I just want to pee alone, p.1

I Just Want to Pee Alone, page 1


I Just Want to Pee Alone

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I Just Want to Pee Alone

  I Just Want to Pee Alone

  a collection of humorous essays by

  Kick Ass Mom Bloggers


  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2013 @throat_punch Books

  License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com



  The Naked Starfish

  By Kim Bongiorno of Let Me Start By Saying

  I Love Disney World. Wait, No. That Whole Title is a Typo

  By Karen Alpert of Baby Sideburns

  Eat Poop, Laugh. No, I Did Not Forget a Comma

  By Patti Ford of Insane in the Mom-Brain

  Kids and Cleaning: Just Kill Me Now

  By Teri Biebel of Snarkfest

  Love, Tears, and a Few Scattered Ashes

  By Meredith Spidel of The Mom of the Year

  Why I Belong in Coach

  By Julianna W. Miner of Rants from Mommyland

  In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Penis

  By Bethany Thies of Bad Parenting Moments

  A Cougar is Born

  By Andrea of Underachiever's Guide to Being a Domestic Goddess

  The Poop Diaries

  By Amy Bozza of My Real Life

  So She Thought She Could Cut Off My Stroller

  By Keesha Beckford of Mom's New Stage

  The Treachery of Toys

  By Alicia of Naps Happen

  What You Mock, You Become

  By Johi Kokjohn-Wagner of Confessions of a Corn Fed Girl

  The Big Reveal

  By Jessica Watson of Four Plus an Angel

  How Moving Made Me Want to Become a Carnie

  By Kelley Nettles of Kelley's Break Room

  Pregnancy Secrets From the Inner Sanctum

  By Tara of You Know it Happens at Your House Too

  Embarrassment, Thy Name is Motherhood

  By Amy of Funny is Family

  A Stranger in the Land of Twigs and Berries

  By Suzanne Fleet of Toulouse & Tonic

  The Other Mommy War

  By Nicole Leigh Shaw of Ninja Mom Blog

  Don't Stop Believin'

  By Michelle Newman of You're My Favorite Today

  Potty Training and Prostate Exams

  By Stephanie Giese of Binkies and Briefcases

  The Tale of Two Vaginas

  By Susan McLean of Divine Secrets of a Domestic Diva

  My Awkward Period

  By Rachael Pavlik of RachRiot

  Elite Grocery Store Moms Club

  By Stacey Hatton of Nurse Mommy Laughs

  Babies: As Easy as 1, 2, 3!

  By Robyn Welling of Hollow Tree Ventures

  A Pinterest-Perfect Mom, I am Not

  By Anna Sandler of Random Handprints

  Bubble Baths and Shaved Legs

  By Rebecca Gallagher of Frugalista Blog

  Parenting is Taboo

  By Bethany Meyer of I Love Them Most When They're Sleeping

  The Husbands Who Cried Wolf-itis

  By Lisa and Ashley of The Dose of Reality

  The Mom-Chauffeur

  By Kristen of Life on Peanut Layne

  Lumps, Hand Mirrors, and Elephans: My Nightmare Down There

  By Anna Luther of My Life and Kids

  The God's Honest Truth About Breastfeeding

  By Dani Ryan of Cloudy, With a Chance of Wine

  Because I'm the Vagina Boss, That's Why

  By Brenna Jennings of Suburban Snapshots


  By Kim Forde of The Fordeville Diaries

  Grown Up Words in a Pint-Sized Mouth

  By Tracy Winslow of Momaical

  Giving the Milk Away for Free

  By Kerry Rossow of HouseTalkN

  And Then There was that Time a Priest Called Me a Terrible Mother

  By JD Bailey of Honest Mom

  It's Not a Toomah

  By Jen of People I Want to Punch in the Throat


  This book is dedicated to every mother who dreams of peeing alone.


