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OOPS! Please ignore last email!

Sorry about the misfire! Thought I was posting on my Diet Hell Contest Blog, but was logged into an old account. (Will write soon about this crazy competition that I am in that forbids processed food, white flour and white sugar. PLUS you can only have 2 cocktails a week max. Wish I was losing as much of my ass as I am my mind!)

Here’s the real blog link in case I totally confused you…

www.mom-mom-mom.com

Enjoy your Sunday!

Karen

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Day 12: Sunday, May 22

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A Heads Up to Subscribers…

Hello there,

Thank you so much for laughing with/at me and for subscribing to mom-mom-mom. I am doing some stunt web work and moving all the email subscriptions to the new site. In the next day or two, you will receive a verification notice to continue your email subscription. Please do not drink before you open this email. It’s one of those weird code verification things where you have to type slanted, drunken letters into a code box to prove that you are human. UGH!

If you don’t receive the email, it means that I totally screwed everything up and you will have to sign up again on the main page.  RSS-feed users, you might have to update the feed when the new site is up at the end of the week. Again, I know enough to be dangerous.

I am really sorry for the inconvenience!

Thanks for hanging in there with me.

Karen

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Karma Wins by a Nose

I am going straight to Mom Hell. (If anyone else cares to join me, I am sure we will have a nice time together. Just follow my lead.)

After writing my post about Aidan’s embarrassment and outrage over a story in my blog, I decided to go one step further and throw it out to the Mecca of blogs written by women: BlogHer. Members can randomly write posts for the blogging community and I thought that this story was relevant. It’s the first time I dabbled in the Blogosphere to get some street cred and props from my peeps — and frankly, I really don’t know what I am doing. (Nor can I speak gangsta. Obviously.)  My goal was to be buried under the Tech Tab and hope that other writers would comment on how they handle similar situations regarding their kids’ material.

Well, holy crap: a BlogHer editor contacted me and said that the story would be featured on their website’s homepage for that day! So the exposé about Aidan’s petrified turds and his disgust of me pimping him out for material was read over 2300 times. The article was also debated on their Facebook page: “Do your kids know what you are saying about them on your blog?” Hooray for the exposure! Boo for the potential to get my ass kicked by the Sisterhood of Bloggers. I was breaking out into hives and eating every piece of leftover Halloween candy in the house.

Then I had that sick feeling in my chest that happens when I really screw something up. “You frickin’ dingbat. This is exactly how Aidan felt to be so vulnerable to the online world.” I need to get my kids’ approval on future stories or change their names. Or buy them a dog.

Fortunately, everybody was pretty nice with their comments. I did seem to rub one woman the wrong way, but after creeping on her blog, I figured that we wouldn’t be friends in real life anyway. She was way too smart and wrote a lot about capitalism. Or at least I think that’s what she was writing about. I’m not really bright. Which I confirmed with the free IQ test on her home page.

The entire day was an exciting roller coaster ride of stalking the sites to see if people were bashing me or digging the story. Quite pleased and humbled that it went over well, I made plans to expand my site to accept advertisers. At bedtime, I went to tuck in Aidan, silently promising him that if he kept providing great material I would handle it with care. And marketing. I just gazed at my little Money Maker and leaned down to give him a big “momma needs a new pair of shoes” smooch. Right at that exact moment, he popped up to give me a kiss and his noggin smacked me in the nose. We both heard that sickening “crack” sound. The poor guy was all worried if I was okay. But I had a feeling that the beak was broke.

Frankly, it’s a miracle that this hasn’t happened before by us just walking in the same room. He has an enormous melon and I have a big nose.  Plus the exact same thing happened to me six years ago.

I was dropping Eileen off at preschool and bent down to kiss her goodbye as she jumped up. Full head contact with the old schnoz was the shot heard across the preschool. I literally had stars in my head and bit through my lip to not cry and curse in front of the kiddos and parents. The second I loaded two-year old Aidan back into the car, I sobbed the whole way home. Every time I sniffed, he sweetly said, “Blesh you” which made me cry even harder. My dad came over and I went over the ER and sure enough, it was broken in two places, so they referred me to an ENT. The ENT confirmed that I would have to get knocked out so they could put it back in place. Out of curiosity, I asked the doc if he could whittle my nose down a little while he was in there. What followed was a fifteen-minute dissertation about everything that was wrong with my nose from its vast amount of cartilage to the broad bridge. It would be a big job to transform that honker into a button. Great, thanks anyway.

So I got my nose back in joint and had to wear a splint on my face for a week. I am sure that the neighborhood rumor was that I finally got a nose job. Imagine their shock when I took it off and had the same face! “She should get her money back!”

Mom nose everything, 2004

The morning after Aidan’s head butt, I asked my husband if my face looked different. Mind you, I had just woken up so it was a loaded question. Like any other day, the bags under my eyes were black and my face was completely puffy, embedded with sheet marks. I might as well have asked if these jeans made my butt look big.

“Uh, you look the same to me. Maybe you should go to the doctor to be sure,” he safely and wisely answered.

