I Planned To Eat a Sandwich, But I Gave Birth Instead

February 19th, 2015

“You failed your NST today, do you know what that means?” the OB nurse looked at me matter-of-factly while I sat on the hard gurney waiting for my 35-week ultrasound results.

I parted my lips to answer but before I could come up with a response, she tapped on her clipboard and said, “You’re probably going to be admitted to the hospital again, okay honey? We have to find you a room first, so if you want you can go to the cafeteria and grab some lunch, just come back here in about a half an hour.”

I was unfazed. Actually I was hungry so all I really heard was an invitation to have lunch and an uninterrupted nap. During my previous admission to the hospital for pre-term labor symptoms, I had my own private room, my meals delivered to me and zero responsibilities aside from letting my body cook the two babies that were in utero while the professionals monitored them. It was basically a vacation, but more sterile and with people accosting my body with medical devices several times a day.

I hobbled slowly to the cafeteria, now 35 weeks pregnant with twins and barely mobile. I was sure it would take me the full half an hour just to get to the cafeteria. My crotch bone felt like it was about to cave under the weight of my uterus and my lower back had all but given up hope on survival months ago.

Although I was mildly concerned about what had transpired during my ultrasound that had required 2 techs to gather around the screen and mumble things like “I don’t see any here, do you?” my rumbling tummy was too busy reminding me that I needed to devour some grub ASAP.

I killed a foot long sub in record time and played around on my phone before heading back to triage, where I was greeted by the nurse from earlier and a high risk obstetrician. The OB took a minute to explain that they couldn’t find any measurable amniotic fluid on Baby A, and then her next words floored me:  “You’re not being admitted for monitoring, we have decided it’s best for you to give birth today.”

“Like, now?” I asked in a panic. I wasn’t prepared, I didn’t have any of the shit they tell you to bring to the hospital like slippers and my own pillow or one of those cute birthing gowns and a birthing playlist with “Push It” by Salt N Pepa on it. My makeup looked like crap and I was going to need a fresh face for post birth photos. My breath reeked of onions from the sub, I definitely needed a toothbrush and a breath mint. OMG I though,  my hoo ha is probably bush league right now.

It also dawned on me that I was alone, I didn’t even have a husband there to annoy me while I expelled humans from my body. (Uhh, I mean share in this special moment together.)

I saw the OB reading my frantic expression, although she probably assumed I had a more logical thought process going on that revolved around the health of my babies and not the size of my bush.

“We’re going to get you in a delivery room right now and start the process of inducing you. Don’t worry, it will still be hours before the babies are delivered so as soon as we get you into the room you can call your husband and family.”

Before I knew it I was being wheeled to a delivery room and introduced to a slew of nurses and doctors and given an ugly hospital gown instead of the cute leopard one I should have ordered on Amazon.

“How much do you weigh, Stacey?” the nurse on duty asked me while recording things on her chart.  “A ton,” I lamented, followed with “Uh, I haven’t been weighed since I was 20 weeks along and I was hoping we could keep it that way.”

Luckily my nurse appreciated my sense of humor and she chuckled as she threw a guesstimate onto her chart that I caught a glimpse of later and nearly cried. I also warned her about the potential situation happening with my crotchal region.  “I haven’t been able to see down there in awhile, it’s kind of been a guessing game,” I apologized. She assured me that she saw vaginas all day and bushes were making a comeback.

I called my husband and my mom, the Doctor broke my water and the next few hours were a blur of needles being shoved into me, contractions, me cracking inappropriate jokes, and ultimately being wheeled into the blinding lights of the OR with a team of people hovered around my vagina. My mom took pictures and my husband held onto one of my dead legs for dear life. I couldn’t feel a thing and it was glorious.

The birth went smoothly and thankfully no medical intervention was needed that warranted delivering in the OR.  Baby A came out like a wrecking ball, and he was only handed to me long enough for me to say “You’re so beautiful! Disgusting, but perfect,” to his tiny slimy body before they whisked him away and carried on like it was a baby birthing assembly line.

Baby B arrived 10 minutes later and he was noticeably bigger and redder but every bit as slimy and perfect, but he too was whisked away from me before I had a chance to stare at him and decide if he had inherited my weird chin and resting bitch face.

I was able to admire my placenta for longer than I saw my children, the Doctor lifted up the sack of brain meat and said “It’s a….placenta!”  I think they may have even offered to wrap it in a blanket and let me hold it as consolation.

They whisked my body away like I was the afterbirth, the discarded baby maker that was no longer needed and could be dumped into a bin somewhere with the placentas.

My babies were somewhere in an incubator and it was jarring not seeing them, not holding them or feeding them, and not doing all of the things you typically get to do when you give birth, the way I had after I had my first born. I felt detached and useless but I tried to focus on the positives: I looked a lot skinnier than I did a few hours ago.

I inhaled a plate of spaghetti because my new supermodel body needed carbs and my sweet nurse was nice enough to offer her dinner to me. She could probably see me just wasting away now that I was 13 pounds lighter than the 468 pounds she recorded me at earlier.

