It's Not You, It's Me.

Here are some things I've had to break up with in my parenting days. Most of them I don't actually even care about, so this isn't to be taken as complaining. Some of them, in fact, I even celebrate the loss of.

GREETING CARDS

Since my kids now know how to write and draw, we're breaking up, Hallmark. Gone are the days of dropping $3-4 for a piece of lightweight cardboard imprinted with meaningless platitudes for the receiver to toss in the garbage mere hours after receipt. Instead, our friends, family, and random people from school are treated to dramatic crayon scenes and unintentionally phallic drawings on cheap colored paper. And I love it. No more wasting 15 minutes trying to find the least stupid card in the store, or just plain blowing it off and saying, "Sorry, I didn't get you a card, here's your present, though" and hoping they don't care.

TV BEFORE KIDDIE BEDTIME

Watching adult television- no not that kind of adult television- before the kids go to bed is impossible if I want to actually hear it or pay any kind of attention to it. I rarely watch TV anyway, but I remember when all three boys were really little (4 and under) I once tried to watch a movie in the middle of the day while baby Brandon napped and the other two played with their Play-Doh. I nearly cried from the frustration of not being able to. Not because the movie was that great or important to me, but because it was frustrating to not even be able to do something as stupid as that. I've since come to terms with the fact that daytime TV watching isn't for me anymore and traded her in for her way more flexible younger sister, DVR. 

DRINKING WINE OUT OF A WINEGLASS

Wine glasses break and/or topple over way too easily. Not a fan of your fragility, wine glasses, see ya. Coffee mugs and tumblers it is from now on. I cringe when a guest in my house wants to actually be classy and drink out of a wine glass. Then I watch the glass and its proximity to my boys and their flying objects like a hawk. CHAMPAGNE TASTES THE SAME OUT OF A RED SOLO CUP, PEOPLE.

VELVET SUNGLASSES

No, not sunglasses made of velvet; sunglasses made by Velvet, the company. My face is very narrow in my temple area, making sunglasses tough to buy- they're all too wide. Velvet is the only company I've found who makes sunglasses that fit my narrow face without having to resort to buying kid's sunglasses (oh the horror), but they cost about 100 bucks. The first time my son broke a pair, I was stupid enough to replace them. When the replacement pair was (unobserved by me) grabbed by one of the boys and tossed over the side of the stroller somewhere in the mall and lost forever, I started buying cheapos from Target and enduring the too-wide frames. Velvet, I love and miss you. Sometimes, I lovingly stroke the only memento I have from our relationship- the fluffy pink drawstring bag a pair of shades came in- and remember all the good times we had. We'll get back together again when my boys are older, if I can afford you. Actually, I probably won't be able to. Goodbye, my love. (Picture Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber when he was driving the limo away from the airport and rear-ends someone while saying "Goodbye my love" to Lauren Holly. I DIE.) 

WARM, UNINTERRUPTED DINNERS

Who likes hot food, anyway? Especially eaten uninterrupted? Fuck that noise. It's no longer a meal unless I get up to wipe a butt, break up a fight, stop the boys from throwing toys into their window blinds, dry a kid off, kiss a boo-boo, and feed half of my food to my kids. Goodbye, warm meals. You were too high-maintenance for me. Eat you right out of the oven/BBQ/stove/microwave and within 10 minutes? NO. *SLAP*

HIGH HEELS

This, my friends, is a truly painful breakup. I used to constantly wear high heels. I'm 5'6" but people (even close friends and family) always thought I was way taller because nobody ever notices that your footwear has boosted you several inches. I LOVE HIGH HEELS. But I love not breaking my ankles more. With the boys around, I may have to suddenly dart after one of them to keep them from getting hit by a car or jumping off a railing into a ravine. It is such a treat when I can slip on some heels. I feel at home again; like MYSELF again.

What have you had to break up with? I changed my comment platform- everyone can comment now!

The Possessed Bee

Ethan had his last t-ball game on Saturday, and I hauled the other two boys into the bleachers to watch. We settled in, and I felt Connor twitch against me. Then he twitched again and again, and I spotted a bee hovering near him.

Connor hates flying things, even harmless things like flies, but he's especially scared of bees even though he's never been stung by one- must be instinct. Anyway, I swatted the bee away but it came right back and then, IT WAS ON.

