Photo: iStock

Raising a child on the spectrum is not easy. It comes with higher demands of care and time than other children. Believe me, I know! I have four children ranging in ages from eight to 17. My youngest daughter has PDD, Pervasive Developmental Disorder, a moderate form of Autism.

She is higher functioning and very smart. She also lacks impulse control, and with that comes language that has no filters or boundaries. My daughter has taught me an incredible amount of patience and also to laugh at the silly things that happen. Laughing and finding humor in some of the awkward comments helps balance life when things get too stressful and unmanageable at times. I have spoken with other families who have children on the spectrum and we all have agreed you just have to laugh sometimes.

My daughter was taking her nightly bath one evening. Of course, I’m always right next to her in the bathroom. She asked me why I never take a bath with her. I explained to her that I am a grownup and much too big to get into the bathtub with her. I told her that if I got into the bathtub, there would be no room for her.

She had a very serious face and replied very calmly, “Oh yeah. I keep forgetting you are the size of an elephant.” I laughed. She was not trying to be mean. She was not trying to make me feel bad about myself. She was just being her. I was thankful for the laugh, although I was remorseful for the Kit Kat bar I had eaten earlier that day.

My daughter is so smart; sometimes she asks questions I just don’t know how to answer. Thank goodness for Google, as every question ends up with me having to search the internet. My other children used to ask questions of curiosity like what my favorite color was growing up, or what television shows I used to watch when I was little, or the names of my best friends from grade school. My daughter with autism does not have an interest in any of those topics.

She wants to know what scientific family a slug is in. I had no idea—I had to look it up. She wanted to know how many species are in the gastropod family. I had no idea—I had to look it up. Then she wanted to see pictures of each species. I told her I don’t have that information either and that I would have to look it up. She told me very calmly, and in all seriousness, “I used to think you were smart.” Again, I laughed. I have been outsmarted by an eight-year-old!

Playdates at the park are no different. I always enjoy seeing how she reacts and how she perceives others. Each time we go is different, even when nothing around us is different. We have our good days and bad days like everyone else. I was talking to another parent and watching the kids play. One of the kids came up to me to tell me that my daughter was eating snails.

I went over to investigate what was going on. She saw me and right away told me, “I am not eating the snails. I was just tasting them. I have spit all of them out.” I laughed and told the other parent we needed to go before she fills up too much before dinner.

If laughter is truly good for the soul, I get a good daily dose from my daughter each day. I am thankful for her witty comments and the humor she brings into our life. Life is not easy having a child on the spectrum, but having a positive attitude and learning to laugh at the little things certainly makes it better. Wishing joy and laughter to all the autism parents out there!

This article was originally written by Carol Tatom.

This post originally appeared on Autism Spectrum Magazine.

Autism Parenting Magazine is the leading magazine for parents of autistic children as well as professionals seeking to work with children on the spectrum. Established in 2012, our focus remains on objectively publishing autism-related topics, events, developments, treatments, news stories as well as a variety of inspiring real-life stories.

Photo: istock

Starting right now, I vow to love myself for all that I am, and for all that I am not. We pay a lot of lip service about embracing our flaws. “I love you warts and all,” is a consistent mantra. But somehow, societal pressures make us think that we’re not good enough to exist in the world. We all know that models’ pictures and gorgeous people’s Instagram photos don’t represent the average person. Still, those pictures make so many of us feel bad about ourselves. Why can’t we lose weight? Why can’t we properly apply makeup? Why can’t we look super cute in an adorable outfit? 

It’s not just about looks anymore. Pinterest makes everything look easy. Spectacularly organized homes and sparkling clean countertops have turned into emotional triggers. What’s actually in that “important paper pile” gathering dust on my countertop? Why haven’t I thrown out the bananas with the fruit flies congregating around them? Oh yeah, because I intended to use said bananas for my Pinterest-worthy banana bread that I’ll never make.

Seeing little girls with bows in their hair while my child’s curly locks are a tangled mess have compelled me to pull out the detangling spray and curl cream. DIY ventures look so easy but often prove to be exhausting and difficult for the amateur. When do we say, “I’ve had enough?” When do we realize that internet pictures are fun to look at, but we can’t beat ourselves up for being unable to replicate them? For me, that realization is right now. And I am okay with that.

