In the midst of another tragedy, the age old question is recirculating: “Why does God let bad things happen?” If God is real and great and powerful, why does He just sit back and watch as our lives take what seem like meaningless, harsh twists and turns? Why did He let my grandmother get Alzheimer’s? Why did He let my friend get murdered? Why did He allow 9/11? Why did He let a psychopath go through with a mass shooting? Why does He allow a woman carry a baby and then let it be born without a heartbeat? Continue reading
As I am writing this, my little angel dumplin’ is chillin’ in his crib, singing happy songs about how much he loves his mother because of my undying affection for him. He is holding his Momo blankie and thinking of all the fun times he had with me today. Like when he threw that soup can at my head. Or when he picked up a baseball bat and hit me as hard as he could. Or, here is the best part, when he grabbed a glass bowl that I was eating from and hit me directly in the nose and I seriously thought it was broken. His favorite part of the day, I’m sure, is laughing at me as I tried to get him to stay in “the time out corner”. This escape from baby prison game is THE BEST! You know how psychopaths on TV like to smile as they’re about to torture their victims? Well, I think my baby might be a psychopath. This brings me to a quick flashback story. It’s the reason I’m here-in this amazing situation. It’s the reason for my punishment. Continue reading
After hearing myself say to my son, “No. We don’t put our hand in the dog’s butt.” and posting said statement on Facebook, I was inspired by my friend Amber to figure out a way to help toddlers answer the more difficult questions in life. Often, when saying to Jack, “Don’t lick that!” or “We don’t show our belly button to total strangers, darling.”, he has a very confused expression on his face. So, after way too much time figuring out how to create flowcharts on free online software, I give you: Flowcharts for Toddlers. The following should be helpful for your child when a challenging situation arises. Good luck!
Today, as my family and I were driving home, we witnessed a woman break a bottle on the back of another woman’s head. There were four of them. My husband’s reaction was to pull over and make sure no one was going to kill anybody. My reaction was total annoyance, as the ladies were fighting in the middle of road, and I wanted to go home. I felt nothing. I barely even acknowledged what had happened. Continue reading
As I sit here watching my beautiful little angel puff attempting to eat his Disney pasta and peas, I can’t help but reminisce of a specific moment in my life. It was right after my wisdom teeth had been taken out. I was attempting to feed myself some Kraft Mac and Cheese (THE BEST PASTA IN A BOX EVER), but was so discombobulated that I couldn’t find my mouth. It was so frustrating. I was starving and all I wanted more than anything in the world was the delicious, orange, mushy-ness in my pie hole. Instead, I stabbed my cheeks repeatedly with four tiny knives like a drunken idiot. Continue reading
Today is day seven in a row of BABY. During the week, I am a stay-at-home mom, but most weekends, I work. I work for a few reasons. One, we can use the money. Two, I need to get out of this house and away from my angel nugget at least once a week. Jack is my joy. The moment I leave him, I miss him. The second I put him to bed, I want to pick him back up and hold him watch him sleep. When I hear him in the morning, I love walking into his room and seeing his smile as we start our day together. That being said, as most parents know, I NEED A BREAK. Continue reading
Ah! This is my first guest blog post! My friend, Kelly Love, suggested I write about the Mommy Boards on Facebook, but I don’t really have experience with them. I usually just ask Kelly or my other friends for “Momvice”. So, Kelly decided to write the damned thing herself. Here it goes:
If you’re a mom these days, chances are you may have joined a mom’s group on facebook. They’re a great resource for new moms who are freaking out about every little thing, if you’re trying to get rid of stuff in the basement, and for advice on illnesses, behaviors, handling in-laws, et cetera. Let’s be real here, the mom group is kind of a God send for everyone, since posts can ask questions about poop, rashes, and other gory kid stuff, and spare the hungover-facebook-friend-from-college from wretching up their 3am Taco Bell, because it’s no longer on their news feed. (I miss you, by the way, friend.) Continue reading
Every once in a while, I’ll have a random flashback to my childhood and go, “What the hell were we THINKING?!” Especially now, when watching Jack play I like to reminisce of what pretend-time was for me. I even remember my best friend Sarah and I discussing as children when we didn’t have fun pretending anymore. It was almost as depressing as finding out “you know who” is really your parents. We just couldn’t do it. It wasn’t the same. I wonder if other kids reached an age where they recognized that their imaginations couldn’t entertain them as well as they used to. Looking back, some of the things we did for fun was either physically dangerous or psychologically messed up. It makes me wonder if our parents ever had any idea what the hell we were up to. Here’s what I mean: Continue reading
You think you know poop? You might-but I. Know. Poop. I was even a poop expert pre-baby. As a nurse, I can tell alot by your poop. What medications you take, whether you drink enough water, and-any nurse will agree-whether or not you have C-diff. I’m not kidding. I can seriously smell C-diff. NURSES CAN TELL YOU IF YOU HAVE C-DIFF. They won’t, though. Because they aren’t supposed to-but they totally know.
