Happy Mother’s Day to U2… One Love.


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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.

AND MOSTLY…

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.

ONE LOVE.

Cheers, Red Whino

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To my future daughter-in-laws


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Now I’m a pretty open person, and it’s not often I meet someone that I don’t really like. I have a fairly large repertoire of friends, because if I like you… I like you. Period. I don’t care if you’re white, black or blue (that goes for hair AND skin colour). I don’t care if you’re gay, straight or twisted. I don’t care if you’re Muslim, Jewish, Catholic or nothing in particular. I don’t care if you’re a granola crunching vegetarian or a blood sucking carnivor. I don’t care if you have a degree from Harvard or the School of Hard Knocks. I don’t care if you prefer red over white, beer over vodka, or just a mean green tea. If you are Good People and have a sense of humour, I’m gonna like you.  Even if you don’t have a great sense of humour, I’m still probably going to like you… just don’t come a callin’ on a Friday night, kapeesh?

So here I am thinking I’m a lover of everyone and anyone, until I see some jackass wearing this shirt.

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And a few days later, I come across this on my FB news’ feed.

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I realized that maybe I actually can’t tolerate everyone, after all. Because, I just want to punch these types of parents in the throat. They are bullies. Plain and simple.

But it did get me thinking… Before I know it, my boys will be teens venturing into the dating world. (If you want to read my views of how I’ll parent the teen years, click here.) And from there, I will eventually become a mother-in-law… three times over. So I decided to pen an open letter to my three future daughter-in-laws… or son-in-laws, cause, well, you just never know.

Using the above FB post as my guideline, here are my 10 Commandments for my future daughter-in-laws:

1. GET A JOB. KEEP IT.
If you love your job, great. Keep it. If you don’t, find another. If you’re in between jobs, it happens. If you chose not to work, that’s between you and my son. If you’re trying to find your passion, more power to you. Life is short. We can hang out. Figure out your next move over a coffee… with Bailey’s. I also have plenty of chores to keep you busy and motivated. Just kidding, or not.

2. UNDERSTAND I DON’T LIKE YOU AND NEVER WILL
Well, well, well, ain’t this a bitchy thing to say…  nevertheless so true. As mentioned, I befriend those from all walks of life. UNLESS… you have skin that tans like sweet caramel toffee sans les freckles. You have a chiseled body like Gisele’s without the gym. Or you can stuff your face with Cheetos à la Fromage Fondant, and still look like, well, Gisele. You see, envy is a terrible thing. So there IS a chance I may not like you, but only because I want to be you.

3. I’M EVERYWHERE
This is true. I am. I’m everywhere. I’m all over the map. I’m up. I’m down. I’m going. I’m staying. I can. I can’t. I will. I won’t. Not to say I’m unpredictable or unstable…. ’cause Whoa Nelly who needs an unstable mother-in-law?!? I’m just a colourful, at times tipsy, soul… but not in a “drive you crazy” kinda way. Unless you ask my husband, but what do they know, right daughter-in-law? Ha! See? We’ll have fun together, us.

4. YOU HURT HIM. I HURT YOU.
“He hit me. No he did. No he did. Did not. Did too.”… “Give it back. No. It’s mine. No mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.”  Childish shit, right? That’s how I feel about this statement. ‘Cause really unless you’re a mosquito or a fruit fly, I have no desire to crush you. Here’s the deal… You and my son will have your ups and downs. You’ll want to kill him at times (trust me, I’ve lived with him too. I know!). You may even break his heart. It happens.  My job raising my son is to instill in him the tools to cope. We’ve all had to… it’s part of life.

5. IF YOU AREN’T AFRAID OF THE DARK, BECOME AFRAID.
Yup, for your sake I hope you are afraid of the dark. And if you’re not, pretend to be. This will help get you out of nightime feedings. You’re welcome.

