That’s Marriage.

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 …. To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.

Almost 10 years ago, Robbie and I said those words to each other. I don’t remember any of it.

We had no idea what we were doing. I was 25, the last of my friends to get married (except for my friend who was in medical school — she married at 30). We said the words. We started our journey.

Ten years later …

Husband: “Where are my white dress shirt and suit pants?”

Me: “I have no idea.”

(Silence.)

Me: “When did you last see or wear them?”

Husband: “Last year.”

‪Flabbergasted, I proceeded to ridicule him like the proper wife that I am.

I am not the Keeper of All The Things, I am only one person! YOU should know where your pants are! How is it that you haven’t worn your nice pants in 10 whole months? OMG, we need to find a church and start attending, it’s good for the kids. It doesn’t matter which church, let’s just pick one. They need to learn Bible stories because I keep forgetting to teach them because I’m too busy keeping everyone alive and the only ones I can remember accurately are about Adam and Eve and the Christmas Story. WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING?!

My husband is a very patient man, and he listened to my entire tirade before asking me to check the dry cleaner’s to make sure I hadn’t forgotten to pick them up nearly a year ago.

“Well … okay,” I said. “But I am usually really good about keeping up with that stuff.”

Karma is a bitch, friends. After spending 3 days searching for Robbie’s suit pants and dress shirt, I swung through our old dry cleaner’s — the one I don’t use anymore because it’s so far away — on a whim.

The guy started laughing as soon as he saw me pull in. My face started to redden and I got a feeling in the pit of my stomach that I can only describe as bewildered mortification.

“Hi, Mrs. Hobbs. I knew you’d come back! I kept telling my boss not to give your stuff away!” This is what he said as I picked up everything the entire family — yes, all 5 of us — wore for Christmas pictures nearly a year ago.

Apparently I didn’t notice that I’ve been missing clothes, either.

That’s marriage.

Marriage.

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The Perfect Bun

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Hobbs & Hayworth are back on Mom Cave TV with more shenanigans! Grab a coffee (or something stronger), kick back, and prepare to be amused.

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13 Surefire Ways To Make Life Difficult For Your Family

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After writing this post yesterday, several people have emailed or commented asking to see my list.

You know … the list. The one I pull out when I have heard too much needless whining. The one I refer to when I have picked up other people’s dirty clothes for too many days in a row or spent time cooking a meal and breaking up fights and keeping a toddler from touching the stove, AND NO ONE EATS IT.

That.

This list strikes fear in the hearts of those who have to live with me. Want to compare notes? OF COURSE YOU DO!

13 Surefire Ways To Make Life Difficult For Your Family:

  1. Omit items from the grocery list that everyone else likes, and buy what I like instead. Example: instead of Honey Nut Cheerios, I will buy fat-free granola with dried berries. Instead of whole milk, I will get almond milk. Instead of sweet tea, you will drink PLAIN WATER.
  2. If the situation in #1 grows dire enough, someone will eventually suggest going to the store. I will then produce a lengthy and complicated list of hard-to-find items. Can’t find the fresh coriander? LOOK HARDER.
  3. Fail to charge all of the iThings.
  4. Lose the chargers.
  5. Insist that we listen to the “Sunday Jazz Brunch” Pandora station all. weekend. long. It’s good for brain growth.
  6. Assign additional chores to anyone who talks to me. “Oh, hi! I was about to ask you to fold these towels!” or, “Hello, child! You have so much energy. Here’s the Windex — you’re 4 now. You can totally clean windows.” Pro tip: this one is my favorite.
  7. Go on a health kick. The mere idea of throwing away all of the Pop Tarts makes them gasp in unified horror.
  8. Suggest a bike ride and then say, “Daddy will take you! Have fun!” Disappear.
  9. Enforce educational-only books and TV shows for as long as it takes for them to become sufficiently educated.
  10. Sing in the car.
  11. Stop washing clothes. Hint: no one will notice or care until they start running out of underwear. Prepare to look confused when they ask where all of their underwear went.
  12. Consider military-style consequences for unwanted behavior, i.e. push-ups, digging holes, and running laps.
  13. Leave the house.

Adios

Bonus points: hang this banner in a common area.

I found this on Pinterest, and it is amazing. I have no idea where it originated from, but I WANT ONE.

I found this on Pinterest, and it is amazing. I have no idea where it originated from, but I WANT ONE.

There you have it! My list is ever-changing and ever-growing. What’s on yours?! I’m always looking for new ideas.

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10 Surefire Ways To Enrage Your Mother

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No matter how calm and collected a woman may be, you can rest assured that there are countless ways to piss her off. I don’t mean just irk her a little — I mean send her flying into a rage reminiscent of 2007 Britney Spears.

Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. We all have those moments.

I’m almost certain that my children have a master list hidden somewhere in the house where they keep track of the behaviors that seem to make me the angriest, which they refer to when they need some quick entertainment.

When and if I am able to locate this list and decode it, I imagine that it will go a little something like this.

10 Surefire Ways To Enrage Our Mother:

  1. Emerge from a bath without drying off. Proceed to wrap your entire body in toilet paper.
  2. Refuse to poop when she encourages you to, even if you really do have to go. Hold it in until the worst possible time. Repeat as needed.
  3. Poop in the backyard.
  4. Grind your Goldfish crackers into dust and blow them across the kitchen.
  5. Allow her to painstakingly part your slippery toddler hair and affix it into two perfect pigtails. Stare at her without emotion while slowly pulling them out.
  6. Wait until she leaves the room. Scream like you just got your fingers chopped off. Laugh when she comes rushing into the room with a panic-stricken look on her face. Pro Tip: You’ll probably only be able to do this once.
  7. Say the same thing over and over. Say the same thing over and over. Say the same thing over and over.
  8. Use her fancy shampoo as bubble bath.
  9. Play with her makeup … in her closet. (Allow your imagination to run wild with this one! Maverick once painted the closet carpet like a rainbow!)
  10. Pretend to be a cat. Do all the things a cat would do, such as hiding under the bed when it’s time to leave the house, pawing at others and yowling when someone is brushing your teeth. Don’t forget the most important part: eat and drink without using your hands. (See #3 for extra points!)

Rest assured, friends … I have a list of my own that I refer to as needed. It’s called “Ways To Make Life Difficult For Everyone Around Me.”

No one wants to see me pull that list out.

10 Surefire Ways To Enrage Your Mother(If you liked this post, then you should follow me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter!)

This Post Is Not Politically Correct.

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This is a post about how much I loathe those who are easily offended.

In recent years, I have watched the world around me grow increasingly politically correct. We are expected to alter our speech and behavior to avoid offending different groups of people.

We choose our words carefully, but even so, arguments rage on social media over seemingly innocuous comments or articles — which, I might add, I avoid unless I’m feeling particularly ragey.

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I get the idea behind it. We want to be an inclusive, accepting society. We don’t want to make anyone feel left out or unwanted.

In moderation, or using what I like to call common sense, this seems like a logical, mannerly way to live and do business. I am a genuinely polite and caring person. I would never want to offend anyone on purpose unless they truly deserved it, but I am SO TIRED OF PEOPLE GETTING THEIR PANTIES IN A WAD.

In our effort to be “politically correct,” we have armed those who have absolutely no sense whatsoever with the entitlement to get offended by everything that they don’t understand or identify with.

Rather than, say, moving on and finding another website to peruse, or flipping to the next page in the newspaper, or (gasp!) changing the television channel, these people instead cry in outrage “This is OFFENSIVE!”

Then they stop whatever it is that they were doing before said offense took place to look up the contact information for the offending source, OR, my personal favorite — they make a comment on social media — to state just how offended they are. Then, I suppose they must anxiously await the transgressor’s apology.

It must be a very long wait.

I am very weary of people who are easily offended. They are the adult version of whiny toddlers, and I am full up on whining over here because I have a house full of actual children. However, because I’m not completely heartless, I made a short list of tips for people who are easily offended to follow — should they wish to no longer be offended by what they see and hear.

Harmony’s Tips For People Who Are Easily Offended And Wish To Avoid Being Offended:

  1. Stop internetting.
  2. Subscribe only to reading materials that you deem “safe.” Some suggestions: Encyclopedia Brittanica, Webster’s Dictionary, The Bible.
  3. Cease all communication with the outside world.
  4. AVOID DONALD TRUMP.

See? So easy!

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Seven.

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You are 7 years old today.

I was taught that seven is a perfect, magical number — God created Heaven and Earth in 6 days and then rested on the 7th. The number seven shows up repeatedly all throughout the Bible, meaning, I assume, that you will be absolutely angelic for the next 365 days. Because seven.

You have given me so many gifts in your short life, I cannot imagine what else there is to experience. And yet I know, because of what the past seven years have shown me, that my mind is too small to imagine the joy that is yet to come. I could weave my words into an eloquent summary of what it means to be your mother, but that wouldn’t suit us. I’ll stick with what I know and keep it simple.

You are ear-to-ear grins too early in the morning.

You are pizzazz, personified.

