Sometimes the darkness can be beautiful. But sometimes it’s a real bitch. Depends, I guess.

Source: Sometimes the darkness can be beautiful. But sometimes it’s a real bitch. Depends, I guess.



When you’re a parent, you think everything is going to kill your child. It’s like the second you mentally process that you are responsible for this tiny person’s life, suddenly everything is flashing with caution lights and yellow crime scene tape. All the flags are red. Danger! Danger, Will Robinson!

The news makes this issue… oh… only about a million times worse! Headline: “Kid Shoots Other Kid Right In The Fucking Face Because Gun!” Ok, not the best headline ever written, but you get the point. I am terrified of guns. I don’t want them near me. I don’t want them near my child. Just, no.

However, my tiny girl’s grandparents are card holding members of the NRA. They carry. A lot. I know they are responsible people or I wouldn’t let her stay with them, but there’s always that tiny little “what if” that goes off in the back of my head. Kids are tricky little bastards! They watch EVERYTHING that you do. If you are putting in the pass code to your lock box and they are anywhere nearby, they will remember that code. I mean anywhere. Don’t trust them. Check under the bed, behind the chair… even in the corner of the ceiling where they silently perch like Spiderman, watching… waiting. Tricky. Little. Bastards.

Of course, while guns are a HUGE concern these days, it’s not even close to the only thing I have to worry about. Power cords. My kid LOVES power cords. OMG! If she had a favorite thing, it would be to chew on power cords and watch me scream for the thousandth time for her to get that got-danged thing out of her got-danged mouth right this fawking instant! I’m also terrified of the cords on the blinds thanks to the news. I mean, it’s probably a good thing because awareness, but when my husband forgets and leaves them down, it takes every ounce of my inner strength not to strangle him with the damn cord!

I’m not saying that he isn’t concerned with her safety. He is. But he doesn’t obsess over it like I do. If he forgets to lock the cabinet in the bathroom with all of the chemicals in it, no big deal. In my mind, she’s already drank the Windex and is still thirsty. I can’t even leave her small tub of water in the bathtub while I get her dressed because I’m afraid if I turn my back for just a second, she’ll be drowning in it.

I’ll be honest, that scares me more than anything. Drowning. Probably because I *have* to bathe her so water has always been a constant threat and also because my CPR certification ran out decades ago. Plus, I’m pretty sure I didn’t pay much attention in the class because they told me that the instructions would be at my work station and I didn’t think ahead to what would happen if I needed to resuscitate someone who wasn’t at work and wasn’t Annie.

Swimming. Oh, how I want to go swimming pretty much every day in the summer. I’m afraid to take her swimming alone, though. I feel like I need backup incase something happens. I have more reasons than just fear for her safety. Last summer – ok, don’t laugh because this is embarrassing. Soooo embarassing – I could not get out of the pool using the ladder. And no, it’s not JUST because of my raging fat arse. Long story short – I have a muscular disease and one of my legs wouldn’t work. I could get onto the ladder, but my right leg would neither bend to go up to the next level, nor support me enough for me to get my other leg on the next rung.

The reason it was embarrassing was because it was during a lifeguard break and everyone else was already out of the pool. :O I thought maybe if I bought myself some time, it would work so I swam to the next ladder. Same deal. So this nice kid lifeguard, who probably laughed and laughed at me with his kid lifeguard friends afterward, walked with me to the shallow end where the babies play and I got out there. Not before falling, again – in front of all of the curious spectators, on my ass in the baby pool. So yah… there’s that. But also my child drowning. A lot of it is that.

I suppose all of this is pretty normal concerns for a mother to have. Guns, water, anything that can strangle, cut, kill or maim really. Sometimes it’s not so normal. I have imagination. What if a bunch of tigers get out of the zoo and end up out back on our tiny apartment patio before the proper authorities can get to them. Can those things open patio doors? Cats… I mean, I watched my big cat literally teach my two kittens how to open cabinet doors in an impromptu Door Opening 101 class (cutest thing ever, by the way!), so you never know!

My husband would just tell me, very calmly, that we would just make sure to keep the doors closed and make sure not to feed them because we don’t want them thinking stray tigers are welcome here. But he gets to be the calm rational one. He’s the dad.

