Momma has lost her mind.

You My Friend, Are a Hot Mess.

hot mess1

It’s a new year and perhaps now is the time to start embracing our horrible relationship with effort and comfort. Let’s all agree that there is no need to incorporate running in to our daily lives, unless we are being chased. Nor do we need to give in to the notion we fail at parenthood if we feed our children things we can actually pronounce, not grown in organic poo.

We’re not getting any younger, our metabolism slowed down at least 12 (Ok, 15) years ago and the demons in our closets will only manifest in uglier and unhealthier ways at this point.

It’s been reported that our brains are mimicking that of a gold fish, meaning on average we can focus for no more than a solid eight seconds. How in the hell are we suppose to make healthy food choices, absorb the joys of parenthood, excersice, maintain self-care and ponder life’s profound fucked-upness when we are constantly distracted by Pings and shiny objects?

I suppose we should at least try to get out of our own way. Think of the following suggestions as good-intentioned, half-ass commitments. Some of which you can even do sitting down!

  1. Can you see your toes? Yes? That’s awesome. Now bend yourself over and reach for those little fuckers. Stretch that beautiful skin as far as you can. Don’t like to look at your feet? Look up instead. Reach as far as you can above your head until you get that fuzzy, slightly high feeling all over. Who doesn’t like a free buzz?? Take full advantage.
  2. You can walk, right? So stick with that. Just try to do more of it. It takes just as much time to park further out and walk to the entrance of Target as it does to drive around waiting for rock star parking. Yes, it’s cold outside. Jack Frost nibbling on that ass you keep complaining about is working to your advantage. Now suck it up and hustle. I want to see knees to chest, knees to chest.
  3. Just eat half of that deliciously horrible lunch you just purchased. Don’t deny yourself the joy of deep-fried happiness or cheese and pepperoni triangle shaped love. Moderation betches. Have one slice instead of two and chew slower. Savor that shit.
  4. Quit trying to fix everyone else and pay attention to the hot mess you are. Enlisting a therapist to help you process and resolve some shit doesn’t mean you are crazy or weak. We completely underestimate the power of purging our shit in the company of a professional. Plus, your grown-up insurance plan will help you pay for it.
  5. If you do something you’re proud of, smile or maybe break out your best I Just Woke Up Like This moves in the middle of the grocery store aisle. But stop posting everything on Facebook. Likes and comments do not validate your accomplishments. and if you continue to believe that shit you will keep finding yourself in the corner, ugly crying about what is “wrong” with you. Knock that shit off.
  6. Don’t cross something off your ‘To Do’ list, and watch the world not fall apart.
  7. If you want to start and finish something, get the fuck off social media for longer than ten minute intervals. It sucks the life out of creativity and kills brain cells you could be using to bust out something fabulous. There will be moments in your attempt to be awesome where you are stuck. Do not believe you will just check your newsfeed “real quick.” No one has the power to stop at a scroll or two, and you will land knee deep in infectious cat videos.
  8. Got lungs? Fill them bitches up with free oxygen, as often as you can. Deep breathing has been proven to ward off road rage and keep young children alive.
  9. The next time you feel like shit, do something for a stranger. And I don’t mean buying the person behind you in the Dunkin Donuts drive-through a coffee. They obviously have the means to enjoy life’s little pleasures. Get off your ass and walk over to the homeless person you pass by almost daily. Make eye contact with him. And if the scarf or gloves you are wearing isn’t of much value to you, hand it over.
  10. Quit bailing your kids out every time they fuck up. Stop convincing yourself that you need to give up your life to ensure your children are entertained and stimulated every part of every day. Let the little bastards fall down and be bored. You’ll both live. And you’ll have a lot more fun doing it.
  11. Set goals with grace periods. Remember, we share attention spans with gold fish.
  12. Think of something you hate…a place, a behavior, a person, a personal flaw. Now ask yourself why. Start working on that shit.
  13. Think of something you love…a place, a sound, an activity, a natural talent. When was the last time you experienced that? Work on that shit too.
  14. Quit acting like your broke-ass can afford whatever your impulsive-ass wants. Cut up the credit cards. All but one, because life is unpredictable and fucked up. We all need to be bailed out at some point.
  15. It won’t kill you to start drinking more water. Even if it comes from a faucet. Ok. That may be relative to where you live but still. You’ll have less headaches and your pee will no longer resemble florescent toxins. Both very important.

