The Confessional

For the confessional, all the ways Abby was a shitty mom yesterday:

My daughter's daycare said she needed diapers. I remembered to throw them in the car, but they did not make it from my car to her room. When I picked her up, she was wearing a random diaper that was the wrong size (she is a size 4 despite being almost 3. All the kids in her class that still wear diapers are size 5. So I have the double punch of her not being potty trained at almost 3 and being underweight).

I had to work late last night. She was at daycare from 6:30 am to 5:45 pm. So much for 8-year-old me swearing up and down to my mother that I would never let my kids stay in daycare all day like I was stuck doing.

I used ice cream to bribe her into eating more of her eggs and cauliflower (scrambled eggs and those microwave bagged steamed veggies being the extent of my culinary skills). Then I dropped the amount she had to eat to get her ice cream. Yes, I negotiated with a 2-year-old. And she got the better of the exchange.

When I gave her a drumstick (the ice cream kind) she complained about the nuts. I picked them off by hand, forgetting to wash my hands first after putting dirty dishes away first.

I left her up in the living room to watch Dora while I cleaned the kitchen.

When her dad came home at 7 from work, I left her and locked myself in my room to do some work I brought home.

I'm off the pill and we are actively trying for another. After a day like yesterday I really wonder what kind of even shittier mom I would be with two kids.

Thanks for letting me get that off my chest.

 

 

ILBAB says: First off, girl, did you really email me from a Hotmail address? I thought those things had went the way of the dinosaurs.

Second off, that sounds like a winning parenting day to me. I ALWAYS forget the damn diapers at daycare. ALWAYS. And it isn't like you left her chained to a radiator all day. PLUS you got her to eat protein, vegetables AND dairy. Then you got the house cleaned, helped her brush up on her Spanish and gave her some daddy-daughter bonding time. I suggest you have at least five more for the betterment of society. You rock this parenting thing. Keep up the good work, mama.

The Confessional is now open. Have something you need to repent for? Feel free to send me your sin and I will help your purge your demons.   

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

The Confessional: The Great Nutri-Grain Bar Incident.

Today we have a guest post from M. She is being very honest and confessing something that I know at least I have done one...or 20 times. Kudos, girl.

Enjoy:

I love my children to the moon and back, but I'll be honest, sometimes other mommies (and daddies) and their obsession with their picture-perfect-never-annoying-everything-they-do-is-oh-so-adorable children, drive me insane.  So many times I want to jump through the computer screen, stand in front of them with my hands on my hips and say, "c'mon. Let's be serious. Your kid pisses you off sometimes too. Just admit it."

And I'm convinced that any parent that tells you that their child never annoys them, is a liar.

Most days I feel like I am parenting in 'survival mode,' just counting down the hours until nap time or bedtime when I can get a tiny break... but sometimes that break doesn't come soon enough. And when you mix mommy-overload with pregnancy hormones and a lack of Zoloft, parenting catastrophes occur.

Let's be clear, I'm not a perfect mommy (is there such a thing?) and I will be the first to admit that I have my mommy downfalls...

I'm not against occasionally lying to my child. "No, sorry. Having cookies for breakfast is against the law" has escaped my lips several times...the same lips that are trying to hide the fact that mommy has just stuffed her face with a homemade chocolate chip cookie at 8:30am.

I'm not against ignoring my child. Sorry kiddo, but after I have responded to your 43 calls for "Mooooommy" and you continue to chant "mom, mom, mooooommy," I'm turning up my invisible ear phones and pretending like I don't hear that annoying shriek from the backseat.

But there are those moments, when even I think to myself, "Whoa. What the hell did I just do? This just sealed the deal- I will never be nominated for Mother of the Year." And then I usually proceed to hide in the bathroom for ten minutes, staring at myself in the mirror as I watch my tears fall and curse myself for being a horrible mother.

But a few days later, when I feel comfortable enough confiding in a friend to tell her my embarrassing motherhood moment and I relive the words as I speak them out loud, I realize...

This is fucking hilarious.

And without further ado, my first confessional will forever be known as... 

It's no surprise that I am a huge wuss when it comes to the first trimester of pregnancy. For those of you who have experienced the woes, you know what I mean. For those of you who never had bad morning sickness with your pregnancies, I hate you. For those of you who have never been pregnant, imagine having a terrible hangover for seven weeks straight (the nausea, the fatigue, the headache... oh the misery). It's also no secret that I've battled post-partum depression and have been on Zoloft since having Charlotte. However, after finding out I was pregnant, I made the difficult decision to wean myself off of the antidepressant. Combine raging hormones, feeling lousy and lack of medication and you are left with one very unstable momma.

