#MOMFAIL is NOW LIVE and ONLY $0.99! Inspired by true stories by authors who drink and swear. Read the foreword and grab your copy!
FORWORD - Nicole Knepper, M.A., LCPC,
Author of Moms Who Drink and Swear,
Educator, and Epic Momfailure
Trigger alert: Some of the stories in this collection have hot as hell, graphic descriptions of sex. If your little cock blockers are currently preventing you from getting your boots knocked on the regular (or at all), I’m telling you right now that all the sexy talk is going to trigger twangs in your naughty bits, and you will probably want to jump your partner mid-sentence, even if you’ve been fanaticizing for weeks about smothering him (or her) with a pillow as they sleep through whatever bodily fluid related situation you are dealing with at Zero Dark Fucking Thirty.
The stories in this collection ignited more than my loins. Many of them triggered the trapdoor of my hippocampus, and I fell into a tunnel full of memories about what life was like when my now “I want you to LEAVE ME ALONE” teenage offspring were “I WANT TO BE WITH YOOOOOOUUUUU even though your asshole is turning inside out, exploding into the toilet while you hurl into a bucket perched on your lap,” little ones.
In 2005, due to circumstances that laughed at my life plans, it was necessary to put my career on the back burner and stay home with my then magnificently gorgeous, special needs newborn daughter and demanding, freakishly brilliant four-year-old son. The sick, coming out both ends, scenario happened more times than I can count during my five-year tenure as a stay at home mom. I still find it bizarre that neither of my kids ever noticed the scent of rotting death in the bathroom, yet they could smell the factory-sealed packages of M&M’s I had hidden in my tampon box under the bathroom sink. Jerks…
Full-time parenting was hard on my fragile nerves. It was not something I would have chosen because it seemed too boundary-less, too complicated, too everything. I failed and failed and failed again, but it wasn’t the mom fails that got to me. It was the fear of me failing myself by losing myself. I was terrified I might disappear under a mound of dirty clothes and bitterness like so many women I knew. Women who allowed the monotonous, isolating, thankless tasks to smite out their identity. I promised myself it wouldn’t happen to me. If cock was going to be blocked in my house, I was going to be the one to block it. *drops mic*
As one of the authors in this book so eloquently says, “Karma is an evil mistress.” I have two expert-level cock blockers (I kid you NOT, if there were a way to profit off of this skill, my kids would have been millionaires by the time they hit kindergarten) and there were many, many times when I woke up in the morning feeling bitter and empty, having forgotten that there was actually a time when I was someone other than a mother. But most of the time, the days were filled with laughter and lessons to learn, the majority of the lessons being ones I needed to learn, lessons that made me more of who I am and brought out the best of pre-motherhood Nicole.
This book is full of failure. And hot sex. And there is one (totally understandable, in my opinion) accidental kidnapping. But it’s also packed with stories about growth, acceptance, recovery, harmony, humility, humor, and discovery. These mommas found success through their failures, and as a result became MORE of who they are, not less. What truly separates the winners and losers in life is not staying down when you fall, and since we all fall, this book provides a little motivation to get the fuck back up. Deep, huh?
What’s That Smell – Shari J. Ryan
"Please put all electronic devices away as we are preparing to depart from the gate," the flight attendant announces.
I take my phone carefully out of Connor's hands, ready to replace it with a book and his toy cell phone that I've had smashed between my thigh and the wall beneath the window. "Can you call mommy?" I ask him as I slip my phone into my pocket.
He looks at me like I just took his one meal of the day away. The quiver in his lip starts, and I know what is about to happen. I swear to God, you have to be kidding me. "Connor, look, look at this new book I got for you. You love Winnie the Pooh!"
The cry starts as a quiet whine, and I'd love to break every rule and give him the damn phone back, especially seeing as this moron sitting beside me can't put his laptop away. He's probably not a jackass, but right now, he is because he gets to have his entertainment out and Connor doesn't. My two-year-old needs technology more than he does.
The flight attendant makes her last round down the aisle, checking everyone's seat belts and enforcing the no-technology rule. "Sir, you're going to need to place your laptop away until we are in the air."
Ha ha, you got in trouble. That's what you get for not following rules. "Sure thing," the businessman says, casually. "Can you also bring me a gin and tonic?" He hands the woman a twenty and winks at her.
"Of course, sir, we'll bring that out as soon as we're free to move around the cabin."
