Ooh Yeah!

I've recently been made aware of an adult activity that was previously unbeknownst to myself. It is the kind of activity I've possibly read about in a dirty book (or Cosmo), maybe seen the notion played out in a make-believe TV show or possibly even heard rumors...musings, if you will, about the idea. But never did I actually think it existed! My appaull over the idea that real people participted in such activity was quickly displaced with the confusing feelings...of being left out and upset that no one has ever considered requesting my presence. Frankly, I may have left-out-itis or a really strange case of jealousy.

The practice of being a "swinger" is apparently not just for TV...or bigger cities, and is seemingly more common than I ever would have imagined! It apparently exists and thrives right here in middle America. I was enlightened by a good friend (No. She wasn't inviting me. Dammit!), how the parties go down and even the interesting details of what goes on when these couples go on trips! And all I could think about was why the hell haven't I been asked to partake in this event?! I'm not saying that I would do it. Quite the contrary, I'm more than Lt Hubby can handle, and I don't want him testing anyone else's waters on the off chance that he really liked the grass on the other side of the fence! As for myself, I truly have zero desire for any man other than my own to partake in the oohs, ahhs and unknown adventures of this carnival ride. But I still want to be asked! Why hasn't this self-proclaimed Queen of Mom-dom been asked to join the fun?! 

This dilemma totally has me doubting myself! Not only has my sexual allure been denied and rejected, but now I fear others are doubting my sense of adventure, fun and ability to tap into my wild side. I'd like to think that I'm a big ol' barrel of laughs wrapped in a nicely decorated package that holds the promise of a really good time! Sure the 6 little ducklings following me around may send off some red flags suggesting that this party not only has too many poopers but may also require a little more calendar juggling and organizing for me to grace them with my presence than appreciated. And the idea of Lt Hubby being a two-time War Veteran may have the possibility of deterring some potential inquiries. Nobody wants to mess with my G.I. Joe! But still!! Is this couple seriously not young, hip, and attractive enough for even a half-hearted invite?! I dare say...I'm offended! 

Nobody wants to be left on the outside looking in, and I admit I'm more than a little curious. My feeling of being completely left out may have my judgement momentarily fuzzy. If I was asked nicely, I may say yes out of excitement to be included and my overwhelming curiosity as to how it all goes down. I mean...aren't YOU just the teensiest, tiniest bit curious as to how a night full of "swinging" proceeds?! People aren't sexually attracted to any random Joe-blow (he he...I crack myself up) they get assigned to. What if you get a complete and total duh-da?! It would be a huge wah wah waaaah kind of let down. OR! What if the sex sucks?! That may be my biggest concern. Dude! I have a very busy schedule that barely allows for enough time and energy to rock my own hubby's world. If I have enough gumption at the end of a crazy week to have a well-deserved night "on the town", and I'm left without even a single ooh or ahh, I'm gonna be pissed! With Lt Hubby, I have the luxury of knowing that he has my exact combination that unlocks those oohs and ahhs memorized. That dude knows what his woman wants...and there is something very comforting in that.

I believe I speak for Lt Hubby and myslef when I state that this marriage is closed...no visitors allowed!  But that doesn't stop me from thinking that the idea sounds...kind of fun and exciting! Maybe I need to employ some of my very best girlfriends to help plan a couple's party or getaway that rivals any risqué swinger-esque rompapalooza! I believe I have some friends that I could get drunk enough to learn a pole-dance or strip-tease with me. And the hubbies can do...well, whatever it is that hubbies do to bond while the ladies get their "hot and heavy" ready for their one and only man!

Sounds like it could be a win-win for all involved...just as long as everybody leaves with the same person with whom they came. It's a lot less complicated that way!

Slippery When Wet

When Lt Hubby is TDY (military talk for "away on business") for anything over a week, I try to celebrate his return with a little "Welcome Home" sex. It's one of the perks of having a hubby that travels and is away...well, more than he is here. But I worry that things will become far too same-old, same-old so I try to spruce things up every now and then. Ya know...a tend-to-the-landing-strip-in-preparation-for-his-arrival kind of way. Everyone likes to be greeted after their travels, right?! And what better than a soft, smooth surrounding for Lt Hubby to nestle into?

