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This Is Not My Underwear

Feb4

I am not a morning person. I get up around 5:30 during the week and I hate it. I don’t pop out of bed singing and greeting pretty little blue birds. Squirells don’t pounce on my bed with excitement to say good morning. In fact I’m pretty sure all woodland creatures hear my alarm go off like an air raid siren and hide in little makeshift bomb shelters. My cats head straight for the door to go outside so as to escape my wrath. I know I am not a morning person, which is why I wake up so early. I have to give myself at least an hour to wake up and reach an exceptable level of sanity and even temper. If anything happens before the hour is complete anyone around me is subject to crying, yelling, confusion, and flat out ignoring. It is best not to aproach me for any reason, this includes good morning kisses. The flames in my eyes with ignite and, although not a definate, there is a slight posibility you may get head butted.

I have my morning routine so as to avoid being arrested for domestic abuse and neglect. In the past year this routine has been shortened substantially by my job. We wear scrubs which has allowed me to use less brain power when getting dressed. For the most part I lay my scrubs out for the next day before I go to bed so I can think even less in the morning. Last night this was not the case.

When I woke up after hitting snooze for 40 minutes I got out of bed at the same time BF did. Mistake number one. Remembering I had not set out my clothes for the day I had to scavenge  for something to wear. Mistake number 2. Still asleep, I decided to go through my dresser for something to wear instead of the laundry baskets. Mistake number 3. Let me explain something, clothes in our house hardly ever make it into their respective dressers. 3 of us wear uniforms and the 4th is a creature of habbit and wears the same clothes over and over so the same clothes get worn week after week. Nothing. Changes. Digging into a dresser for clothes is almost like entering the Amazon at night, you’ll never know what you may happen upon.

I start to think maybe starting the coffee before looking for clothes would have been a smarter course of events, but as I open the underwear drawer I decide to continue on my path of destruction and wait to make coffee.  So there I am, puting on my underwear after waking up WITH someone and without having coffee first, when I suddenly realize this is not MY underwear! I take them off and look. I check the tag with other tags in the drawer. This isn’t my usual Wal-mart underwear. I double check the tags again. Nothing matches.

I put the underwear back on. Still not my underwear.

Baffled and confused I go into the bathroom and sit on the toilet, defeated. This is not my underwear. BF peaks his head out of the shower. “Hi baby! Are you ok?”

“No, this is not my underwear.”

“Huh? Who’s underwear is it?”

“I have no idea.” I am so confused at this point all I want to do is cry. Did I bring them home by accident the last time I was at my parents house? Did one of our recent houseguests leave them when they spent the night? This is not my underwear. Where did it come from? And why am I still wearing it?

Wait a minute. Laundry room. There on the top of the dirty clothes is my underwear from the day before. I look at the style. I look at the tag. I look at what I’m wearing. These are my underwear! My daily routine had caused me to wear the same 5-7 pairs of underwear every week. Back in Novemeber I bought a pack of 3 underwear, evidently only 2 pairs made their way into the rotation. The lone black pair from the pack of 3 had been put away obviously by accident and never made its way onto my bottom until now.

I learned many new lessons today.

1. Coffee is always to come first.

2. Waking up WITH someone is even more detrimental to my routine than priviosly known.

3. BF now thinks I’m even more nuts than he did yesterday.

4. This is the most comfortable pair of underwear I’ve ever worn. I would still be wearing them even if they weren’t mine because on Mondays you’re allowed to be that gross. They were clean, it’s just like borrowing a bathing suit. Don’t judge me.

Nipples and Nudity: Happy Mother’s Day

May10

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a bit left of center and blew the word ‘unique’ out of the water. So this Mother’s Day I feel that I should pay homage to my mother and grandmother who made me this way. So sit back and relax, I’m about to tell you how it was growing up in Maine under the influence of the women who raised me.

My grandmother was an art teacher. In reality I really shouldn’t have to say much more than that. We’ve all dealt with art teachers dressed in homemade clothes with their bifocals dangling from around their neck on a beaded tether. <= That was my grandmother. My first memory of her was when my mother and I were living with her in a small little New England home overlooking the ocean. I ran into the bathroom one day to get my pet hamster, isn’t that where everyone keeps their hamsters? and saw her with her underwear down to her knees bent over spraying them with perfume. As I stopped short in my tracks she simply looked up at me and said, “There is no reason for it to ever stink.” I now know that ‘it’ meant your cooter, but at the time I was convinced ‘it’ was your underwear and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why your underwear would stink.

