Happy Mother’s Day to U2… One Love.


As a mom, I know I have a lot to learn. Because being a mother comes with a steep learning curve. But in the short time that I’ve enjoyed the title of “Mom”, I have learned this: As amazing as it is, being a mom is not always easy, for any of us. At some point, we all struggle. But while our struggles may look different, we all have one BIG commonality… and that’s love for our children. A fierce, stupid love. A love that at times is suffocating, and debilitating, and overwhelming, and lonely, and scary, but mostly beautifully f-ing awesome!

A mother’s love knows no bounds. Errr, well, maybe with exception to the toddler and teen years. But no matter how tired, frustrated or defeated we feel, we push on.  Day in, day out. 24/7. Rain or shine!

That said, since becoming a mother myself, and in part because of the feedback I get from this very blog, I am always surprised by how hard we mothers can be on eachother. Sadly, we can be very judgemental toward one another.  Whether we had vaginal or c-section births, breast or bottle, co-sleeping or cribbin’ it, working or at home… we sometimes throw shade at one another. I think our own insecurities as mothers get the better of us and we turn it outward, lashing out at other fellow moms. There is a constant pressure put on us by society, and expectations set by our families. We are pulled in every direction, trying to do things “the right way”.  So when we see a mom doing it “that way” (which, by the way, doesn’t make it the “right way”… just the right way for HER) we get defensive. If only we projected the same sense of acceptance we have for our children onto our fellow moms… Imagine the power.

So whether it be Mother’s Day, or everyday, I want to give a shout out to ALL mothers… no matter the struggle… we are one.

TO THE MOMS WHO HAD VAGINAL OR C-SECTION BIRTHS: It’s about the journey, not the destination of arrival. You loved, carried and gave life to a healthy beautiful baby. Period. Happy Mother’s Day.

TO THE MOMS WHO HAVE ADOPTED OR USED A SURROGATE: Your child may not have grown under your heart, but IN it. A mother’s love is not defined by blood. Happy Mother’s Day.

TO THE MOMS WHO HAVE HAD SUCCESSFUL IVF BABIES: When the body and science come together, they produce one powerful seed… and from it is born the most precious miracle. Happy Mother’s Day.

TO THE MOMS WHO FOSTER CHILDREN: Every child needs an angel, and that angel is YOU. Every child derserves a loving home, and you are that home. One of the most selfless acts any human could give. I bow down to you. Happy Mother’s Day.

TO THE MOMS WHO HAVE CHILDREN WITH ANY TYPE OF SPECIAL NEED: No diagnosis can ever change one’s love for their child. In fact, I think it makes for a special love and an even more special family.  Happy Mother’s Day.

TO THE MOMS OF SINGLETONS, MULTIPLE CHILDREN, TWINS, TRIPLETS, PLUS: No matter the number, they all come with their own challenges. You are doing your best with what you have. Happy Mother’s Day.

TO THE MOMS PARTNERED WITH ANOTHER MOM, AND THE “MOMS” WHO ARE MEN: An X and Y chromosome does not make a home. Love does. And every person deserves to feel this kind of love. Gender makes no difference to a child, nor should it to society. Happy Mother’s Day.

TO ALL THE SINGLE MOMS: It is twice the work for you. It is also twice the love for you. Twice the hugs. Twice the kisses. A child doesn’t necessarily need two parents, but the best parent. Happy Mother’s Day.

TO THE MOMS WHO ARE DESPERATELY TRYING TO CONCEIVE: Think positive (  || ). Think someday. As Cinderella said, ” Even miracles take time”. They are already in your heart, next stop your womb. Happy Mother’s Day.

TO THE STEP-MOMS OUT THERE: You made a promise to love another’s child as your own. Honour. There is never enough love to go around. Happy Mother’s Day.

TO THOSE WHO HAVE LOST THEIR MOM:  No matter your age, no matter the time that has passed… you lost an extention of yourself. A vital limb. The brain has an amazing way of storing memories. Remember. Smile. Happy Mother’s Day.


