Ok… So this happened today!  I jumped in the pool for a swim. Dandy! And I later went grocery shopping. Groovy! But here’s the catch… I didn’t glance in a mirror before leaving the house. And what’s worse, no one bothered to mention that I looked like a friggin’ raccoon after a one-night stand.  Nope. No one!

Not my La La Land Husband, whom I had a full conversation with… like, a real-life, face-to-face, not over text from another room, or planet, type of conversation with! Nope. The fact that my mascara was smudged further down than my mom boobs was not brought to my attention.

And not the elderly cashier, with whom I also had a real-life, face-to-face, on this planet conversation with. She and I even talked about the f-ing weather. I mentioned it was raining out… which given my state of facial affairs would have been the perfect opportunity for her to inform me I looked like Mrs. Rocky Balboa!

And not the lovely young girl who packed my groceries. Who ironically, had her makeup done to a Picasso-meets-Kardashian caliber of friggin’ flawless perfection. I too talked with her, and made eye contact with her lovely faux-fur lashes. She was the tilted head, giggly, bubble bum smacking type. Aww, she’s  cute with a dash of ditzy, I thought. Charming really. Nope, in hindsight I realize she was just silently laughing at my graffiti-meets-Alice Cooper-meets-dogfood caliber of makeup. Her tilted head was her say of sending me her condolences.

And not the employee I stopped to ask where I’d find kids’ lunchboxes. Only, for the first time EVER, I didn’t have my kids with me. Which for me was a slice of heaven… but to that employee, I surely came across as a crazy lady with imaginary kids. Like please… I have three destructive children with ants in their pants, you think I also want imaginary ones?!

Alas, it was my 3 year old that pointed it out to me by innocently, and oh-so-subtely, asking “Mommy you didn’t wash your hands after your poopoo, and now it’s on your face.” Apparently the new definition of “shit faced”.

When I asked Hubby how he’d missed this, he said “I just thought you were tired”. No, really… That’s what he said. Verbatim. Tired.

Like, this is a worse offense than not mentioning spinach in one’s  teeth, non?

But at the end of the day, my 3 year old son has got this Mama’s back.  He’s always keeping a lovingly, watchful eye on his dear Mom. After bath time tonight, he was fascinated by his prune-like wrinkled finger tips. “Oh the beauty of innocence”, I lovingly observed. That is until he looked up at me… and back to his fingers… back at me… threw me that sweet excitable smile of his and said “Mommy, Mommy… my fingers are wrinkly like your face!”

Well, if I wasn’t already… I am now tired. Very tired. This hot mess of a Mama needs to get her pruny face off to bed for some apparently much-needed beauty sleep. ‘Cause I got myself a big day tomorrow… going to invest in some waterproof mascara (obviously), a hallway mirror (obviously), and whatever lil’ ole’ tired me wants on Dear Hubby’s dime (obviously). Nite nite! 😉

Cheers, Red Whino

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I woke this morning with a warm ray of sunshine beaming down on me from the heavens’ above. A message from a higher power, no doubt… something big was happening in the world today. Alas, ’tis true my friends. We Commoners were blessed with the majestically ridiculous photo of Beyoncé and her divine twins.

To be honest, at first I thought it was MY post-birth photo! I mean, there’s the obvious… the trillion dollar angelic arc of flowers that I like to perch under daily, as a reflection of my innocence and purity, of course.

But at a closer glance, I noticed some SUBTLE, subtle, differences between Beyoncé and myself post-baby… Like the vomit that flowed down my back, neck, arms, and shoulders like soft wet velvet, nestling into my muffin top stomach rolls like a warm puddle of royal fluid. Or perhaps the fact that I hadn’t slept for more than 10.3 minutes a day, or showered, therefore looked and smelled like an extra from the Walking Dead… and NO amount of makeup or air brushing or Photoshop was going to fix this hot mess. Or maybe the fact that my boobs were the size of watermelons, leaking like a broken faucet, and on fire… fire!!! Or that within a nanosecond of ejecting my child from my womb, I inexplicably aged 40 years with the lines on my face getting deeper and deeper with every breathe of life my new child sucked out of me. Or that every time a camera was around, my trifecta demon baby would scream, barf and shit all at the same time while lovingly craddled in my arms. Or that I was wearing a maxi pad that was so full of maternal love that I walked around like I had a canoe between my legs… although I’m sure the fishnet granny panties made up for this in all the right sexy places. And finally, unlike Beyoncé who surely drinks water used to part the Dead Sea, I reverted to wine as my survival juice of choice.