You are stubborn and so incredibly difficult. Like … so difficult. You dig your heels in unlike anyone I have ever known, and it’s terrifying and wondrous all at once to know that I am supposed to shape you into a man of character, because you already have so much character. How am I supposed to know what to do with it?! There is so much of it, and it just keeps getting bigger and bigger, like pizza dough.

Being your mother makes me uncomfortable because I have to admit almost daily that I don’t know what the hell I am doing. But I think you think I’m pretty great, so that helps.

You are fun.

You are full-volume.

You eat like a chinchilla, and you get that from your father.

You like to catch people off-guard. When I least expect it, you’ll say “Mommy! How many Sith Lords does it take to change a lightbulb?” And I will stop whatever I’m doing and think about it, but before I can answer, you blurt out: “NONE! BECAUSE THEY PREFER IT ON THE DARK SIDE! Get it?! DARK? SIDE? HAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!”

Oh, Maverick. My life would be so boring without you. Like I tell you all the time, you are just right, just the way you are.

SEVEN!

SEVEN!

Happy 7th birthday, kid. You are a gift to me every single day.

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Dinner And A Show.

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I have a great dad. I love my dad.

He’s kind and hilarious and has a fantastic Southern accent. He calls mosquitoes “skeeters” and says things to my kids like “You look like you’ve been wallerin’ in dirt.”

He always used to tell me, if you hit right, you’ll only have to hit once. I think my dad is the reason why I grew up with such cowboy-like grit. For a girl.

He works really hard, so I don’t get to see him that often, but occasionally he will take me out to eat, just the two of us. It’s so nice to have the luxury to sit and talk without the constant interruption of children, and to have a reason to put on real clothes to go to an establishment where someone else will prepare and deliver my food without me having to exert any energy beyond deciding what items I want to order from the menu.

Tonight I met my dad for dinner at Newk’s, which is like an upscale Jason’s Deli, which is basically a glorified Subway sandwich shop. I don’t know why I suggested it — he asked me where I wanted to go, and for whatever reason I picked Newk’s. It’s in a brand new building right next to Starbucks, and since I said that’s what I wanted, that is where we went.

We sat in a booth right next to the floor-to-ceiling windows, facing the parking lot. I ate spinach-and-feta soup, he had the Chef’s salad, and we discussed heavy issues like what we are going to find out tomorrow morning when we meet with the oncologist to get the results of my mom’s PET scan.

The entire time we were eating, there was a tall, athletic-looking black guy standing right on the other side of the window talking on his cell phone. He was wearing a t-shirt, flip flops, and athletic shorts. My dad’s back was to the man, so he didn’t see him even though he was literally 2 feet away.

I have to assume that the man couldn’t see me — maybe there was a reflection on the glass — because the entire time he was on the phone, his hand was glued to his crotch … which was at eye-level.

I tried my best to ignore him, but every time I glanced over, HIS HAND WAS ON HIS GENITALS. Inside his shorts, outside his shorts … it’s like he was doing whatever men do when they’re by themselves, except that he was in public and I was trying to eat dinner and my dad was sitting across the table from me.

Let me be clear: this man wasn’t pleasuring himself. It seemed like he might be one of those nervous, penis-grabby types. You know the ones. He seemed distracted. Also, race doesn’t mean a thing to me … except in this particular situation.

You’ll find out why in a moment.

As I was talking to my dad, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and that is when I saw an enormous black penis, in person, for the first time in my entire life. I’ve seen my share of white penises, but nary a black penis. No, not one, in all of my 35 years.

I guess the guy was so involved in his conversation that he forgot where he was and just pulled that sucker free from his pants.

This is the exact look I had on my face.

This is the exact look I had on my face.

I stopped talking, stared straight at him and yelled “REALLY?! REALLY?!?!?!” through the window, waving my hands in the air with indignation. I can ignore a lot, but I draw the line at indecent exposure.

Everything moved in slow motion as he realized that people (well, just me) were trying to eat right next to his giant cock, which was out of his pants. He put it away, turned around, and casually strolled away, still talking on the phone.

My dad, who was confused and looked out the window just in time to see him walk away, looked at me questioningly. “I can’t even,” I said, and I continued talking about whatever it was that I was talking about before I saw what I saw.

Because I am a fucking LADY.

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I’m Medicated And It’s Fantastic.

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There are a thousand different ways to say this, but I don’t feel like being fancy so I’m just going to blurt it out … just like I did yesterday while attending a family barbecue.

I was standing in the middle of the kitchen with my cousin and my aunt, and I said (out of nowhere and completely unrelated to the conversation), “I’M MEDICATED AND IT’S FANTASTIC.”

