It’s almost the Holidays and if there’s one thing you can count on- it’s parents in a crazy rage frantically searching to spoil their kids with whatever new toy Target doesn’t have enough of. We end up selling our souls on the black market just so our kids can unwrap a defective Hatchimal on Christmas morning and then never touch it again.

If the rush of adrenaline isn’t enough to get your blood pumping, just wait until your husband finds out what you spent when the bank statement arrives. The things I did for that damn Hatchimal….

But when will we learn?

And it isn’t just with toys, it’s with events, too. Like Misery on Ice or whatever it’s called, or the biPolar Express. On several occasions I’ve set all kinds of alarms just to sit there at my laptop with my iPad and my phone, all logged onto the same site just waiting for the exact minute that ticket sales start, even if it’s 3 am on a Tuesday. Heart pounding, hands shaking. I feel like I’m tweaking out. I’m so nervous, it’s like my kid’s entire childhood is riding on my page-refreshing skills. Faster! FASTER! I NEED that ticket. Give it to me! I’ll do anything!

But just like with the toys, all the planning, effort, and sacrifices just end up backfiring in your face. Or maybe it’s just me.

Let me tell you about the time I scored the very best seats on the Polar Express.

Do you know about this event? It’s a Christmastime train ride based on the book/movie in which your family gets to take a magical journey filled with cookies, hot chocolate, and singing elves- all the way to the North Pole to see jolly old Santa himself. It’s like the childhood dream my parents never cared about me enough to fulfill.

The tickets are sold in two groups; First Class, and coach. And each train car has a special name depending on where they are located. For example, you might be in Glacier Gulch or the Elve’s Secret Workshop in First class; or in coach, the Conductor’s Porta Potty.

This is why it’s so important to get those perfect tickets, right?

Wrong.

You see, I thought I had scored the best seats on the whole damn train. Not only did I manage to nab 4 tickets, at a TABLE, in First Class, before tickets sold out in three and a half minutes, but I got the North Pole car. THE NORTH POLE, people! It doesn’t get any better than that. That’s like winning the lottery of mom-brags.

And it started off so well, too. We arrived on time and in our matching family PJ’s- excited for the perfect night where clearly nothing could go wrong. I think maybe it snowed? Who cares, just imagine it anyway.

We boarded the train and got a table in the front of the train car, of course. I think I remember someone bowing to us as we entered, I was practically royalty for all my hard work. I even leaned over to whisper in my toddler’s ear- this is First Class, baby!

As the train started rolling we sang, we consumed two days worth of sugar, and we reveled in our uppity but momentary luxury status. Who’s the best Mommy? I am!

And then, as the big moment arrived and we reached our namesake the North Pole, Santa stepped onto the train.

And it all went downhill from there.

“What in the Kanye West is that smell!?”

It was sudden and atrocious. Like all of the worst things you can possibly imagine, mixed together and left to bake in the hot desert sun. Did we run over days-old roadkill lodged in the tracks? Did someone open a window and let the putrid stink of East St Louis enter our Premium quarters??

What IS that?

As Santa got closer and closer to our private table, the smell got more intense. It was hard to concentrate on anything else when we were all just struggling to find breathable air.

When he approached our table yelling “Ho Ho Ho!” we immediately pinpointed the source. It was Santa himself. Was he on the wrong car? Should I direct him to coach? What is happening? This is First Class!

Stop the train. Let us off. I’ll take my chances on the East Side. Because now he was trying to convince my son to sit on his lap.

No. We all shook our heads. I squinted my eyes so tight as if it would somehow magically remove this man from my line of smell. Goblin King, Goblin King, wherever you may be!

But not before I saw the look of complete disgust/terror/confusion on my 3 year old’s face.

That was it. The show’s over. I knew right then and there that Santa would never be the same in the eyes, or the nose, of my child.

Santa had barely turned around before I heard the words “Mommy, why does Santa smell so bad?” Which he continued to ask me for two straight years.

Instead of $600 First Class tickets, we got a front row seat to a science lesson about what happens to the human body when a man doesn’t shower for 7 months.

So next time you’re feeling a little snobby and think you need to provide your offspring with something extra expensive and brag-worthy just so you can be the very best, I want you to go outside, lift the lid of your trash can, stick your head in, and take a big whiff.  

And then level-down to coach where we belong.

