Raising Awareness.

Dear Diary, 

     Recently, I was reached out to by a nice woman named Heather Von St. James, who hoped to raise awareness of an illness that goes by the name of Mesothelioma. Heather was diagnosed at the young age of 36. Please take a moment to watch this touching video and support another of our amazing readers. 

Sincerely, 

Me. 

My Little Pony.

Dear Diary, 

     There are many times in one's parenting journey where they catch themselves saying something absolutely ridiculous, yet illustrative of their role as a parent. For example, the other day I heard my husband go on and on about how insanely irrational My Little Pony had become. When my ears perked up due to the nature of the conversation, he continued on with the details such as the fact that these ponies have turned into humans. They now walk on their back legs and have fingers. Those were my husbands exact words, actually. And it wasn't until I witnessed it for myself that I thought our previous conversation was silly. Now, I'm as puzzled as he is. I suppose they'll need to change their theme song to "My Little Human, My Little Human, Ah, Ah, Ah, AH, My Little Human..." 

The original version of the My Little Pony characters.

The updated version of those same characters.

I failed to mention that the most interesting part of this entire thing is that our almost 4 year old son is the one addicted to My Little Pony. So here we are, defending our son's rights to watch "realistic", colorful, ditzy ponies dance around the television screen. Geez, the least they could do is make them walk on all fours again. 

*Sigh* 

Sincerely, 

Me. 

Cootchie, Cootchie, Coo!

Dear Diary, 

     Kids are gross. Awesome...but gross. Lately, when I take off my daughter's diaper and reach for a new one, she quickly stacks something on her lady part. A couple of days ago it was a binky. This afternoon it was a strawberry. It doesn't matter the item, she will place it there and that is that. So this morning, she was trying to go potty in the training toilet. (Also affectionately known as The Turtle. See below.)

I look over, and see her rubbing her bottle against herself. Out of desperation, I sighed and said, "Hey! Don't. Stick. Things. On. Your. Cootchie! It's yucky!". She proceeded to giggle, look over at her brother and say, "Watch. Baba on cooootcheeee," and continued to repeat the word cootchie until she felt like she got it all out of her system. 

     A couple of days ago, I had a friend coming over to visit in the afternoon. I realized that my house smelled like the eggs we had eaten earlier that morning, and I decided to whip out the air freshener spray. My son popped his head out of his bedroom and looked at me with bewilderment. I told him I was spraying the house so it isn't stinky. Then he tells me, "Mom. Our house smell like a big fart." Nice. Thanks, son. 

     Between my farty house, my overly honest son, and my cootchie stuffing daughter, I'm thinking I need a girls night. 

Sincerely, 

Me. 

Giveaway Time! And a Tribute to Ruby.

Dear Diary, 

     

     A dear friend of mine and I shared similar pregnancies. We got married at the same time, had our baby boys at the same time, and were both pregnant with our baby girls at the same time. The only difference was that her baby, Ruby June, was diagnosed with Hydrocephalus, or "water on the brain". Ruby spent the first weeks of her life in the ICU, and passed away on October 26, 2011. Although she returned home to a loving Father in Heaven, she is missed by many here on Earth and everyone in Ruby's family's circle of friends hopes to keep her memory alive by continuing to celebrate her short time here. 

     Ruby's mother, Kristin, has been hosting a "15 Days of Giveaways" event on Ruby's behalf and I'm honored to be a part of it. The items I am giving away are a white & ruby bracelet and necklace set, along with a white & ruby hair clip. They were all hand made by me. Making jewelry is a hobby I have on the side. :) To enter today's giveaway, you must go to The Diaries of a Wimpy Mom's Facebook page and "like" it. Once you like it, leave a comment on the page regarding what you've done this week to lift someone up. The winner will be announced at 10 PM Central Time on October 30, 2013. If you do not have a Facebook page, go to www.thediariesofawimpymom.blogspot.com and become a follower of the blog. Then leave a comment just as the Facebook followers would. The winner will be announced on both the blog and the Facebook page. Good luck! To learn more about Ruby and her beautiful family, you can view Kristin's blog here.

Sincerely, 

Me. 

Jum-peeing.

