Top Ten Reasons Why Halloween is Awesome.

I won't begin to deny that there is a very GOOD possibity I own nearly as many, if not more, Halloween decor than I do Christmas decor.

Which, Mom- if you somehow read this blasphemy of a blog- in no way is my subtle way of saying that I love the Eve of Evil to be construed that I mean that I love Satan or death or the afterlife, or that these glorious celebrations have any precedence over Christ or Our Savior, or so on and so forth. 

As a Catholic, I wholly respect and look forward to Advent and Christmas. 

As a human, I wholly look forward to ghosts and goblins and miniature Milky Way bars. 

Fact is: I just love Halloween. 

I love monsters and creepy crawlers and skeletons and mist and horror movies. I love costumes and orange. Pumpkins and Tim Burton and Jack Skellington, and Casper and the folklore and candy.

Definitely candy. 

No, if I had to choose- I would always choose Christmas. I much prefer peppermint in my coffee over pumpkin or spice. No debate. There is no comparison, HOWEVER. 

Halloween??!! 

It is just so dark and brooding. Any die-hard Cure fan like myself can't ignore such a devilishly dark and clouded holiday celebrating all things dead and shadowed! That would be terrible. I just want to listen to Faith, or The Drowning Man, Oh- don't get me started. 

A little Old school goth, Souxie and the Banshees....some faux-spiderwebs...

Throw in the Shining and Poltergeist and I am one damn happy mama. 

Why? Because it's not everyday. It's not everyday you can enjoy zombies and supernatural spirits and overwhelming amounts of sugar, and not give two fucks what anyone thinks, that's why. 

In the words of Tim Burton: "one person's craziness is another person's reality."

So, the logic resounding behind this holiday, this strangely cryptic holiday that pronounces death and darkness:  is that you need precisely NO logic in which to defend you love of it. It is just crazily wonderful, and that is that.  

Team Edward, Team Jacob; Team I-hate-Twilight: we all can agree that Anne Rice had the right idea.

If we glitter in the sun, or we burn and cower- we all are. 

That is this one day, we are what we are and we are what we are not. :) 

And, as expected, I ensue: 

10. One day a year, you can wear literally- LITERALLY- anything in public and people will just nod and smile. 

9. Drunken stupor is not only encouraged, it's expected. 

8. Even Scrouge can't hide from Christmas, hiding from Trick-or-Treaters is even less likely.

7. Candy.

6. If you have kids? They dress up in cute little costumes.

5. If you don't have kids, you see lots of other people's kids dressed up in cute costumes. 

4. It's the one day a year that slutty women blend in.

3. Slutty woman costumes. A.k.a. = boobs. 

2. Did I mention candy??!

1. I get to are my kids look adorable, wear a slutty costume, eat a crapload of candy, and get drunk. No one can say ANYTHING. Why?

Because it's Halloween. 

 

Top Ten Reasons to Revamp Your Blog.

I have had, not even bullshitting you, hundreds of blog ideas. 

Good ones. Admittedly.

I've never MADE one of those.

But I think about them, they float through my head and become beautiful images of splendor and popularity and everyone thinks they are awesome....

...then I wake up. And I remember, "wow, I have brilliance I simply cannot stretch between concept and completion."

In a more humble way, of course. Because I wouldn't be worthy to lick Ariatotle's shoes to be truthful. But that's not my point. 

In the existential mind-blowing admittance that a "mommy blog" dripping with sarcasm and wit is not anything new?

Well. I'm ok with that. 

So, I'm gonna jump in a much well acquainted and also very popular bandwagon (preferably one without a bum wheel) and transition this to a Top Ten blog.

Yes. They've been done. Yes. They've been overdone.

Yes, it sound reproachably horrifying.

Well, this one isn't.

It's MY top tens. 

That makes it badass. And different. And better. And you're gonna love it, bet your bottom dollar and whoop whoop, you are mine, Bitches. 

Anything and everything from "top ten reasons I just love being a mom" to the "top ten ten reasons to re-watch the Star Wars Trilogy".

Maybe I should make a "Top Ten Reasons to Abhorr your Autocorrect" since mine just corrected "Star Wars" to "Star Ears".

The fuck. Someone needs to update the mainframe of the autocorrect library, because c'mon. George Lucas just shivered in his everlasting sleep. 

Ashamed, I am. 

Bear with me, my friends. This might get interesting...or it might just be humorously foot-in-mouth.

It will be something. 

