I have a guest post up over at A Day In The Life Of a Drama Queen’s Momma, and you should definitely go over there and check it out!
Go on. I’ll wait.
Saturday.
Anonymous Reader Photo
A friend suggested I begin something called “Anonymous Reader Photo,” and I didn’t just think yes, I thought HELL YES, THAT IS BRILLIANT.
From now on, I’ll be accepting anonymous (or not, whichever you prefer) photos from my readers to post for the enjoyment and entertainment of others! You can e-mail them to me at modernmommymadness@gmail.com or send them via social media.
If you follow me on Instagram, then you already know that I’m a huge fan of kid art. My anonymous friend sent me this picture of her daughter’s latest creation, two smiling suns holding hands. It makes me smile.
Two happy suns holding hands.
Make sure to follow Modern Mommy Madness on Facebook and Instagram! I’m probably supposed to love Twitter but I kind of hate it … #sorrynotsorry.
Cram Crackers.
If you are able to go to the bathroom today without it being a circus event, don’t take it for granted.
I’m in a place in my life right now where everything is a problem, particularly trips to the bathroom. Children toddle after me, play in my makeup drawer, and stretch my prescription glasses to oblivion when I am indisposed. So if you’re reading this post while sitting on the toilet in peace … BE GRATEFUL, IS ALL I’M SAYIN’.
In this particular season, which seems infinitesimal, it’s hard to find time to write or maintain and build friendships. It’s hard to keep food in the house. It’s hard to strike a balance every day and not ignore my children.
Sometimes I wish everyone would just go away so I could do yoga in our living room, because surely a few sun salutations would make everything seem more manageable, right?! Yogis are such relaxed people.
Other relaxed people:
1. Marijuana farmers and consumers.
2. Hypnotists.
3. That guy “Chubs” on Pawn Star.
4. Robbie Hobbs.
My husband, the aforementioned Robbie Hobbs, is extremely supportive of my writing. He is truly my biggest cheerleader, and I can’t say enough how vital he is to any success I’ve had or will see in the future. I definitely need him by my side, and he’s there … until he runs out of his favorite boxers. Then he’s all, “Where are all my boxers?! What do you do all day?!” (Note: asking this question never ends well.)
I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I DO ALL DAY, MOTHERF*CKER.
I drag three kids to an allergist appointment and, due to an unfortunate series of events, never wish to call the allergist, think of the allergist, or show my face at the allergist’s office again.
I feel like a terrible mother multiple times per day, because apparently women are wired to self-loathe and self-question and over-think everything to the point of exhaustion. My kid knows the words to that song?! I’m a terrible mother. My kid tried to fight a nurse?! I’m a terrible mother. Eggo waffles are processed in a factory?! I’m a terrible mother. I have varicose veins there? I’m a terrible mother.
I didn’t say it had to make sense. Just shut up.
I patch up thumbs when they get smashed in doors. I untangle cords. I help build block towers and break up fights when the tower is inevitably knocked down.
I remind that we do not bite.
And finally, I give our little boys graham crackers to eat for their afternoon snack and I send them outside. I pat myself on the back for having the foresight to serve crumbly crackers outside and not inside, thus avoiding the extra work of sweeping the kitchen.
I then hear an inordinate amount of noises that I can’t quite identify. I allow it to continue for longer than I should, because I am unable to muster the will to stand.
Eventually, the noise level increases and I get up to investigate. I hear myself yelling something that I never imagined saying to anyone, ever: “OH MY GOD, DID YOU SHOVE GRAHAM CRACKERS UP YOUR BUTT?!”
The answer is yes, he definitely did.
My middle child, underwear filled with pulverized crackers, was gleefully throwing crumbs at his older brother and yelling “BOOTY CRUMBS!” as they laughed hysterically.
“They’re crammed really far up there,” my oldest offered helpfully.
Indeed, they were.
Next time anyone anywhere in any situation asks me, “What do you do all day?” I’m going to look them in the eye and say *cram crackers.
(If you liked this post, then you should follow me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter!)
Y’all Come Back, Now.
Seriously, do come back.
The Beehive.
I AM A VAIN PERSON. There, I said it.
It takes me a long time to get ready if I’m going out. I never leave home without at least minimal makeup on, and before I had kids I would literally lie in bed at night planning out what I was going to wear the next day. Apparently deep, intellectual thinking is not my forte.
Earlier this week, I was in the restroom chatting with one of the ladies from my Zumba class when she stopped mid-sentence and asked incredulously, “Are you putting on LIPSTICK?!”
Yes. Yes, I was. I was putting on lipstick, right before an exercise class, in an all-ladies gym. Vanity doesn’t have to make sense, people. Have you ever seen the women with the looooooong fake nails that have jewels glued to them? Does that make sense to you? How the hell do they take care of their basic needs with those talons in the way?
BUT WAIT. It doesn’t have to make sense. Because, vanity.
My hair has always been my pride and joy, despite the fact that it has the consistency of hay if I don’t beat it into submission on the daily and the natural blonde color has darkened to more of a gross dishwater brown with each pregnancy (I have also noticed a significant increase in silver strands, thank you motherhood). My hair is the one thing that has remained recognizable to me over the years. It didn’t get stretch marks or scars. It’s not starting to wrinkle, like my neck.
