Happy Holidays?

I soooo envy my kids right now. This time of year is magical...it's magic... it's...a lot of work to be a magician! I am exhausted. I don't remember having 'magician' as a required skill in my parenting job description. If there was a factual job description for parenting out there, I don't think there would be one person that would apply to an open position, even in this tough economy.

I'm so glad my kids still believe in Santa, however, I don't think I've ever wished that fat bastard was actually real, as much as I do now. I am a terrible liar. It's tough not to feel a little stressed around this time of year, since this has become some sort of sick game trying to keep the magic alive.

My kids are getting older...they are asking questions about the jolly old soul that brings them presents for being well behaved, which ironically, they really are not this time of year.

“How does he get all those toys on his sled?” Well, he umm...

“What makes the reindeer fly?” Well see, they uhhh...
“How does he do it all in one night?”

Damn it! Stop drilling me! It’s MAGIC OK?!

Then comes the joy of giving...

               "You know what I'm getting for Christmas?", they ask, and then catch me completely off guard with something that was definitely NOT on their Christmas List. I hate that list by way, that list of things they feel they deserve. Especially since we really can't afford most of them, and in a way they base their receipt of some of these things as a reflection of the type of person they are.  No pressure though parents...no pressure...

                                Oh Really??, I think, as I watch them putting each other in headlocks, rolling on the floor, jamming the others face in the their armpit. Well, you certainly deserve it since you are CLEARLY so well behaved...

I try so hard not to get stressed. I really want to enjoy the Christmas, but it really has turned into such an obligation...

I'm not sure why, but my Christmas card causes a little stress each year. Well, I do know why, it's because I like to include a picture, which requires my sons to cooperate for one. I am assigned the task of finding a split second where there is an image of them actually behaving.

But, I put myself through the pain of trying to capture them at their best. Here's how it started this year...

 

Umm, guys can you try to stay still?
Then this...

Umm, can you not put your hand there?
Then this...

OH, C'MON! YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!!
Then this...

Umm, sorry honey, Mommy didn't mean to yell. Hot chocolate anyone? Tell Mommy again what Santa is going to bring you...Joy to the World.

Based on how I feel about Christmas this year, I wanted to just send this card to save me the time and stress of getting a good picture, and I think it portrays the spirit of the season...

Oh well, I will just crop one of the crotch grabbing ones, and call it a day. Well, that was fun.



As if this time of year isn’t stressful enough, this year I got the added bonus of unrelenting sicknesses running rampant through the family. Stomach bugs, colds, and this week …strep. Super. I’ve got to say though, it is very considerate for the schools to send those little joy filled notices home with the kids.

‘There has been a reported case of strep throat in your child’s classroom’.

Thanks for the heads up. Basically, I should count on them having it in… about…. say a day or two? Cool, I’ll plan accordingly.

I tried to shake my holiday blues the other night by planning a little trip. I put the kids in their pajamas, made them some hot chocolate, and set out to view some of the light displays in the area.

It sounded like a good idea, but it went a little something like this:

My first turn out of the neighborhood and there was a horrible shriek that came from the back seat.

“MOM! You turned too fast and I spilled my hot chocolate!”

Deep Breath…

“It’s OK, just try to hold on to it for the rest of the ride”

Don’t go back home… just keep going it will be fine.

I guess now is a good time to remind you that I have no sense of direction. But, I felt very brave this particular evening. I traveled across town and decided to turn down a random street off the main road to see if we could find any cool displays. Naturally, I picked the neighborhood with a bunch of bah-humbugs. Every 20^th house or so had a couple of lights on it.... Boring.
My kids were pretty quick to let me know that I had screwed up too…

“Why did you turn down this road mommy?”

“There are no lights on these houses”
“This sucks”

Deep Breath…

“OK, we’ll turn around and look somewhere else”

At this point I had traveled fairly deep into a neighborhood I was unfamiliar with. Oh shit! I’m lost!

Panic was starting to set in. Do I take a left here? How do I get out?

“Are we lost Mom?”

“NO!! Now keep quiet for 2 seconds so I can THINK!”

Did I mention the kids hot chocolates were in cups that light up? Oh yeah, crazy flashing lights. Not only was I pissed that I can never figure out where the hell I am, the whole ride felt like I was being tailed by the cops. I secretly wished that I was. I would pull over, surrender, and spend the night in solitary confinement. Sounds like the ideal situation right now...

Wow, this was a kick ass idea to help de-stress…

After another half hour of aimless wandering, I gave up and turned on the GPS. What a loser. Well, that was fun.

Now on to the stress of shopping and an effort to show the kids they are really good people. We have gone out and bought as much as we could find from their list of entitled toys. I may even throw in a couple of gift cards this year, to cover that toy that I find out about on Christmas Eve.

Some unknowing family member will undoubtedly ask "So what is Santa going to bring?"

A WHAT ? Really? No, it's OK, don't panic, Santa brought the gift card this year. That should cover it...

“Did you have that on your list honey?”

“Oh no, but Santa knows what I want”

Great, now I have to be a fucking mind reader too. I’ll be sure to add that to my skills on my resume. It may come in handy when I threaten to walk off the job someday. I bet someone, somewhere, would appreciate the skills I have.

I give my parents a lot of credit for doing all this work when I was growing up. I now feel "initiated" into the group of people that know Santa is not real, but wish like hell that he was, and who also know that 'Christmas Cheer' actually means having a good buzz.

Speaking of 'Christmas Cheer', since I can't seem to get any going for Christmas, I might as well let it build up until it explodes on New Years Eve. Now THAT is a day to look forward to. No stress involved in tying one on, plus it helps bring the stress level down from the debacle known as Christmas.

Bring on the booze...and lets begin a new year that gives me almost twelve months to ignore this stressful time of year!

Which Child? The Hairy One.

The thing about the title of this blog post is that it could be misunderstood to mean that I am referring to one of the children I gave birth too. What's worse is that if there was a distinction that could made between my two boys, one could very well be described as "the hairy one". Unfortunately, he most likely gets that from me. Well, not me in particular, our heritage. Although, I would like to refer to myself as a mutt, since I have a wide ethnic variety in my heritage, it is tough for me to deny that I am Portuguese. It's not that I would deny it, it's just that well...I couldn't. It's likely that when you see someone with porcelain skin, red hair, and freckles you might think they were Irish. Portuguese probably wouldn't enter your mind at all. I may be going out on a limb here, but when people see me I have a feeling they don't think I'm Irish. I know this for a fact actually because I once almost got into a fist fight with a girl on St. Patrick's Day who insisted that I could not possibly be Irish. I am Irish too, but it wasn't worth the fight since, in her defense, I look more like a Cinco De Mayo kind of girl.

