Dear Mamas, Y’all B!tches Crazy

His mother puts him down and the child wails. He immediately spins around and lunges toward her wanting to be held. In his frustration the boy spins around again, screams and pounds his fists into his father’s thighs. The man reacts quickly, jumping back from the boy, embarrassed in front of the crowd. He bats the kid’s head back and forth like a cat with a ball of yarn. The boy wails louder. The man yells, “Yeah boy! Keep that shit up and I’ll knock you upside the head again!”

The boy can’t be more than eighteen months old.

It’s at this point that I stop staring, because clearly this man’s stupid and I don’t want to get into a confrontation. We get a few steps farther away. The kids run up ahead toward the next zoo exhibit. I turn to Rob and say, “See? We’re doing just fine. Our kids are going to be fine.”


The next day I’m watching my son’s gymnastics class. I love gymnastics, love watching him, hate listening to the other parents talk to each other. I grew up doing competitive gymnastics so listening to people ask ridiculous questions without knowing the proper terminology drives me bat-shit crazy. “Why are they having them hop on all fours on the beam like that? What’s that flippy thing they’re making them do on the bars?” Aaaaaah! Do us all a favor, go sign your kid up for soccer and get the fuck out of the gym.

Sorry, that was unnecessarily intense. But hey, so am I. Also, don’t talk to me while I’m practicing my floor routine.




Anyway, the parents at gymnastics are also annoying to listen to because frankly most parents have no idea what they sound like. They talk ad nauseam about the activities their kids are in. They do the humble brag. They talk about obnoxious mind numbing things every parent says while making small talk. “Well, it was weird because it just started as a runny nose, and he had a fever of 103 the first night. But then he was totally fine the next day. But then he woke up this morning coughing really bad. So I called the pediatrician but they could only get him in with the PA, and not until 2:00. Hello!? That’s right in the middle of nap time. I mean, why don’t they keep any other slots open for sick visits. God, it’s SO annoying, and . . .”

Oh my God. Please shut up. Just shut up.

I just sit and watch my boy, silently.

Then I get sucked into a conversation with these two women about the gym I go to. There are two major gyms in town. Both offer two and a half hours of childcare a day. I tell them how my husband was joking that I should join both gyms. That way I could hangout in the cafe at one and work out at the other. Then this conversation occurs.

Her:  Oh I actually know someone who does that. (Turning to her friend, dressed completely in Lululemon) You remember Sara?

Friend:  (rolling her eyes) Oh, yeah. I do.

Me:  Wait, you know a stay-at-home-mother who actually does that? So this is real. There’s someone out there who’s pulling this off?

Her:  Yeah, but it’s because she’s a really bad Mom. Like she should have never had a second kid let alone the first one.

Friend:  God, I don’t know how she does that. I mean when I teach Pilates I feel guilty even putting Everly in the daycare for two hours. I don’t know how you could have your kid in daycare for five hours a day!


Alright folks I’m gonna give it to you straight here. Now I don’t know Sara but I bet she’s not a “really bad Mom.” Sara, who puts her kids in daycare for five hours a day. Sara, who maybe “shouldn’t have had kids.” Sara, the Mom who probably should have gone back to work immediately. You know, like the majority of mothers. The ones who have to put their kids in daycare much longer than five hours a day because they didn’t have the option to stay home. The mothers who were probably sitting right there within earshot.

This is fun! Hey, while we’re at it let’s say some other obnoxious entitled shit like, “Why even have a baby if you’re not going to raise it?” Or my personal favorite, “Well, I just think a mother is supposed to be with her babies.”

Yes, please tell me again where a mother is “supposed to be.” Tell me where a woman belongs. I love that conversation. I love talking about a woman’s place, especially with other women. It just feels right, wholesome.

Wait, hold up. While we’re chatting let me kick off these fucking rock star boots and get my ass back in the kitchen.

Let me just tell you that putting your child in a clean, well run daycare at an upscale health club is not child abuse. If you think this is child abuse you have lived an incredibly sheltered life. Talk to an ER nurse, a police officer, or a social worker and you will hear stories that will leave you wishing you could scrub your brain out with bleach. Now, I’m not saying that we should all slack off and console ourselves with, “Hey, at least I’m not shooting up heroine while my baby eats dog food.” What I’m saying is you’re not that important. I mean, sure, mother is God in the eyes of the child, blah blah blah. Pressure pressure pressure. But ask yourself this, when you look back on your favorite childhood memory, does it involve your Mom? I’m guessing not. It probably involves your best friend.

Not enjoying being around a whiney three-year-old all day doesn’t mean you’re a bad mother. It means you’re not good with preschoolers. Maybe you’ll rock the hell out of raising angsty teens. And let’s stop throwing around that label, “Bad Mom.” Because being a bad mother is just about the worst thing a woman can be. So if we’re calling a woman that’s found a loophole in the gym daycare matrix a bad mother, what do we call the ones that lose their children to the foster care system?

