We’ve all heard the line, “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.’

Someone needs to explain this to my 3-year-old.

Toddlers are little emotional terrorists and this kid has made a sport out of testing my patience. All toddlers are contrarian. They will rebuke any idea. Especially when you are dealing in fact. Even more so when it’s your idea. “The sky is blue,” I sigh, staring at the gorgeous blue sky. “Nope,” the toddler sings, “The sky is yellow with purple polka-dots.” This is just one minute example of every conversation I’m forced to have on loop with this child. I’ve started to just agree with him,”You’re right… I do love a sky with purple polka-dots,” I remark. “Silly Mommy, the sky is blue. You’re so silly.” Groan. He’s trying to kill me.

The 3 and 4-year-old curriculum at preschool is all about the alphabet. The alphabet is our world, and we eat it, we breathe it… we got this bitch. For every week we have a specific letter. Dinner times are spent coming up with words starting with the aforementioned letter. Bedtime is spent reading books where every affected word has to be pointed out, that’s the thing about 3-year-olds… they can be adorable and charming, witty and funny, filled with enthusiasm and empathy, but don’t put your guard down. No matter how cute they act or how much wine you’ve drunk, toddlers are the human equivalent to a feral cat. It’ll take your food, but it will go psycho ninja if you try to pet it.

This week we are on letter D. It seems like such an easy letter. A letter filled with promise and hope… that’s until my kid got hold of it.

We were driving home from school, “What would you like to bring in for letter D show-and-tell tomorrow?” I can’t believe I remembered this in advance. Even though his teachers just told me. Even if they stapled a post-it note to my forehead… this should be good. We’ve only been talking about this letter for a week. “I. Don’t. Know.” whined the monkey. “How about your duck? Duck starts with the letter D.” I knew what was about to happen… the contrarian that is my child was about to show his face.

“I don’t have a duck,” he muttered with disdain.

“Sure you do, the one your brother won for you, the one in your bed.”


“MOOOOMMMM…. that’s not a REAL duck!” Oh lord, here we go. “Um, I don’t think it has to be a real duck.” Where the fuck can I find a real duck? Now he’s thinking.

“How about a dinosaur? Dinosaur starts with the letter D.” This is gonna get ugly. Is it too early to start drinking? What time is it?

“I don’t have a dinosaur,” the toddler yells.

“Sure you do, all those dinosaur toys you’re always playing with.”


“MOOOOMMMM…. those aren’t REAL dinosaurs!” Now he’s screaming. Screaming is bad. “Um, real dinosaurs are extinct. I’m relatively certain your teacher doesn’t expect a real dinosaur.” He rolls his eyes. Rolling of the eyes is a very bad sign.

“How about your doggy? Doggy starts with the letter D.” He loves his stuffed doggy. Maybe I’ll get a stay of execution on this fight.

“I don’t have a doggy!” Now he’s pissed. I’m screwed.

“Sure you do, your Aunt bought him for you when you were born. You sleep with him every night.”


“MOOOOMMMM…. that’s not a REAL doggy!”

This went on for the entire ride home, and an extra 20 minutes once we were inside the front door. I’d ruled out the possibility of him bringing in his daddy, donuts, disco ball, diuretics, detectives, Doritos, dominatrix, delivery boys, and decomposition. Okay, some of those were a joke, but less than you think. I was about to hand him my most cherished engagement ring, because diamonds, and tell him to have at it so I would be done with discussing show-and-tell for the letter D.

D is for douchebag, D is for dumbass, D is for DRIVING ME CRAZY!

He picked that moment to blow my mind…

“I think I’ll bring in duck.”


I’m gonna pour myself a drink (D) and start thinking about the letter E.


