Entertaining the Crazies

So, we are bullfrogging people now. Every couple days we head on down to the old swamp with some nets and now my whole car smells bad and all three kids have permanently stained swamp feet. We don’t even bring shoes anymore because why fight, and while Rex started off dipping his net in from the edge, he now is chest deep within the first ten minutes. We all, but definitely Rex, probably have a flesh eating parasite disease or some kind of muck fungus. But, SUMMER YA’LL!


But yeah, it’s fun so far. The boys fight ALL DAY. Physically, mostly, which is great. Kicking, punching, ball throwing, spitting! Spitting feels so insane. And I definitely don’t handle it right because I think I have read that I am supposed to stay chill and speak calmly to them and instead I go full Amber Portwood on their asses and my head spins around and I yell long idiotic sentences just proving that exactly NO ONE in our house can keep their shit together. I actually primed myself some books last week—“How to Talk so your Kids will Listen and Listen so your Kids will Talk” (personally only gunna read the first half of that one) and “The Explosive Child”. I am really optimistic that if I log some quiet book time all my problems will be solved. Pffffff.

One particularly great day for us was last week. It was eighty-five degrees and a friend of mine and I packed up our combined five children (Bizz got left behind) and drove over an hour to a Zoo in Maine that is attached to an amusement park. Rex punched Rocky in the back of the head the entire ride and Rocky almost choked himself with a metallic birthday necklace, twice. And once we arrived the kids were 1% about the zebras and tigers and feeding the deer…


…and 99% about the germ-infested burlap sack three bump slide and the metal “Fun House” with the revolving exit. At one point even a carny said to me, “I have given your son two warnings so now its up to you!” “Hey, fuck off pal, I’ve got a few chapters left of my new book before I even stand a chance!”

And of course once we got home from our six hour round trip adventure Rex hit me with, “Mom, can we go frogging?” “No, not right now buddy. We just did a whole day at the zoo! It’s time to relax a little.” Fists clenched, yelling, crying, shadow boxing, finding a plastic cup and ripping it to shreds and throwing the pieces everywhere. “THIS IS THE WORST DAY EVER!!!!!” Ohhhhhh snap, NO HE DIDN’T. You little mother effing piece of spoiled shit I just sweat through my clothes for hours carrying your scared sorry ass through the haunted house, digging through my wallet for quarters so you could feed the ducks, and I even squeezed my butt on the damn squeaking kids carnie-coaster so you wouldn’t be afraid and THIS IS HOW YOU TREAT ME?!?!?!?!? I love him though, he’s fucking great.

Also, what’s the protocol when your kid whips his dick out in front of new friends on your watch? #askingforafriend

Express Yourself

Last night Matt told me very seriously that he wishes he could use a taser on the boys. I am not sure I disagree.


It was after we took them out to dinner and they each cried seven times. Rex yelled “What the hell?!” and Rocky spilled two chocolate milks, took his shoes off, and ran directly into a busy street during our post-dinner parking lot races. But honestly, who parents Rocky and thinks parking lot races on a main road are a good idea?! I told Matt that was his bad.

Rex is behind the eight ball on a lot of shit, but when it comes to emotional sensitivity and articulation of his feelings, the kid is Lebron James. Lately he’s been getting a little embarrassed, and we are paying the price. Rewind to last week when my dude got a (very small) splinter on our deck in the middle of a playdate. We rushed inside for a not-so-quick extraction filled with tears and screams and “No! No! Don’t!”s. When we got back outside my friend was confused. “Where were you??” “Oh, ya know, just a little splinter drama!” I mistakenly thought it was back to business as usual until I caught Rex’s eye. “Mom. Can you please come with me in the basement for a minute?” Fuck.

"Sit next to me please, Mom.” I follow. “So you walk out and say SPLINTER DRAMA in front of my friends?! You just say, SPLINTER DRAMA, HUH?!?! How do you think that makes me feel? How would you like that?!” Uhhhhhh. I folded. He was right. I was reprimanded for ten minutes and apologized. Boy did he feel good.


