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As always, if you do, I will be your best friend. Promise. 

The safe word is Sharks.

               All parents need a safe word; I'm not being porny or weird, a safe word is a word that can be called out in a time of stress to let the other person know that the wheels are falling off. This word is a great way to remind your other half that they have they crazy look in their eyes, without actually shouting out, "Hey, Honey.. you look like you are about to effing lose it!" Two reasons for this; everyone obviously knows when they are about to lose it, and don't need to be reminded of it. Also, if your kids get wind that you are losing control of the situation, you can go ahead and just make your dramatic exit, because any sign of weakness will be manipulated to their advantage immediately. 
            Last summer, I was pregnant (a common theme in my life) and we decided to head to the Camden Aquarium. I was looking forward to heading over the bridge to Philly to get cheesesteaks for dinner, and that was the main focus of my day. We were strolling along, looking at all of the exhibits, really enjoying our last big outing as a family of three. That is, until we came to the shark tank. There was a shallow pond with tiny, tiny sharks in it that the patrons could touch. 
            The problem, however, is that Princess Particular didn't want to touch a shark, and Mr. Wonderful basically said we would be sleeping at the Aquarium if she didn't touch a shark. I have to explain to you that Mr. Wonderful and Princess Particular are two of the most stubborn people I have ever met; I say this lovingly... I wish I had the balls of steel these two have. They know what they want, when they want it, and won't back down. It's a very admirable quality, unless of course they are on opposing sides. Mr. Wonderful wanted her to get the full experience, and try something new and exciting. Princess Particular didn't want to touch an effing shark, even though fully grown, it was the size of a teacup poodle. There were tears, whisper threats, bribes, and people stared. The lady who just loved her job as the shark info lady assured her about five billion times that the sharks didn't even have teeth.  I touched the shark, Mr. Wonderful touched the shark, and I was literally ready to lay down and float in the tank if it meant that I could go have a cheesesteak. 

These are literally the great white sharks that would certainly bite our arms off. Tadpoles. 

            Finally, an hour later out of desperation, I grabbed her hand, shoved it in the tank, and just prayed a shark would swim by and touch her . I'm sure all the sharks were terrified, because her hand was thrashing around like it had been attacked by a shark that actually had teeth. Low and behold, a shark swam up and courteously rubbed her hand, and the whole fiasco was done with. We all were exhausted, and later over cheesesteaks (and  cheese fries... so delicious!!!!) Mr. Wonderful and I decided that we need to pick a point in which to walk away from any battle royale with the kids; and from that day forward our word to indicate that we were flirting with disaster would be "Sharks". It immediately diffuses any situation in which Mr. Wonderful or I start to go a little wonky, and we giggle and remind ourselves of the fact that we are battling tiny tiny people, and we are the ones in charge. Because we said so. 

Never cashing in my "V" card. And you can't make me.

                 Since I am currently working on a baby factory around here, I fear that I will need to buy a new car. Now, by new, I mean new to me, because I am certainly not buying a brand new car. I treat my cars with all the respect of the black sheep in the family, a hobo who hasn't had a bath in a year, and a storage unit combined. A new car for me would be a severe waste of money.
                Currently, I drive The Golf Cart, a 1998 (that's right. 1998.) Honda CR-V that only has 60,000 miles on it. It used to belong to The Grammie, and while I hate driving such an old car, who can really complain?
                                                                                                                                                                            This is The Golf Cart. Mine is missing a passenger door handle that I ripped off by accident (while Hulking out about who knows what), and mysteriously smells like old chocolate milk. Beautiful.

          I expected to drive this little beauty for two more years, until we had another baby. Since I'm knocked right up again, however, I think I will have to buy a bigger car now. This pains me on many levels; The Golf Cart, while old as balls, is still fully functional, and is great for parallel parking. Also, we just paid off Mr. Wonderful's car, so I was really looking forward to a couple of car payment free years in which I could feel rich. Also, car shopping is so super annoying.  I mean really, can't we just walk in there, say this is what I want and this is what I'm willing to pay, and walk out? I just enjoy when people do what I want them to do, and I don't want to deal with some cheesy car salesman. I think I will bring Princess Particular after she's had a few handfuls of candy, and Squeakers after she's had no nap. I can tune out the crazy, but I doubt Big Bob of Auto World can as easily. 

