Bathing Suits as a 30 Year Old Mom

There are few things I hate more than trying on bathing suits. Maybe I hate denim cut-off shorts and ill-placed mosquito bites more than trying on bathing suits, but the hate is parallel.

What makes today’s swimsuit fitting even more infuriating is that I kind of…recently…just had a baby…like 10 months ago, but to the female body that’s like 2 weeks ago. My body has clearly gone through a revolution of sorts these past three years and while I loved my yellow polka dot bikini, it was time to retire that shit. It was a humble and simple bikini that accompanied me on the honeymoon beaches of Mexico when I was a young newlywed with narrow hips and minimal body fat.

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But three years and two babies later, I look really different in it now…

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Bottom line: trying on bathing suits as a mom is awful because styles, sizes and designs that once looked “ah-mazing” now make you feel like a college tramp on spring break. Can I just find something that isn’t going to embarrass my daughter at the splash pad and expose my lady bits to the neighbors?

For starters, why don’t they make bathing suits for actual women? You know, the women that aren’t Gisele Bundchen. Women who occasionally do crunches and squats (you know, like once or twice a year), but also really like cookies and buttercream frosting. Where are the bathing suits for those women?

I spent 15 painful minutes in the fitting room wanting someone to take me outback and pistol-whip me. I didn’t buy anything because I was too busy envisioning setting all of their merchandise on fire, but can we have a talk about some of the options out there?

The String Bikini Top

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I wore more clothes in the birth canal than this thing offers. One small splash in the pool and it’s “Moms Gone Wild,” but without the booze and sketchy dudes filming it.

The Underwire Push-Up Top

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What’s great about this top is that I can literally kiss my boobs because they’re propped up so high. Nursing moms could legitimately breastfeed themselves in this—how convenient if you didn’t pack a snack!

Low Rise Bikini Bottom

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Are exposed c-section scars in fashion yet? No? Then this can go straight to hell.

Thong Bikini Bottom

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This bathing suit would be on the back of a milk carton ten seconds after I wore it because my ass WOULD HAVE EATEN IT. People would be holding candle light vigils for the lost thong that Allee’s backside completely swallowed. Rest in peace.

The Bright Colors/Crazy Patterns Suit

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I had three seizures looking at these.

The Tons-of-Fabric Suit

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Why do I need my arms covered up to this extent? Is a Catholic priest coming to the pool for a baptism?

The Crazy Cut Out Swimsuit

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Just putting this thing on requires a PhD. And who wants those tan lines? Yeah, let me go to a meeting at my daughter’s nursery school with tan marks that resemble some form of weird bondage—that’ll go over well.

I just gave up and bought this:

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A Movie (Review) for the Ladies

Because I fancy myself a patron of the arts, you can bet that I was in line this week at the theater. I am always on the hunt for enriching cinema that aims to educate the world about important issues. Too often, movies are made for the sole purpose to make studios big money or win awards, but fail to actually deliver quality entertainment to its audience. With all this being said, I was happy to see a movie that truly delivered the right package…and what a package(s) it was.

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That’s right, I went to go see “Magic Mike XXL” which is the follow-up to Channing Tatum’s movie about a bunch of hot male strippers. Not to spoil it for you, but the sequel has a similar premise in that it is also about a bunch of hot male strippers. In the first movie, they take off their clothes for money at a strip club. However, in this movie they take off their clothes for money at a stripper convention. See the subtle, but enjoyable differences there?

I shouldn’t be so patronizing in my synopsis because this film actually has some real depth to it that I don’t want to gloss over. For example, Channing Tatum has personal problems and some chick that he’s into likes photography more than she likes the stripper pole. However, these moments of “realness” are dumb because no one is feeling bad for a guy, in real life or not, that has these abs.

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For me, the real star of the film is Joe Manganiello who is as beautiful as the rising sun. He seems incredibly dim, but once again…abs.

