Holiday madness

Here’s a little snapshot of what life is like trying to take care of a young family while living with chronic pain. For those of you that don’t know I have chronic pain all over most of my body. The pain that is the hardest to cope with is the head and neck pain.

I have multiple head and neck pain issues and my pain can quickly escalate to unmanageable. Because of this I have a “rescue” which is what you would receive in an emergency room.

Getting through the holidays is difficult for everyone. Throw in some pain and things get dicey.

The holidays dropped me to rock bottom again.

My kids were sick and exhausted at the beginning of December. One of my kids has ongoing health issues which make her pretty delicate. A common cold will wipe her out for 6 weeks. It’s hard.

We all get sick with a cold. Delicate child gets a fever for 7 days. She’s eating and drinking fairly well but the coughing spasms are uncontrollable. We are up half the night for days. Doing her nebulizer, hit the Dr. and her asthma Dr. Basically it sucks.

Now the oldest gets a fever, luckily just a quick one. Somehow the rest of us are still ok with just colds.

Can the dogs get human viruses? I dunno, but coincidentally one of the dogs was sick for 2 days. At night we crate them and wow. Just wow. We had 2 nights of a diarrhea shit storm. Like hose the crate out in the driveway shit storm. Like the outer perimeter of the cage had piles of shit, sloppy shit. Shit literally dripping off the bars of the crate. OMG. The horror.

Husband took one for the team on that cleanup. He even had shit hands as it was dripping on him on the way to the driveway. Thanks for that clean up babe!!

Right as we are wrapping up school my youngest pukes, 4 steps in the door. Why does this happen to me? Surely it’s because I’m an asshole.

I so wanted our 2 weeks off. Our family desperately needed it. We are weary. We can’t take anymore. I can’t take anymore.

Thankfully the little one only had the one puke and barely showed a fever, low 99. I deserved this quick recovery.

The next day she seems fine and we head to the holiday party. Everything is fine and we Christmas festivity on.

Now I plan to host Christmas Eve at my house with 2 days notice. Yes, I clearly hate myself and I’m exhausted.

I decide I will cater this party. I have never catered a holiday party, so this was a first. With 2 days notice and us all being craptastic this December it’s my way of hitting the easy button.

My sister calls Christmas Eve morning, her son got the pukes last night. Projectile. I claim it’s probably from us and she still plans to come over.

So catering is supposed to show up at 1pm. It’s 1:20 and I comment how this place is always late. They were over an hour late last time I used them but they have good food.

It’s now 1:55 and they call me to tell me they need to sub some rolls and my order is ready for pickup. I tell the girl it was to be delivered at 1pm and she gets shitty with me.

Oh no you didn’t I’m thinking. I maintain my composure and tell her to deliver the goods and my guests are arriving in 5 minutes. She grumbles a bit. I hang up, call back and ask for the manager by name.

Manager advises the girl is wrong and the food will be on it’s way in a few. I’m totally fine with all of this.

Here’s the thing, it’s Christmas Eve, these people are working, preparing my food. I don’t have to do it so I am still thankful and don’t care that they are late.

Guests arrive, almost all of them.

I offer them all nothing and joke something will be available when the caterer shows up.

No one cares about late food.

I get a phone call, it’s the caterer. They never cooked my turkey.

WT ever loving F is going on.

I’m now declaring myself the Assholest of all Assholes. I have an out of body experience and witness myself on the phone in a state of moronic shock.

I’m sure I started the bubble guts with anxiety.

The Sous chef apologizes and offers something else in place. I accept AND I’m still not mad. In a bit of disbelief but STILL grateful I didn’t cook.

Now here’s the part where I tell you I had a raging migraine the whole day. This is basically the norm for me but it still sucks big time.

Hey you look nice today…thanks. I wore extra makeup to cover the fact I want to vomit on my shoes. *smile* Except I’m not really smiling. I’m sad. I’m sad I can’t enjoy anything, it’s really hard to when you’re in raging pain.

Everyone leaves, I velcro on my headache hat and start cleaning. I feel like I’m going to fall over and the nausea is horrendous.

We prepare for Christmas morning and I crawl to bed.

Christmas morning is lovely, kids are loving it. I spend most of the day cleaning up, opening toys, etc. I still feel like garbage.

It’s bedtime and I break. The pain has gotten unmanageable, I put myself to bed at 9pm and pray sleep will calm the pain. By 11pm I’m waking every 5 minutes. It’s agonizing. Pain so bad you can’t even lay down.

I drag myself to the bathroom and prepare my rescue. My rescue is not an auto injector I have to draw a vial and inject my thigh. I hate it. I never want to do it. I just need the pain to break.

I was in so much pain that halfway through the injection I could tell I was going to pass out. Pouring sweat, and my vision was going black. I threw the syringe and slumped over the toilet convinced I was gonna throw up.

I hate throwing up.

I have thrown up so much in my life I can’t stand it.

Things stay in and I crawl back to bed. I’m gonna wake up fine I tell myself.