The most important thing was that my babies were here, they were safe, they were being monitored by professionals and kept in an incubator because they were premature. But aside from seeing them for a few minutes in the incubator, I was brought back to my room that night to sleep without them and my hormones couldn’t handle it. I told my husband that I felt like I had given birth to someone else’s babies and I started crying.

The nurses brought me a breast pump machine to console me and told me to try and suction my tits to get my milk flowing. Stop crying and milk yourself, selfish woman!  The machine made loud grunting noises and tugged on my breasts while my tears turned to laughter as I compared myself to a cow.

My twins spent 10 days in the NICU mostly for observation, baby A was 5lbs and 3oz at birth and he had a heart murmur but was otherwise healthy. Baby B was 6lbs and 11oz at birth and had some extra blood and needed a CPAP for the first night to help him breathe, but he was also otherwise healthy.

I finally got to hold both of them at the same time when they were a week old and it was the most amazing feeling in the world. I had only been able to hold them individually up until that point and I finally felt complete when they put them both in my arms. I also low key felt like a cat with a litter but so hashtag blessed and proud AF.

Another mom with a preemie in a pod nearby smiled at me while I grinned ear to ear holding my babies as a nurse took pictures.  I was incredibly happy but also silently panicking trying to figure out how the hell I was going to maneuver the two of them back out of my arms having no arms to use and I got a glimpse into my immediate future as a mom with twin infants.

My 5-year old son finally got to meet his brothers when we brought them home; the hospital had been under strict visitor regulations due to a flu outbreak and he had only seen pictures of them.

He was happy to meet his new brothers and even though it was chaotic at the time, our family was complete and we were full of love and floating on cloud 9 for those first few months. It was probably also caffeine and sleep deprivation clouds we were floating on, but it was a magical time nonetheless.

The memories are almost magical enough to drown out the sound of all 3 of them right now, 4 years later, screaming and trying to kill each other over Legos and making me wonder how I can get another free stay in the hospital for even a brief period of time. I’d pay for a sterile vacation right about now.

Happy Birthday My Loves

 

 

 

Advertisements

I Want to be Body Positive, But I Want to Lose Weight, Here’s Why

Every time I scroll social media and see women stripping down -both their insecurities and their clothes- and celebrating the imperfections of their bodies, I stop and admire their pictures and marvel at the positive image they portray by showing that all bodies are real, flawed, and worthy of love. It’s beautiful and inspiring.

Their words of body positivity and self-love always cut me to the core: “You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to live up to impossible beauty standards. You don’t have to change.”  And they are right, we don’t have to base our self-worth on our size, we don’t have to go to extreme methods to force our bodies into sizes they weren’t meant to fit into, and we don’t have to give in to diet culture.

I want to be body positive but I want to lose weight, and here’s why I think it’s okay to be both.

I don’t care about having a perfectly flat tummy,  I’m unbothered by my faded stretch marks, or the scar above my belly button from an old piercing that stretched out with my expanding uterus during pregnancy. I’ve embraced many of the changes that my body has gone through with age and becoming a mother, and my focus isn’t on perfection or vanity weight.

The weight I’m carrying right now makes me feel sluggish, unhealthy, and puts me in the overweight category, which can come with health risks and have a negative impact on my overall well being. The weight I’m carrying is emotional weight; it reminds me that I’ve been using food as a coping mechanism instead of finding healthy ways to deal with stress. The extra weight is a reminder that I have dealt with a lot of pain this past year and that I’m not only carrying it mentally, but physically too.

I want to lose the extra weight because it symbolizes what I have gone through emotionally and it is a product of something negative. 

The body positivity movement tells me that I should love my body at any size, and while I agree that all bodies are worthy of love at any size, I don’t feel like myself at the size I am now and I know I got here by not taking care of myself and my health. I want to feel healthier and be able to complete a workout without feeling like I’m going into cardiac arrest. I want to have stamina and strength and feel strong and energetic.

I am curvaceous by nature and I embrace it, even at a smaller weight I will always be fuller in the hips, butt and thighs, and although I once tried to fight against my body’s natural curves as an adolescent, I have grown to love it. I accept and love my body’s natural shape and I’m not trying to achieve something that is unsustainable for my body type.  I want to show my body love by eating better, exercising, finding positive ways to deal with stress and getting back to a weight that is healthy for me.

I think it’s okay to both love your body and want to make positive healthy changes in your life that may ultimately lead to carrying less weight and feeling better all around. Overall I don’t think we should shame anyone for their own personal journey with body love, because it’s different for everyone.

 

10 New Year’s Goals for the Underachiever

We’ve reached the end of another year, when people look at the calendar with unwavering optimism and vows to change themselves for the better. But when it comes to New Year’s resolutions and goals, my advice is to set the bar low and shoot for mediocrity.

Hear me out: while everyone else is shooting for the stars and beating themselves up each time they go off track, aiming for mediocrity ensures you can only win at losing!

Here’s a list of goals that anyone can achieve in 2019, especially if your soul is toxic sludge and your dream home is a garbage can.

