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Category Archives: Guest Posts

Jailbreak: A Guest Post by Colleen of The Family Pants

Colleen of Adventures of the Family PantsColleen Thoele is also known as Mama Pants. She is a child advocate, awesome wife, best mother ever, worst mother ever, greatest sister of all time and lover of sensible clothing.  She tries really hard to not wear sweat pants every single day, which is hard because sweatpants go the best with flip-flops, and flip-flops don’t require socks.  She spends her down time blogging about the awesomeness and not awesomeness of living with the two tiny people that she made. 

[Thanks for reading along. Come hang with me around the webternet. These are my haunts… The Family Pants, Facebook and Twitter]

 

 

I dropped my keys in the parking lot. Shit. Bending down, gym bag on my shoulder and one kid holding each hand, he saw the opportunity to jump on my back and took it. She tried to make a break for it, but my vice grip proved strong enough, so she threw herself to the asphalt and screamed instead. One on my back, one in my arms and a gym bag. Did I mention it was raining? I was sweating before I even got in the door.

Covered in kids and dripping wet, I say an awkward “Heeeey” to the group of hot personal trainers all hanging out at the front desk before I drop the littles at the kiddie room (perk!) and head to the locker room.

That’s when I see her.  You know the girl I am talking about. Her gym clothes are like a second skin that someone painted on. Black gym shorts that stop right under her perfectly gorgeous butt and a hot pink top. Her hair is amazing-ness. Her skin, evenly tanned and kind of shiny. Even her shoes made her feet look sexy. She’s not a pound over weight. She smells like a sugar cookie. That girl.

Standing next to her, I smile to myself. Look at me. Mismatched socks, XXL church camp T-shirt, and a bun in my hair that’s been there since I showered 24 hours ago. I have a zit on my nose that you could see from space. I’ve got 83 pounds to go of the 100 that had slowly, but surely, jailed me.  That’s why I’m here, man. Jailbreak.

I smiled at her as she put her headphones on and floated walked out. She smiled back. And, as I sat down to stretch and focus for a few minutes before hitting the treadmill, it occurred to me that I don’t hate her. Good for her. She’s beautiful.

I laughed to myself like a crazy person, now alone in the locker room. Way to evolve, Colleen. Five years ago, I would have been so jealous of her. I would have tried to boost myself up by assuming she was shallow and dumb. Five years ago I would have been ashamed of my body. It  jiggles when I walk.  There is no mistaking that my belly housed some babies. My thighs rub together. And my chin? Sweet baby Zeus, my damn chins have neck roll friends.

Five years ago, I would have felt a cold sweat on my forehead and palms. A lump would have risen in my throat as I tried not to cry. The cold sweat would trickle down to meet the heat in my cheeks. I would have hidden in the bathroom stall to collect myself so no one would see me cry tears of shame and self-hatred. I would have hidden in order to stop hearing my heartbeat in my ears long enough to slip out of the door unnoticed by the beautiful people. Panicked. Paralyzed.

But not today. Not anymore.

I am beautiful, too. Fuck it, man. I had kids. I can’t hate my body for that.

So, as I lace up my clunky $14.00 Wal-Mart shoes, I make a mental note not only to buy some better freaking shoes, but to get out there and sweat my ass off. To keep going.  To own the shit out of that treadmill. Because I deserve to be healthy. I deserve to be strong. Because, dammit, I am not defined by my Hanes Her Way comfort yoga capris. I am defined by the fact that I am taking a stand for myself. Oh, and that I’m kind of a bad ass.

It’s been five years since my body was just mine.  Five years of growing people or feeding them. Having babies and breastfeeding – it was exactly what I wanted to do. And I did it. My youngest is still nursing. But things are changing.  There will be no more babies. When my girl weans, there will be no more breastfeeding. My body will once again be mine.  All mine. And so I stride on out of that locker room with my chins up and my determination face on. I’m ready.

I don’t need to be that girl in the hot pink top, she gets to be her. And she is clearly rocking it. Me? I get to be me. And I really fucking like me. Stretch marks and all.

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Lovin’ Mom of Boys: A Guest Post by Danielle of Things Carter Says…

DanielleJeffersonDanielle Jefferson is a tell-it-like-it-is kind of mom who knows that parenting is hard…but tequila helps. When she’s not looking for her next margarita, she stays at home and moms the heck out of her kids (sometimes more successfully than others).  She blogs about the less glamorous side of parenthood over at Things Carter Says… You can also join the fun on Facebook page or follow her on Twitter @CandGsMom.

 

300 matchbox cars

21 fire trucks

15 police cars

11 dump trucks

4 backhoes

3 big rigs

And one truck that seems to be some sort of ambulance with a claw thing in the front, twelve sirens, and monster truck tires…also, it turns into a robot.

If my children receive any more cars or trucks, we’ll have to move to a bigger house where we can dedicate a wing to anything on wheels.

What the hell does a mom have to do to get a Barbie up in here?

Oh yeah, she’d have to have girls. Which I don’t. I have two boys. I have a husband. I even have two male dogs. Mine is the sole vagina in this house.

