If I had to do pregnancy all over again…

I'm back, Boozehounds. Today I have a guest post over at What to Expect. I am talking about what I would do differently if I ever got drunk enough to let ADD Daddy impregnate me again (fat chance on that one happening, so don't hold your breath for an announcement from, "My Sponsor Part Duex").

Anyway, head over there to check it out. Because it is funny. Or maybe it isn't. If it isn't, just say it is because I am a delicate flower who seeks validation through others.

For those of you who have made your way here from What to Expect, allow me to introduce you to, well, me. I am Julie, also known as The Beer Bitch.

I have two kids, a husband and an obese cat.

I work full-time.

I drive a minivan named Rambone.

I have stretchmarks.

I am far from mother of the year.

I have experienced loss.

Overall, I am a real mom with real ups and downs. And I share them here. I hope you will stay a while. Grab a glass of cheap wine and catch up. I'll wait. 


I'll wait. 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.

Because sometimes you have to pee in the little potty

Today I have a guest post from my internet bestie and partner in crime, Motherhood: A Descent Into Madness. Enjoy.

Because when you're seven months pregnant and have a one- and three-year-old, it's always a good idea to go on an eight-hour road trip, we headed to San Diego to visit some family.


Connor was still in diapers, I wished I was in diapers (third trimester of pregnancy, hello), and Ethan was in Mickey Mouse undies. We got about two hours away from home when Ethan announced that he had to pee. Husband groaned, but I was like, oh hell yes because I had to go, too.

Except, we were in completely flat, barren desert land, not a rest stop, gas station, store or even a tree for 100 miles, so finding a place where he could pee without his wang being on display to all the people driving by was proving to be a bit of a challenge.

A while later, husband found an exit that led away from the road a bit, so we figured we could angle our Yukon to shield our son from the passers-by, and them from him.

It was summer. It was hot and dusty and we were in the desert. Ethan got out and was immediately attacked by a giant swarm of flies as he was trying to pee right next to the car. And we had to leave the car door open to shield him from the road a bit, so the flies began flooding the inside of the car, too.

And I was fucked. No toilet for me... Or was there? I remembered that we had Ethan's training potty in the back of the Yukon, and I thought, fuck it. It was that, one of Connor's diapers, or pissing myself. ALL GREAT OPTIONS.

The back of the Yukon was jam packed with our bags, porta crib and other kid crap. I threw only a couple of things out, severely misjudging how much room I was going to need, hefted my ass up into the back of the truck and tried to sit on that tiny potty.

Imagine a circus elephant sitting on a tiny stool? That was me. You'd maybe never guess, but the thing is, it's not that easy to fit a grown ass on those tiny little seats, in the back of a fully-packed SUV, with flies swarming all over you. I feared that a fly would land on my cooter, and it would be the End of Days. My right elbow was banging against the side window and my feet and knees were hitting the back hatch door that I had to shut to keep from being seen. The lid to the potty was jamming into my butt and back and I was scared I was going to break it right off of its cheap plastic hinges. It was 112 degrees in the car and sweat was making me slip and lose my grip when I was trying to balance myself- because I didn't want to put all my weight on the flimsy thing and have it buckle and break and sodomize me with broken plastic shards.

I should have gone with the diaper option.

As I was being attacked by flies, trying to fit my belly between my legs that were wrapped around my ears, trying not to piss all over the back of our car, knowing that our kid was pissing all over his shoes and probably his pant legs, too, the flies reached Connor.

Connor hates flying things like bugs and flies; they freak him the hell out. So a swarm of flies started buzzing around him while he's strapped into his car seat, unable to escape. Literally a person's worst nightmare, if you think about it. Not the flies themselves but being restrained and unable to escape something you're terrified of.

I finished up to the symphony of destruction Connor's terrified screams, the buzzing of a hundred flies, and the sound of my urine coming perilously close to the top of the little cup in the potty, and flailed about trying to escape the dungeon of hell without spilling the pee.

