Love and the Single Mommy-Translated

I’m single again. Yes, it’s true. I will now wait for for the line of available men to form at my front door. Don’t everyone jump up at once, I will get to you eventually. Perhaps we can form this into a New Hampshire version of “The Bachelorette”. I will be beautiful and breathtaking from sun up to sun down, while 16+ handsome men fawn over me and have occasional fits of testosterone. By the end, three men will be down on one knee asking me to marry them. I will obviously pick the perfect one, and we will ride off into the sunset to plan our wedding, and live happily ever after.

Let me translate that for you:

I’m single again because I have can’t seem to grasp the fact that badboy/redneck does not mean a “good man”. In other words, I have shit taste in men. I will now sit home at night crying because the only men who tell me I’m “hot” are the ones online and don’t actually know me. Due to a fat ass and two kids in tow, I will officially make it to the bottom of the Upper Valley’s list of “Most Eligible Bachelorettes”. My hair will be a mess and my clothes dirty, every day except Monday. An 8 and 5 year old will drape themselves over me like human blankets on the couch every night. This will go on for an endless amount of time until I’m old, and greyer than I am now grey. Many sunsets will past as my kids grow and move out, leaving me alone.

Let me translate that for you:

I’m single again, and I’m ok with that. I know I’m a pretty awesome-ish person, and have a lot to offer. Although I live in a very small town, the people around me know how much I have to offer someone. It may take a while, but I know I won’t be a bachelorette forever. I will be happy and beautiful from the inside out. A very lucky man or two will notice this and want to call me his. I won’t settle, and I will end up married to my soul mate. We will have our ups and downs, but our companionship will prevail because everyone needs a best friend for life.

Dirty Filthy Animal

As a mom I like to pick my battles. “I’ve already told you not to jump on the couch, and I don’t feel like telling you not to trap your sister in the over-sized bucket. Carry on.” “By all means, eat your sandwich in the bathroom, but whatever you do, don’t draw on the table.” Perhaps I don’t always pick the right battles, but if I fought every battle I would have no time in life for the important things. Such as vodka, nachos, and sex. I would like to think this is a common practice among most parents, or this could just be me trying to make myself feel better. We’re parents, it’s what we do.

Even when I’m picking my battles, I’m not necessarily paying attention to what is coming out of my mouth. Perhaps I forget I’m talking to tiny people. Maybe I think I’m saying it in French. They would look at me with the same bewildered look anyway. Maybe I don’t realize I’m talking at all. I have been known to lack a filter from time to time. Either way, I turn into mommy robot. God only knows what is bound to be said, and I don’t always remember it. Typically it’s pretty standard. “Stop that.” “Don’t bite the cat.” “Put your pants back on.” “I will eat you if you don’t quit it.” “You want hurt? I’ll show you hurt!” “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.” Ops normal, and we continue along our merry way.

The other night, while at the dinner table, my elegant little princess daughter forced out a belch my father would be proud of. *robot mommy engaged* “Pheobe, we don’t burp at the dinner table. It’s gross.” *robot mommy disengaged*

“Ok mommy,” another loud belch.

*robot mommy engaged* “Whaw whaw animals whaw whaw. If you do it again, you can whaw whaw outside whaw.” *robot mommy disengaged*

“Ok, sorry mommy.”

Three minutes pass, and the tiniest, daintiest little burp escapes from Pheobe as she suddenly looks at me in fear. I desperately try to remember what I told her would happen if she did it again. I look at Steve for help, but he looks just as fearful as Pheobe. I know it was something about animals and outside. Shit! What was it?!?! Oh no….”Only dirty filthy animals burp at the table. If you do it again you will have to eat outside like a dirty filthy animal.” I’m going to hell. What do I do?!?! I had to follow through, or my entire dinner would be a series of belches. I’m sure I looked totally calm, cool, and collective not nearly as panic stricken as I felt when I looked at her and said, “Go get your coat, hat, and boots on, you’re eating on the porch.” Fuck! I am totally failing as a parent!   This is where all the helicopter parents chastise me for making my 5 year old eat outside like a dirty filthy animal in January. You know what, helicopter parents, I followed through and that’s what counts! Never mind the possibility of frostbite and hypothermia. There were no complaints from her before, during, or after this whole ordeal. She simply put on her winter clothes, grabbed her plate, and went out to the porch. Still at the table, I could see her little bundled up face through the living room window, taking bites of her burrito.  After five minutes, she was done. Inside she came, and I asked her if she was going to burp at the table again. She said no. Problem solved, all was well.

