Motherhood Uncensored

California is in a Different Time Zone! And Other Tidbits Of Wisdom I'm So Glad I Called My In-Laws to Get

*Updates below!

Liz and I have been afforded a great media opportunity that will take us out to the Bay area in a couple of weeks. And as you might have guessed, the only childcare option I am left with, after handing out flyers at the local zoo, is my in-laws.

Now before you jump down my throat and tell me what I know you are going to tell me then let me tell you that you are wrong.

Totally and utterly wrong.

Clearly, their tom-ass-foolery can be pretty hilarious, embarrassing, or outright depressing, depending on what kind of mood you're in. But when it specifically affects the kids, then I'm a little concerned.

Okay, I'm scared shitless.

Over the course of four years, they've changed less diapers than I have fingers and they've fed my daughter a marshmallow peep for a snack, which I suppose is better considering they've skipped her entire lunch on a different occasion. They also believe that dessert is a food group, with charter members chocolate milk straws from the dollar store, jello, and pudding, all delightfully flavored with Splenda.

And they've also never been alone with Drew for more than two hours.

So in my desperation, I reluctantly called my father-in-law to make sure they would be able to help me out. It was made a bit more awkward since I've avoided all contact with them after the whole mother-in-law debacle, so I was less than thrilled to have to engage in a conversation.

But lucky me! I was quickly reminded why I had enjoyed not talking to them, particularly as my father-in-law seriously explained to me the concept behind the Pacific Time Zone (huh, what's that?) and how flying back from California to Philadelphia would take extra long due to something called a "time change."

Considering he's the same man who explained how to put a trash bag in a trash can, I shouldn't really be surprised, however, at this juncture in my life, I have no patience left to just nod, chuckle, and write a funny blog post.

I mean, the last time I checked, I'm a fairly functioning human. With a brain. And better, a few college degrees.

"I'm married to a pilot, you know," I told him. "And I've actually been to California a few times. I think I get that I won't get back until late on Friday."

But then I had to convince him that thanks to a really crappy moldy stinky mattress that Drew had a major allergic reaction to, he will not be sleeping in their crib.

That proved to be a bit more difficult. 

"But the mattress is marked hypoallergenic." Um, okay. It's not when you keep it under your bed where the cats piss, so I'll just buy a playpen.

"But it was probably just the blanket we put on it." Yeah, except I took that blanket off and burned it and he was still coughing and sneezing, so I'll just buy a playpen.

"But I think it was just the room itself or maybe the season." Right, so many people have February allergies. I'll just buy a playpen.

[insert choice words, eye rolls, heavy breathing, and visions of a playpen shooting through their roof and landing on his head]

And for a brief moment, I decided that maybe I shouldn't go. That it just wasn't worth the headache, the fear, the worry, and the systematic desensitization I will have to put my children through after their stay.

But other then understanding that it's incredibly silly and terribly illogical of me, and sending a playpen, sippy cups, and set of baby spoons to their house thanks to a Target gift card I had laying around, I realized how much of a shining star of a mom I'm going to look like upon my return. And considering my level of parenting these days, I'm desperate for all the brownie points that I can get.

--

So my mom and BFF are headed over to see the kids on Thursday and Friday while I'm gone. And they promised to bring food just in case. Now just to manage the flight to Philly with both kids. Alone.

Eep.

I Never Thought I'd Say "Yay, Little Rock!"

Edited with the outcome below

The Bisquik pancakes soaked in McDonald's (yes, you read that correctly) syrup that my son was tripping on downing when I came down from doing some work this morning was enough to put me over the edge.

But then, I overheard a conversation between my daughter and mother-in-law during bathtime that literally has me sick to my stomach.

MIL: "So, who gets mad, mommy or daddy?"

Q: "Mommy doesn't share her food with daddy!"

MIL: "Oh, well that's not very nice, is it?"

And so, for the first time EVER, I have decided that I need to confront my MIL tomorrow before heading out the door to the airport. I just haven't decided whether to let the air out of her tires as well.

--

Before my daughter woke up, I asked her the reasoning she had by asking such a question and giving such an answer. After denying it a few times, she asked "Well, what was I supposed to say?" I suppose I can't be surprised. Sucks to get caught, now doesn't it? Her tires are still in tact, because with my luck, my FIL's car wouldn't start and we'd need to take hers.

Oh Right. That's Why I Hated Living Here.

FIL: We need someone to put the breakfast casserole in the oven at 6:30am.

MIL: Well, Kristen is always awake with the kids at 6:30am. She can do it.

Kristen: Right. Because when Kristen who never has a babysitter comes to visit the grandparents who never see their grandchildren, she should be waking up at 6:30am to put your casserole in the oven.