Freed, I tossed the pee out onto the desert ground (you're welcome, thirsty critters) and tried to swat away the flies that were terrorizing my son. Tried, but did not succeed.

We got Ethan back into his seat, got back on the highway and spent the next 45 minutes listening to Connor scream his face off while the flies buzzed around his head and our eardrums exploded from his screams and the wind blasting into our open windows at 80 miles an hour in our attempt to rid the flies from the car.

Eventually, they all blew out. It was totally worth it. Because when you're hugely pregnant and you have to pee, fuck everything else.

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.

Thank goodness for little boys.

Today I have a guest post from Jenn at Something Clever 2.0. Jenn was one of my first fans and she is awesome. She also has pink hair. Even awesomer.

Anyway, enjoy:

When I got pregnant, I was sure I was having a girl. Everyone thought I was having a girl. I think I believed that I could just will it to be true. Spoiler alert: I had a boy.

The following are just a few reasons why I’m glad my little man is a little man:

Girls like princesses and Barbies. Okay, most girls. I, personally, never did. But the odds are that if I had a girl, she’d be into Disney and all things pink. Fuck that noise. I’ll take light sabers and train sets over tiny plastic shoes and purses any day.

Girls appear to cry all the god damn time, in my limited experience. They cry when they can’t find their favorite doll. They cry when they can’t have ice cream for breakfast. They cry when the play date comes to an end. My boy only cries when he’s injured, or tired. Sure, he has his epic screaming meltdowns where I’m convinced that he’s possessed by a demon, but if he was crying, I’d have to feel bad for him. And we’d probably spend a lot more on tissues. (Not true in my experience, Jenn. My boy is way more of a little bitch than my girl. Ha.)

Oh, while we’re at it, I’m saving money on toilet paper, too! Of course, I spend more on cleaning products for the back and sides of the toilet, so maybe that one’s a draw, huh?

If I had a girl, I’d have to worry about when she’s old enough to wear makeup and high heels. The boy, knock on wood, will never put me through that. He’s been wearing jeans and t-shirts since he was three days old, and he will continue to wear them throughout his life. The only way he could upset me, fashion-wise, is if he went through a polo-and-khakis phase. Shudder.

And the products! I spend enough on my own conditioner, face potions, nail polish and all that jazz. The boy will only require a stick of deodorant, a bottle of blue hair dye, and a tube of Clearasil. And that’s only if he ends up with my skin; his father has only had two zits in his entire life. Asshole.

I have never seen a male human take a break-up badly. Ever. When a girl gets dumped, she cries for days, or even weeks. She is utterly inconsolable. I would not be able to handle seeing my baby go through that. A boy, I’m pretty sure, just shrugs and mumbles something like, “Whatever, she was a bitch anyway.” Then he plays some video games and he’s all better.

He will never have a period. Which means I will never have to break the awful, awful news to him about periods. I was once told a story by a woman who had to teach a little girl all about her monthly visitor when it first arrived. The girl took all the information in stride, up until the end, when she was told, “So, you’ll want to mark your calendar today, and that way you’ll know when to expect it next month.” The poor thing cried out, “You mean it’s going to happen again?” That will never be me.

Thank goodness for little boys.

Jenn Rose is a stay-at-home mother to one boy in Massachusetts. When she’s not parenting, she’s watching way too much TV and drinking a little too much wine (not chardonnay). Jenn is a staff writer at In the Powder Room, and she blogs at Something Clever 2.0. She hopes to become a zombie when she dies.

You can also find Jenn here:

Facebook

Twitter

Pinterest

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.

Eight Types of Toddlers

Today I have a guest post from Sabrina at By Breenah. She has a great bucket list, many items on which I would love to scratch off.

Anyway, Enjoy:

The Artist - They draw on anything and everything, with anything and everything. You see make-up, they see a new medium to paint in. You see a wall, they see a blank canvas. In their world if it's liquid, it's paint.