Except I don’t. I wake up in slightly better shape. I’m an 8 in pain and I can’t get out of bed. I laid there waiting for anyone to check on me.

This is the thing about chronic pain. When you push it at all you break. Sitting down for an hour won’t even come close to fixing things.

I take my abortive which is the step before a rescue and force myself out of bed so my husband can leave.

When he returns I tell him we are just going to get out of town. I need to sit in a car for 3 hours. I need to not chase people for 3 hours. I need to hunker down where no one knows us.

I need to play board games and color with my kids. I need to do nothing and I can’t do nothing at home.

I’m sick as a dog. On top of the mess I am I have the head cold from hell. Mouth breathing everywhere I go.

So we get to the cottage and my husband declares he can’t move. His stomach hurts. He’s shaking. He probably has a fever. Or possibly a man cold. Pray for him, or me. I want to Benadryl myself but it’s not a great time for a Benadryl coma.

I busy myself with snacking the kids so they can get to bed, it’s late.

Husband goes to bed.

I get the oldest in bed and am working on feeding the other 2. Out of nowhere my youngest starts puking on our vintage shag carpet.

What the hell is happening. Will the level of my Assholeness ever stop??

This kid had the pukes like 5 days ago.

Am I an asshole?? Surely I must be an asshole because this stuff cannot happen to normal people.

Toddlers puking all over the bathroom, I’m scrubbing shag while mouth breathing.

Middle child is jumping on beds and it’s 10pm. Husband is whimpering in the background and here it is.

I loose my mind.

I cannot take anymore.

Get on bed, your sister is puking I scream between washing her up in the sink.

Toddler was up until midnight. Literally hell. Poor kid is all sorry momma as I assure her she’s gonna be okay and it’s not her fault.

Over the night I’m sure I woke up no less the 857 times. I was bed sweating with a stuffed and runny nose. How does that even happen??

I expect a shiny trophy declaring I am in fact the “Mother of the year” come 2019.

The 12 days of Christmas

On the 12th day of Christmas my family gave to me, nonstop whining tantrums and screams of rage that were ugly.

On the 11th day of Christmas my family gave to me, smelly toots and skid-marked underwear that’s dirty.

On the 10th day of Christmas my family gave to me, the never-ending cold and I can’t stop coughing please pity me.

On the 9th day of Christmas my family gave to me, panick attacks a plenty and horrific anxiety.

On the 8th day of Christmas my family gave to me, a completely destroyed house to clean before the last minute party.

On the 7th day of Christmas my children gave to me, nonstop night waking will we ever get to sleep again we’ll see.

On the 6th day of Christmas my family gave to me, last minute hosting please come take my last bit of sanity.

On the 5th day of Christmas you can find me, closet eating chocolate and I will not share with thee.

On the 4th day of Christmas wrapping gave to me, paper cuts a plenty and I’m getting really bitchy.

On the 3rd day of Christmas my family gave to me, 1 psychotic break can you find a program to take me.

On the 2nd day of Christmas my doggies gave to me, 2 nights of explosive diarrhea completely dripping off their crate yippie.

On the 1st day of Christmas my toddler gave to me, puking 4 steps in the door, Christmas is shaping up to be a God damn catastrophe!

Merry Christmas everyone šŸŽ„


I don’t know what it is with us and water. It seems anywhere we live, water follows. Then I find myself up shits creek without a paddle.

We have had our current house flood 3 times. Why? Because We suck at life.

I’m talking the water came in to the stairs flood. I’m talking shoes floating past you flood. The carpet splashes when you walk flood and the kids think that’s fun as hell. Only it’s really not.

We do not have a basement, but a tri level type of lower level and it’s finished. Why would a known to flood level be finished? Well you know we’re stoopid, okay. Hollow sounds knock on the head stoopid. To say we are traumatized is the understatement of the freaking year.

In our lower level we have a walkout to a patio which is lovely but has also become a complete nightmare when it rains.

It was a dark and stormy night, literally. Raining heavy and steady. Not torrential downpour but close to it. Fear of imminent flooding upon us.

I pressed my forehead against the cold door wall to get a better look into the dark. My heart sank. My forehead squeaked down the glass as I slumped further into self pity.

The water was up to the exterior door sill. We had maybe an inch until it started flooding the house. The patio was already 6 inches deep. Yep, we’re screwed.

It’s time for the rain boots we decide looking out into it. We have to make sure the drain isn’t clogged and start manually bailing water, which is the most exercise my mom bod sees these days. Maybe it should rain more often.

The husband volunteers to put the easiest kid to bed, then go out as I put the other 2 to bed. Looks like my muffin top gets to avoid the work out.

Once upstairs I peek out the window.

It’s desperate.

During flashes of lightning I can see him. It’s like watching “Fun with Dick and Jane” except he’s not cutting out chunks of lawn. He’s frantically bailing away, dreanched, and looks like a deranged lunatic.

He is however determined and completely ready for anything mother nature throws at him.

