I don't discuss my belief in and relationship with God very much in this space. It's a personal choice from which I rarely veer away. I mostly like to keep things light hearted and funny. I've always enjoyed being a class clown and entertaining those around me with my jolly upbeat spin on life. I find the humor and joy in most things. Even in tough things and times I can usually find the silver lining, the "up side", the part that is "glass half full". Sometimes in life if you don't see the humor and laugh about it, then you'll cry.
But...I'm worn.
Maybe I need to let cry happen. Maybe? You see, I'm a fighter...I'm strong...I can get through this and whatever else lies ahead...and I'll do everything within me to help you get through it too. And if I struggle, I'll keep that between me, myself and I. I slap on a bright smile and a contagious giggle and laugh about the crappy hand of cards we've been dealt. No one likes a whiner, a complainer a naysayer, and I don't want to burden anyone else with my struggles. Crap storms happen in life...to everybody, and that's just the way it is. My armor against the world is fastened tightly and securely, and very, very few ever get through to see my tattered beat-up underpinnings.
I'm worn.
For the last three years, I've been in a revolving door of life heaping more and more on top of me. Every time I think I've got a handle on it life sucker punches us again. And somewhere in all of this pre-war, war, war injury, post-war, unemployment and subsequent salary slashing with uncertainty around every single corner I've lost my way...I've lost my joy...I've lost my will to fight...I've lost sight of God. I can't see Him anymore. I'm not sure where He is in all of this...and I'm "worn". Such a simple word but it encompasses all that I am and all that I feel right now.
I'm worn.
For three of my boys today, I ran to and from their designated venues 6 times. And in those 6 trips in my overly crowded van, I heard the song "Worn" by Tenth Avenue North three different times. Three full times on three different trips. I've never heard a song that spoke to me- or spoke from me- in such an honestly disturbing way. That song is directly from my tattered soul crying out to Jesus. I have no idea how five total strangers could so completely understand and relay thoughts, feelings and emotions that even I can't succinctly vocalize or explain.
I'm worn.
I sit here tonight in the quiet of my over-stuffed house with all 6 boys safely tucked into bed and listen to it over and over and over again with tears staining my mascara-ed lashes and trickling softly down my powdered cheeks. And even in the loneliness of my living room, I'm ashamed of my tears...because I should be stronger, tougher, better at handling adversity and change and challenges. I'm lost...and I can't seem to find the lighted path that leads me home. Where is my soft place to land? Where is our promise that things are actually going to work out for our family? Where is our God? I'm too beat down to cry out...I'm tired of fighting...and my soul yearns for rest.
I'm worn.
About Me
- Crystal
- I am a SAHM of 6 little dudes. My hubby's jobs require him to be away from home way more than I would like leaving me to fly solo more often than not. Since Dr. Phil won't return my calls, and Oprah has unfriended me, my therapy has now gone public! Here is where I go to receive cheap advice, reassurance and hopefully share some laughs. Honeslty, I'd love to make you laugh until you pee! So come, grab a cup of coffee (or vodka) and join in the conversation!
Friday, May 3, 2013
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Panty Raid
Often the least thought about item of our daily routine is our undergarments. They are rarely seen (at least they shouldn't be seen once you are a female of a certain age) or appreciated. The proper undergarment can lift, separate, smooth, hold, accentuate...pretty much anything you need an undergarment to do you can find one that will fit the bill. I'd like to argue that the undergarment should rank as on of the most important delicacies of which we adorn ourselves.
Men you can turn a blind eye to this matter. I'm sure you could care less who, what, when, where or why it is what it is...I'm most certain your only concern is how the garment comes off! Ladies, however, we need to discuss a very specific piece of our apparel that I think we glaze over on account of it being a slightly awkward discussion. Since I'm not one to shy away from awkward let's open the floor for a discussion about our panties. Prudes and granny panty wearers should probably not involve themselves in this discussion.
Let's first discuss the affinity with splitting the difference and our desire as women to floss our a$$ cracks with the many varieties of the thong. Don't be mistaken, I'm an avid believer in the necessity of a thong...it's vital to our wardrobe even if it isn't always the most comfortable option in our lingerie drawer..especially once you've popped a couple kids through your tunnel. Panty lines can be most certainly avoided when a chica encases her lady bits with this teeny-tiny slingshots...or torture devices. Sometimes a man just wants to see the juicy curves of a woman's badonkadonk without the extra fabric of actual underwear interfering (this thought is coming from Lt Hubby...I may have expounded a little and fluffed it up some. His actual response was more barbaric including a wink, sexy eyes, and an inappropriate innuendo.) Use this information to your advantage!
Unfortunately, it is not as simple as it may sound to find a proper thong, however. Since it will be keeping close quarters with some important areas of your human anatomy, make no mistake that you will want to pick your fabric, fit and design carefully. Pinching, pulling or chafing are not appreciated by the cooch! If you are a thong virgin, though, I must leave you with a warning...do NOT wear these to bed unless you are hoping and willing to receive some groping from your man. For some reason, they think the thong is an invitation for their "presence"...as if it is a beacon calling them home! It just doesn't provide enough defense to impede advancement and accessibility, but if that's your goal by all means thong it up!
One of my most favorite styles of undies would be the cheeky variety. I've found these to be quite comfortable but not always practical in avoiding that panty line. And occasionally, depending upon the cut of them, one may suffer from a wedgie. Avoid the temptation to adjust one of these if you are in public! One must also make sure there is proper support and not too high of a cut for your girly parts. You'll know what I mean if you've ever found yourself with the misfortune of some overhang...kind of like when a dude needs to adjust a nut...sometimes girls' parts "get out of line" as well. Ours, however, are much harder to adjust. In channeling Larry the Cucumber (from Veggie Tales), "I love my lips" and if they're happy, then I'm happy!
Of course one of your Go-To items needs to be a bikini or brief. Some days our lady bits just simply don't feel the need to impress anybody...everybody needs a day off occasionally and why should we overlook the vajayjay. The brief is a perfect accessory for a laundry or cleaning day. These might also be used during workouts. This one is more of a personal preference., but I've learned since competing at hurdles that having "things" slip out of position can lead to unfortunate wardrobe malfunctions. Proper undergarments for exercise, workouts or sports is not just an option, it's a necessity. And nobody wants to see a "slip of a lip" in yoga or kickboxing class! Keep that business under wraps.
I think it's safe to say that out options are vast and wide but make the wrong choice, and your day could be ruined. Invest in some quality panties and let your lips do the talking!
Men you can turn a blind eye to this matter. I'm sure you could care less who, what, when, where or why it is what it is...I'm most certain your only concern is how the garment comes off! Ladies, however, we need to discuss a very specific piece of our apparel that I think we glaze over on account of it being a slightly awkward discussion. Since I'm not one to shy away from awkward let's open the floor for a discussion about our panties. Prudes and granny panty wearers should probably not involve themselves in this discussion.
Let's first discuss the affinity with splitting the difference and our desire as women to floss our a$$ cracks with the many varieties of the thong. Don't be mistaken, I'm an avid believer in the necessity of a thong...it's vital to our wardrobe even if it isn't always the most comfortable option in our lingerie drawer..especially once you've popped a couple kids through your tunnel. Panty lines can be most certainly avoided when a chica encases her lady bits with this teeny-tiny slingshots...or torture devices. Sometimes a man just wants to see the juicy curves of a woman's badonkadonk without the extra fabric of actual underwear interfering (this thought is coming from Lt Hubby...I may have expounded a little and fluffed it up some. His actual response was more barbaric including a wink, sexy eyes, and an inappropriate innuendo.) Use this information to your advantage!
Unfortunately, it is not as simple as it may sound to find a proper thong, however. Since it will be keeping close quarters with some important areas of your human anatomy, make no mistake that you will want to pick your fabric, fit and design carefully. Pinching, pulling or chafing are not appreciated by the cooch! If you are a thong virgin, though, I must leave you with a warning...do NOT wear these to bed unless you are hoping and willing to receive some groping from your man. For some reason, they think the thong is an invitation for their "presence"...as if it is a beacon calling them home! It just doesn't provide enough defense to impede advancement and accessibility, but if that's your goal by all means thong it up!
One of my most favorite styles of undies would be the cheeky variety. I've found these to be quite comfortable but not always practical in avoiding that panty line. And occasionally, depending upon the cut of them, one may suffer from a wedgie. Avoid the temptation to adjust one of these if you are in public! One must also make sure there is proper support and not too high of a cut for your girly parts. You'll know what I mean if you've ever found yourself with the misfortune of some overhang...kind of like when a dude needs to adjust a nut...sometimes girls' parts "get out of line" as well. Ours, however, are much harder to adjust. In channeling Larry the Cucumber (from Veggie Tales), "I love my lips" and if they're happy, then I'm happy!
Of course one of your Go-To items needs to be a bikini or brief. Some days our lady bits just simply don't feel the need to impress anybody...everybody needs a day off occasionally and why should we overlook the vajayjay. The brief is a perfect accessory for a laundry or cleaning day. These might also be used during workouts. This one is more of a personal preference., but I've learned since competing at hurdles that having "things" slip out of position can lead to unfortunate wardrobe malfunctions. Proper undergarments for exercise, workouts or sports is not just an option, it's a necessity. And nobody wants to see a "slip of a lip" in yoga or kickboxing class! Keep that business under wraps.
I think it's safe to say that out options are vast and wide but make the wrong choice, and your day could be ruined. Invest in some quality panties and let your lips do the talking!
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
I've Got The Moves Like Jagger
Getting back into previously worn skinny jeans either post baby or post workout-boycott is never an easy task. Very few exercise programs have proven to be able to hold my attention for the duration of actually achieving the skinny-jeans-and-booty-shorts physique I desire. My arsenal of workout tapes, programs, and equipment reveal much about my insecurities about my physical appearance. It also proves that I am a sucker for an infomercial...I beleive every claim, however silly or crazy it may be. Nonetheless, I want any and all workout routines, programs, machines and the like. Variety is the key to life, right? Lt Hubby claims that I am simply obsessed...I'd actually like to think that I'm an avid believer in health and wellness and appreciate having a vast variety of options at my disposal...or I have a slight disorder. Whatever. Potatoe, potahto.
Since Lt Hubby insists on censoring and monitoring my purchasing power when it comes to (everything!) exercise paraphernalia, I have many options taking up residence on my "to purchase one day" list. Until money starts falling out of my butt (or I start roaming our streets at night adorned in my stripper heels), I am forced to request my desires for birthday and Christmas gifts. One such request resulted in me being the proud owner of the Zumba workout program! I was so excited! I was convinced that after successfully completing this program, I would indeed resemble one of those saucy Zumba workout chicas (as a side note, this is how every single infomercial sucks me in. I am always convinced that I am going to look like on of those sex kittens flaunting their stuff in the ad.)
