To the untrained eye they looked like a couple who’d been together a little too long. Sitting silently in the booth of a deserted restaurant before dinner rush, shoveling down their meal as though they’d get it for free if they finished it in five minutes.  She noted that his meatballs smelled like chili, he reminded her that she had feta on her plate, so she didn’t get a say in the collected smell of dinner. They looked at peace, smiling at the wall above each other’s heads as though they’d resigned themselves to a future of lonely meals together.

*

To the trained eye, however, were the details. There were four coats, not two, dumped in the booth beside the couple. There was a pile of knives, no napkins and an extra glass ketchup bottle on their neighboring table.

On their own table, which was littered with Sweet-n-Low packets, were four plates of food, though the two smaller ones were untouched. Four drinks, two in wax to-go cups that left chocolate rings on the surface. And shredded straw wrappers on the carpet by their feet where two small bodies shook with laughter at their inconspicuous hiding place.

*

The untrained eye had not noticed the disappearing act that granted the couple an unexpected moment to eat their food in peace.

*

And the couple? Don’t you worry about the couple. They’re just fine. They might be focused on the walls, but they’re happy to think of nothing. Because at 5pm in a public setting, there’s nothing more delicious than the taste of a silent dinner.

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©2010 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and I’m dumping my kids in your booth while I eat my dinner several tables down with my awesome husband.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

HER: Mama? I have to go to the potty.

ME: No, you don’t. You’re fine.

HER: Yes, I do.

ME: Can you hold it?

HER: No.

ME: We’ll be home in a few minutes and…

HER: Mama! I can feel it ready to come out now.

I don’t know why I keep forgetting to ask before we leave the house. Or why I believe her when I’m in a rush and actually remember to ask. I don’t know why store managers don’t have someone cleaning their toilets, but it never, ever for the life of me fails. When I forget to ask, she has to go. And we always wind up in some post-apocalyptic stall with urine on the seat and toilet paper on the wall.

Since this is only the beginning of “Get-Me-Out-of-My-House” season, I’ve decided to compile a list of safe public toilets VS. the ones to avoid. If you’re dragging your kids out of the house anyway, it might help to keep these potties in mind. You know, just in case.

PLEASE HAVE A SEAT

Bloomingdales/Nordstroms*: Even if you don’t have to go to the bathroom, you should check these out anyway. Dressing tables, mirrors, low lights, separate cabin-like stalls. I stumbled upon them accidentally, since I don’t actually shop in these stores. But they are quite lovely and I highly recommend.

Crate & Barrel: Clean and fashionable with paper seat covers. I pretty much want one in my house. The seat covers too.

Babies ‘R Us: They damn well better make the effort. Not the best bathroom in the world, but my kid loves their tiny pottys and that distracts her long enough to pee.

IKEA: Sure it’s a little unsettling to clip your baby into the seat on the back of the stall door, especially given how poorly constructed their furniture is, but there’s always that VoiceOfGod over the speaker informing you of the sales you didn’t know you needed and stools for the kids to reach the (clean) sinks.

Starbucks, Caribou: Oh you betcha. (It’s also easier to forgive the occasional mess when a deliciously hot beverage awaits you on the counter.)

Target: Kind of hit-or-miss, but the smell factor is low and there are enough stalls to play Musical Toilets until you find one that’s decent.

My House: Also, hit-or-miss.

Germany (the country): Kathy @ West Family Adventures rubbed in the fact that even though you have to pay-to-poo in her country, the bathrooms there are spotless and well-stocked. Clearly I was born on the dirty-toilet continent.

Von Maur: I’ve never heard of this place, but both Lindy @ Future Blackmail and Laura @ Kiddie Kaleidoscope vouch for these bathrooms because they have a family restroom in addition to their enormous ladies room.

Barns & Noble/ Borders: Laura @ Kiddie Kaleidoscope also gave “good-in-a-pinch” props to the restrooms in these bookstores.

Guide to Good Southern California Toilets by Naptime Writing: Westfield malls – astounding YES! Other less enthusiastic toileting experiences: Peets & Starbucks.

