Because You’re Not a Parent

Before I had punks I laughed at the ridiculous crap parents used to do. I always thought that I’d be such a cooler parent than the ones I witnessed looking like complete douche bags in public, and I’d do a much better job at parenting. Let’s face it, parenting is 100% easier when you aren’t actually a parent. Now, I spend 57% at my day looking like a total idiot, all because I’m a mom. (The remaining 43% is based solely on my own awkwardness and is completely unrelated to my punks.)

These days I spend a lot of time looking at poop and discussing what it looks like. Turns out, most of the time it looks like headless monsters. Dr. Oz would really be disappointed in my punks because they poop monsters, not S’s. I never thought there’d be a day I would watch someone poop and then spend a good amount of time staring into the toilet, discussing it. Only a parent watches and discusses poop like it’s a fricking sporting event.

Also on the list of things I never figured I’d do is frantically check every bathroom before company arrives to make sure the toilets have been flushed. It never fails that I find at least one that someone forgot to flush. A real bonus is when there’s a floater and toilet paper because there are many times I simply find the floater. How many times do you have to tell your punks they have to wipe their ass before they actually remember?

I have this weird issue with listening to people eat and drink – I can’t stand it and it makes me feel like I’m going to have a panic attack – so eating with my punks tends to be stressful at best. Most of you are worrying about whether or not your punks are eating, I’m worrying about how much noise they make. I expect them to have manners and chew with their mouths closed, but even then, there are some pretty disgusting noises. I’ve always had this issue but now that I have kids it’s a whole new level of panic attack stress. Just thinking about it makes me freak out. Moving on.

If you don’t have kids then I’m the mom you hate at the grocery store and avoid eye contact with so I don’t see your look of disgust. (If you have them, you pass by with the “I understand” look in your eyes and we do the secret handshake to meet up for drinks later.) I let them roll around on the floor, crying over not getting Oreo’s, while I move on down the aisle. If they want to look like total idiots in the store, who am I to stop them? If you don’t have punks you assume my kids are assholes and I’m a shitty mom who lets them meltdown over cookies. What you should know is that I’m not going to give them their way, especially when they’re acting like douche bags. So sigh away, and roll your eyes because I’m not going to give in just so you don’t have to listen to them. I don’t want to listen to them either. Just know that I’m usually one eye roll and sigh away from ramming my cart into your ankles so beware. Better make sure you don’t stop in the middle of the aisle because that annoys me as much as my crying punks annoy you.

I’d really like to know what asshole thought putting candy and crap-ass toys in the checkout line was a good idea? If you don’t want to listen to punks cry and plead and beg, move that shit. When the cashiers give me dirty looks I want to tell them that it’s the dumbest idea ever put into action and I would have never approved such dumb shit, nor am I going to shut my punks up by giving them their way. So thanks, every grocery store in America, for making every mom look like failures because we won’t buy your crap at the checkout line. Maybe someone (with or without punks) should start a petition to get it moved. I’m pretty sure everyone would sign it and we could just finally pay for our shit without wanting to punch each other in the face.

The one area in which I feel I completely excel as a mom, but look like a total idiot, is what an incredible rapper/singer/song writer I’ve become. I typically rap/sing to the punks when I wake them up, encourage them to get dressed, get along, move their asses, or eat quietly. And I don’t care where we are – it’s always a good time for some original music – although my punks would totally disagree. My punks even sing along to most of my stuff which really makes me feel like I rock. We’re kind of like the Osmond’s but not as talented, and we dress better. Plus, we aren’t making any money. Yet. If we ever record an album, just promise you’ll buy it and know I will totally take this shit on the road if there’s ever enough demand.

Now I need to go make Cort put his underwear and pants on because he’s my free bird and has completely refused my requests to stop walking around half naked. This is a daily occurrence in our house that, despite my best efforts, I cannot get under control. You probably don’t want to ever just show up at my house because chances are I’ll be braless and rapping, Cort will be pantless and the toilets won’t be flushed. And someone will be having a meltdown because I suck as a mom.

For a Good Time, Call Me

I like to appear that I have my shit together. It makes me feel better about myself and the fact that while I can put on heels, curl my hair and look nice, underneath it all, I’m just minutes away from publicly humiliating myself. I can’t count the number of ways I’ve embarrassed myself in the last month, let alone the last 15 years, although, I am going to start writing down every single thing I do because I do believe this will be the focus of my first book. And let me tell you, I have a LOT of material.

