Posts Tagged ‘relationships’


Well, another Mother’s Day has come and gone. In case you lost count, it’s now Tuesday which marks 2 full days since Mother’s Day and it also happens to mark 2 full days since I’ve been waiting to have a waking moment of peace to myself in order to write a blog about Mother’s Day. Because that’s what happens when you’re a mother. You wait. You wait for silence. You wait for peaceful quiet bliss. You wait for the moment when the hellions stop trying to kill each other and drift into dreamland and hope to God you can stay awake long enough to squeeze a minute or two of enjoyment out of it before you pass out from exhaustion on the couch. Ahhhh…. the joys of motherhood.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Love my kids!!!! Don’t go jumping on the judgy bandwagon and thinking that a little complaining here and there means I don’t appreciate the beautiful gift of children. Because I totally, completely do. But if I’m being perfectly honest, I like to feel sorry for myself every once in a while. It’s totally cathartic. I recommend it. Wallow in self pity for a bit! You’ll feel great! You’ll feel validated! You’ll feel like your 4 year old gets to feel when he has an uninterrupted and ignored temper tantrum when you say “No” to a treat at the grocery store. Un-acknowledged, maybe, but totally satisfied and ready to take on the rest of the day. Why should our kids be the only ones who get to be selfish brats sometimes? I wanna be a brat, too!

And so, for Mother’s Day this year, I decided to be a little bit selfish. It started on Saturday when I went shopping for my own mother’s gift. This got me thinking. Mothers always say they don’t want anything for Mother’s Day, my mom included. This is not true. Not even a little bit. There had better be a gift, or some flowers, or some toast and coffee in bed, or at least a damn card waiting because let’s be honest: it is literally the LEAST you could do. Really. What mother doesn’t appreciate a little bit of thought put into her happiness, at least one day of the year? And if you give your mother or your wife or your baby momma the excuse that you “Didn’t have time to get anywhere, and you’ll make it up to her,” you’re a special kind of douchebag. Mother’s Day is marked on the calendar. It’s not a big surprise. You have warning that it’s coming, same time every year. Get something.

So I’m shopping for my mom and we happen to have similar tastes in a lot of things, so a lot of the gifts I am considering for her are REALLLY appealing to me…for myself. Does this ever happen to you? And suddenly a genius thought strikes me. I’m going to buy myself my own damn Mother’s Day present. After years of boring gifts, thoughtless gifts, no gifts, gifts chosen by sister-in-laws, last minute gifts, gifts from the checkout aisle at the grocery store, I decide that I’ve paid my dues and I am determined to have a mother’s day gift that I really enjoy. And who better to choose it than me? Who appreciates my mothering skills and virtues more than I do? Who has a better understanding of the day in day out sacrifices a mother makes, including her own personal sanity? Nobody. I wander around the store, looking at all the things I would love to have, wondering to myself just exactly how I might measure up on the Good Mom scale. I take a mental inventory of all the crappy-mom things I have done, and compare them to a list of all the pretty great-mom things in my repertoire. I finish my shopping and head to the checkout. This year, I’m not going to wait and wonder if I will be disappointed by my family’s ‘efforts’. I am not going to base my value as a mother on the thought that anyone else may or may not have put into a gift or sentiment for me. This year, on Mother’s Day, my gift to myself is a good book, a cute little purse, and my own realization that I am a really good mother.

On Sunday morning, the Big Day, I awake to a quiet house. The older ones are at their dad’s and the little one is awake and downstairs with my BF. Nobody is bothering me. For a moment I consider that I should probably get up and go downstairs, but I decide against it and lay in bed and browse Facebook instead. Lots of ‘Happy Mother’s Day’ messages. A strange phenomena is brought to my attention….all of the messages are from Mothers. A sneaking suspicion that has been gnawing at me lately is validated: The only people who truly care about Mother’s Day are mothers themselves.

Let me make myself clear. I know that all of you sons and husbands and fathers and even some daughters out there may really truly appreciate the women in your lives who happen to be mothers. You may even lavish these moms with special gifts, suppers, flowers, etc on Mother’s Day, putting a lot of thought into what might make this special woman happy. Of this is the case, good for you! You’re not a douchebag, carry on. All I’m saying is that nobody can really truly appreciate a mother like another mother can. You never truly realize what kind of sacrifices and bullshit your mother had to put up with because of you, until you become a mother yourself. And you can’t even fathom a mother’s love until you are the one giving it, unconditional and unrelenting, day in and day out for the rest of your days on earth. And this is why Mother’s Day is so important. As a mother, the best gift you can give yourself on Mother’s Day and any other day is the permission to fail, the strength to continue, and the acknowledgment that you’re doing a good job, and nobody knows that more than another mother does.

When my 8 year old daughter got home, she proudly presented me with a pile of artwork she had been working on all weekend. She had made me a Mothers Day card, of course. A big picture of my face, with a poem,
“You are specile, You are Bright, you are the best mom in the light.”
She began describing the picture in detail. “See, mom, I gave you black hair, and the little earrings you always wear. And your pink lips and the blush on your cheeks, because I know you like to put blush on your cheeks.” And then she stops, looks at the picture, looks at me, and says, “Awwww Man!” I say, “What?” She says, “I totally forgot to put those big black circles under your eyes!”.

Happy Mother’s Day to me.


Some eCards I'm 30

Ah, Girls Night Out. Who doesn’t love a good one of those? From the time we are little girls doing each others hair at slumber parties, we grow up truly appreciating the value of Girl Time.