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The campaign to make him my next baby daddy is already underway. Feel free to donate $5 to the email account listed on the bottom of this page.

I think this movie fills an important gap for women though. Women are sexualized non-stop in media. Hell, even eating a cheeseburger is sexualized when fast-food chains put a bikini clad, soaking wet woman on top of car smearing her burger all of her face in some type of slow motion cholesterol porn. So who cares if once every three years we reverse that commercialized sexuality to slightly demean men and shift the focus solely on their bodies?

Wow. That paragraph got serious.

Let’s get back to the real issue here: abs.

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Overall, the film was enjoyable, funny and a great opportunity to continue my diet of popcorn and scientifically constructed “butter.” Go see it before it leaves theaters because aside from burning an American flag, I can’t think of anything more offensive than not seeing Channing Tatum strip tease with welding equipment on the big screen.

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Family Fun, Interrupted

On Friday we had a family fun day at a local farm. Annoyingly enough, this “farm” had one freaking goat on display BUT batting cages and miniature golf. Maybe this why America is no longer a farming country- we use our land to smack around colored balls instead of planting some wheat, but I digress…

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Anyway, when we realized that we drove 35 minutes to a pseudo-farm, we decided to try miniature golf with Caroline. Doing anything new with her either results in a delighted toddler smile or her giving us the middle finger and telling us to “die.” Happy to report that she actually liked mini golf so we live for another day, folks!

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But that’s not why I’m writing…

When we got out of the car, a mother screaming at her kid immediately interrupted our family-fun day spirit. We aren’t talking like “oh she was giving him a firm talking to.” No, this woman was like a mix of the girl from The Exorcist      (before they removed Satan from her, of course) and the Tyrannosaurus Rex from “Jurassic World,” but after she gets shot and bitten so he’s extra angry.

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As we approached her, she was yelling at her abnormally blonde son (seriously, his hair was too bright. Maybe that’s why she was mad) that he needed “TO SIT AND LOOK AT THE WALL.” It was one of those awkward scenarios where you don’t want to interfere with another person’s parenting, but you’re also wondering if you speed dial a social worker for help. Since we missed why he was in trouble, I can only assume it was one of the three scenarios below to warrant such anger:

1.) He joined ISIS.

2.) She caught him selling playground heroin…again.

3.) He mentioned that he thinks Backstreet Boys are a superior boy band to N*Sync

While her son cried in the corner, she sat in a nearby Adirondack chair glaring at him. If he even blinked in her direction, she shouted that he needed to look at the wall.

But then he did the most awful thing…

He sneezed.

You would have thought he took out a knife and stabbed a national treasure like Betty White.

She took a deep breath in and shouted “COVER YOUR MOUTH!!! YOU KNOW BETTER!!!” As if this kid’s life isn’t bad enough, now his mom felt the need to publicly shame his hygiene practices in front of all of his friends like he was a puppy that had just pissed on your brand new hardwoods. I wanted to give him a tissue and suggest to his mom that maybe he suffers from seasonal allergies, but I legitimately think she would have turned into the Hulk and thrown me into the pen with that lonely goat.

I tried to enjoy our mini-golf adventure, but I kept looking back at this kid and felt sad for him. Not even jokes about “finding the hole” really made me laugh (get it? Mini golf is dirty!). We played 18 holes of golf with a freaking toddler and the kid was still staring at the wall when we were walking back to the car. I’ve known actual criminals that have gotten less time than this kid and they were hardened gang members who tortured people for sport. This kid probably cut in line for the slide and she turned this farm into Guantanamo Bay.

I’m not really sure why I felt the need to blog about this other than the fact that I think he’s still there and it’s bothering me. Should someone check on him? Should we bring him some food or something? The damn farm is 35 minutes away so I’d rather not make the commute again. But if any of you find him, please sneak him some Benadryl because if he sneezes one more time in his punishment, he may not live to see second grade. For reals.