Truth be told, I’ve found peace with my inner nerd that likes to rear its’ ugly head at the most inopportune times. I’ve learned to embrace this part of who I am and truthfully, I don’t have any choice because it’s not something that is ever going to change. At least you can count on me for a good laugh. I’m dependable like that.

There’s the time I fell off the stage during play practice, in eighth grade. (This public humiliation thing has always been a part of my life). Nothing like tripping off the stage during the most dramatic part of the play (let’s be clear, this was no Shakespearean play, but from what I remember there was a dramatic part. And in case anyone is wondering what my breakthrough role was, I was a cop. An 90lb cop. Very believable.)  I fell hard and I’m pretty sure my knobby knees left imprints in the wooden floor. My play book slid theentireway across the gym, and all I could do was sit on all fours and laugh my ass off. It was pretty awesome. I do wish Vine would have been around back then because I’m pretty sure that shit would have had millions of hits.

There’s the night this summer I got all dressed up in the cutest dress and wedges, met my girlfriend for drinks on the patio at a bar (obviously at a bar but I need to be clear that, again, this was a public display). I walked back outside and completely tripped on a crack in the patio. I was going down head first people. But I put my catlike reflexes to work and pulled out a save. However, not before everyone outside heard me yelling “SHIIIIIITTT” and got to witness my near fatal fall. That was met with an incredible amount of laughter and smart ass comments, from people I’ve never met or really want to met at this point in my life, and me standing up, straightening out my dress and simply saying, “I’m okay” which was met with lots of clapping. And laughing. But seriously, they need to fix that shit before I break a hip.

Every time I go to Vegas I am met with an incredible amount of humiliation. This happens whether or not I’ve been drinking copious amounts of alcohol. The first time I got a spray tan at the Wynn I walked my happy ass right up to the counter and announced I was there for my tan. I was immediately pointed to the glass doors I had just walked through to the spa counter. I’m not sure why the treadmills, workout clothes and smell of sweat weren’t an indication that I was in the wrong place but those gym workers sure were nice. And yes, like an idiot I looked back and saw them laughing their asses off.

The same trip I was at the Encore playing blackjack when I saw Bobby Bones. And I had been drinking, and was feeling super hot because I had my amazing spray tan, both of which made me feel like I should say hi. (I should tell you that I used to work in radio and my primary station I was the first one they were syndicated on so I felt that the fact we had met a couple of times made us friends. I was not some rando stalker.) Most. Awkward. Hello. In. My. Life. First of all, he had no clue who I was. Second of all, I tried to make it better by reminding him who I was and he politely acted like he remembered me. Not helping was my husband who spent the remainder of the trip reminding me what I douche I looked like. The re-enactments of Bobby’s blank stare were humiliating every single time. This is the primary reason if I see someone that I know but I haven’t seen in a while or don’t know well, I avoid eye contact at all costs. If I’ve done this to you, I apologize but I’ve been severely traumatized.

The last time I was in Vegas I managed to lock myself out of the room at 3:45am. Wearing nothing but my thong and a t-shirt. And I’m not talking flip flops, either. I may, or may not, have had one too many red bull vodkas and had to have wings RIGHTTHISVERYMINUTEORI’LLDIE. Those room service carts are awkward and heavy and hard to maneuver. Especially when you are drunk and your hands are covered in wing grease. So I problem solved by pushing the cart with my hips and holding the door with my greasy hands. One final push with the hips and the cart went flying into the hall. However, I wasn’t prepared for such swift movement from the cart and my greasy hand fell off the latch as I flew out the door. Click. I rang the doorbell no less than 547 times, pounded on it until my hands were red and hurt like hell. I sat on the floor and kicked the shit out of the door. No answer from the guy who claims he wasn’t drunk just really tired. LIES.

Apparently 3:45 isn’t a popular time for people in Vegas to go to sleep because not a single person got off the elevator in 45 minutes. I had two options: sleep outside the door like a hooker who had been kicked out of her room or walk through the casino to the front desk where I could look like a hooker who’d been kicked out of her room to everyone I passed. I’ve never been so conflicted in my life. I’d given up all hope and was about to head to the elevators when I heard a little cleaning lady at the end of the hall. If I’d ran half this fast  when I was in track, my record would have been astounding. State champion. She refused to let me in my room (it may have been the fact she got a good look at my ass, may have been the grease, we’ll never know) but she called security for me. I emphasize for me, not on me.

