Moms Don't Fart

That is what I told my kids anyway. I'm not sure why, but I have never felt comfortable farting around anyone. Not even my own kids. They think farts are hilarious. I don't think it's a coincidence that when they first started smiling everyone told me they probably just had gas. I'm not surprised... knowing what I know now. My husband also seems to feel pretty comfortable expelling gas whenever the need arises. After eight years of marriage, I still don't fart in front of him. If I recall correctly he felt comfortable farting around me from day one.

I'm not sure why I'm so uptight about it. My parents farted in front of us, and each other, all the time. I'll never forget the day my sister fell prey to one of my dad's many "fart pranks". She was sitting on the floor with my cousin pretending to have a picnic. My father walked in and asked them what they were doing. "We're having a picnic Daddy". He replied "Oh, how nice...would you like me to give you something for your picnic?" My sister was so excited and she shouted "Sure!" He walked over to their blanket, turned around, and let out the loudest, most disgusting sounding fart. The poor little thing was mortified and as he walked away he laughed "Have that for your picnic!" My Mom would get him back for his pranks though. She was, however, much more subtle in her approach. My father would be laying on the couch, watching television and she would casually walk by. Acting as if she noticed something on the floor in front of him she would bend over, inched from his face, and let one go. It always made me giggle, watching these antics, but I still didn't participate.

For a while I thought maybe it was just a female thing. Maybe we are just a bit more embarrassed about our bodily functions. It was hard to tell though because most of my friends were guys. They had no qualms about farting whatsoever. They would always have some kind of disgusting commentary to go along with it too like "Whoa, I had to pull back on that one...I almost shit my pants" or "Look out for that one, I drank draft beer last night. That will make your eyes water". As more females began hanging with us (no doubt smitten with these gas bags) I noticed that they were more reserved on this subject. But, to my dismay, they would occasionally own up to one. Thankfully there weren't as gross about it. They might say something like "Oopsy, I tooted". Then there was one female in particular (that I am still friends with, so I will not mention her by name) that would get an evil smile on her face when she would fart, while she waited for someone to smell it. She likes to throw out things like "Sorry...I ate cheese...it does that to me".

I remember the day I started my little white lie about my refusal to fart, claiming it to be an inability. The boys were going back and forth, farting and laughing, commenting on whose was louder. My oldest son looked at me and said "You do one Mom". I calmly looked up from my book and replied "Moms don't fart". He was shocked "Really?!" "Yep" I said. Then I added "Have you ever heard Mommy fart?" He pondered it for a moment then said "No. I don't think I have". He must have been thinking about it all day because that night he came to me with a book I used to read to them all the time called The Gas We Pass.

For those of you unfamiliar with the "My Body Science" series from Scholastic, it also includes riveting literary masterpieces such as Everyone Poops and All About Scabs. My boys are huge fans. Anyway, he said "Doesn't this book say that everyone farts?" "Yep" I said "but it must have been written by a Dad, because it's wrong".

He let it go for the time being, but he was very suspicious of me. I almost got caught once. He asked me to get him a drink and while I was standing in front of the refrigerator, with him right behind me, I let one slip. It didn't make any noise, so I thought I was OK, but after a few seconds he looked up at me and said "Did YOU just fart?!" "No, of course not" I said nonchalantly. He wasn't buying it though..."Then what is that smell?" I told him that obviously something had gone bad in the refrigerator and I would take care of it. It wasn't me because I don't fart. Man, I'm good.

After years of putting up this facade, I finally broke down and told him the truth. Well, actually, I didn't tell him...it went down like this:

The boys were at it again. Having a farting contest, only this time they were running right up to me and sticking their butts out in my direction as they farted.  They would then run away, laughing and telling each other how they were farting at me. Finally, I'd had enough. I grabbed them both, held them down on the couch, sat on them and let one rip. They both jumped up horrified and screamed "I though Moms don't fart!!" As I walked away, feeling quite liberated I might add, I said "Yeah...about that...I lied. Now that you guys know IT IS ON!" They were staring at me with wide eyes in disbelief. I added "That's right...it is on like Donkey Kong, so remember that the next time you want to fart on me" as I walked from the room, with my head held high, I decided to go and find my husband. May as well break the news to him while I was at it...

Feel Free To Judge Me

Mother of the year? Nope, not me. In fact, throughout my mothering career I have been the Susan Lucci among those in the running for this impossible to obtain award. But, I'm cool with it, and so are my kids. As a matter of fact, I rock as a mom...and I am quoting my children when I say this. It may have to do with the fact that the judgement which is passed upon me (obviously by those who have won this award in the past) is wasted on someone who doesn't give a rat's ass what they think. What am I doing with a rat's ass you ask? I'm not sure, but I do know that I am not giving it up.

Don't get me wrong, I admire what so many moms are able to accomplish with their kids...especially when it comes to nutrition. My kids suck to feed. Oh sure, it was all fine and dandy when they couldn't speak yet, or throw offensive foods off their highchairs. I could feed them whatever I wanted. Plenty of fruits, veggies, and protein. Now, forget it. They are small versions of their father whose main staples consist of pasta and pizza. He's about as plain an eater as they come. Mr. "I don't want any 'chunky things' in my pasta sauce" and god forbid there be a vegetable on his plate. Me, on the other hand, I will try anything... and I mean anything. My husband probably wishes I was as experimental in the bedroom. I even prefer to try things before I know what they are, just in case knowing what it is may ruin the experience. I'm back to talking about food here people, not my sex life...dirty, dirty minds.

