While I was asleep…

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From the moment I brought my first two children home from the hospital, barely 12 months shy of one another… nobody slept. My Irish twins were jacked-up baby Energizer Bunnies in stereo.

*Irish twins- when the same woman produces multiple offspring in a 12 month period through separate pregnancies. This probably causes many women to take up recreational drinking later in life, so I’m pretty sure that’s where the Irish part comes from.

I gave birth to up-all-night babies who quickly grew into up-all-night toddlers who were about as difficult to settle in bed as a pair of adolescent spider monkey’s on crack. I kid you not, my bald tail-less monkey’s would not. stay. in. bed. And yes, I tried everything from warm soothing baths, calming music, and dreadfully mundane bedtime stories to… Benadryl.

Yes, I did.

Don’t go all judgy June Cleaver on me. I was exhaustipated with a capital E. Also, in my defense, as an RN I’d been advised by physicians on numerous occasions to administer this same medication to adult patients FOR SLEEP. I was working in pediatrics at the time, so it was easy to figure out the safe dosage. Unfortunately, medications can have the opposite effect on some people. Particularly, small noisy restless humans between 2 – 3 foot tall whose sole mission is to siphon adult energy. As Murphy’s Law would predict, Benadryl effected my toddler like a double shot of expresso laced with pixie stick powder.

As a result, I quickly came to terms with the reality that there was no magic bullet – NOTHING could guarantee to convert my hyperactive children into sleepy mode at sundown. Colassal bummer. In addition to holding the ever-taxing mom title, I had a full time job. I was so tired it hurt. More often than not, I’d simply give in to exhaustion and assume the vertical-cozy-position next to my bouncing balls of energy, which meant I was out for the entire night… in a bed intended for baby bear.

This moms episode of Sleepless in New York actually took place 18 years ago, before the explosion of social networking and subsequent 24/7 online moral support for Mommy’s-at-the-end-of-their-ropes. Quite frankly, I don’t know how I survived without the almighty Internet life line.

I  just do not know.

I recently finished reading the new mom anthology, Motherhood May Cause Drowsiness, which is a funny and heartwarming collection of tales written by kindred sleep deprived mom goddesses. Rest assured, fellow mombies, the sleep-deprived state you’re experiencing is indeed a widespread and universal phenomenon that’s also temporary.

You’ve just got to love nocturnal children.

For me, it quickly became a nightly contest to see who would fall asleep first. Predictably, I was hardly ever victorious. To this day, the same image pops into my consciousness whenever bedtime shenanigans are mentioned. The infamous night I frantically woke to discover my two year old son was MIA, which meant he had escaped from his room and was most likely on a mischievous adventure. At the sight of his empty bed, I instinctually rushed into my daughters room, where thankfully, I discovered them both. She was nuzzled under the bed covers fast asleep and my Energizer Bunny Boy was perched on top of her sleeping figure with the entire contents of the toy box spilled onto her bed. Bizarre, but funny as Hell. He had the Fisher Price farm set up next to her head and was gleefully manipulating the animal figures up and down her arms, making barnyard noises. Moooooooo!!! Cock-a-doodle-doo!!! Apparently, he needed someone to play with and it didn’t matter to him if his playmate was interactive

For the official record, it’s not easy to portray a convincing bad-ass disciplinarian when you’re gasping and turning colors trying to stifle an impending laugh-out-loud-and-slap-your-thigh. Some things are just plain entertaining, especially when you’re exhausted.

The strategy I most often resorted to when attempting to wind down my hyperactive monkey-boy was to force him to lay on the couch and watch National Geographic, while I took care of whatever needed to be urgently attended to – like washing the families underwear, tossing the after-dinner wreckage into the dumpster or mopping up the lake left on the bathroom floor after evening baths. The drone hum of the NG narrators voice was enough to put a herd of elephants to sleep, although predictably, it hardly had any effect on my high strung monkey child who, incidentally, had been diagnosed with off-the-charts ADHD by the tender age of five. I can’t confirm that off-the-charts ADHD is an official diagnosis in the DSM, but I do hereby swear it came out of the psychiatrists mouth.

This particular memory came bouncing back into my consciousness like a baby grenade the moment I sunk my teeth into Motherhood May cause Drowsiness and began to read. I suspect it’s also very likely that I have a touch (or full blown) case of PTSD.

