Hubby Hahas: Motivation to get out of bed

Last week I was having a really mopey day. This is how my hubby motivates me to stop moping and get out of bed…

(Muppet is our dog’s name, in case you were confused.)

Today is our 11th wedding anniversary. Visit this post from our last anniversary for links to all of my “hubby” posts including 2 “Hubby Chats” vlogs where you can learn useless crap about us like, how we met, our first date, and other stuffs.

(Stuffs is plural on purpose. Cuz it’s fancy.)

What motivates you to get out of bed?

I Make Myself the Queen is an itty-bitty newborn blog. Please be gentle with it, wash your hands before touching it, and be sure to come back often to tell it how cute it is!


Read my family blog www.coolestfamilyontheblock.com where I pretend to be a good mom.

But it’s so pretty…

My 4.5 year old got a little scratch on her leg this morning.

(*Cue music from Psycho here*)

So I probably won’t be sleeping much tonight…

 

I Make Myself the Queen is an itty-bitty newborn blog. Please be gentle with it, wash your hands before touching it, and be sure to come back often to tell it how cute it is!


Read my family blog www.coolestfamilyontheblock.com where I pretend to be a good mom.

The time I scrubbed the kitchen floor

The time I scrubbed the kitchen floor is one of my grandma’s favorite stories to tell about me. I was about four years old. I was visiting at my grandma’s house and I told her to lie on the sofa so that I could take care of her and clean the house. I even made her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. By the way, my cooking skills have not improved much.

The photoshop skills are strong in this one. Ahem.

Then I pulled a stool up to the sink and washed all of the dishes. For my grand finale, I decided to scrub the kitchen floor.

Be impressed by this fancy “time lapse” drawing.

This was the early 1980s: there were no child safety locks on the cabinets, and despite his popularity back then, there was no Mr. Yuk sticker in sight as I looked under the sink to choose which cleaning products to use. My grandmother’s kitchen was enormous and I probably spent an hour in there on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor while my grandma rested. When I was finished I was so proud of myself and I called my grandma into the room to see the sparkly clean kitchen.

My grandma’s reaction in her own words:

“I will never forget the sight. You had scrubbed the whole floor with Comet and it was so thick on the floor that’s all you could see. When grandpa came home from work he had to really scrub the floor. But you tried and really did a good job with Comet.”

Yes, I had used Comet to scrub the kitchen floor, probably because that’s what we used at home to clean out our cast iron bathtub and it was the only household cleanser that I had prior experience with. The entire kitchen floor was covered in a thick layer of beautiful blue, gritty Comet. My grandma was shocked, but she only praised my hard work. My grandpa, who had to clean up my mess and rewash the dishes, was far less enthusiastic about my “job well done”.

Scrubbing the kitchen floor with Comet? Epic fail! And I can’t really say that my cleaning skills have improved much since then…

Do you have an epic cleaning fail? Did you ever scrub something with Comet that you should’nt have? Let me know in the comments!

Today, April 07, is No Housework Day! Celebrate with me and my pal Rachael from Non-Domestic Mama by linking up your housework and anti-housework related posts here. You can also “like” the No Housework Party Facebook Page and party on Twitter using the hashtag #nohousework!

I Make Myself the Queen is an itty-bitty newborn blog. Please be gentle with it, wash your hands before touching it, and be sure to come back often to tell it how cute it is!


Read my family blog www.coolestfamilyontheblock.com where I pretend to be a good mom.

The Ultimate Blog Party 2014

Hi, I’m Jenn! I’ve participated in The Ultimate Blog Party for the past 3 years over at my mom/family blog Coolest Family on the Block and after four years I’m not sure how many different ways I can introduce myself without sounding repetitive, so this year I put together a little video that describes this blog.

(Watch video here)

*I like to vlog.
*I love chocolate.
*I hate Tootsie Rolls.
(Tootsie Rolls are not chocolate…they are an abomination!)
*I’m a total FalPal.
*I’m extremely disappointed in the How I Met Your Mother series finale.

