I’m one of those people that loves to sleep and loves to dream. I’ve been known to have magnificent dreams. When I’m too tired to have sex in real life, I have it in my dreams and it’s the best because I get to sleep and have sex at the same time. Win win! Like I said, I love to sleep and I love to dream.

So how does my husband piss me off in my dreams? A lot of the time he pisses me off just by being in my dream and doing something ridiculous, but I guess I can’t blame him for that because I am the dreamer. What really pisses me off is when he interrupts my sleep with reality. I get enough of reality during my waking hours I don’t need him imposing it on me in my sleep.

For example, once I was having what was promising to be a fantastic dream. Picture swirly images and funky music guiding you into my dream…

I walk into a room that seems like an office and sitting behind a desk is someone I love dearly, someone from my past that I have not seen in years. My heart skips a beat, he looks up at me and a smile spreads across his face. We don’t even speak we just make our way toward each other, ready to embrace. We are about to hug when he stops suddenly and with a grimace on his face says, “It smells like SHIT in here!” And he’s right, it does. It smells like putrid, hot, stinky poop. I look around and to my right there is a sofa with my sleeping, farting husband on it. My husband is in my dream and he’s stinking it up with his farts.

That’s when I wake up in my bed laying next to my husband who is passing the most disgusting gas ever for reals. I reach over and shake him until he wakes up. He’s all groggy and says, “What’s going on?”

I yell, “You ruined my dream with your stinky farts!”

And you know what he does? He takes a whiff of the air and chuckles as he goes back to sleep, while I seethe.

So far, she’s failing like a champ. She’ll get excited about her big girl undies but when it comes time to move those bowels, she freaks out. So to ease her defecating anxiety, I started talking about her poop and how everyone else poops, too.

Mommy poops. Daddy poops. Giraffes poop. DJ Lance poops. It’s natural. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.

But she still hides when she craps her britches and is reluctant to tell me when she has. She’s ashamed of it.  And one day while I was wiping her fanny clean yet again, I had one of those revealing “A-ha!” moments. (This is what happens when a person goes through therapy- your child’s dookie helps you gain clarity about yourself and humanity).

Basically, we all produce feces. It comes out of us. It’s not pretty. It’s smelly and ugly and embarrassing and sometimes it’s a pain to get it out of our butts.

It’s the same with our figurative shit. I’m talking about our baggage, our issues… those traumatic things that have happened in our lives. We all have it in some form or another.

It can be ugly and embarrassing and painful to admit or even look at.  But it’s there whether we want to acknowledge it or not. Sometimes we choose to ignore it because the truth is too much to handle. Or there hasn’t been anyone we trust to take a long, hard look at it with us.

My husband has some shit. He almost died when he was an infant, his mother passed away when he was 9, he had cancer when he was 21, has has suffered through addiction and depression and ADHD. And he’s been stuffing his feelings about all of the above his entire life.

The dude is what you would call “emotionally constipated.”  Turns out, if you don’t let your shit out- you tend to feel uncomfortable and it stresses you out and it frustrates you and then you get angry and bitter. And then all of that manifests itself in some not-so-pretty ways. He had to get to this place in his life to be able to deal with it, though. And that’s okay. We all deal with our shit in completely different ways and in our own timing.

I, on the other hand, have a serious case of verbal diarrhea. I wear my heart on my sleeve. I over emote. I over feel. I over analyze. I over communicate. I over share. It keeps me (somewhat) sane. It allows me to process. It shoots out of me and makes a mess but DAMMIT, I feel better when I can just relax and let it all out.

I grow from it. I learn from it. I change because of it. I’m thankful for it.

You know you’ve grown when you can see the imperfect beauty in the ugliness of life.

The goal is to keep moving. To prohibit that shit from dictating our lives. To persist. And to fucking thrive.

All of that shit makes you who you are. You can either let it take up space within you and make you feel miserable OR you can look at it for what it is, talk to someone about it, take the good from it and eventually let it go… piece by piece. Plop by plop.

(OMG, just how far can I stretch this metaphor?)

If you just can’t get it out, you might have to resort to using a wire coat hanger.

I think you got the message. Now, love yourself enough to do the hard work and push that shit out.

I can smell the freedom already.

*The card above is a collaborative effort between Aunt Becky and myself on behalf of her site, Band Back Together. It’s where people from all walks of life come to share their shitty stories of survival. (The situations are shitty, not the writing itself). It’s pretty powerful stuff. We handed these out as part of the swag from our BlogHer party. If you didn’t get one or you want one, you can go here to purchase one. All proceeds from it go back into the upkeep of Band Back Together.

A good place to buy a container?

