Tranny Claus: The Tale of the Cross-Dressing Santa

Tranny Claus

Today was a day I was rendered speechless as a parent. Thanks, in all parts, to a Walmart Santa.

Let’s begin…

The day started with two items on the agenda: 1. Driving an hour away to see a famous Christmas light display and 2. See Santa. Now, there was a Santa scheduled to appear at the Christmas light show, but after a quick search on their website I discovered Santa was quite the swindler. I mean, $20 for a picture? That’s one picture. They had packages on their topping $60-$100 dollars. Santa better have his bag o’ tricks stuffed with more than a germy lap for those prices.

Maybe I am just spoiled. Last year, when we lived on the West Coast we had a glorious experience with a FREE Santa. This Santa’s birth certificate said Jolly Old Saint Nicholas, for sure. The urge for me to curl into his lap and whisper wishes of naps and free boob lifts was cataclysmic. He was the real deal. The photographer was a professional. There was warm milk and cookies. It WAS The North Pole.

Here’s a reminder of last years’s picture:

Christmas 2014

Now, the kids look like I just slapped them in a weird man’s lap, but if you look past that you can see this Santa is no joke.

Let’s get back to today…

I was not about to drop a hundred to get a snapshot of my kids looking weirded out in anyone’s lap, no matter how authentic their garb and personal aura. So, I Googled “free Santa” and found, miracle of all miracles, there was to be one this very day at the local Walmart! Now, with hindsight being 20/20, I should have preemptively known that Walmart Santa was really never going to live up to the sugar plum fairies dancing in my head, but I was too far gone. We were going to see Walmart Santa.

I quickly got the kids in complimentary Christmas-colored clothing, put ribbons in hair, made them actually bath in fear the camera will pick up dirt rings and we were off. We pulled into Walmart and eagerly darted inside. My first “sign” of things being less than authentic could have been the handwritten, half-warped sign at the door claiming Santa was inside for free. But, hey, I am not Princess Diana. I can redneck with the best of the Walmart Santas. I am not above Walmart Santas.

The sign, as eye-catching as it was, did not say where Santa’s over-sized arse was located in the Super Walmart. He was just there…somewhere. As we dove into the packs of Walmart shoppers I flagged down an employee.

“Hi, could you tell me where Santa is?” I asked.

She looked at me like I asked where they kept their live ponies. Her stare continued for five to ten grueling seconds when she pointed to lawn and garden. Hmmm…not as romantic as the North Pole, but, again, I am trying to embrace this situation.

As we stroll up to Lawn and Garden, I am expecting a line clear to the grocery section. I mean, free Santa at Walmart just screams mass chaos. But, no, we walked right in and right to the front of the line.

That’s odd.

As I’m quickly stripping the coats off the kids I’m catching glances over to ol’ Father Christmas and wondering if this is a small Asian man with a fake beard and a tremendous amount of stuffing packed into his velour ensemble. I’m not above an Asian Santa — so I quickly usher the kids onto the bench next to Santa and take in the full picture.

Christmas 2015

My daughter’s face says it all.

Yes. This was a woman. Not even a more masculine woman. This was a tiny, butterfly of a woman packed into a Santa suit with a voice as frail and feminine as my grandmother.

Maybe they won’t notice?

So, I just played along. What else could I do? I had to force this farce down my children’s throats because there was no turning back. We were in too far.

This female imposter was the sweetest woman. She would have made a great Mrs. Claus. But, the more she talked, the more questions I could see dancing across my son’s face. After we wrapped up, my son (who is three, by the way, I don’t know who you think you’re fooling, Walmart) asked me, “Mom? Why does Mrs. Claus have a beard? Where’s Mister Claus? Why was Mrs. Claus in his clothes?”

“She just let herself go a little bit this year, honey. But, don’t worry, she’s going to tell Santa exactly what you want.”

So, now my kids think Mrs. Claus is a transvestite and have the photograph to prove it. I feel like this might come up in a future therapy session.