Dear Diary, 

     
     This weekend, my family and I went to my hometown of Albuquerque, NM to attend the International Balloon Fiesta and visit loved ones. While there, we were at my uncle's house, who happens to own a trampoline. The inner child in me, full of pent up energy that needed to be exerted, kept being powerfully drawn to that dangerous black sheet of bounciness and wires that has been known to chip teeth, crack skulls and snap necks. I gave into my temptation to jump, and snuck outside without my kids and husband. I jumped once, and immediately felt the insides of my entire lower abdomen start to come loose. I jumped again, and I was pretty sure I had just peed my pants. That, or given birth to one of my lady parts. With a turned up lip and head cocked to the side, I jumped again...just to see. Another droplet headed south. Two more jumps and I was positive I had Lake Tahoe in my underpants. I waddled back inside as carefully as possible. My mom, who was also at my uncle's house at the time, asked me why I had been so quick to get off the trampoline. Everyone in the kitchen was listening. I told them, then made the walk of shame to the bathroom with voices of laughter behind me. Although in the end, it was no Lake Tahoe, it was instead a sobering reality of my aging body. I wish I could say that was the end of it, but I was in denial. At the park that afternoon, I hopped onto a high bar and tried to do a flip. I ended up with half-blistered hands, a newfound realization that I was indeed no longer the flexible person I once was, and a goal to get rid of my skintertube. And I have one last goal: it starts with a "k" and ends in "egel". I better get cracking.

Sincerely, 

Me. 

Rise & Shine.

Dear Diary, 

     Last weekend, I beat my husband to the punch in asking him if I could be the one to sleep in on Saturday morning. He's an easy going person and gladly said, "of course!" Moments later, I plugged my ears (with the free ear plugs I stash from the gym, hehe) and away I went into a deep slumber. The next morning, my bedroom door opens and in comes my three year old. Only he isn't walking in. He is backing up by way of a shuffle, pants around his ankles, bent over forwards, hands on his bum cheeks and spreading them wide as he declares, "Dad! I need you wipe my bum!" I was glad I wasn't the one to wake up to that. Cheers! 

     In other news, I found myself scissoring a two pound block of Colby Jack cheese out of its packaging way too often. When I began to think about it, I came to the horrible realization that we are eating around 10 pounds of cheese a month. I'd love to say that this is for a family of 4, which can then be broken down to around 2.5 pounds per person per month, but truth be told, I'm the biggest offender here. Last night's trip to Costco resulted in 6 additional pounds of cheese that are guaranteed to be eaten within the next 30 days. 

     Lastly, and ironically, my terribly behaved one year old loves to sing Robin Thicke's "Blurred Lines" by singing "GOOD GIIIIIIIIRRRRLLLL" really loudly in the car when it comes on. I was hoping she'd say the phrase "Good Girl" enough times that it would begin to change her behavior, but to no avail. My kids have been wild beasts lately and I can't tell what the deal is. I feel like I live with one of these creatures at least 3 days a week. 

     Last week it was so bad, that I threw in the towel and ate a brownie for breakfast two days in a row. Only I ate it in a deep bowl, and away from the kids so no one would see it and steal it from me. Being a mom is like nothing I've ever experienced. I love it. And I wouldn't trade it for anything. 

Sincerely, 

Me. The Mom.     

Vital Information.

Dear Diary, 

     Yesterday, we went to the store purely because we had a bad case of cabin fever. Despite the whining from our mini-monsters and the 114*F temperature outside, we took off. We walked into the store, grabbed a cart, and then a few minutes later, my 3 year old thought it was vital that everyone in the store knew exactly what was on his mind. He stood there on the tile in the middle of the store and yelled, "I! Got! My! Lightning! Uh-Queen! (McQueen)" and held it up for any and all shoppers to see. Then he moved right on to, "Hey, Everyonnnnneee!!!! My WEE WEE! Is! Hiiiiiding!" 

     With eyes wide open and a dumbfounded look on my face, I beckoned him my direction and we bolted into a fitting room. I'm so glad we have many many years to learn how that whole mind-to-mouth filter works... 

Sincerely, 

Me. The Mom of a Candid Speaker. 

Laundry Roulette.

Dear Diary, 

     I'm a minimalist. I try to make as little work for myself as possible, and I try to stay 5 steps ahead in life as often as I can. Unfortunately, things don't always work out the way I plan them to. I'm not one of those people who carry around a ball full of luck dust. Like Pig Pen...kind of. Anyway...

     Every time I do laundry, I feel a little more accomplished. Pour the soap, load the clothes, add the softener, start the machine, walk away. I know what you're thinking, and no...I don't forget to put the clothes in the dryer. My problem comes after that step. I leave it in the dryer for days. What can I say? I love cold, wrinkled clothes. 

