Category Archives: This Is My Life

Mom Bloggers: Don’t Look Like An Ass

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If you spend any time reading the hype about mom blogging, in particular posts from top bloggers in other genres, you know what a phenomenon it is. Mom bloggers are big because so many people can relate to them. Readers keep coming back to read their stories because they bring humor to the every day trials all moms have to face. For example: Before there were mom bloggers to laugh with you about cleaning up vomit, it just wasn’t that “cool” of a thing to do. Now, it’s hip. Right??

The problem is, there’s a shortage of content. Not that there is any lack of bodily fluids in the house just waiting to be shared with the world, but after a couple of years of sharing about my children’s stools, I began to feel like I was leaving my followers wanting more. Not “more” as in, “come one now, we know there’s stuff coming out of the kid’s mouth, too, tell us more about that!” More as in SOMETHING ELSE.

I’ve had a few ideas, writing about fashion trends was one of them. A quick glance at my tattered knock-off Ugg boots and baggy T-Shirt put a stop to that rather quickly. The truth is, I’ve watched fashion shows and I always come out of the experience thinking “Seriously? People actually wear that in public?”

Then, there are the mom bloggers that write about couponing and bargain shopping. Because I love my readers, and in a desperate effort to give you the “more” that I hear you crying out for in my dreams, I tried couponing – once. I had the binder, the list of rules for each store, the price matches, the brass knuckles (for the inevitable checkout skiff), I was equipped and ready to go. It took 2 FULL days to get my grocery trip planned and another to actually DO the shopping. Although the time it took was discouraging, I didn’t call it quits until I realized that while at the store, my husband was trailing the lady in the motorized shopping cart, who wasn’t even handicapped, in hopes that people thought he was there with her and not me. A sure sign that I looked like an ass.

Coupon bloggers: I bow to you and your dedication.

Now, my favorite kind of mom blogger. The cooking & craft kind. I’ve thought about adding a column on my blog dedicated to things like recipes, kitchen tips, crafting with your children, how to get “impossible” stains out, handy cleaning tips, etc. Then I wiped the tears of laughter from my eyes.

Photo Credit: People Of Walmart

True Confessions

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1. Biting my fingernails makes me happy, especially when I get a big one.
2. Wet hair freaks me out. Seriously. I gag.
3. I’m a closet addict to The Real Housewives of New Jersey.
4. I keep deodarent in my car, in my desk, and in my purse. It’s an obsession.
5. I have a special place in my heart for sour patch kids, I love them. I bite all of their heads off first.

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The Ups and Downs and Downs and Downs of Blogging

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The best way to describe the relationship between a blogger and their blogging, is a relationship between a pregnant woman and her peanut butter’d pickle. It’s an obsessive, compulsive, delightfully thrilling addiction. In fact, if blogging knew it’s rights, it’d probably take a restrainer order out on me. And, Perez Hilton.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’ve missed you all. And, well, you complete me.

I’ve taken a long break from the blogging scene. I call it “blogging scene” because, since the time I went out with friends and licked my shirt to find out if the stain on it was baby puke, I don’t get invited to the “bar scene” anymore and, well, it fills that void. Also, it makes me sound popular.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes. My long break. I’m not sure how long it’s been exactly, the thought of doing math right now just seems exhausting so, I’ll just leave it at “long” and you’ll just have to be okay with that. I have 3 kids under the age of 6 and I just got the 9 month old to sleep after fighting with her about it for 2 hours because she didn’t poop her pants today. If you don’t follow, don’t sweat it… you’re either not a parent or the luckiest SOB on the planet. Either way, you’ll get yours.

As much as I love blogging, I hate it, too. It’s like that boyfriend you had in high school that half the time you thought you couldn’t live without but the other half your body was reacting to the fact that you just got your period and your hormones were raging and the dumbass let that slut in homeroom sit on his lap and you just wanted to bash his face in then, before you knew it, you were sitting in front of a shrink thinking that just maybe you didn’t have adhd at all, but instead you were a full blown schizo.

You see, the problem I have with blogging is that my mind is like that ride at the fair where you spin and spin until it eventually ends with you puking all over yourself. I know what I want to blog about – Today. But, tomorrow? It’s something totally different. Until eventually, my blog looks I just got off that spinning ride and turned on the computer.

I enjoy writing and sharing my stories with all of you. I’m going to make it a point to do it more and I hope you stick with me while I do. You know, despite the chunks on your screen.

I guess what I’m trying to say is… I’m baaaaaack.