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Dear Santa: Bring Me Some Metamucil

Dear Santa Mrsmommymack.com

So, being pregnant with twins AND in my first trimester right up until the holidays is quite fun. Nothing like double the feeling of: nausea, heartburn, pure, bone-numbing exhaustion and raw, unedited emotion just in time to see your entire family.

I’ve harnessed this tornado of emotional and physical pain into a letter to my man, Santa Claus. Please, I’ve been remotely good? I am begging you.

  1. So much poop. As I have told everyone, including my hairdresser and someone I scared by the cucumbers at the store, I have to poop. No, I NEED to poop. Being pregnant slows all trains to Poopsville down to a crawl and the exit is fruitless at best. I want an ate-Taco-Bell-all-night-and-drowned-it-with-tequila sized poop. So many things are happening internally right now, but poop is not one of them.
  2. A longer fuse. I have noticed my husband’s white-eyed, twitchy glances towards me when I enter a room. This is similar to a rabbit in a bush next to 5,000 foxes. He is afraid and I don’t blame him. The rage in me is hideous. Out of dish soap? I’m going to lose it. Favorite yoga pants are dirty? Watch the fuck out. Scandal is on Thanksgiving hiatus and I was unaware? SWAT team, now.
  3. The ability to puke until my eyes bleed, then eat until I cry. This might be a tall order. But, daily I just wish I could retch this nausea completely gone and then stuff my mouth, ears, eyes, etc with egg rolls. Can’t this be a thing?
  4. A dishwasher. Sure, this is a tangible object. However, I do need to voice that it is December 1st and I am still working through the casserole dishes from Thanksgiving. Scraping congealed, slightly burnt (sorry, Mom) green bean casserole for hours while simultaneously dry heaving should be sent to Guantanamo as a new torture strategy.
  5. So many tissues. Kleenex is obsolete in my house due to the fact that I cried for four hours this week after my husband asked me to fold some laundry.
  6. A vice. Booze? Nope. Trampolines? Na-da. Sushi? Out of the question. Cigarettes? This isn’t Mad Men. What is a pregnant woman to do if she can’t drink wine and smoke at the trampoline sushi bar? How am I supposed to “celebrate” the upcoming Armageddon of having four kids under five?!
  7. An internet filter. When I’m pregnant, I have an incredibly hard time not wanting to kill everyone on the internet. I will write seething letters of semi-hatred to people I would normally ignore. I spent way too many hours (or maybe NOT ENOUGH!? See, there I go again.) one night hating the woman who was photoed duct taping her sweet, helpless chocolate lab’s mouth shut.
  8. More time. Santa, let’s just cut to the chase. Shouldn’t you be pregnant for 18 months with twins? I mean, I’m no scientist, but this shit makes sense. I’m not ready. HOW IS THIS GOING TO WORK?!

So, Santa, I will be waiting patiently at about one minute past minute on Christmas morning for your arrival. I will be the one crying on the toilet in dirty pajamas.

 

-Mrs. Mommy Mack.

 

 

Double the Wowza: Two Toddlers AND Twins on the Way

Blog Twins

Where have I been? Wow, that’s a loaded question. I have still been here. But, more or less in a stress-induced zombie state due to the fact that I am pregnant, again. For those of you who don’t recall, I have a three year old son and two year old daughter. But, before you give me the obligatory, “You’re going to be so busy!” Let me just hit you with this bitch slap… I am pregnant with twins.

Merciful mother of God.

Twins.

Two babies.

One and two.

I blame this all on my mother. Firstly, for giving me the genetic makeup to create two fetuses the good ol’ fashioned way (because I know you’re DYING to know if we tried to have twins — because I have sadly been asked that more than once).  Also, I am almost sure she did some type of Native American sorcery with locks of my hair and an old pigeon. She wanted twins so bad she wasn’t taking any prisoners. As I left with my husband to our first ultrasound, the last words out of her witch doctor lips were, “Two heartbeats!”

She did this to me.

Now, I had a feeling I was packing some heat before I ever went to the doctor. I told my husband it felt like twins and he laughed at me like I told him I think the world is going to end — he didn’t believe it, but would put a bomb shelter together, just in case.