TO THE MOMS WHO HAVE LOST A CHILD: No one deserves to be recognized more than a mother who has had to give her baby back. And no time or space will ever change the fact that you are a mom, always. Happy Mother’s Day.


When it comes to motherhood, the lyrics “We’re ONE, but we’re not the same…” (by a wee little band known as U2) come to mind.  We are all our own beautiful beings, simply doing our best to raise our children. We all have the same end goal, we’re simply exploring different avenues to get there.

It’s no different than how we raise our children. We encourage them to be their true selves. To dare to be different. To not always conform to societal expectations and pressures. To think outside the box. Why not encourage other mothers to do the same… without judgement. Imagine the power!

Happy Mother’s Day to ALL moms… to my mom… to my mother-in-law for raising my Big J, and to U2.


Cheers, Red Whino

Please SHARE the love and laughter this blog has to offer. And follow my FB page for daily laughter at:


Shit Happens… Oh Yes It Does!


Today, I’m in a generous mood. So much so that I’m going to let you in on a little Red Whine Diaries’ story… one from the Vault Of Shame. I’ll probably regret sharing this one, but what the hell,  here goes nothing…

Be warned though, ’cause it could happen to you too! In fact, I bet it already has…

So not so very long ago, I was lucky enough to waste three precious hours of my sacred life in bumper-to-bumper Toronto traffic. The upside was that My 3 Beasts were sleeping peacefully in the back… it was a beautiful day out, so I was able to lower the windows and enjoy a nice, smoggy, nitrogen oxide-induced breeze… Tunes were blazin’. Really, it wasn’t all that bad. That is, until…

Rumble, rumble! An enchilada-induced bubble made its way across my lower abdomen.  I straighten my spine… OMG! OMG! OMG! No! No! No! Shit! Shit! Shit! (Literally!) Please do not let this happen to me… again! Think of something else! Anything else!

– 99 bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of beer!!!… Didn’t help!

– Kegel ass exercise… Didn’t help!

– Shove random pieces of gum in my mouth (not sure why, but seemed like the logical thing to do)… Didn’t help!

– Meditate! That’s right! I tried build a mental dam and block the flow of Mr. Poo… Didn’t help!

– Maybe it’s just a fart? I was too scared to find out.

No, this was the real deal… Coming at me like a freight train!  Keep in mind, I’m stuck in traffic… on a higway!!! There was no way to make a quick turn or exit anytime soon . I was stuck between a rock and a hard poo. My head was spinning around like the Exorcist, scouting out the neighbouring cars. Do they know what’s happening? Are they aware there is a 40 year old mother in the minivan next to them who is about to shit her pants?

Well, that time I was spared. Mr Poo retracted his head like a turtle in distress. I was able to effectively do my kegel ass clenches just in time to pull into a gas station at Mock 10.

However, there was another time, also not so very long ago, that I ended up having to frantically resort to a Glad Tupperware container… in my car. Yes, that’s right,  I am a grown woman and I took a shit… in Tupperware… in my car! Sigh…

They do advertise it as "TO GO"... Just sayin'...

Do they advertise it as “TO GO” for people like me? Or is it just a coincidental pun?

A humbling experience to say the least! One that has cost me hours of therapy.

You’re probably wondering why I feel the need to share this with you? Well, here’s the thing… My Little Orange Crush is fully shitter trained, although to my surprise, he too shit his pants the other day (the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!). You see, he was playing a game of hockey, the score was tied, and he needed to score the winning goal… so naturally, one cannot call a time-out, but would rather drop a grenade in their pants. Naturally! Also My Agent Orange has been showing interest in torturing me with potty bootcamp.

So, seeing that I too shit myself in public… who am I to tell my sons to use the toilet? Or teach them any etiquette for that matter? Seriously, the Mom who succumbed to dropping a load into her LUNCH Glad Tupperware, in the car no less?!?