Hold onto that thought for just a moment, and cue my online infatuation with Pintrest. It's a new obsession really, but I am simply amazed at how crafty and clever...and thrifty...some people in this world are! Since my skill-set for all-things crafty was left in the womb, I've gravitated to the at-home beauty tips, tricks and treatments. I'm amazed at the things people concoct and subsequently apply onto themselves for the sake and pride of saving a few dollars. Amazed...and intrigued! And it leaves me believing that "if you can do it, then why can't I?" THAT... Was my first mistake. I am now convinced that people on Pintrest lie! They lie about the results and their experience and about how fanfrickingtastic all-things natural truly are! Obsessions can often lead to one's demise which, unfortunately, is where I have found myself. 

It was a classic case of bait and trap; hook, line and sinker...hook, line and sucker is more like it! My mind got lost in fancy words like "silky smooth", " more cost effective" and "my husband couldn't stop touching", and common sense flew right out of the bathroom door. In theory, I believe the baby oil and sugar body scrub could be effective when you used cautiously and sparingly. The copious amounts of haphazard slathering that I employed was nothing short of a blood bath! Leg hair and down-there hair are completely different beasts and need to be addressed as such. I was lost in a slippery slope of silky smooth thinking. "If some is good then more must be better" is not a safe method of lady-bit-loofah application! There are just some things in life that shouldn't be exfoliated!

LADIES, HEED MY WARNING! THE VAGINA IS DIABETIC! Where one man goes....the sugar scrub should not!! 

Now, in my defense, my demise wasn't totally "intentional". It was an innocent mistake...one for which I have been punished enough. The baby oil-sugar concoction leaves for a very slippery when wet tub, and since I'm a self-confessed klutz, I responsibly opted to perch my hiny on the floor...which is mistake number two!  The tub floor is exactly where the oil/sugar kiss of death was waiting patiently to seek and destroy the delicacies of my girl zone! I was completely blindsided. What originally started as my attempts to refurbish Lt Hubby's favorite playground resulted in shock and awe on a torturous level. The rolling hills surrounding my southbound tunnel may never again allow Lt Hubby to bask in a two-day pass for R and R! His smooth flights are over! He will from now on have to forage the forest if he desires the pot of gold and the end of this rainbow!

Instead of getting to enjoy my lollipop guild, I have declared this yellow brick road CLOSED! My lady bits have enjoyed hourly lube jobs since "the event", and none have been very enjoyable...nothing remotely close to what I had envisioned would be experienced on these slippery slopes! There is gauze pads, antibiotic ointment and medical tape up and over, in and out and everything in between. And the application of aforementioned medical treatment requires hand mirrors, legs on sink and bent over positions. There is trauma on either side of the circus tent and the gauze/tape/bandaid situation has pushed some "things" together in a most uncomfortable kind of way. Not to mention that there is medical tape across my butt crack! And the only thing i can think about is how in the hell am I going to get that tape off sans ripping it off my nether region which is currently under duress! This is not the welcome home scenario I had in mind! 

To hell with welcoming Lt Hubby home in style! Next time I'll invest in some "toys" and he can just take matters into his own hands. My imagination station is Out Of Order!

I've Got A Feeling

Three and a half years ago Lt Hubby and I decided that we were done having kids. D. O. N. E. With the then upcoming deployment and the four already existing dudes, we conceded to the fact that our plates were full enough. But without making any of those decisions "permanent", we apparently left the door open for unseen options, fates idea of a practical joke, or otherwise divine intervention to have its way with us. Thus, in two years we found ourselves with two new babies being added to our clan; one courtesy of a pre-war rendezvous that ended with me peeing on a stick, and the other courtesy of someone else peeing on a stick. Either way, both moments of stick-peeing resulted in a very real "Detour Ahead" realization and left me very grateful that I had kept all-things baby from the first 4 dudes.

I've since learned that keeping baby stuff only tempts fate to exercise its own free will...once bitten, twice shy! And I refuse to be "bitten" by any additional ill-advised rogue male spermies. Hence, Operation "Sort, Donate, Purge" needed to happen sooner rather than later.  Since there is no time like the present, I submerged myself into the daunting task. I've saved and used and reused all the baby gear, clothes, and equipment from the original dude 14 years in the making. It. Is. Time!

