You Never Know…

It was a sweaty July night 2004.  Maroon 5’s Songs About Jane was blasting from the CD player of my 2001 Toyota Camry.  My best friend and I had just blatantly lied to her mother about our evening plans.  Sorry Mama, we didn’t watch Miss Congeniality again.  We went hunting for a competitive game of Fuck the Dealer. At this point, we had developed a fondness for hockey, and lucky for us our high school team was good! I think it’s safe to say we were their biggest fans!  They loved to party and if you could get passed the whole, smelling like an ass all the time things, they were a lot of fun.

So, one of our super smelly, yet amazingly sweet hockey friends had let us know about this party that would be mostly hockey guys. One other thing you should know about hockey guys is that while they are the sweetest, most protective humans on the planet, they are also bat shit crazy!  I mean, they voluntarily play a sport that is known to cause loss of teeth.  They encourage fighting…on ice…while they’re wearing blades.  There is a certain level of rage required to take the ice.

Now, this was long before smart phones and a GPS was something only salesmen used.  So, we got actual, old-school directions….written down….on paper. The directions took us to a part of town we had never been before.  It was insanely dark and you could almost hear the sound of banjos playing in the background.  But Adam Levine’s sweet, sultry vocals kept us calm.  That or we were so young and naive to think anything of driving in the pitch black to a place we’d never been to party with people we barely knew.  I’m choosing to believe the Adam Levine thing.

We got to what we think was the driveway to said party.  “This can’t be right.”  We drove down a long, muddy mess of a driveway.  “Where the hell are we?” my friend asks.  To which I replied, “We’re either going to have a GREAT time, or we’re going to die.  Either way, let’s roll!” This is one of those moments, in hind-sight, that makes me terrified for my daughter.  We could immediately tell from the people stumbling out of the small A-frame cabin that these folks got the party started long before we got there.  So instead of being “fashionably” late, we were “stone cold sober while everyone else was hammered” late.

We walked through the front door praying we would find someone we knew.  Instead we were greeted by a couple in the midst of a lovers quarrel.  Now, my memory fails me as to what they were fighting about, but I’m fairly certain I can assume it was over something incredibly stupid.  The girl ended up outside crying with her girlfriends encircling her saying things like, “He’s an asshole!” and “You can do so much better!”  You know, the things girlfriends are contractually obligated to say in a situation like that.  The guy however, took a different approach.  He ripped his shirt off, shouted FUCK THAT BITCH, and started wrestling with one of his guy friends in the kitchen, which was also the living room, and a little bit the bathroom.

At this point, we should have made an about-face and bolted for the door, but being 18 and incredibly stupid, we saw a guy too hammered to keep inventory of his beer stash and a deck of cards.  Who wants to play Fuck the Dealer?! Where many would see a potentially dangerous situation, we saw an opportunity.  What can I say? We’re opportunists!

Needless to say, things thinned out pretty quickly after that shit show.  Which was fine by us. Fewer people equals more beer.  On the way back to my house, we recapped the evening, “How crazy was that fight?  Why did that guy not have a shirt on?  That girl must be psycho! Was he really fighting that guy or just playing?  Are we sure that was his place?”

Well, last week my friend and that guy celebrated their 5th wedding anniversary.  I am so proud to have been there the first time they met, the day they got married, and to welcome their two children.  While she still enjoys a solid game of Fuck the Dealer, he rarely removes clothing and screams FUCK THAT BITCH anymore.  They have established a life that’s built firmly on love, laughter, and understanding.  The way he looks at his bride is what every girl hopes for her best friend.  Sometimes Prince Charming rides in on a white stallion. Sometimes he rides in with an empty case of Busch Light on his head.

Happy Anniversary, you crazy kids!  Don’t ever stop being you!

 

P.S. that tiny A-frame cabin would turnout to be their very first home together.  The kitchen floor was still stained with his blood from that night.  Nostalgia.