The funny thing about Girls Nights is that they tend to change, the older you get. 20 was over a decade ago for me, but I still remember it, somewhat. Let’s dust the cobwebs off of those memories for a moment. When you’re 20, before marriage and kids and mortgage payments, life is like one big old carnival. You may have to pay to get in and stand in line for tickets, but chances are if you’re 20, you have nice boobs, a young face and a carefree attitude and that will probably get you a free sno cone and escorted to the front of the line. Being 20 is great. You can eat cotton candy, caramel apples AND mini donuts and your metabolism will burn that shit up like 10 year old kindling. Your bank account might be a little low but your spirits are high and a lack of funds isn’t going to stop you. You’re gonna get your ass on that Ring of Fire and scream until your lungs burn. And even if you barf afterwards, who cares? You’re young! By the time you get to the next ride, you’re ready to go again. You throw caution to the wind and buy the ride-all-day bracelet because you know you’re capable of riding all day. And all night. Who cares? You probably don’t have a job to go to the next day, but if you do, you’ll just call in sick. Or skip your 9:20 a.m. Music Appreciation class.

Youth. Gravity and Common Sense need not apply.

Well nothing bitch slaps you back into reality like going out to a dance club on a Saturday Night with the girls, shall we say….later in life. Now I’m not gonna say we’re old, because we’re not! But we are older than 92% of the women who were in the bar last Saturday night. I should start at the beginning.

Every once in a while, I need a break with the girls. We all do. It’s soooo fun and sooo necessary! There is no better way to Pause the world of Responsibility and Kids and Relationships and Stress like a good old fashioned Girls Night. Why? Because when girls go out together, we let it allllll hang out, ok? Girls are gross. Picture a bunch of guys in a locker room and multiply that by 10. Or 5 at least. Vulgarity, with pretty pink lip gloss. When you’re with the girls, not only do you not have to suck in your gut, but you also don’t have to worry that your swearing is a tad too manly or that a fart will kill the mood. You can talk freely about periods and IUD’s and one night stands and nobody gets offended. There is no imaginary line you can not cross. Or maybe that’s just my friends, but if that’s the case, I have the best damn friends you can get.

So I organized a little girls trip to the city. Just one night! Don’t wanna push our luck with the men at home doing all the babysitting oops I mean parenting. Hotel Room? Check. Wheels? Check. Better make that 2 hotel rooms. 6 girls trying to shower and poop in one room might be a bit much. OK! All set! So bright and early Saturday morning, we all pile in and get the hell outta town. WOOOHOOO!!!!! Let’s get this party started!?!?! Who wants to do a shot?

Just kidding. It’s 9 am. we’re not 20 anymore. We stop at Tim Hortons and get a coffee and a bagel. So far, nobody has said a swear word. I reach in my pocket for change and find a Ziploc bag of Cheerios. Oh, yeah. I’m Badass. Sigh. And because we’re old and we all have kids and we’ve just had a coffee, we need to stop 45 minutes later for a pee break. A couple swears and poop jokes surface. Someone mentions something about a penis. Buckle up ladies, things are getting crazy!

Finally, we make it to our destination. Time to hit the mall! Can’t wait to find a sexy new outfit to wear to the bar! It’s been awhile since I’ve been shopping for clothes! To my delight, I can suddenly buy shirts in size small or medium instead of large. This puts me on cloud 9 until I realize that it’s only because my boobs have shrunken to their former 8th Grade cup size. Double Sigh. Better go drown my sorrows in a TacoTime Beef Burrito Supreme. Supersized. Thanks. So much for the diet. Who cares? It’s Girls weekend! No calorie counting allowed!!!

Following an afternoon of shopping, we compare notes and realize that for the most part, we have failed to complete our new outfit scavenger hunt but have all managed to buy something for each of our kids whom we have left at home and came here to forget about for a day. And you can be damn sure each kid got an equal dollar amount of stuff, because we all know that it’s easier to calculate fairness by price and avoid the “She got more than me!!!” fight at home. By this time, it’s closing in on suppertime and we are getting thirsty. We make a stop at the liquor store. Swearing and laughing is getting louder and more frequent. We are getting excited! Someone turns the music up a little louder and we all sing along to Taylor Swift. hahahaha I’m not even kidding.

So back at the hotel, it’s time to order some supper, pour some drinks, and start getting primped for the evening. We are getting loud. Somebody is walking around bare boobed. I’m not going to say it was me but I can’t say it wasn’t. There is a lot of penis talk. More swearing. We are soooo coool. Our room is starting to smell like farts and a good time. If there are any guys out there with the idea that girls like to get together in hotel rooms and have naked pillow fights, I’m pretty sure I just ruined that fantasy. Sorry! Now it’s time for shots, for real. The hard stuff, bring it on!!!! heee heee my ears are red and my cheeks are burning from laughing so hard. I don’t know what is so damn funny but those brownies sure tasted good! How thoughtful of her to bring dessert!

ANYWAYS! Off to the bar. There was a brief and disappointing stint at a super lame Karaoke bar, and we knew it was time to leave when the 75 year old crowd started filing in. I’m not even kidding. We needed to get the eff outta there, but to where? This is the dilemma. No matter what city you are in, there is always a bar that is known for, shall we say, Cougars. Women of a certain age. Which, nowadays, means anyone over the age of 25. We did NOT want to go to that bar. We are not old! We are not Cougars! We are good lookin hot chicks in the prime of our lives!! Take us to the cool place! We are still young and we want to dance!!!

