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Back-to-School Pinterest Bitches

29 Aug

It’s that time of year again. The kids are going back to school, Target is abuzz with harried moms, the beaches are emptying, I’m still not tan and shit’s about to get real on Pinterest:

I went to Ocean State Job Lot and bought my daughter’s school supplies. After washing last year’s perfectly good bag, I packed it very neatly, wrote her a little ‘good luck’ note and felt like a mom rock star. Then this bitch went and did this:

Why God? Why?

How and more importantly why?

And then her asshole mom friend did this:

I started this project and then ate all of the rolos.

I started this project and then accidentally ate all of the Rolos.

Sweet baby Jesus in the sky, why do people have to be so crafty?

I had a glass of wine, felt inspired and worked on this little project. Evidently, you’re not supposed to use a blow torch to melt the Crayons:

Drink wine and fuck up crafts.

Drink wine and fuck up crafts.

Raise your hand if your kids’ last three years of school pictures are somewhere in the bottom of your “To Do” file. #mustmailtorelativesbeforecollege.

I’m just glad that my kids’ socks match and that I don’t look like Amanda Bynes at the bus stop. (<—–Lie. I always look like Amanda Bynes at the bus stop.)

Don't forget your lunch, kids! Mommy loves you.

Don’t forget your lunch, kids! Mommy loves you.


The moms who won’t let it go. Even into the college years:

My mom's weird and she makes me do tricks.

My mom’s weird and she makes me do tricks.


I’m not even sure what this is? A lemonade stand? For school shit?

I don't understand.

I don’t understand. What exactly are you selling? Explain yourself.

I’m still trying to figure out which summer camp to send my kids to. And then this mom is all:

So now we're supposed to have back-to-school parties for our children?

Don’t forget the personalized chalkboard.

And then there are the moms that rush things:

I call bullshit. Everyone knows that three year olds are too young for Kindy. Nice try, mom.

I call bullshit. Everyone knows that three-year olds are too young for Kindy. Nice try, kid.

Nothing says the most important meal of the day quite like a super crafty breakfast and a diorama of…the first day of school. This mom stayed up until four in the morning preparing this. I hate her:

I just feel like this sets high expectations. If I did this and then tried to give my kids an organic poptart the next morning, I'd be knifed.

How to give your child explosive diarrhea on their first day of school. Also, if I did this and then tried to give my kids an organic pop tart the next morning, I’d be knifed.

And here is a baby in glasses laying on a book. Just cuz.

Smartest baby ever.

Smartest baby ever.

Here’s to overdue library books, forgotten show-and-tell days, last-minute book reports and a whole lot of self forgiveness.

Have a great year! Don’t forget to wear pants to the bus stop.


Mother’s Day Wishlist

10 May

A Dyson. Because being a mom doesn’t suck. And because a vacuum is the perfect gift for pushing two babies out of your vagina and then having your nipples chewed off for the following ten months. Nope. But I figure if I am in charge of picking up after three animals, I may as well be efficient.

Animals. All of you.

Animals. All of you.

After I wake up from my bedsore worthy sleep-in, I immediately want liquor and desserts for breakfast in bed. Oh wait. That’s right. My husband’s over thirty soccer league has a game scheduled for eight o’clock in the morning. On Mother’s Day. Evidently the team will crumble without him. After all, this is the big league. And none of the players have mothers, wives or children seemingly.

Mommy's busy.

Mommy’s busy.

I want my bedroom back. If I roll over on top of a Lego one more time, I am burning them all. Do you have any idea how badly that hurts? Like rolling over on a landmine. I wake up screaming and furiously karate chopping the air. Unless Legos are shaped like Eddie Vedder or Johnny Depp, they just don’t belong in my bed.

What I dream of my bedroom looking like.

What I dream of my bedroom looking like.

What my bedroom actually looks like. Hey hun, can you pass me that chicken wing?

What my bedroom actually looks like. “Hey hun, can you pass me that chicken wing?”

Speaking of bed. I want a hotel room. I’d like to sleep alone one night. All alone. Without someone holding my nose like a handle, while kicking me in the spleen and headbutting me in the face. All alone. I don’t care if it’s a rent by the hour joint. I don’t even mind if there are cockroaches. As long as they tuck me in, are quiet and don’t smoke. Those little fuckers can totally chill with me.