I was more than ready to say adieu to all this "stuff"...or so I thought. It seems that touching, holding, caressing and reminiscing over items that cuddled, swaddled, and clothed my 6 babes with the intent of purging...FOR...EV..ER (this must be said like Squints from "Sandlot") was emotional, nostalgic, and borderline painful for this mama that is 100% done having babies. I mean...I think I'm done...I'm pretty sure I'm done...yeah, I'm done. You see, my house is overflowing with kids and kid stuff, my vehicle is a borderline clown car masquerading as a Taxi, and I have to be able to feed, clothe and educate these 6 somewhat demanding, time consuming people! And someday I would like to hang out with Lt Hubby without swollen ankles, injured perineum, suspicious lingering kid odor or a demanding kid calendar battling for our time, energy, and attention. We. Are. Done!

Something strange happened, however, while surrounded with baby clothes that my smelly stinky dudes once wore in their most innocent, dependent, delicate state. My uterus skipped a couple beats! It actually ached and seemingly longed for those quiet stolen moments that I alone got to experience of my unborn baby's movements. It was my own selfish moments of the most heart wrenching unexplainable love that I will ever experience. And I'm never going to get to have it again. In that moment of letting the realization of done-ness sink in deep...my entire body mourned for this apparent "loss"...and yearned to capture those memories. 

But...We. Are. Done! No part of me really wants to do middle of the night feedings, explosion baby poops, or contractions! Hello?! Labor sucks...really sucks, and I don't ever want to do it again. But try to tell my uterus that when faced with purging the baby stuff, and you will be faced with a real vagina problem! It seems that my body feels the need to procreate...or at least practice the art of potential procreation! I'm horny as hell, and it was spurred on by Operation "Sort. Donate. Purge."  I keep trying to get Lt Hubby's "attention" to quench my apparent burning loins! This is so unlike me! I equate it to a black widow trying to lure her next victim. Lt Hubby better watch his back because I'm sure it's a trap (by the way, you need to say "It's a trap" in the same way as Sheldon from Big Bang Theory...it makes it funnier!) I fear I may sink my teeth into him in order for myself to seemingly conquer this unexplainable quest! I'm out of control! I've never found Lt Hubby more irresistible! 

Since I am apparently unable to control myself I need to call in the girl posse. I need to be restrained and quarantined until this "feeling" passes...or dies! Send in the boycotters, "Hell no! She won't blow!"; the army needs to fulfill their call of duty of no man left behind and rescue this soldier...he may very well be my next POW. I'm sure his punishment didn't match the crime, but since I'm certain he isn't going to complain too loudly, someone needs to save him from himself. A man being tortured by his horny, seemingly-needs-to-procreate wife probably can't be trusted alone with his own judgment anyway. We need reinforcements!! Consider this our S.O.S (Stop. Offering. Sex!)

Does A Bear Sh*t In The Woods?

Traveling is fun! I enjoy hotels, airports, and road trips. I don't, however, get to partake in a weekend adventure very often...what with the masses of people I'm responsible for carting around, it is less leisure and a lot more work leaving the alternative of staying at home the more appealing option. My older two boys seem to be more and more involved with activities that require us to pack up and leave town, and since mama is as mama does I pack my posse and follow my athletes wherever the wind takes them. And the wind has taken us "east river" each of the last three weekends. We've gotten to pack everything but the kitchen sink, load my mama-mobile, travel great distances and stay in hotels. Each and every time the kids are overly excited and giddy about the untold adventures and events that a trip promises. And secretly, I'm pretty excited too, except for a small part of the adventure that I manage to keep on the down low.

Sporting events and hotel fun aside, I do harbor one teeny, tiny personal issue, if you will, when it comes to traveling. I tend to be a party pooper....well, quite the contrary, I actually leave the "pooper" part at home. The good, the bad, and the ugly of my dilemma is that I am an at-home-only kind of girl. Call me crazy, but I save my crowning moments for my own personal throne, and it only becomes problematic when we are...well...away from home! Traveling and all of its fun can be slightly overshadowed when the "unmentionable deed" ceases to happen. Case in point, three weekends of baseball travels also mean three weekends of  "traffic backup on the interstate"! I think you know what I'm saying, but for those of you who are struggling to read between the lines...I can't poop anywhere but at home, and my ability to "free the chocolate hostages" comes to a sudden and complete stand still!

