This might be Hell

The handy storage spot for the toilet brush adds a certain je ne said quoi.
Note the handy storage spot for toilet brush.

Simply put, here is a morning that I hope to never repeat. Ever.

  1. Car has unidentified issue (involving some unexpected bucking and then shutting off completely), bring to dealership, afraid to drive it further.
  2. Get inside dealership and child promptly pees in her pants. Luckily (and shockingly), I actually have extra pants and underwear with me.
  3. In dealership bathroom trying to change child without her doing stuff like licking the handrail or putting her fingers in her ears because she is afraid of the automatic flush on the toilet. All the while, someone is knocking on the door with the urgency of massive diarrhea.
  4. Discover I have just gotten my period and have nothing with me for that situation. Toilet paper it is. Still unsure as to how I carry a station wagon sized bag and nary a tampon can be found inside but if in a pinch and you need 700 pens, I am your woman.
  5. Need loaner car. Which is about 10 miles away (in LA this is equivalent to about 2 hours). Have to take everything out of our car and get driven to the loaner place. Discover that loaner car employees are not allowed to help install car seats – this could not be any more unhelpful. Take car seat out of our car and put into dealership shuttle. Take car seat out of shuttle and lug into loaner place. Sweating like a farm animal. I hate the car seat.
  6. Child needs to go to the bathroom the minute we get to loaner place. Bathroom smells and looks like a zoo. To be exact, it looks like something from a horror movie. I want to die.
  7. Replace my toilet paper situation while child makes a PSA about the blood. Surely all loaner car employees hear what is going on in bathroom through the paper-thin door. Child then takes the opportunity to announce, “It smells like dog poop in here.” in her loudest voice. I can’t blame her, she is right.
  8. Wait for loaner car for an ungodly amount of time. Child running around like a maniac in waiting area…which is fiiiiilllllthy, btw. I spend my time avoiding the magazines which have undoubtedly been in the bathroom at some point, ensuring child hasn’t found an old M&M on the floor and is about to pop it into her mouth and making sure I am not sitting on unidentified stains on the upholstered waiting room chairs.
  9. Nobody has eaten lunch and we are out of snacks. Briefly consider buying Fritos and a Coke from vending machine but decide the better of it since I wasn’t about to go back into the bathroom to wash hands and since Fritos might give ME diarrhea and I would be forced back into that hell hole bathroom…and since I hate Fritos, I decided to pass. The last thing I need is diarrhea.
  10. Loaner car employee finally shows us loaner car (which is parked in the back corner of the lot under a massive tree that is home to every bird in LA) – a peach colored vehicle circa 1994 (this is an estimated color and year since the car itself is coooooovered with bird poop, rendering it impossible to identify) and gives us the lowdown on the hoe down on any scratches or dents on outside (also impossible to see through bird poop situation).
  11. Turns car on to show us how to use it. Horrified because car sounds like it doesn’t have muffler. Employee gets out to explain more about car while I just stare at his lips moving through the blue smoke that is pouring from tailpipe and hold back laughter because I cannot hear one word he is saying over the sound of blasting unmufflered car. Car sounds like it is idling at 8 RPMs and may explode any minute.
  12. Child begins crying because of the noise – and smoke.
  13. Loaner employee reminds me that this is a non-smoking car as I open door to find it looks like a 4 pack-a-day smoker has been using the front seats as an ashtray for the past 20 years. Seats are burned up with holes and reek of smoke.
  14. Screaming over the roaring engine, I ask if I will be charged for fire damage to the front seats of the non-smoking car.
  15. Install car seat for 10th time that day. Throw our shit in the trunk (which is surprisingly and miraculously odorless) and get the hell out of there.
for post
My usual state when installing the fucking car seat.

*Side note, when pulling up to stop sign or red light, the car goes from a roaring engine to puttering like it is juuuuuuuuust about to stall at any second. Had to keep revving engine when stopped. As if peach bird shit mobile wasn’t ridiculous enough, I could feel the stares as I revved the engine repeatedly while next to stopped cars at red lights. I imagined myself screaming “WHAT? YOU WANT A PIECE OF THIS??????” and then stalling out as other car left me in the dust.

Control Issues


So there I was, peeing all over the floor.

