I got a boatload of stuff accomplished this morning. 3 month check-up for the baby, visit with my Brother and Sister-in-law, grocery shopping. It would almost seem like I’m a productive person, which is a bold-faced lie. Better fix that before the word gets out. Productive people are class mom, Productive people head up committees… I, am not yet there.

So, after my exhausting morning, I’m pulling into my driveway to discover the new neighbor and her little dog on my lawn. No problem, I like neighbors, I like dogs. And as I look closer I see her dog is taking a shit. On my lawn. No biggie, dogs poop. And if anyone knows anything about living organisms and bowel movements it’s me.

But then she did something surprising.

As the dog finished it’s business… my new neighbor started to just… walk away. I know in big cities lots of people don’t clean up after their dogs, maybe it’s acceptable where you are reading this right now, and yes, it happens here too but it usually doesn’t happen right in front of the owner, of the property that is getting shit on. Hell, maybe she even forgot a poop bag at the house and needed to run back and get one, but that was not the case here.

After I got over the initial “Oh, no she didn’t” moment I called after her…

How’s it going?

“Oh good, and you?”

Really great… so, are you gonna pick that up?

“Wasn’t planning on it, it’s natural….”

{Natural??? What??}

Yeah, it might be natural for you to have dog shit all over your lawn but I don’t have a dog. I have lots of kids. So maybe next time I’ll send one of them over to your house when they need to go #2.

“I’ll go get a bag.”

There I go again.

Making fast friends.

Welcome to the neighborhood.


This was a monstrous year for my 3-year-old. He learned to ride a bike, and a razor scooter, he started preschool and most importantly… he is now potty trained.

The potty thing was HUGE! 3-year-old shits are basically an adult shit, and cleaning adult shits off the ass of an argumentative, moody, over tired, hulk-smash child…. well, it sucks. It was awful. We went through 3 diaper pails last year and his room still reeked of poop. Not fun times.

We had 10 glorious diaper free days before the new baby was born. 10 days of revelry, bliss and celebration. Hubby and I drank champagne (well, wine from a box) and ate onion tartlets (frozen bagel bites) and congratulated ourselves on a job well done (who am I fucking kidding, the kid finally decided he wanted to wear “BIG BOY” underwear).

See, we were going about this potty thing the wrong way. We were concentrating on the little picture… Stickers and treats, praise and happy parents. My boy could care less about those things. But finally getting to wear underwear with Superman, Spiderman, Batman, Aquaman, The Flash, The Green Lantern, and Star Wars on them? Now THAT, was motivation enough to sit on the potty!

So now, off he goes every morning to the underwear drawer to pick out his favorite undercover persona of the day. And G-d forbid if we are at the bottom of the underwear barrel and his favorites aren’t clean… “No Mommy, Diego just won’t cut it.”

As the school year comes to an end the majority of his 3-year-old classmates are also out of diapers. Which, come to find out, is the things that dreams are made of for my son. Everyday, I pick him up from school and everyday I ask what he did that day. The report I get is one I suspect that Joan Rivers would have given as a Toddler. Fashion Police, watch out…

“Farah had Frozen underwear on today but she popped her pants so Miss Suzy gave her extra orange underwear but she didn’t want those cause they are boy underwear. And Joey had Batman but not like mine because his had Batman all over them not just on the front. And Ryan is still in a diaper and I told him if he wears underwear he can touch his penis all the time.”

Wait, what? You shouldn’t be touching your penis ALL THE TIME, just when you have to go potty.

“I don’t, but Ryan can”

Sweet Muppety Christ

All I can imagine in my head is the Red Carpet at fashion week (except it’s in the hall of the preschool) and my kid is strutting down the carpet, nice and slow with a hand in his pants and he’s approached by some reporter from E! (flanked by the little girls from his class)…. the reporter puts a microphone in his face and say’s “Who are you wearing?” and my 3-year-old, drops trou and proudly displays his Superman underwear for all the world to see.

He’s totally ready for College.


It’s another night and I’m wearing the baby.

I’m not complaining. Wait, am I complaining?

I really shouldn’t be. I loved “wearing” him for 9 glorious months. It was awesome actually. If every time I strapped this child to my chest I was given a dose of my pregnancy hormones, I’d be just fine. But this isn’t a sci-fi movie. That would be a cool premise though… gotta remember to come back to that.

What pisses me off about this whole “wearing the baby” thing, is that it’s my husbands fault.

NO…. not like that. Get your mind out of the gutter.

Okay, put it back in the gutter, have a dirty thought for me, and now, come back to reality.

It’s my husband’s fault because the baby likes to sleep on his chest. And my hubby, CAN SLEEP ANYWHERE!!! THROUGH ANYTHING!  It’s a gift, and I’m totally jealous.

