It’s not often that I cook. Everyone who knows me well knows my cooking typically consists of quick and easy items: macaroni and cheese (Velveeta, not that Kraft powder shit), spaghetti, sandwiches, zoodles, sometimes boxed preservative laden meats even.

I think it’s more the waiting part that turns me off cooking rather than the actual mixing, working and creating. I am very much the type of person who needs immediate results in order to be satisfied.

Cooking does nothing for me.

Once and a while I will bake. I love making chocolate chip cookies mainly because I eat more of the batter than I do the cookies. See? Immediate results.  I’ve been known to slave over a few lemon meringue pies in my time, even some easy peasy cherry cheese cake type concoction I learned from my Gramma. Once again, all quick, all easy all requiring little to no actual baking.

Since having children I have taken a little more pride in cooking and baking. I’ve learned a few more recipes, I’ve actually made macaroni and cheese from scratch (THANK YOU PIONEER WOMAN!) and even indulged in bring baked goods to work. To feed my co-workers. To share. To proclaim to outsiders that I am indeed capable of making food stuffs save enough to eat!

Carter announced to me earlier this year that he LOVES pumpkin pie. LOVES. Because the lady at the daycare – The Cooker, The Daycare Lunch Lady, The Chef, or as I like to call her: The Procurer of Food for The Little People – makes a mean pumpkin pie.

So, for Thankgiving, I thought I’d spoil the little ankle biter and make him his own pumpkin pie. After all, what child could turn down a pumpkin pie made by their caring, doting and wonderful mother? Right?

I’ll spare you the disaster details of the actual pie making as they are irrelevant. But the kid got a pie. A pretty damn good pie if I do say so myself.

As we sat down to indulge in the delicious pumpkin-y goodness with a dollop of Cool Whip I could see, out of the corner of my eye, Carter’s little four year old face scrunch up in disgust. I played it off as nothing as I dove into the creamy goodness of my pumpkin filling.

The kids wasn’t eating anything. Not even a lick of the Cool Whip. I kinda suspected what may be coming, but I asked anyway.

“What’s wrong, kiddo?” I asked.

“This pie tastes like junk,” he said matter-of-factly, “and not the good junk either.”

Seriously? Are you SERIOUS, you little jerk? After I slaved over that pie for you. I measured. I mixed. I baked. I WAITED!!!  And you call my pie JUNK!?I am NEVER. BAKING. AGAIN!!

But instead of letting him know how royally pissed I was that he dismissed my pie so coldly, I did what any parent would do in that situation.

I excused that ungrateful little shit loving and brutally honest child from the table and scarfed down his pie too.

:::

This post in brought to you by the Silicon Valley Moms Book Club. This month’s book is See Mom Run: Side-Splitting Essays from the World’s Most Harried Moms by Beth Feldman. The book is a culmination of short essays written by a number of very talented blogger who also just happen to be moms (including two short stories from one of my favourite writers, Liz Gumbinner of Mom 101). It’s witty, hilarious and ALL TRUE. Read it!

For the FTC blah-blah-CRAP: I was given this book for free and asked to write a post inspired by the book, not a review. Also? Suckit.

• Eighteen and counting
• Disconnected
• A New York Minute

I thought I’d pass the reins to someone else for the time being. You’ll have to excuse the mumbles and lack of dialogue on his part, he’s just starting out. I’m thinking once he gets his routine down he may be better at maintaining this bitch.

I mean the site.

(Not THIS bitch.)

((That’s just wrong.))

(((Not to mention disgusting.)))

((((And also? SOMEONE ELSE’S JOB. SOMEONE WHO HAS NOT BEEN DOING HIS JOB.))))

(((((YA HEAR THAT SOMEONE ELSE!? I’M TALKING TO YOU SOMEONE ELSE.)))))

Ahem.

This is all wrong. ALL. WRONG.

Like I said: I think he’ll be taking over.

• Junk
• Eighteen and counting
• Today

I love holidays. I love everything about celebrating someones birthday, Easter egg hunts, St. Patrick’s Day, Thanksgiving with family, CHRISTMAS!!, Father’s Day, Mother’s Day, the list goes on.

Mike, however does not. At all.

It’s beginning to wear on me.

Growing up I remember the morning of my birthday I would be greeted by both my mom and my brother singing Happy Birthday with a gift in hand before we would head off to school. I had modest birthday parties, but there was always a party. My dad and step-mom still, to this day make a big deal of celebrating  just about everything. It keeps this fresh, alive and fun!

There was always a celebration growing up; and now there’s not so much.