Connor flipped out. He twisted away, simultaneously starting to shriek while kicking out his legs and nailing some old lady in the back. She swung around as I was saying "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, he's flipping out about this bee," and I tried to wrestle his legs down so we could stand up and get away. That was no easy feat as the kid was in full panic mode and flailing around while screaming his face off. I finally got him to stand up as the bee flew toward Brandon, so Brandon started screaming, too. 

I quickly grabbed Brandon and herded him and Connor away from the bee, down the row of bleachers, but the bee followed us. Both of the boys were screaming now, so we were attracting the attention of every single person in the vicinity of the baseball field. I turned the other way, but the bee kept following us. It was like a demon bee, possessed, and would not stop until it got its clutches into Connor. It kept flying into his face and I'd pull him one way only to have the bee follow, then the other way, and the bee would still follow.

There were 24 other people in the bleachers (yes, I counted later) but this bee only wanted Connor. Back and forth we went down the row of the bleachers, ducking and swatting, both the boys screaming and flailing and tripping over the people who were surrounding us. The bee would not leave us alone. 

I couldn't smash it with my bag like I wanted to because then I would have essentially been beating Connor in the face or head, probably causing him to get stung, not to mention having Child Protective Services pay us a visit later. I finally got smart and started leading them off of the bleachers, thinking that if we got to the field by the dugout, we could somehow escape the winged motherfucker. Or at the very least, stop spazzing out in the bleachers and give everyone's ears a break from the screaming.

We got to the end of the row and one of the dads somehow managed to swat the bee away. It flew off to go torture some other kid, and I hoped for the bee to die a painful death via blowtorch or perhaps, fittingly, torture by some sadistic sociopath of a kid.

What a fucking spectacle. We sat back down and it took several minutes to calm my sweating, shaking boys. They sagged against me like they just fought World War Bee (I'm sorry). Whenever a fly or some other insect came near them (within 25 feet), they tensed up and I could almost taste their post traumatic stress disorder.

Perhaps it was the shirt that attracted the bee.

MOM?

After the game, Ethan, who had been 90 feet away in the outfield during WWB, asked Connor why we had been screaming and running around the bleachers. Connor simply said, "A bee was twying to get me."

Clearly, that kid did not get my flair for the dramatic, nor my need to tell a story whenever I can. He's a (mini) man of few words, just like his Daddy.

Truth in advertising? I'm thinking NO.

Have you seen that SC Johnson commercial with Fisk Johnson (WE MISSED THE BOAT ON THAT NAME, NATE) where he talks about how their products are all natural blah blah blah and then they show a woman cleaning the window? Specifically, this woman cleaning this window?

Then a little girl runs up right after and puts her booger hands right on the newly cleaned window.

And then, the mom laughs and hugs the little girl and life is perfect.

I DON'T KNOW ABOUT YOU...

But if I was that mom and my kid ran up and put their hand prints all over the window I had just finished cleaning, I sure as shit wouldn't be laughing and hugging him right after like he just created the next Jackson Pollock masterpiece with his fucking hands all over my newly-cleaned window. 

More likely, I would flip out and be all, "Get your hands off the damn window! I just cleaned it for the first time this year! GAAAAHHHDAMMIT!" 

And then I would mumble to myself about why do I even bother and I just wasted five minutes of my life and this is why I stopped cleaning once the boys were born.

So, SC Johnson and Fisk, I don't think many mothers relate to your commercial- at least, none that I know- hard as you tried to get us to do that. Yet, I will still use your window cleaner once or twice a year. I'm on the same bottle from 2005.

A Letter To My Sons On Mother's Day

Dear Boys,

In spite of frequently being driven to want to desperately jump into the next car that drives down the street and take off into the sunset with whichever random stranger was unlucky enough to be passing me at that moment, I am so happy to be your Mama. I know how lucky I am to have you, you sweet, stinky, funny, too-loud, crazy boys.

I mean, how else would I know the sheer embarrassment of you as a teeny tiny baby ripping gigantic man farts in public, leaving me no choice but to let people believe it was me because what kind of dickhead would I be if I blamed a fart on my innocent little baby?

How else would I know that I can get puked on, and with puke hanging off my lip be more concerned about getting the puke off your brother's head? That's some serious internal fortitude right there, and I never would have known I have it without you guys.

Without you, I never would have experienced being driven to the brink of insanity by your screaming, your "whys," your sleepless nights, and been pulled back from the edge by your goofy, crooked smiles, your hand tenderly resting on my cheek, your "I ruv yous," and watching you sleep.

