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Quit Ruining My Body

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I’m not going to tell you that I had a banging, swing-from-a pole, video vixen body before kids. No, I won’t tell that lie. However, my lower stomach was NOT all poochy, with a noticeable C-section scar. I did not have stretch marks galore on my hips and across my butt (which my daughter got started, but her brother perfected). I happened to have her first, naturally, and she was clearly right at home and comfy because that chick didn’t emerge until after 27 hours of labor, a cut where NO ONE ever wants a cut, and a damn vacuum placed on her head to yank her out! 21 years later, I’m still baffled by this level of laziness. She wasn’t even trying! My girlie parts weren’t right for a solid year. And let’s spend some time on the boobs. I read all of the books and decided to breast feed. Well, I did EXACTLY what they told me NOT to do. You’re supposed to switch sides every time they eat, but I let them both nurse on one side more than the other. Let’s just say that had I breastfed for 10 m
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A Serious One This Time

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My 1st born was no surprise. I calendar watched and counted days to get her here. I could barely sleep the night before because I had decided, after being six days late, that I'd take THE test. After supplying the sample,  I put my head down, anxiously tapped my foot, as I waited the requisite three minutes to view the results. When it was time, I nervously turned the test over and those two solid lines jumped into view.  I. Was. Pregnant. I swung the bathroom door open and went over to my husband at the time and sang, "Guess whattttt?" Instead of verbalizing it, I handed him the test. He looked confused at first but he soon got it and a big smile spread across his face. We hugged, I skipped around the tiny apartment while he called everyone he knew. At the time of this revelation, three months after the ceremony, I'd already begun to question the strength of the union. I'd written in my journal, the same month of the wedding, that I wasn't sure it had been t
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Quit Jumping Off of Stuff

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If I’ve said, “I’m NOT taking you to the emergency room” once, I’ve said it a million times. Kids, especially boys, are dare devils. They want to stand on stuff they are not supposed to. They want to jump off of counters. They want to run around a house of tile with socks on. They want to dive off of furniture to perform wrestling moves on unsuspecting teddy bears. This shit stresses me out and makes me want, no need wine. Yes, I’m concerned they will get genuinely hurt and of course, no one wants that. However, in addition to that, I’m thinking big picture here. I’m in my pjs, I’m about to relax, I want to chill in peace. I do NOT want to sit in a bright hospital, after driving there with you screaming at the top of your lungs for the doctor to probably need to do something to you that’s gonna require me to help them hold your ass down. Then all of this gets followed up with a bill that I now have to fit into my budget. If you would just sit.the.hell.down, we could all be happy. Ok, m
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Quit following me around, with a side of, "Why won't you give me a hug?"

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There is no more effective stalker than a needy toddler. How many of you have been walking, minding your own business, turned around abruptly and knocked the little crumb snatcher over because they were so close on your heels? You want ‘em, you cuddle and coddle them and then, at some point, all you want out of life is for them to sit on another piece of furniture. I know I’m not alone finding myself in a bathroom with a child banging on the door and crying because they haven’t seen you in 10 seconds. One day, as I was trying to steal a moment to myself in the bathroom, in walks my daughter, who might have been three at the time. Well, it was nearing the end of “that time of the month” and since she was ALL in my face, she sees the pad and says, “Oooohhhhh, you pooped on yourself! Ohhhhhhhhh. Bad Mommy!” Little girl, if I could have had just TWO minutes by my damn self in here, neither one of us would be experiencing this trauma. My son, who is 13 years old at this writing, can pretty
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Quit Bringing Extra Kids To My House

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By now, you’ve probably deduced that kids aren’t really my favorite. I mean, they are ok from a distance, like riding by on a bus, but up close, not so much. I like mine a good amount but I really have very little use for other people’s children. So, when the requests for sleepovers started, I was quite wary. What does this entail exactly? Am I expected to watch them, feed them, entertain them? Would they destroy my house? I have very clear rules about where to drink red juice and where to wear your shoes. How will this work exactly? When I shared this trepidation with other mothers, they of course thought I was kidding (I was not) and they all told me I was missing the boat/blessing here. “Nikki” they’d say, “Girl, you want other kids at your house! They keep your kid occupied so they don’t keep trying to play with you!” Hmmmm, that did seem intriguing. Except there was one thing. My daughter had figured out how to operate very well in her “My Mom doesn’t really want to be bothered
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Quit Spending All of My Money

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My son has turned into quite the label junkie. Well, to be more specific, he’s a “sneaker-head” and peruses Amazon.com ad nauseum checking out the new releases and dropping them into the virtual cart. He then calls me into his room to show me his latest find. I end up deleting them right out of that cart. I promise you, if I could get my hands around Michael Jordan’s neck, I would do so with a smile. I swear he has sent some subliminal mind game stuff to get young men to follow him and his shoes like a cult. I could not care less about his shoes and the fact that my son is obsessed with them. One of the reasons I enrolled him in a school that required uniforms was to avoid this very thing. But nooooooo, “I need sneakers for the weekend, Mom, and to walk into school and to leave school.” This topic gives me an instant attitude. Few things irritate like being asked to buy stuff I think is ridiculous. $150+ sneakers couldn’t get any dumber. I say No and then he’s annoyed with me. There is
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Quit Acting Like Your Father

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My first marriage was over so fast that I didn't get a chance to change my name on everything. I'm talking Britney Spears fast. I mean swift, like had we bought in bulk, we'd have still had some of the stuff left by the time we got divorced. We were married only long enough to get pregnant and have the baby. We signed divorce papers when our daughter was two months old. She has zero recollection of us ever being together and while she did spend time with her father as a child, the lion's share of time was spent with me. Given these facts, imagine my surprise when she started to show traits exactly like her father.  Let me paint a picture for you. I grew up with my granny. My stern, you'd better follow the rules or pay the costs, Granny.  What I'm getting at is, I was reared to do the right thing and not rock the boat. While my first husband was probably raised the same way, by the time he got to college, his middle name officially became, "Buck the system&
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