                 The next major problem that I feel like every mom faces as some point in life is the "V" word. The "V" word is VAN, and you are more welcome to drop a string of "F" bombs on Christmas morning in my house than have me accept the suggestion to get a van. While I may have let my wardrobe fall to shit, because lets face it, I am getting spit up on or pooped on or used as a tissue for most of the day, plus I'm not exactly at my goal weight at the moment; and while I may not do my hair or makeup on a daily basis, and I feel like it's ok to go to Shoprite in pajamas (but not Target. Target is only for fancy sweats), I feel like I can't succumb completely to mom-status and drive around in a giant van.

       Now let's be honest. The vans these moms are driving around are better equipped than most flights I've been on; navigation, dual sound system, dvd, leather, huge captain's chairs, major storage space, and loads of other stuff I don't even know about because my car is 14 effing years old. If they came equipped mini liquor bottles and pretzels, the decision would be made for me.  I may or may not have a crush on the new Honda Odyssey. It was built for kids, and if they could find a way to give it a new candy coated sexy shell, I would be all over it. My options are a giant SUV that will guzzle loads of gas, or a smaller SUV with a third row that is tiny and we will probably outgrow in two years anyway.

                 When are they going to make a car that is good on gas, big enough for a shitload of kids, and still makes people think, "Damn. She's a sexy bitch."? (Until they see your shitload of kids in the back, of course. That's what tinted windows are for.) I am just going to treat this like most problems in life, and ignore it until I have to decide to let Princess Particular illegally sit in the front seat, or strap one of the babies down in the trunk.

Is there meat in pancakes?

           During this Lenten season, Princess Particular is keeping tabs on our promises not to eat meat on Fridays. She now asks each day, if things contain meat, such as pancakes, or pepperoni. Making her school lunch proved to be interesting, because not only did she think it was not okay to have pizza for both lunch and dinner (any normal child would think that was the best option ever), but then her life would be over because she couldn't sit next to her friend that never buys lunch. Let me just paint my level of frustration for you, because this is all coming to light at 9:15 am, and school started at 8:55. I already caught a world of shit from her for oversleeping, and therefore missing "Foot it Friday", in which she gets a ticket for walking to school. The prizes for having your ticket chosen would rock your world. So far we have won a foam airplane that now resides under my couch. I definitely lost my spot at the fancy nursing home she would have put me in. 

        "Excuse me, waitress? Is there meat in this?" 










                Since she is a picky eater, this has created a myriad of problems, and I started thinking about all the time I actually spend feeding this child. Everyone has seen the Dr. Phil episodes where there's a frazzled, frumpy mother, crying about how she has to cook five different dinners each night for her children. We all think to ourselves, "This will never be me. This hot mess needs to grow some balls." Then, slowly, you find yourself doing crazy things to get your kids to eat, like making their food into shapes. Or letting them eat  the same thing for breakfast, lunch and dinner for weeks. Or cutting entire food groups out of their diet in order to avoid temper tantrums. This is okay to a point. However, if you never stop, you will eventually wake up one day to a child who doesn't eat dairy besides milk, most vegetables, many fruits, and basically has stayed alive the past five years eating buttered noodles, pancakes, strawberries and plain chicken. 
              This is one parenting mistake that I am actually fully willing to admit, because this was my life until recently. The actual problem with having a picky eater is the day you decide they won't be picky any longer. Then comes The Battle. The Battle is our dinner ritual, a complicated dance of standoffs, negotiations, and going to bed with no snack. Also, tears. Lots of tears. When dealing with a picky eater, think of them as a bank robber with lots of hostages, or someone threatening to jump from a really tall building. It requires psychological prowess and balls of steel, because if you back down even once , you may as well just serve marshmallows and red bull for dinner for the rest of their lives, because you've just lost the war, hookers. 
       