So, we show up at the cool place. Early enough to avoid the lines, because as my sister said “I’m 30, I don’t stand in lines.” She was right, we avoided the line and walked in. This is how we thought we looked before we went in:


This is how we felt, when we went in and looked around:


My mother warned me about this. She told me once that there comes a point in your life as a woman when you suddenly realize you are not part of the young and cool crowd anymore. You will always feel like you are, but that’s just an illusion God gives you to keep getting yourself out of bed in the morning. We’re at the teetering point, where you’re not quite sure if people are staring at you because they think you look good, or because they’re wondering what the hell you are doing there. You go to the bathroom for a pee break, and listen to conversations like “OhMyGod!!!! You look ssseeoooooo cute!!! I totally think Dylan is totally into you tonight!! Do you think I look cute? Is my hair totally cute or what?” Then you come out and wash your hands and make awkward eye contact with them in the mirror and you’re pretty sure if they had a thought bubble above their heads it would say, “Go Home, You’re Old.”

So what’s a girl to do in this situation. Loosen up with drinks, and dance. Dance like you’re 20. Dance like you’re cool. Dance like your boobs aren’t chafing your bellybutton. Dance like you don’t give a shit! You know why? Because when you’re 30, you pretty much don’t, anymore. You don’t care what the tight bodied 20 year old in the hoochie dress dancing on the speaker thinks of you. You came to have a good time, and you’re damn well gonna. And that’s just what we did. We danced until the sweat forced us outside to cool off. We may have danced with each other all night, but let’s be honest, we were the best dancers there anyway so it was a win-win. And we all went home happy. Drrunkety drunk drunk, but happy. When we get back to the hotel, we fill our faces full of food as we bitch about the 20 year old hoochies. We take a dose of Tylenol and guzzle water. This ain’t our first rodeo. We pass out and hope for the best.

The next morning, it’s a slow moving crew. The hangovers last a little longer when you’re 30. Like 3 days longer. We enjoyed a nice quiet lunch, making sure to pack in as many calories as possible because as usual, we all have a diet that starts again on Monday. We slept all the way home. It’s Tuesday and I’m still tired. And yet, oddly refreshed. Because that’s what girl time does. It recharges your batteries. It reminds you that it’s ok every once in a while to only be responsible for yourself, and not have to worry about your pets and your kids and your man. It reminds you that you can be fun and immature, even if it’s only once a year! And, most importantly, it reminds you that your pets and your kids and your man aren’t that bad after all, and you go home to them appreciative, and ready to take on tomorrow.

When you’re 30, the carnival isn’t as fun. You definitely are not buying the ride-all-day bracelet. If you escape to the carnival without your kids, you’re constantly scanning the crowd every time you hear someone yell “Mommy!”. You make sure to show up at a nice sensible time when you know the lineups are the shortest and you’ll be home at a reasonable time so that your babysitter doesn’t have to walk home in the dark. You probably pack your own lunch because everybody knows that carnival food prices are insanely inflated and totally loaded with trans fats and sodium. At 30, the carnival is all about being as efficient as possible. Get in, have as much fun as you can for the least amount of money as possible, and get the hell back to your cage where the lights aren’t so bright and the noises aren’t as loud. And start planning the next Girls Night Out.



I wish I could figure out how to have music playing as this blog is opened to be read. You would most definitely be hearing Beyonce’s “Run The World!”. Did you know that today is International Women’s Day? Well, it is! So if you didn’t already have a reason to pour yourself a drink, consider this a good one. If you’re a man and you’re reading my blog, Thanks Dude! But today is not your day. Go pour your woman a drink. Make it a stiff whiskey, with lots of ice. Thanks, babe. Now, run along. 🙂

Women, can I just say, are fantastic. I love women. Think about all the fabulous females in your life. There are so many!!! The best part about being a woman is that it is like an instant pass into a club that really does control the world. After all, we do create all our new members from scratch! Men might have a little something to do with it I guess but let’s face it, women do all the work and deserve all the credit. No man ever gets a free pass into the women’s club. They have to hold our purses and sit out in the hallway during our meetings where we discuss how effing painful childbirth was and how annoying it is to get your period the day you fly out for your tropical vacation. Why? Because men, say it with me ladies, “Will Never Understand.”

I don’t claim to have a clue what it’s like to be a man, or how hard it is, but I gotta say, I don’t care. I’m sure they sit around smoking their cigars at their meetings whining about “pressure” and “expectations” and “body hair” but BOO HOO! Being a woman is hard! If you were born a woman in many parts of the world, you have it wayyy worse than we do here in the land of golden opportunities, let me tell ya, so a big shout out to all those ladies still struggling under the thumb of their male oppressors. I count my blessings. And I thank all the strong ones that came before me to make my life easier. Women’s Rights history is very interesting and I really do encourage you to take some time today to do a little internet researching just as a reminder of how strong and courageous our female predecessors have been in order to get us to this point, where I as a 32 year old divorced mother of 3 can sit in the livingroom of the home that I own and type out my own personal opinions freely to share with the world. Ain’t life grand?

But admittedly, when I started copying and pasting names and dates of famous women and important dates in history, it seemed a little boring (Sorry!). What I really want to talk about is the sisterhood. The sisterhood of the badass women in my life.

Let’s start with Mother. THIS was not my mother.

