Motherhood Uncensored

Okay. So Maybe I'm Not As Grown Up As I Thought.

It's only fair that after I write a mature and all-growed-up post about understanding my truly good fortune in this extremely difficult world we live in my husband received word that he must indeed do 45 days with the Guard unit in Delaware.

Yes. I know it's not 90 days. And I know it's not a year deployment.

But it still sucks.

To be clear, I'm not moving up there. I ordered moving announcements for God sakes. I'M NOT MOVING.

After a few days of going it on my own again, it's not as bad as I thought it would be. The weather has been gorgeous so we've been able to enjoy our deck and our yard and the most genius invention ever made for two children under 3: THE WATER AND SAND TABLE.

And I'm actually getting things done -- scheduling midwife and pediatrician appointments, interviewing doulas, getting preschool applications in, drilling and screwing in a freaking lion proof baby gate. Now I'm most certainly not scrubbing baseboards and my hands have yet to touch the vacuum, but the house is picked up at night. The kids aren't reciting Shakespeare yet, but Drew is waving "hi" and "bye" to all passers by, including stray dogs and the UPS man.

And I'm only staying up to midnight so I can do that thing called "work." Technically, if I can keep my brain in Central Time Zone, that's only 11pm! Not bad at all.

Thankfully, the Messiah has returned -- at least to my home in the form of a lovely older Brazilian woman who is dying to babysit. Alternating visits from Michael Vartan and Aidan Shaw (Sex and the City), in the form of a large pink vibrating cone, are set to begin early next week. And hello, Grey's Anatomy!

Truth be told, it will be nice to have an extra excuse to visit my friends and my mom. And if I'm desperate for blog fodder and need a good reality check, the in-laws. And being pregnant in Philly, ala water ice, cheese steaks, and pizza, isn't so bad.

But I do wish we could all be together again. That he could be with me at the ultrasound when we find out who has been craving salads and fruit. And go shopping for furniture. And choose paint. And pick out porch chairs.

We've got a lot of shit to settle. Not just with this house, but with our relationship. Admittedly, the 15-minute a night phone conversations don't hurt what has been a rocky four months. But every time I see him, it's like we're starting over. We're treading water.

We're not getting anywhere.

But it is what it is. Now off to gaze into the night sky at the beautiful bright stars.

Silver Lining

All good things seem to come with a "but" for me. I'm not sure if it's because I'm always seeing things as they should be or how I want them to be, and not how they actually are.

It's a momentary high followed by a sometimes harsh reality, like a beautiful sunset that leads into the dark, bleak night.

My mother is coming down to Atlanta so I don't have to fly up to Philadelphia on Tuesday for my trip. But she's hassling me about what flight to take. And whether she can leave the night I get back or if not then, at the butt crack of dawn the next morning. And she hopes nothing will happen to the kids and if it does she doesn't want me to get mad or blame her like I did when she let my dogs out on the coldest day of the Philadelphia winter without leashes and *surprise* they ran away.

"Just keep your eye on them. And don't let them off their leashes" I joked. Maybe the in-laws would be easier.

I've been feeling pretty great with this pregnancy going into my 16th week and I'm way off track for another 70lb weight gain. But I haven't really felt the baby move and maybe because I'm not craving sweets that means there's something wrong with the baby and I won't be able to find out because I don't have a babysitter to watch my kids so I can go to the midwife which I don't yet have anyway.

"I'm feeling great. You can't beat a pregnancy where you're craving salad and fruit." It's because I'm carrying a rabbit.

And I'm back in my house, my gorgeous beautiful, amazing house. But my husband is gone all week and I don't have a babysitter yet and I spent three hours putting up a baby gate last night that involved using a drill (eek) and I haven't found a midwife or a doula or a preschool for Quinlan.

"I'm so glad to be home," I tell people. Perhaps the tiny house in Little Rock wasn't so bad after all.

If I didn't know any better, this would just be how things were. But for some reason, I can't keep staring at the green grass on the other side. And as I think about the many many many challenges I've faced even just over the last few years, I wonder if it's just time for me voice my discontent, acknowledge the suckitude, and then cleanse myself acceptance.

Acceptance that my mom is my mom. And she probably won't be changing anytime soon. Acceptance that I will be spending many nights alone in this house. And that probably won't be changing anytime soon.

The truth is I'm lucky to have a mom that is alive and with me. Many would wish to be so fortunate. I'm lucky to have my health. Many have been fighting hard (and winning) for their own.

And I'm lucky to have all my beautiful children, sleeping peacefully within an arm's reach. Many have beautiful children "sleeping" way beyond their grasp.

These amazing women challenge me to search a little harder for the silver lining. They bravely stare into the dark sky and notice the gorgeous stars.

Maybe it's time I started looking a little harder.

What blogs challenge you to see the silver lining?

Tighty Whities

I've been trying to convince my husband to switch to tighty whities. Not a permanent switch, mind you, but in sort of a "hey, I'm happy to wear some uncomfortable thong for three-minutes before you pull it off with your teeth [I wish] so oblige my request for a little underwear switcheroo" way.

The huz happens to have a tight stomach and a round little white ass.

Ah the benefits of not being the childbearing adult in the household.

And for some reason, I have this idea in my head that the underpants, when coupled with a few smooth moves, might be kind of hot. The only problem is that he thinks I'm nuts.

Which I kind of giggle at, but then kind of offends me, considering all the lacy bullshit we women endure. I know, I know, it's just as much for us too.

Blah. Whatever.

So, any suggestions? Am I just plain nuts?

And who's up for "Rock of Love" finale live thread tomorrow?

Forgiveness.

I can recount for you all the painful things that I've experienced over my short stint as a mother. Maybe it's because I'm a woman, or maybe it's because you don't so quickly forget crying every night because your husband tells you that your daughter doesn't like him so you have to go in for the 14th time to put her back down to sleep.

That's just one of a thousand wrongs.

And these wrongs, these stupid comments, and these ridiculous actions (by him and his family) have been grating on my soul for the last four years. Every single word pierces my brain and I can hear them like he just said them two minutes ago.

He's since apologized, but there's only so many "I'm sorry, now let me return to my previous behavior"s that one person can stomach. How really truly sorry are you?

And so I've become bitter and distant. I jump on his words before he says them. I growl at his comments before he can even get them out of his mouth.

The love we had got lost somewhere between our first and second children.

And then a few weeks ago, something almost totally unforgiveable happened. No, my husband is not *Eliot Spitzer, but I thought long and hard if I could stand next to him and listen to him give his "resignation" speech. Could I do a Hillary Clinton and "stand by my man?"

But with two amazing children already here, and another yet to arrive, I have decided to do what I have never ever done before.

Forgive.

I've been wronged by another man in my life, and like another, I made a conscious decision not to forgive him. He did not deserve my time, my energy or my forgiveness.

But this man, who indeed loves my children more than life itself, and who is trying extremely hard to make things right, does. It took me a long time to get to this point.

I know it's not going to be easy to stick to it. Maybe I need to write this so I can remain accountable to myself. But all the shit that has accummulated over the last four seemingly very long years needs to go. I can't carry it anymore.