Apparently security does not view a drunk, pantless girl as an emergency so I sat in the doorway for another 20 minutes until a very attractive security guy in a suit showed up. Of course. Send the good looking guy. Just my luck. The first thing he asked me, after I picked myself up off the floor, was if I had any identification. This guys was no super sleuth. “Seriously? I’m standing here in my t-shirt and underwear. Where exactly do you think I have it stashed?”  Reluctantly, he unlocked the door but held it open with his foot while I grabbed my room key and license. It’s a painful realization to know you look like a hooker who’s john won’t pay for services and throws you out of the room, folks. Thankfully, I never saw the security guard again but I was fully prepared to be met with shame, pity and disappointment, should we come face to face ever again. Clearly, not my first rodeo. I know that look. Well.

All of this leads me to yesterdays disaster. The first thing I’ll tell you is that I don’t sleep in a bra and second of all, it’s never been a high priority on my list of things to do before I take a shower. With that said, I grabbed my cup of coffee and sat on the porch while the punks ran to the bus stop. They got half way there when Ryder stumbles and completely eats it (he obviously get his grace from me). I tried to yell to see if he was okay because I’m standing there in a white tank top, no bra, and the last thing I want to do is run down the street like that, but he’s crying and I can tell he needs his mama. So I took off like the wind, running like Adam Levine is at the finish line waiting for me. My oh-so-kind neighbors witnessed my punk going down so by the time I reach him, they’re standing there ready to administer first aid.

Listen, I’m pretty sure she didn’t pay much attention to my boobs but he’s a guy so let’s face it, there wasn’t any eye contact between the two of us. It is very hard to comfort your kid and attempt to cover your chest without looking like a complete idiot so I just did the best I could do and knew that once again, I looked like a total douche.

I’ve learned a valuable lesson from my latest escapade – when your feet hit the ground in the morning, throw on a bra. Every. Single. Day. Or don’t, but know you’re taking a risk that something will happen and your creepy neighbor might get a good look at your boobs. There will be no further driveway time for the children because the last thing I need is face to face contact with him. Furthermore, I will be wearing my sunglasses at all times to avoid all eye contact with the entire human race.

I could go on and on with humiliating stories but quite frankly, I’m tired of reliving these awesomely embarrassing stories all over again. If you want to laugh your ass off we can plan a night out because there is a 145% chance I will deliver. My best advice is to keep your Vine handy because you will get some really good shit.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go put on a bra because today I made a bad choice to live dangerously.

Adios Summer

Tomorrow is a big day, people. It is the day I shall walk two little punks to the bus stop, take lots of pictures and send them on their way. Of course, I’m meeting them at school because I can’t not walk them to their classrooms on the first day of school but still, school starts tomorrow! The best part of this is that we survived the summer and no one killed each other.

Tomorrow morning will probably be the death of me considering we like to sleep late and spend a good portion of the morning in our pajamas, but the upshot is we’ll get back into a routine. I’m not so good at maintaining routines when I don’t have to. Some think my lack of routine in the summer is an issue, I disagree. It’s called summer and nobody needs to live and die by a routine in the summer. However, my lack of routines is a very good indication that I should never ever home school my punks because I’m pretty sure they’d be stuck in kindergarten and second grade forever. Poor Cort, he’d be a 27 year old three year old and he’d never be able to move out because he’d still be crying all the time that he wants his milk in a sippy cup rather than a stupid, big boy cup. I know my limits so I draw the line at ever considering home schooling. You’re welcome America.

We survived the summer with no broken bones or stitches so I’m giving us an A+ in that area. Emmerson and Ryder learned to swim so that’s another A+. Between Aidan and Ryder there were a lot of hours spent playing video games so I’m giving us a D there. Sadly I had to be a real asshole and limit their playing time to an hour a day because all they did was fight over who’s turn it was and quite frankly, I was sick of listening to it everysingleday. You mess with the bull, you get the horns – that’s me. Learn it, live it, know it, punks.

