Box-o-Wine to the Rescue!

I have had a few people get knocked up lately and ask me, "What is the one item you couldn't live without as a parent?"

I though about all of the awesome crap I used when the kids were babies and all of the plastic junk I loved when they got older. But then it dawned on me.

Without a doubt, this has been the most useful thing to me as a parent:

Mommy's Little Helper

For only $10 a box, it is happiness at an amazing price. And that shit is imported, yo. FANCY!

It may not be something I use on the kids, but it sure as snickers makes me a better mom in the long-run.


How, you ask?

Home all day with a colicky baby that won't stop crying no matter what you do? Box-o-wine to the rescue.

Finally got time to take a shower AND put on make-up only to have the cat throw up in your shoes? The Box has your back.

Toddler spent the day giving you the Spanish Inquisition of "Whys"? Drink the "Whys" away.

Had the day from hell where everyone from your boss to the baby has yelled at you? Boxie is there for you.


Now do I get drunk in front of my kids? Of-fucking-course-not. But I most definitely pour myself a glass of the incredibly cheap and trashy good stuff when I get home from a day that made me want to punch a kitten. Better I drink a glass of wine to relax than to take my bad day out on my kids.

So what about you, mamas? What is your "mommy's little helper"? Kittens? Chocolate? Tequila?

Mexico has no idea what is about to hit it...

So me and Motherhood: A Descent Into Madness met via the blogosphere and have fallen madly in love (awesomesauce, crazy mama, alcohol-based love, not Chasing Amy love, sickos). As a result, we have decided to meet in person. Not in a feeling-out-the-crazy-slowly-over-chai-lattes sort of way. 

No, we are going balls to the wall and taking a trip to Mexico for our first hullabaloo. That's right. Three nights, in a foreign country, staying in a hotel room that has its own liquor dispensers hanging from the wall.

Totally sane, right? No? You are just jellies! Hater. She totally is not going to stab me in my sleep. Right? RIGHT? Right.

Anyway, in an attempt to at least sort of know what we are getting ourselves into, we formed this questionnaire in the same way I do things with my kids, in the eat, sleep, poop order (booze is not apropro with the kiddies, so that comes later.) Both of our answers are below.

A little bit more about moi:

Eat:
Do you dig on swine? 

My favorite poem:
Roses are red.
Bacon is also red.
Poems are hard.
Bacon.

Eat dairy? 

Milk with ice in it is my favorite hangover cure. Sorry if that makes you dry heave.

Consume more calories than a lumberjack? Oh, yes. I eat a lot. I mean a whole lot. Especially when drunk or hungover. The amount of food I can take down could also lead to you dry heaving. Sorry.

Actually eat? See above.
Favorite cuisine? Mexican and Italian. And anything fried with cheese. Mmmm…cheese sticks.

Are you allergic to anything other than David Hasselhoff's chest hair? 

Bees, but I will try not to eat them. Though I did almost swallow one that was in my beer once. While on a boat. In the middle of a lake. With no epi pen. My friend Danimal said he would have totally trached me with a Bic pen if needed though, so I was cool.

Sleep:
Do you have any weird sleeping habits? 

I use ear plugs and sleep in a weird position that I once read in a magazine is called the "flamingo". Also, the last time I was in New Orleans, I had a dreamed that I was trapped in a sealed closet with no light and a person came by to tell me in a super creepy voice that I would never escape. Needless to say, I woke up drenched in sweat and COMPLETELY freaking out. But that totally won't happen this time…

The only other nightmares I have are that spiders are falling on me from the ceiling. So if you see me clawing at the air and saying "get away!" it is just me battling the imaginary spiders. Just roll over and leave me to defeat their legion of webbed minions.

Night owl, morning person or both? 

Both. With the right amount of alcohol and douchebaggery, I can easily be swayed to stay up well past my usual 9 p.m. bedtime, but I still usually wake up at the buttcrack. Sorry. I promise to head to the gym or local cheese stick joint if I wake up at 6 a.m.

Poop:
Any medical conditions I need to know about (IBS is a serious medical condition, BTW)? 

Nope. I doubt my hippothyroidism will cause any problems worse than my fat ass splitting my pants on the dance floor, so we are all set.

Do you have excessive flatulence? 

Not regularly, but let's be honest, stinky farts and hangovers go hand in hand. So, all we really need to do is get on the same page with poo spray. Are you for it or against it? I am against it unless it is one of those ozone ones that doesn't actually have a smell. The sweet smelling ones just make it smell like you took a poop in the middle of the floor then decided to cover it up with rose petals. Great, now I am dry heaving.

Booze:
What is your alcohol tolerance level? 

First off, I am German. Second off, I went to Southern Illinois University. Let's just say, in a drinking contest, I would make Russell Crowe look like a gigantic pussy.

What is your booze of choice? 

Beer or wine. Not much of a mixed drinker but I do like margaritas.

Are you a puker? 

I have a cast iron stomach. I won't go into how much alcohol I can consume without ralphing, but it would probably make and Irishman cry.

