Where's the line?

I read a status on TheFacebook yesterday that cut right through my depression haze and ignited my mommy fire, which I'm taking as a good sign. You know, as much as burning rage can be a good thing. The status was written by a mommy acquaintance and went something along the lines of "I am that mom that wants to get in [son's] face and yell at him to not let the other kids win!"

I'll pause while your brain absorbs that.

Yea, you read that right: She wants to scream at her child for showing compassion over a desire to win. (In case you are wondering, her child isn't even in kindergarten yet.) So, not only is winning more important to her, but she is willing to embarrass or inflict emotional hurt on her child to ensure that is his priority also. Please, tell me that I am missing something here.

I know how obsessed our society is with winning. I'll even admit that I can get caught up in it. I've been known to stomp around for hours after FSU breaks my heart loses a football game. Hell, I once pushed myself through a major injury in order to compete, only to end up needing surgery to repair the damage done. I understand competition & the need to win, but have we gone so far that we are now projecting that need onto our kids before they even learn long division?

I wish this mom's status was an isolated case of an overzealous competitive spirit, but I don't think that is the case. I see how school-aged boys act. There is no such things as a friendly video game or playing sports just for the enjoyment of it. Everything has a winner and quite a few losers sulking because they fell short. I can't help but feel that society crossed a line without even realizing that there was a line. In doing that, everybody became a loser because we lost sight that the entire point of sports is enjoyment.

I understand that competition will always exist, especially in boys, and I don't think that is a bad thing. Competition can be a great thing, if we let it develop naturally and take the time to teach our kids that winning isn't everything. Or keep doing what you've been doing, but I can tell you that there is at least one mom out there creating a new sport called "Slap-The-Fanatical-Parent" and I have every intention of setting the high score.

The black hole.

I'm being swallowed by a black hole. I think the black hole is currently residing on my couch, but it's hard to say. No, not the inexplicably large pile of unfolded laundry, but thanks for reminding me of yet another domestic failure. The depression sort of black hole. The sneaky quicksand that steals my energy, wrecks my perspective and leaves me thinking "The kids can eat goldfish, fruit snacks & string cheese for dinner. Again." It took me over an hour to get my butt off the couch to write this post, which I can all but guarantee will be sh*tty, unfunny & rambling, but at least I am doing something. I'll pause while you muster up some weak applause.

Sigh. The most obnoxious part of this depression, if there is such a thing, is that I saw this storm cloud coming from a country mile away. I even had the hubris to think that I would be fine & could sail right through it after a day or two. I guess that joke's on me. Ya know, if self-deprecating & pathetic jokes are your thing. 

I'm soldiering on, trying to answer work calls without bursting into tears and playing, what I'm fairly certain is, the slowest game of keep away ever. I smile at my kids (even when I'm crying), try not to snot all over TheYankees' shoulder and fake normal text conversations with my judgy friends. Then, when I've used every last ounce of energy doing a horrendous job pretending to be fine, I pick up my phone, open twitter and tell the truth.

That being a good mom right now is the hardest thing. That just getting myself through the evening is brutal, much less attending to the never-ending needs of two kids who deserve better than a snack food dinner served by a sobbing mom. But that is the best I can do.

So, I promise myself that when I finally kick this sh*tty black hole out of my head and my house, that I'll enjoy every minute until bedtime and maybe even a few extra, just to see their smiles. That I will cook awesome meals and clean up all the messes. That I'll use my days off for more than skipped showers and zoning out. That I'll climb into bed to do more than give in to exhaustion. That I'll be me again. 

But right now, I've got tears that are desperate to escape and no energy left to fight 'em.

It's getting personal.

My weekend started out in the usual weekend fashion: with a huge list of things to do (read: a list of things I had been avoiding all week) and a birthday party for one of Monkey's classmates. As it turns out, my darling Monkey was not in a partying mood or at least not in the mood to attend a party in someone else's honor. He may or may not have refused to play with any other kids, refused to wait his turn at every game, refused to sing happy birthday to the birthday boy and instead sang happy birthday to himself, had a full-on meltdown when I tried to encourage him to play with another little boy, disrupted the opening of gifts and snagged food & drinks from at least 3 people. I may or may not have been completely mortified and ready to leave the party after 20 minutes, but I persevered as long as possible (read: 40 minutes).

When things got really rough, I sought out birthday boy's mom to make a face-saving quick apology & exit. She happened to be talking to another mom, that I have since taken to thinking of "InappropriateQuestionMom". I waited for an opening and politely acknowledged that my kid was acting like a banshee 3 year old and that it was time for us to leave. Birthday boy's mom (who happened to know that I have been having some concerns about Monkey's social development) kindly said that they all have those sort of days and not to worry about it. I told her I appreciated her saying that, that I was hoping that Monkey would want to interact a bit more, etc. and then InappropriateQuestionMom opened her d*mn mouth and asked the worst possible questions that you can ask a complete stranger in that given situation: "Have you gotten a diagnosis yet?"

In retrospect, I have thought up at least a dozen responses that would have been better than the way I responded. I think I have it narrowed down to "Yes, the diagnosis is that YOU are an idiot!" or "The diagnosis is that he is three years old and the treatment is to avoid b*tches like you." Sadly, I did not respond with snark, wit or even outrage. I cried like a sissy little girl. How's that for MommaBear tough? (I better get my sh*t together before he gets out of preschool or I am really going to be a mess.) This stupid, inconsiderate woman who has seen my child once (on a bad day, no less) managed to rip a hole in me, letting my anxiety & emotion boil over. Mommy Fail. 

The things is, I really don't care that this twit thinks it was her place to insinuate that my son has something that warrants a diagnosis. I don't care that I shed tears in front of people that are nearly strangers. (OK, maybe I do care about that, but only a little.) What I care about is that IF my darling Monkey does have a developmental delay or any other challenge to overcome, that this is what he will have to deal with. Rude, nosy and judgmental people that will assume that because he is boisterous, independent or just having a rough day, that there must be something wrong with him. That I should rush him off to a doctor for a diagnosis, therapy and/or drugs to "fix" him.

Maybe I'm over-reacting. Maybe my mommy anxiety is getting the better of me. Maybe (definitely) I'm emotional, but I don't think that anything is gained by inferring to a complete stranger that something is "wrong" with her kid, no matter what your intentions are. I'll freely admit that judgement is a part of motherhood, but so is teaching your children tolerance and inclusion. How are you going to teach your children to see everyone as equal when you spend your time judging children for acting like, *gasp*, children?

I doubt I'm the first mom to encounter an idiot like InappropriateQuestionMom and I probably won't be the last, but I hope the next idiot is prepared because tears won't be the only thing flying. That is, if we get invited to any more birthday parties. (Sorry about that, Monkey.)

Let's take a step back, shall we?