Actual parenting advice for The Battle of The Picky Eater:


* Serve them more than you expect them to eat.  One priceless trick I learned is that during negotiations, you can separate each item on their plate into piles, and let them choose the pile they eat. This gives them the illusion of control, but in reality they are doing exactly what you want them to do. Muahahaha....


* Lie. Lying is perfectly okay in certain situations, and this is one of them. For example, Princess Particular fully believes that pears are green apples, quinoa is cous cous, pork is chicken, and turkey bacon is real bacon. Why? Because that little darling won't eat those things otherwise, and really, who does it hurt? We will tell her one day... maybe.   

This is an apple.Say it with me, hookers.

*Let them help cook. Now, I know what you're thinking, because I live this every day. "I can cook dinner about five billion times faster if everyone just leaves me alone." However, when you let your little monster help measure and stir and see the whole process, they are more apt to try their creations. Also, you can go ahead and take one point off the chart you keep that determines how much therapy they will need as adults, because this is a great way to spend some quality time together like those normal families do. (Or so I've heard.) 


*Never back down. NEVER let them leave the table without finishing once negotiations have been made. Even if the deal was to eat one bite of brussels sprouts, if you let them leave they will fully believe they can do whatever the eff they want at the dinner table for the rest of their lives. Do you want your daughter to order the macaroni and cheese off the kids menu at her first real date? Do you want to cook your eighteen year old son buttered noodles? Exactly. 


 So there you go; good luck, stay strong, and remember: All's fair in parenting and war.                  

Tigers and Helicopters and Frenchies, oh MY...

     There are many categories of parents nowadays, and I find them all totally hysterical. As with everything else in life, there are no black and white answers, and no "good" or "bad" parents. Even some of the most terrible parents have good attributes, and some of the best parents can be total monsters at times. Eh hem.. for example, my morning routine of screaming like the Beast for my slow-as-molasses Princess Particular to get her (goddamn) shoes on a little faster because we will definitely be (effing) late once again probably gives me a mark in my shitty parent column. On the contrary, I did read that little lady not five but SEVEN books two nights ago before bed.

                                     But this IS Mommy telling you nicely...




       So here is my little cheat sheet for the super hip trendy styles of parenting in 2012. I feel like these should be seen as many other things in life, as a buffet, where you can pick and choose your own way to raise your little darlings.

 Tiger Moms- Beautiful, but deadly. 


         Pros:       These parents demand excellence in all areas, and place total importance on academic achievement, so their kids are guaranteed to be academic nerdy superstars.


        Cons:       They won't be cool nerds. Just nerdy nerds. Also, everyone needs to let their freak flag fly every once in a while- years and years of not letting kids act like kids seems to me like you are creating prime candidates for mental breakdowns. (Although who doesn't like a good mental breakdown every now and then?)    

    Helicopter Moms- Of course it's ok for me to live with  you at college, honey..


               Pros: You do need to be up in your kid's business in order to be a good parent. You need to motivate them, know who they are hanging out with, and don't be an idiot and leave your liquor cabinet unlocked. (And teach them that vodka doesn't freeze, so if they put water back in the bottle and the bottle in the freezer, they won't learn the hard way that it shouldn't be frozen solid)
              Cons: There comes a time in every mother's life where you have to push your little birdies out of the nest, and hope they don't end up in jail, a stripper, or worst of all, back in your nest after they decide they need to "find themselves" Unfortunately for the helicopter mommy, this time never comes. They are happy to ride on the coat tails of their young adult children, making sure that well into their twenties no one harms their "little baby".

               French Moms- Oui Oui, laissez faire, la la

     

   Pros: French children learn not to interrupt, realize that adult time isn't an imaginary concept, and learn to play by themselves.

  

   Cons: Lets face it, French people can be rather snotty, so let's not let them know that they have the upper hand in raising a child, ok?

