1. If you’re going to be late coming home don’t wait until the last minute to tell her. Remember when you’d have to do chin ups and you knew you had to do 20? You’d get to 18 and think “I only have two more to go, I can make it” then some asshat comes along and says “Gimme 10 more”. How much do you like that guy? Not so much. 

2. Come home and get in the house. When you get home this is not the time to chit chat with the neighbor over the fence about how it’s gong with the new baby. Assume that it is always Lord of the Rings orc war in the house and get inside to relieve the day shift because your wife has probably been walking around with that baby thinking “I only have to hang in there 30 more minutes….29…..28.” (see point above).

3. Get excited about the baby. I know, I know, you love that little weeble more that anything, but most new mothers are wired with this demented sense of responsibility so even if their baby is screaming like a rabid howler monkey they don’t want to leave it. So if you go in and say something like “take a shower, I’ve missed him all day and I can’t wait to hold him” she will be more willing to go bathe, eat or generally reset to be less crazy. It’s win-win.

4. Don’t ask “What’s for Dinner” If everyone in the house is alive when you get home that’s a successful day. My friend’s husband asked her why dinner wasn’t ready because “she’d been sitting at home all day doing nothing”. Aw, Buddy, c’mon. If you ask “What’s for dinner?” the answer may very well be “Your left testicle”. Eat cereal, order take-out or drink pumped breastmilk. Wing it.

5. Don’t go on about how hard your day was. Even if your day consisted of being gang raped by angry silver back gorillas, she can probably trump you. Not only can she trump you but it may include details that you otherwise wouldn’t have known about and don’t want to hear. You’re tired. You’re stressed. But it will just open Pandora’s box and it ain’t worth it. Also consider that this is someone who is up all night looking at your peaceful, sleeping vulnerable body. Don’t give her a reason to smother you with a nursing pillow. She’s probably already plotted your death a couple of times by now so don’t push her over the edge.

6. Don’t say you’re babysitting. The mother of your child may be too tired to catch this slip but any woman who has had more than 20 minutes of consecutive sleep is going to do a slow, Chucky-head-turn and hiss “You’re not babysitting. You’re parenting.” In your defense, I totally understand this statement. If you’re not the primary caregiver and you’re stepping in to take care of the baby then you are technically babysitting. Terms like “Daddy Duty”, “On call” and “At the helm” are always safer alternatives.

7. Don’t lie on your back and hold the baby above your head facing you. They puke. It’s the infant equivalent of the Funny Home Video guy pitching to the kid with the baseball bat and getting squared in the pills. Everybody likes lying on their backs, holding the baby in the air and fly them over their face. Babies LOVE this and this joy often sends a surge of yak right into your who’s-daddy’s-airplane-open-mouth. They give no warning. They are vomit grenades.

8. Be CIA guy. Too often I think fathers get shoved to the side and it’s all about the baby, and to a lesser extent, the mom. Don’t worry about it and just be a gazelle in the grassland because you’re in the trenches, and there’s no glory in the trenches. Be like those awesome CIA guys with the silly putty in their ear who silently, seamlessly gets the odd glass of water, loads the dishwasher and does that slow motion body block when your dirty cousin with the cold sores tries to stick her finger in the baby’s mouth. Your work will go unnoticed at first but when the dust settles you’ll be revered and adored.

Your job at this time is really important. Some guys totally get it right of the bat, and to you I say, “right on”. You’re the voice of reason, the pillar of strength and the cavalry wrapped in to one. You need to be there for your partner because she’s probably like Newt when Ripley first finds her in Aliens – terrified, tired, dirty and overwhelmed and the worst time is mostly at night. Mostly.

It takes a great guy to step up and dig in during those first few months, but a guy who says “I’ll be home early, I’m bringing dinner and I want to take the baby for a walk as soon as I get home”, now that’s a fucking man.

Author information

Amy Morrison

Amy Morrison is the Canadian asshat behind Pregnant Chicken. She started the website when she found out that she could have safely consumed caffeinated coffee during both her pregnancies and she was livid. She decided that the truth needed to be told about the myths surrounding pregnancy and the crap that goes along with it.

