Mesolutions

This year, I resolve to be kinder to myself.

I resolve to stop bullying myself.
I resolve to stop making fun of myself for every little misstep.
I resolve to stop berating myself when I make mistakes.
I resolve to stop calling myself "stupid", "idiot" and "fat ass".
I resolve to feel like I am good enough.
I resolve to feel like I deserve the good things.
I resolve to not feel responsible for the bad.
I resolve to give myself a mommy mulligan when I need it.
I resolve to feel OK doing something just for me.
I resolve to feel worthy of the life I have.
I resolve to love myself.
No matter what.
I resolve to be OK with the fact that I will probably screw all of these up.


Happy New Year, friends.
I hope the best day of your 2012 is the worst day of your 2013.

Today You Are One

Dear H,

The Beginning

A year ago today, you came into our lives, a little ball of pink that was perfection from head to toe. Today, you make us feel complete as a family and make us smile on a daily basis with your sweet disposition.

Your favorite people outside of mom, dad and sis are your morning teachers, Alyssa and Mary. Every morning when I drop you off at school, your face lights up when you see them, and theirs does the same at the sight of you.You are a very lucky boy to have people in your lives who think you are as special as we do.

One Year

We call you Chubby, Budrow Wilson, Buddy Boy and Bubba. Your are little, but mighty. You are incredibly strong and can do things that you shouldn't have the ability to do yet.

You are the smiliest baby I have ever seen. You smile all day, every day. The only time you get mad is when I walk out of a room or walk into one and don't instantly pick you up. You love your mama. The feeling is mutual.

You are advanced far beyond your age, and, I believe, incredibly smart. You seem to understand things that are way beyond your pay grade and are so good at fine motor skills that it amazes me on a daily basis. You were also an early walker and already have a grasp on music.

Thank you for helping me through a year where I needed a sweet little ball of goo like you to help me get through some hard times. You are my tiny rock and I love you.

Love,

Mama

Tis the Season for Regifting

To be sung to the tune, "Deck the Halls".

Tis the season for regifting
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
Here's some shit I won't be needing
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
I've got some ugly gay apparel
Fa-la-la, la-la-la, la-la-la
The perfect gift for my Aunt Carol
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la

Secret Santa is here before us
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
Time to get crappy gifts that bore us
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
I hope this Fubry brings you pleasure
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
I scoured the basement for this treasure
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la

Digging through last year's passes
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
They're the perfect gifts for lads and lasses
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la 
Crappy gifts all come together
Fa-la-la, la-la-la, la-la-la.
Reflecting the tastes of the bearer
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la

How to Help Someone Who is Grieving

After dealing with my brother's murder and finding myself virtually abandoned by most of my friends, I was devastated. The thing is though, most of them didn't do it because they were insensitive dicks. They did it because they didn't know what to do to help me. Rather than say the wrong thing, they said nothing. I get it. I do. Most days.

What I really want to do is help others help people who are experiencing devastating loss not feel as alone as I did. Whether someone has lost a child, had a loved one murdered, experienced a loss to suicide or simply lost their grandmother, they need you. Even if you aren't close, they need you. So be there. For them. Even if they are a virtual stranger. In the long run, strangers were some of the people that helped me the most.

Most of this pertains mainly to tragic loss, but it can help you help someone that is experiencing any type of loss.


How to Help Someone Dealing with Devastating Loss

They may need some space in the beginning.
When devastating loss first happens, it is impossible for the grieving to comprehend what is going on. They have no words and are often just blank inside, erased by what has happened. They may need some time to be able to speak with others. Let them know that you are there for them, but don't be offended if they don't return your call, even if you were very close before the tragedy.

Call. Call again. Then call again. Then call some more.
They may not want to talk in the beginning, but don't stop trying to reach out to them. And trying. And trying. Because by the time they are ready to speak to people and need someone to talk to, most people have stopped trying. And the grieving are most likely not going to call you when they need help. So keep calling and emailing and texting and trying. Because even if they don't pick up the phone, they feel better knowing you are there and that you care.

Understand that their loss is different.
This is one of the biggest things to realize when helping someone deal with devastating loss. No two people grieve the same and there is no greater demonstration of this than when dealing with the tragic loss of a loved one. There are a few things to note on this topic:

• Don't give advice. Unless you have walked a mile in the grieving's very specific shoes, advice can just make them feel that what they are doing is wrong.
• Don't compare their loss to your own. Comparing a natural death or one that happened later in life can alienate someone grieving tragic loss and make them feel even more alone.
• Avoid general condolences. "It was just their time", "God wanted another soldier", "Everything happens for a reason" and other general condolences can really hurt in the case of devastating loss. I found that, "There are no words" helped the most. Because there aren't.

Don't avoid the topic.
Understandably, when someone experiences tragic loss, their friends and family are at a loss of what to say, so they say nothing. This can make the grieving feel that their loved one's life was not important. It also takes away a much-needed outlet for the grieving. It is better to say something than to say nothing at all.

If they bring it up, don't clam up.
When the grieving do bring up what happened, no matter how horrific it was, don't clam up or change the subject. There is nothing more painful than opening yourself up only to be shut down by the person you finally felt comfortable talking with.

Get their mind off it.
Though pretending nothing happened is not the way the go, sometimes going out and doing normal things can help the grieving cope. Things that are a bit out of their comfort level might even help because they have to concentrate on the task at hand and not their loss. So, take them ice skating, or enroll in a painting class. Just include them.

Ask how they are doing.
People are often afraid that if they ask a person grieving a devastating death how they are doing, they will trigger thoughts of their loss. Believe me, they don't need a trigger. They think about it every minute of every day at the beginning, every other minute of the day in the middle, and every third minute of the day after time has passed. All asking will do is show the person that you care. And don't just ask right after it happens. Ask next month, next year, next decade. Forever. They will love you for caring and remembering what they have been through/will always be going through. 

Know that it takes a long time.
By the time the reality of what has happened sets in, most people think that the grieving should be "over it". Give the person time to grieve. Devastating loss is a lot to process. It can take months or years to even understand what happened enough to start grieving the person's loss, let alone if it was a violent or unexpected death. Remember that they will be very broken. Days, weeks, months, years from now.