Lindsay is a working wife and mom who just had to say goodbye to her 14 year old dog and first baby, Darla. She is currently in the midst of the 3rd stage of grief which is Amazon purchases.

So recently my kid lost his first tooth.

Which was a really big deal and a huge life event.

For ME.

Why didn’t anyone warn me about the stress and pressure that comes with impersonating this faux fairy phenomenon? And how did I not see this coming? I mean I had over 6 years to prepare for this moment and I feel like I was a little too close to adding another traumatic childhood event to the checklist of things my kid is gonna have to work through later in life. He’s got enough problems. He’s an only child.

So I want to help others. Oops, wrong word. I want to warn others. So you can think of me when it’s your turn. (And hopefully not screw it up).

Here’s how it all goes down:

Your kid loses a tooth. Which is either a super exciting, social-media-worthy event, or in my son’s case, a scene from a horror film complete with blood, screaming, and regret by all parties.

Then comes your first task, which seems really simple but trust me, it’s not. You suddenly have a new part-time position. One that you MUST NOT forget to clock in for. You’re the Tooth Fairy now. Welcome to the club. Add that to your LinkedIn, I dare ya. 

You might be thinking, all you have to do is remember ONE thing. How is that so hard?

Well, Destinee, I’m a working mom. Which means that I have 157 things I have to cram into two hours every night before bed without having to transform myself into some winged creature who sneaks into children’s rooms to buy their teeth in the dark. Let me just add that to my list…

And what do you think happens if you do forget? What do you say when your kid comes running into your room in the morning with that pathetic look of sadness, confusion, and resentment on their little freckled, tear-stained face?

Do you tell them that the tooth fairy was double booked?

That Prince George lost a tooth the same night and obviously, the monarchy comes first?

Or do you throw the farfetched fairy under the bus, telling your kid she’s been hitting the sauce and that you’ll file a report with the tooth association?

Or maybe you just blame your kid. Well Timmy, I guess you screwed up. Clearly she couldn’t find your tooth in that disaster box you call your bedroom. Guess you’ll have to get your [censored] together and try again tonight.

And when it’s actually time to do the job- let me just tell you- it’s freaking terrifying!

First of all, you never really know if your kid is asleep. It’s like some terrible childhood-wrecking roulette as you slowly turn the knob and inch open their door, praying that the hinges won’t creak and holding your breath like the entirety of your kid’s lifelong happiness depends this very moment. Because clearly, it does. 

If you’re especially lucky like me, you’re reminded real quick that your kid has received 12 participation medals, which are all conveniently hanging on the back of the door and clanging together like some sort of fairy intruder warning system. I’m not sure if my heart can take this.

And then there are the night lights. All 5 of them.

You might have forgotten that in order to calm your kid’s fear of the monster that is waiting to murder him the second you leave the room, that it’s now lit up like a low-budget rave with blue light beaming off every wall, ensuring that absolutely nothing is hidden from sight. I’m practically in a spotlight as I stand there, not breathing, too scared to move, knowing that if by the grace of Gandalf my kid somehow doesn’t hear me, surely he will smell my fear.

I haven’t been this petrified since I was 16, sneaking cheap, 8-year-old vodka from my parent’s kitchen cabinet at 2 A.M.

Now comes the strategy. Because you can’t just open the door and toss a dollar on the dresser. 

For starters, it’s 2018. I think the going rate for a single tooth is like $20. At least that’s what my kid says his friends are all getting.

My kid, on the other hand, is lucky if he gets a dollar that isn’t from his own piggy bank.

Because who even has cash anymore? I was tempted to leave him a half-spent Subway gift card. He’s six, so in his world a chicken bacon ranch holds more value than cash anyway. 

But that leads me to the hardest part. The pillow! I mean what in the love of all things completely made-up and beyond a reasonable doubt made someone decide to make that a thing? It could not possibly have been an actual parent. Seriously. Who the [censored] was it?

Were they like- hmmm, let’s see. How can we make life excruciating for every parent in the universe, forever?  I’ve got just the thing! We’ll tell children everywhere to hide their smallest possession- their baby teeth- under their pillow in the dark of night! Their parents will be tired, it will be risky, and almost possible to find them under their sweaty little heads. It’s a miserable idea only the most idiotic humans will attempt. It’s perfect.

I mean what?!

