This struggle is real life. Kids and tablets are such a bad combo... or not? My threenager is OBSESSED with the “hapad”. Morning, noon, and night I am reassuring her that it is unharmed on top of the refrigerator, and after some good behavior it can be allllll hers for an undetermined amount of time. (Depends on how productive I want to be.) That conversation ultimately leads to a laying on the floor, kicking, screaming fit that usually contains the words: “I never get my hapad!!!” and “You’re not my best friend anymore... daddy is!!!”. 👈 The ultimate mom slam. Especially coming from a daughter. Girl, if it weren’t for me you’d be wearing turtlenecks with ballet tights and combat boots to school. Don’t forget who styles your sassy ass, ya little diva.

There are some times when the tablet is a God-send. Like in a restaurant when the kitchen is “backed up” because there are 14 people in the building right now. Or at a winter concert for your 5th grader when you have to sit through the entire 2 hour performance to see your little angel ding finger sized bells at the end. To the Stepford mom who gave me side eye for giving in to my toddler’s demands and letting her watch strange videos of other people’s children opening shitty McDonalds toys during the performance: Merry Christmas to you from row 25. You would have never been able to hear your darling Chloe sing that traditional Kenyan holiday song like Britney Spears over the fake cries coming from my little terrorist so..... You’re Welcome!!! And if you think for one second I am getting a sitter for this event, you. are. high.

**Sidebar: Our gal was the most beautiful and talented bell dinger I ever did see 🛎. “Happy Holidays from Near and Far” was a magical experience. We went around the world in two hours thanks to the creative genius behind that production!**

On the flip side... that contraption is the damn devil!! My child eats, sleeps, and breathes that “hapad”, and every day around the Jones crib is a negotiation over screen time. What happened to a good ol’ fashioned board game?! It makes me feel like a bad parent when she refuses to eat her dinner unless she gets her 15 minutes of weirdest videos ever made. People make money off of that shit!?!

If anyone knows the trick to make her more interested in real things than the Daddy Finger song, then feel free to share. If you don’t know what that is, google it. So effing weird. And if you are going to chime in... keep your “you shouldn’t have let her watch it in the first place” theory to yourself. That can has already been opened and cannot be closed, and like I said before, it is a necessary evil at times. To all of the parents going through the same struggle: Hang in there!! You aren’t alone.

#theanxietymom #thingstoworkon #thestruggleisreal

Now that the pain meds are out of my system... I’d like to share a little story to make my friends feel better about getting older. Let’s set the scene...

It was Saturday night, we had a sitter for the kids, and the best 80’s rock tribute band in town was playing at one of our favorite spots!! What could go wrong?!

A lot. A lot could go wrong, actually.

Wearing a cute and reasonably short dress, my most bitchin’ jean jacket (yes... I have more than one), and the most wreckless wedges I could find in my closet... I. Was. Pumped. I would have crimped my hair, but I broke my crimper last month before I hosted 80’s bunco at our crib. Sad news, I know. I hope I get a replacement for Christmas. 🤞I digress. We called the uber and headed to the venue!

”Excuse me? No seats? Standing room only?” Not a problem!! I planned to dance the night away anyhow. We headed to the 5’ x 5’ “pit” at the front of the stage, where EVERYONE could see our sweet moves. All of them. Two drinks and a quart sized lemon drop shot later, our moves were getting better... and bigger. My girlfriend and I bumped shoulders and “oopsies!!” I spilled a little of my drink on the floor. I hoped no one saw that. Little did I know that I was about to banana peel slip on that “little” amount of what is believed to have been a vodka Diet Coke and bust my big 80’s-born ass in front of ALL of the folks fortunate to get seats that evening. Brett Michaels down, friends!! Arm. Broken. Audience. Flashed. (I told you my dress was short.)

I, like many, have the wonderful reaction to extreme pain of passing out cold. Happened twice before they could get me to the restaurant side of the venue where we could assess the damage. While the rude ass lady who works there continued to chant “oh look at her passing out... she’s obviously wasted”, my husband and friends called in the county’s finest. CCFD. Thank you for your attentiveness and kindness after this unfortunate moonwalking incident. To the ass hat that was more worried about a lawsuit than the new shape my arm had taken in the 20 mins it took for our next uber to get there... I wish I knew who you were. Things were a little fuzzy during “Nothin’ but a Good Time”.

