No Escalator? No good.

This summer my kids became “world” travelers. Jetsetting across the United States from the East Coast to the West, they quickly adapted to air travel. People bringing them snacks and drinks as they watched movies with their trays down and seats back, life in the sky was good. On the ground they enjoyed the mall-like atmosphere of the airport, beyond the security checkpoints. Duty Free and news stands, even a Chili’s!

Perhaps their favorite part however, were all the escalators and moving walkways. Like most kids and grown-ups they were overjoyed by the thrill of attempting to walk backwards or running on all these people movers. As they tested their new found escalator skills, I leisurely rode behind them at a safe distance ready to catch a fall or release a snag.

They have since returned safely to the East Coast, but are eager for their next in-flight adventure. Yesterday, as we passed through downtown, Theo noticed there was a sign for an airport. “Mommy! Did you know there was an airport here?” After traveling over two hours to get to the airport for their jet setting adventure, the realization that there was an airport just minutes from our house was a stumper. Why on earth would we wake up before the sun and drive into the heart of Boston at the beginning of rush hour when we could have slept in and basically walked to the airport?

I tried to explain to him that it was a very small airport, and very expensive to fly out of. “Small? How small?” He asked.

“Really small. So small it doesn’t even have an escalator.”

“Or a moving ramp?”

“Yes, that small.”

The world suddenly stopped moving as Mr. Jetsetter tried to wrap his head around an airport without the trill of people movers. How do you get from flight to flight? What if your feet are tired? What if your bags are too heavy? What if you have to get from one end of the airport to the other really, really fast and you can’t run that fast? How can this even be possible????? After the barrage of questions and a meaningful pause, his only response was, “We can never fly out of there.”

I guess this means flying into/out of Dutch Harbor, Alaska or Guam are out of the question. Bummer.

Did You Know You Have A Hole In Your Butt?

“Pheobe, did you know you have a hole in your butt?”

“Yeah, duh. Everyone has a hole in their butt, even cats.”

“But did you know that’s where your butt penis is?”

“Um…I don’t have a butt penis.”

“I’m totally joking, it’s where your poop comes out.”

I have nothing else I can add to this except: raising boys.

My Vagina’s Pronoun is She

When I talk about my vagina I refer to it as “she” and “her”. I understand this is not “normal” behavior, but it’s my behavior, and I’m ok with that. I can’t tell you how many times people have asked me why I refer to my vagina as her own person. Don’t judge me. My answer is, simply put, because SHE is. Let me explain my rational to you.

Think about it, a vagina is…well…have you ever tried to talk to a vagina? The amount of coaxing and urging she needs to do…well…anything! Despite what your brain wants her to do, she is basically going to do whatever she damn well pleases. Pretty sure that’s a woman thing in general. You’re on a date with an amazingly beautiful person. Sparks are flying. A connection is made. You lean in for the kiss and suddenly there is a flood Noah’s arc couldn’t even handle. A few months later, you’re on another date. Sparks are flying. A connection is made. You lean in for the kiss and…nothing. You’re suddenly so dry tumble weeds just blew across your vagina.

She bleeds…pretty much whenever she feels it fits her schedule. So what if she’s three days early?!?! The 27th obviously wasn’t going to work for her. Besides, she’s 35 fucking years old! Who’s got time for punctuality at 35 after pushing out two kids? Not her, that’s for sure.

Then you have special cases, like mine. I mean special in the nicest way possible. She’s been through a lot. Sex, rape, kids, sex, fingers, sex, abuse, timeouts, sex, dry spells, sex. Let’s just say she’s “sensitive”. Not a huge fan of strangers, understandably. They tend to be either too rough or too gentle or too small. Any time there is a new person, she basically stands up, turns around, and runs away screaming “STRANGER DANGER!!!” I all but have to grab her by the scruff, haul her back, and shove her back in place. Toddlers are more agreeable than my vagina. It’s exhausting, but we have been working through it. Then there’s her appetite…for condoms. I’m not sure if it’s her cavernous nature, lack of attention, or if she thinks of condoms like Skittles; but all condom wearers in her vicinity should be warned. You think you’ve got control of the situation. You think you’re doing all the right things. Then she chews it up and swallows it in one gulp. Gone! Condom? What condom? I didn’t see a condom? In the same fashion as someone shoving their hand down a dog’s throat to retrieve the diamond ring they just swallowed, I’m doing the same with my vagina…cursing the entire time.

So, as you can see, my vagina is her own person. Making evil plots against me while I sleep. Sneering at my date from across the table. Waiting for the unsuspecting condom to cross her path. She’s wicked and wonderful all at the same time. She is her own person, and I shall continue to treat her as such because my vagina’s pronoun is SHE.