I’m thinking the whole potty training thing is so overrated anyways. I mean, there IS something to be said about wearing diapers! God only knows I wish I had been sporting them that fateful day… Plus, you only end up back in them later in life anyway, right? So why even bother?

With the exception of a lobotomy, the only way to get through life after an incident like that is to look at it from the bright side. What I do know is this… My incident has made me a better, more understanding mother. ‘Cause when My Beasts do have “accidents” in their tighty-whities, or Tupperware for that matter, I understand better than anyone that, yes oh yes indeed, shit does happen!


A Humble Red Whino

We women gettin’ shit done this Valentine’s Day!

Oh, we women! We women love to talk. We talk, and we talk, and we talk some more. We talk about meaningful intellectual stuff, sure. But we also talk shit. We talk shit about our kids. We talk shit about our husbands. And, let’s be honest, we talk shit about each other. It’s a total shit storm of laughter and gossipy fun when we women get together.

I was out the other day with some friends (no really, it’s true) and it was a total bitchfest.  We bitched about our barbaric offspring, our spoon-fed husbands, the toxic state of our house, our cottage-cheese asses, our “sea food” diets, and our ever-increasing dependency on coffee and wine to numb it all away. As women, we take mental notes, we compare, we silently judge, we mask our envy and we share our opinions.

We also offer extremely helpful advice to one another. Because we women have an answer for everything. We suggest trendy parenting books. We pass around the number of a good house cleaner. We share exercise regimes. Diet tips. We clink our glasses together, all in the name of wine with a splash of whine.  You name it, we solve it. But the one thing we don’t have answers for? Our bloody husbands. We bitch. We commiserate. We empathize. We nod in the unfortunate familiarity of it all. But we can’t really offer any advice because turns out there’s no  golden “Man”ual.

We get all wobbly kneed and blindsided by the sparkly diamond ring. And poof, just like that, we marry our Prince Charming… Only to discover that underneath that princely charm lies a Neanderthal child who can’t take care of themselves.

Now listen, I don’t want to be dissin’ on your man, or mine for that matter. Big J is a good man. He is loyal.  He works hard. He smells good. And he puts up with my crazy. But sometimes I fear that Big J is a toddler trapped inside a grown man’s body. Because, like my children, he has an impressively lengthy list of things that drive me bat-shit crazy.

So based on my years of marriage and intimate bitchfests, I’ve made a list of “R U F-ing Kidding Me?” Husband Moments. But I’ll give credit where credit is due… these are not all about Big J (although some are!).

A fairly large percentage of men are totally and utterly incapable of putting the lid down. Period.
SOLUTION: Find a picture of your mother, his mother-in-law, and tape it to the rim of the toilet, and write “Nice balls!”… WhoaHaHa! I guarantee you, he’ll learn to pee sitting down… unless your mom looks like Christie Brinkley, in which case you have no case!

They need to shave. Fine. I get it.  But is it really so hard to run the water and do a quick rince for 5 seconds after?!
SOLUTION: It’ll take some time, but collect that speckled shit into a ziplock bag. During dinner when he asks you to “pass the pepper”, whip out your baggie and sprinkle that shit on his food. He’ll start rinsing.

Why we women are stereotyped as “high maintenance” I’ll never know. We are workhorses! ‘Sleeping Beauty’ should have been a man… and there certainly wouldn’t have been any Kiss of Love comin’ from we women.
SOLUTION: One word… Taser! Zzz…

Dirty clothes go in the bin. Like, is it really that hard to grasp? Even a donkey could figure this one out.
SOLUTION: Clearly, they need incentive. I’ve invented a laundry “Bin For Him”. I’m bringing laundry and porn together. Load for a load!


I swear man’s brain is literally split down the middle… or nearly, with 51% porn, 49% sports. I truly believe they have a genetic predisposition to ignore all else that life has to offer.
SOLUTION: This won’t be an easy one to crack. But maybe this time it’s about marrying sports with porn. During the game, get out your little pink duster, strip down to your sexies, step into some heels, and do a little dusting around the TV.  If he doesn’t reciprocate, he is either having an affair or gay. In which case, your marriage just got, well, more interesting.

