Tag Archives: funny

The Summer of Aprill!

This summer, you guys. This is the summer. The summer I will think back on when I’m old in rosy, golden, Instagram hues. Full of sunsets and ice cream on the porch and ridiculous neon-colored cocktails. My husband and I, still somewhat youthful and virile, our two children still small enough to be enchanted with bubbles and sprinklers; all of us just grabbing this summer by its humid balls and not letting go until mid-September.

The summer of adventure!

The summer of picnics!

The summer of books!

The summer of road trips!

The summer of the sandwich because it is too bloody hot to cook!

Oh yes. This summer, you guys. I want each day to end with dirty faces and even dirtier feet, piles of wet clothes and towels on the floor, and then for someone else to clean it all up.

(Well, two out of three ain’t bad).

We even have an almost real vacation planned. Three whole days in a tiny lakeside cottage in New Hampshire. In which the contents of our cooler will consist of only grillable meat and booze. Because it’s the summer of coolers full of grillable meat and booze!

Sigh. It’s going to be perfect.

Except.

Because of course there is an “except.” You wouldn’t be reading this if there wasn’t an “except.” No one wants to hear about how happy people are. Myself included. Gross.

So…

Except for one very important detail. And it’s the same detail pretty much every summer. That torturous, barbaric act of beauty known as having to shave on a regular basis. Legs, underarms, lady parts; not to mention, a few other new and fun areas because I am now in my mid-30’s and hair follicles are just springing up willy-nilly like a surprise birthday party from Hell.

And I just. can’t. anymore.

Oh sure, having to de-hair my entire body roughly every other day for four months straight might seem like a small thing in regards to the Big Picture. I mean, there are people out there with Real Problems. But when you are expected to be completely smooth and hairless and yet have a body where your shins are sporting a 5 o’clock shadow no matter how thorough you are in the shower, it tends to put a damper on the season.

See, I am one of those lucky women who is naturally *insert bad Eastern European accent here* hairy like Russian bear. It’s dark. It’s thick. It regrows at an almost illegal speed. I would survive well in the Siberian wilderness.

I have to use men’s razors, y’all. And only then because using a weed whacker seems ill-advised. And not just any men’s razors. The kind with, like, six blades and descriptive words like “turbo” and “titanium” and “also works for sad, hairy ladies.”

And every sunshiney morning, it’s the same thing. Dragging my stubbly ass into the shower. Standing there dejectedly as the hot water rains down. Looking at my titanium turbo double-edge sad hairy lady men’s razor and sighing dramatically. Internally debating whether I can make it one more day without shaving or will stories of local Sasquatch sightings start popping up on the local news. Knowing deep down I have to shave. Again. Then alternating between crying and launching into an angry internal feminist rant about archaic beauty rituals meant to keep women in their place.

And please don’t tell me the solution is to get waxed. I haven’t had my hair cut in 18 months and am sporting a full-on Amish look currently because I can’t get my life together enough to make an appointment at the salon. Plus, I had both my children via cesarean and am kind of done with having things brutally ripped from my body.

No, the only real solution here is to somehow convince society that letting women have body hair is ok. Because it should be. Because it’s ridiculous. Because I added it up. I roughly waste 74 hours of my summer doing this awful ritual and for what? It serves no real purpose. It’s not like I’m trying to win an Olympic gold medal in swimming.

I get why Michael Phelps has to shave his whole body. I don’t get why I have to. *grumpily crosses arms*

So, what do you say, society? Huh? Hairy women? All of us in our natural state! Let’s do this! Viva la revolucion!

Anyone? No? Hello? Sigh.

Fine.

