Motherhood Uncensored

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

Summer Carnies, Had Me a Blast

My daughter is a freak for rides. I swear she can sniff them out at any and every mall -- her psychic powers of money grubbing circular horses lead us directly to the $4 carousel that goes around one time at mach speed.

And so, when the local carnival came to town, it was only fair that I took her. Or at least, offer it as a reward incentive for her taking the long lost but still highly necessary nap. I said it in passing, hoping she wouldn't really hear me, but apparently psychic ride powers also include bionic hearing and she woke up two hours later, fully dressed with shoes on the wrong feet, asking where the rides were.

So I packed up the kids and threw a bunch of old dollar bills and my mother-in-law in my bag (heh) and headed off to the carnival -- all four of us just restless with excitement to pay ridiculous amounts of money to ride on weird old rides that come with extremely long warning labels. You know it's a bad sign when a freaking carousel comes with a warning sign that basically tells you to ride their slow ass rickety pony at your own risk.

But hell if I think twice.

"Fuck yes she's tall enough. Put her on that damn horse! I've got 14 tickets here, young teenage ingrate with corks in your earlobes."

And really, my daughter was quite content riding the boats, cars, horses, dragons, and whatever else they stick a seatbelt in and make go around in circles. Until she saw the Fun House.

Now, don't be fooled. It is neither a house nor is it fun. But it's the cool thing to do. In my day, it was The Zipper. You'd go on with your "you're 'going out' but you're not really going anywhere and all you do is stand there and kind of hold hands" boyfriend, flip around and scream, and then actually hold hands for the 47.2 seconds you were on the ride before you get off and go back to being awkward weird not-so-boyfriend-girlfriends who just play weird tickle games.

But no. In this case it was the not-so-fun-not-so-house.

I looked at my mother-in-law, worn and tired from riding in circles for the last 30 minutes, and I reluctantly handed her my son and climbed up after my daughter.

Rope ladder. Ha. Please. I could win Survivor.

Short padded tunnel slide. C'mon. Give me a break.

Two tiered rickety metal bridge with no rail and no protection from falling to my death but some crappy net that I couldn't tell if it was actually connected and safe where are those fucking warning signs oh my god I'm frozen and I think I'm actually catatonic. Clearly I was about to die.

My daughter ran quickly and steadily across the bridges while I stepped cautiously across, trying to hold on for my life and not look back or down at the hordes of young elementary aged children and my mother-in-law snickering at the stupid mom who looked like she might, at any moment, crap her pants.

Now, I'm not known for my love of heights or for my bravery. I'm one of those people who will reluctantly try something but then turn it into the worst experience ever thanks to my over analytical brain.

Take water skiing, for example.

Oh fun. Weeeee skiing on water. I'm up. Oh nice view. A bit of water in my nose. Oh shit. I'm on water. And I'm skiing. And what happens if waves come. And I have to turn. And Oh-my-freaking-god I'm going to die. STOP. STOP THE BOAT.

And hence my uncanny ability to sunbathe and read rag mags on boats. And therefore, my skeeball and balloon dart shooting record known by half of South Jersey. I don't do rides, or amusement parks. Hell, I barely push a shopping cart.

But anyway, here I am teetering on a bridge when there he is. My savior.

A carnie.

A freaking chivalrous carnie meets me halfway, grabs my hand, and walks me over the bridge as I try to chuckle and thank him in a cool way with my tongue stuck halfway down my throat. He just smiled and pointed to the huge ass long tunnel slide that I now must slide down to my death without scaring the shit out of my daughter with my high-pitched screams.

So I channeled them into ridiculous fake statements using really long words like "Oh my this is splendiferrrrouuuuuuuuuuuusssssssssss" because damn I'm a good mother and my daughter will have all experiences in life and I will not taint them or put my own fears and anxieties upon her but "wow this is a spectacularrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr slide."

On the bright side, at least I have paid my "cool mom" dues for the entire year. And I'm having some wicked "hot carnie" heroic rescue sex dreams.

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.

I Spent the Entire Day at the Philadelphia Airport and all I Got Was a Ziploc Bag and an $8 Sandwich

Clearly, someone is trying to tell me something.

I should have known when everything fell right into place for our little weekend trip to Hotlanta. Nothing forgotten. Happy children. Cheerful mother-in-law.

But then, we arrived at the airport to find every single person in Philadelphia trying to fly to Atlanta today. I know, the CNN Center is just fabulous and I love me some Japanese Prune Coke at the Coca Cola Museum. However, I'm not sure that's worth the hellishly long lines at the ticket counters and security -- with two children, two car seats, a stroller, three bags, and a mother-in-law.

