You see, all my life I cared what other people thought about me. My classmates, my neighbors, co-workers, boys I had crushes on, fellow moms – everybody. So much so that I would tailor my own wants and needs to fit the image that would deem me to be most “likable”.  I changed A LOT and morphed myself into what I thought society needed me to be so I could be accepted. And everyone’s opinion, no matter how close we were, was taken into deep consideration. This manner of thinking and what I like to call “self-suppression” went on well into my adult years. By the time I hit 30, I didn’t even know who I truly was anymore.

On the eve of my 30th birthday, I did what I think most of us do when hitting an age milestone. I reflected on what I had done with my life. It’s not a planned thing. It just sort of happens. It is also a very humbling experience because you’re literally facing your past and asking yourself what you’ve accomplished. At that point, I had a lot to be proud of. I was married with three beautiful kids, about to buy a house, had awesome credit, along with a good job and great friends and family. Yet, I still felt like those things wouldn’t be impressive enough to other people.

Let’s run that back again. In MY moment of life reflection, I solely cared about what OTHER people thought about my life. Do you see how incredibly fucked up that is? I couldn’t even ponder on my life’s accomplishments without factoring in the thoughts of others. Even worse than that, after what seemed like hours of soul searching, I couldn’t figure out who I was. What kind of clothes do I like to wear? What was my favorite pastime? What music did I really like? I had changed almost every element of myself to be “liked” (figuratively and social media wise).

Although it felt shitty to realize I cared so much about what other people thought of me,  it forced me to realize that I desperately needed to make a change. It  was like someone hit me upside my head with a cast iron pan full of self-love. I woke up the morning of my 30th birthday and decided I would try something new that year. I was going to stop giving a fuck about anyone’s opinion… well… anyone but my own, of course?

Now, before I go on, I want to make one thing clear. I didn’t just start walking around, saying and doing whatever I wanted with no regard for how my actions would affect other people and their feelings. That’s just a dick move and totally not me. When I say I stopped giving a fuck, I mean that I decided my life would no longer be dictated by the opinions others. “Hey. Look at me. I’m the captain now.”

How did I start my no-fucks-given lifestyle? I decided to put my life, my real life, on front street. Not because I cared about what other people thought, but because I wanted to be honest about MY life and clear up any misconceptions I created. So, I wrote my first blog post. And instead of painting this picture perfect idea that I was a super organized and patient mom and wife who had no insecurities, I told the truth. I’m a never on time, always forgets important school dates, goes days without washing my hair, cries a lot, super petty, has an eclectic taste in music, barely holding it together woman who also happens to be a pretty cool mom, wife and human being.

Once I clicked “Publish” it felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. For the first time in a very, very long time, I was completely honest about who I was and I didn’t care what other people thought about it. I finally felt like me- the real me. And I could care less whether people liked it or not.

Not giving a fuck is not for the faint of heart. It requires making some big changes which can be very difficult to do. My decision to no longer give a fuck forced me to evaluate my friendships and acquaintances. Why you ask? Because I had to distance myself from anyone who made me second guess who I was and what I wanted. How can you start putting more love and care into yourself, if you’re surrounded by people who don’t accept you for you? It’s easy to ignore the negative opinions of complete strangers, but often times the harshest opinions come from those in your inner circle.

This was reeeeaaaallly tough for me, because I love my friends so very much. They all become a part of my family. But some made me feel like all my decisions were bad decisions. I found myself forgoing my own thoughts and opinions just to follow theirs. So, after much thought, I had to distance myself and end a few friendships. I’m not going to lie, it was tough, but necessary. I only kept the friends who genuinely accepted me for the wonky and weird person I really am. It’s crazy how much stress and negative thinking can sometimes come in the form of a friendship. After the initial sadness of losing a friend, I actually felt… lighter.

Disclaimer: Getting rid of the negative people in your life does not mean you surround yourself with “yes” people. It means you surround yourself with people who uplift love you the most, but are also able to offer constructive criticism, when necessary.

While on this new journey of self-rediscovery and non-fuckery, I realized that the theory of completely shutting out everyone else’s suggestions and ideas, although empowering, was a little extreme. I think it’s still very important to consider the thoughts and opinions of those most important to you. The term “consider” is key here. Your opinion should matter most. Period. However, you should respect the advice given to you by a trusted friend/family member who you know is offering you advice from a good place. Even though you’re free to make your own decisions in life, the decision you’re making could be a bad one. Doesn’t mean you have to take the advice, but listening doesn’t hurt and can possibly help you in the long run. It’s all about balance, baby.

The hardest part about this glorious new lifestyle I adopted? Shutting up my fiercest critic – me.  Learning when to ignore my own negative thoughts and opinions has been one hell of a ride. Although I stopped caring about the opinions of others, sometimes I hyper focus on my flaws and put unnecessary stress and pressure on myself. And it’s still something I’m working very hard to manage now.

I’m always comparing myself to everyone else and then telling myself why I’m undeserving. Why did they get that and you didn’t even though you work so hard? You decided to drop out of college, so you have no right to complain. You’re not doing half the things those other moms are doing because you’re a bad mom. You’re getting old and it’s starting to show. I didn’t even notice how harsh I was on myself until I tuned everyone else out. I was a real bitch to myself. And sometimes I just gotta tell that bitch to shut the fuck up.

Now, every time I think a negative thought about myself, I replace it with a positive. Whenever I don’t get chosen for an opportunity, I don’t complain- I just say that God has an even better blessing coming my way. Whenever I’m hard on myself for dropping out of college I think about the fact that Ellen DeGeneres and Steve Jobs did too and look at how successful they’ve been. Whenever I question my parenting I just remind myself that the mom from Home Alone forgot all about her son and hopped on a flight so I can’t be that bad. And whenever I’m feeling insecure about getting older or the way I look, I just lick my finger and tap my ass, just so I can hear it sizzle to remind myself that I’m hot shit.

The best word to describe my life now is free. I am 100% in charge of my narrative and free of the pressures society puts on us, essentially, to be perfect. I’ve reached this level of confidence and comfort within myself that I never had before. When I meet new people- I give them the real me. If they don’t like it they can kick rocks. I no longer lose sleep due to the opinions of others. I’ve never felt so empowered in my entire life.

