"Don't take up a man's time talking about the smartness of you children; he wants to talk to you about the smartness of his children."

Working Overtime: Can a Motha PLEASE Get Some Rest?

One of the greatest challenges I face as a mom of two toddlers, which I believe is the challenge of every mom, is trying to find time for myself. Motherhood really is so different than all the other jobs out there.Why you ask? Why? 

All other jobs come with a start time and end time. Breaks. Vacations. This doesn’t always fit the world of babies, toddlers, children, where the UNPREDICTABLE and NEVER ENDING demands attention and intervention round the clock. I mean on top of the normal, getting them dressed, fed, and changed, there’s diaper explosions, pasta up the nose, poop up the back, rice krispies in the ears, play dough in the rug, gum in the hair, crayons on the walls, feet in the dresser drawers, poop on the couch, detached arms, and screaming till your inner ears tingle, well, you know. 

As a mom, you’re always on call. They wake you up before sunrise, plaster stickers on your face while you attempt to nap, and they even appear in your bed in the middle of the night. Your kids come with you on “vacation.” It’s both the greatest blessing and greatest cost of motherhood: constant companionship. 

And then there’s that guilt. That false mommy guilt of not having done enough. The guilt of feeling like you should have done better, more, different. Or never being good enough. 

Why is it that in all other jobs, it is expected that you would take a break–at least a lunch break. It is expected that if you work overtime, you would be compensated in some way. Why do we feel as moms this does not apply? Do we really believe the lie that we are being selfish to take a break and find time for ourselves? 

Can we say sleep deprivation? burnout? Someone please intervene before we all turn into the Momzillas round the train tables!

Well, what I have personally found, is that if I give myself rest and a little down time I have that much more to give to my children. I come back revived, and end up enjoying my job even more. I already know that some rest is what I need, but the challenge is how do I make it happen? 

How do you make it happen? How do you get yourself rest as a mom? What do you do to give yourself some “you” time? 

I do have some thoughts, but as I type I’m laying in bed with my laptop watching Will Smith’s ear enlarge to the size of a grapefruit from food poisoning in the movie Hitch and I think for now, I’m going to have some rest time of my own : )  So, please share yours and I’ll be back with mine soon. 

Men, What To NEVER Say About Her Cooking!

I was just ever-so-proud of myself whipping up an authentic Indian meal in front of the stove as the kids toddled their way in the other room entertained by toys and TV.  Oh how hubby was about to be sooooo impressed walking through that door any moment and inhale the sultry aroma of curry, coconut milk, and thyme.

So you can imagine my SHOCK,



when I heard his key at the lock and heard him say as he walked in the room,

NOT, “What a delightful smell!”

NOT, “Oh beloveth flesh of my flesh, what dost thou makest thineself for dinner.”

NOT, “Ummmmmm, WOW, the fact that you manage to cook dinner on top of managing these two kids running around, one in diapers, one sticking things up her nose every two seconds, you are a multitasking expert! You amaze me! THANK YOU, my hot, gorgeous, and selfless wife for cooking dinner tonight.”

The FIRST words that come out of his mouth are:

“UHHHH!It smells like POOOOPIE!”


To which I reply: “That would be dinner, thank you very much.” Okay, so the broccoli was to blame. And, yes, I’m guilty of saying the same thing to my mother growing up when she would cook cabbage or broccoli. Still this was NOT the response I expected. So I added, “Smells like Poopie! Why don’t you add that to the list of things to NEVER say to your wife about her cooking.” We both laughed at the bad timing of his innocent comment. I mean, when you live in toddlerville, and you smell poop, it usually is poop. NOT so last evening.

SO, for all you moms out there who have cooked a good meal and didn’t quite get that response you felt it deserved, why don’t you send this checklist of things NOT to say to your wife to the man of the house:


5.) “It smells like poopie.”Look, I don’t care if it the entire house smells like diarrhea-cha-cha-cha, if I cook it, you eat it and like it!

4.) “What just died?” What just died! Are you kidding me.  My willingness to cook for you again is what just died.

3.) “Not my favorite meal.” Not your favorite meal! Why don’t you start cooking my favorite meal.

2.) “Pasta or (fill in the blank of the meal you cook often) again!”Yes, it is pasta again. You don’t have to eat it. Wait, I mean, you’ll eat it and like it.

1.) “Not hungry.” NOT HUNGRY! NOT HUNGRY! That’s just plain blasphemy. To an Italian this is a death wish. You know to NOT come to Mamma’s house without your appetite ON!