And because it is important,
Text. Email. Call. Again. And again. And again.
Keep trying. And trying. And trying. Because knowing you are there for them will be the thing that helps them the most.

In memory of John. Wild and untamed. Forever.

The 10 Commandments of Marriage

Thou shalt learn to maketh thine own bed. Thou did lie in it, and thou shalt make it if thou was the last one in it. It doesn't magically make itself every day. I promise.

If thou would like the skidmarks removed from thou's underwear, then thou shalt put them into the laundry hamper. The Goddess does not pick up thou's dirty drawers or socks. (Note to all, do not Google image "skidmark". Ever. Seriously. Shivers.)



Thou shalt not comment on the price of the Goddess' accessories. If you can buy $100 worth of "research material" for thou's fantasy baseball draft, I can sho' nuff buy myself a Michael Kors handbag. End of discussion.

Thou shalt listen. Thou shalt also hear. This means you can not tune out all requests to do household chores with your special "selective hearing" setting. I know your ass heard me the first time.

Before thou met The Goddess, thou was able to sustain thineself through food. Thou must sometimes exhibit this past quality to appease The Goddess. Takeout is acceptable. Actually, you suck at cooking. Takeout is preferred.

If thou wanteth to visit the holyland, thou better pay homage to The Goddess that permits access to it first. Wine and chocolate are acceptable forms of homage.



If thou covets another man's wife, thou will swiftly have thou's penis removed. Lorena ain't the only one who can wield a carving knife.

If thou has not provided sustenance for thine family for the evening, thou has no say in what sustenance has been provided. If you don't like it, don't eat it.

Thou shalt not get out of a task just by doing a shitty job at it. I have fallen for that crap before. Groceries aren't that hard to purchase. Now get thou's ass back to the store and get the light cream cheese. Fat free tastes like shit.

Thou shalt not ignore the Goddess' work orders. The third time I have to ask you to fix the dishwasher, I am putting all of the dirty dishes in your underwear drawer.

Meet the Boozehounds

Now I know a lot of you by reading your blogs, comments, etc. But I realized that you Boozehounds may not know each other. I thought we would do a fun little get-to-know-each-other activity.

Dearest Duchess

Dearest Duchess,

Hey there Katiepoo. Congrats on your womb being filled with the fruits of Willie's loins. It must be some heavy shit holding in the heir to a throne and all. I mean, I was just holding in two babies that people would be all thrilled didn't end up spreading pixie dust on the Tilt-A-Whirl or barking for the yak woman, so I can't even imagine gestating the future king or queen of England. Dang.

Sorry to hear about your morning sickness, BTW. Just because you will literally be hurling at a gilded throne doesn't make tossing your cookies any easier. And having to launch your lunch all day and then have 50 million photogs stalking your every move when you just want to hit the A&P to get some Sprite and Goldfish crackers has to really blow. Do they even have Goldfish in jolly old E-town? If not, I am hella sorry, girl. That shit got me through the first trimester in both of my pregnancies. Hit me up with your addy and I will send some your way along with some two-buck chuck to celebrate with come d-day.

A few tips on staying graceful in the spotlight while your hips spread and your face bloats: 

• Black. All Black. All the time. Seriously.
• Wear the crown everywhere you go from now on. People will be less likely to notice the Dorito stains on your shirt with that bling on your head.
• Always stand next to the queen when possible. Because damn will she make you look good in comparison.
• Get a lot of "future queen/king in training" t-shirts. Because no one else can pull that off without looking like a douche canoe.

Anywho. Congrats on the preggo, sorry your eggo is kind of starting out as a dick/bitch. My second did too and I know how many goat balls it sucks. Don't worry, it will get better. Or not. Either way, hang in there.


PS: I hope the baby gets your good looks. Though Wills used to be the hot one, Harry has totally taken that ball and ran with it while your hubs has gotten kind of long in the face. Don't worry, he was adorable up until five years ago, so I am sure all will be well…


Cheers,
The Beer Bitch

Adopt a Ho for the Holidays

Now that the holiday season is upon us, it seems we have even less time for ourselves. As if mother(and father)hood wasn't lonely enough, now we are so busy with familial and ceremonial obligations, that we don't have time to do the little things that make us more than just a mommy. The things that make us happy. The things that, in the long run, make us better parents. I would like to help with that. Via...

I have a proposition for you all: let's Adopt a Ho for the Holidays. What's that now? No, I don't want you to go under a bridge and find a hooker to hang out with and feed soup. I want to pair you up with a fellow Boozehound to do a care package exchange. Just a little something that can help brighten everyone's holidays and make us feel a little special. There will be a $25 spending limit, so you don't have to break the bank to participate.

Anyone that is interested, just send me your name, address and a list of likes and dislikes (ie: loves Precious Moments figurines and kitty cat sweaters, dislikes bondage and vodka) and I will match you up with a fellow ho. Then, just put your package together and send it to the ho I have matched you up with, and they will do the same. It might even spark some real friendships, which is the best gift a mommy can get, really.

If you want to adopt a ho this holiday, email your name, address and like/dislikes to ilikebeerandbabies @ gmail.com (remove spaces first).

Happy HOlidays, Boozehounds!

Today You Are Three

Dear J,

The Beginning

My sweet little girl. The light of my life. My reason for being better. You are now such a funny and quirky little girl. You love animals and farts. If I ask you what you want for your birthday, Christmas or your dreams at night, you almost always say something sweet. Like candy, or cupcakes, or cookies, or brownies. You have a big sweet tooth, just like your mama.

You love to sing and dance. If I ask you what you want me to sing, you always say, "Ba Ba Black Sheep." You also love the song Rehab by Kellar Williams, Rumor Has It by Adele and anything by Yo Gabba Gabba. Your favorite things to watch on TV are Pee-Wee's Big Adventure and Where the Wild Things Are. You also love Coraline.

