Everybody is having a pleasant time at The Home Depot until we have to do something like not buy you a table saw and then it’s HELL HATH NO FURY LIKE A TWO YEAR OLD SCORNED. WATCH DEAR MOMMY AS I SCREAM BLOODY MURDER AND DEMAND SATISFACTION. OH THIS PUBLIC SHAMING ISN’T WORKING AND YOU STILL WON’T LET ME PLAY WITH A DEATH TRAP? WATCH AS I HURL MYSELF ON THE GROUND AND MY FACE GOES RED AND TEARS STREAM DOWN AND SNOT FLIES EVERYWHERE AND STRANGERS JUDGE YOUR PARENTING OUT LOUD. YOU CAN TRY TO GENTLY COAX ME OUT OF THIS BLIND RAGE BUT EVENTUALLY I WILL BARF ON YOU. EVEN THOUGH YOU SWORE YOU WOULD NEVER DO THIS YOU BRIBE ME WITH CANDY WHICH LEADS TO MORE JUDGEMENT FROM THE CASHIER AND AN EPIC SUGAR CRASH WHEN WE GET HOME. BA HA HA HA HA HA! Mommy has been coping with the stress of The Terrible Twos by doing calming yoga and journaling nightly. Just kidding, she’s having a drink.
DRINK: The Ginger Peachy. One shot of peach schnapps for your nerves served on ice with gingerale to settle your stomach. Have two and it won’t be so terrible.
Mommy wishes she was able to fully max out her vocabulary to appropriately colour how much being bashed in the head by a Mega Block REALLY FUCKING HURTS. But now that you’re repeating everything she says, she’s got to pull back the profanity full stop, even when it’s super warranted like when she can’t find her Starbucks card or Daddy forgets to put the seat down. Mommy now finds herself spelling out words at work, this meeting about a meeting is b-u-l-l-s-h-i-t. However, it’s not just Mommy’s potty mouth that needs a bar of Ivory soap. On the last car ride, Mommy cranked the Kiss FM and thought it was cute how you were rocking out along with her. Until you announced your arrival at Nana’s house by yelling “It’s Britney, bitch.”
DRINK: The Bleeped Out. 1oz Limoncello, 1oz vodka, teaspoon of sugar, a few raspberries and a basil leaf. Combine all ingredients in a highball glass and let sit in the fridge for 30 minutes or more. Add ice cubes and top with sparkling wine. Garnish with a slice of lemon, which you may need to suck on to stop you from saying holy fucking shit this is delicious.
Mommy heard urban legends about children who self-potty trained and actually believed them. According to a woman she met once in a park for eleven minutes, if she put a Cheer for Me! Potty out and talked positively about your bowel movements you would magical get the hang of numbers one through two. Tomes like “My Potty and Me”, “The Harlem Potty Shake,” and “Stop this Crap and Crap in the Toilet Already” now adorn your bookshelf but it’s like you’re not invested in the protagonist struggle at all. What you are really good at is explaining that you have, in fact, shit your pants. Usually loudly in public and nowhere near a change table, something to the effect of “ATTENTION SHOPPERS. I HAVE DEFECATED. PLEASE GIVE MY MOMMY LOOKS AS DIRTY AS THE CURRENT STATE OF MY PULL UPS. THANK YOU.” As you climb the upper echelon of diaper sizes, and prices, Mommy is actually considering the hippie bare-bottom method and letting you run around naked. She just needs to do a quick cost analysis on re-carpeting her entire house vs. Pamper Points. Uh oh, you’re doing the squat and smile in aisle four. Mommy knows what this means: It’s my potty and I’ll cry if I want to. Mommy is convinced that by the time you get the hang of potty training, she will probably be in Depends. Oh the irony.
DRINK: The Potty Mouth. 1oz white rum, 0.5oz brandy, 0.5 oz Amaretto. Shake over ice with orange juice and a squeeze of fresh lemon and strain into a glass. Garnish with sprig of fresh mint under your nose.