Throughout the years I watched as my grandmother would shamelessly yank off her shirt in the midst of a hot flash in the middle of dinner and frantically walk around the house in her underwear. When I was in college we would have entire conversations about her boobs and how gravity had taken them south. When she would fart she would say that she was deflating, and we would be in tears every time she hugged someone due to the fact that every hug would inevitably squeeze a fart out of her. After she passed away in 2008 I found a bottle of her husband’s Viagra (he had passed a few years before) in the night stand on his side of the bed. Right then it was confirmed that up until 2006 my grandmother was still at least trying to have sex.

As they say, the apple never falls too far from the tree. They also say that your children are three times worse than you were. Enter my mother. She isn’t an art teacher, but she did want to be a hippy. Every summer growing up my mother would walk out the door in her underwear and start mowing the lawn. It’s quite possible I miss this the least since leaving home. Quite often more than I’d like to admit if my brother and I heard rapid footsteps coming toward the kitchen we knew that she would soon be sliding across the floor in nothing but her socks yelling “Ta-da!!!”

Summers growing up included happening upon my mother on the back porch sunbathing topless every weekend and winters being mooned by her in her ancient night-gown. The older I get the more stories I hear and the more comfortable she feels about going bra shopping with me for herself.

And that’s how it was for me growing up. Listening to their stories about sex and boobs, and wondering if I was ever going to have nipples like my mother. They were never shy about nudity and taught me it was a normal part of life. Even now I have conversations with my mother on the purpose of ‘manscaping’ and how an underwire bra helps to combat the look of gravity.

It’s because of them that I now  put on deodorant in that little area where my thigh meets my crotch cracks BF up every time he sees me do it, enjoy pants off Friday, encourage BF to motor boat me, and have taken my shirt off in public more than a handful of times…ok, that last one was probably due to tequila but my mother always taught me to never blame the alcohol. Therefore I blame it strictly on genetics. Thanks mom!*wink wink*

So this Mother’s Day I want to thank my mother and grandmother for molding me into the free spirited nudist I am today. Without the constant influence from them both I can only imagine that I would have become a stuck up bitch who doesn’t know the first thing about wacky sex and underwear perfume. I miss my grandmother every day and continue to be thankful every time my I come to realize my mother is becoming more and more like my grandmother. This means one thing….I am sure to stumble down the same path and so is my daughter. Watch out world, this mommy is undressed for a reason!

I Have 3 Cats?

May4

I’m not a big fan of cleaning in general anymore much to BF’s dismay. But I do it as rarely as possible because I have to. Yesterday BF went on a cleaning frenzy which he only seems to do when he’s sick and I was told that on Sunday we were cleaning our bedroom.*cue crickets*
I hate cleaning my bedroom more than cleaning anything else on this planet. I’ve scrubbed sea creatures off of harbor markers and climbed into sewage tanks to clean out filters. Can someone go tell Mike Rowe that for me? But there is nothing which needs cleaning that makes me more miserable than cleaning my room. This isn’t a new thing like my overall disdain for cleaning which came about after the birth of my daughter. No, this roots down much deeper.
Growing up I was ‘that’ kid. There was a clean path from my door to be bed and that was about it. Dishes piled up on the tv and dirty clothes were shoved under the bed. My parents would ground me until my room was clean. There were times I would be grounded for upwards of a week or more.
As I grew older and had my own place I made an ultimate decision that my bedroom doesn’t have to be clean because no one actually has to come into my room except me. It’s a privilege of being an adult in my world. When I was dating I rarely had men over to my house, and if they did come over it was for dinner and a movie and then out. No one was allowed in my bedroom!
And to this day no one goes in my bedroom really, except me and BF. And I like it that way. To me the bedroom should only be used for two things, sleeping and sex. That’s it. It’s not my safe haven. It’s not my point of Zen. It’s not a place I entertain company.
So when BF informed me that we were going to clean said bedroom on Sunday I was immediately taken over by my inner child and pouted. And I continued to pout about it for 12 hours until I went to look again for my missing slipper. I got on my belly to look under the dresser which hasn’t moved in almost 4 years. I started pulling things out from underneath. A sock. A sewing project. A bra. Jeans. A sweater. Then came the big discovery………I had no idea I had a third cat made of dust bunnies and cat fur!
So tonight I am going to clean my room while BF is out! Not sure how much wine its going to take, but I will have that damn thing cleaned! There will be no more random cats found in my bedroom damn it!
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Little Golden Arches

