Momtourage

OK, the website iVillage, usually makes me want to puke my guts out with its dumbed-down political coverage and same "steal time for yourself" nonsense I discussed last week. Never mind that retch-inducing TV show they used to have lead by the animatronic Bill Rancic (who I am convinced is the one who left the hate mail). Something I do actually like on their site is the word they've created - momtourage.

While I do not enjoy the queer connotations they've given it, I appreciate promoting the concept that women need a support system of friends when in the trenches raising a family. I also appreciate its reference to one of my favorite TV shows and I'd like to think my momtourage is closer to that group. I have come up with a list of characteristics a mother should look for in their potential momtourage members, either singly, or in combination, to make this gig called parenting much easier.

1. A friend with older/more kids than you - A friend like this can give you sage advice and a shoulder to cry on since she's been there and done that. And while this is quite comforting, an added benefit to having this type of friend is nothing makes your lot in life seem much more bearable than seeing someone who's in a hell of a lot worse situation than you. Right now I bitch having to drag #1 to soccer two days a week, but that's nothing compared to my friend, S, who has three kids as well, two of whom are old enough to play sports and join clubs. And the damn homework. I'll shut my yap and get down on my knees to thank God all I have to do is get my kid through three worksheets after listening to S tell me about the diorama her oldest had to make detailing the ecosystem of the rain forest.

2. The friend who works/stays home - It is imperative that everyone have a friend who is living your "other" life. Not only are we keeping the options open for all mothers, but it also makes the grass on the other side look much more in need of a mowing and choked with dandelions. Days when I don't think I can sing "The Wheels on the Bus" one more time or make #2 another plate of goat cheese crackers (seriously, where does she get her tastes?) I try to think of my pal down the street who runs to catch a train after dropping her oldest at school and know that I would rather be here than there. Because while she does get to dress up every day and talk to grown ups about something other than carpool, I get to see the smile on my kids faces when they come home each day. And on her side, she might envy the things I just listed, but when I tell her of my insecurities about my own financial worth and atrophying of my critical thinking skills due to heavy doses of Blues Clues, it must make her feel a little better about her choice too.

3. The friend with the messy house - In our relentless pursuit of perfection, women can become crazed about things that really don't matter. I, for instance, am obsessed with removing dog hair from my floors lest anyone think my house is dirty. Occasionally, as I am about to imprison the baby in his highchair and whip out the vacuum, yet again, with Sisyphean resignation, I think of my friend whose house, while reasonably clean and organized, is not a shrine to Good Housekeeping and she could not care less. Her breakfast dishes are still in the sink at three o'clock? She doesn't care. She'd rather take her kids to the park. We all need a friend like this who is living what we think is our worst case scenario, whether you issue is the cleanliness of your floors or the lack or cooking skills, to see that the world would not end should you not beat yourself up over your shortcoming. I would see that if the baby were, in fact, able to pick up fistfuls of dog hair off the floor he would not wind up in therapy (OK, I might shoot myself at that point, but I'm trying.) Accept your limitations and move on.

4. A woman your age with no children - Everyone needs an escape and when I have had it with the kids and the house and Hubby (that one's rare, H!) I hightail it out of the house and make plans with one of my friends who has not yet reproduced. Hanging out with these ladies, I get a break from the constant worry of mothering, Because even when you go out-out with your mom pals, like I did this weekend to a bar, you still find yourself asking questions about next week's book report. I found myself doing just that while having my fifth drink wearing The Pony Shoes and thought, "What the hell am I doing??", but you can't help yourself. When you hang out with the child-free you feel like an ass talking about your kids so it's a built in safety valve. It also gives you perspective on your own life, because while I miss my single days, wouldn't really want to live them again and I realize how lucky I really am. It also helps that with these ladies only one of you needs childcare so it's less like trying to align the planets.

So, thank you, to my posse. You keep my sane and I couldn't do it without you. Now if I could combine Entourage with my momtourge we'd all go have a champagne lunch at The Ivy (with Lloyd, of course).

The Shit List (Part 2)

Meh. It's raining. At least it's Friday. This Friday...

The Shit list (Part2)

5. My electrician who did not tell me the “small holes” he would be putting in the ceiling would cause a dust storm akin to the one at the end of Indiana Jones. Enjoy some drywall dust with your Cheerios kids because it’s gonna take a while for Mommy to clean every piece of earthenware we own. It’s calcium rich, right?