Here is where the judgemental part comes in for a lot of people. I feed my kids whatever they ask for. Period. Of course I don't allow cake and cookies and such for dinner, but a majority of their dinners consist of chicken nuggets and french fries. I've even gone so far as to by a deep fryer which cooks those things up in a matter of 2 minutes. I'm going to lose my mind if one more person tells me that I am making more work for myself and that they should be eating whatever I make for my husband and I to eat. Right. If I tried to enforce that rule my days would be spent listening to hours of moaning and complaining that they don't want to eat what I made. They are stubborn little shits (they get that from me) and they would sit there until the cows came home. Yes, I also have cows that come home when things take forever to happen. Then before they went to bed they would look at me with sad little eyes and say "I'm hungry". I wouldn't be able to stand sending them to bed that way so I would cook something for them to eat, two hours after I made dinner. So you see...judges...this would actually make more work for me. Feel free to leave comments and motherly advice as to how I can change this, which I will promptly delete and mentally file under "Who Does This Bitch Think She Is?"

I read about all these mother's who are able to feed their kids tofu, whole wheat pasta, and sugar free everything. No doubt these are the same mothers that gained 15 pounds during their pregnancy while they did yoga up until the day they gave birth. I was sabotaging my award chances right from the get go, as I slept for most of my pregnancies or sat on the couch with a gallon of mint chocolate chip ice cream and a spoon.

Here are some other moments that tainted my relationship with the judges:

- I've been know to pull over to the side of the road to have them exit the car, leave their door open as a type of shield, and pee

- I've taken them to see a band and brought them home well past what would be known as a "respectable" bed time

- Occasionally I skip an evening bath or bedtime story

- I once forgot that my sons tooth fell out and the tooth fairy did not arrive. In my defense, he lost it in the middle of the night. Therefore my story that the tooth fairy had already planned her trip by the time it came out was sufficient.

- I reward them with time to play video games

- I've taught them the rules of a few "drinking" games and allowed them to play with water rather than alcohol

Overall, I've come to terms with the fact that I will never even be considered for mother of the year. I don't really care either. The bottom line is that I love my children more than anything in this world and I would do anything for them. I am here-by bowing out of contention. Please continue to feel free to keep judging me though...I don't give a flying fuck. And what is that? Don't know, but I store them right next to the rat's asses.

Bring On The Bitches!

I'm ready...I think. Honestly I think one bitch in this house is enough right now but I know in the near future I will be taking a back seat to some new bitches that will take over my life. NO...I'm not pregnant! Jeez, if I were do you think I would be referring to my offspring as bitches? Yeah, you're right, I probably would. These are actual bitches, and I feel that they will be here very soon:

Ever since our dog died a couple of years ago the pitter patter of little paws has been on my husband's mind. At the time my youngest was only a few months old and my oldest had just turned two. I was quite content with the pitter patter mind blowing racket that my kids created for me on a daily basis. Of course I missed her, she was in many ways like my first baby. She may have also served as a type of birth control because she proved that I was definitely not ready to take care of a baby. We got her when she was 6 weeks old. I've often said that God makes kids cute for a reason and I believe the same goes for puppies. She was a royal pain in the ass. She whined all night, chewed everything she could get her paws on, and crapped all over the house (usually minutes after I had just taken her outside). But who could resist this face?

We discussed getting another dog but I was reluctant. I mean, can you blame me? I was already dealing with a little "critter" that was destroying everything I owned, whining all night, and occasionally crapping on the floor. That's right, I said on the floor. There is nothing worse than a two year that figures out how to remove his diaper and is not potty trained yet. I really didn't need anything additional to care for. Plus how was I going to train a dog when I couldn't be sure whether it was the one who was using my home as a toilet or if it was my child.

Finally I agreed that we could get a dog when my youngest turned five. Not sure why I chose that milestone but in hindsight I probably should have said ten because he turned five in June. I'm also convinced that I was severely sleep deprived, or possibly drugged, when I agreed that we could get two dogs...at the same time. What the hell was I thinking? Sure! I know one puppy is a lot of work, but why don't we throw in another one and double the work load... I don't do anything all day anyway. Ugh. Plus, no matter what anyone in this house has to say about how much they are going to help take care of the puppies, I know it's a bunch of bull. It may start off that way, but ultimately these two fur balls will be my responsibility. I wondered if my husband may have forgotten my drug induced agreement but it turns out that he didn't. Since June he has been all over the Internet looking for two chocolate lab puppies.

I have to admit that deep down I may want this just as much as he does. As the kids have gotten older their constant pleas for help have been replaced with "It's OK mom, I can do it myself". I find myself missing being needed. I never would have believed that it was possible, but it's true. I miss holding my little babies while they sleep in my arms and kissing there chubby cheeks. I miss tiny little hands reaching for mine while we take a walk. Now my attempts for affection are embarrassing for them. When I try to kiss and hug them they squirm and whine "Maaaa! Stop it!"

We haven't told the kids about our pending new additions to the family yet. It's almost as if they know though because my youngest has now turned into a "pet" for my oldest. He spends most of his days pretending that he is a cat. By the way, I hate cats. I'm surprised that female cats are not called bitches because they can be pretty moody. Anyhoo, he crawls around on all fours meowing and purring. The other day I found him lapping up a bowl of milk off the floor that my oldest had prepared for him. Thankfully, they haven't decided to set up a litter box or anything for him because I'm convinced that he would would use it.

So bring on the puppy breath, the wet little puppy noses, and the pee stained carpets. I'm in need of being needed...I think.