So, one of the lessons I am learning as a mother is that the days of being able to say whatever I want are pretty much over. I have had to give up the f-bombs, replacing them with fudge pops or some other completely useless phrase. No more talk about sex. We can still have it, just can’t talk about it.

Just the other night my husband whispered to me as I was cooking dinner, “did you like the sex I gave you last night” (Cliff note for those of you not in the loop…my husband is Cuban and that is the way he talks) Well, apparently he did not whisper quietly enough, as my 7 year old daughter was within earshot and quickly said “what did he give you?” to which I quickly replied “Socks, sweetheart. Daddy gave me socks because my feet were cold.” The conversation took over an hour to play out as she wanted me to prove it and even when I showed her a pair of socks, she quickly pointed out that that did not prove a thing. Thank goodness he said “sex” and not “penis”. I would have been hard pressed to find some peanuts in my bedroom.

It was not until we were in Disney World this month that it really became apparent that I am not doing a good enough job watching what I say. We had just boarded the boat from our hotel, the Wilderness Lodge, in route for Disney’s Not So Scary Halloween party. My children, dressed in their pirate costumes, looked so adorable. We took a seat on the packed ferry boat and as the boat was preparing to leave the dock, the captain blew the horn (or pulled a whistle or whatever!) and my sweet little son looks back, throws his hands in the air and yells “STUPID”. Everyone on the boat was laughing and I was almost embarrassed just at the thought that they had to have known he learned that in someone’s car. So, I did what any self-respecting mother would do and said “Ethan, just because daddy does that, doesn’t mean you can.” I am truly thankful he stopped at “stupid”.

"Wookie Dis!"



I posted last month on my Facebook page about how my son, while sitting on the potty, discovered a certain “fondness” for his little weenie. I say little only because he is a little boy. I felt the need to clarify that in case one day, in his teen years, he happens upon this blog and, well you know where I am going with this.


So this past weekend we were back in re-potty training mode as my little man had lost some ground in his new class. I had him walking around the house with just a long shirt on and no diaper or undies. My mother was at the house when Ethan walked into the kitchen yelling “wookie dis”! (which, for those of you that don’t speak 3 year old, translates to “look at this”) When my mother and I looked to see what he was so proud of, there he was, standing in the doorway with his weenie in his hand. So proud. So happy. This was the moment I realized the real reason underwear were invented. It was to keep a man’s hands off his penis. Since they start at such a young age, it only stands to reason that without the invention of underwear, there would be millions of men in this world walking around with their penises in their hands. It would be hard for them to hold down a job when they’re too busy holding up their penises.

This brilliant person who created the first pair of underwear should be in some sort of hall of fame somewhere. I am not sure they can pinpoint when and where it happened. When you look up the history of underwear or undergarments, Wikipedia dates it back to the loincloth more than 7000 years ago. It is obvious this must have been a problem back then, as well. Thank goodness they solved the problem before it got too out of hand! (get it?)

Needless to say, I gained a wealth of knowledge that morning in the kitchen, all thanks to my 3 year old son. I have always said he is a handful, now he also has a hand full. The next time he says “wookie dis” hopefully it will be because he learned how to tie his shoes or something.

Sunscreen and Sand in Your Pants

sun·screen (snskrn)

n.  A preparation, often in the form of a cream or lotion, used to protect the skin from the damaging ultraviolet rays of the sun.

We decided just after lunch to go to the beach and enjoy some sunshine. It always sounds like a great plan and it is usually fun overall, but never (let me repeat, NEVER) without drama. The 45 minutes it takes to pack up, dress the kids and load the car and the 15 minutes it takes to get the kids rinsed off and the car loaded again is sometimes more time than we actually spend on the beach, depending on the weather.


