Prince George’s First Day At School… WITHOUT MOM. WTF?!?


Today was little royal George’s first day at “big boy” school. Now, normally I’d just scroll past this tidbit of news. But it was the way the media portrayed it that got my attention.

That it was the future King of England’s first day at school was secondary… The main story was that drop off happened “without Mom”.

We all know why Mama Cambridge wasn’t there. And I think, as moms, we can all agree that she must be feeling pretty crappy to have missed his first day. But it’s the fact that the media felt the need to make her absence the main story, the headliner!

Had Prince William not been there for school drop off, it’d have subtly been mentioned in print, not the headline. It would be assumed that he was working or had a previous engagement, or was watching sport, or sleeping in, or clipping his royal toenails.

Because no matter the reason, Dads are always excused from the emotional milestone moments of parenting. Moms are unfairly called out for them.

It’s sending two messages here… One, that moms “should” be present for milestone moments because they are the emotional nurturers of the family, and if they aren’t there, they have failed their family. Second, and more importantly, that Dads alone aren’t enough. Undeservedly, that a father can’t provide the love and tenderness like a mother can.

Either way, no good comes from this message.

In today’s world, where women are fighting for equality, this headline fails us. On the flip side, men are also fighting for equality… but on the homefront. Again, this headline fails us.

Today was Prince George’s first day at school. He was safely dropped off by a loving capable parent. Period. End of story.

Cheers, xo

You are SO not a Super Mom… You’re good, but not that good!



A few years ago I got a Mother’s Day card that read “you are a good mom”. To be honest, I was somewhat taken aback. I’m a “good” mom? Not a great mom? Not an amazing mom? Not a super mom? Nope. Just a good one.

But it made me think… maybe I am JUST a good mom. And maybe I’m good with being good. Because really, being “amazing” is impossible. In today’s ever-competitive world of mothering, we try to support one another with the reassurance that we are all “amazing” moms. But really, we’re just putting unfair pressure on a “job” that already comes with so much pressure, fear, and stress, and let’s be honest… competition.

I am not a perfect mom. I am not an amazing mom. I am not a super mom.

When my kids pee the bed in the middle of the night, do I sometimes just shove a towel under them, and will deal with it in the morning? Yup, maybe.

When I’m so tired by the end of the day and my kids are being little bedtime pricks, do I sometimes skip teeth brushing so I can finally relax? Yup, maybe.

When I have zero ounces of fucks to give, do I sometimes skip the organic, chemistry-free meal, and go straight for the KD or McDrive Thru? Yup, maybe.

Do I sometimes let my kids sleep with me regardless of the “expert” theorists who say I’m raising dependent nut cases? Yup, maybe.

Do I sometimes feed my baby *gulp* formula instead of boob juice on those nights when I just need to pour 300 glasses of wine down my throat? Yup, maybe.

Do I sometimes sit my kids in front of the TV for longer than the recommended 4.2 minutes per day, so that I can drink my coffee uninterrupted? Yup, maybe.

Do I sometimes spend hours Pinterest’ing sensory bin shit, crafty shit, and healthy recipes that I’ll present in the shape of a tractor, only to tell them to go find something (anything!) to play with, so I can ignore them to creep people out on socia media? Yup, maybe.

As moms, we need to take one good, long, hard look in the mirror and finally, FINALLY, see ourselves for who we are… Human. We are good, but we are not perfect… not even close. But I guarantee you, to our kids, we are more than good enough. We are everything.

Because do we give them unconditional love? Yup. Do we laugh until our tummies hurt? Yup. Do we put them to bed every night feeling safe and loved? Yup. Do we try to instill in them empathy and compassion with the hopes they will grow to be Good People? Yup. Do we sometimes let them fail to teach them this world can be harsh and they can’t always have it their way? Yup. Do we teach them daily to be independent so they can one day spread their wings and soar in a world where we are not always there to help? Yup. We give them what matters most.

Amazing? No. Perfect? No. But we are damn good moms. So maybe, just maybe, we need to start setting more realistic expectations for ourselves, and eachother. We need to stop pretending, and put this whole notion of perfection behind us. Because it doesn’t exist. We all know it… we just have to be willing to admit it outwardly.

Because maybe being “just” a good mom, is really good enough.

Cheers, xoxo

Today’s Level of Parenting: A++


So today I scored an A++ as a mother. Ya, that’s right… I killed it. A solid respectable 100%. The kind of score that puts the good ole’ bell curve into a tailspin.