(yogurt, not paint)

The Athlete - They ran before they crawled and threw a ball before they could wave hi. You're still not sure if they know how to walk instead of run. Meal time is a sport to see whether you can get more food in the toddler than they throw on the ground or across the table. In their world if it's round, it's a ball to be thrown.

The Techno - They can probably use your phone or tablet better than you can. Apple was their first word and not for the one they wanted to eat. On the plus side, maybe they'll be ahead of the game and become a millionaire and you can retire. Or they might wind up forgetting what daylight is by gaming all day.

The Xtreme - There is nothing they cannot climb. Or at least try to climb. Getting down on their own is another story. (See: The Monkey)

The Philosopher - There is no answer you give that doesn't have a response of "Why?". They're curious little buggers and get into everything. They're the ones who will take apart their toys (or the tv) to see how they work, but get mad when they can't put it back together.

The Independent - They will do it themselves. Brush their teeth? They don't need your help. Eating? Don't need your help. Drop everything they were carrying all over the floor? They don't need your help. (Hint: Sometimes they do need your help.)

The Snuggler - The opposite of the Independent. They won't do anything by themselves and will rarely walk anywhere on their own. If you're not holding them in some way, they freak out. Heaven forbid you leave the room, let alone the house! (Baby carriers come in super handy for these kiddos!)

The Star - Dancing or just being dramatic, this kid is always the center of attention. This child knows no stranger, everyone is his/her audience. And they better applaud, or else. (Just be careful they don't turn into one of the Toddlers and Tiaras brats. That's scary.)

Thank you to my sister, brother, and Darci for the use of their photos for categories I didn't have.

You can also find Breenah on Facebook and Twitter.

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.

I’ll just let a little out…

Today we have Ronda from Mrs. Doherty Unleashed. She and I met via Twitter and instantly fell in love. Seriously, she rocks.

Anyway, enjoy.

It was a beautiful spring day in 2003 and I still considered myself a newlywed. We finally owned our first home. A modest 2 bedroom 1 bath house in the New Jersey suburbs. Perfect for us. No kids yet.  Just spunky Norman, our yellow lab. We had lots of friends that would stop by and visit without warning and we encouraged that. We actually loved that. Friends have always been a big part of our life. We spent a lot of time in our basement back then. It was our hang out room. We used it to watch sporting events, shoot pool and throw darts. Occasionally, we would use the space to enjoy a frosty pint. We had a futon for a couch and we were ok with that. It was comfortable and oddly enough the arm rests were a perfect place to rest a pint. It was a man cave before man cave’s were hip. A portion of the basement was dedicated to the laundry room.  It was a separate area closed in with a wall and a door. It was functional and we could close to the door to hide our laundry room mess or muffle the sound of the washing machines while watching television.

We had so many good memories in that house but there is one memory that still makes me smile. I like to consider it a right of passage in a marriage. It was a Sunday afternoon and my husband "Ming" was watching the early football game. Unannounced to me, he invited a few of his buddies over. The Patriots were playing that night and I wanted to relax and enjoy the game with him so I took advantage of the afternoon to get some laundry done. The laundry room section was the one part of the basement that was a little dark and scary. A huge boiler took over half of the room . It was very old and had cob webs all over the backside of it. I knew they were there but I wasn’t walking behind it to clean them off. We probably should have replaced that old boiler but we were young and every penny counted. Along with the old boiler and cob webs, lighting was another issue. We had a small basement window in the laundry room that overlooked the driveway and allowed some light to come in but on cloudy days or at night the only option was a pull chain light. On this particular Sunday, I had tons of laundry to do. It got lonely in that drab laundry room so I was folding laundry with the door open. I could hear Ming clapping and carrying on about the football game. He entertained me. I was folding away and I had just started the third load in the washing machine and started drying the second load when it happened.

