Musings Of A Deranged Mom: Collective Shit: The Complete Collection

By Cris Burl

Parenting; How hard could it be? It turns out that it's not the cakewalk that many believe it is. I started my musings as a way to cope through therapy and I have collected the funniest anecdotes of my life as I survive parenting a toddler and teenager simultaneously. Inside you will find the entire collection of my cathartic tales as I take you

• Language: English
• Publisher: Redwood Shadows Publishing
• Release date: Jun 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9781087924595

Cris Burl

I am Cris and I will be your tour guide as you navigate through my deranged mind. Musings of a Deranged Mom is my first baby in my writing world. During a moment of darkness and depression, I started a journal and that is how my series was born.However, that wasn't the end of my writing journey. I have so many ideas running rampant through my head. That's when I started down my romance path, Hill Country Desires. But wait... There's more.An evil little gremlin started perching on my shoulder and talking in my ear. That is when I began my horror journey. You can find my horror stories under the moniker, EVILyn Reins. Have some laughs, shed some tears, and sleep with the lights on, because your journey through my psychosis is only beginning.

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Copyright 2023 © Cris Burl

The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to, or downloaded from file sharing sites or distributed in any other way via the internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976.No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of Cris Burl.

Editor: Beth A. Freely

Other Books by Cris Burl

Hill Country Desires Series

Grooming Her Desire

Finding Her Desire

Riding Her Desire

Sharing Her Desire

Musings of a Deranged Mom Series

Musings of a Deranged Mom

Toilet Troubles

Drunk Moms Tell Tall Tales

Hotmess Express

Stand Alone

River in the Waves

Christmas with the Sea

Little People Big D

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I saw a phrase that has stuck with me: I’m living my best life. I originally started writing my memoir as a type of therapy.  I was lonely, depressed, and I felt like I’d lost myself.  My memoir is not a parenting advice book or even really about my kids.  It’s more of an anthology of short stories detailing the scenarios I got myself into.  I started a journal with the hope that it would make me happier and within my writing journey, I discovered I’m hilarious.  My stories are not made up and, in 99% of the situations I found myself, there were witnesses. 

In my self-journaling discovery, I realized that I am living my best life.  Sure, there are days that I rely on The Disney Channel so I can get housework done, but I’m doing the best I can. And guess what? The best I can is good enough for us. 

I stopped reading self-help and parenting books because they don’t apply to my weaknesses.  They don’t apply to what I’m feeling that particular day.  There have been days when I feel like nothing I do is good enough.  There have been days when I feel like my life is meaningless.  When negative Nancy is in my head, pulling me down, there isn’t anyone or anything that can snap me out of that funk.  I know I’m not alone and, on those days, I look back in my journal and see what I’ve accomplished. Some memories that I’ve forgotten over time have made me laugh, and put a smile on my face. 

So, live your best life.  Live the best life for you.  That’s what I’m going to do. 

●

There are many different types of families.  Single moms, single dads, co-parenting, married couples, grandparents raising grandchildren, and aunts raising their nieces and nephews…these are just a few examples of the types of families raising children.  The number of children each family has varies as well.  Whether you have an only child or entering an episode of Eight Is Enough every morning, a family is a family. 

I’m lucky enough to have the support of my husband as we raise our family together.  I also have two only children.  No, I did not misprint that sentence.  I do, in fact, have two only children.  My daughter is 10 years old.  She is at that age that having a mom is definitely not cool and shouting I love you at carpool drop off is a crime against humanity.  My beautiful little girl is at the precipice of no longer being a child and breaking her way into the preteen stage of her life.  Her feelings toward me and her dad are bordering on a bi-polar like affection.  One moment she wants to snuggle, hug, and kiss us, and within a flip of some imaginary hormonal switch in her brain, we all hate her and no longer want her in our family. 