So naturally, other than the above minor differences, I almost mistook the picture as my own. I mean, I too have a baby… and two legs (albeit more swollen) and a heartbeat (although I’m sure Bey’s is made of gold… literally!). Perception versus Realitynis a funny thing, one that we cannot lose sight of in this dog-eat-dog social media world.

But in all seriousness, put aside the God-like display that the world was blessed with today… At the end of the day, we DO have something in common with Beyoncé. We are all Moms. Period.  All of our bodies handle pregnancy differently. And some of us had our babies delivered as a gift through adoption or surrogacy.  Some choose ridiculous photos shoots. Some take a gazzilion baby selfies. The one commanality across the world is we Moms all have a fierce love for our children, and we Moms are equally as fierce as women. And that… and that alone is fantastically magestical in itself!

Cheers, Red Whino

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Dear Daddy…

Once upon a time,
Mommy and Daddy drank too much wine.
Lucky for us, Daddy forgot to wear protection.
And it just so happens… our conception!

Life as they knew it, was never the same.
We came. We conquered.
And Mommy and Daddy only have themselves to blame.

It’s all about us.
And what we want to do.
Feed us. Play with us.
Now clean our poo.

We want to go outside.
We want to come in.
Now back outside.
We don’t care if we’ve just been.

Pick us up.
Put us down.
Now change us again.
We’re smelling kinda brown.

Put on our shoes, our hats, our mitts.
No, wait… we’ll do it ourselves.
No you. No me.
Zero cooperation… we’ll never agree.

We’ll kick. We’ll scream.
Then drop to the floor.
We’ll fight you off.
Until you can’t take it anymore.

We’ll tell you we love you.
And how great you are.
To make you feel guilty,
Should your frustrations go too far.

We’re hungry.
We’re tired.
No wait,
We’re wired.

We’re happy.
We’re sad.
We’re laughing.
We’re mad.

We’re up. We’re down.
We’re hot. We’re cold.
We have no fucks to give.
We won’t do as we’re told.

We’ll scream. Then smile.
We’ll sit still, but only for a little while.
You’re on our time now.
And peace of mind, we do not allow.

Read us a story.
Put us to bed.
Just kidding…
We’re messing with your head.

Ok. Fine. We’ll go to sleep
But just remember, you have no power.
So don’t bother relaxing.
Cause we’ll be up in another hour.

Our  gift to you this Father’s Day,
Is quality time… with only you.
So you can truly see what Mommy goes through.

By the end of the day,
You’ll wish you’d worn protection.
Or drank enough wine,
To lose that erection.

But then you wouldn’t have us.
Good times and bad.
Tantrums and meltdowns.
You like having us around.

So for an entire day… just father and kids.
We’ll make a great team.
‘Cause believe it or not,
You’re livin’ the dream.

Our gift to you
Is just us for the day.
Quality time
Until you are defeated and grey.

We’ll laugh. We’ll cry.
We’ll poo. We’ll play.
No Mommy around.
Really making it Mother’s Day!

(You’re welcome, Mommy!)

Love,

Your Little Loving Beastly Children

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What started off as a regular Saturday night in our house, didn’t last long. It never does…

The kids were happy doing what they do, destroying whatever it is they can… so my house and my soul. I was barefoot and braless, slaving hard over a mean pot of KD. And Big J was apparently busy tripping over a hose in the garage and managed to fall on a shovel. Blade side up. Off with his finger! And that was when our regular night turned into a fucktard kind o’ night.

I didn’t hear him fall. There was no loud thud. I just heard a soft plea from the laundry room, “Hon’, can you come here”. Now normally I would ignore such a needy “husband’ish” request, especially when I’m slavin’ hard to feed my ole’ family. But there was something “off” in his voice.