Oh my god, they're multiplying.

Oh my god, they’re multiplying. And we’re never having sex again.

Wine. Magnums of it. I’m talking backstroke in a tub full of Chardonnay, while you pour Cabernet in my mouth. Because my three-year old is a caveman and tells me thrice daily that I am stupid. And my six-year old bullies me like Real Housewives of Orange County bullies me. Wine. All day.

Me on Sunday. In wine.

Me on Sunday. In wine.

Major reconstructive surgery on my stomach. Despite core strengthening and intense cardio, I fear that my stomach will always look like it was set on fire. Twice. That belly button ring I got when I was seventeen was a fan-fucking-tastic idea though. Really. Not too sexy when your stomach stretches seventeen thousand times bigger than the size of your seventeen year old midriff. Dumbass.

Aw, isn't that precious. Wait until the baby comes and you look like a fucking narwal that was caught in a barbed wire net and it ripped your flesh to pieces.

Aw, isn’t that precious. Wait until the baby comes and you look like a fucking narwhal that was caught in a barbed wire net and it ripped your flesh to pieces.

For one…just one blessed family photo that doesn’t involve me screaming during the taking of said photo. “Look at the camera, kids…daddy, look at the camera (seriously?!) Look at the camera, please. I’ll give you a million dollars to look at the camera…Look at the damn camera!” <Sobbing.>

Oh fuck off. That's not even possible. I call photoshop bullshit.

Oh fuck off. That’s not even possible. I call Photoshop bullshit.

Did I mention liquor?

For my children and husband to learn how to see. “Hun, have you seen my soccer shirt? Mom, where are my shoes? Mumma, where’s my favorite rocket ship?”

“They’re in the backyard with the Legos. I lit them all on fire. Glug. Glug. Glug.”

Happy Mother’s Day, bitches. Booze and snarkism aside, this crazy, exhausting, amazing privilege is worth every single minute. I love you F & R.


11 May

TIME Magazine’s controversial article and photo Are You Mom Enough? and the timing of this blog post are purely coincidental, albeit apropos.

Confession: I fully admit that when I first saw the cover of TIME, I couldn’t have cared less that the woman still breastfeeds her eight-year old (if that child is three-years old, then I’m a dancing chicken). I was more enthralled with her balls of (recycled) steel and confused as to why TIME portrayed nursing as provocative. Ew. 

But what did strike me was the deeper question. (And this is way more to me than breastfeeding for an extended period of time.) Is the pressures of modern-day motherhood hurting our culture? And have we “lost our ability to trust our own instincts…” as Dr. Logan Levkoff so eloquently put it.

Have the pressures and consequent mompetition gotten to an all time high? Or should I say low? It’s like if you’re not nursing your kids until they’re four, composting your baby’s bowel movements, while making baby food from organic, raw, clean, quinoa fed vegetables in a recycled spiralizer made out of hemp and flax seed…and perseverating over all of the above, well, you’re just not cutting it as a mom.

Dinner is ready! I grew it in our victory garden.

Mompetition has certainly evolved. Gone are the days when soccer moms were at the top of the Mommy pecking order. Nope. Now, it’s more than having a mini-van, perfectly curled bangs and a cardigan draped loosely over your shoulders. Now moms are having a face(book)-off as to who has it rougher. Who can do more. Who can do it all and in the most difficult, yet organized and perfectly timed way possible, while looking amazing. Of course.

She probably let your kids watch television.

Watch this clip and OH MY GOD WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THIS?

But let’s be honest, mompetition really begins when your child is in utero:

Nowadays moms-to-be “should” want to give birth in the woods, by themselves, hanging from a tree limb, Mayan style. Don’t get me wrong, I have fully supported all of my friends in their quest for their ideal birth. I love when women get to have the experience that is right for them. But now I read these articles and it’s not just about having a “natural” childbirth anymore. The more pain, degree of difficulty and of course less “intervention” the better. Not sure when having medical personnel handy when you’re about to attempt bringing a baby into the world was coined “intervention.”  

Oh you love your baby, Alicia? Tell us all about it.

I remember when I was pregnant with my first. A co-worker (or it could have been a stranger on the street because we all know that absolutely nothing is sacred when it comes to pregnancy) asked me:

“Are you getting an epidural? Or are you trying for a natural childbirth?”

