Pregnancy; The Toughest Mudder

I am eight months pregnant. If you’ve been following along, you know it’s my third baby. If you’re new here, hi! I’m eight months pregnant with my third baby! I feel overdue for some good whine. Buckle in, it’s go time.

Now that the baby bump is obviously more than bloat from a ham sandwich, I’m getting comments from the public, whereas previously I was really just getting cautious glances towards my middle. I could read the look on people’s faces; “whoa, maybe she’s pregnant or maybe she’s getting fat”. I know that it’s hard to tell. Having two back-to-back pregnancies has done wonders for my body. Wondrous triumphs in swelling, bloating and weight gain. Is there a Nobel Prize for maternal sacrifices in pregnancy? No? Well work on it then. My chins need validation.

I now have to wear ankle boots or spring for “wide calf” knee high leather boots because my legs are like expanding tree trunks and my leather boots don’t even zip up my calf. Not that my old shoes matter anymore since my feet grow a half size with every pregnancy, and no, they don’t “shrink back down”.  I started having kids in a comfortable size nine; I’ve worked my way up to an eleven. If I had a red nose I could make it official and just be a clown. I wonder how much their shoes cost.

Talk about first world problems.

Also, all of the maternity clothes that I salvaged from my last pregnancy are a full size too small, because I still had twenty pounds to lose from my last adorable baby bump when I started growing this one. I am far too cheap to buy any more maternity clothes, so I wear long tank tops under too-tight maternity tops and huge yoga pants that I roll all the way up my belly. I look like Winnie the Pooh, except with yoga pants. I’m Winnie the Poohs’ soccer mom.


I digress, let’s travel back to the comments I get.

When I’m out shopping with my kids at Target or the grocery store my toddler is usually running away from me and my three year old is usually crying for fruit snacks. It’s times like these that some smart ass decides to chime in;

“Oh boy. You’re busy. Your hands sure are full.”

YEP. They sure are. Glad you noticed. Now kindly get the fuck out of my way unless you have something awesome to say, like; “Oh boy, you’re a rock star! You look amazing! All those kids and you’re still so put together! I didn’t even notice the sweat on your upper lip!” Or maybe lying isn’t your thing so you could, I don’t know, grab a bag of groceries and put it in my car for me if you absolutely cannot abstain from making an asinine remark you kind stranger, you.

Or my favorite comment ever, and I think it came from a friend, not a stranger but with my pregnancy brain firing on one busted piston I wouldn’t honestly remember if my own mom said it. It’s a doozy nonetheless.

“Well at least you can’t get pregnant while you’re pregnant!”

What? Do you think I’m having any sex right now? Yes, my two young children sleep effortlessly through the night and my energy stores are so high that by nights end I am RARING to go. I don’t even care that the nature of the statement is super personal, because it’s that ridiculous.

Imagine me, sitting in bed sweating after a two hour bedtime battle with two kids under four, with my feet propped up on a pillow, laying on my left side while putting away a whole box of pop tarts. Move over, Angelina Jolie’s leg, there’s a new sex symbol in town.


This pregnancy experience is not much different or more spectacular than my previous pregnancies. I know the drill; it’s all pretty standard text book stuff. Sciatic pain, pelvic pain, thigh pain, Charlie horses all night long, constipation, lots of swelling, peeing my pants more than Lisa Rina does in her new depends campaign, and my varicose veins continue to spread and ache.

The only new and newsworthy item is the varicose vein that has spread into my groin. My doctors warned me this could happen from the beginning, and there’s no real preventative care. You just get to suffer until you’re ready for this contraption to aid the swelling and discomfort.

vulvar support

I’m like pregnant batman, but unfortunately the chic purple leotard is not included. Neither is my cape.

I walk around with searing, pulling pain in my crotch all day long. I expect this is what it feels like when men get a nut-punch. Maybe that should be its own book, “What To Expect When You’re Punched In The Nuts”. The pain is the only reason I signed up for something called “vulvar maternity support”.

This pregnancy also comes with the demands and care of two other little kids. It’s less than ideal relaxation.

With my first pregnancy I slept all the livelong day. And everyone around me was super supportive of my naps. These days I try and put my head on a pillow and someone screams for yogurt, or spills yogurt, or falls off of a chair. (Seriously kids, knock it off. Mom’s tired.)