Drinking My Juice Box; Putting Out The Vibe

My oldest is 8 years old.  He’s 8.  On a day to day basis, he is not into girls at all.  I mean, he has female friends. Friends whom he loves and enjoys spending time with. But when asked if he has a girlfriend he replies emphatically, NO! All of this makes me very very happy.  I might be slightly biased, but he is one handsome kid.  He already has giddy girls coming to the house looking for him while he hides in his basement bedroom pretending not to be home.  That’s right my son, you play hard to get for as long as you can. Drives them crazy!

This was the norm…until the 15-year-old blonde babysitter shows up. Did I mention she’s a dancer and weighs about a buck soaking wet?  I guess that goes without saying.  She’s a great kid and we all love her, but I think my eldest son has developed another L word for her. (Lust. It’s lust, in case you couldn’t figure that out.)

First of all, every time I mention that she is coming over to watch them he replies, “Yes!!” At first, I thought it was just because he got a solid 7 hours away from me.  But as time has passed, I have come to the conclusion that my son just has a thing for the older gals. Again, he’s wise beyond his years.

My suspicions were confirmed last Friday. The night before, I was putting him to bed, and I noticed he was in long pants and a long-sleeved flannel button-up shirt. Which wouldn’t be odd, except it was July and 100 degrees outside.  Nonetheless, I didn’t think much of it until the next morning.  I’m running around getting things ready for the sitter Magnumfor the day.  He came up the stairs from the basement still wearing his long pants and a flannel shirt.  With one major difference…his button up was no longer buttoned up.  That’s right.  He strolled upstairs looking like Magnum PI with 100% less body hair. Then asked if the babysitter was there yet.  Ummmmm, excuse me?!

Where is my little boy and who is this lothario I see before me? He then sat on the couch, you know, just putting out the vibe.   By the time I leave for work, his outfit hadn’t changed one bit. His nonchalance was borderline impressive.  “What?  I always sit like this.  Nothing new here.”  Bullshit!  This is the same kid who wears orange shorts with a lime green tank top.  His appearance had never been this calculated.

As I left for work, I’m wondering if my half-pint Hugh Hefner will succeed in his, slightly over-zealous, attempt to seduce the babysitter.  A part of me, the mom, was terrified at this thought.  He’s a baby.  What is he doing?  The other part of me, the delinquent, is like go get ’em son!  Way to aim high!  That’s my boy!

The hef

Fast forward to the end of the day.  I was a little curious if he had made her endure his shirtless parade all day, or if he finally caved and put on some clothes.  I was a little scared he’d pulled a smokers jacket and pipe out from somewhere. Wouldn’t you know, I walked through the door, and the boy was still rocking the jammie pants with, you guessed it, no shirt at all.  Apparently, the opened button down wasn’t having the come-hither effect he was hoping for.  I guess at some point you just have to pull out all the stops and show them what you’re working with.

I did feel a little bad for the babysitter.  Whether she was aware of what was happening or not, there is a half naked kid running around the house all day.  That’s not weird at all.

I looked at him in wonderment and confusion. How do you go from avoiding girls at all costs to blatantly working the room in your spiderman pajama pants?  I legitimately thought I had at least 4 more years before I had to deal with this stuff.   He’s 8.  8.  As in he’s only been on the planet long enough to think that the Cubs have always been good. Moral of the story, if you have an attractive teenage daughter, look out, there’s 59 lbs of raw, pre-pubescent sexual magnetism coming their way.

Reality TV Made Me a Horrible Parent, And I’m OK With It

I’m convinced my years of watching shitty, smutty television have ruined me entirely.  I used to spend my evenings watching orange High School diploma equivalent wielding morons drink and screw their way up and down the Jersey Shore.  Or 40-something-year-olds trying to hold on to whatever shred of youth and fame that still might exist by challengeparticipating in outlandish, stupid challenges that prove absolutely nothing.  Or sassy Southern Black women all talking over each other for 30 straight minutes.  And I loved every minute of it.

