I don’t use Twitter anymore. But on more than one occasion this week I had the great desire for the instant relief one feels from throwing tweets out through the computer screen. And release them I shall, 140-character limit be damned.

Threatening to take away components of your child’s upcoming birthday festivities 10 x in one week either makes him a brat or you an asshole. Probably a little both. And you deserve each other. Phhhhphttt&*$#@*.

I do believe I’ve undone the angelic act of using organic, gluten-free cake mix in my child’s preschool party treat by adding instant nonfat pudding to it. Enjoy your phenylamawhatever, kids. Cancer’s on me!

Teaching your son to use the word “bullfrog” in place of the problematic favorite “bullsh*t” only helps so much at the playground when he deliberately shouts ONLY the first syllable.

Deciding to wait until the heat index hit the high 90s to let the kids play in the sprinkler while I jumped rope/did weight work on the back porch was a lesser-genius idea than usual. #heatstroke

Four-year-old Nazi interrogation, “Why do you not play ze trains wiz me, daddy?” on Last Comic Standing this week = brilliance.

Afternoon swimming lessons = fastest bedtime ever. Why is this nugget not on the home page of every parenting website out there?

10-minute chair massage at work reminded me of how pissed I used to be that my husband isn’t into giving them. But then time went by and I forgot. I REMEMBER AGAIN, MY DEAR.