People used to ask me how I was feeling: “oh wow, look at you, you’re glowing. How do you feel?” but now that I’m on baby number three the general public is like “whatever, you obviously love having pregnancy cankles and vulvar support, otherwise you would quit getting knocked up.”

Not only am I not getting offered a free seat when I’m out in public, but if there is a seat available, my kids steal it from me anyways.

It stands to reason that the more kids you have the less sympathy and compassion people have for you. I can basically hear people’s looks when I grunt from a ligament pulling, or moan from a dull back ache. (It’s like I have ESPN or something.) I suspect people are thinking; “toughen up. If you can’t handle it then maybe you shouldn’t have gotten pregnant”.

Maybe I’m putting my own issues onto other people, or maybe people can be jerks. I know from experience because I used to be a jerk too.  Until one day, it was me who needed the support and encouragement and found it nowhere.

I feel like a social leper. Pregnancy isn’t airborne (thank God) but people steer clear of me like I am something to fear. “Crikey, there’s the rare breed who dared to have more than two kids, avert your eyes before she asks you to babysit”.

Having more than two kids makes you ripe for a public shunning. Even though after one baby is born the world cannot wait for baby number two. If there’s one thing almost all women have experienced it’s the pressure to procreate to appease others.

Before your stitches even heal your family is begging you to get pregnant again, but you shouldn’t fall for that shtick unless they are seriously considering buying the house next door, baby sitting weekly and helping you run out for diapers and milk twice a week. You should also take into consideration the gender of your first born. Because everyone expects you to miraculously produce one child of each gender and be “complete” in your procreational success. If your second child is not the preferred opposite gender of the first born, you will inevitably be asked if you will “keep trying”.

You probably should take off your sock and stuff it into the mouth of the person asking you that question. For they are now dead to you, you do not need them, move on.

When you end up with two kids of the same gender and a third baby on the way you might hear this; “well if you have three you have to have four otherwise the balance will be off”.

Say what now, crazy? Who’s balance will be off? Yours. Your balance will be off permanently because I am going to shin-kick some sense into you if you ever say that again.

I need a village. It takes one to raise a child I hear, and I have three kids to raise.  So I probably need a Quiverfull cult with the Duggars at the helm to come and rescue me, rub my feet and tell me I’m pretty.

I is smart. I is kind. I is important.

My stomach has a brain growing inside of it. Let’s try and embrace that for the next few weeks while I embrace the hell out of some pop tarts in my judgment-free bed.

And when you see me at Target wrangling my kids and waddling as fast as I can with shortened breath, you can say “hey lady, good job”.

And that’ll do.

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The Completely Unspecial Unspectacular Birthday

“Mom, who drew on your belly?”

Now, my son is only three so it would have been inappropriate to throw him out of the window when he picked up my shirt and took a long look at my big, pregnant belly.

Instead I said, “nobody son. People just get those when their skin stretches out, like when they’re having babies.”

My husband thought the appropriate and helpful comment to contribute was “kiddo, do you even know how many babies were in that belly?”

Him, I could throw out of a window. My endless drip-supply of love for my husband keeps me in check. Or something.

There’s a je ne sais quoi to this “extra” baby. The surprise has worn off, and been replaced by exhaustion, fatigue and general “I don’t give a fuck-ery”. I’ve been too busy to really notice that tomorrow is my birthday and I’ll be another year older, meanwhile I’m still staring directly at the calendar reading the words “soccer practice”, “baby shower”, “sons’ birthday party”, “anniversary” and Halloween, while I try to remember which date I have a doctor’s appointment and whether or not I double booked it with the kids vaccinations.

Another year, another month full of obligations and responsibilities. I have adapted to my reality, and made the appropriate adjustments, the house isn’t some neatly organized photo out of “Real Simple” magazine, but with systems in place I’m starting to figure out how to be happy in this new role I’ve created for myself of “never ending baby maker”. And making time for my couch is pretty high on the priority list these days.

Last October the Fifth I turned thirty. I was happy to wave my nostalgic goodbye at the mistakes of my past and move into “thirties adulthood” with a prepared sense of purpose. It seemed like a milestone, my husband planned a surprise party for me, and he sent me out shopping while he took care of the kids and put out some food, and gathered our friends. It was a sweet gesture, it was appropriate, and it was miles apart from previous birthdays in my past.