You can read more about me on my about me page (duh) and over at my family blog Coolest Family on the Block. Oh, and I also have an adult sized onesie. Haters gonna hate.

Please leave me a comment and tell me about your blog! Give me a shout out on social media so that I can follow you back!

Coolest Family on the Block ULTIMATE BLOG PARTY Posts
Ultimate blog Party 2014
Ultimate Blog Party 2013
Ultimate Blog Party 2012
Ultimate Blog Party 2011

I Make Myself the Queen is an itty-bitty newborn blog. Please be gentle with it, wash your hands before touching it, and be sure to come back often to tell it how cute it is!


Read my family blog www.coolestfamilyontheblock.com where I pretend to be a good mom.

I treasure this awkward first date gift

My first date with my husband was truly a memorable Valentine’s Day.

I met my hubby, Sir Dad, through a mutual friend that I worked with. After only knowing each other a few weeks we went on our first date on Sunday, February 13, 2000 (the day before Valentine’s Day). We saw this really horrible movie that I don’t even care to name and we were the only ones in the theater. Ahem.

Because it was (almost) Valentine’s Day he gave me a card that read:
“The day my heart found you is the day my heart knew true love.”

Um, dude…we just met you psycho stalker!
It’s just a tad awkward when the guy you just met inadvertently
(or blatantly) tells you he loves you on your first date.
If that wasn’t awkward enough he also gave me an, um, interesting gift.

Watch Hubby Chats Episode 2 to hear what gift my hubby gave me on our first date!
(Video here)

(You can watch Hubby Chats Episode 1: Our First Anniversary here.)

They say that it’s the thought that counts but seriously…what was he thinking?! What a truly, um, thoughtful and appropriate gift for a first date. Or not.

In the 14 years since then the movie theater where we had our first date has been torn down but I still have that inappropriate gift from our first date. What a lovely symbol of our undying love that can be treasured and passed down from generation to generation.

On an unrelated note it’s disturbing to discover that I’m only a smaller nose and p*rn lips away from looking like a Lindsay Lohan mug shot.

Do you have a memorable Valentine’s Day story?
Have you ever received an odd gift from a date?
What was your first date with your spouse like?
Do you think my hubby should eat the bra?!
Let me know in the comments!

*10 Years / Hubby Chats: Our First Anniversary
*Dear Diary: I’m a stalker!: Happy Valentine’s Day! Stalk the ones you love!

This post is linked to…
Mama Kat’s Vlog Workshop: 3.) A memorable Valentine’s Day!

Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop: 1.) A memorable Valentine’s Day.

I Make Myself the Queen is an itty-bitty newborn blog. Please be gentle with it, wash your hands before touching it, and be sure to come back often to tell it how cute it is!


Read my family blog www.coolestfamilyontheblock.com where I pretend to be a good mom.

VBAC to the Future: A Birth Story

Today is my son Jonathan’s 2nd birthday and I have finally written his birth story. Jonathan’s birth was going to be an attempted VBAC (Vaginal Birth After Cesarean). Two and a half years prior at my daughter’s birth I had a really pushy doctor that bullied me into interventions that I didn’t want that resulted in a c-section because my baby was “too big”.

You know those beautiful birth stories that you read about how the mother gently births her baby into the world in a relaxing birthing tub while her husband rubs her back, kisses her forehead, and cries at the miracle before him? Well, this isn’t one of those stories. Mostly because if my husband even breathed in my general direction while I was in labor I would gut him like a fish. Also, I tend to have a tiny flair for the dramatic. Ahem.

I was due on February 05, 2012 and began prodromal labor two days prior. On February 07 I woke up with a lot of discharge after having some hourly painful contractions throughout the night, maybe it was the mucus plug. I went about my day as usual and that evening we went out to eat as a family and went to the mall. At 2:15am I had a painful contraction and I swear that I actually heard something pop. I woke my husband up to tell him I think my water broke and by the time he had turned the light on I was soaked.

