There it was; the wedding cake in all of its glory.  Standing tall on a pillar above the dance floor, it looked at me with a gleam in it’s icing that said, “Eat me… no… devour me, and I will pleasure your mouth in a way no dessert has before.”

As I daydreamed about whether the frosting might be almond or buttercream, a horrific intruder interrupted my fantasy – my diet… that motherfucker.  What was it doing showing up at a time like this?  There I was, about to get laid by the Ryan Gosling of dessert, and my diet was there to cock block me with the reminder that bathing suit season was only weeks away.

So, what’s a girl to do?  The only obvious solution I could gather at the time was to hit up the bar to drink my problems away because, you know, alcohol has *no* calories.  But… like any good temptress, that damn wedding cake just kept trying to seduce me.

For awhile, I was able evade a direct line of vision, but as the sun set through the large glass wall, I couldn’t help but notice the bride had chosen a shimmering icing.  “Now, that’s a new one,” I thought.  Something I’ve never tried before.  Hmmm… maybe the shimmering icing would make the cake taste weird.  Maybe I wouldn’t even like it if I tried it.  Maybe…. I should take just one bite to make sure the shimmering icing wasn’t assaulting the traditional wedding cake flavor.

It would be the right thing to do, right?  RIGHT?!?!  Well… apparently I, and the 3 (give or take 2) vodka tonics I had guzzled while trying to drown my “no wedding cake for me” blues thought having just one bite would be a fabulous idea.

Seeing that I have never actually been a member of the “just one bite” club, I probably should have seen the writing on the wall, but dammit that wall just really wasn’t visible around the four-tiered angel standing right in front of me.

So there I was – face to face with the demise of my diet, but I refused to accept that it was really the end of my clean eating era or… week.  Whatever.  Same thing.  Anyway, my hand shook with anticipation as I picked up the fork and carefully selected a bite with the perfect cake to frosting ratio.  As the devil, err I mean wedding cake, met my lips, I escaped into a world of pleasure only those who have actually had sex with Ryan Gosling can imagine.

Before I knew it, I was three slices deep and drooling in a pile of shame so big I could no longer hide the stack of empty plates that were accumulating around me.  Even the pregnant girl seemed impressed with my performance, and when a passerby asked about all of the empty plates, my husband made sure to let everyone at our table know that he didn’t actually have any cake; it was all from me.  I guess he wasn’t really listening during the ceremony when the Pastor talked about how a husband and a wife should always have each other’s back.

Maybe now that my back has grown a few inches wider thanks to my rendezvous with the cake, my husband will have an easier time holding on… who knows?  All that I do know is that they say not to live with regret, and I’ve never been one to go against a good inspirational quote.  Hell, I’m glad that I dove head first off the diet wagon and then kicked it down the road so far I couldn’t see it with a pair of peeping Tom’s finest binoculars.

As far as I’m concerned, when I’m on the beach this summer in my head to toe cover up, I’ll always have the memory of that glorious night with the wedding cake, which is a joy no bathing suit can bring.

I can confidently say that no bikini looks as good as cake tastes, and those are words to live by my friends.

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You know how when you’re pregnant and they say, “he’s gonna be a soccer player!” Yeah so… apparently that’s not quite accurate for my oldest child despite all of the abuse my uterus took while he was ninja-ing around in there for nine months.

We had our first soccer “game” this weekend…

I, personally, think organized sports at age three is like expecting preschoolers to contain themselves in a big, open field.  Wait a minute…

Maybe it would have gone better if I had picked up some herding tips from the farmer on our visit to his alpaca ranch the day before soccer because it wasn’t just my child; most of the kids were all over the place.  Except, of course, a few Latino children who, as it turns out, not only are bilingual, but actually have been running soccer drills since utero. 

They showed up in all of the best gear including gloves!  My bad; I didn’t know anything for the hands was required for soccer since it’s a game played with your feet and all.  Oh, and our kids are three, but maybe the parents who put their kids in gloves were just making sure their kids were ready to play goalie at any given moment should one of the rogue children decide to actually put the ball in the correct net, but hey I don’t feel we can blame the kids for their lack of cooperation in organized sports, especially soccer, which probably is pretty confusing to a preschooler.

