CUT MY OWN MEAT? WOMAN, YOU MUST BE MAD...

My kids’ maid service was terminated in the night without warning – as was their personal chef, lady-in-waiting, and footman service (aka Mom lost her sh*t and updated her job description).

They woke to find their little worlds crashing down around their pampered feet… let’s listen in…

• How can I possibly use the alarm clock to wake me on time?

• Who’s going to braid my hair and brush my teeth?

• Uh… excuse me… the bath water isn’t going to get warm by itself

• Why are my dirty socks still on the floor?

• Hey – where are all the clean spoons?

• How rude… my lunch isn’t packed and my backpack isn’t by the door

• How about some clean underwear?

• Did I mention that I’m ready for a snack?

• Where’s my favorite blanket?

• My butt is ready to be wiped. Anyone?? Helllooooo???

• You can’t actually expect us to cut our own meat. This is anarchy.

This kind of trauma is hard to survive. They’ll never be the same again.