I'm still mad. I'm still very very very mad. 

But we love each other. And we love our kids.

And I'm not quite ready to give up it all up just yet.

*Consequently, my husband did NOT cheat on me by any means. I'm using these as examples.

Oddities.

I suppose everyone has their fair share of quirks, some a bit more life interfering than others. I can proudly claim that mine are extremely limited, most likely due to my extremely laid back mother and well, marrying into the "Quirk Family."

I can sleep quite well regardless of the direction and shape my towels are folded. And, like Sci Fi Dad and I discussed a few weeks ago, any cleaning products are the right cleaning products, made better when used on my floor with your mop and elbow grease.

But that doesn't mean I freak out a little bit when my daughter decides to peek into the "cool silver box" in the public restroom.

We've all got our deal breakers; some of us refuse to shake hands and can't leave the house without lining up the rug tassles. And others of us just don't like to get shocked every single time we grab a door knob so we tend to flick it oddly before grabbing it.

Ahem.

But take the silver box example. I say, "Don't touch the silver box because it's really a little trashcan where people tend to put personal waste that is for their fingers only" (feel free to giggle the next time you are one stall over from me). But then there's the "Don't touch the silver box of death because it's full of germs and now I must wash your hands 40 times over and desanitize you with a wet wipe so start stripping kid."

Eek.

And unless our quirks interfere with us making it out of the house, they really won't ever give us too much of a hassle. Granted, I was schooled in the "correct" way to dry yourself off before exiting the shower, and how to properly hang the toilet paper roll so the paper falls over (God not under YOU FREAKS!).

But hell, we survived, albeit with way less sex, but alive and kicking just the same!

But then kids come into the picture, and I say all bets are off. It's time to quit the quirks. You know, bury your bizarreness.

Because what pains me more than seeing people obsess over something so ridiculous is when their kids do it too.

Now I understand that many of our oddities, or preferences (if we're using gentle language), are personality based and can be related to specific developmental issues. But when kids are demanding four layers of toilet paper on the public restroom seat, I start to wonder if parents aren't letting their own quirks rub off a bit too much on their kids.

Try cover and hover, kid.

Now I know it's one thing to be safe and careful. But when our kids can't eat a perfectly good raisin off the floor in peace and quiet and play in the sand without being vacuumed with a car vac, then what is this world coming to?

Truth be told, I want my kid to be quirky all on her very own. She doesn't need my baggage and she most certainly doesn't need my weirdness. And pain me as it does to explain to her why peeing on top of another family member's (or God help me, poop) is not a big deal, I will do it.

Because damnit someone has to make up for some of the crazy shit my husband likes to think is normal. 

If You're Already Afraid to Fly, Then You Might Want to Skip This Post

For all the shit I give the huz, he's a pretty damn good pilot. Granted, I've never actually flown with him controlling the plane, but considering the detail with which he cleans our kitchen floor -- spray bottle and paper towels in hand, you've got to figure he's not about to just "skip over" important steps.

Like checking to make sure the wings are still attached. That sort of thing.

Honestly, the dude used to fly with first time pilots. You know, the wee fresh college graduates, ripe for pilot training with their stomachs of floppy cardboard, who would try to kill him on a daily basis.

You know it's bad when he has to tell students that he doesn't want to die today.

Pull up on the fucking stick you idiots. Even I know that. Haven't you watched Top Gun?

So, when he looks over at you when you're flying in a tiny commuter jet from Little Rock to Atlanta and says "What the hell is the pilot doing?" you tend to freak the fuck out.

Just a little.

Like, could you possibly keep your whole "he's trying to make altitude and not doing it well" response to YOURSELF?

Moving on, I decided to stay a few more days here in Philly to celebrate my mother-in-law's birthday to chill with the New Girl and binge on Cold Stone and Starbucks. Unfortunately, the huz had to return to Little Rock to finish up some flying and complete a couple of exams.

[Yes this means I will have to make at least one leg of the trip alone with two children, one of whom is called Drew, otherwise known as "the boy who refuses to sit for longer than two seconds" but I'm not thinking about that right now. I prefer to gorge myself on Coffee ice cream mixed with brownies by young teenager who will sing unenthusiastically when I put a dollar in her glass jar].

So he left. And got in a plane. That got hit by lightning.

Helllooooooooooooooooooo. That just can't be good.

He calls me all nonchalantly like "Oh, the plane just got hit by lightning." Sweet! Rad! What the fuck? He's fine, except they had to emergency land in Columbia, SC (read: bumblefuck with no Delta planes that were not struck by lightening tonight), and he's trying to get home. Alive. In one piece.

Except, in order to calm my nerves he says "Oh, it happens all the time."

Um. Huh? How can that be a good thing?

Fortunately, I did not have time to get into an obsessive anxiety provoking "holy shit I'm never flying again" discussion about planes getting hit by lightning because I was too busy explaining for the 27th time that I was perfectly happy eating cold stuffing and turkey.

See, the in-laws are good for something. 

How Not to Tame a Preschooler

Common sense generally tells you not to reason with a three-year-old. And yet, I hear parents do it all the time. Like there will be any type of favorable ending to you begging your child to put a raincoat on to play at the water table to which he will refuse and then soak himself entirely.

Just put the damn coat on him and be done with it already.

The huz and I aren't pushover parents. I suppose the Parental Gestapo -- you know, the ones that drag their kids out of the store by their underpants -- might think otherwise, but for the most part, we're in charge.

But parenting gets a whole hell of a lot harder when you get a preschooler, mainly because it's now painfully obvious that they're indeed smarter than you. Granted, it's nice to know that they'll able to survive in the cold hard world, as evidenced by you being convinced that they must eat brownies and ice cream with a side of video games for dinner in order to make it another day on the planet. 

It doesn't help that the huz chooses to create his own path and blaze new trails of preschool relations, taking his own vigilante approach with our 3.5 year old.

It generally blows up in his face.

Take his insistence on forming every single request of our daughter as a question.

"Would you like to get out of the tub now?"

"No fanks, Daddy." [Hey. At least she's polite.]

"Um, okay, but it's time to get out of the tub."

"But you asked me and I said 'no fanks' Daddy. I want to stay in for awhile."

[Cue him trying to get her out of tub, her screaming, and me intervening].

Or the four-thousand choices game. You do know that one right? Generally speaking, the key is to make your kids think they are making a choice (which, technically, they are) so that they feel empowered.

My choice offerings generally go as follows:

"You can clean up your room or you can go outside and collect dog poo with a pair of ice tongs."

Okay. So maybe it's not that bad, but I don't mess around. It's apples or oranges. Juice or water.

But the huz likes to pretend that life is a multiple choice question. Or that we live at Tavern on the Green.

"You can have juice, water, milk, or a chocolate smoothie with raspberries and oreo chunks."

Who in the hell is making that for her, freak?

"Well we have turkey, ham, or a prosciutto stromboli with sage and arugula."

Huh?