Also accomplished this summer was the enormous task of getting Cort to go to bed without anyone having to sit in his room for 40 days while he falls asleep. (This is the part where I confess what a loser I am when it comes to playing hardball with my punks.) When he was little he’d go to sleep as easily as I do – put him in bed, turn off the light, give him a kiss and he was out. It was awesome and a really fun trick to show my friends. (I admit, I did show off a little with this trick which is probably why it backfired.) But then one day he started flipping the bird and the only way to get him to stay in bed, and actually sleep, was to sit in his room until he finally fell asleep. While most of you have the street smarts to never go this route, I was desperate and just needed him to go to bed so I’d do anything, short of offering him a glass of wine, to make that happen. At any rate, he was promised a lizard if he’d just go the fuck to sleep for a week and he apparently wanted a lizard really badly because he started doing it. The lizard has since died (a week and half later) but the point is – BRIBERY CAN AND DOES WORK. Not that I like to use it often, nor do I recommend it. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Mission accomplished. Another A+.

Aidan went to conditioning 3 days a week and now resembles a 17 year old boy rather than the 12 year old punk he is. I try to stay on his good side because there is a 100% chance he’d take me down in some wrestling move that I could never get out of and result in a broken hip. I don’t have time for a broken hip and I’m sure it would have a direct impact on my ability to wear heels, so I’m doing what I can to avoid that whole scenario. Seventh grade for that punk tomorrow. It seems like just yesterday he was potty training and peed all over my arm and the wall. Now I can’t figure out if he’s hormonal or just going through an emo phase. Whichever it is, there are days it is absolutely painful and then I remind myself that I, too, suffer from both and we bond over ice cream, chips and stupid shit we find on the internet. Works out well for us. Then I remind him to feed the dogs and he hates me all over again. God, I’m so glad I can never be 12 again.

Some of my friends are all sad because summer is over and I wish I could hop aboard the sad train but the truth is, I’m not sad. I won’t be crying as I send Ryder to his first day of kindergarten but I will be offering him some knuckles and a fist pump as I walk out of the school. I love my punks more than life itself but summer is too long and I’m ready to send them on their way. This is why I firmly support year around school. It’d work well for us. We wouldn’t spend two and a half months like slobs in our pajamas and they wouldn’t try to kill each other every day. A few long holidays here and there sounds perfect. Plus, they’d be smarter because they wouldn’t be frying their brains by spending 12 hours a day playing video games.

In closing, we had a great summer. We accomplished a lot, wore pajamas a lot, got great tans and had lots of fun. Tomorrow I actually have to set my alarm again to ensure my punks make it to school on time and my ass is going back to yoga since I decided to take most of the summer off from it. It really is a win-win for everyone, except the whole “having to get up early” part. That’ll always suck ass.

So here’s to big brains because they cannot lie.

Adios summer.

Seven Going on 13

Seven years ago I finally got to meet the first punk who ever had the opportunity to live in my belly. It was hands down, the best day of my life. She started off dramatic (my water broke at work and I was stuck in the bathroom for no less than 20 minutes because I had no idea what in the hell to do and I may, or may not, have panicked) and it hasn’t stopped since then.

Yesterday she had one of her biggest meltdowns ever. It was one of those where you have to walk away, lock yourself in your bedroom, and hold a pillow over your head just so you don’t lose your shit kind of meltdowns. It was loud and ugly. And exhausting for both of us. When she had finally pulled herself together I held her on my lap and cried into the top of her blond little  head. Underneath that meltdown was a little girl who was hurting and didn’t know how to tell me. And it broke my heart for her because I know how painful it is to not have the words to say “I am hurting”.

I want to be her safe place. The person that no matter what is going on, she knows she can turn to and trust. I don’t want her to grow up holding in all of the emotions that go with growing up, which if you’re over the age of 25, you know can be overwhelming and painful, intense and sometimes downright smothering. I need her to know that she can trust me to listen, give advice when she wants it and sometimes when she doesn’t, to be a sounding board for her life. At seven I don’t expect her to understand this but it doesn’t make it any less important for me to tell her.

She is full of emotion (much like myself), explosive, determined, charismatic, full of spirit and life, smart and funny. I see so much of myself in this little girl that even when she can’t tell me why she’s crying or pissed off I get it. Because sometimes life just sucks, even when your seven and it’s because your mom confiscated your brand new American Girl doll because you told her she’s a monster and no one in the world likes her. I didn’t bother to tell her that’s complete bullshit – that maybe I can be a bitch but only when necessary and there are a lot of people who like me and I CAN PROVE IT SO THERE – I just took the doll because sometimes you have to hit ‘em where it hurts.

