Mommy Confessions Blog

Love Stinks!

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 18:04:00 +0000

Confession: I've got smelly kids.

Okay, they aren't actually smelly. And I love them no matter what. But, I do find myself having to have the talk, with my 5 and 8 years olds, about how they don't want to be that kid in school. The one that no one wants to play with because he's, well, a little less than fragrant. All the while, having to have the other talk, about how if they should come across that kid in school, they had better be nice to him, and treat him just like any other kid. But, the long and short of it is, some kids are just lazy about good hygiene. Mine included.

Take a sniff. Go ahead. I dare you. While I was reluctant to be one of those parents who demanded that their children's outfits be perfectly matched, or they look like they're doing a Parents magazine cover shoot at all times, I never thought we'd fall so far in the opposite direction. You see, my kids are stinky. It's not my fault really. Okay, maybe a little. I like to let them play in the dirt, have fun, you know, be kids. But my kids, they fight taking a shower. They hate brushing their teeth. They even try to wear the dirty clothes from their hamper, rather than clean clothes from the drawer. And these? These are my girls! Perhaps my kids are not unusual. Perhaps it's a phase that all kids go through? Though I had hoped that having a bedroom that smelled like a sweaty gym locker was something I would deal with someday with my then teenage son. I wasn't expecting that odor to emanate from the shared bedroom of my 5 and 8 year old daughters!

And the worst part of it is, I don't really do much to alleviate the problem. I'm not saying I'm lazy, because, my Lord if you could count all the things I do for these kids in a day, the mind boggles. But, let's just say I'm a 'let the dogs eat that spilled food off the carpet rather than vacuum' kind of gal. And so, I have been known to go in to the girls room, sniff around, and walk right back out. Knowing full well that my underwear hating 5 year old has probably removed and stashed several used pair under her bed. Or that my sock losing 8 year old has probably taken off and tossed her dirty little socks in various spots, every day this week. And, eventually it will all get dealt with. When I cant take the hands-in-your-butt, or up your nose, or in the dirt, smell of kids anymore, they will be forced to shower. When I see that there's no room in my daughters bed for her to sleep amid the removed clothes that cant find their way to the hamper, I'll make her clean out her bed. And when I see (or smell) that my 5 year old has been again storing her undergarments under her pillow, I will actually change her sheets and pillow cases.
It's pretty bad when the boy has the best hygiene in the house. Of course, he's teetering on the brink now too, having developed a fondness for blowing his nose in his sleeve. What? They teach that shit in school, people!

The Six Week Rule

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 17:16:00 +0000

Though I have to admit, I am no longer lounging on my death-bed, I am still feeling less than articulate right now. And so, I give you a guest post that I could not possibly pass up. Please welcome local author, Kelly Perotti, to Mommy Confessions. You can check out Kelly's book, Crib Notes, here.

Confession: I was in no hurry to get back into the business of baby making.

Everyone knows—it’s recommended that you don’t have sex for six weeks after you have a baby, or at least until you go back for your postpartum checkup and get the all clear. Supposedly that’s so that you have time to heal and recover from the recent trauma to the key areas, but I think it’s about more than that. First of all, unless you’re the parent of the one in a million babies who are born knowing how to sleep and eat on schedule, you will not have time. It’s more likely that you’ll need to be reintroduced to your partner by time you’re ready to have sex.
I admit that I was not real upset with this time frame. But, amazingly, even after witnessing the beautiful mess called childbirth, my husband still found me sexy. It would seem natural that after the memory of the Delivery Room scene, along with a whiff of my New Mom Smell, he wouldn’t want to be in sniffing range, much less close enough for any type of intimacy. New Mom Smell? That’s the lovely scent combination of breast milk and unwashed hair. It’s similar in concept to New Car Smell, only it’s not as desirable and it doesn’t fade as fast. But by some miracle of nature, he was not disgusted by me but rather had a really difficult time lasting through those seemingly-endless six weeks. (We think we’re a superior species, but we really are animals.)
So how did I feel? Maybe I enjoyed my legitimate excuse, sing-songing, “Sorry, we can’t—Doctor’s Orders” each time he came within three feet of me. No, that’s harsh. Let’s just say I was just indifferent about it. While I was looking forward to, one day, having sex again, I didn’t want that day to be today...or tomorrow. During the days when it was hard to find time to brush my teeth, I’m not sure I even had time to think about it at all.
When I added in the potential for pain, I was left wanting to extend my stay at Hotel Celibacy for another few weeks. It’s one of life’s nasty jokes that during your breasts’ peak they’re most untouchable. Between the pain and the risk of leakage, I was tempted to have ‘Hands Off’ printed on the cups—God knows there was plenty of room on that full coverage nursing bra.
My OB warned that a weakened pelvic floor (I did my kegels, I swear, but still!), stitches, and residual increased sensitivity could make that first time feel, well, like your first time. “Unless it’s truly unbearable,” she said, “try, try again.” Really? What’s next, practice makes perfect? Gotta climb back on the horse? Right. Let’s leave it at that.
My less-clinical, more-raucous friend gave me the real advice: “Just do it. You’ll be fine. Just don’t let your body be a buzzkill.” While I was horrified at the idea of getting into any position that risked letting my new excess belly skin hang down, she assured me that was not what my husband was focusing on.
To make a long story short (too late for that, I know), I was fine. In fact, I managed to have enough sex that I got pregnant again…and thus started the cycle all over again.

Adapted from Crib Notes available at Xlibris, Amazon, Kindle, and most online book retailers.

Health Care Reform?

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 17:45:00 +0000

At this point, I've pretty much just vanished amidst a pool of snotty tissues, Halloween candy wrappers, and my tear stained Phillies jersey. So, I'm just letting all hell break loose around here. Got something you want to post? Just shoot me an email. I'll put it up. What the hell? I knew the blog would have to go to shit someday, right? I could only keep it up for so long with all these crazies around me. But meanwhile, a real, live, actual guest post from Laura aka Hoola from The Toddler Review.
For the record, I have no idea what "Calpol" is.

Confession: Sometimes I dream of a nice, long hospital stay

Ok, first things first, dear American readers. As you may or may not recall from my previous post I am British. And in case you weren’t already aware, our healthcare is funded by the government through something called the National Health Service. Which means that unless we’re uber-rich we end up in hospital rooms which look not unlike this:

Please believe me, there was blood – real, human blood – on the walls in the room I gave birth to my daughter in. Before I gave birth to her I mean.

Anyway, sometimes there are days when hiding in a closet/retreating in to an imaginary world in which I can afford a nanny/pretending to be working when I’m actually posting pictures of owls on Twitter just doesn’t cut it. These are the days when my three and a half year old daughter has the volume stuck on eleven and my two year old son makes it through five nappies in one morning. The days when all I want to do is sit in a totally empty, silent room and not speak to anyone except the voices in my head. On these days I would give absolutely anything for a teensy little trip to the hospital.

This is not to say that I’m suicidal – I’m not about to take a long slug of the kids’ Calpol or walk out in front of a bus. In fact in an ideal world my dream hospital stay would definitely not include having my stomach pumped or any bones set (although a broken leg would give me a fair few weeks off of responsibility wouldn’t it? That’s certainly worth thinking about). I’m talking instead about an illness minor enough to be fairly painless and still allow me to, you know, sit up in bed and read back issues of Elle Decoration, watch a bit of banal daytime television (Jeremy Kyle, Richard and Judy – these are the things which make Britain great, truly). I’d merrily scoff down the appalling hozzie food with a smile on my face in exchange for this luxury.

Again for those not au fait with the wonderful world of the NHS hospital, the food is so bafflingly bad that one patient who is in traction at one of our hospitals (ie: long term stay. Lucky bugger!) has started something called ‘Food Bingo’ in which he posts pictures of his dinner on the internet and we, the public, guess what it’s supposed to be.
If only the internet had smell-o-taste-o-vision, because pictures do not even begin to describe the slop they serve up in these places.

I’ve considered all angles carefully and have decided that this illness would need to warrant, ooh, at least a week’s stay. The ideal would be a minor symptom which suggests something fairly serious, not deadly (I shouldn’t like to worry anyone too much in case they feel the need to visit), but something which requires that I be confined to a room for tests or ‘observation’. Of course once I was adequately rested the docs would find out that there was nothing in the least wrong, letting me out again on the basis that I come back for a week once a month for the next eighteen years to double check.

Now do let me know if I’m the only one who thinks like this – my mother always said I had a vivid imagination – but if all of us mums are in agreement I don’t see how our governments can deny us the right to a hospital room just for a little rest once in a while, all it’ll take is a little public pressure. Placard anyone?