The truth is, I’m constantly exhausted. As a single mom of three children who battles several autoimmune diseases, I’ve finally accepted my limitations. I can’t do it all. Actually, I can’t do most of it. Some days, I have to pat myself on the back because everyone is alive and in the house. My love and presence is everything to my children and I’ve learned that’s all they really need. Exhausted and wearing the same t-shirt and black leggings for the third consecutive day doesn’t affect my kids. When I make a frozen pizza for dinner instead of the stirfry I promised to whip up, at least my children are fed. When I pick my kids up from an activity wearing a hat to cover my greasy hair, at least they have a caring parent to pick them up. I know I’ve set the bar pretty low, but at least I can meet my goals. 

We can’t be everything to everyone. I’m never going to be a fabulous DIY mom and my house isn’t ever going to be decluttered. I’m always going to be a mom who shows up for my kids and who my kids can count on. There’s always going to be those who are judgy or who are downright haters. We have to be okay with that in order to live our best lives. Often, our inner voice is our harshest critic. Those nagging thoughts drag us down on an hourly basis. Do we really deserve to be miserable because we haven’t yet achieved a certain income, weight, relationship status or job? Can we accept some things as okay for right now and others as okay for always? 

Starting right now, I vow to be my own best friend instead of my own worst enemy. I’m going to embrace my authenticity—all of my quirks, flaws, and limitations are all part of who I am. Mommy is a person who is amazing just as she is. Authenticity is beautiful.

This post originally appeared on Fairygodboss.com.

I’m an author, attorney, adjunct professor, and college application coach. I’m an autoimmune warrior and a mother of three. I enjoy using both sides of my brain and have recreated myself many times to  work around my growing kids’ schedules. I share stories from all facets of my life. 

Photo: Tabitha Yates via The Redeemed Mama

“I totally failed today,” I said through tears to my husband. “I felt like I was running around like a chicken with its head cut off. The house is a mess. We hardly did any homework. Why is there always a huge pile of crap on the stairs that noone brings up? I need a maid just for folding laundry. What kind of mystical people actually get to the steps of folding it and putting away? Where do they live? We need disposable clothes for the children and disposable underwear for you too, while we’re at it! Why do I clean when y’all still live here? What is the point? Tell me…WHAT IS THE POINT?!”

The struggle is real! There are some days where we can totally rock the multitasking super mom role and some days where even a chef, maid and magical fairies couldn’t help us keep our act together.

But you know what? That is okay! I promise you that there is not a single one of your yoga doing, Pinterest-worthy birthday party throwing, organic snack feeding, no dark circles under their eyes Mama’s that have it together all the time.

We all have days where we are so tired from being up all night with a sick kiddo or teething babies, that Netflix has to ask us, “Keep Watching?” Yes Netflix…thanks for checking and making me feel bad. We are still watching episode #25 of Boss Baby!

Every Mom has a day…or every day of the week that she lives in sweats and hides when someone rings her doorbell, lest someone she knows sees her looking like she hasn’t showered in three days. Maybe she hasn’t…don’t judge!   

Each Mother around the world has days where they feel like they’ve blown it. We think that the one time we gave our kids goldfish instead of Annie’s naturally colored and flavored GMO-free bunny crackers is what’s gonna cause them to revolt against all healthy food and set the pattern for their dietary habits when they’re in their 30’s.  

We are so hard on ourselves, Mama’s. We worry about what people will think of our mess, of our missteps, of our mistakes…but we all make them.   

And you are a good Mom.                                                                                                         

You adore your children, even if you haven’t gotten to bathe the third one in a few days and maybe febreezed his clothes as he went out the door.                                     
You love that teething baby, even if you wish there was a dye free, all natural permanently numbing form of orajel for those long nights.                               