And then last night at the restaurant (with Matt’s best friend also at the table—who gets a BIG kick out of Rex’s crazy) Rex started to cry about sharing his ipad (shut up) with Rocky. Matt started to give him a little tough love, “Rex, come on, You are six, stop crying and pull it together!” Well, big man did NOT wanna be called out on his crying. “Oh yeah, DAD?!?! You wanna tell everyone that I am crying?! (Sobbing) How about I tell everyone that you pooped your pants that day on the way to work?! How about THAT?!!" Poor Poopypant was speechless. Another point for the offspring.

Then after we finally got all three to bed and took a breath, we heard a huge thud followed by a blood curdling scream and found Bizzy on the floor of her room after propelling herself out of the crib. I got really scared and cried because I thought she might have a brain bleed. But don’t worry, she doesn’t. She’s fine and normal and still looks like a Hanson brother. And she’s already slapped me in the face three times this morning and it’s not even 8am. Reflexes and sass still fully in tact.

And for everyone looking for an update on my chest acne (no one)—it is still there and in a real winning turn of events has now spread to my face. I actually have no idea what is happening. But I did just order some new facial razors that the gals are raving about. I guess it’s acceptable for us girls to shave our faces now and I am here for it. Oh, and you can consider this a formal request for suggestions on how to shave the back of my thighs…and actually my inner thighs, now that I think about it. I don’t understand these women who look hairless and smooth. I lather up with shaving cream and shave up and down and in and out with very little regard for my own safety and I am still left with large patches of thick black hair that catch me by surprise in very inopportune moments. And ya gotta love that pool moment where ya notice the one thick black lower belly hair just staring you in the face. AMIRIGHT?! I don’t get it. Whatever, I give up.


Hangin' Tough

America (barely) lasted another year and so did I. Yay for both of us. Fourth of July week and I don’t know where June went. AM I RIGHT?!

Some of my personal June takeaways : rain is annoying, three kids all day seven days a week is a root canal, turning thirty-five is really old even when your favorite musician is Justin Bieber, and Back East Mediterranean Grill in Beverly, MA is like ALL that currently matters. #chickenshawarma

Rocky and I both had strep recently which was really fun. I had to bribe him with a trip to the cemetery to get him to go to the doctors. Right when the doctor came in she was greeted with, “Do you know where I get to go after this?!!” You can imagine her surprise when he told her. I didn’t even bother trying to explain. The whole ride there he just kept asking, “Mom, when we get there can you tell me who I’m steppin’ on?…and then when I walk around, can you tell me who else I am steppin’ on?” and while we were there “….Mom, do they have teeth under there? Can they hear me? Can we pretend I’m dead.” DUDE IS A FREAK.

Bizzy continues to be annoyed by me and responds to basically everything I suggest with an emphatic, “NO!”. But she also calls herself “Bibby” and insists on wearing this doll sweater around the house so like, she’s not as cool as she thinks she is.


Oh, I went to my second NKOTB concert this weekend. The first was with my two babysitters and my dad when I was like seven. I was covered in buttons in the last row and even though my nipples were hard for Joey Mac and his topless hat, I was asleep after like the fifth song. This weekend I was still covered in buttons, but with a serious seat upgrade and a solid buzz to keep me awake.


And lemme tell ya, those guys still know how to get down. No one has told them that they actually aren’t really heart throbs NOW—so the night was filled with A LOT of fifty-year-old dick thrusting and ball grabbing, but I was there for it. Low budget, beer-bellied, happy, grateful old bastards up there fucking OWNING the joint. It was magical, really. Donnie even appeared in the crowd like ten feet from me to give us all a big pump up speech…


“People used to think you all were a bunch of dumb little girls! NOW LOOK AT YOU! Doctors! Teachers! Lawyers! Mothers! Look at you!” YEAH, DONNIE! Look at me!!! YOU HELPED ME TO BECOME AN EX-LAWYER MOTHER!!!! IT WAS YOU, DON!! WHAT A SUCCESS STORY I AM!! What a fucking weird, awesome, night.