*grabs scythe and heads back into the bathroom*

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36 Things I’ve Learned in 36 Years

  1. Life is too short to waste time matching socks.
  2. Small children are the funniest people on the planet.
  3. Humidity is dumb.
  4. The best thing you can save up your money for is a family vacation. I don’t remember what gifts I got for my birthday three years ago or what I had for breakfast yesterday or even where I set down my youngest child just now, but I remember every vacation since childhood with startling clarity.
  5. Embrace your inner nerd.
  6. A good bra changes EVERYTHING.
  7. Yelling at your kid to stop yelling is pretty ineffectual.
  8. The cheap water tastes exactly the same as the expensive fancy water.
  9. Humans are complicated. Stop expecting everything to be in black and white.
  10. Sit down for family meals as often as you can.
  11. Never waste more than 10 seconds cringing over an awkward social interaction. Deep down we’re all hot messes who still can’t remember your name even though you’ve told us three times already.
  12. I literally have no opinion about coconut oil. I feel the world would be a better place if more people followed my example.
  13. If other parents are judging you because your kid is misbehaving in public and their kid never does, just remember that their kid is probably going to grow up to be a serial killer.
  14. BACK. UP. YOUR. PHOTOS. Then back them up again. Then print them out and put them in a photo album. Then seal that album up in a climate-controlled, fire-proof, nuclear fallout safe room deep in the heart of a mountain.
  15. Sometimes, no matter how much it hurts or how much you dread it or how wrong it seems, you just have to bite the bullet and do what’s best for your family and sign your toddler up for soccer.
  16. Cursing is awesome. That’s why kids can’t wait to grow up. So they can finally curse.
  17. Never ask a man for his chili recipe.
  18. Never ask a woman to do the dishes on chili night.
  19. Why do so many people have so many strong opinions about what drinks other people order at Starbucks? I know technically this isn’t some piece of wisdom I’m sharing but I genuinely want to know.
  20. Teach your kids the proper names. It’s “penis” and “vagina.” They’re just body parts. No one refers to arms as “hoo-ha’s” and legs as “run sticks.”
  21. Rejection and failure aren’t an end but a beginning. No great story starts with “they were born and then they immediately succeeded.”
  22. It’s okay to have a cupcake for breakfast. It’s basically a muffin with a better wardrobe.
  23. Children have bad days too.
  24. Don’t ask your friends to spend a small fortune celebrating your birthday.
  25. Please stop telling pregnant women every horrific birthing story you’ve ever heard. They’re stressed out enough.
  26. The average ninja knows over a hundred ways to kill you. The average baby knows over a thousand ways to kill themselves.
  27. Teach your kids how to execute a proper high-five. Because approximately one out of every three strangers they encounter will want to high-five them.
  28. If you’re on a date and they order their steak “well done,” RUN.
  29. Home is where the giant pile of never-ending laundry is.
  30. The best way to calm a child during a tantrum is to not have children.
  31. Climbing trees is still fun.
  32. Try to remember when you’re freaking out because you haven’t started saving for retirement yet that all the stress will probably kill you before you even get a chance to retire.
  33. Marriage is 10 percent unconditional love and 90 percent trying to figure out what to eat for dinner.
  34. Support people’s dreams. Unless their dreams are dumb. Then just shut up and politely nod as they explain the confusing plot of their as-yet-unwritten fantasy novel.
  35. Potty training is a war. You need a good strategy. There are no winners.
  36. “There’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it’s worth fighting for.”

Requiem for a nap

It was all planned out. A perfect Friday. A beautiful summer day. A much-needed antidote to the stress and chaos of the four previous days. All I needed to do was stick to the plan and we would slide easily into the weekend.

Just stick to the plan.

Wake up. Breakfast. Episode of “Sesame Street” to hypnotize the kids so I can squeeze in a luxurious three-minute shower. Wrestle horribly designed tiny shoes on two pairs of tiny squiggly feet. Then a leisurely walk to the playground followed by a walk to the local bakery for some giant cookies. It is Friday, after all. Take the long way back. Wear ‘em out.

It’s all part of the plan.

Home. Impromptu dance party. Lunch, which no one will eat because of the giant cookies but who cares? It’s Friday. We’re so close to the end. To the weekend. To having Daddy’s help with the tantrums and the diaper changes and the baths and the “what did you swallow?”

