I'll Take Door # 1, Please.

Dear Diary, 


     My baby is just over 4 months old and I find myself still swaddling her at night. Only problem is...she rolls. And nobody likes planking in their sleep. 


     So, I decided to try NOT swaddling her. Bad idea. Her arms are like her arch nemesis, pestering her in her sleep until she wakes up with a blow to the face...by her own fist. I can't even imagine what that must BE like- being ATTACKED by your own body part. Poor girl. 


     And although I feel so bad for her, flipping and flopping like a fish out of water in her crib at night, I can't help but secretly laugh to myself about how much this whole scenario reminds me of cow tipping. It's like someone pushed her over in her sleep and left her there to moo it out until someone came to her rescue. I'm sure when night time approaches, she cringes because her choices are these: 


1. Be swaddled in blankets and sleep-plank or 


2. Be punched in the face by her crazy-fists. 


     What a dilemma. Life is just so hard as an infant. But if those two things were my biggest problems in life, I think I'd feel like I had it made. 


Sincerely, 


Me. 

The Hit List.

Dear Diary, 


   I've often mentioned how I never quite appreciated the silence until I had children. In fact, I was probably a large contributor to the noise that other people (with children) despised so badly. My husband and I have plans to make a custom built house one day that has sound proof walls. (Seriously.) But since having kids, a few people have made my Mommy Hit List. They are as follows: 


1. The Leafblower Man. Come on. When I lived in Georgia, he was the bane of my existence. There was a gigantic tree every 10 feet and an entire forest behind my apartment complex. No amount of leaf blowing was going to fix the leaf problem there. Now, we live in Arizona. Leaf blowing actually = sand blowing. We live in the desert. I could probably pick up the leaves myself in 10 minutes. Go away leaf man. You aren't needed. 


2. The Trash Man. 5:30 AM is not an acceptable time for clanging and banging large trash bins around. I think one day I'm just going to bolt out the back door with my shirt off-kilter and my undies hanging out of my plaid pajama bottoms, my hair in a jillion knots and that look in my eyes like a rabid animal and slap a sign on the windshield of that trash truck that says, "YOU WAKE THEM, YOU TAKE THEM". Consider yourself warned, trash man.


3. Other People's Noisy Children. I think most parents are in denial about how LOUD their children actually are. I've gone to take a nap and my 39 decibel army-grade earplugs can still hear the screaming and yelling coming from outside. And it somehow always happens to land on the day that I desperately need a nap and the stars have aligned so that my children are actually asleep at the same time. Such is life.


4. The Nymphomaniac Next Door. I hope she conceives. Maybe in 9 months she'll finally feel my pain.


5. The Early Birds. Your dog is cute, but if you know he's going to bark until he gets a hernia because you INSIST on passing by that apartment that has the dog your dog hates, you just might end up finding your dog on its side one morning. Just sayin. 


6. The Night Owls. I've always lived in places that attract party-ers. One night I was shaken right outta my sleep at 3 AM, only to find a plethora of teenagers spilling out of an apartment below mine. And then there it was. I had to do a double take and even squint to be sure I was seeing it right. A wiener. This kid apparently didn't realize, being drunk and all, that my window faced his man parts as he felt the urge to urinate in the mulch. Good times. 


Here's to having kids...


Sincerely, 


Me.

Zombie Apocalypse.

Dear Diary, 


     I'd like to express my true thoughts on children. I've recently come to the conclusion that they most resemble ZOMBIES. The way they waddle towards you with drool hanging out of their mouths, their hands out in front of them, whining in a pitch only a child and a microphone too close to an amplifier can produce. It's death to the ears and destructive to the brain. When they finally reach you, they need something. If you give them food, they want more. They'd eat your flesh if you let them. If you pick them up, somehow you later find dried remnants of infant feces smudged on your forearm. If you contain them by strapping them into a baby bouncer or stuffing them into a Bumbo, they gnash their gums until they either wiggle out or cry until you pull them out yourself. 


     I'd also like to mention that I do not simply BELIEVE in the Zombie Apocalypse- I KNOW it happens. And it happens everyday at my house around 3 pm. 