As if Connor is offended by this one flight attendant, he decides now is the time to turn his whining into a full-blown crying fit again, for the second time in twenty minutes.
The businessman looks over at us and reaches his finger out toward Connor. Instinctively, I wrap my arm around Connor, not wanting this stinky man's finger anywhere near his cheeks. "Cuchi cuchi coo," he says like a weirdo.
Connor, of course, screams louder because a stranger tried to talk to him. That's a big fat no here in the land of twenty-three months old. "Yikes, are you going to be able to quiet him down?" the jackass asks.
Jake clears his throat and smiles, that smile I'd be scared of if he looked at me the way he's looking at the man. "We’ll do what we can, but we don't have much control over our baby crying, so I guess it's up to fate now, huh?"
"Right," the guy says to Jake. As the engine rumbles to life and the wheels start turning, Connor thankfully calms down and rests his head against my chest, sighing as if he's giving up the fight. What the fight is, I don't know.
"There, he's okay," I tell Jake, hoping I’m right.
"Good thing we didn't give him Benadryl. Right, Babe?" Jake mocks me.
I look at him blankly for a minute. "I may have given him a little," I mutter.
"You horrible, horrible mother, you," he says, laughing. "I thought it was bad parenting to do such a terrible thing as that?"
"Shush," I tell him.
"He'll probably be asleep in minutes," Jake says.
I try to breathe calmly in and out several times in fear of making a scene. I hate giving Connor anything that isn't necessary, but I didn't know which would be worse...Connor awake during turbulence, or in a Benadryl coma. I'd rather be knocked out instead of enduring turbulence though, so there we have it.
"Bankie?" Connor asks.
I reach around him and pull his blanket out of the bag and hand it to him, wrapping him up snugly. "Do you want to go night-night?" I ask him.
His eyelids start to close as he nuzzles his head into me.
"Told you," Jake says.
"Great prediction, smarty," I jest.
"It's fine; you can tell me I'm right, later."
"Don't count on it," I argue.
* * *
Connor has been asleep for a full ninety minutes, making it halfway to Florida without a peep. So far, so good. I guess this isn't so bad after all.
"Babe," Jake says, nudging me in the shoulder.
I've had my eyes closed, but I'm only resting in fear of Connor waking up with wrath.
"Mmm?" I groan.
"Do you smell that?"
Being a mouth breather when I'm half asleep, I hadn't noticed any smell. "No, what?" I inhale through my nose while feeling the hairs on my arm stand at attention. "What the hell is that?" I whisper. "Did someone fart?"
You’re Mom Does What – Faith Andrews
Panting moans and slapping skin permeated the steamy truck. I palmed the clenched muscles of his firm ass, urging him to plunge into me to the hilt. Deep. Hard. Unapologetic.
“Shit, Jessa. You’re not what I expected.” His gravelly admission brought a wicked smile to my parted lips.
“Good,” I breathed, snaking my leg around his waist. Tighter. Higher. Closer.
His lips traveled from my sweat-dampened neck back up to my mouth, where his tongue took no prisoners and mirrored the unwavering drives of his insanely satisfying cock.
With one more mind-blowing, scream-inducing thrust, my body could take no more, unraveling, falling, blissfully crying out, “Oh. My. God. Yes! Yes! Yessss!”
“Mom? Why are your cheeks so red? Why are you smiling like that? What the hell are you writing about?”
I slapped the laptop shut and averted the wandering gaze of my ten-year-old daughter, Julie. “Language!” I scolded, pushing my Mac out of reach and taking a deep breath to clear my mind of my most current work in progress: My Step Brother’s Pick-up Truck.
“Seriously, though. You said you were making dinner an hour ago. I’m starved!”
And so am I, I thought. For alone time to write. For not-so-alone time to get in on some action like my based-on-me character, Jessa.
Lately, adulting was not my forte. Especially since I was adulting solo because till death do us part became till I find myself someone younger, thinner, and blonder. Huffing as I slid off the stool at the kitchen island, I ignored all bitter thoughts about her father and reached out to finger the long waves of Julie’s golden hair. “What are you in the mood for? And don’t say sushi because you know your sister hates it.”
Shooing my hand away, she rolled her eyes—probably for the nine hundredth time that day—and her shoulders slumped. She hates me. She totally hates me. Before she could turn away and bury her head in her phone to continue her Snapchat streak with her “squad,” I had an idea that would please even my picky children. “Breakfast for dinner?”