You clothe them every single day, to include multiple outfit changes…who do they think they are, celebrities? Who do you think is going to keep up with your five outfit changes a day, little Suzie?!                                                                                       

You keep them fed the best you can and you added a piece of fruit with that bag of goldfish, dang it! Dried fruit…okay it was raisins…chocolate covered ones but whatever.

The point is, sometimes you have to laugh to keep from crying. Some days you have to just smile and survive. Some days you will gloriously thrive and others you will need every ounce of grace the good Lord gave you. Guess what your kids will remember?   

They’ll remember that you loved them like there was no tomorrow, that you cuddled up next to them on that couch, after 2.5 hours of sleep and desperately tried to follow along with the ridiculous plot of Boss Baby. They’ll remember that when they cried in the middle of the night, because their tummy hurt or their toothies were coming in-you were right there or that you were the fun mommy who decided it was perfectly acceptable to wear their swim shorts all day…in public…because that was the last article of clothing in their drawer!   

Give yourself a break Mom or hire a chef, maid and fairy so that you can take one for real! 

This post originally appeared on Today Parents.

The Redeemed Mama is a writer who had had articles published by The Today Show, Love What Matters, The Mighty, Faithit, For Every Mom, The Creative Child Magazine and more. She has 3 beautiful kids and resides in Southern Arizona and loves writing about parenting, life and growth!

For some reason pregnant people ask me for advice on newborns. I don’t know why because I hate newborns (I mean—I love my children more than life itself—they know this and exploit my weakness and try to kill me with sleep deprivation torture and boob infections.)

My advice is this and it sucks because it’s not advice: The weirdest thing about having a baby is not that a human lives in your house who didn’t exist last year, it’s BOOBS. Boobs rule your life.

NOW LET ME BE CLEAR: Your baby needs food to live and if that food is formula, PLEASE FEED YOUR BABY AND DON’T FEEL BAD ABOUT IT. OMG staaaaaaaap with the mom-shaming, boob tyrants (I’m looking at you, Le Leche League).

Either way, for the first week at least, your boobs rule your life.

You will feel your feelings in your boobs.

You will feel your baby’s feelings in your boobs.

You will feel the f*cking weather in your boobs.

Your boobs own you.

My boobs took ownership a few short years ago on March 22 at about 1 a.m. when a nurse put the girl baby on me and she bit me so hard my nipple folded in half (bad pronoun. The baby, not the nurse. Nurses don’t bite). It bruised that way, in a straight line, and then cracked and developed mastitis which tried to kill me a little bit. MOTHERHOOD IS A BEAUTIFUL MIRACLE LOL arrrrrgggggh.

Then everything got easier. I made enough milk, she drank enough milk. Breastfeeding became easy and convenient and I loved it. Not everyone feels this way, including Queen Victoria and she was the QUEEN! But I liked it. It went well.

The girl was easy to wean. At 17 months, she stopped asking and I stopped offering. She was a Le Leche League poster child. My body didn’t even go back to “normal” yet when my boobs (not my brain—most definitely not my brain) made me say to my husband, “I wouldn’t mind being pregnant.”

Here we are. My second child, the boy, is almost 20 months old. And it’s happening. He’s weaning.

On Monday night he nursed.

On Tuesday morning he asked for a waffle instead of Gaga.

Gaga is his name for my boobs. I don’t know why or how he came up with that name but everyone knows because, every time I picked him up from daycare in the last six months, he would jab his cute, stubby finger into my breast bone and yell, “Gaga!” until I either whipped it out or forced him, hysterical, into the car seat so we could Gaga in the privacy of our own home.

On Tuesday night my husband put him to bed and I tried to work up some emotion about the end of the era but I felt nothing but glee. I would be free! I could take ALL THE DRUGS (jk hugs not drugs)! I could drink all the alchomahalz (jk I can’t drink more than one unit or I fall asleep)! I can get a tattoo (maybe)! I can buy REAL BRAS (DEFINITELY)!

On Wednesday, at naptime, the boy remembered Gaga. “GAGA GAGA GAGA!” He screamed. But it was too late! Wasn’t it? My boobs began to question, threatening to break free from their sports-bra enclosure. I left him to scream and put the girl down for a nap. When I came back in he reached for me. I picked him up, feeling like I was going to crumble. I was going to do whatever he asked of me. And he let me hold him. He didn’t ask for anything at all. I put him down and he went right to sleep.

