It’s Tuesday.

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My husband and I crawled into bed last night like a couple of geriatrics. I’m so sore, I groaned. Me too, he whined. My shins are killing me.

I knew I was sore from a tough exercise class, but what was HE sore from?

Bowling. That’s what. And this is how I looked at him.

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I tried to stop the nagging from happening, I really did. But as I laid there in bed thinking about his sore shins, I had a sudden flash-forward of what life will look like when I’m 64 and he is 62, and … it scared the crap out of me.

I jerked my earplugs out and I began to tell him all the reasons why he needs to exercise. I’m sure he was riveted by my tirade, which is why he didn’t respond. Finally, I demanded to know WHY HE REFUSES TO EXERCISE. That is when Robbie Hobbs made the following speech:

“I don’t exercise because it makes me miserable.

It does not make me feel ‘elated.’

It does not make me feel ‘happy.’

All of the things it makes you? It does the opposite for me.

It makes me feel tired, hungry, and sore.

It makes me miserable. THAT IS WHY I DON’T DO IT.”

I explained my fear that a motorized shopping cart is in his future, something I know I am not equipped to handle (because my bedside manner sucks), and he said not to worry because I’m going to end up with Alzheimer’s and I won’t have a clue what’s going on anyway.

And so I put my earplugs back in, and silently worried about that instead.

The Experiment.

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This month I underwent an unplanned experiment wherein I was stuck at home with two sick kids for over 2 weeks straight. To say “it was hard” doesn’t really do the situation justice. I’m not cut out to be home all the time. I seriously thought I was going to LOSE IT.

Normally if I was stuck inside, I would just write a lot, right? And that would make it all okay. But during this time period I was not able to write because every time I started, Asher snotted all over the floor or Pepper pulled a shelf full of pots and pans onto herself. Because you know, small children.

It was one of those stretches of time where I just had to dig deep and force my way through it. I did not enjoy every moment. I enjoyed very few moments. But the good news is, we made it.

The experiment part is that I couldn’t make it to the gym at all, and this proved once again that exercise is a key ingredient to my mental health. I finally went back today, and after huffing and puffing my way through a class I was elated. You can see here that I was clearly much more excited than the kids were. They really are better, I swear … ?

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Then we came home and I had to clean my house, my thighs are sore, the baby won’t nap because she’s cutting teeth, and I am no longer elated. I’m tired and annoyed. I have things I need to do and little hands keep grabbing at me. I just want to lie down without someone trying to sit on my stomach.

I have more to say but the baby is crying urgently from her crib, so I’ll have to stop here.

This is motherhood.

 

When Children Learn To Read.

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You know what’s hilarious? Overhearing a first-grader reading an Anne Taintor calendar out loud.

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Slowly and painfully he read from the October page, “There’s a very fine line between medicated and over-medicated. Hey Mommy, what does ‘medicated’ mean?”

I just laughed and hurried him out the door, feeling pretty proud of my 6-year-old who over the past few months has started to REALLY read. That feeling of pride continued until the next evening, when I caught him in our bedroom trying to sound out the second word on a greeting card my friend Kelli sent almost 2 years ago.

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I turned the corner and saw him studying it closely, mumbling to himself “You’re … f … ”

I quickly redirected him and shoved the card deep under a stack of papers, and once he was out of sight I stood still for awhile and let the waves of mom fail wash over me. I am well aware that there are many things worse that hearing your child trying to sound out the F-word, but I can’t think of them right now … unless it’s the time last week when Robbie and I were chatting with Maverick after the other kids were in bed, and we were making up rhymes.

Maverick was silly and tired, and I was just about to suggest it was time for bed when the following came out of his mouth, and I quote: “You don’t have a wiener, Mommy. You have a pagina. Starts with a ‘P’ and ends with a ‘gina.’ Do you have the Great Wall of China in there? How does it fit?”

Robbie turned his head away, his body shaking with silent laughter, as I sat frozen and speechless.

That.

THAT is worse than hearing him try to sound out the F-word.

The One Where I Let My Family Off The Hook.

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I feel like I have some explaining to do.