I fit right in where I grew up. I looked like I belonged, with my black hair, dark brown eyes...and my hair. I could technically still have been viewed as a minority in my city in that I didn't speak Portuguese fluently. When I would visit out of state as a child I wondered if I was actually hairier than other girls, or if it was that my hair was so dark that it was more noticeable. I decided on the later...especially because it wasn't even an issue in the summer, since apparently the Portuguese tan well and you could barely see the hair.

When I moved to the city I live in now, I definitely felt like a minority. I had known a few blonds growing up, but there seemed to be an abundance of them in this particular area. I felt a little different...and well...hairy. I was able to get over it when I watched the fair skinned beauties getting torched on the beach in the summer while using baby oil to try to get "darker". I tried to let some of them know that purple did not equal tan, it meant third degree burn in their case. I on the other hand was getting less hairy by the minute as I tanned right up through SPF 15. Take that!

I've lived here for over ten years now and my friends still like to bust me up for being "different". It was funny at first because it was as if none of them had ever seen one of "my kind" before. Last year I even had a friend ask if she could dress up as me for Halloween. I'll admit, I wasn't sure if I should be insulted at first. I secretly prayed that she didn't come dressed like a gorilla and confirm my fear that I was noticeably hairier than "her kind". Then she showed up dressed like this:

I can live with that. She makes me look pretty cute, and thankfully she is unaware of my fear of being referred to as "the hairy one" and spared me a penciled in uni brow, which would certainly drive home the point that I have an abundance of hair. It's also possible that she feared my retaliation. That also works for me since I would have hated replacing her sunblock with baby oil and ruining her summer.

From what I know of Portuguese traits they are considered dominant. I never would have believed you if you told me I would have a light haired, blue eyed, boy. Turns out the mutt in me came forward in the making of my first child. He takes after his Dad. The second child, that takes after me, displays the dominate traits, and when he was born he looked like a baby gorilla. He was so hairy and dark. Even now, I try to scrub what I think is dirt off the back of his neck, only to realize he is tan. His brother needs SPF 50 applied every 2 hours or he may blister.

The actual child I am referring to in this post is not one of the ones I gave birth to. There are a lot of people who refer to their pets as their children and I've come to realize that I am one of them. I don't usually refer to my dog as my child, but I certainly treat him as if he were one of my children at times. I think I may have noticed the parent/child type relationship when I would ask things of other people that at I once I asked about my children. "Did he poop today? Was it diarrhea?" Naturally, if he did have diarrhea I would have to keep him home from daycare. Yes you read that right...I take him to daycare to "socialize" him while we are away from home. Whatever. I haven't gotten to the point of throwing him a birthday party or anything. I do love to entertain though...OK, I did consider it briefly and I can't rule it out in the future quite frankly. At the present time my dog/child is weighing 95lbs, at age one. I know about the dog years crap, but I can't refer to him as being seven. He has been alive for one year, and he is the size of a small adult human. This combination doesn't always work the well, especially now that I am his "owner" and I should be able to control whatever he does. 

When we first got him he was out of control. He would run and knock down small children...and small adults. The first thing we did was have him neutered to help control all the humping, however he was still full of energy and obsessed with other dogs. I would try to walk him to get some of the energy out, but it turns out that the lady he peed on in the pet store was right; a harness promotes pulling. We got him in November and there was snow and ice on the ground all winter. I seriously considered wearing a helmet to walk him because he would run toward anyone he saw. I decided my course of action to "control" this would be to take him to obedience training. When I told my mother I would be bringing the kids to these classes also, she misunderstood and thought I would bring the children so they could learn to be obedient. We laughed for a while...then brainstormed about how profitable an actual obedience school for children could be.

DISCLAIMER: Before you leave a crazy comment about how terrible I am...thinking that children should be obedient and blah, blah, blah. I'm joking. We didn't actually consider starting an obedience school for children. That said, if someone does happen to become profitable at doing such a thing, let the record show...you heard it here first. Also, I am in a Judge Free Zone here. Advice is welcome, I have a suggestion box that can be used for highly opinionated views about what I am doing incorrectly as a parent. I call it my 'Bitch Please' bin. I am also trying to go green with it so I recycle the craziest advice to other mothers so they will not ask for any more help from me.

The first obedience class I brought him to, the children did not attend. The way that class went I may have had a nervous breakdown if I had brought them. My puppy was one of the youngest, yet one of the biggest, and apparently the one in desperate need of obedience. He barked constantly and pulled me around so much when we got there that the owner of the place put us in a little office by ourselves, almost like a time out. While we were in there I tried to get him to look at me and just asked "Why? Why are you doing this and making a spectacle of yourself and....well...me?" It reminded me of the times I was out with my two year old children and they would flip out in a full blown tantrum in the middle of the supermarket. In a familiar way I was looking at the people around me and apologizing as if I somehow had actual control of this scene.

The children joined me for the second class. I debated all day on whether or not to go. I was going to have to try and control this puppy while also trying to keep my kids focused on what they needed to do. At the suggestion of the trainer I brought lots of treats for the puppy. It definitely worked because he did not take his eyes off me the whole class, doing whatever I asked to get a treat. I then realized how much he was like me. Responding to food...and hairy. I then took notes on how I could get this dog to do whatever I desired by offering him food and put it in my business plan for the child obedience school...What?

Turns out we ended up dropping out of obedience classes. I don't need him to be obedient. He just needs for me to be fun, and active, and enjoy having him with us and he responds. He's like a child that way. He loves to be walked and almost seems to ask when he stands at the garage door and looks through it at his leash. When I don't really feel like it, I still try to force myself to go, because I know he needs the exercise, and it sure as hell isn't going to kill me to get some. He makes me walk in the rain, he gets me to run. He gets me to take a few minutes to clear my head . He brings me to places like this;

My kids do this too, when they bring me a book and sit, snuggled up against me, while I read. Sometimes when I have a million things running through my head in the car, they will yell for me to turn up the radio...and I do...and we sing at the top of our lungs without a care for a few minutes. My family reminds me to live every once in a while. This family now includes an additional, giant, hairy child.




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I Don't Need A Nickname

I've come to the realization that I actually cause Lazy to happen. It could almost be considered a "condition" around here sometimes. The worst part is that it took me until recently to step back and see what was happening. I made a conscience effort to take a look at what I actually do to cause it. Most of the time the things I do are so irrelevant, that the people I do them for would never consider themselves Lazy for not doing them. Frankly, I don't blame them. I am an Enabler. I've never had a nickname in my life, but if there is one out there that applies at this point, that would be it.

