May I Have Your Attention, Please

Hi, followers. First off, let me say that I’m so excited you all have subscribed to my blog! I appreciate all the comments and messages that I have received from you all.

I wanted to let you all know that I have a legit .com website now. Woot! This girl is still basking in the glory that she started a website (I had LOTS of help from my BFF). You can now follow me at mediocreatbestmama.com. Look at the sidebar of my new website and you will see a section where you can subscribe to the blog via email. I’m sorry you’re having to do this twice. I honestly tried to transfer you all over to my new website, but I failed. Five times.

Thank you again, subscribers. I hope you have a good laugh and feel better about yourselves after reading through my blog. That’s all I ever wanted.

XOXO,

KM

I…Peed on the Guy of my Dreams

Remember the guy you only dreamt of dating in high school? I had the rare chance to date that guy. Caleb and I started dating in high school. I was the quiet, forgettable, band member. He was the popular, super athletic, track star. When Caleb showed interest in me by asking for my AIM account name, (remember those days?) I was beside myself.

Caleb and I were walking around a local park a couple of months after we started dating. Flirting shamelessly. Young and in love. Caleb thought it would be fun to have me sit on his shoulders as we walked around the park. I think he wanted to show off his muscular strength. Although having a ninety pound, scrawny female sit on your shoulders doesn’t necessarily display physical power.

I climbed onto his shoulders. An unsteadiness came over me. I felt like I was about to fall. Laughter consumed me. I suppose I thought laughing would hide the fact that I was scared to be 5 feet off the ground. Before mounting Caleb, I didn’t notice I had to pee. As I laughed uncontrollably, it became glaringly obvious my bladder was full. For now.

“Let me down! Let me down!” It was too late. As Caleb squatted down and bent over to let me down, the pee poured over his shoulders like a pitiful waterfall after a drought. I don’t practice kegels, so stopping the flow was impossible. The urine trickled over his head as I dismounted. Caleb swears it went into his mouth. That’s his own damn fault. Who opens their mouth as someone is peeing on their head?

I reached the ground, surveying the scene that just unfolded. Caleb was bent forward with his hands in the air like he was about to go into surgery. The back of his shirt was wet. My shorts, however, were soaked. This is it. This is how our relationship ends. I will forever be a running joke amongst Caleb and his friends as the girl who pissed on him that one time.

Not knowing what to say, I waited on Caleb to speak first. “I think I have a towel in my car,” he said. I stood piss soaked in the middle of the park as the guy of my dreams ran to his car to fetch a towel for me to wipe the urine off myself. We quietly cleaned ourselves off and began walking back to his car.

The silent walk back to the car was becoming unbearable. In an attempt to retain what little dignity I had, I finally uttered, “Well, I had to mark my territory.”

It’s been twelve years since our last accident.

I…Botched a Hall of Fame Speech

Preface

Public speaking is not my thing. This introvert’s neck breaks out in a rash thinking of a large crowd listening to my voice.

My friend, Anna, was inducted into Lee University’s Athletic Hall of Fame. Our former coach from our college cross country days was supposed to introduce her, but he bailed on her hours before the ceremony was to begin. I was Anna’s only option. Lucky her.

When Anna said she needed me to introduce her at the ceremony I promptly texted my cross country coach of a husband and asked him to send me a speech for Anna’s introduction. The extent of practicing this speech was frantically reading said text at red lights as I picked up my sons from daycare and transported them to my parent’s house.

I arrived at the ceremony wishing I had snagged one of my husband’s Xanax. Nervousness came over me in waves, tightening my throat with each crash. I tried not to let Anna see how nervous I was. I didn’t want to make her feel bad. After all, her athletic success is to blame for all this.

“Next up is Kristin Morgan introducing Anna Hrushka.” I calmly arrived at the podium, telling myself that all I had to do is read the text Caleb sent me. I’m a reading teacher. I can read, right? I stood behind the podium looking out at the crowd that consisted of all my husband’s coworkers. My heart began pounding, my voice quivered as I began to speak.

As I read the speech, my voice began to shake uncontrollably. I sounded like I was going to cry. Maybe the audience thought I was moved by Anna’s accomplishments. Dear God, I’m not going to make it. My voice is going to give out. As a defense mechanism, my brain began searching for a way out of this horrible blunder. Should I fake a seizure? If I ran out of the room would anyone notice? I could always pee my pants and blame it on some phantom medical problem.

By the end of the speech I had no idea what I was saying. I read the words mindlessly. I began switching around words in my sentences. My only saving grace is that this all took place at a university affiliated with the Pentecostal church. I’m hoping they think the spirit came over me, and I began speaking in tongues. I vaguely remember hearing someone say, “Praise God,” when I finished my speech. It was either in affirmation of the spirit moving or he was happy that my speech was over. I’m going with the former.

I…Qweefed During Yoga

I queefed during yoga class. It was loud. The two women next to me started to turn their heads in my directions, but, not wanting to see the shame in my eyes, quickly turned their heads away.

When I’m embarrassed I sometimes giggle uncontrollably. For the remainder of the practice, I fought the urge to let out my laughter and get the awkwardness out in the open, possibly announcing, “That was me guys! Sorry! Birthing babies sure does something to a gal’s body.” My common sense told me otherwise.