I know what you’re thinking. “THIS IS DISGUSTING WHY IS SHE TELLING ME THIS?!” Because I want to warn you. The story I’m about to share with you is all about poop. Duh.
At home, I am in charge of the cat’s litter box (on weekdays) and of course, my son’s glorious little diaper gifts. I take the dogs out once or twice a day. **I feel like my husband will want you to know that he takes the dogs to the park every day-and that I never take them to the park. Ever. And that usually, the dogs are with him when they poop.** Still, they poop sometimes with me. I am often the one (due to my husband’s weird sleeping schedule) to clean up animal vomit and what-not.
So, here is what went down yesterday. I brought my one year old son home from a very long car trip to a restaurant (50 miles away) and then to another restaurant (20 miles away) because the former was closed. I got the pot roast and for the first time EVER it was awful. I sent it back for some fried chicken that wasn’t ready until we were about to leave. The point is, it had been a long day.
I get home and put my son down to get things in the house. I’ve already given him a bath before dinner in hopes that he would be asleep when we get home. Nope. He starts to play and then suddenly stops. Completely frozen in his familiar “I’m taking a giant dump” pose. I wait. As I am changing him, I notice his cute little tushy is a bit red. I decide to let it air out a little before I put some cream on it and get him ready for bed.
This is when I notice that in the other room, the litter box has been removed 15 feet from its original location. It is overturned, lid off, and the carpet is covered in poop-filled litter. There is literally NO litter in the damned box. We have wooden floors, but of course, as is my dog’s want, all of the litter and its contents are directly on top of the only rug in the entire stupid room. Instead of getting insanely agitated, I decide to just go in there and clean it up before I even have a chance to feel sorry for myself. Sometimes, when I have to clean up a mess like this, I get angry with the entire world. Like God told the dog to go dump out the litter box because I deserve punishment for cursing at the lady who wouldn’t get out of the fast lane yesterday.
So, I clean it up. Scoop the poop. Throw it out. Sweep the room. Vacuum the rug. Return the litter box. Then, I go back to the den to get my baby ready for bed so I can CHILL THE HELL OUT.
As I walk into the den, I notice a familiar smell. I wonder, “Is that just because I just scooped poop? Nope. That is definitely toddler poop. Perhaps, it is from the diaper I changed when we got home.” (Yes. I really do wonder to myself like that.) NOPE. My sweet little angel has just had diarrhea in two separate locations of the room. The fully carpeted room. The child, who JUST took a dump and usually doesn’t take another dump immediately after, has pooped ALL OVER THE CARPET. Oh, well. This one is totally on me. I’ll just throw a diaper on him, put his PJs on and off to bed he goes while I clean this up. Right? NOPE.
First, I wipe his precious little behind, then I slap a diaper on him, and as I pick him up to put his pajamas on him, I notice the bottom of his feet. Both of them. You’ll never guess what it was. Kidding. You will. It was poop. MORE POOP. At this point, it is on baby AND mommy. To the bath we go.
Thirty minutes later, we are both clean and ready for bed. I put him in his crib and thank you JESUS he immediately lays down like “Thanks, Mom. Today was exhausting. Holla.”
I’m feeling a little better. Calmer. Cleaner. I walk back into the den ready to relax when something mushy and wet on the bottom of my foot quietly reminded me that “UM. DUH. THE WHOLE REASON YOU JUST TOOK A BATH WITH YOUR BABY IS BECAUSE HE DROPPED A MAJOR DEUCE ON YOUR DEN FLOOR .” I wash my feet. I clean the carpet. I am done for the day. I finally give up on life and go to bed. Tomorrow is a new day-and hey-shit happens.
Every day, as I prepare a meal for my one year old, I think of my dad. Especially when I’m cutting his sandwiches into perfect little squares so his squishy fingers can shove bite-sized pieces into his mouth. It reminds me of the meals my dad used to make me. Peanut butter and jelly was my fav. Four perfect squares, hold the crust. Cheese toast was second best. These bits were even smaller. Tiny individual toasts with melted cheddar. Another frequent request was “pink pink”, my word for scrambled eggs. Dad isn’t quite sure where that came from, but we think I called it that because the eggs came in a pink carton. I didn’t call scrambled eggs anything, but “pink pink” until I was embarrassingly old. When I am cutting Jack’s sandwiches up for him, I think of my dad and all the fun we had growing up. All the weird and unique things I did with just my dad and no one else. Here are just a few of the things that I flashback to while cutting sandwiches: Continue reading