Category Archives: Partying with the Ponies

Seven Ways I am the Worst Mother in the World

I don’t know if you’re aware, but I am the Worst Mother in the World. It’s true. I have been given this honor by my darling daughter for a growing list of offenses.

You may wonder, “How cruel to her daughter could she be?”

Oh, it’s pretty bad. Children’s Services may be knocking on my door once they’ve read this.

Seven Ways I am the Worst Mother in the World | Ponies and Martinis

I am pretty fierce with my cubs.

1. Give me chocolate, or I will burn this house down. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and if it were up to my daughter, she would fill her tank with chocolate. She’s not picky about what kind of chocolate. It can be delivered via the chips in cookies, chocolate covered popcorn, or the random miniatures that we still have left over from last Halloween (or was it Easter?). Since I love to torture her, I make her eggs, oatmeal, or pretty much anything that isn’t chocolate. She usually greets her breakfast with a whining, “I don’t want it! It’s gross! I am going to die if I eat this!” I pause. Will the whining stop then?

2. I want ALL THE THINGS! Can you imagine anything more hideous than not buying a child every toy they desire? It must be torture to be taken through the grocery store, walked past boxes of Elsas, plushy ponies, and all of the other little plastic shit toys they have on the shelves, only to be told that they are not there for toys, but milk. Who needs milk when you can have a pull-apart Olaf? Priorities, people!

3. Thou art a villain, Mother! Heaven forbid I try to do anything for her. Despite the fact that she can’t tie her shoes yet, she insists on trying. How is that bad? She doesn’t want to learn HOW to tie them. She twists the laces into knots and bursts into tears when they don’t magically pop into a bow. After 20 minutes, her shoes are soaked in tears and I’m ready to let her wear slippers to school. Maybe that’s her point.

4. Her royal highness does not allow jeans to touch her body. I love a good pair of jeans, sadly that love has not been passed on to my daughter. They rub her belly, grip her non-existent thighs, and steal her strength. Instead of having a full meltdown every morning, I have invested in leggings of all colors and fabrics. Of course, the pink leggings are superior to all other leggings. Bright pink, preferably, with or without animal adornments. Kittens are acceptable, turtles are not. Heed the rules, or there will be mutiny!

5. I don’t need to learn how to read. Why are you making me? My daughter is in kindergarten, and she is learning how to read. Not that she believes in learning anything. If she can’t read a word correctly the first time, she storms off, pouts, and refuses to return. When I drag her limp body back to the table, she gives me answers in monosyllables until I finally release her back into the wild. Obviously, it is a cruel mother who makes her learn how to read unimportant words like “they” or “have.”

6. Knock, knock. Who’s there? Me. Me who? Me, who will never let you pee alone again. It’s silly, but I like to use the bathroom by myself. I don’t care if I’m in there for a minute or an hour, I WANT TO BE ALONE. My daughter knocks on the door, and laughs when I lock it. She picks the lock and bursts in on me home-invasion style. Instead of robbing me of all my toilet paper, she insists on staying in the room. “I won’t look at you peeing, Mommy. I promise,” she says. When I kick her out and throw myself against the door to keep her out, she cries, lamenting my vile nature. “All I want to do is see you!” No, she wants to play in my makeup, paint her toes, soak herself in my perfume, and wind up looking like the main harlot in a French whorehouse.

7. You are killing me! It took my daughter 2 years to finally grow something that vaguely resembled hair. Since it was nothing more than peachfuzz for that time, I didn’t get a lot of argument when I brushed it. As it got longer, her resistance to my ministrations grew. If you ask her, the detangling spray is poison, the brush rips her hair out, and her soul dies a little with each stroke of the brush. The only reason she lets me near her tresses, is because I threaten to cut it if I don’t get to untangle the knots. This doesn’t prevent her from cutting it herself, though.

So, as you can see, I have earned my blue ribbon for Worst Mother in the World. I’ll wear it with pride because it means my daughter will be able to read and won’t look like a harlot. At least not until her college years.

Lion image is from the Wikimedia Commons


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My Dog Ate My Daughter’s Poop

My Dog Ate My Daughter's Poop | Ponies and Martinis

The Offending Canine

Weekends. They are a time to live the good life by enjoying exploits at the Home Depot and making tough decisions like what toppings to get on the pizza.