In my twenties my husband and I would take weekends off together to celebrate my birthday, and we would travel to different cities, see bands, go out to bars and waste money like a couple of youngsters with the freedom to not care.

Even with one child in our quiver, we found a way to get a sitter, take a trip and party into my twenty-ninth year.

What I wouldn’t give now for one ounce of that excited feeling and the energy to nail one thrilling day, to bottle it up and dispense it as needed. Every time I think about tomorrow, I feel heavy. The pregnancy is like a weighted blanket, I’m never allowed to forget about the responsibility that I carry, both physically and metaphorically.

My life is not about me anymore. Whether I find it fulfilling or annoying (depending on the day) is of no consequence, and I’ve developed a healthy ambivalence towards the mundane tasks of waking up and changing clothes and brushing teeth, only to end the day putting the kids to bed with the same book, and the same nightly routine.

When a day pops up that is supposed to be “special” it suddenly feels like pressure to do. Do something, be different, be who you want, do what you want; this is the day that counts. The weighted blanket sags a little heavier over my body and my will to take a nap strengthens.

What I want and what I need have become the same huddled mass of tangible things from China that can be purchased in a breezy two-hundred dollar trip to Target on a Monday night.

Special would be the clock learning to stand still while I accomplish putting away the shoes that my kids constantly grow out of. Special would be my back pain clearing up and giving me the movement and ability to fend for myself that I had a year ago. Special would be a late night, with s’mores that won’t go straight to my thighs and wine with a smooth finish and cozy sweaters and peace and quiet.

The reality is rain, mosquitoes and the ever present shadow of motherhood that keeps me from fitting into cozy sweaters in adorable, imagined settings.

Reality is annoyance, it’s sweat on your upper lip and forgetting to wear deodorant.

It’s bad breath and farting in front of your spouse. (I don’t do that)

It’s getting comfortable with a bag of Reese’s that you’ll regret tomorrow while you surf a hundred channels for one decent thing to watch.

I think I know what I’ll be doing for my birthday. And I think thirty-one is going to be just as imperfect, busy and muddled it should be. With stretch marks and uncomfortable conversations.

kids and leaves

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Dyeing To Be Frugal

I have a weird obsession with changing my hair. It’s weird because I’ve lived in the same town my whole life, I travel to the same places every year and I shop at the same three stores every week. Variety and change are not my typical seasoning. It’s a bonafide obsession because the second I get used to the way my hair looks I am driven to change it and make it different. It’s impulsive, and I am consumed by the itch to cut it off or color it. It’s the same feeling that makes bored teenagers do really stupid stuff on YouTube.

As a lady who has spent a war-sized debt on trips to the hair salon, I know that box colors are basically a sin and somewhere out in fiction land Elle Woods; attorney at law, is dying on the inside (see what I did there?) to know that today I caved and bought the box of bleach from the shelf at WalDrug.

I was pretty certain that I was buying a big box of mistake. With my toddler scream-flailing under my arm in a desperate attempt to gain freedom from his ball and chain of a mother, I “swiftly” bent down, grabbed a box of “champagne, caramel, honey wheat” whatever and made way for the register quickly enough that I couldn’t hesitate or rethink my hasty decision. (Or lose control of my toddler and be forced to let him be adopted by the nice staff at WalPharm).

“That’ll be $17.48”, the cashier said.

Holy crap, it’s under twenty bucks for a box of bleach and here I am going to the salon every few months and spending over a hundred and fifty dollars on highlights? Not to mention the begging I have to do to pass my kids off for an afternoon while I sweat it out under a smock. I’m a chump. On the other hand, this project could fail terribly and I’d be walking around with a frizzy, orange, clown ‘fro and be begging my stylist to take me back immediately and make me whole again.

And if she told me no, I would know that I deserved it because I bought that dirty box of hair color.

I have to buckle down on my budget, and it’s boot season. It’s boots or salon highlights this month. Mama can’t cobble her own leather, so at home highlights it is.

For added situational drama, my toddler has recently ceased sleeping due to teething. (On the behalf of parents everywhere I’d like to interject: Fuck You Molars.)

