Love and the Single Mommy-Translated

I’m single again. Yes, it’s true. I will now wait for for the line of available men to form at my front door. Don’t everyone jump up at once, I will get to you eventually. Perhaps we can form this into a New Hampshire version of “The Bachelorette”. I will be beautiful and breathtaking from sun up to sun down, while 16+ handsome men fawn over me and have occasional fits of testosterone. By the end, three men will be down on one knee asking me to marry them. I will obviously pick the perfect one, and we will ride off into the sunset to plan our wedding, and live happily ever after.

Let me translate that for you:

I’m single again because I have can’t seem to grasp the fact that badboy/redneck does not mean a “good man”. In other words, I have shit taste in men. I will now sit home at night crying because the only men who tell me I’m “hot” are the ones online and don’t actually know me. Due to a fat ass and two kids in tow, I will officially make it to the bottom of the Upper Valley’s list of “Most Eligible Bachelorettes”. My hair will be a mess and my clothes dirty, every day except Monday. An 8 and 5 year old will drape themselves over me like human blankets on the couch every night. This will go on for an endless amount of time until I’m old, and greyer than I am now grey. Many sunsets will past as my kids grow and move out, leaving me alone.

Let me translate that for you:

I’m single again, and I’m ok with that. I know I’m a pretty awesome-ish person, and have a lot to offer. Although I live in a very small town, the people around me know how much I have to offer someone. It may take a while, but I know I won’t be a bachelorette forever. I will be happy and beautiful from the inside out. A very lucky man or two will notice this and want to call me his. I won’t settle, and I will end up married to my soul mate. We will have our ups and downs, but our companionship will prevail because everyone needs a best friend for life.

Being A Mom Is Madness

I have to admit, I don’t always enjoy being a mother. In fact, there are some days I absolutely hate it. Those are the days I wish daycare was a 24 hour thing, and you only had to pick them up when you feel like it. The days where all I want to do is hide under the covers until they both disappear. I am stressed, pushed to my max capacity, and pretty sure my head is going to explode.

My typical week day starts at 5 am with a pot of coffee, and the intent to participate in some sort of physical exercise. All to often the extent of this is couch squats, where I get up and down from the couch to refresh my coffee, let the cat in/out, or go to the bathroom. I fold laundry, do the dishes, sweep the floor, put blankets away, and fix the couch cushions. By 6 am I am lumbering into the shower, with an industrial sized razor, to shave off the inch of hair that grew overnight and wash the key body parts. Arm pits, under boob, face, butt, and vagina; the usual. Dry off, get dressed, paint my face. And so the madness begins.

  • 6:30 am it’s time to wake the tiny people whose heads barely stick out from their mountain of blankets. This includes, but not limited to, singing at a high volume, bouncing them off their mattresses, throwing the cat on them, and stripping all blankets from their beds. Related, our house is usually between 57 and 60 degrees first thing in the morning. A brief weather report is recited before leaving them to get themselves dressed and downstairs. Breakfast, teeth brushed. Coats and boots on.
  • 7:25 am we are leaving the house to start our journey through the galaxy .
  • 7:40 am tiny person #1 is at preschool.
  • 7:45 am tiny person #2 is at elementary school.
  • 7:50 am I am at work. Paper work, spreadsheets, budgets, herding kittens, etc..
  • 4:35 pm it’s off to pick up #2 at after school care, followed by #1 at hers.
  • 5:15 pm home to start dinner.
  • 6:00 pm is time for the tiny people to clear off the table and set it; followed by dinner at 6:15 pm.
  • 6:45 pm table is clear and a previously designated tiny person and myself are doing dishes.
  • 7 pm showers and teeth.
  • 7:30 pm phone call from daddy 3,000 miles away.
  • 7:45 pm kids are duck taped snugly in their beds.

There are nights when I will fold more laundry, sweep the floors, etc., but in all honesty, I don’t feel like doing shit after 8 pm.

