I Scream, You Scream...

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We watched the Patriots game with my parents yesterday—partially because it was my Dad’s birthday the day before so we were going to celebrate at half time but mainly because Matt DIALS IN to playoff football and I can really use some extra hands.  We even busted out the ipads after a few month hiatus for some extra security.  We did have to substitute Matt’s for Rocky’s, because the last time they used them (reason for the hiatus) it ended with Rocky losing his shit when the Youtube idiot didn’t open up the right plastic egg and me getting so frustrated with his frustration that I chucked it across the room as hard as I could and shattered the whole screen. And I mean SHATTTTTTTERED. It wasn’t a proud moment.  When Matt got home I cried and told him that I suck.  He nicely told me that everyone loses their shit sometimes but that he would prefer if I didn’t take my anger out on an apple product next time.  I got it.

Anyway, the ipads held their attention for about thirty minutes and then my mom and I were in full drawing, city-building, StarWars-Mr.Potato-head-making hell for the remainder of the game.  Just kidding, it was fine.  GO PATZ.

At half time we sang, “Happy Birthday” and all of my kids coughed and breathed and blew all over an oreo icecream cake. I didn’t even cut Bizzy a piece because in my mind she is still like a week old so I often forget that she engages in activities like eating real food, but she quickly clued me in by screaming and pointing at her brother’s as they sat scarfing theirs down.

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For a kid who can’t talk, you would think she would be pretty agreeable, right? Like, you can’t tell me to fuck off yet, so really you kind of just have to do what I want you to?  And honestly, most of the time she kind of does. Accept when it comes to climbing on the furniture, grabbing all the food off the open shelving, and now, apparently, eating ice cream cake.  First, she refused to sit in her seat.  Her legs went into a full pike position and she stiff armed me until I gave up.  No lap either.  She wanted to sit ON the table.  Not exactly great manners but bye, I’m tired. 

The next part of this story is gunna seem like I am making it up, I will warn you.  But my mom witnessed the whole thing, so she can vouch for me.  Bizzy was having NONE of me feeding her the icecream cake, and refused to feed herself.  At this age, these moments SUCK.  WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANTTTTT?!  It turns into a very weird game of baby charades until you finally figure out what the hell they are trying to tell you.  Well, after a little trial and error I finally figured it out.  She wanted me to take a scoop of the icecream cake, and put it on her bare toes, and then she wanted to grab her foot like a spoon and eat the cake off her toes.  SHE ATE AN ENTIRE BOWL OF CAKE TINY BITE BY TINY BITE OFF OF HER OWN WEIRD LITTLE TOES.  What the actual planet am I even on anymore?  Was she fucking with me?  Is she in there like, “Oh, this fucking idiot lady, I actually got her to put little spoonfuls of ice cream on my toes for fifteen minutes.”  Or is this just her--my only daughter, a complete weirdo with a now seemingly unavoidable future fetish for very strange shit.

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Where do I even go from here?  I don’t know. Actually, I do. I’m gunna go eat the cake that I saved for myself.  And I’m gunna use a spoon.

Gum, anyone?

2019 is here and I am alive!  The holidays were crazy and fun and insane and great and out of control and I am breathing and my kids are all coughing and we survived!  But I am so fucking tired.  And not like, chug a coffee for some extra pep kind of tired. I am currently wake-up after twelve hours of sleep still completely comatose and unable to articulate two meaningful sentences in a row kinda tired.  But fuck it, 2019 is gunna be a good year baby! I can feel it.

I, like many other idiots I know, fell into the trap of creating unrealistic resolutions for myself, which have already gone to shit.  First, I was going to stop eating like an asshole.  Now I didn’t mean I was gunna stop having bread with my sandwiches or fluff on my hot chocolate (crazy), I really just meant I wasn’t going to eat the entire sharing size bag of m&ms (if you are sharing that clearly falsely-marked, obviously-single-serving-sized bag, please unfollow me) every single night, and a little less ice cream, pizza, and pasta. 

