Make new friends...

I have been trying to be a better person for a long time now. Years, in fact. I'm sure most of you have done the same at one point or another, or maybe you are perfect, in which case, go screw yourself....
People make New Year's resolutions, people give up things for Lent, people try to get fit for swimsuit season....it goes on and on.

I tell ya, I've tried so hard in the past to be nicer. I really don't like being an old bitch. It's one thing to be fun and snarky. But, I have been an old bag more times than I really want to admit. But I'm being honest here.  Sometimes I like to act like I do everything and be a martyr of sorts. But then I turn around and complain and whine and piss and moan about it. A lot. Seems dumb to me now that I actually know I do it. And it's hard to stop. I tend to mumble under my breath about always having to clean up the kitchen 56,987 times a day...and so on and so forth. Kinda stupid. And redundant. And moot. Whatever. We all make mistakes, the point is to learn from it, right?

I tell ya. Having had depression and anxiety my whole life, I know more than the average bear about being a naggy, whiny, critical old bag. Just ask my husband. And my previous husband.

Now, I'm not talking about the occasional bitch-fest.  People need to vent now and then.Women have griped about their husband's dirty laundry on the floor ever since Adam left his fur thong on the floor in Eve's tent. Men are annoying. It's in the Bible....Ok, fine, maybe not, but men have been annoying their wives forever. I'm sure Noah was a stand-up guy, but I betcha that his wife was starting to go crazy by the end of the 40 days on that ark with all those reeking animals and her large family. Ever took a sniff by the otter cage at the zoo? Bet she ran out that thing praising God for sun!  I rest my case.

Anyways, my first step on this journey of self-betterment was wanting to make some friends.

The thought of making friends actually makes me queasy and gives me the trots.

Making friends starts with talking to people. One thing that I've been really bad at has been talking to people. I'm kinda like a hermit. I don't like to go anywhere, I like to stay home, AND I am a stay at home mom. SO I don't get out much. Naturally, I totally suck at small talk. I have a hard time looking people in the eye, I'm super awkward and clutzy, and I never know what to say, so I usually try to make them laugh to break the ice, which usually consists of making fun of myself. Example:
I met my husband's work colleagues (love that word- makes me feel cool for using it..) for the first time at a Christmas party. We were all making the requisite small talk, when one of them asked me to tell him about my kids. (Husband  must have told them I had kids.) I said I had 2, and he said I look pretty young for 2 kids, and I responded with, "Well, I was a slut in high school!" and cackled loudly...
Lovely, right?

Being a stay at home mom and talking to short people who crap their pants does not make one a good social butterfly...

But it dawned on me, "Well, why does it have to be small talk? Why can't I talk to people and ask them about things going on in their lives- about things important to them?" After all, I like it when people ask me about my life. I like to talk. I like to feel important and all that jazz. I  figured that other people do too.
Well, turns out- other people are interesting!

It's darn-tootin fun to talk to random people! In the past week, I have talked in depth to the man who we sold our car to, a neighbor I used to barely know, an old friend, a gas station clerk, and another neighbor who is totally rad and I LOVE talking to!

I never would have done that before. I was always too busy, and too crabby. The thought of talking to people made my ass sweatier than a whore in church. Maybe it's being off the crazy meds that makes me a little more reckless and sociable...I don't know. What I do know is that when we are little kids on the playground, we make friends easily. Laughing, playing, screaming happily. Pushing each other gleefully into posts...Oh, maybe that was just me...

And then we get older, and we feel like there are all these "rules." Don't talk about sensitive issues, try not to be annoying, don't laugh too loud, try not to be repulsive.....
Screw the rules. Be genuine. If you want to give your friend a squeeze, do it. She probably wants one. If you see someone crying in her car, tap on the window and ask if she's ok. If you see an old dude sitting alone somewhere, plop down beside him and chat him up! Old dudes are super cool. Talk to people!

Just be yourself. I can't begin to tell you how much FUN I've been having just diving right in. I talk to everybody now, and it's grand.

People really are interesting!

Who knew?!

Coming down...

I've been off my anti-depression medication for about 3 or 4 weeks now. The "coming down effect" is just starting to wear off. The feeling when I turn my head too quickly and my eyes and brain go all swimmy like I'm drunk. Thank goodness that's finally going away. 

The lovely side effects are gone. I can feel my toes again, and my "lady parts" no longer feel "asleep." 

I'm thankful that I can cry again. It's really lovely to have a good cry now and then when you feel overwhelmed because the dog dug up that patch of tulips that finally were big enough to push up a few flowers, or when you watch The Notebook, or when you see that diaper commercial where the babies are all special because some were a surprise, some were waited for years for, some were early, some were late...  Before, it felt like I would get to the point where I wanted to cry, but then something would shut down and I couldn't. It felt like when you really need to sneeze, so you look at the light and all that, but you still just can't sneeze, so it sits inside your nose, waiting...and then you feel like some troll with no feelings.

My medication helped me for a long time. But the side effects started to get so severe, that the price was not worth it. My husband has been wonderful helping me get through this time. Learning to deal with anxiety is something that is very hard to do on your own. It helps to have a husband that can tell I need a break and tells me to go away. And he doesn't get upset if I spend  little too much time browsing at TJmaxx. Or if I get yet another strawberry freezy smoothie thing at Target.

Without my medication, I am even more hyper and weird and unbalanced. I am scatter-brained- I forget EVERYTHING now. I lose track of time, I laugh a little too loud, and sometimes when I feel like I'm going to lose it, I need to give myself time-outs.

But I also love more fiercely, I laugh more often, I hug tighter, I kiss harder, and the fog has lifted.

And I got my sexyback....

After all, I may have some issues, but so does everyone else. If you think you don't- you may just me the sickest of us all......

The night I met my husband

I met my husband on a blind date on January 9, 2005. We were given each other's phone numbers by my cousin. So we arranged a date to meet, and I cancelled.
I thought he was going to be a fugly dud.

But eventually I agreed to meet him. What did I have to lose? After all, I would probably get a nice dinner out of the deal, and a much needed night away from my 2 girls. I spent a few hours getting ready, trying to find an outfit with that perfect balance of sweet and slutty. He wanted to come pick me up, but I wanted to prove that I was all independent and tough, so I met him at his place. I pulled up to a nice little house. To me at the time, it looked like a new fancy starter home where richy people lived. I rang the doorbell, and took a deep breath.

