I Saw You


I saw your family first. I saw all three of your children and your husband as they made their way across the mall parking lot. The kids had on clean, matching, spring outfits. Your husband was wearing khaki shorts, loafers, and a stain free pressed pastel polo. I assumed you were all here for the Easter bunny to take a family photo together.

I didn’t see you then. I only giggled to myself as your kids were walking backwards while yelling “Come on Mommy! Hurry!”. I giggled because I could imagine wherever you were in the parking lot, you had sent your husband on with the kids so you could make sure you had wipes for when they asked for ice cream, double check you grabbed your phone keys and wallet, picking up the chips they spilled on the ride over so they didn’t become further trampled into the carpet when they reentered the vehicle. I knew that feeling too. I lost interest before I saw you though.

Later I ran into your family again by the Easter bunny. They had just gotten off the train ride in the center of the mall. Little matching spring outfits scurrying up to dad in his well put together attire to tell him all about your ride with them. I lingered and waited to see what you looked like out of curiosity. I imagined the mother and wife of this family must be well put together. I bet shes wearing a matching summer dress, she probably had killer hair, and her shoes will definitely be on point.

You came out of the train area just far enough behind them to have checked the carts for any items they missed. You were beautiful in the most heart breaking way. My over emotional ass almost lost it right there in the giant carrot and cabbage props of the Easter display. My kids were already being herded onto the ride before I noticed because I was so focused on every detail of you.

You were wearing a much loved and faded pair of black leggings. Your t-shirt looked as though you probably bought it years earlier in less stressful, more kid free times. The wrinkles of your shirt said you had grabbed it out of a laundry pile on the way out of the door. What was once some sort of event advertisement was now only pieces of vinyl clinging to cotton. A basic pair of flip flops, you likely owned for many summers, slapped the platform under your feet. Your dark hair was pulled back haphazardly into a low pony tail as though you simply needed it out of your way. If you were even wearing makeup it was so minimal it went unnoticed.

You were the walking embodiment of what being a mom feels and looks like in 2018. You were grinning ear to ear as your kids jumped up and down about riding again or seeing the Easter Bunny or whatever plans you guys had in store. You just kept smiling, but I saw you.

I told my husband about you. I felt you, a stranger, with every ounce of empathy in my body. You were so beautiful in the way I could see you pressing on. I know there was a time you took care of you; a time you probably couldn’t dream of leaving the house in anything less than jeans and mascara. Now, here you were so invested in your family that you had given up on yourself.

I’m not shaming women who don’t care about their looks. I outgrew that phase with my second child also. I see it all the time, but you were different. I could see how tired you were. I could see you drawn into yourself, avoiding the attention and scurrying your kids off to the next event. Your husband, attractive also, seemed to stand tall and gleam with the kids, while you drug up the rear picking up all the little pieces of clutter kids leave. I just imagined you crying in your tub at night when you’re alone, as many of us do. Then you get up the next morning and soldier on.

Teen girls won’t fawn over your style. Men won’t hit on you as you walk through the mall. Young men won’t refer to you as a MILF, but to women like me, you stand out in a crowd. You’re not alone Momma. You were Beautiful.

I saw you.

F*#% You Teresa

I’m so tired.

My husband just stomped off to bed angry. I snapped at him. Any human would have.

I’m exhausted.

I’ve had kids in my face all week. I do not mean whining and saying “Mom” repeatedly, I mean actually physically in my face. At every turn someone wants to show me a new karate move, eat my nose, or just hug me. It’s exhausting.

So forgive me if I snap when you happen to walk in at the precise moment the baby had FINALLY decided to get off my lap and crawl toward the electrical outlet. I was soaking up the 1.07 second of not having someone in my lap before I made myself turn around and go back to reality.

I mean it’s not like I’m not here with them 24 hours of the day or anything. I obviously need you to tell me how to take care of them since ya know, they die while you aren’t here and all.

I came over here to my computer to vent out my frustration only to find my note book full of lists, works notes, and the 6 years old curriculum goals lying in the floor with a big pile of puppy piss on it. In my attempts to save what I could I managed to spray myself with said piss. The whole note book had to be trashed and I can only hope it was nothing super important in there.

I’m not tired as in I need sleep, though I could easily sleep for 5 days straight. I am tired in that my mind can not focus. My body hurts. My creativity is road blocked. My happiness is hidden. Just trying to phonetically form words in the correct order takes concentrated effort and will. I sound drunk if I’m not putting all my effort into speech right now.

**The 3 year old is at this very moment begging to tell me a secret. He’s pulling on my shirt trying to pry my head down to a lower level so he can whisper it entirely too loud into my ear…… the secret was he wanted a corndog. A corndog of which he’ll just peel off the bread and eat only the wiener and cry if I only offer him a regular wiener.**


“Look mom! Look at this game I have no idea how to play and need you to explain every move to”

This week I have been covered in feces of both human and animal, urine of both human and animal, numerous spit ups, mud, kitchen grease, and mystery liquids. I did finally shower tonight removing the shirt that contained 3 days of my own dandruff from my neglected scalp and no less than 5 different varieties of foods. Ironically it said “Mom of Boys” across it.

“Take care of yourself. It is so important to take care of yourself as a mom”

Fuck you Teresa! When? When the hell are we suppose to fit self care into this daily routine? When I shower? Yeah that’s 10 minutes of me trying my damnedest to shave at least a whole leg before I start hearing screams in the next room. Join a gym? When Teresa? When the fuck am I suppose to join a gym? Let’s say I even could afford a gym membership in the first place, when do I go? The 5 minutes before my baby realizes I’ve left the room and its time to fall into something head first? Maybe that 3 minutes when I’m walking through the house cutting off the lights for bed? Or maybe in the time it takes me to write this post? Surprise, this is being written in small intervals because my kids keep needing something “right now”.