     And since this is a safe space, being a diary and all, I'd like to mention that I don't always like other people's zombies. (Admit it, you're exactly the same way.) I once heard a quote on this subject and I could not have said it better myself. It was, "Kids are like farts. You can handle your own but other's are unbearable." True story. Now this doesn't go for EVERYONE. (And it certainly doesn't mean I love the aroma of my own gas...) But mostly for those people whose kids I don't know. Eventually they'll just become a normal zombie that I can tolerate like any other. Kids are kids. They're all challenging creatures.


     So don't get caught up in the lie that you need guns and bludgers and a 1985 jeep that's lifted, reconstructed & looks like a transformer in order to survive the said apocalypse. All you need is some baby food, teething toys, a sippy cup and a Disney movie and you'll be set. Trust me.


Sincerely, 


Me. The Walking Dead. Literally. This is how I feel many days. 

Gotta Go, Gotta Go.

Dear Diary, 


     Remember how I mentioned that moms have loose parts? Well there is rarely a time I've found this to be convenient. Today was a great example. My sweet husband sent me on my way with some money and told me to go birthday shopping. Yes, it was sad to say goodbye to my kiddos and walk out the door like a free woman and do something for myself for once, but I finally mustered up the courage to go. When I got to JCPenney (my favorite store ever, in true "mom" fashion...) not only did I find myself shopping in the Infants & Toddlers department with MY BIRTHDAY MONEY (mom alert!), but I also had a "Wow-Nature-Is-Calling-Right-This-Instant" urge (double mom alert!). I could feel my face all flush-like as I asked an employee where the bathroom was. I made my way there just as another woman was also trying to get to the bathroom. We had the same problem, I could tell. She sat down on the pot and I immediately heard that hollow PFFFFFFTTT sound. There is no hiding a fart while you're on the toilet. Might as well be tootin' into a microphone. And you know those are always the women that leave the skidders in the bowl. And the ones who come out of the stall thinking to themselves, "Wow, I did that like a boss", yet still act as ladylike as possible, straightening any wrinkles in their skirt as they float very dainty like to the sink to wash their manicured hands, knowing dang well that they've just left behind them the stench of the century. Those are also probably the women who go home and get mad at their husbands for pinching one off during dinner by accident. (Poor guy. Little does he know...) Anyway, I made it to the toilet in time, finished my shopping, ended up with a house full of clean clothes & dishes, kids that were well-behaved, and a much needed date night with the man of my dreams. It was the happiest birthday ever. 


Sincerely, 


Me. 

Hush Little Baby.

Dear Diary, 


Whoooeeey. I. Am. Tired. My little nugget has gotten the best of me, as always. ***See picture***

So since this little girl has been happy and energetic and I have still found myself shuffling my feet and dragging my knuckles behind me like a cavewoman, I decided we need to come to a mutual agreement here. I decided that she's gonna start cryin it out at night. It is probably the saddest noise I've ever heard, but I've convinced myself it's necessary. I just wish there was a way I could have a little heart-to-heart with that sweet girl and let her know that I'm not coming to get her until at least 6 AM the next day. But then I realize that even if I told her that, what would I expect? Is she gonna shrug her shoulders and say to herself, "Perfect! So I just won't cry then!" (Probably not gonna happen...)

But tomorrow is my birthday and I'm hoping that she'll magically know this little fun fact about me and decide to sleep in. Cross your fingers that something good is about to hit me. 

Sincerely, 

Me. The almost birthday girl. 

Holly Housewife.

Dear Diary, 


I used to be a nurturing woman. What happened?! I was that "cool" babysitter who brought over activities and snacks and we always had a good time. I had my regular families to babysit, and I would babysit without pay, even at 18 years old as a high school graduate. I did it because I loved it! *Sigh* Those were the days...


NOW, I often wonder why my sanity decided to take a jog and never return. I'm one of those people who asks the same question twice in a row, finds her cell phone at the bottom of the toilet- fraternizing with the urine inside it, leaves loads of laundry in the washing machine until they smell sour, and then wonder how I'm a functioning member of society. Thankfully, I live in "Hell" (a.k.a. Arizona. Only compared to Hell because of the extreme temperatures that make this place nearly inhabitable...) which means I don't get out much. So it's kind of like I'm locked up in my own personal insane asylum. That way, I don't trouble anyone with my annoying "Mom Brain Syndrome" that leaves me incapable of performing regular housewife duties. 