I'd like to think that I'm not super high maintenance, but apparently in this particularly demented arena, I am! However, as a side note, I think more people should practice the art of at-home-only pooping. Leave the "stalling of the brown sedan" to the likes of solitary confinement behind locked doors in your own abode! I actually think more women subscribe to this theory than will admit, however, or at least that is how I choose to view the world. It is highly uncommon that a public women's bathroom emanates with the odor of the unmentionable deed, but when it does (or God forbid someone christens the throne  and "launches a corn canoe" whilst I am in their presence!) I am completely offended! That particular realm of affairs needs to happen AT HOME! I have several lady friends that feel as strongly, if not more so, about this as I...that's probably why we are such good friends...and we have discussed (in alarming detail, I might add) the art of self control and waiting to make this business transaction until you are safely at home. "Drop the kids off at the pool" on your own time and leave the rest of the public bathroom users out of it! If I had my druthers, I'd request you to withhold from fumigating afore mentioned bathroom as well. I don't want to be privy to your gaseous state...respect the patrons surrounding you and suck it up ladies!

Public sewer-snake-dropping aside, I can't even perform the "daring do" in our hotel room! First of all, quarters are way too close and enclosed for that kind of nonsense to be happening. No one should be subject to anyone else's butt odor! Second of all, I always seem to try to occupy the throne after one of my minion who always succeed in secretly barricading the one-way street! I'm left with plunger in hand cursing all poopers in all of mankind! What horror to be told if I would actually succeed in releasing a "chocolate banana" only to have it refuse to leave the premises! I would have to do the walk of shame to the front desk and request maintenance on our toilet!! Is there any worse torture?! Nope! So "hold it" is my traveling mantra. By the end of our 8 day Disney World trip, I was up a jean size, uncomfortably bloated, and bordering Defacation Inability Induced Toxicity (oh it's an illness...trust me!) which results in irritability and mood swings! Disney magic can only last so long when trap doors have to remain locked. 

Truth be told, I don't even want Lt Hubby to know that I occassionally "drop a load"! That's not sexy at all! I have him trained and under my spell that my deposits come in chocolate covered strawberries, and until this euphoric bubble is popped, that's my story and I'm stickin' to it! I rarely excuse myself to "talk to a man about a horse" when Lt Hubby is home. And as long as I can control his mind, I'll have him believe that girls don't poop!

Take Me Out To The Ball Game

My family is never lacking for entertainment. Every adventure...either near or far...boasts of hilarities a la the dude crew! For the last two weekends, my all-male posse and I have traveled across the state to partake in a little (actually, it was a lot of) baseball. And by "baseball" I, of course, mean "staying in a hotel and relishing in the joys of their super fun pool! Since only the middle three dudes traveled with me my trip was almost a laissez faire vacay of sorts....with some baseball thrown in the middle. Fun was had by all...even those around that were privileged enough to witness our debacles, shenanigans and otherwise normalcies! 

Of course any adventure is not complete without a hiccup or two. Round 1 was marked by Mama Catcher forgetting Son Catcher's all-important-and-always-necessary nutcup! And I have since learned that not all nutcups are created equal. What I thought would be my crowning, mama to the rescue moment turned out to "rub" someone the wrong way. The moral of this debacle would be "if it ain't broke, don't fix it"! From this day forward, I will always stay with the brand of nutcup my son is used to, likes, and requests! Rubbed-raw-itis in the heat and humidity after game 1 of 5 does not produce a happy camper...or in this case, a happy ball player. 

Even our debacles have debacles, however. I enlisted some ball player dads with the all important task of purchasing some lube for my dude. I assumed that men would know more about my son's "junk" than me...a woman, and they were very eager to help my son with his issue. Apparently, however, something must have been lost in translation between momese and dadese because delivered to my hotel room door was a tube of............wait for it............cortizone 10. I requested Vaseline to lube my dude but anti fungal cream was the chosen remedy. Not wanting to question a man's knowledge of all things penis, I instructed my dude to apply the ill-fated cream to his delicate (and incredibly raw!) nether region. The horror that followed need not be mentioned in detail. I'm sure one's imagination will do the scenario justice. Needless to say, an emergency intervention was in order. What's a mama to do when her normal arsenal of first aid is not at hand? She improvises! Lip balm...Blistex to be exact...seemed to fit the bill. I swiped my lips one last time and handed my boy the tube with a "rub this all over your area" suggestion and a "DON'T PUT THIS BACK IN MY PURSE!" warning. I think it goes without mention that I will be changing lip balm brands...what once went down under should never again grace the presenceof my lips!

