7:01 am – Wake up bursting with fruit flavor for the weekend.  Ready to party like Shannen Doherty circa 1995!

5:22 pm – Wonder why no one has texted an invitation for drinks.  Restart phone.

6:30 pm – Pour wine.  Google At what age do you become a Cougar?  Erase search history.

6:42 pm – Restart phone.

7:13 pm – Pour more wine.  Wonder why wine isn’t served with a Short or Tall option, à la draft beer.  Search house for a bigger glass.  Settle for an oversize coffee mug.  Congratulate self on genius Wine Mug business plan: The Wug.

The Wug (All Rights Reserved, baby!)

7:15 pm – Update Facebook status: Friday Night Roxxxx lol jk but at least I have my Wug!©  Stalk ex-husband, ex-boyfriends, ex-cheerleaders, ex-roommates, and ex-celebrities to confirm they have all pulled a Val Kilmer.

7:34 pm – Log onto iTunes.

7:35 pm – Tweet Selena Gomez lyrics: Who says you’re not star potential?  Who says you’re not Presidential?  Does everyone realize this chick is an inspirational genius?

8:06 pm – No Likes on Facebook status.  UnFriend 36 people.

8:07 pm – Restart f*#$-ing phone.

8:28 pm – Wine bottle is empty.  Take multiple selfies: me + wine bottle, classic duckface, me + The Wug.

This Selfie brought to you by: Gnarly Head Red Zin.

8:44 pm – Send a group text to your besties: I Love You Like A Love Song!!!

8:45 pm – Realize that ‘Heidi’ & ‘Hot Doc’ are alarmingly close in your contact list.  Your pediatrician is probably staring at his phone and wondering when the 2 of you started dating.

8:46 pm – Change ‘Hot Doc’ to ‘FUN WITH STETHOSCOPE’ in your contacts to prevent future text-barrassment.

9:00 pm – Find The Notebook on ABC Family.  Turn off cell phone and throw it in the freezer, because obviously no one will ever love you like Ryan Gosling.

9:22 pm – Retrieve phone from freezer, update Facebook: I’m no beauty queen, I’m just beautiful me!  Place phone on pillow right next to head, in case of surprise Notebook-type confessional from Hot Doc.

9:45 pm – Take half an Ambien, turn off TV, and restart your (clearly broken) phone.

© Calling All Cool Moms 2013

It’s no secret that I am totally satisfied with one child.  (And by satisfied, I mean selfishly in love with my nightly routine of Facebook stalking, Finding Bigfoot, celebrity judging via E!, and a box o’ wine.)**

This clearly puts me in the minority, however, as evidenced by the number of inconsiderate souls who say things like: “You’re DONE?  Why would you DO that to your child?”  News flash, people, there are worse things than not having a sibling.  I mean, it’s not like I’m teaching my son how to take selfies in the bathroom mirror, or that wearing white after Labor Day is acceptable.  Everyone relax.

The good news is, I have plenty of baby snuggling ahead of me, as my sister churns kids out faster than people pin butt-sculpting exercises on Pinterest.  And after a small amount of babysitting (I was cut off from watching my nephew after I heated his bottle in the microwave for 12 seconds, so obviously I can’t be trusted to keep a child alive), I have noticed the following differences between a baby and a 7 year-old curmudgeon.

When watching the original Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, a baby falls asleep.  My son, however, yells things like: “Why does that kid have such bad hair?  Why are they so poor?  Please tell me she’s making soup in that tub, not doing laundry.  Is this movie one step away from being in black and white?  That kid can buy a candy bar for a quarter, but you won’t buy me the Wii U?”

When Christmas rolls around, a baby will be happy just eating the wrapping paper on his gifts.  In comparison, a pre-pre-tween might open a gift and say: “So what you’re saying is, if I get a gift I don’t really like, I still say thank you?  That is LYING.  If everyone just sticks to my list, we won’t have to worry about this.”

When you tell a baby NO, he cries for a minute until something shiny catches his attention.  When you yell at a 7 year-old, he will say: “Ughh, I wish I lived in a house where SOMEONE didn’t talk so much.  I know, I know, I’ll be in my room.”

The lesson learned here is that babies might seem easier because they can’t talk back like Joan Rivers on a bender yet.  But at the end of the day, nothing can replace the magic of your kiddo saying: “I’m so full of love for you, Mommy.  Now let me just fluff your belly pillow so I can snuggle you.”