Chick Fight?

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 12:56:00 +0000

In light of my World Serie hiatus, and my newly acquired illness, please welcome my first of a few guest posters, Jen (AKA frelle on Twitter) from Pursuing Harmony. Make her feel welcome!

Confession: I almost bitchslapped another mom

Have you ever had the cops called on you?

What was it for? Drunken and disorderly conduct? Streaking through campus during rush week? A loud fight with your cheating boyfriend?

See, that sounds perfectly understandable to me. I got the cops called on me at a community wide women's Bible Study

Truth is stranger than fiction, isn't it?

We had finished Bible Study for the day, and I had brought my 3 younger kids outside. There is an enclosed play area, and it has a play structure and wood chips underneath. I was not paying attention to if there were any other moms in the play area, or how many kids were in there, but coming in and out of the fenced in play area is something I have done after bible study for the last 3 years. I was comfortable with leaving them in there with me nearby, talking to another mom and making lunch plans.

My youngest, Teddy decides he is going to make a move to walk off the curved rock wall, which is at an opening about 3 1/2 feet off the ground. A mom I did not know was in there (on her cell phone), and was telling Teddy to stop. I looked over, and the mom starts yelling Whose child is this? Why aren't you in here with your baby? etc. She continues to harp, and I walk toward the fence, saying I'm his mother You know, you could have said that a nicer way because she was being a harpy about it. Maybe I needed the reminder to not be so far away, but she was not very nice about how she said it. I got nearer to her, and she continued to berate me. I thanked her for saving my child from certain death (I admit I was sarcastic), and she continued to blather on about my negligence.

I said thank you. I replied, trying to get across to her that I was done with this conversation. Then I left the play area.

She decided to announce to me and anyone else within hearing distance that she was going to go in and talk to the Children's Program director, because I clearly wasn't getting the point about my responsibility to my children. She brought the children's director outside and talked to both of us about my negligence. The director didn't have much to say about it. At this point, I was concerned that she might think I had just left my toddler in there, and I told her I had 3 kids in there. At that point, she became ugly.

Well maybe you have too many children to keep track of. Or maybe you think that if one gets brain damaged or killed you can just have another one.

Whoa. Hold up. Did she actually just say that??
I was surprised that all that came out of my mouth was I think your righteousness is just a bit too righteous for me today . In my head, I closed the area between us in about a stride and a half, and backhanded her while shouting obscenities.
But that would have been a poor choice in the Bible Study parking lot. Ah restraint. At least I had some, can't say the same for her. Since the children's director was not doing or saying anything to satisfy this lady, she announced that she was going to call the cops. And she did. Loudly.

It is one thing to be nasty because you don't like the way someone is parenting their kid. He was under verbal control, he was not in peril, he was in familiar territory with other familiar children.... I think going in and talking to the bible study kids director was taking it further than necessary.

But the cops? Really?

Several other moms were outside and in the playground area at this point, and had heard firsthand what was going on. They were shocked, and angry on my behalf. None of them were familiar with the crazy lady either. These moms all do the same things I do, come in and out of the area, by default watch each others kids, our kids all know each other and play there weekly. I reminded them to watch their kids closely lest this happen to them, and not without sarcasm and a look of utter outrage. As I walked my kids over to our van to wait for the cops, my older two were very concerned about the lady calling the cops. My older one was very defensive of my actions, and my middle one cried because she was afraid I was going to get taken to jail.
I waited for the cops. And fumed. And shot daggers at the crazy lady. And fumed some more. And tried to reassure my children that I had done nothing wrong, and that the lady who called the cops was not a nice lady. In a matter of about 15 minutes, the police showed up.

Two female officer approached and spoke to the crazy lady.

And then... she lied to them. AUGH!

Again, in my head, I'm striding toward her, this time with the handle to the jack in my trunk, or an umbrella or some other object that will hush the nasty vitriole emanating from her.

Oh, I'm so glad you're here. She just kept yelling at me, I was concerned that she might hurt me. She told them that Teddy almost fell to his death off the 3 ft tall play structure (since she alone saved him. All hail the supermom).

And then, then she claimed that after she asked whose child Teddy was that I just started screaming at her. She was concerned that I might threaten her physically, she was worried about my children, and felt like she needed to call the cops for her own protection.

I seethed. I shot more daggers. In my head, I am pinning her neck with my knee against the brick retaining wall and shouting in her ear about how she is a lying, meddling whack job. In reality, I am calmly leaning back against my van, shaking my head listening to the amazing and untrue tale she is spinning.
They took her name and information. Which I memorized.

The officers approached me and asked my side of the story. I told what I remembered: that her tone of voice sucked when she called out to me, and that I spoke two sentences to her. They asked me if I came at her in anger, touched her, or verbally assaulted her with yelling or cursing. I said no. I asked if she was going to file a report and asked if I needed to prepare for a home visit. The officers told me that as far as they knew, this was it, but would call me if the lady went further with it. One of the officers said In this state, you are free to parent your child in any way you see fit. If you were satisfied with the level of supervision your child was getting from a distance, that is totally your business. I'm sure this is humiliating for the both of you to be involved in this. And I responded well, I seriously doubt that this woman has any idea that it is humiliating right now, but yeah.

The officer told me I was free to go.

The crazy lady clearly did not get the justice that she thought the situation deserved, so I was concerned that she would call Child Protective Services, since she knew my name. I was also concerned that that if she actually came back to Bible Study that she would continue to berate me or start spreading gossip. I was not sure of my ability to continue being gracious. Turns out she never came back. But I know who she is, and I know to look out for her.

I've never been so publicly accused and embarrassed in my life. Just goes to show you that no matter where you go, there are people who think the way you parent your kids is incorrect. Man, how about you screw up your kids your way, and I'll screw up my kids my way.

Is There Anybody Out There?

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 17:24:00 +0000

Confession: I'm a sports fan.

Okay, okay, that is an understatement. Now, I know sports are not for everyone. Hey, not all chicks dig sports. I get it. It's cool. And not to alienate my sports shunning sister-moms, but it's true. I love to watch and cheer my favorite teams to victory. Or defeat. I am the one who gets totally pissed when my husband or kids stand in front of the t.v. during a big game. I am the one who shirks off potential discussion on football Sundays. And I am the one who, during the 2009 World Series, is unable to put together any blog posts.

That is why I have friends. Awesome friends. Twitter friends. Blogging friends. And so, for the rest of this amazing World Series (which I hope will end in 3 more games with a Phillie's sweep), I will be having guest bloggers. I'm turning over the reigns; letting the inmates run the asylum. And if they are not funny, not convincing, not heartfelt enough for you, well- don't blame me, I'm off watching the game somewhere!

See you soon!

Race for Hope

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 03:55:00 +0000
Confession: I'm not half the mother, the person, that my grandmother was.

.... And if you knew her, even if you met her once, you know its true. She was THE best. And she loved me. And she died. On January 24th, 2004. Of a stage 4 Glioblastoma that none of us knew about until there was no hope. And I STILL can't even write about it. So, I'm not gonna. And I'll take the emails and the criticism about using my "mommyblog" to solicit money and participants for the Race For Hope. I'll put on my big girl panties and deal with it. Relevance? How about without her, I wouldn't be half the mother I am today! And probably wouldn't be the author of this blog, or anything else. So please, consider running, walking, or just sponsoring me, as I honor the woman who allowed this blog to be. Support 'Eleanors Angels' in the Philadelphia 5k Run/Walk on Sunday, November 1st. Follow the link below:
Race for Hope - Philadelphia:

You are all, the most wonderful and supportive readers. Thank you!

Preperation H(uh)?

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 18:26:00 +0000
Confession:
I have used hemorrhoid cream on my face!

Yes, I am back to posting the real true confessions that you love to hear. None of that sissy la-la stuff this week. Today, I confess to slathering hemorrhoid cream on my face, because, um, somebody told me it was a good idea. The things that we crazy, tired, overworked, moms won't do.

A few weeks ago, I mentioned to a friend that my eyes were really tired and puffy looking and that I hadn't been sleeping well (with 3 kids, who does?). I told her that I had so much luggage under my eyes that it looks as though I might be planning a trip to Spain. Then, that friend said to me, in a perfectly serious tone, "you should try putting hemorrhoid cream on them." Oooookkkkaaay. Excuse me? "Yes", she declared! Hemorrhoid cream works great on dark circles and under-eye puffiness. She told me that she uses it all the time. Declaring her a freak, I ignored her idea. Then within hours, not 1 but 2 other women confirmed her claim.