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GMB on FB!

Greetings for the second time today, my little blog readers! Just a quick mention that you can now find me on Facebook (well, this blog. I’ve always been on Facebook. Remember how you couldn’t get an account unless you were a college student and then all of a hell, your mom and dad and illiterate aunt have accounts? Shit really hit the fan then. But I digress…) Please head on over to https://www.facebook.com/GriseldaMoodBlog to show this little blog some love or in this case, some “liking.” I’ll make sure to post there when I update if you don’t follow by email (in that case, be ashamed of yourself) and extra stuff throughout the day! Thanks dudes and dudettes.

Again: https://www.facebook.com/GriseldaMoodBlog

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This Book Wasn’t a Good Idea

Because we are above average parents and want our child to be advanced, Ryan and I read to Caroline every single night. Needless to say, we grow tired of our personal book inventory and hit up the library every week to get something new. For the most part, I just choose whatever books have the prettiest covers because I like to teach Caroline that looks ARE important when judging people and things.

I had a work meeting on Monday and Ryan has the week off so he took the kids to our annual library day. Ryan came back with tons of books: the usual “Arthur” books (D.W. is my spirit animal) and a few new titles, one of them being That is Not a Good Idea.

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Looking at the cover, I can see why Ryan picked it. There’s a wolf wearing a damn top hat and a precious lady duck wearing her grandma’s best headscarf. And baby chicks! Who doesn’t love baby chicks?

The story opens with the wolf meeting the duck on the street and inviting her to take a stroll. Now because I watch too much “Law and Order: Special Victims Unit” I immediately thought that the wolf was going to give the duck a couple of roofies in her rum and coke and we’d never see her again.

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But then I remembered that this is a children’s book and Detectives Stabler and Benson probably won’t make a cameo.

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The book goes on with the precious baby chicks saying that the duck following the wolf into who-knows-where is not a good idea (hence the title). My second thought was “hey, maybe this is a cautionary tale about stranger danger. Maybe this will show Caroline that running away from me in Target will get her thrown into a white van by a stranger.” But then I realized that a children’s story about kidnapping would be a hard plot to pitch to a publisher.

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As we were reading it, I ultimately figured that the wolf was going to try and lure this gullible duck to his house where he eats her, but then the precious chicks warn her enough and the wolf and duck somehow become best friends for life and enjoy afternoon tea together while discussing fracking and diplomatic relations with Syria.

NO.

Just as the wolf is telling the duck that he’s missing an ingredient in his soup (duck! The key ingredient is YOU), I assume that this is the point where the duck gets all philosophical and deep and tells the wolf to quit being a sketchy bully.

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Turn the page…

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THE DUCK STRAIGHT UP MURDERS THE WOLF.

Plot twist! The baby chicks were warning the WOLF about the duck, NOT trying to protect the duck against the wolf! This book single handedly turns the food chain upside down.

However, the real problem that I have with this book is that the freaking duck is a murderer. Is there a double standard here? Yes. The wolf is a predator and is supposed to eat and hunt things like ducks and chickens. That’s why no one has a problem with “The Three Little Pigs” or “Little Red Riding Hood”—that shit is normal behavior for a wolf.

But a duck? No. Ducks are supposed to be swimming in canals and looking for dried corn scraps. They are not supposed to be thinking up ways on how to viciously stalk and KILL. This duck concocted a twisted plan that ended with her pushing a wolf into a boiling pot of soup, killing it all while smiling like she just got a big tax return.

The most disturbing thing is that the baby chicks knew this duck was bat shit crazy. Clearly, the duck is the town loony tune and instead of just drinking at bars and shouting profanities at strangers, she has now escalated to sociopathic tendencies. Who else in this town has she murdered? Who is next? Look at her face! She’s enjoying this. She’s a master manipulator that needs to be put into prison, but you know those chicks aren’t ratting her out. Snitches are bitches, after all. She probably threatened to eat their mother or break their father’s beak. It’s twisted. All of it.

