How Old Are You in Mom Years?


How many times has your heart jumped into your throat upon hearing “Hey Mommy, WATCH THIS!” come out of your child’s mouth? It is arguable the most dreaded phrase heard in all of parenting, coming in just behind “I think I’m gonna throw up” and the classic “I didn’t do it!” right after hearing a loud crash.

It’s shit like that, that we moms SWEAR shave years off of our lives, as if the act of popping those turds out didn’t age us enough to begin with.
This got me thinking (dangerous, I know!)- I can safely assume that we all want to be around even LONGER once we have kids, just to watch them grow, and to point as laugh when they have their own kids that are even bigger assholes than they are- but I doubt we can deny that we FEEL older than our birthday says we are, and we should get credit for it (without qualifying for the early bird special, even if discounts are awesome). How could we do that without tacking onto our biological age?

MOM YEARS, y’all. MOM YEARS. Like dog years, but for moms. No, this isn’t some sneaky way for me to call all moms bitches- I’m totally serious! For every terrifying, disgusting, ridiculous, infuriating, death-defying, panic-inducing thing we have to deal with at the hands of our kids, we should get to add to our Mom Years. Think of it like merit badges!

You can now tabulate your mom years much like those quizzes at the end of Cosmo that you can no longer do because your social life is basically non-existent, and because you’re not running around flashing your vagina to the world anymore. Just to gynos. And maybe your significant other, IF THEY’RE LUCKY.  See where you stack up! And no, this isn’t an addition to the Momlympics, so let’s not go around bragging about how old we are in Mom Years, but more as a way to say “Oh damn, you must be tired. Here, have a drink on me!”

*please note that the years assigned to each line and the “scores” following are based on nothing other than a number my wonky brain randomly came up with. So basically, Nonsense. Have fun!

Massively explosive diarrhea blow out in public – Add 1 Mom Year!

Kid decides to wander away in a public place- Add 5 Mom Years!

Drops a 4 letter beauty in public (because there’s nothing better than an afternoon FUCK in the grocery store, right?)- Add 1 Mom Year

They do that creepy ass horror film giggle in their sleep- Add 1 Mom Year!

Kid donks their head on a hard surface and OH MY SHIT, THAT SOUND! – Add 3 Mom Years!

Sleepwalks – You get an extra half a mom year!

Sleepwalks OUTSIDE- That’s 6 more Mom Years for you!

Kid begins to choke- 3 Mom Years!

Kid begins to choke IN THE BACK OF THE DAMN CAR while you’re driving!- 5 Mom years, lady!

“LOOK WHAT I CAN DO!” - 1 Mom year, just for the initial shock alone! This also counts for “Watch this!”

“How come your pecker looks different than daddy’s?” – 2 Mom Years and a stiff drink

“My Mommy’s favorite thing to do is drink ALCOHOL!”- 2 Mom years. Don’t be ashamed!

Witnessing the act of toenail biting, nose picking and eating, or butt-wipe sniffing – First, tell them go to wash their fucking hands! Then add on another Mom Year.

Vomit. Vomit everywhere.- Go ahead and give yourself half a Mom Year. You deserve it.

The first day of school- Ten tissues and 1 Mom Year

The first Parent Teacher Conference- AHHHHH!!!! 1/2 of a Mom year and a Xanax!

When they inevitably fall and break something after doing the shit you told them NOT to do. Twelve damn times. – 1.5 Mom Years a piece

Walking in on… dare I even TYPE it?? Masturbation- 2 Mom Years. And go have another drink. Shit.

I HATE YOU! – You get one Mom Year and a hug. It’s okay to flick them off behind their back. I won’t judge.

Teaching them to drive- 1 Mom year and extra credit for every time you slam on your imaginary brake pedal!

Watching them drive away for the first time without you- 2 Mom Years. I feel like I should get a Mom year for even having to THINK about that moment!

The baby bird finally leaves the nest- Bring on the waterworks and give yourself 3 more Mom Years!


Yes, there are about a bajillion other things that make us feel like we are just that much closer to death when it comes to kid- but damnit, hasn’t enough time been shaved from mine already? I’d die before I finished the entire list!!!
Now, go tabulate that shit up! I’m serious! Get a good old fashioned pen and paper out and add up all of your Mom Years and see what the total is. I’ll tell you exactly where that puts you in Mom-Land.
Now, I personally choose to tabulate a Mom year for each instance of the above I found horrifying, but you can tabulate how you see fit! Please note that this is not an exact science (at all) and your numbers may vary (probably will) and this is complete and total nonsense that this is purely for fun. Or torture… At this point I can’t tell which.

