Time Travel: it’s the real deal.

*Wakes up from a seemingly short slumber, ill-rested with saggy bags on her eyes, only to find out it’s four months later*

WHAT THE………seriously. What the actual F. Is it September?! Are those leaves REALLY a diaper-colored YELLOW? Is it really fall? WHERE DID SUMMER GO?!? I OBJECT! I want it back….

It has been FOUR MONTHS. FOUR MONTHS since I have posted. FOR SHAME, MOMMY VINO. I have failed you. I have failed my loyal following of humor-loving, alcohol-drinking, life-loving psychopaths like myself. I have let time slip through my aging, arthritic fingers. For this, I am not proud.

SO MUCH has happened in the last four months that I TRULY can’t even remember all of the events that are relatively worth speaking of. Hell…I can’t even remember where I put my purse each morning, why would I think I could accurately recall four months of minute-to-minute craziness? Well, let’s just sum it up to this: my life is a real s**t show. A S**T SHOW, I tell ya! But I FREAKING LOVE this s**t show! It’s MY s**t show, damnit! *nods head once in solid agreement*

So, let me just give you a short recap of the time that has passed since my last post, assuming I can actually remember any of them. But I digress…

The beginning of the summer brought the busiest time for my job in addition to simultaneously selling our home and preparing for an impending move. Recital, registration, wine, class placement, website updating, more wine, taxes, book work, no school for the munchkins so naturally they are ripping my house to shreds all while I follow behind them with an industrial sized shop vac (You know, the ones that are big enough to consume a baby 14 days past his due date), margaritas, packing, cleaning, more margaritas, purging of belongings, paperwork, loan approvals, vodka, an abscess tooth and resulting root canal, copious amounts of vodka (see a trend?), banging of the head against the wall aggressively……. you know, that old chestnut. That basically wipes out the month of June right there, folks. I think? I dunno…

(SIDENOTE: it has taken me three days to get this far in this post. THREE. MOTHA-FRICKEN DAYS. Holy sweet mother of heyseus, that’s ridiculous. It’s because, on average, every 4.5 seconds a small, needy tyrant in the form of a child comes over and NEEDS something and I have to leave my beautiful new office space that was SPECIFICALLY designed to be a quiet lair away from my spawns (call it my modern day Safe Space, eh?), to get yet another snack or drink of water or toy or whatever else they MUST HAVE RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND OR THEY WILL JUST SPONTANEOUSLY COM BUST IN TO ASH RIGHT BEFORE MY VERY EYES AND IT WILL BE ALL MY FAULT! By the time this blog is posted, I will have been working on it for aboooouuuttttttt……..12 years. Ok, moving on while I still can…)

NEXT, the devil creeped in on our true s**t show and brought JULY. July……*shutters*. July was sent directly from Satan himself in an attempt to unhinge every sane fiber left in my being. Now, I admit it could have been WAAAYYY worse (I know, you all are utterly SHOCKED at my dramatics here ;). Out of July we DID get a beautiful new home, a nice big new yard with a ‘lake’ (they call it a lake. I call it a pretty pond. If I can’t water ski or cannonball my slightly chubby, swimsuit clad body in the cool, crisp waters then it is a POND. If I can stand on one end and stare at the other end, it’s a pond. But whatevs, tomato tom-ah-to…), and thankfully we did not lose any pets or family members. Overall, in hindsight, July wasn’t the ABSOLUTE worst.

HOWEVER, what July DID bring was two parents and one preschooler with the nastiest case of the stomach flu ever recorded, all simultaneously. When one parent is upstairs regurgitating their dinner while the other parent is downstairs trying to hold in THEIR dinner because the preschooler is tossing her cookies and needs her hair held back, that’s everyone’s version of a nightmare. A REAL American Horror Story. I knew there was a reason we purchased a house with a bathroom for every person in the family! It’s because we would all need to be REALLY breaking them in at the SAME DAMN TIME just a week after move in. Ain’t no better way to Christen a new house, I tell ya!

Gall bless it, just end it already. I would rather gag myself with a rusty spoon, BEFORE a tetanus shot, then to ever go through THAT again. It took us FIVE DAYS (That’s 120 hours, people. 120 hours of wondering WHY, GOD, WHY?!) for the last person to finally stop excreting some sort of bodily fluid. And once the last fever broke, I thought to myself “Thank GOD that is over! After that, we should be healthy for AT LEAST 6 months! WE’VE DONE OUR TIME!” But, alas, what did the next few weeks bring?! More fevers. Ear infections. Sinus infections. And MOTHER FLIPPING PINK EYE. GAAAALLLLLL damn it, already! You had to take bucket loads of vomit and fevers, extend them out over a several week period, and THEN slap a nasty, goopy, BLOODY eye infection on to each tiny human in our home on top of THAT? Well, AWESOME. Have you ever tried to put eye drops in a 4 or 1 year old?! Dear LAWD have mercy. I had to use all of my Mighty Mom strength and basically strap them down like a dead deer during hunting season then give the bottle a hefty squeeze in the general direction of their flailing and then PRAY to the almighty pink eye gods that some eye drop made it in around the tears (I don’t even know if they were their tears or mine)! If that isn’t the s**t icing on top of a crap cake, I don’t know what is!

(UPDATE: At this point, I have now had to walk up or down the stairs an additional 17 times as my love nuggets are incessantly summoning me with their ridiculous need to interrupt any work that I attempt to do the absolute second after I start doing it. With all of this walking, it is a wonder why I am STILL not beach-bod ready and am more fit for an oversized hoodie? Even my Fit Bit is confused! It currently says “flights climbed today: 7,000. Why you still fat?” I am POSITIVE that is has NOTHING to do with the bag of Doritos that make the trip with me each time! Errrr….I mean…..the apples. Yea, that’s right. The APPLES I take with me each time I trounce my buns up the stairs. HEALTHY, HEALTHY APPLES…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

*Licks cheesey-chip goodness from the tips of my fingers* I am not proud. *hangs head in shame* )

July has now been aptly named “THE MONTH WHICH WILL NEVER BE SPOKEN OF AGAIN”. And if I EVER see another pile of partially-digested grilled cheese sandwich, then that will be the end of me. That is how I die. (Given the fact that I am sure I have at LEAST 16 more years of vomit cleaning ahead of me, I better go pre-order my casket now. Ya know, to help the family out when I perish due to bodily fluid exhaustion. I think i’ll choose a nice, crisp black. Like my soul.) ANYWHOOO….

Let’s focus and get back to this new house and the adjustments required with two small children in a new environment. Pre-move, I thought FOR SURE that the first few weeks in the new house would be my living version of hell on Earth. I thought the littlest clone would struggle in the sleep department and the oldest would run around the house like a naked, rabid squirrel. But much to my surprise, there was hardly any adjustment at all! It is SORT of a moot point because let’s be honest, Everlee ALREADY runs around the house like a naked, rabid squirrel so 50% of my feared issue is actually a normal occurrence, but I digress. FINALLY, something is easy to ease the pain of constant illness-induced sanitation. I mean, for the first few nights in the new house Everlee had decided that she would join the clan of NORMAL children and ACTUALLY leave her bed in the morning without me having to get her. And I must admit, it made me slightly sad that I no longer got to stay in bed and ~~ignore~~ listen to the sounds of Everlee yelling “MOOOOM! MOM! MOM! MOM! MOOOOOMMMMMMMM I’M AWAAAKE!” knowing that she would stay put until I drug my sleep-deprived body in to her room to retrieve her and end the loud morning madness. Now a days, she exits her room at any given time in the morning, but not before she changes in to her princess dress-of-choice and puts on copious amounts of makeup, clip on earrings, and hair bows. She then tiptoes her giant preschool feet out of her room, down the hall, and in to my room where she will meticulously place herself in a hidden corner of the room JUST in time for me wake up in a fit of terror and nearly pee my nightgown (yes, I wear nightgowns to bed. SHUT IT, PERFECT POLLY. They are comfy, breezy, and they provide me a socially acceptable way to be pant less. I don’t even care if that makes me a grandma. Just call me Granny Vino, I don’t even care!) Imagine waking up to a cackling, snaggly-curly-haired, Joker-style-faced Moana who is crouched down next to your bed like a real life psychopath ready to attack. If that ain’t enough to make you s**t your britches, I don’t know what is. And it happens EVERY. SINGLE. MORNING. But if that is the worse adjustment that our move has induced, sign me up with a permanent marker!

Speaking of s**t your britches, there may be ONE MORE unnerving adjustment that has surfaced itself in the past month. We call it….“The case of the Sneaky Pooper”.

*DUN DUN DUNNNNNNN*

I must admit, the name is slightly misleading. There is no “CASE of the Sneaker Pooper” as we know EXACTLY who the culprit is. Let me give you a hint: There are two adults in this house, both of which know that flushing a toilet is a vital part of cleanliness and are fully knowledgeable in the department of simple manners. Then there are two ~~Ali-incarnates~~ children in this house. One of which is not yet potty trained, thus forcing him to relieve himself in the diaper he SOMETIMES chooses to leave on and thus removing him from the possibility of dropping a deuce in the toilet and leaving it there for the next unsuspecting soul to handle. That’s right, folks… SOMEONE (who shall not be named) has decided that having four bathrooms provides a HILARIOUS opportunity to secretly birth a few turd babies in a different toilet each day, at a different time each day, and then NOT flush the little nuggets down the toilet, leaving them as a festering gift for the adult who is blessed enough to find them.

FUUUUUDDDDDGGGGGGEEEEEEEE that’s SICK. Kids are SO GROSS.

I can not tell you HOW many times we have found floating fecal matter in an obscure toilet in this house. Do you know how irritating, not to mention disgusting, it is to RUN in to the bathroom in a fit of unearthly speed so as not to pee your pantaloons, only to have to halt mid-squat and flush the surprise preschool poop down the crapper? All while attempting to postpone the needs of your OWN bladder so the toilet can fully finish it’s flush cycle? ONE DOES NOT WANT TO PEE ON FESTERING WATER, CHILD!! It is to the point now where I will hear Kyle loudly yell from across the house “SNEAKY POOPER STRIKES AGAIN!” and we both know what S**Tuation he is currently in. I must admit, containing laughter in these times is immensely difficult, sometimes impossible even. But we MUST eradicate this newfound Sneaky Pooper once and for all!

The conversations with said Sneaky Pooper tend to go as follows:

“Hey (insert Sneaky Pooper’s name here), did you go poop in the basement bathroom today?”

“Ummmm…..errrr…….uhhhh…..I can’t remember.”

“Oh, you can’t remember, huh? Well, why is there a Nemo fruit snack on the floor next to the toilet? Weren’t you eating some of those this morning?”

“Yessssssssss……….”

“Well, then was it you that pooped in the downstairs toilet then?”

“Perhapppssss……….I really can’t remember, Mom. My brain says that it can’t remember.”

“Oh ok, then. That makes sense. Well, why don’t you tell your brain that someone forgot to flush the toilet AGAIN!”

*insert girl giggles here*

“Ohhhh man, my brain says it must have FORGOT to flush the poop!”

“You better tell your brain that the next time it ‘forgets’ to flush the turds, it will be scrubbing the toilet after.”

*12 hours later* (insert Sneaky Pooper scrubbing the toilet with no complaints)

It seems that my child may be the long-lost, distant relative to the lady in Colorado that likes to go for a jog and take her morning dump on people’s lawn. When I first saw that news article, I panicked and sent a prayer up to the God’s above that this was not a glimpse in to my dear child’s future. Let’s just pray that MY Sneaky Pooper keeps it within the home and within the confines of the porcelain throne. Amen.

Now do you understand what I meant by “my life is a real s**t show”? I was being very literal. I’ve seen more bodily excretions this summer than Trump has seen protesters (ope…too soon?). And while I would like to blame my interwebs absence solely on “me wanting to take time and spend more quality time with my family”, and that is partially true, it was mostly because this summer flew by faster than Trump’s Air Force One on the way to the Hawaiian Tropic Tanning Competition (ope….I did it again). When I think back on the last few months and all of the work, personal life chaos, illnesses, home remodels, birthday parties, and the IOWA STATE FAIR, BABY (skkkeeeeeewwwhhoooooppp!), I quickly realize that time slipped through my sweaty fingers and BAM! Summer was gone. Time travel is DEFINITELY possible.

But Mommy Vino is back, and I am ready to blow through wine bottles faster than Trump can say ‘Son of a B***H!’ (ope! I can’t help myself). Cheers, my friends! Here’s to a new season of madness!

To My Children: This Is How I Won’t Protect You

To my two beautiful, awesome kids;

This post is a little different then most. This post is written directly to you in hopes that when you are older and decide to google me, you will read this. By the time you can appropriately google, which will be sooner rather than later I’m afraid, you will undoubtedly want to publicly denounce me for airing your ’embarrassing’, albeit hilarious, younger years. And while I do not apologize for sharing with the world that when you were two years old you appropriately used the word “shit” in everyday conversation OR that you ran barefoot through your sister’s floor vomit, I will apologize for something else: Me.

I apologize for me. Often times, and depending on the day, there are WAY too many things that I lack in my parenting. Somedays, my patience is too thin. Other days I might get angry with you for seemingly minuscule reasons. Sometimes I snap at you when you are throwing a fit. A lot of the time, I am too busy working to play that game that you are asking me to play (FYI I ALWAYS feel bad for that). Our house is messy most of the time. I can’t take you to the park most days. We rarely go to the mall play place and I seldom make the time to schedule play time with other kids your age. I do, however, thank God that your dad can fill most of these voids for me. Without him, I would feel little to no redemption in my parenting efforts.

But there are also a lot of things that I will not apologize for. I do not apologize for saying “no” to that toy at Target. I do not apologize for putting you in time out when you bite your sister. I do not apologize for limiting your iPad time or taking it away when you sass. I do not apologize for telling you to get up and brush it off when you fall in the grass. I do not apologize for making YOU apologize when you do something wrong, and I do not apologize for holding you accountable for your behavior. Also, and this one kills me sometimes… I do not apologize for NOT stepping in and protecting you when you get your feelings hurt.

Now, let me wipe my tears away and explain:

You both are very young still. I was not mentally prepared for the maturity of these situations to start so soon. Maybe I was in denial? Maybe 4 years is just not enough time to come to terms with the realness of parenting? Either way, the realness is here now. You have had a rough go of it lately. There have been some tears, some unsettling emotions, and a whole lot of disappointment. There have been some very adult questions coming from my very young children. And there has been a lot of you having to learn what it feels like to be hurt. There has also been a lot of me trying to remain detached and calm while your tears flow.

Now, I do not WISH for you to get your feelings hurt. No (decent) parent revels in the fact that their child is hurting. I do not WANT you to come home from school crying. I do not WANT you to not go to the park because you are scared the other kids won’t want to play with you. I do not ENJOY listening to you nonchalantly explain to me, at a random and obscure time in the day, about how a classmate told you she doesn’t care about you while you were asking her whether or not she liked going swimming. I HATE that you sometimes see a friend and get so excited but just as you start to run over to them, you stop dead in your tracks, look at me, and ask “do you think he will want to sit by me today? He said no the last time…” I do not WANT to watch this happen and then sit around and do nothing about it. But because WANT and NEED are very different, and because I know this is an important part of your growing up, and because I love you with all of my soul, I AM going to let you feel the sting of disappointment. And just so you know, it kills me inside every. damn. time.

Sometimes, on the worst of my parenting days, I can see the other kids in the hallways pull away from you when you say “Hi” to them. I can see that sometimes an adult will roll their eyes behind your back, or ignore you completely when you try to say “hi” to them, too. Yes, adults do this. It breaks my heart, but they do. It breaks my heart even more when YOU see it happen. And when you do, I see you turn to look at me, searching my eyes and wondering whether or not you should be upset. And although I AM upset, I do not show it. I smile at you, mouth to you “It’s ok” and pretend there is nothing to be upset about. Because in the long run, there isn’t.

As an adult, it is easy for me to say that if someone doesn’t want to be around you, simply let it go and find new people. If you don’t get invited to a birthday party, it’s not the end of the world. If you ask to be someone’s friend and they say “no”, then ask someone else. It’s easy for me to say because it doesn’t bother me when it happens to ME. But what you need to know, is I learned to react this way because MY parents allowed me to get MY feelings hurt. And this is what I am doing for you.

But you are just a kid. You do not know yet what this world will bring you. You do not know that this world is chock full of disappointment and you do not yet have the tools to deal with it. You just see the right now. All you see right now is that no one wants to play with you during recess. All you see right now is that one day someone is your friend and the next day they avoid you like the plague. All you see right now is that you don’t get asked to go the park like the other kids do. All you see right now is that someone called you “annoying”. And all you see right now is that your mom didn’t step in and intervene.

You are probably mad at me for that. But this is why I am writing today, because what you don’t know is WHY I am not intervening when these things happen. Point blank, at face value: kids can be mean. Do I think kids CAN BE mean? Absolutely. Do I think most kids truly ARE mean? Absolutely NOT. Most kids are good, kind, and just have moments of unintentional meanness. But the hard truth of the matter is, I am sure YOU can be mean, too. The sidewalks go both ways. Kids are, for the most part, open books. That is a quality that I love MOST about kids. They say it how it is, whether it is nice or not. As adults, we (mostly) learn to control when and how to say things so as not to hurt another’s feelings unintentionally. As for the adults who I have witnessed be rude to you as a very young child? Shame on them, they should know better. And they obviously need to work on their own kindness and patience as well. But kids DEFINITELY haven’t quite mastered this yet, including you. So while I am LITERALLY aching for you when something happens and those crocodile tears start to well, I know that this is something that you NEED to feel. Chances are, you have accidentally made someone else feel this way as well. Would it be much easier on BOTH of our hearts if I jumped in and intervened? SURE. Is that the right thing to do? NO. So I won’t do it unless I need to. Just like the other parent’s probably have kept quiet about you as well.

Another hard truth of the situation is that there is probably a reason that this is happening. Nothing is ever 100% one sided. Now, you KNOW that I love you both with every muscle in my body, every hair on my head, but you both have areas of improvement as well. While I LOVE that you are so outgoing, you can sometimes be too loud for the other kids. And while I LOVE that you get very excited about things, that sometimes can be too much energy for others. I also know that, while I LOVE your snuggles and lack of personal space with ME, your friends might not want the same. “Hands to ourselves” is a frequent comment in our house. And while I wouldn’t change your personalities or YOU for ANYTHING, some personalities just don’t fit well with others. And that’s OK, those aren’t your people. But trust me, YOU WILL FIND YOUR PEOPLE. Maybe not now, maybe not until you get a little older, but you will. There are people out there that will LOVE those traits of yours, and those will be your people. Yes, we will keep working to improve our own flaws, but we also shouldn’t have to completely change who we are to fit in. And since I know all of this for your future, I will not protect you in this present.

