Guest Post by Snarkfest

A guest post from Snarkfest….

By Teri @ http://snarkfestblog.blogspot.com/

So word on the street is that Peanut Layne is laid up and taking some much needed rest time. I really hope that’s what she’s doing. She needs it. Did you know she’s got 5 kids??? Hell I need a nap after just TYPING that she’s got 5 kids. I’ve got 2 and can barely keep up. For example, last night my two kids both had something going on. 15 had a recording concert and 13 had a bloodbath basketball game.  Thank goodness my husband and I are able to tag-team. He took the game, I took the concert.  While sitting with my friend who only has one in middle school these days, she said thank goodness you only have two! Can you imagine if you had more? After I vomited on her lap, I thought about how in the wide world people with more than 2 kids manage. Let me rephrase that. How do parents manage when their children are involved in multiple activities all at the same time? How do they deal with shuttling kids from point A to point B? How do they deal with the guilt for going to one activity in favor of another?  And don’t even get me STARTED on those who don’t have someone else to rely on to help out, whether it’s due to divorce, death or just being a deadbeat.

Back when I was a kid (when we rode dinosaurs to school and we liked it) I wasn’t involved in much. I didn’t do Girl Scouts, no basketball, no volleyball, no drama club. I stayed after school once a month for French club but that didn’t really involve mom shuttling me hither and yon all the time. The most I relied on mom for was a ride to the skating rink or the basketball game but I always had to find my own ride home or hoof it. Nowadays there’s no way my kids could hoof it home from the high school 11 miles away on twisty, windy roads at night. To say that nothing could prepare me for the ‘plates in the air juggling act’ I’ve had to deal with would be an understatement.

A few weeks ago, 15 and 13 both had basketball games on the same night. And hubby was at reserves. Which leaves mom to be in two places at one time (a challenge I’m still working on perfecting).  Thank goodness for friends and neighbors who are happy to help out when you’re in a pinch. If you can procure a ride for one to and from her event, that frees you up to take the other one to and from her event. Except that now I get to listen to the melancholy wailing, whined to the tune of “Why are you going to her game and not mine??” Wow I love answering that question. Usually I respond with “Because I love her more than I love you”, which is sarcastic and totally (mostly) untrue. I love them both with all my heart and soul. I just love it when one gets her room clean more than when the other spends 3 hours texting instead of room cleaning like I asked. So is the rule: She who has the cleanest room gets mom’s attendance at her game? Maybe.  But what would I do if I had 3 kids, all involved in activities? 4?? 5???  I truly do NOT know how parents of more than 2 do this (unless you’re like, on Sister Wives and have one no good lousy rotten husband and 4 other sister wives who can help with transportation and ease that mom-guilt.) Maybe that’s what I need. If I have more children (GOD FORBID) I’m going to find myself a wife. Between the two of us, we’ll figure it out.

In the meantime, my hat is off to you parents of more than 2. And to you, Peanut Layne. I hope you’re feeling better soon so you can get up and chauffeur those 5 kids around! I’m going to go lie down and take a nap just thinking about that.

Pinterest parent I am not, but I apparently gave birth to one

Please tell me when did it stop being cool to bring those little store bought Valentine cards to school? When did V-Day become a "I can create the most unique contraption to hold a heart shaped chocolate candy in the entire universe" day?  I'll tell you when….PINTEREST!

Now, not only are store bought cards uncool, but i'm seriously expected to spend my precious kid free evenings slaving over a hot stove cooking gluten free play dough that I then have to transform into hearts and package in an equally creative way? Or perhaps I should spend my time melting the multiple crayons that are stuffed inside of my filthy couch and make little crayon shaped cupids or hearts or better yet my hand flipping the middle finger!