My mother by all accounts was a firecracker (and still is). Like many moms, she was a teen mom, and got married at age 17. Quit highschool to raise her baby boy. Subsequently gave up on many of her hopes and dreams, I’m sure, and traded them in for the life of a farm wife and a stay at home mom, and a damn good one. Mom eventually got her G.E.D. and became one of the most active members of our community, coaching every sport we every participated in and playing many sports herself, often the president or organizer of every club in town. Mom was busy! She always had homecooked meals on the table, always looked pretty, and always had a good time. And, she raised me, so she did something right :). But even in spite of all these accomplishments and achievements, one of the strongest memories I have of my mother is of Saturday mornings, when some jerk neighbor would always stop in for coffee and wake us kids up with his loud booming voice. This guy had “Opinions”, and a lot of them were about women. This pissed my mom off. My mom hates to get up early but when this douchebag would show up, she would get her ass down to the kitchen table and put on the coffee for this guy, because mom was many things but Afraid of a Fight she was not. She used to dish it out to this guy and I would sit at the top of the stairs listening, and smiling to myself. I loved her for that, and I still do. I always kind of wondered why she cared so much about what men thought about women, but now that I’m a woman, I know. Somebody has to stand up for us, and guess what ladies, we got legs! Use ’em! She went on to become succesful in a career of her chosing and kicks ass on a daily basis. Thanks mom!

Now where did a little firecracker like that come from? Grandma. I wish I knew more about Grandma, she’s still kickin so I guess I will ask her one of these days. What I remember of Grandma from my childhood was the usual Grandma stuff…she taught me how to roll out piecrust and always let us roll our icecream cones in coconut, which I still do from time to time. But what I also remember is that Grandma listened to Grandpa. What he says, goes, as they say. If Grandpa wanted a sandwich, Grandma went to the kitchen and made him a sandwich. I used to really question why Grandma would let a man tell her what to do. But Grandma was from a different time, of course, and this is how she was raised. To be a caregiver. It always seemed like Grandma was dependant on Grandpa. Well let me tell you something about Grandma. That woman was stunningly beautiful. (Still is, aren’t you Granny?!) She managed to pick up a new job in every town that Grandpa moved her to, all around the world, and make friends, and build a life, and take care of her 3 girls, and teach them what it means to be a strong woman when all you want to do is go to bed and cry. And she might jump up and make Grandpa a sandwich when he wants one, because she loves him, and respects him, but you can bet your ass that Grandpa would be totally lost without that woman and he knows it. And Grandma knows it to. Grandma has all the power.

Now, who’s next? Have to give a shout out to my Aunts. I read somewhere that only an Aunt can give hugs like a mother, keep secrets like a sister, and share love like a friend. This is totally true. I have a gorgeous rainbow of aunts, and I am so thankful for all of them. As I grow older, they are becoming more and more like best friends. Your aunts are full of valuable information. They know what a bad girl your mom was when she was a teenager. They know what it’s like to be a sister. Most importantly, they know what it’s like to be a woman, and when you are 12 years old and entering puberty they can warn you about it without all the embarrassment that comes along with talking to your mother sometimes but with WAAAYYY more knowledge than your best friend. Aunts are in your corner. I thank God for my Aunties.

Which brings me to sisters. I have ONE, and if she’s reading this right now, she’s dying because she’s afraid I will reveal something about her get all mushy. Sisters are a curse when you are growing up. They’re annoying. They steal your stuff, they embarrass you around boys, they bug you when you have friends over. They kick you when you have to share a hotel bed. They steal your “Book of Red Hot Numbers” and bring it out at your 30th birthday party. But guess what? They know everything about you. They know why you are the way you are. They, more than ANYBODY else in the world, understand you. Sisters are the Presidents of the Sisterhood. When you get older, suddenly a strange thing happens. You begin to want her around. You call her to bitch about your mom (Sorry mom! 🙂 ) You call her to bitch about your man. You call her to bitch about your kids, and you listen as she bitches about hers. You both see the same ridiculous person and laugh hysterically through eye contact only. Sisters are life’s greatest blessing. My sister is one of the strongest bitches I know, and I fear her a little. In our relationship, she’s the boss, but that’s ok, it’s her turn.


Now on to the best part of being a woman…..GIRLFRIENDS! These bags are my reason for living some days. As life changes, your girlfriends change, it’s inevitable, but I’ve always chosen ladies to be in my “wolfpack” who are funny, crazy, and like to drink and swear. Women who like to have a good time! Women who can tell you the truth!
A good girlfriend is one who lets you bitch and complain and cry about your shitty situation, and then pours you a shot and tells you to get over it. Women need girlfriends. Women need an escape from their kids, their husbands, their bosses, their responsibilities, and who better to escape to than another cranky woman who is also tired of everyone’s bullshit and totally understands? The older I get, the more I appreciate the importance of besties. I can say anything to my girls. I can be honest. I can go shopping for hours with them and not have to worry about how long they have been waiting for me on the bench outside the store! If you are my age or older, you remember these ladies….
And I bet you’ve probably assigned a Golden Girl personality to each one of your friends at some point or another. For the record, I’m Blanche. ha ha ha. Every group needs one, and let’s face it, she’s the most fun! The reason this show was so popular was because it’s true…women love each other and also love to hate each other, which can lead do all kinds of comical drama that makes for perfect sitcom fodder. But the moral of every episode was the same…no matter what kind of crazy shit goes down, your girlfriends are always going to be there for you. With cheesecake. And you know what they say, your girlfriends are probably going to outlive your husband, so you better pick good ones!

When my daughter was born, my mother, my sister, and my best friend were all there. They helped me welcome my baby girl into the wonderful sisterhood of women in my life. She, like the long line of sparklers that came before her, is a firecracker as well. She is so lucky to be a girl.


Who run the world? Girls!
Who run this motha? Girls!
Who run the world? Girls!
Boy you know you love it
How we’re smart enough to make these millions
Strong enough to bare the children
Then get back to business
Girls, we run this motha (yeah!)
Who run the world? Girls!

Happy International Women’s Day! Give thanks for all the firecrackers in your life.