After he helped me get cleaned up I had him call the doula right away. She said that we probably had some time and to try to go back to sleep and she would be there as soon as she could in the morning. Throughout my entire pregnancy I had read everything about VBAC that I could get my hands on. I knew there was a risk of uterine rupture, but I also knew that the risk was minimal. During my pregnancy I had no fear or doubts about attempting a VBAC. Until my water broke. And now I was terrified and wanted the doula to be there right that very second because surely my uterus would explode at any moment. My husband was able to go back to sleep. Me, not so much.

As time went by I continued to have contractions stronger and closer together. My baby boy was moving and wiggling inside of me. Concentrating on his sweet baby wiggles knowing that it would be the last time that I would feel them helped calmed my fears.
Early in the morning I woke my husband to tell him that my contractions were 7 minutes apart and that he should call the doula soon, but the contractions got so intense once I woke him that I insisted he call her immediately. Then those tricky little contractions jumped from 7 minutes apart to 1 minute apart. Where did my other 6 minutes go?!

Both of our moms were there by the time my doula arrived at 7:30am and my contractions were right on top of each other. I could hear my daughter waking up in the other room and I started screaming for someone to get her downstairs before she saw me and how much pain I was in.

Ever since my contractions had jumped to 1 minute apart I had forgotten all of my fears about my potentially exploding uterus and concentrated on the pain and the possibility that the baby may fall out of me on the way to the bathroom.
And then it happened. I was standing up when my body started involuntarily pushing without me. The best way that I can explain it is it felt like my vagina was throwing up…dry heaving, more accurately. I wasn’t pushing, my body was pushing.

As much as I would’ve loved to have had a homebirth, it’s not what we had planned and now I wasn’t sure what we should do. Luckily my doula was also a monitrice and a midwife in training, so she checked me for dilation. I was 10 centimeters! 10! That’s go-time! She said that she was a little surprised that I was so far along judging by how well I was handling the contractions.
So, I just made that up because after my doula read this she said that I was only 8cm (10cm and I would’ve been staying put), so I’m a liar, liar vagina on fire. I blame labor brain. Shut up, it’s a thing.

Do we stay at home and have the baby, do we try to drive to the hospital and risk having the baby in the car? And which hospital do we go to? The hospital that we were supposed to birth at was 40 minutes away, but there was another hospital with completely different doctors that was only 20 minutes away.

We decided to go to the hospital that was closer even though none of my doctors were there and none of them had ever heard of me before. Still in my nightgown, I slipped on tennis shoes, and without socks or coat, I got into the van. My husband drove there as fast as he could and I screamed moaned the whole way there. My contractions were right on top of each other, my body was still involuntarily pushing, and the bumps and turns from the road made everything so much more painful.

We pulled up in front of the ER and abandoned our van as a nurse came running with a wheelchair. Like a scene out of a movie my husband ran behind us as I was wheeled through the hospital moaning and growling loudly.

I had brought a Pretty Pushers gown, but had left it in the van along with my birth plan. As my husband answered the nurse’s questions I continued moaning while I was being dressed in a hospital gown and hooked up to all manner of things…something I stated that I didn’t want in my birth plan.

The nurse checked me for dilation. In fact she thought it would be a super fun idea to check me for dilation while I was having a contraction. And in case you’ve never experienced that before, it feels like someone is sticking a chainsaw up your hoohaw. Which is just a titch painful.

After that oh-so-pleasant internal exam the nurse announces that I am…
7 centimeters dilated. 7 centimeters. Not 10. 3 less centimeters than 10. Only 7. Not 10. 😦

…and because I’m only 7 centimeters I can’t push. Don’t push. Stop pushing. Even though I’m not pushing on purpose! So basically try to stop my body from pushing without my permission. Riiiiiiight. Not a problem.
In the meantime someone had fetched my bag and my birth plan and the nurse actually told my husband, “We don’t have time to read that right now…” Yet she made me lay on the bed doing nothing for an hour while waiting for me to dilate to 10 centimeters. But maybe she was too busy to read it because she decided to do more chainsaw checks for dilation approximately every 10 minutes.