Story time. Just two books. OK, fine, three. Sigh, alright, four but that’s it. I mean it. Potty break. Five minutes of chasing naked toddler around to put his underwear back on. Time for your nap. Twelve minute of dealing with the pre-nap meltdown. Three minutes in the corner for hitting his baby sister. Four minutes soothing said hit baby.

Nap. Time.

Now.

Get in bed.

Three songs. OK, four. Five, but I mean it. That’s it.

Brief discussion of why the sky is blue. Even briefer discussion about how cool trains are.

Hug. Kiss. Love you. Night-night.

One down, one to go.

Change diaper. Heat up bottle. Sit down in rocker. Insert bottle. Realize urgent need to pee. Lay baby on floor with bottle. Go pee to the glorious symphonic sounds of abandoned baby screaming. Pick her back up. Sit in the rocker. Insert bottle. Relax. Realize TV remote is across the room. Get it. Sit back down in the rocker. Hear older kid yelling for Mommy. Get up.

What, sweetie?

I get up now?

No.

Close door.

Sit back down in the rocker. Where’s the remote? It was just here. Sigh.

Just get her to sleep. A vital part of the plan. Long afternoon nap for the two of them. When they wake up, pop in a movie. Order dinner. Maybe open a wine? I mean, it IS Friday. Then BOOM, Daddy is home and I get some relief.

Bottle halfway gone. Any minute now she should be closing her eyes. Start singing lullaby. Three-fourths gone. Eyes wide open. No need to worry. She’ll fall asleep before it’s gone. She has to.

It’s all part of the plan.

All gone. She’s giggling now. Struggling to get up out of my arms. No worries. Adjust the plan a bit. Twenty minutes of play and she’ll be out like a light.

OK, 45 minutes.

An hour.

Maybe try laying her down in the crib.

Seventeen minutes of impossibly loud dying pterodactyl screams. Pick her back up before she wakes her brother. At least all that screaming probably wore her out.

Nope.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

Thirty more minutes of singing, swaying, silently praying. She finally passes out. Ten blissful minutes go by. I close my eyes. And immediately hear her brother wake up. Sigh. Get up. Put her in the crib. Watch in horror as her eyes pop open and she starts wailing like a banshee. Pick her back up. Get the toddler up. Note he’s super grumpy.

Terrific.

Try plying both whining kids with crackers. Realize the dog hasn’t been outside to go potty yet. Try putting down baby who is clinging to me like I’m the last life boat on the Titanic. Give up. Comically try to balance dog, baby and poop bag. Go back inside. Pop in a movie. No, Mommy, not that one. Pop in a different movie. Order food. They’re slammed right now. It’ll be an hour and half.

Wonderful.

Say screw it. Open wine. Pick up sobbing puddle of baby gravy at my feet. Get text from husband. He’s running late. Traffic is awful. Be home as soon as he can.

Allow 45-second pity party in head. Then get toddler his juice.

Go to take sip of wine. MOMMY! She’s grabbing my cars!

I thought you wanted to watch this movie.

No, I want to play with my cars.

Grab baby. Soothe now crying car-less baby. Repeat for what feels like forever.

Food arrives. Feed kids. Steal a fry while looking longingly at your own neglected sandwich. Get more ketchup. Get more juice. Get more baby food. Get more napkins. Look longingly at still full wine glass. Clean up kids.

Play chase. Kiss boo boo.

Daddy’s home!

Chaos ensues.

How was your day?

The usual. Offer tired smile.

I love you.

Love you too.

I love you, too, Mommy!

Baby giggles.

Sigh. Let the stress drain away.

And hey, at least it’s the weekend, sweetie!

Yes. We made it.

Despite the plan.

 

Violating child labor laws & other perks of parenting

I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I’m guessing it has something to do with a mother’s natural inclination to try to do everything herself. I mean, it’s hard to juggle 37 things at once by yourself. But it can often be harder to ask someone to jump in and match your exact rhythm to help you keep all those balls in the air.