One Year

Right now you like to play kitchen and babies. You are a very good mommy. In fact, at school, you act like a mommy to all of your friends. You hug them when they are sad, rub their backs if they are trying to take a nap and help them do things they can't because they are younger than you.

You have the sweetest personality of any child I have ever met. You are loving, funny and almost always in a good mood. You are full of joy, and that joy rubs off on all of those that are around you.

Two Years

We call you Sweet Pea, Bean, Beanie Weenie and Nark (sorry, you are a bit of a hall monitor).

At night before you go to bed, I always tell you your dreams. After I tell you them, you always say, "Tell me my other dreams." You like to read Shel Silverstein poems, as well as Giraffe and a Half (you always have to find the bee), Tickle Monster, Giraffes Can't Dance and Fancy Nancy Halloween or Bust.

Three Years

Thank you for making the last three years of my life better than I could have ever imagined. I love you more than I thought was possible.


Love,

Mama

I Just Need a Day

Today I am at my boiling point. All I want is one day with my kids where they don't drive me to take a swig of ethanol for every 15 minutes I spend with them.

I just need a day.
A day where my son doesn't cry hysterically every time I detach him from my hip to do something frivolous, like go to the bathroom or feed myself.
A day where my children don't constantly fight over nothing.
A day where I am not asked for something every 15 seconds.
A day where I don't have to fight my kids to do simple things, like brush their teeth or put their clothes on.
A day where my daughter doesn't whine for everything she wants or needs.
A day where my children don't trash the house the second I turn around.
A day where no one fights taking a nap.
A day where I can sit and enjoy one child without the other climbing on top of me out of jealousy.
A day where I don't cook dinner only to have to let mine get cold while I coax my daughter to eat hers.
A day where no one is allowed to say the word, "why?"
A day where I don't get scratched or get my hair pulled fulfilling my children's needs.
A day where I actually feel like my children appreciate all that I do to make them happy and healthy.
A day where I feel both needed AND wanted.
Just one day.
Please.

All About Me

So a while ago, I promised to let you know a little more about me. Here is the first installment:

1. What is something you should be embarrassed about, but you're not? Picking my nose.
2. What are two things you do every day? Drink. Poop.
3. If you had a perfect day, what are three things it would include? My husband, my kids, wine.
4. A five word sentence that describes you... I like beer and babies. Man, that was easy.
5. What’s your biggest fear? Needles. I cry like a bitch when I have to get a shot or draw blood. No joke.
6. Where is place that you’ve vacationed and vowed to never return? New Orleans during Mardi Gras. *shivers*
7. What’s your number one goal for 2013? To not get pregnant.
8. What beverage do you drink the most? (Both alcoholic/non-alcoholic) Wine. Milk.
9. What’s your favorite meal to cook? Biscuits and gravy. It is an art and makes me nervous every. damn. time. I cook it.
10. Which is worse? A gaggle of immaculately dressed soccer Moms or a pack of ravenous wolves? That is like asking, "What would you rather drink? A bottle of Coppola Zin or a glass full of fox urine and hot sauce."
11. What is the worst way you've put your foot in your mouth? Probably im'ing one friend about how much of a bitch our other friend's wife was and accidentally sending the im to him instead. Doh.
12. If you were a cocktail/beverage/bar snack, what would you be? Long Island iced tea with a side of Gardetto's.
13. If you were a super hero what would your power be? Teleportation. Man it would rock to get anywhere in the world instantly. I would spend every lunch our on the beach.

Feel free to send me your questions about myself and I will answer them honestly and with brazen. I am happy to throw myself to the wolves for y'alls amusement. I will feature the questions and answers in future posts. Bring it, Boozehounds.

A Few of My Favorite Things

Since Oprah is out of the game, I thought I would do a take on her Favorite Things and hip you to what The Quiet Contemplator and The Cool Cucumber will be getting from me and ADD Daddy Santa this year. Sorry, none of you will be receiving a $2k bathrobe, trip to Vegas or new car out of this. But if you are looking for a gift for The Beer Bitch, you all know what I really want. Here are the infant and toddler editions of My Favorite Things from last year, for reference, or for more gift ideas for your life-sucking midgets wonderful, deserving children.

Things I like for The Quiet Contemplator:
  
Plan Toys Play House

Pee-Wees Playhouse Sets One and Two


The original Willy Wonka 

Melissa & Doug Dress-Up Reusable Sticker Pad

Tiny pink Toms 

LEGO DUPLO My First Fire Station
  
LEGO Duplo Building Set 

Little Tikes TotSports T-Ball Set

Little Blue Truck Book 

Pete the Cat: I Love My White Shoes Book

Things I like for The Cool Cucumber:

Little Tykes Workhorse


Ugly Doll

Melissa & Doug Habitats Reusable Sticker Pad


Tiny blue Toms 

Melissa & Doug Car Carrier 


Melissa & Doug Deluxe Pound and Roll Tower


Goodnight, Goodnight Construction Site Book  

How Do Dinosaurs Say Goodnight? Book



Mega Bloks


Bath Froggy

Dear single, stay at home and military mamas

Dearest single, SAH and military mamas,

You are the mother fucking shit. I bow down to the greatness that is you. What you mamas do on a daily basis is amazing and deserves some sort of congressional medal of honor. I have just spent five days as the sole caretaker of my youngins and it made me want to buy you a beer, or a puppy, or a midget, or whatever would make you the most happy. You deserve it. And then some. And then some more after that. You are goddesses.

After five long days trapped in the house alone with my two kids, I was about ready to commit harakiri. I hadn't showered properly in days because every time I tried, one of the nuggets would need me. I hadn't eaten a full meal because whenever it is my turn to eat, the excellent game of "What are you eating, mama? Can I have some?" started. I hadn't taken a descent poop in five days because god forbid mommy EVER be alone in the bathroom.

I was covered in the urine of two different children at two different times. I had an hour where they both cried simultaneously for seemingly no reason. They fought. They trashed the house. They basically went ape shit. And I was left standing in the rubble, ready to cry every night after bedtime. It was a disaster. I lost my temper, along with my mind, halfway through the third day. I felt like a turd of a mom. It is probably a good thing that we can't afford for me to stay at home, because I would end up in the loony bin. It would only take about a week.