Apr16

Penis envy. It’s something us women know all to well. You men have it so easy with the exception of random hard ons being able to stand up and pee. You can pretty much whip it out and pee where ever you damn well please. From trees, to the backs of buildings, to side alleys. You can even pee into a soda bottle while driving and never have to stop. It’s unfair. This is why women have spent money trying to come up with different aperatuses that will bless us with the ability to pee while standing. Unfortunetly none of theses have eliminated the need to wipe.

As we women grow up we are reminded daily that we will never truly be able to join the ranks of men who can perform such a marvelous feat. We learn to deal with it, and move on with a smile knowing that there are certain things we can do that men cannot. Women may or may not remember back to the time they first whitnessed a man peeing standing up. Maybe you walked in on your father in the bathroom. Maybe some guy was peeing up against a tree at the campground. Maybe you were lucky enough to grow up with brothers constantly trying to perfect their name in the snow or simply showing off the fact that they don’t have to sit down and you do. <= This, is exactly what my poor daughter has to put up with every day.

Theo is constantly trying to pee on anything that will hold still long enough for him to do his business. And yes, he even peed on me from the porch one day. Pheobe will stand there and watch in wonder as Theo makes perfect little golden arches to unsuspecing plants and sidewalks. At 3 years old, she has already come to realise that this part of life is unfair.

As we stood outside the house waiting for the bus the other morning, Pheobe perked up and said she had to pee. Instead of running her inside like a normal mother I looked around for a tissue or napkin to help her squat behind a bush. As I frantically ripped apart the car, I heard one last desperate cry to go pee. Quickly I turned around only to hear these words fly out of my mouth, “Pheobe! You’re not a boy!!!” But it was too late. Her little blue pants were down around her ankles as she popped her little pelvis forward and commenced to pee on the side of the house. She looked up in glee at the fact that, she too, had made a perfect little golden arch that was now trickling down the stones. She had done it, and she couldn’t figure out why she hadn’t tried it before….until that little golden arch petered out and soaked her pants.

I wish I could say that she learned her lesson, but I can’t. Later that day, while at the playground, she almost tried it again resulting in BF and I both blurting my previous statement out in harmony. She’s stubborn, and there is no doubt in my mind she will, in fact, try it again.

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This 9 to 5 Shit is for the Birds!

Apr10

I really thought having a 9 to 5 was going to be a lot different. I thought that finally I would be able to get my feet back on the ground and start being that mom my kids deserve. I thought that magically everything would fall into place. Boy was I wrong!

(You have to understand that I haven’t worked this kind of job in 4 years and that was only for a few months after over 7 years in the military. So this version of ‘Average American’ is completely foreign to me)

I quickly discovered that 9 to 5 doesn’t actually mean 9 to 5. It means 8:30 to 5-ish, depending on what kind of lunch break you take. Add 2 kids and a BF who goes on a completely different work schedule and I have absolutely no idea what end is up anymore. I’m now expected to somehow prepare 3 meals a day, wash/dry/fold laundry for 4 people, clean the entire house I hate cleaning more than anything, read stories, balance check books, bath minions, change batteries in every toy imaginable, actually put the laundry away where it belongs which never happens, take the trash out, take minions to/from daycare/school, and clean some more.

My day starts at 6am and ends at 11:30 at least 5 days a week and that’s not even taking time to myself to do much of anything else. This means that my DVR is backing up with unwatched shows, the list of ‘books to read’ is so long I can’t even remember half of them, or blog,and its been at least 3 months since I last had to switch out my vibrator batteries for the remote control ones. Instead it all pretty much waits for Sundays when the tv is on from sunrise to sunrise (yes, I said sunrise twice), the Sunday paper gets flipped through mindlessly, I cry as I look back on my sad excuse for blog stats for the last week, and BF is cowering in a corner because the overly horny version of me won’t stop humping his leg every time the minions leave the room.

