Cute as a Button.

Dear Diary, 


     Clothes like this are so. dang. cute. But I cringe when I see all those dang buttons. Why, you might ask? Because no matter how awesome I think I am at aligning them correctly, once I get to the bottom, they are all wrong. And I have to start over. And if your babies are impatient like mine, and end up staring at you like, "Mom! Don't you know how to put on a onesie?", you get a bit irritated. Little children are squirmy, slippery, floppy-like-a-fish-out-of-water type of creatures. Add onesies with a thousand buttons into the mix and you're in for a stressful disaster. Needless to say, there are some days that we all just stay in our pajamas. It's easier. I have now become a true believer in zippers. For the love of all moms, let's nix the buttons. 


Sincerely, 


Me.

Uh, Oh.

Dear Diary, 

This is totally me. I might have aged a few too many years by having children. 

Sincerely, 

Me.

Oh What A Day.

Dear Diary, 


     Is the week half over yet? Oh, good. It is. What is it called...Hump Day! That's right. Why someone had to go naming it such a stupid, double meaning, fun-for-all-the-sickos type of name is beyond me. But I do indeed feel like I am at the peak of craziness in my week. Where to begin. 


     This morning, my little nugget woke me up 2 hours earlier than usual. (Someone just please poke me in the eye.)I went and got her, brought her to my bed and rolled over like a big momma sow while she ate. In the past, I've been sitting up and nursing her against a couch or a wall or my bed headboard. Why? Because I am a moron and did not realize there were easier ways to nurse a child. We all got dressed and went downstairs to begin our day. My toddler was coughing and wheezing like a broken squeezy toy so I decided to call the trusty ole doc. We got him an appointment smack dab in the middle of nap time. (Love that.) Before the appointment, my little girl needed to eat again. I fed her, burped her and barfed her. Yes, you read that right. This girl is like those soft serve ice cream* machines from an all you can eat Chinese buffet. Always leaking.(*Don't let those Asians fool you. That ice cream is made with water, not milk. Like McDonalds. So don't be trusting white people either.)


     Earlier in the day, we cleaned our living room rug outside by hanging it over the wall and power spraying it. Last night the babe decided to take a quick potty on it and dad accidentally knocked over my son's cup of orange juice. All this happened seconds before I had to rush out of the house to get a filling fixed. (Which was awful. Three shots later and some nitrous oxide and I was still sweating from every pore. I told my husband, if it's not the equivalent of knocking me across the head with a frying pan, don't bother giving it to me. I am still awake and I still hate the dentist.)


     Anyway, my little man got soaked from the hose while cleaning the rug and by the time we needed to go to our appointment, we all needed two things. 1. A change of clothes and 2. A diaper change. Yes, that included me. I'm hoping this IUD does its job because after weeks and weeks of bleeding, I'm ready for it to stop. I think I need a cork. 


     At the doctor, we found out our little man most likely has asthma. That, or allergies. Poor baby. What a morning! Now both kids are crashed and I'm thinking it's my cue to do the same. Although everyone knows that the second I shut my eyes, one of theirs will open. 


Sincerely, 


Me.

Urine For It.

Dear Diary, 


     Today it hit me. It was a funny thing, making this realization five months into my infant's life, but it was a realization nonetheless. 


     It has struck me that my daughter has peed on me more times since being born than my son has. The wild, miniature hose of an infant boy is indeed dangerous, especially when the private is standing at attention. That's always weird. And changing diapers is never a picnic, but getting urinated on makes the experience even more colorful. In a pale yellow sort of way. My daughter has relieved her bladder on me, but it never spews, thank heavens. It bubbles over the top like a garden fountain that's running low on power. And then there's a puddle. And it *always* seems to happen right between pulling the used diaper out from under her and slipping a new one under her bum. *SIGH*  


     Two years and 5 months of smelling urine-filled diapers has really done a number on my nasal region. I can almost just expect to gag a little when I go to change the bathroom trash cans. But poop is worse. Much, much worse. So I better stop complaining before Karma pays me a visit.


