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?

BOOM!

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”  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 M 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 believe 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!!! 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!

 

 

Being a mom, a cautionary tale…

I’ve been a mom now for 8 years. Those years have been riddled with ups and downs. This is a job that brings tremendous joy and heartache.

I love to see my children (3 girls) learn, laugh and succeed. I hate to watch them break, I’m talking curl up on your lap sobbing broken. Whether it’s over a barbie arm falling off or a peer hurting their feelings, the emotional burden is the same.

No one prepared me for these burdens and sacrifices of a mother’s duties. Perhaps no one can truly communicate this effectively. Maybe we wouldn’t have listened anyway.

As a small girl I recall begging my mom to sit down for a few minutes with me. I now hear my own girls requesting the same from me. Haunting, I know.

The workload never ends, the piles of dishes, laundry, homework, kids activities, boo boos to be kissed, playdoh to be smashed, butts to be washed, I could literally Go. On. Forever.

Everyday feels the same yet filled with different struggles and worry. I look at myself and wonder where did the time go? Why do I look like a person I never thought I’d become? Why can’t I get it together!!

I can’t get it together because I don’t want to. So what if I look like I slept in my car. This is the real deal, the downslope on a rollercoaster and I am white knuckling life.

Thank God I’m past the shit up your back diaper blowouts while shopping and you can only find one wipe.

Actually that sums up my mom life. Probably most mom’s lives actually. I’m not embarrassed of my trainwreck mom fails. I enjoy those fails. Fails so good you can’t wait to tell your mom friends about them so you can all die laughing.

I’m surviving motherhood one trainwreck at a time. I’ve learned to let it go, laugh at it, and embrace the insanity.

How do you survive motherhood? Are you a mom that laughs at the insanity too?