So, if you’re in a funky place in life and don’t know how to emotionally dig yourself out, consider doing what I did. Throw all caution and fucks to the wind and don’t look back. It’s honestly the best decision I’ve ever made in my life.

The post The Power of Not Giving A F%$@ appeared first on The Funny Momma.

A partial hysterectomy is when a doctor removes the uterus but leaves your cervix and ovaries. Leaving my ovaries is important because it allows my body to still naturally produce the hormones I need so I don’t hit menopause early. So basically the baby making factory will be closed but my coochie will be just fine. Ok. I know I said I was gonna be serious on this. That was the only joke. Let’s do this.

I have been dealing with fibroids for the past five years. It has become such an issue that since I initially found out about the fibroids, I have had to endure bi-weekly treatments where I sit in a hospital with an iron IV drip administering iron through my veins. The fibroids caused extremely heavy periods which have created many embarrassing situations for me. It got so bad that while I’m on my period I go to work and come straight home. I don’t want to be around anyone, I don’t want to see anyone, hell I don’t even want to go to the gas station.

All that blood loss took a big toll on me. In February I had to get a blood transfusion. I was told that my issues should get better from there- but they didn’t. I couldn’t walk up the stairs without getting dizzy, couldn’t get out of the shower without being light-headed, and I feared picking up the baby because there were times that I got winded and almost fell while holding him.

At that point I knew something was going to have to change especially when my doctor said she found 3 more fibroids. At this rate I would basically be dealing with this issue for the rest of my life until I hit menopause. That just wasn’t gonna work for me. After asking my doctor if there was any other option the only one recommended by her and three other doctors was a partial hysterectomy.

Having a hysterectomy will mark my fourth surgery in my life (ovarian cyst repair, fibroid removal and c-section). Coming from being a child who never got sick, never had allergies, never broke a bone- let’s just say that adulthood has rocked my fucking world. Not to mention that this is a high-risk surgery. I’m not new to things like that because my C-section was high risk as was my pregnancy (due to all of the scar tissue I had developed from previous surgeries).

Although the c-section successfully delivered my beautiful baby boy, I lost a lot of blood because the scar tissue made it difficult to stop the bleeding. Now, a year and half later, they’re reopening the same incision for the 3^rd time so I pretty damn scared of what could happen on the operating table. Like, it keeps me up at night scared.

It’s also different when you’re having a C-section and you’re gaining such a beautiful blessing- the risk seems well worth it. But when you’re going under the knife for them to take something so powerful away from you, something that so very much represents one of the main things that makes women the amazing creatures that they are, it almost makes me feel like I’m being stripped of my cape. It makes me feel like I’m going to become less of a woman.

Normally when my period comes I dread it. I’m annoyed with the fact that it’s there, and I’m counting the days until it ends. This last period was very different. I cried. I cried a lot. Because this was the last cycle I would ever have in my life. This was the last time that my body would release an egg and go through the natural cycle it would in hopes of creating life. So when I cried, I was crying because I was mourning. Even though I had decided a long time ago I didn’t want to have any more children, it feels like someone else is closing the chapter on motherhood for me.

Although this surgery is gonna suck ass, there are some upsides. I can wear white every day for the rest of my life if I want to, I don’t have to deal with PMS weight gain and bloating and I don’t have to spend money on tampons again. This also means I can’t use the “sorry hunny, I’m on my period” excuse and whenever I’m in a bitchy mood, I can’t blame it on Aunt Flow. 

I try to stay as positive as I can because at the end of the day I am very blessed. In the grand scheme of things, there are people dealing with way worse health issues than I am and most don’t even have a cure or solution. I have also been blessed to be able to carry two healthy baby boys while others long to just have one. So I have way more to be thankful for than I have to be fearful of. I also have the full support of my family who have taken on all of my daily responsibilities so that I can heal as quickly and safely as possible.

I also have you guys- my momma tribe. You all have sent so many well wishes and thoughtful prayers and it means everything. Even though my doctor is a certified bad ass and I know I’m in incredible hands, every prayer helps. Thank you for all of your support. I love you guys so much.

The post The Scared Momma- A Hysterectomy At 31 appeared first on The Funny Momma.

I am very particular about my massages. And by particular, I mean cheap AF. So unless I’m given a gift card of some sort, I always get my massages at those dollar-a-minute, bootleg massage parlors in the mall.  Don’t judge me! Even though they look a little sketchy, they give one hell of a massage. My favorite of all the rub down spots is a little shop in Beltway Plaza in Greenbelt, MD. I’ve been going there for about four years now.

You walk in, tell them how many minutes you want and then go to the first available person. By chance, each time I’ve gone I’ve only been seen by men. I was completely fine with that because I like a deep tissue massage and the women who work there are so very tiny that I just assumed they couldn’t work the kinks out like the men do.

Boy, was I wrong.

The other day I went and was greeted by the tiniest little woman with an even smaller voice.

Lady: “How can I help you?”

Me: “1 hour massage please.”

Lady: “Ok. I do for you. Come.”

I reluctantly followed her to the back. I just couldn’t wrap my head around how this tiny little woman was going to give me a deep tissue massage. Regardless, I didn’t want to offend her, so I followed her anyway. She led me into an area that was partitioned off by semi-sheer curtains. You could see the silhouette of the person getting massaged next to you, but that’s about it.  

“Get ready. I’ll be back.” She said.

This is the part where you undress. At normal massage spots, you remove all articles of clothing. But at this place you HAVE to leave on you bra and underwear or they won’t massage you. This is a rule that I’m totally cool with because I’m weird about getting naked in front of strangers. So I stripped down to my nickers and laid on the table- face down/ass up.

It’s always awkward laying semi-naked on the table waiting for the massage person to walk in. It was even more awkward for me because I was wearing a red thong and had my hair in a braid, so I felt like Anastasia Steele waiting for Christian Grey to come do some freaky S&M shit.

Finally, I heard the woman walk in and close the curtain behind her. She started fumbling around with the timer, setting the clock for 60 minutes.

“Ok. Let’s begin. You want hard or soft.”

“Huh?”