  1.  Live your best life…..online. The goal is to eventually spend all of your waking hours online, and less time being involved in real human interactions. Let’s be honest, real life is just a vicious trap in a Groundhog Day existence doing shit you don’t want to do with people you can’t stand. The real fulfillment and happiness you need is on the internet, fam!
  2.  Have your cake, and eat it too. Indulge in pure gluttony this year and aim to gain at least 20-150 pounds by the end of 2019.  While everyone else is wasting precious time and energy in gyms taking selfies and chugging back chalk-flavored workout drinks, you’ll be sleeping in your Cheeto crumbs and eating cake for breakfast on the reg.
  3. Start a gratitude journal. Write down some of life’s simple pleasures that make you happy and grateful to be alive. Then light a match and set fire to it; life is wayyy too short to be documenting a bunch of bogus crap that no one really cares about. Complaining is way easier, and 100000 times more effective in keeping happiness at bay.
  4.  Eliminate the things that are holding you back or that no longer feed your soul. Remove people, obligations, apps, and anything that no longer serve a purpose in your new, authentic life. Honestly I would just ghost literally everyone you know other than the Uber Eats delivery driver and your drug dealer.
  5. Find a new hobby. Look for something that feeds your soul, such as excessive drinking, gambling, binge eating, or street fighting.  Some people might suggest yoga and meditation but those people drink infused dandelion smoothies and are constipated with suppressed rage.  They’re also the people you should kick the shit out of in a street fight.
  6.  Don’t sweat the small stuff. Instead, worry about the big stuff and live in a constant state of existential dread while curbing everyone’s advice to see a therapist. Therapists are actually crafty con artists that help cure you while secretly siphoning your money and your sense of humor right out of you against your will. Before you know it you’d be living in a cardboard box telling corny Dad jokes and writing in your gratitude journal. *cringe*
  7.  Be kind……..of a dick. When people say “be kind” what they’re really saying is “let people walk all over you” and you don’t need that kind of negativity in your life.  If you’re kind of a dick, you never have to worry about being taken advantage of, because people will avoid you like the plague and you can say screw that noise and effortlessly go back to living your best life online.
  8.  Never finish anything you start, beginning right now with this list that was supposed to include 10 New Year’s resolutions for underachievers, but is ending with 8 because ain’t nobody got time for 2 more things when we’re trying to be mediocre AF.

    Now get outta here and get started on your shitty existence before someone casts a New Year’s Eve spell on you that turns you into a good person at midnight.

19 Memes that Spell Out What Women Want From Their Husbands

Husbands, do you feel like your wife is too complicated to understand and often difficult to please? Well say no more fam, because we have comprised this handy guide in the form of memes that spell out exactly what she wants (and doesn’t want) to help you get into her mind, possibly her pants and to prevent your untimely death.

  1.  LET HER SLEEP, FOR WHEN SHE WAKES SHE MAY BE HORNY.
    According to @snarkybreeders your sex appeal will increase by 400% if you let her enjoy several hours of uninterrupted sleep. Via Snarky Breeders on Instagram.Screenshot_2018-10-16-19-45-18_resized
  2.   TAKE THE KIDS AND LEAVE.
    Just go literally anywhere with the kids for an extended period of time, without prompting or warning.  A week long vacation would be best, but she’ll settle for a few fucking hours of peace.Via Ramblin’ Mama on InstagramScreenshot_2018-10-16-20-56-50_resized
  3.  Wipe the asses, suck the snot out with the nose Frida, and cook the dinner. Maybe not in that order but you get the drift. You’re basically Jason Momoa to your wife now.
    Via Relaxing Mommy on Instagram.screenshot_2018-10-16-20-56-39_resized.png
  4.   Nothing says good old fashioned married people romance like a man who gets up with the kids in the morning. See also #1: Let her Sleep and appendix C: Sex.
    Via Macgyvering Mom on Instagram
    Screenshot_2018-10-16-20-15-24_resized
  5.  Dayummm, I think we’re all a little jealous of @whineandcheezits hubby, who is obviously in the running for Husband of the Year Award. I mean, I’m sure we’d all be happy with a man bringing dinner home but guys, SHOOT FOR THE STARS, take notes from this guy, he’s obviously a legend and probably has a lot of sex. Just sayin’
    Via Whine and Cheezits on Instagram Screenshot_2018-10-16-18-08-12_resized
  6. Would you rather be stabbed during an afternoon nap or have sex with your wife? The choice is yours bayybeee.
    Via Not the WORST Mom on InstagramScreenshot_2018-10-16-20-41-20_resized
  7.  If you don’t want to star in an upcoming Netflix murder special featuring your wife as the knife-wielding psychopath, and your balls as the victim, don’t be excessively late.
    Via Marriage and Martinis on InstagramScreenshot_2018-10-16-20-59-11_resized
  8. Her body not only held the humans, but it also expelled the humans, so it’s your turn to experience a little genital discomfort and get the vasectomy bro.
    Via It’s Mommy Hour on InstagramScreenshot_2018-10-16-20-49-19_resized
  9.   I mean, do I really even need to caption this one for you? Everything is out in the open, and it very well could be for you too, if you put the kids to bed tonight, if you know what I’m sayin. *wink, wink*
    Via Mommy Cusses on Instagramscreenshot_2018-09-17-12-46-59_resized-e1543810298219.png
  10.  Send her for some pampering, or on an all expenses paid trip to Tahiti, whatever, just let her enjoy some self-care sans children. Locking herself in the bedroom with cookies isn’t cutting it anymore.
    Via Mom Com NYC on InstagramScreenshot_2018-10-16-21-01-24_resized
  11. Sure, compliments are nice, but telling her she has a nice ass probably won’t get you any. If you’re married with kids, the best way to win her heart is to do your part around the house.  And not just when you want sex guys, we’re on to you. 