Afterthought:

10. Blogs are boring. Lists are good.

9. Opinions are like assholes, everyone has one; Some are still better than others. 

8. No one cares what a mom does. We all have one, she did stuff.

7. It's easy to repeat yourself when you talk about everything, but harder to repeat yourself when you are rating shit.

6. It's easier to talk about the MMA or Football through the eyes of a mom than it is to talk like a mom about the MMA or Football. 

5. Censorship fucking sucks. 

4. I got bored. 

3. My 3 readers (presumably) only liked this page because they like me, not what I said.

2. I plan to say a lot of shit people like just as much as they might possibly like me. 

1. More people care what a sarcastic crude woman thinks are the top ten than what a sarcastic, crude woman thinks about anything else, especially mom stuff. 

The Hardest Job

You hear it all the time: people referring to being a Stay at Home Mom (SAHM) as being "The Hardest Job in the World".

To preface, I am not only a SAHM, but an Autism Mom- so my playing field is a smudge tilted, however, I can say with all certainly that I still understand even what moms of typical kids go through. 

Now, I know working moms and people without kids who work 40-60 hrs a week probably think when they hear that phrase. "Yeah, right" and they probably roll their eyes and feel secretly slighted that "their" jobs aren't easy, and how rude to insinuate that SAHMs have it so much worse. How hard can it be, right?!

Wrong. Life, generally speaking, is hard. As for the SAHM bit- let me give some insight on that.

You see, those who are not SAHMs probably think "what could be so hard?!"

I mean, we get to roll out of bed, stay in sweats because there is no mandated dress-code, we don't have to wait for a corporate-allowed ten minute break to have our coffee or use the restroom, makeup is optional, we essentially 'create' our own schedule and there is no one but ourselves to disappoint when we don't accomplish the set 'daily tasks'. 

All this is true. But it isn't really THAT simple.

If you've ever heard the phrase "too much of a good thing", that can also be applied here. 

Sure, it's fantastic wearing pajamas until 10am, being present for every adorable thing our kids do, and being able to approach the daily needs at our own rate. But before long, we drown- yes drown- in the world of doing everything for everyone else and not ourselves. It's a slippery slope, my friends. 

We don't NEED to get dressed up, we don't NEED help because we "only" watch kids all day, we don't NEED a break because we can take one whenever we want. 

*pause to laugh*

In reality, we miss getting dressed up and mingling with coworkers that we aren't married to, we miss uninterrupted ten minute breaks every four hours, we miss mandated work requirements that aren't skewed by diapers and tantrums and needy kids who don't care what we want to accomplish. 

When we feel overwhelmed, we can't just go to corporate and ask for help, there are no raises, and when we don't remotely accomplish our to do lists the person who beats us up the most is ourselves.

Unless you spend 24/7, sun-up to sun-down taking care of babies and toddlers and kids without even peeing alone, don't tell me my job isn't hard. Just, don't. 

I also feel the need to remind you, I have been both. I worked as a mom, and I have worked only as being a mom. Both have their regrets and joys, let me tell you. One is not superior, and by that I mean, neither role makes us better parents or humans or people deserving of magnitudes of respect or envy. 

They are just so damn different. 

But, as I alluded to earlier, being a SAHM typically is considered so hard because it is the most unappreciated, toil some, exhausting job in the world because it is the job that never ends. You really can get too much of a good thing, my friends. 

To complete my argument, I will give you my yesterday. 

6:45am- woke up. Made coffee. Tiptoed (yes, I crept like a ninja) outside to have a smoke. (No, not all moms smoke and I'm not defending the use of tobacco, I'm just telling you MY day)

6:55am- packed a diaper bag, got kids dressed while they were practically asleep, made pancakes and juice cups, grabbed some books.

7:15am- whole family in the car, drove daddy to work. 

8:45am- home. Kids won't walk, I carry purse, diaper bag, and two kids into the house. One kid doesn't want to come in. Tantrum.

9:15am- Curious George let's mommy sneak out with a coffee and a smoke. 

9:19am- get a kid off the entertainment center. He screams, he hits me, time out. 

9:30am- everyone is calm again. Coloring books and markers are being used. 

9:45am- I'm cleaning marker off the stove and fridge, and another tantrum because I took the markers away. 

10:10am- one kid gets butt-ass naked and is standing on the vanity trying to poop. (Don't ask me the logic in this.)

Diaper on. Refuses to stay off vanity, both kids removed from master bedroom. Tantrum. Hitting mommy- time out. I walk away out of sheer frustration as they both howl in the hallway. 

10:15am- all towels and items on bottom two shelves of hall bookcase are thrown everywhere and kid only in diaper has reached in and is playing with his poop.

Yeah. 

10:50am- towels cleaned up, poop cleaned up, kid cleaned up, snacks distributed. I cry for the first time that day. 

