1. I will wake up every morning at 5:00am to workout so that I will feel better the rest of the day.

2. I will eat only healthy foods and avoid fried foods and sugar.

3. I will only drink alcohol on special occasions and never over indulge.

4. I will be a better mother and try not to say “no” to my kids as often.

5. I will be a better wife and do all of the things that make my husband happy.

6. I will clean my house without complaining.

7. I will put on makeup every day.

8. I will cook a fabulous dinner every night.

9. I will have sex with my husband without complaining.

10. I will go to work every day without complaining.


Now, what is actually going to happen:

1. I will likely wake up at 5:00am on a few occasions, but only if Ethan has pooped his diaper. I will have a gym membership, but like everyone else, I will believe that just having the card counts for something.

2. I will make sure to put lettuce on my hamburger and make sure that the fried foods I eat do not also contain sugar. One at a time is my motto.

3. Thank God for Hallmark, because now just about every day is a special occasion of some sort….cheers!

4. I figure if I drink enough, I won’t care what the kids are doing, so I will be less likely to say no. Problem solved.

5. I am not hooking up with a chick you freak. This one is out.

6. I will hire a maid.

7. Lipstick is makeup. Either that or I will start hanging around uglier people, therefore I will look better by default.

8. I will cook a fabulous dinner one night and reheat for the next four nights.

9. This one I can do. No complaints.

10. Seriously, does anyone do this?? Maybe if I was a Urologist and could perform vasectomies all day. Now that’s a good job. Could be worse I suppose. I could be the guy who has to inseminate large farm animals for a living.

My Ass is Amazing....

Image via Wikipedia

That will be the title of my next book about a donkey. Clearly it is not a statement about the current condition of my backside. It used to be amazing, but two kids later and it is now, just an ass.



I remember when I was about nineteen a guy that I had a huge crush on made a statement as I climbed up the ladder on to the boat. He was still in the water behind me and when he climbed on to the boat, he said, “You have the greatest ass”. For weeks after that, I would use a little compact mirror to check out my rear in the bathroom mirror. What was all of the fuss about? I mean, yes it was firm, but I was nineteen. I am quite sure I probably took every chance I could to flaunt my butt in front of him. I never did go out with him, not because I didn’t have the opportunity, but because I knew all of the girls he had already dated and quite frankly I had no desire to get anything that “itched” or “burned”.


Fast forward twenty years and now what I wouldn’t give to have that ass again. I guess that is not entirely true, I wouldn’t give my kids. It’s ironic that the one thing that causes the most change to the size of your ass can also be the biggest pain in your ass. Let’s just end it there.

Does This Taffeta Dress Make My Ass Look Fat?

My daughter is six and for most six year old girls, nothing is more important than being a princess. So when her birthday party was approaching it was obvious that we would have to have a Princess Party. Dress up clothes, shoes, makeup, nails, runway show, cake and a piñata. What? Princesses with a baseball bat, beating a defenseless piñata till candy spills out on the floor so they can knock each other down to get the most candy? Yes, that’s exactly right. Soooo un-princess like, but fabulous to watch nonetheless.

So, the day arrived and seven girls from her Kindergarten class showed up for the party all dressed up in their best princess dresses. Three hours of high pitched screams, attitude and thankfully a lot of smiles and laughs and just as planned the piñata was a GREAT idea. Little girls are princesses, even when swinging a blue, foam covered t-ball bat.

I started to wonder what it would be like to be a princess at my age. 40 years old wearing a taffeta dress and plastic shoes with a shiny crown did not make for a pretty picture. Not a good look for my ass at the moment. Kinda looks like I am trying to smuggle a Virginia ham. And those plastic shoes, well let’s just say I need a great pedicure and some good foot cream to pull this off.


Seriously, there are still real princesses in the world, but at some point in most every girls life, we stop dreaming of being a princess and start dreaming of what we will become in the real world. But why do we stop dreaming of being a princess? Not the kind of princess rescued by a prince and slaying a fire breathing dragon (I know I’ve seen Shrek one too many times), but one of the current princesses of the world or for that matter why not a Queen? I mean, Queen Rania of Jordan is beautiful, smart and rich. She is a mother, a wife, a boss, an advocate, and a humanitarian. All of that and she probably has more shoes than a girl could ever dream of! For some reason, when we get a little older we dream about being a famous actress or model instead of someone who actually serves a purpose in this world. News flash, many of the famous actresses have marriages that never last, go to rehab and end up broke and alone. Nice dream.


