Three cheers for glitter...

Brace yourselves. We have hit an all-time low....or high depending on your mood today. And maybe you have mentally checked out for the long Memorial Day Weekend. But leave it to us DE girls to be on the cutting edge....the virtual cusp of trends and buzz. We have our finger on the pulse...well, sometimes it is just about all we have some days. A pulse I mean. So here you go, we've found a video that we couldn't help but see and say "Oh HELL yes, we need to share this with our DE friends". We upped the anty. And I am sorry to you girls that have not yet gotten your Vajazzler in your 4-6 weeks. You might want to call USPS ASAP and cancel the order...because we have THE hottest new tool to get your hooha from Ho-Hum to HOO HARAY!!!!! And just in time for pool season. You couple this new item with a Brazilian and you will be the hit of every party, picnic and Bar or Bat Mitzvah from all summer long...and just think of the new meaning "Silver and Gold" will have at Christmas time, or that joyous Hannukah Festival of Lights.... You can thank us later....with notes please, NO pictures.




CONTENT WARNING - and for Godsakes, please turn the volume WAY WAY down while at work.  Better yet, plug in your headphones.  You know what, maybe you should just wait until you get home to watch this one.  Or wait until your office has COMPLETELY cleared out. Your boss will just be impressed and think you're "working late" tonight. We don't want to be the reason you get fired. Wait for the kids to be out of the house.  Out of the neighborhood.  Out of the county.  We are pleased when we make you spit coffee at your computer from gut-wrenching laughter, but this takes things above the radar...



Enjoy:)  Click HERE for today's Daily Epidural fun...

DVR me ASAP

LOST comes on at 9...American Idol is on at 8...Grey's Anatomy is on at 9 but thankfully on Thursday so it doesn't interfere...but then I need to decide whether or not to watch Real Housewives of Orange County or New Jersey or Keeping up With the Kardashians. Then of course we've got Desperate Housewives and 24, tied in with Dancing with the Stars. Shit. My DVR starts smoking and I go through batteries in my remote faster than my other battery operated nightstand goodies.


'Tis a sign of the times. Check Facebook statuses any weeknight around primetime and you'll see people panicking about DVR schedules and waffling over what to record and what to actually sit down and watch in real time. Check Facebook statuses during naptime and you'll see moms galore bragging about being able to catch up on several weeks' worth of Bree Van de Kamp and the McDreamy/McSteamy team while tackling Mount Laundry (oh wait, maybe that was my status). Lives now revolve around DVRs, cable tv, ABC.com and Netflix. We rely on those as a way of keeping up with dozens more shows than should be humanly possible to watch. No human being should be able to watch every damn show ever put on the nightly line up, yet I know people with multiple DVR's in their houses who are trying to do just that.

What the hell would we do without them? Some asshole decided it would be a good idea to have tball games on Thursday nights...alrighty then, Mr. DVR is going to have to start without me because my ass has to be camped out behind the dugout. Not every mother is perfect, myself being one of them...so when I notice at 7 pm on a Sunday that we're down to one diaper in the house, the DVR is going to have to step in while I make an unexpected trip to Target.  Nor am I a perfect mom because I will admit to putting my kids to bed early so I can catch up on my shows.

But in the same breath, having a DVR has made me a BETTER mother....you read that right.  Television has made me a better mom.  My DVR has saved my ass and my sanity more times than I care to admit.  When I have pissed off my nine year old in the middle of the newest Wizards of Waverly Place epidsode with the news that it's time to go to bed...DVR baby.  I am her hero because I can hit "record" so she can watch Alex cast her spells over and over...and over....and over....and over (until dad deletes them to make room to record his 24 hour long special on the Military Channel) When my demonic two year old wakes up crabbier than when she went down for her nap...those Wonderpets definitely saved the day.  Thanks Linny, Tuck, and Ming-Ming.  The actual TV schedule means shit these days.  Who the hell cares or actually KNOWS when things actually come on anymore.  We just record them and watch them when we want to and have time.  Technology definitely rules the world, and I'm ok with that. 

But in all honesty...they're friggin awesome. Who the hell needs commercials? I could live the rest of my life without seeing a mop singing "Baby come back" or watching a bad actress spray Febreze into smelly gym shoes and jock straps. Watching someone pour blue shit onto a maxi pad isn't going to encourage me to buy them because last time I checked Windex wasn't what came out of me last month...how 'bout you? So f*ck commercials...bring on the DVR, I'm ok with my life revolving around it. I'm ok with getting laundry done in a more timely manner while fast forwarding through stupid shit. I'm ok with spending time with my kids at tball and softball while I miss my shows. Watching TV in real time is a foreign concept now, I point the remote wildly at the TV and wonder why the hell nothing is fast forwarding and I'm left watching some weird ass silhouette wandering around bitching about asthma or depression or itching, burning and discharge...don't remember which...either way I wish I had DVR'd it so I didn't have to sit through the bad advertising. So for the times I can and do DVR, it makes me thankful for technology. Eat your heart out Laura Ingalls Wilder.



**And for the record...the post was written a while ago, I figured with it being "season/series finale time" it was fitting...ironically enough we have since gotten rid of cable...**

A trip to Brazil...