Five years ago, I pretty much resigned myself to being a parent to an only child.  I lost an ovary from an emergency surgery and my pipes weren’t working right if you get my drift.  My personal doctor actually expressed a concern of needing a possible hysterectomy at the age of 35.  Then, bam! Surprise came in the form of a baby boy.  Say what you will, whether it was magic from Disney World, God, or potent sperm, I was blessed with another child, 10 years after having my daughter.  Right when I felt I could relax and enjoy parenthood with an independent child, I now had an over exuberant, little baby momma’s boy, who did not want ANYBODY other than me to hold him.  Breaks from my children were now nonexistent. 

My daughter had 10 years of being an only child, and really had no need for my constant attention. My son now has my full attention and I’m seemingly required to give him 24 hours of continuous affection.  What really annoys me is when people tell me, You’re so lucky, you have help with your baby.  She’s freaking 10!  Her idea of helping is leaving the baby alone in a room as she goes outside to play while I’m in the shower.  She’s not an adult; she’s a child.  Well, kind of anyway.  Right when I thought I was done with diapers, messes, and crazy tantrums, I’m blessed to now repeat those wonderful moments in a toddler’s life.

Can you read the sarcasm? I was planning on new floors to replace the 10 years of stains that my daughter had left behind as a mark of her early childhood years, and now I must wait another 10 years.  Oh wait, he’s a boy. Make that 15 years until I can replace my floors, couch, and appliances. It’s fine. The way he’s going, college is probably not an option for him.  He’s not the smartest fork in the drawer.  I can use his college fund for new hardwood floors and leave enough for trade school.  That’s hilarious; there is no college fund. 

Being a parent is THE hardest job out there.  The pay sucks; wait what pay? You work 16 hours a day and you are on call 8 hours.  I can’t tell you how many sleepless nights I had raising two children.  Oh, and men, don’t say to your wife that you get up too.  Unless you physically get out of bed to have a child tug on your nipples with their gums that are starting to grow razor sharp baby teeth, then you have no right to say that you get up.  The emotional release I felt hearing my husband scream like a girl because the baby bit his nipple like a little baby crocodile satisfied my frustration with motherhood.  Ahh, I can still picture the face of agony as the baby latched on to my husband’s useless nipple and suckled like a calf.  The tortured scream has brought me such joy. 

I started my musings as a way to get out my frustrations from motherhood and maybe laugh at myself a little.  Face it, children are little jerks, and you can either laugh or cry. 

I prefer to laugh, and I hope you do too.

Carpets And Furniture Are

Overrated Anyway

Having kids is hard on your home.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve cleaned up blueberry juice stains, food stains, and milk spills.  I can still pick up a sour odor permeating the house on hot days thanks to my daughter’s strike on sippy cups.  She would run around with a cup of milk, sans lid, because she wanted to be a big girl.

Having pets is probably equally as hard on your home.  Potty training, chewing phases, fur, and drool are only some of the ruinations inflicted onto a nice home.  I have two dogs of my own.  With two kids and two dogs, I am constantly cleaning yet never able to enjoy a clean home.  I also foster dogs picked up by rescue until they go to a new home.  This leads to more cleaning, replacing furniture parts, and carpet cleaning.  Due to one such foster I had, we had to replace the cushions on my couch.  I refused to replace the entire couch because I have a 10-year-old gymnast and dancer who uses the couch as her personal gym mat and a 15-month-old toddler whose constant drool leaves dark wet spots on the cushions that have me sniffing the spots just in case it wasn’t just drool.  I refuse to replace the couch until all the kids and dogs are out of the house.  By the way that timeline is going, I’ll be purchasing a hide-a-bed for my room at the nursing home.