But really isn’t the bigger issue here that these gymnastics parents are just a bunch of entitled whiney little rich kids? I wanted to slap the Starbucks out of their manicured hands and yell “Y’all bitches crazy!” Then jump up on my chair and start stomping around like I was Kanye West.


Anyone want to come with me to my son’s gymnastics class next Monday and talk shit about other moms?

You’re Cordially Invited to a Women’s Retreat

Before I published my blog I quietly started doing research on Instagram. I stumbled upon these women that have accounts dedicated to their goddess-ness. They post these otherworldly images of themselves in flowing skirts and jangly bracelets while baby wearing using their own homemade wraps woven from alpaca fur. Ok, maybe not alpaca, but whatever this shit is it’s definitely conflict free. They post pictures with captions like, “Here is the pic of my aura we got taken at the metaphysical conference.”

I followed them with curiosity, watching as they celebrated the winter solstice while wishing each other “love, truth and light” in the next lunar cycle. They were having gorgeous drum circles while nursing their babes in front of a teepee from Pottery Barn, wearing the Navajo inspired blanket ponchos they bought at Anthropologie.

There are frequent quotes about revolution. A revolution from what exactly is never really specified.

They give birth in their bathtubs, and post pictures of the organic smoothies and salads eaten by their crystal necklace wearing toddlers. Every image is flawless and professional looking. All of them thin and willowy with long wavy hair. The backgrounds nearly as whitewashed as the women, with the rays of sun filtering through palm leaves. One time I spotted a moderately overweight woman, nursing a baby in the background of their drum circle. I’m not sure how she got there. Perhaps she was an interloper or just an apparition.

I know where you think I’m headed with this. You think I’m going to call bullshit on it all.


I want in.

Sign me up for the crunchy pagan Mama spiritual retreat. Let the sage burning, chanting, herbal tea and trust falls begin! Let’s sync up our menstrual cycles and have long meaningful conversations about mother earth and astrology. Let’s wear our babies around in printed fabric woven by someone in Rancho Cucamonga who claims to be a shaman.

Only I’ll need to make a few changes, just a few.

First instead of traveling to some Burning Man-esque desert paradise and setting up teepees we’ll just stay right here in the suburbs. I know, I know, we’ll lose a lot of the charm and authenticity (whatever the fuck that is) but let’s face it, long car rides with small children and pregnant ladies are no fun.

Secondly, the drums and sage burning we’ll replace with another ancient spiritual tradition, tequila. But only the purest most organic agave shit, blessed by a high priestess. Perhaps Cabo Wabo?

No corporate shit. No basic bitches here.

And speaking of “high priestesses,” I get to be one. Just sounds bad ass. Ok fine, you can be one too if you want. But you have to bring your own handmade, velvet, hooded cape. (Seriously when are velvet capes coming back in style?)

Now that I think about it the ceremony we’re going to perform is not really suitable for babies, small children, large children, or men of any kind. So no kids or husbands. This would just mess with our natural female power, our “juju” if you will.

We’re going to form a large circle and begin by joining hands and thanking the goddesses that came before us. Then the high priestess will begin with the formality of introduction. The first goddess called to speak will put on the headdress of some ethnic group she doesn’t quite understand. Then she must announce her name, age, favorite gangsta rap song and from which tribe she hails. By tribe I mean which residential neighborhood you live in. Here’s an example:

“I’m Sarah, from the noble Whispering Pines subdivision overseen by the ever powerful Warren Management HOA. I’m thirty-six years old and the song that most embodies my journey is Westside Connection’s “Get Ignit”

At this point the goddess shall take a swig of the blessed Cabo Wabo from a golden chalice purchased at World Market (if there isn’t one in your area a Pier One Imports will suffice) and pass it to the right along with the headdress. Actually, two swigs.


Sip, sip, give bitch.

We’ll continue this way all night until I eventually text someone’s husband a picture of my boobs while we sit around the kitchen eating nachos and talking about sex.

Spiritual as fuck.

I may even whip out my Celtic Tarot card set I purchased at Barnes&Noble when I was seventeen. Don’t worry it’s totally legit, and it tells the future with 100% accuracy. The cards are left up to your own interpretation of course.

In the morning we’ll awake to the warm sun on our faces, refreshed by mother earth and her sweet kisses of morning dew.

Actually, that’s just for those of you who passed out in the front yard, and you’ll most likely feel deep remorse and aching joints.

I’ve been told Our Lady of the Waffle House can fix that.

Come on, who’s with me? Also, do you have a Ouija Board we can borrow?

I’m kidding, I totally already have a Quija Board. Obviously.