**Sidebar:: We took an uber to the hospital because I learned my lesson last time taking an ambulance when I should have found alternative transportation. Ambulances must be made of Ivory or something, because those bills, my friends, are highway robbery!!**

The driver that took us to the hospital was driving like Cruella DeVille, which made my slightly inebriated husband get the spinnies, but once we got checked in and clarified who we were there for, things started to improve. (SP Fox was throwing up and they thought he was the patient). The nurses were fantastic, doc was a little strange, but all in all an okay experience. X-rays delivered the worst news a tax preparer can get during extension season. Broken radius, wrist joint broken AND dislocated, and surgery required for plates and pins to put my dumbass back together again ASAP. I practically Tonya Harding’ed myself before the tax Olympics.

I swallowed the news and any extra morphine they would give me, and we took the nastiest, smelliest, most uncomfortable taxi ride in the history of taxi rides home at 5AM. Like french fries and bugs in the front seat nasty. To the Woodstock Cab Company... time to step up the standards, friends. Pretty sure the driver was more messed up than I was at that moment.

Surgery went well. Surgeon was a Dawgs fan, our age, and nothing like the ER doc (guy literally looked 13 years old and was such a strange bird). The dust is settled, the bruise on my ego is a faded green color now. Work is going alright, thanks to wonderful coworkers! I’ll be back in action before ya know it. Probably gonna wear flats next time, though. We aren’t spring chickens anymore, friends!!

Takeaway from this unfortunate event: Keep on dancing, just be more careful while doing it!! Stay safe out there, my fellow concert loving friends!

#gettingolder #theanxietymom #gettingboniva #eatcalcium #poison #nothingbutagoodtime ... and a broken arm.

Everyone has a story. Whether your parents are here or there, or you lost someone close to you, each and every one of us has a story. My story is a little colorful. Some people may disagree, but sometimes I feel like I got a lackluster version of the "American Dream". Those that look on from the outside see a girl who got straight A's in school and a senior who had the talent to try out anywhere to be a college cheerleader. I got a brand new car for graduation, a paid tuition to anywhere I wanted to go, and life, looking in, has been breezy ever since.

Let's rewind. I think it is important to express just what my life was as a child, before I point the finger at some folks, whom probably had no idea what was coming to them. Luckily, I grew up in the gym. 5 days and 20 hours a week that was my home. I liked it there. It was less dramatic. No eggshells to walk on. My mom is, and always has been, a strong woman, who used to be blinded by "love". (Who hasn't been?) Do I think my bio dad loved her? Probably so. Do I think she loved him? Yes. He was a smooth talker who had been taught by a smooth talker, who has since found the Lort, and changed his smooth-talking ways.

My. Bio-Dad. Is a character. Not one of which I strive to be like. He is excitable, much like myself. He loves a good party and tells a mean fish story. He would likely say the same about me. We have a very back and forth, love and dislike, relationship. He hates how I am just like my mother... and I love how I am just like my mother. He hates her. I love everything about her.

When I was 9, the man I would know to be my "raise-me" Dad came into the parent picture. When my bio dad was cursing and slamming my mom, Kip (her soon-to-be husband), was lifting her up as I had hoped a spouse would do someday for me. I, 20 something years later, after having had a practice marriage of my own... knowing what it is to compete for the love of my own child, was bound and determined to set a different standard for my child's life. I knew I didn't want him to grow up in what I went through and my son's dad, being the man that he is, wouldn't want that either, so we have (to the best of our ability) done what is best for our child. My husband loves my son, and his father's wife loves him too, and I couldn't wish for anything more.

**Sidebar- my son's stepmother and stepfather are two of the best things that could ever happen to him. I am so thankful for the love they have for him and the commitment they have for our families to be united. I hope that they know that.**

Truth is... in high school, as a college level athlete, I wouldn't go away to college, because I was afraid of what my boyfriend would say. (Now he doesn't matter, but back then his opinion mattered way too much.) My only sibling died in a freak accident that was solely the teacher's responsibility. I have more unresolved issues about this situation than imaginable. I undervalued myself as a young adult, because of the example my bio father gave, and got mixed up in the wrong crowd somewhere in between. One failed marriage and many life lessons later, I have, thankfully, found my person. My mother is sick, and we were told that she is dying (although God and a recent Lyme's disease diagnosis tell us differently.) I am doing the best I can to run my company (which is my mother's legacy - that I hold in the highest regard) in the way that the she would be proud. I am burning the candle at both ends and, let's be honest, I am tired.

