You say Honda Pilot, I say
oversized grocery getter space ship. A nice big grey spaceship that takes me and my children for a ride through the solar system every morning. You would think that getting kids into a whistling shit can jet powered spaceship every morning would be easy, but no, it’s just like every other morning. Even astronauts need to brush their teeth, put on clean underwear, and match their shoes.
Over the course of the last year we have mapped out the entire solar system for our morning commute. The house is Venus (I obviously chose that one) The general store is the moon, our friend’s house on the way is Mars (it’s filled with boys), the daycare is Pluto, the sharp turn on the road is Saturn (the tired tracks are the rings), the school is Mercury, and the day camp is the sun. I’m guessing my work is the landing pad, but my fellow astronauts are never with me upon my arrival.
For the most part, our daily trip through space is pretty much the same. We talk about the different atmospheres in space, if aliens are real, and how close to the sun you can get before you start to melt. We talk about what kind of cheese the moon would be made of and if there is chocolate milk in the milky way. We picture ourselves jumping across clouds as we come back into orbit, and sliding down rainbows. You know, the usual.
This morning it started pouring about 5 minutes before we left, and then came the thunder and lightening. I could tell that getting the kids, especially my daughter, out the door was going to prove……difficult. I ended up going outside and moving the car to the end of the walkway so the raincoat clad children could scurry out and jump right in. As I jumped in the drivers seat Theo yells, “Meteor!” as a clap of thunder boomed.
Suddenly our usual safe, but educational, ride through the solar system was a dangerous adventure peppered with meteors. As the space ship took off, we hit a puddle. “We’ve been hit!” both kids yelled. Every puddle we hit was another meteor strike. Would we make it? No one knew. They counted each strike, and talked about the aliens would come and save us if we got stranded. By the end we were struck by 10 (maybe more) meteors, but our ship seemed to be in one piece.
We survived today’s ride through the solar system, but there’s no telling what tomorrow will bring.
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?”
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.
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.
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!!!
There’s something about your first born that will always hold a special place in your heart. You will never forget the moment you first looked into their eyes or their first steps. As they grow up every moment is magical. You’re in constant amazement about what they do, what they accomplish. The first report card. The first art project brought home. Even the first bad report home from school. Life became a magnificent adventure the moment your first born entered the world. When I look at my son every day I see me in him; his facial expressions, his laughter, even his emotions. He is an extension of me, yet so much his own person. Serious and meticulous. Perfectionist and realist. At 7 years old he has already taken on so much of the world. He’s my little soldier who will grow into a wonderful man some day.
Your first born brings you magic, but your last born (regardless of if they’re your second of fifth) will always bring you heart ache. Not the heart ache you feel when you lose a loved one. It’s the heart ache of knowing you will never have these moments again. When you first look into their eyes or watch them take their first steps, it’s the last time you will ever experience those moments again. This little person is trying to catch up with their older sibling so everything goes by faster as if it is a race for the finish line. Each day is a competition of who can be the funniest, the saddest, and get mom’s attention. As you listen to the laughter and dry the tears you want to cherish each moment, but you can’t because they are already two moments ahead of you.
Every time you reach out to hold on to the baby they once were, you’re reminded that you will never have another baby. Your sleepless nights are over, and there are no more diapers to change. No more breastfeeding. No more sweet baby cuddles. You ask yourself if you did everything you could to cherish each of those moments. Question if you will remember them forever. Your heart breaks the more you think of all their firsts that have become your lasts.
This is how I feel every March 19th as my last born turns another year older. I watch her go through the house like a tornado, and it makes me smile as a tear rolls down my face. She’s getting so big. In just 5 short years she has become her own person. So strong. So independent. So damn stubborn. As her once chubby cheeks melt away, a beautiful girl emerges and I want push her back to when she was one. She has a purse full of make up that I secretly want to throw away in the middle of the night and replace with a binky. I want to close my eyes and open them to see a sleeping baby in a crib, not a little girl, with glitter remnants on her face, sleeping on a twin sized mattress.
I can’t believe 5 years has gone by already; that I am five years further away from the baby I first held in my arms. I’ll never get those years back. I’ll never feel that same joy again. Today my heart breaks because my baby turns 5, but today I smile because I have raised that baby to be the little girl she is today. Some day she will grow up to be a beautiful woman next to her handsome brother, and all the magic and heartache will make sense.
My attempt at adult conversation.
The Adventures, Mishaps and Observations Of A New York City Single Mom
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I have the anecdote for sarcasm
one creative habit every day
Drinking Dawa's near Mango Trees & Sweating before the Workout
a messy collection of art projects, crafts, and various random things...