Via Marriage and Martinis on Instagram

screenshot_2018-10-16-20-15-17_resized.png

12.  Are you sensing a theme here yet?  Good, because we heard that repetition is important for committing things to long term memory, but if not, there’s always screenshots, using your saved folder, emailing it yourself, tattooing it on your body, whatever it takes.
Via Snarky Breeders on Instagram

screenshot_2018-10-16-21-00-31_resized.png

13.  Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Mother
Mother who?
Mother f*cker, just listen to your wife. Trust me, it’s the strongest form of foreplay.

Via Silky Mamas on Instagram
Screenshot_2018-11-16-10-32-54_resized

14. Be David Beckham. With all the advancements in modern day technology, it’s not crazy to think that you couldn’t pay a few thousand bucks to look like the sexy soccer star. Victoria Beckham always looks ready for action so you know he’s doing something right.

Creator: unknown

screenshot_2018-10-16-20-54-00_resized.png

15. Remember the movie Fight Club? Well this is kinda like that except the first rule of being happily married is to NEVER tell your wife to calm down or to stop overreacting, unless of course, you want her to get ragey and try to fight you.
Via Her View From Home on Instagram

. Screenshot_2018-10-16-20-54-18_resized

16.  If you think the romance bar is set too high, think again. Washing her booby machine will have her looking at you like Ariana Grande looked at that Pete dude during their month-long f*ckfest.
Via Mom Unraveled on Instagram

Screenshot_2018-10-16-20-14-24_resized

17.  Did we already mention cleaning the kitchen and putting the kids to bed? Well this time, it involves wine, so there’s bonus points to infinity when you give her wine and take care of some shit around the house. Plus, everyone loves a drunk wife.
Via Macgyvering Mom on Instagram

Screenshot_2018-09-17-12-43-53_resized

18. It’s so much sexier when a man can figure shit out himself, even if it means dumpster diving for those directions you tossed.
Via Goldfish And Chicken Nuggets on Instagram

screenshot_2018-11-16-10-25-15_resized.png

19.   Nobody wants an unhappy wife who murders. Prevent premature husband death by keeping a close eye on your drinks and sleeping with one eye open. Just kidding, just do some of the shit on this list on a regular basis and she won’t have to kill you or hire a hitman, plus she might even want to bone you on the regular,  the end.
Via Not the WORST Mom on Instagram

Screenshot_2018-10-16-20-40-53_resized

 

8 Steps to Achieve Advanced Aging

They say 40 is the new 20, but I say 40 can be the new 60 if you believe in yourself and put minimal effort into your daily routine.  People have been asking me for years what my secret is to advanced aging, and I’m finally ready to share these coveted tips with you, so you can start living your best life cashing in early on seniors discounts and afternoon naps.

1. Be mindful of the 4 basic food groups:  chocolate, booze, diet pop and pizza. Aim for 75% of your daily calories to come from sugar and carbohydrates, the other 25% should be bacon grease and salt.

2. Sun Exposure: get enough daily rays to roast yourself like a turkey. Remember Tanning Mom? BE THAT.

3. Water: AVOID that shit at all costs, it tastes awful and it’s unnecessary. Water is for your plants, booze is for your body. Water plants, booze your body, are you taking notes?

4. Caffeine: consume it in various forms all day long: coffee, tea, pop, chocolate….get optimal results by having it injected directly into your veins via IV if possible.

5. Sleep: is for losers, limit it to under 5 hours a night, TOPS!  You’ll sleep when you’re dead! Which will be even sooner if we stick to these 8 laws regularly.

6. Stress levels- increase your daily stress levels to at least 80-90%, if you’re not under constant stress, you’re going to keep that youthful glow we are trying to avoid.  Need more stress in your life? Keep a bunch of Pillsbury cans on hand and shove a spoon in them whenever you want to scare the shit out of yourself waiting for that jack in the box to unexpectedly pop.

7. Exercise- don’t bother, it doesn’t work after 30 anyways, especially under all that stress we are aiming for. You’ll want to spend the majority of your day on your ass; it’s best if you can avoid walking, standing, or other strenuous activities.

8. Anger management- don’t manage it and get stabby and ragey over everything, you’re Eminem and the world is your estranged wife Kim! AHHHHHHHH!  Furrow your brows regularly to permanently engrave those beautiful lines in your face, particularly the coveted 11’s between your eyes.