1-5 Mom Years: You are still in the Honeymoon phase of parenthood, and I hate you. KIDDING! Sort of.

5-20 Mom Years: You probably still possess some of your sanity. You are ADORABLE!

20-50 Mom Years: Girl. I feel you. I’m tired, too. Let’s have a drink once the turds are in bed!

50- 100 Mom Years: No, seriously. Why isn’t there a drink in your hand?

100+ Mom Years: I bow to my new mommy overlord. Although, I’m impressed you’re still standing! Or sitting. Or breathing, really. DEAR LORD, WOMAN! GO GET SOME SLEEP!

How old am I in Mom Years? Well, I estimated mine conservatively, and I got in the 50-100 range, but when it comes down to it- I need a drink. And sleep. And some more sleep. Don’t we all? Let’s do that. This parenthood shit is exhausting!

How old are YOU in Mom Years?

According to 5 year old me, I’m OLD… So why don’t I feel like it?


old2When I was about 5 years old, I can remember looking at my mom and thinking- MAN, that lady is OLD. My Dad is OLD. All of my mom’s friends are OLD!
If my math serves me correctly (it usually doesn’t, but I’m trusting it just this once), my mom had me at 25, so at 5 years old, she would have been 30.

I am 30.

Ahhhhhhhhhh! It burns! It’s almost too painful to let that little fact sink in!

At this point, the 5 year old that is still deep down inside of me is telling me that I should feel like a proper adult at this point. I should feel older, wiser, more mature, and accomplished. I should feel smart and responsible and have my shit together. I’d definitely do adult-y type things, like eating boring cereal, drinking metamucil, reading the morning paper and enjoying television like Dateline and Jeopardy.

Uhhhhh….. I don’t feel like ANY of those things. Well, except Jeopardy. You can’t NOT love Alex Trebek, damnit!
But the rest? Am I doing this whole adult thing wrong? Am I BROKEN? Why the hell am I listening to my inner 5 year old? My inner 5 year old thought the worst thing that could ever happen was the Sharon Lois & Bram show getting cancelled or when the yellow marker got ruined because GOD FORBID you touched it to a black marker line!

WELL SKINNA MERINKY FUCKING DINKY DINK! I have zero interest in that whole “growing up” thing that I thought I’d had done by now.
I still think poop humor is hilarious. I belch at the dinner table. I love sleep but I am NOT going to go to bed early just because I have to wake up early. I don’t feel like what I thought I would feel like at 30. I don’t feel OLD! Maybe my body does, but the rest of me still believes I’m young. And I am, aren’t I? I mean… in the grand scheme of things, I’m not even halfway through my life yet (hopefully!)
Sure, to a 5 year old, 30 sounds downright ANCIENT. Those big coffee drinking, going to work, driving cars, having *shudder* responsibilities humans…. Oooooooold!

Maybe I’m not who I thought I’d be when I was 5. I haven’t reached all of my goals and most days I definitely don’t have my shit together, but 5 year old me was kind of a moron. I mean, I still sucked my thumb! I’ve got plenty of time to get old, but I’m not old yet, damnit!

I THINK the moral of the story is: being grown up means you never really HAVE to grow up. And also, 5 year olds are assholes.

Squeeze in some family time with Netflix!

My kids can’t stand each other. There. That wasn’t as much like pulling off a bandaid as I thought it would be. They just don’t get along. Call it typical sibling rivalry, call it butting heads, call it ANNOYING. Let’s just say I was more than relieved when school started and those two began spending more time apart. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, right?

Yeahhh….. maybe not.

I needed help, maybe something to reconnect them, get them to stop hitting and yelling and yanking and complaining and tattling. Obviously, no physical object was going to do that. Not even a day at an amusement park helped!

It’s like Netflix has this sixth sense of when I’m about to snap and they swoop in with my monthly assignment at the exact right time.
This month’s subject? FAMILY TIME! Curl up with the family and get in some of the time you’ve been missing with work and school and sports and errands and whatever other crap has been piled on top of your family now that school is in session.

I let my kids pick from the always-growing list of titles Netflix offers, and we all plopped down on the couch on a VERY rainy and glum Monday afternoon to watch “Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs 2″ (which we’ve seen at least 3 times, but that never stops them from wanting to see it again).