She began digging her knuckle into my butt cheek to demonstrate what she meant.

“Do you want hard massage…. or soft massage?”

“Oh. Hard please. I have a lot of pain. I am very stress-“

“Ok. Ok. I do for you. Quiet. Quiet.”

Well alrighty then.

Please keep in mind that my head was in the little massage table hole so I couldn’t see her, I could just hear her.

The first ten minutes of the massage started out just fine. She sat in a chair at the head of the massage table and began with my neck. I was pleasantly surprised with the amount of strength this little woman had. She was working it out. She then undid my braid and stood up. So the top of my head was now in line with her crotch.

She then began kneading my neck and rocking her body as she did it. Although this felt great, I had a hard time relaxing because every time she rocked forward, her hoo-ha would brush against the top of my skull. I really wanted to ask her to chill, but my neck hurt so badly and this was really doing the fucking trick. It only last about 30 seconds, so I got over it pretty quickly.

After my neck was done, she put some lotion in her hand and walked around to my side. What happened next really shocked me. She literally mounted my back. Like, she was sitting on her knees, on top of my ass! Talk. About. Awkward. So as she massaged my back, she rocked back and forth with her knees. Again, I didn’t know if I should thank her or be offended that she didn’t buy me a drink first. Either way, I still allowed it.

She stayed there for about 15 minutes. When she finally got down, she leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Hooowww dooo yooouuuu feeeeeel?” To which I responded, “Ummm. I’m fine. I’m totally fine.” Still not sure if I was saying that for her or saying it to reassure myself that this was totally normal.

As she sat back up, she used one hand and popped my bra open. WHAT. IN. THE. 50 SHADES OF GREY. IS. GOING. ON. HERE? Before I could react, I heard the clink of the hot stones. That’s my fave part, so there was no way I was going to jeopardize that happening. She placed the stones on my back and I was in heaven. Besides, at this point she had made me her bitch so I was going to enjoy my last 15 minutes.

When we were finally done, she tapped me on the back and said, “you pay upfront” and walked out. At that moment I felt like a $2 hoe who was left on the bed with no regard. She didn’t even have the decency to re-hook my bra. And here I am thinking we built some kind of connection.

After I got myself together and re-braided my hair, it was time for us to meet  face to face again. I walked to the front where the lady was waiting for me while she slurped on a bowl full of Pho noodles. I smiled awkwardly at her and she looked at me like I was crazy. I realize at this point I now looked like a creep, so I quickly wiped the smile off my face.

When it came time for me to sign my receipt and add the tip, I had trouble deciding how much. Generally I always tip 20% but as I stood there I realized just how good my body felt. Aside from the fact that this woman treated me like a low-rate street walker, she really worked some magic on my body! So I gave her a 25% tip. It was the least I could do.

The post Awkward Rub Down- The Best Yet Most Uncomfortable Massage Ever appeared first on The Funny Momma.

A Momma Tribe is a group of mothers who support, uplift and love one another. In addition to my virtual Momma Tribe, I have an incredible group of women I am blessed to have in my real-life momma tribe. If you are a momma out there and you do not have a Momma Tribe, I invite you to join mine. I know you have questions, so let me explain.

As I’ve said many times before, I was raised around very strong, very independent women who are incredibly supportive of one another. No matter how much my sisters and I fought growing up, my mother always reminded us the importance of family and sisterhood. This rolled over into our friendships as most of our friends became more like sisters.

When my sisters and I became mothers, sticking together and being there for one another became even more important to us. We learned that we accomplished more and were more successful in motherhood (and life in general) when we backed each other up.  Everything we did, we did together. Our friendships started to merge together. My best friends became my sisters’ best friends and vice versa. No one was (and still isn’t) left behind. We formed our Momma Tribe. Our tribe, has become our on little exclusive women’s club.

There are six primary member qualifications for joining our tribe:

1. You must be loving and kind – A sweet soul and a kind heart are a must have in our group. Don’t get me wrong, we have a few Grade A bitches in our crew (guilty), but at our core, we genuinely care about the well-being of everyone in our group.
2. You must be judgement free- If you feel like you’re better than everyone and frown up your nose at a pile of laundry on the couch that should’ve been folded weeks ago, this ain’t the place for you. We don’t mind you telling us we need to get our shit together, but we do mind if you think we are beneath you. No Judge Judy’s!
3. You must be honest- When someone in the group has an issue, you can’t sugarcoat it. We are a very straight to the point type of crew. But understand that if you dish it, you have to be able to take it as well. No sensitive sally’s allowed. We’re only trying to help after all.
4. You must be willing to lend a helping hand- We’ve all got our own shit to deal with, but if one of our own is in need of anything, we would all drop everything to help. Whether that means throwing the kids in the car and rushing to someone’s aide or sitting for hours while they vent to you about their life, that’s just what you’ve gotta do.
5. You must respect everyone – There is no book on motherhood and nobody has the key to being the perfect mom. It is important to respect everyone’s method of parenting because at the end of the day, we’re all just trying to make it through this crazy journey in motherhood without going completely insane.
6. You MUST have a sense of humor- You don’t have to be the funniest person in the room. Hell, you don’t even have to be funny at all. But if you enjoy a good belly laugh, we are the right crew for you!

Our Momma Tribe is a group of women who first and foremost, love and support each other. Our tribe does not discriminate. We accept mommas of all ages, religions and skin colors. If you’ve got kids, an open mind and a judge-less spirit- you’re one of us and we accept you with open arms.

So if you need a listening ear, are in need of some advice, want to share a momma hack you’ve found or if you just want to share a funny story about your crazy kid(s), DM or mail me and I promise I will respond. I will give you my open and honest opinion and do my best to help you get out of the rut that you’re in.

In my tribe, no momma is left behind.

The post Welcome to the Tribe: Building Friendships Through Motherhood appeared first on The Funny Momma.

Out of all of my sisters, I have always been the girliest. Bonnie (big sis) is a certified boss who takes risks and wears daring and bold clothes.  Zari (baby sis) is one of those carefree, hippy, would-walk-around-ass-naked-if-she-could type of people. I’ve always been the sensitive one who wears a cute dress, full makeup and five-inch heels to the grocery store. When I was 15 years old, Bonnie dubbed me the Prissy Bitch or “PB” for short. It’s a nickname I have never been able to shake.