I knew fully that I would be bleaching my hair while simultaneously chasing my toddler and keeping him from falling off of furniture. That’s the twenty dollar, hair color in a box experience for you. No sweet receptionist is serving me tea or water today.

My husband took our preschooler off to school this morning, and I went to work immediately. I’m pretty sure errrbody knows that highlights take eons, and I have only three hours. Tick tock, time’s wasting.

I put on the funny little shower cap that comes with the box, it’s a plastic bonnet, a la great grandma, and it has tiny holes in it that you pull your hair through. With what you ask? What do you pull your hair through those holes with? A knitting needle. Or at least it looks like one.

Prepare to meet your maker, frugal lady. Stabbing yourself in the head with a knitting needle approximately a hundred times and pulling your hair out with it is just as fun as it sounds.

About one hour and four hundred tears later, I had pulled all of the hairs I could handle through those tiny hat holes. And I did it while catching my toddler eating toothpaste, losing a pair of my earrings, opening up a water bottle and dumping it out in the kitchen, then crying because he was wet, then following me back into the bathroom and opening up a bottle of mouthwash and dumping that out on the floor. Mmm, minty fresh toddler spirit.

I take tiny tot out into the kitchen, and fetch him some milk and snacks to hopefully keep him sitting for the next stage.

Mixing the bleach.

I read the directions pretty darn well, because I’m no scientist and I really needed to dummy-proof this part. The box had six different packets in it, six. I had to figure out what I was mixing with; what I was conditioning with and what I was toning with. Who knew that Hairdressers are also chemists?

Alright, frugal pretend chemist, let’s apply this creamy eye-stinging mixture to your raw and beaten scalp!

On went the cream, saturating all of the strands I had pulled through the hat holes. Just in time for the toddler to start screaming because his milk was gone. But this could be good, I might be able to get the baby to sleep while I marinate in bleach fumes.

So I covered my ‘do with the extra plastic bonnet they give you, making sure not to bleach the baby, and I hauled my little one upstairs to go “night-night”.

I basically rocked that kid for an hour, trying desperately to get him to sleep while I was certain my hair was falling out of my head in snowy-white chunks.

After a lot of typical struggle, involving me getting kicked, punched, scratched and yelled at in angry toddlerese, I had the baby asleep in his crib and I was able to sneak out and check the damage on my head.

To my shock, after a full hour of tingling bleach on my hair, it was still pink. Pink? Well that shit just won’t do because I can’t pass for a thirty year old rock star in maternity leggings, no matter how hard I try.

I decided to play it by ear, according to the directions my hair should be in a pile on the floor by now, but it seemed to be holding up, despite my great attempt at murdering it.

In ten minute increments I checked, and rechecked my hair until I was certain it looked more peachy than pink. I convinced myself that I could pull off peach colored hair, because by now I had to be at school pick up in half an hour, so even if it was pink I was going to have to work it, cover girl.

After a rinse and a confusing shampoo with two more packets from the box, I was ready to blow dry this hot mess out and see the damage up close and personal.

I was shocked at the result.

I managed to pull it off.

With mouthwash on my feet, a missing pair of earrings and a toddler with a belly full of “berry blast” Thomas toothpaste, I had created salon quality highlights.

Let’s just use the term “salon quality” loosely. The hair looked good, I was spared an orange, frizzy afro but in no way would I compare what I did to what a salon would do.

I guessed, I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. I had poured chemicals on my bird-pecked scalp. I wasn’t sure if I’d end up in tears and I probably gave both of my babies learning disabilities, all in the name of my vain and uncontrollable urge to constantly change my hair.

I am however going to take pride in this accomplishment, because every craft I have made from Pinterest has failed, every attempt I have ever made at sewing something has ended in my fingers bleeding and nothing gained. But this, this I nailed.

And I probably will never, ever try to nail it again.

HAIRUpdate: A reader has politely explained to me that you do not actually use a knitting needle to stab your head. They provide you with a crochet hook. Tomato, tomatoe, it’s still the devil.


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I’ll Show You Mine: A Learning Moment For Mom

Three is such an adorable age, full of wonder and curiosity. Life is such an adventure when you’re little. You play touch and go with everything and everyone around you, poking and scratching the boundaries like a scab, and sometimes crossing those boundaries. Sometimes just to see what happens when you do, other times crossing the boundary without even realizing it.

