Calling All Dorks: The Mystery of Mom Friends

Parenting ain’t easy. You’ve gotta deal with diaper explosions, toughing out the middle-of-the-night wakeups, and doing the other necessary things to keep the kids alive. With the many parenting horrors we have to face, sometimes one smaller horror slips below our radars when venting — socializing. The next guest post in the Calling All Dorks series comes from Candy at GeekMamas.com, who does a great job of talking about socializing as a parent.

Let’s start this by being honest and saying I suck at this “mom friend” thing. It’s just like trying to make regular friends (not so great at that either) but harder because you probably have nothing else in common except your mom status.

* I do thankfully have friends who just happen to also be moms, but I’m talking about meeting new friends.

I started by joining mom groups on Facebook. I concentrated on one active one thinking, hey I’m making connections! But then I got kicked out, right on the day I was having a total mom breakdown because I hadn’t had much sleep in two days and K wouldn’t stop crying. Previously that week I had tried to do a meet-up at the zoo with them and totally failed finding the meeting spot and tried to be like, hey no big deal, we’ll just play here at the water park area. Apparently that was seen as “blowing them off.” See? I had no idea how horribly offensive I am.

I also joined a local place where kids can go and play, and in all the reviews it talks about how people just LOVE going there and have met SO MANY great mom friends! But unfortunately I have not met one other person in the 3 months we’ve been going there. Oh, I say hi and smile. Ask the obligatory “How old is he/she” while hoping I got the gender right because sometimes I can’t tell and that seems to be a conversation killer right there. Then we both go off running in separate directions to chase after our kids. And therein lies the problem. Even when I actually do meet up with another mom, we get maybe a few whole sentences in the span of a couple hours. I’m starting to suspect people who make mom friends have kids that stay still and aren’t trying to hurl themselves from the top of the jungle gym or throw toy cars over the fence.

Also, moms are busy. They are terribly hard to set up a date with and easily cancel due to a million different things. The more kids involved, the harder it is to meet up. And no matter where you met up, it’s like hanging out with someone with a severe case of ADD.

So maybe I am a little sad I never had that magical moment where your eyes meet across the playground and you become lifelong pals as your kids grow up together. (That’s how it happens, right?) But at least I’ve got my little buddy to keep me company so I’ll never be alone on the playground.

Be sure to check out Candy’s blog here.

You can read the first post in the Calling All Dorks series here. If you have a funny/dorky story that you’d like to see poorly illustrated, then send me an email at dorkymomdoodles@gmail.com. (Old posts are fair game.)

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Bad Mommy (Blogger)

A few days ago, Little Man and I went out for dinner after his Parkour class. We got to talking to someone at the restaurant when he sort of bragged that his mom is a blogger. We were talking about Star Wars stuff, and after bragging that his whole family is a bunch of nerds, he backed that up by mentioning my blog.

The girl didn’t look terribly impressed. “Mommy blogger?” she asked with a hint of derision. (Okay, maybe that derision was imagined, but she definitely wasn’t impressed.)

“Eh. Something like that.” I’m not much of a mom blogger since you won’t get advice or read anything introspective here.

Little Man wasn’t feeling the eh, though. “She draws these AMAZING doodles! And they’re so funny!” he bragged.

I felt a surge of pride — here is my almost tween bragging about his mom to a complete stranger. It might not be anything bragworthy to other adults, and is light years away from being amazing, but I’ll sure as hell take it.

And then he added a warning:

Maybe one day I’ll draw decent arms.

No, he didn’t read the post where I mentioned a certain word being my favorite, but I have shared a few posts with him. (I usually just show him the doodles, though.) My use of “damn” or “hell” or whatever it was certainly didn’t get past him. Then again, this is the child who commented, “They said two cuss words” after watching The Force Awakens, so I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that he’s keeping a running tally for my blog.

(Is this what he talks about on the playground? Other kids talk about their moms doing crafts and stuff and Little Man talks about his cussing not-quite-a-mommy-blogger mom.)

I’ll take my Mom of the Year Award now.

Thanks for the promotion, Little Man. I think.

Want to connect on social media? You can find me on Facebook, Twitter,  Instagram, and Bloglovin. You can also vote for me as a Top Mom Blogger here. (Maybe that last once should be omitted for the post where I claim I’m not a mom blogger. Hmm.)

Happy Mother’s Day, Indeed

As much as I joke around about the kids’ clinginess and stuff, Little Man and Baby Girl really have a love for me that just blows my mind at times. I could do a post about Mother’s Day expectations vs. reality or one about the shenanigans my kids have been up to today, but I’ll save those for later and focus on the sweet stuff.

Little Man is a total mama’s boy. Always has been and, hopefully, always will be.

All. Nine. Realms. I want that on my tombstone.

And now for the toddler…

Yesterday I asked Baby Girl if she knew what tomorrow was, and she asked if it were a school day. I told her that it’s not (and won’t be for another three months — it’s going to break her heart when it sinks in that there is no more preschool for that long), but that it was going to be Mother’s Day.

“It gonna be Mudder’s Day?” she asked.

“Yep.”

She wrapped her arms around me and said, “You the best mudder I could have.” I didn’t think she had an inkling what Mother’s Day is, so to hear all that made my heart extra melty.

Yeah, poor Daddy.

Happy Mother’s Day to all you mamas and to anyone else who fills that role.