“PB”

Whenever I would sit and daydream about having kids, I always imagined having daughters because that’s all I knew. That quickly changed when I got pregnant at 18. I’ve always been a big time daddy’s girl, so when my dad didn’t talk to me for months after finding out I was pregnant, I knew my only saving grace would be if I had a boy.

My father always longed for a son, but ended up with three daughters, so a grandson would fill that void in his heart. I prayed and prayed that God would give me a boy so I could see my dad smile again, and you know what? He gave me a son. Then years later, he gave me two more. Good one, God. Good one.

As far as my dad was concerned, he was over the damn moon when CJ was born (click here to read more about CJ). CJ was and still is the apple of his eye and “the coolest kid he’s ever met” as my dad likes to say. Meanwhile, I was just sitting there looking at this diaper with a penis in it like “what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?”

I was completely lost and didn’t have a clue what to do. It didn’t help that both my sisters only birthed girls, so until my husband and bonus baby came along, CJ was surrounded by females.

My dad travels a lot so he couldn’t be around CJ as much as he would’ve liked. My ex-husband and I separated when CJ was 2 years old, so mostly everything I learned about boys, I taught myself. Because we had very few men in our family, no one could really offer much advice as to how you’re supposed to raise a little boy.

I did the obvious things any confused, unqualified boy mom would do. I bought everything super hero, only purchased blue clothing and I played the Cars movie on repeat.

Like I said, I didn’t know what I was doing.

When Dayo came in to my life, things changed drastically- in a good way. I no longer had to struggle choosing boy clothes, CJ was immediately put into sports, and the best thing was that he actually had another little boy to play with (my bonus baby, Elijah). This was going to be a breeze and I could just kick back and relax!  Life was going to be easy peezy now, right? Wrong.

Dayo’s family is made up of ALL boys. When he and I first started dating, most of his brothers and cousins were teenagers who had literally just hit puberty. They were (and still are) frequent visitors at our house, so I went from constantly being surrounded by women to constantly surrounded by stinky, smelly, loud, rambunctious boys.

And although I LOVE them all like they have been in my life from day one, those little motherfuckers get on my last nerve. They’re always play fighting, farting, walking in my home with cleats on and eating all the snacks. It’s kinda like live in a fucking frat house. A frat house from hell.

Regardless, they took CJ under their wing right away. They would take him to play basketball with them. They would go to his soccer games. They rough-housed with him and best of all, they showed him how to Dutch oven someone. For those of you who don’t know what a Dutch oven is, let me explain. A Dutch oven is when you fart next to someone and then quickly cover the person in a blanket so they are trapped in your fart. It is a savage and cruel prank that my boys have grown to love. I hate my life.

Even though I often want to beat them senseless with a pillow case full of bars of soap, I love all the guys in my life dearly. They’ve actually helped me grow more as a woman and a human being. I’ve grown thicker skin, I understand the difference between a home run and a lay-up, and I know how to quickly and efficiently karate chop someone in their throat. 

Being a boy mom is hard, but I am lucky to say that I have a tribe of men and women around me who make it easier. I will forever be grateful for that.

Here are a few things I learned about boys in my 11+ years in boy mommy hood.

Aside from an everlasting love and unbreakable bond, there are many, MANY perks to having a son:

1. You never have to take out the trash again… in your entire life.
2. You never have to carry the groceries inside.
3. You never have to do any heavy lifting.
4. They kill spiders for fun.
5. You don’t have to worry about doing their hair in the morning.
6. You only have to buy them two grooming products- lotion and soap.

Even though the perks are awesome, there are some downfalls to boys:

1. They stink.
2. They hate to bathe.
3. They fart more than you would’ve ever thought humanly possible.
4. They love dirt.
5. Their room smells like ass.
6. Don’t get me started on their bathrooms… (click here to read about the shittiest day of my life)

The post House Full Of Boys – Learning How to be a Boy Mom appeared first on The Funny Momma.

First, let me break down the pros and cons of breastfeeding:

Pros of Breastfeeding

• Best nourishment for baby
• Helps mother/baby bond,
• Portable
• Can be frozen for up to 12 months in a deep freezer
• Free!

Cons of Breastfeeding

• Cracked and bleeding nipples (oh yeah, you heard right)
• Clogged/blocked milk ducts (it’s as painful as it sounds)
• Breast engorgement (your boobs look like melons, feel like fire and hurt your back)
• Back pain from the weight of your now heavier tits
• Worst of all NO LIQUOR!
• Let’s not forget about the inconsistency that comes along with breastfeeding. Sometimes you produce way more milk than you need and other times you are so full that you leak through your shirt and end up looking like a college freshman in a Girls Gone Wild wet t-shirt contest. It’s a mess.

Side note: I hate when people tell a pregnant woman “just 9 months and then you can enjoy a glass of wine!” Because in order for that woman to enjoy a glass of wine, she has to pump and dump that liquid gold she’s producing. It’s just tew much.

I used the same method for both of my boys to ensure they would be on breast milk for an entire year. I would feed them and in between feedings, I would do a separate pump session and store that milk in the deep freezer. By the end of each night, I was storing at least 32 ounces of milk.  I was a mother fucking milk factory!

By the time they reached 6 months, I already had 6 months worth of milk frozen for them. That way, I could wean them off of the boob while still giving them nutritious breast milk for the entire first year of their lives! My plan worked perfectly with CJ. He ran out of frozen breast milk at 11 months, 3 weeks and 2 days.  My plan nearly worked out perfectly with Ashton until the unthinkable happened!

3 weeks before Ashton turned 6 months, I was already prepping myself and Ashton for what I like to call “The Release of the Nipple”. I had worked double time to pack our deep freezer full of breast milk that would last him until his first birthday. If all of my calculations were correct, I would’ve had 6 months’ worth of milk in just 21 short days.

It was the night of my sister’s birthday dinner, and Dayo and I were about to head out and drop the baby off at my mother-in-law’s house. I went to the deep freezer to pull a few bags for the baby to have later that night. Before I could open the freezer, I noticed a pool of water along the base. My heart dropped to my stomach.