Back on the motherhood front, the boys have taken an extra sharp turn down Spoiled Brat Lane recently with lots of “give me more”s and “that’s not fair”s. Matt and I are working hard to reel their shit in. I have started setting more limits, providing less rewards for expected behavior, and saying “no” more. Matt has been taking a different approach. Last week he took our poor Braun Strowman action figure (WWE) out into the driveway and smashed him to pieces with a hammer to prove a point. And a few days later I stumbled upon his Youtube search history…


Guys. ST. JUDES!! Between weird Ryan and his parents opening toys and boxing fights he is having the boys watch videos of sick kids to make them behave!!! Not sure they are old enough for this to have the intended impact but ya gotta love Matty for trying.


And I think sunscreen is giving me chest acne. I mean, I think it’s the sunscreen. I know I have chest acne. BUT IT’S FINE, I FEEL GREAT.

And thanks to the girl who told me to write something because she was bored of me being quiet. YA PRESSURED ME INTO IT!

Another Win for the Home Team.

Getting Rocky to do anything these days is an extreme challenge.  No matter what we are doing, something inevitably doesn't go his way and he takes a straight shot into the stratosphere and goes truly crazy.  I am talking screaming, kicking, yelling, stomping, crying.  Some things that have set him off this week include but are definitely not limited to his goggles being foggy, his fruit loops not looping onto a straw the right way, his sock seams being too close to his toes, his banana not being "banana-y enough", my eyes being green and not blue, and bizzy's sticky fingers.  And Rex wants a three-ringed circus and ten friends over everyday and Bizzy is smacking me in the face. I can not stress this enough in this moment---I AM OVERWHELMED AND FEELING CRAZY.  I am fighting a losing battle all day, everyday


And back to Rocky—he just keeps getting weirder. These days, when he gets really mad he does this crazy Grinch face and stomps his feet and yells at me in a really mean voice, "OKAY, YOU BARCODE!"  or "I'm not listening to you anymore, BARCODE!"


And the other day in the car he pipes up from the back seat, "Mom!  When we get home can I watch something on TV with big muscle guys?  With their shirts off?" ....uhhh, what?  "Like, girlfriend and boyfriend stuff.  With their shirts off."  What? Why?  "Mom! I don't know why, okay? But I just love that stuff!"  Ehhhhh kayyyy.

And for my favorite mom moment of the week, when I felt really proud of the job I am doing and the kids I am raising---we were at the playground after school with a few kids from Rex's class and they were playing tag. 


Rex and another boy wanted one of the adorable little girls to be "it" but she didn't really want to participate, so she was standing by her mom.  I was trying to make sure Bizzy didn't die as she was hanging from a monkey bar swinging and screaming at me whenever I tried to touch her when heard Rex yelling to the little girl, "Come on!! You can't get me!! Come get me!! Come and smell my balls!"

I'll just leave that right there.  Just to make you all feel better than me.  You're welcome.

It's Great.

Sometimes I feel like I am on a rollercoaster and I can't stop it and I can't get off and I am not sure if I love it or hate it but it just keeps going and sometimes I throw my hands up and sometimes I scream and sometimes I cry but ultimately it's great.  It is great, right?  Anyone else feel like that? HOLY SHIT.

Anyway, I am tired.  Today was mismatch day for Rex at school so he threw on two different knee-high striped socks and shorts and a pajama shirt and a tie-dye shirt and two different shoes.  Rocky thought it looked really cool he wanted to do the same.  Except, he is Rocky. So, the socks were too bunchy and the shirt smelled like grass and one shoe was too tight and his band aid kept falling off— it was a full on fuckshowscreamfest leaving for school. 

But he’s not always throwing a fit, don’t worry. Sometimes he likes to relax, and he is OBSESSED with being “cozy”. His new favorite cozy spot is snuggled very comfortably right on top of the bark of this tree, where he gets bird shit all over my $148 blanket that I saw on Keeping Up with the Kardashians.