Life is beautiful. I have some friends battling cancer, I have some that are battling infertility, some that have just gone into remission, and some that have recently gotten pregnant after a long road trying to get there. I am grateful for every winding road that has led me to where I am, and my sweet friends to where you are. God bless each and every one of you. I will pray for you and I ask that you pray for me too.

Tears are painful. Tears are necessary. They pierce the heart and relieve the soul. We hold them in to show we are strong , but we when we let them go we are relieved, and reminded that He is with us every step of the way.

Sometimes we just have to let it out and, lucky for me, I created a free blog site not too long ago to tell you folks how I really feel about shit. 😊

Goodnight and God Bless!

CJ

From Mt. Foldmore to Mt. Washmore, one may think they are on a family vacation to the Rockies when coming to stay at the Jones castle. Laundry is my nemesis... and here are the bones:

1. Don't, I repeat, DO NOT put clean shit in my laundry room. If I have to wash Spider Bear's pajama pants ONE more time because you are "cleaning" your room I will lose it. And it ain't gonna be pretty. SB is completely potty trained and therefore doesn't need his jammies washed weekly. Throwing a folded shirt in the laundry is also a big problem that little people can catch a charge for in my house. R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me. I don't do laundry for my health, I do it when we are out of underpants. Thanks in advance, fam.

2. Shout out to the moms who wash most loads of laundry more than once before they graduate to the dryer. Not because you want it to be extra clean, but because you had some things come up and er... forgot (?) to switch it over. 104 loads of laundry per container, pshhhhh, my ass! 52 at best in this house. How many times have I been in the middle of doing something and gone "damnit! I did it again!"? I had good intentions when I started it. I'm also a cereal fluffer. I feel like if the dryer is fluffing and doing its job, who am I to stop it to fold the clothes?! That turns into a 5x fluff job per load. Our clothes are extra fluffy. And wrinkled. 🤣

3. The traveling pile is a real mystery to me. I put clean clothes on the bed with the thought that I certainly can't sleep like that, so I will be forced to tackle Mt. Foldmore before my head hits the pillow. In reality, the pile travels from bed to floor and bed to floor approximately 12 times before the next time our favorite visitor comes over. (That would be cleaning Kristi. Yeah.... judge me all you want... I sacrifice two to four dinners out a month so someone else will come clean my house while I'm at work. It's freaking magical and if you are a working mom and have never done it, you should try it at least once if possible. You may never go back.) The only reason the pile gets put away at that point is because there is just no where to move it to make it out of her way... and because I don't want her to know the truth about my laundry problem.

4. Lastly, if I take the time to fold the laundry, and the toddler (or the dogs) comes in while I'm in the shower or something and unfolds the laundry that took me two weeks to tackle , we gonna have a bad morning. Cuteness can only get you so far. She's pretty stinking cute, but laundry also sucks pretty stinking bad. My mother in law has suggested that I do one load of laundry per day to solve my problems. That sounds like my own personal hell. I'd rather just watch a lifetime movie marathon and face my problems with a glass of wine (or 6) on a Sunday afternoon.

Today is Monday, and replacement Kristi is coming tomorrow so I need to cut this short and go fold some clothes. 👚👕👖👔👗👘 (<--- I get so mad when my favorite Kimono is dirty.) Fluff on mamas!! Memories are more important than unwrinkled clothes!

xoxo

CJ

#laundrysucks #theanxietymom #winethoughts #thingstoworkon

Curves are all the rage these days. And by curves I mean Kardashian, not Mama June. I hate to give Kim K props (because the obsession our country has with her makes me very confused), but I'll be darned if that gal doesn't have the biggest booty on a size 4 waist I ever did see. I also have curves, relatively new ones to me. I have to give mad props to college and to my little humans for blessing me with these randomly placed lumps and bumps that will never land me on the cover of Cosmo. #dreamscrushed

I was always in the 10th percentile for height and didn't make the weight chart at the doctor until I was 15 years old. I weighed 79 lbs as a sophomore in high school. I had the metabolism of a grey hound and ate like a high school football player. Those were the days. Big Mac for lunch? Hell! I'll have two! That'll never show up on my double zero ass (who am I kidding? I wore a kids size 14 at best). Then, one summer it happened. I grew inches. Lots of them. And boobs. Lots of them, too. I have hated my body ever since.

