Uh-Oh!

Brush Your Teeth, Kids.

Grumpy Diaper Changes.

Summer's over. Back to the grind.

Today was the first day back to school for Phoenix, who just started 1st grade.

How did my day go?

Well,  I am sitting in bed drinking wine and shoveling a candy bar into my face.
Alright 6 candy bars and yes I ate them all... but they're "fun-size" so they don't count.

My day was....hectic. It started off so early that my alarm clock, after going off a few times, assumed that my lazy ass wasn't getting out of bed and shut itself off.

When I did finally wake up, I sprung out of bed, shuffled out to the pile of dishes from the night before that I was, "totally gonna get to when I got up in the morning", (yay procrastination!) and rinsed out just enough supplies for an IV drip of coffee.

I got coffee and lunches made and clothes picked out and had just enough time to get my own clothes on and make breakfast for the grown ups before it was time to wake the grumpy children.

Now, let me explain something. For the entirety of the summer, TWO ENTIRE MONTHS, my children did not sleep past 730 am.

They stayed up like they always do and partied until midnight and crashed out and would still be up with the sun.

So it felt good, and I mean real good, to go in there and wake them up at 7am.

I opened the blinds and they all kinda let out this half whimper, half death rattle and gave me the "You have to be fucking kidding me" look before reluctantly sitting up, and then stumbling out into the living room.

By the time I got the kids ready, I did not even have time to drink my ice cold cup of coffee. I took a few swigs, assumed that would have to do and ran everyone out the door.

Long story short, I did a lot of chauffeuring today. Which I knew I was gonna have to do, but I haven't done it in two months and I forgot the amount of bullshit it entails.

Kids in the car, kids out of the car. Kids in the car, kids out of the car....repeat until 7pm.

And each time you get out of the car again, the kids grow more and more repulsed by the idea of getting back in the car, until you are dragging three half-dressed-partially-shoed-limp-children out to a vehicle. 

I DON'T WANT TO GO EITHER, KIDS!!!

And you know,  it wouldn't really be so bad if my kids weren't complete assholes.

For example:

Nice Kid- Puts on clothes and shoes and gets self ready for school.
Asshole- Throws naked self on floor, wiggles and squeals in glee as they make mommy dress them.

Nice Kid- Goes potty before you leave the house.
Asshole- Tells you they absolutely do not need to go and then act like it's emergency pee time as soon as you leave.

Nice Kid- Walks nicely down the steps because they do not want to get hurt.
Asshole- Purposely misses steps, trying to make mommy and other two kids fall down the stairs because "it's funny". Usually followed by a refusal to actually walk with their feet.

Nice Kid- Sits in the proper seat, puts on their seat belt and buckles up for safety.
Asshole- Plays musical car seats and makes you get in the backseat and hold them in a wrestling grapple to get their belt locked. Kicks the back of the car seats because they are half mad, half "making artwork with mud."

Nice Kid- Sits quietly in car seat and listens to the music. Avoids being loud during stressful moments.
Asshole- Waits for stressful driving moment to practice opera singing before getting into hair pulling match with sister/brother.

Etc, etc, etc.

They should make it legal to do more stuff drunk.

I'm not saying dangerous stuff. I just think that the moms at the playground should be able to play drinking games.

Instead of the kids being all "Come on mommy, let's go to the playground", I would be the one who was excited.

"Push me on the swing, mommy!"

"Just wait a minute, honey! The rules are that if one of you asks me to do something that makes me expel more energy than you, mommy has to take a shot!"

To all of the other moms who have to brave the school run tomorrow, Semper Fi, mamas and see you on the playground.

I'll bring the tequila.

How kids end up making you late.

Worst thing she could have said.

Cora walked up to me and told me that she had peed on the floor.

Damn it.

I really didn't feel like cleaning up pee.

But then she tells me that she cleaned it herself. WORST CASE SCENARIO.

Because when a kid says that they cleaned a mess themselves, they basically mean that they have spread the mess and made it worse. Even the best intended child will end up clogging the toilet and covering themselves head to toe in whatever it was they were trying to clean up.

So when Cora told me that she had used toilet paper to clean the pee, my heart dropped.