BUT LET ME VERY CLEAR: I WILL protect you if and when I REALLY need to. I can only pray that this has yet to happen by the time you read this. If you are getting physically or mentally beaten down by a TRUE bully, you bet your little butt I will take the appropriate measures to make it stop. If you get pushed off a slide and break your arm? Momma to the rescue. If you get slammed in to the locker bank and called a nasty name, I am there. If you ever get assaulted or find yourself in a dangerous situation, you can trust in me. But let’s be honest….are you being bullied right now at this moment? No. You are not. You are very young, and these situations are to be expected. So I will allow you to work through these feelings.

However, I will not leave you high and dry to sort these feelings by yourself. We will talk about these situations. I will help to guide you in respect to WHY your feelings may have gotten hurt, HOW the situation makes you feel, and how to HANDLE the successive feelings after the event. I will make sure that you feel supported but also knowledgeable about how to react. I will make sure we identify how the other person may have been feeling and take ownership in our own faults of the situation. But I will also make sure you know that everyone goes through these feelings at some point, and you are not alone.

Lastly, though, I want to write about what it feels like as the parent to have to do this. How you don’t know that keeping quiet and letting you fight your own battles is so, so hard. That seeing you start to tear up as you tell me about how your teachers had to assign you to a table because no one wanted to choose to sit by you is, hands down, the absolute HARDEST thing I have EVER had to do. And what you don’t know about is the pure heartbreak and mixed emotions that happen when a parent has to do this. Do you remember that time you accidentally caught me hiding in the bathroom, with tears streaming down my face? You stopped and stared at me, not sure what to say. And when you finally spoke, you were so upset:

“Mom, what’s that black on your face? Why are your cheeks wet?”

You stared at me with this sad, puzzled look. Like you were staring at a complete stranger and you didn’t know how to help. You were so kind in that moment. I felt so many different emotions at this point. I felt sad that you have been sad. I felt heartbroken that I knew I couldn’t, more aptly SHOULDN’T, do anything to intervene. I felt nervous that I was already reacting so emotionally and you both are young, it is only going to get worse as you get older. But mostly I felt mad at myself for letting you see me in this moment of weakness. At that moment, you didn’t see me as the strong, positive mom who was saying, “It’s ok, don’t worry about it. Nothing to be sad about. Brush your shoulders off, buttercup”. I was so MAD at myself for reacting this way. How am I supposed to teach you to be strong, independent, and courageous if I, myself, was crying about it? So I lied to you. The first of many white lies, I bet…

I lied and told you that I “accidentally stubbed my toe on the door and it hurt, that’s all”. Then I used my shirt sleeve to wipe those mascara-stained tears away as fast as I could, put on a smile, and excitedly said “I’m ok now, let’s go!” You both started to smile again and skipped out of the bathroom like nothing ever happened.

Yea… now you know that that breakdown of mine was not due to my stubbed toe, but rather the repercussion of a mom having to see her child struggle and know that she must sit idly by, behind the scenes. Intervening might be what you would want at the time, and it SURELY would be easier in the PRESENT moment, but that is a TOTAL disservice to you as a person. You need to learn about disappointment. You need to know what it feels like to get your feelings hurt and how to recover from those feelings. You need to be forced to dissect these events and use them as ways to improve YOU. And you need to learn that sometimes your behavior directly impacts your outcome.

What would happen if I always protected you from these hurt feelings while you were young? You would NEVER learn how to deal with them when they finally DID creep in. And they WILL creep in at some point. It is vastly important that you start to work through these feelings at a young age, even if you don’t know that yet.

What would happen if I always intervened and accused someone of hurting you? It would teach you to blame other people. You would never take ownership in your own behaviors and would never learn to improve on your own flaws. Did someone not want to sit by you today? I am sorry that you got your feelings hurt, but let’s talk about it. Were you nice to them before hand? Did you pull their arm on the playground? Did you take a toy from their hand while they were playing with it? Maybe you didn’t, but what if you did? Would it be their fault still? These situations show cause and effect and can harbor great growth in you. I would be stealing that from you if I handled the situation instead of you. You would spend your lifetime always blaming others, and that is very scary.

What would happen if every single time you got your feelings hurt, mommy came running to the rescue? Well, you would never learn to fight your own battles. And after I am gone, what then? Who will protect you then? I will help you, guide you, give you advice, and watch out for you. I will provide you with the tools necessary to be a good, kind, functional human. But at some point, you need to execute that on your own. The time is now, child. And if you make poor choices and don’t execute kind behavior and you do something super asshole-y to someone? Well, I’ll kick your ass, that’s what.

What you need to know, what I pray you know now, is these events are just another fabric thread in the blanket of your life. You might feel left out, sad, and unsure of how to fix it, but you will find your place. You are currently learning, growing, and making mistakes right along with the rest of us. You might have realized by now that some of these feelings are stemming from your own behavior, and some of them are simply because kids, as a whole, are still learning how to behave. We can all grow and evolve together. And please know that this too shall pass, my dear babies. This too shall pass.

So again, I apologize. I apologize for telling the interwebs what your own personal words for “penis” are. I apologize for sometimes being short with you and not demonstrating the patience that I wish I could. I apologize for ME. But I do not apologize for standing aside and letting you live your own experiences.

This is how I will NOT protect you.

Love you true,

Mom

How a Bicycle Almost Killed Me.

This was it. The moment was here. My fate has been decided, my time here on earth was done. Right in front of me…staring me in the face like a uncomfortably calm night creature… was the answer to the lifelong question: “How exactly do I die?”

*The following events are based on ALL true events. Am I dramatic? Perhaps. Does it make for a kick ass story? ABSOLUTELY. Enjoy!*

It all started on a beautiful spring Monday in Iowa. The sun was shining, the breeze was light, and my day started off seemingly normal, much like any other day. I was woken by the loud crash of my bedroom door flying open at the hands of my all-too-energetic preschooler. I immediately kissed my warm, comfy bed goodbye in anticipation that the NOT AT ALL APPRECIATED early morning door slam would then start the chain of events that wakes up my teething one year old.

I was right. Just like clockwork, the crabtastic toddler started screaming “MOOOOOOMMMMAAAAAAA!” at the top of his tiny, snot-filled lungs. So downstairs we go: Breakfast. Toddler tears. Preschooler sassiness. Angry mom. Coffee. Preschooler tears. Preschool. Meltdown. Lunch. Coffee. Meltdown #2. Nap time. JOKES ON ME, NO NAP TIME. Snack. Coffee. Dance Class. Work. Repeat.

Since my patience level with my children was running drier than the Sahara Desert, my winter bod could use some brushing up on before pool season, and the weather was SERIOUSLY awesome, I made the (unbeknownst to me, LIFE-ALTERING) decision to hop back on that ol’ bicycle. I thought to myself: “HEY, FLUFFMASTER 5,000. PUT DOWN THE EASTER CAKE, GET YOUR SPANDEX ON, AND RIDE THAT DAMN TWO-WHEELED SWEAT MACHINE TO WORK! YOUR ASS WILL THANK YOU!”

GENIUS! Not only would I burn a few calories, but I would also get some much-needed head-clearing mommy time away from my two tiny terrors. Done and DONE. *Disclaimer: am I currently eating said Easter cake as I type? Yes. Should you judge me because I think I have PTSD and am stress eating? HELL NAW. Well…actually… yea, you probably should, because I am being dramatic. But I digress.*

So here I am. It is 10:00 pm and I am currently loading my convenient bike storage pouch up with all my take home work crap and getting ready to head off on my nighttime journey home. (HEY! Don’t judge me for having a bicycle storage pouch! It holds all sorts of awesome paraphernalia! Currently, it is holding my work keys, cell phone, ipod, paperwork and some bills that need paid. NORMALLY, though, it holds really SWEET items like snacks, chap stick, and ~~Rumchata shooters~~ water. It holds water 😉 Be jealous!)

I buckle up my helmet (SAFETY FIRST, SUCKAS), get my kick-ass music going, and hop on my body-powered traveling machine. I love the feeling of that night breeze rushing across my ever-aging face. Before I even got a block away, I fleetingly realize I forgot to refill my water bottle before I left. No biggie, though, it only takes me about 10 minutes to get home and since I am not a fish and can go 10 minutes without aqua, I brush that fleeting thought aside….

As I carry on my homeward journey, I giggle as I think about what my current theme song would be. Don’t you ever do that? Do you ever watch people and think about what their theme songs would be and then sing them as they walk by? Like in the movies when a new character is introduced and a piece of music comes on that foreshadows the inner spirit of that particular person? No? It’s just me, then? You are definitely missing out. Try it, it’s pretty enjoyable. It only took me a whole whopping 2 seconds to think of my current theme song. I shouldn’t even HAVE to tell you this because I simply cannot see why EVERYONE wouldn’t immediately know, but click below if you give up.

Didn’t guess correctly, eh? Give yourself a subtle punch in the face. Not hard enough to hurt, definitely not hard enough to leave a mark, but JUST hard enough to make you try harder next time. Also, this song freakin’ rocks and I would encourage you to crank up the ol’ speaker box and let this baby serenade you into the afternoon. And don’t even TRY TO LIE and tell me that this song does not give you a very hilarious visual of me in my bicycle helmet trolling down the road in the late hours of the night. Go ahead, get your giggle on. Mmmmmkay now focus, pull your s*** together, we are moving on….

So here I am gazing across the dark cornfields, enjoying the beauty of the moon, and reveling in the cool breeze hitting my face. I am only about 5 blocks from home now, so my breathing is starting to get heavier than a sopping wet sumo wrestler. I repeat, NOT IN SHAPE YET. Give me time, people! In my defense, I had taken a short detour to swing through the post office to mail my bills, which added to the length of my original cardio requirement. I wasn’t even ashamed for ONE MILLISECOND while the car behind me waited patiently for the crazy girl on the bicycle to unzip her convenient bike pouch, pull out and check each bill for a stamp (I cannot be trusted, a recheck is a requirement), drop them in the mail box, re-zip her trusty pouch, and start the slow pedal descent down the exit. I wasn’t ashamed of doing that at all. NO RAGERTS! In fact, I stood tall and proud as the fellow patron’s headlights shone from behind me like a beacon of light from Jesus himself. Actually, knowing the events that were about to unfold and how I almost lost my life shortly thereafter, I think it actually WAS a sign! Maybe I was SUPPOSED to follow the light! Maybe that was my personal lighted entry in to the gated glory that is Heaven! But, alas…here I sit. Alive and eating the leftover fatty Easter cake like a real lazy ass. So I guess we will never know…I’ve never been a good opportunist. Moving on.

By now you must be thinking, “Holy hell, woman. Stop rambling and just TELL ME HOW YOU ALMOST DIED! FOR PETE’S SAKE, YOU PSYCHO!”

Well, it’s your lucky day. Here we go. Reminder, I was about 5 blocks from home at this point and starting to daydream about my supple Tempurpedic and the impending slumber to follow. I arrive at one of the last intersections before my home sweet home. I don’t particularly care for this intersection, as it is where the street lights end and the darkness takes over. It’s just a short stretch, though, so is normally still worth the night time ride. Also, I have super awesome bike headlights to help light the way, soooooo there’s that…

I cross the street and take a sharp left on to the dark sidewalk. My LED headlight is appropriately lighting the sidewalk JUST ENOUGH to catch the fearful sight that I have always dreaded. Two. Glowing. Eyes.

That’s it, that’s all I could see. Two glowing night time eyes that were frozen still, staring straight at me from the dead center of the sidewalk ahead of me. My adrenaline kicked in so fast that before I had even thought twice, my bike was screeching to an immediate halt. And there we were, the mystery eyes and me were involuntarily and immediately entered in to a late night sidewalk staring contest from approximately 15 feet away. I wasn’t moving a muscle, so as not to startle the beast. The beast eyes sure as hell weren’t moving either, this creature was staring straight in to my soul and obviously scared of NOTHING. My heart started to race as I squinted my eyes, trying to focus on the outline of the creature. (I made a mental note to invest in some headlights that reach 25 feet ahead, instead of the feeble 10.) I needed to figure out what type of night beast I was dealing with here. To my relief, I noticed that this beast could not be much taller than 2 feet, maybe even closer to 1 1/2 feet. I still could not see the type, color, or even true shape of this horrid beast, but I could catch a glimpse of fluffy tail. A fox maybe? Super sweet house cat? I couldn’t tell, but the suspense was KILLING ME! I mentally sorted through all of my options:

I could continue to stand here, like a damn sally, and wait until the light of day to save me.
I could turn around and bike an additional 7 miles to come around from the other side. Not only would this add time on to my already-late night, but that ENTIRE ride would be without street lights. WHO KNOWS WHAT TYPE OF MONSTERS I WILL COME ACROSS OUT THERE?!
Buck up, get on my bike, and keep flippin’ riding right through the danger.

After about a minute, all with continued unbroken eye contact with this wild Iowa wildabeast, I decided on a mashup of choices #1 and #3. I decided to wait until the animal moved from the sidewalk and then I would pull up my brave girl panties and ride on through. Yea, I am comfortable with that decision. I was scared to lose my ankles in a vicious bicycle cock fight, but comfortable with the decision of making progress towards the safety of home.

After another few minutes, and about 5,000 rapid human heart beats, the animal started to move. Actually, he SAUNTERED. That’s right, he was proving his dominance and staring at me while SAUNTERING at snail speeds down towards the ditch. Once the beast was deep down in the ditch crevasse and I could no longer see his glowing eyes, I took off like a real bat out of hell and pedaled faster than I ever have before. All of the muscles in my chubby-yet-strong thighs were shaking as I passed the place in the ditch where the night beast was hiding (ready to pounce on my pedaling ankles, I’m sure of it!) Once I passed the devil beast, I couldn’t help myself. I looked behind me. Much to my surprise and relief, the crazed pair of staring eyes were NOT chasing me like I had much anticipated. PHEW! Safe!

barack

Wait for it….BECAUSE THAT’S NOT EVEN HOW I ALMOST DIED! I know, I know, you are super hungry, a little thirsty, and I just keep dragging on and on. Well, go get yourself a cheese stick, pour ya some delicious beverage, and stick with me!

So as I am FINALLY turning on my street, a sense of official relief washes over me. Not only was the rapid mystery beast NOT following me, but I was safely back in the watchful eye of the street lights. Any beast with half a brain would know to not venture in to the safe zone and to instead stay on ~~stupid~~ 24th street, where there is no light to protect your prey.

Faster than my legs were wanting to tolerate, I high-tailed it in to my driveway and whizzed past our two cars parked in the driveway. I leap off the trusty leg vehicle and hang my hideous helmet on the handlebars. I shakily walk to the front door so I can go inside to open the garage door. I grab the doorknob and quickly try to turn it. Nope. Not moving. Locked. *sigh* My dear husband forgot to leave the front door unlocked for me. Not ideal, but not a life ruin er. Luckily for me, my years of nagging him to “SERIOUSLY LOCK HIS CAR BECAUSE IT WILL GET STOLEN” have fallen on deaf ears and he continues to leave his car unlocked. So I hobble over to the driveway to use the garage door opener from his car.

WHAT THE…?!? LOCKED?!? ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?! YOU NEVER LOCK YOUR CAR, SIR!!!! Why now?!

It’s OK. Just breathe. You have a spare key hidden. *walks over to location which shall not be named and digs her sweaty fingers in to the secret location and pulls out key holder.* (I’m not sure why I decided to shake it first, but I did. Curiosity, perhaps?) No rattle. None. Just the sound of silence and defeat hanging in the air like giant loser fart. And like the true glutton for punishment that I am, I opened the container anyway to find exactly what I was expecting…….effing NOTHING. The key is not there.

Ok…..no big deal. Don’t panic. *looks around hastily to make sure the dark eyes have not made their way down the well lit street* Just go to the back yard, there is SERIOUSLY NO WAY THAT HE DECIDED TO LOCK THE PATIO DOOR. No. Way. It never happens. He wouldn’t have been THAT responsible on the one day that you need to seek shelter from the mystery mammal!

*Swish Swish Swish* was the grass under my dragging feet as I made my way to the back yard. Considering our yard backs to a corn field and is pitch black, truly darker than any devil force could ever be, I was not PARTICULARLY looking forward to making this trek. But unless I wanted to sleep on the sidewalk in a heaping pile of homeless, I needed to buck up. I slooooowwwwllllyyyy opened the fence gate, hoping the creaking wood sound would scare off any monsters lurking in the darkness. I looked around approximately 900 times before making my back yard entrance. My confidence rose as I walked up the wooded steps of our deck. As I approached the sliding glass door, I just KNEW it was open and this nightmare was over.

**** YOU ARE YOU ****ING KIDDING ME SON OF A BEESTING MOTHER FRICKER IT’S LOCKED!!

cat

I tugged on that door handle over and over again, each time with more force than the last, in hopes that divine intervention would just magically open that damn door. Unfortunately, I kept getting the same outcome. The fricken door was DEFINITELY locked!

Ok, dear husband, now Momma is mad. That’s it, game over, I’M CALLING YOUR CELL PHONE AND WAKING YOUR SLEEPING BEAUTY ASS UP!

*Ring. Ring. Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring*

“Hi, you’ve reached Kyle Hansen. I can’t make it to my phone right now but if you….”

I hang up because I KNOW HOW TO LEAVE A DAMN MESSAGE AND I WON’T DO THAT BECAUSE THAT WON’T HELP ME OUT OF THIS LITTLE PREDICAMENT, NOW WILL IT?!

At this point, I couldn’t give two s***s about the lurking darkness beasts and I loudly storm down the deck stairs, through the backyard, and back out to the front entry way. Just like ANYBODY ELSE WOULD, I had to try each and every door handle just ONE MORE TIME to make sure I turned the doorknobs correctly (EVERYONE does this, amiright?!) Nope. Still mother-effing locked. Yep, key still missing from hidden holder.

*Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.*

“Hi, you’ve reached Kyle Hansen. I can’t make it to my phone right now…..”

Blah blah blah ANSWER THE ****ING PHONE, MAN!

I sit down on the front step, mentally processing all of my options WHILE keeping Kyle’s cell phone on speed dial. After about 10 calls, he never answered and my options were not ideal. Aside from riding my bicycle to my parent’s house, at stupid late hours and in to the VERY DARK countryside, nonetheless, or sleeping on my neighbor’s couch in my sweating bicycle clothes, my only viable option was to wake this man up. WHICH SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN THIS HARD. Game. On. Sir.

I storm my ass to the back of the house again. I sit on our (luckily SUPER comfy) deck furniture and continue to call and text profanities over and over, truly baffled as to why he can sleep through all of this hubbub. *10 minutes of incessant phone calling has passed.* As my muscles start to die a little and sink deeper in to the cool deck furniture, I start to think that maybe the sound of my boisterous man voice would be heard through the bedroom window and will wake him up.