I'm a mom. Chances are you are a mom. Or a dad. Or a mom-to-be. Or you enjoy reading snarky mommy rants and laughing at how much cooler your life is than mine. Whatever, you're probably on the same level as me and hopefully you are on the same level of inebriation sleep deprivation, so that this post actually makes sense. So, let me ask you a question: What in the holy heck is with the play-by-play potty training updates? SERIOUSLY. The only thing I want to know about your kid's potty training is when you are going to be done so you can come over to my house and teach my kid. I'll even begrudge you an uppity "I never have to change another sh*tty diaper" status post, and that is only because I can harass you with a "Good luck getting him/her to wipe his/her own ass" comment and giggle to myself at the light bulb going off in your head.

You think you are showing off, but the thing is roughly 1% of your friend list is actually impressed. That 1% includes your parents, in-laws and other relatives that have no business being on facebook and they didn't need a status update because you sent them 7 pictures of your precious pooper sitting on the potty! Trust me, the 75% of your friends (we are using that term liberally) that do not have kids think you have lost your damn mind & the 24% that have kids think you are a braggadocios prick. Do you know what your childless, unmarried friends think when they see your "Mary Grace pooped in the potty twice today! She is SUCH a big girl!" facebook status? Answer: They are determining how exactly to unfriend you or block you from their news feed on the ever changing beast that is facebook. And those are the people you want to stay friends with, if you ever plan on attending a social function without the Wiggles soundtrack playing in the background.

So do as all a favor and keep that bit of maternal/paternal pride to yourself, please. Seriously, I'm a parent and I don't even give a sh*t (pun intended).

Yet another reason to drink.

Why do I always feel so caught off guard by major events? It is definitely not because I procrastinate. (It totally is, but let's just pretend, OK?) I was just cruising through the usual weekday stuff (#shittyjob, #shittyinlaws and some headbutting from my kids to round things out) and was *shocked* to look at my calendar & realize that I have less than a week until my tiny fragile baby strong, energetic Monkey starts school. I am going to be the mother of a preschooler. Sh*t. I'm not ready! Can we rewind? PUH-LEASE? Seriously, I'm not ready. Yes, I still need to shop for the perfect backback & lunchbox combo. And they will probably not want him to wear crocs, so I guess shoe shopping is in order. Plus he grows like a damn weed, so I need to get him some new shirts that fit. Preferably without ketchup stains. But I can handle all of that. Maybe. (He will probably be attending school in too short, ketchup stained tshirts, wearing crocs and with his lunch in a grocery bag, alright. Whatever.) What I CANNOT handle is the realization that my baby is not a baby. Oh dear heavens! He's going to be signing his MLB contract with the Yankees next week, isn't he? I need a drink.*




*Are all moms this unreasonably emotional when their oldest child starts preschool or is it just me?**


**If it's just me, I don't want to know. Lie to me. Seriously.

The real problem.

You have all heard me rant, vent & otherwise b*tch about my #shittyinlaws. It's funny, but it also hurts. A lot. Especially because I consistently feel like The Yankee sides with them over me. Defends their actions instead of trying to see how their actions make me feel. I never thought that his parents would love me even a tenth as much as they love him. (For the record, my parents do love The Yankee like he is their own. It is amazing to watch their relationship. It makes me nauseous with envy.) I also never thought that these people would treat me like a leper, critically misinterpret everything I say and do or lack the interpersonal skills to deal with conflicts like mature adults. I also didn't plan for the conflicts they would cause in my marriage and how alienated I would feel from my own husband because of their shit words and actions. I just didn't plan for that. I mean, I wasn't marrying into the Barone family, right?


I think that is the real problem for me. Sure, they spend a ton of time kissing The Yankee's ass and chapping mine, but at the end of the day I don't have to go to bed with my #shittyinlaws. (Thank the good Lord for that.) I go to bed with The Yankee and on days (or weeks) when there has been conflict with the #shittyinlaws, our bedroom is tense. Like, cut the air and serve it as a bitter pound cake, tense. The tension is not caused by the absurd, asinine & otherwise hurtful things my #shittyinlaws do, say or imply. It is caused by feeling like I suffer alone while The Yankee condones or at the very least, ignores their behavior.


Call me naive, but when I got married I thought that vow made us a family. A me-before-all-others, us-against-the-world, family. I didn't realize that there was an asterisk for his family. I didn't realize that it was alright for him to leave me feeling abused because the hatred came from his parents. I expected that we would disagree in private, but I thought that he would have my back anywhere else. I expected that he would stand up for me when I was being attacked, directly or not. I thought that he would never dream of standing by while someone belittled, disparaged or otherwise insulted his wife, but that is exactly how I feel time and time again. I guess that is what I get for having expectations.


I know The Yankee loves me. I believe he wants me to be happy. I believe that he doesn't want to see me suffer or crumble under the weight of his parents actions. What I don't know is why he doesn't see fit to put those desires into actions. Why he doesn't feel it is his place to say "STOP TREATING MY WIFE LIKE THIS" as many times as is necessary to get the point across. I might never know, but I do know how his silence & inaction makes me feel: like sh*t.


I guess that is a win for the #shittyinlaws. 

The alarm clock situation

We have an alarm clock situation. And by situation, I mean a big PITA for me. See, The Yankee is a heavy sleeper. I'm not talking about your usual my-husband-passes-out-on-the-couch-and-snores-loudly heavy sleeper. We are talking about a serious, could-set-a-Nancy-Grace-next-to-him, borderline narcoleptic. (For reference, check out The One About Sleep and Livin The Dream. Yes, I write about sleep a lot. Get over it.) The Yankee could sleep through the entirety of Lollapalooza from the front row. When he is out, he is effing OUT and half the time he doesn't even realize he has fallen asleep. He has passed the eff out mid-conversation and the argued that he was definitely NOT asleep when I prodded him awake. Yep, that's The Yankee.

Here is the big issue, besides the fact that his comatose state gives him a carte blanche excuse to ignore all nighttime parenting duties: his job requires him to get up earlier than I do. I know, it sounds great, doesn't it? The Yankee gets up, shuts off his alarm and meanders to the bathroom while I get to enjoy the entire warm, comfy bed to myself for another hour or so, right? Yea, only in my dreamland, except in my dreams Mark Whalberg plays my husband. Mmm, Marky Mark....wait, what were we talking about? Oh yea, The Yankee and his fawking dream killer alarm clock. The man sets his alarm for roughly an hour before he actually has to be out of bed. This gives him ample opportunity to piss off his sleep-deprived wife, while he snoozes blissfully. I get to spend the hour scurrying back & forth like a damn hermit crab, trying to simultaneously rouse him, silence the alarm clock & keep from waking whichever child decided to occupy our bed in the wee hours of the morning. Lucky me!