The post The New Dad’s Guide to Surviving Your Wife appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

We traveled to Ethiopia in December of 2009 and returned with our son EJ on Christmas day. This little guy has completely changed my life and how I view things. There is no one that makes me laugh harder, keeps me on my toes, and challenges me more often.

Some of the best conversations take place between 7:30am and 7:50am every morning. EJ uses our car ride to school to voice opinions, ask questions and tell me stories. I learn a lot in twenty minutes.

But this morning’s conversation was something I wasn’t expecting to happen so soon. A conversion that threw me off, made me sad and brought me back to reality.

I had taken EJ to the dermatologist the day before. He goes every year to have his eczema checked out and check some of the pigmentation marks he has. It is routine and takes only minutes. I told him that his skin gets a little rash sometimes when it is dry, just like Mommy gets, and we just need the doctor to check it. She told him he looked great!

So this morning I was surprised when I heard from the backseat:

“Mommy, why did I go to the dermatologist yesterday?”

“Just to check your eczema. Lots of people get that. But you looked great. We just need to keep up with your cream!”

“I don’t like my skin.”

“What?”

“It’s too dark.”

My heart literally sank. I wanted to pull over. These are words that I dreaded hearing but knew that might possibly come at some point. I didn’t think he would be just shy of four.

“EJ, I love your skin. You have beautiful brown skin.”

“Well I don’t like brown skin. I don’t want it.”

“Lots of your friends have brown skin.” (I then listed them in a panic)

“Yeah they do.”

“What kind of skin do you want?” I knew the answer.

“Skin like yours.”

This was lot for me. By myself in the car at 7:30am. I was stumped, sad, and caught off guard. I never wanted him to feel this way. This was a lot for him.  Clearly he had been carrying this around with him. I thought we had done the right things to prevent this. But yet again, I know so little and am so naïve. There is no way to prevent this conversation and I knew that.

“EJ, you have beautiful skin. We all have different color skin. All of us. If we didn’t, think how boring we would all look. You loved learning about rainbows this year in school and all the colors. People are like rainbows, all different colors but all beautiful. I want you to realize that your brown skin is just as beautiful as Mommy’s even if it is not the same. There isn’t too dark or too light.”

“OK.”

We pulled into school and he asked if he was heading to Pre-K for the day.

This conversation is far from over. This conversation is only the beginning. I called Mike on my way to work to recap and I could hear in his voice the same sadness and realization that this day has come. I then went and visited with a colleague of mine who provided me with an understanding ear and some great wisdom. I was very grateful for her perspective and guidance.

I truly wish we didn’t have to tackle these issues with EJ. Not for us. Not because it is hard for us to talk about or involves us doing some work, talking to others and a lot of reading. But because I can see the pain and confusion it causes my little guy. And I would do anything in the world to prevent that. But once again, I can’t.

I would love advice, reading suggestions, stories from those who have far more wisdom and experience than me. I would love some guidance and reassurance that we are taking the right steps and saying the right things. More than anything I wish I could know for certain that we can guarantee that all future pain, confusion and identify issues can be kept to a minimum. That we could know for certain that he will always love himself and who he is, even if he is different from Mommy and Daddy. The best we can do at this point is show him the many, many, many reasons we love him and do our part to help him shape his own identity and self-love.

Tonight I asked EJ if he wanted to read his Ethiopia book. We looked at photos of his birth family. “Your birth mommy and daddy have brown skin just like you! And their skin is beautiful!”

He smiled and nodded, “Yep!”

Author information

Lauren

Lauren is a wife and mom of a preschooler. A fundraiser by day and fueled by massive amounts of coffee, she loves writing about their journey on her blog Don’t Lick the Trash Can, which came to fruition after an unfortunate trash licking incident at the doctor’s office. She laughs everyday.