“Kyle.”

“KYLE.”

“KYLE ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME WAKE UP YOU TURD!”

Nothin’. No movement. No curtains being pulled back. No response. I start to think the worse: He. Must. Be. Dead.

And right then, at that very moment, my own life flashed before me as I heard the TRUE sound of the devil himself. It was coming from close behind me, not too far from my fence line. It was loud. It was intense. It was stomach turningly terrifying. It sounded exactly like this:

My heart instantly stopped and my body froze solid. That….is a coyote. There are no ifs, ands, or buts about it. I am no Lenny Pepperbottom, but I sure as hell know that that is a friggen’ coyote in my back yard. Before I could even think, I dropped to the floor of the deck faster than a rock in a bathtub. I grabbed my phone because, CLEARLY an internet search was needed to confirm my scary coyote suspicion before I died of a heart-a-stroke. Google, being the real b***h she is, quickly confirmed my fear that not only was that a coyote sound, it was the sound of a coyote CHALLENGE.

And just like that, I suddenly became very aware that I was going to die tonight. I was NEVER going to be able to wake my narcoleptic husband in time to save me from this pissed off death-yote! Why was he so close!? Why was he making his presence known?! WHAT DID HE WANT FROM ME?! Before he started this challenging yap, I was being loud! I was stomping through the yard! I was shouting profanities at my husband through the back window! If that hadn’t scared the aggressive ****er away then nothing was going to! He was taunting me! Was this this beast I had run in to on the sidewalk? It had to be! OMG I DO NOT KNOW BUT I WAS NOT GOING TO MAKE AN EFFORT TO FIND OUT!

Like a true weeny city girl, I lept on to the deck couch, crouched down like a ninja, used the cushions to protect me, and stopped breathing. I couldn’t let the sound of my fat-girl breathing give away my location! And that’s when it started again…

I starting my end of life prayer. I thanked God for all of my blessings and I said goodbye to everyone I loved. I made a mental note to, upon my arrival at the (fingers crossed) pearly gates, that I could somehow send Kyle a sign to keep the pint-sized babies and pets inside the house for all of eternity so as to protect them from my “death by coyote” fate!

~~(Minutes)~~ HOURS passed. The longer I sat on the deck, hiding from the howling heathen, the more I questioned my imminent cause of death. If the ‘yote didn’t get to me quick, I was surely going to die of dehydration. WHY DIDN’T I FILL UP MY DAMN WATER BOTTLE BEFORE I LEFT, GEEZ! (Ya like that foreshadowing there?) Every second that passed was one more second that Kyle was NOT answering his effing phone and the ‘yote was lurking, plotting my death. This was my new reality:

dehydrated

I was close to the end. I knew it. I could feel it. But damnit, I was not ready to die! Fight or Flight, woman…WHICH ONE IS IT? And in a last second surge of adrenaline, I. CHOSE. FIGHT.

So I jumped up off that deck couch like a rabid squirrel, grabbed a rock, chucked it at the second story master bedroom window and yelled:

“KYYYYYLLLLLEEEEEEEEE EFFFFFIIIINNNGGGGG HANNNNNSSSENNNNN WAKE UP RIGHT NOOOOWWWWWW YOU BASTARD!!!”

Like the divine intervention I was waiting for, I heard the sweetest sound. It was the sound of my massive, 120 lb dog getting up and shaking his ears. Not the sweet sound you were expecting? Well, it was for me! Because when my husband sleeps, there is virtually NOTHING that wakes him up. Not cell phones, not shouting, not rocks on windows, not even earthquakes. But when my dog stands up and shakes his ears in the middle of the night? THE WRATH OF KYLE SHALL SHORTLY FOLLOW.

The next thing I know, the window slides open and I hear a muffled “HUH?”

“YOU LOCKED ME OUT! THERE’S A COYOTE AND I’M ABOUT TO DIE!”

*runs down the deck stairs, sprints through the back yard, and races to the garage door.*

And like the sweet sound of Cosmo’s ear flapping, the next best sound graces my ears. The garage door was sliding open! HALLELUJAH, I SHALL LIVE! My life will NOT end today!

I race to get my bike in to the garage and shut the garage door as fast as I can. I storm through the door, expecting to see Kyle standing there, ready to apologize for locking me out and to get some explanation for my bizarre panicked reaction. But nooooo……he was nowhere to be seen. He simply opened the garage door and immediately went back to bed, presumably hiding from the wrath that he surely knew was brewing deep within me.

spicer

So I poured myself a LARGE glass of vino and tried to stop the anger from creeping in. I instead, sat comfortably in the safe confines of my coyote-free living room and mentally recapped those horrifying ~~hours~~ 30 minutes in the deep, dark wilderness of this vast Des Moines suburb.

I am grateful to have survived, but I am a fighter. I WILL get back on that bicycle AGAIN! Suck on that, devil-yote!

Lord, I apologize…

“Dear God,

I promise my intentions are good. However, the execution of said intentions is a little iffy.

In Jesus name, Amen.”

That has been my evening prayer lately. I have unfortunately muttered that prayer more times than I would like to admit. In my defense, we have had a hell of a winter. My love nuggets have been a constant incubus of plague. They got sick before Christmas and have been literally dripping with germs ever since. They have also lovingly shared that plague with me on several occasions. THAT has been the true destroyer of my patience. Every parent knows that taking care of sick children while you, too, are 3 minutes from death is a real ball buster. Have you ever had to clean up baby diarrhea while you have a fever of 103 degrees? It’s the WORST. You know what would be significantly more fun than that? Getting stabbed with a dull butter knife in the non-life-threatening arm fat. That would be SIGNIFICANTLY MORE ENJOYABLE than the warmth of chunky baby regurgitation down your already fevering chest. I swear that shit SIZZLED when it hit my body.

There have been ear infections, fevers, vomit, toddlers running barefoot through vomit (not sure what I am referring to? CLICK THIS BIOTCH to read about my recent brush with bile) influenza, snot, liquid fecal matter, more vomit, snot, rashes, sinus infections, viruses, snot, snot, snot, snot, and more friggen SNOT. You’re welcome, Kleenex employees, for the recent increase in your retirement fund. But I digress…

So in an effort to calm our stress level, cleanse our souls, and instill some good moral fiber in to our ornery-as-shit offspring, I started taking them to church. I know, I know, most of you are thinking:

“You are just NOW taking them to church? And your oldest is FOUR?! FOR SHAME!”

But if you could please keep the Snarky Sally side of you at bay and refrain from giving me any sort of flack about my delay in church going, that would be GREEEEAATTTT.

that-would-be-great

I have the perfect location for your judgments, it’s in a small town far away called “Shutty McShut-it-ville”. New patrons welcome! OK, my point has been made, let’s forgive and forget. *insert single agreeable head nod here*

So here we are on the first Sunday that I truly committed to going to church and was ACTUALLY following through with said commitment. I had decided that, to be generous to myself and give me some time to figure out the logistics and test out the ~~holy~~ waters, I would just take Everlee with me and leave Leyton at home. This way, I can introduce Everlee without the distraction of her never-sits-still-ever brother and I could be calm and patient in teaching her how to behave in church. Also because I am going to need marathon-esque cardio training to prepare for the amount of times I will be chasing him up and down the stairs, and that training is currently on the Baconfest back burner (WHOOOO BACON!). And if any of you know my crotch spawns personally, you know that the energy levels run VERY high and one person would be a true lunatic to take on the task of having both of them in church without a backup adult ~~or seven~~. There ain’t enough vino on the planet to take the edge off of THAT debacle. I would find myself circling through the communion line on repeat just to get more sips from Jesus’ chalice and hope that the pastor didn’t recognize me before the 10th body of Christ was consumed. But I, again, digress…

Let’s go ahead and skip past the 2 mother-freaking hours it took me to get the kids awake, dressed, fed, and ready for this day. I think I have PTSD from those two retched hours. Everlee decided, in true Everlee form, that TODAY was going to be the day she turned on her psycho. REALLY, KID? TODAY? This is God’s work, I just know it. This is God’s test of my patience level. He knew that I was planning on bringing this tiny tyrant to His house today and was sure giving me a hell of a run for my money in doing so. But lucky for me, I knew this was a test. So I locked myself in the bathroom for a “mommy moment”, looked at myself in the mirror, pointed a stern finger right to my own face and said:

“Do not let the four year old beat you. You are stronger than this. Do not falter under the pressure. God is watching, don’t be a failure. Pull your shit together, woman! You are a strong, confident, and stable ADULT and you WILL get that flippin’ miniature lunatic to the flippin’ church to learn about how to be a good flippin’ person! NOW PULL YOUR BIG GIRL PANTIES UP AND GET IN THE F***ING CAR.”

So I did just that. I scooped up that little curly haired ball of personality and I got her securely buckled in to that 5 point harness and I pulled in to the church parking lot minutes before service started. At this point I decided that, before I set the beast in the backseat loose, I deserved a pat on the back for getting THIS far. I took a few seconds to congratulate myself and revel in my own success. (I won’t mention that an Ed Sheeran song was on the radio and not quite over yet. I probably shouldn’t prioritize music over church tardiness, so again, I won’t even mention the short jam out sesh that also occurred right here at this point in time…)

Moving on:

After I reluctantly unbuckled the straps of the car seat and realized that this was it, it was too late to turn back now, I started to question my own sanity. As much as I love Jesus, was I REALLY prepared to take this little type A personality in to a large room with lot’s of people where one must be non-distracting, attentive, and *gasp* QUIET? Quiet. QUIET! OMG IT IS A PHYSICAL IMPOSSIBILITY FOR OUR FAMILY TO BE QUIET! YOU BET YOUR EVER-GROWING ASS THAT SHE IS GOING TO SQUACK LIKE A BIRD! What will the fellow church goers think? Will I get nasty looks? Will we need to leave? Will they shun me, straight-up Amish style? The questions in my mind were furious and the unknown was intimidating! But I wasn’t about to let the last 3 hours of pure, agonizing horror go to waste, so in TO the church we go.

And here is a little glimpse in to what it is like to take a hilarious, witty, ornery, rule-breaking preschooler to church:

“MOM! I AM SO EXCITED! WE GET TO SEE JESUS TODAY!”

*Preschooler takes off in a dead sprint to the front door*

“Everlee, don’t run! Please WALK!”

*still running*

“But MOOOM!! IN PRESCHOOL THEY TOLD US THAT JESUS DIES FOR OUR SINS AND I WANT TO SIT ON JESUS’S LAP AND TELL HIM WHAT I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS SO WE HAVE TO GET THERE BEFORE HE DIES!!”

“Mom, what if I get bored?”

“We will grab an activity bag before we sit down.”

“Does the activity bag come with snacks? Like ice cream or somethin’?”

“No.”

*insert eye roll and a look of utter disgust and disappointment.*

*Everlee stands up randomly and starts dancing, a legit freestyle, complete with pointed disco fingers to the sky. All amidst the silence of a prayer*

“Everlee, sit down and listen to what the pastor is teaching us. He will tell us all about Jesus, and you LOVE Jesus!”

*Everlee stares right in to my soul, without even blinking, for an extended period of time. She suddenly puts her hands on her hips, gives one last booty shake, and sits down*

*A fly swoops in and lands right on Everlee’s shoulder. She is TERRIFIED of flies*

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!”

SCREAM. SWIPE SWIPE. RUN AROUND IN CIRCLE. WHINE. Let’s out an exasperated “UGH!”

……………silence………….

“Where is the fly, Mom?! Where did it go?! DID IT LAND ON JESUS?!”

*Pastor talks about forgiveness and how Jesus says that we should forgive our enemies*

“Mom, Jesus says that we should forgive people that hurt us.”

*Me, beaming with pride that she ACTUALLY heard something they said*

“Yes, Ev, He does! Good for you for listening!”

“Well….I forgive you, Mom, for not making me go poop before we left.”

“What….are you talking about?”

“Poop. I have to go poop, Mom.”

*turns on heels and walks toward the back exit doors*

“Everlee, please don’t play wrecking ball with the Legos up on the table. They are too loud. If you are going to play with the Legos, put them on the carpet.”

*Everlee looks down at the giant tower she made. Contemplates something for a moment, then backhands the Legos so they crash down off of the table on to the carpet.*

“There we go, Mom. On the carpet.”

*insert my muffled curse words and fist clenching.*

*Immediately insert my prayer for forgiveness for using foul language in the house of God*

“EV! Stop screwing around, get out from under the table, and listen to the pastor!!”

*Everlee nimbly creeps out from under the table and walks over to the edge of the balcony, crayon in hand. She stares at the pastor for a few moments, then shifts her gaze to the crowd of people below.*

Oh, no. There is that crazy look in her eye. This isn’t going to be good.

*She oh so slowly lifts her arm and holds the crayon out over the ledge of the balcony then sloooowwwww gazes in my general direction. The fear of God sets in me as I immediately know what she is going to do.*

“Everlee, don’t you EVEN think about it!”

*With the speed of a dying sloth, she retracts her arm to her side, crayon still in tow, and slumps back to her activity bag, defeated*

“Mom, Jesus lives EVERYWHERE! In EVERYTHING!”

“Yes, Everlee, you are right.”

“He lives in our homes. And our cars. And in our bodies. And in our….food.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“But Mom, if Jesus lives in our food, then we have to eat Him.”

“Uhhh…….ok?”

“And if we eat Him, then He goes in our tummies. And after He gets to our tummies, THEN where does he go?!”

*She then looks at me like this:

dog

*Everlee leans over balcony and looks down to the blessed churchgoers below*

*GASP* “HEEYY!! YOU! HEY GIRL!!”

*Waves ecstatically at girl down below*

“Hi!!”

“Everlee, no! Be quiet!”

“SHE’S HERE! THAT’S MY FRIEND DOWN THERE!”

“Knock it off, Everlee!”

*Ev comes back and sits down next to me*

“We do not yell down the balcony during church, Ev! Who are you even waving at?”

“My friend!”

“What’s her name?”

“I don’t know”

*Pastor announces that there will be cookies served in the atrium after service. Pastor asks the RHETORICAL question: “And who doesn’t love cookies?”

Everlee yells at the top of her lungs from the highest level of the balcony:

*GASP* “I LOVE COOKIES!!!”

“Everlee, I have gotten up 100 times to tell you to be quiet. I am not going to get up again. Sit your butt down right here on the floor and play with your activity bag, I am not going to tell you again!”

“But, Mom. Getting up a lot is good for your body! It’s good EXTERCISE!”

*Everlee lies down on the floor and starts doing crunches*

“One. Two. Three. Foouuurrrrr. Fiiiiiiiiivvvveeeeee………”

*Meanwhile, while walking back to the car*

“Everlee, what did you learn at church today?”

“How to color.”

“OK…………anything ELSE?”

“No.”

………….Super.

thumbs-down

Lord, please forgive me, for my intentions are good.

Flu season only exists to destroy parents.

**insert laughter here**

“Everlee, what are you doing?”

“I’m just….tickling my nipple.”

Ahhhhh, yes…the dreaded time has come. Sick days. In theory, they should be a day of rest, naps, and complete down time. But for a parent, these are all laughable expectations. Parents are 500 times busier on a sick day than they are any other day. And for this, I am positive that germs only exists to slowly kill off parents.

Imagine this:

You wake up in the morning with a laundry list of “to-do” chores that you are ACTUALLY excited to get done before heading off to work for the night. You quickly make a homemade, healthy, from scratch breakfast for your kids, complete with all five different food groups. (LOL JK you pour them a bowl of Cheerios as you try not to fall asleep mid-pour and then you call it a day). You then decide that it is time to brew the liquid energy that will be an absolute necessity in order for you to kick-start this “Get Shit Done” list. COFFEE. AHHHHH sweet, sweet Columbian bean juice. The literal ONLY thing that prevents you from developing full-on sleep deprived narcolepsy. Without it, who knows where you might fall asleep? The refrigerator? On the toilet (*ehem, AGAIN*)? On the washing machine? Possibly in the middle of the stairs? Without that liquid caffeine (I like to refer to it as Mommy cocaine), this is all VERY likely. So you fire up that shiny, beautiful, GIFT FROM GOD of a coffee pot, also known as the Ninja, and you work diligently to craft the most delicious caramel macchiato that you can. You then mentally rename yourself “Barbara the Barista” and give your self an accomplished pat on the back.

Then you take a short moment to park your pajama-ed rear on the couch, sip your mommy cocaine, and watch your kids start to tear the house down board by board while you idly sit by. Truthfully, you are simply just trying to procrastinate putting on a bra for as long as you possibly can, but I digress. You begin to mentally prioritize the “GSD” list (as aforementioned, GSD=Get Shit Done. Similar to Rachel Ray’s EVOO, but much more awesome and much less annoying. Ya dig?) So now, the kids are playing RELATIVELY nicely with each other, you have an organized mental plan of how to successfully tackle your GSD list, and the macchiato is starting to jolt through your veins like the sight of a shirtless Gap model pushing a vaccuum cleaner. It is time to start checking things off that list.

But then, right as you get yourself elbows-deep in to the first task and just begin to mentally congratulate yourself for putting on that bra, your oldest love nugget starts crying. Like sobbing, ugly crying. Out of the blue. For no reason whatsoever. And when you try to console her and figure out exactly why the tears are flowing so steadily, she stops crying and says:

“I just want to go to my room and go to sleep. I’m tired. I need to go to sleep.” And she walks herself up the stairs and puts herself in to bed. Approximately 4 minutes later, you can hear her Yeti snoring from all the way downstairs.

F***!

This is not good. To an outsider, this unexpected nap time might SEEM like a positive thing, but you know better. This spawn hasn’t taken a nap in MONTHS, especially not voluntarily. Your mommy instincts start to go in to overdrive and you just KNOW that something is wrong. You promptly text your husband and ask him to bring home some children’s Tylenol from the store when he gets off work. When he asks why, you respond the only way you know how:

“Because our lunatic daughter just went from completely normal and playing with her brother to a crying, blubbering psycho in 10 minutes flat and then put herself in bed at 11:00 am. Something is VERY wrong with her. Bring home the damn Tylenol. Please. I love you. YOU’RE THE BEST.” (heart emoji, double heart emoji, kissy face).

Then you sit at the top of the stairs, just outside her door, and wait for the madness to ensue. No amount of mommy cocaine could take the edge off of the pit that sits in your stomach. And just when you are positive that your body has created a fresh, pulsing ulcer in a matter of minutes, you hear the door to her bedroom open. And there she is. Just standing there in the doorway like a pale, unkempt preschool zombie. And all you know to do is stare right back. You are like a scared rabbit in the face of a snarling wolf. It’s either fight or flight, and you are pretty sure that your momly duties legally prevent you from running away, so you just sit and stare right back.