When I was a kid everyone brought the store bought cards with popular TV inspired characters on them. Today they probably have Spongebob or that super barfy Dora the Explorer on them, but back in the day we had Snoopy, Ninja Turtles, Rainbow Brite and He-Man (because we were cool).  I don't know about you, but I turned into Inspector Gadget with my cards. I would take my gigantically awkward, heart-shaped card holder that was made in class a few days prior home, and then separate my cards into specific piles.  You know the piles…cards from close friends, cards from teachers, cards from boys (the most important pile), and then the rest of them. I would examine the cards from the boys with a fine tooth comb. If the cards had anything even semi-romantic on them, I was convinced that they wanted to marry me and have my future babies. Okay, i'm joking about the babies, but it's hilarious how I could twist and turn something as innocent as "You're neat" into "He loves me".  Yeah.

If you're one of those super crafty, Pinterester parents who can turn a piece of a broken beer bottle into a beautiful swan, then please don't take offense to this post. I'm secretly jealous of you. I am. I just miss the simpler days. The days when it was perfectly okay to send your kid to school with a store bought Spiderman card and that was enough. In fact, that was the norm!

Last night I was doing some shopping with the hubby and I realized it was the 11th and I started to panic a little.  It's totally our style to wait until the absolute last minute for everything, so I grabbed whatever box of store bought Valentine's were left on the nearly empty Walmart shelf.  I got home and handed them over to my 8 year old daughter, but to my surprise she looked at me and said, "I don't need these mom, I already made my own"

Holy poop. Did I give birth to a future Pinterester or what?

So, i've decided i'm returning my crappy store bought cards, and signing myself up for some artsy fartsy classes at Michael's so that someday when it's my future grandchild's first birthday, she will give me a more important role in the party planning other than, "Mom, why don't you just bring the Cheetos and we'll call it good." 

Confessions of a Party Pooper: Guest Post by Life on the SONny Side

Confessions of a Party Pooper

My groggy and bloggy ramblings from my 'Life on the SONny Side' can be found at www.lifeonthesonnyside.com

“Every party has a pooper. That’s why we invited you.” - Martin Short’s crazy character from Father of the Bride II

My name is Jen. I am a Party Pooper.

I wasn’t always like this.

As a girl, when sleepovers were a legitimate rite of passage and a game of truth or dare could make or break your middle school reputation, there was only one real rule: Don’t EVER fall asleep first. God Bless the unenviable little soul who let her eyes close before the other giggling monsters in the room. A hand slipped into a bowl of warm water was just the tip of the iceberg. Sharpie mustaches…having your hair tied in knots. All bets were off when it came to punishing the evening’s newly crowned ‘party pooper’. I did my best to protect my rep…and my hair…by staying awake as long as I could. For the most part, I was successful…save for a few penises that were artfully drawn on my forehead and cheeks.

In my twenties, I was rarely still out when the bartender shouted out “Last Call”. In this, my former life, the black pants that I wore several days a week were for dancing…and were not of the “yoga-variety” that I love so much now. While I wasn’t the last creature stumbling out of the bar at 2am, I still usually managed to have a grand enough time to get groped on the dance floor for the entirety of a Prince song and to lose my room key or ID at least twice. I typically fell into bed before all of the actual debauchery officially started.

I’m like one of those people who go to concerts and leave during the encore. I almost make it the end, but not quite. I like to party, but I’m more like the ticket-taker than than the actual rockstar.

Age has definitely made this all worse for me. I remember when 10pm was when I just started getting ready to go out. Now, I’m lucky if I see the first five minutes of The Daily Show before I begin to snore and drool.

If getting older was changing my routine to the early-bird special, motherhood has transformed me into a nun…and not the sassy Whoopi Goldberg kind either.

I had to attend five separate soirees this holiday season. Five. I am not exaggerating when I say that my little family and I were among the first to leave each and every one of these parties. Scowls and disappointed looks from relatives and friends followed us everywhere we went.

You see, I am the proud and exhausted owner of a fully functional toddler. He never settles or mellows. He knows nothing of “hanging out”. He doesn’t savor meals. He spits out the garlic potatoes that you’ve smashed by hand while he looks you in the eye. He’ll push the buttons on your Hallmark musical, animatronic commemorative Christmas Snoopy until the batteries melt from exhaustion…and you’ll think to yourself that if you hear that Peanuts theme song one more time, you’ll probably have to rip your ears right off of your head. He will pluck shiny bulbs with sentimental value off of your fancy tree and throw them at your dog.

