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!



Do Not Try This At Home

Some things in life are best left to professionals. There are experts in every area of any trade you can imagine. And I strongly believe in supporting and being a patron of their business. My devotion lies not in my loyalty but in my own shortcomings...and hence subsequent debacles. I mean no disrespect to those capable of fulfilling their own needs. I admire those resourceful, creative, handy people who can change their own oil (or tire), make their own clothes or accessories, or remodel their house using their own skill set and sweat equity. Those are very admirable abilities.

I, sadly, am lacking in the do-it-yourself arena. My dad attempted to equip me with knowledge regarding checking or changing my oil and how to change a tire....unfortunately I was most likely not listening as he was imparting valuable knowledge upon my teenage soul. My mom sewed our clothes as children, and my Barbies and Cabbage Patch Kids had enviable wardrobes thanks to her amazing handiwork. I, however, am unaware as how to properly sew on a button. And I don't even attempt painting let alone anything else within my home.

Before I sell myself short and have you thinking that I am close to incapable, let me toot my own horn just a little. I cook; I clean; I do laundry; and very often, I parent alone and everyone (so far) has survived without stinking, going hungry or getting lost in a messy house. But if we were required to list all of our personal skills in order to get married, get a job or vote I may have to resort to listing x-rated skills versus nonexistent life skills. Sad? I know. And I'm quite ashamed considering the long line of do-it-yourselfers from which I matriculated.

Since I am seemingly well aware of my shortcomings, one would (wrongly) assume that I not only know my limits but that I would no longer attempt any do-it-yourself/at-home procedures. And...you would be wrong. A well-meaning friend, full of ill-advised faith in my abilities, suggested I perform a certain task on my home...unsupervised...and completely on my own. See...with the looming unemployment around the corner, we are trying to tie up some loose ends and snip any unnecessary spending out of our budget. With that goes my always-enjoyed trip to the salon. Some may see it as an unnecessary, frivolous expenditure. However, I am not one of those people. I see it as being as vital to my existence as air or sex....who's kidding who, it's way more important than sex! But that particular visit is never without cost...let's face it, it costs money to look this good!

 

Hence, I launched my mission to achieve radiant, shiny color without the use of an expert. I wouldn't consider my attempts a total and complete failure...if you consider slightly orange tinted and somewhat overly processed hair a success. Lt Hubby says it looks good...but I'm pretty certain he has absolutely no idea what he is talking about. I don't know what makes me more sad my initial belief I could actually not FUBAR my hair, my subsequent failure or that I still can't afford to go to my stylist to have her fix my egregious error. All of it upsets me.

 

The bright side is that even though the color turned out poorly, it did cover some of the hairs that had a very undesirable color (what with all the stress I have been dealt, its no wonder my hair is turning a very, very, very muted shade of black!) I either need to learn how to pick the right shade to begin with or figure out how to correctly follow the 4-step instructions. Either way, I'm going to reiterate...don't try this at home!

Take Me To Your Leader

My youngest is not technically a toddler yet. He is only 10 months old, but he is already incredibly mobile, into anything and everything and full of a little more spunk (ie...piss and vinegar) than I was secretly hoping for dude #5. For months now he has been crawling, and as baby-dom goes, he's already trying to take steps, has gumby-go-go-gadget arms that reach everything that used to be in a "safe zone", and is becoming quite a little dare devil. Go figure. I guess it was somewhat naive of me to expect him to be quiet, docile, and an along-for-the-ride kind of dude. Luck doesn't roll that way.

Dude #5 may be a tiny mobile terror, but he doesn't have much of an extensive vocabulary...yet. He's more of a grunting, drooling, weird-sound making creature from the black lagoon. Don't get me wrong, I think all babies of this age probably do more grunting than actual speaking, but I think my little dude just may be tapping into a language from another world. He not only speaks like the Yip Yip Martians, he seems to comprehend their sounds!

"Aaaaaap! Tttttuh! Fffft! Hhhhheeee!" All are noises that my tiny terror regularly exudes. And I don't understand any of it. The older four dudes, however, seem all to eager to engage in this foreign conversation seeming to not only enjoy the sounds...but understand and sometimes obey the incoherent noises! I, for one, am baffled at the exchange that regularly takes place between my alien-speaking dudes. I am becoming more and more convinced that they are indeed extraterrestrial life forms posing as tiny people simply biding their time until they slowly take over earth. They already run my small kingdom...it's only a matter of time before their cuteness lures all of you into their dubious plan.

And to top it off, I think the baby is the leader! The brothers seem to respond quickly and obediently to his grunts, mumbles, and chatters without hesitation or question. You be the judge:

Innocent Baby?

 

 

Or Yip Yip Martian sent here to rule the world?

 

 

One can never be too certain. So until I have a little more evidence, I'm going to keep my guard up...and try to convert my little Yip Yip Jr into an english speaking human. Otherwise, I fear my Mom-dom is doomed to be the next Area 51!