Sincerely, 


Me. 

Curse you, smelly diaper. I am giving you the "stink eye". (No pun intended.)

Something is a bit off...

Dear Diary, 

     
     Much to my *delight*, I have been getting "skinnier". The only odd thing about it is that I had recently subconsciously decided to give up. When did I think it would happen, you ask? Oh, sometime around the twelfth of never. At first, I would try to eat better portions and eat healthier foods. My body apparently liked that too much because it hung on to everything I ate and my weight went up, up, up (unlike my self esteem). But when I slumped down and frumped like a grump and decided to eat what I wanted, when I wanted and how I wanted it...my weight went down! And down some more! What the heck??? Hey, I'm not complaining. Cafe Rio, Papa Murphy's, home made cheeseburgers, french fries, quesadillas and chocolate milk (yes, I rebelled.) never tasted so good! Take that, Weight Watchers! I'm watching my weight. By watching tasty foods go into my mouth. Om, nom, nom. Let's hope this isn't a short-lived phase. (Thank you, breastfeeding!)And with as stubborn as this little child is, I'll be breastfeeding her until she's five. 


Sincerely, 


Me. 

Fun Times in the Shower.

Dear Diary, 

     I've spoken before about the unbearable amount of hair loss moms experience post-partum. But one thing I have never been able to get over is when, 2 minutes before you are about to hop out of the shower, you realize all of the hair has slid down to the only place on your body that will stop it like a dam. The bum crack. De-stringing your hiney has never been a very fun task, but it gets increasingly uncomfortable as the hair loss multiplies. Here's to hoping nobody has a terribly hairy-hiney Monday tomorrow. But if you do, just know that as always, you are not alone. And remember, you can always do like me and just not shower every day. Read this post and be on your merry way instead. 

Sincerely, 


Me. And all other moms who shed hair and it gets stuck in their cracks. 

Ketchup, Anyone?

Dear Diary, 


     The older my toddler gets, the stronger my realization becomes that he would eat anything and everything with ketchup. Eggs, bacon, quesadillas, french fries...those are all fairly reasonable foods to eat with ketchup. But once you start crossing over into the french toast/waffle/pancake section, you. are. doomed. I actually think that he *might* even try to eat a rock if you dipped it in ketchup. And I can't help but wonder...when will it end? My siblings each had an obsession with a certain type of food when we were younger. My older brother coated his foods with salt, my sister killed her meals with ranch dressing and my younger brother would slather an entire stick of softened butter on things if you let him. Fast forward twenty years and they are all the same with those foods as they were back then. It gives me no hope for my toddler with this newfound ketchup obsession when I think back to one of my friends (my age) who mentioned a while back that she still eats ketchup on her waffles. Thankfully, ketchup is cheap (although extremely messy). So my water bill might go skyrocketing with all the laundry that anxiously awaits me in the future, but at least my grocery bills won't be outrageous. 

Sincerely, 

Me

Tooth Be Perfectly Honest.

Dear Diary, 


     I. Am. Depressed. Having two kids in two years sucked the life outta my teeth. After 9 cavities, 1 root canal, 4 fillings, and now a need to re-treat the root canal, fix an existing filling and fill the remaining 5 cavities for the first time, I'm cursing my children's name. And my husband's man parts. I'm pretty sure I'd like to file a law suit against the Tooth Fairy. My dentist told me that the general rule is one root canal per child. I'm sort of loving these continuous confirmations that two children is my limit. In the mean time, I'll be taking into consideration putting all my meals in a blender and drinking them, as to not let any food particles even touch my beloved teeth. Yes, this includes the home made cheeseburger and french fries I intend to make for dinner tomorrow night. Mix a little bit of H2O in there and we're good. Orange juice might even add a nice touch to that mixture. To be honest, I'd rather stab myself in the toe with a Cutco knife than have the insane amount of teeth problems I've had since having kids. I'm going to have to document these moments in full detail so my kids will someday know the true sacrifices of having children. 