What kind of mother am I? I spent some time pondering this today. While folding 256 loads of laundry this afternoon I happened to be watching Anderson Live, which featured moms who claim that taking anxiety medications make them better mothers. And, like any good talk show, Anderson included both sides of the conversation. Translation: Moms who are RIGHT and Moms who are WRONG.

Have you ever noticed that in general, moms (because we are women and it seems to come naturally) tend to judge each other? Sometimes its passive aggressive, vague and sneaky judgement, like, “She is definitely a more “Laid Back” mom…(using those annoying finger quotes and raised eyebrows). Substituting euphemisms like “Laid Back” and “Relaxed Parenting Style” for words they really mean such as “Lazy” and “Neglectful”. And then sometimes it is just blatantly mean, like “She lets her brats do whatever they want, whenever they want, and they have no respect for anybody!”. Well hello, Judgey McJudgerton, please tell me where I can sign up for your clinic on Perfect Parenting 101. Now I don’t want to sound bitter, but this is usually the mom whose Facebook statuses paint a rosy picture of after school baking sessions with the kids and Pinterest boards full of wonderful kids craft ideas, but who hisses “Get your Ass in the Car, you Little Shits!!!” at her misbehaving kids when she thinks nobody is listening. And don’t even get me started on women who criticize other mothers, and they don’t even have any kids yet! Get real! You have no effin idea, lady!!! Keep it to yourself. Better yet, write down all your judgemental and condescending thoughts, and then once you have kids, bring that list out and marvel at what an idiot you were back before you had a clue. MMMKAY???? I have hollered at my kids! Lots! Because sometimes, getting down to eye level with a 5 year old and trying to calmly explain why their behavior is upsetting you is just plain ineffective. And for the record, so is hollering, most of the time, but I do it anyway, because it feels good. And sometimes, it makes them fear me. If I’m lucky.
So anyway, back to Anderson. There was a mom on the panel who says that she has dealt with anxiety/depression disorders on and off for many years, and since she has had children, she finds that being on a steady prescription of anti-anxiety medication definitely helps her to be a better mother. She says that she does not abuse them, and they don’t make her “high”, they just help her to feel normal and to cope with the many demands that parenting and providing for a family presents in this day and age. She is open, and honest, and articulate. On the other side of the fence is a woman who “strongly disagrees” with this philosophy. When asked on what grounds she opposes mothers taking anti-anxiety meds, she only presents “What If” scenarios. “What if your kids are having a bad day, and based on your example, they think that the answer is just to pop a pill to make everything better? What if you get addicted to them? What if you take too many and you can’t drive your kids to school?” For the record, this looks like a very unhappy woman, but in the interest of not being judgemental I will assume she was just nervous. She did use the word “I” a lot. Long story short, what she was there to say, was “I don’t need meds to be a good mom.”

Well this may or may not be a shocker to some of you who know me, but I DO need meds to be a good mom! I also have struggled with anxiety and depression, and let me tell you, adding 3 kids to the mix who are 90% of the time on my watch and under my care, doesn’t exactly leave a lot of time to mentally decompress, de-stress, and relax.


I love my kids!!! So much, I decided to stop the insane rollercoaster cycle of being on meds, and then trying to wean off, and then having to go back on them, over and over and over again. For someone who struggles with depression and anxiety, a normal day is never a normal day. Sunshine made me crabby. My kid spilling his milk would make ME cry. Most of the time, I wished I could just lay in bed and sometimes, hoped I would not wake up for a long, long time. This was not my kids’ fault, this was not my fault. This is a LEGITIMATE illness, people! And if I was not on medication, everyone around me was suffering, including my kids. I may not be a better mother than you are, but I am not a worse mom because I take a little medication. I am just a mom, and I suspect that I am just one of many with the same fears, troubles and insecurities about how I may be failing my children. Now all that being said, I did a little self discovery about what kind of mom I actually am. I know that I am on the “Laid Back” end of things, and I like it that way.But what does that mean? Here are some examples.

I love it when my kids want to try new foods, but this does not happen very often, and I am not the mom who is going to force my kid to eat something that makes him gag. Have you ever tried to force down food you hate? It sucks. Kids are people too. Pick your battles.
I love to bake with my kids, but I also really like it when they get bored after 10 minutes and let me do the rest in peace and quiet.
I can’t wait until bedtime each night, when I get to tuck the kids in and kiss their tiny little faces, and see them sleeping like little angels…..and then I get to park my ass on the couch and watch my shows…in peace and quiet.
I make my kids beds for them most of the time, because quite frankly, I think it looks nicer and bugs me when I walk by their room and their blankets are on crooked.
I pin a lot of cool kids activities on Pinterest, knowing full well that I will never get around to doing them with my kids but I still hold out hope that one day I will have time to be “That Mom.”
When I make homemade playdough for the kids, usually once a year, I feel like I should get a mother of the year award. Then I swear under my breath every day for the next 3 weeks every time I have to sweep up massive amounts of dried playdough crumbs off the floor.
Sometimes when my kids are whining and crying about something ridiculous and I am so frustrated I could scream, I just whine and cry right back at them until they look at me like I’m crazy and eventually stop and leave the room.
I take advantage of the fact that my kids aren’t old enough to read a clock yet and I lie to them about what time it is so they will go to bed early. This is very easy in the winter time, and I love it! I feel like an evil genius.
I occasionally let my kids eat cereal for supper. And by occasionally, I mean at least twice a week.
I think farts and butts and poop is just as funny as my 5 year old son thinks it is.
I have daily dance parties with the kids, and I like to turn the music up really loud and pretend I can’t hear them when they repeat, “Mommy Look at Me!!!!” 500 times.
I encourage my kids to dress themselves, and wear whatever they feel like wearing, as long as it is weather appropriate. My kids may not always match but they are definitely creative and proud of their self-image.
Sometimes I just really want to strangle my kids. I love them, and I would never actually do it, but when one of my kids is bawling at a ridiculous octave in my face, and I have 101 other things I need to be doing, I sometimes tune out the sound and daydream about wrapping my hands around them and squeezing really really hard. I totally understand how Shaken Baby Syndrome happens. Being a parent takes Restraint!!!
When it’s 4 a.m. and my baby is crying for the 8th time that night, and I am totally exhausted, sometimes I lay in bed with my pillow over my head thinking “Shut up, Shut up, pleaaase just shut up and go back to sleep”, hoping that when I remove the pillow, there will be silence.
I am a stay at home mom and my world, for the most part, pretty much revolves around caring for my kids and their environment. I love being able to do this, and I know that for myself, I wouldn’t have it any other way. But I also need to get out of the cage every once in a while too. I take short vacations, and love girl time and date nights and in general just time away from the kids. And I do miss them, but I don’t miss them every single second that I am gone. I was an individual before I had kids, and I still am, sometimes.