The latest and most obvious boundary as we tentatively baby-step towards age four is all about potty language and defining limits with humor. What’s funny, what’s naughty? Where’s the difference? Does mom think I’m funny if I tell a poop joke at the dinner table? No? Well how about the third time, because everything gets funnier after the third time.

What if an older kid gets to say that word that mommy says is naughty? Does that mean I can say it too? It sounds funny coming from another kid, maybe mom was wrong.

I’ve been waiting for the day when my sons brand new school would be calling my cell phone to tell me all about the hilarious poopy-head jokes my charming kid has been delivering. And it looks like I’ll still get to wait for that dreaded call, because the conversation I had at school pick-up today was a little more embarrassing and a little less language related.

To her credit, my son has a completely understanding preschool teacher who has probably seen all of the crazy that these tykes can think up, dream up and throw up.

She very gracefully came up to me on the playground and casually dropped in with a conversation about my sons’ new bestie, a little girl.

It seems they’ve been getting really close lately. In fact they feel so completely comfortable with one another that they decided to start a conversation about butts.

And then, like little frat boys, the adorable tykes started having a butt competition. And everyone knows the only way to settle a butt-off is to take off your pants and compare butts. Regardless of whether or not you’re in a class of fully clothed peers. Because three is a magical age.

So the teacher had a really patient talk with the kids about body parts and boy parts and girl parts and how usually, school is not the appropriate place for a pants-off dance-off.

She explained it all to me with just a hint of a grin and a “hey, it’s natural and they’re just curious kids”.

To which I could only reply; “well all of that curiosity is really baffling since he never gives me a minute in the bathroom alone.”

Because I’m mature like that, and I’m also already pretty mortified so why not go the extra mile? Go big or go home, they say.

I had a little laugh, I made sure to tell my son to talk to mommy when he has body questions loud enough so that his teacher heard me, and then to fully humiliate both of us I reiterated that “school is not the place to get naked, unless you have to potty”.

My little kid avoided eye contact with me for five full minutes and asked me to stop talking.

So I did, because I totally freaking get that.

Damn if I didn’t try and play it cool, and be the progressive “there’s no shame in your body” type of mom, but apparently we weren’t going to have that kind of conversation today.

Boundary tested, son.

I’m so not ready for this stuff.

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I Can’t Keep Calm, I’m a Mom

It’s just a little shit fit. No big deal.

Every weekend my husband is home from work. Every weekend I make sure and take my three year old out for some big kid time with mom, the baby doesn’t tag along and the big kid is free to drink his own smoothies and run at the park without his little brother getting in the way. It always ultimately helps the family bond.

Our favorite smoothie place is this super expensive local food Co-op. Think Whole Foods but small and locally owned. Lots of body odor and six dollar cups of kale juice flying around in that place. They sell little handmade and fair trade wares from around the world. Today they had scarves. My son had spent our whole walk together complaining that he was cold, and me being the mother of the year figured he would warm up from the movement of walking. Such was not the case, and he saw the scarves on our way to order a smoothie and he lit up like Christmas morning.

“Oooh! Soft scarves mommy! They’re warm! I want one to keep me warm!”

The scarves are super pretty and I’d wear it anyway. Plus my mom guilt was making my brain painfully throb because I didn’t bring him a jacket.

“Well kiddo, let’s pick out one that mommy likes. That blue one is pure silk and I can’t clean silk.”

“But I want THIS ONE mommy!”

“No, no babe, let’s pick out one of these other pretty ones.”

“NO! NO! NO!”

What proceeded was a series of shrill screams, with lots of unintelligible words. The ones I understood were “NO MOMMY I WANT THE BLUE ONE. GIVE ME THE BLUE ONE! AHHHH! WAHHH!”

I mom-reflexed and my fight or flight response kicked in. I picked him up, held him close, glued my eyes onto the sliding doors that led to the outdoors and focused like a drone on getting him out of there without being accosted by peaceful-parenting gurus full of kale juice, quinoa and happy thoughts who would likely suggest that I “keep calm and try offering him a distraction” or some other nonsense.

Nope, just get us out of here while I skillfully avoid eye contact with any moving objects.