By the time Saturday rolls around, I’m toast. I don’t want to do anything but drink mimosas and eat grapes on the terrace which I don’t own.  I end up spending my days dreaming of a different life. Perhaps I have a nanny to help, or maybe even a healthier income that allows me to take my kids on weekend vacations. I dream of having someone around to help me in my daily endeavors of mommy hood. Someone who will have the toilet cleaned by the time I roll out of bed, and then offer to rub my feet. By the time I’m done daydreaming of ridiculous things it’s time to clean the toilet that won’t clean itself, wash more laundry, drive to basketball practice, hang out at the mountain as my son dreams of becoming the next Shaun White, wash the floors, maybe dust clean up tooth paste, grocery shop, and cook. I thank the good lord above when we are invited over to a friend’s house so i can forget about the mess that is my house for a few hours. Where my kids can run around with their friends, and there is a cold beer in my hand.

Now that I think about it, despite the non stop single action parenting I have going on, every Sunday night I climb into bed and smile. My kids went to bed happy, my house is clean-ish, and I’ve accomplished more than most double action parents I know. I keep the roof over our heads, the food on our plates, and the crayons in the living room. There isn’t a day where my kids don’t make me smile at least a dozen times, and my heart swells 10 times bigger every time they say “I love you mommy”. They are growing up to be independent functioning human beings. They can get their own breakfast, make mine, sweep the floors, fold laundry, put laundry away, help with dinner, set the table, do the dishes, make their beds, and feed the cat. They are loud and I want to strangle them, they are messy, like little tornadoes, and they tend to whine and cry. They’re children. They’re not perfect, and they’re not everyone’s cup of tea.

Despite my fleeting thoughts of running away, eating my kids, and hiding under the covers; being a mother is a pretty rewarding job. I look forward to seeing what they will both accomplish when they are older, and what kid of people they will turn into. With that being said, it would be nice to have a Fernando, a manny, a sugar daddy, or at LEAST win the lottery. I would even take little elves coming into my house, cleaning it, and putting dinner in the crock pot. A girl can dream, after all.

Child Haters Don’t Drink Coffee, Obviously

“Having kids means a family has more love and happiness than other people.”

This was according to my eight year old son during his daily morning ramble on the way to school this morning. Naturally, because I am a horrible wonderful mother, I decided to address this grave misunderstanding sentimental view. When I asked for clarification on what he said, he told me that families who decide to have kids are generally happier and love more things than a family without kids. In fact, a family without kids doesn’t actually fall under the category of “family”. Again, because I’m horrible wonderful, I asked, “You know there are people who don’t like kids, right?”

If my son had been driving, we would have been in the ditch for sure. My question brought out a response from him similar to if I had just lobbed a baby deer at his head. Evidently the thought of someone NOT liking kids is completely unfathomable to small children. “Mommy! We are fun, and snuggle, and play with toys…everyone likes kids!”

You guys are also loud, and obnoxious, and messy, and smelly, not to mention expensive! You know how I threaten to eat you in the morning? *shining mom moment* I asked, “That’s how some people feel about kids all the time. You’re lucky I only feel this way about you before I’m done with my coffee or when I’m really tired.”

As per usual, my daughter chimed in with the perfect response, “Maybe those people should just drink more coffee.”

There you have it, child haters, drink more coffee and you’ll like kids.

Dirty Filthy Animal

As a mom I like to pick my battles. “I’ve already told you not to jump on the couch, and I don’t feel like telling you not to trap your sister in the over-sized bucket. Carry on.” “By all means, eat your sandwich in the bathroom, but whatever you do, don’t draw on the table.” Perhaps I don’t always pick the right battles, but if I fought every battle I would have no time in life for the important things. Such as vodka, nachos, and sex. I would like to think this is a common practice among most parents, or this could just be me trying to make myself feel better. We’re parents, it’s what we do.

Even when I’m picking my battles, I’m not necessarily paying attention to what is coming out of my mouth. Perhaps I forget I’m talking to tiny people. Maybe I think I’m saying it in French. They would look at me with the same bewildered look anyway. Maybe I don’t realize I’m talking at all. I have been known to lack a filter from time to time. Either way, I turn into mommy robot. God only knows what is bound to be said, and I don’t always remember it. Typically it’s pretty standard. “Stop that.” “Don’t bite the cat.” “Put your pants back on.” “I will eat you if you don’t quit it.” “You want hurt? I’ll show you hurt!” “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.” Ops normal, and we continue along our merry way.