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Well, when I make a goal like this on December 1 but the goals’ start date is January 1, you know what that means.  It is a fucking ALL OUT competition with myself against myself to see who can eat the most shit in a thirty day period to get it all out of my system and leave myself wanting nothing more than lemon water and some Ezekiel toast.  Problem is, I inevitably feel so bad come January 1 due to my binge eating that I deem my resolution impossible and therefore null and void annnnnd here I am.  Filled to the brim with queso and chocolate without a while lotta room for energy or self-love.  Like I said, 2019 BABY!!!!!  Help.

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Other resolutions included but were not limited to more water and honest approaches to conflict and less screen time and time spent worrying about controlling the happiness of people outside my house. I suppose there is still time for those.

Luckily, my kids’ post Christmas crazy has actually been incredibly tame this year.  Last year I think I was googling “how to reboot a 4 year old and start over” around this time, and this year they are impressing me.  I will say though, some of the gifts lend themselves to some next level shit.  It’s not even their fault though. It’s like, in order to play with a particular toy they actually have to be an asshole because it’s a sword/robot launcher/light saber/wrestling guy/ninja accessory/whatever.  And I am listening to my friends be like, “Oh fuck so-and-so for giving my kids this Nerf gun are you kidding me.” And I am over here all, “Ya know, all of our family gave really thoughtful appropriate gifts but Santa was a real idiot.”  Guys, I am the one who picked out and bought my kids all the asshole presents that make them act like evil maniacs.  It’s ME. THE IDIOT.  #Christmasbonerstrikesagain

And in other news, Rex is in a big “theme” phase. Well, hard to call it that actually—this is just kind of who he is. Like, when he decides he wants to play football there needs to be a full outfit change into all football gear.

Roll Tide, Baby.

Roll Tide, Baby.

When he is playing with wrestling guys, he picks the guy he wants to be and tries to match his outfit with the action figures. Watching a baseball game...ohhhh we are gunna gather every baseball-related object in our house and puts it all on the couch for game time. You get the point. Well, a couple days ago I grabbed him and Rocky each a pack of gum as I was checking out at the grocery store. (No, no. Rocky is NOT old enough for gum, you are correct.) Rex was so excited and quickly opened the wrapper revealing a nice, crisp, white stick of gum. He popped it in his mouth. Two seconds later, “Mom, I’ll be back.” Whatever. Ten minutes later, “Mom! Come in my room! I am so excited! I wanna show you something awesome!” I walk into his room and immediately notice his complete outfit change. White underwear, white shorts, white shirt, white socks, white hat. I smile. He points to his bed. He has taken all the bedding off and replaced it with my white pillows, a white blanket from the playroom, and a white wolf stuffed animal. “Mom! Get it?! Now me and my bed look like my gum! I’m having a gum party!” I mean, I guess that’s what we get for being the parents who go balls out for any holiday or theme—a kid who literally can’t chew gum without dressing up and throwing himself a party.

Is that all for now? I think it is. I don’t even know what I said. I need a nap.

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The Next Day

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Ya know what blows? A fun night for Mom and Dad inevitably means that the next day you contemplate actually killing your kids on multiple occasions. Matt and I both agree that it is worth it for only for a very select handful of events a year. Like, a little fun is fine. That can be a regular-ish occurrence. Usually after a little fun, the kids are like, mildly annoying the following day. A little more screaming, some extra time-outs, but nothing serious. When Matt and I have a REALLY fun night (the kind where you pour the extra couple drinks, eat four chocolate-peanut buter squares at 12:30pm, and go to sleep with glitter-gel on your face), the minute my eyes open in the morning I am like, “FUCK! NO!! I’M A MOM! THEY ARE ALIVE! NO!!!!” The minutes feel like days and the hours feel like decades and by 3:30pm I am sure that someone in the house is not going to survive past dinner.

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Well, Sunday was one of those days. My parents actually kept them until like 11am which I thought was going to be really helpful, but somehow it still felt like I had them for eighty-two hours before it was bedtime. Rex just kept saying, “Mom? Jeez, Mom. Are you feeling okay?” No. No, Rex I am not because I am currently sweating out Uncle Gary’s Spicy cheese dip and Vodka and a midnight calzone. GET OFF ME.