Want to connect on social media? You can find me on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Bloglovin. You can also vote for me as a Top Mom Blogger here

#AtoZChallenge: G is for Gift

For those of you who don’t know me that well — I’m a klutz. If “Most Likely To Die By Tripping Over Her Own Feet” had been a superlative in high school, I would have gotten it, hands down. I’ve broken bones, torn ligaments, and have gotten quite a few burns and cuts. Coordination and grace aren’t adjectives that anyone would ever use when talking about me, unless they were being sarcastic.

If you’re a clumsy person or live with someone who is, then you know that we tend to have quite the collection of injury-related materials. Some people like to collect coins or fancy handbags, and then there are people like me who can break out the Wrist Brace collection from the Fall 2010 line or a Knee Brace ensemble from 2013. And we can always accessorize with a nice pair of crutches or cold packs, or, if we’re getting really fancy, throw on that orthopedic boot. (In all seriousness, I probably have more injury related items than I have jewelry.)

My clumsiness has not escaped my son. When he was in kindergarten, he wrapped up some items he found around the house as gifts to give his dad and me, for no reason other than to be his sweet little self.

Here’s how that went:

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t use it again.

Are you steady on your feet or are you a walking disaster like me?

Want to connect on social media? You can find me on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.

Methods of Torturing Mom (Or Any Other Female)

We always hear about how rough childbirth is. For sure, it’s no walk in the park, but usually it’s the one or two or three days of your life where the pain factor was high, and you walked out with a little bundle of joy, so that kinda balanced things out, right? Let’s talk about the day-to-day pains (physical or otherwise) that are pretty damn bad that a) don’t leave you with a bundle of joy and b) don’t make you elated in any way. 


The first one — underwire. OMFG. I know we’re supposed to avoid wearing bras with underwire for reasons I can’t think of (legit reasons, not “I’m afraid I’ll be stabbed and slowly bleed to death” reasons), but they’re more comfortable and supportive for me, so I do. It’s all good in the neighborhood until the wire that’s giving me a bit of form gets pissed off at all the work it’s doing and snaps. And then it’s like a drive by with a tiny sharp wire in my sideboob with every step I take until I free myself of the cursed contraption. I wouldn’t prefer labor with Little Man over the underwire, but I’ll take the C-section pain from after the spinal wears off over having to spend a day being stabbed by underwire.

And that brings me to epillators. I bought my first (and last) one a couple weeks ago. It was supposed to make my legs smooth for weeks, remove certain facial hairs that I don’t wanna bleach but want gone, and basically turn me from a 3 into about a 4.5. Lies, y’all, lies. Maybe I’m just doing it really wrong, but as far as I’m concerned, epillators are akin to medieval tools of torture. I have a high tolerance for pain, but I could only stand a few minutes of that. I want to box it up and send it back and leave a review calling it modern day torture, but they probably wouldn’t take it (and ew, would they resale a used epillator?). 10/10 I’d rather give birth to both kids again than shave both legs and other areas with that thing.

Hot wax. Hot not. Let me state for the record that the only thing I’ve ever had waxed is my eyebrows. Based on that, I can only imagine that ripping off hair in other areas would be godawful. Is it epillator bad? I don’t know and won’t be finding out just for the sake of this blog post.

Ain’t no flow like Aunt Flo. This one should go without saying, but look, it’s an angry uterus that looks like the Kool-Aid man ready to throw ovaries at you! As far as pregnancy comparisons go, I will say that some of these cramps have been every bit as intense as contractions. Not always, not often even, but it has happened. So, periods have their own torturous aspects. Plus, having to pay money for pads and tampons every month over the course of 40 or so years is a torture in its own right.

Crappy movies. Some of y’all will disagree with me on this. I know Lifetime sometimes shows legit movies, but when I’m flipping through, it usually isn’t. There are titles like “Who Killed Jenny’s Dad?” “Jenny’s Dad Returns: A Haunting” “The Face on the Milk Carton: The Untold Story of the Mysterious Disappearance of Jenny” and “Double Haunting: Ghosts Dad and Jenny Terrorize Mom.” Or something like that. You know how everyone says watching certain kids’ cartoons, like Peppa Pig or Spongebob, is torture? Well, Lifetime is about ten times worse. One day the kids are gonna find out that channels like Lifetime and Hallmark exist and are gonna want to know why we talked all that smack.

Laundry mountain. Maybe I shouldn’t be directing my hate at washing machines. After all, all it does is stand there. What I should be directing my frustration to is the individuals in my home who toss clean clothes in the hamper; the individuals who puke all over everything; the individuals who can’t go a week without spilling drinks all over. But, nah, I love my family, so I’ll hate on the washing machine and the laundry mountain that it eventually creates, and then cry online about having to fold everything being like delivering triplets with no medication. (Just kidding.)

So, torture…if you’re really pissed off at me, a great way to get back at me is to make me watch Lifetime movies while folding clothes while wearing a bad bra while on my period while you apply hot wax to one leg and go after the other with an epillator. 

So, what would you add to your list of things that you find torturous? And men, what makes you go, “This is worse than a cold”?

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Fun In The Sun

I’ve never been any good at drawing, to the point that I think my family wants to say, “Tell me about this, Mom,” to spare my feelings when I attempt to draw more than a stick figure. Despite this, I recently got an iPad Pro and discovered that I really enjoy doodling on it. It’s fun and relaxing and gives me something else to do beside zoning out to Netflix after the kids go to bed.

“This is adorably bad,” my husband told me when I showed him the doodle I’m sharing below. That’s better than just “bad,” right? And clearly, when he said “adorably bad,” he meant “start a blog and share it with the world.” Or something like that.

At any rate, I’m going with it. Maybe as I keep doodling, I’ll go from “adorably bad” to “not so bad.” We’ll see.

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