  Motherhood is tough enough, especially if you can't laugh at the rogue hairs on your chin or when you didn't realize your child accidentally used your toothbrush until after you were done brushing your teeth with it too.

  I've always said I need a village to help me raise my children. I just have one stipulation: if you're going to be in my village, then you'd better have a terrific sense of humor. You can't take yourself too seriously if you're going to help me parent my kids, because I sure don't.

  I don't know about you, but I'm always looking to surround myself with other funny moms, because motherhood is a serious business. You're raising little people here. You're molding the future leaders of the world. But you know what? You're also doing something that women have done for centuries. Sure, you could be raising a future President of the United States, but you could also be raising a future shift manager of Taco Bell, so easy there. Raising kids is tough and you might as well laugh, or else you're going to cry.

  I love my kids. Don't we all? But do you know what else I love? I also love all-day Kindergarten and early bedtimes. I love Moms' Night Out and Date Night with the Hubs. But I especially love anything that gives me five minutes of uninterrupted peace to myself to JUST PEE ALONE!

  A year ago I felt like I was the only funny mom on the block. I couldn't find another mom who thought it was hilarious when my daughter asked me why my "china has a mustache" or when my son thought I was older than my mother. Luckily, I didn't have to look too far. I found a terrific group of hysterical and hilarious women on the internet.

  I've put together a book full of my favorite bloggers and I'm so excited to share them with you. All of these bloggers have such a unique and humorous look at motherhood and I know you'll find a story in here that will resonate with you and make you laugh out loud.

  Jen of People I Want to Punch in the Throat

  The Naked Starfish

  By Kim Bongiorno

  Let Me Start By Saying

  When I was a spritely, single 20-something working in New York City, I never hesitated to pamper myself.

  A sexy satchel would wink at me from a store window: I'd pop in and buy it.

  Sunday afternoons were spent giving myself homemade facials and sparkly pedicures.

  I worked hard, and made a point to hunt down the pampering I deserved.

  From the moment I was first pregnant, and those around me insisted that treats such as cold cuts and nail polish could cut my unborn child's potential IQ in half, I got into the habit of not seeking out the little things that brought me joy. Like soft cheese. And getting too close to a Starbucks.

  Then my son came, and I was too busy crying while searching for his User Manual to consider a manicure or a massage.

  I lasted about a week as a new mom before reaching out to others in my situation online. As exhausted, cranky, and confused as I was, I needed friends.

  It didn't take long for this gaggle of desperate, sleepless women to meet up in person. A handful of us clicked like old friends from the start, and we decided to celebrate making it to our kids' first birthdays with a Moms' Weekend at the spa.

  The concept of an entire weekend away seeme
d crazy. Selfish.

  Totally. Awesome.

  We had our bags packed a month ahead of time.

  In October of 2006, five of us headed out on our kidless adventure. It was the first time any of us had spent a night away from our families since we became parents. For two of us (including me), it was the first and last time we'd get away for a while, since we had already managed to get ourselves knocked up again.

  I was about twelve weeks into a pretty tough pregnancy, but refused to cancel my plans. I had booked a body wrap for Saturday morning, and prayed I'd feel well enough to go through with it. I knew I deserved to relax, but also knew it would take me a week to recover from the effort. Honestly, that weekend would have been considered a success if all that had happened was that we each got two days of uninterrupted bowel movements, but we had a lot of lost pampering time to make up for.

  Why is it that when you try to do nice things for yourself once you're a parent, it always feels like a compromise?

  None of us were in the habit of pampering ourselves anymore. Heck, none of us were in the habit of showering regularly anymore, but we were determined to fight the good fight and make the most of every minute of this vacation from reality.

  We stumbled into our quiet suites and began a weekend of trying to figure out how to relax and enjoy ourselves while wrapped in the threads of Mom Guilt that had secretly wound around us over the past year.

  I woke up the next morning wanting to stay in bed, but insisted on soaking up every luxury I could, even if it killed me, so we allheaded over to the spa facilities.

