I hate adulting. And I don’t mean that I hate being an adult. I actually love it. I can eat ice-cream for dinner, go to bed whenever I want, make my own decisions and I even enjoy the satisfaction of paying bills.

What I hate is the actual term, “adulting,” that I keep hearing 20-somethings use every time they “accomplish” something:

“You guys! I am so good at adulting, I cooked my own dinner and remembered to water the plants!”

“Paid my rent on time this month #adulting.”

“Adulting so hard in my pencil skirt!”

It is sad to me that a 20-something feels the need to brag about the fact that they have just now learned to prepare a meal, wear real clothes, be responsible or take care of something other than themselves. My parents taught me how to do this stuff when I was in middle school. Hence the reason I had created my own business, learned how to budget and plan, cared for our dog, and prepared simple meals by the time I was 13. If you’re 20+ and just now figuring it out, I wouldn’t brag about it. I feel as embarrassed for you as I do for someone who hasn’t yet learned to read.

Grow up and take some initiative. You’re too old to be cute. These are the things you should know how to do by the time you’re 20 (it doesn’t mean you have to like them), no exceptions:

• Cook simple meals.
• Buy work appropriate clothing.
• Shop for groceries and use coupons.
• Budget.
• Pay bills on time.
• Create a resume and apply for jobs.
• Keep a plant alive.
• Keep an animal alive.
• Care for a small child.
• Do laundry.
• Clean.
• Make a doctor’s appointment.
• Open a bank account.
• Manage a credit card responsibly.
• Check the oil and tire pressure in your car.
• Have a conversation without looking at your phone.
• Contribute to your retirement.
• Get insurance-car, health, renter’s.
• Unclog a drain.
• Own and use basic tools-hammer, nails, screwdriver, tape measure.
• Stop bragging about your inability to handle basic real-world tasks.

Yes, you read that right. We are not taking our one-year-old out to parade him around the neighborhood after his bed time, collecting candy that he’s not allowed to eat. I refuse to spend $100 on candy for kids that don’t even live in our neighborhood or are way too old to be out collecting candy. I will not sit in a lawn chair at the end of the driveway because they are too lazy to walk up to our front porch.

A few years ago, we realized (or rather, my parents realized and told us) that you can get into ANY restaurant on Halloween, especially if it’s on a weekend. This year, Halloween is on a Saturday and everyone will either be handing out candy, trick-or-treating, or going to parties. It is the one day all year when you can walk into any restaurant, sit down and eat. You can even bring a baby with you because there’s no one to care if he cries, babbles too loudly, or makes a mess.

Until my son realizes what he’s missing, we’ll be dressing in costume and going out to a nice restaurant on Halloween, feasting on treats that are way better than anything you can stuff in an old pillowcase.

I used to be really good at cleaning. Like a little OCD. Dusting baseboards, sweeping, vacuuming, then mopping and sweeping again, hospital corners on the bed, spending crazy amounts of time attempting to fold that damn bottom sheet, etc. I would somehow spend all day cleaning my tiny 800 sq. ft. house.

Then I got a really fluffy dog (Sam) and I slacked off a tiny bit because I had less time and it was a losing battle. No matter what I did, the fur was everywhere. Then I got married and I slacked off even more because I didn’t want to feel like a house wifey maid. Then I had a kid and now my cleaning is this:

“Sam! Can you lick up this milk?”

“Sam! Do you like pureed peas?”

“Sam! Can you maybe swing your tail a little closer to the banister? It’s looking kind of dusty…”

I wear clothes out of the hamper and consider a rinsed dish reusable. My husband dusts with his bare hand. My son regularly licks the windows clean as he watches the cars drive by. Sam eats anything that falls on the floor. Everyone carries their own weight in this household.

I hate grocery shopping, but I love to cook. One of the things I hate most about grocery shopping is creating the list and then rewriting it so that it is in order by aisle. It takes forever, but if I don’t do it, I’ll wander back and forth 157 times and spend all day at the grocery store.

After years of procrastinating and whining about grocery shopping, I found this idea on Pinterest-hello brilliance! Why did I not think of this myself? The template they provided wasn’t exactly adaptable, so I created my own Master Inventory List in Excel to make it easier to manipulate. Feel free to use mine, but it’s easy to create your own. This might sound daunting, but it’s so worth it because it also helps make sure you don’t forget anything.

This will take awhile to set up, but ONLY ONCE. All you do is write down everything you typically buy and keep on hand. If it helps, look in your pantry, fridge, laundry room, etc. to make sure you don’t miss anything. Think about the recipes you make the most and make sure you include all of those ingredients. Organize your list by aisles and play around with the data in Excel until you can squish it onto a page or two. Make sure you leave a little room to write in odd things you might need less frequently.