I was shitting my pants very nervous. My divorce was being finalized, and even though my first husband and I were very much over and done, I didn't know if I was quite ready to begin dating. Things had been so hard the past few months.
After the most perfect, beautiful wedding in the history of weddings, our marriage had lasted just a short year. My first husband and I had tried counseling. I tried begging. I had tried everything I could think of to try to keep him with me and keep our marriage together, but of course nothing works when the guy is banging the local bartender skeeze-bag....
Our marriage had been tough. Duh. Anyone who is married and has any sort of day-to-day troubles knows that marriage is hard. It takes 2 people who want to make it work. Granted, I hadn't been the bestest wife in the world either. I have a habit of nagging, picking fights, and being high maintenance in the romance department. I even kissed someone else before I was married. I had a few wild oats to sow....but once we were married, I tried like hell in that short year to make it work.  I loved his family and wanted so badly to grow old together. But it just wasn't meant to be. Once I knew he wasn't "there" anymore, I pulled my heart out and pulled up my big-girl panties, pulled the beautiful perfect wedding pictures off the wall, pulled together what dignity I had left and "turned the light off" on that one.

So I really didn't know if I was ready to date. Especially since I didn't even know this man. My cousin had told me he was in banking and he had glasses, and that his name was Shannon, but that was it. So in my head I pictured a fat, old, balding man with glasses and black socks-with-sandals who liked golf, was secretly gay (because of his girly name), and had a big fur-covered recliner. Fur covered from his 17 Guinea pigs dressed like characters in The Wizard of Oz.

I glanced through the little window next to the door and I saw him coming down the stairs to let me in. Holy balls! He was actually attractive. Shit, I hope this isn't my date's roommate or brother or personal trainer or something. That would be my luck. He opened the door and the first thing I noticed was his beautiful sparkly blue eyes. I couldn't look away. He said, "Hi, I'm Shannon."

Jackpot!!!

In my head I was all dancing around (YESSSSS!), but on the outside I was all cool and trying my best to look intriguing and sexy. (I suck at sexy. I'm cute, but in no way, shape, or form, am I sexy.)

We agreed to eat at Applebees' in St Cloud, a short drive away. We got into his car, an Alero, and I was so nervous, I was afraid he was going to smell my sweaty armpits. I barely knew him, and we were sitting a foot apart in his black little girly car. I hoped I didn't have rodent breath. I shifted in my seat, wiped my wet palms on my jeans, and we made some small talk, which I am totally not good at.

Him: "So, what kinds of things do you like to do?"
Me: "Umm, I like to drive."
Him: "Oh. Where do you go?"
Me: "Places."

Him: "Where do you work?"
Me: "At DBL."
Him: "What do they do there?"
Me: "Make stuff."
Him: "Uh, what kind of stuff?"
Me: "Eyeglasses."

When I am forced to make small talk, there are all sorts of those uncomfortable awkward silences. That silence is the LOUDEST silence imaginable. All you do is try not to fart, so you pinch your knees together, and try not to let your throat make that weird gurgly noise.

In what seemed like 5 years later, we pulled up to the restaurant, and were seated at a booth. I looked over the menu, intelligently avoiding anything gas-inducing. I couldn't stop stealing glances at him over my menu. He was wearing a white with blue stripes button down shirt, and he had rolled the cuffs up to his elbows. He was wearing perfectly distressed jeans, and some brown casual shoes. He was so fricken hot I couldn't contain myself. I was dancing in my seat. I really wanted to make a good impression.

I'm sure I acted like an idiot. I don't get out much, and I have the world's most socially-awkward mother. My mom does things like laugh loudly at people in public, says wildly-inappropriate things at very inappropriate times, and is generally inappropriate. Sometimes it's fun, but most times you want to duck and cover. So I don't really have a good social compass to go by. Anyways, he seemed to be impressed by my skills with the steak knife, so he invited me for a beer at a close-by bar.

God knows alcohol and lack of social skills don't mix, but he was sufficiently amused enough to keep talking to me. And smiling. Gosh, his smile was amazing. His whole face just lit up every time he smiled. I'm sure I looked like a complete ass, just smiling and staring at him and nodding, but I didn't care.

We went back to his place and sat on the floor. Now you couldn't get me to shut up. Now I was totally an open book, and we talked for a few hours. I had to tear myself up off the floor to go back home and back to my girls. We hugged and I left.

He called the next night when I was in the tub. I told him how totally naked and covered in bubbles I was, and that sealed the deal. He was hooked. Oldest trick in the book.

The next weekend, we went to a Timberwolves basketball game. We had so much fun, laughing and talking, that we didn't even watch the game. There were no silences. When we got back to his place, we were saying goodbye and I couldn't take it anymore. I pressed up against him, hard, put my hand around the back of his neck, and kissed him with all the pent up frustrations of past and present. I may have bit him.

He liked it. I left, knowing full well that I had him. Had him like Kim Kardashian has her bubblicious ass. We have been together ever since that day.

We were married August 6, 2006. Our wedding day was hot, the DJ never showed up, I didn't enjoy the food because I was knocked up and nauseous with our first baby, and I wasn't able to get drunk and happy with everyone else. Needless to say I didn't have a good time. It was not a picture-perfect wedding. Even the wedding pictures were bad.

 It goes to show, that a perfect wedding does not a perfect marriage make. 

After all, the toughest iron is forged through fire.

The road has been a crazy one. We have gone through so much together, and it's not over. But we have so much animalistic bow-chicka-bow-wow attraction to each other, commitment to each other and our marriage, and friendly companionship together, that no matter what, we will always be.

 I'm totally the peanut butter to his chocolate cup. 

Running away from my issues

The other day- actually, on Mother's day, I bought these shoes at TJmaxx. I thought they would be totally cute to bum around in. I am super exited to wear them, as I usually buy old-lady type of "athletic" shoe. I thought it was funny that they say "GO run" on them, as I had no plans to run, or even walk fast. Eff that. I prefer to shuffle about...

Here's the deal. I totally have issues with needing to blow off steam. I have fantasies of punching things and learning to kick-box all fancy like some little Asian karate ninja-guy. I imagine that I would be all cool and sneaky and then POW! karate some mean-guy right in the junk.

But I know that I would look totally stupid and probably hurt myself.

Back to the blowing off steam. I am going to listen to my shoes which are commanding me to go run. Because I used to run and it helped blow off steam. I always start out running all crazy and bouncy and flailing about. Remember the Friends episode where Phoebe and Rachel run and Rachel is embarrassed by Phoebe's running skills? Maybe this will refresh your memory...

So, I don't know when, but I know fo sho that I need to go pound some pavement. Now I need some sexy compression pants to strap in my jiggly hindquarters....

