1. Jamin and I ventured to one of our fave outdoor local restaurants recently with the kids in tow. Just when I think our faces will melt and we’ll die if we ever try to eat out again, there’s this little place that feels like we’re at some Euro pub in the countryside of not America. There’s unicorns and butterflies and a blue grass band. All is right in the world. They even have this little hill for the kids where they slide down on cardboard boxes and I’ve deemed it the cleverest of all clever in the history of restaurants. It makes me think that in the tropics of south Alabama, the angels have shone upon us their glorious radiance with all things mental health breaks. Hallelujah, It’s actually possible to eat out… sans someone pooping on a MRSA slide.
On the surface, at this moment of reading my rambling quandary, you’re all, Yep. That’s how they roll in Alabama. But truth be told, if you’ve never slid (slided? Meh?) down a hill on a cardboard box, there’s a hole in your soul and you’re missing out on life. So I guess it is how we roll in the deep tropics of south Alabama. I see your point. And your hole.
I was so excited to eat out at said restaurant, that I ordered my favorite sandwich, and ate half. Why? Because it was so large, it meant that I would not only be able to experience this not-so-tiny moment of absolute gluttony bliss once… but twice. I even ate half of my pickle, and placed it in the box as well, because it was so good with my half-a-sandwich obsession and… stop judging me. Do you know what happened to that tiny moment of euphoria that comes (if I’m lucky) once every two to three weeks- That tiny ray of sunshine stowed away in the cardboard box I so carefully carried home that I’d been looking forward to all day?
I left it. But not at the restaurant. In the minivan. We were all, stumbling to the door with three children (one sleeping) in the dark. Kids vs. Sandwich. Apparently, there’s only so much room in my shrinkingmombrain to remember one. And I guess we can be glad it wasn’t said sandwich. The next morning when we opened up the car, it reeked. Of old turkey and bacon and pimento cheese. And Tomato. The smell was icing added to my rotting sandwich cake.
Oh. The. Humanity. Is there any greater tragedy than forgotten leftovers? No. Really.
2. Which brings me to Spanx. The natural solution to leftover overdose. Because we’ve all worn them at one time or another. ‘Merica. No matter what your size/stage in life/view, we have our complaints. Spanx are the fashion industry’s answer to complaints and actually modern day corsets. See: torture devices.
Wearing them feels a bit like squeezing a large sack of potatoes into one the thigh highs my grandmother once wore. Muffintop madness x’s 1000. I refuse to change into them in any location but where I am carefully concealed in my closet. This, of course, to avoid any accidental witnesses. My kids will be all, My corneas! Because said eyeballs would actually melt were they to see such a sight. If I’m really lucky (see sarcasm, here) when I’m putting myself through such an experience, Emerson will walk in and ask if she can watch, mystified by the ways of grownups. And if I can’t shoo her, it’s because I’m currently hobbling on one foot, inhibited by that awkward elastic liner that stops your skin from moving smoothly before it’s shrink wrapped and tripled on an area that makes it look like an awkwardly-placed third butt. I have the entire event closed captioned like a Brazilian soccer game.
Emerson: Oooo Mommy. {Turning her head sideways with a traumatized expression likened to that of someone witnessing elephants mating at the local city zoo and/or an actual train wreck} What are you doing Mommy? Why are you doing that!? Look at your booty Mommy! HAHAHAHAHA! Is there a baby in there? This last question is usually accompanied by an adoring pat on said would-be baby holding area.
One day, Emerson. One. Day.
In church the other day, Jamin asked me why I was so grumpy. And why it looked like I was sweating. And why I was so pale. He was asking me questions in confused whispers while I gripped the side of the pew for preventative measures and refrained from swatting at his face. Apparently I’m like a three year old when it comes to clothes, preferring the non restrictive variety like, oh, paint-covered pajama pants. Working from home has its hazards and when I have to wear something normal, there is no built-up resistance. It’s a full on suffocating panic attack for the lady bits.
What I found on a balloon around our home. Artist: Emerson. We’re obsessed with lady bits.
I’m pretty sure the only thing more degrading than the act of placing spanx on one’s body, is that of pumping one’s breast milk. Hey guys! I just gave birth. Like, twenty complete strangers witnessed things they never want to see again. And I’m hoping at some point to fall on my head in the next few months so I can shake the memory as well. (I did. It’s called Motherhood) So now lets hook ourselves up to a (seriously overpriced yet oh so fascinating) machine and watch while it does interesting things like stretch parts to the point of extension that I no longer want to remember, and make embarrassing sounds all in the name of human milk. True story: I’m a dairy cow.