They are not a time for fecal follies.

Once my kids left the explosive diarrhea and sodden diaper phase of their life, I thought I had most toilet traumas behind me. While it’s true that I cannot go a day without flushing the evacuations of my daughter’s bladder, my days are otherwise free of bodily fluids.

I was getting too soft with this cozy situation and my daughter could sense my weakness, sniffing it out with the precision of a lioness hunting a gazelle.

She went in for the kill this weekend.

I was heading into the living room when I saw the entryway was blocked off by two boxes, with my daughter on one side and the dogs on the other.

Me: So… what’s with the boxes?

The Girl (pointing to the couch): My poop fell out and Sparkles ate it.

Me: Wait. You pooped on the couch? And Sparkles are your poop?

The Girl (laughing hysterically): No! I didn’t poop on the couch!

Me: Sparkles pooped on the couch? And ate it?

Girl: No! Poop fell out of my butt, I stepped on it, and when I wiped it off, Sparkles ate it.

Me: On the couch?

Girl: Mooooom! You’re not listening.

Right. Because it’s so very clear what has happened.

Girl: I was pooping, IN THE BATHROOM…

She throws an exaggerated eye roll in my direction, and continues.

Girl: … and I didn’t want anyone to see me. So, I waddled over to shut the door and my poop fell out.

Me: You were walking around with your pants down? And poop in your butt? Why?

Girl: I didn’t want anyone to see me!

Of course. Makes sense.

Girl: The poop fell out, and I stepped in it.

I realize as she’s talking, that her feet are resting on the coffee table. The same feet that have stepped in her own waste. I am willing to bet her tootsies were not washed after she pranced in the poop. Therefore, my coffee table is now enveloped by fecal matter.

Girl: I wiped the poop off my foot…

Wiped? Did she wash her hands afterward? Probably not. Ugh. What has she touched?

Girl: … and then Sparkles ran in…. AND ATE IT! IT’S SO GROSS! UGH! She can’t be here if she’s eating poop!

I tuned out her continuing narrative, and began a mental triage of the situation.

I need to clean her feet, the coffee table, the path from the bathroom to the table, every surface everywhere. Oh, hell. I’m going to burn the house down and start over. I’ll never be rid of the poop.

Half a tub of clorox wipes later, I was no longer crawling out of my skin, trying to escape an all-encompassing feculence.  I also gave Sparkles more than a few snacks to clean the crap out of her teeth. I really couldn’t even look at her until I had. It was too disgusting.

Moral of the story my friends: Never poop without shutting the door first, and if you have to get up, make sure there is no poop in your butt or a dog will swoop in and eat it.

Good talk.


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When the Timing Just Doesn’t Work

That sound of squeeing in the breeze is from me, because I am on Mamalode today talking about Natural Family Planning, and how my husband and I couldn’t make it work for the life of us. Luckily, it all turned out well and I have two beautiful children to show for it.

Here’s a little except from the article.

Before I was married, my now husband and I decided to be the very best Catholics we could be and use Natural Family Planning as our method of contraception.

Unfortunately, Natural Family Planning is a crock. Six weeks after my wedding, my body said I was not ready to have a baby so I engaged in newlywed enjoyment. Later that day, I ovulated. I felt that pinch, and I knew an egg had escaped from my ovary. It ran full speed toward the inevitable, creating an explosion of cells in my uterus.

Read the rest over on Mamalode, and then share it will everyone you know. Or, not. Either way, I’ll still be squeeing.


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A Crime Against Good Hair

When I gave birth to my daughter almost six years ago, I had visions of a pink-clad cherub, prancing through the fields, and wearing floral dresses with her blonde hair blowing in the breeze.

Sadly, my offspring was not one of the Ingalls children, tumbling down the hill of life like a puppy too happy to care about their footing. My daughter is headstrong, whimsical on her own terms, a great lover of leggings – not dresses, and nothing makes her madder than not having someone pay attention to her.

Somehow she has it in her head that all attention is good attention, and that belief has manifested itself in my car being washed with Gatorade, her room decorated with used pull-ups, and most recently, cutting her hair off in what would seem to be a vain attempt to look like Mia Farrow.

