I can tolerate a lot of things. I do pretty well with reason, logic, questioning, arguments, and even miss-communication. I however, do not do well with whining. This is a HUGE problem in my home. I house three children under the age of 10 and they all seem to suffer from CWS (Chronic Whining Syndrome). I recently read an article about grief and grief counseling and I realized that whining also follows those 5 stages.

1. Denial: It’s 6:45 A.M. My four-year-old enters the kitchen whining that his shoes do not fit. They fit yesterday, but today, they do not fit. He is hellaciously whining about his socks and shoes and the fact that this combination will not be occurring today. My approach, I deny his whines  and continue to pack school lunches. I ignore his tone and move on to my next activity. I act as though he is nonexistent. I step over him to put on the coffee pot.

2. Anger: The four-year-old continues to whine until my pre-coffee self, raises my voice and states. “Put on your shoes, or you are going to school without them.” I know he needs shoes to go to school, but I have 23 minutes to get out the door with three children dressed, fed, and lunches packed.  The four-year-old begins to flail around making unhappy tile angels on my kitchen floor. Staring at me with disdain and arms tightly folded, his protest escalates.

3. Bargaining: I sit on the floor and take a deep breath. “We have to put on your shoes so we can get to school on time. You want to see your friends right?” He looks at me as though he wants to run me through with a Samurai sword. “I want to wear flip-flops” he demands. “OK, but flip-flops are not allowed at school. It is against the rules. You don’t want to break the rules do you?” I ask. “No, but I WANT to wear flip-flops. PLEASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSE MOM, I WANT TO WEAR FLIP FLOPS.” The whining is now grating on every bone in my body. It is my kryptonite. I can barely stand it anymore.

4. Depression: This is the point where I sit on the kitchen floor and think, “This is my life. I mean, seriously this is my life?  Every. Freaking. Day. This is the shit I deal with. WTF. Why can’t he put on his shoes and get ready.” He looks deep into my eyes and says, “Mom, why are you so mean to me. Why do you make me get dressed every day?”  Why does it have to be so damn difficult? I just don’t get it! I mean, I like flip-flops too, but seriously. Every. Damn. Day.

5. Acceptance: “Honey, I understand that you want to wear flip-flops, but rules are rules. How about we bring the flip-flops in the car and you can change after school?” I am almost positive that this will work. I can see the wheels turning in his head. He is methodically planning his next move. It’s like playing  chess with freaking Bobby Fisher. “No Mom, I will just wear my boots.” You have got to be freaking kidding me!

Meredith Masony

That’s Inappropriate




I don’t want flowers.

Please don’t buy me a gift.

What do I want this year, several hours of quiet bliss.


Don’t knock on my door.

Don’t utter my name.

If a problem arises, call Daddy, he’s game.


I want to shower in silence.

I want to take a long nap.

I don’t want to see your fingers under the door while taking a crap.


Don’t tell me you’re hungry.

Don’t whimper or whine.

It’s Mother’s day rug rats, pass the wine while I dine.


The kitchen is closed.

No cooking today.

But I do want to binge watch episodes of Grey’s.


No cleaning or laundry.

No dishes will I do.

You crayon gobblers’ better think twice before throwing a coup.


I want to relax and read a book.

Eat a meal without sharing.

I’m sorry if this seems a bit uncaring.


Daddy, this goes for you too.

So tonight at bedtime…

I’ll take a pass on the screw.


I want to fall asleep untouched.

Please, no orifice invasion.

No groping or humping, I’m immune to persuasion.


Mommy needs a break.

But please don’t be sad.

The sperm donor’s here, you call him Dad.


One of my biggest parenting fears has always been that I will royally screw up my kids. They are relatively defenseless, and I have always been concerned with sending them straight to the therapist couch. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200 dollars. About a month ago, I had the kind of day my kids will definitely, at some point, relive in a therapist’s office.

Spring break was upon our household like the Bubonic plaque. Kids were crawling all over the place and I had 14 days worth of maximum security lock up to look forward to. I work from home which has as many benefits as drawbacks. One major drawback being, I can’t get my work done when my kids are home. I tried to find camps to send them to, but that ship had sailed.