So, I lose a solid hour of slumber just trying to get his behind awake, only to have one or both of the kids wake up just as he lumbers into the bathroom with the grace of a inebriated bear. And you know what is the worst part, there is no snooze button on my kids. Trust me, I've looked. HARD. Unless it was that raisin looking thing that fell off when they were newborns (I knew I should have saved that thing!), I've got two defective alarm clocks and they will not stop with the incessant "Moooooooom"-ing until I drag my exhausted butt out of bed to entertain, feed or otherwise placate them. Want to hear an even crueler joke? I can't stomach coffee. Yea, it's BAD.

So could someone puh-lease invent a alarm clock that will play whack-a-mole (silently, of course) with The Yankee's head until he gets up? OR a snooze button for my kids that does not resemble a muzzle? (I'd go with the muzzle idea, but those DFACs people are getting a bit annoyed with my "jokes", ya know?) I'm seriously begging. I can pay you a small fortune in sarcasm, crushed up goldfish crackers & dust bunnies and seriously, who doesn't want that?

Time to get S.H.I.T. again!

The lovely Rusti at My Life As An Officer's Wife hosts an awesome weekly meme called SoHappyItsThursday and you simply must join the fun. Here is my second S.H.I.T. list:

• Only one more day of hell work, until I get to spend some relaxing time with The Yankee & the little Yankees. (I have taken to calling them that now that they are spending all day with him. I'll blog about that later!)
• For my wonderful twitter/blog tribe that are so supportive & hilarious. Y'all are a delicious spread I like to enjoy on toast! (Otherwise knowns as The jam!)
• For the awesome #wineandwhine last night & the great advice I got from Elly at Living That Life. She is one smart cookie!
• The awesome dinner of wine and cheesecake that I enjoyed last night. It may not have been healthy, but it was what I needed & man was it delish!
• For Rusti! She started this brilliant meme which forces me to focus on the things I am thankful for, especially in the midst of a trying week!

Looking forward to checking out everyone else's S.H.I.T. lists!

19 year olds are a**holes.

Seriously, they are. I'm sure there are a few exceptions, but most of them are selfish and unappreciative a**holes. If you disagree, I am open to hearing your arguments, unless, of course, you are 19. In that case, please direct your energy into retraining your peers, because I am over their sh*t. (And chances are, you are an a**hole and just don't realize it. Humility, check into it.)


Why do I hate 19 year olds? Good question! You know that snotty girl who can't be bothered to greet you or stop texting while you shop for cute shoes that your kids will destroy? She's 19. The androgynous kid in tight jeans with hair plastered over one eye that smokes cigarettes right next to the playground? He/she is 19. That vapid idiot Kim Kardashian, who is complaining about psoriasis and how it will "ruin her"? She never outgrew 19. THAT is why I hate 19.


I didn't always see 19 year olds as rude, self-absorbed and begging to be smacked upside the head, for the betterment of society, of course. It is a realization that has grown over time, like a kudzu on my back deck*. I wanted to give 19 year olds the same shake as everybody else, after I all, I was 19 a long time ago not *that* long ago and I wasn't an a**hole. (Here is where I am really thankful my parents aren't reading this blog.) Anyway, I didn't christen 19 years olds with the title "king of the a**holes" until one of them pissed me off for the 3,178 time and I decided I had had enough. It was time to wage a war of snark, mockery & condescension on them all. 


Oh, you need an example of the bullsh*t that led me to declare war? What are you congress or something? Geez! Here is your explanation: I wrote an employee up for a blatant violation of company policy & she responds by posting a idiotbook facebook status about how she hates her job & is getting "the sh*t end of the stick". Did I mention she is friends with myself & the owner of the company on  idiotbook facebook & when confronted about the status, she had the gall to defend her status because she has "freedom of expression" (even though she wrote the status on the clock)? I'm totes serious, guys. (Isn't that what the kids say nowadays?) Want to guess how old she is? You guessed it: 19 and an especially dumb one to boot. And that was when I went to war. Do I have your approval to commit acts of war now?


As of yet, my war plan isn't very well-established. It is mostly harassing them into realizing the importance of manners and professionalism. When I ask a 19 year old if they understand something and I get a "yeah" in response, I treat them like my 3 year old. "Excuse me, I think you meant 'Yes ma'am', didn't you?" (Is it any wonder they hate me?) Oh and I add sentences like "Later on, you are going to realize just how easy you had it & how you failed to appreciate any of the opportunities that you were given!" Come to think of it, this war on 19 year olds sounds a lot like me turning into my parents....Ah, sh*t.








*No, I'm not talking about the website. If you don't know what the plant named kudzu is, you clearly don't live in Georgia. Consider yourself lucky and go look it up. That sh*t takes over everything. 
**In case you were wondering, I used the number 19, 13 seperate times in this post, including this sentence and I cursed 10 times. How's that for setting a good example?

Getting S.H.I.T. from Rusti.

The lovely @Rustilyn, my #wineandwhine co-founder & one of my twitter besties, has started an #awesomesauce weekly meme on her blog, My Life As A Officer's Wife. It is called "So Happy It's Thursday" or S.H.I.T. for those of us that like to abbreviate and curse. Go give her blog some love, link up & join in on this great meme!





And here is my first ever list of reasons that I am S.H.I.T:

• We are almost done with our move. (I'm ignoring the monumental task that is unpacking & setting up the house. Please, don't ruin this for me!)
• I have a legit excuse to ignore packing with another #wineandwhine tonight. Clearly, I can't let my girls down! #TheYankeeMustHateMe
• Because I can be lazy and wear jeans to work tomorrow.
• It is The Yankee's turn to wrangle the kids into bed tonight. (Insert evil laugh.)
• I'm at work, not at home getting snot wiped on me. (Summer colds can suck it, but I'm staying positive here.)
• It's payday! Woo-hoo!
• The delish lunch that I am about to devour!

And that is my first ever S.H.I.T. list. Looking forward to read everyone's list!

(Count 'em, that was three sh*t related jokes. I love this meme!)

Mommy's magic bag.

I know a lot of moms gave up their purse in the transition from RockinPreggoLady to HolyCrapImAMom. I mean, why have one more thing to carry when you can just put all your stuff in the diaper bag, right? Not for this Momma! I drew the line at two things: Minivans and giving up my designer purses. I mean, sure I'm rocking shorts that are two sizes bigger than they were four years ago and yes, I have left the house knowing full well that I had a handprint of crushed up goldfish and snot on my bum, but I HAVE SOME DIGNITY PEOPLE!


My last shred of glamour is this unnecessary, expensive and oh-so-beautiful bag that I complete my sloppy, pony-tail and a t-shirt look with. And no, the contents of my bag are not nearly as fascinating as the contents of, say, Kate Walsh's bag, but I've come to peace with that. (Besides, who buys $18 underwear and keeps them in their purse? Seriously!) So, today, my exquisite bag and I sat down for a pow wow, because I was starting to look like a hunchback carrying her around. Admittedly, it's my fault that we got to this place, but the old gal needed to lose some weight & fast, lest scoliosis permanently set it. 