Sincerely, 

Me.  

This ecard is totally me. If I could take back all the crap I ate when I was pregnant, I so would. Those late nights of emptying Smartie's packets and watching Storage Wars have done me in. I basically traded a mouth full of cavities for 9 months of sweets, and I am indeed ashamed.

                                        

Swaggin Wagon.

Dear Diary, 


     I wonder what my husband thinks when I ask if I can borrow his car. I unlock it with the actual key (*gasp*)instead of a fob, because the dang thing is ancient. When I get in, the seat is so far back, I feel like I'm driving like a gangsta. The mirror is tipped upward and rock music comes blasting out of the stereo. I crank the seat forward until I can basically honk with my boobs, I lower the steering wheel until I can steer with my knees, I pull down the mirror so I can see behind me (since I'm short) and I flick that radio station to 99.9 Magic FM (**Deliiiilaahh**). Upon getting out of the car, I gather up the old apple cores, empty Tupperware containers, and random pieces of trash scattered throughout the vehicle. I place any loose change in the cup holder and organize whatever other junk might be present. I can only imagine how he feels when he gets BACK in his car the next day. Barely able to squeeze into the drivers seat, his knees don't fit under the steering wheel, he's glancing at the back seat instead of what's behind the actual car, and Gloria Estefan is heard in a low hum. The trash is missing, and it smells like Britney Spears perfume throughout that little sedan. I might be a mom. I've crossed over to the dark side. I'm sure he never thought the day would come when his wife was cleaning up after him and he has officially become the third child of this little family. I sure do love my third child, though. 


Sincerely, 


Me.

Sexy Mother.

Dear Diary, 


     Isn't it the best when you and your man are getting fresh when all of the sudden your breast pads sort of flop out of your shirt? Nothing screams sexy like a floppy breast pad. The other night my husband and I were "gettin' close" and I realized that I had to keep my shirt on so that my breast pads would stay in. It had been a couple hours since I fed the babe and she was already in bed for the night, which meant slight engorgement for me, which inevitably leads to leakage. No extra bodily fluids are needed during sexy time. So as I broke the sad news to my husband about having to keep those ta-ta's hid-hid, he asked (out of pure desperation), "Can't you just like...ATHLETIC tape those things to your chest?" Ah, such is a thought of a man. 


Sincerely, 


Me.

           

If Dads Ruled the World.

Dear Diary, 


     I am 99.9% certain that if dads ruled the world, the following would undoubtedly occur: 


*There would be no such thing as formula. Only powdered mashed potatoes mixed with water. Now that is a rib-sticking meal, right there. 


*Diapers would be designed to hold at least 4 times the amount of urine & poo as to ensure only the minimal changes necessary throughout a 24 hour period. 


*Swings and other battery or plug-in powered devices would instead run on propane so the child can virtually stay in there for days (as needed).


*Baby bottles would come with some weird contraption that helps the baby learn to hold the bottle themselves so they can "learn independence at a young age". 


*Houses would be made of sound proof walls and cement floors so crying would never be an issue, and neither would spilled foods. 


*Instead of baby mobiles above the crib, a little portable DVD player would be jimmy-rigged to stay attached to the ceiling while constantly playing Baby Einstein. Most likely there would also be lots of cords duct-taped down the wall to ensure it stays in place. It looks especially cute in that cement house mentioned above. 


*Minivans would not exist. Only Hummers and Jeeps with all kinds of ridiculous gadgets to keep a kid entertained and happy. Motorcycles would become kid-friendly with some kind of rigged up baby carrier and a side cart that accommodates multiple children.


*Binkies falling out of babies mouths at night would never be an issue. A nice head-gear type of band would wrap around their face to be certain it would never fall out in the night. 