Not to mention the unnecessarily gratuitous programming that is HBO and Showtime.  I mean, people having sex 5 seconds after meeting?  Now, that’s called Tinder, but back in the day that just didn’t happen outside of a porno.  It was a wonderfully fantastic world where we could demand F-bombs and titties and we could demand them now!

Fast forward four years, I no longer have cable because it’s too expensive.  But that’s ok because Netflix has picked up the ball.  They have riveting, smart series complete with all the nudity and swearing you can handle.  Thank you, Netflix. You are a true American hero.  netlfixBut wait, they also have family programming AKA shit for kids.  A lot of shit for kids.  And what do you know, I have kids.  A lot of fucking kids.  Because of this my shitty Reality TV and Adult premium cable programming has been replaced with more Barbie movies than should ever exist and Koren cartoons with no words.  Seriously, the characters say nothing.  They just make sound with “fart noise” as the subtitle.  I wish I was kidding.  The worst part, my kids LOVE it!!

So this is my life.  Kid’s shows as far as the eye can see.  Or is it?  Years of infiltrated smut have rotted my brain to the point where I can’t watch “Spirit” with my 3-year-old without thinking, “Oh yeah. Lucky’s dad and Ms. Flores are totally banging.”  Or “Man, I hope Ken is getting the good stuff for how much Barbie is making him work for it.” I can’t turn it off!  And I’m not sure I want to.  It’s the only thing left that still reminds me I’m more than just a mom.  I have the mom car, the mom body, the mom desire to be asleep by 9:30 PM.

As a mom or parent in general sometimes is hard to remember that you’re more than just those little people you’re legally obligated to keep alive. I used to be so skinny because I would forget to eat lunch every so often.  I would just be busy or… sleeping.  Either way, I looked amazing.  Now, I have to actually feed other people, therefore, reminding me that I’m hungry.  Then I not only eat my lunch but whatever they don’t eat too because “we can’t waste.”  I’m fucking enormous.  They ruin EVERYTHING!

While my waist-line may not be what it once was, my disgusting, disturbed mind is still as strong as ever; nurtured by years of the worst programming television had to offer.  I encourage all parents to hold on to something from your old life. Something that reflects who you once were before your children infiltrated every aspect of your life.  If that’s picturing cartoon characters doing the nasty, so be it.

wink

The Mom Code: We’re All On the Same Team

Remember when you were in college or even high school and you would get all dressed up to go out on a Friday night?  Remember when you tried to convince everyone that it was to attract a dude?  Remember when that was a bold-faced lie?  Let’s be honest ladies, our whole lives we have been motivated by impressing/competing with other females.  It’s not entirely our fault.  We can thank biology/evolution for a lot of it, but at the end of the day the female-to-female relationship has always been tumultuous, to say the least.  Being a grown-up (ish) and a mom doesn’t change that.  Only now instead of trying to have better cleavage than the other girls, you’re trying to replicate everything you see on Pinterest or prove you’re a better mom by pushing yourself to your limits all the time. Girls, let’s cut the bullshit.  We’re all on the same team.  These are just a couple things to help ignite the conversation; mixed with a little humor, of course, because feelings are gross.

