T is for Twerking

The following is a legitimate conversation I had with my nine year old son the other day.

Bennett: You know that work, work, work, work, work song? 

Me: Yeah?

Bennett: Some kids at school sing it like, twerk, twerk, twerk, twerk, twerk.

As I am trying to decide how to respond, he comes at me with this:

Bennett: Can you show me what that is?

Me: Um, Moms don’t really twerk.

Bennett: Oh, so it’s like a kid thing?

Me: No!

I wasn’t sure how to explain it, so I just showed him this…


Parenting win. 

A to Z Challenge: T is for…

K is for Kids

I have one and there are no more planned. Not because I don’t love being a mom or that I don’t feel I’d be able to share the love among multiple children, it just didn’t work out that way.

Before we knew it, Bennett was nine years old and the idea of starting over at infant? Let’s be honest, that sounds terrible. I loved being pregnant, I adore being a mom and while I’ve often wondered what it would be like to have another – our three person operation works well for us.

I’m done wiping ass, carrying a car seat and deciphering baby-talk.

We’re at a point in our lives that weekend sleep has been reclaimed and my kid would rather spend his time at the park with his buddies than at home with his mom and dad. It’s a hard pill to swallow – but once you get it down it doesn’t take long to realize there are absolutely pros to this chapter of our lives

…like logical conversation and help around the house.

After almost ten years I’ve accepted that I’m not world’s greatest parent and I’ve had my missteps along the way, but I’ve digested the good and the bad. Raising a kid is serious business and I’m still sometimes taken aback by the big picture. I’m responsible for this young person and the path he takes in life is determined by how I take on this task.

When all is said and done – I’ve learned a thing or two about kids and how they operate.

Treat them like a baby, they’ll act like a baby. Treat them like a person with value and they’ll act like it. Teach them the benefits of being part of a team and they’ll excel in most situations. Allow them to ask the questions they want answers to and answer them honestly… the truth doesn’t have to be scary if presented properly.

Please… just do your best to make your kids decent people. I don’t feel that is a lot to ask. These are little humans who will one day be members of society, with roles to play and responsibilities to fill. Want my advice? Yes or no, here it is…

Ask my kid what I tell him to do every single time we part ways and I promise his answer will resemble something along the lines of me telling him to make good choices.

That’s what we should all be asking our kids to do – on the regular. It’s a really pleasant way of saying, don’t be stupid.

Bye, Love you! MAKE GOOD CHOICES! 


Sometimes to be a good parent… You have to laugh when you want to be angry. You have to be angry when you want to laugh. And that is why good parenting is tough. 
― Dan Pearce

A to Z Challenge: Day Eleven

C is for Creating a Human

Women do this all the time, on the regular – some even do it repetitively. Brewing a human inside our bodies and having the ability to keep it alive with our boobs is pretty intense.

Labor is pretty intense though, too.

A week past my due date, slapping-strangers-when-they-found-it-appropriate-to-tell-me-just-how-uncomfortable-I-look, I walked into the hospital to be induced. Naturally, the thought of having this overcooked being outside of my body was super exciting and when the nurse administering the baby-eviction medicine told me with a smile that I would have a baby by noon, I naively believed her.

She asked me if I wanted a mirror brought in… so I could watch my baby enter the world. 


I think my facial expression concerned the nurse. Perhaps to some it could be a beautiful process but: No, thank you. I would rather not watch.  Looking back, that would have been an appropriate answer to her question. Instead, speaking straight from my heart, I asked her if she was f****** crazy and proceeded to stare as if I asked a legit question.

36 hours later, my Bennett was born.

They say you forget about all the pain and awfulness that comes along with child birth after feeling the love for your baby – I certainly felt the love but the memory of the progression is vivid. Whoever they are probably never went through 2,160 minutes of labor.

I never pretend to be the tough girl and I don’t handle physical pain without cussing someone out, so the idea of giving birth without drugs was laughable. Hell, I was begging for them before I was even contracting out of pure fear. Little did I know that the process of getting an epidural is more terrifying than the fear of the actual pain itself.

The plan was to have the long needle stuck directly into my spine and I would feel relief, but first things first: we need to get that needle into my spine. The nurse tells me to sit up and lean forward as far as I can. Sure, it’s necessary but asking an overdue pregnant woman to lean forward is cruel. I did what I was told and then I felt it. Letting out an overzealous yelp, instantly I was in tears.

This is the cotton – I am cleaning the injection site.

–The Nurse

So many new moms have lovely tales about the very first moment they laid eyes on their new little offspring.

Me? Not so much.

