Dream a little dream: Guest post by Big A little a

Dream a little dream!

By: Roshni @ www.BigAlittlea.com

So, who amongst all of us strives to be a put-together mom?! Um.....only me, huh?! Well, okay, I freely admit that in years past, I have committed the laughable offense of trying to be a perfect mom! Perhaps it was the pressure of my relatives (in-laws, parents, other random busybodies!), the self-doubts instilled right there at the hospital at watching all the nurses taking care of a horde of babies in cribs without turning into mush, or perhaps it was all the amazing Martha Stewart-like blogs, that talked about teaching their babies sign language, while cooking three course meals, making lace doilies, shopping for high heels and getting the latest manicures, that convinced me that I was falling short and I had better buck up.... like, right NOW!!

Of course, you probably got the idea that it never quite worked out, right! Somewhere while I was cleaning my baby's bottom for the 'n'th time in the day, all the while wondering if there was anything edible in the house, and shoving dirty laundry under the bed, I got that it was a wonderful, but impossible dream that some beeyotches had concocted to make the rest of us feel bad!!

So, I let go of the dream, though it did seem such a delightful dream! I still sigh at the thought of a pretty, uncluttered house, all the while watching my boys systematically decimate the idea in their Star Wars duelling fervor. I giggle at the idea of making gourmet meals, because I have since discovered that I hate cooking! And, my present 'manicure' is 'short and flesh-colored', thank you very much!!

The last time I was congratulating myself about being put-together, was when I did not forget to fix all the lunch boxes, the kitchen was actually clean when I left the house and my son was not late for school......and then I dropped my younger son at his preschool and was about to walk out when I heard his teacher frantically calling me! I walked back to see her slipping something into a plastic bag and handing it to me with a half-smile, saying "I guess you didn't realize that this came along with his bedsheets". I took a quick peek and blushed...yes, it was a pair of my panties. And, even more cringe-worthy, they were not the lacy Victoria Secret ones!!

Hope I made your day with that confession! Wishing our dear friend at Peanut Layne a speedy recovery and hoping to see the rest of you around!

Signing off,
Roshni

Sexy Chat with Kennedy

While lying in bed I hear the familiar buzz of my iphone vibrate which basically means "You've got mail", or in this day in age it would be "You've got email" since who the hell sends mail these days (other than my grandpa who doesn't own a computer).  I try my hardest to ignore it, but my mind begins to wonder.  It could be a blog comment, telling me my blog is the bestest, most brilliant blog they've ever read and by reading my blog it makes them feel smarter and wiser (okay, so probably not likely).  Or it could be Ed McMahon informing me I won a million dollars, except that i'm too lazy to enter the sweepstakes so probably not that either.  It could be…let's face it, it could be anything and that's why it's so damn hard to ignore the beep of an incoming email!

So I reach for my phone which is located directly above my head on the headboard, and excitedly click on the bulk mail folder as if i'm a kid and it's Christmas morning. I know most normal people ignore their bulk folder, but for me all of the good stuff comes to my bulk folder. Perhaps it's because I haven't emptied out my inbox since forever.

To my dismay this was the urgent email sitting in my inbox that was more important than catching a few extra minutes of precious sleep:

Let's Do Sexy Chat 

Annoyed and curious I clicked on the link.  It was from someone named "Kennedy".  Right, and i'm a size 2.

So, here's what I have to say to you "Kennedy".   First off if you really want me to take you serious, it's probably best not to open up your email with, "Hi sexy man". The first rule in sexy chat should be to always make sure you are at least addressing the correct gender.

Second, I really don't want to view your photos because i'd probably vomit up my nighttime vitamins, but if you really, truly insist on sexy chatting with me, "Kennedy" i'll tell you what turns me on.  I'll even type it out for you, so you know exactly what to say to me, word for word.

Kennedy: Let me hire someone to do all of your laundry for you.  This includes washing, drying, folding and putting them away.  I'll even make sure that the wet laundry is placed in the dryer before it's sat in the washing machine so long that it smells like blue cheese and assholes when you open the lid.

