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I’m Pretty Sure I Invented Mom Guilt, But You Can Share

A good friend of mine posted a little video about mom guilt on Facebook this morning. A bunch of mom’s talking about the things they could take back from the day, lies they told their kids, things they wish they hadn’t said.

And here I thought I invented Mom Guilt.  Turns out that deep down, a lot of you Bitches feel like you suck balls at this gig too.

I suffer from this guilt thing a lot.  Husband works long days, and by the end of his rotation I usually feel ready to either sell my children to anyone who likes repeating themselves over and over again with no results, or literally filling the bathtub up with tequila in hopes that is a pleasant way for me to drown.

In this stupid day and age of being hopelessly busy and being pulled in 5000 directions at once, I simply cannot deal with the amount of time it takes my children to accomplish one task. Why is it SO HARD to put your fucking shoes on?   Why is that always the wrong hat?  Why can they not pay attention for long enough to put on their jacket and for GOD”S SAKE how come nobody can stand straight and face me when I try to zip it up?

Sometimes I cannot handle the random crying and drama that occurs seemingly every second without justification.  The fights about nothing.  The tattle-taling.  The whining.  The constant needing.  The mess making.

The pants shitting.

And so I do what every mother out there has done for generations.

I yell.  I threaten.  I punish.


Besides feeling horrible and making them feel horrible, that is.  I also get one step closer to needing therapy and detox and a new liver.  But that’s a whole other post.

And then I put them to bed and think “Tomorrow is a new day.  A better day.  I will be more patient and try to spend more time just hanging out with them.  All they really want is more attention.  I can do this.”

And then, the next day happens and I am so busy feeding them and cleaning up after them and doing laundry and working that time runs out again and I left with the mom guilt for another day. I never, ever, ever, feel like it’s enough.  Like I’m enough.

Thankfully, every now and again, we have a day where everything goes just right.  I put all my bullshit aside and focus just on them.  I say “yes” more often.  I let the schedule go.  I let the dishes sit.  I make all the things that are usually such a big ass deal no big deal, and just fucking let it stay where it is. We stay up past bedtime.  We get dirty and eat junk food and just never mind about all the things that really aren’t that important after all.

And it’s all ok.  Everybody is still alive the next day.

So far.

And then I feel guilty that I don’t do all that more often.

But you see Bitches.  Mom guilt is just this thing that happens when you love something so much that you set up this impossible standard for yourself.  It’s when you love something so much you can’t possibly ever do enough because there is no action that could ever possibly declare just how much you actually love it.

We will always have mom guilt because we won’t ever be done trying to give our children every single thing they need to be nice humans and smart humans and happy humans.  We have the mom guilt because even though children need to be corrected, and moms are allowed to get frustrated, we don’t want our kids to ever for one second think we aren’t on their side.

We feel guilt because we want more for them than is possible to give.  So we never feel like it’s enough.

So, chin up Bitches.  Tell a few lies that helps to avoid a temper tantrum.  Yell at them when they are assholes, because sometimes love involves teaching them that being an asshole is not a desirable endeavour. Drink the wine and vow to love them JUST AS MUCH TOMOROW  as you do today.  Not more, because that’s hardly possible.

And have a “free day” sometimes where you just lower your expectations and give yourselves a goddamn break.






In The Old Days….Kids Still Shit Their Pants At 3 Too.

In the Old Days, and by that I mean before there was such a thing as social media, how did you do it, Bitches?

And by IT I mean, how did you raise your children without:

  • having a heart attack
  • feeling judged
  • getting SOME decent advice
  • complaining to the universe
  • venting
  • hating better moms than you
  • being told how you’re doing it wrong

Because honestly, I love social media.  Sometimes I hate it when women are being total cunts about all the things I am doing to raise my kids, but usually it’s pretty helpful.

I was just having a free for all rant/advice thread on my Facebook page about the frustrations of potty training, and really, everyone kept it helpful and nice and nobody made me feel like an asshole at all.  Which was kinda cool because I already feel like that anyway.