Like Putting the Shrink on Speed Dial

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My mother and I have a good relationship, now. However, we didn’t get along so well during my teenage years and into my early 20′s. And, by “not so well” I mean “who can scream louder?”

Not until I had kids did I decide that she was maybe okay. Maybe. And no, it wasn’t because of the whole “oh, you just wait until you have kids, you’ll understand!” thing but, because I wanted my kids to be close with their grandma. And they are. And I still don’t undertand.

They are so close, in fact, that Hunter is convinced he will be moving his entire family in with her when he is grown. Despite my efforts, he doesn’t see how this sort of living arrangement could possibly have any negative effect on his marriage. Poor little fella.

There’s a lot of truth to the theory that kids and parents who are the most alike don’t get along. Is that actually a known theory or did I just pull that out of my ass? Either way, it makes sense. I’m sticking with it. Don’t think I’m taking this lightly. To admit that I’m like my mother is like putting the shrink on speed dial. No one wants to admit or believe it, but it’s damn well gonna happen eventually so suck it up and thank God for prescription medication- and vodka.

The truth is, the older I get, the more like her I am. Losing my keys and frantically searching the house with the kids is more the rule than the exception these days. Getting lost while driving to the grocery store that I go to every week is more common than I’d like to admit and going through the checkout line with nothing but a bottle of Beano doesn’t even phase me anymore.

With every year I get older, the less I give a damn about what other people think of me. The more I find out about myself and my kids, and the more I desire to just be. That’s right, just be. My favorite part about getting older? I finally like myself. I never disliked myself, but now… I really like myself.

And that, I could get used to.

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I’ll Take Stall #3

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Just put me in a damn stall, hook me up to the milker, and get it over with, already. Hunter didn’t breastfeed. He down right refused. Once he was given a bottle in the NICU, that was the end of it. Sophie, she was a boob baby through and through. She loved nursing and took every opportunity possible to do it.

Now Ruby, I can’t detatch the kid. She doesn’t wait for an opportunity to nurse. More like, I wait for an opportunity for her not to. Which, by the way, happens about as often as a man changes underwear and lasts as long as it takes me to grab an ice cream sandwich from the fridge. Outlook for my next year: Grim.

I have never had sore nipples before. Even when Sophie took up nipple biting like it was an olympic sport and she was out for the gold. That’s Sophie, never settles for second best.

Now, my nipples hurt so bad that I’m convinced if the room was quiet for just a moment you’d hear the high-pitched whimper of my boobs crying for help. I can’t really say that with complete certainty because the room being quiet for a moment is number 1 on my list of unrealistic goals.

The nurse gave me some Lanolin cream, swearing it would do the trick. Now I have greasy, sore boobs. Maybe I should just throw in the white flag and claim a stall at the dairy down the street.

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Up Mike’s Hiney to See the Sunrise

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My head has been up Mike’s hiney. Yep, that’s right. Up Mike’s hiney.

My dad used to say “Up Mike’s hiney to see the sunrise” when I was little and asked him where he was going. He also used to say it was “cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.” That’s another story for another day.

I feel like I’ve been camped out up Mike’s hiney waiting for the sun to rise for the better part of a month now. The damn thing just won’t come up. So, I’m making the executive decision to relieve Mike from his presumably incredibly uncomfortable state and remove myself from his rear.

Please, Mike, refrain from expressing your excitement by doing the Hammer dance until I am completely removed from your hiney. Thank you.

For those of you who have no idea what the hell I’m talking about, let me clarify. I’ve been an ass. A boring, lame, depressed, cranky, tired, fat, flubby, miserable ass. There are some things I can’t change, like me being an ass, but the boring, lame, yadda yadda part of it, I can. And, I will. HOORAH.

I’ve taken the fun out of blogging and I’m putting my foot down. As soon as I remove the baby from my boob, that it. Okay, now I’m putting my foot down.

Wait, the word “fun” isn’t in the word “blogging.” Hmm. Something to think about.

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It’s 5 O’Clock Somewhere

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Some things in life just aren’t justifiable with words. My morning is one of those things.
A picture montage of today, all prior to 9 am…

See the marker on his face? Courtesy of Sophie.

Guilty conscience?

This room was clean last night.

Understandably, you might think she was homeless.

Begging for fruit snacks – or, er, screaming for fruit snacks.

One of the few times she actually doesn’t have gas.

One down… two to go.

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I’ve Lost My Mojo

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I seem to have misplaced my funny. I’ve looked for it in all of the usual places, the fridge, the couch cushions – places that I frequently misplace my car keys. It’s nowhere to be found.