Crikey… No need to explain. I’m just going to post a picture of the fuckery I awaken to every morning.


SOLUTION: I honestly don’t have one. Although the one thing that Melania Trump said that proved to me she just might have an IQ higher than a pigeon is when she said the secret to a good marriage is separate bathrooms. Word up, Melania!

“Ummm… you live here too, right?”, says almost every wife.  ‘Cause if after all this time, he’s still asking where the toilet paper is kept, then we women should be really worried about what’s on our towels. ‘Cause I’m thinking those markings ain’t from no mascara, yo!
SOLUTION: Just leave! Go! Book yourselves into a hotel, a spa, a brothel. Anywhere. Let him figure that shit out on his own. It’s time he pulled up his big boy pants. Hopefully AFTER wiping… and with toilet paper!


They put empty milk cartons back in the fridge, empty cereal boxes in the pantry, ice cream, condiments. You name it!
SOLUTION: Empty all their beers out (or better yet, drink them), and restock their case or the fridge with empties. Most effective if done on game night. He’ll get the point… fast!

They say you can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make him drink. Or in the case of we women… you can make a man your husband, but you cannot make him think.  Well, I disagree. While our Dear Husbands may never be as awesome and flawless as we women *cough*, I have total faith that they are indeed “trainable”. What’s more, my Solutions don’t only benefit we women, but our husbands too. You see, as a husband, if you’d only stop doing the things on the “R U F-ing Kidding Me?” list, your chances of getting laid increase substantially.

And, well, with Valentine’s Day right around the corner, I just thought I’d help a bro’ out…

You’re welcome.


Red Whino

There’s no Wine in Patience… or is there?

When it came to writing this week’s blog post, my brain was giving me the silent treatment. Generally, my ideas on what to write about stem from the asshole things my kids (or husband) have done, or from fake news I see on my social media feeds… both usually recipes for some good laughs.

Only this week, some serendipitous shit happened at my house. Normally, on any given day that ends in ‘y’, my house is like a game of War-Craft.  Only this week, my Beasts were actually quite civilized. Like, there were no patches of hair missing from any given scalp. No one took a direct shit on the floor and walked through it. No one poured maple syrup over their head. No one shoved cat food down our vents. It was a good week. So yes, what I’m saying is that I secretly hope my kids give me just a wee snippet of their true asshole colours, because otherwise I don’t have a blog to piss on.

As for social media, with the recent events brought on by that 70 year old DicToddler, social media has now become a platform for the world to voice their political fears. Fine. But because I try to steer clear of politics on this blog, social media has given me no lemons from which to make proverbial lemonade.

Until finally, what should appear in my inbox?! An article about *cough * “How to be more patient with your kids”.  No really… I couldn’t even make this shit up if I tried! Et Voilà, a blog post was born.


So here are the tips on how to be more patient with your kids. And, of course, my deep thoughts on them.

Treat your kids like house guests

Would you yell at your guest to put their shoes away? By treating your kids like house guests, this will keep the peace and everyone will be more likely to get along.

OK.  So here’s the thing… if my house guests behaved anything like my children, I’d throw their asses out at “Hello”. That said, I expect very little when it comes to house guests. Because, like us, they tend to be grief-stricken parents in need of a lobotomy. I must say though, I am quite the hostess with the mostess when it comes to entertaining. Upon arrival, I graciously offer our house guests an iWarned U Package. Inside, our house guests will find a Hazmat suit to protect against the toxicity of my house, plastic grocery bags to wear over their feet as booties, cotton balls to shove up their nostrils to mask the smell, earplugs, 2 Valium and an unlimited supply of wine to render them into a much-needed coma.

Get enough rest

“If you aren’t getting enough sleep, you will be crabby.  Try getting 7 hours of sleep tonight and see what a difference it makes.  (Maybe even aim for 8 hours!)”