11:15am- I finally do some dishes. And laundry. 

Noon- I make lunch, kids spill plates and food everywhere, have a giggle fit and run crazy like tornados. 

12:30pm- vacuum. Pick up. Oh look! There IS carpet in my living room. 

12:45am- I finally wander into the bathroom to spray off the 6 (yes, six) poopy cloth diapers that have accumulated during the morning. 

Someone screams, exit bathroom to break up a fight between toddlers. 

1pm- I finally eat. 

1:30pm- living room looks like I never touched it. Continue laundry and dishes. 

2pm- someone pulled all the books off the bookshelf in the foyer. Pretzels and goldfish are smashed into the carpet. 

Vacuum, again. 

2:30pm- someone hits me with a toy train track when frustrated. Yelling. Timeout. Other kid wants attention, pulls my pants down trying to get my attention. Has Autistic meltdown because his diaper is dirty for the 5th time and I didn't stop reprimanding little one when he wanted to "tell" me this. Takes off poopy diaper. I cry for the second time as I clean up poop and strong-arm still-upset kid who will step in it. Both stop crying to laugh at mommy crying.

3pm- Little finally naps. Big Little plays quietly and reads books while Mommy watches tv and finishes cleaning kitchen and folding towels. 

4pm- awake kid will not stop climbing on top of bedroom armoire. Again removed from room, tantrum, etc. 

decide I cant shower, so I wash my armpits and shampoo my hair bending over the tub. 

4:35pm- begin re packing diaper bag. Find new clothes for both kids, pick up living room AGAIN. Decide not to vacuum (though it needs it) because Little is still sleeping. 

4:45pm- sneak outside for a smoke and  have a soda. Come back in, finish spraying poopy diapers in bathroom that I left that morning. Ignore all other messes. (Towels are all over floor in hall again)

5:15pm- get one kid dressed. Get second kid dressed. First kid is naked by the time I finish second kid. Try again, get both dressed. Can't find car keys. Finally find car keys in toy chest. Somehow get both kids and self into car to go pick up daddy from work. 

6:45pm- home. 

7:10pm- head to grocery store alone. Rush because- it's late. 

7:40pm- home. Hide on back porch with a beer. I relax. Finally. Briefly. 

8-10pm- diapers, husband makes dinner, distract kids while trying to finish redbox movie from a day ago. Miss a lot, oh well. Pick up toys again. 

Midnight- fall asleep watching Teaching Mrs Tingle on living room floor with arm tucked under sleeping kid. 

Yes indeed, life of luxury, right?!

No one said kids were easy, being a parent is hard no matter how much of your day you are with them. But even more, living every single moment of your day doing things for other people- forgoing showers, and trying not to lose it when you're defied by the tiny people who defy you constantly, making space for everyone's needs and very often forgetting your own needs- is wearing on your innermost soul.

Meanwhile, everyone thinks "she has ALL day to do everything at her own rate". 

Hah. It's laughable. Absolutely damn laughable. 

I didn't accomplish near what I wanted to yesterday, not even close. My legs need to be shaved, the toy room is trashed, the dishwasher was never unloaded, there is a basket of clothes I never folded, and I didn't clean up after dinner. I was going constantly, cried twice, cleaned up numerous times despite the condition of the home, and NOONE SAID THANK YOU once. 

Do I hate it?

Nope. I love it. Which means only one thing- I am crazy. Certifiable. Strange. 

And a SAHM. 

But I'd much rather be a SAHM than a deep sea diver, or a crab fisherman, or a fireman or a garbage truck driver. Hardest? That's debatable.

Hard? Absolutely. 

Sm

Don't bite off more Wedding Cake and Film than you can Chew

 I attended a wedding this week. I use the term "attended" loosely, as to be truthfully honest about the past two days I couldn't tell you what the decor looked like, what the food tasted like, what the cake tasted like, or who exactly was even there for the most part. 

I'm a mother. Anyone who has ever attended a wedding with two small children on a beach, you may have some idea what I am insinuating. 

Now, add in the fact that one of your children is autistic, one is the ripely-defiant age of 20 months, that Daddy was Best Man and that Mommy AND Daddy were the photographers.

Ha ha ha ha.

Lets just say it was a setup for my anxiety and emotions to explode like an atom bomb. 

Which, incidentally, it did. 

You see, for weeks I've had that annoyingly sticky-butterfly feeling in my stomache because I had to dust of my Nikons after a two year hiatus and shoot what is considered one of the possibly most important days in any woman's life: Her dream wedding.