And on the glass-half-full-of-vodka kind of note – the ultimate pay-off for the struggle is that my eldest offspring are now 20 and 21 years old, meaning it’s almost their turn to join the up-all-night watch crew also known as team zombie… and I can hardly wait until they have kids.

Be sure to check out this heartfelt, painstaking and funny new mom anthology! It’s recommended reading for the Hot Mess Mom Club. Welcome!

http://www.amazon.com/MOTHERHOOD-May-Cause-Drowsiness-Stories-ebook/dp/B00NUR3O9Y

Lessons in Flushing

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Let’s face it. Some bathroom jobs require more than one flush.

In fact, repeat flushing is probably twice as likely when male waste is involved.

Multiple flushes are often a way of life.

As you already know, and just like replacing the empty roll of toilet paper, “Ain’t nobody (but mom) got time for that!”

So, to make things run more efficiently in bathrooms everywhere and to prevent from grossing out everyone in your household with your shitty presents, I’ve come up with fun activities to engage in while waiting for the tank to refill… so you can flush AGAIN.

And again if necessary.

You know… that long drawn out 90 seconds or so that seems like an eternity.

Ready?

The list-

*Wipe down the faucet. There’s almost always spittle, dribble and/or ick on the faucet… which is most likely yours.

*Sing a verse from… “Another one bites the dust” as you intently watch the turd-subject make it’s final swirly lap.

*If there’s more than one turd, bet on which one will go down first.

*Use dental floss to weed the garden between your teeth.

*Count the brackets on your braces.

*Post a guess-how-long-this-is? photo on Instagram and wait for responses.

*Practice your duck face in the mirror and post it on Facebook to annoy the world.

*Play a game of solitaire. (Everyone brings their phone to the bathroom)

*Change the toilet paper roll. -just kidding.

*Play a game of Frootloop toss where you try to peg the unflushable offender with a fruity ring. This activity will fine tune your aim for when you try to win a goldfish at the fair.

*Take a moment to squeeze the trigger on the air freshener that’s sitting right next to the toilet for your spraying convenience. – this activity is highly recommended.

Just… pleeeeease.

Remember, much like the age-old camping rule… leave no trace.

This concludes today’s lesson in Civilized Bathroom Etiquette.

Have a great day.

Addendum – (a month later) because I have a GIANT mess in my upstairs toilet that’s definitely going to require a plunger and a shit-load of disinfectant. Hopefully, I won’t have to get Mr. Anaconda the snake-unplugger-tool out. Fingers crossed AND nose plugged.

The addendum- never attempt to flush more than six squares of TP at the same time. DUH. I don’t care how GINORMOUS your poop is, the toilet can only swallow so much. New rule- if it’s bigger than a hamster, divide it up.

That is all.

Extreme Driving Adventures- Testosterone Behind the Wheel

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Let’s face it… teenage boys behind the wheel of any vehicle that isn’t

a self propelled red and yellow plastic Fred Flintstone car is frightening shit.

 

Teaching my, now licensed 17 year old to drive last year was an experience that had my already-questionable-sanity hanging by the fiber of a frayed thread… which continues to weaken every. single. time. I hand him the keys.

 

No doubt, those smelly green Christmas tree air fresheners should be available in xanax scent- exclusively for parents and/or mental patients.

 

The air freshener people would make a killing.

 

It seems like a no brainer, yet to this day I’ve been unable to locate a single anti-anxiety scented air freshener for sale on ALL of the inter webs.

 

Go figure.

 

The following driving tales were scribbled in holy water written while I was up to my eyeballs in adventure last year, teaching Big Kahunas to drive.

 

Big Kahunas nickname is explained somewhere in the smoking wreckage.

 

Fasten your seatbelt and read on…

 

Dumb Shit my Son Says…

Big Kahunas

Cruising in the Jesus-mobile

Testosterone Powered Jackass

 

 

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Secret Mother’s Day… Shhhh!!

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I’d like to propose a new holiday called Secret Mother’s Day, because we absofuckinglutely deserve it, that’s why.

Secret Mother’s Day would be just that.

A big fat secret.

After careful consideration, I’ve determined that it would be absolutely necessary to conceal it from our offspring, because God knows they’d just fuck it up.

It’s what they do best…. which is precisely why we’re keeping them in the dark.

In addition, we’d also keep it from our own mothers because (no offense or disrespect to them) but, obviously, you can’t thoroughly enjoy your own day as Queen Mother her Royal Highness, if you’re obligated to kiss someone else’s ass. That shit just cancels itself out and makes this day very confusing, not to mention disappointing.