So what do you think? Can you commit to at least three, maybe four? I dare say if not, you need to put down the 400 calories of mocha love, take a social media sabbatical and run (Ha! ok, speed walk) to your most beloved happy place. You my friend…are a hot mess.



Momma has lost her mind.

Dance Party For One Please.


It was 10 am and I was heading out to the dreaded grocery store. Before I got out of the driveway, I put together a play list that would wrap itself around my rather spunky mood at the time. I backed out of the driveway and hit play. Suddenly, my truck transformed in to my very own one woman show. I became that person.

Ben Howard had me contemplating the constraints of fear. Eminem and Sia had me fist pumping the idea of guts over glory. Iggy Azalea turned me in to the most bad-ass rappin’ momma you’ve ever seen. I was a black widow baby. Oh yeah, I was in the zone.

The road became my stage and I owned the floor. I didn’t care that the car behind me probably thought I was having some sort of freak attack, as the back end of my truck mimicked my own hind end. When I got stuck at a four way, waiting for adequate space between cars so that I could make a left hand turned, I turned the music up. I didn’t care the cars behind me, beside me and in front of me could see my ridiculous ass, as I bopped my head, sang like I was double-fisting margheritas, got my duck face on and dropped it like it was hot, as much as one can while in a vehicle.

As I finally got the chance to make that turn, I made eye contact with a car full of women that appeared to be around my age. They were laughing out loud. One shot me a thumbs up and another was swooping the air with her fist in that Arsenio Hall kind of way. I threw my head back and laughed and waved. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but I knew how they were feeling, as they caught me gettin’ my dance on underneath that traffic light. It’s that kind of thing where you hear a complete stranger belly laugh and you can’t help but laugh yourself. Joy is contangious like that.

That 20 minute ride left me more refreshed than I have felt in a while.

There is magic in those moments when you don’t give a shit about what people think. Those rare minutes we are lucky enough to sometimes have, when joy wins and life allows you to drink it right up. It’s that spunk that we all seem to lose a bit of as we get older. As we fall in to the role of adult, we unfortunately worry too much about what other people think. It gets in the way of spontaneous fun. We go looking for that elusive bullshit called a “happy life” and forget that happiness is only mere moments that we have to let happen.

“Take time for yourself.” We women hear that all the damn time. What does that even mean? Ain’t nobody got time for that! On the daily, I am a SAHM with financial and emotional stress that hangs heavy on every thought I own. I don’t have the ability to take time. What I had that day was the awareness that I could have a moment.

That’s what we should be reminding each other. Own the fleeting moments when you are in a good mood and go with it. Turn on some tunage and drop it like it’s hot mommas! Turn the spatuala into a diamond studded microphone and let your inner tone def Mariah Carey out. Our kids and husbands are going to laugh at us anyway, right?

I wish I could bottle that exuberant, I-don’t-give-a-frick attitude I had yesterday. I wish that shit was pixie dust I could just cover myself in when a funk sets in. Truth be told, life wears me down. More than I would like to admit. Depression is a monster under my bed and I don’t let loose nearly enough. I’m not 20-something anymore and liquid encouragement isn’t something I can depend on to help me feel alive. “Good times” aren’t readily available when adulthood meets parenthood and collides with the stressful reality we all live in.

The music is still in all of us. We just have to let it out. We have to allow ourselves to tap in to that childlike joy, that silliness, that inner rock star we all have lying dormant in side of us. What I know for sure is happiness is fleeting. It will slip right through your fingers if you don’t nurture it in the rare moments it’s begging to make an appearance. Ladies, when our ever swinging moods hit a high note, we need to take full advantage! Put the real world on hold…and just dance people!

Momma has lost her mind.

Who Knew So Many Parents ‘Get’ Me.

hell yeah

Since posting my most recent article, Can I Get A ‘Hell Yeah’ For Mediocre Parenting, I have become humorously aware of how much alike us parents are, instead of different and caddy, as the media portrays us to be.

Today, my article is being featured on an Australian parenting online magazine called Kidspot. Those Aussies are funny mums and pops. I’ve spent the morning reading comments and I think I even converted a few to become red wine drinkers. Yesterday, the article was published on Huff Post Parents. Pretty awesome!