When we got the ultrasound, the tech quickly asked, “Are you ready for a surprise?” She then switched to her data entry screen and switched “fetuses” from one to two. Nothing registered in my head until I saw that drop down click for two babies.

I yelled, “What did you just say?!”

“You’re having twins.”

“Holy hell. I TOLD YOU SO!!!!!!” I screamed while slapping my husband in the most glorious “I told you so” of my life.

He laughed. Then he winced. Then he held my hand like we were about to be flung overboard on the Titanic.

We sat there, gripping hands and watching these two beautiful blurbs glob around in my stomach for what seemed like forever. I cried. I laughed. I immediately started rattling off all the things we needed to buy in a manic overshare in front of the technician.

“We need a van! More beds! I need to potty train Sissy! I better be able to breastfeed! Imagine two babies on formula! So many diapers! When will I sleep? We are never having sex again!”

And here we sit. Weeks later and I am still reeling from the reality of having FOUR children under five. Might even be four kids under four depending on how fast these kids want to exit. I can’t even imagine what the next year has in store for my sweet, naive family. But, I can say, this is going to be one helluva ride.

-Mrs. Mommy Mack

Kid, Pet and Wallet Friendly Weed Killer: My Attempt at the Dish Soap & Vinegar DIY Plant Murderer

Kid, Pet and Wallet Friendly Weed Killer: My Attempt at the Dish Soap & Vinegar DIY Plant Murderer | mrsmommymack.com

For the first time, my husband and I are in charge of keeping a house from falling to shambles. And let’s just say we don’t know the first thing about… anything. So, I get a LOT of my tips from Pinterest.

While cleaning up my yard today, I noticed our cracked sidewalk was looking a little extra Jumanji. I have turned a little crunchy now that I’m almost 30 and am trying to use vinegar to clean with and any other way I can be a little bit more “natural.” I found this website that discussed the many options available to use vinegar to kill off weeds.

All I knew was I had some dish soap and vinegar, so, I was giving that a whirl!

I had a bottle of dish soap that was almost empty — about two tablespoons remained. I filled the rest of the bottle with white vinegar until it looked like this:

Dish Soap and Vinegar Weed Killer | mrsmommymack.com

Then, I squirted it on this:

Natural Weed Killer: Dish Soap and Vinegar | mrsmommymack.com

For the record, the squirt bottle the dish soap comes in was PERFECT for getting in the cracks. I will definitely be keeping it around. After I got it all soaked up (about two bottles worth) I let it sit in the sun for a few hours. I finished squirting at about 11 am and this was what I had at 4:30 pm after I swept:

Kid, Pet and Wallet Friendly Weed Killer: My Attempt at the Dish Soap & Vinegar DIY Plant Murderer | mrsmommymack.com

Wow! I will be using this again!


Tell me what your favorite weed destroyer is! Do you make it yourself?


If You Poop in the Woods, Will Anyone Hear? A Tale of My Most Embarrassing Moment.

If You Poop in the Woods, Will Anyone Hear? A Tale of My Most Embarrassing Moment.  | mrsmommymack.com

As I mentioned in a recent blog, I tend to have to go #2 at the most inopportune moments. Most of the time, I get that boiling feeling in my guts when I am as far away from a toilet as humanly possible. Also, I have the luxury of having no more than a one minute window between feeling like I’m going to shit my pants and actually shitting my pants. This is one of the many ways I charm my darling husband.

I have had emergency status poop pains countless times in my life. Restaurants are a biggie — patrons love the hot stench of diarrhea with their meals, I’ve heard. Almost always it’s an embarrassing situation where I have to rely on others to help me get to a toilet before all hell breaks loose (literally).

The absolute most embarrassing moment of my life comes with the memory of violent bowel pains. The year was 2002. I was 17 years old and a camp counselor for a week-long sleep-away camp for sixth graders. I had just gotten a vicious perm on my fried-blonde hair, my breasts weren’t awkward anymore and the biggest crush of my young adulthood was also a counselor. The odds were in my favor.

