was $15. Can't beat that. THe boys know thats where they put their toys. That is the home of stuff.

Five, cut yourself some slack.
You are only human. Have some time to sit.

Sleep Debt

When you are a college student, it's totally normal to stay up for 24 hours or more to cram for a final or write a few term papers, and then, in a heap of exhaustion, sleep for a day or two.

Parenting, my friends, is nothing like that.

Oh except for the staying up long hours part. Not the whole sleeping for a long time after part.

When #1 was a baby, he was a fuss. I remember reading about the "witching hour" that babies had before bed, but #1 fussed from 4- 11pm every night. Every. Night. It would be walking, patting, nursing, patting, walking, bouncing, rocking, nursing, patting, all the while, his mouth is open and just fuss crying. Never ending fuss crying.
And don't think I tried everything to make it stop. I gave up dairy. I gave up soy, corn, cruciferous vegetables, anything I read online that could possibly cause gas. Pretty soon I was eating next to nothing that resembled delicious or edible food, and he was still crying.
Your mind slips into an unhealthy place. You finally get him down after a certain rock-step combo in the hall, so the next night you keep trying it, thinking that was the sleepy time magic. Foolish you. The sleepy time magic was you wasting 5 or more hours and crying a half dozen times before the screaming midget decides to give up the ghost.
And then the topper- he refused to sleep for longer than 3 hour stretches. For 18 months.
That's impossible, you say.
No friend, that is very possible and exactly what happened.
At 8 every night I would be tucked in to bed next to the cosleeper, waiting for the next time #1 would pop his eyes open and demand to be fed. Do it quickly, and he might go right back to sleep. He slept right next to me so I could easily be awoken 6 times a night. The thought of having to roll out of bed and go to a separate room was enough to end me.
Luckily, I didn't have many friends during this period. There's something about being in the depths of misery- a self-created misery, mind you- that is very isolating.
Sort of like right now, but that's a different story.
I was so awash in sleep deprivation that I decided a second baby was a grand idea.  I think I had a few months of longer than 3 hour stretches of sleep, but luckily I didn't enjoy them as I was enormously pregnant. And also nursing up until 2 months before I gave birth (nursing while pregnant: it's very possible). And then you repeat the cycle with a second baby (although to be fair, #2 was so much sweeter temperament-wise- still had a witching hour though- no baby is perfect).
I took a job and worked evenings, and it only took a few weeks before my husband had them sleeping in their own rooms. Definitely a miracle. Granted, once again I didn't necessarily appreciate it, as I was working 60-80 hour weeks, getting home at 1 or 2 in the morning, and those sweet boys still woke up at 6-7 every morning.
The sleep doesn't happen now as much as it should. Some nights the boys aren't asleep until 9 or longer, depending how long #1 calls for me or plays around in his room. I NEED at least an hour to myself to unwind- dare I say I DESERVE it. So maybe 10 is the earliest I get to bed. I'm plagued by the "who is going to wake up in the middle of the night" fear, as it strikes when you least expect it. Some cries. Someone had a bad dream. A few weeks ago #1 had horrible leg cramps that had be sleeping next to him and googling furiously, worried that these were indicative of something beyond growing pains. As he writhed in pain, I definitely was not sleeping. The night before he asked to sleep with me as he was snuffy, and it turns out infected with hand foot mouth (again), so two nights in a row with minimal sleep. And we can all guess what happens after that- sickness. Oh it's not a hard pattern to predict. I'm still nursing a horrible night cough some 3 weeks later, and for 2 weeks me and the boys did nothing all day. We stayed home while it poured rain, and we played iPad and watched movies. It was very unproductive but man do viruses take it out of you. I only guessed at hand foot mouth by the sores in the back of my throat (and my husband's coworker's family caught it about 2 weeks later at the germ tree in the mall, and then my husband caught it last Friday).
You should go to bed earlier, you tell me. Yes, yes I should. There are a lot of things I should do.
I am so lazy.
Well maybe not in the traditional sense, since my house is crazy clean.
But I am so lazy. I want to sit and do nothing. I'm so sleep deprived and it doesn't appear to be getting better. I am getting SO much more sleep now than I did when #1 was a baby. It's fantastic. But it still isn't a full 9 hours. Man wouldn't 9 hours be great. I've convinced myself that if only I could get an hour or more of sleep I would be motivated. I would be super mom. I'd bake and do crafts. I'd write while the boys napped instead of laying down and fussing around on my phone. I'd write thank you notes and letters to my friends. I could research. I could read my Bible. But instead I see the end of lunch coming and I just say a silent prayer that they will nap and let me just be still.