What are your hangovers like? 

Not bad, though I am not as in practice as I used to be. The best cure is just to start the shampoo effect by having a hair of the dog. Plus, I am bringing my zofran from morning sickness and a gigantic bottle of Tylenol, so we will be all set.

Can you rally when needed? 

Fuck yes! See above.

Do you like dancing/karaoke/shots? 

Yes. Yes. and Yes. Though doing all three in combination could lead to me being arrested. Or an internet superstar. Hello, YouTube!

Are you a belligerent or violent drunk? 

No and no. I am an obnoxious drunk, but that is just a matter of taste.

Misc.:
Do you shower regularly and use deodorant? 

Yes, except for Sundays. In my family that is a holy day called, "No shower Sundays". This does not apply on vacations though and deodorant is always allowed.

Beatles or Stones? 

Depends on my mood, really. Let's give this the college test, shall we? If I was smoking' in my dorm room, Beatles; if I was wasted at a frat party, Stones.

Roth or Hagar? 

Roth for original music, Hagar for a live performance. Cabo Wabo, baby.

You're getting called up to the plate, what is your at-bat song? 

 Black Betty by Ram Jam. Hands down.

Are you going to try to kill/molest me in my sleep? 

No and no, though I already warned you that I like to feel boobs when I get drunk, as documented here.

A little bit about Motherhood: A Descent Into Madness:

Eat:
Do you dig on swine?

Bacon is the best thing in the world. However, if you have a personal problem with it, I will abstain out of respect for you. Fuck that, no I won't. I'll be in the closet, shoveling it down with both hands like a raging baconholic.

Eat dairy?

I eat and drink dairy. I eat and drink most things, except smelly cheese, deer and lamb and other weird creatures. As a side note, I do not drink my piss (seriously, people do that). I know, WTF? Why did I even bring that up? Answer: I don't know, really. My mind is very random.

Consume more calories than a lumberjack?

I have a very healthy appetite. I eat as much as or more than my husband. When we go out to eat, he knows to let me scavenger hunt on his plate before letting the server take it or I'll kick him in the balls.

Actually eat?

See above. I am a fucking pig.

Favorite cuisine?

I could not even begin to answer that question. I like it ALL. Except for pig balls and monkey brains, weird shit like that.

Are you allergic to anything other than David Hasselhoff's chest hair?

*GAG* Do asshole people count? Otherwise, no.

Sleep:
Do you have any weird sleeping habits?

No. I sleep. I may wake up to pee. Then I go back to sleep. I like to sleep on my side with a body pillow or something in between my knees. I like to nap when I can because I pretty much shut down if I get too tired. But I'll be so excited to be out of the country and away from my kids that I'll probably be okay not napping.

Night owl, morning person or both?

What is a "morning person?" They sound like a goddamn freak. I am a night owl. I prefer to go to bed late and sleep late. But since having kids, I have been forced out of that schedule and am somewhat flexible. However: if you wake me up at 6 a.m., I'll kick you in the balls.

Poop:
Any medical conditions I need to know about (IBS is a serious medical condition, BTW)?

I have no medical conditions that will impact you or this trip. But I will make sure the hotel has plenty of toilet paper for your IBS.

Do you have excessive flatulence?

No, but if I have to fart, I will go into the bathroom like a fucking lady.

Who are we kidding with all this? Between the water, food, and excessive drinking, we're going to be like the scene in Bridesmaids where one is on the pot and the other is on the sink. I call the sink, only so I can scream at you to "LOOK AWAY!" And, so I can have the esteemed honor of having shit in a sink. We should probably pack some room spray.

Booze:
What is your alcohol tolerance level?

I probably shouldn't specify, but trust me when I say that it's extremely high. I will not crap out on you after a few bottles of champagne - for me. I'm German. I take milk thistle for my liver. I wash it down with vodka or wine.

What is your booze of choice?

Vodka or champagne. Rum works, too.

Are you a puker?

Not since college. No, I wasn't bulimic. Just growing my alcohol tolerance level. And yes, I will hold your hair back for you and keep your face out of the piss and garbage when you are puking in the gutter on our way back to the hotel. But if you shit your pants, you're on your own. Just kidding. I'd even help you then. Occasionally, very occasionally, when I drink too much, I get these vasovagal responses, where I get dizzy and feel super, SUPER sick and sweat like I'm dying. Probably because I'm actually close to dying. I just go lie on the cool bathroom floor for a while, then I'm all better.

What are your hangovers like?

I just want to sleep, and then eat carby, disgusting food to make my nausea go away and drink a couple of gallons of water.

Can you rally when needed?

What exactly do you mean by "rally". If some dude tries to rape you, I'll fucking kill him with my bare hands and a stick or whatever else is laying around. But I won't get in a bar fight with you. However, if you're talking about you waking me up at 3 in the morning to go drink some more, fuck yeah, I'll rally.

Do you like dancing/karaoke/shots?

I like dancing, hate karaoke, shots, meh. Maybe here or there. I'll watch you karaoke, though. And laugh my ass off.