After an hour of trying not to push I finally got the blessing from my nurse to begin pushing. She kept insisting that I wear an oxygen mask and if I accidentally moved the fetal monitor slightly she would stop the whole show and tell me, “You can’t let this move. This has to stay right here. Don’t let this move.” But the oxygen mask and fetal monitor made it more difficult to push because it was so hot…and not “It’s a lovely day for swimming” hot, but more like, “SWEET MOSES, WHY IS THIS BED ON FIRE?!” hot. And it was February. In Pennsylvania. I felt like I couldn’t breath. Which, by the way, is an important part of staying conscious. And being conscious is beneficial when trying to push a human being out of your lady-hole.
Just sayin’.

(Tom Hanks in Castaway is completely unrelated to this story. Just thought my illustration looked like Wilson.)

I was hours into pushing and started to get discouraged. Maybe my first baby was too big. Maybe my pelvis is too small. Maybe it wasn’t all of the interventions the first time and I’m going to need a c-section again. I was so focused on pushing that it never occurred to me to ask to change positions and the one time that I tried made the nurse unhappy. My resourceful doula had reminded me of a birthing position that we’d discussed previously called the McRoberts Maneuver. It’s often used in cases of shoulder dystocia (which the baby did not have) to enlarge the pelvic outlet. Basically you lay flat on your back hold your legs up/back and when you push, lift your butt off of the table and as high up in the air as you can get it. It was like freaking Cirque du Soleil. Except I pooped myself. And no one in Cirque du Soleil poops themselves. I hope.

My arms got so weak that I had to hold onto the sides of the bed and have my husband and doula hold my legs up for me. It must’ve worked because eventually the doctor came in to prep for birth. My doula overheard them talking about giving me an episiotomy and knowing that my birth plan (which they hadn’t read) stated that I didn’t want one, she told them to ask for my consent. I declined. #birthadvocatesforthewin

I have no idea how it happened, but sometime between putting on a hospital gown and crowning, I ended up naked. Prior to this experience I just didn’t understand WHY all of the ladies in birthing videos were naked, just…why?! Well…because I felt like I was giving birth on the surface of the sun, being naked was fine by me, even if I can’t remember how I got naked in the first place. Once it was “showtime” about 30 people came into the room and the nurse was all, “Are you okay being uncovered like this?” and I was like, “OMG, SHUT UP! A TINY HUMAN IS TRYING TO RIP APART MY SPECIAL PURPOSE FROM THE INSIDE OUT!”

Of course I didn’t actually say that. I don’t remember what I said but it was so hot and I was in so much pain and I was so close to getting the baby out that I seriously did not care if my 6th grade math teacher had walked in right then, I wasn’t going to stop what I was doing to cover up everything except for my vagina!
(And if you’ve read this post you’ll probably find this illustration hilarious.)

Once it was time to push his head out I started to get afraid again, and not just about uterine rupture, but about potentially ripping my nether regions to shreds. My doula told me to push slowly and breathe the baby out, but at this point my mind was mush and I had no idea what she was talking about. As I pushed out my son’s head I kept screaming, “It hurts! It hurts!” and my doula quietly whispered, “I know.” But I felt like I was having an outer body experience where at that very same moment that idiot me was screaming “It hurts!” the version of me with a fully functioning brain was saying,
“No crap, stupid! Of course it hurts!”

But it didn’t hurt for long. As soon as that beautiful, giant head came out of me I experienced relief unlike I’d ever experienced before. Birthing a head is a million times more comfortable than having it jammed in your pelvis, even if Lady Tenderpuss is still radiating pain from the infamous ring of fire.

With the doctor shining a giant spotlight onto my lady parts I pushed the rest of my son out in a roomful of strangers completely naked. I mean, they were all clothed, but whatever. My son was born Wednesday, February 08, 2012 at 11:59am via unmedicated VBAC after 2.5 hours of pushing (9 hours and 44 minutes after my water broke). I held my son to my chest and we both cried. Once the initial elation had worn off I started to feel like someone should give me an award of some kind. I mean the baby was great and all, but I wouldn’t have refused a big trophy had I been presented with one.

