Tag Archives: motherhood

Doctor’s Orders.

Posted on by

3

It’s Friday night, which means it’s time for Virtual Happy Hour! My children are glued to glowing screens and my husband just ran to the store because I have PMS and want to drink chocolate syrup directly from the bottle.

DON’T YOU DARE JUDGE ME.

This thing holds 25 OUNCES. Thank you for my favorite glass, Kate!

This thing holds 25 OUNCES. Thank you for my favorite glass, Kate!

If I was a true professional with professional-grade tools, I would have edited out my facial blemishes. But I’m not a professional, nor am I a responsible adult, so I’m just going to sit here with my enormous glass of wine and zitty face and chill.

Today I downed two cups of coffee, went to Zumba, came home, logged onto Facebook … and saw my napping body plastered all over social media. That was jolting. Modern Mommy Madness made the Today.com list AGAIN! Now the whole nation will know the miracle of Napilates.

To all of the tired women everywhere: just lie down. As long as you have your workout wear on, it’s all good. You’re totally working out, it just looks like you’re not. If someone wakes you, tell them to HUSH. You’re EXERCISING.

In other news, Robbie has high blood pressure. This comes as no surprise, as I have witnessed him consume more vegetables in the past 6 months than he consumed in our entire 12-year relationship. Even still, it’s upsetting. I married a man two years younger than me. I didn’t sign up for hypertension.

I called and made him a doctor’s appointment, because what I may lack in bedside manner I make up for in pragmatism. I nervously waited for him to come home, to hear the awful truth of his situation. He walked in with a very serious look on his face.

“Well?? What did the doctor say?” I asked nervously.

He took a deep breath. I waited.

“She told me the only thing that will make me better is to get more blow jobs from my wife.”

I immediately said it was time for Napilates.

Modern Marvels.

Posted on by

1

Last weekend, I decided to do something new — I took my 6-year-old on a run with me. This activity is considered new because I don’t run.

We took a break in the parking lot of a nearby church and I gasped for air and pondered aloud that I didn’t know what time it was. Where’s your phone? he asked. I explained that I’d purposely left it behind because I need to do a better job of distancing myself from The Thing That Eats My Time.

I love technology. Years ago, when I met my husband, I was staunchly anti-technology. I was more of a purist. I liked fresh air, sunshine, long talks, and I couldn’t afford cable. My then-boyfriend had a cell phone, and I had one too, but I don’t even remember texting him, ever, because we got charged for each one that was sent. For a girl who had $300/month rent and couldn’t afford cable … being charged by the text was a problem. So I didn’t.

I mulled this over and then had the following conversation with my son:

Me: “You know, there weren’t cell phones when I was your age.”

Son: “There WEREN’T?! What did they have? OH! Wait, I know!! The thing Thomas Edison invented?”

Me: “Yes … that.”

11036673_10155512145945508_8678912509637383892_n

At this point in my life, I have completely embraced technology in all forms. A friend asked me recently what I would rather go without for a 31 days: swearing, drinking, internet, carbs, or orgasms? I don’t really want to go 31 days without any of them, but the internet isn’t even on the table. Or drinking. So I guess I’d have to pick among the final three options.

This game sucks.

I got a wine glass in the mail last week that holds 25 ounces. TWENTY-FIVE OUNCES. I had absolutely no idea who sent it. There was no note, and I didn’t recognize the return address. Who possibly could have sent me a massive wine glass?

11011195_1591532541081892_1375939618662576924_n

Finally, I posted on social media asking who sent it. I’m sure everyone waited on the edge of their seats to find out who it was from.

I am so glad that someone much smarter than me invented social media so I could ask one question to hundreds of people at the same exact time. Who sent me this massive wine glass? And thank you! But really … tell me who sent it.

It was from my best friend.

I felt like an idiot.

An idiot who was about to drink 25 ounces of wine.

Get A Proper Bra Fitting (and other wise words).

Posted on by

23

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.

20150218_084909~2

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.

10580004_10154601000425508_7176484101462875881_n

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!)

I’ll Drink To That.

Posted on by

2

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.

20150208_163652I 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.

20150208_163507

 

The Phases.

Posted on by

0

Parenting seems to come in waves of holy shit I think I may die and holy shit I totally have this.

Right now I’m in a holy shit I think I may die phase. I don’t want to bore you with the details … like how my youngest child wants nothing more in this world than to run into the street in front of our house, or how, at the playground, she doesn’t want to play on the equipment because she would much rather wander into the woods.

I just found myself on my knees in the bathroom, trying to talk my middle child through his first poop on the toilet. We did yoga-type breathing. We sang songs. I gave him lots of encouragement. Finally, in an act of desperation, I asked Jesus to help my son poop so I could move on with my day. I was on my knees anyway … I figured it couldn’t hurt.

Now more than ever, I find myself exasperated with my children and my life in general. Nothing is easy. Everything is hard. E-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g.

My days aren’t about me. They’re about them. And as much as I love being a mother, I still struggle with the part where my entire life revolves around these other human beings we’ve created. It’s not easy for me to set my own needs aside for another, 24 hours a day. But I do, because I am a mom.

I saw these two hug for the first time the other day, and that moment made my heart swell and my eyes fill with tears. All of the energy I pour out isn’t for nothing. It’s for everything.

20150206_103326(1)

Virtual Happy Hour.

Posted on by

12

It’s Friday night, and if I had the wherewithal to put some real pants on and meet a girlfriend for a drink, I WOULD. Unfortunately, I’ve had the same toothpaste on my zits since this morning and the mere thought of brushing my hair makes me exhausted.

It’s been that kinda week.