Now before you jump all over the huz, to his credit, he's an actively involved parent who really just wants to make his kids happy. Besides, whenever she takes the uber-gourmet option, it just so happens that I have to "go blog."

Funny how that works.

PSA to The Huz # 4, 519: Do Not Fuck With "The List"

If the woman gives you "the list," or in this case the "get everything on this list because it's for your son's first birthday, doof, and I know what I'm talking about" list, then you get everything on it.

That means don't just eliminate things, like matches or a lighter, because you think you can light a birthday candle with a car lighter, a toaster, and an electric stove burner.

I suppose if you lit yourself on fire doing one or all of those things, then we could light the candle off you, but that just doesn't seem right.

Or economical. 

Your son cannot sit in his booster seat with no cake for two minutes, let alone twenty while you run to a neighbor-that-you-do-not-know's house and beg for a lighter.

Because when I write something on the list, it's there for a very good reason.

Thank you very much.

Who's to Blame?

I left my razor (protective cap on) on the bathtub. The huz puts the kids in the tub without checking.

Drew grabs the razor.

Whose fault is it?

(Coincidentally, Drew is perfectly fine, but as you might have guessed, I'm getting blamed for reckless shaver usage).

Welcome Back to SAHMville

I was learning the ropes of the base commissary the other day when my husband asks "You are going to make me lunches now, right?"

I'll be making you something, alright, but not exactly the kind of sandwich you'd really enjoy eating (thanks TNG)

To his credit, he was mostly joking. But in my world, all jokes come with a teeeeeeeny bit of seriousness. Like "I'm just kidding so don't get pissed off and write a post about it but it would be really great if you made my lunches every day" kind of joking.

For me, making lunches for your spouse is like giving him blow jobs (except on most many almost all days, I'd rather make lunch). You know, you start out doing it because you love him and you want to offer him this gesture of your love. But then, it's not as great as you thought it was, but when you don't do it, you feel sort of bad. But it's kind of a pain in the ass so you stop. But then he asks for it and you're like "okay fine, I'll do it, but don't start expecting it all the time" but it's too late because he already does.

Sound at all familiar?

I had officially escaped SAHMville (as I call it) since last Fall when I moved in with the in-laws. With huz was away all the time, dinners were mostly on the fly and lunches were totally non-existent. I just grabbed whatever I saw in the fridge, made sure there was protein and veggies involved, and slapped it on a plate. My kids didn't care. And I most certainly did not care.

Less cooking, less dishes, way less hassle.

Now maybe you think lunches aren't so bad to make, really. I mean, what's so hard about popping some leftovers in a tupperware container and sticking that along with some sort of fruit in a bag?

Well, if that were the case, then I wouldn't complain.

But my husband is the lunch editor. He will go through his lunch, even on those butt crack early days, and leave out what he doesn't want. I'd wake up to find apple slices, raisin boxes, or on really bad days, entire sandwiches left in the fridge (which wasn't terribly bad because then at least I'd have something to eat).

And generally speaking, he doesn't like leftovers, or certain kinds of cookies, or yogurt on some days, or cheese as a snack, or plain crackers, or too many pieces of fruit, or too much mustard and mayo (correct amount is still yet to be determined)...

That means after I've made an entire dinner, I generally have to make an entire lunch. From scratch. And I don't really like to do that. Does anyone really like to do that? It's already mentally taxing for me to come up with five dinners a week. But add another five planned meals and I'm domestically maxed out.

So, I figure he can eat the same lunch that I eat every day. And all of you moms with two little kids know exactly what that is, right?

Yep. I thought so.

My Husband, the Sucker

Even I have shown shades of domestic reform thanks to my shiny new hardwood floors and fantastic gas stove. I don't just shrug off the daily milk spills and splattering grease anymore.

Looky looky. I'm a changed woman!

But put my husband in a brand spanking new house and he's two balls and one very huge penis (he made me include that tidbit) away from a 90-year-old woman. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't even make it to 35 without putting plastic on our furniture.

Far be it for me to complain about a husband who is an obsessive cleaner, particularly a vacuum connoisseur. I know there would be a lot of happy wives and verrrry happy husbands around if they just took a cue from mine.

But clearly there's a difference between a desperate husband who vacuums once a week to get laid, and my crazed one who vacuums the same spots at least twice a day and, get this, makes me walk on the outside of the carpeted stairs so I don't wear down the center because well, um, I don't exactly know why.

Now if making your wife trot up steps like she's doing some weird step aerobics routine doesn't make her hot for you, then damnit I don't know what will.

Everyone wants to blow Mr. Domestic until he starts telling you where you can and can't walk on your own fucking steps and complaining about the new Dyson that doesn't adequately suck carpet fuzz off a fuzzy carpet.

That would basically make him an old batty woman with sheets on her couches my mother-in-law.

But now that we recently purchased a Dustbuster, I think that I might just lose my mind. Of course, I never think of purchasing helpful cleaning products on my own. I happened to have been copied on a group email exchange between Julie and Liz (clearly by accident, I'm sure) regarding the effectiveness of the new Dustbuster. And then I came up with this amazingly original thought that sounded something like "Hmmm... I could use a little something like that to clean out the high chair and all the crumbs that don't get picked up by my 99 cent dustpan and broom."

Yes. I'm old school. At least, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Little did I know that my husband would attach the fucking thing to his hand like Captain Hook. Except it's not a cool hook because his hand was eaten off by a big bad crocodile. It's a handheld vacuum that he waves around like some crazed laser pointer wielding weather person.

In fact, I haven't even actually used the thing yet because he's so smitten with it. My only solution is to add some sort of vibrating attachment to the damn thing.

And then Captain Vac wouldn't be so bad after all.

5:30am

Oh yeah. You're hot, baby.

Just hold on a second. Let me lift my large perky even breasts out of my huge bra so you can stuff your face in them.

Angelina? Please. She's nothing compared to...

Tap. Tap tap tap. Tap. TAP.

The Huz: I just wanted to wake you up from a dead sleep to tell you that Drew might be hungry when he wakes up.

So he's not up yet?

The Huz: No.

Have you lost your fucking mind?

A 5-day Binge on one Hell of a Hormonal Cocktail

I can generally keep my anxiety issues in check, but the lack of sleep, parenting alone, and attack ambush visit from my period have sent them slightly over the edge.

Okay. Let me try that again.

...have sent me clear off the deep end.

Let's just say I went from hearing a weird noise, to sleeping with the phone in my hand, to trying to remember where I hid the box cutter for protection, to writing letters to my kids for them to open at their weddings just in case I didn't make it.

So I didn't actually write the letters down. But I composed a couple in my head. 

Far fetched, I know, but it's how my mind works when I'm hopped up on hormones and all the other crap that's been going on.

No one told me how terrible your twice post-partum periods can get. I've had headaches and hot flashes all week (which I turned into menopause and a brain tumor). I, like a couple of my fellow bloggers, am still losing my hair and it's starting to bother me. And four boxes of various tampons later, I still can't find a fucking tampon that will fit my poor vagina or a pantyliner (God I hate that word) that actually does what it's supposed to do.