Not everything in my head, however, plays out like I envisioned. I've never been one that has possessed a strong musicality when it comes to body movement in conjunction with intentional dance. But it's not for a lack of trying! I desperately want to display grace in movement, rhythm, and sexy on-trend dances. What plays out in my brain, however, doesn't translate to my hips...or feet...or general body movements. Don't get me wrong, I can race to the death, beat down a punching bag, and hold my own in a push-up and pull-up challenge. But I can't "shake my groove thing" in an intentionally sexy way. Think Elaine from Seinfeld....that's the image I create...so perfectly wrong and awkward that it almost looks right in a weirdly, off-beat and uncoordinated kind of way. Yep...that's exactly what I look like...a blonde haired Elaine-dancing fool. And I foolishly thought I looked somewhat ok until my overly honest minion informed me otherwise. Devastating? Yes! Embarrassing? Obviously! Not only was my ego scarred so were the eyes of my unsuspecting boys as they unknowinglymoseyed down the stairs. I'm sure the image of their mother trying to Reggaeton, Salsa, and Merengue was burned into their brains for evermore! These hips weren't made for dancing!
So until I can finally figure out how to translate movement that's in my head to the rest of my body, I will keep my dancing to the confines of my basement and only when there is no other person in the house. As long as I'm blissfully unaware of (and no one witnesses) my inability to perform the correct moves, I think I should continue to shake my groove thang as best as I can. Unless there's an uber sexy, hot dancer out there that wants to volunteer his time in helping me get my hips in sync...I'm probably on my own.
Monday, April 29, 2013
Penis Envy
Wake up! There's no better way to greet a Monday morning than with coffee in hand and a little penis talk (Not "little" penis talk...but a little talking about penis. I just felt as if I should clarify before anyone made any rash judgments about the 7 dudes living in my kingdom! Are we good? Ok...carry on.) I think I should be able to be classified as a professional in this area by now. In this house, penis is what makes the world go 'round. I'm surrounded by them morning, noon, and night. It's nary a moment when I get to bask in a penis break...a pause...a minuscule moment when it is not the center of attention.
The male species has an intriguing fascination with their manhood. Even today after 14 1/2 years of being a dude mom and shacking up with the original dude's dad, I'm amazed at how important the penis actually is...to them! I could honestly (most of the time...a woman's gotta get hers too, ya know!) care less. I'd postulate that at almost any given moment I am NOT thinking about or touching a penis. The boys in this 'hood can't claim any such statement. And I dare say, that all males are created equal. And by equal I of course mean...obsessed with the penis!
It would be quite the sight if I adjusted my yanna benini as much as a male counterpart. I'm pretty sure my lady posse would unfriend me quicker than you can say, "she must have cooter cooties!". It's simply not acceptable for the female variety to check, adjust, manipulate or otherwise "fondle" one's self in the same way that the human male does. I'm not even sure I want to throw a double standard card because I have zero desire to check my lady parts. However, I will grant one side bar...sometimes lady parts do require "attention" due to some unfortunate issues that I can only guess are similar to jock itch. Regardless of the discomfort, though, a lady does not address such issues in public. We simple squeeze some things or adjust our stance hoping that "the seven year itch" will resolve on its own.
With all of that said, I would like to humbly admit that I often suffer from penis envy. Shameful indeed, but let me first make my argument before my lady peers "castrate" me. I can already hear the angry crowd chanting, "Boys have a penis! Girls have a vagina!", but please hear me out. I will open my argument with the "Getting Ready for the Day" scenario. The males in my home have very little requirements to greeting the day without odor, clothed and with a smile. I would like to lead with the "shit, shower, and shave" principle...that's all they have to do! If we are going somewhere "fancy" they simply swap t-shirt for collared shirt, adorn the same jeans and sneakers and head out the door to cram themselves into our (what can only be referred to as) clown car and wait for mama bear to make an entrance.
As any other female is already aware, our process of getting ready to leave the house (let's assume we have a goal of looking and smelling bathed and wearing something other than yoga pants.) is a much longer process. Showering isn't simply showering. It requires multi-step hair care, exfoliating, shaving and skin care regime. At this point I'm not even almost complete. Next is lotioning and perfuming and more skin care steps and of course the hair is going to require some attention. I'm only lotioned and smelling good at this juncture and most assuredly still naked! The attire hunt is profoundly more challenging as everything is taken into consideration...sitting or standing; will I be bending to pick up kids or kneeling on the ground; do I get to stand and just be arm candy; will their be a rogue child chase; are we going to be inside or outside; what's the wind/rain expectancy; am I bloated today; do I feel like sucking anything in for extended periods of time. The list goes on and on from top, bottoms, accessories, shoes. I'm exhausted before we leave the house...all the while my crew of 7 dudes are calmly waiting for me to finally exit the work room. And when finally I do make my grand entrance, if none of my dude posse comment on how fabulous I look my entire selection from top to bottom must be reevaluated. For the love of penis! I just want to be able to shit, shower, shave and show up!!
Honestly, I don't even think I have the energy to expound upon my second or third points which were "Getting ready to go to bed" and "Hoochifying oneself for sex". I think you all see where I am heading with my argument.
So ladies of the jury...what say you? To penis or not to penis?
The male species has an intriguing fascination with their manhood. Even today after 14 1/2 years of being a dude mom and shacking up with the original dude's dad, I'm amazed at how important the penis actually is...to them! I could honestly (most of the time...a woman's gotta get hers too, ya know!) care less. I'd postulate that at almost any given moment I am NOT thinking about or touching a penis. The boys in this 'hood can't claim any such statement. And I dare say, that all males are created equal. And by equal I of course mean...obsessed with the penis!
It would be quite the sight if I adjusted my yanna benini as much as a male counterpart. I'm pretty sure my lady posse would unfriend me quicker than you can say, "she must have cooter cooties!". It's simply not acceptable for the female variety to check, adjust, manipulate or otherwise "fondle" one's self in the same way that the human male does. I'm not even sure I want to throw a double standard card because I have zero desire to check my lady parts. However, I will grant one side bar...sometimes lady parts do require "attention" due to some unfortunate issues that I can only guess are similar to jock itch. Regardless of the discomfort, though, a lady does not address such issues in public. We simple squeeze some things or adjust our stance hoping that "the seven year itch" will resolve on its own.
With all of that said, I would like to humbly admit that I often suffer from penis envy. Shameful indeed, but let me first make my argument before my lady peers "castrate" me. I can already hear the angry crowd chanting, "Boys have a penis! Girls have a vagina!", but please hear me out. I will open my argument with the "Getting Ready for the Day" scenario. The males in my home have very little requirements to greeting the day without odor, clothed and with a smile. I would like to lead with the "shit, shower, and shave" principle...that's all they have to do! If we are going somewhere "fancy" they simply swap t-shirt for collared shirt, adorn the same jeans and sneakers and head out the door to cram themselves into our (what can only be referred to as) clown car and wait for mama bear to make an entrance.
As any other female is already aware, our process of getting ready to leave the house (let's assume we have a goal of looking and smelling bathed and wearing something other than yoga pants.) is a much longer process. Showering isn't simply showering. It requires multi-step hair care, exfoliating, shaving and skin care regime. At this point I'm not even almost complete. Next is lotioning and perfuming and more skin care steps and of course the hair is going to require some attention. I'm only lotioned and smelling good at this juncture and most assuredly still naked! The attire hunt is profoundly more challenging as everything is taken into consideration...sitting or standing; will I be bending to pick up kids or kneeling on the ground; do I get to stand and just be arm candy; will their be a rogue child chase; are we going to be inside or outside; what's the wind/rain expectancy; am I bloated today; do I feel like sucking anything in for extended periods of time. The list goes on and on from top, bottoms, accessories, shoes. I'm exhausted before we leave the house...all the while my crew of 7 dudes are calmly waiting for me to finally exit the work room. And when finally I do make my grand entrance, if none of my dude posse comment on how fabulous I look my entire selection from top to bottom must be reevaluated. For the love of penis! I just want to be able to shit, shower, shave and show up!!
Honestly, I don't even think I have the energy to expound upon my second or third points which were "Getting ready to go to bed" and "Hoochifying oneself for sex". I think you all see where I am heading with my argument.
So ladies of the jury...what say you? To penis or not to penis?
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
My Lady Bumps
Not many women out there are in love with all of their lady parts, bumps, curves and the sort. However, before one can loath and complain about her curvaceous "lady bumps"...one must have some to begin with. Don't get me wrong; I used to have some rather enviable lady bumps pre motherhood. But since embarking on this never ending journey and labor of love, my "lady bumps" leave something to be desired. As a side not...some of my bumps aren't horrendous. My derriere isn't perfect...but it isn't stop-traffic scary by any means (I'm an avid believer in squats and lunges. If I don't squeeze it, who else will?!) My "lady bumps" north of derriere-ville, however, could use some much needed medical intervention. There isn't a workout that exists on google that is going to perk up Lady TaTas to resemble their glory of yesteryear!
Where once a "C" cup I did envelope, I am now longing to fulfill the glory of the "A" which seems to be no match for my dwindled, less-than-A-worthy ladies. I need to regress back to the likes of a trainer...training bra, that is (as a side note, I completely don't understand the purpose of the training bra. For what, pray tell, are we training them? You either strap those bad boys in a harness or you don't. No training, prerequisites, or prep courses needed.) This may be the only time in my life I've longed to say "I have a C". Hell, after going this long in A-dom, I'd take a couple D's! These soldiers don't even solute Lt Hubby anymore. It's sad...I know. Where once they stared him directly in the eye, now they hang their head in shame. I only don a bra daily out of shear formality. Well...and honestly, I'm trying desperately to bring them front and center so they can attempt to hold someones attention...anyones attention!
Don't get me wrong. Becoming a mama brings lots and lots of new experiences, joys, and blessings...but I've learned that it's tit for tat, people! And I think we all know what "tit" to which I'm referring?! I nursed the first 5 dudes (remember #6 was gifted to us for a very hefty price and hence my ta-tas got to retire...thank God.), and it never fails that I am left in complete disappointment when I reclaim my boobs as my own. After every dude, I'm left with less boobage than where I started. What the hell is that about? Just an observation that if I have to lose a whole cup size with every child...then Lt Hubby (and every other man) should have to suffer from size shrinkage as well. I think any deflated, once-had-perky-voluptuous-boobs woman is going to agree with me. Tit for tat should apply in this scenario. No man would ever want more than one kiddo after he suffered the same fate that my "lady bumps" have had to incur. To hell with wishing men had to suffer the same pain experienced throughout pregnancy and childbirth (and post childbirth...ouch!). They need to be hit where it really hurts...and not being able to fill out your once over-flowing boxers would be a very good lesson in experiencing the shoe on the other foot. The main flaw with this theory, however, is that it would just be punishing the lady anyway (Oh come on! You were thinking it too! Don't get all high and mighty with me.)
