Can you rationalize with a woman with PMS? Here is a sample conversation that may give some insight into that question. I’m throwing myself under the bus here, for the sake of the greater good…

Me: Quit standing there.

Me: Could you run out and get me some tampons, maxi-pads, something chocolate, and then something salty to balance it all out? Like now? Like right freaking now!!!

**he gets back from the store**

Me: Great. Those are the wrong pads! Let’s use our listening ears next time, okay?

Me: Is there any possible way you could quit looking at me?

**5 minutes later**

Husband: Why are you crying?

Me: I was thinking about what song I’d pick to play at your funeral.

**he gets frightened and leaves the room**

Me: Honey, come in here for a second!

Husband: What?

Me: I love you so much.

Husband: I love you too.

Me: I’ve always loved you more than you’ve loved me. (I begin weeping) That’s the problem with this marriage! I care about you too much. What’s so bad about me, huh? Is it the baby weight I haven’t lost? Is it because I am bossy? You never thought I was good enough! And your parents hate me!

Husband: Jesus, calm down. Nobody hates you. There’s no problem with this marriage. You are being ridiculous.

Me: Now you are calling me names! Fuck you fuck-stick. Just get out!

Husband: No problem.

Me: That’s right, move on…get your ass outta my room!

**5 minutes pass**

Me: Hey honey!!! Come in here!

Husband: What is it?

Me: I’m so sorry. I’m sooo freaking sorry. I love you! I love our kids. What are they watching on TV? It better be something appropriate!

Husband: Full House.

Me: Oh I love that show! Michelle! Oh Michelle Tanner is so cute! Maybe we should have another baby?

Husband: Just stop it.

Me: If I’m not using this uterus anymore and we are done having kids, I want it out! I want someone to take it out! I can’t take the cramps! I asked my doctor. That bastard said no.

Husband: Do you need some Tylenol?

Me: Does this Tylenol you speak of have Codeine or Hydrocodone in it? Because if it doesn’t, then NO!

Husband: Why are you laughing?

Me: I was thinking of what song I would play at your funeral.

Husband: I’m going to watch Full House

Me: You are SO selfish!

**5 minutes later**

Me: HONEY!!!

Husband: What it is it?

Me: I don’t feel good. I need attention.

Husband: Okay, what do you need?

Me: Quit looking at me.

Husband: (throws hands up in the air) Listen, I love you…but I don’t know what to say. And why in the hell are you Googling gynecologists in Tijuana?

Me: My doctor won’t give me a hysterectomy! I already told you that! Listening ears!!!

Husband: You are not getting surgery in Mexico!

Me: That PROVES you don’t love me!

Husband: Why don’t you read a book?

Me: Why don’t you read this? (extends middle finger)

Husband: I’m going to pretend you didn’t do that.

Me: I need to get up and get homework started with the kids. I’m a terrible mother! Why can’t I do anything right?

Husband: You are a great mother. Why would you even say that? That’s so stupid to even say.

Me: Oh…great thanks…I guess I’m too STUPID to help with homework. Is that what you mean?

Husband: You are crazy!

Me: Ya don’t say? No freaking shit?!? You just figured that out? Who’s the stupid one now Einstein?

**husband stands frozen and looking helpless**

Me: I love you so much! I really really mean that.

At the end of the day, there is no rationalizing with a premenstrual woman. You can try. You can give it your best shot. My advice is simply crack the door and throw an occasional candy bar at her and then run. No man can handle this. Period.


They Saved Me When I Couldn’t Talk


Yesterday after school, my second grader climbed in the car and he said something that struck me.

“Mom…something happened today. C and K saved me. They saved me when I couldn’t talk.”

Of course I was thinking a million things! Did he choke at lunch? Was he gagged and bound by a bully who had vampire teeth and a tear drop tattoo and these two brave kids came to his rescue? I’m a worrying helicopter mother by the way, so of course my mind was going crazy with questions.

“P, tell me what happened!”