Are you a belligerent or violent drunk?
Nope. Just totally obnoxious (more than usual) and swear more than usual, too. I hate belligerent, violent drunks. Dealt with them when I worked in a jail. Over it.

Misc.:
Do you shower regularly and use deodorant?

Yes and yes, and I hope you do, too, because I have a SERIOUS ISSUE with bad smells.

Beatles or Stones?

Mmm. I don't know. Not really into either. ...I KNOW. *Cowering in shame.* No, I'm not. I don't give a shit.

Roth or Hagar?

Not a huge Van Halen fan, either.

You're getting called up to the plate, what is your at-bat song?

That is so hard to pick. "Cum on Feel The Noize" by Quiet Riot, or "Live Wire," "Kickstart My Heart" or "Wild Side" by Motley Crue, or "Hero" by Ministry. TOTAL METALHEAD HERE.

Are you going to try to kill/molest me in my sleep?

First off, no I'm not going to kill you in your sleep. Everyone knows we'll be together so that would just be dumb. However, I AM going to follow you home and live in your attic and slowly eat mad amounts of Chinese food while watching your every move. Especially in the bathroom.

Nor am I going to molest you. I heart cock, according to what my husband lovingly writes on my face in pictures; I'm not into the pootang. And I beg of you not to kill or molest me, either.

Here's what you need to know about me. My big secret: I'm insanely vain. Not because I'm beautiful or anything, but just because I am weird. And to top it off, the camera hates me. SO. I only have one condition. PLEASE let me approve any photos before you post them on the internet. Out of 700 pictures we may take, I'll probably only approve of like, 5, but please throw me this bone. We cool? Blood oath? Knuckles? Fist bump? Super secret handshake?

Check out Motherhood: A Descent Into Madness on Facebook and Twitter.

Baby Registry 101 (What you should really register for)

Boppys, bibs, bassinets, breast pumps, Baby Bjorns, bottles, etc. Though we register for a ton of crap for our babies, we often neglect to register for anything that will really help mama. In hindsight, here is what I would have put on my baby registry.



Maid Service
Your house is about to look like an F5 tornado hit it at all times. So register for a maid service. That way you won't have to bend over to clean the spilled breast milk off the floor, straining your episiotomy stitches. You're welcome.

Antidepressants
Even great health insurance doesn't usually cover them in full, so have your friends hook you up with some happy pills before your bouncing bundle of joy even arrives. You will thank me later (even if you don't end up needing them. just having them near might have a placebo effect).

Wine
Because you are going to need something to wash those antidepressants and nights of endless crying (both yours and the baby's) down with, aren't you? Register for the box. It is easier to pour yourself a glass straight from the tap. Trust me, it is just impossible to uncork a bottle while holding the baby.

Babysitters
Soon the thought of spending just one more second with your amazing little baby is going to make you want to punch a kitten. You are going to need to take a step back so you can move forward as the awesome mom you are. So have a "break in case of emergency" sitter on tap. That someone else has already paid for. So you don't have to feel like shit staying out for just one. more. beer.

Trips to Get Away
Somewhat related to the above, but for more than just a few hours. Because when you have a chance to get away for a while and actually miss your baby, you will be a better mommy. And since you won't have to use your beer diaper money to pay for it, you will be more likely to actually do it. Good god what I wouldn't give to have this in the arsenal right now!

New Clothes for Mama
Your baby is going to be rocking the latest trends of' life. You, on the other hand, are still going to be sporting your maternity yoga pants for the next 12 years. But if your friends are nice enough to pony up cash for some new duds for mama instead of a pair of baby Uggs, you might actually be able to go out in public and not feel shame about your stained college t-shirt.

Weight Watchers Membership
Let's face it: the baby weight isn't going to lose itself. And a lettuce-only diet is only cool if you are a rabbit. So having your Weight Watchers membership ready and rearing when you are ready to put down the congratulatory cake will be kick ass.

Gym Membership
Because mama needs to get her cardio on just as much as baby needs to get its diaper changed. Be sure to pick one with childcare so you can go even if you are shackled to your kiddo 24-7, 365. Mom's just working on her fitness. Baby's her witness.

Meal Services
There are a lot of places that make meals for you. They are godsends. Meals made ahead will come in handy when your kid and husband are screaming at you for food and you haven't had time to take a shower or go to the bathroom all day, let alone through put some Shake in that Bake.

Hemorrhoid Cream
Whether you need it right after pushing your little pumpkin out, or are lucky enough to wait until the toddler years when you will never are able to go to the loo alone, you will need it. Trust me. Because, let's face it: kids are a pain in the ass that will cause you a pain in the ass.

Birth Control
Because motherfuck do you not want to pull a Tori or a Jessica and get pregnant again right away. Whatever your method of choice, have your friends hook you up and have it on the ready once you pop that baby out.

What about you, mamas? What would you add to this list?

