If ever you find yourself wondering, “What’s the opposite of sexy?” Or, if you are in your early twenties,“What will I look like in 10 years?” Then by golly, you’ve come to the right place.
It’s 6:52 on a Friday night and I’m wearing sheep pajamas, bitches.
Yesterday, Husband told me he wants to have a vasectomy. He’s done having children, he said. To that I say, hmmm. That’s too bad.
He says I’m trying to overcompensate for the fact that I am an only child by having as many children as I possibly can. When that made me laugh, he tried another tactic: telling me I’m getting old. Low blow, Husband. And quite ineffective.
So in the spirit of vasectomy avoidance, here are some pictures I found on my phone today that for one reason or another never found their way to the public. Surely he will see these and reconsider his position.
Surely.
ONE has learned the words “stupid” and “hate” and is now using them in sentences like “You’re stupid Mommy” or worse … “I hate you!” It’s horrifying and terrible and embarrassing. Mostly it’s embarrassing.
Guess who taught him those words?
I did.
Both of them were learned from me … because I loathe Walmart. Every time we go there I say “I hate Walmart” or “THIS IS SO STUPID!” Because I do. And everything about it is. I am totally to blame. I would love to blame Walmart. Or Husband. But unfortunately, as a parent, I should have been saying something like “I have a strong dislike for this establishment. It’s so silly.”
So now I know how parents end up talking like idiots, using words like fiddlesticks and smartypants. Now I must undo what I have done. Before August 27, the first day of preschool. Lord help me.
Oh shishkabob.
I’ve been without a full-length mirror since May.
Also, I am tired of hearing about Chik-Fil-A. So they don’t support gay marriage. SO WHAT. It’s called free speech, and I exercise it every time I write a blog post.
That is all.
Yesterday Husband and I were talking and I realized, we fight a lot less than we used to. We both credit the fact that I’m at home full time and not trying to juggle housework, children, and a high stress career. Just thinking about that makes me want to punch someone in the face.
It’s working for our relationship. I am so proud of Husband and grateful to him for allowing me to grab life by the balls and quit my job, something extremely risky in this economy. I have been home for approximately one year. And finally, FINALLY, this is where we are now: my children can finally play together like normal children.
We have come so far.
If ever I get discouraged, all I have to do is browse through the year’s worth of pictures on my cell phone. I find things like this:
And this:
I am so happy these days are behind us.
That’s a weird thing to say, I realize. It seems like a lot of mothers pine for the days when their children were tiny. Not this mother. I was so stressed out all. the. time.
Life is much easier now. Now I can finally say …
(deep breath)
WE MADE IT. I let both of my children watch way too much TV. I allowed ONE to eat way too much candy. I drank too much wine. I was on and off medication. I thought more than once that I couldn’t do it. I wanted to go back to work. I wanted to give up. I cried. And cried. I wondered if my marriage would make it. I wondered if ONE was psychologically damaged. I wondered if TWO would ever stop crying.
Making it through this year is to date my greatest accomplishment. I couldn’t have done it without my man. Thank you so much, my meat-eating, messy, lint-making, scatterbrained, SWEET Husband.
Behind every sane mother is a wonderful man.
Our next-door neighbor is extremely obsessive about her lawn. I keep accidentally running into her grass when I back out of the driveway. At first I thought it was accidental, like you know … part of my charm. But now I’m thinking it might be accidentally on purpose.
Husband and I have been talking about modesty for awhile. I don’t want my sons to have any embarrassing memories of their mother, so I’ve been trying to be more mindful of what I wear around the house.
This can be a problem, though, when you have more than one child. They all have to come with me to the bathroom, to the dressing room, etc. I can’t exactly leave a three-year-old and a 10-month-old unsupervised. Combine this with the fact that ONE is extremely inquisitive, has an excellent memory, and notices everything. Every. Thing.
Last week, ONE asked me, yet again, how babies are made. The kid is three. I wanted to yell “STOP ASKING ME THAT DAMMIT!” but instead I gave him a vague reply about mommies and daddies that love each other have babies sometimes. He totally wasn’t satisfied with this. He said in an exasperated tone, “No, Mommy. HOW. HOW are they made.”
I steered off that topic thank God and then he said that he wished he had been allowed to go to the hospital with me when TWO was born. He wanted to see how he came out of my tummy. And then he flat-out asked me, “HOW did TWO get out of your tummy?” So … I told him.
Me: Out of my vagina.
ONE: Whaaaaaaat? (starts laughing hysterically)
Me: Yep.
ONE: How? That’s where you pee! That’s a tiny hole! HOW DOES THAT HAPPEN MOMMY??
Ugh. At this juncture I said we’ll talk about it when he’s older and then I said a silent prayer that he’d forget about it — and if he remembered, he’d ask his daddy.
Fast forward several days. We found ourselves at the library. I had to pee so we went to this teeny tiny bathroom located right smack in the middle of the Children’s Section. It was cramped in there with the stroller, and before I could stop him ONE exclaimed in his very loud voice, “MOMMY! Is that where Asher came out? Wow! That’s so tiny! And he’s so big! HOW DID YOU DO THAT MOMMY??”
As the three of us made our way out of the bathroom, I did my best to look dignified while at the same time wishing for the Curious George section to swallow me up. And if you’re thinking no one heard, think again. That bathroom is like an echoing canyon and there is no fan to hush the sound.