Last night, at the dinner table again, Pheobe burped. My eyes rolled back into my head. One warning is what she got, and not another burp was produced. Farts, on the other hand, were a different story. It may have been a musical dinner that night.

I live in the Twilight Zone where every day is Groundhog Day. I will now slowly slip into insanity and await the day I can comfortably rock in a corner. Please, don’t follow my parenting examples.

Zombie Elephants And Other Whatnots

As parents we want our kids to dream of wonderment and adventures. We want them to have dreams they are so excited for, they want to act them out all day in the back yard. This is honestly how I thought parenting would be. When I was pregnant I dreamed of waking up with my children and listening to them tell me all about the amazing things that danced through their heads while they were asleep. I knew there would be nightmares, and I was prepared for that as well. Nightmares are soothed with kisses and a quick snuggle.

Ah, the merriment of a new parent’s dreams; also known as: complete bull shit. This is not how it happens folks. At least not in my house. My children are special, all the way down to the dreams they have. This, my friends, is how my kids dream.

PHEOBE:

“Mommy, last night I had a dream.”

“Oh yeah, what happened in your dream?”

“We had a camper and we went to the zoo. At the zoo there were zombie elephants, and they were eating people’s brains,” She says with a huge smile. We obviously watch too much TV. “Because the people’s brains were peanuts.” Maybe I should watch what I say in front of my kids. “When they tried to eat our brains we ran back to the camper and drove home. When we got home there were zombie elephants there too. So, we got back into the camper and drove to daddy’s house.” All the way on the other side of the country, 3000 miles away. “There were NO zombie elephants there, and then I woke up like *gasp*!!!”

“Wow, Pheobe! That is quite a dream!”

“Oh yeah, and some of the elephants had long hair that was gray. Girl and boy elephants. No, no, no, no ,no….It was brown, and only the girl elephants had long brown hair.”

“Not the boy elephants?”

“Mommy, they’re boys, so no.” Obviously not the boy elephants. What was I thinking?

And so go the dreams of my daughter.

THEO:

“Last night I had a dream too! I was a knight fighting bad knights.” So far, we’re off to a good start. “I shot them with my cannon, and they flew up to the sky.” Maybe not as good as I thought.

“They flew up to the sky?” Why do I encourage more detail?

“Yes, because when I shot them with y cannon they turned into butterflies!” Leaning back to a good start. “And then I shot the butterflies!” WTF kid?

“Um, why would you shoot the butterflies?” Again with the encouraging of the details.

“Mommy, because they were bad knight butterflies.” Stupid question mom.

I think I’m doing parenting wrong….still.

Talk Shows And Parenting Don’t Mix

I’m not an uptight parent. I don’t over sensor myself in front of my kids, I don’t lock the bathroom door when I’m in there, and I walk around the house in my underwear when my kids are awake. They have heard me swear although I try not to and they have seen me naked they will be scared for life. To me, it’s life. It happens. Deal with it. In fact, the kids have basically learned to zone me out. They don’t pay attention to what I’m saying especiallly when they are in trouble, and they don’t broadcast the fact that they caught me in my underwear. It’s our crazy little life, inside our tiny little bubble. Outside of that bubble they are well behaved, even tempered children. In general, I am not worried about how they are being raised despite some of my major mom fails.

With that being said, I have a bit of an addiction to morning radio talk shows. An addiction in the fact that I get anxious when I don’t get to listen in the car on our way to where ever we are headed. It wakes me up, it makes me laugh, it causes problems with parenting. Wait….what? Problems with parenting?

Have you ever listened to a morning radio talk show in the car with a five year old on board? It doesn’t matter what else is going on in the car, singing row-row-row your boat for the millionth time or going on a space ship ride through the solar system, when an unfamiliar phrase suddenly fills the airwaves, they are going to pick up on it. Words like bitch, ass hole, and butt nugget usually cause a fit of giggling, but that is about it. The little parrot in the backseat will usually have to ask if I heard what they said, I say yes, they repeat it once, I remind them it’s a bad word, and we drive on. Back to the melody of that damn row boat row-row-row your boat, and the fact that John Smith is a butt nugget and his wife is a bitch is now null and void. Thank you radio talk show for your assistance in asserting proper language with my children.

This is all well and good until they start talking about SEX. For some reason the word sex turns my five year old into a broken record. “Mommy, what’s sex?” she asks as I want to hurl myself out of the car.

“It’s something adults do when they are alone together.”

“Like what?”

“Like something kids don’t do because it’s for adults only and horny teenagaers in the backseat of a car.”

“But what IS it?”