As cliché as it may sound I definitely felt empowered after my VBAC. In fact I felt so empowered that I wanted to push out all of the babies in the hospital. “Look what I can dooooo!”

My son weighed 9 lbs 6 oz was 22 inches long and had a head circumference of 36.5 cm (14.37 inches). He was 1 pound bigger, .5” longer, with a head over an inch bigger than my supposed “too big” c-section baby. I really wanted to go back to my c-section doctor Pretty Woman style and rub it in her face. To this day I’m still curious about whether or not she was the doctor on call that day.

Before I left the delivery room my nurse said that I was the most “fierce pusher” that she’d ever seen. Shortly after birth I would have proof of that fact, because I pushed so hard that I pulled nearly every muscle in my entire body. My legs were weak and wobbly and my arm muscles felt massive. I had broken the blood vessels around my eyes and I couldn’t get my eyes to focus. I felt like they were rolling around in my sockets like Cookie Monster. I even pulled the muscles in my tongue. My tongue. I didn’t even know that was possible! In fact it even swelled up to the point where I was talking funny.

Between the fact that I had pulled all of my muscles, had an almost 3rd degree tear, and OMG the post partum contractions came on fast and strong and felt like my uterus contained Samurai sextuplets…I simply could not make it to the bathroom in time. Every time I had a contraction the pee just came rushing out of me while I sat there in bed. This resulted in a nice case of diaper rash.

I don’t know why so many women have trouble loving their post partum bodies. I was covered in my own urine, but I felt like a Princess.
In fact, post partum I looked just like a Princess. Princess Fiona.

Sure, I looked like an ogre, peed my pants when I blinked, and felt like I was sitting on razor blades for a month, but it was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. And I’m kind of in love with the prize that I got to bring home.

***I hope my illustrations don’t give the wrong impression. Birth is painful business, yes, but it was amazing and awesome and I wouldn’t have done it any other way! I recovered nicely and everything was so wildly different from my c-section (which destroyed me emotionally) that it’s hard to compare the two. Birth is amazing and despite the scary pictures I consider this story one of the best days of my life!

What was your birth experience like? Were you naked? Was your 6th grade math teacher there?
Let me know in the comments!

This post is linked to…
*Talk of the Parent Blogosphere
*Friday Flash Blog No. 56

I Make Myself the Queen is an itty-bitty newborn blog. Please be gentle with it, wash your hands before touching it, and be sure to come back often to tell it how cute it is!


Read my family blog www.coolestfamilyontheblock.com where I pretend to be a good mom.

Amy Glass confused me, but I’m probably too stupid to know any better

I love a good viral drama and this has been the best/worst one since Miley at the VMAs! There’s an article about SAHMs and feminism that was published by Amy Glass this month called I Look Down On Young Women With Husbands And Kids And I’m Not Sorry and people are TICKED about it.
I’ve read it, and quite frankly, it confused me.

 

Every time I hear someone say that feminism is about validating every choice a woman makes I have to fight back vomit…

I can’t say that I know a whole lot about feminism. Just to be sure that it isn’t all about burning bras and hairy armpits; I turned to the dictionary for a definition.

fem•i•nism
noun \ˈfe-mə-ˌni-zəm\
: the belief that men and women should have equal rights and opportunities
: organized activity in support of women’s rights and interests

That’s the Merriam-Webster definition. There may be a different definition in some fancy smart people dictionary that I’m unaware of because I don’t have a college degree. According to this, the definition of feminism is “…men and women should have equal rights and opportunities” and “…support of women’s rights and interests.”
In my ignorance I would’ve assumed that meant that the rights and interests of women should be supported, whatever they may be, including the interests of marriage, children, and homemaking. But that’s not the case. The work force is broccoli and homemaking is junk food. It doesn’t matter if you like junk food better, clearly broccoli is better for you. And no, you cannot eat both broccoli and junk food, there simply isn’t enough room. Broccoli is far superior to junk food, so we should all eat that tasty-tasty equal opportunity broccoli and frown upon those who do not.