The week started out with the common daily issues we all face in our households. There was a ton of screaming, crying, fist fighting, food throwing, running, and tattle telling. I was doing my best to keep it together. I was stressed with work, the demands of the three tiny hemorrhoids, and I was getting ready to have my second surgery for the year. I was not in the best state of mind to say the least.photo (17)

It was day seven of the break. That morning I got a letter in the mail from my home owners associations stating that we had violated our deed restrictions and owed a $100 fine. I was livid. I had been battling with these Napoleonic retirees for months and I was done. I loaded everyone into the car and drove to the management office to pay my association fees and address my recent violation. I jumped out of the van to discover that the office was closed. My blood began to boil. I automatically texted my husband a list of obscenities that I could not blurt out in front of the kids. I boldly and feverishly texted that I was on the verge of throat punching someone and buckled myself back into my seat. 

On the drive home the kids continued to fight over who was going to watch what when we got home. One kid hit another kid with a book in the backseat and I swung around screaming, “If I have to pull this van over you will not be happy!” My idle threat fell on deaf ears as I continued home with the miniature tyrants screaming that they wanted to swim. I tried to text my husband to calm me down but he was in a meeting and couldn’t respond.

We entered the house and I ran into my office to check my voice-mails. Just as I had dialed a number I heard two of my kids screaming and crying as though they were being mauled by a grizzly bear. I ran from the office to find them fighting over a stuffed penguin.

At that moment I lost my SH#T. I couldn’t take another second of the screaming and fighting. I grabbed the stuffed penguin and said, “If you’re going to fight over it, you’re going to lose it!” I then proceeded to make the penguin a double amputee by ripping his arms off. I stuffed him in the garbage can and looked back at my kids. They stood there, in silence, mortified that I had maimed the penguin from Madagascar. I shoved his mangled body in the trash can and smacked his beaten head with the lid. He had made his way into an early grave. I stood there in shock, I was now a stuffed animal murderer. 

The kids took one look at me and were off like a bat out of hell and ran for their rooms. I followed, screaming hysterically about their constant fighting, and continued my rant for about five more minutes. Nothing in my path was safe. I slammed chairs, threw toys, clothing, and shoes.  As I walked past a mirror in the living room I caught a glimpse of myself and I stopped. I looked like a crazy lunatic.

I needed to find my SH#T and put it back together. I went to the bathroom and cried for a few minutes. I then walked back out to the living room and sat all of the kids on the couch. I apologized, I cried, they cried, and we all hugged. My son looked at me and quietly asked if he could have his penguin back. I explained that he was now in a better place and he said, “No, he is in a trash can.” I tried not to laugh, but I did. My oldest chimed in with, “Yeah buddy, it’s gone. Mom went crazy on that penguin.” 

It is most definitely a day that I won’t forget. It was one of my worst parenting moments, but it taught me a very specific lesson. I simply can’t do it all. I can’t take care of three kids, work from home, take care of the house, and keep any kind of sanity. I called my boss that evening and asked her for a week off so that I could properly do my most vital job, be a Mom.

So the reason I am talking about my worst parenting moment, is to let you know that it too shall pass. I know that my limits are real and must be acknowledged. We all fall, it’s what happens next that matters most.


Let me start by saying this post has been on my mind for a very long time. If you have never enjoyed a hemorrhoid, let me fill you in. It is one of the most uncomfortable experiences you can have as a human being. They are irritating, painful, itchy, and all around agonizing. I would like to take the next few minutes to explain why children are similar to hemorrhoids.


1. Timing: You never know when you will get a hemorrhoid. You can be having a great day and then all of a sudden, BOOM…Your ass has been invaded by an awful pain that can make a grown man cry for his Momma. Children seem to have the same knack with timing. You might be in the middle of doing your taxes, a DIY project, perhaps a self-breast exam, and then BOOM… a kid has shown up without notice and are all up in your business.


2. Irritation: A hemorrhoid is one of the most irritating of all physical afflictions. They itch and burn and it is painful to sit. You can’t seem to get comfortable. Children can be the most irritating things on the planet. I am positive that I was asked the exact same question 27 times today before I finally blew my top and chased my 4-year-old with my flip-flop. Children also make it impossible to sit. How many times have you attempted to sit down and your children need something; perhaps food, water, love, or attention. It is so irritating.


3. Location: Hemorrhoids are located in a very delicate part of ones anatomy. Yes, directly in the center of where the sun don’t shine. I find that my children love to crawl their way directly into that spot throughout the day. I can be alone in the kitchen, and not 30 seconds later I turn around with at least one child directly up my ass. They have the ability to basically implant themselves into your anus just like said hemorrhoid.


