Apres Moi le Deluge

voodoo curse

DeconPapa cursed us. I’m sure he didn’t mean it, but he should have known that like any character in a horror film, you NEVER comment on how said horror has not befallen you. It’s survival 101. Here’s what happened;   … Continue reading

My Hormones Are Officially Your Problem

I had the flu last week and in typical Generation Y fashion, I spent it on the couch, wallowing under a blanket with a death grip on the Roku remote and my newsfeed on constant refresh. This flu season however, my burgeoning belly and the hysteria telling your OB that you have the flu causes, had me feeling extra pathetic and my drug of choice was romantic comedies.  About that life

I sat around and consumed unhealthy amounts of saccharine filled pop culture and felt things. Why did she keep going back to him? Aww, they are going to go out! A fire in the hospital! Why can’t he just see she loves him? They are having a baby! Shock, awe and gasp.  Totally normal, right?

You can imagine my surprise then, when I went to Google the return dates for some of my tele BFFs and saw that most had been cancelled.

What’s the deal? Why do tv networks hate love?

Year after year, adorable love story sitcoms are shot down in favor of depressing gritty crime dramas or period pieces. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE me some period pieces. But who does a gal have to cut to watch two star crossed lovers, meet-cute and then have hilarity ensue before they eventually fall into each other’s arms while Ingrid Michaelson plays in the background?!

My preggo hormones aren’t asking for too much.

Just a little love.

All you need is love.


In loving memory of Selfie & so many countless other lost souls……pouring-out-liquor

Parent’s Night In: Bedtime Bingo

Hi there Moms & Pops! Bedtimes at our house are quite the event. I’m sure  that like me, many of you have to limber up for the countless negotiations that will inevitably take place during the course of getting a little one … Continue reading

Dust off the hate….and the actual dust

PopTart Cat

I have a confession to make…but first, some background information; Every morning before school, my son has a PopTart. I use the phrase ‘has’ liberally as he takes about 5 toddler sized nibbles out of the damn things and the … Continue reading

DeconMama Dictionary: Threenager

The Threenager

three·nag·er  /θriˌnedʒər/  (n.) A person aged from 36 to 47 months old. The threenager is quite fond of contradictory phrases such as, ‘but’, ‘no’ and ‘I don’t want to’. You will often hear all of the contradictory clauses smashed together to … Continue reading

Conversations with a Preschooler #1: Miyazaki Edition

Kiki first delivery

I love the films of Hayao Miyazaki. I’m not alone in this, his films are adored by millions. I’ve shared my interest with the King and up until the other day, I figured he was just watching the movies and not really connecting … Continue reading

Is that a KitKat? Cause I need a break.

It's Alive

I haven’t written in over a month. Which has been my longest stint of silence since I started this Mommy-Fail-Blog journey.  Has anything of import happened….Let’s see…I just can’t think if anything…hmmm…..Oh yeah, I remember! DeconPapa wrecked his 2 month old … Continue reading

Potty Envy

I am not a sentimental person by nature. There are things that tug at my heartstrings (videos of people falling off swings, every death ever in Harry Potter, Miyazaki films), but for the most part, all that mawkish shit does nothing for me. I am the type of person who when cleaning my craft room and  finding a printed napkin from my wedding, doesn’t bring it to my face and hope to catch a whiff of the day I became a ‘Mrs.’ I think;  1) Why do we still have this? 2) I’m sure the damn thing has spores! 3) Why the fuck did we spend money on custom NAPKINS? And 4) Where’s the trash bin?

Maybe it’s from being raised the quintessential Air Force Brat, or perhaps my innate cynicism allowed me to thrive in the Military-transientesque environment I was raised in. Either way, the end result is that I have a hard time mustering two fucks about most things overly maudlin.

You can imagine my confusion then, as I clutched my son’s changing table to my chest and my eyes began to spill all the tears ever.

Let that sink in. I was standing in the early morning light, bawling over needing to remove a perpetually piss & shit covered padded rectangle from the dresser in my son’s room.

…..Sooooo, what gives?

The King will be 3 next month. I don’t have diapers to change or buttpaste to apply and I’m frickin sad about that. What kind of screwed up Stolkholm mess is parenting?

I have had poop in my face, on my hands, on my shirt, and in my hair. I have had to hand wash accidents so many times that the skin on my hands has cracked from dryness. I have posted about infantile explosions of feces that left poo devastation in our home, and now, you’re telling me that realizing I that I will not have to do it again will turn me in to a blubbering pile of the feels.

So fine.I am a sentimental schmuck now. The clichés of how quickly children grow have pervaded my life and left me hollow and wanting.

I can see the pieces of who he is becoming, stitched together with the threads of my soul.

But seriously,  as I continue to give and give, will I find more shit to cry over?

Raisin in the Bun

I love breakfast. Love it. Cereal, pancakes, donuts, deliciously fatty foods in bright colors usually doused in syrup. Please and thank you.

My child on the other hand, hates food in general, breakfast in specific. So this morning when he asked for a ” warm cimmaman bagol”, I was surprised but happy to oblige.

Let’s fast forward about 10 minutes to The Emperor standing beside his toddler table, furiously pointing at his bagel and yelling ” Gremlins on my bagooool” at the top of his lungs.

Let’s also fast foward a few more mintures to me, sitting at a Lilliputian table staring into the soulless eyes of a Dora the Explorer placemat at as I pick all the raisons out of a cinnamon raisin bagel.

All of the raisins out of a bagel with  the word ‘raisins’ in its fucking description.