The morning in question, I was in a hurry to get in the shower and get Lily off to preschool. Normally, showering is a pretty uneventful ritual, but standing in one place for 10 minutes in a hot steamy shower when nine weeks pregnant can induce vomiting like you would not believe. Since one of my goals this pregnancy is "above all else, do not barf" I knew I had to take precautions and make sure I had a small snack prior to getting in the shower. Having close to nothing in our cupboards, it took for-ev-er to find something that didn't make my stomach churn. Eventually, I settled on the last strawberry Nutri-Grain bar.

At the sound of the crinkling wrapper, Charley was soon hugging my knees and demanding "Some? Pwease? Some?"

Against my better judgement, I handed my snack over to Charley, expecting her to take a small nibble and hand the bar back.

Instead, she looked me in the eyes and with a two-handed death grip, began squeezing the Nutri-Grain bar between her tiny fingers. I watched in horror as my precious Nutri-Grain bar began bleeding it's strawberry ooze and began crumbing into pieces on the floor.

I screamed "Nooooo!" in my best overly dramatic screech, but to no avail.

I tried prying apart her tiny fingers in an attempt to salvage just a tiny bite, but this girl was on a mission.

Operation: Destroy Nutri-Grain Bar.

I managed to grab a clump of strawberry mush when I realized it was a lost cause.

And that's when I did the unthinkable.

I looked my 20-month-old toddler in the eye and shouted "You little asshole!"

As if that weren't horrible enough, I chucked the wad of Nutri-Grain mush at her chest, stormed off into the bathroom and slammed the door.

I just had my first pregnant temper-tantrum...and good Lord was I embarrassed. It would have been embarrassing in and of itself, but my husband was there for the entire incident. Soon he was in the bathroom, arms folded in front of him as he watched me try to compose myself as I clutched the sink and choked back sobs.

"What the hell was that?!"

"I don't know. I just don't know. It just...came out."

"Kate, you get mad at me when I tell the kids they are being brats. You just called our not-even-two-year-old an asshole!"

"I know, I know. I'm a horrible person."

"No you're not......but if she says asshole, it's totally your fault this time." (thanks dear hubby)

I'm happy to report that I was able to shower (sans Nutri-Grain bar) without vomiting and Charley seems to have recovered from her mommy's tantrum without being traumatized or severely damaged. In fact, she hasn't said "asshole" even once.

So there you have it. My first "I'm not a perfect parent, my kids piss me off and I make mistakes" post.

Or in other words...

Parenting: Nailed it!

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

The Confessional

Confession from Candice at Mommy in the Midwest:

Picture it.  Sunday after Thanksgiving 2012 around 4 p.m. Me, my husband Ryan, my almost 3-year-old son Theo and my 18-month-old son Dexter, all in the car.

I am behind the steering wheel in the middle of standstill traffic, about 3 hours after a long lunch and at least 5 glasses of sweet tea at Buffalo Wild Wings. That spicy salad really was spicy and it made me really thirsty. Theo was asleep, but woke suddenly, maybe due to the sudden lack of motion. For some reason, this translated into him screaming at the top of his lungs for no known reason over the course of the next 15 minutes (that felt like 521 minutes). 

Interstate traffic + me = anxiety. 
Screaming toddler that can't be reasoned with + exploding bladder = nerves beyond their breaking point.

Anxiety + Frayed Nerves = Complete & Total Meltdown.

I screamed at Theo while he was screaming, just to be louder than him in irrational hopes that he would hear me.  I screamed to let off some of the tension that had been ballooning up inside like, well, my bladder.

Eventually Theo stopped screaming. My bladder did not. I begged Ryan for some kind of help. Some promise of relief. Of course there was nothing he could do. I threw that Highlander in park and climbed in the backseat, where the windows are tinted ever so slightly darker than the front. I discreetly grabbed Theo's Mickey Mouse sippy cup and twisted that lid off at lightning speed. I pulled my pants down and relieved myself in his cup. All while avoiding eye contact with either of my children out of humiliation. 

Problem.