The post I don’t like my skin appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

Author information

Meriah Nichols

Meriah Nichols is a third culture kid, former missionary child. Deaf. Mama to 3. She is leaving soon to drive with her family from San Francisco to Argentina, along the Pan Am Overland. Follow their trip at With a Little Moxie.

The post Choosing Moxie appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

Remember when food was that stuff you consumed when you were hungry? Me neither. Somehow parenting changes that. Gone are the days of cooking one meal that everyone will eat and consuming food that is actually warm….

1. Everything is stage. It will pass. Just like that penny your baby ingested.

2. On long trips, let your children eat whatever processed crap you can get your hands on.

3. If you count ketchup as a fruit or vegetable, it’s likely your child is eating a balanced diet.

4. Never tell your child that the ice cream truck sells ice cream. Tell them it sells vegetables.

5. If it’s 6 PM and you have not made supper, declare it “Backwards Day” and serve breakfast for dinner. Limit this to 6x per week.

6. Keep an emergency vegetable tray in the fridge. If other parents visit your home, pull it out and appear responsible.

7. Eating your child’s Halloween candy is akin to martyrdom: it saves your kids the pain and humiliation of cavities.

8. Look for opportunities to practice your child’s literacy skills. Buying food with unrecognizable ingredients aids this educational pursuit.

9. Teaching toddlers to smuggle candy into movie theatres is the first step towards teaching them to become financially independent.

10. Realizing that “meal” stands for “Mommy Eats, Always Last” will help you become accustomed to choking down cold food.

(Adapted from Leanne’s book, Don’t Lick the Minivan. One random commenter will win a copy at 6PM on Wednesday, May 21!)

Author information

Leanne Shirtliffe

Leanne Shirtliffe, of IronicMom.com, is the author of DON'T LICK THE MINIVAN: Things I Never Thought I'd Say to My Kids. She’s also the mother of tween twins, a phrase that’s hard to say after two glasses of wine. When she’s not wasting brain cells tweeting @LShirtliffe, she teaches teens who are slightly less hormonal than she is. She lives in Calgary because she likes complaining about the weather.

The post 10 Facts on Feeding Young Kids appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

We come in all shapes and sizes, all manner of opinion, tradition, and circumstance. We are not born mothers, regardless of what our children may think, though some of us are clearly better at it than others.

Our knowledge does not arrive in a neat little box with a satin bow. We learn by watching others, through sheer will, strength and adversity. We are on the front lines. Some of us hover, some parent from afar. No matter what our style, we are questioned, challenged, revered, reviled. And, fortunately, loved — though never quite as much as we love.

We are mothers.

We are single, married, divorced, gay, straight. We are perfect; we are imperfect; we are tough; we are soft; we keep therapists in business. We are doctors without licenses perpetually on call to remedy ills and fix broken hearts.

We are cheering squads, disciplinarians, realists, dreamers, playmates, chefs, and detectives. We are students of life, professors of whatever the day brings.

Whether we work at home or in an office, our job description is long and our days are too short. Whether we have money to burn or none to spare, our salary is the same. It won’t buy what’s in any store, but it can make us feel richer just the same.

We are mothers.

Most of us do it for love, a few for glory, some just do it. All of us have the power to change lives.

We are nearly 90 million strong and sisters at heart. Still, sometimes we are each other’s toughest critics, and forget we have one another to fall back on — we are our own best source of inspiration, courage, advice and kindness.

We are mothers.

When the earliest memories of our children begin to fade — memories of their first steps, first words, first day of school — we work to keep them alive. We make scrapbooks, take photos, carry images in our hearts.

We are mothers.

There are those of us who believe that mistakes cannot be guarded against, that the old ways are the best. Others say history is to be learned from but should not be repeated — that the future must be written anew.

One day soon, when some of us least expect it, the future will arrive. Our kids will be grown and we’ll move on with our lives separate from theirs. And when it does, and we are in the company of women friends both old and new, we’ll be reminded not of our differences, but of the single most important way we are the same.

We are mothers.