You’d think I’d invented Instagram by the way she beamed. She loves me. She totally loves me. “Oh, yeah! Great idea, Mom. You have chocolate chips?”
“And whipped cream!” I grabbed the pancake batter from the pantry, rummaging for the promised chocolate chips. “Go help your sister with the rest of her reading and dinner will be ready in a jiffy.”
“A jiffy?” she snapped with a smirk. “Really, Mom? Who are you, Danny Tanner?”
“What? What should I have said? What’s the proper lingo, oh sweet child o’ mine?” I couldn’t keep up, even though I liked to think I tried. And I wasn’t nearly as out of the loop as some of the other moms at school. But for some reason, nothing I said to Julie these days was up to par.
Author of Moms Who Drink and Swear,
Educator, and Epic Momfailure
Trigger alert: Some of the stories in this collection have hot as hell, graphic descriptions of sex. If your little cock blockers are currently preventing you from getting your boots knocked on the regular (or at all), I’m telling you right now that all the sexy talk is going to trigger twangs in your naughty bits, and you will probably want to jump your partner mid-sentence, even if you’ve been fanaticizing for weeks about smothering him (or her) with a pillow as they sleep through whatever bodily fluid related situation you are dealing with at Zero Dark Fucking Thirty.
The stories in this collection ignited more than my loins. Many of them triggered the trapdoor of my hippocampus, and I fell into a tunnel full of memories about what life was like when my now “I want you to LEAVE ME ALONE” teenage offspring were “I WANT TO BE WITH YOOOOOOUUUUU even though your asshole is turning inside out, exploding into the toilet while you hurl into a bucket perched on your lap,” little ones.
In 2005, due to circumstances that laughed at my life plans, it was necessary to put my career on the back burner and stay home with my then magnificently gorgeous, special needs newborn daughter and demanding, freakishly brilliant four-year-old son. The sick, coming out both ends, scenario happened more times than I can count during my five-year tenure as a stay at home mom. I still find it bizarre that neither of my kids ever noticed the scent of rotting death in the bathroom, yet they could smell the factory-sealed packages of M&M’s I had hidden in my tampon box under the bathroom sink. Jerks…
Full-time parenting was hard on my fragile nerves. It was not something I would have chosen because it seemed too boundary-less, too complicated, too everything. I failed and failed and failed again, but it wasn’t the mom fails that got to me. It was the fear of me failing myself by losing myself. I was terrified I might disappear under a mound of dirty clothes and bitterness like so many women I knew. Women who allowed the monotonous, isolating, thankless tasks to smite out their identity. I promised myself it wouldn’t happen to me. If cock was going to be blocked in my house, I was going to be the one to block it. *drops mic*
As one of the authors in this book so eloquently says, “Karma is an evil mistress.” I have two expert-level cock blockers (I kid you NOT, if there were a way to profit off of this skill, my kids would have been millionaires by the time they hit kindergarten) and there were many, many times when I woke up in the morning feeling bitter and empty, having forgotten that there was actually a time when I was someone other than a mother. But most of the time, the days were filled with laughter and lessons to learn, the majority of the lessons being ones I needed to learn, lessons that made me more of who I am and brought out the best of pre-motherhood Nicole.
This book is full of failure. And hot sex. And there is one (totally understandable, in my opinion) accidental kidnapping. But it’s also packed with stories about growth, acceptance, recovery, harmony, humility, humor, and discovery. These mommas found success through their failures, and as a result became MORE of who they are, not less. What truly separates the winners and losers in life is not staying down when you fall, and since we all fall, this book provides a little motivation to get the fuck back up. Deep, huh?
What’s That Smell – Shari J. Ryan
"Please put all electronic devices away as we are preparing to depart from the gate," the flight attendant announces.
I take my phone carefully out of Connor's hands, ready to replace it with a book and his toy cell phone that I've had smashed between my thigh and the wall beneath the window. "Can you call mommy?" I ask him as I slip my phone into my pocket.
He looks at me like I just took his one meal of the day away. The quiver in his lip starts, and I know what is about to happen. I swear to God, you have to be kidding me. "Connor, look, look at this new book I got for you. You love Winnie the Pooh!"