Their pillow!!?? You’re telling me we have to root around under THEIR PILLOW without waking them? Does anyone else think this sounds like some kind of modern, out-of-the-box court sentence? I don’t know what’s worse, them waking to see their mom lurking over them with nervous sweat dripping off her face and her hand under their pillow, or the fairy forgetting to come altogether. Like how did our parents even do this? And why???

Isn’t Santa Claus and a gigantic disturbed-looking rabbit enough nonsense for children? We have to throw in a fairy with a fetish for teeth? No wonder our kids resent us as teens. That’s right after they figure out that we have been lying to them for their whole lives. And not even good lies like when you tell them that the family pet went to live on a farm, or that milk makes their bones strong.

But all joking aside, this situation did teach me some valuable stuff. Like the fact that only 5 minutes acting as the tooth fairy is enough to cause a slight case of PTSD. And that my husband’s snoring can be heard through two walls and the clanking of unearned medals.

And that all it takes to change the game is a hand-typed note, strategically slipped under, of all things, a child’s pillow.

Lindsay is a full-time working wife and mom. She wants to hear all about your failures as a parent so she knows there are much worse parents out there. 

Lindsay for President!

So it’s ‘back to school’ time and you know what that means- more pressure to join the PTO! For those of you who aren’t familiar with what PTO stands for- shame on you! Just kidding, you are one lucky Mother! Or Father. And it stands for Parent Teacher Organization. Sounds thrilling, right?

Before kids, I always imagined I’d be the perfect PTO mom. Heck, maybe even the PTO president!

I mean, my mom made it all look so easy. Every day she walked us to school and then had all day to like mail letters and get film developed or whatever moms did before social media and smart phones. She attended every class party, every school function, and the school staff knew her by name. She had time to sew, cook, clean, and do our science fair projects for us, (blue ribbon, thank you very much). So I figured, how hard could it be, the PTO? You just show up for the monthly meeting, rah rah rah, take a vote for something, plan the bake sale, get mad props, your kid gets A’s, the end. Right?

PTO Reality

Fast forward about 20 years to now, when I actually AM a mom, and I realize now that my simple bake sale visions were a little short-sighted.

You see, it’s just that I’m tired.

I’m busy.

I don’t have the option to stay home during the day and I don’t know what’s bigger- my to-do list, the unopened emails in my inbox, or the stack of dishes on my counter. It’s probably a 3-way tie. I’m not even sure if we have a mop, it’s been that long since I’ve seen it.

Five days of my week go a little something like this: wake up way too early after way too little sleep, (but somehow I’m already late, go figure). Attempt to shower and groom myself while simultaneously waking, dressing, and feeding a crabby back-talking mini-me. Pack a kid’s lunch that wont be eaten. Clean up the aftermath of a breakfast that wasn’t eaten. Run up and down the stairs 72 times. Let dog out 12 times. Clean up cat puke. Get kid to school.

And then just when I’m finally ending my shift, my 8 hour work day begins.

Coast 30 minutes to work on E because there’s just no time to fill up. Get to work 5 minutes late, which for me is right on time. Work a few hours before cramming 5 errands into my already-too-short lunch break. Work more hours. Drive 30 minutes back home, in traffic. Promptly make hot meal for “starving” family and then spend twice as long cleaning it all up. Homework. Blah Blah Blah. Finally think about sitting on the couch. Look at clock. It’s PTO time.

I don’t know about you, but when the couch and a bowl of ice cream are calling my name after 15 hours of nonstop nonsense, that’s going to win, every single time. #sorrynotsorry. Getting back into my car, driving 15 minutes in the dark to go sit some more, is just not high on my Tuesday night priority list, no matter how much I love my kid and his school. I just can’t seem to do it. I mean, maybe if they gave out vouchers to skip work the next day or something, I’d consider. In fact, they’d probably have a record breaking attendance…

Here’s the deal- I may be at home all comfy, rocking my (three-sizes-too-small) senior sweats, pinning meals I’ll never make, (clearly making the most of all the extra time I suddenly have by not attending the meeting), but it’s not like I don’t feel bad about it.

I know that all those good, unlazy moms are sitting in those hard, plastic, child-size chairs with the sole interest of their child’s education in mind and I feel it, hard.

The mom guilt.

You know what it feels like. That nagging little voice telling you that your mom would have never skipped a PTO meeting. That the other moms love their kids more than you and that they probably have a secret Facebook page set up specifically to take bets on who isn’t going to show up. And you’re at the top of the list, again.