“Pamper yourself! You deserve it!”

I know I fucking deserve it! I haven’t killed anyone yet and I’m doing motherhood unmedicated. How the hell am I suppose to pamper myself? After lights, cars, insurance, rent, and the wi-fi that fuels my sanity, that last $40 isn’t going very far. Get my nails done? Get a massage? Yeah I’ll squeeze that in right after I go to the damn gym. I feel the most pampered when I get to finish my cup of coffee while its still hot, which is never.

“Date nights are imperative to a happy marriage and happy parents”

Once again, FUCK you Teresa. I can’t afford the sitter much less the date night. My nearest family (aka Free Sitter) is 3.5 hours away. Shes wonderful and amazing but she has a life also therefore scheduling ……………………………..

*Sorry kid almost smashed his penis in the toilet seat and needed to tell me all about his brush with death.*

…………………. any sitter plans with her takes at least a months notice and are usually followed with me feeling tremendously guilty for needing her help so much and having nothing to offer in return after her long ass drive.

I’m tired.

I have three, yes three kids still in diapers pretty much. The 6 year old has problems with not shitting himself. DO NOT come at me with “Why?” because I assure you, even the doctors, psychologist, and psychiatrist can’t figure it out so you can’t either. The 3 year old is one of those defiant disorder kids you read about and good ole southern folks say “He just needs his butt whipped more” well FUCK YOU TOO Teresa’s dumbass cousin, because that it not the case here. I will not beat my kid black and blue. Guess what, it wouldn’t change him anyway!

Did I mention my vagina is still broken? I’m one week from my second post-op, the 10 week mark where I thought I’d be getting the all clear, only to find I still have undissolved stitches tonight. It may be closer to healed but it still looks like something Dr. Frankenstein created in his lab, a mangled mess of what once was a pretty OK looking perineum if there is such a thing.

I”ll never send another dirty photo to my husband again. Ever. Oh and his phone crashed so every photo I ever had of myself in the days of no lumpy baby belly, a pretty vagina, and somewhat less saggy tits, are all gone. No evidence of the person I once was.

I tried to go shopping yesterday, something I hate. I have an event coming up and my sister requested we all dress nice so we can take photos together. I went with $20 in my pocket, refusing to spend more, because honestly I can’t. After three stops I discovered I have absolutely no clue what size I am. I poured coffee down my legs and my husbands work van, because we missed the insurance payment on my car, before even getting to the first store.

I realized I also have no clue how to dress this new body I am in. There was a time I had the seriously the most killer closet in Louisiana, just ask my friends. Years of living with a bargain shopping mom had me set. I could go two years and never repeat an outfit or ever have an outfit cost more than $30 head to toe. All gone.

After getting stuck in one dress and having that moment of sheer panic thinking “I’m about to have to ask a stranger to help me pull this sequin dress off from around my neck and I can’t even see who I am asking. Oh God I’m wearing hospital issued panties today too!”, I just said “Fuck it” and went home.

That was my monthly allotment of “me-time”, running around town in my husband work van crying in dressing rooms for approximately two hours.

My 6 year old asked me what was wrong today when I was trying to put my makeup on for a second time. I really just wanted to hide this anxiety induced acne so my husband wouldn’t have to pretend so hard that I am somewhat attractive.


Tell me I’m pretty anyway and I will hunt you down and cut you.

I just asked him “Did you know I use to be really pretty?”. He replied, “Yeah, then you had babies.” He went on to tell me I shouldn’t try to be pretty I should just try to be myself which sound great but I think myself is pretty on the inside, so why can’t I can’t be myself on the outside too. I think “myself” would be a wardrobe of glitter and rainbows. This week maybe more along the emo goth Hot Topic line, but most days definitely an adult version of the Justice line.

Turns out I’m fairly positive I have body dysmorphic disorder. The good kind though. The kind where I look in the mirror and see a size 6 but look on a camera or dress rack and realize I’m a size 12 built like a short linebacker. Camera adds 10lbs, my ass. Amazing how everyone else looks exactly the same size in that photo as they do in real life.

I’m just tired. I’m sorry if this isn’t funny or if you made it this far that there isn’t some happy surprise twist or realization about how I had some great epiphany that it’s all wonderful and worth it and yada yada yada, but my husband did get me Oreos and hid them in my super secret spot so that’s happy right?

“Motherhood is Magical!”

Fuck you Teresa. Fuck you and the fairy tale that guilt inducing society rode you in on.

**The 3 year old just tried to remove his own pull-up, getting poop all down his legs. I quit. Good night**


*Cries into this morning’s cold coffee*

To the Child with the Anxious Mother

I’m sorry.

Im sorry we don’t do play dates. I’m sorry I’m yelling or upset before we even leave the driveway. You see, on top of the rush and hustle of getting you all dressed I’m fighting a battle with my own anxiety. I’m sorry I worry so much about the opinions of the other moms. I’m sorry I let that build up and explode into the car before you’re even all buckled, because deep down I was hoping one if you would feign sickness and I could cancel. I’m sorry I ruin your happiness before we even get there. I’m sorry I more often than not, choose to stay home.

