1. Win the lottery. (Note to self: remember to buy a ticket next time, dummy.)

2. Become super famous through my adorable yet honest, funny but touching, amazingly photographed blog about my pregnancy. Babies. Home. Dog? Crafting? Coupons? I’m still working on it.

3. Die. Come back from dead. Write bestseller about heaven.

4. Invent time machine. Go back in time and invest in Apple/Microsoft/Facebook.

4a. Invent time machine. Go back in time and invent salad in a bag.

4b. Invent time machine. Sell rides on time machine for $100,000 a piece.

5. Find buried pirate treasure while playing with the kids on the beach.

6. Discover a supplement that leads to drastic weight loss, but only if you consume copious amounts of chocolate, wine and cheese daily.

7. Create the first at-home coffee IV drip.

8. Get discovered by P. Diddy while singing karaoke in a bar. Sign billion dollar recording deal to become the next Beyonce. (Note to self: learn to sing.)

9. Start extremely successful business as a baby stylist.

10. Convince half of Martha Stewart’s Twitter followers to send me $1.

Obviously I am about to strike it rich ANY DAY NOW.

Reading Tip: For an authentic chatting-over-coffee experience while reading this post, be sure to imagine me giggling every time I say “Butt Paste”.
When BlogHer asked if I’d be interested in trying Boudreaux’s Butt Paste, they wanted to know if I had a cute and funny diaper disaster story to share. I almost laughed out loud at the question – of COURSE I have diaper disaster stories. I have two kids! There was the time I was trying to be super cool and wore my baby into a tattoo shop to make an appointment and he promptly poopsploded right through the sling. Or I could tell you what happens when you have two kids in diapers and you accidentally mix up the sizes in your middle-of-the-night diaper changing fog. It’s not pretty.

But then The Incident happened. I will refrain from using names so as to make this story less Googleable in the future, although after what she did that’s being EXTREMELY generous. Let’s just call her Shmaroline.

Shmaroline has recently moved to a big-girl bed, which makes her feel very grown up and important. She loves her big-girl bed, especially because it means when she wakes up in the morning she can get out of bed and play with her dolls and blankies and other toys on the floor. Unfortunately, the transition to the big-girl bed came at exactly the same time as her interest in using the potty. And along with the interest in using the potty came a desire to NOT wear a diaper.

If you’re a parent, you can probably already see where this is going. Feel free to skip ahead, unless your child has been terrible today and you need to be reminded “Hey at least I didn’t have to scrub poop out of the carpet today!” Because yes. That is exactly what happened. My adorable baby girl woke up, silently removed her jammies and diaper, and crapped right on the floor. Which is terrible! Horrible! Totally disgusting! Definitely a Diaper Disaster!

And then she decided to stomp in it. (I’m sorry. So so sorry.) I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth when I heard her making her normal, happy, morning baby noises so I sent Evan in to let her out of the room. He took one look at her, slammed the door and ran back to the bathroom yelling “Mommy! Big mess Mommy! Shmaroline pooped!” Luckily, they both think a morning bath is a special treat – and I had a bottle of carpet cleaner waiting on top of Shmaroline’s bookcase. Wait, that actually wasn’t very cute. But it was definitely a disaster!

Mmmmm butt paste

Luckily, one of the things that ISN’T a disaster right now is Caroline’s diaper rash (Shocking news: Shmaroline was actually Caroline all along!). Despite lots of long car trips and super hot summer days, her bottom is as soft as a, uh, baby’s bottom. I got my tube of Boudreax’s Butt Paste right after we returned from Virginia and it worked wonders on the redness from 7 hours in the car seat. Since then I’ve been putting just a tiny dab on every night after bath and we’ve had zero issues. I’ve found it to be easier to put on and wipe off than other diaper creams I’ve tried and it doesn’t have that super-distinctive diaper cream smell I associate with most zinc oxide products. It even worked on the dreaded “Look Mom, I just ate an ENTIRE pint of blueberries on top of those strawberries I had for breakfast – now can I have some grapes?” rash. Boudreax’s was created by a pharmacist in 1978 and is recommended by pediatricians.

Got a diaper rash story? Leave a comment below and you will be entered into a sweepstakes to win a $100 gift card!

Visit Boudreaux’s Butt Paste on Facebook to learn more about the ultimate “secret weapon” when it comes to preventing and treating diaper rash. Check out BlogHer.com to find other reviews and more ways you can enter to win!

Sweepstakes Rules:

No duplicate comments.

You may receive (2) total entries by selecting from the following entry methods:
a) Leave a comment in response to the sweepstakes prompt on this post
b) Tweet about this promotion and leave the URL to that tweet in a comment on this post
c) Blog about this promotion and leave the URL to that post in a comment on this post
d) For those with no Twitter or blog, read the official rules to learn about an alternate form of entry.

This sweepstakes is open to US Residents age 18 or older. Winners will be selected via random draw, and will be notified by e-mail. You have 72 hours to get back to me, otherwise a new winner will be selected.

The Official Rules are available here.
This sweepstakes runs from 7/12 – 8/31/12.

The internet, from Facebook to Instagram, is full of scathing reports of parents behaving badly in public. From shouting at their kids in Walmart to spanking them in the bathroom stall at Disney world, we love to call out others for their mistakes. We can make them sound like monsters, terrible adults taking preying on the defenseless, unable to control their emotions and anger. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT, we shout into the series of tubes, SO SHOCKING.

Today, I am sure someone is gleefully reporting on the mother they saw hit her three year old at the zoo. AWFUL.