All's well that ends well, I suppose, and the burntastrophe was avoided....ok, not avoided per say but soothed! I have now been deemed, by myself and son, a penis expert! I am, after all, in charge of 7 penises...most men are only concerned with 1, and I'm not sure what I was thinking letting another person purchase anything for my son's weenie! So "Queen of the Penis" I shall remain. And it's a good thing, too, because the middle two tag-alongs continuously lost their "worms" (or as the 4 year old says, "my wom")  in the hotel pool...all the live-long night during our second baseball adventure! Through teary eyes, I was hounded, harassed, pleaded with for help, S.O.S.ed to death and interrupted constantly during my attempts to enjoy adult conversation to organize a search and rescue for the missing woms (I feel that I should mention that these worms and other dime-store crap were won at the arcade for the measly price of $20!)....much to the amusement of every other adult in our group. I was reminded that men are just big boys and every one has a "wom" joke to share! Here a penis, there a penis, everywhere a "wom" "wom"! Needless to say, night two at the pool was as wom-free as I could make it. 

For better or for worse these are the scenarios one will encounter when traveling with my crew. Once the burn subsided my ball player cracked a tiny grin about the "situation", and since being home neither of my middles seem at all concerned with their costly "woms"! All in all our trips were a success...and after trip one, no penises were harmed in the creation of this baseball memory!

Don't Be Tardy For Keeping Up With The Real Military Housewives

Even though our fate in this permanent-employment-seeking fiasco has yet to be signed, sealed and delivered we are inexplicably calm, cool and collected. Despite the very real prospect of my minion and myself living in one city while Lt Hubby resides and works in another dangles over our heads, I am more confident than I have been in a very (very, very) long time. Decisions and uncertainties are a mainstay in this home, and from what I have gathered after 13 years of being an "Army wife" this status quo is fairly typical for most military families. Typical or not, however, there are moments that change and transition, uncertainty and sheer exhaustion and the prospect of stepping out of our comfort zone aren't always what we bargained for. Life is tough, people! But I've learned (again and again. I must be hard-headed or something because this is a recurrent theme/lesson for me!) that slapping on a smile and laughing about the crap that happens in life seems to lift the spirits...even if only slightly. And, hey, (totally channeling my inner Si) slightly is better than not at all!

So...onward and upward; Keep on keepin' on; One step at a time! Whatever mantra you want to slap onto this made-for-TV special, our crew is tough and ready to take whatever this world has to offer. With that being said, I've had a revelation...an epiphany, if you will...of maybe a little something that my army of men and I could offer to the inquiring minds that want to know. From what I have heard, my family is fairly entertaining, and entrainment pays good money. Are you following me? You know where I'm heading with this right?! We are totally reality TV material! Seriously! Scan through some past posts...there is never, EVER a dull moment in this world ran by boys! We have drama, comedy, suspense, tragedy...and sometimes we are even a little sexy! I have little Kardashians in the making! 

People always seem to be intrigued with the ins and outs of military life. This would be a perfect way to let them have their fill. The tearful goodbyes, the exuberant welcome homes, the uncomfortable adjustments...our lives are perfectly scripted curtesy of  government overlords who are void of "after school special" emotions. I think we could be the next big thing!

Only one teeny, tiny, minor little problem. Reality TV families rarely stay together. They take a lot of hits from people that truly believe others need to hear their opinion, and America has never been short of stone throwers. I'm not sure my skin is thick enough to take the bad that would come with the good (good being the money that would accompany "fame" hence providing a solution to our not-sure-if-we-are-going-to-have-a-job-so-how-will-we-support-our-kids-and-pay-our-bills dilemma). So until we receive any such proposition we will have to resort to finger crossing, hoping for the best, and succumbing to the idea that mama may need to walk the streets in my stripper heels to make ends meet. At least my "bedroom boots" can see the light of day a little more often (well, to be honest, they've never seen the light of day hence "bedroom boots"...and street walking is usually left for the darkness of night...but I'm splitting hairs at this juncture!) 

See...I have a positive spin on all things!

