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.

This is the story that started my blog.

What you are about to read is not based on a true story, it IS a true story. I can only hope that someday the footage will be unearthed because trust me that would be really [censored] funny.

When I posted this recap of my day on Facebook a year and a half ago, everyone said I should be writing. So I thought to myself, okay, maybe I’ll start a blog. And the rest is history. If you enjoy this story, please share it! Better yet, SUBSCRIBE to my blog so you can continue reading stories just like this. Because you know you want to.

I’m a mom. Which means that any chance that I have to eat alone, fully dressed, and without a tiny dictator that I created telling me exactly how to make something he isn’t going to eat anyway, I take it. So if that means I have to eat alone in public, sign me up. No shame in my game.

I had a gift card for the local bakery so I went there for lunch, because who doesn’t love free? Despite my better judgement, I ordered all the bread. I basically had bread on bread with a side of bread. But I enjoyed my leisurely, quiet, low-toddler, high-carb lunch. No drama. Belly full. Back to work I go.

As I’m walking to my car though, I realize that I can’t find my obnoxiously gigantic car key. The key that I removed from my ring a week ago and never put back on despite my inner smart-ass that kept telling me I was going to lose it. You know, the same voice I ignore when it tells me to lay off carbs.

But I also have an obnoxiously gigantic purse so there was no reason to panic just yet. Ask my husband, losing my keys is kinda my trademark.

So I dig thru my disaster of a purse 3 times and I still I can’t find it. Pockets are empty.

I go back inside and make my rounds, asking each employee if anyone has turned in a key. Nope.

I ask the manager who clearly doesn’t give a [censored] about my problems. Nothing.

I look through my purse again. I’m starting to get a little nervous at this point.

I locate the table I was sitting at and ask the lady now occupying it if she will stop eating and get up so I can crawl underneath her table. Nothing but crumbs and fear now.

I GO THROUGH THE TRASH. (Keep in mind it’s the lunch hour. And flu season. This is very risky). I’m starting to sweat.

I ask annoyed employees again. They still hate me and they still have no key.

I walk back out to my car.

I ask God for mercy while staring up at the heavens (in the rain. Because of course, it’s raining now). “I swear I’ll think about going to church if you just help me find my key!” I beg as I look through my purse for the 16th time, squatting on the wet pavement next to my car. Still nothing. Now I’m definitely not going to think about going to church, thanks a lot.

I search pockets again. I check pockets for holes. Heart pounding.

I go back inside and sit down at an empty table to take every single thing out of my purse like I’m moving in. Nothing.

Just as I’m about to cry, I decide to feel around the lining of my coat to see if it magically slipped through a nonexistent hole in my pocket and… there it is. Giant key FOB floating around in the bottom of my jacket between the linings.

But I still can’t find the hole.

THERE’S NO HOLE.

My pockets are perfect.

They’re mocking me.

I check the time. I’m supposed to be back at work in 5 minutes and the key to my car is INSIDE my coat, like the immaculate conception.

Time is running out.

Panic is setting in.

People already think I’m a psychotic weirdo because they watched me dig through the trash and crawl under a table before taking everything out of my purse and putting it right back in, while sweating.

I cannot get the key out!

So what can I do?

The only thing left:

I summon my inner Hulk strength and RIPPPP a hole in my coat before reaching in to tear the key out like some sort of emergency jacket C-section.

And then I yell “YESSSSS!” like I just won the lottery and run out of the cafe with neither my coat nor my dignity intact.

Somehow, I made it back to work on time but I was not the same person I was before I left that windowless office.

I was changed. And it wasn’t just the gaping hole in my jacket. I was fierce, like a Lion. I learned some real life lessons that day. 

I discovered that when I’m backed into a corner until I’m sweating with nervous desperation and have no other options, I’m pretty much a no-limits bad ass.

Also, there really is no such thing as a free lunch. And I’m still never going to order the salad.