4. Pressure: The main cause of most people’s hemorrhoids is too much pressure on the veins in your nether region. I can safely say that my children put more pressure on me then my spouse, my boss, my friends, or any other people on this or any other planet. Children can make you feel like you live directly inside of a pressure cooker, ready to explode at any given time. I have in fact exploded in public on a few occasions, including the grocery store, bank, library, doctors office, park, etc.


5. Rushing: One of the main causes of developing a hemorrhoid is rushing to complete you daily constitutional. If you are rushed in the bathroom, you may find these painful playmates in your downstairs parts. Can you think of  time that your children have rushed you? Hummmmmm…. Let me think about that one. How about being rushed to leave the grocery store, bank, library, doctors office, but probably not the park. My entire life is in a constant state of fast forward. Not to mention I am always being rushed out of the bathroom by at least one, if not all three of my children.


So I leave you with this short list of similarities, and no real advice on how to care for either hemorrhoids or children. I have used Preparation H for hemorrhoids, but I don’t think it would be beneficial to smear it all over your children. You could attempt that, but it won’t solve the problem, and its super expensive. So let me know if you find a solution and I will happily share it out to the world.

Sincerely, Anally aggravated parent of three



That’s Inappropriate





“Welcome To Time Out”

Mom Version of Taylor Swifts “Welcome to New York”

I find that I sing this tune very frequently in my home. Please feel free to sing along while you send your sweet child to time-out.


Welcome to your room, Mom slams the door

Crying, flailing limbs, tears and so much more

Everybody listens as you scream and roar

Searching for a wooden spoon, Mom counts to four

And she says

Welcome to Time-Out

Its been waiting for you

Welcome to Time-Out

Welcome to Time-Out

You’re stuck now child

Feel free to cry and stomp your feet, feet

Ten minutes more

Cuz I can’t stand your shreeeeeeek, shreeeeeek

Welcome to Time-Out

Its been waiting for you

Welcome to Time-Out

Welcome to Time-Out

When you first threw your cup and bowl on the floor

Took your spoon and fork, ran and slammed the door

Everybody here knows you’ve been before

Because you want what you want

Boy oh boy bad choice and more

Welcome to Time-Out

Its been waiting for you

Welcome to Time-Out

Welcome to Time-Out

You’re stuck now child

Feel free to cry and stomp your feet, feet

Ten minutes more

Cuz I can’t stand your shreeeeeeek, shreeeeeek

It doesn’t matter if you can carry a tune or not. Sing loud and proud!!






I like my minivan. It is practical, safe, and drives like a dream. It fits the whole family very comfortably. I never thought I could be so content with a minivan. What’s my point? I know at some time in the near future, maybe 3-4 years, I will get rid of my van. It will hit 100,000 miles and I will trade it in for a newer version. So once again, what’s my point? Cars, homes, appliances, and people all have a shelf life. My minivan will get kicked to the curb when that odometer hits 6 digits. So the question at hand is, what is my odometer reading, and will I get traded in?

As a woman in her mid-thirties, with a body that has been destroyed by child-birth three times, I think about being traded in. I’m not blind. I can see the newer, shiny versions that travel the block. Perky breasts, tight asses, and hair that is free of boogers and spit up. I myself admire those versions, I remember being that version. I am also aware of the fact that each year, gravity is more and more vengeful and there isn’t much I can do about it.

With my minivan there is no guessing. I can see the odometer each day. There are no surprises. It is clear and precise. 60,342 miles have been accrued. How many miles have I accrued? If you judge it by the dark circles under my eyes, or the pains in my knees and back, my mileage is pretty substantial for a mid-thirties model. I do my best to exercise and eat well, but the three blood sucking vampires that I live with make it difficult to look like the twenty something model that is dent free with still inflated tires.

When I go to the dealership to trade in my minivan it will not be a shock. I will be ready for the trade. I will do research on my next vehicle; I will be able to prepare myself mentally. I guess my real fear is that since I can’t see my odometer reading, will I be shocked if I get traded in? Will I be blindsided and feel like those poor crash test dummies, all mangled and broken?

The thought of having to start the dating process all over again is daunting. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be single again. When you go car shopping, you can ask for an accident report or a Car Fax. I guess that’s what dating is like after marriage. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you. How many kids do you have? Any major accidents or surgeries I should know about? Do you have a good health insurance plan? How about your 401K? Is your Mother still alive?” Yikes!!! Check please.