---

MIL *hugs Drew*: Oh boys. They're just so loveable. I mean, girls are nice. But boys, they just have so much love.

Kristen (sitting with The New Girl, MIL's friend, with Quinlan within earshot yelling for her grandmother) *tries not to strangle MIL with her bare hands*: Um, I'm pretty sure girls are pretty damn loveable too.

On the Road Again

Well, since I've absolutely no interesting or exciting news to discuss here lately, I figured it was high time I visited the in-laws.

What better way to spice up a boring *puke* uninteresting *puke* blog *puke* than two plane rides with two small children to Philadelphia for my Mother-in-Law's 60th birthday.

And you thought I was a terrible daughter-in-law?

Eh. I'm not that great. I just told the internets she was 60. She's been trying to keep that a secret since she was born.

--

Here's what you missed this week:

Fertility strikes again

Signs to save your marriage

New Blog: Well, before I was going to announce my whole "oooh look at us, we're sooooo fertile" pregnancy, I hesitated knowing two of my dear blog friends were trying hard to get pregs. And guess what, they are! So, they're not new blogs (probably to anyone), but I want to wish them well.

Pick of the Week: Because these cards made me laugh out loud. Really.

Podcast: Wendy Strgar of Good Clean Love (plus worth listening to as I rant about my Kenneth Cole/Blogher debacle.

Now back to my poor coughing son -- reignited thanks to that fantastically dry plane air coupled with the fantastically cat-ified in-law house air and the inevitable entrance of all his molars at ONE TIME. Seriously, enough with the snots and fucking coughs people!

All Quiet On This Southern Front

I can now sit back on my couch and listen to the sounds of parental silence -- my son's anti-nap yelping and daughter's coughs --  thanks to my in-laws' departure. I've moved all my glasses and plasticware back to their rightful cabinets. And I'm trying to figure out a way to get rid of the very loud talking Dora book without somehow tipping them off all the way from Philadelphia.

I "accidentally" (ahem) threw out this weird gnome-flower-fakerock garden clock that they sent us for our yard and I heard about that all weekend. I'm pretty sure they'll notice if one 99 cent Dora book goes missing.

They did love our house, so much so that my mother-in-law couldn't stop talking about it. She envied my large "great" room and pined for my kitchen cabinets. But when someone says "If I had cabinets like that I'd spread all my stuff out neatly and not pile it up" (and then proceeds to "accidentally" move your shit around) it's hard not to wonder if she's being complimentary or passive aggressive.

Eh. They're my cabinets and I can organize them how I want. Nya nya nya.

I suppose I would have been more interested in talking about which color I wanted to paint my bedroom and what kind of window treatments I wanted in the guest room if I wasn't moving Saturday.

SATURDAY! ACK!

Thankfully, my FIL ran defense for me when the firing squad got a little out of control.

"She's thinking about MOVING!" he said to my MIL after she asked me if I had thought about what kind of kitchen table I wanted.

"Oh three months is nothing" she replied.

Right. For you. Since you don't have to move.

But it's true. Three months is really a small inconvenience in the long scheme of things. And oh how I've always wanted to live in Arkansas!

Ha. Okay. That's a little too optimistic and peachy for me. But with this small inconvenience comes many conveniences -- a dad home every night, an air force base full of kids and things to do, an already friendly SINK (single-income-no-kids aka military spouse) who loves to babysit, and a plethora of new adventures and blog fodder.

Besides, you can't beat the irony of me living on a street named for one of my most favorite Southern states.

(If anyone has major connections and can get me a cheap one-way mini or passenger van rental from Atlanta to Little Rock, please email me).

My Sentiments Exactly

"Grandma, NO MORE TALKING!"

I'm a Terrible Terrible Mother

My daughter decided to let my mother-in-law know that Santa had ignored her wishes for a Belle dress and Belle ponytail. Apparently I have not yet schooled her in the ways of keeping her mouth shut.

She only got enough toys to fully furnish our living room (if you like to sit on puppet theaters and ball tracks).

Of course, you my trusty blog readers are aware of my ambivalence about all that is princess, and so, instead of purchasing the much request Belle dress and Belle ponytail, I gave her a lovely crocheted crown (which she took off only to go poop on Christmas Day), a swirly silk skirt, an Ariel book light, and The Paper Bag Princess (Thanks for the recos, readers!).

And I left the majority of the princess purchasing to my in-laws, who clearly took care of that with two Disney princess books, two Disney princess "Dress 'em up in tiny rubber outfits and shoes the size of a bread crumb" sets, and a weird plush pig princess piggy bank that makes a fantastically unannoying and very quiet noise every time you put money in it.