I'm in serious sleep debt. There is no 18 hours of sleeping to try to recoup.
I guess there is only mental fortitude.
And today is a Wednesday folks. That Saturday looks mighty far away. And for you other stay at home parents, every day is a work day, so Saturday is a myth we tell ourselves.
Isn't parenting fun?

What are tips that motivate you? How do you get through sleepy days?

THIS PAST MONTH SUCKS

Ok, perhaps all caps is unnecessary.
But truly come on universe.

I sat down with a friend yesterday for a cup of coffee (and wine, whatever, don't judge) and told her all about my life lately.
It's incredibly jarring.
I hate opening up to people because it's just very depressing.

Not that my friend would have in a million years expressed that. But really, when you are dealing with some crappy things in your life, you hate to scatter your crap everywhere. I almost want to lie or just omit the truth because it brings others down.

"How are you?!"
"My husband lies to me about his drinking!"
"Whelp see ya later."

See? Not very fun.

"How's the job hunt?"
"I've applied to over 30 jobs in the last 2 months and the only people who want to hire me offer $10/hour. I can't get a babysitter for that."

Or even more fun,
"How are your kids?"
"You mean the one that I just miscarried or the two that have been clinging to a respiratory virus for the past 3 weeks keeping us homebound?"

Who wouldn't want to hang out with me?

And I keep buying wine with the expectation of partially drowning my sorrows but then my damn husband drinks it all before I can.

I told my friend I want to start a church for broken people, for honest people.
I'm tired of fake.
I'm tired of lying.
I'm tired of people acting like everything is grand so they don't give a bad image to Christianity.
Well guess what? Anyone can have crap happen to them- good people, bad people, saints or satanists. It is inhuman to smile while suffering. That's why it's called suffering. Isn't it better to reach out to people instead, to say "I am hurting" and "I need help" instead of pushing them away and trying to rely on your own strength?
Whatever, I should take my own advice.
Instead I have been hibernating in my house so as to not cough on people, wondering if the bleak winter will swallow us whole for another 4 months, and whether or not I will reemerge with the will to try this all again, to put myself out there, to have hope.
I'm not suicidal. I'm not depressed. I'm just slowly being drained of optimism.

What I am, apparently, is a product of a controlling household. Who married a control freak. Who can't do anything without being told what to do or how to do it.
I ask God for guidance and have no way to proceed.
I'm in a maze and paralyzed by indecision.
I'm a bad metaphor.

I also saw a psychiatrist who said I don't fit any of the classifications for disorders. So I'm just anxious and depressed enough to be a joy to be around (ask my husband who leaves work early to go drink and not be around me), while not being quite crazy. He suggested some drugs for me but I cannot cope with side effects at this stage of my crazy. He suggested yoga.

Here I go trying yoga.

I Had a Miscarriage

I've been mulling this one over in my head for awhile. Usually, while I am cleaning or cooking or trying to sleep, I write letters in my head. I've always been too in my own head. When I was young it was dreaming up what I would say to someone I had a crush on, how to win friends and influence people. Now, it's angry words, diatribes, apologies, soap-boxes. This past week, I have been trying to find purpose in what seems purposeless.

I found out about 3 weeks ago that I was pregnant.
I found out a week ago that I was miscarrying that baby.
I've gone through about every emotion I can imagine in the past three weeks.
On September 1st, due to extreme user error on my husband's part, we had a condom malfunction.
Shit, I thought, I am pregnant now. No way, said my husband, reasoning that I had just finished my period like three days earlier.
But I knew better.
His family has a fertility problem. They are way fertile. Like way way fertile.
And so I took tests. Probably too many tests, all said negative. And finally on the 17th I got a pregnant result. Even though I suspected I was pregnant, it blew my mind. I had decided firmly against having any more children. I had been bugging my husband to get a vasectomy (its outpatient for guys, in-patient for girls, plus I've already had enough pain associated with that region of my body thank you very much). And now I was pregnant again. My husband was overjoyed. Maybe I will finally get a girl, I thought.
This had to be a gift from God. We used protection (even if used poorly), I was no where near ovulating (at least so I thought), and here I was pregnant anyway. God must have great things planned for this baby.