**You say lame and superficial, I say fun and maybe your tunic/leggings combo is sooo last year.

© Copyright 2012 Calling All Cool Moms

Question: When you hear the words “It’s a Boy!,” do you a) Scream ‘Helllll yeahhhhh, we never have to pay for a wedding!’ or b) Smile, while your dreams of wearing matching tu-tus and glittery shirts that say ‘Queen’ and ‘Princess’ go up in smoke.

If you’re like me, you picked A.  Having a boy means that I will never need to explain the inner-workings of tampons (except for that awkward time my son asked “What exactly do you DO with those Tampax?”), and that I dodged that whole mother/daughter hatred thing that happens during the teenage years.  (I swear, I know someone whose 15 year-old called her a ‘deranged cougar’ when she suggested saving sex for marriage.)  But it also means that I have a fountain of super-important wisdom I will never get to share with a daughter.

Feel free to take a screenshot, because those of you with girls may want to pass these gems on:

▪  Shoes are like Spanx: they can make you feel skinnier, sexier, and more powerful- without causing you to lose consciousness on the dance floor at your sister’s wedding after 12 hours of wear, 4 martinis, and a little too much YMCA-ing.**

▪  You should make friends with your hairstylist, your bikini waxer, your ex, your doctor, and your mother.  (Exception: if your doctor is super hot, like mine is, the word ‘friends’ can be loosely translated to ‘just keep your boobs inside your shirt when you see him so that the phrase restraining order is never mentioned.’***)

▪  Learn how to jump-start a car, kill a spider, and throw a punch.

▪  Your first boyfriend will be a total douchewagon.  Beware of the Metro (his eyebrows are better maintained than yours), the Hipster (his scarf is prettier than yours), the Rocker (he hates Taylor Swift, and really, this is like saying he hates America or sunshine), and the Superfan (he forgets your birthday but remembers every year Notre Dame won the championship).

▪  You look amazing in a bathing suit.  Period.  Fast forward 20 years, when your child brings home an assignment asking for a 1-word description of you, and he writes FLUFFY.  At this point, you will  pin 187 diet tricks on Pinterest, hire a therapist and a personal trainer (and consider suing the teacher for libel), and wish you had worn more bikinis in your 20s.

▪  Be yourself.  I don’t care if this means getting a tattoo of Harry Potter’s pet owl, wearing a tiara to the office every day, or just blurting out the honest truth at a dinner party when the mother of a 1 year-old says she’s never left her baby, and you yell: “I booked a trip to Bermuda on my smartphone while they were stitching up my episiotomy!”  People might judge, but you?  Are pretty Cool.

** Don’t worry, I wrote a strongly-worded letter to the good people at Spanx, recommending a warning label.

***Shout-out to Doc, for not pressing charges!

© Copyright 2012 Calling All Cool Moms

There are many, many things in life that I do not enjoy, including but not limited to: temperatures below 65 (you will never catch me skiing, although rosy cheeks are a really good look for me, and I’ve always thought I would look cute in a rustic cabin with a mug of spiked cider in my fingerless-gloved hands),  any activity that bumps my heart rate over its usual (unhealthy, though I tell myself that having the BMI of a cricket reduces the likelihood of an eventual stroke) 90 beats per minute, large crowds (I dare you to tell me it’s fun being at a street fair, when all you want is an apple dumpling, but instead your dumplings get felt up more than they did in high school), and watching Lifetime movies (listen up, Buttercup, no man will EVER chase you to the airport, buy a ticket just to get through security, and profess his love to you at the gate à la Ross and Rachel).

Here’s the thing about all that: once you have a kid, nobody really cares what you do or don’t like.  I mean, it’s not like you can say to your toddler: “Hey Sweetie, how about if you read quietly to yourself while Mommy watches the Channing Tatum E! True Hollywood Story?”  There’s a much better chance that your kiddo will suggest a trip to Chuck E Cheese, and you will end up forking over cash with one hand, while using the other to Google how safe it is to spray your child with Lysol, and whether they make Haz-Mat suits in a size 3T.