That mother was me. I smacked Evan, right out in the open for God and the Italian ice girl and the wrinkled, judging eyes of the elephants to see.  He staggered sideways, his eyes filling with tears as I picked him up and held him while casting furtive glaces around to see if anyone was calling Child Protective Services. No one went that far, but the looks I got made my scalp prickle.

The whole thing was an accident, but even if you suspected that you have already started judging me. I was explaining elephants to Caroline, crouched slightly to point out their ears and tusks and big feet at a level she could understand both physically and developmentally. Evan was tired of the elephants – “Mommy, don’t wanna see the elephants! Wanna see the tortoises, fighting tortoises Mommy, this way!” (To lighten the tone of this post, I’ll tell you the tortoises weren’t fighting but since that’s what Evan called the thing they were doing – and doing loudly – I didn’t correct him.) In his excitement, Evan grabbed my leg and yanked, twisting me off balance. As I tipped toward the pavement I flung my arms out involuntarily and one of them connected with the side of his body. It hurt me more than it hurt him, truly. He was surprised and shocked but not actually injured. I swallowed my quick flash of adrenaline and hugged him as tight as I could, murmuring apologies and looking for bruises.

But if you had also been looking at the elephant’s ears and tusk and big feet you would have turned when you heard the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh followed by a crying child. You would have seen a mother looking guilty and ashamed and a little boy saying “I sorry Mommy! Please don’t hit me!” You would have judged and condemned. You might have tweeted or taken a picture of us as we walked away to put on Instagram. You might have shared what you had seen with your message board. I might have done the same, before I was on the other end.

We are reminded all the time not to judge other people’s choices. “You don’t know what they’re going through” we chant, “You don’t know their circumstances. Do what is right for your family.” But we make exceptions for the Really Bad Things. We know we are better than Those People and Those Choices and no matter what they say there is No Excuse. And sometimes that is true. I’m not saying you should doubt your instincts if you see a child being harmed or in danger. But I am saying things are not always what they look like, even when you see them with your own eyes, and maybe a private yet public social media shaming shouldn’t be your first reaction.

The kids an I made you a super cute present, but as usual I didn’t make it to the post office in time for you to get it on your actual birthday.

I bought cards for the kids to sign, but they decided to run off with the pens and  write on each other so I had to take them away.

We’re going to try to FaceTime you tonight, but I’ll have to convince Evan to stop watching PBS Kids on the iPad so I can borrow it long enough to connect.

But you’ve been a mom for half you life now, so none of that comes as a surprise to you.

Thanks for being a wonderful mom and a fantastic Mormor. Happy Birthday!

p.s. With your face right up there next to my face I don’t think ANYONE is going to say I look like Dad :)

Dear Suzanne,

Hey. Hi There. How are you? Your hair looks nice like that. And you’ve definitely lost weight so don’t get discouraged, but also don’t forget to eat dessert sometimes because you’re kind of awful when you don’t get dessert.

In case you’re already wondering what this is about, it’s not the letter version of repeating affirmations to yourself in the mirror every morning (because I know you never remember to do that – it makes you feel silly). This is a letter to remind you of how awesome your life is on the days when you can’t do anything besides throw some crackers at the kids and hide in the bathroom until your husband comes home.

Today, Evan woke you up by climbing into bed and giving you hugs. Then he played on the iPad while you dozed and checked email and put off starting the day as long as possible.

That right there – the first 20 minutes of your whole day – should be more than enough to make you realize how lucky you are. Your son is healthy. He slept in his own room last night. He is able to climb. He is able to hug you. You have a bed. You have a room that is a pleasant temperature. You have an iPad. You have an iPhone. Your daughter slept in her own room. She is healthy. She is always excited to see you, even if you make her wait while you get dressed. You do not have to rush out the door for work. You can wake up at 7 am, and at 7:15 decide today is a beach day or a zoo day or a baking day or a library day or a stay-at-home day. Billions – literally, BILLIONS – wish they had a life like that.

Every single day for you is like a weekend for most people. You can shop or get coffee or work out or lie around doing nothing. Your bank account has money in it you did not have to earn but you get to spend. THINK ABOUT THAT. Yes, you are working in a zillion different ways at all hours of the day and night and yes your work as a wife and mother is important but in this country, at this time, that work is worth zero actual dollars. Too bad Target doesn’t accept blood, sweat, tears or poop. You have plenty of those.

Your biggest problem this week is that you double-booked your plans for Tuesday – you promised one friend you would meet her at the Seaport and another that you would be her event photographer at a party for your kids and all your kids’ friends. Oh noes! Your life is SO HARD, but only if by hard you mean “really really freaking awesome.”

Parenting a child is a challenge, and some days it’s a really challenging challenge and some days it feels like a challenge that will never ever end but always remember: IT WILL. Be glad the bad days end but remember the good ones do too. Today will end, tomorrow will end, your children’s youth will end. It will end and you will wonder why you didn’t enjoy more of it.

So go ahead, have a bad day. Feel sorry for your plight as an over-worked, over-stressed, under-appreciated mom. Count the minutes until you can pour a glass of wine or collapse into bed. Everyone’s allowed to have bad days. But when you wake up tomorrow with a snuggly ginger playing Angry Birds and a day of nothing but fun ahead of you, stop feeling bad and start appreciating how great your life is.

Love,

Past Suzanne

p.s. Don’t forget to eat the strawberry freezer jam. You tend to forget stuff you put in the downstairs fridge. Speaking of which, it’s probably time to throw out the egg nog.