I would first like to blame my own Lazy on most of this. It is possible that this affliction spread from me to them. It just so happens that most days start off bad, simply because I procrastinate when it comes to starting it. Hopefully this isn't contagious also. Lazy, I believe spreads through the fact that I am a Snooze Button Whore. Please, do not decide that this is a more applicable nickname for me...After all, I have impressionable young children and I would prefer to avoid having them call me a Whore.

If you were to follow my day you would realize that I have very limited options for a nickname. Here's how one might go:

I start my day after pushing the snooze button on numerous devices. You read that right, I like the snooze button so much that I set 3 alarms at slightly different intervals on 3 separate devices. I hit snooze on each one at least once, and possibly twice on a couple of them. This is where the Whore aspect creeps in. I like the snooze button so much that I took on multiple partners.

Back to my day...

Today my day started as I ran into the bathroom. I knew things were going to need to move swiftly this morning to get the kids ready in time for the bus. Curse you snooze button!...Call Me. My dog was hot on my heels. I turned on the water for a shower, got undressed, and sat on the toilet. As soon as my ass hit the seat my youngest son walked in, rubbing his eyes and mumbling something about a school day. "Yes, it's a school day" I said as I quickly grabbed some toilet paper to cover my chest. What?...I'm surprised he didn't tell me he liked my shirt...Instead, he started screaming that he didn't want to go to school, stormed out of the room, and slammed the door. Awesome...he's in a good mood. No doubt he will be a lover of the snooze button when he gets older.

I guess this is as good a time as any to point out that a decision to be Lazy and stay in my bed for "just a few more minutes"...causes the constant need the rest of the day for me to multi-task. I've always been proud of being able to do so many things at once, but lately I've come to the conclusion that I complete a majority of these tasks in a way that would be described by many as "mediocre". I am a half-ass, multi-tasker (An additional nickname option I suppose).

I was about to step in the shower when I noticed my dog looking a little fidgety, circling about looking to see where he would go to pee if it came down to it. Shit...OK... I'll be quick, I promise puppy. I grabbed my razor off the counter, and saw my toothbrush. Yep, I can cram that in too. I put toothpaste on it and jumped into the shower. I was going to perform multi tasks, not only at the same time, but in a window of time that was quickly closing.

The short version of this is that I exited the shower having only shaved one leg...and with a new found liking of brushing my teeth while in the shower. I know...I didn't understand it before either, but...it turns out that if you aren't a priss when it comes to brushing your teeth, constantly wiping spittle off your chin...and yes, I would picture you using the word "spittle"...shower tooth brushing can be OK. I personally like to scrub them frantically while using my other hand to shave a leg. Well, it turns out that when the water rinses the froth off your chin, it travels down the front of your body, leaving you feeling minty fresh on your front half for a good part of the day. Who knew??

Oh right...back to my day...

I didn't take much time to decide whether or not I was going to abandon the shaving mission. By now my poor puppy was practically crossing his legs to go out. I ran down the stairs, still not dressed, since that skirt was out of the question with this one shaved leg. I ran back up the stairs, threw on a bathrobe, and went to the kids room. I now realize that I dressed them like they were still 6 months old. I mean...I didn't lay them down on the floor like I was changing a baby, but I physically stood them up, undressed them, and put their clothes on. I'm not sure why I was so alert to all this but I even noticed that I would tap each leg and they would lift it up, in and out of their clothes. Unreal. In my defense, they would need to wake up 5 hours before school started in order to be dressed on time if I didn't help. Even if I was not a Whore...for the snooze button that is.

Now we are on to Breakfast, and I am finally dressed, because I dressed while walking down the stairs. Turns out this multi-task was successful on both fronts. I got their breakfast ready and as soon as I put it down in front them, I say "Eat". I repeat the work "Eat" every five minutes or so until they are finished. I do this because...and I have tested it....if I don't they will drift off and think of something to ask or talk about and actually "forget" to eat. I need to verbally guide them to keep the pace right for catching the bus. I then have them brush their teeth, which surprisingly, they do without guidance...however, at some point intervention is required. Water can be distracting. Then I tell them to put on their shoes. I am a bit embarrassed to admit this, but my kids wear Velcro shoes, simply because tying of shoes in the morning would completely come between me and my snooze button. Go ahead...say it...Whore. I'm not proud. I'm also a little confused why I was embarrassed to reveal that, but not to discuss the whole shower tooth brushing thing.

In the end, my Lazy, causes them to appear Lazy, as they walk out the door just as the bus is rounding the corner down the street. The theme to Chariots of Fire plays through my head as they run in slow motion to make it to the bus stop. I stand in the door and lift my arms in victory. It is then that I realize my stairs/dressing multi task was, in fact, an epic fail.  I somehow, half assed it, and neglected to put on a shirt. The neighbors look on while trying to shield the eyes of their children. I'm sure that my nickname will come from an event like this....

Or, it will just come right from my blog. Given the number of times the words Lazy and Whore were mentioned here, I have come to the conclusion that I would like to remain without a nickname for the remainder of my days...

An Evening With The Ladies

I was going to use Girls Night Out 2, but that seemed a little lame. Besides, it's really not a sequel. The word "girl" to me indicates a child, or at the very minimum a much younger me. An Evening With The Ladies makes it sound a bit more refined...like we are classy broads, ya know? I should really just call it what it is...Moms Night Out . The rare occurrence of spending time with people who will not require cleaning, feeding, or refereeing. Although... that isn't necessarily a true statement, as I am pretty sure I have done all of these at some point when out with ladies.

Let me start with a little upfront information for the men out there. When a woman wants to spend a night out with her friends, please don't take it personally. It's not because she doesn't want to spend time with you, or that she's going out on the prowl looking for another man. It's just that there is something about being around girlfriends that revitalizes us. We need that time to just be ourselves and talk about whatever is on our minds. Believe me, you should be happy that we do not want to discuss most of these topics with you. For example, I know just as much about my friends "lady parts" as their gynecologists. Frequently used terms in our discussions include; uterus, discharge, menstrual cycle, and spotting. I could be wrong, but I'm guessing these are not things you would like to talk about, so that said...you're welcome.

Aside from all the gyno talk, we also discuss our kids at great lengths. We talk about our kids a lot anyway, but lately the discussion seems to be almost exclusively about them. We talk about sickness, including types of cough, such as dry, hacking, or productive. We discuss rashes as if we are pediatricians asking each other questions like "Did it start on the trunk and then move to his extremities?", and "Did it look like spots under the skin, or raised, fluid filled, bumps on the skin?" Then there is the riveting talk about mucus and which colors are good and which ones require medical attention. I promise guys, you're not missing out on much.