So I'm left with expensive push-up bras, enhancers, and any other contraption claiming to "add a full cup size". Could it add two...or maybe three? I digress. Until I hit the lottery or all of the dudes are out of the house and we finally have expendable cash, I won't be able to reward myself with my much needed new boobs. I know...it's sad for me too. I even think that if Lt Hubby was being honest, he would say it saddens him as well. Hell! When I wear my sports bra, I could be mistaken for a dude! It's that bad people. I'm sure my 14 year old's pecks are bigger than what I'm sportin'. I guess when I'm 70 I'll finally be able to treat myself to some amazing "lady bumps". I'll be the hottest Granny around! I may be senile and arthritic...but my boobs are going salute every perverted old fart in the "old folks home"!!
Where once a "C" cup I did envelope, I am now longing to fulfill the glory of the "A" which seems to be no match for my dwindled, less-than-A-worthy ladies. I need to regress back to the likes of a trainer...training bra, that is (as a side note, I completely don't understand the purpose of the training bra. For what, pray tell, are we training them? You either strap those bad boys in a harness or you don't. No training, prerequisites, or prep courses needed.) This may be the only time in my life I've longed to say "I have a C". Hell, after going this long in A-dom, I'd take a couple D's! These soldiers don't even solute Lt Hubby anymore. It's sad...I know. Where once they stared him directly in the eye, now they hang their head in shame. I only don a bra daily out of shear formality. Well...and honestly, I'm trying desperately to bring them front and center so they can attempt to hold someones attention...anyones attention!
Don't get me wrong. Becoming a mama brings lots and lots of new experiences, joys, and blessings...but I've learned that it's tit for tat, people! And I think we all know what "tit" to which I'm referring?! I nursed the first 5 dudes (remember #6 was gifted to us for a very hefty price and hence my ta-tas got to retire...thank God.), and it never fails that I am left in complete disappointment when I reclaim my boobs as my own. After every dude, I'm left with less boobage than where I started. What the hell is that about? Just an observation that if I have to lose a whole cup size with every child...then Lt Hubby (and every other man) should have to suffer from size shrinkage as well. I think any deflated, once-had-perky-voluptuous-boobs woman is going to agree with me. Tit for tat should apply in this scenario. No man would ever want more than one kiddo after he suffered the same fate that my "lady bumps" have had to incur. To hell with wishing men had to suffer the same pain experienced throughout pregnancy and childbirth (and post childbirth...ouch!). They need to be hit where it really hurts...and not being able to fill out your once over-flowing boxers would be a very good lesson in experiencing the shoe on the other foot. The main flaw with this theory, however, is that it would just be punishing the lady anyway (Oh come on! You were thinking it too! Don't get all high and mighty with me.)
So I'm left with expensive push-up bras, enhancers, and any other contraption claiming to "add a full cup size". Could it add two...or maybe three? I digress. Until I hit the lottery or all of the dudes are out of the house and we finally have expendable cash, I won't be able to reward myself with my much needed new boobs. I know...it's sad for me too. I even think that if Lt Hubby was being honest, he would say it saddens him as well. Hell! When I wear my sports bra, I could be mistaken for a dude! It's that bad people. I'm sure my 14 year old's pecks are bigger than what I'm sportin'. I guess when I'm 70 I'll finally be able to treat myself to some amazing "lady bumps". I'll be the hottest Granny around! I may be senile and arthritic...but my boobs are going salute every perverted old fart in the "old folks home"!!
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Watcha Talkin Bout Willis?!
I became a mama at a young-ish age. I say "ish" because it's only perceived as young to our generation. Women are having babies well into their 40's, and most women are not starting to think about having babes until they are established and in their 30's. However, if you look at only a generation ago, women were starting their families right out of high school. Many women of that previous generation were done having their 2, 3, or 4 kiddos by the age that many women of our current generation are barely getting started. I only point out this very boring fact because I'm upset with people's perception of what a mama of a teenager should look like.
I, myself, have a 14 year old trying-to-be-a-man boy, and occasionally I'm with him in public. I am, after all, his mother! I'm allowed to drive him places and require his presence during outings that I may need his assistance or company. He isn't an early developing dude; doesn't look older than his age. I would say, without question, that he looks like a young teenage boy. As for myself, I would like to think (hope) that I look young for my age....I spend enough money on anti-aging products, after all, and to some affect they better be doing their claimed job. With that said, I still look like a woman of a mothering age...even one that could have a child of 14.
I am making this point because lately it has come to both my son's and my attention that when we are out in public together some people give us really weird...even mean and angry...looks. Weird right? Apparently no. It happens quite frequently, and my oldest and I both have come to the conclusion that some people...ARE PERVERTS! I am NOT a cougar and this BOY is my SON! You freaks!! Anytime I leave with just my oldest or with the oldest and the baby, the looks we get from strangers are ridiculous! I've even received the scoff from women assuming I must be "with" this teenager. Seriously?! PERVERT!!! That's beyond disgusting. I'm 30(ish) and more than old enough to be this young man's mama, and I'm allowed to go out in public with him.
If it were a one time thing, I think I would quietly let it pass as a case of stupidity, but it seems to happen quite frequently. It truly boggles my mind. First of all, I'm not old enough to be a cougar! Secondly, I bear the scars of being his mama so back off! Thirdly, I'm happily married to a man of normal age (ok...you might have me on this one. I did marry a man slightly younger than me. But that just makes me smarter and wiser than him anyway.)! What gets me the most though is that these idiots actually think it's possible. The very thought is gross. Shame on you perverted scoffing stranger!
I normally don't get all feisty and vocal about things, but since this seems to happen anytime I go into a store or restaurant with my oldest son I felt I needed to make it perfectly clear that we've become a society of judgmental people. Your assumptions, sadly, have affected my behaviors. Now I second guess myself and reconsider asking him to accompany me somewhere even though I enjoy that time with him. Getting that one-on-one time with my teenager is precious. I like to take my sons on "dates"...even if they are only to get icees at the nearby gas station. But I am a little worried to go on one of my "dates" with my teenager...even though he asks when it is his turn quite often. Can you imagine the judgements that would be cast our way at the theater (which is, by far, his favorite mom-Ty date night)?!
You see, these are precious times for not only me but for my boys as well. With many kiddos on my heels, the tiny alone moments that I get with each one is priceless and far too few...and I cherish them. And you, you judgemental, know-it-all, assuming stranger that pushes your idiocy onto myself and my son...you deserve a tongue lashing. We leave the establishment feeling as if we did something wrong. My son will say "mom" countless loud times so anyone near can hear. You have left him feeling embarrassed. Instead of applauding the idea of a busy-mom-of-6 and a pulling-away teen spending time together (even if it is just getting groceries), you steal the joy of the moment with your own incorrect (disgusting, I might add) assumptions.
So I return your tsk tsks and exasperated scoffs and leave you with a "shame on you".
I, myself, have a 14 year old trying-to-be-a-man boy, and occasionally I'm with him in public. I am, after all, his mother! I'm allowed to drive him places and require his presence during outings that I may need his assistance or company. He isn't an early developing dude; doesn't look older than his age. I would say, without question, that he looks like a young teenage boy. As for myself, I would like to think (hope) that I look young for my age....I spend enough money on anti-aging products, after all, and to some affect they better be doing their claimed job. With that said, I still look like a woman of a mothering age...even one that could have a child of 14.
I am making this point because lately it has come to both my son's and my attention that when we are out in public together some people give us really weird...even mean and angry...looks. Weird right? Apparently no. It happens quite frequently, and my oldest and I both have come to the conclusion that some people...ARE PERVERTS! I am NOT a cougar and this BOY is my SON! You freaks!! Anytime I leave with just my oldest or with the oldest and the baby, the looks we get from strangers are ridiculous! I've even received the scoff from women assuming I must be "with" this teenager. Seriously?! PERVERT!!! That's beyond disgusting. I'm 30(ish) and more than old enough to be this young man's mama, and I'm allowed to go out in public with him.
If it were a one time thing, I think I would quietly let it pass as a case of stupidity, but it seems to happen quite frequently. It truly boggles my mind. First of all, I'm not old enough to be a cougar! Secondly, I bear the scars of being his mama so back off! Thirdly, I'm happily married to a man of normal age (ok...you might have me on this one. I did marry a man slightly younger than me. But that just makes me smarter and wiser than him anyway.)! What gets me the most though is that these idiots actually think it's possible. The very thought is gross. Shame on you perverted scoffing stranger!
I normally don't get all feisty and vocal about things, but since this seems to happen anytime I go into a store or restaurant with my oldest son I felt I needed to make it perfectly clear that we've become a society of judgmental people. Your assumptions, sadly, have affected my behaviors. Now I second guess myself and reconsider asking him to accompany me somewhere even though I enjoy that time with him. Getting that one-on-one time with my teenager is precious. I like to take my sons on "dates"...even if they are only to get icees at the nearby gas station. But I am a little worried to go on one of my "dates" with my teenager...even though he asks when it is his turn quite often. Can you imagine the judgements that would be cast our way at the theater (which is, by far, his favorite mom-Ty date night)?!
You see, these are precious times for not only me but for my boys as well. With many kiddos on my heels, the tiny alone moments that I get with each one is priceless and far too few...and I cherish them. And you, you judgemental, know-it-all, assuming stranger that pushes your idiocy onto myself and my son...you deserve a tongue lashing. We leave the establishment feeling as if we did something wrong. My son will say "mom" countless loud times so anyone near can hear. You have left him feeling embarrassed. Instead of applauding the idea of a busy-mom-of-6 and a pulling-away teen spending time together (even if it is just getting groceries), you steal the joy of the moment with your own incorrect (disgusting, I might add) assumptions.
So I return your tsk tsks and exasperated scoffs and leave you with a "shame on you".
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
I'm A Survivior
I'm in a funk...or maybe, I'm just in a phase...or a season of life...or a rut. Maybe I don't need to label it to know that I'm stuck. "Survival mode" has been my life's theme for about three years now. It's consisted of pre-deployment survival, deployment survival, and post-deployment survival. Hopefully, the post-deployment survival is nearing an end. There is a slight possibility that the uncertain limbo that we've been suspended in may be nearing an end which is good since I fear it is taxing my health. I swear my heart has aged...I can feel it. Add on top of our limbo, uncertainty, and unemployment (hey, thanks for that Uncle Sam), the decision to adopt a little dude to our already crazy lives. As the saying goes, "the best laid plans of mice and men", it has proven to be true. We've naively entered into an arena we knew little (more accurately nothing) about. And just as much as things don't always go as planned, people will disappoint, go back on their word, and let you down. I guess "to error is human" or more precisely we are a fallen race and to be a sinner is easier than to be a saint. Nonetheless, I've been bound, gagged and forced to dwell in the realm of survival for longer than I had bargained.
