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I Am An Average Mom


  • I pack my boys’ homemade lunches every day, healthy too! – HA!
  • I get all the laundry done every day – well, it does depend on the week
  • I help my children with their homework – mostly never, I’m on special projects – the Hubs handles homework
  • Their clothes are always ironed – all of the time, it’s an obsession of mine
  • I clean my house – rarely ever — I outsourced that job
  • I get my children to school on time – more often than not
  • I cook a seven-course healthy meal for my family every night – not exactly
  • I listen intently to every word that comes out of my son’s mouth – 99% of the time – I trained myself to stop what I am doing (even if it’s mid-wipe) to listen to my sons, if they’re talking I am listening (mostly!)
  • I attend every single game of my sons – seriously? Not only is that impossible but sitting at a 9-year-old baseball game is like watching paint dry for 2 hours
  • I never scream at my children – hello, do you know me? I am Italian and from New York
  • I am consistent with my threats and always follow through – totally working on this

When I was away with my besties on our ‘girls weekend’ we were barely two hours and five ciders into yucking it up, feeding off cheese, downing wine, rum chatta and shoving nine months of barely seeing each other into a 53-hour weekend that I proudly and honestly declared to my friends that “I am an average mom.” That I am nowhere close to knocking the cover off the ball of this thing called “Motherhood.” I am not making home-made costumes for Halloween, there are no seven course meals at my house, my laundry is barely folded and put away. I forget to the move the Elf – – on the daily.  And sometimes I rerun the dishwasher cause I don’t want to unload it – c’mon – there are more dirty dishes (don’t you dare fucking judge me, I am completely aware that I am ruining the environment when I take that extremely lazy route). Oh! If I can outsource any job in my house, I will.

One a scale from child protective services to June Clever. I am right in the middle.

I am an average mom.

I mean – the name of my blog could have given ya a clue right? Me and motherhood, 12 years later and we’re still getting acquainted.

My children know it too.  When I told my youngest son that we have to bring in cupcakes for his in-school birthday party – he said “Can we please make cupcakes? I don’t want to be one of those kids that bring in store bought cupcakes.”  I kid you not – this is verbatim from my soon- to-be nine-year-olds mouth – ya see, he was that kid for eight years- he knows damn well that I am average too.

My ride-and-dies agreed. None of us feel like we are living up to the expectations of what some of the other moms in our world are doing – the pressure of parenting is … So. Much. All. The. Time.

Who is holding us to the fire and putting this pressure on us? Is it the mom whom plans the insanely fun playdates?  The parenting magazines that tell us to bento box our kids lunches? The stay-at-home dad who built the ‘American Ninja Warrior’ course in his back yard? Could it be the endless declarations from parents across the globe (mmmm Facebook) that their kiddos are on the high honor roll, just hit a homer on their elite travel baseball team or that little Susie took the stage at Carnegie Hall?  Or is it the senseless expectations I put on myself when the little buggers came screaming into world?

It’s definitely all of it, but mostly the expectations that I put on myself.  Why would I do that? Did I watch way too many Brady Bunch episodes?  Wait, that couldn’t be cause I am clearly in the running with Peg from Married with Children.

Let’s face it –being a parent is hard. It’s hard if you stay-at-home (frankly I think it’s harder if you’re a SAHM/D) and it’s hard if you go and foster a career. And it is by far 150% harder if you going at this parenting thing alone.

My “Come-to-Jesus” moment was when I realized it was okay to be an average mom.  I could breathe knowing that it is okay that some weeks I may just decoupage the crap out of some school project and other weeks it is perfectly find to run last-minute to 7-11 to bring in stale store-bought cupcakes.

About two weeks after I made my average mom declaration to my best friends I was in the car with my sons and husband.  From the back seat of the car I hear my 12-year-olds voice “Mom, Dad” , I quickly turn down the music, I mean it is the rare moment he looked up from his phone – “in class this week we had to pick a person we wanted to sit on a bench and talk to.”  Before I could say so “who did you pick?” The 12-year-old said “Do you know who I picked?” I instantly thought it was his dad or either one of his grandfather’s — I mean his dad is his hero, as well as his grandfathers. Over the hum of the tires rolling down the road the 12 year-old sweetly stated “I picked you Mommy.”  In complete shock — tears filled my eyes, I  proudly looked over at my husband- I must admit in an ‘in-your-face-moment’- I BEAMED with joy, I mean, this was my total Sally Field moment  – my sons never pick me over their fun daddy!

Well hot-damn – I’ll be an average mom any day of the week!


