Motherhood is.

We are everywhere.

We can be found at school functions, in grocery stores and churches. We are at swimming pools, the beach and ball parks during the summer.

No place is safe. No one is safe.

Moms are starting to lose it, and other moms are starting to take notice.

A crying 9-year-old here; a smart-mouth teen there.

A 2-year-old throwing a temper tantrum on the floor while hurling a sippy cup 15-feet across the room. A pre-school-aged child lagging behind you at Wal-Mart, waiting to see how long it takes you to turn around, demanding their presence at your side.

At the heart of every chaotic scene is a mom who wants nothing more than to crumble at her feet and assume the fetal position. But she can’t. She has to take control of every situation and try to either improve it or end the behavior that started it in the first place.

Nearly every day, I feel like I am walking around my house with a large, “WARNING: CRAZED MOTHER” sign dangling around my neck.

All I am asking of my 14-year-old and 8-year-old twins is to make their beds, clean up their rooms, get dressed and brush their teeth. There may be an occasional “empty the dishwasher” or “feed the cat” notice. I am not asking them to move a mountain. But they certainly act like I am. So, when they fail to “do their summer chores” and I start screaming through the house, they act like they either A. don’t hear me or B. can’t see me.

The slogan in BFE this summer is “There is no summer fun until the chores are done.”

Right now, my daughter is sprawled out on the floor, begging me to open the pool. I still have two baskets of laundry to fold and put away. I asked her earlier, when she declared for the 100th time today that she was bored, if she wanted to fold the clothes on my bed. She turned and went back to her room to craft accessories for her non-American Girl Doll.

“I’m still bored!” I heard her yell through the door.

Meanwhile, my 14-year-old who missed lunch two hours ago is telling me there is nothing to eat in a house with a stocked pantry and refrigerator.

“Mom, we don’t have anything. I want like buttermilk pancakes, um, or pizza rolls, a burger, that’s it, oh stuffed French Toast too,” he is telling me wearing only a pair of summer shorts because getting dressed isn’t on his “to-do” list until apparently this evening.

So, in a nutshell, my kids are bored and starving – and we’ve only been on summer break less than three weeks.


Introducing 2016 Ohio SPJ award-winning blogger Melissa Linebrink. Melissa is a creative, witty blogger who doesn’t sugarcoat the hardships of everyday parenting. Follow her on Facebook at





A breast cancer warrior with a heart of gold

Sometimes, life’s a bitch.

But, sometimes, a person comes along who encompasses an attitude of “Screw it, I’m gonna life my life to the fullest!”

She saw the glass as half-full – always craving the next taste of life.

She hated bees.

She argued with her parents and siblings, but made up soon after.

She didn’t hold grudges. Life was too short for such nonsense.

She loved her family.

She loved her husband.

But, most of all, she loved being a mom. It’s all she ever wanted in life.

So, when she felt a lump in her breast during her third-trimester of pregnancy, she knew she would do anything in her power to rid her body of the cancerous lump.

Funny thing though, her doctor’s weren’t overly concerned with the lump. And at one point, she herself even thought it would dissipate after giving birth to her son, Frankie.

But it didn’t.

The diagnosis came back as breast cancer.

And, not just the “typical” breast cancer that some women have. Nope, she was diagnosed with the “Head Bitch of the Disease.” She tested positive for an abnormal BRCA1 gene. Abnormal BRCA1 is a harmful gene mutation that increases the risk for a woman getting breast and/or ovarian cancers. It is one of the most aggressive forms of cancer.

She didn’t even blink an eye when telling the doctor of her course of treatment.

She wanted her breasts removed … and since BRCA1 thrives on estrogen, her other female reproductive organs were removed from her body too.

She was barren.

She was crushed. She wanted three kiddos. But, she was OK with just having Frankie if it meant she could be his entire world.

And she was.

She was his entire world for 19 months.

Jenny Metzer-Bassett died on April 24. She was only 31 years old.

She didn’t want a timeline for her life on Earth. Ultimately she knew her fate.

But for 19 months, she did what she set out to do. She was a warrior. She was the bitch that beat cancer – maybe not in the sense that you think – but she did. She didn’t let the diagnosis get the best of her. She lived her life.

We can all learn from Jenny …

When faced with adversary and bad news – forge forward with a positive attitude and screw the rest.







An Open Letter to ‘The World’s Perfect Mom’

image.pngDear “World’s Perfect Mom,”

Wow, two weeks in to being a new mom and you seem to have your shit together.

Kudos to you. What I would give to see you in action every single day. (Do you think you could record a vlog for us “Lazy Moms” showcasing your super talent of Perfect Motherhood?)

The first two weeks after I gave birth to my oldest are a complete blur.

Here’s what happened in MY two weeks into first-time motherhood:

First off, I spent four days in the hospital because my OB was convinced my vagina had a fever, thus an infection. No, I had the flu – not the barfing kind, the achy kind and yes, I had a fever. Clearly, it traveled to my vagina – don’t ask, I just know I had blood drawn so much that I began to resemble a pin cushion. I’m glad your vagina was perfect after giving birth.