Thankfully, my urine coated child had enough foresight to flush enough times that she didn't clog the toilet. But she did basically use urine to mop my entire bathroom floor.

Fuck. Why can't the Pinesol lady be a superhero, who shows up in situations like this and cleans your floor. The whole "Power of Pinesol" thing would make so much more sense.

Sometimes...

I get one sappy one per year. Happy almost last birthday of my twenties to me.

I just remembered this morning that my birthday was coming up soon and I made the mistake of mentioning it to the kids. So they have spent the entire day, enraptured in the idea that they are going to throw me the greatest muthaf'in party ever.

"Oh mommy, we're gonna bake you a coconut cake, cause we know you love coconut, and we're gonna fill it with candy and sparkles and magic!"

Kids, you can skip the magic. Save yourselves the hassle and just feed mommy vodka.

Which would be really sweet if they didn't also start asking me how old I was gonna be (Where the hell did that spotlight come from?!?) .

The answer; I'm turning 29. And the funny thing about turning 29 is I remember my own mother's 29th birthday. I don't remember any of the details, but I just remember that it doesn't feel like it was so long ago.

And I start thinking about how I still feel like that awkward little girl. And how the fuck is that little girl turning 29, when I feel like I am 28 going on 15? At least I can rest easy knowing that we can skip the whole "Hey let's play spin the bottle even though you have never kissed a boy and will have to explain why the game defies your rigid moral principles" part of my soiree. 

And of course, this also means that next year, I turn 30. Which society has, for some reason or another, earmarked as panic button time. Time for you to have met certain "life goals" and societal deadlines that all of the other brainwashed masses killed themselves to accomplish.

Time for you to be set in your ways. Old. A bonafide adult.

Which I had hoped would have meant wiser, but apparently for me, has just meant that I now have wrinkles on my forehead when deep in contemplation about which "So You Think You Can Dance" contestant is gonna be eliminated this week. Amelia was boss, you judges are dicks.

So, long-winded story short, I have started thinking about where I am today and what the school-aged version of me thought I would have done by almost 30.

I thought I would be the indispensable CEO of Makebelievebusinessland, making $500,000 a year, have a 6 bedroom mansion in an unpronounceable country, speak three languages and have found the cure for a disease.

The reality is that I rent an 800 square foot apartment paid for by my husband, whom I married last year, despite our already having three kids (shut up, we clearly were both drawing comical penises in "health class" when they spoke about birth control).

Which also means that I share a bathroom with four other people and every single one of them misses the toilet.

I don't currently pull a salary as CEO of Everyoneshitsonmeberg and not only do I not know other languages, but most of the time, I feel like I should be arrested for raping the English language.

Yes, I know I used the wrong word, Mr. Terror-know-it-all, but the children have eaten all of the useful parts of my brain like fiending zombies.

And that curing disease thing? I can't even keep a goldfish or house plant alive. Although I am positive that we are growing at least two different types of penicillin in the spilled shit in the crisper of the refrigerator, which was sponsored by the undying "I didn't do it, so I'm not cleaning it" motto of our household.

There are two goals that I have met the criteria for; I am married and I have kids.

But I did those so right, I think they should have more weight on my final score. My husband is someone who makes me laugh like a hyena until I can't breathe (and heads up, I will probably die of some sort of comedy-induced hypoxia) and we go together like a badly-worded Grease song, or like a timeless sitcom couple (Dan would never leave Roseanne. That last season totally doesn't count).

And I have three kids who, despite constantly actively working to disprove it, actually do love me a whole lot. And lucky for us, they're extremely cute. Even when they look me right in the eye while taking a shit on the carpet. "Aww honey get the camera! Look how cute he shits on the floor!"

So, I'm getting up there.

And yeah, I can't even get hired to work at the Gap due to questionable employment skills, history, work ethic, etc...

And I probably (never say never) won't be the CEO of some fortune 500 company.

We don't have tons of money, we don't own property, hell, I don't even own a pair of pants that doesn't have at least one hole in it.