This is how I imagine most conversations on the morning of soccer sound to a three year old…

Parent:  Hey sweetheart, it’s pretty early, nasty, and cold outside, but let’s get dressed and hop in the car to go play SOCCER!!!!

Three year old:  I don’t wanna go.

Parent: [trying desperately to make it sound fun] But you’ll get to kick this cool ball.  Now, I know normally we tell you not to kick things, but at *soccer* you get to kick the ball!  But… only in a controlled fashion of course and only on your assigned U4 field while making sure you get it in the one goal that’s for your team and not the 15 other goals in the surrounding area.  You got that honey? 

Three year old:  Squirrel!

Parent:  I forgot to mention that at soccer you also get to try to take the ball away from other kids.  Won’t that be fun since we normally tell you it’s not nice to take things away from other kids, but during *soccer* that’s exactly what you’ll get to do, but pay attention to the color of the shirt the other child is wearing because you only want to take the ball from the players who are wearing a different shirt than you.  You got that?  It’s like the opposite of when I teach you to appreciate diversity.  In this case, you only help people that are wearing the same shirt as you because this is soccer, but in life, it still is best to appreciate individuals who are different than you.  Are you getting this honey?

Three year old:  My baby toe itches so I’m just going to get completely undressed even though we are running a little bit late already.

[Once arriving at soccer field…]

Three year old:  Look mommy!!  There’s a really colorful, super awesome looking, HUGE playground.

Parent:  Well honey, we actually have to walk right past that, not play on it, and meet your coach at the soccer field.  Remember, we’re here to play soccer.  It’s gonna be fun!

[Insert category 5 meltdown]

I can’t wait to do it again next weekend!  At least I got some solid pictures out of it

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Proof that men can hear, but listening is selective…

Our Monday Morning Madness:

Me:  Ugh, I have a migraine and feel like I’m gonna throw up.  Can you pack the lunches?

Husband:  ….. …. …

Me:  I’m going to grab clothes for the boys.  Will you change the baby’s diaper?

Husband:  …. .. .. .. [Insert inaudible mumbles]… . ..    

Me:  We have to leave in t-minus 10 minutes and thing 1 is still in his pj’s.

Husband:  [dead air]

Me:  Today is our first swimming class so I’m sending thing 1’s swimsuit to daycare so they can change him before I pick him up.  Can you just remind them when you drop him off?

Husband:  [Insert sound of air moving as he “nods his head” while I’m on a different floor of the house obviously hearing the well known head nod sound.]

Me:  Are you listening?

Husband:  Yep.

Me:  Then why don’t you answer me?

Husband:  Grumble grumble…. I heard everything you said, and I saidddd “okay.”

Me:  Then you heard when I said there’s a giant purple gorilla lighting your truck on fire?

Husband:  I said okayyy!

Me:  My face hurts.

Husband:  Well, it’s killing me!!! HA HAH AHAHA HAHAHAHHAHAHAH <—SUPER pleased with himself.

Me:  I meant from the migraine jackass.

Mmmm, hmmm so they can hear what they want to and answer when they please as well…

Today, I spent half of my day in therapy.

Seriously. 

First, I went to my personal therapist where we discussed feelings of inadequacy mostly concentrating on how I feel that I’m never doing enough as a mother.  Then, later in the day I met one-on-one with my son’s therapist who we usually see relating to a health issue, but today it ended up mostly being about how hard I try, but many times feel like I’m failing as a mom. 

The conclusion to all of my therapy earlier today was that I should stop all of this negative “self talk” and learn to be more self-assured.  So, after setting my “positive intention” for the day to the tune of $100 an hour, I went to work you know, to provide for my family and all.

Then at the end of the workday, I tried really hard to channel the “inner positive self voice” that I had drummed up earlier in the day in therapy, and I decided to try to have a family sit down dinner.  I mean, the therapists both seemed to think I could handle it as long as I suppressed my inner thoughts of, “Holy crap I burn water how can I make a healthy, wholesome, well balanced, ‘clean’ eating meal for everyone?”  But hey, they’re professionals so I took their word for it and served up some dinner.