But THEN, I had a lovely private conversation with an awesome girl about her struggles, and she made a comment about how she wonders if all the people with late pottiers ( is that a word?) are just not saying anything because they feel embarrassed.


For sure they are.

Whenever I go out to some thing with kids, there is always some woman talking about how they started potty training at 8 months and how wonderfully easy it was.  It’s like some sort of sign of brilliant parenting.

But what if it isn’t?  What if you read all the books and go to all the playgroups and learn from these great moms and try so hard with stickers and candy and praise and dedication?

And the truth is that you kid just really still is more comfortable shitting their pants than going on the toilet?  What if the truth is that the age your kid learns to piss on the pot is NOT indicative of your ability as a parent or the future career path of your little genius?

I wonder if you took a class of Harvard graduates and asked them each what age they stopped shitting their pants if their answers would vary?

I don’t know.  I know that potty training is annoying and frustrating and that I appreciate all the things that people offered in order to help me.  But honestly, the thing that helped me the most were the moms and dads who were just honest about how it really is, and shared things with me openly.  It’s nice to know that if you suck at something, there are others in your village who suck just as bad.

And lived to tell about it.




Thankful For What?

I’m not going to lie, Bitches.
I had a really rough weekend with the kids where they pushed me to the very edge of my limitations of patience and grace. I had more than one of those “I’m done” moments and quite frankly found it really hard to feel grateful or thankful for anything.
I wanted to sit in my room and cry about the shitty job I was doing as a parent.I wanted to be anywhere but with them.  I was overwhelmed.  I felt bad about how much resentment I was feeling towards my own children, the loves of my life.
Our lives have become so busy with Destroyer in school and ferrying them to activities and irregular work hours.   One of us, it seems is ALWAYS alone with the kids while the other works or tries to steal a couple hours of peace out of the house.
I had some extra days off and so decided to buckle in and actually try to get somewhere with potty training Buddy, which is why we stayed in for three days.  That was probably the only semi-successful thing that occurred.
Parenting doesn’t come with a handbook, and it doesn’t have scheduled breaks.  There are no rules the kids have to follow and even if there were nobody would give a shit.
So yeah.  This weekend was one of the worst.  I have never felt so bad at something nor cared so much that I sucked so bad.
What was I supposed to be thankful for?  For working my ass off and nobody caring or appreciating it? For being perpetually exhausted with very few opportunities for emotional outlets?  Music, my one go to, is also my job.  So even that doesn’t feel like a sanctuary anymore.
And then I went over to my parents place for dinner and complained loudly and immaturely about everything that was bugging me.  And you know what?

They just listened, and noticed, and empathized.  And it was all I needed.  The kids spent some really great moments with my parents today, and created this rare little magic that can only happen between a grandparent and grandchild.  And it made me feel so much better.

And it made me remember that life is made up only of moments. Which ones I choose to define my life by is really all up to me.  One moment of happiness can really cancel out a day’s worth of shit.
So I am thankful after all.
I’m thankful that I still have my parents to go to.
I’m thankful that I still have both my children with me to drive me nuts and humble me.
I’m thankful I have a Mother In Law who listened to me complain about everything in the universe and still thinks I’m doing a good job.
I’m thankful I have a husband who never complains when i tell him I need a break and thinks I’m beautiful even on the days I feel like an ogre.
I’m thankful for a Bestie who always puts things in perspective for me.
I’m thankful for the family next door that I’ve somehow earned but likely don’t deserve.
And wine.  I’m thankful for wine.  Happy Thanksgiving, Bitches. Cheers.

You’re So Pretty.


Sorry I’ve been kinda absentee lately, Bitches.

I’ve been at the beach.

Literally.  We have spent the summer in and out of the city and hanging out as a family.  We are super lucky to have a family cottage where we can just escape from all the people and all the things and just decompress.

In theory anyway.  It’s not completely stress free spending 24 hours a day with your children with no work or grocery store or girls nights to escape to.

But that’s another post.

Do you know how many bathing suits I own?


Of the seven, five are bikinis, and 2 are one pieces.

