Grocery Shopping in just 47 simple steps!

1) Decide to go grocery shopping

2) Put it off for 3 days

3) Wake up on morning of 4th day and say fuckkkk we have to go today for sure

4) Think about what we should have for dinner for the next 7 nights

5) Become too overwhelmed and decide to plan for 3 nights

6) Spend a cumulative total of 45 minutes looking for new recipes to try

7) Become too overwhelmed and decide to make 2 of the 5 go to meals that are on rotation every 9 days and focus on only one new meal 

8) Begin to make list on paper because every time you do a list in your phone you end up dropping the god damn thing while trying to juggle cart pushing and you are one screen crack away from Sudden Instant PhoneDeath Syndrome

9) Begin the 25-45 minute process of getting 2 small children and yourself ready to do anything outside your home

10) Go back upstairs 14 times for the things you forgot to bring down the other 13 times

11) Get everyone in the car

12) Go back inside for grocery list you left on counter

13) Go back inside for epipens you left on counter

14) Go back inside for kid snack you left on counter that's a necessity because its almost fucking noon and by the time you finally get backed out of the driveway they will both be yelling because they are hungry

15) Drive to grocery store

16) Extract both kids from vehicle

17) Carry 50lbs of kid into store

18) Wait 3 minutes while oldest child picks out the right car cart to ride in

19) Strap baby into baby seat, make sure oldest put his seat belt on to prevent unplanned escapes

20) Obtain groceries, place into cart

21) Backtrack 7 times because even though you have a list you still manage to either:

a) forget to write things down that you think of in store

b) get distracted and miss items actually on the list because you never bring a pen to cross items off

22) Unload groceries onto conveyor belt

23) Pay for groceries

24) Pack up groceries into many small bags

25) Put small bags into cart

26) Argue with older child about why he cant eat a raw potato while leaving store

27) Push cart out to car

28) Unload children into car hopefully with as little reenactment of Fight Club scenes as possible

29) Unload groceries into car

30) Return cart to cart corral

31) Push all the other shittily put back carts all the way to the back of the corral because we are a god damn majestic species not a hovel full of crap slinging monkeys you garbagepeople so lets start acting like it FUCK

32) Get into vehicle

33) Take 25 second brain nap from sensory overload 

34) Drive back home

35) Begin to unload groceries from car with kids still strapped in--this is crucial. Leave them restrained or you will add 47 more steps to the list

36) Set all 15 bags on counter because you will gladly break fingers to not have to make multiple trips

37) Extract children from car

38) Remove outdoor clothing from children

39) Begin to hastily start throwing things on plates for lunch as children whine 

40) Turn on movie to lull them into a quiet stupor while eating before the milk spoils on the counter

41) Begin to unpack groceries

42) Realize the fridge and pantry need to be decluttered

43) Declutter them while putting away new items and stacking dirty tupperware on counter because the dishwasher is full of clean dishes 

44) Look around at the piles of shit everywhere and take 15 seconds to cry silently in the bathroom 

45) Get third wind 

46) Put away the last items with a triumphant gleam in eye

47) End Scene: Grocery level complete

Halloween Teal Pumpkin Pride

Food allergies are probably kind of a joke to you. Maybe in your mind it evokes a similar reaction to hearing someone say their kid gets gas from gluten. You nod and smile and internally roll your eyes. You then briefly wonder why food allergies seem to be becoming a parenting "fad" and don't remember even knowing one kid with a food allergy when you were young. You think these parents must be helicopter moms and dads or overreacting busybodies with nothing better to do than sit at a PTA meeting and plead for a peanut /treenut free classroom for their precious snowflake. And you think "Who the hell are you to ask my kid to forgo their PB&J? My kid LOVES PB&J its the only thing she eats and here you are saying she cant bring one to school? No. Nope sorry honey, not going to happen. How about you just watch your kids yourself huh? Why don't you just be an actual parent and explain to them that they cant eat things with peanuts?! So what if they cant read labels, you should be able to show them every single thing that may contain peanuts and train them to just not eat it! And Halloween? Are you stupid??? Its freaking Halloween for christs sake!! Why should I have to buy stickers or nilla wafers on the off chance your little tike decides to stop by my door?? He can get a snickers bar like everyone else and should know better to not eat it. If he cant handle that responsibility, then don't let him go trick or treating, duh! In fact, you probably should just home school him as well, or better yet, confine him to a bubble in your basement.