Oh no!!! Here we go again! I should not have had Mexican last night. This always happens. It’s a sort of delayed response and I know it will happen yet I keep eating it. I loooove it. Melted cheese and salsa….mmmmmm…how can you say no? I heard a gurgle and then felt a sharp pain. I think I may have even turned a little pale. I sat down on an old wooden bench and held my stomach for a minute and then I got restless and began pacing. I knew what I needed to do to feel better but I avoided things like that as a newlywed, especially when we were together in the same room. Where was he anyway? I peeked around the corner. There he is. I can see him now, completely engrossed in football. Multiple televisions blaring. He doesn’t even know I’m down here. Perfect! I sneak back into the laundry room and gently close the door…..sweating now. It’s loud in here. The washing machine is spinning and the dryer is humming. He won’t even hear it. I’ll just let a little out at a time. I relaxed my stomach muscles and let it go. It was supposed to be dainty, controlled and light…. but it had power. Lots of power. Like a fog horn or something? I don’t even know. It had a life of it’s own. It scared me. I actually got out of its way. I mean…I immediately felt embarrassed and I was the only one who heard it?????? [I think to myself] “Wow! That was crazy. A little louder than I imagined it would be…. that’s for sure! Mmm? Well? I definitely feel better but what was that thing?” [shaking my head in disbelief and disgust]

I grab a clean t-shirt and begin to fold it and then it gets quiet outside the laundry room. Ming is asking me something. The televisions are muted. Uh oh….panic sets in. [I think to myself] “Did he hear me? Noooooo? He couldn’t have heard. Could he? The door was closed, the TV was blaring and the laundry was going. There is no way! Oh god. He can’t come in here. It’s still fresh. He might smell it. He will have no respect for me. Quick! [heart racing] Answer him! Answer him now. I yell through the door “What honey?” Then I hear his question “Is Paul here?” Confused I answer “No honey!” [thinking: "Paul???] Then he scares the daylights out of me and swings the laundry door open. [thinking to myself] “Lie and deny, lie and deny.” He looks in my eyes and asks “What did you just say?” I smile and respond “Nothing. I don’t even know what you are talking about?” I check on the clothes in the dryer and ignore that he is still staring at me. He puts his arm on my shoulder. “I heard you. You said something. What did you say?” I answer in an irritated way, “I did not say a word! Go watch the game.” Now he is confused and we argue. Yes, you did! Is Paul here?”  “What are you talking about? No… Paul is NOT here!” He steps around me and looks out the laundry room window at the driveway to see for himself and prove me wrong. “mmm? I guess he’s not here.  But…I heard you say it?”  [I'm giggling now] “Say WHAT? Dude? Let it go!” Then he repeats what he swears he heard me say in his deepest baritone voice. ”You just said: Paaaaaaaaaauuuuuuullll! I heard you!”

An uncomfortable pause as I am at a loss for words. It all makes sense to me now. I start giggling and the more I think about what happened…the more I giggle. The giggles snowball into a full-fledged laugh and within seconds,  I’m laughing so hard that no sound is coming out. Ming is annoyed, confused and wondering if Paul came and left or if I know something that he doesn’t know about Paul. “What the hell is so funny?” he asks. I try to talk but I’m laughing too hard. He laughs too because he feels left out and I look like I’m having fun. What????” he says with a smirk. Then I tell him….I have to…I know he will never let me live it down but I tell him. “Well you see?… I didn’t actually say 'Paaaaaaauuuuuuuull' but…. I might have….accidentally… farted it, maybe?  Apparently…my ass speaks its own language? Who knew?” [My confession was followed by an uncomfortable, stuttered giggle as I await his response.]

I’m not sure if he was embarrassed, relieved, grossed out or impressed but he started laughing too. Thank goodness! We laughed until our bellies hurt and tears were pouring out of our eyes. He hugged me in a sweet way because he knew I was mortified. I reassure him, “I am still a lady, ya know?” He raises his eyebrows like I’m not being honest and kept hugging me anyway. It was a right of passage. That magical day when you admit to your spouse that you are human and you do occasionally fart. Since that day in 2003, I can’t even look at a person named Paul without giggling. It doesn’t matter if it’s Paul the postman, Paul at the grocery store or Paul the catholic priest, they will all forever be [in a deep baritone voice] “Paaaaaaauuuuuuuuuuul” to the Doherty’s.