The reactions from many friends and family were not great.
I got asked if I had considered the day-after pill.
I was asked if I was pro-life.
I got asked if this meant my husband and I were staying together now.
Maybe this is a similar reaction that many people get, but it was jarring. I wasn't proclaiming- I'm pregnant what should I do? Instead I was saying I'm pregnant.
I'm not throwing everyone under the bus. Many people were excited or feigned excitement. That definitely helped get through the bad reactions.
Now I was rearranging all of my life plans, as one would when faced with a life-changing decision. Baby names, how to procure baby items similar to what I had just finally cleared out of the basement and donated, midwife appointment, sleeping arrangements for three kids instead of just two.

And just like that, it was all over.

Normal spotting turned into bleeding. I called my midwife, and her secretary walked me through what to expect with a miscarriage. She had just suffered one at around 6 weeks, like me. Not like me, I thought. This is not what is happening. This is just from stress.

Stress? Oh you mean like your family member coming out of detox, which set you and your husband back $1350, only to drink himself near death for the following 11 days. The phone call that you have to hurry home so your husband can go check on him, since he's incredibly intoxicated worrying about people trying to kill him if he doesn't place a bet. Your husband having to leave you to call the midwife and inquire about your bleeding so he can pick his family member up from the psych ward that he has checked himself out of, claiming he was never suicidal and his .37 BAC level was not a form of self-harm. Trying not to sob in front of your visiting friend and your children when you get the news that you are miscarrying, and your husband is at the pharmacy trying to get meds for his family member's DTs (but thank God that my friend was visiting. I'm sure she didn't thoroughly enjoy being in drama central while there was psych ward/drinking drama and miscarriages, but she was invaluable.).

Even when we were getting the ultrasound and the tech said there was nothing in my womb, when I got up from the table and noticed excessive blood on the sheet, my husband said he was still holding out hope. When I got the numbers back and my hCG level was 32 (what it would be, say, soon after conception), he said he was still hoping. I allowed myself the thought that maybe this was not happening. Two days later, I went in for more labs and the numbers came back at 14. That's when I stopped hoping.
This was happening.
Or is happening.
From the lack of anything in my womb, it happened weeks ago.
How long have I been kidding myself that I was pregnant?


Then came the fun task of telling everyone that I was no longer pregnant.
Now I understand why people wait til 12 or 13 weeks.
I had two healthy beautiful little boys. I'm lucky. Some women can't conceive. Some spend years trying to get pregnant, coping with miscarriage after miscarriage. If I had been 9 weeks or more, I'm told the pain of miscarrying would have been a lot closer to labor instead of a bad period. I'm lucky, I guess.

I don't feel very lucky. I feel messy. I have too many emotions. Mournful, angry, disappointed, embarrassed, bitter, relieved, guilt, pain. I can't sort through it. I didn't have the time to mourn it properly with my husband, as he was moving the belongings out of his family member's house, trying to clean it up so the girlfriend could get some security deposit back. It's kinda too late to mourn it now, as he's a guy and he's over it. His vasectomy has been scheduled for about a month now, and I definitely don't want to try again. I didn't want another kid, but having one taken from me has me wondering what I'm supposed to feel.

What's God's plan with all this?

Interventions and Co-opting the Story

My best friend and I had a discussion after September 11th about social media on that day. Everyone feels the need to state where they were when it happened (the attack on the Twin Towers, by the way), how they feel now, how great America is. The issue, my friend stated, is the co-opting of the story. Many people died. Their loved ones were directly impacted. One might say we were all impacted in a way, but it's really their story.
I've been thinking way too much about the co-opting of story. For example, I had anorexia pretty badly in 9th grade. It impacted my life. But my mother, while she didn't have anorexia, was deeply impacted by my eating disorder. Is she not allowed to have a say in the story of an eating disorder? If she wanted to write an article about how anorexia impacted her, it would be truthful as it is coming from her perspective, living with a daughter with a hidden eating disorder. What about people from my school? Could they claim they were impacted by my eating disorder, even though they weren't me, they weren't family, and they had little or nothing to do with me? Where do we draw the line of what is acceptable for impact, and what is not?