Oysters, Fortresses, And Love

I met a man in my early twenties while shopping at LL Bean. He was, simply put, gorgeous. He had eyes that could reach way down inside of you, and lips you couldn’t help but want to kiss. To my surprise, he asked me for my phone number. A week later we had our first date. I remember being so nervous. Dating wasn’t really my thing it still isn’t, so I had absolutely no idea how to act. Add the fact this guy was a dreamboat, and I was pretty much a blubbering idiot the entire day leading up to that night. Being young, dumb, and a college student, I was beside myself over the fact he was going to come to my apartment and pick me up. Like in a car and shit. Weird, right?

I had never had oysters so he insisted we go to a tiny little oyster bar down on the docks. When we walked in the smell of salt and ice filled my nose as he gently took my hand and lead me across the dimly lit bar. We sat at the bar between two burly fishermen just in from their day. Growing up in a fishing town, in a fishing family, this place felt oddly like home. The sounds. The smells. All coupled with a man I couldn’t take my eyes off of.

We sat bellied up to the bar, eating oysters and drinking beer, for hours. We talked about where we were in our lives. What our hopes were. What had brought us to this point. Conversation came so easy and smooth, as he sat there with his hand on my thigh the entire time. At one point I had explained to him about my rocky sexual past. The rape and molestation, and my inability to form valid physical relationships. I was afraid I was falling into a trend of only wanting to have sex with men instead of getting to know them and forming something meaningful. He took both my hands into his, looked me in the eyes, and said, “Let’s not let you slip away like that. No sex. Not tonight. I promise.”

Shortly thereafter we left the comfort of the salty smell and burly fishermen, and he drove me home. He walked me to my door, and I asked him to come inside. Our date continued as we sat on the couch and talked until we could barely keep our eyes open. I invited him to stay until morning. I felt secure in his words about not having sex, and I wanted to experience what it truly meant to sleep next to someone with no expectations. As we laid in bed, limbs entwined, he pressed his body against mine and kissed me gently. Every ounce of me wanted to rub my body against his, pull his clothes off, and feel him inside me. But he had already said “not tonight”. So we didn’t. We simply rubbed gently against each other and fell asleep.

The next morning he kissed my lips as he walked out the door saying he would call me later.

He never called.

When I saw him a few weeks later at LL Bean he pretended he had no idea who I was. He was polite, but still would not acknowledge that he had ever even laid eyes on me before. I was upset, as most people would be. I had felt something I thought was sincere. Something I didn’t know existed. I was suddenly left standing there wondering if it had all been a dream. I often went back to the oyster bar on the docks, looking for that same comfort I had felt that night. I went there with different men, my roommates, and even by myself. The salty air and the burly fishermen were all still there is the dim lights, but the comfort was not. I’m not sure why, but it took me a long time to get past the feeling of lost hope from that night.

I’m past it now, but there are times I look back and wonder what happened. So smooth and cunning. Easy going and handsome. I’ve never met a man like him since. Not one to that level of comfort I felt anyway. Perhaps it’s from the walls I built up after, or the hardening from military service. Now, however, I’m working on knocking down those walls. I’m working on finding that comfort with someone. I’ve learned it’s not the sex, or the lack there of, it’s the ability to let people in. The ability to be confident enough in yourself to open up without being afraid of the hurt that may follow. We are all our own fortresses, and we guard ourselves well. However, every now and then we have to let someone in because living in a fortress by ourselves can be very lonely. Life is, after all, better spent with love.

Driving Into The New England Stereotype

I did it. I hate to admit it, but I did it.

I’ve joined the club of soccer moms, obsessed with their kid’s athletic abilities.

The moms who delay the drop off/pick up process every day at school.

I’ve become a Birkenstock wearing, earth loving, hippie.

Someone who covers every last inch of their bumper with social injustice bumper stickers. Free Tibet! Equality! Legalize medical marijuana! Boring women rarely make history! NPR! Warning, I stop for Goodwill stores!

Move over cautious drivers! This momma is now on the road!

I will no longer be able to park properly in parking lots.

I can now sneer at Honda Pilot drivers.

Finding my car in when coming out of a baseball game will now be impossible without activating the panic button.

Coupled with my short hair, I will now solidify my place in the lesbian community. Thus resulting in never being asked out on a heterosexual date again.

In short, I bought a Subaru. I now fall into all the aforementioned stereotypes, and then some. Despite my need for speed, previous Pilot ownership, and brightly covered tattoos; I am now one of “those” moms. This new purchase has given me the urge to go to the nearest Newbury Comics location and buy up all the Slayer and Anthrax bumper stickers they have in stock. I will have to blast Portishead and Primus albums as I roll through the drop off line in the morning. The struggle is real my friends, and I have thrown myself into the thick of it.