 

Do people really think that a stay at home mom is really on equal footing with a woman who works and takes care of herself? There’s no way those two things are the same.

I’ve never really thought about my footing much, or my feet for that matter. I only have two feet. I assume that is an equal number of feet when compared to the majority of the female population. But I don’t mind if career women have feet superior to my own. I probably can’t afford the shoes they wear anyway.

 

“Having kids and getting married are considered life milestones. We have baby showers and wedding parties as if it’s a huge accomplishment and cause for celebration to be able to get knocked up or find someone to walk down the aisle with. These aren’t accomplishments, they are actually super easy tasks, literally anyone can do them. They are the most common thing, ever, in the history of the world. They are, by definition, average. And here’s the thing, why on earth are we settling for average?”

I never knew it was so easy to get, ahem, “knocked up”. There was lots of banging on the door and looking through the peephole, but it still took me over 4.5 years, progesterone suppositories, and Clomid to get properly “knocked up” with my two kids. Perhaps I should’ve taken it as a sign that my place was not at home. I should’ve realized that I had an obligation to society to get a career. I thought one of the purposes of vaginas was to make babies, but I was wrong. Vaginas are for super smart people stuff like going to medical school and becoming a doctor that can do important stuff like perform brain surgery, over medicate the masses, and deliver babies. Oh. Wait. Maybe not that last one so much.

It’s really surprising that marriage equality is such a popular issue. After reading Ms. Glass’ article I can see that marriage is holding us back as a society. Serious people would never bother falling in love.
And ya know, Ms. Glass is right about how easy it is to find a life partner. It’s a snap to find the one single person in the world who fills your heart with joy. (But I’m just quoting “You’ve Got Mail”. Because I don’t have a job and I’m incapable of having a unique thought of my own).

 

“If women can do anything, why are we still content with applauding them for doing nothing?”

Wait, there’s supposed to be applause? AWESOME!
I don’t think I necessarily deserve any, but I’m a former thespian, so I’m kind of an applause-whore.
Go ahead and Clap it up, mutha-luvas!

 

“I want to have a shower for a woman when she backpacks on her own through Asia, gets a promotion, or lands a dream job not when she stays inside the box and does the house and kids thing which is the path of least resistance.”

Ms. Glass has some pretty cool friends and I think that she should totally throw them some parties for their awesome accomplishments! 🙂
But now I’m wondering if I should bother ever celebrating birthdays again.
I mean, birthdays are mundane and average and require no skill or effort. Getting older is the most common thing, ever, in the history of the world. For reals.

 

“I hear women talk about how “hard” it is to raise kids and manage a household all the time. I never hear men talk about this. It’s because women secretly like to talk about how hard managing a household is so they don’t have to explain their lack of real accomplishments.”

Oh, I love to complain about the kids, the housework, the husband, the weather, the slow internet connection. In general I just really enjoy complaining. Because I’m a pessimist. Which is probably why I don’t have any friends. But that’s fine because then I can complain about that too.
I’m not a big fan of secrets, so I’ll just tell you now that I’ve accomplished nothing in life, mostly because I spend most of my time binge-watching tv shows on Netflix. The most intellectual thing that I’ve ever done was to successfully follow the plot-line of LOST.

 

“Men don’t care to “manage a household.” They aren’t conditioned to think stupid things like that are “important.”

This part gets me the most excited! I didn’t realize how unimportant housework is. Which is awesome, because, well, I hate doing it. Now if we stop balancing the checkbook, making trips to the grocery store, and cleaning the house, that’ll leave more time for Netflix marathons.
Wait. Did I say we? I meant me, because obviously my husband would never do any of those stupid, unimportant things.
So, hey, down with housework!
The laundry can go F itself, because I’m never going to F it again!
Fold, that is.