I was hoping that with the huz being employed by an airline I might get some special privileges.

Apparently that was the ONE free ziploc bag for my Preparation H cream with the butt tip that stopped the x-ray tray in front of half of the city.

Nice.

As airline employee dependents, you fly standby. No special red carpet, no stickers, and no cute set of wings. And, clearly, no special treatment. As I learned, do not for the life of you mention the word "pilot," at least to gate agent Mr. Sherry F., a man with a very weird first name for a man who's not a pre-op trannie, because he will not offer you the two open seats on your flight because "you are a party of four."

Yes. Four humans -- two of whom are small children and can clearly sit on laps and take up two seats.

"Don't make me whip out my boob and nurse right in front of you, Mister" I thought, considering the possible ramifications (and exciting blog post) of such an action.

But alas, I didn't think Mr. Sherry F. would have cared. And so started our long field trip day at the airport.

We had a picnic lunch under the large overhang at Gate E-3. We tested the various toilets and sinks at each of the two women's restrooms. We ate large amounts of candy, including gummy bears, lollipops, and twizzlers.

We listened as my daughter cheered for the arriving planes and cried loudly as they left without her. And we watched solemnly (and looked away, as many of our country people are doing) as the casket of a soldier was loaded onto a plane with a military escort and salute.

And we cried when the third flight was over sold with no chance of us getting on it.

So, our trip to Atlanta was not meant to be. We'll have to meet Ted Turner and indulge on an hour long sugar high sampling of cokes another time. And while I have to admit that the airport was almost as exciting as the zoo (less animals, air conditioning, and just under half the stench), I'm pretty sure you won't see me listing it as an "Indoor Listen and Learn" activity at Gocitykids.

And our only saving grace was that we at least got our parking free. And that my children are gems.

Maybe that's what someone was trying to tell me.

We know it's hard mommy. That's why we read our own bedtime stories sometimes.

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.

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 write this post while on the shitter, but just know, I'm pretty damn good at multi-tasking.

The joyous weekend return of my huz on Thursday lasted as long as a decent hangover. It only took a conversation about how I used the "wrong" spatula for eggs, a 10-minute question and answer session as to why I haven't had enough time to send out thank-you notes for our son's christening gifts, and my favorite, an interrogation about which of his friends I fantasize about (er, if you're going to read my blog, make sure you actually read it) to make me appreciate that which is our current long distance relationship.

Clearly, he provides support and comfort way better over the phone about 6 states away.

I imagine it doesn't help that I crashed at around 8pm every night he was home. And that he had to argue with his mother about whether planes can fly in fog because, well, you know, she's an experienced pilot and all and from her experience sitting in an airport with pilots while they waited for the fog to clear.

Right.

It's a tough crowd here people. Tough.

But the last time I checked, attempting to keep two children alive and 4000 blogs running takes precedence over thank you notes and spatula choice. And is he really surprised that I'm fantasizing about other people when he takes the time to tell me that I'm indeed using the "wrong" spatula?

Shouldn't it be more important that my power breast milk has grown my son clear out of size 3 diapers at a mere 4-months old? Or that my daughter completely covered her face and potty seat in red tar Clinique Cream Blush and it only took 134 baby wipes to get it off? Or that I'm so old that the Real World is doing reunion shows and I remember the name of every single cast member?

Jesus H. Let's get our priorities straight people.

But he need not worry. I'll have all the time in the world to learn correct spatula etiquette, send the thank you notes, and masturbate to the thought of all my friends' husbands while watching Real World Reunited: Las Vegas because Babysitter #1 and #2 come for a test drive next week.

I just hope that the in-laws don't scare them away.

On second thought, maybe the in-laws are the least of my worries.

See You Later, Original Sin

*Updated: The Blog Exchange Tribute to Mothers is today. Start here and then follow the links. Click here for more info on how to get involved.

I've never been one for traditions -- so much so that I've been accused of being devoid of sentimentality. I read cards and then throw them away. I purge my daughter's wardrobe regularly, barely taking time for one last sniff and face rub before I toss it in the Goodwill box.

And so a Christening is pushing it for me.

But I've also never been one to deprive someone else out of something they feel strongly about if it means a lot to them and doesn't aversely affect my beliefs or personhood -- the mother/son dance to Celene Dion at my wedding (I nursed in the bathroom with ear plugs) and even allowing my daughter (and now son) to be baptised with holy water (hey, it's water, not turpentine, right?).