Bring Your Own Potty: Recommended by both Elizabeth @ Wadetown and Naptime Writing.

Hotels: Leave it to Unknown Mami to come up with a slice of brilliance I hadn’t even considered. OF COURSE hotels would have decent bathrooms. Good call, Mami!

Heading to Greensboro, NC? Pee Here: Dillards, Belk, Target, Lowes Home Improvement, Borders, Barns & Noble, and Best Buy. By Niki @ Nocturnal Queen

I’D RATHER CRAP MY PANTS

The Gas Station, I mean, A.C. Moore: Dark and dingy with the smell leaking into the hall before the door is open. My baby refused to enter and my kid chose a UTI over the toilet.

Costco: It’s literally like using the bathroom at a highly trafficked road stop, but without the cleaning crew. You’re better off letting your kid pee behind the floor-to-ceiling packages of toilet paper.

CVS: You know how I feel about this monstrosity of a place. (Sorry, El. I know the bathroom at YOUR store is spotless, but I still have to give the chain Two Wipes Down.)

Home Depot: My first thought was that we accidentally entered the men’s bathroom by mistake. I should’ve known better. Women are hogs in public restrooms. (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE, LADIES.) Let your kid use a display toilet.

Whole Foods: Since my good friend The Kitchen Witch never runs her mouth about anything, I’m sure she wasn’t exaggerating when she said, “The inside of that thing is uglier than the raw chicken in the meat case.”

Old Navy: I think Magda @ I’m Just Sayin’ may have  inadvertently uncovered a Gap Inc. Consperacy. “Old Navy Bathrooms rank (pun intended) at the top of our I’d Rather Crap My Pants scale, seriously, worse than a train station. I think it is intentional, just your kid can shit their pants and then you have to buy them a new outfit so you can keep shopping.”

Guide to Bad Southern California Toilets by Naptime Writing: Okay, here we go: McCrap is hit or miss, and all the lesser meat stores (Arby’s, In-n-Out, Hardees, DQ, etc.) are gross. Gas stations are universally terrible. As are Target and Costco.Porta potties and playground potties are okay if you want your child to catch the clap. All in all, SoCal provides good side-of-the-road spots, so be sure to keep wipes and hand sanitizer ready.

Heading to Greensboro, NC? Hold Your Pee Until You Pass These Places: Macy’s, Food Lion, Sears & all local gas stations. By Niki @ Nocturnal Queen

*          *          *

Please fee free to add to this list in the comments field. I’ll add your reviews and link to your blog. You’re also welcome to contest any of my assessments, but I’ll require pictorial proof.

*          *          *

*breastfeeders

Bloomingdales/Nordstroms are also idea for the times when you need to nurse on the run and would like relative privacy in a clean, conducive environment.

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and your ass is mine. Actually, I’ll pass you along to A.C. Moore. See how you like THOSE apples.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

So you’re indulging yourself in a deliciously okay piece of pop culture for the second time. Though you fought yourself through the first reading, by the second go-around you’ve embraced yourself as the heroine. In your head you’re a beautiful seventeen-year-old girl who just fell in love for the first time. You borrow her overwhelming desire to touch and be touched. Her angst of knowing life will be, like, totally over if he doesn’t return the feeling. You analyzing every contradictory move he makes and you’re even more excited than she is because you know what’s coming next.

And then the tears start.

Not yours, or even hers for that matter. No, it’s the tears of those pesky humans dwelling with you who were supposed to be napping and quiet-timing. Up to this point you’d been reveling in the excitement of having a vampire in your bedroom. Turning the pages and getting tingles when you find yourself facing another rainy day because that means he’ll be at school, beckoning you to your private lunch table.

But when you turn to the window and see that very same drizzly weather in real life you start to hyperventilate because you know in just a few minutes your time with the vampire will be over. Instead you’ll be deciding how the holy hell you’re going to keep your house-bound kids occupied.

And as you start counting down the years until you can expect your children to truly entertain themselves on days such as this, freeing you to mentally transport yourself to Forks, you realize that they’re actually closer in age to the heroine than you are.  In fact, not only are you waaaaay older than the heroine, you’re only five years younger than Renée, the HEROINE’S MOTHER.