He makes me chase him until my hair becomes limp, my make up is gone, and there’s not enough egg nog in the Tri-County area to make me want to stay one second longer. I can keep him under wraps without incident for an hour, no problem…sometimes even two if the stars have aligned on that particular day. But hour #3 is when all Hell begins to break loose and I’m certain that other guests begin to wonder if I’m utilizing a “Lord of the Flies”-inspired parenting style. I’m tired. And more importantly, I’m embarrassed that I have a difficult time stopping my 20-month old from covering all of your Pottery Barn treasures in powdered donut in two seconds flat. Because of all of this, I have become a World Class Party Pooper.

As most guests begin to pour themselves another glass of wine, I’m pretending that I haven’t been watching the clock for the duration. I’m quietly repacking our bags and slowly trying to say our goodbyes without attracting too much attention to ourselves. The blowhards in the room who forget what it’s like to be a prisoner of babies and bedtimes begin their obligatory guilt trips about how they never get to see us…that they can’t believe we’re leaving already…that he’ll be fine if we stay just a little longer. That last sentence is enough to make me wanna bust out a throat punch. Oh, will he?! Is it really possible that they forget what a full on bedtime meltdown looks and feels like. The answer is totally yes.

My festive spirit has officially flatlined and I shove his tiny little parts back into his gigantic snowsuit and then try to strap my human marshmallow back into his carseat. I find myself shouting and singing like an idiot at the top of my lungs to keep him awake until we get home. We rush the bedtime routine. I’m usually dripping with sweat at this point and begging to hear the click of the door to his room as I close it one last time. I flop onto my bed and glance at the clock expecting to see some outrageously late hour. Nope. 8:30pm. I am older now. I am a mom. I am pooped.

I know that eventually the tide will turn for us. My toddler will become a boy who will wreak a little less havoc. I’ll be able to stay for another glass of wine and not panic about whether he’s scaling someone’s china cabinet like a baby Godzilla. But until then I’m a super duper Party Pooper. It’s not a glamorous title, but it’s the sash I’m wearing right now. Please just put it in a doggie bag and send me on my way! Oh, and thanks for the wine! I needed that.

-----

***I appreciate the opportunity to share some cyberspace with the amazingly talented, and always hilarious woman behind Peanut Layne and some other incredible writer-friends.
P.L., I wish you health, happiness, healing, and all the alone time in a quiet bathroom that you could ever hope for! We hope you’re that you're feeling better and back in action soon!



www.lifeonthesonnyside.com

Guest post from follow me home...

A Guest Post from follow me home . . .

By Michele @ http://followmehome.shellybean.com  

My name is Michele Marriott. I blog over at http://followmehome.shellybean.com  I’m one of those bloggers who loves to stay connected with the blogosphere, but can never find quite enough time to post my own stuff as often as I’d like (at least once a week!). That’s completely ok. What’s wrong with spreading the love around to those who need it, anyway? When I was approached about filling in for Peanut Layne, I happily accepted. That girl is hilarious!  I said, “Of course! I might as well be writing on SOMEONE's blog…”

Let's see, for today, since we’re just getting to know each other a bit, I decided to share with you a few of my favorite moments of being a Kindergarten school teacher.

I actually went to college to teach high school chemistry; took a "wrong" turn and ended up in Elementary Ed. It was exactly where I needed to be. Everything about teaching little 5 and 6 years olds made my life worthwhile. They needed me less than I ever needed them. Alas, I had my own husband and children to take care of as well. After about ten years, I realized I couldn’t quite give both jobs 100 percent, so I chose to stay at home. I now tutor and help in my child's classroom, but sometimes it's not enough. Those little children were mine too. I taught them things they didn’t know before coming in. I smiled as they sat on the floor petting my velvet shoes or watched as their eyes bulged open whenever I read, “Piggy Pie!!!” My favorite part now is to see a grown man or young lady yell out my name across the grocery store. Their bodies and voices are much larger, but if I look closely, I can still find their innocent 5 year old face. Love. Okay now, that’s enough about that.


