I’m seeing a “Mommy Needs a Cocktail” cocktail recipes + witty stories.
What do you think?
I am going to be number 800. The carnival has only been open for like 2 days. Go on over there. For the Fall Y’all Bloggy Giveaway, I spent 22 hours a day for 3 days entering everything. It was taking my OCD to a whole new level.
What am I giving away? A shirt. What else do I have to give away? Any shirt from Baby Brewing. Just go on over there and check all the shirts out. Then come back here and leave a comment telling me what shirt you would get if you won. I’ll pick a random winner on February 3rd around noonish. WOOHOO!!
My husband. He kills me. He’s all, “let’s live off the land, and make our own food and have chickens.”
I would like to maintain I knew NOTHING of this bizarreness when I married him. Before him? Dated venture capitalists and VP’s of health insurance companies and television directors.
Then I succeeded in nabbing my brilliant husband in law school. Which should have been my first red flag. But if you personally are a red flag, you tend not to notice other red flags. We marry. We have a child. He loses his mind and begins to squirrel away 50 pound bags of rice in the basement.
We proceed to move into a neighboorhood that is riddled with deer that would LOVE for us to garden and the chickens? Three letters for you. HOA. No chickens. None. Not a one.
So he continues to get books about windmills and solar energy and then I get the first electric bill and it’s about 20 cents. He gets depressed because he needed it to be about $700 a month to justify putting up a windmill in the middle of 3 acres of trees. Or solar panels in the middle of 3 acres of trees.
I go on my merry way. I bust my ass making t-shirts in the basement. Up all day with the kids, up all night with the printing press. I fly to the West Coast to give my shirts away to people that don’t even stick around to here my clever little schtick. Nothing. I come home. I kiss a ridiculous number of asses in order to promote my stuff. I give away MORE free stuff in hopes that MORE people will buy stuff. I think that maybe, just maybe, I can pay the bills this month.
Then my husband posts his disaster preparedness tome on the internet today on one of his blogs. He hears from the editor of the LARGEST ONLINE SURVIVAL BLOG mere hours later. A blog that makes Celebrity Baby Blog’s traffic look like my traffic. His disaster preparedness tome will be cited on that BIG ASS BLOG tomorrow morning.
Only 11 hours to figure out how to market Mommy Needs a Cocktail shirts to the End of the World crowd. Because when it all goes to hell in a handbasket, Mommy’s gonna need a cocktail. You know it.
So I’m in the shower this morning and The Baby is in his blue tub at the bottom of the shower. The Boy has run off with my I-Phone to God only knows where. The Boy suddenly reappears at the bathroom door without the phone.
TB: MomMomMom. Your phone is on the green couch.
K: Yeah, I would prefer to have my phone here.
The Baby opens the shower door because, God FORBID, he miss anything.
K: Shut the door, Nate.
TB: But it’s on the green couch.
K: Then I would like you to go down to the green couch and bring it back to this bathroom.
TB: (quite cheery) OK, Mom.
And runs down the hall. I need that phone back because when it locks, it only allows emergency calls. I need to know if someone thought we were having an emergency and now some form of emergency response unit is showing up. You know how the locals get fiesty about repeatedly showing up at your house for nothing.
I continue to wash my hair and as I close my eyes to rinse out the shampoo, I feel a cool, univited breeze on my body. I look down to find the shower door open and a very wet, very naked, very fat-assed Baby toddling precariously across the very slick bathroom floor. Because if you have been walking for all of 3 weeks, you should jump right to the Wet Tile portion of the show. The door flies open and The Boy hands me my phone. I look down to see that the Notes function is open and the word “Jugg” is written on the pad. The Boy points to what he has written. I yell to The Baby to get back into the shower and he yells, “MOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYY” and starts to walk away faster.
Their father would be so proud.
The Boy (that’s for you, Marelle): MomMomMomMom.
K: Yes, Ethan.
TB: MomMomMom. Why don’t you have a bag?
Hmmm. I glanced over to see him pointing at the sea of purses, sachels, handbags, pocketbooks, diaperbags, ect. There were five women at Chick-fil-a and there must have been 70 bags. Easily.
K: Yeah, um. I don’t carry a purse.
TB: But what about a bag for Nate’s stuff?
K: Am I supposed to carry stuff for Nate (looking around frantically). Does he smell? Did he poop? Nate, did you poop? You already pooped an hour ago. You can’t poop again. I don’t have a diaper. Damn it, I don’t have a diaper.
TB: He didn’t poop, Mom. I just ask because those OTHER moms have bags.