4. The dry cleaning delivery guy who is so afraid of my giant ball of love (also known as the dog) that he will not even knock. Granted, our doorbell is perpetually covered with a “Sleeping Baby” sign, but do not hang my forty pounds of dry cleaning that I finally managed to bring in on my $1.99 wreath hook pushing it to the breaking point while displacing my cheap Martha Stewart for Kmart wreath. It barely survived the trip home, never mind being tossed around on my porch. While I depend on your service mightily since no place is less convenient to go with small children and a baby than the cleaners (in my opinion, every place should either have carts where you can imprison your infant or have a drive through window – especially Dunkin Donuts), please do not make me call again and again and have a conversation with you in broken English trying to convey what "the brink of insanity" means.

3. The garbage man who is obviously so tired he can barely manage to get the garbage in the truck as evidenced by the fact that he drops our cans and their lids in the middle of the street after emptying them. We, unlike my elderly yard obsessed neighbors, are usually the one with our cans rolling down the street two days later (garbage does not fall under my jurisdiction and have I not discussed Hubby’s idea that there are “people” we can hire for everything?). I am also not so concerned with gathering said cans while emerging from the van with the baby crying to eat and #2 needing to use the potty so please make us look less like the irresponsible jackasses we are and at least drop them somewhere near the house. Please?

2. The mother with one child in tow who takes the parking space closest to school at drop-off and pick-up. Are we not all sisters? I will shoot you dirty looks as I drag my four year old all the way from the last spot through the rain as she jabs me in the thigh repeatedly with her cow umbrella (with horns and ears so I guess it’s really a bull) while trying to hold the umbrella over my thirty pound baby and myself and you will be ashamed. I am the handicapped of the preschool world so, while there is no sign, that spot is reserved for me.

1. And speaking of mothers, Mother Nature tops my shit list this Friday since it is pissing rain and will continue to do so through tomorrow night, the one night I have had plans to go out for ages and wear the aforementioned Pony Shoes. My hair will also look like rusted brillo adding insult to sensible footwear.

So Happy Friday to all. I’m sure my mood will improve as the day goes on and I acquire more caffeine in my bloodstream. And yes, I realize I sound like a huge princess bitching about all the service people listed above. When I start complaining about my manicurist, masseuse and personal chef you all have the right to come right over and punch me in the face.

'Nuff said

(The pills read "30 lb stroller")

That would, indeed, be awesome.

I'm in love...

What more can I say about these shoes other than if I were physically able to take the kids to the playground in them I would?

If you can not guess, Mean Mommy went shopping yesterday, readers, and I mean SHO-PPING. It has been quite a while since I had the body and the means to do some serious damage in a retail setting and, oh, how I missed it. Last fall, I was dragging around the post-partum model of myself with all the poochy goodness and large boobies that goes with that particular options package. The fall before that, I was pregnant with one I subsequently lost, so it has been a full TWO YEARS since I have been able to buy any new, fashionable clothing that's main purpose isn't to camouflage my body from the neck down.

Yes, I was able to shop for spring and summer clothes this year, but, being a redhead with fair skin who sweats like a pig, spring and summer aren't really my seasons fashion-wise. In fact, I've always felt that fall, with its deep, rich colors and luxurious fabrics was "the" clothing season. It also helps this color palate goes very well with my coloring. Summer's putrid pastels make me look as washed out as a manatee (and are equally as slimming).

So when I called Hubby on my way home from Shopapalooza, I was less than thrilled at his less than thrilled reaction when I told him of The Shoes of all Shoes that I had just purchased. His response, "You bought another pair of animal print shoes? How many do you need??" Backstory: I do own a pair of pony skin stilettos. My response? "Fuck you. They're fabulous."

On the drive home I thought about these shoes and why I love them so much when, really they are totally impractical for my life and I will probably only wear them a handful of times. And it is that point exactly that makes me love them so. These shoes are evidence that the part of me which is fun and beautiful and impractical still exists. It is a promise to myself that I will, at some point, be able to do something spur-of-the-moment without having to pack extra diapers and sippy cups. They are a touchstone with which I will keep hold of the "old Mary" so I can gradually bring her back as the kids get older. They are two giant middle fingers to the yoga pants and long sleeved T-shirts I wear every day and knowing they are sitting there in my closet waiting for a Saturday night when I get all dolled up and knock Hubby's socks off assures me my current appearance is only temporary.