The most recent night I had out with the girls had a few elements that stuck out to me. First, we actually carpooled. That's right. We all fit in a vehicle together. Not because it was a small group, but because one of us had a vehicle that was big enough to accommodate us all.

Also, in anticipation of this event, I actually put myself through a training of sorts. In order to prepare for the hours of dancing I rode a stationary bike everyday the week leading up to our big night out. I had to build up some stamina. I didn't want to be embarrassed from becoming winded after dancing to two songs, or from clutching the back of my thigh screaming "I'm cramping!"

Next, was the fact that I did not bring a purse. I believe this is due to the fact that my kids are getting older and I don't feel the need to be overly prepared for everything. Plus, some of my friends still do have very small children. This translates to them having enormous purses which are more than capable of handling the few items I would like to take with me.

Also noticeably absent was the one lady that may have overindulged a bit too much. Either that or we have just become professionals at getting our drink on. No more holding someones hair while they puke, or dragging them off the dance floor because they are making a spectacle of themselves. If you were to look up the term "cock block" in the urban dictionary you would see that it gives a perfect description of the role of an inebriated woman's girlfriends. Gone are the days of having to form a virtual "shield" around a drunk friend on the dance floor to prevent her from falling victim to the guy that combs the bar looking for easy prey. Friends don't let friends get dry humped.

We've also become quite skilled at the art of avoiding a hangover. The key ingredients include a hearty helping of greasy food on the way home, a full glass of water, and two aspirin. Sunday morning we are up, dressed, the kids are fed, and we are on our way to church. We are practically professionals at this.

So ladies, if it's been a while since you've gotten together with your lady pals, what are you waiting for? It's a necessity. Plan something soon, it's good for the soul. Plus, don't forget to invite me...Of course my only motive is to gather material for my blog. Yeah, that's it. I like to think of myself as an investigative journalist...

My Easy Button Is Broken

It may just need new batteries. Or, it's more likely that my kids simply removed the batteries and put them in one of their toys. It is also quite possible that I have completely worn the thing out. If that is the case, I believe the burn out was caused by the number of times I used it in my early twenties. Life sure was easy then. It's funny though, I don't ever remember using it then. Maybe it was in my trunk with something set on top of it, pressing it constantly. There are times during the day when I throw out a prayer that my kids have easy buttons that I could just "borrow" while mine is not working but, so far no luck. As a matter of fact, I think maybe they are using mine and wearing it out on me. Whatever the case may be, it definitely does not seem to be working at the present time.

Here is an example of how something seemed easy, but turned out to be very difficult.The other day I decided I would take the dog for a walk. Perhaps my misstep came in verbalizing what I was thinking of doing.

"Can I come Mommy?"
"Sure"
"I want to come too"
Umm, OK, sure...
"Yeah, we'll both come with you...and we can ride our scooters"
Hold up...the Easy is rapidly exiting from my original plan.

Well, alright then, lets take this traveling circus on the road.

As I stepped outside I realized that Mother Nature was going to rip the easy out of this also, by claiming to be 'Spring' and actually being a cold bitch. Obviously, I didn't verbalize that...I just like to swear here. My kids are not fluent readers yet...plus, they would never think that anything their Mom was writing is something they would want to read.

I told the boys I needed to run back in and grab some gloves. I may have left out some additional information, or instructions like "Stay right there, don't move, I'm going to take two seconds I know exactly where they are", but I figured it would take just as long for me to say that as it would to get my gloves. It was enough time for them, apparently, to take off. I walked out the door and they were gone. My heart fell into my stomach and instantly scenes of them being abducted ran through my mind. Not because I feared that would happen in my neighborhood at all, but because of how quickly they disappeared.
I started running in the direction I guessed they may have headed and quickly realized I was right. I relaxed a bit and mentally scolded myself for a second.
You HAD to go straight to an abduction, didn't you?
What?! It happens!
As I got closer to them I noticed my five year old going into a neighbor's driveway. No big deal. I started to pick up my pace to catch up with them. When I got to the corner a car came to the intersection heading toward the driveway he had just gone up, and stopped.
"Stay there" I yelled
Just as the car started moving again my five year turned around and started flying down the driveway.
What the hell!!
"STOP!! STOP!!"
Thank goodness, the driver saw him and stopped well before getting near him. Meanwhile, here he comes with a huge smile on his face having a great time, oblivious to the car even being there. I love that my street has hardly any traffic, but it's a moment like that when you realize it could be a bad thing....Or...that you are going to have to remind them every single day that they need to watch for cars.
As he got closer to me I was trying to keep my cool and told him for the 23,764th time that he needs to watch for cars. He just smiled his biggest smile back and said "Wow, did you see that mommy? That was fun!"
"Yep, it was a blast"
Then...I knew it was coming and started to cringe.
I was about to be on the receiving end of a verbal assault, from no doubt a mother herself, as she was driving carefully down a street that tends to have lots of kids around.
"Is that your son?"
I'm ashamed to admit that for a brief second I thought... what would happen if I say no?
I would have an opportunity to gain some advice from a veteran. We could talk about this child's mother and what rookie mistake she was making. Yeah, that's it.
Crap. He called me out already.
"Yes...he's mine"
"Your lucky I was going slow. He went right in front of my car"
"Yes, I appreciate your driving slowly in this area. Sometimes the kids don't pay attention"
What I decided to keep to myself was: 'Certainly, you can't believe that as I was getting ready to leave the house to walk and I said "Hey guys, do mommy a favor...when I go inside, take off while I'm not looking, and ride your scooters in front of any cars that may come down the street". I assure you this wasn't the conversation that took place. As a matter of fact I have now realized how much instruction I left out in speaking with them. I apologize. They make terrible decisions sometimes. By the way, my plan was to walk the dog. My parenting mishaps today were a) saying I wanted to go for a walk and b) having cold hands. I didn't want to say no to them, but it would have been much easier if I was just walking the dog. What?! Why am I crying?! I don't know!!'
I'm glad I kept this as my internal dialog. I think she may have noticed the distressed look on my face because her look softened. She even smiled and said "I know how it is...It's not easy"
Ain't that the truth.
It's possible that I used up all of my easy when I was a child. No doubt my mother played a huge roll in making things easy for me when I was young (Hey, maybe SHE was using my easy button. That's fine, I'm sure she needed it, I'll let it slide)
Maybe life isn't meant to be easy. Maybe the hard things in life are what make it worth while. Hey, now that I think of it, I believe we were discussing that at "Girls Night Out" the other night. OR, maybe that was a reference to somethings else... never mind, I'll save that for my next blog.