When I got pregnant, I was going to have a girl. I knew it. In fact, I was only going to have girls. I was just meant to. I love doing hair and nails and going shopping. I am one big package of girly girl wrapped up with a huge bow… a pink one, of course.

And then the baby came out. And it was a boy. And I was shocked.

Oh my god! Who am I going to go wedding dress shopping with?

But it was okay, because this was only my first baby. My next baby would be a girl. My husband promised me my next baby would be a girl (He’s a lying bastard, by the way).

My second child was, of course, another boy. And then I was surrounded. I was drowning in blue.

There went my dreams of ever getting mother/daughter manicures. I will never own the Barbie dream house. And I will forever have to slow down for a better look if I’m driving by a construction site.

And guess what? I love every second of it.

Well, except for that second when the boys smeared an entire tube of diaper rash cream on the mirror in my bedroom. That second sucked. But , I mean, other than that? Love it.  I love their energy and dirty little faces and their backwards baseball caps. I love that they pick flowers for me and play tag with me and ask me every night to sing them, ”Summer Wind” by Frank Sinatra, because that is our song.

I am absolutely amazed at how fully content I am being a mom of boys.

There are some things you can only experience with little boys.

Just the other night, they called me into the bathroom excitedly yelling “Look, Mom! We’re making an X!” And they were, in fact, making an X. Into the toilet. With their pee.

See? That is something moms of girls will never get to witness.

I no longer think boys are wild crazy mud magnets. I KNOW they are. And I think they’re awesome little guys.

Plus, I can still borrow the daughters of my friends and take them shopping for doll accessories and braid their hair…and return them when they start to get crabby.

And that’s what I like to call the best of both worlds.

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You’re Not All That: Realizations of Motherhood by Bridgette of Shortcut Girl

bridgettegallagherBridgette Gallagher is a high school English teacher in Saratoga Springs, NY. She is the proud Mom to Parker, 3, an amazing little redhead and Celia,1, the true definition of a “spirited child.” She spends a good part of her days trying to figure out how to put her crazy thoughts into words that make people smile and (hopefully) laugh. Her blog Shortcut Girl is her attempt at showing how life can be easier when you are able to shamelessly make fun of and laugh at yourself. Please like Shortcut Girl on Facebook or follow her on Twitter (@shortcutgrrl).

 

 

When I first felt little fingers trace the lines of the small three-inch long tattoo that is graces my lower back (can you please suppress your desire to call it a “tramp stamp” in front of my children?), I knew that explaining writing on your body was going to be complicated – as complicated as explaining the symbol itself and what it represented (Mars, Pluto—yup, the non-planet—and Scorpio, my astrological sign). I never thought that explaining this to a child would make me feel like such an adult. And I never thought that I would simultaneously feel guilty about and proud of a decision I made.

Everyone has her own feelings about tattoos. I don’t really have a specific one. I think it’s a nice way to express yourself, if that’s what you like. I don’t think it’s for the fickle or the shy or the meek. Tattoos are statements and are meant to be seen. If you choose to make that statement, I think you should be ready to discuss what it means.  I mean, I believe that for other people (not me) when it comes to my children, of course.

That being said, I also think that tattoos are personal, expressive, and often reflect the person’s life at the time they got the tattoo. Some people get more tattoos, some people remove them. Each person has a fundamentally different relationship with the markings on their body.

For me, my tattoo was an eighteen-year-old’s expression of “So THERE!” I had a good relationship with my parents, was barely out past curfew or partying on weekends — but I was young for my grade. Sent to Kindergarten at age 4, I was the last to turn 18 of all my friends, and was determined to do it with a bang.

A tattoo gives you street cred into college and even after. But once you meet the man you want to marry and learn he’s not all that into tattoos, you wonder if asserting your independence in 1998 was worth it. (Pssst, it’s NOT!)

Nothing humbles you more than your child, whether it’s the “How many cookies are you going to eat, Mommy?” or the “My Mom has a vagina kind of penis!” exclamations, one thing is for sure: You might have gotten away with your BS before, but you will not anymore.

When we are twenty-somethings, not yet jaded by the trials of pregnancy and motherhood, we have little reason to think how life will be at thirty, thirty-five, or forty. Who wants to think about how things will be when they are old?

And then upon reaching age 30, or 35, or 40 you reach another phase. The let’s-just-pretend-this-never-happened phase. The rewrite-your-own-history phase. When you have children and have to start explaining past lives to them, the fact is that if they don’t ask, we don’t need to come up with a suitable backstory.

But with this tattoo, I’m done for. It’s an affirmation of the worst kind. It says, you were once young and you are now old all in the same breath. It screams rebellion and mischief. But mostly it says I was once not your mother, I was once just myself.

And maybe that’s the best explanation I have. This is something Mommy did before she was Mommy. When she was someone like you— making decisions and mistakes and learning from them, one flawed symbol at a time.

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Guest Posters, I Want You!

Apr 4

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Hey Folks!