I already knew how humor can bring us all together, but I didn’t realize until now how being able to laugh at ourselves as parents could make us all calm down the mommy guilt we all carry.

My favorite comments are the ones where women are recommending the article to their girlfriends. I see a lot of “So us!” I think this post resonates with so many because I’ve said out loud what I normally only say to my closest girlfriends. It really just goes to show we are all doing the best we can and no one really has this gig totally figured out.

So cheers to being down right normal! May we all understand that losing our shit once in a while does not, in fact, mean we aren’t loving, awesome parents. 😉 ~Dawn


Momma has lost her mind.

Can I Get A ‘Hell Yeah’ For Mediocre Parenting?!

Wine or be the judge.
Wine or coffee…you be the judge.

I admit it. I was one of those moms that said, “my kid will never …” I thought I had a say in how my kid’s personalities would form. I ridiculously assumed that because I am their mother, that would be enough to make them obey. Well, karma has raised her hand and bitch slapped my righteous ass.

I’ve written before about my sassy baby girl. I’ve told you how she speaks her mind and is too smart for her own good. It’s true what they say, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree. Oh my Lawd that child has an attitude I hate to recognize. Most days I feel like I am dealing with a PMSing five year old. Her refusal to simply do as she is told makes my blood boil to a temperature hot enough to fry an egg on my tired ass.


My beautifully spirited daughter will go far in life, I have no doubt. I’m just not sure we’ll both survive to see it happen. I’m old school people, with southern roots. I don’t take kindly to talking back. I have that “look” that scares children and grown ass men, but my daughter is rarely affected by it. She sees it as a challenge and her fighter’s heart will not back down. She will argue her point, even when she knows I know she’s wrong. The sassy one is the most passionate being I know. She has fierce blood but a tender soul. I love her for that but my God it makes it difficult to parent her.


And my son…he’s the most handsome little ball of insanity you’ll ever meet. The boy has mad skills. He could convince Judge Judy that he needs a third cheese stick, and then like the diva he is, will decide it isn’t quite the flavor he was going for. He will then throw the wrapper at his feet and refuse to pick it up. I’ve left said wrapper on the floor for an entire day and have even withheld food until he decides to pick it up. I cave every time because the terrible two year old would rather go on a hunger strike than do something he just simply doesn’t feel like doing. He doesn’t win every time, but the score card is currently in his favor.

I never understood why parents let their child stay up past a reasonable bed time. I’d say dumb shit like, “I just wouldn’t tolerate it.” Enter kid number two and I have learned my tolerance level means absolutely squat to a little dude who needs less sleep than his momma on a writer’s high. I was spoiled with my first child. She has always been asleep by 8 at the latest. My little guy, at two, seems to think he should remain the center of the universe at 10pm. It isn’t a matter of not putting him to bed at a reasonable hour, it’s a matter of keeping his cute little butt in his bed. That little sucker will continuously come down the stairs, no matter what. He has even gone as far as perfecting the art of holding in a poop until an ungodly hour so he has a valid excuse to get up. Well played, little man, well played.

I’m telling you, my children are the reason I had to switch to red wine. White just no longer offered the kind of mind-numbing, patience-aiding effects necessary to make it through cranky hour. Ya know, that time between 4pm and whenever their precious bodies finally decide to give out. How in the hell do people survivor more than two children??? Oh God, that was not a challenge, please sweet Jesus do not take that as a lesson I need to learn!

I love my babies, I really do. And I know I am not the first mother to feel like a total failure because her children don’t listen to her and things don’t go the way she thinks they should. I’m just in that moment where scratching my eyes out and cutting off my arms at the elbows seems reasonable. That way I won’t have to point out the remote they can’t find that is right freakin’ next to them, or make one more freakin’ snack because they never. stop. eating.

Christmas break ends tomorrow and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t ecstatic. If I have to listen to one more ridiculous fight or bake one more set of cookies, I may just strap on the straight jacket and call it a day. I’m seriously considering looking the other way and letting Darwin’s theory play itself out, as they fight over the cheapest, dumbest toy in the house. More than once over the past two weeks I have clicked my heels, hoping to find myself sitting in a CEO worthy leather chair, wearing the most bitchin’ pink power suit you’ve ever seen, staring over the skyline of a city that never sleeps. Yes, I admit it, I have dreamed about what it would be like to be childless.