What does this all mean? I don’t know. I think it means I’m a normal mom. I’m not perfect. I make lots of mistakes. If there is a parenting manual on how to DO IT RIGHT out there somewhere, please send it my way. But for now, I’m just like you. I’m just guessing. Moms, like kids, are all so different. That’s the great part about raising kids to be individuals…we don’t all have to be the same. The world would be a pretty boring place. What works for you and yours may not work for me and mine but who cares?! Do your thing. As long as your kids are still alive and happy, you are passing the parenting test with flying colors. Moms, please stop judging each other. Be supportive, and practice acceptance! Mothers need encouragement, even the ones who seem the most confident. If you have a natural childbirth or a C-Section, if you breastfeed or bottle feed, if you choose to stay at home or go to work, just do your own thing! Who cares if your best friend feeds her baby nothing but organic fruit and you have been feeding yours Kraft Dinner? Does your baby smile at you when you pick her up? You’re doing your job. And if you feel like it’s time to up the dosage, by all means, bring on the happy! Because we all know, if momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. AMEN!

I may be a mediocre mom, but my kids seem to like me. And that’s Good enough, I guess.



Do you ever wonder just who was the mastermind behind making Valentines Day a nationally recognized Reason To Buy Shit I mean Holiday? I guess I could Google it and find out but whatever. My point is that whoever it was, was a marketing genius. I know we’ve all heard the bitching about how Valentines Day is just a made up holiday created by the Walmarts of the world, but I’m going to choose to take the high ground here and discuss the OTHER problem with Valentines Day. Those pesky little relationship hemorrhoids I like to call EXPECTATIONS.

I LOVE love. Really! What’s better? The feeling of those little butterflies flittering around in your heart, reminding you with every beat that there’s somebody in this world who thinks you’re just the Best! Falling in love is like ripping the Fresh Seal off a brand new jar of peanut butter…You’re Super Excited, can’t wait to get your hands on it! You can’t wait to peel back that foil and feast your eyes on that smooth, creamy, perfectly flawless goodness. You take in the heavenly aroma…smells so good! You tremble with anticipation as you dip your spoon…and finally, you taste that familiar but oh-so-fresh flavour you’ve been longing for. Sweet sweet peanut butter, where have you been all my life?? You know you should hold back, you don’t want to seem to eager! But Damn! You just can’t seem to get enough. Day and Night all you think about is that brand new jar of peanut butter, just waiting to be enjoyed. You’ve been apart too long. But pretty soon, Peanut Butter starts to lose that ‘brand new’ feeling. The novelty is wearing off. After a few marathon binges, it somehow loses its’ appeal, just a little. It’s been in the cupboard for a while, not quite as fresh. You start to really want it only with your morning coffee, and then maybe you wonder if it’s not good for you too have so much Peanut Butter and you decide to “Take a Break”, and before you know it, you’re dipping your spoon into a fresh new jar of Nutella instead. Sigh. Tale as old as time.

Well that kind of took a negative turn but my point was that love starts out with a bang! Love is great! So exciting! Romance is at its peak, at the beginning. All you can think about is all the amazing things you can do for each other to make yourself seem impossible to live without. Text you at 5 a.m. and tell you that you’re more beautiful than the sunrise! Hide love notes in your car! Take you shopping and buy you a brand new outfit! And my personal favorite, Sending Flowers for No Reason At All! Wow, you’ve really hit the jackpot. You have finally found the most romantic partner in the entire world. How has nobody snapped this person up yet? You must be sooo special! Boy has he sure set the bar high!

And then Reality starts to rear it’s ugly little head. Nobody can be romantic all the time! Its impossible. Yes, I’M SORRY that I forgot to write “I LOVE YOU!” in the steam on the bathroom mirror but I was late for work! And I know I used to text you one hundred million times a day “Just to say hi!” but now I see you every day and I know you’re going to be there when I get home and when I go to bed and when I wake up every damn day for the rest of eternity so I guess I just don’t see the need. And yes, I know I used to take you out to our favorite restaurant every Saturday but the truth is, the garlic bread makes your breath atrocious, and I’m tired of holding in my lasagna fueled farts for the rest of the night in a gallant effort not to ruin the “mood”. It’s easier if we just stay in and have popcorn.


What I’m saying is that sooner or later, the romance, well, dies.