He’s just as prepared as you’d expect any man to be. All decked out in boxers and a t-shirt, seemingly barefoot and helplessly bailing away. I can’t help but laugh as this time it’s not me out there. I’m all wrapped up warm in my robe peeking out the curtains.

All the kids are asleep now, I come downstairs where I’m greeted by my husband. He’s winded, sopping wet with water dripping down his face. He’s been at it for an hour, he didn’t make a dent, and we are loosing.

“I give up”. He tells me defeated. “Whatever’s gonna happen is gonna happen.”

We go to bed. I’m reeling at the thought of another flood. He’s beat and snoring away.

We have carpet so when we flood there is this annoying process of ripping up one side of the carpet to create an “air pocket” for the air movers. Drying carpet smells like hell but my kids love it, not the stank but the air pocket. They think it’s a riot jumping on the blown up carpet. An impromptu trampoline post flood, because kids are kids.

Why me? The hamster in my mind is exhausted and getting no where.

Morning comes and by the grace of God it did not enter the house this time. Husband is pleased but also baffled.

“It stopped raining in the night but the patio is still flooded. The ground is dry, I don’t understand.”

Sometime later he decides he needs to investigate further. This time he actually goes outside…

“You’re never going to believe this.”


“I went outside to see why the patio wasn’t draining and I noticed there was water spilling out of the top of the hot tub. Then I remembered I turned on the hose to top it off after the kids were in it.”

“Oh. My. God.” I say scooping my jaw off the floor, teeth slamming together. My face contorts into an ugly face of horror.

“I couldn’t get ahead bailing because the hose was on full blast. I almost flooded the house.” He’s laughing now at the trainwreck of our lives.

“Do you believe I did that to myself??”

“Yes, yes actually I do.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I think I said it.”

There are no words!

I live with chronic pain

There’s a little known fact about me that few people know. I live with chronic pain. Every. Day.

Two years ago it got so bad I couldn’t function. I could hardly get out of bed and I almost never left home. No one understood and no one could help me. We’re not even sure what caused it.

Now I have always had migraines, I was diagnosed as a young child. By my teenage years I was living with chronic migraine. My friends and family couldn’t relate and all I ever heard was: You have another headache.

It feels like people stop believing you. I assure you no one wants to live like this. Working was always hard for me but I muscled through the pain for years.

I’m 38 now, 2.5 years ago something happened to me and I felt like I was dying. Every day.

I didn’t want to wake up the pain was so bad. Systems were shutting down but no one could find anything “wrong”.

I was in and out of Drs. offices where they all assured me it was just my migraines acting up and I’d be fine.

I knew they were wrong so I kept working my way through different specialties.

I kept getting worse and the next thing I knew I couldn’t even make it 2 hours into the day before I needed to go back to bed.

Exhaustion so extreme I couldn’t even manage to shower let alone take care of my family.

I was admitted to the hospital for the first time. I thought surely my Drs. would take me seriously now.

I was wrong.

Many tests were run and while they did find some problems they again reassured me I would be fine.

I was discharged from the hospital and put on the lowest dose antidepressant because they believed my pain was psychcosematic.

What an insult.

I continued to worsen.

I was now vomiting daily from pain and living on a toddler mattress in my bathroom. I was in and out of ERs at this point with dehydration and intermittent treatment of pain.

They could only get me manageable and then send me home again.

My head felt like it was being crushed. I was nauseous at all times. I lost the vision in one eye for 2 weeks. I developed tachycardia. Sever neck, face and jaw pain. It worked its way down the left side of my body focused on my elbow and hip.

I’d schlep myself through the pickup line at school with heating pads on my face.

I’d given up that anyone was willing to help me.

I started traveling to Ann Arbor for treatment. It was there I began seeing someone that believed me.

For the next 6 months I had seen very minimal improvement. About the only thing that happened was I stopped vomiting daily. They pain was still very bad, the meds I was on just stopped the throw up part.

I was struggling to get through the day and still not capable of any tasks. Doing the dishes would put me out, laundry was a hard no. Forget about leaving the house for grocery shopping, that wasn’t even an option.

I was back in the ER. My mother and husband were discussing getting me to the Mayo clinic.

It was at this point I broke down and agreed to be admitted in Ann Arbor. My Dr. told me that 30% of the patients he sees just need to be hospitalized but I’d have to wait for a bed as this was a special program. They focus on head and neck pain.

Four or five days passed when I got the call. I didn’t want to leave my family but I knew I needed to do it.

I arrived and was in extreme pain. Like many other hospital and doctor visits they got to see me in agony and vomiting until I passed out exhausted.

I was in for 2 weeks.

It was a strange experience for me in the sense that these people understood me. Finally someone could relate. They asked if the lights were too bright, if they were being too loud, they knew what it was like to always be in pain.

I will say I am on an uptick. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be pain free or even get back to the better life I knew but I hope I can.

My family needs me to.

What the hell was that??

As an adult you realize the older you get the more tired you are.

Having a child takes this extreme to a whole new level.

Throw in a few more kids and everything becomes a blur.