To his credit, Hubby did come around very quickly, especially in light of the fact that my daily Old Navy-inspired wardrobe is pretty cost-efficient, and asked me to try the shoes on for him. Waggling his eyebrows he said, "I like 'em." And that proves my point. I'm sure he wouldn't be as turned on by a pair of more practical pumps from Payless and eighteen years from now when the kids have flown the coop he'll be grateful I fought hard against the deluge of frumpery to maintain a little bit of fabulous.

Where my gays at?

Thank you, Kathy Griffin, for the above catchphrase. Like Kathy, I am a total fag hag. If there are fabulous gay men in the room I will find them like a hair-product-good-fashion-sense seeking missile and we will spend the night becoming BFF's discussing celebrity gossip and making fun of people's bad fashion choices (Evil? Yes. Fun? Absolutely!) What I love about flamboyantly gay men (I do not enjoy the closeted, masculine type who are offended by feather boas and anything hot pink) is their emotional availability and brutal honety. If you can take take their crap and then dish it right back, you are granted a spot in their inner circle and they will cat fight anyone to the death to defend you. So, in an effort to return to the old routine and honor my boys, this Friday's Top 5:

The Top 5 Gays of TV and Entertainment

5. RuPaul - Yes, gasp audibly that I have put the mother of all drag queens at lowly number 5, but really, there is no last place in this contest of fabulosity. I owe RuPaul so much as she turned me on to MAC cosmetics and I have never looked back. Don't hate her because she's beautiful (although she did look a bit of a tranny hot mess on Project Runway a few weeks back). You betta' WORK! And if you hate her music, we are not friends.

4. Speaking of Project Runway, how can I not include the ultimate in support, Tim Gunn? While he is the typically flamboyant fashion gay, he lacks the cattiness. His critiques of contestants creations are so gentle, yet honest, it brings a tear to my eye. "That's a lot of look." is such a nice way of saying, "Wow, that's fugly!" He now has a makeover show and I would give my eye teeth to be on it and hear his kind assessment of my body and help me dress it well.

3. Bob Harper from The Biggest Loser - You all know I adore this show and one of the reasons is the butch-enough-looking-to-possibly-be-straight-but-too-good-looking-and-nice-so-is-definitely-gay trainer, Bob Harper. Bob is the antithesis to the odious, screaming, Jillian. He will stand himself in front of your treadmill saying supportive yet challenging things like,"Two weeks ago you couldn't even walk this. Now look at you run! You can go faster. Let's do it." I love you, Bob and mornings I can not get my ass in gear on the treadmill I picture you in front of me gently saying, "Do you really want to start wearing mom jeans?"

2. Now if Isaac Mizrahi would partner with Tim Gunn to style me I would be in fashion heaven. Yet another gentle soul, especially when he mentions his own body insecurities when helping women dress themselves on Oprah ("I've got hips too, but you don't see me wearing sweatpants!"), he is the perfect sartorial mensch. He is a bit of a crier too so I'd like to end our day shopping with a bottle of champagne and a viewing of Tears of Endearment.

1. And my number one gay of all time...Lloyd from Entourage. Lloyd is the perfect personal assistant - kind, caring, strong, supportive, honest and loving. No matter how badly Ari treats him, he knows they have a special bond and he walked away from security and big company to prove it. Lloyd loves to cross the line between professional and personal and that is exactly what I would want in a personal assistant. Yes, answer my phone, but tell me when my skin looks dry or my outfit doesn't suit me. Schedule my meetings, but know Hubby's favorite beer.

Hubby and I joke we both need Lloyds. Mine shows up at the house each morning with iced coffee and the day's schedule (if I can afford a Lloyd it obviously includes much grooming and shopping) and the kids run to him covering him and his Italian suit with kisses and slobber and he loves it. We kibitz in the kitchen while we plan the day and he tells me all about his exploits from the previous evening. Hubby's Lloyd schedules his stuff too, but orders flowers for me on a regular basis and suggests creative gifts and getaways for which H takes all the credit. I know it's really Lloyd though and make sure he gets a huge holiday bonus. Our two Lloyds are friends (but not in that way) and they collude to make our life run pleasantly and seamlessly. Ah, if only.
WHERE ARE YOU LLOYD?!!!