I think being a princess would be amazing. I am starting to dream about it again. Besides, the real princesses don’t ever have to wear taffeta...I’m in.
,,

Mommy & Me; A Lesson in the Importance of Being Both

Though at times I feel like it, I have decided that I am not the worst mother in the world. Not even in the U.S. or maybe not even my hometown. I don’t hit my children, nor do I deprive them of the things that they should have (or at least what Target makes me feel they should have). I love them. I adore them. But let’s face it. Sometimes they do annoy the crap out of me, even my baby boy with his cute little chubby cheeks that look like he is storing nuts for the winter. It is hard for me to imagine my life without them and sometimes hard to remember my life before them, but there are days when my hair is in yesterdays shamefully bad ponytail and I notice the half-peeled polish on my toenails, that I dream of being just me again, not mommy.

Every day we make choices that are natural for a mother, always putting our children’s needs before our own. Choosing a place for a dinner out becomes the choice between Chuck E. Cheese and any other place that doesn’t frown upon dirty diapers, temper tantrums and my four-year olds sugar buzz that usually ends with something broken or spilled. Instead of a night at the Ritz, it’s Ritz crackers and peanut butter. Instead of Victoria’s Secret for sexy underwear, it’s Toys-R-Us for Barbie underwear. And so on.

We love our children so much that sometimes it consumes us. We are no longer Jane or Susie or Kate, we are mom. The biggest three letter word I have ever heard. A name used more than ten times (I actually counted one day) in any given hour, which is mostly screamed from another room over and over and over again. Sometimes to the point I can actually feel the little hairs on the back of my neck standing straight up, like they say happens just before you are going to be struck by lightening.

Don’t get me wrong. There is nothing better than loving and being loved by your children. Being a mom is the most important job you will ever have. At one time I hated it when people referred to having kids as a job, until I had my own. It is in fact a job. You are compensated well in kisses and hugs, smiles and laughs and a daily bonus of “I love you(s)”. Once they are a little older it’s sarcasm and disobedience, mood swings and secrets and a daily bonus of “You can’t make me(s)”. And it is a job that is never finished. Not even when you close your eyes at night. 365 days except in a leap year.

So the other day it hit me. In order to be the best mom to my children, I need to be the best me first. I need to buy that sexy new underwear. I need to spend the extra time fixing my hair and painting my nails, or at least removing the old polish that has been there for the better half of a year. I need to read that book that I’ve been trying to get around to, even if it is not as profound as a Jane Austen novel. Most importantly, I need to look at my husband as a man again and not just as Daddy. If I start acting more like a wife and a woman, we might be actually be able to cancel Cinemax.

It’s time to take back “me”. I am not suggesting that I am going to have my kids start calling me by my first name. I am suggesting that I find the “me” that I used to be and get her back. There is no reason I cannot be both, mommy and me. Feeling better about myself will make me feel a lot better about my children. I find that when I look and feel terrible it is easy to blame it on the children and my lack of time to care for myself while caring for them. It makes my children sound like more of a burden than the blessing that they truly are. In fact, there is always time, if I am honest with myself, to take care of me.

I realized that it is not my children that annoy me, it is me that annoys me. There is no reason that I can’t get up a little earlier and go to the gym. I can find the time once a week to get my nails painted or paint them myself for that matter. I can choose to wear sexier clothes and forego the flip flops and flannel. I can be a wife and a mother and still be me.

So off I go, to drop these maternity bras off at Goodwill, buy a razor and find Victoria’s Secret (which I firmly believe got its name because you have to keep secret from your husband the fact that you paid $60.00 for underwear). By next week, my cable bill will be $15.00 a month cheaper and I will have started, if not finished, an actual book that doesn’t begin with “What to Expect….”. I think I am going to like being mommy and me.