“Well,” he began, “there were these two girls from another class, and I was doing one of my tics and I couldn’t stop (it was a tic where his arms stiffen up, and his hands shake. During this, his face also stiffens). They were telling me to stop it and told me that I was so weird. I wanted to say something but I couldn’t because I couldn’t stop my tic. But C and K saved me. They told the girls that I had Tourette’s and that I couldn’t help it. They told them I wasn’t weird and that it was my brain making me do it and they shouldn’t be telling me to stop it because I can’t.”

Rewind: A few weeks ago, my son’s teacher, school counselor, and a very sweet high school kid, who also has Tourette’s came in to help P teach his class. They were taught about what Tourette’s is and why P was doing these things, called tics. When P asked the class, “How many of you have noticed me doing some of these movements and sounds?” The entire class raised their hands. I cried a little to myself sitting in the corner watching all of this. But not P, he just smiled and said, “See…that’s what my Tourette’s is!”

His AMAZING teacher said something that I will never forget, “We are P’s family here at school. So now that you know about his Tourette’s, if you ever see or hear anyone making jokes or talking about it, it is our job to help them to understand. We all have to look out for each other.”

THEY LISTENED!!! Kids will listen when they are taught. It takes teachers, parents, and other kids to help raise confident, happy children who feel accepted. P feeling like these boys “saved” him, is so powerful. It was like he was being thrown a life raft. He needed a voice and luckily he ended up having two, even if they weren’t his own. A little bit of help can go a long way. But here’s the kicker, not only did they “save” my child in that moment, but those two boys showed character and their ability to stand up for and accept others. They also taught two more children (the girls) about TS. I would march right up to that school and kiss them right on their faces if I could, but that would be creepy and so I won’t, but I’m so grateful. So very very grateful.

Yes, my remarkably-wonderful-amazing-talented-rockstar 8 year-old son has Tourette’s Syndrome. It is not something I am afraid, ashamed, or hesitant to talk about. It is a neurological disorder. He was born with this. He started having tics when he was only 8 months old. He shakes his hands, taps a pencil, blinks his eyes, and occasionally whistles or bites down. These are things he can’t control. He plays guitar, loves the NBA, and is pretty much a typical 8 year-old. He does not feel like a victim. He does however, want to spread awareness.

“Hollywood Tourette’s” is the name I have given to the mythological form of TS which is how it is portrayed in movies and television. I am super happy to debunk that myth. It’s just not like that. It’s not a joke. It is a struggle at times. It is also fascinating and awesome and is part of who my son is. Tourette Syndrome is not a taboo subject. It is a fairly common disorder with various levels of severity. The swearing tic is extremely rare, but still is not something I think is funny to laugh at. My son does not say swear words. I sure as hell do, but he does not. His tics are mostly motor.

It’s not just TS. There are all sorts of differences we can teach our kids about. Autism, Asperger’s, ADHD, the list goes on and on. The point is, our kids don’t know about the things that they are not taught.  Education is a game changer, and with it we may not be able to save the world…but we can at least help our children save each other.

Like or share to spread the word!

And yes, I use letters for the kids names, because like I said…I’m a crazy helicopter mother :)

Mysteries of Motherhood

The case of the missing socks. You just bought socks. You vowed to keep the matches together. You were going to pair those socks up like you worked for a dating site that results in more marriages than any other dating site. Then it happens…you lay them out fresh from the dryer and there is only one of each pair. What happened to the friggin’ socks? It’s a mystery.

The case of the funky smell. What the hell is it? You can smell it. It’s not you. Is it the kids? You smell them all and they are clear. You sniff around like a hound dog bringing yourself to a new low as you now have your nose to the carpet. Although you may encounter other scents along the way, the original smell never has a source. Was it a ghost with gas? It’s a mystery.

The case of the lost keys. You had them. You know you just freaking had them. You are on your way out the door, your hands are full, and you now have no transportation. The number on the stress scale is at a ten, you have just spent an hour trying to get everyone ready to load into the car for your scheduled outing and now your fists and butt cheeks are clenched because you simply cannot leave. Breaking a window sounds good, but it’s still not going to locate your keys. Mystery.