All this is muddle around to what I'm going through at the moment. It isn't my story. It's not in my day-to-day existence. But it is still impacting me greatly.
I have a family member who is a heroin addict.
Heroin.
That's pretty big. And apparently the face of heroin is no longer what it was when I was growing up, because this young man isn't what I would ever consider a heroin addict. And yet, here he is.
Is it co-opting his story to be upset? Or his ex girlfriend who has 3 kids with him, all under the age of 4? She has suffered the worst through all of this (and I'm sorry, I know addiction is a horrible illness, but it's an all-consuming selfish thing), having to pay for everything, going back to work like 4 weeks after she gave birth because she had no financial help from him. She knew about his drinking problem and guessed that he had a pill problem, but this whole heroin thing came out of nowhere and quickly escalated. She left as soon as she knew, as anyone would, but she's left living with one of her family members in a less-than-ideal situation because she has to work overtime just to pay her bills and provide her kids with food and daycare. She told me about finding the burnt spoons, the belt around his arm. I told my husband, who moved to swift action. I contacted their last involved relative, who wanted me to get everyone together for an intervention. I called around to clinics to find where he could go to detox, what the costs were, what options for financial help we could find.
This isn't my story, but I'm involved.
He doesn't know I'm involved. No one besides my husband and his girlfriend probably know that I'm involved. Maybe it's better that he doesn't. When my husband's mother was dying and I was pregnant with my first, I did everything I could. I was over at her house at least 3 times a week bringing her food, trying to clean up, paying her bills, running her business, knocking myself out. And I couldn't save her. She still died. Can I save him? Probably not. This isn't my family. Maybe it's better that I do what I can from behind the scenes.
That's not to say that I don't care. I care so much. While I'm cooking, cleaning, trying to get to sleep, I'm writing these epic letters in my head. What I would say to him. How I could help. Words that might just resonate and get him to clean up.
I can't stop.

I've seen my fair share of A&E's Intervention. I used to watch it every week. I would be filled with nausea and dread while watching it, regardless of the addiction. My heart ached for these addicts. My heart ached for their families. I saw what worked and what didn't. I don't know what will work, what words will influence him, and what will make him angry, make him feel unsupported, alone, hopeless. What if I wrote a letter that just pissed him off, or worse, made him feel like what right do I have to say anything to him.
And so I relay messages to my husband, try to get information about rehab, try to find supportive things to say.

But I have so little supportive things to say.

I'm mad.


Why do we keep getting hit with this crap? When does this family get cut some slack? Philandering, alcoholic, abandoning father, mother killed by cancer, history of family addiction. Great. Hooray. Like the Kennedy's but without any money. Much less romantic that way.

What do I say? What do I do?

What would you say, what have you said?

Sweet Sweet Irony

Since I quit my job in February, I have been forced to face the reality of the job market.

As in - the job market sucks.
Oh no it isn't, the recovery is great, says you with a great job or a rich hubby.
Yeah shove it.
I remember when I was 250 applications past pathetic after I got my Master's, there was a chime everywhere apparently to get thee to a grad school. Hahaha. I am rolling in my seat. When you have applied for over 250 jobs and haven't received a call back on more than one (that would be me, folks), you start feeling like the set-up for a bad joke.

And now I'm right back there again. Except I have this unexplained missing time from my work experience. What was she doing for 3 years? And it's not like I can write "having kids" since that's info they supposedly don't want, but info they will use to damn me just the same. God bless all these women popping out puppies and then shlepping themselves back to work so they can have a decent job. The rest of us, who thought we were doing the "right" thing by our kids, have instead crippled our careers. Or at least set them back 5-10 years.

I went to an all-day training class that was supposed to help provide me the skills that employers would seek. Instead it was full of staff members from a large local employer, who all told me I just need to work their sales phones for "a few years" to put in my time to travel the ranks. Oh really? I got a Master's so I could work for $10/hr for two years and give more money to daycare than I would bring home? Tempting.