Lindsay is a 30 year old working wife, mom, and liar because she’s really 34. She has like 7 jobs and hopes to write a book one day. Because this [censored] is funny. Seriously, try not to laugh.

I consider myself a pretty street-smart chick. I mean, don’t ask me what the square root of anything is, or even what 24 divided by three is. Or really any elementary-level math or above. And I can’t properly use a ruler. But other than that, I can navigate the world pretty confidently using my God-given intuition and good, old fashioned common sense. Really, I can.

So when I was recently offered a  “Free Wellness Exam” at a chiropractic TENT set up at a CARNIVAL, you would think that surely I knew better than to fall for that sideshow nonsense.

I’d like to think that maybe my back pain clouded my judgement that day. Maybe it was the obnoxious clanking of the Calliope music. Maybe it was the food poisoning I had likely contracted from the days-old funnel cake and corn dog I consumed. Or maybe the smell of vomit and hot nacho cheeze sauce in the hot Summer air was enough to convince my senses to step into the tent in an attempt to conserve my lung capacity.

Whatever it was, they got me all right. They got me good. Because before the Ferris Wheel had even made a full rotation I had an appointment booked and paid for. Signed, sealed, delivered, I’m dumb.

Two days later, I drove 30 minutes out of my way after working an 8 hour shift, just in time for their “last appointment of the day.” The moment I walked in the door I knew I had made a foolish, fair-drunk mistake.

I don’t know if it was the Christian music blaring over the speakers, the glittery walls brimming with stock-photo people and their “I’m cured” testimonials, the clients casually scanning their phones to check-in so the receptionists don’t even have to speak anymore, or the 52 other people in the waiting room alongside me. All waiting for ONE doctor, which at this point I was picturing as a Jester.

Maybe it was the fact that there weren’t any doors on any of the adjustment rooms and I could just see bodies sprawled out on beds like I was at some sort of weird HIPAA-violating Christian-Rock hospital ward. They even have a prayer box on the wall that they were sure to point out to me during the “tour” of their hallway. They said they pray every morning. “Please God don’t let the customers read our Yelp reviews.”

Or maybe it was that they didn’t have WiFi!

Note to all businesses with a waiting room- It’s 2018. Why do you not have WiFi? Get with the program, people. When I inquired about it, they replied that they are “new,” as if being open for 13 months still qualifies? Listen, If I have to sit here for the next two hours listening to “God is My Wing Man;” at the very least, you better not make me use my own data. For the love.

This place was like a factory. And after about 30 minutes, I told them that, too. Which is probably why a few minutes after ushering me to the overflow waiting room (which was situated conveniently outside one of their multiple sales offices), they complimented my hair and presented me with a gift.

First of all, my hair looked like absolute [censored] and if a logo’d coffee mug filled with candy was supposed to make me overlook the fact that 15 more people had filed into the fun house and that I had now been there 45 minutes past my appointment time, it did not work.

Jesus, take the wheel because it’s about to go down up in this house of (smoke and) mirrors.

I considered scrawling a note and dropping in into the prayer box. “Please God let this not be a scam.” I even sent my husband a few colorful SOS texts while I was in the holding cell. “Help me. This place is [Censored. Censored censored, censored].” At the rate that these people were pouring in the door, it was almost as if they had found all their customers at a fair or something. Oh, wait.

I could see that the ladies at the front desk were getting a little nervous when they realized I might be onto them. And that their gift didn’t work. Candy is not my love language, y’all. It’s bread.

So when I went back up to the lobby, parting through the crowd on a mission to tell them I was leaving, and maybe even cuss a little; I was pleasantly surprised when they profusely apologized for overbooking and let me know that I would be getting my money back. Praise the Lord!

Maybe they were scared to anger us carnie folk. Maybe it was the combination of rage in my eyes and the lingering scent of corn dog on my breath. Or maybe, it was because I told her that I was a big-time blogger and that if they didn’t return my money I would write about it.