Naturally I was skeptical. So, I went to the most reliable source available when dealing with putting butt cream near your eyes, I Googled it. Boy was I surprised to see that this is a fairly well-known and common practice. Yes, it would seem, we've become so appearance obsessed in our society, that we will even resort to slathering our faces with ass cream in order to look "better" to others. And wouldn't you know, I was on my way to the store within the hour to pick me up a tube of the precious potion. I'm not too sure that it was the miracle lift that I was looking for. That, I fear, will take a whole team of plastic surgeons. But, I have to admit, my eyes felt a little firmer and tighter. And as soon as the blinding burning sensation stopped and I could see again, things were looking up. Needless to say, the cream has been put in the "rear" of the medicine cabinet, where it will likely remain, until someone actually has a doctor recommended use for it. But hey, I am nothing if not adventurous. And that is why you keep coming back, right? To read these true pearls of wisdom that I am here to share. When there's hard-hitting news to be blogged, I'm your woman.

Meanwhile with the new FTC guidelines for blogger disclosure and accountability coming out, now would probably be a good time to assure you that I do not endorse, nor do I recommend, any one particular ass cream. No ass cream paid me to write this. I have no vested interest in ass cream at all actually. No ass cream companies, to my knowledge, recommend using their products anywhere near your face. Neither do I. Unless you know, a trusted friend tells you it's a good idea. Then suuuuure, by all means, smear away. Just don't say I didn't warn ya!

80 Gazillion Days. And a Wedding.

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 16:26:00 +0000
Confession: I'm old.

So, it's been like 80 gazillion days since I blogged. What's that? Silence? Crickets? I hear no disputing it, because it is true. 80 gazillion days. I counted. And while September is always a hellishly, and I mean, kick-yourself-in-the head-want-to-jump-off-the-roof- hellishly busy kind of month, it's not looking like you're getting any quality content out of me for a little while longer. So, that being said, I intend to dazzle you with photos. Because, really, who doesn't love photos?

I am old. My baby sister got married over the weekend. The whole thing required a year of meticulous planning, tireless efforts on her part to pull off a flawless and gorgeous wedding, and the whole damn thing was over in just a few hours. It just doesn't seem right! Fortunately, through the miracles of invention, we can save these moments FOREVER. FOR.EV.ER. And so, while the wedding made me feel like I was about 80 gazillion days old, I would still like to share it with you. Mostly because that means that I can stop typing now.

I warn you, I have never put any pictures of me, my family, or my sister on here before. I am delving into new territory. I still won't put up pictures of my kids, but trust me, they were frickin' adorable! Stunning. Gorgeous. Incredible.

Oh, and if the pictures suddenly disappear, it means my sister revoked my right to plaster her newly married face all over the Internet, so get 'em while they're hot.

Stalkers beware. If you use any of my pictures in any way other than for your purely non-sexual viewing pleasure, I will sue you, bite you, slash your tires, and microwave your kittens. That is all.

Ooooooh

Aaaaaah

Ohhhhhhh

Weeeeeee

Aren't they pretty pictures? Almost made you forget about my sparse blogging skills lately. And for sticking with me for so long... a shot of your 'Mommy Confessions' host...Moi...

Taste The Rainbow.

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 17:14:00 +0000
Confession: Depression has it's benefits.

I knew that after I finally picked myself up by my bootstraps and blogged yesterday, I would feel good. I knew that it would refresh my spirit, and renew my commitment to the blog, and the blogging community. What I did not know is that it would make me feel bad too. Bad about how neglectful I felt like I was being to myself, and to my family, and most of all, to my floors. Yes, my floors. Depression is a funny thing. When you get into that funk, you are doing the bare minimum that you have to in order to keep everyone in your house fed, clothed, and functioning. And even that is a stretch. I am a master at hiding my depressed moods from my kids. And I am completely able to get dinner ready, buy school supplies, even take family trips, even when I am in a terrible funk. I'm a mom, it's what I do.

But, my friends, I never really realized that through all of my mood swings, and lack of motivation; or even through the times when I am up and riding high, focusing on the blog, that there was a silent victim in all of this. That victim? My floors. Yes, my floors. I never really realized how much they had been neglected until today. Sure, my husband had brought the plight of the floors to my attention before. But I was so focused on the kids, the husband, the blog, the dogs... and so, something had to suffer. And suffer it did. Sure I sweep. They're hardwood, so I kind of have to. And I mop, mostly when absolutely necessary, like when someone spills an entire bottle of grape juice trying to be, ahem, helpful. But I had no idea what a little bout of the I-don't-feel-like-it's could do to your precious flooring. Because THIS is what you get when you rise from the ashes of your depressed mood, and take a stand- a stand to blog, a stand to shower, and yes, a stand to sweep your bedroom floor.

Yes those are cotton balls, and a pull-up, and Skittles wrappers, and dog hair, and human hair, and yes, yes, yes, this all was living under my bed. Oh shut up! What does it look like under your bed? Okay, I'll give you that the skittles wrapper thing is a little odd, especially since I don't buy Skittles, but still...I think I may just go back to being depressed.

Bloggers Anonymous

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 00:51:00 +0000
This post is dedicated to the twelve readers that I probably have left after my mind flew the coop and my computer went insane, causing me to be blogless, and therefore postless for nearly a month.

Confession: Sometimes, though we hate to admit it, we are floundering.

My name is Michelle and I am a Mommyblogger. (Hi Michelle)
Listen closely. Do you hear that sound? That is the sound of flailing. It's not quite the same as failing. It's more like a quiet feeling of overwhelmedness, where the only reason you are getting out of bed in the morning is because if you didn't, your kids might very well ~~starve to death~~ burn down your house. With the biggies like summer ending, gearing up for back to school, the approach of Halloween, and (gasp) the holiday season, it is easy for someone who is prone to depression and anxiety, to slip in to a rather uncomfortable place. A place where if I didn't have three kids, I know I would just pull the covers up over my head, and spend the bulk of every day with a death-grip on the remote control. It's not a good place to be. Frankly, it sucks. It sucks both because I feel this way in the first place, and because I can't even have the time to wallow in it. It happens every year, every season, when there are piles of things that I know will somehow, have to get done.

It's not just the big events of life either. It's the little things too. Like really wanting to post all last week about my vacation, but constantly being involved with other things. Too wrapped up in potty training, back to school shopping, birthday party planning, to take even a moment's breath for myself. And when I feel like I can sneak away for a minute in between mopping the floor and making lunch, I feel guilty. Guilty knowing that there are four piles of laundry on my bed that should be getting folded right now. Someone remind me again when I signed up for all of this? And then there is blogging.

So many things that must get done. Where does the blog fit in? Even when I do manage to assuage my guilt, by telling myself that I'll feel better after writing; that I owe it to the people who read my blog, I still can't seem to get it done. I try. Really I do. Okay, sometimes I try. Other times I just kick the laundry piles off the bed, cover the computer screen with a towel, pull up the covers and hide. On those days when I really do try, I hardly have time to log on to the computer before I hear the pitter patter of little feet heading across the floor, in search of mooooomy. And I read, and I tweet, and I envy those other bloggers who too have 3 or more kids and somehow manage to get it done every. single. day. And I wonder how they do it. And all I can come up with after I've crawled from the covers and guzzled three cups of coffee, is that they either have much more helpful spouses (and mine is pretty good), much more self sufficient children, or a serious speed addiction.

Whatever the case, the last few weeks of bloglessness had left me wondering if it was time to cut my losses and move on; thinking that maybe it was it time to pull the plug on my Mommyblogging life until my kids are a little older? Or longer. And then finally at long last, I pulled myself up out of the dreadful funk, fixed my broken piece of shit computer, and sat face to face with the blank screen. And I realized that I am a blogger. Add whatever title you want to it. Call me names. Taunt me. Tell me I have nothing better to do then tell the tales of poopy diapers and breast feeding. I don't care. Because, I have been from Prozac to Paxil, from Vodka to Valium and back. And the one thing that always makes me feel better is sharing my stories with all of you. So, thank you. For the twelve of you that are still here. Thank you, from the bottom of my blogging heart.

The Bucket List

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 17:04:00 +0000
Confession: Turns out, I am only human after all.

