moxiemommy

Here I am at 39 and a half and I’m determined to get in better shape.

I’ve signed myself up for an 8 week diet and workout routine. I’ve never been on a real diet where I’ve followed a meal plan.

I’ve always been slim and in good shape, so this is a shock to the system for me.

After having kids I would just eat better and exercise and my fat would suck back in. I’d eat anything in moderation and boom, things just worked.

So when my headaches became completely out of control and I started having health problems I had to stop. I just wasn’t capable of anything but being in bed.

For 3 years I have fought really hard to get control of my body. It’s been a long and hard road. It has taken not only a physical toll but emotional one as well.

I’m still having daily pain but I am in a much better place. I have learned how to cope with the isolation and manage my pain better. I try not to let them spiral out of control (though it still does at times).

The biggest accomplishment has been building back up my stamina. There was a year that I really didn’t leave the house. I couldn’t even walk 3 houses outside. Now I’m able to take my kids to activities and participate in some as well.

So this slow upward tick has led me to believe I need to keep gaining strength. I have returned to my exercise ways. I lost a few lbs on my own but I want to really push myself.

This led me to my current meal plan and exercise challenge.

Here’s the first thing I learned. Wow, dieting sucks.

Alright, I’m doing macros with a high and low carb cycle. It’s not keto.

So some days I have to drink 2 protein shakes a day. Uh, wow my first shake was disgusting. Chocolate protein with Almond butter mixed in. That was a terrible plan. Eat Almond butter seperate next time.

Shake 2, I’m gagging it down. Now my husband assures me they aren’t that bad. He tries it and judging by the look on his face and held in laughter…he’s a liar.

Shake 3, is vanilla vegan flavor. While I deem this one better than the last 2 I’m sure it’s ground up chalk that I’m gagging in.

Finally the 4th shake is a good one! I’ll stick to this flavor.

My next gripe is egg whites plain every morning. I like eggs but uh I’m choking these in too.

The next problem I’m having is the vegetables. I’m only allowed to eat green veggies right now, and a lot of them. So it’s mostly broccoli, brussel sprouts and asparagus.

My poor family. I’ve gotta cut the brussels out. Holey garbage gut. Why does eating this healthy make my ass smell like a rotting carcass.

Did I mention we are in a car on a 3 hour drive right now. Let me be honest. I don’t even want to be in a car with my ass. If it was possible I’d just hang it out the window on the ride.

The rest of the meal plan is fine except I can’t eat ice cream, that’s a real shame.

My workout routine, yikes. I’m sore, like really sore. Stairs? Haha, Mean!! Crawling might work best right now. Sitting down to pee is actually a sequence of slowly lowering until my legs bail out and I fall on the toilet. I’m so glamorous…don’t forget leg day!

My first arm day…not even enough time passed for them to get sore. I just wanted to wash my sweaty self and guess whose arms were struggling to reach their head.

Here’s a hint…mine! The thing here too is my right arm is all screwed up from scapular dysplasia and the bicep is weak. So like an asshole I am holding up my right arm with my left arm to wash my right side of my head.

I’m basically excelling at fitness and dieting. Oh and if you want to stink out your family I have a great list of foods to eat!!

I feel crummy. Went to bed with a flair starting and woke up feeling worse. Neck, shoulder, arm, eye, occipital pain and nausea.

I’m worried how my pain will progress but we have plans. I really want my kids to do something fun after this rocky sick week.

I take my abortive meds and hope for the best.

We begin loading our family of 5 up with our 2 guests and 2 dogs into one vehicle. As my brother in law is attempting to squeeze himself into the back he asks that someone butter his hips. He’s stuck.

We’re all in one car, a clown car actually and head to the waterpark.

The waterpark & arcade adventures are over. I manage all the luggage while my brother in law fetches the car.

When we go to pile in my brother in law, bless his heart squeezes to the third row. It’s like I’m watching a grown man sausage himself into the backseat of a Camaro.

My husband slams the seat into his brother’s knee, screams echo thru the car. Without hesitation my husband slams the seat into his knee again. It’s scream, laughter and groaning all at once.

Confusion. My husband is yelling to his brother to pull on the seat as he slams it into his knee a third time. My husband is deliriously laughing.

It’s at this point he realizes he needs to slide the seat forward before he can move it back to lock into place.

As we all enjoyed the laugh at his brother’s expense I joked how now he has 2 bad knees.