Mom: I need help!

Random family member: Sure. What can I do to…

Mom: AH! WHY DID YOU LET ALL THOSE BALLS DROP!?!

Random family member: *lying on floor, dazed* Because you just threw 18 things at me in rapid succession.

Mom: Never mind! I’ll do it all myself! *murmurs what sounds suspiciously like curse words under her breath*

But after the 2,091st time cooking breakfast while trying to set the table while constantly hurdling small children and animals and toys while on a tight timetable, I finally realized something had to give. And that’s when I had my epiphany.

“Riker, come here, please!” I hollered to my 3-year-old from over the baby gate that separates the kitchen from the dining room.

“What, Mommy?” he said, looking up at me with those big, liquid, beautiful, trusting, brown eyes.

“Can you put this ketchup and butter on the table for me?”

“Oh! Sure, Mommy!”

And off he ran to do my biding, his little feet pitter-pattering and a giant smile on his face.

But that’s not the best part. Oh, no. Because the best part is he came BACK. And asked “what else, Mommy?”

“Holy crap,” I thought to myself. “How have I not thought of this before? Children are just glorified servants. I can make him help me…Sweet patron saint of stressed out mothers, I can pretty much make him do anything. FOR I AM HIS MAKER!”

And so, after suppressing what can only be described as an evil laugh, I handed him the plates. And then the silverware. And the napkins. And the baby’s bowl of gross, healthy mush. And our grown-up platters of unhealthy carbs and animal lard.

And just like that, my child set the table. I was so happy I could have cried (if I still felt any emotion other than “tired”).

Of course, don’t get the wrong idea. We aren’t “those” parents or anything. My husband and I make our son pick up his toys every night before bed (which requires heavy supervision) and we ask him to get the occasional diaper for his sister (which occasionally results in him actually getting us a diaper for his sister). We are firmly in the “kids should clean and do chores” camp. That whole “but children should just enjoy childhood” ideology is a completely foreign concept to us. I enjoyed my childhood, despite being forced to vacuum the world’s ugliest carpet with the world’s most ancient and heavy vacuum cleaner. And don’t even get my husband started on his childhood job delivering newspapers, which involves a story where he fell asleep under a tree during a snowstorm but, by God, everyone got their paper that day. And yes, it was uphill and 17 miles. Barefoot.

However, the concept of making my toddler do things that are actually helpful and not just things so he doesn’t grow up to be a horrible, entitled brat? That hadn’t occurred to me until that very moment.

Admittedly, it is strange it took me this long to piece it together. America is a country built pretty much on the concept of two people having kids JUST SO they would have help on the farm. Or with the family business. Or to bump up ratings on their reality TV show. In fact, I bet if you go back throughout all of history, there is evidence that every civilization exploited their kids for labor.

Viking mom: Ragnar! Come help me put this decapitated head on a pike!

Roman Empire mom: Remus! Come help clean up all this Caesar blood before it stains!

1920’s flapper mom: Ricky! It’s your turn to stir the bathtub gin!

But although this is new territory to me, I’m quickly getting the hang of it. Now when he spills something, I make HIM clean it up (and then clean it up after he cleans it up because he’s three and awful, just terrible, at it). When I dust, he gets a dust rag too now (as does his baby sister because fair is fair and she likes chewing on it). And just yesterday, he helped me fold (throw) laundry into a giant pile and sweep (hit his father with a Swiffer) the house.

It’s enough to make you wonder if we should maybe have more kids.

HAHAHAHAHA!

Just kidding. I’d sell a kid before deciding to make another one. But this has opened our eyes to a whole new world of opportunities.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to buy a power washer and some duct tape to attach my toddler’s hands to it because our porch is looking pretty dingy.

Fun mind games you can play at home

No matter how strong your relationship is, there will come a time when your love is put to the test. And this moment will come when you least expect it. It could be next Tuesday. Or a Saturday two months from now. But it will happen. And it will happen right before dinner time. And it will go down just like this:

MAN: What do you want to eat?