"Thank You Facebook"

It really just depends on how you say something. I've thanked Facebook in some different ways over the last few weeks. There was the "Gee, thanks a lot Facebook" as I witnessed all the ladies my husband went to high school with, friend request him. Or the "Wow, thank you Facebook", as I got to see what my family and close friends were up to. Then there are the other friends on Facebook that most people have, those that you knew, but may not currently recognize while out and about. If you did, you would most likely stop and chat for a second or two. It would be possible that many of my Facebook friends may not recognize me, since I tend to post only pictures that I feel I look OK in....which are most likely from 10 years ago. What's great about Facebook is, regardless of how well you know someone, if you have a conversation with someone you haven't seen in while it's nice and, well..brief. Don't get me wrong, it's not because you don't genuinely want to talk to someone, it's that life just doesn't allow for it most of the time. Say, for example, the time you run out to Walmart to buy...well...pretty much anything...and you don't happen to notice someone because you are hot on the trail of your child...who is attempting to exit the store and possibly about to set off an alarm because they figured they REALLY wanted a new video game...and that in itself should be reason enough to have it. If that's not the case and you don't have the distraction of children, it's OK. Facebook can definitely shorten up a conversation for you too. It stops you from having to lead in with..."So...What have you been doing with yourself for the past 15 years?" Those that are not complete  social voyeurists will at least let you know a little about what is going on in their life on Facebook.

I suggested to my husband that he join Facebook. In hindsight, I may have wanted to wait for a better time, well...for me. You see, this time of year tends to cause me to accentuate my curves a bit. By that I mean, my ass gets a bit larger. It's sort of like the "freshman 15", only it doesn't give up after that one time. It's what I like to refer to as the "winter 15"(this year possibly...20). It's the extra poundage I pack on to deal with the miserable cold and dreariness of winter. I tell myself it's not my fault. My body just tries to desperately insulate itself to fend off the cold. It's natures way. But, this year has been especially brutal. Not only am I dealing with a particularly crappy, snowy, freezing winter, I also quit smoking. I often wonder why I would ever smoke in the first place. I've heard it is to be blamed on an oral fixation.Unfortunately for my husband, that does not translate into something beneficial for him, contrary to the way it sounds. To his dismay, I choose to appease my fixation need with FOOD.

Here's how this all relates to my sarcastic thanking of Facebook. Having my husband join at a point when I wasn't feeling my most secure may not be the best idea. I look at Facebook a little differently now. I see some of my friends on Facebook and what they post, or pics they put up, and think, hmmm, what do his friends post? Some of my female friends look smokin hot in their pictures. It's OK for me to view women that way because, women judge other women...everyone knows that. But, I just don't know if I want my husband looking at his "friends" and thinking that. I picture them all looking so great, especially the ones that have kids. Naturally, they gained 14 lbs for each pregnancy and wore their "skinny jeans" home from the hospital. Meanwhile my hubby has visuals of me during my pregnancies, with ankles that.....well...there were no ankles. Deep down I hope that some of his female "friends" complain constantly on Facebook, or they share more than you could possibly want to know about them on a social network. They are always posting about how sick they are, or guessing that rain may be on the way, because when it is, their c-section scar flares up. It helps me out to think this way. It stops me from worrying that he may lose interest in me, I'm really not too bad when compared with that. It also stops me from being concerned that my last correspondence with him was a text to see if he could pick up feminine products for me on his way home.

I can thank Facebook for motivating me. I have a sudden desire to hop on my diet wagon, strap on the seat belt, and shed this "winter weight". Watching all these people on Facebook hitting the gym, dieting, or not doing a damn thing and still looking skinny. Of course, I am taking baby steps. Walking the dog a little longer each day...eating better. Then there is my favorite exercise, going out to see a band and dancing so long that my thighs hurt the next day. The only draw back to that exercise is that it goes hand in hand with beer for me. When I can't go to the bar to get some cardio, I turn to doing a game on Wii that has you follow the dancer on the screen and earn points if you can keep up with her. I think my kids remotes are broken though...the score clearly does not reflect my performance in most cases.

There are people on Facebook that I may not have gotten to know outside of it. Sharing the same "likes" must make people feel more connected to one another. One friend in particular, was like this for me. We shared a lot of the same interests. She was also really supportive when I started this blog. She would send me messages to say how much I made her laugh, and I could always count on her to encourage me to write more even if it was just to click the "like" button when she read one. She passed away suddenly two weeks ago. I still see her picture when I look through my friends on Facebook. This is the first time I will write a blog that she will not comment on. Even something like this makes me thankful for Facebook, I may not have gotten to know her the way I did without it.

Regardless of what you use Facebook for, try to have some fun with it. Use it to share your thoughts, your stories, your gripes, to sing a song. Tell your friends whatever you like...unless you are a friend of husband...then you might want to reign it in a little. Also, go easy on the sexy pics, he really hates those.

Tales of the Red Rocket

Well...I thought it was going to be a bitch. Two bitches, actually. Nope. I was sort of looking forward to having a couple of females to break up the overload of testosterone in this house. Instead, our new addition is of the male variety. An enormous male. An eight month old, eighty five pound, handsome, stud.

Now, let me start by saying I've never had a male dog before, and certainly never one of this size. I can't recall anyone I know having a male dog, or at least I wasn't introduced until after they were neutered. This new horse puppy, was not neutered by his prior owner. I've gotta admit, I'm a little disturbed...by well...his balls. Well technically, I'm not a fan of any balls. Lets face it, they're not the prettiest things to look at. Luckily, the ones I am around on a daily basis are covered up a majority of the time. Until now. This guy walks around here with his sack dangling around, putting it wherever he likes...and he likes my couch. You'll see how much he likes it later on in this post. Plus, the fact that he is not neutered helps me understand the term "horn dog". He really would like to hump anything with a pulse. That's not true...it doesn't need to have a pulse (there are some men I know that have these same standards). The "red rocket" makes numerous daily appearances around here. My sons think it's hilarious. All day long I am treated to the phrase "Eww! His pink pee-pee is out again!" Lovely. Then they reenact his romps. They will grab each other and thrust crazily while laughing until they cry. Yep, I'm living the dream here people. By the way, take another look at the picture above in the area that harbors the "red rocket"...he is getting ready to make a guest appearance.