*Cardboard cut-outs of monsters would be strategically placed right outside the bedroom door to make sure all kids stay in their beds at night. 


Oh, dads. What would we do without them? Happy Father's Day to you all! 


Sincerely, 


Me. 

The Reason.

Dear Diary, 


     The reason I did not write yesterday is because I ACTUALLY had the opportunity to feel like a real person. Yes, a real person. I was invited to a party with adults only. No people under 25. This was glorious for people like myself, who end up in yoga pants and oversized t-shirts every day of their lives. My hubster and I were able to dress up fancy and lounge for hours in the backyard of a friend's house on a warm summer night, listening to records (on an actual record player), eating sophisticated foods like bruschetta, hummus and virgin strawberry daiquiri's, and talk politics, religion and life. It was indeed a breath of fresh air for parents like us. Sometimes us moms just need a break. With that being said, I wish I had a clothes line in my backyard. And...I wish I could change that number "5" to number "180". 

Sincerely, 

Me.

Call Me Maybe.

Alright DIARY, 


     These past few days I've been a little overwhelmed by kids. I thought I'd re-write Carly Rae Jepsen's "Call Me Maybe" to something that is a bit more...fitting for moms... (Here's the official video in case you need to get the tune in your head first. Good luck getting it OUT when you're done!) 

I fell in love with a man,
So cute, and he had a tan,
Just sporting his black Ray Bans,
And now I have his babe. 


A little intercourse leads,
To a hefty pregnancy,
Nine months of pure misery,
And now I have his babe.


Your lovin' got me, Long kiss, stole my heart key.
Now I am a mommy, 
Where you think you're goin, baby? 


Hey, I just met you.
And this is CRAZY, 
My kid won't sleep well,
Please take my baby.


It's hard to function, and I'm cranky,
My kid won't sleep well,
Please take my baby. 


Hey, I just met you. 
And this is CRAZY, 
My kid won't sleep well,
Please take my baby. 


And all the other moms, 
Will wish they were me,
My kid won't sleep well, 
Please take my baby. 


Sixteen months passed and you know,
It was a pretty big blow,
We just forgot birth control, 
And now I have two babes. 


Two little kids in two years,
Can lead to so many tears,
And reconfirm all your fears,
And now I have two babes. 


Their lovin got me, soft skin, nice and squishy, 
Yes, I am their mommy, 
Holy cow I have two babies? 


Hey, I just met you.
And this is CRAZY, 
My kid won't sleep well, 
Please take my baby. 


It's hard to function, and I'm cranky, 
My kid won't sleep well, 
Please take my baby. 


And all the other moms, 
Will wish they were me, 
My kid won't sleep well, 
Please take my baby. 


Before they came into my life,
I had some money, 
I had some money, 
I had some mon-mon-ey. 


Before they came into my life, 
I had some money, 
And my sanity, 
Oh yes, my sanity. 


It's hard to think that, 
I wasn't insane, 
My kids don't sleep well, 
Please take my babies. 


Hey I just met you, 
And this is CRAZY, 
My kid won't sleep well,
Please take my baby. 


It's hard to function, and I'm cranky, 
My kid won't sleep well, 
Please take my baby. 


And all the other moms, 
Will wish they were me, 
My kid won't sleep well, 
Please take my baby.


Before they came into my life, 
I had some money, 
I had some money, 
I had some mon-mon-ey. 


Before they came came into my life,
I had some money, 
And my sanity, 
Oh yes, my sanity. 


So, want my babies? 




(Just for a night. I'll miss them if it's any longer...)


Sincerely, 


Me. 

Even Bad Days Are Okay, I Guess.