Im sorry you dont have birthday parties. The only thing more powerful than my social anxiety is my financial anxiety, and birthdays are when they collide. I’m sorry I’m terrified to spend money on all the extras in fear I can’t buy you a gift you’ll love. I’m sorry I naturally assume everyone feels the same way I do, therefore no one will show up. I’m terrified you’ll feel disappointed or even hurt if nobody shows. I’m sorry we just buy a gift and cake to enjoy as a family.

I’m sorry I dont participate at your school. I’m sorry I never attended a field trip, class party, or school event with you. I’m sorry I used your younger siblings as an excuse when in reality, I was too scared to. I was afraid I’d do or say something to give your teacher, her aid, or another mom the wrong impression. I was afraid they’d judge you based off that impression of me. When I did attend your end of year ceremony, I realized I had missed the note about dressing you up. There you stood in your well worn uniform amongst all the kids in their Sunday best, and I fought back tears. I was humiliated and my anxiety was bursting at the seams, all for something so small. I’m sorry I’m just not good at this.

I’m sorry we don’t attend church. I met most of my childhood friends at church. Attending a church means acclimating. It means letting strangers become your friends and extended family. I’m sorry that I simply can not do that. I’m sorry I don’t want to let new people into our lives for fear they’ll harshly judge me as your mother. I’m sorry I would teach you our religion here at home rather than be expected to be a participating member of a congregation.

I’m sorry. Please know, I love you. I’m proud of you. I love showing you off. There is a whole world out there and I assure you, I won’t let you miss it. I’ll happily drive you to practice one day, drop you off at a friends, pay for the big school trip. I’ll encourage you and do whatever I can so you have a life of your own outside these four walls, but faking confidence is so incredibly exhausting. I’m sorry I’m happier, more comfortable, and a better functioning mom here at home in yesterday’s sleep clothes. I’m sorry.

I Just Wanted a Bath

Single moms, I salute you.
I usually wait until the husband is home to even attempt to bathe myself as anything involving a bathroom means certain emergencies in the area of childcare. Someone will lose a crayon, crap their pants, spill their juice, or try to bludgeon their sibling to death with a shoe if you choose to step foot into the bathroom.

Having two previous children and currently approaching the third trimester for baby number three, my recently contracted hellacious cough has all but obliterated my bladder. What does that mean? That mean whenever I go into a coughing fit I pee myself, pretty basic. No amount of leg crossing is going to hold that mess in when I can’t even catch my breath from the phlegm bombarding my airways.

So, as one can imagine, I felt gross and after ruining my last pair of jeans I needed to get to clean water. Husband was still at work and the teenager was out with friends so I thought I’d attempt it alone. You may wonder, “Well why not a quick shower?”. A couple reasons come to mind. I can not hear the blood curdling screams that would most certainly take place if I placed my head under the stream of shower water. I also can not see anything of the outside world from the confines of my master bath shower stall. So into the tub I go, all the doors wide open so I can hear any catastrophe in my house and see any disruption between me, my bedroom, the small hallway, and the door to the garage (which the toddler like to try to escape through).

Enter the five year old. 

The toddler plays quietly in my bed. I can hear his tablet and his giggles and all is well in the house. Five year old enters room and his very presence disturbs my toddler to his core. Toddler screams in unseen pain and darts for the door to lock five year old out. A brief fight ensues over closing the bedroom door. I shout and do my little “What the heck is wrong with you two?” thing and they decide it’s not fun anymore.

The five year old, who hasn’t spoken to me in hours, now decides this is the best time to ask me where plastic comes from. He then needs to tell me about every level and character in some game called PigMan (sp?). I decide to send him on a mission to get a moment of peace; I send him to get mom a little cup of sugar to exfoliate with. He returns looking very proud from what I could see through water filled eyes. I blindly dip my fingers into the “sugar”, and .002 seconds from coating my face in this white substance, I realize its flour. I was so close to antiquing myself true Jackass style. I wash the now dough from my fingers and send him to try again.

Five year old returns with sugar, I wash, and ask him to go dump the rest for me. All is well again until I hear *ssssshhhhhh* “Oh no!”. Look up to see a bedroom floor coated in sugar granules. Walking on sugar is the worst! We all know this. Being the helpful child he is, he runs for the broom. Meanwhile toddler has become interested in what is taking place. Sugar is all swept neatly into a pile awaiting me to get out and put into a dust pan. Toddler decides hiding the pile with a pillow would work better. *Plop* Goes a pillow on top of the pile sending sugar gliding in all directions across the floor once again.

The next 5 minutes are spent in utter confusion between me and five year old.
“Move the pillow”
“Now set it down”
“No not BACK on the pile”
“Omg. You put it back in the sugar”
“No don’t put a sugar covered pillow back on the bed”
“Why do these things happen to me!”

I dash sopping wet from the tub to broom to sweep up stupid sugar, leaving a wet trail from tub across bedroom floor.

Helpful five year old, “Mom, what do we do about this water now?”. I tell him just to grab a towel and wipe it up. I’m planted firmly in my now room temperature water and I’m not getting back up. I see him scooting toward me on a towel as he’s soaking up the water and I realize, he is using the towel I grabbed for myself to dry off with. The only clean towel in my bathroom.

Somehow in the middle of all this I managed to bathe, shave half my leg, and apply oil to my pregnancy dried hair. I completely forgot to finish shaving and about an hour ago, as I was preparing to run errands, I realize I never rinsed the oil out of my hair. As if having to look at my ever quickly changing body when I get naked wasn’t punishment enough.