Quite frankly, I'm tired of surviving...of just getting through the day...of wishing we were a couple years down the road just so I can dream of an easier, less stressful, more joyful time. A realist may say that I'm wallowing or simply sulking in my own pity party...and there may be some very real truth to that. I've felt like a victim...a victim of the government, of the military, of higher ranking officers who don't give a damn, of budget cuts that are personal, of double talkers and back stabbers. And I'm really tired. I miss waking up and enjoying...enjoying my kids, enjoying my husband, enjoying the day, enjoying life...enjoying being a mama and a wife. Stress and uncertainty (and a twinge of sleep deprivation) has left me in a cloudy daze...one that I am desperate through which to find my way.
Fear has a tendency to cripple and paralyze, and indeed it has made me its prey. It's hard to trust that "things will work themselves out" or "everything will be ok" or "God has a plan" when a family is faced with such scary realities. But we've persevered...as best we can, though I must admit the past three years have left more than bumps and bruises in its wake. However, I still feel that "one day at a time" is hanging over my head and not in an uplifting way. I've lost...joy. And I need to seek it out and grab onto it. I don't want to "just get through the day" hoping that tomorrow will be easier. I want to wake up knowing that each day is precious and that my kids' moments are fleeting. They grow and change and mature every day...and I may be missing it in my quest to survive.
I long for days when I can participate in girls' nights and weekend getaways with friends; days when I can join in the fun with friends because I am constantly feeling left out; moments when I can actually enjoy the companionship of my husband. And in the same breath I know that when those moments are finally here it will be because I am no longer needed...needed by the very little boys that I'm trying so desperately to survive and "just get through". I know in the depths of my soul that these crazy, sleepless, busy moments with my 6 soon-to-be men are the ones to which I need to cling and hold onto desperately. Some day I will wake unassisted after a night of sleep; I won't need to sweep the floor for the third time; I will have endless hours to clean and re-clean a house that didn't really get dirty; laundry won't call my name constantly...but neither will the innocent voice of a little child. Days that seem overwhelming now will be surely missed as my children grow and mature and need me less and less. So even though there seems to be no way out of the survival mode that I am in, maybe it's ok...maybe that's where I'm planted for the moment...maybe it's time for me to grow all the while being still and soaking in these moments that are all-too-quickly going to be only memories.
Maybe...maybe today I'll try to focus on stopping "to smell the roses"...or more accurately the stink weed! I DO have 6 boys!
Quite frankly, I'm tired of surviving...of just getting through the day...of wishing we were a couple years down the road just so I can dream of an easier, less stressful, more joyful time. A realist may say that I'm wallowing or simply sulking in my own pity party...and there may be some very real truth to that. I've felt like a victim...a victim of the government, of the military, of higher ranking officers who don't give a damn, of budget cuts that are personal, of double talkers and back stabbers. And I'm really tired. I miss waking up and enjoying...enjoying my kids, enjoying my husband, enjoying the day, enjoying life...enjoying being a mama and a wife. Stress and uncertainty (and a twinge of sleep deprivation) has left me in a cloudy daze...one that I am desperate through which to find my way.
Fear has a tendency to cripple and paralyze, and indeed it has made me its prey. It's hard to trust that "things will work themselves out" or "everything will be ok" or "God has a plan" when a family is faced with such scary realities. But we've persevered...as best we can, though I must admit the past three years have left more than bumps and bruises in its wake. However, I still feel that "one day at a time" is hanging over my head and not in an uplifting way. I've lost...joy. And I need to seek it out and grab onto it. I don't want to "just get through the day" hoping that tomorrow will be easier. I want to wake up knowing that each day is precious and that my kids' moments are fleeting. They grow and change and mature every day...and I may be missing it in my quest to survive.
I long for days when I can participate in girls' nights and weekend getaways with friends; days when I can join in the fun with friends because I am constantly feeling left out; moments when I can actually enjoy the companionship of my husband. And in the same breath I know that when those moments are finally here it will be because I am no longer needed...needed by the very little boys that I'm trying so desperately to survive and "just get through". I know in the depths of my soul that these crazy, sleepless, busy moments with my 6 soon-to-be men are the ones to which I need to cling and hold onto desperately. Some day I will wake unassisted after a night of sleep; I won't need to sweep the floor for the third time; I will have endless hours to clean and re-clean a house that didn't really get dirty; laundry won't call my name constantly...but neither will the innocent voice of a little child. Days that seem overwhelming now will be surely missed as my children grow and mature and need me less and less. So even though there seems to be no way out of the survival mode that I am in, maybe it's ok...maybe that's where I'm planted for the moment...maybe it's time for me to grow all the while being still and soaking in these moments that are all-too-quickly going to be only memories.
Maybe...maybe today I'll try to focus on stopping "to smell the roses"...or more accurately the stink weed! I DO have 6 boys!
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Don't Forget Your Safe Word
Every day my house gets a little bit smaller; the walls close in a little more; there is less and less "free" space for anyone to steal a moment of alone time. Eight of us live in this house designed for a much smaller family, and what once was my only corner in this testosterone-filled world is now the dwelling place of baby #6. I've been kicked out of my own room, my sanctuary, my place of peace at the end of a boy-filled day...and I don't like it...not one teeny tiny bit!
Eventually, of course, he will be big enough to share a room with boy #5. But at this stage of the getting-baby-to-sleep-through-the-night game, the only thing worse than 1 baby awake at night...is 2 babies awake at night! So baby #6 resides with mom and dad in the only space designated as strictly "theirs" for the sake of letting kiddo #5 "sleep like a baby". Just like that I've been pushed out. Oh don't get me wrong, my bed (and all of my makeup and clothes) are still in "mom's bedroom", but so is little man's crib...2 feet from where I attempt to rest my head at night! Seriously, 2 feet! I could stick my leg out of the covers and touch T6!
I get dressed (and undressed) as quietly as I can in the dark, makeup is left to a minimum, and I never get to do my hair. The only girl-space left in the house was taken from me...ruthlessly! Not only was my girl time and space taken, but he has successfully taken my hope for sleep. It's been years since I've laid my head on a pillow at night and didn't wake until the new day dawns...I'd kill to "bump my head on the bed and not wake up until morning"...stupid, selfish old man rubbing his sleep in my face. It's making me bitter, friends.
Every grunt, groan, sigh, snort, whine and wiggle are detected with my cursed mom ears. I fear I may never have another good night's sleep again! I've been reduced to tip toeing in and out for fear of waking the little sleeping monster. No pillow talk allowed, either. We now use our own form of sign language to communicate to each other...only sometimes my signs get lost in translation and occasionally I have to tell Lt Hubby that he's #1 when his signs are becoming a little too Mr. Bossy Pants. And with all of this tip toeing, sign language and bossy whispering you can guess what no longer is allowed in the new nursery! Yep...no hanky panky; no trying out a toy or two; no surprise red teddy and heels! Nothing! We're too afraid of waking our ruler (plus...ew)!
This sleeping arrangement blows...actually no it doesn't...it's now a "No Blow Zone"! We've been ousted. The dudes have finally taken over. The only place I can fathom any alone time with Lt Hubby would be the back of the mini van in the garage. But who's kidding who...we aren't as young as we once were, and that sh!t hurts! I'm a queen, dang it! And occasionally I'd like to NOT sneak around like horny teenagers (anymore). The storage room is full of junk, the closet is full of clothes (and I really have some clothes that I like. I don't want "that" happening on my treasures.) The laundry room is itty bitty...and Lt Hubby has a war injury...he'd never survive the task. Where, pray tell, are we to exercise our marital rights!?! God says "be fruitful and multiply"...well, we did our part, and now we should at least get to enjoy the "benefits" of being married simply for the sake of "benefiting" someone! I've paid my dues and Lt Hubby and I have some serious lost time to make up!
For now, we tiptoe in and out or our room, stealthily put on our pj's and quietly sneak into bed. The most fun we have in there now is playing "Guess the Plot", and no it's not nearly as much fun as what you're thinking. Normally we watch TV in bed...and that's all we get to do now. Just watch! No sound! We channel flip, hoping to find something interesting to "watch" and then guess what is actually going on. Sad! Sad, I tell you!! No sex. No TV. No sleep. This must be eternal damnation or the seventh circle of hell...either way it's a good thing our procreating days are a thing of the past because neither of us are gettin' or givin' any. Whoever said "this too shall pass" can kiss my child-induced chastity belt!
Eventually, of course, he will be big enough to share a room with boy #5. But at this stage of the getting-baby-to-sleep-through-the-night game, the only thing worse than 1 baby awake at night...is 2 babies awake at night! So baby #6 resides with mom and dad in the only space designated as strictly "theirs" for the sake of letting kiddo #5 "sleep like a baby". Just like that I've been pushed out. Oh don't get me wrong, my bed (and all of my makeup and clothes) are still in "mom's bedroom", but so is little man's crib...2 feet from where I attempt to rest my head at night! Seriously, 2 feet! I could stick my leg out of the covers and touch T6!
I get dressed (and undressed) as quietly as I can in the dark, makeup is left to a minimum, and I never get to do my hair. The only girl-space left in the house was taken from me...ruthlessly! Not only was my girl time and space taken, but he has successfully taken my hope for sleep. It's been years since I've laid my head on a pillow at night and didn't wake until the new day dawns...I'd kill to "bump my head on the bed and not wake up until morning"...stupid, selfish old man rubbing his sleep in my face. It's making me bitter, friends.
Every grunt, groan, sigh, snort, whine and wiggle are detected with my cursed mom ears. I fear I may never have another good night's sleep again! I've been reduced to tip toeing in and out for fear of waking the little sleeping monster. No pillow talk allowed, either. We now use our own form of sign language to communicate to each other...only sometimes my signs get lost in translation and occasionally I have to tell Lt Hubby that he's #1 when his signs are becoming a little too Mr. Bossy Pants. And with all of this tip toeing, sign language and bossy whispering you can guess what no longer is allowed in the new nursery! Yep...no hanky panky; no trying out a toy or two; no surprise red teddy and heels! Nothing! We're too afraid of waking our ruler (plus...ew)!
This sleeping arrangement blows...actually no it doesn't...it's now a "No Blow Zone"! We've been ousted. The dudes have finally taken over. The only place I can fathom any alone time with Lt Hubby would be the back of the mini van in the garage. But who's kidding who...we aren't as young as we once were, and that sh!t hurts! I'm a queen, dang it! And occasionally I'd like to NOT sneak around like horny teenagers (anymore). The storage room is full of junk, the closet is full of clothes (and I really have some clothes that I like. I don't want "that" happening on my treasures.) The laundry room is itty bitty...and Lt Hubby has a war injury...he'd never survive the task. Where, pray tell, are we to exercise our marital rights!?! God says "be fruitful and multiply"...well, we did our part, and now we should at least get to enjoy the "benefits" of being married simply for the sake of "benefiting" someone! I've paid my dues and Lt Hubby and I have some serious lost time to make up!
