Diary of A Tired Mom: Uncomfortable Truths.


This post felt like I’d taken two familiar genres and thrown them into a smoothie together: my Diary of a Tired Mom posts, and my friend Katherine’s madly fantastic Uncomfortable Truths, which has  66 volumes (and counting.) Be sure to read hers, because they’re delightfully more uncomfortable than mine.


Although my elbow and shoulder (and finger) are slowly recovering, they’re still annoying. I mean, it is my left hand. And I am left-handed. But way more annoying than having three separate injuries on my dominant arm is the fact that it is also my drive-thru arm. It’s hard enough to be a professional Chick-Fil-A Speed Receiver – but try doing it with only one arm.

My game has been decimated.

(Seriously. Next time you’re at the drive-thru, try doing all transactions with your right arm. It’ll make you appreciate the left side of your body so much more richly.)

(And anyway. Who needs to actually write with a pen in this day and age anyway. The ability to accept fast food is way more crucial.)


The British add a lot of unnecessary letters, right? (I get that the US of A became a nation a couple years after the United Kingdom but spelling wasn’t normalized until we were both around so I blame them for saying “yeah, let’s shove all those extra letters in.”)

There’s labour and flavour and colour and foetus.

But the most disturbing of all extra letters the British chose to keep is in a word already fraught with unnecessary characters.

Without a doubt, it goes to diarrhoea.

Somehow this unfortunate British spelling got stuck in my head and that extra o – a round circle surrounded by two cheeks of burgeoning letters – haunts me. And every time I mentally say diarrhea, (which is more often than I’d like thanks to having two children and a husband and being human and all,) I also add the o in there, mentally saying dia-ROY-a, as I imagine a countryside British farmhand would say.

“This ‘ere mare’s got tha dia-ROY-a again. Best be givin’ a ring to Doc Herriot.”


I recently had the joy of possessing a rather stubborn UTI. After a couple rounds of antibiotics, I went to the doctor, where they loaded me up with drugs – both the antibiotic and the UTI kinds. As she handed me samples of the UTI drugs, she said, “Now don’t be alarmed – this WILL turn your urine a bright blue.”

Well THAT’S different. I mean, AZO is entertaining enough, with it’s orange-maroon color (which incidentally looks just like the colors of the Virginia Tech Hokies – the students should all take AZO as a show of team support before football games.)


But BLUE. Not everyone gets the opportunity to pee blue.

When I actually experienced this fascinating phenomenon, I realized something: I could choose to not flush and other people would think I’d just finished thoroughly cleaning my toilet bowl. Because nothing feels fresher than sitting down at a toilet full of bright blue water, right?

It was like a magic pill! That made it look like I’d done a chore! Where can I get pills to make it look like I did the dishes more than twice a week? Or perhaps a pill that hid the crumbs my kids so expertly and efficiently spread across my floors? Someone needs to be researching these possibilities right away.

(Disclaimer: I didn’t actually not flush. But it totally looked Mr. Clean up in there.)


I’ve been wondering if I’ve contracted ADD. If I have, I suspect that one day they’ll discover there’s a risk of ADD contraction from being on Twitter. So many subjects. So many conversations. So many news articles. All jumbled together. Making your brain change lanes every 140 characters.

It’s a lot.

I was such a focused person in my school days, and even in my career days (which thankfully ended before the mainstream adoption of social media.) I could sit in class and take notes for HOURS and adore it. There was nothing I liked better than a perfect, neat, organized, outlined page of handwritten notes. It was a type of beauty I could appreciate.

But now, my brain is different.

I can’t take notes.

And definitely can’t sit still and listen.

However, I’ve found coping mechanisms. The downside to my coping mechanisms is that it makes me look like an unruly seven-year-old. But I swear it works. If I sit in church and take “notes” like this, I hear every single word of the sermon – and am able to process and even meditate on it.

Line Art for paying attention

But the second I quit my line art because I started feeling bashful about all of the eyes around me that could get a brief look at my notes and and say “mm, mm, mm,” while shaking their heads on the inside, I don’t hear another word. My mind wanders to the randomest of places. Like writing this blog post.

So, dear people around me in church, and Pastor if you have really good eyes, please know – if I’m coloring, I’m listening.  And maybe those coloring kids are, too.


“We have a reservation. For fifteen.”

It was Father’s Day. I was in an extremely busy restaurant, trying to snag our family table before the staff was overrun with families celebrating their Dads. I was too late – I waited at the hostess station for ten minutes, and our food wait was over an hour and thirty minutes. But I say all this to go ahead and excuse myself for what I didn’t do.