The MomsArePeopleToo Method..... (Drumroll please)

and there you have it.

  

Just pretend Mommy doesn't live here...

               Over the past couple of days, I have been living a nightmare. This particular nightmare is that of the stomach flu. The worst part of this stomach flu is that I am not the one who is actually sick. How can I be upset that I'm not the one who is sick?, you wonder. I will tell you why. Because if I am getting sick, I move my ass as fast as I can to a toilet or garbage or anywhere else that will cause the least amount of mess possible. The same is not true for Princess Particular or Squeakers.
               I am getting ahead of myself though. Lets back up to Thursday. Mr. Wonderful is out of the country for work. (this happens sometimes, and by Thursday I am ready to pack the kids in the car, head to the airport and just wait for his Friday 11am flight so I can hand them off and take the first flight anywhere. While silently screaming.) Princess Particular has her Daisy Girl Scout pinning ceremony, and on top of that I have to pretend to be a super helpful mom at her meeting that afternoon. Roughly 15 minutes before its time to go, she tells me her tummy hurts. I assure her she's just nervous and shouldn't be, and pack the carload of crap it takes to bring Squeakers anywhere.
              Once at the ceremony, the second I unpack Squeakers and start feeding her dinner, Princess Particular walks over to me, tells me she's going to be sick, and a split second later, my prized Cole Haan boots are ruined. If this wasn't bad enough, there were 11 Daisy Scouts screaming, "Princess particular pukkkkeed"
              

              Now these sort of situations are not my strong point; not only am I not the best at cleaning that sort of thing up, I also can't take a recreational Xanax to help me through this stressful time, PLUS there are 20+ actual adults looking at me to see how I handle this. Fortunately, The Grammie is with me as my +1, so she keeps shoveling food in Squeakers as I try to act like a responsible mom who isn't fazed in the slightest.
              I come to find out, in the middle of my hasty exit, that the stomach flu is circling kindergarten like an outbreak of STD's at college. WHEN the FUDGE was anyone going to tell ME? Four of the twelve Daisies were like the little monkeys from Outbreak and had this vile illness already. If I had any idea at all this was an epidemic, I literally would have taken Princess Particular out of school until it passed. I hate the stomach flu.
     

                  Driving home, I am filled with dread. I know exactly what is coming. The BRAT diet, loads of laundry, no sleep, and the urge to Purell everything in my home, including Squeakers. And after this plague has swept through the house, after I am exhausted, cleaned every surface imaginiable, and my kids get every ounce of energy back, I will get sick. SWEET.
     It is now Sunday, and I am pleased to say that I am still not sick. After a weekend filled with two sick kids, the horrifying details of which I can neither fully remember or choose to burden you with, things are somewhat normal around here. I had that slightly crazy look in my eye that told Mr. Wonderful that mommy may go batshit crazy from fatigue and the lack of one second alone in the last week, so he suggested I do something by myself today.
The best/easiest thing that didn't require me to get out of my pajamas I could think of was to go lay on my bed and read super funny mommy blogs. This is how my quality time with myself went:
12:00pm- lay on bed, get comfortable, go to some websites

12:04pm- Princess Particular comes in, with the laptop, and tells me it's broken. I make the necessary clicks, and she's back to playhouse Disney. She asked me if she can snuggle up with me, and I give her the most exasperated look I can muster, and tell her yes. Five year olds don't understand sarcasm. There goes my pillow, blanket, and space on the bed.

12:18pm- Mr. Wonderful figures out that Princess Particular isn't playing downstairs, and hops into bed with us too. In his best stern voice he says, "Princess Particular, Mommy is trying to rest. We need to leave her alone. Just pretend she doesn't live here" (What.the.fudge.?? super great choice of words darling)  

12:27pm- Squeakers wakes up from her nap, Mr. Wonderful "doesn't hear her" for about five full minutes. I sit there thinking, "I will not get out of this bed. I will not get out of this bed."