I want you to know I've tried writing this from a humble perspective and from a logical focus and from a pleading lens but its Oct 30th, we are one day away from Halloween and after reading enough stupid shit on the internet to make my head explode, I decided fuck it, I'm just going to be me and if this pisses you off or offends you or annoys you, I really don't care.

My youngest kid has one confirmed food allergy. We found out when he was 9 months old after his doctor told us to try giving him peanut butter for the first time. I went home that day and gave him less than a cm worth on an M&M sized piece of bread and he instantly went into what I later learned was the beginning of an anaphylactic reaction. It was terrifying and even more so because he didn't really look that bad, but I could tell something was very wrong. After being sent home from the ER without any medication administered or any testing done I realized that this shit, this having a food allergy business, if confirmed, was going to be a constant uphill battle with the rest of the nonallergy having world. Testing done the following day at his normal doctors office confirmed my fears a week later--he was highly allergic to peanuts and what he experienced was a serious reaction.

We were told to remove all peanut products and possible peanut products from our home. That meant any product made in a facility that also processes peanuts isn't safe due to the possibility of cross contamination. We were to always carry two epipen injectors with the baby at all times, where ever he goes, even if its just across the street. Epipens are a lifesaving way to quickly inject a person with epinephrine, a drug that helps halt a serious allergic reaction in its tracks. The faster one is used, the better chance the person has of preventing the life threatening stages of anaphylaxis. We were to avoid ice cream shops, Asian restaurants, and bakeries as they are the most common places to have accidental ingestion of peanuts. We were going to have to get used to telling friends and relatives no you cant just feed our kid without checking with us first. We were going to have to eagle eye every playground, playplace, splashhpad for signs of kids eating peanut butter, or peanuts, or candy with peanut filling and then pray to all the gods that we neutralized the threat before our allergic kid accidentally toddled over and picked up that Reeses wrapper and shoved it down his throat.

We were told to basically be on terror level red at all times for the rest of his life, unless we are one of the lucky families, and hes one of the 20% of kids that outgrows it. So, there's an 80% chance this is our and his new normal for the rest of his life. The rest of his life. Let that sink in. My kid may have to be constantly on alert for signs that he may die from simply doing something he has to do every single day to survive--eat. You convince a teenage boy to carry an epipen with him at all times. You try to get a grade schooler to truly understand why she cant eat the rice krispie treats all her friends are eating at the birthday party. You explain to a toddler who loves eating everything that isn't nailed down why his world is actually a minefield. This isn't just about fear for parents, its about having to literally teach your own child to be afraid of food enough to take their allergy seriously, but equally empower them so that they can function in a relatively normal way at the same time. Because parenting is all sunshine and rainbow farts without that on top of it.

You look me in the eye and tell me now that its ridiculous for parents of food allergy kids to ask other adults to please take simple steps every once in a while to try and keep their food allergy kids safe. 1 in 13 kids in the US has a confirmed food allergy, a diagnosis that has steadily risen over the past years. These kids aren't 1 in a million, they are in your neighborhoods, your churches, your sports leagues, your schools. If the trend continues, and the numbers continue to rise, it is only a matter of time until your own family or friend's family is impacted as well. Before my son's diagnosis, I didn't get it either--you never really do until its your own kid.

So for anyone out there that thinks this is whats wrong with our country today and that everyone is too sensitive and that want me to bow my head and feel embarrassed for asking for help in keeping my kid and other kids safe:

For everyone else that is offering toys instead of candy or painting a pumpkin teal or simply not being a judgey POS regarding food allergies, a giant thank you very much, you do not know how much you are appreciated by these kids and parents.

For more information on food allergies visit http://www.foodallergy.org/


Happy Halloween to all y'all out there big and small

Year 7

Its taken this long for me to allow myself to realize that I have no fucking clue how to grieve you. There are stages and the last once is supposed to be accompanied with this literal physical release that is a kind of giving up of all the pain and hurt and sadness to the universe. I havent done that yet. I havent even come close. I can feel it all inside wanting to be free, wanting to be released from the cage Ive made with cement blocks and mortar and heavy heavy chains. But Ive forgotten where I put the key. My hands dont remember the pathways of tearing down this house I built myself to contain you. And so it sits, heavy in my chest. Full of all my incredibly intense fears of truly having to let you go.