New Recipes Tab!

I'm super excited to start sharing our favorite recipes with you! You can find links to the recipes as I add them if you click on the "Recipes" tab and then look under the heading of what you are looking for. I only have 1 up so far, but I will add more as I get spare time. HA!

Our Favorite Chocolate Chip Cookies

I searched far and wide and experimented A LOT to find the best cookie for us. Finding the best chocolate chip cookies are like trying to find the best soda, the best restaurant, the best rock band, or the best panties. It is all subjective. There is no "perfect" recipe- only what's perfect for you. This recipe is pretty forgiving and adaptable. Me, I like chewy cookies, with slightly crispy edges. My husband likes all crispy to soak up milk, so I just leave them in the oven a bit longer. These are great for lunches, great for a good "mommy" breakfast with a side of Diet Coke, or great to throw out the window at the kids for a snack.

Enjoy!

Crap you Need:
2 c. flour
1/2 t baking soda
3/4 c butter- melted (I use salted so I don't add extra salt to the recipe.)
1 c packed brown sugar
1/2 c white sugar

1 T pure vanilla extract (Do yourself a favor and stop buying imitation crap. You can get real stuff inexpensively if you buy the store brand.)

1 egg
1 egg yolk
1 c semisweet chocolate chips
1 c milk chocolate chips (Yes, I am aware of the 2 kinds of chocolate. Yes, it does make a difference.)
*You can also add a handful of walnuts or raisins or whatever crap you want. We are not health freaks, so I stick to chocolate.

Crap you Need to Do:
Measure your dry ingredients  (flour, and baking soda) in a bowl and then let your kid stir it with a whisk to get it all aired up.
Pour the butter and sugars in your mixing bowl and beat until light and creamy (Oh, about 3 minutes.) Add vanilla and egg and yolk and beat another minute or so until light colored and smooth. Mix in the floury mixture just until blended. Don't over mix or it will be not good. Let your kid dump in the chocolate. Stir in your nuts or raisins or whatever you want.
Now, this part is hard. Put plastic wrap over the whole mess and stick it in the fridge for at least an hour. (You may want to have a few spoonfuls of dough first- it's the food of the Gods...)
Heat your oven to 375.
Put balls of dough on a cookie sheet and stick it in. (Duh)
Bake about 12 minutes. Give or take a few. For chewy cookies, bake just until the edges start turning golden and the tops don't look wet anymore. Then quick! Take them out and set on the counter and let them rest on the cookie sheet a bit. Then slide onto cooking racks or the counter if you don't have a nice rack. (HA!)
EAT THEM! NOM NOM!

A Mother’s Prayer for Her Daughter... By Tina Fey

I was trolling the facebook this morning with a package of donuts in my lap and stumbled across this gem. Yes, I know mother's day was yesterday, but really, we all know every day is mother's day. This was written by the awesome Tina Fey. Even though it was clearly written for fun, I think it has the combination of crystal clear honesty and fervent-ness us mothers feel on a day to day basis when we raise our eyes upward and summon God to help us get through the day.  It had me ugly crying with donut dust all over my face. Enjoy.

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered,

May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half...

And stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her

When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the nearby subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock N’ Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance.

Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes

And not have to wear high heels.

What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. 

Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long,

For Childhood is short — a Tiger Flower blooming magenta for one day –

And Adulthood is long and Dry-Humping in Cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever,

That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers, and the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister,

Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends,

For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord,

That I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 a.m., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.

“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck.

“My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental note to call me. And she will forget.

But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen.

Best. Movie. Ever.

This is not the kind of motherhood I pictured...

Can I be honest? 

Oh, of course I can, because these are MY mumblings, after all. 

There are days I barely keep my head above water. I feel like I'm in the middle of the ocean, in the middle of a hurricane, without a life jacket, with sharks nibbling my toes. 

I've already mentioned my problems with depression. If you haven't read about it, click here. 

Some days are really awesomesauce. The sun shines, there's fresh donuts at the store, I have fun clothes on, my new Glamour mag came in the mail, nobody craps on the floor, no one pisses the bed, and everything is peachy keen. On those days, I even find time to do projects with the kids, and I go to bed at night thinking the day was great. 

And then some days are bad days. Sometimes, I can be all rational about bad days. (One of my light bulb moments? Click here). After all, they happen to everyone. Those days, I can get out of a funk pretty easily with the help of the Pinterest humor page, some chocolate, and a little time to be alone. On those days, I try to remember to hug all the kids at least once. (yeah, when you have this many, sometimes you lie in bed at night hoping you hugged them all that day.)

But then there are days like today.

Today started like an ordinary day. Mikey was awake at 5:30, I fed him his milk, and I brought him down for Shannon to watch at 6. Shannon is normally awake at that time, and he graciously watches the kids while I go back upstairs for another hour of sleep. My alarm woke me at 7:38. (Yeah, weird time. I like to be weird.) I stretched, shook the dream out of my ears, and put in my eyes. If I don't put my contacts in in the morning, there is no hope. I am more blind than that black dude with the glasses who sings and plays piano.

Anyways, Shannon came up with Mikey, handed him to me, and he got in the shower. I took Mikey downstairs and tried my best to keep Brielle and Mikey quiet so Emily would stay sleeping. I tried to set Mikey down, but he wasn't having none of it, so I stuck him on my hip while I cleaned the crumbs and jam and yogurt up in the kitchen, started a load of laundry, vacuumed, cleaned the toothpaste off the bathroom counter, picked all the clothes up off the floor and threw them in the hamper, put the empty cans in the recycling, and generally straightened the house. (It's nice Shan watches the kids so I can sleep an extra hour, but man, does that house get dirty in those short 60 minutes!)

By that time, Mikey was really crabby, so I tried to give him more milk, and started rocking and singing to him to try to put him down for nap. Like all babies, he will not relax and wind down unless I am standing, hopping on one foot, playing the clarinet, and dancing the mamba all at the same time. (Most of the time, he is such a good baby, but sometimes he just wants mamma to rock and sway.)

Finally, he was asleep, and I put him down. As I came downstairs, I slipped on our retarded spiral staircase and ripped my chode. For all of you who are clueless about chode, it's the general crotchal region. I pulled some stupid crotch muscle I didn't even know I had. Then I heard Emily crying her I'm-going-to-be-a-little-pain-today cry. Which means she woke up on the wrong side of the crib and she would be a terror all day. So I got her out, and she was soaked. I put her in the tub and stripped the bed. Brielle got in the tub with her, and I gave both girls apples to munch on. I then went upstairs to rearrange Brennan's room to fit the giant beanbag chair in it that Shannon was sick of stumbling over in the office. I got Brennan's room quickly in order, and Shannon's dad showed up to go to Brennan's grandparents day, which was so adorable! I went back downstairs, checked on the girls, who were spitting chewed up apples into the tub, and went into the laundry room to switch the loads out. I stepped in water.