I have experienced many forms of sleep deprivation. Falling asleep rocking a baby, falling asleep laying with my older kids. Basically given the opportunity I become a voluntary narcoleptic.

No amount of coffee can save you. Cup after cup until your hands are shaking and it’s only 1:37pm.

Now here’s the strange part. Exhausted insomnia. Sometimes I get that. Burning eyes but the brain just won’t shut down. No matter what your mind will not stop wandering.

Here I am laying in the dark. It’s about 12:30am and I’m the only one awake. I’m sifting through the dusty corners of my mind when I hear…

B o o m

I lunge upright in bed on high alert. What was that sound? My husband is fast asleep. I strain my hearing to tune into the sounds of little people, but there are none. No screams, no little hurried feet with authority, no dogs barking.

I’m confused. This was not the sound of a child. The dogs still haven’t started barking.

Did that even happen? Have hallucinations overcome me? Is someone breaking in? Why didn’t the dogs bark?


N!!! WAKE UP!!!

Did you hear that?

His glassy eyes look at me perplexed. Sounded like a car hit the house…

Words are frantically spilling out.

“I heard a sound and wasn’t sure if I heard it and the dogs didn’t bark so I thought I was crazy and then I heard it again only louder but the dogs still didn’t bark and no kids are here.” I’m ranting in run-on jibberish.

What do you want me to do?

Me suddenly pondering if “protect” was somewhere in the vows??

“Go check!”

“You want me to go check?” He repeats back like I didn’t just say that!

“YES!” I whisper yell at him.

He quietly tiptoes off in the darkness.

I’m alone, freaking out in my head.

What if someone broke in, killed the dogs and he’s next. My babies! OMG.

Paranoia closes in on me.

“I didn’t see anything, the dogs are fine.” He assures.

I don’t believe him. What made those 2 loud booms? He knows I’m not satisfied.

“I’ll go look again.” He says.

I’m alone in the dark again and it’s suffocating waiting for his return.

The longest 6 minutes later he again assures me all is right in the world.

He tucks himself back into bed. Tells me he loves me, kisses me again, rolls over and is snoozing before his head hits the pillow.

It annoys me that he has the gift of awake to sleep in 3 seconds.

Thoughts crowd my mind about the booms, but I finally fall asleep.

The sun rises on another day. The morning hustle and shuffle begins.

For the most part all is right in the world.

Start the coffee.

Make breakfast.

Go to wash my hands and…my sink!

Where the hell is my sink?

Everything is here but the kitchen sink!

“How did you miss this last night??”

“No one thinks to check the sink Heather.”

It fell off! I mean the whole GD sink fell off!?

Well I suppose that explains the boom.

My mind cannot believe my lying eyes. I look down on it horrified. I dare myself to check under and look in the cabinet.

And there it is folks. That blinding shining lightbulb has just been turned on.

Boom #1 was the sink falling off.

BOOM #2 was all the plumbing and pipes breaking off making the entire setup collapse.

I look at my husband wild eyed in disbelief. He’s smiling because he already traveled this road to hell.

He says to me “You have no idea how bad it was.”

I’m laughing. Traumatized laughing. Complete psychotic break laughing.

“How bad?”

Now I forgot I made us a lovely dinner salad the night before, complete with homemade salad dressing. I’m basically Martha Stewart minus the jail time and with a potty mouth.

“All that salad dressing exploded everywhere. It was on every dish in the sink and when the pipes broke it ran all over the inside of the cabinet. It was disgusting. So greasy, like someone put motor oil on everything and then didn’t give me a sink to wash it in. I must have washed my hands 37 times.” He shudders as he relives the tale.

Now I looked in that cabinet and it was “man clean” which is the basic equivalent to a “rough in” clean. I was, however grateful for that.

He even took all the dishes to the bathroom sink and roughed those in for me too.

We went a week without a kitchen sink. I promise hustling dishes for a family of 5 to a tiny sink sucks. Sucks bad.

I have never appreciated a kitchen sink the way I do now. But just when we got it up and running, the sink stopped draining.

Dish washing in the bathroom resumed. Husband takes apart the pipes and snakes, and snakes, and snakes, and nothing. Hunh!??

Nothing. Nada. No deal.

Plumbers come out. They cannot get it to drain. A whole 2 hours later they are talking about the pipes in the slab. I cannot even think of the impending destruction. I’m ready to throw a full on ugly cry toddler meltdown.

Then bingo, lines clean. Panic ends.

Thank you. Thank you. I am certain I deserve a break.

Dish washing can again resume in the now sacred kitchen sink.

Maybe, Maybe 3 days passes and the faucet won’t quite shut off. It’s like the sink is now cursed and I’m having none of it. Faucet is running all over and sending me into a blind rage.

Finally husband takes apart the faucet to fix it and now it won’t turn off. Certainly I’m in hell? Hi, welcome to the seventh circle. Here’s your name, we’ve reserved you a seat.

He tweaks it gingerly back to it’s normal level of dysfunction and orders the part.

He shimmies the new part in and we can move on.

All I have to say is so help me God if anything else happens to that sink I’m gonna burn this place down.

