* Employer's husband: All-around great guy — with the exception of his propensity for bringing unauthorized Entenmann's products into household.
* Two children under age the age of six, who alternatively pretend to be ninjas, pirates and Disney royalty.
* Ornery middle-aged snoring pug who frequently appeals denied requests for bacon.
Additional Helpful Skills
* Ability to type 180 words per minute on mobile devices.
* Attention to detail — specifically in organizing 3,894 fragments of plastic toys on a thrice-daily basis.
* Knowledge of crock pots and blog design.
All qualified applicants will be contacted for an in-person interview as soon as humanly possible. Mostly likely to be held at the local Starbucks or cupcake store.
* * *
Kim Forde writes about the art of perfecting domestic failure on her blog, The Fordeville Diaries. After nearly two decades in Manhattan, she now is a secret suburban convert with residual urban road rage. She abandoned the corporate grind to be a full-time SAHM to her two young kids (with a third on the way), which has led to both her Starbucks addiction and a healthy fear of craft stores. In addition, she is a proud survivor of the longest home renovation in modern American history. Armed with a keyboard and an addiction to storytelling, she can also be found wasting time on Facebook and Twitter.
Grown Up Words in a Pint-Sized Mouth
By Tracy Winslow
Momaical
"Then my son says to my daughter 'I'm going to park my boat in your vagina!'" says my friend, hilariously recalling last night's bath time antics. "And she responds with 'I'm going to park this train next to your penis!'" I am laughing while internally cringing. I realize I am far too immature to raise children. But it was too late. I already had them. And they were bouncing on the trampoline with the Boat Dock and the Train Depot. Fuck. I mean, the two and the three year old can say words like "penis" and "vagina" but they make my 38-year-old self blush just hearing them???
Vocabulary is extremely important and you are strongly judged by your word choices. It can make people respect or disdain you within a sentence or two. I have always spoken to my girls as if they are adults since they were born. People scoffed when I had a one-sided discussion with my 2-month-old about the merits of second language acquisition. Now my girls have an enviable lexicon and don't even question when I inform them that their behavior is reprehensible and that should they continue to act like heathens they shall be punished accordingly. I feel it's much nicer than saying "Hey, fuckers. You're robbing me of my will to live and right now I'd like to stick a giant straw into a box of Franzia and drink until you're less fucking annoying. You might want to go to your rooms before I go all white trash on yo' ass." Which, is really what I'm thinking and my tongue is bleeding from the effort of restraint.
I struggle enough with trying not to swear around my children. I paint in four letter words; much like an artist dabbles in oils or watercolors. It is my art. I cannot say things like: "Well, cock-a-doodle-doo. You just emptied an entire garsh dingle hopping bottle of vegetable oil on my fleepin-floppin kitchen floor" when the moment warrants a "Holy Fucking Mother of God on a Mule." Clearly I have no problem cursing like a sailor. Actually, come to think of it, sailors say "Brandy, you're a fine girl. What a good wife you would be." which I would never say. I guess then, more like a redneck - with Tourette's - in a trash talking contest - at a NASCAR race. However, words like "puberty" and "anus" embarrass the motherfuck out of me. I can't use them in normal conversation. I resort to using words like "pee-pee to" describe everything in the nether regions.
My husband knows this is my kryptonite and loves to torture me. He teases me incessantly to get me to blush by calling me monikers such as Wienersaurus Rex, Scrotodendrum, and Meat Whistle. Which are far superior and much more creative than when my ex-boyfriend called me a "Trick Ass Skank Ass Ho." Or when my sister's ex called her a "Chicken Rat Bitch Slut." Actually, come to think of it, that is pretty creative.
I know that I should teach my children anatomically correct words like "penis" and "vagina" - but I am too weak. I get shy using words like this at my yearly gynecologist appointment. One time, my two-year-old spotted my nephew's winger-wanger as he unexpectedly hopped into the tub with her after we went to the beach. Having been the first wienerschnitzel all up in her mix, she said "Oh, look! He has a waggly tail!" Sure, I could have embraced this teachable moment; but did I? Not a Twinkie's chance at a fat farm. "Yup. Waggly tail. He sure does."