Noah needed to pee. Right away. I sent him and Ali in the Ladies’ room together, instructing her to not leave without him.

Way too long went by, all while I was still standing at the hostess station.

Finally, I saw Ali open the door. And hold it open. And hold it open.

He must be taking FOREVER to wash his hands, I thought.

Then she closed the door.

I was worried. What would I do if the hostess was ready for me to follow her deep into the bowels of the restaurant and my children hadn’t made it back yet?

Ugh. WHAT is taking him so long?!

A minute later, as the hostess was gathering our fifteen menus to seat us, Ali reappeared, and Noah followed her out.

They walked up to me as I began following the hostess.

“Noah couldn’t get his stall door unlocked.”


“So he had to crawl underneath the door.”


“Yeah! I had to get on my hands and knees and crawl under the door to escape!”


“I tried to help him but I couldn’t.”

“Did you wash your hands really good?”

“Yes! I used three lumps of soap.”

And I kept walking.

So I’m sorry, Manager-Who-Had-To-Figure-Out-How-To-Get-That-Stall-Door-Unstuck later that night. I had semi-plans to crawl back under myself and undo my son’s issue. (After I ate. Because ew.)

But then I had to wait an hour and a half for my food. And by the time I was able to wrangle my kids out of your restaurant, I had totally forgotten about your jammed door. Even though Noah returned once during the meal, crawling back under the stall door, to look for his lost bible. Because what good is there in Gideoning up a bathroom stall that can’t even be accessed?

A Bathroom Conundrum Worth Discussing.

Saturday afternoon, Chris took me out on a date.

He arranged babysitting, made reservations, gave me specific instructions (put your hair up and bring your camera), and that’s all the information I got. I had no idea where we were going or what our date entailed.

I WAS surprised when I was still in the car an hour and a half later, but hey. One must go where the date takes you. And the drive was lovely – fields of flowers with cows idly grazing, baby foals being nudged along by their mothers, the occasional cluster of goats being herded by giant white dogs, Alabama mountains, and fantastic rural haunts like “Hick’s Poor Man’s Store” and “Mister Willie’s Family Restaurant”.  All of these would have made lovely photos for this post, but apparently that wasn’t on the date agenda, and anyway there weren’t exactly shoulders on this two-lane country road.

There were also lovely smells wafting into his convertible (hence my hair being up) – until we passed a pile of manure and then not-at-all-so-lovely smells.

But anyway.

We arrived at dinner in a small lakeside city a couple of hours north. The restaurant chosen was one we’d never been to, but had both heard of from prior trips to said city. It was one of those quirky, small restaurants that’s located in an old house. Do y’all have that type of restaurant outside of Alabama? I know Georgia does, because we had one of our quirkiest meals ever at The Olde Pink House.

But that’s not today’s story.

In this house restaurant, there were a couple different very small dining rooms (I think we ate in a bedroom), a cozy feel, and very winding hallways.

Since we had driven two hours to get there, I of course needed to visit the restroom immediately. It took me a minute, but I located it down a hallway that also housed a very squeezed-in-the-hallway bar. Because it was an old house, there were two choices, both individual bathrooms, one down the hall from the other. The one I went in was the bigger one – big enough that you assumed it used to have a claw-foot bathtub or some other sort of antique bathing option. The other bathroom, down the hall a bit but still in view of former-clawfoot bathroom, was clearly the old house’s pocket bathroom. It barely had room for a toilet and a sink and the leftover floor space for a very careful turnaround from the sink to the door when it was time to leave.

I headed back to our table for a lovely, lengthy meal at this tiny old house.

After our dinner of potato croquettes and filet mignon with a coffee rub and all sorts of deliciousness, it was time to go. Chris had sunset plans (hence the camera), and the meal had taken slightly longer than he had anticipated. But because I have the bladder of a 5 week old bunny, I hurried back to the bathrooms for one last visit.

When I arrived, both were occupied and there was a gentleman waiting. The bigger bathroom opened up, so he took it. Shortly thereafter, the tiny bathroom became available, so I turned sideways and squeezed in.

As I walked out of the bathroom, there were two more people waiting – older ladies – I would guess in their late 70s or early 80s, chatting as women do.

They saw me exit the restroom, and the woman that was first in line headed toward it and said,

“Hey Judy if you want, you can just come on in here with me.”

I was passing them as this offer was made, and I whipped my head around with an eyebrow raised.

Judy shook her silvery curls and quickly said, “Oh but I think it’s just a single…”

Judy’s friend interrupted. “That’s okay! You can still come in here if you don’t mind.”

