Death By Boobs.

It could happen.

It could happen.

Because I don’t have time to write anything of substance. That’s why.

If you liked this post, then you will LOVE I Still Just Want To Pee Alone! Click here to find out more!

Not Vacation.

Have you ever had a co-worker refer to your maternity leave as “vacation?”

When I worked at State Farm, I had a few comments directed my way that let me know that my extended leave tending to an extremely colicky baby all by myself was considered “vacation time.” When I returned to work, I got the cases no one else wanted, the Christmas Eve shift, AND the New Year’s Eve shift.

Not that I didn’t understand the position of my co-workers, bless their intact penises and vaginas and 8 hours of interrupted sleep, but MAN. That sucked. A lot.

My friend Alice wrote a piece for Babble called 9 Ways To Respond When Co-Workers Call Your Maternity Leave A “Vacation,” and you should totally check it out because it’s hilarious and I’M QUOTED IN IT.

This Monster Eats Bad Kids.

Yeah, we all know parenthood is exhausting, blah blah blah.

It’s emotionally taxing, physically draining, never-ending, HARD AS SHIT. You have heard it all, multiple times, because hasn’t everything about having kids already been said?

It has.

I just keep saying the same things, in a slightly different way, over and over. The thing that keeps it interesting is the children themselves, who continue to say and do things I never would have imagined them saying or doing.

Oh, and first-grade artwork. Which is pretty much the best thing ever.

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This monster is totally going to eat me in my sleep.

Today’s Dose.

You know what this world is lacking? Authenticity. So I’m going to put out some unapologetic honesty in the hopes that it will counteract all the people who are trying to be something that they aren’t. I’m a big believer in balance. You take a vitamin, you eat a cookie. You drink a beer, you drink some water. You eat cake, you go for a walk.

The Earth is full of women who are not willing to be authentic, and as a result, almost all of us are lonely. The authentic ones have trouble finding other authentic ones, and the ones who are faking it just end up with a bunch of other equally fake friends. Womanhood can be incredibly isolating, which is why the handful of friends I’ve got who really know and understand me are stuck with me forever.

Why is it so hard for people to just speak the truth? It really will set you free. Tell you what, I’ll start: Potty training is hell and I’m so thankful for mommy amnesia because eventually I’ll forget how much it sucked. Today I had Doritos for breakfast and M&M’s for lunch. I want to yell “What the FUCK?!” at least twice per day, but I don’t. It’s going to happen one of these days because I feel like I’m surrounded by crazy people. I already feel terrible about it and it hasn’t even happened yet.

Sometimes I am really annoyed that I don’t get paid for being a stay-at-home mom. My job is hard. All I want is a paycheck so I can buy myself a plane ticket and go somewhere … because I’d like that.

I don’t believe anything they say on the Fox News Channel.

I smear Vaseline on everything. Like my face.

This weekend I tried to sell two stacks of old jeans at Plato’s Closet and they said they were too outdated. I took them to Style Encore which is similar, but geared toward women in their mid-twenties to mid-fifties, and they said my jeans were too outdated.

What the fuck.

This is a picture of my latest issue of Southern Living.

This is a picture of my latest issue of Southern Living.

Effing Hard Work.

This week I hit my rock bottom of parenting. It doesn’t happen that often, but when it does, it’s ugly.

Thank goodness for my village, is all I can say. Sometimes I can’t even put into words how much it helps just to have grandparents close by who can pick the kids up and take them for a few hours, or have Maverick come spend the night.

Sometimes I forget to ask for help because I’m too busy focusing on what is right in front of me: a screaming baby, figuring out what’s for dinner, determining who hit whom first … and before I know it, I’m drowning. Robbie will come home and say, “How can I help?” And I just look at him blankly because the work for the day is already done, and asking that question just means I have to think of a response. I have to say something. I have to answer another question.

Sometimes I can’t answer, and sometimes I can’t ask. Sometimes, it’s all I can do to keep it together amid two toddlers and an extremely challenging 5-year-old. Sometimes I spend my whole day exerting the energy it takes not to yell, to handle things I don’t feel up to handling, to remain calm in the face of defiance. The physical part of my job, I can handle. The emotional part is what takes a toll.