I now want to turn in my parenting permit and quit. I don’t want to do this anymore, parenting was a real shit decision on my part. Belay my last, someone take these damn kids before I ruin them for life. Fuck! “It’s when two grown-ups wrestle naked. Alone. In the bedroom or the kitchen counter, or the shower, or the backyard.” When in doubt, go with the old standby used in the past. Please don’t ask anymore questions. I would kill for another round of row-row-row your fucking boat! Alas, for some reason, this explanation just isn’t doing it for her. Either it’s not sticking, she’s looking for more detail, or she doesn’t believe me. Naturally, I assume she is looking for more detail. I told you I wanted to turn in my parenting permit. “Do you and Steve have sex?”

“Yes.”

“So you guys wrestle naked?”

“Yes.”

“A lot?” Oh my god, someone remove this kid from my car!

“Only when you’re asleep,” and now I’m the biggest liar on the planet.

“Oh.”

Every damn day the people in my radio have to mention sex. Every damn day I have to sit there and go through this conversation again and again. Stop it, just STOP! Isn’t there anything else to talk about? Gaza? Israel? Cheese cake? The fact that Pi has no end? Anything? Just PLEASE don’t mention sex again! Please, please, PLEASE!!! I mean, I guess I could stop listening in the car, but that would be too easy.

And then I would have anxiety. We all knows what happens when mothers have anxiety, they eat their children, and my children are far too filthy to eat without causing serious health problems. Therefore, I will continue to listen to my morning radio talk show, and continue to explain to my fucking dear sweet five year old what sex is. Maybe tomorrow she’ll get it, but probably not.

 

Turd Burglar

Turd Burglar. Go ahead, laugh. You know you want to.

There is something about that phrase that, even as adults, we can’t help but laugh. No matter what definition you use, it’s funny. Even if you don’t know what it means, you laugh. Maybe it sounds funny. Maybe it brings out the 12 year old in you. Whatever it is, you can’t help but giggle. You still giggle at Lake Titicaca as well, admit it. Now, picture yourself driving down the road with the kids in the car. You have a head cold from hell, you’re trying not to throw your kids out the windows you’re frustrated because the head cold is getting the better of you, and you stop at a stop light behind a Dodge pickup truck with the licence plate “TRDBGLR”.

Looking back I’m pretty sure I wasn’t fully paying attention to anything, so when I first saw the licence plate I didn’t really notice. Then it hit me, TURD BURGLAR!!!!!! If it were possible to fall out of a car laughing, I would have. As you know, it is hard to hide anything from anyone kids while in a car, especially when you are laughing so hard you start coughing. Suddenly all arguing and hitting in the backseat stops. “Mommy, what’s so funny?”

On any other day I would have been able to come up with a quick response, but being sick puts a damper on any whit and quick comebacks I may have been able to muster. “Nothing, it’s just the licence plate on the truck in front of us.”

“What does it say?”

“Um……..” Think Brandi, THINK! Nothing. “It says turd burglar.” Well that was a dumb answer.

“What’s a turd?”

“It’s poop.”

Reminder, the word poop is one of the funniest things you can say to a child. It ranks up there with booger, butt crack, penis, and fart. You can only imagine the fits of laughter that exploded from the backseat when I said poop. It then turned into a chorus of the words poop and turd repeated in unison as if it were nothing more than a simple round of Row, Row, Row Your Boat. It only stopped when Pheobe realized she didn’t know what the word burglar meant, and here I thought I was going to get away with turd being another word for poop and that’s it.

“A burglar is someone who breaks into places and steals things.”

“Why would someone want to steal poop?”

There is no way anyone could explain their way out of why someone would want to steal poop. There isn’t even a nonchalant way of explaining it so you don’t really have to explain it. My kids aren’t “old enough” to understand the, um, sexual meaning especially since they still think sex is when two grownups wrestle , and I’m not about to have my kids calling me a turd burglar because I walked in on them in the bathroom.The best I could come up with is, “You’ll understand when you’re an adult. Just DON’T say turd burglar at school!”

“But can we say it now? In the car?”

“If you must.”

The rest of the car ride was spent singing the new phrase while giggling and double checking about why someone would want to steal a turd. I was hopeful that was the end of the turd burglar incident until this morning when Theo leaned over to Pheoebe and whispered, “you’re a turd burglar.” My ride to work was then adorned with the joyful giggles of the unknowing turd burglars in my back seat.

 
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The Motherhood Is An Evil Bitch

I don’t take good care of myself. I mean I shower, brush my teeth, keep my hemroids at bay, and wear clean clothing…so don’t start looking at me cross eyed and be thankful the internet doesn’t have a “smell” option. I don’t stink and I can’t imagine kissing me is a horrible experience I keep my halotosis at bay.