For now, we tiptoe in and out or our room, stealthily put on our pj's and quietly sneak into bed. The most fun we have in there now is playing "Guess the Plot", and no it's not nearly as much fun as what you're thinking. Normally we watch TV in bed...and that's all we get to do now. Just watch! No sound! We channel flip, hoping to find something interesting to "watch" and then guess what is actually going on. Sad! Sad, I tell you!! No sex. No TV. No sleep. This must be eternal damnation or the seventh circle of hell...either way it's a good thing our procreating days are a thing of the past because neither of us are gettin' or givin' any. Whoever said "this too shall pass" can kiss my child-induced chastity belt!
Monday, April 8, 2013
Wascally Wabbit
A wose is a wose is a wose. Would a wose by any other name still smell as sweet?
I'm not completely sure, but my 4 year old's inability to roll his r's has become my most favorite thing in my day. Being well aware that the boy will go to school in another year, I realize that I should actively correct his slight speech impediment. However, it serves a purpose for my own personal amusement. His r's sound a lot like w's...think Elmer Fudd in all of his innocent "wascally wabbit" moments. It's simply endearing and anyone from our generation knows exactly who declares the wabbit to be wascally! Well...I think Teagan could quite possibly be on the same track of finding a trademark phrase. Hey, when you have a big family it is vital that each child individualize themselves from the cult. And my fourth son? He will be known for his inability to correctly use the letter R!
Being a stay at home mama tends to give me lots and lots and lots of time with my crew of dudes. And since they have the privilege of "chillaxin" with me on a daily basis, they tend to pick up some ideas, notions, and tendencies that are specific to the mama-bear. Like any other youngster, my Teagan sometimes does things to copy me. Unfortunately, I'm a girl and he's a boy...and some of my tasks are somewhat stereotypically female in nature. It doesn't bother me so much...a dude that can cook, clean and do laundry is very enviable! Lt Hubby, however, has some issues with the very specific activities onto which our son has seemed to latch.
What is this innocent looking bag? It's my son's "purse". Yep...my 4 year old BOY has a purse "just like mama". Sweet? Super! Except, remember that my son can't say his r's without making them sound an awful lot like w's. So not only does my son carry a purse, but he refers to it as is "puss"! You read that correctly. Our son walks around all day carrying his Woo Hoo puss and declaring how much he has an affinity for it.
"I have a puss just like mommy."
"Daddy, did you see my puss? Is it like mommy's. Do you like my puss daddy?"
"Mommy and I put stuff in our pusses. Daddy, do you put stuff in mommy's puss? Do you like mommy's puss?"
People, it goes on and on. All day. Every day. And it totally tickles my fancy. That boy has even declared, quite boldly I might add, that "mommy needs a new puss". Ok...I have pushed 5 full-sized butterball turkeys out of my yanna benieni, but announcing that it needs to be sold for scrap and replaced with newer, shinier hardware cuts a little deep!
So our day is full of cooking, changing diapers, cleaning, switching laundry...and declaring how fabulous each others pusses are. Here a puss. There a puss. Everywhere a puss, puss! And it cracks me up! Each time my son asks where his puss is and Lt Hubby cringes I chuckle a devilish chuckle. It's the little things that get me through my days...and some days, you just need to focus on the "puss"!
So you be the judge...do you like my son's "puss"?!
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Knock, Knock. Who's There?
The senses and intuitions that we posses as humans has always fascinated me. We are an amazing creation and our ability to surpass what was previously thought to be impossible is astounding. The intricacies of how we are knit together and the differences that set us apart are endless. If you have ever pondered "is there a God?", then you have never truly looked at and taken in the wonder and beauty of a newborn child. Perfectly constructed fingerprints and teeny tiny kissable toes are just the beginning of the awe and amazement that mankind truly is.
Fast forward about thirteen months...and that peaceful, perfect creation has magically turned into the terrors of a toddler with the intuition of an expert outdoorsman! They see better than us; they hear better than us; and mine definitely ignore better than any adult I've met! They even argue better than a master debater! I rarely win in the mommy/toddler pissing contest. Toddlerhood truly is God's inside joke on all of us sinners! One would think that my parenting prowess would not be sucked into the cuteness that is "baby"...and you would be wrong! Hook. Line. And sinker! I've been dooped...again! My sweet little surprise of a war- baby is now a tiny tornado wreaking destruction and havoc in every room he enters. And the deceiving part is that blonde-haired, blue-eyed grin which makes me believe he not only listened to me say "no no." But understand and will obey! And I am proven wrong every...single...time. As he toddles off to destroy yet another object that is not designated as "Tucker's", I can sometimes here the soft chuckle of God! I dare say....our Almighty and my toddler are in cahoots together!
Nothing in my house is deemed safe anymore. Anything that resembles something that maybe isn't his to play with...he HAS to have. Not even the garbage is left without being ravaged, investigated and sometimes EATEN! I dare say that the toddler is more like a wild animal than a human...cute as a button...but wild for sure! He wants what he wants when he wants it and doesn't settle for no. His determination and relentless pursuit is exhausting. He unfolds the folded laundry, eats out of my garbage, dumps his brothers' puzzles, steals the 4 year olds' blankets, sits on the baby, drools on my iPad! Just last week I caught him with a kitchen spatula trying to stir the toilet water while he had my hot pink VS undies...on his head! WTH?! I'm not even ok with Lt Hubby wearing my panties on his head. I sure as patootie don't want my toddler doing it!
What's worse is that this short little poop machine has our entire house under his spell. If he whines long enough, one of the big brothers are going to give him what he wants. His naughtiness is somehow disguised by his cuteness, and even though I am well aware of a toddler's tricky ways...he sucks me right in! We are all merely puppets in his play! A one year old is running my house!! And this particular one year old came to us equipped with a genius awareness and perception. How on earth are they getting smarter?! I'm getting older and more tired....so too should the children! 30 is no longer what it used to be, and these dudes that dwell in my abode are wearing me out. I suspect they sense my fear...or exhaustion...and an overthrow of government is surely in our future.
Lt Hubby and I barely send the last of the six off to bed before we, ourselves, succumb to the lure of the sandman. Drooling and snoring are the only noises that exit our Bordeaux these days. I fear by the time the last of our minion finally leave, we will be too beat down and exhausted to do all the things we always said we would do "some day". Instead of weekends away for wild hotel sex and drunken naps on a beach, we now fantasize about sleeping until we wake up ON OUR OWN. And uninterrupted naps! No hokey pokey. No late night talk. No kitchen-floor sex. Nope! We just want to sleep until we can no longer sleep. And since that seems to be a fairy tale that happens in far off lands, we will continue to make the toddler stop eating discarded banana peels, ask the 4 year old to get his hand out of his pants, demand that the 6 year old wipe that on a tissue, and plead with the older two to excuse themselves before they gas the family. Ahhh! We are definitely "living the dream"!
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Every Party Has a Pooper
Or in our case, every party has several poopers! I don't mean cry babies, whiners, complainers or even dudes with bad attitudes. Nope. I mean, quite literally, POOP! You read that right. Poop seems to consume my thoughts...it has, in fact, for the last several years. Either somebody is doing it, needs to do it, or can't seem to figure out how to do it (or in my case bothering me whilst I attempt to do it)...and I'm right in the middle of it. Every. Single. Day!
What once was something I would never, ever be caught dead discussing has now become daily idle conversation between myself and...practically any other person that will listen. Disgusting? Of course! But apparently, we mamas are immune to all things disgusting. And I think "bodily functions" should top the list of disgusting things we mamas discuss! I've even discovered myself discussing the topic with Lt Hubby at the supper table. WTH?! Have I lost all capacity to behave according to social constraints and normal etiquette?! Apparently! Every day I realize that I morph more and more into THAT MOM. My ability to discuss poop - it's frequency, consistency, color, and odor- without so much as a single gag is evidence that I may never again be able to function outside the realm of Mom-dom. I fear that "once a mom; always a mom"! I've even discussed mom-poop with other moms! I may be a lost cause at this point, but I'd like to think that somehow, somewhere there is hope and help and that some day I'll be a recovering poop addict!
Poop- whether one can or can't- seems to be a very, very important issue. From my experience, if you can't...you desperately want to; if you can...shut up and enjoy it; if you can't stop...well, "this too shall pass". Never in all my life did I realize the importance of poop until people's inability to do so started to affect ME. I got my "Poop badge of honor" when T3 was a toddler. Per doctor's orders, I became a P.I. (poop investigator), and I took that assignment very seriously. Every BM passed through my thorough inspection and underwent a detailed analysis which I meticulously journaled with time, date, and detail in order to later relay to authorities. I'm not even ashamed. Moms do what moms gotta do! And giving my stamp of approval to an adequate poop seems to be a job meant only for a mama.
Whether left in a diaper or the toilet, I offer my input and opinion on each "deposit" (the oldest two have earned a free pass to forgo visual inspection...however, they are still subject to verbal interrogation at least once a week). My expertise in all-things-poop has even crossed over from time to time to the realm of "Search and Rescue". Popsicle sticks in hand, I've searched many a diaper for ingested and hopefully-passed items. Being a Domestic Goddess isn't always glamorous, and I'm pretty sure I'm the next candidate to host "Dirty Jobs". This "Call of Duty" isn't for everyone, and I'm pretty sure Lt Hubby is A-OK with the idea of me out ranking him in this particular branch of service.
Since I am so practiced in the arena of all-things-poop it is no wonder that I can discuss the topic over a cup of coffee, with strangers via social media, or as idle conversation with other mamas at a wrestling meet. It's a normal function of living creatures...we all do it, people (or...some of us really WANT to do it)! Whatever the case, no sense making a big "stink" over an issue we've all faced at one time or another. Invoke some outside encouragement if need be: "just do it", "take no prisoners", or "no time like the present". Whatever inspiration you may need, trust me gettin' your poop on is a very important daily task!
So have that extra cup of coffee, eat some roughage, drink some "special tea" and enjoy your daily alone time perched upon your throne...you'll thank me later!