You only live once,  make sure you’re preparing that corpse to be weathered and worn, so it shows you had a damn good time. Who the hell wants 10 extra years of life when you’re in diapers eating soft foods at a nursing home? Not this cat!
Peace, love and zero fucks. Get it Granny!

 

Birthdays, Hormones and Throwbacks

Tomorrow my first born Brady turns 9, and in typical mom form, I’m over here looking through his damn baby pictures like a blubbering fool and reminiscing on all the Birthdays that have gone by.  During my travels I also stumbled upon the old blog I started when I was pregnant with Brady and amidst all the sweet, sappy memories I uncovered, I also found this gem from week 36 of my pregnancy that made me giggle.  I’ll write something meaningful for his Birthday tomorrow, but in the meantime, let’s travel back to September 3rd, 2009.


I’m a Happy Camper

Week 36. I’m huge. I wear everything I eat; at any given time I have at least 3 food or drink stains on my belly. Everything just seems to land conveniently on my stomach or in my cleavage, and I’m a slob to begin with so this belly is merely accentuating my piggish ways.

Brady is cramped tightly inside my uterus but he still finds a way to constantly move around in there, causing my stomach to take on a life of its own. He practically wedges himself into my sternum when I’m slouching which I’m assuming is his way of telling me to improve my posture and also make some more goddamn room for him. He gets the hiccups constantly, which was cute at first but now it’s averaging about 3 times a day.

So I had my OB appointment this morning and there is nothing new to report except that my car is a piece of shit and there is nowhere to park at the hospital. lol. The 95 mercury “mistake” was puttering all the way to the hospital, revving, stalling and stinking like exhaust fumes as per usual. It never fails to put me in a bad mood just from the mere act or thought of driving it . At the hospital I attempted to park in the visitor lot but after circling it 3 times and finding not one empty space, I got pissy and drove right back out of the lot and straight to my mom’s house. Seriously, why the hell does the stupid machine give you a ticket and let you in the lot if the damn parking lot is full?

Anyways, I showed up at my mom’s house about ready to burst into tears of frustration. “I need you to drive me to the hospital!” I blurted out when she opened the door, which I’m sure is a comforting opening line for any mother to hear. She immediately disconnected the phone with whomever she was talking to, likely assuming I was going into labour or dying.

I quickly reassured her that I was just being hormonal and not bleeding from the eyes or in need of an ambulance. “I’m late for my appointment, my car is a piece of shit that’s dying and there’s nowhere to park at the hospital. Can you drop me off?”
She quickly obliged.

Other than having my va-jay-jay swabbed to be tested for Strep B, the appointment went fine and all is well in pregnancy land. I should be happy that thus far the baby is healthy and that I haven’t had any major complications like gestational diabetes or anything out of the ordinary. All I can ask for is a healthy baby and a delivery that doesn’t kill me. *crossing fingers*

I realize that my blogs are becoming angrier as the pregnancy progresses but that’s just because writing provides a convenient outlet for me to bitch and complain, plus it makes for a more interesting read. Happy stuff gets boring and redundant, but I’ll throw some positivity in here next time just to switch it up.

Until then, fuck everything! 🙂

 

10 Things I Didn’t Expect From FB Mom Groups

While mom groups can be beneficial to many new or seasoned mothers for information, advice, and to help lessen the feelings of isolation during the years of rearing small children, here are 10 things I didn’t expect to find in the ever-popular trend of mom groups.

1. Welcome to the mom group, here are the 994 rules you must abide by being in this mom group, and you must sign a waiver, take an oath, cut yourself and sign a paper in your blood, mail it to 25 other group members, say you AGREE, post a picture of your lady parts so we know you’re legit, and if you don’t obey the rules you get blocked and murdered in your sleep. Seriously, admins will cut you.

Me:

2. “I need to lose the baby weight fast. What should I do?”
Most popular comments in the thread of 600+: “Do Meth” and “Starve Yourself”

Brb, just looking for my local meth dealer so I can develop a potential life-threatening drug habit in order to shed a few pounds. WUT.

3.  “Look at my kids infected bunghole!! What is this??” *posts pic of child’s infected bunghole for all of the interweb to see*

*Fast forward 20 years to little Aiden seeking counselling for that time his mom put his infected orifices on the internet for everyone to see.*

4. That time Susan from Pennsylvania creeped Cheryl’s profile (a total stranger) found out who her husband was (also a total stranger), and sent him screenshots of all the shit Cheryl talked about him in the mom group.

FYI, before you tell everyone in a “private” Facebook mom group about your husband’s affinity for wearing women’s underwear, just remember, people like Susan exist. And screenshots last forever.

5. Similarly, Karen hated Becky’s opinion on circumcision and wanted her dead, so she tried to screw up her life by sending screenshots from the group to Becky’s employer.

I can see the News Headline now: Woman gets fired from job for threatening to “cut a judgy bitch” in a Facebook mom group.

