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.

images-8

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.

images-6

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

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

From Fat to Phat…


A lot of you have emailed me asking for a post on ‘body after baby’. So body after baby it is…

The first thing that came to mind was: what body? Seriously, in my third trimester it’s like someone put an air-machine up my ass and forgot to turn the bloody thing off! So my Whinos, there is body after baby… there’s just a whole lot of it!

Fat to phat

My Little Orange Crush and I spent the morning at the community pool. As much as he loves it, the Mommy & Me swims have also been a place of solace for me. It makes me feel better being surrounded by other mothers whose bodies have been equally ravaged by pregnancy as mine. Cellulite is like the new black!

We all frolic together. Unified mommas, bulging out of our x-large Walmart bathing suits… without judgement or prejudice. And while I’m sure some of them are secretly relishing the fact that their stomach is just a tad more deflated than the next one, most of us join forces proudly displaying our soft, doughy cauliflower stomachs. Tiger stripes, right? Ugh…

But this week was different. I looked around at my fellow queen-size mommies only to realize that they were looking pretty good. WTF? No one sent me the ‘let’s-get-our-body-back’ memo. Meanwhile, I’ve been frozen in time, justifying my lumps and bumps on the fact that “I just had a baby!”… 8 months ago. But whatev’…

It’s a hard sell now. I get it. Time to pull up my Spanx and get movin’…

But I refuse to embark on one of these trendy bark eating diets. Nibbling on a toilet paper and lettuce sandwich just isn’t my thing.

All that said, your emails have given me the motivation to get movin’. So here’s my pledge to you, my Whinos:

– I promise not to pretend to go for a jog only to hide in the forest with a bottle of tequila, pack of smokes while popping Percocet. You’d be surprised by the size of the mommy sorority that hides out in the forest… Kappa Mamma Phat!

– I promise not to hoard bon bons down my pants. I will eat kale chips… and I will enjoy them, dammit!

– I will have a glass of water in between bottles of wine. A liquid diet of sorts… Plus, Crystal Lite Diaries just doesn’t have the same ring to it, you know?

– I will engage in racial food discrimination, ’cause colour does matter! No more white… Brown only!

– My name is Red Whino and I’m a Chocoholic! First step is admitting to your addiction, right? Next step is finding a sponsor: Oh Henry… Won’t you be my sponsor?

– When I’m grocery shopping and those evil inner voices tell me to take a stroll down the baking aisle, I will yell out with conviction “No. No. I’m not baked”. You guys hear the voices too, right?

– I will take the 30-day Squat Challenge. So if you happen to see me walking around like I have a canoe between my legs, you’ll know why. And no Big J, this is not the kind of squatting you’re thinking of!

– I promise that I will no longer ask Big J to ‘watch the baby’ only to hide in the pantry and shove Ruffles down my throat… with a bottle of wine and a straw.

So there you have it, folks… how I plan on going from fat to phat. Feel free to join me… let’s get our Yummy Mummy on together. We can show up at the pool with our long, lean, mean bods. No running on the deck boys and girls… cause you just might fall and chip a tooth on my rock solid ass!

Jeezuz… may the force be with us!

Cheers,

Red Rhino Whino

I love getting emails from you with requests for future posts. I’m more than happy to oblige. Just don’t ask me to write about quantum physics, investments, or vampires. Otherwise keep em’ comin’…