For the first few years I couldnt even talk about you with family. Your death was an invisible pink elephant crying in the corner, anguishing from lonliness. Someone look at me!! Dont you see me?? Im still here!! But I refused to look. Your death was a faraway thing, like someone discussing the pyramids who'd never actually been to Eygpt. I was told how strong I was, how well I was doing. I couldnt cry with people about you. And to watch others cry about you to me? The rage!! The horror! NONONO STOP. You dont get to be sad. You dont get to cry. I am the one who should not ever have to get out of bed again and here I am comforting you? Too much. Too much. I block things out. I dont want to feel them again, I dont want these memories of these people telling me these things about you that I already know. How could I not know? I lived in you. We shared the same blood. You were my home.

This year there is an acknowledgement for the first time of how much anger is there. Thats a step, maybe I am moving forward? But slowly so slowly. Dragging my feet and shouting the entire way. So much anger. How could you leave me???? You were all I had !!! Just you and me for forever and now forever is gone because you left. You left me.
You
       left
             me
                  here

You went somewhere I cant follow. So Here I am. Here I sit. Here I lay. Here I eat. Here I sleep. All the while trying to continue wanting to do it without you. I am trying. I try.

I listened to a woman speak about Death. She said we choose our paths in life, that before we are born we plan it all out like blueprints, and every heartache, every loss, we signed up for. We chose to experience it. She said there is a heaven but its more like here than we imagine. She said I will see you again, that you are around, that you can let me know youre with me. I get a brief mental image of you in a garden in this heaven she described, which is funny because you never were really into outside and plants like me and gram are. But I see you clear as day, with a little rake and you look up like you just remember you had somewhere you were planning to be, but that you got too immersed in your work. These things swirl around in my head like leaves caught in a tidepool and the undercurrent that pulls at me without fail is the wanting. These are things I want to believe. I want so bad for these things she said to be true. Equally as hard, I feel the weight of my cement house, tethering me in disbelief, unwilling to let me feel this hope, this joy.

The grief of you wont let me feel things. Childlike wonder still gets through probably because thats something Ive never given up. I can still feel the stars and a beautiful sunset or sunrise or a giant flock of birds fully. But other things, very important life altering things? They are grey around the edges. My wedding, the births of my children, building a new home with my husband, all have these little grey edges. Like photographs forgotten and left too long in damp basements.

 I want to be fully happy again. I want to see the true joy in all things. Ive just forgotten how. I still laugh. My husband makes me laugh. My kids make me laugh. I love watching them. I stare at them for culminations of hours and hours upon hours. Watching them play. Watching their little minds figure things out, make up stories. In them I see me and I want to protect them from these hurts I harbor within. I want them to grow up feeling secure and free and light. Lightness. All childhoods should be made of lightness. Heaviness is an adult thing.

Every passing year it becomes more clear to me how much I dont know. I do not know if this is the correct way to lament another souls passing. Is it supposed to take this long? Shouldnt I feel patched up by now? Why cant I remember how to remove these chains and bricks from around you? I dont know. I dont know. Im trying. I try.

But time passes. It moves on. I wonder what you think of me, what you think of what Im doing, what Ive done. Are you proud?  Do you wish you could hold your grandchildren upon your lap? I tell them about you. I will never stop telling them. Jack has your fiestiness. Mookie has your eyes. He really does. They are hazel. I hope they stay that way. I mourn a bit for the baby girl that I couldve named after you. Is that wrong? I dont know. I think I just wanted to be able to see something alive that was part you and carried your name. Something I could see and hold and touch and love. But Mookie has your eyes. And Jack has your spirit. You are in there, just as you are in me.

Today I will go to your grave. I will clean it and put up some yellow and organge flowers. And I will hold my head up to the sky and wait for the sunshine to fall across my face and pretend its your hand there. My children will be with me. We will go and sit to honor you. We have not forgotten you Holly Marie.