If we were to meet for drinks, I’d have a lot to say. First of all, this week of motherhood sucked. If you were silly enough to ask, “How come?” I wouldn’t even feel like rehashing it all. I would just silently pour myself another glass of wine. I would then mention the fact that there is only one of me and there needs to be like, three.

I’m potty-training my middle child again. Hopefully it will stick for real this time, cross your fingers, girlfriend. NOW. Cross them.

20150206_114549

The reason my pants are tight.

The potty trainee gets M&M’s every time he uses the toilet, which is working out well except for the fact that I hand him one or two, and then immediately eat a fistful because potty-training is hell and I loathe it with every fiber of my being.

Then there is the matter of my writing. Excuse me while I pour myself another glass.

This week I hit a low point and found myself wondering if writing is a stupid waste of time. I could spend my time doing a million other, more constructive, things that would better my family … like cooking organically, clipping coupons, or remembering to pay the water bill. I don’t know. Shit like that.

If I didn’t write, I would actually have time to be a decent Room Mom, instead of a total slacker who throws random baked goods and hastily-written checks at the school and swears to herself she will do better next time.

I’m not even making any real money.

I already have so much on my plate.

My extended family is mortified by some of the things that I write. My use of profanity embarrasses them.

I AM AN EMBARRASSMENT TO MY FAMILY.

That’s a hard thing to know. I never set out to be an embarrassment. If I didn’t have this compulsive need to write words and share them with people, maybe everything would be easier. No one would know that I do things like eat my kid’s candy and then lie about it, or drink and swear on occasion. They wouldn’t know how much I struggle to parent my children.

No one would know anything about me at all.

But the problem is, my life would be impossible for me to live healthfully if I couldn’t write about it. I’m not writing for my family. I’m writing for me.

For my sanity.

So I can breathe.

As scary as it can be to put myself out there, I continue to show up and write words because I don’t want to cut my own ear off or whatever happens when a creative person isn’t allowed to create. And honestly, I feel it is my duty to announce to women everywhere that sometimes being a wife and a mother is so hard and insanely frustrating that you just want to take the damn hand mixer and throw it through a window.

You aren’t a failure for feeling that way. You’re normal. That’s my message.

And then two nights ago, as I was dumping the third basket of clean clothes on my bed to fold while I waited for Robbie to come home from work and rescue me from our terrible children, my phone beeped.

I had an e-mail.

I’m going to be in another book.

10349129_10155412039145508_2601834079228706583_n

I’M GOING TO BE IN A REAL BOOK WITH PAGES!!!!!!!!

A friend shared this in a writing group I’m in today, and I love it. “A blessed unrest.” That is what it’s like to constantly want to write and share your thoughts, profane as they may be.

There is a vitality,
a life force,
a quickening
that is translated through you into action,
and because there is only one of you in all time,
this expression is unique.

And If you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost.
The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine
how good it is
nor how valuable it is
nor how it compares with other expressions.

It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly
to keep the channel open.
You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work.
You have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate YOU.

Keep the channel open…
No artist is pleased…

There is no satisfaction whatever at anytime
There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction
a blessed unrest that keeps us marching
and makes “us” MORE alive than the others.

Martha Graham
( – a letter to Agnes De Mille-)

Toddleritis.

Posted on by

11

For approximately 6 weeks, I have felt like I just cannot get it together.

I’m forgetting things. I’m struggling to get simple tasks accomplished, like keeping food in the house and making sure Maverick’s school uniforms are clean. Robbie would ask me something like, “Where are all my boxers?” and I would get irrationally angry.

At first I thought I was just tired from the holidays. Then, I thought it was probably because I’m trying to write and get published more, and that takes time and energy.

Maybe I was anemic. My mother-in-law asked if I have had my thyroid checked recently … maybe it was that. Maybe I’m not sleeping well enough.

I bought some ZzzQuil.

My mother asked me on several occasions, “Are you okay?” or, “Why are you so tired?” I could never come up with a good answer, because what am I supposed to say?! I HAVE KIDS. But my husband was starting to give me concerned looks, and I was starting to wonder about myself. What was my problem?! Did I need to cut back on writing? Did I need to start going to bed earlier? Take more vitamins?

And then, it dawned on me.

The toddler.

Pepper, with her always-sunny disposition, has become a true toddler. She runs from me, darting between my legs. Half of the time, when we are at home, I have no idea where she is. She’s a climber. She tries to touch the cooktop when I’m boiling eggs. She attempts to grab the hot frying pan. Tonight, she opened the oven when it was set to 425 fish-stick-cooking degrees.

She bites. She pulls everything out of every drawer, cabinet, basket, and box. She hits and pulls hair. I am forever grabbing her hands and reminding her, “Be gentle.”

She locks herself in rooms and closets. She learned how to open doors and loves to sneak into the bathroom to play in the toilet. She tries to strip herself naked.

She enjoys trying to dive headfirst into the bath tub when her brothers are taking a bath, but her very favorite thing is eating wet sand at the playground.

Pepper has started really talking. She screams “EAT!” or, “I HUNGRY!” when she needs food. She says “I SOWWY!” when she bites me. She exclaims “I DID IT!” and “HI, PEPPER!” because she mimics everything her older brothers say and do. This includes yelling “SHUT UP!” at inappropriate times. She also will randomly yell the word “poop.”

I am not anemic. I am not depressed or stricken with another bout of mono (I had a terrible case of it in high school). It’s an even graver condition, I’m afraid. One that will last another 12, maybe 18 months.

I have toddler.

Pepper does not enjoy being judged.

Pepper does not enjoy being judged.

(If you liked this post, then you should follow me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter!)