In these past few months of having a ‘real’ job I have lost all ability to compose anything funny that’s longer than 140 characters, and have no idea how one person is expected to not lose their mind as their other half lives in a parallel universe called the nocshift. Days in my new world seem to come and go in a blur as I start to feel like I see the minions and BF less and less every day of every week. Suddenly mounds of laundry threaten to eat my cats and the sugar ants attempt to carry away my dishes. Hair balls are constantly mistaken as rodents and the mold in the shower has started taking chorus lessons so it can keep me company in the morning.

Pretty sure I have become a bit delirious  and cry more often than should really be allowed outside the confines of a mental institution. But I know all this shall pass as I somehow get used to this ‘new’ role of mine. I know that eventually the daily rocking in a corner and desire to wear a straight jacket will go away and be replaced by a good book and my vibrators once again. But until then I will continue to attempt to fold laundry with my mind and pretend that 5 hours of sleep each night really is enough to keep someone sane enough not to sell their children to the lowest bidder.

All I have to say is, this 9 to 5 shit is for the birds!

Choking On Makeshift Fairy Dust and Dressed in Pretty Princess Costumes

Mar28

It’s hard to believe that my little house, affectionately called The Redneck Palace, is slowly transitioning form a house of snakes and snails and puppy dog tails to sugar and spice and everything nice.

For the past 5 years Theo has, essentially, been the man of the house. This has meant match box cars, dinosaurs, toy guns, and blocks. Even after the addition of the Devil Wears Pig Tails, aka Pheobe, he has kept a more or less dominant theme going throughout the house. The addition of BF added to this with a larger than life TV (my gift to him), Xbox, and a gun safe pretty much sealed the deal.

I’m not very girly, at all, except when I’m naked…..you can’t hide the girly bits then so my influence actually steers toward things like bull riding, NASCAR, mud pies, and climbing trees. Although I am obsessed love glitter, I am far from making my house come anything close to resembling a snow globe and am saddened by my lack of ambition to paint my eye lids with the wondrous invention. So when BF’s 2 beautiful daughters were FINALLY allowed to spend time at our house , a long story which involves a wicked with, a yellow brick road, some flying monkeys and 1000 munchkins……oops, wrong story , I was beside myself and had to be restrained from spending the grocery money at JoAnn Fabrics and Michaels.

There was FINALLY going to be a touch of the female entity in my house!!! Raise the roof and hire a marching band!!! And I was ok with this up until about an hour ago when I bought Pheobe a pretty little day bed frame. Suddenly I realized that my entryway will now be half filled with embellished sparkly shoes half the week, 2/3 of my laundry will be pink, the sound of giggles will fill the air, and I will probably end up breaking my neck on the influx of Barbie Dolls and ‘babies’ flooding the floors.

I closed my eyes for a minute to catch my breath after this realization and almost had a panic attack when my mind fast forwarded to their high school years. Suddenly I envision BF and I dressed in full camo, one of us perched in a tree for areal control and the other under the truck as a first line of defence, with paint guns as one (or God forbid all 3) come home from a date with a boy just as the clock strikes curfew. And yes, I’ll be that mom.

What in the world did I sign up for when I first brought BF coffee almost 2 years ago??? Although I have always had pipe dreams of becoming a ‘lady’ and looking fancy, pretty sure the closest I’ve ever come is doing fancy things that ladies of the night do…but for free….and only with BF I’m not quite sure how I’m going to be able to handle ‘full time’ girls stuff in my house. So what I’m doing now is shoving match box cars in my bra, smearing mud on my face and fashioning a suit of armor out of empty beer cans readying myself for the full on battle with glitter drenched Barbies and embellished Lelli Kelly shoes.

I’m not sure how this battle will turn out in the end, but I’m almost certain that it will look something like Theo, BF and I cowering in a corner choking on makeshift fairy dust and dressed in pretty princess costumes. Wish me luck folks, this could get messy!

I Will Not Be THAT Mom

Oct25

Holy cow! I forgot how much spinning fucking sucks hurts. After an hour of jumping in and out of the saddle and cranking up the resistance…..I wanna stab someone my legs feel like flabby jello molds. To make matters worse, it was an hour of the instructor reminding me that I hadn’t been there in months a while.

