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Barefoot, Braless, and barely hanging on…

One morning last year during school drop-off for my oldest child I found myself extremely amused by the overall feeling of disarray in my life at that given moment. Disarray actually seems like a kind word for describing my morning drives to the Elementary school and through the car line. I feel like “sucking at life” is probably more accurate. You see, each morning I go to battle. Despite it being the exact same every weekday morning, I am never quite prepared for the brutal pain that lay ahead of me each morning at 6am when my alarm goes off. I know that there will be yelling, whining, and I can guarantee that there will be tears. Whether those are the actions of the child, or myself usually varies from day to day. Getting a 6 year old (now 7) out of bed, fed, dressed, teeth brushed, hair brushed, out the door with her lunch and book bag IS NOT for the faint of heart. It is WAR.

After battle I stagger to my Mom-mobile stinking of morning breath because I prioritized her hygiene over mine for the sake of time. To help set the scene let me paint a picture for you, of what you would see were you to take in my appearance head-to-toe on these morning drives. My hair is disheveled as if it were indicative of the hard fought win, but really it’s because I woke up that way, I’m in some form of mismatched jammies-no bra (my “headlights” are on high beams because, well, they pretty much stay that way), I’ve got an energy drink in one hand, and no shoes on my feet. I look eerily similar to how I looked most mornings 15 years ago, except that I don’t reek of booze and I had way less fun the night before. <sigh> Such is life.

I have a group of girl friends that are all in a video chat group together and most mornings, someone pops on between 7 to 7:30am to start the conversation rolling for the day. The early morning chats are usually between those of us with school-aged kids, and almost always for the purpose of swapping war stories, or entertaining each other with the new level of suckage that we our kids have reached.

Side note: I seriously think that a parent probably never hates their kid more than they do on any given school morning. Maybe on long car rides, but it’s probably a toss-up. 

I’m one of the “lucky” moms in our chat group because I have the shortest drive to the school, about .3 miles. However, being on the PTO board puts me at extremely high risk of someone needing to chat with me at my car. My daughter has also inherited my stellar memory, so she is constantly forgetting her shit that I then have to race home to get and run inside to the front office. For some women these situations would be reason enough to wear real clothes during morning drop-off, or at least throw on a bra, but not me. At seven in the morning I couldn’t give a crap less about stuff like that. My one goal is getting back into my cozy bed as quickly as possible, and things like brushing my teeth, or putting on shoes are only going to slow me down.

As I mentioned, though, I do reflect some mornings, on the train wreck that I resemble and all of the worst possible scenarios that could arise while I am in this condition. It was during one of these moments of reflection while on video chat with my fellow soldiers that I came up with the realization that I was the complete embodiment of a classic country song. A song, that only one of my kind was fit to write. A song that would be called “Barefoot, Braless, and Barely Hanging On”.

The song has a few lines, and I’ve fiddle with a chorus, but it is still a work in progress. I’ll add it to the pile of things I don’t have time to give my full attention to. I have some things I would like to say before my lap top battery runs out, so here goes:

If you made your child cry this morning by brushing their hair…… I see you.

If your child’s hair is in mats and tangles because they chose not to wash it when they showered the night before and you’re pretty sure there are chunks of food in it from breakfast two days ago…… I see you.

If you’d rather your kid’s principal see your saggy boobs, and hard nipples glaring through your pajama top than exert the effort needed to put a bra on….. I see you.

If the breakfast you made for your child was a pack of fruit snacks that they ate in the car on the way to school…… I see you.

If there is a split second each morning that you find yourself wanting to run over the mom that is walking her child into school in a cute outfit and full face of make-up…. I feel you.

6 am, 7am, even 8am (in my opinion) is too early to be held accountable for your actions. Emotions run high that early in the morning, things are said and done that you have to live with… just know, Mama, you. are. not. alone. I SEE YOU, unfortunately so does everyone else in the school parking lot- but don’t worry your messy little head about it for one second. You are the star of your own country song, and the day can only get better from here.

nene

xoxo, Layne

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Netflix and Chill

I remember years ago my grandmother telling me that on Friday nights she and my grandfather would have friends over for cocktails and they would play cards, or dance, drink their alcohol, and chain smoke cigarettes. She made sure I knew that the kids were home while all this was going on. She was a badass.

Growing up, my own parents were “Parrotheads”. If this is an unfamiliar term to you, a Parrothead is the name for die-hard Jimmy Buffet fans. So, my parents spent weekends watching some of Jimmy’s protégés play in dive bars and getting drunk with other middle-aged, Hawaiian shirt clad lushes.

Now that I’m married I feel like I’m socially lacking in comparison to the generations that went before me. The wildest parties we throw involve inviting two other couples over for Game Night, and we’re definitely not waistin’ away again in Margaritaville.

Netflix and Chill is what the kids these days use as code for pretending to watch a movie, but really doing hanky panky. Netflix and Chill is also what my weekend evenings typically consist of with and without the hanky panky part.

Shall I set the scene?