The kids continue to scream. You continue to ignore them, wrapped in the sad understanding of why this fictitious woman fled Forks only several months after the birth of her daughter. The very idea of being stuck indoors with her child in the rainest place in the continental U.S. was enough to make her lose it. Of course she escaped to a dry, warm climate. She could take her kid outside to play any time she wanted. Smart move. You would’ve done the same thing.

Because you’re her.

Not the exciting teenager. The exciting teenager’s flaky mother. A forgotten, unnecessary character only brought into the picture when she could be a useful tool to create conflict for the heroine or force-feed exposition.

You sit back with your old-ass self and take it in. Your offspring is the one who gets the hot vampire and the chills and the romance and a the best make-over ever, not you. What do you get? An eternally damned daughter who can’t visit you in the Sunshine State and a monster granddaughter who has the worst name in the history of names and a future warewolf grandson-in-law.

Any girl’s dream.

We got shafted, Renée. Totally shafted.

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and your ass is mine. And frankly, everyone will know that you’re just as pathetic as I am about these damned books.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

She stared at the back of his head as he led the animal down the bumpy, uneven path. She really needed him to stop again, but was nervous about asking. They’d already lost so much time because of her.

The baby kicked again. She grabbed her stomach and shifted slightly. Everything hurt. Upper back, lower back, head, legs, stomach, bladder. She wasn’t going to think about that, though.

Other than the rhythmic clopping of the animal, it was quiet. A peaceful quiet. Neither of them had much to say. They didn’t really know each other very well yet. Even still, she pondered his behavior. She wondered how he could look at her as calmly as he did. Her greatest hope had been that he wouldn’t allow the people to stone her. She prayed that he’d divorce her quietly. That he was really as righteous as her family said.

While she waited at her cousin’s house for the news, she wept over his imagined reaction. His shock. His anger. His refusal. When her parents finally sent word, she was astonished to learn that she was still engaged. She wasn’t sure that she deserved such a man.

She was afraid that at any moment she’d do something, or say something and he’d change his mind and send her away. And an unprotected woman with a baby in a foreign land would be in great danger. Which made it all the more hard to tell him that she needed to stop again. So she didn’t.

The cramping increased. The pains shot up her back. She shifted again. Stiffness seared through her body. She fisted her hands and pressed them into her sides. Arched her back.

He sensed her movement and stopped the donkey. He turned, read her eyes and reached out his arms to her. Offered his hands and helped her down again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He shook his head and smiled. He had yet to accept an apology. There was no one on the road other than them, but he shielded her anyway as she relieved herself.

They were on the fringes of a large group when they left Nazareth, but her constant need to stop soon left them behind everyone. And then they were alone. She was glad. She preferred it that way. She’d decided months ago that she wouldn’t care what everyone thought. Or said. Or how they looked at her. But when she was alone, sadness often overwhelmed her.

And she hadn’t counted on the way it would hurt to see how they treated him because of her. As if he’d done something wrong. But all he’d done was protect her. Shouldered her shame. Accepted who she was and her situation. Accepted what that meant for his life. The stares, the whispers, the refusal of business.

He’d saved her life.

He was a good, good man. But still, she feared what would happen when the baby was born. How he’d feel when he looked into the face of a child each day that wasn’t his. How good could one man be? What if it was too much? What if he changed his mind?

She was glad that they were leaving Nazareth. Relieved to get away, even if just for a little while. Part of her heart missed her family, but even they weren’t the same. They wanted to believe her. Some of them did. But it was an impossible story and she knew that.

She never expected that it would be easy. She just had no idea how hard it would be. The looks in they eyes of everyone in her small town. The stories. The voices of the girls who used to be her friends. She had no idea how lonely it could be as the sole owner of the absolute truth.

With the exception of her cousin, the only other person who seemed to fully comprehend and believe her truth was the man leading the donkey. And even she didn’t understand his resolve.