We move on and stop at a B Dubs for dinner. The 3 year old is weary, no nap, irrational, we (the adults) are exhausted from slides and stairs.

I know my little won’t have the patience to eat here. I fill my purse with snacks and an iPad ready to brave another dining experience.

Atgw

10 people and 4 dogs all under one roof.

Now there’s a recipe for chaos. I’m not even sure where to begin.

After a hell of a frantic week we were scheduled to head north for a weekend at the cottage.

Prior to this planning we had said yes to a birthday party for my middle daughter on Friday.

I was feeling weary by Friday so I asked my husband to take her and I’d pack up. By the time he returned home I was feeling really off. We wrap up at the house and hit the road.

My head was hurting for the whole drive and most of that drive I regretted leaving the house. But the show must go on.

We were the last to arrive.

My husband’s brother J beat us there with his 2 daughters, a boyfriend, his son, and 2 full size dogs. Add in our 3 kids, my spouse and our 2 midsize dogs and bingo. 14 butts under one roof.

The bonus here is the snow was shoveled and people helped us unload. Thanks!

The downside was it was late, the kids were tired but wouldn’t get in bed. Our 2 dogs wouldn’t stop psycho barking and it was well, chaos.

As I navigate through this with a pounding head I put sheets on beds. The niece’s dog took a dump in the girls room. Shit smell’s wafting around. She’s worried about the shit. I only care about my head.

We finally get my kids to bed, then after some settling in I pull a Houdini and disappear. I’m hoping I can sleep off the pain. It’s like a reset button on the brain.

The dogs are barking.

Me: “What time is it?”

Husband: “It’s 4am.”

We’re both not moving, secretly wishing the other will man up. I hold out, and win.

Husband throws off the covers and starts aggressive shushing the dogs. A few minutes later my head is attacked by wild beasts styling my hair with drool.

Husband is annoyed with the dogs, declares this won’t work and retreats to the couch, beasts in tows.

I’m so thankful because I’m still hoping for a brain reset on the headache by morning.

Morning comes and I’m pretty sure this is a horrible hangover, except I don’t drink. That’s the best way to explain how I feel to non head pain people.

I was lucky enough to sleep in until 9am. I walk out to pancakes being made and people chatting. Why is my head so angry?

Coffee. Coffee fixes everything. I need coffee, morning hugs and snuggles by the fire.

It’s about 11am now and I retreat to my room. My head is an asshole.

There’s no fun chatting with company for me.

I’m in bed about 15 minutes before I make the run to go puke up my soul healing coffee.

It’s horrible, violent purging. My body just wants to unleash the pain but I’m loosing.

For 2 hours straight I puked my guts out. The occasional knock on the door would come for the mandatory check in.

“I’m puking.” I yell between pukes. I would sleep, or pass out sitting up with my head on the toilet seat like a drunk night gone wrong.

What can I say? I. Am. Glamorous.

I hear people playing games, having fun and venturing out doors. It’s a winter wonderland outside, snow shenanigans are to be expected.

I finally leave the bathroom because one of my daughters wants to visit me. I head to bed to snuggle her.

Honestly I don’t like to be alone when I’m this kind of pain. I just like a presence with me, it’s comforting. I was happy she wanted to snuggle me.

So we laid in bed for approximately 1 or 2 minutes before I had to dash back to the bathroom. It broke my heart to leave her.

I reaclaimed my thrown in the bathroom. This time I used the towels to make a shitty bed on the floor where I slept for the next 2 hours.

Stop being jealous of my life or we can’t be friends.

Meanwhile I am mostly unaware of the happenings of the other 13 butts. Although I will bring those into the story as they unfolded for me.

I make it to my bed, finally. It’s so soft.

Husband pops in the bedroom to check on me. I can smell dinner cooking, and the smell is horrendous. I’m offended. Waves of nausea rolling over me.

In reality, or non migraine living, the smells are non-offensive. This is just a part of my existence.

Soon enough my kids were lining up around me like a pack of hot dogs. It’s at this time they all express their need to be fed.

Apparently 4 hours of the pukes isn’t stopping these kids from needing a waitress.

I leave the cartoons to babysit my kids while I fetch some food.

I’ll be honest, I was really annoyed that I just stopped puking and I became the one responsible for feeding the kids. I bit my tongue as I marched to and from the kitchen feeling shitty. Then resume my position in the hot dog pack.