Those cups aren't very big and certainly don't hold 5 glasses of sweet tea, regardless of how much ice was in those cups to begin with (tea always takes a lot of ice, you know?). There's this phenomenon of stopping and starting that I had to use and use well. Long enough to hold this cup in position with one hand while getting a size 5 Luvs diaper out of the buried diaper bag with the other hand. And yes, after conquering a mild to moderate case of stage fright, I finished the job in that baby diaper.

I have never felt more relieved than I did at that moment. All of the stress and tension of that traffic situation melted away immediately. I situated myself and resumed my spot in the driver's seat. All the while, Ryan was looking out the window with paranoia, and rightfully so, while saying things along the lines of:

Oh my god.
Are you serious?
I can't believe you're doing this.
Seriously?

Yes, seriously. I sure did. And that was that. Until the next day.

Picture it. The Monday after Thanksgiving 2012. 

On the way to the babysitter's house around 7:30 a.m.

Theo: Mommy?
Me:  Yes, sweetie?
Theo:  Why did you pee in my Mickey Mouse sippy cup?
Me:  Thoughtful pause...I didn't.
Theo:  Yes, you did.
Me: No, I didn't.
Theo:  Yes, you did Mommy. In the car yesterday. You peed in my Mickey Mouse sippy cup.
Me:  Thoughtful pause, accept of defeat. Oh. That. Well, you see, Theo. Mommy had to pee really, really, really, really badly and there were no potties nearby. All the cars on the road were stopped and there was nowhere for mommy to get out and use the bathroom. So I had to find something I could potty in.
Theo:  But Mommy. That was my cup and I really like my Mickey Mouse sippy cup.
Me: Yes, I know, honey. I'm sorry. We can get you a new cup.
Theo:  Thoughtful pause. Mommy? 
Me:  Yes, Theo?
Theo:  I have a Mickey Mouse cup at {the babysitter}'s house. Mickey's riding his bike and wearing a helmet and I really like that cup.
Me:  Oh? That's good!
Theo:  Mommy, please don't pee in my Mickey Mouse sippy cup at {the babysitter}'s house. 

And at that moment, I knew our secret was not safe. I knew that if I didn't tell the babyistter what had happened, Theo would tell some version of this story. She wouldn't know if it was true. She would be confused. She might think I was making my child drink urine and report me to CPS. I had to explain. 

Good morning, babysitter, let me tell you my most embarrassing story ever and get your week off to a hilarious start. 

It wasn't too funny then, but it's pretty funny now. Darn kid is too smart for his (my) own good. 

ILBAB says: First off, kudos for getting done what needed to get done. And with such aplomb. I would have gotten pee everywhere. I remember trying to get pee in a cup to take ovulation and pregnancy tests and that shit is HARD! I always ended up with a hand full of pee!

Second off, I have thought many times about needing to use a diaper in such situation. I am glad to know that it was effective.

Thirdly, they should use this as some sort of ad for cars with third-row seating. Or, scratch that, lets just add a potty to the third row. Seriously. Road trips suck with toddlers (and moms who drink too much sweet tea). Especially when you have to pull over for them to go potty every 15 minutes (not you though, champ). Let's just get rid of the middleman and add a shitter to the seats.

The Confessional is now open. Have something you need to repent for? Feel free to send me your sin and I will help your purge your demons.   

The Confessional

Confession from Kristen at BeerCat Brewing:

Last Wednesday, we knew the Littlest Brewster wasn’t feeling well. I had had the stomach funk the previous weekend, so we figured she was coming down with something similar when she moped around all day and simply picked at her food.

It was my day to work late, so the DreadBrewer was in charge of bath and bedtime. I got home while they were in the bath and I could hear her giving him a hard time. Normally she loves bath time, but that night she was having no part in it. I helped DB get her lotioned up and in her PJs, kissed her good night, and off they went to her room for a bedtime bottle.

At this point, I thought, “You know? DB has been really great with the Littlest Brewster tonight. He deserves a treat.” So I changed into a pair of really tiny lace undies (and nothing else) and grabbed a stogie out of the humidor. I had some vague notion of lying there suggestively when DB came out of the Littlest Brewster’s room.

All of a sudden I hear, “Oh shit!! Kristen!!!!” I toss the cigar on the dresser and run into LB’s room to find…

DB and the Littlest Brewster absolutely covered in vomit. There is throw up everywhere. And she’s sobbing hysterically and reaching out for me.