I'm Sofa King Tired

I realized tonight as my daughter was defiantly protesting her 7:30 bed time, that she doesn’t comprehend the value of going to bed before 8 o’clock. She complains that it is too early to go to bed. She continues her protest until 7:40 with such fortitude and conviction, explaining the reasons why she should be allowed to stay up later:
1. "It’s not dark out yet." (thank god that will soon change, even though I am a huge fan of daylight savings time)

2. "My friend 'what’s her name' is allowed to stay up until 9:00." (well your friend’s mother is probably a crack head….just kidding, she’s probably a prostitute)

3. "Well, you and Daddy stay up late." (not by choice, we just have to get you little bastards to sleep first!)

I would be sympathetic to her plight however I would give my left boob to be in bed at 7:30. Not figuratively, I would actually lop it off, put in a box and mail it back to the doctor that put it there just for one good night’s sleep.

Boys Are Full of Piss and Vinegar

My son, oh my son. He is SO sweet and loving, SO adorable, right before he punches you in the face, bites you or throws something at you when you aren’t looking.



My friends that have little boys warned me, but I chose not to believe. They would say, “boys are so different” or “boys are very rough” and as I looked at this little angel I was holding I thought to myself they must be exaggerating. They must be wrong. Nope….they were right.


I feel like boys, well my son at least, have multiple personalities. There’s the sweet little boy that kisses me for no reason. There’s the little boy that wears my high heels proudly around the house.(that one really bakes my husband’s noodle). There’s the boy that says ”vroom-vroom” over and over again until you turn on his favorite show….Monster Jam. Then there is the boy who loves to break everything , punch everyone and wreak havoc whenever and wherever possible. I am not responsible for that little boy.


I went to drop Ethan off at preschool one morning and as we arrived at his door there was another little boy in the way and he acted as if he was not going to let my son through the door and reached out and touched Ethan’s face. Big mistake. It was the first time I witnessed my son being a real boy. I was shocked and asked the teacher if this was normal for him and she informed me it is normal for most boys, but that Ethan was just a little tougher than most boys. Great. Daddy will be so proud. Mommy is not.


So it is true. Boys are full of piss and vinegar. They can bang it, break it, hit it, spill it, smash it, thump it, bump it, beat it, eat it, knock it, block it, lock it, and sock it, but in the end they also can give so much love. Because as hard as they do all of those other things, they can love you just as hard. You can feel it in their hugs and kisses, but you can still taste the vinegar!

Are We There Yet?

I have never been one for popular catch phrases. In fact my friends and I usually like to make up our own. It is not until you take a long road trip with little ones that you truly realize that one catch phrase is innately part of every human beings vocabulary and just waiting to be free……..”Are we there yet”?


“Are we there yet?” Four little words. Four little words that make my ass twitch. Twenty hour trip and 50 minutes into it my daughter asks, “Are we there yet?” What? We haven’t even left the freakin county we live in…..oh this oughta be fun. Two days and I truly believe I heard that phrase about 642 times.


I tried the funny responses, the firm responses and even the threatening responses, but it was if her brain was programmed to ask the question about every 15.75 minutes. WTF? Now there’s a catch phrase (or acronym) I like.

I Think I May Have Invented Hooters.

When I was a young girl, we used to have pom-poms that we put on our roller skates. They had a little bell on the top and were perfectly round and fuzzy. They came in all different colors. I was so cool with my hot pink ones on my black speed skates.

It wasn't too long after my mom first gave them to me that Anne Margaret and I discovered a new use for them. We had a crush on a certain teacher who lived two doors down from her. One afternoon, we (I say we because I am really not sure who came up with the idea, but going by track records, it was probably me) used those innocent pom poms as fuzzy prosthetic breasts. Our poor training bras were not properly trained for this job.

So there we were, two 12 year old girls, with our satin shorts, tight shirts and our pom pom boobies. And as an added bonus, those bells made for perfect nipples that looked like they were just exposed to sub zero temperatures. We were hot. OK maybe not. But we still took her dog out and walked him back and forth behind that certain teacher's house at least a half a dozen times. For some crazy reason, he wasn't the slightest bit interested.  