Body by Baby

Because Gisele and all her friends make it seem like stretchmarks don't happen, I started Body by Baby. Stretchmarks do happen. So does saggy skin. And saggy boobs. And that is ok. Because we are real women. Our bodies aren't perfect. But they didn't get this way on their own. They got this way because we are fucking awesome and CREATED A HUMAN IN THEM. What's a stretchmark or a muffin top when we actually made life?

This is what a real woman's belly looks like. This is what having beautiful babies does to a girl. And it is awesome:

 

 

This is Sarah from Nichols Nook. She is the mom of a 2-year-old little boy named Max and a 5-month-old little girl named Catherine.

Here is her story:
I so firmly believe that mama-bodies are beautiful, and that the media that's out there has given everyone the wrong impression about what healthy women actually LOOK like. Of course, everyone knows this, and everyone talks about it, but simply knowing and talking about the fact that celebrities don't look like real women and all of their pictures are airbrushed doesn't actually change anything. The world needs to SEE the differences for us to all start feeling better about ourselves. We can 'tsk' and wag our fingers all we damn want, but none of us are going to start feeling normal in our own tigress skins until we actually see with our own eyes that that liposuctioned lion on the magazine cover is surrounded--overwhelmed--by a sea of tigers.

I am a tigress. I am a mother. I have grown and birthed actual, unique human beings from inside of my body. Which is AMAZING, by the way, if you didn't already realize that. I get my stretch marks at 40 weeks, a crimson road map--directions for my life, 'Babies, 5 Miles', 'This Way To Motherhood And All That It Means'--from pubic bone to belly button, an impenetrable web. After birth, they fade into the background and turn silver and shimmer in the light, taking a vacation, waiting until the next 40-week mark when they will again explode into being like a sudden burst of life-affirming fireworks, stretching me and shaping me. (Isn't it astounding that the human skin can adapt itself to stretch as large as we could ever possibly need it to?) I can play dress-up with my belly: kneading it into bread dough, or a pillow for husbands or children, or the legs of that stone age Venus, or a butt with which to wryly moon the world and go, "Neener!"

You know what? I love my body! I feel STRONG. I feel HEALTHY. Do I want to lose those last 15 postpartum pounds? Sure, but I don't obsess about it. I feel like a WOMAN, not a girl, because I AM a woman. Girls look different than women do. It's a physiological fact, and for physiological reasons. Girls are lovely and pure and delicate and women are sturdy and powerful and the foundation of the earth and the wellspring of all the people on it. One is a dewy meadow in springtime: golden, inspiring, fresh, framed in photographs. The other is a robust field, rippling with harrow-stripes, abundant, ripe and overflowing with wheat, with milk, with succulent fruits, sustaining nations.

During my two pregnancies I was sick and thrilled and achy and felt like a goddess and a monster and I was terrified and I could not WAIT to be a mother, then a mother of two, and I was hot and hormonal and gained 55 lbs and my feet swelled and I ate gummy bears and steak and I loved every second. I can't wait to be pregnant again in the future when that time comes, and I mean that. When I was birthing my babies I legitimately thought I was going to die, both times, and after my son I felt like a failure (natural birth) and after my daughter I felt like an amazing warrior queen who could do ANYTHING (natural birth) and next time I am pretty sure I'm going to rock me an epidural like it's my job. I am 23 years old and I have a cystocele and permanent, often painful perineal scarring and I'm pretty sure I will pee every time I sneeze or jog for the rest of my life. It's cool.

I wear bikinis at the beach and you know what? No one gives me a second glance. If there's anything I've learned in my young life, it's that people don't think you're ugly. They aren't even looking at you. Life is so full of lifeness for everyone engaged in it that they couldn't care less if the lady with the babies has a pooch and some muffiny goodness going on. They are probably oblivious to the lady with the babies, and if they aren't, they are probably focusing on her babies, and if they aren't, they are probably not thinking about the pooch and stretchmarks at all, and if they aren't, they are probably admiring her "bravery", and if they aren't, then why care? Life is TOO SHORT to spend it freaking out about what strangers on the street are thinking, people. I know we hear that all the time, but it's for a reason. Listen to it. Embrace it.

Let's stop being afraid of that lone lioness on her painted magazine; let's unveil our stripes and roar with the masses of our neighbors. Let's stop pining after the barrenness in those dewy spring photographs and instead revel in our own abundance, the hard-earned, life-affirming fruitfulness of our rippling fields, striped in gold and umber. Let's smell the sweet breath of our babies and moon the world with our belly-butts and be soft pillows for the heads of our husbands, and buy things we love to wear in new sizes that actually fit us, and post pictures of our mommyness for the wide world to see. Let's celebrate this strange, full, often absurd, achingly bright and beautiful thing we call life, instead of hiding from it. Let's sing. Let's love. Let's drink beer. Let's have more babies, or make casseroles for new mamas having theirs, or grow old in grace and wisdom, shedding light and joy on everyone around us whether we have children or not.

We are women. Hear us roar.


Wow. Thanks, Sarah. You are the shit for sharing with us what we all hide from each other.