My 3-year-old attends preschool, and a week ago… yeah, that’s right, A WEEK AGO, we were fortunate enough to be the first family to take home The Weekend Book. The Weekend Book consists of a basket, a stuffed animal, and a black-and-white composition notebook which you’re supposed to fill out, telling your weekend family story. It’s an adorable premise and I remember enjoying it with my oldest child, but life was a lot less complicated 7 years ago. When Monkey’s teacher handed me The Weekend Book this time I saw stars, spinning Bugs Bunny, and felt faint. I didn’t need to add something else to my list. I think Monkey’s teacher, whom I’ve known for a gazillion years, saw the look in my eye and promised I could keep the book longer than the weekend (as we didn’t have school this past Friday). That was 10 days ago, and I just sat down to fill out The Weekend Book now. Ultimate slacker. At least I’m consistent.

I’d taken pictures of all the smiley moments we’ve had in the past 2 weekends and I cut them out, glued them into the book, and wrote cute, anecdotal stories about the fun weekend and the nice things we’d done. The Weekend Book is like the real-world Facebook. Everyone is all “Ohhh” and “Ahhh” and “my kid is so cute” and “share if you’re the mother of a son with webbed feet and you love him no matter what.” The Weekend Book is a mirage for the family I wish I actually had. The family where babies never cry and toddlers never throw Legos at your ass and no one ever asks for lollipops at 6 AM: where you don’t itch your face and find poop on your finger, where there is no “he hit me” and “he hit me first.”

This got me thinking: What if I were to be honest with The Weekend Book? I mean, yes, there were good times during the weekend, Duh? I have the smiley pictures to prove it… but what if I were to chuck the ridiculous shit in there too? The real-deal truth that happens over here? So here I go…

The REAL Weekend Book.

We were sooo happy utterly mortified to have The Weekend Book this week. On Friday, Mommy made a fantastic dinner, which no one ate because the 3-year-old seemed to think there were onions in it. There were not. After dinner, Mommy did the dishes and cursed under her breath that the dishwasher is falling apart, while Daddy tried to bathe all the kids without incident to no avail. There were incidents. Many incidents. Including the one where the oldest boys wanted to both pee in the toilet at the same time. More clean up for Mommy. She lives for hates that shit.

After desert the brothers cuddled while watching a show attempted to beat each other into submission while fighting for couch dominance. No one was the victor here and bedtime was pushed up by 15 minutes.

On Saturday we had lots of soccer games, and Mommy was totally prepared a complete psycho trying to find all of our uniforms, water bottles, and socks. Mommy is so good at these things completely unable to focus and should probably be on a regular schedule with a mental health professional.

Saturday night we had another gourmet dinner which everyone enjoyed nobody touched again, because the 3-year-old was convinced he saw blood in a fully cooked, boneless, skin-less, chicken thigh. Then Mommy made S’mores for desert drank wine and pretended she was childless.

On Sunday we had a relaxing completely anxiety ridden walk to the farmers market while the 3-year-old rode his scooter scared the shit out of Mommy with his scooter riding fearless ways. Mommy bought 2 pounds of shrimp to make for dinner and it will be delicious no one will eat it because that’s how we roll.

Mommy is really thankful for the teachers’ of her children. She filled out The Weekend Book because there WERE good times in the last 10 days (she has the pictures to prove it) and because these poor teachers already have to deal with her kids at school.

They don’t want to know the crazy shit that happens at home.




While watching TV the other night, my oldest child discovered a variety show where the current attraction was a man spinning plates on many sticks. Usually, the 9-year-old is a constant channel flipper, always skipping from program to program, but he stopped on this channel, intently watching a tuxedo clad man, jump around the stage like a maniac, setting up plates upon top of sticks and setting them into motion. “Mom, you see this?” he said… “That looks so hard!” I was finishing up the dinner dishes while the Hubby had the younger boys in the bath. “That’s what I do.” I said while looking at the TV. “Mom… You. Can’t. Spin. Plates. You can’t even juggle.” And he’s right, I cannot, literally pass multiple balls through my hands in the air, or put plates on sticks and make them spin, but metaphorically? Metaphorically this whole world of motherhood is a gigantic plate spinning act… and my performance will not get me a spot on Ed Sullivan. “What? You don’t think taking care of you guys is just as complicated as spinning plates?” He seemed to think about that while he was watching the show.