The old me wouldn’t have understood that. The pre-child Harmony was an exceptional communicator who was in tune with her feelings and needs, and would never have believed that one day she would find herself unable to ask or answer. I would have thought, How is that possible? You open your mouth, and you voice your thoughts.

And yet, here I am. I’m so tired. I’m tired of answering questions and I’m tired of talking. I’m tired of thinking and I’m tired of making major life decisions. I’m tired of trouble shooting problems. I’m tired of trying to creatively handle issues. I have nothing left today and maybe even tomorrow, because I. Am. Tired.

This week, I clipped Asher’s paci because we felt like it was time to break him of that habit and all of the books and people around us said so, too. Robbie took him on a special trip to the store today for a new bedtime toy, a Ninja Turtle Dream Lite. He was so excited, and we were optimistic. Perhaps this would be the magical solution, a replacement for the paci that he clearly missed so much.

Asher with his new toy.

Asher with his new toy.

But tonight, six hellish bedtimes and super-early morning wakings later, Robbie was home to witness the insanity for the first time. The Dream Lite did not do the trick. Asher screamed and cried almost just like he did when we had to teach him how to sleep in a big boy bed. Nothing is ever easy with this kid. He doesn’t do change well.

We can’t do this,” said Robbie (I’m paraphrasing). I wanted to yell, “I HAVE BEEN DOING THIS! YOU JUST HAVEN’T BEEN HERE TO SEE IT!” But instead I said, “Well, what do you think we should we do?

He went to the store for more pacifiers.

While he was gone, I thought about all the people who told me it was time to nix the paci, and how none of those people were the ones who actually had to deal with the reality of it. Even my own husband couldn’t make it more than one night, and so I decided, once again, that mothering is Effing Hard Work.

I think we can all agree that no one can pass judgement on another person when it comes to Effing Hard Work. When I see city workers out there rummaging in man holes, running wires or digging in concrete, I acknowledge that is Effing Hard Work. I wouldn’t want to do it, and I wouldn’t try to tell them how to do it. I just appreciate that they are there, digging and running wires and making sure the traffic lights are working. No judgement. I applaud.

I write this for the mothers who are in difficult situations — and there are many shades of difficult. Being a parent is hard enough, and parenting a challenging or unique kind of child is … well … it’s impossible, really. I don’t know how we do it, we just do, because mothers are amazing creatures who should be exalted. And if you know a mother who is parenting alone for whatever reason, she deserves double exaltation.

And for the people who love those mothers, but don’t know how to help them, know this: it doesn’t matter what you do, just DO SOMETHING. Any word or act of kindness is an incredible gift. My friends and family are a constant source of support, mostly via text or email as I am locked in the purgatory of my kitchen. They help by listening and by encouraging. When I say things like, “I just want to be the mother Maverick needs,” Amy says “YOU ALREADY ARE.” When I tell my mom “This is so hard,” she says, “Don’t give up.”

Mothers need hugs and encouragement. We are all just digging and running wires, really, and if you have a challenging child like Maverick then you basically feel like you’re doing it all with a blindfold on.

I may hug the next mama I see, and thank her for sacrificing her sanity and her uterus, her vanity and her self-respect, in the hopes that one day her child(ren) will make this world better.

That’s a lot.

That’s Effing Hard Work, actually.

I had an eye exam this week. Occupation? B.A.B.

I had an eye exam this week. Occupation? B.A.B.

Rock On!


Y’all rock on and on! If you are on Facebook, please make sure to “like” my page and select “get notifications” so you don’t miss any of the madness.

I thought something magical would happen when I reached 500 “likes,” like maybe Facebook would stop asking me to pay them $10 per day to promote my page, but no such luck. They’re still asking. I’m still saying no.

Thank you to everyone who reads my writing and reminds me that I am never, ever the only one.


If you’re new to my blog, I need to make sure you understand that I have no idea what I’m talking about. I don’t know anything about anything, so if you’re here because you want to learn how to be a better person … I can’t help you. I write because life is hard and I really don’t have the time or money for therapy. So you’re it. You’re my therapist(s). Congratulations!