Me after ADD Daddy returned home

And all I could think all weekend is that there are moms out there that do this for a living (without pay) and how awesome that is. How strong they must be and how much their kids must gain from having such an amazing mom.

I also thought about the mommies that were out there going this whole parenthood road alone and there are just. no. fucking. words. for how awesome you ladies are. I mean, really. Wow.

And don't even get me started about the puppy dogs and rainbows that are military mamas. Many of you are, in essence, both SAH AND single moms. And you can't even break off a piece of action on the side because your baby daddy is off fighting for our freedom. DAMN! You get a midget AND a puppy. And some of you mamas are the ones off fighting for your country while your babies are back at home. Damn, ladies. Mad kudos.

I think the world often casts a negative light upon single, SAH and military mamas and for that, I want to punch the world in the vagina. Because you are doing a job that is a million times harder than any job on the planet. Obama, Bill Gates and the entire cast of The Deadliest Catch have nothing on you ladies. You are rockstars. And I love you. Rock on, mamas. Rock on.

The Playroom

When we were looking for houses this spring, I was dead set on having an area that could be used as a playroom. It was pretty much my top priority outside of upgrading to more than one bathroom, getting an actual closet and having a space for The Cool Cucumber to sleep besides the hallway he was currently residing in. But hey, I have swanky, high-brow standards.

When we found our house, it had a huge, partially finished basement. I knew that we could finish it and make it into the perfect place for the kids to go crazy and for us to have our family room. We put up two new walls to divide the laundry area from the living area, installed a drop ceiling and laid new flooring. Here is just a bit of info on the playroom. I will add pics of the family room soon, or not most likely, because I am lazy.

The before. Gah. Concrete floors, exposed electric, white walls...

The after. New ceiling, floor, wall color, organization, and, of course, Fatty.

Ottomans and pillows from World Market. Table from Target. Art and frames from IKEA. Lamp from Marshall's. Fish (Boy) and snail (Alyssa) from Pet Smart.

Left detail

Those damned benches. Art by The Quiet Contemplator. Frames from IKEA.

Right detail.

Picasso prints from Allposters.com. Frames from IKEA.

Bench storage.

More detail.

The toy closet before. There used to be enormous wooden doors on it. We removed them before I could get a before pic because they were impossible to open and m'f'n dangerous, yo...

The toy closet after.

Curtains and shelving from IKEA.

Light from Marshall's.

Now don't go thinking this project was crazy expensive or that I have converted to Mormonism and started a perfect mommy blog (not that there is anything wrong with that). Everything you see here was cheap and easy, just like me. Have questions? Feel free to ask. I am happy to help!

Mom Up

There our times in our lives where we have to go beyond just being a mommy or daddy and become a true parent. When you have to "mom up" and go the extra mile for your kid. Whether someone hurts your kid, or they get really sick, or you need to make a big decision that will effect their future, these times are incredibly hard and, in the end, take a year or two off your life. But they are the reason we signed up for this gig. They are what make us more than just moms and dads. They are what make us the warriors that will fight to the death for our children.

I had one of these moments the other day. The Quiet Contemplator woke up in the middle of the night with a really high fever. Now, I am no fever alarmist. I have a kid in daycare. Fevers happen at our house about six times a week. I take all kiddie illnesses in stride. But this one was different. I don't know why, but it caused the mommy hairs on the back of my neck to stand up and yell, "Danger, Will Robinson!" It scared the shit out of me. I actually prayed to God to keep my baby alive.

By the time the sun rose, her fever was gone and she was all unicorns and jelly beans again. But I was not. I felt like I had been through the ringer. Even though she was fine in the long run, I had seen my baby's life flash before my eyes and had lost a few years off mine in the process. I was changed. Yet again. A new layer had formed on my skin, added by my intense love for my child. A layer that made me strong by making me weak. A layer that might add a few wrinkles to my outside, but will also add a new level to my inside.

Oh, sweet girl of mine. What you do to your mommy just by simply being alive.

You too, Bubba.

Fear the Crazy

Though my kids often drive me to drink (OK, let's be honest, I would drink either way), they are some pretty damned good kids. They share, take turns, don't throw an epic amount of falling-on-the-floor fits, don't have a lot of public meltdowns and don't hit or bite other heathens children. Overall, they rock. I know most of this is because they are just freaks of nature, but at least a little of it has to do with what me and ADD Daddy have done.

I think I have figured out why my kids mind like hypnotized monkeys. It is because they fear the crazy. Now, don't misunderstand me. I am not saying that my kids are good because they fear me. My kids think I am birthday cake with a side of awesomesauce. I am just saying that my kids are good because they sense the crazy behind my eyes the third time I say to not do something and my eye gets a little twitchy. They know mama has a bit of a crazy side and know it is easier just to put the dog turd down than to deal with the mess that is mad mama. It's a win-win, really.

Sure, they push boundaries and act crazy just like normal, smart kids do. But they don't act like fools while I ask them not to hit the cat over and over again in my sweetest mommy voice. I don't really have a sweet mommy voice. I work full-time, have to clean up after myself and others, pay bills, deal with health insurance, etc. I am a mom. Not Mary Poppins. And, FYI, Mary was getting PAID to act all nice like that. She probably went home and was a horrible alcoholic who tortured innocent animals for sport. Just sayin'.



My point? Good god, I don't know. I lost that a long time ago, along with my waistline. But I think my point is that a little bit of crazy goes a long way. You don't have to be saccharinely sweet to your kids 24-7 to be a good mom. Sometimes they need to know that you are also the boss, applesauce. A boss with a taste for pinot noir and a tiny bit of cray cray.