Don’t give me that look.

You know it’s true and I did clarify… no offense or disrespect to them intended.

It just doesn’t mesh.

Nothing like winning a weekend to a five star resort and being asked to scrub the hot tub when you’re finished.

Just no.

This lets the air right out of the balloon of intended appreciation.

So there you have it… Secret Mother’s Day.

It would be an entire day, as in 24 entire hours and not just say a two hour block for brunch– if you’re lucky enough to be on the receiving end of that particular gift.

Alone.

No kids, no spouse or significant other, no relatives.

You’re welcome to bring the dog though, because dogs rock.

I said so.

Dogs are incredibly therapeutic, unconditionally loving and awesome in so many ways where humans essentially fall short. every. single. time.

So, it’s you and the dog.

All you have to do is chose the location (my venue is definitely a beach with warm surf and seashells) the type of lounging device you wish to recline in and what you’d like others (who aren’t your family— remember, they’d just fuck it up and for this reason, they’re not allowed within 100 miles of your special Secret Mother’s Day celebration) to do for you.

My short list includes a massage (that’s not in exchange for sex), cold drinks in fancy crystal glasses with pretty little umbrellas, chocolate covered strawberries presoaked in vodka, a stack of books to be read to me by Channing Tatum, an unlimited supply of chocolate peanut butter ice-cream served in waffle cones and a 20-something boy decoration to fan and water my dog, so he doesn’t get overheated.

That’s all I want.

Scratch that, not done.

Throw in a photographer to capture the evidence of our extremely secret and awesome adventure, as well as an Internet connection to plaster this red carpet day all over social media like the rest of the faux Internet moms who-are-most-likely-full-of-shit.

That’s all I want.

Just writing this proposal relaxed me.

Imagine that.

It’s the little things in life, people.

Grab your imagination by the mammary glands and run with it.

It’s Mother’s Day… Dammit

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As Supreme Ruler of the Kingdom, I hereby proclaim that Mother’s Day be celebrated the entire weekend this year… and forever.

It’s been a rough one, that’s why.

No way is one lousy day of cleaning up your own shit and being on excellent behavior gonna cut it, girls and boys.

Not this year, my precious offspring.

Extreme mom is going completely proactive this Mother’s Day to guarantee that it doesn’t SUCK.

You have been hereby enlisted… as a GIVER.

Therefore, specific TO DO lists will be distributed to each of my brood.

We’re gonna get it right this time.

Here we go.

Mother’s Day… Take 21!!

(The number is accurate. No. Shit.)

ACTION!!!

Here’s a preview of my short list of demands:

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*You will bathe the dogs with excellent smelling shampoo, then scrub the entire bathroom including the tub.

YES, this does need to be spelled out.

The powder room and pets shall smell like a fresh meadow.

*Clean my car- that was incidentally trashed by YOU.

You shall vacuum the resident floor rubble and debris that you dragged in, clean all dog slobber off the windows, dispose of dead insect carcasses from the dashboard and remove sticky goo from the cup holders.

Again, sparkly clean.

•Vacuum both sets of stairs in the house and do not attempt to make a new family member out of the pet hair.

NO, I wouldn’t mention this if history hadn’t dictated already that it’s was absolutely necessary.

Plus, we already have our limit of dependents.

Use care not to clog the vacuum. I’m tired of performing a colonoscopy on the Dyson every single time I attempt to turn it on.

This is a proactive exercise, because unfortunately some things do have to be spelled out.

Remember, this is only my short list.

*grin*

Had my children had the foresight to say… toast me a lousy poptart, scribble HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY on a sheet of paper or pluck me a few daffodils from my own garden, I wouldn’t have been forced to make these heinous demands.

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I shall also, hereby be completely EXEMPT from partaking in any of the following on Mother’s Day weekend, which absolutely includes Friday and Saturday… from this year until the end of time.

I shall not cook or touch unprepared food.

I shall not go to the grocery store.

I shall not do laundry.

I shall be exempt from driving you anywhere.

I shall not do dishes… or even look at them.

I shall not answer questions or engage in conversations beginning with:

Will you?

Can I?

I need…

I’m hungry…

I’m borrrrrrred…

It’s not fair…

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Things that YOU can do for me:

Pretend to be unmiserable.

Make me coffee

Do not complain… about anything.

Most importantly, do this shit WITHOUT being told or reminded.