The other night, while at the dinner table, my elegant little princess daughter forced out a belch my father would be proud of. *robot mommy engaged* “Pheobe, we don’t burp at the dinner table. It’s gross.” *robot mommy disengaged*

“Ok mommy,” another loud belch.

*robot mommy engaged* “Whaw whaw animals whaw whaw. If you do it again, you can whaw whaw outside whaw.” *robot mommy disengaged*

“Ok, sorry mommy.”

Three minutes pass, and the tiniest, daintiest little burp escapes from Pheobe as she suddenly looks at me in fear. I desperately try to remember what I told her would happen if she did it again. I look at Steve for help, but he looks just as fearful as Pheobe. I know it was something about animals and outside. Shit! What was it?!?! Oh no….”Only dirty filthy animals burp at the table. If you do it again you will have to eat outside like a dirty filthy animal.” I’m going to hell. What do I do?!?! I had to follow through, or my entire dinner would be a series of belches. I’m sure I looked totally calm, cool, and collective not nearly as panic stricken as I felt when I looked at her and said, “Go get your coat, hat, and boots on, you’re eating on the porch.” Fuck! I am totally failing as a parent!   This is where all the helicopter parents chastise me for making my 5 year old eat outside like a dirty filthy animal in January. You know what, helicopter parents, I followed through and that’s what counts! Never mind the possibility of frostbite and hypothermia. There were no complaints from her before, during, or after this whole ordeal. She simply put on her winter clothes, grabbed her plate, and went out to the porch. Still at the table, I could see her little bundled up face through the living room window, taking bites of her burrito.  After five minutes, she was done. Inside she came, and I asked her if she was going to burp at the table again. She said no. Problem solved, all was well.

Last night, at the dinner table again, Pheobe burped. My eyes rolled back into my head. One warning is what she got, and not another burp was produced. Farts, on the other hand, were a different story. It may have been a musical dinner that night.

I live in the Twilight Zone where every day is Groundhog Day. I will now slowly slip into insanity and await the day I can comfortably rock in a corner. Please, don’t follow my parenting examples.

Furry Testicle Scarf

I’m going to start off with a question. I’ll let you decide if it’s hypothetical or not. What on earth is the purpose of a long skinny knit scarf? Four inches wide and five feet long…why? I guess it could come in handy if you partake in S & M, enjoy the occasional restraint while being sexual aroused, or need a last minute lasso to catch a runaway cow.  I’m also sure a crafty murderess has used her homemade skinny scarves to strangle her prey or to tie her cheating ex husband to a chair. However, aside from the obvious reasons stated above, I see no reason for a long skinny scarf. I have had fears of the scarf getting caught in the paper shredder, accidentally strangling myself as I get tangled on a nearby fence post, or even worse, having the ends fall into the toilet. I see absolutely no valid reason for someone to purchase said scarf, let alone waste their precious time knitting one.  Naturally, with all that being said, I spent four hours of my kid less weekend knitting one.

I’ll have you know that under normal circumstances, I never would have made such a thing. I like my scarves thick, bulky, warm, and useful. However, my mother bought me three skeins of this strange chenille-like pom pom yarn for Christmas. By pom pom I mean large fury testicles. Picture 90’s testicles before manscaping was a thing. Now pretend it’s cold. That’s what these so called “pom poms” feel like. It’s a continuous strand of chenille with a furry testicle every half yard or so. I’m no stranger to testicles, and I do admit they are fun to play with, so knitting a scarf covered in fury testicles shouldn’t be an issue. I was willing. I was ready. I was about to rejoice, when I opened the package. The pattern was for a long skinny scarf. Fuck. Cast on eight stitches; knit six rows; knit another; on the eighth row, knit two, purl four, knit two; repeat the last two rows three times; repeat pattern to the end; ending with six knit rows. Squares, I’m knitting two inch squares into bulky chenille yarn. That’s like drawing in watered down corn starch! No matter what you do, you’re not going to be able to see it. One might look at the scarf after a couple pints and think, “Hmm, it almost looks as if there is a design in there, but it’s probably just a flaw in the stitching.”