Remember: your are a mom, not Mother Theresa. And, besides, that bitch was only that nice because she didn't have any kids of her own (Just kidding. Love you TT, you so worldly.). If she did have kids, she would have put The Fear of God in them for sure. I am doing the same thing, only mine is The Fear of Mommy's Crazy. Now stop pulling your sister's hair before I lose my shit! *twitch twitch*

All About Me

A sweeter reader that goes by the tag Amazed sent me this query:

I've been following you for a while and have amassed a collection of questions for you that keep rolling over and over in my head after reading a post for the day. Would you ever consider having a "20 questions" page or something similar to the confessional where we could ask these oh-so-important questions? I have a feeling that you're readers will shit a Twinkie if given the chance to "chat" with you about specific, obnoxious personal questions. What do you think? If not, can I just ask you a bunch of invasive and dirty questions? xoxoxoxo

Well, Amazed, 

I would love nothing more than to witness someone shitting a Twinkie, so I, of course, accept the challenge. Though I have no idea why anyone would be excited about the chance to talk to me, given how idiotically truthfully I portray myself on this very blog.

Overall, I think there may be a big misconception out there about me. I think some of you may have the horribly incorrect notion that I am cool. I am soooo not cool. Let's just say, I am about as cool as a steaming hot cup of coffee. Read on for solid evidence of my uncoolness:

I am clueless.
I am the type of person that would be all, "Hey, fellow moms at my child's school, we should all get together sometime! Maybe we could start a book club. We can start with that new book everyone is talking about that I have no idea what it is about. What's it called again? Oh yeah, 50 Shades of Grey. You guys all read the first few chapters and we will get together and discuss it over wine."

Que the first book club meeting where we go to discuss 50 Shades and the crowd is all crickets and throat clearing because the entire book is about bondage, beatings and ben wa balls. AWKWARD! Oops. My bad.

I never think before I speak.
I am the type of person to blurt out to a room full of people, "My god, if I ever have to hear that song 'Boyfriend' again I am going to punch myself in the face", only to look around and see that every person in the room is wearing a "Bieber Fever" shirt. Doh.

I have diarrhea of the mouth.
Even once I realize that I have said something stupid, I. Just. Can't. Stop. The. Shit. From. Coming. Out. Ignorance flows from my lips at such a rate that it is impossible to plug the leak.

I am physically awkward.
I trip over my own feet. Daily. I have absolutely no athletic prowess and would sooner gouge my own eyes out with a rusty shoe horn than play a pick-up game of volleyball. Is that even an expression? See. It's bad.

I often dress like I have a mental disability.
Sometimes this comes off as quirky and cool. That is not the case. Most of my clothes are mismatched and many have stains and holes. I am not a trendy risk taker. I am a fashion nightmare.



Anyway. The point is, feel free to send me your questions about myself and I will answer them honestly and with brazen. I am happy to throw myself to the wolves for y'alls amusement. I will feature the questions and answers in future posts. Bring it, Boozehounds.

Momenemies of a Daycare Mama

I have to be a slave to the man to pay the mortgage and have no relatives who are crazy enough to deal with my children for free for nine hours a day, so I send my kids to daycare.

For those of you with kids in daycare, you know that it is an awesome place. I love our daycare. The teachers are ridiculously amazing and our kids basically walk in and give me the, "Don't let the door hit you in the ass" look when I go to hug them goodbye. 

Daycare teachers deserve awards for putting up with someone else's germ-encrusted kids all day for little pay. They don't rake in big bucks, they do it because they love kids. They are saints.

But even with all the learning, hugs between tiny friends, awesome teachers and snacks, daycare has its downfalls. The Momenemies below are not directed toward daycares, just the crap parents have to deal with who have kids in daycare in general. So, here we go:

The First Day

Whether you are dropping your infant off for their first day ever away from the wicked awesomeness that is Mommy, or dropping your toddler off for their first day at a new daycare, the first day blows. Big time. The first time I dropped The Quite Contemplator off at daycare following maternity leave, I rocked with her in a rocker and bawled like a fat girl whose cake was stolen for about an hour. Thankfully, it was only hard on me. Newborns don't seem to even notice you are gone. Toddlers, on the other hand, add a little more drama to the situation. Cue dropping your child off for the first day at a new daycare only to have them cling to your leg screaming, "Mommy! Don't leave me!" Thanks for that, kid. As if leaving you here so I can work on TPS reports all day wasn't hard enough.

The Germy Kid
No, it is not just an urban myth that daycares are cesspools of germs. Hand, foot and mouth, roseola, croup, you name it, daycares are full of sexy-sounding illnesses that will invade your child. No matter how much cleaning and bleach a daycare uses, germs are inevitable. Kids are just gross and love to share (their germs, not their toys for God's sakes!). Somehow, all of these illnesses seem to be traceable back to one kid: The Germy Kid. What exactly does this kid do on the weekends that he comes back every Monday with a new plague to spread upon his peers? Roll around in the Infectious Diseases lab at the hospital? Eat contaminated meat and dairy? Lick toilet seats? Come on! Spray this kid down with some Lysol and put him in quarantine already. Mommy is out of sick days. (My lovely carrier monkeys just managed to get their entire school sick right before our big Halloween party. Suck. And you're welcome.)

The Thermometer Mambo
Speaking of The Germy Kid, his outbreaks of mucus- and fever-inducing bacteria lead many mamas to do what I call the Thermometer Mambo. 100.1 is the most dreaded number for daycare moms. That is the number that means your kid is being sent home and has to stay there for at least 24 hours. This is fine, of course, if your kid is actually sick. I love me nothing more than rocking a sick baby in my arms while I catch up on my TiVo in my jammies. But most of the time it is just teething/a cold/malaria/your child trying to sap your will to live. Every time The Quiet Contemplator got a tooth, her fever would be EXACTLY 100.1. I am not even kidding. I spent about 50 sicks days with her at home, happy as a clam before I had to be "that mom" and break out my friend Mr. Tylenol to get her below the magic number. But many times, they really are sick, and that is when you get The Call.

The Call

The Call is what you get when you have lost the battle with Thermometer Mambo, or worse. Every mommy dreads seeing their daycare's number come up on their caller ID. It is never them calling to let you know that your kid is a ray of sunshine and puppy dogs and that they just wanted you to know how much they love having them. It is daycare calling to let you know that the projectile vomiting has commenced or that your kid is on the way to get stitches. I usually answer this call in some sort of, "What now?" fashion.

