My day job (and frankly, my life) is kicking my patootie. Out of time, I had to bring the kids along to make copies at the college for my class starting in an hour. Low and behold the only other person in the copy center is a full timer from my department. But wait, there’s more!

So we took all 3 kiddos out to an early dinner at Hof’s (coupon inspired, or we would have never braved public viewings so close to bedtime) and we brought enough stickers and crayons to keep the natives happy enough to blend in (as much as 3 little ones out to dinner can blend in that is). So when some lady comes up to our table and says, But wait, there’s more!

There is nothing like bringing in a Starbucks cup full of vomit to help cure your caffeine addiction. But wait, there’s more!

David: “Well the kids are playing quietly together.”

Me: “Oh no!” But wait, there’s more!

As the joys of Christmas near, I am filled with daydreams of wrapping paper in flight, those sound bite squeals of joy, and the magic of those little moments that become those time capsule memories. And then, I am reminded of the nightmare….the inevitable terror of the toy take-over. But wait, there’s more!

(Here’s what they should really write on that obnoxious warning label) But wait, there’s more!

When my little beasts are in full on battle mode, I am prone to make some parenting choices which I struggle to categorize as either good or bad. So I am asking you to tell me…Shame or Pride? :

1. My children were arguing over a coveted, single balloon brought home from a beloved friend’s birthday party. So I calmly walked over…and popped it. Crying ensued. Shame or Pride? But wait, there’s more!

Before I had my wild little beasts, I truly believed in the ridiculous notion that the measure of a parent could be quantified in the number of nasty “No’s” that were audible to an unintended audience. I honestly thought that if you read enough books (as hilariously contradicting as they all are) and you had enough “discipline” (whatever the newest, trendy definition might be), you could somehow will your children into submission, cookie cut your own little mini-me-muffins, and avoid the scarlet letter of having “that” kid. Ha! But wait, there’s more!

So..what does this mom want for the holidays? The present of a lack of presence (of my children). But wait, there’s more!

First, watch this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sp5uH6QfpT4&feature=share But wait, there’s more!

I neglect my poor husband. I admit it. I am not proclaiming this as some delicious declaration or a form of feminist propaganda, but more of a statement that is said with a shame that warrants anonymity. But wait, there’s more!

So when did torture become our preferred past time? The Christmas season has created the ideal, amplified version of this mommy-masochism, in order to allow me to finally see clearly how my Outlook Calendar can really be read as a script for a horror film. But wait, there’s more!

I really wish Facebook had audio at this exact moment. If you could just hear the peaks and pitch of my little people right now…that would be enough of a confession for the rest of the year. But wait, there’s more!

So I went out last night. Cue the sounds of angels singing and visions of the heavens parting, because this is truly a miracle. But wait, there’s more!

As fellow mama warriors in the fight against time, I am sure you are familiar with both the term, and the permanent condition within parenting, known as “The Laundry List”. It is that seemingly endless, ever-evolving list of responsibilities, that if you ever actually had the time to write down in its entirety, would likely result in a reenactment of that classic scene of opening up a scroll, only to have it tumble to the ground as it unfolds, cascading across the length of the room. But wait, there’s more!

The Coif•fure Barometer (It means hair, people. Look it up. These posts are as much about bringing some culture to the mommy world, as they are about bringing myself shame).

So I have found that there is a direct correlation between the amount of pressure mounting in my household and the evident success or defeat of my wild one’s manes. I swear it is scientific. If you want to know how monumentally stressed out I am, look at the locks. Let me explain. But wait, there’s more!

So this whole posting addiction has gotten me thinking (a rarity, as I had forgotten I had an actual identity, or even existence, outside of my tiny tornadoes). So I asked my husband what he thought of my little confessions. Here was his fumbling response. “Well…I have a theory. The funniest people are never really attractive or cool at all. I don’t really think you CAN have it all together and be funny. For example the perfect mom could never make people laugh about parenting. So…(awkward pause, as he realizes what he actually just said out loud).” How does one dig themselves out of that one? “Well…you are really good at being self-deprecating. I guess that’s always worked for you.” Oh yeah ladies! That’s right! He is ALL mine. But wait, there’s more!

So we keep saying that we are going to shell out the extra money to get “real”family photos, the ones with a sunset background and delicious touch ups to make everything and everyone look aglow, rather than the $3.99 special, provided by a teen with camera at our local Target. However, I keep saying that we will take the plunge once I get back into my skinny(er) pants, so the poster sized abomination will at least act as a time capsule of a thinner time. Unfortunately, we’re still waiting. But wait, there’s more!

Why is it that the moment we hit that Labor and Delivery room (or maybe the Recovery Room. Not even a war photojournalist wants to document that bloody scene), our tiny little mini-mes gain exclusive rights to our Facebook profile pic? Is it because we are so beaming with pride that we can’t imagine anyone wanting to miss that great shot of them sticking their dirty little foot in their mouth, or their first little poop on the potty? Maybe. Or could it be that maybe, just maybe, our selfies don’t carry the same allure as they once did. But wait, there’s more!

I called my husband “Daddy”…and not in a desirable way. Not even in a once-edgy, white-girl-gone-gangsta kind of way. But in a sad, defeated, when-did-I-give-up-on-the-romance, I’m-a-shell-of-the-woman-I-once-was, kind of way. But wait, there’s more!

We are all familiar with the original game of chicken. Freeze at the threat of oncoming danger until that last possible moment. Well the parenting version is a tradition you also know well, but may have not had enough self-actualization to give it a proper title. In fact, this is a game that many of you would surely win medals in, if there was a division of the Olympics tailored specifically to parents. However, I do fear it would end up being a male dominated event. Now before you get upset by my seemingly sexist statement, read on. But wait, there’s more!

I used to subscribe to the theory that one’s own children’s cries could create a pain within your heart that nobody else could truly feel. Whenever I would hear the sweet little sounds of some other person’s baby, I could see the parents cringe and panic, but it didn’t bother me one bit. The same must be true for my children’s sweet little sounds…right? But wait, there’s more!

I can remember when I had just my Zoe, and had the time and discipline to match the paci, to the outfit, to the socks, to the bow. She was always ready for a photo op. Now, I am lucky if my kids get out of the house in something other than a tutu or pajamas, or any clothing at all really, as they often dress (or don‘t dress) themselves, and they may have inherited their mama’s style gene, which is not an example of forward evolution. But wait, there’s more!

The beautiful throw pillows my sweet mother made for our couch, have essentially become a permanent makeshift toddler bed on our bedroom floor…as well as a constant reminder of our downward spiral into epic sleep-training failure. But wait, there’s more!