Knowing all of this, you can probably understand why it’s vital that only someone who is both sober and skilled be allowed to mess with my hair. I have tried coloring it myself, and we all know how that turned out (note: badly). I have tried to cut corners and save money by going to some cheap place or letting students do it.
Three years ago, I even had someone cut and color my hair who was in the active stages of drunkenness. I mean, I do live in the Deep South where day drinking is both encouraged and socially acceptable … but not when you’re holding a pair of scissors. I was too freaked out to figure out what to do, so I literally sat frozen with fear and prayed for a miracle.
My prayer was not answered.
My hair was ruined.
I went to The Beehive Salon in Baton Rouge, LA several days later because someone needed to fix everything that was wrong, and blessedly, no one there drinks on the job. Pam Panepinto, co-owner of the salon and hair extraordinaire, righted everything that was wrong that time, and every time since. I want to hug her every time I see her, both because I am so happy to be away from the never-ending laundry pile at my house, and because I know she’s going to turn me from haggard to hot in 2 hours flat.
Sometimes people will say, “Haggard? What haggard?! Roots?! What roots?! ” Mmm-hmm. I prepared for that by taking before and after pictures after my last visit to the salon. Let’s take a little trip down haggard-to-hot lane, shall we?
Do you still want to tell me that you don’t see roots? I DIDN’T THINK SO.
Pretty impressive transformation, right?!
My vanity says yes.
Because they are so amazing, the people at The Beehive are offering all new clients who mention my blog a 20% off discount. You don’t even have to mention it nicely. You can say Modern Mommy Madness is a freaking lunatic and I want to punch her in the face, and they will still give you the discount. And you will leave looking hot.
Visit their website for a full menu of services, and be sure to tell me about your experience if you decide to go! Maybe we can be Eskimo sisters of hair.
This post is sponsored by The Beehive Salon. But even if they weren’t sponsoring it, I’d still tell you how awesome they are.
Get A Proper Bra Fitting (and other wise words).
My Dearest Daughter,
One day you will be old enough to find a computer and Google me or yourself and maybe you’ll find this list of things that I want you to know.
I guess I could write them on a real piece of paper and put it in the top of my closet with your brother’s baby teeth and the shard of glass that I pulled from your other brother’s butt cheek, but I think we both know that it would get forgotten up there. Or lost.
I’m sorry I’m not the normal kind of mother who makes baby books and writes things down on paper, and I hope that when you read this, if ever, you choose to apply it to your life instead of freaking out because OMG MY MOTHER IS SO WEIRD. Please don’t rebel and post half-naked selfies on the internet. That is not advisable.
Just … don’t.
Things I Want My Daughter To Know:
It’s important to act like a lady, but some situations warrant unladylike behavior. If you’re going to act like a crazy bitch, make it count. When the deed is done, fix your hair, reapply your lipstick, and carry on.
You’re beautiful. Make the most of what you’ve got. But also? Your behavior and your words will make or break you. Spend just enough time on your appearance to make you feel confident, and spend the rest of your time being the kind of person that others want to be around.
Be real. I want so much for you to be comfortable enough with who you are to actually be yourself all of the time. That person rocks. Don’t try to hide her.
Other women will try to tear you apart. I want you to carefully select girlfriends who will lift you up and support you. Pick friends who GET YOU. Band together with people who make you laugh so hard you cry happy tears, and who will also cry sad tears with you when appropriate. If you have friends like that, it won’t hurt as much when the haters hate.
Haters are gonna hate. One day you’ll stop caring. Until that day comes, it hurts.
You don’t owe anyone anything. If anyone touches you in a way that you don’t like, don’t just sit there and allow it to happen. This is when unladylike behavior is warranted. Cut ’em.
You’re going to be underestimated. It’s hereditary. I hope that you focus more on the high that comes from surprising people with your intelligence, than the temporary attention you’ll get from being a pretty girl. Anyone can be a pretty girl. No one can be YOU.
Your father and brothers are going to make it very hard for you to date. I’m sorry about that, but hopefully the boy who manages to impress those three will be worthy of your time and affection.
If you find a boy you like, then date him. You don’t have to marry him. Even if he asks you to.
You come from a long line of strong women. I expect you to uphold your heritage by finding yourself, settling in, and being true to yourself no matter what life throws at you.
Don’t have sex until you’re ready to have babies. Don’t have babies until you’re with the man you want to father them. And for the love of all that is holy, don’t stop educating yourself until you’re employable. Yes, I wrote all of in that bold. Take heed.
Even if you’re terrible at it, do something. Eventually you will find the right thing, the thing that makes you happy. The thing you’re not terrible at.
If you don’t like your situation, CHANGE IT.
And finally, go get a proper bra fitting. It’s well worth the extra time and money. And it’s amazing what proper undergarments can do.
(If you liked this post, then you should follow me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter!)
The Popcorn Shirt.
