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Somehow I got redirected to my old Blogger blog today and read this post. It was written EXACTLY one-year ago. I am pleased to say things have changed. Do those people still believe and think those things? You bet your bottom they do. The only difference this one-year later?

I don’t care.



I don’t write anymore and am not sure why. Maybe it’s out of fear or, perhaps, out of spite for myself. I feel like every moment I spend away from my son during his “awake” time is going to accumulate into a self loathing and will bolster itself into my sons loathing for me. I can almost hear his voice in the back of my head, “Mommy, it’s all your fault. If you had just spent more time with me and weren’t such a selfish cretin, I could have been something more”, or maybe ” I hate you for making everything more important than me. I hate you for not being there for me during my formative years, I hate you for making everything else a priority, I hate you.” (Yes, in my head my child is quite articulate). Most would find this aggravatingly dramatic, but I have no other recourse but to feel this way. I’m spread too thin. I try to make everyone else happy and end up losing the battle. I know it’s the war I’m supposed to be fighting and bolster my ego by reminding myself, “It’s not the battle to win, but the war. In the end, only the war matters.” But I’m already tired, I’m already afraid. I feel like I’ve already lost. There are so many people unhappy with the decisions I’ve made, so unhappy that I’m not doing enough for them. Yet, I have nothing to give them. I can only let their words fester into an ugly sore and continue trying to win their love, their affection, their approval. But, in so many ways, I’ve already lost that chance. No matter how much I’ve tried it continues to become an ugly threat rearing it’s head. Telling me, “Do you remember when you didn’t do this? Do you remember when you didn’t do that? Do you remember when you said that nasty thing or when you weren’t ‘happy’ enough when they told you that?” it’s a constant struggle. I give my excuses, I defend my actions, but no matter what, it becomes a tit-for-tat; so-and-so had to do this, so-and-so had to do that and they were able to do this, that, and dance with a monkey on their head. And all I can do is muster a pathetic apology and admit defeat.

I’m not perfect, I’m not a saint, I don’t try hard enough, I could be doing more. But it’s what those people, the one’s who fend they have done it all and better, don’t understand is that they are playing right into the hands of my guilt. I feel guilty for not doing enough, I feel guilty for not being enough, I feel guilty for not remembering the right thing to say or do, I feel guilty. What these people don’t know is that I don’t need their disappointment to make me feel horrible, I’m good at that all on my own. I have so many shoulda, coulda, woulda’ves that I could turn it into a hefty compilation. I should have went to that 4-year right out of high school, I should have graduated before I was married, I should have asked for the Reglan before my third trimester, I should have done more, I could have been more, I could have tried harder, I could have. Yet, even though I have these “regrets”, even though I fight with this unbearable pain of knowing what I am not, I try to move forward. I try to continue on. I try.

At one time we too were foolish, disobedient, deceived and enslaved by all kinds of passion and pleasures. We lived in malice and envy, being hated and hating one another. But when the kindness and love of God our Savior appeared, He saved us, not because of righteous things we had done, but because of His mercy. He saved us through the washing of rebirth and renewal by the Holy Spirit, whom He poured out on us generously through Jesus Christ our Savior, so that, having been justified by His grace, we might become heirs having the hope of eternal life. This is a trustworthy saying. And I want you to stress these things, so that those who have trusted God be careful to devote themselves to doing what is good. These things are excellent and profitable to everyone. Titus 3:3-8

I try because He called me to. I try because it is what is glorifying to Him. I try, because after all is said, I am worth it. The hurtful words should have no holding, no bearing on my life. I should not let them control me because it is “foolish” and His mercy should be more than enough. Tomorrow I will sin, tomorrow I may be angry or hurt, but even tomorrow I am one of His children and I know that He chose me for a reason. That He has forgiven me.

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So I’ve returned.


I can tell.

We’ve been busy. REAL busy.

Like we’ve been potty training.

Don’t get too excited. Potty training consists of Robbie shoving his hand in the toilet and then into his mouth all while I try not to throw up.

No, I’m not pregnant.

We also went camping and I learned I have a secret.

I will share when I am ready.

No, I’m not pregnant.

We’ve been trying to buy a house.

And by trying I mean we live on a hundred dollars trying to sock away enough for the down payment and the 7 thousand dollars that follows for the “extras”.

We really need the extra room. Like REALLY need it!

No, I’m not pregnant.

We cut Liams hair.

It was getting scraggly and the child is going through early onset male patterned baldness.

Makes me sad he’s growing up so fast.

He’s growing up so much faster than Robbie and with Robbie I knew early on that I would have another one to enjoy soon.