The kitchen… the kitchen in which the flour and sugar was previously retrieved from? That’s a whole other story.

So, shout out to the ladies who can accomplish basic tasks without a spouse or partner! Apparently, I can not.


I Will Not Treat My Step Kids Like My Own


Yes, I said it. I will not treat them like my own and the sooner you stop telling me and other parents too, the happier we will be. It’s a hypocritical statement and adds further pressure to an already strenuous situation.

I was raised in a blended family. I assumed all blended families were like ours. In our situation my mom and (step)dad were very much able to practice the “treat them like your own” mindset. Why? My mom’s first husband was completely out of the picture minus the random phone call once every couple of years. My (step)dad’s first wife, though a little more involved, never desired or asked for custody. She was fine with the occasional holiday and gave my mom the reigns and full “go-ahead” to raise her children like her own.

This raising resulted in my mom’s children calling her new husband “dad”, and my (step)dad’s son called my mom “Mom”. It irks me to even have to put (step) before his name just for clarity here. They were Mom and Dad, they had all the say, they handled everything. If they made us angry there was no “I’m moving to Mom’s/Dad’s”.

I assumed this was the natural order of blended families. When I became a step parent at the age of 18 I learned I was very much mistaken. My girls aren’t all that much younger than me for one. Something I thought would be a big problem, but turns out, the older they get the more I can appreciate that. My step son was 7 when his father an I got involved. 7 years old boys don’t care about much other than what were doing or where we are going so it seemed simple enough.

Here’s where I became confused. Their mom, his ex wife, was very very very much involved with her children. She had full custody and he had them every other weekend and holidays. I had heard of these schedules from friends but had never experienced them in real life.

A few years go by and all the children move in with us for a while. At which point I have given birth to my own bio-child. I began to see the backwards suggestion of “treat them like your own” at this point. Over the years of having them around I would just notice little things they did that would be deemed disrespectful by my parents or my own standards. I would think to myself “Do I say anything? Maybe their mom doesn’t see it that way?”

Once they moved in it all fell apart. The girls were entering the teen years, those extremely volatile drama filled teen years. I was only in my very early 20’s myself. They would act like I didn’t know anything when in fact I very well knew because I had JUST been in their shoes. One particular morning we had a knock down drag out fight over them intentionally missing the bus for the 5th day in a row. We yelled, we pointed fingers, we nearly came to blows. An inlaw showed up to diffuse the situation and she made the comment “If this was your child you wouldn’t talk to them like this” She was right. I would not be yelling like this because if it were biologically my child, I would have had the parental right to drag him by the hair of the head to bus stop. He would know better at this point than to miss it intentional or even accidentally. I decided I would never treat my step kid like my own at this point. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I was not allowed to.

Even now with another one teen still under my roof I have to remind myself everyday that there are lines. The world doesn’t seem to see them though so they just prefer to point the fingers. When the school calls to tell my bio-son has been disrespectful I can punish him any way I deem fit. You all will hail me a good parent, a caring parent. When the school calls to tell me my step son has been disrespectful, I then integrate a equally age appropriate punishment on him then I am the evil step mom, I am playing favorite, I am bullying him. I have to walk such a thin fine line to know what is ok. Will this punishment cause problems between us? Will he get angry and pull the “I’m moving to mom’s!”. Will he try to cause problems between his father an I? All these things have to be considered with a step child, yet my own child nobody has any say and deems me wonderful for doing anything.

It’s hypocritical. I love my step children. I value how open they are with me. They can freely discuss things that most wouldn’t with their own biological parents. The girls are grown now and I love our relationships. They admit they were a bit rough on me in their early teens, but God has blessed them each with daughters of their own so I’ll just give them time to get their payback.

The step son and I get along wonderfully. I enjoy spending time with him. I truly truly love him. However, I am always one wrong disciplinary action away from being shut out. What can I do? Ask his dad to handle it? Hahahahahahahahaha……gasp…. Hahahahahahahaha. My husband has zero discipline will power. He’ll take your ps4 and cell phone today, then give it back tomorrow and treat you to a shopping spree to say “sorry”. I love that about him though really, he’s a softie. It wont affect our youngest because I’m all the backbone they’ll need, but doesn’t seem fair to his oldest.

In the end my step children will always be treated BETTER than my own. Never less, never equal, but better by the views of others.

Don’t you dare sit there behind our computer screen and go on about, “My house my rules” either because this is not MY house. This is our house. I don’t want war in our house. It’s not worth the turmoil all for the sake of being deemed “boss”. There is so much more to a blended family.

Please just stop telling step parents to “Treat them like their own” because the minute we do you’ll all be crying abuse. Those of you who yell it the loudest are the same ones who bash your exes on Facebook saying things like “His new girlfriend isn’t allowed to touch my child!” or “I hope she ever hurts my child’s feeling. It’ll be then end of her!”. Get off your high horses and walk one day in our shoes.



How this Married Woman got her Boyfriend Back

Last year I posted about how I had a husband but really just wanted a boyfriend. You can read about it here.

Several people asked if we figured out how to fix it to let them know. So here is what I did, we did, to get our girlfriend and boyfriend back.

First, we didn’t sit down and discuss our issues in detail. We didn’t draw up a game plan. We didn’t research ways to spice things up. We didn’t plan regularly scheduled alone time. All the changes that took place over the last 8 months have been completely made by each of us of our own accord. I don’t even know if he intentionally made any of these changes. He may have worked hard to practice them or he may be playing off of my actions.  I don’t care to know. We are both happy and that’s all that matters to me.