If you measure a holiday by gifts and flowers, then 2015 will go down as the okayest Valentine’s Day yet.
Robbie didn’t get me anything. No flowers, no card. I kind of pitched a fit at the end of the day and he managed to pull it together, but overall our day was really simple. This is fine with me — shhh, don’t tell my husband — because honestly I don’t recall last Valentine’s Day or any other ones before that. My life is essentially becoming one big blur.
However, I’ll remember this Valentine’s Day because it was the day that all 5 members of our household tried on the popcorn shirt and my husband let me take a picture of him in it to atone for his lack of romanticism on the Most Romantic Day of The Year.
What’s a popcorn shirt?
WELL. It’s a magical shirt that is elf-sized, but will stretch to fit almost anyone. My father-in-law won it in some kind of raffle and gave it to my mother-in-law, who in turn gave it to me. The extent of the shirt’s capabilities is impressive, and I’m not easily impressed.
So here’s how we spent the evening portion of our Valentine’s Day:
Behold.
Popcorn shirt on a 20-month-old.
Popcorn shirt on a 3.5-year-old.
Popcorn shirt on a 6.5-year-old.
Popcorn shirt on an average-sized female.
Popcorn shirt on a big-and-tall male.
This shirt will literally fit ANYONE. I have decided that I need a whole slew of teensy, stretchy articles of clothing that I can cram into a “go bag.” Isn’t that what the con artists and CIA people call them? Except mine would just be packed for a super-last-minute girl’s trip, and I could share my clothes with all my friends and people on the street.
Because they would fit.
Is everyone else having sex right now?!
DAMMIT.
I’ll Drink To That.
It’s Friday night again — how did that happen already?! — and time for what I will henceforth refer to as Virtual Happy Hour. This is when I crash in my jammies, drink wine, and pretend that I’m hanging out with my best girlfriends.
There is no primping. No squeezing myself into real pants. There is no scene to been seen in. The scene is me, gripping a bottle of wine, hiding in a quiet room … because Daddy is getting up with the kids in the morning, and it’s been one helluva week.
Tonight I am in a celebratory mood. Who’s up for shots?!!
Nobody?!
COME ON.
This week, I was minding my own business in Target when a reader approached me … which was a first. I mean, I run into people periodically, but she recognized me from my blog and made a point to speak to me. I, of course, turned around to see who she was talking to. When I realized she was talking to ME, I started laughing and couldn’t stop, because I am not socially awkward or weird in the least.
Let’s all take a moment and be grateful that I’m a writer and not a person who, say, talks on the radio or sits in front of a camera, because wow. I will now take another shot, because just thinking about that stresses me out.
I potty-trained a human this week. And all the mothers everywhere said, “I’LL DRINK TO THAT.”
Modern Mommy Madness was included in this list on Today.com and I am so amazed and elated and also feel like maybe there was a mistake somewhere because how did that even happen?! My kids need to recognize. From now on, my discipline plan will be yelling “HEY! I was on the 11 Funniest Facebook Posts From Parents This Week list, so stop your whining and eat your dinner!” (Sidenote: that doesn’t work. At all.)
Robbie has a sugar ant colony in his car. They’ve been there for 8 months, since he gained ownership of the vehicle. I took it to the grocery store this week and totally freaked when I discovered that the ANTS are STILL IN THERE BECAUSE HE HAS NOT ADDRESSED The ISSUE, and this is the face I made.
I love that man. I really, really do. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, and we have no plans and no gifts and my expectations are very low which works for us right now … but … he has an ant colony in his car. That’s really tripping me up. I’ll have to find a way to move past it.
That’s true love, bitch.
Jumping Jacks.
Interviews are not my strong point. At all. Just ask one of the many members of management at my old corporate office where I endured several panel interviews before quitting to stay home with the kids.
Painful.
I have strong interpersonal skills, but when I’m being focused on intently by someone I don’t really know, I go weird. This is why one of my current life goals is to avoid putting myself in a situation where I’d have to go through an interview EVER AGAIN.
Writers and bloggers shouldn’t have to be interviewed, right?
Wrong.
I was very flattered to be asked to participate in a podcast interview recently (details forthcoming). I know very little about the world of podcasts, but I said yes without hesitation because why not, right? Then I proceeded to stress out about it for a week and eat ALL THE THINGS.
Yesterday, the day of the interview, I totally panicked. I paced around the house, checking the clock repeatedly, waiting for it to strike 12:30 so I could dial the number — which I also checked and rechecked repeatedly. I was so nervous and had no idea what to do with myself, so I put on my adult onesie and did jumping jacks. Because that’s normal.
I spent the interview being weird and laughy and trying not to yell “THIS IS TERRIFYING!!!” into the phone. Because, nerves.
If I ever have to return to the workforce, I might wear this to the interview. At least I’d feel warm and cozy.
If I ever end up famous (snort) and someone asks me, “Do you get nervous during interviews?” I’ll totally lie and claim that I never get nervous because I practice daily meditation, eat steamed kale for breakfast, and eschew caffeine.
I will not admit to jumping jacks and camouflaged onesies.
But you’ll know the truth.
Modern Mommy Madness 