I really wish this was the start of a story about how I was wasted in NYC with my fabulous girlfriends and couldn’t be bothered to find a toilet so I threw caution to the wind and peed on the floor before laughing my way to find pizza at 2am. But alas, it is not. Rather, this is the beginning of a story where I, holding my one day old baby in my arms, pissed all over my bathroom floor while my husband, four-year-old son and dog watched in horror. To be more specific, my husband looked at me with kind, sympathetic eyes. Because that’s just the kind of guy I married. My son looked at me with utter confusion in his eyes, likely because I have spent the better part of the last two years trying to get him to stop peeing on the floor. Yet there I was, standing – frozen really – in a puddle of my own urine. And, my dog…well I couldn’t really see his eyes at all because he was too busy licking it all up. And thus began my journey as a mother of two. I believe this is also the exact moment where my journey of being in control came to a screeching halt. Control of my bladder (obviously), but also control of my life as I once knew it.

Let me back up a bit. I have always been a person who enjoys being in control. When I was in Kindergarten I sang in the church choir and I would frequently snatch the microphone from anyone who I felt wasn’t doing the song justice. I didn’t give a flying f*ck if everyone was supposed to get a turn. If they couldn’t get with the program, they weren’t staying in the spotlight. You might call that having control issues, I call it doing God’s work. This trait is something that has stuck with me in the decades since my meteoric rise to fame at Plaza United Methodist Church. And it has served me well. The need to be in control has helped me excel in many areas of my life, including academics and in my career getting people to do what I want…er, I mean producing Reality TV, where I really just act as a fly on the wall. But I digress…What I’m trying to say is, I never looked at my preference for control, my desire to be in charge, as a negative thing. But then again, I had also never peed all over my bathroom floor.

I feel like you might be wondering why the pee was all over the floor. Plenty of people have pissed themselves in a drunken stupor and not suffered the indignity of having their hundred pound dog lick it up. Was she naked, you ask? Dear god no! Once I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror after delivering number two, I vowed never to be naked again. But that is a different post, for a different day. I was wearing a nightgown. This nightgown in fact. IMG_0552Before I continue, let’s take a moment to discuss this photo, which was taken about four and a half years ago. The first thing I notice is how horrible the angle is (i.e. how huge my arm looks), which likely means my husband took it. He has an uncanny knack for making me look as fat as possible in photos. God love him. Second, my son looks like a straight up gangster (or is it gangsta?)! A gangster/a with serious man boobs. Well done, buddy. Well done. Now, back to this nightgown. I purchased this blue and white polka dotted frock from TJ Maxx when I was pregnant with my first. And, I loved it. It’s comfortable and perfect for nursing. No other criteria were required.  I have many fond memories of my post partum insanity in this nightgown. So, I couldn’t wait to wear it again for old time’s sake when I had my second. Also, I was too lazy to buy anything new. Underneath this nightgown on the day in question I was wearing a pair of mesh underwear, as modeled for you in this photo. You’re welcome world.


As an aside, I must tell you, I LOVE mesh underwear. I feel like “mesh underwear” should be the secret passcode in order to enter the gang of motherhood. As soon as you say it to another Mom, instant recognition occurs and you know EXACTLY the goodness of which I speak.They became the single most comforting part of life with a newborn. With my first, I was a bit horrified of them initially and never thought to ask for more when I left the hospital. With this one though, you bet your bottomless mimosa dollar I loaded up on those suckers before they wheeled me outta there.

So, we’ve got nightgown and we’ve got mesh underwear. In the cookbook of wetting oneself, this is surely a recipe for disaster. But here’s the real kicker. I was wearing a maxi pad the size of a Buick! No joke, this thing was massive. It was practically a diaper, only there was no Elmo on it to help me decipher which was the front and which was the back. So why, Dearests, didn’t this maxi pad do its job, its ONE JOB and protect me from humiliating myself in front of my family by absorbing the damn pee??? I have no idea, really. Maybe that Buick-sized maxi knew something I didn’t. Maybe, just maybe, that maxi pad knew I needed something that drastic to happen before I could fully relinquish the hold on my need to control, on my need to make it seem that I have it all handled, when, as a parent, you never really have it all handled. You just have days when you get the pee pee in the potty, and days when you don’t.