My list could go on and on because, really, the queenish, gay man is so wonderful there are too many to list. I would challenge any homophobe from the deepest South to spend one day with any of these men (OK, maybe not Ru, she'd wind up bitch-slapping him and then we'd have another Civil War on our hands) and not feel loved and supported, then go out and vote for gay marriage. If anyone of could raise a perfect, caring kid, Lloyd would be the one.

Happy Friday! Fierce!

I confess Part 3

...that I absolutely refuse to read and actively despise the following magazines: Parents, Parenting, FamilyFun (sic), Child Magazine and American Baby. I think all of them should be retitled and named exactly the same thing Guilt Monthly.

To me, these magazines are just a catalogue of things I should be doing with my kids and am not. For example, I should be making crafts out of recycled milk cartons and grocery bags - our milk doesn't come in cartons since I am a bad, cheap mother and do not buy organic milk and those bags are for dog crap, thanks. I should be making them each their own well-organized, baby books documenting their developmental and emotional milestones - does a steno pad with a coffee stain on the cover containing mad scribblings such as, "ate peas today" count? I should be reading to them for hours a day and, of course, TV is the devil. I should be cooking nutritious kid-friendly meals that we all eat together as a family rather than serving them the separately cooked elements of hubby's and my dinner, sans sauce, since I know they won't appreciate Spicy Thai Beef and I don't feel like eating organic ground chicken patties made to look like clown faces. And, of course, rather than telling them, "I don't care if you want to, it's a beautiful day. Go outside", then racing around folding laundry and cooking dinner, I should be outside playing creative, mind-expanding games with my children so they get enough exercise.

And speaking of exercise, the other thing that irritates me in these rags is their "All About You" or some similar queerly titled section devoted to mothers themselves that covers topics like fitness, makeup and fashion. And while I can definitely use t he fashion advice, I hate this section because it makes me feel like the only mother in America who doesn't need to be reminded to take time for myself. Sunday afternoon? See ya', Mommy's gotta get her brows done. They talk about "stealing" time for yourself. Time for yourself is a right (as stated in the Second Amendment* of The Constitution of Motherhood currently up for ratification by the State of New Mary pending resolution of a Monthly Massage Amendment) and, no, I don't have any guilt about it (no hate, H!).

And the exercise bit. Please. Playing tag with my kids did nothing to help me shed the baby weight and using said baby as a weight to do push-ups or sit-ups devolved quickly into a drool-coated wrestling match. Under The Personal Maintenance Act of Momgress** it is perfectly legal to lock the kids in their rooms for thirty minutes while you allow Billy Blanks to torture you. Or get thee to a gym with childcare, which ever floats your boat.

So if you enjoy these mags, more power to ya'. You must be a much more secure mother than I. For now I will continue actively avoiding them to maintain my sanity. I sort of like my magazines to be an escape from real life which is why I read Self and imagine I have infinite money for clothes and time to train for a triathlon. I spend enough time reminding myself of what I'm not doing, I don't need to read a magazine that's title might as well be Should.

*The First Amendment states all mothers have earned the right after delivery to never swallow semen again. Not that bj's are out of the question, but seriously, after what I just did for you, I'm not trying to impress you any more. Go get a towel.

** Also under this act is the removal of any guilt for leaving offspring with Hubby or childcare to obtain the following services: Hair cut or color, manicures, pedicures, lip wax or bikini wax.

I love you, Steve!

OH MY GOD, THIS IS THE BEST. T-SHIRT. EVER! And if it weren't entirely inappropriate to wear a shirt bearing the word "sucks" around children, or to be wearing a T-shirt with a witty phrase on it after having kids (I'm talking to you mother wearing the "Little Miss Bossy" t-shirt) I would be strutting my stuff wearing it at the playground.

Regardless of its appropriateness, the sentiment expressed on this item is the main reason I flipped my lid because it is entirely true and calls into the spotlight the practice children's shows have been engaging in for years - working their tails off to endear a character in the hearts of American children and then, after a few years, when the actor playing said character realizes being recognized on the street by three year olds isn't getting him as much tail as he hoped and leaves to be a "real actor", replacing him with another clueless ingenue, picking up right where the last one left off, hoping the costume fits, and their pint-sized viewers won't notice to begin the cycle again. Examples? When they replaced the original Gordon on Sesame Street or the lady who hosted Romper Room.