Bizzy has started hitting so that's cute.  She hits other kids her age when they come to play and she hits me in the face when she doesn't get her way.  And then I yell at her and tell her it's not nice and she keeps her face directly in line with mine but moves her eyeballs as far as far as she can to the left for the most extreme side-eye I have ever been witness to.  Feeling like the teen years are gunna be sweet.


Rocky just had his bday and Rex's is in two weeks.  We had a little family get together and the boys got boxing gear.  Matt was letting them full-on battle while he refereed the fight and made bell noises.  Thankfully I was so annoying yelling "Stop! LISTEN TO THE DINGS! No more punching! Did you hear the DINGS?!" that Matt quickly broke it up.


Rocky also got some (requested) "boy barbies".  One of them was a construction worker, complete with a tool belt, reflective vest, hard hat, and face mask so he doesn't breathe in any of that drywall debris while he is doing all his work.


Rex found it at the bottom of the toy bin and looked up at me with his mouth open and eyes wide."Mom.Do you KNOW what this is?! Football players wear it to keep their balls in!!!"

See ya!

Raise Your Hand

The boys' new favorite game in the car is "Raise your hand".  You know, "Raise your hand if...." whatever.  Thrilling, I know.  Well yesterday we were playing and it was Rex's turn. 

"Okay, raise your hand if you have yellow teeth!"

(No one does anything)

"Mom! DO IT!!"

Just in case you were wondering why I have such high self-esteem.

Anyway, we have been staying with my parents for a week now and it's been really great because the majority of the day Rocky is just trying to get me to leave.  He wakes up in the morning screaming at me because my mom is at work, he doesn't listen to anything I say because "it's not my house" and everyone is on a strictly chocolate milk, white chocolate chips, and cheese stick diet because "that's what we eat Gigi's!!!!!!!"  At this point no one has shit in like four days.


The bruins are in the playoffs which is so cool guys because I am a huge Boston sports nut.  Matt let Rex stay up for the first quarter of the last game that started at 8pm.  He said it didn't matter that it was so late because Rex was SO excited to watch the game and he didn't want to let him down.  Well Rex watched the puck drop and then wandered into the other room and watched the Bachelorette (DVR'd) with my mom and I.  #TEAMCONNOR #MOMILIKETHEBOXGUY


Rex is playing baseball now which is cool but also kinda dumb because baseball is excruciatingly boring.  He gets fired up to wear the gear but is making sand castles in the infield shortly into the first inning.  But don’t worry, he is full Rex D when those three outs come and it's time to run back into the dug out.  That’s his big moment, baby! After being on Jupiter for the entire inning, kicking dirt and catching butterflies, he is full intensity for that run back in.  "LET'S GOOOO!!!!!!!!!" fist pumping, red-faced, and completely and truly insane.  And after the game when he waits in line and gets his big league chew at the snack stand?!  Might as well be MVP.

Of course seeing Rex all baseballed out made Rocky want “his own thing to do with kids he doesn’t know.” He picked gymnastics and quit after a week “because it wasn’t gymnasticsy enough.”


Nailed the handstand though.

Move it.

I am in moving hell.  Have you heard me say that before?  Because, this will be my fourth move in the last six years.   Three babies, four moves, six years.  I am cooked.  So hopefully this next stop is our last, because despite the fact that Matt had weird high school sex in my new basement with his sneakers on, I am DETERMINED to settle in and make it our happy home. I CAN NOT MOVE AGAIN. You heard it here first,

I also get kinda crazy during the moving process.  I hate being in limbo so managing my anxiety requires a lot of unnecessary forward movement.  Oh, you think I should pack all my stuff up and move it all on moving day with one big, efficient trip?  Well instead I am going to make seven thousand tiny trips over the next few weeks where I obsess about wall-hanging placement and shoe storage, OKAY?! It’s what works for me, so back off.


And this move, I am getting rid of shit.  I am usually a little slow to let things go but this go around I am like, GET IT OUT!  ALL OF IT! I DON’T WANT ANY OF IT!  And then last night I started to cry because I realized I have thrown-out/sold/donated a HEAVY majority of the kid’s toys.  Like, instead of lightening the load I now need to go shopping, because they are toyless.