I was putting the baby to bed and in the 20 minutes I was in the nursery, this foster had licked and pulled on the couch cushion with his teeth, exposing the cotton lining underneath.  I stood there in shock, watching him peel the skin of the cushion like a lion eating the hide of its prey.  I eventually replaced the cushion a few months after the incident.  Not with new cushions, but a friend of mine was throwing out their couch that was the exact same color and material as mine and I may have sneaked over to their property that evening and stole their cushions.  I actually hope they aren’t reading this right now because when I was questioned, my first response was, Oh my gosh, that’s crazy.  It must have been a neighbor!

I still have the original cushion. I kept it with the intent of taking it to the leather shop and getting it fixed.  It’s been over eight months.  I am still using my friend’s cushions. 

Today has not been a fun day in our home.  First off, we’re all sick with colds and the baby won’t let me sleep at night when he’s this sick. So, I’m functioning on having no shut eye since Thursday.  This morning, a dog got into the trash.  Casey was out of his kennel so unless a dog magically grew opposable thumbs to release this foster pup from his confinement, I will stick to the theory that Markie, my son, loosened the latch. 

I come out of the nursery to trash strewn all over the kitchen and three separate sets of brown eyes all telling me they’re innocent when the evidence of said trash covers their furry bodies.  After cleaning up the teen party disaster the monsters had, I took everyone out to potty.  Izzy is loose and Dory and Casey are leashed to my side.  I’m still in an inebriated state from the lack of sleep, so I’m not paying much attention to the two next to me.  When I look down, I see Dory standing by the fence and Casey peeing on her.  OMG!!!  She doesn’t even notice the rain Casey is providing her with because she’s chomping on a crawfish. I managed to fish the mini lobster out of her mouth before she swallowed, which gave Casey free rein to lick me upside my head repeatedly. 

UGH! Now I smell like fish, and I’m covered in drool.  I think my hair is standing up with mud splattered all over me because Izzy has decided to make her presence known by shaking off the goo stuck on her from her roll in the sewage puddles.  I wrangled all three dogs over to the water hose and started scrubbing, much to the delight of Casey and Izzy but to the horror of Dory.  I also turned the water hose on myself, pajamas and all, to clean away the evidence of my dogs’ owner abuse.  I dried all three of the pups with an old towel left outside last night and pushed all three of them inside, until Dory broke free and took off through the mud.  I shut the screen door and now I’m going back to bed, gross and wet.  I can shower and replace the sheets later.  Dory is on her own.  Then Markie cries, Dory has let herself into the house muddy, and I still haven’t slept.  UGH.  Anyone want some dogs and kids and one snoring husband who has slept through it all?

Another crazy foster stayed with us for a couple of weeks.  He was around 120 pounds of muscular hyper puppy that was recovering from hip surgery.  I did not have the option of extreme exercise to wear him out and he was taking out his frustration at the lack of exertion on my rug.  Yes, that dog ate the rug. I had to replace the rug with another fine Walmart brand. I definitely was not sad to see the little carpet muncher leave.  He is in his new home now, but I still see pictures of his calamitous behavior online.  He hasn’t changed his destructive performance and now I laugh at the predicament his family is in, even though I provided a sufficient warning of his taste for rugs. 

Today, I’m talking to my sister as she arrived home from work and our conversation was interrupted by a blood curdling scream.  Her one year old retriever had dug up her rug.  Not just dug up her rug, she had destroyed the rug, the padding and left an astronomical mess behind in her exuberant attempt to dig a route to China.  Next to the supposed archeological excavation site is the culprit looking very proud of her work.  I laughed at my poor sister, feeling so happy that for once it wasn’t me. 

We love our animals, and we love our children, but the amount of patience and energy it takes to keep up with the repairs that their annihilative behavior inflicts can be depressing to most people.  I wouldn’t trade the pressure, stress, or energy needed to care for my fosters and pets for the world.  I love my animals despite their crazy need to leave their mark on my house.  I know my sister feels the same, even though I’m sure she’s contemplating sending her dog to me for a while.  I’m not answering the door for the near future though, just in case.