He seemed hopeful that things would be different in Bethlehem. He’d told her parents that they’d remain there with his relatives for a while. Maybe return in a few years. She wanted to believe him, but she had little hope. The town was small, only about 300 people. And while many were relations of his, the large crowd that they’d traveled with would arrive before them. And she was pretty sure the “shame” of her situation would make it to Bethlehem before they did. But she kept it to herself. Maybe she was wrong.

The pains started just after they were turned away from the second relative. She’d grown up learning firsthand the cultural obligation of hosting relatives. No one was to be turned away. She’d never seen her family refuse someone in need. But there were so many relatives in town for the enrollment that there simply wasn’t one guest room.

For her. She tried not to be bitter. But she couldn’t help but think that if it were any other married woman about to give birth sitting on the back of a donkey she would be rushed inside. She’d be crowded by every woman in the house, ushered to a spot, made comfortable and assisted.

The pain hit again. It was excruciating.

She was glad it was night. She turned her face so he couldn’t see her expression. She wasn’t going to upset him. She breathed deeply. Her sides squeezed in; fire shot up her back. She forced back the sobs.

When it passed, she looked up as he was turned away from yet another relative. They were staring at her. They shrugged and pointed her husband towards a stable. He arched his back, insulted, and turned away from them. So, it would be no different here. She wept for her husband. What his life turned into. She wept for her child, unable to imagine what his life would be, starting out with the “shame” of his mother. And she wept for herself.

She cried out to her God.

A warm hand clasped her fingers, tangled in the donkey’s mane. She looked up. He smeared the tears across her cheek. He leaned his forehead against hers. He promised her that he’d find a place. That there would be someone among his relatives who would take them in. That it wasn’t her, it wasn’t their circumstance, it was the enrollment. But he couldn’t look at her as he said it.

At that moment, she felt how great his pain was. He wasn’t used to being refused by family. He never dreamed that he wouldn’t be able to meet the basic needs of his wife. He wanted so much to provide comfort, yet he was helpless.

And that comforted her.

She pointed to the stable and asked him for it. Something close, quiet, and away from all of the people. He was appalled. It was unsanitary. It was beneath them. Their child would not be born where animals defecated.

She squeezed his warm, rough hand. For a moment the pain ceased. And she saw him. She saw his heart.

And she was no longer afraid.

She knew he wouldn’t change his mind. He wouldn’t send her away. And at that moment it didn’t matter where the baby was born. Or that their first experience together would be something he shouldn’t have been a part of. She didn’t care. Her God had already provided more than she needed.

She assured him that the stable was perfect. And there wasn’t time, anyway. He nodded his head and grabbed a bag of rags and blankets from the side of the donkey. He lifted her up and carried her towards the low braying of animals.

She leaned her head against his and let the pains consume her.

Check out Sundays in My City over at Unknown Mami’s.

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and your ass is mine.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

It’s not you.

It’s me.

Really, it’s me.

I’ve decided to take a break. Not a long one. But a needed one.

I’ve been trying to finish up the second (and hopefully final) draft of my book to get it off to my kick-ass editor by mid-December (more about her later, but for now I’ll just say that she’s amazing), but with everything going on with ONE, the book got moved from the backseat to the trunk.

So now that things are finally getting better at home and I can focus back on the creative, I’m stepping out of the blog arena until my book is done.

On a positive note, ONE is doing much better. I’ll write all about it when I’m back because so much has happened, but I wanted to give a huge THANK YOU to everyone who voiced concern and support and ideas a few weeks ago.

Our first visit with the child therapist went really well. She gave us some great, practical tools that have already made a huge differece. But just like with anything else, you address one issue and it uncovers three more, so we’ve got lots more work to do. But ONE is happy. She’s even happy at school. Last week went so well that she wanted to bake cookies to bring to class. What’s that? Chocolate chip cookie dough for lunch? Bring it!

In the meantime, for those of you who stick around I’m syndicating myself and putting a new/old post on my main page each day until I’m back. It won’t go through to your blog readers or show up on blog pages, since I’ll just be putting it on the front page. I’ll still be around to read comments and emails and stuff on Twitter, but I have to cut it off there because if I’m not careful I’ll spend all of my time not writing.