But alas, no Belle dress or ponytail. That was my job. And I failed.

So, my mother-in-law asks my husband right in front of me "How could YOUR WIFE Santa do such a thing? When have you ever heard of a kid not getting what they asked for from YOUR WIFE Santa?" of course, trying to chalk the whole thing up to my daughter's fantastic memory. 

"Well, we're just terrible parents, aren't we?" I replied trying to sound both flip and sweet, you know, like a princess.

My husband glared at me.

"And any good princess knows that you don't wait for some man to buy you what you want. If she wants a Belle dress and a hairpiece, she can use her Christmas money to purchase it herself."

 

Princesses can always use the help of an accountant.

 

Just make sure they don't run off with your cash.

Fun & Games

I have momentarily escaped what has been a day of "13,000 Questions about Kristen's House That She Doesn't Know the Answer To." I find this game particularly fun when I'm just happy to have the energy to clean it enough so I can walk without getting rice puffs stuck between my toes and I don't wake up with toast crumbs stuck in my asscrack.

In my world, this house just landed in "My Town, GA" and we bought it.

That's it.

I do not know the height of my ceiling. Or the square footage in my dining room. Or how hard my new end tables are to dust and how my kitchen cabinets are going to be a bitch to clean.

They hold my shit better than a trash bag. Isn't that enough?

I was sort of hoping she'd focus on my ass. But it's shrunk. And so apparently the house is way more interesting.

*hrumph*

But look people. In my world, fun involves alcohol, sleep, and absolutely no mathematical equations unless those equations are helping me figure out how much I can drink or how much I can sleep. 

However, I know you're all dying to know how to play, so let me give you a sampling of how it goes (in case you're tired of your "Back Massager" and need some other form of pleasure).

Question 11,203:

MIL: So, what color are your shutters?

Kristen: Um. Burgundy. I'm really not quite sure.

MIL: I think they are Cordovan. Yep. That's it. Cordovan.

Question 13,789:

MIL: How high are your ceilings? 9 or 10 feet.

Kristen: *Stands up and reaches up* 9 feet

MIL: Hmmm. They look more like 10 to me.

So, today I've learned that I know nothing about my house or how to pick end tables.

Based on previous scores, I'm doing pretty damn well.

However, it is just barely the end of Day One.

What Part of "We Have Bought All Their Presents Please Don't Send 6000 Plastic Toys" Is So Hard to Understand?

It's got to be the holidays since I'm not living with my in-laws anymore and yet it sort of feels like I am thanks to the two gigantic boxes full of presents we received from them yesterday.

And this was after we begged and pleaded, in the nicest and probably not nicest way possible, to please not send anything but a few gifts at most.

With them, you've got to be creative:

"Our kids are reaaaaaaaaaaaally allergic to plastic and they could die." (Partially true if they send Aquadots, but even the toy recalls don't phase them).

"We spent too much on our house so we can't afford batteries." (There's a tiny ounce of truth to that. Okay not really, but it's not a bad one).

"They just want to see you. They don't really care about presents." (A true statement actually, but they just don't really get that).

But really, we tried our darndest. And we thought we had won them over when they just sent us a check. But that was apparently just an appetizer.

I'm not complaining about generosity because these presents don't come from that lovely deep and generous place. 

I'm complaining about what has been three solid years of some of the loudest, scariest, and most annoying toys that one could purchase. I'm also talking about for the 3000th time just blatantly ignoring our desires and requests, not only for less toys, but also for them to check out some safer suggestions I offered them.

Plus, it's the first Christmas in our new home and it's first time we've actually been able to play "Santa" to our own kids without the in-laws bringing home the entire Value City clearance toy section, which is perfectly acceptable in most cases, just not for me.

The thing is, you just can't put anything nicely. And even when you do, they still don't listen.

Hence the fucking personalized matchbooks at our wedding.

Part of me thinks they believe I'm a heartless bitch who is pained by decorating for the holidays and buying my children any presents so they must make up for the fact by overdoing it.

The other part thinks that material things are the only way they know how to get positive attention and so they buy buy buy to get love.  

Don't get me wrong. I know they're grandparents, people. And as a compromise, I'd just open a few of them up and save the others for future occasions because I'm under the mindset that children do not need to receive an entire toy aisle's worth of toys at Christmastime.

But they're visiting. And so they'll have to open them when they get here. So my in-laws can bask in all their fantastic toy purchasing glory because you know it takes huge talent and skills to buy toys a kid will like.

So is there anyway for me to get out this?

And So This is Christmas... Cards

*Updated with Quinlan's Artwork. Thanks TNG!

Upon arriving home from what had to be a record long week, my husband asked me about the picture I used for our Christmas card. And since he hadn't seen them, it meant only one thing.

