What’s a Dipthong anyway?

Here’s what you need to know about me:
1) I had a (surprise) baby at the ridiculously young age of 25.  Yes, I married my Baby Daddy.
2) I have no filter between my brain and my mouth, much like a frat boy after a case of Natty Light. Yes, this gets me in trouble.

And here’s what I want to know about moms:  Why the secrecy?  When you become a mom, all you hear is “isn’t it the best gift in the whole world??”  Well, I suppose… if you like screaming tiny people who never sleep and use you as a target for vomit practice.  And pregnancy?  Well, I’ll save that for next week’s blog. 
Of course I love my child; that is not the issue here.  I just want to know why it’s so taboo to share the war stories.  And when you are brave enough to let one escape, why must you feel like a “bad mom?”  Tell your story with pride, I say!  Maybe when you whisper to a fellow mom that you locked yourself in a closet with a bowl of noodles just to eat a meal in peace, her eyes will light up and she will respond, “Try a glass of chardonnay next time.  Works wonders.” 
No one is a perfect mom.  Some swear at their kids when they can’t bear to hear one more “But he hit me first!”  Some sneak cigarettes in the preschool parking lot.  But we all love our children, and we all have the same job: to get these little people to adulthood without any major damage.  So put down the glue gun, call another mom and admit, “I’m tired.”  Five bucks says you woke her from her own nap.
Now if you’ll excuse me, my son just called me a “dipthong”–  most likely because I plopped him in front of iCarly to write this blog.  I may yell, but I also may just call another cool mom and laugh about it.  While in the closet.  With chardonnay.

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