Body by Baby all started here, but you glorious bitches have kept it going. Feeling frisky? Send me your own Body by Baby portrait and I will share it with all six of my readers the world. Anonymously or not. Your choice. Email them to me at ilikebeerandbabies @ gmail . com (remove spaces).

So this happened...

The other day, The Quiet Contemplator was drawing all sweet and quietly by herself while ADD Daddy and I watched TV. After some intense work on a particular project, she brought her latest creation over for me to admire. Beaming ear-to-ear with pride at her newest work of art, she thrust this into my face:

Um...pretty?

My mind immediately went to the part in Superbad where Seth confessed that in grade school he had a phase where he couldn't do anything but draw dicks all day. I got a little twitchy and said, "Wow. that is a really good drawing. You should go show it to Daddy."

So she proudly turned to show Daddy her drawing of a gigantic dong. Daddy looked at the drawing, got a little sweaty and pale and said, "Oh. Wow. What is it?" She said something unintelligible and scampered off. We both sat on the couch silently freaking out, not sure what to make of the fact though our daughter had just made an incredibly accurate artistic portrayal of a man's jiggly bits.

You know, in the long run, I am kind of impressed. That is one fine looking schlong, if I do say so myself.

This is me. Now.

I don't talk about my grief because this is supposed to be a happy place. But I kind of feel like not talking about it is more of a lie to you guys than it is a service. So here it is. (Warning, this is intense so feel free to come back tomorrow when things will be funny again.)

The truth is, I am exhausted. Both mentally and physically. All the time. I think about my brother and how he died (let's just say it was the worst of the worst) every day. Every. Single. Day. Probably every hour of every day. Some days every minute. It is not something that will ever go away. It is a part of me. It has changed every single aspect of who I am. Anyone who knew me before it happened has to get to know me all over again. Because the girl I was before is not the girl that is left standing here today.

I wish that I could have gone home for Christmas. The Christmas that was the last time everyone in my family got to see my brother. And I didn't. Because I was nine months pregnant with The Cool Cucumber. The last time I saw him was almost a year before he died. And I can never change that.

I wish that the remaining members of my family could find some peace.

I wish that I had never seen the face of a mother who has lost a child. My Mother.

I wish that one of my remaining brothers would put aside his hate and open his heart to me. For both of our sakes.

I wish that I could explain to people why this is so much harder to get over than a normal death. I wish that I could let them know that the violence of it all has affected me in every way possible. That PTSD is a real thing. That no one wants to fake this.

The world in general causes me anxiety now. I can't watch the news because it makes me fold up inside myself to watch all of the horrible things that are out there in the world. I can't watch movies because the violence in them does the same thing. Even at work I am triggered every single day by something mindless someone says.

There are days that everything I see and hear remind me of my brother's brutal demise. That send my mind to dark places. That make me think of the unthinkable. That make me relive every last detail of what happened, down to his last breath. But I have to keep moving. Keep living. Act like I am OK. Through it all.

There are days when I am afraid to leave my house. Days where it feels like the world is going to crumble around me and everything good in my life will be taken if I take just one step. Days when I feel like it will never get better and I will never be okay again.

But then there are days that are not so bad. Days when I feel like it is getting better. And there is hope.

The reason I do my puppy dogs and rainbows post is not to be all, "Hey, look how fucking awesome my life is and yours isn't." It is because some days looking at them is all I have left to hold onto. Some days are just so dark I need to have somewhere to find the light.

I see people differently now. I am more empathetic. I care about people who are hurting, even if I don't know them, simply because I wish that someone had done the same for me.

The ones who haven't been there for me have kind of fallen away from my life. Not because of what they did, but because I have changed and they don't know that. I miss the people that are no longer in my life, but I just can't do anything about it. It is hard to explain that one single moment in time has changed every fiber of my being, but it has. And I could never explain that to someone. There just aren't words. Because there shouldn't have to be.

But there are new people that have surfaced. People who have meant more to me then they can know. Just by being present. Being with me, even when we don't acknowledge why. Just by being good people. Some of those people I found through this very blog. And I love you so much for that. More than I will ever express, because I am just not good at that kind of stuff.

In the long run, my brother's death has made me better. I am no longer selfish or vain or careless. I am very purposeful in everything I do. I am a better friend. A better mother. A better person.  I feel more. I care more. I am more. Shockingly, I am actually more positive and see things in a more forgiving light now.

But I sure as fuck wish I could've reached enlightenment in a different way. Because though I am outwardly better, I am inwardly irreparably broken. Forever. And that is OK.

I can multitask like a mother

There are days when I feel like if I have to do one more thing, I am going to lock myself in a closet and drown myself in a bottle of Jack Daniels. But, there are also days where I feel like if I manage to accomplish just one more thing, I will actually become She-Ra. Because I can multitask like a mother.



Before I had kids, the mere thought of working out, getting my hair cut and buying an outfit for a party, all in one day, would make me a little anxious. Now? Carry a toddler, my purse, diaper bag, infant seat and unlock the car? Done. Wrangle both children, hand over my insurance card, sign the co-pay receipt and wipe a yucky nose? No problem. Switch the TV to video, open the bag of Goldfish, refill the milk and start Yo Gabba Gabba, all while guarding my glass of chardonnay? I'm on it.