So now I sit here on the couch feeling like I’m going to die remembering the promise I made to myself when I found out I was knocked up pregnant with Theo, “I will not be THAT mom.” You know, THAT mom who is still blaming her belly on her kids…4 years later. THAT mom who wants to be the heaviest woman in the world. Worst parent ever by the way. And despite a few lazy moments lulls, I have done really well. I have pretty much maintained my military weight standards of 154 pounds. Yes, this sexy mom beast is tipping the scales, but I’m pretty sure its mostly in my boobs…..and my ass…..and my thighs…..and my muffin top. I have been wearing a size 10 to 12 pants for as long as I can remember. I even have a pair from high school that still fit. So yes, I was even big boned curvy in high school. It takes a lot of work to maintain this physique for over 10 years after having devil spawn children!

I can be a bit hard on myself when it comes to my figure. My curves define me. They make me feel sexy. They turn heads. They fuck like rock stars in the bedroom. I honestly and truly LOVE my curves. But boy was I pissed off at myself two weeks ago and noticed a curve I hadn’t seen since right after I had Pheobe. You moms know what curve I’m talking about. That fucking curve that starts at the belly button and ends just above your pelvis…..the fupa. It was flush with my nipple line….I have D cups for crying out loud! I might as well have been 3 months pregnant! Shoot me and put me out of my foopa misery.

So I started going for walks and doing squats  and crunches in my livingroom. Then I decided to go back to the gym. I’m a dumb ass, and I started with cardio kick boxing. Did you know that the thigh tremor that results from a hearty side kick can actually throw you off balance? Or that you can almost knock yourself out with the flab under your arms while doing speed bags? You have been warned. I should also probably warn you that the litter of puppies you smuggled into the gym in your ass cheeks can actually hit you in the back of the head. Maybe that was the skinny bitch behind me. But worst of all, that fucking fupa can and will make a slapping sound when it comes into contact with your droopy D cup mom boobs.

Yeah, good class. Even better is when I went to spin class today after assaulting myself with various parts of my flab cardio kick yesterday. As I said before I now want to stab someone feel like my legs feel like flabby jello molds, my limbs feel like someone tried to quarter me in my sleep last night, I can’t tell if I’m getting a hernia or if that’s an ab muscle I forgot about, and it feels like Ron Jeremy tried to ram it into my right ass cheek completely missing his intended target. In short I feel fucking amazing!!! I love the burn I get from the gym and the piece of mind that I’m setting an awesome example for my children. I love watching my lumpy wobbly bits melt away slowly and be replaced by smooth firmness.

So get off your butts mommies and get into motion! Go for a walk, rake some leaves, ride a bike, get a gym membership, have lots of sex! You don’t have to be a size4. You don’t even have to be a size 10! You just have to feel good in your skin. And trust me, the better you feel in your skin, the more your kids are gonna notice your confidence. And I’m pretty sure that person you curl up to every night is gonna noticed some kind of change as well…..and like it. And the more you both like it….the better your sex life. And seriously, who doesn’t want an amazing sex life? Speaking of which….*looks around for BF*

Mommy! You Shot Me In The Face!

Sep22

I understand that I am an unconventional mom. I encourage the minions to get dirty and play in the mud. Shit, I call them minions! I let them figure out ’cause and affect’ on their own. We all participate in pants off Friday, underwear still on. We have random dance parties and the occasional popcorn dinners in front of a pay-per-view movie. And the list goes on and on. Despite all the times I want to eat my children or sell them on the black market just for a moment of quiet, I’m actually a very attentive mom.

I may not be the strictest mom its hard to be when you’re a single mom but I am very observant almost to a fault. I usually know where the minions are and what they’re doing. I’ve perfected the art of stealth and can observe their goings on without them knowing. I don’t let them out of my sight other than at home or homes we visit often. It’s safe to say that I am an over protective mom when away from our ‘comfort zone’. After 5 years of mommyhood I am proud to say that I haven’t accidentally killed my children or left them to any situation that may result in a life altering injury. That was until today.

As parents we get lackadaisical and start doing things that we don’t normally do because those little bastards our kids have shown that they know better or we should know better (parents are never wrong). So that’s how my morning started. While we were outside waiting for Theo’s bus, the usual was going on…

 

*REMINDER: We live above an old gas station complete with a mechanics garage and used boat yard.*

 

……the minions were climbing in and out of small boats, pointing out letters on the gas pumps. Did I mention that I’m a bit unconventional? And then all attention shifted to the garage, especially the compressed air  So when Theo said, “Mommy, does the air still work?”

*side note: We have turned the air on many times before.*

“Well let’s find out!”

“Ok mommy!”