I'd probably be extra loving and domestic if I'd married earlier and had children sooner. But since I've had time to become crusty and selfish, my patience is about as short as my pinky toe nail...which is basically non-existent. I'll show you. Some other time. (Side note: I think you age at least 10 years per child. So mentally, I'm about 45 years old. *Wisdom not included. Strictly the stresses of life that wear on your brain & body.)


Anyway, here is just a little proof of my inability to be a nurturing Holly Housewife. Taken less than an hour ago, this is a picture of the bananas currently siting on my kitchen counter. People in our house won't touch healthy food with a ten-foot pole. 

I guess my bananas need to find a way to scream for my attention. 

Sincerely, 

Me. The killer.

Sweat.

Dear Diary, 


Since becoming a mom, my body does weird things. Like sweat in funny places. Every now and then I'll be out and about and my shirt gets incredibly uncomfortable, causing me to "shift some things around". (Note: How funny that us moms can't scratch a boob but men have nooooo problem playing pocket pool in public. Love that.) Anyway, when a bead of sweat starts plummeting towards my belly button- that can only mean one thing. SWOOB. Sweaty/Boob. Not cool. What is that??? It's like someone's ear sweating. No one has sweaty ears. Come on.


Let's speak of a few other parts here. SWASS. Sweaty/A**. Very disgusting. But it happens. (I didn't make up this term. And as a side joke just for your entertainment: "What did one butt cheek say to the other?" -"I can't believe we've stayed together through all this crap.")


Swarmpits. Sweaty/Armpits. That's normal. But the level of sweat sure skyrockets after that little hormone party your body had from having a child. Terrible. 


Swellybutton. Need I say more? 


Swelbow. Sweaty/Elbow. The thing you get when trying to carry 17 bags of groceries on one arm as to not have to make another trip from the car to the house. 


Swack. Sweaty/Back. This occurs mostly in women who breastfeed. You've got your breast pad, your bra, your undershirt (as to not expose le chest) and your shirt. The LEAST amount of layers you can get away with is FOUR. That's just wrong.


And last but not least...


Swupperlip. Even talking makes you sweat. And suddenly your beautiful peach fuzz mustache is glistening in the sunshine. I love body hair. 


I think I'm going to invent a deodorant-bodywash-lotion-something-or-other that you can slather on your whole body. Because no mom wants a bellybutton that smells like swellybutton. That's gross. 


Sincerely, 


Me. 

Weight Loss Plan.

Dear Diary, 


I thought I dodged the bullet. A couple of days ago, my little man had explosions coming out of both ends. (Refer to this post). Man was I glad to not have experienced THAT! 


Weeeeelllll, yesterday after dinner, I felt queasy. I was cursing my husband's name because I thought he'd gotten me pregnant. Again. This man has no blanks in his pistol, if you know what I mean. And his baby-making-business laughs in the face of birth control. I'm currently contemplating celibacy. 


After many violent rounds of out-the-top and out-the-bottom, lots of naps, body aches, a half a popsicle, a hot shower, some crazy headaches and EIGHT POUNDS LOST, I look like I got hit by a bus. But at least I can fit into my pre-preggers clothes...what a relief!  (Sarcasm intended). 


So, if any of you are looking to lose a little extra poundage, come on over! Just a quick dose of the stomach flu and you're good to go! 


And if any of you are feeling like THIS...I hear ya. 

Sincerely, 

Me. The wimp. 

Oh, Is That Right?

Dear Diary, 


You know what my husband told me last night? He told me he thinks he could give birth. You know what I did? I LAUGHED. I should probably mention that if I pull one of his nose hairs, or pluck an eyebrow hair, his eyes water up, his nose becomes super itchy and he sort of has a weird spasm-seizure-thing. He proceeded to tell me that he had a big bowel movement once and it caused some cramping up in his back. (So is this "cramping" supposed to be compared to contractions? Nobody gets an epidural for an abnormally large piece of fecal matter exiting the body.) Anyway, I told him that once his bum dilates to a 10, we can talk. 