But, what I can say is that I am on my last year of being in my 20s and I am right where I want to be. I have the freedom to just exist in the moment, where ever it takes me. I don't have to focus on working for the man and being a company slave. I can focus on the kids, and in a few years, when they loosen up on the Darth-Vader-like grip they currently have around my neck, someday, myself.

I consider myself lucky to be where I am right now, regardless of where anyone else, including school-aged me wants almost 30 me to be.

And fuck you. I get one sappy one per year. Happy almost last birthday of my twenties to me.

Imaginary Boyfriends

You probably shouldn't call mom a whore.

Mom Takes a Bubble Bath.

Nap Time.

The Odd Mom Blog out...

I'm a mom. I blog. Mostly about my kids. So I guess, technically, you can consider this a "Mom Blog".

Bbut I kind of take issue with that.

In trying to do some research (mostly spying on the millions of other "Mom Blogs" worth of competition. I'm watching you like a fapper in the bushes, ladies...), I realized that my sense of humor is pretty far off from the usual mom demographic (shout out to all my male fans!)

So, I would officially like to submit to the Jury the reasons why I do not think that my mode of ball-busting will ever qualify me for "Mom Blog of the Year".

First of all, most of the things I say about my kids, people usually don't say out loud.

I swear and I say raunchy, unapologetic things that aren't very nice things to say.

And I love my kids, but sometimes they do not very nice things.

And sometimes they deserve to be publicly ridiculed for it.

Because if I can't publicly shame my children by making them star in R-rated webcomics, what's the fun in having kids?

Second, I would rather get a groan for going too far with a joke than regurgitate old, stale humor.
No cute pictures of babies with funny captions or LOL catz here. That shit is NOT FUNNY.  It's boring. I would take a dick or fart joke any day over another "shared" baby meme.

Next, I am no parenting expert... I do not claim to be. Just the opposite actually, I fuck up. A lot. And the least that I can do is be honest about it and laugh. I don't have moments of genius to share with you people, or assume that you will glean some sort of wisdom from anything that I say. Ever. I don't have stroller suggestions for you, or know the best bottle types. I couldn't give the littlest bit of fuck about that stuff.

You see, I do this blog because as a Stay at Home Mom, my kids usually put me in some shitty situations, which require a great deal of humor and patience to get through. But I promise that I will not (ever) reminisce about warm and fuzzy feelings. There are millions of other holes just dying to tell you how to clean things in your house, or how to teach your toddler his ABCs.

I guess what I'm saying is that I'm like Bob Saget.
Those other "Mom Blogs" are Full House Saget.
I'm "want to fuck your TV daughters" Saget.

Ok, maybe not that far. But you get the idea.
And I hope you guys enjoy what you read here. Cause I enjoy writing/drawing it.

Why I Hate Summer.

Every fucking time.

Always, always make the kids pee before leaving the house.

I decided today that the kids have been in the house too long and that we would walk down to the playground and get some exercise. I always make each of them pee before we leave the house, but since we were right around the corner and no one said they had to go, I decided that I wouldn't press the issue. We all got our shoes and jackets on and I asked one more time, "Before we go, does anyone have to pee?".

They all said no. Of course.

So we walk down to the playground and we are there literally five minutes and Cora walks up and says that she has to pee. I call her over and tell her that there isn't a bathroom there so we would need to go NOW because we had to walk the couple blocks home.

Not wanting to leave the playground, she insisted that she didn't need to pee that badly and that she really, really wanted to stay. Alright. Fine. We will stay like another 15 minutes and then head back.

We play a couple minutes, them asking me to pick them up and carry them across the monkey bars (me putting in 95% of the effort and starting to perspire) and I tell them that they are the ones who need to get out the excess energy because, let's face it, I have none to spare.

So I sit down, trying to listen to my iPod, the only part of the playground that I actually enjoy, and Holden comes up, grabs the headphones and has a full blown, throw himself on the ground, meltdown when I will not let him dictate what we are listening to.

As he bashed his fists on the ground, flailed his limbs and screeched, I see Cora out the corner of my eye.

My God. She doesn't have pants on. What the hell is she doing?!? 