Dear Diary, 


     Today was less than ideal. My chillins don't sleep to save themselves. This is unfortunate because when they don't sleep, I don't sleep. There was a bit of information on the news the other night about how people who get 6 hours of sleep or less are at 4 times greater risk of having a stroke. Welp, that's it. I've got a one-way ticket to Stroke City here in the near future. That, or I'll be alright because maybe God has programmed us moms a bit differently than other peeps. (I'm hoping for the latter.) 


     But even though I didn't get much sleep, I had a water fight with my little man, and got my bum bedazzled. Yes, that's right. A bedazzled bum. My two year old knows style. He also knows how to go potty in the potty now, which I must say is PRETTY DANG EXCITING. Two days in a row, let's see how long it goes for...

     I even had some really incredible friends come visit this morning. So I guess even bad days are okay. In the end, I usually just realize how wimpy a mom I actually am. 

Sincerely, 

Me. 

You Are Not Alone, Woman.

Dear Diary, 


     The other day, I happened to be watching the 5 o'clock news. I guess when you're a mom, the news takes precedence over Justin Bieber's Never Say Never documentary on Netflix. But it was a close race. As I am watching this "Breaking News" unfold, the anchorman tells a story of a woman who, while being near a daycare center, went a little bit *nuts* and decided to run to a nearby tree and climb it. A little while later, she was 30 feet off the ground and threatening to jump. Whooeey. I'd like to know what kinda kids are up in her bizniz at or around that daycare center. Must have been serious for the woman to be driven to the brink of insanity. And although I might not climb a tree, then call the cops to let them know I'm about to jump out, then LIE that I was actually high on mushrooms, I do still have my mad-woman days where I wonder if I'm going to be mentally sound by dinner time. So glad you didn't jump. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, lady. Welcome to life with kids. 


Sincerely, 


Me. 


P.S. DO YOURSELF A FAVOR AND WATCH THE VIDEO BELOW. You won't be sorry...

Show Me the Money.

Dear Diary, 


     I have come up with what I imagine to be the fairest and squarest way to calculate how much a stay-at-home mom would make in one year, if she were paid. Let me break it down for you: 


An on-call nurse makes an average of   $65,932 per year.
A chef makes an average of             $85,000 per year.
A taxi driver makes an average of      $22,440 per year.
A maid makes an average of             $24,000 per year. 
A P.E. coach makes an average of       $12,000 per year.
A psychiatrist makes an average of     $180,000 per year.
A sleep consultant makes an average of $55,000 per year.
A tutor makes an average of            $10,800 per school year.
A professional organizer makes an average of $48,000 per year.
An interior decorator makes an average of $52,000 per year.
A nanny makes an average of            $27,664 per year. 
A teacher makes an average of          $47,602 per year.
A receptionist makes an average of     $30,000 per year.
A mediator makes an average of         $67,000 per year.
A lawn care specialist/gardener makes an average of $17,000 per year.
A dietician makes an average of        $75,000 per year. 
A hairstylist/barber makes an average of $16,640.00 per year.




Let's say you work the following hours per week in each field: 


61 hours of on-call nursing between the skinned knees, the sore throats and the late night whatevers: $117,808.06 (this includes the time and a half for the 21 extra hours of overtime). 


17 hours of meal prepping a week: $36,124.92


7 hours a week of hauling noisy children all over town: $3,927.04


28 hours of scrubbing toilets, picking up sharp and hazardous toys from off of the floor as to not add to your already long on-call nursing hours, doing laundry, washing dishes and other tidy-up chores: $16,800.00


6 hours of teaching kids to throw balls, swing a bat, and get some legitimate exercise: $1,800.00


18 hours of drying up tears, giving pep talks, and providing a listening ear to kids/husbands who have had crummy days: $81,000.00 


30 hours of teaching and training your infant to sleep through the night and to self-sooth for naps: $41,250.00


4 hours of organizing junk mail, newspaper ads, closet space, messy dresser drawers, and tupperware cabinets: $4,800.00


3 hours of sewing pillow cases, hanging curtains and placing pictures on the wall: $3,900.00