This summer is going so well, but I have zero time to myself. Like, none. This irritates me.  I operate best with some time and space to call my own, and if my children would just RECOGNIZE and stop being children I would maybe have the potential to be a Pinterest-perfect mom. Or at least have more time to write about the idea of being one.


I assume that the moms who are able to be Pinterest-perfect either have an awful lot of help at their disposal, or their children are not real children. My kids are sweet but I literally feel like I’m running in circles all day long just dealing with what they’ve done or stopping what they are about to do.

Ideally I should stay one step ahead of them, but that’s difficult to do when the baby has tipped the garbage can over and you find her playing in raw egg, just at the precise moment your older two decide to start bloodying each other on the carport outside. All of those parenting articles are supremely unhelpful when Salmonella and blood is happening in separate, simultaneous events. Have you ever read anything that addressed that situation? Neither have I.

Apparently, my children do not want a Pinterest-perfect mother, which is working out well since I’m never going to be one. So in that regard, I suppose we really are going to live happily ever after.

On Being Goofy.

Our desktop computer is located in the “man cave” which is not easily accessible to the rest of the house, so I can only write after the kids are in bed. This irritates me because I do my best thinking between the hours of 7-10 a.m. and my worst thinking between the hours of 7-10 p.m. My life is backwards.

Robbie — that’s my husband, and quite frankly I can’t refer to him as “Husband” anymore because it requires too much thought — said that I shouldn’t write so much about what goes on here because people will be afraid to be my friend or watch our children. I told him that is for the best. Let this blog be the sifter for the weak.

After we moved, Asher got sick. And then he got really sick, like poop running down his legs as I tried to keep up with it, as the baby screamed in hunger from her high chair, as Maverick had to make his own sandwich and feed his little sister her dinner, because all I could do was deal with the poop, sick. That went on for seemingly my whole life. 

Sometime before he got completely better, Pepper suddenly learned to crawl and then several days later she started talking. One day she was saying “ba-ba-ba” and the next thing we knew she was saying “Mama,” “Daddy,” “Hello,” “Bye-bye,” “Maverick,” “Brother (or it might be Asher, we really can’t tell. It sounds like Bubba),” and “Night-night.” She also started waving, and didn’t like it when I left the room so now she follows me, in her slow, deliberate crawl.

It was all so charming. I mean, really.

But the charm and cuteness unfortunately coincided with hours and hours of unhappy screaming from her crib when she would normally would be sleeping. This is otherwise known as a sleep regression. 

It is hell.

After many, many evenings of dealing with two rowdy boys plus a screaming baby who got upset every time I put her in her crib, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I guess by now I could have tried to rock her to sleep, but that isn’t sustainable for me. My kids all have to be okay with a kiss goodnight and a tuck into bed. After that, they’re on their own. Anyone who requires rocking or patting or singing or ANYTHING to sleep is not going to make it here. 

Maybe that makes me a hard-hearted person, but I have limits of what I can handle when I’m parenting solo 98% of the evenings. Rocking a baby who is almost asleep when one brother head butts the other brother and busts his mouth open, and then having to start the rocking process over again after patching up the bleeding brother because the baby requires rocking to sleep, is SO FAR BEYOND MY LIMITS.

So I went to Target and I bought this elephant that sings and tonight she only cried for 30 minutes instead of her usual 90.

A friend of mine from high school emailed me this week and said babies are goofy and they make their mothers goofy. He’s so right. I am goofy. I’m also:

1. Tired as hell
2. A terrible driver
3. Unkempt
4. Emotionally tumultous
5. A nervous wreck
6. Dietarily disappointing
7. Possibly an alcoholic

So really, goofy is one of my better traits. 

Santa. On Acid.

This is me, barely hanging onto sanity. I am clinging to two potted plants. Red flag.

Photo credit: Maverick, age 5

Part of what makes me special, or maybe especially crazy, is that you can’t tell by looking at me that I’m losing it. 
Take our across-the-street neighbor, for example. He looks a lot like Santa Claus. On acid. It didn’t take long for me to deduce that he was crazy, but I bet he thinks we are perfectly normal people. So … who is crazier?
Chew on that for awhile. I’ll get back to you.