Boys R Us

  In my realization that I am indeed becoming one of the dudes, I've realized that my home isn't equipped properly to handle the needs and demands of all-things-boy. What I used to believe was adequate in making a house a home I have now discovered isn't practical in regards to the male species. Pretty things, delicate or fancy decor, items meant for seeing and not touching or anything that cannot withstand being tackled, jumped upon, tipped over or stabbed with a pirate sword are not meant for a home filled with boys. I would love a home worthy of a magazine but that is hardly practical in my testosterone-filled world. 

I seek a renovation worthy to be labeled "Boy friendly". I want people to walk in and know this home belongs to dudes...and I mean that in a good way. I need a locker room-esque bathroom...one that can be power washed if necessary and containing multiple showerheads in a row and at least one urinal. There are 7 weenie whackers in my home...I NEED a urinal! If you only have girls or mostly girls you are probably laughing at my suggestion...maybe you are even questioning my sanity, but I'm completely serious! Boys are dirty, nasty, smelly creatures, and a hose-downable bathroom seems like an answer to a dude-mom dilemma. And a urinal (maybe even two!) makes complete sense to me!

Instead of a standard entryway, I would prefer a washable, stain-resistant room worthy of receiving 6 boys in all of their glory ever singly day. I'm thinking stainless steel from top to bottom that again can be hosed down. Springtime rain mud messes, snow and ice covered winter gear and the baseball field amount of dirt that accompanies my crew home after every stint at the ball fields wouldn't stand a chance in such a room. It would be a wash, rinse and repeat kind of home! And the idea has me all excited! But why stop there?! My kitchen resembles a natural disaster after meals. How simple would my life be if I could just power wash it and walk away!

I think my remodeling ideas have merit! What I need is some evil renovating genius to come in, take over, and make my house a boy home...complete with some kind of turf for my backyard (and maybe a padded room with Velcro walls, a ball pit, and maybe a punching bag). This is my S.O.S call to any of you HGTV/TLC/home makeover/hottie carpenter TV programming people. I need a dude-haven home makeover! If you need to let your inner boy out or get in touch with your inner rough-and-tumble, this challenge is for you. 

I don't even think these are wishful thinking indulgences...we are talking practicality here. Someone, anyone...how do I get my hands on a urinal?!

If You Can't Beat Em, Join Em

 It's become glaringly obvious that my girl time is not only rare...it's almost nonexistent. Even though I desire girl nights, girl weekends, or even a spa day with anyone with two X chromosomes, those dreamy ideas never truly come to fruition. They're but a dream...a wistful hallucination for which I secretly long. Alas, my connections with anything female tends to be few and far between, and the poor female sap that mistakenly engages with me in idle conversation usually tends to find herself trying to escape my death grip on the fleeting moment! I find myself clinging to her...desperately trying to win her friendship hoping she will want to hang out with me. I'm constantly searching for the chosen one that will be my partner in crime as we navigate this man's world all the while staying in touch with our softer, feminine side. Unfortunately, at this point in the game, most of the possible confidants with whom I feel a connection already have their girl posse in place, and very much like Fort Knox, adult girl posses are all but impenetrable to outside forces.

So I've resorted to forging into this all-male battle alone. Well, not completely alone...I'm surrounded constantly by all-things boy. Seven "things" boy, to be exact! Lucky for me, I don't really know any different anymore. After 14 1/2 years of  "the boy, the whole boy and nothing but the boy",  I'm fairly accustomed to the dude-dom in which I now dwell. In fact, one could say, I'm in my element...whether by choice or not is still undecided, but whichever the case, I've become quite versed, and fairly savvy if I do say so myself, with the boys in the hood! 

My knowledge of and comfort with the elements and idiosyncrasies of those containing the XY chromosomes is almost scary. Farts and other bodily noises haven't phased me in years. I'm fairly comfortable in a world of stink no matter from where it is emanating either north or south of the border. I've learned that food is more precious and valuable than air and am amazed at how much the male species can consume. Showering, I've discovered, is simply a formality forced upon dudes by their mamas. And laundry baskets are truly invisible to anyone other than a female. 