And then it happens. It is exactly what you knew was going to happen but dreaded anyway. She bursts in to tears and yells “I HAVE TO THROW UP!”. After this, it’s all a blur. Your body kicks in to auto pilot and you sprint to that zombie child and scoop her up as fast as you can. Good thing you finally put that bra on, because this unexpected bouncing would NOT have been fun without the support of that good ol’ underwire. You mentally remind yourself that YES, bras are indeed important and YES, this is why you should continue to wear one every day. *nods head approvingly*

While you make the seemingly MILES LONG TREK (*ehem* approximately 50 feet, but it felt like way longer SO LOCK IT UP) to the bathroom, every fiber in your body is PRAYING that you make it to the toilet before the pre-digested massacre takes place. When you FINALLY take that first step in to the bathroom doorway, you breathe a quick sigh of relief. YOU DID IT, YOU JUST MIGHT MAKE IT! But then…….nope. Too late. It happened. And your walls, toilet paper holder, sink, toilet, and tile floor all hate your face for selfishly eating too many burritos and not being able to run fast enough to prevent this disaster. In the midst of your poor, upset preschooler unloading all of those Cheerios all over the bathroom (thank GOD you were too bad of a parent to cook the homemade pepper quiche that Holly Homemaker posted on facebook and instead opted for the lazy Cheerios route, because karma is a fickle bitch and this could have been a really colorful shit show!) you realize that, just like that, in a matter of seconds, your whole “GSD” list goes down the crap hole (ironically where this regurgitation SHOULD be going but, alas, is not). This is what you get for even THINKING about being productive today, asshole. Next time, you’ll learn.

Now that the momentary storm has passed and your crotch spawn is temporarily vomit-free, you go find your rubber gloves, nose plugs, and cleaning supplies and start the disgusting process of sanitation. But wait…you have TWO children. Not one, but TWO. OH, GOD. WHAT DID THAT ONE YEAR OLD SET HIS SIGHTS ON WHILE YOU WERE KNEES DEEP IS DIGESTIVE FLUIDS?! So you set your smelly, flu-ridden oldest in the bathtub under strict instruction not to move until you get back, and you take off on a literal man hunt for the chubby, mischievous baby. Where is he? What is he doing? I’m sure he’s put something is his mouth, TELL ME IT’S NOT A FRIGGEN SHOPKIN! DAMN IT, SANTA, FOR THOSE BLESSED SHOPKINS! Once downstairs, you hear him, but you can’t see him. You shout out “MARCO!” before you realize that you are an utter idiot and he is a baby and clearly not yet skilled in the game of Marco/Polo. He still eats his own toes, for cripes sake, but you are still in overdrive and it seemed appropriate at the time.

Then you hear it. GRRRRRUUUUUNNNNNNTTTTTT. Grunt. Grunt. Squeek.

*silence*…….

AARRRGGGGHHHHHH. GRUNT. Looooonnnnnnggggggggg breath.

FRIGGEN A, HE’S CRAPPING HIS PANTS.

You have one child upstairs sitting in an empty bathtub covered in vomit, and you have another one hidden somewhere amongst the thousands of toys, shitting his flippin’ britches. You then think to yourself “This is it. This is the end. This is how I die.”

Once the grunting ends, you mentally try to shake the “poor me” thoughts from your head and un-stick your frozen your body long enough to find your craptastic toddler. Since your hearing is failing you, you decide to cash in on another sense in a feeble attempt to locate the missing child. YOUR SENSE OF SMELL. ::shutter:: He shit his ever-loving pants, surely you can SNIFF him out. This HAS to work!

It works. He smells like a porta-potty cleaner on college game day, he couldn’t hide for long. You swipe that poop-ridden squishy up and run back upstairs to check on Pukemaster 3,000. You find her sitting on the bathroom floor in a pitiful pile of puke and tears, and you decide that her well being currently takes precedent over the other shit storm of a diaper. You decide to put the baby in his crib to hang out until you can thoroughly clean and disinfect this nightmare of a bathroom, at that point you would then go take care of Fecal Fred. But before you could turn around to execute said plan, you hear the pitter patter of tiny fat feet with the splish splash of an unknown liquid.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!

It’s like time slowed to an almost stop as your life flashed before your eyes. You knew what was happening, but you couldn’t stop it.

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You turn around and there he is, jumping around in the Cheerio puke that never made it in to the toilet bowl. You then quickly realize that this TRULY is the end. This is REALLY how you die. Game. F***in. Over.

FAST FORWARD 3 Hours:

You have bathed, cleaned,and re-clothed both spawns. You have scoured the bathroom and have reinstated it’s original puke-free state. You have washed your hands NO LESS than 80 times and changed your clothes after each puke-isode. You have situated the Pukemaster on to a bed of towels and blankets within steps from the bathroom and put on a movie. She has promptly passed out cold and is snoring between barf-fests. You have put Shitster McGee to bed for a nap, complete with fresh, turd free diaper. You have said no less than 10 prayers that the baby and you can escape the death sentence of this sickness. You have already scratched the entire “GSD” list and have decided to instead sit down and read a book while the kids get some rest. You head back upstairs to sit near the Pukemaster, ready to toss her the puke bowl at a moment’s notice. But just when you open the door and expect to find a sleeping child, you instead find her sitting up in bed. Without a shirt. Smiling and rubbing her chest. You try your best to stifle the laughs and then proceed to ask her what exactly she is doing. She coyly looks right at you, square in the face, and matter-of-factly says:

“I’m just tickling my nipple.”

*insert copious amounts of laughter here*

Laughter, that is all you have left at this point. You REALLY want to delve deeper and question her in an attempt to find out what EXACTLY her motivation is for ‘rubbing her nipples’, but you are too mentally unstable to do anything but laugh. Here she is, sicker than sick, running a very high fever, looking like complete death, and puking every half hour in to a bowl; and yet she still has the energy to sit up in bed, take her shirt off, and rub her flippin’ nipples. That shit is funny, I don’t care who you are.

The next morning, after you have spent the night “sleeping” on the couch (more like waking up every hour to talk her in to not raiding the pantry out of starvation and to make sure that her moans were in her sleep and not because she was going to spew like Old Faithful, but I digress) and doing your best to keep the baby away from painting the walls with the ‘paint’ from the puke bowl, you are adequately and thoroughly exhausted. This sick day has turned in to a mental breakdown with a side of narcolepsy. Getting all 100 items checked off the “GSD” list AND going to work until 10 p.m. would have been significantly easier than this craphole of a day. And while you are just about ready to pass out cold, face down on the hardwood floor, you look on the stairs to find this:

“Cause I’m a STAR”

REALLY? SERIOUSLY? How does she DO that? How does she go from knocking on death’s doorstep a mere 12 hours prior to then dressing up in weird dance costumes, painting her face like Braveheart, and proclaiming her impending stardom? Where is this energy coming from? Neither of you got ANY amount of sleep in the last 24 hours and she is ready to make her appearance on American Idol while you try not to sleep-drool on the hardwood! Our energy levels are WAY out of balance here. When you are sick, you see the white light coming your way and are physically unable to remove yourself from the couch for approximately 4 days. But kids? They magically bounce back like 2004 Britney Spears.

So you drag your drooping body to the bathroom, splash your face with freezing cold water from hell, and you hobble over to that Ninja once again. But this time, you skip the caramel macchiato and go straight for the espresso. Black. With no fillers. And even THAT won’t erase the two dark holes that have replaced your eye sockets.

Damn you, sick days. Damn you.

The Early Bird Gets….Screwed.

All I can say at this point is….Thanks a LOT, Santa.

This is all my fault. There is no one to blame but me. This s***tastic Holiday shopping debacle that I am currently in is the simple product of inexperienced parenting. I have much to learn. My oldest crotch spawn is four years old. In the eyes of some, I am a seasoned mother. In the eyes of MOST, I am the feeble, meek, laughable newbie mom that needs to pull her head out of her ass and actually USE it. In the grand scheme of life, some might compare my parenting experience to that of a newborn infant baby fawn, laying there in the middle of the forest all covered in crotch goo, attemping to stand up on it’s wobbly, skinny little fawn legs for the first time. Except, my legs look nothing like the skin and bones of a newborn fawn and more like the sturdy, massive roots of your precious Grammy’s full grown oak tree. (THANKS A LOT, FITBIT. YOU EFFING PORTABLE CONFIDENCE DESTROYER). I’m not complaining, those tree trunks that are attached to my ass are PERFECT for s**t kicking. DON’T CROSS ME IN A DARK ALLEY, SUCKAS. BAM!

I’m veering from my original point…….. **insert wide eyed blank stare HERE**

BASICALLY, what I’m getting at is my parenting experience level is currently sitting somewhere between “you have no mother-flipping idea what you are doing” and “if you need me, I’ll be in the corner in the fetal position, sobbing hyserically”.

Having that been said, my 30 years on planet Earth TECHNICALLY qualifies me to identify with the very first borns of the Millennial generation, so I would like to cash in on that privilege right now and BLAME SOMEONE ELSE FOR MY MISTAKES. (hahaha see what I did there?!) And that person I would like to formally charge is SANTA.

So for reference, let’s take it back a bit. It’s late October, early November even, and a proverbial light bulb has gone off in my super-smart (or so I thought) Mom brain. I thought to myself, “Hey there, Sexy Mama. How’s about you start Christmas shopping EARLY this year so that you don’t scramble around at the last minute, thus driving yourself crazy and your bank account balance down to a big, fat, effing GOOSE EGG in mid December.”

**head nods at self approvingly and gives self a celebratory shimmy**

And that’s when my ATTEMPT at a Mom win began. I asked Everlee no less than 20 times what she was going to ask Santa for. This way I could keep my eye open for early sales and save myself (errrrrr I mean SANTA) a potential pretty penny. BOOSH, BIOTCHES.

Everlee’s response was ALWAYS the same:

“I want a hair style Poppy troll doll.”

Groovy, that I can do. I’ve seen it a million times. It’s a plastic Poppy troll doll that has been conveniently DECAPITATED so that it can sit right there, wobble-free, on your counter top like a murdered psychopath while your child braids it’s PRECIOUS pink troll hair. Lucky for me, this is the only part where I ACTUALLY used my damn brain. I held off on buying that weird, decapitated troll. I had a feeling that, despite her asking for it NO LESS than 20 times, her crooked little preschool mind would flip sides and set her sights on a different toy.

So the rat race that is BLACK FRIDAY **shutters** came and went without my check book taking a single deduction (HAHAHAHA check book, I just instantly made myself 90 years old. No one uses checks anymore, not even myself. I don’t even have any in this house. So I digress…) And while I was proud of myself for holding off on purchasing any gifts TOO early, I knew the holiday clock was a tickin’ and I needed to get my ass in gear. So I ask Everlee ANOTHER 50 times what she is going to ask Santa for. And just as I had predicted, that little vag-nugget changed her damn mind:

“I want Hug Time Poppy Troll.”

Ah, yes. HUG TIME Poppy Troll. The only thing weirder than a decapitated troll is a troll that forces you to wear a flower ~~tracking device fit for a stalker~~ bracelet that lights up and forces unassuming children to hug a mystical forest creature. Yea….perfectly acceptable life lesson. But whatevs, I’m gonna buy that damn thing because the tree is up, the lights are hung and it’s GO TIME, F***ERS!!

So I hop online and promptly log in to that there AMAZON PRIME (Click the sound clip below to catch a glimpse of what my brain does when it hears the words “Amazon Prime”)

I mean, that sound clip couldn’t be any more accurate, AMIRIGHT?! After I snapped myself out of my Prime dreaming stupor, I found that damned Hug Time Poppy and at rapid speeds I hit that “Buy Now with 1-Click” button. BOOM. SUCCESS! Santa is on his way, you Christmas-y bastards!

This first purchase only sparked my twitchy buying fingers. Call me butter because I was on a ROLL. Every second that passed shortened that detrimental Holiday shopping to-do list. Some toy tractors? CHECK. A baby doll that has a magically disappearing milk bottle? CHECK. Amazon Prime exclusive toys that no one asked for but EVERYONE needs? CHECK. Crap, crap, crap, and more wrap-able crap that I can purchase at the tip of my fingers? CONSIDER IT DONE.

Santa’s on FIIIIRRREEEEE!

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I’m feeling good at this point. Like “kick a pillow case filled with pudding” good. So I decide to muster up all of the energy and patience that I have left in my body and take the final leap in this Christmas brigade. We MUST go see SANTA! We get the mini me’s all dressed in their Christmas-y best and load up in to the car. We excitedly run in to ~~Bass Pro~~ “Santa’s House” and grab our spot in the WORLD’S LONGEST SANTA LINE IN THE HISTORY OF ALL EFFING SANTA LINES! *sigh* Repeat after me: “it’s for the kids. It’s for the kids. IT’S FOR THE FREAKIN’ KIDS”. *Gives a little wiggle and pulls up big girl panties*

After 700 laps around Santa’s Workshop and approximately 200 lifts in and out of the shopping cart, our time has FINALLY arrived. And just like that, the clouds parted and the heavenly light shone down on Santa’s fat, perfect face. To say my kids were shell shocked was a COMPLETE understatement. Everlee turns weirdly sheepish and seemingly melts in to some form of holiday goo right there in front of Santa. I’ve literally NEVER seen my daughter at a loss for words until this moment right here. She was in pure awe. And I gotta say, he was a pretty magical Santa if I do say so myself. So she plops her tiny buns right there on Santa’s lap while Leyton screams and tries his absolute best to rip that fat Santa’s beard right off his magical cherub face. And in the hustle and bustle of me running over to save poor Santa from his surely 100th screaming infant, I made sure to strain my ears in an attempt to hear what Everlee asked Santa for. And it’s a good damn thing I did, because this is what she whispered in his hairy ear:

“I would like a Magical Bop Cinderella.” That’s it. That’s all she said.

WHAT THE ACTUAL F, KIIIIDDD!! WHAT THE F IS A ‘MAGICAL BOP CINDERELLA’? AND WHERE THE HELL DID ‘HUG TIME POPPY’ GO? WHY WHY WHYYYYYYY?!?!?!

Mmmmmmmmkay, this is where my juvenile Mom experience shines through and I fail MAJOR. Why, oh why did I attempt to be organized….and prompt….and budget conscious….and PREPARED. Who am I kidding, parents are NEVER prepared. In my four short years of parenting, this was one fact I DID know. WE. ARE. NEVER. PREPARED. No matter how much we try, you can never be TRULY prepared. And this little holiday set back is proof. I start questioning everything I have tried to do thus far:

“Why, oh why did you have to go ahead and buy the presents BEFORE taking the spawns to see Santa?”

“Whyyyy did you spend $40 on a weird Troll doll that has no regard for personal space and forces physical contact?”

“And for pete’s sake, WHY did you have to buy them all online in a selfish attempt shop without your skivvies?! You KNOW you won’t put forth the effort it takes to ship those suckers BACK to heavenly Prime land. Now you will keep those blessed toys and are out that money because you TRIED to be prepared but are really just a lazy turd.”

“And what the actual F is a ‘magical bop Cinderella’ anyway?”

I’ve got to find out. I HAVE to find out what that damn, undoubtedly dumb yet expensive toy is. I AM SANTA. I AM THE GIVER OF GIFTS. I AM THE F***ING SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS, FOR CRIPES SAKE. I MUST PROSPER! I CAN’T FAIL ON THE ONE FLIPPIN’ TOY MY KID EVEN ASKED FOR! AAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!

I question. I poke. I prod. I delve deep, deep in to the psyche of my barely-able-to-reach-the-counter offspring. Does Cinderella dance? Is that what ‘bop’ means? Does she smack you on the head with her nuclear-war-strength plastic wand? WHAT MAKES HER BOP? And I couldn’t figure out the riddle of ‘magical bop Cinderella’. So I did the only thing I could think of: I poured a glass of wine, turned on the Disney Channel, and watched every mother effing, eye-ball burning, brain melting toy commercial on that channel. And JUST before I would completely go crazy and poke my eyeballs out with dull butter knives, it worked. It’s a “Magical Wand Cinderella”. WAND. The word the whole time was supposed to be WAND. This is the worst.

“Everlee, what did you ask Santa for?”

“Magical bop Cinderella.”

“Are you sure it isn’t Magical WAND Cinderella?”

“Nooooo…it’s Magical BOP Cinderella.”

(pauses commercial and makes Everlee watch)

“Is THIS Magical bop Cinderella?”

“Yes! Yes! That’s it! Magical bop Cinderella!!”

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Oh, for F sake. This is ridiculous. I should have just waited until AFTER taking the nuggets to see Santa because NOW this God forsaken Cinderella is my new mission and has thus rendered that Hug Time Poppy virtually useless. Has she mentioned that Poppy troll again? No. Not once. She obsessed and obsessed over the creepy thing for a month and now? Nope. Santa brought out the crazy in her and she mouth spewed the ONE TOY that she kept a complete and total secret from me. WAIT A MINUTE…I know how that twisted little Everlee mind works. THIS IS HER TEST! This is her way of justifying the existence of Santa and assuring that I head straight to the mental ward in the very near future. And I’ll bet she knows me just as well as I know her and I’ll bet she is fully aware that I will be entirely too lazy to mail back any online purchases I have made thus far, effectively doubling her gift load. THAT SMART LITTLE PRESCHOOL S**T.

Well, guess what? YOU WIN, EVERLEE. I will not be the one to squash the Christmas magic and I WILL buy you that Cinderella so as to keep the spirit alive. And naturally, the next shopping day that I happen to have available to purchase f***ing BOP Cinderella would also be the week that I catch a nasty case of pneumonia and double ear infection. So now, not only do I get to go shopping IN THE STORES and AWAY FROM MY PRIME APP (for SHAME!!) but I have to cough and wheeze my way through the entire store, all bobbin’ and weavin’ between the other toy-hungry-mom-mongers cloggin’ up the aisles. And let’s not forget the nasty side effect of three pneumonia meds at once. That Target bathroom was EXACTLY the place I wanted to spend half my shopping day. * INSERT FART NOISE*. That was just the crap icing on top of my s***t cake, I tell ya.

But once I FINALLY hobbled my nasty ass back to the Disney Toy aisle and I got my hands on THE TOY THAT WILL SAVE CHRISTMAS, I took my preverbial pill and CHILLED THE F OUT. I had to calmly remind myself that this is NOT the end of my rope. This is just a tiny little snag in the giant Christmas quilt of life. I had to remind myself that going out and shopping for this toy on a day that my body would much rather be on the ~~toilet~~ couch was actually a BLESSING. Why? Because we have the money to buy this toy, that’s more than most. Not only that, but we are able to not only buy the one thing that our oldest child wants, but we do not have to return the ones I mom-failed and jumped the gun on, either. Our children will be spoiled on Christmas day playing with their toys, noshing on their tasty Who treats, and staying warm in their lovely home. And because of these blessings, I’ll s**t in a public restroom any day.