***Ironically we were rocking those satin shorts and big perfect boobies in 1982 and Hooters opened with that same concept in 1983. Coincidence? I think not.***

Anyway the point of all this is that as a kid I sooo wanted the perfect boobies. When I turned thirty and I still didn't have them, I bought them. Now, two kids later, 20 pounds heavier and I don't even recognize these things on my chest. I look like an Ethiopian porn star. My husband doesn't even need to go to the gym, he can use me for speed bagging. I would like to blame my kids for these boobies, but this one is on me, or should I say, these two are one me.  

Boobs really are so over rated. We give them too much attention and  too many names: breasts, boobs, hooters, knockers, jugs and tits just to name a few. Still, most women want them and most men can't seem to live without them either. I just can't believe I became one of those women!

When we are little, we want to grow up and when we are all grown up, we want to be little again. I want to be little again. No cares, no worries and no boobies.

I Have Far Too Much Junk in My Trunk

***This is something I wrote last year and posted on my Facebook notes, but I thought it would be fun to share****

I have far too much junk in my trunk. This time it is not a metaphor for the size of my ass, but rather the truth about the storage locker in my brain. I have tons of memories, some of which are jammed so deep in that locker, that it takes more than one person to extract them. I remember my first dog, Snow, and how, when I was 7 years old, my father took her to live on a “farm”. Ironically, everyone I have ever met since then has also had a dog that went to live on a farm when they were around the same age. All I can say is that must be one god damn big farm. Old MacDonald’s, I believe.
I remember a lot…friends, good times and sad times, primarily from two very different towns. From St. Andrews in Myrtle Beach to Shadowlawn and East Naples Middle in Naples, North Myrtle Beach High School and Lely High. I remember the merry-go-round at St. Andrews and Sister Pauline. I remember that Missy McDuffie (would love to find her) always smelled like Love’s Baby Soft, which by the way, they still sell in most drug stores. I remember Mrs. Leon at Shadowlawn. I remember that Evelyn Graham was the meanest girl in 2nd grade (the last name has been changed to protect the mean old bitch) I remember that I didn’t see my father most of my 3rd, 4th and 5th grade. I remember feeling like a little fish in a big pond in the 6th grade. I remember that in the 7th grade I had a crush on the lead singer of Loverboy . I imagine he doesn’t look as good in those red leather pants these days, but who does? I remember feeling like a big fish in the 8th grade. I remember in the 9th grade standing in the mirror in my bathroom with my black rubber bracelets on, lip-syncing to Madonna’s “Crazy for You”. No matter what bracelet Madonna wears (rubber, Kabbalah), many follow…note to Tiffany’s. I also remember coming home on a Friday night after a party and watching Valley Girl over and over again. Nicolas Cage was so cool. I remember Sixteen Candles and The Breakfast Club. Siouxsie & the Banshees, Bauhaus, The Cure and Tears for Fears. Then there was Black Flag, Minor Threat and the Dead Kennedy’s to impress the boys you weren’t supposed to like. I remember the creepy crush I had on the lead singer of The Cult.

I remember living back and forth between two parents in high school and feeling lucky that both places felt like home. I remember that my mom was so hurt when I wanted to live with my dad and I never understood why. Now that I have my own daughter….I do.
I remember summer jobs at NMB; playing “lifeguard” at the waterslide, waitressing at Outrigger, two whole weeks as a quench wench (pushing a cart sucks) and serving soft serve at the Dairy Hut (I never could dip a cone) and my favorite job….Bert’s Surf Shop. I remember the NMB pier and going to the beach before it was actually warm enough, praying the sun would win out over the cold wind. I remember the day Lisa and I became friends and how opposite we were (and still are, but are still just as close today). I remember riding down the boulevard in Shannon Parker’s mustang with Brooke and Lisa. I remember riding down Hwy 17 on the back of Bryan Beck’s motorcycle. I remember riding in Vonni’s car and hoping it would start every time we made a stop. I remember the time it didn’t and we met Cujo. I remember working at the original Apple Annie’s. I remember Crazy Zacks, 2001, and a little place called the Joint. I remember hot dogs and potato wedges at Dodge’s and the She Crab soup at the Chesapeake House. I remember the Budweiser Beer fest at the beach during Spring Break. I remember Spring Fever.