     Because I do this so often, I always cock my head to the side and wince while opening the dryer door as I'm about to put in a wet load of freshly washed clothes. It's kind of like playing Russian Roulette. Only, instead of 1/6 times, it's more like 5/6 times there are clothes behind that dryer door that I did not anticipate giving my attention to. I'm thinking that maybe living in a nudist colony is not so bad. Less laundry, that's for sure. In the mean time, I'll just to have to hope my unanticipated dryer full of clothes doesn't come on a bad day. 

Sincerely, 

Me. The Mom Who *Loves* Laundry and Is Working On Looking Good Naked. 

It Was a Mild Pinstrosity...

Dear Diary, 

     Last week, I tried doing my nails all cute-like. You know how Pinterest has so many fabulous ideas on how to make you look glamorous? Well, I gave it a shot. I went with the style below, since I was heading to California to relax on the beach. Very lovely nails, am I right? 

     

     Here's how mine turned out: 

     Not so fabulous. Can you even tell my middle finger has an anchor on it? (Don't answer that.) Not to mention, about ten minutes into this nail makeover, two of my nails chipped. Fifty points goes to the first person who can tell me what the secret is to not chipping your nails. More polish? Less polish? Clear top coat? HELP. I'm going to go ahead and classify this project as a Pinstrosity. For those of you who don't know what Pinstrosity is, you have to check it out. It's a blog that takes submissions from fellow Pinteresters (like myself) whose projects don't *quite* turn out the way Pinterest portrays them. It's very entertaining. 

            As for our vacation, I learned the following: 

*Life in general is easier when you have a wiener. Yes, a wiener. My toddler had to use the restroom (while driving) more times than I could count and I was just grateful it wasn't me instead. I imagined me squatting there, at the edge of the running board, parked on the shoulder of the I-10 with both the passenger and backseat door open to hide my nakedness, balancing a squat, yet still having a stream of urine heading southward down my legs as a police officer pulls over and arrests me for indecent exposure. The horror. 

*People living in beach homes like to use sheer curtains. Even to cover the bathroom window. The one right next to the shower. Maybe I need to be more like Tobias Funke; I'd worry less. 

*Wheels don't roll in the sand. Hauling a wagon full of 53 pounds of human flesh, a boogie board, a Camelbak, and a gym bag full of beach toys/towels is a full blown workout. I kind of felt like this. Notice there is no horse. I was the horse. Some of you are asking, "Where was your husband?" Oh, he was just dropping our car off at the shop. (See below). 

*Life is not that fun when your air conditioner goes out 2 hours into your 6+ hour drive. 

*Chick-Fil-A doesn't taste as good in CA. 

*Polaroid moments are not as Polaroidy when you try to whip out your camera phone to take a picture only to realize the camera part doesn't work because it previously took a dive into the toilet. 

*Sand will find it's way into every crack in your body. We spent many minutes cleaning out sandy hineys. (Where was this stuff when I went last weekend? And more importantly, what's it made of...?)

*Without the MAP app on our phones, we'd have eaten the same thing every day and only gone to the beach and back. 

*CA has more interstates than anywhere I've ever seen. 

*There are more ugly parts of CA than pretty parts. (Sorry, Californians. The people are super nice, though!)

*The Goodwills in CA are not as good as the ones in AZ. ($2.99 for a VHS? Come on.)

*Private parts are not very fond of 50 degree ocean water. 

*And last but not least, driving with a feisty infant is extremely masochistic. My daughter is the embodiment of a shaken two liter of Diet Coke with a Mento dropped into it, strapped to a rocket and taken on a roller coaster. 

     But all in all, we had a blast and our first family vacation was a success. 

Sincerely, 

Me. The Wimpy Road Tripper. 

Hotter than Tar.

Dear Diary, 

    
     The summertime is so wonderful, isn't it? The birds are chirping, the grass is lusciously green, and the extra vitamin D from the sun leaves you feeling fabulous. However, I do believe there is a threshold (for many) in the heat department. We all like to try and one-up the other by saying our heat beats yours because it's 126* in our car when leaving Target, while others say their heat beats ours because it's 126* in their car with humidity thrown into the mix. We go back and forth until everyone realizes that we all suck at living in extremely hot temperatures and suddenly the homes in San Francisco begin to appraise for twice the amount they were in the winter. Go figure. 

