A Book Review For Mom’s Like Me — Behind Closed Doors

editor’s note: I wrote this post simply because I appreciate a good book and a recommendation from someone I trust. But this post also contains affiliate links. Meaning if you decide to by this book off of Amazon by clicking on the link in the post, I will receive a (very small) commission. That helps me keep up with costs for this site.

But I got my copy of the book from the public library 🙂

It’s time for another book review!

First, a disclaimer.

I was not an English literature major or anything in college. So don’t be expecting anything professional.

As a busy and exhausted mom who still does not have large amounts of uninterrupted time to read anything, my criteria for a good book are as follows:

1) Degree of Difficulty — I like to read for entertainment. To escape. And I don’t want to have to think too hard. My attention span and level of energy are better than they used to be, but they still kind of suck. So… it needs to be a fairly easy read.

2) Narcolepsy Factor — I need to be able to read more than two paragraphs before I fall asleep.

3) FWOFF (First Week of Facebook Factor) — Obviously, if I find myself not being able to put the book down, and if I want to ignore my kids as much as I did those first few days I discovered Facebook and Pinterest, then that’s good.

4) Vacuum Factor — It can’t take like 100 or 50 or even 25 pages to suck me in. It kind of has to be immediate.

5) PTBD (Post Traumatic Book Disorder) — When I finish the book, I want to be missing the protagonist. Like to the degree of depression I felt when I watched the final episode of Breaking Bad.

6) The Goldilocks Factor — Too much sex, too little sex, or just the right amount of sex. A little bit of a naughty factor is good. But massive amounts of smut don’t really appeal to me.

7) Zoloft Factor — It can’t be depressing.

8)  Do Over Factor (DOF) — I don’t have to go back and reread pages, paragraphs or sentences multiple times because I can’t remember what the hell I just read.

9) Potty potential — If the chapters are short enough for me to read while I’m going to the bathroom, that’s a major bonus, because sometimes that’s the only time I have alone to read.

10)Neat Package Factor —  If the ending sucks, that’s not good. I’m a sucker for a happy ending. Or at least an ending where everything is resolved and wrapped up with a bow and I’m not left wondering why I spent all that time trying to get to the end of the book when I still have no idea how the hell the story finishes.

Now onto the book:  Behind Closed Doors by B. A. Paris.

In a nutshell, this book is about a a couple who appears to have the perfect marriage. It’s like peoples’ Facebook and Instagram posts. But we all know those aren’t a true depiction of reality.

If you like a twisted story, or if you want to be reassured that your marriage isn’t as fucked up as it could be, then this is for you. (I told you this wasn’t a professional review).

Now for the scores:

1) DD (10 = easy read, 1 = whoah, I have to think way too hard to follow this shit): 10 

2) Narcolepsy Factor (10 = I can’t believe I’m still awake, 1 = I’ve been on the first page for four weeks now): 15

3) FWOFF (10 = I haven’t checked on the kids in 90 minutes and I cannot put this book down, 1 = I think I’ll go check Facebook because this book kind of blows): 20

4) Vacuum Factor (10 = I’m sucked in before the end of the first page, 1 = why the fuck am I reading this?): 10

5) Post Traumatic Book Disorder (10 = What will I do without the main character in my life?, 1 = Wait, who was the main character again?): 10

6) Goldilocks Factor ( 10 = just the right amount of naughtiness, 5 = no naughtiness at all, 1 = I should have just watched a porno): 1

7) Zoloft Factor (10 = it’s all good — no drugs necessary, 1 = I think I need a stronger antidepressant): 8

8) DOF (10 = no do overs necessary, 1 = I think I’ve read that sentence seventeen times): 10

9) Potty Potential (10 = I can finish a whole chapter by the time I have to flush, 1 = does this book even have chapters?) 6

10) Neat Package Factor (10 = All situations resolved, 1 = WTF?) 10

Final Score: 100/100

I loved this book. LOVED it.

If   Sleeping With the Enemy and Silence of The Lambs had a baby book, it would be this one.