Here are just a few cute share quotes/stories that I’ve gathered through the years.

“You know Mrs. Marriott, you may NEVER get a chance to have Jesus in your heart or go to heaven if you keep drinking all that coffee.” said Anna, 5 (I live in a state where caffeine is looked down upon.)
“Well Anna, it is almost gone. See? I’m on to my last cup and it’s only 2:30! There is plenty of time to receive God." –Me

 (Huffing and Puffing) "Oh I'm sorry for being late today, Mrs. Marriott...And I forgot my show-n-tell too! My dad was yelling at my mom about us always running late..." sobbed Markella
 "I'm sorry, Markella. It’s okay. We'll just schedule your day for tomorrow. Is your mom all right?"-I asked
 "Yeah, she's fine. She made him walk to work and called him an ass."-Markella, one of my top ten favorite students

  “Mrs. Marriott, I don’t want to hurt your feelings or anything, but I have a worry . . . (at Kindergarten round up), those toilets look awfully small, and well I eat a LOT of food." -Corbin, 6

 “Mrs. Marriott, I just wanted you to know that if you don’t have anywhere to go for Turkey day, we’d be glad to have you over. My mom says my aunt and uncle are nuts so they can sit in the basement." -Deke,

 “I know you want me to read those words to you Mrs. Marriott. I don’t WANT to do it, but I see you wore that nice scarf and all, so I guess I’ll give it a try". -Orlando 5, future playboy

“I don’t know what the big idea about this “Mrs. Marriott” is anyway. WE never paint, or dance to Baby Beluga. I'VE never made a wood jewelry box…you know that beef jerky you’re exchanging for necklaces right now? That was probably just going to be our dinner tonight". My eldest daughter, then 6 years old.

 Thanks for letting me join in this week. Cheers to Peanut Layne getting well soon!  If you have the time, pop over and see what’s happening at our crazy house. Last entry - two weeks ago. I'm lightning fast like that . . .

XOX
Michele

It's not a hole in one.

This post is graphic and grody and you might want to have a bucket of Clorox nearby to bleach out your corneas after you read it.  So now that you've been warned, if you still think you can handle it, then by all means read away.

Last weekend my IC (interstitial cystitis) was flaring like a mother.  I'm talking bladder and urethra were completely swollen (yes, i'm going to use medical terms here to at least sound intelligent which you will know is total and utter bull crap after you read the rest of my post).   I was having trouble urinating (peeing for those who don't like big words).   I tried an ice pack on my urethra but it didn't help.  Then I got into the bathtub.  By this point it was almost 2 am.  There I was hunched over the tub trying to squeeze out my pee...screw it, I just said pee. I'm going balls to the wall casual from this point out!

I got out of the tub and was still miserable so I pulled out the SpeediCaths that my urologist had given me to use in an emergency.  For those who have normal bladders and don't need a catheter (because unless you're 90, most normal people don't), a SpeediCath is a handy dandy pocket sized catheter that is shaped kind of a like a hard plastic tampon.

See the nice pretty box? Looks fairly harmless, right? 

So I pull and twist, and out pops the long, sharp, pointy, catheter thingy.  I opened the directions since i've never self-cathed myself before and there were like 3-4 steps and they seemed pretty basic.  Basically you pop the catheter into the uretha about 2 cm at a time until you feel some resistance in your b-hole (don't ask why, i'm just simply stating what's on the directions) and out comes the pee. I know you're all crossing your legs right about now and weeping.

After five kids, you would think that I would know my urethra from my vagina, correct?  WRONG. I stuck the catheter (no jammed is more like it) all the way into my vaginey.  Why?  Because i'm a genius, that's why.  No, seriously, I DON'T KNOW WHY I DO THE THINGS I DO!!!!