     I do believe I have found the ultimate winning punch line for the hotter-than-thou argument that bounces around the mouths of individuals everywhere from May to September. (Or in the case of Arizonans, from March to December.)

     Yesterday, my little family was leaving our church service at 11:00 AM. So...not even lunch time yet, right? You'd still consider that "morning". As we were driving off, I heard a rattling sound at my back right tire. You know that noise you hear after you've driven your car through the mud all weekend, then it dries, and for the next few days you hear dried mud chunks getting kicked off of your tire and up onto the frame of your car? Yeah, that noise. Only, we haven't been off-roading in muddy terrain. We pulled over. Hubby got out to check the wheel. After some quick evaluating, to our amazement, we realized our car had been sunk into the tar of the parking lot and strips of tar had been glued to our tire by the sun. We had to peel the gummy tar off in chunks before we could continue on. 

     So...your place is hot. But your car doesn't sink into parking lots like quick sand because the ground beneath you can no longer withstand the satanic temperatures. One point for me, no points for you. 

Sincerely, 

Me. The hot momma. No seriously, it is way. Too. Hot. 

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

Dear Diary, 

    There is nothing quite like getting farted on during Body Pump Class. Imagine a bunch of women around you doing squats with fans spinning overhead at full speed. Once that puff of smoke has left the hiney from whence it fled, there is no taking it back...and there is definitely no UNsmelling it. After about 3 very rancid gas leaks, the Pump instructor says, "It stinks in here. Do you guys smell it?" Oh I smelled it. And then he pulled a Positive Polly on us and said, "It smells like SPIRIT! Let's GOOOOOO!" and proceeded to do his squats to the obnoxious Lady Gaga music blasting through the speakers. Needless to say, it was a long hour of Pump. 

     In other news, my 17 month old daughter learned the word "boob" yesterday, my dog is still menstruating (But in style. I stitched her up a pair of pink panties. Go ahead, call me crafty. Whoever said you can't menstruate in style was probably a male politician), and it's still as hot as Hades' living room outside. But life is good; no complaints here. Happy Summer!

Sincerely, 

Me. The Wimpy Body Pumper/Panty Stitcher. 

Spread Eagle.

Dear Diary, 

     
     I'll be the first to admit I'm a hairy person (or so I think). And even though I'm hairy, I hate hair. So naturally, I do away with it. Razors, tweezers, wax strips, etc. Those suckers don't stand a chance. 

     One of my friends is an esthetician and has access to professional grade wax. She had mentioned to me before that she waxes her own body and I asked if she'd be willing to take on a new client. This was no ordinary wax job, people. This was a full blown Brazilian. The kind that makes you want to bite a stick or get knocked out with a frying pan while your unmentionables undergo major torture. 

     When I showed up, she laid a towel down in her open living area and told me to go ahead and lay down. "Wait. What? Right HERE?" I looked to my left and saw her gigantic sliding glass door wide open with an awesome view of her neighbors house. Also, this room had no door and there were two other cohabitants of the household presently home. This wasn't going to work for me. I don't always Spread Eagle, but when I do, it's not in the open. 

     We made our way to her in-home salon instead, where I dropped my yoga pants and packed up any embarrassment or dignity I had left and wadded it up with my pile of clothing. I quickly realized that the positions required of one crazy enough to submit to such pain is enough to make a grown man cry. 

     When she began, I felt a too-hot-for-my-liking sticky substance being smeared across my carnal treasure with a popsicle stick. I knew that the next half hour was going to be terrible. Once that sticky substance dries, there is no going back. It's like getting buried in cement and being left there for days. Someone's gonna have to jackhammer you out of that $*!#. Same with your hair. Your two choices are to either let that wax become a permanent fixture on your body, or rip out anything that's stuck to it so it all comes off at once. The initial rip sent me from a 0 degree angle to a full blown 90 degrees, where my screaming face was right in the face of my red-haired friend who apparently had no shame in ripping me to pieces. The pain continued for at least another hour, each reaction nearly the same as the one before it. At 95% completion, I told her to leave the rest. I was just too wimpy. I was going to have to accept that my new crotch was to be the Centaur of its kind. 

     I bit the bullet and she finished the job, no doubt longer than it could have been had I not screamed through most of it and begged her to kill the switch. I paid her, then left her house with a terribly uncomfortable feeling of empty crotch follicles. I look back and realize that I PAID someone to torture me via my most sensitive lady parts. I can definitely see where men think women are completely irrational human beings.