I don't believe in original sin, or necessarily in any prayers that are said and any blessings that are made. But I do love the idea of what a Christening, Baptism, Bris, or Dedication represents.

My intention is not to make a mockery of religion by standing there and saying "we do" to questions that involve me raising my child in a religious household. It bothers me, just a bit, to say words that I don't mean or sign the cross when I just don't think it's necessary. But yet, instead of outrightly refusing to go through with the Christening, I dress my little feverish boy in his little white short suit and dip his perfectly round head in a big bowl of water because when you peel away all the words and readings, it's asking us to be good and honest parents to our son. And there's something beautiful and fulfilling to say that out loud.

Today I proclaimed to my son, a little person and not this creature or parasite (a cute size-3 diaper wearing one, of course) who takes up every inch of my existence and can make me frustrated, thankful, and annoyed all in the matter of 5 minutes, that I will do my best to be his best mother. And as I held him over the bowl of water, his sweet face and piercing smile looking up at me, I was reminded of the joy I felt when I found out I was pregnant and stayed pregnant (after two miscarriages) until I saw him in my arms for the first time. And it is that joy that I wanted to share with my friends and family -- through this ritual and his party.

I suppose I don't need to stand up in my Sunday best or buy a vanilla cross cake to remember all that. But putting aside all the Bible verses, smelly oils, and very long prayers, we are celebrating my son's new life. And if this is how we decide to celebrate his "official" presence into our family and our world, then so be it. I may roll my eyes at the formalities, but inside I'm glad that I'm not the only one that's rejoicing over his presence.

And if the Father wants to put in a good word for him, I can't imagine it will hurt. We've got a lot more time to fuck up as parents -- might as well start him off on the right foot.

I'MSTILLNOINLABO

Two straight hours of decent contractions, a loss of appetite (even for Chick-Fil-A #1), and 10 glorious minutes of watching Dutch and Wood's Flick'r Pool as a slide show with my daughter asking "What's the little girl doing" for every frame (all that was missing was the Sarah McLachlan soundtrack) and you'd think I'd have a baby in my arms.

Seriously you guys, you might want to put a warning on that thing -- "May cause weepy large pregnant woman to collapse in a sea of tears."

But no. Alas. I'm still here.

And to make matters even more awkward, my husband and his mother are not speaking. Yes, just when I thought it couldn't get more bizarre, apparently they had a huge knock-em-down fight on Tuesday night and are refusing to engage in any verbal interaction.

I'm actually surprised that it has taken this long. My MIL berates everyone (except me and Quinlan) on a daily basis. My father-in-law deals with it by getting blasted (for good reason) so it doesn't bother him.

Hell. It wouldn't bother me if I was jacked up on 14 beers a night.

But my sober husband being told he's an idiot, stupid, moronic, and just plain dumb for making two scratches in the driveway? Well, that was it.

And so the speaking has halted. She stays upstairs, he stays downstairs, and I just run the stairs to try to get labor started.

Granted, it's a helluvalot quieter around this place.

So, tonight I'm off to sip some wine (sure, call me Rachel Weisz), stimulate my nipples with a breast pump or what I like to call "Johnny Depp's Electric Fingers" (now if that's not Friday Night Fun then what is, I ask?) and try to come up with a better name for my baby than "boy."

In the mean time, go read and vote. And enter my baby pool.

Joisey Girl

I spent half of my life trying to get the hell out of Jersey, and the last five trying desperately to get back. I'm not quite sure what it is about Jersey that people seem to loathe, including the folks that live there.

Okay. I get the high car insurance. Highest in the country, actually.

Oh. And no left turns. They have these things called "jughandles." Basically, you have to make a right (either before or after the light) to make a left. Personally, I think left turn arrows are highly overrated.

And then there's the whole Jersey accent that is really a combo of Philly and NYC slapped together with a speech impairment (thanks Governor Kean) that makes everyone think we talk weird.

Or weirdly. (Sorry I'm from Jersey).

Sure. The bad drivers. The landfills. The "haha garden state." The weird roads.

And the hair.

Oh. The. Hair.

But c'mon people. Lest you forget the good things that Jersey has brought to this earth. Hi. Bon Jovi? Full Serve Gas? The Boardwalk? Cheese Steaks?

Oh wait. That's Philly. Damnit.

Seriously, Jersey gets such a bad rap wherever you go. It's not NYC. It's not Philadelphia. So apparently it's not cool. And to be honest with you, I've grown up just saying "I'm from outside Philly" so not to have to deal with the wrath of the Jersey haters.