For those of you that don't know, ever since we bought this house 6 years ago, our septic has backed up into the house no less than 547 times. No lie. Maybe a *bit* exaggerated, but it's been at least 6 times a year. Our floor drain is in the middle of the main floor of the house, inside the laundry room. I don't know why the septic has so many issues. I don't know if it is because my husband needs a full roll to wipe his hairy ass each time he goes "poo," or if we just go through so much water that the tank doesn't have enough time to settle out, but it sucks. Sucks hairy ballsack.

So, I go in the kitchen for my phone and remember that all 4 girls have dentist appointments at 10:20 today. It's 9:45 now, and so I quickly get the girls out of the tub, put the shit problem on the back burner for now, and get the girls dressed. I realize that of course I forgot to tell the older girls I would be picking them up from school, so they have no clue, and that Mikey is still sleeping, and I'm wearing my jammies. I run upstairs, put on something relatively stain free and wake up the baby. He's covered in baby poo, so I run down to change him, and in the process, I slip again, and pull my crotch-again! AND bang my head. Damn! Mikey is fine, so I toss him down, get him clothes, get him cleaned up, and now it's 10:05. Now I smell shats again, this time coming from Emily. I change her again. Now everyones clean and poo-free. We run out to the truck, and I grab my cell phone. 

I call the school to warn them of my arrival, and by some miracle, Lilly is ready and waiting. For some ungodly reason, she is wearing her super-short sleep-shorts today even though it's cold and rainy out, and you can see her underpants. Lovely with her stork legs. 

I throw her in the back of the truck and we fly over the speed bumps to the high school, where Jaeli is leisurely walking towards us. Why do teenagers have all the time in the world? I suppress the urge to lay on the horn and scream obscenities at her. Score 1 for me!

Since the city is undergoing some huge road construction project to annoy us make the streets nice, we pull up behind the dentist office, entering through the back door. *snicker*

All of us troop through the entire office, dragging mud all the way. I check the clock. 10:25. Yesssss! Lilly gets called back and I settle in with Mikey on my lap. No less than 15 seconds later, and Emily is pulling Brielle's hair for taking the germ infested dentist office toy train from her. Brielle fires back with a slap, and it's on. Some jerky dude gives me a dirty look and I shoot him my best seductive smile to throw him off. It works. Mikey starts fussing, and I pat myself on the back for remembering to make him a bottle before we left. 

That works for 40 seconds. Then he wants down to play with the petri dishes they call toys. Greaaat. I set him down, because he is 22 pounds of heavy, squirmy slobbery baby. Oh well. The gonorrhea, lice and jock itch on the floor builds immunity, right?

Over the next hour, he and Emily tag-team my lap. At one point, while on the phone trying to schedule a septic tank-pumping, I was holding both of them. I make a few calls and get someone lined up to come take a look at the poo-issues.

50 minutes of fights, tears, and screaming later, and they are finally done. Mikey is crabby and fussing. Emily is whining. The dental people all look relieved that we are leaving. I can tell by the way they say, "See you in 6 months!" I almost forget Brielle in the bathroom, but unfortunately thankfully, she spots us with her eagle eye as we are leaving, and everyone makes it into the truck. 

Since we missed the girls' lunchtimes, we swing through some fast food place and grab burgers for all involved. I have the presence of mind to get more m&m's and some reese's PB cocaine-cups. I drop off the girls back at school, and race home since Mikey has reached his limit of 120 minutes since his last bedtime. He wants a nap. bad. Brielle says her tummy hurts. Shit.

I squeal into the driveway, and with the speed rivaling an Indy 500 pit crew member, I get all the kids inside.

Emily spills her soda all over the kitchen floor, and Mikey is red-face pissed tired. (The worst kind of tired.) I get Brielle a bucket and tell her to lay still on the couch.  Shannon is walking all over the house with wet, muddy pant legs. I tell everyone not to flush the toilet (because of the poo-issue) and go upstairs to try to get Mikey to sleep, but he pinches my arm skin. So we come back down, and I find poos on the floor of the laundry room, because SOMEONE flushed. That's when I lost my shit.

I am proud to say I didn't swear, throw things, or nail any one's fingernails to the floor, but I cried. A lot. It took FOREVER to get Emily and Mikey finally to bed. Then I ate ALL the m&m's and the PB cups. 

These are the days of our lives. 

These are the kind of days that make me drown. These are the kind of days that make it impossible for me to tell if I'm irritable and depressed from lack of sleep, irritable from all the shit that's going down with all these kids day to day, or irritable and anxious from all the sugar and caffeine I consume to help me deal with my day. 

I truly can't tell if I'm depressed and anxious from never getting REM sleep because I haven't gotten more than 3 hours uninterrupted sleep since 1914 2004.

I know people will say to cut the sugar and caffeine. But if I did that, I would look like this:

Where's my effin'  PB cups and Diet Coke?!!!

And what the hell do I do about lack of sleep? I can't just go to sleep for 5 days straight!

I just don't think my depression meds are cutting it anymore, and I'm at the max dose of the flavor I take. I think it's time to wean off, and see what shit-storm happens. Maybe it's the meds that's making me cray-cray.Who knows. Maybe I'm just insane. Hey, if they let you read magazines and drink soda at asylums, maybe I should just go to one for help a vacation....

Anyway, The day is not over, and I hear Emily waking up. 

Motherhood is hard. Having 6 kids is not easy. Someday, I hope I get a break. Until then, our local store better keep PB cups in stock. And if Diet Coke stops being made, I'm screwed.

I love my kids. I love being home with them. But some days, I have to repeat that over and over in my head, chanting- Native American style- to keep myself from going nuts. 

And someday I will sleep. 

I worked in a nursing home a long time ago, and I always wondered why all the old ladies slept all the time. I thought it was because they are old. But no. It's because they're catching up on lost sleep. Years and years of lost sleep.

The sweet, easy slumber of a hard job finally finished.

Yes, 6 is enough.

What were they thinking?!

Yeah, this looks like a fantastic horseshit idea!