Sincerely, 

Me. The Irrational Woman. 


The IDEA:

THE REALITY:

In Heat.

Dear Diary, 

     In my few years as a parent, I've become fairly accustomed to urine, blood and fecal matter. Not that I enjoy them, let's get that straight right now, but I am simply not a wimp about it. 

     However. ..

     My dog is currently in heat. We adopted our 5 year old Boxer just after Christmas, when she'd recently wrapped up her bi-annual hot moment. Here we are, six months later and find orange spotting scattered randomly throughout the house. (Barf.) We realized the issue and took matters into our own hands by putting a size 5 diaper on the poor girl. Well, a dog's shape is quite different from a 30 pound human, so the faux velcro straps didn't hold up too well. We got clever and cut a hole in it for her tail. Also didn't work. Ironically, that same day, I was cleaning out my bathroom and found two unnaturally huge maxi-pads from my stay at the hospital. Judging by the size of those things, you'd have thought I was about to pass my weight in blood. (Also barf.) I took one look at them, wondered if I'd need them (HA!), then threw them out with the trash. Little did I know that night I would regret tossing such a treasure. So we got even more clever. My husband piped up and said, "Listen. We need some undies and a maxi-pad." (Who is this guy?!) I followed orders and my undies were entirely too large for her(instant ego-booster). So we snuck into my toddler's bedroom and snatched some up out of his underwear drawer. Gave the back end a little snippety snip-snip for the tail and voila! She was officially wearing Old Navy underwear and a menstrual pad. 

     Regrettably, this was not enough for me to think she was not utterly disgusting in her crimson tide drip-age. I told my husband this was his area of expertise (he raised female Boxers) and that I was going to gracefully bow out. I informed him that I will continue to mow the lawn, pick up dog poop, change (human) diapers and run to The Home Depot for all our houses fix-its (Yes, I am the handy man. This is not a joke. My husband also sleeps with a sleep mask and ear plugs from time to time. I live with a 200 pound, muscular, sexy, male version of Princess Peach.) but that I was just NOT going to take care of dog menstruation. He seemed taken aback, but agreed. 

     In the middle of the night, I'd hear a loud licking/smacking noise. During the day, I'd hear the same loud noise. Every time I looked over, my dog was lip smacking her own cootchie and I'd about roll over and die every time. Her underwear lining is soaked in blood and saliva and I can. Not. Handle. It. It is entirely too gross for me. Therefore I find myself subconsciously saying things out loud, such as: 

"Oof. She is so nasty." 
"Son, leave her outside, she has a yucky bum." 
"You lip-smacking, cootchie-licking dog. You are gross."
"Babe, let's just send her somewhere for 2 weeks until her period is over." 
"Look at her. Isn't she gross? Poor girl. She doesn't mean to be gross but she just is."

     Then my husband said, "I think I'll send you away once a month, too" to which I replied, "Well, the difference is...I don't lick my own labia." 

     I do suppose I didn't realize just how rude my subconscious was (Not me. My subconscious.)and decided I'd try and take this red heat wave of blood in stride. From the side lines. 

Sincerely, 

Me. The Wimpy Dog Owner. 

It Was a Slam Dunk.

Dear Diary, 

     I wouldn't say I'm the worst at sports, but let's just say I never made a school team. However, today, I pulled a Michael Jordan move that almost cost me a whole lotta money. 

     My son has a nasty habit of hopping in the bathtub as it's filling with water, then doing a little dancey-dance before admitting he has to go potty. I sit on the toilet lid when I give them baths, so obviously I get up when he needs to do his business. Today, I decided to bring my phone into the bathroom so I could dink around on Instagram as the kids played (bad idea). When he finished going, my phone turned into a slippery fish and fell into the urine-filled water below. My eyes nearly bulged out of my head as I saw myself in an Instagram picture staring back at me through that yellow water, as if yelling, "HELP" as I was screaming, "Ah!" * "Ah!" * "Ah!" in return. Frantic, I tossed it into the sink like a hot potato and began to turn on the faucet to rinse off the pee. Then my rational self reminded my irrational self that THAT WAS NOT GOING TO FIX THE PROBLEM. I quickly dried it with a towel and began ripping off that trusty old Otter Box. To my surprise and delight, my phone worked. I began to breathe easy. But my husband was sure to comment on my less-than-stellar track record of dropping cell phones in urine infested waters. Two years ago, we were moving from Texas to Georgia. We'd made it to Odessa and stopped at a McDonald's when I had to use the restroom. My Blackberry was in the back pocket of my jeans, so when I pulled down my pants, the pocket flipped upside down and PLOP went my phone. Needless to say, the last 16.5 hours of driving were spent making hand signals out my SUV window to my husband who was driving a huge rental truck and pulling my small car behind it in a trailer. Eventually, my phone came back alive and all was right in the world. 