Secondly, my son refused to nurse. I tried and tried. He could not latch on – even lactation consultants agreed. Do you dare call me lazy? Try me bitch … Therefore, I bottle fed him and had to endure huge, hard boobs for almost four days. I wore cold cabbage leaves in my bra that my own mother helped place on my hard, engorged boobs. You did not share with the world if you are nursing or not … either way it doesn’t matter. My kid is almost 13 now and he’s almost 3 inches taller than I will ever be in my lifetime. He thrived on formula. BOOM!

Third, my son didn’t like to sleep. So, I held him … a lot. That’s kinda what you do with newborns. I opted to hold my son and love him rather than worry about showering. I showered at night when my husband came home. It was my “me” time and my husband’s time to bond with our son.

Life as a mom takes adjustment. At the moment, you are clearly living the dream. You seem to have the perfect baby. The perfect life. You are perfect.

I am not. But you, you perfect mom seem to think you are God’s Gift to Motherhood and posted a statement that has now gone viral deeming yourself as such.

I wish I had a crystal ball into your life five years from right now.

I wish I could be there when all hell breaks loose after a night of him vomiting and instead of him sprinting for the toilet, he barfs all over his floor. And then, Perfect Mom, you get to scrub the taco dinner he had out from carpet fibers on your hands and knees, while trying to hold your own food down in your stomach.

I wish I could be there when you are trying to multi-task making those “decent” meals for your family or mopping floors while conquering Common Core math homework every single night.

I want to be there, in your house, when you have MORE THAN ONE KID! Check back in like five years … until then … your perfect life means nothing to me.


About the author:

Melissa Linebrink is a reporter/bi-monthly columnist for “The Mommy Wars” printed in The Chronicle-Telegram. She has been featured as a blogger on the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Conference site, She also writes, edits and manages her blog,






Dear Justin Bieber, I LOVE you!

Dear Justin Bieber,

I’m sitting at my laptop computer … trying to find the words to tell you how much you mean to me now. But, I can’t. I’m sorry. My kids are on the verge of starting World War III in the living room over a chair.

My husband is yelling at me to clean the kitchen. (I actually cooked tonight and you were there with me!)

And all I want to do is escape into a world that only revolves around you and your new album, “Purpose.”

Is it too late now to say I’m sorry?

I’m sorry that I it took me so long to become a “Belieber.”

I’m sorry that you are a mere 21-year-old with the sculpted body of a Greek God and I’m just a 37-year-old mom of three with my unwashed hair tied back with a pony-tail rubber-band, a face sans make-up wearing a hoodie and yoga pants.

I’m sorry.

Yes, you heard me correctly … I am a 37 year old mom of three kids who has simply fallen in love with you within a matter of days.

The blame falls on the American Music Awards I watched on Nov. 22 while folding a mountain of laundry. Socks, underwear, t-shirts, jeans have never been folded so quickly while you serenaded me. I was in heaven watching you dance in the rain … when I try to dance in the rain, I end up looking like a drowned rat but somehow you made it look sexy as hell. You were even fully dressed and I was still glued to my HD television, watching the rain cascade off your body.

My husband thinks I am delusional. He only likes musical groups from the 1980s … that was before you were born. Plus, he’s 40, so he doesn’t understand you like I do.

Your new album, “Purpose” has given me a new purpose in life …

I dance around my house, with my Bose speaker blaring as I roam from room to room with a dust rag in one hand and a can of Pledge in another.

Dinner time has become somewhat pleasurable as I continue my performance in front of my twins who have deemed me the “WORST DANCER EVER” as I moved from leg to leg doing my own rendition of “What Do You Mean?”

Your music has provided a bond between my almost 13-year-old son and me. He isn’t a fan of your new album, but that doesn’t stop me from signing out lyrics at the top of my lungs as I drop him off to basketball practice. Today, we actually communicated when I was driving my mini-van.

“Mom! This song sucks!” he quipped.

“OH, I’m sorry … What do you mean?” I asked him.

It was a two-second conversation that I will hold in my heart forever.

Thank you!

If you are ever in Ohio … look me up and “I’ll Show You” around town!


Mom of Three Living in BFE




“To my Children, If I had to choose between loving you and breathing … I would use my last breath to tell you … I love you” –Anonymous

Many of us, myself included, do not regard being pregnant as dangerous.

But the truth of the matter is, it can be.

Before I gave birth to my oldest in 2003, I began bleeding about six weeks before his due date. After performing every test blood test possible, it was determined through an ultrasound that the placenta was tearing away from the uterus.

According to my OB, I had developed placental abruption, which was a concern since the placenta is an organ that grows in the uterus during the pregnancy to provide nourishment and oxygen to the baby inside. In other words, if the placenta were to fully tear away, my son would have needed to be born at 34 weeks. Knowing the chances of that were high, my OB ordered steroid shots so that if he was born early, his lungs would have been slightly more developed thanks to the steroids. After spending three nights in the hospital, the bleeding was under control and the medicine helped my little man inside. I was sent home and placed on moderate bed rest until his arrival.

