I Ate My Placenta and I Liked It

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This is such a National Enquirer click bait caption; like “Brad Pitt impregnates alien to begin hottest interspecies colony”. Which. To be fair. I’d probs read the hell out of.

However, my intention with this dramatic title is for it to be read to the tune of the absolute KP banger, “I Kissed A Girl” See? Much better. Now instead of you picturing me crouching in a cave absolutely mowing down on my placenta, you’re humming a catchy pop tune.

So. For those still reading out of morbid curiosity…

This blog post is dedicated to placenta encapsulation. Let’s dive in, bitches!

For those unaware, or still squeamish from the title, placenta encapsulation is: The practice of ingesting the placenta after it has been steamed, dehydrated, ground, and placed into pills. Traditionally, this is taken by the mother and is believed to impart numerous health benefits.

FYI I totes just copied and posted that handy explanation straight from the internets, and my lazy arse ain’t gonna bother to cite my source. SUCK IT, MR.Z!

But yes. I did encapsulate my placenta, and based on my experience, couldn’t recommend it enough. In no way shape or form am I an expert on the topic, and I highly encourage anyone looking into it to do the research. There are a lot of naysayers and they do raise valid points. The loudest being that it’s all unfounded hoo-ha and any effects were from a placebo. For me, the decision to go with encapsulation was personal.

To anyone thinking about, or curious about being a placenta muncher, Imma hit you with the pro’s and con’s that I experienced.

Placenta Pill Pro’s:

Breastfeeding.

A touted benefit of poppin’ the pills is that it can help with milk supply. Breastfeeding was something that I really wanted to take a crack at. (click here for the Momish lowdown on breastfeeding ) So anything to help my little lady lumps (In the front. I could feed quadruplets from the back…if it worked that way) produce enough milk, I was down to try. After a traumatic labor that ended in an emergency c-section, my milk came in on day 3, hours after taking the first pill. WHICH COULD BE A TOTAL COINCIDENCE. But that same day my knockers inflated to a size that would make Pamela Anderson jeal, and I never had an issue with supply.

Healing.

Another noted perk to this process is that it can aid in healing and replacing crap loads of iron lost during birth. I did notice on those days I was feeling exhausted, or wiped out, a pill would def put some pep in my step. Again, it could totally be a placebo effect, but I did notice a difference.

Momento.

This pro certainly scared the shit out of my friends when I brought aforementioned momento to baby group. The wonderful little hippy midwife took it upon herself to dehydrate Thing 1’s umbilical cord into a heart shape. Being a lifelong sentimental hoarder, I of course treasure the crap out of that creepy talisman. Also. I plan on busting it out when her teenage friends are over and telling them about her tail we had removed at birth. Win/win.

Post Partum Depression.

Something a lot of people don't know about me is that I have a history of depression and have needed anti-depressants in the past. I know. SHOCKING. I’m always such a bright and positive person (if Baby Daddy is reading this his eyes are rolling so hard he can almost see his spine). So I was really nervous that moving to a new country, 6 months pregnant and newly married, it was gonna be a perfect storm for my old depression demons to hit. It was this claimed benefit alone that convinced me to fork out the money for the encapsulation. I knew many refuted this method but if there was any chance it could help, I was gonna take it. And for me, it totally did. Even Baby Daddy would ask on those days when I was weepy and struggling if I had taken my pill, and I hadn’t.

I cannot reiterate enough that because I had this experience doesn’t mean it’s a miracle cure or that you shouldn’t seek actual, real medical advice. I wanted it to work badly enough and it happened to. But you can bet your sweet asses if it hadn’t I would have sought proper medical help. PPD is a bitch and doesn’t discriminate there is NO SHAME in admitting that everything isn’t ok.

Placenta Cons:

Blood breath.

Yeah. You read that right. The pills were hard to swallow. Literally. They had this metallic flesh taste. So I’ve never actually eaten flesh, but it tasted like what I imagine a zombies breath to smell like. Wait, it gets worse. And when I burped, IT TASTED LIKE ACTUAL BLOOD! So ratchet. But could be considered a pro as my zombie blood breath served as a nice contraceptive method.

Pricey.

No matter how you look at it, £200 is a lot of money to fork out for your ground up placenta. There are soooo many things I could buy with that money. Think of the wine. All the wine.

You have to be organised af.

This is not a strong suit of mine as I’ve always been more of a ‘fly by the seat of my pants’ kinda ga’, but you had to have yo shit together for when you went into labour. A service retained and to be notified when labour starts that there will soon be a placenta for them to collect at the hospital. And contact again as soon as it’s ready. You need to bring your own Tupperware from home and make sure your hospital has facilities for you to refrigerate until it can be picked up.

I’ll never forget Baby Daddy uncertainly clutching the container in the Operating Room and instructing the FREAKED OUT surgeon that we would like the placenta put in there to encapsulate. It was for sure an extremely odd request, but even as everything was going wrong with delivery, Baby Daddy knew how important it was to me, he stuck to the plan.

Lose your street cred.

No matter how you spin it, when you bring up encapsulation you become this odd hippy mom. People assume I also knit scarves with yarn shoved up my vag (For real. Have you seen that video?! Shits cray) or kept Thing 1 attached to my rotting placenta for weeks after birth (Also. That video is bananas). It is not remotely the norm in baby group circles. Be prepared to answer a buttload of questions (keep the bloody burps on the DL) and use your quirky ice breaker to your advantage!

I’m sure I’ve sufficiently grossed out whoever was strong stomached enough to make it to the end, so I’ll end it here. But I wanted to reiterate that anyone interested should do further research, and feel free to contact me for any additional questions. I would hands down do this process again should we add a Thing 2 into the mix.

Now. Go hit that glass (bottle) of wine. You’ve earned it for absolutely rocking another hard day of Momming your arse off…well..that and for all the disgusting images I’ve burned onto your brain!

Cheers, Milfs

Go The Fork To Sleep.

I'm baaaaack, broads!!!!

So. For the 3 people that have noticed my blogging absence, I'm sorry for the extreme lack of new Winesday reading. Or. As my sister calls it, entertainment for the crapper. I wish I could say I have been otherwise occupied doing really rad stuff, but alas, I've just been wiping bums, surviving off of coffee and making the local soft play centre my bitch.

The Adopting Mom

I'm Amy, avid Mom(ish) reader and indentured servant to a toddler tyrant named Wiggle Worm. But for this post, I'm going to share with you another name that I go by: adoptive mom.

 

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For the most part, I'm just like any of you moms raising your biological children. I'm tired. I watch the same movie fifty times in a row because my kid loves it. I step on painful toys. I say outrageous things like "spit out those rocks" and "don't brush your private part with your toothbrush!" I am personal secretary, playmate, chef, and butt wiper to a boss thirty years my junior. I have days that end with a glass of wine being downed in a matter of minutes and days when I feel like I'm finally winning at motherhood.


As I'm working on this post, I've yelled about five times and threatened time out at least once. I marvel at the power plays over things like a chair. Yeah. A chair. A red plastic child-sized Adirondak seat that has somehow become the most coveted possession in the backyard. Not the slide, the t-ball and bat, the tricycle, or the bouncy ball. This chair has become the Iron Throne, and it's my job to prevent a Red Wedding scenario from going down between my son and my nephew.

There are some differences to being an adoptive mom(ish), and while everyone's adoption journey is uniquely their own, I'd venture to say that the following list applies to most of us who become mothers by other means. So here's some of the "ish" in my mom life that may differ from you traditionalists:


1) No Pregnancy--
When it comes to hearing stories of horrific body changes and painful childbirth, difficulties breastfeeding and/or pumping, and postpartum depression, I just have to imagine and feel for you gals. I've only had one woman tell me she loved being pregnant, and I'm fairly certain she's just forgotten the bad stuff. My baby was formula fed--obviously--and every time I watched him latch onto that latex nipple with the ferocity of a person grasping a lifeline, my nipples would offer up praises of deliverance. Now, I imagine having milk supply to offer your child makes a difference, and to say that I never had or have a feeling of sadness at being unable to try breastfeeding would be a lie, because I did and do.
Ironically, I have gained weight, gotten a few stretch marks, and endured some nausea throughout the 20 months we waited to adopt Wiggle Worm. Make of that what you will.


My version of pregnancy and childbirth was rocking a child to sleep and wondering if his birth mom missed him; launching out of bed every time he woke up at night because he was in an unfamiliar place; scheduling appointments with a case worker, mental health worker, state-appointed attorney, licensing agent, pediatrician, and physical therapist; phone conference meetings with even more people, all wanting to know everything happening in his life and what I was doing to make it better; filling out infant milestone questionaires and feeling worried that I wasn't doing enough to encourage his development (I was, but I still felt inadequet about it); fighting every urge to disobey court orders but instead handing him over to a visitation supervisor three times a week while he clung to me like a monkey and cried; attending court hearings where they talked about reunification; trying to fathom how I would recover if they took him away from us; waiting the longest 20 months of my life to legally call him my son.


And then, glorious Adoption Day! Signing papers that took all those horrible fears away! A court room full, literally full, of family and friends who came to witness one of the most beautiful legal proceedings a government can have.
 

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2) Rude Adoption Questions/Comments--
Verbal rudeness is part of parenting. Or being married. Part of life, really. Someone will always want to know personal details about some aspect of your life and not be able to keep those thoughts to themselves. Curiosity is a natural thing and I don't begrudge people having questions. In fact, when someone asks me about adoption, I try to rein myself in a bit because I could happily go on and on! The problem is that some people ignore the little voice in their head telling them a question is too personal or might cause emotional pain, and the result is the following list. Here are some of the most common I've received, along with my reactions...and maybe some answers for curiosity's sake.


-Q. "Oh, can you not have children?"
A. Thanks for that incredibly insensitive question about my possibly infertile reproductive system. If there's one thing I love to discuss casually with strangers, it's whether or not my uterus can house a fetus, and all the emotional pain I've been through regarding that topic. (Obviously that's your first thought when you hear the word adoption; it's mine, too. I just don't ask, and neither do people with an ounce of tact. I'm happy to say that most of the people in my life and on my facebook account have excellent tact in this area!)


-Q. "Don't you want your own?/Do you not want your own?"
A. I never know where to start with this one. I mean, really? So far I've refrained from yelling "f*#! you!" and instead mumble out a version of "we're building our family this way." Usually this is a follow up question after congrats on the adoption, but I did have one woman blurt it out first thing. Maybe one day I'll just say "Nope. I'd never be able to love a child that grew inside of me" and stare unblinking into their eyes until sweat starts to roll down their face.


-Q. "Are you going to have your own, too?"
A. I know this question means are we going to have a biological child, I'm not an idiot, but I'm still going to be a smart ass and say about my son "he IS our own!" and smile sweetly while silently daring you to keep digging your own grave. Most people don't mean it to sound the way it does, but it's what I hear each time. If you'd like to know whether or not we plan to add more children to our family at some point, I have no problem answering with a definite maybe. Also, this question brings us right back to the status of my womb, so see answer to first question listed above.


