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You may have heard me talk about my hair a time or two before. That’s because of all my physical traits, it’s the one that causes me the most grief, the most money and the most drama. Join me for a brief history, won’t you?

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Once upon a time, I was a curly haired little girl.

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Little ringlets, cute little pigtails… Life was good.

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As I got older, my hair straightened out into loose waves, and remained that way for the rest of my childhood.

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Hello, awkward.

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But then, tragedy struck. Suddenly and practically overnight, my straight hair turned curly when I was 13. (Yes, that’s actually all my hair.)

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I wisely grew it out, but still had no idea how to cut it or care for my hair… clearly. Birds mistook it for their nests and it took a full day to air dry.

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It’s been too yellow and too red and too dark and and too long and too short and everything in between.

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For years I battled it and moaned about it and longed for my straight hair of the past. Until I found a line that changed everything… I’ve been using Ouidad religiously for over 15 years and have turned everyone I know into a fanatic, too. I’m not exaggerating when I say that the products have changed my life. It’s hands down the best line I’ve ever tried for curly or wavy hair, and trust me, I’ve tried them all.

That’s why I am so, so excited to be partnering with Ouidad to host a Scary Curl Contest for all my fellow curly girls. Not only will one winner receive a trip to NYC for a curl makeover session at the flagship salon, (I had one a few months ago and it was amazing) they will also receive spa treatments, spending money, two nights at a swanky hotel and tickets to my official book launch party, hosted by Ouidad. Yes, my favorite line in the world is throwing me a book launch party and I want you to come.

To enter, you need to upload a picture of your curls or waves to one of our Facebook pages. (Ouidad’s page is here and mine is here.) All of the contest and voting details can be found on the pages as well.

C’mon, I showed you mine, now it’s your turn! I can’t wait to see your curls and I really can’t wait to celebrate with one of you in April.

Good luck!!

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It’s a well known fact that I have a deep appreciation for certain four letter words. I always have, I always will and with the exception of some Pollyanna people on Facebook, it’s never been much of an issue with anyone in my life.

Except, that is, for my phone.

For years, my iPhone has been not so subtly suggesting that I clean up my foul language. When I innocently ask “What the fuck,” my phone seems to think that “what the duck?” or “what the fickle?” is equally as effective. It swaps out “shot” when I type “shit” and even had the audacity to once correct my mistyped “asshole” to “appalling.” Appalling, indeed. Asshole.

Oh, sure, auto corrects can be amusing and all — yes, I know of the laugh-out-loud websites dedicated to them, but I’m a busy mom of three. If I want to swear, I want to swear and that’s the end of it, dammit. I mean, who has time for a phone hell-bent on altering their voice? Not I.

But those days are over, my friends, because last week I got the tip of a lifetime: You can actually program words into your iPhone’s dictionary.

{Please tell me that I’m not the last person on earth to know this and if I am, why the hell did none of you ever tell me?!?}

All you have to do is go to Settings and then to General > Keyboard. At the bottom of the screen, find Shortcuts. Click Add a New Shortcut and add whatever words you want your dictionary to recognize and auto complete.

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For someone like me, it’s a fucking dream come true.

I am not particularly proud of the mother I am from seven to eight o’clock in the morning.

Well, I am rather proud of what I manage to accomplish — getting the children up, getting them dressed, making their lunches, seeing that their teeth are brushed, packing their bags, walking the dog… you know the drill. I just can’t say that I do it all with much ease or grace. Any ease or grace, for that matter. Nine times out of ten, I am barking at all three of them by the time we make it into the car. Ten times out of ten, the car ride to school is pure hell.

“He’s repeating me!”

“She’s kicking me!”

“He’s looking out of my window!”

“She called me stupid!”

“Well, he is stupid!”

“Well, he is stupid!”

“Stop repeating meeeeee!!”

“Why couldn’t I be an only child?”

“STOP KICKING MY SEAT!!!”

“STOP KICKING MY SEAT!!!”

“He’s repeating me again!”

Every single morning, day after day, it’s the same. Our own little Groundhog Day.

“Just be quiet!!!” I holler, glaring in the rear view mirror. I can feel my blood pressure rising and the beginnings of a killer headache setting in.

“No more talking until we get there. Everyone just STOP!!”