There’s A New PTO In Town

So what can we do? Well, it’s 2018. And that means just one thing:

Social Media is killing us all.

So why not throw one more thing into the mix- the PTO meetings! Let’s live-stream those babies- straight from the school to my couch. Genius, right? Who doesn’t think this a great idea? Seriously, who? It’s a win-win for everyone. Human contact is overrated anyway, right?

Well I guess I hit the jackpot of schools because that’s exactly what my son’s school recently decided to do. I think they said it increased attendance from like 6 to 20,000. Or something like that, who cares I DON’T HAVE TO LEAVE MY HOUSE!

Have you ever attended a school meeting with a glass of Moscato in hand? Well I have and let me tell you- It’s glorious and I highly recommend it! You might even get a little extra adventurous and sign up to chair the field day, or become treasurer; heck maybe you’ll even run for PTO president!  The opportunities are really endless now that you can drink and don’t even have to have a bra on! Hallelujah!

However, we can’t all be pajama warriors- so let’s have a moment of silence for the good noble people that still have to actually show up to stream the meetings to us lazy folk and then raise our glass in cheers to the book fair, bake sale, teacher week, and all the other parenty stuff I’m probably going to inadvertently sign up for from my weakened state, (drunk on my couch).

And if you want to be a keyboard and wine PTO warrior like me, then get involved! Dust off that laptop and send an email to your kid’s school. Tell them that some lazy mom blogger gets to drink during meetings and that you want to, too! (Just dont give them my name).

And if that doesn’t work,  I suggest homeschool. Where you can drink all day long and every day is a PTO meeting.

Lindsay is a 33 or 34 year old somewhat-responsible wife and mother who wants CPS and her local school board to know that she doesn’t actually get drunk during meetings. She just thinks about it.

Hi. My name is Lindsay, I am 33 years old, and I have never been to Disney World.

And here’s another confession- I have absolutely no desire to.

Yep, I said it. Because that’s apparently what happens to children who grow up never having experienced the magic that you can (supposedly) only get at a Disney theme park.

I just don’t get all the hype. Not even a little bit. I don’t know, there’s something about spending thousands of dollars to walk 27 miles a day and stand in super long lines in the hot Florida sun that just doesn’t Tinker my Belle, so to speak. A world of sunburn, blisters, and bankruptcy isn’t my idea of the happiest place on Earth.

But I’m a mom and you know how we try to do better for our kids than we had and all that blah blah blah. So now I’ve found myself facing a dilemma. Mirror, Mirror, on the wall, who’s the coolest Mom of all. Apparently it’s me because WE ARE GOING TO DISNEY!

I seriously considered taking my 5 year old son to Six Flags and telling him it’s Disney. Is that bad? I can just imagine it now- him announcing to his class that he goes to Disney three times every Summer. The one in Eureka, Missouri.

Now come on, it’s no worse than telling him some strange woman flies into his bedroom at night to buy his teeth while he sleeps, right!?

But I’m just gonna be honest. That is why we are doing this after all. For the street cred. That, and so that while he’s sure have a lot to talk about in therapy one day, his parents not taking him to Disney won’t be on the list. Check.

So the first thing I did when we decided to bite the magical bullet was to, naturally, weep over the amount of money we would undoubtedly be spending. Then I asked my friends and coworkers for tips. Which I immediately regretted.

I started hearing words and places and abbreviations I had never imagined; talk of spreadsheets and apps and things like rope drops and park hoppers and magic bands. What?!

Someone said that I would need to choose my meals at least 6 months before the trip. Hold up. You mean to tell me that I have to know what I’m going to want to eat, at a place I’ve never even heard of, SIX MONTHS from now? I don’t even know what fad diet I’ll be on in 6 months, or if I’ll even be alive!

This Disney stuff is next level. I wasn’t prepared for this. Is anyone ever? I had to up my game if I had any hope of finding out where dreams really do come true. There was only one thing to do.

I hired a Disney Planner.

Did you even know this was a thing? I didn’t, but let me tell you this is hands-down the best decision I have made so far and I don’t even want to think about the cluster duck that this whole thing would surely be without her.