What I realized in that moment, aside from the fact that I really should have done more Kegels, was that I may never be in control again. No, I wouldn’t always be pissing myself (would I?), but I would likely never have the ability to fully control my life in the way I wanted/needed to before. Having one kid had been hard enough on that desire. With two, forget it! Because, the reason I peed myself in the first place, Dearests, was that I had been holding my newborn in bed for hours, blissfully watching him sleep and marveling at the new life my husband and I had created. By the time I actually paid attention to the fact that I had to go pee reeeeaaaallllly badly, it was too late. But I didn’t care. I wouldn’t have traded a second of watching that baby breathe in and out for the ability to make it two feet further into my bathroom and onto the toilet.

Now, in the months since that day, I’ve been tested in big and small ways on whether I’m really okay with relinquishing control. Sometimes I succeed, and sometimes I don’t. Sometimes my hold on that old trait is so strong that I can’t let go. But other times, I sit back and laugh. I laugh so hard at this beautiful crazy life, I almost pee myself. Almost.

For I am not Perfect


donut girl - featured image

Greetings Mommy Dearests,

Recently, I have been losing sleep over a certain issue and now I am going to stop obsessing over it and share it with my sisters, if for nothing else, absolution. The other day while I was walking to my Hot Yoga class, I came across a happy child, frolicking down the street alongside her mother. Everything seemed perfect, as things sometimes do from the outside but as I was passing her, I realized she was eating something I hadn’t seen in years…she was eating a donut.

There they were, just strolling down the ignorant path of life, mother and daughter, unbeknownst to them (I’m assuming because they might be poor or don’t read) that this little girl was ingesting pure poison. Now, I didn’t stop to ask them where they had bought the donut because initially I reflected upon the fact that we at our home, once or twice a year, do splurge on Fonuts. We are not North Koreans for God’s sake but this holed pastry looked too sugary to be a Fonut and as I said before, I think they might have been poor or not able to read so how would they even know where to purchase a Fonut? Here is where my moral dilemma begins; I did nothing to stop them. I watched in horror while this poor (literally and figuratively) little angel orally inhaled a giant, doughy, powdered-sugar piece of nuclear waste and I did nothing. How are they to ever know the long-term damage fried, GMO laden, refined sugar-treats can do to a person? I’ve spoken to hundreds, make that hundreds of thousands of people regarding childhood obesity and while this child was in no way obese and was actually skipping and eating (another child-danger I abhor), I am sure she was on her way home to a dinner of fried chicken with a side of something fried.

As I continued on my way to Hot Yoga, something began to burn deep inside my soul. My own selfish need for a good sesh with Raaj stopped me from fulfilling my responsibility as an educated woman to gently put myself between the duo and their destination to gift them the knowledge that I bequeath. For people pay me hundreds, make that millions of dollars every year to bestow my self-studied informational facts about nutrition upon their blank slates of a mind and I failed. I failed as a person, I failed as an educator but mostly, I failed as a mother. How can I call myself a sister to all women if I am not able to protect, scold even, their children? I should have scolded that child for her joyous innocence and I should have scolded that poor (literally and figuratively) mother for not knowing in 2015 that sugar will turn her neglected daughter into either a crack whore or just a plain old whore.

I apologize to you all today and solemnly vow that I will never ever again walk by a person, self-poisoning themselves with what we once used to call snacks or treats and not say a thing. You have my promise, sisters – you have my promise. I sign off continuing the fight for a world without sugar, a world without hunger and world without judgment for those who just don’t know.

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be fulfilled “– Luke 6:20-23




Serena Dearest

Serena Zanello
Serena Zanello

This week Mommy Dearest Inc. turns to our early childhood expert, Serena Zanello. Does Serena have any children of her own yet? Nope, but that doesn’t mean a thing. Serena is not only a savvy entrepreneur of architecture and design, she is also a wise, wise old woman, trapped in the body of a 30-something, Italian-born genius. Like her boobs, her accent and her impeccable control of English grammar, her insights are a gift to the world.

Dear Serena,

I am hoping to get a little advice on how we can get my four year old daughter to start wiping herself after a poop. My husband and I have been her wipers for the past 4 1/2 years and frankly, the job is getting old. Also, any guidance in how to avoid spending hundreds of dollars on new underwear would be great too since there may be a steep learning curve on this lesson and we don’t want our sweet girl to be the kid with the “skiddies” at school.


The Poop Patrol

Dear Poop Patrol,

I had just few experiences with poop and kids, I will gladly share my knowledge about this topic.

Years ago I was watching a friend child – the age of your daughter – every time I was with her…magically she had to poop and asking me afterwards to have her ass wiped!