By 4pm they had already exhausted their television attention span so I got out my laptop and pulled up Youtube to switch gears. So, from about 4-7pm with a short dinner break somewhere around 5 (pre-packaged mini muffins, string cheese, and fruitloops for anyone looking for some culinary inspiration) they watched videos like this, on repeat…


Oh, you don’t know what that is?! That’s a fucking AYE AYE. And you better not live here if you don’t know. Because I am not even sure how Rocky knows about these frightening little creatures, but he is obsessed. Every day to and from school I need to tell him “An Aye Aye Story”—usually one that consists of him and Rex sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night to climb up a tree and fight one of these fuckers. And lately he makes me tell him that when I find him fighting the Aye Aye that I get mad, but that Matt doesn’t and yells at me, “Let them fight! Let them be independent men!” It is so so weird and I don’t know where he comes up with ANY of it. And it’s actually not me even telling a story, it’s him telling me the story to tell him piece by piece, but refusing to tell it himself. YAY!

After a few hours of YouTube we made it to bed time and everyone was still alive. And although my mothering was not necessarily award-winning—they all got kisses goodnight and once they were down I re-heated the rest of Gary’s dip and polished it off with some left over peanut-butter bars. Might as well be twenty-one, baby.


Cue The Christmas Crazy!

There is actually nothing truer than the Family Guy episode where Stewie is just saying, “Mom. Mom. Mommy. Mom. Mommy. Mama. Mom…” Like, before you have kids you watch that and you laugh because it’s funny and absurd but when you have kids, that is an actual depiction of your life.

Every year around this time I decide that I am actually not going to survive the winter. I convince myself that my kids are going to suffocate me to death and I am going to die listening to the sound of my fighting toddlers and a crying baby. I feel like the walls are caving in on me and despite multiple rooms available for play and enough toys for a small army, my kids always find their way onto my body somehow complaining that they are “so, so bored”.

And the darkness plays to my advantage when I want to pretend it’s past their bedtime at 5:15pm, but otherwise it makes me feel like a lazy, trapped, confused weirdo. A week ago I packed everyone up as soon as Matt got home for a Christmas light ride! The boys were in Christmas jammies and I packed up some hot chocolate—the perfect solution to the witching hour! Well, on the way there Rex was such a massive Douchebag that we turned around before the lights and drove home with him and I both crying. ‘TIS THE MUTHA EFFIN SEASON, right?!

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Some other yuletide moments have been me unsuccessfully trying to glue gun a failing gingerbread house together with screaming kids—(seriously, THAT FROSTING DOES NOT WORK!), forgetting to dress Rocky in Christmas Pajamas for his special school Pajama Day, sucker-punching Rex in public while he yelled, “THAT’S A FAKE SANTA!” to the toddlers on the Santa boat cruise, and allowing Rocky to eat ice cream before 8:40am twice because I have no fight left. I also think Bizzy ate at least half an ornament yesterday.

And I have started prepping myself for Christmas morning. I get a little Elfish and REALLY into the whole day. I just fucking love all of it. And now I have to prepare myself that despite all of my best efforts to make the morning magical, there are going to be so many unavoidable meltdowns over nothing that will make me want to throw all the gifts in the trash and declare my kids spoiled, crazy brats. Because really, I get overstimulated and whacked out on Christmas, and I am thirty-four. Of course all the excitement and gifts and sugar and cheer is too much for my tiny nutbags. And that’s okay. I need to know that it’s coming, know that it doesn’t mean that they are evil, and Namaste my way through the screams and fights and meltdowns. Maybe I will set a goal. Like, if they only have thirty seven meltdowns, that will be a win. Thirty eight and I will have an extra drink. Win for everyone, really.

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And in case you missed my instagram post—the above pic is Rocky with an ENTIRE TUB of Vics Vaporub in his hair. He thought it was hair gel and was “tryin’ to look fancy for Santa.” Eight full shampoos later, it ain’t out. You can smell him from a mile away. MERRY MERRY, BABY!