     But tonight, in that frantic moment while removing my phone from the toilet, I immediately (mentally) blamed my cute little toddler for having to relieve his bladder. Then I blamed Instagram instead, for being so addicting. Then the even more irrational blaming ensued and I had to cut off my thoughts. Ah, being a mother is great. But it has, at times, made me a bit crazy. 

Sincerely, 

Me.    

The Secret to Staying Young

Dear Diary, 

     Yesterday, I was at the grocery store when I ended up standing next to an elderly woman scanning over the selection of toilet paper. Now, with T.P., there isn't need for much looking. Fluffy, scruffy, one ply, two ply- it all wipes your butt. 

     She noticed my kids and told me the classic old lady line that went something like, "Enjoy them while they are little. Mine are all grown." She proceeded to tell me that her daughters were in their 50's now. I told her she looked too young to have children in their 50's. I sensed that she got that a lot. She told me she was pushing 90 and I was honestly shocked- she looked at least 15 years younger or more. I told her my thoughts and she said, "I drink a lot, that's why." Wondering if I didn't hear her correctly, I smiled politely and kept gazing over the things in the aisle that I was searching for. Before I could do much searching, she spouted off quite loudly, "Vodka & Orange Juice." Excuse me? "Vodka. And Orange Juice. Milk is for wimps." 

     Inside, I was cracking up. This woman was clearly so happy to have found me in the toilet paper aisle. A young mother, dying to know the secret to staying young. Desperately hoping to run into a beautiful elderly woman with so many stories to tell, all while my kids kick and scream and stomp on the bag of chips in the cart while trying to mess with the egg cartons in the front. Bliss, obviously. I continued listening to her tell me stories of how she paid for all of her children and grandchildren to go to college and how one of them is a sportscaster in Chicago. How she moved to Arizona from Ohio and how she had an obvious addiction to alcohol. Eventually, I wrapped up my conversation with her while my children were wrapped up in soon-to-be destroyed groceries and hauled our circus to the check out lane. I was glad I met her, but I'm hoping the next old lady with a secret to staying young doesn't tell me it involves being a rich alcoholic. If I was rich and an alcoholic, I might be relaxed also. But alas, the stresses of life get the best of me every day and I think I'd rather earn those wrinkles when they get to me. 

Sincerely, 

Me. 

You Never Stop Being A Mom.

Dear Diary, 

     This week I was told a story. It's a true story, and a touching one at that. 

     A friend of mine passed along a story told to her by her sister-in-law who is in her 50's. This sister-in-law's father went to visit his mother in Italy. The man was 70 years old and his mother was 94. He slept on the couch when he stayed at her house. One night, as he finished getting into bed, he heard his mother coming down the stairs. He was awake, but instead of acknowledging her presence, he stayed really still with his eyes closed, just to see what she would do. She pulled the slack of the blanket up so that it covered his body, she kissed him, and brushed his 70 year old face with her 94 year old hand. 

     You might be a young mom, you might be an old mom. You might be a mom of a mom, or even a great grandmother, as this woman was. But no matter what, you never stop being a mom. 

     Happy Mother's Day. 

Sincerely, 

Me. A Very Happy Mom.

Saved by the T.P.

Dear Diary, 

     Since becoming a mother, my days run together. But today. Today was definitely Monday. All those Monday stereotypes about them being horrific. Mine was not horrific, but rather comical. When I woke up this morning, I had no idea what was in store for me over the next few hours.