So I grab her blanket and wrap her up in it before picking her up off his lap. (All the while, DB is looking at me like, “What the hell are you doing in here in nothing but your underwear?!?”) I’m patting her back and trying to calm her down while trying to figure out what to do next when…

The Littlest Brewster proceeds to projectile vomit all over me too.

Now, under normal circumstances, your clothes provide not only a level of protection between you and the vomit, but also serve to sort of “catch” it and keep it off the floor. Not so when you’re essentially naked.

I’m standing there, holding a screaming 15-month old, with upchuck just sliding down my body and onto the floor, next to my husband who is also covered in upchuck, and all I could think was, “What in God’s name am I supposed to do now?”

With as much dignity and grace as I could muster, I slogged from LB’s room, through our room and bathroom, and got us into the shower. Eventually everyone was cleaned up, toddlers were comforted and put to bed, and large pints of beer were poured for the understandably frazzled adults.

At which point the DreadBrewer looks at me and says, “Do we still get to have sex?” 

ILBAB says: First off, friend, you are one amazing fucking wife. I told this story to my husband and I don't think his brain got past the part of imagining a woman naked with a cigar. I mean, throwing your hubby a BJ every now and then is like an epic gesture when you are a parent, but your went all out and pulled a Lewinsky. 

Secondly, well, nothing. You are amazing. If I ever decide to let my husband take on another wife, you are first on my speed dial. I need a sister wife who can do all the heavy lifting in the bedroom and still sit back and enjoy a brewski with me after. Cheers, bitch.

The Confessional is now open. Have something you need to repent for? Feel free to send me your sin and I will help your purge your demons.  

All About Me

A sweeter reader that goes by the tag Amazed sent me this query:

I've been following you for a while and have amassed a collection of questions for you that keep rolling over and over in my head after reading a post for the day. Would you ever consider having a "20 questions" page or something similar to the confessional where we could ask these oh-so-important questions? I have a feeling that you're readers will shit a Twinkie if given the chance to "chat" with you about specific, obnoxious personal questions. What do you think? If not, can I just ask you a bunch of invasive and dirty questions? xoxoxoxo

Well, Amazed, 

I would love nothing more than to witness someone shitting a Twinkie, so I, of course, accept the challenge. Though I have no idea why anyone would be excited about the chance to talk to me, given how idiotically truthfully I portray myself on this very blog.

Overall, I think there may be a big misconception out there about me. I think some of you may have the horribly incorrect notion that I am cool. I am soooo not cool. Let's just say, I am about as cool as a steaming hot cup of coffee. Read on for solid evidence of my uncoolness:

I am clueless.
I am the type of person that would be all, "Hey, fellow moms at my child's school, we should all get together sometime! Maybe we could start a book club. We can start with that new book everyone is talking about that I have no idea what it is about. What's it called again? Oh yeah, 50 Shades of Grey. You guys all read the first few chapters and we will get together and discuss it over wine."

Que the first book club meeting where we go to discuss 50 Shades and the crowd is all crickets and throat clearing because the entire book is about bondage, beatings and ben wa balls. AWKWARD! Oops. My bad.

I never think before I speak.
I am the type of person to blurt out to a room full of people, "My god, if I ever have to hear that song 'Boyfriend' again I am going to punch myself in the face", only to look around and see that every person in the room is wearing a "Bieber Fever" shirt. Doh.

I have diarrhea of the mouth.
Even once I realize that I have said something stupid, I. Just. Can't. Stop. The. Shit. From. Coming. Out. Ignorance flows from my lips at such a rate that it is impossible to plug the leak.

I am physically awkward.
I trip over my own feet. Daily. I have absolutely no athletic prowess and would sooner gouge my own eyes out with a rusty shoe horn than play a pick-up game of volleyball. Is that even an expression? See. It's bad.

I often dress like I have a mental disability.
Sometimes this comes off as quirky and cool. That is not the case. Most of my clothes are mismatched and many have stains and holes. I am not a trendy risk taker. I am a fashion nightmare.



Anyway. The point is, feel free to send me your questions about myself and I will answer them honestly and with brazen. I am happy to throw myself to the wolves for y'alls amusement. I will feature the questions and answers in future posts. Bring it, Boozehounds.

The Confessional

Confessions from a fellow Boozehound

When I have been drinking, and have had one more than what I should, I turn into a game of Operation.  Basically there are “safe” zones and “unsafe” zones to touch me on.  If you touch an “unsafe” zone, aka my back, I will hurl multiple times.  And it’s not a pretty sight.

