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.

Meandering Mommy Madness

Er mer gerd you guys! I can’t even begin to tell you just how crazy things have been! So much has been going on, I don’t even know where to begin. I hate doing bullet points, maily because I do them every day at work and lists freak me out, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to give you the cliff notes version of things until I actually get my rear in gear and jestfully fill you in on all my meandering mommy madness. Get ready. Get set. Here come the bullet points! Chill out, there are only four.

  • I had the honor and privilege to sit down and talk with an absolutely amazing man from Curacao who is making a difference, not only environmentally, but in the lives of the people around him. Other than this man being pretty fantastic, ladies, he’s pretty darn cute too. Just saying.
  • The kids and I bought a pig. Her name is Bacon Seed. She should be in our freezer by Thanksgiving. In the meantime, be prepared for photos of the growing swine, llamas licking my son’s head, and my daughter being terrified of free range chickens. I may even throw in a few mentions of me being covered in pig shit and how difficult it is to teach children that pork scraps CANNOT go into the pig slop. We are now pig farmers after all.
  • I promised you all updates about my dating adventures, and i have given you one. Which was a complete bust. Well, it’s not so much of an adventure so to say right now, but it will be in a few short weeks as I take my travels across international borders, and see just how well a certain man can deal with my farting and impromptu naps after a few beers. He has been warned, but you never know because he has never smelled one of my farts.
  • My quest to shrink my ass from a size 14 back down to a size 12, as well as actually braving a bikini in public. Add a hint of trampoline fun, where I learn my ass cheeks can hit the back of my head if I jump hard enough. Worst case scenario, my ass doesn’t shrink, I’m stuck wearing a bikini to the beach, and my kids use me for shade from the hot summer sun. At least someone wins.

So there you have it. I PROMISE to get my act together this week and pump this stuff out for you. You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. You may even stop reading all together. Then I will hunt you down, steal your first born, and strategically place glitter bombs around you house and inside your car. Your choice, really.

I Should Love My Body, But I Don’t

Reasons I should love my body:

  • I gave birth to two amazing human beings.
  • My curves tell a story.
  • At 35 years old, I still turn heads.
  • Every stretch mark and every sag is there for a reason.
  • My body is mine.
  • It’s the one thing I have complete control over.

Reasons I don’t love my body:

  • As soon as I started to develop, the older boys on the bus started inviting me to sit with them in the back. There they would grope and fondle me as they laughed among themselves, all the while telling me to stay quiet.
  • In 1994 a much older teen-aged boy thought it would be fun to get me drunk, have sex with me as I cried, and leave me in a pool of my own vomit, I was 14.
  • In 2001 a man in a bar slipped something into my drink, brought me to a hotel, took advantage of me while I was passed out, and then forced himself on me when I woke up in the morning.

Sexual assault comes in all forms, and beats a person down mentally and physically. It leaves scars that won’t heal. It brings us a lifetime of pain, and makes it difficult to carry on meaningful relationships. Many of us end up lashing out sexually, thinking it will somehow ease the pain. Sex becomes a series of motions instead of e-motions. We are angry. We feel alone. We are scared to open ourselves up. We end up in bad relationships where we don’t matter. You only have to be the victim one time to feel completely lost. One time to think you’re ugly. One time to hate yourself. As a victim I have spent time drowning my fears in drugs and alcohol. There was a long period of time where I used men for sex, and didn’t care who got hurt. I’ve been through years of counseling and therapy, but the scars sexual assault have left me with will never go away. Every time I look in the mirror all I see is ugliness and hate. Every day is a struggle, learning to love my body because of all the wonderful things it has done. I hope that one day I won’t have the constant pain I carry inside, that one day I will love myself again.

April is sexual assault awareness month. This month, take a moment to educate yourself on the facts of sexual assault and the affects it has on victims and their families. If you or someone you know has been sexually assaulted, contact the authorities, and get help. No one should have to live a life of pain and self doubt because they were taken advantage of.

Cock Swabs and Steamy Penis Creatures

I thought raising a penis person would be easy. I mean seriously, what’s there to know? Yes, there’s that whole spontaneous erection thing and wet dreams, but I didn’t think it would be much more than that. Now men, before you get your boxers in a bunch, I want to start off by saying women are complicated messes. We are like a magnetic compass, without the magnet. We tend to spin in circles, talking ourselves into a tizzy and crying because little Johnny killed a spider. With that being said, men…are simple. You grunt. You puff up your chests when another man looks at your woman. Do you even lift, bro? You compare penis sizes in the locker room. Girls do this as well, but with their boobs. It’s all so simple, or so I thought. What I didn’t know, is just how fascinated males, as a whole, are with their penises. Not to mention how literally they take the saying, “Reach out and touch someone (or something).”

As I’ve learned in my eight and a half years of raising a penis person, nothing about the penis is normal. Flash forward past the days of failed attempts with pee pee tepees, and watching my infant son pee in his own mouth and my eye at the same time. Past the point where I could trust my little guy to run around the house completely naked without the fear of him peeing in the cat dish. This is where I first started to notice just how fascinated with the penis these people are. There I was, a young mother of a two year old boy,sitting on the couch in the early morning hours feeling like death warmed over, and probably looking ten times worse. I watched as my son, completely oblivious to the fact it wasn’t even 5 am yet, joyfully frolicking about in the living room. I had since given up on drinking one cup of coffee at a time, and wandered into the kitchen to find a straw to stick in the pot. When I came back into the living room, coffee pot and straw in hand, I noticed my son doing push-ups in front of the tv. Baffled and amused, not to mention completely caught off guard, I couldn’t figure out why my toddler would be doing push-ups before the sun even came up. Of course I had also been trying figure out why his little mind thought it ok to be up for the day at 4 am for two years prior to this sudden oddity in behavior. Carry on, dear boy. Finish your push-ups and let’s have some breakfast. Then it hit me, he wasn’t doing push-ups. Oh, no! He was cock swabbing my carpet!!! I can only imagine this was all brought on by a quick tumble to the floor while I was in the kitchen, thus resulting in an unexpected “feel” of said carpet.