Mike is very much the “it’s just another day”-type. Holidays are commercial conspiracies concocted to steal away our hard earned money.

Which I don’t disagree with, but why be so cynical about it? Why not enjoy it and play along? Life is just too cold and hard as it is, what’s the harm in indulging and having a little fun once and a while? Take a break from the realist cold attitude and play along for once.

In the eight nine (holy shit! NINE YEARS.) we’ve been together only once has Mike gotten me a birthday gift, but it wasn’t by his own doing. A friend practically bought it and made him give it to me. Instead my typical birthday has included: a HUGE blowup fight (’02), being ignored (’03), forgotten (’06), and him being out-of-town for work (’07). NIICE.

It’s not that I need to have some sort of acknowledgment on “my days” because I don’t. To me, it’s more of a celebration of life and being with loved ones. Maybe a heartfelt “Happy Birthday! I love you!” in lieu of the out-of-obligation hug and peck with a mumbled “happybirthday” as he’s walking away – THAT’S IF HE EVEN REMEMBERS.

Which, by the way – my 28th birthday is Saturday. Don’t worry, I’ll remind you again.

When I had children, Mother’s Day became even more important to me because Hello! I’m a MOM! I have children! which was a token day to you know, TAKE ADVANTAGE of being fawned over and cared for.

No. I don’t NEED it. I want it. I deserve it.

After all, I birthed two nine pound children after painful months of carrying and GROWING  human beings it’s really the least one could do.

When I mentioned Mother’s Day “in passing” (totally fishing for deets) Mike mentioned that he hadn’t planned anything because I’m not his mother.

Not his mother.

Apparently being the mother of his children counts for a diddly squat.

Whatever.

So this morning I was awaken as any typical day, hungry baby thrust in my face and told to get up because he can’t figure out how to make a bottle for the poor kid. Hudson’s fever has gone down but now we are fighting massive congestion and the shits. Awesome.

As I dragged ass to the kitchen to make my own coffee. For the love of Pete! There isn’t even coffee made!? Carter came into the kitchen with his Wii steering wheel gripped firmly in both fists. He leaned into me and whisper / mumbled “Mudder’s day is a home day” and ran back into the living room.

Mike walked up to me and pecked me on the lips and mumbled the obligatory “happymothersday” as he walked back to his game of WoW (World of Warcarft).

I’ve now begun to detest holidays as they’ve continually given me The Royal fuckyouverymuch. Dear Holidays, why must you mock me so?

• Marriage is a Funny Thing
• Familiarity of Family
• Defection

I have a tendency to burp and fart really loud – and often, so much so that I definitely put my husband to shame. He only wishes he had the same capacity for burping and farting like I do.

So do you. I know you’re jealous. It’s okay to be jealous, it’s good for you.

Except the only thing is – I am so used to being home alone with the kids, that sometimes I forget I am out in public. Like when I’m shopping at the local WalMart, perusing the kid’s aisle and I’ll let go an enormous burp.

Then I totally blame Mike, and if he’s not there I’m all “Carter you should say excuse me!”, accept now he’s getting old enough that he totally calls me out saying, “Mommy! That wasn’t me, that was YOU!”.

Yes, it has happened more than once.

Then all the moms grab their children, shield their ears and run from the area, shooting Howdareyoubesodigsutinginmypresence death rays from their eyes.

It seriously happens. Ask Karen. While at the Boston BlogHer Reach Out, we totally played hookie skipped out on sessions went to mall on our free time and while at the Yankee Candle store I let one go. If looks could kill that lady would have murdered me a thousand times over in that store.

If that weren’t bad enough I’ve gotten to the point where I’ll go our shopping – un-showered in my jogging pants and stained t-shirts. Jogging pants half tucked into my fake uggs.

Like Leighton Meester – but she totally rocks them better than me with her tu-tu / dress. (And no, I don’t believe this is her intentional outfit since she appears to be wearing her Gossip Girl costume clothes outfit whatthefuckever.)

Picture me, jogging pants tucked into fake uggs, oversized t-shirt, knitted hoodie cardigan, unshowered and unkempt shopping at WalMart.

I fit right in, right?

Add the belching in public and I am every child’s worst nightmare for a parent.

God, I can’t wait until they’re old enough and all my lack of effort will not be wasted on children that have little concept of fashion and embarrassing situations.

By then, I should totally have a tutu added to my wardrobe.

Tell me about your behavioural or fashion faux pas. Do you wear your pj’s to school drop off? Ever shop in your slippers? Pick your butt in the supermarket?

Fess up!