-Q. "How lucky that you got one that looks just like you!"
A. Maybe this one shouldn't bother me, but it does. Maybe it's peoples' way of saying how nice it is that it's not obvious he's not biologically ours and therefore we don't have to put up with questions the way we might with a child of different ethnicity. Regardless, we got a 7 month old baby boy because we were the nearest available foster parents on the day he was removed. We said yes before we knew he was blond-haired, blue-eyed, or even what his name was.


3) Genetic Features
To contradict myself and sound like a hypocrite, I do care sometimes that I can never truly say "he has my eyes" or "he has my husband's smile" in the genetic sense of the term. It's small and silly in the grand scheme of things, but there are moments that occationally slip in and whisper this in my ear. Like not being able to feel my child move and kick inside me, or never having a baby bump to show off and waddle around. How big would my belly measure in the baby shower game? I'll never know with Wiggle Worm. These little pieces of the motherhood experience we grow up witnessing and often dreaming of are by no means required to love our child, and yet...there is still an ache for it.


I've found that letting myself have that moment of grief, rather than shoving it away guiltfully, helps it pass more quickly. I can glance over at my booger-crusted toddler chewing a Hot Wheels car while pulling the stuffing out of a toy, and feel the moment fade away because, while I've lost some experiences, I've gained my son.


Kathy Lynn Harris wrote a beautiful article titled "Dear Moms of Adopted Children" and sums my feelings up perfectly: "And while you will never see a reflection of your own eyes there, you see something that's just as powerful: A reflection of your complete and unstoppable love for this person who grew in the midst of your tears and laughter, and who, if torn from you, would be like losing yourself."
http://www.kathylynnharris.com/dear-moms-of-adopted-children/

4) Medical History
We're blessed to have a near complete medical history on birth mom's side and a bit of birth dad's history, but there are still questions I have to leave blank, write 'unknown', or scrawl in a question mark. Our pediatrician's office deals with enough foster kids that their forms often have options for Foster Care/Adopted check boxes when possible. Thinking "I hope not" when they ask about a history of heart problems on the paternal side is not really comforting.


5) Future School Projects
Family tree diagrams. Family history. Genetic eye color. Since we've still got several years before any of this is before us, I can't say for sure how big of a deal it will be. Probably not a big deal, but it will prompt talks and questions.


6) Future adoption talks
My husband and I decided from the beginning to be as open with Wiggle Worm about his adoption as we could (and as is age appropriate) so that he won't feel lied to or suffer an identity crisis. I don't believe that adoption should solely define a person; it's an important piece of their life story, but by no means the only piece.
At two and a half years old, the topic has yet to come up, but at some point I know I'll have to formulate answers to tough questions. Why was I removed from my birth parents? Did they want/love me? Why couldn't they keep me?
The worst part of these future talks is the pain he may or will feel. How do I convey the truth about his birth parent's actions without him feeling hurt? The answer is I can't. Not completely. But he is surrounded by people who love him, and I hope it will make this piece of his story easier to process.

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If there's one thing this journey in motherhood has taught me (and it's taught me a lot!), it's this: regardless of the adjective that preceeds your mom title, we're all still moms just trying to do right by our kids and remain sane in the day-to-day chaos that they create. Motherhood can be one big, strange contradiction: we love our tyrants even on days we don't like them, and we wouldn't trade them even on days we want our child-free lives and bodies back. We often don't have a clue what we're doing. I'm a certified and licensed foster parent--I quite literally have a license to parent--and most of my days are spent questioning my every reaction and decision.
So here's to us, moms of all kinds! Happy World Adoption Day and Happy National Adoption Awarness Month!

Sh*t Happens

***WARNING***

This post is rated "XXX" for XXXtreme turd talk and a literal crapload of graphic poo-cano images. So. Proceed with caution. Don't say I didn't warn you.

For the first year of Thing 1's life, Baby Daddy and I were convinced her bumhole was on upside-down. Approximately 99.6% of her poops breeched the diaper and ended up around her earlobes. I shit you not (lol). It was a rare occasion that her 3x daily turd stayed within the confines of the diaper.

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This resulted in an insane amount of stressful poo-cano sitcheroos. Ones which were so horrific I didn't even attempt to wrangle my squirming babe out of her clothes and just cut them off. She was crapping through and growing out of her clothes so quickly, I gave up any attempts at spot treating and just started binning them. Somewhere out there is a landfill full of Thing 1's poop covered duds. Public literal shit storms that left us both coated in crap. Or having to Macgyver my scarf into an all in one diaper/onesie because I broke the cardinal rule of mothering and left the house without 10 extras of everything.

I wish I could say that I was exaggerating.

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But I'm not.

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Like. NOT AT ALL.

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Ok. Ok. I'll cool it with the poopie pics and give you some actual content. But just know, I have an extensive pelfie (poo selfie) database from the first explosive year. Those are just some of the Hall of Famers. Everyone knows it didn't happen unless there is pictorial evidence. Plus. I've got straight up GOLD for her wedding photo montage (insert evil devil emoji face here...and just for good measure, the poop one too).

After having Thing 1, I was so nervous to leave the house. What if she got hungry, had to poop or melted down when we are out? Getting out the door seriously took military like planning. As soon as we would be ready to go, she would want to eat, then crap and thus the cycle began. Making it impossible for us to get out before 3pm. All of those were worst case scenarios to me. Her needing me to feed or change her; or god forbid, cry in public.

You know, do all the things that babies are supposed to do!

It took some time for me to get comfortable whipping my veiny 'ol boobs out for a feed. For me to feel adept at my mad Mom skillz to change my floppy babies diaper out and about. To not feel the nonexistent judging eyes on me as my baby lost her eff bombing mind. Finally to accept that, when it comes to having a baby, you can't plan a damn thing.

They're like Murphy's Law.

No matter how much you plot, plan and strategise, something will mos def go hilariously wrong. All of my nervous planning did nothing to stop my daughter from becoming a veritable sprinkler of shiz all over Dorset County. And I think that's what helped remove the stick up my bum and taught me how to roll with the punches. To laugh at the ridiculous scenarios that go hand in hand with motherhood. Though, nothing could have prepared me for the time I went to lick a rogue piece of my Magnum off my arm only to realise (far too late) it wasn't at all chocolate. Well...butthole chocolate, but that didn't make it any better. Or require anything less than a gallon of gargled mouthwash. Lesson Learned!

I always see those memes how much having kid #1,2,3 and 4 changes. You go from a perfectly groomed over thinker, to a wild haired milf that isn't bothered by her 4 month old being fed a pizza. You just realise the chaos that children create and stop trying to micromanage it. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Even just one kid in, I can look back and see how much I've relaxed. Stopped sweating the small stuff. And became an expert public poo-cano picker upper.

Some of the small stuff I used to sweat:

Feeding and Diaper Changes.

I know I've mentioned those, but in the beginning it seriously stressed me the hell out. Now, that I'm a seasoned veteran it seems so ridiculous to me. But I've added this for all my milfs to be. If this seems daunting to you, you aren't alone! It took me just being out and having to do it (again and again) to feel more comfortable with it. You will never leave the house if you are trying to plan around your babies feed/crap cycle.

The first time your sweet little bundle craps to their eyebrows, consider yourself a lifetime, card carrying member of the Mom(ish) Shit Happens Club!

Actual Poop.

For reals. I used to stress, Google and cry over her little poo filled diapers. My phone is still full of all the newborn deuces I'd snap and send to my friends in a panic. I won't subject you to that though, I prom. If the colour was off I would panic about what I had eaten to cause that. Cut dairy for 2 weeks all because she strained too hard and there was the faintest of faint schmears of blood in 1 diaper. I'd turn on the light after the 2am crap-fest to thoroughly investigate it. I worried myself sick about her actual poop. She was totally fine. Just having your typical newborn blowouts.

Germs.

I'll hold my hands up to it, I was totally anal about keeping my little turd bomber germ free. I would bring my own blanket to baby group so her pristine head didn't touch the floor that the other baby's rolled around on. I'd have a Milton wipe on hand to give the group rattle a once-over before Thing 1 grasped her chubby fingers around it.

While it's not nice to have a sick babe, it's also something you can't really avoid if you want to leave the house. Plus. Last week I caught her trying to eat a cigarette butt, it put my ott'ness with an innocent rattle into perspective. Kids are veritable germ boxes. Theres not much you can do about it. Except maybe not bring your barfing toddler to baby group. I'M TALKING TO YOU MOO MUSIC MOM! 

Drugs.

In the early days, I was suuuuper against giving the baby any drugs. But, I mean, if my kid has had a hard day, who am I to say she can't light up a doobie? JK JK! Seriously though, my thought process early on is that I would not give Thing 1 any sort of medicine unless she direly needed it. But then I tried to sooth an inconsolable teething baby. Cuddle a fever filled toddler, or listened to a hacking cough of my kid and I realised my stance on drugs had changed. If I had something that would help alleviate pain or discomfort, I would give it and not stress that I had turned to Cal-Pol for help.

Clothes.

So much damn time used to go into my baby's ensembles. It was all frilly, fabulous and accessorised with a big ass bow. It took the fountain of crap that her clothes were routinely subjected to, to change my approach on dressing my babe. Tesco's finest is good enough for us.I used to swear my kid would NEVER wear cheesy cartoon clothing. Called it kook shit. But now I'll happily throw on her Ariel shirt and Minion socks to avoid a tantrum.

The list is endless of things that used to get my panties in a bunch (panties is the actual most disgusting word in the English language). But now I take daily barrage of surprises in stride, or at least try too. Sometimes I lose my mind. Some days when I catch Thing 1 with my dirty thong on her head I don't know whether to laugh or scream. THONG?! Who am I kidding. She's covered from head to toe in my giant maternity underwear I refuse to throw out. Those bastards are comfy af. Because I now live by the "shit happens" motto...and hakuna matata (obvs) I've found myself that much closer to making this motherhood gig my bitch. Until my kid tries to shank someone on the playground, then I'm back at square one.

Last but certainly not least, here is my personal fave from the 'Poo Hall of Fame'.

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She's never looked more like her Father than in this one (BURN, Baby Daddy)!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Mom(ish) Guide to Meeting Broads

Dude. The title sounds like I'm 'bout to help my Mom(ish) crew troll for chicks. And that is not the case. Today I shall be busting out my knowledge in finding some down ass mom friends. Or DAMs as I lovingly refer to them.

I always appreciate the sentiment that it takes a village to raise a child, but I also think it takes just as much to support a Mom. I know I'm just speaking into the void about how hard it is to be a Mom. Another day another bitching Mom blogger, but as always I hope my bitching resonates with even 1 broad and makes them feel a little less alone.