My December Thank Yous.

The following is a list of things that I would like to thank this holiday season:

-Thank you, HOODED SWEATSHIRTS, for making my morning wardrobe debacle a much less stressful and muffin-topped affair.

-Thank you, WATER, for adequately cleansing the mouth of my 1 year old when he licks the dog and eats the pine needles from the Griswold-sized Christmas Tree.

-Thank you, WILLPOWER, for preventing me from killing my daughter when she throws a tantrum when I refuse to give her cheesy poofs for breakfast.

-Thank you, APPLE ORCHARD ON DAYCARE FIELD TRIP DAY, for being a very solid, firm form of birth control.

-Thank you, THICK HEADBANDS, for covering up the massive mom zits that have taken up residence on my ever-aging geriatric forehead.

-Thank you, BASS PRO SHOPS AQUARIUM, for being a free “trip to the zoo” for cheap, lazy parents **ehem, ME**

-Thank you, PATIENCE, for keeping me from slapping the ever-loving S*** out of the crazed old woman that nearly ran me over with her Target shopping cart in a failed attempt to grab the last pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving.

-Thank you, CHILD-SIZED BATTERY POWERED TOOTH BRUSH, for saving me from having to delicately hand brush every single baby tooth on my whining preschooler with a miniature Minnie Mouse toothbrush that’s better fit for a garden fairy.

-Thank you, DIAPERS, for not only ~~mostly~~ catching the excrement of my fat baby Leyton, but for being the perfect arms-reach, absorbent soaking cloth for the 800th glass of milk that’s been spilled on the hardwood since breakfast.

-Thank you, COFFEE AND WINE, because……………..well, because F YES, COFFEE AND WINE!

-Thank you, ADULT SIZED ONESIE, for keeping my body warm from head to toe on the nipply, December walks to the community mailbox.

-Thank you, POLAR BEARS, for bring albino awareness to all species.

-Thank you, FLUFFY SOCKS, for always have just the right amount of static cling to nab the graham cracker crumbs when I am too lazy to bend down and mop the floor. Shuffling my feet across the tile is clearly much less time consuming.

-Thank you, QUICKBOOKS ONLINE, for taking the reigns and reconciling the bank accounts for me while my kids climb me like a mother-freaking tree.

-Thank you, MOM, for always bringing me coffee every single time I forget to buy some and dramatically mutter the words: “This is it. This is how I end.”

-Thank you, CHILD SIZED BOWLS, for being my only form of peppermint ice cream portion control.

-Thank you, COSMO, for being my very own Roomba and automatically lapping up all of the dropped food on the floor like a damn Hoover vacuum.

-Thank you, SANTA CLAUS APP, for being the holiday disciplinarian so mommy can have a month long brain break.

-Thank you, FIT BIT, for reminding me that I am not moving near enough, not staying active at all, and eating entirely too many holiday cookies. Without you, I would surely fluff up at rapid rates. You know what? I take that back. F YOU, FITBIT. YOU CONDESCENDING LITTLE WRIST BASTARD.

–AND NOT A SINGLE THANK YOU TO THAT EFFING LITTLE ELF, CLEMENTINE.

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“Mom, does Satan burn naughty elves?”

Nothing says “Christmas Cheer” like a 4 year old’s PRECIOUS scout elf igniting in to flames and losing a limb.

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It’s here, and there is nothing we can do about it. The holidays are here. While I personally LOVE the holidays, I do NOT love all of the work that goes along with it. Yea, sure…the first Christmas after my first child was born I was ALL ABOUT THE EXTRAS:

We MUST have 17 “baby’s first Christmas” ornaments, 16 is simply not enough.

We MUST have the all the hot new “gotta-have” toys. I don’t care if I have to stand in line at 4 am in the freezing freaking blizzard with frozen snotcicles hanging from my face, I WILL get that stupid new gizmo that Everlee will no-doubt play with for 2 seconds tops.

We MUST have our entire house covered in tinsel and lights and figurines and mangers and marshmallow flavored reindeer poop. I will spend weeks decorating because this is Everlee’s FIRST CHRISTMAS and it must be MAGICAL. (Not considering that she was a mere 3 months old and still pooped her pants and couldn’t see past her own hand. Yea, I’m sure she loved the MAGICAL home. *fart noise*)

And yes…we MUST have the ELF.

The elf.

The effing elf.

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But, things are different now. In my mere 4 years of being a mother, I now know that literally NONE of those things need to happen. Do we need a “baby’s first Christmas” ornament? I say yes, but ONE would suffice.

Do we need the “must-have, hot, new stupid-mother-freaking-never-gonna-be-worth-half-the-cost” toy? HELL TO THE NO. Not at all. It’s not worth the snotcicles. Here’s some Play-Doh, that’s fun, too. HEY! Maybe you could make a Play-Doh recreation of that AWESOME toy to make it seem like you actually got one?! Santa says he won’t be making that toy for Christmas but he specifically told Mommy to wait two weeks and then buy it for half the price and in the comfort of a warm, well lit toy aisle.

Does the house REALLY have to be decked out from top to bottom with everything glittery and Christmas-y and reindeer-y? Yes. Absolutely yes. F YES IT DOES, SCROOGE. I have yet to learn my lesson on this one. I am currently staring at a 3 foot wreath made entirely of ornaments and an 8 foot freshly cut (by hand by my manly-man husband, none-the-less) Christmas tree in my living room with 8 foot ceilings (do the math, suckas. It was a real Griswold moment trying to get that star on, I tell ya). I mean, I have a red velvet Santa wine bottle sleeve on my ever-emptying Cabernet bottle, for cripes’ sake. Lay off, I love living in a Winter Wonderland. BUT… Everlee IS infamous for dropping and breaking LITERALLY EVERYTHING EVER MADE and she managed to grab a snow globe that was etched with Leyton’s birth date (the only birth year momentum he has as per rule #1 listed above) and then let the precious momentum slip through her miniature butter fingers and hit the hardwood at rapid speeds. Thus sending shattered glass, fake snow, and water all over the bless-ed living room floor. So, I digress…

Which brings me to my last point: Do we REALLY need a flippin’ elf? Ugh….I DON’T EVEN KNOW. My first inclination is HELL NO. But then, it does lengthen out the magical time of Christmas and who doesn’t like MORE magic? It is also a FANTASTIC beacon of bribery for good behavior, and VERY effective if I might add. If I just merely breathe the words “the elf will tell Santa”, then she starts shaking in her tiny boots and her behavior immediately ceases. It’s GLORIOUS. But it didn’t start out like that, I had to work DAMN HARD to get to this point.

Let me set the scene for you:

It’s the night of Thanksgiving, and the kids are already drooling in their turkey-induced slumbers. That’s when I go to elfy work. I run downstairs to attempt to find where I hid the damn Elf box the year before. A year before?! I can’t even remember why I walked in to a room, let alone think back a year prior. Waiting until the night the elf is supposed to make her grand appearance was probably not the BEST idea, because I could NOT find the blessed thing. Here I am, all spider-monkeyed up on the storage shelves rummaging through boxes of obscure items in a feeble attempt to recover THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS. And then I found it. Underneath two easter baskets, a bundt pan, and some half empty bottles of liquor that I forgot I had (AMEN, amirite??), it was just sitting there shining in it’s very own personal beacon of Christmas light. HALLELUJAH, let’s get this show on the road.

I open up the box and there she was. CLEMENTINE. Clementine the fickle Christmas elf. But where was the damn book? I rustled in a few more boxes and quickly tired of the charade. I will just tell Everlee that Clementine got hungry throughout the year and ate the book. BOOM. Bye bye book.

So I take the creepy little Clementine upstairs and sit down to write a handwritten note (with my left hand of course because stupid little elves CLEARLY don’t have good handwriting and who am I to ruin the fun?) telling the kids just how excited Clementine is to be back. I also made sure to add P.S. BRUSH YOUR TEETH (because if I am going to go through this elf agony night after night then I am going to get some parenting perks out of it. And that tooth brush fight every morning is enough to send me in to concerning amounts of coffee consumption). Then I sit the little bastard next to a pre-assembled gingerbread house that I bought at Target (it was 25% off on Cartwheel. BAM! and pre-assembled so I didn’t have to do S***. Win win.) and lovingly place the note in her tiny little ha……..wait. She doesn’t have hands. And her fake felt mitt nubs are sewn together. What the hell am I supposed to do with THAT, elf manufacturers?! How is she supposed to hold her tiny shooters on margarita night?! But that’s beyond the point…

Now it’s finally here. The morning has come and I am ready to reap the benefits of all of my elfly hard work. Everlee starts her morning routine of whine, whine, fake fart noise, whine, REAL fart noise, whine-whine-whine, cereal. When she FINALLY sees Clementine on the table, the reaction was less than satisfactory for me. Not only was Everlee NOT excited, she completely didn’t buy it.

“Who’s toy is THAT?”

“It’s not a toy, hunny. It’s our Elf named Clementine. Remember? You named her. She flew here all the way from the North Pole!”

“No, she didn’t. She’s just a toy. She can’t fly.”

“She’s MAGIC! She comes alive at night to fly back to Santa. Then she returns to our house and takes a new position.”

(WHERE IS THAT DAMN BOOK WHEN I NEED IT!)

“Mom….seriously? She’s made out of PLASTIC.” As she takes her 4 year old finger and pokes Clementines face.

*poke. poke. poke. WHAP*

“See, Mom?! She’s plastic and fake. She’s not a REAL elf. Can I play with her? (she grabs Clementine) *GASP* I know! Maybe she wants to play with my CHOKKINS! (That’s Everlee for ‘Shopkins’)”

At this point, I’m starting to wonder how exactly I am going to convince this smart little preschooler that this is real. And then I think…do I even WANT to convince her? THIS IS MY OUT! THE ELF COULD BE GONE FOREVER! But I ultimately cave in to my inner mommy guilt and decide that yes, let’s try to squeeze out a little magic if we can.

“Everlee, you can’t touch Clementine! If you touch her, she will lose all of her magic and she won’t be able to fly back to Santa tonight!”

“MOM! SHE DOESN’T FLY TO SANTA! SHE’S JUST A TOYYYYYYY! LOOK! She doesn’t even have FEET!! How does she walk? SHE CAN’T WALK!!”

Mmmmmkay, kid….so this is the game you’d like to play.Well, GAME ON. You’re only 4! Why isn’t this an EASY convince?! But, you’re right. She DOESN’T have feet. And that’s weird. How does she walk? Hell if I know. On her tiny elf nubs, I suppose. Don’t you dare ask me how she walks in snow, because those nubs would SURELY sink like a greased up elephant.

So I frantically text my much-more-seasoned-mom-than-me sister for some tips and pointers on how to convince Everlee that this elf is real WITHOUT the book that was created for this very same reason. But since my sister is a mom-genius, she gave me some great tips.

*Fast forward to a few days later* I have downloaded the Portable North Pole app for Everlee, pulled up the Elf on the Shelf movie on her iPad for her to view at her leisure, talked my face off about the elves and Santa and had Santa call my cell phone on multiple occasions to speak with Everlee. Never mind the fact that those Santa calls are scarring her delicate 4 year old ego to the point that my husband thinks she needs counseling, but I finally feel like I won. She believes.

Until…..until “the day that shall never be spoken of” happened.

On this particular day, Everlee had quite the believer setback. I was upstairs getting Leyton up and ready for the day while Everlee made her way downstairs to ~~break everything in my house~~ make some cereal, when I heard her yell the dreaded words:

“MOOOOM! CLEMENTINE DIDN’T MOVE LAST NIGHT! SHE’S STILL HANGING ON THE LAMP!!! WHY DIDN’T SHE MOOOOOOVE?!”

OMG. OMG! This is the moment every elf parent hates. I forgot to move the elf. I FORGOT TO MOVE THE DAMN ELF. It’s only the 3rd day, and I already forgot to move the little f****r. So my brain goes in to overdrive trying to come up with the reason that Clementine didn’t move. And then it hit me.

HER FEET! Everlee can’t figure out why she doesn’t have feet! Let’s roll with it:

“Ev, I think Clementine didn’t move because, since she doesn’t have feet, she couldn’t climb out of her lamp hole. BUT the good news is, I bet her elf friends are on the way to help and will get her out. I’ll bet she gets free here soon.”

CRUSHED IT. Totally believable. SHE HAS NO FLIPPIN’ FEET! No feet for the mother-effin’ WIN! Don’t judge me, either. I was put on the spot! I panicked!

And then, it happened:

“Ok, yea, you’re probably right, Mom. But…it looks kind of BLACK in that lamp hole?”

??????? WHAT? What is she talking about?

I set that bizarre comment aside and carry on with my morning duties. Once I got the kids adequately distracted, I promptly marched over to STUPID Clementine to move her while Ev was out of the room and I quickly realized that something wasn’t right. She wouldn’t move. She was…stuck. Almost sticky?! WHAT. THE ACTUAL. HELL?

I tug a few times and she finally “unsticks” from the lamp.

OH. SHIT.

Her ass! Her ass! Her poor, tiny, plastic little ass was GONE! And melted! and BLACK! MAYDAY! CLEMENTINE’S ASS BURNT OFF! SHE’S NOW ASSLESS ELFY MCGEE!

And then it hit me. No, I mean LITERALLY hit me. HER LEG. Her leg dropped from the light and hit me square in my head like a not-so-subtle reminder that I SUCK at this Elf thing! CLEMENTINE’S EFFIN’ FOOTLESS LEG FELL OFF.

Folks, meet the new and improved Clementine:

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I know what you are thinking: “What type of moronic parent puts the damn elf on a LAMP?” Well, first off, SHUT IT. I THOUGHT it was a lamp that went very much unused. I ALSO thought that Clementine’s SWEET LITTLE STUPID BUTT was not close to the light bulbs. Stupid Clementine must have had too much sauce in her hot chocolate at the North Pole the night before and slipped down a little tooooooo low. There should be a warning on the tag: “PRODUCT MAY SHIFT!” So just SAVE IT, WOULD YA.

Now, this is not good. I must act quickly! First, I say a little prayer to thank God for not burning my mother-effing house down via Elf sabotage. Secondly, I call my mom in a frantic attempt to SAVE CHRISTMAS and ask her if Everlee can come play for a bit. She happily obliges (Thank God for grandmas!!) and I get Leyton all bundled up so we can rapidly head to Target to replace Clementine, all while I curse the fact that I get to pay ANOTHER $30 to fix this melty mistake.

Once we get to Target, I hurry as fast as I can to the very back of the store (thanks a lot, Target, couldn’t put them up front, could ya?!) so that we won’t be late for Leyton’s doctor appointment downtown. We finally reach the “Elf Adoption Center” (seriously……..wtf) and *GASP*! There are no girl elves left!! MAYDAY! Everlee would FOR SURE notice that Clementine turned in to Chippy during her brief absence. I start sweating profusely and my heart starts beating fast and I die a little inside. Then, I pull my s*** together and rally just long enough to answer my ringing phone.

“Hello, is this Alison?”

“Yes.”

“Hi. This is (insert nice nurse lady’s name here) from the pediatric office. The doctor has a meeting this morning so we need to move your appointment up to 11:00. Can you make that?”

It is currently 10:24 and it takes a GOOD 40 minutes to get to the doctor’s office.

“Ummm…Oh, boy. I think so?!? I am at Target right now purchasing another stupid elf because I just forgot to move my damn elf and then caught her on fire and my daughter’s every belief is hinging on this ONE FREAKING MOMENT! If I can stop panicking long enough to find a girl elf that appears to be sold out and then purchase said girl elf and then load my massive baby in the car and then safely speed to get there, then YES. I CAN MAKE IT.”

” Um, OK good then. Thank you?”

SHIIIIIIIIIIIITTTT! Let’s go, Leyton! SHIT JUST GOT REAL!

**finds nearest Target employee and begs and pleads for them to go in their back room and pull out ONE FREAKING GIRL ELF that did NOT have her ass melted off!**

Santa must have been on my side on this one, because they had just one girl elf left in the entire store. THANK YOU, INFANT CHRISTMAS BABY JESUS! I then grab my cute fat baby that is CLUELESS as to why Mommy is being a complete psycho and get him loaded up in the car and to the doctor’s office just in time for the new 11:00 appointment only to be greeted with:

“Oh, did you know your appointment isn’t until 11:30?”

kristen-wig

**Fast forward 2 hours*

I rush home before picking Everlee up so that I can instill MAJOR Clementine damage control. I throw the burnt carcass of dead Clementine in the trash and hide it under a plastic bag. The literal LAST thing I need is to go through all this damn trouble and then have Everlee see fried Clementine laying lifeless in the trash.

I carefully place the new, non-toasted Clementine in the tree with two new elf ornaments to cover up the massive mistake that is me. I figure I can make those two little elf ornaments the “friends that helped footless Clementine slide her nubs out of the lamp and in to the tree”. Now this damage control has costed me $36 instead of the already-irritating $30. But, unfortunately, this is no ones fault but my own. Hey, at least I get a new Elf book out of the deal since the other book is still M.I.A and Ev needs constant reassurance to make sense of this whimsical Christmas magic.

My brain now says GET RID OF THE DAMN ELF. And after all of this is said and done, Clementine will NOT be coming back next year.

But then, Everlee arrives home. And she finds new Clementine in the tree with her two new best friends. And she is PUMPED. I would even venture to say ecstatic. And that DAMN mom heart in me melts when I see the pure joy and excitement on her face.

And THAT…is how Clementine got invited back for 2017.

SHIT.

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No, seriously…WHERE DID IT GO?!

“Literally…in the whole history of the world…I am POSITIVE that no one has ever walked up the stairs to see his wife in their daughter’s bedroom. In an adult sock monkey onesie. And a giant baby head. On her hands and knees. Running her hands through the carpet.”

-Kyle Hansen (husband extraordinaire)

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No one ever told me the real, gory, vomit-inducing details of being a mom. I mean, sure, everyone gets the proverbial “Just you wait” comments, but no one TRULY went in to great detail about just how NASTY and UNSETTLING parenthood can be.

I am not, however, complaining about being a parent. Being a mom is truly the ~~hardest~~ BEST job in the world and I would not give it up for anything. But why didn’t any one tell me about this impending event? A simple warning would have been helpful in adequately preparing my brain for the gut-gurgling mom-venture that was about to take place. I would also like to put this out there for anyone that will be attending a baby shower EVER AGAIN. AT ANY POINT IN TIME. Perhaps, what would be most helpful, is forgoing the standard gifts of onesies, baby bottles, and pacifiers and instead providing the new mom with a “Gag Bag”. Please fill said bag with items such as the following: medical masks, rubber gloves, hand sanitizer, citrus flavored candy to curb the urge to vomit, hair ties, tissues to dab the watering eyes, makeup remover, a change of clothes, a bucket, some fishing line, and a gift card to the nearest margarita bar. Yea, please buy them that. THAT is helpful.