I realized today, in my gloom and doom mood, that there is a better than average chance that my life is half over. For reasons unbeknownst to me, to my saner side, this came as quite a drop-kick in the gut. Not generally one to contemplate my time here on earth, or visit issues of my own mortality, I didn't quite know what to do with this new found revelation. I began to ask myself, with half of my life laid out behind me, had I accomplished half of the things that I had set out to do? Were the rest of those things going to be feats that I could manage in my, um, golden years?

Not even forty years old, I sat wondering if, when the time came to cash in my chips and go home, would I be satisfied with what I had done with my life? Really. Truly. Satisfied. Would I close my eyes for the last time knowing that I did the best I could, that I had left my mark on the world? Or would I be filled with a mountain of regret, and a laundry list of coulda woulda shoulda? This providing that my final moments will be spent in quiet contemplation and that I don't get hit by a bus or something. In which case my final thoughts will probably be more like, "Boy it sure is a nice day for a...." SPLAT! Either way, I wondered, am I living my life to the fullest?

I keep hearing a lot about every one's 'Bucket List'. You know, the list of things that you want to accomplish before you die. I have to admit that I had a list like this once upon a time, in a land before diapers and deadlines, and days where it didn't pain me just to crawl out of bed in the morning. It was a list that only a young single woman with her whole life ahead of her could have prepared. It was full of things like:
See the Eiffel Tower
Walk across the Golden Gate Bridge
Swim naked in the ocean....

Happily, I was able to cross off quite a few of that original list, before the tattered list, always with me, was lost on one of the journeys that I had embarked upon. I never made a new one. Time passed on, unions were formed, children were born, and that 'bucket list' became a distant reminder of a life long gone by. Still though, I can remember almost every item on it. The experiences I had, the dreams fulfilled are the ones I remember best. The things that remained uncrossed, undone, are barely blips on the radar of my life. The joy for me, is in the journey, not in the woulda coulda shoulda.

If I could go back, knowing what I know now, I'd add to my list things I had never dreamed of back then:
Get a college education
Find someone to share my life with
Have 3 beautiful children
Set up some roots; build a life...

My list for the future me, would be filled with the things that I never even knew I wanted. And those things are the very things that I have today. Things are far from perfect. I cry sometimes. I second guess myself. A LOT. I ask myself 'what-if' in my weaker moments. But, when all is said and done, I wouldn't change any of it. How could I? So, I am not going to write a new 'bucket list'. Because even though I have never seen the Eiffel Tower, when I do close my eyes for that final time, I will have accomplished everything that I ever needed to do; My legacy is secure.

Unless of course that bus comes along...

Pull the Plug?

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Fri, 31 Jul 2009 19:22:00 +0000
If you follow me on Twitter, you may have seen me mention the very concerned mall kiosk dude. Clearly, he is moonlighting from his day job as a child psychologist or perhaps dentist, as mall kiosk cell phone salesman. Anyway, yesterday this nice young gentleman so kindly offered me the same sage advice that I have gotten 783,462 times before. Apparently, children over the age of, say 2, should no longer use a pacifier. Did you know that? Well, you do now.

You see, the pacifier has long been the bane of my existence. Yet at the same time, my saviour on many, many, many occasions. This is why I am so torn by this issue. I hear parents say all the time that "my child never liked the pacifier" or "we didn't feel like we should push the pacifier on her. She'd only spit it right out." Mmmmmmkay. I totally believe that for some parents this is definitely the case. But must we berate people for the parenting choices that they make, simply because it is not the ones that we make?

I have taken more than my share of criticism over the years for the pacifier usage. I've been told by nursing moms that I should never give the baby a pacifier because it causes nipple confusion (which it did not). I've been told that my kids are going to have with horrible, crooked, buck teeth (which they don't). And I have been scolded for letting them hold on to them for longer than I should have (which- okay maybe I am guilty on that one). But I liken it to a security blanket, lovie, or stuffed friend. My kids were never attached to those kinds of things. It was always, for them, about the binky. Surely they lost their biological need to suckle well before they let it go. Long after nursing was over and done with, they still held on to their little plastic pal. Even after potty training was over and preschool beginning, the pacifier was seemingly the last symbol of their babyhood that remained.

It is hard to let go of our babies. And it is hard to know what is right when we are swimming in a sea of mixed messages and misinformation. I would talk to one family member who would tell me that it is best if I take it away now, cold turkey, pull the plug! In the next moment, another would tell me that I should let them give it up when they are ready: that no kid ever went to college with their binky in their mouth. (Leave it to my kid to be the first) I even got mixed messages from doctors, dentists, the Internet (not the Internet!), and friends with children of the same age. And so, swimming in a sea of varying opinion, and nothing really concrete for anyone to back up their opinion with, I decided to follow my gut. The very exhausted little voice within me that said, "if I have to stay up until 3 a.m. with a baby screaming for his pacifier, I am going to lose what little bit of my mind that I have left." I cordially invited all the naysayers and advice dumpers over to sit with my kids as they went through their pacifier induced withdrawal symptoms. Oddly enough, not one person took me up on it. Not even the mall kiosk dude. In the end, the little voice inside me won.

If you happen to be at the mall, look for my kid. She'll be the one doing her back to school clothes shopping with a binky in her mouth.

My BlogHer '09 Recap Post

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 21:03:00 +0000
Confession: I didn't go.

So, really, I don't have much to say about it. Other than the fact that, from what I have heard, seen, and read, apart from a few bad apples who always seem to spoil the bunch, it sounded like a swell time. I am totally there next year, and will provide an ACTUAL BlogHer recap at that time.

Oh, and I have an actual post coming up shortly.

She Called You a WHAT?

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 18:49:00 +0000
Confession: I think a lot of parents suck.

Not me of course. I am a perfect parent. Ask anyone. Well, except my mom, my husband, my kids, my friends, etc.

A while back I found out that my daughter, #1, called a little girl in our neighborhood a not so nice name. There is still some discrepancy as to what the actual name was. In any case, I made my daughter walk to the little girls house, knock on the door, and apologize. Her mother seemed grateful, albeit a little surprised. You see in this era of parental non-responsibility for your kids actions, I'd imagine she doesn't get to many personal visit apologies. I would imagine that most of the name calling, bullying, and middle finger flipping goes totally unseen or unheard of by parents. This is not necessarily a bad thing. While I don't think we need to be aware of every little disagreement our kids have, every scuffle over who took who's Barbie be mediated, I do think that it is our responsibility to hold our kids accountable for their actions when we are aware. And that is why we went over to apologize.

Did my daughter like the fact that she had to man up and say sorry? No. Did I care if she didn't like it? Hell no. Why? Because we are so concerned with our kids "liking" us, thinking that we are the nicest parents, the coolest parents, the parents that give them the most stuff, that we forget to be "good" parents. Our job is to produce good and responsible little humans. Who decides what is "good" and what is "responsible"? Who knows. In part, we do. In part the norms, ethics, and values of our communities and society guide us too. Our cultures, and our religious beliefs help out too. In any case, I am pretty sure that nowhere is it deemed that the best parent is the one whose kid has the most Wii games; or the one who gets the nicest car for their sixteenth birthday. I am guilty of it too. No one is perfect. Though I must pat myself on the back just a little and say that I am nowhere near in the same league of culpability as some of the parents that I see. I am forever hearing people ask the question, "what is wrong with the kids of today?" In part, this is your answer people. No parental responsibility. No one around to make kids stand up and take the consequences of their actions. I am in no way a member of the "everything that goes wrong until the day you die is the fault of your parents" club. But a little personal accountability in our own lives and our kids lives might not be such a bad thing.

I have no idea if walking her over to apologize to the girl had the impact that I desired. Ultimately my goal was to make her not want to call kids names. I wanted her to see that it was wrong and hurtful. Eventually I think she will get that message. She apologized. She did what I wanted her to. Is it possible that her motives right now are not so altruistic? Probably. Did she do it to be a better person or to avoid punishment? Most likely it was the latter. But maybe the next time she opens her mouth to call someone names she will think to herself, "I am probably not being a very nice person right now." Or maybe she will simply think, "if I call Lizzy a flaming turd, I'm gonna have to walk like 8 blocks to apologize." Sure, it's not the reaction I am going for, but it's a start. At the very least she will learn to only start trouble with kids who live very close by.

Chew on This.

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 17:35:00 +0000
Confession: I suck at the whole cleaning, laundry, doing house wife-y type stuff.

I am pretty sure we've established this fact in past posts. Still, I think it is always worth revisiting. If for no other reason than because I really do suck at it. Bad. I mean, remember the 1930's housewife test? Did anyone do as badly as I did? Anyone? Uh-Uh. Ward Cleaver would've kicked my ass to the curb the day after the honeymoon. And yeah, I know that wasn't the 30's but whatever. No big deal anyway, since I would've tossed in a red sock with his tighty whiteys and turned all his shit pink before I went. Real men didn't wear pink back then, so he'd have been good and pissed. Anyway...