Author information

Melissa Shultz

Melissa T. Shultz writes about life’s journey -- the wistful, the wonderful, and the wry. Her work has appeared in newspapers and magazines including: Newsweek, The Washington Post, The Dallas Morning News, D Magazine, Better Health and Living Magazine, Reader’s Digest, The New York Times, Ladies’ Home Journal, Babble.com, Huffington Post, BetterAfter50.com, The Los Angeles Times, as well as CNN Radio. You can follow her on Twitter @MelissaTShultz

The post The Sisterhood of Mothers appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

The commentary is always the same and I know that it will find me. At preschool pick-up. In the check out line.

There is no return policy.  Children are not dogs.  Adoption is for life.  Did she think it would be easy?  How dare she?  Awful.  Selfish.

What part of forever don’t these horrible people who adopt children and give up understand?  What part of parent don’t they understand?

No part. I understand too well. I understand parenting one child to the trauma and detriment of another.  I understand choosing between the needs of one child and another.

How could I give up?

I will try and paint it for you. If you will try to keep in mind that I am shaking as I write four long years later.

The sun shone in the windows and for the first time in two months, I felt a fragile peace. My traumatized, institutionalized five-year-old son with valid grief, with understandable rage and abandonment issues, actually leaned against me to see the story that I read. The tentative, warm touch of his arm against mine made it difficult for me to focus on the words. He had chosen to touch me. Months of screaming tantrums set off by nothing and rages and incidents with our little ones that I tried to ignore faded away, melted into nothing at my feet. I could do this.  I could do it if we could have these moments. If I could see the progress. If I could have something to give me hope that I was on the right track and he might someday love me and trust me enough that I could breathe.

My one-year-old son, my healthy, untraumatized child toddled back and forth from the bookshelf to us, carrying offerings. He asked to sit in my lap and I pulled him up, but he cried and fussed and I set him down. He leaned against me from the floor and then started to cry and crawled away. Maybe eight or ten times, until I wondered if he was sick, but the fragile bond with my oldest boy held  and so when the baby found a quiet game to play on the far side of the room, I read books and snuggled with him as long as I could.

Shadows fell. I kissed my son and got up to start the evening routine. I sat on the ground to change the baby’s diaper, pulled off his pants and pushed up his shirt. Angry red welts scattered across his stomach. One on his side. One on his back. My heart leaped to my throat. An allergic reaction? Hives? They weren’t raised. They weren’t itchy. In the middle they looked bruised.

I knew, then. I looked up and met my oldest son’s eyes and I knew. The hard, angry heart-breakingly familiar set of his face. Defiant, daring, asking. What are you going to do now? Do you still want to be my mother now? The price for my peace. The price for my oblivion and my quiet and my desperate need to have everything work for just one afternoon. I could see my older son’s rage splashed in vivid red on my baby’s stomach.

I could see the price and it was too high for me. I knew he needed to learn that he would be loved no matter what. Trauma, anger, grief, some part of my brain whispered to whatever small part of me remembered to be his mother. I know. I know. I know. I knew and I still shook with rage at a five-year-old boy. There’s no easier way to say it. I shook with rage at a five-year-old boy.

I took his hand and he writhed and screamed and fought and bit and scratched and I don’t blame him. Pure survival instincts. He sensed the danger as well as I did. I pulled him up the stairs as gently, but quickly, as I could, protecting myself as best I could and I put him in his room and I locked the door.

It wasn’t to keep him in. It wasn’t to contain his tantrum which raged inside, turning over furniture and ripping apart bedding and kicking and screaming.

I didn’t lock the door to keep him in.

I turned the lock because I didn’t think I could open a locked door to hurt a child.

And I didn’t. But I wanted to. I wanted to go in there and spank him until I couldn’t lift my arm. I wanted to hold him down and hurt him like he hurt my baby.

I stood on the other side of the door with my head against it and all my education, all my love, all my good intentions, all my reading, all my preparation, the time with the social workers, the words of the attachment therapist were nothing. Nothing. There was nothing and no one there to help me and I have never been so angry, so on the edge of out of control, in my life.