I’m actually kind of envious of the plate spinning guy. He’s obviously had time to practice his craft, and is probably using plates from The Dollar Store that he can afford to break and try again. But with motherhood, my plates are the finest china, balancing the lives of little human beings, and it’s always a side thought in my mind that when it comes to their safety, I won’t get a second chance. Then there is the timing to it all, the balancing act where everything needs to happen at a certain time. I can lie to myself all I want about the fact that I don’t care what other people think, but when it comes to my kids, I want them to have the best. Am I the best?

Putting the fear of accidents to the side, then there’s all the extra stuff that comes with school-aged kids… the homework, the lunches, the doctors appointments, the inoculation schedules, the sports practices, the religious school, the games… I haven’t even broached birthday parties and holidays yet, and housework and meals… Plates are falling from the sky as I write this, I’m gonna need to buy more plates. Another thing to add to the shopping list.

The craziest part is that I really am doing the best I can, and I don’t think they notice when I neglect one spinning plate and tend to the one that’s about to drop with more intensity. Once that plate is okay I jump to the next one that’s about to fall.

I’m now judging the balance with small victories. I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t remember if I’d pack the lunches the night before… I had. I remembered show-and-tell for the 3-year-old today that had to start with the letter B. The oldest’s soccer uniform is washed and ready for the upcoming game. The baby’s diaper is currently clean… seems that my plates are spinning is unison, along with my head, but at least it still on top of my shoulders.

That is until I picked the preschooler up from school today… as we walked out the door his teacher reminded us, “Remember, wear the color of the day for everyday next week, Monday is orange.”

Color of the day?

I’m gonna need more plates.


shotgun wedding

Hubby and I when I was 8 1/2 months pregnant with our second child. We call this costume, “The Shotgun Wedding.”

Halloween is almost here and if you’re currently pregnant, this is the time to have a great laugh at the totally-fucked-up amazing things that are happening to your body. While every other woman on earth is being force-fed the multitude of slutty costume options, you can finally let it all hang out… literally. Don’t just paint your monstrous middle like the Great Pumpkin. That’s amateur night. Get creative, really creative. Or just copy a fantastic idea from this post. I won’t tell, but you can tell all your friends about my brilliance. That would be cool.

1. Miley Cyrus – Wrecking Ball

This is maternity gold right here. Makes me wish I was pregnant right now. Except for the whole “another baby” thing.


“I came in like a baby bump!”

2. The Milk Man Did It

Freaking hilarious… although, anyone under the age of 40 might not get the joke, and I wouldn’t recommend this one if you have any questions as to the paternity of your little bundle. If after delivery you’re making an appearance on Maury, this costume is out.

Most people in around here wouldn’t even get this costume. Simpletons.

3. Pregnant Boobs

Who doesn’t love a nice pair staring them right in the face. You’re husband’s not fat? No worries, just stuff his shirt.

This guy is the tits (pun intended) for going along.

4. Easy Button

There is nothing like a good double entendre when you can’t tell if you are wearing matching shoes.

I feel you, girl. That’s how we got into this situation in the first place.

5. Pregnant Nun

You’ve seen people do this one, but it’s so much funnier when you’re actually pregnant. If you’re gonna go to hell you might as well get a good laugh as you prepare your handbasket. And yes, that is the Octomom. You’re welcome.

I think this is the best Octomom has ever looked. But that’s just me.

6. Bun In The Oven

This is a cute idea, but just seemed like so much work to me. And it looks heavy to wear. The last thing you want is to be more uncomfortable than you already are.

Um. Now I’m craving Cinnabon. So cruel.

8. Gory Costumes

These completely freak me out, but some people love blood and guts on Halloween. I am not one of those people, but I’m also the type of person who is afraid of my garage at night, so… I might not be the best person to ask about these. Kudos on the reenactment of Alien though, that’s good shit right there.

“Holy shit. YOU DID THIS TO ME!”

9. The Pearl

This costume is INSANE. It looks hot, heavy, uncomfortable… ohh, is that a mermaid tail? This chick is pregnant Yoda. Get it girl.