Not only did I not get out any urine, but when I pulled out the cath, and it was covered in blood.  Eeesh.  I was pretty sure that wasn't supposed to happen.  I started to freak.  I mean it was 2 am so I wrapped a towel around my naked body (I had previously been in the tub, remember?) and I sat my naked hiney on the computer chair (FYI, in case you're ever at my house, don't say I didn't warn you about the chair).   I started Googling like a madwoman about catheter accidents.  However, I couldn't find a single thing!  Why?  Because NO ONE with half a brain sticks a catheter into their vagina, that's why!!!!

So, I went back into the bathroom with tears streaming down my face.  I was convinced I had perforated my uterus and sudden death was imminent.   I sat down on the toilet and tried to pee.  I figured maybe i'd get lucky and dodge a bullet and i'd be able to pee and everything would be fine.  No such luck.  I thought I was peeing, but when I peered into the toilet bowl all I saw was blood.  OH MY GOD, I was dying! DYING!!!!  By this point I was in an all out panic.  I'm stumbling around the dark bedroom (my boys were sleeping in my bed), trying to find undies, socks, pants, etc so I could drive myself to the emergency room.  The hubby was just standing there with this, "I can't believe you really did that" look on his face.  He wasn't able to go with me because the kids were sleeping and to be honest, I don't think he wanted the hospital staff to know he was the husband of the woman who jammed a catheter into the wrong hole.

I got to the hospital and waddled inside.  I don't have a quiet voice. It carries.  I started explaining the story to the receptionist (loudly).  By this point I could feel ALL eyes on me.  People in the waiting room were staring at me and whispering things like, "She stuck a what in her vagina?"   Apparently all you have to do to get speedy service in an ER is tell them you tried to self cath yourself and you're bleeding profusely because I was taken immediately back into an exam room, which pretty much NEVER happens.

Once I was back in the exam room, I had to keep re-telling my story to the many nurses who were coming in and out of my room.   There I was huddled under a thin, papery sheet that was probably peed on by the previous homeless bum who was using the ER to nap in.   Not to mention the beds inside the ER feel like they're constructed out of cardboard.  I'm not sure the ER doc I saw understood the point of my visit as she kept saying, "So you have blood in your urine?"  I tried to explain many times, "No, I don't have blood in my urine because I didn't actually stick the catheter INTO my bladder" but she didn't understand.  Basically all they did in the ER was drain my bladder with a catheter (they got the right hole by the way), and then test my urine for an infection (which was negative of course).   I was never given an exam which kinda sucks because i'm still bleeding and was told to go back in if i'm bleeding 24 hours later.  Part of me is too afraid to go back in.  The other part is too humiliated.  I would love to know what they wrote in my chart.  For example if I do have to return are they going to be huddled in a group whispering, "The moron who stuck a SpeediCath into her vagina is back."

Super Mommy Dollar Store Edition: Guest Post By Suburbia Interrupted

Super Mommy. Dollar Store Edition

By Dani @ http://suburbiainterrupted.com/

Six months ago, I was a dollar store virgin.  I had never gone shopping at a dollar store, mainly because I had this notion in my head that it was filled with crap.  Now granted, dollar stores do have a lot of crap in them that I would never in a million years buy, but as I have learned in these past six months, there is also a lot of crap in the store that I will.

The local dollar store I visit is now my go to place to buy cleaning supplies, candy to sneak into movie theaters, and as I have learned, the best place in the world to bring my three little kids when I want to be known as "Super Mom."

Yesterday was a day off of school and I was trying to think of something 'special I could do with the little kids since their two older brothers had their fun over the weekend.  I remembered that a few weeks ago the little kids kept asking me if I would bring them to this elusive dollar store they had heard about.  So, I rounded the little kids up and told them to get ready that we were going somewhere special.  The entire (10 minute) car ride, they kept guessing where I could be bringing them-Disney, the park, the local animal sanctuary.

We pulled into the parking lot and started walking toward the store. Finally, they saw the sign.

