Remember that day you came home from the hospital with your baby?  When you were dazed, in love, and had so much pain in your crotch that you screamed every time your husband brushed your fingertips when passing the baby to you, for fear that he might initiate a little wink-wink-nudge-nudge?  Those days as first-time parents were probably among the most clueless of your life.  (Honestly, why does a Baby Bjorn look like a torture device from an Edgar Allen Poe story?)

Now you are older, wiser, and have infinite amounts of advice to bestow on any pregnant woman you pass on the street (although yelling “You might be able to wear heels in your third trimester, but do you know how to maneuver a stroller up an escalator?  Because that’s a skill!” will get you kicked off the Starbucks patio.**)

By the time you get to your second baby, you realize that eating lunchmeat during your pregnancy will not, in fact, give your baby a future salami addiction.  And rocking him to sleep?  Please.  That kid’s lullaby will be the sound of your voice screaming “I told you the toothbrush doesn’t go in the toilet!  No, a Snickers is NOT a bedtime snack!  Please, I am BEGGING you to GO TO SLEEP!” at your oldest child.

A few things I would do differently the second time around?

1)  Take more pictures, write down more milestones, and actually organize them in some sort of scrapbook-tastic fashion.  My kiddo is now a tall kindergartener whose front teeth have fallen out, and who has taken to saying things like “Mommy, I’m SIX.  I think I know what tequila is.”  (Disclaimer: As I don’t exactly throw back shots of Patron while folding the laundry, I’m not sure how he acquired this bit of information.)  If I want to remember what he looked like when he was an infant, I have to dig through a box of cocktail napkins with things like ’18 months, knows ABCs’ to find a random, undated photo.  As it stands, my child’s best shot at remembering his childhood is to scroll through my Facebook timeline.

2) Do not be afraid to leave the house with an infant.  I remember a day when my son was about 4 weeks old, I had been awake for about… oh, 4  weeks, and I desperately wanted a cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee.  Two hours later (after packing a bag as large as my couch, 2 diaper changes, 3 spit-up-on outfits, and 2 bottle feedings) I threw myself on the bed, burst into tears, and wondered why Dunkin doesn’t have a special First-Time Mom line of coffee that is laced with whiskey.  What I did not know: the more places you take your baby, the more people will ask to hold him.  And let me tell you, the Victoria’s Secret Semi-Annual Sale is much easier to tackle with BOTH hands free.

Of course, there are an infinite amount of things I would do-over.  I mean, video baby monitors?  What a waste.  Those things don’t compare to the real-life experience of being crouched like a Navy Seal behind the rocker in your kid’s room, just so you can hear him breathe.  Also?  Unless your future plans are to keep your toilet paper in the microwave, please refrain from using a wipe-warmer.  Chances are, a kid whose bum is that spoiled as an infant will grow up to be ‘the guy with a bidet.’

**I imagine.

© Copyright 2012 Calling All Cool Moms

I know as much about parenting as I do about politics: I will claim to have the answers, and then Google the crap out of it until I’m telling the truth.  (Seriously, please don’t ever start a conversation with me about politics.  There’s a great chance I will steer the conversation towards the Kardashians.**)

No one has all the answers to those super-special parenting debacles (I’m talking to YOU, What To Expect When You’re Expecting), like when your kid tells you he just swallowed a nickel and you find yourself holding your 3 year-old over the toilet by his feet, hoping that it will come back out the way it went in, because really?  If you are documented at the emergency room one more time, there’s a good chance you will be spending your next birthday in a jail cell.  (And while the thought of someone else doing the cooking and no one screaming “But he hit me first!”may seem tempting, please remember that there is no wine permitted in prison).

Every day brings a new parenting fail.  Yesterday at the park, my son and my nephew were exploring an empty baseball diamond.  While they were sitting in the dugout, my kiddo said: “I think we are going to get arrested.”  (Please keep in mind that my child thinks we can get arrested for using the Express Lane with more than 10 items.  This leads me to believe I’ve been a little too carefree with my threat of dishonesty leading to police involvement.)

Outstanding mother that I am, I said: “Great, but can you please stare into the distance and look extra chill so I can take your picture?”  And wouldn’t you know, while I was Instagramming that photo and imagining how awesome my life would become when people realize I’m the next Annie Liebovitz, the park police arrived. 

Awesome, right?

Turns out while I was envisioning my future full of black turtlenecks, tortoiseshell glasses, and nonchalant celebrity luncheons (whatever, I would totally picture myself as the next Beyoncé, but I don’t have the voice.  Or the thighs.), the kids had started stomping through the mud around home plate.  And even though the Park Police might as well be the cops from Superbad, I didn’t exactly feel like Mom of the Year for paying more attention to my cell phone than my child.