WOMAN: Oh, I don’t care. Whatever you want.

MAN: Pizza?

WOMAN: Except that.

MAN: Burgers?

WOMAN: Or that.

MAN: Sigh. Chinese?

WOMAN: Nah.

MAN: What. Do. You. Want. To. Eat?

WOMAN: Whatever is fine.

MAN: *primal man scream*

WOMAN: Why are you freaking out? It’s just dinner. Pick something already.

MAN: Fine. Italian.

WOMAN: Ugh. We just had that three weeks ago.

MAN: *bangs head on steering wheel until unconscious*

eat1

eat2

Why do women do this? More importantly, why do so many women do this? Did we all get together at a super secret meeting and decide to do this as punishment until the female-male wage gap is closed?

Ha Ha!

That’s none of your goddamn business.

eat3

The point is, many, many females are guilty of this. I’m one of them. So, while I can’t speak for all women who do this, I can try to explain why I have done this.

See, this whole awful carousel ride from hell revolves around the fact that what I really want to eat is tacos. But YOU have to suggest it so that the calories don’t count. Because female logic. (This logic is also telling me that maybe you will suggest something better than tacos. But you won’t. Because what I really want is tacos).

Still with me? No? Alright, let me break it down for you. See, I can’t just SAY tacos. Because today I’ve already eaten scrambled eggs, sausage, THREE pieces of toast, a gyro, half a bag of peanut M&M’s, three chicken nuggets off my toddler’s plate, seven of his French fries, the rest of the peanut M&M’s, and a gigantic tub of Starbucks frappuccino that is basically caffeine-infused, semi-melted ice cream.

So, clearly, I can’t suggest tacos. Because I should eat a salad and run five miles instead. But I don’t want a salad and I don’t want to run five miles. I want tacos. But, again, I want YOU to suggest tacos and then I will reluctantly go along with it, much like a hostage forced into a cheesy, melty, crunchy corn shell prison they have to eat their way out of. That way none of the blame can fall on me. Because I’m already feeling like a Fatty McFatterson and society has told me since practically birth that the worst thing a white woman like me can be is fat.

And yes, I know I’m being ridiculous. Of course I’m being ridiculous. But why can’t YOU just hurry the hell up and suggest tacos already?

So, to sum up, what do I want to eat? Tacos. Which I will never, ever admit. Because regardless of my size, I will always feel guilty when it comes to food. Which is why I have to do a series of infuriating mental games in order to eat in peace. Which is why I will shoot down every single suggestion you make until you finally land upon tacos or we both of starvation.

And which is why, while you think asking “what do you want to eat?” is the simplest question in the world to answer, to me it’s loaded with deep, dark psychological land mines.

Which is why there are never any winners in this particular argument.

Of course, not ALL women do this. I’ve heard many wonderful tales of females who have refused to give into these ridiculous and impossible standards of the perfect body ideal and can eat food without guilt and self-loathing. And if you happen to find one of these ladies, one not hung up about food, hold onto her. HOLD ONTO HER AND NEVER LET HER GO. Buy her tacos and feed them to her like a servant feeding Cleopatra grapes.

And then send her over to my house so she can slap my face and tell me I’m beautiful and to knock it off with this body image bullshit.

 

 

I’m wearing these yoga pants ironically

It’s no secret that when you become a mom, you go through a bit of an identity crisis. It can be hard to remember who you were when it feels like who you are now is someone who spends all of her time cleaning up mystery stains. Is that poop or chocolate? Apple juice or pee? I used to be on a first name basis with the mayor and win journalism awards. Cottage cheese or vomit?

Which is why these days I always dread the moment when someone asks me “so, what do you do?”

And they always ask it. Always. Because we are Americans and as Americans we need to immediately know what you do with your life so we can then determine how harshly to judge you.

God bless the U.S.A.

I didn’t always hate this quirk of American society. I proudly declared “journalist” for a long time. I worked hard to become a journalist. I loved being a journalist. It was a badge I wore with honor.