6. SMASH OR PASS.

I’m not entirely sure why moms would rate other moms on their smashability, unless they were legitimately into other women in which case, I’m pretty sure there are apps for that.  Yo Brenda, you have nice tits and everything but I’mma go smash a D.

7. The car seat police team *cue sirens*

A Mom posts a seemingly innocent picture of her adorable kid eating ice cream in the car seat, and out come the barrage of car seat experts flashing their official car seat police badges to serve and protect by telling moms their children will DIE if they’re not in an 18 point harness until age 64.

8. Exit speeches.

“You bitches are all judgmental bitches! I though this is supposed to be a judgment-free group. I’m OUT! Leaving this group right now.” *Middle finger emojis to infinity.*

Okay bye Tina, thanks for the zero memories because no one even knows who you are. BTW I wouldn’t smash.

9. “Not trying to be controversial or start an argument here but…” actually I am trying to start an argument here because this is going to become the longest thread on this page, where 45 people will cry for admin help, 30 will post Wikipedia links, 6 people will threaten to call CPS/CAS, and a partridge in a pear tree.

10.  “Is my man cheating? I caught him having intercourse with another woman but I can’t be sure if his penis was actually inside of her vagina. This is the 18th time this has happened this month.

No, no he’s not. Poor guy must be possessed by some sex-addicted demon! Have you tried finding an exorcism specialist in your area?

 

The Desperate Mom’s Guide to Self-Care

When you have kids, especially small children who depend on you for survival, making time for self-care may seem like an impossible feat.

You probably feel like you put yourself, your social life and even your hygiene on the back burner to tend to the needs of everyone else.  At the end of the day, you might be too exhausted to accomplish much more than staring at wall in the fetal position or indulging in some mindless social media scrolling until you pass out in a pile of Cheeto crumbs.

So I’ve compiled a handy list of 10 foolproof ways to sneak in some YOU time throughout the course of your chaotic day, but first we are going to start with a quick exercise that involves making a list of all of the things you used to do for fun and relaxation before you had small children. Got it? Good.

Next, you’ll want to ball that list up in your fist and launch it aggressively into the garbage. This isn’t college anymore, the only version of a wet T-shirt contest that you will be participating in is the kind where your boobs are unknowingly lactating through your shirt, mmmkay?  It’s time to put those carefree drinking and frolicking days behind you, and embrace this glorious shitshow that is #momlife.

WARNING: This list applies to desperate mamas who have children hanging from their limbs at least 75% of the time and/or who are on the verge of losing their shit. Proceed with caution.

1. Master the ancient Chinese art of sleeping with your eyes open.  Look, we know you love little Bobby, but if you have to see him do that thing he does on the trampoline for the 487th time, you might stab out your own eyeballs. Sleeping with your eyes open  allows you to discreetly catch some much needed Zzzz’s whenever you need to mentally check out.

Maybe you’ll practice this fine art in the car when you’re waiting for your child in the school drop off line, or during a long winded church sermon, at a Birthday Party, play place, or even during sex! Who cares, you’re too tired to actually be conscious for most of this stuff.

2. Find a hobby. Some people like collecting coupons, some like doing crack, it’s all about balance. Disclaimer: I don’t recommend crack. I also don’t think coupon cutting is an ideal hobby either, but whatever keeps you off drugs, man!

3. Take a leisurely drive.  And I mean drive your ass around until the kids are asleep in their carseats, then park somewhere and eat rogue goldfish crackers off the floor and scroll on your phone. The free WiFi at Walmart reaches the parking lot, just sayin.

4. Find a Babysitter. As in dump your children on old people at Target because good babysitters are impossible to find. You know the sweet little old ladies who tell you how cute your kids are and reach out to pinch their cheeks? They’re basically begging you to give them some kids to play with, so you’ll actually be doing them a favor.

Can you smell the freedom of shopping solo? It might also be the smell of a restraining order, but it’s totally worth it.

5.  Take a bath. Light some candles, draw a bath, get out your favourite essential oils and break out your Best of Rod Stewart playlist. Then burn all of that, and burn the house down with it. Self-care, bitch! Disclaimer: Not entirely sure where I was going with that, but if you’re considering setting things on fire to control stress, you might want to start thinking about anger management therapy. But yeah, good luck finding time for a candlelit bath.

6. Don’t make any time for self-care. Instead, let all of your stress and responsibilities bubble over until you have a mental breakdown that requires a brief but necessary hospitalization. Imagine laying in a bed all day while people take care of YOU for once?! Forced drugs and electric shock therapy? Pfffttt, that sounds like a vacation compared to making lunches and incessantly yelling at everyone to put the mother effing toilet seat down, amirite!? Let that bat shit crazy beast within you fly high and embrace the strait jacket, bitch. You won’t regret it.

7. Start a book club. And by books I mean wine. And by club I mean it’s just you. Alone. Drinking wine. For bonus self-care points, keep a flask in the diaper bag and chug back a few shots of the holy water whenever Susan from the PTA starts drilling into you about the upcoming mother effing bake sale, or Brenda at the park tries to sell you on her 4th MLM business of the month.