6. DON’T LIE TO HIM. OR TO ME.
Listen, I just told your future husband that if he eats enough broccoli it eventually starts to taste like chocolate. He fell for it. No seriously, he did! So who am I to judge? Trust me, nothing wrong with a little white lie… or a little white wine, but now I’m just being greedy! As for lying to him or to me… there’s really no need. And same applies to you, it’s a two-way street. Anyways, I’m your MIL, just omit when necessary.

7. MORE CLOTHES SCORE POINTS
As long as you’re not hopping into bed naked with me… I could care less what you choose to wear, or not. Here’s the thing, we “older” women have worked fucking hard to ensure you lovely young women get the respect you deserve… no matter your fashion choices. Also, my son will be raised to NEVER make assumptions about a woman based on what she’s wearing, or not wearing, so why would I? Be yourself. Wear whatever you want and don’t let anyone make you feel less than who you are for it.

8. HE WILL ALWAYS LOVE ME MORE.
Nope. He won’t. He may have entered this life from my vagina, but he will exit with yours. So, from my vagina to yours, I’m here to tell you that he will love you more. He SHOULD love you more. I’m Ok with that.

9. I DON’T MIND GOING BACK TO JAIL.
Ya. You read that right… BACK to jail. I too made some questionable decisions in my younger wild days. (Stupid really… I got caught peeing in a parking lot, and happened to be, errrr, a wee bit intoxicated, and well, under age. Triple whammy!). Point is, I’ve definitely “Been there. Done that.” I have a few good stories up my sleeve. They make for some good laughs. Join me.

10. WHATEVER YOU DO TO HIM, I WILL DO TO YOU
Ummm… no. For his sake, your sake, my sake and every therapist in the world’s sake… whatever you’re doing to him, don’t involve ‘dis Mama. But seriously, as I mentioned in #4, it’s your relationship. There are good days, and not so good days. It’s for you two to figure out. But it can make for some good reality TV type shit. So you’ll just find me on the sidelines sippin’ on gin n’ juice… laid back!

You see future daughter-in-law, if he chooses you, then I choose you. For better or for worse. So rather than intimidate you with shotguns and threats, or assume the worst of you, I will welcome you with open arms.

You will eventually be the one to kiss him goodnight. To hold his hand. To enjoy his laughter. To share his dreams. And I’m ok with that. Until then, I will do my very best to raise a strong, creative, loving and respectful human being. A boy who will grow into a beautiful young man. Your man. And you? You will be his heart, his life, his wife.  And me? Well, I’ll finally have my girl.

(Or, if my son marries a man, and “you” happen to be a son-in-law, well what’s another set of balls at this point?)

Until then, I’ll savour every little kiss and bedtime snuggle with my boys. That said, I look forward to many beverages and years of laughter between just us girls.

And so, from my vagina to yours… we got this, girl!

Cheers,

Red Whino

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Shit Happens… Oh Yes It Does!


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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!

Cheers,

A Humble Red Whino

I DO annoy you… For better or worse!


Ah, marriage… for better or worse… in sickness and health… annoyances and all… We are in it together, forever! In last weeks’ post, we talked shit about our husbands and their annoying habits. But my rule of thumb is, if you’re gonna talk shit about somebody else… you’d better be able to talk shit about yourself too. So after airing some of Big J’s annoying habits, it’s only fair that I now throw myself under the bus.

All in the name of research for my blog, I asked Big J to list some things I do that annoy him. He looked at me like a deer in headlights. Nope, he wasn’t taking the bait. “I’d like my lawyer present, please”, he wisely replied.

So, I’m gonna go out on a limb here and divulge my deepest and darkest annoying habits to y’all… Ones I can only imagine annoy my husband to no end.

HAIR IN SHOWER
It’s probably safe to say this universally annoys all men, or gay women with short hair. I can’t shed a f*cking pound of baby weight, but as the self-proclaimed Mama Chewbacca I sure as hell can shed me some hair. But it doesn’t end there. It’s not just the nasty nest of hair that collects down the drain. Admittedly, it’s that I sometime wipe my hair on the tiles in an attempt to untangle it from my fingers after shampooing… and ummm forget to wash it off the wall.  Eeek… Yes, I totally just admitted to that publicly. See? I totally can talk shit about myself too.