Either way, I kept the mug. I’m calling it a carnival prize.

Lindsay is a wife, mom, and comedy blogger, apparently. Because her life is a big joke. If any physical therapists out there are willing to trade their services for laughter or dog hair, hit her up.

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.

Who knew it would take me 43 days to figure out how to write part II of my Disney blog series? Well, I did. Because frankly, I really didn’t want to write it. I came home from Disney and sat down for an hour and wrote down ALL the things I loved about Disney so I wouldn’t forget. And now I can’t find the post-it note. Kidding. Kind of.

But seriously. Usually writing comes fairly easily to me so it was a bit disconcerting to find myself opting to clean the urine off my bathroom walls instead of sitting down to write for my blog.

So I had to ask myself, why is this so hard for me to write? And why is there so much urine on my bathroom surfaces? And the answer may surprise you. (About the trip, not the pee. I’m a boy mom.)

My Disney trip was, well, just okay. I mean it was fun and I don’t at all regret going. But I didn’t really find it as “magical” as I hear people describe. Nothing funny even happened like when my kid was 3 and got his head stuck in the handle of his Olaf suitcase at the airport. I enjoyed it as the vacation away from work and responsibilities that it was, but I can’t say I wouldn’t have rather been on a beach sipping frosty alcoholic beverages brought to me by some super tan caribbean cabana boy. Now before you gather your pitchforks and feed me to the Beast, allow me to explain….

1. The Land of the Lost. Most of the time, I had no idea where I was, which is to be expected on your first trip I suppose. I didn’t like the feeling of rushing around the crowded parks with my phone in my hand staring at an app that only worked some of the time. I found myself getting frustrated and crabby and almost throat-punched Goofy once when he couldn’t tell me how to get to Nowhereland. I thought to myself on multiple occasions, I shouldn’t have to be staring at my phone on vacation. I’m sure for the more seasoned Disney veterans, this isn’t as much of an issue for getting around, but we were rushing to make it to our Fast Pass destinations and dining reservations and being that we didn’t know Tomorowland from Todayland (or something), we didn’t really have a choice. Someone needs to become a Disney Park Guide for hire and just escort overwhelmed newbies around the parks all day. I imagine this would save marriages.
2. The gift shop sneak swap. So basically this is every parent’s nightmare and it happens literally on every single ride there is in all 4 parks. Let’s use Space Mountain as an example here. What happens is you stand in line for 30 minutes which feels like 80 if you have a child under the age of 10, and then after a 3 second ride, the roller coaster actually spits you out into the very back of a large gift shop so you have no possible way of coming out without either a $45 souvenir you don’t want or your child hysterically crying and embarrassing you in public as they scream “I hate you! You never let me get ANYTHING!” at the top of their lungs. Times this by like 30 rides a day. So now I have 110 Disney figurines stuffed into my couch cushions and every cup holder of my non-minivan. Thanks Disney. I’m onto you. Fun times.
3. The food prices. So if you read part I of my Disney series (which you can find here), you would know that I had my awesome Disney Planner hook me up with the super sweet dining plan. Which I would probably do again, however that doesn’t mean I’m not gonna complain about it a little first. So in a nutshell, the way it works is that you get a certain number of sit down, counter order, and snacks allotted to each person per day. Adults even get one alcoholic beverage of their choice with each meal! There actually ended up being more snacks than we could even consume and all we had to do was tip. Sounds simple. Sounds cheap. But the thing that gets my tiara in a tizzy is that the food prices are so inflated that almost every one of our meals was over $100. For a family of three with a kids meal! I completely agree with tipping but when a bottled beer is $12 and when we have to tip on their exaggerated food and alcohol pricing, it left a bad taste in my mouth. And it wasn’t beer.