So, because I haven't already shown the interweb how unglamorous I am, why don't I give you a peek into the disaster that is my final attempt at vanity? Try not to laugh too hard at my purse, please. She's already on edge after I called her hefty and used hand gestures. I'm not sure her supple leather skin can take much more.

My Silver Beauty in all her overstuffed glory.

Poor thing couldn't even button her clasp.
She & the ceiling fans I never dust are
considering a civil suit for neglect. #LazyMom

The snack portion of my bag:
One sippy (water), one nearly empty water bottle,
one small bag of goldfish crackers and
two packs of Cars fruit snacks.
(Fruit snacks are part of my bribery reward system.)

The toy portion of my bag:
One gummy porcupine, one orange block,
one stuffed octopus rattle, one fire engine,
one stuffed shaking elephant, one little person,
one Mack Truck, one Lightning McQueen,
one Jeff Corvette and one Doc Hudson.
(Anyone know of a treatment facility that
specializes in Cars obsessed children?)

The technology portion of my bag:
One iPhone 4 (my lifeline, #appleaddict),
one iPad (The keep-them-quiet-in-public tool,
which explains all the gross fingerprints),
one baby phone (She's got people to KIT with)
and one iPhone charger (I am a battery slayer).

The paperwork & whatnot portion of my bag:
One ridiculous pile of receipts & papers,
one red wallet, one passport
(I might be invited on a last minute,
international adventure, you don't know),
three crayons and two pens
(of course, I can only locate the
crayons when I need a writing utensil).

The Mommy portion of my bag:
One container of BareMinerals lip gloss,
one tube of Soft Lips & one pair of tweezers.
(You never know when a crazy hair will pop up.)

The Bug portion of my bag:
Four binkies and four hair bows.
(The binkies are always in use, the bows
are usually on her head for .23 seconds.)

The random portion of my bag:
One plastic electrical outlet cover
(I have no idea why that was in my purse),
two diapers, one chip clip (on-the-go snacking),
and one bottle of off-brand Benadryl and syringe.

The key portion of my bag:
One set of car keys with Kroger saving card,
one large set of work keys (No, I'm not a janitor),
and one set of house keys
(Yes, I am using a hair tie as a key ring).

I forgot to take a picture of the huge trash pile from my purse. It was quite large and an affront to my gorgeous bag. I hope she'll forgive me for that significant transgression soon.

The finished product, my now deflated bag.
Not so glamorous know that you've seen my
"dirty secret", huh?

Now I'd like to see all of you lovely gals (and guys, if you've got a murse) embarass yourselves lighten your mother-load & show all the funny/random/ridiculous things your Magic Mommy Bag contains! You can grab my button for your post, tweet about it with the hashtag #MommysMagicBag and link up below. Looking forward to checking out your posts and pics!

<a href=”http://JustLikePeanutButter.blogspot.com” style=”border: none;”><img alt=”Just Like Peanut Butter” src=”http://i1214.photobucket.com/albums/cc491/AnonyMOMous/MommysMagicBagButton.jpg” style=”width: 129px; height: 129px;”/></a>

Men have it easy. There, I said it.

I think everyone agrees that there is still a discrepancy in the standards that men & women are held to. (If you don't think this is true, please give Cinderella & Sleeping Beauty my kindest regards.) The standard can swing either ways depending on the topic. Men are much more likely to be promoted and applauded for being foul-mouthed and inappropriate. I let one "fawk" fly & I'm branded as one of "those" women. (Not necessarily a bad thing, but still.) On the other hand, if I am stranded on the side of the road, there is a good chance that at least 2 men will try to come to my rescue, 3 if I'm wearing a skirt. The Yankee would be sh*t out of luck, if he didn't know how to change his own tire. But when it comes to parenting, at least in our house, I think that Mommy get the short end of the parental stick. I highly doubt I'm alone in this.


Even if we start by ignoring the obvious pregnancy, delivery & breastfeeding related gripes, because those are just too easy, the masculine crowd still lucks out. Have you ever heard a dad stress over the male-equivalent of mommy guilt? Me neither. How about seeing a dad up stay up late researching pesticide content in fruits and vegetable? Or researching anything to do with raising healthy, well-rounded and emotionally mature children? Nope, not my husband, but you better believe he can tell you the Yankee's up-to-the-minute batting average and what the average MPGs are on the car we haven't purchased yet. To add insult to frustration, he thinks I don't notice his eyes glass over when I start talking to him about a article I read on emotionally preparing our children for schools & bullies. If he's not careful, he might end up with a bully in bed next to him.


The daddy habit that really takes the cake for me is The Yankee's ability to ignore a child's whining and crying like he's got built in ear plugs. Hell, the man can manage to watch TV (without using the pause button 83 times) with two kids under the age of three and trust me, it's not because they are sitting calmly. I will be upstairs, head stuck in a dryer and stop to yell "Why are they crying?". I don't know why I even bother to ask, because I guarantee the response will be "They're fine!". I can't even hear my own thoughts over the ruckus those two create, but The Yankee can hear the witty banter from "Top Gear" just fine. I swear he ignores them just because he knows I will come intervene and then he can continue to enjoy his relaxation. Come to think of it, I'm being played. Guess that doesn't make me the brighter half in this marriage, huh? Anyway...


But the REAL problem begins every time The Yankee steps in public with at least one child in tow. All the man has to do is carry a child and he is guaranteed an "Awwww, what a great dad!" or two. Nobody notices yours truly struggling with a diaper bag, purse, two sippys and a unyielding, squirmy toddler. Bitter? Yes, BUT not without cause! Heaven help me, if The Yankee is babywearing one of the kids, his accolades become worthy of their own award show: "Wow, you are such a sweet husband!", "You are such a great example for your son!" and continue ad nauseum. I refrain from yelling "That's his freakin job!", when someone applauds him for taking care of his children. I want to stop these well-meaning, but annoying folks before his ego gets so big it won't be able to fit it back into the car, but anything other than smiling & nodding makes me look like the bitter old hag that I'm trying not to be.  


I'm not trying to begrudge The Yankee his praise, because he really is a great dad, ignoring the kid's whining, not withstanding. He deserves to hear how awesome he is on occasion, but every day? Come on! If Steve Jobs was told every day how amazing he is, would there even be an Apple? Err, bad example. What I'm trying to say is...well...you know...if he would just...Ugh, I give up! Maybe I am becoming old and bitter, but would it kill a stranger to tell me I look like a great mom instead of pointing out that my shoes don't match & my hair desperately needs to be colored WOULD IT?! Come on, give a mom a chance!

Took a broken nose to set me straight.

In the age of constant introspection, "Where did I go wrong?" seems to be a popular question. Hell, I haven't even grown a kid to school age yet and I'm already asking myself that, especially when he is vehemently refusing any sustenance besides chicken nuggets or is trying to pee on his sister during bathtime. I sob into my delicious salvation beer and try to figure out where I got off the path of awesomeness and onto the path of terrible indiscretion that will undoubtedly ruin my precious child[ren]. Was it that time I turned up the radio so I didn't hear him wailing from his car seat? Was it because I watched Law & Order: SVU ad naseum while I nursed him as a newborn? Was it because I forgot to take my prenatal vitamins every day? Nobody can second-guess details like a Mom & I think I was given a double dose of that specific neurosis.