Sincerely, 


Me.




Post Script: If only we could allow men to experience the things we experience...

Let The Good Times Roll...

Dear Diary, 

I don't have a dog...yet. But if I did, today would not be a good day for him to fart next to me. 

Let's see. Where do I begin. 

My night began with my husband flopping onto his side, pooped out from his long day. Me? I was wide awake. So I played Solitaire on my phone for 30 minutes, unaware of what was to come. 

At 10:30, my little nugget decided to wake up and wanted her binky. No prob. 

At 12:30, that binky fell out yet again. Curse you, binky. 

At 2:30, she got the munchies. On my way to her room, I smelled POOP. Coming right from my little man's room. This called for an investigation. After putting my nugget back to bed, I went into my little guy's room. WHOOOOEEEEY, that room stunk. When I approached his bed, I felt sticky, slimy goo all over his wubbies. Cue the lights. Throw up everywhere. One change of sheets later, a flipping of the mattress, a changed diaper and a new set of jammies, we were prepping for bed yet again. 

At 2:45, another set of jammies. New sheets. 

At 3:00, more jammies. No more clean sheets. 

At 4:30, same old, same old. 

At 5:30, another hungry nugget. 

At 6:00, a early morning grocery store run to buy 3 new packs of diapers. 

What a long and crazy day that consisted of 2 naps, Open Season 3, Curious George, Peter Pan and nearly NO food in my little man's tummy. Thank Heavens for "Tomorrows". 

Feel better, little champ. Today I looked like Lindsey Lohan at her worst, but sure felt like Gerard Butler on 300. My motherly warrior skills have been discovered. Boomshakalaka.

Sincerely, 

Me. 

Hairy Little Devil.

Dear Diary, 


     There is nothing quite like being hairier than your husband. The guy is 5'10" and massive. But hairless. And then there's me. Always been a shrimp, but felt very closely tied to those neanderthals. Pregnancy with my daughter only made it worse. Shaving every day? The thought alone kills me. One day I was leaning over the tub, reaching for something on the other side. All of the sudden I felt something run down my neck. Very slowly. Let me first note that the downside to having your husband join the Army is that his sneaky sniper skills become quite acute. With that being said, I turned around only to find my mister had sniped me with his razor. Apparently I was too hairy for his taste. So here I am, with a one inch strip of hairlessness on the back of my neck. It's not ideal, but I think I can live with it until it grows back. 


Sincerely, 

Me & All Hairy Moms. 




(Neanderthals actually never died out. I'm still here.)

What's Your Scent?

Dear Diary,


     I realized something today. I realized that bacon smells great, but not as a perfume. I was nursing my baby when I realized my hair and clothing had a bacon-y smell. Note to self: eat bacon, THEN shower. 


     On top of that, I noticed my baby nursed for all of a minute and a half on one side. I've known for a few days now, but have been in denial about the fact that I basically only have one boob that produces milk as of late. I feel like I'm an airplane with an engine that's gone out. This happened with my last baby and I found myself stuffing my bra for the remainder of my time nursing. (What??? Don't 15 year old girls stuff their bras? Not grown women with babies!)Eh. 


     Speaking of boobs. Don't you just wonder what on Earth the hype is all about? Is it the fat? Because I can easily stick a needle through the side of a man's boob and pump it up with some of the extra fat I have "lyin around" & stuff it like a pastry. Somehow I bet it wouldn't be the same. Could be the chest hair. Takes away from the sexy. Who knows. All I know is, I don't want to end up like those African women on that cute documentary "Babies". Their boobs were more like...let me think...extension cords. When their children got hungry, they just picked up their "hose" and handed it over. I'm going to really start to wonder what's happened to my body the closer my boobs get to my belly button. In the meantime, I'll continue to let my husband think they are somehow magical. And I'll be sure to follow this little piece of advice...

Sincerely, 

Me

Top Ten Things That Scream, "I'm A Mom".