In theory, this sounds like sage advice… only in practice it’s fluffy BS.  Because sleep and children are about as compatible as wine and decision-making. I’m three kids deep, and still haven’t found the Holy Grail of Sleep. Until I do, it’s a whine for a wine. Big J and I enjoy a couple of romantic shots of wine, and we’re off to bed like two drunk peas in a pod. Now that’s compatibility for ya’!

Don’t argue with your children

“Make a rule and stick to it and there will be no arguing necessary because it won’t get them anywhere.  Instead, try being empathetic towards them.”

I too try not to argue with my kids. Instead, I simply ignore them. You see, I’m no child psychologist, but the evidence is pretty clear that children lack in the brain department. Since having kids, I believe “blow your brains out” has a whole new meaning to it. Here’s my theory: basically kids have runny noses from birth. And when they sneeze, a massive thick yellow worm of mucus exits from their nose, sticking to their lips, and dangles mid-air from their chin. They then promptly smear it horizontally across their face with their Neanderthal hands.  I am now convinced that when they sneeze, they are literally blowing their brains out, cell by cell. It’s the only explanation! So I agree, it’s not fair to argue with someone who has the IQ of a squirrel.

Be prepared

“The root of impatient behavior is always the same: you are unprepared… Causing you to lose your temper. Being prepared stops this.”

News flash!!! You can organize yourself until the cows come home, but that doesn’t guarantee the kids will go along with the plan. Simply putting socks on a toddler requires a PhD in Fuckery. So just STOP!  Really,  just stop. Stop wasting your imaginary time preparing for your imaginary well-behaved children. It’s a little game I play with myself called “Who F’ing Cares? Not Me”. Seriously, if you can’t beat ’em… join ’em!

Drink more water and eat better

“Yes, it is true.  You are what you eat. Also if you don’t drink water,  you aren’t going to be as happy.”

Well, when I’m not hiding in the pantry shoving Oreo’s down my throat, I tend to eat the leftovers that I scraped off the floor. So if I am what I eat, that makes me the family dog.  But I do agree with her about the importance of drinking more to stay happy. She means water, I mean wine. Po-tay-to… Po-tah-to!

Take a break

“After you lose your temper, it can take 1/2 an hour to calm back down. Have your whole family spend time reading in their bedrooms for 30 minutes until everyone feels better.”

Really, it just get better and better, non? If I were to shut my Beasts in their bedrooms alone for more than one minute, it’d turn into a scene from Lord of the Flies. And I’m almost positive they’d make me Roger! Pray/Prey!  I know I keep going back to the Valium and wine, but it really is like taking a break… a long, well-deserved cognitive brain-numbing break. Plus, the kids love it… they call it the “Mommy Is a Rock” game.


Listen. Reality is, there is no shortage of tips and resources when it comes to parenting. But at the end of the day, it comes down to parenting the way that works best for YOU. Kids are little people who are simply doing the best they can… You’re all they have. Remember, you don’t want rush something that you want to last forever. So yes, try to be patient. Be kind. Be understanding. Parenting is one of the hardest and least rewarding jobs ever. So if you do lose your patience (and you will!), forgive yourself for being, well, human. And rather than wanting to blow your own brains out, take a minute and go stand outside… ’cause you are outstanding. You really really are, Mamas!


Red Whino

P.S. If you don’t want to take my asshole parenting advice (I beg you, please don’t!), here’s the article.


The March Against Madness

They say it’s the little things in life that count… which naturally got me thinking of the Women’s March! You know… THAT little thing? That little thing that was the biggest protest in US history? That little thing was awesome.  And it was necessary. And it was time!

