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?