Dear Diary,


There are certain things we women never thought we'd ever say or do in our lifetimes. And yet, being a mom has changed that for us, for better or worse! I think these top 10 things just scream, "I'm a Mom!". 


You Know You're A Mom When: 


1. Your sex drive somehow plummets after 8 pm. 7:59 is great! But 8 pm is not. You've gotta strike while the iron's hot!


2. Going to the grocery store without kids is *almost* equivalent to being on a beach somewhere, sippin Kool-Aid on the rocks. 


3. You find yourself clipping coupons every afternoon while watching Ellen. 


4. Your body starts gravitating towards the minivan selection at car dealerships like you're soul mates and you've just found each other. (In the back of your mind, "This Magic Moment" starts playing and you picture yourself frolicking towards it.)


5. You start asking all your friends about which vacuum cleaner is the best. (And you somehow convince your husband that a $600 Dyson vacuum is a necessary expense.)


6. Instead of a loud cheering and clapping session when your child succeeds at something, you find yourself balling like a baby and being overcome with emotion. You make sure to always have that secret stash of tissues in your bag.


7. You make sure that new swim suit has matching board shorts to go with it. There's just been too much "shiftage" over the past x amount of years. (And you've become the master at hiding unwanted scenery.)


8. You get that weird black whisker on your chin that comes back every 6 months and you find yourself wondering how long it's been there...


9. Your purse now has to be at least 10,000 cubic inches in order to hold all the goodies we all love hauling around so much. Sometimes we see people randomly staring at us in a frozen position with their mouths hanging open because they think our purse is like Mary Poppins' bag and they're just *waiting* for us to pull out a floor lamp. 


10. Outings have to be timed just right and once we're packed and in the car, the timer starts to tick down and we feel like we are in The Amazing Race. Except that our winnings include sleeping children when we get back and some much needed silence instead of a million dollar reward (which, let's face it, we'd rather have the silence anyway...). 


Ah, the life. I can smell the sweet aroma of Motherhood. Oh wait. That's a turd. And my cue to get a clean diaper. 


Sincerely, 


Me.

I Am Awesome.

Dear Diary, 

     Today...I was not a wimp. Today I was awesome. I was only at home for a measly 4 hours of the day. My hubby was on "Mom Duty" while I was out at doctors appointments and church-related duties. Sometimes I secretly wish my kids would be crying, pooping, barfing and screaming the whole time he watched them so that I could feel some justification for what I go through every now and then! But lo and behold, it never happens. Might be because men are calm. And they don't have that I-Feel-The-Need-To-Multi-Task urge and take on the world in the matter of minutes. They just let things fall into place. Why can't I do that? I feel my blood pressure go up when more than one chaotic thing is happening at a time. Sometimes I think I'm going to send my body into some weird frantic state where I'll eventually find myself farting and dry heaving at the same time because I just don't know how to do EVERYTHING! But no. Not today. We even went to IKEA! (Sarcasm intended). It's just so funny how once you become a mom, the smallest things feel like vacations....such as wandering aimlessly around IKEA until it's time to go home and bathe the chillins. Today, life was good. Sooooo good. And to be honest, it usually is. But being a mom will always bring funny times that only other moms will find funny. Or not funny. Depends on the day. But today is Friday and thank goodness for THAT! 

Sincerely, 

Me.

P.S. This is my husband's approach on parenting. Seems to work. 

I Need A Class For Motherhood.

Dear Diary, 

This is what happens when I make pancakes.

This is what happens when I cut hair.

And this is what happens when I boil eggs. 

     I'll be 25 next week and that means I'll be exactly one quarter of a century old. That should probably be enough time for me to know how to do these things. Truth is, I've NEVER been able to make a good pancake. They are burned on the outside and gooey in the middle. And why each of my boiled egg batches contains one of those gems pictured above is just beyond me. A real enigma. One time while making powdered soup from a bag, I lit my kitchen on fire. Twice, actually. Thankfully, even though I have 2 fire extinguishers in my house, I had enough (wo)man-made air to put it out myself, just before I almost passed out. I was 9 months pregnant. *Sigh*. But you know what? I will keep my head high and always know in my heart that I am really good at making cereal, frozen pizza, and quesadillas. 