The Mean Kid

Every daycare has a mean kid. I am not talking about the everyday toddler behavior all kids exhibit. I am talking about the kid that you just look at and can see that their tiny beady eyes are filled with mirth. This is the kid that is always pushing, hitting, saying "mine!", stealing toys, etc. Often, this kid is also The Germy Kid.

The Incident Report
Sometimes these are the results of The Mean Kid attacking your child, sometimes these are reports of your child finally having enough from The Mean Kid and going all Cujo on them. Either way, they are embarrassing. You end up feeling like either your kid needs to buck up and hit back, or your kid has been watching too much Ultimate Fighting and needs to back off. Awesomeness all around. I just got an incident report stating that The Contemplator had hit the sweetest little girl in her class in the face with a truck. Out of nowhere. For no reason. Can toddlers file lawsuits? I am pretty sure she has a case. There goes The Contemplator's college fund.

The It's-Almost-Cheaper-to-Stay-Home Sayer
Let me cut this one off right at the knees. No, it is not almost cheaper for me to stay home with my kids than to work and send them to daycare. I am not raking in the McGotbucks working at a non-profit and all, but daycare costs less than I make in a year. Also, staying at home doesn't pay for insurance, or provide for retirement, or the many other frivolous needs mama has. And, since my husband is in the über high-paying profession of being a 4th grade teacher, mama has to work.

The Guilt
Like all mommies, daycare mamas have to deal with The Guilt. Was my kid too sick to go into daycare today? Is The Mean Kid going to make them cry again? Is it really cheaper for me to stay at home with them? Am I a bad mom for working when we could make it on Spam and cheese if I just stayed home? The Guilt sucks. But, like all Domestic Enemies, some days it sucks big time and some days it only sucks a little.


Want to read more Momenemies? Read my post about Momenemies of the Mom of a Newborn or head on over to Rants from Mommyland for more fun.

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram. 

The Confessional

Confessions from a fellow Boozehound

When I have been drinking, and have had one more than what I should, I turn into a game of Operation.  Basically there are “safe” zones and “unsafe” zones to touch me on.  If you touch an “unsafe” zone, aka my back, I will hurl multiple times.  And it’s not a pretty sight.

I must have something defective in my head (not referring to my brain), but when I hurl, unless I actively plug my nose, it comes out both my nose and mouth.  Dis-GUS-ting. 

Well, after one of these nights, someone had touched the unsafe zone and off the bathroom I ran.  Luckily, I plugged my nose.  But, after hurling multiple times, I came out to wash my hands.  While washing up, I sneezed….

Yep, I sneezed purple puke all over my white tank top.  I had a shirt on over the tank, so I threw the tank away, and proceeded to button up the shirt.  The reason I had a tank top on: I’m well endowed and said top does not button very well over the girls.  Since I was happy drunk, I didn’t care, and walked back out to the bar to rally up and drink more, not carrying that my buttons were strained so tight that it is a miracle I didn’t shoot missile buttons at people.

I wish I could say this has only happened once…

ILBAB says: First off, friend, I have been there. I have also puked stars out of my nose after getting the flu and eating chicken and stars. It was awesome. But I digress. I think the most important part of your story is that you can rally. Not many girls would have the cojones to ralph, redress and head back into the fray. For that, you are my hero. Also, I love boobs, so you have that going for you, which is nice. You are my smelly, electrifying, big-boobed hero. Rock on, sister. Rock on.

The Confessional is now open. Have something you need to repent for? Feel free to send me your sin and I will help your purge your demons.  

And Then I Knew

The other day, I visited my friend to meet her beautiful new baby girl. I got to hold a sweet and cuddly 5-week-old, then give her back when she crapped her pants and had needs. It was wonderful. It was also the signal that I am 100% done birthing babies.

I held that sweet little bundle of goo and didn't turn into one myself. I enjoyed the opportunity to hold a baby, but didn't yearn to do it again with my own. My ovaries didn't sing, "Maybe just one more, for old time's sake?" My uterus didn't beg for one last chance at bat. My body just said, "Cute baby, glad it is yours and not mine."

I will miss this

And I knew. I knew I was done with this phase of my life. Done with the bottles and the sleepless nights and the baby vomit. But also done watching Project Runway while a baby calmly sleeps on my chest.

Babies are sweet and wonderful and the miracle of life, but they are for me no more. I will relish the chances to hold my friends' babies as they come, but will no longer want for another one of my own. It was a great feeling. Knowing that we are complete as a family and being at ease with it.

Now accepting all applications to babysit your babies to help me get my fix/keep me strong in my convictions to close up my lady parts for good.

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

Crayon Cock Blocker

Little known fact: The Quiet Contemplator is a crayon cock blocker. What's that, you say? What is a crayon cock blocker? Let me break it down for you.

Whenever The Contemplator and I color together, it always begins well. She starts coloring in her book and I color in mine. This goes on nicely for about one minute. Then, she decides the only colors that will do are the ones I am currently using--though there is a box of 4,978,651 other crayons in front of us.

She nicely asks, "Mommy, when you are done, it can be my turn?" "Sure," I reply. Then,  I use the crayon a bit more before I hand it over to her just so she doesn't become an entitled brat by always getting instant gratification (plus I am still coloring the doggy's ears).



We repeat this step about 500 times. She uses the new crayon for about 15 seconds before she decides that the color that I have just started using is now the "perfect" crayon. Between each handing over of the crayon, The Quiet Contemplator breathes down my neck and stares me down while waiting her turn. It is a bit uncomfortable. She is a formidable presence at all of 3-feet tall.

After about five minutes, she decides that merely stealing all of my crayons is not enough. She then decides to take over my entire coloring book. This starts out innocently enough. She says, "Mommy, can I color with you?" Again, I reply, "Sure." She then picks a place on my page and starts coloring it. How sweet, right? Not. Then, slowly but surely, she starts coloring on top of what I am coloring, thereby knocking my crayon to the wayside. Once I have finally given up and put my crayon down, she says, "It's OK, Mommy. You all done."