As I watched with giddy exitement as this historic event unfolded, something kept nagging at me. It was like Dèja Vu. It all seemed so familiar, but I couldn’t quite put a finger on what. That is until dinner time that same night…

You see, dinner time with my 3 Beasts is like involuntarily being thrown into a MMA cage fight. Because toddlers are little tyrannical dictators… or, as I like to call them, Dictoddlers. They have a false sense of entitlement and no ethical morals. They lack the ability to differentiate between reality and Lala fucking Land.  They govern without consequence or fear. They are ruthless, but at the same time a donkey could outsmart them. Sound like *cough* someone else who’s recently… Oh, I don’t know… become President?

If you think about it, these little unstable 2-foot DicToddlers have been marching all over us since Adam and Eve.  For centuries, we strong-ass, nasty mothers have been silently protesting against these little shits in hopes of regaining our sanity, our basic human rights, and our ability to have a SOLO shower from time to time.

Everyday I mentally march against my DicToddlers. But the Women’s March gave me the courage and motivation to act. I’m ready! I’ve made up my Mommy Madness March signs. As of tomorrow, I’m gonna hike up my maternity leggings, throw on a vomit-free sweater, and I’m gonna march around my goddamn house chanting ” Keep Your Tiny Hands Off My Junk!”


As your mother, I just want to pee… ALONE!  And I want to walk without a screaming parasite attached to my leg. I want to go a day without being asked why “Mommy’s arms flap like a flag”, or if “Mommy really IS Santa Claus” (as you gently stroke my stomach).
Well, to be honest, I too want to build a wall. Difference being that Mexicans, Muslims, and anyone with 2 legs and a heart beat are welcome on my side of the wall. On the other side of the wall, during the hours of 8pm to 8am, reside the DicToddlers. Really, it’s just a baby gate on steroids. But trust me, they will remain a threat, because If You Build It, THEY Will Come! My kids would have that wall crashing all around me in a nanosecond.
Like Trump, my children have waged war on the environment… The environment being our house, or really anything they come into contact with. Nothing says collaborative teamwork like three DicToddlers armed with a wooden spatula, a hockey stick and plate of spaghetti… ‘Cause THESE are the true weapons of mass destruction.
When it comes to DicToddlers, gender inequality is rampant… particularly towards Dear Ole’ Mom. And I’m not just saying this as the mother of boys. Girl or boy, DicToddlers all see their mothers as their Bitch. They reek havoc on our body, tear us apart to make their grand entrance, and then proceed to thank us by making demands, 24/7. And I’m not sure if they are simply not aware, or if they couldn’t care less, that they also have a father who is very capable… but noooo it has to be Mommy!
Not only do women get paid less in general, but mothers get paid in kisses and venomous love! I once read about some jackass financier who said if mothers were paid for, well… mothering, that their salary would average an annual $170K. When in reality, instead of being paid… WE pay! And oh, do we pay dearly! With a side dish of F-U!
My kids have a comprehensive health care plan of their own. It’s called the Mommy Mommy Mommy Vomit Plan. And it ensures they get sick… anytime… anywhere… all the time… all 3 at the same time. And the only guaranteeing provision is when, in turn, Mommy suffers from their cold, flu and plague, none of them will give a shit.

To be quite fair, these DicToddlers do not throw shade when it comes to race, religion or sexual orientation. ‘Cause really, they don’t give a rats’ ass if you are white, black, green or blue… gay, bi, Trans, straight, crooked or zigzag’ed… Catholic, Jewish, Muslim, circumcised, not circumcised, pierced, tattooed, inked, Crayola’ed or Sharpie’ed… They will come for you! They will sniff you out. They will find you. And they will suffocate you with their irrational  demands. They will spit their venom at you. They will squeeze the life out of you, slooowly and with great pleasure. There are no prejudices when it comes to toddlers. They are very accepting of us all… until they turn on you. Hail hath no fury like a scorned toddler!  To a toddler, we are one…we are ALL victims!




But at the end of the day there are two fundamental difference between my Mommy Madness March and the Women’s March that we just witnessed. One, as much as Trump himself behaves like a toddler, real toddlers… our toddlers… have hearts of gold. They ooze out innocence and genuine love. So really, there is no comparison.  Secondly, and more importantly, this post was written with good-intentioned humour. I would never want to diminish the power of what took place on Jan 21st.