I’m the mom.


Thank you all for your patience while I sorted things out with myself. Sometimes we – myself and I – forget how to funny.


I will be honest. I have no idea how to discipline a toddler who won’t sit still for longer than two seconds. So I do what any clueless mom does and goes online to research the topic on mommy forums. Yes, other clueless moms giving advice on what they think the best method is to keep your kid from being a tiny asshole. What could possibly go wrong?

Of course, I see all the moms saying spanking is wrong. “It will just make them afraid of you”, they say. “You should never hit kids. You wouldn’t hit an adult would you?” Uh. I have and I would again! Ok, maybe if it wasn’t illegal. If I wasn’t looking at jail time, I’d probably know how to fight a lot better than I do because the one punch I’ve thrown in my life landed squarely in the forehead of the recipient. In retrospect, aiming for something like a nose may have been a better option. Ah, hindsight really is 20/20.

Anywhoo, spanking is out. They recommend time out. That has been tried and will be put on the back burner until this tiny girl is old enough to understand what the fuck we’re even doing in the corner. What about now? I saw one woman’s comment that
really got to me. She said she always disciplined with love because that’s how she wished her parents had disciplined her. That sounded really nice to me. I don’t agree that my parents should have done that with me though. I’m glad they spanked my
ass when I was acting up. I could have ended up being a real tool if they hadn’t.

Times are changing, though, and in this age of too much information, you can find studies to prove or disprove everything. I’m too lazy to read the actual studies and point out their strengths/flaws and make an informed decision, thus why I’m on
these gawddamn mommy forums at 3 am. So I hear them loud and clear. Discipline with love. Wonderful. Lets do this.

My next opportunity to discipline with love comes when I’m changing this tiny girl’s diapy butt. She has this bad habit of kicking me when I do. This may not sound that bad, and it wasn’t when she was smaller, but she’s strong now. Really strong. It hurts. You don’t understand. She is always doing squats. And yoga. Kickboxing too, apparently.

So I take her kicking legs and put them down gently, saying, “No, lovey. We don’t kick because it hurts people. Don’t kick mommy.”

She looks like she understands and I’m like, cool, this must be working. Nope. She starts kicking me again. Again I put her legs down, more firmly this time, and tell her that it is not okay, she is not to kick people, it hurts, etc. Still a lot of love there.

Now she just looks mad. I go back to her diapering and all of a sudden, BAM! She kicks me as hard as she can, right in the face.

This time I’m mad. I look down at her and while she’s looking satisfied with herself, I scream, “IF YOU KICK ME AGAIN, I’M GOING TO SMACK YOU SO HARD YOUR GRANDPARENTS WILL FEEL IT.” It was an empty threat. Her grandparents live almost thirty miles away. They’re safe!

It worked. She kept her legs still, looking at me with wide eyes while I finished what I had started.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s okay if your children are afraid of you. Just a little bit.


I may be taking a small break from blogging.

Unfortunately, the mentally ill part of this blog is very real and I’ve been going through a serious depression. I can tell it’s serious because most of my thoughts center around wondering if various family, friends… hell, even the two or three of you that actually read this blog – wondering if it would make any impact on anyone if I was gone. If the answer is not “Of course it would!” then I know I’ve gone to the dark place.

I’m not telling you this to make you as depressed as I am. I just promised you a good time, and with my mind in it’s current state, I’m not sure I can deliver.

I will be back as soon as the storm passes. And it will. It always does if I just hang on long enough.




That’s what every mom wants to scream at their toddler every single time they need to visit the little lady’s room. “Why?”, non-parents will ask. Well, darling, I’ll tell you why – because toddlers go where mommy goes. Even where mommy… goes.

I, for one, couldn’t wait for the day my little love would lose interest in my bathroom times. One thing she loved to do was hand me books and make me read to her. Even if I was only going to be there for a second, I still had to read to her. I vowed that anytime she was interested in a book, I would stop whatever I was doing and read to her because that’s far more important. I didn’t realize what that vow would entail.