Please God don’t tell me this water means what I think it means.

I looked over to the socket and saw the unplugged freezer cord. My eyes began to pool with tears. Someone in the house had accidentally unplugged the freezer and all of my stash had been defrosted. For those who don’t know, once frozen breast milk is defrosted, it has to be used immediately or tossed.

I dropped to the ground and began sobbing hysterically. My husband ran into the room to see what was wrong. I started screaming that someone had unplugged the freezer and all of the milk was gone. In the midst of explaining, I noticed my husband’s large flag football bag resting on a part of the cord. My sadness quickly turned to anger. I was almost positive that it was his fault because his bag was resting so neatly on top of my mother fucking freezer cord. He was gonna pay.  

All I remember feeling is full-blown rage. I started grabbing the bags of titty milk and hurling them at my husband. Some hit my target while others landed on the wall/floor- exploding into giant splashes of melted, liquid gold. Out of all of the hundreds of bags, I only had 16 left that were still frozen on the very bottom of the freezer. It was the worst day of my life.

So there my husband is, standing there, drenched in boob juice while I’m on the floor sobbing like a damn baby. What in the hell was I about to do? There was no way I could re-pump all of that and I didn’t want to breastfeed for another 6 months. I can’t remember my words exactly, but I’m pretty sure I was screaming “…my life is over” while holding my knees to my chest and rocking back and forth.

Side Note: If you’re new to this blog, you’ll quickly learn that I am the most dramatic person you’ll ever meet in your entire life.

10 minutes later I remembered that we had somewhere to be…My sister’s birthday dinner! I wiped off my running mascara, blew my nose and threw the baby on my boob really quick. Since I had to reserve the very small amount of breast milk I had left, I had to feed Ashton again which bought me exactly three hours to drop the baby off, go to dinner and get back in time for the next feeding. So no wine for me that night. I was so close to freedom and now I was back in prison.

 I’ll spare you all the details of how the rest of the night went, but just know that I burst into tears about six times at the dinner table that night. I felt like I was ruining my sister’s dinner, but I was literally heartbroken. I had worked so hard to pump and store all of that milk.  Now I had to make a big decision.   Was I going to continue to breastfeed my baby or put him on formula?

I’m not going to lie, it took me about three days to stop crying. Let’s not forget that I was in the middle of dealing with some serious postpartum depression, so this shit was just the icing on the cake (read all about my postpartum depression journey here). But as all moms know, the show must go on! Even though I was distraught and depressed, the baby wasn’t going to feed his damn self, so unless my husband could miraculously figure out how to start producing milk, I had to figure this shit out.

After much thought, I decided to continue to breastfeed the baby until he was eight months old and slowly introduce him to formula. That would give me enough time to build up a supply for the baby so he could make it to around 10 months on breast milk. Even though I really wanted him to make it to 12 months like CJ, I was just too emotionally drained to go that long.

I often times find myself in a place where I am beating myself up for not pushing harder for my baby. Was I just being lazy? I did it for CJ, so shouldn’t I have done the same for Ashton? Am I a bad mom? And then I remember how hard I worked to originally produce all of that wasted milk. So no, I wasn’t lazy. Then I remember that with CJ I was 10 years younger and not struggling with postpartum depression. So no, I’m not wrong for having had CJ on breast milk longer than Ashton. Then I remember how much I love and care for all of my children. So no, I’m not a bad mom. I’m actually a pretty fucking awesome mom.

Breastfeeding is beautiful. There is absolutely no doubt about that. But it is way harder than what it seems. So if you are in a place where breastfeeding is too overwhelming, don’t beat yourself up if you can’t do it anymore. You’ve tried your best, Momma, and that’s all that matters. You’ve given your baby a beautiful gift and created a bond that can never be broken. Never forget that.

Do you have any crazy breastfeeding stories? Let me know below in the comments!

The post A Breastfeeding Nightmare- A Freezer Full of Defrosted Breast Milk and a Rage Filled Momma! appeared first on The Funny Momma.

I was only 19 years old when I had my oldest son, CJ. Looking back on my first pregnancy, I have to admit that my 19-year-old body proved to be waaayyy more equipped to keep up with a baby than my now 30-year-old body. Aside from the fact that my entire family was pissed at me for getting pregnant in the first place- I pretty much had it made. My pregnancy was pretty much a breeze. CJ was the easiest, most relaxed baby EVER. And because he was first grandchild/nephew in my family, everyone always wanted to watch him, so I pretty much always had a babysitter.

Although I was very young, my transition into motherhood was pretty smooth.

Five years after having CJ, I was introduced to Elijah – my bonus baby. Adjusting to this new addition took some time because my now husband/then boyfriend and I were learning how to successfully blend our two families. The challenge was that CJ and Elijah are just 8 months apart in age, so it was basically like raising twins who were polar opposites and barely got along.

The boys were constantly fighting, none of our schedules ever matched up and merging both our styles of parenting was so hard! I’m not gonna lie… there were a few times I nearly lost myself to motherhood during this time in my life but by the grace of God, I kept it together. After A LOT of hard work, we found a routine that worked for both our boys.

Fast forward to five years later when my adorably handsome (yet borderline psychotic) baby boy, Ashton, was born. From the moment I got pregnant with Ashton, I realized this pregnancy would be very different from my pregnancy with CJ. I couldn’t sleep for more than four hours a night, nausea was my best friend and I dealt with terrible back pain as his favorite place to rest was on my sciatic nerve. It was no surprise that when he was born, he took over my entire body, life and soul.

After dealing with and surviving postpartum depression for the first six months that Ashton was alive, I honestly thought that moving forward would be a breeze. I finally got him to sleep through the night (for the most part), I semi-learned how to balance work life/baby life and I had finally got back to the point where I could focus on the rest of my family as well. Along with all of the regular mommy stuff (school, practices, games, band recitals, boy scout meetings, school volunteering), I spent numerous hours a week creating schedules, grocery lists, homework index cards, etc. Basically anything I could do to make me and my family’s life easier and more productive.

. I spent so much time focusing on my family, that I became an afterthought to myself. I think I was so afraid to lose control like I did during my postpartum depression bout, that I felt I needed to organize every single aspect of my family life,  so I would never feel overwhelmed again. Well that was a terrible method of thinking. I was so overwhelmed that it literally started showed on the outside.