Not only has Courtney, my personal Disney princess, I mean planner, answered all 87,000 questions I’ve had so far, but she has gotten up at the crack of Mickey TWICE to nab up my choices for food and events so that, like Sleeping Beauty, I could get a few extra magic hours of my precious sleep. Hiring her ended up saving me time, money, and most importantly, my sanity; and here’s why you may consider doing the same.

The lingo– The first thing that struck me as I began the planning phase of the trip was all the weird Disney jargon and abbreviations; like ADR and cast members, fast pass and memory maker; which at first sounded foreign and annoying but quickly became a part of my everyday vocabulary. Now I’m dropping Disney bombs in random conversation like, “Have a Fantasmic weekend”, in a Minnie Mouse voice. What’s happening to me?

The timelines– If you are like me, I had no idea that there were 4 separate parks. And what that means is that you have to basically study up on which rides and restaurants are at what parks, who has the “Extra Magic Hours”, what the population forecast is supposed to be for each day, what sections are under renovation, and what cycle the moon will be in. It’s freaking mentally exhausting. (Cue Courtney).

My planner provided me with an easy to understand outline of what rides and food joints are in each park, and a list of super secret pro tips you can only get from an expert like her. She’s like a personal genie, but instead of 3 wishes she gave me like 8,000. Courtney will never admit it, but I’m really annoying. Seriously, use a planner. I just can’t stress that enough.

The money– Let’s face it. Disney is not cheap. We could probably go Soarin’ to Jamaica and back for what I’m going to spend in one day at Epcot. And If you think ballgame food is overpriced, wait until you see the price for the food at any Disney park. Has anyone had success with Disney Dine and Dash? Seriously, I considered.

Good thing my girl hooked me up with the dining plan, which is basically like an all-inclusive food and snack package that ensures I’ll gain at least another 20 lbs. I don’t know what the heck a Dole Whip is but it’s on my list and it better be good.

The outfits– Another thing that I can’t quite wrap my head around is all the Disney-themed clothing that seems to be a prerequisite to a day at any park. I don’t know about your family but I’m lucky if the three of us are all even wearing shirts at the same time, let alone custom-made character-coordinated matching family outfits. I could possibly get the kid on board but no amount of pixie dust is gonna convince my husband to jump on this bandwagon and wear a Winnie the Pooh shirt. And do I even want him to??

The characters– When I think of Disney, my mind instantly flashes with visions of oversized ducks, cheerful mice, creepy twin chipmunks, and women dressed like princesses smiling at every turn. Pair that with waiting in super long lines for hugs, and this sounds much closer to my nightmares than any dream I would want to come true.

My own kid said at age 3, “You know the Easter Bunny is just a man in a suit, right?” So at least we are on the same page here, meaning that none of us gives a flying fairy about seeing humans dressed up in furry suits or grown adult women wearing princess crowns to fulfill some sort of prom queen fantasy. So I guess we can scratch this one off the list… (got that Courtney?)

The planning– If you want to do this right, and you don’t have a planner, the truth is that it’s basically a full-time job. “Sorry boss, I can’t come in this week. I’m trying to coordinate our 2019 Disney meals with our outfits. That expense report is gonna have to wait. Do you think Pocahontas likes Italian food?”

If you’re a Disney fanatic and you’ve been recently, you know what I’m talking about. If not, you think I’m flipping crazy. But I basically had to become fluent in spreadsheets in order to maintain some sort of sanity throughout the process before I got my planner involved.

Pro tip- make it a Google Doc and add your Disney planner and boom- instant organizational magic. You can thank me later.

So be smart, and whether you’re a Disney fanatic or a newbie like me, don’t try to do this alone. Its 2018 people. Just call Courtney, her services are totally FREE and you can reach her here.

Everyone keeps telling me that I’ll love Disney World, that there’s no place like it, and that this will be the first of many, many trips there in my future. But I’m not so sure.

I’m gonna make this a 2 part blog series and let you all know how it all goes because so far, the only thing Disney has done for me is to magically drain my bank account.

Lindsay is a full time working mom and wife. She will be looking for side jobs to help pay for this vacation.  

You know that happy, warm feeling of maternal satisfaction when your child comes home from school, tosses his empty lunchbox on the counter and then gushes about how yummy his lunch was? Yeah, me neither.