I sigh audibly for effect. Just once I would like to get to drop off without a sore throat from yelling and without beads of sweat forming on my forehead. Is it really necessary for me to play referee before I’ve even had my coffee? Can’t they just sit in the car and mind their own business for the 15 minutes it takes to get to school? Do mornings really have to be like this? And,  just then, I see her walking by like clockwork and my question in answered. No, they don’t. For some people, mornings are a breeze.

Every single school day, The Happy Mother walks her dog and two children along our route to the neighborhood school. Her kids are typical kids, not particularly spotless or notable, and I’m pretty sure I once saw the brother knock over his sister and laugh about it. They’re kids, just like mine. But, it’s the mom that strikes me day after day after day after day as I ride by hissing at my own offspring. And, why? Because she’s smiling, ear to ear, every damn time I see her.

I look at her laughing with the kids, holding the dog leash in one hand and a coffee cup in another and wonder how she manages not only to bear that uphill walk, but to actually seemingly enjoy it. I wonder if she notices me at the same intersection every day, with the exhausted look in my eyes and the sulking kids in the backseats. Does she wonder why I have to yell at them? Why we’re not happily playing word games or discussing world peace like they probably are? Does she think she’s better than me? Does she even see us? No, I’m sure. Most likely she doesn’t even notice me because she’s too busy being… happy.

Now, before you go thinking that I’m all depressed and should start dealing with my feelings, I’m not unhappy. I laugh and smile and enjoy my kids throughout the day, the morning just never happens to be one of those times. My daily run-ins with her make me wonder what she could possibly be doing that I’m not. Is she filling her coffee cup with vodka? Is she meditating for an hour at four in the morning to ground herself? Does she pop pills and peak in the morning and then suck for the rest of the day? Or, does she really just enjoy her children and parent them effortlessly all day, each and every day?

I’m going with the vodka. Or the meditation. Or the pills. The alternative is simply unthinkable.

Having trouble finding the perfect Valentine’s Day cards for your young child’s class? Ones that say exactly what you want to say to his or her precious classmates? I thought you might be. I’m here to help…

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{You can download them and more on my Facebook page}

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1. Denial — I need to go to Target. I have a child. We can do this. It won’t be like last time or the time before or the time before that one. We will go in for the toilet paper and the milk that we need and leave with the toilet paper and the milk. There will be no tears, from either one of us. This time will be different.
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2. Anger —  Why me? Why is this happening again? Why do I breed children who are completely unable to make it through a freaking store without completely melting down? This is bullshit. I can’t stand my fucking children.
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3. Bargaining —  How about if we stick to the Dollar Spot? You can pick out any toy from there! OK, TWO toys! A glow stick! And a plastic pail! Or, a pad of paper and some stickers! Or, a Cars pen and a foam sword! So cool! The Dollar Spot rocks! Candy? You want candy? OK, M&Ms it is! The breakfast of champions! Cookies? Sure! How about it?! I beg of you .. I’ll do anything … Just don’t melt down.
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4. Guilt. What have I done to end up with a child like this? Was it the formula I fed him? The pacifier he sucked for way too long? The co-sleeping? Late potty training? Why is he so toy-dependant? Does he not get enough affection? Enough love? What am I doing wrong???
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5. Depression —  I am the worst mother ever. Life sucks.
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6. Acceptance —  Alright, fine. Just pick out a goddamn toy from the toy aisle. You win, I lose. There goes my fun money for the week, kid. Here, take it. Take your new toy. Better? Happy? Good. That’s one of us.
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7. Regret — I should never have done that — what on earth was I thinking? Lesson learned. Again. Target and children simply do not belong together. Never again. This time, I mean it.

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Followed by: The Inevitable. Did I seriously forget the freaking toilet paper?
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This is an image shared by 257 friends of mine on Facebook.

I understand why people responded to it and why it has the number of likes that it does. Our stretch marks and lose skin and dimples may not have been there twenty years ago, but they are part of who we are now and, therefore, they are beautiful. We earned them.

We are Women, hear us Roar!

But, here’s the thing: I’m not roaring about my stretchmarks; I’m groaning.

Then there’s this movement that seems to pop up every few years of mothers baring their bellies to show what we — real women — look like. Yes, it’s absolutely refreshing to see what a normal belly is after years of being bombarded with washboard abs and Photoshopped perfection. Real bellies dimple and sag and dip and bulge. Real boobs do the same, and most of us have them. By recognizing this, we should all be more comfortable in our own skin. Well, that’s the point at least.