So, first of all is not my kid and as much as I loved her the only thing I was seeing was a full grown person asking me to be wiped… and well, I have a lot of fetishes, not poop (this is probably a chapter for another type of blog!) So, I decided it was time to teach her how to avoid this weird human interaction, not just for me, or her sake!

One day she had to poop (Again??? How big is the intestine of a 4 years old?) so I undressed her just to be sure to avoid some messy accident and left her on the toilet. Right afterward I heard the call, not a holy call, just the usual “ I’m done!!!!!” But I was ready this time and with a steady voice I told her to wipe herself, she saw mommy and daddy doing it so many times. I didn’t ask her to design a bridge!

She called twice, then start screaming and crying, rolling on the floor naked while me ignoring her. It was time for her favorite cartoon, then her favorite snack but I told her she couldn’t move from the bathroom till she was cleaned and dressed. I waited 10 min…silence. Then I saw her with a disappointed look carefully take a piece of toilet paper and she did it! (I won’t describe how). It worked!!!

Well maybe you will need to try this several times! That was my lucky poop adventure!

Good Luck!


Serena Dearest
Serena Dearest

Dear Serena,

My four month old is becoming very addicted to his pacifier. I’ve never been a crack addict, but I imagine the feeling is somewhat similar. If it falls out of his mouth while he’s sleeping, he will scream and cry until I put it back in. This happens throughout the night, and quite frankly, I’m fucking exhausted. I don’t want to take it away from him completely because I know it helps soothe him, but at what point is enough enough?!



Hi Kelly,

First of all, thank you for spelling pacifier for me. I thought till now it was called Pussyfire. Now I understand why my friends ask me to speak just Italian with their kids if I’m alone with them. Well, I’m not a crack addict neither but I will try a simple trick my grandparents used with me when I was addicted to my thumb!

Soak the pacifier in grappa, it’s so strong it will put your baby to asleep in a minute but in the mean time the flavor is not so great – especially for babies – so while he is falling asleep he will also spit it away and soon he won’t want it anymore. Just be careful your baby is not going to become addicted to grappa. You will spend peaceful nights with a tipsy baby and a cheerful husband/wife/partner. (PC)

Let me know, it still works for me some nights too!


Serena – The pussyfire expert

P.S. If grappa doesn’t work try with Rum.

P.S.S. If it doesn’t work with the baby try it on yourself, just use a standard glass instead.

Dear Serena,

My preschooler is super obsessed with her vagina. She talks about her vagina, my vagina, the cat’s vagina all day long. When she isn’t discussing vaginas, she is exploring her own. While I understand this is a very normal and healthy thing to do, I am worried it’s becoming too much and even when I tell her this is something we save for private time, she doesn’t listen and will spread-eagle it in the middle of a dinner party. How can I curb the vagina action without putting shame on the subject and causing her to have issues later in life?


The Vagina Momalogue

Dear Vagina Momalogue,

I think this is a very interesting case of early signs of Nymphomania. Don’t worry, I had it too and loving it now! In my experience she will do it just for a couple of more years till 13 or 14 when she will find someone who will get obsessed with it too. When it happens her focus will slightly move to something else, I’m a teen expert too, so call me back when it happens.

For now I will leave her free to show it or play with it, it’s not fire for god sake! At least she won’t destroy your house with her obsession!

With all my respect,


*Please email your parenting questions to

Driving Miss Baby

Stella Sleepy Car Seat - for post

You know what is super deadly? Driving a car with a kid in the back seat. One asks themselves why mothers take solace in wine after birthing our beauties and that’s a loaded question. What I will tell you is that if you’ve ever put a baby, toddler, preschooler in a car, you have risked everyone’s life who was riding with you and/or around you.

I remember fearing for my life the first time I drove alone in the car with my newborn in the back. What if she got hungry and started to scream? What would I do? What if she pooped or felt alone or God forbid, I came to a stop and the lack of movement threw her into a tizzy? The first time I attempted the solo car ride, I pulled over and fed her 3 minutes in. She cried and I couldn’t stop looking back. I was literally hell on wheels. It continued this way for the next 17 months. She hated the car, the car seat and everything that went with it. Everywhere I attempted to go, I was accompanied by shrills of discontent. I remember times when I would be half out of my seat, bent over backwards, shaking a toy in front of her while blasting down the freeway at 65 mph. Texting while putting on lip gloss, sipping on gin and juice with a car full of rabid hawks is safer than driving with a small child.