She is a piece of me. Woven deeply through my soul with chains that will forever hold us together. Her pain is my pain and will always break my heart, her joy will forever utterly complete and fulfill me to my core. It has always been this way and I know it will always be as such.  I’m eternally grateful for this gift of life I’ve been blessed with that is a piece of me. I love this girl so deeply that it feels as though I have loved her my whole life and it’s hard to remember my heart before her.

Happy #7 to the girl who has forever changed the woman I am and who has given my life more purpose than I ever dreamed possible. The girl who reminds me that even when the shit has hit the fan you just have to turn the music up and dance. The girl that has taught me to live my life fearlessly, to love deeply and freely without reservations, and that when things fall apart a good meltdown is all you really need to pull your shit together.

Emmerson Lee, you are the best piece of me and I will forever love you sweet girl.

2013-07-17 21.01.11


Got to see Cortland at 1:59am because he apparently read my post and it’s his way of flipping me double birds. So, that’s pretty awesome. I knew better than to brag about the fact he’s been sleeping through the night but it’s hard to keep my mouth shut when I’m celebrating such a fabulous event in my life. I’m sure he’ll have explosive diarrhea in his pants today too. Just to prove a point.

It’s currently 10am and I am sitting on the deck, still in my pj’s and drinking coffee.  One punk is playing video games and two are jumping on the trampoline. I’m sitting here with a head full of thoughts and no idea where to start, or even if I want to. Sometimes it’s just easier to ignore everything going on in my head, rather than attempt to deal with it.

I’m in a tough place in my life right now. Things are changing – some for the better, some for the worse – and I’m not sure which direction I’m heading. And it’s overwhelming and exhausting and scary. And a little bit exciting because who knows what’s coming next? For as uncertain as I am about it all, the thought that better days are ahead is one that keeps me moving forward.

It’s so easy to go through the motions of life and just accept the way things are. That, even though you know things aren’t what you want them to be, it’s just easier to go with the flow than figuring out another way. I’m totally guilty of it. Because I avoid conflict. I avoid sharing for fear of hurting those I love and I guess, I’m kind of a chicken shit. I realize my own shortcomings. I know I need to work on them because I get there is no way to move forward without honesty, even if it hurts. But shit, I hate to be the one causing the pain.

I look at my wrist about 17 times a day to remind myself that I am moving forward in my life without fear. I wish it were that easy to just do but it’s a struggle I face every single day. I know the things that scare me the most can be the best parts of my life, it’s just so hard to remember that in the moment. I purposely don’t typically share anything beyond my punks on here because I don’t necessarily like putting myself out there. While I try my best to accept people as they are, I know far too many people who are judgmental and are quick to make assumptions about things they know nothing about. At the end of the day, I honestly don’t give two shits what people think about me but it’s still hard to really share my life.

At this point in my life I know this: I have to take care of myself. I can’t wait for someone to swoop in and make things better. I’m the only one who can do that. I’m fortunate that I honestly like who I am – I feel this is the best version of me I’ve met so far. I’ve surrounded myself with amazing people who love me, respect me and want nothing but the best for me. So I move forward, one day at a time, honestly, fearlessly and hopeful. The future is what I will make of it, even if I don’t know today what that will be.


3 Kicks 2’s Ass.

I have great news! My baby punk is finally potty trained. I still have to help wipe his ass but at least I’m not changing diapers anymore which means the amount of poop on my hands has dramatically decreased as of late. Not only are we saving money on diapers, but our hand soap is lasting longer too.

It made me sad for about a minute. My little baby punk is growing up and I will never have a baby as young as he is rightthisminute ever again. Then he wrote all over himself with sharpies, called me a “jewk” and hit his brother and I wasn’t sad anymore because really, he exhausts me with this kind of shit. He really needs to pull it together and stop acting like he’s three years old or something.

He’s finally sleeping through the night, too. Now that I’ve made this statement public I’m sure he’ll be down for a 2am welfare check on me tonight, but I haven’t seen that kid in the middle of the night for a couple of glorious weeks. At first it was weird. I’d wake up and immediately think something was horribly wrong. It only took a couple of nights of uninterrupted sleep for me to start to enjoy it because I catch on pretty quickly. And for as much as I love that punk, seeing him every night at 2am isn’t my idea of quality time.