Please tell me I’m not the only mom who instantly goes into a state of panic and frustration each night when it’s time to think about packing my kid’s lunch. I wish I didn’t get so worked up about it, after all it’s basically just a fake lunch anyway- like a prop. Like when you are trying to sell your house but all your furniture has either been shredded by your cats or destroyed by your kids, (or in my case, both), and no one in their right minds would want to buy it. So someone brings in all this nice, staged furniture that looks great but never actually gets used. It’s like that. But with food. That I bought. With my money.

My husband and I have had countless 9 p.m. lunchbox conversations that always go something like this:

ME, STARING AT THE FRIDGE: “I have NO idea what I’m even going to put in his lunch tomorrow! We have NOTHING!”  *shoots invisible laser beams of resentment from my eyes aimed directly at him across the room*

HIM, FROM COUCH: “We JUST went grocery shopping!”  *looks at me like he’s giving me a mental welfare check*

ME: “He won’t eat any of that!”

HIM: “That’s insane!”

ME: “I know it’s insane but WHAT AM I GOING TO PUT IN THERE!?”  *help me*

HIM: “Nothing! Send him with an empty lunchbox. That’ll teach him. I’m not worried about it.”  *mentally checks out*

ME: “I don’t want to deal with Child Protective Services. We need to lay low.”

HIM: *asleep on the couch*

You see,  I’m sure I’m already on their radar after the well-meaning principal and counselor of my son’s school randomly chose students to eat lunch with them recently and picked our son. On the day that I packed him just Oreos and potato chips for lunch. And forgot his drink. I’m on borrowed time here….

Now you might be thinking, why don’t I just send him with money and let him buy lunch? Easy peasy, right?

Wrong.

If I decided to let him buy lunch, the food and my money would be wasted anyway. Even if he decided to break pattern and actually consume his lunch, they have about 4 minutes to stuff their little faces before they are booted out of the cafeteria. That’s just 3 minutes longer than a Ronda Rousey fight. There’s no time to stand in line AND eat. They have to choose one or the other. I can’t even imagine being that rushed to eat. You don’t want to know what happens when somebody tells me it’s time to stop eating. It makes the Hunger Games look like an Easter egg hunt. It’s not pretty.

Also, I’ve seen the school lunches and frankly, they look like something even a prison inmate would refuse. I mean, would I eat it? Yeah. But that’s not saying much; I can’t remember ever passing up food. Shocking, I know.

If I relied on the school to feed him, how am I going to know what he did or didn’t eat? Without the remains of his lunchbox coming back to me each day, how would I have the solid, irrefutable evidence that my son didn’t eat his lunch? Which is important because us helicopter moms revolve around that kind of information. It’s 2018, people. If my only-child even farts off schedule I’m going to know about it.

Which brings me to another observation. Maybe my kid isn’t eating his lunch because he gets two frigging snacks every day. That’s right; as if packing a pretend lunch wasn’t hard enough, we have to send TWO separate snacks every day. Every. Day. Maybe if we scaled back a bit on the extra feedings, these kids might actually eat the dang lunches us moms are packing, instead of holding out for the Funyuns they know they’re getting after pre-calculus, or whatever it is they teach kindergartners now. For the love of God!

And yes, Betty Crocker, I know that I could simply throw on my apron and pack healthy snacks like yogurt parfait, kale chips, and maple-glazed-honey-roasted chickpeas into my sweet angel’s backpack each day. But lemme tell you a little story about the time my kid begged for apples….

It was a Tuesday night. Grocery shopping. With my kid. After 8 hours of working. There’s no hotter hell on Earth. But then he said the words every mother wants to hear but only the good moms get to: “Can I have some apples?” My eyes lit up. My heart sang. Imagine what the cafeteria staff will think of me if my child eats an apple! This is exactly the stuff mom dreams are made of. So I bought some. Not one. Not two. In my excitement I bought like 16 apples. The expensive organic ones too, because if we are set to impress we are gonna go all out, baby! CPS are you reading this- I buy apples!

But then, much to my surprise the apple kept coming back day after day untouched and uneaten until I threatened to send the same [censored] apple in his lunch until high school graduation if I had to. And then when it finally came home with one microscopic tooth mark barely breaking the skin, you’re gosh darn right I just cut that spot off and sent the same [censored] apple the next day. Two can play this game, I thought. So we went back and forth, him taking a tiny bite or two, me cutting the bites off and putting it back in his lunch the next day; solid parenting at it’s finest. If you’re wondering how long it takes for a mutilated organic apple to rot, it’s 13 days. Or so I’ve heard. It’s about principles, people. He ASKED for apples!

