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.

Back to My Favorite Place on Earth: Turd Island

For the majority of the past three years, I have been a working mom. I have had several different jobs — trying my hand at: insurance, investments, bank, selling homes and call centers. Nothing had the “joie de vivre” to keep me from having mental breaks after a few months away from my two turkey muffins. Like clockwork, I would slowly feel the gusto fade into the mist with each place of employ and feel that same jubilee turn into a deep, dark pit of despair.

Once I was in this place for the umpteenth time in the past few years, my husband decided he’d had enough of seeing me struggle to stay happy. He was going to head out into the world of 401(k)’s, PTO, meetings and office drama. It was my turn to be the stay at home parent. HIP, HIP, HOORAY!

I was over-the-moon proud and grateful to my husband. To celebrate, we decided to have a little family pool party at my mom’s house. We: raced over, splattered on sunscreen, shimmied into our swimsuits and filled a bag of water balloons. This is the life!

After a couple hours slip-sliding, my son came running over…

“Poop!” My three-year-old son screamed while running through the backyard. Since my son likes to announce every Lincoln Log my pug deposits in the lawn, I thought nothing of his poop declaration. That is until I saw him tug at his butt crack through his trunks…

Sure enough, a sopping shart had soiled his trunks and Dad quickly ushered him to the bathroom to be hosed down. I took the time to sip my ice cold beer and giggle to myself how I dodged quite the messy bullet. Well, until I saw a rock hard bulge in my one-year-old daughter’s bikini bottoms. Luckily, I was able to slide them off of her and fling the turd in the garbage without much shrapnel on the scene. While I happily sprayed her bottoms and smiled at my fortune for getting the less disastrous of the two crime scenes, I saw something fire like a green shooting star across my mom’s patio. The speed and velocity of this mass of diarrhea was not something I had ever mentally prepared for when entering motherhood. This cherub-esque doll of a child didn’t even stop playing kitchen for a beat while firing on all cylinders across the concrete.

Looks like Karma is a very, very mean bitch. Now I am pretty sure my mom’s neighbors think we were cleaning up criminal DNA all afternoon with all of the hose spraying, bleach dumping and whimpering screams of disgust.

Needless to say, my kids quickly reminded me that my rose-colored outlook on being the stay-at-home parent isn’t going to be just smelling their sweetly sweaty heads all day. Sometimes, shit is going to get real and I am 100% over the moon, nonetheless.

Dizzy Castle

We have been in the Portland area for two weeks. Other than: staring at the umpteen boxes we have yet to unpack, rolling around on a deflating air mattress, and taking two trips to the complex indoor pool, we haven’t done much and, yesterday, I realized if I didn’t take the kids out to burn some energy off they might internally combust.

So, I took to the internet and discovered many area moms raving about a local indoor playground called Dizzy Castle. I decided this would be an inexpensive way to calm them. We packed up early and headed out.

We arrived completely underprepared. Both my husband and I were wearing flip-flops and did not realize that we not only needed socks but workout fatigues and an hourlong warm-up beforehand. We settled for purchasing some chintzy, too small “socks” from the counter and headed in.

The plan was to eat at the little food court prior to heading into battle, but my son had another idea. He ripped off his shoes and headed in. Thankfully, he was a little overwhelmed by the colors, swinging punching bags and sweaty children that he stuck close by. I quickly ran and ordered some food and sat back thinking I would relax, watch him run himself ragged and head home.

Wrong.

I was able to put off the inevitable by haranguing said two year old back to the table with a pirate ship filled with grilled cheese and potato chips. After a few bites, he was off again with potato chip in hand. This time, his fuel gauge was full and he was much more brazen. Considering most of the children were much older than him, I decided to follow him in. We played with some foam balls for a considerable amount of time before I saw his poop face. I tried to keep his public display a little more private, but he stood directly in front of the entrance with a purple vein throbbing in his forehead while he worked out his #2. I quickly shuffled him back to Dad for a run to the men’s room and took my daughter into the toddler area. We sat quietly while she crawled around with sweet little babies and we all cooed and laughed jovially while relaxing on the bright red mats.