And yet, this story isnt one of hopelessness. Grief, Im learning, takes time. Grief, isnt what we are told it will be, its a russian doll with 55 inner pieces. What we are told equates to the cheerful smiling face painted on the outermost doll. I am working my way through these dolls, and when I get to the tiniest one I think at last I will be free. Free to fully feel again. Free to throw this hurt to the universe and to only smile when I think of you.
Im trying.
I try.

In memory of Holly Marie Stadnik

June 12th 1957-Oct 22nd 2008

#LetGo

Being a human person on this planet in the last 300 years, and more so being a woman human person on this planet, we are told from the time we are very small that looks are the most important quality we posses. The way we look, our physical attractiveness and how fuckable we are/ how long we can hold that title trump all other qualities we have. A woman's kindness, strength, intelligence, athletic ability, humor, wit, ingenuity, leadership, empathy, and artistic talent don't mean shit if she isn't also conventionally physically attractive. And we've swallowed this crap and bought into it and put it up on a pedestal as Gospel truth mostly because our mothers did, as their mothers had before them. A cycle of inter-generational self abuse. Decades of negative inner monologues, of missed social gatherings, of crying in dressing rooms and hiding under layers of makeup or clothing or both.

As a 31 year old woman, I'm finally fucking sick of it. I'm done.

By done I don't mean that I have the mental willpower to never have a negative thought about myself again. I mean that when I do think something negative about my physical appearance, when I begin the "I cant/I shouldn't/I'm not ___enough" I am actively pumping the brain brakes and shouting "NO!!!" super loud in my brain face like you would when the dog starts to pee on the carpeting. I'm over telling myself what not to wear, what not to eat, how not to act. I'm just fucking done with it. I'm tired of fighting who I am and who I have the potential to become. I'm sick of trying to make myself fit into the box of what is acceptable for a woman to be. Have you ever seen I Heart Huckabees? If not, get that shit on amazon video or something. One of the stories in the movie involves a swimsuit model realizing that she just wants to eat a fucking brownie without wanting to kill herself for it and wear 18th century bonnets and overalls all day because that's who she really is inside. 

That's pretty much where I am at. Bonnet and overalls and a big ass bag of Mickeys donuts. Sitting in my driveway barefoot, watching the birds fly around.

Look, I'm not telling you to stop caring about how you look, or to stop setting fitness goals or to stop lifting small vehicles at Crossfit or writing meal plans or redoing your makeup on your lunch break or making sure your shoes match your work blouse. If those things bring you joy and DO NOT BRING YOU STRESS/DO NOT MAKE YOU THINK NEGATIVE THINGS ABOUT YOURSELF, by all means, you keep on rocking in the free world sister. I just want you to make sure that anything you do that somehow involves your appearance, you are doing 159% because it makes you feel good and not because someone/the world told you to.

You do not need to change who you are for other people.

I repeat: YOU DO NOT NEED TO CHANGE WHO YOU ARE FOR OTHER PEOPLE.

On the left is me 5 years ago at my wedding. I P90X'd and ate chicken and green beans for a month to get to that level. On the right is me a week ago. 5 years have past, two big ass baby boys, and shit looks differently. Here in the States, it is no longer socially acceptable for me to wear a two piece. I'm supposed to fucking throw in the towel and hide my stretch marks and skin saggage  and extra fat from the delicate eyes of the masses. I'm supposed to feel ashamed. I'm supposed to feel lazy. I'm supposed to feel unhealthy. I'm supposed to do whatever it takes to fix this or hide this from the world. Buy a big ass box of Spanx and pretend this isn't what my body looks like now after growing and birthing two lives. But guess what? This is reality folks. I look like this now. I'm not going to hide it or cover it up or pretend its not there. Maybe Ill get super motivated next month and bust my ass doing some fitness program and my body will look close to what it did at my wedding. Maybe I'll start mainlining liquefied donut holes and gain the 75 preggo lbs back. Maybe I'll do neither and this is how I look from now until the end of my days.