It all started on a gorgeous, uneventful Wednesday afternoon. The day had been quite successful up until that point, which really should have been my first clue that SOMETHING was about to go down. Something that I never imagined I would be dealing with.

We woke up that morning and everyone seemed to be in a decent mood, which is a success all on it’s own. I got the kids fed, cleaned up, and dressed in the best outfits I could muster at the time. I can’t guarantee we got our hair brushed, but I digress. As far as I remember, no one had any cereal residue or snot on their face. *Pats self on the back*

I loaded the little crotch spawns in to the car and got Everlee to preschool on time. While she was at school, I put Leyton down for a nap and ~~celebrated with a secret cupcake and 12 cups of coffee~~ got some work done. Those 3 hours of preschool are a GOD-SEND, I tell ya. One love nugget at home is so much easier than two, so it feels like a 3 hour vacation to this mama. Shortly before noon, I fed the youngest and got him loaded back in to the car for preschool pickup. (CONFESSION: In the car, the realization hit that my 3 hour mini-vaca was officially over and I had to hold back the tears that were on the break of spilling over. Goodbye, freedom. If you ever ask me again, though, I’ll deny it.)

After we got home, the lovely Wednesday carried on with both success and grace. The kids ate lunch and BOTH went down for a nap. AT THE SAME TIME. And I had to try really hard to hold back my twitchy fingers from pouring a class of vino to celebrate THE BEST WEDNESDAY EVER.

Now, at this point some of you might be thinking to yourselves: “But WTF was she doing wearing a sock monkey onesie and giant baby head? Can we get back to that fact, please?”

Yes….yes we can. But I AM slightly confused as to why you would even need clarification?! It was Halloween week and it only makes sense for me to dress up in costume along with the rest of the tiny dancers, right? AND…when one comes across a giant baby face mask during a much-hated trip to Wal-mart, one must buy said mask…right? RIGHT. AND…when one is wearing a giant baby head mask, one must complete the costume by putting on the sock monkey onesie that one already had in her closet, right? RIGHT. (If you even THINK of having to ask me WHY I already had a sock monkey onesie in my closet, then you clearly do not know me at all. Scroll down and read the rest of my blogs…it will shed some light. Then come have a beer with me because I like fun.)

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Now, the time has come. I hear the children stirring in their bedrooms. They have risen from their slobber-soaked slumbers and nap time has sadly come to an end. I gather all of my patience and sanity,carry on as normal, and head up to their bedrooms. I grab Leyton first, as he is most likely to get Al Pacino pissed and eat his way out of his wooden crib. Then, Leyton and I head in to Everlee’s room to summon the beast. Everything seems to be kosher, so we all head downstairs to eat our afternoon snack. Apples for the kids, cookies for me. SHUT IT, JUDGY. YOU KNOW YOU LIKE COOKIES, TOO.

And then…it happened…

Out of the blue, while sitting at the kitchen table, Everlee muttered the words that would turn the entire afternoon in to a serious, God’s Honest shit search.

“Mom…I tooted in my bed.”

Ummmm…..ok? My response was, of course, perfectly appropriate:

“Congratulations.”

Here it comes…

“But don’t worry, Mom. I took the little piece of poop and threw it out of my bed.”

Wait…WHAT?!

jackie-chan

“Everlee…WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?”

***Everlee puts her head down to her food***

“Nothing.”

“No, no, NO. What did you say? Did you say you took a little piece of poop and threw it off your bed?”

“Yes.”

“WHY? Why was there a little piece of poop? AND WHY DID YOU THROW IT? You aren’t a monkey, we don’t throw poo!”

“No…Mom, listen. I have to tell you something. I was in bed, trying to sleep, and I accidentally tooted. And a little piece of poop came out. And I didn’t want it in my bed while I slept so I took it and threw it over the edge.”

OMG. OMG. OH…MY…GOD!

And that is when the turd scavenger hunt began.

I grabbed Everlee, took my onesie-clad body, and sprinted up the stairs to her bedroom. I immediately asked her where the ‘little piece of poop’ was. Effing SICK. The fact that I was even asking this question was gag-worthy.

In true Everlee fashion, she responded with the always-irritating: “I don’t remember.”

WELL YOU BETTER START REMEMBERING REAL DAMN QUICK, KID.

I threw Ev up on to her bed (it is a loft bed, so you can only imagine how far that poo could have launched itself) and made her start looking in her bed. There were only 7,000 stuffed animals in her bed, so it was SUPER CONVENIENT TO SEARCH FOR THE SHIT NUGGET. I promptly got on my hands and knees on the carpet and started shaking every toy, blanket, animal, and article of clothing in hopes that the human rabbit pellet would rear it’s ugly head. No such luck. So I started running my hands through the long fibers of her still-plush BROWN carpet. That’s right…BROWN. EFFING. CARPET. How exactly is one supposed to find a poop pellet in a sea of turd-colored fibers? NOT. POSSIBLE. I scooted my adult onesied ass around the carpet like a crazed toddler after a pinata explosion. STILL. NO. POOP.

This is the point when Kyle got home from work, heard the chaos from the upper level, made his way up the stairs, and witnessed my grown ass in a sock monkey onesie with a giant baby head SCOOTING around the floor like a true psychopath. After a few moments of observation and sheer confusion, he asked me what the hell was going on. I then made Everlee explain to her dad EXACTLY why we were tearing her room apart like we were searching for a shit grenade. It’s because we were…indeed…searching for a shit grenade. A REAL LIFE SHIT GRENADE.Kyle thought it was hilarious. I was trying not to vomit. If I pulled my finger from the carpet with a tiny turd smeared on my index finger, I would FOR SURE vomit on the carpet. GAME OVER, FOLKS, this is how it all ends for me.

After more than 10 minutes of searching and full removal of ALL room debris, we STILL hadn’t found the elusive fecal bullet that Everlee insisted was in there. This unknown was TERRIFYING and induced many, many questions:

What if we never found it?

What if the odor-free shit droplet becomes a permanent part of Everlee’s room?

What if I walk in the room a week from now and feel the warm, soft nugget between my giant man toes?

What if Leyton is playing on the floor and confuses it for a cocoa puff? Do I need to call poison control?

What if it gets caught in Cosmo’s dog hair and he smears it all over the house during his worldly travels?

THE UNKNOWN WAS TERRIFYING. Halloween ain’t got NOTHIN’ on this shit-tastic scare tactic.

I finally came to the conclusion that the turd was non-existent. We tore that room APART and we are STILL without the shit ball. Surely, Everlee MUST have dreamed it and confused her dream for reality.

“Everlee, are you SURE you threw a tiny turd off the bed after it sneaked out of your unexpected bed fart?”

“Yes.”

Scared woman

“Are you SURE it wasn’t just a dream?”

“It wasn’t a dream!”

“Well….we can’t find it anywhere! WHY THE HECK DID YOU NOT JUST GO TO THE BATHROOM AND FLUSH IT DOWN THE TOILET? What the heck, kid. Why do you want to put me in a grave!?”

“I don’t know…I just didn’t expect for a little poop to come out. And I just REALLY didn’t want to sleep with the poop.”

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“Well…touche. I wouldn’t want to sleep in my own excrement, either. But seriously, WHERE DID IT GO?! YOUR JOB IS TO FIND IT. And next time your body decides to surprise you with a little poop present, PLEASE, I BEG YOU…just go to the flippin’ bathroom and dispose of the butt bullet in an appropriate location!”

Still…to this day…the ‘Mystery of the Fecal Faux Pas’ has yet to be solved. Despite scouring, cleaning, vaccuuming, and lengthy discussion, the tiny poop particle remains at large. What an elusive little shit.

And THAT, folks….is how a part of me died that day.

Celebrate the successes.

WARNING: This blog post is out of character. It is not funny, or witty, or publicizing any of my 500 embarrassing moments. It is something that has been eating away at my gut for months. Years, even. Like, literally melting my insides in to a big ball of nerves and unease. I have been stewing for awhile now about whether or not to make this post. But maybe, if I can dole out a dose of blunt reality, then a ripple effect can take place. Maybe then we can start to change the way we approach life. Maybe, we can be perfectly happy. Or maybe, it will simply be cathartic to type this out in my, very public, electronic journal.

I see it everywhere. At the store, at my job, at my niece and nephews sporting events, at the doctors office, even at the preschool that my daughter has only been at for a very short time. It’s in me, like a virus I just can’t shake. I will no doubt offend someone, but I’m pretty positive that my posts do that anyway so what the hell. I apologize in advance for breaking character and failing to provide you with your daily dose of funny. (Have no fear, the funny will be back faster than Richard Simmons can run from a donut). If the lack of humor is irritating to you, stop reading now. Get ready, it is about to get heavy.

If you can do ONE THING for you AND your children, PLEASE let it be that you celebrate the successes. I am begging, on my hands and knees legit begging, that you stop comparing your children and yourself to what others have and start recognizing what YOU have.

I get it, this is hard. REALLY hard. This is something that I struggle with on a daily basis. Every day that I wake up I have to actively remind myself to do this. When I feel the comparisons start to creep in, I have to give myself a mental pep talk that goes something like this:

“It does not matter what this person has. It does not matter what they can do. It does not matter that you or your kids do not have the same. IT DOES NOT MATTER. YOU have enough. YOU are enough. YOUR KIDS have enough. YOUR KIDS can do enough. YOU ALL HAVE ENOUGH.”

And it works. Every time that I just stop for a minute and REALLY think of all of the positive things that our family has, it works. Without these daily (hell, sometimes hourly) mental reminders, it is very difficult to look at what other people have and NOT compare that to you or your children. But there needs to be a serious shift in the way we think about our lives and the lives of our children and I am BEGGING to start that shift.

NEWSFLASH: Someone is ALWAYS going to have more than you. Some child is ALWAYS going to have more than your child. YOU WILL NEVER GET EVERYTHING YOU WANT, AND THAT IS OK. This is what keeps us grounded. This is what keeps us level headed and appreciative. This is what prevents us from sitting in a perpetual state of disappointment. This is what keeps us from constantly having to chase the “Joneses” in an effort to have the same.

Guess what? The hard reality is that maybe the Joneses are unattainable for you. You weren’t meant to have the same things that they have. We all have a different destiny. And if we were MEANT to have everything that everyone else has, then we would have it. But what kind of life would that be? DIFFERENCES ARE BEAUTIFUL. But please do not confuse this with settling. Settling is being perfectly fine putting forth a mediocre effort level and receiving mediocre returns. I am not a proponent of settling. But at some point, in SOME venture of life, you will put forth 100% effort and still not be the absolute best. At that point, it is time to recognize your efforts and celebrate your successes. With you living this example for yourself, your children will follow suit with this mentality as well. And what could be better than seeing your child HAPPY with who they are and HAPPY with what they have?

Everyday, every choice I make, I have to force myself to stop and think:

“What is this teaching my children?”

As you know, the struggle is REAL. I screw this up all the time.

If I change my clothes 700 times a day because I do not like how they fit my less-than-perfect-slightly-plump figure, what is that teaching my daughter? Is that teaching her to love her own body? No. It is teaching her to be ashamed of her flaws and to hide them. JUST PUT ON THE DAMN CLOTHES, SMILE, AND SHUT UP ABOUT IT. You are beautiful. CELEBRATE YOUR SUCCESSES.

If I make seemingly harmless comments like: “Look at their car. I wish I had that car.” or “I wish I had the money to go on vacations every year like they do.” Then what is that teaching my kids? It’s teaching them that we do not have ENOUGH. That other people have MORE money and possessions and we should yearn for what they have. Instead, I should be remembering that I am currently in a car. A very nice car, actually. And how many people do not have cars at all? You have more than most. CELEBRATE YOUR SUCCESSES.

If I do not get the big promotion, and I come home angry and rambling that Betty Lou got the job instead of me, what is that teaching my children? It is teaching them that I am better than Betty and Betty didn’t deserve what she got, regardless of her talents or work ethics. Is Betty better than me at what she does? Does she work harder? Chances are, if she got the job instead of me, then yes. She has some quality or asset that currently sets her apart from me. And that is O.K. I still have a job and I am still good at what I do. And this is just no for now, not no forever. CELEBRATE YOUR SUCCESSES.

When my child does not get the grade she was hoping for in school and I immediately contact the teacher for an explanation instead of asking her what she could have done to improve, what is this teaching her? It is teaching her that she does not need to own her mistakes. She does not need to recognize that maybe she didn’t study hard enough. Or maybe she didn’t put enough effort in to her homework. Or maybe she needs extra help to understand the material. It is not the teacher’s fault. She did not EARN the grade she wants. There is no vendetta from the teacher against my child. Luckily, grades are not set in stone. Work harder and reap the benefits. She is still smart, sociable, and hilarious. CELEBRATE THE SUCCESSES.

When my child does not make the highest level sports team and I make comments like: “You deserve to be on that team! You work harder than Billy does! Your coaches are wrong!” What is that teaching my child? It is teaching them that it is someone else’s fault. That deflecting responsibility on to others is appropriate. That it is not their lack of work ethic or raw talent that landed them there, it is someone else’s poor decision. It is creating an entitled mentality in my child. Am I sitting in on every minute of every one of my child’s practices? Is my child’s stats the best in the league? Am I an expert in that particular sport? If the answer to any of those questions is no, then I must trust that the placement is appropriate for my child. Instead of being mad that Billy made a BETTER team than my child, stop and remember that my child ALSO MADE A TEAM. And not every child was bestowed the same honor. Some kids won’t be playing at all. Be happy with what my child was given. CELEBRATE THE SUCCESSES.

If my child whines because one of her friends has a toy that she does not have, do NOT promptly go to Target to surprise her with the very same toy she was whining about. Do not teach her that she deserves everything that every one else has. You know what? SHE DOESN’T DESERVE EVERYTHING SHE WANTS. Instead, try this. Make her wait for her birthday or Christmas or an appropriate gift-giving occasion and then see if she still wants that same toy. Chances are, she simply wanted it because she didn’t have it at the time and has already forgotten all about it. And if she still does, then she will be receiving it appropriately and not in an effort to fill a void that actually NEEDS to be there.

Whether we all like it or not, we NEED to deal with disappointment. We can not expect other people to provide us with everything we want. NO ONE OWES US ANYTHING. Before we get mad about what we do not have, let’s all stop and think:

“Do we TRULY deserve this? Are we confusing DESERVE with WANT? Did we work as hard as we POSSIBLY could? Maybe we worked very hard, but did someone else work harder?”

Chances are, the answer is yes. If I am being brutally honest with myself, I know that most of the time someone DID work harder than me. And just because I work hard for what I have, that does not mean that someone else did not work even harder for what THEY have. We don’t really deserve what we want. DESERVE and WANT are two totally different things, and we must not confuse the two.

And whatever happened to just being happy for other people? When did this mentality shift from “YAY! Good for you! I am so happy for you!” to “Why didn’t I get what HE got?” If I could wish to instill one thing in my children, it would be to CELEBRATE OTHER’S SUCCESSES AS WELL AS YOUR OWN. Believe me, it is O.K. to be happy for other people without diminishing your own accomplishments. The success of another person does not define a lack of success in YOU.

I’m exhausted, aren’t you? I am exhausted from the constant stress and struggle of playing the chasing game. I am utterly tired of the feeling that sits inside of me when I feel like I need to try to be someone other than myself. People are constantly comparing everyone else and I am OVER the resulting feelings of inadequacy. I am officially breaking the way my brain thinks and hoping to start the trend for others. We CAN be TRULY happy with right where we are at in life.

We can not spend our lives chasing what other people have. We can not raise a generation of children that feel that the world owes them something. We can not magnify our own insecurities and passively teach our children that they DESERVE WHAT THEY HAVEN’T EARNED. We can not move our children from house to house, school to school, or activity to activity in an effort to be better than everyone else. Work hard, reach your personal potential, trust your village, and be happy with what YOU have. And teach your children the same. We owe that to ourselves, our children, and future generations.

Our houses are ENOUGH. Our schools are ENOUGH. Our possessions are ENOUGH. Our appearance is ENOUGH. Our talents and interests are ENOUGH.

WE HAVE ENOUGH.

Your inadequacies are smeared on your shoulder…

Let’s just start out with this one burning question of mine:

“Why am I the ONLY mom at preschool drop-off that looks like a stray cat after a severe thunderstorm? But seriously….WHY?”

It finally happened. My oldest love nugget started preschool this past week and I AM SO EXCITED. I get three full, glorious hours, THREE TIMES A WEEK, free from my patience-testing-almost-four-year-old! And since my one year old is yet to speak in full sentences, that means it is three full hours of NO ARGUMENTS AT ALL.

CAN I GET AN AMEN!?

amen

This is the best day of my life, I’m sure of it! Ok, ok, that is dramatic, this is the fourth best day of my life!

My wedding day.
The birth of my baby ~~patience-sucker~~ girl
The birth of my baby ~~wrinkle-inducer~~ boy
~~The first time I attended Baconfest~~ (scratch that, that’s embarrassing)
(#4 for all intents and purposes) THE FIRST DAY OF PRESCHOOL!

I mean, I completely forgot just how easy it is to get things done with just a one year old in the house. I know, I know, all of you “moms of one” are wanting to cut off my mammories right now. BUT TRUST ME, when you have two (or more) miniature gremlins running around the house spilling all the food and using your body like a magnetized jungle gym every moment of your life, then having just the baby at home seems like a friggen’ vacation. I am NOT saying that having one child is easy, I am simply saying that my brain is only having to function at 50% normal capacity right now and I AM STOKED. And when that baby goes down for his morning nap?! SCHLABLOOUU! I’M FREE!

I’ve got to admit, I was feeling pretty damn proud of myself on that first preschool drop-off morning, too. I managed to get both kids up, dressed, fed, and pictures taken with over a half hour to spare. All while running on approximately 4 hours of sleep and 19 cups of coffee. There weren’t even any tears shed, from EITHER party. Everlee couldn’t have run in to the classroom faster with barely a goodbye and I couldn’t have ran out any faster in hopes to enjoy every free moment I could. It all went swimmingly. It was like the skies opened up and God himself came down to make sure that I could pull it together. Thanks, God, you’re the shizz.

But quickly upon arriving at my first attempt at preschool drop-off, I started to come to a very obvious and unflattering realization about myself: I look bad. Like REAL bad. And the saddest part? I didn’t think that I looked that terrible when I left the house. But now, I know.

All of these parents look….well……GOOD. They are positively put together in a way that only happens for me if I am ACTUALLY going somewhere of importance. But let’s be honest, that’s about twice a year. They are a glaring example of my inadequacies as a female.