I'm not judging...it's just the way it is. What does have me somewhat concerned, however, is my desire to, in some ways, be like them! This is something I've noticed recently, and I'm starting to wonder if my second X chromosome is morphing onto a Y...kind of in the same way that girls who live together will start cycling at the same time. Occasionally, I've noticed a new tendency of  NOT holding in farts so as not to offend others. I'm breaking wind and bragging about it...and every now and then challenging my stinkiest offspring. I've long ago given up the need for personal hygiene...I'm hairy, stinky, and dirty, and I seem to like it like that. I often envy my male counterparts ability to not only poop in public but to not even care who knows. And I've even considered the idea of adjusting my lady bits without a second thought! 

I'M BECOMING ONE OF THEM!!! 

In the very near future there may be a need to stage a serious intervention...one that involves massages, pedicures, beautifully smelling lotions and potions, wine, dark chocolate, and fits of laughter with those that are of the female variety. I fear that without afore mentioned salvation I will need to be referred to as Chris (or Pat, for all of you SNL lovers from yesteryear!) because no one will be completely certain of my gender. 

Until such an intervention takes place, I will continue to cruise with my dudes hoping that my male mutation slows down. My estrogen levels may be dangerously low, and I worry that my fate may already be sealed. So I leave you with the same adieu with which my boys impart upon me...one that is of the silent but violent variety! 

Peace out peeps!

Dressed For Success

Every now and then I like to separate myself from the all-male herd with which I roam and adorn myself in such a way that identifies me as distinctly, without a doubt, female. I have an array of dresses, skirts, frilly tops, accessories, and cute shoes to match. They all hang beautifully in my closet...rarely touched...waiting for the day that I grace them with my presence. I've even fallen victim to the catalog-page illusion of that care-free woman strolling along a promenade in her crisp white, flowy sundress without care of dirty, sticky fingers. I have the dress...and it looks as if it would be beautiful to wear on a getaway weekend alone with Lt Hubby.

Anycrazydaydream, contrary to what anyone may have seen lurking around the ball fields, I enjoy putting on attire that may be classified as "cute" or "girly" and attempting to present myself as something other than frazzled, over worked and under showered. Unfortunately, it is a rare occurrence that some have likened to Big Foot sightings. It is not for a lack of desire but more appropriately, a lack of opportunity...or practicality.

On the occasional "Date Night" (read: few...far between...basically non existent) with my man, my favorite part is rummaging through my closet to find some of my cutest apparel that never gets to see the light of day. But, alas, that rarely happens. Chalk it up to six kids, crazy sports' schedules, Lt. Hubby's multiple work commitments, or complete and utter exhaustion! Whatever the culprit, my "going out" (with Lt Hubby or girlfriends) has been reduced to the status of Urban legend which leads me to attempt to wear my "good" clothes for my day-to-day adventures if I ever want to see what they look like off the hanger.

Herein lies the problem. Most of my "good" clothes are not kid friendly. Days involve chasing, grabbing, bending, holding, lifting, cooking, serving, cleaning, wrestling, wrangling, dodging...and this is just for the 1 year old! There are 5 others! They all demand food multiple times a day which always results in the need to either renovate my kitchen or just burn it down and start over. Any and every outing requires buckling and unbuckling and climbing into the back of the van to buckle another one who just "can't do it!" And with those outings comes the multitude of crap and necessities and accessories that need to accompany us in order to make the outing less painful and more of a success.

Mind you, I attempt to keep outings and expeditions to a minimum, but with the oldest two very much active and involved in sports that's an impossibility. Baseball games are nightly. We arrive with stroller, blankets and hoodies (just in case), bags of toys, sunscreen, sipper cups, water bottles, snacks (which they will refuse because the "session" stand calls out to them even though I specifically told them NOT to ask for the concession stand), bug spray, umbrellas (just in case), parental expectations (that will be defied and shattered at the amusement of others in the stands), sunflower seeds for the minion to chew (and spit usually splattering unsuspecting mommy), camera (which never gets used but needs to come along on the off-chance that I will be left alone long enough to snap a photo or two of the actual ball players that I am here to support), diapers, wipes, another package of wipes, and the slightest slimmest hope that I will get to have an adult conversation with someone that will give me the teeniest and tiniest glimmer of hope that "this too shall pass" and allow me the fortitude to do it all again tomorrow.