I am am so tired of looking back at pictures of my younger self and wishing I was there again. I do not, in reality, wish I was anywhere but right here. Right now. I have three awesome kids, a smokin' hot husband who loves me (and all of my junk), two border collies that belong on the Iams bag, a beautiful home, and a great career. I'm closer to the big man upstairs than ever before and I have found a way to manage my crazy - for the most part (anxiety meds and blogging sure do help with that, my friends). Why, in the hell, am I so discontent with myself?!?

I know why. It's because I can do better for me. That sounds so cliche. "Be a better you!" "Your only competition is the person you were yesterday." "You won't get a tighter ass by sitting on it." Hokey? Absolutely. But not bullshit. There's a whole lotta truth in those little sayings. I {you} will never be a priority in my {your} life unless I {you} make myself {yourself} one. Sounds obvious, but for moms it is practically impossible. With a little bit of time management and better eating habits (I love baked goods so much, it's weird), I could easily have 45 minutes at the gym, four times a week, and a better ass. I have every excuse not to go. Kids, work, housework, blah, blah, blah. Enough already. Never have I ever said: "Man! I really regret burning that calorie. Could you put that dimple back on my thigh, please?"

Dont worry, I won't post any before and after pics. No one should be subjected to that. I won't start taking pre workout and shit you can only get from other countries to get buff. (Anyone who knows me knows that me on pre workout would likely resemble a hamster on meth.) I just needed to give myself a hard time in a public forum so I can spend the rest of the week getting beach ready. We go on vacation on Friday... hence the sudden motivation to lose a layer of love.

#goals #motivation #momlife #thingstoworkon

Look at that sweet little nugget up there 👆. She looks so precious and innocent. Don't let that angelic face fool ya. This photo was taken right after an all out tantrum involving a banana and a border collie. 🍌🐶. It seems it takes next to nothing to send our favorite short people straight to crazytown. I've compiled a list of my favorite fit-enducing household items that me and my little angels have had the pleasure to experience...

1. The Hairbrush. When I get the brush out, my threenager acts like I just pulled out a chainsaw. All I'm trying to do is make you look like a presentable little monster so the teachers at preschool think I've got it together, and here I am, chasing your nekked ass all over the house to do YOU a favor.

**Sidebar:: Chainsaws are effing scary. Toddler or not. A chainsaw in a haunted house will make a 19 year old girl pee in her flare leg jeans. Don't ask me how I know.**

2. The Vaccuum. I get it. It's loud. But what is the worst thing that has happened in the last three years that she has been experiencing this? Maybe having the floors cleaned and the dog hair not present makes her feel like she isn't at home. That must be it. It's not "home" without a canine tumbleweed rolling across the living room 😖. Sorry sister... if I vaccuum any less, the house may be condemned.

3. The seatbelt. Okay... this one has some legitimacy to it. I pinched her leg once. Now she looks like a wet cat going into the bathtub when it's time to strap in the car seat.

4. Baby wipes. They seem harmless. She doesn't mind them when I am cleaning her lady bits because she refused to use the big girl potty, but if that wipe gets anywhere close to the macaroni covered face - she WILL lose her mind.

**Sidebar:: I was changing her diaper the other day and complaining about the nastiest poop of the month, and she literally picked her head up and said "Stop. Whining. Mommy." I shit you not. I was floored. Silver lining... At least I know she understands me when I tell her to stop whining.**

5. Bandaids. I was terrified of bandaids as a child. I would sooner bleed out than put that pony covered bandage on my boo boo. My first born is the same way. It's like the world's way of telling me: "see how ridiculous that looks?!?". One of my best gal pals has a daughter who insisted on bringing her own bandaids to the doctor 🤣. As if the ones they provided wouldn't do the trick. I trust you to stick a needle in my leg, but those bunk ass Sesame Street bandaids ain't gonna cut it. This is clearly a job for Doc McStuffins.