Today, by our usual standards, was pretty smooth. We were able to get the kids ready in record time and the car loaded in a matter of minutes. Of course, my husband was forced to quickly repair my flat tire, thanks to a stupid ass nail. It’s times like that when I realize that my husband is pretty great to have around. I, on my own, would have driven it on the rim until I found some place (on a Sunday mind you) to fix it or of course, called AAA. Anyway, we were on the road and at the beach within 30 minutes of deciding to go.

The beach was beautiful today. It almost made me forget that today was the anniversary of one of the saddest days in our Nation. The water was perfect, almost like sparkling diamonds the way the afternoon sun was hitting it. The sky was beautiful and blue, with only a few clouds in the distance. The seagulls were singing. It was just perfect……until my kids came running and screaming onto the beach like there was a fire or something. Aaaannnnndddd the peaceful moment was gone.

It is so great to watch them having fun, running and laughing. Ethan chasing the birds and Elena finding her favorite shells that she convinces me she must bring with us because “if she brings them to school on Monday, she will be the coolest girl in her class.”



They really are fun to spend the day with. It’s the getting the sunscreen on a moving target and the getting the mounds of sand removed from their pants that can be tiring. I inevitably have certain parts of my body that are less tan than others from the over spray of sunblock as I chase the kids and spray at the same time. I must look like an idiot, but whatever. My kids aren’t going to have skin cancer. Not on my watch. Besides, I can’t look any worse than the beach full of women dressed in two piece bikinis that apparently their husband’s were too afraid to tell them that they should reconsider…..just sayin. Know your limits ladies!! I know you are supposed to be proud of your bodies since Dove made those commercials, but seriously, no-one wants to see your ass shoved in a bathing suit that was obviously not meant to be a thong. Not to mention, they always seem to love looking for shells, which means a lot of bending over…and again, I look less like the idiot, so I guess I should be thankful for their suit selection.

This time I am pretty sure we actually brought half of the beach home with us. I have a good six pounds of sand in my car and a bag of shells that make it quite clear that something died inside of them recently. The shell of choice this time is the Pen shell….which is beautiful on the inside, however still holds the stench of its former inhabitant. So needless to say, my car stinks.

We arrived home, I scraped the sand out of my kids’ cracks and washed off all of the sticky sunscreen and off to bed they went. The one thing a day at the beach will do is knock the kids out. The next task at hand? Getting the sand out of my crack.

Goodbye Sweet Uterus…..

uterus (y t r- s)

Plural uteri (y t -r ) or uteruses

The hollow, muscular organ of female mammals in which the embryo develops. In most mammals the uterus is divided into two saclike parts, whereas in primates it is a single structure. It lies between the bladder and rectum and is attached to the vagina and the fallopian tubes. During the menstrual cycle (estrus), the lining of the uterus (endometrium) undergoes changes that permit the implantation of a fertilized egg. Also called womb.

 

I would like to take a moment of silence for my uterus, the home for my two children for a total of 18 months……aaaaannnndddd….the moment is over. Because for most of my forty years, that little ball of muscle or whatever the hell it is made of, has made my life miserable. Who else in this world could get away with (legally) making you bleed once a month? In my case it was every two weeks at best. I am fully aware that the uterus did not work alone. I know that the ovaries were involved in the chaos. Don’t you worry, they will get theirs. But, for now, the discussion is about the uterus.

I was really concerned that after having a hysterectomy, I would somehow feel like less of a woman. Like the one thing that defines you as a woman, would be gone and I would feel like something was missing. Well, nothing could be further from the truth! I feel free! Free from tampons and midol. Free from headaches and mood swings. Free from my husband being able to say “oh, you must be getting ready to get your period”. Dick.

So my uterus served its purpose and now it’s gone. I am so thankful that it gave me my amazing children, when so many people do not get that gift. That being said, I would still put it in a jar and torment it once a month if I could.

Relaxing Vacation=Oxymoron

va•ca•tion (v -k sh n, v -)

n.