So, the big boys are at soccer practice with Daddy and I’m wearing a baby. The baby. My baby.  At least I finished making the rigatoni first. It’s super hard to cook while wearing a baby.


I know I’m not alone in this. I know the statistics, I have lots of Mommy friends who’ve experienced the same thing and I’m sure that you, sitting there reading at home, will be nodding your head in agreement at some point of this post.

Yet, even with that knowledge, this topic is still hard to talk about.  It feels wrong and shameful and selfish in so many ways. And that is what is so fucked up about it. The taboo. The unknown X-factor that is super scary. The knowledge that it can go from manageable to a mental shit show in the blink of an eye.  Postpartum depression is real, it really happens and I am still completely terrified by it.

I’ve heard people refer to postpartum as “the baby blues”. Nothing pisses me off more. It sounds so trivial, so minimized. Like it could even be the name of a chord progression in a song. I realize that some people are too stupid to understand medical terminology…. so “the baby blues” sounds perfectly fine to them. But I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman, who’s fought with the demon that is postpartum, refer to it that way.

My youngest son is almost 3 months old. So it seems to me that I have dodged the bullet this time around. Which is probably the only reason I’m even venturing into writing about it. Because otherwise I’d be in the bathroom crying right now.

Here’s a disclaimer that I feel I need to point out. I am not a parenting or mental health authority, by any means. I’m just a gal with a computer, a big mouth, too many kids and a shit-load of thoughts running through her head.  If you need help, ask for it. Call a doctor, or a friend, hell, you can even send me a message, I’ll point you in the right direction.

After my first son was born I was a fucking wreck. I’d never stayed at home before, I’d always held a job. A job where I was able to use my brain on a daily basis, and interact with other adults. Now, I’d given birth and became a stay-at-home housewife overnight. Rote behavior was my new best friend. Wash laundry, fold laundry put away laundry. I imagined this is what postal workers must feel like… and knew the madness behind the repetition. I was so ashamed this was happening to me. People kept asking if I was alright and I kept lying through my teeth. Completely sure it was all my fault with a smile on my face and a lie in my eyes. And my son, this beautiful, perfect child whom I felt I didn’t deserve. I couldn’t stop staring at him, convinced that my husband was the only reason I had been so fortunate. Looking back I can’t believe the tricks my brain played on me. I ended up self-medicating, trying to get that inner voice to shut the hell up. It was awful, and it got really ugly before it got better. Embarrassing ugly. I’m not proud of my behavior. I alienated friends and family. Although I never endangered my son, I endangered myself. If it wasn’t for my husband’s determination, things would have been very different. I owe him my life.

When I got pregnant the second time I was petrified. I had a glorious pregnancy and vowed to myself I wouldn’t let my brain get the best of me. But that isn’t how postpartum works, unfortunately. You can’t will yourself into good mental health. There is no recipe for what causes it. Sometimes it just is. And after number 2 was born, I found myself falling down the rabbit hole again. Scared shitless that I was powerless.

This time around I consulted my Doctor. I wasn’t embarrassed like I’d been the first time around but I was worried. Really worried. I couldn’t go back to the person I was before, I wouldn’t. My Doctor put me on an antidepressant and it did help. But the thing about antidepressants is that while you don’t feel sad, you don’t really feel… anything. I’m a pretty passionate person, so this was a real shock. No ups, no downs, not to mention no orgasms. You’re just… kinda numb.

But the antidepressants were a very good call. After about 6 months my Doctor and I weaned myself off and my hormones had regulated themselves back to normal levels. I felt really good. Great even. But the time on the medication had helped me to put on some weight that I had a very hard time taking off. Still, I would have done it again in a heartbeat.

You can just imagine my fear when we decided to have a third baby. Beyond fear…. real, true, fucking panic.

But here I am. Another awesome pregnancy under my belt (and thighs, and boobs). A beautiful baby boy smiling in my face and that postpartum monster is nowhere to be found. I have no idea why?

Believe me, I’m just too busy being thankful (and making lunches and washing dishes and folding laundry).

If you are lost in the sea of postpartum depression please know you aren’t alone. And you shouldn’t be ashamed.

And it will get better.





Holy shit.



Tonight we had soccer. The game was early so hubby and I decided to brave the great unknown and go out for dinner afterwards. This was the first time for us with 3 kids and no help (aka, friends, family) just the montly crue. Dinner went surprisingly well considering we are outnumbered. Maybe that was because we had a cook making us food (that the kids ordered) and a waitress bringing us drinks (that had booze in them). Either way, we all had a nice time and I would do it again.

We came home, put the kids to bed (not as easy as dinner) and settled in for the night. Settled in tonight meant that hubby and baby fell asleep on the couch and I started my normal night routine of dishes, lunches and bottles.