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Needless to say, this one’s going to back to the library ASAP. If I wanted to read my child a scary story before bedtime, I’d tell her about student loan interest rates or better yet just put on “A Nightmare Before Elm Street” and allow Freddy Krueger to do the parenting for me.

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Can We Move Rooms?

Friday was Oliver’s nine-month check-up with the pediatrician. Every time I schedule a doctor’s appointment, I say I want the earliest appointment available while forgetting that I have two small children that don’t function well before 8am. I know most parents complain about their children not sleeping in, but trying to get Caroline ready and out of the house in the early morning is as easy as getting the pope to ordain a gay marriage.

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“I just don’t DO mornings”

I woke up early on Friday, but because looking so flawlessly pretty takes effort (hello 4 coats of mascara), I immediately started to run behind. Our appointment was at 8:30am and when it was 7:50am and I still hadn’t woken up, changed and fed Oliver, I knew we were going to be rushed and late.

I gave Caroline some milk and told her that her morning episode of “Curious George” wasn’t going to happen because we needed to take Oliver to the doctor. This obviously caused her to throw me some serious side-eye and rethink her commitment to not put me in a nursing home later in life.

We ran out of the house around 8:15 with Oliver’s eyes barely open and Caroline already complaining about how unjust her life was for not getting to watch that damn monkey lose his toys down the drain.

Combine running late with morning rush hour traffic and I was ready to run over a family of baby ducks crossing the street if it meant arriving to the office on time. Thankfully no birds, deer, squirrels or pedestrians were harmed in my commute, but if they would have crossed my path, I can’t guarantee that I would have slowed down. I HAD AN APPOINTMENT TO GET TO!

The entire car ride Caroline was whining in the backseat about everything from her disdain for the song on the radio, her stomach mysteriously hurting, to me telling her that I thought it was going to rain. Everything was offensive to her. But hey, she had to sacrifice her morning episode of “Curious George” to take her BROTHER to the doctor’s? She’s just bitter, I thought.

We arrived at the doctor’s office around 8:40am and Caroline immediately ran to the “ill patient” side of the room to play with the toys. Ordinarily, I’d lecture her about playing with toys that are undoubtedly full of germs and how that will make her sick, but whatever…she wasn’t whining! If she gets sick, that’s “Future Allee’s” problem…

We were called into the exam room and the nurse said “the doctor will be in to check him in a little bit.” That is code “pop some popcorn and take a nap because your ass is going to be here for a while.” Whenever doctors are running behind, I just imagine them in their office eating lobster and counting their gold coins. What else do they do? Look on WebMD for answers to their patient’s problems?

Trying to occupy an obviously upset and impatient Caroline was proving to be the most difficult task. Oliver was fine bouncing in my arms, but for whatever reason she was miserable.

We waited and waited.

Caroline got whinier and whinier.

After about 20 minutes, I noticed Caroline make a dramatic “stink face” and thought “NOOOOOOOOO THIS ISN’T HAPPENING!”

But it happened.

She puked. Everywhere.

Because I was holding Oliver, I just kind of patted her head and let the inevitable purge come, all over the exam room floor.

Then it happened again in the other direction.

So there I was: holding my son at his doctor’s appointment while his sister vomits curdled milk all over the office. Who the hell signed me up for that kind of reality?!

Immediately after throwing up, Caroline announced that she “felt much better” but was upset that her dress smelled. At least this episode didn’t deter her priorities in life: #fashion.

So that was the kickoff to my weekend. We had to wait five minutes for Oliver’s blood to slowly drip out of his fingertip to test for some unnecessary scientific bullshit and then Caroline emptied her stomach contents to cover every square foot of the exam room.

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Leaving the doctor. Thank God mom had a spare shirt.

It goes without saying that Ryan will be taking Oliver to his 12 month check-up.