Recently, a new friend said to me “When I started reading your blog I thought you were going to be a certain way, but then I MET you and you are just so … poised. It surprised me.” You know what surprises me? Being called “poised.”

I have also had people expect me to be more “Tina Fey or Amy Poeler-like.” First of all, whoa. I wish I were Tina Fey or Amy Poeler-like. I am SUCH A HUGE FAN OF TINA FEY. She’s a hilarious writer (Bossypants is one of my favorite books) and entertaining to watch on television. I’m sure she is just as fun in person over coffee, not that I’m obsessing over that idea or anything. But I’m not like those ladies, I’m sorry to say. I’m not even all that funny in person. I just nod and smile a lot, and if you take that and add in the blonde hair, well … I’ve had many, many people mistake me for an idiot.

I write because my life is stressful and I struggle with it and mostly because I want other women to know it’s okay to admit that things are hard. I want to give and get solidarity.

Here is where I let my family off the hook.

I come from a very long, very southern line of conservative Christians, and none of them use the word “fuck.” Now that I’ve gone and gotten an essay published, and the title of it includes that word, I feel like I need to make sure everyone knows that I wasn’t raised to talk that way. Please don’t judge my parents or my grandparents and think someone didn’t do their job. I think they fear judgement, from you, from the church, from God … but I assure you, I have good moral character. I am grounded in how I was raised.

I write what I’m inspired to write. Some days it’s really heartfelt. Some days it’s really angry. I don’t feel like I need to make excuses for what I do, because I’m proud of it even though it makes my mother and grandmother and who knows who else cringe and wish I would just STOP TALKING ABOUT DRINKING AND STOP USING THAT LANGUAGE. Well … I could. But then I’d be lying, because while I was raised in a family who did not drink, I happen to really enjoy it.

If I were afraid of judgement, I’d use a pen name. This blog would be very motherhood is amazing and perfect, rather than my children are freaking psychotic.

Asher is three years old now. Do you know what that means? That means he loses it over everything. Do you remember what that’s like? No? You lucky bitch, you’ve blocked it out already. Well, it usually goes something like this, over and over and over throughout the day:

Me: Asher, it’s time to go! Do you want to wear your Crocs or your Pumas?

Asher: I DON’T WANT TO WEAR MY CROCS!

Me: Okay! Let’s get your Pumas.

Asher: I DO IT BY MYSELF.

Me: Okay! I’ll just help you if you ask me to.

Asher: (screaming unintelligibly)

Me: Do you want some help?

Asher: I WANT TO WEAR MY CROCS!

Me: (I get the Crocs)

Asher: I DON’T WANT TO WEAR MY CROCS! I WANT TO WEAR MY PUMAS! I DO IT BY MYSELF! I NEED HELP! DON’T TOUCH ME! HOLD ME!

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Meanwhile, the “baby,” who is not a baby anymore but I still call her that, has dragged all of her clothes out of every drawer in her room and every pot and pan out onto the kitchen floor. And I can’t blame her, because the shoe drama was mind-numbing and she had to busy herself some kind of way. Good for her. All I want to do is scream “FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” at the top of my lungs.

But I don’t.

I breathe. Sometimes I lose it, but mostly I breathe. I pick up the pots and I stay calm. I check myself so I don’t hurt anyone. And then later, when no one is bothering me, I write about it and I feel cleansed. That’s why I always say that writing is my therapy. The fact that anyone would want to read it never ceases to amaze me. Maybe I need an actual therapist, yes? I may look into that.

My upbringing has nothing to do with my writing. If I wanted to write about what it’s like to be raised so conservatively and discover the joy of a latte at age 21, I could. And I may. But not today.

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The Optimists.

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I have been dealing with two sick toddlers on and off for the past 10 days, I haven’t been exercising, I’ve been eating terribly and yelling a lot. I think I might be half-sick myself, I can’t think of anything funny to say, and I’m cranky because I’m hungry. Now that I’ve gotten the whining out of the way, I can tell you about the little optimists I’m raising.

We went on a boat ride this weekend.

Because something is wrong with me, I dressed us like it was still summer. We were the only people on the river without jackets, and my children were huddled and shivering by the end of it all. I just held my head high, like yeah.