Did you know that minions can move faster than the blink of an eye? If you didn’t, now you know. You’re welcome. As I went to turn on the air both minions were standing off to the side. By the time it turned on Theo was standing, face first, in front of the air nozzle. Both minions turned around and ran crying when the blast of air came out. No big deal right? Right! Not until Theo turned around looking like he had been shot in the face with buck shot.

His face was covered in little rust colored dots! My first reaction, “It’s drizzling out, it’s just rusty water.” Think again mommy! Those little rusty spots were actual shards of rust stuck in his face!!!

*side note: its really hard to stay calm when your first born has shards of metal imbedded in his face*

Needless to say, Theo missed the bus and we went to the emergency room to make sure none of the rust got into his eye. I can’t believe that I actually put my child in that position. He could have lost an eye for crying out loud!!!! I almost blinded my son!!! Yikes!!! The entire way to the ER all he kept saying was “Mommy, you shot me in the face!!!”

*side note: NOT an easy thing to explain to doctors after your 5 yo makes that statement*

Already long story short, Theo came out of the ER with a clean bill of health. The little bastard guy somehow managed to close his eyes in time before all the rust blasted his eye balls. So yeah, my day started out with a severe bad mom moment. Since then I Theo has reminded me that I ‘shot him in the face’ and made it very clear that I am no longer allowed to turn on the compressed air while the minions are outside.

*side note: I am very surprised that I wasn’t put in time out for the rust blasting. Mommy wins?*

A Brunch With Demons

Jul3

Today BF and I went to a Tweet-up in Killingworth, CT for brunch. The house was set back from the main road, off a typical New England dirt road, nestled in the plush foliage of summer. The yard, decorated with a simple stone path, was neatly cut and speckled with lawn chairs. All the tweeps brought delicious brunch dishes of fresh fruits and vegetables and freshly baked muffins and scones. I dare say it was perfect. I almost felt as if I should have been playing crocket while sipping a dry martini and laughing about the time I woke the cat up with the vacuum cleaner.

Even my minions were lavishing in the stereotypical New England afternoon, making chalk creations on the stone walkway and munching on scones with their feet up. It felt like a little piece of heaven in the midst of the chaos that is The Redneck Palace. So there we were, meeting new tweeps and enjoying good conversation when all of a sudden it happened…..the minions sprouted horns and once again became evil devil spawn. Oddly enough this coincided with the sudden opening up of the heavens in the form of rain when we were all ushered inside with our chairs and brunch fair in hand.

Have you ever been inside a house where young children don’t live? Remember that same house you praised yourself on before your maternal clock grabbed you by the nipples and said “It’s time dude, time to put those reproductive organs to good use.” Well, that’s where we found ourselves. Stuck. With the devil spawn. Thankfully or maybe not there was a clear path from the living room to the kitchen that acted as a launching strip for my suddenly possessed children. Within minutes of coming inside both kids were running at mock speed from one room to another with deafening screams and giggles exploding from their mouths. The coffee table in the living room, which oddly resembled a long board surf board, suddenly became a platform for the kids to reenact Shamu moves as they slid in on their bellies.

As they sprinted ran back and forth, you could see muffin crumbs flying up behind them like Pig Pen. I could see the faces of the hosts look on in horror as my two shit heads minions threatened to dismantle the cat tree and turn the porcelain pig into cat litter. Suddenly I could feel the other tweeps in the room bare down on me with burning eyes as the walls start caving in on me and all I want to do is sit in a corner in my oh so familiar straight jacket as I cry and rock myself into oblivion.

All I want to do is grab one kid under each arm, grab the car keys from BF, run out the door, tell BF to find a ride home, and peal off into the day with both kids shoved into the trunk. Just as these thoughts filled my head, Theo calmly this is never good walked up to the surf board coffee table….and sat down on the end of it. Up flew the other end along with a tweeps drink. Thank fucking lord she knew us priviously and has bared witness the destruction that my kids induce on unsuspecting houses. The beautifully crafted white sangria thankfully not a staining drink became air borne, vaguely resembling fire works, and landed upside down on the thatched natural fiber rug. If this weren’t enough, Pheobe came along and spiked her blueberry they stain pecan french toast and spiked it jubilation.