So I headed off to the Immediate Care where they did x-rays and discovered that it wasn’t broken. I had a contusion, which is a fancy name for “What goes around, comes around. Mom.”

Instant Karma’s gonna get you,
Gonna knock you right on the head,
You better get yourself together,
Pretty soon you’re gonna be dead,
What in the world you thinking of,
Laughing in the face of love,
What on earth you tryin’ to do,
It’s up to you, yeah you.

Instant Karma’s gonna get you,
Gonna look you right in the face,
Better get yourself together darlin’,
Join the human race,
How in the world you gonna see,
Laughin’ at fools like me,
Who on earth d’you think you are,
A super star,
Well, right you are.

John Lennon

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Blog Backlash or Maybe I Really Am Kate Gosselin

 

Aidan has the Blues, 2003

My kids never listen me. Except when I am having a curse-filled, catty private conversation on the phone. In the basement. Locked in the laundry room.

Naturally, my kids have overheard mentions about this blog and are curious what it’s all about. Especially since they are banned from it.  So last night, I read a few stories from the site (skipping over some swears) and the three of us were crying from giggling so hard. They are such good sports and seemingly impervious to my constant blabbering. Like I’ve said before, they knew what they were getting into when they were born.

Aidan was laughing the hardest about the pee machine, my soggy butt, wiping his arse and Nick Jonas’ graffiti penis. But when I read the story about how I found turds under his bed, he had a complete meltdown. And not over the part about the fossils or smelling like a monkey house. He was mortified that I thought that the stench could be from urine. “Now people around the world think that I peed on my sheets!”

For the record, we have joked over this incident many times in the past. I felt horrible and assured him that it was clear that the story took place when he was really little, but he was pissed. I told him that I would delete that part — which I did.

That’s when he screamed, “This is just great! All these stories are about me getting into trouble so you can make a living on Google!”

Then Eileen piped in and said, “You know, Aidan is the star of most of those stories, so if you want to write more about how funny I am, that’s fine with me!”

So help me God, if I find a preserved, BeDazzled crap under her bed I will shut this thing down. What the hell did I get myself into?

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Trick or Treat?

6:45 a.m. Halloween, 2006
Eileen 6, Aidan 4

Going Clubbin' | Halloween 2006

“MOM! Aidan’s room smells like a monkey house!” screams Eileen while holding her nose.

I walk in and my gag reflux starts to kick in. What the hell? And as only a mom who directly plants her nose in her baby’s butt to see if there’s poop, I sniff my way around his room trying to figure out where the awful stench was coming from. A sippy cup with old milk? Rotten chicken nuggets? Tom’s socks? A dead mouse? It was that bad. My eyes were watering.

I strip the bed, look under the dresser and search through the stuffed animals. Nothing to see, but plenty to smell. Finally, I move his bed and discover three fossilized turds. Seriously? I’ve heard of rolling craps but this was ridiculous!

Apparently, he had an accident and decided to hide the evidence. I couldn’t think of a better punishment than no candy. Yes, on Halloween.

We fumagated, tricked and treated. After dinner, Aidan gazed sadly at Eileen surrounded by her mountain of candy and announced, “I’m out!” and sent himself to bed.

Hope you don’t find any Baby Ruths this Halloween!

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For Better or For Worse

Nothing says “I love you, schmoopie” like being greeted at the bottom of the basement stairs by a plastic grocery bag crammed with my husband’s sweaty clothes from a lunchtime workout. Usually I trip over them the day after they were flung down the stairs, so the contents are nice and ripe and slimy. I go into Bomb Squad Mode, carefully pick up the plastic explosive and shake the contents into the poor washing machine. If I am really lucky, a Speed Stick will also fall into the machine and I have to dig it out with my hands while holding my breath.

As much as I love being the laundry wench, I have my limits. If the shirt goes into the hamper inside out, it gets folded inside out.  And I am not proud, but I do discriminate.  Aidan is still challenged when getting dressed and could care less when his pants are on backwards. I turn his clothes right side out. Eileen’s clothes are so small that they are easy to flip. Except the skinny jeans that my flabby arm gets stuck in. Those remain inside out.

Mine? It depends on how lazy I am that day. Often I dump the clean laundry in the middle of the basement hoping that it will fold itself. (In my husband’s defense, when I ask him to fold the laundry — without rolling my eyes or sighing — he will help. Often, Eileen’s days-of-the week underwear end up in my basket but I take it as a compliment that he believes my butt is that small. Or maybe he thinks I need reminders to change my drawers.)

When it comes to Tom, forget it. I gave up. How it ends up in the hamper/floor/Jewel bag is how it gets folded. (And before you go thinking that I am a total A-hole, I recently found several other gal pals who also are on strike and leave their husbands’ clothes inside out.) He’s a big dude (6’3”) and I am a borderline, card-carrying dwarf (5’), so I have to stand up to turn his clothes right side out. Besides, I figure that he will eventually get the hint to submit his clothes in the proper fashion.

Well, not so much. He recently wore his polo inside out at work until one of his coworkers brought it to his attention.

Awkward? Yes. Lesson learned? Nope!

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