The one pieces I hardly ever wear and actually bought for doing the baby swimming lessons when I was still pretty post partum.  Like they hid something.  Like anybody cared.  I just felt like a one piece was a little more appropriate for that environment.

But once outside?  Fuck it.  I am not spending a day peeling a one piece bathing suit on and off to use the bathroom.  And anybody who’s had a baby knows how often that happens once you have kids, right?  Let’s just say that if I lived in the US, I could probably sue them for the damage they did to my bladder. And that’s not even including the whole “cross your legs when you sneeze” thing.

And of the 5 bikinis, 3 of them are cheap suits that look good, but are starting to get a little stretched out or see through, but are good enough for a private beach.  Because nobody gives a fuck out there.

I bought one ridiculously expensive suit two years ago that helped to “disguise” the wreck that was my lower abdomen after Buddy was born.  It’s one of those ones with a little skirt.  Beautiful, but sometimes the extra material on the skirt is fucking aggravating.

And the last one was a suit I bought years ago, before my breast reduction and way before we had kids.  I’ve kept the bottoms all these years because they were really good quality, fit well and were black, but the top was useless. So yesterday, I went on a quest to find a beautiful, high end top that I could pair with the bottoms.  Think of those cute mismatched suits.

I found one at the specialty store. The place with the fancy French lingerie and bathing suits where the saleslady can’t wait to get in that change room with you and wrestle your titties into a fancy bathing suit top or bra.  They also love to shatter your dreams when they look at you and just by eyeballing your tits through a sundress, guess your bra size and it was nothing like what you thought it was.

Did you know that titties can grow back after you have a breast reduction?  Because babies?

Because always babies.

They ruin everything.  Even your titties.  Sigh.

So anyway.

I bought this beautiful top to pair with the bottoms I had and came home to try the ensemble on together.

The pre baby bottoms with the post baby top.

And Bitches, a little self doubt crept in.

And then you know what happened?

My little Buddy came over to me and said “You’re so pretty Mama.”

“Your hair is pretty. And your eyes are pretty. And your arms are pretty.  And your tummy is pretty. And your lips are pretty. And your legs are pretty. “

So the three year old teaches the lesson we should all remember today.  If only we could see ourselves through the eyes of our children.  Their perception is so innocent, but it is also uncensored and truthful.

I can’t tell you how much it meant to me to hear his little voice say those words to me.  It was the purest, most untarnished compliment I have ever received. He doesn’t care if there is a lump or a bump somewhere, or if my tummy jiggles in places or if my thighs touch.

He just sees me through eyes of love…..and so should I .

And so should you.




Childbearing Has Really Fucked Up My Body



Everybody knows that doing things like jumping on a trampoline after having children can be dangerous.  I am usually capable of controlling myself down there, but anything that exudes a little bit of force like jumping or sneezing may produce wet spots.  Or coughing.

Or laughing too hard.

Ok.  I pee my pants a little bit now and then.  But whatever.

I just read this amazing article over at The Secret Life of Emily Maine that talks about how common birth injuries are and that there are many ways to treat them if we look past the usual post partum checkups that really only focus on things like bleeding and infection.  Anyway….if you’ve had a child and even years later have pain or incontinence, go and read the article.  The link to it is inside her post that I’ve included above here.

But what about the shit that is not actually an injury, but just weird things that happen to your body after creating and carrying life?

Let’s just start with the extra skin leftover on your stomach.  It’s really fucking annoying.  I feel like everything went back to normal after the first baby, but after number two?  Perma-saggy-belly.  I keep watching episodes of “Skin Tight”  on TLC where people who have lost hundreds of pounds get plastic surgery to remove the excess skin and I am so jealous.

That’s why mom jeans were invented, Bitches.  Because there are just some things that your spawn do to you that can’t be fixed.  I don’t care about stretch marks or wider hips.  But the skin has got to go.  Maybe A GoFundMe page is in my future?

Second, I wanna know what the fuck kind of cruel joke God thinks he’s playing when it comes to facial hair.  If you only knew how much time I spend each week plucking.  And I’m not just taking about eyebrows.