But, while everyone else is comforted and roaring, all I’m thinking is that I’m sure as hell not going to be caught dead on the internet without a shirt on. Good for those women. Their self-confidence and self-acceptance is inspiring. Good for their daughters, being raised by moms who are comfortable in their own skin… Good for their husbands who don’t need deal with the mishigas that most partners do. It’s a good thing… I’m just not there yet.

My body gave me my children and for that, I will be eternally grateful. It is a beautiful thing, indeed. But, the stretch marks? They’re not so pretty, no matter what exotic animal they’re compared to. The stomach? Sorry, but I would prefer it be be flatter. The veins? No, I don’t see little works of modern art in their formation. The sagging? The drooping? No, I can not say I love the effects that carrying and birthing three children has had on me. Does that make me anti-feminist, shallow and vain? Maybe, but it’s the truth: I liked my body better before I had kids.

Would I trade my motherly imperfections for the experience of motherhood? Of course not, not in a million years. But, I don’t consider them trophies, either. They’re more like necessary consequences that I’ve learned to accept, but never fully embrace. I would do it all over again in a heartbeat, but I’m not exactly proud of them, either.

Perhaps someday, I won’t slather coco butter on my skin, hoping for a miracle. Maybe I’ll even wear a skimpy swimsuit at a crowded public pool without the slightest hint of self consciousness. Maybe I’ll prance and roar and pound my chest with pride. But, more than likely, I won’t. I think I’ll always wish that I’d appreciated my pre-baby belly more and scowl at the cruel redistribution of weight. But, I do recognize that I’m more than a number on the scale or the ripples on my skin. I am woman. I guess I’m just not much of a roarer.

I do, however, really like to hiss.

Pinterest: The photo sharing website that has people who’ve never tweeted or dug or stumbled ohhing and ahhing and drooling and pinning like it’s their job. Everything is just so pretty and perfect and amazing and inspiring, it’s easy to understand why. Well, yes, that’s true, but there’s a reason I no longer have an account there. Because it makes me feel like shit.

I know that I’m not the craftiest mother on the block, but after Pinterest, I feel like an utter creative failure. Clothespins with outfits drawn on? Pfft. People are building play kitchens! From old Ikea bookcases! With their own bare hands! My cooking may be tasty, but it’s certainly far from pin-worthy and my house looks downright filthy compared to the boards on the site.

Surely, I can’t be the only mother feeling less than adequate compared to that perfection. So, as a service to any of you who might be feeling similarly, I’d like to offer a few snapshots into my life. Guess which ones they are.

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A loving breakfast.

http://pinterest.com/pin/53761789271212076/

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Laundry, laundry, laundry.

http://pinterest.com/pin/37788084343262765/

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 Playroom.

http://pinterest.com/pin/206602701625522332/

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A child’s bed.

http://pinterest.com/pin/210332245066882609/

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Frosting.

http://pinterest.com/pin/46091596155846694/

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Clothing organization.

http://pinterest.com/pin/155726099585050529/

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Arts & Crafts

http://pinterest.com/pin/33003009738801181/

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Now, don’t you feel better about yourself?

I ran into an acquaintance at school the other day. Barely slowing down our respective paces in the hallway, she quickly noted, “the book’s coming out soon — excited!?”

“Yes!” I’m sure she expected to hear. “I’m super excited,” as we each made our way towards the parking lot. Of course I would be excited about my upcoming book release. What else would I possibly be feeling? It was the equivalent of asking “how are you” and anticipating a “fine” in response. Practically obligatory.

Unfortunately for this acquaintance, I’m a bit of an over-sharer. And also, a bit of a mess.

“Excited? Um, I wouldn’t say that’s the word, exactly” I began, dropping my bag onto the ground.

“Actually,” I sighed, I’m totally freaking out.”

“I mean, what if the book doesn’t sell? I put so much of myself into it, what if people don’t relate? What if nobody wants to help spread the word? What if the critics tear it apart? What if my publisher is disappointed with the sales? What if I make a fool of myself when I’m promoting it? What if I get stage fright at a reading?”

I took a breath.

“I know, I know, it’s great to just have written a book and I should just appreciate that and enjoy the ride. Who cares if it doesn’t do well? I’ll survive, right? I know. But I can’t enjoy it. I don’t know why I can’t, but I can’t.”

I sighed and leaned against the wall for support.