Unfortunately, nobody’s narrating your life and giving you tips on how to react when your toddler is talking into his pretend cell phone saying, “I’m so pissed!”  (Although I do have an inner monologue that sounds a lot like George Clooney giving his pep talk to the Ocean’s 11 crew.  It’s amazing how similar raising children is to planning a casino heist: there’s a lot of white lies, sleight of hand, and meticulous planning.)  We just have to roll with the parenting punches– at least until someone writes “Breaking the Wi-Fi Bond: Put Down the Phone & Pick Up Your Child.”  (All Rights Reserved)

**You would not believe how easy the transition is, as soon as the phrase ‘huge influence on our country’ is mentioned.

© Copyright 2012 Calling All Cool Moms

Let’s face it: We all have a minor obsession with the Internet.  I don’t care if you swear that Facebook is an evil, privacy-violating time-suck (completely true, but really, how thrilling is to see that your high school Prom Queen has 8 kids and is resigned to asking “What should I make for dinner, pot roast or grilled cheese?”), or that Twitter is only for celebrities (whatever, I dare you to find a better adrenaline rush than learning a cast member of The Jersey Shore just followed you).

Something tells me you at least use Google when your child has a fever and a weird armpit rash (impetigo! chicken pox! swine flu!) or to snipe real estate websites for the house you know you will have in your next life (heated floors! custom closets! a breakfast nook!).  There are also those times when you swear you are logging on only to check your email, but 3 hours later the only thing that snaps you out of your E!Online trance is your child yelling: “Are we going to eat dinner in bed?  It’s dark out!”

It was during one of those black hole trances that I found an article called “8 Things You Should Never Say to a Mom.” I was hoping this was written by the Mom-version of Chelsea Handler (Sidenote: Who wants to start the rumor that I’m the Mom-version of Chelsea Handler?  After that one time in high school when I claimed Drew Barrymore was my cousin, I’ve found it’s awkward starting rumors about yourself.**)  Unfortunately, it was just plain boring (read: peppy and self-esteem boosting).

One of my favorite no-no sayings was: “You’re so dressed up!”  Listen up, people.  If I have bothered to replace my tennis shoes and XL sweats with mascara and skinny jeans, I am BEGGING you to say this to me.  And if I have gone so far as to flat-iron my hair?  You better do a double take and act as though Jennifer Aniston just walked into the room.***

I mean, most moms have a whole Clark Kent/Superman thing going on.  But instead of a cape (if you recall the Oscars, even Gwyneth couldn’t pull that off), all we need are Spanx and stilettos.  On any given weekday, you can be screaming about the proper use of art supplies and picking glitter out of the cat’s fur.  But on Saturday night, all it takes is the sweet siren call of the Spanx suction, and suddenly you are [insert name of any ragingly hot Victoria's Secret model here].

Unfortunately, the Lame Mom to Supermodel conversion requires more than just a quick change in a phone booth.  The application of ‘Pantyhose In a Can’ takes at least 20 minutes, and if your kids interrupt you during your makeup routine?  Well, let’s just say the ER does not take kindly to “blinded by eyelash glue” phone calls.

The lesson here is this: if a mom looks like she spent more than 10 minutes putting herself together (read: she’s not in pajamas, and her hair has no peanut butter in it), feel free to tell her she looks “dressed up.”  Even a silent compliment counts: When I dropped off my Supermodel dress at the dry cleaners last weekend, it was so tiny that they only charged me for a skirt.  And that, my friends, is hot.

**Just watch Mad Love through the eyes of a dorky teenage girl before you judge me, okay?

***Or Chelsea Handler.  See what I did there?

© Copyright 2012 Calling All Cool Moms

Remember when mornings were lazy, relaxing, and borderline fun?  Yeah, me either.  Unless you count college, when Saturdays would find you sleeping until noon, ordering a pizza to be delivered right to your bed, and watching Pretty Woman on TBS until 5 p.m.– which was finally considered ‘not morning’.  (Sidenote: Where can I book this exact vacation?**)

Now mornings start before the sun is up, and are frighteningly similar to an episode of Wrestlemania.  I mean, how is it that on Sundays, my kid is bouncing around the house at 7 a.m like Ty Pennington after a case of Mountain Dew?  Because during the week at that exact same time, I am dragging him out of bed by his feet, yelling vague threats like: “If you don’t start getting dressed, I’m gonna take away your… oh, screw it, I need more coffee.”