I am naive. I've said it before and I have no problem stating it again on my personal trait resume. So, with summer right around the corner, I decided to go ahead and wax the area that some people have Vajazzled. I have waxed before, so I was mentally and physically prepared for the submissiveness and pain. I like to make these somewhat uncomfortable situations - like the yearly pelvic exam - somewhat less awkward by talking through them. I am a nervous rambler, so when put into these precarious situations, I tend to discuss everything from the weather to what toppings I prefer on my pizza to vajazzling...all in a matter of three minutes. I think it puts me at ease, and probably makes my captive audience member wonder "WTF did she smoke before she came in here??" In any case, there I was lying in my gauze spa-issued undies waiting for the liquid hot magma to be applied to my nether-regions and asking my 20-something professional if she has vajazzled anyone or had any customers with vajazzling. I was oddly proud of the fact that this woman "in the know" had not heard of the trend, and I was able to educate her on the basic points of the ummmmm.....art. She said "speaking of trends, have you ever had a brazilian?" The teacher becomes the student. "No, but I've heard of it....I mean, I don't know the finer points, but I know it is popular." And I was not lying. I have learned my lesson in trying to sound or appear knowledgeable in areas where I know absolutely nothing. My faux intelligence gets me into trouble. She said "well, it is perfect for swimsuit season because it takes waxing to the next level. We can definitely do that today." That frightened me a bit "What do you mean by THE NEXT LEVEL? Like, the wax is hotter than the 400 degree stuff you are spreading on me right now?" The mere thought of it made me clench muscles and sweat in places that usually don't do either. What if it is NOT wax that they use, but the brazilian requires a blow-torch and protective eyewear? I can already smell burning flesh and torched hair. She just laughed and said "No, we just wax a little lower so that those unattractive hairs don't peek out of the bottom of your swimsuit. WHEW! Ok, sold. "Sure." I said. I am a complete sucker for the up-sell. With that, she says "I am just going to go grab one more thing before we start then." Oh crap. Here comes the blow torch. I bet she went to get the shackles and a lead apron for me. What the hell have I gotten myself into? She comes back with.....a waiver. Ummm...I think that made me even more scared. She just said that is is standard policy, etc, etc, etc. Fine. Here is my nervous chicken scratch signature. What the hell did I need a waiver for? It is hair removal for god sakes, not limb dismemberment. Well, as we proceeded, I clearly understood why we needed a waiver. Because I was violated. Violated in ways that you only read about in the news (and those people are prosecuted and sent to prison for very very long time) She put wax in places that I personally have never even SEEN, so I could care less if I even have hair there. Now that I think about it, those places never even have seen the light of day or have access to a healthy amount of oxygen...can those places even GROW HAIR? To access said places, there was the "Princess pose"....ummmm...I am no princess, but I am pretty damn sure that any princess that sat like that would be banished from her kingdom. No question. Then she said "Ok, now I need you on all fours." Oh GOD OH GOD OH GOD!!! College flashbacks. Did my husband put you up to this? Am I being taped for some sick internet video? Then she applied liquid hot wax to a place that if it ever works again it will be a medical miracle. This place, in the WAY WAY southern hemisphere of my being, shriveled up and crawled inside my body and I don't blame it if it never comes back out. Until then, I will have to poop through a straw. And the pain!! Oh the burning. Get me a freaking fire extinguisher because my poor little labia are on freaking fire! Can I see that wax strip please so I can separate my skin from it, put it in a baggie and see if it can be reattached??? If it hurts that badly being removed, that means that nature meant for it to just stay-put. Oh my ever loving GOD! Give me stick to bite on until I can have feeling back...wait...nevermind. I don't think I want feeling back. Simple hair removal has in fact turned into dismemberment of my tender petunia.


Bottom line is (no pun intended here) if I have hair in those places, I don't believe it has ever bothered anyone. I apologize to my tender areas. I should have left well-enough alone. My husband never complained about unruly shrubbery, and he would let me know because he does appreciate meticulous landscaping if you know what I mean. So, now that the tumble weed that I never knew I had has been taken care of, I need to go invest in one of those stand-up scooters...a Segway. Because I will never be able to sit down again. I am writing this with vicodin and an unhealthy amount of Ny-Quil in my system. I am thinking of crushing up a vicodin, making a poultice out of it, and rubbing it on the area you never even talk about to your most trusted medical professional. If any of you have done this and come out on the other side, you are a better woman than I. Does it grow back? My fear now is that the myth will be true, once you remove hair, it grows back darker and thicker than before. Have you ever read the Moostache book?? That will be me...trying to shove, wrap, tie, curl and twist pubic hair into artful displays hoping that no one will notice the nightmare in my crotch. Because I am NOT going to Brazil again.

We want to be your pimp...

My fellow blogger and I have been meaning to do this for a while now and with her being down and out (I talked to her this morning and let's just put it this way...she's working on her raspy, deep, phone sex voice...not pretty) today is a good day...

Do YOU have a blog?  Lots of blogs have links of other blogs that they promote and the Daily Epidural would like to pimp out other blogs as well.  We want to put you out there.  Yep, we want to be your pimps.  So there ya go.  If you have a blog of your own that you update with relative frequency (preferably within the last month or so) put a link in the comment section and when I create our link-a-doo area, I'll add you to it!  Now, if you're funnier and prettier than we are, I may flat out reject your blog and come back here and say nasty, slanderous things about you, ok?  Just sayin'...gotta look out for #1! 

Ok then....we KNOW some of you out there have blogs...we want to read them so bring it on!  Send us your links!  We want to be your pimps, really we do...

That fine parenting line...do you cross it?

It's been rainy, gloomy, and gross here the past couple of days. Making less than ideal conditions for us to be outside playing, or to be outside in general. We've been cooped up in the house together going crazy and one can only go to Target so many times with kids before losing ones mind (trust me, I know firsthand). So needless to say, I jumped at the chance to visit a "friend" and her children for a playdate/lunch date to get the hell out of the house. We should have stayed home...


Everything started off just fine, we were all glad for the distraction of other people and for a while the kids were getting along great and having a grand old time (all of our kids are very close in age...but she had an extra monopolizing most of her attention and her right breast most of the afternoon). The four kids were playing in the toy room together while she and I chatted in an adjacent room (which turned out to be a very good thing...someone needed to keep those little demons within their direct line of sight). The older boys played relatively well together for a while and the toddlers did the typical I'm-going-to-play-with-this-toy-until-I-see-which-toy-you-pick-up-and-then-I'm-going-to-rip-it-mercilessly-from-your-hands thing. My toddler tired of that pretty quickly and walked over to a bin of cars and trucks. She went straight for the Lightning McQueen cars. Well, this went over like a shit in a punch bowl with the owner of said cars. He gave her an elbow to the gut and grabbed as many as he get into his chubby little fists and began beating her over the head with them as he growled "MYCARSMYCARSMYCARSMYCARS". (think "REDRUM" creepy voice...you know the one) Of course she started to cry as I'm sure those things are made of titanium or lead or some other trauma inducing metal so I scurried over to her and asked "what happened?" as if I hadn't seen that little shit just beat my child with his Pixar weapons of mass destruction. My son instantly jumped to his sister's defense and told me what that demon had done. I wiped her tears, plucked a dislodged car tire from her pigtail, held back enormous restraint from shoving him bodily into the toy bin, and distracted my child with something I was hopeful would not incite another unwanted attack and returned to the other room (but scooted my chair surreptitiously a bit closer to the toy room...for proximity and to use as a weapon against him if necessary). Through it all the other mother didn't even bat an eyelash. She never moved. Never once did she intervene to deal with her child. She just looked at me as if to say "hee hee...boys" REALLY???? Hmmmm. Ok. Can I get you more coffee?  Right... Is the baby EVER going to detach? Just curious. No? Ok. Did you happen to see what just transpired in there? No again? So that's normal then? Uh huh...So we continue chatting, the kids continue playing (my toddler made the wise decision to keep her distance from Beelzebub...but don't ask about the Legos, fruit snacks, or the sippy cup incident) and we move on to lunch....