Nothing Lives Forever

When a person has animals and children, there will be broken hearts, shoebox coffins, and funerals in the back yard.  We have dogs and a little bit of property on the outskirts of the city so we get our fair share of wild ducks, rabbits, and mice.  One afternoon. while riding our horses, one of our dogs came across a rabbit and did what nature intended.  Yes, the booger killed the bunny.  My daughter was absolutely heartbroken over the death of a creature that she never had contact with.  She named the rabbit Bugs, and her large, blue, tear-filled eyes compelled my husband to bury the creature with a shell for a gravestone.  After that moment, we realized that any animal that came under the murderous rampage of our dogs would have to be disposed of in secret to prevent future heartbreak. 

There was one time that our dog caught a duck and started to eat it when I discovered him with his prize.  I tried to get the duck from him, but he took off with this huge fowl running through the pasture.  I’m chasing him, trying to catch him and he’s running from me carrying a duck that was the same size as him.  The next thing I know, the horses decided to get involved and my husband comes out to see what the entire ruckus was. 

First, the dog runs by the gate, followed by me chasing and screaming his name huffing like an overly large rhino, then the horses are trotting behind me. We eventually caught the crazy dog and managed to wrestle the wild duck away from him.  We were like serial killers hiding bodies in the night when our dog found and killed his natural prey.  The amount of animal carcasses buried throughout the property would give a cadaver sniffing dog a coronary. 

I’m not heartless.  Our personal animals have all left their marks on my life and I wouldn’t change a thing, even feeling the pain I’ve felt when they would cross the rainbow bridge.  My conviction to never have another pet after watching my daughter hold our dying horse’s head in her lap wavered at the sight of dark brown eyes while Sarah Mclaughlin music played in the background of my brain.  However, the funerals started to get ridiculous. 

My daughter won a goldfish at a rodeo carnival when she was three.  We’ve had these goldfish going on six years now and I actually started to believe in the idea of immortality for our finned creatures.  Then one day she screams, and I run into her room and see her crying her eyes out, staring at the floating bodies of her once immortal fish.  I don’t know how they died, and I refuse to speculate on who killed the fish (cough, cough, James, the husband) but I was ready to do a burial at sea, aka the porcelain bowl. 

Apparently, that was NOT happening.  She batted those giant baby blues again and I found myself in a dress at a graveside service for three goldfish that were being buried in the front yard.  My husband said a prayer for the little sushi rolls and when he started to sing, I lost it.  I started laughing so hard that I could feel my weak bladder straining at the contractions my guffawing was causing my belly.  I couldn’t stop laughing.  Here we are outside in our Sunday finest at dusk burying food.  My daughter gave me a horrified look for a moment and then she joined in my laughter along with my husband.  Pretty soon, we’re all laughing at the absurdity of the moment.  We threw out the tanks and told my daughter no more marine pets.  Now she wants a hermit crab.  I wonder how long they live for. 

Thank Gawd For Baths

There is considerable difference in babies in the course of one year.  They grow so much so quickly.  When I think about how much I changed between the age of 36 and 37, I don’t really recognize a difference other than a little extra belly roll.  The difference in my son between the age of five months and 15 months is colossal.  Don’t even get me started on the differences between my daughter and son when they were the same age.  My daughter was a sweet, lazy, chunky baby that was content to just lie wherever I put her.  My son, on the other hand, will not stay put without adequate glue.  I used to put my daughter in her highchair with cheerios while I baked cookies and she would sit there and eat those oat circles one at a time in such a slow manner that I thought my hair was turning grey.  I put my son in the highchair with cheerios and he shoves three handfuls of cereal in his mouth, chokes, gets so angry and takes it out on the breakfast snack by throwing it everywhere.  Unfortunately, it usually lands in my hair or in my bra.  Snack for later though, right? 