HO HO HO

You know who can suck it? Moms (and Dads) with big matter-of-fact opinions on parenting. Seriously, if that’s you, KINDLY SUCK IT. Statements like, “I would never let my child eat frozen food” or “We don’t watch TV in our house” or “We don’t let our kids have those kinds of toys”---what are you trying to accomplish with that statement? I am not at all offended with what you choose to do with your little family. More power to you! But those kinds of comments, no matter what the intention, sound judgy. They translate to, “I think you are a shit mom if you are doing the thing that I am saying that I would never do.” But, you didn’t mean it that way? Sorry, it doesn’t matter. Just do you, with your rules, and your choices, and do it happily. And do it quietly—without the Facebook announcement or casually-slipped-in comment. Because you don’t know what works best for me, raising my kids. And we are all fucking this up and being super heroes and making mistakes and killing it all at the same time. We are all trying really really hard, regardless of screen time or processed food count. Okay?

Whoa, where did that come from? I actually don’t even know, but there it is. Ahhh, I feel better.

Anyway, it is the CHRISTMAS mutha effing SEASON, ya’ll.

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And I LOVEEEEE me some holiday cheer. I started shopping a while ago (yeah, I am one of those), mostly because I just get SO jacked up about giving presents and it’s the only way to control my October Christmas boner. I am also a big fan of the two for you, one for me shopping approach. So, oops? And don’t get it twisted, I can not afford my Christmas lifestyle at all. But, I dunno, YOLO? #sorrymatt. I mean, who even goes to the mall anymore on Black Friday when you can just buy everything online. ME. That’s who. I don’t ever even need anything, I just want to be in the presence of my fellow consumers with my holiday Starbucks cup (BASICCCC) in hand, listening to the Christmas songs, breathing in all the germs that the holiday season has to offer. Oh, what was that? 50% off? Don’t mind if I do.

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So naturally we are in full holiday swing at our house the moment the last bite of turkey is easten. Multiple trees, lots of battery-operated singing Christmas characters curtesy of my Mother-in-Law, lights, and lots of tinsel. GIVE ME ALL THE TINSEL. And not coincidentally we are raising a couple of (oversized) fucking elves. Every night Rex changes into various “Christmas clothes” and dances to Christmas music until he inevitably “feels sick” and “really needs attention”. Then he gathers all the pillows and makes himself a bed under the tree because he “just wants to be really close to the Christmassy things.” Guys, HE’S COOL. (See Below)

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Rocky thinks that he is the actual Grinch and spends much of his time method acting. When he isn’t doing that, he is obsessing over the story of Rudolph. Well, technically Rocky calls him Reindolph, and he is infatuated with the part where “all of the other reindeer used to laugh and call him names”, so he spends HOURS pretending to be Reindolph and demanding that I “tease him.” “Mom! Pretend I am Reindolph and you tell me that I am not fast and I have a weird nose and I will never guide the sleigh! DO IT! Tell me I can’t play the games!” So, there we are, him pretending to be an adorable little Reindeer and me yelling at him that he sucks and is a loser and can’t play the fucking games. I feel like he’s gunna be into some weird shit as an adult.

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And to think, we’ve still got a longggg way to go ‘till Christmas.

The Past Seven Days

When you have three little kids a lot happens in a week. And the past seven days have been filled with my average amount of fucked up, really. But for the hell of it, let’s recap…

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A lot of mornings over here start with a dance party. Why the hell not, right? Why ease into things slowly with a movie under a blanket when you can stand on the coffee table perfecting your fast-feet after telling “Lexa” to “play Pearl Jam This is Not For You.” (Thanks, Matt). Well, this week I have been fighting a losing battle against Rex and his will to perfect his latest dance move. Nope, not the sprinkler. No, no, not the running man. It is a move he created himself, where he two-steps back and forth with his dick tucked outside his pants. I have spent the last five days trying to get him to stop. It’s like I am living with a weird college dude. His dick is so often the punchline—the big finale at the end of a trick or a dance. How is that already the case?!