The point of all this is, I don’t even remember anymore. I’m 33. Did you read my last article? I forget things.

All I know is there are too many snacks at school, my kid hates fruit, and I’m one uneaten lunch away from my husband checking me into the looney bin.

How old before kids pack their own lunches?

Lindsay is a full-time working wife, mom, and blogger. She once held a wand while car shopping and got a fantastic deal on a car.

But people like to tell me that I should have more kids. That I’m “doing it wrong.” That I’m being selfish or that I’m psychologically damaging my child by not bringing more humans into this world for the sole purpose of giving him the status of “brother”.

Don’t get me wrong; I admire all of you parents of two, three, four, and even (gasp!), FIVE kids- but I am just not cut out for all that. The thought of being responsible for keeping more than one child fed, dressed, alive, and out the door by 7 a.m. before starting my 9-5 makes my head spin faster than the propeller of the boat I can afford (since I only have one kid).

So I’ve come up with 5 benefits of having (just) one offspring that I’ll share with you now:

1. When you find a LEGO floating in the toilet, permanent marker scribbled on the butler’s bedroom door, (just kidding, our butler doesn’t live with us), or your brand new limited edition Chanel eye palette smeared across the couch, (just kidding, I don’t wear Chanel makeup), you don’t have to wonder who to yell at. You already know. And they know you know. Which saves a whole lot of guesswork so you can get straight to the part where you punish them and they laugh in your face.

2. Coming from families of three and four kids, my husband and I weren’t afforded commodities like braces, college, or second dinners. But with having just one, we might just be able to scrape up enough cash so that he can afford the therapy he will undoubtedly need by the time he reaches college. Which brings me to back to college. Of course we aren’t making any promises but if he’s lucky and I’m able to cut the cord and let him leave my home, we are planning on funding his tuition. Assuming he doesn’t get himself incarcerated before then, which judging by his kindergarten record with the Principal we aren’t ruling out just yet.

3. It’s a lot easier to neglect one child than it is to neglect, say, three. We all have those days when we just can’t mom anymore, so we dial up the Nanny, Netflix; turn her up extra loud and slip off into the bathroom to pee alone for a few minutes and dream about the days when every door knob in your home wasn’t coated with some dried up mystery crust. Somehow, even the magic of SpongeBob Square Pants isn’t enough to keep my kid from finding me within 3 and a half minutes to ask me if he can have second lunch. “Yes”, I tell him, since he’s the only mouth we have to feed…..

4. We aren’t outnumbered. People with multiple kids often complain to me that they are outnumbered by their children. Not gonna happen with one. Even if my husband leaves me someday for his secretary, I’ll still have just the one kid. And one kid plus one stubborn Taurus mom equals still not outnumbered. Winning.

5. When we die, there won’t be a family battle over our inheritance, (or lack there of). Let’s face it, I have a son so I’ll probably be living in a home by age 59 and will be lucky if I talk to him more than once every 6 months. But at least I can die knowing that no one is fighting over my remains or my New Kids on the Block memorabilia. It’s all yours, son!

So next time someone wants to school me on all the ways I’m damaging my son by not giving him the sweet everlasting gift of siblings, I’ll refer them to this article and they can see for themselves all the ways he’ll be damaged anyway. I mean, aren’t we all?

Is it that hard to color between the lines, sit in a circle for story time, and limit the number of boogers you eat in public? And if my kid elbowed a fellow five year old in line, is that really a principal-worthy offense? (In case you were wondering, the answer to all of these is a big fat YES).

I went from thinking, “I’m gonna kick that kid’s #%*”, to “This entire school system is more broken than my ‘off limits’ nativity set after Christmas.” I mean, when I was a kid I didn’t even know where the Principal’s office was! Or if it actually existed. My parents had a better chance of spotting a yeti in our backyard than getting a call from the school principal, and they had 3 kids!

But one thing I know for sure- if I had seen the Principal, I would have been terrified to come home that day. My already chewed up fingernails would have been bloody nubs by the time I made it through the front door.

But not my kid.

What does my kid do? He nonchalantly waltzes off the bus whistling a little tune with a sparkle in his eye and a skip in his step, waving at the neighbors and asking his dad what kind of special snack he got to have.