“I am excited, I guess, but there are just so many other emotions, too. I’m just not used to this kind of pressure, you know? I’m not normally accountable like this and I don’t think it’s good for me. It’s scary. I mean—”

“Ah! Hold on a sec,” the acquaintance interrupted me as she fumbled for her completely silent phone.

“I think I heard this ring and it must be important. Oh, it is. Very important. Good luck!”

She bolted off without looking back, whispering to an imaginary friend about an imaginary emergency that took her away from a very real crazy person. I haven’t seen her since and I’m pretty sure she switched pre-schools just to avoid another potential run-in with me. Can’t say I blame her at all.

The moral of the story is: Don’t ask how I’m feeling about the book unless you really want to know the answer. And, you don’t. Trust me.

My mom, who is as anti-medication as one can possibly get, has begun practically ramming Xanax down my throat.

My agent gets frequent frantic 3AM e-mails from me as I lie awake at night, my mind racing with things which would never dawn on me at normal hours.

My husband is about ready to move into the unfinished, mouse-infested, pipe-exposed basement for the next three months just to not have to interact with me.

My friends have suddenly gone missing.

So, I’m turning to you, my dear readers. For my sanity, for my fingernails, for my marriage — hell, FOR THE CHILDREN — won’t you buy a book? (here) If you already have, or if you really want to make my day, will you consider sharing it with your friends?

I’m not too cool to admit that I am stalking the pre-sale numbers somewhat obsessively. Alright, completely obsessively. Basically, each book purchase is like a tiny sanity pill for me to pop. That makes the ten dollar purchase practically a medical deduction for you, and ensures a less crazy Jill for the three months to come.

I think it’s best for all of us. I’m much better at scary than crazy.

Did you know that, in addition to being an expert ass wiper, superb sandwich maker, and multi-tasker extraordinaire, that I am also an esteemed scientist? I mean, how else would I be able to come up with this?

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Years of clinical research, right here.

You know the old saying that we each are our own harshest critics? Well, it’s bullshit. At least in my house it is. It’s not that I’m especially easy on myself, but rather that the kids are constantly critiquing me. And they’re brutal.

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It starts first thing in the morning. I’ll be innocently showering when a midget body will barge into the bathroom, and upon seeing my figure in the shower, run out screaming, like I have scarred him or her for life. It’s not uncommon for the child, whoever it is, to fall into a fit of giggles and call for his siblings. “Lily! Evan! Ben! Mommy is naaaaakkked. Come see!!” If I’m really lucky, all three will stand outside of the shower pointing and laughing like I’m a zoo animal taking a dump. “Ewwwwww” they shriek as I rinse out the conditioner, thinking that in the future 3AM showers would be a far wiser idea.

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Once I get out of the shower, time permitting, I slather myself in lotion. Should I be lucky enough to have an audience, they will inevitably point to my thighs. “What’s that purple squiggle, Mommy?” A spider vein, I sigh. “That one, too?” Yes, that one too, honey. “Over here, too?” Yes, my darling, that’s what they’re called. Let’s move on.

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“OK.”

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“What’s this?”

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It’s a stretch mark. That’s a scar. That’s a vein. That’s cellulite. That’s hair. That’s a wrinkle. That’s a bruise. That’s… crap… what is that? Just let me get dressed alone, alright?

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Lily, my child who is convinced that gym shorts worn with tights underneath are some kind of fashion statement in the year 2012, frequently greets me with “is that what you’re wearing?” and an accompanying eye roll once I make my way downstairs. In all fairness, it’s a somewhat acceptable response for the days when I do, in fact, leave the house in the sweatshirt I slept in and slippers, but much less appreciated when I have actually put some effort into being presentable. Yes, Lily, I hiss. This is what I’m wearing. Thanks, my love.

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The patch of white hairs, the stubble on my legs, the heels in need of exfoliating… nothing goes unnoticed by my lovely children. At the end of the day, as I read the boys bedtime stories, Evan inevitably focuses on my face. “What’s that dot?” he will ask, pointing to the tiniest pore or a birthmark or a chicken pox scar. One by one, he counts them like he’s counting sheep, falling asleep to the comfort of my imperfections.

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Fortunately, my skin is thick and there are a few “Mommy, you’re pretty’s” thrown into the mix for good measure. And, who other than my kids is really examining my nose from half an inch away, anyway? On the plus side, their attention to detail is impeccable. It would just be nice if the attention wasn’t focused on me for a change.