8 hours of the day intensely caring for little ones and all the responsibilities that come with that: $5,532.80 


10 hours of helping kids with homework and teaching them life principles: $11,900.50


6 hours of taking messages for your teenagers whose friends call constantly, and making appointments for everyone in the house: $4,500.00


3 hours of breaking up fights and helping solve problems: $5,025.00


4 hours of mowing the lawn, planting seeds and pulling weeds: $1,700.00


3 hours of recipe-scrutinizing to ensure your family gets the proper nutrition at mealtime: $5,625.00


A family haircut once a month that takes a total of 2 hours: $192.00 (I didn't include tips. My haircuts don't earn those...)


Total (unpaid) salary for moms with all the odd jobs we do: $341,885.86




But having the privilege of actually BEING a mom: PRICELESS. 

Putting the Pieces Together.

Dear Diary, 


     My child is a whiz. Pure genius, I tell you. He just turned two earlier this year and can do a puzzle of the 50 states all by himself. At first, he needed assistance, and now he is rockin and rollin. HOWEVER, the other day he wanted me to do this puzzle with him just for fun. I noticed over the course of the week that there were less and less states. At this moment, his version of the United States includes about 37 of the 50. (Sorry, Mississippi. You are no longer with us.) When I searched and searched and just could not find those other pieces, my mind did one of those weird, swirly-twirly, memory-flashing, bright light, DING DING DING moments where I remember hearing a series of toilet flushes earlier in the week. OH. NO. Could it be? I mean, after all, my best friend called me a few weeks back to tell me that she heard her daughter flush the toilet when she wasn't around. Her first thought was, "Oh good! She went potty by herself and flushed!" When she went in the bathroom, she was holding a Barbie doll. She said, "Mommy! The baby barbie went down but the mommy wouldn't flush." Oh wow. Those are the days. So I'm thinkin some water sanitation plant has a few states floatin their way here in the next few days. I'm kind of thinking this is the first of many of these types of experiences that are yet to come in the future of my experience with motherhood. 


Sincerely, 


Me. 

Crop Dusted.

Dear Diary, 


     You know that moment...when you're nursing the babe...and your two rowdy boys decide to come hang out with you...and then all of the sudden something stinks...and your super CSI skills lead you to discover it was your husband (after an accusation by you and then a confession by him)...and seconds later you hear a super loud pant-shredder kinda noise, but it didn't come from either boy, it came from your little, dainty, pink-toe-nail-painted 4 1/2 month old? Yeah, that happened to me yesterday. I was getting gassed out of the room while trying to do a good thing. What can a mom do to get some respect around this joint? 

     It's alright guys, no worries. I have my fair share of gassy moments. My husband likes to laugh at me because I'll do something like toot or burp and then his over-the-top OH MY GOOOOOSH expression leads me to dust off the blame and let him know that I am a lady. I don't do that sort of stuff. HA. 

     Here's to hoping your weekend involves less gas than ours. That probably won't be hard to do. We could probably fuel a small country with all of the natural gas floating around this facility. 

Sincerely, 

Me. The gasser and gassee. 

Slooooow Motioooon.

              

Dear Diary, 


     I am *fairly* certain that I could have showered, taken a quick nap, and watched half of The Price is Right in the time that it takes my 2 year old to finish his grilled cheese sandwich. Let me also mention that the said sandwich is ONE SLICE OF BREAD. This is not a whole one cut in half, people. It's just one, measly slice, folded in half and grilled to perfection. But for some reason, this takes approximately 3,600 seconds to finish. Now, as frustrating as this is, I am thinking my child might be wise. I am wondering if it took me one hour to eat 6 ounces of food, I'd be in a bit better shape. But it just isn't worth it. 