Becoming a Mom is rad. Scary. Emotional. Isolating. What has been my lifeline in the turbulent first few years of Thing 1's life is my stone cold pack of weirdos. My broads. I hate the term "mom friends" because these bitches are so much more than that to me. They have been on the highest highs and lowest lows with me for the past 2 years. To talk about weaning or pp's (personal problems. Not like peepee's. Though there is plenty of talking about our peepee's too). Armed with a glass (bottle) of wine, my mom army has bolstered so much more confidence in myself.

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I know I've mentioned this before, but when I first had my baby, I really struggled. I moved across the globe 6 months pregnant. So aside from Baby Daddy and his family, I didn't have a support system. Suddenly I had a new baby, in a new country and no idea wtf to do. I would walk along the beach, smiling at every woman with a stroller in the vain hope they would talk to me. That anyone would talk to me. Pretty soon my smile had tears running down it. I desperately wanted a connection with some fellow Moms but had no idea how to make it happen.

I trolled the local baby groups. Sitting nervously in a circle trying to make my small talk so freakin' rad and unforgettable that I lured a new friend. I pretty sure I freaked out some of these British broads with my attempts at friendship.

Thanks to growing up with a personable son of a gun for a dad, and working retail for years, I have no problem talking to people. An introvert I am not. But in this new world of polite baby talk and meeting up for tea, I had no idea what I was doing. There had to be Moms out there like me? That still enjoyed the odd glass (bottle) of wine, swore or even admitted when their spawn was being a total asshat that day.

I eventually sussed out those very DAMs. The women who have encouraged me back from the brink of a bad day. Who immediately respond to a 4pm welfie (wine selfie) with one of their own. Who have never judged me. Not even once. Not even when I ate my placenta, or that I keep her deep friend umbilical cord in a lace sachet in my drawer. Yeah...actually they might judge me a bit for that. Especially when I showed up to baby group one day excitedly waving the aforementioned sachet. 

Now you know why it took me so long to find friends!

I'm sure the majority of my mom(ish) broads reading this have their circle. Have their through thick and thin bitches in place. My circumstance seems extraordinary. To have to start friendships from scratch once you have a baby, but I think it's a little more common than you would initially think. Babies have an annoying habit of changing relationships. So even if you're down the street from your lifelong friends, sometimes having a baby can shift the dynamic. It is so isolating having a newborn that you are initially nervous to leave the house with. That you worry about every feed, poop and cry. It seems like no one could possible understand what you had through to get this baby here, and now how the hell to keep it alive and happy?!

That's where making yourself some like minded Mom(ish) broads comes in handy.

This post is for any moms smiling at strangers on the beach. That feels alone. Where everywhere you look you see a pack of moms and their offspring. This is to help you not feel alone. To know that while you were nervous to start a conversation in baby group, so was the woman next to you. Pretty much every mom I talked to had the same insecurities and desperate want to make mom friends, but struggled. Most chicks will happily welcome the possibility of a new friend. There are a few exceptions to this I'm sure (like that a-hole mom that blew me off in baby sensory class) but pretty much all us milfs are looking for the same thing: friendship. Except maybe that other chick I mentioned, but you can probs read up about her at a-holemom4eva.co.uk.

Here are my handy dandy tips to bagging yourself some bitches for your mom crew:

***I should specify that in no way, shape, or form am I an expert. Honestly. It's like the blind leading the blind. But if anyone can get anything helpful from my ramblings, I'll count that as a major success and toast accordingly with a glass(bottle) of wine!

Wine.

Obvs this is the first on my list. I wouldn't be Mom(ish) if it wasn't. But I have always, and do even more so now, enjoy pounding the grape. So it makes sense that a love of wine would be a prerequisite in a new mom friend. I'm sure I've horrified plenty of potentials by "joking" about supplying the Prosecco for our 10am playdate. But the ones that didn't bat an eye and supplied sippy cups for said booze are exactly the kind of broads I want to cultivate a lifelong friendship with. Also. Nothing bonds you or cements a friendship faster than a boozy night out. so hang up the mom hat, and plan yourselves a moms gone wild night out!

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A night where my quadruple chin comes out from all the laughs. Where I stuff my bra with my Christmas socks so my floppy mom boobs get to make an appearance and get some fresh air. Where I have NO memory of the picture being taken, but judging from a banging headache  and bruised legs, I had a whale of a time. Where kids are no part of the night. We talk uninterrupted. Don't need to think about anyone else's wants or needs. Get cray. Be ourselves. Nights out are rare, but when the stars align and we can make a moms gone wild night happen, we seize the shiz out of that opportunity.

Baby Groups.

Nothing would have interested me less before a kid than sitting in a circle with a bunch of broads and their drooling offspring. Now. They have become my lifeline. It's for sure intimidating walking into a room with a bunch of chicks sitting in a circle. Striking up a conversation feels weird and forced. It was awkward for me at first. I've since learned that it's like that for everyone. We're just waiting for someone to break the ice, and we have the ultimate ice breaker. Our little bouncing babes. There is no easier conversation starter than talking about someones kid. Moms LOVE talking about their little poo cannons. So even if their kid is ugly af, (what?! There are some seriously ug-o babies out there. But I'm sure they'll grow into Brad Pitt or something. It all evens out in the end) strike up a conversation about what a little cutie their babe is. After you've become fast friends you can laugh about that initial awk convo...maybe don't mention the ugly kid though?

It's thanks to my local Wriggle and Rhyme that I have wrangled my closest friends. Now those broads are stuck with me. I know where they live. But before them, I remember heading to the class with so much anxiety. What if Thing 1's colic scream kicked in? What if she had a poo-cano? Or needed a feed? I quickly learned that no one gave a tiny rats ass if any of the above happened. They are all moms and have all been there. When my kid pinched off a turd that practically covered her and I, I was surrounded by moms handing me wipes and gingerly holding my shit covered kid so I could sort myself out. Of course she screamed and required me to whip my boob out, but so did the other babies. No one is thinking twice about what your baby is up to, because they're focused on theirs. We've all been there. Baby group is a rare place where every person there knows exactly what you are going through because they are in the trenches too.

Facebook Groups.

This is a tricky one. Some chicks can be total judgmental buttholes in baby groups. Topics of formula or co-sleeping have people up in arms. Bitches be cray. I joined a Facebook group, The UK June 2015 Mums, while pregnant, and to this day, consider myself extremely lucky to be a part of it. The 46 of us all span across the UK and had our kids days/weeks apart. We've gone through hell and back together. From the emotional early days, to regressions, teething and weaning, our babies were going through all of it at the exact same time. And at no point has there never been any judgement despite how very differently we are all raising our kids. I honestly don't know what I would have done without those broads when T1 hit the first sleep regression and didn't sleep for another 2 years. Their middle of the night encouragement was invaluable. Their little shitknobholes (how we lovingly refer to our spawn) were doing the same thing. We have been there for each other through health scares, divorce, miscarriages and any else life throws at us. I haven't been as active lately, but I take so much comfort in knowing that I have all of my June crew one Facebook post away from help.

Through this rad group I've made a lifelong friend. We've had various dates throughout the country and are forcing our feuding toddlers into an arranged marriage. Jenzo. So glad our kids refused to sleep and let us bond our asses off during those long, emotional nights.

Mush.

This is like Tinder for moms. It's a very 2017 way to make friends, but is totally effective. It allows you to connect with fellow milfs that have similar interests to you. I highly recommend downloading the app and at least checking it out. What's the worst that can happen?! Worst case scenario, you end up on an episode of Catfish.*The mom in me wants to warn all you ladies to be careful and only meet a stranger in a public place.*

Mom(ish)

I've saved the best for last. jk. But I would really like to think that this could be a community, that I could be a friend to someone who wants it. I'm always here for advice. Encouragement. Or to raise a virtual glass (bottle) of wine to you. We are all doing our freakin' best by these kids and I am here to happily remind you all how rad, selfless, awesome and diggity dope you are!

 

 

 

Soft Play: The 7th Circle of Hell

Before having a kid, if someone asked if I wanted to do soft play, I'd think they were inviting me for some 50 Shades of Grey kinda shiz.

And I'd be down.

But I learned, o how I've learned! Before having Thing 1, I never gave a thought to what I would do to entertain them. Don't they play with rocks and crap? Yeah. They do. Sometimes. More often than not they try to eat them or stick them in some orifice, and that's only when the weather is nice. How in the holy hell are you supposed to keep a child entertained in this suck ass British weather (pardon my 'tude, I'm still reeling from the fact that I live in a place with actual seasons and that summer is ofish o-v-e-r).

The answer? You guessed it. Soft play. Effing soft play.

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I should explain my intense loathing of these joints, because in actuality they are pretty cool. I've just become a jaded soft play veteran. For a few £ my minion gets out of the house and gets to go buck wild. But it costs me something more every time I walk through those brightly coloured swinging doors. My soul.

Here is my comprehensive list for why I loathe soft play:

It's work.

Like for reals a crap load of work. In the 2 years I have been lugging Thing 1 to these accursed places, I have to work my arse off the entire visit. She is STILL just a little too small to be able to access and climb up and into the tunnels and tubes by herself. Which requires me, sweaty and red faced, most likely with my ass crack out, huffing and pushing her little bum up and on to every platform to get to the top. When we finally ascend on to the topmost level. Victory soooo close. The coup de grâce is in our grasp. The slide. It is right then my fellow hiker remembers her crippling fear of that effing slide and demands her sherpa assist her down. Immediately. We've reached base camp to this Everest an innumerable amount of times, only to crawl away in defeat.

Before you judge me too hard for being a completely lazy and out of shape broad (which I totally am, though), those tunnels, padded rooms and rope bridges are made for children. My big 'ol body has no business affixing this extremely uncomfortable crawling, hunched position. I can only imagine this is something akin to slithering out of the birth canal. And this is how I spend almost the entire time, lugging Thing 1 up and down, down and up until I'm about to stroke out or I get to experience the sweet reprieve of her crapping her pants and requiring an immediate diaper change. 

The joys.

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The other moms.

Honestly. This one is me just drinking a big glass of hatorade. Since the dawn of my soft play experiences, I have looked at the other moms, sat with their coffee and gossiping amongst themselves and...well...judged them at first. Like a real a-hole. While their kids ran wild around my arms, frantically spread out to protect my drooling babe, I would think "WTF yo. Get off your ass and come watch your kids. Why would you come to a public place to just ignore your child, and they are CLEARLY a bunch of hellions!".                            

Now. I look at those chicks like a starving orphan watching a family eat their Christmas dinner through a frosted window. I want it so bad I can almost taste it. I want to sit and drink an actual warm, not rushed coffee and have an uninterrupted conversation. All while my kid is finding a way to entertain herself without me having anything to do with it. That right there is the damm dream. To show up, plop my ass down and let Thing 1 get up to her own devices. burn energy. Use her imagination. Make friends. All without me overseeing it.