SOLUTION:
Give me a taste of my own medicine by sending me ever-so-subtle, hairy messages. Then again, Shed Happens!

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I’M A BIG MOUTH
I talk. I share. I have no privacy boundaries (e.g. this blog). While Big J has learned to shrug it off or slip into a beer-induced coma, I know many husbands struggle with their wives’ gift of the gab. For me, discretion is not my thing.  I am who I am… and I am unapologetic about it. It’s also how I choose my tribe. If people are easily offended or feel that my openness is in poor taste, they simply aren’t my People.

SOLUTION: Big J should start by trying to occupy my mouth by kissing me more often… REALLY giving me something to talk about! Or just put a sock in it… that might work too!

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“ALTERNATIVE” CLEANING
We have 3 young children. Our house reflects this. Period. It’s chaotic.  It looks like Toys R Us on steroids. There is usually a mysterious smell wafting throughout. The accumulation of food in between the couch pillows could feed a small country. I often think we’ve been burglarized when I come home, only to realize it’s actually just how we live. Baby #3 was our Hall Pass. We are exempt from having a clean”ish” house. But… BUT… when people are coming over, I need to give the impression that we live out of a Martha Stewart magazine… Fake News! I become militant in my orders, Big J might even argue borderline psychotic. Understandably, it annoys him. Not because I want the house clean”er”, it’s the “guest” towels, guest throw pillows, guest picture frames, and guest decorative shit. It’s the “ALTERNATIVE arti-FACTS” that annoys BIG J.

SOLUTION: We need to re-think how we welcome our guests. Because not only am I tired of keeping up this facad, but it’s also exhausting having to put on my bra AND my eyebrows in the same day. Also I’m just annoying my husband! So maybe the trick is putting up “ALTERNATIVE arti-FACTS” that scare our guests off. Thanks for coming… now be gone!

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EVERYTHING HAVING TO DO WITH MY CAR
“Wife” and “car” in the same sentence make Big J’s blood boil. Errrr… I *cough* don’t necessarily take the best care of my cars. It’s safe to say one is best to wear a HazMat suit when entering my car. I’ve always been this way. My car is filled to the brim with lovingly tossed coffee cups, napkins, banana peels, mail, shoulder pads circa 1987, shoes, makeup, clothes, more random shoes. There are revolting smells that linger for months. You name it, it’s in my car.  I am also one to go the extra mile… on empty… always! And I rarely remember to change my winter tires… a good ole’ Canadian girl is always prepared for snow in July. And finally, I once filled my windshield washer tank with engine oil. Whoops!

SOLUTION: There isn’t one. You can’t change a leopard’s spots. Let’s just agree that I take care of the babies, you take care of the car.

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MY PHONE
“My name is Kate, and I am an addict.” I admit it. I need it. I can’t live without it. And it drives Big J NUTS.  In my defence (bonus to writing about my own annoying habits), I do have ” loose” restrictions on when and where I use my phone. I limit the amount of time I’m on it around my Beasts… unless they’re watching TV… which as a result, is now  always! I allow no electronic devices at the dinner table…. so we now eat watching TV!  I only check it when stopped at red lights, and some yellow, but never while driving… well, on a highway… and I have a TV in my car for the kids so they won’t even notice! Ok. Ok. I’m kidding. But really, it’s not so much the amount of time I spend on my beloved phone, it’s the useless shit I waste my life on that bothers Big J. Like planning an imaginary unattainable unicorn life on Pinterest… followed by secretly self-injecting myself into people’s lives whom I’ve never met on Facebook. I digress…

SOLUTION: Like any addict, Big J needs to stage an intervention. Come at me from all sides, when I’m least expecting it. Cry me some crocodile tears and take that crack phone away from me. But you’d better run fast Big Man. ‘Cause Mama will hunt you down… just obviously not using my GPS app!