Moving into a time capsule…

When I was pregnant with my second child our family bought a cottage. Nothing fancy just a small quaint little place that was maybe 700 square feet. The goal was to have an escape and I was out on hotel life with an almost 2 year old and a baby on the way.

We loved our little place. It was perfect for a long time, but as we grew our family the place became impractical.

After much deliberation we decided we needed more room.

Just this fall we made the change and we recently made our first trip up.

We packed up the 3 girls, 3 dogs, ourselves and headed off to unpack.

You know 4 minutes into the ride everyone is asking how much longer? Are we there yet? I toss back little treats AKA little bites of shut the hell up. The dogs are trying to get the kids treats and it becomes the usual disaster that has encompassed my life.

Just because we are the luckiest people ever we hit gobs and gobs of traffic. There is an entire freeway shut down and by the time the tyrants cooperated it was also commuting time.

We are 45 minutes from home, but this actually took 2 whole hours and the bickering is at an all time high. My ears are literally bleeding, I’m foaming at the mouth and I just want silence.

I have to go to the bathroom screams the middle child. We pull off for the pit stop which really worked out as we were still haulted in gridlock.

We hit the nearest BK. We all go to the bathroom except the oldest child.

We lecture all the road trip angles. We’re not stopping again and all the other useless bullshit threats that never work. Husband even takes the dogs out to go potty. To no avail the oldest child holds firm.

I wanna go to our fav ice cream place the non-pee-er yells. They have shakes here, that will do.

Now this is off topic but the speaker was on when we pulled up. We could hear all the employees comically bitching about some sandwich mix up. This poor girl cannot explain this to the car in a way that they can comprehend, WTF is happening.

The air in the car was tense and this was a nice break for the adults. Speaker lady backs up her bitching with a “What the Fuck” then chipperly welcomes us and asks to take our order.

She is me. I am her. I love her. I want to talk to her about it but the husband doesn’t want to waste time. Spoil sport. *Sigh*

We have our shakes and head back to the parking lot on the freeway.

A cool 15 minutes later everyone is happy on shakes and the ride is going well.

I gotta go to the bathroom shouts the middle child.

What do you mean?? You made me stop 15 minutes ago. I know but I gotta go again. The hell you do!! Now the non-pee-er chimes in, I have to go too.

The crazy eyes have been engaged and before my brain even assesses the situation I can hear my own voice. I’m already mid yelling lecture. You know all the words I said. This is why we go even when we don’t think we need to and every other useless parental line of crap.

We pull off again, do the bathroom shuffle and resume burning pavement.

By this point the car smells like a combination of farts, fast food, dog breath and a rotting carcass. I’m confident I have dog hair in my teeth. Which is probably ok as I’m certain I could use a good floss. Pft. Pft. Dog hair cascading around us in the air. I’m not sure what’s going on.

N!! (my husband) where is Butter??

“I dunno”.

Why are men always struggling to see the big deal?

I had her hooked to my chair for a reason! I’m all snippy as I’m frantically eyeballing around the minivan. My eyes darting wildly cannot locate Butter through the disheveled mess that is the traveling circus of a van.

Shit N!! She’s in the back eating all the food!

We have a standard protocol for travel but managing 8 butts is not so easy.

I climb to the back getting stuck to things all the way. Grab the 12 pound puppy and reattach her to my chair.

N, she ate half a baguette. He gives me this awkward trying not to laugh smile.

I’m mourning the loss of my baguette. You see 3 kids later my mom thighs are not my best friend. I limit my bread intake. The fat kid inside me is depressed about the lovely caprese sandwich I had planned to make. RIP my baguette, you will be missed.

The rest of the ride was a blur and I think it’s best that I’ve blocked it out.

So my Bro in law (BIL) came up with his son to help us put together beds and you know just survive.

The following morning I send out some fabulous pictures to my peeps. We have purchased a 1970’s time capsule. The most glorious blue shag carpet, orange chairs, a yellow corduroy couch, blue drapes, a blue rotary phone, etc. This place is in perfect condition and it is spectacularly vintage. I’m loving this throwback, especially that blue shag.

We’re rolling through the morning, BIL is asleep and the rest of us are awake. Breakfast is done, I head for real clothes.

I smell shit.

I’m hunting down the stink.

Here stinky stinky…

Bingo. I have found the the poop. Not just any poop though. Puppy diarrhea. Creamy, liquidized pudding that has seeped into every fiber of my glorious blue shag.

Apparently that baguette didn’t sit so well with Butter. This poo will only be pushed into the shag, this is not going to work.

N is given an update and he makes the executive decision to head to Wally World (Walmart) to buy an extractor.

We load our clan plus the stolen nephew and let BIL’s lungs purify the air while we’re gone. He’s asleep anyway.

Sometime later I am alerted of the missing son. I attempt a ransom but am instructed to keep my kidnapping victim. I advise that will come at the cost of scrubbing diarrhea.