Ladies, help me out. What did I miss? I’d love to hear your cooking rejection stories.

That’s What You Call Vaclempt

Have you ever had an embarrassing moment that knocked the breath out of you so hard, it was like you became another person? If only that “other person” in the heat of such a reaction was someone more graceful and classy. But this one that hit me involved an insect, well, not just any insect. It was a





monster of a creature that buzzed behind my ear and collided into me as I was pushing my stroller towards a very busy mall entrance.

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Crazy Marriage Advice from My Italian Grandmother

Welcome D-Listed Blog Party 2010 visitors. I have also been participating in Momalom’s 5 for 10 post where every day we’ve been writing about the same topic and today’s topic is Lust. But before I get into that, a brief introduction: I’m a dramatic Italian, eye-tearing, germ-fearing, sweat-dripping, heart-skipping, bottom-wiping, finger-swiping, crumb-picking, toy-tripping, hand-holding, laundry-folding, character-molding, head-turning, stomach churning, patience-testing, un-empty-nesting, mistake-making, rule-breaking, Mommy of two toddlers. Check out the “About me” section below to learn more.

Well, since I’m Italian, I thought you might enjoy hearing some crazy advice my Italian grandmother gave me upon getting married. One day, shortly after my honeymoon, she called me up on the phone and said out of the blue with the greatest fervency as though it was her last breath, “LISTEN TO-a ME!”

I thought to myself, Oh, God, what’s happening. Is she dying? But no, the words she was about to say was going to make me want to crawl under the couch and hide.

“Listen-a! When de man, you hus’bun, wanna make-a de cha-cha-cha NEVER SAY NO!”

“What!” I ask, thinking to myself surely surely this woman, my grandmother, isn’t referring to what I think she is!


“Grandma, I don’t want to talk about this.” Can we say, AKWARD!

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Melodramommy Meets Urgent Care

As I write my first post, I’m already feeling the effects of the NyQuil I added to my own sippy cup tonight in efforts to combat what I think has been a lingering sinus infection. Here’s a story for you of the drama from just today:

So, having my sleep disrupted the previous night from coughing, which made my voice sound a weird mix between an adolescent boy and my great aunt who smoked 30-years-one-too-many cigarettes, I determined that I would finally go to the doctor. The problem was that the weather forecast predicted a snowstorm; not the most enticing conditions to venture out to the doctor, keeping in mind I’d be lugging my 2-year-old girl and 10-month-old boy. Long story short, I find myself at an Urgent Care. Surely, it being a closer drive and not requiring an appointment would get me in and out in time to make it home before the snow. NOT SO.

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A Mommy’s Work Resume

At work I was instructed I needed to update my resume. My resume! A lot has happened in the past three years! So I sat there at my computer screen wondering: Can I add that I have changed over 10,000 diapers? Birthed two heads more lethal than a wrecking ball? Contained more poopie eruptions than an active volcano—in the car, the middle of Target, and in (deep sigh) the bathtub! Functioned as a human tissue? Tamed more temper tantrums than a human resources manager, boxing referee, and zookeeper combined! Perhaps it is time to create a new resume of my own! One that applies to all us mommies out there. Ahem, here we go:


CONTACT: Find me anywhere you hear or see children; sometimes I wear them too.

University of Real Life, Toddlerland
BA, Birthing Another
MA, Mothering Another
PHD, Praying hard daily, how else do you survive the BA and MA?

HONORS/AWARDS Finalist in the Semi Annual “My Baby Can Scream Louder Than Yours So-Please-Help-Me Jesus contest”; The Nursing-Mother’s “So This is What it’s Like to be a Cow” Award; “I’ve Sniff Bottoms More Frequently than a Custom’s Canine” First Place; “My Baby’s Head is a Lethal Weapon and I Survived Sleeping Next to it” Honorable Mention; Qualified to join the “I Abused my Diaper Bag to the Point it Exploded” Club. I write my own awards.

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When IT Hits The Fan

Yes. It was one of THOSE kind of mornings. It was what you call “when it hits the fan” kind of mornings where mommy officially suffers the chicken-with-her-head-cut-off syndrome. Again.

SHOULD have known there would be trouble when I walked into baby’s room at the crack of dawn and the fumes filled the air. BUT it’s sometimes hard to spot and identify escaped poopies when you have only one crescent slit eye open.