I'm not kidding. That picture is of an actual product currently for sale through Amazon. The actual description reads: 

"Inflatable Learner Swim Float/Swimming Float Neck Collar -

 Offers best protection for your Child/Baby while they REALLY learn to swim!"

What? My baby will REALLY learn to swim with this choke collar on? Guess I didn't know that babies needed to swim! What's next? A support device for the stair-master? Clearly, this product is made in the wonderful country of China. 

"Provides a sense of security and comfort for your baby in the water."

Think about how this must feel. Doesn't this seem *a bit* uncomfortable for a baby to wear? You know how when you're swimming in the lake with your life jacket on and it starts pushing up around your neck and you feel like you're choking? Yeah, that sounds like a good idea to strap around your baby's neck! Wow, mom, thanks- I feel so safe and secure with this gripped around my neck!

In fact, one of the product reviews said that a baby died while wearing this. How sad. How terrible for that baby to have been born to such shit-for-brains parents. Nope, this floatie doesn't look unsafe at all....

What are your thoughts?

*On a side note, I hope you enjoy the new look of my blog. I've been tweaking it a bit. :) 

Having one is a lot different than having the whole 6 pack....

This 6 Pack effectively ruined mine....

Everyone knows all of those cute little "momsy" sayings:

Like, "A mother holds her child's hand for a little while, but holds their heart forever." 

And, "Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children."

Everyone knows being a mom is rewarding.

And everyone knows being a mom is hard. Real hard.  

Blah Blah Blah. Yada Yada Yada. It's a whole different ballgame when you have 6 of them.

When you get pregnant with baby #1, usually it's a wonderful time. Full of anticipation and dreams. Being nervous about how the dog will adjust to the baby. With a partner who massages your feet. (I didn't have this, but hopefully most of you do/did). Planning the nursery, buying baby stuff. Good times. With baby #2, you're excited for your older child to have a sibling. Prepping for the new baby, being nervous about how the other child will adjust...But by the time you're impregnated with #6, you don't care where it sleeps. A cardboard box will do. You don't need fancy baby equipment, because there are always kids jumping around to look at. No one is worried about adjustment because the other kids won't even notice another body in the house. You and your partner are so exhausted from chasing kids all day that you fall asleep drooling on opposite ends of the couch at 8:30 P.M. You give the 2 year old candy to bribe her into massaging your feet. 

And when you are in those 2 months of pregnancy, and your belly skin is all elastic from all those babies, your belly will toss from one side to the other, like there are 2 feral, rabid cats in there fighting over a dead decomposing rat. It is so uncomfortable, you will want to grab the nearest rusty steak knife and get the little bugger out. 

Not everyone gets hemorrhoids or stretch marks all over their bellies or constipation. I went through 6 pregnancies and never had a one of those. Not everybody's the same, so if some chick in the checkout is giving you the details about her hemorrhoids the size of floaties, kick her in the smush mitten. People love telling you horror stories. And people love saying stupid shit, like, "You look like you have your hands full!" and "Are all of those kids yours?!" "No, no, lady, I just found all of them. You see, I Collect Blonde Children." See what I did there? That's how I got my blog name....

Everyone knows that boobs sag after a few pregnancies. But after breastfeeding 6, they look like sad little rotten avocados. All wrinkly and whatnot. Like elephant skin. The stretch marks start to cave in on themselves. But it's not like Victoria's Secret is looking for middle age, mothers of 6 to be modeling swimsuits. No biggie. It's not like I need them to hold up tube tops, or to support a shot glass or anything.

On the subject of fun bags, mother nature played one hell of a cruel joke when she programmed women's bodies to store fat in their thighs and hips after children, and lose it from the hooter area. What the hell is up with that? I know more than a few women who would love to redistribute the goods. Oh well, those big ol' hips come in handy for carrying a baby. And for filling out a pencil skirt quite nicely. Va Va Voom.

That excess stretchy belly skin is good entertainment for toddlers. Kinda like Play-dough without the mess.

When you have 6 kids, there is always someone screaming. About nothing. For some reason, kids like to hear themselves shriek at the top of their lungs. I'm sure on more than one occasion, our neighbors have almost called the cops because they thought someone was being dismembered and lobotomized, when the actual reason for the screaming was that one of Barbie's pink boots that match her roller derby skank outfit was missing. Gasp!

With the 6, there is always built in playmates. Someone always wants a story read, or needs a boo-boo kissed, or wants to play fetch catch. There's always someone ready to wrestle with, play hide go seek with, or torture mommy with. 

A fun thing about kids is that they are never grossed out by you. They especially like body noises. You can sit on the couch next to them, ripping them off, and you can all bond over trying to guess what it smells like. "Raw Meat!" "Rotting Fish!" "McDonald's Bathroom!" "Old Mangy Goat Carcass!" It's a jolly family guessing game.

As you fold towels, you hear one of your kids asking, "Where's mommy?" And another one says, "Mommy's upstairs" and in your head you are like, "Huh? Mom's not here....OH SHIT! They're talking about ME!" I still do this. Every. Time. You never get used to being "Mom." Because "Mom" is your mom. And she's old. And Mother's Day still feels like her day. Or your Grandma's day. Its a weird concept. 

You know you have a ton of kids when all you want for mothers day is a day all by yourself. No kids. No man. Just a book, a comfy chair, the sun, and endless soda with ice and a straw.

When you have 6 kids, there is no such thing as "laundry day." It's laundry day every single day. We reuse towels, pajamas, and dishtowels, and I still do at least 18 loads a week. It. Sucks.

But you do have built in slaves. You give everyone a job, and then you can sit and drink wine relax. Ha. Relax. What does that mean? I only get free time if I let someone cry, or lock everyone out of the house. The only way I'm able to put on makeup or clothes in the morning or "go to the bathroom" is if I get out the candy bowl or fruit snacks and throw them at the kids and put some cartoon crap on the TV. At most, this buys me 10 minutes.

Messes are inevitable. At least once a day, milk spills, someone pees on the floor or in the bed, someone drips honey in the carpet, and cereal gets smashed into the couch. 

By the time you have 6, that last baby is so happy, jolly and mellow from getting fed by, entertained by, played with, smiled at, cuddled with, poked at, and held by every member of the family. Everyone loves #6.

It's weird having kids ranging in age from almost 14 down to 7 months. You have everything from mood swings, messes and ravenous hunger to, well, I guess it's pretty much the same all the way across the board. Except with babies, you have to change their pants. I wouldn't want to change teenager pants. 