But on the bright side, my Diva Cup review is forthcoming. And it will be worth viewing. I promise.

*Thanks for all your comments last night. I didn't realize it would incite a near Saturday night blog riot. The issue for me is not totally about trust, but what I think is him fostering inappropriate behavior from this person. It would be one thing if he was a single dude and she was a divorcee' with kids and it was 1998. But it's 2007, and there's a woman and two children in his life. And quite frankly (because this is how I am), I don't like the way it makes me look -- like the wife with a husband who gets stupid ass text messages from some chick and has long conversations with her. Personally, I think she needs to get a life and I think he needs to tell her so. And then he needs to buy me some nice shit and give me the day "off."

The end.

Would it Bother You?

If your husband had a divorced female friend (never dated) who you have never met, that he talks to regularly on the phone and text, even though she once, last year, drunk dialed him and left a voice mail that I heard to the effect of "I miss you so much, I wish we could talk more, I miss how our friendship was..." (um, PS, he's married now!) and you were pissed, but he still talked to her, and she left him a cheezy "Happy Thanksgiving, Don't eat too much turkey and get a tummy [yes tummy] ache" text.

If your husband is home for the weekend and it feels almost exactly like you're home by yourself with the kids (like you are all week), except there are decidedly more dishes to do and you got to sleep in until 7:30am (but then he went back to bed until 10:30am) and you got a free kidless hour in Marshalls on a Saturday afternoon.

INOGOTOLILRO

*New twisted updates to this situation below.

I have officially talked myself out of moving to Little Rock. It certainly helped that the living options were "deplorable" as my husband put it. Granted, my husband thinks an empty cup sitting on my nightstand for longer than one day is "deplorable," but still, I trust him on this one.

Plus, I don't really want to go.

Our options included furnished off-base housing which, with two large dogs, it's pretty rough. The on-base furnished housing available to us is just as small and about the same amount of money.

So, for now, I'm staying here and he'll come home on the weekends.

We survived "Week One: Project Let's Hope Kristen Doesn't Go Nuts Alone With Two Kids." Heck, I got out of the house twice! Sure, it wasn't until Thursday, but at least I got out.

Oh, and the cute guy at the Post Office smiled at me. Which was soooo great until I realized it was because I had a HUGE piece of food in my teeth.

And my daughter doesn't have all the Noggin theme songs memorized, although that's mainly because "Lazytown" really freaks me the fuck out, so I refuse to let her watch that one.

Amidst what was a crazy (but extremely productive, no?) work week, I played "Princess Hula-Girl Babysitter" and "Princess Strawberry Shortcake Cooking Show."

Yes, we watched our fair share of "Max and Boobies" (as I like to call it). But my daughter is slowly learning the words to the Beastie Boys' "Intergalactic" which she fondly calls "The Robot Song" with words like "Intergalactic Ambatary, Ambatary Intergalactic."

Pretty damn good parenting, if I do say so myself. I mean what three-year-old knows how to say "Intergalactic" huh?

And I am in search of a nanny. The money we'll save with me not moving there can be spent on some much needed help. Nothing major, just a few hours a few times a week might just allow me to get dressed before 4pm and get a shower more than twice a week.

Of course, since Atlanta is running out of water, I may be forced to shower less anyway. How cool would that be?? -- "Mom Singlehandedly Saves Atlanta Water Supply By Just Doing What She Does Everyday Which is Not Showering."

But honestly, my only real concern is what this is going to do to my marriage. It's already been like of those roller coaster rides that's really fun for about the first thirty seconds and then when all the crazy twists and turns come you just want to get the fuck off or vomit or both until you actually get off and realize that it wasn't really that bad and by holding on to each other, you survived and might actually like to do it again.

The truth is, however, that he calls to talk to the kids. And then I don't hear from him again for the rest of the night. And then when he comes home, he lays in bed, or vacuums the steps, or plays "The Best Daddy in the Whole Wide World Mommy You Suck Go Away Because Daddy Rocks."

I want to tell him about all the things that were going on with me. Not with the kids. Just with me.

But we will manage. I will manage. And considering my no-guilt policy (which includes not thinking about the fact that I took Q out of her potential preschool), I'm feeling pretty damn good.

Or maybe it's that I have officially returned to almost all my pre-pregnancy clothes.

And, thanks to a slowly dwindling milk supply, my pre-pubescent bras.

Eh. You can't win them all.

*Okay. So... apparently after the huz's disgust, the housing office came up with a 3br 1.5 bathroom stand alone furnished house on base this morning. We're taking it. So I am going. But not until after Christmas through April. Can this get ANYMORE ANNOYING?! UGH!

This is Where those Electric Shock Boxers Would Come in Handy

Apparently my husband, recently returned for a weekend at home from his long week of study groups, gym workouts, and quiet dorm room nights, is so completely exhausted that he's resting in bed at 5pm on a Friday.

But since my daughter is sitting in the bed with him, then it's supposed to be cool.

You know. Because I haven't just spent the whole week alone with two kids, one sick, and one not sleeping.

That apparently is not exhausting at all.

LR = Little Rock

*Explanation and timeline of why the hell I'm moving to Little Rock added below*

It just sort of hit me about two minutes ago when I got an email from my daughter's former but never actually real preschool saying how I need to pay more money to hold her spot for when we return.

In April.

I haven't told her that she's not going yet. I haven't figured out how to tell her we're moving again. She's just gotten settled -- nervous habits disappearing -- happily prancing around her room with rainbow curtains that she's going to paint pink and purple.

"Grandma, did you know I'm starting a new school?" she asked my mom excitedly.

The new girl emailed me and at the bottom she wrote "What's going on with LR?" and I was like "LR? What the hell is that?"

Yeah. Denial. It's a grand thing.

I've not thought about it once. My decision to go with him instead of stay is a firm one. I can't be alone for five days week. I can't tell my daughter that daddy will be away for five days a week for five months.

Hell, I can barely even swallow it myself.

Apparently they are trying to get us the base in Atlanta. You know, the one that's 20 minutes from our house.

But he starts November 3. In Little Rock. Where we'll live. On base. TLF for you military folks. With two big dogs and two little kids. Far away from our nice new house, neighborhood, neighbors, and friends.

I just fucking UNPACKED ALL MY SHIT.

And bought paint. And a crib mattress. And my kitchen. I love my kitchen. And I'm tired. And sick. And sick and tired.

There are positives. He'll be home every night. He'll be home for the holidays.   

And we need to be together. Because if we're not, I'm not sure I'll be able to hold it together.

For very much longer.

--

April 2005: Huz gets denied requested assignment. Decides to get out of active duty and find a reserve/guard job.

August 2005: Huz gets denied request to get out of active duty because he can't find a guard job and apparently he's extremely valuable to them.

October 2005: Because he can't find a guard job, the huz gets an assignment to Grand Forks, North Dakota. We laugh out loud and refuse it.

October - March 2006: Huz searches for Guard Unit to take him and finally lands a job with a Guard Unit in Delaware.

September 2006: I leave with Quinlan and Drew in utero for the in-laws while huz stays to finish out his active duty term in Mississippi through December.