The hair is all curled.

The makeup is all done and fresh.

The clothes are all clean, wrinkly free, and somewhat trendy.

The smells are all nice.

And then… there is me.

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Yea, for real. I literally just took that picture of me upon arrival home from preschool drop-off. And see that yummy morsel on my shoulder? That is baby puke.

Now, HOLD UP JUDGY JUDY, go easy on me. That little shoulder deposit happened sometime after I left the house and before I got home. I have to carry the fat baby in for drop-off and despite me catching the relatively-frequent waft of vomit, I DIDN’T KNOW IT WAS THERE. This photo was the exact moment that I finally found the source of the gag-worthy smell. I promise I would have changed my shirt had I known. (At least, I THINK I would…) And since I haven’t officially checked my yoga pants yet this morning, there is about an 80% chance that there is a hole somewhere in them.

And see that makeup? Yea, that is left over from the night before. See how one eye is slightly smokier than the other? Yea, I didn’t know it looked like that, either. OOOF. Do I make a habit of sleeping in my makeup? NO. But both stubborn children had a photo shoot last night and well… you can imagine how that ended. It ended with both of them going IMMEDIATELY to bed and me cracking open a nice, large bottle of Pinot and then falling asleep on the couch. CONFESSION: when I wake up on the couch at 2am, the LAST thing I am going to do is rejuvenate my energy level by splashing my face with water and delicious, orange-smelling makeup remover. HELL NO, H2O! So instead I sleepily climb the stairs, pray to the Mom God that my children won’t wake up (the little chubby one will, you bet your sweet booty he will), and hit the bed as fast as I can. BUT, because of this bad makeup-removing-choice that I made last night, you can see the evidence of it ON MY CHIN. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice, the damn thing has a brain! But I digress…

That brings me to the hair. Ugh, that hair. I have no good explanation for the hair other than the fact that I am stressed and exhausted and refuse to wake up an hour earlier than normal just so I can straighten and style my luscious locks for PRESCHOOL FRICKEN DROP OFF. Sure… I run a few errands after dropoff but HyVee and Target do not require black tie attire, so it is what it is and I SAY GOOD DAY.

While I try not to compare myself to others around me because I truly am my own person, I am having a hard time being the only mom in the church that looks homeless. My mind IMMEDIATELY starts to analyze the situation in an effort to make myself feel better. Sure, a few of them are clearly headed to work. I can tell you that the dad in the suit and tie is not heading to Target after this. And that’s cool, because I do not have to immediately head to work. Therefore, there is no immediate reason that I should have to look like a celebrity to take my kid to school. But the rest of them? WHO THE HELL KNOWS WHY. One of them was hanging around talking about how she needed to mop the floor while the little one was away. ARE YOU EFFING KIDDING ME? MOP THE MOTHER FLIPPING FLOOR while looking like THAT?! You know what I look like while mopping the floor? SEE ABOVE PHOTO. Jeez, my poor husband. Apparently I am doing this whole “mopping the floor” thing all wrong. My inadequacies are showing again…

Also, the moms stay to hang out. THEY STAY FOR A LONG TIME after the designated drop off to chat, catch up, get to know one another, yadda yadda. Don’t they highly value their free time? I sure as hell don’t want to waste ONE MORSEL of a second of the free time that preschool has so lovingly awarded me. You know what I do? Run out as fast as I can so as not to allow anyone to figure out that I am, indeed, the reason the room smells like puke. No offense to the other moms, it’s not personal, I’m sure you are just great. But do you think that I want to stay there and mingle with the mom models while I look like Gary Busey?

The other Preschool Moms:

skinnymodel

ME:

gary-busey

You know that movie “Bad Moms”? Yea, I am POSITIVE that the writers followed me around for a week and got their entire screenplay. I should get royalties. I am a walking, breathing “bad mom”. Most of the time, I don’t even feel bad about it. But, just for a split second, I became very aware of the differences between me and them. However, I have NO INTENTION of ever waking up earlier than my allotted five (on a good night) hours of sleep per night so that I can curl my mane prior to preschool. See those bags under my eyes? Yea, waking up any earlier won’t help those babies at all. Also, I have NO INTENTION of putting on my cutest sundress and sandals in a feeble attempt to keep up with the Joneses. Again, no offense Joneses. You do you, boo.

I will normally improve a little and PROBABLY take my makeup off most nights. However, that means that most likely I won’t be wearing ANY at drop-off the next morning. Say hello to my chin zits, world!

Since I have no intention of making much effort to improve my morning appearance, I think I’ll just have to find a new way of dropping my spawn off in an effort to make me feel more adequate. Do you think the teachers will be ok with me ducking down below the window, smacking the name placard up on the window with my Go-Go-Gadget arm, and cracking the door so she can run in? All while I army crawl down the hallway and out the side door before any of the Beautiful Bettys see me? I think for Everlee’s social sake, it’s best that she not be claimed by the hobbit of a mom that birthed her.

But then again, as I was sprinting out, I heard Everlee loud and clear on the playground:

“You should watch where you are going!”

Ok……scratch that. Maybe we deserve each other.

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These are the battles I am not going to fight…

Yes, I let my child go to Target in her Snow White costume. Yes, I bought her a cat helmet and let her wear it as a hat for the duration of the trip. And yes, every single person at Target had a comment about it.

————————————————————————-

When it comes to raising my children, instilling a sense of independence and allowing them to expand their creativity ranks high on my list of importance. Yes, I want them to be smart. Yes, I want them to practice their workbooks and keep a clean house. Yes, I want them to be able to follow rules and the instruction of their parents and teachers. Yes, I want them to know how to count and say the alphabet. I’m not a heathen, for cripes sake. But I also thoroughly feel that if my children are ever going to become independent from me and functional, worthwhile members of society, then they are also going to need to be allowed to use their creativity and make (some) decisions of their own.

Any parent knows that yes, it is quicker to dress your child yourself and put their shoes on for them. You get out the door 500 times faster that way. The amount of time that it takes my 3 year old to dress herself, go to the bathroom, and put on her own shoes is equivalent to the time it took to carve the whole damn Mount Rushmore with a chisel….by hand. You have no idea how twitchy my fingers get when Everlee is on minute 10 of attempting to zip up her own coat and I am antsin’ to get out the door to Starbucks. I do not PREFER to wait for extended periods of time on a simple task when all I really want to do is take that first sip of my double-shot-triple-espresso-nonfat-milk-yet-filled-with-sugary-caramel-macchiato.

But, it’s not about me. It’s about them. My convenience is not more important than their budding maturity. It’s about harboring that sense of independence that I see growing a little more in my children each day. It’s about letting them feel accomplished in whatever it is they are doing, whether it’s successful or not.

And sometimes, more times than I should probably admit, it’s about ME BEING TOO TIRED TO FIGHT A BATTLE THAT ISN’T WORTH THE WIN. If I am being totally honest, sometimes my sanity is teetering on the edge of a large, child-induced cliff and I am simply too tired to fight the tiny terrorists that live in my house. And when it IS one of those times and Everlee asks me if she can wear her Snow White costume to Target, HELL YES I oblige. Why? Because this is not a big deal and my haggard brain does not want to deal with the successive fit that will be thrown if I say no. I pick my battles, and a damn Snow White costume is not at the top of my battle list. In fact, I think costumes are friggen sweet and I wish I could trounce around town wearing one, too. Well, technically, I can. I’m a grown a** adult and I do what I want. Hmmmm…future experiment and impending blog post? I concur…

So, here we go. It’s off to Target with a costume on.

Uh, Oh….I posted a picture of a child in a car seat. If I did something wrong, I didn’t mean it. Don’t call the car seat police on me, please, I hadn’t had my coffee yet. As Don Henley so proudly proclaims: FORGIVENESS!

The trip started off slightly rough right from the moment I pulled this fairy tale princess out of my car. There were three whole people in the parking lot, and two of them immediately giggled and then asked, “Why is she wearing that?” I responded with the very appropriate comment of:

“I did not care to fight the clothes battle today. Plus, I think the dress is pretty killer.”

When what I REALLY wanted to say was:

“Hey, suckbutt, why are you wearing that hideous diarrhea green sweatshirt? Don’t like me asking? Then don’t do the same to me.” (followed by a strong finger poke to the forehead).

It was not an ideal way to start the shopping trip, but I didn’t let it bother me. I just brushed my shoulders off like Jay Z and watched in amusement as Everlee attempted to strattle a big red concrete ball whilst wearing the glittery dress. The dress was slippery and the struggle was humorous…

But soon thereafter, my Jay-Z shoulders were un-brushable. Once inside the store, the comments started coming faster than Hillary Clinton can delete emails (too soon?). Everyone seemed to have an opinion and it was exponentially extending the length of time it was taking me to end this misery and get back to the car. My 20 minute shopping trip was quickly turning in to 2 hours. And the opinions, glances, and stares only escalated once Everlee picked out a cat bicycle helmet and then plopped that baby right on her noggin for the wearin’. Naturally, I let this happen because it’s a friggen cat helmet. That’s legit. I approve.

See? Totally awesome. She wore it proudly. But once people started seeing the added accessories on my already-eye-catching toddler, game over. It was all “What the…?” “Why is she wearing that?”, “She looks hilarious!” (That one was meant to be harmless, I’m sure, but let’s remember that she was listening. She chose that outfit out of pure seriousness and confidence, and you just told her she looks funny. That was interesting to try to explain later.)

My personal favorite was a person whispering in the aisle adjacent to me:

“Why would she let her wear that?”

Ok, you ignorant a**hat, I heard you. Also, I don’t owe you an explanation. I owe you nothing but a swift kick in the mouth with my giant man-foot. And if it weren’t for the sweet lady that immediately approached me, that scenario would have actually played out. You owe this nice lady your face. I bet you are friends with the evil troll that criticized my parenting in the Adventureland lazy river, too. Why don’t the both of you just go suck an egg. (not sure what I am referring to? See previous blog ~~rants~~ posts)

But, let’s give some credit to that nice lady that saved the face of the dirty aisle whisperer. This sweet soul immediately came around the corner and approached me. She told me that she had walked in to the store at the same time that I did and had also been near me throughout the entire shopping trip. She heard me talking to everyone and asked me: “Have you REALLY had to explain yourself to every person in this store?” I said that with the exception of seeing my awesome neighbor who is a beacon of positivity and who commended Everlee for wearing what she wants, the answer was yes. EVERY. FREAKING. PERSON. had some type of comment. Everywhere we went, Ev had to hear the comments and giggling about her outfit choice. That will resonate SOMETHING deep down within a young girl, whether she knows it or not. This sweet lady simply responded with:

“That’s too bad. I think it is great that she is able to express herself with support from her parents. I hope that you continue to allow her to do so and that people will learn to keep their mouths shut.”

You, my dear lady, are my new favorite person. And now, more than ever, I realize just how important it is going to be for me to let my kids be themselves. I admit, I LOVE to dress my children. I love finding cute, trendy outfits for them to wear. But I also want them to figure out who THEY are. I want there to be a happy balance. I want to find that middle ground that lies in between “your kid has to wear society-approved attire” and “your kid looks homeless”. Honestly, we look more homeless lately. Brushing my daughter’s hair is THE WORST THING IN THE WORLD. That may, or may not, be a battle that I sometimes choose not to fight. That argument instantly sends me on the fast track to crazy town. Luckily, she brushes her own teeth, so at least she isn’t disheveled AND smelly. It can always be worse, right?!

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And I will continue to pick my battles. Not everything is worth my energy, despite what my fellow Target patrons may think.

-Don’t want to wear clothes but would rather wear a princess dress? Cool.

-Don’t want to match your socks and fold them? Fine, wear mismatching socks.

-Don’t want to eat the apple because I sliced it instead of cutting it in to bite-sized shapes of Elsa? Fine, don’t eat it. Starve. I don’t negotiate with terrorists.

-Want to dip your pineapple chunk in a slew of ketchup/Worcestershire/and Italian vinaigrette? Go ahead, you sicko. I don’t even care.

-Don’t want to sit on my left side because you HAVE to sit on my right side? Fine, switch sides. I don’t give a s*** right now.

-Want to twirl around the house in a Sophia the First costume and a cat helmet? Have at it, as long as I can sit down in peace.

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And I am perfectly comfortable losing ALL of those battles, plus more. And if that means that my perma-weirdo daughter will wear a Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man costume to the park while I get ridiculed for allowing her to do so, then so be it. Because her confidence, individuality, and my flippin’ sanity depends on it. Maybe next time I’ll wear her crown, too.

So to all of you Negative Nancies….

I SAY GOOD DAY.

The remnants of chocolate pudding on her face was another battle I wasn’t prepared to fight.

Do they offer anatomy classes for 3 year olds?

I know it’s been awhile since my last post. I am not happy about it and am currently failing at time allocation. Summer time for me used to mean time off, warm weather, beer drinking, and body relaxing. Not anymore. Now, summer time for me means even MORE work, book work, class teaching, butt wiping (my kids’, not my own. Gross, you sicko), macaroni and cheese making, and email answering. I am not complaining, I love what I do (most of the time) but I DO believe it is taking a hard, grey-haired toll on my used-to-be-youthful 30-year-old body. I mean, I NEVER get I.D.ed anymore when I am purchasing my much-needed adult beverages. NEVER. I used to have my I.D. out and ready to go when I got to the cashier. Now, if I even start to pull it out, they giggle and use their best “shoo”ing hands to indicate that the I.D. is not necessary and can make it’s way back in to my old-a** wallet. I mean, for real. I recently went to the best grocery store on the planet, HyVee (shameless plug, I know. I regret nothing), and unloaded some beer and wine on to the conveyor belt. With my head still down towards the cart, I kept unloading food and random crap that I grabbed in the heat of a donut-loving-moment, without looking up or making any eye contact with the cashier. I could tell that he was hesitating and had not yet scanned my alcohol, he was waiting for me to look up first. This got me excited. I thought to myself, “FINALLY! Someone who sees through my new-found wrinkles and sprouting grey hairs and recognizes that I am NOT decrepit and he shall ask for my I.D.!” So, like a giddy school girl, I decided to end his hesitation and I grabbed my purse from the cart in anticipation. I turned to look at the cashier (who was damn near my age, none-the-less) and we finally locked eyes. We locked eyes JUST LONG ENOUGH so that this little a**-bag cashier could quickly reply “OH! (::giggles:: )Nevermind, you are fine.” He then quickly typed a bogus birthdate, which I can only assume was 01-01-1910, in to the computer and scanned the beer without any further hesitation or morsel of though.

“OH! Nevermind, you are fine.” Meaning: woah nelly, the back of your head looks way younger than the front.

What….the….actual…..F.

Thanks a lot, “Cody-the-middle-aged-Cashier”. You just ruined my life.

So… now that you have wasted 3 minutes of your life reading my whines about my lack of youthful beauty, I will get back to my original point: I am a busy mother trucker. And now I am thinking, “What the frick did I spend all this hard-earned money on a real-life website for if I wasn’t going to update it more than once a month?” Well, I prefer “quality” over “quantity”. I would rather REALLY have my thoughts gathered and a good story line set before I update so that no one wastes their precious time reading the random, everyday events of me at HyVee (shameless plug #2. NO RAGRETS!)

NO RAGRETS

But, when I need new material, I can always count on my weirdo daughter to pull through with the penis jokes. That’s right, you read me, PENIS JOKES. Dear Lord, she figured out what a penis is. Sort of. Not really. Well….let’s just say she’s on the right track and I’m terrified.

Ever since the birth of Leyton, Everlee has had slightly more body awareness. During his newborn and infant stages, she really didn’t want anything to do with the changing of a diaper and was therefore clueless on the differences in anatomy. Once she heard the quintessential “RIIIIIPP” of the velcro diaper tabs, those little legs went scrambling as far away from the “gross, stinky, yucky poop” as they could. I’m not gonna lie…with the way this boy loves to eat, I usually wanted to go a-runnin’ with her. But I am the Mom, and he sure can’t wipe his own a**, so I digress.

That is, up until recently.

Recently, Everlee has decided to be more helpful with Leyton. giphy (1)

She has decided that, most of the time, he is NOT the devil incarnate and she ACTUALLY likes him. She simply got smarter with her diaper-time interactions. She started standing outside of the nursery doorway and yelling (yes, YELLING. Anyone that knows Ev knows that this is her only volume.) “MOM! Is it poop or pee?”If the answer was poop, sayonara suckers. She gone. (CONFESSION: sometimes, when I really just don’t have the energy for both kids to be punching each other while I wipe bodily excretions from a tiny human, then I would say “poop” even if it wasn’t just so she would stay in the hallway and let me wipe the tiny tush in peace. NO REGRETS.) If the answer was pee, she decided it was safe enough to enter the doorway. And with that, came the sloooooow walk towards the location of the boy and the slooooooooow peek of the giant blue eyes over the changing table during a routine diaper change. And then BAM! Her first inquiry about his “parts” and my first parental anatomy obligation. I REALLY was hoping this would wait until she was 25…

“Hey, Mom. What’s that?”

Me (getting nervous and sweaty and knowing EXACTLY what she was referring to): “What’s what, Ev?”

“That!” ::points to Leyton’s opened diaper::

“Well…that’s his penis.”

“His WHAT?”

“His penis.”

“His ‘pernish’?”

“Penis.”

“Peanut?”

“PENIS.”

“Parsnip?!”

“PENIS! IT’S HIS PENIS!”

“OOOOHHH, PEEEEEENIS!”

::::::places finger under her chin and sits in long, contemplative thought ::::::

“Nope, you’re wrong Mom. That’s his PACIFIER!”

:::insert giggles that I simply could not hold back::: “They only wish, hunny.”

Was my response appropriate? No. Was it HILARIOUS? Yup. You bet your bottom dollar that I laughed about that interaction for quite awhile. Ever since that first introduction to the difference in bodies, Everlee has been very inquisitive and I try my BEST to answer her maturely and honestly.

“Mom, if Leyton has a pernish, what do I have?”

“A vagina.”

“A vagina?! Ah, yes, a vagina. Mine is all up inside and Leyton’s is all stuck outside and weird.”

“You’re exactly right.”

“Mom, do YOU have a parsnip or a vagina?”

“I have a vagina, Everlee.”

“Oh, do girls have vaginas and boys have parsnips?!”

“For the most part, yes. There is some grey area, but we will cover that when you are a little older.”

“OOOOOH, OK. So YOU are a girl.”

“Yep.”

“And I am a girl.”

“Yep.”

“And Leyton is a BOY.”

“Yep.”

“And DADDY is a dog.”

“Correct.”

“Mom, if boys have pernishes and no vaginas, how do they go pee?!”

“They pee from their penis.”

“UUUGGGHH, THAT’S NASTY!”

“Mom! We HAVE to take a bath tonight otherwise my butt in the front will start to stick out like Leytons!!”