And THEN the TOPPER on the GIANT JOB CAKE:

So I've applied to maybe 20-30 jobs in the past month, and actually putting effort into it. I've been tailoring my resume, rewriting the cover letter, filling out completely needless iterations of my resume and then attaching my resume since I love exercises in futility. Yesterday I get asked by a woman that I have met once to chat with her. Mind you, my husband met her when he took the kids to the park down the street, she has two boys who he said were well behaved, and she invited us to her older boy's bday party that we didn't end up attending. So basically random stranger asks me to talk with her. I'm weirded out by it because I don't know her but my husband says I'm being a weirdo. She didn't want a playmate, just to speak with me. I decide ok I will be a decent human being and go meet her. She then asks me to provide daycare for her 10 month old full time and her 4 year old on Fridays.

She met me once when I walked by her house with my family.

Is this weird or is it just me? I guess it's no more weird than putting an ad on craigslist or up at the local college, but the difference being I didn't ask, I don't know her, I didn't solicit. And, I do NOT want to do daycare. I don't even like my kids, let alone some strangers kids. And what do I do if they are sick or my kids are sick? Ugh. No. Just no. So apparently, moral of the story, the only jobs I can get are the ones I haven't applied for.

Oh look, a pint of Ben and Jerry's.

Fat Lazy Slob- i.e.: Don't EFF with My Family

My sister and I haven't always gotten along.

Like say the entirety of high school.

Or when we were in junior high and she chased me with a butcher knife. 

Ah the joys of youth.

And being one year younger than my big sister.

Once we had kids, we actual realized we have more in common than we don't have in common.

We understand how truly weird our parents are.

As our family always said- I'm an idiot and she's my biggest fan.

And while I love her, she can drive me batshit crazy. I can just assume she meant something or sense a tone in her voice and it's done. I'm pissed. We can fight over the silliest things, yell, and then magically we are over it. The joys of family- they are family regardless.

And BECAUSE she is my sister, I am allowed to be grumpy and upset, or to say crap about her.

But don't for ONE. SECOND. Think that you can say ANYTHING about her. OH YES IT IS AN ALL CAPS MOMENT my friends.

She did something I'm not exactly in support of, but once you have kids you understand-

She left her kids in the car (it was about 60 out, early afternoon, so it's not like it was hot) to run inside a store, grab an item, and pay for it. In total, she may have been away from the car for about 5 minutes max. Now I am the ocd worrier who would think of someone crashing into my car or trying to steal my children, so I wouldn't do this. But I understand why she did. They are 4 and 6, loud, bratty, similar or equivalent to my children (just older). 

When she came back to her car, a man in his truck next to her berated her for leaving her children in the car. She responded, "They are my children and you should mind your own business". That's a step better than I would have said, and also had no swears.

He responded by calling her a fat lazy slob and said he was going to report her.

UM WHAT

I could kill this piece of crap bastard. First of all, the nerve. He said he noted it. Great. It wasn't hot, no one was crying, it wasn't a long time. Second, the hypocrisy. She said when she got there his dog was in the car without him. Oh so it's good enough for your dog but not for human children? Third, he's sitting in his truck sucking on a cigarette berating my sister? Imma murder him. 

It just reiterates the vastly different standards that men impose on women. She was dressed nicely, had makeup on, did her hair. Maybe she could stand to drop a few lbs, but what mother with children, especially young children, couldn't say the same?

And lazy?

OH YOU HAVE NO IDEA

My sister has been working full time while putting herself through nursing school, currently working nights in the maternity ward, and taking care of her kids during the day.

You are the most ignorant person in the history of persons I have called out on the internet, sir. 

I've definietly had my share of "helpful" people giving me unsolicited parenting advice. But insults? Fat-shaming? No.

And what do you think will stick with her? The words of love and support from her family? Smiles and hugs from her kids? Accolades on the job? Good grades?

Or some verbally abusive misogynist bullcrap from a random stranger?

It just makes me sick that one person could, with a few words, cut down a person I love so much and who has done so much for me. 

I'm done with humanity for the night.