What once was something I would never, ever be caught dead discussing has now become daily idle conversation between myself and...practically any other person that will listen. Disgusting? Of course! But apparently, we mamas are immune to all things disgusting. And I think "bodily functions" should top the list of disgusting things we mamas discuss! I've even discovered myself discussing the topic with Lt Hubby at the supper table. WTH?! Have I lost all capacity to behave according to social constraints and normal etiquette?! Apparently! Every day I realize that I morph more and more into THAT MOM. My ability to discuss poop - it's frequency, consistency, color, and odor- without so much as a single gag is evidence that I may never again be able to function outside the realm of Mom-dom. I fear that "once a mom; always a mom"! I've even discussed mom-poop with other moms! I may be a lost cause at this point, but I'd like to think that somehow, somewhere there is hope and help and that some day I'll be a recovering poop addict!
Poop- whether one can or can't- seems to be a very, very important issue. From my experience, if you can't...you desperately want to; if you can...shut up and enjoy it; if you can't stop...well, "this too shall pass". Never in all my life did I realize the importance of poop until people's inability to do so started to affect ME. I got my "Poop badge of honor" when T3 was a toddler. Per doctor's orders, I became a P.I. (poop investigator), and I took that assignment very seriously. Every BM passed through my thorough inspection and underwent a detailed analysis which I meticulously journaled with time, date, and detail in order to later relay to authorities. I'm not even ashamed. Moms do what moms gotta do! And giving my stamp of approval to an adequate poop seems to be a job meant only for a mama.
Whether left in a diaper or the toilet, I offer my input and opinion on each "deposit" (the oldest two have earned a free pass to forgo visual inspection...however, they are still subject to verbal interrogation at least once a week). My expertise in all-things-poop has even crossed over from time to time to the realm of "Search and Rescue". Popsicle sticks in hand, I've searched many a diaper for ingested and hopefully-passed items. Being a Domestic Goddess isn't always glamorous, and I'm pretty sure I'm the next candidate to host "Dirty Jobs". This "Call of Duty" isn't for everyone, and I'm pretty sure Lt Hubby is A-OK with the idea of me out ranking him in this particular branch of service.
Since I am so practiced in the arena of all-things-poop it is no wonder that I can discuss the topic over a cup of coffee, with strangers via social media, or as idle conversation with other mamas at a wrestling meet. It's a normal function of living creatures...we all do it, people (or...some of us really WANT to do it)! Whatever the case, no sense making a big "stink" over an issue we've all faced at one time or another. Invoke some outside encouragement if need be: "just do it", "take no prisoners", or "no time like the present". Whatever inspiration you may need, trust me gettin' your poop on is a very important daily task!
So have that extra cup of coffee, eat some roughage, drink some "special tea" and enjoy your daily alone time perched upon your throne...you'll thank me later!
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Hail to the "V"
Today being the all-powerful Valentines Day, one would assume that the "V" to which I am referring is this lovey-dovey holiday that makes some of us feel a whee bit lacking in the romance department. Don't get me wrong, I hate this holiday as much as the next holiday grinch. Just because I'm married doesn't mean that I greet this holiday with vigor. Nope! I actually kind of abhor this commercially pushed holiday. I can't even remember a VD, whether single or married, that a romantic gesture was wafted in my direction. If I sound bitter...well, maybe it's because I am.
But this sorry excuse for a "holiday" is not the "V" with which I am enamored. Now if anyone has read my blog for long, I'm sure you are assuming the next most logical "V" would be the almighty and powerful vagina. Yes...she is that indeed, but Captain Vagina has taken a hiatus; what with all the changes, stress, uncertainty, sleep deprivation, lack of showering and no-me-time-at-all that has become my existence, she packed her bags and has yet to return to Sexy Town. If I've said it once, I've said it numerous times...the vagina needs to be wooed, lured, and taken care of otherwise she closes up shop. And just in case any of you are wondering a spinal cord injury plus muscle relaxers do not equate to very effective aphrodisiacs!
No! The "V" that gets my motor running is none other than the long avoided (but very necessary!) VASECTOMY! Ah...even saying the word makes me smile...it even conjures up an ever-so-slight, yet ever-so-evil, giggle. Yep...Lt Hubby was forced to take one for the team. It's only fair...my "wonder down under" has taken five massive blows. Not one of the dudes that came shooting out of that sacred tunnel was under 8 pounds. And each and every delivery has lended itself to a new set of eyes (and hands) investigating what can no longer be referred to as "My Secrets". There is no secret left when your legs are in stirrups and you lie spread-eagle on a less-than-romantic hospital table all the while a gigantic spotlight is aimed directly up my nether regions while God and nation watch you take (what can only be described as) a dump on the table!
Yep...I've earned the right to bow out and ask for a pinch hitter. And I have very, very little sympathy...OK, I have NO sympathy (did you not just read the previous paragraph?!) This mama is Our Of Business! No more dudes for this vagina...she's seen her last torture- I mean- delivery room (thank GOD!). So with admittance to the carnival denied until his ticket is stamped, Lt Hubby reluctantly took the fall...in a military hospital, no less. From my experience, military doctors have a very impersonal bed-side manner. I think they are somewhat desensitized to compassion (good thing it wasn't my vagina!). But...what's done is done...and WE ARE DONE!
So department stores can keep their box of chocolates; the flower shop can keep her beautiful roses; and the lingerie boutique can keep her little black teddy (it only gets me into trouble anyway). We will toast the night with ice for my hubby...and wine (followed by sleep!!) for me.
But this sorry excuse for a "holiday" is not the "V" with which I am enamored. Now if anyone has read my blog for long, I'm sure you are assuming the next most logical "V" would be the almighty and powerful vagina. Yes...she is that indeed, but Captain Vagina has taken a hiatus; what with all the changes, stress, uncertainty, sleep deprivation, lack of showering and no-me-time-at-all that has become my existence, she packed her bags and has yet to return to Sexy Town. If I've said it once, I've said it numerous times...the vagina needs to be wooed, lured, and taken care of otherwise she closes up shop. And just in case any of you are wondering a spinal cord injury plus muscle relaxers do not equate to very effective aphrodisiacs!
No! The "V" that gets my motor running is none other than the long avoided (but very necessary!) VASECTOMY! Ah...even saying the word makes me smile...it even conjures up an ever-so-slight, yet ever-so-evil, giggle. Yep...Lt Hubby was forced to take one for the team. It's only fair...my "wonder down under" has taken five massive blows. Not one of the dudes that came shooting out of that sacred tunnel was under 8 pounds. And each and every delivery has lended itself to a new set of eyes (and hands) investigating what can no longer be referred to as "My Secrets". There is no secret left when your legs are in stirrups and you lie spread-eagle on a less-than-romantic hospital table all the while a gigantic spotlight is aimed directly up my nether regions while God and nation watch you take (what can only be described as) a dump on the table!
Yep...I've earned the right to bow out and ask for a pinch hitter. And I have very, very little sympathy...OK, I have NO sympathy (did you not just read the previous paragraph?!) This mama is Our Of Business! No more dudes for this vagina...she's seen her last torture- I mean- delivery room (thank GOD!). So with admittance to the carnival denied until his ticket is stamped, Lt Hubby reluctantly took the fall...in a military hospital, no less. From my experience, military doctors have a very impersonal bed-side manner. I think they are somewhat desensitized to compassion (good thing it wasn't my vagina!). But...what's done is done...and WE ARE DONE!
So department stores can keep their box of chocolates; the flower shop can keep her beautiful roses; and the lingerie boutique can keep her little black teddy (it only gets me into trouble anyway). We will toast the night with ice for my hubby...and wine (followed by sleep!!) for me.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Just One Day
Carpe diem.
What a great motto in which to live your life. "Seize the day"! "Don't put off tomorrow what you could do today"! "Life is short"! "Live today as if it were your last"!
All very amiable maxims in which I truly believe...at least in theory. Like most things in life, "seize the day" is much easier said than done. In reality, I'm a mother...ie a servant to six cute little rulers that determine every facet of my day (and night)! I am the taxi, the chef, the maid, the laundromat, the boo-boo kisser, the resident shrink, and THE cheerleader (dude, when do I get my cute skirt and Pom-poms?!) I am what I am...and I am: MOM! Mother of all Mayhem, as it would seem. But I have yet to find a way to "seize the day" that allows me to actually get anything done...for myself!
With the introduction of (another) new baby into our already bustling household, I find that elusive "me" time even fewer and farther between. Seize the day?! Forget it...I just want to seize the moment! Any moment will do! A teeny, tiny minuscule moment for me to spend with the three people I rarely, if ever, get to converse. Me! Myself! And I!
Nary a day do I get to enjoy the luxury of a shower...let alone one all by myself. It seems that I must multitask at every given moment...even when I'm au natural! It is not unusual for there to be anywhere from one to three naked little men gracing me with their presence in my sacred, treasured, want-to-be-naked-alone shower time! Do you know how difficult it is to balance on one leg in a wet, slippery tub while holding the other leg up over the three naked leering men as I try to accomplish my once-a-week shave?! It's neither easy nor without probing anatomical questions being fired at me from the overly curious four year old perched, ever so precariously, beneath me! Lets just hope his visual memory of this particular image doesn't kick in for awhile! How many men want THAT image from their childhood popping back into their head??! None I would guess.
But even though I would prefer (for my sanity and his future sanity) that my naked time be enjoyed solo, I am certain that I am neither strong enough nor smart enough to argue my point and win against the logic of a four year old! He just comes better equipped to the fight...and he knows it! I may put up an attempt at a good fight, but it never fails that his persistence is stronger than mine. I always acquiesce to his tenacity in spirit and determination! Basically, I pick my battles, and my yearning to shower, shave and wash off days of stink outweighs my desire to someday be alone in my nakedness. And I've discovered that where one man goes...another must follow! By the time one of my dudes is too old to be popping into my naked space, another takes his place, and if I try to sneak a late night shower into the routine in order to avoid all unwanted visitors, it never fails that the biggest "boy" pops in to "join me"! I do, indeed, postulate that wet + naked + female will always bring about a curious male.
However, I digress, not only does my ability to seize the day exclude any focus on personal hygiene, but I very often never leave the confines of my four walls. It's easier...on my sanity...to stay put. No one to judge my inability to figure out the new stroller. No tantrums because I won't buy the super-awesome-whatever that one of the dudes wants. No one-year old refusing to sit in the seat of the cart. No inexplicable explosion poops.
However, I am also without outside human contact. There has been many a day that I find myself standing at the brink of what I can only be lead to believe is my sanity. And there are just as many days that I want to step off that ledge into the sweet abyss of psychosis as there are days that I make the decision to turn around and step back into the crazy that is my day to day life of being a stay at home mom.
Being a mom is tough. The to-do list and mom guilt never ends. Being home all day, albeit a blessing, can leave you lonely, overwhelmed, and sad. No time is designated to myself. I pee, shower, get dressed and sometimes workout surrounded by dudes peppering me with questions, observations, and overall neediness. Add any other life stress, and it is no wonder that there is an entire TV series dedicated to "When women snap"! Although the last couple days I've been able to breath ever so slightly without gasping...I fear that ledge of insanity is closer (and more desirable) than ever before.