He had talked to my in-laws.

Now as you might have guessed, I'm not so much for the "dress 'em up in velvet and hoist them both into a white sleigh with a fake snow background" type picture girl. I'd much rather send a picture of them both screaming their bloody lungs out or running naked through our house.

If that's not Christmas cheer, I'm not sure what is.

But as you probably figured, my in-laws are the total velvet and sleigh types, complete with perfectly matching outfits that were painfully searched for at Boscovs or other such places.

And so when I sent out a beautiful card featuring art by my daughter and a cute sticker picture of them in their halloween costumes well I just about committed a Christmas crime.

Except they won't ever tell me. Nor will they say how cute and original my cards were. They'll just send some backhanded, passive aggressive message to me through my husband that no self-loving mother would EVER send a Christmas card with their kids in anything but their Christmas best.

That they just so happened to purchase (at least for my daughter -- I fended off the polyester and velvet for my son's sake).

So next year, thanks to an idea from Liz in response to this post, I'm going green and will be sending an e-card with pictures and offering a $1 donation to my favorite charity in each person's name (on our mailing list).

No actual paper card? Now that should reaaaaaaallly send them over the edge.

 

So, internets, what picture did you send with your Christmas cards?

 

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   

Okay. For the Love of Bras. Redux With More Prizes

Adrienne, Nicole, and Jenine -- You won some bras, girls!

Is this really necessary? I mean honestly. Can it get any worse?

Yes. Those are my bras.

Yes. That is the kitchen.

No. I did not hang them there.

--

You got it people. I'm giving away BRAS. BWWWWAAHAHAHAHA.

Playtex is offering some fantastic bras up to my beloved Motherhood Uncensored readers. Three lucky readers will win TWO bras each (one 18-hour bra, and one Secrets bra)!

And I won't even include my father-in-law on this one.

Now, since I'm nursing, I'm wearing nursing bras, but since my son doesn't breastfeed anywhere but at home, I'm actually wearing REAL bras again -- mainly because nursing bras don't do so much for the lifting of the breasts.

I have to say these bras are great, and while I'm not an 18-hour bra wearer, it can't hurt to have one in your arsenal of bras! Plus I've got terrible slanty shoulders and the secrets bra actually stays up on my shoulders without me having to constantly put them back up. And that's important since I live in Atlanta and I could be fined for exposed straps.

And Playtex has this cool online bra fitter named Roz who will help you find the perfect bra.

So leave me a comment and I'll pick three winners at random. Feel free to share your good bra stories. Embarrassing ones are always fun. I'll be updating the posts with the winners on the day after, so check back to see if you've won. (One comment per person per day please)

Hooray for boobs and bras!

It Ain't Easy Being Green or in my case a Pale Olive

 I'm all for saving the earth. In fact, I might even be considered pretty "green" to most folks in this non-recycling town. I forego wrapping paper and gift bags for a nice ribbon, I turn off the water when I brush my teeth and wash dishes, and I choose paper over plastic.

Okay. So, I'm not high on the green scale. I get that. But for what it's worth, I do give it some effort and thought. And I'm all for being a conservationist. Hell. I'm a human and I don't want the earth to blow up, freeze, or melt into one big puddle. However, there has to be a stopping point. You know, when saving stuff takes over your house and then affects your existence. Or in this case. MINE.

It all started when I was unpacking from our not-so-vacation. My in-laws had packed the cooler for us, and amidst the bread, milk, and eggs I found mustard and ketchup packets, four used straws, and splendas. Lots of splendas.

Now, I really hate throwing away ketchup packets and taco bell hot sauces in particular, however, was it really necessary for me to drag them all the way home? And the straws? Can we not afford NEW straws that we must keep used ones? Oy.

If you think that's bad, you should see their house. It's freakishly clean - you know, sheets on the furniture, plastic on the table, and everything in its rightful place. Even if you're still eating off of it or playing with it. They must have some inner timer. If you're not done with it in 4.7 minutes, tough luck. It gets put away.

I'm all about "rightful places" (in theory, that is). However, the amount of stuff they have is amazing. They must save every single gift box they ever get, and every single ribbon from every present they've ever received (or probably given). And, bags? Holy Vagina. They could bag an entire grocery store (nice paper ones, with handles) times 27.

When we had Q, my MIL pulled out an entire box full of crocheted sweaters and hats from when my husband and his sister were kids. AN ENTIRE BOX. Of mildewy, stinky sweaters and hats. Like at least 42. That she tried to wash. And put on my daughter. Ack.