Let me clarify,



This blog posting has been written for my father. The man who continues to insist I am pregnant again. No Dad, I’m not pregnant I’m just fat. Thanks 🙂

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Today, whilst roaming the archives of random internet articles, I came across a gem.

Believe me, it’s  a gem.

It was entitled “Marriage in the Suburbs”. How can the suburbs be bad?

I clicked.

It was bad, very, very bad.


Did you know there is a website called Ashley Madison that, in fact, promotes an affair between two “attached but looking for male/female relationship”.

For only 49 bucks a month you too can have the affair of your dreams. AND if you’re not feeling real “lucky” for 249 you can get yourself a guarantee that if you don’t get “lucky” you get your money back.

Well isn’t that just swell of them!

Of course I did the mature and responsible thing… I went to the website.

Everyone on there made it VERY clear they were very happy in their marriages, but they just weren’t feelin’ the love at home. HOWEVER, they were only looking for fun and had not intention of leaving their partner.

Can we guess how this would end?

A man and a woman find each other, enter into their torrid affair and then one wants to stay in the marriage while the other romanticizes how their affair is truly the stuff novels are made of and how “Twilight” ain’t got nothin’ on them.

Oh the stories they would tell their grandchildren about how Mema and Papa met and fell in love. Ah me…

Then the little love bubble is popped, she turns out to be an attention seeking poodle, he turns into a cuddle-phobe who preferred comfortability and started to remind her of her husband, someone gets hurt, tires are slashed.

The stuff novels are made of.


So anyways, I, upon farther investigation, have determined there are far too many “doctors” who are just waiting to take care of their soon to be little love muffin in my general area.



I really wanna know who has time for an affair?

I’m serious.

‘Cause if your looking for an ATTACHED momma of two, who hasn’t washed her hair in two days, really needs to think about shaving under her arms, just snarffed down a handful of salt-n-vinegar chips with no intention of brushing her teeth until bed, and really should think about finding a different pair of sweat pants…

Then slap my bottom and call me Lola.

You can find me hiding from the ankle bitters in the mountain of laundry encompassing my couch.

And also,

Ashley Madison is a man.

Just thought I would let you know.

As always, you are welcome.

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When I did heroin

I’m slowly, but surely losing my mind. Here are a few of my recent conversations that present the proof.

While at my sister and brother-in-laws apartment my husband comments on how they only run the dishwasher when it’s full.

I’m leaned over the counter mashing potatoes when I hear the beckoning call of my beloved husband.

“Hey you!! Look at this!”

As the dutiful wife I respond in my sweet and demure way.


“I want you to see this,” he furthers.

“Fine,” I concede and mosey on over.

“Look, they only run their dishwasher when it’s completely full!”

“Whatever,” I huff, “My top is always full when I run!”

Wait… Whaaa?

The husband went to Target with me last night and bought some wine.

“Do you want a glass of wine tonight?”

“What? So I can be all gaggy and headachy tomorrow? No thank you.”

“You won’t be that way,” he tells me.

“How do you know?” I question.

“Because you won’t be drinking in excess.”

“Hmp, you don’t know me.”

Uh, right?

To top it off, last night husband and I are watching an episode of House where they stumble on to a closet that appears to be a meth lab.

“Ooo do you think he’s using or just selling?” I ask.

“What are you talking about?”

“The meth lab, duh!”

“You don’t know what a meth lab looks like,” he says indignantly.

I pop up off my cozy spot on the floral couch and bounce to the bookshelf vigorously scanning it’s contents.

My husband presses his cheek to mine and questions, “what are we looking for?”

“Ahah,” I exclaim as if I were Sherlock Homes himself! “This,” I say as I hand over a thin book entitled ‘Meth; America’s Addiction’.

Horrified, he asks, “why in the world do you have this?”

Casually, I respond, “oh, my mom gave it to me when I was doing heroin.”

Wait… I meant when I was writing about heroin.

So, in conclusion, I only run when my top is full, I’m a lush, and to break my heroin addiction I used meth.

There’s no hope for me.

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Eat your oatmeal.

Just take a bite,

It’s not horrible.

Thanks for sneezing your oatmeal on me.

Day-in, day-out.

Stop that!

No you can not eat your brother’s head.

If you don’t leave that cat alone I swear…

Day-in, day-out .

Get that out of your mouth!

No, seriously give it to me.

OMG where in the world did you get this?!?

You’re disgusting.

Day-in, day out.

Yes, those are his feet.

Aren’t they cute?


Day-in, day-out.

Be gentle.




Day-in, day-out.

Take a bite of the sandwich.

Look, mommy ate it.

Thank you.

I really wanted your slobber in my mouth.