Guess I F&#@ed That One Up

I’m really good a fucking things up. I completely admit it. Good things fall into my lap all the time; all tied up in pretty packages and everything. However, almost as quickly as they land, I push them out and away from me. I wish I could say my reason for doing this is a fear of commitment or a lack of motivation to find happiness. I wish it were that easy. To tell you the truth, I have absolutely no idea why I do this.

Hello, good thing. Into the trash you go. Thanks for stopping by.

As most of you already know, I found this really great guy, Craft, in Canada. Thus proving some good things actually come from Canada. We were planning on meeting up and spending a week together when I brought my kids out to Seattle. I was looking forward to really getting to know him, and spending some “me” time away from my kids. Perfect little package, right in my lap. Vacation. Great guy. Vancouver. Please, and thank you.

Time for some backstory:

My kids go on vacation immediately upon returning from three weeks in Seattle…with my entire family…excluding me.

Craft is still “technically” married. Legally separated, but still “married”. Shut up, I don’t want to hear from you people.

Add those two factors together, and you suddenly have mom guilt with a side of moral fiber. I tried to fight off these feelings. I kept telling myself it was ok to spend time away from the kids AND have fun. I reminded myself that he was “legally separated”. In the long run, my feelings got the better of me, and I changed my return flight home and vacation dates. I did this without telling him first, instead I told him the next day when we could actually Skype instead of via text. I told him my number one reason was that I wanted to be able to take vacation with my kids when they returned from Seattle. It didn’t make sense to me to pick them up on a Saturday, drive them five hours to my parent’s house, drop them off, and drive all the way home again. I wanted to be able to pick them up, drive them five hours to my parent’s house, and stay there with them. Yes, I also told him about the moral fiber part. Saying I couldn’t, in all good consciousness, spend a week with a man who is still “technically” married. Especially if I have to keep that entire vacation a secret so his soon-to-be ex wife doesn’t find out.

Judging by his reaction, you would have thought I had reached down his throat and ripped out his heart. Almost immediately, he said he had to go and hung up. I knew he would be upset, but I didn’t know he would be THAT upset. I didn’t hear from him for the rest of the night. The next day the texts came pouring in. Saying he was heartbroken and disappointed that I didn’t want to see him. I explained to him that it wasn’t that I didn’t want to see him, it was that I wanted to spend the time with my kids, and I couldn’t spend an entire vacation “keeping it on the down low”. Alas, that wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He insisted it was because I didn’t want to see him, and I didn’t even want to spend an entire day with him.

So there it stands, no more week long date, and it would appear I have lost someone I thought was my best friend in the process. I think for future “dating” purposes I am going to stick with one of my favorite terms, “keep it simple, stupid.” No long distance. No “in the process of” getting divorced. Probably one I should have stuck to a LONG time ago. No more men with “complicated” lives. Simple. Maybe that means I am going to be single for a long time, but I’m ok with that. Because right now, my children are my main focus. I may be doing a shitty job trying to find someone to grow with us, but I’m not doing a shitty job as a mother.

Drop Off Line Twats

I long for the day when the drop off line at school is nothing but a distant memory. When I can sit back and reminisce about all the times I almost got out of my car and stabbed people for treating the drop off line like the entryway to their house. When I can rejoice in never having to watch mother’s clothe their children in the car, shove poptarts down their throats because of piss poor time management at home, or just sit and have a casual conversation with the 10 kids sitting in the backseat ever again.

Until then I will have to continue sitting through the daily agony of the drop off line. Teaching my own children the beautiful art of cursing someone out when they can’t even hear me and daydreaming about following certain people home and slashing their tires for being drop off line twats. Every day the same people mess it up for the rest of us. They sit, blissfully numb, in their minivans and Subaru Foresters as they pull up in front of the school, turn their engines off don’t tell me they are trying to save the environment, get out of the driver’s seat, pull school projects out of the trunk, jam lunch boxes in backpacks, brush wayward hairs from faces, and pull fairy dust out of their ass before they finally get back in the driver’s seat and drive off in a puff of glitter and purple clouds.

To them, the drop off line is a time for gathering thoughts and belongings before sending their young on their merry way. For the rest of us, the drop off line is for dropping kids off and getting the hell out of dodge! The majority of parents rolling through the drop off line have their kids fully dressed, armed with lunches, school projects piled high on their laps, and ready for departure. Most kids are lucky parents even come to a full and complete stop when letting them out. I am sure I am not the only one tempted to slow down to a crawl, and let my kid tuck and roll into the schoolyard.

So, if you’re a drop off line twat, quit it. Get your kids ready before you leave the house like the rest of us, and stop doing whatever it is you’re doing in the car. Learn some time management skills, stop treating your kids like little morons who can’t do anything for themselves, and kick those little shits out of the car already!!! Because the truth is, the rest of us know who the repeat offenders are, and have come to the conclusion that you make every morning feel like a Monday morning.