My brother, the groom, requested that I, his little sister, do the staged photography for his wedding months ago when they were engaged. I was flattered, *blush*, and nervous. But, hey- I only have one brother and I'm the last person to say no to someone I love in my family. I would make it work. 

Six months later, I am currently in a 'stage' of motherhood where even grocery shopping or visiting family brings my stress level to a hot level of 105 degrees.  The past three months in the Sufficient household I am barely surviving days at home with my kids. Let alone a 3+ hr drive, a hotel stay, a beach, a very delayed wedding, a preoccupied set of parents, and unquestionably THE worst question being asked that strikes depression and sadness into any mother or woman alive. 

I survived my pre-wedding months of anxious perceived possibilities of what could go wrong. I survived a week of stressful packing, 101 lists I finally checked complete three minutes before jamming my Rav4 with everything but the kitchen sink. I survived the drive with Mr. G and Mr. A and little Mr. G, and the hotel for the first night. 

Not unscathed, mind you- but I hadn't had a meltdown. I hadn't cried. 

I was excited and pumping myself up; Thrilled about my new dress and my makeup and my new necklace and meeting people and having fun. 

So I hoped, anyway. 

Wedding Day- I woke up stressing over painting my nails, taking a shower, getting dressed and packing the diaper bag with anything my kids would need. 

Snacks. Check. Diapers and pull-ups. Check. Water. Check. (Nope still forgot it) cameras charged. Check. 

I did my hair proudly, I even "Pinterested" a cute hairstyle that required me, a mom of two who never uses anything but a standard hair band for a ponytail- to buy bobby pins and small invisible ties- something I hadn't used since, *omg* my own wedding nine years ago. 

Fact is, I really should have pulled on my comfy jeans and focused on clearing my cameras and letting my kids chill at the hotel watching the Disney channel. 

After we all rushed (and I mean, frantically threw things in bags and left the hotel pre-nap for the littlest monkey) at 2:22pm to meet the tentative photoshoot time of 2pm, we not only got lost finding it, (which was almost a good thing because Little Mr. G snuck in a 30 minute nap we then disturbed) we ended up spending the next 3 hrs in a parking lot by the beach (sans restroom) eating tic-tacs, Gerber puffs, and completely depleting what I call "okay time" for kids. 

You know- where kids have the "where are we?!" and "this is awesome and everything is great!" stage. 

Nope. "Okay time" came and went, and there was no bride, no wedding, no water (damn my packing faux pas) and yeah, still no restroom. 

I managed meltdowns, lost a kid (for 3-5 minutes), one kid got naked in my brothers car, kids locked themselves IN my brothers car, kids ran in opposite damn directions a dozen times, I huffed, I puffed, I chased, I sighed, I realized I hadn't peed in 3 hours, I changed diapers with much resistance and tears, and I trekked a very treacherously difficult sand-covered beach hill too many times. 

I was done. My kids were done. My hair was loose and falling from it's pins (thanks, Pinterest) my makeup was sweated and wiped away, my mascara was running, I was dehydrated, and my new dress was dirty. 

Guess what? 

The wedding hadn't even started yet. 

Almost three hours after my kids and I arrived at the ceremony site (parking lot/hill/ beach) - They and mommy/photographer were emotionally DONE.

Daddy-photographer was at the hotel with the bridal party taking pre-photos. I missed him, the Littles missed him, and I was in serious need of someone to bitch to about how horribly awful I felt. 

At last- sometime after 5pm the bride was en-route. The menagerie of guests and family mingling in the parking lot finished their tail-gate beers and had a last smoke, fixed their lipstick (not Me- as I was still chasing one Little down to put sandals back on and trying without success to get either if them to drink at least a pediasure since neither kid had eaten in hours). 

Or had I, for that matter. 

We tackle the sand-hill/horse path onto the beach again ( my legs are sore because I'm carrying a 35lb kid again and my broken toe is f**king THROBBING), where I yet again chase my youngest around the ceremony site and prevent him from trying to touch all the food on the blankets for guests (grapes! He wanted All the grapes) and meanwhile try to set up my cameras for the wedding party entrance (I prayed would be any. Second. Now.) and the ultimate mood killer occurred.

I know what you're thinking. "She's been chasing her unruly kids around for hours. Her makeup is gone, her hair looks awful, her dress is dirty, her legs and feet hurt, her kids are borderline-meltdown-done." What is left???!!"

Oh, it gets worse. 