So I went to the laundry room. And that’s when I entered the scene of the crime. It was as if someone had been murdered. Blood was everywhere. And not just on the floor; it was spraying like those circular lawn sprinklers. On a side note, I had done about six loads of laundry that day. Whites. Blood spraying. Everywhere. Whites. Just sayin’.

He needed something to stop the bleeding. So I grabbed the closest thing. And all of a sudden, I was faced with a Sophie’s Choice Linen Vs. Husband moment… ‘Cause the first thing I grabbed happened to be my white LuLu sweater. I paused. Blood spraying, still. But I just couldn’t hand it over to him. I know, I know… I’m a horrible wife. My eyes flashed from the spraying blood to my sweater… blood to sweater… blood to sweater… I assessed the situation and concluded it was not a life or death situation. We wasn’t getting my LuLu. Period. I did however managed to eventually find a towel… a white one, no less.

Next up. Go back to the first paragraph for a quick sec’. Notice I am braless? There are 4 things in life you can count on… Taxes, death, and that I won’t leave my house without my eyebrows painted on, and I most defintely will not ever leave the house with my Girls on the loose. Not even for my bleeding, fingerless husband. I know… I’m now in the 7th circle of hell, right? Anyways, panic set in. I cannot… WILL not… go into the hospital braless. Not gonna’ happen. And as Murphy’s Law would have it, I couldn’t find one f-ing bra. SIX loads of clean now bloody laundry, and not one bra to be found. And it’s not like my bras are little hot sexy things either, they take up half the real estate in this house for f’s sake.  So I had to go all Ninja Mom and inconspicuous run my white ass upstairs to get one, and then slip that boulder-holder on, unnoticed. Fortunately I had my eyebrows on, faded but on.

And lastly, the kids. The friggin’ overtired kids who are happily destroying my house. The friggin’ overtired kids who are happily destroying my house WHILE NAKED…! When you have an emergency hospital run ahead of you and time is of the essence, and you turn and realize you happen to have three children who can’t wipe their own asses, let alone put their shoes on… a tidal wave of fear sets in. Tread lightly, my friends… ’cause one wrong move and you’ve got 3 pissed of toddlers to contend with. And let me tell you, even Mr Arnold Schwarzenegger got nothin’ on a pissed off toddler. But this Ninja Mom has been ’round the block a few times, yo’. I put a turbo engine up ma’ ass, and got ’em diapered and dressed in a proud nanosecond.

Next hurdle is getting them into the car. My children tend to disburse like feral squirrels once they’ve broken free from the house. On the daily, I feel like I deserve a Nobel Peace Prize when I successfully load those Fuckers into the car for school runs. So I gave them the “I need you guys to be big boys and listen to everything mommy says” talk. Which is usually about as effective as a condom with a hole in it.

Somehow… and I don’t know how… but within 4 minutes, our friggin’ overtired destructive naked Family of Five was in the minivan en route to the hospital to save Daddy’s sacred middle finger.

The moral of this post is not to remind you to put your snow shovels away come June. And it’s not to remind you that noone needs to see your triple-fed boobs without a bra on. And it’s not to advise you to dress your children for dinnertime. It’s also not to discourage you from doing too many loads of laundry in one day. It is not to make you question your loyalty towards your husband and your Lulu sweater (no one should ever be put in that position!).  Nor is it to suggest that maybe karma is paying you a visit for trying to serve KD to your kids. Oh no… none of the above. The moral of this post, my friends, is that I now have scientific proof that kids have the cognitive and physical ability to get dressed, and out of the house, and into the car in less than 3.12 hours, with 1,021 reminders, and 3,234 new grey Mom hairs (in all bodily regions). OH YES THEY CAN!

And so Moms… we need to rise up. Just like Big J’s middle finger, which has now been stitched back on, and will no doubt be prominently on display behind my back in no time. We need to rise up to our little Beasts, and get their cute little asses out the door in record time, with maybe a little middle finger giving of our own behind their bloody adorable backsides.

Cheers, Red Whino

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Last night our septic tank alarm went off indicating that yet another hearty, fibrous year was had by all in our household. Grossed out? Don’t worry, this post isn’t about our shit tank. BUT… it turns out the septic alarm may just have saved my life (and my marriage!)