So in the end, will the odometer reading determine if I get traded in, or will it only increase my value and cause me to become a classic? There is the possibility that my husband will love the vintage look and keep me around for the long haul. Men have odometer as well, so I guess I could consider a trade. It’s a good thing for him that I hate car shopping. I wonder what the Car Fax on a thirty something, bald father of three looks like? My guess is it’s a comparative value to a 60,324 mile Minivan Mom.




Next Life NO Kids I made a #MOMMITMENT to end mom wars 300

Taking care of other people as though your life depends on it….That is the commitment that we all make to our kids. Some moms make that commitment by being the crafty, hair did, stylish, got their shit together moms. Others rock the hell out of the yoga pants, snot covered t-shirts, crock pot meals, and consistent tardiness to dance class. Either way, we put our children first so that they can enjoy the things in life they dream about. We all do it out of an undying love; turned on like a light switch one day, that can never be flipped off. The fact that we as mothers would wish to judge and throw shame at one another makes me sad. We are all trying to do the same thing – raise humans.

My pledge is very simple. I vow to cast no “Mom” judgment. Moms are people, and people make decisions and choices. I may not agree with the choices or understand them, but I can still be kind, tolerant, loving, and gracious. I can listen when the days are long, and the laundry never ends. I can listen to rants and sympathize, because I was once in that exact same spot.

I pledge not to make snarky comments in my head when that crafty, Pinterest Mom brings in homemade cupcakes with hand-carved candy statues on top. I will try to just sit back and think about the time she took to make such a beautiful gesture for her child. I will write about my life and struggles so that you can know that we are all going through a very similar journey. I will try my best to make you laugh.

We are all trying to raise future teachers, lawyers, congressmen, small business owners, NBA stars, and (against all odds) astronauts. So, I will stand alongside you, I will not pick up a stone. Being a mom is hard enough; there is no need to endure a meteor shower.







Have you ever been out with friends and seen the “What did you say to me” head turn? It’s that moment when as a parent you heard exactly what the child said, but you can’t actually process that they said it. I have noticed that my children tend to say a lot of things and sometimes I am unsure of what the exact meaning is. Therefore,  I have complied a list of terms and what they really mean. Please read below and save for your records in case you end up in the middle of a conversation with a crazy-ass child that seems to be babbling Yiddish.

Terms and their meanings:

I didn’t do it.: This means that the child did in fact do it, but they believe that you did not see them do it. They will defend their innocence to the death. You can show them streaming footage of the event in question and they will most likely still claim that they had no part in said activity. I myself have confronted my child with concrete evidence that they did in fact break a lamp, and yet she stood firm and tall, lying straight through her pearly white teeth.

Dad said I could.: This gem states that the child waited until “Dad” was on the couch napping to ask if they could get the glue, glitter, scissors, and yarn down from the craft bin to style the dogs hair. They obviously had permission from their father to complete the DIY project, so what is the actual problem? The dog seems satisfied and now you don’t have to take it to the groomers.

Why is your belly still fat?: Clear and to the point, this child is stating that you had that last baby over four years ago and it is time to get real and figure your shit out. On a side note, you have permission to slap the kid when they imply that you are pregnant when they damn well know you are not, however make sure it is your kid and not your kid’s friend.

You can’t make me!: This feisty child is challenging you to a duel of sorts. They are testing you to see if you will in fact, make them do whatever it is that you want them to do. They will wait you out, so be cautious and know your time restraints before going to battle.  I have sat with my kid for over 2 hours at the dinner table over a few green beans, and I don’t have a DVR so I missed American Idol. Shit got real after that.

NO!: Silly, silly little one.  This response is pretty specific. This child is asking, no dare I say demanding a series of spanking, time-outs, and other activities that follow when you tell your Mom no. My children are well aware of my specific sharp, head turn to the left. The daggers that shoot from my eyes like Indiana Jones zooming through the temple of doom. No good will ever come from this response. “No” is a four letter word in my house.

You’re the worst Mom ever!: This child is telling you the exact opposite. If you have gotten them this mad, your most likely the best Mom ever because you stood your ground. This is music to my ears! If they had done their homework and emptied the dishwasher, they could be playing video games right now instead of scooping dog shit up in the front yard.

I promise!: Never, ever, ever, ever, ever, believe this one. I have never once seen an actual promise take root in my house. Children are sneaky, shifty, lie-baggers, and they are not to be trusted. They will promise you something in one hand, and take a hot steamy crap in the other. Watch out and be vigilant. My favorite is, “If you read me one more story I will go to bed.” That child must think I was born yesterday. My children do not sleep, they are powered by pure evil. I’m pretty sure if they get a combined 20 minutes of sleep throughout the night, they can stay awake for an uninterrupted 7 days.