The point is this: how I physically look truly impacts the rest of the human population exactly zero percent. Am I a decent human being? Yes. Do I try to be kind and do no harm as much as possible? Absolutely. Do I go out of my way to help people? Yes sir. Am I funny? Your mom sure thinks so. Can I still rollerblade and ride my bike like I did in my 20s? You bet your sweet ass I can. Do I know my great grandmas meatball recipe that came over with her from Italy? Yup. Am I  trying to be the best parent I know how to be? Every single day. Can I read faster than lightening? Indubitably. Am I a tiger in the bedroom? Ask my husband, but duh, yes.

Are you starting to see a pattern? Are you catching my drift? These are the things that matter in life. Who you are and how you act and what you do and how well you do it. How you look is but one tiny facet in the jewel that makes up YOU. YOU have the power to stop kneeling before the alter of the False God of Womanly Perfection, you just have to take a mental step back and let go.

I went to the beach over the 4th with my family and I wore a bikini and it was weirdly one of the most freeing moments of my entire life. Not even when I looked like an extra for the Victoria Secret fashion show did I ever feel this liberated in a swimsuit. It was like I finally exhaled after two and a half decades of holding my breath.

I want for you to exhale too.



I love you you beautiful majestic stallions

Have a wonderful day

~Maria

Angel Food Cake-a-thon

Greetings!

Today I decided to try and make an angel food cake out of a box--don't get it twisted--because I'm having friends and kids over and its approximately 765 degrees out so eating brownies or heavy pie would kick you directly into Type 2 Diabetes. When its hot you must eat light feeling desserts because you cant just not eat a dessert when you have guests over. Its one of the commandments.

At the store I picked the only angel food box mix that was available.

I didn't look at the back because I was more concerned with the fact that my two and a half year old just decided its super great to slam the tiny baby shopping cart he was pushing into the back of my knee--after he put 3 bags of cheese popcorn into it. After getting it home, and after doing 75 other things, I was finally able to take a gander at this beast. I was instantly like oh fuck this noise. This is a box mix. I am used to maybe 3 or 4 simple instructions. Its why I enjoy baking. Its simple, its easy, once its in the oven your only job is to make sure you don't forget to set a timer. Not so with angel food, my friends, not so.

Lets start out with a general overview of the instructions, shall we?

There are 14 items in bold print and one sentence that is in bold print and CAPS LOCK.

THIS CAKE IS NOT FUCKING AROUND. 

We are already off to a bad start. The top right corner has a sentence That Feels The Need To Have Every Word In It Capitalized. Do Not Eat Raw Cake Batter. Ha! Ok. I'll also not eat an entire tub of noosa in one sitting. STFU Box. You don't dictate my life. Raw cake batter is not the equivalent to pure Colombian grade heroin, so just settle down. 

Ok first step: Move Oven rack to lowest position or middle position. Not sure why move needs to be in bold. You're already yelling at me. We are literally on step one. I look at my oven, think meh, there are 3 racks in there, I'll just put it on the middle because if there is one thing I absolutely will not tolerate its being yelled at by a box of fucking cake batter. I refuse to move the rack out of defiance. *This decision will come back to haunt me later.

Alright step two: Beat Cake mix and water in extra large bowl on low speed for 30 seconds, and then medium speed for one minute. Ok, that's oddly specific. I get out the stopwatch on my phone and prepare to follow these directions because I'm afraid if I don't the box will grow a tiny cardboard hand and slap me. I should mention before actually mixing at these precise timed intervals, I neglected to fasten the mixer attachments completely because I had to run upstairs to give a hug to a half asleep toddler who somehow managed to hit his head while sleeping in a crib. Naturally, I lost one spinner to the batter during my episode, at which point I grabbed it from what was becoming an increasingly frothy liquid and threw it into the sink. Onward we go--things are going so well!

You may recall from 2 paragraphs ago that I was warned NOT to eat the raw cake batter. Again, for no reason other than to show an inanimate object it cant control me, after mixing I dip my finger in and have a taste. It tastes like if you poured pop into a solution of watered down vinegar and sugar. Unpleasant. How will this turn into a delicious cake? I have no idea, clearly.

Next I'm told to pour this nasty vinegar/pop batter into some pans. There are differing instructions for all the different pan options and at this point Ive just stopped caring, and grab the first two pans in my cupboard, which happen to be acceptable. Success!

