My mom gave me this book yesterday and I haven’t been able to put it down. If you have a son under the age of 18, you should read this book.

I’m finding it particularly helpful because I am not a man so I don’t really understand the maleness of my boys. I know better than to try to squash it, but I don’t really know how to shape it. The world doesn’t need any more sissies or sex addicts, so I encourage all mothers of boys to:

1.  Read this book.

2. Don’t shame your sons because their penis is their favorite body part; apparently that is normal. Our job is to teach them how to keep it in their pants.

3. Stop doing things for them that they can do for themselves. STOP IT. You’re screwing up their self-esteem. Let them be little men from the time they are small and build them up to be big men who know how to cope with life.

Clearly I don’t have all the answers — this is why I read self-help books. I just don’t want my daughter to be surrounded by idiots when she grows up. I only have control over the direction of two future men in this world, and they are both yelling at the top of their lungs because they want an ice cream sandwich. So … fingers crossed.
 

This week has been one of the longest, most exhausting weeks of my life. Spring Break, you’re a a BITCH. I just have to make it through today and tomorrow. Then I’m taking the boys to my parent’s house so I can recover enough to shower and dress myself and drive to Mississippi for my 15-year high school reunion.

I’ve been trying to embrace this time with just two kids. I’m sure that is what my future self with three kids would tell me, that I should be enjoying this because shit’s about to get real, sister. I’m really trying to enjoy my days, taking one moment at at time and breathing deep yoga breaths between having puke blown in my face and watching ONE dump his little brother face-first into the Pack N’ Play as I scream “NOOOOOOO!”

We’ve watched a ton of TV and I DON’T CARE. I’ve fed them crap and I DON’T CARE. We have not visited the Easter Bunny or gone on an egg hunt or to the library or any of the other things good mothers do with their children. 

We have learned magic tricks and learned how to peel cucumbers and played outside until Mommy’s nerves can’t take it anymore. I’ve yelled and apologized a lot. I’ve hugged and kissed them a lot. I hope that they know that I love them both … and I’m thankful they are too young to remember this difficult season of life. 

This will not be the Spring Break that they think of when they reminisce about their childhood.  

Hopefully this one will be kind of murky.

Sesame Street with peacock hair and cowboy boots and mouth agape.

These moments help me cope with the OTHER ones. Yes, we are watching TV again.

This is TWO perched on the tray part of his high chair. WHY. GET DOWN, OMG.

I haven’t seen Husband much. I’m too exhausted by 8:30 p.m. when he gets home to actually spend time with him. I mumble hello and shuffle off to bed in my bag lady clothes, feeling pity for the man who probably wonders what has happened to his wife.

I’m still in there somewhere. I’ll come back to life at some point. Right now I’m so jealous of women who have their husbands home at night to help them. Spoiled bitches. I’m angry at all of you and I HOPE YOU APPRECIATE YOUR MEN IF THEY ARE HOME FOR DINNER. Even if they park on the couch and space out, you can still have the luxury of telling the kids, “Go play with Daddy!” to get them out of your way.

I like to plan ahead.

I’ll leave you with this: now I finally understand how moms don’t have time to shower or poop. I hope that when this time of my life draws to a close … when all of my kids are ages 3 and up and know better than to climb on the kitchen counters … I really hope I can remember how to function like a normal adult who showers and brushes her teeth. 

I know, I know. Somebody needs to call the whambulance.

I’m exhausted.

This weekend is my 15-year high school reunion. 

Whaaaaaaat?!

I remember being in high school and seeing the old people come back and feeling a mix of pity and awe. And now, here I am. I am old. People will feel pity and awe when they see me. 

I went to a small, private, Christian boarding school in Mississippi for all of high school. I was 14 years old when I went, which is crazy. I still saw my parents every few weeks, but I lived in the dorm and was responsible to wash my own clothes, get myself to class on time, and handle my business. I learned how to be self-reliant and independent and confident — important traits for any kid, but especially for a girl.