When Mommy loads up the stroller with enough crap to open a Babies R Us, it means it’s time to go to the park. Even though Mommy has brought wholesome, organic snacks, the first thing you do is eat sand. Mmm, notes of raccoon pee. Also, she forgot to pack your hat, which according to The Unspoken Rules of Parenting is the equivalent of leaving you outside naked in a snowstorm. At the playground, parenting shortcomings never go unnoticed. Flanked by Stepford Wives who whisper their disproval and a gaggle of nannies who openly discuss it in another language, Mommy is living an Orwellian existence. At least this means there are lots of other kids for you to play with / catch illnesses from. Including Terror Toddler. Mommy suppresses her inner Jerry Springer and tries not to freak out when this bully-in-training shoves you, snatches your pail and comes dangerously close to blinding you with a shovel. Who is this kid’s parent? Oh, it’s Weekend Dad, who is busy sexting last night’s piece of strange on his hip-holstered BlackBerry. Mommy decides to give Terror Toddler a pass, since that kid is going to be filled with self-loathing (and, let’s face it, pharmaceuticals) in about a dozen years. Meanwhile, Mommy gets her cardio burn on chasing you backwards up a slide, moving you out of the way of big kids on swings, and catching you from falling off the playground stairs. At least she no longer feels guilty about her lapsed gym membership. Speaking of exercise, now Weekend Dad is doing chin-ups on the monkey bars to impress the local MILFs. Maybe he should spend more time on his parenting skills and less time on his upper-body strength since Terror Toddler is currently aiming a Super Soaker at a sleeping newborn. Oh the park, where nature and nurture come together to bitch slap each other in the face.
DRINK: Parks & Wreck. 3 oz fresh lemon juice, 1 oz vodka, 1 tsp raw sugar. Serve over crushed ice, garnish with a lemon slice and fresh sprigs of basil. Rim glass with the sand that will permanently be tracked into your house.
It took 45 minutes to get you down. It takes 45 seconds for Mommy to think something has gone wrong.
MOMMY: Do you think the baby’s ok?
DADDY: Yes. Do not go back in there and wake him up. Can we please just watch Masterchef?
Daddy doesn’t understand Mommy’s intuition, which he calls “craziness.” She says she’s just going to listen outside your door, but really she’s going on a stealth mission back into your room. Thanks to the baby blackout blinds she can’t see if your chest is rising. Nor can she see Thomas The Train on the floor, which impales Mommy. She screams internally and, by some miracle, manages not to wake you. Since she’s as blind as Snooki’s stylist, she tries to listen for your breath. The plush lamb emitting whale sounds (slow clap for another toy that will cause you to lag in science) is masking any snores of life. Instead of turning down the orca sheep, she decides it’s time to Freak Out and Panic. She frantically grabs you and starts screaming your name. This instantly reveals you’re very much alive. Having been woken up from a peaceful slumber by an insane person, you’re terrified and bawling your eyes out. Hooray! It’s going to be another hour to get you down again, and now she’ll never know who won Chef Ramsey’s mystery box challenge, but she will repeat this process until you go off to college. At which point she’ll continually use all technology available to embarrass you / ensure you’re safe.
DRINK: AngelCocktail System. 1 oz pomegranate juice, 1 oz vodka, 1/2 oz triple sec, squeeze of lime, orange zest to garnish. Pairs beautifully with a $300 premium AngelCare System, complete with LCD night vision and false alarms that will cause you to have several mini heart attacks.
Sometimes, when she’s covered in baby barf, tortured by sleep deprivation and she’s as hormonal as Chaz Chad Bono, Mommy fantasizes about What Could Have Been. This involves mentally scrolling through (and, real talk, Facebook creeping) her roster of Exes with rose-tinted glasses. There was The Big Man With A Small Penis who would have made her a kept woman, complete with a mansion, a staff and a barely legal mistress. There was The Guy With No Backbone who did whatever she wanted all the time except go away and / or stop crying. There was The Metrosexual Man who loved to cook, shop, floss and was Fifty Shades of Gay. And what about The Hot Guy With No Career? At least Mommy would be keeping up with her Brazilian waxes while she went broke funding his t-shirt printing business. Ultimately though, when you throw your pudgy arms around her neck and bare your big toothy grin, Mommy is incredibly grateful for Daddy. They made you together. Then she reminds herself that they are called “exes” for a reason.
DRINK: Molson Ex. Make sure it’s ice cold.