I will give Nickelodeon credit for not trying to dupe the children of America ala Gordon, thinking if they subbed a similar-looking (in this case) white guy and put him in the same costume no one would notice. "No, look! It's still Steve! He's wearing the same ill-fitting khakis and green striped shirt! Really!" No, they actually wrote a story line explaining that Steve was going off to college and his brother Joe was coming to live with Blue and take care of her (although why Joe couldn't just take Blue to his place smacks of a homeless ne'er-do-well brother if you ask me).

Even though I admire the way they went about replacing Steve, I still stick to my guns about the inferiority of his stand-in. Steve had a vulnerable sincerity that was believable as a kid and endearing as a parent. He really seemed to care whether or not we got all three clues and kids believed him when he sang "You sure are smart!". His aw-shucks dorkiness made me love him even more (Since I loves me a dork. Shout out, H!) and I enjoyed watching him mature over the years from an ingenue with a bad, nineties bowl-cut in pleated pants into a confident young man sporting the George Clooney Ceasar and flat-front chinos. I literally burst into tears, hugely pregnant with #2, watching his final episode as he looked straight into the camera and delivered his catch phrase in a small voice, "Well, goodbye. Thanks for all your help." Oh, Steve!

Enter Joe. Meh. Joe of the jazz-hands, hammy gesture, and who must have really terrible pores as the makeup department spackles him with enough foundation to put RuPaul to shame. This guy just doesn't have the same je ne sais quoi of Mr. Burns and he's pulling out all the off-off-Broadway stops to make up for it. He's too much where he should be reserved, and looks like a deer in headlights when asking the audience a question. Joe is so awful, in fact, they had to resuscitate the ratings by having Blue "magically" find her voice and begin to talk. Disappointing, as her first words were not, "Who's this asshole and why is he wearing so much makeup?"

It doesn't help that his character is also lacking. Sure, they tried with the orange shirt with the squares, but we loved Steve's costume because it wasn't a costume - most of us had a boyfriend in the 90's who had that shirt in a different color scheme. And please with Joe's duck obsession. Couldn't they find a cooler animal? Aardvarks are where it's at, man. He's the bastrad at the family reunion and no one wants to admit it.

So I will continue to delete from my DVR any episodes that feature Joe. Steve was there for all the hard work - potty training Blue, Blue's first day of school, and the birth of Paprika and Cinnamon (I bet he was there telling Mrs. Pepper how nice she looked even though she looked more like a sugar bowl after two kids) - now they expect us to let this guy ride in on his coat tails? I think not. And while I can not sport the supportive t-shirt, in my heart I burn with rage.

Mean Mommy - Library Outlaw

One of my absolute favorite places in the world is the library. I love that library smell of old books, air-conditioning and exhaust from the coin-operated copy machine. I love the quiet and impeccable order imposed by the librarians with their knowledge of the Dewey decimal system and eyes glasses on chains. The library is my sanctuary and oasis when I am stressed, a place where I can wander the aisles and ponder how each tome represents someone's hard work and feel guilty when I pass one up over bad cover art (I'm talking to you "chick lit" writers). I even went there in a fit of desperation crippled with pregnancy "I'm-taking-an-iron-supplement-as-big-as-my-head" induced constipation knowing it was the one place in the world I was guaranteed to be relaxed enough to poop (Seriously, it happens every time and can be a bit of a drag when I have all three kids with me. Thank God for the handicapped stall!).

I love the library, but I have to admit, there are times I do not act as such. While I rip books from the shelves with great fervor, staggering to the circulation desk under the weight of my selections, I am not so hot when it comes to returning them. I view those little cards with the due back date stamped on them merely as suggestions. If I return a book within the month listed I consider it a smashing success. On more than one occasion I have dodged calls from the library (love caller ID!) or pretended to be the babysitter when I have accidentally picked up a call from the librarian telling me second (or third) late notices are being sent out. And yes, I have had my privileges suspended pending remittance of the full price of a book the library thinks I've lost but is really under my bedside table or, best case scenario, languishing in the back of the van waiting to be returned.

The terrible thing is I have absolutely no remorse about my tardiness. In my eyes, the longer I keep The Joy Luck Club, the more copies the library can buy of whatever pap that guy who wrote Tuesdays with Morrie has recently shat out. While I will run right to the library if they call telling me someone is waiting for a book, since that is a sacred library law not to be broken, I figure the shelves will not be intellectually bankrupt without a copy of The Devil Wears Prada if no one's looking for it.