8. Take up running. As in, whenever the kids are acting up and pushing you to the very brink of your sanity, just f*cking run away. BYE.

9. Meditate. Except instead of finding a calm place to draw in the positive energies from the earth, find a place literally anywhere to scream a string of obscenities at the top of your lungs. You’ll feel 100 times better once you’ve exhausted every swear word in the dictionary and created at least 50 new ones.

10. Fake your own death (temporarily). Look, we’re not trying to leave our families and move to an island, although I’m not here to judge. But if it’s been a ridiculously long time since you’ve had a sanity break and you’re hovering between Britney 2007 and everyday Kanye, it’s time to fake your own death or kidnapping.

Unfortunately I haven’t worked out the logistics of executing this plan effectively, but if you watch enough episodes of Criminal Minds you can probably formulate a plot that allows you to reemerge from a hostage situation after a few weeks or months, unscathed but inexplicably well-rested and tanned. Keep me posted, I’ll be here to take notes.

If you were hoping for a more insightful and practical list of self-care ideas, I apologize, but I’m in the same sinking boat with you when it comes to lack of free time, and my self- care routine currently involves heavy sarcasm, making memes and eating cake.

You’re not alone; some days I’m just trying not to drown in mom duties whilst reminiscing about the days that I could fit into my size 6 jeans and had names like “hot guy who buys shots” programmed into my phone.

But here’s the good news; if you made it through this entire article, and maybe even had a chuckle or two, you have just completed 5 whole minutes of doing something entirely for yourself, which equals 5 minutes of what? You got it: self-care!! See what I did there?You’re welcome.

These Days Are Shorter Than They Seem

Mama, I see you. You’re tired. You feel defeated. Maybe you’re unsure how you’ll carry on.

You haven’t had a full night’s rest in days, or maybe even months, and you can’t remember the last time you washed your hair. You’ve lost yourself somewhere between diaper changes, school runs, chasing toddlers and running errands, and it might feel like there is no end.

I promise there will be time again for a clean house and Pinterest meals, and there will be time again for you.

These days are shorter than they seem.

Let the children be little, let them be adventurous, let them simply be. Ignore the dishes a little longer to enjoy the sounds of a house filled with the beautiful crescendo of laughter and squeals, and the pitter patter of their adventurous feet.

Let them love their cherished stuffed toy or blankie, let them love it where ever they need to, until it’s been loved to the brink of falling apart and you painstakingly put it together again.

These days are shorter than they seem.

Relish in their simple joys, their innocent view of the world, and acknowledge every tear. Dance, jump, and get in on the fun, fill their hearts with all the joys you would have wanted as a child. Make the memories count.

Say yes. Yes to forts, and make believe, and tickle fights and snuggles. Say yes to fun and games and stories and magic, and yes to hours spent together cuddled up on the couch.

Admire their faces, study their smiles, enjoy their giggles and glee. Listen intently when they speak because even with so few words they are telling you the most important tales of their hearts.

Let the hugs last a little longer, and hold them a little tighter, look up from your phone a little more; you don’t want to miss the moments that matter.

These days are shorter than they seem.

Those chubby arms that reach for snuggles and those soft cheeks that beg for kisses will grow and change; they won’t reach for you the same, Mama. You might not miss the messes, but you will miss those adorable mischievous smiles that greet you when you catch them climbing the furniture or playing in your makeup.

One day they will say farewell to their beloved stuffed animal or blankie that was their constant companion since birth, and tell you they are a big kid now.

And seemingly one day after that, they’ll no longer need you quite as much. Their giggles will change, their faces will change, they will start to live life their own way. And though you’ll be sleeping more and doing a little less, some part of you will long for them to be little again. You’ll look back at their pictures and wonder where the time went, how they grew so fast, and ask yourself if you could have enjoyed it more.

I know it’s hard, but laugh through the hard times, cry if you need to, and forgive yourself often. Remind yourself that this is one short chapter in a book of many, and it’s the only one you get to write for your children.

These days are shorter than they seem.

Vomit on my Sweater, Mom’s Spaghetti; a Tale of Stage Fright

What’s your dream job? Mine has always been an SNL skit writer/actor, or comedy entertainer.

One of my (many) goals with my blog was to ultimately make parody videos and skits to really let you all in on my occasionally overly animated and weird personality that doesn’t always translate well in writing or pictures. (Or even in real life unless you really know me and have lived through and understand my level of awkwardness.)

You aren’t able to grasp my tone of voice, sarcastic undertones, facial expressions, impersonations and occasional jerk-off motions in writing, so I’ve been wanting to share more of that with you.  Some of my influences include Rebel Wilson, Melissa McCarthy, Kristin Wiig, the late and great OG Chris Farley, as well as Will Ferrell, Adam Sandler, and pretty much every funny person who ever lived.

Five years ago when I quit my office job, I had decided it was time to stop trying to fit this round peg into a square hole and to start living out my creative passions and entertainer urges. So I brainstormed, researched and did a bit of Googling, and I ultimately decided to sign up for a Second City stand-up comedy class in Toronto. Yup, I signed up for a once a week class, in a city 4 hours away from my home.