Many of my friends use all the anatomically correct words with their children; hence the "Parking the boat in your vagina" conversation between siblings. I respect and admire this but cannot emulate. I simply can't bring myself to use words like "vagina" and "penis" with my girls. I have given birth to the most embarrassing friends I have ever had. I do NOT need to give them ammunition.
A few examples of my abject humiliation:
* The time when my daughter ordered a "pink taco" very loudly at the restaurant.
* Or when my daughters had this conversation in the middle of my yearly pap smear:
* Five-year-old Lena: Mommy! Why is she poking you in the pee pee?
* Two-year-old Emmeline: Hey! Stweaker! You nakey! Hahahahahahahahaha!!!!
* Lena: Mommy. Seriously. She is STABBING YOU IN THE PEE PEE. Do I have to do that at my back to school doctor's appointment?
* How about the multiple occasions my two-year-old has opened the stall door in the public restroom to give color commentary to all the people waiting to use the facilities? "My mommy just putted a 'fire cwacker' in her bunners." And then walked out like Miss America with a bouquet of super-soaker Tampax (leaving the door wide open for the world to witness me with my 7 For All Mankinds around my ankles). She handed them out like parting gifts to a group of amused women while I gathered up what little was left of my dignity and washed it down the sink.
* Once I walked into my (now) four-year-old daughter's room. She was playing nicely with her one-year-old sister. They are playing "birdies" with a pair of stuffed Bobwhites that sing when you squeeze their stomachs:
Me: What are you ladies doing?
Lena: We are playing birdies! This one's mine. Her name is Tweeter Twat.
My husband yells from his office: Hey! That's mommy's nickname too!
Emmeline: Twat, twat, twat, twat.
Me: Dear Mother of God.
So, as you can see, teaching my children to use words like "vagina" and "penis" would just add kerosene to my already blazing fire of embarrassment. Potty humor reigns up on high in our house. I often hear my children laughing diabolically while chanting "Tinkle, tinkle, little star" and working the word "poop" into just about everything they can. Maybe when they're teenagers I will teach them the correct terminology. On second thought, probably not. The more likely scenario is that my wuss-ass self will wait for them to learn all that important shit in health class. Because my immature brain can handle "Mommy! Emmeline is fucking around with my stuff!" much more easily than "Mommy, Emmeline just kicked me in the vulva!"
* * *
Tracy Winslow is a SAHM trying not to raise a flock of assholes. Besides crafting cocktails with Zoloft, Tracy can be found cursing, crying into her coffee over her stretch marks, Ouija-boarding her deceased metabolism and blogging humorously about her children and life at Momaical.
Giving The Milk Away For Free
By Kerry Rossow
HouseTalkN
"While you are young and free of stretch marks, you should be naked as much as possible," Said no mother ever.
I wish my mother had told me this. I wish someone had told me not to squander away the years of non-cellulite. My mother was busy reminding me not to give the milk away for free.
Pshhh...
I am going to start telling every hot, young thing I see to get naked as often as legally possible.
When I see pictures of my 25-year-old, bikini clad self, I remember being so se
lf-conscious of my body. I want to tell that girl to lighten the frick up and strut up and down the beach. If I had that body back, I would walk around naked, holding a sign, "Check this out!"
This thought went through my head while I was in labor with my first child. The midwife suggested overloading my senses to distract from the contractions. There I was, naked, sitting on a birthing ball, sucking on a lollypop, making noises akin to cat in heat, while my husband rubbed my back.
When I looked over my shoulder at my sweet husband, I caught a glimpse of his face before he could recover. He was staring at the ceiling with extreme concentration. I realized that he wasn't using the Lamaze breathing to keep me in rhythm, he was using it to distract himself from the visual horror that was in front of him.