Where my child could have banded together a rag tag biker gang and is whipping up a batch of bootleg moonshine in the ball pit. Or. Maybe joined up with the kid doing Paleolithic art with his own feces on the plexiglass wall. Whatever. Ignorance is bliss and I could be chugging coffee and embroiled in an adult conversation where I don't have to spell bad words. Pshhhh, like I actually do that anyways.

Soft play moms. I see you. Well jeal of you, and can't wait to join your coveted ranks one day. 

It's a literal germ factory. 

I'm not saying I'm a germaphobe or that my little angel isn't also disgusting. She totally is. This morning I caught her sprinkling her boogers on her toast before eating it. So ratchet. But it's like smelling someone else's fart. You don't mind your own, but if you dare catch whiff of a strangers it is the most offensive stench.  

That's the logic of soft play.

I look at the hoards of kids with their snotty noses dripping into the ball pit, the trail of wee leading to the bathroom because some poor mite just couldn't make it, and it takes all I have to not run out screaming.  I keep my composure all while all the barfing face emojis dance through my mind.

When you go you have to just resign yourself to the fact that there are germs crawling all over every available surface. The bubonic plague actually originated from a soft play center in the 1600's. It's a scientific fact. I can't count the times my perfectly healthy kiddo came down with some sort of disease after the fact. That's just the nature of the beast, I guess. Children are professional spreaders of any and all germs in their vicinity.  Not saying I'm better than them. Buuuuut you don't see me sneezing IN my friends wine glass, or sticking my hands down my pants then touching their face in broad daylight. I wait til a night out before that kind of behavior. Like any civilized person. Little savages.

Wish us luck the next 9 months of cold and flu season! 

Booze free zone. 

There are 56,045 little people in a confined space. Having tantrums. The time of their lives. Going freakin' nuts. I literally watched a Lord of the Flies scenario play out last week. And you are telling me the strongest thing you serve is coffee? What is this, the prohibition?! This is very telling of my character, but c'mon man, momma needs a drink! 

Not like jaeger bombs or anything cray. Just a light sedative and a glass (bottle) of wine, perhaps?  

MILLION DOLLAR IDEA: 50 Shades of Cray. A soft play center with a full bar. Self cleaning ball pit. And this is all off the top of my head of course, but massage chairs, nail technicians, someone to fan me with palm leaves and feed me grapes, all while someone else monitors the kids. All I ask is 10% of the revenue and a lifetime membership if anyone brings this dream to fruition. 

The list could go on. Like why do they all blast the same crap music? At least give me something I can get down to. Also, just a suggestion, but can there be just one teeny tiny grown ups only bathroom? One that your feet don't stick to the floor because of whatever bodily fluid or sugary subastance ended up on it. That's it though. I'll stop the list there before I get too petty. There you have it, my irrefutable reasons that soft play sucks arse. Next time you find yourself at one, banging your head into a cushioned wall, think of Mom(ish) and the big ass glass of wine I'm raising to you!

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The Reminiscing Mom

Salutations and welcome back to Mom(ish)! It's been a hot minute since I've posted new content, but rest assured, I've missed you broads a buttload! So here I am semi tanned (I'm in my 30's yo, can't be worshipping the sun like I did in the good 'ol days), rested, and ready to blog like nobodies bidness!

While I do have a new blog loaded and ready for me to post the hell out of, I have since been inspired to write about something else. The blog in question hails the Mom(ish) essentials. Which I'm sure at this point, you lot know it pretty much consists of wine and dry shampoo. The undeniable glue that holds this hot mess together. So. For now. That post will be put on the back burner until the day I celebrate Winesday a little too hard and don't have new material at the ready. Probs next week to be honest.

This week my muse is the visa process. Not like a shopping spree on the magic plastic card I use and abuse the shit out of (thanks to Baby Daddy) but my actual visa to remain in this fine country. My 33 month spouse visa is set to expire in, well...14 days and in true Mom(ish) form I am scrambling my arse off to get it sent in on time. You don't even know how much I love hiding behind my blog pseudonym. Krystal is such a ridiculous name that it makes Mom(ish) seem like a totally normal, upstanding one.

Anywizzle.

A major part of obtaining a visa to stay here in the UK is proving my finances and relationship to my sponsor. My sponsor. What a weird way to refer to my husband. Unless it's in the boudoir, then he loves it. JK JK Mom, no need to spit out your chardonnay. I kid, obvs. But fo realz, having to prove the very existence of your relationship is such a stressful task. Where do I begin? 5 years of memories, love and life. How do I even begin to prove the legitimacy of that?

So this week I'll be writing about a time before I was Mom(ish) and was just the ish. O dude. I have just dated the crap out of myself by stating that I was the ish. I should just round this off with a good 'ol fashioned "wassup" all you'll all know that I'm officially old as hell. Let's dive in to a time long, long ago; before Baby Daddy and long before Thing 1 was a twinkle in her Daddy's eye (I've never understood that saying. So for the sake of clarity, before she was a sperm in her daddy's ball sack). Ooof. The internet never forgets and one day her therapy sesh will be centered around that very unfortunate turn of words.

As usual, I digress. The events that led me here, braless and ignoring the literal tumbleweeds blowing around my house in order to tell you a little chapter of my tale...

As much as divulging certain parts of myself makes me uncomfortable, I try to do so in the hope that it might help one broad struggling with something similar. Before Baby Daddy, I was married. In all honesty we were both too young and immature to enter into a lifelong commitment. He was controlling and I was, well, a stallion that couldn't be tamed. Which is such a simple way to describe a relationship that was  doomed to fail. The day of my wedding, I remember looking out at the pre-wedding festivities down below and wishing I was brave enough to call it off. I knew it was a mistake, but because I had made a commitment, I was determined to see it through. Which is utterly ridiculous. At 21, I was ok with settling for a lifetime something that wasn't right because I didn't know how to do what I needed to in order to be happy.

To all my broads, it doesn't matter if you are 21, 41, or 81 you GTFO if whatever you are doing doesn't make you happy. If anyone gives you shit for this, tell 'em Mom(ish) said so. The process of finding your happiness might be a long and scary one, but it is so so worth it.

By 24, I got dumped on my ass. My whole world turned upside-down and the future was terrifyingly uncertain for the first time in a long time. As much as I hated him for doing it back then, now I am so grateful he did what I didn't have the balls to. So I had to/got to start my future plans from scratch and on my own back. I started a crappy retail job to help work my way through school and met a couple of my closest friends. During this time I spent a good 5 years going on the odd date here and there but pretty much made unforgettable memories and learned how to love myself. So cheesy. But I'm a lovable bitch, ya'll!

It was with said friend that I took a random trip to Vegas one chilly weekend at the end of March 2012. We came. We saw. We partied. One particular night I had a dance off with an old baseball legend, drank top shelf margs thanks to some creep who probs thought I was a hooker, did a puke and rally, and met the man that would change the outcome of my entire life. Damn. That really sounds so dramatic. But meeting my big ginger man set my whole life on a trajectory I had never in a million years dreamed of.

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How did this cataclysmic meeting happen, you ask? Did we make eye contact through a crowded bar and know we had met the equal to our soul? Did he drop a cheesy pick-up line on me? Or maybe we jumped into the same cab only to argue so intensely whose fare it actually was, that we fell into a deep, passionate love affair all before the car left the curb? The answer. None of the above.

I GRABBED HIS ASS.

Well. More accurately. I ran around the circle Baby Daddy and his mates congregated in and grabbed all their asses. Or arses as all those British wankers would say. That was how we met. I haven't washed my hand since that fateful day. JK. I washed the sweaty Vegas arse off my hand before taking my contacts out. As any responsible adult would do in the name of sanitary eye care.

The black and white of it is that yes, I did meet my husband by grabbing his ass in Vegas. But the gray area is that one night we spent in Vegas is still, hands down, the best night of my life. We spent the entire night walking around the casino. Talking. Laughing and a bit of snogging. Unlike other guys I had dated, he called me out on my bullshit. He seemed to know me from the get-go. It really was like I had met my best friend. Someone who just ...got me. Who understood my sense of humour and that the Vegas air gives you the best boogers. At the end of the night we were both in awe of our time together, and painfully aware of the fact that we lived 5,000 miles apart and would likely never see each other again.

Walking away from him in New York, New York Casino was one of the hardest things I'd ever done (trying to push his nearly 9 lb spawn out of my body has since topped that). All the years of being aloof and closed off to dudes came crashing down. I liked him. Like a buttload. I'm not sure the exact measurement of a buttload, but trust me, it's a shitload.

We quickly started up a saucy Facebook messaging relationship. Where I almost immediately sent him a picture of my literal (like literally pinching one off) pooping face. He appreciated the pelfie (poo selfie) and I knew he was the one for me. After 6 months of talking morning, noon, and night, I hopped on a plane and met him in Spain. I'm the worlds biggest chicken shit and proponent of nothing ever changing, ever, (seriously, my Taco Bell order has been the exact same for the past 20 years), but with my knees shaking I got off that flight in Barcelona and have never looked back.

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Our first official picture together. Back when I used to filter the absolute shit out of photos until you couldn't distinguish any discernible facial features. But here you have it. 2 crazy kids in love on some random balcony in Ibiza. Also. Proof that my nipples didn't always rest on my belly button.

By the end of that trip I had myself a bonafide boyfriend, and the longest distance relationship. We did the distance for nearly 3 years, and as much as I would like to take credit for it, it is because of him that we are here today. So many times I would get freaked out by the distance. It seemed too far. Too impossible to overcome. But that mo fo was patient af. He talked me through it. Had to teach me how to communicate and be totally transparent so the distance didn't seem quite so far. Not to say that it wasn't hard. Hot damn it was so hard!!! Cultivating a new relationship from across the world to each other was insanely difficult. The man that had my heart was 8 hours ahead and only accessible to me through my phone.

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This is such a basic broad Insta pic, but in those years when it seemed like we would never have a normal life together, this mentality really helped. See. I can be sentimental 'n shit sometimes.

After a few years and countless trips, he put a ring on it. In quick succession I got knocked the eff up. We finally picked a continent to reside on together. Lucky for him I wanted nothing more than to sire a babe with a British accent and have all the fish and chips I could want right at my finger tips. So across the pond I came and made this little island my home.

And that. All that is the Cliffsnote version of our story. Trying to convey that to Señor or Señorita visa approver is freakin' daunting. I have to include proof of our relationship. Pictures, cards, emails, letters of personal reference, all to prove we are a real live couple. That I'm not a mail order bride here for the free healthcare and Cadbury chocolate. I must admit, this time around in the visa process, it's a bit harder. Gone is our distance. But so are our emails, texts and letters pining and declaring our undying love for each other. 

 
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The text messages have changed. The romance has evolved. But in the dark of the night, when I get a waft of Baby Daddy's dutch oven, I feel lucky. Seriously. I'm right where I longed to be for all those years. In bed, next to my best friend and together for all the boring day in and out stuff.