     As I was feeding him this sandwich, I also included a few chips and artichoke dip. All of the sudden, the chips are gone and only a bit of dip remains...along with the entire sandwich. As I'm trying to feed him the sandwich, he hops up out of his chair and gets onto the table. I sneak in another bite. Then, as he's chewing that, he goes to the chair on the opposite end of the table. I lean over in an unnatural and uncomfortable position to try and crane my arm over far enough to sneak in yet another bite. Done. He wiggles his way out of the chair and under the table, where he finds an assortment of toys that would have probably caused major injuries if they were anywhere else on the floor downstairs. Finally, I put my foot down and tell him to sit in his chair until he finishes his lunch. *Sigh*. If I were rich, I'd probably just pay someone to feed my child. That, and teach my kids how to sleep through the night. Oh, and potty train. Stay tuned because I think I'm going to make a spreadsheet on how much I think stay-at-home-mother's would make per year if they got paid for how much work they do. Anybody have a guess? 


Sincerely, 


Me. 

Date Night.

Dear Diary, 


     You know when you're young...and you can just be friends with whoever you want and when your personalities don't mesh you just sort of let them fade away? Well fast forward "x" number of years and now you're married. Friends become a bit sparse. Not only do you need to find a woman that gets along well enough with you but also a man who doesn't bore your sports-loving husband with his thoughts on saving the rainforest from wild-life haters (or vice versa). Every now and then you can find that perfect couple, but it doesn't come easy, and it often doesn't come without a price. Well once you have children, you can basically throw everything you knew about making friends out the window because now the game has just gotten increasingly more complex. Here are the choices we've got:


*The couple with no kids: These guys are the best. They remind you of yourselves before you had kids. Fun loving, adventurous, and don't have a bedtime. Now, you've gotta arrange your "dates" around when your little monsters need to hit the sack. 


*The couple with less kids than you: This couple is also fun, but less flexible because they are still in the mindset that their lives are busy. They are just unaware of what life will bring when # 2 strikes, so you find yourselves having to get together at just the perfect time- when their nugget just wakes up from a nap and before yours go down for the night. It's almost impossible to coordinate when 3+ kids need naps. Someone's gotta give and it usually isn't them.


*The couple with more kids than you: You have now become the couple mentioned above and you think their house is a bit...crazy. Hanging out with them is just too much effort when all the kiddos are involved so your "hang outs" result in finding sitters so you can actually hear one another when you talk.


*The couple with kids you love: Their kids are so sweet, and you wonder why on Earth yours aren't that angelic. You realize your kid/s are always making theirs cry and all of the sudden you stop wondering why you never hang out...


*The couple with kids you can't stand: This is the worst. You love the parents, hate the kids. It basically results in you never seeing one another. 


Things can get pretty tricky, like I said. So, you can either play the game or you can be anti-social. Both are perfectly acceptable options in my opinion. Some nights you just wanna veg out in your undies, watch Shark Week and eat some cheese puffs. I say do it. 


Sincerely, 


Me. 


P.S. This is probably my favorite ecard so I made it extra big for everyone. : )

How Many Was That?

             

Dear Diary, 


     I think it's great when you ask a newly married couple how many kids they'd like and they reply with something outlandish like, "Oh you know- maybe nine", as if it's no big deal their litter will be as large as a standard American baseball team and that they'll also be subjecting themselves to be the drivers behind the wheel of a 15 passenger van that small college classes go on field trips in. Then, a little while down the road they have a child. You ask them again about the number of offspring that awaits them and with huge bags under their eyes they reply, "Oh you know-like maybe four", but you notice they get that twitch in their faces like they both know that's an outright lie. They finally get their second child and decide that the next pregnancy is probably also the last pregnancy. All of the sudden you feel really good about yourself because all that judgment previously cast upon you by childless couples just took a one way ticket to a fireplace and burned, baby, burned. Props to all moms and dads who can have many children, raise them well, and not go crazy. The trifecta. You deserve a medal. 


Sincerely, 


Me. 

I'm Official.