Taking a nap while ferociously responding to an email after a swarm of angry bees makes its way into your car is safer than driving with a small child.

Using your foot to steer while you search for a nail file that fell on the floor of the passenger’s side while your two uncaged cats have at it is safer than driving with a small child.

Huffing paint while your friend pushes on the gas pedal from the backseat while you tease your bangs with your free hand is safer than driving with a small child.

Once, we were coming back home just around dark and she started crying to a point of worry. I was doing the old, “Sshhh, sshhh, sshhhh” routine but her screams didn’t subside. I kept telling her in the softest voice, “You’re upset. It’s ok. We’ll be home soon.” When we finally did get home, I opened the back door of the car to find my hysterical six month old’s face covered in a bloody mess! I gasped and started to bawl myself.  I grabbed her like she was the last Cabbage Patch Doll on the shelf of a Toys R Us on Christmas Eve in 1985. I took her in the house, laid her on the bed and began to clean up the American Horror Story that was her mug, only to discover the tiniest little scratch above her eye. MFK (mother f#@&*ing kid) had worked herself into such an upheaval of emotions about being strapped into the baby saver that she scratched her face, causing herself to bleed like a victim on Dexter. I’ve never seen anything like it.

Later, it turned into, “Snack, pwease”. I started to dispense snacks like a machine in the lobby of a Grateful Dead concert. Then began the, “I’m hot. I’m cold. I’m tired. I’m bored. I don’t want this show, I want another show. I want to hear ‘Somebody I used to Know’ (for the 15th time in a row). I felt (feel) like a one woman circus, trying to keep my one-child audience from staging a violent coup against the ruling authority purely out of fleeting dissatisfaction. I realize this is my own doing. When I was a kid, I had no snacks in the car. Hell, I used to sit in the back of a wood-paneled station wagon, facing traffic, with no seat belt on, throwing my father’s company-branded pencils out of the back window at oncoming drivers. My entertainment was annoying my siblings while littering and putting oncoming traffic into danger and I can assure you, my parents did not have a travel potty on hand for my relief at any time. If I had to pee to the point of not being able to hold it, I peed next to the car, on the side of the road, while my other 5 siblings sighed in annoyance. We played car games, which I do from time to time but if I can be frank, I just want to be left alone while driving and she’s really not good at “I Spy with my Little Eye”, honestly, she’s terrible at it.

In summary, if you spot a car with a car seat in the back, avoid it like the Herp. No one is safe. Being a DJ, a vending machine, a story teller, a game show host, a movie provider and most of all, a one-woman circus, does not provide for quick thinking and rapid reflexes. It’s actually a recipe for disaster. No wonder in Sweden they keep their kids facing backwards until age four. The Swedes know how damn dangerous it is to drive with kids. They’re pretty progressive people, if I may say so myself.


Brian Dearest

Photo courtesy of Rustic White Photography

Welcome back, Dearests!

For your next dose of Mommy Dearest Inc, we’re introducing our featured category, “Ask the Experts,” where we seek parenting advice from some of our wisest and most accomplished friends. So what if none of them have kids of their own (yet)? We all know by now that anyone with a child has likely lost their mind and any ability to give sound advice, so we’re seeking guidance from the sane ones – the childless.

Photo courtesy of Rustic White Photography
Photo courtesy of Rustic White Photography

Without further ado, please enjoy the expert advice of none other than Mr. Brian Patrick Flynn. In addition to having the perfect three word name and being ridiculously handsome (the proof is in the picture), Brian is also an Atlanta-based Interior Designer/Production Designer/Set Decorator extraordinaire! Seriously, everything this guy touches instantly becomes 1000 times more beautiful and stylish. And, it turns out, Brian also knows a thing or two about proper child-rearing.

Happy reading!

Question #1 – 

Dear Brian,

My four year old daughter has recently decided that she won’t eat anything red. You can just add that to the list of other things she won’t eat…meat, anything hot, sandwiches, things that are “flappy” (your guess is as good as mine), beans, mac and cheese, bread or anything that has visible spices in it. I need to prepare meals for the family and school lunches and I am at a loss. Any tips on how to get her to pick less and eat more? 