Picture a living room… nice open concept that connects with a beautiful kitchen and breakfast room, built-ins flank a floor-to-ceiling brick fireplace, and double French doors open into a sunroom that’s being used as a playroom. You think, “these people might have nice taste,” but you can’t quite tell with all of the crap laying around everywhere. There are a total of seven different blankets littering the sectional, a child’s sock in the middle of the floor, 3 juice cups (all empty, but not clean) are sitting in different obscure places around the room, you spot a single puzzle piece peeking out from under an oversized upholstered chair, and you’re unsure what the original fabric color was on the swanky high-back dining chairs, because now they’re stain colored. A husband and wife come traipsing down the stairs, just a few minutes apart, after putting their two kiddos to bed, a job in which they divide and conquer. Both collapse onto opposite ends of the blanket-covered couch and turn to face one another. The couple is tired, full of stories from the week that they could share with one another, but don’t because they are simply “over it”, one much more interested in “snuggling” than the other (who knows exactly where that road leads). The air full of tension from things unsaid, and moves not made, the husband whispers those 4 special words, you know the ones, “What should we watch?”

Aaaaaannnddd that’s it! That’s our entire Friday night. Usually we settle on a show pretty quickly and watch a few episodes before he switches the channel over to sports and I retire to a hot bath.

Please tell me that we aren’t the only 32-year-olds that are this lame. Please.

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There are two types of people in this world: the ones who wear real clothes at home, and the ones that strip down the minute they walk through the door and throw on pjs or some other comfy get-up. I, myself, am the second type of person. I don’t trust you if you’re watching TV or folding laundry in jeans – something isn’t right with you. I prioritize comfort, and why shouldn’t I? I’m an adult. I pay taxes. I make sure my kids are fed, clothed, and don’t die. I deserve to be comfortable. I have earned the right to wear ratty, old AF clothes around my house whenever I want-and I want to always.

Here’s the part when I tell you the real topic I’d like to discuss, and it’s not pajamas. If you’re an unmarried man reading this right now, you’re about to be let in on the secret. Most husbands know what I’m about to tell you, even if it hasn’t been discussed out loud. Women across the world know what I’m talking about – whether they’ll admit to it or not. My husband and I discuss it all of the time, rather he tolerates the bizarre amount of time that I enjoy talking about it.

I’m sure by now it’s become clear, but for those of you that are still unsure, here’s the secret. Us ladies? We all have a favorite pair of underwear, and they ain’t pretty.

As a comfort seeker, my desire for physical peace reaches far beyond pajamas and leggings. My lady parts want to be comfortable, too! It wasn’t until a few years ago that I recognized my particular affection for certain undies. One night while getting ready for bed I found myself giddy when I opened my dresser drawer to see that a specific pair of panties sitting there. I knew, in that moment, that I was about to sleep SO GOOD! After that night I began to pay more attention to which underwear I was wearing to bed. There are 4 pair of undies, all from the same original pack, that are my absolute fave. I call them my C-section panties. I got them before I had my first child, who turns eight this year. She wasn’t actually a c-section baby, however, when packing for the hospital I remembered a friend of mine telling me about her husband having to buy her these hideously ugly granny panties after she had her son because she needed something big enough to come up above her incision as not to irritate it. (Thus, the nickname: C-section Panties.) I thought that jumbo undies sounded like a good idea, it was my first kid and I was overpreparing.

Those 4 pair of underwear have been through so much with me. Over 7 years!! They’re practically family, but I don’t want to be dramatic, so I’ll just say that we’re close. When I open my drawer and see one of them waiting for me, clean… soft… falling apart at the seams…I know it’s going to be a great night. I even made up a little jingle about them “🎶I’ve got my C-section pannays🎶” – you’d have to hear it in person to appreciate it.

If my kids are smart they’ll start to pick up on the situation and use it to their advantage. I’m in a far better mood when I have on my CSPs. “What color underwear is Mom wearing?” “The green ones with the bleach stains and hole on the right butt cheek.” “Nice! Let’s ask her if we can get tattoos!!”

I do want to say that none of them actually have holes in them… I’m not an animal. They’re close, but not quite yet.

So ladies, I’ll leave you with this, my wish for women everywhere: I hope you’re able to wear your favorite undies tonight, you know the ones. xoxo, Layne

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They call me Boss Lady…

Ok, so not everyone calls me that, but they should. Despite everything pointing to the contrary I stand by the notion that this is my world and everyone else is just living in it. I’m the Boss Lay-day (imagine me saying that like Snoop Dogg would) and I’m in charge! My husband, kids, the rude lady at Walmart customer service, and all of the dumbass drivers that won’t get out of my way don’t seem to recognize my authority, but they will… Oh, they will.

It’s probably hard to believe, but I’m a total control freak. Type-A to the core. I want to know what’s going on at all times, and I want to be the one in charge- it’s a character flaw, and I’m not proud of it. This “Bossness” gets me into all sorts of trouble; I volunteer for way too much, have horrible anxiety, resting bitch face, and occasionally I can rub people the wrong way. I’ll be honest, I’m a bitch, but one with a heart of gold, I tell ya! I just want what every gal wants: a loving husband that doesn’t over-scrutinize my spending, children that always listen, loyal friends, and total absolute control. Is that too much to ask???

My life is way more PTO mom than Victoria Beckham, but I’m working on tipping the scales in the other direction. I love shopping, especially for clothes. Over the past six months I’ve been enjoying representing a local boutique through social media, and I’m thrilled to share with y’all a ton of new opportunities that I’ve recently been given! This blog will accompany my insta and Facebook accounts as an outlet for me to share my love of fashion, tell you about great deals, let you take a peek inside my brain, and share some of my hilarious thoughts about life. Oh, did I mention that I’m super funny?

Uggghhhh… Y’all, who am I kidding? I’m a total hot mess, but my promise to you is this: if nothing else, if you follow me – I’ll be entertaining AF.

xoxo, Layne