I must have something defective in my head (not referring to my brain), but when I hurl, unless I actively plug my nose, it comes out both my nose and mouth.  Dis-GUS-ting. 

Well, after one of these nights, someone had touched the unsafe zone and off the bathroom I ran.  Luckily, I plugged my nose.  But, after hurling multiple times, I came out to wash my hands.  While washing up, I sneezed….

Yep, I sneezed purple puke all over my white tank top.  I had a shirt on over the tank, so I threw the tank away, and proceeded to button up the shirt.  The reason I had a tank top on: I’m well endowed and said top does not button very well over the girls.  Since I was happy drunk, I didn’t care, and walked back out to the bar to rally up and drink more, not carrying that my buttons were strained so tight that it is a miracle I didn’t shoot missile buttons at people.

I wish I could say this has only happened once…

ILBAB says: First off, friend, I have been there. I have also puked stars out of my nose after getting the flu and eating chicken and stars. It was awesome. But I digress. I think the most important part of your story is that you can rally. Not many girls would have the cojones to ralph, redress and head back into the fray. For that, you are my hero. Also, I love boobs, so you have that going for you, which is nice. You are my smelly, electrifying, big-boobed hero. Rock on, sister. Rock on.

The Confessional is now open. Have something you need to repent for? Feel free to send me your sin and I will help your purge your demons.  

The Confessional

Over the weekend, I was reminded of a pregnancy confession that I haven't clued you Boozehounds in on: I have had diaper rash. Yep, you read that right. When I was pregnant with The Quiet Contemplator, I got a bad case of diaper rash.

How, you ask? Let me break it down for you. We mamas all know that during pregnancy, there can be more...ahem...discharge produced from your nether regions. Well, I had that problem for pretty much my entire pregnancy. To keep my underoos from resembling a rainforest on a daily basis, I wore panty liners pretty much 24-7 for about 9 months. This resulted in a wicked case of diaper rash on my lady bits. Yikes, I know!

So, what did I do? I broke out my unborn daughters Butt Paste and Aquaphor, of course. Problem solved! Just thought I would share just in case any other preggo eggos needed help with their undercarriages. You're welcome!


The Confessional is now open. Have something you need to repent for? Feel free to send me your sin and I will help your purge your demons.  

I, apparently, did not put the lotion in the basket

We all know the trials and tribulations The Quiet Contemplator and I have with soap and lotion. It gives me an eye twitch just thinking about it. Well, it is far from over and it has reached an entire new level. A level so embarrassing that I might be shunned by the entire Mommy Community after I tell its tale, but tell it I shall, because we all know I have no shame, as evidenced here and here and, well, pretty much this entire blog. This one might take the cake though.

The other day, as I was getting ready, The Contemplator came into the bathroom rubbing her hands in her usual mirthful way. Yep, lotion again. As my temperature began to rise, I asked her where she had obtained said lotion. She replied, "By the bed." Funny, I thought. I don't remember having any lotion by the bed. Then it hit me.  





Wait for it.








Wait for it.







You guessed it…







My daughter had coated her hands in lube. Hi, My name is Julie (Hi, Julie) and I may have accidentally committed a sex crime against a two-year-old.

Now, before you get your spanx all in a bunch and think ADD Daddy and I are some kind of sex perverts, hear me out. The "lotion" (I am going to keep referring to it as "lotion" because even just the word "lube" really freaks me out) she had found was actually a bottle of Pre-seed fertility lubricant, not a 20-gallon bottle of Astroglide. This particular "lotion" was used to help conceive both of the kids, not for hot, stinky monkey love. Regardless, I was mortified.

I immediately took her to the sink to wash the "lotion" off her hands, though there was no amount of soap that was going to wash off the crimson flush that had taken over my cheeks. After I cleaned The Contemplator up (a remarkably speedy process, given the presence of the "lotion"), I sent her on her way to play. No "No more soap or lotion" talks, no scolding, no nothing. Just a hope and a prayer to the big man above that she would not tell her friends at school about the incident and that the sex crimes enforcement agency wouldn't be visiting me at work that afternoon.


Anywho, enjoy this video by the Greenskeepers that cracks me up. Put the lotion in the basket, Boozehounds!

The Confessional

Confessions from a fellow Boozehound

While feeding my daughter the other day, she stuck her hand in the bowl of sweet potatoes. Rather than walk across the room to get a napkin (and give her the time to rub the potatoes in her
hair), I simply stuck her hand in my mouth and licked off the sweet potatoes myself.