Oh, how they deceptively camouflaged their tiny, crumb-like and flaky existence into the teddy and fuzzy blanket’s fur! Hidden!  Twas an unwanted and uncalled for game of peek-o-poo! Yes. It was the return of Mr. Poopie himself!

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The Roach Who Wouldn’t Die!

So there I was in my bedroom, about to inhale a deep breath after having just put both kids to sleep by myself because daddy was out of town, and just as I was taking in the moment the most hideous of things appeared in my bedroom. A ROACH was slithering its decrepit body across the floor and charging towards my bed! To make matters worse? Well, I repeat, Hubby was out of town! It was up to just me to fend for my life against what I consider the most heinous of all creatures! 

I mean what’s a mommy to do? I couldn’t just leave it there. There were sleeping children, babies to think of! And, let a roach think for a minute he has discovered a new haven and believe that he will invite his friends over for a party. NOT tonight! And, of all the nights, he just had to wait until a tired Mommy had finally settled down and was alone to make his ugly entrance!

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Why God Made Babies So Cute . . .

All I have to say right now is, NOT NICE, MR. POOPIE! NOT NICE! 

So it’s the morning where I run out of coffee. No big deal, right? Just throw on clothes, change a few diapers, get the kids in the car and go get some.


Just as I’m finishing getting dressed and about to get the kids ready . . . 

Little girl says, “Baby boy has a poooooopeeeeeee!” 

So I walk into his room to get him from the crib: His pants are off, his diaper–half off. And there he is sitting with his two little fists, full of poop! 

I carry him across the house, arms extended out from me as though I am carrying a radioactive nuclear bomb. 

Bathtub. Bubbles. Lots of soap and water. 

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Embarrassing and Scary Moments: Top Toddler NOs of the week!

To my 3YO : 

1.) NO, we are NEVER to describe to all what Mommy is doing when she is using the public bathroom as you are standing there watching her.  I repeat DON’T ask Mommy questions or give any commentary on ANYTHING Mommy is doing while on the potty ESPECIALLY when there are other people there listening! Really, mommy does NOT appreciate you announcing what you see, hear, and observe even IF you do hear laughter from the other stalls! Please child! Please! 

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Too Young To Date? You Decide

As a say a very big Happy Father’s Day to my baby-daddy, my father, and all the daddies out there, I thought it would be an appropriate time to mention something that every daddy needs to know–It goes along with the question of how young is too young to date? 

My 2-year-old, a few weeks shy of her 3rd birthday, just had her first date.And it was with her  Daddy.  If you haven’t already heard, participatingChick-fil-A restaurants are hosting a monthly “Daddy Daughter Date Night,” where fathers can escort their little girls for a special evening of fun and experience a casual atmosphere transformed into simple elegance: pink table clothes, red roses, pink carnations, servers presenting you your meal, free desserts, table names, music, and some even featuring a red carpet walk through. To top it off there are some fun daddy-daughter activities, like a questionnaire for daddies and daughters to interview each other, a nail painting station, and complimentary pictures.  See below for pictures and call your local Chick-fil-A to find out times and make your reservation. It will surely be a night your little girl will never forget.  My little girl is still talking about it. 

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Unpleasantly Exposed: 100th Post

Today I can add a new rule to my list of 10,000 things you need to tell your toddler NOT to do: The story begins with Mommy standing outside the glass windowed ice cream shop wearing a skirt and ends the moment mommy realizes she feels a surprising breeze on her bottom–because toddler girl (yes, I’m reverting to calling her toddler-girl here) pulled a little too hard. Violently hard to be exact. And Mommy couldn’t be sure if the people in the window were staring because of of how loud Mommy screamed or because of what they saw. That’s when Mommy makes the fastest getaway you’ve ever seen and almost vows to never wear a skirt again. Can I ask you a question: Haven’t I had enough embarrassing moments? So, toddler-rule #11,710 NEVER pull on Mommy’s skirt especially in front of a glass windowed store jam-packed full of people! 

Well today I’m celebrating my 100th post. I have a fun post to share tomorrow that anyone with kids will especially appreciate, but today, why don’t you join in the party and link up below.

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You know your baby’s a genius if

So, how do you know if your child is really a genius? Well, today I’m celebrating my 101st blog post! Since my children are key in giving me my bloggy material, I thought I would honor them by telling you how gifted and talented they are. And, you might just find your baby is a genius too. So on that note, let’s celebrate their brilliance together.

Your baby might be a genius if . . .

1.) S/he can redecorate his room from the confinement of a crib.