I sobbed. I blubbered. I was breathless, unable to utter a sentence. My husband insisted on video chatting with me from work. He praised me for being strong (he has selfish motives, of course, but also pure ones). I cried and cried and cried and ate chocolate to chase away the dementors and read some articles online that made me feel bad (LLL….I SEEEEE YOU) and some that made me feel better (Kelly Mom, way to go), and did some work, and…

It’s over. No more Gaga.

It was my boobs that were sad, not me. Lady Gaga was crying, not me. She was gonna miss being of use. She was going to miss being gloriously resplendent, unable to be contained by a simple underwire. She was going to miss spending time with that sweet little baby, who always held my hand as he fed. She didn’t want to deflate into withered old hag bags. It wasn’t me! IT WAS GAGA!

I was gripped by a crashing wave of loneliness. My husband told me I’d feel better soon. He agreed it was the hormones making me hysterical, not me. I’m FINE. I’m HAPPY.

Gaga was commander-in-chief. And it’s over. I’m in charge now.

Thank you Gaga.

 

Laura Wheatman Hill lives in Portland, Oregon with her dentist and two children. She blogs about parenting, writes about everything, and teaches English and drama when not living in an apocalyptic dystopia. Her work has appeared on Sammiches and Psych Meds, Her View From Home, Scary Mommy, and Motherwell.

Conflict in marriage can start in many ways, but unhappy compromises can be the most damaging. The ones that occur when one person needs something, and they don’t get it. What’s interesting is that, in marriage, I have found that many spouses avoid asking for what they need and then they are left unmet and unfulfilled.

A lot of us are scared of pressing our partners for something we need if we think they will fail to grant it, or worse, will make us feel bad for needing it in the first place. Sometimes we fear this because what we need means they have to do something different; they have to give something for us to get something. So, we take our need and pack it up in a neat little box and tuck it somewhere deep inside. It stays hidden, but without fail, it creates resentment. And it hurts. Even if we ignore it for a while, it pokes and scrapes at us from time to time. We hoped it would go away, dissolve into nothing so it would stop scratching at the door of our hearts, begging for attention we can’t give. But it doesn’t. We deal with the discomfort out of fear that setting it free and diving into it like a swimming pool on a hot summer day will drive an even larger wedge into our relationship.

My husband quotes something I said during our second year of marriage over a disagreement I don’t remember now. But he brings it up as a truth that sank deep inside him that day. “I will not be a passenger in my own life.” It probably had to do with which blinds to order for the kitchen or what color car to buy. I can be dramatic like that. But the truth in the statement displays how easily we can begin to feel like we have to take a backseat to our partner’s wants and needs.

When we fail to make our needs a priority, we become a servant to theirs. Sometimes our needs align, but most of the time, they fall on opposite ends of the spectrum, and we are in a continual state of give-and-take. The tricky thing, though, is that give-and-take can often turn into a tug-of-war, and then no one gets what they need.

For example, when our two oldest kids were two and four years old, I was a stay-at-home mom, who also worked part-time, and I was drowning. Growing up, vacations at my friends’ cabin were some of my favorite memories. Those hot summer days by the lake and nights at the campfire sunk into my bones. I wanted that again. I needed a break with my family to rejuvenate and catch my breath. I brought up renting a cabin and getting away for a week to my husband several times, thinking the more I talked about it, the more he would understand how important it was to me. My repetitive comments became a nagging annoyance to him, making him wonder why I couldn’t respect the fact he didn’t want to do it. I became so frustrated that I made a decision; I would not be a passenger in my own life. Being respectful of a budget, I booked three days at a cabin and told him that I hoped he would join us. If he didn’t, I wouldn’t be mad, but this was very important to me.