     We began our day by making our weekly run to the grocery store. Suddenly, my Irritable Bowel Syndrome kicked in from this morning's "Pancake-with-peanut-butter" breakfast and I had to hit the toilet, STAT. It was inconvenient on multiple levels. For one, I was driving one of those carts with a fake firetruck attached...the one with steering wheels and seat belts to keep your fidgety kids occupied while you pick out the perfect head of lettuce. Secondly, I had already begun to fill said cart with produce. I wheeled our Greyhound Bus over to the bathroom (My IBS allows me to find the closest restroom in any facility in under 5.2 seconds) and waited for the handicap stall to become available, because let's face it, 2 kids and an adult are not going to fit in those skinny stalls. Ain't gon hapn. We shuffled our herd into the stall and the kids were in awe at how cool it was. A tampon/pad dispenser! A Baby Koala diaper changer! A toilet paper box! Wow, wow, wow! This was a relief for me, because I could do my business in peace and make it swift. One snap of a finger later, I was done and reached for the TP. It was out. This is the part where I shut my eyes and pursed my lips. I looked around. Nothin. No wipe-worthy-paper-like-items in sight. And wouldn't you know it, a mother of two kids who usually carries wipes in her bag, realized they were at home. All 9 million of them. The lightbulb turned on and I sent my eldest into the next stall (no worries, it was empty). He comes back with ONE PLY. One ply! Yeah. We're gonna need more than that, buddy. A few minutes later, we took care of bidniz, gave each other high fives and ventured back into the grocery store. My son saved me! I was so proud. 

     Upon finishing at the store, my friend called to remind me of our playdate. You know...the one I forgot about. The one I was currently 15 minutes late to. I ran home to place the refrigerated items where they belong and I left the rest in the car. I booked it up the freeway to the kids gym where this play date was arranged to take place and we played for a while. Before loading up in the car, I made my son go potty. I avoid accidents at all costs. Since it was lunch time, we made a quick stop at In-N-Out Burger, also known as my son's "favorite dinner store". The In-N-Out Burger by my house is like nothing you've ever seen. There are some 10-25 cars in the Drive Thru at ALL TIMES. We were the 6th car in line or so, and had already placed our order. We were waiting to get to the window to pay when I hear a voice from the back seat. 

SON: Mom? I gotta go potty. 

ME: Well, buddy, you've got to hold it. Wait til we get home. Don't go potty in your pants. 

SON: *Wimper accompanied by lip and voice quiver* Mom. Can't hold it. 

    Wondering what to do, I realize how simple the solution is. So, I do it. I put the car in park, open the back door, unbuckle him from his seat, run him over to a corner and let him whiz away. Some 10 cars and the people working through the clear windows at In-N-Out got a nice flash of a tiny hiney. That boy was holding in 20 gallons of urine, I couldn't believe it. He had just gone to the bathroom not even 15 minutes ago! I hurried him back to his seat, buckled him in and made sure to give him a quick high five before shutting his door. When we pulled up to the window, the lady laughed. She laughed hard. And she eased my pain by telling me that everyone else was laughing also. No complaint of indecent exposure. No complaint of pee all over the In-N-Out Drive Thru wall. I was relieved. I was so glad to return the favor to my 3 year old literally saving my bum this morning. Thanks pal. You're fabulous. 

Sincerely, 

Me. Proud Mom of a Hero.     

I Want to Get Away.

Dear Diary, 

This is Fiji. This is where I need to be.

     As I began to type this entry, I heard a quiet "pfffffft" sound. Sure enough, my dog let one loose. The cherry on top of a very long day. 

     This morning, I woke up not a minute after 6 AM to a screaming 1 year old who cried multiple times throughout the night due to nasal congestion. If I had a dollar for every time I couldn't breathe through my nose...

     After the congestion, came the whining. Constant. Whining. At the end of the day, I estimated she'd spent approximately 9 hours and 30 minutes pulling on my leg, producing alligator tears, and making a high-pitched noise that could have burst the ear drum of a small animal. I'd feel bad for her (and I admit I did at one point) except for that this girl was born with more drama than all nine seasons of Grey's Anatomy combined, so it's hard to take her seriously when she cries.  

     My husband came home to a grumpy wife and asked what he could do to help. I said "nothing" at first, then ultimately requested that he be on kid duty while I ate my dinner in peace.(Ding, ding!) I poured myself a stiff drink (does a Diet Dr. Pepper on the rocks count for anything?)and indulged in some hot wings made by yours truly. And no, the house did not burn down, thankyouverymuch. The smoke alarm even spared me its usual song. 

     I finished my delicious meal, washed my hands, felt like a new woman, and ripped through the many layers of Grinch to get to my ever-so-shrinking-in-size heart where lies my motherly nucleus. I rocked my baby to sleep (like a boss) and returned to the kitchen. One final plop onto a chair accompanied by a mental sigh and an eye itch, and I was viciously thrown back into my day of terror. The spice from my hot wings managed to somehow make its way into my eyeball, causing a burning sensation that only Hades would understand. And then the dog farted, remember? 

