I am a messy person. I’ve been messy since I was born. I’m not kidding. I popped out and grabbed twelve swaddling blankets and threw them about the room. Then, I politely asked the nurse for another one because I had lost the others. Coming home from school, I would violently kick of my shoes. They landed where they landed. The only time I cleaned my room was when my mom would say I couldn’t (insert fun activity here) until I cleaned my room. I had chores. I did chores. I had to help clean the house. I don’t think I can blame this on my parents. I’m scatterbrained inside and out. The best part about this issue is that clutter makes me crazy. It actually makes me feel icky. I am so much sharper and happily in an organized space, but it is in my very being to be messy. Continue reading
Every single pregnancy website I read presents me with sugar coated facts and photos of perfectly shaped women with basketballs beneath their shirts. Today, at week 32, I was warned that I may be having some heartburn due to my perfect little jicama (WHATEVER THE HELL THAT IS) pushing up on my stomach, and that taking Tums and propping my head up six inches “may” help. The truth is, for some reason, God decided it would be a brilliant idea to shove a 3 and 1/2 pound human body in a space that was originally the size of a plum. Instead of it growing outward or skimming the surface of its host’s organs, it literally moves aside the entire digestive tract until said host’s stomach is literally in her throat. This is insane. INSANE. And propping my head up six inches is not going to help my heartburn. Nothing can help a person whose stomach is in their throat. Continue reading
This week has just been the worst. One day (if you decide to have children), you will drop your kid off at daycare or school for the first time and you will discover what real solid pain feels like.
Today was your fourth day. The first two days I let you go just for a few hours to get used to it. Yesterday, I left you for ten hours. TEN. For ten hours I left you with total strangers. A little boy pushed you down and scratched your beautiful face and stole your toy. Your teacher handed me a piece of paper explaining your injuries. She said you did nothing. You just cried. I purposely did not ask which little tot caused harm to my perfect child because I knew that you might one day become friends with him, and that one day you might want him to come over and play, and you might even grow up to be best friends-and I would hate his little toddler guts for the rest of my life. Continue reading
My whole life, I knew I wanted a little girl. She would have blonde hair and blue eyes just like me. She’d be funny and sarcastic and she would LOVE The Little Mermaid. (Narcissistic much?) I think part of my girl-wanting was due to wishing I had a sister. Obviously, I grew up and realized that children weren’t around specifically to entertain their parents, but still, I wanted a girl. Even as a teenager, I’d see those adorable little dresses at Target and think, “One day.” Continue reading
I feel lame that so many of my stories start with “Today, at Barnes and Noble”. What an exciting life I lead. Other than the park, it’s the only free place to hang out with my kid who constantly reminds me that he wants to go somewhere by walking to the door and demanding, “bye bye!” There are always interactions there. A grown up to talk to is my favorite part, but I also like observing everyone’s parenting styles.
A few days ago, Jack and I had to leave early because he wouldn’t stop trying to take another little boy’s juice. It got to the point where I had no choice, but to leave. The woman said politely, “He must be thirsty,” which I self-consciously took as “Do you not give your baby beverages?” I swore to the woman that my child had plenty of fluids that day, and went into obnoxious details about how her son’s cup looked like Jack’s old cup and yada yada yada please-don’t-think-I-severely-dehydrate-my-kid jargon. The annoying part of all of this is that she was just trying to keep things light-hearted while my little beast was violently trying to rob her. Still, I couldn’t help but take her comment way too personally. Of course this woman doesn’t think my child is dying of thirst. Of course he’s just in a “I want that cup or I will cut you” kind of mood. All two year olds go through that horrendous phase where they don’t understand that every object on earth is not their personal property. Why then, do I feel the need to explain myself or the behavior of my toddler? All anyone has to do is look at him and know that he’s doing what he’s doing because he’s a tiny human-and tiny humans are selfish. Continue reading
In case you missed the 291 photos I posted to Facebook of Jack’s 2nd birthday party, I’ll give you a little recap. Jack turned two, and we had a Chugga Chugga TWO TWO party for him. I know. SO LAME. My twenty two year old self is hardcore eye-rolling right now, but she also doesn’t have a beautiful munchkin nugget whose birth must be celebrated by the masses. When deciding which theme to choose, I laid out options for Jack. We were going to have a Ball Party or a Choo Choo Party or a SHOES Party. In Jack’s very long two years, these are the things he holds most dear. So, I put a ball, a shoe, and a choo choo on the floor in front of him and asked which one he wanted as his party theme. I’ve already given away his decision. He picked up the train and to Amazon Prime we went. 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
If your mother is anything like mine, it can freak you out when you find yourself saying or doing something the way she does. My mother is truly saddened when she sees a young lady (like myself) who chooses not to wear make up or fix her hair. It drove me nuts growing up. I was a tshirt and jeans kind of kid. I don’t think I ever actually fixed my hair until….well….11th grade? Seriously. And that was only occasionally. I refused to wear contacts until then, too. In hind sight, it is hilarious to me that these things bothered her. She is the one who taught me to never pay full price for anything. Abercrombie and Fitch was robbing people if they thought she was going to pay $50 for a tshirt. SHE WAS RIGHT. That is insane. It’s a piece of cotton that has A and F on it. YOU are PAYING Abercrombie to walk around and advertise for them. When I was very little, I’m sure she fixed my hair, but once I got old enough to dress myself and whatnot, she never really said, “Okay, Becca. This is how you fix your hair.” She didn’t pick out my outfits. I did. I had the opportunity to make my own decisions and I chose to do what required the least amount of effort possible. Which drove her nuts. Which drove ME nuts. We were very different people. I was an early teen who hated school, girls who care about A and F, and most of all, my mother. She. Was. The. Worst. She wanted me to study. She wanted me to do my homework. She wanted me to SWEEP THE DINING ROOM LIKE I WAS SOME SORT OF HOUSE ELF. What was wrong with her? She was upset with me when my teacher called her and said that it looked like I may have forged her signature on my report card. WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO, MOM?! I GOT A C IN HISTORY! She even made me call and apologize to my evil teacher like it was MY fault that she noticed that my mother’s handwriting looked different. Then, when I decided I wanted to join a softball team because my best friend was doing it, she wouldn’t let me quit. IT WAS HOT! I was an awful softball player and she still made me stick with it until the end of the season. She came to every game just to make sure I went. Or to root me on. I don’t know. Moms, right? Ugh! Now, as an adult, I find myself doing things the way she did and it just totally freaks me out. Here are some things I have to blame on my mother: Continue reading