Having a flock of kids is fun, horrible, great, wonderful, messy, fantastic, crazy, and insane all at the same time. You will feel like you are losing your mind one minute, and then the next, you hear your kids talking about how you make the best cookies ever and then you realize that someday, you will have such a lovely large family to invite over for the holidays. And you will secretly give your grand-kids mountain dew and candy and then send them home with their parents. Mehehe... Payback's a bitch, kids......(hands furiously rubbing together...)

The day it all began...

This post is in honor of Mothers day next week. 

 I checked the instructions. A line and a blue cross. Terrified, I checked the directions again. Did I pee on the stick right? I wasn't sure, so this time I peed in a cup and dipped the other test in the pee. I put the cap on and carefully set the test back on the counter. I went to the living room and tried to watch t.v to wait for the 3 minutes, but my mind was reeling. Was I really pregnant? I glanced out the window down our long snow-drifted driveway. Mom and my stepdad, Keith, and my brother and sister wouldn't be home for a few hours. I was still nervous that they would come home early and see what I had been up to. I crossed my legs. I uncrossed them. I was hot so I took off my mickey mouse sweatshirt. I started feeling nauseous. My mouth watering, I ran to the bathroom to throw up yet again.

I washed my face, and as I dried my tears with the towel, I looked down and that test was staring me in the face. I was definitely pregnant. Tears filling my eyes, I gathered up all the evidence. Mom must not find out. I threw everything in a plastic grocery bag, and bundled it up in a sweatshirt and stuffed it in my backpack between my science and math books. I would bury the bundle of tests in the garbage in the bathroom at school tomorrow.

I went back to the living room and curled up on the floor. I cried while the sounds of cartoons played in the background from the TV. I sobbed so hard that I threw up again. I cried for what felt like hours. Finally, I washed my face again and looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were red and puffy, but other than that, I didn't look any different. I still looked like my 17 year old self. I leaned in closer. Frightened blue eyes looked back at me. My forehead was creased with worry, exactly where I would have a permanent wrinkle 15 years later. But I didn't know that yet. All I knew was that I was scared to death, and I didn't know what to do.

A few months earlier, I had just turned 17. I was now old enough to rent R-rated movies! I was working at our local small-town gas station, and I was able to buy my first car, a 1971 Chevelle. I bought it from my stepdad, so he gave me a good deal and help me fix it up that summer. I didn't really have anything to do besides work and fix up my car. My parents were part of a very strict religion, so I was not allowed to have friends over or go anywhere with them.  That summer was really hard. It was the very first summer that all of the kids in my class had their licence, and since I worked at the gas station nearly every day, I would see them come in groups, laughing and having fun with their friends. Picking up sodas and snacks, driving around town, going to the lake, going shopping, having a great time. I wanted to be a part of that so badly.

All of the other girls in my class had gotten their hair cut short over the summer, and so I cut my blond hair myself in an effort to be cool. I was always trying to be one of the cool girls, but I never quite made it. I had a few good friends, but I was never popular. Maybe it was because I laughed a little too loud, was a little too hyper; or since I was never allowed to be in any sports, we didn't have anything in common. Whatever the reason, people in my class always thought I was weird.  I started my first day of 11th grade, optimistic that this year, things were finally going to change for me. I just knew it. 

I registered for shop class in an effort to appear cool to the boys in school. Up until then, boys didn't really like me. I wasn't popular or particularly pretty. I wasn't a part of the social scene at school. But there was one boy I really liked, R. I worked with him, and we goofed off at work, but R didn't give me the time of day in school. He was in shop class too. Our shop class included all grades in high school, so there were seniors in our class as well. I tried to make R jealous by sitting next to one of the seniors that showed an interest in me, P. My plan didn't work. R avoided me even more, and P decided he wanted me for his girlfriend. I was flattered by the attention. After all, boys really hadn't paid much attention to me. Two weeks later, I was convinced I was in love, and we took a drive when my parents thought I was at work. One thing led to another. Famous last words...

The next day at school after I dumped the bag of used pregnancy tests in the garbage, I told my boyfriend, P. He didn't believe me. In fact, he told all of his friends that I was a slut. The rumors flew around our small school. I was absolutely devastated. P stopped talking to me. All that frigid winter, I was so sick that I threw up every morning in my computer keyboarding class. My best friend Jessi covered for me, telling our teacher I just left to pee. She was worried about me. Of course, I had told her I was pregnant as soon as I found out. Everyone else found out because P told everyone I was pregnant and I was a slut so it wasn't his. The teachers gave me pitiful looks, and the girls in my class avoided me, like what I had was catchy.

I knew I had to tell my parents. It was only a matter of time before they would catch wind of what was going on right under their noses. I was a small thing, and it was my first pregnancy so I knew I wouldn't show for a long time, but I was afraid my mom would hear the rumor and confront me. So one night I told her. I don't know what I was hoping for. Maybe I had a little glimmer of hope that she would hold me, rub my back, and reassure me that everything would be ok.

That was not what I got. I was yelled at and told that I was a slut and she wished I wasn't her daughter. She then told me to put it up for adoption, told me to call my dad and tell him, and left the room. My stomach was in knots. I dialed my dad. I wasn't as scared to tell him. Even though we hadn't been very close, I knew that he would be more forgiving. I told him I was pregnant and I will never forget what he told me. He said, "Well, you can't do anything about it now, so congratulations, and it will be alright." He was the only one that I felt gave me any sort of comfort.

Time passed, as it has a tendency to do, and as my belly grew, people slowly came to accept my condition. There were still jerks who called me a slut, and said the baby wasn't P's, including P's mother-my baby's future grandmother- who, when I would call to speak to P, would scream obscenities at me over the phone. P still didn't believe the baby was his, but I still would call to try to see if he would come with me to appointments. And my own mother still treated me unkindly. The emotional abuse she heaped on me over those next months was so hurtful. But there were nice people too. Kind people who donated baby things, said comforting things, and helped me find a place to live, as my mother told me I had to move out once the baby was born. Her reasoning was that I was going to be a bad influence on my brother and sister who were 12 and 10 at the time.

I went to all of my doctor appointments on my own. I was the only one to hear my baby's heartbeat for the first time. I was the first one to see her tiny body on the ultrasound. She was sucking her little thumb. It was then that I firmly decided I was going to keep her. I had felt her little fists in my belly, I had felt her little hiccups jolting me from inside. I knew that she had been given to me for a reason, and I knew that even though it was going to be hard, I would always have her.

