The Female Crazy …

I was fifteen years old the first time I called my mother a bitch ($0.25).  My own daughter returned the favor when she was just four.

It happened on a hectic morning after I had told Anna to put her gymnastics leotard on as I was getting into the shower.  It was inside-out, so she took it downstairs to my husband, who didn’t understand why she had brought it downstairs and told her to put it away.  Caught between two mis-communicating parents and too young to articulate to either of us that she was at an impasse, she began to melt down.  Eventually my husband put her in Time Out for not listening and that set in motion a series of events that forever changed the way I view my daughters, myself and women in general.

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MNASJ is up next on the blog tour!

Ashley – from the Crazy Life Of Smash – has asked me to be the next stop on her blog tour!  Ashley was the first mom-blogger to reach out to me when I first started blogging back in June.  She stumbled onto my blog, read one of my posts and she left me an emphatically commiserate comment on my page.  I felt like the new kid at school and it was like she just walked up and said hello.  From there we bonded over our kids peeing the bed and being assholes ($0.25) at dinner. I instantly loved her and stalked her like Crazy Eyes from OITNB! Continue reading

C-section farts!

When you stop to think about it, the process of getting a baby out of your body is amazing. There’s the old-fashioned “natural” method which, in terms of physics, is about like Andre the Giant pulling on a turtleneck sweater. That fucking ($0.25) thing will never be the same again.  I missed out on that little miracle of geometry, as all five of my children were surgically removed by C-section.  In either case, read on, because I’m about to make you feel better either about your to’ up from the flo’ up vagine (vah-jeen), or your undeniable need to fart. Maybe both.

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Friday Feats and Fails

I started the week with an overwhelming feeling of insecurity.  At first I thought it was because my blog numbers – which had been much higher the week before – were in the toilet because I hadn’t kept up the momentum from My Fat Ass ($0.25).  Then I realized, I didn’t let the momentum wither and die.  Rather, life dictated a shift in priorities.  I was stuck between wanting to write and meeting the increasing demands of my family. Continue reading

Frozen: Top 10 Reasons I’m Over it

Disney’s Frozen, which has grossed over $1.2 billion dollars worldwide, decisively proved that millions of mothers worldwide can be cajoled into shelling out fistfuls of dollars to satisfy their daughter’s insatiable appetite for princess-themed entertainment.  This is a well Disney has been going to for decades — our entire lives, ladies — and we keep lining up to hand them our purses.  Don’t worry, the next goddess in Disney’s princess pantheon won’t hit the big screen until 2018, and you know what that means: they’ve got 4 more years to squeeze all the blood from the Frozen turnip.   I honestly don’t know how we’re going to survive it, because we’re nine months in and I would rather pluck every last one of my nose hairs than watch this movie ever again. Continue reading

Oh My Gourd!

At the end of kindergarten last year, my oldest daughter Anna (known around here as Anna Banana, or “AB”) brought home a biology project: a little plastic cup half-full of dirt with a few tiny leaves poking through.  She told me she had planted a pumpkin seed and – to my shock and dismay – the damn thing had actually started to show signs of life.  I dismissively told her we could plant it in our garden, fully expecting it to perish.  When planting day finally arrived, AB lovingly transferred her little seedling to the far corner of the garden where it wouldn’t interfere with the real vegetables.

I had no idea that a pumpkin vine is quite a commitment. Continue reading

The truth about my big family …

People peruse my blog or my Facebook page, see the gaggle of children that call me mom, and seem genuinely befuddled as to how I manage such pandemonium. When I leave the house, kids in tow, folks always want to know “Are they all yours?”, “How do you do it?” and “Where is the man who got you into this mess?”.

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