That’s where we are, these parents the world condemns. That is what the bottom looks like.  Imagine that you stand at the top of a dark well, looking down at a parent, sitting at the bottom with her head on her knees. Would you try to throw her a rope, or would you spit on her? Which do you think helps the child?

I will tell you what helped my children. A family that wanted a child. A family with only teenagers. A family that had parented traumatized, reactive attachment disorder children before. A mother who on the day that my oldest child became hers said to me not only, “we can do this; it’s okay to let go,” but also, “we understand why you can’t.”

They didn’t throw me a rope, they built my whole family a staircase and it was in the best interest of every single one of my children, my oldest son most of all.

What can we do to help? What can we offer in the place of judgment, instead of scathing commentary? We don’t have to be the whole rope. All we have to be is a thread.

It is a painful reality that a child can be so damaged in the first few years of life that he becomes a terrifying and heartbreaking impossibility for the parents who have opened their hearts and their homes to try and love him.  But each and every one of us can be a thread in the rope for change and healing.

How about this? The next time you see a mom “with a horrible kid” “losing it” at the playground, take a deep breath and instead of commenting on the “terrible parent doing nothing while her daughter screams,” think:

Maybe this is the twentieth tantrum today;
Maybe she was up all night;
Maybe the situation is ten million times more complicated than I realize;

And then meet that mother’s eyes and smile at her.

Because maybe, just maybe, an hour ago, she walked away from that child’s door. And maybe, just maybe, for the cost of a smile, you gave her the strength to do it again.

Just like that, you’re a thread in the rope. Now we’re helping children.

Author information

Stacey Conner

Stacey Conner is raising four kids and a Great Dane with her husband, Matt, in the Pacific Northwest. She regrets the Great Dane, the rest are keepers. She writes about life’s joys and sorrows, big and small, at Any Mommy Out There.

The post Threads appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

Last year, after sharing the news of our upcoming trip to Disney World, I realized why so many parents wait to tell their kids about a trip to the happiest place on earth. It’s not because they want to see the shock and awe on their children’s faces when they are told the trip of their dreams is a mere couple  of hours away. It’s not because they wish they’d had such an experience when they were kids, and it’s not because they’re trying to infuse magic into a normally magic-free existence.

No, no, no, my friends.

It’s because smart parents don’t want to be nagged incessantly over the days, weeks or months leading up to a Disney trip.

Duh.

In case you haven’t taken your kids before, imagine  the unbearable chanting of “are we there yet” you hear incessantly during a long car ride . And then multiply it by a trillion.  Why would any parent willingly subject themselves to that?

This year, we smartened up. I spent the few last weeks secretly weeding through last year’s summer clothes to figure out what the kids’ needed to wear in 90 degree heat. New sandals, new bathing suits, new shorts, new sunscreen; the whole nine  yards brought into the house bit by bit so not to raise suspicion. Hotel and dinner reservations made while the kids were at school and the suitcases loaded into the car last night while the kids slept obliviously a floor above.

Yesterday was a morning like any other. “Get up!!” I hollered, “you’re going to be late for school!!” I shoved breakfast down their throats and told them they could watch 15 minutes of TV before we left or we were going to be late. And then Jeff came in and we unleashed the plan, months in the making. “Do you guys really feel like going to school today?” Jeff asked. Lily did; the boys not so much. “ Well, I don’t want to go to work.”

“What if we could go somewhere else?” I picked up. “Where would it be?”

“Roller skating!” Lily yelled. “Bowling!” Ben proclaimed. Evan just stared at us, wondering what the hell was going on and why he had to stop watching Sponge Bob ten minutes early.

“Anywhere in the world, you guys, and you pick skating and bowling? C’mon!”

“DISNEY!” Ben hollered, right on cue. Jeff and I stood a little taller, preparing ourselves for the royal crowing of Mommy and Daddy of the Year.

“OK!” we smiled as I recorded the happenings.  “Let’s go!!”