I also consider the after-hours drop box my personal dumping ground. I return books, but also throw in any donations I'm making to the library as well. And while the sign clearly states that audio-visual materials can not be returned using this slot, I do so without batting an eye. My thinking? Well, if you look at the library's adult movie collection (I mean regular movies, not porn, perverts) versus the children's collection it is quite clear that only parents are really taking out AV materials with any regularity since the newest realease for grown-ups is Money Train. So if this is indeed the case, then why would you make a poor mother drag all three of her kids into the building so they can scream when they see her "giving back" the copy of Sesame Stree Karaoke they've been watching on loop since school got out? Consider breaking this rule my gift to you then.

So thank you library, for all the joy you bring to my life and I am sorry for any rules I break. While there have been many changes over the years (Farewell card catalogue! Hello weird guys using the free internet access.) I still love you as I always have. I hope to instill a love for you in my children as well. I'm sure #2, with her poo issues, will not be a hard sell.

Shut up, Ann Curry

OK, this Barack Obama "You can put lipstick on a pig..." thing is going to drive me to drink. While Mean Mommy is not taking political sides, can we all just step back for a moment? The news has replayed this soundbite again and again, out of context, with the byproduct being anyone who did not hear the entire speech thinks Obama was making snide comments about Sarah Palin and calling her a pig when in actuality, he was deriding McCain's policices as being those of George Bush made new again.

I am this riled up not because of the light the misquote puts Obama in, but because the media is using it to piss women off. "Oh my GOD, he's talking about lipstick, let's rile up the broads!" This phrase has been used for years to talk about a myriad of things and, not so much, an ugly woman. Do they think we're that stupid? That some poorly chosen words that refer to cosmetics can make women think a candidate is anti-woman? Was it a bad choice of phrase? Perhaps. Does it make Obama a misogynist? No.

SO SHUT UP ANN CURRY and stop hyping this bullshit. Any intelligent woman, Republican or Democrat, should be ashamed of herself if she can't listen to this whole speech and realize what the point really was. Let's not be manipulated.
Meh.

It's alive!

"Aaaaaahhhhh!  Aaaaaahhhhh!  WHAT IS THIS UNHOLINESS???"

This is just a small excerpt from my violent reaction to the advertisement pictured left.  If this is not the work of the devil I do not know what is and my screams could be heard for miles. 

Let me preface this by saying I do not, and will never, understand people who collect dolls.  Obsessively hoarding other childhood detritus - comic books, action figures, even Scratch 'N Sniff stickers  - I can get behind since these items can be kitschy, are a conversation pieces at dinner parties and don't look like they will come to life and kill you.  If you have children, or even grandchildren I will grant you an exemption, but only if those children are of the age to enjoy dolls (and they have somehow been desensitized to the creepiness of glassy eyes staring expressionlessly out of a tiny porcelain face), but once the youngest goes off to college if you continue your collection you are seriously entering What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? territory.  

I also do not understand the emphasis on the "life-like" quality of these dolls.  Juxtaposing that with the fact these are inanimate objects ups the creepiness quotient.  It gives me the willies thinking about it and makes me think about people who stuff their dogs when they die.  I totally have to throw my mother in-law under the bus here (sorry, M) - she has a few of those faceless "hide  and seek"" life-sized toddler dolls and my brothers in-law and I all joke the kids will ask us years from now, "Did Mamar have some burn victim kid living with her?  I have this memory..."

Adding to the awesomeness of the little piece of hell pictured above is that it is part of a collection of demons, each dressed as a different color M&M.  And what about the M&M thing? Who is the marketing genius at Ashton Drake who said, "No, seriously.  Six inch babies dressed as candy.  It's the next Hummel!"? 

The oddness of the world amazes me sometimes.

Fucking Pele...

Dear readers, am alive. Barely. Have only enough energy after dragging all three offspring to the soccer field, not once, but twice this week (and one time was at the high school stadium surrounded by stairs down which I had to haul Little Man in his stroller while carrying my diaper bag full of enough snacks to keep him and #2 distracted for an hour, as well as enough water to hydrate the World Cup team, all the while screaming at the girls, who were walking in front of me down the stairs, "Will you just gooooo?") to write and tell you this new school year is full-on kicking my ass.
News at eleven.