So I shall "take one day at a time" and hope that each day is one day closer...to what, I have no idea. Just "one day closer"....
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Much Ado About Nothing
Well hello...whoever is still left subscribed to this often ignored, seldom updated blog! Of course I think of my little piece of the blogosphere quite often...every day, in fact, something happens, a kiddo says something absurd, a series of unfortunate events unfolds at my feet, a conundrum unravels itself in my never-stops-for-a-moment little, blond head. But I rarely (ok...practically never) get to sit at my beloved computer and let my fingers do the talking. This little space is cathartic for me...and without it I do fear insanity is creeping its way every so slowly into my once-organized-now-frazzled mind. We can blame it on "reintegration" (by the way, I HATE that fricken' word!), overflowing To-Do lists, or the cascading tasks that come with 6 boys!
I noticed that double take from some of you who do not know me as well as others. Yes...now there are six of them! Crazy??? Possibly...actually, quite probably...but nonetheless, there are now 6. Our latest (and lastest!) addition is a newborn we are adopting. No, it really wasn't in "the plan", but lately, my plan has been a laughable suggestion to our all powerful Creator. I seem to be in a constant state of learning, adjusting, changing, and growing all in order to follow a path that I have no idea to where it leads. Frustrating? A resounding YES! Be that as it may, I have the great pleasure to introduce our newest superhero: Tristan Xavier born December 14 (that is now THREE birthdays and one anniversary all in the month of December!).
I noticed that double take from some of you who do not know me as well as others. Yes...now there are six of them! Crazy??? Possibly...actually, quite probably...but nonetheless, there are now 6. Our latest (and lastest!) addition is a newborn we are adopting. No, it really wasn't in "the plan", but lately, my plan has been a laughable suggestion to our all powerful Creator. I seem to be in a constant state of learning, adjusting, changing, and growing all in order to follow a path that I have no idea to where it leads. Frustrating? A resounding YES! Be that as it may, I have the great pleasure to introduce our newest superhero: Tristan Xavier born December 14 (that is now THREE birthdays and one anniversary all in the month of December!).
Adoption is a funny thing that seems to evoke great emotion and very differing opinions. I've fielded many doubts, concerns, opinions, criticisms, assumptions and even very negative innuendos. But I've also been graced with many prayers for this little dude and tearful, very earnest congrats. I'll hang my hat on the latter. He was, simply put...a little boy without a mama to kiss him...without a daddy to hold his hand...without a home to run through...without 5 big brothers to protect him (and beat him up a little...let's call a spade a spade!). And now he's home. God can do whatever He wants. I didn't "have" to bring Tristan into our home...God chose this home for Tristan...it really had very little to do with me.
Of course, we entered into this very naively...things like this rarely go as planned or without "hiccups", and I've gotten very feisty about a few things here and there (in all honesty, if you know me at all you know I've gotten fiery about more than "a few" things). But maybe that's a good thing...maybe it's just my mama-bear declaring that someone is a little too close to my den. Heed this mama-bear's growl people...my bite is definitely worse.
All of that is as it should be...and now I am chasing, loving, disciplining 6. Six of the most amazing, compassionate, helpful dudes you will ever have the pleasure to meet. They make me laugh...they make me cry...they even make me grit my teeth and make that face a mama should never make...but their mine, and if I do say so myself, you will never meet more amazing superheros!
But with 6 also comes my less-than-exquisite Super Mama alter ego. Exhaustion is my new middle name. Overwhelmed is that look plastered across my face. And "Lack of Shower" is my new eau de toilette! With the youngest two being 11 months apart, I think yoga pants, pony tail, and "Lack of Shower" is my new wardrobe. If memory serves me correct...I've been here before! Gluten for punishment...misery loves company...or plain and simply crazy?! Probably a stinky, unshowered mixture of all three. I guess I'll eat a hot meal when I'm old and sleep when I'm dead! Super Mama out!
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Do Not Try This At Home
Some things in life are best left to professionals. There are experts in every area of any trade you can imagine. And I strongly believe in supporting and being a patron of their business. My devotion lies not in my loyalty but in my own shortcomings...and hence subsequent debacles. I mean no disrespect to those capable of fulfilling their own needs. I admire those resourceful, creative, handy people who can change their own oil (or tire), make their own clothes or accessories, or remodel their house using their own skill set and sweat equity. Those are very admirable abilities.
Since I am seemingly well aware of my shortcomings, one would (wrongly) assume that I not only know my limits but that I would no longer attempt any do-it-yourself/at-home procedures. And...you would be wrong. A well-meaning friend, full of ill-advised faith in my abilities, suggested I perform a certain task on my home...unsupervised...and completely on my own. See...with the looming unemployment around the corner, we are trying to tie up some loose ends and snip any unnecessary spending out of our budget. With that goes my always-enjoyed trip to the salon. Some may see it as an unnecessary, frivolous expenditure. However, I am not one of those people. I see it as being as vital to my existence as air or sex....who's kidding who, it's way more important than sex! But that particular visit is never without cost...let's face it, it costs money to look this good!
I, sadly, am lacking in the do-it-yourself arena. My dad attempted to equip me with knowledge regarding checking or changing my oil and how to change a tire....unfortunately I was most likely not listening as he was imparting valuable knowledge upon my teenage soul. My mom sewed our clothes as children, and my Barbies and Cabbage Patch Kids had enviable wardrobes thanks to her amazing handiwork. I, however, am unaware as how to properly sew on a button. And I don't even attempt painting let alone anything else within my home.
Before I sell myself short and have you thinking that I am close to incapable, let me toot my own horn just a little. I cook; I clean; I do laundry; and very often, I parent alone and everyone (so far) has survived without stinking, going hungry or getting lost in a messy house. But if we were required to list all of our personal skills in order to get married, get a job or vote I may have to resort to listing x-rated skills versus nonexistent life skills. Sad? I know. And I'm quite ashamed considering the long line of do-it-yourselfers from which I matriculated.
Since I am seemingly well aware of my shortcomings, one would (wrongly) assume that I not only know my limits but that I would no longer attempt any do-it-yourself/at-home procedures. And...you would be wrong. A well-meaning friend, full of ill-advised faith in my abilities, suggested I perform a certain task on my home...unsupervised...and completely on my own. See...with the looming unemployment around the corner, we are trying to tie up some loose ends and snip any unnecessary spending out of our budget. With that goes my always-enjoyed trip to the salon. Some may see it as an unnecessary, frivolous expenditure. However, I am not one of those people. I see it as being as vital to my existence as air or sex....who's kidding who, it's way more important than sex! But that particular visit is never without cost...let's face it, it costs money to look this good!
Hence, I launched my mission to achieve radiant, shiny color without the use of an expert. I wouldn't consider my attempts a total and complete failure...if you consider slightly orange tinted and somewhat overly processed hair a success. Lt Hubby says it looks good...but I'm pretty certain he has absolutely no idea what he is talking about. I don't know what makes me more sad my initial belief I could actually not FUBAR my hair, my subsequent failure or that I still can't afford to go to my stylist to have her fix my egregious error. All of it upsets me.
The bright side is that even though the color turned out poorly, it did cover some of the hairs that had a very undesirable color (what with all the stress I have been dealt, its no wonder my hair is turning a very, very, very muted shade of black!) I either need to learn how to pick the right shade to begin with or figure out how to correctly follow the 4-step instructions. Either way, I'm going to reiterate...don't try this at home!
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Take Me To Your Leader
My youngest is not technically a toddler yet. He is only 10 months old, but he is already incredibly mobile, into anything and everything and full of a little more spunk (ie...piss and vinegar) than I was secretly hoping for dude #5. For months now he has been crawling, and as baby-dom goes, he's already trying to take steps, has gumby-go-go-gadget arms that reach everything that used to be in a "safe zone", and is becoming quite a little dare devil. Go figure. I guess it was somewhat naive of me to expect him to be quiet, docile, and an along-for-the-ride kind of dude. Luck doesn't roll that way.
"Aaaaaap! Tttttuh! Fffft! Hhhhheeee!" All are noises that my tiny terror regularly exudes. And I don't understand any of it. The older four dudes, however, seem all to eager to engage in this foreign conversation seeming to not only enjoy the sounds...but understand and sometimes obey the incoherent noises! I, for one, am baffled at the exchange that regularly takes place between my alien-speaking dudes. I am becoming more and more convinced that they are indeed extraterrestrial life forms posing as tiny people simply biding their time until they slowly take over earth. They already run my small kingdom...it's only a matter of time before their cuteness lures all of you into their dubious plan.
And to top it off, I think the baby is the leader! The brothers seem to respond quickly and obediently to his grunts, mumbles, and chatters without hesitation or question. You be the judge:
Dude #5 may be a tiny mobile terror, but he doesn't have much of an extensive vocabulary...yet. He's more of a grunting, drooling, weird-sound making creature from the black lagoon. Don't get me wrong, I think all babies of this age probably do more grunting than actual speaking, but I think my little dude just may be tapping into a language from another world. He not only speaks like the Yip Yip Martians, he seems to comprehend their sounds!
And to top it off, I think the baby is the leader! The brothers seem to respond quickly and obediently to his grunts, mumbles, and chatters without hesitation or question. You be the judge:
Innocent Baby?
Or Yip Yip Martian sent here to rule the world?
One can never be too certain. So until I have a little more evidence, I'm going to keep my guard up...and try to convert my little Yip Yip Jr into an english speaking human. Otherwise, I fear my Mom-dom is doomed to be the next Area 51!
Monday, November 12, 2012
Gotta Have A Little Faith
I'm not gonna lie, getting in any sexy time with Lt Hubby around our 5 kids is not any easy feat. We are up early getting kids on the bus and to the weight room, and by the time the last one finally succumbs to their designated bedtime, the hubster and I are not far behind. Let's face it, at the end of our busy day the only thing either one of us wants to do between the sheets is sleep. Spontaneity for this particular juncture is a laughable suggestion. we have 5 kids...5! They seek us out! We've resorted to stolen moments in the laundry room in the past, but since Lt Hubby bought me my new, bigger, shinier washer and dryer there is no physical way the two of us could accomplish such delusions of grandeur in the tiny area that is left.
Maybe it's a rut...or a phase...or necessity due to circumstance...I'm not exactly sure, but my lingerie is starting to get dusty, my bedroom boots haven't been out of their box in over a year, and we haven't used our "code word" since before war! I think we've "lost that loving feeling". But in our defense...raising 5 kids is utterly and completely exhausting! Plus, I'm a little concerned about the idea of another stick turning blue, quite frankly. Fool me once....well, you know the saying!
