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!!!!”

Advertisements

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.

Pregnancy Tip #547: For the LOVE OF GOD Shave Your Ferocious Bush. Learn From My Mistakes.

Pregnancy Tip #547: For the LOVE OF GOD Shave Your Ferocious Bush. Learn From My Mistakes. | mrsmommymack.com

I decided to take a trip down memory lane today. I wanted to write something that will captivate my audience. If I know anything about my audience, you want to laugh and most of the time at my expense. I dug deep into my brain for some of the most embarrassing times I have endured. Surprisingly enough, most of these memories involve feces — and after writing about my daughter eating poop, I figured I would spare you for a bit.

Being a mom isn’t easy. It’s always full of hysterics, tears and heart-bursting happiness. When my daughter was about to be born, however, life just wasn’t ready for the Lifetime movie moments I had dreamed of.

My daughter’s birth was a planned c-section. After having a terrifying three-day horror show of a birth with my son that ended up in an emergency c-section, I opted to cut to the chase. I wasn’t thrilled about being gutted like a fish again, but I was thrilled about immediate pain relief.

My husband and I met my mother at the hospital before my daughter was born. We were all glowing with anticipation to meet this little girl. My husband lugged paisley u-shaped pillows, piles of polka-dotted blankets and more than one tutu into our hospital room. We were ready.

I laid on the bed in my starchy gown ready to get this over with. During my first c-section, the time between the announcement of necessary c-section and the moment I heard my son’s first cry was less than 10 minutes. I was expecting this type of urgency during round two and was sadly mistaken.

The elderly nurse that would be preparing me for surgery waltzed in immediately and cut to the chase.

“Did you shave?” She croaked, no doubt just stepping in from a cigarette break.

“Huh?” I said, quickly glimpsing at my loved ones’ bright red faces seated next to me hoping she was talking about my armpits.

“Your bikini area, did you shave it?” She asked again, this time with much more vigor in her turkey neck.

“I was not told this was necessary…” I whispered, hoping I could avoid what was certain to be mortifying.

“No problem. I will take care of it,” she said and with the whirl of one liver-spotted hand she had a hedgetrimmer between my thighs.

Did I mention my mother is still sitting right next to me?

“Holy hell!” I squealed as I watched the scene before me unravel.

“The Packers play tonight, eh?” My mom quickly questioned my husband at ten higher octaves than normal to be heard over the landscaping that was taking place in the room. I’m not sure my husband ever answered her as he was vomiting up giggles so hard he couldn’t function.

While I stared at the ceiling, pinching the fat of my thighs willing this moment to be over, I heard the trimmers stop. The room grew silent with happiness as the awkward cloud began to dissolve. Before I could let out the pained breath that was gripping inside my rib cage, I heard ol’ Turkey Neck screech.

“We need another clippers in here!” She bellowed out the open door of my room to apparently catch the attention of every on-looker in a 30 mile radius.

My lack of a beauty regime in the prior nine months was wielding a monster that could not be tamed by one go-round with a trimmer. My mother’s face was puce as she looked on from her rocking chair. A chair she, no doubt, envisioned holding her granddaughter in for the first time, but instead watches an Afro pile at the feet of a nurse who should have retired during the Clinton Administration.

My lower half burned while this woman wrenched, tugged and buzzed every inch of my bits. We could have eaten dinner off my loins that evening. She didn’t give up though, not until 30 MINUTES passed and I whimpered in pain. Pain for both my bikini area and shriveling pride.

If it wasn’t for the distraction of the surgery and soon-to-be newborn, I am sure I would have died more than once of embarrassment that afternoon. Moral of the story is: even if you can’t see your va-jay-jay for six months, it still needs to be at-the-ready no matter what the circumstance.

Mom Confession: Have Your Kids Eaten Poop? Mine Have…More than Once.

Mom Confession: Have Your Kids Eaten Poop? Mine Have...More than Once.  | mrsmommymack.com

Please don’t judge me.

Yesterday was the worst day I have ever had as a mom. It made me rethink my decision to procreate.

Let me take you back…

I had just gotten home from work and was just getting ready to relax. Kids got their kisses and hugs and ran off to play. As I stretched my weary body I said to my husband, “Isn’t it so nice now that the kids can play together alone?” Feeling like I had just jinxed myself, I peeked in their room. Adorable playing was taking place and my heart felt like mush. How precious! What cherubs!

About 3.5 minutes later, all hell broke loose.

I sat back in the living room and heard my son shut the bedroom door. I should have went with my gut and went back in. But I waited two minutes and opened the door to pure horror.

My son had taken off his diaper and my one year old daughter had one turd in her hand and one turd in HER MOUTH. The worst part? She was smiling.

I stood there. I froze. Bile rose in my throat as I looked at her poopy lips and my son’s poopy butt hiding in the corner.

What. The. Ever-loving FUCK.

Quickly, I leapt to action after swallowing my dinner back down. I screamed for my husband who threw the Poop Gifter in the tub as I dug my finger in the Poop Eater’s craw.