"OMG! She brought us to the dollar store!" one of the kids belted out.

We walked inside and I said, "you guys can pick out whatever you want."

Somehow the three kids decided that they would each get three things and began looking around.  My daughter immediately grabbed her three items in the first aisle she came to while the boys found what they wanted in the toy section.

As we were driving home, I looked in the mirror and saw just how happy the kids were.  They were laughing, smiling, and so excited to get home to play with their new toys.  When we got inside the house, all three kids gave me a huge group hug and in unison told me how awesome of a mom I was for bringing them to the “one dollar store” and letting them pick out THREE toys.

I'll take the compliments where I can get them, but who knew the dollar store would end up being the highlight of my day.

Blog Friends Vs Real Friends: Guest Post by Sorry Kid, Your Mom Doesn't Play Well With Others

Hi! I am Ashley. I blog at http://www.sorrykid.blogspot.com/. I have 5 kids, yes you read that right, and am pregnant with number 6- I know I know, I am an overachiver...Ha, if you know me that is far from the truth. Anyway, I am toning it down a little for you today. Grab a cup of coffee and pretend I am sitting across the table.

Blog Friends Vs Real Friends

Blogging is much more than putting words onto a computer screen and pressing publish.  Blogging is sharing your life with strangers, to anyone who wants to take the 5 minutes to know more about you and your family. Raw thoughts take a lot of courage to put out there, for anyone to judge or mock (all under the heading of Anonymous). Most people find it hard to describe themselves in 3 words, lets try 150+. Bloggers have to be willing to put the real them onto paper, you can hide behind a screen for a little while but sooner or later if you are fake you will be figured out. Bloggers are like you, but they tell the truth- and let it all hang out regardless of what other people will think. There are no cutesy Facebook posts about my sweet little perfect angel who just pooped in the potty for the first time at 8 months. You get the raw deal, my 4 year old just crapped himself AGAIN and then decided the living room would look lovely in a shade of shit brown. Every once in a while you get a random thought that pops into our head, those are usually the ones that most people just keep to themselves, not us, we bare all. Bloggers have balls.

Real people, you know, it is a hodgepodge. Some people are awesome, most are fake. You don't ever really know what is going on in someone's life unless you are a freak and creep around looking in windows or they are oversharers on Facebook. Which I have seen way too often, every cold or sprained ankle makes the newsfeed and when their kid actually makes a doodie in the toilet the picture of the load in the bowl is being paid to be promoted. But in general, real feelings aren't being put out there. Real thoughts are kept in, the courage to type them is smothered by fear of what people really think of them.

Being a blogger isn't just about the courage it takes to publish the real story, it is about building friendships. I have been so lucky to find a group of women who are supportive and want just as good for me as themselves. That doesn't happen very often, as most women are so judgmental that if you would say your real thoughts you would be outed from the group. They take nothing less than perfection. Sometimes real life is sad, and people in your real life may care (family not included, they almost always care) or they may run away, because broken is not on their checklist on hand made paper with perfect calligraphy. Those people suck. We don't like them, the pretty well-dressed Martha Stewart's can just go to hell.

Anyway, having made these friendships is like getting a second chance at High School, but we all don't care what you wear (we dig the homeless chic look too) and the level of our friendship doesn't depend on who we are dating (unless it's Adam Levine, and then we will hate you). We care about each other because we want to, not because of the numbers next to their name. This blogging community has made many of us feel normal for the first time in our lives. We now know that other people are just as random as us and we won't be compared to the Duggars for having a few more than the average number of children. (Even though mine now is going through a metro phase and thinks he should dress up ALL THE TIME. Seriously, he looks like he should be carrying a Bible and knocking on doors.) Anyway you get it, we have a community of friends...blah blah. So when one of us gets dealt a shit hand you know we are going to come together and do what we can, write. So you may be seeing more of me- lucky you, right? Until next time, I am going to sit on my couch and give the kids a nickel a piece to rub my feet and look up home remedies for Peanut...