I drink out of sheer boredom and I have the occasional cigarette because I was overly bored ; *ducks to avoid a shoe flying at my head* so my liver and lungs obviously hate me. I’ve let my midsection start to resemble bread dough and last month my mother accused me of now having her calves that match so nicely with my thighs. My back fat is starting to resemble fairy wings my daughter might actually be amused with this if she noticed, my boobs threaten to smother me in my sleep, and my ass have formed a close connection with the backs of my legs. I have caterpillars growing above my upper lip and eyebrows, and little volcano sprouts growing from my moles. My grey hair is coming in so fast it glimmers like silver thread in the sun people are actually noticing it from a distance. I have to admit that I wasn’t overly concerned about all the physical appearance stuff with the exception of the bread dough belly until last week. Last week when I went to the nail salon.

Know this, I have a deep fear of nail salons. The way too many men feel about spiders is how I feel about nail salons. Let me explain, nail salons are typically run by Asians. There is a reason the cities throughout Asia are large, bustling, and progressive. The reason is that those people don’t back down. they know what they want, how to get it, and make money doing it. Put that into the world of nail salons. Women hate themselves, truly. We bash our bodies, starve ourselves, and cry to our friends about how our nipples don’t point straight ahead anymore. The people running these salons know this, they exploit it! You go in for a simple manicure or pedicure and end up with gel nails, french tipped toes, eye brow waxing, and on a bad day a Brazilian. They get into your head, manipulate you, and make you feel as if your life will be shit if they can’t change every possible thing about your outward appearance that they can. If they could perform lypo in the back room…..they would.

With that being said, I’m not sure what came over me the other day and caused me to go inside. Maybe it was the sudden quest for the perfect running shoes because I’m obviously a runner *coughs* or maybe it was the sudden realization that there really is no such thing as the perfect running shoe for me. As I found myself leaving the store of shoes, I looked to my right and there it was…calling me… Luxury Nails! “I’m getting a pedicure!” <= famous last words. It was almost as if my deep laden fear of nails salons was magically whisked away in the 95 degree summer heat or perhaps I was delusional due to dehydration. All memory of the beaten ego, vanished. I was strong. I was brave. I could take on these nail salon people, and come out a whole person! I had confidence, damn it!

Through the strip mall door I walk, “I want a pedicure!”

“Pick a color. Sit. Wait,” and so it began…the downward spiral.

I started questioning myself. Is this the right color? Is it trendy? Shit! Am I going to look like every other set of toes on the street? Fuck! My feet look horrendous! They’re filthy! My heals are cracked!

These people are going to HATE me!

If I were the type to hyperventilate, this is when I would have done so. Just as I was about to get up and walk out the door I was called the a chair. I sat and immediately felt the need to announce, like a sinner at confession, that it had been almost three years since my last pedicure….to the entire salon. Then I realized just how hairy my legs were, reminding myself that I hadn’t shaved anything else for a few days either…and I was wearing a skirt. What’s happened to me??? Hair, bread dough belly, homicidal boobs, fairy winged back fat, more grey hair than your average 34 year old? Why on Earth would anyone, especially Steve, want to be with me? In another month or two, chances are, there was a slight possibility I could easily be twice the size of Steve and looking more like side show attraction! I actually let  motherhood get the better of me! Shit! These people were going to eat me alive in here! I was going to come out looking like a skinned cat with pretty nails. My life was over.

I tried to contain my fear as the poor woman at my feet tore filed off layers of callus and dead skin. The calf massage didn’t even feel good due to the sharp barbs of hair protruding out of my legs. As she finished I waited. Waited for her to start sucking me into her vortex of “beauty refinement”. Then it happened, she looked up at me with her evil eyes and asked if I wanted a manicure to go with it. “No, thank you.” I said.

To my surprise that was the end of her inquiry. She didn’t add on the usual questions and statements. Are you sure? Your nails look horrible. When was the last time you cut your cuticles? How about your eye brows? Men don’t like hairy eyebrows that big, and your mustache, it needs to go. No third degree. No feeling like a tarnished garden statue. Just a look of disappointment. Those I can handle. I’m a mom, my kids give me that look every day. Somehow I ended up walking out of the nail salon with only a pedicure and a bruised ego pertaining to my split heals, leg hair, and talon toe nails.