Her extreme makeover coincided with my husband leaving town for business, a point not lost on me, because it is a sad truth that I do not do well as a single mother.

Imagine a dog, herding sheep from one pen to another with one sheep who keeps making a break for it. The dog nips at the sheep’s flank trying to keep it in line, but the sheep laughs wildly at the dog and dances just out of its reach.

This is my sad existence without my husband for support.

The first morning on my own, I was running to and fro trying to look vaguely presentable for work when I sent the kids downstairs to start breakfast. Somehow, I thought that I would not have to hover over them, but I was horribly wrong.

I came downstairs to find my darling son dressed, but he hadn’t bothered with breakfast or brushing his teeth, finding it more important to watch Slugterra.

There are some days when I would rather watch Burpy in all of his flamey goodness than brush my teeth, but a Tuesday morning with only minutes to spare before leaving would not be one of those days.

Thankfully, a gentle cattle prod to the butt got him moving, but I couldn’t find my daughter. As any parent knows, a missing child is highly suspicious.

She doesn’t hide very well, so I easily located her in a locked bathroom. Jimmying the lock, I opened the door and saw that our bathroom had been turned into a crime scene.


My beautiful baby girl.

Instead of blood, the room was covered with blonde hair. A wad here, a wisp there. Gleefully, my daughter stood there with a pair of scissors in one hand and a maniacal expression on her face. Her bangs were gone, and one side of her hair was a lot shorter than the other.

I almost turned away to throw up.

Choking back my horror, I assessed the damage and tried to do a little triage. My first impulse was to pin what was left of the bangs back, but there was not enough there. The hair, or remnants of it, slipped out of my hands. I couldn’t even call it hair. It resembled a caterpillar, fuzzy for the winter.

My only option was to brush it and hope no one would notice. Fat chance. Her new look was not exactly subtle.

I don’t know what it says about me, but I wasn’t mad at her for the hair. What irked me was WHY she did it. Because I wasn’t hovering over her and fawning over her every movement, she needed to do something to grab my attention. Somehow, in my mind, that means if she’s willing to that to get a moment of my time, she will do drugs, drink all night, and bring home a man reeking of chlamydia just to shock me.

In vain, I put her in timeout and try to talk to her. As she languishes in the corner, performing the role of a put-upon diva, I tell her that I love her not matter what, but I like her when she’s not doing something stupid.

It’s like talking to a brick wall. She has no remorse and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t reflect on what happened after she had left timeout. I honestly don’t know what to do, but until I figure that out, I’ll just hide the scissors and hope for the best.


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The Three Hole Punch

For as long as I possibly could, I avoided any discussion of the birds and bees with my kids. The thought of having to explain babies, how they got in there, and the horror of how they get out, made me want to grab a gin and tonic and fan myself furiously.

Hole punch

Not an accurate representation of the female anatomy.

I had been fairly lucky and so far have only had to tell the kids that babies came from a cabbage patch by the power of Jesus. Okay, maybe not the cabbage patch part, but really, I think kids would be more likely to believe that vegetables bring babies than what really happens.

Kids: It comes from where? And it got there how? (psychologically scarring thoughts ensue)
Me: Vegetables. Just think of the vegetables.

Then, one awful night, my world came crashing down around my ears. It all started innocently enough, with a bedtime story about some secret agents sent to heal my son’s stomach ache. When they reached his stomach, my daughter pipes up with, “And I came out of your tummy! They cut you open and I came out.”

I tried to casually explain that I did not have her cut out of my stomach, but that she had been born naturally.

“How did I come out?” she asks innocently.

“Doctors helped you come out,” I replied as vaguely as possible.

“But, HOW?” she persists.

There was no way out of this. She would hound me until I gave in. I could avoid her, but I know she would sneak up on me when I was weakest, and ask, “How did I get out of your body?”

I made a daring decision, to tell them the truth. Most of it anyway.