I'd spend half my Mommying time wishing for some quiet, alone time and then the moment The Yankee freed me to go take nap or Facebook in peace, I'd swell up with guilt at all the things I was doing "wrong". I'd berate myself for wanting to nap instead of playing yet another game of "tickle the toddler without getting kicked in the face". I was making myself miserable, imagining a life of traveling carnivals & "How did that make you feel?" for them. Then it hit me...my son's melon of a head, a direct shot to my nose. It HURT and I cursed, loudly & in the presence of my children. After I could form a thought that was longer than four-letters, I realized something so obvious it was painful (or was that my nose?). HE IS 3!


I can no more banish him to a lifetime of carnival work than I can assure him a position in the West Wing of The White House. Worrying over every parenting decision at this point, is akin to doing the post game wrap-up after kick-off. I can talk the play to death, but I'm still no closer to knowing the final outcome! So, to follow the analogy, I had to learn to shut [my brain] up & enjoy the game. Doing so allowed me to be much more present and to actually, gasp, enjoy my time with them instead of analyzing every behavior, response and sentence for a sign that I was doing something wrong. I'm certainly not one to tell you how to parent (especially because I don't need the responsibility of screwing up your kids AND mine), but I do think moms should cut themselves a few more breaks. The job is tough enough with all the pressure from the outside, try not to add your own weight to the pile. But if I could give you one piece of advice, try not to get head butted in the nose, because it hurts like hell and you probably don't want your kid to learn "f*ck" from you.

The parenting buffet.

My idea in starting this blog was to talk about my crunchy take on parenting. See how well that's worked out for me, don't ya? As with most things in my life, my desire to laugh (yes, I laugh at my own posts) and my ADD took me down a different path, but today I am going to talk about the crunchy me.

So. Me. Babies. Crunchy. Yeah. Well, first let's tackle where I fall on the crunchy scale. My overriding parenting theme is to parent my children with love and respect them as individuals. Here are some of the things I believe in and choose for my family:

I believe in the benefits of intervention-free childbirth and strongly support midwives & doulas. Monkey's delivery was rough (a**hole OB, unnecessary pitocin use, pushed into an epidural [excuse the bad pun], blood pressure issues and episiotomy), so I said "Eff that jazz, I am doing this crunchy mom style!" on the next go around. A ton of research, one midwife, two doulas and an acapella version of the Sesame Street theme later, I had a BabyBug and birth that I remember fondly. And since everyone asks, yes, it freakin hurt but, I would do it again! 

I am a breastfeeding mom. I've spent the last three years doing a really good impression of Elsie, the dairy cow. I've even been known to go on TV and make witty signs in support of breastfeeding. Boobies are serious business to this momma! I've experienced just about every sort of breastfeeding (extended, nursing while pregnant, tandem nursing) and though I always sometimes cry when I take my bra off, it is all worthwhile. Now if I could just find an plastic surgeon that takes liquid gold as a payment for a breast lift!

I am a co-sleeping mom. I co-slept with both Monkey & Bug from the beginning, mostly for the ease of popping a boob out breastfeeding. They have both transitioned into their own beds, but still wander into our bed to kick me in the kidneys & torment my sleep-deprived patience on a regular basis.

I am a baby-wearing mom. Baby K'Tan, Ergo (x2), Lucky Baby Sling and a Ring Sling have all been a part of our family. It is common knowledge that the Ergo is my favorite, but I still love on my other carriers from time to time to avoid a baby-wearing coup.

There are a variety of other crunchy ideas that I attempt to employ into my parenting style, but I do choose to dissent from other crunchies on one topic. I am pro-vax. (I'm not even going to defend the why, because this is my blog & that is an entirely separate post.) 

The reason I mention that is because this is where I feel a lot of moms, crunchy or smooth, go wrong. Somehow parenting philosophies have become the new religion, with all the accompanying pressure, closed-mindedness & judgement. That, in my humble opinion, is the completely wrong approach. 

Your parenting style should be completely unique to you and your children. Finding the right parenting style should be like visiting a buffet! Pick out your main dish, the items you know are important to you, like leading by example or parenting with love. Then pick out your side dishes, the habits or choices that will affect your children, but won't be a permanent part of your life, like breastfeeding or sleep training. Then sample a few things that you haven't tried but look appetizing, like organic cooking. The great thing about this buffet is it is "all you can eat" and you can change your plate as many times as you want. Get a big helping of "working mom" only to discover you hate it? No problem. Scrape that bad boy into the trash and go browse the buffet for a better choice! Feel free to browse other moms plate for anything amazing you might be missing, but please don't berate others because you don't like what they picked up at the buffet. Isn't there a strict "no judgement" policy at all buffets, so why should the parenting buffet be any different?

The mom list, take 2.

Consider this chapter 2 of "NuttyMom's less than comprehensive guide to MommyFriends". (I'm really going to have to work on better titles if I want to land that book deal.) For chapter one, please refer to It's funny, because it's true. Done already? Sure, just like my 3 year old brushes his teeth in 12.6 seconds. Either way, let's make hilarious generalizations profile some more of the minivan mafia, shall we?

6. SunshineMom: Let me say that until about a year ago, I thought SunshineMom was the parenting equivalent of a unicorn. A lot of hype and a story from your neighbor's sister's best friend, but as it turns out, I was mistaken! So, what is a SunshineMom? She is a mom that doesn't get frustrated or impatient. She doesn't gossip (putting a big kink in my "all mom's judge" theory) and isn't frazzled by whiny kids. She can handle newborns twins, a trying three year old & a traveling husband without so much as a "Can I just go pee by myself?!" freak out. She lives the adage "If you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all". And frankly, she makes the rest of us look bad, but you can't be mad at someone so sweet. Trust me, I've tried.


7. AlternativeMom: If you don't have an AlternativeMom in your friend circle, you have my pity. They are entertaining, unpretentious and, as a group, some of the least judgmental mommas I've met. Some AltMoms are easy to spot with brightly colored hair and visible tattoos and some aren't. These moms march to their own maraca, are generally alright with adult language and have stories that bring me right on the edge of needing a Depends. I highly suggest you break your idea of what a mom friend should be & meet a few AltMoms. I'll admit they make me feel a bit boring in my Loft cargo pants and uncolored hair, but that's just my complex. Plus, everybody needs a friend they can drop an F bomb around. Everybody.