Beelzebub threw his cup at my child when he decided he didn't want her to sit on the complete opposite side of the table...lovely. Again, no reaction from mom. I bit my tongue. Beelzebub's older brother then showed his less than pleasant side when he began sticking his fingers into my son's sandwich. Really? Clearly this "strong" personality gene runs in the family. Awesome...good luck to the little milk hound. His mom gave him "the look" but he gave her his own look back as if to say "yeah right mom, nice try...I know you aren't going to do shit about it...watch as I do it again" Beelzebub jumped on the bandwagon and started throwing pretzels. I shouldn't have been surprised at the lack of reaction from mom as I dodged Rold Golds. But my kids were clearly horrified...they both kept staring at me like "holy shit mom, are you watching this? and no one is kicking their asses for it!" And then Beelzebub's brother started dipping his pretzel's into my son's chocolate milk, apparently my son politely asking him to stop just spurred him on because then he decided to stab pretzels into his sandwich. At that point I quietly picked his plate up and moved it for him. All the while mom sat idly by with babe to breast with not a word to say to either of her spawn but a multitude of half assed "come on guys...." or "that's not nice" or "we don't do that" HOLY SHIT ARE YOU KIDDING ME?????  I was unable to speak.  Had I opened my mouth not only would I have suffered enormous blood loss from biting my tongue I would have unleashed a torrent of bad parenting juju... So here is my question... Where is that fine parenting line? Are we allowed to "parent" other people's kids? That is a sticky business right there....

Obviously I need to do what's best for my kids, I did what I could to remove them from the situations (and believe me, I've only told you a few of the situations my kids found themselves in at the hands of these two) But where do you step in? Do you just deal with YOUR kids and move on? Obviously there are always extenuating circumstances (if the parents aren't around, if the kids are in obvious danger...etc) but that is always a tough one for me. So I just gritted my teeth, swallowed the blood from biting my tongue, and packed it in earlier than intended (with audible sighs of relief from my son). Needless to say, it'll be a good, long while before we have a rainy day playdate with them again...or a sunny day playdate, or a blizzardy playdate...maybe a nuclear holocaust? Yep, I'll call her tomorrow and get that scheduled...

Rosemary's Baby....

Possible POLITICALLY INCORRECT Warning:

Yep, we're going there...the place we've all thought of, we've all been in our heads, some have even verbalized (admit it...you have) and for those who haven't, God bless you...you're better women than we are...We will take your applause that we are funny and entertaining but no one has ever accused us of being nice....so here goes...you've been warned...




Ok, I need a quick lesson in etiquette:



I ran into an old acquaintance at the playground this past weekend. She had recently (ok, recently for me is 6 months or less) had a baby. I acknowledged said newborn with a card and gift that we dropped off at their home when they weren't there. So I had yet to see this new bundle of preciousness. I LOVE babies, and when I saw her, I could not wait to get my baby "fix". So she took the cocoon of baby out of her tenderly sun-guarded little car seat, lifted the bonnet and.....HOLY SWEET HELL, PUT IT BACK!! PUT IT BACK!! PUT ROSEMARY'S BABY BACK!!! AND HIDE THE OTHER CHILDREN!!!!! SHIELD THEIR EYES! WTF IS THAT??? YIKES YIKES YIKES......At this point, my brain stopped functioning and I felt all of the meals from the past 48 hours curdling in my stomach and rising in an acidic pool in my throat....the burning in my esophagus felt way better than the vision of this child burned into retinas...but I think I recovered quickly and did the sympathetic head tilt and mustered up (through the bile in my throat) and "Awww....how precious." This is where you come up with all adjectives completely unrelated to the physical appearance to the baby.  Precious, sweet, loving, etc.  Because all babies are just that.  Admittedly not all babies are adorable, gorgeous, etc.  We all KNOW that.  Period.  Some of us have HAD those babies.  So I used the first non-physically related adjectives I could think of and with that, the baby was thrust into my arms.

So yes, I apparently hid my absolute horror well enough that it came out as pure adoration for this thing that I THOUGHT was a girl upon birth (that is what the announcement said) but the receding hairline, thick eyebrows and sideburns made me quickly go through my memory bank, make a pitiful withdrawal and come up completely blank. My brain started functioning...."quick, how do I ask what it is?" As I am doing the baby bounce-sway in the middle of the park, I try to think of conversation without looking directly at "it". "Do your older kids love having a baby around?" I stammer. "OH yes, they adore her." Ah HAH!!! It is a HER. I thought so...from memory anyway, because by sight I am not so sure. Poor thing. So here I am, continuing to do the nervous bounce-rock-sway while the "her" is trying to wiggle around, pull on my sunglasses, earrings, shirt and nose. She instead decides to suck on her hands and the slurp-slurp-slurping sound results in a pool of drool to form on my arm. Yum. I try not to look at it...."find a happy place, find a happy place." With that, one of her kids falls off the monkey bars and gets hurt. Lucky. Why can't one of my accident-prone children spontaneously bleed like they normally do and save me from this nightmare?? "Oh, I need to run to the car for a band-aid, can you keep holding her for a second?" OH OH OH...."I have a band aid in my purse right here, I can get it" thinking this is my opportunity for reprieve. "No thanks, she only like certain kinds of band aids...they HAVE to be the princess ones. You know girls!" Ah yes, I do. Is this one that I am holding? Are you certain? But that would be rude, so I continue holding the drooling seething blob, who of course....starts crying when her mother is out of sight. So she cries, and cries, despite my half-hearted attempts to console. I really would have tried harder had "she" not looked like a glazed donut full of snot, spit, drool and God knows what other kinds of facial fluids. Oh! MY! GOD!! Now she is wriggling around so that she can face me and nuzzle her wipe her snotty, slimy face on my shirt. My clean shirt. My Banana Republic clean shirt. I reserve any apparel ruining for MY snotty children. I had no choice. This little bugger was strong. Just when I thought I was in the "clear" (if you count holding a snot-laden whimpering baby "clear") she puked on me. I turned weak in the knees, the park started spinning and I was punched in the face by the smell of partially digested soy formula and carrots. LORD TAKE ME NOW. By the time the mom had returned, I looked like I had been slimed by something out of Ghost Busters...who had recently enjoyed some strained carrots and $23 worth of Enfamil. This debacle, which I am sure lasted no more than 2 minutes, felt like 3 hours and gave me an instant migraine. The mom, apologetically and with a chuckle, told me I was a mess and then "scolded" her "thing" for being so "messy, messy, messy" Teeheehee. Really? No, REALLY???? As she took her baby back (the one that I do not remember outright requesting to hold) I got another glimpse of it. It smiled at me, with a creepy, all-knowing way as if to say "I read your thoughts devil woman - take THAT bitch!" Touche, ugly little baby, touche. You got me, and got me good. That will teach me to judge a less-than attractive child again. You know the story about the Ugly Duckling turning into the Swan, right???

POST-SCRIPT

I can write this story because I too, was an ugly child. No, seriously. My fellow blogger with her blond hair and adorable edible little freckles will tell you. (fellow blogger here: yes, she definitely had her Ugly Duckling phase but since I love her dearly and want to continue upon our journey together I will refrain from posting any incriminating pictures...for now) And we both thought our children were ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL upon entering the world...and they were...to us.  Upon discussing this post last night, we have determined that 1 out of 6 of the children created between the 2 of us can only be deemed remotely attractive by newborn standards so we're not exactly batting 1000. But they are little miracles each and every one of them. And they bring such joy and wonder to your life no matter what. But I have caught myself looking back at those newborn baby hospital photos and going "Eeek..they resemble little YODA in a blanket" (our boys were NOT attractive babies...YIKES) But all babies are truly beautiful and precious and bring a magical light and innocence to our world.....puke, snot, and all....