And if you try to throw away something. Like plastic silverware. Your Whole Foods Salad Bar container. A straw. You're in deep shit. Unless you hide it really well. And then maybe they won't discover it. Until they take the trash out and bring it back in and put your leftover pizza in it. Blech.

So, while I love me a recycled notecard and homegrown tomato, please don't hate me for wanting a new straw. Call me crazy or frivolous. But there are certain things I just must have. And I take full responsibility if my desire for new clean straws causes the earth to explode. But until then I'll enjoy ripping the wrapper each and every time.

No, you're not losing your mind. It's a Motherhood Uncensored replay in honor of tonight's live podcast "It Can Be Easy Being Green: How to Make Green Parenting Work for You." I'm not talking compost piles and hemp underpants. I'm taking your tips, suggestions, hacks, thoughts, and comments along with guests Sandra from BlogHers Act Canada and Romi from True Green Confessions.

Let's make being green a little more accessible for today's mamas!

Two lucky callers (9-10pm EST) 646-915-8634 will win a kickass lunch box from Lunchopolis. Seriously, how hard is it to call in and say "hello" to me? C'mon now!

If you're new to podcasting, simply click the button, then click "Listen Live" on my page. Blog Talk Radio has a whole new site, including a really cool chat feature. So, if you don't want to call, but you want to chat, feel free. I'm not sure how I'll be running the show and chatting, but I'm willing to give it a try.

And make sure to subscribe to my podcast feed, or listen via iTunes (Motherhood Uncensored).

And just for kicks, and a real eye-opener (seriously), click here. Oh and here too. Now that's thievery.

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.

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.

If I Was Being Truly Hurtful, I'd Write Mean (Yet Totally True) Things About Them On My Blog (Oh Wait... I Already Do)

When I forwarded our mail from the sin-laws, I did myself as an individual and my husband (different name) as a family.

Apparently the Post Office took that as being the huz's entire family.

Whoops.

I was politely informed by my father-in-law via email a few days after we had moved that he had spoken with the post office and it was fixed.

But it's the post office. I should have known better. And so I've gotten a piece of two of their mail every other day. I figured they were stragglers. I didn't go through them. I put them aside since he said he had taken care of it. And I sent them back priority mail last week. No big deal.

But then, I got this email:

Kristen, the last three days we have been jumping through hoop trying to find out why
we aren't getting any mail practically bills. Of course we now know it's all
coming your way. I don't know why you just couldn't e-mail or pick up the
telephone to tell us. You have a keen knack of hurting us.

Now I admit that I could have called or emailed. But to be honest, I was busy. I'm alone with two children under three all day long trying to unpack a house. I'm feeling overwhelmed. My son has been sick. And not sleeping.

And he put my shoes ON my bed. And smacked my ass. And walked in on me having sex.

So, the motivation for me to call him and politely tell him that I have some of his mail just didn't pop into my mind. Mind you, I get no pleasure from holding onto their mail. Burning it? Perhaps.

Now contrary to a few folks' analysis of me and this situation, I'm fairly torn. I vascillate from being grateful for having been allowed to live there for free, and then pissed about all their stupid antics.

So I've spent the last few days trying to think up a worthy response.

You''ve got a keen knack at being a drunk asshole. Let's call it even.

or

If I was really hurtful, I would have torn it up.

or

I think you meant "hoops."

But, I've decided to take the Maria Von Trapp approach. So in the last set of mail I sent back to them today, I included a note for my mother-in-law.

I'm very sorry about your mail. Drew has been sick all week and I've been feeling a bit overwhelmed. Make sure to tell [FIL] thanks so much for his email. His kind, supportive words were really touching.

Yeah. I really am going soft.

And You Thought I Was an Ungrateful Jerk

Because ungrateful jerks would have used that evil formula.

More news from the road.

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

Do In-Laws Ever Make Sense?

So apparently my mother-in-law stubbed her toe on my daughter's step stool which was left in front of the sink so I don't have to attend to her every single time she needs to go to the bathroom and wash her hands.

Who cares, you say? (Yeah, I said the same thing).

But apparently it's my fault.

"You ruined my Saturday night" she told me, sort of joking, sort of not.

"You're blaming me for stubbing your toe?" I replied, sort of joking, sort of not.

"Well, if you would have moved that step stool..."

Huh?

Apparently, she walked into the bathroom to get my daughter a towel and on the way out she stubbed her toe. But I should have moved the step stool. Because then she wouldn't have stubbed her toe.

But if you saw it on the way in, then isn't it your fault that you're too dumb to remember it's there on the way out?

So, now every time I see her, she tells me how much her toe hurts. And she has to show it to me.

"Look how swollen it is!" she says. "I can barely fit it into a shoe."

