Love it or hate it.

Those seem to be the only camp divisions when it comes to Adam Mansbach’s new not really for children children’s book, Go the F*ck to Sleep. It’s really more of a I Finally Got The Little Bastards into Bed after Promising Them Ponies and Rainbows and Am Seriously Hoping I can Convince Them the Entire Conversation Was Just a Dream Because There is NO F*CKING WAY I am Buying Them a Pony and Amazon Doesn’t Have Rainbows Available for Free Shipping and Good F*CKING GAWD I Need a Glass of Wine Right Now kinda nights.

Do I even need to clarify which camp T-shirt I brought home?

My favorite page?

The eagles who soar through the sky are at rest

And the creatures who crawl, run, and creep.

I know you’re not thirsty. That’s bullsh*t. Stop lying.

Lie the f*ck down, my darling, and sleep.

Why? Because I have BEEN here. And honestly, so has every parent in the world at some point in time. The silently uttered F-bombs are optional, of course, but you’ve been there, too. In between the hugs and the kisses and But Daddy I’m scared’s and Mama I need to potty’s, a few How the hell long is it going to take to get this kid to f*cking sleep tonight’s start to work their way into the good ole’ internal dialogue.

Adam Masbach didn’t invent the wheel, people. He just wrote about it first.

Well played, Adam. Well played.

@Raisingboychick

Everyone is allowed to think/talk about themselves as they wish, but seriously, could we stop with the “I’m fat THEREFORE I’m not sexy!” BS? Because I’m fat, and damn fucking skippy I’m sexy. They are not incompatible states of being, thanks very much.

I haven’t been on twitter as often as I used to be, so I consider myself lucky to have seen this sassy bit of  ‘tude come through my stream. It’s the perfect reminder for me, anyway, that even though I might be working for a healthier body tomorrow, there is no fucking reason to not embrace what I have today.

Which? Sounds great and would probably look fantastical on a bill board. Or a Zazzle T-shirt. But it’s not always a theory I am interested in subscribing to. I was a big tall kid in a family of Mexican midgets short people and confused “big” for “fat” without anyone realizing that I was heading straight for an eating disorder. Now I’m a mom with a daughter who is doing her damnedest to make sure I skip the word “fat” in the children’s books I read to her (seriously, Dr. Suess?) and tell strangers she’s tall for her age when they comment on how “big” she is.

I also think I deserve to be canonized for not commenting on the size of  a single one of these dimwits or the asses attached to them to see how they like it, but that’s besides the point.

Forget the number on the scale. For me, it’s about the mental outlook. That’s what defines me and my perception of my body.

When I am depressed and feeling sorry for myself because it’s so hard to lose weight with PCOS and blah blah blah and just give up? No. I don’t feel sexy. Instead, I feel like the 33-year-old version of the 15-year old with her head in the toilet.

But when I am eating right for my body and making the time required for me to exercise? So I can feel good about me no matter how little the scale might move? So I can show my daughter that curvy is pretty and activity is healthy and fun? Yes, even at 200 pounds, you can bet your ass I feel sexy.

Fat, curvy, thick, full-figured or whatever you call it…you can be sexy, too. All it takes is you looking in a mirror and believing it.

Thank you, Arwyn, for the reminder.

@aspiringmama: And? 1 work call, work research, 2 toddler tantrums, and a last nerve in a pear tree…

I wonder how she does it.
You know who I’m talking about. That mom. The one with the (work at home/boardroom/restaurant bartender/6 kids and no back up because Her Husband works all day and half the night to support them?)
How does she keep it all together? How does she not…lose…her…fucking…mind?
Her house might be a bit on the Martha Stewart Does Not Live Here list. Her meals are not always gourmet. And her kids might leave the house in yesterday’s clothing sometimes.
But she’s okay with it.
That’s the part that gets me.
She. Is. Ok. With. Imperfection.
And because she embraces the crazy, she has time for herself. And doesn’t tell the kids that Mommy Needs Another Minute as often as I do.
Forget the dishes in the sink. They can wait. Let’s play make believe.
Screw the laundry pile on the couch. She has a workout to squeeze in before her (deadline/husband gets home/kids lose interest in the movie she popped in the DVD player to buy herself some peace/roast needs to be pulled out of the oven.)
Who cares about the dust on the blinds. The dogs need a walk and She has been meaning to make time to call her Best Friend on Skype so She and The Kids can catch up with Those That Matter on the Other Side of the Universe.
That mom doesn’t eat, beathe, and live her To-Do List. It’s merely a suggestion for what she might want to try to accomplish today. Not the Do or Die that must be accomlished at all costs…including sleep and her sanity.
She remembers to set up her bills on auto-pay so She has one less thing to have to try to remember in between Mommy and I wanna…
She has learned the fine art of making it look like she understands the concept of that Balance thing. A few minutes on her (writing project/treadmill/call from The Boss) and it’s back to Quality Time with the Kids.
That mom doesn’t have to remind herself that there are roses to stop and smell because she also happens to have her own garden, blooming and beautiful.
And somehow, between dinners and bath times and reminders to brush teeth and arguments about which pair of princess pajamas must be worn tonight, between story time and sneaking out after they fall asleep and catching up on her favorite TV show, That Mom has managed to slip into her bed with a cozy book and a nice glass of wine (make mine a double, please). She falls asleep quickly, not worrying about how far behind herself she already is before even waking up the next morning and instead, savoring the moments she made for herself and her family that very day.
That Mom would think This Mom is crazy for thinking she has it all together. And she would be partially right. I know she doesn’t. I know her life is her own special brand of insanity. I know she wonders how Other Mothers aren’t wondering where they left their last nerve because she can’t find hers. And Other Mothers are looking at themselves, asking themselves why no one told them the truth about that If You Can Handle a Dog, You Can Handle a Kid bullshit because dogs are easier, assholes. (and houseplants? Are just made of awesome.)
All I want to know is, how did That Mom learn to love and live the crazy in order to enjoy the now? How many martinis, Serenity Prayers, and Hail Mary’s did it take for her to…
Just Be?
I won’t lie.
Every night, when I drag myself to bed 3 hours later than planned because Just One More Thing needed to be done, I wonder…
How does she do it?