6. The Hairdryer. Again, the noise, I know. But she would rather go through the torture of me tightly French braiding her hair, Bahamas style (without the beads or hair bugs), than sit for two minutes with the dryer on low. Her hair is as thin as The Donald's real hair, so takes a good 15 minutes to braid. Drama. Queen.

7. Mr. Chuck E. Cheese. I realize this is not a household item, but a household name no doubt. That ugly rodent, that happens to be the face of one of the funnest kids' places in America (per them), strikes more fear in the heart of my little bird than anything I've ever seen. Once she sees him for the first time, she spends the next two hours prancing around every corner like the Pink Panther, on the lookout for that rat. Sometimes weird marketing works. Chuck E. Cheese is a prime example of that.

Do I think it's funny to see her run from a full grown person dressed as a mouse? Absolutely, but sometimes these moments remind me how big the world must seem to them. It's hard out there for a toddler. If Yao Ming were chasing me wearing a mask, I'd run too. Sometimes it's not as much about her being dramatic as it is rational. I need to be more patient with her little people fears. They are real to her and that's what matters.

#theanxietymom #winethoughts #whinethoughts #momlife

From the type of whip we drive to the brand of diapers we use, moms are constantly getting lumped into categories and being labeled. From what I've gathered in the last 8 years on my parenting journey, these are the top five mama tribes we get classed into:

1. The Crunchy Mom. She's granola, probably drives a Subaru, and may or may not be a proponent of hair removal. She would sooner cut down a tree, than give her child a pack of fruit snacks, and swears by cloth diapers and unmedicated, at-home water birth. 😳 Yowza! She may or may not vaccinate (not my monkeys, not my circus), but don't worry, there's a new oil for Rubella. She is consistently judged for being so earthy, but she is the right mom for her children, so people should probably just mind their beeswax, and try using it for chapstick (a fella named Burt told me it's good for that). She is fierce and brave, and her theme song is "All You Need is Love" by The Beatles. Crunch on, Harmony!

2. The Sports Mom. You know the one. She is decked out head to toe in Rec Football paraphernalia, eye black and all. She carries pom poms in her car and never forgets her button picture at the house! Her kid is the best one on the team... and she knows it!! No one better touch her baby on that field or this mama is raisin' heyell. "We'll switch parks if they don't get their shit together", she cries. #12 is irreplaceable... in her mind. That's what makes Lisa a good mom. She sees her kid's potential and will do whatever it takes to make him better! She drives that suburban to the field three times a week, and plays her theme song loud and proud with the windows down, "Eye of the Tiger" by Survivor.

3. The Working Mom. She leaves her child(ren) in the care of someone she trusts (hopefully 🙄) everyday so she can support her family and pursue her own career dreams outside of the home. She is stressed out and frazzled, but can multitask like no one else in the world and is proud to be an example of equality in the workforce! When she comes home from work, the last thing she wants to do is pack up her brood and head to the ballpark, but she'll be damned if her kid sits another inning because he missed too many practices. "Um, excuse me, coach, my child is practically on Chip Jones' level... and he's EIGHT." Crockpot meals are her jam. Wine and the Google family calendar are her very best friends. She is constantly judged for not staying at home, but has made the right choice for she and her family, so step off, Judy. I'm sure it's not obvious that I am one of these 🤣. Little defensive, much?! Our theme song is "Work B**ch" by the one and only B. Spears. (Mostly because sometimes when trying to get everyone to where they have to be, we would rather shave our heads and spend a few weeks at Sobriety by the Sea to gather our feelings.)

4. The Stay At Home Mom. Her days are filled with tummy time, Sprout, and endless dishes and laundry. Sidebar:: I always say my house would be way cleaner if I were a SAHM. That's total bullshit. If my little people were home all the time, my house would look like Joe's apartment. They live like animals. I digress. Back to Rebecca. She counts down the days until moms night out, but wouldn't trade being home with her little crazies for anything in the world! She loves Disney movies as much as her kids do and also has a Disney vacation count down on her iPhone. She is the coupon clippingest mom of the bunch and would eat Ramen for dinner before buying something at Publix that isn't a bogo. She is frugal as hell and has the patience of Dr. Phil. She threatens to pull the van over at least twice a day. She, too, is the perfect mom for her babies. Her theme song is Shake it Off, by my girl T. Swift... because whether it's spaghettios in your hair or the latest tantrum from your perfect little threenager, sometimes you have to just shake that shit off.