The cry starts as a quiet whine, and I'd love to break every rule and give him the damn phone back, especially seeing as this moron sitting beside me can't put his laptop away. He's probably not a jackass, but right now, he is because he gets to have his entertainment out and Connor doesn't. My two-year-old needs technology more than he does.
The flight attendant makes her last round down the aisle, checking everyone's seat belts and enforcing the no-technology rule. "Sir, you're going to need to place your laptop away until we are in the air."
Ha ha, you got in trouble. That's what you get for not following rules. "Sure thing," the businessman says, casually. "Can you also bring me a gin and tonic?" He hands the woman a twenty and winks at her.
"Of course, sir, we'll bring that out as soon as we're free to move around the cabin."
As if Connor is offended by this one flight attendant, he decides now is the time to turn his whining into a full-blown crying fit again, for the second time in twenty minutes.
The businessman looks over at us and reaches his finger out toward Connor. Instinctively, I wrap my arm around Connor, not wanting this stinky man's finger anywhere near his cheeks. "Cuchi cuchi coo," he says like a weirdo.
Connor, of course, screams louder because a stranger tried to talk to him. That's a big fat no here in the land of twenty-three months old. "Yikes, are you going to be able to quiet him down?" the jackass asks.
Jake clears his throat and smiles, that smile I'd be scared of if he looked at me the way he's looking at the man. "We’ll do what we can, but we don't have much control over our baby crying, so I guess it's up to fate now, huh?"
"Right," the guy says to Jake. As the engine rumbles to life and the wheels start turning, Connor thankfully calms down and rests his head against my chest, sighing as if he's giving up the fight. What the fight is, I don't know.
"There, he's okay," I tell Jake, hoping I’m right.
"Good thing we didn't give him Benadryl. Right, Babe?" Jake mocks me.
I look at him blankly for a minute. "I may have given him a little," I mutter.
"You horrible, horrible mother, you," he says, laughing. "I thought it was bad parenting to do such a terrible thing as that?"
"Shush," I tell him.
"He'll probably be asleep in minutes," Jake says.
I try to breathe calmly in and out several times in fear of making a scene. I hate giving Connor anything that isn't necessary, but I didn't know which would be worse...Connor awake during turbulence, or in a Benadryl coma. I'd rather be knocked out instead of enduring turbulence though, so there we have it.
"Bankie?" Connor asks.
I reach around him and pull his blanket out of the bag and hand it to him, wrapping him up snugly. "Do you want to go night-night?" I ask him.
His eyelids start to close as he nuzzles his head into me.
"Told you," Jake says.
"Great prediction, smarty," I jest.
"It's fine; you can tell me I'm right, later."
"Don't count on it," I argue.
* * *
Connor has been asleep for a full ninety minutes, making it halfway to Florida without a peep. So far, so good. I guess this isn't so bad after all.
"Babe," Jake says, nudging me in the shoulder.
I've had my eyes closed, but I'm only resting in fear of Connor waking up with wrath.
"Mmm?" I groan.
"Do you smell that?"
Being a mouth breather when I'm half asleep, I hadn't noticed any smell. "No, what?" I inhale through my nose while feeling the hairs on my arm stand at attention. "What the hell is that?" I whisper. "Did someone fart?"
You’re Mom Does What – Faith Andrews
Panting moans and slapping skin permeated the steamy truck. I palmed the clenched muscles of his firm ass, urging him to plunge into me to the hilt. Deep. Hard. Unapologetic.
“Shit, Jessa. You’re not what I expected.” His gravelly admission brought a wicked smile to my parted lips.
“Good,” I breathed, snaking my leg around his waist. Tighter. Higher. Closer.
His lips traveled from my sweat-dampened neck back up to my mouth, where his tongue took no prisoners and mirrored the unwavering drives of his insanely satisfying cock.
With one more mind-blowing, scream-inducing thrust, my body could take no more, unraveling, falling, blissfully crying out, “Oh. My. God. Yes! Yes! Yessss!”
“Mom? Why are your cheeks so red? Why are you smiling like that? What the hell are you writing about?”
I slapped the laptop shut and averted the wandering gaze of my ten-year-old daughter, Julie. “Language!” I scolded, pushing my Mac out of reach and taking a deep breath to clear my mind of my most current work in progress: My Step Brother’s Pick-up Truck.
“Seriously, though. You said you were making dinner an hour ago. I’m starved!”