P came around for awhile. While he was not happy with the idea of my keeping the baby, (he wanted me to get an abortion, at first) he eventually started hanging out with me for a few hours a week at his house. He still never came to appointments. After all, he was much too busy getting high with his friends and going to parties. And he and his mother were still not fully convinced the baby growing inside of me was his.

My mother sort of gave up on me after that. I was now allowed to hang out with my few friends. After all, nothing worse could happen than what was already evident under my sweater. P and I went to prom together, and I squeezed my 6 month pregnant belly under a sparkly lavender gown. I felt pretty, but I was not as happy go lucky as my friends. I already felt years older. As I sat on the bleachers watching my carefree classmates dance (P had already left with his friends), my mind drifted, wondering what was going to happen to me and my baby.

I spent that summer in a depressed haze. I was terrified and at the same time naive of how I was going to raise a child. So I worked a lot, and just stayed home, curled up in my bed, thinking of my friends having fun, doing trivial teenage things.They were sweet girls who always tried to keep my spirits up, and tried to get me out of my house, but I couldn't help but feel jealous and resentful that they were so carefree. I had much heavier things to think about.

Labor began a hot summer day in August. My mother, while still very upset and disappointed in me, knew she was still responsible for me so she had been making sure I made it to my appointments, and brought me in to be checked by the Dr. The Dr sent me home to rest while labor progressed. I think mom was starting to realize that this baby had her blood as well, and she would be a grandma. She knew I was in labor, and made me walk to speed things along. I even still went with my best friend Jessi to her senior pictures photo session! The contractions kept coming, and I was starting to get nervous. I drove home, and mom made me walk some more.

By 11 pm, I was writhing on the couch, crying in pain. Mom decided to take me to the hospital. My sister and brother in the backseat of the van, me in the middle, my stepdad driving, and mom in the passenger seat. It was lightning, and my sister was crying because she was scared. Not of the lightning. She thought I was going to die. While they waited in the waiting room, I was taken to Labor and Delivery. I had a kind old nurse who helped me to calm down enough to let my inner strength rise up and take over. I was so mad that P stayed out partying and didn't come to the hospital, that I was able to give birth without any drugs at all.

With my last bit of strength, I pushed my baby into the world. The nurses cleaned both of us up, and moved me into a recovery room. I was handed a little bundle in a white blanket. I looked down at her tiny little face, and while the tears ran down my nose onto the blanket, I rocked her and nursed her. I named her Jaeli Joy- I picked the name Joy because I wanted so much more happiness for her in her life than what she started with. I didn't know how I was going to do all of this parenting stuff on my own. I was responsible for this little being, and I wasn't even an adult! Overwhelmed, I lied awake that night in the hospital, mourning my lost childhood.

Reassured by the paternity test, and smitten with my sweet baby, P's mom had fantasies of us being married.  Thank goodness I found the courage to break up with him. He was never father material. Over the years, I slowly figured out how to parent. I was married, had another child, divorced, remarried, and had 4 more children. Life took me in a hundred different directions, but Jaeli was always by my side. She was my little light that kept me moving in the right direction.

Now, Jaeli is almost 14 years old, and I am amazed by her. She is smart, artistic, kind, generous, and beautiful. She is a wonderful help to me and the other kids. She has such a big heart. I don't know how a child can go through so much and turn out to be so absolutely wonderful. She is the reason why I am where I am today. I always knew I needed to be there for her, and I knew she would be there for me. With her sweet little face, she helped me through some very hard times. We both needed each other. She is my first baby, the one who helped me become a mother, the one who saved me.

Dedicated to Jaeli Joy

Potty Training Kids. For Dummies.

Does this come in adult size?

I am currently in the trenches of potty training #5. I've successfully potty-trained 4 kids. There are no less than 7,865,583 books, potty training dolls, special potties, special training pants, apps for your ishit, and songs about potty training. 

You don't need a single. damn. one. of. them.

Lower your skeptical eyebrow, young lady.

There are just a few pointers you must keep in mind.

Wait until your kid shows signs of readiness. What are those? Well, stripping down to naked any chance they get, having their hands down their pants at times, wanting to follow you to the bathroom, hiding to drop a duece behind the couch, and generally showing interest in the potty. This may manifest for months before actual readiness. Don't push the shit (no pun intended). If you force your kid, it will take a lot longer (sometimes YEARS), and your kid will fricken hate it. So put that ugly little pee chair in the bathroom, and wait till they want to do it on their own, which they may do once in awhile sometimes for months until they are good and ready to do so all of the time.

When they start wanting to "go" on a more regular basis, it's time. Kids basically will potty train themselves around age 2 to 3. 

Boys are harder. Why? Because boys have a penis. (Yes, boys have penises. And girls have a vagina.) And boys mature at a later date than girls. For some reason, boys' bladders find it hard to hold pee at night, and wait until morning for release in the proper receptacle. Hold, and Wait involves multitasking, which is impossible for boys, and men. Courtesy of the aforementioned penis. So boys may not be fully night-trained until much later. But they find it fun to pee outside, drawers dropped, waving at the shocked neighbor lady. Poor Mary Lou.

Get no less than 10 pairs of cool underwear. Princess panties, superman skivvies, boxers or tightie-whities like daddy- let your kid pick. She will be less inclined to shat on the face of her favorite princess.

Get a ton of Gatorade, juice boxes, and those kool-aid burst things. These are the margaritas of childhood. Your kid will guzzle down this crap, filling themselves to nearly bursting, making trips to the potty regular and unavoidable.

Stock up on those awesome disinfecting wipes. God beamed these down to Target like the Manna from heaven. He blessed us with these easy to dispense with one hand pre-moistened wipes. Please use them. 

Keep diapers on hand for naps and night time. It may be awhile before junior gets the hang of not peeing in his sleep. You don't need those fancy pull ups, except for when they are still wetting the bed at an older age, and wearing diapers is still necessary and a little embarrassing, especially at sleepovers. 

Take the pretty rug out of the bathroom, or it will probably get pissed on. No worries.

When the time comes, make sure you will be home for a few days. It is impossible to potty train a kid on a safari in Africa, a plane ride to Spain, and a camel trip in India. Just don't do it. 

Put your kid in their big girl panties. Give her copious amounts of liquids. Sit back and wait. After about 10-15 minutes, set them on their potty. Chances are, if they've gotten to practice a few times before, they will go. After that, just take them every 20 minutes or so.  

Make a big fuss when they go. Clap your hands, wave your arms, and generally act like you won the lottery. In effect, you did. No more wiping rear!

They will have accidents. Just clean it up without any fuss. If you make a big stink about it, it will screw up your kid.  No worries. 