After you turn thirty, and I mean literally the day after you wake up to nurse your hangover from the night before, these little chin hairs start appearing.

And then, after you have two babies, those couple of chin hairs bring some friends.

And then, just to add a little insult to injury, some of those fuckers turn white just to make you feel hairy AND old.  Seriously.  I don’t give a fuck about hormones and whatever.  Stop with the goddamn beard.  Please.

So, once you are done with peeing and wide hips,  the skin and the hair, the exhaustion and irritability, where does it leave you?

A shell of the woman you once were.

And for the first few years, you kinda don’t give a fuck anyway.  You are so tired that all you want to know is where is your coffee cup in the morning and wine bottle at night.

And then 5 years has past, and you start to feel like you’re a person again.  You start to wear something other than yoga pants and old maternity clothes.  You start to give a shit and make a bit of an effort and that’s when the changes hit you.

But you know what else?

I’ll keep plucking and fantasizing about a tummy tuck for the rest of eternity to know that I have created two healthy and happy little sprites.  It’s way more than so many get.

But if any of you want to fund some surgery or electrolysis that would be cool too.

Or we could lobby the government for change…have it included in post partum care.  Right?


The Twee Destroyer Of Hearts Is FIVE!


Photo by the fabulous Alicia Thwaites.

Today my Twee Destroyer of Hearts turns 5.


She is not so twee anymore, but she still breaks your heart into a million pieces with her beautiful smile and crazy personality.

5 years since I became a mother.  5 years since Husband and I embarked on this path to insanity and sleepless nights. 5 years of exhaustion, frustration and bewilderment.  5 years of humility.

5 years of the purest love on the planet.  The love between a mother and her child.

And the thing is, as cliche as it sounds, I really do love her more today than on the day she was born.  I think that when you first give birth, the love is instinctual and raw and biological. Your job, your whole reason for existing (biologically speaking) is to protect and care for your child.  To make sure that your genetics make it and pass down.

But now 5 years have passed and the fog has lifted and I can really see her now.

I don’t have to rely on just my motherly instincts anymore (and let’s just say THANK GOD she survived because I pretty much had no idea what the fuck I was doing most of the time) because she’s turned into this wonderful little human being that I would be drawn to even if she wasn’t mine.

Now I get to love her not just because biology says I have to and babies are delicious; I get to love her because she’s turned into this spirited, empathetic,  intelligent, enthusiastic, gorgeous and creative little person.

I get to love her because honestly, all assholery aside, my daughter is pretty fucking rad.

5 years ago I had this insane, rocket fast delivery of a 7 pound, 14 oz little spitfire.

I am so grateful for her and all she’s done for my life.

Happy Birthday Baby.  My love for you is already so big I feel like there isn’t room in my heart for it. And it just keeps growing.  Have the best day ever.


I Hope There Is A Special Place In Hell For Killers Of Children


Last night the body of a 5 year old girl was found in a field two days after her mother’s body was found in their home.

A man that has prior convictions of cocaine trafficking has been arrested and charged with first degree murder.

No other details have been released.  We know that the victims knew the man who has allegedly killed them. We know that when the little girl was taken from the home she was still alive.  We don’t know what the motive was.

And I’ll tell you this. There is no fucking motive.

Somebody took a 5 year old little girl, after murdering her mother and killed her. 

There is no motive for that.  I don’t care if you’re sick.  I don’t care of you’re crazy.  I don’t care if the mother was a fucking bitch, or the dad owed you money or you hated the whole family. ( None of these things have been implied)

I don’t care if someone is pointing a gun at both of you and you have to make a choice about whether the child gets shot or you do.

There is some understanding, I would hope, amongst adults that we preserve the lives of the precious and young at all costs.  That we protect our tiny humans from harm whether they are your flesh and blood or someone elses.

To think that anybody could intentionally bring harm to a child makes me want to vomit.  There is nothing she could have ever done to deserve this.

My heart is heavy today friends.  Hold on tight to your little ones.  Stay away from assholes.

And to the person who did this:

I hope your soul rots in the hottest hell.  She was a CHILD.