Dear Theresa,

Short and sweet: your daughter may be a pint-sized liar and/or thief. This may sound harsh, but here’s my reasoning. She’s using color, texture, shape and sheen (four essential elements to a well-layered interior) to steal your happiness and your valuable time. How does she know what she doesn’t like? She can’t even spell her own name or pay for her own smart phone apps. Now, I’m no expert on children (yet), but it’s probably best to stick your attention seeker (aka DAUGHTER) into a very sparsely furnished room with absolutely no color, soft underfoot surfaces or physical elements with character, and serve her a bowl of air and a glass of make believe oxygen astronaut juice. Once she’s robbed of all texture, color, shape and sheen, SHE WILL EAT HOT MEAT-FILLED FLAPPY SANDWICHES AND WASH ‘EM DOWN WITH A BEAN, MAC AND CHEESE, BREAD ROLL AND CURRY SMOOTHIE AND LEARN TO LIKE ‘EM. Trust me, deprive her of almost everything and soon she’ll come around and stop being a flappy-hater.

Question #2 – 

Dear Brian, 

My four year old daughter keeps asking me if she is going to die. She cries quite a bit when we talk about it, and death in general scares her. It’s quite a lot for a four year old to grasp and I am not sure how to go about having a healthy discussion about it. Can you give me some suggestions on how to broach the subject?

Yours Truly,

The Grim Reaper 

‘Sup GrimReepz,

First up: the reality of human existence on planet earth proves that somewhere around the 100 year mark, she is going to expire. Just like the family’s pet goldfish or flying squirrel, the flowers in your vases and the engines in the automobiles you drive the family around in. It’s a fact of life Reepz: we are born, we decorate our houses so that our children and pets can destroy them, and then we bite the big one after spending $300K per child and $12K in vet bills per pet.

I do have a solution to help tone down her obsession: You need to wallpaper your hallway so she can appreciate life more and forget about all things morbid. Trust me, some bright color and a medium repeat pattern will keep her from feeling like she’s in purgatory thus leading to such dark-sad thoughts. Perhaps a large scale botanical in shades of celery green, grey and robin’s egg blue or even a classic hexagon in the hot pink and turquoise color way. Now, get that kid out into the sunshine and play her some Björk, dammit!

Question #3 – 

My son LOVES to take a “nature pee.” Which would be fine if we were actually in nature when this happens. More often than not though, this happens on the playground, on a walk with our dog, or just generally anytime he’s outdoors – including our backyard, where there happens to be a perfectly good toilet right inside. While I admit it is much easier at times to let him drop trou and pee on a tree rather than braving disgusting public restrooms, I worry that he will grow up to be one of those douche bags who pees on buildings for fun and then ultimately blames me for his behavior when he’s being taken to the local police precinct. Should I put a stop to the public pee now or wait and see how things shake out? (pun intended)

Yours in Urine, 


Meh. Your son is going to be a massively successful person and just fine and let me tell you why: He doesn’t give a #%@$. And what I mean by this is sometimes he just really HAS to go; it’s part of being a living human being. And, instead of wasting time finding the nearest bathroom, he just gets all super efficiency-based and goes right then and there. He can use the time saved to learn HTML or jet propulsion physics or how to sew. One word: LEADER. Now, let’s avoid lawsuits by making sure no one who actually cares is around when he decides to empty some of the tank, and perhaps have him bring a stylish tapestry with him everywhere he goes to put up as a privacy screen. I think a wide neutral stripe would be fantastic as would a modern camo, maybe in taupes, pumpkin tones and olive greens for a little autumnal flair.

As far as avoiding him becoming a D.B., just make him wear those trashy skull-and-crossbones t-shirts every single day and force him to talk about super basic stuff like football statistics, brands of guitars and use the term MAN CAVE to describe boring things like nail polish organization, shopping for rice or dropping off dry-cleaning. That way, when he’s an adult he will be programmed to NEVER WANT A MAN CAVE.

Words to live by if you ask us! To check out more of Brian’s work, visit his incredibly inspiring website, We’re warning you though, as soon as you see what this man can do to a Family Room, you’ll want to cash in that college fund for Jr. and hire him to redo your entire house/life! You can also find him on Instagram at @bpatrickflynn  where he waxes poetic about everything from Taylor Swift (whom he loves) to cats (which we honestly can’t tell if he loves or hates) to sofas he doesn’t need but buys anyway. If you need some inspiration in your life, and we know you do because of those MFKs (mother f#&$*ing kids), put a little BPF in your life! 