It was nice.  It was really nice.  There were challenging times when we had to discipline of course as my oldest is only three, but the tough times were trumped by the sweet, endearing times.  Although… there was that one part of the dinner where three of my four dinner guests all had to drop a deuce at the same time, but hey, only one of them did it in their underwear.  I maintain that it had nothing to do with my cooking since my stomach was fine, and I served them PB&J for crying out loud!

Anyway, once the dinner (and bowel movements) had ended, it was time to put the kids to bed, which is also the time of day when I have to work extremely hard to subdue the “negative self talk” because I’m fresh out of patience and because drinking while bathing the kids is typically frowned upon.  It’s just that I, personally, find bedtime to be a super stressful time between all of the crankiness coming from the kids in addition to the fact that if I let them cry at all while they’re falling asleep I’ll probably breed some sort of wretched, criminally insane sociopath.  NO PRESSURE, right?

Why did I read those studies about how horrible it is to let your kid cry it out anyway?  Oh, and I also read that other study which showed that crying it out is actually a positive form of stress, but only if done right (of course).  Except there was that one baby in the study who became a serial killer, but that was really just a statistical anomaly “researchers concluded.”  Besides, I’ve been giving my kids plenty of vitamin D and trying not to let them watch more than 2 hours of TV a day so they’re probably going to be fine right?  Right??? 

Oh wait, I just remembered that it’s not two hours “on average,” it’s actually no more than two hours on any given day, so I’m definitely screwed now that all of that TV time I thought I banked while my kids were in daycare doesn’t count.  Crap.

No pressure.  Parenting is a breeze. Hah.  About as breezy as an awkward teen boy feeling a boob for the first time I would guess.

Anywho, once my little ones were in bed, and hopefully unscathed by my parenting, what’s a gal to do?  Hit up Facebook and tap the Franzia, right? 

So there I was, innocently perusing Facebook, when I saw this e-card that said, “Children shouldn’t have to sacrifice so that you can have the life you want.  You make sacrifices so your children can have the life they deserve.”

Really?

Really???

Again, I say, “REALLY?”

Why is this e-card being liked and shared all around Facebook Egypt and back?  I realize that the author probably didn’t mean any harm, but when I actually read what it said I couldn’t help but think, “what part of parenting isn’t a sacrifice, duh?”

My body?  No… definitely been sacrificed – eek!

My finances?  No.  Those have most certainly been affected.

Sleep, free time, appearance, house, clothes?  Yep, all have been tossed out the window.  Which reminds me, when was the last time I bought new underwear for myself?  I’m pretty sure it was in early 2009 right after I peed on this little stick thingy, and right before I thought I pissed myself, but was actually in labor.  Yes, that was it.  It was also around the time that I dove head first into this territory known as parenthood in which most everything in my life was on some level “sacrificed.”

So what’s up with this e-card?  It’s being shared because moms clearly need more guilt and pressure?  Because too many moms are trying to be happy parents?  Yea, that’s definitely not something I would ever want my kids to see me doing.  What kind of a mother would I be?  Happy?  Hell no.  I’m better than that.

Maybe I better just share that e-card so everyone on Facebook knows that I’m trying really hard NOT to be happy because I’m such a good mom.  You know, just in case anyone was thinking I wasn’t “sacrificing” enough…

Even though my Pinterest fails may leave you thinking I’m not all that crafty, I’m “crafting” a sweet little revenge for my husband that could lead you to believe otherwise….  Cue the plan laugh –mooo oo oo ah ahh ahhhh. 

Background:  I’m fucking tired <—- obvi, what mom isn’t?  Anywho…  I don’t mean like yawn, ooo I’m kind of a little bit tired.  I mean I’m so fatigued that I am having minor health issues. 

The most prominent two issues are:

1.  I literally keep almost passing out anytime I bend over and then stand up because my blood pressure drops so low.  I’m talking like really almost blacking out with tunnel vision, stars and all.  Fun.  The only explanation the doctor can come up with for this is extreme fatigue. 