One day she ran in with a Spot book. Spot was my favorite when I was a kid. I had the books, the plush dog and his carrying box/dog house. So you can imagine my joy when I realized these were her favorites too. I start reading Spot Goes To The Beach. I get a page in and she runs back out of the room. A second later she runs out and hands me a different Spot book. I’m a little hesitant, but I start to read that one instead. She runs back out. This time I’m mad. When she comes back with another book and I’m sitting there with a mini-library on my lap, I lose it a little bit and yell one of those phrases you never think you’re going to yell, “STOP HANDING ME SPOT BOOKS! I’M TRYING TO PEE!” She, of course, thinks it’s hilarious.

In addition to reading, she also likes to get into things in the bathroom and everything is either dangerous or gross. So I’m constantly correcting her. “NO! Don’t get in the trash can! NO! Get out of the cabinet! There are chemicals in there! You don’t know what chemicals are, I know, but they’re bad! Oh, no! You are not allowed to unroll the toilet paper! NO! DO NOT PICK UP HAIR OFF THE FLOOR AND EAT IT!!! YUCK! OH MY GOD! NOOOO! DO NOT LICK THE WATER DADDY LEFT ALL OVER THE BATHROOM SINK! EEEEEEWWWW!” Oh, and my personal favorite that just happened today – my pants are around my ankles and she steps into them like she’s trying to wear them too. “Aisha! Get out of my pants!!!”

All that being said, I did say that I couldn’t wait for her to lose interest in the bathroom. The day she kept watching her movie when I made my trip was, I thought, the best day ever! “Woohoo”, I thought. I’m freeeee!

I thought wrong. This little troublemaker waits until my longer visits, knowing I can’t get to her very quickly, and does everything she’s not allowed to do. She started slowly by sucking on my iPod charger cord. She knows she can’t have cords. She loves them though. Did I mention she ruined her dad’s iPhone by sucking on the charger port and causing it to erode/rust out? Or she will play with the laptop she uses to watch cartoons, even though she’s not supposed to touch it. If I leave a drink on the table, she’ll get it. Things like that.

There was this one day, though, that she just outdid herself. She was so stealth this day that I didn’t even know what was happening until it was done. Sneaky Sneakerson had confiscated a roll of toilet paper and tore/unraveled about half of it onto the bed. That’s not the best (worst) part though. I come out and she’s still got some of the toilet paper in her toes, my charger cord in her mouth, my drink in one hand and is on the computer, hacking into some government agency’s website. I mean, probably. You know how kids are with technology these days.

And you know what she did when she saw me? She smiled the biggest, most triumphant smile I’ve ever seen and gestured around like, “Check this out, Mom! This is my best work yet!” And it was. All I could do was laugh and take pictures.

Inside out?

Toddlers. They do not appreciate a damn thing. Not nothin’!

Today I took the Baberson out to visit my grandparents. They just adore my little bugger. They get a kick out of just about everything she does. My grandma likes to give her all the different snacks that she thinks she will like so my kid leaves with an Oreo/Kit Kat/Cheese Puff/Cracker/Pringles/God-only-knows crumb ring all the way around her tiny mouth. They like when she tries to say words too. I’m not going to lie – she says the most adorable words. Today she managed a “Cookie? YAAAAAY!” but will not say “thank you” no matter how many thousands of times I ask her to. Tiny ingrate.

Before we went out there, I decided to take a detour that was kind of on the way and visit my favorite park. Arboretum, actually. Did i spell that right? I have no idea. Lets just pretend I did. Anyway, it has an auto tour where you can just drive through and see everything. I love to come to this place when I’m feeling depressed or stressed out because it’s peaceful and always makes me feel better. Aisha had never been there so I thought she’d love it. She’s an outdoor kid. She loves outside. If she even hears the word outside, she gets excited. So being that we’re in my convertible with the top down, we were pretty damn close to being outside. We were as outside as one can get while still being inside. Inside out? No. Someone would definitely call CPS if I said my child was inside out.

I start driving through and telling her about all of the best things and places. There are tons of beautiful trees and plants. The birds are flying around, all majestic as fuck. The squirrels are squirreling. The bugs are pissing off somewhere, hopefully. Stupid fucking bugs. The butterflies are fluttering by. Probably. I was driving. I couldn’t really tell. I just know it was naturey as all hell and it was magnificent.