I get shit done because I have to. Because if I don't get the Drs appointments made, the groceries bought, the diapers changed, the bottles filled and the homework done, my kids are hungry, dirty and the kids who show up without something for Show and Tell. And that sucks. So I am on it. Like white on rice, or, better yet, like me on a box of wine.

Being a mom requires the multitasking skills of a Goddess. You can't just phone it in. You have to be live and available at all times. You need to know where your kid's shoes are, if their shot records are up to date, when their next dentist appointment is and what all of their current medications are. You have to know where their insurance cards are, be able to locate their favorite blankie at all times, know their friends' names and know when their school play is.

Parenting is a full-time job that requires constant overtime. Lazy and unorganized people need not apply. I think on my next resume, I am going to put, "Hire me because I can multitask like a mother." Because really, there is no topping that shit. Now where did all of the damn pacifiers disappear to?

Body by Baby

Because Gisele and all her friends make it seem like stretchmarks don't happen, I started Body by Baby. Stretchmarks do happen. So does saggy skin. And saggy boobs. And that is ok. Because we are real women. Our bodies aren't perfect. But they didn't get this way on their own. They got this way because we are fucking awesome and CREATED A HUMAN IN THEM. What's a stretchmark or a muffin top when we actually made life?

This is what a real woman's belly looks like. This is what having beautiful babies does to a girl. And it is awesome:

This is Abby from Is This How Parenting Works?. She is the mom of a 1-year-old little girl.

Here is her story:
I'll be honest...I've had stretch marks since I was 15. They've just become a part of my thighs, hips and boobs. When I got pregnant, I knew for sure more would appear, despite any ridiculous creams or oils. For a long time, I didn't see any on my stomach. When my belly was so big that I couldn't see my toes, a friend of mine asked if I had gotten any stretch marks (bitch). I told her that apart from the ones already on my body, I hadn't gotten any new ones. Two months later, after my daughter was born, I discovered that my stomach looked like I had gotten into a fight with a bear and lost. Apparently there is one good part of being so big you can't tie your shoes or shave your vagina: you also don't get to see all of the new stretch marks formed all over your lower half. 

Thanks, Abby. You are the shit for sharing with us what we all hide from each other.

Feeling frisky? Send me your own Body by Baby portrait and I will share it with all six of my readers the world. Anonymously or not. Your choice. Email them to me at ilikebeerandbabies @ gmail .  com (remove spaces).

Happy VD

I'm so bossy.

We spend so much time picking our significant others apart, that sometimes we take for granted what they actually do for us. In honor of VD (just as annoying as an STD) I am going to give the hubs the props he deserves.

Of course we're at a bar. Why do you ask?

He does most of the laundry and all of the "deep" cleaning.
He unloads the dishwasher way more than I do.
He gets all of the kids breakfast/medicines ready for the morning.
He takes care of all of the car and home maintenance.
He is good at craftsman-y stuff
He is caring, but not smothering.
He knows when I am mentally unstable and does not poke the bear.
He is really silly with the kids.
He watches the kids when I run on weekends.
He researches big purchases.
He let's me be the social planner.
He never questions my decorating ideas or gives his opinions.
He has a sweet ass.

So get out there and tell your valentine that you like them. And maybe even throw them a BJ (just kidding). What the heck, it's VD!

Happy VD, baby!

The "No Sex" Zone

In honor of VD tomorrow, I though I would talk about sex, or moreover, the lack of it in our household.

Right now, I feel like my husband and I are living in a "No Sex" zone. Now, don't get me wrong, we find the time to break off a piece of action every once in a while, but the windows of opportunity are few and far between. Why? Because, as Motherhood: A Descent Into Madness so eloquently put it, "Kids are the ultimate cock-blockers".

So, what makes having sex while being a parent so hard (or not hard, sorry, I had to), you ask?
Here's a breakdown:

During the week:
Yeah right. Like there is any opportunity here with us both working. We wake up with just enough time for all four of us to get ready and scoot out the door for school and work. Then, we come home after a long day's work/play and do dinner, play, baths, bedtimes, etc. By the time we manage to get them both to sleep we are not far from comas ourselves. The last thing we have the energy to do is to rub our naughty bits together until something happens. Because I will tell you what will happen: we will both fall asleep in the middle of it.

During the weekends:
Again, yeah right. There used to be a prime lovin' time window when both kids napped together. We'd have two blissful hours of alone time to get our "business time" on, followed by couch and TV time. It was glorious. Yeah, not so much anymore. Now, The Cool Cucumber goes down for a nap early and The Quiet Contemplator goes down late, it she goes down at all. This schedule leaves nary a minute of nookie opportunity in-between.

So, as you see, the products of my sex life are ruining my sex life. The other day, when The Cool Cucumber was down for a nap, we had to entice The Quiet Contemplator into the basement with a bag of cookies and an episode of Pee-wee's Playhouse just so we could sneak upstairs for a mute quickie with the door locked. It is getting ridiculous.