I have never gagged so hard in my life as I called Poison Control and had the most embarrassing, yet reassuring conversation take place. People sure are nice on that hotline and, apparently, unfazed by my heathen offspring.

Now that the shock has worn off, I think the most horrifying part was the gleeful expression on my daughter’s face. She liked it! What the hell have I spawned?!

You Go, Kim Kardashian!

Dear Moms,

Please put down your pitchforks.

I know the whole world has seen Kim Kardashian’s #breaktheinternet photo shoot. All I can say is I am happy for her.

After hearing radio DJs this morning slamming her for being an irresponsible mother, I got pissed. If you are a mom, you know the struggle of body image after kids. I have seen Kim on her show cry over what her little girl has done to her body. Haven’t we all been there, moms? At the hospital after my second child I cried naked in the bathroom for a half an hour looking at the war zone that was my body. I threw in the towel on dreams of bikinis and just embraced Spanx and moved on, sadly.

I would give a king’s ransom to have a glistening body on the cover of a magazine. Look at how proud she is? Why would you ruin this for her?

I mean, I initially wanted to smother her with her shimmering butt cheeks and yell from the rooftops how outraged I was at the audacity. How could she?! But, we shouldn’t be jealous. We should be happy that people like Kim are keeping moms “hot.” We don’t have to chop our hair off and hide under Mickey Mouse sweatshirts!

But what will her daughter do when she is old enough to stumble across these photos? Well, hopefully, her parents will explain that this is a human body and everyone has one and you should never be ashamed.

Well, that’s my two cents.

But, really, relax.

Ashley

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

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?

Grab the Wheel and Point it West

Where have I been?

Here. In Smalltown, USA. Two babies, a house, a husband, a little dog and my own business.

Same town I grew up in with the same people I grew up with. This little comfortable bubble that has cocooned me from chasing my dreams and lulled me into a sedated lethargy for three years. It took a full year for me to even notice I am not writing. I take that back, I was writing the newsletter for the Crivitz Area Woman’s Club which has a readership of around forty. Around here, that’s kind of a big deal.

But, I think my Fairy Godmother woke me up a couple months ago with a wakeup call. Why am I not writing? What am I waiting for? Why don’t I even FEEL like writing? What the hell is happening to me?

So, that night I woke up and hopped online and started applying for dream writing jobs. And based on my blog and award-winning personality (I kid) I landed an interview at Amazon for a humor writer position. Yes, THAT Amazon. As in, fly me halfway across the country and present to a board. Suddenly I was awake. Colors returned. I was so motivated to win these big wigs over that I forgot that it haven’t written so much as a Christmas card in the past twelve months.

Ugh.

I went. I sat like Ellie Mae Clampett in the waiting room watching hipster after hipster enter into Amazon HQ. I was alive. I was dreaming. I knew I could never go back to what used to be.

While I didn’t get the position due to the fact that I have been off the writing grid for a while, I am now a changed woman. Being in Seattle, I knew the West Coast was for me. So, I got a job in Portland and in two days I drive me, my husband, two kids, dog, two cats and a UHaul halfway across the USA.

This fire burning in my heart is a welcomed friend I haven’t seen in a long time. I can’t wait to see what we accomplish together.

Dating Your Weight

I have been stalling writing this blog for fear that I was being punked, but alas, I am BELOW 300 pounds! Sitting at 298 and happy as a clam.

The fact that I am so excited about being 298 really got me thinking. I came to the conclusion that my years of: yo-yo dieting, tears at the scale, starvation, all cigarette diet, binge eating, stretch marks, etc are very similar to my dating years. I mean, isn’t your weight nothing more than a relationship? Think about it, you never get it right the first time, you appreciate every lost pound when you finally do it right, you do some very bad things in the beginning…Doesn’t that sound about right? I mean, my all cigarette diet can be compared to the guy I dated in college who pretended I wasn’t his girlfriend,
right?

I mean, let’s be real, I wouldn’t be excited about 298 pounds if this was my first go-round with weight loss. I remember when I lost 75 pounds in college and all I could think about was the next goal. I never appreciated where I was and how much work it took to get there. It was a disgusting, cancerous obsession that racked my mind day-in and day-out. My best friend lost 100 pounds last year eating in a way that she has since changed. However, when she was in the middle of this weight loss battle it was nearly impossible to talk to her. You could see her eyes racing like a caged beast eyeing the cupboards. She literally got up mid-conversation and ran three miles out of pure guilt and then felt guilty because she didn’t run six miles. Doesn’t that sound like that guy that you sat around waiting for him to call you? You missed out on endless fun nights with the girls or even just mental stability because all you could think about was if and when he would finally call.

Woof. What a realization.

Now, I can HONESTLY say I feel like a switch clicked in my head. I am not obsessed about what my next meal is going to be and when. I am not crying because I went up in weight instead of down. Yes, I am celebrating my wins but I know I’m not perfect. Just like I appreciate the amazing man I married. The same man who told me how skinny my face looked yesterday. I wouldn’t have known how lucky I was to be at 298 or how lucky I am to have my husband 10 years ago. Now, I wouldn’t trade him or this weight-win for the world.