  1. Don’t be a bitch. I mean, you can totally be a betch.  Just don’t be a bitch.
  2. Talk about all the awful things you think or feel. I don’t know about you, but when I hear other moms say things like, “I could have beat him to within an inch of his life,” or “I’m going to drink my body weight tonight,” or “I’m thinking of running away, would you like to come with me,” I feel like I’ve found a soulmate.
  3.  If you’re in a parking lot with a lot of open parking spots, DO NOT park right next to another mom car (mini-van, large cross-over or full-size SUV). I get this one is really specific, but it drives me crazy. It’s a dick move regardless of who you are, but especially other moms.  You know kids swing those giant doors open like they’re on an episode of Miami Vice.  As if going anywhere with kids isn’t stressful enough, now I have anxiety about my kid or myself dinging your precious Honda Oddessy. The way I see it, if my kid dings your car and there are more than 2 open spots in the vicinity, you deserve it. Give a mom some space! 
  4. Don’t hate; Commiserate. Yeah, my kid is having a meltdown at Meijer.  Don’t even try to pretend like your’s has never done the same thing.
  5. It’s okay to have a sense of self. Just because a person(s) has come out of your vag does not mean you have lost all aspects of who you were before they were born, including your sense of humor. For some reason, it seems like moms lose their edge when they have kids.  Why? I’m not saying to need to watch Andrew Dice Clay with your kids, but you can still keep your four-letter vocabulary, your slutty clothes, and your favorite bottle of vodka vaulted for when your kids aren’t around. We’re still adults.  We’re still women.  And one day our kids will be gone, and I’d like to think that I could one day have a conversation with someone that has nothing to do with giving birth, breastfeeding, or the PTO. Plus, let’s be honest, a dick joke is always funny.

All jokes aside (just kidding jokes are never aside), as moms we are all fighting the same battle, keeping our shit together.  It’s a daily battle.  As a young mom, it took me years to find the confidence to find other mom friends.  I was always convinced that everyone was judging me.  Having a baby daddy does not make me a bad person.  Now, I have a great group of mom friends who I learn from every day, and who I hope learn things from me too. I am no longer afraid of the mom group because I’ve realized we are all just making it up as we go and trying not to say fuck in front of our kids. We are all on the same team. If we don’t work together, support each other, embrace each other, they win. They, of course, is our children.  They. Cannot. Win.

**Disclaimer: I am guilty of all of these, except the humor part. I have too many issues to not use humor as a defense mechanism.

 

When Your Baby Becomes A Kid

Having a baby is the most life-altering thing any human being can do.  Man, woman; gay, straight; single, married, it doesn’t matter.  Whether it’s your genetic material or someone else’s, having a baby in the house is going to fuck your day up.  These days you can’t throw a rock and not hit a blog post or book or article about the trials and tribulation of having a baby.  But no one talks about what happens when they’re not babies anymore. I mean we all know teenagers suck, but what about those wonderful school-aged years when the only they’re doing at the speed of light is learning what not to do. Not to mention, being influenced by other kids.  Correction, other, shittier kids. You know longer have full control over what they learn and how they learn it, which totally sucks!

My oldest son recently turned 8.  I, believing the lies told me by my parental predecessors, thought things would be getting easier by now. We’d be able to have a wrongmeaningful conversation, common interests, and even a developing sense of mutual respect.  Boy was I wrong. What I got were conversations that contain the word “um” approximately 8,000 times about people I’ve never met and things I’ve never heard of, the constant demand to fain enthusiasm 24/7, and a never-ending need to talk myself out of striking a child.  You spend years teaching your child to talk.  Then, you immediately regret that decision.  They never stop talking.  Never.  Ever.

now I get itHe’s reached the age where he is trying desperately to understand adult conversation and nuances. However, he has the attention span of the fruit fly so he zones out halfway through the answer to a question he just asked.  So when he says the words “Ooooh! Now I get it.”  That means he has no idea what the fuck I’m talking about. He’s just moved on to whatever random thought just came into his head like, I wonder if now is a good time to bring up that thing I did at Grandma’s house  months ago that has nothing to do with what we’re talking about right now.

And I swear to God listening to this kid tell a story should be illegal under the Geneva Convention. It is the most torurous experience in my life.  “Mom. I, um, went to Jack’s house and um we played this game um that has this um thing and you have to do this other thing to  um make this one thing happen.  It’s just like the one I played at um I don’t remember his name’s house. You remember?”  Ummmmmmm……what?!?! For Christ’s sake.  I would almost rather work at a college bar on a Friday night full of Sorority bar crawls that’s four deep with dumb bitches who have never had anything stronger than Malibu….almost.  But of course I can’t tell him that.  I have to pretend to be interested and care, because he needs validation.  I need a boob job and a wine of the month membership, but you don’t see me bitching!