So, what about you, mamas? What do you have to do to get your parental freak on?

Anti-Valentines

VD is almost here. A holiday I hate almost as much as a case of venereal disease. So, I came up with some funny valentines for you to share with the hubby. Enjoy.





 



 

Body by Baby

Because Gisele and all her friends make it seem like stretchmarks don't happen, I started Body by Baby. Stretchmarks do happen. So does saggy skin. And saggy boobs. And that is ok. Because we are real women. Our bodies aren't perfect. But they didn't get this way on their own. They got this way because we are fucking awesome and CREATED A HUMAN IN THEM. What's a stretchmark or a muffin top when we actually made life?

This is what a real woman's belly looks like. This is what having beautiful babies does to a girl. And it is awesome:

 

This is Jess from Wrangling Chaos. She is the mom of Cassidy, 9, Gabe, 8, Olivia, 2 and Madelyn, 1.

Thanks, Jess. You are the shit for sharing with us what we all hide from each other.

Feeling frisky? Send me your own Body by Baby portrait and I will share it with all six of my readers the world. Anonymously or not. Your choice. Email them to me at ilikebeerandbabies @ gmail .  com (remove spaces).

Not Seeing Facebook Updates? You're Not Alone!

For those of you who are my fans on Facebook, you bitches rock. You get a little more of a glimpse into what my "real life" is like. Or, maybe you don't, because Mark Zuckerberg now wants me to pay him for you to see it. And I may not be the only page you like that you aren't seeing updates from. That sucks. I mean, seriously, who wants to miss a new meme from Grumpy Cat?

Well, the ladies from Pretty Providence are trying to help with that. Here is a post they did this week. Enjoy.


How to see Facebook Pages updates

Have you been wondering lately why you don't see as many updates from the Pages you've liked on Facebook? Maybe you haven't noticed, but those of us who run Pages definitely have. A friend of mine, who follows us through FB, asked me the other day "Why haven't you been posting on your blog lately?" and I told her that we still post six days a week, she just isn't getting the updates. Pretty Providence has almost 2,000 Likes on Facebook. However, the company has made some changes lately that have been discouraging. Only about 6% of each Page's fans will see their updates. They have implemented a new button where after a page posts something, they are shown that about 6% (so about 100 of 2,000 fans) have seen their update. Then they give the page admin an option to pay $5, $10, $15 and so-on to show more people your post. It would cost us $10 each time we post just for FB to show our post to all of the people who have liked our page.

Yes, they have the right to do this and to make a profit from their website, and since 800 million of us use Facebook, we go along with it. The thing is though, that if I like a page it's because I want to see their updates in my news feed, and that is not happening most of the time anymore. There is a way to get around this though, thankfully, so that you can control which Pages you get updates from. I made up visual instructions for you in case you want to do this.

How to see updates you want to see on FB: 

Hope this helps everyone! And thanks, Pretty Providence!

My children have no morals.

Though I do what I can to raise my kids right, in the end, they have no morals.

They Lie
Me, "Did you draw on the cabinets?"
The Quiet Contemplator, "No."
Me, "Then why is there a marker in your hand that is the same color that is on the cabinets?"
TQC, "I don't know."
Me, "Did you use that marker to draw on the cabinets?"
TQC, "No."
Me, "Did you know how the marker got on the cabinets?"
TQC, "No."
Me, "If I stop asking you questions will you promise not to draw on the cabinets again?"
TQC, "No."
Me (Twitch, Twitch), "OK, we will agree to disagree, then."

They Cheat
Playing a game of Candyland or Chutes and Ladders with my 3-year-old is not fun. Or fair. That bitch cheats like it is her job. And I like to win. Everything. Ever. While playing, my daughter, who knows the rules and how to play, will wait until your back is turned and move her piece up 20 spaces. She then takes her next turn and says, "I win!" WTF? I quit! This game is RIGGED!

They Steal
My son is a fatty. He will do whatever he has to to get more food. That includes stealing from other children. Yes, my son commits larceny against BABIES. I am a fine mother. He once got up from his chair at school, went to the other side of the table, stole a little girl's bananas and got back to his seat, all while the teacher's back was turned. He is a sneaky little monkey.

They Commit Battery
About six times a day, I have to break up some sort of melee between my son and my daughter. They take any time alone together as a challenge to start a cage match. This would be great, if I could make a profit off of it. Unfortunately, all I get out of it is 20 minutes of one of them whimpering in my lap while the other taunts them from across the room. One time at school, my daughter even took a toy car and used it to haul off and hit the sweetest little girl in class in the face. Nice, kid. Nice.

They Covet
No matter what degree of awesome the toy is that they are currently playing with, my kids will immediately toss it aside to covet the toy a child near them has just picked up. My daughter could be playing with a live quadricorn made of glitter and cupcakes and she would throw it down the minute her brother picked up a turd so she could steal it from him. This is also true for colors of crayons in our house.

What about your kids? Are they perfect angels or one step away from San Quentin?