Before my inevitable demise.

About a half an hour later, my husband and son returned. My husband looked like he just completed an entire month of P90X and my son looked crazed like he was hopped up on jungle gym. Between gasps for air my husband said, “I just went down the slide 11 times. It’s your turn.”

Being the show-off I am, I thought: How dramatic. 

I was so wrong.

I quickly learned that the slide entrance wasn’t merely a set of stairs. The first step to get to the top was army crawling up a set of foam logs. Mind you, I have never army crawled in my life. As children piled up behind me waiting for me to lug my frame up the logs, I felt horrified. Thankfully, my toddler wasn’t quite that quick either. At the top of the logs, you needed to squeeze through a two-foot by two-foot hole. Not only was I horrified that I might not fit through this hole, I also felt claustrophobia clutching my insides. Since there were about forty sweaty children behind me, there was no turning back. I pushed my breasts in and wedged through the hole. Much to my dismay, there was another whole set of Logs of Death. I was more motivated this time as I could see the top. I could see the end in sight and was looking forward to feeling like I wasn’t in a coffin. However, once I flopped on the platform, I realized the ceiling was only two-feet tall.

This was where I stopped breathing.

My son was unfazed. He leapt on the slide and soared to the bottom. I took the next track of a slide to quickly follow him down. Due to the fact that I was wearing yoga pants, I sizzled down the slide. I started breathing for a few quick gasps, until I saw my oblivious child jump into my track. Quickly, I tried to grab the sides to stop my body from careening into my offspring. Other than getting plastic burn on my palms, nothing happened. I rocketed off the bottom of the slide, bear-hugging his little body in hopes that this wasn’t an episode of Rescue 911.

Not only was he alive. He was hysterical with happiness.

I, on the other hand, had sweat soaked through my pits, my hair was matted and I had a Charlie Horse. He still wanted to race back up the logs, but I lured him out of the building with promises of cookies and Mickey Mouse.

Next time, I will be prepared.

Family Cross-Country Move: The Shit You Don’t Think About

Family Cross-Country Move: The Shit You Don't Think About | mrsmommymack.com

Last week, my family made the trek from Northeastern Wisconsin to the Portland, Oregon area. This said family included: me, a husband, a two-year old, a one-year old, two cats and a dog. If you’re like everyone I have ever talked to, you’re thinking that I need a brain transplant to do something so masochistic. Truthfully, you might be right. However, I am here and everyone made it alive and relatively unscarred.

With that being said, there were a few bumps along the way. I did my best while planning to Google as many helpful checklists as possible and most stated the obvious like, “bring water for your dog.” If you need that kind of a tip, you have a long way to go before you’re ready to move. These tips are for those who want to expect the unexpected. You already know all of the living beings in your care need sustenance and sleep, yet you feel “underprepared.” That’s why I am here. But, take it from me, you’ll never be ready.

1. Sell Your Shit: I am serious. Throw it on Facebook, a rummage sale or the curb. Once you research the difference between a Uhaul trailer and a truck or moving company you’ll see what I mean. Moving across country does not give you the $19.99 trailer rates. Look at that drill team flag from high school and ask yourself, “Is this worth $1500?” The answer, hopefully, is fuck no.

Also, you will probably need the money. Whatever you think it’s going to cost during the move, double it. Triple it, even. Right now, your brain is clear and logical, but at 9 pm at the last town before the Rockies when your kids are pulling at their car seat restraints like hostages you WILL stop at Walmart to let them pick out anything from the store to shut their little pie holes. Tablet? Sure. Dollhouse? Sure. Electric can opener? Have at it.

2. The Cats:
Don’t be an absolute boob and carry the cats from the house to the kennel that is already packed in the car. For the love of God, please remember this. Otherwise, you will be bleeding from your eyeballs while wrenching your beloved Fluffy out of your bushes, in the dark, at 6 am.

Also, put them in a crate big enough to hold the litterbox. If you think for one hot second your cat is going to poop on a harness like your dog, you’ve got another thing coming.