Now unbeknownst to me there was a reason husband never returned. *Le Sigh*

Everyone was sitting down for dinner. A lovely meal prepared by the niece’s boyfriend. Here comes my precious Peanut dog and pukes in the shag carpet, next to the dinner table.

Apparently there wasn’t disgust over the impromptu purge. Rather a “Wow” over the volume that was brought up.

Just as there was acceptance over this incident Peanut walks three steps and gives an encore performance.

Meanwhile I am annoyed that husband didn’t return to assist me. Too bad he’s super skilled at scrubbing vomit out of the carpet.

We’re a classy bunch, take notes.

He returns, I tell him he’s annoying and he tells me he’s carpet cleaning vom. Fine, all is forgiven.

I herd my family to mingle with the pack where everyone has 2 cents to add about my ice packs velcroed to my head. Newsflash…I’m a trendsetter.

I’m filled in on the outdoor fun I missed out on. My favorite highlight was when the nephew K was being pulled on a sled, behind the side by side. As he’s screaming stop it hurts his dad yells no, Uncle N is trying to get pictures.

Pictures of fun always trump you kid screaming it hurts. We’re excellent at parenting. Promise.

The night wraps up fine except for someone being locked in a room a few times from a bum door. Sorry it took a while to hear your whimpers of help, we’ll fix it soon.

So we all go to bed.

Now for some reason my husband decides the dogs need to sleep with us. Our dogs never sleep with us.

Nighty night.

My husband and I and our dogs mostly had an uneventful night. The others, well hey, at least we slept.

Sometime about 3am I heard my dogs stirring and that’s about it.

On the other side of my door there was a jail break. Myko the husky was apparently not into sleeping. With some A+ effort he managed to push the pocket door outwards and army crawl under it. Impressive right?

Myko kept going though. Why stop at the top of the stairs? He busted through that obstacle in no time. He them made it through J’s door and busted out Karma for some rough housing play a la 3am.

J gets up panicked and confused.

Karma runs downstairs, jumps into the niece and boyfriends bed and wakes them with face violating dog kisses. Confused A wake up realizing this is not her dog. The dogs head back upstairs for round w escape plan.

J grabs a handful of dog treats, throws them down the stairs and slams the door. His daughter A can take Myko, that’s her problem he tells us.

Karma is now missing in action.

J panics, did she come to break out my dogs now. He’s trying to put the pieces together.

Nope.

He locked her downstairs again with Myko. So typically J, I’m dying laughing as he reenacts this story for me.

He finally gets it right and retreats to bed.

You can hear it now.

The announcer pipes up: “Let’s get rrrready to rrrrumble!”

Now flash yourself away from the boxing match of the century and enter my living room.

My husband and I vs. the 3 girls and 2 dogs.

Shuffling orders of snacks that are refused like sub par cousine in front of the toughest of food critics.

Waving dogs away from short feral children with hands glazed in goodies.

An hour later the disdain is grating on the adults already frayed nerves.

Baby steps til bedtime you remind yourself…we can do this. Soon my precious crazies will be asleep and we’ll finally have our 1 hour alone before sleep.

The soul of every parent is weary.

We move the party upstairs for books, brushing teeth and potty before bed. This is also the last chance to gobble down the snacks.

Every night this plays out the same.

As the routine wraps up my husband picks up the youngest. She kicks her legs and flails her arms.

“I don’t wanna go to bed, I’m not ready!”

She punches him in the side of the head, he grunts slightly and then she usually kicks him in the nuts.

“P no. No hitting Daddy. Daddy loves you.”

“I want M to read to me. I’m still hungry. I want to brush my teeth, wash my hands, go potty, change pajamas.”

Little P has a long list. None of my kids go to bed hungry. It’s all part of the breakdown.

My husband calls putting her to bed “the assault” which cracks me up.

We wrestle them to bed and tuck ourselves in.

“Mommy! Daddy! MOMMY! DADDY! Mika needs you!”

My husband doesn’t wake to the yells so it’s my turn.

“Shh, what’s wrong?”

“M says she doesn’t feel good, she feels like she’s gonna throw up.”

“Alright, you go climb in bed with dad so you can sleep.” (The oldest girls share a room).

Minutes later I’m sitting just outside the bathroom while my daughter throws up. I see my husband stumbling down the stairs sans pants to investigate the problem.

We make eye contact which confuses him further a la what are you doing sitting in the hall at 5:30am?

I send him away.

My poor sick kid is really miserable. Over the next 2 hours she has a rough go. She falls asleep on the cold tile (her choice).