It's not all grocery sexts and crop dusting each other. We fight. We take each other for granted. I moved across the world to discover that after he finishes grooming, the bathroom looks like a little freakin' fairy sprinkled ginger hairs all over the damn place. The cool thing is that we're doing it together. No matter how much he pisses me off and I wish the fury of a thousand fire ants on his dwelling place, he has my back. He's never given up on me. Even when the fight, the distance, or life, seemed insurmountable.

Ugh. I wish I could just send this sweet 'lil blog as my visa application. It'd be a hell of a lot easier and I could go back to teaching Thing 1 how to do a proper foot massage.

Wish me luck, broads!

The Travelin' Mom

As you read this blog post, Baby Daddy, Momish and Thing 1 (our blog pseudonyms make us sound like a real bad ass trio) are embarking upon the 5,422 mile journey to visit my motherland. Traveling can be stressful in the best of circumstances, throw in a toddler and it can be a straight up shit show. The point of this blog is to offer some funny traveling anecdotes, tips, and a extremely unflattering selfie or 2.

Before the kiddo I was always an anal traveler. Yikes. That sounds like a porno name. What I mean is, I have always been SUPER organized and had a plan for every contingency. I always preferred to get to the airport hours and hours in advance as opposed to racing to make it to my flight. See. Anal traveler (seriously Googling that now to see what comes up).

Now with needing to accommodate a toddler, my anxiety is through the roof when plotting our vaycay. When I think back on our first trip across the pond when Thing 1 was a mere 2 months old, I was so damn stressed. Which is laughable. Literally all she did was feed, sleep, crap, repeat. 

It's a whole new ball game now.

It seems like there are times in life when no matter how much you plan, strategize and organise, sometimes life throws a bucket of lemons at you just for shits and giggs. This is exactly what happened during our last flight to the states when Thing 1 was 18 months old.

As per usual, I planned every detail. Every single thing that might arise, or my child might desire, I had at the ready. I was so freaked out to fly now that she was on the move and displaying some serious signs of bitchassness during tantrums. So I compensated having no control over how she might handle the long haul flight, to taking crack head like control over packing and plotting.

5 days before our trip we went to our usual toddler group. A mom sat down next to me and I'm thrilled she starts talking to me. So of course I affect this weird Mary Poppins accent I bust out when I'm nervous. As soon as the very words "poor poppet was up all night being sick, I hope she can make it through this group today" leave her lips, her kid starts petting T1's hair. I dropped that fake accent instantly and replied with a more urban, "guuuurl you best be lying or Imma mess yo ass up". And because Murphy's law is real af, she starts blowing chunks all over her Aunties car 3 days later. Then like dominoes we all fell. An hour before beginning our 16 hour journey, I was reenacting that famous Bridesmaids scene in our bathroom. You haven't lived until you've had to go through customs with the flu rocking a bucket and adult diaper. Because the universe still had yet to show us whose boss, Baby Daddy got hit mid-flight.

When we finally landed it was like we had been through a battle and were most def worse for the wear. The silver lining is an epic picture Baby Daddy captured whilst trying to immortalise our daughters first plane meal. and this is what he got...

Time really does heal all wounds. While going through that really, truly sucked balls, now I can laugh about it, and the optimist in me thinks if we got through THAT what's the worse that can happen?! (ummmm...universe...If you're reading this please please don't prove me wrong)

So we are now older, wiser and ready to make this journey our bitch. Feel free to send good vibes our way for this global trek we're about to undertake.

At one point during the return flight, I found myself on my knees in front of Thing 1's chair trying to frantically stretch my nipple into her screaming mouth. It can't be that bad again, right? Also. Not an option for her unless she fancies some milk flavoured dust. So here I am. Hoping against hope that she's just that much older now and a schmear better for us on this flight.

Since I have now gotten a few fair miles under my belt I thought I should impart some travel wisdom for my Momish crew.

How to get yo travel on as a Mom:

1. First and foremost, it is so daunting taking a baby, toddler, kid on the plane. What if they cry? What if they crap to their eyebrows and socks? What if, what if. So many things can go awry (as I've previously noted). But so what? You got this! Kids can be dicks, of course they'll flip out at one point, or kick someones chair. But that's just what they do. The plane noise actually does drown out some of the screaming and some people aren't asshats and don't shoot you evil eyes as you try your damnedest to quell the bitch fit. And for the people that do, just making sure to waft said shit filled pants right in their face as you parade past.

2. The power of distraction. Currently our carry on is full of snacks and presents. Just whatever cheap crap I picked up at the dollar store. So as she's about to lose it, I'm hoping a present shoved under her nose will be just what she needs to be distracted. Also, have crap loads of Peppa Pig downloaded and at the ready. As much as I loath her, I can count on Thing 1 going comatose for at least 30 minutes when it's on.

3. Suck and swallow. Really. I should have a career out of naming porns. But seriously, it's so helpful to ensure your tot is chewing and swallowing at takeoff. I have some chewy Haribo that will keep her clapping her jaw well into takeoff. Or, for a younger babe. I totally just whipped out my veiny old boobs and planned her feed for right then, or had a bottle ready the other time.

4. Wear yo bb. If you can, it makes it sooo much easier to wear your baby through security. They make you take them out of a stroller, but you can wear them through with no problem. And again, whipped out my veiny old boobs when she started to lose it in line. Also, the Wubbanub (pictured below) was so rad for traveling. If it popped out I didn't have to worry about it immediately falling on the ground but would just flop onto her chest because of the animal attached. We later cut off the packer part and she now just has the animal as a comfort.

5. The mile high club. Sleeping. For sleep. I really really struggled to get Thing 1 to sleep on the flight the last time. She couldn't get comfortable and cried for most of the duration. So this time I'm armed with this rad apparatus. Cross your fingers it works for us!!!

6. Drink. If all else fails, most international flights offer free booze. Hit it. Hard. All of the aforementioned can't affect you if you got yourself a nice little buzz going on.

Ok. I gotta jet to do the 78,000,000 things that need to be done before we bounce. Next time you hear from Momish I'll be whooping it up in California with a margarita as big as my head in hand!

CHEERIO, BITCHES.

The Delusional Mom

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a princess. This princess knew that one day her Prince Charming would come and they would pop out a couple royal bundles and live happily every after. She had 7 siblings so assumed she knew everything there was to know about raising kids. She was cocky. This princess was completely, totally and utterly delusional.

I had Thing 1 at the ripe old age of 31. That gave me years and years to watch and judge my friends as they had kids. Being an older sister to such a big brood and then one of the last of my friends to have a baby, I was such a cocky bitch when it came to child rearing. I knew it all. Having kids was so black and white. I knew the things I would NEVER do as a mother and quietly judged those that did differently. You know what knocked me on my ass and gave me a big slice of humble pie?

Actually having a kid.

Every thing I ever thought I knew about what it was like to keep a human alive, went right out the window. Hard lines I had before T1 (Thing 1) quickly became blurred and I had to majorly adapt to care for my babies unique needs.

I remember actually having the mentality that the baby would adapt around my life and schedule and not the other way around. The shame. O the shame! I'm sure there are plenty of easy going little babes that do exactly that, but it sure as hell wasn't mine. Thing 1 came out and along with wrapping me immediately around her little finger, decided that sleep was only something she would embark upon in only the perfect storm of circumstances. Even if the specific sleep criteria was met, she liked to keep me on my toes by changing the rules.

This particular picture was taken one brisk winter day. It had taken miles of walking to get the baby off to sleep. I clocked even more distance while she slept. If the continuous motion stopped, even for a minute, she woke and her immense displeasure was immediately made known to anyone within earshot. Pre-baby I would have laughed at this. No way I would put myself out like this just to get a baby to sleep. It'll sleep when it's tired surely? This is just a small example of how everything I thought I knew was ass backwards as soon as I became a mom.

I was in a long distance relationship with my baby daddy for 3 years before marriage and the baby carriage came along. Though the baby carriage wasn't long after marriage. Stay tuned for the shotgun wedding of the year blog. Anywho. As a result of being so very far away from my dude, I have about 48,000,000,000 selfies in my phone that I would send him to make that distance feel a little bit shorter. Here is an example of how said selfies changed as I went from a vain singleton, to mom. And don't worry it's not THAT kind of selfie. Another day another blog post. JK JK. Those are the property of baby daddy's spank bank since he sure as hell isn't getting those anymore!

 
 

Fear not all my milfs-to-be. My kid seems to be the extreme in absolute crap sleep. At her worst she was up every 20 minutes and at my worst, I was tempted to sell her on Gumtree (the UK version of Craigslist for all my American broads). My literal plan for sleep training my baby whilest pregnant was, if I sleep a lot now and am lazy, my baby will surely follow suit? How naive. So very, very naive.

I don't think I appreciated how cataclysmic having a kid would be on each and every aspect of my life. Just like the Fresh Prince, my life got flipped-turned upside down. I will of course give the standardised mom answer of, changed for the better of course! But it does seem like everything before Thing 1 was about 200 years ago, or a dream. Her presence in my home and heart is undeniable. I just never realised her presence would affect my nightly bath.

 
 

I used to LOVE myself a bath. The more wine the merrier. The days of soaking my tired, old bones in the bath every single, solitary night are long gone. Now. Instead of luxuriating in a tub full of lukewarm water, I now know what it's like to fish out human excrement with my bare hands. On. the reg. Like a boss. Or animal. You choose.

Before I had the immense pleasure of becoming momish, I was a vain little creature. My personal appearance was VERY important to me. Weekly manicures, tanning, shopping, waxing and getting my hair done were all things I stayed on top of. I never thought in a gazillion years that having a kid would change that. Now. Well. It's all gone to shit. And I couldn't care less. At this season in my life, I have other things to focus my time and money on. But to my fellow moms who are more on top of self care, you go girl! One day I'm sure I'll get there, but for now my greasy bun and active wear wardrobe suit me just fine.

Something else that fell by the wayside was the bod. While I've always been a curvy broad, motherhood has wreaked havoc on it. I used to have a limit, when I got a little too bootylicious, I would hit the gym hard and yoga myself back down to a comfortable weight. Now. All bets are off. When I do find the time and energy, it feels so good to ditch my spawn and get a good workout in. Those times are few and far between. I exist on a diet heavy in carbs, caffeine and sugar for quick, easy energy. The result, is a badonk that just won't quit and thighs for days. I do try to keep it in check. But instead of an exhilarating gym sesh like yesteryear, I am faced with how out of shape I am and how far I have to go.

 
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I'm fairly certain I'm not even breaking a sweat in the first picture. Just an excuse for a shameless selfie. O well. At least there's photographic evidence of a time before my arse had it's own zip code. This is what a gym sesh looks like now. Sweat. Tears. Cussing. Those 2 minutes on the treadmill are almost unbearable!