The kid needs to have his tantrum but he damn well doesn’t need to do it next to the seven dollar chicken salad with the eyes of the world’s wealthiest grocery shoppers watching.

We took our show on the road, across the street to a bench by a river. How serene, I thought, this will be very calming for him. Except he’s three, and babbling brooks do nothing to thwart the ongoing screams and begging. For a minute I was afraid he looked like he was being kidnapped by me. I waffled between fear and heart-swallowing mommy guilt when he started yelling, “I’ll behave mommy, please buy me the scarf, I’m so cold!”

Yeah, that stabbed like a dagger.

He’s freezing even though it’s sixty-five degrees and everyone knows that he’s crying because I am obviously an awful mom. I stare at the ground, too afraid of what I might see in strangers’ eyes if I dared to look around me.

I let him keep crying, and crying. And yelling and yelling.  I’m calmly suggesting that he be quiet and stop screaming so we can talk. Reason, yes, kids are famous for having the ability to reason, especially when deep in the throes of emotional soap opera tumult.

When nothing else works to end his screams, I pull out my cell phone and call daddy at home.

“Dear husband, tell me what to do about this fine mess.”

He can hear our son screaming through the phone. I tell him it’s been ten minutes of this and it shows no signs of stopping. I’m getting really tired of watching this tantrum burn down and I’m sure our audience is really sick of our shit too. Just judging by the way the benches next to us started to really clear out.

With my husband on the phone talking me down before I cry and collapse in defeat, I decide to pry his little fingers off of the bench that he’s been white knuckling while he screams in my face. I pull him to me and haul him up over my huge belly. The baby sister I’m cooking starts to kick her brothers legs in protest and my back is totally starting to give out, but we have to move. We have to get closer to home and away from this store before someone calls the cops on the pregnant woman in mid-kidnap.

All I can do is heft this sobbing kid like a sack of loud-ass potatoes and try to get home.

At a cross walk I set him down while we wait for a turn to cross. This ignites a whole new shit storm in him. He does not want to be put down he wants to be held like NOW, however I do not want to go into labor on Main Street.

I manage to coerce him two more blocks through his sobs and screams to the next bench. So we sit and I call my husband, again.

“This is it, we can’t go any further. Can you come get us?”

And while I rub his little back, his sobs die down. The sun comes out from behind the clouds and warms up our little bench. He starts to drift off to sleep.

Moments later the minivan of salvation pulls up and we are finally done. I am so done.

Torn between guilt and anger I let the tantrum go. There are no repercussions or time outs because twenty minutes of public screaming has broken my thin resolve and his.

The tantrum has extinguished and in its place is relief and gratitude for the strength of the people around us that day, because nobody paid our stand-off much attention. The general public fanned away from the child drama and kept their cool. The cops never showed up, nobody ever stopped us or intercepted. Nobody tried to offer advice, and truthfully when a child is having his fit there is no advice, comment or condolence that will help the immediate circumstance.

Not even a heavy sigh or suggestion of disappointment came from the crowd.

The most supportive and understanding gift I received was silence from the passerby. What helped the most was having the people around pretend that nothing was happening. I was the mom who looked awful, enormously pregnant, stressed out and ready to cry. My child was being the monster child that people complain about in airports and shopping malls; I was an easy target for judgment or an ill-timed “it gets better”.

It doesn’t get better anyway. It’s life and it’s always a challenge.

I’ve at least learned why moms throughout history have always insisted that their kids “bring a jacket”.

I have arrived.

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What’s That Smell? Oh, It’s Wal-Mart

I hate shopping. That’s actually a bold-face lie that needs clarification. I hate shopping with my kids and I hate shopping at Wal-Mart.

There is a Wal-Mart ten minutes away from my house and a Target twenty minutes away from my house in the opposite direction. Typically the ten minute difference is worth the trip to Target. If you’re a shopper who pays attention, you know there is a difference when shopping in those monstrous box stores.

There are days when I want to shop for my paper towels with a greasy pony tail and still be voted best dressed on the Wal-Mart red carpet.

I could outline all of the ways Target is awesome and Wal-Mart isn’t in an entire novel, but I’ll try to keep it brief.

Wal-Marts’ shelves are stocked like drunks broke in after hours and pranked everyone by moving all of the merchandise and putting the wrong price stickers on everything.