12:32pm- Mr. Wonderful hops into bed, and joyfully asks me how my alone time is going. I tell him, "It's not really alone time if you guys keep coming in here..." He leaves, dejected and I'm assuming a little annoyed that I dented his incredibly good mood. 

12:35pm- I lay there, shaking my head like Cameron in Ferris Bueller's Day Off, muttering, " I"ll get up. I'll get up. They'll keep coming in, they'll keep coming in... I'll get up." 

           I have to break out of this infirmary. My sanity will surely return, all I need is some fresh air and to check out the new frozen yogurt place in town. Get the stroller honey, we are all going on a happy freaking family walk. It will be great. (So help me GOD)

                                           But it's so sunny outside....

You know how I know you're a dumbass? Vol. 1

           As a mom, there are hundreds of products shoved in my face every day, aiming to convince me that if I don't use them, my children won't develop to the best of their ability. This marketing guilt is particularly strong with your first child, because you are still dealing with The Cuteness, learning how to keep someone other than yourself alive, and the overwhelming feeling that every second of every day you are screwing up your child beyond belief. Now, this feeling doesn't exactly go away as you have more kids, but it lessens enough that you see through the bullshit that the baby industry is constantly feeding you. Since I am working on a baby farm over here, with three kids at the age of 28, plus being a budget-conscious person, I have the uncanny ability to instantly know if a product is actually useful.


          So you can imagine my disbelief when I saw the following:

                                 BABY. FREAKING. LEGWARMERS.

     These little beauties are marketed as a product that will keep your baby warm during diaper changes....what? are you changing your baby outside? In Alaska? In a blizzard? I'm not sure about you rational people, but my house temperature ranges from a comfortable 67-75 degrees, depending on the season. Can anyone explain to me how, in the 90 seconds it takes any normal mom to change a diaper, these legwarmers will save your child from any irreparable damage? Are you losing sleep at night because your tiny darling cries during a diaper change? Guess what, they are crying because their little weenis or vaginy is cold and wet, not because their legs are nearly frostbitten. I swear. I will bet you five billion dollars it takes you three times as long to put on and take off these suckers as it does to actually change your baby. Plus, they look stupid. Save your money for a super classy $10 bottle of wine.


  

                       Step away from the chubby baby foot in sandals....

          The next category of products is hard to pass up; baby shoes. Not sure if you know this, but BABIES CAN'T WALK. Not only that, but when babies learn how to walk, the best thing they can use to learn are their chubby little feet. Now, Nike, Stride Rite and every hippie ergonomically designed hemp grass baby shoe maker doesn't want you to believe this. They want you to think it's normal to buy $80 tiny tiny shoes to put on quickly growing feet. When your little one is walking outside, in a manner more stable than a tiny drunken frat boy, then go ahead and buy them some shoes. NOT $80 shoes, because they will only wear them for about 3 months, max.

        Finally, the last product for today is probably one of the laziest parent moves I have ever seen... the baby food dispenser and squeezie baby food pouches.

              As a mom, I am constantly thinking, "Oh hey, is there any frivolous item that I'm not spending enough money on?....Oh right... I am so ancient. I mix my baby's food in a bowl and feed them...with a spoon. I am such an asshole." Obviously, people are saving hours and hours of their important, busy day by throwing a pouch of astronaut baby food at their kid and letting them fend for themselves. You are a dumbass. Take five minutes, play choo choo and here comes the plane and all the other silly games you play when feeding a baby. It will counter some of the other dumbass things you did during the day; your child will learn how to eat like a human and not a robot, and it will save you some money off of their future therapy bills. Promise.
            In addition, someone thought it would be beneficial for parents to take the time to load up the squeezie tube with baby food and then gently squeeze out the exact amount of food your little angel will need. One strong squeeze from a chubby little wandering hand, and that baby food is everywhere. Think you have the upper hand in feeding a baby? Good luck, those suckers are quick.