The hobby that once gave me peace and tranquility is now causing me anxiety. How can I find my inner peace when I’m worried air might loudly expel from my body at any moment? Should I have my chakras examined? What the hell is a chakra?

With time, I’m sure this unease will wither away. Until then, a glass a wine before yoga class should help this yogi relax.

 

 

Take Time for Yourself

Moms are frequently described as selfless. It’s true. We give and we give. It’s by the grace of God I shave my armpits daily and remember to wear a bra to work. But eventually we will run out of steam, and how can we pour into our children’s lives when our own cup is empty? You’ll have nothing to give. You will end up stressed, yelling at your husband because he didn’t read your mind that you wanted him to bring you coffee in bed, or screaming at your children to, “Put the damn cushion back on the couch because I’ve told you a hundred times not to take the cushions off the couch!” (true story).

Some of you may feel guilty for taking a moment for yourself. I encourage you to take a look at the grand scheme of things. Do you think your daughter will end up on the pole because you booked yourself a massage? Are you worried that when you return from your mani/pedi your baby will smell the formaldehyde on your freshly polished nails and call you out for being selfish? She won’t. What will happen is you will feel more equipped to handle the daily stresses of motherhood.

When your husband doesn’t read your mind that you want coffee in bed, maybe you won’t fantasize about what it would be like to punch him in the face. When your child takes the couch cushion off the couch for the millionth time, you’ll yell, “Put the cushion back on the couch because I’ve told you a hundred times not to take the cushions off the couch!” and you’ll leave the expletive out this time. Don’t ever feel guilty for taking time for yourself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Silent Thoughts Gain Power

After my first child Luke was born I wondered why having a baby wasn’t as magical as I imagined. I thought you were supposed to lounge around in your pajamas all day while snuggling an adorable baby. In reality, postpartum consisted of raw nipples, stitches in my lady parts, and sleep deprivation so horrifying I seriously considered giving my baby to someone, anyone who wanted him.

I had postpartum depression. I hated myself for tiny mistakes I made in my role of mother. If I didn’t get Luke’s diaper on right away because he was squirming, I thought I should kill myself because Luke would be better off with another mom. If I put Luke to bed and he woke up thirty minutes later, I thought I was a despicable mother because I didn’t even know how to put my own baby to bed.

I could not stop the dark thoughts I had about myself as a mother. After one of my small mishaps, I would hide somewhere in the house crying hysterically while mentally berating myself for every mistake I had made that day. I was hypersensitive to comments made by anyone. If someone said, “Do you think he needs a blanket?” I thought, “Oh, my great aunt visiting from Texas thinks I don’t know how to take care of my child. She knows he needs a blanket, and I am thoroughly unaware of my child’s basic need for warmth.”

No one knew the shame I felt on a daily basis for not living up to my unrealistic standards of what motherhood should look like.

I’ve often contemplated where I came to obtain this perception of what motherhood should be. Pinterest? Facebook? Every diaper commercial I’ve ever seen since childhood? Moms, we have literally been brainwashed since birth about what we should look like, what we should wear, and, yes, what type of mother we should be.

I decided to delete all my social media accounts. Some of you may cringe at the thought. But how will everyone see my adorable little human I’ve created if I don’ t make my hourly post of my baby sleeping like an angel? If you can’t commit to deleting your accounts (Which I totally get. It may be your only form of communication with some of your family or friends), might I suggest taking a break from social media, at least until you feel more established and confident in your new found role of mother.

So how did I escape this hellish nightmare my life had become? I told someone how I felt. Your thoughts lose their power when you say them out loud. Yes, it can be totally embarrassing to tell someone you thought about giving away your new born baby or that you lay in bed the other night wondering if you could successfully kill yourself using a belt. It’s awkward, mortifying, and embarrassing, but it must be done. Find a trustworthy relative or friend whom you know will not judge you and confide your thoughts and feelings in them. If those people don’t exist for you right now or you can’t possibly imagine telling your mother that you thought about throwing her new grandbaby out the window, try talking to a counselor. I did.

Silent thoughts gain power. Don’t give them power. Tell someone how you feel.

Welcome to the Club

Being a new mom is hard. Like suck the life out of you hard. I imagine it might be a similar experience to one Navy SEALs in training go through: Hell Week. Hell Week consists of 5 ½ days of cold, wet, sleep deprivation. Hell Week for a new mom is more like a month of engorged, leaking breasts, squirt bottles to wash the urine off yourself, endless amounts of stool softener so your private parts don’t rip open when you finally take a dump, and, of course, sleep deprivation.  You know, now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure all new moms should be considered honorary members of the Navy SEALs. I’m joking, but we are pretty amazing.

So why do we continue to procreate? Why continue going through this life sucking hell week? Maybe it’s because our husband’s pull out game is subpar. Maybe it’s because we drank a little too much wine at dinner, and we were feeling extra sexy after that second glass. Whatever the reason, we continue making babies, thus more women become moms every day. If you’re a new mom, welcome to the club. Club mom isn’t for the faint of heart.