Can you guess what toddler didn’t appreciate any of it? If you can’t, get off my fucking page. Seriously. Just get off. I don’t have time for you, buddy!

She spent the entire ride looking at her car seat buckle and picking at her lacy shoes. Impressed by nothing. The dark foresty part. The rolling hills. The huge hedge letters that spell out Dawes Arboretum (again, my spelling is always flawless, especially when it’s not. Always.) over many acres. The pond. The cemetery. Yes, there is a cemetery. I don’t know why either. It’s a park for crying out fuck! She enjoyed exactly none of it. Not one bit. She pretty much just treated it like the rest of the ride to and from home.

I think I figured out why on the way home. We live in goddamn Ohio. Smack dab in the middle. Our drive home is hardly different from the park at all. Trees everywhere on both sides of the highway. Rolling hills. Ponds. Majestic as fuck birds. Butterflies. Probably. I was driving. I couldn’t really tell. 😉 Plus there are horses, cows, sheep… I think I saw a pheasant earlier, wild turkeys, deer and all kinds of wild shit.

So I kind of see her point. She’d have probably been more interested if we’d gotten out and walked around. Driving through the park really isn’t nearly as exciting as our 70mph, 30 minute drive home where someone has paved right through the middle of nature and said “here – drive through this, bitches.”

And we do.

We drive right through it.

Mother’s Day

It’s Mother’s Day

I feel like I should write something even though I can’t stand this god-forsaken pseudo-holiday. Don’t get me wrong. I love my mama. She’s been good to me. Better than I probably deserve. She has treated me like one of her own ever since she married my dad, even when I didn’t want to let her. For my mama alone, I celebrate this day.

However, there’s the fact that this holiday also reminds me of the woman who gave birth to me. Her name is Satan. You may have heard of her. I don’t think about her much, but when I do, it’s to check myself that I am not “parenting” anything like her. She doesn’t deserve any mother’s day recognition. And neither do I.

How can a person celebrate being a mother when sometimes her mind makes her hate the fact that she is a mother? When sometimes she wishes she wasn’t? When some days she can’t do anything right and knows that no matter how hard she tries, her daughter is not getting the attention and love that she needs because her mommy is crazy?

Please don’t get me wrong. I love my baby girl with love I didn’t even know I had until I saw her tiny, beautiful little face. She’s the best thing that has ever happened to me. I wouldn’t trade her for anything in the entire world. I work hard every day to make sure she is healthy, learning,  growing and happy. I’m here for her to jump on and play with to her heart’s content.

Some days I just feel like my best isn’t good enough. That’s part of the crazy. When my mind tells me she’d be better off without me. That everyone would be better off without me. It says that I can’t do anything right and that because I’m so sick and tired all the time, I’m not worthy of the titles “wife” and “mother” because too often I don’t live up to them. That I’ll never live up to them. That my husband and daughter will soon realize what a fraud I am – how useless I am – and will stop loving me. Or leave me.

Even crazier than that is that it doesn’t sound so crazy to me. Sometimes I believe it.

Maybe even today, I believe it.

How can I celebrate being a mother on Mother’s Day when I just don’t feel I’ve done enough to be celebrated?

The answer to that is clear: Alcohol. 🙂

Toddler Times

Raising a child who is entering her “terrible twos” is not always the easiest thing in the world. Compared to other children, mine is really good. Like, I consider myself incredibly lucky, good. She does have her days though. Today was one of those days.

Being that I’m a depresso (that is, of course, the clinical term) and have serious thyroid issues, I am exhausted most days so that means a lot of time lying down in bed. Aisha, being the great kid that she is (yes, I’m bragging. What of it? Wanna fight about it?), just rolls with it. She usually cuddles up with me and we watch her favorite movies or she plays here in the room with her toys.

Then there are those other days. The days mommy is a trampoline. A jungle gym. Furniture. My bed and I are the McDonalds Play Place and she is an over-energized patron who was given the large soda by mistake.