I’ve taken my obligatory months-long break from Momma’s 12 Days, because, heck, that’s a workout, and I’m throwing out a line, looking for some guest posters. Even I get sick of hearing my own voice sometimes.

I may be hunting you down, or secretly hoping you’ll email. Please, by all means, get in touch if you have something compelling, funny, touching, or downright awesome to share, for which you’d do me the honor of hosting.

This is pretty much the shortest blog post you’ll see from me ever.

Hit me up! I feel like I’ve been sitting in a room alone for three months!

 

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Momma’s 12 Days of Christmas Presents Save a Mother, Leave a Tree by Shayna Gehl

Shayna Gehl Shayna Gehl is a stay-at-home mother of two. She holds a Bachelor’s Degree in Psychology and a Master’s Degree in Education, School Counseling. Between degrees, she worked and lived in Osaka, Japan for two years. After receiving her M.Ed., Shayna worked as a mental health counselor for two years before moving to New York City with her husband, where they currently reside. Since moving to the city, Shayna has worked for Alethea Cheng-Fitzpatrick of Nesting NYC and Photosanity. Shayna currently writes for the Daily National in the Life & Style section. Should she find herself with free time, if she hasn’t fallen asleep, Shayna enjoys photography and writing. You can follow her on Twitter @dishevldparent, on her personal blog, or on Pinterest. 

 

Our first year living in the city, dear hubby was seriously distraught over the fact that we didn’t get a real tree. He is a true Christmas enthusiast and grew up with big family parties, great feasts, and real trees. The tree in particular was a tradition my husband was determined to continue. Our first year in New York, we managed to land a beautiful imitation tree but nothing measured up to hubby’s standards if it wasn’t real. The cats, on the other hand, were thrilled with the imitation. Athletic, agile cat literally scaled the tree every night managing to get stuck, occasionally cry, and then rip down the lights when she finally broke free, while our other well-endowed male main coon sat at the bottom staking out a spot to ambush skinny cat when she fell.

 

Fast forward to our second winter in the city. Christmas was close and hubby’s job had distracted him from his goal of getting a tree by December 1st. Now two weeks away from Christmas, realization and panic set in. It was a Sunday night and only hours before bedtime for the tot. Hubby made the game call. Now or never. I couldn’t deny him his dream. (Other men have worse.) Out we went.

 

The previous year had prepared me for the fact that we would have a real tree from that moment on. Never mind that we didn’t have a vehicle to transport dream tree home, or that we had a pre-toddler and my pregnant belly bumming along on the adventure. Hubby was determined to get our dream tree for Christmas. His image of this experience was very much in line with what many people see on TV – the children bonding with dad as they decide on the tree, slowly and gaily taking their time on a mild, snow-covered eve. Then the special moment of picking “the one”, excitement building as dream tree is magically tied to the car and headed home on a picturesque drive in the most breathtaking valleys. Then the shot of the gorgeous perfectly decorated tree in the living room (straight out of Pier 1). Done and done. Everyone is drinking hot chocolate. Everyone is merry. Everyone has Christmas sweaters on (but not the kind you put in the “ugly sweater” contests). I love those images.

 

Our experience strayed from that image a bit. We ended up walking about 15 blocks from our apartment to a tree lot.  Luckily, this was our cutoff point because of distance to our place. We figured 15 blocks was still doable. Since I was 5 months pregnant with our second (pushing our first in the stroller), I couldn’t carry much. We stood staring at the tree in question. Can we do it? Well, basically, can hubby singlehandedly?

 

Telling my hubby we couldn’t get the full-sized tree he wanted is like telling our kids there is no Santa. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. (I don’t think I will ever break the Santa news, either.) We debated leaning the tree on the stroller carrying our 1 and a half year old, but decided against it when we noticed him almost falling out the side to avoid the needles. Didn’t look great. So we tried carrying it wedging the tip between my pregnant belly and arm while I pushed the stroller with the other. Hubby had the trunk and bulk of the remaining tree. Both of us sweating and toddler getting antsy, we stop to regroup. It’s cold and dark now. Hubby gets a look on his face. The kind of look your child typically has seconds before saying “look mom, no hands”. He quickly hoists the tree on his shoulder, slowly turns around full circle, and starts sprinting home. It took everything in my power to keep a straight face when hubby stopped about 6 strides later to set the tree down and take a break. This charade carried on the entire 15 blocks home. Hubby lifting the tree, running until he couldn’t run any longer, then stopping just before it looked like he would drop the tree, anyway. I was waddling behind him, trying not to laugh – not because of his sad method (as humorous as it was), but because of the look of satisfaction, exhaustion, and excitement all in one.

 

When we finally got dream tree home, my hubby quickly got to work setting it up in the stand while our toddler happily buzzed around ‘Operation Dream Tree’ naked. Tot had a look that was very familiar to me. He looked just like his father. He was eating up every minute of this newly minted holiday tradition before even turning two. That’s when it dawned on me. The holidays are so much more than presents, great food, family, and celebration. They are the memories you make with them and that is exactly what we were doing.  This Christmas is already looking to be pretty merry.

 

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