I spent the first half of the week up at dawn braiding my hair and practicing different ways to wear a baseball cap to impress this dreamboat I had my eye on. I was looking forward to a hike, appropriately called The Death March, that would take place the day before we left camp. This would give me the opportunity to stealthily slide next to this hunk and discuss Creed or Eminem or something else 13-years-ago-manly.

The morning we departed onto this six-mile adventure, the senior counselors gave everyone apples as a form of hydration to keep the tweens from getting too out of hand. This was meant to be held onto for the trip and eaten when we needed it, but being the instant gratification whore that I am, I gobbled it before step one.

I spent the first mile working up the courage and speed to get into stride with my crush. However, just as I was about to make my Night Moves, my stomach rumbled. This rumble was a mixture of under-ripe apple, empty stomach, teenage nerves and mild exertion. It could be heard 10 campers back. I wasn’t going to give up that easily, so I took a deep breath and paced on. I barely made it 50 yards before my guts clenched so hard I had to snap my butt cheeks together before an immediate evacuation.

I ran backwards toward the senior counselors.

“I need to get back to camp immediately,” I growled at this towering Home Ec teacher with a leather fanny pack.

“Oh, ummm, OK. Is everything OK?”

“I feel very sick and just need to get back. Which way is camp?”

“Oh, honey, I will show you. Let’s go.”

Since my head was swooning over the American Eagle model for the entire morning, I hadn’t kept track of how long we were walking or in what direction. I had no choice but to let this nervous woman skittishly lead me to a toilet.

After five minutes, I was sweating and swaying with the pain in my guts. Oh, and we were lost.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I stammered as though I had been shot point-blank.

“Well,” she said excitedly, “I remembered to pack a Kleenex! You can just go pee over there while I figure out where we are going.”

“No,” I said quietly. “I don’t have to go pee.”

But, before I could sit here and hash out the graphic details with a woman I had to see second hour for the next two months of school, I snatched her Kleenex and raced up a hill to get as far away from her as possible. I was frantic and shit was getting real. I dropped my CK shorts and the noises that came out of my body were similar to the scene in Anaconda when the snake pukes up Jon Voight. 

                           You can hear it, can’t you.

After what felt like a lifetime of pain, I finally starting coming to. I looked to my right and to my absolute horror, my Home Ec teacher was standing 1.5 feet away from me. She had followed me up the hill to “stand guard.” She had seen, heard and smelled the most atrocious thing I had ever done in a closer vicinity than the tree I was splattering upon.

I whipped my head in shame in the other direction and glanced over the back of the hill. Not only was it NOT camp, trees or anything else I thought was on the other side of this hill. But, it was the entire sixth grade winding next to a river enjoying the fecal scenery before forging the river.

My one moist Kleenex was about the equivalent of using a Q-Tip to clean a severed limb, but I quickly attempted to clean up shop and raced back to camp. I sat in the moldy showers watching my shame and never-to-be love life swirl down the drain.


Now, you tell me. What was your most embarrassing moment? I sure hope it was shit related!


Five Easy Ways to Avoid Toddler Tantrums While Shopping

Five Easy Ways to Avoid Toddler Tantrums While Shopping | mrsmommymack.com

Let me start this blog by saying, my kids make me want to drink at 8 am at least 8 times a week. They are by no means runners-up to be named saints in the next century or two. However, I did notice that somehow, I accidentally got something right when raising them. There is a time of day that I want to scream less often and that’s when we go shopping.

I have been thinking about this quite a bit lately and initially chalked their good behavior up to being little, but my son is three and I see kids half his age purple-faced and flopping in checkouts almost daily. So, I thought I would come up with some tips for those sweaty moms with the pleading eyes that are throwing bags of chocolate at their children in hopes to make it out of the store before leaving their child with the cashier.

1. Distraction is my best friend. While I don’t let the kids bring toys in and absolutely DO NOT give them a toy off the shelf to amuse them while I walk, I take this time to talk with them. They have a million questions and almost 75% of them is, “Mom, can I have that?!” Even though my kids have only had a handful of meltdowns while shopping in the past three years, it still makes me flinch like a beat dog every time. But, I always answer that the same way, “No, oh my goodness did you see this!?” Then I quickly point my finger and something or someone to get them very excited about the next thing and forget about the box of tampons they wanted five minutes ago.