We return home, carpet extractor in hand and some other fun Wally World finds. I also learned something on this trip. Our family takes up an entire aisle. People know we mean business when you’re rolling with a 6 deep family. People also couldn’t handle the 2 year old walking through the whole store with a 2 foot foam Chuckie head on. Who knew.

Anyhow, back to reality. We catch up with BIL, he informs he did a stage 1 diarrhea cleaning, he let the dogs out, things are good.

Husband is ready for business time, he’s got his business socks on and he’s ready to scrub poo.

He enters the room…Bam! The shit stink mows him down.

It’s like your eyes zooming in and out over and over again to each new pile of sloppy diarrhea shit. Men’s voices rise an octave to pubescent levels as blame and defense escalate.

“I let them out”.

“There’s shit everywhere”.

It’s poomaggeden. A pootastrophy. A poonado. The poopening. A literal poo storm of baguette diarrhea is sprayed everywhere. No shard of shag is missed. Rubbing butthole streaks of poo. The mind cannot believe the sights the eyes tell.

For the next hour my husband is aggressively scrubbing shit. Coming out only for a breather with sweat covering his red blotchy forehead. He dumps out the extractor and just when you think it can’t get any worse…he dumps the extracted poo cleaning water all over the bathroom floor.

Involuntary gagging over the smell. I can’t. I abandon him to clean that floor too.

I later joke “It’s not so bad”.

He looked at me like he wanted to punch me in the nose. My husband doesn’t get really frustrated. I think he has hit his max capacity.

“You don’t know how bad it was.”

The relief when it’s all over is palpable.

The moral of the story: Mind your baguettes!

The School hustle

It’s 7:42 and the kids are ready for school. Watching a few minutes of cartoons with coats and shoes on.

C’mon girls time to go, we don’t want to be late I say as I shuffle them towards the door.

The pressure of getting them out the door and to their class by 8:00am is paramount.

I live just under a mile from the school. No matter what happens we will not make it to school on time.

It’s 7:44, the TV turns off and the meltdowns begin.

It’s not fair. I NEVER get to finish the show. No matter what nice rational things I say, I lose. The whining escalates. EeerrrRRR!! That dreaded whine scream escalates. No matter what ungrateful lecture I give the whining is unrelenting.

Great news, we’ve gotten in the car. Humph. Now the fighting with her sister begins. See sister is happy and won’t stop singing.

STOP, I SAID STOP. You’re annoying, you never stop singing. I’m negotiating to speak to her with kindness and explaining we cannot control others. What I’d like to do is smack her upside the head and tell her she’s being a little asshole. I manage to stay calm.

We park. She won’t be quiet so I’m not getting out of the car.

That’s it. That is the breaking point, and there is always a breaking point. Every. GD. Day.

Alright, we’ll all stand in the cold while you throw your fit. When you’re done I’m going to march you into class to explain why you’re late today. I want you to tell your teacher you’re late because you refused to get out of the car because you find your sister’s singing annoying. I bet your teacher is gonna love it.

Some dad is judgingly looking at me.
I give a morning wave and make eye contact. He turns away and scurries off. Better mind your own.

You see I’m not afraid to be the stern parent. My kid is acting like a big stinking butthole. It’s not cute at 8 and it will be really ugly at 18. I’m having none of it. If you think this behavior is acceptable then you better proudly tell others.

Another scream whine that she won’t do it, she won’t tell her teacher that her tantrum made her late. It’s too embarrassing and she now begrudgingly stomps off towards the school door.

I survived morning drop-off.

After doing mom stuff all day, I have a pounding headache. I finally sit down, it’s 2:20pm. I chug a coffee and get ready for 3pm pickup. I am picking up 1 kid.

She’s a nightmare at every pickup. This is the kid that never eats enough and is completely irrational always. This is not morning tantrum kid.

Hi honey I say as she climbs in the car. It’s 30 degrees out. No coat, No hat. No gloves. No leggings under her dress anymore. Her teacher places a bag of wet items in the car. She was playing in a puddle at recess and got soaking wet. Her gloves are missing she says, and the tantrum begins.

I won’t leave school without my gloves! She persists, I close the door and she refuses to buckle.

I warn I don’t have time for this. I have to double back to get her sister in 15 minutes. Pick up the dog as I drop her off and make it to the vet 10 minutes after kid 2.

Arms crossed and pursed lips. I warn I will leave with her having her fit on the floor. One, two, three and off we go.

I’m only halfway thru the day. I’m exhausted and feel garbagey.

Maybe the day would feel less painful if I dug my eye out with a spoon?

When you realize your husband is actually another kid

This is one of my favorite stories of all time. You know the kind, we all have them. That gem in your treasure chest that tops all the other ridiculous moments. The one that still makes you laugh out loud.

There is a part of adopting a man into your life that no one explains. The man is in fact a man child and he will be your first kid. How is this so you’re wondering?? Do you do their dishes? Laundry? Buy them clothes? Make them meals? I rest my case, he is your first child…

Let’s go back about 2 years…

At the time our girls were 6 and 4 with the baby being 6 or 7 months oldish.