Gotta Have A Little Faith

I'm not gonna lie, getting in any sexy time with Lt Hubby around our 5 kids is not any easy feat. We are up early getting kids on the bus and to the weight room, and by the time the last one finally succumbs to their designated bedtime, the hubster and I are not far behind. Let's face it, at the end of our busy day the only thing either one of us wants to do between the sheets is sleep. Spontaneity for this particular juncture is a laughable suggestion. we have 5 kids...5! They seek us out! We've resorted to stolen moments in the laundry room in the past, but since Lt Hubby bought me my new, bigger, shinier washer and dryer there is no physical way the two of us could accomplish such delusions of grandeur in the tiny area that is left.

Maybe it's a rut...or a phase...or necessity due to circumstance...I'm not exactly sure, but my lingerie is starting to get dusty, my bedroom boots haven't been out of their box in over a year, and we haven't used our "code word" since before war!  I think we've "lost that loving feeling". But in our defense...raising 5 kids is utterly and completely exhausting! Plus, I'm a little concerned about the idea of another stick turning blue, quite frankly. Fool me once....well, you know the saying! 

I wasn't completely concerned about our status quo until I discovered something during Sunday night football. Yep, you read that right. Sunday night football! Apparently, Lt Hubby is harboring some inappropriate feelings toward a one, Ms. Faith Hill with her taught legs, 4 inch heels, and barely-there skirt. I understand the allure...I probably wouldn't kick her out of bed for snoring either. But the excitement and subsequent shushing of the children once her little pregame diddy started has me somewhat...jealous and worried...and jealous. I mean, I would look pretty darn amazing too if I had my own hair, makeup and wardrobe team. I would love to greet Lt Hubby at the door with perfectly coifed extensions, sultry smoky-eye makeup, and just-barely-covering-my-secrets mini dress...not too mention sexy, black designer stilettos.

Unfortunately, I don't have any of those resources at my disposal. Lt Hubby is lucky if he gets greeted at all when he comes through the door let alone from a primped and preen take-me-to-bed-or-lose-me-forever wife...no wonder he's daydreaming about Faith! In my defense, however, I doubt that Mrs. McGraw greets her hubby at the end of the day with boink-me heels and bedroom eyes but reasoning with the sex-kitten illusions of man has never proved to be successful. I may be forced to step up my game and take matters into my own hands! No longer will I be overlooked on account of Faith! She may be able to sing and strut her perfectly styled self and ignite football fans every Sunday night, but I'm pretty sure I still have a few tricks...albeit crotchy, boring wife tricks...left up my own slinky black dress (ok. I don't actually have a slinky black dress...but I'm pretty sure I'm going to start looking for one now!).

Watch out Lt Hubby...you're going to rue the day (actually, you're probably going to bless the day) you oohed and ahhed for Faith!

Silly Mommy! Playgrounds Are For Kids!

Playgrounds are a kid's best friend. They epitomize the joy and carefree nature of which childhoods are made. Always welcoming, they never judge, leave out or pick you last. Twirly whirly or speedy straight, the slide promises the same amount of fun for boy or girl, introvert or extrovert, young or old. Regardless of size or shape, the swings offer an all-too-fleeting feeling of flying free like the birds. And the merry-go-round never holds a grudge even if on a previous visit you left more than laughter in its wake. A playground,big or small, is the great equalizer and the delight of anyone's childhood!

Kids of all ages and sizes are attracted to the playground's promise of fun and laughter. And my crew of dudes are no more immune to its sweet welcoming call than any other child. My vehicle is barely allowed to come to a complete stop before my posse of dudes bail out and run, scream, giggle, and race to get there first! However, there is one playground that delights my boys like very few other things can. Maybe it's because we frequent it rarely, or maybe it's because of its grand size. Whatever the reason, my boys squeal with spectacular intensity and excitement when I announce our planned destination. 

To be honest, I am actually quite in love with this particular playground as well. It beckons to my inner child, and reminds me of giggling, running, and playing until I would fall into the sweet, soft grass to rest and watch the clouds pass overhead. 

Doesn't it make you want to run and jump and slide and spin?! Me too! Unfortunately, I'm much bigger and less agile than I remember. I took the 4 year old and 10 month old the other morning and decided that I was a fun, active mama who could navigate this playground with the greatest of ease.........

I was wrong.

It turns out that playgrounds truly are for kids and kids alone, and they are very aware of the participant's age. I'm pretty sure that playground is still chuckling over the debacle that befell my attempts to be a playful mom. I think I was set up. Warning...Tunnels are NOT made for adults. I repeat...tunnels are not for adults. 

This is a picture of the intersection of three tunnels that my boys thought were lots of fun. However, the baby doesn't understand the words "drop off", "gravity", or "concussion". Hence, I needed to man either the entrances or exits of these tunnels. The 4 year old proved to be much less help than this situation required so the intersection seemed to be my best bet to ward off injury. Getting to the intersection, however, required climbing through the tunnels...tunnels that are clearly built for smaller bodies. Once in the tunnel, reversing and/or U turns are all but impossible for any person over 3 1/2 feet, and getting the baby to commit to any one particular path was a laughable suggestion. I have since learned that I'm much less limber than once believed. People...I got stuck...more than once. I'm pretty sure all that could be seen was two boot-clad legs and my adult-sized a** sticking out of that tunnel ( I wonder if this is similar to what childbirth looks like...only no boots and hopefully a head!).