The Husband: What’s for dinner?

Aspiringmama: Dude, NOT what I was talking about when I asked you to ask me a question for my interview. Try again.

The Husband: Oh, ok. I suppose it’s supposed to be something about your book?

Aspiringmama: Maybe. Or my sparkling personality.

The Husband: So I can’t make this about me? (and seriously, what’s for dinner?)

Aspiringmama: Not about you? Oh right, I forget the rest of the world can’t see the sun spinning in orbit around you.

The Husband: Dinner, woman…

Aspiringmama: Fuck. You.

The Husband: well, you did put it on your resolution list…

Aspiringmama: NEXT!

The Husband (attempting to sound like a cheesy local TV newscaster): so what’s next on your list of things to do in the writing world?

Aspiringmama: (blank stare) Um? Well I was thinking that I should start getting serious about that non-fiction project that’s gonna suck up all my free time and leave you searching for a clean pair of undies for your next work shift.

The Husband: And that would be different from…?

Aspiringmama: You are such an asshole. Who let you on my blog?

The Husband: First answer: I know. It’s why you love me. Second answer: Dumbass. Next question: Aren’t I supposed to be interviewing you?

Aspiringmama: Right. *Sigh* Carry on.

The Husband: So how’s it feel to be married to a guy who looks like (insert your favorite actor here.)

Aspiringmama: Ask @Hc_Palmquist andhttp://www.twitter.com/jinxie_g. And Juliette. They’ve seen your face. Which means I may have to kill them.

The Husband: Seriously, give us a hint about the topic of your next non-fiction book.

Aspiringmama: If I did, I’d have to kill you. And that would mean no more weekend-pass fun on my blog.

The Husband: And then you’d go to jail and then you couldn’t blog anyway.

Aspiringmama: Don’t push me. Snookie got a book deal because she dresses like a hoochie and has a bump-it. A murder wrap would so make my career.

The Husband: Going for the street cred, huh?

Aspiringmama: Damn right. If I play nice, Juliette might even lend me her crossbow so I can be ready when the zombies come.

The Husband: Of course. Before that happens, you are gonna make me dinner, right?

Aspiringmama: (Googly eyed) I love you. Happy New Year, sweeter.

The Husband: Happy New Year, babe.

@aspiringmama cleaning puke out of every nook & cranny of a car seat (after taking the damned thing apart) has got to be one of hell’s circles. #motherhood

Maybe it’s the writer in me. Or maybe I don’t have enough people over three feet tall who call me mama to talk to. In either case, I find it totally normal to have my kid puke up lunch and dinner all over themselves and their car seat in a glorious waterfall of nastiness and while cleaning up the chunks, find myself thinking: “Why yes! This would make for a perfect blog post!”

The Husband thinks I share too much online. But then again, he hasn’t read my book yet, so I’m sure that will be more motivation for my Muse to gossip on the blog whenever that happens. (Wait…what were we talking about again? Me sharing too much? Right…)

The day started with me thinking I wouldn’t have gotten out of bed if I had actually been in the position to make that choice. Being that I don’t, I did. And wished with every passing second that I could hire a babysitter to come hang out just so I could trod back upstairs, bra-less and unkempt, on the way to making my dream come true.

First we had the birthday party I really didn’t want to go to. Mainly because it was an hour away, but also because it meant talking to real live people. In person. And using much more than 140 characters at a time. But I went so Buttercup could socialize and left as soon as dinner was served so we could grab some gluten-free grub on the way home at a steak house.

While we ate, I ended up praying that the blue-cheese ranch dressing Buttercup dipped her tomato into before I could stop her wouldn’t reappear before we got home. I am guessing I didn’t pray hard enough. Or that God is a bit pissed off that I only show up on Easter because I have an excuse to buy a new dress and primp for the event. Because on a mountain on the way back to the desert, exactly half-way between the party and home, Buttercup lost the contents of her belly.

This sucked for a variety of reasons, of course. The main factors being that:

*it took me 30 minutes on a horror-flick worthy stretch of secluded road with no cell-phone service to clean up what I could with

*the five baby wipes I happened to have in a coupon-provided sample pack which in fact

*didn’t really clean up a damned thing because

*there was more puke than cleaning supplies readily available and the majority of it was sitting in a little pool on her carseat and

*I finally said fuck it, kissed my kid, made the sign of the cross, and buckled her up in the backseat like a Big Girl, and drove home 15 miles under the limit, pissing off every driver in line behind me.

After arriving home and tucking her in (with no bath  because she was already asleep on her feet), I had to trudge back out to wrestle the seat out of the van, strip it, and get a toothbrush to de-nastify it.

Did I mention I was making a sandwich and packing The Husband’s lunch cooler while I attended to said nasty?

Ok, so I did.

To you.

I may or may not have forgotten to mention this to The Husband.

Who says I share too much online.

Go figure.