So, is it the little things in life that matter? ‘Cause sometimes it’s the little things in life that make me think of Trump’s penis… Oops, I meant Pence. All of whom are lacking in the “mighty” department. Toddlers are little, but they are mighty. The Women’s March… THAT little thing?!? It too was mighty. Because sometimes it’s about taking a mighty stand to make change. Whether it’s a parent to a child, a woman to a man, or a nation to a leader. We all need to unite and stay strong in the face of adversity, be it a DicToddler or otherwise.  And THAT, my Whinos, ain’t no “alternative fact”.

Red Whino

Sex after children

So lately I’ve been asking myself the age old question… Is there sex after children? I mean seriously, what IS the secret to bringing back those wild, teenage-like romping days?

I receive a lot of requests from many of you on topics you’d like me to write about. I totally don’t know why, but the one I get over and over and over again is for me to share my thoughts on ‘sex after children’.

I’m humbled (if not a little confused?) that you’re interested in my opinion on such matters.  In fact, Big J is even more perplexed about this one. “Why are they asking YOU? What do YOU know about sex after kids?” Point taken, Honey! Point taken!” Although we did end up with three kids in three years… so I must know a little somethin’about sex after children. I’m just obviously lacking when I comes to knowing anything about birth control.

But seriously, how does one ever find the time to have sex in a post-baby world? Between diaper changes and wine consumption, I’m spent… if not a little drunk!

Anyways, I Googled. And here’s the thing… The Top 5 Tips on how to keep the sex a rockin’ after the kids’ come a knockin’ just make me want to punch someone in the throat!

Tip #1: Schedule it in!
At first, it doesn’t sound very romantic… but it kinda makes sense, right? I mean, truth is, most working adults fall into a sort of ‘sex routine’ well before the kids arrive. And there’s no question that things do slow down in a kid-invaded household, so sure it’s a nice idea to schedule in some “sexy” time. But it’s a bit of a turn-off when you have to include the YEAR in which that sexy time will happen… or possible not happen. Nothing says “I love you” like sex in 2019!

Tip#2:  Tell him you’re fantasizing about him even though you don’t have time to actually have sex
Apparently you can verbally engage in sexual intercourse without ever having to ‘do it’, and it’s just as satisfying.  I can see Big J being ‘into it’ for maybe a nano-second… after that it’s just empty promises that’ll lead to a sex fight. And I always say, keep the fights clean and the sex dirty.  So seriously, save the fantasies for Tom Brady, and sex for your husband (while fantasizing about Tom Brady, of course!)

Tip #3: Change your mindset
They say to stop looking at sex as yet another chore. Ummm… but according to Tip #1, it’s on my ‘To Do’ list… MAKING IT A CHORE! It’s yet another thing us Mamas have to ‘get done’ before we can close our aging eyelids and slip into a coma from which we wish to never wake. Me? I try to look at sex like a much-needed glass of wine, cause there’s nothing like a glass of wine to put me in the mood for… well, another glass of wine! I digress…

Tip #4: Date night
Apparently going out for dinner will miraculously turn us into wild horny animals!  Maybe it’s just me… but the thought of having to shower and put on a bra exhausts me. In addition to painting on my eyebrows and caking some makeup on, I just don’t have it in me! I guess the dinner is supposed to be foreplay? To that I say, simply brushing your teeth is foreplay enough for me these days!

Tip #5: “Too tired” is not an excuse
Ugh! I’m too tired to even give this one the attention it doesn’t deserve… All I have to say is that’s what the internet is for, Boyz! Use it…!

But seriously, you asked for my advice, so here it is: the only way to spice up your sex life in a post-baby world is to… wait for it…  JUST HAVE SEX! Just getter’ done! Pour yourself a nice glass of wine, and then a couple more, and go for it! You never know, you just might enjoy yourself… Or is that the wine talking?


Red Whino