So I left Holden to his temper tantrum, ran across the playground to pull Cora's pants up and she screams "I peed, Mommy!" She had pee all over her hands and her pants. Fuck.

So I had to have a battle of wills with a urine-soaked kid, trying to explain to her "Mommy knows your pants are wet, kid. But if I allow you to stay bottomless in public, I will get arrested and go to jail and you will all end up spending what could be a few traumatic hours with a social worker...."

So I had to run back to Holden, scoop his tantruming-ass off the ground, call Phoenix over to me while holding Cora's pissy hand and tell them all that we had to get the hell outta there.

So we all walked the three blocks back to our house, Cora smelling of fresh homeless person, Holden throwing a fit and Phoenix, having grazed one of Cora's fingers, refusing to hold anyone's hand.

Can't we ever leave the house without some sort of public decency violation?

If kids eating habits never improved.

Fuck you, Monday. Fuck you right in the ass

Mondays.

 Sigh.

I should have known when I hadn't gone to bed yet and my Monday was already shitty.

I had some laundry that I absolutely had to do so that Jude didn't start looking like the office homeless person (Who smells like pee?), so I went down to the laundry room late last night. And forgot until like 11pm that I had yet to put the laundry in the dryer.

Fuck.

So I told Jude that I would go and put his clothes in the dryer, but that he owed me a nice lengthy, not fucking around (what is this two finger shit?) 40 minute back rub upon my return.

But during my journey, a giant-mutant-raccoon decided that it was going to pop out from the bushes three inches from my feet, look at me long enough to make me almost piss my pants and then run away. So now he owed me an hour.

So I waited and waited and waited... And ended up not falling asleep until after 1am (Thanks for the two minute half-assery, wherein you told me that you would rub my back tomorrow. It's on like Donkey Kong tonight, motherfucker). So needless to say, I did not get enough sleep and I have been just a little grumpy since Jude tapped my shoulder, lovingly and I bit his fucking head off at 7am.

I got up and did all my usual morning ridiculousness. I staggered through the doorway of the kitchen, made us both Barista worthy Cappuccinos, made breakfast for five, changed diapers, went down and retrieved the laundry, etc, etc...

And finally when Jude had left for work, I sat down to drink my cold, two hour old coffee.

Deciding fuck that, I put on another pot of coffee. Only we don't have a regular coffee machine, we have an espresso pot and a cup to steam milk and you put them both on the stove. So I filled up the cup with milk, put the espresso pot on and looked over at a notice.

Fuck! I have to call the State of New Jersey because our tax return got fucked up and despite mailing it months ago, it's still not sorted out.

So I dial the number and of course they tell me that it's gonna be a while. Not wanting to go to prison Wesley Snipes style, I decide that I need to bite the bullet and just wait. And listen.... to the world's shittiest music... that no one would ever voluntarily listen to if not on hold or with a gun to their head (just shoot already, I hate Kenny G).

So I lean over, still on hold and start rinsing out my giant coffee cup out from this morning. The kids start whining for a snack, so I start to tap my feet to the smooth jams (fuck, why do I like this now?), cut them up some fruit and head back into the kitchen.....FFFFUUUUUUUCCCCCCKKKKKKK!!!!!!

The milk pot started boiling all over the stove!!! And the coffee started shooting out all over the burner. Then my burner bursts into flames. FUUUUUUCCCCKKKKK FIRE!!! Then, "Hello, this is ___________... How can I help you?" So I said, "Oh my God, can you wait a minute?" and took the coffee and milk off the burner. Thinking quickly, I put a pot lid down on top of the flame, extinguishing it. Oh. My. God.

"Hello? Are you there? Hello?!? Hello?!?" I screamed into the phone.

Bitch, I waited fifteen minutes while you probably filed your nails and you can't wait out a kitchen fire for 10 fucking seconds?!?

Fuck me. I guess I will need to call them back.

At least there's coffee.

I clunk down my giant coffee mug onto the counter, spoon in the sugar, pour in some steamed milk, whipped up some cream for the top...

Oh, I forgot, I need just a little sprinkle of cinnamon for the top. So I open the cabinet above my mug for the cinnamon and PLUNK! Red pepper shaker. Straight into my beautiful coffee cup.