However the predicament transpired, it was a lot less fun than I remember as a child. I guess that's why there are several benches and picnic tables off to the sides...for the parents. This playground should read "NO MOMS ALLOWED...DOGS WELCOME!"

She Thinks My Tractors Sexy

  I'm a Midwestern girl born and raised. I've worked cattle, turned winrows, hauled silage, and spread cow manure. Now of course, my main role in these chores was helper or, what I like to call, "supervisor". Ok, ok, who's kidding who? My dad (or anyone with sense) wouldn't let me supervise anything on the farm. I may have grown up on a farm, but I rarely, if ever, did any physical labor that resembled chores. I do get some credit, however. We were forced...I mean encouraged...to slave, often referred to as "help", in the garden (to this day I'm still scarred from that particular opportunity!), on a couple of occasions I scooped feed bunks ( this is a horrible, hot, stinky job...I get two stars for this one!), and we were always included in the dreaded "corn day".

 That last one still makes me shudder. Imagine being awakened extremely early, jammed into the pickup, and hauled to the hot, full-of-bugs cornfield. We were then offered the opportunity to lug 5 gallon buckets to and from cornfield to truck filling it with just-picked ears of corn that we had to make sure were smut free and not gnawed on by raccoons. Not so bad? Oh contrare! Grasshoppers love these steamy hot fields, and they would jump/fly at you and stick to your skin! I just had a horrible flashback....it was awful! And there was always the very real fear that one would indeed get lost in the sure-to-be-infested-with-monsters cornfield. And this torture didn't even stop once the trucked was filled. Nope. We then got to participate in the husking, desilking, blanching, shucking and then bagging the bounty of corn that would sustain us through the frozen winter. I was tortured people! Tortured!!

Anychildhoodtorture, I digress from my point. I want to point out the fact that this Midwestern farm girl isn't new to the idea of a pickup truck. Quite the contrary. I've ridden in many, made out in some (good times, good times), and don't think twice about seeing a country-strong cowgirl driving one. My point is that I'm not nearly as cool or tough or farm-girl as I'd like you to believe. Do to a vehicle issue, I've been granted the usage of Lt Hubby's truck...and I don't like it one bit! I'm carting 6 kids...3 of which require a booster or full-blown carseat. I look like a total buffoon trying to maneuver kiddos, bags, gear, accessories and myself in and out of that fricken truck! Heels aren't even an option! Are you kidding me? I'd break my scrawny neck trying to negotiate this torturous task! Im sure passers-by are getting quite a show. Not only is my arse sticking completely up in the air as I force dudes into carseats, but I have as many clowns waiting to get into the clown car as their are trying to get out! It's madness, I tell you! Madness! The will to shop, because of all I have to conquer just to get to the store, has been sucked right out of me! Part of me thinks Lt Hubby may be plotting against me; maybe this was part of his master plan. Between the 3 carseats and 6 kids, where in the Midwest am I going to put any shopping loot!?  If he is indeed innocent of this accusation, then fate seems to be on his side! 

Men (and women who are clearly tougher than me), you can keep your trucks, tractors and anything else in that arena. I do just fine in my mama-mobile!

Captain Underpants

Life...no matter what your story, age, gender or demographic...is hard. Challenges surround us on a daily basis. Stress can sometimes be waiting around every corner. And bumps...or potholes...are surely to be waiting for you down the road. This shouldn't come as news to anyone...if so, what Utopia-esque Rock are you dwelling under, and can I come and visit?!

So...life is complicated. Now what? Well, I propose putting on your big-girl (or boy...depending upon your preference) panties and greeting the day with a more positive, albeit hidden and secret, "outlook"! And that "outlook" should consist of......superhero underwear! I'm not kidding. My 4 year old dons superhero underpants everyday, and his self esteem and confidence is off the charts! He always believes within the depth of his bones that he is right and is completely confident in defending his case; he always has a whimsical (and slightly suspicious) bounce in his step; and the world never seems too heavy to bear. It's gotta be the underwear!!

Ladies, instead of spending our pennies (who's kidding who...Vicki's Secrets are more than a pretty penny! We're talking beautiful $20's and sometimes $50's! Yet,  I STILL don't look anything close to one of those "secret" models!!) on lacies, cheekies, thongs and the such and start investing in our inner superhero! I need me some Batwoman and Superwoman underpants, people! With which, I can arm myself for the daily challenges, stressors, inconveniences and let-downs and handle them with Superhero confidence and ease.

"The car won't start? Oh well, I'm sportin' my Green Lantern briefs...I'm good!"

"The basement flooded? No problem is too big for me today...I'm cruisin' in my Spiderwoman panties!"

"The school wants a meeting with me? I'd better put on my Captain America underwear!"

I don't think we understand just how powerful superhero underpants are. Everyone needs an alter ego, a secret identity, an under spoken demeanor...and Superwoman knickers are the perfect way to achieve it!

So the next time you see me laugh in the face of danger, smirk at the idea of "holding up the world", or walk into a store with all 5 of my dudes without even a twinge of fear....you better know that I'm wearing my Captain Underpants!!