As you may know there is so, so, so much going on in the world right now. Truly important, critical, monumental issues. North Korea conducting nuclear testing; Potential peace talks between Israel and Palestine; The incredible revolution in Iran after the "elections" that were just held; David Letterman apologizing to Sarah Palin and her daughters for ~~stating the obvious~~ making some inappropriate remarks. The list goes on. I could tell you about any one of these topics. I could give you my modest New Jersey mommyblogger opinion of these events. I could even give you my hard-ass, Philly-girl attitude filled, left wing, social activist opinion of them. Instead of tackling any of this stuff though, I thought I would talk to you about a common mishap that a lot of us moms fall victim to. Yes that is right, not because I think you can't handle the aforementioned topics, but hey, that's what we've got HuffPo for, right? To the real nitty gritty!

How many times have you done laundry and not checked the pockets first? My husband is constantly reminding me, and still I just suck at it. Let me be clear about my hatred for all that is laundry related. Look here if you don't believe me. I hate washing. I hate drying. I hate folding. Good lord, do I hate folding (as evidenced by the 6 baskets of unfolded loads of clean laundry you can find in my house at any given moment). And so my mission is usually to grab heaping mounds of dirty stuff and throw it in the washer as quickly as possible. Shhhhh don't tell, but 90% of the time, I don't even separate colors and stuff. So you know that pocket checking is like, way, way, way down on the list. And that is why today I pay homage to Stride Gum. Yeah, you heard it right Stride gum.

I have washed pens. I have washed lipstick. I have washed AND dried (insert mom gasps here) crayon! Each and every time I have spent hours, sometimes days, cleaning out the inside of the washer and/or dryer. Thankfully, this was all with our old appliances. Because well, now we have those expensive, energy star, high efficiency deals, and crap if I dried a crayon in that, I might as well just look for a new place to live. So where was I? Oh yeah right, the gum. In my generally frazzled state I tossed in the laundry forgetting that I had previously confiscated some contraband gum from my #2 earlier in the day and put it in my back pocket. So the 3 pieces of Stride gum went through the washer, through the dryer, and into my laundry basket. Have you ever washed gum? It is not pretty. In some cases. it is cause for new appliances- and clothes. So imagine my horror when I saw the gum wrappers sitting in amongst my fine washables. Then, in what can only be described as a miraculous, life saving turn of events, I pulled out three intact pieces of gum, still safely ensconced in their protective wrappings. Could it be possible? I feverishly searched through the rest of the pile. Was it possible that all three pieces of gum had survived the laundry basket, the washer, and the dryer, without unwrapping? Without melting into a sticky, molten mess, all over my beautiful energy star dryer? Yes! It could! Yes! And that is why I write to you today not of the tragedies, injustices and atrocities of the world, but rather of three little pieces of gum that made this mommy's day.

This is NOT a sponsored post dammit. I am not being paid by Stride gum. I didn't get any free gum. I am not giving away any gum. No gum was harmed in the making of this post.
Though if Stride gum reads it and wants to sponsor my trip to BlogHer where I can tell everyone how great it is, I probably won't say no, no matter what all of you anti-product endorsement bloggers have to say about it.

Mom: An Equally Oppurtunity Screw up.

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 17:17:00 +0000
Confession: When you've got more than 1 or 2 kids, someone is going to get the shaft.

Sorry, it's just true. Chime in all of you parents of many. Or maybe you were a 3rd or 4th or 5th kid yourself. In a lot of cases it tends to be the baby who, in larger families, gets forgotten about, forced to wear hand me downs, shares a room with siblings, etc. In my family, apparently it is my oldest, my #1. I am not sure if it is because she is well behaved and for the most part quiet, so she just slips under the radar. Perhaps it is because my #2 requires so much attention and time. Is it because #3 is the only boy and gets a kind of attention that none of the girls do? I have no idea. All I know is that at the pediatrician this morning, I felt like the worst mom ever.

I know this is a recurring theme on this blog. It's not as though this is the first time that I have written about something I have done that I am feeling badly about. I am human, and in fairness it has been a rough ~~week~~ ~~month~~ ~~year~~ decade. Hell, I wasn't even planning on writing a post today. I have been sick for over a week. As of today, all of my kids are officially sick, we have a family member who is critically ill, so you know, thing are pretty much par for the course around here. I had Mel, from Behind The Stall Door, all set to do a guest post for me. And then I went to the pediatrician with #1 today. Don't worry, she's fine. She has a sore throat and a headache but she is no worse for the wear. And she is definitely returning to school tomorrow (for both of our sakes). But while I was there this morning (my 3rd visit of the week), the nurse mentioned to me that they needed to weigh my daughter because it had "been a while" since they had gotten a weight for her. Odd I thought since it is only June and she generally has her well check ups around December. So when I questioned her about she very nicely told me that my daughter had not had a well check up since 2007! Huh? Excuse me? Come again? Are you telling me that my daughter has missed 2 well child exams? Well, just give me the award for the worlds shittiest parent now and let us move on.

Upon closer scrutiny of her file, a call to my husband, a conversation with not one, not two, but three different nurses and a doctor, she is actually only one well visit behind. Well, whew! I am only a half-ass parent instead of an all out case for social services. Now I feel so much better. Still, I had them check on the other kids, and they were all caught up and right on schedule. And while my husband seems to feel that there is some lost paperwork or something somewhere, I am left wondering; Did I really just forget to take my child to the doctor this year? Is that possible? I mean, I have forgotten lunches, I have forgotten book fair money, hell I have even nearly forgotten the children themselves from time to time, but the doctor? Really? So now I promised hubs that I will put in a call to the school and the insurance company to see if all her stuff is up to date. Maybe it is just a missing page in her chart or something? Right? A girl can hope.

Ease my pain. Share a bad mommy moment of your own. Please.
Oh and that guest post from Mel, it'll be up soon.

Can You Relate?

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Fri, 29 May 2009 14:44:00 +0000
I don't tend to get involved in online debates. I don't usually worry about who's disclosing or not disclosing. I don't really worry about who's talking about who in blog world. Would I love to see everyone who is reviewing products let us know that they are being paid, or receiving the product for free, absolutely. Would I appreciate an honest and fair review of said product, of course. For the most part, I write about my kids, my family, my ~~lack of~~ parenting ability, and so on. Every once in a while, I discuss what is going on with other bloggers, if I feel it is of interest to my readers. The massive wave of bloggers plugging products, reviewing, making deals and getting free stuff from major companies to discuss with other bloggers, is definitely of interest to the people who read this blog. Maybe not for the reasons you think.

I have often wondered how PR firms decide which bloggers they are going to pitch which products to. I can only assume that many of my readers, most being moms and blog readers, wonder the same. Just who is going to get to review, represent, and recommend their products and services? One would think that companies would pick bloggers whose readership most closely matches that of their target demographic. And that similarly bloggers would review and giveaway products in the same manner. I am in no way a marketing expert, but I would venture to guess that a company like say, Purina, is smart enough not to approach wehatedogs.com (such a site does not exist to my knowledge). Nor do I imagine that Mommy The Dominatrix is the right blog for say, GoodChristianMoms.com to advertise on.

Nowhere is this issue more heated than in the "mommyblogger" community. Mommybloggers, AKA moms who blog, mothers who also have blogs, or whatever non-offensive term we're using this week, are constantly being pitched by PR firms and companies to do their bidding for them. I am constantly amazed at the odd pitches I get in my inbox. Penis enlargement? Really? Is it because that is what my mostly female, 25-60, largely mom, majority demographic is interested in? It always leaves me wondering if these companies think at all about who they are trying to appeal to, or if some spambot somewhere spits some randomly generated blog name out of thin air. Some companies I am sure will pitch the "blog of the moment", any blog that they think will get a lot of hits on their site. They just don't get it.