Any time you need to go to the store, print out the list, highlight anything you need to buy and look over anything not highlighted to make sure you aren’t out of anything you might need. Then shop! The list will already be in order, making it easy to zip in and out of the grocery store.

Another trick is to keep a few copies on your fridge. As you notice items that run out, highlight them so it’s ready to go. You’re welcome, World. Now if only I could do something about those people who take up an entire aisle as they contemplate the differences between various brands of diced tomatoes for 45 minutes…

Dogs LOVE diapers. To a dog, a dirty diaper is the king of all scents. What may seem fairly disgusting to a human, a dog considers a convenient container full of hopes and dreams. Being human, it never occurred to me that my dog would find a diaper so irresistible. But there he was beside me at the changing table, nose twitching eagerly, silently reveling in the happiness of his new favorite smell. It never bothered me, until one night, we left the door to the baby’s room open by mistake and went out to dinner…

When we returned home, we were shocked to see that the Diaper Genie had exploded. The room reeked of urine and poo, while shredded pieces of diaper and those tiny little absorbent gel balls covered the carpet. At first, it was comical. Add another funny dog/baby story to the list, we should have known better than to leave that door open. We giggled as we cleaned up the room, trying hard to admonish Sam, who had already whipped out his “guilty dog” face.

I wondered if this had ever happened to anyone else and did a quick Google search to amuse myself. Suddenly, my blood ran cold and my heart began to pound. Those tiny little gel balls could expand in a dog’s stomach and could cause serious issues or even death! Of course I panicked, alerted the hubs and we frantically checked Sam for signs of danger. We considered calling the emergency vet, but he seemed okay. We repeated this procedure several times throughout the night and were relieved that nothing happened. Thankfully, Sam is more of a chewer/shredder and not much of a consumer of foreign objects, so it didn’t turn out as tragically as it could have.

Yet another shocking revelation of parenthood. Dog lovers, lock up those Diaper Genies!

My son is actually my second baby. My first is my dog, Sam. I could start another blog based solely on his antics, but for now, I just wanted to share his adoption story. I picked him up the day after Thanksgiving in 2009. I had just bought my first home all on my own and felt accomplished, but extremely alone. Nights were particularly miserable. I had always had a dog growing up, but for the last 7 years, I’d been living in dorms and apartments and greatly missed having a furry companion. For fun, I began to search online, looking for a small-medium sized dog. Then I found him. He had the sweetest, most pathetic face, and an adorably awkward, gangly body.

I fell in love. There wasn’t much of a description for him, just that he was fixed, possibly house trained and part St. Bernard. Not exactly the small-medium sized dog I was looking to share my tiny house with, but I felt drawn to him.

I recruited my mom to come to the shelter with me, reasoning that she would be able to talk me out of this crazy idea. No such luck. We walked into the shelter and their three-legged dog mascot came up to greet us. My mother promptly burst into tears and continued to sob as we wandered past all of the caged animals. I was unusually calm through the cacophony of barks, whines and rattling cages. Every dog we passed barked enthusiastically, jumping up and down, demanding my attention. Then I saw Sam. He regarded me with a quiet curiosity, gently approaching the front of his cage. He didn’t wag his tail or try too hard, but his eyes were full of hope. I walked away from his cage and watched him sadly return to the back wall, following me with his eyes. I came back and he again moved forward. We repeated the dance a couple more times and I put my hand up to the front of the cage. His paw met mine and I felt my heart melt. I asked to take him for a walk and led him out to the field behind the shelter.

He took this act as good faith and expressed his joy by jumping onto my chest, slathering me in kisses and mud. I tried to walk him, but he only had eyes for me and kept tripping over himself. I knew we were meant to be. So even though I had absolutely nothing prepared to bring home a dog, I packed him up in my car, marveling at the way he immediately settled in. He was filthy, covered in fleas, worms and matted fur, but he was undoubtedly mine. We gave him a bath, bought him some supplies and sat on my parents’ front porch, wondering what to call him. He went three days as “Dog” before I finally tried “Sam” out loud and saw his ears perk. Sam it was.

When I was creating a registry, I spent a ridiculous amount of time researching and reading reviews before finally deciding on the perfect infant car seat. When it had been purchased, I breathed a huge sigh of relief, glad that I would never have to make that decision again. I loved this seat, my husband loved this seat, our baby loved this seat. All was right with the world.

Around 6 months, I noticed that my 97th percentile son was making this car seat look like I had stuffed a baby elephant in a kangaroo pouch. WTF was going on?

As usual, I turned to Google for answers and was SHOCKED to learn that now I needed to buy a “convertible” car seat. For some reason, I had it in my head that I only needed the one car seat. They would outgrow it in 3-4 years and then just sit in the car like a normal person. Until then, I would cart them around in that convenient, adorable little bucket seat.

As I continued my research, I discovered that my state just passed a law that said I must keep my child in a car seat until they were EIGHT. EIGHT YEARS OLD. They make car seats for eight-year-olds????