 

A Random Collection of Thoughts

The other night Ryan dropped Caroline and I off at the craft store while we went into the pet store. Caroline and I needed to find some suitable art project to make him for Father’s Day. All together, we were gone a little over an hour. When we returned home, we noticed something cute and fury on our deck looking longingly from the outside in.

It was our damn cat.

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She must have snuck out while Winston was peeing and because we excel at parenting, we didn’t even notice that our six-pound cat was abandoned in the relative wilderness of our backyard. I checked the yard for corpses since she’s a psychopath, but no blood or bones anywhere so I assume she just napped OR she’s exceptionally good at hiding her crimes.

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One of our local libraries has a chalkboard table that the kids can draw on. Caroline usually likes to just smack the erasers together to fill the air up with chalk chemicals while I enjoy drawing the occasional flower or star. When we went the other, somebody had taken that chalkboard STRAIGHT TO CHURCH, yo:

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I love finding the Lord in our public library. I wonder what he thinks about “Clifford: The Big Red Dog” book series.

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I accidentally hit “play” instead of the down arrow on my remote and episode one of “Pretty Little Liars” started playing. I’m not proud that I watched the entire thing or that I watched four more episodes. It’s an awful, unrealistic show targeting high school girls that I keep finding factual errors in. For example, wouldn’t a blind high school student attend a special school for the visually impaired because she’s FREAKING blind? And how did she manage to carry her lunch tray AND find a seat in the cafeteria when she can’t see shit? Also, everyone can tell that the pretty girl is obviously sleeping with her English teacher. Flirty glances in the hallway? Special meetings afterschool? Player please, I’d have that teacher locked up for statutory rape before he even passed out his syllabus.

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Our dog pooped on our deck stairs. There’s not much more to this story other than we live on almost an acre of land and he found it suitable to take a dump there. Wait, I thought of one more thing to add: he’s an asshole.

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I’ve gone running three days in a row before Ryan left for work and the kids were up. This is an accomplishment as big as finding the cure for polio.

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I’m not a fan of my new deodorant and if you’re within 12 inches of my armpits, I’m guessing you wouldn’t be either. I guess there was a reason it was buy one, get one free.

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I made Oliver a pair of leg warmers to protect his knees when he crawls and is wearing shorts. Clearly, I need my own page on Etsy because this is going to make me millions. Because this is a pending business idea, I don’t want to give my secret away of how I made them. I WILL tell you that it involves an old pair of knee sock, scissors and absolutely nothing No measurement, sewing, glue. Nothing. You just take the socks and cut them to fit your kid. But like I said, these can’t be replicated and I don’t want to give my secret away.

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This is all I’ve got for today. I need to go pretend that I’m not about to fall asleep and that I’m awake enough to care for two young children.

A Lethal Mistake

Ryan’s genuinely an excellent father. He takes charge flawlessly, activates their imagination in new ways and loves them beyond compare. However, Ryan is still a man, which means he’s biologically inferior to me (we believe in reverse sexism in this house) so he still has some things to learn.

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For example, when he wants to eat a brownie for breakfast, he shouldn’t parade it in front of our toddler and then state that she can’t have one. While she is in the middle of a Hitler-esque tantrum, he shouldn’t recommend that she take a nap.

These are of course small parenting infractions that I chalk up to him being simply not thinking. They are things I correct, scold him about and then we go on resenting one another—just like a normal pair.

However, Saturday’s misdeed was a top-notch, grade A, elite and epic fail.

As I mentioned in yesterday’s post, we went to a birthday party and when we got home we were all sweaty, tired and sweaty. The first few moments home are always a blur because I have to let our diabetic dog out which usually involves me literally (gently, of course) kicking him out on the deck. I always have my hands full of the kid’s stuffed animals, juice cup and some other random artifact I’m required to be holding at the time. Then of course, one of the kids is always crying the moment we step foot into the house. Caroline’s either upset about something as small as an ant crawling on the floor or as big as something like the national debt. No one knows why she’s always screaming. Then when you put Oliver down, he loses his shit because Caroline’s losing her shit and he probably needs to be fed or changed or something.