"Um. I don't know how your toe usually looks" I tell her. Sorry. I don't generally examine peoples' baby toes in detail. "But I'd be happy to cut it off for you."

Heh.

And so internets, who's to blame here?   

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.

This Might Just Be Worse Than The Bras

Yep. Those are my dirty gross shoes on the bed that I sleep on every night with my son.

Here's my countdown -- just make sure to turn up your sound. (Thanks Kara)

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.

Just When You Thought It Couldn't Get Any More [insert your own synonym for FUCKED UP]

My father-in-law walked in on us having sex.

Full on naked white asses high up in the air and he walks right in.

I'm still bathing in lysol and refusing to leave my room.

Now before you barf on your screen or shriek "You're actually having sex with a man that points out the wrong spatula?," let me explain a few things.

A. I like sex and I hadn't gotten it in awhile.

B. I offered to smack my husband with the wrong spatula and he was cool with that.

C - Z. The door to our bedroom was totally closed and he didn't fucking knock and he was probably blasted and he was looking for the toilet paper that was in our bedroom but he didn't fucking knock and my husband cursed at him and I wanted to hide and I couldn't stop laughing because I was incredibly embarrassed and he totally saw our naked asses because they were 2 feet from the door because it's a tiny room and now you're thinking "shit, what kind of sex were they having" and I think he probably kind of was thinking that too and that's probably the skeeviest part of it all and we're not moving until the end of the month so thank God for broadband because I'm never leaving my room.

Ever.

Still Here, Now With More Resolve

So let me just explain to you the level of my near shock upon finding my daughter and almost the entire contents of her room (formerly the pristinely white guest bedroom) covered in pen ink that had happened to be leaking out of a pen in a mug that was on the table that no one though to take out of a toddler's room.

HOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLYYYYYYYYYYY SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!

Needless to say, if it was my house, I'd be just slightly less than thrilled. But my in-laws? The in-laws that save used straws and spot clean non-existent spots off their white carpets?

I thought I was going to be sick. In fact, I was almost going to feign illness so not to have to deal with the wrath.

It was everywhere -- the mirrored closet doors, the sheets, the clothes, the piles of important tax documents that my daughter emptied from my MIL's file cabinet, and as you so clearly saw, the wall and the carpets. Between harshly scolding my daughter and trying to picture my mother-in-law's reaction, I sat on the floor with a wet cloth diaper and Resolve while my daughter screamed due to her punishment of not being able to leave her room for the rest of the night and dabbed every single spot of that ink off.

In both cases, it was not a pretty sight.

Believe me, it's not my prowess that cleaned off that damn ink. It's the sheer grace of some extremely benevolent being who let every bit of that ink come right off the carpet.

And Resolve. Three cheers for Resolve and Stain Resistent carpets!

Or maybe it was just cheap ass ink. Who the hell knows.

Much to my surprise, my mother-in-law wasn't the slightest bit annoyed...with my daughter. She was more annoyed with me for using too much Resolve that took off a bit of the carpet dye along with the ink. But after lecturing me the correct method for cleaning her rugs (ps I got a shit load of ink off your rugs by my very lonesome), my mother-in-law sat, looked at the pictures I had taken, and went on her merry way.

And thus is the craziness that is my existence.

Dishes not washed within 5 seconds of you using them causes quite a stir around here. Leave your diaper bag in a remote corner for longer than 4 hours and all hell breaks loose.

But an entirely ink-covered room ala Curious George? Nothing. Nada.

So, I'll be here all month, people. 

Come back for the laughs (seriously, I've got a DOOZY for Tuesday -- it beats the bras by 10,000). I'll be the one waving the wrong spatula.

Have a great weekend.

--

Looking for something to read this weekend?

The Sting of the Wrong Spatula Burns My Ass

I was feeling oh-so high and mighty yesterday, blogging on the toilet and wherever else I wanted to blog -- sharing my new found freedom with the world. That was until my mother-in-law figured out that I could in fact blog downstairs while watching television with her. Apparently my sitting up in the office on the computer all night is interpreted as rude, and so to not seem like an ungrateful jerk (at least in person), I decided to venture out of my dark quiet cozy non-judgmental sober room (did I mention quiet?) and watch television with her while blogging.

And, as you might of guessed, my mother-in-law has the best taste in television.

The Bachelor: An Officer and a Tool Gentleman

I figured I was taking one for the marriage (or really, I think I'm at about 1468 for the marriage -- but who's counting?), and so I subjected myself to the 2-hour longer-than-a-Southern-Baptist-Church-Sermon finale. I admit to actually having watched the show a few times this season thanks to what I'm calling my post-partum-need-to-watch-other-loonies-so-I-don't-feel-like-one phase. And I guess I was sort of interested to see who he was going to pick and then devastate.