1. A period of time devoted to pleasure, rest, or relaxation, especially one with pay granted to an employee.

2. a. A holiday.

b. A fixed period of holidays, especially one during which a school, court, or business suspends activities.
3. Archaic The act or an instance of vacating.

intr.v. va•ca•tioned, va•ca•tion•ing, va•ca•tions

To take or spend a vacation.

The dictionary definition of vacation is “a period of time devoted to pleasure, rest or relaxation”. I wish someone had explained that to my children. It appears that vacations lead to more opportunities for my kids to whine, beg, cry, plead, scream, fart, sneeze, burp, act-up, act-out, climb up, fall down and basically just get on the very last nerve that I have. I think they bought a first class ticket to get on that nerve.

But just as the previous paragraph is put on paper, my mind wanders back to the laughter and smiles that took place in between. Those are the moments that make it all worth while. Watching my son, laugh hysterically as the wave of water from one of the rides crashed over him or my daughter get so excited about riding a ride that makes most adults throw-up. She loved describing every animal and their behavior and was so quick to point out that she had far less fear than most of the grown men in the park (she was right).

You know, if you think about it, we should be jealous of children. They are acting exactly how we feel. Be honest, if you could get away with lying down on the ground and screaming at the top of your lungs when someone annoyed you, wouldn’t you? Or, when you saw something you really wanted (a new Coach bag), that you knew you must have and someone (ok, the bank) said no, wouldn’t it be nice if you could stomp your feet and cry uncontrollably until you got your way? I am starting to think they know something we don’t about the art of negotiation. Big corporations would be wise to learn from children and their ability to negotiate.

Personally, I think the definition of vacation needs to be revised for anyone with children. It should go something like this:
1. A period of time devoted to meltdowns, screaming fits, with some occasional activities in between and then more crying and pouting and then some smiles and laughter all while spending more money than your bank account can support
2. A paid day off work
3. Coming home with memories that last a lifetime and wonderful stories for your kids to tell about their summer

The Bottom Line

potty-training [uncountable]:
 the process of teaching a very young child to use a potty or toilet

So, we are potty training for the second time in our house. The first time was a breeze. My daughter is an overachiever and even the potty was no challenge for her. Right before her second birthday, she made her first poopy on the potty and we were done. It was that simple.

I think I knew it would never be as easy the second time. Not just because we got lucky the first time or not even because he is a boy and we have heard that boys are harder to train, but because he is Ethan. Marching to the beat of his own drum and making up the rules as he goes along. So, I guess I just knew that the poopy, caca, dookey training would come in its own time.


It’s a far cry from our Poocaso days. He is becoming a big boy. He is telling me when and what he has or wants to do, which includes the potty. I have set my expectations a little low though I have to admit, since he is a boy and most men leave skid marks for the rest of their lives. I believe it is in their genes (and in this case, in their jeans). Maybe not so much in the beginning of a relationship, but once the ring is on, all bets are off. No shame.


The bottom line (ha! that’s funny) is that he is well on his way and I am so proud! He get’s so excited when he does it and we all clap for him. Of course my ridiculous brain started wondering, when do we stop doing that? You know, clapping when someone poops? Can you imagine if every time you went to the bathroom someone had to come in and clap for you and say “good job!” Job title: Crapper Clapper?


Soon we will be out of diapers and I will be able to ignore that aisle at the grocery store. I won’t have to cringe every time the cashier rings up that $30.00 box of crap holders. Oh the little things………..

“M” is for…..

melt·down noun \ˈmelt-ˌdau̇n\

Definition of MELTDOWN
1: the accidental melting of the core of a nuclear reactor
2: a rapid or disastrous decline or collapse

3: a breakdown of self-control (as from fatigue or overstimulation)



Did anyone ever notice that mom, minivan, meltdown and medication all start with the same letter? I do not believe this is just a mere coincidence, more like a series of events. Conspiracy even…maybe. My children follow the series of events to the letter. Mom picks up kids. Kids get in minivan. Kids have meltdown. Mom considers medication.