     I'd say "goodnight" and then put myself to bed here at 8:57 PM, but the little one is at it again with the coughing. Good thing I didn't make the same vows to my children as I made to my husband. "For better or for worse" is easy with the mister. But when my kids are "for worse", I begin to wonder where I can hide out for a day or two until the naughty/sick storm passes. Fiji, perhaps? 

Sincerely, 

Me. 

I Set a Record.

Dear Diary, 

     Tuesday of this week, I was awoken somewhere around 6:20 AM by the sound of laughter and shortness of breath accompanied by claws in the carpet by taking sharp turns while running. "What is going on?", I thought. As I opened the bedroom door, I see my 3 year old, holding this knife (shown below) and chasing my dog around the living room couches. Right after my eyes tried making a run for it by popping out of my face, I grabbed the knife, wondering how he even got it. Then I sent my son to his room to go back to bed. I'm guessing he'd woken up around 5:45 AM and had been playing for a while. Not the best way to start my morning, but I got over it. Until Thursday. 

     Thursday morning, I opened my bedroom door and in wafted an overwhelming scent of dog poop. My dog had slept in the living room. Coincidence? No way. I started the search. With eyes squinted and slowly scanning my living room, I watched as my dog tucked her little Twinkie-sized tail under her bottom and lowered her head. Then I found it. A huge pile of dog diarrhea laying at my front door. As if it wasn't bad enough that she pooped in my house, it had to be at the entrance of my humble home, so that every time someone walks in, the welcoming smell is "poop" scent. 

     Not even 45 minutes after the diarrhea discovery, my daughter yells "ow!" after stepping on a tiny shard of glass on the kitchen floor from a broken baby food jar last week that I obviously missed while sweeping. Blood is spilling all over the place. Strike two. 

     Attempting to be a fun mom and salvage the morning, I loaded the kids up to take them to Playtopia, a free public park here in Arizona that has TONS of things to play with, all under a gigantic canopy. We were there for 4 minutes and 30 seconds when my son, lovingly referred to from time to time as Evel Knievel (shown above), leaps off of a little toad stool and onto the next. He did this multiple times as I watched him closely. They were low to the ground and I wasn't worried. But wouldn't you know it, the second I look away, he makes an extra special leap that leads him to the biggest gash I have ever seen in the inside of one's mouth. His teeth had mangled up the skin inside. Blood was pouring out of his mouth as he cried and cried. It was split right open, about a 1/4 inch wide and I knew he needed stitches. I loaded the kids up and rushed him to the Urgent Care. Thankfully, the doctor, who I actually thought was out of his mind, said he didn't need stitches. I had to clean out my ears to be sure I heard him correctly. Did you see his mouth??? I've had stitches twice in my life- both from Evel Knievel accidents (I just realized my son got his wild side from his mother) and I knew his mouth needed stitches. But hey, whatever. We loaded up and went home. Nap time approached and what happened next will haunt me forever. 

     I blew up the pool in the backyard and filled it with water for the kids to play around in. I'm taking mental note of all the random turds I need to gather in the yard. I am usually quite on top of the job, but I could see I had a few to pick up. As the pool was being filled, my daughter starts to cry a horrible cry. In her hand is a golden, fresh, sun-warmed pile of dog crap, and it's all over her lips as well. I took that hose and nearly shoved it in her mouth as I fish-hooked out the remainder of unswallowed poop with my finger while she gagged. I looked in the grass and saw that a whole fist full was taken out of this pile of feces. I thought about how my dog ate the food, digested the food, then pooped out the food. Then my baby ate the poop, will digest the poop, then poop out the poop. It was just too many levels of gross for me. 

(This is me, making a sad attempt to gather my sanity)

     This morning, I swung open my bedroom door (I need to start leaving that door open...)and found my toddler on the other side as he yelled, "MOM! Leyla ate my poop!" I'm sure my eyebrows raised up so high in disbelief that they reached my hairline. Could this truly be the poopiest week of all time?! I've got to have set a record somewhere. 

     I went to the guest bathroom, only to find remnants of poop in the plastic toilet, but the doody was nowhere to be found. I sent my dog outside and told myself that this whole exchange of bodily matter between members of my family has to stop before I go crazy. But it's quite possible I already have. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go program Poison Control into my speed dial. 

Sincerely, 

Me.