I’m no stranger to anxiety, but I have noticed an uptick in recent months. I’d mention it to my husband, but he didn’t seem concerned. I was still functioning, still doing everything I’ve always done. He didn’t know that my chest was tight from the moment I woke up in the morning, until long after the kids were in bed. He didn’t know what it was like to be me … because he isn’t me.

And if he was me, I think we all know that he would probably just sit in one spot all day long and hold my/his boobs.

Then, I was surprised with some amazing news — we’re going to New York City next month to celebrate our 10-year wedding anniversary! I was so excited … until the worrying began. I can pinpoint the moment that it started — we were sitting on the couch, and Robbie showed me a video of the building we’re staying in. As the camera zoooooooooooomed up, panning the structure from bottom to top, I couldn’t breathe. The irrational thoughts were cutting off my air supply.

We haven’t flown together since our honeymoon. What if the plane crashes? What if there is a fire in the building where we are staying? WE HAVE THREE KIDS NOW. What would happen to them? We have nothing to pass on, they don’t have official Godparents. We are fucking terrible at adulting! Fucking terrible! WHO LET US BECOME ADULTS? WE ARE GOING TO CELEBRATE 10 YEARS OF MARRIAGE BY DYING A FIERY DEATH. I NEED A SHOT OF WHISKEY.

I can’t breathe. I can’t look. I think I’ll just double over.

Four days after that, my mother sat me down on that same couch and told me she has cancer.

This was when I realized I had a problem.

Before now, I have never had a need for a “primary care physician,” but I procured one immediately. I needed a pill or a therapist or possibly a tranquilizer dart. I sat quietly as the nurse took my blood pressure and asked me a series of questions:

Nurse: “Are you sexually active?”

Me: “Yes.”

Nurse: “Do you use protection?”

Me: “No.”

***

Nurse: “Do you drink alcohol?”

Me: (OPEN LAUGHTER)

Nurse: “How much and what kind?”

Me: (STILL LAUGHING)

***

My new doctor came in and we shook hands. She praised my self-awareness, coping mechanisms, and overall health. She informed me that I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder and prescribed me a pill that will help me get through this challenging time in my life. Then I mentioned my weight, which is up. She said, “Yeah, your Body Mass Index is high … but you know what? You don’t look fat, SO WHO CARES?!”

This solidified her spot as My Most Favorite Person Ever.

I have now fully embraced my medicated state. I honestly can’t recall the last time I felt this calm and relaxed, while at the same time being sober. I’m not bothered by the little things, so I can focus on the big things with calmness and clarity.

This must be what it feels like to be my husband.

Today, instead of running around in a panic, picking up toys and cleaning already-clean surfaces, I cuddled and played with my kids.

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Photo credit: Robbie Hobbs

I don’t know what the future will bring, but between now and then, I’m going to take my medication.

I also plan to make a lot of memes like this one, because I have priorities.

Basic bitch(If you liked this post, then you should follow me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter!)

Extraordinary Things.

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Motherhood is getting hit over the head with a plastic bin full of toys, because your child doesn’t know how to ask you to open it like a civilized person.

Motherhood is multiple, over-sized, unapologetic glasses of wine.

It’s earplugs, noise machines, and tiptoeing down the hall; it’s double shots of espresso ordered through a drive-thru because you haven’t had time to buy groceries this week and you are desperate for caffeine, SO STOP YOUR YAMMERING AND GIMME MY COFFEE.

Motherhood is self-sacrifice. Your heart and your mind, your body, your money, your energy and your breath. You pour it all out, everything you have, because you are a mother.

Motherhood is Vicks Vaporub, saline spray, and Kleenex bought in bulk. It’s the feeling of excitement when you see diapers on sale, the joy of finally throwing out an almost-7-year-old Diaper Genie, and the sheer anguish of potty training.

Potty training is a low point.

Motherhood is when you get news that makes your mouth go dry and your chest feel compressed, but you still have to go through the motions and be a mom anyway.

Motherhood can be a real bitch.

Motherhood is painful and uncomfortable from the very start. It is a bloaty, crampy, I’m-fat-and-my-heart-is-outside-of-my-body feeling that never ends. It’s overwhelming, always. It forces you to stretch in ways you never thought possible.

Motherhood makes you grow because you have to.

Motherhood is every joy and pain, the deepest love, the greatest source of hope. It brings us to our knees — in prayer, in suffering, in gratitude, in wonder — because it is worth every ounce of energy that we invest.

Motherhood is extraordinary, because all extraordinary things are hard.

And glorious.

But mostly hard.Joy(If you liked this post, then you should follow me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter!)