Female hand showing middle finger over mandala, beautiful vintag

Once upon a time there was a girl, happy and carefree.  She didn’t leave the house in the morning unless she was completely put together.  She spent 45 minutes every morning doing her hair, her nails were perfect, she wore fashionable clothes.  She rocked out to heavy metal.  She cursed a lot and no one cared.  She wore leather, combat boots and black nail polish.  At one point she even played electric guitar.  She went on dates, she sat alone at coffee shops reading books, enjoying the solitude and a steaming cup of joe as she broadened her mind.  She went to the beach and relaxed.  She was confident and strong.  She drove a Mustang.  She walked in full strides.  Her clothes had no stains.  She peed by herself.  She went where she wanted, when she wanted and did it in a timely manner.  She answered to no one.

Then she got hit by a truck.

(Not a real truck, guys.  A baby.  “Truck” is a metaphor for a baby.  Because that’s what you feel like after you have a baby.  Like a goddamn truck hit you and then backed up and ran you over again.  Then it drives away and does a u-turn and comes back and hits you again.)

The girl loves her children.  She never knew such a love existed until they came into her life.  But momming takes a toll, ya’ll.  It. takes. a. fucking. toll.

Gone was the carefree girl with awesome hair, makeup, solitude and clothes with no stains. She was suddenly appointed the caretaker of a tiny screaming human that needed round the clock care, a grown ass man who was also shell shocked and a house full of animals.  The mustang is replaced by a minivan.  More kids appeared.  They made a lot of noise and a lot of messes, guys.  There was no time to do her hair or her makeup.  Her body bore no resemblance to the one she grew up with.  Sometimes she doesn’t shower for days.  She’s depressed, angry, happy, content, then depressed again.  She’s a mess, ya’ll.

She asks herself “What the FUCK happened?!”

Fast forward almost 20 years and instead of wondering when the fuck she became so out of touch with everything she says “fuck it.”  She’s been divorced.  She’s been re-married.  She’s watched 3 children grow up and leave home.  She’s faced a number of health issues and kicked all of their asses.   Things jiggle now.  She is no longer a size 3.  She still colors her hair wild colors.  She still paints her nails black.  The minivan is gone and in its place is a Jeep.  She decided to stop waiting “until the kids grow up” to do bad ass things and enjoy life.

This blog is for all the tired moms who are fed up with trying to reach some ideal pinnacle of motherhood that doesn’t really exist.  You are not less of a mom if you bottle feed, formula feed, had a c-section, have tattoos, complain about your kids or feed your kid processed chicken nuggets because you’re tired as hell and can’t handle being in that kitchen one more minute.  You have to stop being so hard on yourself.  You have to laugh lest you spend all your spare time crying in the bathroom eating a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream.   So fuck it, buy that leather mini skirt, color your hair purple, bitch about those kids.  Listen, you grew a person.   Some of you (myself included) grew multiple people.  You didn’t stop being yourself the moment you had kids.  You’re a bad ass.  You are beautiful.  You are more than good enough.  You’re a goddamn queen.  Now get out there and show ’em what a real mom looks like.

Middle fingers in the air, ladies.  Middle fingers in the air.