About 30 minutes in, I dozed off. WHAT?! Don’t judge me! It was a LONG weekend; amusement park, remember?? But when I woke up toward the end of the movie, the boys were laughing. And not just at the movie, but looking at each other and laughing TOGETHER. Had aliens abducted my children mid-movie?
Not that I wouldn’t invite such a thing on the brattier days, but sometimes, the mutual love of a movie can bring two enemies together better than anything else.
Now… if only Thor and Loki could figure that out, maybe those brothers could get along, too- though I doubt that would make for a movie my kids would want to see. They like explosions. And food animals.

Needing some Family TLC time? Netflix has a movie for that! Here are some selections appropriate for kids of all ages (even you!):

Netflix Titles for Family Movie or TV Night

For your little kids:

Pirate-Fairy -The- AKA--Tinker-Bell-And-The-Pirate-Fairy  EN US 571x800
Hoodwinked EN US 571x800
boxshot 70225583 en US
boxshot 60025453 en US
EN US 571x800 60011264 The-Muppet-Movie

For your big kids:

70309458 9735545
EN US 571x800 The Avengers NO-Cast
SMURFS-2 EN US 571x800
EN US 571x800 70155581 Star-Wars-The-Clone-Wars
Netflix-FreeBirds English571x800
EN US 571x800 70281343 Mako-Mermaids-An-H2O-Adventure

For teens (and you!):

boxshot 384406 en US
The-Breakfast-Club EN US 571x800
Friday-Night-Lights S5 EN US 571x800
S4 CW VAM Netflix 571x800 NE
OriginalJpeg Ferris-Buellers-Day-Off EN 571x800 copy
EN US 571x800 60034573 13-Going-On-30

Wieners, Vaginas, and the Scariness of Growing Up Too Fast

“Who taught you that??” I was mortified. My almost 7 year old stood in front of me with a big grin on his face, and my husband sat across the table, miserably failing to stifle his laughter. It wasn’t hard to figure out who the guilty party was, and that suspicion was confirmed by my ruined 6 year old pointing a finger directly at his father.

How could he? We’d discussed this! It wasn’t the right time; we’d both agreed! We were supposed to slowly reveal the truth over time, as Holden grew older and more mature and became READY to handle that kind of information. Not like this! NOT YET!

Sit there all judgy, head shaking, tsk tsking if you want- but we ALL as parents have to make the decision of when and how to tell your kids about how babies are made, and as Holden stood before me, grabbing his junk, giving it a couple of good shakes, and happily announcing “All MY babies are right here!”- I knew I had been absolutely right about him NOT being ready yet.

He’d known minor details prior to this jaw dropping moment. Women could get pregnant and not men, that one day he would have babies of his own, and then came the shake that will haunt me for the rest of my life!

I wasn’t ready; I’m NOT ready! Not for the questions, or for him to know that he was the comicproduct of (GAHHHHH) sex between his father and myself. I’m no prude (duh!) but the thought of having to explain it all to the kid terrifies me almost more than anything else in parenthood does. Maybe that’s why Thomas took the reigns, because he knew me having to be the bearer of embarrassing (yet natural) news, but that was a decision we should have made together, much like the decision to have the kid in the first place. I needed to be confident that Holden was ready, that he wouldn’t go running around his school yelling “PENISES AND VAGINAS MAKE BABIES TOGETHER!”- that he wouldn’t stand in front of me while I was eating breakfast and shake his testicles, oh, I’m sorry, baby carriers.

I guess if I’m sitting here, being honest with myself and all of you about my apprehension to discuss the birds and the bees with my kids, I must also be honest with myself and wonder if maybe HE is ready, but I am not. Am I a prude??? Have I just been kidding myself all this time? No. Definitely not. That is not what is going on here.

All the junk shaking, tampon questioning, vagina pointing, boob commenting, and awkward statement hearing has made me realize something. A BIG something! NO, DON’T EVEN THINK LIKE THAT! YEESH! A big NON wiener-y something. I’m going to share what I’ve realized, and I promise it won’t hurt even one little bit!

Parenthood is really less about our kids being ready, and more about us parents being ready to let them be, or accept that they already are. Watching our children grow up is a pretty fucking magical experience, but it’s also very sad, because every day that passes is a day you can’t get back.
Shit. I just went and brought down the mood of this post, didn’t I? I feel like I need to insert a penis joke here… oh wait! I think I just did!