So on the eve of this way too long of a break in our daily routines, I say cheers! Simply because we have survived it. To all the mothers and fathers that have lost their shit more than once recently, I high five your normal ass. Now I need to go pour myself a big ‘ol glass of red wine and put the straight jacket on reserve. I promised the sassy one and her wild little brother they could help me make some cookies with the last of the M&Ms that crazy, fat bastard put in their stockings. Someone call the funny farm and let them know I’d like a room with a view please.

Momma has lost her mind.

7 Lies We Tell Ourselves About Parenting.

There was a time, when I proclaimed that I would never feed my children chicken nuggets. Once upon a time, I was determined that my kids would never go in public with dirty faces. In all of my new mom glory, I actually believed that what I said goes, no matter what. And then… the reality of parenting bitch slapped me right up side my exhausted head. Parenting turns you into a psychotic mess is tough, and no one can truly understand that until they become a parent themselves.

We mean well, but when the novelty wears off, you do what you have to do, to keep sane and avoid foaming at the mouth while wondering aimless down the street begging strangers to take them away. Being a parent is worth all that it entails, but still, without a sense of humor and an ability to give up on the way you thought it be, you will lose your damn mind. Here are a few more lies we tend to tell ourselves upon entering parenthood.

1. “I’m off duty.”

Ha! This never actually happens. The minute you proclaim freedom, be it bed time, date night or an excuse you’ve found to leave the house for ten minutes, the little people will need you. And only you.

2. “My kid(s) will never act like that.”

Yes they will. More than likely it will be in public and/or in front of “those parents” that have “those children” that always appear to mind their p’s and q’s. Short of a shock collar and duct tape, there is no way you will prevent your child from having flip out, freak out, sassy talking moments.

3. “I’m going to be honest with my children.”

Liar! Honesty is relative to how tired you are. I’m not saying we lie to our kids all the time, but the whole truth and nothing but the truth is best left for the courthouse, not my house.

4. I’ll be a better parent tomorrow.”

No you won’t, but that’s ok. You already kick ass at this gig overall. Some days it’s just harder than others to see this.

5. “I have the best baby in the world.”

Today…maybe. Give it a few days/weeks/months and little horns will begin to protrude from there delicate little heads and there will be crying that sounds like nails on a chalk board… at 3am.

6. “I won’t let my kids watch TV.”

Let me know how that works for you, when you have had a day from hell, and are on the verge of tears because you just need five minutes without demands, whining, fighting or for the love of God just want to finish a single cup of hot coffee.

7. “I will never be a yell-er.”

YES YOU WILL! Not because you want to, but because sometimes, politely telling your child to knock it off will only encourage more madness. Putting a little fear in to the little people is just plain necessary sometimes.


** What lies have you told yourself about parenting? **


Momma has lost her mind.

Don’t. Skip. Naptime. Just Don’t. Ever.

I’m closely watching the little guy this afternoon, as we wait in the waiting room for his sister to be seen by the doctor. He missed his nap today and shit could go down. His ramming of the cars in to the walls has me nervous. His destructive behaviors are enough to handle on a good day, today could be the day his skin turns green and he explodes out of his baby gap tee because I tell him not to do something.

As I feared, full on melt down when I begged asked him to please not bang the cars into the walls. There goes a car across the room, missing someone’s grandmother by six inches. Now cue flopping fish-out-of-water syndrome. I should have listened to my Momma survival instincts, grabbed the volatile little hulk and his sister and gotten the hell out of there. But no.

The nurse calls us in, which distracts the tired mini psychopath toddler and all is cool for the next thirty seconds. As the nurse is trying to get my daughter’s weight, little man is jumping on and off the scale, reveling in the aggravation he is causing. I swoop him up and pretend like I can control this little human being. I put him in my lap to which he starts screaming “Dooooown!”, while the nurse is on her third attempt to get his sister’s blood pressure.

Now we are in our assigned room. My daughter starts to undress and put on the gown set out for her. Naturally, the little man kicks off his shoes, the pants go down and I tackle him with a sad, desperate bear hug, in an attempt to keep the rest of his clothes on. The doctor walks in and is obviously startled by the WWF throw down going on. I laugh because I want to cry and explain, “He’s fine, I swear. He just missed his nap today.”