Whatever. Why we gotta be keeping up with the Jones’s when the kids are 1 and 3? Seriously. I have, on occasion, carried a purse. But why would I carry a purse if my husband can hold my keys and my wallet? Hello? Why did I get married? I mean, other than for his hot bod? When I had The Boy, I even carried a diaper bag. I had to because the kid had blowouts twice a day. Every single day for the first year of his life. I have never, ever, ever seen someone so full of crap. The Baby? Crapped once a week for the first 6 months of his life. Scared the ever living hell out of me. I thought he was broken.
That being said, The Baby has had a total of like 3 blowouts in his life. I NEVER carry a diaper bag and on occasion just route around in the trunk for a diaper to change a wet one. Change of clothes? I spit on a change of clothes. I did just start taking one diaper in a bag to church on Sundays because after doing nursery duty one week where every other child had a bag with 6 diapers, two meals, a 24 oz. box of Cheerios, two bottles and 7 changes of clothes, I thought that maybe The Baby felt left out. I mean, what if he actually peed in the 19 minutes he was left in nursery.
So today we are on our way into church when Derek brings it to my attention that The Baby is soaked from his armpit to his thigh. He’s holding him up in the air to show me.
K: It’s gotta be milk.
D: I don’t think so.
K: (leaning over to take a whiff) oh, that isn’t milk. That would be pee.
I’m thinking horrible things until I remember that I was the one who changed the diaper last. Just like me to start to cast stones in the church parking lot. I ran back to the truck to route around for a change of clothes.
I came up empty-handed. Nothing. I didn’t even find something of The Boy’s. N-O-T-H-I-N-G.
I crawled back into the building and went up to the Nerve Center of Childcare at the Mega Church.
K: Would you happen to have a change of clothes for a child whose mother is so incredibly irresponsible that she doesn’t. even. have. one?
The answer was yes. And, as is always the case, they only had girl clothes. Because mothers of boys only buy 3 outfits and make the boy wear them until they wear out. The thought of giving away one of those three worn out outfits never crosses the mind of the mother of a boy. She would be too embarrassed. Now the 27 girl outfits that looked like they had been worn 1/2 a time? Adorable. They found a nice brown shirt for The Baby with the cutest pink heart on it. We sent him on his way and it was only after I handed his bright pink cup over the door that I realized that Nate was going to end up Natalie today.
Personally, I think it’s his fault. You can’t go switching it up now. You are the Non-Peeing, Non-Crapping Child. That is your identity in this family. Any deviations from the personality traits already set in stone at 11 months Will Not Be Tolerated.
Tonight was the Home Owner’s Association meeting for the neighborhood. Coming from living in a condo at one point, I LAUGH at the anticipated trepidation that everyone approaches these meetings. I mean, short of being part of a HOA for a condo in FLORIDA, I’ve seen it all. Really.
Except the problem here is that the rules all changed right before we moved. And frankly, The Husband is a little cranky about it. So, hi, ho, hi, ho, it’s off to the meeting we go.
We took the kids. Someone asked what we were going to do with the kids. I said that we had thought about leaving them home alone but that is frowned upon by Protective Services.
So we took the kids to one of the most pristine houses in our neighborhood. Pristine. Pristine. Gorgeous decorated glass eggs on window sills. Window sills that were approximately 8 inches off the ground. The Boy was clever enough to take his shoes off when we showed up but once he realized his lovah Harrison was there, they ran around screaming like lunatics. Two little Liberace’s on the piano. The Baby? Desperately trying to maim himself on the fireplace. Or climb the stairs, or maim himself on the fireplace.
So now I’m looking like the crappy mother because my children are out of control. There are two kids, and apparently two parents are not enough for two kids. But I’m too busy making new drinking friends, gossiping and speaking ill of Hollywood stars who have their assistant pick up the free stuff because they are too tired to come into the gifting suite to get the free stuff they are getting. The Husband keeps handing me The Baby and I keep putting The Baby on the floor. This goes over as well as expected. The Boy is eating chocolate cake (WTH?????????????) with a spoon which means that there is more chocolate cake on the floor than in his mouth. Me? Talking about drinking. Good Lord.
I finally took the kids and came home. I left Danyelle to babysit the husband. As I was leaving, I passed Mr. Cranky Pants “Your Fence Is Ugly and I Don’t Want it to be Associated With My Property Line.” I waved hello and gave The Husband the look of death. I then told Danyelle that if she let The Husband speak, I would never speak to her again.
I figure we’ll be outcasts in, oh, about another 45 minutes. I’m gonna go to bed now.