In Naples, I remember 13th and 32nd. Hanging out at the mall on Friday nights and Mama Mia’s after. I remember when Scottie was the good Krehling. I remember and loved Jean Krehling. I remember and miss Christian DePasquale. I remember when there were only three high schools and everyone still knew everyone. I remember when 951 was a two lane road. I remember the after prom party at Katie and Anne Marie’s house and how awesome their mother was. I remember and miss Wes Fields. I remember when Tara cut Barb’s bangs (note to Barb….never let a drunk girl cut your hair!) I remember when Steph didn’t drink and would NEVER burp in public! I remember lying on my floor with my feet on the wall talking to a certain boy until two in the morning. I remember when Santa Barbara wasn’t a major road, but a hangout. I remember the Swamp Buggy and shed an actual tear upon its closing. I remember many a fun night with Stewie and Ana. I remember when it was cool to own a Suzuki Samurai.


I remember my first kiss, my first love. I even remember my first heartbreak. Wishing the minutes and hours would speed up to take me further away from the moment. I remember how turning 21 was not nearly as monumental as I had previously thought it would be. Fake ID’s take that moment from you. I remember the first time I bought beer and didn’t get carded (I would like you to believe it was not that long ago, but in truth it has been about ten years.) That is when I remembered back to the day I wished I was old enough to buy beer and how I would give anything to go back to that day now. I will soon be telling my kids what my mother told me….”don’t wish your life away”.


I remember the first time I heard Nina Simone….it was heartache and passion. I remember the first time I read Sense and Sensibility. I was sure Jane Austen and I must have been friends in a former life. Not that I necessarily believe in past lives, but if I did and I had to guess what I was in a former life, I would guess it was a bear. The reason? It would only be fair that in my past life, I actually got to sleep for long periods of time, be as fat as I wanted to be and not have to shave because being hairy was acceptable. As a mother of an infant and four year old, I can’t remember the last time I actually slept more than two hours at a time.


I remember the first time I truly understood the meaning of the word “alcoholic” I always thought my dad was just really fun or sometimes really tired. I remember holding his hand so tight as he took his last breath and how the blue line that once had at least some semblance of rhythm, was now so infinitely straight. I remember wishing I could stop breathing at that moment, too, just for a little while, so I wouldn’t feel the pain in my heart. I realized that day how ugly straight lines are. I love it when my daughter colors outside of the lines, or for that matter, makes up her own lines.


Most importantly, I remember every detail of my wedding day and the births of my two children. The I do’s and the sweetest sounds of their first cries. First words and first steps. Bumps and bruises. My husband’s fight (and win) with a kidney tumor. Losing everything (monetarily) and still having everything (my family and friends) I need.


I remember the places I have lived, people I have met and a lot of little details, more than I could possibly put on paper and a few which I wish I could forget. Which leads me to my one burning question and what started this little rant….if I can remember all of this from years gone by, why is it that I can’t remember what the hell it was I needed when I walked into the kitchen?

My Son, the Artist (Poocasso)

art    /ɑrt/ Show Spelled[ahrt] 
–noun
1. the quality, production, expression, or realm, according to aesthetic principles, of what is beautiful, appealing, or of more than ordinary significance.
2. the class of objects subject to aesthetic criteria; works of art collectively, as paintings, sculptures, or drawings: a museum of art; an art collection..........
 
Last week, as I was getting ready for work one morning, my son was being a little too quiet. This is usually a sign that something is either in his mouth, his sister has him pinned down with her hand over his mouth or he is sleeping. So I began to investigate. Hmm. He was quietly walking down the hallway smiling and running his fingers along the wall. Amazing.


As I began drying my hair, Ethan entered the bathroom and continued quietly outlining the walls and cabinets. Not a word. No crying. So this was shaping up to be a great morning. Suddenly, I noticed it, that familiar smell. Ethan needed to be changed. So I summoned daddy and he whisked him away to the other room and began donning his hazmat suit to complete the task. But, somehow the smell did not fade. In fact, it seemed even stronger.