  1. Change your definition of a date. EVERY article I stumble upon stresses the importance of date nights in marriage.This idea sounds lovely and I truly wish this was feasible. This hard pressed “fact of a healthy marriage” had me already set up for failure. I knew this wasn’t an option and in fact we haven’t had a single date night since our train wreck of a date back in December. We have had one night alone since then (8 months ago) in which he slept the entire evening and I caught up on work. Now we define a date as leaving the house together, even with kids, to do something out of the ordinary. Movies, restaurant, zoo, the park, even riding around looking for pokemon has become our “dates”. Why do kids have to change that? My kids are seeing their parents in love, holding hands, being affectionate, and doing so while being parents. I can’t think of a better thing to teach our kids than how to treat their partners in marriage. We started killing two birds with one stone when we changed the definition of date night.
  2. Comprehend. Other articles will list this as “listen to one another” but that is such a basic and common sense suggestion. It is easy to listen. I have always listened to him. Now I comprehend. I listen, ask questions,  engage. He does the same which I felt was my biggest complaint with him before. When he talks about a coworker I don’t know, I ask “who is that?”. When he tells me about a job that frustrated him I ask exactly what part of the job was difficult. The vast majority of my friends live behind a computer screen; he knows next to none of those people. When I talk about a friend he doesn’t know he asks “Who is that? What group are they from?”. He now knows my admin team and knows the people I work for. When I prattle on about a difficult customer he offers his input/advice where he use to reply with a “f*** ’em” which is code for “I don’t really care”. This one simple change in conversation turns what use to be passing small talk into full engaging conversations between us.
  3. Stop nagging. This is pretty straight forward. This doesn’t mean let everything slide and never argue; it means change your approach. When he would say “I’m tired of this d*** bathroom counter always being cluttered with your sh**” I immediately didn’t want to clean it. Nobody likes to be forced into anything. He says “I wish you’d clean this mess” but what I hear is, “You don’t care to clean up after yourself. I have to tell you to do everything. You don’t care about my happiness. I must treat you like a child to make you do anything.” Nagging infuriates me to no avail!!! Now, he asks like so, “When you find the time, do you think you could find a home for all your makeup?” This simple change in tone and words changes everything. Now I hear “I know you are busy so may not be able to get to it as fast as I would like, but it will make me happy when you do.” Now I WANT to do it because I want to make him happy, besides it’s such an easy task. Most things people nag about are very utterly basic and simple mundane chores anyway; the approach just makes us want to do it less.
  4. Simply be together. With two kids this is the hardest one for me, but so worth it. Before children we did everything together. Run to get groceries? I’m riding. Run to the corner store? I’m coming. Since kids we find it so much easier to send one while the other stay back with the littles. We still do time to time for very short runs but whenever the trip will take more than 20 minutes, I make the effort to go anyway. That means dressing kids, fixing sippy cups, having diapers and wipes, etc., but we are spending time together. We are spending time together without kids jumping all over us, because they are strapped safely into their carseats behind us.
  5. Support the others decisions. Another common suggestion, I know. When I said “I’m going to spend two months painting these tiny painting for a tiny itty bitty profit that doesn’t even cover my labor because I simply want to do it” his response a year ago would have been “You waste your talent. You will never be able to run a real business” This year he said “Awesome! You got accepted? That’s cool. How does this whole thing work?”. He bought a Chevelle project car, sure the money could have went elsewhere and it’ll take a lot of time and more money to get it in the shape he wants it, but I do not care. He’s happy, ecstatic even, and I couldn’t be happier for him.
  6. Have fun and be youthful. For us this means car karaoke, jamming to the oldies, harassing our friends together on snapchat, playful butt grabs when he walks by, corny jokes, and terrorizing our kids like annoying older siblings. Be playful, be a kid again, life shouldn’t be so serious! Seeing him act silly immediately puts me in a happy mood and my love for him grows every time he makes me laugh.

OH! And sex? Not a priority anymore. It happens when we want and not just when we find the time. Treating it as a want and not a need has improved it by leaps and bounds in both frequency and satisfaction. Yet another How to Save Your Marriage rule debunked!

I know it doesn’t seem like some great epiphany, but y’all asked me to tell y’all when I found what worked. These may not be the answers for everyone, but I have never been happier in love. Corny? I don’t care, I see enough of y’all complaining about marriage on Facebook that I have earned my 5 minutes of happy brag time. Besides, I just realized we haven’t taken a photo together since our date 8 months ago, I’ve so earned this blog post.

Now…. if we could just get a date night do over.



A Message to the Church


I am visibly tattooed

Half my head is shaved

I have a piercing through my lip

I wear makeup

I wear pants

Given all these items listed above you are not imagining a Pentecostal woman. I’m here to surprise you though, for at the very soul of my spiritual foundation lies a cornerstone of Pentecostal Apostolic beliefs. Before you run away and think this post wont apply to you or your denomination I assure you, yes, this message applies to all of us. Though your religion may not have the same standard you expect of Pentecost, every religion has it standards.

A few weeks ago I volunteered to help out at a friend’s Pentecostal children’s vacation bible school. I expected I would show up, corral kids from point A to B, maybe serve food, basic parenting volunteer stuff. I bought some skirts merely out of respect for the other ladies, just enough to get me through camp.  I was surprised to receive a text a week before camp was due to start asking if I would come in to help with decorating.