As I'm convincing my littlest to sit with Grandpa and eat grapes (the damn grapes!!!) and eyeballing my four-yr-old who is in the far distance with, bless her heart and soul: Good friend Michelle who took him for a walk away from the overwhelming people and ceremony before he completely lost his mind in an autistic meltdown that MAY have done me in for good; 

Someone asks me, ankle deep in soft sand, beach wind blasting us in the face (and my dress blown against what I already view as a very uncomfortable body that I carry an extra 40lbs post-kid on), "When are you due?"

Hold the phone, drop the ball, give me a fucking pillow to scream into. 

I was done. It took every fiber of my being, convincing myself to not lose it- not cry, not meltdown, not just walk off that damned beach and never come back. 

I wanted my jeans and my hoodie and a hired babysitter at that moment. 

Or, to be anywhere but on the brink of the biggest photography job I had ever done, with two overtired, hungry toddlers and, apparently a dress that I once loved that didn't hide my recent weight gain even remotely well enough to prevent awkward, heart-killing questions. 

I hovered over my sand-filled camera bag, trying to figure out if I wanted to dump it now or later (pretending I wasn't fat) and blinking behind my sunglasses to prevent tears, I almost lost it, my friends. 

I really did. 

Instead, over three hours after we strangely 'rushed' to the ceremony site, I darted around that square quarter mile of beach for half an hour and took pictures of the bride. The groom. The party. The guests. The vows. The tears. The flowers. The dogs. The smiles. The laughter. 

(Feeling like a whale in my dress, mind you. Self-confidence=shot)

I kept it together. This wasn't about me. 

My youngest (ring bearer) reached and wailed and cried for me countless times. ( Grampa, my daddy, was a dear. He traded him back and forth from daddy. Sigh. I felt so weird, mommy couldn't help) 

I hopped and knelt and ducked and weaved around that beach shooting from every angle, two cameras dangling from my neck, swapping them and zooming and, well.... doing what I was there to do.

Ceremony ended; I stayed behind while Mr. G corralled our cranky kids to the parking lot and drive in circles for an hour+ around the parking lot until 7pm while I wandered the beach in my "maternity" dress taking 400 or so photos of the bride, groom, and wedding party. (Yes, Mr. G popped down for a couple photos, before you wonder.)

Then, I found my sandals in the sand, packed my sand-filled camera bag on my shoulder and made (praise The Lord) my final thigh-burning escapade over the hill of doom and sinking sand to the now-empty parking lot. 

My kids fell asleep in the car on the short drive to the reception. Exhausted little men.

I 'missed' the reception. I sat on the concrete by my car as my kids slept, grateful to sit on my tired ass for the first time since I woke up that day. 

Someone brought me a beer. (A couple, actually) I heard speeches in the distance as Mr. G and the wedding party made their toasts. Applause. Music. Laughter. I sat alone and picked sand out of my toes and watched the trees move.

Sweet calm silence. 

Someone traded with me to go walk up to the reception an hour or so later, after my parents and Michelle and her husband Tyler (my hero who "found" my oldest when he vanished on me in a group of people 'helping me' as I fought a screaming baby into a new diaper through a tantrum.) and also Mr. G, my supportive and understanding husband, had all visited and we laughed a bit.

We shuffled around by my car and talked and laughed.

(That was the highlight of my day, actually. Talking with my closest souls in this world - over a beer, barefoot, as they came and went from the reception to see me in the "sleeping kid area" of the parking lot. )

And the reception? I had half a beer there.

 I meandered up after being urged, reluctantly in search of food...then..... resumed shooting photos. No idea where that beer went, actually. (That's a shame, isn't it?!)

I wanted food. Or cake. Who doesn't want cake?!!! Oh well. 

Shortly after, my parents, each carrying a very sleepy, tired, cranky boy (they woke up! surprise surprise!) came wandering up- about 20 minutes later?maybe 15? Who knows. 

Aaaaaand the party for me (whoopedeedoo) was over. 

We trudged back to the car, our poor kids reluctant to get back into their car seats ("AGAIN? Really??!!" Their sad eyes seemed to say) and we picked up some KFC (I hadn't eaten since noon) and we dragged ourselves to our hotel room. 

I again shared the turmoil with Mr. G as we coerced the strung out Littles to "stay off the windowsill!" "Get out of the microwave!" "Leave the drapes alone!", "Don't hit your brother!" And so forth, after I scarfed down some chicken, until midnight. 

I woke up at 3am with anxiety. I cried until 5:30am. Sweet relief. It is over. 

I should have worn my jeans. There is no photographic proof I was there. I wasn't in one photo. I didn't meet a soul. I was too busy running around after kids or photo opportunities. I wasted my hair style and my makeup and my excitement- because no one will remember me except the person who will be embarrassed for months that she asked a non-pregnant lady when her due date was. 

So, in sum. 