December 2006: Huz starts work with the Guard. Waits for training in Little Rock or Atlanta.

January 2007: I have Drew.

March 2007: No sign of training yet, but has an interview with airline. We're still living with the in-laws.

May 2007: Gets job with airline. Leaves for airline ground school.

July 2007: We buy house and move to Atlanta. Starts flying.

Current: Guard realizes that the huz has been with them for almost his whole term and has not done training yet so finally assigns him training in Little Rock.

And so, training will be from November - April, at which point we will return to Atlanta permanently and end this TWO YEAR LONG transition period.

And That's How My In-Laws Saved my Marriage

Ever since my sister-in-law and then my in-laws had no room at their "inn" last weekend when the huz needed a place to crash on something other than that ever popular crappy pilot lounge couch, I've felt fairly justified for every single thing I've ever written about them.

Granted it's all true. No exaggerations here. But still. Being mean to your own kid (not just your daughter-in-law) is like full license to strongly dislike, isn't it?

And so, last Tuesday, I was very surprised when a man holding a very large bouquet of edible fruit knocked on my door.

I admit to thinking that perhaps my father-in-law had come around and was sending a peace offering for his crazy email in the form of weirdly shaped fruit flowers.

Hell. I'm a sucker for a pineapple daisy on a shish-kabob.

But as I went to grab the bouquet I saw something so startling that I nearly cursed right in front of the nice fruit n' flower delivery person.

"Happy Anniversary"

Yeah. Apparently it was my anniversary. And my freaking in-laws reminded me.

I turned to my husband, hiding my head behind the ridiculously large cellophane wrap and said "It's our anniversary today!" with a happy! excited! Oh-my-shit-I-totally-forgot-Ha!-please-laugh-with-me! kind of voice.

"You forgot, didn't you?" he asked in such a way that was clear that he had not.

Yeah. I totally forgot my anniversary.

I could blame the fact that I really got married by the Mayor of Landsdowne, PA on New Year's Eve Day to recorded organ music that said Mayor played via a button on his "pulpit." Or that I'm still a little bitter about having to get married on October 2, 2004 which was just shy of three months post-partum requiring me to buy a new dress that I could nurse in.

Or maybe it was that whole domestic zero thing.

But really, I just totally forgot.

Now it's one thing to totally forget. But it's another when you are reminded by a nice and pretty tasty gift from your in-laws. The in-laws that you just don't want any good reason to like.

So not only do you have to live with that lovely realization, but then you also have to send them a fucking "thank-you" note. 

As we played rock, paper, scissors to see who would actually send the email, I told him that I had already booked a babysitter for a lovely evening out with a new friend, who kindly relieved me so I could make it up to my husband without having to create blow-job coupons.

And so with my unshaved legs and unpedicured toes, the huz and I hit a deserted quiet wine bar and enjoyed each other's company for the first time in almost a year. No arguments and no nit-picking. Just two flights of wine and us.

And a melon martini.

And some wine.

And even though my son was wide awake enjoying David Letterman with the babysitter when we arrived home, and I'd most likely be getting less than 2 hours of sleep in a row, those three hours gave me hope that all the bickering and badgering isn't us.

Just a symptom. Not the source.

And while I did have to write the customary thank-you email, I will say my husband made sure I'd never ever forget my anniversary again.

ahem   

Because He Doesn't Really Like Them That Much Either

A few people have asked me why the huz never outs my blog to my in-laws. And other than the obvious reasons *cough* sex *cough*, it's because he doesn't really like them that much either.

But it's one thing to have nutsy in-laws. It's another when you know full well your own family is a bunch of lunatics.

Because that really only lends itself to one thing.

Chances are you're nutsy too.

Now I've spent many years adjusting to my own family's lunacy, or partial lunacy.

Hi, My name is Kristen and I'm Bi-nutsy.

But the huz has full-on looney-toon genes flowing through his veins, and it's taken a bit more time for him to come to terms with it.

[Okay. So he hasn't at all. But you've got to start somewhere. Or in his case, nowhere].

And so, aside from the occasional guilt trips about not apologizing for misdirected mail, he really does complain about them too.

On this occasion, his sister won out.

If you haven't figured out the huz's crazy schedule, let me enlighten you. Basically, he's on call for most of the month, with about 5 days off sprinkled in a totally inconvenient way. Since we originally chose LaGuardia as his "base," if they call him to fly in the morning, he has to leave the night before and since we don't really know anyone around there, he has to sleep in the pilot's lounge until his "show" time in the morning.

It's really just as unglamorous as it sounds.

Okay. It's just downright nasty.

But, it just so happens that on special days called "short calls," he has to fly up there, sit in the airport, and wait to see if they need him.

[We've since switched to Atlanta but that doesn't take effect until November].

Luckily (we thought), his sister lives near that large airport in New Jersey and so his plan has been to fly up, crash on her couch, and just hang out there until either they call him in OR they tell him to go home. This way, he can at least eat real food, watch television, and sleep on something other than some nasty chair that God knows who slept on a few hours before.

Except she told him he couldn't stay.

She's too busy. He arrives too late in the taxi he would take to her house. It's an inconvenience for her and her three cats. Or really, her three cats since she works.

I'd hardly wave the "family card" in front of them in my own situation, although you'd think they'd oblige me just on the basis of my two children, but considering all the shit my husband has done for her, including drive her ass around all day during her "I got a DUI so I can't drive and if no one helps me I'll get fired so get your ass up here and drive me even though your wife is 9 months pregnant" period, you would think that she'd at least let him crash on her couch.

And hell, keep the damn cats company.

But instead, he'll be not-sleeping on some nasty couch at LaGuardia. And no matter how much you think I don't like my husband, that's just plain wrong.

On the bright side, however, my unmade breastmilk stained bed ain't looking so bad.

Perspective works in mysterious ways.

Domestic Zeroism at its Finest

Do you think June Cleaver would have forgotten to clean the fuck up every now and then? I'd like to think so...

Feel free to share your own Domestic Zeroism (send me the links). UNITED WE STAND IN OUR SQUALOR!

(Okay, not really squalor, but it sounded good).

I Salute These Brave Women

Y

Taste Like Crazy

Southern Mom

Queen of Shake-Shake

Procrastamom

Payne Family Adventures

Impostor Mom

Hyphen Mama

Heather's Way

Family Hack

(And just a small caveat, I did clean up this room after my children were done wreaking havoc, and yesterday I purchased one of these... for my cleaning person/babysitter. SCORE!)

Domestic Zero.

*I interrupt this festival of rant-eous commentry to give you Facebook's response to why breastfeeding pictures are out, but pictures of starving girls, half-naked ladies, and a plethora of other disgusting photos are just dandy. And I still say, go deactivate your account.

I like housecleaning about as much as I like changing poopy diapers. While it's not terribly painful, it has to be done a bit more than I would prefer. And if I made enough money, I'd happily pay someone else to do it.

Clearly, I will not be the woman who was known for her clean house. And honestly, who wants to be? The lady with nice ass? Perhaps.