So, if you’ve just had a baby, enjoy these moments when they sleep all the time and don’t speak.  Trust me the spit up and shit is worth it.  Just remember, the day is coming when you will have to interact.  And they won’t be like those cool kids on sitcoms.  Rudy Huxtable isn’t real. (Too soon?)  Kids don’t make witty jokes or say the funny thing at the right time.  They will, however, rip ass in the middle of the grocery store and laugh relentlessly.  So, it’s not all doom and gloom.

As for me and my first born, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.  The other day I made some smart ass comment and he goes,  “Is that sarcasm?”  I’ve never been more proud as a partent.  He’s such a great kid with all kinds of creativity.  He’s sweet and kind and thoughtful and a great big brother.  He has more love and generosity in his little finger than most people do in their whole bodies.  But if this phase doesn’t pass and soon, I would recommend buying stock in duct tape and Pinot Grigio.

Pinot Grigio

 

 

It’s Christmas. Be Nice, Damnit!

A couple of weeks ago I was out grocery shopping with my two youngest (ages 1 and 2).  Our typical routine consists of getting those hot deals on all things processed at Aldi, then boogying over to Meijer for the fancy generic food they just don’t have at Aldi.  Nevertheless, by the time we get to check out at Meijer everyone is in a Code Red situation.  The 2-year-old is tired from running through the store, the 1-year-old probably missed his morning nap and is fighting an internal battle on whether he’s more hungry or tired.  At this point, it’s a toss-up.  There is a meltdown just around the corner.  I know it, the cashier knows it, every retired person in Bloomington-Normal shopping with us on a Thursday morning knows it.

Needless to say,  I try to make it through checkout in record time.  I place everything on the belt in a way that makes sense for bagging.  If I’m buying booze (HAHAHAHA “if”)… tenorWhen I’m buying booze, I keep it for last so I can have my ID ready. However, it doesn’t matter how prepared you are there are too many variables.  Too many things out of your control.  Those sons-a-bitches who design these stores know that stressed-out parents like me will do anything to shut their kids up in the check out lane so they fill it with candy, and toys and random shit that no one on this planet ever needs….ever.

So, the 1-year-old starts fussing because it’s feedin’ time.  The 2-year-old wants all theKung Pao miniature princess dolls that as soon as we get home, will mean jack shit.  I’m shoving every cracker I have in the diaper bag down the baby’s throat, while trying to distract the girl one with anything that won’t cost me any more money.  I get all the groceries on the belt, I’m sweating like George Costanza housing Kung Pao Chicken, and now there is someone behind us in line, which for some reason elevates my stress level.

We get all checked out.  Bags back in the cart.  Debit card swiped, then inserted because I can never remember which one it is.  At this point, my anxiety is to a max.  I still have to get everything and everyone in the car, home, out of the car, fed, and napped.  Ugh….

Then, the woman who had braved standing behind us in line looks at me and says, “Wow.  You make that look so easy.  I remember doing it, but I don’t remember it being that easy.”

BIQWWmlCQAEN7hOI almost burst into tears and hugged her.  At first, I thought “Well, Gotcha Bitch!  Cause I’m a fucking wreck!”  But I took the high road and said, “If you were in my head you wouldn’t be saying that.  But thank you very much.”

That woman, whoever she is, has no idea what she said meant to me in that moment.  When you go anywhere with little kids you feel like a pariah.  The minute you walk in you can actually hear the eye rolls.  I can’t say I blame them. Other people’s kids are annoying.  Just remember that we’re doing the best we can.