As I left the bathroom and walked down the hall, I noticed swirls and lines on the walls in beautiful patterns. They were faint brownish-yellow colored from what I assumed must have been a dried up marker. But upon closer inspection, I realized the smell in the hallway was quite pungent as well. LIGHT BULB. Nooooooooo. An even closer look and……yeeeesssssss. It couldn’t be, but it was. He painted with his poop. Was this payback for my last post where I called him a poop machine? Maybe he was trying to show me he was more than a mindless poop machine. He has talent. My son discovered his calling, and artist. A fecal painter. I have heard of making lemonade out of lemons, but never pop art out of poop. We have named him Poocasso


For a split second I was actually relieved that it was not marker, until the realization of what cleaning this would entail set in. I now know where the idea for Clorox wipes came from, all of the other mothers in the world with their own little fecal painters.


Obviously, I was late for work.

Are You Shitting Me?

My 22 month old son is an actual poop machine. He never runs out. There is an endless supply of multi-colored, foul smelling, sometimes lumpy poo for my viewing pleasure. It dawned on me the other day that the best business to be in, or own stock in, is diapers. Babies will never stop pooping. There is no cure. No magic pill. As long as babies eat, they WILL poop. So I figured it out. Diapers average about thirty cents each and most babies average about eight diapers a day more or less. That’s $1500.00 for just the first two years times what, about a billion babies? So apparently shit is the business to be in. I guarantee the diaper execs never say “I don’t give a shit” or “stop giving me shit”. Their slogan is probably “Please give me shit”.


Ironically, not only do we come in to this world in diapers, we go out in them as well. The only difference is the size and the name. It is no longer Huggies or Pampers, it becomes Depends and Poise. (Poise yourself for the fact that you are about to shit your pants)


Tomorrow I am going to go out and buy stock in diapers.

Stop calling me that.....that's not my name!!

I heard someone once say “we are born Mommy”. Well I checked it out and I don’t know what the hell she was talking about. If that is the case, why doesn’t it say Mommy on my birth certificate? It doesn’t. It says Justine Michele Stoddard. And for my parents names, why doesn’t it say Mommy and Daddy instead of Joan Grayce and Ned? Because it’s stupid, that’s why.


I understand we couldn’t all be legally named Mommy and Daddy or it would get confusing. I would probably be like Mommy 1,645,289. Not easy to yell out in the grocery store. “Mommy #1,645,289, your child is waiting for you at the guest service counter.” We would all be checking our numbers like a lottery ticket.


So what jackass came up with the idea for kids to call us Mommy and Daddy and not our real names in the first place? If they only knew what they started. For some reason kids love to say the word Mommy over and over again, like 400 times in a row. I don’t think my daughter would be as likely to say Justine? Justine? Justine? It just doesn’t have the same ring.
In today’s society no one would dream of letting their kids call them by their first name. It would be disrespectful. It would be rude. It would be embarrassing. It would be uh….my name. What is so wrong with that? I happen to like my name. My mommy gave it to me.
Would it mean our children would love us less because they call us Dick and Jane instead of Mom and Dad? Does “Dick, can I have my allowance?” sound any more unloving than “Dad, can I have my allowance?” I think not. Does “Jane, when is dinner going to be ready?” sound any less thoughtful than “Mom, when is dinner going to be ready?” Not really.
Just a thought.


***On a side note: I do have to admit, there is nothing like the first time your child says mama. Probably wouldn’t sound the same as Justine and not to mention they wouldn’t be able to say until they were about 4.

I Ain’t Gonna Lie, Five Year Olds Are a Pain in the Ass.

Adj. 1. five-year-old - five years of age.
young, immature - (used of living things especially persons) in an early period of life or development or growth; "young people"


Yes, I said it. Five year olds, even mine, are a pain in the ass. I read a funny Phyllis Diller quote somewhere once that said “We spend the first twelve months of our children's lives teaching them to walk and talk and the next twelve telling them to sit down and shut up." Though funny, not quite accurate. I think we actually spend the next 17 years telling them that.


I love my daughter more than life itself and that’s a fact. Wait for it. Here it comes….BUT just like every five year old has the ability to annoy their mother, she has the ability to drive me up the freakin wall. I look at her and she is so beautiful and wonderfully sweet. She is smart and caring and…whatever. She is still a pain in the ass.