As always mealtime (dinner) in this instance is chaotic. A complete shit show if you want me to be honest. We are screaming at the kids to come back to the table. Tufts of blonde hair whizzing by us as we negotiate that they do need food to survive. All of the usual mayhem that comes with a pack of littles.

As adults we rarely get a hot meal which means you learn to adapt. It wasn’t until kid 3 that I decided feeding myself should come first and then wrestling little people was a good idea.

On this day I had made a stew I believe. While I am unsure of the meal I prepared I am confident that it was served in a pasta plate. The kind of “low bowl” that is as large as a plate.

Here we are eating, and we are eating fast because this is survival my friends. My husband has finished inhaling his meal when he suddenly starts gagging. Naturally, this annoys me. I don’t have time for this.

At nearly 40 GD years old you can’t even eat. I do your laundry, dishes, cooking…I’m mentally ranting to myself when suddenly the husband stands up and leaves the table. Hunh??? Typical, he even interrupts my mental rant. The children are confused and I assure them things are in fact fine. (As my husband wheezes in the background).

Why am I annoyed that my husband is choking? I’m so glad you asked.

You see he has this habit of eating fast, too fast. So fast that he gets burning indigestion and starts doing this hiccuping/burping routine. It’s beyond overly dramatic the way he gasps for air. You can imagine how hard my eyes were rolling around my head as this was unfolding in front of myself and the kids.

Here’s a thought…slow down buddy. I mean he couldn’t have eaten it any faster if He Snorted It Up His Nose. Can you imagine chunks of stew up the nose!!! His food wasn’t about to run off of his plate. It wasn’t going out of style. Get-A-Grip babe!!

As I stand over my kids, hover feeding bites through this spectacle the baby begins fussing. Great. She’s done with her entertainment center.

I glance towards my husband whom has calmed himself down. He’s sitting on the arm of the couch next to the baby. Just sitting there!! No longer choking but dazing off with a lingering red face. He’s completely ignoring the fussing baby!

What the hell are you doing?? Blinks in my mind like a marquee…

I’m drowning through meal time with 3 kids and you’re taking a stoic breather.

Aren’t you gonna help? Get the baby! I bark at him.

With glazed eyes my husband rises and about midway to standing clutches his chest. He walks over to the dinner table and up comes my gloriously prepared dinner right back into his bowl.

What is actually happening right now?? I’m floored, shocked and completely appalled.

Silence. Deafening silence smothers the room and our children freeze. Bites of food on silverware hang in the air. The kids are staring in disbelief, mouths gaping wide. We are all frozen in time. The children are horrified, traumatized and unable to move.

Are you serious right now? What the hell is wrong with you? Who walks TO the table to vomit!!??

“I didn’t know that was going to happen.” He stammers seemingly traumatized himself.

You gonna leave that bowl of vomit on the table while the kids are trying to eat? He shuffles off with his bowl of vomit.

I see residual vomit splash shimmering on the table and I inform him I am not going to be the one to clean up that mess.

Let me get this straight: You’re on the couch exactly halfway between the table and backdoor. You CHOOSE to walk to the table to throw up, in your plate and in front of your kids!!?? What the hell is wrong with you? They’re traumatized!!!

I still cannot process what is happening. My mind is struggling to wrap itself around the events of the last few minutes. I’m certain the look of disgust cannot be wiped from my face.

“Don’t worry about me or anything…I just threw up.”

I hate to break it to captain obvious but we were here. We know. We saw it, smelled it and lived it too…

Really? really man?? Because you just threw up in the middle of dinner AT the table!!!

Naturally we have differing opinions on this moment in time. The husband is still convinced he was about to croak.

Now, 2 years later I assure you he is very much alive and uncroaked.

This can only be compared to the “man flu” which we all know is another time the man child will be certain they are upon deaths door…

I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I did. I can’t tell you how many times I busted out laughing getting a visual!!

How do you survive the unexpected regurg?

How to survive getting thru PT

I’m navigating my way thru PT. It’s not really high on anyone’s “to do”Ā  list, but the reality is at some point in time we all have to survive it. My past experience with PT was boring, I hated it. Even though I needed it, I still hated it.

Fast forward to this PT experience. M and T are my therapists. Mostly MĀ because I’m super special and I can’t see just anyone, but T is qualified too. Try not to be jealous.

Here’s the thing. I’m pretty sure they are both idiots. Not in the inept sense, but in the personality department. Naturally they make a perfect fit for me because I am an overgrown child, and a complete moron too. I’ve always been this rediculous personality that loves to laugh and I’m lucky to have them.

Let’s take a walk through a typical day at PT shall we.

Today I see M. She tells me she was mentally planning some great exercises for me on her commute in. I look at her with dead eyes as she demonstrates how a functional person performs this move. Balance one foot on this rounded surface, do a one legged squat whilst having your other leg out to the side. Oh, piss off M, really?? Then I thank God I didn’t eat beans last night.

She pushes out a forced smile like she’s consipated while performing this move then and hollers “You’re gonna love it” as she walks away.

