Mommying is Hard

Mommying is Hard

Writing fiction is fun, and any seasoned writer will tell you one of the first things to success is writing what you know. I’ve always added a little bit of my reality into my writing, but I’ve decided to try something different. Instead of working what I know into my fiction, I’m writing non-fiction.

I won’t bore you with the details, (mostly because they’re fleshed out in the book!) but I dove straight into mommying when I met my husband. He came equipped with two of the cutest little pieces of baggage in desperate need of a mom. So, I went from single, professional and dating to full-blown mom (while still a professional outside of the house) in a matter of (what felt like) minutes. Toss into the mix an airport full of other baggage, and a baby on the way and life really took a turn!

I can’t say I’ve rocked it. Most days I’ve failed miserably, but I’ve given it my best shot.

Flying by the Seat of My Mom Jeans is me writing what I know. It’s filled with short (some a big longer than short, too) essays about situations in my life…situations all moms can relate to. I’m including one here (don’t judge, it’s not yet edited) just to give you a glimpse into the book!

Stay tuned for a release date! 

That Time I Did the Parking Lot Walk of Shame

You know that expression, kids say the darnest things? It’s Murphy’s Law. It happens to every parent, at the most inappropriate moment, without any sign it’s coming at all. Why? Because kids, especially ones under five, are little parrots. They listen to everything and store it to use as a weapon when we least expect it. Like when you’re walking out of Target with a curvy woman with just a touch extra on the backside three feet in front of you, and your son suddenly belts out the words to a song that was popular seven years before his birth.

Let me set the scene for you.

The sun was shining as I pushed my cart full of Target crap—well past the whole, did you find what you’re looking for today thing—out the electronic door, Justin tucked into the little seat snug as a bug in a rug. Like many moms, I’d forgotten where I’d parked.

ME: Hmm, I can’t remember where I parked.

JUSTIN: (Turns around to look, grabs hold of the back of his seat and sees the woman in front of us. He then props himself up onto his knees, and in a voice loud enough for her to hear, says) Oh my God, look at her butt, it is so big.

ME: (Jaw hanging in complete and utter embarrassment, pulls him back into the seat, facing me.) Justin, shush. That’s not polite.

The woman in front of us had turned around just after he belted out his opinion and fire daggers shot out of her eyes, straight for me. I flinched and ducked, though I’m not sure I ducked to dodge the daggers or hoping she wouldn’t see me. Probably a little of both.

While I hid behind Justin, leaving him open to the death daggers, I doubled my speed and prayed to every Saint I could think of (I’m not Catholic, so it was many) to find my car, and quickly. Justin, however, went unfazed. He propped his little body back up into the seat, faced the woman and sang out with pride. “I like big butts, and I cannot lie. You other brothers can’t deny.”

I tilted my head to the right, taking a quick peek at the woman to see if she’d turned around again and sent additional daggers our way. We made eye contact, and when her eyes glowed bright red, I broke the contact and saw my car—parked right next to hers.

Bent on saving our lives, I pushed past the woman and our car, intending to come back after she’d left, when Justin, all young and clueless, screamed out, “Mama, there’s our car, right next to the lady with the big butt.”

I now refer to that incident as the parking lot walk of shame.