As if this visual wasn't enough, more visuals soon followed.
The vision of me pushing out 10-12 pound babies.
Visions of an aureola the size of Texas.
Visions of my breasts attached to a pump.
Visions of vomit in my once silky hair.
Visions of my ovals of shame on the front of my shirt...at church.
With each baby, my body took a beating. The varicose veins in my legs look like a snake pit, my stretch marks look like a road map, and my boobs went from a 34B to a 36Long.
Here is the kicker. I'm not self-conscious of my body anymore. Not only did this body house and push out those babies but it also provides endless entertainment.
My pals and I yuk it up and show each other our battle scars with pride. "I'll see you your stretch marks and raise you with my hemorrhoids."
My husband (wisely) says that he much prefers this free and wild version to my reserved 25-year-old self.
When I once peed myself on a run, I walked through the door and told my husband, "I just peed all over the sidewalk." As we laughed ourselves silly, I knew that my 25-year-old self would have been mortified. My 35-year-old self couldn't wait to tell my bladder impaired friends.
But still, I wish that I had enjoyed that body more. I wish that I had known how fleeting it would be. I wish that I had known that the years of my body belonging to only me would not last forever. I wish that I could have enjoyed those years as much as I have enjoyed the years of my body being a baby factory, a milk buffet, a whoopee cushion, and the soft spot to fall.
For once, I wish that I hadn't listened to my mother. She was right about a lot of things- my big hair did look stupid, blue eye shadow was a mistake and the boy on the motorcycle was trouble. But, I should have given the milk away for free a lot more.
* * *
Kerry is a recovering teacher who blogs at HouseTalkN. Kerry blogs about house crashing, house stalking, and general life shenanigans. Her mother threatens to read that blog so she writes about things like 69 and her moral shortcomings at In The Powder Room. Kerry likes to talk about herself in the third person. Kerry would love to connect with you on Facebook and Twitter!
And Then There was That Time a Priest Called
Me a Terrible Mother
By JD Bailey
Honest Mom
Ah, Mother's Day. That one day of the year that's supposed to be all about you, and then somehow isn't.
Or, if you're me, the day that is all about you, but not in the way you imagined. At all.
One Mother's Day, Hubs convinced me it would be a great idea to go to church before brunch. Now, I thought going to brunch with our baby and preschooler was pushing it. Church, too? I found that way overambitious.
But I went with it. Because, you know, Mother's Day is all about what Hubs wants.
So I loaded up the diaper bag with the bare necessities: Diapers. Wipes. Toys. Change of clothes for the baby. Diaper cream. Powder. Snacks. Books. Change of clothes for the three-year-old. Food for the kids at brunch. Hand sanitizer. Changing pad. Nursing cover. More snacks.
I got the preschooler ready. We fought over tights. Shoes. Dresses. Hair clips. Finally I gave up and let her wear a summer dress with tights and boots. Whatever. She was clothed.
I got the baby ready. Naturally, once she was dressed, she pooped on me. Then when she was re-dressed, she spit up. Finally she was clothed, fed, and relatively clean.
And then I had 12 minutes to get myself ready.
Off we went to church, me with partially-dried hair and wearing my May Dress for church. When you go to church as infrequently as we do, one dress per month works. Score one for heathenism!
We grabbed our receipt for attending Mass (the bulletin, for you non-Catholics) and got settled in an inconspicuous pew off to the side. Hubs held Annie so she could see the singing and I breathed a sigh of relief that Grace passed out in her baby carseat.
I lip-synced with the opening hymn with the rest of the parishioners, certain the noise would wake up Grace. But she stayed asleep.
When my kids remained quiet through the first part of Mass, I thought maybe miracles do occur after all. This was actually, kind of, a little bit . . . peaceful!
But then we got to the homily. And all hell broke loose.
The kids? Oh, no, they were fine.
It was me who lost her shit.
We watched the very old and very white priest hobble up to the pulpit. I was expecting to hear some quaint little sermon about his darling deceased Irish mother, bless her soul.