Me: Ears are perking up. I'm definitely listening.  Excited to hear more.

Kennedy: I see your husband is working late again.  You sit down and let me cook your family a healthy, gourmet dinner while you sit on the couch and watch TV long enough that your butt actually  makes an indentation mark on the cushion.

Me: Getting slightly turned on

Kennedy: I'll even serve your children dinner, but making sure that you get the first plate of hot food with the best cut of meat. No more stone cold, shriveled up left overs for you.

Me: Hot food? I haven't eaten hot food since my husband had hair.  Tell me more, please!

Kennedy: I took the liberty of helping your teens with their homework.  I also took the younger kids to the park for a while, and let them burn off a bunch of energy, then gave them all a bath. They are already in bed and totally ready to conk out at any second.

Me: Preparing to leave my husband for Kennedy.

Kennedy: I fixed you a chocolate cake to eat while you enjoy your kid free quiet time. I hid it on the top shelf of the pantry so your kids couldn't find it.  I also fully stocked your fridge with Diet Coke.  While you enjoy your chocolate cake, i'll be cleaning your toilets and scrubbing that perma ring of kid funk off your bathtub.

Me: Madly in love with Kennedy.

Kennedy: ……….

Me:  Kennedy? Kennedy, where did you go?  Please come back!  The laundry is starting to pile up again, and i'm almost out of Diet Coke.  My teens are asking me questions about something called a rhombus, and the younger kids could really use a bath.  Kennedy?  KENNEDY PLEASE COME BACK!! Don't leave me….sobs. Well, it was nice while it lasted.  Good chatting with you Kennedy.  I'm guessing this is not the type of sexy chat you had in mind.

I'm Floored: Guest Post by The Insomniac's Dream

I'm Floored

Hi folks. This is the amazeballs and ever tired Sleepy Bard from http://hypnoticbard.blogspot.com The Insomniacs Dream. When I heard about Peanut and her struggles, my heart went out to her, and I wanted to do whatever I could to help. Goddess knows, this community of bloggers has done so much for me when I was down. That's what we do, folks, us bloggy friends, us tweeps, we support each other. The blogosphere is an amazing place full of lots of awesomesauce writers and great friends. I wanted to give back, and so here I am Guest Posting. I wrote this piece a few weeks ago, and it was put on hold while I had my own struggles and wrote my way through them. What better place for it, then here at Life on Peanut Layne.

Since I began writing a blog I have brought you, readers, on a journey. Through a winding path we have laughed together, we have cried together. I have shared a lot of the twists and turns of my life with you. I like to call my blog a humor blog, but life isn't always funny.

You know I can be funny, you've shared some of my heartache and life changing moments with me, and recently, as a Guest Poster on http://parenthetical-asides.blogspot.com/ (parenthetical asides) I shared another side of myself and came clean about my struggles with depression in http://parenthetical-asides.blogspot.com/2013/01/the-only-redemption-is.html (the only redemption is . . . ).

It's been a fun ride, and we aren't done yet! Today, I'm going to share some more of my crazy with you.

I don't like furniture. I loathe sitting on anything that is appropriate for sitting upon. When I worked, I would sit on my desk to talk to people, and on tables to talk to the clients in our day program. Even as far back as when I worked in a nursing home, I sat on tables, even at meetings!

At home, I sit on the kitchen counters, the coffee table, and even sitting here at my computer I'm on a foot stool.

Outside, I'll sit on anything but a chair. Is there a car around to sit on? A ledge? A wall or a fence? Then I'm on it. (No pun intended. I'm not currently on the fence about anything. I am assured of where I'm going in life for the first time in a long time.)

I'll sit on anything else but never furniture.

I especially love the floor (or the ground if I'm outside). I hope I never get so old and crickety I can't sit on the floor criss-cross applesauce. It's my fave.