With Sophie it was just the opposite. I was a grouch during pregnancy, then right after I had her I was right back to my normal self. With both Ruby and Hunter, though, there wasn’t a lot of change in personality while pregnant but, immediately following, the bitch alarm was sounded with the volume turned on high.

With Hunter it took almost a year to find myself again. I’m not sure I’m prepared for another year of this shit, I’m not sure my family is prepared for another year of this shit, either. Pregnancy is a real bitch – how do you just forget who you are for any amount of time? If I could draw a picture of my hormones, I’d tack it to the wall and throw darts at it every morning before I start my day. Shit, I may just throw darts at the wall anyway. Better than at my husband, right?

I’m working on losing the baby weight, wishful thinking has me hoping that if I get back to my pre-baby body I will feel a little more like myself. ‘Cause the only thing friendlier than a hormonal, post-pregnant woman is a hormonal, post-pregnant woman on a diet. Just ask Scott.

In other news: Sophie has found the word “owie!” It didn’t take long for her to realize that someone will always come running if she so much as utters it. Can’t get her shoe on? OWIE! Doesn’t want to take a nap? OWIE! Wants to go outside and play? OWIE!

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Big Fat Loser

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As most of you know, I gained a shitload of weight when I was pregnant with Sophie. For the record, I don’t know what a shitload weighs, but I’m fairly certain it would be approximately equal to the amount that I gained with Sophie. Yeah, that bad.

It took me almost a year to lose it all. Right about the time I got pregnant with Ruby, actually. Wouldn’t ya know it, right?

So, here I am again, time to lose it. I didn’t gain as much with Ruby as I did with Sophie. Not even close, thank God.

Although I knew this day would come sooner or later, I suppose I was hoping later would come much-much later. So much later, in fact, that, well, it wouldn’t. No such luck.

I find myself weighing my options daily. I could just stay fat and live happily ever after with my peanut butter and cocoa filled pantry. Or, I could be skinny. Peanut butter and chocolate – or, skinny. You see, the problem is, I don’t see any pros for the skinny choice. Kinda hard to get motivated when you compare it to the other option, right?

The way I see it, either way makes me one big fat loser.

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TV – The Other Mother

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Are there specific rules set up for TV watching in your house? While I try and limit the amount of TV Hunter and Sophie watch, it surprised me to find out that its not as easy as simply pushing the power button.

Once the decision was made to drastically cut back on tube time, several other factors surfaced once the screen went black. Complications that I did not expect or plan for. Complications such as unoccupied children running amuck.

To be honest, the direction that the world is moving is something that really scares me. To avoid getting too deep in my post about boob tubes, I’d just like to say that I miss the days when you could throw a coat on your kid, send them out the door and not see them again ’til dinner. The last time I remember this being appropriate, I was the kid.

Children have way too much time on their hands and absolutely nothing to do with it anymore. Well, aside from video games and reality shows. Not only do I feel bad for my kids and how it will affect their social progression, I feel totally gypped as a parent.

In recent months I’ve come to realize that Hunter has a rather addictive personality, this caused me to realize that TV time had become a problem in my house and I didn’t even see it happening. It wasn’t the amount of time that he spent behind the TV that caused me concern, rather how much he had invested in it. We could be in the car, miles away from home and he would ask me what day it was because there was a certain show on that he wanted to watch on a particular night. We would drive by a business that I don’t even know what the hell they do there and he would be singing their jingle and quoting their slogan.

Pretty soon, he didn’t want breakfast because it meant he would have to go in the dining room to eat and therefore miss whatever cartoon was on. Red flag, much? How do you teach a 4 year old that most anything is okay in moderation.. Aside from the typical skull and cross-bone items such as drinking bleach, sniffing paint and smoking crack, of course. This is a kid that has more toys than there are boogers on a playground. Moderation is not in his vocabulary and I have no one to blame but myself.

In recent days I’ve been experimenting with setting a certain number of hours in a day that the TV can be on. This is a hard concept for a 4 year old to grasp, though, and it hasn’t been working quite as well as I would like. He uses it all up in the morning, then later doesn’t understand why he can’t watch another show. Short term memory or selective memory? The jury’s still out.

I’m afraid I will need to come up with another method, one that’s easier for him to grasp. The time limit method only seems to make him feel as though he is being punished, which is also something that I want to avoid. I don’t want him to associate setting limitations with doing something wrong. As the son of a recovering alcoholic, it is imperative that he understands the concept of keeping things in moderation.

Its a bit of trial and error, I suppose. What are your house rules for television?

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