I have always been a lover of all things fashion. I’m in no way a fashion guru, but let’s just say I always like to keep up with the trends. Trendy tops, ripped jeans, chic dresses, to-die-for heels; that was pretty much my way of dressing before Ashton came around. I never really noticed that I stopped dressing that way until my sister, Bonnie (Boozin’ with Bon) called me on my shit.

Bonnie- “What are you wearing?”

Me- “Huh? What’s wrong with this” I said as I glanced down at my target sweatpants, Adidas flip-flops, mixed match socks and my husband’s old t-shirt that was adorned with fresh baby throw-up. I really was a fucking messy’all . I literally had no clue how shitty I looked.

Bonnie- “I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

I was still confused.

My mom (never one to be soft-spoken)- “Yeah and your hair looks like a rat’s nest. Those ends are horrendous.”

My baby sister, Zari, always tries to stay neutral. She never really gives her opinion unless you ask. I glanced at her for confirmation that I looked fine and my mom and Bonnie were just trippin’. She couldn’t even make eye contact. It was that bad.

The whole thing turned into a typical Rodriguez women intervention session They read me up, down, right, left, sideways and everything in between. They basically told me that I had become a hermit, I let myself go, I smelled of baby vomit, my eyebrows weren’t even, my nails looked like last year and my new-found personality was boring. After they laid it out that way, I could see where they were coming from.

Side note- I was raised in a very cut throat, no-nonsense and blunt family. If there is an issue, we address it head first. Although this may seem harsh, we dish it because we know how to take it. And we know that the criticism is always coming from a good and honest place.  

When I got home that night, I put the baby to bed, told my husband and older boys to leave me alone for the rest of the night, walked into my bathroom and locked the door. I stared at myself in the mirror for at least 30 minutes. It felt like it was the  first time I had actually looked at myself in over a year. Take my word when I say I looked like shit.

First thing I did was took a long ass shower. I washed my hair about three times and deep conditioned it. My legs and hoo-ha looked like Chewbacca and Cousin It were going on a date, so shaved them things up real nice. My underarms looked like a Chia Pet, so I hollered at them too.

After I showered, shaved, washed my hair and finally smelled like a decent human being, I needed to do damage control in my closet. I got rid of all of my maternity clothes (except my maternity bras because they’re too comfy to give up) and oversized clothing that became more of a security blanket to hide the weight I gained, but refused to acknowledge.

The next morning, I headed to my mom’s salon to get a much need haircut and color.  Aside from the fact that I had to hear my mom’s incessant nagging on how embarrassed she was that I allowed my hair to get this terrible, I was thoroughly pleased with how my hair looked. Then I had to hit the nail salon!

I got a gel mani/pedi and splurged $30 extra to get the “Pink Himalayan Salt Scrub” that we all really know is just Morton’s Sea Salt in pink dyed baby oil. I didn’t care that it was most likely a fraud. It felt fabulous. I also got my eyebrows and lip waxed because I was beginning to resemble the Wolf Man.

Next, I went to the mall and walked into one of those shady, Asian massage places you always see, but never go in. They almost look like a place people go to sell organs on the black market. But the way I was feeling, I was willing to risk it all for a $1 a minute massage. And I’m really fucking happy I did because I left that mall feeling completely and utterly relaxed.

Later that day, I had my first irresponsible momma moment and pulled out my credit card – that I had worked so very hard to pay off. I went online shopping and purchased a few additions that would liven up my closet , but not break the bank. Even though I didn’t want to use my card, I didn’t feel bad about it because I was finally doing something for me.

I deserved it!

Those two days were INCREDIBLE! Just taking that time to pamper myself had me feeling like a million bucks! I knew that I wanted to have this me time on a more regular basis so I enlisted my wonderful niece, Alaysia, to help me out!  I now pay her to watch my boys each and every Wednesday, after work, so I can run errands, get some alone time and most importantly I can focus on me!

So finally, after over a year of self-neglect, I was back to being myself!  I wanted to share this story with you all because I know that so many times, as a mom, there is so much going on with your children that it can prove to be really, really difficult to make time for yourself. Even if you have to take baby steps; I’m talking waking up a little bit earlier than everyone to get that 15 minutes of quiet or scheduling a weekly manicure during your lunch break! You deserve it Mama!   

The post Losing Yourself to Motherhood- Never Put Yourself on the Back Burner appeared first on The Funny Momma.

November 2006. My first day at home with CJ.

On his  first day of kindergarten,  I walked CJ to his classroom. All of the parents were lined up against the wall admiring their little humans getting situated and finding their seats. Every single parent in the classroom was dressed in full business attire with expensive watches, huge wedding rings and fancy shoes. Clearly they were very established. Meanwhile, I’m standing there in a short floral dress, with a brown leather jacket and cowboy boots trying to discreetly scarf down the rest of CJ’s cinnamon raisin bagel because I forgot to eat breakfast at home.  My budget for clothes was pretty small since basically every penny I made went towards CJ’s school tuition.

The actual outfit I wore on CJ’s first day of school. This was taken at church though. It was my favorite outfit lol.

A few of the mothers in the corner were giving me major stink eye, but I was so emotional from my baby being in real school that I paid them no mind. The teacher began passing out a questionnaire to the parents.   It asked questions like “Does your child have a nickname?” or “Does your child have any allergies I should be aware of?”  When she got to me, I reached out my hand for the paper and she pulled hers back. “Where’s your mother, sweetie? She needs to fill this out.” “I am his mother.” The teacher, who was in fact a very sweet woman, began apologizing profusely saying that she mistook me for his sister. However, the immature mothers in the corner began to chuckle and snicker.

At this point in my life, I was 22 years old and had learned, for the most part, how to ignore ignorant people. But for some reason, those other moms really got under my skin. For the next two years that CJ  attended that school, I made it my top priority to show those other parents that I was just as deserving of the parent title as they were. I gave very enthusiastic “Hello!”, “HI!”, “Top of tha mornin’ to ya!” greetings each morning at drop off,  volunteered for every field trip and class party,  and I only wore business attire when visiting the school.