So to sum it up, walking in the door is an exhausting task.

Ryan decided in the midst of all this chaos to give me a quick lesson on how guys need to “air their balls out” (his exact words) and that Oliver needed to have his diaper off. I rolled my eyes because a) that’s not what we need to be doing right now and b) I don’t have testicles so maybe I shouldn’t judge their apparent demand for fresh air exposure.

While the half-blind, diabetic dog came back in from peeing, I noticed a bottomless Oliver crawling towards me. Hmm…kind of cute, I thought. Who doesn’t love a little naked baby butt?

Those thoughts were quickly erased when I realized that Oliver wasn’t completely nude. He was covered in his own shit.

I looked up and saw three smeared poop piles in the carpet that were only smeared as a result of Oliver crawling through them.

It was horrific. It was out of a horror movie if horror movies covered their victims in their own feces as opposed to their own blood.

I was surprisingly calm and civil towards Ryan following this disaster because it seemed like the worst decision ever. So bad that’s laughable. Who in their right mind justifies taking off a baby’s diaper to let their privates air out? WHO?!

There are certain things I can forgive and forget: Bill Clinton cheating on Hillary, there being two contestants on “The Bachelorette” this season, God continuing to allow the Kardashians to be famous, but I will never, ever forget this.

It will forever be one of my most utilized parental trump  cards. Thanks Ryan.

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Post-poop festival bath.

Diary of my (Last) Week

TUESDAY

I’m currently wearing wool socks, sweat pants, a long-sleeved shirt and am curled up in a blanket drinking hot coffee. This would be a precious if it was November, but it’s freaking JUNE. I’m about one more downpour away from turning on the fireplace and hoping it burns down this entire city that’s seasonally confused.

Anyway, busy day in these parts. Hold on to your undies folks, but I actually went for a run before Ryan went to work. That shit is unheard of! Usually I amp myself up the night before by laying out my running clothes, planning my route and finding (th)inspiring pictures of Jessica Alba’s body to motivate me. But then my alarm actually goes off in the morning and who the hell actually wants to run while everyone else in her household is still sleeping? Not me. So then I usually turn off my alarm, sleep in, wake up angry and resent my lazy alter ego all day.

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Hate you Jessica Alba

But not today! I woke up ready to go. The weather looked perfectly cool for an enjoyable run. I snuck down the stairs (can’t be waking up those babies), opened up the garage door and it IMMEDIATELY started pouring. How effing rude is that? Here I am, doing God’s work and you have to literally rain all over my ambition? Curses to you weather! Curses!

But because this bikini body doesn’t make itself (and I was already wearing shoes), I went downstairs to the awful treadmill and did a horrendous 3.25 miles. That’s my limit on the treadmill because I’d rather take a fork and pierce it through my achilles tendon than run on that damn thing. In fact, I’d rather watch a congressional hearing on C-SPAN than run on the treadmill.

After that, the kids were up and Ryan was all like “I have to go to work and make money!” (excuses) so the remaining people in the house got dressed and ready to go to open gym.

Awhile back, I signed Caroline up for open gym at the place where she takes gymnastic classes. Essentially, open gym is comprised of giant mats, a slide and a plastic seesaw. But it was like $18 and it usually makes Caroline tired and I would spend ANYTHING to ensure my daughter takes a nap. There’s only five kids signed up and Caroline has befriended the other seemingly “mean girl” of the group to become mini Stalin’s that boss the other kids around and inform them what toys they are permitted to play with. I’m proud of Caroline’s ability to take charge, but when she tells a one year old that he literally can’t look at her, I think that may be overboard. She lives her life as a dictator. It’s both cute and incredibly frightening.