There was just the right mix of fucked up crap in it, and when I was done reading it, I was left really missing it. (But if you like some serious sex scenes, you’ll be disappointed. Actually, if you like any sex scenes, you’ll be disappointed).

I wasn’t, though. I read it in a weekend. (It’s a great book to read if you are at the beach on vacation.)

Check this one out from the library asap!

(or you can get it on Amazon here):

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I drank coffee and wine when I was pregnant.

I don’t know if you heard about this, but Pink posted a picture on Instagram recently and she’s pretty pregnant and in the picture she was sitting on the floor of her kitchen in front of the microwave drinking a cup of (decaf) coffee and trying to get through the day. Just like the rest of us.

And, of course, the judgmental mommy shamers came out to attack her for drinking (DECAF!) coffee and not just sitting in front of the microwave, but also for using one!

What. The Fuck.

So I just want to put something out there for any of you who may currently be with child and questioning your every move.

The most important rule to follow?

In my opinion, you need to RELAX!

I followed every single rule with my first pregnancy.

I didn’t drink any caffeine. At all. No booze. No soft cheese or deli meat or anything else that was on the list of shit that was going to cause you to give birth to a kid with two heads.

By the second pregnancy I was having a cup of coffee or two every day, and by the time I was knocked up with Number 7, I was basically doing whatever the hell I felt like.

You know, within reason. I wasn’t smoking Marlboro reds and shotgunning beers while I was getting x-rays.

I was trying my best to take care of myself and Number 7.

But I also ate nitrates and nuked my food and got manicures and drank unfiltered tap water and enjoyed sushi a couple times and stood near the microwave and inhaled paint fumes, and by the end of that pregnancy I was enjoying a (large) glass of wine a couple times per week. At least.

And you know what?

Number 7 is like a fucking superhero. I think she might be invincible.

So take that, sanctimommies.

I am not advising you to be reckless and unhealthy and make stupid decisions when you are pregnant.

But I think more damage is done to your unborn child by stressing out over every fucking decision you make than by eating a piece of Wunderbar bologna or nuking a cup of coffee in the microwave or drinking a (big ass) glass of Franzia when you are eight months pregnant.

And if you haven’t religiously adhered to every single pregnancy guideline in existence, don’t worry.

Neither have most of the rest of us.

And our kids are just fine.


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I’m Ready For The Next Chapter

The other day at the town beach I watched a woman with three kids, one of them a two-year-old, attempting to unload all the kid crap from her car.

She had her hands full.


She had a stroller and more than one beach bag and an umbrella and sand toys and a whole assload of other kid crap.

And the three kids.

She was sweating profusely before she even took two steps away from her car.

I watched this mom struggle to just get across the parking lot.

I have been struggling, too.

Struggling with our youngest going to kindergarten.

Struggling with my baby not being a baby anymore.

Struggling with knowing that the baby-making phase of my life is over.

Until recently.

Because I’ve come to a realization.

I’m ready.

I’m ready for my kids to be able to navigate the playground without a spotter.

I’m ready to be able to read more than one paragraph of a book before I’m either interrupted by a child or I fall asleep.

I’m ready to be able to sit my ass on a beach chair for more than forty-five consecutive seconds.

I’m ready for my kids to be the age where the thought of seeing me taking a shower or a shit completely repulses them.

I’m ready for my kids to be able to cross the road or run into the grocery store by themselves.

I’m ready for kids to know how to use major appliances without killing, burning, or maiming themselves.

I’m ready for kids who can occupy themselves when they wake up on a Saturday morning rather than barging into my room at the crack of dawn.

I’m ready to be able to relax when my kids are within ten feet of a body of water.

I’m ready for kids who can tie their own shoes and buckle their own seat belts.

I’m ready to take all those protective plastic things out of the electrical outlets, and I’m ready to have cabinet doors I can open freely.

I’m ready for kids who can brush their teeth and wipe their butts by themselves, no matter how nasty a poop they take.

I’m ready for kids who are self-sufficient and independent.

I’m ready to not only accept the fact that my kids are growing up, but to embrace it.

And I’m ready for things to be a little bit more about me.

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