2.) S/he excels at escapology, putting even Houdini to shame. (My baby boy has climbed out of his crib, head dived out of the bath tub and exersaucer. And, if I would have allowed he would have attempted to flush himself down the potty. And my little girl can do all of this in her sleep).

3.) S/he can fix things that aren’t even broken.

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And Then I Was SHOCKED!

Before you read any further, I just updated my “about me” section. Check it out. Okay, now for today’s latest: 

After I cleaned up a SECOND poop episode in the bathtub, compliments of baby boy, I hear from a good mommy friend of mine that she is having a bad day. So to cheer her up, because it’s not thatmisery loves company as much as we love to know we’re not alone in having struggles, I tell her about how little boy stood up in that sparkling squeaky clean bath tub and shot poop out EVERYWHERE, which set off a domino effect of chaos: little girl screaming because mommy has abandoned her almost-finished braid (we were doing her hair next to the bath tub as baby boy splashed), mommy running across the house with a dripping wet and quite stinky baby boy bringing him to the other bathtub to hose him down, then, running back to toddler girl (yes toddler girl sounds so much better in this story ehh?) to quickly remove her from the master bathroom where God-forbid she had discovered how to open the safety locks and attempt to play/drink the nail polish remover or mouthwash (do any other mothers out there have these fears!) …

Lots of soap and running water. A very soaked mommy. A very finally clean baby boy. A very unhappy messy haired 3-year-old. 

Then came the most dreaded. The–Why don’t you just stick your hand down my throat and gag me because the effect is no less powerful–the re-entering of the master bathroom where Mr. Poopie laid himself in that bathtub waiting for me. The fumes were beyond description. 

THANKFULLY, I had already pulled the drain when I first took baby boy out so the water was all gone. Only a slimy residue and a long swiggle remained. Got those stylish blue rubber gloves and used the diaper this time to pick the poop up and dispose of it. Now THAT was much better than last time when the tub was full of water and every time I tried to grab it it would swim and wiggle away from me until it finally disintegrated into the tub. 

ANYWAY, so I tell my friend my story and do you know what she says?

Do you KNOW what she says? 

DO YOU KNOW WHAT SHE SAYS?!?!?!?!?!?!?!??!?

She says, “Wow, my kids have never had this problem.” 


“Yeah, my kids have had other things, but I’ve just never dealt with them taking off their diapers, or playing with poop, or pooping in the tub.” 

To think that there are mom’s out there that haven’t had to face hardly any of this? I am so extremely happy for you, but I am shocked. I thought everyone dealt with poop to this degree. Well, I guess we all have our different struggles. So leave me a comment and let me know what your mommy struggle is be it poop or something completely different and let’s be shocked together. 



P.S.–If you vote for me by simply clicking on that little picture to the top right of this post, that would really make my day.

P.P.S.–I’m REALLY excited about an AWESOME giveaway coming up very soon. So be sure to come back and check it out.

The Most UNROMANTIC Evening

What better for Valentine’s Day than to post what has got to be the most UNromantic evening ever. Yes, this is a re-post special just for you.

So on the eve of our five-year wedding anniversary, hubby and I are cuddling on the couch when the most UNromantic of things occurs. He gets up to grab the controller and that was when I smelled something so terrible, so completely foul, I thought I just might die.

OF COURSE it had to be his shorts! I think as he’s walking away. What was he thinking putting a dirty pair on and what the heck happened to produce such a stench! But when I confronted him about it, he claimed they were as fresh as the lilies in our garden (even though we don’t have any). Besides, he didn’t smell a thing and sat back down next to me. And then it was mysteriously gone.

Had I imagined this? No, no, this was not something that could be fabricated in the depths of one’s imagination as even the hairs in my nostrils were now receding.

Moments later I got up to grab my glass of water, and that was when he nearly started gagging.

“UGHHH! What did you have an accident in your pants?” He asks me with accusing eyes that are filled with delight. As he pulled his shirt over his nose it was clear he was convinced it was I who had the problem.