And I did go to the mall on Friday, but it was to get second and third holes pierced in my ears.  Because, that’s what you do when you are crazy.  You get overwhelmed with your three kids and your move and your house renovation and to cope you say, “Fuck it.  I’m gunna go have some weird mall employee put more holes in my thirty-five year old earlobes because a cool (younger) blogger did and it looked DOPE and I’m a kewl mom so bye.”  I’m pretty sure one is already infected.

Anyway.,..we went to New Hampshire with some friends (Britt) the afternoon before Easter, and stayed over and did Easter morning together.  Ya know, because “it will be wicked easy, and kids will have so much fun.”  Well, kids did have so much fun. 


But even one night away with kids requires seventy-two bags of shit and $165 worth of food per family.  The afternoon was great—the kids played outside, did some drawing, and watched “weird videos” on Youtube together. Luckily Matt found our boys before the other kids did as they yelled “Look! We are girls!” from the bathroom while discovering how to do a Mangina.


Bedtime was okay, they only escaped their beds and had to be put back in twenty-seven times. And Easter morning started promptly at 4:30am, when Rex woke up and saw the eggs and then woke all his friends and told them about the eggs, and then Matt barged in and told them all that Rex was dreaming and it was middle of the night and the rabbit hadn’t come yet.  And then Rex cried and asked Matt if he really thought Rex would lie in front of all his friends.  So then Matt had to come clean and then it was game on.  They found and opened (exactly) 200 eggs and their baskets in approximately eight minute and then ate 6/24ths of the donuts we brought, Britt bronzed up a mini ham, my boys swam in the rain, and I forgot to serve the fruit salad.  By 9:45am we had basically been up and awake for a days worth of activities and were on the road headed home.  The rest of the day is a blur and I am still very very tired.


I am so tired that I have been starting nightly dance parties right after dinner as an attempt to wear everyone out and get them to bed sooner. Rex has been perfecting his tough-guy face / fast-feet combo while Bizzy scales the outside of the staircase, and Rocky spends the majority of the time in the bathroom soaking rolls of toilet paper and rubbing them on himself because it “makes him look sweaty”.  We also continue to be HEAVY on the wrestling, in case you were wondering.  “The Rexster” is currently weighing in at seventy-three pounds.  Guys, he is five.  He is SEVENTY-THREE POUNDS.  His feet are almost a size 4.  And don’t ask me if I still bite his toenails, because I will lie. See ya!


The Ramblings of a Crazy Person (Me)

My brother went to Florida for a week and the kids insisted on doggysitting his old brown lab, Fenway. She was so good. She vacuumed my car for me and the kids were obsessed with taking care of her. I actually started warming up to the idea of a dog in our future. That was until Rocky suddenly developed a dog allergy and broke out in hives that Benadryl could not subside and we earned ourselves a midnight trip to the ER. You know where you don’t wanna be on Sunday night after three massive chocolate chip cookies and a homemade cosmo? The ER. It’s gross and filled with germs and crying/angry/sad people. I had big plans for my morale and energy this week. Not anymore.


(Some kind of segway…)

I am still always shocked at how different kids who came out of the same vagina can be. Especially when I look at Rex and Rocky—both dudes, both tall, both mine, but so, so different. We have a CD someone gave us years ago of random kid songs, and Rex used to listen to it all the time. On the cd’s version of “She’ll be comin’ round the mountain” there is a weird verse at the end, ”…she will kill the old red rooster when she comes”. Very dark for a cute children’s song, and ever since Rex was tiny he would immediately yell during that part “Mom! Turn it off! I don’t like this part, it’s too sad!” Like—no matter what he was preoccupied with during the car ride, when that part of the song came on he clued-in, heard it, got sad, and made me change it. Now, we haven’t listened to the CD in almost a year, but last week I put it on, and sure enough, same Rex reaction. “Mom! Turn this one off, please!” Sensitive little fucker. Fast forward to this weekend—I take Rocky to run some errands. We hop in the car, just the two of us, and from the backseat he yells, “Hey, Mom! Can you put on that song about the dead chicken? I love it.” And that, my friends, about sums it all up.