              So there you have it; just a few things that you absolutely do not need as a respectable, rational parent. There's a 100% chance your children will become normal, fully functional members of society without these things. Put your worry and guilt aside, have a margarita and feel confident that you are doing a perfectly acceptable job at raising your little doppelgangers. The best part is that there are dozens of other items that you don't need as well, and there are idiots putting out new ones all the time. I can help. Stay tuned for volume 2 of : You know how I know you're a dumbass?
      

Things I've Lost... Besides My Sanity

       

                                                       
         When you become a mom, you hear all about all of the things you will gain. This little tiny human who looks like you, smells amazing (if you keep them clean), and brings you joy each and every day of their wonderful little lives. In reality, while all of these little rainbow and smile filled dreams are real, no one tells you how many things you lose when you become a mom...

1. Sleep- this is obvious. Newborns generally sleep for maybe two hours at a time, and need to be fed, changed, and loved in between. Throw another older child (or more) into the mix, and even though both my kids slept through the night between 6 and 8 weeks, there were plenty of times where I felt the wheels falling off of the whole operation. What people really don't tell you is that you will never sleep a full night again. You  have those rare nights, mind you, where you actually get 6-8 hours of sleep, you just wake up thinking someone stole your children in the night... and sprout a few gray hairs as you sprint to their room and check their breathing, so really, what did that peaceful night's sleep actually do for you? In between these moments, you have your winter colds, which generally hit one child and then another, leaving you with bags under your eyes from December-February, because you stayed up all night making "clouds" in the bathroom with steamy water, or listening to one or more of them cough every 12 seconds. Even if you could sleep through this, you won't, because you will be staring at your ceiling wondering if you will send them on a Robo-trip if you give the little darlings an extra dose of cough syrup. Add teething, nightmares, potty training, and stomach viruses in the mix, and you won't see a good night's sleep ever again.

2. Any type of grooming habits other than showering, and even that is a toss up- Since sleep will be such a precious commodity to you, you will cut out any type of activity that impedes on a few extra minutes of sleep. Yesterday, Princess Particular asked me to get up at 7am to "curling iron" her hair. I'm sorry, sweetie... have you been drinking Mommy's special grape juice? Have you seen Mommy's hair?
               As a child, I distinctly remember my mother getting ready. She had a huge makeup mirror, and a desk with all of her things in exactly the right place, and I would watch her apply her blue eyeshadow like a freakin professional. I sat there thinking, "Wow. She is so beautiful. I can't wait until I wear makeup just.like.her." Fast forward twenty years, and probably the absolute only thing I splurge on in my entire life is my makeup. I literally won't pay more than $20 for a shirt  people, but think it's perfectly fine to spend $25 on a mascara. The problem with my amazing stash of designer makeup is that I never get to freaking wear it. Princess Particular is a natural born artist, and thinks her face is too good for Bonnie Bell. I have to do my makeup in secret, pretending I am going #2 so I can have some facking privacy....which leads me to my next point...

3.Privacy- Privacy is now out of my vocabulary. I haven't gotten dressed, showered, or gone to the bathroom by myself in almost six years. It's like there's a bell that goes off in my sweet children's minds that say, "Activate the Mom GPS.... oh, she may want to be alone right now..lets go FIND HER" I finally had to put my foot down and demand that I had to go #2 by myself. The beautiful part about this is that I have suddenly developed a case of IBS, and now hang out in the bathroom. If I need a few minutes alone, I just pretend I have an upset tummy, grab my phone, and play Words with Friends while I sit on the edge of the tub until someone's Mom GPS goes off. Too bad it would look really gross if I brought snacks in there with me.I can't believe I haven't thought of this earlier.

So there you have it, hookers. A few things that you must give up in order to gain the joys of being a mother. I have to go hide all of my jewelry now, because Squeakers has discovered that necklaces are oh-so delicious, and that earrings are best served when ripped from my ears. Hopefully all of my accessories are in style when I can use them again... in five years.

Princess Particular rules the world... and other disasters.