And again, to all of my readers and lurkers and commenters and friends, THANK YOU. Being a mom can be a lonely struggle sometimes, and as lame as this sounds, I’ve never felt as good about being a mom as I have since meeting all of you through this blog. Even those of you who don’t say anything, you don’t have to. I know you’re there and that’s more than enough.

-CK

PS: I already miss my daily reads, but you guys know I’ll be back as soon as I can. See you then!

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and your ass is mine.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

RELAX

I’m not going to touch you
I’d never dreeeeeeam of helping you
My hands are nowhere near you, okay?

I’m only standing (all the way over) here just in case.

Just in case you want to climb the wet slide backwards
Just in case you chose to scale that chain-thing
Just in case you ride that rusty scooter without the hand grips
Just in case you pet Jake one too many times

Just in case you jump down the stairs
Just in case you brush your teeth, and then the dog’s
Just in case you try going from the tub to the potty without drying off
Just in case you pull this sh*t again:

Just in case you pretend to bite the balloon, but your pretending includes actually putting the balloon in your mouth
Just in case you need reminding about how we treat other people’s birthday cakes
Just in case you forgot what I said about touching things we won’t buy
Just in case you think I’m an idiot. I’m not. Especially around ceramic

Just in case the playdoh (still) looks tasty
Just in case you’re tempted to remove your clothing and then hide
Just in case the urge to stand in the dog food overwhelms you
Just in case you have a moment of weakness and allow me to help pick out your clothes

Just in case you need me
Just in case I need you to need me
And especially when you don’t.

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and you’d better be on the lookout for rusty scooters.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

10 - Forcing Ten Tiny Fingers into Teeny Tiny Gloves. Who’s idea was this? Who decided it was a good idea to give these marionette-like appendages their own cotton slot?

This glove not this glove should be standard-issued for all children until they learn how to do this sh*t for themselves or are too embarrassed by their parents to ask for help.

9 – Lyin’-Ass Windshield. I finally get everyone buckled in and turn on the windshield wipers to remove the condensation only to find that it’s actually ice. Then I have to dig through the foot of kid crap in my car for the scraper I haven’t seen since last spring, all the while feeling guilty for keeping the car running while I scrape. Which, somehow always leads to frost on the inside of my sleeves which really pisses me off because it melts immediately and I don’t like feeling soggy and since we’re on the topic of soggy sleeves…

8 – Tissue Sleeves. It doesn’t matter how many wads of tissues I stuff into a baggies and jam into all available pockets, I always wind up using the cuff of my sweatshirt or jacket to wipe a nose. And then I’m so skeeved that I have to roll it up. So my arm is cold and snot glues my jacket together. And sometimes when I return home I’m so happy to get in the house that I take it off my garment, hang it up and completely forget until the next time I need to wear it.

7 – “Trips” to the Park. Even when you factor in the time it takes to dress up and strip down, the occasional pity walk for the dog, the token trip down the slide and the icy swing ride of death, the entire “trip” never exceeds 18.5 minutes. Which inevitably leads to:

6 – Stop it! Maker her stop it! She’s not listening! I asked her to stop and she hit me! MAMA! SHE JUST HIT ME IN THE FACE WITH HER DOLL. STOP IT! STOP IT! STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP IT! Which often leads to:

5 - Spending Money. Not on purpose, but when you stroll through Target, climb in designated (and undesignated) mall play areas or jump on IKEA furniture for sanity purposes, you always find things you forgot you needed. Or coffee that needs drinking…

4 – Running the Trash Outside. So I don’t. Instead I wind up welcoming my husband home after an 11 hour-day with poopy diaper baggies, recycling, and trash bags lined up outside the door and two #6s (see above) waiting for him inside. (You know I love you, Baby.)

3 – The Mice Stop Making an Effort to Co-Exist Secretly.

2 – Baby Back Crack. Why can’t they make onsies for 5 year-olds? It doesn’t matter how long their coats are, they always show that crescent of skin when they bend down that makes you cringe for two reasons. One, it’s freakin’ cold. Two, you realize they’ve already outgrown their pants again. Why does this always happen around Christmas?