Of course, I hoped my husband would come, but I was prepared to go alone. In the end, we all drove out to a little resort in Brainerd. We fished and swam and played. The kids ran in the rain, and we bought souvenirs in a quaint little town. We nibbled fresh-fried donuts every morning at the general store across the street. We had the best time. When we got home, my husband said, “So I think next year we can stay somewhere a little nicer. I’ll start looking around.” I smiled at the lovely surprise. For the next few years we spent summers renting cabins, and just recently was able to purchase our own. My husband proved as giddy as a schoolchild the day we closed, a joy sparked by a trip he never wanted to take. I wonder how our life would be different if I had never made my need known and insisted on meeting it, and if he had never come along for the ride.

That was the first of many times we have had to weigh our own needs alongside the other persons. It doesn’t always work out perfectly. I have put myself aside to be there for him, as often as he has done the same for me. We do our best.

In marriage, just like in life, we can’t always get what we want. And just because we want something doesn’t mean it’s what we need. But when we need something, it is essential to make sure our needs are met. If our needs are not actualized or even acknowledged, it creates a lot of other conflicts that eventually will erode the relationship. The important thing is to uncover your needs and see how they can be met, separately or together.

Krissy Dieruf is a licensed marriage and family therapist. She lives in Minnesota with her husband and three children, loves to sing and dance around the house and has a soft spot for rebels and crazy hair. 

It’s here! The third trimester of my second pregnancy has arrived. I am so grateful my baby boy is healthy and growing like a weed. In a short twelvish weeks, I will get to meet him for the first time and kiss his fat little adorable face. In the meantime, I am enjoying feeling him kick and move around in my ever-growing belly. And with a growing belly comes a growing me, an everything growing me.

It’s so weird, but it’s like someone flipped a switch on the first day of the third trimester. I feel more pregnant, more tired, more moody, more hungry and more ready than ever to meet my tiny little human. With that said, I have had some major third-trimester failures. I thought I would share. They may make your life a little easier one day.

Don’t cry because you grew cankles overnight. I woke up this morning and realized that my legs resembled stumps with feet on the end. I put on a knee-length dress with flats and made the mistake of looking in a full-length mirror. Nothing makes you feel less attractive than not being able to tell where your calf stops and your ankle starts. I miss you, ankles, come back soon. Please.

Don’t examine your stretch marks and cry again. Stretch marks happen. There is no secret cream that keeps them away. I didn’t get them until 36 weeks with my first pregnancy. This time, they were out in full force from the beginning. They will fade with time, and until then, I will wear them with pride. Those stretch marks came from growing a tiny human, and that’s pretty freaking awesome.

Don’t sweat the small stuff. When I found out I was pregnant, my husband and I decided that we should get our kitchen remodel done before the baby arrived. Well, it has gotten pushed back a few times and won’t start until May 1st. I am due mid-July. Fingers crossed that I don’t have construction workers welcoming me home from the hospital. Remodels never take longer than expected, right?

Don’t feel bad for forgetting things. Baby brain is real. They did a scientific study showing it exists! I am normally on top of my game when it comes to remembering things and multitasking like a freaking champ. But the last seven months have been crazy hard. I forget things, don’t remember what I am supposed to be doing in the middle of a task and lose concentration easily. I have been really hard on myself, but you know what, this too will pass. I am just hoping I don’t drive away with Henry’s favorite blankie on the back of the car again.

Don’t feel guilty for napping. Growing a human is hard work, people. You deserve a nap! Or ten!

Always have snacks available. Hangry has taken on a new meaning the last couple weeks. Throw some granola bars and a cheeseburger in your purse in case of emergency. Along with a bottle of Tums. You never know how long a meeting may last. Better safe than sorry.

Make sure your toddler is ready for the new babyHahahaha! This could be a real disaster. I had an amazing plan that I would have my two-year-old potty trained by the time baby #2 comes. Except that he shows zero interest in using the potty. Having two kids in diapers isn’t that expensive, right? This is me praying for a potty-training miracle.

Don’t feel bummed when none of your clothes fit. Even my maternity clothes are starting to feel too tight. I went through my entire wardrobe the other morning and could not find a single top that fit over my large belly. Then I had a genius idea. I wore what used to be a knee-length dress as a top. I even got a compliment saying it was a cute outfit. I did wear a cardigan over the top/dress because it was a little tight here and there, but in the words of Tim Gunn, I made it work. I will be winning no fashion awards in the next couple of months and plan to wear only black maxi dresses that hide my cankles.