I wasn't completely concerned about our status quo until I discovered something during Sunday night football. Yep, you read that right. Sunday night football! Apparently, Lt Hubby is harboring some inappropriate feelings toward a one, Ms. Faith Hill with her taught legs, 4 inch heels, and barely-there skirt. I understand the allure...I probably wouldn't kick her out of bed for snoring either. But the excitement and subsequent shushing of the children once her little pregame diddy started has me somewhat...jealous and worried...and jealous. I mean, I would look pretty darn amazing too if I had my own hair, makeup and wardrobe team. I would love to greet Lt Hubby at the door with perfectly coifed extensions, sultry smoky-eye makeup, and just-barely-covering-my-secrets mini dress...not too mention sexy, black designer stilettos.
Unfortunately, I don't have any of those resources at my disposal. Lt Hubby is lucky if he gets greeted at all when he comes through the door let alone from a primped and preen take-me-to-bed-or-lose-me-forever wife...no wonder he's daydreaming about Faith! In my defense, however, I doubt that Mrs. McGraw greets her hubby at the end of the day with boink-me heels and bedroom eyes but reasoning with the sex-kitten illusions of man has never proved to be successful. I may be forced to step up my game and take matters into my own hands! No longer will I be overlooked on account of Faith! She may be able to sing and strut her perfectly styled self and ignite football fans every Sunday night, but I'm pretty sure I still have a few tricks...albeit crotchy, boring wife tricks...left up my own slinky black dress (ok. I don't actually have a slinky black dress...but I'm pretty sure I'm going to start looking for one now!).
Watch out Lt Hubby...you're going to rue the day (actually, you're probably going to bless the day) you oohed and ahhed for Faith!
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Silly Mommy! Playgrounds Are For Kids!
Playgrounds are a kid's best friend. They epitomize the joy and carefree nature of which childhoods are made. Always welcoming, they never judge, leave out or pick you last. Twirly whirly or speedy straight, the slide promises the same amount of fun for boy or girl, introvert or extrovert, young or old. Regardless of size or shape, the swings offer an all-too-fleeting feeling of flying free like the birds. And the merry-go-round never holds a grudge even if on a previous visit you left more than laughter in its wake. A playground,big or small, is the great equalizer and the delight of anyone's childhood!
Kids of all ages and sizes are attracted to the playground's promise of fun and laughter. And my crew of dudes are no more immune to its sweet welcoming call than any other child. My vehicle is barely allowed to come to a complete stop before my posse of dudes bail out and run, scream, giggle, and race to get there first! However, there is one playground that delights my boys like very few other things can. Maybe it's because we frequent it rarely, or maybe it's because of its grand size. Whatever the reason, my boys squeal with spectacular intensity and excitement when I announce our planned destination.
To be honest, I am actually quite in love with this particular playground as well. It beckons to my inner child, and reminds me of giggling, running, and playing until I would fall into the sweet, soft grass to rest and watch the clouds pass overhead.
Doesn't it make you want to run and jump and slide and spin?! Me too! Unfortunately, I'm much bigger and less agile than I remember. I took the 4 year old and 10 month old the other morning and decided that I was a fun, active mama who could navigate this playground with the greatest of ease.........
I was wrong.
It turns out that playgrounds truly are for kids and kids alone, and they are very aware of the participant's age. I'm pretty sure that playground is still chuckling over the debacle that befell my attempts to be a playful mom. I think I was set up. Warning...Tunnels are NOT made for adults. I repeat...tunnels are not for adults.
This is a picture of the intersection of three tunnels that my boys thought were lots of fun. However, the baby doesn't understand the words "drop off", "gravity", or "concussion". Hence, I needed to man either the entrances or exits of these tunnels. The 4 year old proved to be much less help than this situation required so the intersection seemed to be my best bet to ward off injury. Getting to the intersection, however, required climbing through the tunnels...tunnels that are clearly built for smaller bodies. Once in the tunnel, reversing and/or U turns are all but impossible for any person over 3 1/2 feet, and getting the baby to commit to any one particular path was a laughable suggestion. I have since learned that I'm much less limber than once believed. People...I got stuck...more than once. I'm pretty sure all that could be seen was two boot-clad legs and my adult-sized a** sticking out of that tunnel ( I wonder if this is similar to what childbirth looks like...only no boots and hopefully a head!).
However the predicament transpired, it was a lot less fun than I remember as a child. I guess that's why there are several benches and picnic tables off to the sides...for the parents. This playground should read "NO MOMS ALLOWED...DOGS WELCOME!"
Thursday, November 8, 2012
She Thinks My Tractors Sexy
I'm a Midwestern girl born and raised. I've worked cattle, turned winrows, hauled silage, and spread cow manure. Now of course, my main role in these chores was helper or, what I like to call, "supervisor". Ok, ok, who's kidding who? My dad (or anyone with sense) wouldn't let me supervise anything on the farm. I may have grown up on a farm, but I rarely, if ever, did any physical labor that resembled chores. I do get some credit, however. We were forced...I mean encouraged...to slave, often referred to as "help", in the garden (to this day I'm still scarred from that particular opportunity!), on a couple of occasions I scooped feed bunks ( this is a horrible, hot, stinky job...I get two stars for this one!), and we were always included in the dreaded "corn day".
That last one still makes me shudder. Imagine being awakened extremely early, jammed into the pickup, and hauled to the hot, full-of-bugs cornfield. We were then offered the opportunity to lug 5 gallon buckets to and from cornfield to truck filling it with just-picked ears of corn that we had to make sure were smut free and not gnawed on by raccoons. Not so bad? Oh contrare! Grasshoppers love these steamy hot fields, and they would jump/fly at you and stick to your skin! I just had a horrible flashback....it was awful! And there was always the very real fear that one would indeed get lost in the sure-to-be-infested-with-monsters cornfield. And this torture didn't even stop once the trucked was filled. Nope. We then got to participate in the husking, desilking, blanching, shucking and then bagging the bounty of corn that would sustain us through the frozen winter. I was tortured people! Tortured!!
Anychildhoodtorture, I digress from my point. I want to point out the fact that this Midwestern farm girl isn't new to the idea of a pickup truck. Quite the contrary. I've ridden in many, made out in some (good times, good times), and don't think twice about seeing a country-strong cowgirl driving one. My point is that I'm not nearly as cool or tough or farm-girl as I'd like you to believe. Do to a vehicle issue, I've been granted the usage of Lt Hubby's truck...and I don't like it one bit! I'm carting 6 kids...3 of which require a booster or full-blown carseat. I look like a total buffoon trying to maneuver kiddos, bags, gear, accessories and myself in and out of that fricken truck! Heels aren't even an option! Are you kidding me? I'd break my scrawny neck trying to negotiate this torturous task! Im sure passers-by are getting quite a show. Not only is my arse sticking completely up in the air as I force dudes into carseats, but I have as many clowns waiting to get into the clown car as their are trying to get out! It's madness, I tell you! Madness! The will to shop, because of all I have to conquer just to get to the store, has been sucked right out of me! Part of me thinks Lt Hubby may be plotting against me; maybe this was part of his master plan. Between the 3 carseats and 6 kids, where in the Midwest am I going to put any shopping loot!? If he is indeed innocent of this accusation, then fate seems to be on his side!
Men (and women who are clearly tougher than me), you can keep your trucks, tractors and anything else in that arena. I do just fine in my mama-mobile!
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Captain Underpants
Life...no matter what your story, age, gender or demographic...is hard. Challenges surround us on a daily basis. Stress can sometimes be waiting around every corner. And bumps...or potholes...are surely to be waiting for you down the road. This shouldn't come as news to anyone...if so, what Utopia-esque Rock are you dwelling under, and can I come and visit?!
So...life is complicated. Now what? Well, I propose putting on your big-girl (or boy...depending upon your preference) panties and greeting the day with a more positive, albeit hidden and secret, "outlook"! And that "outlook" should consist of......superhero underwear! I'm not kidding. My 4 year old dons superhero underpants everyday, and his self esteem and confidence is off the charts! He always believes within the depth of his bones that he is right and is completely confident in defending his case; he always has a whimsical (and slightly suspicious) bounce in his step; and the world never seems too heavy to bear. It's gotta be the underwear!!
Ladies, instead of spending our pennies (who's kidding who...Vicki's Secrets are more than a pretty penny! We're talking beautiful $20's and sometimes $50's! Yet, I STILL don't look anything close to one of those "secret" models!!) on lacies, cheekies, thongs and the such and start investing in our inner superhero! I need me some Batwoman and Superwoman underpants, people! With which, I can arm myself for the daily challenges, stressors, inconveniences and let-downs and handle them with Superhero confidence and ease.
"The car won't start? Oh well, I'm sportin' my Green Lantern briefs...I'm good!"
"The basement flooded? No problem is too big for me today...I'm cruisin' in my Spiderwoman panties!"
"The school wants a meeting with me? I'd better put on my Captain America underwear!"
I don't think we understand just how powerful superhero underpants are. Everyone needs an alter ego, a secret identity, an under spoken demeanor...and Superwoman knickers are the perfect way to achieve it!
So the next time you see me laugh in the face of danger, smirk at the idea of "holding up the world", or walk into a store with all 5 of my dudes without even a twinge of fear....you better know that I'm wearing my Captain Underpants!!
So...life is complicated. Now what? Well, I propose putting on your big-girl (or boy...depending upon your preference) panties and greeting the day with a more positive, albeit hidden and secret, "outlook"! And that "outlook" should consist of......superhero underwear! I'm not kidding. My 4 year old dons superhero underpants everyday, and his self esteem and confidence is off the charts! He always believes within the depth of his bones that he is right and is completely confident in defending his case; he always has a whimsical (and slightly suspicious) bounce in his step; and the world never seems too heavy to bear. It's gotta be the underwear!!
Ladies, instead of spending our pennies (who's kidding who...Vicki's Secrets are more than a pretty penny! We're talking beautiful $20's and sometimes $50's! Yet, I STILL don't look anything close to one of those "secret" models!!) on lacies, cheekies, thongs and the such and start investing in our inner superhero! I need me some Batwoman and Superwoman underpants, people! With which, I can arm myself for the daily challenges, stressors, inconveniences and let-downs and handle them with Superhero confidence and ease.
"The car won't start? Oh well, I'm sportin' my Green Lantern briefs...I'm good!"
"The basement flooded? No problem is too big for me today...I'm cruisin' in my Spiderwoman panties!"
"The school wants a meeting with me? I'd better put on my Captain America underwear!"
I don't think we understand just how powerful superhero underpants are. Everyone needs an alter ego, a secret identity, an under spoken demeanor...and Superwoman knickers are the perfect way to achieve it!
So the next time you see me laugh in the face of danger, smirk at the idea of "holding up the world", or walk into a store with all 5 of my dudes without even a twinge of fear....you better know that I'm wearing my Captain Underpants!!
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