But anyway, Bizzy has a mullet. And she likes it. I put her in these adorable little pigtails and she looks me dead in the eyes and pulls the elastics out. And I’m just like, “Okay girl, but don’t go bitching at me in twenty years when you look back at these pics.” Like, ‘Mom, how did you let me look like this?!’ Uhhhh, nope. I thought you looked like a lost pigeon lady and you wouldn’t let me help you. So, future Bizzy, this one’s on YOU.


Outings are fun.


Today we went to the Aquarium in Boston.  It’s not close, it’s not easy, and it’s not cheap.  But we are in winter-hell and Rex was home from school and they are at such enthusiastic and curious ages so I thought this would feel special and make them really happy.

The first meltdown happened before we even left the house.  It was brought on by Rocky’s realization that I was going with him.  See, my mom was coming with us too, so when she arrived he thought it was a solo Gigi mission.  So when he saw me put my coat on it was over.  And ya know what, I have seen a lot of kids “flip out”.  I have yet to see anyone I know hold a fucking candle to Rocky Davidson.  I mean, I am not trying to brag, but I think I win this one.  I really, really do.  “Mom of the kid who throws the loudest most exciting and obvious and scene causing tantrums goes to…”  And the beauty of Rocky is that he doesn’t care who is around or where he is.  He is not reserving this insanity for just family, he is letting it shine.  IT’S FUCKING SHINING.

Thankfully he did calm down after I muscled him into the car and my mother told him “stories about Mommy getting hurt” per his request (not making that up).  And after a long car ride, we arrived at the aquarium. 


After a ton of cool exhibits, feeling up some sting rays, three-finger-touching when the sign said two-finger-touching some starfish, Rex requests we go to the movie theater in an adjacent building to see a movie about the great deep sea.  We sit down and transition right into the second meltdown of the day, when Rex realizes that this movie does not require 3D glasses.  “What?! I don’t need to wear glasses?!!  This is so dumb!” “No, no, Rex it’s going to be great!”  “Well, it’s already boring.  It’s never gunna be good at all!”  Arms crossed.  Pissed-off face.  And then throughout the movie under his breath at random parts sarcastically, “Bravo. Bravo.”  WHO MADE YOU?!

Rocky was bullshit that the scuba diver was not in the tank at the exact time that we walked by the windows of the giant ocean tank.  Rex said the cafeteria makes disgusting pizza and fries.  Bizzy shit twice and loved everything.


Finally, time to leave.  This is ALWAYS when the real Davidson magic happens.  Guys, we don’t leave well.  I don’t care where we are, you will know we are leaving.  It is loud, and tearful, and angry as hell.  First Rex spots the gift shop and asks if he “can get a toy because he always gets a toy when he comes here.”  No.  Not today, buddy.  Sorry.  “But, but, but mom can I talk to you over here?”, trying to bait me over to a weird corner to guilt me—NO, Rex. No.  Then he starts talking/crying to himself.  “Come on, Rex.  Come on. Why do you do this?  Why do you keep looking over there?  Stop looking at the toys, Rex.”  Whatever.  MUTE.

Then I go to put Rocky’s coat on.  “Are we going to Gigi’s house when we get home?”  Oh, fuck.  I’m dead.  “No.”  BOOM.  Transported to fucktown. 


I wrestle him (on the actual floor) to put his coat on, and power-carry him to the car kicking and screaming while my mom pushes Bizzy and I threaten Rex with each step to keep moving.  Can you see why the solo adult outings with these assholes is a little hard for me?!?

Anyway, Rocky fell asleep within seven minutes of leaving the parking garage and we made it home and blah blah who cares.  Point is, even when I get dressed and out the door and provide these crazies with a big, fun adventure and therefore should be feeling like I’m having a successful mom day, it still inevitably ends with me feeling like an asshole with spoiled kids and no control over my life or my offspring.  The end.