I knew I was a mom when...WINNER!!!!

Thanks to all of you who entered the "I knew I was a mom when..." contest!  Carrie and I had so much fun reading your entries;  many of which made us nod in agreement, laugh, smile, tear up a little bit, etc.  But we can only choose just one winner (someday we'll be rich and famous enough to choose more than one winner for our contests)  So without further adieu, congratulations to Ashley....

There were many moments when I thought I was a “mom.” You know, like when I was in labor 24 hours only to have a c-section, with husband hiding behind as much medical equipment he could find when he wasn’t playing chess on the computer. Or the day after I gave birth when he flew his mother up and dropped her off (without a car) at the hospital to “help” me while he went back to work. Or when I tried to breastfeed my beautiful bouncing baby boy only to find that he had some type of weird nipple phobia and screamed like it was a monster attacking him (I thought to myself, this must be the bonding everyone talks about). Or when I took him on his first airplane ride and when they announced “those who need extra time boarding or those with small children” he leaned right between my boobs and barfed before our three hour flight. If you told me before I had him that I had some fluid on me that I didn’t know what it was, I would have been completely grossed out. Now that is a daily occurrence. There have been many defining moments in the last 8 months but I think, by far, last week took the cake. We were on the expressway (nowhere to pull over) and I hear “cough, cough, weird choking noise” and then NOTHING. Of course the 20 dollar mirror I paid for had somehow flown to the side where I could get a mere glimpse of two bare feet. So I start screaming his name, screaming his name, AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS…Nothing (he hates noises and cries when he hears them so I felt sure that he would cry….NOTHING.) I turn the radio up as loud as I could…NOTHING. Then I see two feet shoot straight out front in the corner of the 20 dollar crappy mirror, but no sound. At this point, I am screaming over the radio, looking in the rear view, shaking the car seat, while driving 90 miles an hour…NOTHING. (I can imagine what the car behind me thought). I pulled over into Burger King…threw the car in park….ran around the car, flung the door open, to this little monster looking at me like I was the crazy one. THAT is when I knew I was a mom. To care so much about something so small is beyond what I could have ever imagined. But I do know that I am a mom, because no one else could be what I am to him, and I realized that last week, screaming, radio, crappy mirror and all!

Ashley will receive our special little prize package/goodie basket just for MOM...meaning she does not have to share a single damn thing in it with ANYONE.  Got that, Ashley???  :)  We've got: a $25 Godiva gift card, some fun, summery OPI nail colors, awesome lip glosses (one called Sexy Motherpucker...just had to get it because of the name) and don't forget about your awesome goodie from Julie over at Etsy!!!!  So as soon as you see this post (and since we KNOW you read us every day you will...right Ashley?  Right?  Are you there?  Hello????) Shoot me an email to  dailyepidural @ hotmail.com

Congratulations and thanks to everyone for entering!  Keep your eyes open for our next giveaway...you just never know what we've got up our sleeves for next time...it may make special places all sparkly ;)

From Toys R Us to Hookers R Us...

The shirt allowed for her midriff to be peeking out and the vneck appeared to be cut down as low as it could possibly go.  I don't think the matching skirt could get any shorter without being considered underwear or at the very least, a floaty bathing suit bottom.  The wedge heels weren't very stable, but apparently flip flops weren't the way to go.  And through it all, I just sat there with my jaw on the floor thinking "holy shit is this stuff for real?"

A friend of mine had emailed me an online coupon code for a relatively popular girls clothing store.  I will admit that I have entered said store MAYBE three times, total.  My daughter loves it, I do not.  For a few reasons: it's expensive and the clothes aren't all that cute and oh, I don't dress my child like a tiny hooker.  I prefer to dress my child like she's nine, not nineTEEN. It makes me wonder: when did people stop dressing little girls like little girls? 

Like I said, she is nine.  I like to dress her like she is nine.  She can still dress trendy and dress her age. It IS possible!  She doesn't have to channel her inner "pop star" with vnecks and ass cheeks and skin tightness.  Not on my dime.  Not on ANYONE'S dime.  Why do I need her to grow up any faster than she already is?  Why do I need to whorify my nine year old?  Why would anyone want to?  Look at all of these young girls on TV who are idolized by these little girls...grinding on 45 year old men and then their daddies chalking it up to "that's what girls do"  HOLY SHIT are you F**KING kidding me?!?!?!?  That's what girls do?  Yeah, that's what girls do on the strip in Vegas!!!!!!!!!!!  The little flyers that the people hand you as you walk down the street with boobies hangin' everywhere?  That's what "girls" do.  Not my little girl.  She rides her scooter, drinks juices boxes at the lunch table, draws pictures of dogs, and cries about getting a 90% on a frigging spelling test. 

I am keeping her a little girl as long as I can, I will dress her as a little girl for as long as I can.  Short skirts will have leggings underneath them.  Vnecks will be worn with a tank top.  If even the slightest hint of ass cheek is exposed I will know the shorts are a season too small and they tossed into the yard sale pile.  She is a child.  Period.  She has choices and she knows that, she can help me pick out her clothes but if I deem it inappropriate I will make no bones about telling her that.  She knows it too.  As we were perusing aforementioned online shopping website on the offchance that we could find one or two clearance items, she saw a dress, clicked on it, said "yikes, that looks tight" and immediately clicked on something else...so she knows what she likes and she knows what is meant for someone who is nine. 

She is already growing up too fast, I don't need to help Mother Nature along.  I don't need to turn my little girl into a little adult with little wedge heeled shoes and midriff bearing, vneck flashing, bedazzled, sparkly tops and matching, short jean skirts.  And she has told me before, the girls who wear short skirts can't play on the playground, they just stand there watching everyone else.  Ironic, huh?  The ones in the short skirts aren't getting any action..I don't foresee pole dancing becoming a common activity on the playground in the near future, so I'll keep putting leggings under her skirts so she can join in the kickball games.

What they won't teach you in Driver's Ed...

Building off of yesterdays' topics about modern conveniences, let's talk about cars for a moment. I could take this in several directions....how they are handy, how they are freaking "Sell-your-first-born" expensive, how they can either make or break your day, how that 3,000 mile oil change comes up SO quickly time after time and can be a source of great angst in a marriage if missed (well, it is cause for the "responsibility" talk in my marriage anyway). But I am going to take this in the "How to DRIVE your chosen automobile without your head lodged so far up your anal orifice" direction. We can cover the other areas later, oh, and I am sure we will. You can always rely on us to take a mundane topic and turn it into a "Crap, I never thought of it that way" moment.  We're just that good...or that bored, you be the judge.