2. We don’t promise rewards. We don’t do the, “If you can make it through the store without crying until you puke I will buy you a king’s ransom!” Don’t get me wrong, I have done it, but by giving them the option of public humiliation you are already setting the stage that this is a possibility. Good behavior is the expectation. You can’t walk into the store expecting shit to hit the fan. You got this. Deep breaths.

3. They get a reward if they don’t ask for it. If we can make it from walking through those automatic doors all the way back to the checkout without tears/begging/slapping of siblings, I will grab a treat for them. If they ask for it, the answer will be “No.” This gives you the control and they are rewarded for NOT asking for something.

4. We explain cost. One of the many conversations we have while shopping is about the cost of items. This comes in handy when things are asked for that are extravagant. We explain that this item costs money and when Daddy is gone all day that is what he is earning. In order for us to be able to get that toy/treat he would have to be gone a looong time. We don’t want that, do we? Make sure you only use this one when kids are well rested. Otherwise, Daddy might not like the answer to that question.

5. This is fun! Shopping for our family is a family outing. We really enjoy doing this together and get some quality time without electronics or television. We work together to pick out meals and it’s the time of week we look forward to. If going to the store is seen as hell fire and damnation, kids will act like Satan’s minions. Remember, deep breaths. You got this.

Toddlers with Eczema: 9 Ways I Taught Myself to Take Care of My Daughter’s Rashes

Toddlers with Eczema: 9 Ways I Taught Myself to Take Care of My Daughter's Rashes | mrsmommymack.comAlmost exactly a year ago, we FINALLY figured out what was going on with my daughter’s skin. Since birth she had crunchy skin. It started as cradle cap and blossomed across her body. Specifically, she gets very red, cracked ankles and knees. I spent months carting her from pediatrician to pediatrician who were very eager to dole out steroids without giving me a REASON for her painful skin. She kept herself up at night scratching, dug in her poopy diapers to itch her butt and I was not going to let my peach keep hurting. I needed answers.

She was finally diagnosed with eczema after breaking out in hives from eating eggs. The doctors finally put two and two together and realized that her skin rashes were from allergies (eggs, peanuts, dogs, cats, soy, dairy and dust to name a few). This is after me questioning them on allergies and our pets since she was born, to which they all poo-pooed me saying that her having allergies is very uncommon. Needless to say, once I left with her laundry list of allergies I was fuming. Why doesn’t anyone listen to moms?!

With this new diagnosis, I had no way how to deal with it. I needed guidance. What can she eat? Will it go away? Does she need an epi-pen? All of which were answered with, “We don’t know. It’s all trial and error and you’d be better off researching this online and finding out what she can and cannot have.”

WHAT?!

So, after a year of raising a toddler (two in November) with non-stop eczema, I figured I would give some pointers out there for parents who are as dumbfounded as I once was.

1. Facebook groups are great. There are TONS of groups out there for parents of kids with allergies and you will need a support system. Get following them ASAP and don’t be afraid to ask ANY questions you might have. We have all been there. A few I recommend are: Kids with Food Allergies Foundation, Allergies (egg/milk) Parent Support Group, and National Eczema Association.

2. Get an epi pen. While eczema isn’t always caused by allergies, if you’re concerned, get at least a few. Keep them at your home, train all grandparents and caregivers on using them, get spares, and keep on top of expiration dates. Note: When you pick them up at the pharmacy, check the expiration date ASAP. I have gotten burned on getting ones that expire in a couple weeks.

3. NO SOAP. My heart broke into a thousand pieces after getting home from the allergist and realizing I had been rubbing milk-based soaps into my daughter’s open sores. We don’t use soap unless it’s critical (spaghetti night). Then, it has to be unscented and very small amounts. No bubble baths or scented lotions!

4. Oatmeal baths. This was a huge win for us. Aveeno makes a oatmeal bath for eczema, but for $10 a package, we really couldn’t afford to do this each night. So, my amazing mother-in-law ground up oatmeal and packaged them in pantyhose for individual servings and MUCH less expensive!