The case of the “where did you hear that?” Your child, your sweet darling child has just said something that leaves your jaw hitting the floor. A swear word, a remark about a body part. We all know kids say crazy things, but where in the bloody fucking hell would they have heard a bad word like that? Another damned mystery.

The case of the almost three year-old. That darling little lamb chop of yours. Your sweet toddler that has cuddled and kissed you every morning since you can remember suddenly transforms into a soul-sucking venomous beast. “I love you,” you say. “Shush your mouth,” they respond with a throat punch. What????? “Oh come on,” you say. “Let’s go read a book sweetie.” Almost three year-old then grabs the book from your hands, throws it against the wall and tells you to go fuck yourself. Okay, maybe not the last part, but basically that’s what they are communicating to you. OMG where did your sweet baby go? It’s another painful and grueling mystery.

There are many more mysteries that need to be solved. However, due to the time-consuming conundrum of the last one, I’ll have to keep this post short. Plus, there’s somewhere we have to be, so I have to go find my keys and find some clean socks for the minion, because something smells funky and so I’m just going to change his whole outfit just to be on the safe side. Oh shit, he just said dammit! Where did that come from? Hopefully I’ll figure this out soon! Gotta run!

Why Do Moms Always Talk About Coffee and Wine???

Okay, what is up with all the talk about moms needing coffee and wine? Seriously! It’s everywhere. I see something pop up on my Facebook newsfeed almost everyday with this type of content. Why the hell do they need these beverages so badly? I’ll see a post that says, “No talking before my coffee” and it gets a thousand likes or picture of a swimming pool that says “fill my wine glass up to here,” and it gets another thousand likes? (Okay I made that last one up). But what’s up with that shit? Why aren’t we over that already? Well sit down now…’cause I’m about to tell you.

Here’s why we need the coffee:

We may have children who wake up several times a night and our “day” actually begins at bedtime, so by the time the morning comes around, we need a little “pick-me-up.”

We may have 20 things or more that we have to get done by 8:00 a.m.

Because cocaine is illegal.

We are addicted to caffeine and don’t want a withdrawal headache. Fo’ real (you don’t want that).

Without it, we can be real bitches and quite frankly, we don’t want anyone to get hurt.

We need our eyes to open fully, not half-way, because that could just be dangerous.

We may not even have time to eat breakfast for crying out loud, because we are too busy taking care of our kids. We have to put at least SOMETHING into our bodies!

We can personalize and adjust it to our mood, diet, etc…

We are thirsty.

Because we drank a little bit of wine last night and we need the coffee to help shake that off…which leads to the second part…

Here’s why we need the wine:

We may not have even sat down yet for the entire day and just need to relax and unwind. I mean shit, we may be moms, but we ARE human.

It’s 9:00 p.m. and we have to celebrate the fact that our kids are asleep, even if they only stay asleep until midnight.

We may be so worried about something, whether it be our children, cabin fever (for the stay-at home moms), careers (for the working moms), bills, the dog, the cat, the husband…I mean what DON’T we worry about? Our minds need a break!

It tastes really effing delicious.

Just because.

Sometimes, it helps us engage in sexual relations with the husband…if you know what I’m sayin’.

Because it helps us stay sane and out of the looney bin.

Because tequila, whiskey, and rum are just a little too strong (sometimes).

We are really really thirsty.

We feel glamourous drinking out of a wine glass, even if we are in sweatpants with no make-up and our hair is a mess. There is something about the stem on that glass…well there’s just something about it.

So really, there are a lot of reasons why we are not over the coffee and wine chatter already. But here is the big one. You ready? Okay…here it goes. We share everything with our children! Some of us share our beds, we’ve shared our wombs, we share our televisions to watch stupid cartoons, we even share the bathroom, because we all know we can’t get a minute alone. But here’s the awesome thing about wine and coffee…we don’t have to share it, because the kids can’t have it!

So DO NOT even for one single second feel guilty when you get your beverage in hand and shout out to the world…IT’S MINE! IT’S MINE! IT’S ALL MINE!!! Myuahahaha!