ILBAB says: This sounds like a two-fold win. First, you averted the dreaded task of having to bathe a baby. Second, you provided your body with some complex carbohydrates. Carbo-loading while time-saving? You are a genius, my friend.


While at a party in college, I drunkenly dropped my pack of cigarettes into the toilet I had just peed in. I fished them out pretty quickly, but they were still a little soggy when I lit one up later. Rather than haul my inebriated self off the sofa where I was lounging to throw them away, I just tossed the pack a few feet away from me. A couple minutes later, this guy that I had been flirting with walked up, found the cigarettes, exclaimed over his good fortune, and lit one up. I politely declined when he offered me one and decided that I would NOT kiss him that night after all

ILBAB says: Having the wherewithal to not make out with a hot guy because he smoked your pee-soaked cigarettes proves you are one classy lady. I can not say that I would have had the same better judgement back in my college days. I put the "ass" in classy.


The Confessional is now open. Have something you need to repent for? Feel free to send me your sin and I will help your purge your demons. 

The Confessional

Confession from a fellow Boozehound

In a public restroom, my son was looking at my tattoo of my husband's name (located just below my belly button) and announced very loudly, "Mom, that's your PENIS." The lady in the next stall started cracking up. I wanted to flush myself down the toilet.

ILBAB says: Your husband must be stoked that you are badass enough to tattoo his name on his penis. Yikes! Ha!


The Confessional is now open. Have something you need to repent for? Feel free to send me your sin and I will help your purge your demons.

The Confessional

Confession from fellow Boozehounds

I was heading home from a 4 hour trip out of town with my 7 yr old, 7 month old, dog and cat...  I had already suffered a flat tire which resulted in me having to unload EVERYTHING to get to the tire (100 degree weather) and it took a solid hour to get back on the road. My 7 year old decided between towns to inform me he was STARVING and I promised him at the next town I would get him McDonalds (a real treat for him). As we came into the town I thought had one, it turned out it didn't. My son went on and on about me promising it and saying "you said" like 15 times. I tried and tried to lovingly explain I was wrong then I snapped...  I turned to my poor son and said, "Well, here's a news flashing for you... I don't f$&@ing know everything." I felt better. He sat stunned :)

ILBAB says: He was probably more stunned at the fact that you don't know everything if you were able to survive the rugged conditions of fours hours in a car with two kids and two animals. Fuck McDonalds. That shit is intense.


When I was five, I poked my babysitter in the boobs with my index finger and said "Ding Dong! Avon calling..."

ILBAB says: Ding Dong! Child protective services calling. Ha!


The Confessional is now open. Have something you need to repent for? Feel free to send me your sin and I will help your purge your demons.

The Confessional

I bought some of those frozen wine drinks because they sounded fun/looked delicious (they were, in the most white trash of ways). When The Quiet Contemplator saw it in the glass, she insisted it was ice cream and that she wanted some. Now. I told her it was wine. She kept annoying me asking for some until I finally said, "OK, sure. Try some. I promise you won't like it." She took one sip, backed away and said, "That's wine." She then backed away some more and said, "I don't like wine." I died laughing. Don't call DCFS. I knew she wouldn't like it. She won't even drink juice.


Confession from a fellow Boozehound

My toddler has taken to squeezing my boobs while shrieking, "SQUEAKY!".  AND, he only does this in public.  

ILBAB says: My god I hope to run into you two in the liquor aisle of Target soon.


The Confessional is now open. Have something you need to repent for? Feel free to send me your sin and I will help your purge your demons.

The Confessional

For the last 20-something years, my mom has kept up the ruse that my old dog, Shelby, actually was one dog in the history of the world to be taken to live on a farm. Finally, last month, I was able to get her to admit that Shelby was, instead, hit by a car. My mom would even elaborate the lie with who owned the farm, the goats Shelby would play with, how much she liked to run there, etc. Busted!


The Confessional is now open. Have something you need to repent for? Feel free to send me your sin and I will help your purge your demons.

The Confessional

A post from Motherhood: A Descent into Madness reminded me of this Confession.

When I was maybe 10, my friend brought her hamster over to play with my hamster, Buster. They had a lot of fun. A LOT of fun. They had hamster sex, on my bedroom floor, right in front of us. Not sure what to do, we let them finish and put her hamster back in its box.