So, as I was sayin’, the alarm went off in the middle of the night. I woke in a panic. I thought it was the fire alarm going off.

OUR HOUSE IS ON FIRE!!!! Wake the husband!!! Grab the 3 Beasts!!! Round up the fur balls!!! Grab the photo albums (Does anyone even do albums anymore? Grab the iPhones, I guess!)!!!

These are probably the things most people would think about if their house was burning down. But not I! The narcissist in me surfaced. The only thing I was thinkin’ was: “OMG… A hot firefighter is going to come to my rescue, and I’m wearing f-ing granny underwear!!!”

That’s right! You heard me! I not only own granny underwear… I wear granny underwear. And I f-ing LOVE them!!! After my c-sections, I couldn’t handle low-riders rubbing against my scars. So I invested in ONE pair of big-honking, rotten-cotton panties. And I am totally ashamed to say… I went back for more! Pink ones. Blue ones. Black ones. White ones. Ones with little flowers… so cute. Polkadots. Stripes. You name it. I’ve got ’em! And to think, all these years I’ve been shoving a lace banana string up my ass! Well, no more I say! NO MORE!

That is until the septic alarm went off! So there I was… a damsel in distress. Waiting to be rescued by my 50 Shades of Clooney… And I’m wearing granny underwear. And, to make matters worse, I also haven’t shaved in… well, let’s just say, I’m sporting a bit of Playoff season scruff!

But, alas, it was not meant to be. My house was unfortunetely not on fire! There will be no sweaty, hot, sculpted, ripped firefighter to my rescue. But let me tell you, I will not take such frivolous risks again. Oh no, I am prepared. I am ready. I am hot! I’m gonna fight fire with fire!

From now on, I will shave. I will even paint on my eyebrows before bedtime. But I have decided I just love my grannies’ too damn much to stop wearing them. So, instead, I’ll seduce my 50 Shades of Clooney with a special message just for him:

So, you see, it’s a win-win situation. Our septic alarm went off… I dreamed a dream… And now my Big J will benefit from a newly plucked wife, and I’m fully prepared to be whisked off into the sunset should my house hopefully ever burn down.

Cheers, Red Whino

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Since the day my children were born, they slept nuzzled up to me in bed. Skin to skin. Warm. Safe. And they never left. They still come to our bed every night. Skin to skin. Warm. Safe. Still.

And it’ll continue this way until the day (or night, I guess) when they no longer come to us. It might be one week, one year, or five years from now. I don’t know when, but I do know they eventually will stop coming. Just because. So until then, it certainly won’t be my husband or I who tell them otherwise. We want to hold on to these years as long as we can.

I’ve met many people who, like us, also have an open-policy family bedroom, no matter the age. And others for whom it simply doesn’t work for them as a family. Each to their own. No judgement is the best judgement. Word up!

Thing is, while it might not be kids in your bed, we all have a “thing” that we do with our kids that is “ours”, and ours’ alone. Be it a habit or a tradition of sorts, that brings comfort to each of you. Warm. Safe.

Another “thing” I had with my eldest was at school drop-off.  I’d always walk him directly into his class. We’d give eachother a big smooch on the lips and a big ole’ bear hug. I’d kiss his neck and say into his ear “be great today”.  He’d then run over to the window and we’d do a virtual hug, an exaggerated wink (which is our “I love you”) and wave goodbye. And we’d walk off in our separate directions. Warm. Safe.

Until today. Today when we walked in, his best friend was waving him over to the Lego table. A great big smile came across my boy’s face. He turned and gave me a quick kiss, and ran off. I waited for him to turn around… he didn’t. I passed by “our” window… he wasn’t there. But through the window, I could see my boy laughing with his best friend, as they built towers to the sky.  “Be great,” I said.

As I walked away, I felt heavy. A complicated, but proud, kind of heavy. My boy was spreading his little wings… he’d found his new warm and safe. His own. What’s more, he’s doing exactly what I told him to do… he’s being great.

A new chapter has begun. There is no going back. It took his innocently walking away from me to realize that those hugs and kisses and waves at the window were not only for him, but for me too. Maybe even more so for me. My boy was doing what we parents work tirelessly to teach them… and that’s to grow into their own. Independent. Confident. Great. And while I may not be quite ready to let old habits die, I do know it means that I too am doing my job, as his Mom, properly. I too am being great.