Anyone breaking the rules of Mother’s Day Weekend will be exiled to the back yard and forced to live in a tent.

I know my expectations are ridiculously high this year.



A girl can dream…



NOTE- This post was from 2013 and my children failed miserably that year.

That’s entirely different post.

You’re not alone fellow moms.

I, and almost everyone who’s not your kids, appreciate the Hell out of you.

Rock on, mamacita’s!! The world as we know it would come to a screeching halt without you.

Word.

Twas the First Day of School…

‘Twas the first day of school and all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring…

Not even a mouse?

But, not because ThatGoddamnedCat was diligently guarding his post.

Nope.

ThatGoddamnedCat is never around when you actually need him, which is partially how he earned his fitting name ThatGoddamnedCat.

Not a creature was stirring, becauuuuse…

Stewart-the-stupid was camped out in the bottom of the family toaster gorging himself on bread crumbs and chocolate Pop tart sprinkles.

Why didn’t he just eat off the floor where there’s almost always a generous buffet containing three square meals?

My extreme theory is this- he must be a teenaged mouse, because everyone knows teenagers are know-it-alls who don’t listen to their elders, which in this case happens to be Mr. & Mrs. Little. (who, incidentally, are most likely still ALIVE, simply because they know enough to stay the-hell outta the toaster)

Unfortunately for their son Stewart-the-stupid, Diva #13 happened to be in the mood for TOAST on this particular dismal morning.

On a similar note, yet completely off on a tangent- one Easter morning, Diva #13 was in the mood for cinnamon buns and turned on the oven where the dumbass Easter Bunny had recently hidden her brothers Easter basket.

The dumbass bunny even saw her do it, but wasn’t caffeinated or conscious enough at the time to process, let alone react to the situation.

By conscious, I mean the dumbass bunny’s body was standing in the kitchen but her brain was still in REM sleep most likely having a Channing Tatum-dipped-in-chocolate-wearing-bunny-ears dream.

And, yes the bunny still hides my kids Easter baskets even though the eldest is 20, because it’s FUN for her, THAT’S why.

Anyway, back to this episode called… Of mice and hungry-girls-in-the-mood-for-toast-on-the-first-day-of-school.

Enter Diva #13.

“Mommmmmmmm!!!!! I think there’s a mouse behind the toaster… I heard a SQUEAK SQUEAK!!”

BEHIND the toaster would’ve been a semi-acceptable location for a mouse, says my half-asleep brain.

I grab my mom cape and fly into the kitchen where I immediately smell burn.

The electrical kinda burn.

I’ve put out at least one of every imaginable type of appliance fire, so my nose knows.

The example below was called the French fry incident of  2012.

“Pheeeew!!” says my brain assuming the dumb furry golf ball sized intruder gnawed through the cord that’s on the OUTSIDE of the toaster.

My mom vision diverts to the toaster.

It’s in the DOWN position and it’s still toasting away.

Sonofabitch.

I quick unplug it with my Inspector Gadget mom arm and NOTHING scurries out.

Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit!!!!

Double-triple-quadruple SHITTTTT!!

I just KNOW.

Diva #13- Ohhhhh my God… Did I toast the mouse???!!!

Me- No No No!! (fibbing to spare her from certain emotional turmoil)

Enter #16- Oh my God… she toasted a mouse!!!! Noooo waaaay!!!!

Me- No, he just got… stuck (giving him the evil mom eye that says STFU and walk away. He knows that look)

Breeeeeeeeathe….

Think.

The crisis has been averted temporarily.

Toaster unplugged… check.

My brain flashes back to- it’s the first day of school and we’re already going to miss the damned bus.

Bus missing happens to be the story of our life, minus today’s very acceptable excuse of having a fuzzy morning intruder stuck in our toasting appliance.

Quick run outside and take a few token first-day-of-school pics where hopefully nobody’s facial expression will look anything like the SCREAM guy.

Him.

I generously allow (Big Kahunna’s) #16 to drive my van to school for the first time, so my expression probably does resemble the SCREAM guy.

My nerves say so, anyway.

Diva #13 takes the bus.

Status- Two off to school ON TIME.

Life is good, right?

Wrong.

Now it’s time to deal with how-bad-is-the-carnage-in-the-toaster? situation.

Did I already say SHITTTTTTT!!!!!???

I know I have to, so I insert new batteries into my CSI wannabe flashlight (that’s actually just a regular flashlight owned by people who are me and usually love solving a good mystery, except for when it happens to involve crispy rodents) and examine the scene.