   

4. Bleeding feet. So I knew what I was getting into, but it didn’t stop it from happening and it’s not going to stop me from whining about it either. Holy Cinderella my feet hurt! I bought all the extra-padded, arch-supported, memory-foam-soled shoes I could find and even tried alternating them each day like all the Disney pros say you’re supposed to do. And yet I may as well have been wearing a glass slipper as I still proceeded to get new blisters within the first hour every day at each park. Halfway through our trip I ended up in my trusty old flip flops, with my ankles swelling to 4x the normal size by the last day. It was misery. It took 2 days after returning home with ice packs strapped to my feet to feel normal again. I don’t know how people survive 7+ day trips to Disney because I would actually die.  

Okay, so it wasn’t all bad. Overall, it was a good vacation. A little less relaxing than I would have liked but the smile on my kiddo’s face made all the money and blisters totally worth it. I want to highlight what we loved as well…

1. Animal Kingdom! This was by far our favorite park. The foliage alone made me feel like we were in another land and the park itself had a more laid-back vibe which is exactly what we needed on our last day. If we ever went back, we would skip the other parks and just wander around this one. I didnt even think about throat-punching one single person or animal the whole day.
2. Pandora! So this is located inside Animal Kingdom too, but I feel it needs its own paragraph, it’s THAT good. If you’ve seen the movie Avatar, you will love this place. If you haven’t seen the movie Avatar, you will love this place. It is one of the most breathtaking places I’ve ever seen! We spent time just wandering around looking at the exotic plants that were both real and created by hand, which was hard to discern most of the time. If you can swing it, be sure to spend time there both during the day and at night because when the sun goes down, it’s an entirely different and interactive experience with everything glowing including the ground! 
3. Flight of Passage- Again, this newer ride is inside Animal Kingdom located within Pandora but this was THE reason I went to Disney and it did not disappoint. Luckily our planner scored us Fast Passes and even more luckily, the ride was running that day. The entire day before we were there it was inoperable and there were some very unhappy people! On the day we went, the other highly sought Avatar ride, the Na’vi River Journey, was not running but I was okay with that since Flight of Passage was. I can barely put into words how amazing this ride was! If I could just live on this ride for the rest of my life it would be just fine. Okay, maybe not for the rest of my life, but seriously, this ride is amazing in every way. The fact that we were able to experience this high-tech virtual phenomenon with our 6 year old in between us was also incredible. We loved it so much we all decided to wait in line for an hour and a half to ride it again. This was a big deal considering that this was during the last hours of our vacation and by this time I couldn’t feel either of my feet and was contemplating hospitalization. Worth every second.
4. The Biggest Surprise: My son loved the characters! It just so happened that I sort of accidentally booked a “character meal” which included a buffet-style lunch with Donald, Mickey, Daisy, and Goofy intermittently stopping by the tables for photo ops. My son was thrilled! We were genuinely perplexed and pleased that he was able to just be a kid and enjoy the silliness of the oversized costumed people and have a little character fun. Plus it softened the blow when we got the $145 bill. You just never know….
5. Honorable Mentions:

         Dole Whip- it really IS that good. It’s almost scary good. What is IN that stuff!?

         Cast Members- they really ARE that helpful. 

         Counting the number of crying children in strollers that aren’t yours- Awesome.

So while it was fun, and we can now say we’ve been, and my son had a blast, I don’t imagine I’ll be going back any time soon. And that’s okay. Some people get matching Tinkerbell tattoos, have a Disney shirt for every day of the year, and plan their next trip before they’ve even left the resort.  And then there’s me.

If you are thinking about going to Disney for the first time, or if you go every 6 months, consider using a Disney Planner like Courtney. It’s free and there’s no reason not to!

Lindsay has a freakish talent for being summoned for jury duty. Seriously. Help Me.

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.  

I’ll just say it. People are mean. I don’t just mean like rude, because sure, people are rude; but I mean people are straight up nasty to each other today! Like cringeworthy, Chef Ramsay looks like a Saint, I’m a little embarrassed to be a human kind of nasty.