Despite all my efforts, I was never chosen to chaperone a field trip, was never chosen as Room Mom (even though I applied four times) and I was given very bleak responses to my over eager greetings each morning. It was difficult for me to process how I was being secluded from the parent community at the school when I paid the same school fees and was just as involved in my child’s education as they were. If anything, shouldn’t I be commended for putting my son in such an elite school at my young age? Not to mention that CJ tested at top of his class. Nope. No one cared. In everyone’s eyes I was just another teen mom. 

In 2014, CJ’s dad and I moved him to a new private school. I not only viewed this as a fresh start for CJ, but as one for me as well. This time,  I would make sure I made a more professional and mature impression on the school and the other moms.  The first day of school I went straight up to his new teacher and introduced myself as CJ’s mother. No way was I going to have another sibling mix-up. I also mentioned that I would be very interested in being the room mom for the class. Thankfully, the teacher was very sweet, and also around my age, so we had a good connection. She said I was the first to ask so she would grant me the role. BOO YOW BITCHES!

Aside from the fact that CJ’s classmates constantly told me I looked like I could be his sister, the parents respected me as their equal. I got to know a lot of the parents at the school since I coordinated all of the parties.  This made it very easy to make mom-friends. Some of which I still have now.

Unfortunately, despite my “mature” reputation amongst the other parents in the school, some members of the faculty still spoke to me as if I was a teenager. They offered parental advice when it wasn’t needed, gave disapproving looks when they noticed my tattoos or when I chose to wear a legging/sneaker ensemble to pick-up, and constantly reminded me that I was perfect as a field day volunteer because I was young and could keep up *inserts eye roll*.

The icing on the cake was when one teacher, probably the oldest teacher on the face of the universe, said the following and I realized I was never going to shake the “teen mom” title. “Wow. When I was your age I was just finishing college and looking for a husband. You started early, huh? God bless you.” Listen here you bag of bones, I don’t give two shits what you were doing at my age.

Two years later, we moved CJ to another school. Not because of the faculty, but because CJ needed to be challenged more academically. This did offer me yet another chance for a fresh start at a new school. But this time was different. I didn’t care how the parents and teachers viewed me. I didn’t care if they knew my age. All I cared about was the well-being of my son and his education. Everyone else could kiss my ass.

I’m not sure if it is my care free approach to this new school or the fact that I was 28 when CJ started (so I looked a little older than previous years), but so far so good. Two years later, CJ is still at the school and we absolutely love it. I am still (unfortunately) the room mom and receive respect from the parents and staff alike.

While we’re on the topic… Another place I often feel uncomfortable about my age as a parent is the work environment. Just a couple of weeks ago, I brought CJ to work with me for “Take Your Child to Work” day. I took CJ to the office cafeteria to get lunch and this happened…

A woman came up to me and said: I’m sorry. Did I just hear you say he is your oldest of three boys?

Me: Yes

Nosey ass woman: Wow. This whole time I thought you were one of the children that someone brought to work.

I smiled in the pettiest way I knew, paid for our food and we walked out.

Now I may look young, but I in no way look like a child that would be at work for “Take Your Child to Work” day. You tried it. I can understand you being a little surprised that I have three children, but let’s not get carried away.

I’ve also dealt with people coming into my office, seeing my pictures of my boys and say “OMG these are your children? All of them? How old are they? If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?”

Yes, those are ALL my children.  Yes, they are old AF. Two of them are preteens and one is a baby. And yes, I do mind you asking me how old I am cause that’s rude AF and I don’t need you calculating the year I conceived my first-born, you creep! HAVE SOME FUCKING CLASS!!

I may have started on my family earlier than most but that does not make me irresponsible, unfit or unreliable. It also doesn’t make it okay for you to offer unsolicited advice, make disapproving gestures when you find out my age or judge me for “starting early”.

If you think it was tough for you to be a parent at what you deem an appropriate age, imagine how much harder I had to work to raise my child at 18. I was in college, didn’t make a lot of money, was going through my own hormonal changes and I was supposed to raise and protect another life. And you know what? I did it. And I did a damn good job at it.

So I am not just another teen mom. I am a super, incredible, fucking awesome mom and it’s time you know and respect that.

*drops mic*

The post Not Just Another Teen Mom: Breaking the Teen Mom Stigma appeared first on The Funny Momma.

Unfortunately, there are some mothers out there who feel their way is the only way. And in turn, they treat mothers who don’t parent the same way they do as if they are inferior. This post is for all the judgmental mommas out there who think they are better than others. Hopefully you all take this letter to heart and begin to support the mommy community instead of mom shaming. For those of you who don’t- *NEWSFLASH* you’re a biatch.

Dear Judgy Ass Mothers,

Stop giving me unsolicited advice. I know the bag of Doritos I packed in my son’s lunchbox isn’t organic. The organic chips were $8 more and they taste like shit. I try to incorporate healthy foods as often as possible but unless you’re going to foot the bill, do me a favor and shut the fuck up.

I’m a screen time mom. It is what it is. I commend the fact that you can entertain your toddler for hours a day while also washing clothes, making dinner and cleaning up. However, I’m not that talented. So leave me alone and let my child watch Boss Baby in peace.

JUST BECAUSE A WOMAN IS NOT MARRIED DOESN’T MEAN SHE ISN’T FIT FOR PARENTHOOD. Sorry, guys. I had to scream that one so the people in back could hear. Although I am married now, before marriage I endured countless years of judgement from other moms because they were married and I was not. I need you all to listen very carefully to what I am about to say: I am just as capable of being a good parent as you are with or without a husband.  And FYI, just because there is not a ring on a woman’s finger and she has a child, that doesn’t make her a hoe.

Yes. I am getting my children fast food for dinner tonight. Not because I want to, but because I just left a full day of work, picked up two preteens from school and a toddler from daycare. One child has basketball practice and the other has boy scouts, so by the time I get home it’s close to 8:30 pm. Now riddle me this. Who in THEE fuck is about to cook a full dinner while still having  to help with homework, make  sure everyone has bathed, put the baby to sleep and carve out a little time to get my funky ass in shower. Girl, bye. Big Macs for the win. 

