Tamarah Rockwood

Was I hungry? Was it low blood sugar? Were my feet falling off? Was I crazy? Was I dying?

There comes a point in every writer’s life when their brain just refuses to work.

Don’t say the following: “Maybe they’ll remember me!” “I bet they would love to get a message from me!” “Contacting the popular kids while we are in our 30s is a fantastic idea and doesn’t look desperate at all!”

What I am not saying: "I am now going to take this opportunity to rub in your face what an inadequate parent you are for not sacrificing your entire life to homeschool your children, who you obviously don't love."

"If I am holding an amber beer in my hand, I am not talking about naptimes. If I hear shop from your lips, I am ordering you three more martinis and getting you shitfaced..."

My house is a mess, my patience is hardly a composure I explore regularly, and there are times when I feel like I am the biggest failure in the history of modern motherhood. Some days I’m just shooting for a participation trophy. There is no award for ignoring the laundry until everyone is out of underwear, or letting my 3-year-old watch Mulan 3 times before lunch. Did I mention I take my kids to McDonald’s once a week?

The Mom Butt is a little wider, a little flatter and a little longer than the butts on the totally dedicated and amazing women on Pinterest (mad props to them, seriously).

The thing is, the more I watch this show, and the more I think back to the endless years in Start Up culture that we experienced, the more I keep thinking: “This is way too similar to parenting.”

"So, Hollywood's perfect couple is not just having a conscious uncoupling ... they are going the traditional route with a full divorce."

The last episode of “MyCoffeePot & Me” aired 2 years ago when I woke up to an unresponsive pot.