Ask me how many kids I have. C’mon, ask. I feel like most people in my workplace think I’m a pathological liar. It’s a simple question. Yet, my answer changes continuously. 2, 3, 6. Those are my usual answers. I have given birth to two. My husband has 4. But 3 are grown. Hence my own confusion. The oldest of my (not my) kids even has a kid. So I’m a grandma. ish.
I’m setting out on this new venture to shed light on a parenting issue that I feel concerns most of us, but is talked about by few of us. Namely; it is fucking hard. Really really fucking hard. So I’m here to share stories, laughter and frustrated tears. I’m here to tell you all that you’re doing it right. I’m here to share some self deprecating humor and a wee bit of foul language. Because, above all, I want this to be real.
So I’m stripping down and showing all. I would love some ideas. I bask in positive comments. I appreciate constructive criticism. But just like I would say if I truly showed you all, if you don’t like it, don’t fucking look at it.