The thing is, it’s human nature to judge, isn’t it? I do it. You do it. We all do it. We are social beings. And frankly, it’s difficult NOT to judge in the world we live in. Pinterest is brimming with very best of the best craft moms all competing to outdo one another in our attempt to create “that perfect pin”; Instagram is page after page of near-perfect photography, making anything less than a picture taken with a Nikon DS72000Pro+ look like garbage in comparison. And on Facebook our feeds are a never-ending wheel of someone’s new diamond earrings, their fancy French Riviera vacation photos, their kid’s straight A report card, or their latest LuluLemon-clad yoga selfies. (Guilty on all charges. Just kidding my kid doesn’t get A’s).

We are living in a world where a picture of someone’s breakfast could pop up in our Twitter feed and we wouldn’t blink an eye. Unless the lighting looked bad. Or the food wasn’t healthy enough. Or it was too healthy. Or it wasnt on an eco-friendly BPA-free recyclable hand-wash only platter from Crate & Barrel.

God forbid I make a video and there’s a dirty sock on the floor in the background. OMG shut it down- her house isn’t clean! Does she even HAVE a housekeeper? What kind of socks does she buy her kids, are those organic? Who did she vote for? I can’t even. Click.

I have a strong suspicion that if our original ancestors had access to social media, humans probably wouldn’t exist right now. Can you even imagine how the birth of Christ could have gone down if it were around back then?

“Did you see Mary’s Instagram?”

“Yeah, who’s baby is that?”

“I don’t think it’s Joseph’s”

“She said she was a virgin!”

“Ugh, Let’s unfollow her.”

And we can tell ourselves that even though society can be pretty crappy to each other online, we would never act like that with the people we know, like our friends and neighbors. But that’s not true and we know it. My own neighborhood Facebook page is like something straight outta the Lord of the Flies at times. We are eating eachother for breakfast! (and then tweeting it, for likes). I once posted that I hated Gilmore Girls and 16 of my friends and one sister deleted me. Ouch.

I think we can all agree that cyberbullying is a problem with our tweens and teens but then as adults we do the exact same thing, but in the name of politics, or anti-politics, religion, or whatever the news wants us to fight about next. We have forgotten how to be kind. How to come together in person AND online to show the next generation how to be a little less “extra” in the mean department.

None of us are perfect. We all have our moments. And we can’t all have 3.5 million followers, bake perfect low-carb gluten-free whole 31 meals every day. Not everyone’s pool boy is going to make the cover of Flex magazine. Some of us are just average people, picking up our kids from the bus stop 3 minutes late in our bath robe, forgetting to fold the laundry for 6 months, and yelling at the dog again for scooting his butt across the carpet.

So before you chew out your college roommate’s little brother over a post on the internet remember how you know this person. Remember why you became friends with them. Remember that you could have much worse neighbors and you may need them someday. Remember that your kids are watching. Remember that life is short. And be a little kinder. 

Lindsay is a full-time working wife, mom, and blogger. Despite what you may think, she has never tried Nutella.

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.

I’m still on the sweet side of 35, but let me tell you that my thirtieth birthday brought a lot more than DQ ice cream cake and another-year-older-wisdom. I went from being a bright-eyed, wrinkle-free new mom to waking up fumbling for my glasses in order to pop in my dentures almost overnight. Ok, so that may be a bit of an exaggeration, but still. Here’s what I’ve learned, (the hard way), since my 30th birthday.