My daughter jumps up on the exam table as requested. Satan’s little helper becomes obsessed with climbing on and jumping off of said table.  I’m sweating from trying to keep the crazy one from leaping in to a face full of concrete.  All the while, the doctor is asking me about my five year-old daughter’s diet and I’m telling her for the fourth year in a row, “She doesn’t do well with vegetables.”

I again pull my son off the table when he begins practicing his favorite new trick – spitting. The doctor is obviously disgusted and my immediate reaction is a quick smack to his butt. So now, not only am I paying half-ass attention to what the doctor is asking me, I just spanked my child in front of her. She couldn’t be clearer in her “don’t spank” stance. Awkward.

The doctor attempts to continue her exam by looking in big sister’s ears. Little bother brother is sitting quietly behind her on the exam table, for once. And then, he pushes her. The doctor damn near shoves the ear light/ thingy in to her skull. I get the dirtiest “can you please control your damn kid” look I’ve ever gotten. I want to die and just start randomly shouting that parental control over tired toddlers is a farce.

I apologize profusely and firmly plant the boy in a chair. I shove my cell phone in to his tiny (almost) two-year-old hands, just as the doctor is informing me that at five years-old, I should still be limiting my daughter’s screen time.

The doctor leaves and my daughter announces that she has to go to the bathroom. At this point, I would rather lick a germ infested shape sorter than take the ticking-time-bomb-boy out of this confined space. I tell her the bathroom is just down the hall and to go ahead with out me, I’ll be right in our doorway and she’ll see me as soon as she comes out.

Well, raging bull saw an open door and charged. I fly after him but it’s too late. He opens the door to the next exam room, where another doctor is seeing a patient. The doctor gasps, the boy laughs, I cringe and apologize. I run with him back to our room and shut the door. The doctor from next door enters our room and condescendingly politely asks me to keep my child in our assigned room. Thanks, doc…I’ll work on that. Oh and did I mention, he didn’t nap today.

As I rest my head on the arm pressed against the door to keep him from escaping again, I remember my daughter! I grabbed the boy and open the door. I walk out with a “where’s my freakin’ kid” look on my face and the little man flailing and screaming on my hip because I won’t let him run. A staff member sees me and asks, “Are you the mother that lost her kid?” I fight the urge to spew sarcasm all over the judgmental stranger “rescuing” my daughter. Apparently, while I was wrangling the boy from another patient’s room, his sister got lost in a hallway. My bad.

The nurse finally shows up. I jokingly tell her to hurry up and shoot up my daughter, as I’m handing my son (the little person practically dry humping my leg in an attempt to be held) my phone.  My parenting choice and humor was lost on Nurse Ratchet.

Inoculation accomplished, I grab the monsters and head to check out. As I’m scheduling my daughter’s next visit, I’m reminding the kids they are only allowed one sticker. The turd and his sort-of behaving sister start fighting over who has more stickers. I decline a reminder card and inform my children with my eyes that we are leaving NOW!

I grab little man by one hand and part walk, part drag him out of the office. His sister is whining because his other hand is full of stickers, meanwhile she only has six. With a total Momma on the edge voice, I tell her life isn’t fair. She doesn’t push it.

We survived the doctor’s visit, barely. I load the kids up and vow to never, ever let nap time slide again. I throw the truck in reverse and look behind me, just in time to see my baby boy closing his eyes. Sleep you sweet little monster, just sleep.

no nap

Ever have these days???


Momma has lost her mind.

An Open Letter To Mothers Of Grown Children.

open letter

You always give yourself away, by the way you smile at me and my young children. Your eyes soften and for a split second, I can see you swimming in a flood of memories. It’s usually a blended look of, “I miss when my kids were that age” and “Good God, I don’t miss that!”

Either way, I just want to say thank you.

Thank you for compassionately connecting your eyes with mine, offering silent understandings and acknowledgment that I am doing the best I can, when I’m about to lose my shit in public. You laugh at my last ditch efforts to keep my kids from melting in the check out aisle, with food I haven’t even paid for yet. I can always count on a kind, “I’ve been there, honey!” from you.

Thank you for telling me my babies are beautiful, even when my daughter has smears of grape jelly still upside her face from lunch and my son’s hair is standing on its curly ends, because I’m too much of a wuss to make him sit through a hair cut he despises. I never have to follow up your compliments with an excuse as to why my children may appear unkempt. You get it.