That’s not to say you can’t attempt to mold your child into your Mini Me when he is young and impressionable.  Can you imagine the relief you would feel if your child asked you to turn on some Amy Winehouse instead of a VeggieTales CD when you’re stuck in traffic?  (Sidenote: If a blind cat playing with a ball can get 1 million YouTube views, imagine the goldmine you are sitting on when your 4 year-old belts out ‘Rehab’.)  What about the pride your would feel when some peppy Mom asked your kiddo if he wanted to go to the petting zoo and he sincerely said: “No thanks, I’m not really a joiner.”  (What?  When I was 5, my parents took me to visit a friend’s farm.  What they didn’t tell me was that goats are like ninjas, and if they sense any weakness, they will strike.  Trust me, you only have to be chased by a goat once in your life to harbor a lifelong grudge.)

A few months ago, we were at a sports-themed birthday party.  My son threw a fit the week before, the day of, and in the car on the way there.  Did I want to go?  Of course not.  It was raining, I was having a great hair day, and the last thing I wanted to do was fake enthusiasm for Go-Karts and batting cages.  (The last time I faked interest in anything was during a camping trip with my high school youth group.  The thought of no toilets and mosquitoes made me want to stab myself with a fork, but there was a really hot guy in that group.  I had this whole Reality Bites seduction planned, but when he told me he only liked me as a friend, I caught a bus to a hotel faster than you can say Baby I Love Your Way.)

But guess what?  My kiddo and I had a fab time riding the Go-Karts.  And he got a Hole-In-One at miniature golf.  This doesn’t mean I’m going to let him get a pet goat, or take him skiing.  But maybe next time he wants to listen to Justin Bieber in the car, I will give in.

© Copyright 2012 Calling All Cool Moms

I have a hidden talent: public speaking.  As in, don’t leave the microphone unattended at your wedding unless you are ready for me to fall over my glass of Cab trying to get on stage and bust out my inner Chelsea Handler.  (Note: As I’m more obsessed with my iPhone than tiny people, my sidekick would be less Chuey and more Siri.  “Hey Siri, do you think I need Botox?”  Siri: “Searching for ‘plastic surgeons’ near you, Your Highness**…”)

Take, for example, the first time I met my brother-in-law.  His band was playing at a hole-in-the-wall bar, which I had been led to believe was a fancy country club.  So what better way to stop caring about all the flannel (*shudder*) in that room than to cozy up to the Grey Goose?  Fast forward to an hour later, when my stilettos had been chucked to the corner, and my super cute fur vest was being worn as a hat by a strange bearded man. I stormed the stage because I obviously thought I could sing Sweet Child of Mine better than this guy.  (Sidenote: There is no moral to this story, other than to make sure you Google your destination before you leave the house.  Also, washing faux fur with Tide will never quite remove the smell of motor oil and Old Spice.)

This microphone obsession means I can never watch the Presidential debates, simply due to my level of jealousy.  Standing up in front of America and slinging my opinion on my favorite things is definitely on my bucket list.  (Right after ‘Find Bigfoot’ and ‘Legally change name to Julie Jaguar’.)  Can you imagine if there was a Cool Mom candidate?  (And I’m not talking about Hillary or Sarah.  They might be moms, but I’m pretty sure you would never catch them riding a mechanical bull on a Saturday night, or singing SexyBack at karaoke night.)

A Cool Mom would be smart enough to simply put that picture of Adam Levine on the ballot next to her name.  Every woman in America would black out and forget about Republicans, Democrats, and taxes.  And boom: majority vote.  I mean, I wouldn’t care if this chick wanted to make the Lifetime Movie Channel mandatory viewing, or wallpaper the White House with unicorns.  As long as that photo was on every piece of political mail coming to my house, you have my vote, lady.  (You know the picture I’m talking about.  And if you don’t, I highly recommend Googling Adam Levine Hand Photo after the kids have gone to bed.  You’re welcome.)

I imagine her entire platform would revolve around mandatory naps (until the child is 14 and doesn’t want to be near you anyway and spends 24 hours a day in his room and the heavens open up and angels sing the Hallelujah chorus); jail time for anyone who makes their infant, unborn child, or dog a Twitter account; and enacting a law that says women only have to have sex when THEY are in the mood.

Where do I submit my ballot?

**What?  After my son asked me what Sexy Bitch was, I had to switch to a more royal title.

© Copyright 2012 Calling All Cool Moms