After 35 hours of labor it was decided that clearly this little person was not going to make the journey into the world willingly so I ended up accomplishing the task via c-section. There I am strapped down to a table (literally, my arms tied down) – I hear him start to cry and the doc says, “Look to your left!” I turn my head and they put his small slimy face right up next to mine.

Now, before I tell you what I said – please keep in mind that I was slightly drugged and had been in labor for 36 hours…

His nose is SO big.

That’s what I said. I’m not proud of it but it seemed right at the time. Thankfully, they let me take him home and we have been hanging out ever since.

 A to Z Challenge: Day Three


Sensor My Words For My Child’s Ears? $*%# That.

“Um, Ma’am…can I see you in my office for a second?” 

I had never been called into the daycare office before and I was concerned something serious had happened. Low and behold, it was nothing more than a stern talking to about my five year old son walking around letting all the other children know what he thought about a toy.

This firetruck is fucking ridiculous.

five year old bennet
My little red-headed, firetruck loving, F-word saying kiddo.

I stifled my inappropriate laughter and tried my best to see the seriousness of the situation. In the meantime, I found myself way more impressed that he used the word ridiculous than I was mad that he said the godforsaken F-word.

The pairing of the two however, was no surprise. The two word combination comes out of my mouth, on the daily.

Some parents might start making a conscience effort to watch their language around their child’s developing brain – I chose to simply sit down and have a conversation with my five year old.

There are Grownup Words and there are Kid Words.

Fuck, and all the variations of it… are grown up words and finished up the talk by providing him some kid-friendly alternatives. I also explained that not all grown ups use such language… just the passionate ones.

Just kidding… I did not tell him the passionate part, but I do believe it.

I continued to swear like a sailor for the next four years and my now nine-year-old son still thinks Crap is a swear word. I’m winning this thing called parenting. The simplicity behind it is that I can say whatever I want (within responsible reason), whenever I want and he cannot.

My son is not allowed to drink beer, which he witnesses me do. He’s aware the he is not allowed behind the wheel – yet sees me drive on the daily. If he stumbles out of bed and sees me awake past 2am, guess what, he doesn’t get to ask me why I’m allowed to do it and he’s not. If I want to drink 3 sodas in one day – in front of my child – he still knows he doesn’t get to do that. The best part, is not having to finish my fucking dinner.

That is the difference between being an adult and being a child. Call it a perk for getting through childhood if you will. Parents who cuss, believe it or not, can raise some pretty well-rounded offsprings. As passionately as I speak, I’m equally passionate about being a parent and making sure he grows up to be a functioning member of society…

…which is the %@$#^*! goal.

December 1st

Every year December 1st comes around and reminds me that my kid is another year older, another year of his childhood – gone.

Nine. Nine years old. Which means I started brewing him like ten years ago. To think I’ve committed myself to something for that long is impressive – I mean… I know he’s my kid and all – but shit. TEN YEARS?!

I lay in bed at night and wonder if I’ve done anything that he will resent me for later, or even now. We’ve reached an age where everything is rememberable (I made that word up). My kid’s memory is insane. What is he going to throw in my face when he’s 16? What does he have in his back pocket? What could we have done this past year, experienced or changed that would have shaped him differently?

Good Lord, what have I fucked up?

Parents with small children – enjoy the mulligans while you can. Soon they will be 8 years old and throw in your face that time two years ago when you said we could do that one thing, after that happened – and it’s all happened…


The last few Decembers that have passed I’ve tried to wrap my head around the concept of raising a big kid, rather than a little kid. It’s a really weird transition. I have to tell myself, or my husband looks at me with an, are-you-fucking-serious? look… to allow my totally-capable-kid do his thing – whatever it is. If he succeeds on the first try – great. If it takes him 45 minutes and nothing has been accomplished – okay. If he blows the house up… at least he tried to do it on his own. Life Experiences!

The best difference is instead of helping, teaching and taking pride in watching the light bulb click, I’m sitting back and taking in his pride for being able to do this, that and the other on his own. There is nothing in the world I love more than the smirk my kid gets when he has accomplished something, especially when I wanted nothing more than to either a.) do it myself or, b.) tell him how to do it.

A lot of things have changed in 9 years, thankfully, some of my favorite things things have stuck around. He still wants me to tuck him into bed. He still blows me kisses from across the school field when I drop him off in the morning for school. He still lets me call him any obnoxious nickname I can think of. He still wants me to read to him. He still wants to hang out with me – and that’s awesome. 

Every year has given me a variety of things to feel bittersweet about. At this point, we’re half way to 18 – but I’m not ready to wrap my head around that quite yet. Double digits next year…