 

“Women will be equal with men when we stop demanding that it be considered equally important to do housework and real work. They are not equal. Doing laundry will never be as important as being a doctor or an engineer or building a business. This word play is holding us back.”

I’m confused again. What is “real” work? Is the only requirement that you get paid for doing it? If so, does that mean it’s important for custodians, maids, and housekeepers to scrub toilets, but not stay-at-home-moms? Or is housework so stupid that it means their jobs are unnecessary because housework in any form will always be unimportant? That’s going to be a huge disappointment to pretty much every character on Downton Abbey.
I wonder if Ms. Glass does her own housework or if she has a maid?
Actually, she probably has some kind of self-cleaning house that was invented by a really important engineer. How cool is that?!

I don’t know why so many people are offended by Ms. Glass’ article. She’s doing the world a great favor by letting us off the hook in regards to housework. The next time there is a huge pile of dirty laundry and my husband doesn’t have any clean underwear I can just tell him, “The feminist said that housework is stupid, so you’re going to have to get used to wearing dirty underwear like I’ve already been doing for the past 4 years!” That is, if he allows me to speak, of course.

No. I’m not offended, angry, hurt, or upset by anything she said.
I am mostly amused and thoroughly confused.
You may refuse to excuse the language that she used,
but she’s entitled to her opinion and shouldn’t be abused!
(I apologize. Sometimes I subconsciously throw down a sweet-sweet rhyme because I read way too much Dr. Seuss.)

Honestly, what Amy Glass thinks of stay-at-home-moms and moms in general really isn’t that important to me, because I’m probably too stupid to understand what she’s trying to say anyway. My overuse of hashtags in graphics as an attempt at humor is proof enough of my limited thinking ability.
I’m off the hook anyway since she was specifically referring to “young” wives and moms and I aged out long ago.
What a ridiculously average thing for me to do!

Clap it up in the comments, mutha-luvas!

*If you’re looking to go viral, talking smack on SAHMs is a sure fire way to get a ton of hits and tens of thousands of venomous comments. Well played, Ms. Glass, well played.

I’ve had some trouble with the link breaking to the original article. If you can’t get the links to work, try copying and pasting this into your browser.
http://thoughtcatalog.com/amy-glass/2014/01/i-look-down-on-young-women-with-husbands-and-kids-and-im-not-sorry/

I Make Myself the Queen is an itty-bitty newborn blog. Please be gentle with it, wash your hands before touching it, and be sure to come back often to tell it how cute it is!


Read my family blog www.coolestfamilyontheblock.com where I pretend that I’m a good mom.

I was featured on More Than Mommies!
***This post is linked to Time for Mom / SITS Sharefest

TV Show Dream Roles

This week one of Mama Kat’s vlog prompts is…
2.) If you could have a role on a TV show, which show would you choose?

I’ve actually auditioned to be in a few really popular tv shows. Watch the video to see my audition tapes.
(Video here)

I really have no idea why I didn’t get any of the roles that I auditioned for. Clearly I’m amazing.

How did I not get cast as one of the Crawley ladies of Downton?

You’d think that I would’ve been a shoe-in for Cora, the only American character on the show, but no…

I can only assume that I didn’t get cast as Edith because I’m not ugly enough. I actually think the actress is lovely, but I couldn’t go to work everyday with people telling me, “Now remember, you’re a dog face and no one will ever love you, okay?” without laughing in their face and saying, “Is the audience really buying this because I’m super hot. Sort of.”

Lady Mary is a kind and gentle soul compared to what a witch I can be, but I could fast for a month and not have the waifish figure of the actress they chose. Fine by me, ’cause I like to eat me a pan a brownies every now and again. Or once a week. A role on a popular tv show isn’t worth the sacrifice.

Why I wasn’t cast as Lori on The Walking Dead is beyond me. Anyone can run around incessantly screaming “Carl!”. I must not have been annoying enough (my husband would beg to differ). Or maybe I just didn’t look adulterer-y enough.

I don’t think the casting directors liked my take on Maggie and Glenn’s tryst in the Pharmacy. But I’m a lyrical gangsta and sometimes I just gotta lay down some sweet, sweet rhymes. They cannot be contained.

