Welcome to my own source of personal therapy.
This blog is an outlet for the inner workings of my mind, but is also a story of how you can make anything out of your life regardless of your upbringing or circumstances. You have to persevere and want more.
I made this life I have today, with a loving and ridiculous family who makes every trip around the sun an interesting one. With each step taking me closer to the type of success I dream about. I shouldn’t have what I have, but I do because I wasn’t willing to take less.
My blog is to share some of how I got here and how I keep going places. It’s a place to share struggles and realness. A place to share the absurdity that is being a mom.
Sometimes I overshare in my posts. I curse and give gory details about vaginas and grossness that comes with men and raising kids. But I also talk about spirituality, dealing with your babies not being babies anymore.
In here, I talk about what real life really is.
I’m not writing this blog, Raising the Curtins, to be popular or make boatloads of cash. That would be wonderful, but this blog has other purposes. To give me therapy so I stay somewhat sane, to leave a digital legacy for my children, and to share what’s real in life so others feel a connection through real life, not filters.
It was somewhat fitting that, on the day I promoted my post about trying for a boy, I found out I was actually pregnant. I kind of called it though. Right after my egg dropped in September, Scarlett’s guinea pig Hutson died. The very same day, a neighbor’s dog just collapsed and died as she was walking it home.
My inner voice, whom I call Nancy, said to me “Oh shit. You’re pregnant. Where’s there’s death, there’s life. Circle of life. Hakuna Matata.”
I will start with the assurance that I am not fucking crazy. Yet. Nancy is not a family member. Nancy is my inner voice. Yes, I named it. Why? That’s …
Being 37 and a mom of 2, I have the struggle of dressing my age and dressing my body. There are certain fashion choices that just look ridiculous on a woman my age. Like when it was a big thing to have words on pants that stretch across your butt. I don’t need a sign on my ass that says Juicy. Because chances are, that’s describing my farts and not the shape of my rear end.
I am 37 as I write this post. Not dead yet, but not at the ideal age for a 9 month sobriety challenge (aka pregnancy). Because, at this age, it’s considered “geriatric” and that’s plain ridiculous. I’m fucking 37 not 62. How is that geriatric? I don’t use a walker and I only wet my pants when I sneeze.
It needs another name. Like….seasoned pregnancy or I’m-a-mature-fucking-woman-who-took-my-time pregnancy.
Why is it that when someone might be gay, we can’t help but throw it into the convo, even when we’re not talking about sex at all? Look, I don’t care which hole you’re using. But unless you’re showing me a manstick or making bedroom requests, we don’t need a play-by-play of who you think is gay. And if we’re going down that road, can we please start declaring straightness, too? Because that would be equally pointless. Let’s stop the weirdness, folks.
A little recap of our second try at shark tooth hunting for your reading pleasure. It includes a homeless guy showing off his goods, inappropriate jokes, ice nuggets, drinking anxiety, setting fires, PDA, and plaques.
If you love sarcasm, unfiltered motherhood stories, and the occasional chaos of my life (think: a mind that never stops over-analyzing everything. single. thing., parenting 4 daughters whose age ranges are ridiculous, and being married to an asshole)…you’re in luck.
Whether you're in the carline, folding laundry, or taking an extra long time on the toilet, throw on my audio files and pretend we're having a large glass of wine together and getting real. Because sometimes, you just need a voice in your ear telling you all the crazy shit about a middle aged woman and her family.
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