(Just don’t wake the children when you do this)

So CHEERS! Here’s to coffee, wine, and to us!

Share or like if you like and read my damn book, because the sequel will be out soon and you don’t want to miss out!

Puke and True Love


The second c-section should have been a breeze, or so I thought. Patiently waiting there with my arms strapped down in the freezing cold white room and the blue cloth draped over me so I couldn’t actually see them cutting open my uterus, I was ready. I was like, bring it on! Pregnancy is too damn long and my baby boy was fully cooked. Plus, I had spent the last five days trying to keep him from falling out of my asshole.

“Do you feel this?” asked the doctor while he did the pinch test.

“Nope, not a thing,” I replied. Of course that wasn’t true. I could feel pressure, not pain, but this wasn’t my first rodeo and I knew what to expect.

The anesthesiologist stood behind me. “I think we have you nice and numb,” he said under his face mask.

My husband stood on the side watching the disection, with eager eyes. He was as excited as I was. Not only because we were having our second little boy, but also because he got to wear scrubs. I think wearing the scrubs made him feel like a bad-ass. He kept telling me things like, “you’re doing great,” and “good work honey.” I remember thinking, what the fuck was I so great at? I was lying there like The Exorcist strapped to a bed and couldn’t move even if I wanted to. I guess he felt like I needed encouragement, but I was starting to get queasy. Suddenly, the anesthesiologist started asking me questions. They were off-topic questions. He asked about what I majored in while in college, where I liked to vacation, and if I was a big sports fan. I had never heard such pointless jabber in all my live-long days. I remember thinking, is this guy for real? I’m trying to have a fucking baby here and he wants to know if I watch football?

My mouth started watering. I was getting totally nauseous. Between my babbling husband and the windy numbing doctor, all I wanted was for them to shut their big fat giant word-holes.

“Excuse me sir,” I said. “I think I may throw up.”

“Well,” he said, “let me get you a cold cloth to put on your forehead. My grandaughter always likes a damp compress when she gets a tummy ache. This works for many of my patients.”

“Umm…okay,” I replied. In my head I was cussing out his stupid grandaughter. This wasn’t a flipping tummy ache. My “tummy” was currently in a thousand pieces…on a table…with a baby being cut out of it. Tummy ache my ass! He pressed the towel on my head and I could still feel the pulling and pushing going on down in my baby bakery. I tried to keep my head as still as possible and wish the pukes away. “See there,” he said. “I have always believed that a wet cloth works better than medication.”

Fuck that shit. I wanted the medication.

“Here he is!” I heard my OB doc say. “It’s definitely a boy and he’s already peeing!” I heard my sweet precious baby crying. “He looks great!” he continued. I couldn’t wait to see him, hold him, kiss him. Tears ran down my face even though I hadn’t yet set eyes on him. Complete and utter overwhelming joy is the only way to describe my feelings at that moment…oh…yeah and also sick as a muthafucka. I saw his darling little head peek above the drape as they held him up and at that very second, I vomited all over myself. It really was like The Exorcist. I was just waiting for my head to spin in a 360 degree circle. Once I started puking, I couldn’t stop. The anesthesiologist grabbed me a bowl and I continued to violently hurl up bile. The same nasty shit you puke up after a night of martinis. It was loud, horrid heaving and showed no signs of stopping. The nurses brought my new little boy over to me and I was so in love…PUKE…he was a miracle…BLUAHHH…one of the two best moments of my life…GWAAAYAH!

“Okay sweetie, we have to take him and get some measurements. You poor thing. It’s not supposed to be like this” said a sweet and sympathetic nurse.

I had to remain in that torture chamber of a bed and my eyes met with those of the numbing doctor. I wanted to take the damp cloth and shove it down his stupid throat. I actually would have liked to have pulled out my I.V. and poked him in the ass with it. But I was still puking.

“I’ll go ahead and put some Zofran into your I.V.” he said.

Now? Right now, genius? What happened to your wet rag you fucking turd? But I couldn’t say anything. I was too sick. They finally rolled me into my room and brought my precious angel to me and put him in my arms. I immediately started nursing him and all was right in the world…only my sweet little nurse was on the other side holding my puke tray.