The Wal of Marts believes in blocking every aisle in the store with giant stacks of random shit you do not need. They haven’t figured out the sneakier methods of sale seduction like Target has. Target has masterminded ad campaigns to get you to buy things you don’t need when you’re not even in their store and bolstered that with simple product placement once you walk in the door.

Shopping at Wal-Mart feels dirtier. Like it’s the back-road, seedy strip joint of competitively priced department stores. I expect I’m being swindled when I step through the sliding doors into a dimly lit, disorganized shopping-prison. If I take my kids there I can count on losing an entire day to tantrums for toys and leaving with a headache the size of the hole in my wallet.

I walk into Target and hit a united front of adorable handbags and sunglasses, it’s such a score for a mom to breeze by with a shopping cart full of screaming kids and do a one-handed bird of prey style swoop-in for a new pair of sunglasses, glance at the shoes and then hit a rack of yoga pants, all before I get to the cheap and good quality Up and Up diapers. That store knows their demographic, they know how I shop, they cater to it and I love them for it.

I walk into a Wal-Mart and slowly trudge behind thirty other people all bottle necking at the sliding doors because there’s a random bin of .99 cent movies happening in the flow of traffic. Then my kid screams at me because there’s a god damn Elmo movie in the bottom of that bin and he wants to look for it. Off to a great start, thanks Wal-Mart.

Moms pay attention to the price of the milk and the orange juice when they shop, because the kids we feed consume so much of it, and we watch our refrigerators empty every three days in quiet contempt, frustrated that we cannot spend a hundred bucks on sexy leather boots, or save up for the newer fridge with an ice maker because the kids drank all of the milk in one day, again.

The milk and the orange juice at Wal-Mart aren’t cheaper. There, I said it. I blew the lid off of the whole thing. Up here in New England our dairy and juice cost the same at a regular grocery store, or (gasp) at Target. Sure, you can convince yourself that the meat and produce at Wal-Mart is worth the deal. But I’m going to go all Tom Brokaw on this business and expose the truth; all of that produce and meat is going to go bad in record time. I have thrown away bananas that went from green to over-ripe in the twenty-four hour period that they sat on my counter. I bought a chicken once, and the next day it turned into a green and slimy sea-monster that smelled like a crime scene. And here I thought that GMO’s were supposed to make our food last longer? So exactly how long is that food sitting in a truck for before it hits those shelves? I’m going to leave it at that before I puke in my mouth at the thought of green, slimy chicken.

So why would I even bother going to a store that I loathe?

Because sometimes that extra ten minutes in the car with my kids is a safety hazard for other drivers, and my kids.

Because this time I had to take my grandmother to the Wal-Mart pharmacy so she could pick up her meds.

And sometimes, there’s no other way around it.

I brought my kids to Wal-Mart today and they drove me insane.

The checkout line was as backed up as a truck stop bathroom, true to Wal-Mart form and it took half an hour to cash out, my cashier left the desk to help another cashier, because apparently Wal-Mart also doesn’t know how to hire front end supervising staff to assist their cashiers. It was hot in front of those registers, (it’s hard to keep the machines cool while syphoning millions of dollars) and we had a charming view into the in-house super cuts salon while we waited.

Then, a couple in their matching hover-rounds rolled up in line next to us, smelling like my green, slimy Wal-Mart chicken and my preschooler could not stifle his curiosity.
“Hey mommy, what’s that disgusting smell?!” Was exactly what he yelled to me.

I managed not to die of humiliation and he managed not to puke by dramatically holding his nose closed and refusing to breathe.

I had a fun time explaining to my three year old in whispers the importance of bath time, and how sometimes people smell bad but we have to be polite and not talk about it.

The good news is Wal-Mart taught my three year old to appreciate the grooming rituals I force on him.

And that never happens at Target.

Either way, every time I leave my house it seems to cost me a Hundred and Fifty cold ones.

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A New School Year, Same Old Mom

“A new school! A new school year! You’re getting so big!”

I have been excitedly ramping up for tomorrow since June. We knew our current daycare/school situation was probably circling the drain and heavy budget cuts were coming, along with the potential for closings. We took an opportunity to jump with two feet out of uncertainty and find a new preschool program for our budding, um, genius, artist, athelete, sand-throwing, foot-stomping, hotdog-eating Chucky Doll.