But the waters muddied a bit when my husband and I moved to Boston. Unable to get a full-time job in my field, I started working from home, writing a regular column for a handful of different newspapers and websites. I’d also occasionally take on a freelance writing project. So, I told people I was a “freelance writer.” But since that wasn’t as clear-cut as “journalist,” I’d have to describe what that entailed and watch as people’s eyes slowly glassed over because they were just being polite and oh, is that Susan over there? I should go say hello. Nice talking to you, Amy, was it?

And then we had kids and the waters got downright murky. Because now my main job was keeping those two suicidal lunatics alive while trying to squeeze in some writing time on the weekends.

“But I’m still a writer!” I’d practically scream at people, less they be confused as to my real identity. Sure, “technically” I stayed home and “raised” my children, but that didn’t make me, you know, a “mom.” It’s more like a hobby, really. I’m wearing these yoga pants ironically!

It took me awhile, but I finally realized why this stressed me out so much. The current language we have for women without a clear-cut “job” is awful. Take the word “housewife.” I hate that word. I didn’t marry my house. I mean, that thing is filthy. Even if it proposed, I’d politely decline and then hand it a broom and whisper “I think you know why.” (And “homemaker” is even worse. Especially if you have kids. Because when you have kids, you aren’t “making” a “home” so much as you are trying to prevent said kids from burning it down to the ground).

I also loathe the term “stay-at-home mom.” I don’t stay at home. No mom does. We’re constantly lugging those adorable damn kids everywhere. And yet, no one refers to us as Playground-Library-Gas Station-Coffeeshop-Liquor Store moms.

Alas, these are the terms we are stuck with if we are the ones primarily taking care of the domestic side of life (and fellas, I haven’t forgotten about you; “househusband” and “stay-at-home dad,” even when used tongue-in-cheek, is equally inaccurate and ridiculous).

Can you imagine if we referred to everyone by their most common location and their role in the family? Oh hey, let me introduce you to my other half, Ryan. He’s an office husband.

Or, hey, nice to see you, Sheryl, I’d like you to meet my bar grandpa.

This is Lila, my stay-at-the-yoga-studio sister-in-law.

My crackhouse cousin had a rough upbringing, what with being raised by my prison uncle and my motel aunt.

Why yes, I have two teenagers, a couch son and a Burger King parking lot daughter.

You get the picture.

Why do we still use these terms? Even “working mom” is a bit of a misnomer. No one calls my husband a “working dad.” He’s a graphic designer. Who happens to have kids.

And I wouldn’t even care about how inaccurate the current words are that we use to describe women who deal in the domestic arts, except for the fact that they have a faint whiff of negativity surrounding them. Housewives are considered vapid or desperate or gold diggers. Stay-at-home moms are boring or unambitious or lazy. Homemakers are busy wearing gingham dresses and churning butter in the corner of the kitchen.

So, it’s time we start changing these outdated and, quite frankly, unfair titles. I haven’t come up with the new terms just yet (what with spending all my time sniffing mystery stains and all) but maybe something like “I parent full-time” or “I’m a professional mom” or “I’m my toddler’s juice bitch.”

Or maybe all of us ladies can take a page from the Tyrion Lannister playbook and when people ask us what we do, we coolly respond “I drink, and I know things.”

Because that one is 100 percent accurate.

 

I called my kid a butthead in public

There have been times in my writing career that I have slightly exaggerated a story for comedic effect. Not much, mind you. Just a detail or two, here or there. For instance, when my kids are driving me insane, I don’t actually chug a whole bottle of whiskey.

It’s half a bottle, tops.

So, with that said, let me assure you that what follows below is not one of those times. It’s all true. Every single, last, horrifying detail.

It started out mundane enough. I took my kids to a children’s event hosted by the local library. A “multicultural concert for families featuring new and familiar songs played with a Brazilian beat,” to be exact. All that was missing were some organic vegan cookies and some one-legged, free range, orphan chickens and it would have been a skit straight out of “Portlandia.”