Side note: I totally wouldn’t have cut it as one of those jungle/cave women who birthed babies and minutes later were gathering and working in the fields.  Let’s all take a moment and be thankful we were born in the age of computers and fast food.  Oh yeah – and for Snuggies for when times get *really* tough.

2.  Second “health issue” is blurred vision.  The eye doc checked my vision, and it’s 20/20 but apparently I am so tired that I actually can’t see straight.  Granted the doctor also said it could be hormones here. Whether the blurred vision is from fatigue or hormones is really neither here nor there.  I mean if it’s not fatigue, who in their right mind would want to mess with a broad that is so hormonal they literally can’t see straight?  Apparently my husband.  My husband would like to mess with the beast…

Enter the reason for my evil plan.  It went down yesterday morning… 

As babies like to do, our little one woke up at the crack.  I asked sir hubs to take him downstairs so I could sleep a bit longer.  I didn’t think an extra hour of sleep was too much to ask considering the above health issues, but as I’ve shared before, even though my husband is actually a pretty decent guy, he’s kind of like a hibernating bear on horse tranquilizers when he’s sleeping. 

The man can seriously sleep through anything.  I know.  I’ve tried it all.  Just a minute ago, I was pretending to milk his nipples for like 5 minutes straight, and he didn’t even stir.  So much for “showing him what it’s like” to have a baby hanging off your chest.  Anyway……I digress.

So, yesterday morning when the baby woke up, I brought him into our bed and tried to give him to my husband to take downstairs so I could get that extra hour of sleep we had talked about.  But instead of me sleeping, for the next half of an hour I was smacked, scratched, yanked on, slapped, and slobbered on (at least the slobber was for a sweet little kiss) while my husband drifted in and out of dreamland.  He would intermittently mumble, “I’m going to take him downstairs in a minute.  Just a minute.  Ok, I’m going soon.” 

As my one-hour of “extra” sleep faded to a mere 30 minutes, I daydreamed (in between getting smacked of course) of a worthwhile payback for this heinous torture.  I mean my husband was dangling the glorious fantasy of sleep in front of my nose, yet not letting me have it.  Uncool.  Retaliation necessary.

I decided that what hubs was doing in these 30 minutes was a total tease and would be the equivalent of me doing the following:

A Little Scene for a BIG Payback that I Made Up in My [potentially deranged] Mind

Husband:  Sex?

Me (except that in this fantasy revenge I would look more like Jessica Alba in that Into the Blue movie where the acting was crappy by Paul Walker, but they were like the hottest couple ev-er): Sure.  When?

Husband:  Now.

Me:  Ok.

[Insert fake hot me acting super sexy since real me is probably just awkward which is why the lights are always off so hubs can pretend I’m someone else.  Anyway, in this fantasy revenge hubs is getting quite turned on at this point]

Husband:  Wow. Ok, I’m READY!

Me:  Ehhh, I think I need a 30-minute (give or take a few minutos) nap first.

[Insert me farting, rolling over, and wafting the stench of the finest gas rotting cabbage can produce in his direction.]

End scene.

BAM – suckaaaa because that’s what it’s like when you dangle, “ohhh yea, sure you can sleep an extra hour” in front of my nose but then allow me to be mauled by a baby for 30 minutes instead. 

To me, sleep is better than sex and is probably not something you want to mess with unless you want me to return the favor by using sex as a weapon.

The end.  Everyone lives happily ever after except my husband’s sinuses, which are burned internally from my record setting fart. 

I dedicate this to all of the mothers who have gone years without a hot meal and as a result, have suffered from hanger.

In the light of the moon, a mom lay in her bed each night.

Every morning at the ass crack of dawn – pop! like rockstars on speed her kids arise, and barrel out of their beds bright eyed and bushy tailed.

They immediately start making demands, scavenging for food, and manage to keep mommy so busy all day that she barely has time to feed herself.

Last week…

On Monday, the children ate one nice hot breakfast, but mommy was still hungry.