Don’t weigh yourself! You have to see it every time you go to the doctor. Don’t make it even worse by weighing yourself at home. It’s going to go up. A lot. That’s just the way it is. Enjoy your tacos and give yourself a break.

Don’t try to wear cute heels, even if just for a short amount of time. I tried it. I was miserable. I ended up walking around barefoot after about twenty minutes. I don’t care if you think heels make your cankles look less cankle-ish. You will hate your life.

The third trimester is tough. Don’t beat yourself up over things that are out of your control. This too shall pass and life will be back to (maybe) normal soon!

Until next time, Jamie

This post originally appeared on Hashtag MomFail by Jamie Johnson.

I am a full time working mom with two little boys, Henry and Simon. I write about real life and real life gets messy. Contributor for Motherly, HuffPost Parents, Scary Mommy, Today Parents, Love What Matters and Her View From Home. 

Photo: Emily Evans via Hashtag MomFail

Can you still call it a postpartum body if your baby is one?

Actually, he’s fifteen months, but I know people don’t like it when you say your child’s age in months.

It has been fifteen months since I had my eight-pound, two-ounce baby via c-section, and I’m still not happy with how I look.

Now, don’t bombard me with your diet plans people. Thanks. In. Advance.

So here’s the deal. I’ve always been what my mom calls “curvy”. After I had Baby Boy #1, she pretty much told me that I would never get my old body back. And that really lit a fire under me. If someone tells me I can’t do something, I work my booty off just to prove them wrong. So I got into a clean-eating and exercise routine that actually had me looking better than I did before I had my baby. And I was proud of myself. Looking back, I didn’t give myself enough credit.

So I just figured that after having Baby Boy #2, I would jump right back into my clean eating and exercise routine and I would be back in my skinny jeans in no time.

NOPE. Didn’t happen.

What I didn’t realize is that when you have a toddler and a newborn, life gets a hell of a lot more hectic. Add in a full-time job, my blog, my side hustle of doing books, a husband that works full time and coaches a baseball team and a health scare with the baby, and I wasn’t doing much clean eating. What I was doing was cleaning out the fridge and pantry and the local McDonald’s while eating everything.

I did continue my workout routine. It was something that made me feel good. It gave me energy. And it was the only part of my day where I could be ALONE.

But I still look in the mirror and see that ten extra pounds that has settled around my waist like a spare tire. The bags under my eyes can’t even be covered by makeup sometimes. I thought I had running mascara one day and grabbed a makeup remover wipe to realize that it was just the dark bags under my eyes.

I looked at myself in a picture from an event I attended this summer with my husband and a few other couples. All I did was pick apart what was wrong in the picture. The tops of my arms were fat. You could see my belly sticking out. I was pale. My hair was a hot mess. All the other women were skinny and stylish and looked like they could do a makeup tutorial on a real YouTube channel. Why was I being so hard on myself? They were moms too. But I was the only one that looked like she walked to the event five miles in heels in 100-degree heat while herding dirty donkeys.

Why am I so worked up about this?

Because I have spent the last two years being someone that empowers women to be the best they can be. But also reminding them that you can’t be too hard on yourself and that no one is perfect. To not feel bad about themselves for drinking wine, or hiding in the bathroom to get some alone time, or cry in the shower because they just feel defeated because their kid drew on the wall with a Sharpie.

And I think that’s why I am so frustrated with myself now. I know that no one is perfect. But I’m stuck between, “Your body grew two beautiful babies and you are freaking busy so don’t be so hard on yourself” to “Put down the cheeseburger, Jamie. Your a*s is growing by the minute.”

So to narrow it down, I am trying to say that I am mad at myself for being too hard on myself but also mad because I can’t lose ten pounds but also craving a cheeseburger and to “Treat Yo ‘Self.”

So somewhere in the middle, there has to be a happy medium right?