I now hear that companies are steering clear of bloggers who are using too much profanity on their blogs, or who are blogging, tweeting, posting things that are deemed "offensive" or "controversial". This I do not get. I would rather have a blogger who I can identify with, who is someone I can relate to, someone like me , pitch me a product, even if that blogger said "motherfucker" every third word on her blog; then to have someone with whom I have nothing in common, any day of the week. Why? Well, ask yourself this question; Are the majority of bloggers that you see reviewing and recommending products to you, people you can identify with? Are they people like you? Do they face the same daily issues and struggles that you do? Will they understand what products and services you need to make your life a little better? If they do, do you care if they say 'shit' on their blog or call someone a 'douchebag'? Give me someone who knows where I stand, who knows what I need, and what I deal with in a day, and I will listen to what you are selling all. day. long. Give me someone honest, someone forthright. Give me someone who will tell me when something sucks, and when there is something I can't live without. Integrity. Credibility. Honesty. Idenitfiability. I may have made that last word up.

Most moms on any given day are tired, overwhelmed, frustrated, happy, sad, overworked, underpaid, under appreciated, and phenomenal. If a mom has a way to make another moms life a little easier, great. If a mom knows of a product that we simply can't live without, we're listening. But pitch us something we can use. If they really wanted to pitch something to me that I could use, they would pitch the secret of how to get 3 kids up and dressed, fed, off to respective schools, pick up toys, do the laundry, work, feed the pets, and still have time to shower, dress, and look presentable myself. Or how to make my house look like a Better Homes & Gardens photo shoot is about to take place, even though my 3 kids and 2 dogs spew so much crap around on a daily basis that it generally looks like a bomb hit it. This, this, would be useful information.

Sure it's nice to say that motherhood is universal, that we all share the same experiences and face the same challenges. And when it comes to feeling love and emotion for our children, or wanting to make the world a better place for our kids, maybe that is true. As for which dishwashing soap I am most likely to use, not so much. Because- marketers, PR people, take note- no matter how popular their blog is, I am not taking dish soap advice from someone who has not washed a dish since Clinton was in office. Do your homework. Know who is selling your product. Know who is representing you and who will believe what they say. And for goodness sake, please bloggers, disclose.

So, Maybe the British Are Funny After All. Who Knew?

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Tue, 19 May 2009 14:02:00 +0000
You may have heard me mention on Twitter that my brain has been reduced to thinking in 140 characters or less. At home, this is divine. I find that short, clear, concise answers work best when dealing with 3 small children. It also works well with my husband, who is a really cut and dry, get to the point, kind of guy. However, when you are a writer and a blogger, succinct will only get you so far. So, if you couple my (soon to be a real medical condition- mark my words) Twitteritis, with my serious lack of free time lately, you get a really bad blogger. A blogger who doesn't, um, blog. Lovely.
Luckily for you, I have friends who blog. Though some of them are known to me primarily through Twitter, they still seem to be able to form complete thoughts and full sentences. I have to ask them how they do that. For now though, I give you a Mommy Confessions guest post from all the way across the big blue ocean. Here is writer, editor, blogger, mom and of course fellow Twit- Hoola.

Confession: Sometimes I hide from my children

Before you judge me, imagine this scenario. You have two kids. You work from home. Your husband works from home. Your house is small. Really, really small.

So you see, it’s a pretty tight squeeze. We’re in each others hair, like, constantly. All four of us and an over sized house rabbit. And sometimes my sister…or the in laws. Not to mention that the walls are so thin that we probably know as much about our noisy neighbours as we do about each other.

So what does an exhausted mummy do when it all gets too much? She hides, obviously.

Not in an amusing-the-kids way, like hide and seek or anything. More in a ‘please don’t notice I’ve been gone longer than you thought I would be’ way. On occasion I’ll sit them in front of their lunch and just go and walk about in the garden. I’m surveying the land, seeing what needs weeding, doing a bit of deadheading. But I’m also hiding. Don’t worry, our garden, like our house, is the size of a postage stamp so I’m never out of earshot. I can hear the food filled plate crashing to the floor when Ted decides that he no longer likes pasta or that his cheese sandwich looked at him funny. Or when Lillie needs to pee two minutes after she’s sat down to eat. Which is a pretty regular occurrence.

But now the kids are getting big enough and brave enough to breach the threshold, clamber out of the back door and, for goodness sake, follow me. So on other occasions I might say ‘I’m just popping to the bathroom’.

This gives me at least five to ten minutes in which I can hide, if I pick the right bathroom, behind a locked door. If I pick the wrong bathroom, the en-suite in our new attic room (the no-kids – ha! - private sanctuary which meant that our youngest could stop sleeping in bed with us by the time he was nine months old.) the door will be flung open after three minutes and Ted will start slamming the shower doors open and shut or Lillie will announce ‘I need a poo poo mummy’. But otherwise that’s a potential ten minutes to read Elle Decoration and maybe, if I’m really, really lucky, brush my hair.

Other times it’s possible to just disappear for a bit whilst my husband gets the kids ready for bed. He’ll be struggling them in to pyjamas and I’ll just, you know…wander off. I can push the door of the attic room closed and sit on the stairs just, well, sitting. I can hear what’s happening so I’ll go and help if things get feisty – I’m not a total waste of mummy space – but otherwise I’ll just keep really quiet hoping that no one notices that I’m not doing anything productive.

Remember when you used to play hide and seek or sardines? Even breathing seemed really loud and you’d just let your feet get pins and needles because if you shifted your weight it might be a dead give away to your hiding place. It’s a bit like that except the result of being found is far, far worse than being made ‘it’ – a combination of guilt and being dragged in to a debate about whether or not a three year old should be allowed to choose her own bedtime.

Last week I was out shopping with Lillie when she told me “sometimes when you don’t come, daddy shouts ‘LAAAAAA!’ doesn’t he mummy?” As we say here in the UK , I’ve been rumbled.

All I Want for Mother's Day Is You. Not.

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Sat, 09 May 2009 12:06:00 +0000
Confession: All I really want for Mother's Day is some sleep.

Let's be honest, I am tired. Chances are if you're reading this you too are tired. I'm not just talking about the regular yawn, yawn, time for bed tired. As mothers, we become familiar with a whole new kind of tired. It's the kind of tired that allows you to do things that you never thought you would do. It's the kind of tired that allows you to ignore a steaming hot poopy diaper until the neighbors are calling to complain about the stench, because, well, changing it would involve getting up and moving. And since it's the first time you've actually sat down in 5 straight hours, we'll just deal with the smell for a few minutes. It's that kind of tired. It's the kind of tired where you say things like "work it out amongst yourselves" when your kids are smacking each other with whiffle ball bats in front of the cabinet where you keep all of your good china (which you never use because who has time). Yes, it is the kind of tired where you're actually considering whether the combination of a rambunctious 2 year old and a precocious, into-everything, 4 year old is reeeeally too much for your 7 year old to handle if you just go take a nap for a while. I mean, she has the dogs to help her if she gets into a jam, right? This is the kind of tired I am talking about.

So, let's face it, tomorrow moms all over the world are going to be pampered. I say deservedly so. I've blogged many times on here about how we are grossly overworked, staggeringly underpaid, scoffed at, taken advantage of, made to feel bad about our choice to be home with our children, and treated as second class citizens by some. So damnit, we deserve a day. Hell, I say make it Mother's Week. Hmmmm Mother's Week? Is there some sort of official government website I can go to to petition for that? Anyway, as I was saying, we're being pampered. To some being pampered and spoiled on Mother's Day is about going to the spa, getting taken to a fabulous restaurant, and getting gifts of flowers, jewelry, and large kitchen appliances. Then there are other Mother's Day traditions, like brunch or dinner with your family (both of which we will be doing with either side), visiting the in-laws (after all they are mothers too), or spending a fun day with your significant other and the kids that made you a mom in the first place. All of this sounds super fun. And while I appreciate the fact that both my mom and my mother-in-law are mothers too, and that they deserve all of the rewards of this day just like I do, I can't help but wish juuust a little, that they just wanted what I wanted for Mother's Day- sleep!

Yes, I know that I should want to spend the day with my family. I should want to see my kids smiling faces running in wielding handmade construction paper cards at me. I should enjoy them climbing on my bed and jumping up and down while yelling Happy Mother's Day. And I do. I really really do. But when that five minutes is over with, I really wish that everyone would file back out, close the door, go to a movie and come back in say 12 or 13 hours. During this time I will pull the covers up over my head, sleep for as long as possible, possibly watch a couple of bad Lifetime movies, maybe sneak in a few MTV music videos- oh wait, they don't play music on MTV anymore do they? Maybe I'll even take a shower where I don't have to get out 3 times to break up a fight or wrestle my daughters new shoes from the dogs death grip.

I don't know how it works in your house, but around here being pampered for Mother's Day means I will cook no meals, change no diapers, mediate no fights, wash no dishes, and those damn dogs better not come anywhere near me.