This tactic we were not prepared for. All of the pre-rehearsed ‘we’re-so-disappointed’ talk went right out the window as we were forced to abort the original plan and scramble a new one using only parental eye contact and facial expressions while the kid blissfully enjoyed his granola bar between us.

We decided to wait him out. Surely he was going to tell us. Or else the guilt would eat him alive. Right?

Wrong.

See, we aren’t dealing with your average 5 year old here. I guess I should have known. I’m no stranger to my child comedian’s shenanigans after all.

Like the morning when I heard a scream of terror from downstairs, to find him lying motionless at the bottom of our steps, looking quite unconscious. I got halfway down with my heart in my throat before I saw the ever-so-slight smirk escape from his pretend death stare.

Or more recently, when he was home from school with the flu and he cried out to me from the bathroom that he had a bloody nose. “It’s okay,” I comforted him from afar as I rushed in to help. Except it wasn’t blood on his face, it was red pen strategically (and quite amateurishly if I’m being honest), scribbled under his nostrils. “Tricked yuh!” he yelled all proud and pathetic looking. “Yeah you really got me,” I said, “Who’s the fool now?” I lamented, “Me for falling for another trick or the kid with pen all over his face?”

The boy who cried wolf rings hollow in this house.

So we decided to go about our day, waiting for him to cave and confess so we could bring forth the consequences. Throughout family dinner and then bath time, it never happened. It was almost humorous at this point. Almost.

At bedtime, I couldn’t hold back any longer. I asked him how on Earth he earned a seat in the Principal’s office on the third month of kindergarten!?

“How did you KNOW!?” were his only words but the surprised expression on his face was priceless.

“Because the principal calls parents when this happens!” I said, holding back the “DUH!” I wanted to yell.

“But she didn’t tell me that!” he cried, as if that mattered. As if telling me that the only reason he didn’t confess was because she didn’t give him a heads up about the phone call would help his cause.

And this is how we knew we were in big trouble. That my five year old was capable of crying real, legit, God-fearing tears in the Principal’s office but could come home and pretend that everything was sunshine and rainbows. Except let’s be real, I have a boy so make that troll farts and poop emoji’s.

I realized then that we are going to have to prepare for the long haul with this one. We were gonna have to up our game. If he’s pulling this stuff at age five, what’s going to happen at fifteen? I’m gonna need to start building a wine cellar now for all the alcohol that it’s gonna take to get me through the teen years.

So we did what any good, loving family with morals and values and all that crap does. We told him that every time he goes to the principal’s office, somewhere, a puppy dies.

We’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, if anyone knows of a good therapist, shoot me a message. And pray for me.

And comment below with something your kid did that stopped you in your tracks. So I know I’m not alone. If you don’t, somewhere, a puppy dies.

So I guess this is happening. It’s real. I did it. A REAL blog. In the flesh! Well, there’s no flesh involved, but still. (It’s not that kind of blog…)

Here I am. “Essentially Momming” because let’s face it, all of us moms are, essentially, momming it up 24/7. It’s what we do. It ain’t easy and it isn’t always pretty but we mom and we mom HARD.

I’m here to show you how I mom and hopefully we can get through this journey together with some love, some laughs, and a whole lotta wine. Or in my case, a whole lotta anxiety but I don’t want to scare you right off the bat so let’s just go with wine.

I guess I should introduce myself. I’m a twenty-something laid back Pinterest mom who bakes and knits and vacuums every day and never forgets to make the bed.

Just kidding. I’m 33, married with a 5 year old son and I work full-time. I have like 15 hobbies on the side so I’m always running in 5 different directions and appear to be losing my mind at all times. I’ve left my coffee on the roof of my car more times than I care to remember and I can almost never find my car keys. My motto is ‘why use a fork when you can use a chip’. And I haven’t brushed my hair in 6 years.

But I’m momming my best and I’m trying to raise my kid as naturally and sanely as I can in this toxic world. I believe that we are evolving towards a more Earth-friendly era where we have awakened and are going to be more conscious of the products we use and the foods we consume. So I’m stumbling like a drunk college co-ed toward that vision and bringing you along with me. We’ll laugh and you’ll laugh at me and that’s okay because I’m like the CEO of the hot mess crazy train and I’m ok with that.

Thanks for joining me and let’s go mom the hell out of this day!

-Lindsay

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