The priest started his sermon benignly enough. Mothers are lovely, they give us life, blah, blah, blah. But then it took an unexpected turn.
I sat there in disbelief as I was told that women should be home with their children, where they belong.
I started twitching when the priest lectured that mothers who worked could not possibly be good mothers when they actually were home because the workplace was too stressful.
And I think I may have cut off Hubs' circulation while gripping his arm as the priest concluded that the competition of the workplace made women lose their feminine qualities and turned them into bitches. Naturally, the priest surmised, as I turned beet red, no child deserved THAT.
(And I don't remember that the priest said "bitches," but Hubs swears that he did.)
I think what happened next was that Hubs physically restrained me from leaping over the pews to strangle that old bastard. But I'm not totally sure. I was a teeny bit verklempt.
I sat there and seethed. I plotted the priest's demise. I cursed Hubs for his bright idea to go to church that morning.
I finally stole a glance at Hubs, who had the good sense to look as horrified as I did. I wanted to leave. I think he did too. But the baby was still sleeping and Anne was happily listening to the music.
So I put the kids' contentment ahead of my desire to make a scene and stomp out of there. BECAUSE I AM A GOOD MOTHER, DAMMIT.
Instead, I spent the rest of the service having conversations in my head with that priest that went something like this:
Crotchety Old Priest: Women belong in the home.
Me: Fuck you.
Crotchety Old Priest: Women who work can't be good mothers.
Me: Screw off.
Crotchety Old Priest: Working makes women unfeminine.
Me: You're a dumbass.
I'm nothing if not mature.
When it seemed like an acceptable time to bolt, we did. And in the safety of a nearby restaurant, after nursing my baby and cutting up my preschooler's food, I guzzled my mimosa and chowed down my cold waffles.
It was Mother's Day. I had spent the entire day putting everyone else's needs before mine. And I had sat and listened as I was insulted by an old man who told me I was a terrible mother because I worked.
Mother's Day was supposed to be a day where I was treated like a queen. Even at church. Especially at church. Church of the Holy Blessed Mother, my ass.
Where was my sermon that thanked me for my selflessness, extolled my beauty, and praised my amazing ability to diaper with one hand and put a dress on a princess doll with another while paying bills over the phone and cuddling a toddler?
Instead, I had been sh
it on. Literally and figuratively.
So I did what any other unfeminine, bitchy, working mother would do. I ordered another mimosa—hold the OJ. I watched my children make a mess and husband try to control the chaos. And sipped my drink while I looked forward to abandoning my family in the afternoon to get my nails done.
I was already damned, right? Might as well enjoy it while I could.
* * *
JD Bailey blogs at Honest Mom, where she writes about raising her young daughters and managing her ongoing depression. With real candor and a good dose of humor, JD writes to maintain her sanity and connect with other moms. She loves her family, her wine, and her MacBook, and is not a fan of working out, bad coffee, or people with no concept of personal space. Which means her kids might be in trouble, considering they are always thisclose to her.
It's Not a Toomah
by Jen
People I Want to Punch in the Throat
In the fall of 2004, I was working full time as a Realtor. Over the last two years, I had built a successful real estate career and I was really starting to enjoy my life. The Hubs and I had been married for a couple of years and we still hadn't worked kids into the life plan at that point. We knew we wanted some, but down the road. Way down the road.
That fall I started experiencing some unusual symptoms. It started with the ridiculously tender boobs. I've always had enormous knockers, but suddenly they started growing like mutant appendages. I was busting out of bras that had fit me for years. I was popping buttons on shirts that normally had no problem staying closed.
One morning I was working out with my mother and I started complaining about how sore my breasts were. My mother stopped her elliptical machine and stared at me with a mixture of joy and loathing. Joy because she was positive I was pregnant and might give her another grandchild and loathing because she was positive I was pregnant and she couldn't believe how stupid I was. "Are you pregnant?" she asked tentatively, as if I might miscarry right there from the shock.
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