But I knew I would do anything I could in my power to ensure his safe arrival. I would have endured hourly shots of steroids. I would have remained in bed 24/7 until his due date if it meant a safe birth. I would have done anything for my son.

Just recently, a local mom went into to hospital to give birth to her daughter. The photo I have seen of her smiling with her sister-in-law is one of pure joy. A Facebook status declared, “The baby’s coming!”

The next post on the sister-in-law’s Facebook page shared the sad news that the mom died during childbirth.

“Between birth and death, life happens in the blink of an eye. Surreal.”

And no one knows why.

How incredibly difficult it must be for this family knowing that a week ago today, they were preparing for the birth of the newest member of the family and now they are planning funeral arrangements.

The father is left to pick up the pieces and raise and care for his newborn daughter, plus his four other children.

The 41-year-old mommy will never change her infant’s diaper. The daily feedings will be handled by her father’s gentle hand, or another family member. There will be no pushes on a swing or a “Hey Mom, can we go to the park!?” The little girl will not have her mom by her side on the first day of school.

For her older children their mother will never bear witness to their graduation ceremonies from high school. She will not be present for their weddings. She will never hold her grandchildren.

As parents, we take for granted all of the daily “chores” handed over to us when we in fact become parents. We struggle to stay awake during the day after being woken up in the middle of the night for feedings. We lose our patience with our other children, or even our spouses, due to lack of sleep and stress. We feel guilty taking time for ourselves, even if it’s to shower in peace.

No one knows what the next day will bring for we only have today. Embrace it. Love one another.

And don’t take one single moment for granted.

Wishing my ‘shoe size’ was my ‘pant size’

The year of being 35 has hit an all time low … and I don’t mean as in my weight.

It’s as if my body is saying, “OK, you are 35 now … let’s slow down your metabolism and deplete your patience too.”

Therefore, I now wish that my “pants size” was what my shoe size is … anywhere between a 6.5 and 7 – depending on the brand of shoes. Some days, it’s a smaller shoe. Other times, if I wear bulky socks, it’s a 7.

Maybe I need to change my brand of underwear? Maybe I am wearing “bulky panties” therefore; I have to wear a bigger size of pants?

I don’t know what the deal is lately, all I know is I am tired of the fluctuating poundage.

Yes, I work out. Yes, I eat veggies. Yes, I eat lean meats.

I also love French fries and nacho chips – those are my two big “SHOULD NOT EAT EVER” items.

But the scale does not seem to care.

So, unless I starve myself or sew my mouth shut after each meal, something has to change.

Is there a low-cal/low-fat wine on the market? I need to look into that. That is something I can change. Instead of drinking regular wine, I will switch to low-cal. That’s doable.

Is there a way for me to start hating sweets? Maybe I should look into hypnosis? Like, whenever I think I want a sweet, instead my brain will say, “NO, BAD IDEA. GO HOP ON YOUR DUST-LACED TREADMILL IN THE BASEMENT!”

Perhaps I should just buy an endless supply of Spankx? That way I get the look I desire, plus I won’t be able to eat as much in one sitting.

Would Spankx be considered bulky undergarments though?

What about a body cleanse? I have done some reading on those … but the only end result I have read is … eat more veggies and fruits, mainly cabbage, and then be sure you are near a bathroom for an entire week.

If I go the “cleansing route” I better make sure I have an endless supply of toilet paper in my house, which as of lately, has become somewhat of an issue.

Right now, sewing my mouth shut is looking more pleasing …




Reestablishing my role as “MOM;” not “MAID” this summer

I know it’s my own fault.
I am a bit obsessive compulsive when it comes to all the beds in my house being made; the pillows on the couch being in the right spot; and the throw blankets need to be folded and placed over the couch/chairs.
I can’t help that … it was that way in college for me.
It’s also part of my DNA as my dad has always said, “everything has a place.”
But, what I didn’t realize is that my anal-ways have not allowed my children to do things for themselves.
Case in point –
My 10-year-old son does not make his bed.
My 10-year-old son does not know how to use the microwave.
My 10-year-old son does not have the knowledge of how to open the fridge and find himself a snack.
My 10-year-old son does not know how to make himself a sandwich.
Well my friends, that is all about to change NOW.
I refuse to be his MAID this summer.
He is perfectly capable of learning how to maneuver himself around a kitchen. He knows how to use computers and make PowerPoint presentations, he can figure out the microwave.
He knows how to make a mess with mud and grass – that tells me he can figure out how to slap some lunchmeat on two slices of bread and call it “lunch” with veggies on the side.
As for the twins … they are pretty self-sufficient for being 5 years old. I no longer get them dressed. I generally toss their clothes on the floor and tell them to put them on. Some days though, I just don’t care what they wear and they fend for themselves.
They are now setting the table for dinner.
They help me empty the dishwasher.
They fold clothes with me.
I guess the point is … we “gave in” to our 10-year-olds demands – and that is our fault as parents. Perhaps part of that is because the twins came along when he was 5 and we didn’t want him to feel “abandoned” after their arrival, so we did things for him.
And now it’s biting us in the ass.
So, this will be the summer the 10-year-old learns to take care of himself, under our guidance.
Lord help us all!