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Of course next level Rocky can’t possibly play it cool here and has to bring his A game every time Rex shows off his new move. So Mr. One-upper stands in place, pants go down, he bends over, and just starts smacking his bare ass to the beat of the music. Perfect. I have yelled, “Boys! Private parts are private!” seventeen thousand times since Wednesday.

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But, the real hero of the week is my little squish, BizzyBo. Her new favorite thing is to sneak off to the bathroom to play in the toilet whenever one of the boys leaves the door open. At least once a day I find her in there with her hands in the toilet splashing around. And on Monday, Rocky forgot to flush after a nice, long, dehydrated piss. She was so happy when I found her, splish-splashing away with a big smile on her face, covered in the smelly mustard-colored urine of a three year old. Woof.

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But worse, she has been battling the diaper rash of the century. After spending a stupid amount of money trying out multiple diaper creams and at-home remedies I finally called the doctor. “Put blah blah cream on it, and after her baths put a blanket down and let her air it out for a bit.” Immediately I was kinda like, ehhhhhh she’s gunna piss on the floor—but whatever. So, later that night after her bath I put a big blanket on the playroom floor, and put her down to play in her birthday suit while I cleaned up the toys in the room. After cleaning for very honestly two minutes, I turned around and saw her on top of the plastic slide with something in her mouth. Ugh, fuck—a Lego, probably. “Bizzy! What is that? Take that out of your mouth!” I run over and I get a whiff of something bad. No. No No No my perfect little cute squishy adorable little baby!! There she fucking is—sitting in a pile of her own shit on the top of the plastic slide with a perfectly round nugget IN.HER.MOUTH. Sometimes I feel like I am watching myself in a movie that can not be my actual life—this was one of these moments. So, I screamed, put her back in the tub, washed her mouth out, bleached the slide, put her not-dried-out ass back in a diaper, and poured myself drink.

The bar for this week is now set very, very low. Wish me luck.






Girl, You're Making Me Look Bad.

You know what I can’t wrap my mind around?  Those really put-together moms.  The super chic and awake ones. You know who I’m talking about.  I don’t get it.  I see some moms at the park, or at pickup, and on Instagram and I’m just like, Kristen—what time did you get up this morning? Like, really. WHAT TIME?!  During which hours of this day were you able to blow dry and wand your hair and contour your face like that?  Because, over here at my house, I barely have enough time and energy to crotch-sniff-test my leggings and throw my hair in that George Washington low ponytail I’m always rocking.

And the trendy outfits that looks so effortless but still really cool—how do you do it? Don’t get me wrong, I can buck up once or twice a month for special occasions, but I usually look like I over-snoozed my alarm and didn’t have time to put on real clothes.  I tell myself all the time to just put on some jeans and the cute button up top that still hasn’t been worn, but then I remember that the jeans are tight and stiff and thick, and the buttons sometimes feel cold on my skin and just like that I am back in my black Zellas and my grey “Maybe Later” sweatshirt. 

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I did try to wear lipstick last month, thinking that might be a quick, cheap, self-esteem booster, but it instantly catapulted me into Granny status when I saw the dark red lip marks on my coffee cup.  Plus I looked like a half-assed hooker. No thanks.

And ya know what my therapist would say about this?  She would tell me that just because one mom looks poised and presentable and I look like a dirty gym sock it doesn’t make me “less than”.  But I’m gunna call bullshit on that—because I think I am less than a lot of things in this scenario.  I am less awake, less ready for a photo shoot, and less likely to be whistled at when I’m walking across the street to drop-off in my slippers.

My mom told me that when my brothers and I were little, she would spend the entire winter wearing the same red sweatpants.  There was no social media, no trendy mom meetups, and in her words, “a lot less pressure.”  She said she would drop off and pickup every day in the ratty, under-washed, smelled-like-syrup, red sweatpants.  And she said that she didn’t think much of it, because all her friends were kind of doing the same.  I wanna live in those days.