Shortly there after I was fighting back tears and doing everything in my power to not answer the call of the wild and eat my kids. By then Pheobe was crying and asking for a nap and Theo was confused by my frustration. We left shortly there after, and I held back tears the entire way home. I couldn’t wait to get my two little demons home back into the safety of our own home. Where they could run around like chickens with their heads cut off and practice taking over small countries. I was convinced that I would never be able to bring them out into public around ‘normal’ people again.

By the time we got home my Twitter timeline was filled with tweets about how great it was to meet BF and I….and surprisingly, the minions. A few even commented on me being a good mom.WAIT!!!! WHAT??? A ‘good’ mom? Are these people mocking me? Surely they saw the crazed look in my eye as I contemplated I selling the minions on Craig’s List. But then it dawned on me….I’m pretty sure everyone there was a parent. But everyone there had kids…that weren’t ‘kids’ anymore. Grown. Stories of UConn and grand kids had circulated while I was still able to pay attention. Stories that never revolved around potty training or sleepless nights. These people had all done this before…they were in fact seasoned professionals.

Those looks of horror and flames were actually looks of “Haha, been there, done that. Good luck little tweep.” Watching all these new tweeps sit around in khaki shorts, polo shirts, and *gasp* beautifully beaded necklaces gave me hope. It may take another 15-20 years, but I may actually be able to sit back and relax in nice clothes even at a brunch some day. One can only hope.

So thank you new tweeps, for your hospitality, courtesy, and understanding. And an extra BIG thank you to all of you in the kitchen for laughing hysterically when I blurted out, “Moments like this are why some animals in the wild eat there kids!”

Mute Button

Jun20

I love my minions, I really really do. There isn’t a thing I wouldn’t do for them or a day that goes by where I don’t feel absolutely blessed to have them in my life. They are my life, and they make me smile every day. Sometimes I look at them and see how perfect they are. Little hands and little feet. Big brown eyes and light brown hair. I just want to pinch their little cheeks and hug them until they pop! Well maybe not pop, that wouldn’t be good, but you get the picture. And yet with all this love for my minions swirling around inside me; I still can’t get past that one major flaw that they both have. That one thing that God, for some awful reason probably a joke to pay me back for all the things I did before having kids, forgot to ‘instal’…..the mute button.

Seriously though, is this too much to ask for? A simple mute button, that’s it. It doesn’t even have to be physically located on the minions, I really don’t mind carrying around a remote of some sort. Just please God, make it stop!!! Theo isn’t really that bad, he really needs more of a stop or rewind button to deter his emotional meltdowns. It’s Pheobe, the Devil Wears Pigtails, who needs the mute button most of all.

She gets stuck in a rut, a verbal rut, where she says the same thing over and over and over and over and over…….and over, until….well, until she feels like stopping.

Pheobe: Mommy, I poopied.

Me: You did?

Pheobe: Mommy, I poopied.

Me: You did?

Pheobe: Mommy, I poopied.

Me: *for crying out loud*

Pheobe: Mommy, I poopied.

Me: You did?

Pheobe: Mommy! I poopied!!!

Me: Did you poopy?

Pheobe: Ummmmm, yeah. *runs away*

Me: *seriously, someone save me*

And she does this, with EVERYTHING! She’s THAT kid. She is that glitch they talked about in The Matrix, the glitch tha means something bad is about to happen.

And usually it does. These verbal ruts are usually followed by blood curdling scream screech. It’s horrible. The worst sound in the world. Words cannot describe this deafening sound that comes out of such a little person. She doesn’t always do this after a verbal rut, sometimes she does it for fun. Yes, fun. She thinks its funny. She will come up behind me in the kitchen and screatch for no reason what-so-ever except to make me jump and drop whatever it is I’m holding.

I have no more wine glasses left, I have bruises on my feet, and my nerves are shot. Every time she lets out a screech I can feel a new grey hair come shooting out of my scalp like a bottle rocket. And then it sits there waving at me as I stare blankly into the mirror and contemplate my rapidly aging self. My mother always tells me that kids are payback for everything I ever did to give my parents a hard time. This reminds me my parent’s wedding photos with my father standing there with a head full of fluffy red hair. With in 3 years all that fluffy red hair turned into fluffy white hair…all thanks to yours truly.

So this is my fate. Pheobe will in fact turn all my beautiful reddish brown hair to white before my face even has a chance to catch up. So I ask you yet again God, please please PLEASE get on that mute button thing before this evil devil wonderful child runs me to an early grave. Please with a cherry on top?