I don't begrudge motherhood. The examples are extreme and for lols. There are plenty of times that I slap on some face paint, treat myself and don't have a toddler underfoot. I love how becoming a mom has changed me. I love harder. Have a crapload more empathy. Though my patience is continually tested, I'd like to think I'm getting a bit better with that too. Things I used to be consumed with, don't bother me anymore. Not sweating the small stuff has defo been a huge takeaway. So the bags under my eyes and soft mom bod are a small consolation for the biggest prize. So damn cheesy. But Thing 1 has made me a big softy and the best version of me that I could never have imagined. Except for in the extreme sleep deprivation days. I was a huge dick. Sorry baby daddy.

I've compiled a list of some of the things I had the gall to swear I would never do once I became a mom:

1. First and foremost, getting an epidural.

Before getting knocked up I always felt totally comfortable with the idea of taking any and every drug available to me while in labor. My dream was to wake up to a baby in my arms...and preferably have them already potty trained and speaking English. Unfortunately, it didn't work out for me like that, but that's another story.

So mad props to my momma's that did it all natural, had an epidural or had a unicorn fly up your bits and help deliver your baby. You still had a freakin' human being exit your body and that is nothing to shake a stick at (I have NO idea what that means, but I can hear my Grandma saying it so it must be wise af)

2. Co-sleep. 

This was another one that I was steadfast on while pregnant. The baby would exclusively sleep in her moses basket next to my bed. Not in. Not ever. Little did I know, Thing 1 had other plans. From the moment she was born, she would not be put down. No matter how deep of a milk drunk stupor she was in, she instantly woke screaming when she was laid down. So for survival, this rule was broken hours after birth.

3. Mom Bod.

I'm going to sound like such a douche canoe, (to be fair. On the grand scale of douchiness, a douche canoe is far less of an infraction than say, being a douche catamaran. That right there is the absolute pinnacle of total and absolute douche baggery.) but I have a confession to make. When my very best of friends had a baby (yeah. I'm talking about you Big D) I remember watching her struggle with what all new moms struggle with. Shifting the cursed baby weight. I remember thinking to my little smug self, "how hard can it be to lose weight when you have nothing but time be at home to meal prep and workout?!"

Yeah. pre-baby me was a total asshat. Keeping my baby alive was about all I could manage. And Big D, thank you for putting up with my ignorant arse. I should be so lucky to have a banging' bod like yours!

4. Screen time before 2.

I can't even write this without laughing. I think that lasted all of a few months. Youtube nursery rhymes were my saviour during those endless nights. Even 2 years on, flicking on the TV has helped countless times when I need to cook, clean OR HAVE A FREAKIN' MINUTE TO MYSELF.

5. Bribery.

Another smug pre-kid thought I had. I would have an intelligent conversation with my offspring instead of resorting to bribery. We would communicate so damn well that there wouldn't be any need to pull out cheap tricks. I was wrong. Dead wrong. Have you ever tried communicating with a toddler? When I tried to patiently explain why we don't pour mommy's lotion into the carpet she laughed, smacked me in the face and told me I smelt like bird poop. Enter bribery. Good behaviour gets you your hearts desire. Candy, toys, money, whatever proclivity she has.

6. Being a big, fat liar.

Another no, no. Another quickly broken rule. My parenting style is fear mongering through the ever watchful Santa, or telling her Peppa Pig is on holiday so the show is on hiatus. No. I'm not eating chocolate, it's medicine. The park is closed today. That smell wasn't from mommy...must be a gas leak?! And you know what, I sleep just fine at night after all those lies.

7. Handling tantrums.

My initial thought on tantrums is that A) my child wouldn't have them in public. and B) for the very occasional one that she did have, I would be right there to talk her through her feelings and make her understand. LOL. I try. I do. To make her use her words to help talk about her frustrations. But sometimes she's having a bitch fit so irrationally epic that I have to just walk away before I bash my face into a wall.

8. The "F" word. 

While there is a lot of the "F" word flying around my house (always after bedtime of course...most of the time) what I mean is formula. I swore my baby would only ever taste the juice that flowed from me but this is something else that I adapted my initial beliefs on. From about 7 months on after months of pumping her nighttime bottle and desperation to get her to sleep, we started giving her a nighttime feed of formula. O the shame. And I'm totally fine with that. My Hubs could happily get more hands on and I didn't have my nipples sucked through a plastic flange every single night.

9. Let the baby change my relationship

God ignorance is bliss! How could I have ever even thought this was a feasible goal?! Of course the baby changed our relationship. Our one on one time will never be the same. We bonded so deeply over our new baby and fought savagely over who changed the last diaper. We will never be the same as we were before Thing 1, but that's pretty cool. We're learning to cherish our stolen moments and come together for parenting decisions. We're still a work in progress but something I am most proud of is where we came from. But. I will fight to the death for the next crap filled diaper, it's TOTALLY his turn!

10. Being a mouth kissing parent.

 This is so beyond ridiculous I don't know how I ever even thought I would abide by this. My best friend (Big D) always kissed her parents on the lips when we were in High School. Not like was always kissing them, but whenever the time called for a smooch, it would be a lip on lip one. I was always freaked out by this and always tormented her for this. My family mos def were not mouth kissers so this was totally foreign to me. Then she had kids and continued the tradition. I made fun of her.

But like Jon Snow, I knew nothing. Now that I have a child of my own, I can't tell you how many kisses we've had. How many cheeky snogs where she grabs my face and goes to town. And I plan on that never stopping. So hopefully teenage Thing 1 is cool with making out with her mom?

There are countless things I swore I wouldn't do, but time is money, friends and I have to go shower before Thing 1 wakes up and tells me I smell like bird poop. As much as motherhood has forever changed me, there are just some things that will never change. 

I'm talking of course about my love of wine. And my Big D. Or Aunty Big D as Thing 1 lovingly refers to her.

 
 

The OTT Mom

Whilst perusing my baby photo database, one thing quickly became apparent, there was a plethora of completely OTT (over the top for those not down with the lingo) pictures of Thing 1 begging for a blog to be dedicated to. So without further adieu, I present a shocking amount of big ass bows, overly themed Holiday ensembles and me pretty much just cracking the hell out on dressing up my little babe for any and every occasion.

I can honestly think of no better reason to bust out the very biggest of the big ass bows than for my infants 1 month birthday. She was pissed as all hell I put the boobs away and forced her into this photoshoot. To be fair, I'm pretty sure I can accredit her neck strength early on to those big 'ol bastards. My Husband used to just shake his head and walk away as I subjected our child to the onslaught of incredibly huge bows. I had nothing to do but feed and dress my baby all day, and I took that task pretty damn seriously. So my kid pouted, slouched and rocked the hell out of her bows. The bigger the bow the closer to God y'all.

The pictures of the BAB's (big ass bows) are endless. I should shoutout Vintage Whimsy Designs for making Thing 1 an accessories whore. (not sure if whore is the best verbiage when talking about a baby, but junkie isn't much better) Every single one of her pieces are hand and uniquely made with all vintage sourced materials. If you want some precious BAB's for your babe, hit her up on Etsy!

An OTT Mom isn't born overnight. No. I was made for it. For as long as I can remember, any time there was an opportunity to dress up, I seized the shit out of it. I'm not one for subtlety. Nor appropriateness. Halloween was my absolute favourite time to pull out all the stops, and something like this is usually what happened when I did.

Meet Krystal Chandelier. My 70's porn star alter ego. What I lacked in BAB's, I made up for in pubes and a killer 'do. Seeing this I bet you all are pretttttty relieved my OTT'ness with Thing 1 took the form of cute hair accessories and not a big 'ol baby bush?!

There have been times that ginormous headwear, in hind site, were maybe a schmear too much. Take my sisters wedding. We flew 5,000 miles to be there for the big day. To make memories and capture the priceless moments of my newborn celebrating her Aunties nuptials. Well. Due to her going absolutely mental, we missed most of the photo opportunities. The literal, single, solitary one that we managed to capture looked something like this.

Can you spot anything a bit...off about this picture perfect family portrait???

Yeah. MY KID HAS A GIANT ASS BOW FOR A FACE!

I should specify that this particular bow was like the creme de la creme of bows. I had been hoarding it for this very occasion. I just should have f bombing put it on the other side of her sweet 'lil baby face. Live and learn.

After that epic faux pas, I vowed to make up for it. Create a Kodak moment that would blow future Thing 1's socks off when she gazed upon the unforgettable spectacle that was her very first Halloween costume. If I nailed this, the bow face incident of 2015 would be long forgotten. I will hold my hands up and admit I went SO OTT with this I went over, over, over, above to infinity and beyond the top. Spent time that I didn't have between caring for a colic'y, sleepless baby, to make this. The thing I'm most proud of making. (since my bb, obvs) The very costume that won us 1st place at the illustrious baby goes clubbing Halloween party. 

I present, Baby Ariel.

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That's right. I bought an undersea background, strictly for the purpose of posing my pissed off mermaid on it. Believe it or not, this was actually as close to a happy face I could get out of her. What baby doesn't just love lying on cold plastic in full mermaid regalia?!

 
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I admit it. Hold my hands up. I actually took the time to glue individual pieces of yarn together to make a wig for a 4 month old. I themed the hell out and was the ocean to her Ariel. The waves on my arse made that a fitting costume choice. Thing 1's interest in this whole endeavour disappeared faster than a fart in a fan, but I was SO into it. My enthusiasm was enough for the both of us. Halloween is way less of a big deal here in England than it is in The States. Plus. Combined with me going way overboard, we stuck out like a sore thumb in a room full of watered down costumes. I totally felt like an a-hole rocking up in there in a couple costume with a catatonic Ariel.

But my inner OTT personality dgaf'd. She looked so ridiculously adorable it took all my self control not to just gobble her little face off. This was the Mom version of all the years worth of ridiculous costumes, and I didn't even have to get my pubes out for this one. Plus. Looking back almost 2 years later; now that I have a tyrannical toddler that won't even permit a pair of socks without intense negotiation, I'm so glad I stuffed my infant into a fish tail and wig before she could raise holy hell about what I was subjecting her to.

That first year with my baby seems to have gone by in a blur, but in the thick of it seemed an endless, sleepless time period. I am so grateful that for that quick blink of my daughters life, I have all of these (albeit a bit much) pictures to signify a passage of time I'll never have back. To have a new baby and nothing but time to make a big deal about every single occasion. Not for her but for me. Those colic filled nights are no more. Her gummy smile and or pissed off face when I snapped on yet another bow is filled with teeth and the independence to whip it off. She is now a blur running around discovering the world around her and getting a semi decent picture is a far cry from the days when I had her lying there for picture after picture. And no. I'm not crying right now...errr there's something in my eye.

There wasn't a marked occasion that I missed. The big Holidays, celebrating her Monthdays, and even freakin' Cinco de Mayo were all met with much fanfare and pictures in our house.