Do you think I’m hot-mom shaming? I really don’t mean to be.  I’m in awe of you bitches.  And I know we all have to stick together.  Maybe we all have Mom superpowers and looking cute and hot is yours.  I guess mine would be dressing my family for theme parties or making the most of frozen dinners.  And you are probably thinking, who cares what people wear to pick up or how their hair looks?  RIGHT?!  I know.  I’m fucking working on it.

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And who knows, maybe over-the-knee boot mom is actually a fuckshow just like me.  Maybe we are both fighting our own inner crazy and trying desperately, every day, to be the best kind of mom that we can be on any given day.  I’m just saying I think life would feel a lot easier and more comfortable if we all threw out the hair wands and brought back the red sweatpants.

Spoiled.

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I don’t want to have spoiled kids. But, I think my kids are spoiled as shit.  Probably because we spoil them, and other people spoil them.  Duh.  And it sucks because sometimes I feel like I want to press the re-do button and limit certain things and say “No.” a lot more, but other times it just feels so damn fun to buy the weird toy and so damn easy to just give in and say “Yes.” rather than fighting the good fight.  I’m not sure where that leaves me on the parenting scale, but regardless, here we are.

And if you are wondering what “here” looks like—A couple of weeks ago when I took Rex to visit his brand new baby cousin in the hospital, he cried when he found out that she wasn’t going to have a present for him.  I mean, I get it.  She really should have stopped at target on her way out of the way out of the fucking birth canal to buy him a gift since he had endured the impossible and terrible car ride over to see her which is so obviously deserving of a fucking present!  So, I mean, that’s who I am dealing with--someone who thinks people need to give him gifts the second they touch down on this planet because a brand new real life baby cousin is not enough. Think about that.

Anyway—this weekend we took them bowling because I was trying to think of the most germ-infested place I could possibly go now that flu season is here.  They were SO excited to go.  We get there, check in, grab the shoes, and sign up for one lane for one hour.  A FULL HOUR OF FUN AND HAPPINESS! Well, the boys threw (literally) five or six balls before almost killing the lady in the lane next to us and then deciding that they would rather be playing the video games with the guns tucked in the corner of weirdly-carpeted side room instead. Fantastic.  Forty-nine minutes left on our lane rental, and off they go.

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Turned a few Abe Lincolns into some game coins and they were happy.  Said happiness lasted for approximately eight minutes during which time I chased Bizzy around and found her eating an old piece of popcorn and licking one of the skeeball machines.  Once the boys were out of coins, all hell broke loose.  “I need more coins! You don’t love me!  This is the most terrible day ever!” Dudes, we came here to bowl and you guys were really excited about that so how has this shifted so God damn quickly?!  No more games, psychos. 

In the heat of their meltdown I turned away to pretend that they weren’t my kids and I saw a blinking “start” button on the skeeball machine.  Oh, hell yeah.  Someone paid for this mofo and never played.  Mama’s lucky day.  Stepped right up and after a couple 20’s I hit that 1000 like the Lebron of skeeball that I know I am.  Out came twenty-seven orange tickets.  My arms went up in full celebration.  And then, they saw me.  Oh, shit.

“MOM!!!!!!! What are those?! What can we get?! Can we get something?!”  Rex grabbed them and ran to the prize counter.  Is it just me or does twenty-seven tickets sound like a couple bracelets and a slinky?  Twenty-seven sounds like a decent amount, right?! Well here, in germ-hell, twenty-seven tickets gets you two of the tiniest tootsie rolls in the universe.  And that, my friends, is IT. “NOOOOOO! I want that snake!! I WANT THE SNAKE, I WANT THE SNAKE!”

I threw the tickets on the counter, with the bowling shoes, and dragged my little sugarplums the fuck outta there.