Because of you, I know the pain of having my throat stepped on, the utter release and euphoria of hearing your first cries, the nose-burning, eye-watering stench of your worst craps, and the fear and joy of wearing my heart outside of my body.

It is an honor to be loved "more than Night Wing loves it is wings," "more than Batman loves his cape," and "more than a bee loves its pollen."

I am so proud that you know the different between "then" and "than", Ethan, and used the correct one. I am also thankful (and somewhat surprised) that when you made me a Mother's Day coupon book, on the coupon for you to bring me coffee and tea, you didn't write "beer" and "wine." 

You boys are the frosting to my cake, the cra to my crazy, the sweet and the sour to my chicken. Thank you for teaching me about the beauty and the beast of motherhood.

I love you all the way to the earf and the fishies,

Mama

Random Mom Thoughts- While Changing a Diaper

It's another installment of Random Mom Thoughts! This one has to do with my thoughts while changing a diaper- or seventeen thousand. And of boys, for the most part.

I'm sorry it's so crude, but... consider the subject matter.

AS A NEWBORN

- Wow, pee shooting into my eye stings like a mother!

- No thanks on the golden shower. NO THANKS.

- Aww, pee streaming down the wall really adds to the decor. So you're telling me you like stripes, baby?

- Please don't spray shit everywhere please don't spray shit everywhere please don't spray shit everywhere. 

- Ooohp, there goes shit spraying everywhere. It's like it literally hit a fan! Are baby colons what power washers are made of?

- The baby is in front of me, yet I have pee on my BACK. Amazing.

- I have reflexes like a cat now. Spraying poo and piss? NO PROBLEM. *BOOM, diaper block, martial arts duck, karate hand guard. Good to go.*

- This is the fifth, seventh, tenth, eleventh, twelfth shit of the day. Holy shit. 

- Why don't they sell like, 500-count boxes of these diapers? And for the same price as the 236 count, thanks.

- WHEN CAN I START POTTY TRAINING THIS KID?

AS A BABY, AFTER SOLIDS

- OH DEAR GOD HOW CAN IT SUDDENLY SMELL SO BAD?

- Last I checked, I have a human child, not a rabbit child who craps rabbit pellets?

- Things I never thought I'd think: I am a pro at wiping shit out of ball crevices.

- If you're going to poop in the diaper five minutes after I change you, can you at least pee in it, too? Come on, son!

- HOW did you soak your shirt and the side of your pants during your nap, but your diaper is entirely dry?? Oooohhh, that's right: BABY BONERS.

- WHEN CAN I START POTTY TRAINING THIS KID?

BLOWOUTS

- OH DEAR GOD HOW CAN HE HAVE THAT MUCH POOP IN HIM? It's in his SOCKS and UP TO HIS NECK!

- A full-body space suit or tarp would not have contained this mess.

- This had to happen in public? Of course it did.

- WHEN CAN I START POTTY TRAINING THIS KID?

AS A TODDLER

- I actually just pulled a long, stringy piece of something (lettuce? spinach? fruit roll up? leaves?) out of his butthole. OUT OF HIS BUTTHOLE, like a magician pulling a never-ending rope of scarves out of a hat. Damn, that was awesome. (It wasn't awesome.)

- Hey when you squatted under the dining room table to crap, you could have squatted over your truck toilet instead. Just sayin'.

- I could have just paid for 1/3 of t-ball or paid half of the water/garbage bill or bought two cases of Two-Buck Chuck or a week's worth of dinners for you guys with the money I spent buying diapers and wipes for the month. SUCK.

- He needs to learn how to chew his food better...

- It's a Nuclear Nugget: A radioactive nugget of a turd that's concentrated with the stench of a thousand turds.

- How is it possible that your crap smells worse than an outhouse that 10,000 bums with moonshine and Taco Bell-diarrhea hangovers shit in? HOW?

- WHEN WILL YOU START POTTY TRAINING, GODDAMMIT?

WHEN CHANGING SOME OTHER KID'S DIAPER

- Oh sweet Jesus, can I get a witness? I WANT NO QUESTIONS ABOUT WHAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED HERE.

- Uuhhhh. I just wiped poop out of a vagina. 

(SORRY that was crude but I don't have girls! IT'S WEIRD FOR ME, OKAY?)

- The poo of kids that didn't get sliced out of my uterus smells 6,000 times worse than my own kids' poo. What "they" say is right: It really is different when they're your own kids. *gag gag* Can I get some gloves?