8. BitterMom: Have you ever come across a mom that seemed impossibly negative? Not just having-a-rough-day negative. These Moms will share a seemingly endless stream of vitriol about any topic including their husbands faults, their children's annoying habits and their third grade dance teacher. I once knew a BitterMom (also as InappropriateMom) who described her 5 year old as a "little b*tch" and made jokes about her ending up a stripper. I needed two weeks of antidepressants and a nap after such close proximity to evil. Fortunately, most BitterMoms announce themselves through a combination of bad hair & a permanent B*tchFace, so you should be safe. Be extra careful to avoid BitterMomGoingThroughADivorce unless you want a reason to root for the husband who ran off with the 22 year old.

9. DitzMom: Remember when you had a mom approach you and ask to borrow wipes, a (specific size) diaper AND a snack all in the same outing? She belongs in this category. These ladies take "mommy brain" to a whole new level. I mean, I'll forget my keys or sunglasses occasionally (OK, once a week, whatever!) but I've never started backing out my driveway only to realize I forgot my child inside! DitzMoms are good people & I greatly appreciate that their frazzled appearance makes me look pulled together in comparison, but I would not suggest asking her to babysit or take care of any important tasks for your next event. On second thought, maybe I should start acting more like a DitzMom.

10. DramaMom: These ladies took the phrase "Save the drama for your momma!" as a personal challenge. They love to loudly say "I hate drama! Why do mommy friendships have to be so complicated?" but are the first to get involved or give you the line by line recap of what went down. By all accounts, they keep a written log of whispered insults to stir up histrionics when things get to quiet around the parks or forums. In their defense, their memory and understanding of complicated emotional combat fully qualifies them for a history channel expert position. I keep my DramaMom friend around to keep me entertained during work outs, but constantly remind myself that everything I say is being screened for her "drama log". Chances are if your friend group doesn't have a DramaMom, you're it, so *cheers* for keeping us entertained!

The other N word.

I have a nanny. There, I said it. I pay someone to come to my house and play my role for 8 or 9 hours a day. She feeds them, sings songs, does dishes, picks up toys and keeps the peace. She's known for her amazing mini meat loaf and love of music. Some days she is even a better "mom" than I am. She is patient, she gets on their level, she comes up with fun distractions that mommy's tired brain could never think of. And, you know what? I am OK with it.

Do I get a bit teary while slaving away working because my darling kids are home having fun without me? Yes. Does it make my heart ache when she texts me sweet/adorable/hilarious things the kids said or did? Oh yes. Do I question my decision to be a work outside the house mom? Sometimes. Would I change our arrangement? Not in a million years.

See, for me, being a stay at home mom is a fantasy. You know, the "I should definitely do that one day!" thought, that goes in the same category as completing the IronMan triathlon or giving up sugar. It is like I once told my best friend "Me being a SAHM is like communism or pool sex; a great idea in theory, but absolute sh*t in reality." I'm not cut out for it. If I was a SAHM, more days than not would end in tears and I'm not talking about the kids.

[Before I get bloggy blacklisted, I would like to stop and say that I have a TON of respect for SAHMs. I wish I could be that patient, creative & self-motivated. You ladies rock! I just wasn't given the skill set to join that particular club and trust me, you wouldn't want me ruining your good name anyway.]

At work, I am a management machine. I can field phone calls, send off brilliantly vague emails, put out (figurative) fires, balance spreadsheets, handle terminations with ease and motivate the laziest of employees. At home, I can't get my fat butt out of my PJs, much less out of the house for educational outings. Seriously, I can barely keep my trashcan from overflowing and my husband in clean underwear. SuperMom, I am not. But again, that is OK with me. 

Working outside the house makes me a better mom. It keeps me motivated, helps our family financially & keeps me sane(-ish). And the great thing about my paying job is on the days when my employees are acting like petulant children and I want to scream, I throw out a vaguely legit sounding excuse (I'm the boss, insert evil laugh) and head for the door. I know if I were a SAHM, there is no leaving "work" on a terrible, no good, very bad kind-of day and trust me, we'd have lots of those days. So, I will keep going to work & paying our awesome nanny to keep things under control, because I know no matter what fun things she thinks up, I'm still the one the kids are waiting by the door for.

Parental warning label.

I had a realization a few weeks ago. A realization, that I'm sure my parents would laugh at, should I choose to share it with them. Here is my lightning bolt (I never said I was brilliant, consider yourself warned). Absolutely everything that is exciting for our children, falls into one or more of the following categories for parents: Expensive, Time-Consuming, Exhausting or Terrifying. (No, you can't slap my forehead for me.)


How did it take me this many years to figure this out? I mean, I knew my parents did a lot of exhausting, expensive & tedious tasks for me over the years, but HOLY CRAP.

It gets easier as they get older. Yea, right.

I realized this as I started planning out Monkey's birthday party. I was exhausted before I even started, and then the REAL fun began.


Custom designed birthday invite? Check!
(Time-consuming? Check!)
Invite way more people than necessary for a kid's birthday? Check!
(Time-consuming & expensive? Check and Check!)
Locate and order customized party themed outfit? Check!
(Expensive? Check!)
Plan menu, order & prepare food? Check!
(Time-consuming, expensive & exhausting? Check! Check! Check!)
Make adorable & coordinated smashcake/cupcakes/cakepops? Check!
(Expensive? Check!)
Clean my house, only to have it destroyed within hours? Check!
(Exhausting? Check!)
Put together non-junky gift bags for bratty kids party guests? Check!
(Expensive & exhausting? Check and Checkmate.)


You get the idea.


It is absolutely unreal how much parents sacrifice to do fun things for their kids. The hilarious part is, I know that in 15 years, he will not be saying "Thanks for making sure my birthday parties were always awesome, Mom!" (He might not get a chance to say it, because all this party-planning might very well kill me.) I stress myself out and spend way too much money (Don't tell the Yankee I said that!), because it is such a joy for me to make the day all about him and the things he loves (for the next 7 minutes, anyway). I love to see his face light up when he sees the perfectly proportioned Lightning McQueen cake that I very nearly had a nervous breakdown over at 1am.


Do I go over the top? Sure. Is he worth it? Abso-freakin-lutely*.




*Yea, I'm bringing it back. Don't argue with me.   

The one about sleep.

I've mentioned that I miss sleep. Not just any sleep, that deep, restful, naked sleep of my pre-child days when I could sleep past 8:30am and wake up, blissfully, on my own. I made you weep just thinking about it, didn't I? (Note: If you are one of those on-par-with-lottery-winners LuckyMoms whose children have slept through the night since they were two weeks old and never climb into your bed to harass your last thread of sanity at 3am, do me a favor & just keep that sh*t to yourself.)


Like I was saying, most every mom I have ever met would do just about anything, legal or otherwise, to have a that sort of sleep again. I, personally, don't think it is possible, even with child-less vacations and the butterfly-wing pills I keep seeing commercials for. The best sleep I get is on my annual Mommy's Drunk Night Out and as the name implies, that alcohol & exhaustion fueled sleep is clearly negated by the raging death wish hangover I am greeted with five minutes before the hotel's checkout time. See, now I'm rambling. This is what three years of parenting has done to me people. Bad things.