Seriously, the whole concept of the show is utterly ridiculous but couple that with him falling in love with someone and then dumping them on national television with some whole "But I love you, you're so awesome, I think you're great" bullshit, it actually held my attention. Plus, how could you not sing-a-long to the closing theme song "Up Where We Belong: Electronic Instrumental Version." Even though he quite clearly wins the "Dork of the Year" award.

But better was the conversation.

"Bevin? What kind of name is that? Is that the female version of Kevin?"

It's Irish. And. No. I just think it's Kevin with a B.

"The High. The. High. I've never heard of that religion. Is that a cult?"

Um. It's Baha'i and it's Persian."

"What? Bevin doesn't look Persian at all."

I'm pretty sure you don't have to BE Persian to practice it.

Oh. Well, you know, the huz never dated blondes. I never understood why. That Bevin looks just like a girl he dated. She was way cuter though. I'm not sure why they ever broke up.

Hmmm... I wonder... Or wait!? Did she use the wrong spatula a few too many times?

Good Spatula.

Wrong. Evil. Bad. Jezebel Spatula.

And so, the moral of the story is this: Don't brag about your damn broadband.

Keep it to yourself so you can sit upstairs in your room and watch quality programming that will feed your soul and your brain.

Charm School, anyone?

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.

The End is Near

Not only did I get a birthday card from my friend who literally just had her baby (seriously, did you write them in the hospital?), a sexy new windshield, and a thrilling case of pink eye from the nearly 18 lb 3.5 month old fruit of my loins, but I received news that we will soon be leaving Casa de In-laws.

Didn't you know that's what you get when you turn 31? I guess it's back to blogging about my asshole and poop baths again.

My husband finally got word that he'll be flying the friendly skies *ahem* and while I won't blurt out whose wings he'll be steering, I can assure you that if you happen to breastfeed on his plane, he will not allow some ridiculous flight attendant to throw you out.

So, really what more could a newly crowned 31-year-old ask for?

Only six more weeks of bra hangings and no-diaper changes and I'll be out on my own in some tiny apartment with half my furniture, two large dogs, and no husband until he comes back and is gone for most of the next few months and then we have to move yet again back South for 5 months.

I'm always great at looking at the bright side, eh?

Actually, there is a bright side (and to emphasize this I will now overdose you on exclamation points as a means to convince myself of its brightness!!).

Free flights to Blogher, where I can breastfeed at my computer in front of some of my favorite bloggers!

Health insurance for my children that doesn't involve a bright yellow Medicaid card! I'm probably the only person getting government assistance who faxed a typed and itemized checklist with her application. What? You didn't know professional blogging came with health insurance? (heh).

Also, we've decided to hire someone to help me change diapers and entertain my daughter with more than a large talking screen (on a part-time basis) so my in-laws will be saved from my harsh looks, eye rollings, and "voices-in-my-head" pleas for assistance!

And wireless!!! We're installing just a bit of wireless here so while he's gone I can do work somewhere other than this tiny little office with poor ventilation and way too many electrical sockets for my daughter to use as a piggy bank!

So, my birthday ain't lookin' so bad afterall. You know, in the long scheme of things. Plus at the risk of sounding heinously sappy and destroying any image that you have of me that includes leather chaps, a whip, and a waxed beaver, I've got these two lovelies to wake-up to everyday.

So really, 31 is just peachy, or pink, I guess.

Thanks for asking!

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.

You Almost Had Me at Regret

I was almost feeling bad about my libel and slander thanks to the few random commenters who basically told me I'm doomed to be excommunicated because of my blog. Even someone who googled "tuna helper" found me and decided to tell me I'm a big fat ungrateful jerk.

Now I won't ask why she was googling Tuna Helper and decided to slander me. Personlly, I think she's a stupid idiot for googling Tuna Helper, but I wouldn't randomly visit her blog and tell her that. Of course, I also wouldn't be googling Tuna Helper.

So if for any reason you are worried that I might be discovered and outed for the cruel awful person that I am, then please don't. I rarely leave the house so I'm pretty sure no one at Super Fresh is going to recognize me and say "Oh hey. Are you the blogger who writes shit about her family on the internet?" And when I do leave the house, say for family-in-law functions and such, all of them come up to me and whisper "I don't know how you do it" followed by a knowing nod.

Because they know people. They all know how bad it is.

But more importantly, being excommunicated wouldn't be so bad. (Cue mass comments of how being found out ruined your life and you're warning me and don't tell me we didn't warn you).

Thanks. Got the hint.

