Why Do Moms Always Talk About Coffee and Wine???

Okay, what is up with all the talk about moms needing coffee and wine? Seriously! It’s everywhere. I see something pop up on my Facebook newsfeed almost everyday with this type of content. Why the hell do they need these beverages so badly? I’ll see a post that says, “No talking before my coffee” and it gets a thousand likes or picture of a swimming pool that says “fill my wine glass up to here,” and it gets another thousand likes? (Okay I made that last one up). But what’s up with that shit? Why aren’t we over that already? Well sit down now…’cause I’m about to tell you.

Here’s why we need the coffee:

We may have children who wake up several times a night and our “day” actually begins at bedtime, so by the time the morning comes around, we need a little “pick-me-up.”

We may have 20 things or more that we have to get done by 8:00 a.m.

Because cocaine is illegal.

We are addicted to caffeine and don’t want a withdrawal headache. Fo’ real (you don’t want that).

Without it, we can be real bitches and quite frankly, we don’t want anyone to get hurt.

We need our eyes to open fully, not half-way, because that could just be dangerous.

We may not even have time to eat breakfast for crying out loud, because we are too busy taking care of our kids. We have to put at least SOMETHING into our bodies!

We can personalize and adjust it to our mood, diet, etc…

We are thirsty.

Because we drank a little bit of wine last night and we need the coffee to help shake that off…which leads to the second part…

Here’s why we need the wine:

We may not have even sat down yet for the entire day and just need to relax and unwind. I mean shit, we may be moms, but we ARE human.

It’s 9:00 p.m. and we have to celebrate the fact that our kids are asleep, even if they only stay asleep until midnight.

We may be so worried about something, whether it be our children, cabin fever (for the stay-at home moms), careers (for the working moms), bills, the dog, the cat, the husband…I mean what DON’T we worry about? Our minds need a break!

It tastes really effing delicious.

Just because.

Sometimes, it helps us engage in sexual relations with the husband…if you know what I’m sayin’.

Because it helps us stay sane and out of the looney bin.

Because tequila, whiskey, and rum are just a little too strong (sometimes).

We are really really thirsty.

We feel glamourous drinking out of a wine glass, even if we are in sweatpants with no make-up and our hair is a mess. There is something about the stem on that glass…well there’s just something about it.

So really, there are a lot of reasons why we are not over the coffee and wine chatter already. But here is the big one. You ready? Okay…here it goes. We share everything with our children! Some of us share our beds, we’ve shared our wombs, we share our televisions to watch stupid cartoons, we even share the bathroom, because we all know we can’t get a minute alone. But here’s the awesome thing about wine and coffee…we don’t have to share it, because the kids can’t have it!

So DO NOT even for one single second feel guilty when you get your beverage in hand and shout out to the world…IT’S MINE! IT’S MINE! IT’S ALL MINE!!! Myuahahaha!

(Just don’t wake the children when you do this)

So CHEERS! Here’s to coffee, wine, and to us!

Share or like if you like and read my damn book, because the sequel will be out soon and you don’t want to miss out!

Puke and True Love


The second c-section should have been a breeze, or so I thought. Patiently waiting there with my arms strapped down in the freezing cold white room and the blue cloth draped over me so I couldn’t actually see them cutting open my uterus, I was ready. I was like, bring it on! Pregnancy is too damn long and my baby boy was fully cooked. Plus, I had spent the last five days trying to keep him from falling out of my asshole.

“Do you feel this?” asked the doctor while he did the pinch test.

“Nope, not a thing,” I replied. Of course that wasn’t true. I could feel pressure, not pain, but this wasn’t my first rodeo and I knew what to expect.

The anesthesiologist stood behind me. “I think we have you nice and numb,” he said under his face mask.

My husband stood on the side watching the disection, with eager eyes. He was as excited as I was. Not only because we were having our second little boy, but also because he got to wear scrubs. I think wearing the scrubs made him feel like a bad-ass. He kept telling me things like, “you’re doing great,” and “good work honey.” I remember thinking, what the fuck was I so great at? I was lying there like The Exorcist strapped to a bed and couldn’t move even if I wanted to. I guess he felt like I needed encouragement, but I was starting to get queasy. Suddenly, the anesthesiologist started asking me questions. They were off-topic questions. He asked about what I majored in while in college, where I liked to vacation, and if I was a big sports fan. I had never heard such pointless jabber in all my live-long days. I remember thinking, is this guy for real? I’m trying to have a fucking baby here and he wants to know if I watch football?

My mouth started watering. I was getting totally nauseous. Between my babbling husband and the windy numbing doctor, all I wanted was for them to shut their big fat giant word-holes.

“Excuse me sir,” I said. “I think I may throw up.”

“Well,” he said, “let me get you a cold cloth to put on your forehead. My grandaughter always likes a damp compress when she gets a tummy ache. This works for many of my patients.”

“Umm…okay,” I replied. In my head I was cussing out his stupid grandaughter. This wasn’t a flipping tummy ache. My “tummy” was currently in a thousand pieces…on a table…with a baby being cut out of it. Tummy ache my ass! He pressed the towel on my head and I could still feel the pulling and pushing going on down in my baby bakery. I tried to keep my head as still as possible and wish the pukes away. “See there,” he said. “I have always believed that a wet cloth works better than medication.”

Fuck that shit. I wanted the medication.