I wake up confused and wondering where I am.

The floor, I’m sleeping on the hallway floor.

I kidnap the toddler and tiptoe past my sickie to let her sleep. The dogs are pawing at the door waiting to attack us.

My 6 year old stays home from school. The toddler is happy for a friends. They demand we make cake, from scratch. My kids love to bake and the 6 year old discovered she loves chocolate cake when she’s sick.

Baking goes smoothly though I ate about 14 too many bites of frosting.

The dogs will not shut up. Barking. Barking. I’ve checked the perimeter, nothing is a miss. No passersby. I cannot shush them.

We get the cake in the oven. The barking is still plaguing us.

I let them out back. The barking escalates, Peanut is on his hind legs barring his teeth. I open the door to shush and his runs in scared for his life.

You’ve gotta be kidding me.

There’s a grocery bag blowing in the wind attached to a bush in the yard. The dogs have met their match.

If you’d like to ruin my dogs day just throw a bag in my yard, thanks.

Would you believe it? I wore jeans today…AND I left the house.

I’m not sure exactly what got into me. It’s hard to be comfortable in jeans with my cupcake top. I’d call it a muffin top but please I don’t eat those. A muffin is just a cupcake disguised as a healthy cousin, but you’re being lied to. Cupcakes all the way!

I digress.

So I took the kids to Old Navy to get a refresh on their lean wardrobe. Can you imagine the three let loose to overpower me while I’m trying to pick clothes for all three.

I’m dropping things thru the store, customers chasing me with our lost items.

The free balloons were weaponized in 30 seconds. I’m not even sure who told on who the most and over the lamest things.

The youngest 2 kids were extra excited to take turns in the cart with attached baby seat. The youngest got a few rides in. The middle child was ready to break down she didn’t get a ride as we were in the checkout line.

The 2 were bickering and the youngest refused to give up her spot. I promised the middle I’d make it happen for her. Please, no tantrums.

Now applying for a tour guide position at Old Navy…

Let’s make a turn here at women’s sunglasses, pass the flip flops and head to my favorite section. Elastic waistbands. They’re a mom’s best friend.

“What are you talking about momma?”

One day they’ll understand my humor, and then I’ll be paying some hefty therapy bills.

I loop back around to my oldest.

“I need tissue mom!”

Boogers have run down to her lip.

“Excuse me, do you have some tissue?” I ask the cashier. She passes over two. Why so stingy I wonder. “Thank you.”

I see everyone in line looking at us. The people that returned our dropped items, the people mentally judging our cart and tour.

I smile confidently at them and promise. “I’m a good mom.”

And you know what, I am. As my kids ran around they had fun. Their bickering was normal and no one knocked down a mannequin (I think). I’d say this was a success.

We popped over to the restaurant next door.

Now before I continue I’m going to share this information. We are restauranteurs. I have worked every job in the house. Bar, waiting tables, expo, line cook, managed, ordering, etc. You name it, I’ve done it. I’m fully proficient and comfortable in this environment.

That being said there are a few rules we live by. Never complain. Never speak out negatively against a restaurant. It’s just tacky.

So we sit down, order the food and drinks at the same time. Kids in this setting are a ticking time bomb. We wait 35 minutes and still no food. The kids are antsy and I’m wondering what is taking so long.

We are at a chain. There are 10 tables in the place and I can’t figure out what the problem is.

The table next to us placed their order after us, and got our food before us. To a customer this is annoying. Before we jump to the conclusion this is a 2 top, no it’s a table of 4 and we are a table of 5.

This is a fail on the server’s part. She likely submitted their order first. It would make no sense for the kitchen to fire their order first otherwise.

I noticed all the staff coming to visit this other table. She used to work here. Now it all makes sense.

Our server touches our table to tell us our food will be out soon.

She finally returns with our food and a second round of entrees for the other table. That other table got 2 rounds of entrees in the time it took us to get one.

We eat and the food has died in the window. My youngest hates her pizza. This meal was a complete fail.

The manager touches our table.

“Is everything ok here?” He asks.

“Yes everything is ok.” I tell him.

“Okay.” He smiles and leaves.

If this guy worked for me he’d be advised that mediocrity is unacceptable. Never ask a table if things are “ok.” You might as well ask if everything sucked.

“How is everything?” Is a much better question. It’s a better way to get an honest answer from the guest.