5. The Empty Nester. This mom has made it. She has raised her little birds the best she knew how and they have flown away. If all works out, it's a breeze from here. She gets to watch them grow and make their own choices. She gets to love on her children and grandchildren, but also goes to Karaoke at the local watering hole as much as she wants. "Get out, kids! Mic drops at 7:30 and Grandma Nancy needs a good seat!" 🎤 (I have a semi secret obsession with the ancient art of Kara-oke. I pretend I don't love it, but good or bad, I love it all!) She misses her birds, but appreciates the freedom to remember her favorite things to do in life and focus on herself and her marriage. I look forward to this stage and smile, but then I remember how time goes by way too quickly. It is my ultimate goal to live in every moment until I reach this green pasture.

We as a culture spend so so much time mom shaming each other it is gross. For Pete's sake: You. Do. You. God gave those little rascals to you for a reason. Love them. Make them good people. That's what keeps me up at night. Will our kids still be good people when they are grown folk? We're doing our best not to raise assholes. I guess that's all we can do.

#winethoughts #parenting #theanxietymom #dontraisejerks

Dishes suck. They are a vital part of everyday living, though, so some shit needs to change before us moms lose our cool.

To anyone who makes/sells non-dishwasher and microwave safe children's dishes: please get with the program. Our kids eat more nuggets than the teenagers that work at Wendy's. We need to be able to nuke 'em on the fly, and wash the plates while we're at baseball. I mean for real, what is the purpose of a kid plate that can't go in the dishwasher? Most of the time when things can't be machine washed it's because it's nice and expensive, like a suit, or any piece of women's clothing ever. (I'm convinced S&P Fox 🦊 has effed up laundry on purpose on multiple occasions so he doesn't have to do it anymore.) These plates cost about $2 each. They deserve the dishwasher. Wine glasses - hand wash. Yeti cups - hand wash. Dora bowl - get your bilingual ass in that dishwasher. From this point on, the warning on the label is just a challenge. Survival of the fittest, if the Ana cup survives and the Elsa cup doesn't, then we clearly know who the queen bitch around the Jones castle is. It's 2k17, folks, I should be able to machine wash my pets for crying out loud.

To our beloved children whom think it is acceptable to put the dirty plate NEXT to the sink after I have just emptied the dishwasher and started to re-load: NO. Just NO. You didn't even put the shit in the sink. So close. You're big enough to cook your own nugs, therefore you can load a damn dishwasher. You get with the program, too, minion.

To the husbands that resemble a hurricane when they step foot into the kitchen: while I very much appreciate that you are participating in the struggle that is cooking in this house, it is not necessary to use EVERY mixing bowl we own when making your Aunt Betty's famous potatoes. Rinse and re-use, mate. Unless you are going to hand wash those bad boys once the dishwasher gets full. This is highly unlikely in the Jones house of crazy. We get squirreled pretty easily after dinner, or lunch, or any time. So. Many. Squirrels. 🐿🐿🐿 Sometimes I walk in after him and consider calling the cops because someone has clearly broken into our home and ransacked our kitchen! Then I remember that we had Daddy's homemade pancakes for breakfast and I hang up the phone. SPF makes a mean breakfast, y'all.

The kitchen is the hub of the home. If the hub is in shambles, Mom is likely to be a real you know what. We need your help, little family, to keep our sanity and keep this boat afloat. Do a dish, save a life.

*Thanks Crazyhyena.com for the meme. I just steal these images off the inter-webs most of the time. Not sure if I am allowed to do that. #cybercrime

#theanxietymom #dishesdontdothemselves #getwiththeprogramorscram

"Hello, Mrs. Jones?"

"Yes?" (My heart starts to race #anxietymom)

"This is Mr. S, an admin from the school, and I have Mason here in the office. He's okay, but we have had an incident."

"Okayyyyy....." (spit it out already, pal, I'm on the edge of my seat here! I am planning out all of the different chores he is going to take off my plate in the next week. This could be fantastic!)