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Pass Mommy the Oxygen Mask

You know you’re tired when you kiss the kids goodnight and crawl into your own bed, all before 7:30! But the true sign of exhaustion is when you wake up in pitch darkness and both kids are somehow in your bed and you have no recollection of how they got there, or how you got there. Or that you have kids in the first place : )

The time is now 3:30 A.M.  I really thought I beat the system by going to bed at 7:30–as mentioned above. And for a few hours (Wait, I mean 8 hours!), I did sleep as smooth as a stick of buttah! The problem? When a child wakes up in the middle of the night, this time it was little man crying a desperate but very Italian sounding, “Mamma Now-a! Mamma Now-a!”I mean, yes, how am I supposed to resist that? Thankfully, he was still in his own bed–this time. I auto-ejected popping out of my little comfort bubble to dash into his room before he tripped over little girl who is spread across the hall in a princess sleeping bag, sandwiched between 20 boxes that line both sides of the walls.

Why such chaos? You ask. Why such fatigue?

Well we are MOVING—in only three days.

And let me tell you, last Thursday night’s little visit from the flu fairy couldn’t have come at a more inconvenient time! BUT, I barely shutter at the thought of fever, chills, sore throat, and sinuses attempting to outbeat Niagra falls in their output. I have the year 2009 to thank–the year where my family experienced the ULTIMATE HORRIFIC VIRUS of all–the GI virus a total of FIVE TIMES—yes, that placed some perspective on gratefulness for health. So, in my book, if no one is vomiting or diarrhea-ing–especially your NONpotty-trained little people, Life is good! My husband and I spent Friday in bed, while the kindness of God shined on us because while we were laying there fatigued for most of the morning with aches and chills, my children were content, happy, and safe playing in their rooms by themselves!

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Grandma’s Irish Soda Bread Recipe

In spite of all my posts on being an Italian, I’ll have you know that I’m also 25% Irish. That means, yes, today, I’m NOT getting pinched cause I’m sporting green. And tonight, I will be cooking the traditional Corned Beef and Cabbage for a family affair. While I am currently scurrying around my recipe books to find my grandmother’s directions for cooking this famous holiday meal, I came across her recipe for Irish Soda Bread–which is nothing less than a staple serving for an Irish snack, breakfast, or dessert.

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DON’T teach your brother THAT!

My piercing wake-up call amplified straight out of the pumping lungs of my passionate three-year-old, in Cecilia Bartoli worthy pitches, that echoed straight down the halls all the way into Mommy’s bedroom. Oh yes, it was that all-too familiar Yo Gabba Gabba tune:“Keep trying! Keep trying! Never give up! Don’t Give up!”

Don’t ask me how those Yo Gabba Gabba tunes find their way to your brains at the oddest hours of the day, but I’m nearly convinced there’s something in their repetitive lyrics that so easily get stuck in a mother’s head that borders along the lines of brainwashing!

Well, in between consciousness, I realized my daughter was singing this familiar song to her two-year-old brother!

“Keep trying! Keep Trying! Never give up!”

Sweet. Right?

It was a doubly-sweet moment when I realized I had slept through the entire night UNLIKE the previous night when I was awakened by my 2yo who escaped out over his baby gate and attempted to sit on mommy’s face! Yes, you read that right. My son sat on my face! Imagine being awakened by a soggy bottom being smothered near your mouth. All I have to say to that is, the experience brought new meaning to the phrase: waking up to the crack of dawn.

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NONpliment: Please DON’T Draw THAT!

I was so honored when my 3-year-old daughter showed me a portrait entitled “Mommy.” Yes, how wonderful that my child takes the time to draw such vivid pictures of non other than yours truly.

But as I glanced across the page, past the three eyelashes and crooked eyebrows … Yes, it was there on the over-sized forehead that seemed its own planet on a galaxy called mommy’s face …

Teeny, tiny, red circles.

“Child, look at this BEAUUUUUTY-FUL picture of Mommy! … But what are all these little red scribbles on Mommy’s forehead?”

Perhaps she would say they were makeup? Freckles? a misplaced hair bow? Princess glitter?

“Mommy, those are your pimbols.”

Lovely. You gotta love the honesty of a toddler. Though, thanks to Proactive, it was, ahem, quite inaccurate.

What lovely pictures has your little one drawn for you? Do share.

Toddler Disaster: OMG, WHAT DID YOU JUST DO!

I was two bites into eating my salad, when a BRILLIANT thought flashed across my mind: go upstairs and change out of the starched work blouse and slip on the cozy T. Surely it would be fine to leave the young’ns by themselves for two minutes. I mean little girl, she’s almost four. And my little man, a few months past his second birthday. But the biggest assurance for a smart mother like myself is not merely their progressing age, I mean things like finger painting with poo–that was soooo four months ago–so,  yes, the biggest assurance that I had mommy clearance to go MIA for 2 minutes was the fact that I had the children fed and distracted. Yes, that lovely voice of Ellen DeGeneres as Dorie from Finding Nemo was enchanting my children as I scurried up the stairs into the bedroom toward my closet.