After the manager left my youngest yelled “Wait! I want to tell him I don’t like my pizza.” After waiting nearly an hour for mediocre food we left, with my 3 year old hungry.

Eating out with kids is basically a disaster.

Onto the last stop. Home Depot, we did a quick lap, grabbed some samples. Fed the little some purse snacks. Then I stopped to ask an associate some questions.

Every so often you find someone that can keep up. This older man was a veteran, full of wit and was happy to help while soaking up the kids.

“Do you plan to demo the countertop?”

“No, I’m lazy.”

This counter top will stain, blah blah blah.

“I use a lot of acids, lemons, coffee, etc. when I cook.”

“You should stop taking acid.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t spill red wine on it.”

“I don’t drink.”

“You must take meds.”

“Shouldn’t everybody?”

His coworker is looking on horrified.

He looks to my husband. “You must have a good life.”

“I do.” The hubs responds.

We thank him for his help and head for the door.

We make it to the checkout where another associate begins talking to the kids.

I love it when people try to talk to my kids. They always say the best things in response. As the checkout guy asked the youngest how she was there was no hesitation.

“I want to poop on the man.” I’m pretty sure he wanted to die but I had a good laugh.

I’m grumpy. The kind of grumpy that is so annoying that you can’t even stand to be around yourself.

The thing is I keep telling my family I’m grumpy, but there’s just no time for it.

I don’t know what it is about a school break that brings impending doom.

I’m one of those moms that loves when my kids are home. I’m not of the I can’t wait to send them back mindset.

There will never be another today. Our children will never be any younger than they are now. As the days and years pass they are loosing their innocence. The hurt feelings from peers will soon become broken hearts from first crushes.

I want to absorb these moments. All of them, even the ugly, then get thru them while they hold my hand.

We are shaping people, little people that deserve to become strong confident people. People that know what love is. People that can navigate the challenges of life.

So why am I grumpy if I’m surrounded by my people on a lovely school break?

It never fails. Every time we get a nice break we get smacked with sickness. It’s such a disappointment too.

Somehow my kids find a cesspool of germs and find a way to ingest them. How do they do it? What are we licking door knobs? Catching a sneeze to the face? What is the secret recipe?

*Le Sigh*

I’m laying next to the oldest, she’s passed out sick and feels like a fever is setting in.

The youngest is crying, stuffed up to the max and I’m grumpy.

All week I hustled just to keep my schedule open this week. I had high hopes. I was even thinking I’d take the kids to a waterpark!

Someone send tissues, not for the sickies but for me. I’ll be here wallowing in my own self pity. Mourning the loss of a waterpark while wearing my nemesis…the bathing suit.

After today’s breaking down of kids every 5 minutes I need to go hide in the closet and eat chocolate.

Forget the chocolate, I might make it to the waterpark. Ugh, decisions. The chocolate’s worth it.

I hope this passes quickly. We’ve got shenanigans to get into and memories to create.

Either way I’m sure we will find something worth sinking our teeth into.

Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to my 39 year old se-elf, Happy Birthday to me.

I didn’t really have any ideas or plans for my birthday. There were a few things however, I hadn’t planned on.

Twas the eve of my birthday. It was an average evening, nothing notable.

We head to bed about 10:30 and we take the dogs with us. This is a precautionary measure as our weekend guests brought a dog as well.

It’s 12:17am

I shoot upright in bed, confused.

What the what??

I see a dog’s butt, Peanut’s butt.

He’s backed his ass up and is having diarrhea on the bed…on the blankets…on my crotch…a top the blankets!

The stench is so foul waves of gags are hammering me.

I’m hitting my husband.

The dog’s shitting on me.

“Huh, ok. What do you want me to do?”

“I can’t move, wipe the shit up and let the dogs out.”

My husband comes back 3 times to wipe up diarrhea. I’m holding the duvet cover off the comforter hoping it doesn’t seep thru.

It’s stinks so bad. It’s like a skunk in a porta potty in the August heat.

My husband asks what they got into. Like I have some answers to offer.

We strip off the duvet.

Husband decides the dogs don’t need to go out because it’s all out. Fine.

We retreat to our room that reeks of sunk and open ass.

We’re so disappointed we have to sleep in this contamination zone with only our lungs to purify the air.

We fall asleep.

Huuk! Huuk! Blarg!

I wake again, it’s 1:30am.

The other dog is now retching next to me. Why me? Why don’t they do this on my husband’s side of the bed.

“N! Butter’s throwing up.”

“Are you kidding me.”