Forget saving up to buy you a car when you turn 16. Mommy’s already blown thousands of dollars on devices designed to get you from point A to B, and you’re barely 16 months. It started with the car seat. Your nephew’s discarded models were taking up prime storage space in the basement for five years before Mommy and Daddy learned that car seats have expiry dates. Seriously? The 1999 Corolla in which it will be installed is one frost away from collapse, but the 2006 Britax Marathon is already obsolete?! But, with your safety their top priority, Mommy and Daddy sprung $200 for a brand new bucket seat, which you proceeded to outgrow in less time than you spent in the womb. Nice. Then there was the hotly debated issue of which baby-wearing device to purchase. Despite witnessing multiple demos by store clerks on some petrifying plastic dolls, Mommy never actually understood how to use the three baby carriers she ended up purchasing during a hormone-induced shopping spree. And the idiot-proof YouTube instructional videos she resorted to after your birth were far too complex for her sleep-deprived brain. In the end, she struck gold with a hand-me-down sling… an unfortunate outcome given it looked like a cross between Joseph’s Technicolor Dreamcoat and the wallpaper in her Grandma’s bathroom. Last but not least (refer to exhibit A – Mommy’s new line of credit) was your stroller. Mommy thought it was reasonable to expect that a $1000 model would fulfill your every need (and wildest desire), but apparently not so. It seems that you and your peers require a cavalcade of strollers: one for the city, one for travel, even one that Mommy’s expected to push while jogging. All of this was lovely until you learned to walk. Now, placing you in a stroller of any kind elicits shrieks so blood-curdling that Mommy regularly checks the seat for sharp objects. Your newfound mobility brings tears to Mommy’s eyes – you’re all grown up and now it takes 45 minutes to travel a half a block. Wahh!
DRINK: Singapore Sling. 1 oz gin. 1/2 oz cherry brandy. 1/2 oz grenadine. 2 oz sweet and sour mix. 2 oz chilled club soda. Pour ingredients into an ice-filled glass, and garnish with a cherry.
Mommy does laundry all day, every day. Apparently, a clean onesie is a tractor beam for all things stain-y. The perpetual spin cycle is running up her hydro bill and has definitely killed several baby seals in environmental damage. First it was explosive poo causing the never-ending fluff ‘n fold. Lately, it’s self-feeding. Mommy is worried you’re not getting enough nutrients because entire avocados are being mashed into your chinos. Of course, you think this is hilarious. As a prop comic, your go-to routine involves covering yourself in tomato sauce, berries and squash purée, and the punchline is flinging all of it on to Mommy’s one decent H&M wrap dress. Mommy is only using fragrance-free, chemical-free, function-free detergents which means no stain comes out ever. She’s tempted to dress you all in black and start a Goth Baby trend. Anarchy in the crib!
DRINK: Anything sudsy with a clean finish.
During a moment of weakness back in 2007, Mommy was seduced by a sandwich board outside her local fitness club advertising membership fees of $18/month, without any initiation charges or commitments. Of course, later examination of the contract’s fine print would reveal that Mommy had signed her life away for a free t-shirt, but she was willing to overlook the management’s questionable ethics for a chance at scoring the body gracing the club’s promotional flyer. But now that Mommy’s workouts have gone the way of other pre-baby pastimes like surfing selloffvacations.com and eating a meal sitting down, Mommy is toying with the idea of cancelling her gym membership once and for all. She’s been to the gym exactly twice since your birth and the only thing more painful than walking the next day was the realization that each visit cost her $765. Mommy knows that investing that money in her retirement fund could be her ticket to Freedom 55. But she’s also plagued by the fear that throwing in her gym towel could be the gateway to getting a low-maintenance haircut or buying Crocs. Yes, Mommy is exhausted, time-starved and hasn’t picked up an issue of InStyle since her first trip to Motherhood Maternity, but if her annual donation to the gym is the price she needs to pay to keep her quest for rock-hard abs alive, Mommy is silencing her inner Suze Orman and holding on to the dream, dammit!
DRINK: A six pack. Of Red Bull. Another way to not get ripped.
It used to be a dinner reservation. Now, it’s a bedtime. By the time Mommy feeds you squash, washes squash off the wall, and gets you to bed, she has exactly 23 minutes to eat whatever you didn’t in front of The Bachelorette before she passes out with her hair crusted in squash. Being up at 2am used to mean it was a good night. Now it’s a very, very bad night. It means Mommy will also be up at 3, 4, 5, and up for good at 6am. Those wee hours used to be for flirting with the bartender to keep the drinks flowing while sexting her back-up plan for a booty call. Now she spends that time praying you will go back to sleep while What’s App-ing her sleep-deprived mommy friends and cursing the “bullet-proof” No Cry Sleep Solution. Sometimes, when Mommy’s in line for her fourth Americano Misto of the day, she’ll overhear a twenty-something lament about being “soooo exhausted”. When Mommy was single, “exhaustion” referred to a state of ennui that came from being bored with skinny jeans and dating guys with ironic mustaches. Mommy misses that kind of tired.
DRINK: The After Eight. 1 oz crème de cacao, 1 oz crème de menthe. Add a splash of milk. Serve on the rocks. Enjoy after 8 p.m. but before 9 p.m. lest you turn into a sleep-deprived Gremlin the next day.