Next up I get to do some superman moves on the bosu ball. This seems easy enough but really the focus is balance here. See the thing is I don’t want to fall completely forward on my forehead (and I’ve had some close calls). The last thing I need is to explain away the rug burn carpet stamp on my face. This is the money maker right here, and we’ve got to protect it. Besides, no one will buy that story no matter how hard you sell it.

Then M starts spitting directions at me. Literally spitting. See the thing is she had a retainer and would always have trouble pronouncing words and not spitting on us slow to get away victims patients. She knows it, I know it and I also love that she herself made fun of it. You see, we are kindred spirits. So I squeegee off my face and head to the next torture zone.

This whole time T has been working with Mr. A. Most people moan and grunt through the painful process that is PT. I tell you Mr. A not only groans, moans and grunts here. He keeps praying to Jesus. I can assure you I’ve been there too. Newsflash: He’s not coming to save your ass. In fact he’s laughing at that “man pain” you’re having. Those leg lifts may feel like burning syphilis but you’re not gonna die. Man up, it’s embarrassing.

So I’m face down on this table after I do my leg lifts. My leg lifts that didn’t bring me to Jesus mind you. Amazing right!?

I finish my arm moves when M bops over again. Why does she keep coming back!!? Why is she doing this to me?

Alas, M is here and this time with 2 – 2 pound weight balls. She smiles in that passive aggressive smile, do this for 2 minutes (she demonstrates), it will be fun she assures me. It most certainly will not be fun, f**k off M. I hate you. I force my own smile and start my timer of hell.

I’m over here lifting these balls, then I shout are these boobs? M These feels like boobs.

“I wish my boobs looked like that” she says. “Me too but they’re a little heavy for me”. Can you imagine!?

What is that…Snoring!!

It sure as hell is.

Mr. A fell asleep during PT. This is not a barely audible snore sesh. This is a man snore, a big grizzle man snore.

I pop my head out of my bed hole in disbelief to better assess the sitch. Yep, passed out cold. How in the GD world does a man pass out during PT. Did all of those Jesus moans wear him out? Oh Lawd, somebody help him.

Oh, I see now. He’s hooked up to the tens machine with heat over him. Mr. A is being mildly electrocuted which always puts me to sleep. WTF??

I am jealous actually, I’m not even gonna lie. Perhaps next time I will scream to Heysus, pass out and leave with pillow wrinkles on my face.

Wouldn’t that be nice??

Get a head of those holidays, not so fast

Here I am, in the office with the two little pissers. No, no, not any of my kids…the puppies.

Somewhere in my head I thought 3 girls, a husband, a hamster, an 18 year old dog, 2 puppies and a partridge in a pear tree were a good idea. I’m still wrapping myself around this concept as I struggle to believeĀ this is my chaotic life.

I guess we should go back a little bit.

Recently I started thinking this is my year. I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna get ahead of these holidays and roll through them stress free! What an idiot. Do any of us really accomplish this? NO. I meant to leave that rhetorical, but I can’t. I can only hope some of you find your greatest successes in your failures as well.

So in October I began ordering Christmas gifts. Brilliant right!?

Wrong. I’m so good I forgot not only what I bought, but who it was for, and get this…where the hell did I hide it? I’m gonna end up just like I did last year.

One day my husband asks (in January or February), what shoes should I wear with this? Those new ones I got you for Christmas I holler. Husband looks at me like I have grown 10 heads: “Shoes”? OMG, I hid the shoes so well I never gave them to him.

We’re seeing a pattern here aren’t we?

So let’s move past my current gift crisis that’s unfolding real time. Yesterday the first Christmas tree went up. I know. I know. It’s not even Thanksgiving yet. Save the judging until I gorge myself on carbs and pass out in the middle of the feast okay?

The tree is up! This morning my little one is helping fluff it and we move onto playdoh and other imaginary stuff moms love to play for 6 hours a day. I mean talking the dolls and having a toddler clap at you for making a pee pee in the potty is so spectacular.

We make a full circle back to the kitchen for lunch and there it is. Puppy aftermath, or should I just call it daily life? They got up on the table, ate all the pencils into a million shards. Don’t worry about me guys, I found every last one with my God damn feet. Only playing second fiddle to finding a lego or barbie shoe with the foot. I’m annoyed. Big time.

“Peanut, Butter, outside”. Yes, our puppies are named Peanut & Butter and it is so cute when I’ not mad.

GREAT! Butter had an accident on the back door rug, forgivable. Peanut however pissed all over the back door to mark it.

Clean up here I come. Yay.

Done, and we move on…potty break time. So I pull a hard U-turn to the bath at a rapid pace and rrrrrttTT! That Mother F***er pissed on my tree.

This is not the great out doors. You do not lift a leg on MY CHRISTMAS TREE!!!Ā Piss on a tree outside! Outside!! My eyes are bugging and I’m positively curse mumbling to myself about what a jerk he is. Will he think I’m growing a forest when the second tree goes up? Lord give me strength. The holidays are just warming up.

And a Merry Pissmas to me!