I start cleaning it up, and get back in bed.

We roll over again to go back to sleep, but the dogs are huddled together. It’s weird.

“Hey, what are you doing” I ask as I go investigate. “There’s more puke over here!”

I clean that up, toss it into the toilet and flush.

The toilet floods.

Nope, that’s a tomorrow problem. I close the lid and retreat to bed.

We roll over for some shut eye.

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”

“Oh my God!”

The oldest is screaming, she’s had a bad dream.

My husband rage throws off the blankets and exits the room stopping only to pick up his pants on the way.

He gets to sleep on the top twin bunk with the oldest leaving me with the beasts of burden.

Sleeping commences.

Bleh! Bleck!

I lunge out of bed and shuffle the dogs towards the bathroom.

Please puke on the tile!

Blurg!

We didn’t make it, Butter puked in the hall.

I let the dogs out and go back for more carpet cleaning.

I’m muttering profanity under my breath and thinking my husband getting sausaged onto the top bunk bed has the better deal.

The dogs are in. I return to my bed for my next nap.

I wake up, it’s 8:30 and I pop up to look for the dogs. They’re gone. The hubby must have taken them.

We get up and discuss getting pooped on while sleeping. Everyone laughs.

My husband then confesses that when he ran out of the room he grabbed my sweatshirt and not pants. He wasn’t pleased being caught with no pants.

My brother in law explained with bulging eyes how he found the flooded toilet. He complained that someone had blow it out and left it. Then lastly, the stench was horrific.

As we pack up to head home I find a puddingish pile of poop hidden behind a chair.

I call the husband in for backup. He’s complaining about the consistency. It’s hard AND soft. It’s stuck to the shag. He yells he may need scissors. It’s too much! We’re all laughing at the shit storm.

As I write this we are driving home. The car is full of rank dog farts. We’ve already stopped once to let the manic poopers out with no luck.

Call me skeptical but I’m thinking we’re not making it home without a poosplosion happening…

Update: Butter just puked in the back. Husband just asked if we need to power wash it out. Quarter car wash he adds, twice.

Happy Birthday to me??

You want to know what a bummer this is!!??

I wrote a blog post and the draft is gone. What a major disappointment, I was into the final draft. *Sobs*

Here’s a tissue, dry your eyes.

I’ll work on rewriting that one I suppose…

So what do you want to hear about? Send me some ideas other than the hilarity disaster that I always am.

I recently had a mouthpiece made and I get to wear it all the time now. It’s supposed to help my jacked up jaw. In the meantime I get to tell people stories through lispy speech and sprays of spit.

Do you still have that tissue available? Wipe your face off.

Let’s get serious now.

I’m in the throws of potty training and it’s going mediocre at best.

I blame my husband. Somehow it always comes back to him. Know what I mean? Nothing can ever be my fault.

On my watch she wears training underpants. On his watch she wears pullups. To an almost 3 year old this spells confusion.

It does not work in my favor in case you didn’t or couldn’t do the math on that.

Can I tell you a secret??

Of course I can!

Do not under any circumstances sit at my table. Just stand. Take my word for it please. I have 6 dining room chairs and 2 or 3 of them have been full on peed on.

Close your mouth and stop laughing.

You either:

A. Haven’t had kids, will never be this much of a “don’t know what they’re doing” parent.
B. Haven’t been through this and are still “the greatest” parent that ever lived and knows everything.
C. Have lived it, closed this chapter and love watching others live this literal shit show.

You want to know what else??

I’ve scrubbed so much shit out of underwear, onesies, pants, etc. and I am not doing it…not anymore. Oh you shit your underpants, that’s ok honey, we’ll make it to the potty next time.

Then I throw that shit out, underpants and all.

I am done with that shit. You know who else loves this policy. The sitter, she’s never had to potty train so when I told her she wasn’t scrubbing poop underpants she was all aboard this no shit cleaning train.

So on Sunday my husband was “working” in his office.

We have a pee on the dining room chair, her favorite blanket, the floor. Since we are at the table you probably guessed it’s eating time. We progress to removing the pants and underwear which means we sit on the floor. She insists on pants removal by herself. I oblige.

Bad decision. The pants are stuck on her ankle and next thing I know she’s dragging them behind her mopping the floor with pee pants as she goes.

I get them off and here come the dogs. You know they are so helpful they just want to lick her butt.

I’m swatting frantically to keep those 2 vulture dogs away from her butt, contain the pee trail and screaming for help.