Me: “I think I’m just going to try to get the baby out one way or another without dying and in the safest way possible for me and my baby.” There’s a novel idea.

And natural childbirth? I’m not sure you can get more natural than creating life. I got an epidural. And it still hurt like a sonofabitch and it was still hard. I didn’t take narcotics and I didn’t so much as take a Tylenol when I was pregnant. But, I felt more natural after my two children were born than I had ever felt in my entire life. And I am just thankful that I didn’t pee on the doctor. That’s a lie. I totally peed on the doctor. Twice.

Me in labor. Truth.

I have a hard time imagining my grandmother, who raised six children, competing with other moms. Asking them if they got an epidural, if they exclusively breastfed and if they fed their children dye-free, organic food. Then again, they typically knocked a woman out with ether during birth, but that’s neither here nor there. My point is that I think women were too busy being moms to bother competing. And of course having conversations about  women’s rights. And drinking highballs. And they fed their kids mayonnaise and it was awesome. Now I want a highball and mayonnaise.

She feeds her baby formula. She must not love him.

And disposable diapers? Why don’t you just pour chlorine down your baby’s gullet? Or just throw your garbage in the ocean? Slacker. When did we start measuring the success of motherhood based on the receptacle in which our baby poops? When did the objective become making all of our lives more difficult? Isn’t it hard enough? And don’t we still have a ton to learn? If my daughter doesn’t kill me with a flat-iron when she’s sixteen, I’ll consider myself a success.

If only I had homeschooled her…

Speaking of overcomplicating things, what’s with the baby carriers? The Baby Bjorn is no longer sufficient. Do we have Maggie Gyllenhaal to blame for this? Try following this tutorial after not sleeping for three weeks. I ended up weeping on my sitz bath, contemplating selling my baby on the internet because I was clearly unfit.

Yup. Seventeen minutes later and you look like a drunk Samurai and your baby is still screaming. Only this time she’s in a full split.

And can it be okay to not have our kids in eight hundred activities? “Sorry, little Banjo has soccer, jai-alai, origami, Mandarin lessons and statistic club, so we’re not going to make your son’s stupid, low-rent birthday party at the Bowlerdome.”

I wonder if the pendulum will ever swing in the other direction. If we will ever be satisfied with doing the best we can with the resources that we have. I hope to get my children into adulthood, healthy, happy and kind. I’m not sure if that makes me mom enough, but they certainly seem to like me and I’m having a ton of fun.

Sweaty eyeballs and Hooters T-Shirts.

14 Jul

I took my daughter to camp yesterday. This was basically the scene upon drop-off…

Me: Parking in the wrong area because I can’t seem to do anything right. Consequently having to walk several hundred miles to get to the school gymnasium aptly named (and clearly labeled) “School Gymnasium.” P.S. It was 105 degrees out.

Every other Mother there: Parking in the right area and looking at me strangely when I walk up, sweating profusely, carrying the baby and dragging my four-year old behind me.

"Can anyone tell me where the gym is? I have a great deal of sweat in my eyeballs."

Me: To insolent looking teenager, charged with the task of “greeting” campers at the door, “Hi, do you know which group my daughter is in?” Blank stare and possible drool coming out of her mouth? Neat. Text me, I guess?

Every other Mother there: Overhearing this ridiculous question, shoots me a dirty look because she has already interrogated her child’s camp counselor with questions such as “What do you plan to do in the case of an emergency?” and “Do you have an epi pen handy?” or “What are your credentials?” Um, I’m going to go ahead guess not smoking crystal meth and having a reliable car. It is summer camp after all.

Me: To camp counselor, “Um, she forgot her shoes. Do you have any extras?”

Every other Mother there: To each other and anyone who would listen, “I gotta get home so I can decoupage <enter clever child’s name here’s> bookcase, compost my organically, natural garden and bake a cake (gluten free of course) for tonight’s Daisy Scout meeting. And then go to Zumba.”

This is so easy and fun.

Me: Basically wearing a Hooters t-shirt and ripped jean shorts circa 1998:  “Oh. Me too.” Blatant lie. I was really just going to get a dump sticker, go to the dump (face stab husband) and attempt to finish off the laundry monster taking over my life-slash-finish Game of Thrones on DVR (amazing show that involves tons of sex, midgets and dragons). Watch it.