Last week, after I finally got my child ready to get on the bus (and after I may or may not have thrown his socks at the ceiling fan out of frustration), he said to me: “You know, you can stop acting like you’re a QUEEN any time now.”

This helped me to learn 2 things:

1)  Wild fury is a legitimate substitute for caffeine.

2)  Whoever came up with that whole steam-coming-out-of-the-ears and-sirens-going-off concept when cartoon characters are mad?  Totally had kids.  (Sidenote:  Yes, I secretly believe I am royalty, but my overly perceptive 6 year-old does not need to bring that up in an argument.)

Is this whole Morning Maniac routine something that kids have secret meetings about?  Like, when they ask to borrow our iPhones, are they really sitting in a chat room full of older kids instructing the little ones how to throw the perfect morning tantrum?  Example: I have a friend with a 2 year-old little girl who is so adorable that I imagine fairies and pixie dust must follow her wherever she goes.  However, this same angelic little girl recently took her shoes off and threw them at her mother’s head when it was time to leave for daycare.

I would initiate a whole Take Back The Morning thing, but the yelling doesn’t stop with breakfast. At the end of the day, I have yelled about why eating Tostitos for dinner is not acceptable, why showers are mandatory (and that one chlorine-soaked swimming lesson on Saturday does not mean you are still clean on Tuesday), and why flossing your teeth is critical even though yes, they are all going to fall out soon.

For now, we will have to enjoy those few peaceful hours when the kids are asleep, and no one is screaming or staging a sit-in on the kitchen floor because cookies are not available as a breakfast choice.  That is, until your child comes into your room at 4 a.m. gets directly in your face, and announces: “Sleeping is stupid.  Can I play the Wii?”

**Minus Pretty Woman, plus Pinot and a backlog of US Weekly.

© Copyright 2012 Calling All Cool Moms

My (23 year-old, child-free) co-worker said to me this week: “Hey, guess what?  I finally met someone more boring than you!”  Did I find that offensive?  Maybe… until I realized that my 23 year-old self would want to kick my 32 year-old ass.

Ten years ago, midnight would find me riding a mechanical bull and challenging shady characters to a tequila-shooting contest à la Raiders of the Lost Ark.  Now I’m only awake at midnight if I’m suffering from indigestion, and I’m in bed with a bottle of Chardonnay and iCarly at 8 p.m.  (Any good parent knows that tequila must be retired after childbirth.  Society frowns upon teaching toddlers how to dance on the coffee table and tie a cherry stem with their tongue.)

How is it that the stick turns pink, and all of the sudden you’re shopping at JCPenney and carrying around a cardigan ‘in case it gets chilly’?  Clearly, the world is a different place once you have children.

If you are stressed out from the week at work and have zero plans for your Sunday afternoon?

Non-Parent:  Can lay in bed all day, tweeting pictures of their pizza and watching reruns of Sex and the City, while playing the “How much plastic surgery have they had?” game.  (Sidenote: I have a 10-point version of this fantasy outlined for the day my son leaves for college.**  Only at that point, I imagine I will be watching New Girl re-runs and wondering if bangs are a viable alternative to Botox.)

Parent:  Can attempt to stay in bed, but will most likely be interrupted in 7-minute increments with such gems as: “Mommy, I have to pee!’  “Mommy, Daddy is clipping his toenails in the living room again, even though you told him not to!”  “Mommy, do you know what 51 times 29 is?”  (Last weekend, I tried taking a nap, and my son crawled into bed with me.  He whispered: “I”m not sure what to do while you’re in here, so if it’s okay with you, I will just sit here and stare at you… hey, will it bother you if I sing a song from Victorious?”)

And what if you get invited to a bachelorette party in Vegas?

Non-Parent:  Spends the month before buying bikinis and cocktail dresses for hips that have never pushed out a baby, boobs that are still where God put them, and abs that can be sucked in without triple Spanx-ing.

Parent:  Spends every waking moment before the trip thinking: Ohmygosh I can’t wait to get on that plane and be 2,000 miles away from binkies and tantrums wait am I a bad parent for wanting to skip town and bust out my Sasha Fierce maybe I will run into Kim Kardashian at the Palms I know we would be besties ohmygosh maybe I should buy a NannyCam in case that Ke$ha-looking babysitter makes it rain glitter in my living room although I do love glitter hey maybe I should buy a new pair of sparkly shoes for the trip holy crap I need a Xanax how many days until we leave?

Just don’t forget to pack your cardigan.

**Seriously, this whole apocalypse thing had better wait until I have enjoyed one full weekend in bed.

© Copyright 2012 Calling All Cool Moms