We scored a spot in a little private school close to our house with a Preschool through Elementary program. It was going to cost more, we were not going to have a lunch program available, and I was going to have to do a noon pick up time. But it’s walking distance, it’s in the woods and the kids get to take advantage of lots of outdoor space and run out their energy while I get to start planning lunches and signing up for parent-teacher meetings, and figuring out what “the board” does and who they are. Also, lots of meeting other preschool parents and trying not to blush while I stumble over the names of little Zimbase, Zoeanna, Jeddiadiason and Quatashin.

“I love that name! It’s so beautiful. What is he/she the god/goddess of?”

Uh Oh. I don’t own any organic cotton or clogs and I don’t know if I’m going to fit in here. Lookout Amazon, mama’s ordering all of your reusable snack bags while she looks at woolen sweaters on Etsy and wonders if she can just lie and say she made them herself.

At this point I would send my child to the Martian School of Scientology for Tots of it got him out of my hair for three hours.

He’s been acting very Four lately. If your child is still three and you think it’s pretty awful, I won’t tell you it gets worse and I won’t tell you it gets better. I’ll just wait for your kids’ birthday and gift you lots of wine to replace all of the patience that a Four year old will suck from your soul.

He wants to have debates with me about which of his friends have seen bears. He wants to know who ran over that skunk in the road and what color house they live in. He has so many questions that I cannot answer, and he likes to ask them five times in a row. It doesn’t matter if I answer him or not, he either keeps asking or tells me I’m wrong, whoever ran over that skunk obviously lives in a blue house mom, not a white one. There’s no such thing as white houses mom, what are you thinking?

I need a break. I need this school. I’m clearly a terrible mother with no heart. So yes, I excitedly took my preschooler shopping for backpacks, lunchboxes and thermoses two weeks ago. Whatever it costs, let’s get you to school, because school is better than REDRUM.

I spent two hundred dollars on snacks, because I won’t be the mom who forgets to pack lunches this year, I swear. I’m still a newbie and there’s too much room for error. This whole school ordeal comes with a hefty sack of time and money commitments.

I signed up for the open house potluck and brought cheese tortellini’s that were not vegan, kosher, gluten-free or dairy-free. They weren’t even organic. I placed them in their plastic bowl that I bought at Wal-Mart eight years ago alongside the wooden, handcrafted and hand-thrown pottery bowls that belong to far fancier and earthier parents. I’m going to start this school year off right, and be myself. I’m not going to start off the school year foot by misrepresenting my family, which would only lead to added pressure for me and future disappointment for everyone who gets involved with me, seriously, I own one hand-made bowl and it’s not setting foot in a preschool. You can come visit it on the shelf in my house that it lives on.

We already have parent-teacher and all school meeting commitments lined up before the start of school. It’s a lot of prep work to get these three and four year olds to dig in the dirt. But I swore I would be the mom who cares about education, in a way that is authentic to who I am.

We show up forty-five minutes late, half of us are missing our shoes, and we generally forget we have committed to volunteer to make cupcakes, but we’ll burn rubber to the grocery store and buy some on our way to the bake sale, because we care. We are those people, but we’re not going to be ashamed because I have finally reached the point in my parenting where I do not have time to care about serving platters, and if nobody eats my full-sugar baked goods then there will be more for me to stuff in my face at bed time. I’m free from having to wonder if I bought the right Dansko clogs and I don’t genuinely care about homemade ghee. (What’s ghee? Maybe I do care.)

Hey, at least I have the reusable snack bags to hide the generic snacks so nobody has to know that I totally buy Spiderman cheeze it’s for my kids.

They will take me or they will leave me and I will silently sit at home and hope for the first two weeks that my child doesn’t become besties with the ambiguously organic child with a love of leeks and garlic and a genderless name that I cannot pronounce.  If he does, then I just hope his parents wear deodorant. Maybe I should start seeking out outdoor spaces to host play dates.

I digress.

There are no tears for drop off tomorrow; mostly I’m just concocting an exit strategy so I don’t get sucked into staying for the entire three hour school day. I think I’ve really nailed down the perfect plan; send DAD.

Cheers to tomorrow

 bumblebee backpack


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