So what do you want for Mother's Day? A big fat diamond? Never hurts to dream. A new car? Hell, you've earned it. A bottle of tequila and a pack of Marlboros? Now you're speaking my language. Tell me what you would love to get for Mother's Day and you can win 10 hours of uninterrupted sleep, happy well-adjusted children who get along with one another, and world peace. Or not.

Just the fact that they remained quiet and occupied long enough for me to write this, was Mother's Day gift enough for me. Not really. I still want my gifts.

Top Ten Reasons To Follow Me on Twitter

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 14:02:00 +0000
Confession: Twitter may be the devil.

Seriously. Yes, I am blogging about Twitter today. Not that the subject of Twitter has anything to do with parenting per se, but there are a ton of parents on there. Some who blog about it, some who don't. Some who read this blog, some who don't. I just figured that since I hadn't been very diligent about blogging for the past two weeks, I would explain one of the reasons why. I'd like to say that it was because I had been catching up with my to-do lists, going through the kids spring and summer wardrobes, or doing spring cleaning- you know stuff I am actually supposed to be doing. Unfortunately, that isn't true. However, once the subtle hints from advertisers started coming in that I had been noticeably absent from blogging for almost 2 weeks, I figured I had better get moving. I mean, how could I live without that $27.00 a month ad revenue?

So, here I am. I am back at the computer. I had to put down the Iphone. I was forced to close the Twitter Fon app. I had to try to find a way to talk once again, in more than 140 characters. While the week in parenting has been a fun one, filled with doctors visits, loose teeth, poop problems, rashes, and lots of newly learned words (can someone say idiot-face- yes my 4 year old can), I still wasn't sure what to confess today. And then it hit me. Right now, my deepest, darkest, dirtiest secret of the moment, is my Twitter addiction!

I need to make it clear that I was Tweeting away before Oprah or Ellen were on board. Before I knew that Ashton and Demi were the darlings of 140 characters, I was typing away my thoughts in 140 or less. But back then I used Twitter as a way to announce a new blog post, or let people know when I had a profound thought (remember that one tweet?). Now like so many others in Twitter-Nation, I have become accustomed to sharing every noteworthy (and not so much) move that I make. "Just took baby to poop on the potty" or "This coffee tastes like old socks". Riveting, I know. What's scary is that there are over a thousand people out there with whom I am directly sharing this information, not to mention others who just happen upon it. It's kind of like peering in the windows of people you may find interesting, but without the potential for jail time. That in essence is Twitter.

It's a good way to communicate with friends and colleagues. It's a great way to let people know what you have been doing. It's a way to share news and information that is interesting or important with a mass group of people at one time, and possibly most importantly, it is voyeurism at it finest. How else would I know that Tanis aka Redneck Mommy saw some guys penis while waiting for her son to come out of surgery? Or that Joanne aka Pundit Mom had a pedicure (and forgot to shave her legs first-oops)? Let's face it, I wouldn't. And neither would you. And that is why you are there. Or maybe that is why I am there. Whatever. Either way. I am there and you should be too. And if you are there, well, you should definitely be following me. Otherwise you will continue to miss such treasures as "Why do I use the word 'boobs' in so many of my Tweets?" and "Working on the next great American novel. Okay, cleaning toilet. Whatever.".

If it all seems a little overwhelming, trust me it's not. And following me is as easy as clicking on the link in my left sidebar that says (obviously) Follow Me on Twitter (duh). I'll even give you the top 10 reasons why you should:

10. You can keep up to date on what is going on in my fascinating life, without having to read my entire blog. No wait, scratch that.

9. Because I talk about boobs and poop there too. Um, wait, I do it a lot more interestingly here on my blog.

8. You can find out what my kids and I are up to without having to deal with my droning on and on. Wait, this is not coming out right.

Okay okay, here are some reasons to follow me and yet still read my blog.

7. I don't complain nearly as much there as I do here. Yeah, um, this is still not working.

Let me think. Oh okay wait, I've got one.

6. Because Blair Underwood and Maria Shriver follow me. I mean Blair and Maria wouldn't be following just anyone, right?

Still waiting on Ashton- ahem.

And hey how about because

5.There are 1,225 other people who are doing it. Everybody wants to be a follower right?

Damn, I am not very good at this.

4. I am racing with @UTBubble to get to a million followers like Ashton Kutcher and Larry King did. Of course, I can't rent billboards to drum up support or offer massive sums of money to charity for following me. But, I do have about 40 years to kill trying to get a million people to follow me, so what the hell.

Okay, forget 3, and 2. They were dumb anyway.

The number 1 reason why you should be following me on Twitter: I will follow you back. Unless you are some lame-o geek, spammer, stalker, or weirdo. In which case, get a life.

What If?

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Fri, 10 Apr 2009 16:47:00 +0000
Confession: There are some things just to painful to express in a blog.

So many times I write about how my kids are driving me crazy. Sometimes as I try to write my posts, complete a task, complete a thought even, I am short with my kids. I shoo them off to watch television or play outside, so that I can have just a few more minutes to finish what I am doing. But on Wedesday morning I realized yet again, that there are only so many minutes given to each of us. And the scariest part is that none of us know how many minutes we have.

Madeline Alice Spohr was 17 months old when she died on April 7th. She was the beautiful spirited daughter of a fellow blogger. In my heart of hearts I want to write something beautiful and profound and wise. I want to write words that will move you to the tears that you rightfully should shed for this little angel. I want to put down words that will inspire you to run, not walk, to your children and hug and hold them as tight as you can. I want you to finish reading this, turn off your computer, and go play catch with your child, or bake cookies with your child, or do one of the millions of things that they've probably been bugging you to do with them, but you have been too tired, too busy, too something to do. I want all of these things so badly. But most of all, I want to climb under my covers, curl up in a little sobbing, weeping ball, and bawl my eyes out. Because I am a mother. And who better to feel the pain of a mother who has lost her child, than another mother. A mother who has dared to imagine what it would be like to lose a child. A mother who has thanked God again and again, with shame and guilt in her heart, that it was not my child.

I don't think I can find it in myself to write those kind of words. Not today. Not right now. Right now I am going to turn off my computer and go make some cupcakes with my kids. I am going to look at them and marvel at the wonders that they are. I am going to swallow my tears and squelch my sobs and pretend that my heart doesn't feel like it might explode at the very question of what if? What if that would have been my child?

In the meantime, if you want to read something about Maddie, from someone who seems to be able to write through almost any kind of pain, go here. And when you are done, count each and every one of your blessings.

***Donations in Madeline's memory can be made to The March of Dimes***

Let Them Eat Cake: Part Deux (Brought to you by NyQuil)

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Wed, 08 Apr 2009 16:39:00 +0000
Confessions: Sometimes Mommy gets sicks and slacks on all of her responsibilities.

Like now. I am sorry if you have missed me. I am sorry if I have not been a good blogger this week. But, as some of you know, moms get sick. Unfortunately for many of us, we must be sick and at the same time carry out all of our usual motherly responsibilities. No staying in bed. No napping. Rest? I laugh in the face of rest. There are dishes to be washed, lunches to be made, homework to be done, and if we don't do it, who will? And to all of you moms who do have the opportunity to rest and relax while sick- whether it be by way of a nanny, a laid off spouse, an incredibly overly friendly neighbor who really doesn't want to watch your kids, but is too nice to say no- I have a mixture of feelings for you ranging from envy to hatred. But as usual I digress.

I only blogged today to tell you that a verdict had finally been reached in the great cupcake caper AKA naming my sisters blog. The winner is....

The Devil Wears Pastry!
It was just too fitting and too original to pass up! So a big thanks to Maggie at Maternal Dementia, as she had the winning entry. Her Wilton prize package is on the way! And big thanks to Wilton for being so awesome!

I have to give a huge honorable mention to "Mama Bear" for her suggestion of "High Heels and Sugar Rushes" which was oh so close to winning! We went back and forth a dozen times. We had secret ballots, picked from a hat, asked the opinion of toddlers (we're above nothing), and finally the name emerged. But, this was a great suggestion! There were so many great suggestions! Thank you all so much!

The new blog is just in the cake batter stage right now. Still being designed, worked out, and drawn up. But it's up and baking. You can visit at any time. Just keep checking back to see what happens as the dough rises. Okay I really have to stop with all the little cake talk now. Off to the land of Sudafed & Tylenol I go.

Thanks for being part of this contest. I had a great time doing it. I hope you will really enjoy watching the evolution of The Devil Wears Pastry into the premiere baking blog!

Sane Fitness for an (in)sane mom!?