Be sure to put a diaper on at naptime and bedtime. No one likes a pee-soaked pillow.

If your kid doesn't get the hang of it, and wants to wear a diaper again, follow their lead. Kids pretty much potty train themselves. If they aren't ready, don't force the issue. Trust me, the kid will potty train when they are ready. You won't need to buy Depends for your high-schooler. (Although that would pretty much be a guarantee against premarital sex.)

Once they are potty trained, you are finally free from buying those big ugly boxes of diapers. You no longer need to carry a diaper bag, and when you go shopping, you don't have to worry about trying to find a bathroom with one of those changing tables. God forbid you pull into a crappy gas station where there is one dirty unisex bathroom, and you are forced with the choice to change your child on your lap or lay your sweet baby in a puddle of trucker urine.

  

So there you have it. If you have anything to add, feel free to add your comments below. Maybe you have something you can teach me!

Ok, you made your point.

Evil Bad Mommy. Thanks, Brielle.

I asked Brielle, age 4, to draw a nice picture of our family. I was trying to get her out of my hair for awhile while I folded laundry. A few minutes later, she comes over to me with he big smile and says, "Here you go, Mommy!" and bounces away, blond hair flying.

I turn over the picture, and the first thing I see is a yellow haired black figure with menacing orange talons, holding a baby. The figure has evil eyes. I call Brielle and she skips over to me. I point at the mad face and ask, "Who is this?" (even though I know that it's me, because who else is always holding the baby?) and she sweetly says, "That's YOU, mommy!" I ask why I look mean. She says "Because you are mad. You have your mad face on all the time."

Gee, thanks, Brielle. Well, they say kids are always honest.  Point taken.

20 things I know for sure about kids

Everyone claims to be an expert on raising kids these days. Usually, the people spouting the “advice” have either a) No kids, or b) 1-2 kids.

All the moms I know who have a bunch of kids know there is absolutely no way anyone is an “expert.” I really get annoyed by any parenting advice. I REALLY get annoyed with people who read a parenting book like it’s the bible, and then proceed to follow everything in it.

Here’s the deal. All kids are as different as the variety of candy bars in the gas station. All those candy bars come out of the same truck, but BubbleYum tastes a hell of a lot different than a Snickers. Same with kids. Even if they all came out of the same hole, they are all different flavors.

 Of course, with 13 years, 6 kids, and a c-section scar under my belt, I have learned been slapped in the face with a few things. Here they are:

1.       All labors and deliveries are different. It doesn’t even pay to read a book. There’s’ nothing to expect except maybe a baby. If a turtle pops out, you’re in trouble.

2.       On the subject of deliveries, births are gross. Bloody, messy, gory, and gross. Now, maybe you had an amazing, easy birthing experience. Either your soy green tea latte was secretly drugged by your desperate husband, or you have a huge vag. Maybe you spend all your spare time hand knitting maxi pads and meditating. In that case, I do not want to talk to you. Ever.

3.       For the first 6 years of life, be prepared to get no sleep. You will be awoken by screams, cries, coughs. You will learn the first warning sounds of impending barfage, and will leap awake at that first coughy-gaggy noise.

4.       Most babies will smile and look at you by 6 months, if not, maybe you aren’t that interesting.

5.       When your baby goes from just formula or milk to eating more solids, their diapers will go from mildly disgusting to “HOLY MOTHER OF GOD! What DIED and is rotting in there?” And you will gag. And maybe throw up in your mouth a little.

6.       Most kids walk by age 2. If not, see a doctor. They may not have feet.

7.       Most kids say some words and stuff by age 3. If not, please be sure they aren’t choking.

8.       Most kids will be able to pee in a potty by age 4. If not, buy bigger diapers.

9.       Don’t worry about sanitizing everything. As soon as you turn your back, the kid is frenching the dog anyway. No worries. It builds immunity.

10.   Those pretty homes in Better Homes and Gardens don’t have little kids running around in them. When you have little kids, you must have a kid friendly home. Put away the fancy crap you don’t want broken. Put their artwork on the wall, put out interesting things for them to look at and touch, give them places to be creative, and give them things so they can help themselves. It’s their home too. Enable them to be independent.

11.   Along those lines, stock up on little brooms and rags. Make cleaning fun for them, put on some music, and they will like keeping the house clean too. They will be proud to keep things clean. And this frees up time for you to drink wine…

12.   Don’t push your kid to potty train, give up a bottle, or stop sucking their pacifier or thumb before they are ready. If you do, you will have a 13 year old who still sucks her thumb in her sleep. (Although the pictures will make a really wonderful slideshow at her wedding.)

13.   Don’t worry about losing your shit once in awhile. Motherhood can be really fun and wonderful and daisies and rainbows and candy, but sometimes it blows ass. It’s good for your teenagers to see how much it sucks sometimes, as it’s free birth control.

14.   Furthermore, don’t worry so much about accidentally letting loose a cuss word. Your kids will learn it on the playground anyway, and they might as well know how to properly use “shit” in a sentence. With proper enunciation.

15.   Every mom thinks her kids a genius. But if your kid is behind you picking his nose and eating his boogers, I call bullshit.

16.   Not every kid has an iPod, or cell phone or $80 jeans, or whatever. We all know, because we pulled the same bullshit on OUR parents when we were kids. And besides, them kids don’t live under your roof. If they did, you could charge rent and get some good slave labor out of the deal.

17.   Teenagers are moody. All teenagers are moody. Just let them be alone sometimes. Just watch them from a safe distance. Kinda like watching the rhinos at the zoo. Throw them some hot pockets once in awhile.

18.   Don’t feel guilty about feeding your kids fast food once in awhile. Even great cooks get sick of making meals twice a day. But if your kids think chickens only come in nugget form, it’s time to cut back.

19.   People always tell moms to “Let the housework go! Enjoy them while they’re young!” Those people are usually old enough to be a little senile, or have a few crayons short of a full box. I say, let the housework go, tell the kids to go play outside, and read a magazine or go paint your nails. Your kids will appreciate it when you later take the time to play with them, because then you will enjoy it, and not be grumbly about never getting time for yourself.

20.   When you do play with your kids, be goofy. They are the only people in the world who don’t care how you act, and actually get a kick out if it when you act a little off-balance. They won’t look at you weird and will love you for being fun.

But the most important thing to remember when raising kids is that anything you thought before you had kids goes flying out the window once that little thing is placed on your chest. Trust your instincts. Don’t let strangers parent your kids. After all, if someone is going to screw up my kids, it might as well be me!