Me: Okay, guys. There are three holes.
Kids: <Giggling already>
Me: There’s the pee hole and the poop hole.
Kids: <Laughing uncontrollably> Mommy said pee hole! And poop hole! <snicker, snort>
Me: And that’s where boys end. They just have the two holes.
Girl: You have two holes!
Me: Girls have three holes. The pee hole, the poop hole, and the baby hole.
Boy: Wait. Where’s the baby hole?
Me: It’s between the pee hole and the poop hole.
Girl: You pooped me out of your butt hole?
Me: No. You came out of the baby hole. There’s the bladder, which connects to the pee hole, your colon which connects to the poop hole…

Then I start thinking to myself… I really need to study anatomy. Is that even right?

Me (continuing): …and the uterus leads to the baby hole.
Girl: What’s a uterus?
Me: Oh, Lord. Okay, it’s where the baby lives until it’s time to come out.
Boy: <snickering> You have a uterus! <snort>
Girl: Three holes! What?!
Me: Yes. Boys have two, girls have three.
Boy: Ha! I only have two!
Girl: But mommy had me and that’s why she has the jelly now.

The jelly is what The Girl calls my period. She thinks it’s because I gave birth. I am not ready to open that can of worms yet.

I stopped there, and tried to steer us all back to the story. Finally, the laughing subsided and I wrapped up the tale of the secret agents. But, obviously the big tale of the night was that of the three holes. I only hope it wasn’t nearly as scarring to them as it was to me.


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Dreaming of Becoming a Dog

I have been sitting on a couch, staring at this blank screen, trying to come up with something to write. My ever faithful companions, Tiny, Twilight, and Sparkles are right by my side supporting me, but not doing a very good job of suggesting writing topics.

Or, maybe they are a font of information and I am just too ignorant to understand them.

As Twilight drapes herself on my shoulders, Tiny nibbles on a bone by my knees, and Sparkles cleans the ears of her sisters, I start to feel a little jealous. Seriously, how great would it be to live like a dog?

The three amigos

The three amigos

When you’re a dog, you sleep as much as you want. Tired? Take a nap. Bored? Take a nap. It’s Tuesday at 2 PM? Take a nap. I LOVE naps. Even when I was little, and most kids were giving up the afternoon siesta, I held on to mine with a death grip. I have no idea why my kids give up theirs so quickly. You’d think if they had even an ounce of my great respect for slumber, they would still be napping and sleeping in later than 7 AM.

People cuddle you and rub your belly. The little dog, Tiny, will stop what she’s doing, flop on her back, and roll around like a worm on concrete until you scratch her tummy. When you do, her eyes close and that tiny pink tongue of hers slowly works its way in and out of her mouth. That is pure joy. Now, I don’t know if I want people rubbing my belly, but I love a good back rub. When someone works out the knots in my shoulders, I am riding a cloud of bliss straight to Happy Town. I don’t stick my tongue out… well, maybe I do. I really don’t know.

No matter what you do, people will forgive you. My pups have demolished shoes, ingested at least a 64-pack of crayons, released all manner of stinky things from both ends of their body in my home and still I love them. The most I say to them is, “Puppies! Bad dogs!” Imagine if you could run through someone’s house, break whatever you wanted and pee on their living room floor, and all they would say to you is, “No, thank you.” You would be able to work through all manner of things. Your boss makes you mad? Poop on his desk. What can he do? Swat your nose with a newspaper? Yeah, it’s good to be a dog.

You can poop and someone else cleans it up. My dogs poop all over the yard, be it rainbows, rope, or just straight up feces, and I clean it up without fail. Every week, I fill up a plastic bag full of doggie droppings. As a side note, were you aware that if you leave poop outside, it gets moldy? Yup. Moldy poop. And I pick it up. I also scrub toilets, spritz Lysol on all the pee my son deposits outside of the toilet, flushes everything my daughter leaves behind and never complain. Okay, there’s a little complaining. But wouldn’t it be awesome if I pooped and someone else cleaned it up? Someone else had to scoop, spray, and flush? I’d be living the dream if that happened.

So, you see, the dog life is pretty sweet. One day, I’d like to live like a dog. Maybe not the pooping outside part. I mean, I can poop in the toilet and still have someone else clean it up, right? Is that acceptable in faux dog land? Well, even if it isn’t, I think I could be convinced to do otherwise if I get time for napping and back rubs.

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