All this, however, did make me realize that I had let the Motherhood get the better of me. I had stumbled into the rabbit hole, and had been chasing the white rabbit to imminent doom. The Motherhood can be an evil bitch, and will take control of your life. It will turn you into something you don’t even recognize, a crumbled shell of what you used to be before children. As your kids beat you down from the outside, the Motherhood eats away at you from the inside. Just because you’re a mom doesn’t mean you can’t look nice and have nice things. In fact, it means you should try even harder to look nice and have nice things. We’re not raising unkempt grub worms who don’t know what a button up shirt looks like, we’re raising the future pillars of our society! They are looking to US for guidance! Ok, so maybe we and our kids don’t have to dress like something straight out of NY Fashion week, or send our kids to school looking like their name should be Chancy, but we also can’t let the Motherhood get the better of us.

I went home that night, shaved my legs, shaved my lady bits special gift for Steve, waxed my eyebrows, tamed the mustache, and dyed the hair on my head. I even trimmed the mole hair special gift for myself. I went through my wardrobe and tossed anything that didn’t fit right, and made myself promise to do better at taking care of myself. Making myself a better person means that I am making myself a better mother for my children. I’m saying fuck you to the Motherhood, and headed down a one way road to MILF-dom with a few pitstops and wrong way turns along the way!!!
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Shaving, Kids, and Camping Don’t Mix

It’s no secret that I am the hairiest woman you will ever meet hairy. In the past 4 months every mole on my body has decided to sprout at least one absurdly long hair from them. This includes moles on my thighs, neck, and butt. Yes, even on my butt. Then you add my ever thickening mustache, my “happy trail”, chest and nipple hair, and places only a Hobbit should grow hair. If I didn’t pluck my eyebrows the hair there would become one with my eye lashes, who oddly enough seem to be thinning. It’s also possible that I have some back hair as well, but seeing as how I can’t turn my head like an owl and take a peak, I’m just going to assume it is in full force back there as well. But it’s just hair. I can handle hair. My bathroom is outfitted with multiple styles of razors and waxes. I pluck and pull; cut and groom. Even with all the practice I get from my grooming habits, I’m not the best at it, but I get the job done.

In short, I don’t look a Neanderthal woman. I look like…..well….I look girl-ish.

But recently, that bathroom I was telling you about. Remember? The one outfitted with numerous hair removal techniques? Yeah, that one.

It is currently packed away in several boxes in the BACK of a storage unit, NOT at the campground with me. Don’t sit there and shake your head at me saying I should have at least brought a razor with me to tackle at least my leg and arm pit hair. My drunken adrenaline rush to go camping for two weeks with two small children didn’t corrupt my mind as far as causing me to ‘forget’ a major necessity such as a razor. I have one with me, trust me.

What I failed to take into account, however, is that while camping by yourself with two small children, you don’t get to shower by yourself…if you get to shower at all. I have had one shower this entire week, and it was spent saving my daughter’s life from the ferocious daddy long legs and making sure she didn’t drown in the trickle of water coming from the shower nozzle. Not to mention having to run back and forth in my towel from the women’s showers to the men’s to save my son from an equally, if not more, ferocious daddy long legs in his shower. What. The. Fuck. That was our one and ONLY showering experience we will be having while camping. Instead I have set up a “bathing area” using a tarp and string. It gives us the privacy of bathroom but with all the pains wonderment of bathing with a spaghetti pot.

Don’t worry, I now have fire and the water is quite warm and pleasant. This is possibly my one, and only, mommy win for this adventure.

As you can imagine, all these less than stellar bathing accommodations have resulted in a lack of opportunities in which to shave. I am now seeing just how many hairy moles I have, and no longer have a need to wear pants to bed to keep warm. It’s sprouting out of areas I didn’t even know hair could grow. My legs itch and wearing pants has become next to impossible. There are now lines in my deodorant from the patches of hair filling my arm pits. My Hobbit toes are enjoying the camping life style as I trod through the campground with the kids barefoot. I can almost handle all this new hair growth, but what is going to put me over the edge is the hair growing rampant on my lady bits.

Any woman who has ever tried to grow out the hair on her bikini line, or otherwise, can attest to the extreme discomfort that goes along with the whole process. The pain and itching is enough to turn any loving and caring mother, such as myself, into a raving lunatic. Now add the bottom of the clean laundry pile, where the sheer underwear live, to the mix. This morning I found myself walking around with barbs in my pants; ripping at my flesh with every step. Luckily I have access to a real shower, by myself, tonight. A shower where I can take my pretty pink razor and can of shaving cream in with me, throw my leg up on the side of the tub, and have an orgasmic shaving experience. So if you all don’t hear from me all weekend it’s because I have become with a private shower and my razor. I bid you ado until after I have painstakingly removed every last strand of hair on my body from my eye brows to my toes and every lady bit in between.