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Hygiene Confessions of a Mom

hat hair

Everyone knows that moms are crazy busy. So, we sometimes have to take a few shortcuts to make ends meet. Meaning, we need to give up taking a crap or giving a crap.

If a mom were to divulge all of her hygiene secrets they might sound something like this:

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You Know Your Life is Crazy When

I love chocolate

You are so sleep deprived that you wake up in the morning (after waking up 10 times in the night with your infant) and say this about the person six inches away from you in bed: “is that my baby or my husband? Continue reading

Mother of Drool Proof!

C doing what he does best.  Drool here, drool there, drool DROOL EVERYWHERE!  Really, in the first six months of his life, he went through numerous outfits (mine included) and about 20 paper towels a day.  But, I asked the pediatrician “How do I know when my baby is spitting up too much?”
He replied, “as long as he is a happyspitter and he is gaining weight, there is no cause for concern.  It’s just annoying.”  Well, that’s good news, I guess.

spit-up spit up

mother of drool, or technically, spit-up

A Terrible Wonderful Day

Today was just another terrible yet wonderful day in the land of stay-at-home-momdom.  So many days are this way.   There are the parts where my infant is screaming so intensely that I’m quite sure that he might shoot a rocket out of his forehead while I try my darnedest to change my toddlers’ poop laden diaper Continue reading

Mother of pearl, Mother of drool

The name “Mother of Drool”, a play on words from “Mother of Pearl”, describes the paradox I feel between the ugly and beautiful parts of parenthood.  I have the incredible privilege of shaping this amazing little person.  It reminds me of the safety and nurturing environment an oyster provides to form a pearl.  The love, patience, and effort forms something admirable, precious, and valuable within those two shells.

But one thing’s for sure, the process isn’t always pretty.

My offspring’s ability to produce an unruly amount of spit up demonstrates the grossness of parenting.  My daughter could fill a “Big Gulp” cup in no time with the nasty stuff.  The curdled white slime has adorned every part of my home. Today M (the nickname we use for my daughter) spit up so much that I had it running down my back, down my chest into my bra, streaming into my arm pit, running down the back of my leg, and there was still plenty more to create that dreaded “splat” noise on the floor.

The paradox of beauty that comes from dealing with the undesirable parts of child rearing hit me just like the splat of milk drool that landed on the floor.  Great things come from great effort.

And the Mother of Drool blog was born.