Matt gave a quick car lecture about “The boys who always asked for more who were arrested and shipped off to live alone on a deserted island” or something like that, and we went on with our day.  I just wish they knew how lucky they are that we are safe and happy and healthy and that we get to go bowling as a family and wear the germ shoes and lick the skeeball machine.  SOME KIDS DON’T EVER GET THE CHANCE TO LICK A SKEEBALL MACHINE YOU SPOILED BRATS!!!! But maybe that’s too deep for them right now.  I don’t know.  I don’t think so. I’m gunna work on it. 

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Newborns are a Gateway Drug

My sister-in-law had a baby last week (Hi, Penny!) and there are a couple of important things to note—First, I am now officially an Aunt! Second, being an Aunt feels way cooler and more special than I ever imagined, and third and most important, newborns are my crack.

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So many women I know would prefer to fast forward a few months and skip over that tiny, breakable, basically expressionless, sleepless, cluster-fed-filled phase. Me? I wanna live in it. I wanna pull a teeny, tiny baby right outta my unique vagina (Matt’s term, not mine) and keep him/her just like that (I mean, maybe cleaned off—-but basically just like that) for all of eternity.

And I’m not one of those Moms trying to glorify all of motherhood. There are parts of it that other women love and I think are the pits. I LOATHE every second of pregnancy and I am currently pulling my hair out chasing after Bizzy trying to make sure she doesn’t put every magnet and toenail clipping in her mouth. But those first couple of weeks with a new baby—ohhhh, it is my Superbowl.

I have actually decided that if Heaven exists, it will be me in sweats, sitting in my bed under a fleece blanket, taking turns holding all of my babies as newborns (while watching Queer Eye). It will be that scene, on repeat, for infinity. I will just be sitting there sniffing their breath, watching them sleep on my shoulder, and eating their faces off. Can you picture it? I can’t wait.

Like, what is actually better than an itsy-bitsy tree-frog of a newborn just sleeping on your chest?! Oh wait, I know—changing meconium diapers. It is such an underrated joy of life. Give me all of the sticky, weird, molasses poop. And ya know what now that I thinking about it, that yellow seedy exclusively breastfed poop that smells oddly sweet is actually pretty fucking awesome too. I wanna cry just thinking about Bizzy’s one-year-old hard, brown, smells-like-real-shit poop. It’s the worst.

And when I met my little Niece (!!!), it was a completely bizarre flood of emotions. I felt so much love for this little baby and also so much sadness that I hadn’t just given birth myself. THAT SOUNDS FUCKING CRAZY, I know. But I’m an honest MOFO and it’s just the truth. I also really wanted to do skin-to-skin with her but I didn’t, okay?! I understand my role.

But whenever I hold another person’s newborn, I instantly think about how I need another one of my own, STAT! Like, when Matt wants to get laid he should really spare me the sweet talk and teeth brushing and just find me a newborn to hold. Because the second I hand that little fucker back to Mommy I am like “GAME ON! LET’S MAKE ANOTHER WEIRDO!". But then I realize that I already have three kids and I can’t just keep having more newborn babies because eventually I will run out of sanity, and money, and space and cool names. (Just kidding, I have so many names left.)

So what is the cure for someone who feels completely depressed every time they see a newborn? Someone who starts obsessively thinking about how they will never again be able to smell their baby’s sour, rotten, spit-up on the shoulder of their favorite sweatshirt? WHAT’S THE CURE FOR THAT, HUH?!

I guess I will continue to snuggle the newborns in my life as they come along. And maybe I will start making friends with pregnant women I see at the park or the grocery store and visit them at the hospital. Or maybe I will poor spoiled milk on my shoulders occasionally just to get a whiff. It doesn’t feel like enough, but I guess it will have to do.

And all you mamas out there with a fresh new babe—give em a smoosh for me, And if you are pregnant, call me. I’ll be your wet nurse. And seriously guys, how cute is Penny?

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Rock Out.

I find some things especially tricky to maneuver as a parent.  Particularly in our currently social and political climate, I am instantly on my heels when Rex talks about girls in a “crushy” kinda way.  It started last year with a “beautiful” girl in his class.  I waiver between thinking it’s very sweet and normal to being hyper anxious that he learns the appropriate ways to channel and express these feelings in a respectful way.  Luckily, he is very sensitive and aware, and seems to get it.  Well, now Rocky seems interested in the subject.  Shit.