So whenever you see a mom, a dad, anyone straight up owning a stressful situation, whether it’s kid related or not, give them credit.  If you’re thinking something nice about someone, say it. It sounds so simple and yet it’s something I’ll admit I rarely do.  Why?  Shouldn’t we be lifting each other up?  Especially this time of year when everyone is stressed out, be nice.  Find the good.   You never know when you could be making someone’s day.  I know I will never forget that woman at Meijer who made all of my stress and efforts seem worth it.  She made me like everything was going to be ok, and there was nothing I couldn’t deal with.  So, whoever you are Meijer Angel, Thank You! And as for the rest of you, I know people suck but try to be nice.  Maybe they won’t suck as much.

be-nice-gif-10

 

The Shit Remote…

Remember your friend from college who used to insist on taking a picture of his defecation and text to everyone in the group?  If you don’t, lucky you.  If you still have this friend, maybe you shouldn’t.  If you are this friend, stop it!  Now, imagine that giant shit that your friend is strangely proud of had a remote control right next to it.

Allow me to explain.  A little backstory: my daughter, now 2 and a half is recently potty trained.  We’ve got it pretty much down, but she still has this thing.  She always starts to shit in her pants.  She won’t finish in her pants, but she gets the turtle head out of the shell before she says she has to poop.  I think you get the picture.

John wayneOne day she started her daily shit in her Dory underwear per usual.  We ran to the bathroom, her doing her best John Wayne impression. Because walking with shit in your pants is really hard work.  We get to the bathroom with enough time for her to finish her shadoobie in the appropriate arena.  I peeled her underwear off of her, careful not to smear shit all over the front of the toilet…again.

Meanwhile, my 1-year-old is walking around chewing on the remote control for the TV because, well, I’ve just given up as a parent.  Keep in mind, he is obsessed with the toilet.  We’ve already lost a DVD to him taking it for a little swim in the porcelain kiddie pool.  Typically, he only keeps her company while she’s pinching one off.  He’s just sitting in wait for her to be done so he can go to town in the toilet water like God intended.

After my successful removal of the shit stained underwear, I ran upstairs to start a load of laundry, because….poop.  When I came back downstairs I noticed the 1-year-old didn’t have the remote anymore.  Not too strange as he usually leaves random stuff in random places all day long.  I walked into the bathroom to see the girl one still sitting with a look of pride on her face over the stench that was coming from the toilet.  “Good Girl!” she shouted as I asked her if she pooped.  Her legs were slightly separated, and as I looked into the potty, I see something shiny.

“What’s in there?” I asked.

“I poop!!” She replied.

I took her off the toilet to wipe her nasty ass when I see it.  A giant, grown man turd nestled next to our small, black television remote.  My 1-year-old had sneaked it between her legs, mid shit mind you, and then continued about his business as if nothing had happened.

What. In. All. The. Fuck?!?!?! I got a pair of latex gloves that I normally only use when I cut up jalapenos and plucked the shit covered remote out of the toilet. gag There was no question in my mind to throw it away, but I knew that if we were going to buy a new one, we would need to know what the old one looked like.  So, I kept it out to show my husband when he got home from work.

The minute he walked in the door was halfway through both a Bud Light and the story of what happened to our remote.  This sick bastard, says we should keep the remote.  I’m sorry.  Are you fucking kidding me?  There was literally nothing between it and shit.  He replied, “Literally everything in this house has got to be covered in shit at this point,” and threw it in a bowl of rice to dry out. While I can’t argue with his logic about shit in the house, at least 2 of our kids have straight up shit on the floor in the living room, it’s totally different to see it…in the toilet…touching something you hold in your hand every day.

Much to my chagrin, the remote works.  The rice worked, in case you were wondering.  The fucking thing is sitting in my living room.  While I have disinfected it with a bleach solution, I still refuse to use it.  My husband just laughs at me.  To which I simply reply, “You didn’t see it! You don’t know!”

 

You don't know