I watched as Judy, clearly the non-dominant friend in this situation, sadly followed her friend into the bathroom.


I had just come out of the tiny bathroom. The one with NO room for an audience. And I understand that women like to go to the bathroom together and it’s what we do and all, but pure logic here makes the presumed assumption behind the offer make zero sense.

I had no indication at all that Judy’s friend, this delightfully blue-haired 80 year old woman, was making anything other than a helpful offer to Judy. The tone in which she invited Judy into the bathroom was obviously one of convenience. As if to say “Hey Judy to make sure you get the next bathroom available, just come on in here with me.”

Which is where I got completely and infinitely confused, as her opportunity cost and game theory and all that was seriously off base.

If Judy waits outside the bathroom, she gets two options – because maybe the guy who went into the big bathroom would get out before Judy’s friend does – in fact, it’s probable that he will. Judy’s friend has pantyhose to try to wriggle back into, after all.


But instead, because Judy obeyed her friend, not only does she have to squeeze in the impossibly tiny bathroom, watch her friend pee, and awkwardly not notice if any passing of the gas slips out (and what if Judy knew that SHE had passing of the gas that needed to happen?? Now she has to hold it forever?!), but she loses the opportunity to relieve her own bladder even sooner – because the big bathroom option is now off the table.



I DO hope her Depends underwear survived her plight. And I hope that Judy NEVER EVER finds herself chatting with her friend while waiting on a Port-A-Potty.

So. Lest you miss it, the moral of this extremely important opinion piece is, friends don’t pressure friends into joining them in one-hole bathrooms. And also, #PrayForJudysPantyhose.

From Where All Knowledge Gurgles Forth.

While I was helping Ali find a haul of reading material at our local library earlier this week, I happened upon this instant classic.



Surely the authors were just trolling parents of tweens. Surely they realized what they were doing.


Then again, maybe they’re of that new generation – the cross-section of humankind that my daughter is staunchly a part of – the ones that insist that Uranus is pronounced YOUR-uh-nus.

(Which doesn’t sound much better but a little.)

Regardless of whether they were simply writing for the innocent, clean, YOUR-uh-nus-pronouncing new generation or they were purposefully trying to make me spit my water at a library book, I was intrigued.

And as soon as I left, I was absolutely kicking myself for not borrowing the book.

I sent the cover to Chris, and he and I immediately disagreed as to the meaning of the book.


I felt it was about the perils of flatulence. Or maybe about how to use a particularly helpful essential oil.


Chris felt it was an allegory of a precious friend’s Instagrammed hemorrhoids.

Whatever it was, I had to discover the jewels contained within.

So that night, at 11pm, while I was delirious from child-induced exhaustion and a double dose of chocolate, I bought the book on Kindle so that I could quickly skim it and use the search feature to make sure I didn’t miss anything.

Here is my summary of this life-changing literature, all quotes from within its magical pages. I recommend reading it aloud for the best results.

“I am Uranus, ruler of the sky!”

Uranus’s voice sounded oddly familiar.

Uranus took shape in the darkness above them. The Olympians stared at him in awe. He was massive, bigger than any Titan they had ever seen. His dark-blue form filled the entire sky, arching from one end of the horizon to the other.

Uranus boomed in answer.

Uranus nodded his enormous head.

They whipped around to see what—or who—Uranus was talking about.

“Butt out. I can handle this myself, Father!” Cronus yelled up to Uranus in an irritated voice.

Poseidon was staring at Uranus. “Wow! Who knew there was such a gigantic gigantic being? So should we fear him like he asked?”

His eyes blazing, Oceanus looked up at his father, Uranus.

Uranus laughed.

Caught between Uranus in the sky, the Olympians were sitting ducks.

Uranus stared in shock.

Uranus fought back, producing stars that appeared sharper and more dangerous than any they had ever seen.

Uranus’s giant body still stretched from one end of the horizon to the other.

“Looks like Uranus is leaving,” remarked Athena.

The sky had grown darker as they walked, and this time Uranus wasn’t the cause. It really was almost night.

“Uranus wants me to destroy you, but that’s not what I want. Not anymore, anyway.”

“I know you want to escape Titan troubles, but shouldn’t we wait for those incoming bubbles?” Uranus sing-songed.

“You’re getting bubbles on my food!’ she complained.

Aphrodite giggled. “I can’t help it. They do as they please.”

After finishing the book, Amazon requested that I leave a review.

Because I’m a helpful person, I was glad to oblige.



I hope all the people find it helpful.