1 – Lyin’-Ass Sky. It looks like bedtime. It feels like bedtime. They’re behaving like it’s bedtime. But it’s only 4pm.

Of course, if they never learn to tell time, they’ll never be able to prove that it’s not really time for bed…

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and I’m locking you in the house with two #6s, an unwalked crazy dog and all of #3s. Have fun, sucka.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

With everything going on in ONE’s life lately, I’ve really felt the need to find ways to be softer with her. Being soft with her is a daily struggle. From her first month on earth she wanted to be turned around to face the world. She batted away kisses, didn’t like the restriction of hugs and emotional connections were on her terms only.

I was disappointed, but there’s only so many times a girl wants to be screamed at for lovin’ on her kid, so I gave her her space. And then over the years I became addicted to the space and felt like I needed to protect it. It was a guilt-free pass to “me time.”

But I also knew that if I didn’t want a cats-in-the-cradle type life situation, I had to moderate it. So I’d go on regular >>jags<< with parenting her. Stretches of times when I’d focus on her and finding ways to connect on her terms, just to “even” things out.  And when I made the effort I always found something meaningful in the everyday, applied my good intentions, had success and then binged on “me time” directly afterwards.

But being entrenched in her school anxiety has made me realize that my half-assed efforts won’t cut it anymore. I need to put a little more of me on the shelf and I need to be an adult about it. So once again I’ve put away my computer during the day and tried to focus more on her. And since Thursdays are our days with nothing planned, I was determined to do something special, something soft, with ONE.

She must have sensed it because right after TWO went down for her nap ONE asked if she could use her special porcelain tea set for lunch. I said yes. Then she asked in a casual voice if I wanted to join her. She hesitated as she asked, which made me a little sad, because I could tell she was expecting me to turn her down. So instead I said yes.

She jumped up and down while I retrieved her special tea set. By the time I handed it to her she was already in a costume. She set everything up on the floor while I made sandwiches and prepared the lemonade. And as I watched her pretend to be a princess, I knew exactly how I could make the experience soft and meaningful for her.

I slipped upstairs into the attic and retrieved the only real Halloween costume I’ve ever owned. A Maid Marian get-up I bought years and years ago for a party that she’s never seen, and put it on. I walked back into the room and when she finally noticed I was dressed up, her entire face smiled and she whispered,

“Oh, Mama. You look like an angel!”

This is where I’d normally end my post with a photograph of the two of us in our costumes picnicking in the living room.

But I’d left my tripod in the car.

And my car was parked down the street in front of my neighbor’s house. (>>The neighbor I accidentally flashed<<, remember her?)

And I knew I had to be careful about getting my tripod because I didn’t want to break the spell for ONE. So I raced outside, in my costume, across the yards grabbed the tripod from the car and got back into the house without anyone (to my knowledge) noticing.

And when I walked into the house, a giggling ONE handed me my camera.

And as I sat down to eat it occured to me, my girl was just like me. She was growing up just like me…

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©2009 CEK, GVK. All Rights Reserved. Touch our stuff and your ass is ours. AND you’ve stolen from child.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

It’s not that eas-y be-in’ mom
Having to spend each day pre-tend-ing to be calm
When I think it could be nic-er
Bein’ left alone in quiet or something much more comforting like that

It’s not that eas-y be-in’ mom.
It seems you blend in with so many oth-er or-di-nar-y moms
And peo-ple tend to pass you over
And you catch yourself remembering simple things you used to do
And wish for them back

But mom’s the giv-er of wings
And mom can be cool and friend-ly like
And mom can defend like an army
Or give refuge when there’s hurting
Or heal with a kiss

When mom is all there is to be
It could make you want to cry
But why lose it, why lose it?

I am mom, and it’ll do fine.
And it’s beau-ti-ful.
And I think
It’s what I want to be.

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. You know the drill. Touch any of this sh*t, especially my photographs, and your ass is gonna get pummeled.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

__________________________________________________

PS: This photograph of ONE in her Halloween costume is a photo finalist over at parenting BY dummies. If you have a minute and can cast a vote in her favor, please click >>here<< scroll down to the comments field and vote for #3, “Hermione Who?”