At the end of the work day, most people are pleased as punch to get the hell out of dodge. To go to happy hour for “a quick one”, or to head to the gym to help keep their unobtainable size 00 figures. Me? I dread the end of the work day. And not because I love my job (I really do enjoy it, sort of…) but I dread the pick up at daycare. Here is why.

Immediately I am greeted by my 2-yr-old; the happiest little koala bear, hugging me around the neck so tight I nearly pass out, and my 5-year-old, squealing about the design she just created with sidewalk chalk all while bolting to the car faster than Jimmy Johns can make me a Beach Club. Don’t misunderstand me. I love LOVE this part. But it’s when we get in the car that all hell breaks loose.

The entire 10 minute drive to my far from tranquil home is filled with the “I-want-candy-I-am-thirsty-it’s-too-hot-in-here-I-can’t-even-breathe-my-sister-touched-my-leg-where’s-my-baby-and-blankie-Mom-can-I-get-a-gerbil-when-my-fish-is-dead-I-am-starving” diarrhea of the mouths that sends me in a downward spiral.

Inevitably the girls demand (and eventually help themselves) to a bowl of Cocoa Puffs before I can even turn the car off. They want a show. They want some water. And it’s really hard to manage all of that while I am changing into yoga pants and uncorking a bottle of wine…

But, I deal with it. Because someday I know that they aren’t going to be under my feet while I try to dice and chop the dinner. And that day is going to be freaking great. And so terribly sad all at the same time. Until then, I will defer to my Pinot and pray that there is never a shortage of Cocoa Puffs.

-H

My mom is brilliant.  We grew up in an oak forest.  This time of year, the leaves would start to drop and our five-acre property was covered.  At an early age she conditioned us to believe that raking the yard was a fun fall activity.  Every day after school we would come home anxious to rake giant piles of leaves, jump in them for a few hours, and then move them to the driveway.  Then she’d burn them up.  

One day my little sister posed the question “Who painted the trees?” which my mom answered with another question.  “Who do you think could do that?”  Her first guess was Paul Bunyan.  He’s a big guy.  He could certainly reach the tops of the trees… but his hands were also huge which means he might lack the attention to detail required for such a job.  There were also no footprints.  Paul Bunyan would surely leave footprints behind.  Her second guess was Tinkerbell.  But she soon became concerned that there would not be enough pixie dust for her to get to all of those trees.  I think she finally settled on God, and my mom was happy with that.

Now I have a kid.  She’s almost four.  She is FULL of questions.  Seriously.  So fucking curious.  The leaves are changing and she has been so excited to get out and enjoy the season.  And I love fall, so I’m always game for that.  She asked me why the leaves are changing colors.  I told her it’s something Mother Nature does when the seasons change.  I tried to explain photosynthesis, but she’s not even four.  We’ll save that lesson for kindergarten.

My MIL is an uber Christian.  Uber.  She watches my little lady (M) at least once a week, and this is one of the many reasons we’re so lucky to have our family closeby. Yesterday they went to the park, and M told me about the conversation they had.  She was telling her grandma how beautiful the leaves were, and that she asked her if she knew who painted the trees.  Grandma quickly replied with her default, “Jesus” paints the trees.  M insisted that it’s the work of Mother Nature, because “that’s what my mom told me.  And my mom is in charge.”

Oops.  Well, I guess this is one thing I am OK with her repeating.

N

Sunday Funday.

The hubster is permanently affixed to the couch furiously switching between Fox NFL Sunday and NFL RedZone also while scrolling  through his Fantasy League stats on his phone and displaying an array of emotions from intense joy to overwhelming pissyness…This is also the first time I have EVER seen him multitask. But that’s a side note.

So, with all that action going onto distract him, and with my two-year old passed out in the chair on top of the iPad because she was watching those annoying little Wonder Pets, and my five-year-old playing an educational game on my phone designed to help her learn numbers and math (the voice of the teacher robotically repeating “2 and 2 make 4” is enough to make me drink. Before noon. On Sunday.) I decided to take some time for myself and catch up on my reading.

I promptly made a bloody mary and grabbed my newest Marie Claire mag. That thing is chocked full of good stuff. Fashion, beauty, romance, world views (including an article on the women in China which was incredibly fascinating to read). I settled in on the opposite end of the couch as hubster and flipped from the back of the magazine toward the front (as all people read a mag, right?)

And that’s when the hubster proves he is a multitasking genius. I was stunned. He was not only changing channels, studying his phone, eating nachos, but! BUT! he was looking over my shoulder and checking out Marie Claire.

“Is that the old lady’s version of Cosmo?” said the darling apple of my eye. Wow. It left me speechless until I could muster up the energy to pull my ancient 33 year old ass up off the couch and vacate to a room with a lock on the door. Let my Sunday Funday commence!

-H

So. After a lot of discussion, and a significant amount of drinking (mostly from our flasks, in public places) we decided we need to document our lives. For the working mothers like us. The men who think we are awesome (or whom we think should think we’re awesome). And the single women secretly coveting our lifestyle.

We’re kidding, of course. Sort of.

It’s the teaching our daughters why moms are allowed to use a curse word from time to time (and why they can’t until they are doing their own damn laundry). Getting them up, fed, dressed (so they don’t look homeless), and out the door with the lunches we lovingly packed with haste. Meanwhile we’re shoving on our heels as we hop into the car to take them to daycare/preschool/kindergarten, with the goal of making it to our desks before the boss arrives. All of this causing us to pull out our perfectly coiffed hair (just kidding, most days we’re lucky if we get a shower in) that made us realize that our lives are fucking hilarious. Well, at least we see the humor (or we’d lose what is left of our sanity).

Disclaimer: The blog you are about to follow (trust us, you want to) isn’t going to be PC. It might rub a few people the wrong way.  If you can’t handle a fair amount of foul language, sarcasm, and telling things like they truly fucking are in the biggest small town in Minnesota, then thanks for checking us out, but this isn’t the place for you.  On the other hand, if you like what you’re reading, please share us with your friends!

-H&N