Little House of Horrors

"Trick or treat! Smell my feet!"...actually that smell might be coming from somewhere slightly north of feet (my posse is 5 fart-tastic dudes), but you get the gist. Halloween had nothin' on us! We came, we treated, and we conquered! Now our home is littered with overflowing candy buckets; empty, discarded candy wrappers; and a slight aroma of yummy, melt-in-your-mouth chocolate. Mmmmm...chocolate. You actually have to say "chocolate" like Sloth on Goonies ("Ruth! Ruth! Baby! Ruth!) because that is what I have apparently been reduced to! Three months of grueling workouts to get back into my skinny jeans may all be for not since I can't resist the call of the FIVE Halloween buckets taunting me throughout my day! Fun-size or not...nobody can eat just one!

Reese's peanut butter cup? Uh...yes please! Snicker hunger attack? Absolutely! Hershey's chocolate? Don't mind if I do! Kit Kat break? I never thought you'd ask! And nobody better lay a finger on my Butterfinger! What the heck is wrong with me?! I tell the kids, "only two pieces and then an apple" while I'm hiding in the garage with their hard-worked-for bounty, now my contraband! I'm the Halloween pirate, that's what I am! What's yours is mine! Or maybe I'm reverting back to toddler-dom...It's all mine! The nine year old tallied and charted his candy. He knows the drill...boys work hard trick-or-treating, parents don't let them eat it because "it isn't good for them" and make them ration it. All the while, the parents (aka PIRATES) sneakily devour said candy once the kids are forced to go to school hence leaving their treasure unattended. We parents are sad, sad creatures!

Horrible chocolate hangover aside, Halloween is one of my favorite days. The excitement and giddiness of my kids to get the biggest "score" and landing the best costume is infectious! I look forward to this night all year. And this year proved to be just as amazing. My 13 (almost 14...gasp!) year old even walked around the neighborhood with us...which warmed my heart like no other. Our family of trick-or-treaters got ready together, assembled with buckets in hand...together, and walked around...together. It truly was a family event!

This Halloween, the 6 year old proved to be the most motivated. He ran to every...single...house excitedly rang the doorbell, and very festively chimed, "TRICK OR TREAT"! I don't think we missed one house-lit or not- as we made our way around the neighborhood. After an 1 1/2 hours of trick-or-treating that little dude was still not ready to call it a night...although mommy begged to disagree since Iron Man no longer wanted to ride in the double stroller and Captain America's bucket was starting to get, "really heavy". Supper, after all, was needing to be eaten, baths needed to be given, and bedtimes were already past due.

Our night ended victoriously with happy, sugared-up kids, tired legs...and crusty face paint! The Avengers reigned supreme...my Minion spurred many giggles...and the 80's basketball star- well, he froze his "Rastafarian na-na's" off!

Bond...James Bond

I love getting dressed up. I love picking out the NEW, fancy outfit (with all of the necessary accessories and fabulous shoes). I love outfitting my dudes in semi-matching attire. And I love trying to get that perfectly perfect picture where we all look pleasant, happy, and attractive (honestly, I would really like myself to look something close to "hot"!) But who's kidding who...getting all of us washed, dressed, and smiling simultaneously isn't always the easiest feat to conquer. It's practically impossible! However, once I have come as close as I can to achieving it...I'd like to consider it a Kodak moment!

In the last 2 months, we've had the pleasure of attending two weddings of cousins that mean an awful lot to us...they are practically big sisters to my crew; except without the annoying-big-sister-part. And on such an occasion, the Queen, the King, and all the king's men...like to break out our "fancy" clothes ("fancy" is how my 6 year old refers to anything other than jeans and a tshirt....so jeans and a collared shirt is "FANCY"!)

Case is point:

Here we are looking especially "fancy"!

But for the second wedding, my oldest two princes had the honor of being the ushers...a task they didn't take lightly. The boys got to adorn their athletic frames with "fancy" tuxedos (side bar- those are super, duper expensive!). And since Lt. Hubby was busy coaching, I was in charge of assembling my soldiers SOLO! Do you have any idea how many pieces there are to a tuxedo?! I thought the ladies get-up was difficult. Nope! The dudes have it way, WAY harder. And I didn't just have one dude to assemble...they both needed my assistance. In my defense, I've never put on a tux; I've only ever taken one off (wink, wink)!

Apart from the 9 year old's shirt being about 2 sizes too small (seriously...funniest thing I've ever seen. Think "fat guy in a little coat"...only my dude is far from fat.) Anyshirtsize, I successfully got my oldest men locked and loaded...and ready to walk some "peeps to their seats!" Unfortunately, looks are the only thing tuxes are made for. My boys were very uncomfortable...and they informed me all the way to the church. They did ponder, however, how on earth James Bond made fighting crime look so effortless and "fancy"! As they practiced their introductions/impersonations, "Bond. James Bond." I kicked them out of their get-away car (minivans don't say crime fighter, by the way) and managed to snap a few photos of my undercover agents...before they dutifully marched those ladies to their seats!

Here's my 5 special agents.