• Stepping up my game
• Failed
• I Just Want to be Heard

Growing up I was a kid of many questions. I would bombard my parents with questions asking: why is the sky was blue? how do we get to space? why is that man there? what are they doing? How come!?

Before having children of my own, I thought I would love that stage where my children would ask questions and I would answer; we would have meaningful conversations about how astronauts get into space and why the grass is green. I would teach! and they would learn! and we’d be a happy little family. The End.

Unfortunately what I didn’t realize what the tenacity of a young child. The questions come on fast and furious with reckless abandon quite often at the most inopportune times.

Sitting in heavy traffic trying to get Carter to daycare before they begin his daily phonics,  attempting a left-hand turn across three lanes of traffic where the drivers rarely abide by the speed limits and he’ll hit me with a barrage of questions.

“Why is that man walking on the road?”

“How come that car is in front of us?”

“Where are we going, Mommy?”

“Is the light red? Why are you wating?”

“How come the man is still on the road?”

“Mommy?”

“Mommy?”

“Did you bring my monkey?”

It’s enough to make me want to just pull out in front of the next oncoming car.

Okay, that’s a little dramatic. I would never pull my car out in front of oncoming traffic because of an interrogation at 8:00 in the morning. If they ran out of coffee at every store in the city – yes. But questions? It’s highly unlikely.

I try my hardest to nicely answer each and every question even though I feel like turing around and yelling shutthehellupI’mtryingtodrive! Doyouwantmetocrashthisfuckincarrightnow!?

I smile at him in the rear-view mirror as I wait to negotiate the next available opening in traffic.

“He’s crossing the road honey.”

“Why?”

“So he can keep walking up the road to where he’s going?”

“Where’s he going?”

“Maybe to work, maybe the bus stop sweetie.”

“To work?”

“Yes Carter, to work.”

“There’s a bus stop there?”

“I guess so honey.”

“Why?”

“So the bus can stop and the man can get out.”

“Why?”

At this point I grit my teeth and try and ignore the questions as I see an opening coming.

“Are we turning yet?”

Sigh.

“Is the light red now?”

“How come you turned?”

“Where is the man, mommy?

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Why?”

Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?

OMFG, WHY!?

*******

We sat down to dinner last night and another full onslaught of questions began. I really can’t remember what he started asking, but I quickly turned the questions on him.

Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?

Evil parenting tactic, I know. But I don’t care, it was time to give the kid a taste of his own medicine.

Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?

Eventually he got this pained look of constipation across his face as he glanced around the kitchen, and as I asked him another “Why” question he quickly pointed across the table.

“Look mommy!” he shrieked, “We have MILK!!”

Dammit.

Duped by a three year old.

This isn’t over kid.

This is not over.

• Clinging
• Hierarchy of Suckage*
• Working My Way Towards The Unemployment Line, One Sick Kid At a Time

Ever root through your draft posts and read some of he forgotten? I have more than a few posts which I’ve started and only completed a sentence, a paragraph, a jumble of words which are completely incoherent. Some are embarrassing; some enlightening and some, maybe even offensive to some.

Over the past year there have been quite a few with the same theme.

The lack of sleep.

I haven’t slept in the same bed as my husband for a better part of the past 7 months.

Yes, seriously.

Hudson and I sleep in the nursery. I’ve laid out the spare bed in there and more often than not, sleep with him there.

I hate talking about it because either it jinxes everything and things go from bad to worse or I feel guilty for blabbering about it. Again.

Fucksakes, is she really talking about her kid not sleeping?  AGAIN? We get it. The damn kid doesn’t sleep.

Trust me. That’s how I feel.

Justshutthefuckupalready.

Not that I’d ever admit that I say that to him.

I’ve begged, pleaded and cried. I’ve even tried to reason with him by having an adult conversation.

I know, right?

So, please. Would you tell me why you refuse to sleep in your crib at night? What can I do to make this more pleasurable for you? What can I do to make you more comfortable? Is there something that I’m forgetting?

Just so you know, that doesn’t work either.

I get nowhere reasoning with the baby so I post and save stuff like this…

It’s been a nightmare trying to get Hudson to sleep at night.

Nothing like stating the obvious. It’s a true gift. I has it.

Coming up on midnight I’m still sitting here on the couch. I should be sleeping, but I’ve been informed I am not welcome to go to bed until Mike is asleep. Why? Because Hudson will not sleep. Let me rephrase that: Hudson will not sleep unless a part of him is touching a part of me. Srsly.