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I drew the arrows on the picture above because apparently some of the good people on Facebook thought the entire log was an alligator. Um … if that were the case, I wouldn’t be smiling. It was a baby gator sunning itself, and I heard myself yelling, “WAIT! LET ME TAKE A SELFIE!” because I’m quickly becoming that person.

Now, no disrespect to anyone, but we saw several houses with slides or rope swings, which I assume means people actually swing or slide into the very same river that the baby alligators and the mama alligators live in. What the hell are they thinking? River people must be optimists.

Afterwards, we went to McDonald’s and Maverick dropped his ice cream cone on the floor. He quickly picked it back up and tried to continue eating it. I took it away (i.e. shrieked and jerked it from his grasp) and explained why you can’t eat anything that has landed on a McDonald’s floor … E-V-E-R.

He looked at me and said loudly and with zest, “At least it landed on my pants first!” And then he proceeded to lean over and lick ice cream off the leg of his pants.

Optimists, man. They don’t worry about Ebola, Salmonella, or being eaten alive. They just live.

Always Original.

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It has been FAR too long since I’ve done a “Things That Make Me Happy” post. Today’s the day to make that right.

I finally have a daughter to dress however I want, but because I’m always short on time (and money) she normally ends up wearing stuff from Target. Which is fine. But … you know. It’s not fab. So, when an old friend contacted me and asked if I would be interested in putting her clothes on Pepper, I said YES. PLEASE HELP US.

Elly Belly Style by Melissa is couture clothing for children. Note: I just looked up the definition of “couture” to make sure I was using it correctly, because this is unfamiliar territory. I’m a T.J. Maxx-er and a bargain hunter, and has always mistakenly assumed that “couture” was synonymous with “overpriced, frilly shit.” Now I am more educated and I know that it just means it’s the only one like it out there, and it doesn’t have to be overpriced or frilly. Who knew?! (Not me.)

Melissa asked me to take Pepper’s measurements, and it’s a shame no one has that footage on camera. Have you ever measured a wiggly 16-month-old? I don’t recommend it. It’s hard — way harder than dealing with tights or pigtails. I definitely broke a sweat and stress-ate a bag of M&M’s when we were done.

Based on the info I gave her, she created this adorable Halloween-themed dress and the panel (which is the part with the characters on it, I learned) was created exclusively for Elly Belly customers. The dress is made from organic, European fabrics, and don’t tell Melissa I said this, but when I opened the envelope and pulled out the dress it smelled so good I buried my face in it. Weird? Yes. I don’t get out much, you know.

Wanna see the dress?! Of course you do!

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If you are interested in seeing more amazing creations from Melissa, you can find her on Facebook!

 

Pepper Remains Unimpressed.

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“She’s so wrapped up in this book thing that’s going on or whatever the hell, that she didn’t even notice that she forced me to break two cardinal fashion rules. I’m wearing HIGH WATER PANTS and they are WHITE. It’s October 15, bitch.

Just get me the hell home and help me find my lovey.”

BIG ANNOUNCEMENT!

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It’s a little disorienting when you think to yourself, hey, I think I’ll try to do this thing and see what happens, you know, just for fun. And then THAT THING TOTALLY HAPPENS.

You guys. I’m in this book. You can pre-order it and read all about it by clicking HERE! Go on, I’ll wait.

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I am incredibly humbled, excited, totally freaking out and terrified … but mostly EXCITED, to be a part of this project. The other writers that I’m being lumped together with are incredibly talented. I know this because I have creeper-stalked every last one of them, and every time I become Facebook “friends” with another one I scream like my feet are on fire.

Today while I am frantically trying to keep up with the social media explosion that is happening, feeling pretty effing PROUD TO BE A PART OF IT, my children will be busy keeping me in check with reality. Just now, Asher showed me a booger on the end of his finger and asked what he should do with it. I told him I’m going to be published. He wiped the booger on my pants.

Reality is not glamorous. But being published is totally glamorous, so I think I’ll just sit here for a few more minutes and enjoy this moment while the baby pounds on my door.

(Be sure to visit Scary Mommy to see exactly why I am so excited! You can find my name in the list of authors … ! Tell your friends! #scarymommythanksgiving)

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