Point: It seemed like every other mom was in amazing shape, had their shit together in a very hip sort of way and wasn’t wearing a T&A shirt. Weird.

Their cars were clean and organized, while mine had stickers all over the back window and smelled like cheese and taboule.

One mother was wearing a headband that said “Born to Run” and was doing wind sprints in between cars. While talking about running. We get it. You like to run. But, do you have an extra juicebox? Others were off to do something amazing like volunteer at the library or go to Michael’s to get scrapbooking shit.

If they weren’t talking about their plans to change the world while their child was at camp, they were making  plans to get together for a playdate after camp. I was concentrating on getting home to change my clothes. And convincing people to not call DSS on me.

At pick-up, my daughter was grinning and was more than excited to see me. I guess I’m doing something right.

Oh and I got the damn dump sticker. And have made two adorable people.

Decoupage this.


Things (mostly People) I Hate More than Outhouses

12 Jul

I have an idea. Let's call it a Bouse House. It rhymes and people will find it more appealing.

On a recent trip to the beach, I was forced to use an outhouse. For the thirty seconds that I was in there, eyes closed and attempting to think of anything but where I actually was, I tried to think of things that I hate more than an outhouse. The list included random, pervasive thoughts such as the following:

1.) Hitler. No brainer.

2.) The word panties. Only perverts call those this. Ew.

3.) Casey Anthony. She’s writing a book on Motherhood. I am seriously moving to Mars.

4.) Freeloaders and opportunists. And generally anyone who will do anything to gain something. Seems obvious, I know.

5.) Kelly Ripa. Grrr.

Hey Reeeege. Guess what's in my coffee cup. A shitload of Ephedrine and NOT FOOD.

6.) The time when I was twelve and got up on stage at summer camp and did the Electric Slide for like seven straight minutes to a remix of Marky Mark’s “Good Vibrations” until the counselor finally pulled the plug. I didn’t even get to do my dramatic ending.

7.)  Not Javier Bardem. Seriously.

I quite enjoy when you do the Electric Slide over and over again for seven straight minutes. Te amo.

8.) The expression “it is what it is.” Really, Alice in Wonderland? What the HELL does that mean? I’m Irish and basically only speak in platitudes and clichés. Even we don’t know what that means. Please stop saying it. 

9.) Passive aggressiveness. Snort.

10.) The expression “that’s just the way I am.” Nope. The way that you say that you are is a.) The way that you wish you were b.) The way that you want people to think that you are; and/or/more than likely c.) The way that you AREN’T. If you want to know the way that you are, ask someone else. Now I sound like Alice in Wonderland.

Oh well. It is what it is.

How I feel when people say that.

I’d say outhouses aren’t so bad after all.

Glass is half full,

Queen of Hearts

The phone, the phone is ringing

4 May

It's the new Good Night Moon

So at 3:00 a.m. this morning, as I was removing my four-year old daughter’s big toe from my nasal cavity, I thought to myself, it’s time for some mofo sleep training.

This is the baby girl (“BG”) who slept through the night at an early age, happily stayed in her crib until she was three and who I endlessly gloated about. “Oh, the Ferber method? Pffftttt. My daughter is a great sleeper. Sucks to be you….” Flips hair.

Until one night. The door whips open and as my husband dives under the bed to protect himself against the serial killer who was surely going to bludgeon us to death – thanks hun, my knight in shining armor – I see her shadow in the doorway.

“Mommy, daddy, guess what I can do?!” Oh, I don’t know. Never sleep again? Lesson learned: Don’t be a douchy, bragadocious Mom. It will come back to haunt you. Like when you are horrible to a boyfriend and he ends up being your child’s soccer coach fifteen years later.

This was three months ago. Since then our patented four-part bedtime routine of bath, brush, book and bed has turned into a several hour process that ends between 9:00 and 10:30 with me watching the GODDAMN Wonder Pets again (please God, kill them all) until she falls asleep. Not before kicking, punching and pushing me out of my seven inch spot.

Some background: BG is spirited (bossy), independent (kind of mean) and clever (somewhat manipulative and more intelligent than I am).

Aside from a Benadryl dosing and a chained link fence, any tips on sleep training would be appreciated.

My sex life and bruised kidneys thank you.

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