On Tuesday, the children ate two tasty treats after their hot breakfast, but mommy was still hungry.

On Wednesday, the children ate three piping hot meals, but mommy was still hungry.

On Thursday, the children ate four cookies after dinner, but mommy was still hungry.

On Friday, the children ate five small meals with carefully balanced whole foods, but mommy was still hungry.

On Saturday, it was Jimmy’s birthday party, and the children got hopped up on sugar from eating a repulsive amount of ice cream, cake, and candy.  By the end of the day, mommy had a headache!

That night, after the kids were (fine-a-fuckingly) in bed, mommy had one nice glass of chardonnay, and after that, she felt much better.

Now she wasn’t a hungry mommy anymore; she was a slightly sauced mommy.

She ordered herself one nice large pizza and when it arrived, she nibbled a bit, but felt it just didn’t taste right.  It sat on the counter for more than two hours while she polished off the chardonnay, and when she picked up a slice again….

It was cold -  just the way she accustomed to!

If you have or want a baby, why shouldn’t you get a dog?

1.  It will wake up the baby.

2.  It will wake up the f*#@ing baby.

3.  You will spend an average of 17 hours a day trying to get the baby to sleep and then as soon as you have succeeded, the flipping dog will wake up the baby!!!

4.  You will never, EVER be alone even once your kids are in bed because you have a dog who will still be in your face.

5.  If your dog is like mine, she will bark like a maniac (waking the baby, obviously) if you breathe too loudly, but when someone is robbing your husband’s truck right in your driveway? Nothing….

6.  On top of everything else you will be stressing about with your baby/kids, you will feel guilty for being so angry at the dog and not giving the dog enough attention. 

7.  IT WILL WAKE THE BABY AND DRIVE YOU TO THE BRINK OF INSANITY!!!

So, I guess you know what kind of day I’ve had….

And after all of the incidents with my mangy mutt waking my little bundle of sleeps when held, I still feel bad after yelling at her – sheesh!  Evidently, mom guilt even extends to the dog…

If you don’t already have a dog, take my advice and wait on getting one until the kids are older, or you could take mine….?

I fear I’m going to end up in this place again….

1.  A little wine and romance will go further towards getting me in mood than humping my leg like a horny golden retriever.  Also, helping around the house will have the same effect on me as alcohol does on a high school girl on prom night.

2.  If I’m getting ready to start my period or I have my period while we are arguing and you don’t have chocolate in hand, you’re basically swimming with sharks while bleeding – nice knowing you.

3.  My retail therapy is the female equivalent to your sports obsession, so don’t intervene unless you want me to return the favor.

4.  It’s not called “nagging.”  It’s called asking you for the 637^th time to do something that I shouldn’t have had to ask about in the first place, and don’t even call me a nag or I’ll hang your balls out to dry for at least two weeks.

5.  If I’m acting crazy, remember, I didn’t choose to be born with hormone induced rage blackouts, but you chose to marry me.  So who’s the crazy one here???

6. Remember you’re going home with me so stick up for me to your mother OR ELSE.

7.  I have yet to meet anyone who has died of a cold.  Not really a rule, but just some food for thought…

8.  If you want me to stop talking, acknowledge you heard me, and I’ll shut up (maybe).

9.  I get an “I’m right” trump card that’s good for 5 years times infinity for every human that emerged from my body.  Game. Set. Match.  End of argument.

10.  Even when I actually am being a crazy bitch, always remember that I’m your crazy bitch, and you know you LOVE me.

Click here to download the world’s ugliest FREE printable of the above guide.  I recommend printing it and leaving it lying around the house for him to find….. hopefully he has a good sense of humor about things.  If not, be ready to trade sexual favors to get yourself out of the doghouse

I’ve done a post on this topic before, but when I spend time with childless friends, it never ceases to amaze me how different my life is.

One big change since becoming a mom has been to the things I worry about in my life.  I went from routinely analyzing stuff like what alcohol/food/water combination would produce the least hangover, to worrying about more sophisticated things like…

-How “Mom” Would Sound on Repeat.  Turns out that it sounds like I want to gauge my eardrums out with a pencil, fill them with butt paste, and take a nap, which only actually happens in my dreams of course.