The first night we got him, my husband ran out to the store and left him with me...alone. I'm not afraid of dogs at all, but this one was definitely a little intimidating. Plus, I wasn't sure if he would be ornery because of the move so I was sort of avoiding him at first. Then I thought, screw this...this is my house. He is just a big baby after all. I sat on the couch and called him to me. He came to me right away, tail wagging. That's a good sign, I thought. He gave me his paw, and when I took it in my hand he started licking me. Aww, he really is cute. Poor thing, he must be wondering what the hell is going on. After what felt like forever, I put his paw down and took my hand away. He sat in front of me just staring. Then he started looking at me in a creepy kind of way. Like that old guy in the bar that is staring at the group of girls celebrating a 21st birthday. He gave me his paw again and I took it for a second and put it down. He gave it right back. I went to put it back down and he put his other paw on the back of my shoulder. What the hell? The next thing I knew he was standing on his hind legs and I was staring down the barrel of the "red rocket". I pushed him away from me with both hands, stood up, and jumped onto the couch. Dammit, this asshole just tried to violate me! Then I took a second to look at myself and started dying laughing.

He was better after a week or so. The "red rocket" made less appearances and he seemed to be settling in nicely. That is until what I will now refer to as the "incident". All of a sudden he seemed to be getting mildly destructive when we would leave the house for prolonged periods of time. He would chew on a shoe a little, but didn't shred it to pieces or anything. He would rearrange my rugs a bit. That is, until this happened....

That is my couch people! The one I told you he liked to rub his balls all over, well he REALLY tried to make it his bitch. Now I don't know what the hell to do with him. I tried to crate him once and he literally destroyed the crate. He is all signed up for obedience training and doggy daycare (that's right, I said doggy daycare) but he can't start either of them until he loses his family jewels.

In the meantime, I figured I would take him to one of those chain pet stores and try to find some gadgets that might help me get him under control. I walked in, well actually he dragged me in, and I was immediately greeted by a friendly employee. She was nauseatingly nice while I told her about some of the troubles I was having with him. She informed me that the trainer was in and if I wanted we could go speak to her. Why the hell not? I had to practically drag him through the store because there were some other dogs there that I'm sure he was dreaming of mounting. Finally, we reached her and the first thing she said was "You know, a harness encourages pulling. You should be using a different type of leash if you want to have any control over him" Well thanks bitch. I'll keep that in mind. She then proceeded to ask me a battery of questions and every time I would answer she would start shaking her head saying "No, No...you shouldn't do that" After a few minutes I'd had enough of this know it all. Apparently so had the dog because he lifted his leg and proceeded to pee all over her shoes. Usually I can contain myself. I've had a lot of practice restraining myself when my kids say or do something inappropriate, but I couldn't this time. I laughed and asked her which aisle the dog treats were in. He was going to get some right in the store after that!

I guess I'm not a fan of being judged as a pet owner any more than I am of being judged as a mother. No matter what grief I have to put up with from this beast, I'm going to love him and he will have a happy, healthy life here with us. Anyone that thinks otherwise better invest in some plastic to protect their shoes!

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.

Please Don't Drop Your "Kids" At The Pool

We got a pool this year. It was money well spent, but it does make my OCD act up from time to time. I've been stressing over how to keep the water clean. When we first set it up I think I went out and spent more money on chemicals to put in it than I did on the pool itself. Once it was full I started adding all these things to the water as if I was making some sort of elaborate soup. A little of this, a dash of that, mixing it like a witches brew with the skimmer. The end result...cloudy water. WTF? It was now my life's mission to clean it up. I spent weeks trying to figure out what the hell I was doing wrong...and buying more chemicals to put in it. My numerous failed attempts were really starting to piss me off. Sure, we could still use it, but all the cool little games we had for the kids weren't much fun. Dive sticks would disappear just inches from the surface and then it became a sort of Marco Polo type game (minus the audio clues) blindly searching for them at the bottom with our feet. My youngest can't touch the bottom so he couldn't even "play". Goggles were also useless. Finally, I drained the stupid thing and filled it again. It was such a relief to see the bottom again. It was also good to know where my son's missing shoe had been.

Now on to the real issue I have with the pool...sanitation. I obsess over what may be in the water. Kids are terribly unclean little people. Especially boys. My days are spent wiping various things from every orifice. They get more food on their face and clothes than in their stomach and I've discussed numerous times their lack of ability to wipe their butts. This leads to a lot of anxiety when it comes to my now pristine water. I've replaced the little bucket at the bottom of the ladder, with a bucket the size of a small kiddie pool. Before they are allowed to go in the pool I require them to sit in it and wash everything. I then proceed to do a butt check to ensure they do not have skid marks in their suits that could compromise my water. Once all the proper precautions have been taken, they are allowed entry. My issue now is other children. I would love to enforce all my checks on other kids...however the law prohibits it. I have to believe that my kids are not the only ones that lack the ability to thoroughly clean their asses. Heck, I know there are adults who probably don't do a bang up job of it. I love to have other kids over to swim but it makes me a little anxious. I have visions of finding a "floater" in the pool like in the movie Caddyshack (hopefully it too will be a Baby Ruth). Then I throw out constant reminders to them that they cannot pee in the pool. I've also tried to scare them into thinking that I have that chemical in there that will create a giant blue cloud around the kid that pees. I find it ironic that after all these years of talking about it there still isn't one...yet there are fifty other chemicals I am made to believe I should add to the water. Aside from chlorine that is something I would definitely add on a daily basis. I am certain they have already tested this mystery chemical and know that I am a bullshit artist. Then there are all the times they dive under and emerge with a giant snot hanging from their nose. I'm gagging just thinking about what ends up in there.

Regardless of what is in the water I'm pretty sure I've got down to a science how to kill it. Skim, shock, chlorine, repeat. I'd like to think that my water is clean enough to drink, in the way that people say their floors are clean enough to eat off of. Now, let me also discuss another saying...the term "dropping the kids off at the pool". Those of you who are unfamiliar with this term, it's another way of saying you are going to take a shit. That being said, let me invite anyone in need of a refreshing escape from the hot summer sun to the pool for a dip. Come on in...the water is fine, but please don't "drop your kids off"...

Pluck Off

I'm having grooming issues. Not hygiene issues, grooming issues. I do shower. Although, what was once an everyday occurrence of showering is now an every other day event...at night...when the kids are asleep. I try occasionally to shower during the day but unless the kids are tied up engrossed in something on television they tend to get themselves in trouble. Case in point, my last "day shower" afforded my children some time to create a hockey rink by spraying my hardwood floor with sunscreen and sliding around on it in their socks. Creative, I know, but I still can't walk over that spot without almost breaking my neck...all due to my five minute shower faux pas.