So this week Rex told me it’s his dream to have a Youtube Channel. Of course (or maybe not of course) he is not getting one, but he thinks he is. I promise him some special time each day when him and I can play Legos in his room in front of a 2001 Cannon video camera propped on his night stand on top of some books. He picks out the perfect outfit, gives himself a strange inaudible pep-talk and away we go…

Me: Hey Kids! I’m Rex’s mom and we are going to build some rescue vehicles. What should we build first, Rex?

Rex: Why don’t you ask the Youtubers.

Me: Oh, great idea! Kids, what would you guys like to see us build?

Rex: Comment down below in the comments!


Oh! Yeah! Comment right on down there in the fucking comments! What the fuck?!?! He told me, “I really hope we get a lot of likes, Mom” Which made me want to cry and throw up and throw my phone away and move to a weird farm in Maine with no WiFi. But instead I decided to stay living in my current house, keep my phone, and write about it on my Blog. Pfffffffff.

Speaking of, I am taking my whackedness to the next level and I am getting into ASMR. Yeah. I am. Matt wants to kill me but the past two nights I have been able to calm my mind (for maybe the first time ever) by listening to a crazy whispering brunette before I fell asleep.

Gotta be honest, not a huge fan of the whispering. But, start scratching a broken cork coaster and tapping on the lid of your daily moisturizer, and I am HOOKED. It was like, “oh, this is weird….hmmm, this is definitely odd….oh….um….(leaves planet and flies onto a rainbow of zen)…bye".”


So, Holy February Vacation, AM I RIGHT?! If it is any indication of what summer has in store for me, I will be stocking up on Advil, and booze, and babysitting money. No, it’s actually been pretty good but Matt was off on Monday and I worked on Wednesday so I don’t even know if any of it counts. But in case you are dying to know what we have been doing to fill our extra time at home, it has been a combination of playing with wrestling guys, watching wrestling, practicing our wrestling ring entrances, and organizing and fake trading baseball cards. And Bizzy has a new babysitter—he is big and purple and is a dinosaur and is a fucking life saver. Oh, and we also made Snow Cream with the kids as a really special healthy family treat. I’ll post the recipe below. LOVE YAZ.

Snow Cream:

1 scoop cleanish snow

1 two second long pour of milk (cow or breast)

1 squeeze chocolate syrup

1 scoop of whatever else you have in the house that might take them a while to open/eat so that the activity lasts longer (ie: pistachios, wrapped Hershey kisses, old extra-chewy fruit snacks, etc.)


Extra Small

When people talk about laundry I am usually like, ‘c’mon dude, don’t talk about laundry like a loser, be cool.”  But guys, my laundry is really, really piling up.  No matter how many loads I do, I always have two full baskets of dirty clothes, plus a huge pile on the floor in front of the washing machine.  The pile is extra problematic because other shit always ends up in there.  Last week I accidentally washed a dirty diaper, a plastic giraffe, and a pair of goggles.  And fuck all of you with your new Netflix standing-up folding techniques because I am over here throwing BALLS of clothing into my kids’ drawers.  I don’t even care.

I am also in awe (more boring talk) at the amount of dirt and crumbs that accumulate on my floor every day.  Like, did you all roll in mud and then have a sword fight with pretzel rods?!  And I remember when I was younger and would have to ‘clean up’, I would see that on hard-to-reach fermented old strawberry on the floor and think, “eh, someone else will get that one.”  Well, now I am the fucking someone else.  It’s me.  If I don’t get it, I’m gunna be living in a house filled with old dirty rotten fruit!  It’s a lot of pressure! 