But what's a memoir -- you know, if you consider a blog (or at least this blog) to be more than just a ranty online journal and moreso a legitimate writing forum. Is it an edited version of your life, one that leaves out certain details because they might possibly offend someone? I mean, the blog is Motherhood Uncensored, and when I picked the title, I really wasn't kidding.

And let's face it. Chances are I won't be writing a book about my stories of motherhood -- everyone's already doing that. But if there's ever a book to be written by me, it will most likely be about my crazy in-laws, because, hands down, I've got almost everyone beat.

And I've really got nothing to lose. Because really, what are they going to say? Leave and never come back? We never want to see you again? You're not welcome in our crazy fucked up home?

Oh damnit. Now that would suck.

So here's a little insight into my life (you know, if you haven't gone back and read my entire archives and said "whoa those people are really crazy" before telling me how awful a person I am).

If you had to sit and watch my MIL use a wooden ruler to measure my FIL's one long sideburn and then try to tell me that she's "good at measuring" (ps I can read a ruler too) and then when I laugh because it's totally ridiculous that they are obsessing over a sideburn and I can't say anything like "it's a bit ridiculous to be obsessing over a sideburn for longer than 2 minutes" they tell me "I know you're laughing but it's true. I'm really good at measuring" in a totally serious voice, you'd blog about it too.

And then having to listen to my baby scream while I'm trying to take a short nap only to come down the stairs to find my MIL shaking his legs whlie he's swinging in the swing screaming saying "I tried everything - I have no idea what is wrong with him" and then you take him upstairs and find SHIT in his diaper now stuck to his ass is just plain wrong.

So quite frankly, if I could return to the luxury once afforded me which was seeing the in-laws only twice a year (if that) and never once having to talk to them ever (yes, that is how it was a long time ago before I lived with them), I would be perfectly okay.

But I fear half of you would never come back to read my blog.

Just in Case -- You Know, So He Doesn't Go to Hell

I attempt to avoid any and all deep discussions regarding anything more than why I don't like baked beans because I actually do but I'm breastfeeding and they give my son gas and so he doesn't sleep and then either do I and so I'm even a bigger bitch than usual.

Now just imagine when they bring up religion. Like yesterday.

Apparently my mother-in-law is obsessing over my son's baptism, and because Catholics can't make anything simple, we're having difficulty picking the godparents. I know, it's religion, and religion should not be simple or easy or comfortable.

Whatever.

But don't you think if you want to drum up some business, you know after the whole "I'm a priest who molested a bunch of kids and no one turned me in because God will punish me at some point in time but meanwhile I'll just go on preaching," you'd think they'd make getting a kid baptized fairly easy.

However, it's not. We're supposed to take a class. And the godparents have to take a class and then get some form that says they're a mass-attending, God-fearing Catholic.

If you're not Catholic, you're just shit out of luck, and if you are, but you don't go to church, then you're screwed too. So then we're stuck looking through a list of eligible family members that we know only through their picture Christmas cards but guess what? They're Catholics in goodstanding so they'll work.

Sort of defeats the purpose of godparents, doesn't it?

So the people we have chosen are not in good standing. And my mother-in-law is in a tizzy. And apparently my husband enjoys torturing her because he told her that "we'll just have to get him baptized in another church."

Holy Jesus Mary Joseph and 14 other saints no one knows but we're supposed to pray to anyway.

The shit hit the fan. No baptism = no sacraments = HELL. Big old nasty hot hell.

Now look. We had our daughter baptized. It's nice. It can't hurt anything. I'm all for it. And contrary to what you might think about me and my in-laws, I'm a pretty appeasing daughter-in-law.

But my kids' afterlife (or lack thereof) is my own business. And if the godparents can't be the godparents, then we'll just take our business somewhere else. What's good enough for me is quite surely good enough for God. And if it's not, then I guess we're all going to hell.   

And really, I'm not that scared. I mean could hell be any worse then where we live right now?

--

If you want a good laugh, go read the Real Mom entries. They are truly hilarious.

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I hope you'll join me tonight (Tuesday) for my radio show featuring blogger Christina from A Mommy Story and her new blog Cirque Du Mommy as well as author and Director of Duke University Integrative Medicine Dr. Tracy Gaudet. Her new book Body, Soul, & Baby is probably the best pregnancy/post partum book out there.

We'll be discussing the "business" of babies and how we can feel informed as well as take control over our pregnancies and beyond without feeling intimidated or scared. Also, she'll talk about alternative methods to managing stress and pain in pregnancy, labor, and beyond.

You can listen live from 9-10pm EST from my host page or call in to comment or ask questions (646) 915-8634. If you prefer, you can email me or comment here if you've got a question for Christina or Dr. Gaudet.

You can always listen via the media player or subscribe via iTunes.