-Pee, or Better Yet Poop, Flying at My Face.  Before I became a parent, I had no idea about the power of the power that lies dormant in a baby’s GI tract just waiting for you to remove their diaper.  It rivals that of a CO₂ powered Super Soaker and is not something to be underestimated. 

Not to mention worrying about the size, shape, and color of what explodes out of your child at you.  Before becoming a parent, you don’t realize just how much a person can obsess over bodily fluids.  Speaking of… you may even be worried about…

-Leaving the House Wearing Bodily Fluids.  These days, I am that mom that’s disheveled, wearing clothing that is covered in snot, puke, and sometimes even a little bit of poo.  Hell, I’m lucky if I get all of my nipples off of the floor and contained in my shirt before leaving the house, let alone worrying about clean clothes.  Motherhood is truly glamorous.

I mentioned these two in my original post on this topic, but they’re so shocking that I think it’s worth mentioning them again…

-What I Ate Giving Someone Else Gas.  Hello breastfeeding.  Since when can I eat something and make someone else fart?  Like anyone needs an excuse not to eat broccoli?  Seriously…

-What My Vagina Looks Like. If you have never taken a mirror to your nether-regions, post baby is NOT a good time for your first rendezvous.  I made this mistake, and at first glance, I thought someone had taped a picture of a drunk pug to the mirror.  Trust me, don’t do it.  Who really wants to know if their clam has an uneven shell anyway?

I’m not sure if this pug is drunk or tripping, but the look on his face is pretty similar to mine in the above scenario…

Of course there’s the heavy stuff like, you know, worrying about your child’s safety, development, and wellbeing, but it’s Monday; I wanted to keep this light  What random things have you found yourself worrying about the most since becoming a mom? 

photo credit: Vineet Radhakrishnan via photopin cc

I recently read that it’s good practice to ask your kids an open-ended question about how their day was.  So, my husband and I started doing it anytime we remember (aka maybe three times now).

When we have asked him, he has usually said something cute like, “I had fun flying in a rocket ship.”  It was all fun and games until I started getting thrown under the bus for things I didn’t even do, which started on Valentines Day…

Daddy:  [just home from work] How was your day with mommy?

Toddler:  FUN! A man brought mommy flowers.

Me:  Yes, Daddy sent me those flowers because it’s Valentines Day.

Toddler:  No, the POS man gave them to you.

Me:  You mean the UPS man.

Toddler: NOOOO the POS man [insert level 3 meltdown]

Daddy:  I’m glad mommy liked the flowers.  I think it’s getting close to bedtime…

Ok, so I didn’t look too bad here.  Daddy seemed to understand the confusion, but then, the next day…

Daddy:  [returning from work] What did you guys do today?

Me:  We had a fun day, right buddy?

Toddler:  Ya, a man came to the house.

Daddy:  [wanting to see where he could take this] Oh really?  Tell me more about it…

Toddler:  He came to the house to take pictures of mommy.

Daddy:  Sounds interesting [looking at me with a grin].

Me:  [getting sick of this whole pretend thing making me look bad and gritting my teeth a bit] Yes, your son here was pretending to be a man and take my picture.

Daddy:  And then what?

Toddler:  Mommy beat me.

Both me and daddy:  WHAT?!?!

Toddler:  Ya, mommy beat me upstairs, and she beat me over there.

Me:  Ohhhh, he means we raced, and I didn’t let him win.

Daddy:  Uhhh huh.  I see what’s going on here… you were afraid he’d tell me about the “man.”

Me:  Is it beer o’clock yet?

Seriously, I feel like I’m on a hidden camera show or something here.  What if he starts saying these things in public?!?!

Daddy might really start to wonder if he had called home and heard our toddler during the episode where he was running around the house screaming, “Mommy put your pants back on,” because I was getting changed (that’s right, I managed to get out of pajamas into yoga pants at least once last week). 

One more thing (totally asking for a friend here) – do you know if they make muzzles for children? 

photo credit: Hammonton Photography via photopincc