I could be in a living full of furniture and if I'm not plopped on the coffee table or a foot stool, I'm on the floor. Sometimes I sit on the kitchen floor, leaned up against the cabinets to text and Tweet.

I also enjoy lying on floors. So much so that different floors have come to mean different things to me, evoke different emotions, and invite different activities. I am going to share with you folks what different floors are for.

We'll start with the bathroom floor. This is the floor to sit on when you are hiding out from your children. Take a cup of coffee and your smart phone in there with you, shut the door and lock it, and boom you've got privacy for at least a good hour. (You have to convince your children at a very young age it takes an hour to go #2)

This is also the floor for sex. If you've tried having steamy, romantic shower sex you have probably realized that it's just not what the movies make it out to be. In actuality it's clumsy and awkward. One of you is nearly drowning under the water, the other one is out of the water and freezing. There's height differences to deal with, shampoo bottles falling on you, you're slipping and sliding around, and things are poking you that aren't supposed to be poking you. This is when you throw a towel down on the bathroom floor and get to it. It's still steamy, I promise.

Bathroom floors are also places to have conversations with your girlfriends when you're hiding out from the prying ears of children and/or husbands. Lock yourselves in, turn on the fan, and don't forget the wine! If you have enough wine you and said friend can do drunken bathroom Yoga together.

I've had so many phone conversations sitting on that bathroom floor. It's the one room in the house you can go in and shut the door and everyone respects your privacy.

This is the floor where you camp out with a blanket and a pillow when you are just too sick to lay anywhere else. Tired of the trek to the bathroom every five minutes to puke? Just bring in your bedding and settle in for the night, the toilet is right there! Stay for however long it takes until you are better again.

Have a friend who drank too much and needs to vomit? Are you the one vomiting? Again, a great place to gather with friends. You can comfort and console the drunk, and then either sit or lie on the floor together and re-connect your friendship. (Lt. BFF if you're reading this, this is our place.)

Now we move to the kitchen/dining room floor. A great place to sit with your morning cup of coffee, propped against the counters with your smart phone or a good book.

This is the floor for art protects, big and small, Lego constructions, and army men battles. A place to gather with the kids or some friends and play a board or a card game.  (I can' play games at a table. That requires sitting in a chair.)

The dining room floor is a nice place to picnic with the kids.

I've written in my journals while sitting or lying on my kitchen floor.

This is the floor I lie on to cry when I'm heartbroken and nothing seems like it will ever be alright again. I'm not entirely sure of the reasoning behind this, or when it ever started, but when I'm done, just done, and can't take it anymore, I take it to my kitchen floor. Many of my tears have fallen on those tiles.

The kitchen floor is where I find myself, time and again, sitting in a circle with my friends, wine in hand, laughing at our stories. Kitchens are a place to congregate, we just take to the floor criss-cross applesauce.

Crazy Girl and I lie on this floor together to talk sometimes.

This is also the floor to sleep on when you've imbibed too much. Under the kitchen table is an awesome place to sleep off a drunk. (And I mean pre-children or when they are away of course.)

Also the floor for playing with cats, or lying with them to snuggle and love.

Next on my list is the living room floor. I love the living room floor! I sit there with my snacks and/or lunches to read my books. I lean against the chair, but never sit in it. This is the same spot that I use for writing in journals (when I'm not on the kitchen floor).

The living room floor is also great to gather with friends for games, or to play with the kiddos and their toys.

I absolutely love to camp out on the living room floor!  Bring out tons of blankets and pillows and you can lay on the floor all night for a movie or Netflix marathon. Make a night out of it with the kids and picnic on the makeshift bed, then cuddle in for movies and slumber together.

I had a stint of my life where I could only  sleep on the living room floor. Every night I'd drag out all the bedding, make my spot and lie there to watch TV until I fell out.

Camping out with a significant other in this fashion can be very romantic. Whether your're watching movies, or having sexy times, it's good  times. Build a fort if you're so inclined and bring out the lanterns or light the candles.