But it was either that or spend more time playing Batman vs. Little Bunny Foo Foo with my toddler, so I schlepped the whole crew over for some fancy music learnin.’

As we were sitting there waiting for the music to start, I noticed the not unhandsome guitarist staring at me. I’ll admit, it was a bit of a confidence booster. I mean, I had a baby only nine months ago. And when your days are filled with cleaning poop off a series of tiny tooshies (including the dog’s), it can be hard to feel attractive. I even sat up a little straighter. Started telling myself, “hey lady, you’re still keeping it tight, despite the oatmeal in your hair.”

Which is when I look down and notice that my shirt is unbuttoned almost down to my naval (thanks to the friction from wearing a baby carrier). A fact I had been oblivious about for 12 whole minutes, giving everyone in the band a good look at my boobs that were casually hanging out like they owned the place.

I discreetly try to button it back up when I made my second big mistake of the day. I was reaching into the diaper bag to pull out a toy for the baby when the toddler saw the chocolate-covered raisins I’d thrown in there as a treat to eat after the show. There are few things this kid loves more than raisins. But one of those things is chocolate. So, you can imagine his reaction.

“OOOOOOOHHHHHH…NOW WE EAT CHOCOLATE RAISINS! MOMMY! MOMMY! CHOCOLATE RAISINS! MOMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYY!”

I quietly inform him he can have them after the concert. And so now I’m stuck with a kid that, after every song ends but before the polite applause begins, yells “NOW WE EAT CHOCOLATE RAISINS!”

After the fifth song and the fifth time being denied his CHOCOLATE RAISINS, he decides to have a meltdown.

Because of course.

I knew when I was beat. I tell him we are going home and start grabbing our 17 pounds of items scattered around my chair (coats, hats, baby shoes that had been kicked off, diaper bag, sippy cup, the kitchen sink, my deflated ego). And it’s as I stand up that I realize my son has untied my shoes when I wasn’t looking. This is quickly followed by the realization that I have an undone and bulky baby carrier hanging down to my knees because I never took it off when we got there. Meanwhile, the band is still playing. Which is relevant because as I’m making the world’s most awkward and disruptive exit in the world’s smallest library (all our stuff in one arm, baby who is hanging off me like a giant sack of flour because she never learned to cling like a normal baby on the other), my son decides he doesn’t want to leave and runs back in front of the playing musicians, hysterically crying and yelling “NOOOOOO!” at the top of his lungs.

As I go to get him, still holding everything, baby still a lifeless sack of flour, shoes still untied, still tripping over the baby carrier, another mom informs me my shirt had come undone. Again.

Because of course.

So, now I’m trying to drag my toddler, (gently, because we are in public) away from the musicians, while still holding everything, tripping over everything and also now trying to discreetly button up my slutty, slutty shirt.

As you can imagine, everyone is staring.

And yet no one will look me in the eye.

I finally get him in what I assume is an out of the way location to stuff him into his coat and get the hell out of this, my own personal hell, all while telling him to knock it off in my best Batman voice. I’m pretty sure I also said something along the line of “stop being a butthead.” Which I don’t feel bad about because no one can hear us. Which is when I realize we are blocking the way to the bathroom and a group of moms and kids is waiting for us to finish our ridiculous family drama so they can pee.

Somehow, by the grace of God and whatever deity is in charge of mortifying moments at child-centric events, we make it outside the library. He’s still crying, I’m practically throwing chocolate covered raisins at him, and the baby’s left hand is now stuck in my hair, which is making it hard for me to button up my shirt (BECAUSE MY BOOBS ARE STILL HANGING OUT) and tie my shoes because my head is at an awkward 90 degree angle.

Luckily, all this is in full few of everyone, who are now leaving and awkwardly filing past because the concert picked that moment to end.

Because of course.

And all this is one very long way of saying that alcohol should always, ALWAYS, be served at children’s events.