Let’s recap, I am about to sit down on a kid less day to knit a long skinny chenille scarf, covered in furry testicles and invisible squares. The only thing that could make this less enjoyable would be having my kids home to torment me as I curse the idiot who came up with this pattern. Enter the skein of yarn. Long and soft with a furry testicle every half yard, all wrapped up into a tight little hank. For those of you non-knitters, you don’t knit directly from a hank, and it usually gets tangled as you undo it and wrap in into a ball. Spoiler alert: You can’t wrap testicle yarn into a ball because it is already covered in balls. Hanks usually get a bit tangled as you undo them. Add testicles and you get a mother fucking shit storm tangled mess of biblical proportions.

Remember how I said earlier I spent four hours knitting this scarf? Well, for those of you thinking I’m a knitting moron for taking four hours on a skinny scarf, two and a half of those hours were was spent untangling the mother fucking shit storm mess of yarn and testicles. A couple times through all this I broke out into a cold sweat as I swore profusely and cursed the makers of the yarn. There was even a dark moment when I felt like I was a character in a Saw movie. I would soon be impaled by a thousand 1mm knitting needles if I didn’t cut off my right hand to escape. This was my hell, and I was living it. I pulled and yanked, twisted and tucked for two and a half grueling hours. By the end of it all I had cut  the yard in three different places, tied it back together, discovered curse words I never knew existed, and contemplated selling my first born to the devil to make the madness end, and wrapped it neatly around the handle of a large basket. Pro tip: Testicles do not like to be shoved through small holes. Take that advice as you will. Alas, I had untangled every last bit of yarn without Steve calling the cops or me strangling myself. So I started to knit. Cast on eight, knit six rows, yadda, yadda, yadda.

Three invisible squares and two testicles in, I’m seeing red. This pattern is stupid, senseless, and a pain in my ass. Who the hell knits squares into chenille? No one! At least no sane person would. So, I started knitting straight through, one row after another, because I just didn’t care anymore. Fuck you testicle yarn and your invisible squares, I’m done! We’re breaking up. Ha! I just taught that yarn a thing or two! I have never been so mad at testicles in my life. By the end of the four hours, the scarf was finished and my frustrations were over. I could now go rope cattle with my long skinny testicle scarf, or tie Steve to the bed in sexual excitement. Instead, I threw the scarf on the floor and drank a beer, of which I drank so fast I didn’t even taste it. The rest of the night was a blur. When I woke up in the morning I remembered I still had two more skeins of testicle yarn. Therefore I recon I will be venturing back out onto the ledge soon, as i can’t just let the yarn sit there and collect dust. Yarn is made to be knit, with or without testicles. However, if you hear of me checking myself into the asylum, you will know it is because the testicles made me do it.

Side note, there will be no invisible squares on the next two scarves, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend an eternity shoving testicles through tight spaces again. It gets tangled? I’m chopping it up into tiny pieces and throwing it in the yard for the birds to make nests out of, testicles and all!

Surprise! Vagina!

Come one, come all!

You are cordially invited to the annual viewing of:


Join local doctors and medical interns as they gather around my vagina and discuss labia lengths, cervical displasea, HVP, the effects child birth has on the average American vagina, and so much MORE!

The cold hard plastic duck lips will once again be the guests of honor as they force themselves down the deep, dark cavern to the magical jewel, the cervix. Their escort for today’s viewing will be, once again, hospital grade lubrication.

Please feel free to bring a cotton swab to poke around with, as this is the most anticipated moment of the show.

Curtains will open at 1pm-ish

Unfortunately, alcoholic beverages will not be allowed during the show, but are welcome promptly afterwards.

So, if you’re free; slap on a med coat, grab your PAP kit and prescription pad, and get on down to my doctor’s office. This is an event NOT to be missed! I look forward to seeing you all there!