5. Cortisone cream. I spent months fighting this battle. I have a closet full of creams, lotions, ointments and salves. The only cream that even remotely soothed her was cortisone cream. I don’t like using this regularly, but after her baths and before bed she gets lathered to avoid scratching until she bleeds. EDIT: Thank you to reader Tikeetha T who said this tip might not be a good avenue for African American children since she experienced lightening of her son’s skin when treating his eczema.

6. Swimming pools! Well, this is my most favorite treatment for my girl. Chlorine cleans and soothes eczema like a dream! Slap on that bikini and have her swim until she’s a prune. Makes things clear up wonderfully.

7. Keep antihistamines everywhere. I’m talking: diaper bag, car, grandma’s, campers, daycare… every where you take your child you’ll need some. It never fails you’ll forget it and need an emergency drugstore run. Our favorites are Zyrtec (if she’s badly broken out, she gets some in her sippy cup at bedtime to help her not scratch in her sleep) and Children’s Benadryl.

8. Teach your other children and family the triggers. My three-year-old son has no allergies or eczema. But, he understands that he canNOT give his sister his cow’s milk, cheese or eggs. He is very cautious with giving her food because he knows she can get sick and sees her sore legs. Family members are much to eager to dole out baked goods to my daughter and have been reprimanded enough times to know that permission needs to be granted before she can have ANYTHING.

9. Be prepared. This is one I am going to reiterate. Having a child with eczema or allergies can make you want to batten down the hatches and not move from your home in fear of a breakout. That’s no way to live your life. Just prepare yourself for breakouts. Know what soothes your child the best and quickest and learn the early signs of a breakout. This helps avoid the overwhelming parental guilt that comes with those itchy little fingers.

Don’t Give My Kids Ideas

I get it, sometimes it's hard not to swear in front of children. But, if you say the words: ice cream, park, toys, prizes, treats, candy, cake, soda, or adventure in front of my kids and don't have one in your pocket, I will unleash the fire of a thousand suns. {mrsmommymack.com}

One of my favorite comedians, Jim Gaffigan, hit the nail on the head when talking about children and their one-track minds. He joked about how he and his wife were nonchalantly talking about ice cream and his child screamed “CHOCOLATE!” for the remainder of their road trip. Despite their desperate pleas, the child never stopped.

This is what it’s like having a toddler.

Every.
Single.
Day.

I don’t know if this is something new for us Millennial Parents, because my mom seems to have completely gone off the tracks when dealing with my sons leech-like mind. For example, we took a trip to the zoo recently. Boy were we excited! After an an entire morning packing, a half-hour drive and a good 20 minutes getting us out of the vehicle, we arrived! My mom, my 3-year-old son, one-year-old daughter and I grabbed our tickets and headed in, right past the gift shop.

“PRIZES!” My son exclaimed at unnerving volumes.

I began my spiel of, “Oh now, nice! Aren’t those pretty? Look! I think that LION KNOWS HOW TO TALK!” In a 100% effective way to distract him from the fluorescent monkeys.

My mother, however, apparently had a stroke on the trip over and blurted, “I will get you one of those prizes on the way back, my dear, sweet baby angel!”

I whipped my head around in hopes my son was (temporarily!) missing and did not hear my mother’s pirate mouth. No such luck.

From that moment forward, no matter how many white lies I told about the animals abilities to talk/walk/play poker at night, my son was over it.

“Yeah, I’ve seen enough animals. Time for a prize!” He said after merely passing a chipmunk on the way to the first animal exhibit.

That was it. That’s all we heard. Every step we took further away from the gift shop, the more my son hated animals for even existing. So, the trip lasted a quick lap around the zoo and my son raced into the gift shop. My mom then proceeded to tell my children they could have anything they wanted because, Lord knows we should give the little hustler the Taj Mahal. After careful, intricate, meticulous, hair-pulling deliberation, my son chose a pen. That was his prize. My daughter “picked” a monkey (she’s 1, let’s face it, I handed it to her and it was the best thing that ever happened to her) and my son could have had anything in the store and he picked a pen. Priorities.