Three has, thus far, proven to be far more successful than two, although he hates for me to Vine him which is an utter disappointment because he is pretty weird and full of good stuff. I just hope he can get on board sooner, rather than later, because people are really missing out and that makes me sad. Plus, this is some good quality time in my book. I feel pretty confident that one day he’ll think I’m the coolest mom in the world for documenting his childhood.

A while back I started writing a book. Have you ever tried to study for a chemistry test with punks up your ass? Me either, because I never took chemistry, but I’m pretty sure it’s close to the same thing. Needless to say, it was put on hold because, seriously, I haven’t gone to the bathroom without an audience in about 7 years so what are the chances the punks will leave me alone to actually write? Slim to none, people.  However, in a couple of weeks I’m sending them all to school (ALL OF THEM – preschool counts even if it’s only two mornings a week) so I’ll have some time to dedicate to writing. Maybe I’ll even get back to blogging more than twice a year.

Honestly, I suppose my lack of posting comes from not wanting to put my life completely “out there” and when things are off track it’s easier for me to keep quiet than to share my life. For my birthday this year I got a tattoo on my wrist, “FEARLESS”, as a reminder to live my life fearlessly moving forward. I’m hoping this reminder will allow me to do more than share ridiculous stories about my punks and more of myself. To be okay with each place I am with my life and know that it isn’t right or wrong, it’s just where I am at that time. And to allow myself the gift of peace with each place in my life.

So here’s to the last couple of weeks of summer and deciding to live fearlessly. To finding peace, loving deeply and moving forward. Here’s to figuring out who you are, loving the person you find and celebrating every minute of your life – good and bad. Mostly, here’s to the people who love and accept you exactly as you are at every point in your life because they are the ones who hold us together when everything else falls apart.


Not a Political Rant.

Yesterday I found myself watching Dr. Phil. (Go ahead and judge me). I only got the second half of the show so I’m not sure what was going on with the first girl but Phil did set up an inpatient treatment program for her to help with her bulimia and alcoholism so it was pretty intense, I’m sure.

The next story was about a girl (20 something, I think.) who was gay but her mom refused to accept it and thought that playing volleyball (could have been softball – sorry for the lack of details here but I was trying to cook dinner so I wasn’t 100% focused) was the reason for her being gay. The mom was completely convinced her daughter had chosen to be gay and wanted her to get un-gay last week. The daughter has been in a relationship for 10 years with the same woman and the mom is absolutely horrible to the girlfriend – calls her names, sends nasty texts to her, etc. It was pretty difficult to watch and truthfully, I wanted to smack the mom upside the head for being such a bitch to her daughter about something that (I believe) is out of her control.

This story got me thinking to a night we had with friends about three months ago where we got on the subject of our kids and them dating, discovering they are gay, dating outside of their race, etc. It ended with a lot of loud voices and very different views and opinions on what is “acceptable” for our kids. First of all, let me say that I love this group of friends and I totally respect their opinions even when they are different from my own. Second of all, I was raised in a very conservative family and when I would come home from KU my dad would tell me I was getting “too liberal” for him. As I get older I find myself questioning more and more of the opinions/views I was raised with because I am discovering they aren’t in line with my own. Sorry Dad!

The first subject: daughters dating guys with tattoos. Lot’s of N-O’s regarding tatts. My parents were this way – they felt tattoos were some sign that the person rocking them must be a bad person. (Maybe they figured they were in cahoots with the Hells Angels, who knows?). And then they had a daughter who got a tattoo when she was 18 and dated not only one, but two different guys, who had full sleeves. Imagine the horror. But you know what? They were two of the kindest, sweetest, honest, cool guys I ever dated. And guess what? This girl has plans to get two new tattoos in the not so distance future. Sorry Dad, I like tattoos. I think they are sexy as hell on the right guy. If my daughter ends up liking them too, what bearing does it have on me? As long as she is in a happy, healthy relationship I don’t give a shit. The tattoos aren’t going to be the reason it’s a happy or healthy relationship.

The next topic we yelled at each other about calmly discussed was dating outside of our race (not everyone participating was Caucasian, just to be clear). Here are my thoughts: I don’t give a shit if you are white, brown, green, purple, orange (unless it’s from bad self-tanner because I have to draw the line somewhere), black or red. It doesn’t matter to me. I don’t want my kids dating anyone who treats them like crap and their skin color isn’t an indicator of whether or not someone is a good person. All I care about is my kids finding a partner who loves them, respects them and fulfills them. I want them to be happy in their lives. It’s hard enough to find someone who completes you; I’m not going to worry about what color someone is or isn’t as long as my kids are loved and happy.