In any case, as you loyal readers may know, I have against my better judgment re-entered the great American workforce. Which of course gives me chills for several reasons, but most of all because that means I have joined the masses on the roadways at ungodly hours of the morning and evening. If I could have a dollar for evertyime I was caught in a complete standstill on the freeway where speeds are normally in excess of 65 MPH, I wouldn't need to work at all. There have been several times I caught myself thinking, or more routinely in my solo commute saying outloud to no one at all, "I swear - there had better be a body in the road up there to account for that fact that I have moved three centimeters in 15 minutes" only to find that there was no apparent reason for the hold-up at all. Yes, that sounds very mean and very morbid, but seriously. It is not like the route spontaneously changes therefore wreaking havoc in what is otherwise a drive that you could do with your eyes closed....and don't do that either. It is dangerous. Which brings me to my albeit brief but handy checklist of driving tips 101. Whether you commute or are just in the car for the day to day errands, these tips will be useful. Feel free to keep laminated copies if your car to hand out to the village idiot that will undoubtedly cross your path.

-First and foremost - get off the freaking phone. There are even commercials about this from the great government that reigns over us (sarcarsm detected?) and insurance agencies. This is a no brainer, and I say that quite literally, because I am pretty sure that the people I have encountered have no brain at all. It goes without saying, do not text while going any speed. I can barely text while sitting in my kitchen, I am not sure how someone could effectively operate their vehicle and get a message accross. Is it that important to tell someone C U L8TR? Which will most likely come out at V Y L8TE anyway if you are driving and not paying total attention to either task. And if I have been following you in the left lane for 10 minutes while you are driving right next to a semi making it impossible for me to pass you, and then I find out that you are texting or talking, I reseve the right to run you off the road. You deserve to be in a ditch and I take pride to be the one to put you there. And "hands free" does not mean you have your phone in one hand and coffee in the other you dufus.

-My blinker was craftily installed in my car as an alert that I would like to make a move in that direction. I see you and I know you see me. I realize, especially in traffic, that it would be more effective for me to exit my vehicle, wave at you and make hand gestures indicating that I would like to kindly move my vehicle in front of your vehicle in that chosen lane, but that is not alway safe or as handy. So, the engineers at GMC put a blinker on my car so that I could safely convey the same info to you. You are not going to get to Sally's soccer game any faster by completely ignoring me and narrowly missing me as I am trying to take advantage of the three inches you left between you and the car in front of you. So stop trying to pretend that you are enjoying the view and let me the F in asshole. thank you.

- and when I kindly let you in (which I always do) please wave a hand in a gesture of "thanks". It is just nice. Nice is good. Nice keeps me from giving you another kind of hand gesture.

-I will add an adendum to the above statement. I will give you that other unfavorable hand gesture and try NOT to let you in if you are one of the assholes that drives in the "EXIT ONLY" lane all the way to the front of the traffic line and then merge into traffic at the last second. You are mean. And mean people suck. I hope you get pulled over later.

-I generally try to drive as fast as the law and current road conditions will allow. So you riding pretty much in my back seat with your car does NOT make me go any faster. In fact, I enjoy pumping my breaks in the hopes that you will spill burning hot coffee in your crotch. So back the F off.

- Do not ever ever ever drive in the left lane at 10-15 MPH under the speed limit if you don't want to be sworn at, ridiculed, mocked, or run off the road. Period.

-Also, just because you have a big ass truck which is obviously a compensation for something else, does not give you the right to drive at 85 MPH regardless of the weather.

- No one likes bumper stickers. Ok, you are proud of your Student of the Month. I get it. But I don't care that YOU WANT WHIRLED PEAS, OBAMA ROCKS, or YOU WANT MY LIPSTICK ON YOUR DIPSTICK and neither does anyone else. That was not a safety tip, just "how not to look like a complete idiot" tip

Again, this is not an "End all, Be all" list. And I am sure you can come up with some more, and we would love to hear them...so sound off right now and let us all know how we can improve America's roads one braindead asshole at a time. Isn't that nice....we provide happiness, humor, comfort, a community atmosphere and now a public service :)

W.W.L.I.W.D?

So last night I had a headache.  And we're not just talking you're run-of-the-mill-this-is-annoying headache.  We're talking holy-shit-will-someone-please-remove-the-entire-left-portion-of-my-brain-why-do-you-all-need-to-yell-and-scream-and-why-is-our-house-filled-with-blowhorns-and-spotlights-all-of-a-sudden kind of headache.  I suppose they are the type my doctor refers to as migraines and I am the proud owner of some pretty heavy duty prescription medications for such occasions.  THANK GOD.  What the hell would I do without said drugs?  And that got me thinking...what did people do before this stuff?  How did they function?  I know they did somehow and they got by (granted they were miserable and pretty f'd up), but how would I deal with it if I didn't have my modern day conveniences to fall back on??  But people figured it out and coped...so I wondered if I didn't have this stuff...WHAT WOULD LAURA INGALLS WILDER DO???

So, my demon daughter is currently teething...those molars are a BITCH.    Thank the good Lord above for Hyland's teething tablets and Tyenol chewables (or if you're a dear friend of mine Crown Royal and honey on a q-tip...I may try that today...I'm pissed I didn't think of it first) How did Laura Ingalls and the other folks of the prairie figure this stuff out?  What would they do for their miserable, sad screaming babies?  Give them sticks to chew on until the splinters choked them and they were 'sleeping' soundly?  Left them alone far enough back in the woods where no one could hear their screams?  Not an altogether bad idea...

Obviously as women we all have to deal with that wonderful time of the month...some of our readers are of "advanced age" (is that an ok term, mom?) and have moved on, others have been blessed by modern medicine and no longer get visited once a month...Little Nellie Olson didn't have that option.  Maybe that's why she was such a miserable bitch.  Pretty sure she had her period ALL.THE.DAMN.TIME.  And she walked like she had a stick up her ass because she had a pillow shoved between her legs because let's face it, no one had figured out tampons at that point in time.  Doc Baker wasn't that smart.  So those poor women had to pluck chickens in the coop to come up with makeshift pads every week that "time" rolled around...yikes...thank GOD for Playtex...never thought those words would leave my mouth!  Way better than chicken feathers sticking out of my who-ha for a week.

Last night as I was making a quickie dinner for my kids I again thought of dear Laura Ingalls.  That poor woman never had the option of a quickie meal.  No matter the weather those women had no choice but to stand in a hot, miserable kitchen and cook a full-on meal three times a day.  After making several trips down to the f-ing well to haul big ass buckets of water up to the kitchen to boil....probaby with a miserable, drooling, teething baby strapper to her back. Holy shit.  Screw that. You'd have to beat me over the head with a cast iron skillet to get me into my kitchen THREE.DAMN.TIMES every day to make full course meals.  Oh hell no.  Kill your own damn chicken and gnaw on the raw pieces for all I care.  And they didn't have microwaves.  They had to stand over a damn open flame.  So the next time you want to bitch about making dinner (like I did to my fellow blogger last night) go lock yourself in a closet and light a small fire, bring in all of your cooking supplies and ingredients and try to prepare a meal...THEN we can bitch.  Laura never did.  At least if she did she never wrote about it while living in her mud hut.  She was probably so bitter and tired she couldn't be bothered to write about it.  Or just so scarred by the sheer horror of it she didn't want to relive it.  I know I wouldn't want to.