So, after the zoo trip, I have been coaching friends and family not to speak of anything children might even fathom to enjoy unless you have it in your pocket and don’t ever want to see it again. Things have been moving smoothly, until today.

You see, I just got myself a double stroller and my husband has been taking our car to work. That means: anywhere we want to go is by foot with me pushing 60 pounds of toddler through 85 degree weather. Today, we had to drop some paperwork off at the insurance office. It was only a little over a mile away, but it’s hot, my kids and squirrely and I’m fat. By the time we got there, I was red as a plum, we were all out of water and I had to shit. In other words, we were done.

The receptionist decided she wanted to strike up a conversation, however. She was: talking to the kids, advising me on putting some more sunscreen on myself due to the fact that I looked like I was melting and then asked if we WERE HEADED TO THE PARK NEXT. 

Instantly, I had visions of taking her padded headband and shoving it down her throat. But, there were too many witnesses.

My son instantly shot up, “YEAH!!!! The park!!! Let’s GO!!!!!!”

Mind you, the park is three miles away and I’m nearing cardiac arrest. So, don’t judge me for not schlepping us across town.

After shooting the deepest death glare I could muster at Little-Miss-Parky-Pants, we left. I tried so hard to change the subject. So fucking hard.

I pointed at a seagull, “Hey buddy! Look! It’s an eagle!”

“Cool mom! Maybe he wants to come to the park with us?”

Next attempt, “Aren’t you getting thirsty? I bet you can’t wait to get home to have some SODA! What a treat!”

“No thanks, Mom. I will be thirsty at the park!”

Again, “Don’t you want to wash down that soda with some ICE CREAM! You can have Mom’s special ice cream she hides in the ice maker for after you go to bed!”

“Hmmmm, maybe later, Mom. We gotta go to the PARK!”

Finally, I shot it to him straight, “OK, Mom didn’t want to tell the lady at the office this, but the park is closed today. We can’t go there! But we can go tomorrow and you can tell DAD all about it when he gets home from work?”

Pause…

“OK!!!! Now, let’s go have soda and ice cream all day!!!!”

So, now I have to deal with the guilt of: not killing myself trying to get them to the park, LYING to a CHILD, and the fact that my husband will have to hear about the park for an entire two hours tonight when he gets home.

Looks like tomorrow I’m getting a workout.

The Year of Potty: 10 Ways “Going Naked” Made Me Cringe

The Year of Potty Training: 10 Times Going Naked Made Me Cringe | mrsmommymack.com

Having two children 18 months apart, I have been counting down the seconds until I don’t have two butts in diapers. Of course, with so much desperation on my behalf, this means my darling three year old son, Boone is in about as much of a rush as …

Sorry, about that, just had to go scoop up a crap-filled diaper my daughter peeled off her filthy butt and chucked on the floor while running full steam into the patio door.

Now, where was I… Oh, yes, my son has his own agenda. We have #1 down-pat. He’s great at going pee by himself and knows how to angle his boy bits after a couple misfires up the walls/floor/sink/dog. But, poop? Oh, hell -to-the-no. The ONLY way he will go on the potty is if he is completely naked all day long. He will then race to the bathroom and go on the potty, which I am tirelessly grateful. However, having a naked child all around the house ALL the time creates for quite a few times I could not believe what I was saying. I have documenting some of my favorites below:

1. “DON’T put your finger in your butt!”

2. “Touching your wiener is for private! You will never want to remember doing that in front of your family!”

3. “Sissy! You don’t touch any of that either!”

4. “Quit putting your bare butt against the window! We don’t need a CPS visit!”

5. “Absolutely NO food goes in your butt crack!”

6. “Why is there a coin in your butt crack?! NO, it is not a pocket!”

7. “Get back in the house! We just moved here! The neighbors can’t handle all this nudity!”

8. “Where did that quarter GO?!!!!!????”

9. “Please stop farting. I’m scared of what might happen.”

10. “Naked time is not for Walmart!!!!”