Apparently this is the price you pay for trying to be age-appropriate honest with your children. But I can’t lie to my son, and I can’t hide things from him. That boy asks questions, and I mean a lot of them. Maybe he’ll be a loud-mouthed doctor one day.
I’ve been in a bitchy funk because we have absolutely no money and it’s really stressful. It’s no one’s fault, really. Just life. Moving is expensive, and it’s going to take us awhile to catch up. Thank goodness TWO will stop drinking formula in approximately 6 weeks, which will save us about $100 a month. Whenever I wonder to myself, where is our money going?!?!? all I have to do is look at TWO’s little mouth. That’s where it’s going.
Sometimes I get really discouraged about it all and I all I want to do is whine and wallow in self-pity. It’s obnoxious. And childish. And then I have to remind myself that I am 32, I need to get it together, and I get to stay home with my children. I am very, very lucky to have a Husband who works so hard for us. And being obnoxious is no way to say thank you.
So thank you, Husband, for allowing me to raise our children. We have nothing but each other, and pretty soon I’m going to be sitting on my hair because it’s getting so long. We may or may not lose power before your next paycheck. All in all, we’re becoming more like the Amish every day.
Dear Martha, of Martha Stewart Collection,
My son broke my egg timer while he was pretending it was part of his “airplane,” which was actually an empty diaper box:
This saddened me deeply, not because I used my timer that much, but because it was shiny and looked nice in my kitchen. My mother thoughtfully bought me a new one, shown here. It’s your 60 Minute Timer, purchased from Macy’s.
I had a little trouble … you see, I first tried prying open the plastic case with my hands. This was hopeless. So then I got after it with a pair of kitchen scissors.
Eventually I got desperate and angry and used my teeth, as you can see. Not my most lady like moment, but I did manage to pry off everything but the top part.
It was at this point that I almost gave up and asked my husband for help.
But then, I looked at that tiny, smug, picture of you on the front of the package, next to that picture of a perfectly iced cupcake, and I ripped the rest of that crap off.
It nearly took me 60 minutes to open, so I want you to know that you have done a fantastic job of naming this product. It is indeed the 60 Minute Timer. WELL DONE. So far I dislike it very much.
Sincerely,
Harmony
Yesterday, a terrible thing happened.
Let me preface this by saying that I am struggling to adjust to summer break. Struggling. Like … it’s good? But also horrible? Can something be good and horrible all at once? Because I’m pretty sure that is exactly what parenthood is.
Making the transition from having all three kids in school for 6+ hours per day (and working during those hours), to having them home all the time and trying to get my work done in addition to mothering in a loving fashion, is not going great. As I have already established in multiple blog posts from previous years, summer is effing relentless.
Pepper is obsessed with two things: outlets and babies. Here she is showing her baby doll the outlet in her bedroom. #multitasking
Thankfully, this year is somewhat easier than previous years simply because my children are getting older and more independent. Pepper will be 3 next week, so I think we’re finally on the upswing after a very dark time in the Valley of Motherhood.
Yesterday afternoon, we got home from playing at the park. The boys jumped out of the van, heard some kids next door playing, and asked if they could go over to play. I granted them permission and took Pepper inside. Her clothes were filthy — covered in layers of peanut butter and dirt — so I stripped her down to a diaper.
I ran to the bathroom with her trailing behind me, always my little shadow. And then, my mom called. She’s not feeling well and I can barely hear her on the phone. I was straining to understand what she was saying — did she just say she needed to go to the hospital?! — and naturally, my toddler got really loud at exactly that moment. As her shouting drowned out my mother, my stress level started to rise.
I went to my bedroom and closed the door. My daughter cried from the hall, and when she stopped, I was thankful. When I emerged only a few minutes later, the house was quiet. A panicky feeling started to rise in my chest, and then it felt like my heart stopped.
Just.
Stopped.
Beating.
Our back door was standing wide open.
Screaming her name, I ran outside. She was gone. Or hiding. Or missing.
I heard a woman’s voice — our across the street neighbor — yelling at me that she just saw a little girl cut through the fences in the backyard.
“She went that way, sweetheart! I was standing here watching her!”
I was barefoot and it did not matter. I ran. I ran until I found her. I couldn’t feel my feet. I couldn’t feel my body. All I could hear was my own voice screaming her name, and my heartbeat deafening my ears. That is what blind panic feels like.
My 2-year-old was wandering one street over from ours, wearing nothing but her diaper. She was holding a toy pet carrier with a little stuffed dog inside. I will never forget the way her face looked when she saw the horror on mine.
“NEVER AGAIN,” I said to her.
“Not with my dog?” she said.
“NEVER, EVER. Do not ever leave this house without a grown up,” I said, as I wiped away my tears.
I’m sharing this story to demonstrate how quickly children can disappear. How many times have I heard stories of toddlers wandering the streets and thought to myself, WHERE WAS THE MOTHER?
That mother is me. I was right there. It happened anyway.
I’m a damn good mom. I am capable. I am aware. I am not negligent. But children are fast. And sometimes quiet. And things happen. So today I’m hugging my babies tight, grateful for their safety, knowing that sometimes other mamas aren’t so lucky.
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Modern Mommy Madness 