I am well aware of the fact that school will be out in a month and I should’ve signed up for camps months ago. I don’t need a reminder.

Yes, I know. My child’s socks do not match. I’m not sure how you manage to keep all of the pairs together but in my house they all go missing. I don’t have time to go on a Sherlock Holmes mission to solve the case of the missing socks. All I care about is that my children’s feet are warm. Besides, isn’t mix and match in right now?

I know my hair is a mess and I have toothpaste on my shirt. The baby slept two hours last night, my middle child didn’t tell me he had a report due today until 7pm last night and my boss is getting on my last nerve. Cut me some slack.

Stop asking me how old my oldest child is and then, while making the most exaggerated surprised face ever, say “Wow. You started early.” Everyone knows that you don’t mean that as a compliment, Susan. Don’t forget that my “early” ass is paying just as much in school tuition as you are.

Don’t give me the stink eye when I pull up late to the school for the 2^nd time this week. I’m hard enough on myself about my child’s tardiness and I’m truly working on it. I don’t need you trying to make me feel bad too.

Just because my toddler is screaming his head off in the middle of the grocery store doesn’t mean that he’s a brat. He missed his morning nap, it’s 20 minutes till bed time and the hard ass grocery cart seat he’s been sitting in for the past 25 minutes is starting to get to him. Mind your business.

Yes, I have tattoos. Does that make me a bad mom? No. My husband has full tattooed sleeves on both arms. Does that make him a bad dad? No. Just means he’s artistic or some shit like that.

I scream for my child at his basketball games because he’s my special baby and I’m proud of him. Don’t like it? Wear some ear plugs. Cause mama ain’t stoppin’ no time soon.

These are only a few of the many judgmental innuendos that come to mind. However, at least for me, they are some of the most hurtful and annoying. Next time you decided to stick your nose up to another fellow momma who is not parenting to your standards, remember that she carried her child for 9 months just like you. She has endured countless sleepless nights due to a teething baby just like you. AND she is doing her best to raise her children.  Just. Like. You.

Spend more time uplifting other mothers rather than breaking them down. There is no manual on mommyhood. We’re all just winging it. So get off your high horse, throw on some sweat pants and come join the mommy community. Just make sure to leave your judgement at the door.

Sincerely,

The Funny Momma

PS. I am buying grocery store cupcakes for the school bake sale. Sure I could bake them myself but let’s get real. I got shit to do.

The post Mom Shaming- Mothers Who Choose to Judge Rather Than Support appeared first on The Funny Momma.

First of all, the meetings always start at the most inconvenient time. If school closes at 3:00 pm and aftercare ends at 6:00 pm, why would you start the meeting at 7:15 pm? That means I either have to go home for all of 20 seconds just to turn right back around to go all the way back to the school or find something random to do nearby for an hour and 15 minutes . Do the organizers of these meetings  even consider the fact that my kid still has to eat, bathe and do homework?

Then, when you walk in, you are bombarded by sign-up lists and raffle tickets that are forced upon you. No, I do not want to volunteer for library duty or bake sale duty or field day duty. And I do not give a shit about winning a gift card to Krispy Kreme. There’s only one Krispy Kreme in my area and it’s 30 minutes away. Leave me alone.

Oh and let’s discuss how there are NEVER any seats in the back.  A place where you can be alone and read about the latest celebrity gossip on your phone in peace. But, no. That would be too kind. There is only one fucking seat left in the whole cafeteria and it’s next to Becky Swharmoski, the mom who won’t shut the hell up and is always trying to share her vegan cupcake recipes. NEWS FLASH! I LOVE BUTTER!

Also, why is it taking so long for this thing to start!?!

And let’s not forget about Susan the obsessed room mom that demands maximum participation from every parent.  Susan, stop fucking looking at me like that. Yes, I did see your email asking me to chaperone the field trip to the museum. And yes, I ignored the shit out of it. I can’t stand taking my own kids to the museum let alone a bunch of rowdy-ass 5^th graders.

Then, when they FINALLY decide to start the meeting, the first topic is always how to get more parent attendance at these meetings. Wellllllllllllllll, maybe if you had better food than a day old veggie tray and dry ass tea cookies, more parents would be willing to sacrifice their own dinners to make it here. And would it kill you to have a couple of bottles of wine on deck? Attendance would surely sky-rocket if we could booze it up with the principle and the president of the PTA. Just a thought.

You’ve got to be kidding me. I KNOW we are not going over the school budget again. I. DON’T. GIVE. A. SHIT.

And is it just me or is there ALWAYS a new fundraiser? If my child brings home one more box of those damn chocolate bars or a Claire’s Gourmet catalog I’M GOING TO SCREAM! Not only are YOU getting on MY nerves, I’M getting on my co-workers, neighbors and family members’ nerves because every five seconds I have my child hunting them down to purchase a new item to “help raise funds for the school”. I guess the plus side is  that I know my child would have a very successful career in door to door sales.

There’s no such thing as vegan meatloaf, Becky. It’s literally just not a thing. Meat is in the title. Please stop talking to me.

And if you were just going to read it verbatim, why did you pass me this handout in the first place? I know where all the budget is going;  to printing out all of these unnecessary pamphlets and flyers. Speaking of these flyers and handouts, who is really reading these things?  I’m just here to give the appearance that I actually care about what’s going on. As long as my child has good grades and is being treated fairly, I really don’t know what else we have to talk about?

And what feels like an eternity later, after we’ve heard from the principle, the head room mom, every club the school has, the school nurse and the janitor, they finally decide it’s time to wrap it up.  But you can’t just leave. Oh no. It doesn’t work that way. Now you have mingle with the other parents and talk about the same shit you just sat through for the past two hours of your life.

God. Will this ever end!?!?

These meetings always end with me being pissed TF off because I’ve now missed the beginning of Love and Hip Hop or Little Women LA. I also end up breaking my diet because I have to get my kids something quick to eat, so I almost always head over to Chick Fil A. But for some sick reason, I just keep coming back.

The truth is, I gain nothing by attending these meetings. I just lose a piece of the little bit of sanity I have left.

At the end of the day, to make all of this easier for everyone, couldn’t this all have been sent in an email?

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