Grumpily, I started researching these convertible car seats and found it infinitely more difficult than selecting an infant seat. They are EXPENSIVE and there are so many different kinds and features. Not only that, but when I consulted my birth board for recommendations, I made another alarming discovery: If two parents are sharing daycare pickup/drop off duty, they recommend that you purchase TWO. I had planned on just leaving the seat at the daycare as I had previously, but apparently, they are more difficult and time consuming to install and weigh a metric ton. Great.

After obsessing over my options for weeks, I finally made a decision. And regretted it almost immediately. So I did more research, spent more money and made another decision I could live with. As long as he doesn’t keep growing like Andre the Giant, this WILL be the last car seat I will ever have to buy, and it will be passed down through generations. I will tell my great-great-grandchildren the story of this car seat and everyone will have their picture taken in it…

Wait…what? Car seats EXPIRE?! Are you effing kidding me?

In my first post, I mentioned that I often encounter things about parenting and babies that are…surprising, to put it mildly. There are things that I have found out that cause my still adjusting hormones to ignite into flames or make me weep uncontrollably. For example-formula is primarily made of corn syrup.

First of all, if this is brand new information, I’m really sorry to be the one to break the news to you. Don’t freak out yet though, just keep it together and read.

Second of all, spare me the lecture, sanctimoms. I breastfed for eight months. Well, I legit breastfed for 2 weeks, hated every single minute of that unimaginable torture, and became best friends with an electric pump. So let’s say I bottle fed breastmilk for 8 months. At 8 months, I felt like I had served my time. Six months was my goal and I had exceeded it. I had had enough of sitting in the freezing supply closet at work, eating oatmeal for breakfast every day, only going out and sleeping for a couple hours at a time, wearing ugly bras and obsessing about the number of ounces I was making. I quit and switched to formula.

I’m not going to lie, at first, the freedom was glorious. Glorious, I tell you. Our little guy didn’t care about the switch, all was going well, although, DAMN, is formula made of crushed diamonds?! Why is it $25 a can?! And how can this kid go through a can in three days?? Whatever, the freedom was worth it.

In my quest for a better deal, I checked out Amazon. I noticed there were a gajillion reviews and I thought they would be pretty entertaining, like “let’s read some food critics’ thoughts about the inadequate texture of this formula.” I was expecting to see a review that read, “My little Muffy refused to touch this bottle of powdered milk, she prefers the milk of the French llamas who can only be found on top on Mt. Fuji.” Instead, the first thing I read was something like, “LOOK AT THE INGREDIENT LIST. The first ingredient is CORN SYRUP!” Huh? There was no way that was true, I had not heard anything about this. Anywhere. Corn syrup is everything that is wrong with America!!!! We couldn’t be feeding our baby all of America’s problems!!! I ran and grabbed a can of formula. Yup. There it was, smacking me in the face. I had ruined our baby.

I ran to my husband and shoved the can in his face, sobbing and yelling, “CORN SYRUP!!!!!!!!!! WE ARE FEEDING OUR BABY STRAIGHT SUGAR!!!!!!!!” He was unconcerned, as most husbands seem to be. “Sooooo…what do you want to do?”

“I DON’T KNOW!!!!!!”

I ran back upstairs and hysterically called my mother as I simultaneously demanded answers from Google.

Here’s what I uncovered:

-Yes, almost all formulas are made with corn syrup.

-Breastmilk has loads of sugar (which I should have known, since it tastes like fruit juice).

-Billions of babies are fed formula every day and it’s fine.

Just breathe. Why does everyone freak out about corn syrup? Stop inciting unnecessary panic, people! Corn is a vegetable. I am basically giving my baby vegetable juice.

I’m a working mom. It’s rough, but pretty much everything about parenting is. I used to think it would all be easier if I  quit my job, but I’ve learned that stay at home moms just face different kinds of challenges. At least the first time around.

I’m led to believe by family members, friends, and a Pampers commercial that it gets easier the more kids you have. Supposedly, you quit obsessively reading ingredient lists on every product and food, calling the doctor for each new cough and sneeze, Googling colors of baby shit, and caring that your child just handed you yet another fistful of dog fur from the floor. I suspect this is all a trick to get you to have more babies, but I would like my sanity back so very much that I’ll probably have another one just to find out if it’s true.

Parenting has been like running into the ocean in February. No. Being thrown into the ocean in February. While you were asleep. Even though I felt fairly prepared to be a mother and my kid is super chill, there still seem to be an endless amount of surprises. Maybe I didn’t do enough research or spend enough time around people with kids, but there are some things that just floored me. 

Hence, I started this blog to give others a heads up about becoming a parent and because I needed a place to vent about life in general. Writing has always been my release and I thought it might be fun to take it online.  Thanks for coming along for the ride!