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So there you have it… I too can talk shit about myself, and admit to my annoying habits. But in a weird way, it’s these little annoyances that Big J and I bring to our marriage that make us, well US. We don’t do conventional… It’s not our thing. We surpassed the flowers, excuse me’s, and leaving the room to fart on our first date. Because for us, we don’t have to hold hands, buy flowers, or do Valentines to show one another our love. Instead, it’s when Big J pours me my coffee, starts my car on a cold morning, or reminds me to wash my underwear and clean behind my ears… It’s the look he gave me when  I birthed him each of his children. THOSE are the things that count. To be honest, it’s the messy cars, clogged drains, crusty toothpaste tubes and left up toilet seats that add to the laughter in our already chaotic life. Those are the immeasurable ways that Big J and I measure our love. This Is Us… annoyances and all.

Cheers,

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.

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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.

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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!

Cheers,

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.

http://kidsactivitiesblog.com/81196/how-to-be-more-patient-with-your-kids

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!”

 

BODILY RIGHTS
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).
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IMMIGRATION RIGHTS
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.
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ENVIRONMENTAL RIGHTS
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.
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GENDER INEQUALITY
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!
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WAGE INEQUALITY
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!
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HEALTH CARE
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.
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RACE, RELIGION AND LGBTQ INEQUALITY

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!

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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”.

Cheers,
Red Whino

Watch out Movember… Chewbacca is in da’ house!


Ah, Movember… The month where men walk around like 70s porn stars turned pedophiles. Tom Selleck they ain’t, my friends. I also love Movember as everyone thinks that I too am participating in it for charity. When really I’m just a lazy ChiaPet in desperate need of a pair of facial pliers, and the energy to do something about it!

And it’s only gotten worse as I’ve aged… both the hygienic laziness and the amount of unwanted hairs that have sprung up.  I’ll let you in on a little secret: Aging Women = weird-ass hormones = random hairs in random places. And this fact, coupled with the laziness factor, I’ve willingly allowed myself to morph into Mama Chewbacca. And I just can’t be bothered to break out the ole’ weedwacker. Ya know?

Oh sure, you hear of those “vintage” women who go on and on (and on!) about their raging ‘whore’mones… (Ugh! Envy is a terrible thing, is it not?). But have you noticed it’s always the skinny ones who say this? “Oh, I love my voluptuous curves!” Ya, I bet you do… you 100 pound, size 0, B cup, carrot-nibbling bunny! Try this one on for size, why don’t you… Put on a sumo fat suit and THEN try and have sexy time with your sweetie… I dare you!  The reat of us bring a whole new meaning to the ‘Big Bang Theory’.

As if my sumo sex suit and Chewbacca Syndrome aren`t bad enough… the other day, I happened to look down and see a long, white hair on my chest. “Whatev’, just cat hair”, I thought.  Only when I went to pluck it off, my skin rose up with it like a f*cking teepee.

Turns out, in addition to my Play Off Season leg hairs and my Movember stash, I’m apparently now growing a patch of chest hair!  THIS is the reason G-d made wine!

I know, you’re probably thinking “just pluck the bloody thing and get over yourself“. Fair enough! Only, here’s the thing… I HAD just plucked the stupid, white, long-ass hair the day before. And it came back! IT. CAME. BACK.

But rather than worry that, unbeknownst to me,  I may be undergoing a sex change… I decided to be optimistic about the whole thing with a wine-glass-half-full approach: I now look at  my random, long-ass chest hair is proof of my super powers as a woman! Not only do I grow beautiful babies, but I also happen to grow chest hair (Singular… For now, anyway!). That`s right, where my stretch marks are my tiger stripes… my lonesome chest hair is simply the fuzzy lining on the beast. (Work with me here, ok? `Cause I’m one step away from the ledge on this one!) Plus, Big J could use some unexpected teeth flossing every now and then… if you know what I mean!

Chewbacca

So next time someone tells me I need to “grow some hair on my chest”, I’ll proudly rip open my shirt Superman style, and do a little Godzilla chest pumping.  I just hope no one tells me to “grow a set of balls“… Cause, at this rate, who da` hell knows what’s in store for Mama Chewbacca next! Sigh…

Cheers,

Red Whino