 

 

 

 

Here are my special agents coming up with their game plan. Everything about their mission was a competition...I think including who could seat the ladies the fastest. (Tyson's first victim...um guest...could barely keep up with him in her super-high-fancy-party heels!)

 

 

Let the games begin!

 

 

 

My special agents weren't approved to fly solo quite yet. Here is their supervising agent...giving subtle words of advice about "s-l-o-w-i-n-g   d-o-w-n".

 

And last, but certainly not least...is the head agent Mama and her boss, Tucker!

 

 

All in all, the mission was a success, even though, the unmonitored 6 year old was discovered sipping his very own strawberry daiquiri...which was quickly confiscated!





Life Goes On

I'm sure at this point, most are wondering how the last couple months have transpired in our Mom-dom. Lt Hubby is home and recuperating! And for one brief moment...things went our way. He actually surprised me just before the 4th of July...very romantic...very much a relief...and very much a page of our journey turned. I should have realized that a crap storm was headed our way...the foreshadowing of events-to-come was all too blaringly obvious.

Of course the reunion of soldier and family is romanticized...and for that moment; when they are finally holding you, kissing you gently, and sharing a sigh of relief; it truly is romantic, whimsical, exciting and overwhelming. But the reality is that many times post-deployment and reintegration is just as hard and painstaking as the actual deployment itself...only in a very different, isolated way. Most people have no idea what happens when the soldier returns, and quite frankly, I think it is the unspoken secret that we all keep hidden behind closed doors. The romantic, happily-ever-after is much more fun -and comfortable- to believe.

I can't speak to any other military family's experience...except for my own. I only know what I know. For me, change is not easy. Months before my soldier leaves, a transition happens in our home...I became the highest ranking officer and sole decision maker out of necessity, and this go around, I remained the commander in chief for longer than intended. But their is no manual as to how to behave, feel, and transition when that title is taken from you. It's a hard adjustment to say the least...one in which I don't always gracefully and successfully accomplish. As I've mentioned before, my hubby married a strong, stubborn, headstrong, mule of a woman...and sometimes, I feel really badly for him that I'm the one that he got stuck with.

I wish I could say that things just "go back to normal"...but there is no normal anymore. The normal my boys and I knew was mommy in charge and one conversation with daddy a week; a conversation that was all fun and games via the blessing of Skype. The normal we knew before the deployment no longer exists for us...I mourned the loss of pre-deployment Mom-dom a long time ago. It never really is the same after an event such as this.

So the adjustments, changes, and challenges are ever present and sometimes painstaking and slow. I very often feel all alone. When my soldier came home, my friends and support all kind of....left. I'm sure most wanted to give us time and space...which, of course, is very much appreciated. But this- this new "normal"- is just as hard. The world didn't get any lighter; the weight of my load just shifted.

As if the changes of welcoming Lt Hubby home wasn't enough, we've been dealt a really hard hand of cards lately. What we thought was one tough hurdle to conquer...became two. Sometimes the weight and magnitude and possible outcome choke the breath right out of me. I'm scared a lot; I cry quietly in the closet, or the laundry room, or as I'm taxiing kids to and from.

Reality has never seemed so real...or unfair...or scary...or uncertain. But still...life goes on...

It's All Coming Back To Me Now

Elvis has left the building! Well, maybe not Elvis so much as my regrown virginity. Nonetheless, hubby came home, stole my innocence and fled back to his broken soldier barracks! He came...he saw...he conquered...and a round of applause is required! The sighs of relief from my friends were audible, and I'm sure Lt Hubby is walking a little taller around Post. I'd like to think that spring in his step is attributed to his amazing wife and my "talents"! Unfortunately that "spring" is more along the lines of a limp, and instead of being injured in the throws of passion, he sustained his injury in the line of duty...but we're splitting hairs. This mama got hers and that's the moral of the story!

To be honest, I was a little worried about how this would all go down. I mean, 13 months is a really, REALLY long time. You know what they say about "use it or lose it"....well, I was worried that maybe we lost it! Before Lt Hubby arrived I was going to arm myself with tutorials, graphs, and videos (and costumes, alcohol, and "toys!)...but it turns out that our city is a little too small for me to me waltzing into an adult store without blushing and giggling like Beevis. I'm not nearly mature enough for anyone I know to see me carrying those purchases to my minivan! Plus, my kids are always with me...and I don't want to be THAT mom! They would certainly be scarred for life after helping mama buy the latest musings in the Kama Sutra!

So I was left to my own devices, and thankfully, it is much like riding a bike...only no training wheels were required, nobody fell off and skinned their knee, and helmets were completely optional! It all came back to me, and I think a good time was had by all! Of course, my lady bits have standards and she did require the lieutenant to tip his hat and remove his combat boots...but the pleasantries stopped there, and the introductions were simply a formality.

The only downside was that Lt Hubby was only here for the weekend and then had to vacate the premises yet again. So wham, bam, thank you ma'am was all I got, and then he left once again to fulfill his American duty. To be honest, I'm not sure what he misses more...me or "me"?! Probably "me" but who's kidding who, GI Jane needed her boots polished, and I know just the soldier she likes to salute!