I knew this would mean moving, painting, ladders, and I am so out of practice with skirts I didn’t want to risk a wardrobe malfunction in the presence of complete strangers so chose to wear my pants. My piercing was also fairly new and could not yet be removed temporarily without risk of it closing up.

Day one. I know not a single soul I am meeting with. They know nothing of my pentecostal roots and I am fairly glad at first because the ultimate curse within this denomination is to be considered a backslider. It is the lowest insult you can be called. I DO NOT consider myself one in the least.

The lady I am to be helping is in every way visually “typical” of what you would expect to see on the church pew come Sunday. Each person I met throughout the day continued to reassure me I was out-of-place. I had a feeling after this day I would not be getting called back the next to help. I felt surely they would find somebody to fill in and suddenly not need my services so much. I wasn’t the face you would want attached to your church program.

I have seen a lady pulled out of the middle of praise and worship and asked to remove her earrings in my childhood church. My own mother had her wedding band “rebuked” after forgetting to remove it after work. Mind you, this is all by the elder women of the church who we like to assume have all died out, but do we not learn from our elders? We follow their example right? Would I be treated with distaste for my appearance and not my heart?

Then…. nothing happened. The entire week, nothing. I was treated like any other member of the church. Nobody ever mentioned the blaring piece of metal hanging in my lip. Nobody asked why I had shaved half of my “beautiful head”, as others like to say. Nobody asked I put on a skirt to make them more comfortable. Even the older ladies of the church, who in my experience tend to be the most condemning, never once gave the slightest hint of discomfort. They each looked me in the eye when speaking to me and thanked me with true sincerity for my help.

I sank into myself a little when I was introduced to a member of the pastoral team, he never paused to give me a curious look, he shook my hand, thanked me, and continued about his activities. He made a point to know my name and thank me again later in the week, once again, never even pausing to question “Why does someone who looks like this want to help here?”

Camp started the following week where I continued to volunteer my help. During all this I begin meeting others who did not look “typical” of the church and assumed they were also volunteers like myself. No, they were members, members who had found the spiritual home they needed within this church.

Here is what I find the most amazing part of it all. During all these exchanges that took place over the course of those two weeks, not a single person ended our conversation with “You should join us for a service!” The only time it ever came up is when I, myself, asked about their service schedule.

You may be thinking “That is awful! What a missed opportunity.” No, this was the most beautiful part of the entire thing to me. Had any one person used that line after the kindness they showed I would have immediately disregarded their kindness for the church version of a sales tactic. Had any of them said this it would have also showed that they most likely assumed I didn’t attend church elsewhere, or that I needed God in my life because he was most likely absent.

Truth is I have a personal walk with God. It grew so much stronger after I left my previous small town pentecostal mindset.  A mindset where everyone is bad but those who look, walk, and act like us. I’ve seen it kill churches, kill families, kill relationships, stir hate, things not of the God I serve.

To be a christian means to be like Christ. We hear we must let him shine through us. That means exactly that. It does not mean beat your bible, your pick and choose version of verses, and your standards over the head of those you deem “not christian enough”. It means to serve, love, and treat the prostitute and the politician as complete equals in all aspects of your love and respect.

The congregation at the Pentecostals of Lee Road has shown me that I have to break the stereotype I was taught as a child that pentecost is an exclusive religion. I can not be embarrassed to tell people my religion for fear they would think I believed myself better than them. I CAN still feel welcome in a house of God where you truly feel his presence. I can worship freely without being “attacked” by well-meaning christians seeking to ‘pray me through’ because simply lifting my hands means I suddenly feel the need to change my entire life.

This goes for all of you. Baptist, Catholic, Presbyterian, Pentecostal, Non Denominational. Treat your visitors like your members. Don’t drag them to a service in guilt. You are not better than anyone. Show kindness, show equality, and let God handle the rest. Standard is not what will save your soul. Following your convictions will and God can handle those just fine.  If your church is full of perfect examples of your beliefes then it’s not a place where I want to be. It is obviously not a place of growth, but a place of routine.

I do not currently have a home church, but after the exemplary example set by the people of POLR, me and my boys belive we have found exactly where to start.

I am also happy to hear, that church I grew up in, the one full of backwards looks and “with us or against us” mentality, is learning. I hear it is growing once again after decades of being held together by a thread. People are catching on, love is spreading, and I hope to continue to hear good come from that little Light House on HWY 4.



Oh No! Not the Transexuals!!!

Let me start by saying, I am in no way a political person. I do not have ties to any one group. I am merely a mother, who cares about her children and practices the use of common sense.

So, here are some common sense point I think many people are missing with this whole “Transgenders are in my bathroom!” media blow up.