  I stripped down to my birthday suit in the spa bathroom like the desk clerk told me to do for the wrap, quickly covering up with a fluffy robe, as my less-uptight friends changed in the main locker area. Holding the robe tight, so as to not accidentally flash anyone, I blushed furiously at the thought of someone getting a peek of my private parts due to an overzealous leg crossing or too-loose belt knot.

  With all the poking and prodding I had during my pregnancies, you'd think my prudishness about public nudity would have waned. Not the case. I was still the girl who didn't wear shorts unless it was over a hundred degrees out. I was still the girl who hadn't owned a skirt in fifteen years. I was uncomfortable even with this naked-under-my-robe situation, but fought through it in the name of relaxation.

  Because nothing's more relaxing than battling the threat of a wardrobe malfunction.

  Everyone else comfortably chatted as hints of their cleavage peeked out, and bathrobe hemlines slid up their bare thighs. I averted my eyes, and held on tight until my name was called.

  When we entered my treatment room, table prepped to discreetly wrap me up like a burrito, the lady who was to do my wrap stopped short and said, "I'm sorry, but we can't do wraps on pregnant women."

  I told her that I had confirmed they could with four of their employees, so she went out to grab her manager, who came to tell me that they absolutely could not do it. I asked for a pregnancy massage instead, but they said the only other treatment room available at that time was a body scrub.

  I wanted a wrap. I'd settle for a massage. If I were home, I'd cancel the appointment and wait for exactly what I wanted. Actually, if I were home I'd be elbow-deep in someone else's poop, so I bucked up and accepted the offer of a body scrub. I used to like to try new things, and, really, how bad could it be?

  We walked into the adjoining room, and what stood before me looked like a waterboarding platform for starfish.

  The treatment room was giant and glaringly white. It had a massive chrome rod with seven showerheads hanging from the ceiling, and the floor was made of NYC subway tiles. It was like walking into a kinky couples' resort's shower stall, but without the romance, and with some random lady I had met only seven minutes earlier.

  There was no changing area. There was no privacy screen.

  As casually as she could manage, and without meeting my eye, the therapist told me to remove my robe and lay down on the table.

  Totally naked. On the starfish table.

  Let's take stock. Yes, I wanted to have this luxurious spa treatment done. No, I didn't want this woman seeing my bits and pieces.

  I believe this is what one calls "a dilemma."

  I had to force myself to be reasonable. She sees naked people all the time. You're just another body she has to work on, like she's a bored mechanic and you're a really soft car.

  I took a breath, dropped my robe, and leapt onto the table, facedown.

  She can't see me if I close my eyes, right?

  The water turned on, and the room began steaming up. I was chanting to myself Not Naked Not Naked Not Naked when I felt the delicate smack of a folded up wet washcloth hit me where the sun usually doesn't shine: in an attempt at modesty, she covered up my butt crack.

  Oh yeah, way better now.

  The warm sugar scrub she massaged into me with a round wooden brush felt so surprisingly good, I almost relaxed for a few minutes.

  Then she moved the Vichy shower into place, and turned on the powerful jets.

  Apparently, it is quite therapeutic to pound a woman's spine with rushes of warm water. What is not taken into consideration is that when said woman is not wearing anything on her bottom, the water pressure will make her jellified butt cheeks wiggle violently. No folded-up washcloth can protect a booty from that peculiar sensation.

  As I often do in uncomfortable situations, I burst into a fit of giggles. I mean, how is this at all relaxing? Each cheek was doing some Shakira-like solo dance, and the tiny washcloth was sinking into my Great Divide.

  The therapist ignored my snorting laughter, moved the jets, and advised me to roll over.

  I'm not sure how I didn't see this coming.

  It's one thing to let a stranger see your back door. It's another for her to get The Full Monty without at least dinner first.

  Another. Dilemma.

  Like an albino rhino covered in lube, I wriggled and twisted to turn myself over, landing with a loud splat in a puddle of vanilla-scented humility.