Now that we have firmly established what a sleep-deprived wreck I am (as if there was any doubt), let's discuss what three years of parenting has not done. The answer is, affected my husband's sleep schedule one frackin bit. Sure, the Yankee claims to be tired, but I hear his snores taunt me as I tend to squirmy children at 3am. I know better. The Yankee sleeps like he has overdosed on Nyquil every frick night. If sleeping becomes an Olympic level event, he'll be set, but until then this is what I deal with...


(Background Info: When Monkey came home as a newborn he was a tiny, hungry little dude, but my body hadn't yet gotten the memo that it was now an all hours diner, so a bit of work had to be done to get the *ahem* restaurant up & flowing. The protocol that I was told I MUST follow, was nurse him for 15-20 min, then pump, rinse & repeat two hours from when we began nursing. Sounds like a party, right?)


So, night one at home, Monkey has been topped off and the we all settle in to bed at 10pm. 11:30 comes & GrandMom (my Mom, not MIL, clearly) nudges me awake to feed Monkey. 25 minutes later I hand him off to GrandMom to burp and settle, while I groggily torture myself pump. We all head back to bed at around 12:15am. Repeat 4 times. 7:20am rolls around and I'm up readying myself for the next order. The Yankee wakes up, looks over at the sleeping Monkey and utters the dumbest statement I have ever heard: "(Gasp) Oh my gawd!! He slept through the night!!" Insert the most evil mom look ever conjured up and me hissing "No, asshole, YOU DID!"


The Yankee thought our newborn son had slept from 10pm until 7:20am without waking, at three days old. He had the foolish luxury because he slept through every frickin feeding! Don't you just feel bad for poor, sleep-deprived Yankee? Fast forward 10 months to Monkey still not sleeping through the night. Surely, the Yankee has been getting up occasionally to give Monkey a bottle of the good stuff stored in the freezer, right? Nope. Never. Not even once.


The Yankee does not even understand the meaning of exhausted and that is why I give him the stink eye each and every time he whines "I'm tired." Now, I'm off to bed. The over/under is 20 minutes before the first "Mommy?". Place your bets, people. 

Livin the dream

By now you've got to be thinking, "Wow! This NuttyMommy is amazingly awesome & oh-so-witty! I bet her life is really glamorous too!" Took the words right out of your mouth, didn't I? *smug smile* Yea, I thought so. So, in an effort to brighten your non-glamorous world, I'll give you a short peek into mine. Are you ready for this? Probably not, but here we gooooooooooooo!

3:12am Monkey comes into my bed. Just because. Monkey takes up 1/3 of the bed, the Yankee takes up another 1/2 of the bed, leaving NuttyMommy with 1/6 of the bed to occupy.

3:17am I realizes that I will not be able to sleep in such a tight space. Guess what NuttyMommy does when she is cranky & unable to sleep? Fractions? Haha, absolutely not! I poke the Yankee until he moves over.

3:24am The Yankee moves over, giving me another 1 inch of sleeping room between the Yankee and the Monkey. Success!

3:25am I realize I am laying between two space heaters and I am BURNING up.

3:26am Kick off covers. Monkey cries for "horsepower blanket".

3:27am Try convince Monkey that Mommy's blanket is just fine.

3:27:30am Monkey begins screeching for "horsepower blanket" at roughly the noise level of a freight train. The Yankee continues snoring.

3:27:45am I venture off to find "horsepower blanket".

3:31am I return with beloved "horsepower blanket", sippy cup and stubbed toe.

3:32am I try to reestablish my space in bed, by moving Monkey towards the Yankee. Success!

3:34am I return to my coma sleep.

3:56am Monkey kicks me in the rib. Ow.

3:57am I reorient Monkey from his current east-to-west sleeping position.

3:58am Resume sleep.

4:27am Monkey kicks me in the upper thigh. Ow.

4:28am I reorient Monkey from his southeast-to-northwest sleeping position.

4:29am Resume sleep.

5:41am Monkey begins whining to snuggle Mommy despite the fact that he is currently sleep in a south-to-north position with his legs draped over my stomach.

5:42am Reorient monkey to the proper north-to-south sleeping position with my arm trapped below his neck & shoulders.

5:48am My arm goes numb. Attempt to remove Monkey from arm, resulting in whining Monkey & a grumble/snort from the Yankee.

5:53am Lull Monkey back to sleep my rubbing his back. My rear end is now hanging off the side of the bed.

5:54am Attempt to resume sleep with unsupported rear end.

5:54:15am Realize that this is an impossible sleeping position. Gently slide Monkey towards the Yankee.

5:55am Success! Resume sleep.

6:00am Alarm goes off. Poke the Yankee, as it is his alarm. No response. Climb out of bed & fumble for snooze button. Climb back into bed.

6:09am Alarm goes off again. Shake the Yankee this time. He groggily instructs me to hit snooze. Climb out of bed & press snooze button. Climb back into bed.

6:13am Monkey is awake and whining for his trucks. "Mommy! Twucks, pwease? Twucks, pwease? Twucks, pwease? Mommy! Twuck, pwease? Twucks, pwease?"

6:14am I remind the Monkey that is sleepy time, not truck time.

6:14:30am "Waaaaaaa! Twucks, twucks, twucks, twucks, twucks...."

6:15am "No trucks right now. We'll play with our trucks when it's time to get up. Now, come snuggle Mommy."

6:16am "TWUCKS, PWEASE?"

6:17am "No trucks. Please lay down."

6:18am Alarm goes off again. Shake the Yankee to no avail. Climb out of bed & hit snooze button. Monkey is chanting "Twucks, twucks, twucks, twucks, twucks, twucks, twucks, twucks, twucks...."

6:20am "Do you want to watch SuperWhy?"

6:21am "No! Twucks, twucks, twucks....Horepower Movie?"

6:23am Fumble for remote. I am rewarded with sweet Lullaby of Sheryl Crow's Real Gone (opening scene of Cars) and a quiet Monkey. The Yankee is still snoring. The dog howls downstairs.

6:23:01am Resume sleep.

6:27am Alarm goes off again. Shove the Yankee & growl for him to deal with the alarm. The Monkey laughs.

6:32am Monkey begins whining to "Go wake Sissy up! Go wake Sissy up! Watch horsepower movie with Sissy!"

6:33am "No, we don't wake up Sissy."

6:34am "Twucks, pwease? Wake up Sissy, pwease?"

6:35am "No trucks and NO waking up Sissy. Watch your movie for 5 more minutes."

6:36am The alarm goes off again. The Yankee hits snooze, again. The dog is in full blown howl downstairs.

6:37am Sissy/Bug starts crying. Monkey is thrilled and tags along to rescue Sissy from her crib.

6:39am Attempt to fit 3 people in the half of the bed not being occupied by the Yankee. Restart Monkey's movie. Nurse the Bug.