But today I'm proud to be a Joisey girl because if I so had the desire, I could be legally united with another Joisey girl in what is the fifth state to allow legal civil unions for gay folks. That's right. They can enjoy visitation at hospitals, adoption rights, and even give their partner insurance.

Who woulda thunk it?

And I know that a civil union does not a marriage make, however, take it from me. I'm married and it's not all that it's cracked up to be people.

So congrats my gay friends. Enjoy your legally united gambling excursions and some salt water taffy on me!

An Open Letter to the 18 Year Old Receptionist at the Spa

Dear Miss:

Let me preface this by saying I'm pregnant. I don't get out much. And I'm living with my in-laws.

I know you don't know what any of those things are yet, I hope, and let me tell you, you shouldn't. Continue to enjoy what seems to be your obsession with post-Justin pre-baby Britney Spears. Because really, it's all downhill from there.

And clearly, that's saying something.

I realize that it must have seemed a bit odd, me waving you off as I decided to test what turned out to be overpriced room sprays...

ON MY WRISTS.

But let me assure you. I'm really not that uncultured or stupid.

Much to my horror, I had just been awakened from my 60-minute facial by some woman named Elizabeth claiming to be an aesthetician. Clearly, I had seen Johnny Depp rubbing my face. Smelling of clove cigarettes. And raw passionate sex.

In a nutshell, I was discombobulated and clearly out of sorts.

So, I thank you, with every pregnant breath I have, for not pointing out that I was indeed leaving the spa doused in "Summer Fresh" and "Lavendar Escape," your new line of aromatherapy room sprays, and for checking me out with an absolutely straight face - not even one eye roll or chuckle to be seen.

I'm not sure I would have had as much willpower. And for that, I admire you. You go with your blonde streaked hair, and brown-lined lipped self.

You won't hear any complaints from me.

Ever.

Sincerely,

That Pregnant Woman

Just When I Thought I Was a Sort of Funny Writer...

A series of fortunate events landed me at a David Sedaris reading on Sunday night. Call it what you will -- providence, the Lord's goodness, or just a fucking break, but my in-laws agreed to babysit (and holy shit, change a diaper) and I was able to take my friend up on her extra ticket to see the funny man read in front of a huge crowd in downtown Philadelphia.

I've only recently been introduced to David Sedaris, and to his credit, Naked is the first book I've ever started and finished on one plane ride. Granted it was my first trip alone sans daughter and I hadn't read a book that didn't involve me saying words in rhyme in about 2 years, but still, he's good.

With that said, I didn't really know what to expect. Taking a tired preggo out for an 8pm show that basically involves one short gay man reading out loud doesn't seem like the best plan unless your aim is get me 2 hours of uninterrupted sleep. Oh, and a $6 coke and starbursts and watch me visit at least 4 bathrooms along the way.

But, then again, I've never heard David Sedaris read his stories out loud.

Part of me imagined that I looked almost equally as funny as his potential stories - weaving our way up a treachurous parking garage that made a can of sardines look spacious and comfortable, rudely staring at the huge breasted black woman wearing a crop top and red wig who had apparently NOT seen the Oprah bra show, and assisting my friend as she performed what could only have looked like a gyno exam gone wrong on my expensive purse that had a stuck (then broken) zipper to extract my cell phone so I could turn it off before the show.

But really, compare any of that plus anything I've ever written to three sentences of David Sedaris and I'm completely and terribly unfunny.

Clearly I have never laughed so hard. Okay, except for later on in the evening when my friend and I were talking about my husband's heinously wrong tattoo (more on this later) and those awful Mexican Woven Parka things we all used to wear circa 1989 that cost like $5 and were made of burlap or wheat.

Yeah. I laughed pretty fucking hard then too. But not in a "wow that was a really hilarious and intelligently funny story" type of way but more like a "shit I can't believe I wore those awful parkas with stirrups and thought I looked hot and I'm really tired and could possibly laugh at anything right now."

But anyway, don't worry.

I'm not going to retell any of his stories or attempt to quote from them like people try to do when they just saw "like the best movie ever" and they tell this ridiculously long and boring tale that is impossibly difficult to follow and makes you just want to throw rocks at their head and never go see the movie because their story just totally ruined it for you.

Let's be honest. I couldn't do him any justice.

And besides, if I tell you his stories, I won't be able to steal them and attempt to stick them in my own blog posts later.