I was making cookies once when he was 15 months old. I had to take him out of the highchair and I didn’t even get to mix the sugars for my cookies yet.  I turn back to measure out the vanilla and he rams into the back of my legs with the speed of Usain Bolt, causing me to squeeze the plastic vanilla bottle so hard that smelly liquid erupts all over my hands, face, and hair.  I finally finished my cookies but not without messy consequences.  It took me another 30 minutes of sweeping up spilt flour, sugar, and baking soda.  Apparently, little Markie wanted to help.  He also started biting me continuously that same day.  I don’t know if it was a toddler phase or if he just thought I was a cookie.  My husband also hit on me that night.  I now know why that lotion and perfumes come in a vanilla scent. 

Another sibling difference is all the cute clothes.  All the way through my daughter’s toddler years, I would find the cutest outfits and dress her up three times a day.  She was my mini runway model with all the cute lace, butterflies, and bows.  She loved changing clothes and trying on new outfits and hardly ever really did anything to get dirty or smelly. That is until she joined sports.  Now her dance bag smells like a boy’s gym locker and I’m wondering if she’s even putting on the deodorant I purchased for her because she comes home smelling like a trucker after a long haul. 

I also found the cutest clothes for my sweet five-month-old baby boy.  I would change his outfit three times a day if one little dribble of drool would contaminate the perfection of his outfit.  I would dress him in little sailor outfits, or little vests and khakis with cute shoes and aww over the cuteness.  Now, at 15 months, he’s in just a diaper for the better part of the morning.  Then he’s in a plain onesie the rest of the day, no matter what he gets into.  Evenings at bath time his onesie is covered with food, drool, and daily dirt.  Oh, and the smell.  OH MY GOD! I used to take deep breaths of his baby scent and my ovary would contract at the wonderful smell of baby.  Now I hold him at arm’s length at the end of the day because his smell rivals a skunk on the defensive. 

I Love My Life

I hate my life.  I actually used that phrase in my head last night while Markie was screaming at the top of his lungs, refusing to go back to sleep at 3 a.m.  I know I’m not the only one.  All you mommas out there have thought that phrase at one point in time during motherhood.  I used mine last night. 

We had just returned from a vacation where Markie slept in bed with me and my husband.  I use the term slept very loosely because he didn’t actually sleep all that much.  Toddlers, and vacations involving an interruption of their routine, aren’t much of an actual vacation.  When we returned, he must have been very exhausted because he power slept through the night and only woke up once for a diaper change and then went right back to sleep. 

Well, night number two after returning he expected the same treatment he received while camping: sleeping in mommy’s arms.  He was sleeping through the night before the trip and now I have to start all over with his sleep training, and mommas, it’s twice as hard the second time around.  I went into his room at 3 a.m. and he screamed at the top of his lungs for an hour and a half.  My daughter was sleeping blissfully in the next room.  My husband had the monitor turned off.  I know this because he texted me to just give up and rock him because Markie was disturbing his sleep.  I told him to turn the monitor off because I was not losing the fight for a peaceful night against a 15-month-old. 

I was staring at the wall, with my back to the crib, listening to the desperation in the screams of my baby and using every amount of will power I had in my internal storage to not give in.  At this point is when I thought that infernal phrase, I hate my life.  That moment in time when nothing is going right and loss of sleep is pounding at the door of my insanity, determined to take over and make me break. 

Well, I won. Markie passed out from exhaustion or lack of oxygen, at this point I don’t care, and I finally fall back to sleep in my bed.  My 10-year-old woke herself up and was ready for school, with her lunch packed, when I finally crawled out of bed with a baby hangover from hell. 

There is no such thing as a perfect mom and all those mothers out there that look so put together, I know the truth.  I know you’re hiding the circles under your eyes with that special concealer only sold by Mary Kay.  I know that hair in a bun really hasn’t been washed in a week because you’re too exhausted to bathe by the time the kids are in bed.  I know those ironed clothes were done over the weekend while the kids slept because you have the knowledge that there’s no time for ironing or laundry during the week.  I know those skinny moms we all strive to be are skinny because the only thing they have time to eat are the leftover cheerios and a cup of coffee before running to the office for nine hours.  I know all your struggles and I’ve been through 99% of them.  Every mom has. 