See: Stage Five Clingerâ„¢ & The Hot Fuzzâ„¢

Sometimes he still won’t sleep unless we’re touching.

Mike doesn’t care about when I go to bed, because well, I got to bed in another room. Duh.

Sitting in the dark I felt the horrible urge surmount as it has in the past. The longing for sleep; uninterrupted sleep has begun to cloud my thoughts. Reality is blurred and I find myself in a constant dreamland.

For a short instance, I felt the urge to shake the baby, put him in his crib and just leave.

Cloaked by darkness a single tear rolls down my cheek as my innocent baby nestles into my chest and dozes off. Seemingly only able to sleep sound as he’s cradled in my arms; I am awake while the house is eerily quite. I can hear the faint snore from the bedroom where Mike sleeps peacefully.

I am overcome with resentment.

Resentment which increases with each breath.

I cannot concentrate on anything other then stretching out in my bed and falling into a peaceful slumber.

Instead I have fitful moments of rest where I am unable to relax because I know I will be woken in minutes once he realizes I’ve laid him in the bassinet.

Day breaks and he’s peaceful; hoping to catch an hour of much needed rest, I lay my head down only to hear his older brother stirring in the other room.

My heart aches to be with them, always.

My body aches for sleep.

My mind aches for rest.

Oh the DRAMAZ! That must have been one of my emo nights.

Lack of sleep makes me emo.

Not the cutting kinda emo, just the “Woe Is Me” kinda emo.

Cutting wouldn’t be fun, that leads to bloody messes and scars. Not tough scars that have a story but cutter scars that make people look at you funny.

Not that I look at you funny.

Oh forget it. This is obviously going nowhere.

I’m going to bed.

Hopefully.

For a little while anyway.

Clearly this is me not talking about it, you know – in case I jinx it.

Shutthefuckupalreadywouldyou?

• Self-Love: I Say It’s About Time to Endulge
• Greet the dawn, you know, without killing someone….
• On Wanting It All

Ask a three year old what shapes to use and this is the result:

The Lame-O-Lantern*.

Carter chiseled chest Superman costume will be a hit with the ladies at daycare. I’ll be beating the girls off my little man.

Maybe I’ll use The Lame-O-Lantern.

And I haven’t bought candy yet because I know I’ll eat it all between now and tomorrow night. This way I’ll be scrounging for the craptastical candy and whatever isn’t given out will just be substitute for the stuff I steal from Carter’s good shit tossed in the trashed.

Happy Hallowe’en!

*Dear 20 year-old Carter;

Mommy is just kidding; that’s what she does. She’s a jokester. I really loved your lame-o-lantern jack-o-lantern.

And what the hell are you doing here? You do not want to read this. Trust Me.

• Stepping up my game
• Today
• Floating like a rock

I’ve been busy with my new boyfriend Dane. Too busy laughing my ass off to think of something creative to write. Stuff like this has been keeping me occupied:

(Strong language, NSFW)

For the other’s not interested in Dane Cook, a post from the archives:

Queen of Diversion

originally posted April 11, 2007

Mornings in our house prove to be a challenge. As I hate getting up, and dear hubs is an early riser we constantly bicker over the fact that I am a notorious snoozer. The snooze button is my dealer; I am addicted. One any given day, I will hit snooze three times. THREE. TIMES. This drives Mike to the brink of insanity since the first one wakes him then he’s up for the day; not to mention the fact I have it set for about a half hour before I have to get up.

Since he’s on course for work until mid-May he’s actually getting up at the same time as me, (instead of being out the door while I pound away on my snooze button), which definitely is a cause for more conflict in the mornings. For the past week we’ve been feuding over my addiction which as left me to one (sometimes two) hits of the button.
Today I was so sure I would try to get up at the first sound of the annoying – beeeeep, beeeeep, beeeeep, just to appease my ever-loving husband.

I didn’t succeed.

After the first one, I tried so hard to get the next one before he stirred. As it went off I started hitting the headboard trying to turn off the alarm, to my dismay the damn thing wasn’t turning off, at that point I realized: Dumbass, you’re hitting the headboard. The clocks over there.

I got up and headed for a shower. Mike soon to follow. Bitter. Bitter as all hell. Like he’s been everyday for the past week.

I will say, it’s been nice that we can have a shower together in the mornings again though (with no interruptions). Today, may have been a different story.

I sluggishly climbed into the shower while Mike was cursing me from his perch (on the can). Why can’t I just get up like a normal person? This fuckin’ snooze button has to stop. I’m going to take away your alarm clock. Blah, blah, blah-fuckity-blah.