Um..OK. Was I just bullied by a 2-year-old? I want my crayons back!

Things I Want to Teach My Son

 We all know the posts about what we want to teach our sons. Love, dance, stop and smell the flowers, etc. That is all fine and good, but I need my son to learn a few more lessons that are a little less puppy dogs and rainbows and a little more true-to-life. Such as:


Cigarettes are gross.

Herpes and babies are forever. Use protection.

Treat women like ladies, but remember they are just as smart as men.

If you become a father, act like a man. It is not a woman's job to raise your children.

It is also not a woman's job to wash the skid marks out of your underwear or vacuum the living room.

Don't be a dick. Remember that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

Don't be afraid to express your feelings. They only make you stronger.

Don't let anyone make you feel like you aren't good enough.

Never think you are better than anyone else.

Don't judge those you don't know.

Never bully those you feel are weaker than you.

Cigarettes are gross.

Don't act like you care about someone just so you can have sex with them.

Remember to look up from your phone/computer/television screen every once in a while.

Don't be afraid to show your weaknesses.

Treat women the way you would want other men to treat your sister.

Think before you speak. Diarrhea of the mouth runs in the family.



Use your vacation time. They give it to you for a reason.

Remember to say, "I love you." But only if you mean it.

Opening doors for a lady isn't old fashioned. It is just good manners.

Say please and thank you. They will take you far in life.

It is OK to smoke a joint or two, but anything harder than that is going to end badly. Trust me.

Seriously, cigarettes are gross.

The Confessional

Over the weekend, I was reminded of a pregnancy confession that I haven't clued you Boozehounds in on: I have had diaper rash. Yep, you read that right. When I was pregnant with The Quiet Contemplator, I got a bad case of diaper rash.

How, you ask? Let me break it down for you. We mamas all know that during pregnancy, there can be more...ahem...discharge produced from your nether regions. Well, I had that problem for pretty much my entire pregnancy. To keep my underoos from resembling a rainforest on a daily basis, I wore panty liners pretty much 24-7 for about 9 months. This resulted in a wicked case of diaper rash on my lady bits. Yikes, I know!

So, what did I do? I broke out my unborn daughters Butt Paste and Aquaphor, of course. Problem solved! Just thought I would share just in case any other preggo eggos needed help with their undercarriages. You're welcome!


The Confessional is now open. Have something you need to repent for? Feel free to send me your sin and I will help your purge your demons.  

I'm Not Pregnant. I'm Just fat.

If you follow me on Facebook, you already know of the verbal assault I experienced last week. For those of you that don't, A: START! and B: let me fill you in.

While making a follow-up appointment at my Dr's office, the nurse scheduling the appointment stopped working to ask me, "When are you due?" I instantly replied, "I'm not pregnant. I'm just fat." I know, you are all cringing right now because this is like the lowest form of female torture: the false pregnancy identification.

To make matters worse, she proceeded to insult me even further by telling me it must just be my dress that makes me look pregnant. So, not only am I so fat that I appear pregnant enough for you to comment on it public, but it is my fault because I wear clothes that accentuate my fat in a way that makes me look pregnant? Um…OK. That just totally made this whole sitch less awkward. Not.

To top it off, I wasn't even at my gynecologist's office, where the mistake could easily be taken as just a, "Hey, most of the women in here are knocked up so I just assumed you were too. My bad." No, I was at an endocrinologist's office. An office I was visiting specifically to see why the hell I keep gaining weight exponentially. ESPECIALLY IN THE BELLY AREA. If that wasn't the biggest bag over the head, punch in the face I ever got. Way to kick a girl while she is down and feeling at her worst, lady.



Though this may have been one of the more painful ones, this isn't the first time someone has mistaken me for pregnant when I was not.

The Grabby Kathy
Before I was even thinking about kids, I walked up to a lady at work to ask her for something. She immediately squealed at me. I asked her what was wrong. She squealed again and then looked at my stomach. After me still not getting what she was aiming at, she proceeded to put her hand on my stomach and ask me if I was excited. I responded, “No, I am not excited. I am not pregnant and now I have to throw away a brand new dress and never talk to you again.”

These People Are All Dead Now
A week after I had The Quiet Contemplator, I had to go to a friend’s art opening. I thought I looked pretty damn good for having had a baby a week earlier until not one but THREE separate people came up to me and said, “Damn, when are you going to have that baby already?” To which I replied, “I had her last week.” To which they responded, “No seriously, when are you due.” Me, “No, seriously, I had her last week.” Insert sound of crickets chirping. Commence hysterical tears.

The Ghost Baby
While holding a friend at work’s six-week-old baby, a coworker came up to me and said, “Wow, I didn’t think you were that far along again.” I said, “I am not. I had my baby eight months ago and I am not pregnant again.” But thank you for making me feel like a huge fat a$$ that looks seven months pregnant again.


I think, from now on, unless a woman has a baby dangling from an umbilical cord hanging out of her vagina, let's go ahead and give her the courtesy of not asking her when she is due, shall we? Better safe than sorry.

5 steps to a cleaner home

I received an email from BabyCenter today. It was titled 5 Baby Steps to a Cleaner Home. OF COURSE I didn't bother to read it. I just figured I would rip the band-aid off and give you my take on it.

5 Big Girl Steps to a Cleaner Home.

1. Remove children from house.
2. Remove husband from house.
3. Clean house.
4. Change locks.
5. Sit back and enjoy your clean house with a glass of wine.

The end.

Mommy Mulligan

This weekend was a long one. For many reasons. We had too much to do, too little time with the kids and I was STILL sick with a fever (my monkey pox have now transformed into a sinus infection--bonus!). Needless to say, there were a few highs, but mostly this weekend felt like one big low. I felt like a slug who will never recover and have been on the verge of tears/a nervous breakdown for the last few days, including today.