I'm going back to bed.
Wake me when it's Tuesday.

Are you there, God? It's me, Lunatic.

I have decided today that I am insane and need heavy doses of crazy medication.

A little backstory:

For those of you who don't know, I answered an ad on Craigslist last week for an acting part in a web-series and was asked to come and formally audition, today, down in Golden Gate Park. I was thrilled at first, then doubting whether or not I should do it.

First of all, it would be a two full day a month commitment, unpaid.

Second, it was an action role and I was doubting my chances, given that, despite our mutual penchant for drowning ourselves in unmanageable amounts of children, I don't exactly look like Angelina Jolie.

I mean, don't get me wrong. I would tuck my metaphorical penis between my legs, kiss the mirror and exclaim, "I'd do me.".

But I'm not exactly sure a casting director would.

So, with all of that being said and despite my negative Nancy mindset, I took a shower, pushed the boobs up, squeezed my ass into something tight, shook out my hair and decided that I was hot enough to leave the house and go into public.

I just forgot one thing... I'm crazy.

As I said earlier, the audition was at Golden Gate Park. Meaning country nouse had to drive into the city and try to find a boat-sized parking space.

And Jude refused to drive with me because he had shit to do. Meaning that despite begging and offering bribes that I didn't think he could refuse, I had to go it alone. Just me and the good 'ol GPS.

Only the GPS could not find my destination. And wouldn't stick to the window. And would only show me the map of where I was going but would not navigate.

Off to a good start.

So I figured I knew basically where it was and me and 'ol GPS, who is obviously on the rag today, would find it somehow.

So GPS in hand (because it would not stick to ANYTHING) and the steering wheel in the other, I drove off towards the park, glancing down every ten seconds at thestupidfucking GPS because it was still giving me a much undeserved silent treatment.

I started shaking, nervous because I had no clue where the hell I was going.

But I made it to Golden Gate Park, with my newly acquired speed-map-reading skills. Only there was some sort of festival. And no where to park the fucking car. WORST CASE SCENARIO.

Brain entering panic mode. Must....start...having...nervous...breakdown...

And this is where it gets interesting. You see, I hate to drive. I fucking hate it. More than I hate anything else on the planet. I don't know why, I'm just shit-scared of driving, especially when I don't know where I am. And super-especially when there is no designated place to stop and exit my vehicle. No end point, so the torture just feels like it goes on eternally. I cannot parallel park for the life of me and I don't know what I was thinking.

Desperate and sobbing, I tried to pull into a Whole Foods parking lot and some guy was valeting the cars. I figured, fuck it, at this point, I would just like to get out of the car.

I will go and buy a bottle of wine at Whole Foods and chug it Clerks style by the door.

But I can't fit in this spot. Youstupidblindmotherfucker, MY CAR WILL NOT FIT HERE! I CAN NEVER GET OUT OF THIS CAR! I WILL DIE IN IT!

So, I started to panic. I cut my wheels in a frantic effort just to get back out of the parking lot.

"Lady, what the fuck are you doing?!" he screamed.

"I NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE!!!!", said the Lunatic.

I turned my yacht around with inches to spare and burned rubber turning back on the road. I picked up my best friend, the GPS, wiped the flood of tears from my eyes and hit "Home".

So close, but I just couldn't do it.

I spent the entire ride home shaking and crying, parked the car back in the garage, came upstairs and hastily poured myself a glass of wine.

I couldn't do it. I'm not the type of person who can just be that independent. I don't go places by myself if I have never been there before.

I need some hand-holding, some coddling, and I sincerely appreciate that Jude, knowing this, usually holds my hand, pats me on the head and tells me to cut the shit.

But it's alright. I'm not ready yet. Not ready to strike out on my own and explore the big-bad-city all by my lonesome.

Sorry ladies, I couldn't make it to the audition today. But if you need someone in the future who can play an insane agoraphobic with severe anxiety and issues with being independent, I am so your girl.

...But you gotta come to me for the audition.

Forever Fatty Workout System.

Winning Nerd Fights. (NFMM-Not-For-Mom-Mom)

My Fourth Kid.