Looking back on the years of 1994-1998 brings a lot of emotions … I cringe, mostly. Like it would have been nice if someone would have slapped some foundation and blush on my face from the get-go and directed me to a salon where I could have layers cut into my bushy head of hair. And I wish I hadn’t dated anyone seriously, I mean COME ON. I was a child who lived in a bubble with no idea of what she really wanted out of life. But most people have regrets from that time in their lives, and it’s humbling to look back and see how much I have changed since then.

Freshman year …

I feel so far removed from that time. But truthfully, going away to school shaped a LOT of who I am today and I’m grateful for it. My graduating class was small and close-knit. You can’t help but to develop a bond with people you pretty much live with for most of the year. 

Sophomore year …

Junior year …

Senior year …

Normally I would be completely stressed out about my appearance and would be tanning, dieting, pedicuring, and primping myself in preparation. In fact, I skipped my 10-year reunion because I was pregnant with ONE and felt fat and ugly. I’ve regretted it ever since, mostly because I wasn’t fat — I was pregnant — and that was a silly reason to miss out. This time is different because I’m older and wiser and hugely, ridiculously pregnant and there isn’t much I can do about any of it except throw on a horizontal-striped dress and call it a day. 

I’ve been telling Husband for months to make sure he gets off from work March 30th. I showed him on the calendar multiple times. I reminded him every few weeks. And yet, the other day, he tells me he can’t get off from work because it’s the last Saturday of the month and he is in the car business and it’s just not possible.  

OH, IT’S POSSIBLE. 

You cannot send your pregnant wife to her 15-year class reunion alone. What if there is some freak there who has a thing for hugely pregnant single women? Some sugar daddy looking to save a woman in need? No thank you. I definitely pulled the pregnancy card in this situation.

I have also informed him that one of us has to look hot, and it’s not going to be me … so … your move, Husband.

Anyway, I’m kind of relieved to have the pressure off and just go and enjoy. Maybe for my 20-year I will have brand-new, sky-high boobs to show off, and in that case I will certainly be concerned about my appearance. I’ll be really old by then, you know — THIRTY-EIGHT. And I will most likely be on the brink of a major “have to prove I’m still young and cool” crisis that will surely draw the looks of awe and pity.  

One of my very favorite things to do in this world is to have “coffee talk.” You know, where you curl up with a cup of coffee in your living room or in a coffee shop, and talk to someone you enjoy spending time with. Nothing refreshes my soul more than good conversation and a good cup of coffee.

So if we were going to have coffee this morning, here is what I would share with you. First of all, THREE finally has a name! Husband and I argued and discussed and debated, and finally we have settled on a name we both feel good about for our third child: Penelope Rose. I’ve been calling her Pepper, but if we meet her and she doesn’t seem … Pepperish … we can always call her Poppy or just plain Penelope. But never, ever Penny.

I’d also tell you that yesterday I was in Target with TWO picking up his prescription and I pulled a ninja mom move in the bathroom, which involved locking his shoulder in between my knees while I washed my hands so he wouldn‘t run into one of the stalls and play in the toilet water. He’s got a fascination with toilets … which is kind of a pain in my ass.

TWO has an ear infection and a sinus infection. Boo.

This week I came across some parenting advice that I absolutely LOVE and plan to follow with my own children. I’m forever finding things on the internet that I love, but this really resonated with me. 

I’d also tell you that I have had a really rough week and it literally feels like everyone in my life is trying their hardest to give me a hard time. YOU WIN, PEOPLE. YOU HAVE ALL SUCCESSFULLY GIVEN ME AN ADEQUATE AMOUNT OF GRIEF.  

But … since we had this nice, calm, imaginary coffee talk, I really feel a lot better. The only thing that could have made it better would be a shot of whiskey. Cheers!
 

My 4-year-old knows all the words to Some Nights by the band Fun. The other day we were in the car singing 

Tonight, while Husband was still at work, I was going about my usual evening routine consisting of:

1. Looking a hot mess while 

2. Yelling at and chasing after half-dressed little boys, and

3. Praying out loud things like “Lord, help me get through the next two hours,”

4. And wishing I could hide somewhere with a bottle of whiskey.  

ONE had stripped down to his underwear, I looked like a half-price hooker, and TWO was completely naked because I had just plunked him into the tub. Right when I pulled out the shampoo, ONE ran into the bathroom and shouted, “There’s an old lady at the door!” and I said, “Oh?“ and went about my business. He asked if he could let her in and I said NO and then asked him which door she was at. He said the back door. I explained I couldn’t answer it right now, but I was sure she will leave a note or come back later or something.