Hooah!

SUPERcalifragilisticexpialidocious

It's no secret; when one spouse is gone for any length of time, the other spouse is left with more than their fare share plopped onto their plate. Responsibilities, chores, and "to-do's" all increase, but when you add kids to the mix, sometimes the weight of it all can be overwhelming at best. When said absentee spouse is in the military and gone for extended "vacations", the weight of the world can sometimes border cruel and unusual punishment! Our very own superhero has been "detained" for who knows how much longer to address further medical issues (frankly, I think he's being held against MY will!), and our current count without Lt Hubby is 391 days...but who's keeping track, right?!

With all of that said, I think my family of "supers" has faced (and conquered) this never-ending challenge pretty successfully. We've had ups and downs, broken bones and ER trips, laughter and tears, the house has tried to fall apart on more than one occasion (as we speak the kitchen sink is leaking), and we've even added a new "super" to the mix. I think it's safe to say that Superman ain't got nothin' on us! No problem has proven to be too big or small for us to handle (dear universe, please don't take this as a challenge.)

There is only one main issue still needing resolution. Kryptonite so strong it threatens to blow this mission out of the water. I believe I've mentioned it briefly before: the issue of my government mandated abstinence! It's an inhumane experiment that looks to be ending this weekend. You read that correctly...Lt Hubby is escaping from his broken soldier barracks, renting a car and coming home for a quickie -er- a less-than-48-hour rendezvous...to hangout with his kids, of course! But let's be serious, we don't know when he gets to come home permanently so we need to make this weekend count...2 or 3 times! It's been 391 days (did I mention that already?!) since hubby left for his 365 day deployment...this is much less a case of potato/pahtato and much more a case of potato/Ineedtogetlaido! You've heard of going postal, right? Well, I'm about to go...postal (or something along those lines!) My friends are starting to shield their husbands from me for fear I will make them my chosen sacrifice. People are starting to worry...and avoid me...so it's only fair that hubby go AWOL for a weekend and take care of "things" at home!

Now the only question is what to wear? Superwomen, French Maid, Trophy wife...Ha! I'm pretty sure it isn't going to matter since the only foreplay needed will be "goodnight kids" and our "ahhh" will be on before you can say supercalifragilisticexpialidocious three times!! But, just the same, it HAS been almost 13 months, and I think Lt Hubby wouldn't mind some spice. Plus, supercalifragilisticexpialidocious times three doesn't sound so bad. Don't judge...I'm making up for borrowed (or stolen!) time. I'm just going to make sure everyone is properly protected! This soldier is definitely going on a mission...battle-rattle better be worn! We don't need a repeat math problem!!

Krpytonite be gone! Mama's about to get her "groove" back!

One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest

We are on day 3 of summer vacation, and I am already losing my ever-loving mind! It turns out that the mess makers, chaos inducers and instigators of noise are indeed my oldest two dudes. Everywhere I turn there is trouble brewing: laundry reproducing sporadically, food disappearing mysteriously, little two crying and tattling that the big two did something or other, things leaving their designated "homes" and appearing in the middle of the floor without assistance from people (because nobody claims the offense!). I've come into the kitchen after killing myself on the treadmill to find a Rice Krispie explosion, the gallon of milk warming itself on the table, cereal bowls full of soggy cereal sans of an snap, crackle, or pop waiting to be addressed...and always somebody's stinky socks discarded under my table! For the love of dirt! Do I look like the maid?!?! (seriously, don't answer that...actually, if Lt Hubby was here, a French maid's outfit would be quite enticing...wait, I digress!)

Don't get me wrong, the other's contribute to my craziness-er frustration- just as much as the smelliest-er biggest two. If I find one more haphazardly discarded sucker stick I'm going to boycott the "Dum-Dum" company! They appear in the most random of places; in between the couch cushions, in the diaper basket, stuck to baby brother's play mat, in my plant! What's wrong with the garbage receptacle?? The concept actually keeps me up at night! Why am I the only family member that remembers where the garbage can is??? I pick up wrappers of all kinds of wonderful treats just lying on my floor and in the backyard: tootsie roll wrappers, fruit snack bags, Mr. Freezie tubes, Popsicle sticks! Apparently, I forgot to cover "waste management" in our summer orientation!

The atrocities don't stop there! The closet fiasco actually gives me involuntary eye twitches! Shirts hanging sloppily by one sleeve or clipped into pants' hangars; underwear EVERYWHERE (seriously...how do they know what's clean or dirty?!!!); here's a sock, there's a sock, everywhere a sock SOCK!; clothes jammed into dresser drawers preventing the possibility of said drawer closing. I'm not sure why I even fold their clothes. I could simply dump all clean laundry in the middle of their floor and let them dig for whatever they desire on that given day. It could be like a treasure hunt! Saves me time!!

Speaking of treasure hunts, why do I always have to hunt for the remote control? Where can it possibly go?! But nobody ever knows the answer to that question. All I want to do is turn on my dvr'd episode of "Keeping Up With the Kardashians" and unwind, but I am never able to win at this torturous game of hide and seek! And of course no one is ever to blame...they actually blamed their dad this most recent time for the missing remote. WTH!?! We all know where Lt Hubby has been for the last almost 13 months now...AWOL!!!