I honestly think this probably encompasses a lot of moms I know. We want to be skinny and beautiful, but we also want to play with our kids in our pajamas with no makeup on, and we want to sleep late and eat a long john donut from the Rolling Pin every chance we can.

But we can’t have it all can we? Because I sure as hell haven’t slept late in the five years.

So for now, I’ll keep working out. I’ll try to be healthy, and I’ll treat myself because my life is crazy and we all need a little down time and a cheeseburger from the Big Dipper. I’ll stop trying to be perfect and just be. Be a mom. Be a wife. Be me.

Even if that mom I am has a spare tire and dark bags under her eyes.

Until next time,

Jamie

This post originally appeared on Hashtag MomFail.

I am a full time working mom with two little boys, Henry and Simon. I write about real life and real life gets messy. Contributor for Motherly, HuffPost Parents, Scary Mommy, Today Parents, Love What Matters and Her View From Home. 

Every year we all do it. We make outrageous resolutions that we will never be able to fulfill for the next twelve months (Soul Cycle twice a week? Feed our kids 100-percent non-GMO, locally raised organic produce? Make weekends screen-free and have the kids put away all their clothes Marie Kondo st‌yle? Sound familiar?). Well this year, I’m kicking those resolutions in the butt and making some that I know I’ll be able to fully accomplish. And this time next year, I’ll be raising my glass and toasting to my success. Want to join me? Here are my top ten resolutions for the real moms in all of us.

1. I plan to misplace my house keys at least once a week.

2. Same goes for my phone. 

3. I will eat healthy all day. And even though I promised myself, “Just one glass of wine,” after dinner, I will not feel bad when I find the empty bottle the next morning along with an alarming amount of Hershey Kiss wrappers beside it on the counter.

4. I will white-knuckle the steering wheel in frustration when my kid tells me they forgot their lunch at home…just when we reach the outside of school.

5. I resolve to sniff the milk before serving it to my kids and I promise not to try and pass off the questionably expired stuff.

6. I promise to not make promises about leaving in five minutes. In fact, I promise to never make promises about time ever again.

7. I’m going to stop suggesting mind-numbing, boring games to do with my kids that make me feel better about pulling them off the iPad.

8. Rather than look up their numbers every single time, I plan to put our favorite local pizza and Chinese delivery restaurants on my favorites list in my phone for easy access.

9.  I resolve to buy myself Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, birthday, Labor Day (why isn’t this one bigger for Moms?), and Christmas presents and address the gifts to “The Mom Who Works Hard and Deserves a Little Something” so that everyone in my family sees that someone appreciates all that I do.

10. And lastly, but surely, 100-percent accomplishable—I plan to run at least ten minutes late to everything and blame it on the kid who can’t talk yet. 

 

 

 

A lifest‌yle writer whose work can be seen in Red Tricycle, Money.com, Livestrong.com and Redbook. When she’s not checking out new events, museums, and restaurants to keep her and her kids entertained, she can be found wandering around flea markets and thrift stores looking for cool vintage finds.

It’s never too early to start giving kids a lesson in music appreciation. Fisher Price is helping you school your tots in the legends of rock with new KISS and Beatles Little People.

Whether your tastes run classic or hair band, Fisher Price has got you covered with two new special collections of Little People to serenade the animals on your Little People Farm. The Beatles Little People Collector set features John, Paul, George and Ringo dressed up in their Yellow Submarine outfits.

The Fisher Price KISS Little People set comes packed with Ace Frehley, Peter Criss, Paul Stanley and Gene Simmons in their signature outfits and full makeup. And yes, Little People Gene does have his tongue sticking out.

The sets are part of a new series of limited edition celebrity Little People, which also includes a WWE set featuring Ultimate Warrior and Macho Man Randy Savage. Keep your eyes out for more Little People celebrity send ups rolling out.

All three sets are available to purchase on Amazon. The Beatles and KISS sets are priced at $19.99 and the WWE set is $9.99. The boxes are labeled for ages 1-101 so you don’t have to feel bad if you want to keep playing with these bad boys long after bed time.

—Shahrzad Warkentin

All photos: Amazon

 

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