And that’s when the best laid plan fell to shit.

Instead of the cheering and exuberance we were waiting for, they scowled at us. “You’re lying,” Lily accused. “Yeah right.” Ben pouted. Evan wanted Sponge Bob back.

“Guys! Go look in the trunk. Remember those flip-flops I made you try on? The new bathing suits? The sunscreen we bought? We’re leaving now. SURPRISE!!!!!”

It took until we were on route to the airport to convince Lily and Evan that it was actually happening and Ben still didn’t believe us until we passed through security at the airport.  Good to know that my children aren’t huge fans of surprises.

At least Jeff and I escaped the alternative of inevitable and non-stop whining leading up to the trip. One morning was bad enough…

{We’re heading to Disney as part of the Disney Social Media Moms Conference. I paid a conference fee, which included hotel accommodations, park tickets, meals, and other gift items. I was not required, nor asked, to write about the conference. Opinions are my own. Obviously.}

Author information

Jill Smokler, AKA Scary Mommy

What started as an innocent on-line baby book to chronicle Jill's stay-at-home days with her children, (Lily, Ben, and Evan) quickly transformed into a vibrant community of parents, brought together by a common theme: Parenting doesn’t have to be perfect. Learn more here.

TwitterFacebookGoogle+

The post The Disney Reveal appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

Last year on this day, I was 6 weeks pregnant with my third pregnancy. It was unexpected and I was conflicted and overwhelmed, but I was excited at the possibility of another baby in my arms.

Today, my sister-in-law went in for her first appointment for her first ultrasound with her first baby. She is 10 weeks pregnant.

Last year, when I was 10 weeks and 4 days pregnant, I went into my obstetrician’s office for an ultrasound. I was spotting. When I was 10 weeks pregnant, I was told that my baby no longer had a heartbeat. Part of me died in that moment.

Today, I was texted a photo of my sister-in-law’s ultrasound with the outline of my beautiful and healthy new niece or nephew. I was thrilled and then almost immediately, I felt kicked in the gut.

I’m not super sensitive or depressed but the fact is that last year around this time, I found out that I was pregnant. On April 31st at 10 weeks and 4 days along, an ultrasound tech told me that my baby no longer had a heartbeat. It was the worst moment of my life. The next morning I was wheeled into surgery to have a D & E because of how far along I was and because nothing was passing on its own.

I still have the photo of the ultrasound that I made them take again before I went into surgery that morning, just to make sure there was no heartbeat. It’s on my phone. I am afraid to erase it because I am afraid that I will erase the fact that my baby was ever here. That photo is my only tangible evidence my baby #3 ever existed.

Today, my sister-in-law, who I truly am very happy and excited for, went in for her first appointment, she is 10 weeks pregnant. She texted me the ultrasound and suddenly, what I thought I had learned to live with, those feelings, that pain came bubbling to the surface.

She sent the text as I was headed to afternoon pick up so I had all those feelings swishing around, trying to boil over, my heart hurts and I just want to cry. I can’t because my kids are here. I can’t write about it on my own site because I don’t want my sister-in-law to read it and think that I am not happy or to worry that her joy is bringing me misery. It is not.

I am happy for her and my brother-in-law; it’s just that every progression of her pregnancy is a reminder of my loss and the sadness I feel about it. These residual emotional time bombs left over from the loss happen at the most inopportune times. So I have to write about it to process it or I will explode and start blubbering inappropriately. I want to be excited with her. I want to celebrate. I want to embrace it all but my heart has not caught up with my head yet.

When will this ever stop? Will I ever feel truly happy again? When will I stop feeling like I’m going to burst into tears every time someone I love tells me they are pregnant?

Author information

Deborah Cruz

Deborah Cruz, online known as @TruthfulMommy on Twitter is the creator of the snarky, often entertaining parenting site The TRUTH about Motherhood. She’s a writer, a wife, and a work-at-home Ninja Mommy who’s trying to do it all well; usually falling short.