Back to the topic at hand...grooming. I have eyebrows that are out of control. I say "eyebrows" as if I have two, however this is not the case. If I could give you a visual it's as if a furry caterpillar has crawled above my eyes and made itself at home. Sexy, I know. Waxing is out at the moment since the kids are home for the summer and I would rather shave my eyebrows off than take them with me to the salon. I can't pluck them for the same reason I can't shower during the day. I realize this is something I could do when they go to bed, but I prefer to use that time to try and relax. Ripping hair that is millimeters from my eyeballs is not something I would consider relaxing. Just the thought of it makes me tear up a little. Who decided that the grooming of eyebrows was to be our cultural norm anyway? Surely it was a man. Why don't they have to do it? I mean, besides for Metro Sexuals? I'm glad my husband doesn't bother with his because I would be pissed if his looked better than mine. I will eventually succumb to the pressures of society and tidy them up...just before the next girl's night out. Gotta look good for the ladies.

The other area where grooming has gone by the wayside, is in maintaining these fricken gray hairs that seem to multiply on an hourly basis. Those of you with blond hair can firmly plant a wet, juicy kiss on my right ass cheek. I'm not jealous of blonds in general...although I would love to have "blond moments" to blame for some of the stupid shit that I do. I just find it a little unfair that gray hairs on a blond are not as noticeable as on someone with black hair, like myself. When I get a gray it stands out like a white guy in a rap contest. My solution? Pluck them. That's right people, I pluck the shit out of those little wiry suckers. The idea that five more will grow in it's place is total bullshit. I mean, it's not like a bunch grow in where I pluck...wait a minute...son of a bitch! I'm going to be either bald or completely gray if I don't stop!!

I guess I will have to settle for the alternative...dyeing it myself. Again, the salon is out. I'll go out and buy one of those dye kits for a couple of bucks. I'm not sure why I feel like I will save money using these things. I have ruined every t-shirt I own...in addition to shower curtains, bath rugs, towels and, on one occasion, a light fixture. Who knew black dye would take on frosted glass. This chick does now. You would think by now I would know enough to designate a shirt to use when I dye my hair...or to throw a tarp down in the bathroom. I'll just chalk it up to a "blond moment". That's right all you blond bitches, I'm stealing it anyway. Oops! Sorry about that outburst...I must be wearing my "bitter pants" today.

So again my hubby makes out like a bandit. No eyebrow grooming or gray concealing, on top of not having to push giant baby heads from his privates (bitter pants talking again). In fact, he looks pretty sexy with his sprinkling of gray hair. Funny, a man grays and looks "distinguished". A woman grays and may not look it but certainly feels "old baggish". I guess I'll have to distract my husband from my unibrow and graying hair with some mind-blowing sex. Then again, that would lead to additional grooming that I would rather not discuss here...

Operation: Vacation

Ahh yes, family vacation time. Time to relax...well, for everyone but mommy. Of course there were times during vacation when I could sit back and relax (like when the kids were sleeping), but for the most part it wasn't much different from being at home for me. I find it funny that it takes me forever to pack for a trip that is within my state (the smallest state in the US mind you). Every year we spend a week with my father-in-law at his house on the beach. I usually take my time over a couple of days to pack things but lately we've been leaving the day after our 4th of July block party. I spent so much time preparing for said party, that I couldn't pack. Then the day we were to leave I had to clean and pack at the same time. I am usually an excellent multi-tasker, however I may have had a little too much fun at the party because it felt like a drummer was performing a solo in my head all day. Plus it was 90 degrees and humid. In hind sight that was probably a good thing since it helped me sweat out some of the alcohol. Anywho...we left a lot later than I had planned and ended up arriving at the beach house at 8pm.

The first thing I did was stop to get food for the kids to eat on the ride down since I was going to have to unpack all the stuff I just packed and I didn't want to add cooking to my "to do" list. Once we were all settled in I decided I should probably eat something. I grabbed some leftovers from the party that were in a tupperware and threw it in the microwave. Just as I sat down to eat it my oldest son looked at me and said "I think I am going to be sick". I jumped up, grabbed him, and ran with him to the bathroom. We made it just in time. I stood there with one arm wrapped around his chest, squaring him with the toilet, tupperware in the other hand, while he threw up. Now, before I had kids the sight of someone vomiting would make me sick too. But now, it's just another day as a mom. When he finished, I brought him to a recliner, covered him and he fell asleep. Had this happened earlier in my journey through mommy hood, it may have warranted a trip to the ER. I once called 911 for a high fever only to be rushed, by ambulance, to the hospital where they administered Tylenol and sent us home. Live and learn, I guess.

With one son settled in for the night, I sat down and tried to finish (or actually start) eating my food. Again, in the past I would never have been able to eat after watching a projectile vomiting episode. Now that's just for amateurs. As soon as I raised the fork to my mouth my youngest yelled from the bathroom "Mom! I need help! Oh shit, he's throwing up too. I set my food down this time and headed for the bathroom. When I opened the door I found him bent over, ass in the air. "Wipe my butt, I pooped". Super. By the way, this wasn't going to stop me from eating either.

The rest of the week was quite enjoyable. We spent hours on the beach swimming, and playing in the sand. There weren't anymore vomiting episodes, although I did occasionally assume the role of "ass wiper". I'm sure my hubby enjoyed himself too. There was no shortage of scantly clad, hot bodied ladies bouncing around in the waves. The surf was pretty rough and I'm sure he witnessed the occasional "nip slip". Oh well...it kind of reminded me of that commercial for Corona, when the girl squirts lime juice in her man's eyes for ogling the women. The only difference is if I had a lime I may have squirted it in my own eyes. They were making me ill. Weird...this was something that could cause me to vomit. I missed by pre-baby body and the ability to wear a bikini.

For every bikini body on the beach, there were five that should not have been wearing bikinis...but they were anyway. By mid week I thought...Screw it, I have a bikini and I'm going to wear it. Well technically it's a bikini top, and a skirted bottom...or what I like to refer to as the "Momkini". I probably should have thought that through a bit more. My stomach hadn't seen the light of day in quite some time. Even with sunscreen my mid section got torched. Let me add that I NEVER burn. I have very dark skin (everywhere that gets exposed to the sun on a regular basis). I don't know how people with fair skin do it. I can't remember the last time I was in so much pain (aside from the day after the party). It was still bright red three days later. Needless to say, it will be years before I expose it again, if ever. It also was not a good idea to wear that top in the heavy surf. I was guilty of numerous "nip slips" myself. Another reason to retire the "Momkini" on the family vacation.