If you have a burning parenting question you want our Experts to tackle, please email us at If you have other burning things, you should really see a Doctor.

Until next time, Dearests!


Breast is Best!


Hello Mommy Dearests,

S.M. here, and this week I’m going to cover a topic near and dear to every woman’s heart: breastfeeding. Ah, just typing the word makes me lactate with joy! At this point, you’d have to be living under a very large rock to think that any other method of feeding your baby is appropriate. But don’t just take my word for it.  Hundreds, no, thousands of studies have proven that a breast fed baby is likely to be smarter, healthier, richer, taller, and less likely to kill you in your sleep than those peasant formula feeders. These facts are indisputable.

But, listen Dearests, I’m nothing if not sympathetic, and I know that breastfeeding can be a bit hard at first. So, I’m here to give you some support and helpful tips that will keep your little one sucking for years to come! The biggest fear women seem to have about nursing is the pain. Well, I’m here to set you free from that misinformation. It’s quite simple really. If it hurts, you’re doing it all wrong. Breastfeeding isn’t supposed to hurt – it’s supposed to feel good, magical even. Imagine what it would feel like if you met Rainbow Bright while riding on a Little Pony on your way to eat ice cream with Punky Brewster. Pretty magical, right? THAT’S HOW BREASTFEEDING IS SUPPOSED TO FEEL! Hands down, it is the single most beautiful feeling any woman could ever experience. So, if you don’t feel that way, don’t worry, it just means you need to try harder and do better.

I’ve also heard some women lament that they have low milk supply. I find this one rather hard to believe since God clearly designed all us gals to provide for our babies, just like all other species on the Planet. But, if you’re feeling as if you may not be producing at your peak level, there is a very easy solution…breastfeed more often! It’s so simple really. The reason you feel you don’t have enough milk is because you aren’t nursing or pumping enough. And, as we all know, since breastfeeding is the single most important thing you can do for your child, any and all activities other than nursing should come a very distant second to your attempts of upping that supply. I recommend pumping immediately following each nursing session and never go longer than two hours between feedings or pumping in any 24 hour period. Sure, you could sleep or eat a little bit while your baby naps, but that would make you a selfish mommy, and I know you wouldn’t want that. This may sound exhausting, but I assure you, once you get that milk flowing, exhaustion will turn into EXHILARATION and you will forget all about sleep!

Now, I feel it is my obligation to also address the F word. Formula. Oh, how it saddens me to think of all the women who have been manipulated into using this evil product, made by evil people who only want to do your precious baby harm by raping their poor little virgin guts! I weep for them and I weep for their babies.  Why, when nature has made such a perfect food would you even contemplate feeding them anything else? Please, Dearests, do not fall for the propaganda. Formula will rob your child of any shot they may have at overall wellness. They will be cursed with non-stop ear infections, they will be overweight, they will only want to eat skittles and drink Pepsi for the rest of their lives. But, above all else, they will feel no attachment towards you whatsoever. To them, you will forever be the woman who deprived them of the joys of breastfeeding. If you have a daughter, this will likely lead to her hating her own femininity when she grows up. If you have a son, this will undoubtedly lead to him being a lifelong bachelor who suffers from emotional detachment and MAJOR mommy issues. I tell you this not to scare you, but rather just to lovingly give you all the facts. The choice is yours. If, for some reason, you do choose formula for your child, please do the responsible thing and make it yourself. It may take up every ounce of free time you (don’t) have, but trust me, you will sleep better at night knowing that you made the best of a bad situation.

Lastly, and most importantly, whatever setbacks you encounter, please remember that breastfeeding is a marathon and not a sprint, and just like a world-class athlete you should never, under any circumstance, give up. When you get Mastitis and become faint with a fever and the chills, just keep nursing. When your little one has reflux and screams bloody murder every time you place him at your breast, just keep nursing. When you are a working mother and need to sleep so you can function at a high level in order to keep your job, just keep nursing. When you, quite simply, just want to have a (mother effing) drink when you (mother effing) choose, don’t give in to the urge. Just. Keep. Nursing! 

I am here for you, Dearests. I am cheering you on from the sidelines and I know you can do it. And, when all other methods of encouragement fail to inspire you, just remember that if you quit breastfeeding, you will be judged. Not by me, of course, but by everyone else. And, I wouldn’t want that for you.

Love, Sanctimommy
Love, Sanctimommy

Changing the Way You Drink About Motherhood

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