You know who showed up to help. No one.

Then when I recap the situation, post clean up frenzy I get the… “Oh, I didn’t hear you.” then feigns innocent smile.

That’s right friends. There has been selective deafness to disaster situations. If this is your first rodeo ladies I have some advice. Remove the knives from your home and refrain from stabbing your husband when they say stupid things like this.

Mentally pretend to smack them upside the head, it helps. It doesn’t really help, I’m a liar, but try it anyway.

I lived to see another day.

So far on my watch we have had 100% success today. The only thing that’s been dogging me is this peculiar “spill” or dried pee I’m not sure which. It’s under the table. I swear it wasn’t there for yesterday’s peemageddon. Thank God I wrote this. It just reminded me I need to go clean it, ew.

Accepting theories and answers…

Hey there, me again.

For those of you that don’t know my background I’ll enlighten you here. Before I became a stay at home mom I was/am a Certified Cicerone and a restaurateur. My husband and I own 3 restaurants and I worked in them for years.

Last night I live updated the real time happenings of snack time.

My husband, bless his heart was preparing the snacks while I was sitting with the kids making sure they were eating.

He joked to me that “he was in the weeds.” This is a common phrase used in our industry when you are behind on servicing your customers.

This is the point where I was completely entertained and decided to live update the world. Waiting on your children is akin to the service industry in too many ways.

Here’s how it went down:

Me: N is waiting on his girls. He’s in the weeds.

Me: He’s running longer than normal ticket times. I’m waiting to speak with the manager.

Me: He just said “he’s in the weeds” again.

Me: Kids are complaining their food’s too hot.

Me: Still no manager…

Me: He’s outta the weeds and asking for more orders.

Me: Who let dogs in here? They’re not wearing service vests.

Me: He’s on break now 🙄

Me: I just complained that my server is playing with his phone.

Me: Where is the manager? Hell-O

Me: He burnt an order, customer refused and asked for a recook.

Me: He’s checking his phone again and knows I’m STILL waiting for the manager.

Me: Kids wanna know why he’s on the phone while facing the customer.

Me: We just asked for a beverage refill and he told me it was the end of his shift. That’s upsetting.

Me: Who is taking his tables?

Me: Refill times are slow.

SB: Looks like he deserves a write up and possibly a loss of a shift! Good thing you’re not a secret shopper ….

Me: I’m going to need a gift card to ever go back into my kitchen.

SB: It’s all about the training Heather! He just needs to anticipate ALL the needs of those he serves.

SB: P.S. The shift isn’t over until the side work is done! I should stop now, I still have to work with him haha!

CO: SB hahahahahahaha

Me: I was busting out laughing while typing! The demands of our little tyrants is so work relatable. 🤪

JA: I’m going to send some shoppers. Sounds like anarchy.

CO: That is too funny but how fun.

JP: Hahahaha

You know, I’m thankful my husband accepts that I’m an overgrown idiot. I just need to laugh at everything. You can only be serious for so long.

Where do you find joy in your life if you can’t laugh at it.

Are you angry or break down and cry? That’s just no good. A mother bears the mental workload of the family.

In addition to the chores there are endless noses to wipe, boo boos to kiss, mental notes on activity schedules, homework help, clothes to buy, glasses to pick up, birthday parties to attend, the list is endless.

So who cares for mom? Mental health is important and motherhood closes the door on self care. When is there time to keep up?

Next thing you know you look like you napped in your car before the grocery run. Like that would ever happen. Nope. I’d take that time for an overpriced coffee run to keep up with my pack of wolves.

It’s a Wednesday morning, the oldest girls are ready for school. My mom comes over at 7:45 to watch my youngest P. The rest of us leave for school drop off.

It’s my morning to volunteer in the Kindergarten class. Every Wednesday is parent math, it’s fun to go help but every time I leave exhausted.

Another mom is there, a normal mom, the kind of mom that pulls it together when needed but is also just surviving.

It’s her first time volunteering. She’s asking me about the routine. I smile and oblige.

“So about 80% of the kids are fine, 10% will need extra help and the last 10% will be crawling on the floor. When you’re done you’re gonna want to do a shot.” She claps her hands and laughs at the idea. The thing is…I’m dead serious.

Volunteering goes mostly ok. I was given a game that shoots numbers out. I immediately deduce how this will go.

The kids start seeing who can shoot them the hardest and farthest. It only takes a few kids to derail the show. Kids are rolling on the carpet trying to jump attack their number.