So, when you’re saying I hate my life while watching your toddler do circles on the floor with their body like a tyrannical clock because you refused to give in to their attempt to weasel a toy out of you at the checkout, you’re not alone.  I’ve hated my life at that point too.  When you’re thinking I hate my life while your preteen is screaming I hate you through her door because you wouldn’t let her paint her walls black like your heart, you’re not alone.  I’ve hated my life at that point too.  When you’re carrying a crying baby out of the clothing store because they haven’t had their nap and you’re wading through the judgmental stares of all the non-parents thinking I hate my life, know that I’ve been there too. 

We don’t really hate our lives.  I love my kids and I don’t really hate my life, but sometimes that moment tests us.  That moment where you think you’re going to break, but then it’s over and life is back to open mouth toddler kisses and snuggles from your preteen daughter.  You’re here and you’re alive.  We don’t hate our lives, but it’s okay to have that moment; because without that moment of turmoil, we wouldn’t appreciate the smiles and hugs from the crib the next morning. 

This morning, I got the best smile and hug from a baby boy that made me hate my life just three hours earlier.  I love my life.

Help Wanted

Have you ever wanted to fill out a help wanted advertisement to employ help, but you do not want to be judged for what you need the help for?  I do, all the time.  I have written up a help wanted advertisement for just such an occasion.

Help Wanted:

I need someone to perform an exorcism on a 10-year-old girl.  Symptoms include but are not limited to: dramatic outbursts that last 20 minutes, stomping, crying, slamming doors, and throwing miscellaneous objects.  There is definitely an evil entity that has overtaken my prepubescent preteen and I need it removed directly. 

Last night, my sanity was called into question, by myself, after having to witness the outburst the evil spirit made my sweet child perform. Threats of quitting school, throwing homework, and screaming tantrums that included the phrase You all hate me has put a strain on my mental health.  You must sign a confidentiality clause and if you are injured in the process of extracting evil, also known as hormones, from said child, we will not be held responsible. Please apply in secret for I fear what it will do if the entity found out about a possible exorcism.

Everyone Lies

Everyone is a liar.  Yes, all of you out there are liars.  I know this for a fact.  All my babysitters lie to me, my husband lies to me, and my friends lie to me.  You are all liars.  I know Markie’s real plan in life is evil world domination and I’m the only true person out there that knows the actuality of Markie’s scheme.  He is an awful baby.  Right now, as I type this, he is screaming, rolling on the floor because I wouldn’t let him eat the dog biscuit I gave to the pups. He threw his granola bar onto the floor in a desperate plan to change my mind on his determination to consume a milk bone. 

Every time I leave Markie with my husband he says that the baby was so well behaved, watching Mickey in the background and playing quietly with the useless toys I’ve spent hundreds of dollars on.  How sweet that he behaves for you for a whopping two hours while I’m gluing and sewing dance costumes for a competition being held in only two days.  How sweet that the television makes such a great babysitter.  And he wonders why I’m so tired at the end of the day.  Being a stay-at-home mom is not having cartoons on all day while I sit around on my large bum eating Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and sipping Starbucks out of my refillable cup.  No siree. 

Right now, Markie is 18 months old and my day consists of scheduled activities to promote healthy brain development and active learning appropriate for an active toddler.  We play finger plays, sing songs, mash playdough, blow bubbles, and play outside.  That’s only in the morning.  I also have a schedule for the afternoon and let’s not forget Markie eats six times a day and if I’m not constantly in the same room with him he screams his head off while throwing his skull into the nearest hard surface actively killing whatever brain cells survived after his latest stunt of climbing off the edge of the couch for baby skydiving without a chute.  I can’t even poo quietly without Markie