And THAT’S where Valentines Day comes in!!!! If your partner is not living up to your romantic EXPECTATIONS for the other 364 days of the year, at least you know you’ve got this ONE day where he’s gonna make you feel SPECIAL, Dammit! You daydream about what crazy display of affection he might miraculously come out of nowhere with. Last year was the standard card and flowers but THIS year, this year might be different. You’ve been throwing a few vague hints around. Don’t want to seem too desperate! You tell him that you really don’t expect anything, and that you don’t need him to make a big deal because you know he loves you, but you’re secretly thinking, “That bastard better get me something good for all the bullshit I’ve put up with this year!” You might even be extra special sweet in the days preceding The Big Day, hoping your efforts won’t go unnoticed and, ahem, unrewarded. What happens is you end up sending all kinds of mixed signals. Your date is pretty sure you want something, but you keep insisting that you don’t. You swear you think Valentines Day is a big waste of time and money, and then you proceed to rip to shreds the husband of your best friend who had the audacity to “forget” about Valentines Day last year. Who are we? WOMEN! What do we want? WE DON’T KNOW! When do we want it? NOW!!

The result is what I saw yesterday….droves of men, quickly darting into the Bargain Shop and the Florist with either confused or panicked looks on their faces. They don’t know what you want, or what you need, but they’re damn sure you EXPECT something. So they do what they did last year. Card, Flowers, Done. Good Enough. You stuck around last time so they figure it’s probably worth the gamble. They hope for the best but brace for the worst. And on the off-chance they actually did go above and beyond this year, they’re just fools setting themselves up for failure. How’s a dude supposed to top that next year? And if you’re that Extra Special Man who proposes on Valentines Day… good luck with that. You’ve just created a monster. A high maintenance, sentimental, romance craving monster.

Expectations. Killing the Romance and the Mood Since The Beginning of Time. Nevermind that Valentines Day is pretty much just one huge guilt trip disguised in pink. If you get something, it doesn’t mean he loves you any more than he did yesterday! It just means he’s afraid to come home to find all his shit out on the front lawn. That, and he’d really like to up his chances of getting some tonight. So ladies, cut your man a break. If you’re gonna have expectations, at least be clear about them. And don’t do what this poor guy’s wife did:


Don’t tell him all you want is his warm, fuzzy heart.


Whoever came up with the phrase “Sleeping like a baby” is an idiot.

I have an 8 month old, beautiful happy baby boy. Light of my life. Would do ANYTHING for this kid. But if someone came along right now and offered me one full week of uninterrupted sleep in exchange for my 3rd born adorable bundle of joy, I’m pretty sure I’d say “Hell Ya and Here’s the Diaper Bag!”.

I had a colicky first baby…I’d like to give you the details of her sleep patterns when she was a baby but honestly, I’ve blocked out pretty much the entire first year of her life, and can’t remember. Baby #2 was a dream…sleeping through the night at 6 weeks, happy all the time, big cute smile. He turned hellish around age 2 but hey I had 2 good years as a primer and by then I was sucked into loving him enough to tolerate it. They grew, began eventually sleeping all night and finally even getting to bed on their own, even waking up and getting themselves breakfast while I blissfully slept. I was really enjoying sleep. A lot. Then, I had a total lapse in judgement and decided it would be a good idea to start all over again.

Remembering what it was like to have a baby in the house is a lot like remembering childbirth. You know that in theory it kind of sucked, but your brain glosses over all the crappy parts and all you remember are the touching memories and cute little moments. YOu go through your old baby clothes and think to yourself, “Awww, this little sleeper is sooo cute and sooo tiny! I can’t even remember when my babies were this small!” There is a reason you can’t remember. It’s called Sleep Deprivation. You think back to those precious days of bonding with your baby while nursing, how her little eyes would drift closed and she looked so sweet and you would gently rub her cheek wishing you could just look at her forever. What you tend to block out is pulling her into bed with you for the 5th time in one night because you’re just too freaking exhausted to get up and sit in the chair one more time. You know the health nurse “advises against it” but at this point you don’t give a shit and you latch her on to feed her, and you wake up 2 hours later with your boob smooshed up against your baby’s head and a big puddle of breast milk on the sheets. How’s that for bonding? And chances are, you’re so damn tired that all you can think is that if you don’t move she’ll stay sleeping, so you leave your boob there, smooshed against her head, until she wakes up to feed. Again.

But such is life with a newborn, right? Sure, this should only last a few more weeks, I can handle that. It’s not like I’ll NEVER get a good night’s sleep again, right? Baby #2 was sleeping through at 6 weeks, I’m sure this one will be the same. 6 weeks comes and goes. Still getting up every 2 hours. What the hell? I’m soooo tired. Too tired to put in an honest effort to try to get him to sleep in his own crib. Easier just to keep him in bed with me. I start to side with Mayim Bialik in the whole attachment parenting thing. Can’t be that bad, right? Baby Daddy isn’t getting up to help much anyway so he might as well sleep on the couch, more room for us! Shouldn’t be too much longer. I’m sure once he has some solids in his diet he will start sleeping longer.

3 months comes and goes. Still up every 3 hours. I try feeding him a bit of cereal before bedtime. No results. I’m starting to lose my mind a little. Did I mention that when you have 2 other kids to deal with, there is no such thing as taking a nap when the baby naps? Especially when this baby only naps for 20 minutes at a time. When I am awakened to the sound of his crying, I lie there and think to myself, “Shut Up. Please! Just Shut Up and go back to sleep!!!!” It’s terrible but it’s true! It boggles my mind that this tiny human who is growing at a rapid pace is getting the same amount of sleep as I am, and yet he is calm, happy and alert in his wakefulness. I on the other hand, am a disaster. I’m tired. I look in the mirror and do not recognize myself. I daydream about falling asleep and waking up to find that he’s 5 years old. The entire house is on noise lockdown. If the baby is sleeping, NOBODY is to make ANY noise. EVER. Don’t Breathe, Don’t Speak, Don’t Move. Don’t ask me for a sandwich. Mommy is going to try to have a nap. Go play the Wii….and don’t come out of your room. Ever. Thanks!