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.

Life as a Teen Mom

Today we have Ashlee from Momchalant. She is adorable. And wise well beyond her years. You'll love her.

Anyway, enjoy.

I had my son as a teenager. I was very dependent on my parents for just about everything in my life. I didn’t even know how to cook ramen noodles if that says anything.

My boyfriend and I moved in together to get a taste of adulthood before we entered parenthood. Thankfully, we didn’t rip each other’s heads off. But I’ll admit, two years later and we’re still trying to figure everything out. Being an adult is harder than it looks.

Being a teen mom has taught me a lot. I’ve seen the good and the bad sides of it.

So I present to you 5 good/bad things about being a teen mom.

5 Good Things About Being A Teen Mom
1. If my son tries to pull a fast one on me, I probably pulled that myself three years ago, so I’ll always be two steps ahead of him.
2. I can help other young women in my situation. And scare the ones that are too stupid to put a condom on by showing them a picture of my son pooping in the bath… I bet you they’ll be wearing condoms in no time.
3. My son gave me a purpose and helped me figure out what I want to do in life. I didn’t even have to attend college or change my major 3,000 times.
4. I believe being closer in age will give my son and I a different, stronger kind of relationship.
5. I bond with young women and older women. While I have being a teen mom in common with the younger women, I also simply have being a mom in common with the older women.

5 Bad Things About Being A Teen Mom
1. The judgmental comments. People never stop bitching about what they think is “wrong”.
2. I lost all but two of my friends. Well, I should say “friends” because the real friends dealt with my raging hormones and stayed inside with me for 10 months.
3. I don’t have my teenage body anymore. I used to be that girl that could eat cheeseburgers for breakfast, lunch and dinner without gaining even half a pound. Now the cheeseburgers go straight to my love handles and muffin top.
4. Life is really expensive. I was only a kid myself so the financial struggle has been heavy.
5. Sometimes, I miss my youth. I miss being carefree, going to music festivals, and doing what I wanted when I wanted.

Even through the bad times, being a mom, no matter your age, is freakin' awesome. I may get some evil glares and rude remarks for being a teen mom thrown my way, but at the end of the day, I’m at home laughing and smiling with my son.

You can also find Ashlee on:

Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/momchalant

Twitter - https://twitter.com/momchalant

Instagram - http://instagram.com/momchalant

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.

Life as a Stay at Home Prisoner

Today we have Christie from He Took My Last Name. She is awesomesauce. I have been following her for a while. You should too.

Anyway, enjoy:

Hi. My name is Christie, and I supposedly blog at He Took My Last Name. I say supposedly because since the birth of my son I just haven't been blogging much. Now I am attempting to get back into it and why not do a guest post for Julie. Right? Right.

A bit about me. I am a SAHP. That is "stay at home prisoner" for you uninitiated. Lots of parents stay at home with their children, and lots of parents are great at it. I enjoy being home with my son, don't get me wrong, but I am not a parent. I am a prisoner. I've been a stay at home prisoner for about 27 months now - my son is 18 months so that means I've been stuck in my third floor apartment for my entire pregnancy, birth and my son's whole life.

What I mean by prisoner is that we are a one car household. Which is okay, lots of families are one car households. I suppose the moms who only have one car probably drop their hubbies off at work or they use public transportation or whatever. That's good for them, but I don't care about them. This is about me and how I am constantly one step away from losing my damn mind.

Disclaimer: I really do enjoy being a stay at home mom, and most days I don't mind staying at home all the time. It's just those certain days that really drive me up the wall. I just really need a freakin' car.

Here is a glimpse of my special corner of hell and the freaks who inhabit it with me.

The Players

1. Husband Brian and I have been married for four wonderful years and he's a great provider and a huge geek. Win.
2. Spawn Drake is my 1.5-year-old son. Enough said.
3. Socially Awkward Penguin This is my dog, Max, who is a shelter rescue. He is jumpy, awkward and neurotic.
4. Lord of All Loki is my cat who was originally a shelter rescue that a friend gave to us. He is loud and bossy and likes me best.