But no one wants their eulogy to include how "sparkling she kept her kitchen floor."

At least that's my excuse.

The huz seems to think otherwise.

He can barely drop his luggage and change his clothes before he starts vacuuming the floor. The floor that I had just vacuumed three-hours prior to his arrival home.

"If you had done right, then I wouldn't have to do it again" he explained.

Okay, Dad.

"Do you know anyone who JUST takes care of the kids and does nothing else?" he continues.

But I did clean... the toilet with your fucking toothbrush.

Now, keep in mind my husband likes to clean the kitchen floor with a spray bottle and paper towels. No swiffer, mop, or any combination thereof will do the floor any justice.

And therefore, I'm a slob.

Based on his description, you'd think we live in total squalor, when in fact, I spend a good part of my day cleaning up, washing dishes, blogging, cooking, doing laundry, paying bills, unpacking boxes, folding laundry, blogging, putting away dishes, and sweeping floors.

Oh. And parenting. Right. Those kids.

But he sees the pee stains my daughter leaves on the potty and all hell breaks loose.

If he were consistently clean (be glad I didn't take a picture of our closet or rather "room where it looks like someone vomited all of my husband's clothes") and didn't make it seem like I'm a total slacker because I'm not vacuuming every single day of the week, then it would be tolerable.

Hell, it would be fan-fucking-tastic.

But let's all remember who his parents are.

Yeah. Don't worry. He doesn't get my pity for that anymore either.

And so, I'm almost paralyzingly perplexed as to what to do. Do people vacuum every day? Do people clean the bathroom more than once a week, or maybe every two weeks if it looks okay? How often are other people mopping the floor?

But other than create a freaking schedule and checklist for myself (since, hellloooo I'm the only one living here for most of the week) or take a survey of women to offer some concrete proof, I'm not sure how to remedy the situation.

However, someone better lighten up pretty quickly because a domestic zero is waaaaaaaay better than the zero he's about to see in another room of the house.

---

Don't be a zero. Buy your tickets. More items JUST added to the pot! Including Starbucks Gift Certificates!

 

Detox

My husband took it upon himself to enlighten me about several of my less than admirable qualities last night as they related to the whole "mail" incident.

It's generally how his version of "a conversation" goes. Try a list of all of Kristen's shitty personality traits.

"You have a problem with authority. You cry all the time. You keep score about everything."

Apparently by not answering the phone when they call me, I'm using my daughter as a pawn in my sweet game of revenge.

So let me set the record straight.

The've called me three times. That's THREE more times than they have EVER called me.

To tell me that they were sorry for barrelassing me over my own wedding. To tell me they were sorry for saying mean things behind my back to my best friend. To tell me they were sorry about my miscarriages, the mean things they said to Quinlan and their almost total lack of involvement in her life when she was living there.

Then there's the bras, the shoes on the bed, the ass smacking, and everything else that I've documented.

Scorekeeper? Abso-fucking-lutely!

So, as I told my husband, excuse me if I'm not so motivated to pick up the phone and hand it over to Quinlan so she can talk to them.

Admittedly I have felt stifled in my attempts to discuss what's really bothering me about my in-laws. I write about them here because making light of it is the only way I can deal with the immense hurt they have caused me. And while my husband has talked to them about some (just some) of the things that have happened, there's been no resolution. No apologies. 

And I'm pissed. I'm resentful. And I'm totally unsympathetic to their plight.

But because I'm not a bitch, I did apologize for not letting them know about their mail. And chances are, if they call, I will answer the phone and hand it to Quinlan so she can talk to her grandparents because that is important. Her untainted view of them, at least until they screw her over, is of high priority to me.

And they did let us live there for free. The least I could do is let her tell them she doesn't want to talk to them. (She's not much of a phone conversationalist) 

But I've realized that there's just no point holding onto this shit. All the crap that my husband pulled the first year of my daughter's life. All the crap they pulled and continue to pull. It does me absolutely no good to keep crying over this stuff anymore because I've got bigger fish to fry.

I'm struggling here.

Being alone in this house for up to five days at a time is a challenge. There are cool neighbors, friendly bloggers, and a great city to distract me from my loneliness and general overwhelm. But even though my children are freaking top notch, having at least one of them in my presence for more than half the day almost every day is exhausting.

No, it's mind numbing.

So the last thing I needed to hear from my husband is how incredibly mean of a person I must be to not call my asshole in-laws so they can talk to their granddaughter.

Because guess what? I already feel pretty terrible about myself.

I've yelled at my daughter two more times than I ever have before (that would be never). All I want to do in any of my free time is sleep. And I'm tired of feeling like a shell -- a transparent being that just barely exists. To feed the kids, to clean the house, to write a funny post. I feel totally and utterly unmemorable.

But that doesn't start with anyone but me.

I think I need to clear a little space in my soul for some goodness before my toilet overflows with all this crap.

So maybe I'm not going soft. Maybe I'm just learning how to let go.

And I'll deal with my husband later.

When Did Crap Become Uncouth?

I like to curse.

Maybe it's to make up for my less than stellar vocabulary. My words are worth about 2 cents. You want big expensive words? Go here.

Or perhaps it's because a gutteral "fuck" (in more than one sense of the word) just feels damn good.

I make an extra effort not to curse in front of my children, although I do admit to letting a few unsavory words fly out from time to time. My daughter probably thinks the sound of dropping things is "damnit." And the sound of not being able to fix something is "sunuvabitch." And that everyone who cuts me off on the road or doesn't drive the speed limit is "asshole."

But are those considered curse words? or bad words? or cussing?

I used the word "crap" in front of the furniture sales person yesterday and my husband said I have no couth. Right there. In front of her and my kids.

What's wrong with crap?

She pulled out a disgusting crap-colored leather swatch and implied something about Drew's poop being that color and I just said what she was trying to say.

"It looks like baby crap."

It did. Very crappy. Actually, more shit-like. But I held back.

I've never been able to put my mind around what exactly constitutes a "curse" word. Some people get offended when you say "Oh my god" for Christ's sake (heh). The huz, who doesn't like when I say JESUS or CHRIST or any combination of the two, seems to think that when you press the horn in a car you're allowed to add "fucking" to your sentence.

"Drive your FUCKING car" or "Give me a FUCKING break."

And I correct him because I enjoy pointing out the hypocrisy. Is saying Jesus Christ worse than saying fuck?

Or will they equally send you to hell, or some form of eternal damnation. (or shouldn't it be darn-nation?)

But I have no couth because I said "crap" in the store, in front of the lady, who just implied that the color swatch looked like shit.

So should I have said "poop" instead? Are words like "fudge" or "shucks" really that much better? I mean, your intentions are the same, but you just decide to use a stupid word instead but don't you think that everyone knows exactly what you really want to say?

I certainly don't want Drew's first word to be "damn" but at the same time, I think there are worse things than a kid who says a "bad" word.

You know. Like a kid who says it with a Southern accent.

(tee-hee)

But really. What constitues a "cuss" word? And do you avoid saying them around your kids? Do you give dirty looks at other people who say "bad" words around your kids? Spill it.