Another way not to get cast in a tv show is to constantly question the character’s poor decision making skills. They probably didn’t appreciate me taking a red pen to the script every time Andrea got romantically involved with yet another psycho. Oh honey, just, no…

This one confuses me the most. How could I not land the role of Michonne when I obviously have such mad ax-wielding skills?! I know she carries a sword, but it couldn’t be that much different, right?

Maybe they changed their minds about me when they saw that I brought my mom along to the audition so that she could cut my meat for me during lunch break. Oh well.

Go check out what the other vloggers are up to or make your own video and link up at:
Mama Kat’s Vlog Workshop
This post is linked to: SITS Sharefest

If you could have a role in a tv show, which show would you choose? Are you a fan of Downton Abbey or The Walking Dead? Let me know in the comments!

*Why I’m not a Movie Star Ballerina Princess (Vlog)

I Make Myself the Queen is an itty-bitty newborn blog. Please be gentle with it, wash your
hands before touching it, and be sure to come back often to tell it how cute it is!

Read my family blog www.coolestfamilyontheblock.com

The year is new and so are these vlogs…

So, it’s a new year and these are my first vlogs of 2014. Amazing stuff here, people. Eight and a half minutes of pure whatever.

The first two videos are Mama Kat vlog prompts and the last one is a Mommy TMI.

New Year’s Tag 2014
(Video here)

Dollar Store Haul: Ugly Christmas Sweater
(Video here)

Mommy TMI 01/07/2014
(Video here)

Go check out what the other vloggers are up to or make your own video and link up at:
*Mama Kat’s Vlog Workshop
*Mommy TMI with More Than Mommies.

I Make Myself the Queen is an itty-bitty newborn blog. Please be gentle with it, wash your
hands before touching it, and be sure to come back often to tell it how cute it is!

Read my family blog www.coolestfamilyontheblock.com

Honey Jo, my favorite childhood toy

Honey Jo came into my possession when I was around 8 years old. My memory of it is pretty foggy but I recall being in the parsonage basement for a church auction. There were a bunch of items displayed on tables and everyone had fake money and they were raising their hands and calling out numbers. Quite frankly, I was bored to tears.

But then I saw a big teddy-bear on one of the tables and decided that I wanted it. When the time came I kept raising my hand and shouting numbers…I had no idea what was going on. There was at least one jerk that kept bidding against me, a small child, but others were frantically shoving their fake money at me as I kept raising my bid. In the end, the bear was mine, although I’m not certain how legitimate it was. Someone probably told that other loser to knock it off and let the poor little girl have the bear. Jesus loves you. Hallelujah and Amen.

The bear’s name was Honey Jo. I’m assuming that was the name on the tag because I know that I didn’t name him that myself. I was happy with my bear. He was a cuddly, snugly, armful of goodness…perfect for hugs.

But shortly after bringing him home, something just wasn’t right. Honey Jo just didn’t seem like a boy to me. He just didn’t. So after much contemplation, I did what any good teddy-bear mommy would do…

I had his bowtie removed.

The bowtie removal surgery left a few small scars. Then the bow was reattached to the ear as a lovely “hair”/ear bow. And Honey Jo became Honey Joanna.

…except he didn’t really. I never could bring myself to call him “Joanna”, and I was always confusing my pronouns. To this day I refer to Honey Jo as “him” more often than not. This upsets my daughter who now shares a room with Honey Jo but doesn’t know anything about his/her past. To her, Honey Jo is clearly a girl.

Whether I mix up my pronouns or not, Honey Jo loves me no matter what and is a beloved toy and trusted stuffed friend.

And he still gives the best hugs.

This post is linked to…
Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop 4.) A childhood toy you once loved.

I Make Myself the Queen is an itty-bitty newborn blog. Please be gentle with it, wash your hands before touching it, and be sure to come back often to tell it how cute it is!


Read my family blog www.coolestfamilyontheblock.com