"He kicked another students lunchbox in the lunchroom. With his foot."

"And...?"

"That's what happened. And sometimes the worst punishment we can give is to call the parent."

🙄

Give me a break. You aren't serious right now. I just checked the calendar and it is not April 1st, so I can only deduct that it's pretty quiet in the school yard today and you needed something to do. I feel like a note home or a tally on the board would have been sufficient. You called me AT WORK to tell me that, after leaving a message on my cell phone (that I had not seen yet, relax judgy pants, I don't screen phone calls from the school).

Hear me out, teacher friends, I am the FIRST person to admit when my child has made a poor choice. I am the world's biggest people pleaser, and the thought of one of my kids throwing a wrench in the day with bad behavior makes my blood pressure rise. My kid can be an a-hole. I'm not naive to that. However, sometimes the sensitivity that is in school these days make me crazy. He did a jerk thing. You shouldn't kick a kid's lunchbox out of his hand. That's rude as hell. But to send a child to the principal's office over that seems a little over the top.

I can't lie. I played along and talked to Mason on the phone about it. I took away his iPod for a week (it's been dead for two, so it's not like I crushed his weekend plans or anything). But hindsight has me thinkin'. Maybe taking away the authority of teachers and admins in the school has created this tattle tale culture we now live in. I would have much rather my kid had to run laps on the playground for being an ass (and read about it in a note after school), than to have received a startling phone call in the middle of the day at work over it. People are so critical of school employees and how they handle situations that this is what it has come to. I feel like my teachers were allowed to teach us life lessons. Pretty sure we had a paddle. Luckily I was never sassy enough to get the paddle, but I think I saw it once while being nosy in the office. I wish I could say the same for our kids.

The lack of respect for authority is in the classroom, on the sports field, and with law enforcement, and if we don't get a handle on it, we are going to have a bunch of entitled, drug addicted, self-centered brats, waiting on their handouts after graduation. (<--- I realize that's very dramatic, but that's kinda what I do.) Take back the classroom, teach! Don't tattle... paddle!! Haha, just kidding... but a little more freedom to control the classroom would be most helpful in my opinion... and since I started this blog to give my opinion, then I guess it's serving its purpose.

I'll sign a petition. Change.org should jump on this one! I just signed one to save dogs in China yesterday. This seems way more relevant to my life. #bethechange

#thingstoworkon #youcalledmeforwhat #tattletale #drama #anxietymom

​Good morning, Moms! Today's our day! The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the dogs are hungry and the dishes need to be done. But alas! Today is the day that we get to lay in the bed as long as we like after a homemade breakfast brought up by our favorite people and ignore the clatter going on downstairs. 😭 <--- those are happy tears.

Mother's Day for me is not about a diamond necklace, brunch at a crowded-ass restaurant where the food is expensive and the drinks are weak, or a fancy-dancy day at the spa away from those that call me "Mom" (or "hey"... or "lady"... or "her" depending on their mood). For me it is about my little people pausing to acknowledge the excessive amount of shit I do for them, and just showing a little more gratitude with a little less attitude. S&P Fox does a good job of letting me sleep in and being a good referee on this morning each year, and for that, I shall keep him (and let's face it, there's usually an end gain in all of this kindness that starts with S and ends with Sex.) You know the old saying: "If momma ain't happy, dad doesn't get any."

As as I lay here in bed, with a tray and a happy plate that used to be full of cheese eggs and a homemade cinnamon toaster streudel (because it was toasted, in my home), I am reminded of how truly blessed I am. These are my people, and though I complain about the shit they do all the time, I really wouldn't have it any other way! They love me, and occasionally appreciate me, and this day each year recharges my will to press on and be better at this mommin' gig. As they fight and cry downstairs I think to myself, maybe I should intervene... then I slap my own face and say "self! This is the one day a year you get to ignore those kinds of responsibilities and just be happy. Take advantage, ya dumbass!".

​Happy Mother's Day to all of the moms and grandmas out there that keep the world moving. Enjoy your day and your people ❤️ Now get in the car, minions, we are going to be late for church!!!!!!!!! #blessed

P.S. Special shoutout to the mom of the talented artist of today's blog picture. She is extra blessed to have had to face the teacher after that one!! 🤣❤️👩‍👧