“Here he is!” I heard my OB doc say. “It’s definitely a boy and he’s already peeing!” I heard my sweet precious baby crying. “He looks great!” he continued. I couldn’t wait to see him, hold him, kiss him. Tears ran down my face even though I hadn’t yet set eyes on him. Complete and utter overwhelming joy is the only way to describe my feelings at that moment…oh…yeah and also sick as a muthafucka. I saw his darling little head peek above the drape as they held him up and at that very second, I vomited all over myself. It really was like The Exorcist. I was just waiting for my head to spin in a 360 degree circle. Once I started puking, I couldn’t stop. The anesthesiologist grabbed me a bowl and I continued to violently hurl up bile. The same nasty shit you puke up after a night of martinis. It was loud, horrid heaving and showed no signs of stopping. The nurses brought my new little boy over to me and I was so in love…PUKE…he was a miracle…BLUAHHH…one of the two best moments of my life…GWAAAYAH!

“Okay sweetie, we have to take him and get some measurements. You poor thing. It’s not supposed to be like this” said a sweet and sympathetic nurse.

I had to remain in that torture chamber of a bed and my eyes met with those of the numbing doctor. I wanted to take the damp cloth and shove it down his stupid throat. I actually would have liked to have pulled out my I.V. and poked him in the ass with it. But I was still puking.

“I’ll go ahead and put some Zofran into your I.V.” he said.

Now? Right now, genius? What happened to your wet rag you fucking turd? But I couldn’t say anything. I was too sick. They finally rolled me into my room and brought my precious angel to me and put him in my arms. I immediately started nursing him and all was right in the world…only my sweet little nurse was on the other side holding my puke tray.

Once my baby finished nursing, I let the family in to meet the new addition. It was both sets of grandparents, my 17 month-old son, my brother, and of course my husband. I was still vomiting, despite the anti-nausea meds that were administered way too damn late. As they passed my darling son around, the room got quiet. And then it happened…the loudest fart in the history of flatulence. I was still numb, I didn’t even feel it come out. Apparently this was quite funny…a real gas (catch that pun). Everyone was laughing, except me, because I was still hurling. I had tears falling from my eyes from the pressure of the chunk-blows. Various substances were leaking from every part of my body, like literally every part.

“Sorry I farted,” I managed to whisper.

“Happens all the time,” said the nurse still holding my vomit tray.

I puked for eight straight hours that day, but held my baby close the whole time. By my third pregnancy I requested Zofran (anti-nausea meds) be ordered for the c-section at my very first prenatal appointment. Yeah, you learn a hell of a lot from having babies. One major thing I learned that day is that a hell of a lot more comes out of your body on delivery day than a precious little miracle. But yeah…it was totally worth it. It was so worth it, I could just puke.

Share or like…so more people can hear about the joys of childbirth 🙂

(or do an interpretive dance to express your feelings…I mean whatever floats your boat)

I Can’t Be The Only One

Some days, I literally feel like I am going crazy. I wonder if I can make it through another day. Then, I feel guilty for feeling this way. Am I the only one who does crap like this? Am I the only one who is losing it?

I can’t be the only one that wants to scream “TALK AMONGST YOUR GODDAM SELVES!” when members at the family party are watching (staring) in horrified silence as my kid throws a ridiculous whopping fit.

I can’t be the only one who crosses my fingers that my own strep throat test comes back positive so that I can be quarantined for 24 hours until the antibiotics kick in.

I can’t be the only one who simply cannot answer the phone at times because the noise level in my house is just plain embarrassing.

I can’t be the only one who has to wear big sunglasses to hide the fact that I just got done crying my eyes out because I’m so freaking overwhelmed.


I can’t be the only one who has to try and not laugh when my toddler drops something and then says, “oh shit!” even though I feel the mom fail alarm going off in my head.

I can’t be the only one who sometimes wants to call my mama and have her come and make everything alright like she did when I was a little girl.

I can’t be the only one who feels like when it comes to parenting, I have no idea what the hell I am doing.

I can’t be the only one who wants to put my children in a bubble so that I can protect them from everything, even though I know logically that I can’t.

I can’t be the only one who drives down the road with my kids safely buckled in the backseat of the minivan listening to loud music and daydreaming about literally swinging from a chandelier while drinking champagne and wearing a silver tutu, because I need a break so damn bad that I’d go wild if I ever got one.

I can’t be the only one who mentally tells my kids to shut the hell up.

I can’t be the only one who feels guilty if I let my kids spend way too much time on the XBOX and i-pad and television because it’s the only way I can get anything done.

I can’t be the only one who feels like I nag my husband all the freaking time, even though he needs what I refer to as, “guidance.”

I can’t be the only one who carries toy cars, diapers and lip gloss around in my purse all laying on top of finely crushed animal crackers.

I can’t be the only one who is ready for bed at 3 p.m. every.single.day.

I can’t be the only one who feels alone.

I sometimes honestly feel like I am the only one who can’t get it right. When I see that family out at a restaurant and their children AREN’T acting like maniacs, or I see people’s pictures on Facebook where everyone is smiling and no one is bleeding…I can’t help but question what the hell I’m doing wrong. Why do I feel like a lesser mother? It can be a very lonely place. That’s why once in a while, I do have to call my mom and ask her to come over and help me feel better. My husband has to help me too. I have to stay in touch with other moms, even the ones who seem to have all their shit together. This is why I read “mom blogs” and this is also EXACTLY why I write them. We have to stick together. I will admit that I need support. I think the saying, “it takes a village,” does not only apply to children, but to moms as well. Look, Carol Brady had Alice. The Jetson’s had Rosie. Even on Full House it took two ass clowns, a smokin’ hot man sent straight from the Greek Gods (Uncle Jesse), and an Aunt Becky to raise those girls, remember that shit? I may not ever figure all this out. I may not have a single picture with all my kids looking at the camera, or a single day without a meltdown, but with the support that I lean on to get me through, I will do this. But I won’t do it alone. I just can’t be the only one.

As always…share if you like or more so, if you relate. Thanks a million!