I pop these babies in the oven on the middle rack and set the timer for 40 minutes because the terrifying CAPS LOCK and bold sentence screams at me to DO NOT UNDERBAKE or you will unleash the fires of hell upon you and your children's children until the end of times. In my haste and apathy at these bitch ass instructions, I ignore the side note about batter overflowing if you use a certain type of pan because I'm all like I don't even know what that pan is, this doesn't apply to me--NEXT. 

Cue 20 minutes later, and while I'm doing my best to eat an entire container of hummus without coming up for air, I decide to stroll past the oven and see how my special little cake friends are doing. To my horror quickly turned apathy, I realize why there was so much fuss about the location of the god damn racks. One of my cakes has decided to grow through the rack above it like one of those poor trees that grows around a bike chained to it from the 18th century or something. In my haste to fix this situation I neglected to take an oven picture, but once having extracted the top rack, I did get a photo of the damage still clinging to it. So professional!

Lucky for me, I obviously didn't divide the batter evenly, so only one cake was seriously disfigured because of my hubris. I decide to go back and reread the rest of the directions to prevent another catastrophe, because at this point I'm guessing that this cake is going to require me to stand on my head while reciting the Sri Lankan National Anthem while removing it from the oven because it is the most high maintenance dessert ever. 

And look at that! The final explanation of what should be the easiest thing about baking--taking the already baked thing out of the fucking oven--is the longest paragraph in the instructions! I am told I must IMMEDIATELY turn pan upside down or on its side depending on the type of pan and am told to look on the side of the box for picture examples on how to not fuck up setting a pan down. This box couldn't fit all its bullshit onto the back, it requires an extra side with actual illustrations. 

Jesus take the wheel. It also reminds me to only set the pans on a heatproof surface to cool, which is good because I was planning on balancing them on my baby's head until I read that. 

The edges and tops are crispy as hell because I was so scared after messing up the rack thing that I was determined I would not underbake the entire thing as well. My brain is a constant mix of caring a lot and not giving a fuck at all, so this process was a roller coaster of emotions for me. 

The results:

One angel food cake that looks like it was run over by a child on a bike 

and 

One angel food cake that is pretty and gets to sit on a fancy platter as a reward for not being a mess like its brother. 

What have I learned from this experience? Angel food cake is a fussy bitch and even though I learned the hard way that the instructions do serve a purpose, in the future I will be buying this shit from the grocery store premade. 

Thank you for your time. Have a great HumpDay my Sex Kittens

~Maria

Some things I think about

1) I really do not know what I would do if I were to lose the majority of my face in a grill explosion or chimpanzee mauling or mistaken identity acid bombing. I think that as a courtesy to others I would need to wear some type of head covering. Because whenever I see stories on TLC about people that survived a fire all I can think is what a complete fucking crock of shit it is that you not only have to live with what has been described as the one of the most painful injuries known to man, one that never completely stops hurting, but on top of it you now look like a fucking monster. That's just bullshit.

2) How long do redwing blackbirds live? Does bird time feel like human time? Is 3 bird years the same as 80 human? I hope so. It already feels like we don't get enough time here, imagine if you were a fucking bird.

3) Why are there no female chefs at Benihana? What do I need to do to become one? I don't want to buy an $875 knife but I'm pretty sure that's got to be a requirement.

4) In public I make a point to not look at my phone while waiting for things even though it feels uncomfortable at first because what really feels uncomfortable to you is being alone with your thoughts and if that's the case then you are already fucked from the get go.

5) The universe is unbelievably mind blowingly crazy. I hate that I cant see it from where I live, not really anyways. I need to get to a place where I can.

6) If someone ever tries to steal my car with my kids in it, I think jumping on the hood and using the screwdriver I need to start keeping in my pocket to smash the windshield will scare the thief enough to pull the car over and run. Out crazy the crazy. It is the only way.

7) I want to know all the different ways to disable different large animals if they are attacking me or someone I love. Or just like even. Like, supposedly you punch a shark in the nose to get it to fuck off. Do you choke out a puma? I mean either way, you're going to get fucked up, but it'd be nice to know the best chance Id have at getting the thing to go away.

8) Where the hell am I supposed to keep my cell phone in my car that wont result in it being flung through the god damn windshield in an accident? In my bra? Because its not very helpful in case of emergency if its 138 yards away in a ditch puddle.