Once my baby finished nursing, I let the family in to meet the new addition. It was both sets of grandparents, my 17 month-old son, my brother, and of course my husband. I was still vomiting, despite the anti-nausea meds that were administered way too damn late. As they passed my darling son around, the room got quiet. And then it happened…the loudest fart in the history of flatulence. I was still numb, I didn’t even feel it come out. Apparently this was quite funny…a real gas (catch that pun). Everyone was laughing, except me, because I was still hurling. I had tears falling from my eyes from the pressure of the chunk-blows. Various substances were leaking from every part of my body, like literally every part.

“Sorry I farted,” I managed to whisper.

“Happens all the time,” said the nurse still holding my vomit tray.

I puked for eight straight hours that day, but held my baby close the whole time. By my third pregnancy I requested Zofran (anti-nausea meds) be ordered for the c-section at my very first prenatal appointment. Yeah, you learn a hell of a lot from having babies. One major thing I learned that day is that a hell of a lot more comes out of your body on delivery day than a precious little miracle. But yeah…it was totally worth it. It was so worth it, I could just puke.

Share or like…so more people can hear about the joys of childbirth :)

(or do an interpretive dance to express your feelings…I mean whatever floats your boat)

I Can’t Be The Only One

Some days, I literally feel like I am going crazy. I wonder if I can make it through another day. Then, I feel guilty for feeling this way. Am I the only one who does crap like this? Am I the only one who is losing it?

I can’t be the only one that wants to scream “TALK AMONGST YOUR GODDAM SELVES!” when members at the family party are watching (staring) in horrified silence as my kid throws a ridiculous whopping fit.

I can’t be the only one who crosses my fingers that my own strep throat test comes back positive so that I can be quarantined for 24 hours until the antibiotics kick in.

I can’t be the only one who simply cannot answer the phone at times because the noise level in my house is just plain embarrassing.

I can’t be the only one who has to wear big sunglasses to hide the fact that I just got done crying my eyes out because I’m so freaking overwhelmed.


I can’t be the only one who has to try and not laugh when my toddler drops something and then says, “oh shit!” even though I feel the mom fail alarm going off in my head.

I can’t be the only one who sometimes wants to call my mama and have her come and make everything alright like she did when I was a little girl.

I can’t be the only one who feels like when it comes to parenting, I have no idea what the hell I am doing.

I can’t be the only one who wants to put my children in a bubble so that I can protect them from everything, even though I know logically that I can’t.

I can’t be the only one who drives down the road with my kids safely buckled in the backseat of the minivan listening to loud music and daydreaming about literally swinging from a chandelier while drinking champagne and wearing a silver tutu, because I need a break so damn bad that I’d go wild if I ever got one.

I can’t be the only one who mentally tells my kids to shut the hell up.

I can’t be the only one who feels guilty if I let my kids spend way too much time on the XBOX and i-pad and television because it’s the only way I can get anything done.

I can’t be the only one who feels like I nag my husband all the freaking time, even though he needs what I refer to as, “guidance.”

I can’t be the only one who carries toy cars, diapers and lip gloss around in my purse all laying on top of finely crushed animal crackers.

I can’t be the only one who is ready for bed at 3 p.m.

I can’t be the only one who feels alone.

I sometimes honestly feel like I am the only one who can’t get it right. When I see that family out at a restaurant and their children AREN’T acting like maniacs, or I see people’s pictures on Facebook where everyone is smiling and no one is bleeding…I can’t help but question what the hell I’m doing wrong. Why do I feel like a lesser mother? It can be a very lonely place. That’s why once in a while, I do have to call my mom and ask her to come over and help me feel better. My husband has to help me too. I have to stay in touch with other moms, even the ones who seem to have all their shit together. This is why I read “mom blogs” and this is also EXACTLY why I write them. We have to stick together. I will admit that I need support. I think the saying, “it takes a village,” does not only apply to children, but to moms as well. Look, Carol Brady had Alice. The Jetson’s had Rosie. Even on Full House it took two ass clowns, a smokin’ hot man sent straight from the Greek Gods (Uncle Jesse), and an Aunt Becky to raise those girls, remember that shit? I may not ever figure all this out. I may not have a single picture with all my kids looking at the camera, or a single day without a meltdown, but with the support that I lean on to get me through, I will do this. But I won’t do it alone. I just can’t be the only one.