And last but certainly not least, let's not forget my sometimes overlooked sixth child, Itwasn'tme. He seems to emerge when all of my fabulous five are together, and it turns out he is one heck of a trouble maker! He leaves hats, hoodies and stuffed animals in the dirt; his nut-cup is always on my steps or middle of the floor; he broke the kick-stand on his brother's bike and busted my sprinkler; while he was playing in the garage, he dumped out all the of the sidewalk chalk and squished it; and last night he spilled juice on the just-recently-shampooed carpet. I feel a spanking coming on but I can never catch him in the act. It-wasn't-me is my sneakiest one yet!

What's a mom to do?! No one else seems to be phased in the least by the afore mentioned disasters. Suddenly, a short stay in solitary confinement doesn't sound so bad...just leave me with the darn remote and a glass (or bottle, whatever) of wine, and I'll be good to go! OR send Lt Hubby home and we can put that French maid's outfit to better use!

Back In The Saddle

I know what you're thinking...but no, Lt hubby isn't home. Stand down soldier...Zorro will ride again soon enough! What I AM talking about requires a lot less mmm's and ahh's and a whole lot more ohh's and uggg's. I've been sweating and panting, and panting and sweating...and none of it has left me in a very euphoric state of mind. Oh I am still plenty light-headed once the deed is done, but the work it took to get that "after glow" was a lot more "work" and a lot less "fun" than the other thing I know you're thinking!

Creating, and the subsequent housing of said creation, for 40 weeks takes a toll on one's body...well, not just any one...it took a toll on me, my body...and I'm not fond of the "new" body that was bestowed upon me after my loving creation fled the premises. I realize every mama has to deal with the aftermath of "creation", but we don't have to like, love it, or want more of it! I'm on a mission to bid adieu to the new and a hello to the old. Unfortunately that mission takes a lot, LOT longer than I would like. I'm an immediate gratification kind of girl!

I've dusted off my treadmill and workout DVDs and have made a delayed New Year's resolution: "Get in Shape, girl!" (please, tell me some of you remember that particular product from our youth!!). I'm ready to kick butt and take names...unfortunately my mind and body have different ideas. My muscles are stiff, inflexible, and a little creaky. No pain, no gain is my daily mantra because I can barely move! This tin lady needs some oil! I'm pretty sure my leg muscles atrophied during pregnancy because touching my toes seems to be an impossible feat (I blame this on the inability to reach them for 7 months...I just simply quit trying...and now, I'm paying the price!). And my abs give an audible groan when I attempt to challenge their resistance to "bounce back". The a** seems to have gone south for the winter and is refusing my phone calls, and my once shapely arms are flapping more than I would like to admit.

It's truly a sad state of affairs in my kingdom especially since my oldest warned me not to break a hip as I attempt to reclaim my inner athlete. So bring on the squats and lunges, welcome in the push-ups and pull-ups, and I will greet the treadmill with a smile. I have clothes to get back into, after all...clothes for which Lt. hubby has spent some hard-earned money! Plus, swimsuit season is on parade around the corner...and it scares the hell out of me! No child should be subjected to the pale whale beached at the edge of the pool! As I search to find the most flattering, miracle bathing suit (for $200!!), I comtemplate the idea of a head-to-toe alternative. Truly, there's nothing in this world that can crush a mama's self esteem like trying on a swimsuit.

So sweat shall be my new body spray; grunting, groaning, and gasping for air will be echoing from my basement; the zumba will beckon my name...Brazilian butt-lift will be my friend...and flirty girl fitness better guarantee results!

Maybe...Just Maybe

I've been doubting my mothering skills, or lack there of, lately. While hubby has been away, I've had several individuals (I'm sure completely well meaning albeit incredibly annoying) inform me of the many, many things that I'm doing wrong. The who's, what's, when's, where's, why's, and how's are all addressed, picked apart, and informed how to do differently...correctly. The hits have come from every angle leaving nothing to chance. Every part of who I am and how I'm doing life has been observed and torn apart.

Being a self-professed people pleaser, I am not one to ever disagree with or correct. Basically...I just take it! And then boil and stew over it later. I'll be the first to confess that I have most assuredly screwed my kids up to the point of necessary intervention and therapy in later years. Mistakes, blunders, and faux pas happen daily in my house...and mostly by me. I'm cranky, moody, temperamental, and kind of bossy. It's true...just nod along (ask my hubby...but I'm certain he will answer 'no' to that question mainly because he hates the dog house). But I'm "mom" (and "dad" for the last year and counting) and all things -ALL THINGS- run through me. I mean...I AM running an empire of one-day kings, I have lots to do!

With all that goes into my 5 princes, I admit some things fall through the cracks. I like to refer to it as "picking my battles", but to the outsider it must look like slacking off, and when that judgemental you-know-better-than-that glance or "I told you so" demeanor slaps me in the face, I doubt my track record in this game of life. I recount everything I've done wrong as a mama, every moment that was less than angelic, every growl directed at my child, every frozen meal or drive thru supper I've divied out to my crew. All of it makes me doubt my success at mothering...maybe God gifted the wrong mama with these boys. Raising boys into men is no easy task, after all, and I may be messing them up.