Okay, I’m being serious now, I promise! Watching our kids grow up is hard. And awkward. And sad. And wonderful. And sad. It’s only natural to clutch onto something that you subconsciously think might keep them younger for just a little while longer. At least in your mind! For me- it just so happens to be wieners and vaginas. Figures.

Think about it- we all have something! What’s yours? Is it the baby tendrils at the end of the hair that you KNOW if you cut off won’t come back? A stuffed animal you refuse to let them give away because they’ve had it since birth and you’re more attached to it than they are? Or are you hanging on to doodles and tacos along with me?

How to Teach Kids Manners, Mean Ol’ Mom Style


No, I’m not exactly the best person to be talking about manners, and courtesy. I’m definitely no Emily Post. Yes, I belch so loud it shakes my house and take pride in it. YES, I write about my bowel movements on the internet. MAYBE, just maybe, I’ve even taken pictures of explosive baby shit and sent them to people. THEY DESERVED IT!

Oh, and I also put my elbows on the table, don’t always put a napkin in my lap, and occasionally, I talk with my mouth full. Some shit takes too long to chew and I have thoughts I have to get out, damnit! Just slap my wrist and send me off to etiquette school already. Though I might fail and be kicked to the curb, when it comes to my kids? Of COURSE I’m teaching them manners!  No way in hell am I gonna be the lady in the restaurant with the belching kids throwing buns at each other. Not ALL the time, anyway. Sometimes you can’t help that shit. Kids get hangry FAST!

As best I can, I try to make sure the boys are kind and courteous to strangers, even if the strangers may not reciprocate. I try to make sure they don’t let doors slam in peoples faces, especially the elderly.We’re still working on the “not farting loudly in public, especially in a crowded restaurant” thing, but that’s been a tough and disgusting habit to break.
Please? Thank you? I had better hear those before and after asking me for things. I’ve got Holden trained so well that if you don’t say thank you enough, he says “YOU’RE WELCOME!” in a snotty tone. Actually… that might not be such a good thing.

Even with all of my hard work (nagging) and dedication (nagging and threatening) to the old fashioned art of etiquette, it appears somewhere I went wrong. VERY VERY WRONG. My second child, the one with the big pinchable cheeks and contagious belly laugh… is an open sneezer. AN OPEN SNEEZER!
I don’t know when or why it started, but the child refuses to cover his mouth when he sneezes. It gets worse. He has actually gone from just open Outbreak Patient Zero beginning of the zombie apocalypse swine flu sneeze, to sneezing ON people. ON PEOPLE!!!! I’M SO ASHAMED!!

Now, he doesn’t do this shit to me because I think he fears me (and he should), but I have watched as he’s sneezed all over my Dad’s arm, and directly into my husband (his father)’s face. INTO HIS FACE!! I know I’m using a lot of caps, but it’s that serious. It’s fucking disgusting. Vile. Heinous. Atrocious. A complete failure of the teachings of manners.

He’s been punished and reprimanded and corrected in so many ways I’ve begun to lose count, and still, when the kid has a tickle in his noise and a family member nearby, they become his sneeze shield. They walked into the splash zone of Sea World and didn’t even realize it or I’m sure they’d have brought a poncho. What could we do? Thomas had had enough of having booger-filled spit sprayed all over his face, and who could blame him?

This morning the opportunity of a lifetime presented itself, and I took it. Oh yes, I did, and not one ounce of guilt do I feel.
In the middle of breakfast, Parker leaned forward and full on sneezed. ALL OVER HIS DELICIOUS PANCAKES. How dare he disrespect the sanctity of a beautifully made delicious syrup and butter covered hot cake from the heavens??
Once I picked my jaw up off of the floor, I knew what had to be done.

He sat there, looking pretty damn proud of himself, probably thinking I would do the sanitary thing and dump his breakfast in the trash because he hates food and enjoys torturing me, but no. Those pancakes had been disrespected enough already, and it was time to teach that child a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget.
“You’re eating them anyway.”
He had a look of disbelief wash over his face.
“Every single bite.”

The next 15 minutes were full of crying, complaining, general asshattery, and a whole lot of satisfaction. Mean ol’ Mom, you don’t mess with that bitch! She isn’t messin’ around!

Unconventional? Maybe. Disgusting? Sure. Effective? Well, even if nothing else was learned from having to eat a spit soaked breakfast, if he still thinks sneezing on things is awesome, he’ll at least learn to respect pancakes. Either is a win in my book.