Shifting topics—I think I need to delete my Instagram or something because the bloggers are making me crazy.  Like, how HOW HOWWWWW do they look like that after three kids?  How do they have time to get ready and how is their house so clean?  And every time I scroll through my feed I add another four pink sweaters and a seventy-five dollar eyebrow pencil to my cart.  Oh, the perfect pencil skirt I never knew I wanted and have nowhere to wear?  Yup.  The one-of-a-kind (sponsored) tweezers to grab my hard to reach neck hairs? Sold.  And you think these tanning drops will give me an extra glow? And, what? They always sell out?  Hell yeah, I’m on it.  I’ll take two.  I leave feeling broke, and sad, and sloppy, and uncool. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.  But, I keep going back for more.  Fuck you, Courtney Shields and Krista Horton.  You are crack.  And how are they all an extra small?  “I got this in my normal size (little smile), extra small.”  So like, are you a miniature person?  I mean it makes sense because when I look at how cute they look and then order these things and try them on and realize I look like a 6 foot tall bottom heavy donkey with no tits---but really, EXTRA small?  Only extra I want in my friends is the extra sauce and mayo on their large three-way order.  (If you don’t know, I can’t help you.)

Blah, Blah, segway….both boys have fevers now and I would say that someone in my house has been sick for at least two months. 


Even when they aren’t officially sick at least one person is snotty and gross and red-cheeked.  I am really tired of quarantining everyone because they keep passing it around and all of a sudden I have become a weird isolated hermit who only interacts with people at the grocery store.  Oh, and dealing with their crankiness when they don’t feel well has led to two months of candy, m&ms, pizza, and booze for me.  And I hardly shower.  I think my drop-off look has Rocky’s teacher officially concerned for my well-being at this point.  SLAY BABY, SLAY!



Oh, and Happy Monday.

Toddler for Sale.

So remember when I said I am obsessed with newborns? Like, gimme ALL the teeny babies. I want to have fifteen more of them before I die. But ya know what I zero more of? 1.5 year olds. Tricky, right? Ideally I would like to become pregnant with my baby an hour before I go into labor, give birth (I know I’m weird, I love BIRTH and I’m not afraid to say it!! But also, #ALLTHEDRUGZ) and then snuggle and eat my tiny little fucker until he/she turns one and then I will ship them away and have them returned to me around their third birthday. Guys, what I am trying to say is, BIZZY CURRENTLY SUCKS.


I don’t mean it. I don’t. But this stage is fucking TOUGH for me. She spends about seventy percent of her awake time on top of my kitchen table. I have two completely idiotic sons. Neither one of them did this. WHYYYYYY, OH SWEET JESUS, IS THIS HER FAVORITE PLACE?! And when she isn’t there, she is one of two other places, guaranteed. In the bathroom with her hands in the toilet, or scaling the open IKEA shelves that I have set up as an open pantry with all the kid’s snacks because we are in a rental and I figured, ‘how annoying could this be for a short period of time’. Verdict is in folks, and survey says, VERY FUCKING ANNOYING. And, no, the new rubbermaid/cooler barricade I’ve created doesn’t help.


She is also teething like a bastard so EVERY SINGLE THING from highlighters to crystals to foam robot shooter things are going into her mouth. I basically have to have my eye on her EVERY second or it is death via falling off the table, being crushed by an over-sized, misplaced shelf, or choking on piece of black tourmaline. And the frustration that comes with the lack of communication at this age is CRAY. Like, WHAAAAT DO YOU WANNNNNNNNT?!?!? The “ehhhhhh ehhhhh ehhhh” game is meant for someone A LOT more patient than I. Plus she just topped off a three day fever with double pink eye, which she then gave to Rex and Rocky was sick in the middle of that. So, HELL YEAH!


In Rocky news, latest his challenge is that he hates any and all articles of clothing. Getting him dressed is John Cena v. Randy Orton every morning. I actually thought I had a black eye last week. He “hates” jeans and short pants and tie pants and tight pants and stupid pants and he doesn’t like tags or bunchy socks or shirts with “marks on them”. And no, it’s not a sensory issue. The problem is that everything “looks so dumb” or that he “looks like a weirdo”. Dude, hate to break it to ya, it’s not the clothes that are the issue.

That’s all for today. Go Pats.

I Scream, You Scream...


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.


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.


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. 


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.


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.


The Next Day


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.


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?!


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.


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!


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.


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.


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)


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.


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…


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?!


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.


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.


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. 


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.


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.



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.


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.