       We bought a new, 100 year old house named The Money Pit. We have grand plans for this house, and are determined to make them happen,  just as soon as we have the money. You know, the extra money that is readily available when you have 2.5 kids, a 14 year old car, and a brand spanking new mortgage that they expect you to pay every month. One addition to the Money Pit is the most beautiful dining room table that I absolutely love. It is a 10 seater pub height table that makes me feel as though I can have important fancy dinner parties and be the best hostess on the planet. I'll update you if this ever actually happens.
     The giant, beautiful table is what inspired MY idea for Princess Particular's 6th birthday party; I saw a fancy tea party, with pink sparkles from floor to ceiling, flowers and balloons as far as the eye could see, and little ladies giggling over pink tea, decked out in princess dresses, probably with tiaras. Also, adorable giant pink frosty cupcakes, hand decorated by me with LOVE. It was the 6 year old birthday party of my freaking dreams. I hadn't taken into account, however, that Princess Particular has been formulating her own ideas as well.

                                             ...What? Too Much?              

The Birthday Party Conversation From Hell goes something like this...

Me- "So, I've been thinking about your birthday party a lot.."
PP- " Me TOO, this is what I need you to do. I want a Halloween birthday party. I want SPIDERS. I want TRICK-OR-TREATING. I want everyone in costume."
Me- "Ummm. Spiders? Halloween? Princess Particular, your birthday is in April."
PP- "That's not all Mom, I want red, white and blue balloons, just like the Grand Old Flag song, and red plates for the girls and blue plates for the boys. Also, I have designed an Ariel birthday cake for you to make for the party" (she hands me full color cake blueprints)
Me- (at this point I'm thinking, "WTF?? Boys? Red, white and freaking blue at the HALLOWEEN birthday party in APRIL? I did an Ariel cake, twice. No. No. NO.")

                                  Holy balls. Where did my sweet little girl go?                                            


but I actually say...

"Well honey, um it might be a little hard for Mommy to find Halloween decorations in April, and I don't know how we will organize trick-or-treating... um and red white and blue doesn't actually go with a Halloween theme."

Then comes The Guilt.

PP- "Mommy, why don't you like my birthday party idea? I think it will be the most amazing fun birthday ever... why don't you?"
Me- (inner monologue- "FACK. I am a terrible. HORRIBLE. person.") "Oh Princess Particular, I love your ideas. I will do my best to make your birthday party excatly what you want it to be."

She then threw me a skeptical look and started compiling her guest list.



     I felt like my freaking dreams had been smashed. Who would want such a birthday party? No child of mine. I couldn't get over the disappointment that Princess Particular didn't have the same vision as me.. and I had no idea how I was going to get out of orchestrating the least cohesive party I had ever seen. Then it hit me like lightening- Why the FACK couldn't she have her crazy party? I am such a monster. How many things do we remember from our childhood that just make us think, "Hey Mom, hey Dad... was it such a big freakin deal that I wanted to wear my pajamas to the grocery store? Was it really Earth shattering that I thought it was ok to run around the house screaming "POSTS EVERYONE!" and holding the lamps and knick knacks in place, pretending I was in Mary Poppins? (Editor's note- you rock if you know what I'm talking about). Way to stifle my creativity and ruin my life."
    Maybe this is a little dramatic, but really... who cares what kind of birthday party she has? Only her. I need to let go...and let Princess Particular rock her birthday the way she wants. I will probably save her thousands of dollars in therapy bills (although I'm sure she will have plenty to talk about anyway), and besides.... there's always Squeakers birthday.

Moms are people too....

