Okay, so if you’re anything like me, you’re not winning any mom-of-the-year trophies, and maybe you feel a little bad about that. But here’s the thing. Don’t. I know it’s hard when you see these overachieving moms doing all kinds of impressive things on Facebook and Pinterest every day. But mediocre moms are awesome too, and here’s why:
1. Mediocre moms don’t shower every day. And guess what that means? We’re using less water. And that, my friend, is good for a little something we call Mother Earth.
Hi. It’s me. Duhh, who else would be writing my blog? I mean yeah I guess there are plenty of pages that have lots of different writers but not here. Nope, here I pretty much do it all. I guess it all started because I like to write. And then when my audience started to grow, I found out writing is even more fun when you have people who like to read your shit. So thank you for reading my shit. Seriously, THANK YOU!!!!!! You make this writing gig so worth it.
Anyways, you probably know this already, but I wrote a new book. Like a NEW book. Not like a bunch of shit I’ve shared on here and then smashed into a book. We’re talking 95% new material that has never been seen by anyone. 320 hilarious pages. Wait, that’s a lie. Like 300 hilarious pages and about 20 serious ones. With fifty-five chapters (not a typo, as in 5-5), plus a bunch of hilarious pictures and funny quips like this one:
Ding! There it is. A new email sitting in your inbox. “Someone in your kid’s class has strep throat.” And one word goes through your head. F**K!!!!!!!!! The email just says some unnamed mystery kid in the class has strep and then it goes on and on and on about what strep is. And you’re like no shit Sherlock, I know what strep is. But who the hell has it? Is it someone my kid hangs out with? Has the kid been to my house in the past week? Basically you just told me to worry, watch and wait for the plague to show up. I am so sick of these vague, unhelpful letters. Because if I were a teacher and someone had strep throat in my class, here is the email I would send home to the parents:
1. I say things like, “No, honey, I have no idea where your xylophone is,” when really I know exactly where it is. In the bag of toys I just dropped off at Goodwill.
2. When they’re eating something yummy like ice cream or pizza, I tell them I need to check it and make sure it’s not poisonous before they take a bite. And sometimes I even need to double check it because I might have tasted a little poison and I need to make sure again.
3. My daughter used to suck her thumb until I told her the birthday police weren’t gonna let her turn six if she didn’t stop. She pulled it out right away.
Dear Unnamed Presidential Candidate,
So yesterday I had the news on in the kitchen when my four-year-old came into the room. Now since the news was talking about the presidential race and not something scary like war or murder or missing airplanes, I left it on. I like that my kids are learning a little about our democracy. Anyway, he was watching the TV when you came on stage. You spoke, he watched. You were passionate, he listened. And then suddenly you were interrupted by a protestor, and that’s when it got bad. You started calling the protestor a little guy and saying, “Go home to Mommy! Go home to Mommy! Tell her to tuck you in bed.” You had a roomful of people who were on your side, and yet you continued to mock him. And I saw my son’s face go from curiosity to being visibly upset. Like there were actual tears in his eyes when he looked at me and said, “He’s being mean.” Not tough. Not strong. Not presidential. Mean. Now my four-year-old son might not understand half of what goes on in this election (thank God), but he definitely understands something you don’t. How to treat other people. And more importantly, how NOT to.
You know what I’m so sick of? Reading these bullshit interviews from celebrities who are all pollyanna optimistists about getting older and looking crappier. They’re all, “Ooooh, I love my wrinkles and gray hair. They’re badges of honor.” Ennnh, ennnh, ennnh. What’s that the sound of? That, my amigos, is the sound of my bullshit meter going off.
Like yesterday I was reading this People magazine interview with Gwyneth Paltrow and she was all like, I’m so proud of my gray hairs and wrinkles because I earned them and I would never want to go back to my twenties!! I was like, Gywnnie, you’ll look good wearing a paper bag when you’re 80, but seriously, I don’t believe for a second that you’re happy with your gray hair and wrinkles. Yeah, I’m know I’m a total a-hole for saying it out loud and I’ll probably get a bunch of crap for it, but when I look in the mirror nowadays (and I just so happen to be 43 like Gwynnie), there’s a lot of shit on my body that’s never gonna go back to the way it was, and I am NOT happy about it.
Remember the good ole days? B.K. Nahhh, I don’t mean Burger King. Shit, now I totally have a hankering for some greasy onion rings. And did I just use the word hankering? Apparently I’ve turned into a seventy-year-old farmer. Anyways, B.K. means Before Kids. And I can’t believe I thought I had it hard back then and complained about anything.
Wahhh, I have to set my alarm clock for 8:00 a.m. (I mean seriously? Today that would be sleeping an extra TWO hours.)
I owe you a big-ass apology. Nahhh, not for throwing away your fugly acid-washed jeans when you weren’t looking. You should be thanking me for that. But I need to say I’m sorry for a bunch of other shit I’ve done.
Like last night, for example. So you know how Holden woke up at like 2 a.m. and how I didn’t hear him because I was sleeping with the pillow over my head? Uhhh, yeah, about that. Well, I kinda sorta heard him screaming but you weren’t up yet so I quickly threw the pillow on top of me so you would think I was sleeping through it. And then I let you deal with him.
Oh, and you know how on Thursday I told you at breakfast that I was up with our little douchenugget like three times in the night. Ummm, so really I was only up with him once. Or maybe not at all, come to think of it. In my defense, I lied because I knew I was having a Moms’ Night Out Thursday night and that I’d really need my sleep after a few glasses of vino and that you’d handle him if you thought I’d done it the night before. Plus, isn’t it a white lie if you’re telling it to make someone feel better? That someone being me.
Yo rugrat, I love you. A lot. And I lovvvvvve spending time with you. And sometimes that means hanging out together and playing fun games like Spiderman versus Darth Vader, but sometimes that means dragging you to the grocery store. And I know that kinda sucks but life isn’t all unicorns pooping rainbows. So the next time I make you go food-shopping with me, here are eleven things I need you NOT to do:
1. Please do not suck on the handle of the shopping cart that has literally been touched by 1000 hands today. Otherwise I might as well write Ebola and Tuberculosis on the grocery list because that’s what we’re coming home with.
Dear lady who’s bottle-feeding her newborn in Starbucks right now,
Yeah, I saw that. That group of women in the chairs who just gave you a disapproving look when you whipped out the bottle. Now mayyybe they just don’t approve of the donut you’re eating. Or maybe they don’t like your outfit. But I’m pretty sure they were looking down on you because you aren’t breastfeeding. And I’m really hoping you didn’t notice. But just in case you did, I wanted to make sure you know that there is at least ONE mother in here who is not judging you for bottle-feeding. Because this is what I know:
1. Breastfeeding doesn’t always work out for everyone. Sometimes our bodies suck and don’t cooperate. Like my baby didn’t come out of my vajayjay. Was it my fault? No. And maybe your boobies just weren’t in the mood to be vending machines.