6 months…still the same. You’ve got to be kidding me. Did I mention Baby Daddy works away now and guess who is getting up with the baby 3-4 times a night? Mommy Dearest. Who, by this point, is also going by the pseudonym Sybil. My 2 other kids, God Bless them, start to carry on their fights in whispers and resort to making ugly faces at each other instead of beating on each other to solve arguments. It’s all about the quiet time. SHHH! Baby’s Sleeping! Sybil needs some rest! For the love of GOD Let Mommy Sleep!!! I am starting to believe that the best form of wartime torture HAS to be sleep deprivation. It makes you crazy. The promise of a little bit of reprieve in the form of some shuteye is enough to make you willing to do ANYTHING. At this point, I would be willing to do some crazy shit in exchange for one night of uninterrupted sleep. I read other mothers’ Facebook statuses, “Baby slept all night last night! Had to go in and poke him this morning just to see if he was still alive!” and I feel like I’m gonna lose my shit. Bitches! Whose baby sleeps through the night at 3 weeks! Liar. You’re a Damn Liar.

Baby boy is now 8 months old, and still waking twice per night. Every night is the same. I go to bed, and try to fall asleep, wondering if tonight will be the miracle night where I make it all the way to morning without getting out of bed. I finally drift off to sleep, only to be awakened 15 minutes later by Junior. It’s as if he’s saying, “Silly Mommy! What do you think you’re doing? You’re not allowed to sleep! Get in here!!!”. I slide out of bed in a fog, trudge downstairs and warm up a bottle, climb the stairs, pick up Junior, and sit in the rocking chair, all without opening my eyes. I rock myself to sleep. When I snap to, he’s done his bottle and asleep, and I return him to his crib. I fall back into bed. Only to repeat again 3-4 hours later. Sometimes he gets up at 6 a.m. Good morning!!!!! And every morning I look him square in the eye, and say the same thing: “You’re Lucky You’re So Cute.” Well, either that, or “You’re a Shithead!!!” JUST KIDDING. Maybe.

There was one night when he was only up once, and then slept in until 9 a.m. And guess what happened? My 4 year old woke up at 7 because he peed the bed. That’s Right! So I’ve officially given up the dream, pardon the pun, of ever sleeping again. If you count the months I spent waking up 4 times a night to pee while I was pregnant, I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in 17 months. Now I think you’ll agree that’s enough to drive anyone totally batshit crazy. So Word to the Wise; if you’re putting in an order to the Big Guy upstairs for a baby, don’t ask for one that “Sleeps Like A Baby”. Ask for one that “Sleeps Like You Slept Before You Had Kids.”


Meet my friend. You may know him. Captain Douchebag.


Captain Douchebag is a fun-loving fellow, delighting in the unhappiness, discomfort, and ultimate demise of others. He finds great joy in creating awkward and uncomfortable situations. He thrives on the seething disbelief in the victims left in his wake, angrily muttering, “What a Douchebag!” under their breath while they give him the finger as he walks away. Captain Douchebag just laughs. He doesn’t care! He’s a Douchebag!

Everybody knows a douchebag or two. They’re everywhere. It could be the guy hollering at his kid to “suck it up and get in the game!” from the stands at the hockey rink. It might be the old bag complaining to the waitress about her Iced Tea being too cold and her fork being too small, and then refusing to leave a tip. Sometimes, somebody you thought could never be capable of being a douchebag totally takes you by surprise!


Geez, Captain Picard, didn’t see that one coming. Are you having a bad day?

The truth is, we all have the innate ability and desire to be a douchebag sometimes. If you’re constantly looking for ways to start an argument with your “significant other” just because you’re bored, you might be a douchebag. If you are finished unloading your grocery cart in the parking lot, and you push it directly behind the car beside you because you are too lazy to return it all the way back to the cart stall, you might be a douchebag. If you drink the last drop of water from the water jug, and then return it to the fridge without refilling it, you are a douchebag. Or, if you’re standing in line at the grocery store and you have 167 items in your cart and I am behind you with one jug of milk, one cranky ADHD preschooler and a crying baby, and you don’t let me go ahead of you, Guess what?


And sadly, I bow to the master, Captain Douchebag, because I’ve done many of these things myself. But what really motivates someone to be such a douchebag? Is it Anger? Sadness? General internal discord? Hunger???? Maybe all a douchebag really needs is just some peanut butter and a hug?

People are Douchebags for a reason. Maybe they are horrible, rotten people, but I tend to believe that maybe a douchebag is just an overwhelmed soul having a bad day. You don’t know! Show that Douchebag some love! Have you ever been having a really crappy day, and it just feels GOOD to be MEAN? We’ve all been there. I have. I’m a douchebag sometimes! Misery loves company, and if I’m having a bad day, guess what? I don’t wanna be the only one! But it’s really hard to carry on with that when those around you are killing your doucheyness with kindness! Have you ever been yelling at your kids for something that’s totally not a big deal, and they just look at you and laugh in that little silly munchkin laughter that makes it impossible not to smile? Super frustrating, yet effective! Those crafty little buggers.

See, kids? Douchebags need love, too. Hug a douchebag, hug him tight. Hug him till you feel alright! Spread the positive energy around, one douchebag at a time. It’s a philanthropic challenge that pays out in happiness and good karma.


Be the change you want to see in the world! Hug a Douchebag!

I'm Captain Douchebag, and I approve this message!

I’m Captain Douchebag, and I approve this message!