Thank you for giving my children your own version of the Mom look when you see me disciplining them, instead of treating the situation as a bother or act of endangerment. You don’t ignore the fact that it truly takes a village, and that is truly appreciated.

Thank you for noticing when my kids are polite and use their manners. We younger Moms always seem to be trying to convince ourselves that we don’t absolutely suck at this job. When you compliment them, you’re really complimenting me. I’m pretty sure you know that already, and that’s why you do it. What you may not realize is how much of a positive effect it has on me. Perhaps you missed how much taller I stood, after you walked away.

Be it Moms of friends, older women I’ve worked with or complete strangers I run in to, women who have already raised their children always seem to put me at ease. You always manage to remind me I’m only human, which is very much needed these days. When you share, what you thought at the time, was your own epic parenting failures, it gives me hope that I’m not screwing up my kids as bad as I think I am. The fact that you share a laugh with me when telling your stories, and you’re not in a rubber room drooling all over yourself, also gives me hope.

Your hindsight always seems to put Motherhood in to perspective, and reminds me that maybe I am better at raising my kids than Google. Somehow a conversation with you lacks the judgment often felt when talking to Mother’s my own age. I can’t explain that one and even hate admitting it, but it’s so often present.

So please, don’t shy away from saying what your eyes are shouting, when you see me with my young children. You’re not bothering me. I’m always in too much of a hurry anyway. I promise I won’t complain when you tell me to “enjoy it”. The fast pace in which it all goes, comes through loud and clear, every time we meet.



Don't take life too serious.

Ben and Jerry Are Trying To Get Me Pregnant.

chunky monkey

My husband likes big butts, and I cannot lie. I, on the other hand, am a little concerned with the size of my derrière these days. Most women want to lose weight so they look/feel better. I’m just scared of getting chubby and knocked up.

I know several women who have gone on a health kick and ended up with fantastic bodies and two solid lines on a whiz quiz. Not me. Both times I have landed at my heaviest weight, I have gotten pregnant. A little junk in my trunk is dangerous.

I stepped on the scale the other day and realized I am 8lbs short of that baby-making weight. Not that I don’t use other precautions but the numbers don’t lie, the warm weather doesn’t last long around here and keeping warm and cozy with the hubs at night is starting to worry me.

Throughout the past year, I got a terrible case of the f*ck-its, when it comes to my physical well-being. I’m actually in a rather lovely place mind-wise. I’ve finally gotten myself to a mental space that is freeing and uplifting but feel like I’m sabotaging that reprieve by not addressing the full picture. The mind and body.

I was born with an addicts brain. It’s hard for me to find balance in anything. Food is no different. I love me some slightly undercooked brownies and if they are around, I will violate them. And ice cream…paleeze. There is a reason Death By Chocolate is my favorite. I will rationalize eating the crusts of my kid’s pbj sandwiches because, “I hate to see waste.” In reality, I see peanut butter and it’s like my two yr old noticing a piece of dog food on the floor, I just can’t say no.

Actually, I can say no. Lately, I just haven’t cared enough to. It’s the same thing with smoking cigarettes. I have quit for extended periods of time several times and then because of a lack of self control, I start up again. It always starts with bumming one while having a cocktail or just a random, “Oh I’ll be fine just having one!” Yeah, ok.

I used to walk every day once the weather started getting nice. I walked once this past summer. I have valid excuses…arthritic hip, I’m a tired-ass Mom, don’t have the time… but like Salt (or was it Pepa?) said, “Excuses are like assholes and everybody’s got one.” Truth is, I’m ignoring the value in it. Therefore, I’m seriously lacking self-value these days.

Last summer I was in a bikini. A freakin’ bikini. I looked great but struggled the worst I ever had with depression. Now, I’m at a better place mentally but I’ve let my body go. Why does that happen. Is the idea of being in an over-all place of well-being really just an elusive idea, thought up and marketed by some sick, sadistic douch-bag?

I’ve always been a goal-oriented person. If I say I will do something by a certain date or time, I’ll always do it. However, I am a procrastinator. I’ve decided to start by making small goals. Baby steps. I need to fight my tendencies to go all in, balls to the wall. I usually burn out pretty quick.