And so am I, I thought. For alone time to write. For not-so-alone time to get in on some action like my based-on-me character, Jessa.
Lately, adulting was not my forte. Especially since I was adulting solo because till death do us part became till I find myself someone younger, thinner, and blonder. Huffing as I slid off the stool at the kitchen island, I ignored all bitter thoughts about her father and reached out to finger the long waves of Julie’s golden hair. “What are you in the mood for? And don’t say sushi because you know your sister hates it.”
Shooing my hand away, she rolled her eyes—probably for the nine hundredth time that day—and her shoulders slumped. She hates me. She totally hates me. Before she could turn away and bury her head in her phone to continue her Snapchat streak with her “squad,” I had an idea that would please even my picky children. “Breakfast for dinner?”
You’d think I’d invented Instagram by the way she beamed. She loves me. She totally loves me. “Oh, yeah! Great idea, Mom. You have chocolate chips?”
“And whipped cream!” I grabbed the pancake batter from the pantry, rummaging for the promised chocolate chips. “Go help your sister with the rest of her reading and dinner will be ready in a jiffy.”
“A jiffy?” she snapped with a smirk. “Really, Mom? Who are you, Danny Tanner?”
“What? What should I have said? What’s the proper lingo, oh sweet child o’ mine?” I couldn’t keep up, even though I liked to think I tried. And I wasn’t nearly as out of the loop as some of the other moms at school. But for some reason, nothing I said to Julie these days was up to par.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
MORE ABOUT #MOMFAIL
Everyone just stop for one bleeping minute so we can all get real with each other. Being a mom is some tough $#!†. You're constantly wearing questionable substances that make you ask, "is this chocolate or ... oh, crap ..." and your purse is merely a receptacle for three-week-old snacks and broken crayons.
Let's be honest ... even when we're doing this “mom” thing right, we're somehow doing it completely wrong.
Pardon us while we dust off our collective Mother of the Year trophy and proudly present you with an epic anthology of #MOMFAILS.
*Stories inspired by real life (unless you’re a cop, then it’s all complete fiction). Names and situations have been changed to protect the guilty (and by guilty, we mean the moms). Because motherhood is a battlefield and we're all just trying to survive by any means necessary.
Featuring this amazing lineup: Alissa York, A.M. Willard, BL Berry, Carina Adams, Claudia Burgoa, Crystal Burnette, Dylan Allen, Faith Andrews, Gia Riley, J.A. DeRouen, Kate Anslinger, Leddy Harper, LK Collins, LL Collins, Marie James, Piper Rayne, Riann C. Miller, Shari Ryan, Stephanie Rose, Stephie Walls, SM West, TL Swan, Teresa Michaels, and foreword written by: Nicole Kane Knepper
Everyone just stop for one bleeping minute so we can all get real with each other. Being a mom is some tough $#!†. You're constantly wearing questionable substances that make you ask, "is this chocolate or ... oh, crap ..." and your purse is merely a receptacle for three-week-old snacks and broken crayons.
Let's be honest ... even when we're doing this “mom” thing right, we're somehow doing it completely wrong.
Pardon us while we dust off our collective Mother of the Year trophy and proudly present you with an epic anthology of #MOMFAILS.
*Stories inspired by real life (unless you’re a cop, then it’s all complete fiction). Names and situations have been changed to protect the guilty (and by guilty, we mean the moms). Because motherhood is a battlefield and we're all just trying to survive by any means necessary.
Featuring this amazing lineup: Alissa York, A.M. Willard, BL Berry, Carina Adams, Claudia Burgoa, Crystal Burnette, Dylan Allen, Faith Andrews, Gia Riley, J.A. DeRouen, Kate Anslinger, Leddy Harper, LK Collins, LL Collins, Marie James, Piper Rayne, Riann C. Miller, Shari Ryan, Stephanie Rose, Stephie Walls, SM West, TL Swan, Teresa Michaels, and foreword written by: Nicole Kane Knepper
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Stalk the Authors:
Shari J Ryan, A.M. Willard, Gia Riley, Carina Adams
Claudia Burgoa, Crystal Grizzard Burnette, Faith Andrews,
J.A. Derouen, Leddy Harper, LK Collins
Shari J Ryan, A.M. Willard, Gia Riley, Carina Adams
Claudia Burgoa, Crystal Grizzard Burnette, Faith Andrews,
J.A. Derouen, Leddy Harper, LK Collins
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