Stop hurting each other.  Please.

I Don’t Want Your Kid To Be An Asshole, I Just Want To Know That Mine Are Normal



Honest to GAWD, you guys.  I cannot take any more of this whine until Mommy loses her shit crap.  Or my mind.  Or my fucking marbles.

Why is it that a (almost) 5 year old’s preferred methods of communication include whining and high pitched screaming.  Don’t forget the waterless tears, because those are my absolute favourite.

I’m not gonna lie.  Yesterday was rough.  There was nothing that got accomplished in this house until the volume of my requests were full out screaming at my children.

It was so rough, that when the bottle of tequila started making sexy eyes at me in the middle of the afternoon, I didn’t ignore his cat calls and tell him not in front of the children.  I made the eyes back.  I fantasized about wrapping my full lips around the neck of the bottle, and taking all of him back.  Every last drop.

Thanks God for fantasies.  They get you through the day.

Despite all the shitty behaviour, and a rainy day where no outside time was really  possible, I gave them one job:  Behave yourselves at the grocery store, and we will visit Dollarama for some crafts.

But oh no, that was just was too high of an expectation.  They couldn’t act like normal humans for 40 minutes.

I seriously just wanted to zipper their mouths shut and tie them to the rocket cart they were driving.  It was horrible.

I didn’t even wait until we got home to yell at them.  I let ‘er lose right there in the truck,in the parking lot.

I just want to feel for one day that I am raising children that will be respectful, obedient human beings.  That I am teaching them the behaviours they need to learn so that they will succeed at school or work.  That they will realize you have to earn things in this life, and they will remember that assholery only gets you so far, and then it all falls apart.

I just want ONE DAY where I feel like I am respected in my own home and that my efforts are recognized by them.  Sometimes they just act so un-appreciatively, and it makes me so sad that they don’t realize how hard I try to make their life awesome.

When someone is always crying or complaining, it sure makes you feel like you are doing a shit job.  And I wonder if every parent out there feels the same way.

So, do you?  Feel like you never get it right that is?

That’s where Tuesday left me, Bitches.  Tell me you’ve been there and that it changes.






NO. You Can’t Eat Off My Plate On The Second Date

Husband and I are about to celebrate our 10th anniversary this September.  We’ve actually been together for 16 years, and I can’t imagine being paired up with anybody else for that long.

Except maybe Channing Tatum.  Sorry, Husband.  But we’ve had this talk.

I just want to take today to thank Husband for not divorcing me and leaving me at the mercy of online dating.

Is this seriously the only way people connect these days?

One of my girlfriends was telling me about her most recent dating fails.  One guy she’s talking to over the course of a couple months or so….on paper seems like a good match.  Until she finds out that he is trying to hook up with her sister at the same time.

And Loser Number two:

As dinner went on he again talked sports. I found myself only asking him questions and nothing in return. He only talked about himself, not once did he ask me anything about my goals or family or try to get to know me better.

Finally our dinner comes, I’m starving.
I didn’t get a huge meal. I ordered Pandara bread, which you know is a small order. He took it upon himself to steal to pieces of my food.

Whoa.  Wait just one goddamn minute.  Isn’t there some sort of rule that eating off someone elses plate is something that happens either after the one year mark or post co-habitation?

And then:

Then proceeds to ask me when the bill is coming if we we’re gonna split it

And then doesn’t even offer to pay?  After he ate it all? It’s like he doesn’t ever want to get laid. Chivalry is NOT dead, gentelmen, despite what some of the hardcore feminists out there say.  I CAN pay for myself, but it doesn’t mean I want to.

Dude, if you are on your second date and you steal her dinner, that doesn’t make a girl extra hungry for sausage later, if you know what I mean.  It makes her want to punch you in the sausage.

Hands of my plate unless you are being cute and sexy and feeding me some of yours.  Some girls like to eat.

I just feel like some of these awkward interactions could be avoided if you were friends first or co workers.