Well, three weeks later (bitches), I go in to feed Buster (who I thought was a boy) and found that "he" had had about 10 babies in the middle of the night. A few days later, we found one of the babies in the laundry hamper (I seriously have no idea how). Knowing we shouldn't touch them, we just picked up the shirt it was on and put it back with its family. Que the next morning when I woke up and found all of the babies dead--and partly EATEN! Shivers. Nightmares. Therapy. Charles Shaw.


The Confessional is now open. Have something you need to repent for? Feel free to send me your sin and I will help your purge your demons.

The Confessional

Last week, I was putting a bottle of white wine in the fridge after I poured a glass for myself. Somehow the bottle didn't catch right and fell from top shelf and shattered on the floor. A piece of the glass flew up and cut my leg, not badly, but resulted in a LOT of blood. My husband, hearing the commotion, came into the kitchen to find me covered in blood, sitting in a puddle of wine and surrounded by broken glass. All I could say was, "This isn't as bad as it looks."


The Confessional is now open. Have something you need to repent for? Feel free to send me your sin and I will help your purge your demons.



Sins from fellow Boozehounds:

My husband, 17 month old son, & I took a beach trip last week with our best friends & their 15 month old son. The boys didn't care much for the beach so most of our time was at the cold pool. They were practically cranky the whole trip. Anyhow, we thought it would be smart & easier on us to bathe both of the boys at the same time. Next thing we know they've both peed in the tub (my son twice) & did we drain the water??? NOPE! After dealing with 2 screaming/crying babies for no reason at all we said to hell with it! I know what you're thinking, but after trying to please 2 toddlers & not being successful we figured we didn't get morning time at the beach the whole time we were there so one bath like that wouldn't hurt.

ILBAB says: #1 + H2O + soap = no foul.


While we were driving on the way home Sunday, our son was NOT happy at all. I'm sure he was exhausted from not sleeping well the whole time, being away from home & his routine, then the evil carseat. My husband was to the point to where he turned the radio up to drown out his screaming for just a little bit & turns out it kind of helped. Are we bad parents or just trying to get through a rough patch?

ILBAB says: As long as you were blasting Yo Gabba Gabba or some other mind-numbing kids music, you are in the clear--just kidding, I hate that crap. We used to let our son scream in the bathroom while we had the door closed so we could eat dinner in peace. He was going to cry one way or the other, at least this way we got to nourish ourselves for the next few hours of The Crying Game.

The Confessional

While at a formal event, a friend of mine jokingly convinced me to punch an inanimate object. Said punch landed me with a broken finger. Rather than go to the hospital and miss the party, I grabbed a bucket of champagne, put the broken finger in the ice, popped open the bottle and proceeded to drink it with my good hand. This is probably why my finger looks like this to this day:

Note the creepy bend on my ring finger near my eye.

The Confessional is now open. Have something you need to repent for? Feel free to send me your sin and I will help your purge your demons.



Sins from fellow Boozehounds:

After I finished telling my 2 yr. old for the 10^th time that she could not eat dinner in my bed I followed it up with a nice firm, “End Of Story”. She quipped back with a, “Do you know another story?”. I flipped her off. I didn’t know another story.

ILBAB says: Appropriate. And awesome.

The Confessional

My friend sends me a box of chocolates for xmas every year. The caramel quality varies year to year. So as ADD Daddy and I sat down to gluttonize the box while watching reruns of Six Feet Under, I asked him,"How do you think the caramels are going to be this year?" He looked really shocked, then excited and said, "Wow. I am really glad you asked me. I think La Russa has picked a really good lineup and that Pujols will really come into his own..." I said, "WTF are you talking about? I just asked you about caramels." His reply, "Oh, I thought you said Cardinals." My reply, "WhyTF would I ask you that? Give me the chocolates."

The Confessional is now open. Have something you need to repent for? Feel free to send me your sin and I will help your purge your demons.

The Confessional

I still hunt and peck when I type. It really isn't my fault. ‪There was a really cute boy in my keyboarding class in grade school so I spent the entire class drawing our names together in hearts in my notebook instead of paying attention. Really coming back to bite me in the ass 20 years later.‬ Stupid boys.

The Confessional is now open. Have something you need to repent for? Feel free to send me your sin and I will help your purge your demons.