Our conversation naturally progressed to the topic of finding out one of our kids was gay. Now listen, there are about 15 kids between all of us who were participating in this conversation, so the odds are pretty good that someone in that bunch will be gay, right? This is not an easy topic when opinions are so different and everyone wants you to see their point of view and come to the other side, but it is also so interesting to listen to what people believe and why. I’m pretty sure you can figure out what side I’m on given my opinions on the previous two subject but in case you are no Sherlock Holmes I’ll tell you: I don’t give a shit if any of my kids are gay. Sure, it hurts me to think of the prejudice and discrimination they may face, but I want my kids to know that I will love them, no matter what. I will support and accept them no matter their sexual orientation. I don’t believe that their sexual orientation is “who” they are. It’s who they love. And who am I to tell them who they should or shouldn’t love?

I know everyone has very different views on who they want their children to date and I’m fine with that. I’m not attempting to change anyone’s ideas, values, beliefs or opinions, I’m simply sharing my own – I’m not saying they are right or wrong. I want my kids to find happy and healthy relationships, regardless of what that relationship looks like. Just like I want to be my authentic self, I want that so incredibly bad for my kids. I want them to know that their mom is always going to love them and support them and want the best for them. That no matter who they are I am proud of them. That I will love them through any challenge they may face, through all the parts of their lives – good and bad. I pray they will be honest with themselves about who they are, what they need from a partner and be willing to not settle until they find the right person for them.  Because life is too short to waste on living up to everyone else’s standards. I’m just saying that all I want for my kids is to find true happiness. To find someone who loves them, respects them, makes them incredibly happy and completes them.

That ultimately, I wish them love.

Mom On Her Galaxy III


The other day a friend on Facebook posted a link to a blog titled Dear Mom on the IPhone, which I proceeded to read. And let me tell you, it kind of pissed me off. This post keeps creeping back into my mind and I get frustrated all over again because it just doesn’t settle with me. I, for one, spend plenty of time on my phone and in a world that tells me how I am not a perfect mom and shows me all the ways I am not stacking up, the last thing I need is another item on the list.

So let me explain who this Mom on her Galaxy III is.

First of all, I am head over heels in love with my punks. (And yes, I refer to my kids as punks and do so without guilt.) They are the very best thing I have ever done in my life. They bring me tremendous joy, unconditional love, laughter and fulfillment. They also bring me moments of feeling like a complete failure as a mom, frustration and tears that I’m never going to get this parenting gig down right. It doesn’t mean I love them any less, or make me less of a mom, when I feel like flipping them the bird when they point out all the ways I suck. It’s all part of the job I signed up for. I get it. When you’re a parent it’s not all rainbows and sunshine – it’s TOUGH. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done but I’m blessed to be able to do it.

Second of all, I gave up a career that I loved so I could stay home and be the one doing the raising (in hindsight, I may have been better of letting someone else do it but that’s neither here nor there). I felt that if I wanted them to be raised with the values that are important to us as their parents, I should be the one teaching them. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy going from a career that was social, fun, fulfilling, full of awesome perks (Hello, meeting Lady Antebellum complete with a concert for 20. Amazing.) and topped of with plenty of affirmation, to staying home with kids who don’t really care about the home-cooked meals I prepare daily (because no matter what when you are little McDonald’s rules and I can’t compete.) or the amount of time it takes to do all the laundry, fold it and put it away. I don’t expect them to give a shit. They’re little. I get it.

However, this is more than a fulltime job. I’m on call 24 hours a day, seven days a week. My breaks come in 2 week increments, not every four and a half hours. My friends all work, outside the house, during the day. We don’t get to enjoy casual play dates at the park where we can catch up on our lives. My mom passed away almost 10 years ago so I don’t have the joy of sharing this part of my life with her. I get lonely, people. I need to know I’m not alone in this parenting gig. So yes, I spend plenty of time on my phone – taking pictures and videos of my punks, catching up with friends on Facebook and tweeting my life on Twitter. And you know what? I don’t feel guilty about it and I don’t want to feel guilty about it.