It starts out so innocently. My lovely girl is standing beside me, watching Hotel Transylvania 2, being an angel. I am lying on my side, probably reading my Facebook news feed on my phone because it’s the only activity that takes virtually no physical or mental energy. I can hear the crinkle of her tiny little diapey as it moves closer to my ear. Slowly, very slowly, she inches herself toward the top of my body while she continues to watch the movie. The crinkling gets louder and louder. Suddenly, I see the shadow over my face and her pajama-covered diapey bottom seems to get larger and larger as it gets nearer to my face. Then it lands. She wiggles around until she finds the most comfortable spot. Then she proceeds to use her new chair to continue to watch her movie as if it’s not my freaking head.

That’s not even the worst part. No. The worst part is when she uses that same head for a slide.

“Wheeeee!”, she says with great joy.

“OW! Holy FUCK! Why, God, WHY???”, you scream, as the hairs are ripped from your head in massive patches and you sit up, vowing never to lie down near her again.

Surely a lot of you parents feel where I’m coming from here. Toddlers, man… whaddaya gonna do?

(Pictured: Baberson with a bowl on her head, watching cartoons on the laptop)


Oh, how rude!

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Melissa. I’m a 34 year old mother of one – a beautiful baby girl named Aisha who will be two in June. She’s the love of my life. Don’t worry. My husband knows he could never be my numero uno. Not since she came into our lives. She’s kind of everything.

So that takes care of the lovey-dovey “Mommy” part of the blog name. Uh… but what about that other part? You know – the part that strikes stigmatized fear into the eyes of pretty much every “normal” person out there. Mentally ill. *shudders* Ooh! Say it again! Mentally ill. What does that mean exactly? Do I put the “chic” in “psychotic”? The ” – ” in “cray-cray”?

Well, kind of. Yeah. That’s the part that makes me fun. The other part is the MDD – Major Depressive Disorder. Not nearly as fun, that. Oh, and severe social anxiety. Plus a whole slew of other major health problems that make me a veritable cocktail of pain and anguish.

I’m going to try to steer away from that path, however, because it isn’t really all that interesting unless you’re one of those emo people (not to be confused with emu people, the prospects of which are terrifying) who gets off on other people’s pain. If you are, you’re going to be very disappointed. I’m a pain-tease. Probably. If I do address the topics, I’ll do my level best to make them as light and fun as possible.

I imagine there will be a lot said here that you will be able to relate to. There will also be some things to make you laugh (assuming I‘m as funny as I think I am). But then there’s that other stuff… the stuff that you won’t like at all and won’t be able to relate to. Maybe you don’t like my “former sailor turned truck driver” language, fuck you very much. Maybe you don’t like that I make up words and bend grammar to fitastitize my will. Maybe there’s some content that makes you want to call Child Protective Services. The duct tape wasn’t on for that long, I swear!!! Wait… what?

If you come across any of the latter, please do us all a favor and just don’t. Nobody wants to be that person who tells a page creator how to write their content or why they are offended by it. We both know I don’t care and I’m not going to change it. In fact, I’m really a 12 year old boy so I’ll probably write a whole post with nothing but what you’re offended by while chanting “nyah-nyah” and sticking my proverbial (actual) tongue out at you because that’s the maturity level I’ve summoned for your opinion.

I hope my posts are a lot more of the first two things though. I mean, why are we even here if not for entertainment? I am quite sure you didn’t visit the Mentally Ill in Mommyville blog for actual, serious, real-deal parenting advice. Right? Dear gawd, I hope not! Abandon hope all ye who enter here! Abort mission! Abort mission!!!

Sorry. What was I saying? Oh, right. This is my blog. Like it or incur my wrath! Er… I mean… Enjoy! xoxo

First blog post

Welcome, my darlings!

I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve gathered you all here today (I’ve always wanted to say that). I assume that, like me, you’re here for one reason – to get through this thing called parenting with a little grace and a little humor.

Maybe you have some mental quirks and maybe you don’t. It doesn’t take a crazy person to appreciate some good humor or an interesting story… but it definitely helps. Whatever your reason for visiting my blog, I’m glad you’re here.

Buckle up! It’s going to be an amazing journey!