You Need A Driver's Ed Re-Do.

Dear Diary, 


     You know what I love? When people park all skaddy-whampus in their parking space. You know why I love this? Because I have an SUV with two kids inside and when I have to park two buildings down because you parked the same way you play pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, I don't appreciate it. I found this picture and it just says it all. Especially the website at the bottom. Self-explanatory.

     I think there should be some kind of rule where if you park like an imbecile, one can not be held responsible for damages to your vehicle. Especially a momma bear like myself who is not so much in the mood to try and "squeeze" an "in-squeezable" plastic spaceship of a car seat out of the door while trying to carefully avoid jabbing your side door with mine. When I go out, it's typically a stressful situation- doctor's appointments, grocery shopping, etc. Those things in and of themselves are enough to make a woman go mad. So please, don't park like this next to me or you may find one of these cards on your windshield. (Minus the

profanities. Well, nevermind. Depends on the day.)

                                     

Sincerely, 

Me. I really do park between the lines.

Save The Tatas.

Dear Diary, 


     Today I had to do a double take. I walked past a mirror and noticed that my boobs were about 3 inches lower than they were the last time I noticed them. I probably could have tucked them into my shorts if I wanted, but I wasn't feeling the need to look so proper. If you've ever seen The Emperor's New Groove, which I'm sure you have if you've got children, then you'll probably best know what I'm talking about when I say my chest was looking a bit Yzma-like. (See picture. Boob is the pointy thing poking out the right side.)I like this picture. It's totally me & my husband. ANYWAYS...

     Just to be sure I was seeing things right, I grabbed one (a boob, that is) and pulled it up to the spot I thought it should be. Yep, that's where it should be, I said. My bra was obviously not doing its job. As I thought about the future of my poor tatas, I wondered at what point would they reach the bottom of my torso. It's like a slow moving avalanche of skin that eventually comes to a stop. My grandma calls small boobs "fried eggs". The image of that razor thin layer of egg white with a small yellow yolk popping up makes me think she is a genius for describing them so perfectly. I always had fried eggs...until I had kids. And I didn't mind! But then I began entertaining the idea of a fuller chest and BAM, 3 months into my pregnancy I went from a size A to a full size C. I knew I was in trouble because I am a MILK COW after I give birth. Sure enough, I shot up to a size 34ZZ and when the top of my boob nearly reached my collar bone, I wanted to take back anything and everything I said about big boobs being awesome. Now my milk has regulated and I'm left with deflated balloons that I hope will decide to one day return to their rightful place on my body. Until then, here's a joke for ya. What did one boob say to the other? We better get some support around here or people are gonna think we're nuts. (Think about that one for a minute.) Happy Saturday. 


Sincerely, 


Me. 

The Time Has Come.

Dear Diary, 


     2 1/2 year old's turds are gross. I believe the time has come to potty train. But between my hectic days with a needy infant and the time I spend trying to keep my stubborn and independent toddler satisfied, I'm usually too fried to even put him on that little plastic froggy toilet. 


     HOWEVER, today I was making some delectable treats (recipe found via Pinterest. Roll some crushed graham crackers, chocolate chip cookies and marshmallows into a crescent roll and bake. DELICIOUS) and I noticed my crescents were naked. Missing their chocolate parts. My little squirrel child was hastily hoarding them into his mouth faster than Charlie Sheen can say "winning" and then the lightbulb turned on in my brilliant little mind. I'm going to bribe him with chocolate chips. My friend Michelle had mentioned this to me before, but I hadn't tried it yet. 


     I'm hoping this is the magic ingredient to potty training because any time my little man poops, my house fills up with the smell of a home cooked meal mixed with a dumpster and I realize that if he eats what I eat, it is basically the equivalent of me pooping in a diaper and hanging out in it. Probably not the best thing ever. So wish me luck in my potty training endeavors and may the odds ever be in my favor. 


Sincerely, 


Me. 

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.