Let's start with the highs, shall we:

Kim at Let Me Start By Saying threatened me with a shiv if I didn't get the balls to try red lips. So I did, for a friends wedding on Saturday. They helped distract from my overall monkey pox look of pasty white, clammy skin, and dark under eye circles. When I came out of the bathroom after applying the harlot red lip stain, The Quiet Contemplator looked at me and said, "Why you paint your mouth? I want you paint my mouth." Um..not for another 25 years, sweetheart. Anyway, my $3 tube of lipstick was a real spirit lifter and I highly recommend it. Thanks, Kim.

Needless to say, those red lips looked awesome wrapped around the fantastic red and white paper straws of the pre-ceremony bourbon cocktails.


And then there were the lows:
I felt horrible all weekend. Feverish, exhausted, head felt like it could explode at any minute, sinus headache, you name it. I was a real peach to be around when I wasn't drunk on bourbon cocktails.  Sunday was my all-time low. I was tired and crabby, sick for the 14th day in a row and just pissed off at the world. And I was a bad mommy.

Not in the I-fed-my-poor-children-non-organic-food-and-didn't-do-our-second-craft-of-the-day way. No, I was a mean mommy in the losing-my-shit-and-raising-my-voice-at-my-children's-every-move way. I was a bad parent. Even this morning.

When I went to check my temperature this morning and found that The Contemplator had changed the thermometer from Fahrenheit to Celsius, I lost it. Completely. I said things I instantly regretted. But the thing is? I am human. Though I felt like a hot pile of dog shit after it, shit happens.

Why do I share this horrible crap? Because none of us are perfect and I never aim to be. I do my best as a parent, but there will always be days where I feel like I need a mommy mulligan. We all do. And it is OK to grant yourself one every now and then.

Maybe next time we feel like like a crappy mom, we should give ourselves a minute in the bathroom, slap on a coat of red lipstick and move on. After you pour yourself a bourbon cocktail, of course.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

When I was a little, I wanted to be a veterinarian when I grew up. Or a writer (I have always been weird, it isn't a new occurrence). Strangely enough, I now write about animals for a living. It wasn't a path I actively pursued, just a path that found me. I live my "dream job" on a daily basis and I love it. I get to both help save animals all over the world and write--the two things I have always felt I was meant to do. I have too much emotion to be a veterinarian. And too little inner turmoil (some days) to be a full-time writer. The combination of the two was exactly what I needed. 



But does my career define me? No. Being a mother does. Is my job who I am? No. My kids are. I would still be who I am if I lost my job. I would cease to be without my kids.

When I was a kid, I never wanted to be a wife or a mother. I was so independent that I thought that marriage and kids would steal my identity. And, in a way, they did. I am no longer who I was. I am stronger, more resilient and am more selfless. I am a better version of me than I ever dreamed of.

I may have lost my spontaneity (nap time waits for no man). I may not do impulsive and dangerous things for fun anymore (unless you count unprotected sex that ends with me getting pregnant). I may not grab life by the balls as much as I used to (unless it messes with my kids, then step the fuck off or I will cut you, Life). But, deep down, I am still the same loud and obnoxious little girl who doesn't mince words or give a crap what the world thinks about her. I am still the me I wanted to be, I am just also the mother I never thought I could be.

So what do I want to be when I grow up now? A good mother. One that my children will look back at and be proud of. One that they will see for who she is, not who she isn't. I want to grow up to be me. Only thinner, of course. Damn you baby weight!

Jobs come and go. Family is forever.



Want to see "dream jobs" from other perspectives? Visit the links below to see what other people have to say.

Aspiring to the Middle 
A Calibama State of Mind

Cloudy With a Chance of Wine 
The Insomniac's Dream
Mod Mom Beyond IndieDom
Mommy Rotten 
Mom With Her Running Shoes On 
Shit I Don't Tell Most People
Something Clever 2.0 
The Next Step 
Who Woulda Thought?  

Monkey Pox Strikes Again

I think I may have caught a slight case of the plague. Or ebola. Or monkey pox. Something exotic and disgusting. I have been sick for almost two weeks and it kind of makes me want to bash my sinuses in with a squeaky inflatable hammer.

It all started with a stomach virus and has melded into bronchitis. Because just puking and crapping my brains out wasn't enough. I also had to spend the week after that painfully coughing up what I imagine to be important parts of my anatomy.

Anywho. Lucky for you, my monkey pox resulted in the following conversation between myself and ADD Daddy (at least I think it did. I have been kind of hallucinating lately from the lack of sleep/booze the pox have caused):

Scene: Our bedroom around 2 a.m. (don't worry, no "lotion" was present). I wake up to a scary noise and immediately wake up ADD Daddy.

Me: (shaking ADD Daddy) Wake up. Do you hear that noise?
ADD Daddy: Sn4834hvjks89i4nwktgr…zzzzzzz
Me: (shaking ADD Daddy harder) WAKE UP! Do you hear that noise?
ADD Daddy: Zzzzzzzzzzz...WHAT! What? What. What noise?
Me: That scary noise.
ADD Daddy: What scary noise?
Me: The noise that sounds like you are taking one of those ribbed plastic straws out of one of the kids' cups.
ADD Daddy: WHAT?
Me: You know, those plastic straws that are shaped like those Burple drinks you used to get when you played little league when you were a kid. Those were awesome. I used to love those.
ADD Daddy: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!?!?! WHAT IS BURPLE?

Me: Dude. Whatever. Burple rocked. Anyway. Do you not hear that weird noise? There it is…Wait…There it is again…Wait…There it is again. You don't hear that?
ADD Daddy: Are you serious?
Me: Yes I am serious. What is it?
ADD Daddy: Are you SERIOUS?
Me: Yes. And why do you keep asking me that? What is it?
ADD Daddy: It is the sound of you breathing.
Me: No it's not. I am talking about the horrible weird scratchy noise. Wait for it…there it is. Wait for it…there it is again. That noise. You don't hear it?
ADD Daddy: Yes I hear it.
Me: Well then, what is it?
ADD Daddy: Seriously, it is the sound of you breathing.
Me: Oh. Gross.
ADD Daddy: Yes, I know. It is like sleeping with Darth Vader. Now shut up and go back to sleep.
Me: OK. Zzzzzzzzzzz (crackle crackle) Quiet Contemplator, I am your mother.

The end.