If anyone I know ever gets married and wishes to invite me to their vows?

 If you want to have the photographic brilliance  of JustK Photography(lol...I tease): I must be a photographer with a financial bill that will cover my bring-along babysitter, or I shall be a guest, and watch my kids or leave them home, or I will be a mommy who stays home and sends a "congrats, You're Hitched!" Card from the safety of my couch. 

Don't even ask me to be mommy, sister to the bride/groom/friend, plus photographer and be a guest. 

Those things are in-overlapable. Fact and point, lesson learned. No thanks. I cannot do it. 

Or, I can. But, I just won't enjoy it. And I will end the day partially insane.

I am blessed, I am thankful, but I am mostly thankful and blessed that it is over and I could cry it all out and wipe my eyes and know I will NEVER do that again.

Ever. For me or my kids. Everrrrrrr! Ha ha ha

----

Huge congrats to my brother and my new sister (yahoo!) whom I both love immeasurably. The fact I completely missed their wedding in spirit and fun is not on them. 

You live and learn, and I have learned...you can't be more than you can be and come out without a 3am tearfest! 

Silver lining? I am DAMN proud of the photos. They are AWESOME! Photographer me for the mtjrfukkin win!!

I survived, right? Everything has a price and you always learn. 

Don't bite off more than you can chew. 

Don't dress up for a wedding when you're watching toddlers for hours on a beach when you're also the photographer. 

And- DON'T ask someone when their baby is due- you just might ruin their entire week and damn near ruin someone's wedding album. 

But, "I" already knew that last one. Did you?

;)

...

Sm

P.s. 

Thousands of kudos to all who helped me. And a thousand kudos to my sister and brother who trusted me (and Mr. G) with capturing one of THE most important days of their lives. I pray they are satisfied. I pray... Cos it sure as damn skippy better be worth what I just went through.

The Square Peg Theory.

As a parent, you sometimes unknowingly fall into a routine. Your life is no longer your own, in fact, your life suddenly becomes split into thirds, or fourths, or however many fractions of you that you have offspring.

Ever so often, the fraction of you that is "you" shrinks a bit. Sometimes it grows back again, other times it is a barely visible tiny line on the pie chart of your humanity. 

Parenthood is about giving. You give them your uterus for nine months, you give them your once-slender, supple-skinned stomach, you give them your breasts for countless months, you give them your sleep and your dignity and change from a once well-put-together member of society into a frantic, overworked, overtired shamble of the woman you once were and suddenly become that lady at Walmart at 10pm in your pajamas with wet hair buying Children's Tylenol with vomit on your shirt. 

The transition from childless to child-bearing is like trying to put a square peg into a circular hole. 

You can't force it, it has to just happen. And somewhere along that slow, treacherous journey, you shave off bits of yourself in order to make it fit. It's not painful, for the most part. It happens so slowly actually that until you one day realize you fit. It isn't entirely painless however, but those little drooling, smiling, diaper-wearing monkeys certainly are the morphine that get you through it. 

See, it's almost like a diagram. 

You lose four triangularish shapes. 

1. Your impeccable personal hygiene. 

No matter who you are, or how any kids you have- face it. You just don't spend as much time plucking your eyebrows or painting your nails. 

In fact, if you're anything like me, you occasionally forget to shower at all unless you have somewhere important to be.

2. Your friends. 

Some people have kids, and blossom easily into parenthood without dismantling their social connections. Most do not. It's not OUR fault, but, as a non-parent, it just doesn't seem like a plausible excuse when little Susie has a fever and is vomiting on you when you call to say you can't make it to a birthday bash at the local bar with your Delta Kappa Mega sisters. Or, little Tyler had a rough day and is bawling he wants mommy and you are late to book club for the fifth time. No, it isn't easy to mesh parents and non-parents. At all. 

3. Your marital spontaneity.

Self explanatory, right? Kids. Stress. Mess. Exhaustion. Sleepless nights. Tantrums. 

You get the idea.

Back in the honeymoon stage you probably met each other at the doorstep for a kiss and the quick exchange of what you did all day, including what you ate for lunch. 

Now- your just lucky he came home, and he is just lucky you actually managed to get up off the couch where you finally fell, exhausted, and unlocked the chain lock that keeps your little ones from escaping into the wild. 

4. Your personal interests. 

Hobbies? Yeah. I had those too. Lots of them. 

My new hobby is folding mountains of tiny clothing and disinfecting areas of the house where one of my offspring decided to empty their dirty diaper and smear it on the furniture with toy hammers. 