I have tried to analyze just exactly what it is that makes me so nuts, just as I am sure I made my mother nuts. First, I believe there is a club that five year olds are automatically a member of when they turn five and some actually join as soon as three years old. The Motor Mouths. The prerequisite for membership is they must be able to speak non-stop, without taking a breath and start a new conversation about something totally unrelated without so much as missing a beat. My daughter could actually be the president of this club. If speed talking were a sport, my daughter would for sure win the gold medal.


Next, whining. Whining would also rank right up there. “But moooommmmm”! Enough said.


“Knock, Knock”. It’s bad enough that they don’t really understand the point of the joke. My daughter says things like “Chicken” and I say “chicken who?” and she says “chicken taco shoe head” followed by screaming laughter. But it never ends there. Knock-knock jokes can go on for hours. Over and over and over again. If something is funny the first time, the five year old thinks that it gets even funnier the fourteenth time. The same thing. Fourteen times. Pain in the ass.


And then there is “Look at me Mommy”! “I know how to do that better than anyone”. “Watch this”. Again, enough said.


I always thought of myself as an excellent debater, but after being repeatedly taken down by a five year old, I have lost respect for myself. The constant barrage of “I don’t want to’s” and “you can make me’s” with the occasional “you wanna bet” has beaten me to my core. I could at one time argue back until I figured out that she has nothing but time on her side and she is happy to point that out. Five year olds are good.


But at the end of the day, when she walks up to me and says, “Mommy”? “Can I lay in your bed tonight”? is when I realize that she is just that, a five year old little girl. Still afraid of the dark. Still needs her mommy to protect her. Her attitude is big, but she is still my little girl. She is finding her way. Getting her feet wet. She loves me and I love her, pain in the ass and all.

I Make the Rules

Rule (ro̵̅o̅l)
noun
1.a.an authoritative regulation for action, conduct, method, procedure, arrangement, etc.: the rules of the school
b.an established practice that serves as a guide to usage: the rules of grammar
2.a complete set or code of regulations in a religious order: the Benedictine rule
3.a fixed principle that determines conduct; habit; custom: to make it a rule never to hurry

So last night my daughter asked the question "why not mommy" to which I quickly replied, "because I make the rules and one day when you are old enough, you can make the rules".  I've said it a thousand times before and I am quite sure my mother said it to me on more than one occassion. So I started thinking, do I really make the rules? Has any mother ever really made the rules?  I am sure most of the rules we all use are pretty much the same:

1. Don't touch that
2. Don't put that in your mouth
3. Don't hit your sister
4. Don't jump on the couch
5. Don't jump on the bed
6. Don't jump on your brother
7. Because I said so 

The list goes on and on, but you get the idea.

If I could REALLY make up the rules they certainly wouldn't be those rules. I would probably start with:
Rule# 1. My husband must serve me breakfast in bed everyday.
Rule #2. Shoes would be free.
Rule #3. No pants would ever make me look fat and even if they did, the rule is no one could say so.
Rule #4. Botox would just "kick in" at age 40.
Rule #5. My boobs would never head south.
Rule #6. No one could refer to me as ma'am.
Rule #7. I would reserve the right to change or add to the rules at any time.

Fitting in a Fart

fart (färt) Vulgar Slang
intr.v. fart•ed, fart•ing, farts
To expel intestinal gas through the anus; break wind.
n.
1. An often audible discharge of intestinal gas.
2. An annoying or foolish person.
Phrasal Verb:
fart around
To fool around; fritter time away.


I actually am so busy that I don't have time to fit in a fart. If one accidentally slipped out, I would have to suck it back up into my butt and reschedule it for a later date. Then one day my farts would form an
army and launch an attack. I am tentatively scheduling a few days off work for that event.

My daughter happens to think fart is the funniest word in the whole world. I guess when you are five it is pretty funny, but when you are forty, you start to realize that it won’t be too long before you have no control over that particular event. At some point, they just happen before you even have time to leave the room. Quite frankly, it has been my experience that when it gets to that point they don’t even care to leave the room. At some point it just becomes acceptable to say “oh my goodness” or “excuse me”. Like either one of those phrases could possibly make it ok. A sneeze, yes. A fart, no. It makes you wonder if they don’t hear it, or for that matter, feel it.