“Did you get the picture? Did you really get it? Sweet. Take this fucking shell off me, now!”

10. The Shotgun Wedding

This one is by far my favorite, because that’s me! Hubby and I pulled this one-off while I was pregnant with my second child. People actually asked if my 8 1/2 month pregnant belly was a prop. Good times.

shotgun wedding

“Yep. Get Pa by the the back porch. And get a Preacher… Quick, Jeb. Run!”

Whether you dress up or not, enjoy this last Halloween before childbirth. Next year you’ll be fighting on Ebay with a lady in Kentucky over an Elmo costume that will arrive 2 sizes smaller than advertised.

PS. I only own the shotgun wedding image because I’m in it, obviously. If you, or anyone you know is featured in these amazing pictures and wants some credit or wants me to remove your image from this post, please contact me! Thank you.



In the guerrilla warfare that is parenting, sometimes we forget about stuff. Okay, lot’s of times I forget all the stuff, but considering the complete love I have for the written word, it’s really a damn shame that I can’t show my face in the public library. It’s not like they have my picture hanging up next to the check-out… Oh shit, maybe they do? Do they? This is the kind of thinking that has turned my away from borrowing books. That, and the fact that a private testing facility found saliva, sperm, DNA, and herpes on copies of 50 Shades of Grey in am Amsterdam public library… Actually, that fact is just more of a reason for me to stay away from the library… after the wanted poster.

When my oldest child was 2 I was a hot mess. I couldn’t handle any of the responsibility that came with being a stay-at-home mom. Cleaning? Nope. Cooking? Nope. Being a functioning member of society? Nope. I was able to sustain his needs for food, naps, clean diapers and love, while the rest? Well… all that shit went out the window. At the time, since he was my only child, we spent a great deal of time at the local public library. Because books and quiet and other kids with clueless moms.

This one day we borrowed a whole mess of books, Blue’s Clues, Bernstein Bears, Sesame Street, all the things that my little munchkin found amusing. I was just happy to have him occupied, especially by books. It wasn’t until 4 weeks later that I remembered about the books. I mean, I remembered that I had them, shit, he wanted to read them every night, I just forgot they didn’t belong to me. Come to find out, that people who actually remember to return library books, make a note on a calendar about the day they are due… these are basic life skills I didn’t have at the time. I’m getting there… slowly.

That next morning I collected all the books and sent them with the hubby to drop off at the library, because why do something yourself when you can just pass the buck to someone else? Hindsight people, hindsight.

It was 8 weeks later when I learned that was the wrong choice.

Not surprisingly, I feel the same way about mail that I do about library book due dates, I don’t pay attention to either of them, so when I finally opened the “bitter, yet surprisingly chipper” letter informing me of my massive library fines for OVERDUE BOOKS and a list of the replacement costs of said books, I panicked. When I called my husband to inquire about the whereabouts of the literature it seemed that in those 2 months they had been misplaced. Gone girl. They were nowhere to be found.

“What do I fucking do now?” was my sentiment over dinner.

Of course I did the most logical thing a mother could do over a mound of missing books, I wrote a check to pay for the replacements and cried. Because replacement books are freaking expensive from the library. Ridiculously expensive, and Blue and her clues drive me batshitcrazy.

It was a couple of months later when I discovered my driver’s license had been suspended BECAUSE I BOUNCED A CHECK TO THE PUBLIC LIBRARY. Mainly because I hate checking the mail and secondly because I hate keeping a check register. I’ve since gotten a bit better at these things but not much.

There is a great deal to be learned from the “Bad Check Writing Class”. On the one hand, your delinquent check amount is now doubled and oddly, they only accept cash. You have to learn (with a group of 50 or so strangers) how to write a check and how to keep a proper check register. You know, all the stuff everyone else already knows… and did I mention it takes 8 hours in a small room to learn that? Good, memorable times. On the other had, you are now entitled to spend 8 hours with the people Maury makes his money on, so… Yay for me!