Losing your shit…and then finding it.

Over the last year, I have been less than a stellar mother. I have been through a lot, and put my kids through a lot as a result. Is it something that I could have changed? No. I did everything I could to be the best mom I could at the time, but losing my brother, my best friend, family issues, a new house, money worries and everything else that comes with everyday life was just more than I could handle. I lost my shit on my myself. I lost my shit on my husband. And I lost my shit on my kids. A lot. More than they ever deserved. And I couldn't help it. No matter how hard I tried.

As a whole, I can say that I often feel like a hollow shell of the person I once was. I feel exhausted, alone, ugly, etc. I look back at old pictures of myself and think, "Wow. Who was that vibrant, beautiful girl?" Because she is most certainly not the same lass that I see in the mirror now. The mirror now unveils a beaten woman with under-eye bags that sag farther than her boobs do. I often feel alone. All the way to my soul. I share this because I think maybe all mothers feel like this. At least sometimes. We all feel tired. And ugly. And alone. And lose our shit now and then.

But I am getting better. Little by little. Day by day. And I am starting to find all of my shit that I lost. And feel whole again. There will always be days when I lose it again. But for now, I am holding on to it a little tighter every day and losing it less and less often. And it will keep being a struggle. But I will keep fighting.

In general, this year has made me wonder: why are all women so hard on themselves? I think that we are all so hard on ourselves because we put too much pressure on ourselves. To never be less than perfect. To never let anything get us down. To never make any mistakes with our kids. To never be human.

As mothers, especially, we feel the need to be super human. We want to be all things to all people at all times and when we fall short, we feel like failures. We have so much to do and so little time that there is no way we can not fall short. Not only do we feel the need to be everything to everyone, but we feel we should never show our real emotions. We shouldn't let people know that we are sad, or angry, or depressed, or…real. But we are real. And we do get sad. And angry. And depressed. And that is OK. In fact, it is more than OK. It is normal.

For anyone out there feeling alone, sad, angry or ANYTHING, just know that I love you. Be kind to yourself. Because even when you feel invisible and like no one in the world cares, I do. I care. And if I could send you a kitten and have it not die in transit, I would.

I am an awesome mom...sometimes.

Some days, I am Wonder Mom. I float in off my perfect mommy cloud and sprinkle fairy dust and Twinkies all over my kids. But most days, I am exhausted and just want to get my kids out of my hair long enough to take a crap by myself. Here are some great examples of how I react to certain situations, based on what kind of mom I am that day.

Getting Ready for School

Wonder Mom
Let's pick out your outfit for school. What do you want to wear today? What fun things do you think you will do with your friends at school? Oh, that sounds so fun! Isn't school awesome!?!  

Blunder Mom
Sit still while I put this on. I don't care that you want to wear that instead. Now get your ass in the car. We're late.


Arts and Crafts

Wonder Mom
Let's get out the paint and go crazy. Maybe we can make something for you to send to grandma. Sure! We can use glitter! Why not?

Blunder Mom
Here are some crayons. Don't let your brother eat them.


Watching Television
 
Wonder Mom
Let's put on your Max costume and watch Were the Wild Things Are while we snuggle on the couch together.

Blunder Mom
Here, I turned on Yo Gabba Gabba. Now please don't ask me for anything for at least 20 minutes.


Making Dinner
 
Wonder Mom
Do you want to help me make dinner? Let's make pasta. Can you help me fill the pot up with water? Ok, now pour the sauce into the pan. Let's cut up some veggies for a salad. You are such a good helper.

Blunder Mom
I got you a Happy Meal. Eat it.


Telling My Daughter Her Dreams Before Bed
 
Wonder Mom
You will be a princess in an enchanted castle filled with unicorns that are made of cupcakes. All of your friends will be there and you will dance and play and have so much fun.

Blunder Mom
You will eat lots of cookies and have so much fun. Now go to sleep.


What about you? What are your Wonder/Blunder Mom moments?

Body by Baby

Because Gisele and all her friends make it seem like stretchmarks don't happen, I started Body by Baby. Stretchmarks do happen. So does saggy skin. And saggy boobs. And that is ok. Because we are real women. Our bodies aren't perfect. But they didn't get this way on their own. They got this way because we are fucking awesome and CREATED A HUMAN IN THEM. What's a stretchmark or a muffin top when we actually made life?

This is what a real woman's belly looks like. This is what having beautiful babies does to a girl. And it is awesome:

This is Kristen from BeerCat Brewing. She is the mom of a 1-year-old little girl.

Here is her story:
The pooch is from my second pregnancy.
The outermost scars are from my first pregnancy, an ectopic, and subsequent surgery.
The other scars are from my tumultuous psychiatric past (now THAT takes courage to share, ladies).

Thanks, Kristen. You are the shit for sharing with us what we all hide from each other.

Feeling frisky? Send me your own Body by Baby portrait and I will share it with all six of my readers the world. Anonymously or not. Your choice. Email them to me at ilikebeerandbabies @ gmail .  com (remove spaces).