Oh how I could hear angels singing as I silently crept into that distant room where thick walls muffled out the noises of toddler demands and repetitive lyrics. When a mother gets that one moment to be by herself, what else is there to say but, Life is good. Life is grand. Life is …

Well, maybe it was more than 2 minutes. Maybe it was 3 or 4. But I tell you, all I did was change my shirt and reapply some lip gloss. But then, yes, that was when I snapped back into reality and floated down the stairs and into the kitchen only to find …

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Epilepsy: Help Bradyn Get His Puppy!

Imagine IF your child had epilepsy. Unpredictable seizures by day and by night. You try to sleep, but instead, there in the midnight hour you’re awake, laying on the carpet in his bedroom, listening, wondering, praying, tearing, fearing: What if he goes into a seizure and I don’t hear it! What if this time, he needs CPR, but I’m asleep!

Well, meet Ferg_e, a sweet fellow mommy in the blogging world. This is her story. And how, with a little bit of effort, you, we can help make a big difference in the life of her little boy, Braydn.


Can I tell you that I LOVE the blogging community? I JUST met Melodramamma a short time ago. She ran a blog post about a BlogHer ticket that she wouldn’t be able to use. I was lookingto purchase a ticket and POOF just like that, I have a new friend. And not just a superficial friend, a friend that left the first non-family comment ever on my new blog. A friend that hasbeen checking in on me while my son was in the hospital. A friend that takes time out of her dayto offer kind words and prayers that help me get through mine. A friend that is now giving methe gift of another first. My FIRST guest post ever! I’m a little nervous ya’ll. This is a big deal! But it’s not about me, it’s about my son and it’s important! So, let’s get started.

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Dear Mr. Poopie

Dear Mr. Poopie,

Oh how I bet you are just sitting on your high chamber pot right now, looking down at me, laughing at how bad you got me today. Ok, I’ll admit since I had meticulously cleaned the diaper eruption and scrubbed and scrubbed my hands, I had NO idea where the lingering smell was coming from. It didn’t appear to be on Baby boy’s pants, Toddler-girl’s hands, the couch, the rug, the blanket, or the Barbie head, even though you had me sniffing crevices for poo like a Customs Labrador searching for cocaine.

I bet as I left the scene of the crime to get my mind off of you and refresh my palate with a cup of fresh fruit topped with cottage cheese, you were in hysterics: How long would it take me to discover that you were waiting for me, ever so patiently in a ruthless game of hide and seek? So I stood there eating, not sitting because I was determined to find you, when to my bewilderment I realized I was only detecting your ever-so-vile aroma as I lifted the spoon to my mouth. YES, it was then to my utter disgust and HORROR that I beheld a little preemie poopie—with its squinting little slitted eyes gazing at me from in between the cozy knuckle creases of all places—my middle finger!

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Please Just Take Your Sick Baby HOME!

Before I begin on a topic that makes my fiery Italian blood start boiling, may I mention that we have had the stomach virus go through our home (including both two NONpotty trained babies) FIVE times in the past 14 months. One of which lasted SEVEN painful days coming out both ends day and night on again I repeat a NONpotty-trained toddler.  So, sicknesses to that degree are nothing less than trauma to a new mom or mom of multiples, who is the one caring and cleaning for her sick baby(ies). Therefore, to that casual parent out there who just overlooks the green snot, loogies, fevers, projectile barf episodes and diaper explosions that defy the laws of gravity by dripping up the back, please don’t be surprised if Melodramamma wants to bath herself in sanitizer and nearly goes into cardiac arrest on the floor as your oh-so-adorable-but-ever-so-germ-hosting little one crawls near her bambinos. 

So, on that note, the question of the day is how do you send a mother into straight paranoia, swooping up her children and running like there’s no tomorrow fast and far away in the opposite direction?  If you saw me a few days ago, I could have personally modeled this for you. There’s one simple rule: Bring your very contagious baby who is clearly exhibiting viral/flu symptoms near to play. It doesn’t matter if it’s at a playground, a nursery, a class, or a store. Just be forewarned; you might play it like it’s no big deal, and maybe even outright lie about it, calling it allergies or teething, but MOMMY KNOWS. And, you just might taste the dust off her shoes as she runs away with her children into the wind.

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