  1. The new bill every one is referring to will NOT allow them to use the bathroom they see fit. It will STOP them from using the bathrooms they have deemed fit for themselves and have used all the years they have identified with their sex. This means you, yes you, have BEEN sharing a restroom with transgender people. Did it hurt you? No. Did you know? Not unless you are some form of pervert yourself. kevin-moore-bathroom-cartoo
  2. “Allowing them to use our bathrooms will open the door to predators”. This is my favorite point. Let’s elaborate on this. Predators are arrested in public restroom, they are caught dressed and acting exactly the sex they are, no lies, no costumes, no charade. No law is stopping them. “…but this will open the door!” Let me explain how this is not true. You believe that a man can dress like a woman and just walk in the ladies room. Ok, yes he can, but anybody dumb enough to fall for it needs more common sense. Any man going that far anyway, will do it regardless of law. That same man can walk into the mens room without playing pretend and feed on your son. This law if anything will increase the ease of entry for sexual predators… please read below…                  michael-cf791fc5b240877af0847a83a9b68a14
  3. This bill will make you MORE vulnerable to predators. The man you see above was born a woman. This law would require him to use the ladies room. Do you want that? NOT ME! My point however is, you see how much he looks like a man? With this new law any man, born man, looks man, acts man, can now enter the ladies room by claiming “I am a trans man, I was born a female. Law states I must use this facility” Ok he is doing EXACTLY what you’re asking. Only now you can’t argue without asking to see his genitals. You see how this makes it so much EASIER for predators?
  4. “…but men will dress like women now that they are aware they can to enter my bathroom!” There is a broad difference in a gay man, a transgender woman, and a cross dresser (there are many more in between also). A Trans woman lives her life as a women, she isn’t a guy who woke up one day and said “Today I want wear a dress and makeup”. It is a lifestyle change. It does not take science to figure out the real from the fake. After all, like I said, they have been doing it all this time without you realizing.
  5. You already share your dressing room openly with the opposite sex. While some stores do have separate dressing rooms, many do not. Wal-Mart, Target, Burlington, many major retailers (varies by location) do not have separate dressing room facilities. While some do have a clerk working them, many also do not. So the dressing room, the room in which you go to completely undress, is shared openly by the opposite sex. Where are your posters and pitch forks?27A3DBA700000578-3042240-image-m-80_1429207860484
  6. Trans women, and men, will be hurt and suffer. I don’t just mean “Oh, I’m so offended” I mean physically assaulted. See the lovely ladies in the photo above? They are born male. They are in a men’s restroom to show a point. Imagine one of these attractive ladies is forced to use the mens room. She stumbles into a bar bathroom where drunken men are now taking it, she is in pursuit of something more, or she is so drunk she doesn’t know the difference. This is a hot bed of sexual assault waiting to happen. Say this trans lady walks into a room of close minded homophobes and now they are faced with a room, where cameras are not permitted, with people looking to hurt them. Hate crime just waiting to happen. All these things are MUCH more likely to happen and WILL happen in much higher number than your whole “Men will will pretend to get into the ladies room” theory. (IMO)
  7. We are worried for our children. Yes I AM worried for my children. As stated above in #3, this law will put my children in MORE danger if it is passed in my state. Not so much as children because I will always escort them to the restroom until they are of an appropriate age to escort themselves, but as young men being followed by women, yes women are pedophiles and perverts too, into public restrooms under the facade that they were born male. I do not want my children to have to question the gender next to them. “If she wants to be a lady you treat her as such and you don’t pull your penis out at the urinal when she walks in. Why doest she use my bathroom? Well honey, because it makes other ladies uncomfortable. Crazy? Yes son, I know” This isn’t something I should have to explain to my boys.
  8. I can not support this bill because I am Christian. Jesus addressed the woman at the well, a public facility, and asked water of her. She was a loose woman of low morals. He did not agree with her life. He did not support her life decisions. He did not ask she take her unclean immoral bucket and hands to another well. He asked her for a drink, from her very own pail. Even when she asked him why he, somebody not like her, would want to share with her, he showed love, and in this, he showed her God’s divine plan. My God has plans for me. My life should be an example of what trust in him does. That stranger needing that ladies bathroom pep talk to boost her spirits (ya’ll know what I’m talking about) isn’t going to get it in the other bathroom.
  9. I just want to pee. They just want to pee. Let’s all pee. The average bathroom trip takes less than 2 minutes. Seems like a lot of noise about something so small. And like I’ve said several times already, WE HAVE BEEN DOING JUST FINE WITHOUT THIS NEW BILL.Screen Shot 2016-04-21 at 8.42.07 PM
  10. The one upside to this new bill? NEW JOBS!!! Every public restroom will require genital checkers. Not everyone has an i.d. and even so you can change your gender. So how do we stop them? A genital checker. Can’t wait for that job opening, bet you can’t wait to be required to prove your sex every time you go pee either huh? There goes all our dignity.

P.S. If you want to boycott Target you might as well boycott every public store, because as of right now, in my state and still in most, they are all still letting ’em choose wherever they want.

Honestly though, even if this does pass, it wont affect the true trans-population. They will continue to use the bathroom they identify with, you won’t know the difference, and life will go on just as it has before.

I’m Sorry Morning Child

I’m sorry little lover of the sun.


When you were created God looked down and said “Let’s throw this mother a curve ball”. First he sent me a lover of the night, fueled by the moon, sparked by the stars, and inspired by the silence of the dark. A more perfect rhythmic match could not have been created for me, than that of your brother.

Then he sent you. You await the sun’s grand entrance every morning like a long lost friend. I believe you mourn his departure each night by the sounds of  your troubled sleep. As he slowly lowers himself below the backyard tree line, you began to lose your sense of joy. I have considered moving us to a flattened desert wasteland to give you the absolute longest possible view of your precious sun. You gather your happiness from his rays and energize your body with his warmth.

Every night, after your life source has eased down and left us in darkness, you begin your transformation. Once night falls, you began to whine, cry, fight, rage. You become a hairless werewolf child no matter the phase of moon. While you cry yourself to sleep and await your precious sun, me and your brother come alive.

We dance around the kitchen. We become inspired to create art, tell stories, invent games. Magic comes to life once the dark falls and all things are possible. We soak up these fleeting moments of life, for after dark the most illogical of ideas become an attainable quest that must begin immediately. We stumble to bed when we have begun to run dry of inspiration. The soft blue glow though the windows tells us the hours of the inspired is over. We are eased into restful sleep and comfort in knowing we wasted no moonlight. The now brightening sky sedates us in a way no man made drug could imitate.