Finally, we move to the bedroom floor.

Obviously the floor for sex. Whether you intend to be there or roll right off the bed during vigorous sexy time.

Another floor that's great for sleeping off a drunk. If you just can't make it to bed, fuck it and lay on the floor. There's no judgement here.

This is the floor that loves to gather laundry, shoes, and other clutter, so I don't use it for much.

As much as I loathe furniture I do so love my bed. I love my bed too much sometimes.

I tend to force myself not to hang out in the bedroom unless its sleepy time, or I'm not so inclined to lock myself in the bathroom to talk on the phone, and wish to lie in my bed instead.

I enjoy the floor (and other weird surfaces) so much more than furniture. Am I the only girl in the world who's having this lifelong love affair with the floor?

WWPD? Guest Post by My Brain On Kids

WWPD?

By: http://mybrainonkids.net/  

What would Peanut do?  I ask myself this question whenever I find myself in a tough spot.  I know it may seem sacrilegious, and it’s not like I don’t also ask what Jesus would do, but in the realm of behaviors and responses that are actually attainable…I go with Peanut.  I mean let’s face it, she’s real and honest and you know with a 100% degree of certainty that what you see is what you get.  Of course, it’s not that Jesus isn’t real or honest, but I mean…its Jesus.  I don’t see any burning bushes in my future, and it’s not that I don’t believe in miracles…OMG I don’t think I need to be all politically correct here.  I have a heart for Jesus…AND Peanut.  When I need to laugh, or feel normal (no offense), I pull up Peanut’s blog.  She never disappoints.  So when I heard from Karen @ www.BakingInATornado.com  that Peanut was having a rough time and needed some guest bloggers to entertain her legion of fans until she was back on her feet, I raced to the front of the line.  Okay, maybe not raced, more like plodded, and it wasn’t exactly the front of the line…probably closer to the back of the line.  I’ve never guest posted on anyone’s blog before, and this is Peanut!  Not that I don’t think I’m amazing terrific great… ok moderately mediocre but I’ll be honest, I was intimidated.  I mean, what if everyone is disappointed or hates me.  I’m a blogger, I need to be liked and noticed, revered and spotlighted, complimented and adored.  Is that so wrong?  I started and scrapped like a million posts, and finally I just decided to throw something together, not unlike throwing spaghetti against a wall and seeing what sticks.  Hopefully, I’ll keep you mildly entertained in Peanut’s absence, but really I’m aiming low here.  Actually, my strategy is to make you miss Peanut even more, so when she’s back in Peanut form and whipping out one great amazingly hilarious post after another, you will all appreciate her even more.  I’m doing a public service really, so be kind.

Of course, I should probably introduce myself.  I blog over at http://mybrainonkids.net/ .  I have 4 kids, ranging in age from 7-18, three girls and one boy that we’ve dubbed “man-child.”  I’m happily married, and might be sort of known for having a mild sorta kinda crush on Adam Levine, the front man for Maroon 5.  If you’re not terribly busy, and you don’t completely hate me, or even if you hate me…I’m not picky, it would be great if you could head on over to twitter and tell @adamlevine to follow @mybrainonkids.  I know it probably seems insensitive to plug my stalker obsessive friendly overtures toward Adam on Peanut’s blog while she’s waging a war with her vagina and other body parts and functions, but believe me when I tell you she would want this for me.  It might even make her feel better, so really you’re doing it FOR her.  I’m a giver.  Always thinking of others.  It’s my best quality.  I know it also seems weird to state that I’m happily married and then follow it up with an admission of lusty ambition toward Adam Levine, but the two aren’t mutually exclusive.  Doesn’t every marriage have “get out of jail” free cards?  You know, if you meet that one person that you both know you’ll never actually meet and that one person actually wants to get jiggy with you then under the bylaws of the “free card”, you could completely give in to the underbelly of sexual desire and marital infidelity without it actually counting?  Right?  Everyone does that?  If not, you should try it, it’s very liberating.  My husband currently holds Blake Lively on his free card #1 spot…in case you were feeling sorry for him.  It used to be Scarlett Johansson, but he decided somewhere along the line that dirty sexy was better than dumb and beautiful.  I assume Scarlett isn’t a candidate for Mensa.  I mean, I could be wrong…  She is very pretty; I just never got the smart vibe from her.  It’s not like Adam isn’t without his share of flaws, but really…who cares.  Eye candy doesn’t have to be mentally stimulating, just a feast for the eyes.