Laundry...don't even get me started.  Beating stuff against rocks to get it clean?  I'd rather beat myself against a rock.  If I see "hand wash" on an article of clothing I will put it back on the rack before I even consider purchasing it.  I'm that lazy. 

Just think about it...we have an answer to EVERYTHING these days.  Trouble breastfeeding?  Call your La Leche League leader (then say that five times fast).  Want to find a new pediatrician?  Either google it, call your neighbor, ask at playgroup, call your insurance company...etc...   Need a new recipe?  Check the internet, go to the bookstore, look it up on your iPhone.  Got lost on our way to your preschoolers field trip?  Check directions on your GPS, plug it in to your BlackBerry, call a friend to google it for you (if your GPS or BlackBerry is as unreliable as mine is)  Poor Laura didn't have those options. 

Those poor bitches are lucky they don't know what they were missing out on, they'd be pissed off.  I bet they're all rolling over in their graves right now.  That's why they all come back and haunt people.  Not because they miss someone or are upset about how they died.  They are pissed that some asshole came up with all of this stuff after they kicked it.  Tylenol and antidepressants and tampons and dishwashers and breastpumps and smartphones.  No wonder historical reference material makes them all seem like miserable people with short life expectancies.  Now we know why.  I would be too.  So the next time you think life sucks, just ask yourself...What would Laura Ingalls Wilder Do?

Living the American nightmare...

Hello? Am I moving? I think I am numb from the brain down. Nope, "numb" would mean that I actually have a brain left. My brain was put into a blender and put on "Frappe". How do you moms do it? I had my first full day of: Get up-shower-get dressed-put on make-up before 4pm-stay in pants with buttons and a belt ALL DAY-work outside of the home.  (don't even ask about getting the kids up and out of the house before 7:30, that's an altogether separate post...it was UGLY, lots and lots of UGLY...oh and breakfast?  Let's just say I choked on my bagel while sitting in traffic while talking illegally on the phone to my fellow blogger...end of story)

So anyway, yes, I got a real full time working mom job again.  Yep, I went and did it.  And I am "shit on myself stupid" kind of tired. I bit the bullet and got a real job. With real hours. With other real people. Having real conversations.  About real, relevant, IMPORTANT things (that can potentially earn or lose a company LOTS of money...not just whether or not Addie stole the pink tutu) What the hell was I thinking? I would like to pay my bills and send my kids to college. That is what I was thinking. The alarm went off at 6. That is no big deal. I am usually up around that time trying to fold a few loads of laundry and catch up on emails (ok Facebook, whatever...don't judge you all know you do it too, how else do you check in with us??) so that wasn't a shocker. Showering on a Monday was pretty par for the course too. But I have to shower again tomorrow....before 4pm. And I have to wear big people clothes....ALL DAY. I can't pretend that I want to watch cartoons too, just so that I can lay down for a bit. And when I am bored, I can't color or head to Target just for the hell of it. I have to stay at my desk, because that is what the boss said. And shit, I have a boss. At home, I WAS the boss (or at least the 5 year old let me pretend to be when I wasn't given the roles of "grandma, teacher or dog"). By noon, I was craving a PB&J, Super Readers and cuddle time with my preschooler. By 2 pm, I had sat through my third "Nod your head, smile politely and pretend that you know what everyone is talking about" meeting. I remember lying in bed a few weeks ago innocently praying in a very elementary school style "Please God, let me get this job" and today I was praying "Thanks for this job, now please let me stay awake while this guy is rambling on and on about crap that I have no idea what it even is, and I am not sure why I am supposed to care about it, so I will write aimlessly on this piece of paper that someone gave me so it looks like I am trying to not to stare at the remnants of lunch on his poorly manicured mustache - and by the way....who the F even has JUST A MUSTACHE anymore? Do I hear bad porn music being piped in through this manufactured, flourescent lit ceiling?..oh, AND thanks again for this job." I am ready for my Starbucks I.V. Don't even bother with that watered down crap. I want the whole bean shot right into my veins. You know what?  Forget it, I will just chew on the beans.  And you better not screw with me and that decaf crap. I will tear off your head and use it for a paperweight in my new windowless cubicle and no one will hear you scream.

Then 5pm rolls around. I made it alive. Well, I use that term very loosely because I know I made it home, but I don't exactly REMEMBER the drive. I briefly recall swearing at someone and sarcastically offering that it is against proper driving safety technique to drive with one's head UP ONE'S OWN ASS. Then I spent the rest of my evening hugging the little ones, drooling, forming incomplete, incoherent sentences and thinking about the fun that faces me tomorrow, and the next day and the next 6 billion days after that. Why? Why am I doing this? Oh, that is right. Living the American dream. Who needs to pay bills and go to college anyway....?  Maybe just to spice things up tomorrow I'll spark up a conversation at the water cooler about a certain "girly device"?  It sparkles and makes secret places all fancy...that'll get their attention, huh??  Nah, maybe next week. But then I will be back in HR filling out all sorts of DIFFERENT papers.

No breakfast in MY bed...

In no particular order here are what we think are the top five things given or done on Mother's Day: homemade card, bouquet of flowers, spa/pedicure type thing, other gift certificate (because your spouse couldn't think of what else to get and panicked on Saturday afternoon at 4), or breakfast in bed.  I'm thinking this last one has the tendency to ride the top of the list most often.  Raise your hand if you got breakfast in bed yesterday.  Ok, now raise your hand if you actually enjoyed said breakfast in bed....

I am ashamed.  I am a horrible mother.  My children should be taken from me.  I do not deserve to have them, their precious little faces looking up at me, their darling little hearts wanting to do wonderful things for me on Mother's day.  I knew on Saturday we had shit for food in the house, we had about a tablespoon of milk, the butt of crusts for bread, a quarter cup of stale cereal, and maybe one or two eggs that may or may not have been around when I made breakfast on Easter morning...I needed to go to the store.  I also knew my oldest had visions of grandeur in her little head for breakfast in bed for me on Sunday morning.  So I did what any mother would do.  I bailed.  I chickened out.  I hightailed it out of bed on Sunday morning before anyone else got up and was strolling the aisles of super Walmart with my Starbucks perusing the cereal aisle like I didn't have a care in the world.  I abandoned my child and dashed her hopes of presenting me with the pinnacle of the Mother's Day gift.  But I hate breakfast in bed so I went to Walmart instead (and anyone who knows me knows I detest Walmart).