If you're wondering, even though my muse refuses the BAB, if I'm still an OTT Mom. Well. You bet your sweet ass I am. A leopard doesn't change it's stripes. Or spots? What the heck does a leopard have anyways? The older she gets I just have to get more creative with how I sneak in my penchant for dressing up. A harmless gathering of all of my friends and their kids when we were visiting across the pond, quickly turned into a full fledged princess party. Any excuse to get my daughter into a tutu and squeeze my own ass into a sequin ball gown and crown, I'll take! This Halloween she refused to be encumbered by a tail (the cheek!) so I made her the Harriet Potter to my tired, unshowered, oafish counterpart, Haggard. She got to run a riot whilst unbeknownst to her, partook in another sweet lil couples costume with me. Mom(ish) - 1 and Thing 1 - well......672,194. But I'll happily take that small victory and look for ways to sneak my OTT tendencies onto my kid in years to come!

 
 

The Breastfeeding Mom

My milk jugs bring all the babies to the yard...

So. At this point I'm fairly certain that it's clear what this post is about, but for those not sure, this week I shall be blogging about my Milk Cannons, Boobie Bar, or Baboo's as Thing 1 lovingly refers to them. For those of you a bit squeamish about titty talk, maybe give this post a miss? 

For everyone else, sit back, relax and enjoy gratuitous shots of my décolletage. Because sex sells, yo. JK. There is nothing sexy about these milk filled bastards.

I want to preface this post by saying, however you fed/feed your spawn is a-ok with me. Breast is best. Fed is best. Burritos are best. I mean. Maybe burritos aren't the best to option for a baby? But what I'm saying is, I don't give a flying fart how you nourish your baby. Being a new mom is hard enough without stressing about the comments or judgement from the peanut gallery when you whip out a boob, or bottle of formula.

  #burritoisbest

#burritoisbest

Personally, I can't for the life of me understand why the hell people get so fired up about the issue. Who cares? Beyond the end of your nipple (bottle or body) there really shouldn't be an opinion on how someone else feeds their child. Maybe because I managed to breastfeed Thing 1 for 2 years, or I ate my placenta (ooooo girl, another day another blog post) but people seem to expect me to be against anything except boobie juice. I know how so many things can go tits up (hot damn. that analogy was MADE for that context) in regards to establishing breastfeeding, so I am totes grateful it went off fairly easy with Thing 1.

  A diet Homer Simpson would be proud of

A diet Homer Simpson would be proud of

While I was really excited to try bf'ing with my newb, I also knew there were so many factors out of my control that might affect that. Latch and milk supply are a couple of the biggies. Luckily for me, Thing 1 came out and was ready for Baboos. Her latch seemed good and judging by my granite hard milk cannons, the supply was there. A few days in, it was found that she had a pretty severe tongue tie. It was quickly fixed but the damage had been done. God that sounds dramatic. I mean her tongue tie, resulted in a piss poor latch and my poor nipples looked like shredded beef. I started using Nipple Shields to help them heal through the constant feeds. Despite trying to go without, Thing 1 refused to feed without the shields. 

The midwife that came by just a few days after being released from the hospital wasn't shy in telling me that I might as well just bottle feed her since the shields are the same thing.Using them didn't make me a real breast feeding mom. I felt like a failure and mumbled an apology and grand plans to get my 8 day old weaned off of them. I should have told her to suck it and squirted some milk on her. What an a-hole. You are supposed to be my support and I'm feeding my baby in a way that works for us. So why take a dump on my parade? Despite those damn shields, Thing 1 managed to grow and thrive. We survived through all the horrendous cluster feeding, sleep regressions, teething and had a damn good time doing it...

  Cirque du soleil bf sesh

Cirque du soleil bf sesh

When I thought about what it would be like to feed my baby, I envisioned these beautiful moments. Holding my nursling close to my body. Kissing her little fingers. Looking down at my bundle of joy and tearing up at the beauty and wonderment of our bond. O yeah. Plus looking fly as hell. Now that I had a nice set of lady lumps (in the back and in the front), I would finally ascend into MILF status. I was wrong. Dead wrong. (and these subsequent 2 pictures are literally the only semi-acceptable ones I have.)

 
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This is what it looked like. (For me at least. I'm sure there are plenty of fly looking nursing moms. I was NOT one of them.) The first 6 months I did my hair and makeup approximately 1 time. Which means all of my brelfies (breast feeding selfies) look like this. Au natural and crazy eyed. Being a bonafide Milk Vampire, Thing 1 could never get enough. This meant feeds every half hour when regression and leaps were all at their worst. Regression and leaps. If you don't know those words, count yourself lucky...and don't have a kid.

 
 

I joke. I joke. Having a kid kinda rules. But also kinda sucks. The line is too thin to differentiate. That first year yields some astounding growth and development in your baby. But as that growth and development seemed to coincide with Thing 1's shit, shitty, mcshitterson, sleep. The only thing she took solace in, all day and night, were my tig 'ol bitties.

and that was rough. 

REALLY f bombing rough.

There were so many times I was over-tired, over-touched and over breastfeeding. 

  Baby cam caught those moments

Baby cam caught those moments

For those wanting to breastfeed. Don't let this tired old Mom dissuade you! I didn't do it for 2 years for nothing. There were moments that were damn hard and I wanted to quit, but those were fleeting in the bigger picture. I loved it. Loved being able to draw my baby close when she needed reassurance, or toddler to avoid an epic bitch fit. I loved feeding her into a milk coma in my arms. When she was sick or teething, sometimes baboos were the only thing that seemed to help. And being the basic mom that I am, I enjoyed the hell out of a good old fashioned Snapchat brelfie.

 
 

On the grand scale of things. I feel really lucky that we were able to bf with minimal issues. I never had to worry about supply and our latch issue was quickly addressed. So many women try their damnedest and despite that, can't establish the breastfeeding relationship that they desperately want. Or a stubborn baby that refuses to latch and only wants a bottle. I've heard countless of my friends stories and they were all relayed to me with almost a sense of guilt. And that sucks. While I was getting shitty comments about needing to use a shield, or daring to feed in public, so were they about using formula.

Some women don't feed, and some do well into toddlerhood. Who the eff cares? Whip out those tittays or bottles and tell all the nosy hood rats where to stuff their opinion. I cannot reiterate enough, however you feed your baby that works the best for your family is the best method. 

  Mid-flight snack

Mid-flight snack

One of my best friends had a baby. It seemed like breastfeeding him went off without a hitch. Things that I way overanalysed and Google'd in tears, she just naturally picked up. We were on FaceTime and while I was in awe of my friend popping out such a cute kid and breastfeeding so easily. Tears started pouring down her face. She was doing what she thought she should be doing but was absolutely miserable. Felt isolated and depressed. She hated breastfeeding. But did it day in and out for her son. She wanted him to have the best and she didn't see what it was costing her to give it. It's not such an easy natural, easy thing for some women, AND THAT'S OK! We talked about pumping, or even formula and she looked so relieved to have other options. I'm sure plenty of people would have an opinion about this. Breast is best blah blah blah. Do you know what's best? A fed baby. Feeding your baby with a smile, not tears. So again, whatever works for the baby and you is the best way to feed them.

Having a newborn is freakin' brutal. Savage. Wonderful. Intense. Gnarly. Uncertain. That phase passes so quickly. Though, in the thick of it is an eternity. So enjoy the hell out of it. You are a rad, amazing, bomb ass Mom no matter how you feed your baby. Dude. That was motivational as shiiiiiiit! Just keep doing you, baby girl and remember, Momish has been there so you are never alone. (how annoying is it that I refer to myself as Momish? My name is Krystal. Which is far too stripper-y for my taste. So Momish suits me just fine!)

 

 

The Mom with the RBF Baby

Pretty much since birth, Thing 1 has been exhibiting signs of having serious RBF. As a first time mom, I had never envisioned such a problem would arise from my sweet new bundle of joy. Is RBF hereditary? Was it my fault? I wracked my brain. It must be my fault. The cup of coffee I had in my last trimester? Maybe I could blame my husband. He's a ginger, surely this affliction comes from his people? Regardless of the cause, I had to admit very early on that my newborn had RBF.

My baby. My little womb raider. My brand spankin' new angel, had an undeniable resting bitch face. Or, resting baby face is what I would mumble when a mom looked shocked that I was referring to anything to do with my infant as bitch.

She really did have the most serious demeanour from out the gate. Out the gate. She mos def did not come out through a gate. But, as she was a c-section she did come through the sunroof. So. Since being pulled out from the sunroof, she could mean mug with the best of them.

My husband and I would laugh about her completely unimpressed expression. But then I began to wonder. Was I not as funny as I thought? Were my peekaboos and raspberries not up to par with Thing 1's obvious far superior sense of humour? Regardless of a stranger cooing into her stroller, or me twisting my face into the most ridiculous expressions, she wouldn't crack a smile easily.

As a first time mom I had nothing but time and limitless patience to get my f bombing Instagram picture. Armed with bows bigger than her head, and multiple wardrobe changes, I was steadfast in my mission. I mean, what baby doesn't absolutely LOVE having a giant ass bow shoved on their head, or being changed into yet another outfit? (To be fair though, the first 2 outfit changes had more to do with the poo-cano flowing to her neck than my vanity.) As much as I tried, alas, I did not succeed. No filter could fix Thing 1's RBF.

 

One of my best friends in High School, her unaware, relaxed expression was undeniable RBF. Which couldn't be further from her personality, she was so shy and sweet. The fact that people thought she was a bitch, bugged the crap out of her. So, we wracked our brains and tried to figure out how she could have a non-bitchy looking face. We came up with eyebrows. It had to be the brows. If we made them friendlier looking, the rest would follow. A kind of ass backwards Field of Dreams mentality. So. We plucked the absolute shit out of them. All it did was take them forever to grow back from the damage we inflicted. But that gave me an idea for my own sour puss child. Maybe it was the lack of eyebrows that made Thing 1 look so grumpy. Surely if her brows were on fleek, she couldn't help but look happy af?

Every picture so much effort was put forth to make sure the baby had a cute outfit, there was not a mess in sight and a nice backdrop set up for the optimal pic. I was a new mom, covered in crusty milk that had either leaked out of me, or been spewed on me. I had piles of laundry to do and not enough spare time to make toast. I didn't have the energy for even basic self care, so why expend thought and time I didn't have, to make sure that everything that fit within the frame of the picture looked perfect. Smiling, Shining. But who gave a tiny rats ass if my house was a wreck? If my kid looked like she was gonna eff you up behind the school at 3 o'clock. Or God forbid my newly acquired mom fupa (please. if you do one thing today, urban dictionary pupa. you will not be disappointed) was visible in the shot of my daughter asleep in my arms. Turns out I did, gave a tiny rats ass, that is. 

It was such a thought process to create and capture these seemingly perfect moments. All of the bouncing, baby talk or tickling couldn't get my kid to crack a smile in front of some of pretty damn famous monuments. And that's ok.