Does this happen to the moms that own, let’s say, a BMW or a Suburban? Or is it just minivans or other vehicles that start with the letter “m”. That would suck for Mercedes. Wow, this just led me to another “did you ever notice”. Did you ever notice that the high-end vehicles don’t have names, rather numbers, classes or series? Honda has the Odyssey, Accord, Pilot, etc. Toyota has the Sienna, Camry, 4Runner, etc. Then we get to the Mercedes which is by class, BMW by series and so on. Anyway, who gives a shit? I am still pissed about the whole “minivan” conspiracy. Is it possible that minivans were invented by the pharmaceutical companies? Just a thought.


So, as I picked up my daughter today, she proceeded to tell me about her day and 25 minutes later as I was arriving to pick up my son, she was still talking and I am quite sure she was on the same breath. I never heard her breathe, not once. Next we pick up my son. He gets in the car and before the seatbelt is even secure, the whining begins and it ended sometime around bed time. Meltdowns suck.


So “m” has now become my least favorite letter in the alphabet. Think about all the other crappy words that start with the letter “m”; mudslide, monsoon, methadone, meningitis, mushrooms (only because I don’t like them), menopause, monsters, magicians, Massachusetts (just kidding). Although, in the end, Mom is truly one of the most beautiful words in the English language so I guess I have to pick another letter to hate. I think “P” is a good one. Example; politicians and poop...enough said.

"B" is NOT for Bully



This is probably the only “serious” blog entry I will ever write.

My daughter is having her first experience with a bully and unfortunately she is only in Kindergarten. I thought I at least had a few years before we would even be discussing this concept, but noooooo…..a six year old is having to hear about when to walk away and when to defend herself.


When I first starting hearing the term “bully”, I thought back to when I was a kid and I remembered a certain girl (or evil bitch as I like to think of her) who was by all definitions, a full-fledged bully in the second grade. Everyone was afraid of her. She was mean, picked on everyone and never followed the rules. One day we were in class waiting in line to go to the auditorium and she began to pinch me on the arm. After the second time, I said to her “if you do that one more time, I am going to punch you”. Well she did, and then I did….right in the face. We were both taken to the office however, I did not get into trouble when I explained what happened. The best part that came out of this is that she never bothered me again. I stood up for myself and she did not expect that from a skinny little white girl. But that is not at all how things happen today.


I hear stories on the news and read about them more often than I would like to, about kids who attempt or succeed in committing suicide all because they were being bullied. What are we as parents doing to STOP this? Do we teach our kids to be kind to others? Do we remind our kids that everyone is different and that it does not make any one person better than another? Do we know what our kids are acting like when they are at school or who they are hanging around? I know for us, we teach our daughter to always be kind, which in this case is only making it worse.


I have a lot of thoughts on what is causing this trend, most of it boiling down to access to more forums to spread rumors and hatred. What a waste when it could be used for so much more. It seems technology has a serious downside and often our children are paying the price.


The other huge culprit is the economy and parents now being forced to work harder, which leaves less time spent with our children. Our kids are suffering far more from this down turn then most of us realize. So maybe they are acting out for attention. Maybe they are figuring that some attention is better than no attention.


The other part of the economy besides the lack of time is that a lot of families cannot afford to buy the best clothes and toys anymore. We know how cruel kids can be when one child does not have the things that many other kids have. They are teased and made fun of for something that is out of their control.


The bottom line is that we as parents need to take responsibility for our children. Spend time with them when we can, listen when they speak and step in when our children are in trouble. We cannot always rely on the school system or others to see what may be happening. It is not the school’s fault, however. One teacher has 15 or more students to watch and could not possibly see everything that happens. Now, I know that kids can make mountains out of mole hills and tend to exaggerate about most everything, but we owe it to our children to believe them and check it out when they say there is a problem.


WAKE UP PEOPLE…..you chose to become a parent, now start acting like one! (for those of you who didn’t choose to become a parent, you chose to have sex, so you chose parenthood by default)