Much like I need to address this growing badonkadonk of mine, I need to start paying more attention to my what my body is telling me. And it’s telling me that just because Ben and Jerry’s ice cream is on sale, I do not have buy it. It’s serious people. If I end up with an oops baby, there will be nothing left of my mind or body to even talk about.

Don't take life too serious.

What Happens In The Woods…Is Sure To Show Up On My Blog.

Camping with the girls taught me a few things. Women can and will talk openly about damn near anything, our emotions are as fleeting as our conversations, we are more petrified of pooping in the woods than creepers stalking in the woods and no one, I mean no one, should ever assume, underestimate or doubt a woman.

Brandi and I finally made it to the site around 6pm on Friday. The other three girls, Heather, Jerrica and Whitney, had already started to transform the beautiful piece of land, into what we called home for the weekend. A fire was going, table set, citronella candles burning and yes, beers in hand.

Bugs. Everyone wants to know how we survived the bugs. Turns out, I have more in my back yard. Between the 200% deet bug spray always at arms length, tiki torches, citronella candles, Jerrica’s bug zappers and her briliiant idea to duct tape fabric softener sheets to the trees surrounding us (She saw it on Pinterest – we just modified it), we definitely west nile-ated the mesquitoes. Did you catch that. Oh yeah, there’s plenty more of those little made-up jewels.

Prettiest way to fry bugs.
Prettiest way to fry bugs.
It's how we roll.
It’s how we roll.

While Heather was free-vagin’ it (I warned you) and preparing dinner that first night, we crowded around the table and like those that have seen the shape of Jesus in a cloud, we were in awe at what we saw. It was a sign that came in the form of cheese — our instincts that this weekend would be epic had just been confirmed.

Just be happy.

We ate like queens the entire weekend. Full on camping buffet equipped with bacon burgers, summer salads, chicken, eggs, more bacon, sausage, even freakin’ toast. We ate hotdogs at almost midnight on Saturday, along with smores and motrin. The buffalo chicken dip didn’t stand a chance at making it home and the brownies lasted a hot minute because duh – women.

I never once felt like I was roughing it. Well, as long as I ignore the fact that we had no bathrooms around us. We were more prepared than a tweeked out, doomsday prepper.

Oh and the booze! I say that like I crack open a cold one while changing my son’s first diaper in the morning but honestly, I rarely drink more than a glass of wine at night. This was a pre-motherhood level of drinking. It was fabulous. It led to moments like this:

It's a can't talk, I'm laughing so hard I may pee myself kind of moment.
It’s a can’t talk, I’m laughing so hard I may pee myself kind of moment.

and this:

Farm girl gone bad-ass.
Farm girl gone bad-ass.

And of course this:

Yep. Flip cup. In the middle of the day.
Yep. Flip cup. In the middle of the day.

I’ve always known music can bring people together, but it truly is it’s own character in this story. From the time we arrived, the music was flowing. We learned so much about each other simply by taking turns playing our favorites from our own playlists. It’s amazing how many stories are attached to songs.

The music took us in so many different directions. And guess what? White girls can rap — like a boss! Perhaps the shots of caramel apple vodka were catching up to us but we could have battled Eminem that first night. We attempted to have a dance party but should have started it much earlier in the night. I decided backing it up in my chair was a way better idea than falling in to the fire. let us all pray we don't have a hang over tomorrow.
Cheers…now let us all pray we don’t have a hang over tomorrow.

Through out the weekend, we kept a question game of sorts going. Some we wrote down and threw in to a bag to pull out and take turns answering, others we just shouted out whenever we thought of them. Questions ranging all the way from the random “Have you ever been in a fight?”, to the insightful “Name two words to describe yourself.”, around to the “What is on the top of your bucket list?” and of course we had to get all deep with “When you were 10 yrs old, where did you see yourself in 10 years?”…still pondering that one.

I surprised the girls by admitting I broke a guys nose once with my foot. Who knew Brandi wants to go to space before she kicks the bucket? And I don’t believe any one of us still quite know why Heather felt the two best words, in all of the English language to describe herself with were, “Goat Farmer”. The two Moms in the group may or may not have peed themselves a little when she shouted that out.