Sincerely, 

Me 

You Do it too, Right?

Dear Diary, 

     Sometimes I put on excessive amounts of makeup, paint my nails a pretty color and pretend that there is life outside of changing poopy diapers and Yo Gabba Gabba. Even though I know the lipstick deters my husband from kissing me and my nails will get chipped with the next trip to the grocery store as the spring-loaded freezer doors close on them while trying to grab one more $1.25 Totino's Pizza, I do it anyways. Please tell me I'm not alone in doing this. 

Sincerely, 

Me.

Breaking News.

Dear Diary, 

     I have recently discovered the real reason Britney Spears went bald. I think it's safe to say it was due to postpartum hair loss. At least...this is what I feel is happening to me as of late. 

Sincerely, 

Me and All Nearly Bald Mothers.

=

Monday Explained.

Dear Diary, 


Really? Are Mondays all the same? Today all I could do was laugh. It was not even 9 am when I had two kids who had pooped out of their diapers and up their backs, leaving smudges of poop on the ground I changed them on, and remnants of poop on their bodies after taking off their clothes. This called for a bath. During the bath, my *barely out of reach* phone started to ring. It was not a call I could miss. My two year old had a burst ear drum. We booked it to the pediatrician, only for them to see us an hour after our scheduled appointment. Dr. seeing us late + hungry infant = exposed breast as pediatrician walked into the room unexpectedly. Baby being cut off from meal prematurely = angry child. Pediatrician confirmed my little man had not ONE, but TWO ear infections. By this point, I felt tears being manufactured somewhere up in my tear-manufacturing-gland. But I laughed instead. 




Happy Monday from a wimpy, wimpy mom.

               (Object in picture is more stressed than it appears.) 

May The Odds Be Ever In Your Favor...

...to not be the woman EVER driving this van. 

 

Sincerely, 

Moms Who Can Only Have So Many Children And Stay Half-Way Sane.

Saying No Has Never Been Easier.

Dear Diary, 


This morning my husband asked me if I'd like to go out for a pre-Mother's Day breakfast. To be honest, I could not think of anything WORSE. Hauling two kids under 3 to a Waffle House, feeling like I tried parking a Greyhound bus into a "compact car" space by dragging in my kids and all their stuff and smashing into a small seating space so that I could bounce a 3 month old on my leg while my husband tries feeding me some of those delicious deluxe hashbrowns from across the table. (You know, the ones with the mushrooms, jalapenos, cheese, tomatoes and gravy?) Anyway, when that fails miserably because my 2 year old's arm smacks the fork, sending a load of hashbrowns down my shirt, I see myself not only NOT getting to eat, but now fishing hot potatoes out of my top, along with a jalapeno smashed against my boob that my baby will need to breastfeed on in a matter of minutes. Spicy milk is not very popular amongst young children. The vision continues by us leaving the restaurant 17 and a half minutes later because a tantrum was thrown, syrup soaked my toddler's clean t-shirt, the new brand of diapers I tried decided not to hold in the beautiful golden gooey poop from my infant, and 4/5ths of our food is packed in a To-Go box because we are (unfortunately) not trained circus performers. This morning, we had leftover pizza and french toast. 


Sincerely, 


Moms Who Can Not Think of Anything Worse Than Going Out to Eat With Children. 

I Might Be Loose, But Not Like You Think.

Dear Diary,

I'm wondering why the strings that used to keep things in my body "tight" are now getting tired. I'm not even 25. I can't open a can of biscuits without wetting my pants just a little when it bursts open. So now dinner still has to be made, and my undies need to be changed. Oh and did I mention I have two kids to take care of? I can't even find the time to shower. Or pee. So changing my underwear will just have to wait. Why do these types of things never happen to men? So distraught right now.

Sincerely,

Moms with Loose Parts.

There are hardly words.

Dear Diary, 


I am convinced that motherhood is the only thing in the universe that would cause a woman to blatantly lie to her husband about having to poop, just so she can sit in the bathroom in peace for more than 2 and a half minutes at a time. 


Sincerely, 


Moms of the world. 






(As a mother, the word "RESTroom" takes on a whole new meaning.)