Posted in The Little Buggers Tagged with: , , , , , ,

Achy Breaky Insides

By Deanna

I was applying my make-up yesterday morning, what little I wear, trying to get out the door, shooting orders like a drill sergeant to the boys to get their back-packs packed, brush their teeth, and get jackets on when I noticed out of the corner of my half-eye lined eye my littlest bugger looking up at me, one hand on one hip, and the other pointing at me as if he was an old schoolmarm ready to scold me.

I turned slowly, with a little trepidation in my voice and said “Yes”, knowing that something was about to hit.

My little bugger, um bruiser had something to say, he shook his finger, bounced on one foot and bellowed “I’m not going to school today!” with as much piss and vinegar as a WWF wrestler.

“Oh really? Why?” I replied trying to not sound annoyed at this new wrench thrown in the already skewed morning routine.

As he bounced on his other foot, Matthew said in a sheepish voice “Because Angelina is gunna marry Timouthy, and I want to marry Angelina”.

Pissed off with now Angelina, and Matthew, because they are four, and clearly, Angelina has no idea what’s she’s missing I replied: “Well, does Angelina know that you want to marry her?”

“Yeah, I asked her, but she told me she was going to marry Timouthy”, the reply from Matthew was laced with such distaste for Timothy I got a little worried that he might have a throw down when, actually if we ever got to school.

“Well, Matthew, you don’t have to worry about who you’re going marry now, you have some time to decide.” I replied in an authoritative voice, well authoritative for me.

He stormed away, and I was pleased with myself that I sailed past another mommy-land mine.


Another harried morning (what else is new) I’m in my car, haphazardly applying make-up at each light (don’t judge) as I drove Matthew to school; from the stern of the car I hear Matthew scream over Adele’s “Rumor has it” (he was holding my phone in his hand jamming to music):

“Mommy! Mommy! MOM! Timouthy doesn’t want to marry Angelina anymore; she said she’ll marry me.”

“Oh really? So you’re going to get married to Angelina now” I said with a little distaste in my mouth as if “My son is not second best, he’s THE best.”

“I’m marrying Eva.”

“Oh really?”, “Does Eva know you are marrying her?”

“Yep!” he replied with a Fonzie like coolness.

“Great, when’s the wedding?”

“When we want it to be”, he replied so casually.

Well, I hope it’s not till he’s 30 I said in my head.

Than it dawned on me, and I threw out: “Wait, what happened to Angelina? You don’t want to marry her? She said she’ll marry you now.”

“She’s my Ex now.”

Perplexed, as in how the hell does a four year old know what the hell an EX is. I was almost speechless.

“Your Ex? What’s an Ex Matthew?“ I said inquisitively.

“Ummm, I dunno, ummmm someone that’s locked in your brain and breaks your insides into little tiny pieces.”

Huh? What? Really? Stumped again.  The conversation ended.

Cause that my friends broke my insides into tiny little pieces. At four? Angelina that little hussy is locked in his brain? Farts and poopies should be locked in his brain at four.

But I sense what the real problem is, Matthew is really a lover not a fighter, that there will be a lot of Angelina’s, that his insides may be broken into tiny little pieces more than once, and he has to stop listening to my music. NOW.

Posted in achy breaky heart, adele, deanna, deanna verbouwens, puppy love, rumor has it, The Little Buggers

What Every Mom Wants for Mother’s Day


Time and Sleep.

Not too much to ask for… right?

If I had to guess, I’d say 99.9% of Moms are on board with this.


Personally, I want to time stand fucking still, so I have enough time to:

  • Go to the bathroom and shower alone with the door open (if I choose) and not have anyone walk in.
  • To drink that cup of coffee, hell sangria without having to explain to anyone that it’s “mommy’s drink”.
  • To actually go on a date with my husband and enjoy each other’s company – yes I married my husband a person that I want to “spend” the rest of my life with (on most days) but never ever see!
  •  I want enough time to get to my son’s baseball or soccer games and literally watch a game from start to finish.
  • I want time to stand still so these children of mine can just stop growing up – I have a 10 year old, how the hell did that happen?
  •  I want enough time in a day to actually talk on the phone without being in the car (before you get on my back – blue tooth rocks!) rushing to the next activity or missing my exit cause I’ve been chatting too much, or hell driving around in circles talking because I know the minute I step in the door all bets are off.
  •  And if time can stand still so I can make plans with my friends, not cancel and reschedule, and reschedule again, that would be great! Oh and can it stand still long enough so that when we finally get out we can be out all night and not have to worry getting home for the sitter!

And I want Sleep.


Fucking SLEEP.

That needs no interpretation. AT. ALL.






Posted in The Little Buggers, Uncategorized Tagged with: , , , , , ,