Yes. I'm a photographer. Yes. I'm an artist. Yes. I'm a baker. But for now? I'm a mom who used to be those things and the closest I get is taking pictures of my little loin fruits as they strut around in my boots or sing a terrible rendition of an intro to Curious George like they were Whitney Houston, writing the alphabet on a piece of paper for my kid to recite back to me, or making cupcakes as one of my little people have a birthday signifying yet one more year we have all survived. 

To back up a bit, I should clarify that not all parents or mothers lose all their corners as they maneuver their square peg into the deep chasm of parenthood. Some lose one, maybe two. Some lose all four. 

The fact is, however morose as it may sound, no one enters unscathed. Either your friends, your perfect hair, your scrap booking, or the spectacular connection you once had with your spouse; Something fades as you morph into the new you. 

A better you, one would hope. A selfless person who gives up a part of themselves and the things you held dear, to make room for something you hold even more closely to your heart and soul. 

I'm not saying it's a pathway down into the abyss of misery, I'm just saying it's an adjustment that makes for compromise. 

I wouldn't change a moment of it, and I've never once wondered what it would be like if I hadn't. However, I do often wonder how long it will be before I once again have the pleasure of showering daily (undisturbed) or even using the bathroom without a miniature accompaniment. Or when I will wake up on a Saturday and not pour milk and serve pancakes before I even turn my coffee pot on and awake the person under the zombie that I am. 

Or when going to the grocery store for something simple like cream cheese won't be an hour long affair full of chasing down little giggle monsters and putting on shoes just to turn around and find the other one, the once fully dressed monster is- you guessed it- in only his underwear again. 

Someday these things shall pass and I again will grow into that well cornered, all pieces intact, square I once was. 

But, my friends, the important thing to realize is that by then; When I again have all my corners and nooks to me again? 

So will the (w)hole of my family. 

And we will still fit together perfectly. 

The NEW pretty.

There's this latest fad on facebook floating all over the place right now. "Post 5 pictures of yourself where you feel pretty". Blah blah. 

Apparently all the cool girls are doing it. 

Before you ask how this not-cool girl knew about it, I will skip right over that sentiment, ignore you and continue....*ahem*

Me? I have hesitated. Although, admittedly, I've been 'tagged' for weeks now. By multiple people, actually. I keep seeing them, and 'liking' them, but I havent even begun searching for my own five pictures. Why? do you ask?
(because I'm so sure you did, in your head, ask...)

Well. Allow me to most graciously and elaborately explain.

You see...when I think..."hmmm.....pictures of me where I feel pretty...." I can only think of, sadly, pictures where I felt sexy. Desirable. Alluring. Thin.

Those pictures of me, in my oh-so-humble opinion, (and my oh-so-humble factoids) are all quite old. Back when I was younger, skinnier, more photogenic, more apt with my photography (a hobby of mine for those who don't know me well) and pre-kid. Im talking Circa 1999 to...oh, say 2009 or so.

Yeah. Old.

Nah. See, the bigger problem is- When I think of "pretty", I don't think of Now-me. I think of Then-me. Not this me.
I'm also sure whatever brilliant ( uh huh) individual devised this genius plan of having all of Facebook display their "pretty" feeling pictures by the cinco- well, they obviously aren't as cynical or as stupendously thought provoked as I am. (that wasn't intended as an insult, but I shall leave it as it is.)


I digress to this post.
I realized something. 
I realized how silly I was being. 
I realized that....."pretty" can be existential and inside, something more than sex, desire, weight or allure to anyone else. It surpasses fair skin tones and perfect hair and awesome teeth. It's not that! It is SO not about those things.

And that, Damn you Facebook! I almost forgot the meaning of beauty while I was busy trying to think of how to post "pretty". 

Yup. Now, I'm sitting here in my yoga pants and my pony tail at 2am in the ONLY silence this mama ever seems to get, thinking about how dead-ass tired she will be tomorrow (today?) and, HA! I will probably look even LESS pretty than usual in my zombie-mommy sleep-deprived, sullen must-have-coffee-stop-whining-and-dont-poop-in-that-diaper-yet-please state......and it's kind of almost funny. 

No.

No, I can feel "pretty" being me. Even THIS me. Or THAT me. Most of all, I'm more than pretty. I'm real.

So, to extend even deeper into this odd realm of what I am going to call "The new Pretty", I will show you BOTH sides.

Five pictures of me when I felt young and desirable and "pretty" via society's standards.

And...

Five pictures of me, the real me, being me, now. As who I am. However 'undesireable' and normal that I am.