We often use the phrase “this too shall pass” as a reassurance that bad thing will soon end. But when it comes to parenting, good things also end. And while there’s undoubtedly more NEW good things yet to come, we truly need to enjoy the “now”…. because it too shall pass.

So tonight, when I hear those little footsteps coming down the hallway, and he slides into bed with me… you’d better believe I’m going to take every snuggle I can get. ‘Cause there’s no telling when these beautiful visits will end. So until he’s ready… because I’m certainly not… I’m going to welcome him with open arms.  Warm. Safe.

Cheers, Red Whino

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These days it seems like we’re all cheering for one team or another. Pepsi vs. Coke. Boob versus bottle. Aniston vs. Angelina (Still? Or have we all moved on?).  Trump versus, well almost everyone. And, of course, the ever-lasting feud… Team Parents vs. Non-Parents.

When it comes to the whole Parent vs. Non-Parent debacle, I’m totally a team player. When I’m with Non-Parents, I try very hard not to talk about my 3 Beasts… Just kidding, it’s actually quite easy to forget they even exist.  Instead, I happily sit back and listen to the Non-Parents complain about their perfect f*cking child-free lives. (Insert eye roll!)

But it seems Non-Parents have found yet another thing in their perfect child-free lives to complain about. Because apparently, we ‘Parents’ say hurtful things to them. Sniff! Sniff!  I came across the following article: Five Things Parents Need to Stop Saying to Non-Parents. I ever-so-patiently read through it only to come to the conclusion that Non-Parents are just a bunch of whiny-ass punks. I mean, by intentionally not bringing a child into the world, these Non-Parents are able to maintain their sanity, body shape, livelihood, and liver. Really, they have a golden horseshoe shoved so far up their you-know-whats, they aren’t even able to appreciate it. IgnorANUS! (Oh, envy is a terrible thing. Is it not?)

But what about us parents? What about the hurtful things Non-Parents shouldn’t say to US?

Here is MY list of the Five Things Non-Parents Should Stop Saying to Parents:

“Sorry my house is such a mess”

Ok. Fine. So you think because your pastel, silk throw pillows haven’t been ‘fluffed’ and because you have a spec of dusk beside your glistening toilet (that I would eat off of, by the way), that your house is a mess.

Here. Try this: Go home. Smear peanut butter, jam and Cheese Whiz all over your sofa. Then squeeze honey all over your carpet, and empty a tub of icecream over top (for good measure, of course!). Now spray about 30 grape juiceboxes all over your walls and windows (note: must be grape, apple juice simply doesn’t do enough damage). Now toss a couple of fish sticks and chicken nuggets behind your sofa and leave them there for 9 months. Last, but not least, grab a Sharpie and scribble all over your plasma screen. THEN tell me your house is a mess!

“I feel fat”

Here, try this one on for size… Put your perfectly-pedicured, callus-free feet in my fat-ass shoes for a second. Then strap a nap sack on backwards. Fill it with 60 pounds of soiled diapers. Then take 2 melons and shove them down your bra. (Note: If your bra is not touching the floor, your melons aren’t heavy enough. Try again!) Now take 2 loafs of bread, soak them in water and tape them to your outer thighs. Now take 1025 apples and scatter them around the room, and squat down and pick them all up while wearing your “mom suit”. THEN tell me you feel fat… I dare you!

“Sorry I’m late. I slept through my alarm”

The fact that after an uninterrupted sleep, you have the ability to sleep through your alarm indicates to me that you basically slept in! To which I reply: Screw you!

Try this instead: Right when you are about to sit down and relax for the evening… Don’t! Get up and go catch yourself a bird (must be alive). Now sit down, and attempt to keep the bird on your lap while you read the same story, over and over and over again. When the bird starts to squawk and peck at your face to the point of blood, smile and tell the bird that you love it to the moon and back again. Now for beddy bye bye BYE, grab a 30 pound cinder block. Slow dance with the chuck of cement for about 2 hours. Wake up at 12:30am. Repeat. Wake up at 2:30am. Repeat. Wake up at 4:30am and start your day… with a smile, of course! As I said… screw you and your alarm!