As always…share if you like or more so, if you relate. Thanks a million!

Hey January, Let’s Do This.

Dear January,

I see you coming. You are waiting over there with your dreary days and bitter temperatures, ready to take us down and hold us there until we beg for mercy and impulsively book a vacation we can’t afford just so we have something to look forward to. I already did that, by the way, so see January…I’m one step ahead of you, you little bastard. This year is going to be different. I have mentally, physically, and pharmaceutically armed myself against your wicked little games. By the time I am done with you, you’ll be screaming for February to come save your ass with its chocolate hearts and its multiple days dedicated to Presidents. I’m making some changes this year. Your seasonal depression can’t touch me. So come on January, let’s do this shit.

It’s about to be a new year. News flash: Most people are hungover on January 1st. So, it’s really not a good day, but you know this don’t you? But not this year bitch. This year, I am not drinking on New Year’s Eve. That’s right. You heard me. I may offer to drive someone. I may stay home and have a party with my kids. I may even turn in early so I can start the New Year fresh as a daisy. Maybe I’ll get up early and rent a rug doctor and go full-blown spotless up in here. This New Years day, maybe I’ll even clean out my closet. At any rate, I will NOT puke on January 1st. You are already shaking in your boots aren’t you?

The holidays get blamed for the weight gain, but January…oh you pitiful little and I both know that’s when the hibernation begins, the baggy sweatshirts get pulled out and that’s when we feel free to gain the extra pounds that we promise ourselves we’ll work off in the spring. You are a con artist. You mask yourself as the “resolution” month, but in reality, you are a fraud. Not this year asshole. I’m leaving the baggy clothes tucked away. I’m eating shit that tastes terrible and I am SO getting my sexy back and holding on tight to any of the sexy that I have left. I will not let extra pounds contribute to your mission of seasonal depression. I’m even gonna keep shaving my legs.You will not have my body January. It’s mine.

Flu season? Guess what fuckface? I already had it. We’ve already had the flu, bronchitits, croup, random bouts of intestinal hell on earth, and guess what? Even if a virus does hit this house, there is NO way it can be worse than it was in November and December, so you LOST loser. Step aside.

Your trick of isolation isn’t going to work either. If it’s super freezing cold, I’ll I will make plans and I will keep them. I will not hide out inside this house due to the feeling of not wanting to get out of bed. Every year this happens, but not this time. In fact, I’m already filling the calendar with activities so you can’t hold me hostage in this house. I’ve even pulled out my secret weapon; I’m going to Vegas (recall the trip I can’t afford). I’m reconnecting with old friends and new friends and facebook friends and I’ll even make up some imaginary friends if that’s what it comes down to. I will be a social butterfly in the middle of the winter. Watch me fly mother effer.

There are so many other things I plan to do and I will not let you ruin it. I plan on finishing writing my next book, spending quality time with my children, rearranging furniture just for the hell of it, and possibly even skipping through the countryside while singing 80’s power ballads and snapping merrily along with the tunes. If it snows, I will not complain. I will bundle up my shrinky dinks and we will simply frolick and play. There are no limits.

So January, here’s where I extend my middle finger to you. I realize there may be ups and downs. I realize that seasonal depression is not a choice, but I also realize that I can arm myself against it. I have happy pills, hope, and some fight left in me. I may even scotch tape my lips up to keep that smile nice and tight. Oh yes January, we may fight each other in many battles this year. Hell, I may even let you win the one about the whole leg-shaving thing. But I will win the war.


Oh yes…I will win the war.


Your Worthy Opponent

As always, share or like if you like.

If you need more to smile (or laugh) about this January, then read my damn books!

The Unbalancing Act

The Vada Diaries