My conclusion- Stewart-the-stupid rodent…. in the far right toaster slot…. smooshed by up&down mechanism…. by Diva #13.

It would appear that the roasting occurred after Stewarts demise, therefore enhancing the dismal scene with aromatic extra crispy dumbass mouse, which by the way, ABSOLUTELY multiplies the ICK factor by like a gazillion.

The moral of the story- always check the toaster before you pull the trigger.

There.

I’ve made you paranoid for life.

I’m sorry and you’re most welcome.

Ps- Just so you know my level of dedication, I spent 99 cents on an app to turn Channing into a chocolate dream bunny.

 

For driving stories involving Big Kahunna’s #16- click here…

 

https://extrememom.net/2013/04/11/big-kahunas-goes-driving/
https://extrememom.net/2013/07/02/cruisin-in-the-jesus-mobile/
https://extrememom.net/2013/06/08/dumb-shit-my-son-says-when-im-teaching-him-to-drive/
https://extrememom.net/2013/07/10/testosterone-powered-vehicles-and-jackasss/

 

For mouse stories involving ThatGoddamnedCat- click here…
https://extrememom.net/2013/07/20/that-goddamned-cat/

https://extrememom.net/2014/05/28/chronicles-of-thatgoddamnedcat-here-birdie-birdie/

https://extrememom.net/2013/09/08/twas-the-first-day-of-school/

https://extrememom.net/2014/06/06/chronicles-of-thatgoddamnedcat-meet-luckybastard-my-chipmunk-friend/

https://extrememom.net/2014/07/16/adventures-of-thatgoddamnedcat-bobbing-for-bunnies-in-the-river-styx/

 

 

La Chancla!!

This is a cultural sort of post.

Last night I found THIS hilarious photo on Pinterest that introduced me to the beautiful righteous term CHANCLA.

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I know, I live under a rock.

So, I cracked open the trusty Urban Dictionary.

According to Urban Dictionary- it’s a flip flop used by a Mexican female to beat their child or husband for doing something that angered her. *smirk-snort-giggle*

Probably something stupid.

Big surprise there.

WHOOP ASS, MAMACITA.

I also chuckled, because I absolutely despise selfies. Especially, the pitiful repeat offenders who post multiple pics of themselves every. single. day.

What in the hell is THAT about?

They look exactly the same as they did yesterday.

Quite frankly, I think these ladies need a great BIG bear hug… several times a day or more if possible.

Someone should start a bear hug service to quench their insatiable need for attention.

After all, the act of repeatedly promoting one’s physical image on a social network simply screams

“LOOK at me… Tell me I’m beautiful… Sext me…. I need ATTENTION…. Please LOVE me… Press LIKE if you think I’m perty… Validate my existence… These babies are a DD… Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t find my self worth… Blah blah blah… ”

I find it to be quite sad and embarrassing for those poor pitiful girls.

** ** ** **

Dear Selfie Addicts,

Please replace YOUR face with a kitten, puppy or baby.

I love those kinds of photos.

Also, message me your address, so I’ll know where to send your bear-hug-a-gram.

Love, EM

PS- feel better soon. (((HUGS)))

 

 

If I posted a daily selfie, it would look like one of those dehydrated sponge creatures that you buy at the Dollar Store, immerse in water and watch GROW.

*If you have not had the extreme pleasure of playing with these, you should definitely check them out for an awesomely fun squishy experience. Tip- put your creature in a 2 liter soda bottle for easier handling and viewing. You are most welcome!

It has not been a good year for me for weight maintenance.

Mostly, because food is awesome and I don’t care what my ass looks like. After all, it’s in back of me where I can’t see it. I also ignore the back of my hair for the very same reason.

I do, however, care about comfort and right now wearing clothes is downright painful.

I’ve kind of been parading around looking like a pissed off Incredible Hulk.

It ain’t pretty.

Just yesterday, I was forced to squeeze into spanx just to zip my stupid pants for a job interview.

I haven’t decided what my level of commitment on this particular issue is as of right now.

New job = $$ = new comfy clothes VERSUS get-off-my-fat-ass-and-put-down-the-pastries.

Decisions.

Getting back to the topic at hand- CHANCLA, I hope you enjoy this YouTube video that made me spit my coffee EVERYWHERE.

Enjoy.

Also, hats off to Latino women.

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