3. Which brings me to crying in the theater.
But not at the actual movie, like normal people do. I must have been having an emotional week or something and I’m going with or something. Because I literally teared up at the advertisement they showed for the US Postal service. One moment I’m all, sneaking popcorn from Aiden’s snack pack, and the next I’m all, tearing up because the US Postal service is showing a dedicated worker with super dramatic music walking up to someone’s porch to deliver a really important package. Then another, and another. They will always be there. Rain or shine. Or sleet. Or cow poop (See: open field scene). Always.
I felt quite inspired to go hug our mail lady the next time she comes to our door. I honestly can’t imagine doing what she does because people are so weird. She’ll be all, “Here’s your pac–” and the next thing she knows I’ve thrown myself on her in a full on display of aforementioned weirdness-embrace despite the fact that she’s all, What the fresh heck is your problem, psycho?! Because I appreciate what she does. She just thinks some mom lost her final marble and is probably picturing the Lifetime movie that will come of it once she can shank me in the front yard and escape.
Full-on awkward body attacks of love. But only when she doesn’t slowly push our garbage can out of the way by driving into it so she doesn’t have to get out of the postal truck to reach the mailbox. On the days when she does that, it kind of scares me. It’s super smart, because I totally couldn’t be bothered either, but it’s scary borderline violence towards the garbage can, nonetheless.
Conclusion: So, points 1 + 2 + 3 = lead (Important: read lead in the past tense, not current) me to believe that I’m with child. Anyone else hate the word pregnant? I have no idea why I’m still ten, but I prefer the Mary + Jesus NIV Children’s Bible version. The other day, my stomach twitched in a way it’s never twitched before, (see: bad Starbucks White Mocha Frap overload) so my completely sane reasoning told me that I must be carrying a vampire baby and it was kicking at four weeks gestation. Or an alien. It happens… Worst Case Scenario Girl. Like Wonder Woman, but a lot more awkward, and jumping to horrible conclusions for no apparent reason. It’s my super power. Always.
Someone get me a cape.
Disclaimer: Let me be absolutely clear that I am not, in fact, with child. Specifically vampire spawn. The Starbucks gas went away. And this would be news to Jamin. We love children, and are open to vampires. Just not at this very moment. If you leave me a congratulations, I will block your IP address and spam your mailbox. So there’s that.
Angie in the Thick of It says
Holy crap. I just read that whole thing and felt normal. I was quite enjoying the stream of consciousness rambling until i realized at the end that there were 3 “points” that lead (past tense) to an actual point at the end– which was a bit anti-climactic (i freaked out when i thought this was a big announcement!!!) and you are in fact not pregnant. I then re-read the 3 bullet points and stared for a minute at the last paragraph. A bit confused. And lost. I am not sure where I am right now. Bring me back to the cardboard hill thing?? And now I’m wondering if I AM PREGNANT. No. No. I don’t think so. And BAM– I’m back to the mental image of you trying to get your spanx on and emerson patting the fat “baby” belly and I love you for that one “bullet” point alone!
Have an awesome weekend, Spanky. 😉
Lisa says
I can completely relate with having a daughter who does the same thing! It must just be so fascinating to watch us change clothes, go to the bathroom, take a shower, etc. I know they’re curious creatures, but it makes me feel like I should be in a glass cage at the zoo.
LOL – The word “boobies” is a huge hit at our house too. My 2 year old son is a huge fan. It’s great when it’s said out in public like a million times 😉 So glad I’m not alone here – great post!
Layla K says
Hysterical. I can not stop laughing. Oh how I so look forward to your posts!
Jenna says
You make the every day so funny. And there is absolutely nothing more degrading than a breast pump. When our children have grand babies we can relate with horror stories, and they’ll have some tool that levitates milk harm-free.
Tennille Mykula says
And the award for the longest ramble/rant about all things in the “life with kids” category goes to…Ashley Mills of The Handmade Home. Raaaahhhhhh!!! Applause!!!!! Speech, speech, speech…Stinkin’ Hilarious. I love the way your brain works.
alaina says
LOL! dying!
I too have had a gas baby for about a week now. I swear it kicked me last night……
Victoria says
I’m literally pumping RIGHT NOW! Thanks for making it more enjoyable than it usually is!
Kitty says
You crack me up!!!
Good news, from one who is a decade or so ahead of you, their fascination with boobies does go away.
Bad news, the angst with Spanx does not.
Kyla F says
Ashley you.are.my.favorite! everything about this post added sunshine to my day 🙂 p.s. spanx, you are the anti-sunshine and my internal organs do not appreciate you anymore than I do after wrestling myself into you on the rare occasion that I decide you are worth it.
Stacy P says
Hilarious!
I’m rolling right now because I’ve really and truly been there. In fact, I’m re-living some random parts of early-parenting-nightmares with my now-14-year-old daughter.
You’re my kind of mama…funny, sarcastic, a little bit snarky. And if I lived in tropical south Alabama (a wonderful part of the country, btw), I’d offer up said 14-yr-old daughter to watch your kiddos so you and your hubs could go to a dinner all alone. And you wouldn’t have to share the cardboard box with anyone. 🙂
Happy Friday.