I miss the social life I had when I worked. I was lucky to have co-workers who became dear friends, a job that offered me something new every day and the freedom that comes with being in sales. So when I’m on my phone texting one of my best girlfriends about how my punk would. not. go to sleep the night before, or sending a video of my two year old punk dancing and singing “Moves Like Jagger” (And he does. New front man for M5) or posting on a friend’s Facebook status it’s because I need the break. I need the interaction. I need to know that I still exist, outside of my punks. Because sometimes it’s hard to remember that and I, for one, need to remember me.

As a parent, one of the greatest gifts I can give my children is the ability to be my authentic self. Flaws and all. To allow myself to still exist as an individual, as a woman who loves who she is, gives herself the permission to keep a piece of herself, before she had kids. You know why? I’m a better woman and mom when I do this. I teach my children that the entire world doesn’t revolve around them. I show my daughter the importance of girlfriends, of figuring out who she is and that she needs to value that woman. I may not make it to yoga every day, I may not get to spend as much quality time with my girlfriends as I would like and I may not give myself as much time to be me as I feel I need, but sometimes connecting with my friends on Facebook is enough.

So when you see me at Disney World tweeting about how I don’t understand why it’s called the happiest place on earth when there are so. many. tears., followed by a picture of my own punks having a meltdown, I don’t need you to tell me that I’m missing out on every single moment of my kids lives. I’m capturing those moments. I share these moments because we all have them. Parenthood isn’t perfect, kids aren’t perfect, hell, my life certainly isn’t perfect but I’m comfortable enough in my life that I don’t have to pretend it is.

This mom likes her phone and all the ways it allows her to capture her punks lives, her own life, connect with friends and give her a few moments of her own.

Even at Disney World.


You know when you really want to get your shit together but you just can’t? That’s this blog. I want to blog, really, I do. I just can’t seem to get myself to do it because there are 539 things that seem to need my attention first. And sometimes at the end of the day, a girl just wants to watch some trashy TV that doesn’t require her to think or give one ounce of a shit. Truthfully, even my beloved Housewives have been put on the back burner (Forgive me BH ladies, I love you and all your ridiculousness.) and that pisses me off more than this blog.

I think it’s pretty easy to lose yourself once you become a mom. Maybe this doesn’t happen to everyone but sometimes it’s hard for me to remember who I was before I had kids. Lately I feel like I’ve lost sight of all of the things that are important to me, things that I love (outside of these punks) and how to make sure they remain a part of me. There are times that I feel that I am missing a part of my life that belongs solely to me. I love being a mom – it’s the greatest gift I’ve been blessed with so this isn’t about wishing I didn’t have kids – but finding the balance between being a mom and still being my own person is challenging.

Can it even exist? I can’t even make it to my beloved yoga class three days a week on a regular basis. I love yoga. Love it. And yet, making it happen for myself is as challenging as potty training the two year old, who apparently loves crap in his pants as much as I love yoga. Why do I feel guilty about taking time for myself, for the things I want to do? Pinterest has me believing that good moms work on crafts daily, bake with their children regularly, host weekly family campouts in the living room, spend every waking moment with their kids and make everything from scratch, and I’m not talking about dinner. I’m not that mom. I’m okay with not being that mom but sometimes I just want to flip that mom the bird from all of us who aren’t her.

I’m not perfect. Far from it. Some days I barely have enough patience to get through breakfast before I am losing my shit. Some days I forget to add lunch money to the kids lunch accounts. Some days I treat myself to a good old fashion meltdown of my own. I’m sarcastic. I’m snarky. Sometimes I’m just a bitch (ask my husband, he can vouch). Sometimes I like to have drinks with my friends over having a campout with my punks. I cuss, sometimes in front of little ears *GASP* and sometimes I think my punks can be a-holes. My life isn’t perfect. I’m not perfect. My punks aren’t perfect. I won’t sugarcoat the fact that some days just suck ass.

So that’s it. I just want to find a way to take care of me, too. To allow myself the time I need to be me, without guilt. To find a balance between being mom and being my own person. To give myself time for yoga and to write and to do what I want to do, even if it is watching trash TV. This not being able to get my shit together is exhausting. I’m out of whack, running around in circles chasing something I can’t quite find and getting nothing done. So, here’s to figuring it out. And here’s to getting the smallest punk to crap in the toilet.

My Girl

First of all, I know I am completely biased. Second of all, I don’t care.


She’s beautiful.


And precious.


And sweet. And kind. And loving.


Sometimes I look at her and I can’t believe she’s mine.

She’s perfect. 

Attitude and all.