He then ran back to the kitchen presumably to shout through the door “My mommy says you have to go away” or something equally embarrassing, and … 

I heard him yell, “SHE’S IN OUR HOUSE!” 

At that point I scooped up a soaking wet, 30-pound toddler and ran into the kitchen to find my next-door neighbor standing in the middle of my home. Now, this is kind of sad, but she has dementia. She came over to tell me she got some packages at her house that had baby clothes in them and realized they didn’t belong to her when she opened them, so she came to tell me. And the door was unlocked … so … there she was. Right there. In my house.

I said thank you and I will get them as soon as possible and thank you again and I hoped she would have a good evening, but … she has dementia, you see. So she didn’t leave. She talked to my naked children instead, which is understandable.

As TWO got heavier and heavier, and my pregnant back and arms started to really hurt (I couldn’t put him down since he was wet and would slip on the tile), I very kindly steered her out and assured her I’d come by to get the packages as soon as I had a chance.  

Then I locked the door.

I returned to what I was doing and had just put TWO in his crib and was — of course — on the toilet peeing when ONE came rocketing down the hallway yelling “She‘s back!!!” And indeed she was, this time with the packages. My thoughtful Aunt Nancy from Alabama mailed some little girl clothes for THREE.

  
Someday when she is older I will tell her the story of The Hard-Won Frilly Clothes and how important it is to always, always lock her doors.

So. Weird.

I have several friends in their 30’s who are at a crossroads regarding whether or not to have children. While I am pregnant with my third child and am slowly being buried under snot and poop, they are leading very respectable lives with their mates. Good jobs, nice, clean residences, two dependable cars, nights out, or quiet nights in with no disturbances.

I can understand the hesitation. Having reached adulthood, finally doing whatever it is they were aiming to do with their lives … why would they mess it all up with a life-sucking baby?! Children are so very unpredictable. There is no way to map out the scars your body might bear, or your relationships for that matter. It’s a scary thing, childbearing. All of it is scary. I STILL don’t like to dwell on the fact that somehow THREE will have to get out of me in a few months. There are some things best put out of your head until the time comes.

Plainly speaking, children are terrifying. They don’t care what kind of grades you got or where your degree is from. They don’t give a shit if you’re having a bad day or if you are tired. Parenthood is a level playing field. You can read books and take classes and try and try to prepare yourself, but when it comes down to it, nothing is going to prepare you. It’s just a thing, like marriage, that you have to jump into and kind of hope it all turns out okay.

So what do I say to my girlfriends? Just because I love being a mom, doesn‘t mean this life is right for everyone. A friend sent me this article today entitled “That Baby Wants To Break You Up,” and everything the author says is so true, OMG. Every word. I highly recommend you take a gander. Husband and I often feel like our children are trying to demolish our marriage — but there is something to be said for learning how to work as one and protect your relationship from your own children.

So yes, it’s hard. By far the hardest thing I have ever done. So why do I encourage my friends, who I think would have super-cute babies and be wonderful mothers, to procreate? Because of this: 

I just had to stop typing twice during this blog entry to go check on TWO, who was fussing in his crib. I was annoyed that my train of thought was interrupted. Doesn’t he know I’m busy?! I just sat down! Hellooo …

But when I walked into his room and his face lit up with that dimpled grin, my annoyance vanished. I picked him up and he laid his head on my shoulder, wrapped his arms around me, and happily kicked his legs. You can’t know what it’s like until you experience it yourself, but I would trade my former, childless life a million times over for this one: the one filled with tears, crumbs, and constant interruptions.

I asked Husband to take a “belly shot” of me and ONE rushed over to help. No, ONE, my actual belly doesn’t need to show … but thank you for your assistance.