It’s been 7 years and I’ve been afraid of the public library ever since. Even though I paid my debt (twice). So fearful, in fact, that my 9-year-old, book-loving son, doesn’t have a library card. I was pretty sure that if I took him to get one, they would want to see my driver’s license and the words PERSONA-NON-GRATA would flash on the librarian’s little screen, along with the most-wanted poster they all have memorized. Librarians are like the IRS of the printed word.

Today he came home with a form from school for his own library card…

“Mom, you just have to sign here.”




Part of being a parent is the hypocrisy that goes hand-in-hand with child rearing. I’ve heard from lots of parents the basics: they smoke, but they don’t want their children to smoke, they drink (and drank underage as a teen) but they don’t want their kids to drink. Let’s not even get started on the whole topic of pre-marital sex. None of my children are in the double-digits yet, so I’m just going to bleach my mind of that thought for the next 6 years.

When you’re a parent of young kids, you find yourself saying, “Don’t pick your nose” but then you go in the bathroom and pick your own nose… fine, you don’t pick your nose (yeah, right). Or the whole, “stop touching your privates” but we all know what adults do with their privates, when they are in private. (don’t lie) It’s hypocritical, it’s a daily occurrence, it’s parenting.

I’ve gotten used to the hypocrisy I know I possess as a parent. It’s become a necessary evil. I am a normal, albeit flawed human, and “do as I say, not as I do” is always in the back of my mind. We are trying to raise children into competent adults, and with that, comes this amazing grey area of what is acceptable behavior in public. While I, as your mommy, will attempt to deal with your ridiculous, violent temper tantrum at age 3, your boss, when you are 23, might not want to have that around the other employees. If they figure this shit out then I’ve done my job right. {Fingers crossed}

When you get pregnant anytime after your first child, it’s like your brain resets itself, or maybe you take all the awful shit and repress that into a dark corner of your mind as a defense mechanism, or maybe it’s just preggo brain and you can’t remember if you put underwear on that morning or not… either way, I have 3 kids and I seemed to forget the biggest hypocrisy of my childbearing history, until this morning.

This morning my middle child, my 3-year-old, had his first soccer game. A real soccer game, with a real coach, and real uniforms, and real teammates. Mind you, my oldest, has been playing competitive soccer since he was 3. I’ve spent the last 7 years on soccer fields with children, so today was an exciting rite-of-passage for Middle Monkey. To him, it meant he was, really “a big boy”, to me, it meant, oh shit, another place to remember to bring another kid, but I was, of course, excited for him. While watching and assisting in the shit-show that is 3-year-old soccer, one of those hypocrite memories from the days of yore flooded my brain.

The biggest hypocrite parenting moment starts when our children play competitive sports. From the moment they interact with others we tell them: Share, don’t hit, don’t take things, don’t take things that aren’t yours, don’t scare other people, be nice, be kind, be respectful, be compassionate… and then they start playing “real” sports and the most demure, the most reserved, the quietest parent on the planet, becomes the biggest psycho in the universe when she screams, “GET THE F*CKING BALL!” Okay, maybe she didn’t say that out-loud. but she wanted too, she was close.

If it takes place on the field, every modicum of truth has gone out the window. We now tell our kids the complete opposite of all the things we’ve been saying for 3 years about being a good kid, a good person, and a good friend.

“Get the ball!”

“Go get it back!”

“Steal it from her/him!”

“Don’t let her/him take that from you.”

“Get up! GET UP! What are you doing?”

“Check her/him back. That’s your ball!”

“Run!!! Don’t stop!”

Even at 9AM on a Saturday, even without alcoholic drinks in our hands, and cheerleaders on the sideline, parents lose all self-control and forget about the normal everyday messages we’ve been teaching our kids since birth. We expect these little people to flip a switch between gamer and good person on a dime, and then are surprised when it takes time for them to come back to what is expected.

Thankfully I wasn’t that mom today (although I’ve been that mom before). Monkey is a gamer all the time. His post-game-tantrum was because the game was over and he wanted to keep playing. Other kids, not so much. I’ll be surprised if they show up next weekend.

At least one thing is the same on and off the field… Don’t bite.