We had a moment where shit got very real. We had creepers camping near us, who decided to sneak up on us. Let me just say, I almost shit my pants I was not scared for a second. We may not look like a bunch of bad ass bitches but when these guys came creepin’, I don’t think they had any idea how prepared we were to take them out. We didn’t have a gun but between the knives and the hatchet…these guys were going to lose a body part if they took two more steps. Turned out all we needed to defend ourselves was nothing more than some good old fashion shit talkin’ and a show of force. Girl power, bitches.

We almost committed murder right before this picture was taken. Gangsta.

Saturday, we decided to take a hike, since we were already in the woods and all. Despite a few blisters and slight dehydration, we were reminded of the beauty that is the Adirondacks.


I can only hope it wasn’t just the booze talking when we promised to make this a yearly thing. Being with a group of strong minded, funny, down to earth women – no husbands, no kids and no agenda for the entire weekend, was therapeutic. My body and brain slowed down and I laughed so much I don’t need to do crunches for a month (I don’t every really do crunches people).

Something else pretty amazing happened. I missed my family. That may sound shallow to some but the truth is, as a SAHM, I’m never really anywhere without them. Of course I appreciate and love them with every ounce of my being, but missing them, not knowing what they are doing and realizing that they can in fact survive without me, was a very healthy thing for me.

In between the food, drinks and laughter, I took little pieces of my own time to just sit and be quiet with myself. I think I managed to move past a few emotional glitches that have been gnawing at me. The river, fresh air and immobility was apparently what I needed to clear the fog away.

My tools for meditation in the woods.
My tools for meditation in the woods.

Sunday morning, we stumbled out of our tents looking like we got hit by a bus refreshed and started packing up. In less than an hour, we were saying our goodbyes. As I looked back at the site, I couldn’t help but laugh and think, if only trees could talk. Thank you girls for being you. And thanks for not letting the bugs, the doubts and life get in the way of our weekend 🙂




Momma has lost her mind.

“Do You Love Being Home?”… Why I Struggle With This Question.

From time to time, I venture out on my own. It’s usually to fetch more food for the fam at the dreaded grocery store or something of that sort. Some call this the Mom-cation. Sad isn’t … that swaying to Dido, sipping on a Dunkin’ coffee and gazing down the aisle of the overly packaged, processed food can be equated to “taking time for herself”.

While I’m out “on vacation”, I sometimes run in to people I knew in my past life. The life that involved my brain synapses firing in directions other than figuring out how to burn off four year old energy or reminding myself, for the forth time, to take the chicken out of the freezer for dinner. I genuinely like running in to people I know, as long as it isn’t on the third day I have put off showering. The opportunity for adult conversation doesn’t come up much so when it does, even for a small talk quickie, I enjoy it.

I revel in the common, “How are the kids?”. I’m usually prepared for the, “Are you finding time for yourself?”. However, I dread hearing, “Do you love being home?” The first two can be answered simply and in truth with minimal guilt and judgement. However, “Do you love being home?” makes me want to run and find that family size bag of Doritos on sale that I am way too excited about.

Answering this question is tough. I don’t want to come across as an awful human being by admitting that some days being home with small children makes me envious of Thelma and Louise’s last road trip. I certainly do not want to sound ungrateful when the awkward pitch of my nervous laugh scares the elderly lady behind me. I stumble at best with my response to this one every time.

I find it difficult to articulate the fine line that weaves between raising your children and enjoying them. To me that line can be straight, jagged, strong and broken all within a ten minute time span and how do you communicate that without giving a bad impression. I was so tired of answering random questions from my four yr old today I found myself whispering “Please God make her stop” before I even figured out what was for lunch. I pulled so many things out of my 14mth old’s mouth and hands today that at a certain point I convinced myself that as long as it was the colored pencils, and not the crayons he was in to, he was fine.

I’ve come to realize that there is no such thing as good days and bad days. There are good moments and bad moments and each exist in EVERYDAY. I do love being home with the little tyrants. I would hate to miss that moment when little man walks up to his sister and just lays his head on her shoulder. Or when my girl busts a move with me in the kitchen and tells me, “Mom, you’re an amazing dancer”. But those moments, the ones that fill your soul and the ones that frazzle your last nerve, are hard to portray in the realms of small talk.

Is there one question you get about being a SAHM or about your kids in general, that irritates you? Am I the only one that feels like driving to the grocery store alone and the two hours away from my family is a mini vaca?