 9) I sometimes honestly do not comprehend how any of us survived toddlerhood. Like between acting like a complete asshole that by any other human standard would warrant being left in a cornfield, to knowingly jumping off the bed onto a sideways laundry basket, it really boggles my mind.

10) When I know that severe weather is on the way, I always put on my tennis shoes. I have a storm survival box with food/diapers/water/dog leash/phone charger/band aids/flashlight/radio, etc etc, but you better bet your ass that if your house gets flattened and you need to climb out of wood and cement and glass and nail filled rubble that you're going to be happy you decided to put something solid on your feet instead of a god damn flip flop.

11) I try really hard not to judge the conversations of people at coffee shops. Its difficult.

12) I loath when parents make their small children jog with them. They are fucking 8 years old. They don't need to go for a god damn run. If you are raising them right they should still have the metabolism of a dormouse and wont need to begin jogging until their mid to late nevers. Just knock it off. Put them on their bike for Christs sake.

13) Being a parent is really really hard at times. But kids are awesome. They don't give a fuck. They just live. They are inspiring. Plus taking care of something that completely jump starts your maturity. Its a good thing over all. I recommend it.

14) I love coins and whenever I hold one I think about who touched it and how many places its been and what kind of crazy shit has it seen. Coins are the inanimate flies on the wall of our lives. They probably see all kinds of fucked up shit. On your nightstand could be the nickle that was in the cup holder of OJ as he drove his white bronco into the sunset. I bet coins just naturally become pervs because of all the sex they witness. Also don't you dare ever spend a Sacajawea dollar. They are the closest we have to real treasure and should be treated thusly.

15) I know tacobell isn't real Mexican food but I love it for what it is just as much as I adore authentic Mexican cuisine. B) Taco bell is the fast food establishment that's made me sick the most, yet it remains in my heart and in my craving bank. I got sick off thin mints once when I was like 7 and I cant even smell them without wanting to vom. Black magic TB. You evil temptress.

16) Car horns are for honking. Like, that is their main function. IDK if its a Midwest thing but I'm the only person I know who uses their horn at least every other day. Ive gotten really good at using it for different corrections based on the duration of the beep. I'm honking to let you know you need to get your shit together in some way. No need to thank me.

17) Real life calorie counting is so incredibly depressing I cant believe there are people out there that do not have to do it out of medical necessity that continue to and can actually get out of bed in the morning. Fuck that. Thats why I have a fitbit. I walked 10,000 steps today mother fuckers and burned 2500 calories, I can eat this entire pizza by myself!!! I WILL LIVE FOREVERRRRRRR

18) If you enjoyed this let me know. I could do this shit all night. My brain never stops.

19) Love you love buggies

~Maria

A Letter to Moms who keep writing Letters to Other Moms

Dear Moms

I see you sitting there at your laptop wondering what you could write about that has the highest chance of getting your Mommyblog to go viral via Shared Facebook posts. I see you wracking your overtired brain as you think about everything that's been done before in an attempt to put forth something original into the universe. I see you. And I know. I get it. Its hard coming up with things to talk about in regards to parenting and being a mom that haven't already been discussed a million different times in a million different ways. I know. I know. Its ok. Did I say I know already? I know.

But before you decide to write another Letter, to another Mom, that you Saw in a Target, that for the 45 seconds you looked at her seemed frazzled or overwhelmed or pissed off, or exhausted, I just want to tell you a few things:

Mama:

Its ok. The woman you are glimpsing for one brief moment in both of your many moment filled lives doesn't need your internet letter. She just doesn't. The what I can only assume was a pity filled looked that you threw in her general direction as you strolled by with your shit seemingly together doesnt equate to any version of actual real world helpfulness or empathy. The fact that you didn't in that moment give her a knowing look and say something like "what the hell were we thinking, right?" but instead decided to wait to tell her that You Get It via an anonymous internet letter speaks volumes.

I see you getting rageful after that last paragraph Mama, and I get it. You feel I am being unfair, and that you really did want your Letter to come from a place of genuine niceness and understanding. I accept that. I do not think the majority of you are soulless, hate filled cuntboxes. I get that you thought you were doing something nice. I forgive you that.

