I haven't been called by my first name in six years. I have grown accustomed to being referred to as (Insert Kid's Name)'s Mom. The first time my kid called me "Mommy" a ray of fluorescent light flew from my uterus; I was elated! That joyous feeling was short lived. Kid #1 and his two younger brothers eventually took all the luster out of my new title. "MOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!" I just shuttered typing that. Unfortunately, once the boys began school my real name was no longer of any use to me. Other small children, their parents, and even teachers decided they should call me "mom" too. You've got to be kidding me. To no avail, I tried multiple times to correct this injustice. "We're grown ups, you can just call me...", but alas, no one cared. I can actually recall attending a PTA meeting, or as I refer to them DAWN OF THE DEAD, and having a teacher shake her head in disagreement " No no no, you're mom forever now." Holy crap. This cannot be real. I pretty sure I was still myself. I pulled out two forms of ID from my wallet to be sure. According to my social security card, I was still the same girl. Why didn't it feel that way? I've attended my fair share of school events, holiday plays, and one too many Spider-man themed birthday parties, and I always observe the other parents. YOU GUYS LOOK LIKE CRAP. Don't take offense comrades, I have slipped into the pool of "Did I shower today?", we are in this together. Wake up! You still exist. If we were being completely honest, we could admit that we are still children ourselves! Most of you can barely work a toaster, let alone have the ninja capability to strap a car seat into a two door compact. Face it, your just a taller (hopefully) version of your five year old self. Its okay to own up to your desire to enjoy your life. Yes, you are performing the hardest job known to man, so shouldn't you be able to enjoy it? Parental guilt 'tis not a myth my friends. It is a real, living, breathing monster telling you how awful you are for wanting a turn on the swing set! You were a person with hopes and dreams, hobbies and interest before you became a DNA donor. You cannot deny those things about yourself. I'll help you out. In my mind, I'm Beyonce. Not literally, I'm just a super sexy celebrity whose boobs are in their proper place and can dance her tail off. Don't judge me, I'm raising three boys under the age of eight, I was bound to loose my mind. One day, while watching Beyonce give an interview, she explained how she "transforms" into another person when she performs, eliminating all stage fright and giving her super human powers to "kill it" in front of millions of people. She named this person, Sasha Fierce. "Awesome" I said, mouth full of Pop Tart. Why did I have to deny the fun, lively upbeat chick that was slowly being smothered by the disheveled shell I had become? Okay, so no one would ever use my real name again. Who cares, I was bigger than a first name. I had pushed three people out of my ladybits, and still had the gumption to pursue the things in life I desired. And since I am too much of a chicken, and far to exhausted to do anything in my human form I have made my own supermom, writer, funny, and all around hot son of a goat.Thus, Scootsie McKnickey was born. We are, in fact, responsible for little people. Little, cute, messy, loud people who can easily be used as an excuse for dancing in public places, eating chicken tenders, and watching cartoons. Lets decide together we are going to enjoy this journey, and find fun creative ways to have a good time WITH and (please dear God) WITHOUT our children. Admit it, we are nothing more than kids with children.