So I leave you with a simple yet detailed list of terms that you may come across as you are parenting your little love muffin. I wish you luck in all of your conversations with your children, so you are never left wondering, “What did you say?”






go the f

This weekend I had many thoughts running through my mind. If you are a parent I can pretty much guarantee that you have also had these very same thoughts. I did not share my thoughts with my children, although if we are being honest, I wanted to. Below are a few of the thoughts that entered my brain.

Why are you still talking?

Are you seriously this annoying?

Do you really think the noodles belong in your hair?

Why do you smell so bad?

What is that all over your face?

When is the last time you brushed your teeth?

Do I have to do everything for you?

Do you train to be this loud and obnoxious?

Why do you hate me?

Will you ever finish all of your food?

Am I positive these kids are mine?

Would they notice if I left?

Why do they hate each other so much?

While getting the kids ready for bed last night I was thinking about the Adam Mansbach book, “Go the F to sleep. If you haven’t read it, I urge you to do so. It is what ever parent deals with almost every night. Each night my kids act as if they have never heard of bed time before. They cock their head to the side and give me that confused look, as if I am speaking in Chinese. So after this weekend I employ Adam Mansbach to write a few more books. Below are some topics I would like him to explore.

Perspective Titles:

Shut the F up kid (Great gift for any child in your life that refuses to shut up. I’m not sure how my kids are alive, they never stop to take a breath .)

Do your F-ing homework (Perfect for the kid who needs to be buckled into the chair at the dining room table or else they will disappear like Houdini.)

Clean your F-ing room (For the child with no organizational skills and more match-box cars on the floor then Toys R Us has in their inventory.)

Hug your F-ing siblings (For the siblings that truly can’t stand each other but at some point need to figure out that they only get one family, so sorry your totally screwed.)

Be F-ing Nice ( For that boy or girl that always has something awful to say. Book included Tabasco Sauce for their filthy mouth.)

Take an F-ing Shower (Sweet and delicate way to tell your children that only farm animals should smell that way.)

Perhaps the “F” series as I will be calling it, will dramatically change my life. It may answer all of my prayers, or at least it will give me a laugh before I try to stick my head in the oven after I attempt to put my kids to bed for the 900th time that night.





I have recently discovered my new favorite game. If you are easily offended please do not play it, or keep reading this post for that matter. It is a terrible game. The makers of this game are awful people, and I truly hope to work for them some day. This game is down right ghastly. The game that I am so in love with is Cards Against Humanity. The premise of the game is simple. There are two types of cards, white cards and black cards. One player will flip a black card and it will pose a question. For example, “The story of how I lost my virginity?” Now all of the remaining players will pick from their hand of white cards to answer the question that the black card poses. So when this card was played the other night, in my hand I held the following white cards; Bitch slap, Cheating in the Special Olympics, Crystal Meth, Black People, and Sean Penn. With so many options to play, it was hard to answer, but I went with Crystal Meth. I did in fact win the point with that card.

This game however got me thinking. What if I made a game for all my Mom friends? We could call it “Cards Against My Sanity.”

It would look a little like this:

Cards Against My Sanity

Options for the Black Question Cards:

Why is Mommy Crying?

What is that sticky mess on the floor?

What is that smell?

Why are you screaming?

Who hid the remote?

Is that a turd or……?

While at the Grocery Store with the kids_____ and ______ happened.

The School called and said________.

My husband wants me to _________.

Why God Why?

What is in your pocket?

Did you do Your Homework?

Options for the White Cards:



Maple Syrup

Ran out of Xanax

Pile of steamy dog shit

He hit me again

She hit me again

I didn’t do it

I hate you

I peed my pants

Is it bedtime yet

I need a drink

Crystal Meth

Suck, rub, tug, repeat

So let’s look at what a round of card play would look like:

While at the Grocery store “I Peed my Pants” and “Urine” happened.

Why is Mommy Crying? “Ran out of Xanax”

My Husband wants me to “Suck, rub, tug, repeat.”

What’s that smell could be answered with several cards like….Urine, Feces, even Crystal Meth.

It seems like a winner to me. So if you have anything to do with the production of Cards Against Humanity, please give me a call. I think we have a real money maker on our hands here.