While he went on and on I persuaded myself to make an effort at some foreplay, this would all go away (for the time being) if I just did something – anything, to redirect his attention for the snooze button to …. his penis.
He joined me in the shower, still chattering on and on about the fucking snooze button, so I made my move. I slowly reached down and touched it. Touched. It. He looked at me – and. stopped. talking. HE STOPPED!! So I continued a bit, but (faster then I thought he would) he clued into my intentions and turned to get past me; a bit flustered he started to bring up the alarm clock. Again.

Then it happened.

He stepped on the edge of the shower curtain and fell, bringing down the entire shower curtain rod with him.

There I stood, stark naked, water trickling everywhere as he was bent over, ass in the air, bracing himself against the side of the tub, the shower curtain, in a bunged up mess on the bathroom floor.

My initial reaction was to point and laugh, but I held it together long enough to ensure that he wasn’t hurt and to get the curtain rod in it’s rightful place. Then I bust a gut laughing. Oh, did I laugh! Thankfully, he thought it was pretty fuckin’ hilarious too. Though a little off target, I completed my mission.

The morning conversation was not that of my inability to get my ass out of bed anymore.

But that I tried to kill him in the shower by pushing him out of my way.

Sweet success.

• On Marriage, Mr. Right, and Wood. Heh. I Said Wood.
• We Are All Jon & Kate
• Selfish Holiday Rant In 3…2…1

I’m in an all ’round shitty mood today. Horrible, horrible mood. I believe I even described myself as a hateful bitch on twitter earlier. (click for a larger view)

Nights have been fuckin’ awful around here lately. Hudson will not sleep unless he’s touching me. Some part of him has to be touching some part of me at. all. times.

Yes, so cute. Awwww… but! As soon as I move he begins to fuss… then WAIL. It’s getting very tired very fast. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. I am a zombie throughout the day and now today? FUCKIN’ BITTER.

The whining, the fussing, the WHINING is enough to make me suicidal, and to top it off Mike whines and bitches that he’s not getting any sleep either. Well, whoopdi-fuckin’-doo. Welcome to my world. Yes, yes you have to work in the morning my love; I too have stuff to do – like take care of little children and KEEP THEM ALIVE!

Last night he even asked me to stay downstairs a little longer so that he could get to sleep before I brought The Hot Fussâ„¢ upstairs. Am I the only person that thinks that makes absolutely no fuckin’ sense whatsoever? Wait until your sleep to bring The Hot Fussâ„¢ upstairs? Idiot. But I did has he asked and it all went to hell in a handbasket as I tried to put the damn baby down so I could take a piss. Hudson fussed, Mike bitched and I fuckin’ lost it.

What the fuck did you think was going to happen? HONESTLY?! You ask me to WAIT until you’re ASLEEP to bring him upstairs? It’s your own fuckin’ fault you fuckin’ moron.

(A tad harsh, maybe. But? Serioulsy?)

So he left to sleep on the couch.

Later fucker.

I got to share the bed with The Hot Fussâ„¢ for the night while he squirmed, fussed, nursed, farted and slept. I, on the other hand, tried to stay perfectly still so not to roll on top of him and smother him with my giganiticness.

HOT MESS.

I have the pack n’ play wedged beside my bed but it’s not good enough for him because: OMG OMG, I can’t feel you – any part of you – TOUCHING me CONSTANTLY!

The thing is: this? This has been going on for over a month now and I mah brainz r fried! I can’t handle living in this foggy cloud of anger; being deliriously tired all the time. It’s aging me so fast: by next Friday I’m likely to be an extinct dinosaur. Bring on the fuckin’ ice age! Maybe then it’ll be fuckin’ QUIET!

Today I’m dragging the old spare bed back into the nursery and moving there with Hudson. Maybe this way we can both get a decent sleep, even for a couple hours. I’m just so frustrated because Carter wasn’t like this; at four months he was sleeping through the night already – I know, I know all babies are different but I no likey this different. This different fuckin’ BLOWS!

Oh and to top it all off? Get an email this morning from a co-worker telling me that they received a messege from my “temptingmama” account. Even though I specficially told gmail to send it from my other personal account it tacks on a fuckin’ messege saying that it was sent from temptingmama ON BEHALF OF … Someone please explain that to me?! WTH is THAT!? So mad. So so mad.

I am so close to just locking myself in the closet today.

I just want to run away! Run away!

Oh, and if you’re wondering how I had the opportunity to write this post?

* The Hot Fussâ„¢ coined by her, stolen by me.

• On The Realm of Reality
• Stepping up my game
• Failed