So anyway, that’s a little about me.  I’m actually not all that interesting, except in my own mind.  What we all have in common, if nothing else, is our love for Peanut Layne.  I can’t even imagine dealing with everything she’s got going on right now, and I’m very worried for her, thinking of her daily and sending warm thoughts her way.  I would even share Adam with her…that’s how deep my love and admiration goes.  She is by far one of the funniest ladies I know, and she blogs what everyone else is only thinking but doesn’t always have the guts to say!  She is also very courageous and strong… I mean, I could go on for days about all the things I adore about Peanut.  I get a yeast infection and I’m crying out to Jesus, mixing Vagisil/Monistat cocktails and wearing an ice pack in my granny panties.  When it comes to pain tolerance, I have no equal as far as having absolutely ZERO tolerance for pain or discomfort of any kind, so I have no words when I think of what she deals with on a daily basis with this coup her body is staging against her.  If that weren’t enough to deal with she’s homeschooling her Kindergartner right now.  My hat is off to you homeschool mommas!  Seriously, you are talking to a mom who counts reading a dinner menu as logged time for man-child’s 1st grade reading log.  Don’t be judgy.  Have you read with a 1st grader lately?  Oh. My. God.  It’s torture.  Pppppp aaaaaaaaa tttttt Pat! (And that took like 30 seconds for each sound…kill me now please).  I cry when the books his teacher sends home have more than 3 words per page and are more than 3 pages in length.  And I LOVE to read, just not with children.  I love reading TO him, but sitting there while he reads, I’d rather have a yeast infection quite frankly.

I miss Peanut.  Who else can I discuss anal itching with who won’t get offended and unfollow me on twitter?  (true story)  My wish is for her to feel better, and kick the ass out of this autoimmune disease.  I never have to worry that I might overshare with Peanut.  For example, I could tell her that I might have accidentally “vag farted” in front of my husband the other day, and she would make me feel better about it!  She would have me laughing hysterically at my embarrassment and discomfort, and she’d probably have an even better story about vag farting (because who doesn’t, let’s be honest).  Of course, she could be reading this right now, thinking “I’ve never vag farted in my life!” and then I’d feel all awkward, but then she would sense I’m feeling awkward and she would find an equally embarrassing story to tell, if there is anything more embarrassing that having a gas leak from your vagina while you’re trying to sexy dance for your husband.  By sexy dance, I mean I had my leg propped up on the arm of his chair while dry humping his thigh and asking how bad he wanted me right at that moment.  So yeah…like he wouldn’t totally hand me over wrapped in a red bow for Adam Levine tomorrow if he could.  Now I’m feeling uncomfortable in the glaring spotlight of my overshare.  WWPD?  She’d laugh and tell me to get over myself; at least my vagina isn’t on fire and I’m not in mortal combat with my intestines for a good poop.  I mean really, what’s a little gas by comparison!

I guess what I’m trying to say in 2000 words or less, is that we love you and miss you Peanut and you need to get better soon!  Hopefully, I’ve managed to wrangle at least a half-smile out of someone during your absence, or made your faithful followers all the more eager for your speedy return!

Remember, WWPD?  It helps.  Trust me.  When in doubt, go back and read through her archives.  She’s brilliant, and if I don’t get at least one “follow @mybrainonkids @adamlevine” out of this, then all is not right with the world!

Sincerely and with much love,
My Brain on Kids        
       

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.

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***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!



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