You’ll want to find Motel 6 locations along the way for the dog, but if the weather permits, the cats will be just fine in the car for a few hours with food and water while you sleep. That is, unless you want to lug a giant kennel with a litterbox full of shit and two screaming cats into a hotel at 10 pm with two children and a lunatic dog at once. I didn’t think so…

3. PAY ATTENTION: You aren’t in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. What do I mean? Well, on day two of the journey, we stopped at the Painted Canyons rest area. I took loads of gorgeous pictures and was so ecstatic about the view that while carrying my two-year old to the restroom I almost walked right into the ass of a buffalo. Literally. It was just sitting there in line like a gentleman. It doesn’t end there either, at rest stop two I let my son run around in the grassy area to burn some energy off and didn’t notice until pulling out of the stop that there was “Rattlesnake Warning” sign posted about every three feet. Mother of the Year?

4. Entertainment: If you’re like me, you’ll think you deserve a Purple Heart for downloading Despicable Me 2 onto your newly purchased iPad as a treat for your toddler. Well, after three days of hearing the squeak of Minions incessantly until your ears burn, you’ll have wished you downloaded every animated film ever created in hopes for some variety. We both know that won’t matter, though. He’ll still pick the Minions every. fucking. time.

Side note: Don’t be an imbecile and leave your iPad off airplane mode. Otherwise, your head will explode when you realize he has somehow managed to be watching YouTube videos of Yo Gabba Gabba on the network simultaneously draining your data usage and bank account.

5. Cheer Up! Yes, this is going to be more stressful than the delivery room. But, there are so many amazing experiences along the way. When your kids see mountains for the first time in their short, precious lives and yell, “Mama, this is AMAZING!” It will be worth every hour of smelling the cats’ latest hot shit piles. Your heart will smile and you will know it was all worth it.

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/130552842@N04/17265266842″>Garage and Moving Van</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/”>(license)</a&gt;

Step One: The Purge


When you get married and have a couple offspring, it is literally awe-inspiring the amount of “things” you accrue. Jerky makers, waffle irons, bassinets, hideous crystal items, plastic fruit, an over-abundance of hemorrhoid items (due to a crippling fear during both pregnancies) and enough bobby pins to replicate the Eiffel Tower and near perfect ratios.

So, now that it’s time to move 31 hours away it’s time to purge all things crappy that take up a hideous amount of your space. No, I will never make jerky. No, I don’t think crystal will make a comeback. It all had to go.

Once we made up our minds to move West, we started selling everything. Furniture, beds, tables, EVERYTHING. Facebook friends snapped up most and curb pickers got a good lot of filth but we still had a LOT. It was time for a rummage sale.

Well, once we managed to dump the majority of our possessions in the front lawns, I sat and waited for buyers. During a lull, my husband decided to drive 45 minutes away to run an errand, leaving me to wheel and deal.

About 20 minutes into his vacancy, I was moving a chair to the edge of the driveway and tripped on the edge of the asphalt, fell and heard all the tendons of my left ankle snap and crack.

Great.

As I writhed in a pile of moist leaves, screaming and moaning like a Life Alert commercial, I realized I didn’t have my phone.

Better.

After about five minutes of blinding pain and a string of swear words so dirty they make me cringe recalling them, I managed to crawl through (literal) broken glass to my phone. As my husband rushed home, I couldn’t move. I sat in a chair with thousands of leaves, worms and sod all over my body while people shopped my sale and I pretended not to feel like I might need an amputation.

Finally, after two walkerbys tried to take advantage of my whole scene and I almost gave them everything for free to force them away from me, my husband returned.

I drove myself to the hospital. My legs were No-Shave-November-hairy. Found out my ankle was sprained. Received a giant black boot, crutches and Vicodin and wheeled to the curb. Realized when I got him that the ass of my pants ripped when I fell.

Now, I get to pack a five bedroom house with crutches, a ten pound boot and a deep pain-killer haze.

Why wouldn’t this happen to me?