            So my husband, Mr. Wonderful, recently told me I should start a blog. His main reason was that I am not funny in "real life", but I get a lot of compliments on my Facebook status updates, so I must at least be funny in the written word. He's a gem. I took a lot of time to decide on a name for my blog, and I always kept in the back of my mind, "Moms are people too", because we are, damn it. I am not only a magnet for spit up, temper tantrums, and the endless embarrassing situations my children put me in, I am also a person. With real grown up interests and shit to say. I couldn't put my finger on where exactly I came up with the name, and then I had a flashback to my childhood; there was a small orange magnet on my fridge that said, Kids Are People Too. Kids ARE people too... how insightful. My thought process then led me to wonder why the hell this magnet would be on my fridge, so I asked my best friend Google. Kids Are People Too was apparantly a children's variety show on in the late 70's and early 80's (before I was born), celebrating children as people, with celebrities, news, etc. If you have seen this show, please give me a rating on it's awesomeness.

If you are in the mood for some nostalgia, click here for a super-high quality/creepy clip of Kids Are People Too.

             Before I tackle the challenge of describing who I am, I felt it best to describe the people who share my house and make me this way. Mr. Wonderful and I have been together for almost eight years. He is probably the only person on Earth who not only tolerates my endless bullshit and shenanigans, but may actually find them amusing. He is a fan of craft beer, video games, and he is also a compulsive cleaner. His current obsession is our brand-y new hardwood floors, in our new house, The Money Pit (more on that later). I have never seen a man's eyes light up quite like the day the steam cleaner he meticulously researched finally arrived at our house. I am not allowed to touch it. I spend my Saturday mornings moving from room to room, "cleaning", mostly avoiding Mr. Wonderful and his steamy ritual. I know what you are thinking- "Your husband LIKES to clean? You shut your whore mouth for complaining!" I'm not complaining- exactly. What you don't understand is the steam cleaning takes 4 hours, and you're not allowed to walk anywhere.. and I have to keep a 5 year old and a 6 month old occupied this entire time.. without touching the ground.

               Princess Particular is 5 (and 3/4 thank you very much). She is actually about 45 years old. She values safety, staying clean and getting her way. This is mainly because she was an only child until she was 5, and mostly around adults... or she's just extremely particular. She loves to put on makeup, and is the most creative person I know. She is also an amazing artist, and killed many trees in her hours and hours of creating masterpieces, that she insists on taping all over my freshly painted walls. She is also smarter than me by far, because I once looked at her lovingly, and told her she was my best friend. She looked me dead in the eyes and said, "No Mom. You are my MOM. You can't be my best friend AND my Mom." - Oh how right you are... and no, you can't watch TV. Brat.

              Squeakers was born of a wild trip to Chicago with Mr. Wonderful. She is adorable, six months old, and oh-so-perfect in every way. She has big blue eyes, thanks to Mr. Wonderful, and had I not given birth to her myself, I would never believe she is actually my child. She looks nothing like me. She is the happiest kid alive. I'm keeping her until we get the phone call from the hospital that we took home the wrong oh-so-perfect baby, and then I will choose who will play me in my own Lifetime movie. Squeakers was born on the hottest day of 2011, July 22. I went in for a nice routine C-Section. (I had one with Princess Particular and decided I would do my Queen Victoria a favor and opt for a second) The OR was peaceful; the was music playing, the doctors were chatting about the weather, Mr. Wonderful was there to hold my hand, and the drugs were supreme. The only indication that I had actually had a baby was the most curious, guinea pig squeal that was rang out in the OR. I was so confused. "What IS that noise?" says the Mother of the Year... "That's your BABY", says Nurse Babycatcher. My baby? My baby? This was the sound of a baby alright...a baby animal. A guinea pig, hamster.. not a human child. But there she was, perfect in every way, and continued to squeak for months.

              I am also pregnant with my third child.. That's right people. Six month old baby, and I'm knocked right up again. Fortunately, Mr. Wonderful reminds me all the time that since we will be having this little angel around August 13th, this baby and Squeakers won't technically be Irish twins. They will be 12 1/2 months apart. Like its ANY less crazy because they aren't actually Irish Twins. I keep reminding HIM that he will soon be moving into the spare bedroom. Although I am certainly happy to be having another baby, I didn't enjoy my free time nearly enough in between pregnancies; stay tuned for Fall 2012, when I acquire a drinking problem.