I Never Said He Didn't Know What He Was Doing in the Bedroom

A Family

My husband does not have a way with words. This is less of a character flaw and more of poor genetics.

It's almost disease-like in that you almost can't blame him.

Almost.

"We'll need to organize around here," he said upon returning home from a four-day trip, standing in the middle of the kitchen I had just spent countless hours, um, organizing.

I scoured our disgusting moldy fridge for an entire day, only for him to tell me how great it looked after he "finished it up." This was after I heard him moving all my carefully lined up glasses to another cabinet when he thought I wasn't in listening distance "just to make it easier for me to find."

It's hard not to lash out and remind him that he won't be here to find the glasses, or that while he only got two hours of sleep the night before, his head flops down on a fancy hotel pillow -- the only sounds being the passing traffic or his trusty alarm.

Doesn't he know that I'm the one who will need to find the glasses, the pots, the pans, and the dishes that I so obsessively put in my brand new kitchen cabinets? Doesn't he remember that I'm the one awoken every few hours by a hungry, teething baby?

My daughter is no longer smitten with him upon his return every few days. She has become angry and vengeful, choosing me for stories, bedtime, and anything else he might typically do with her. His departures combined with the new house are hard on her.

"I like when we're all together," she whispered to me last night after her bedtime story. "A family."

"So do I, sweet girl." I replied.

So do I. 

Motherhood Uncensored's First Ever (and hopefully only ever) In-Laws Commemorative Auction

An autographed bra of your very own that can hang in your kitchen.

Buy it now: TOTALLY FREE

An autographed wrong spatula: Perfect for pancakes but clearly NOT for eggs

Buy it now: Free (annoying husband not included. Unfortunately.)

An autographed paper sign "PLEASE KNOCK. WE'RE DOING THE NASTY" -- perfect for in-laws who don't like to knock.

Buy it now: Free -- door not included.

An autographed pot that you can burn and toss, and then lie and say it fell off your car and you ran over it.

Buy it now: Free (gullible in-laws extra)

One size-10 foot that you can stick in your mouth. Don't get any sick ideas, oh foot-obsessed weirdos.

Rental only. Includes chipped nail polish and tattoos.

Laundy for an entire family for one week while we wait for our washer and dryer to arrive out of storage.

For free rental only: Includes blogger and two cute children who will fold and transport. Open to Atlanta Residents Only!

Incredibly cute children that will need a potty and play area several times during a long trip from Philadelphia to Atlanta.

For free rental only - Hourly Rates Available. Open to bloggers who are not axe murderers that live at good stopping points on the way from Philadelphia to Atlanta starting August 9 through August 10.

If you're interested in any or all of these items (for sale or rent), please send an email to coolmompicks [at] gmail [dot] com. All free purchases include a set of limited edition Motherhood Uncensored condoms.

Photo via

A Pilot's Life For Me

We never sat down to divide the parenting responsibilities when my daughter decided to show her glorious face. I decided to continue working part time even though I thought I had wanted to stay home. The Air Force decided that he needed to work 14 hours a day plus weekend trips.

"She doesn't like me" he'd say, handing this screaming little being off to me as I sat alone in the rocking chair in the dark nursery.

We scrambled to do what we thought was best. I worked and parented a lot. He worked and parented a little.

And it didn't work. For me.

Since then we've struggled with the notion of co-parenting. I became a stay/work-at-home-mother where the line between on and off duty as a mother is blurred.

Comparisons are drawn.

"Is it harder to hold our daughter for two naps every single day and bounce her non-stop so she stops screaming or fly a plane?" I'd ask him, begging him to just come home and skip the gym so I could get a break.

Now he's gone for all but a week a month. A few days here, a few more there. She cries for him any time she gets upset. "I want my daddy," she screams.

Then she cries for him when he leaves. And I'm left to pick up the pieces.

Co-parenting is a myth that I'm not sure will ever exist in my home. I parent my children singularly almost every day. We have a routine and a schedule. On most days, it's not pretty. The naps are minimal, but so are the tantrums.

I work during naps and long into the night. Sometimes I think I work in my sleep.

But then my husband comes home. My daughter hangs on him like a deranged Christmas ornament. He kisses me, plays with her, holds the baby, and changes a diaper.

"She doesn't need a nap," he tells me, as she rubs her eyes, later throwing tired tantrum fits. What do you know? You haven't been here in a week.

"I think he needs to eat," he says, plopping him down on my lap. Then feed him. I'm pretty sure you can mix cereal can't you?

I feel as though his presence is fleeting. We are the constant while he comes and goes like a strong breeze blowing us over and leaving us to pull ourselves up on our own.

We are disconnected as people and as parents.

We're no longer four.

We're 3 + 1.

I Can See the Light at the End of the In-Laws

If the shoes, the bras, and the "accidental" sex walk-ins weren't motivation enough for us to get the hell out of here, try all that with no air conditioning on the hottest day in July at an outdoor birthday party and you might just catch me running straight down 95 pushing my double jogging stroller.

Because clearly that would be cooler and a hell of a lot quieter.

Our last shindig at Casa de Inlaws, my daughter's birthday party, was a bittersweet reminder that I will not only be leaving this bizarre place with way too many crappy old whipped topping containers and bad perfume bottles, but I will also be leaving my friends -- the ones whose close company I have enjoyed for the last nine months and who I will miss terribly.

But regardless of how I feel about Atlanta (which I know is not the South), I'm desperately excited to lay my head down in my own bed, with my own stuff, and walk around in my underpants.

Trust me. You don't realize how great that is until you can't do it.

I feel as though I've been about to move somewhere for the last four years. This time here, while full of beautiful moments that clearly outweigh the difficult times, has taken its toll on my psyche, my spirit, and my marriage. I'm tired. I need renewal. I want to go home.

Oh how I hope it will be a fresh start, with no mistakes in it.

Yet.

This is my only wish.

--

Here's my followup to this post.

No News Doesn't Mean Good News. It Just Means I Didn't Really Want to Talk About It.

Last week I learned that our Promised Land apartment fell through. Apparently their pet policy changed and unless we put our two large, healthy dogs on a Lindsay Lohan diet or figure out how to shrink them into one 35lb mut, we're shit out of luck.

Now, I'm not going to discuss how rapidly our dogs have landed themselves at the bottom of the totem pole. While they are clearly well above evil cat status, they are mostly relegated to head pats and ass kicks (gentle kicks, really). And since I'm fairly certain no generous benefactor with a huge farm will be showing up on our doorstep to relieve us of their sweet yet painfully hairy and oddly stinky presence, I'm going to direct my annoyance at the real estate market.

Clearly thanks to our soon to be year long stint at Casa de Inlaws, we've been able to save money. But, if we don't get the fuck out of here soon, I'll be spending said money on psychiatric care.

I'm sort of not kidding actually.

As the situation stands, my husband will be finished with airline "holy-shit-he's-flying-real-people" pilot training in a few weeks where he will then land (hehe) himself at a New York airport where he will fly fervently until we must leave, yet again, for the South for five months (the location yet to be determined).