“What makes you think that if you don’t take a bath then you will grow a penis?!”

“Because, MOM! Boys are dirty and BEE-SCUSTING and THAT’S why their p-p-pernises stick out!”

The inquisitive minds of the young are endearing. Hilarious and endearing. And while I am happy that she is smart, in tune to the differences in the world, and comfortable enough to talk to me about it, I am scared to death to send her to preschool at the local church in the coming weeks. I CAN’T WAIT to see the notes that come home about her lack of mouth filter (stay tuned for the future blog posts on that one). She comes by it honestly, but we are working on that.

And while most of the questions are legit and very fitting of the mental capacity of a 3, almost 4, year old; I am slightly concerned that I overheard her, standing fully clothed in front of the bathroom mirror repeating “vagina, vagina, vagina” over and over again. All while making a different crazy face during each successive “vagina” chant. I think we might need a professional to handle that one, I wasn’t aware that parenting was so awkward and I’m ill-equipped for vagina chants. And when she is 20 and reading all of these highly personal quotes that are archived right here on the interweb, I will remind her that she once stripped down naked, opened the front window, and yelled “POOPY PENIS” as loud as she could right as the neighbors walked by. Payback is a fickle biotch, baby girl.

Nevermind, let’s just stick forks in our eyes instead…

“Mom, look, I wrote you a NICE note! It says: ‘Hi, Mom! Please help me clean.'”

*shows me a piece of paper with scribbles*

“Oh, really Everlee? What are you going to clean? I will help.”

*giggles*

“OH! I read it wrong. It says: ‘ Dear Mom. I am NOT going to clean.”

*throws note on the ground and walks away*

And that is it. THAT is how my dear daughter decided to put the turd icing on top of the crap cake that is July. To say that the Hansens have been busy is a COMPLETE understatement (I know, I know…preaching to the choir, right?!) But seriously…if your body can instantly fall asleep once it hits the taco pillow you brought home from Vegas, then you know that you are worn down. Yes, that’s right…I BOUGHT A TACO PILLOW AND CARRIED IT HOME FROM VEGAS. I regret nothing…

See how Chelsea snuck in the back there? My friends are cool. Say “HIIII, CHELSEA!!”

I mean, we have a king sized Tempurpedic bed in our room and my body would rather sleep on a taco pillow on the couch rather than tackling the two flights of stairs that stand between me and that king sized square of heaven. Although, that taco IS really soft…..and fluffy….and ergonomically perfect for my neck….but I digress.

(PS. the innuendos here are astoundingly hilarious. Don’t say you didn’t think it… Fluffy. Taco. Pillow.)

So in true “bad things come in three(hundred)s” fashion, my actual house decided to get in on the action and fill my basement with approximately 4 inches of water. THANKS, HOUSE. NOW I HAVE TO TAKE A FRIGGEN PADDLE BOAT ACROSS THE TOY ROOM JUST TO GET MY BUNDT PAN FROM THE STORAGE ROOM. cool. ALL I WANTED WAS A BUNDT!

It can always be worse. I know this. But a swimming pool for a basement on top of the death of my Grandma, working a million hours a week, sick children, having to file quarterly taxes for two businesses in the throes of switching computer programs, and having those taxes be due on the same days as many various social obligations for both my children and myself, is enough to get my blood pressure higher than Snoop D-O-Double-G.

SO, I decided to attempt to make this a learning experience for my three year old.

HELP. It’s time for her to really learn how to help out around the house.

Sure, she cleans the living room from time to time (usually in a back-handed attempt to get a pull on the ‘ole M&M slot machine that ALSO made it’s way home from Vegas. I flippin’ love Vegas.) Or we will make her pick up her toys or clothes that are scattered around like tiny foot grenades. But she has never really had to get down and dirty and help me clean a disgusting, water-logged toy room before. So the time is now, kid. GET EXCITED. I know I am. *makes fart noise with my mouth*

At this point, the adults have already cleared the entire contents of our basement and taken them up in to the garage and front yard (Sorry neighbors, see my facebook post for apology gifts) and have drained and dried the basement floors. All I was asking of Everlee was to help me put the toy room back together and re-lay the foam squares that cover the floor. Easy enough, right? WRONG.

It started off rough right from the get-go. The incessant whining and piddle-farting around the basement just about sent me to a ‘Mommy Wine Timeout’ right there at 11 am on a Sunday. I’m confident that God would totally understand and side with me on that one. When I asked her to gather the foam blocks and hand them to me so I could lay them, I got “I don’t want to.” When I asked her to do the fun part and gather the foam letters and numbers and put them back in the squares they came from, I got “Ugh, Mom, you always make me do horrible things!” When I asked her to take her Doc McStuffins cell phone and set it on the new shelving we installed, she picked up her cell phone and ‘called’ Grandma to tell her how mean of a mom I am and how SHE MUST BE PICKED UP! All of these resulting in firm death stares and reprimanding by yours truly.

By now I was more exhausted from trying to make her help me than I was ACTUALLY putting the basement back together. She was getting toys out to play with, knocking over boxes I had stacked, eating fake plastic chicken wings, throwing tennis string across the basement, and tearing through the garbage piles with a big plastic crocodile on wheels. Having her there to ‘help’ me was the equivalent of going to the zoo, wrangling a baby chimpanzee from it’s habitat with my bare hands, strapping him in to a car seat, and setting him loose in my house. Those two scenerios ARE THE SAME DAMN THING.

When I told Everlee that in order to stay in the basement she would need to help me, OR she had to go upstairs and leave me to get my work done, she insisted she would help. She “didn’t want to go upstairs by herself and play with Leyton who probably pooped his pants and smells like a big turd”. (I can’t really blame her here. She was probably right.) The one time she actually did go upstairs was also the time she brought me that “super nice note” about NOT CLEANING that I shared earlier. So, in the angriest voice I could possibly muster, I demanded she grab some toys from upstairs and bring them down to put away.

So she did. She went upstairs without a word. I should have known this would not be as easy as I first thought. Once I heard her tiny body sliding down each stair slowly one by one, I decided I needed to go up and check on what the hell was happening in my house.

This. This was happening. She found a STUPID A** PURPLE WIG AND PUT IT ON AND THEN FOUND A STUPID A** PUMPKIN STICK THING AND DIDN’T BRING ONE DAMN TOY DOWN TO PUT AWAY AND WAS GIGGLING LIKE A FRIGGEN HYENA. Wtf kid, help me! THIS IS NOT HELPFUL! Funny.. but NOT HELPFUL.

And as I stifled my laughter and continued to enforce some structure and life skills in to my nutjob kid, I realized that this lesson is going to be a hard one for her to learn. She is simply too smart and knows exactly how to buy a few minutes of manipulated time. But NO, Everlee, YOU DO NOT WIN. Where do you think you learned that manipulation from? That’s right, Big Mama Ali! So get downstairs. And bring the damn purple wig, I have just the box for that!

Attempt #78 ended as follows:

peeking giraffe

ARE YOU EVER-LOVING KIDDING ME? A GIRAFFE COSTUME? That sure as hell doesn’t look like the seven dwarfs that I asked you to bring down, CHILD! And stop peeking at me from behind the wall, that won’t protect you from the mom rage (and giggles) that are about to ensue! Down the stairs you go, and wear the giraffe costume because it’s damn funny!

*Two hours later*

I am sitting on the sofa, just moments away from passing out face first on the newly-laid foam floor. Everlee is taking toys OFF of the shelves to play with while I demand she leave them be. The garage and front yard still look like a hillbilly yard sale. But we FINALLY have a decent looking, DRY basement again. And after we drag our limp legs up the stairs and in to the kitchen, THIS happens:

dishes

She’s washing dishes. She’s washing dishes! SHE’S MOTHER-FREAKING WASHING DISHES WITHOUT PROMPT, WHINE, OR CRY! I am the master of the universe!!

Mom for the win, bitches. MOM FOR THE WIN.

I am actually adulting.

What do you think, fellow humans?!

Video Disclaimer: In case you don’t speak fluent Everlee, she said “Welcome to my new site!”. And yes, she is crossing her eye. She’s a weirdo.

I am winning. I finally swallowed my “don’t be a cheap a**, this is why you work” pill and put on my big girl pants. That’s right, I own this shizz. WWW.MOMMYVINO.COM is now mine. Allllll mine. Now some nutjob 60-year-old sweaty dude can’t gank my interweb photos and start up his own mommyvino.com (not that my life would even be remotely appealing enough to be bestowed the honor of being stalked. But, ya never know). In the words of my sometimes-philosophical father:

“You innovate. Other people imitate.”

So that’s exactly what I did. I ‘innovated’ my “larger-than-I’d-prefer-but-I-like-wine-too-much” derriere right over to the domain registrar and put a ring on it. Try to copy me now, internet trolls.

Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta.

It feels almost as good as the first time your butt hits the couch after the kids go to bed. I SAID ALMOST AS GOOD.

It feels almost as good as the first sip of beer on a hot summer day at the child-laden amusement park. I REPEAT… ALMOST.

It feels almost as good as taking your bra off after a long day and letting those lady hangers just bippity-bap around under your giant, momtastic printed tee. YOU’RE RIGHT. IT’S NOWHERE NEAR AS GOOD AS THAT.

But….at least I can say I adult-ed today. I shall now deem today a success and allow myself to not do a damn productive thing for the rest of this fine, summer afternoon (Shandy, anyone?). And you know what makes it even better? I shipped the oldest and loudest love nugget off to Grandma’s for the day so I only have one little infant a**hole to be responsible for. (*ehem* sleepover perhaps, Grandma?)

BOOM. MOMMY VINO TIME.

If you like what you see, then click that little button on the left hand side that says ‘Follow’. I promise it will be worth your while. Or maybe it won’t be. But in that case, you must hate fun and we can’t be friends.

::insert virtual fist bump here::

CRUSHED IT.

Be Present.

“The best present we can give our kids, is to simply BE PRESENT.”

With the holidays comes a slew of traditions. Traditions from every corner of every side of every person in our families. Some traditions are widespread amongst most of us, like Christmas trees, gingerbread houses, and hanging the stockings by the fireplace. Others are more personal to our own families, like baking a specific cookie on a carefully chosen day, taking an annual shopping trip followed by lunch at the same restaurant every year, or re-gifting a 15 year old fruitcake in a tin to the person in the family that you wish to annoy most this year (yes, my family does this. The fruitcake is hard as a rock, never has molded which is VERY CONCERNING, and is packed in a fugly Christmas tin from 1995. It is an amazing tradition that shall live on. I REGRET NOTHING.)

Traditions keep the spirit of the holidays alive. They help us to remember past times with our families and friends and then pass on those legacies to our own children. Without them, our excitement, cheer, and sweet memories of loved ones would slowly begin to fade. I revel in the many traditions that our family has and look forward to bringing them back year after year. Well….MOST of them anyway.

Sometimes, it is OK to let a tradition go. I wish this for you just as much as I wish this for me. Sometimes, YOU NEED TO LET IT GO. Maybe the tradition of making figgy pudding using great great great great great Grandma Betty Lou’s recipe is no longer relevant to our day and age. I mean, where am I even going to find 7/8 cup of whale blubber nowadays ANYWAY?! That shit is nasty, be honest. NO ONE makes figgy pudding anymore. Trash that tradition, immediately.

I personally feel that it is of the UTMOST IMPORTANCE for every family to keep the traditions that bring happiness and joy to their homes and purge the ones that become monotone, stressful, stale, or do not enhance the bonding of their families. I am a solid, firm believer that, at some point in everyone’s lives, the time will come to ditch the old and start fresh with NEW traditions for your family. Don’t you deserve that? The chance to start something NEW for your spouse, kids, fur babies, or even just for yourself? Think of how fun that is for your kids, sending them off with a new legacy that they can choose to pass on to their own kids if they wish? EVERYONE deserves the chance to create memories of their own with the ones they love most.

Now, I am not saying to ditch every tradition you have and throw great Grammy’s Christmas dinner out the door. Poor Grammy deserves some love, too. But what if Grammy’s very elaborate, very stressful, very irritating Christmas tradition is scheduled for 9 am on Christmas morning this year? Is that what YOU want? To wake the kids up early, rush through opening gifts, immediately rip those brand new gifts out of their tiny, happy fingers, dry the tears that were sprung by your gift removal, shower, get ready, eat a quick snack, and rush out the door to get to Grammy’s just in time for Uncle Mark to start a fight with Aunt Rita in the middle of the living room about who burnt the bottom of the hash brown casserole? All while the kids run around like rabid animals and barely escape sliding in to Grammy’s precious curio cabinet full of ancient breakables? If the answer is yes, then that is GREAT! That is YOUR tradition for you to keep and cherish and be happy in. I won’t judge you for that, either. But for ME, it’s NOT. That is not my idea of a relaxing, family bonding Christmas. And because of this opinion, your great Grammy surely likes you better than mine likes me. Even though it may not be the popular opinion of ole Grammy and you might SERIOUSLY piss off Aunt Rita, sometimes we just have to say NO. NO! NO NO NO NO NO! No to the stress and the irritation and the hustle and bustle that we already experience every day of the year. NO.

Sure, I used to go to Grammy’s dinner every single year. And make that figgy pudding on the first Saturday of December. And travel to 900 different locations all within the 15 short hours we have on Christmas day in an effort to see every extended family member that we have. But, then something changed. WE HAD KIDS. And that’s a pretty damn big mental change if you ask me. With that mental change came a want and a desire for holidays that were different than before. Have you ever had to bundle your tiny kids up and load them in and out of a car seat every few hours all flippin’ day, all while they scream at your face from over-exhaustion? It is the ANTI-RELAXATION to put it mildly. It makes for a very stressful holiday for the parents.

My new idea of the PERFECT CHRISTMAS DAY now goes something like this: I wake to the sound of the children’s little pitter patter of feet running down the hallway. They jump on my bed and shake the ever-loving crap out of me until I slowly rise from MY OWN super soft, super cloud like Tempurpedic ergonomic bed that lives in MY OWN bedroom. Then, we scurry down the stairs and try to hold the kids off of the presents just long enough for me to make a nice, steamy hot pot o’ joe. Then, the kids are free to rip the shit out of the boxes and bags that hold all of the presents that have been tempting them under the tree for ~~days~~ errrr weeks. Yea, weeks, that’s right. I’ve had those presents purchased and wrapped for WEEKS! (ha..ha…HAHAHAHAHAHA). I then take my super comfy, robed and slippered body over to the couch with my ~~spiked~~ cup o’ joe and sit there. I sit there. I JUST SIT THERE next to my sweet husband and stare at these two beautiful beings that I get the pleasure to call mine. I watch them as their excitement overflows out of their bodies and I can’t help but let it soak in to mine. THEN WE PLAY. We play with all of the new gifts that I , errrrr SANTA, brought. We bond with them by playing pretend and taking the time to really enjoy each gift. Then we eat our homemade cinnamon rolls that I got the pleasure of making. You see, with the careers that my husband and I are lucky enough to have, our day to day life is NUTS and our hours are truly bizarre. When I am home, my husband is not. When he gets home, I immediately leave. We are kind of like glorified single parents in a way. It makes it almost impossible for us to ever have family dinner together, let alone have me make any food from scratch whatsoever. Our daily meals consist of mac n’ cheese and chicken nuggets. If it is frozen, we probably cook it. So Christmas day is one of the ONLY days of the year that I truly get to enjoy making some delicious food from scratch and then eating with my family of four. All of them. At the same time. At the table. It’s GLORIOUS. So that’s what I want to do, make food. I want to make a delicious breakfast and eat it until we are stuffed. I want to stay in my robe ALL FREAKING DAY as I prepare a yummy homemade dinner. I want to sip on mimosas and watch the kids play and take a nap and choose whether or not I even bother putting pants on or not. I want to eat dinner together with my family (THREE MEALS TOGETHER IN ONE DAY IS UNHEARD OF). And I want to watch Christmas movies on the couch, all four of us snuggled up under the fluffiest blanket we can find, noshing on air-popped popcorn. I want both my husband and I to enjoy a nice adult beverage TOGETHER at the same time because we will not have to worry about one of us driving to the next location. I want to go to bed whenever we are tired, even if that means 6:00 pm. I want to be RELAXED.

And you see, none of that coincides great Grammy’s 9:00 a.m. dinner. If you really think about it, despite being surrounded by family, almost NONE of it would be quality bonding time for our family of four. The kids would be out running around while my husband and I split up to make sure we chat with everyone in attendance so no one gets pissed. This means that Christmas day will come and go without any of us ever being TRULY connected. Our family only has this ONE DAY to be together, and I want to make it really count. So this year, we are saying NO.

This all may seem very insensitive to you, and I get that. But let me explain: we aren’t saying no to ANY OTHER DAY. Literally every day of the entire Christmas break can be dedicated to seeing family members, including sweet old Grammy. We will travel the lands to celebrate Christmas with everyone that wants us in attendance. We will keep the kids up late, let them skip naps, and pump them full of sugar to keep them energized for all of the stops. We will be jolly and merry and have a hell of a good time everywhere we go. We will take the time to REALLY enjoy everyone’s company. We will even make the flippin’ figgy pudding if you want us to. But NOT ON CHRISTMAS DAY. That is our very own, new family tradition. CHRISTMAS DAY BELONGS TO US. We will be sure to spend time with our families, old and young. It might be the day before, or a few days after, but why is that such an issue? If we don’t see our families on Christmas day, does that mean we love them any less the day after? No. HELL NO. That makes no sense. We will spend time with our families in the near vicinity of Christmas day. We are not heathens, and this does not make us bad people. Wanting to start our own family traditions does not make us evil. Every family deserves the right to choose their traditions.

My husband and I are both comfortable with this decision, too. This was a joint conversation, actively had by the both of us (and for those of you that know my husband, that means something. He is normally so innately quiet). We both know that it may sting a little at first, but over time we won’t even have to think twice about it. It is our new tradition. Home on Christmas is our tradition.

When my kids are older, I want them to think back on Christmas day and remember how it was FUN, and STRESS-FREE, and MAGICAL, and unlike any other day of the year. I want them to remember that mom actually DOES know how to cook. That mom and dad CAN be in the house at the same time for more than an hour or two. I want them to remember that they had ALL FREAKING DAY to do nothing but play with their toys and watch movies with no obligations or schedules. I want them to remember that it was the ONE DAY of the year that our family shut off the phone, shut the blinds, and just TRULY spent time enjoying each other’s company. I WANT THEM TO REMEMBER THAT, AMONGST ALL OF THEIR PRESENTS, THAT WE WERE PRESENT.

I wish you and your family the same. I hope that you get the chance to choose the traditions that best fit your family, whatever they may be, and the comfort to let go of the one’s that don’t.

On Christmas day, I want to be PRESENT. And I hope that you can be, too.

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