But Mama, there's something you need to understand. When you write your Letters and every sentence begins with "I", it makes it abundantly clear that the Letter is in fact about "You". Your Letters make it sound like yes, you may have once been like that Other Mom, adrift in a sea of parenting chaos and  calamity, but that you have ascended into the Higher Levels of parenting where every tantrum, every wayward tear, every snot filled scream fit in the middle of the grocery store is met with a Buddha like state of calm wherein you have the power to stem the flow with nothing more than a loving glance, and suddenly shit is perfect like in those Jimmy Johns Commercials.

And Mama, that kind of advice/help/commentary isn't in fact helpful. Its annoying. Presuming that every other parent in existence feels the exact same way that you do is a sad and limited way to look at the world. So when I read one of your Letters, and it tells me that "You Get It because my new joy is no longer in taking a long shower and getting dressed up, but in food stained sweatpants and messy buns", I want to reach through my computer and strangle you. You don't tell me what my joy is. If that's your new joy after becoming a parent, awesome. I will never not feel joy and extreme amounts of it when I get to take a 20 min scalding hot shower without any distractions. That shit is my jam. I wish I could eat and sleep in there. Like Kramer did that once time. Fuck.

Also, Dear Mamas, why don't you ever write any letters to Dads? When you see them struggling with kids in public why does that evoke feelings of love and sexiness instead of the self righteous pity the lady with the vagina gets? Listen: We all have bad days in the big wide world of being a parent. Sometimes those days happen when we are in view of other people. But that's the thing--its just one day. In fact, its just one moment in one day. That mom could have been laughing lovingly at a joke her 4 year old said 5 seconds before you came around the corner and saw her with that haggard look on her face. She could be stressed to the max in the store or at the park, but the second she gets home, she snuggles up on the couch with her kids to watch Curious Georges Halloween Boofest for the 5 millionth time, and in that moment, she is really happy. Like beyond blissed out happy, filled with love for the tiny beings clutching her shirt in their tiny fists. You don't see that though. All you see is a brief glimpse into what is the wonderful, horrible, crazy, amazing thing that this woman calls her life.

So stop acting like you Get It or Know. You don't. None of us do really. We are all just trying the best we can with the skills we have. And this incessant string of Dear Mama Letters is as meaningful and real as a Saran wrapped ball of air. You are Gisele Bunchening us all and we cant take anymore. She doesn't need any more help in that regard. She has the whole I'm Better Than You Parenting Game on lock. Because no matter what you say in your Dear Mama Letter, you will never ever be able to top Gisele's Instagram posts. So do us all a favor and hang it up. Ill leave you with some actual Gisele posts to help you see why we need a lot less Bunchening in the world of parenting and a lot more genuine empathy and keeping it real.

Love,

Maria

I see you there Out of Shape Mama trying to do quick 15 second Planks on your living room floor without being impaled by Legos or jumped on by your "enegertic" toddler. This is me enjoying some Relaxing Baby Yoga near antique furniture on white carpeting with perfect natural lighting and a healthy fruits platter for post workout boost though, so Im not really sure I understand why its so difficult for you to get back in shape post baby ?

Hey Mama in line at the store holding that box of formula. I'm just lounging here calmly breast feeding my LO while my team of stylists makes my already flawless post- baby hair and body ready for an intense day of Baby Yoga. Waiting in lines seems like it would be such a drag !

Hi There Mama whose kid just threw a box of Triscuits at the old man walking behind you at Target. I get that it must be hard having kids that don't just naturally evoke genuine smiles of kindness and love in the revered elderly like the Dalai Lama, but have you tried not saying No so much? That might work better for you and would be sooo much better for your LOs! Just a thought.

Dear Mama pleading with her 15 month old to stop trying to eat wood chips and the cat feces buried under the wood chips at the park: This is me and my tiny baby doing more B.Y. by a babbling brook. I know it seems crazy, but I'm totally able to reach that calming mental state that I need to achieve the most difficult of poses without worrying that my infant is going to get distracted and fall into that stream. Shes takes B.Y. very seriously since meeting the Dalai Lama. Namaste! 

I Believe in you. You can do it. Namaste.