Basically negotiating with kids is like talking to an irrational drunk person. There’s just no winning. I’m mentally taxed.

When it’s over I circle back and ask her how it went. “I’m exhausted” she says. “I don’t know how they do it.”

I say my goodbyes to my kiddo and head back home.

I get the recap on my mom’s morning, snack my toddler and chat with my mom a bit. I notice two dog bowls are missing, not atypical for P to play with them. I don’t think twice about it.

My mom leaves and so begins the lunch routine. I feel a little beat up which is my usual self. As we are nearing the end of lunch, toddler is losing focus. She starts leaving the table and getting “drive by bites.”

As she wanders off I don’t realize what she’s doing. I’m inhaling my lunch, so I’m oblivious.

When I finish scarfing my food I see what she has gotten into. Two out of four dog food bowls are filled with dirt from my plants. The dirt is also spilled everywhere.

It’s a fuggin disaster.

I leave the mess for later and head up for naptime. Then I spend the next 30 minutes cleaning the dirt.

Where are the other dog bowls? I half heartedly look but I’d rather take a coffee break and sit.

The big girl pickup time is looming. No rest for the wicked.

So here I am, groggy baby in my arms, biggest baby on me too. Shit! You have an ortho appointment in 30 mins.

Why me, can’t I just sit on my gloriously round ass.

Up I go, brushing teeth, shoving snacks at the groggy toddler. She is noncompliant so I get out the new neon pink kinetic sand. Table is ready for play and snacks. I leave dad in charge, steal the oldest kid and skip out.

The ortho and CVS are quick. I’m gone for a total of an hour. It’s relatively painless.

Once home I find the toddler playing on the stairs, with an ipad and the neon pink kinetic sand. Perfect.

Dad does a walk by on the phone, it’s a work call.

I see the sand poured out all over the coffee table and ground into the white shag carpet. Perhaps I should divorce shag? There’s an impending sense of doom in this category of my life.

Remnants of sand on the dining room table. It does look like the hubs cleaned up most of it. One point for him.

The vacuum comes out again. I clean up the coffee table, white shag carpet, dining room table and then the stairs. Put away the vacuum and head for some water.

Good God!

I’m hating my life in this moment.

The toddler has taken the two dog bowls and filled them with dirt again. Threw it all over the floor and covered the shelves. P!! You can’t play in the dirt, this is a no. The dog bowls are for the dogs.

Shoot me.

Out comes the hard working vacuum. Clean up is finished again.

I check to see if the kids need anything before I head off to set out school clothes and other boring adult tasks.

I see hubs still on the work call, sitting down looking all leisurely Sunday. It’s annoying. I’m annoyed from cleanup. I’m contemplating smother him in his sleep. This is the 50% of the time I hate him.

I leave him in the room after I laid out the girls clothes. Exiting I see sand on the floor in the hall bath. An empty sand bag in the sink and then I see the bathtub filled with neon pink sand.

That’s it. Max capacity has been hit. Eyes bugging. Steam has got to be coming off my head. I mean how does this happen? It’s through the entire house!!

I unpark the vacuum yet again and schlep my pissed off medium fat ass back upstairs. I sit on the toilet and sigh, defeated, exhausted and flaring pain.

Husband does his play dumb face and tries not to smile as I recap the destruction left in his wake. How? You watched two of your kids…for an hour!

“I mean did you even watch your kids??” I ask.

“Yeah, and I cleaned up the sand.” He tells me hands on hips.

Is he serious??

We clean out the tub and I’m holding a grudge.

The tailspin of the day peeters out.

While I’m doing my daily stretching I ask the hubs if he’s seen the missing dog bowls.

He looks at me clueless and says he’ll look. This falls into the category of the 50% of the time I’m glad I didn’t smother him. You see I think that’s how relationships work. 50% of the time your spouse is annoying, 50% of the time they’re not. It’s just how much you’re willing to work thru the crap determines if you survive marriage. If more people had this insight the divorce rate would likely go down.

Anyhow, the hubs is so confused and can’t find the bowls. As “the finder” of the house he must find them.

I’m still stretching as he comes galavanting thru the room. It’s like he’s parted the Red Sea he’s so proud.

“Well, where were they?”

“Outside, full of dirt and on top of the hot tub.”

Huhn??

How the hell did this happen? It’s in the 20’s. No one even went outside!

Toddlers, they’re like running a blender with no lid.