The post Moving Past a Loss appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

1. You find yourself willingly holding a living creature that you would usually run away from screaming.

2. A girl makes eyes at your son and you have this weird urge to pull her aside and call her a “slut” (whether she’s 6 or 16).

3. You have an unhealthy knowledge of the point/gem system for Temple Run, Dragonvale, Bakugan, Plants vs. Zombies, Cube Runner …

4. You can’t muster the brain power to recall what you ate for breakfast, yet you can inherently transform a Transformer (without the 30 pages of directions it came with).

5. You bought a car based solely on how much equipment you could fit in the trunk.

6. Your child asks you to marry him and you’re totally considering it.

7. You know what a Ripstik is and you’re not afraid to use it.

8. You spend much of your days in a fog of fart odor and some of it is proudly yours. (What? How else can you impress your male offspring?)

9. A little penis seems to be constantly whizzing by (well, let’s hope that’s your sons).

10. You’ve actually placed yourself under a tree with the feeling that, if that kiddo loses footing you’ll at least be there to break his fall.

11. You know the pain of stepping on a Lego … and may in fact, have one imbedded somewhere in your body right now.

12. There’s a finger in your eye, your ear, or up your nose and it’s not yours.

13. You understand what I mean when I say “bleacher butt,” as in, “My sits bones are literally numb, I have bleacher butt.”

14. There’s a rogue Bey Blade in your purse.

15. You’ve found yourself saying things like, “No, you can’t ride the dog.” and “Yes, you do have to keep your pants on in public.”

16. You’ve had in depth conversations about who would win in multiple variations of match-ups involving Spider-Man, Iron Man, Captain America, X-Men, Daddy …

17. You can’t wait until he’s old enough to watch Airplane, The Naked Gun, Caddy Shack, Vacation, Fletch, The Three Amigos…

18. Though you claim to be an absolute pacifist, you’ve had a talk that involved you urging, “Sometimes you gotta push back.”

19. You’ve considered leashing your son at a theme park and he’s 12.

20. You’re on a first name basis with the orderlies at the ER who provide slings, splints, casts, and those velcro boots.

21. You may have shamefully thought, “It wouldn’t be so bad if he married an orphan.”

22. At some point you notice the change in smell from “OMG sooo sweet” to “Get that tween some AXE.”

23. You can use your keyboard, phone, iPad, but there’s a good chance your fingers will get stuck to it.

24. You can’t find a single pair of pants without holes in the knees.

25. There’s a love you feel for your son that’s too great and sometimes too scary to fully explain or even comprehend.

Author information

Jenny Isenman

Jenny Isenman AKA Jenny From the Blog is the humorist behind The Suburban Jungle. A card carrying Gen Xer and columnist at Huff Po and The Stir, her goal is to you keep herself sane and to teach dolphins to read. She is failing at both. Join the insanity on Facebook and Twitter.

The post 25 Ways You Know You Have a Boy appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

My Disney mission? Accomplished, with flying colors.

In other news…

Congratulations to When Crazy Meets Exhaustion for winning the last stop on my book tour with a whopping 1700 votes!! Pittsburgh, here I come! I can’t wait.

Fortunately, the runner up (Lisa with over 1200 votes!) lives in Cleveland, which is only a couple of hours away, so I’ll be able to stop there as well. Need to work out the details with the ladies, but hope to have some sort of open event as well (even if that just means meeting at a bar.) Details to come!

Finally, Scary Mommy Nation will be sending a check for $925 to Boston’s One Fund. Thank you so much to everyone who donated; every dollar was matched and I’m proud that we will be able to make a small difference in the lives of those affected by the tragedy last month. You guys rock.

Author information

Jill Smokler, AKA Scary Mommy

What started as an innocent on-line baby book to chronicle Jill's stay-at-home days with her children, (Lily, Ben, and Evan) quickly transformed into a vibrant community of parents, brought together by a common theme: Parenting doesn’t have to be perfect. Learn more here.

TwitterFacebookGoogle+

The post Met My Match At Disney… appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.