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Thu, 02 Apr 2009 15:02:00 +0000
Confession: I don't do very many product reviews on this blog.

You're not likely to happen by and find me endorsing, discussing, or recommending any products or services to my readers. I never really intended for it to be that way- or not. Time constraints along with the path this blog has taken, just didn't lend itself to being a "product review" blog. But, I do love stuff as much as the next blogger. I've done a few sporadic contests and giveaways, and I have enjoyed them. I adore having a voice to tell other women, other moms, what works for me. I love helping them find what might work for them, and what not to waste their time on.

Every week I have requests to review a wide variety of products flooding my inbox. Mostly I decline to do any reviews. It's not that I am not grateful for the requests. On the contrary, the thought that someone actually cares what I think is wonderful. The thing is, if you read my blog much, you know that a lot of the time I don't even have time to brush my hair, let alone receive, test, review, and blog about new products. I am usually frazzled and disorganized, and haphazardly clinging to what little sanity I have left in order to tackle the weeks tasks. And did I mention that I laugh in the face of exercise? Ha! Make that Ha Ha!

This past week I decided on a whim to actually accept a product. It happened into my inbox at a really good time. I am gearing up to be a(dreaded) Matron of Honor. Could they give a more horrible title to someone? Why not just call her the old hag in the frilly dress? But I digress. So, I am planning for my sisters wedding in the fall. I am looking to tone and tighten and shed a few pounds in an attempt to look less like a Matron of Honor, and more like that hot babe standing next to the chick in the big white dress (though it is actually ivory). So, what better item could pop into this busy, insane, soon to be strapless dress wearing mom's inbox, then Sane Fitness?

Sane Fitness bills itself as the 'full body workouts that won't drive you crazy'. It's cute right? Wait. It comes in this super cute little rectangle shaped box. It has a 'deck' of 36 cards, each of which contains an exercise for you to do, complete with instructions, photos, what you need for the excercise (minimal stuff-really), etc. It has this cute little lanyard and clip so you can use the cards at-a-glance. It seems like a great idea. It's a streamlined, easy to learn and follow, do-anywhere set of exercises all packed up in an adorable, neat little package. You don't have to go to the gym- which I love. It was designed by busy working mom Beverley Caen and her trainer John Cruz- which I also love. It retails for just $24.95. A teeny, tiny fraction of what it would cost to have a trainer teach you these exercises or to join a gym. Is it worth it? I guess only time will tell if it gives me the desired results. Which means, I am sure it'll work for me if I can ever find the time to get off of my butt and actually follow along. It definitely gets high marks for cuteness, creativity, and ease of use. For you busy, fitness minded moms, I would say go for it! For the over scheduled noncommittal, don't really care if my ass has it's own zip code types, your 25 bucks might be better spent elsewhere.

Will this prompt me to do more reviews in the future? Definitely! I had such fun that I am currently working on transforming what was supposed to be the Ask Mommy site, into a new product review site! Stay tuned.

The April Fool

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Tue, 31 Mar 2009 23:28:00 +0000
Confession: Even moms have bad days, weeks, hell, even months.

For those of you who did not know already, I got into a car accident last week. I was fine, and so was #3, the only one of the kids that was with me. My minivan (Yeah, I drive one. Deal with it.) was not so lucky. And the worst part of it is that I knew it was coming. Sorta.

After several days of thinking, commenting, tweeting, and Facebook status-ing(I think I made that up), about how I felt that the universe was trying to tell me something, how I should be watching my back, how something bad was just around the corner, etc. it all happened. I realized that the universe was trying to tell me that March was a wash, and that I should just pull the covers up over my head, and resurface when April hits. But I didn't. I didn't listen to my gut. And really, what better tool do we moms have? Always, always listen to your gut. No matter how silly what it's saying may sound, listen to it. Trust me.

I should have trusted mine. Because you know when one crappy thing happens it tends to set off a super-fun cycle of generally sucky events. And that, in a nutshell, has been my week. And it just keeps getting better. Besides the accident, I have had a whole lot of other fun stuff going on this week as well. I dropped and broke my almost new phone. I finally broke down and bought myself a new pair of pants, and I fell running my daughter to the bus stop (late!) and put big holes in the knees. Not to mention, big holes in my own knees. I took my poor, professionally photograph deprived child, to get his first picture since he was 6 months old taken, and they lost our reservation. We left picture-less AND furious! My mother-in-law is in the hospital. And it's only Tuesday. Thank goodness it's the end of March.

Tomorrow when I wake up it will be April 1st. I'd like to think that I'll awake to find out that this entire week has been one big April Fool's joke, but I don't think that is gong to happen. So maybe I'll wake up to find that I have won the lottery (April Fools) or I am pregnant again (April Fools) or that someone wants to turn my blog into a book, or even better, a movie (April, April Fools).

So, you will not wake up to read an entry from me where I tell you all that I've quit blogging and am moving to the south of France or anything like that. I am going to let April Fools Day slip quietly by, hoping that it doesn't notice me at all. And when I resurface on April 2nd (Happy Birthday Mia & Kelly & Maya & Ari) I can resume my position as happy go lucky supermom. Or something like that.

Bus Stop Bitches

noreply@blogger.com (Michelle~ Mommy Confessions) — Wed, 25 Mar 2009 13:39:00 +0000
Confession: When you have kids, shit happens- daily.

This is a totally different post than the one I had been working on for today. The one I was working on was a nice, happy post about how I was planning to finally start my little side project- my review and advice blog. A great follow up to the blog naming contest and cake giveaway that I've been running all week, right? I mean it almost made you forget what blog you were reading, didn't it? Perhaps you were thinking for just a minute, that I had evolved. That maybe my blog was becoming something perky and sweet. So, are you surprised at my return to the darker side of motherhood? Of course you're not. That's what keeps you coming back for more. More drama, more fights, more parenting at it's finest. And why should today be any different?

It was all rolling along just fine until the bus stop. I had planned to return to the house after getting #1 off to school and finally work on my other blog. Despite the fact that I have felt like I got hit by a truck for the last several days, I was determined to blog today. I should have known better. See, when my super sensitive #1 got off the bus yesterday she was crying, again. Seems as though the group of girls that she rides with all sat together and she had to sit alone, again. And when she voiced her unhappiness with the situation, one of the little girls called her a name again. Once again when she came in crying and told me what happened my first instinct was to go "roll on those little bitches". Then of course I remembered that I am 37 and they are 7. And that I am the ahem, mom. Police charges? No thanks. So I let the rational side of me take over. Instead we talked.

We talked about right from wrong. We talked about how sometimes friends don't mean to exclude one another and how it will all blow over in no time. We talked about how people call each other silly names sometimes, and while it is not nice and not acceptable to do, people get carried away and don't often mean what they say. And eventually, we got on with our evening and she went to bed. But she stirred. She fretted. She worried. Why? Well, because that is what she does. It makes me sad. It breaks my heart. Whenever someone causes her any pain, I get sick. And I know that this is all a part of life and of growing up. It's just that, well, the kind of kid she is, the kind of person she is, sets her up for a hard time in life. I fear the sadness and pain that will befall her if she isn't able to develop a thicker skin. But, at the same time, her soft and innocent nature is one of her greatest quality's. I spent the evening reflecting. Okay not really. I spent it watching bad t.v. but I probably should have spent it reflecting.

Still, I was able to ask myself in a quiet moment alone, "WHY DO LITTLE GIRLS HAVE TO BE SUCH BITCHES"? No really. I don't know if we are born with the skill, the ingrained ability to be catty and petty and cruel, or if we learn it along the way. All I know is that by 6 years old, most of these little girls have it mastered. My only hope is that their parents are able to nip it in the bud before it gets too out of control. Okay that is not my only hope. My other hope is that somewhere along the way, these girls get a taste of their own medicine. If only this had happened to #2 and not my super sensitive sweet #1. If it were #2, worst case scenario is I have to write a check for the other kids doctor bills after #2 punched them in the nose for calling her a name. Not that I am condoning violence but, oh the hell with it, yeah my kid probably would've punched the other kid in the nose for calling her a name. Deal with it.

This morning at the bus stop, just as I had told her they would, the little girls involved pretended like nothing had ever happened. I wasn't sure whether to be pissed off or relieved. As I walked away, I saw my daughter talking to her friends and laughing, so I opted for relief. Just for today, they were okay. Then I realized that in a short time she would come off of the bus in tears again at something one of them had done or said. I walked back towards my house thinking "bitches. Don't they know I have a blog?"