6:41am The Monkey begins whining for his "twucks" again. Shove the Yankee & tell him to get up, turn off the alarm & go get the boy's trucks. Now.

6:43am The Yankee complies & stumbles downstairs to find the trucks. Forgets the alarm.

6:45am The alarm goes off again. I cannot move because I am nursing a Bug who thinks that 11 hours of sleep is far too long to go without sustenance, so I'm forced to listen to the "bomb about to explode" warning noises from the alarm. The Monkey resumes his chant of "twucks, twucks, twucks, twucks, twucks..."

6:49am The Yankee returns with one truck. The Monkey does not approve and melts down for "more twucks". I glare at him & tell him to turn off the damn alarm and go get 2 more trucks.

6:51am The Bug is done nursing & is now touching the Monkey's only truck. The Monkey is ANGRY.

6:52am The Yankee returns with a whole bin of cars & trucks (smart ass), puts them down and locks himself in the bathroom. (Punk.)

6:53am Dole out cars & trucks on the floor for both kids to play with.

6:55am Give the Monkey a time out for not sharing/snatching toys from his sister.

6:56am The Monkey howls from time out, the Bug enjoys having all the cars & trucks to herself and I make a quick escape to the other upstairs bathroom.

6:58am Free the Monkey from time out after he apologizes to Sissy/Bug and says he will share.

6:59am Check my email while the kids play together.

7:01am Give Monkey another time out for not sharing/snatching toys.

7:04am Free the Monkey from time out after he apologizes and says he will share. Again.

7:06am Hear the Yankee humming in the bathroom & decide I'm going to hurt him, if I don't evacuate the general vicinity.

7:07am Usher the kiddos (with all cars and "twucks", of course) downstairs to start breakfast.



And now, you lovelies, have been brought into the inner sanctum of my glamorous life, at least the first 4 hours of it. Glamorous, isn't it? I know, you wish you could be me.

Meet ya at #WineandWhine

So, I've already confessed my deep and passionate love affair with twitter and the freedom it gives me, without exceeding 140 characters, of course. But I didn't share the reason I love twitter with a fervent passion. It's the same reason there are pictures of me half dressed in a fountain repeatedly during college and that I have managed to survive 3 years of parenting without selling my kids to the gypsies. No, not booze. What kind of mom do you think I am anyway? Don't answer that. The answer, is my amazing and highly mischevious friends.


Lovely ladies, like the ever indulgent @Rustilyn, who co-founded #WineandWhine with me (OK, so maybe I do mix twitter & drinking, but I have it under control. Really, I do!) and @ThePurseBlogger, who for some unknown reason thinks I am actually a talented writer. I could go on and on listing the brilliant, amusing & oh-so-rowdy group of tweeps I have come to love, but to be honest, I don't really like to share. So, find your own damn friends! Or you could just look at my follow list, whatev. 


So, why do I need twitter friends when I have in real life friends? Because my twitter friends never tell me it's too late, they listen, err, read my stupid awesome jokes and they approve of me using my computer/iPhone/iPad as a drinking buddy; That's why. But even more amazingly, they hear all my crazy, unedited, rambling thoughts and still stick around for more. What else could a perpetually exhausted, slightly crazy and braless lady hope for? (Besides my 19 year old body, the winning lottery numbers and a visit from Marky Mark, of course.)


So, my advice to you (because clearly, I'm the lady you should not take advice from) is to mozy on over to twitter and join a #wineandwhine party. You'll either have a great time tweeting with some of the funniest people you'll ever meet or you'll leave thinking I'm even crazier than you realized, while perpetually humming "Baby Got Back". Maybe both, but I'm not making any promises. 

The war zone.

Anyone that knows me IRL (that would hopefully be none of you) knows the challenge that is my relationship with my in laws. These people make me want to puncture my eardrum with a screwdriver, just for an excuse to leave. Seriously, I didn't create & proliferate the hashtag #shittyinlaws for the fun of it. Ok, maybe it was a little fun, but that's not the point. These people drive me to a level of insanity that 3+ years of sleep deprivation and parenting hasn't achieved. Seriously, how is that even possible?! Apparently, they are gifted.


Let's start with some background shall we? The Yankee is an only child, which is a BIG deal. The Yankee was, and still is, very spoiled by them. They still call him a nickname that nobody over the age of 6 should be called and worry about his every want & need. Forget the fact that he is a grown adult & has a wife to look out for him, they still worry if he gets enough sleep & regularly advise me to "Let him rest!" (Have I told you about he sleeps yet? No? Oh, you'll enjoy that story, but back to my ILs.) The sun rises & sets with their boy. I'm just the evil, thieving woman who stole their perfect son. As an added bonus, I do not share the same cultural background as them, which is a VERY big deal.


My darling FIL once looked me in the face and told me that "EVERYBODY should be [from their culture]." I might have told him that saying & believing that was akin to being a Nazi. Definitely gave the Yankee a shock on that one. (It took almost 2 years for him to admit that his dad *might* have been wrong and that I *might* have been justified in responding like I did. Thanks for that support, hun.) So, to put it mildly, there is not much love lost between us.


I will eat some humble pie and admit that they, especially my FIL, are great grandparents. They love our kids (even if they are only half-breeds) and really want to be involved in their lives. I make sure to put on my big girl panties and let them see the kids as close to weekly as possible, despite the other crap that I have to deal with. That being said, I shall return to my vitriol.


My in laws are jealous, petty and a shocking mix of non-confrontational, passive-aggressive and full-on combative. It is a regular occurrence to have a perceived slight brought up months or years after the fact, despite all efforts to have an open relationship and ask them to communicate if I upset them. They once got offended because I told them I appreciated their opinions, but we were going to raise our son a bit differently. Yes, that's really how I said it & they really got upset, but didn't tell me until they had simmered in bitter anger for nearly 2 years. My relationship with my in laws makes me stop to wonder if I'm living in a bad sitcom or an elaborate reality show.


It is funny from the outside (my girlfriends get a huge laugh at the torture that is my life), but it's a bit tough to giggle when you are stuck in the war zone between the husband and his parents. But if I'm going to be miserable, I might as well entertain you wonderful people with it, so here are a few more gems from my #shittyinlaws:


-The very first time my MIL (a classic over sharer) met my mom, she insisted on talking about how her pain meds were causing her, *ahem*, digestive issues. We changed the conversation 4 different times and 5 times she brought it back up. I'll never forget the look on my mom's face when my MIL uttered the phrase "rectal spasms". Care to join us for Sunday dinner?


-My darling FIL telling my husband "Go ahead, marry her & break hundreds of years of tradition!" in reference to getting serious with someone outside of their cultural background. He sure knows how to welcome somebody to the family!


-My MIL reminding me to take care of my "wifely duties" when our firstborn was barely 2 months old. I guess that would have been a good time to ask her if she knew how to get vomit stains out of berber carpet.


So, do you have #shittyinlaws or am I going to be infinitely jealous to hear all the sweet things your sweet in laws do for you?