Let The Games Begin (and may the odds be ever in your favor - they aren't, but let's be optimistic!)

The first three hours of the day start at 5 am. I like to call this Roulette because I am never quite sure what order things will happen in, but it's always some combination of the following:

1. Making oatmeal because my husband can't operate the microwave
2. Packing his lunch because I need to prove my self-worth
3. A temper tantrum (can be a child or either adult)
4. A urine soaked toddler
5. A cat singing the song of his people
6. A dog having a nervous episode
7. Bubbles
8. Not enough caffeine
9. Too much caffeine
10. Another temper tantrum, just to round it off to an even number
11. Toast flung as far as the eye can see

Then, my husband takes our only vehicle to work because he hates his co-workers and refuses to carpool, so I am stuck in the house until 3 pm. With a toddler. Who also gets cabin fever.

When Drake wakes up, we play Terrorize the House. It's a great little game. Have you played it? No? Well I will teach you. First, you pull up Netflix and put on a show that your kid loves and that you hate. Got one? Good. Mine's Pocoyo. It's like crack to my kid and I am so thankful Stephen Fry narrates it otherwise I would stab my own eardrums just for shits and giggles. Next, Mom lays on the couch and derps around on her iPhone. This lets the toddler go absolutely ape shit over the show, throwing his toast and milk and toys around and stamping them into the carpet. Hang on - this is the part that gets really exciting! - Mom dozes off. Just for a minute or five. This is when the real fun begins. Now that Mom is momentarily out of it, Toddler can do all sorts of fun things like: steal the PlayStation controller and turn off Netflix; feed the dog; feed the cat; play in the animals' water dishes; play in the toilet; chew on some cords. (Yum! We suggest Mom's iPhone charger for maximum hilarity); find Mom's happy pills and open the child-proof cap, dumping the contents everywhere and then throwing them in the air to make it rain "Not Give A Fucks". Mom's internal alarm goes off at this point and she wakes up with a start, screaming Toddler's name and gasps in horror as she watches him reach down his shitty diaper and smear his poop hands all over the dog as he laughs maniacally.

Then it's lunch time.

After lunch (which was a nutritious handful of floor-raisins and potato chips), this is about the time I seriously consider becoming a hobo and wandering the countryside like a vagabond and wondering how far I can get before I come to my senses. Usually it is by the time I get to the door.

Now if it's a really nice day outside, I will let my toddler out on the balcony and he and I will sit out there and do finger paints or play Don't Touch the Bikes. That's a fun little game too, and I usually lose! Because no matter how many times I say Don't Touch the Bikes, they get touched. A lot. Stop molesting the bikes. If I am really, really, really lucky, I get a phone call from my husband. This is great, because I love talking to adults. The problem is, he works in a factory and I can't hear shit because I've already poked out my eardrums over Pocoyo. DAMMIT.

I start counting down the hours until my hubby gets home and then when he gets home, I pounce faster than a cougar on a college boy. I AM READY TO LEAVE MY PRISON. Warden, do I get to do some community service? Can I get out on parole? We go to the mall and derp around there, while my son SCREAMS HIS FOOL HEAD OFF at god only knows what. Probably pissed off he didn't get to drive. Whatever. Shut it.

Then we go back home because my family is hungry. Again? Didn't I just feed you assholes earlier? Oh that was last night. You mean I have to do it again? Fuck.

Then I force my husband to watch my son while I go to Weight Watchers once a week and most nights I force him to watch him while I hide in my room, sob and fall asleep. The end. Oh wait, no it's not, because I get to get up and do it again! Starting at 3 am! Roulette, anyone?


About the Author:

Despite being driven insane from lack of contact with the outside world, Christie enjoys the finer things in life, like cheese fries and wearing pajamas all day, as well as the occasional slug of vodka straight from the bottle. You can follow her on Twitter for more fun.


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