Dear Diary, 


     It. Is. Official. I have successfully completed my intrauterine device placement and therefore have only a 1% chance of getting pregnant. I'm really hoping my husband's fishies and my eggs do not consider this a challenge. 


     I saw a doctor that I hadn't seen before today. I wasn't sure what to think of the whole thing because he came in, looked at my chart and said, "Oh! An arch in the fundis. So you have a jacked up uterus. Did you know that?" 


(Um...excuse me?) I actually didn't know that. What do you mean? 


"Ah, just that you have a dent in the uterus which means it's heart shaped. You have a CUTE uterus! A Valentine's uterus." 


Uh huuuuh. Well alright then! 


"Have you done the baby thing before?"


Yep. 


"Were your kids breech?" 


No. 


"Oh. Never mind then. Sometimes the dip in the uterus causes their heads to get stuck." 


Hmmm. This was actually good news for me! I have been thinking that 2 kids is my limit and this was basically him telling me that my uterus is officially WRECKED and that next time I was going to have an even crazier birthing experience than the last two. I like this guy. Not only because of the insane things popping out of his mouth, but also because he showed up in some sportsy athletic stretchy shirt, a baseball cap, a black Livestrong bracelet on and some shnazzy tennies with some minty colored scrub bottoms. Basically that would be the equivalent of a librarian struttin her stuff in some yoga pants with a Spurs jersey on, but no worries! She's still wearing her Teva's and her hipster glasses. 


     The IUD placement was less than pleasant. After a couple of bad attempts at positioning the dang thing, some "yanking" (as he comfortably put it), and some cranking of the oh-so-delightful speculum, I was glad for it to be over. I felt especially at ease when I was in the nude with the said speculum still in place and then asking the nurse to get him something. When she asked, "Which one?" He replied, "The big one." Music to a woman's ears. Then I was offered the largest feminine pad I'd ever seen besides at the hospital after giving birth. If I'd have known I needed a pad as thick as my toddler's diapers, I'd have just told them to keep it. I've got a whole Costco box of size 5's that I'm sure I could have squeezed into. Oh, the things we go through to be sure another little bundle of joy doesn't enter into the world too prematurely. Patience in all things, children. Patience in all things. 


Sincerely, 


Me. 

Welcome to Reality, Kid.

Dear Diary,    


     I specifically remember the day reality hit me. I was 18 and in my second semester of college. My first semester, I lived on campus and had purchased the mandatory meal plan. I didn't need to go grocery shopping, which was great because I didn't have a car. I'd probably look kind of funny with a backpack full of groceries while skateboarding back home from Basha's. Not ideal. So my second semester, I lived off campus but I lived with 3 girls who each had cars. One day I was at Walmart and I remember needing to buy yogurt. I called my mom and in a dramatic & shreiky tone I asked, "MOM. Did you know that yogurt is FIFTY CENTS for ONE CONTAINER?!". She laughed at me. Then proceeded to tell me that my brother had the same reality check some time ago but with toilet paper. I guess he thought TP came with the house you lived in. After all, who actually PAYS for something to wipe their hiney with? That's nonsense. 


     With that being said, I went grocery shopping the other day. And like any other frugal, coupon-clipping, best-part-of-my-week-is-Tuesday-because-I-sit-down-and-check-out-all-the-grocery-ads-that-are-good-starting-Wednesday type of mom, I just could not believe that cream cheese was TWO BUCKS a bar. For real??? What has life come to? I'm better off eating a Wendy's Junior Bacon Cheeseburger for every meal than buying items from the grocery store to make a healthy meal with. And remember my zombies? Yeah, well they need food too. I'm thinking my next item of business as a mother and a vice president of the household is growing myself a garden. And I guess since cream cheese doesn't grow in a garden, I'll be needing a couple of animals too. But I guess I need a house first. And probably some money. Oh, balls- I guess I'm stuck paying $2 for cream cheese for a really long time. 


Sincerely, 


Me.