If I could accomplish all of this AND also arrive looking cute, I would be marked as a martyr for all mom-kind. Tshirts are not just a luxury for this job...they are a necessity. In all honesty, moms should have smocks, hairnets, and protective eye wear for our own safety. Heck, when we leave the hospital with our newborns, our "complimentary" (you know you're paying for that crap, right?!) diaper bag of goodies should include a hazmat suit for future use. "What Not to Wear?" CUTE CLOTHES!! I love me some Stacey and Clinton in theory but in on-the-job practicality they may have missed the mark (no offense Clinton...I actually have a huge, indescribable crush on you. I think it's my desire to have you dress me up and down like your own personal Barbie.) Wash and wear needs to be the goal when dressing for the day...we are talking about survival! And survival of the fittest will include washable garments, comfortable shoes to provide support and stability, pony-tail and some really effective deodorant.

Good luck and God speed mamas!

Everybody's Doing It

  At this point in my life, I feel as if there is a real possibility that I serve one main purpose in this world...to be at the beck and call of my minion. I'm the maid, the chef, the chauffeur, the counselor, the nurse, the laundress and any number of other hats that fit the bill. I don't mind any one role specifically. Quite the contrary. I'm a mom - a stay at home mom more specifically- because I want to be. It's of my own choosing. However, there are times when I would like to entertain the idea that I may be intelligent and capable enough to perform other tasks. I'm talking about outside the home...for an employer...at a workplace...for real money. The very thought gets me a little excited...not because I want to be away from my family (ok...sometimes it wouldn't be so bad to get dressed up and leave the house without my army in tow), but to hold a title, a position, a J-O-B that others seem to respond to more than "Full Time Mom of Many". 

To be honest, though, my life skills don't seem to be applicable to the work force. I can perform motherly and wifely duties whilst a baby resides in my one-womb apartment; I'm more than experienced in the production of breast milk; I can do my "dirty business" with an audience; and I still manage to fit in the occasional sexy time with Lt Hubby. Even though my other mama friends feel as strongly as I do that these skills are not only priceless but vital for our family to survive, I think it's nary an employer that is seeking a "Lactating Domestic Diva" as an office assistant.

With that being said, I think I've found the perfect solution! As my girlfriend pointed out today, strip clubs are always in need of strippers, and even Lt Hubby suggested (jokingly...don't stone my hubby!) that I seek employment from the more upscale, high class Gentlemans Club instead of Shotgun Willies. Don't get me wrong, I have absolutely zero experience in this arena...but beggers can't always be choosers. The only problem with this plan (ok...there are actually several problems with this plan but let's not be Negative Nellies) is that I'm a super competitive woman...so if I'm gonna strip, I want to be good! It would be quite a downer to my self esteem to have patrons leave during a dance, and my ego is going to want some regular Joe's to call my peeps! Hey...if Jennifer Love Hewitt can do it and make it look so darn enjoyable, then who am I to judge. Ok, ok...so she's actually offering more extensive "services" than I care to...but potato potahto! It's the bottom dollar we are interested in!

So...I'm going to need not only some on-the-job training, I'm probably going to have to invest in some kind of pole/stripping/not hurting myself or anyone else class. Lets be honest...sexy: not my strength; sexy in heels while removing apparel: going to pose a challenge for me. It's about knowing your own personal strengths...and since I've never even done a strip tease for my one main man, stripping for strangers is probably going to push me out of my comfort zone. I did have one fleeting thought before Lt Hubby deployed that I would purchase Flirty Girl fitness and treat him to a pole dance / lap dance when he returned home. There were a couple slight issues with my ultimate seduction plan: Lt Hubby left me preggers (that's NOT the image LT Hubby wants for his first lap dance....someone is bound to be injured in that scenario!), I'm afraid I would place my stiletto-clad foot on the chair in too forceful of a way and unintentionally squish his junk, and the idea of me in my itty bitties dancing enticingly around a pole is laughable at best!

Anystripper, it looks as if "I'll have to enter this potential career choice without my usual arsenal of experience, fully loaded diaper bag, and an endless supply of fruit snacks...none of which are going to prove to be helpful. Instead I think I'll start practicing my stripper skills while doing my day-to-day chores. Cleaning the bathroom...switching the laundry...making supper this may be the ultimate test of my multitasking powers...and it may carry the potential to scar my boys for life! But at least they'll have money in their college fund!

My Words Exactly

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.

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!

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.

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?

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"!!

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'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!

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!

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"?!

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"!

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!

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.

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"....

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!).

 

 

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!