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What started about a month ago as a random comment here or there has turned into a complete obsession.  Whenever two people show any interest in one another, romantically or otherwise, the questions begin.  “Are they going to get married?  Are they going to kiss?  Are they going to fall in love?”

The other day he gave me his ipad and asked, “Mom, can you find videos of people kissing?” No, I can’t Rocky.  That is called porn.

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A couple of weeks ago my mom took him to her neighborhood cookout, and a five-year-old little girl named Bella arrived with in a red dress, fancy shoes, and earrings.  OH, THE EARRINGS.  We haven’t stopped talking about the earrings.  Last week while driving he asked, “Mom, can you tell me a story about Rocky and Bella.”  “Sure, buddy. One day, Rocky and Bella were playing at the playground together—” he interrupted me immediately, “Get to the kissing part!!!” “What?!” “Mom! Say that I kissed her and called her Darling!”  Uhhhhhh, what the whaaaa? No.

And most recently he snuggled up next to me on the couch and endearingly said, “Mommy, show me your black thing.”  (Spoiler alert: Not a lot of time for maintenance over here.  And also kind of a throwback to when Rex asked me if I had MULTCH on my privates.)  My what?  “Your black thing.  Your pinsee!”  Oh, I don’t have a pinsee, buddy.  Remember, girls have vaginas.  “YEAH! Show me your vagina! I LOVE VAGINAS!” What?! Fuck. 

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I guess the point here is that I think my son might be the next Ron Jeremy.  But I hope not.  But I’m not sure.  So wish me luck.

Let's Be Friends

Guys! I’m Samm. A couple of years ago I had a blog with my friend Britt called Who Runs This Mutha. But then life kinda got crazy and we fell off the map. (We are still in love, don’t worry.) Well, I’m back. Sorry if you thought she was funnier.

So, let me catch you up. Or, let’s meet for the first time. Either way, Hi.

I have three kids now. Rex is in Kindergarten, Rocky is in his first year of preschool, and my little Bizzy just turned one. Why do my kids’ birthdays feel like funerals? They always hit me like a sucker punch and I quickly mentally escalate to a vision of dropping someone off in a dorm room and end up crying into my latte. When I look at my kids though, I actually don’t want to rewind time—I know that it keeps getting better, and more fun! But I also want to birth each of them again and smell their new breath and put their tiny toes in my mouth and the fact that I can’t do that makes me want to hide under a blanket for all of eternity. Okay?! And I felt some pressure around my long awaited daughter’s first birthday. It kind of felt like my motherhood Quinceanera. And then I blacked out and invited a bunch of reptiles to the party and because I couldn’t decide which pink outfit accent was the best I dressed her like this…

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It’s very nonbinary, I know. I did put Matt and the boys in gender-nonconforming pink shirts to even things out, SO THERE! Matt and Rex are always down for a good theme and Rocky fights everything until he finally stops and then I slide in and get my way.

Rex is living for Kindergarten and is running for Mayor of Beverly in 2019. He is starting to roll his eyes at me and when I cheer for him at his flag football games he looks over at me, throws his hands in the air and says, “whatever.” Yeah, sorry dude. Just thought I would throw you a bone and show you a little support since you have been running in the wrong direction on every play for the last thirty five minutes. At least he still snuggles with me.

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Rocky is at that sweet age where he is an unpredictable motherfucker who goes from zero to one hundred in a half second. His favorite food is the egg sandwich from Dunkin Donuts, except when he kicks and screams and throws it on the floor of the car because “it tastes like pickles”, which is about twenty percent of the time He is my greatest challenge.

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So I guess that’s where I’m at right now. One year down into being a mom of three and it’s pretty awesome. I will also say that Bizzy is insanely easy and happy and chill. And if she wasn’t I would likely be pulling what’s left of my hair out and eating more CBD gummies than I already do. #notanad #buttrythegummies