While we were there we were able to have a date night. We hit a little bar near the beach and it was packed. There was a large group celebrating someones 21st birthday. I felt really old. I just wanted to have a few beers and play some pool and these "kids" were hogging all the tables. They were also obnoxiously drunk and screaming the lyrics to every song. I thought...Wow, did we look like that when we were their age? Then I realised that we look like them now when we go out with our friends. The bartender informed us that the beer we were drinking was only $5 for a pitcher. Why not...we could handle a couple of pitchers. Finally, a table opened up and we went over to start playing. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that a group of youngins kept looking at me and talking amongst themselves. At first I thought maybe I was just being paranoid, but after a few more drinks I started to get pissed off. What the hell are they looking at? Just let one of those little bitches say something to me (Obviously, beer balls were in full effect). When my husband went to get us another pitcher, one of them started walking toward me while the others looked on. Oh, here we go...I'm too old for this shit. She walked up and said " I love your shirt, it's such a pretty color and it makes you look so tan!" Whew... "Oh, thank you honey" I replied. "I got it at Target for $10". They were young but I'm sure they were well aware of the unspoken rule of revealing the location of purchase as well as the price whenever complimented. Now at ease, I could drink and play a few more games. We had a great time. On the way back to the beach house we talked about taking a walk down to the beach. However, when I walked in I settled into a recliner and passed out. I have now added draft beer to my date night nemesis...Taco Bell.

Overall, we had a great time. The kids also learned some very valuable lessons. For example, beer goes in the blue cooler (B in B). Also, there is no distracting mommy and daddy while we are mini golfing. Little do they know we have naughty "wages" set in place for the winner. One day they may read this and realize why it was such serious business...then they will probably vomit.

Welcome To My Life

Whenever I talk to another parent I find myself saying this phrase all the time; "Welcome to my life". The common theme in these conversations tends to be how simple life used to be before children, yet we didn't realize at the time how good we had it. Now that my kids are home for the summer I really get to see how difficult the simplest tasks have become. Don't get me wrong, I love spending time with them. But it is amusing to me that my days are filled with trying to answer questions like: "Mommy, how do chicks get in the egg shells without cracking them?" or "How come it makes a bubble when I fart in the tub?" They are funny little guys filled with curiosity and I love them to death, but I can't help but reminisce about the days when the little things in life weren't such a chore. Here are some examples:

Using the telephone

Then: Pick up the phone, dial, talk, hang up. Simple.

Now: Pick up the phone, dial and start fielding an on slot of questions that can't possible wait until I am off the phone. "Mommy, mommy...ANSWER ME MOMMY" It's like they have some sort of sixth sense when it comes to my needing to make a phone call. No matter where they are or what they are doing they come running as soon as I dial and are not satisfied until I have asked the person I am speaking with to hold on for a second so I can beat them tell them to shut it through painfully clenched teeth. Wow, using the phone used to be so easy...

Using the bathroom

Then: Well this was never at any point in my life considered a luxury before now. Whenever I needed to go I went. Simple.

Now: Whenever I have to go to the bathroom I try to sneak away without getting caught. It never works. As soon as I close the door and sit down (if I make it that far) the knocking starts...."Mommy, what are you doing?"..."I'm using the bathroom"..."No, I mean are you pooping or peeing?"... "Never mind buddy, just let mommy have some private time". Apparently that translates to open the door and join me. I know what you're thinking, just lock the door, right? Well I would but unfortunately they both know how to pop the lock from the outside so it doesn't matter. Now here I am, sitting on the toilet with an audience. "So are you pooping or peeing?"... "Peeing, OK"..."Oh, how come you have to sit down to pee?"..."Well mommy can't stand up like you"..."Oh, did your pee-pee fall off?"..."No, just please leave so mommy can finish". Wow, using the bathroom used to be so easy...

Going to the store

Then: Walk in, leisurely browse, find what I need, pay, leave. Simple.

Now: Just knowing that I have to take them both in a store gives me heartburn. Every store has so many distractions for them that I feel like I am herding cattle all the way through. It seems like everything I need to get is at the back of the store and we have to walk thorough aisles filled with things they feel we need to have. "Hey mom, look at these light bulbs...we need light bulbs right?"..."No, now put that down and keep walking please."..."But look, there are some paint brushes over here...we need some right?"..."No, I just need one thing and I know where it is, please keep moving"..."But look, they have trash bags...do we need.." "NO...KEEP WALKING SO I CAN GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!" Then of course I get all the shocked looks from people passing by. I'm sure they are thinking that I need to have more patience. That's fine because I am thinking they should mind their own fucking business. Let me add that the person that decided to put all the snacks and little toys at the check out counter should be shot. Sure I can use them as a bribe to get them to behave. "If your good, you pick something at the check out". But lets face it, even if they haven't been good, I'll probably end up buying something for them anyway just to avoid the full blown tantrum that will ensue if I refuse. Wow, going to the store used to be so easy...

Going to the beach

Then: Roll out of bed around 10:00am, decide I should go the the beach, grab a towel, stop for an iced coffee, get on the beach, read Cosmo from cover to cover, flip, pass out for a few hours, go home. Simple.

Now: Packing must start the night before. This will include enough snacks to feed a small village, 20 juice boxes, a thousand toys, pails, shovels, and trucks, 4 types of sunscreen, an umbrella, and a chair for me that I probably won't get to sit in. An alarm has to be set to get up early and pack the cooler, car, and to slather them from head to toe in sunscreen. I also need to set aside some time to make them sit on the toilet and try to poop because if they have to go when we get there it will be a nightmare (I have never needed to worry about another person's bodily functions before now, I might add). We are on the road by 7:30am (I can't possibly sit in beach traffic with 2 kids and no AC). The day is spent stressing over them going too deep in the water, or getting knocked down by a wave. I have to reapply sunscreen every hour on the hour to avoid any burns. They eat constantly and fight with any child that attempts to touch their toys.  After all this "fun" I have to hose them off before putting them in my car because they have sand in every crevice of their body. Wow, going to the beach used to be so easy...

Even blogging has changed since my kids are out of school. I used to be able to write a little here and there while they were at school. Now, as soon as I get on the computer they are crawling all over me; "Whatcha doin?"..."Can you go to Nick Jr.?"..."Where is the letter S". I guess it's better than trying to blog while they are "busy". This usually means they are writing on something they shouldn't be, filling water balloons and dumping water all over my bathroom floor, or peeing in the tub instead of using the toilet. Ugh...my blogs may have to be shortened versions throughout the summer just to avoid disaster. Wait a minute...Shit! I have to go...they are somewhere being quiet!!