Sins from fellow boozehounds:

I confess that I have been using my pregnancy to avoid unpacking boxes.  We moved in just before the holidays, AT THE END OF NOVEMBER, and did the holiday crazything, and then discovered this pregnancy January 6. No wonder I slept so much while celebrating at the inlaws'. I am now 4 1/2 months, and there are. Still. Boxes. Everywhere. In fact, I've avoided unpacking so much so that even the dishwasher doesn't always get unloaded, and a whole load of dirty dishes will fill the sink and cover the counters. And I don't feel very guilty because, really, husband isn't unpacking or unloading, either.  Except that he works more than full time, and I work part-time. At least I did the taxes. Maybe I'll start nesting when classes are over in June?


ILBAB says: I would milk it until they are in college. You need time to "heal".



I once had a really bad cold for four months straight. Sometimes, I would cough so hard, I'd puke- especially if I'd been drinking, which was often, since I was 21 and in a punk band at the time. Once, after a show, we were sitting at a table in a bar watching another band, and I cough-puked all over my own foot. I looked up and nobody saw. I went into the bathroom, rinsed out my sock, and went back to rocking.

ILBAB says: Are you allowed to be in a punk band if you DON'T randomly barf on yourself and keep rocking? I think not.

The Confessional

In college, my roommates and I went home for Christmas break only to find that we had left the fireplace flue open and a family of birds had broken in and had been holing up in our apartment for two weeks. Yeah, they all died there, too. Some in our underwear drawers, some in our beds, some on the couch… It was like a scene from a horror movie when we all returned home.


The Confessional is now open. Have something you need to repent for? Feel free to send me your sin and I will help your purge your demons.

The Confessional

I once woke up from sleep walking to find myself walking out my front door. At 2 a.m. In my bra and underwear. I live in a building with 42 other lofts in a not-so-great neighborhood. All I really want to know is: where the hell was I going? Did I really need a gallon of milk that badly?


The Confessional is now open. Have something you need to repent for? Feel free to send me your sin and I will help your purge your demons.


Sins from fellow Boozehounds:

When my husband and I were still dating, one night after a couple of pitchers of sangria and several shots, I got the brilliant idea to break out the stripper heels and Victoria's Secret and do a sexy dance for him.  Except that in my intoxicated state, while putting on the stripper heels, I did a complete face plant in my closet and fractured my ankle.  Somehow I still managed to pull off the sexy dance (although, to anyone less drunk than us, it probably looked like a real sh*t show).  The next morning, my ankle was the size of a softball and I couldn't put any weight on it, so my husband drove me to the ER still reaking of booze and wearing my naughties underneath a hoodie and sweatpants.  We waited for 2 hours.  Twice he had to carry me into the ladies room, stand behind me and hold me by the waist while I bent over the toilet and puked up all that red sangria.  We told everyone that I broke my ankle tripping on a grate on the sidewalk.  I knew that day that he was "the one". When my husband and I were still dating, one night after a couple of pitchers of sangria and several shots, I got the brilliant idea to break out the stripper heels and Victoria's Secret and do a sexy dance for him.  Except that in my intoxicated state, while putting on the stripper heels, I did a complete face plant in my closet and fractured my ankle.  Somehow I still managed to pull off the sexy dance (although, to anyone less drunk than us, it probably looked like a real sh*t show).  The next morning, my ankle was the size of a softball and I couldn't put any weight on it, so my husband drove me to the ER still reaking of booze and wearing my naughties underneath a hoodie and sweatpants.  We waited for 2 hours.  Twice he had to carry me into the ladies room, stand behind me and hold me by the waist while I bent over the toilet and puked up all that red sangria.  We told everyone that I broke my ankle tripping on a grate on the sidewalk.  I knew that day that he was "the one".

ILBAB says: Girl, this is when he knew YOU were "the one". You are a hell of a wife. The most my husband ever gets from me after a couple pitchers of sangria is the prize of pouring me into the car and driving my drunk ass home.


My sister had a baby two weeks ago. She had a C-section and was in the hospital for a few days so the first time my kids got to meet their new cousin was in the hospital. After we had been there for a bit I gave the kids a box of Cheez-Its to occupy them. My son dropped one on the floor and before any of the 6 adults in the room could stop him, he ate it.  So we all made eye contact and pretended to not see anything. (He's fine btw)

ILBAB says: Sorry, this was supposed to be bad? Hospitals are the most sterile environment on earth and my daughter has almost put a dog turd in her mouth. If this is your "bad mommy" moment, I think you need to be elected Mommy of the Year and start giving me pointers.