So, instead of whoring ourselves out to crappy apartment complexes who want a God forsaken amount for a shitty 2-bedroom apartment and then beg to get out of our lease, I'm thinking it might be better to whore ourselves out for something that we own. I mean if you own it, that can't be whorish, can it?

Except trying to buy a house in the Northeast requires a large sum of money, which even if I gave a little to my own personal charity a therapist, we still could not afford much more than a small town home. And do you know how much it kills me to think about spending $250,000 on a freaking crappy little TOWNHOUSE in New Jersey?

Yeah. I think I'd rather wear crocs.

I know, they pump your gas, and the shore is lovely, but believe me, we'll be paying for that nice little man to wash our windshields via the highest car insurance and property taxes in the country.

I'd prefer to wash my own damn windshield, thank you very much.

It becomes quite clear to me, particularly as we look at the shitboxes $250K will buy you in our area, that middle class America is gone. Either you both have to work to pay for your average sized home, or you have to move somewhere far away from civilization just so you can have the option of living on one salary (or in our case 1.75 salaries -- yes, my sweet and thoughtful trolls -- I actually DO work).

The thing is, I like furniture. And I like to live on the conservative side. To me, having a smaller house or condo that you can clearly afford along with me being able to be home with the kiddos (most of the time) allows for a better quality of life. I just can't be sucked into buying a huge house that not only can I not afford to furnish, but forces me to check my bank account every single time I want take out. Believe me, I've lived like that and I just don't feel as though it's necessary; I shouldn't be scared to buy a pizza because it will send us into foreclosure.

And while I understand the earning potential of an airline pilot is clearly well above what would be considered middle class, let me just say that for the first few years, they don't make as much as you think, especially for flying people around and all.

So, I'm not quite sure what to do. Buy a huge house in Atlanta and *gulp* live in Atlanta? Buy a small town house in New Jersey and *gulp* live in New Jersey? Put an ad on Craig's List for two cute old dogs in need of a good home?

I'm at a loss here. But one thing is for certain. The one-year anniversary of living with my in-laws is not something I want to be celebrating.

Laying it All Out There

An email I sent recently.

Dear Huz,

I go through my day feeling fairly incompetent. Nothing is ever good enough around here. I say please and thank you and sorry and it's still never enough.

So, I don't need to hear from you that I forgot to close the shower curtain. Because really, I've already got a shitlong list of things that I'm incapable of doing well.

Do you remember why you married me? It seemed like I was pretty cool at one point in time to you. That I was beautiful and pretty and smart and worthwhile. And it didn't matter what kind of spatula I was using.

And you never gave a shit about thank-you notes or shower curtains - unless we were naked behind them.

I'm alone every day with 2 children. I hold our 19-lb son for almost the whole entire day and I'm tired.

I miss my job. I miss my house. I miss feeling like I can just do what I want to do how I do it. I miss being able to do it without worrying if your drunk dad is going to walk in.

I miss being able to go out alone for longer than 2 hours and not having to worry that when you come home your son has screamed the whole time because you're the only one who seems to be able to put him down for a nap when really you're the only one with the patience to do it.

I miss being able to eat in silence. I miss not having to talk about shit I don't like to talk about but just do because it's polite and I'd be rude and "ungrateful" if I just didn't say anything. I miss not having to do everything -- to be with someone who just did stuff because that's what people do for the people they love.

I miss being able to shower every day. I miss my flat stomach and my ass. I miss my perky boobs. I miss going to the gym. I miss looking hot. I miss being wanted.

I miss sleep. I miss sleeping in. I miss not worrying about anything but what I'm going to wear tomorrow. I miss not having to think about what I'm going to eat for dinner.

I miss time. Time alone. Time to myself. Time to be me and not mom, wife, daughter, snot wiper, butt sniffer, and boob.

I have given up so much of my life and my being. I give everything that I have to my children. I love them with every inch of my body.

So can you just give me a fucking break and know that I don't need you to tell me what I'm doing wrong? I need you to tell me that I'm doing okay. That everything I do is worth it. And that you know it's hard for me. But that you still love me. And you think I'm great and awesome. And that you appreciate all the sacrifices that I have made.

And that you know that I am doing the best that I can.

I'm sorry that it's not good enough.

Love,

Your Wife

--

What would be in your "Laying it all out there" email to your spouse? Just recently I realized how much I downplayed his role as father during my first year as a mother. I demanded to do everything myself and it certainly created a rift between us.

I'm still learning. We both are.

I'm talking about the rough stuff about relationships and marriage post kids tonight on my radio show with Vicky from The Mummy Chronicles as well as The Parrotts, the couple (and psychologists) between eHarmony Marriage, a new online alternative to marriage counseling.

If you've had small or large bumps in the road, I hope you'll listen tonight from 9-10pm EST and share your thoughts (either in this post, via email, or live 646.915.8634). And check out past shows and listen via iTunes if you can't stay up.

You Know You Need a Date With Your Husband When You Have to Describe Him to a Police Sketch Artist and the Picture Ends Up Looking Like Michael Vartan

No, don't get yourselves all in a tizzy. My husband didn't take the fall for the missing duck. It's just between him being gone and me being so tired I can hardly see straight, I sort of forget what he looks like.

I remember having the time and energy to lovingly gaze into his eyes. And chances are I could pinpoint the location of all his prominent freckles with my own eyes closed.

But damn if kids don't kick the living shit out of you? I swear I've aged a good 10 years since having children, and while I have to admit I'm the one who has done the brunt of the physical labor (literally), parenting has aged him as well.

Sorry, honey. Parenting has aged you. (You know, in case he happens to read this post and misquote me).

His hairline goes a little further back and I count the crow's feet instead of the freckles. And while his smile is still the same, it doesn't come out as often. And as I think about it more, either does mine.

How is it that the happiest time of our lives is making us look our unhappiest? I imagine the living with the in-laws doesn't help much, and well, there is the whole spatula, Carnie Wilson thing.

But when it comes down to it, parenting sucks as much out of you individually as it does a relationship. And Lord knows that while I'm crushing hard on Michael, I'd much rather have my husband around. At least that's my story today and I'm sticking to it.

This post is part of a Blog Blast sponsored by E-Harmony Marriage, a new online alternative to marriage counseling (cool, right?) and Parent Bloggers Network. If you'd like a chance to win a $100 Amex Gift Card for a date out with your spouse/partner plus $100 cash for a babysitter, then write your own post "You Know You Need a Date With Your Partner When...." anytime today, send the link to parentbloggers@gmail.com, and we'll pick a winner at random. We're also rounding up all the links too! Click here for more info!

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Go get some butt smacking from the Mominatrix. I'm all introspective today -- you know, trying to make sense of the whole Father-in-Law walk-in incident.

I Can Now Officially Blog on the Shitter.

Wait. Hold on a second.

Okay. I'm now officially blogging on the shitter thanks to fucking broadband.

WHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

No more clearing the history on someone else's puter, Yvonne.

I won't show off and attempt to nurse my son, take a shit, and