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WEDNESDAY

Guys, great news: I’m wearing shorts and a tank top. However, the sun just fled faster than those two prison escapees and it looks like rain so my wardrobe may be changing shortly. Aren’t you glad you know this?

Unlike yesterday, I did not get up to run because I was having a dream about WWII soldiers and that was apparently more important than my personal fitness because I turned off all of my alarms and woke up to Oliver on the monitor.

I managed to do half of a workout while Caroline and Oliver had their breakfast, but I ran out of time because we had to make it to story time at the library. As any mom knows, these story times are lifesavers. For starters, they’re free. Secondly, they involve reading and singing which are two things that my daughter loves, but are two things she doesn’t really want me to do. She doesn’t mind the bedtime stories I read to her, but anytime I try to sing to her she holds up her hand like she’s on Ricki Lake and says “Mommy. No, no, no.” Clearly her musical appreciation is underdeveloped because I have raw, unparalleled talent. Since I only did half of an actual workout, I’m fairly certain my right leg is far superior than my left today. It’s going around talking shit to my left leg because my left leg didn’t do any weighted squats and looks all flabby. Maybe next week, I’ll work on my left side and even it out a bit, but for right now I’d much rather eat my new s’mores Oreo’s.

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THURSDAY

I did it AGAIN! I woke up and ran 4 miles before Ryan went to work. President Obama should be standing in my living room awarding me some type of national medal for my bravery in getting up to exercise. Or should it be Michelle Obama? Isn’t she against obese kids? I don’t know. I’ll have to check on that. BUT the run was solid and uneventful and I have to remind myself that I love getting it out of the way.

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After that, Caroline and I (and Oliver too) ventured into nature. Now if you know anything about my daughter and I, we like diamonds and dresses not mud and bugs. However, I was in the mood for something different and wanted to expose my daughter the great outdoors. When I told her that we were going to go on a nature walk, she picked out a dress and high heels. We negotiated that the dress could stay, but shoes that she wore to be a flower girl in someone’s wedding were probably not appropriate to hike through the woods. The girl understands fashion, not practicality.

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What was incredibly foolish was me judging her shoe choice when my dumbass wore WHITE boat shoes…to walk a trail…the day after a torrential rainstorm. Hopefully “mud brown” is the new white this season because those Sperry’s will never be the same. RIP.

We did a half-mile loop around a local park and I gave Caroline a camera to document what she saw. Not surprisingly, there’s a lot of pictures of snails. Surprisingly, she did not complain once. I was getting a little antsy in the wilderness and thought that we were going to be filming the next “Blair Witch Project” but Caroline kept searching for birds and squirrels and despite her being covered in mud when we were done, she classified it as “fun.” We are basically survivalists now. We’ll be able to escape from the law and/or endure the apocalypse.

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FRIDAY

I went somewhere that I haven’t been to in a very long time.

No, not the gynecologist.

I went into work! Not to actually perform work, but to visit. I was there the first day of school so I figured I’d come full circle in my laziness and come back on the last day. It was great to see everyone. I love my job, my co-workers, the kids…but I can already feel my heart breaking from the reality that I’ll be returning in the fall. It’s not going to be easy for any of us.

Can we talk about something else before I cry? Great.

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Ryan and I started watching the third season of “Orange is the New Black” since it was released this weekend. Lesbians, crime, prison…it’s what life is made of. Sometimes I think I could last in prison and then I think about how there isn’t any Jif peanut butter or open packages of Chips Ahoy I can eat around-the-clock and I realize I’d die within an hour of being booked.

SATURDAY

I’ll let this photo speak for itself.

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Let’s just say that our dear friends had wine at their baby’s first birthday party. Mama got a little buzzed. So buzzed that I may have agreed to camping and not in a Hyatt Hotel, but like outside.

