These Are the 4 Stages of a Mom Meltdown

Look, it's not only kids who go over the edge — it's us mommies too. In fact, now that I mention it, our kids are the biggest reason we're sometimes ready to blow our gaskets. That, and our partners. And lack of chocolate. Definitely lack of chocolate.

When we can't keep our composure anymore and are about to bite off a bat's head, you know that whoever caused us to lose it is in deep, deep trouble. Read through for the four stages of the Mom Meltdown, brought to you by whiny kids, PMS, too much laundry, another PTA fundraiser, and not being able to pee alone in private.

Your kid asked you for the 50th time if he could use the iPad.

Your partner complained about dinner and then decided to leave dirty clothes on the floor.

The cat puked on your new rug.

You are this close to crying and this close to taking the family dog and leaving for the night, but it's OK. The cat puke is almost all the way out of the rug, you're giving your partner the silent treatment, and you told your kid to take the darn iPad already. Your sanity is still intact . . . for now.

You tried to Pinterest a Halloween costume for your child, and instead of looking like Chewbacca, it just looks like a furry piece of poo. Your kid complains and claims his friend's mom never messes up and makes the best costumes. You sarcastically say, "Why don't you ask her to be your mom, then?" and your kid shuts up.

Your other kid drew on the wall and the stain isn't coming out. Even worse, your child's drawing looks like it came out of a Stephen King movie — like some cryptic Satanic message. When you try to clean it, the beautiful red color turns into something akin to a murder scene on your wall.

Your partner offers to heat you up some dinner and instead of responding, you cry, "Just do whatever you want, OK?"

It's almost like you are pregnant, but you're not. You're just on the freakin' edge!

You've asked your kids not once, not twice, but three times to get moving already. It's time for school, but apparently they've decided that it's crucial they walk as slowly as possible and do exactly what you didn't ask them to do — grab 50 million things and change their clothes 50 million times. At this point, you're talking through your teeth.

Your fists are clenched — you're about ready to tell everyone to take themselves to school and leave you alone.

You sound like a criminal. You're screaming. Your face is red. You sound exactly like your mother. Your kids so much as breathe too loudly and you blow fire out of your mouth. Your partner looks at you and you literally try to kill them with one look.

You lock yourself in the bathroom after telling everyone, "No, my name is not Mom or honey, go away," and you mean it.

You really mean it. You are pretty much Mommy dearest, and no one wants to go near you, much less admit they're related to you.