After I finished emptying the dishwasher, I started on packing the kids lunches for tomorrow. I made PB&J for both the 8-year-old and 3-year-old, packed their lunch-bags with fruit and yogurt and went to the garage to place the lunches in the fridge that is closest to the car.

That’s when I noticed that the garage door was open.

That’s when I quietly cursed my hubby (or one of the kids) for not closing the garage…

and that’s when I opened the door to the garage fridge….

and that is when a FUCKING SNAKE FELL ON ME!!!!



It fell on my head and then slithered off my back onto the floor…

Breathe…. breathe… SCREAM…… {that was my brain}

And I chased that crazy snake right out my open garage….

He seemed a bit more upset then I was (If that was even possible) as I was yelling and panting and crying and grossed out.

I wanted to wake up hubby to help or commiserate but what would be the point? He and the baby are fast asleep on the couch.

And the snake, is thankfully gone.

I am a Hermione Granger loving, snake wrangling, Mo Fo….

I can beat a snake!!! (And by beat, I mean I can scream like a psycho until he exits the premises.)

That’s kinda like speaking parseltongue… Right?


Still shaking… the dishes can wait.


My oldest is about to be 9….

While I’m still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that I’m going to have a 9-year-old, I’m also trying to plan his birthday party.  As everyone knows, one of the most important parts about being a kid, is desert, and so birthday cake is a big part of the whole birthday party spectacle.

This scares me.

Frightens me to my very core.

I have Bad Birthday Cake Karma.

It all started back when my oldest turned 1.  Although I do like to bake, I wouldn’t have even attempted to make a cake for the 1st birthday of my 1st child. Way too much pressure. So I instead did what every overwhelmed parent of a 1-year-old does… I went to the supermarket and ordered the coolest and prettiest cake I could find. It was this three-tiered job that looked like The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party had mated with Joseph’s Technicolor Dreamcoat. We ordered it in advance and when the day of the party came around, hubby and I were way too busy finishing up the house for all our guests. So we sent a relative to pick it up. When they arrived back at the house I attempted to pay the relative for the cake…

“You don’t owe me anything.”

Of course I do, it’s for the cake.

“I didn’t pay for the cake.”

You what? You didn’t pay for it?

“I thought you had already paid, so I just picked it up and left.”

I looked at the beautiful, AND STOLEN, cake. The one that I picked out to celebrate the birth of my wonderful son. “Shit, I’ll go back and pay for it tomorrow”.

Months later my hubby and I joked about the cake…. and I couldn’t recall if I ever did pay for it. I still can’t recall.

This was the beginning of my Bad Birthday Cake Karma.

Fast forward to this past December. My middle child was turning 3 and I, once again, ordered a cake from the same store. By now we’ve gotten a bit older, and wiser, and lazier, and decided to have the party at an indoor play-place. I went to set up the venue and sent hubby to pick up the cake.

An hour later he walks into the party empty-handed.

As I looked at him with complete disdain….

Really dude? You had one job???

“There was an accident.”

Are you okay? The car?

“The cake.”

Oy Vey, Bad Cake Karma strikes again…

It seems the bakery only had VERY LARGE boxes. So large, in fact that the box couldn’t fit in the shopping cart and had to be rested on the top. As my hubby walked to the checkout another shopper accidentally rammed him with her cart. The cake fell to the floor in a mangled, sugary heap… leaving hubby and the other shopper to stand over it in wonder.  As he scooped up the now, totally unrecognizable cake and brought it back to the bakery department to be fixed, he was told the cake decorator was on lunch break and they “might” have a new cake ready in an hour. Of course, the party was starting in 12 1/2 minutes. Isn’t that always how it goes? So hubby ran back to the party and once again we sent a family member to pick up the cake.

This time when I went to pay for the cake…

“No, the receipt said, no charge.”

What do you mean, “no charge”? This is getting ridiculous… We don’t take things without paying for them. We aren’t fucking thieves. 

And there it was in black and white, “No charge”.

This time I was going to investigate…

When I went back to the market on Monday, receipt in hand and story in mouth, the cashier looked it up for me in the computer… it seems the stranger involved in the cake-tastrophe had PAID FOR OUR CAKE. A simple accident and she took responsibility that wasn’t hers to take. It was a lovely gesture. But I still get a bad taste in my mouth when I think of cake. Actually, just the words “Birthday Cake” make my hairs stand on end and I break out in hives.

You can’t have your cake and eat it too.

Fingers crossed that my Bad Birthday Cake Karma comes to an end this year. Cause I can’t take this shit 3 times a year for the next 20 years.

Cake Karma Update…


My son turned 9 this year… Not 7.
And the Bad Birthday Cake Karma continues.