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Camping is not a good idea

 

Lies I Tell My Toddler

Before having children, I would have labeled myself as a “truthful mother”– a mother that tells their child the truth in all sorts of circumstances to ensure that they have an honest and realistic view of the world around them. With the exception of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, my daughter would grow up with a candid mother that provided her with truthful answers to all of her questions.

But then I had a toddler who asked all sorts of questions and wanted to do all sorts of things and it turns out that this “truthful mother” that I once aspired to be is actually a compulsive liar.

Once I realized my questionable parenting techniques, I started keeping track of all of my seemingly harmless “fibs” to my daughter.

“Girls Don’t Fart”

Upon potty training, my daughter realized that the human body could make some hilarious noises on the toilet. She also learned that when she farts in front of my husband, it’s an automatic laugh. I began to tell her that girls simply do not fart if they are ladies. Maybe there’s some truth to that after all. I mean, I highly doubt Kate Middleton is lifting up her leg in front of Prince William and passing gas. If I want my daughter to marry well, she can’t be running around asking people to pull her finger so “girls don’t fart” in our house. According to mom’s rules, we don’t have the correct anatomy to even make that happen.

“The Coffee Shop Doesn’t Make Donuts”

Yes, I know that the name of the coffee shop actually has the word “donuts” in it, but they “don’t make donuts” therefore I can’t buy her one. In reality, I’m not willing to pair my iced coffee with a $1.29 sprinkled donut that my daughter will pick the frosting off of and declare that she “doesn’t like donuts anymore.” We are a middle class family, we need to save all the money we can so sorry kid, the oven is broke and the coffee shop just doesn’t make donuts.

“Too Much Brownie Batter Will Give You Worms”

There’s probably some scientific truth to this because uncooked eggs are allegedly bad for you, but when my two year old is eyeing the bowl of brownie batter with a look like she’s going to devour every square inch then I have a problem. Brownie and cake batter is reserved for mature adults that can handle the repercussions of eating raw egg. Toddlers can’t enjoy the pleasure of licking the batter spoon and therefore I tell her that it will give her some type of awful parasite that will make her puke for days. When she asks why I can eat it, I tell her to go watch whatever is on PBS at the time.

“I Can’t Just Put ‘Curious George’ On. It Doesn’t Work That Way”

Straight-up lie. It works EXACTLY that way! It’s 2015 and we live in the age of DVR’s, Netflix, YouTube and Hulu. Of course she can watch whatever she wants whenever she wants because that’s the age that we live in. However, if I have to watch a curious monkey conduct the NYC subway or Elsa sing that godforsaken song one more time, mommy is going to need to rob a liquor store. In our house, we live in 1996 where your show comes on once a day if you’re lucky (or 3 or 4 times if Mommy’s having a rough day or is busy in the other room eating brownie batter).

“When You Go To Sleep, Mommy Goes to Sleep Too”

This is a necessary lie because if I told her the truth that Mommy and Daddy are going to have beers, eat chips and watch shows with a ton of curse words and adult situations, the girl would NEVER go to bed. I like to tell her that mommy is just as tired as she is and when I close her bedroom door, I’m going to go to sleep just like her. In reality, mommy is sneaking downstairs to do an embarrassing happy dance and is still four hours away from bedtime. Those copies of US Weekly’s aren’t going to read themselves!

“The Library Is Closed Today”

Of course the library is open—it’s Tuesday at 11am. The truth is that this mommy doesn’t want to be forced to socialize with the other mothers. There’s the granola mom that wants to tell me how I should make my daughter’s body wash because chemicals will give her cancer. Then there’s the mom that named her daughter “Pepper” and the mom that is taking selfies in the corner while her son threatens to urinate on the floor. I don’t want to become friends with these women so sorry little one; you’re going to read “The Three Little Bears” for one more night because “the library is closed today.”

Don’t judge me, guys. I’m always honest with the one thing that matters most: the IRS. I still have a little dignity left, after all.