“I SO need a vacation”

Don’t we all! But you see, here’s the difference. Your vacation will be just that… a vacation. You will fly to the destination of your choosing. You will relax. You will drink. You will feast. You will REST.

For those of us who are serving a life sentence for one drunken night of unprotected sex, we then further suffer the consequences by having to go to f*cking Disney World… every year… for eternity!

“I’m so broke”

I hear ya’. Michael Kors bags don’t come cheap these days, do they?

How ’bout this instead… Every week, go to the grocery store and simply hand over your wallet. Then go to the bank and have them drain ALL your accounts, retirement savings and stocks and bonds, along with your dignity. Most likely this won’t be enough to cover your car payments, loans and mortgage. Oh well, what can you do? Nothing says I LOVE YOU like DEBT!  Simply go home and drink copious amounts of wine… because really it’s the only ‘liquid asset’ to your name at this point.

People, the reality is Parents and Non-Parents tend to drift apart in the post-baby-world. Only it’s NOT because they have little left in common, rather because their once stylish, fun, hygienic friends now smell like they’ve marinated themselves in vomit and peanut butter, wear sweat pants (with elastic ankles), have a blank look in their eyes and drive minivans. Trust me, I don’t want to hang out with myself either!

But really, I think we all just need to get over ourselves. In the end, whether you’re a Parents or a Non-Parents… we all still have one thing in common: WINE!

So let’s leave our sensitivities at the door… Let’s simply come together and agree to whine less, and wine more.

Cheers,

Red Whino

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PS. Please know that when I refer to “Non-Parents” in the above post, I am referring to those who intentionally chose not to have children, or want them eventually but just not yet. I am NOT referring to the ‘non-parents’ who are desperately trying to bring a wee one into their lives, whether via adoption, surrogacy, IVF or the good ole’ fashion way. I already consider you Team Parent… cause eventually your dream will come true and you’ll be driving a minivan in no time. Peace!

Spring has sprung… finally! The days are getting warmer. Little birdies are a chirpin’. The smell of charcoaled carcass on the BBQ fills the air. Corpse-coloured legs are starting to get their stride on. Tankinis and Daisy Dukes’ are being dusted off. Flip flops are a flippin’. Love is in the air.

Everyone is coming out of hibernation after a long Canadian winter. Everyone’s feeling a little frisky… busy getting busy! (Did you know that next to Christmas, April is the most popular month to conceive? Well, now you do!)

Tis’ the Season for Spring Fever! Ladies throw on their little tank-tops and push-up bras, guys flex there biceps, and everyone is all like “Oh, baby baby”… Et Voila! A seed is planted. Also, it rains a lot in April, and well, what else is there to do when it rains, right? But apparently no one is wearing their protective rain gear.

Ahhh good ole’ Spring! What’s not to love…

I’ll tell you what… Horniness! And I’m not talking about the Spring Fever kind of horniness. No… I’m talking about horny f-cking yellow toe nails with crusty feet! Jeyzuz! If you’re going to impose opened-toed shoes on the world, make sure your feet don’t look like a dog’s breakfast!

Seriously, I was standing in line the other day, and the man’s feet in front of me looked like they were right out of Deliverance!

Every year it’s the same! Everyone strips down to their skivvies and flip flops. Fine…Great! But why can’t people objectively see what their feet really look like? And I’m not talking about genetically gross feet… like those who’s second toe is 3 times longer than their big toe! ‘Cause it’s not their fault. There is little to be done about genetically ugly feet.

I’m talking about maintenance… HYGIENE! This is within our control, and we owe it to each other to ensure our feet are presentable. Otherwise, put your feet away! And no, socks with sandals is NOT the solution!

Really, there’s no excuse for such atrocities. It’s such a simple fix… get a bloody pedicure!!!  I’ve done my due diligence and had my Spring pedi. Next I’m going to get Big J in there so they can attempt to rid him of his tribal, coal-walking, horny feet.

And who knows… once we’ve dealt with Big J’s horny feet, this Big Mama might just have a lil’ Spring Fever left in her after all…

Cheers,

Red Whino

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From Horny to Horny…
$10… Me Love You Long Time…