< !DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.0 Transitional//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40/loose.dtd">

The other day, someone I didn’t know reached out to me and complimented me on how brave it was that I am so open about my experience with postpartum depression.

I was flattered, to be honest. But the only thing I could think to say back, besides thank you, was that I wish someone had spoken out about it before I did.

I know doctors talked about it in articles you could find in mental health magazines. There were some celebrities that had discussed their situations. But no one sat my pudgy pregnant little ass down and said, “Okay, you have a history of depression.

CONTINUE READING

< !DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.0 Transitional//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40/loose.dtd">

On my Facebook page the other day, I decided to jump on the “How Hard Has Aging Hit You Extravaganza for 30-Somethings Reliving Their Best Life Via Facebook” challenge. I had my profile picture from college next to my current profile picture. The pictures were taken approximately twelve years and one hundred forty-two bottles of self tanner apart.

I could say that having children aged me. Or having a full time job and a mortgage and responsibilities has aged me. But I know that it’s really the fact that I am actually twelve years older that has aged me. And I have cut the tanning bed out of my life.

CONTINUE READING

< !DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.0 Transitional//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40/loose.dtd">

For the last four years or so, I have consistently talked about how I need to get my shit together. You know, start recycling, shower on a regular basis, make sure I actually make it to the lunches I plan with friends, do a great job at work, take care of my children, do the laundry every weekend, spend quality time with my husband, find a hobby that doesn’t include alcohol, lose 20 pounds and Marie Kondo my entire home.

How many other ladies out there have felt the same way? Raise your hands, I know you have said the exact same thing.

CONTINUE READING

< !DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.0 Transitional//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40/loose.dtd">

I will start this post with yet another disclaimer. I know that in approximately two years, I will have to delete this or my four year old will hate me for the rest of his life. Luckily, he has no idea how to read yet.

Until then, enjoy this post because he says some pretty funny shit. No pun intended.

The phrase toilet humor made no true sense to me until I had a four-year old boy. Then he learned about poop and I realized I would hear about it every day for the rest of my life.

Maybe we talked about poop too much when he was younger.

CONTINUE READING

< !DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.0 Transitional//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40/loose.dtd">

Let’s just start out by saying that I am a legit child of the 80’s. Going to eat lunch or dinner at Ponderosa was BIG DEAL when I was six. I mean, that was before my city got a Sizzler, but we won’t go there.

Ponderosa was such a big deal in Owensboro, KY, that we had two of them. They were approximately five stoplights away from each other and are both closed now.

I remember going there as a child and staring at the salad bar in awe. It was enormous. Salad and chicken wings and rolls and mashed potatoes and did I mention the soft serve ice cream machine??

CONTINUE READING

< !DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.0 Transitional//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40/loose.dtd">

I will start this post out with a disclaimer. I am not pregnant and do not plan to have any more babies. No, I am not going to try for a girl. Sorry to anyone that got excited when they read the title.

I have had discussions with many of my friends lately about how annoyed they got that their husband complained the entire time they were pregnant. Or that their husband complained once when they were pregnant. Either way, it was not cool.

It inspired me to share their stories with the world so that hopefully the wonderful men in our lives will get the point and keep their sweet little mouths shut while we prepare to bring a human being into this world.

CONTINUE READING

< !DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.0 Transitional//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40/loose.dtd">

After ten long months of being pregnant with my first child Henry, I literally could not wait to meet him.

Actually, I don’t know if it was that I couldn’t wait to meet him or that I couldn’t wait for him to evacuate the premises.

I am not a good pregnant person. I gain a ton of weight, swell up kind of like the Hulk and complain ALL.DAY.LONG about the fact that I am angry, hot, sweaty and have somehow busted out four pairs of flip flops in one week.

This is a “sort of” apology to my husband for having to endure my pregnancy madness twice.… CONTINUE READING

< !DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.0 Transitional//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40/loose.dtd">

Every article I see lately is about how it is the job of the mom to make Christmas magical for her kids.

You know what I have to say about that nonsense? RUDE.

Disclaimer: I am not trying to sound like a Scrooge here, but why does Christmas have to include so much pressure? Can’t we just enjoy it? I don’t think when Baby Jesus was born that Mary surprised him with a brand new donkey and an Elf on the Shelf. I think she snuggled her sweet baby and hung out with Joseph and the Three Wise Men.

Is getting gifts from a fat man in red suit that slides down your chimney in the middle of night not magical enough?… CONTINUE READING

< !DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.0 Transitional//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40/loose.dtd">

Let’s talk about the time span between getting home with your kids after a long day of work and actually getting them into bed. And staying in bed. I like to think of this as the longest part of my day.

The minute the car pulls into the garage, all chaos ensues. The baby will start screaming and Henry will complain about the first thing he can think of. Tonight, his eyeball hurt.

It never fails. I have never pulled into my garage with a smiling child.

I get the boys out of the car and try to enter the house with Simon in his carrier, my purse that’s massive, and Henry’s school bag.… CONTINUE READING

< !DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.0 Transitional//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40/loose.dtd">

I am in the part of my life that media has labeled “in the weeds” as a mom. I have a one-year old and a four-year old. Both little boys. Both stubborn and headstrong, just like their Mom and Dad.

My one-year old, Simon, is a crawling wrecking ball. He paves a path of destruction everywhere he goes. If he can see it and touch it, he will throw it across the room. He has an incredibly good arm for a toddler. If it’s too big or too heavy to throw, he will push, shove it, knock it over or scream so loud that you cannot ignore it.… CONTINUE READING