One of my favorite things to snack on when I’m stressed? Chocolate. Why chocolate? I don’t understand the question. I could fill a phone book with the reasons why I love the stuff. I am a chocoholic. I once discovered that a box of gourmet milk chocolate coconut clusters can replace your husband – at least for a couple of days. (This is not something I’m proud to admit, but I had to share, in case you might need this kind of advice the next time the man in your life goes on a business trip and your kids are sick and you can’t go beyond your driveway.) When I run out of real chocolate in my house, I find a way to satisfy my craving– whether in the form of chocolate syrup, micro-waved chocolate chips, powdered cocoa or dry brownie mix. You name it, I’ve tried it. My biggest shame to claim? On Halloween night, after my children go to bed, I secretly stash enough mini chocolate bars (that I hope they don’t miss) into the freezer to help aid my sanity level throughout the month of November.  By Nov. 10, my face has broken out and I go on a pseudo chocolate fast – but it doesn’t take long for me to get past this speed bump.

Do you have any embarrassing physical motherhood “side effects”? I’m talking about something that still affects you regardless of how old your children are. Mine is never being able to do jumping jacks without wearing a liner. Need I say more?

Please share your most embarrassing motherhood “side effect” here.

I adore my husband. He is a great dad. When we moved back to Rhode Island eight years ago, I found myself barefoot and pregnant again, venting to him about every little thing nearly every single day. Something he said to me one day really put things into perspective. “Babe, I love you, but I don’t have a vagina.”  If you’ve ever met my husband, you’d understand his dry sense of humor. At the time, he meant well. He was encouraging me (for financial and emotional reasons) to go back to work a few months after the baby came, and get back to being Jackie. Upon hearing this, I consumed enough chocolate to feed a small village. It helped a little, but not a lot. I didn’t really know anyone in the neighborhood yet. My son was two years old. Not a calm, quiet boy. But an active toddler with spikey blond hair who didn’t understand why his mommy was restless. I had been working full-time for many years and was dumped into domesticity when I found out I was pregnant (mid-way through my job search). Most of my dearest friends were childless at the time and now lived 3,000 miles away in Seattle, WA. Think Carrie Bradshaw meets Old Navy. Ovens weren’t meant for cooking for these women, they were a place to store magazines. And meeting for after-work cocktails was a norm. I didn’t have the time or the patience to bother explaining what it was like to get up every three hours to feed a baby. Now many of them are mommies.  It didn’t take long for them to realize the inevitable – motherhood is freaking hard. After each baby was born, they would call and say, “Jackie, I don’t know how you did it! I had NO idea what you were going through!”

Now we’re all in the same raft, trying to stay afloat.

Welcome to Venting Sessions

Some women train for a marathon or climb a mountain to escape the craziness of motherhood. I like to stress eat and vent with girlfriends. That’s why I’m launching this blog, Venting Sessions. To help other mothers feel like they’re not alone. Venting Sessions is a place moms can let it out and share our mommy ventings, experiences, jokes, whines, giggles and stories. (And swap fun recipes that fit into our hectic lives as opposed to unrealistic recipes that stress us out even more.)

I started this blog for mothers who aren’t afraid to admit that no matter how female relatives, friends, celebrities, talk show hosts and other women we look up to (but don’t know from Eve) make us feel, we know deep down that we aren’t perfect. And it’s OK. We are mothers. And holy schnikes, I know we didn’t start out this way. Many felt nauseous a few weeks after date night and months later ended up in the hospital wearing a maxi pad the size of Texas. (Holding a newborn that resembles ET’s little brother, of course.) God help us all. We love our kids. And they are so worth it. But for the love of Christina Applegate and Will Arnett, there’s nothing like venting with friends. From hosting a family reunion on three hours of sleep to dealing with other not-so-nice moms at the playground who have a knack for making the rest of us feel inadequate, venting to me is like a Dove Bar swimming in whipped cream. It’s how I get by. It’s how I keep going. Like free therapy, Venting Sessions is meant to be a place where moms can let it out without consequences. So swap those mommy stories, ventings, whines, giggles and easy recipes. Let your roots shine, girls. No perfect mommies allowed. (I’m psyched about launching this blog, but I can’t jump up and down too much. I haven’t been able to do this since having my second child. Please don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.)