But every now and then, something brings me back, centers my thoughts, and squeezes my heart; a random snuggle from a 9 year old that's growing up way too quickly, goobery kisses from my 5 year old that can't seem to get his fill of "loves", the unconditional smile from my 4 month old when I look at him, a 3 year old that "needs" mommy to kiss every single owie because it makes it better......or an "I love you" from my 13 year old...at the baseball field...in front of the other players. Yes, I've made plenty of mistakes and am bound to make hundreds more, but I think my princes are my ultimate success. A teenage boy proclaiming "I love you" to his mom in her minivan seems pretty victorious to me.

Maybe I'm not the one that's here for them...maybe they are here for me...

I Ain't Too Proud To Beg

Becoming a new mommy, no matter if it's the 1st, 5th or 10th (dear God, please don't bless me with 10!), brings with it the dreaded all-nighters, late-nighters, no-nighters and whatever else you want to call the sleep deprivation cycle. It starts the moment that little blessing rips a hole through your "secrets". No honeymoon phase allowed...let the sleep-less nights begin! Those demanding little bundles of joy have zero care about the hour(s) of night and even less care about your need for uninterrupted sleep. All they care about is "me", "me", "me".

Good thing God created this to be a joint-force effort between the mother AND the father...wait...I almost got through that without choking on my coffee beans! This particular duty should have been agreed upon before one said "I do" because more often than not, according to any women I have ever talked to, the night-time duties fall on the "To Do" list of the mama. No 50/50 split in responsibility, no turn taking; just "good night, love you, see you in the morning" and the hubby sneaks quietly off to the comforts of laying horizontally in a cushy, soft bed. Jerks!

Sleep deprivation in and of itself is torture enough, but when you add to it all of the other daily tasks as wife and mother, life becomes borderline insanity dipped in delusion sauce. At that point, the only humane thing is to put the poor woman down...if for only an hour of uninterrupted, horizontal sleeping! There has been many a night when trudging through the hells of infant induced sleep deprivation that I have begged, pleaded, and bartered with God to grant me an hour or two of sleep. I've even offered Him sacrifice if that is what He needed to grant me the sweet relief of sleep. Of course, the soul I am always willing to sacrifice belongs to the man sleeping soundly in my bed!  On more than one occasion, that man I call the love of my life has claimed to be "sleeping" and unaware of the screaming, crying fits the baby and I were throwing just a few tiny feet away from his body.

I'm calling your bluff! Women aren't the only ones who have learned the art of faking!!

Vagina Chronicles, Part Deux

54 weeks and counting...that's how long my hubby has been gone. The return date came and went without Lt Hubby being given back to us due to an injury. He is now lost in a sea of paperwork, protocol, and policy. I fear he may never be actually coming home. There are many reasons I was looking forward to the return of my man; he was supposed to join forces with me as my partner in crime against the uprising of our 5 boys (they are planning an overthrow, I can feel it!), I have been waiting patiently (and complaining loudly) for him to reclaim ownership of the chores that I hate, and I was counting down the days for him to rid me of my re-grown virginity! Yep, that's right. I fear my hymen has actually grown back! 54 weeks is a really, REALLY long time!

I'm honestly starting to fear for my own health (and his a little...let's face it!). There's nothing like a little abstinence in the name of patriotism to make you appreciate your spouse in a whole new light. God bless America, indeed! I think I get the patriotic award...Lt Hubby can have an honorable mention. I know he's the one who served, but I think my vagina is taking more hits than she signed up for. Fifth baby was not on the war-time agenda (however, we wouldn't put him back, obviously...he'd never fit!), and the never ending boycott on sex is bordering cruel and unusual punishment! "We the people"....NEED SEX!

My girlfriend even pointed out that I am emitting an "aura" as of lately. It's the I-need-to-do-the-hokey-poky aura! It's so strong I'm even attracting men in the grocery store...with an over flowing cart and 3 of my littles hanging all over me. The glow I'm emitting must be blinding. I either look smokin' hot or my gotta-get-me-some aura is on super charge!

"What about mid-tour?" you may ask. My lady bits were only 8 weeks post trauma and sleep deprivation over runneth. Plus, the other 4 dudes consumed all of the hubby's time, energy, and attention. The poor fella needed sleep more than me! The horizontal mambo didn't even make it onto the "possible" agenda. My poor hubby may be the only soldier (married or single) that didn't get to participate in the "rockin' robin" while home on leave. Obviously my heart goes out to the guy, but in my defense, I'm not gettin' any either!

Any man in camouflage better watch out at this point. I was promised at year end a wham-bam-I-missed-ya-ma'am kind of reunion...but the military kept my sex-er man- with no apologies or promise to give it-er him- back! Oh I'm gonna get me some....I just can't be expected to be responsible for my actions at this stage in the abstinence game (by the way, this game is NO fun) Be warned...I may just "jump" the next camo-clad soldier I see. Take one for the American team, dude!