The fact is simple.
Society wants us to think that certain things are pathways to perfection. Nice skin, or small waists and sparkling eyes and flowing hair. But in a very blatant way- I can tell you that superficial "pretty" isn't real, or wonderful. Real pretty is...well...true. It's who we are. You can't 'hide' true beauty. True beauty is love, and affection, and happiness. Great moments and gut-wrenching laughter with people you feel closest to.

Furthermore. I'm still THAT me. I'm still the same person with the same eyes and the same brain. Even if I don't FEEL that pretty anymore, well, that doesn't change who I am.

Being "pretty" and beautiful isn't JUST about long luscious eyelashes and sex appeal. Because even though, Hey! Sure. We all want that, right? (what woman DOESN'T want to be craved or lusted after,  and don't lie, I already know its true.)

More than that. More than lust. More than being admired. We want love. And, love is a far more 
beautiful thing to be photographed than pretty. 


So, why didn't anyone devise a crazy ass, everybody-tag-everybody-we-know fad for us to share five pictures of us feeling loved??

Happy Buhdertahday.

Okay, so I know this blog is still in it's 'baby stage', Hell, maybe even the 'embryo stage' depending how you look at it. (I know what you're thinking. Um, duh. It's the second post. This blog isn't even a speck in the vast universe of blogs or even the internet yet.)

I'm going to attempt to put aside my orneriness for a moment, because yesterday I broke my little toe, and holy f**k it hurts. But I don't want to talk about my stupidity, I'd rather focus on the joy and celebration that today is.

As of today I have been a mom, however sufficient and subpar, for a whole four years. Technicnally not until 9:47pm tonight. But I figure if you count in the 20+ hours of labor in there, somehow I don't think many will cast an evil eye on me for rounding up to say I've been a mom for a solid four years, right?
 Please send all aggreviances to my inbox at thesufficientmom@gmail.com. Please and thank you.
(All annoyed emails will be responded with a gif of a laughing Quinten Tarentino giving the thumbs up. Only because it's my favorite gif right now for anyone that annoys me.)

Anyway.
I can look back over the past four years and see how much has changed.
 See, kids? They're cute and stuff, sure. But they're also these life-sucking vultures that take all the fun out of everything you used to believe was fun. Like, fun vampires. Because, the damn things come in, they take over your home and your social life and your television, they change everything that was and make it what IS. But that's not the part that is annoying, really. Because, c'mon right? We all see that coming from the positive pregnancy test.

No, what's annoying is that they somehow manage to do it and YOU LIKE IT.

Yeah, there. I said it. My life is so different and haywire and stressful and crazy. Oh is it ever. :/ oh damn those little three foot tall monsters I birthed. They changed everything and still manage to make me like it. I get no sleep, my anxiety is through the roof, the marriage I once had is not the marriage I now have, I showered more in 2009 than I have in the last four years together, and Somehow I can be more aggravated, more irritated, and more pissed off than I think I ever have been- and BOOM.

ALL these little suckers have to do is smile, give me a kiss and wrap those pudgy little kid arms around my neck and suddenly I remember how nothing else actually matters.

But that's because nothing else DOES.

In the same sense I can say that I have cried more and doubted more, hurt more, slept less, and felt so lost in a way I never imagined possible in the last four years: I also can say without a doubtful bone in my body (even the broken one in my right foot) that I have had more joys, cherished days, happy tears, and unforgettable moments in the last four years than my prior 27 years.
Hands down, heart to God, all that corny stuff.

So that's something. Right?

And in this moment, as I somewhat crudely explain my undying love for my children, I must also commentate my love for the man who made our little crazy, mind-blowing, frustrating monkeys possible. It's his birthday too.

Four years ago at this moment, that man that married THIS hot mess, in all his imperfections, followed this girl in all her imperfections, as she wandered the hospital hallways on HIS BIRTHDAY and paused every 3-10 minutes to lean against a tacky taupe wall and breath through contractions. And we did that for hours, waiting for our first little human (in all his imperfections ha ha) to make his entrance at 9:47pm. It wasn't the best way to spend your twenty ninth birthday, but he never told me otherwise and if he had complained I would have directed him to my widening cervix and left it at that as an argument won.

So- Happy Birthday, and all my deepest love to two of the three most important men in my life. May we continue to survive and weather the storm for another four, ten, twenty or heck, unimaginable years of our family. I love you, I adore you, you are my reason for living. (Plus that little guy that follows us around. I like him too.)

I've been a mom for four years today. 

And I don't know where my kids and Mr G begin or I end, it's just. Us. 

That might be sickeningly sappy, but, oh well. I'll be rude and mean tomorrow or next week. ;)

Happy Birthday my loves. I couldn't do this without either of you. 

Xo

SM