Now don’t you go thinking it’s cause I’m one of ‘dem super-duper moms. Nope. There was no DIY crafting or sensory bin explorations. My children were not dressed in cute matching stiff-collared Banana Republic ensembles. And they certainly weren’t eating organic tree bark from an organic store. I didn’t bake high-fructose free, chemical-pesticide free or GMO-free treats for their recreational sports teams. Nor did I volunteer for any of the 8,472 volunteer things I always get asked to volunteer for every second of every day!

No. Infact, it was quite the opposite. After a breakfast that consisted of sugary yogurt drinks and sugary cereal, we set off for a totally unplanned, non-scheduled, non-Pinterest kind of summer day. As for dress attire… Boy#3 never made it out of his PJs, Boy#2 refused to wear underwear (or pants for that matter), and Boy#1 insisted on socks with sandles… which happened to be my high-heeled ones.

In addition to our unhealthy, fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants day (ironic with one kid not actually wearing pants, non?), some other gold star moments happened, which inevitably worked towards my perfect A++ Mom Score.

Last night, when the kids asked me what the weather was going to be like today, I said, “Hot. So hot you can fry an egg on the ground”. Well, if there’s one thing my kids and I have, it’s trust. Fast forward to this morning, I made the rookie mistake of turning my back for 45 seconds to change the toddler’s diaper, et voilà Thing 1 and Thing 2 tried to fry an egg… on the kitchen floor!


I then had the nerve to go for a pee. I know, right? And not a “Take my phone. Take my time” kind of pee. No, it was a “I have 3 boys jacked on sugar” nanosecond kind of pee. I am very aware that my absence is like a ticking time bomb. Only today, my toddler had just enough time to grab 2 handfuls of wet (WET!) catfood and shove it down the vent. To make matters worse, as I launched myself across the room in slow motion with a deep “nooooooo”… I stepped on a piece of Lego. And let me tell you… I went down faster than my teenage self on a second date. D.O.W.N… hard.

In the afternoon, I took them to an ice cream shop. All was well, until Kid#3 starts to lose his mind… for no reason other than being healthy, well-provided for and alive, obviously. Thrashing, kicking, spitting his sweet breathed venom at me. Whatever… I threw him under my arm like a seasoned boss. Just in time for Kid #2 to pour his melted ice cream juice all over himself. He too starts losing his mind. He’s frantic, as his Toddler OCD kicks in, and he needs to wash his hands… NOW. And this spill was no job for napkins. So I did what any self-respecting mother would do, I told him to wash his hands in the dog water bowl on the ground curtesy of the nice ice cream people. Winning! With two kids circling down into the 7th circle of tantrum hell, I had no idea where Boy#1 was. He’s a smart kid though, so I just assumed he’d crawled under a rock somewhere.


But in the end, it’s amazing how the tides of motherhood change, non? We ate a healthy dinner. Laughed. Sang songs. Played hide n’ seek. Went for a bike ride. A dip in the pool. Story time. Ending yet another day with sweet warm snuggles until they were limp in my arms, all of the day’s fuckeries behind us… replaced only by the sounds of their sweet breathing, and my bursting heart.

Motherhood is a funny thing. It’s a daily dance that evokes a multitude of emotions. Some days go by without incident. Other days are a gong show. Anyone who follows my blog knows that for me, it’s the gong-show days that I feel are especially important to talk about. It’s not that my children are always misbehaved, wild or out of control. Not at all. It’s rather about the alternative. If we only ever share the “good” side of motherhood… the perfect pictures and perfect stories, then we risk creating a maternal community based on deception and lies; which then results in feelings of inadequacy and judgement. We see this A LOT on popular mom forums. I try to keep it real. That’s not to say that every kid shoves cat food down the vent. Nor does mine on any given Sunday. But some days… THOSE days… happen to the best of us. It’s par for the motherhood course. And it’s surviving “those” days that earn us a perfect A++ Mom Score… especially when we’re willing to share them with fellow Moms.
So keep sharing. Keep talking. We’re all in this together.

Cheers, Red Whino
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Is this Mama tired or shit-faced?


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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Reality Versus Perception… No matter, a mom is a mom!


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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50 Shades of Children… Just in time for Father’s Day.


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!)


Your Little Loving Beastly Children

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A Bloody Important Message for Moms…

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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