1. Staying up past 9 p.m. is a chore. Unless of course I have even the slightest trace of caffeine after 10 a.m. in which case I’ll be wide awake all night long. There’s a very fine line between nodding off at work and inadvertently pulling an all-nighter; it’s about 2 teaspoons too much of caffeine. But even then, I’d rather have another root canal than have to get ready and leave the house after 9. Not gonna happen. Unless your bachelorette party is at noon on a Sunday I’m not coming. That body-shaped indent on the couch didn’t happen overnight y’all. And it’s calling my name…

2. You start getting gray hair! And in case you are young enough not to know, they aren’t just gray. They are thick, coarse, super sparkly gray hairs that catch the light and shine like Kim K’s derriere when she broke the internet. Yeah, I said it. And speaking of hair, you start finding them in places you never imagined. Like the middle of your forehead. I might not even need a Halloween costume next year.

3. Suddenly you’re hearing words in normal conversation that you don’t even understand. Like bae, fleek, turnt, extra, and woke. And nothing makes you feel older than sitting in a room full of millennials discussing their bitcoin portfolios. The last time I was this confused was in my high school Spanish class, but at least then I could copy off the smart girl so no one knew I was the only one still turnt from the weekend. Wow, that sounds even dumber when you type it.

4. Not only are words getting weirder, but names are too. I saw a young mom with the cutest baby outside the library the other day. (Yes, there are still libraries! Read a book, people.) I asked her what the baby’s name was and she said *ASTERISK*. Have we run out of names!? I’m sure she saw the look of disgust I didn’t bother trying to hide from my face and she was probably thinking, “who does that old lady think she is?” And, “she really should wax her forehead!”

5. “Ring of fire” takes on a whole new meaning. What used to sound like a Lord of the Rings reference now has me taking a hard pass on those deep-fried extra-hot jalapeño poppers. Habanero salsa? No thanks, I have to work tomorrow. And I’d like to stay married a little while longer.

6. You realize you never actually had a real hangover. In your college days it was nothing to slam 15 beers and several shots with names like “Flamin’ Beaver, Brass Monkey, and Slippery Nipple,” on a Tuesday night before waking up and doing it all again less than 24 hours later. After 30, a half a glass of red wine on a full stomach has me crawling to the medicine cabinet at 3 a.m. to slam some ibuprofen. Cheers.

7. You begin referring to people as kids. And then you realize they are like 26. And before you know it your 20 year high school reunion is here and no one feels young in a room with 300 classmates each trying to impress each other with their 401k’s and talking about “the good old days”. Hey, at least we aren’t eating Tide pods for fun.

8. Workout pains become a thing. None of us are getting any younger and at this age, maintaining your fitness is more important than ever. Those 10 pounds you gained after college quickly turned into 50. Oh, just me? Shut up. Either way, the point is that working out is not as easy as it used to be. It feels like just yesterday I was the young peppy girl in the gym and now I’m the overweight, under slept mom who shows up with my pants on inside out groaning every time I have to get up off the floor. Is it nap time yet?

9. You don’t care anymore what people think. Recently I got in my car and drove down the street with my coffee mug on the roof. I realized it just as I approached the end of my street where the cool neighborhood high school kids were gathered waiting for the bus. They were pretty amused at the crazy old hairy mom lady who had to get out and rescue her cup. Five years ago, I would have been mortified. Now, I raised that mug high in a toast and hollered out “This is your brain after kids,” because, the more you know…

10. You start to forget things. Like I just forgot what the 10th thing was even going to be. But I bet it was funny. Yes, really, really funny. I’ll think of it at midnight since today was a two-cups-of-coffee morning.

I don’t mean to sound so negative; there’s some really great things about being 30 too. Like having money in my savings account. And not having to search through my disaster of a purse for my ID when I’m buying my boxed wine at 711. I just wish I would have appreciated my twenties a little better. Maybe savored a few more chili peppers or dyed my hair a little less when I didn’t have to. And listened to more music when it was still good. So all you teens and twenties out there- enjoy it. Because once 30 comes around, it smacks you in the wrinkled face and there’s no turning back. So you just have to roll with it. And stock up on Tums.

Over 30? What’s the one thing that surprised you the most. Don’t be shy, comment below. And subscribe!

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?