Her little pissed off face in front of Stonehenge makes me lol my big fupa off (now that you know what it means, I double dog dare you to bust that baby out one time in conversation today). Dragging Thing 1 and her little grumpy face all over Paris is a memory I'll never forget. When I excitedly set her 1st Birthday cake in front of her, anticipating the adorableness that would ensue when she annihilated it and she just sat motionless, shooting all of her party guests the major stink eye. It took just dgaf'ing the perfect picture and the perfect plans. I have a kid, that ship has sailed. But the spontaneity of your plans just going tits up, then heading in a direction you never planned, is pretty rad.

Rad. I should explain that though I live in England, I hail from California. So in a semi-conscience effort to cling to my native tongue, I sound like an extra from Point Break. Totally gnarly, man.

 

Now that I've taken the pressure off of myself. I'm not a bad mom if my kid won't smile on cue. My house is a dump, or my perfectly laid plans don't pan out, se la vie, dude.

 

Though I have rehabbed my keen jean ways of getting the perfect picture. Here are a few of my failsafe ways to get even the grumpiest of cows grinning from ear to ear:

1. Fart noises. (it takes a stone cold person to stay stoic during those. Also, fart noises are VERY handy in disguising actual farts)

2. Get your boobs out. (so far this method has only proven effective with my breastfed babe, but can't hurt to try?)

3. Bribery. (what kind of animal refuses to smile when the offer of candy is on the table?)

4. Threats. (Santa is watching. Moana will NOT save Tafiti and we will never grace another playground with our presence if you don't just freakin' give your teeth some air and SMILE)

5. Wipe their teeth. (then their lip gets stuck on dry teeth, voila, DIY smile)

6. Tears. (an epic meltdown should serve in getting a small pitying smile)

7. More bribery. (money talks, yo)

8. Wine. (enough of that and it won't matter that no one will smile for you...or that you've had a nip slip. Bottoms up)

9. Tag the photo. (no one wants to be the a-hole with the poker face)

10. Fake it 'til you make it! (bust out your most dazzling effervescent smile, if no one else does, at least you'll look like a piece of freakin' sunshine in the picture)

 

The Wino Mom

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***This blog entry was written with the express purpose of the reader pounding some serious grape whilst perusing. So bottoms up, bitches (and bitchos for all you male mom blog enthusiasts).***

This is dedicated to all my wine moms out there. All my mommas who understand that just 1 measly glass (bottle) is all we need to live our best life. To all the fellow fermented grape lovers that quietly pointed out my wine stained lips at baby group in the morning with no judgement. To all my boozy soul sisters who have received countless pictures of my “it’s 5 o’clock somewhere” welfies (wine selfies) clutching my wine glass with a giant shit eating grin on my face and not reminding me that it was not even remotely near 5 o’clock. I salute you. Neigh. Raise a glass (bottle) to you, my wine tribe. 

 Aforementioned #welfie

Aforementioned #welfie

For my very first blog post, I thought there would be nothing more fitting than an ode to wine. Behind every great mom is an even greater bottle of wine. HOT DAMN. That is fire! I need to embroider that on a pillow before the perfect storm of coffee and wine hits and I begin my manic, half-assed attempt at cleaning and forget all about my inspirational (winespirational if you will)quote. For those concerned, this post doesn't set a precedent for a boozy blog, but one of a mom trying to survive. While this post is completely tongue in cheek, it's also my truth. Some days, weeks...ok never that long, I don't have wine. But some days, on those days when it's been a minute by minute battle of wills with a pint sized dictator, when I worry that I'm not enough for her, when I feel so alone, self care hasn't happened in longer than I can remember and I feel like a fraction of my former self, a glass (bottle) of wine brings some normalcy and perspective. My version of yoga if you will. After a bad day you can find me downward dog in a glass (bottle) of wine.

 

It’s no secret that motherhood and a deep affinity for wine go hand in hand. Like flies on shit, mac ’n cheese, Britney and absolute perfection (we at momish salute the unrivalled pop legend and overall effervescent goddess that Ms. Britney Jean Spears is and will be for all time. Forever and ever, amen). So, after an especially draining day of momming the eff out, there is literally nothing better than sinking into a glass (bottle) of wine. The stressed out eye twitch and vein in my forehead begins to dissipate. As the nectar of the gods washes over me, I can finally relax and mentally prepare myself for the onslaught of insanity that is undoubtedly waiting for me tomorrow.

My secret hope for Momish is to create a community. A community for all of my mom tribe that are out there doing their damn best every single day. Even when our best is losing our cool during a tantrum, or fish fingers for dinner. I really struggled in the beginning after Thing 1 made her appearance. I moved across the pond 6 months pregnant and suddenly had a newborn and a husband who tried his best to pick me up by my bootstraps when the tears wouldn't stop. A that's what saved me. A man who loved me enough to push me out of my comfort zone. To encourage me out into this scary new world with our baby (but don't tell him that. I'll never hear the end of it).

  Sneaky sip cup #welfie

Sneaky sip cup #welfie

So I uncertainly ventured out to all the baby groups I could find. With Google maps on my phone, to guide me on these weird ass British roads, for a class a 1/2 mile away. I joined a Facebook group of women across the UK with babies due the same month (shout out to the incomparable June 2015 broads, you're a stone cold pack of weirdos, without which I would have been utterly lost.) Thanks to becoming a baby group slag I went from smiling at strangers on the beach with strollers, hoping in vain to be seen; to having my very own mom tribe. That went from being my "mom friends" to my nearest and dearest. That we've sussed each other out and unapologetically bust out a glass (bottle) of Prosecco for a play date. Or don't even think twice about parenting the other ones naughty kid. That are there as we force our feuding toddlers into a lifetime friendship, to those hard days when we doubt ourselves and have nothing left to give (I'm talking to YOU wriggle crew, thank you for giving this yank a place in the circle, you ho's will forever have a place in my heart.)

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Dude. That got deep fast. But what I'm trying to say is, I want this little blog to be just that, even for one lonely mom. A place with no judgement, just support, lols and someone to cheers that much needed glass (bottle) with at the end of a hard ass day. Even if it is a virtual cheers. I'm here. I see you and am raising my glass to you, or because Thing 1 thought the toilet was a wishing well and flushed all my jewellery. Either way. I got you girl. Plus my jewels are all Forever 21's finest, no big loss. So you, I'm mainly cheers'ing you!

  Mums Happiest Hour. Not a kid in sight!

Mums Happiest Hour. Not a kid in sight!

 

    At the end of a particularly craptastic day I try my damnedest to ignore the siren call of my fermented bff. More often than not, I fail miserably. My 20 fail safe excuses to hit the bottle are as follows:

  1. I’ll only have 1 glass (lol).
  2. It’s wine Wednesday.
  3. Google says wine prevents heart disease.
  4. It's 5 o’clock somewhere (classic wino excuse).
  5. Uncorking the bottle counts as cardio.
  6. Google says wine lengthens your life span.
  7. After 4,871,200 tantrums, I’ve earned it.
  8. Google says wine prevents dimples on my arse.
  9. Wine stained teeth really brings out my eyes.
  10.  I’m pretty sure the bottle I bought 5 hours ago is about to expire.
  11.  It’s Thirsty Thursday.
  12.  Google says wine erases stretch marks.
  13.  I want to pee straight cabernet (purely for scientific purposes).
  14.  I’m drinking my dinner.
  15.  Google says wine prevents erectile disfunction (BIG worry of mine).
  16.  I saw a Pinterest diy that requires used wine bottles (I’ll need about 700 for the project).
  17.  How cute would a wine cork collection be?!
  18.  I’ve run out of coffee.
  19.  I have a case of the Monday’s
  20.  My £4 Tesco bottle will pair beautifully with Thing 1’s rejected floor food. 

 

And there you have it. Being a mom is hard af. Let’s cheers to keeping our spawn alive another day!

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Introducing: Thing 1

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Due to the warts and all nature of this blog, I have decided to keep some things sacred and not refer to my TWOnager by name. But trust me, it's a goodie. Like totally legit. Actually. Not quite sure what a non-legit name would be?

Something along the lines of Glitter Pizza Wine, perhaps? That's not so much a name as a random compilation of my favourite things.

Rest assured, her name is a nice, regular 'ol name. Not my star sign or where she was conceived. For curiosity sake, would it be an exact location, or just the general area? In this case the options were; Orange County, or My Mom's Bed. Damn. That is information she is going to be SO bummed on when she's older. Also...sorry Mom (insert shit eating grin emoji here).

Ok. back to the task at hand, giving my daughter an alter ego for this blogs sake. That way, when she runs for President, she won't have to worry about TMZ dredging up a story about, "The Poo-cano of 2017". Would voters really want someone in office that shat from their toes to earlobes?

So. On Momish, my spawn shall, until the end of time, be referred to as Thing 1. Her and I decided this was an apt pseudonym for her anonymity. Plus. If I find myself knocked up again, Thing 2 just fits in so nicely.

All hail Thing 1. She's your typical tyrannical toddler that has her Daddy and I absolutely wrapped around her finger. She knows how to push me to the brink of my sanity, then pull me right back with an extra cute cuddle. As her hair has taken its sweet ass time to come in, (particularly on top) she is currently rocking a rad 'lil mullet. For some reason, completely unbeknownst to me, Thing 1 is under the assumption that a glass of wine is called, "coffee". I gotta say though, this misinformation really works in my favour when she informs Daddy how much coffee Mommy drinks.

Fun Facts about Thing 1: 

- She enjoys long walks on the beach. (Where she loves nothing more than to see how much sand she can scoff before I notice. Then cry because she's just eaten a shit ton of sand.)

- She is newly 2. (Though has been practising for the terrible 2's for a good 2 years now and has really mastered an earsplitting tantrum for the slightest infraction on our part.)

- 'The Wheels on The Bus' is her JAM. (And she can freestyle that tune like I do when The Fresh Prince of Bel Air comes on.)

- Girlfriend loves herself some shoes, accessories and Princess dresses, but also gets all up on muddy puddles, bug catching and intense digger watching. (A riddle wrapped in an enigma.)

- Is terrified of her potty. (Seriously man, she spends 23 1/2 hours a day in a diaper, the half hour she's in the bath, we get a code brown sitch. Like on the reg.)

- She has been born and bred in the UK, though luckily for her, her Momma (me duh) hails from California. (Seriously. Diaper/nappy, fries/chips, chips/crisps, she's gonna have one whack ass vocabulary by the time she heads to school.)

- She has an intense love/hate relationship with bubbles. (Seriously. She loses her mind when she sees them. Inevitably tries to eat them. Gets pissed off. Screams at me for allowing this travesty to happen. Sees butterfly. Chases it. Forgets about the whole bubble debacle until the process begins again.)

- She's pretty damn rad. (No denying Thing 1 has swag.)

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