But I just really don't enjoy breakfast in bed...for a variety of reasons:

1. I'm SO not a breakfast person. Never have been, the mere idea of food in the morning makes me nauseated.  I need to be awake for several hours before I can even think about eating without wanting to vomit.  So barely brushing off the fog of sleep to the sight of my children with a tray laden with food and NOT throwing up all over them?  Yeah, not happening...

2.  No one else in my house can cook.  Not even kidding.  When I jokingly asked my husband what he was making me for Mother's Day dinner last night, he looked at me and said "cinnamon toast?" but even that made him nervous.  If other people enter my kitchen it ends up looking like a war zone, don't ask about the pancake incident of 2005...I'm still pissed about my Emeril pan.

3. It's plain awkward.  Who wants to sit there and eat while four other people sit there smiling and staring at you?  It's like being a friggin caged zoo animal at feeding time.  Not to mention I'm still trying to avoid vomiting everywhere so please stop looking at me because I REALLY REALLY REALLY don't want to try whatever it is that is piled next to whatever this stuff is on top of what I think is supposed to be toast.

4.  There are five people on my bed.  Moving around.  Jostling everywhere.  Climbing all over me.  Wanting me to eat.  Try it mom!  Spilling orange juice.  Spreading crumbs. Are you going to take a bite? Dropping bits of mystery food. GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So if you DID get breakfast in bed, I hope you were able to enjoy it...alone.  I hope you were able to identify what you were fed.  I am just not that girl.  I prefer to be the one who prepares the meals (this is where I let the kids help me so it softens the blow of them not doing it themselves...see?  I still get to have control...) and I prefer that said meals NOT be served in my bed.  After all, I'd hate for the kids to find any stray rhinestones laying around ;)

Hope you all had a wonderful Mother's Day!

"I knew I was a mom when...?" Prize SNEAK PEEK!

Ok, so for those of you who have left us a comment on the "I knew I was a mom when..." post, you are well aware that you are eligible to win our prize "basket" (which really isn't IN a basket persay...they just always call them that so we will too)  What you don't know is what is IN said prize basket....

I'm not going to tell you EVERYTHING because that's like finding your birthday presents a week early (nevermind you had ripped the house apart searching for them but that's neither here nor there)  But one thing I will share with you is this little baby right here:

Ok, talk about FREAKING ADORABLE, right?????????  I found Julie on Etsy (which, if you haven't been, is a time vacuum...you'll get on and all of a sudden realize it's 4 hours later)  Here is her shop GlassPhotoKeepsake and I have spent the better part of 2 days drooling over her stuff (and sending her spastic messages...pretty sure she thinks I'm nuts)  BUT nuts or not, Julie is willing to overlook my craziness and has kindly offered to share one of her goodies with us to sweeten the pot of our Mother's Day prize!!!!!!  How freaking awesome is she?  And if jewelery isn't your thing...oh don't fret my pets, Julie's got ya covered...check out the super duper adorable key chains or magnets:

Way cute, huh?  I seriously think these are going to be my go-to gift from now on...  So whoever our lucky winner is gets to choose one of those three awesome goodies from Julie (obviously with your own picture, as cute as those kids are I'm sure you'd prefer ones you know...)  SO FREAKING CUTE!  Can you tell I'm excited about this?  Seriously this stuff is just SO damn cute I can't even stand it, and with all of my gushing I have more or less confirmed that I am in fact a total spaz but that's ok...I'll be a spaz with a rockin' cute keychain and necklace because I already told Julie I'm ordering something.  And even if you don't win you should totally go see her on Etsy because obviously her stuff is cute and talk about affordable!!  Like I said, new go-to gift...new moms, grandma, a keychain for dad for Father's Day?  Go see Julie, tell her the girls at the Daily Epidural sent ya, and if you haven't already make sure you head back over to the "I knew I was a mom when..." post and tell us your story for your chance to win.  Carrie and I will be reading them over the weekend and announcing the winner next week.

We wish all of our readers a most wonderful Mother's Day and as always we hope your epidural lasts through the weekend...

XOXO,

Anne and Carrie

The Bedazzler is much different than I remember it...

Explicit language and adult content Warning!! (some of you just got very excited to read ahead....)
.
.
.
.
.

I went to a Pure Romance party this past weekend. For those of you who are unfamiliar with them, it is the Tupperware of sex toys. It was not my first time at one of these (no, I do not need to go see Tiger Wood's therapist by any stretch of the imagination). But I realized how naive and sheltered a life I have lived. The presenter was very helpful and informative....and she was very quick to pick up on my "deer in the headlights" looks as she was introducing some product or gadget. Flipping through the catalog, I found myself turning it sideways, upside down, etc. trying to figure out A) What the hell is that for? B) Where does that go? and C) Whether or not the person that engineered that needs should go to Church or therapy. So again, this was not my virgin party (pun TOTALLY intended there) but I seem to learn new things every time I go. I also learned quickly that this is the only home party that exists where husbands are overly accommodating in making sure that their wives can not only attend, but stay, drink ridiculous amounts of alcohol and bring the credit card. One husband even dropped his wife off so that she could drink, order, drink some more and then he offered to come and pick her up when the party was over. I bet the offer would not have been the same at a candle party. And not ONE husband texted or called to see when any of us were coming home. Weird. That never happens. Then husbands want to know EVERYTHING when you get home. "How was it, who was there, what stuff did they have, did you get anything, did anyone else get anything, do you want to have sex immediately??" Hmmm...I should have told him that I was mistaken. It was Pampered Chef, not Pure Romance. And yes, I spent $60 on three spatulas. That would have killed the burning flames of desire. But instead, I told him about the new bedroom thing that I learned of. It is a new fad....one that really made me go "WTF?? Who thinks of this stuff?".......
 
It is called Vajazzling. Yep, we were talking at the party about this cream that is also good for shaving your bikini area (I am sure it is useful for other things as well, but the Catholic school girl in me took over and my deceased grandparents were resurrected and seated next to me at the party looking very concerned that I was even there, so feeling like a complete pervert, I perked up when she said "Shaving cream"). So she said, that this cream will eliminate sensitive skin and make a better surface for Vajazzling. I am sorry, what?? Ok, I grew up in the 80s and I clearly recall the item sold on TV that I coveted that would make my jeans, phone, hair clips and dog sparkly and pretty. And you are supposed to do that WHERE? It makes your cooter look like a disco ball. Why in the name of hell would you want to do that? My husband already wants to spend a majority of his free time down there, why would I decorate it for him? Wouldn't that be like leaving out a bowl of full sized candy bars for the trick-or-treaters? Hell no. I am not encouraging more visits by creating a sparkly Welcome Mat. And talk about discomfort. I am already doing deep knee lunges and funky dances in the check out line at the grocery store during those regrowth days before the next waxing. Why would I glue crystals to myself in said area? And then my brain skips to drying off after a shower. What if you get one stuck to the loose threads and it gets unintentionally yanked off? Peel me off the ceiling kind of "OW". And maybe I just think too much, but I have small children that frequently have full-on conversations with me while I am in the shower. I do not want to find out that I was the topic of show and tell. "My mom's front butt sparkles and it is very pretty." Hello school counselor. Or when someone pulls out their phone all blinged out. "My mom's pachina looks like that." How do you recover from that? And what about that yearly visit to the gyno? Maybe they would be pleased that you take such pride and care in their area of expertise, but I am just saying, that your file might be flagged. Some celebs have gotten Vajazzled because it "lifted their spirits and made them feel happy". Have they tried Dairy Queen? A good sale at Gap? It is beyond me that a decked-out VaJayJay would make someone happy. If that is what you need to pull you out of the edge of depression, then good for you. Get all jeweled up and skip on down the yellow brick road (although the idea of doing anything like that after gluing sequins to your female areas sounds painful and might take all of those good feelings you were going for away). I'm not judging, so if any of our fans are all fancy in their southern hemisphere, then please educate me on the benefits. I just know that from now on, when my little girl sees something sparkly on the floor at Target, I will yank her arm right out of the socket to keep her from picking it up and collecting it. You never know where it came from...