Day-in, day-out.

Yes, you have to take a nap.

We don’t throw our bottles.

Stay in your crib!

For crying out loud STAY IN YOUR CRIB!

Day-in, day-out.

MMM yummy yogurt.

Do you want a bite?

That’s what I thought.


Don’t you ‘uh no’ me!

Day-in, day-out.

Look it’s a ball.

Can you roll the ball?


We don’t throw the ball at your brother’s head!

Day-in, day-out.

Look at these blocks.

Don’t they look fun?


Day-in, day-out.

Can you just try a little dinner?

If you don’t start eating we have to see a specialist.

You don’t want to see the specialist do you?

Yes, the bowl belonged on that floor.

Truly, it did.

Day-in, day-out.

Sit still.

I have to change your diaper.

Sit still.




Day-in, day-out.

Goodnight my little man.

I’ll see you tomorrow.

I love you.

Day-in, day out.

It’ll all start again.

Day-in, day out.

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Well, hasn’t it been awhile!

I have a good excuse! Honestly! Wanna know what it is?


Kinda gets in the way of these things!

We’ve been really busy these past couple weeks and I really can’t blame it on new baby. That’s been the easy part! It’s actually just all the stuff we do, commitments we have, family outings, extended family outings, holidays, friends; it’s just a lot sometimes. It also doesn’t help my husband was laid off last Wednesday. That was a real buzz kill on looking at houses! Until Thursday rolled around and he got a call from his Union saying they have a 3-4 month call out. I wanted to cry because it meant we were never going to get to move! The BIG Robbie has an issue with instability… Buzz kill! BUT when he went to work on Friday we (and when I say we I mean he, I’m just living vicariously through him) found out that what they meant was 2-3 years… I about peed my pants with joy (I didn’t, I swear!)! We can move! Yet, he won’t look at anymore houses with me. Lukewarm little bugger!

We (and when I say we I mean me, because I get to do the snot sucking and doctors appointments) had the very first big boy doctors appointment today! Little Robbie got to stand on the big boy scale that only boys who are bigger than Liam get to stand on, he got to wear a special gown, AND he got three shots in his leg ! YAY! Can we say winning?!?! Perhaps little Robbie could if he were actually talking to me, but alas, I am getting the silent treatment for the whole shot thing…


I did learn that Liam is officially half of little Robbie’s weight. Liam sits at a portly 9 pounds while little Robbie weighs in at a mere 18.

For reals

Another for reals? Little Robbie has a special food diet now. He is to eat all things that will cause a massive heart attack in the healthiest of individuals.

Deep fried food?


Pudding made with extra rich milk and cream?


Milk shakes made with “super” milk, carnations instant powder mix, and ice cream?


Cheese covered vegetables? Mayonnaise filled salads? Heavily buttered bread, potatoes, rice?

Check, check, check!


In other news, just writing down his new dietary needs mad me gain 10 pounds.

Little Robbie?

Twenty bucks says he doesn’t gain an ounce.


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Tonight I am participating in Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. This is my loose interpretation of prompt #5: What do the contents of your handbag/purse “say” about you?

I miss my purse.

Its soft, supple leather.

The adorable LV letters strewn across it.

The way it felt slung on my shoulder.

Its weight.

Its  feel.

I miss it.

When I carried that purse it felt like me.

It made me feel like someone.

It held my LV wallet, my over-sized Gucci sunglasses, my Coach wristlet that held my camera, my MAC compact, Dior lip gloss, my iPhone, and a myriad of other over priced baubles. I’m sure if you were to have removed all the items you would have found a pair of diamond stud earrings nestled at the bottom.

That purse?

It screamed she doesn’t have children.

It screamed disposable income.

It screamed self-absorbed.

Life changed.

That purse?

It’s somewhere in the house.

Hidden away from grubby hands.

My “purse” now?

It’s the small Coach wristlet. It holds medical ID cards for the family, my license, my debit card, a cheapo chapstick, my iPhone, and a pen.

That wristlet?

It’s nestled in a Walmart diaper bag given to me by my Grandmother. It has blue and green swirls and has been so used its interior is beginning to crack and fade. Inside there are diapers and wipes, extra outfits in case of accidents, snacks and juice boxes for the toddler, binkys and loveys for the baby, a first aid kit for the owies, and toys to ward off the boredom.

Before, my purse had been all about me.

All about how well I was doing in my job.

All about how put together and wonderful I was.


It’s about necessity.

It’s about keeping everyone happy.

It’s about two little one’s and their needs.

I may miss my over-priced purse and long forgotten belongings.

I may miss all the joy and confidence it had once brought me.

But I love my Walmart bag more.

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