As a society, we have come up with all kinds of ways to keep our stuff organized. We put our clothes in the drawers of our dresser, our food in the refrigerator, our money in our wallets. And while there have been creative and innovative ideas to help us store our stuff over the years, most of the time storing your stuff is pretty straightforward. The concept is simple, really. Put your shit in a container so you can keep track of it (see exhibit A).

Apparently, that concept is only simple for some of us, as is reflected by the way that my kids “store” their stuff (see exhibit B). Most of any given day I’m with my kids is spent looking for the most obscure objects that have been left in some equally obscure location in some distant corner of the house, while my kids scream and cry and flop around and demand that “Daddy want find it”.

Actually, Daddy doesn’t want find it, but thanks for the suggestion.

Eventually, after an exhaustive search filled with expletives and adult tantrums, Daddy does find the item, which is almost always nearly identical to—but not quite!—something that they already possess: a red spoon instead of a yellow spoon, a birdie that sings instead of the zebra that plays music, or the tiny orange monster instead of the tiny yellow one—you know, the essentials for day to day living.

Or I don’t find the item, and all hell breaks loose. Loser then it had broken before the search, but with extra heat and no chance of redemption.

Exhibit A - Peace and Harmony Rule the World

Exhibit B - WTF?

If only they would keep their shit in a container, of course, this would all be avoidable, and we could live in peace and harmony. But trying to convince two year olds that it’s beneficial to keep track of their stuff by putting it in a container is like trying to convince a sippy cup company to make shit that doesn’t leak.

In a word: impossible!

And so something that’s supposed to be stored neatly in a container in the basement ends up under the crib in the upstairs bedroom. Of course when the coveted item is found, the look of pure joy and elation on their faces belies no sign of the previous half hour of pure and absolute terror.

—–

On a related note, we’ve been trying to potty train our kids. Our daughter isn’t having it! In fact, she’s so not having it that’s she refused to let even a drop of her precious piss make contact with the potty, and has given herself a urinary tract infection in the process. Redefining stubborn, that girl is.

We thought maybe we’d try panties with her, but twenty minutes and three soaked tiny pairs of underwear, and several disbelieving “uh-oh, I all wet, Daddy”s later, and we decided that either she sees her underwear as a perfectly acceptable container in which to store her piss, or she just doesn’t get it. We’re leaning toward the latter.

Our son on the other hand is a little more susceptible to our adult reasoning that piss and shit shouldn’t be stored between your legs, especially if you’re planning to get any action on your date night.

We’ve been letting him run naked around the house these past two days, and we have potties strategically placed in his favorite playing locations. We’ve been asking him ad nauseam if he has to use the potty, and we’ve been plopping him down every twenty minutes or so whether he says he has to go or not, and. . .

Aside from a few drippings here and there, and one watering of the block box (to his credit, the block box does have pictures of flowers on it) he has been receptive to pissing on the potty.

But the big hurdle of course is the poop. Even though piss is technically more difficult to get out of a rug than a big pile of human shit, there’s something about seeing a big pile of human shit sitting on the rug that is disarming. And when I say disarming, I mean totally fucking disgusting.

But that same shit when put in its proper container suddenly doesn’t seem so disgusting anymore. It almost seems . . . adorable . . . tastefully decorative . . . bucolic. Or at least worthy of a call to grandma. It’s as if the nastiness that is feces somehow has been overridden by the pleasure that a sense of order has returned to the world.

Now that's how to put your shit in a container!

That one of my kids is beginning to understand the concept of putting his shit in a container is a highlight of my parenting career so far. Perhaps this is a sign of good and orderly things to come. Let’s certainly hope so.

Photo Credit (container store): Flickr
All others (author)

See, I’m a new mom. I used to have a fancy job with a fancy paycheck in a fancy office. Now I stay at home with the child and I have to do mom things like cook stupid chickens and clean pee toilets with poop rings around the bowl. We used to have a rule in our house that my husband would clean bathrooms and I would clean the rest of the house. My theory is that boys and penises are dirtier than girls and vaginas, so boys should have to deal with their bathroom dirt. Well, that rule was shit on and lit on fire when I quit my job. I now have to clean everything. Like pee toilets.

You may be like, well my kid misses the toilet too, it’s normal. Sister, unless your kid is 31 years old with a fondness for fiber, we have different problems. Now I know that some of you reading this are men. So I want to know, is this laziness? Is this simply a math issue? Height + Distance = a pee soaked mess? Or maybe this is just a man in a hurry, whipping things around to get out of the bathroom. OR OR OR has this man has been frightened in the bathroom by a ghost or zombie and spun around real quick creating a lawn watering effect? 

If we look even closer you can see that there are in fact multiple streams of pee flowing down the front of the bowl and in fact, drips and puddles of pee on the floor. This implies a frequency of floor pissing. I don’t think we’ve had frequent ghosts and if we did, I’d think one would get used to them by the 500th time.