Online dating just seems like a bad interview process, where everybody puts up super non realistic pictures of themselves, trying to lure one another in.  And then you meet in person and they look nothing like their photos, or you find out that when they say they like sports they meant that they were a synchronized swimmer in their late teens or some other shit.

Maybe I’m old fashioned, but I seriously don’t know how you people are going on dates with strangers who’s picture you liked on Tinder.

I mean, it’s kinda like adopting a dog.  You look at pictures on the shelter’s website, and think “OH!  That one’s SO CUTE.”

And then you go down to the Humane Society and the feral beast either tries to bite your hand off, or falls so deeply in love with you on first site that it starts dry humping your leg and drooling all over your new sandals.  And then you take it home out of pity, because who else would want it, and next thing you know you are stuck with some neurotic animal that won’t even let you go to the bathroom alone.

Husband and I met the old fashioned way.  At work.  We got along great, and he was the only boy I ever liked that made me feel all nervous.  I don’t get stupid over cute boys, but with him, I did.  I used to drop trays of dishes and drinks and was just a real mess.  So I told him we should go on a date and he said no.

What an asshole, right? 

But then one night after he had left work and I was working late, he went home, got all cleaned up, and showed back up with a case of beer and asked if I wanted to go to a party.

Umm, duh!

So went and hung out and the rest is history.

So yeah.  Tell me your online dating horror stories.

Better YET.  Write a post about your worst online dating experience.  Ping back here if you want.   I need some more laughs!

No, My One Piece Bathing Suit Doesn’t Hide My Non Thigh Gap Either


I just read this article on Huffington Post called “This swimsuit ad proves you don’t need a thigh gap to wear a bikini”.

I mean, I get what the article and mostly its title are trying to convey.  They are trying to encourage us to embrace our bodies and know that we are beautiful whether a size 2 or 22.

But wait.

I didn’t know there was a rule about thigh gaps and bikinis.

Bitches, I have been doing it wrong for like 20 years.  How come nobody ever told me about this rule?  How am I not arrested by the Beach Patrol?

Thigh Gap? Are you kidding me?  The only time my thighs aren’t touching is when my legs are wrapped around something. Like when horseback riding, for example. Perverts.

Seriously though.  Is that what women have been told all their lives?   That if you don’t have a thigh gap you are too fat to wear a bikini?  Somebody needs to call the swimsuit stores, because I would estimate that only about 25% of women out there have a thigh gap.  And if you look in the stores, about 75% of the bathing suits on the shelves are indeed bikinis.

That ratio seems a bit wrong doesn’t it?

I mean, where are they hiding all these one piece bathing suits that come down far enough to cover up this hideous flesh touching that is going on between my legs?

Oh. RIGHT.  The non thigh gap bathing suits are hiding over there…..right next to the potato sack aisle.

Jesus Fucking Christ already.

This swimsuit ad proves nothing to me.  Except perhaps that we are still busy trying to label and manage everybody elses wardrobe according to ridiculous standards of beauty that don’t even fucking exist.  And don’t get me wrong, the women in the ad are stunning and I think the intended message is good.

But it doesn’t prove that you don’t need a thigh gap to wear a bikini.  It may prove that retailers are now starting to understand that all women have worth and deserve to feel beautiful. Or at least they are starting to realize that women are rejecting this stupid beauty ideal and wised up that there is money to be made off of women of every shape and size.  That its ok to still wear gorgeous clothes if you are bigger than a size 6. Maybe it’s a good place to start, but to me its also a reminder about we still see any deviation from impossible ideals for many many women as imperfections.

Ladies, your non thigh gaps are perfect. Your hips that bore children are perfect. That extra flesh around your belly is soft and perfect and part of you.  You don’t need a swimsuit ad to prove that to you.  Just put on a fucking bathing suit and go swimming.  If we all just start doing it it will become the normal thing and nobody will need to prove anything to you about your body anymore.

Bikinis are for everyone.  One pieces are for everyone. Last time I checked, a bikini exposes some flesh around the tummy, and leaves my thighs alone.  A bikini does nothing to affect my thigh gap.  Or lack their of.

So fuck off.

End Rant.



Written by Natalie Louise Oldham.

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