Some of my favorite comedic legends trained at the Second City, so I figured it would be a great place to start. Having recently completed a Live Your Best Life workshop that posed the question about my passions, comedy was the first thing that came to mind. The workshop focused on self improvement and overall well being, and it helped empower me to break down my fears and visualize what my ideal life and career would look like.

It also helped me to accept myself as a round peg in a square hole, and understand that my mind is completely wired in “R mode” as my 11th grade art teacher referred to it. Right brainers, where you at? Who needs logic when we have all this creativity to use!

So I took the leap! I drove out to Toronto once a week for the entire duration of the program, to try my luck at comedy because I knew I was passionate about laughing and making people laugh. The last “class” was an actual performance in front of an audience at a comedy club in Toronto. GULP.

AND I SUCKED. BAD. Like vomit on my sweater, mom’s spaghetti. I kept on forgetting what I wrote down, the whole crowd got so loud, I opened my mouth but the words wouldn’t come out, I was choking now.

Eminem lyrics aside, my anxiety got the best of me. I wanted to literally DIE as the bright lights shone on my red cheeks and I choked on my own saliva while desperately trying to recall any part of my act.

I even resorted to calling out to my husband in the crowd, “Hey hunny, what the hell is my act about?” which people responded to with laughter (yay!) but only because they assumed it was all part of the schtick. But in my sad reality I was actually desperately hoping he’d throw me any line from the act that I had rehearsed in front of him 800 times and had now forgotten.

It was a huge blow to the dreams I had of becoming an entertainer, much like the former singing career I had attempted in my 20’s. I was capable of singing, writing and recording songs behind the curtains, doing my best Britney stage twirls and hair flips in the comfort of my home, but put me on stage and actually open those curtains and I would forget how to person, much less sing or perform.

One time a bandmate even placed a keyboard on stage with me so I could pretend to play along to the music; my hope was that it would distract people from my awkwardness on stage. Naturally, I then started worrying more about the audience suspecting that I wasn’t actually playing the keyboard than my quivering voice and trembling knees. Anxiety is a real treat, friends.

76d3d34937ec5f9cef780917ba01faaf651b76ea8705a6d49accf9e3e804c6b2

Ultimately, my journey into discovering my passions and looking for a related career led me to home décor and decorating. (Cough, safe, cough.) After the on-stage embarrassment, I quickly talked myself out of comedy and signed up for an online Interior Decorating course. I ended up starting my wood sign décor business for some extra cash, and that kept me busier than I imagined I ever would be.

The home décor business allowed me to be creative and passionate from the comfort of my home, but without the fear of being vulnerable or judged. But this isn’t where I want my story to end. The “problem” with the creative mind is that it is completely full of ideas all the time; add an entrepreneur spirit to the mix and it’s a recipe for a brain bubbling over with Shark Tank visions.

But in comes the self doubt. It is inhibiting my confidence for making comedy videos and REALLY putting myself out there, back on stage but without the stage. It’s a lot easier “performing”  in your own home without all of those eyeballs staring at you in real time

I just haven’t grown the balls or found the time. And I think, what’s the point? I’m 36, it’s not like I’m going to land my dream job on Saturday Night Live now, at nearly effing 40, from a blog or Youtube post, nonetheless. What if I’m not even funny and I suck, and it’s like the stand-up act all over again?

But then I have to tell myself that none of that is the point, the point is that I love and live for humor and I want to bring humor to the world, even if it means completely making an ass out of myself for the sake of making someone laugh and relate. Correction:  ESPECIALLY if it means making an ass out of myself for the sake of making someone laugh and relate.

So why am I telling you about all of this? Well, I’m mostly just warning you about what is probably not destined to happen in the near future, so people don’t think it’s coming way out of left field, because it’s something I’ve wanted to do since the first time I made someone laugh.

I’m also trying to give myself a pep talk in the process. If a couple people are like “yeah girl I laugh at your shit all the time, your Instagram has me in stitches, let’s see what else you’ve got!” then I might build up a bit more confidence to get some of these ideas out of my noggin and onto video. Help me, I’m scared.

And right on cue, in chimes that bitch self doubt again saying, girlllllll, they’d only tell you to record videos because they want to laugh at you, not with you. STAY SAFE, give the people something to pin on Pinterest, people lovvvve that shit!  Talk about your crafts and your home décor hacks, and your stupid diet that isn’t working. Show people all the shit you’ve done from Pinterest, don’t do the weird stuff!

I will say this, we have already made serious progress, friends. I actually started a blog numerous times over the past 10 years and always kept it private before ultimately deleting it. This is my first public blog, hazzaah! Maybe in another 10 years I’ll post my first video, and by that time I’ll be in my late 40’s so it will likely be about menopause and how to make a mean casserole.

Narrator: Stay tuned to the next episode (aka blog post) to find out if Stacey decides to post that funny video, or talk about something truly exciting like home décor. Bom bom bommmmm. Spoiler alert the next episode is about watching paint dry.

One day, maybe we’ll rip that Band-aid off and do the weird stuff.