But the worst part about the pee puddles, is that my toilet and the area around it is used as a part of my makeshift full length mirror. It’s the only one in the house that allows me to see my shoes and also potential fashion disasters like inappropriate vagina shorts. See figure 2. And now I realize I’ve been traipsing in man urine multiple times a day.

Help me friends. Tell me why oh why I have pee on the *outside* of my toilet so I can in fact build a case against cleaning the bathrooms ever again. Please also express your support for the “women shouldn’t have to clean bathrooms ever” movement. We can make a difference together.

I used to be awesome, then I had a baby. Now I’m awesome with a baby. My hobbies include testing my breast milk for alcohol content and anything that Bravo TV has to offer. I have a bff necklace for my dvr and 2 wigs for my cats. I document my shenanigans on my blog. People read it and I’m not sure why. You can be one of those people too. MODG

These posts are helpful if you’re all, “WTF should I wear to a blogging conference?!” Here’s a brief summary of those:

• Wear comfortable but cute shoes!
• Shop your own closet for outfits you already love & feel good in!
• Spice up your basics with some funky accessories!
• Make sure your dress isn’t short enough to see your tampon string hanging out of your vagina!

If you’re still not sure what to pack or if you find yourself wanting to take a shit on & then set fire to your wardrobe, go shopping with someone who will steer you away from khaki capris with lobsters embroidered on them.

If you are more of a visual learner like me, I have provided examples of what NOT to wear.

Unless you enjoy people ogling your body parts or wondering about your mental stability, I would refrain from wearing any of these:

And please stop yourself from resembling any of these following outfits.

(Models provided involuntarily by some of our extraordinarily good looking writing staff). 

Faiqa!

Jessica!

Anissa!

Ron!

Jared!

Robin! (that's me with some silly asians)

Ron (again)! He's just so darn photogenic!

Britt!

Betadad! In a swirling poop costume!

If you find yourself desperately wanting to wear any of these outfits in a large crowd hoping that it will make you famous on the internets, please seek a therapist & tell him or her that you need to address your issue with negative attention.

If you stick to these wise guidelines, you’re destined to have a wildly successful conference experience.

You might even look good enough to sext over DM. That’s the goal, right?

Except it’s not a turd, it’s a burnt hot dog.

We left it on the floor at my friend’s house during a party so people would think someone actually crapped on the floor. But then her dog ate it. She’s such a bitch. (The dog, not my friend).

I know you are just dying to see that, so here it is:

I voluntarily married THAT guy.

While I was searching for this beautiful photographic moment on facebook, I kept coming across some of the most ridiculous pictures of my friends, family & internet acquaintances.

I’m very aware of the amount of sheer absurd, awesomeness that oozes out of the people around me.

These people are like presents from God. I want to share them with you.

Allow me to bless your eyeballs & your soul.

Don’t worry, nobody’s showing off their taint or anything. Those are locked away in my blackmail file.

I’m going to refrain from explaining the situation because it’s more fun for me to imagine you looking at them & thinking “WTF IS GOING ON HERE?”

Good LORD, I associate with a bunch of crazy ass white people.

]]> http://aiminglow.com/2011/03/crazy-ass-white-people/feed/ 19 http://aiminglow.com/2009/11/shes-so-getting-book-deal/ http://aiminglow.com/2009/11/shes-so-getting-book-deal/#comments Tue, 17 Nov 2009 13:00:04 +0000 Katie Motherbumper http://aiminglow.com/?p=2474 Location: The Dinner Table

Participants: My family (me, husband, and the four year old)

Subject: Frankly, I’m not quite sure

For the record, no one wanted to cook or do dishes so pizza it is! It was delivery and definitely delissimo.

4yo: Mommy, can you take me to a mommy blog someday?

husband: *snort*

me: Uh…sure… you mean you want to go to BlogHer?

4yo: No mommy, I want to go to a mommy blog.

me: Yeah, okay… I’ll take you to a mommy blog right after dinner.

I figured I would sort out the logistics of that one after eating. Best to “reserve that thinking stuff for times when you’ve got a full tummy” is my credo.

4yo: Thanks Mommy.

Silence ruled while pizza is inhaled. Between slices the conversation picked up again.

husband to 4yo: So do you want to write a mommy blog?

4yo: Yes

me: Really?

One would think with the example that has been set for her that the last thing on this planet this child would want to do is blog.

4yo: YES

husband: You need a topic or focus otherwise no one will read you.

me: Is that my problem?

husband ignores me and continues to 4yo: So what will you write about?

4yo pauses. After some deep thought, a huge smile spreads across her face.

4yo: POOP! I’ll write about poop!

me: You are going to be a very successful blogger my dear.