The sun creeps under the curtain, streams across the piles of laundry and toys, ascends the rungs of your crib waking you as quickly as it soothed us to sleep. You are up and my day must start. I am now a zombie, cursing the sun, cursing mornings, fumbling around for coffee, grumpy, resentful, drained. I am exhausted. I watch the clock for nap time counting minutes like a prisoner counting down the days of his sentence.

We repeat this every day. You awake full of joy; your brother and I shoot you daggers from red burning eyes. You are ready to play games, eat, function, live. We are missing our sun soaked bed. I tell you I’ll go to bed with you tonight, but I lie. I may try to follow your routine, but I lie awake in the dark while the moon continues to feed my mind lists of projects, chores, ideas, and questions until once again, the sun is rising.

I am sorry. I am sorry I will never know the joy of a good nights rest. I am sorry I will never awake and dive straight into games with you.  I am sorry you are alone in the elation that is sunrise. I am sorry I can not share in this joy with you. I am sorry you seem to miss all the excitement that takes place when the rest of the world is sleeping. I am sorry.

3-6pm…. That I can handle. Let’s make the most of it tomorrow. kastoneyes2


I’m Married, but I Want a Boyfriend

Say you have a dress. You love this dress. you wear this dress as much as possible. You feel sexy, confident, happy, or maybe even just content in this dress. One day you notice a stain on the back. Now you only worry about this stain. How long has it been there unnoticed? You suddenly feel self conscious. You are no longer confident when you wear it because all you think about is that stain. It is amazing how when unnoticed, it was the best thing in your closet and now today you just let it stay on the hanger.

This just happened to my marriage.

My wonderful husband and I, after 3 LONG years without one, went on a date. For the first time since April of 2013 we went without kids to do something together. We are a very happy couple. I do not mean it in a cliche way when I say we truly are best friends. I think we are a perfect partnership. We argue very little, we laugh very often, and we have a healthy sex life, which is the key to a healthy marriage right? …Wrong.

Very shortly into this date, stains began to uncover themselves on the fabric of our marriage. We sat in silence for an awkwardly good bit of the hour drive. When we did speak, what did we talk about? Kids and bills. We discussed disciplinary areas that needed work, the current insurance claim on my totaled car, how we felt bad leaving his parents to handle our rambunctious little crew.

Once arriving at the the theatre (we saw Broadway’s Beauty and the Beast) the situation became even more obviously apparent. Our discussion once again fell to kids, how I couldn’t wait till the boys were big enough to appreciate the theatre. We even found ourselves looking for the best Belle inspired princess dress on one of the many little girls running around. Kids, kids, kids.

While standing in this exquisite and almost surreal theatre lobby the answer hit me hard. I watched two other couples near us, one stood very close, leaned into one another while talking to friends, another couple holding hands and snapping selfies, both with those ridiculously adorable puppy dog grins. The answer was right there; my husband was no longer my boyfriend.

That is not to say he is at any fault, as I am no longer his girlfriend either. I found myself standing next to a very attractive partner and friend. We are a team, Mommy and Daddy. We are business partners running a home for the Wicker bunch. We are friends who share interests and can keep the other one entertained and out of trouble. (Seriously, the only thing keeping us from being the perfect bro-mance couple is my lack of a penis.)

The stain was suddenly so vivid it could not be ignored. When I started the day I felt totally confident in my wonderful marriage, by the end I was completely taken aback by how we could let this “stain” go so long unnoticed.

On the ride home I tried to think of ways to act like a girlfriend but I was stumped. In the early years my girlfriend behavior was all just my reactions and responses to his boyfriend behavior, which I’m sure he feels the same about on his side. Luckily, on the ride, a friend had added us to a new very risqué Facebook group. We spent the ride checking out photos and laughing with one another, but before we knew it, we were back in the friend zone, laughing, discussing other people’s lives, being…. well… bros.

How did this go this long unnoticed?

Sex, that is how. Sex had become the big bow trying to cover the stain on our marriage. Of course the kids do occasionally nap, though its never for a very long period. In those rare short moments of being alone together we do one of two thing. 1. Sleep 2. Have sex.

Sex after kids is always rushed or extra quite and sneaky.  It is almost job like, not to say it isn’t a pleasant experience, it’s just less build up. There is no time for playful banter, flirting, build up. It is “take it while you can!”. Because every second we were ever alone was spent trying to fill it with physical pleasure, once we were alone and sex was no longer an option, we didn’t know what to do.

Sex was not an option on this date night for reasons of a personal nature, so even the flirting and little innuendos of “I can’t wait to get you home”, were taken off the table. That left us naked and exposed to only each other’s company. Since this date night last week it has been a festering stain. What was once my favorite “dress” turned out to be my comfiest pajamas in disguise.

Yes, I am comfortable. Yes, we have fun. Yes, I am happy. Am I satisfied? Not even close. I want a boyfriend. I want to be a girlfriend. I have the perfect man for the job, but how do you date somebody you already know everything about? How do you rekindle the spark in what has become your dearest friendship? How do you step out of Mommy and Daddy an into lovers again? More importantly, how do you do this with kids always present?

I just want to be his girlfriend again….. and I will be.

***UPDATE*** How this Married Woman got her Boyfriend Back


My Best Friend, husband, partner, and soon-to-be boyfriend.