I have a vagina. I don’t “feel” anything with it. At least not randomly. It stays tucked away where it belongs. Away from random objects. Away from the elements. Away from, well, carpet. As my son continues to cock swab the perimeter of the living room,I can do nothing more than watch in disbelief. Perhaps this is why people call the penis a “third limb”. Either way, it’s gross and it’s weird.

Flash forward, yet again. Past the moment where little boys discover that nut shots are funny, as long as the shot isn’t on them. Past where they start pitching little tents in the morning, and you question why you have yet to buy them their own alarm clock. Let’s flip to last week. My son loves taking showers. The only argument we come across in the bathing aspect is what time of day to do it. He prefers night because it doesn’t waste his time in the morning. I prefer morning because it actually forces him to haul his carcass out of bed. Because I’m awesome and always win last Wednesday my son agreed to shower in the morning. Win! This is where I should add how he likes his showers so hot, I am amazed his skin doesn’t slough off while in there. As you all know, extremely hot water creates a LOT of steam. My bathroom often ends up resembling the Amazon Rain Forest in summer. It’s any wonder my son can safely climb out of the shower when finished, seeing as how one can barely see the edge of the tub through the steam.

I’m used to my son taking long showers. He likes to stay in to the point where the water starts to turn cold, and he knows he can’t go on any longer without the fear of sudden hypothermia. In all honesty, if I wasn’t the one paying the bill, I would probably do the same thing. However, this past Wednesday, something was off. Yes, his shower used all the hot water in the town, but for some reason he wasn’t coming out of the bathroom. I thought maybe I had a bad mom moment, and missed the sound of a dangerous fall, or perhaps the steam had swallowed him whole. So, yes, I had a slight moment of panic. I ran upstairs, threw open the door…..right into my son’s face! “Theo!” I said, “what are you doing?”

“Mommy! Nothing!” He then quickly wrapped himself back up in his over sized towel, and scurried out of the bathroom, throwing the door the rest of the way open. As soon as he was out of sight, I peeked around the back of the door to where he had been standing, naked. As I looked at the full length mirror, covered in condensation, I could see little marks all covering the area about where my son’s waist would be. Upon closer inspection I could see that the little marks were actually little penises. My dear sweet boy had been standing naked in the nice warm bathroom pressing his little penis against the mirror, so he could feel the coolness of the reflective surface and then get a chuckle out of the little shapes that resulted.

It is clear to me now that the need to stick penises places and feel things on it starts at a very early age. I can only imagine what else in my house has been cock swabbed and stamped. God help me when he figures out what masturbation is, and locks himself into his bedroom for hours. Boys are gross, boys are weird, and I am officially baffled by this thing called a penis.

Jack and the Penis Stock

I don’t know about other people’s kids, but mine are always chatty on the car ride to school every morning. By chatty I mean they don’t shut up from the moment I start the car to the moment I push them out the door as we slowly drive by their schools. There are mornings when I’m pretty sure they don’t even come up for air, and they become endless run on sentences. No punctuation. No structure. Just the longest word in the world. Needless to say, I often end up tuning them out. They could be talking about the affects global warming has on penguin habitats, and I would have no idea. Just me being blissfully numb to the run on sentences in the backseat.

As most mothers will tell you, we tend to be “ok” with all the noise kids make, even if it involves screaming. We shrug off the thumps and bumps, and we only listen a tiny bit after a scream to make sure no serious injury has occurred. The part that actually gets us to listen is silence. The minute it’s silent we start to worry. As much as I would enjoy a silent car ride in the morning, I’d rather all the jibber jabber than a brief spurt of silence. That spurt of silence means only one thing in my car, someone has done something inappropriate. Due to my keen listening skills ability to tune my children out, I have no idea what was said prior to this silence the other day. All I know is nothing audible was said followed by, “Pheobe, that’s not what I said. I said BEAN stock.”

Honestly, what on earth could a five year old get the word “bean” confused with? Why the whisper? Wait…another whisper followed by another “Pheobe! That’s NOT what I said! I said BEAN stock!” Spleen. Spleen was the only word I could think of that would drive my son through the roof. Duh! After stopping the world from ending the argument in the back seat, it was time to get to the root of the problem. The silence.

Me: What word did you think your brother said?

Pheobe: …..

Me: He said BEAN stock.

Pheobe: …..

Me: …..

Pheobe: *looks at Theo*

Me: …..

Pheobe: *giggle*

Me: PHEOBE!

Pheobe: *whispers* penis

So there you have it. She thought he said “PENIS stock” not “BEAN stock”. Suddenly images of Jack burying seeds in the ground in his back yard, only to wake up to a giant dildo that reaches the sky jutting up from where the seeds once were, go flying through my head. Jack climbs the giant dildo into the clouds, and comes upon a giant vagina with an appetite for destruction and doom! He searches for the golden egg as most men do only to find it hidden in the most obvious spot. Trust me men, it’s very simple to find. He grabs the egg, and slides back down the dildo, takes out his ax and goes all Lorena Bobbitt on it. It falls to the ground with a mighty thud as Jack rejoices in FINALLY finding the golden egg. <<<Obviously NOT the same image my five year old daughter had in her head, thankfully.