  My biggest side effect of pregnancy was palatial fun bags. Each one was bigger than my head, so I had a choice to make. Do I use both hands to cover my boobs, or my Downtown Lady Parts? Is my forearm long enough to cover both cans, while the other—

  Problem solved! The therapist tossed a balled-up washcloth at my hoo-ha with the precision of a softball pitcher, and then laid a hand towel across my towering teats. I've had less intimate relationships with PAP-smear technicians.

  At this point, I had no choice but to surrender to the music filled with crashing waves (which was totally making me need to pee) while this woman tried her best to scrub me into the ecstasy I had longed for.

  When it was all over, and I was back in the safety of my clothes, I met the girls for lunch. While I told them what happened, we all laughed so hard that two years' worth of tension released from my shoulders and I finally felt the relaxation I had hoped to achieve that weekend.

  Sure, I had to pay the price of a washcloth colonic and getting smacked in the cookie by a stranger, but I remembered what it was like to feel pampered again. I also realized that it was even more important now to make time for myself as I used to, and maybe I needed to redefine what relaxation means to me these days.

  But man, was my skin smooth.

  * * *

  Kim Bongiorno is a writer, mom, and wife looking at her suburban life and wondering what the hell just happened. Her blog Let Me Start By Saying earned her a spot on Circle of Moms Top 25 Funny Moms list in 2011 & 2012, and she has received accolades from the likes of Babble, HuffPostParents, NickMom, and BlogHer.

  Previously published in Fifty Shades of Funny: Hook-Ups, Break-Ups and Crack-Ups, and the author of the 5-star-rated e-book Part of My World: Short Stories, she is currently working on her first Young Adult novel.

  You can find Kim on InThePowderRoom, HuffPostParents, and KimBongiornoWrites.com, when she's not busy making herself laugh with inane updates on Facebook
and Twitter.

  Kim lives in New Jersey with her handsome husband and two charmingly loud kids.

  I Love Disney World.

  Wait, No. That Whole Title is a Typo.

  By Karen Alpert

  Baby Sideburns

  Yo, Disney World, WTF happened? I remember when you used to be all fun, and I'd just bounce from ride to ride without a care in the world and everything was free and shit. Like, I could just walk up to a churro stand and say give me a churro and the guy would give me a churro and he'd never ask me for a dime. So when did it all change?

  Ohhh yeahhh, when I stopped being the kid and started being the F'ing parent. 'Cause now I'm the one who has to deal with the map, and figure out the whole Fast Pass crap, and pay $9,000 for four ice creams that cost like two cents at Costco, and make sure we use the potty before we get in the two-hour line to meet Belle's sister's cousin's housekeeper.

  Yup, I found this all out when we were in Florida on vacation and decided to take the kids to Disney World for a day.

  Brainless Hubby: I think they'd have a blast. She loves princesses.

  Stupid Ass Me: Yeah, Disney is awesome. Why not?

  I'll tell you why the fuck not. Because one kid is still in diapers and will purposely poop four times while you're there simply because you have to use changing tables that are literally shat on 24/7/365 days a year, and because the other kid is three-and-a-half and will not live up to her end of the bargain that she has to be happy and grateful and not be a three-and-a-half-year-old little douchebag.

  Anyways, after waking up the kiddos two hours early (which should feel awesome because they do that to me every damn day) and driving three hours, we finally get to Magic Kingdom. A friend of mine calls it Meltdown Kingdom and I always thought she was just exaggerating. Not. At. All. Everywhere you look you see hundreds of kids on leashes getting hopped up on sugar and then falling to the ground in tears as their parents try to drag them to the next ride. "I'm gonna count to three young lady and you better start having fun goddamn it."

  Our first stop there was the Peter Pan ride. Why? Because the line was only 20 minutes long which is basically as short as a line gets at Disney World. And here is a quick summary of how this ride went:

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