Barb Lewis says
however, Stacey P, if you did offer up that 14 yo and they actually went out alone her post might not have the ending it did!! Ashley- another fabulous post from the grandma having fun watching my daughter go through what you are. xoxo
Julie says
I so needed this today! Thank you for the laughs!!
Bets says
You. Are. A. Nut. (In the best possible sense of the word.)
KatieP says
I have got to stop reading these at work. I’m hunched over in my chair in pain from trying to not disturb my entire office with my laughter while simultaneously trying not to wet myself.
Dear sweet wonderful woman, thank you for sharing your truest thoughts with us. Your blog is probably my favorite part of the internet.
Amy says
This was absolutely hilarious! The church scene is spot-on. Pale, sweaty, ‘grumpy’ female and uncomprehending male spouse = our Sunday mornings (and occasionally Saturday evenings out), though I avoid Spanx entirely at this point to spare us the embarrassment of me actually passing out in the pew!
Nickie Moseley says
Very funny post!!!….this so how my brain works too & at that speed too…..still laughing over here….in ALABAMA whoop whoop
Katie says
Bwahahaha! Bless you. I have been there, for all of it. I promise.
And even though my husband has had a vasectomy, every time I’m a day or so late I’m convinced that I’m pregnant. It hasn’t happened in 5 years, so maybe that fear will go away one day.
Abbie (Five days...5 ways) says
1. I’ve never worn Spanx. True story. I’m just not dedicated enough.
2. My two-almost-three-year-old asks me if there’s a baby in my belly every time she sees me changing from a regular bra to a sports bra…while staring at my chest. I think that means that I owe her an explanation of basic human anatomy. But I’m just not up for it.
3. I’m really sorry about your leftovers. Truly. There’s little more tragic in first-world America than not getting to relive something delicious the next day. And then being smacked in the face by the odor of its fetid incubation inside your vehicle the next day. *Especially when you live somewhere hot and humid (which I do).
Word, sister-friend.
Also, I really think you should just go ahead and get pregnant with that fourth baby, vampire or not, because if this is your stream of consciousness on normal hormones, I am super big-time looking forward the pregnant version.
(Because clearly your reproductive timing should hinge on my desire for mildly hallucinatory, hormone-fueled entertainment).
Bethe says
Um, hello… I’m a new mom to a 2-month-old and thus also a spanx-wearing milk dispenser too. Glad we’re in the same club. Two things:
1. I was totally fine letting my husband watch childbirth from the foot of the bed. Nothing phases him. But we both agreed that him watching me wiggle into my spanx was just too much for our marriage to handle. It’s that awkward.
2. I just went back to work this week, with pump, bottles, hands free pump bra with the you-know-what’s cut out, cooler, ice pack, lactation tea… It’s like I’m a pack mule walking into work every morning. And then when I met my husband and baby for dinner on the way home I had to bring my milk in so it wouldn’t sit in the hot car. I just want to crack jokes to my coworkers because the whole thing is ridiculous but I’m afraid talk of pumping will make them uncomfortable so I’m trying to be mature and keep it to myself. But if they only knew what was going on behind that closed door to my office…
Taynia // The Fiscal Flamingo says
After my son was born, I would sit in the guest bedroom and pump. Sometimes my 2 year old daughter would come in and chat with me as only a 2 year can. One day, she got ahold of the breast shields, put them up to her chest and started running around the house yelling, “I’m mommy. I’m pumping.” Over and over. At the top of her lungs. Sigh….
Mindy says
Such entertainment I find here! And the crying at the advertisement – yeah, sorry to tell you but even after your baby making years have passed you by, the commercials can still sneak up on you and leave a person quite “misty”. Not that I am speaking from personal experience or anything : )
Sarah says
OMG so FUNNY, Ashley! Seriously that was the funniest thing I’ve read in awhile. Awesome. Thank you for the laugh!
Heather D says
Omg. Spanx. I have a love/hate relationship with Spanx. The last time I wore them was to participate in my best friend’s wedding. She chose Shrek-green silk dresses (that set me back $250, thankyouverymuch) and I looked like, well, Shrek. Not good. My darling husband helped me get ready and came running when he heard me screaming in the bedroom. I was trying to squeeze into those darn Spanx and got my arm caught. Then I fell over and got wedged in between the bed and dresser. It was awesome.
Jenny Stone says
You are hilarious!!!! I laughed so hard I teared up while I read this post. Thank you for bringing some humor to my stay- at-home mom, raising two boys, oh ya, I’m also a pastor’s wife life. Bless You!!
I found your blog because of the decor ideas. I continue to love reading your blog because of your wonderful posts. Keep it up!