Is this really what I have become…reduced to talking about farts? I guess when you have vomit on your shirt, your hair (unwashed) is in yesterday’s shamefully bad ponytail and your toenails have the same half-peeled polish from 4 months ago, you can talk about whatever the hell you want. It's not like anyone takes you seriously anyway, in fact most people are probably scared of you.

Is "Mom" a noun or a verb?

NOUN:
A woman who conceives, gives birth to, or raises and nurtures a child.
A female parent of an animal.
A female ancestor.
A woman who holds a position of authority or responsibility similar to that of a mother: a den mother.
Roman Catholic Church:
A mother superior.
Used as a form of address for such a woman.
A woman who creates, originates, or founds something: "the discovery of radium, which made Marie Curie mother to the Atomic Age" (Alden Whitman).
A creative source; an origin: Philosophy is the mother of the sciences.
Used as a title for a woman respected for her wisdom and age.
Maternal love and tenderness: brought out the mother in her.
The biggest or most significant example of its kind: the mother of all battles.
Vulgar Slang Something considered extraordinary, as in disagreeableness, size, or intensity.

ADJECTIVE:
Relating to or being mother.
Characteristic of a mother: mother love.
Being the source or origin: the mother church.
Derived from or as if from one's mother; native: one's mother language.

TRANSITIVE VERB:
moth·ered, moth·er·ing, moth·ers
To give birth to; create and produce.
To watch over, nourish, and protect maternally.

Holy crap! I am tired just reading that. I actually think they forgot a few things though: taxi driver, chef, cleaning lady, ass wiper, nose wiper, orifice checker, poop inspector and the list goes on and on......

Keeping it Real

I am writing this blog as a real mom. Not a perfect mom, just a real mom. I have flaws and plenty of them. I will say things that most of you think, but don't want to say out loud. I am not politically or otherwise correct, so if you are easily offended, I suggest you "blog" off now. For my friends and family the preceding comes as no surprise, but for those of you who don't know me, if nothing else you will at least have to admit that I am honest!

Let me start by saying.... I love my children. They are by far the best thing that has ever happened to me. Of course my husband ranks up there (just in case he actually reads this), but my children are my life. My daughter is beautiful and smart. She has a quick wit and speaks her mind. My son is handsome and funny. You are probably noticing that I didn't say smart, but he is only a year and a half old. How freakin smart do you expect him to be? He can say "mama" and "dada" and "dude", but he hasn't quite figured out how to solve a quadratic equation yet. I guess that is important to some moms. I am not one of those moms. I want my kids to be kids. You only get to be a kid for such a short time and frankly, I want my kids to be happy. Don't get me wrong, education is extremely important to me, but not at such a forced pace.


I had a pseudo friend in Florida who shall remain nameless (you know who you are you crazy bitch) that constantly criticized her kids. She believed that the only way to make her kids successful was to push them to be better and push them she did. She made her daughter take dance every year even though she clearly hated it and quite frankly it showed. She put her in what she termed as the "best school" which did not allow children to have play time. Learn, learn, learn. She once told her seven year old son that if he didn't concentrate harder he would wind up picking up trash for a living. The only thing I think she taught her son that day was to look down on other people. Needless to say, our friendship was short lived. I am not saying that her choice in schools or parenting style was wrong, just not what I want for my family. Plus as hypocrites go, she was the poster child. Riding her kids all day and riding a bottle of vodka into the next day.

If I can say one thing about myself and my parenting style, it is that I am a supporter. I want my children to succeed as much as anyone, but even more than that, I want them to know that they are loved no matter what they do. I want them to be happy, healthy and trust in me enough to tell me the truth even when I don't want to hear it. Pipe dreams maybe, nonetheless they are my pipe dreams.

Moms are always moms. There is no 401K, paid holidays or sick days. We don't earn a paycheck for our mommy duties, not even our doodie duties. There is no "Mommy of the Month" with a special parking spot. The law doesn't allow us a half an hour lunch with two fifteen minute breaks. However, we get the best rewards. We get paid in kisses an hugs. Every day with your child is a holiday and there is no more precious sound than when your baby first says the word Mommy. I think we have it pretty good most of the time. Trust me, I will be pointing out those other times.

This blog is for every mom. A place to share embarrassing stories, serious stories, opinions, thoughts or just plain bullshit. I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours! The only rule is to be real.