**And you KNOW you're going to go google a "vajazzler" now...admit it...**

When did you know?

Finish this statement:  I knew I was a mom when.....

When/how did you know?  Was it the first moment you peed on the stick?  Or did it take a little bit longer than that?  Was it when you were headfirst in the toilet throwing up your prenatals and orange juice while getting kicked in the ribs? 

The first time your little one knowingly wrapped their chubby little arms around your neck and burrowed their sweet little face in the crook of your neck...the sleepy "I love you" that was whispered as they drifted off...A sweet, milky grin up at you while breastfeeding?  Or was it something a little more hardcore than that....the first explosive diaper that went up the back and neck out the sides, down to the feet and somehow even out the sleeves of the cute little sleeper from great grandma...was that your...yep, I'm a mom moment?  Or how about that time while cleaning up your cherub after snack time you swiped that chunk of banana of his face and stuck your finger in your mouth without a second thought...was THAT your defining moment?

Whatever it was, we want to hear it.  Short, long, sweet, sappy, funny...whatever the case may be...when did you know?  For me, it was THIS story here.  Leave us a comment telling us how you knew in your gut that you were a mom...what solidified it for you. Do you have a blog of your own?  Post your story over there and link us over to it!  We are in the process of getting together a little goodie basket for our winner with a variety of different things that mom will not be required to share under any circumstances (anyone like GODIVA????)

So here's your chance to tell US a story......

Welcome to my kitchen...need stitches?

How do you know? There is that unforgettable sound...the one that makes you go "Oh crap..." and your spine curls up around your heart and lungs and breathing and blood circulation cease. Then you hear the scream (which happens after the long drawn out pause in which they were not breathing). The scream that is SO distinguishable that you know "Yep, that injury produced blood". You follow the noise and find the victim. They were jumping on the couch again. And even though you really really want to break out the "Haven't I told you...." you scoop them up before they get blood on the couch that their little ass was NOT supposed to be jumping on and head for the internal home triage center....the kitchen. The kitchen is the hub of the home for many reasons. Injuries are one of them. The kitchen houses all of the necessary equipment for at home emergency care; ice, paper towels, rubber gloves, hard non-porous cleaning surfaces, tongs, antibacterial spray, band aids and popsicles. But how do you know when the home care center is not going to cut it? My fellow blogger called me this weekend with that question...."Does she need stitches..." And trust me, she called the right person. I have had my share of ER visits with the three kids. We even had a run of visits that prompted a call from our insurance company. I think they thought we were kidding. Four visits in 6 weeks. Each of the kids made an appearance and one of them was a repeat offender. The 3rd time we were there I made a joke about the hospital having a Frequent Fliers Discount. Please note that health officials do not think those jokes are funny. Anyway, how do you know when they need stitches or some higher level of medical intervention? My only advice is to go with your gut. And in some cases, it may be turning and churning. I told my sister, that all head and mouth wounds produce movie-worthy amounts of blood. Mix that with the amount of tears and snot that the crying child is producing, and you have a kitchen that looks like a crime scene. I usually give my bleeders the half-hour rule....if the wound is still bleeding at that point or the patient has passed out from blood loss, chances are good that your home care attempts are not going to cut it. On the other hand, if it is a gaping wound and you can see bone, they have lost a digit or other organic matter, they are vomitting profusely or are not making sense, then you might want to skip the half hour rule and seek professional help sooner rather than later. An example of this would be when my middle child was riding on TOP of the Little Tykes Cozy Coupe car his sister was driving. She lurched backwards in an attempt to eject her unwanted car-jacker. Her attempt worked. He ended up head first onto the concrete. We heard the thud, then the delayed cry. There was no blood, no visible head wound. But when asked a simple question like "What did we just eat for dinner?" and his response, after some thought, was "Tuesday" we thought it would be best to have him evaluated. He then proceeded to throw up in my husbands lap. That sealed the deal. Even though there was no gushing blood, the situation, once evaluated, called for a higher level of service than we could provide. But the answer is not always cut and dried. As a parent, you will most likely know...and if you don't know, then better to be safe than sorry.

And as time goes on in your parenting career, or as you have been flagged by CPS at the hospital, you might be more and more comfortable with riding it out, or using at home remedies. I was very excited when Johnson and Johnson came out with the first-aid glue. Those scientists are freaking geniuses. That has saved me on more than one occasion. I carry it with me everywhere I go, because you never know when someone is going to walk face first into a chain-link fence. And as you move further into parenting accident-prone children, you tend to shift your panic priorities. Now if I know someone is bleeding, my first reaction is "Go bleed outside, I will be right there!" I mean come on. Everyone has neutral colored carpet these days. Don't bring yourself into the house! It is hard to see your children hurt. And the ER visit is sometimes more painful for the parents. Nothing hurts your heart more than to watch two grown adults hold your frail dainty three year old down so they can clean out their split open chin. But that pain is quickly replaced with the reality of "THAT TOOK THREE F-ING HOURS AND COST HOW MUCH?" Let me tell you, the stick that went through your kid's hand is usually trumped by some other emergency therefore resulting in spending at least 1/8 of your day sitting there in an ER exam room blowing up the rubber gloves to keep your child entertained. It is worse if it is not an injury that produces blood. God forbid you are there with your kid that stuck a popcorn kernel in his nose or other orifice. Not only are you NOT a priority...I think they make you wait as a penance for producing such a moron. Yep, I can say this because I have been there too. The mere thought of waiting for three or more hours makes me always consider home healing first out of pure convenience. But when push comes to shove and you are not sure what to do, maybe an ER visit will make you feel better. After all, the car ride over usually makes the kid fall asleep, therefore the crying that you never thought would end finally ceases. And at the hospital they have a pharmacy and the pharmacy has drugs. And who knows if you will need them or not, but it never hurts to ask.