Every great story has a hero and a villain. At least every great story I enjoy. The villain I’m about to paint for you is prime-evil. It makes Lord Voldemort look like a kitten. Darth Vedar? A clown. That fucking Gollum guy from Lord of the Rings? He’s about as scary as Papa Smurf compared to my nemesis.

Yeah, that’s right. I’m talking about the BOSU Ball.

I recently joined a gym. And by recently I mean 2 weeks ago. After years of making babies and having c-sections and eating each meal like it’s my last and drinking all the wine I could find, I am trying to lose some weight and get in shape.

I’ve found group classes to be my jam and I’ve been enjoying getting my sweat on. At least I was, until yesterday.

Yesterday, I finished a 30 minute Kickboxing class and because I really like the instructor, decided to stick around for her next class. Strength training. Thinking back to that moment I should have noticed the fit, toned, and trim physiques of the other people entering class. I should have realized the chick who had just parked next to me looked like a fucking supermodel in Under Armour boy-shorts and a sports bra, while I had smushed my milky-white-whale-belly into some Capri leggings and a maternity tank-top. Hindsight is a bitch. And so is that damn balance ball.

Well, the purpose of that BOSU ball is to screw with your center of gravity, because it’s a freaking squishy, round object and forces you to utilize your core muscles. My core muscles have been in sleepy la-la land for about a decade; core muscles on Quaaludes, if you will, so just looking at that thing pained me.

But that’s when the real fun started.

I’ve come to the conclusion that my class instructor probably does a night shift as a dominatrix, cause homegirl gets off on inflicting pain. As she demonstrated the technique of standing on the ball, while lifting weights and then squatting, I couldn’t help but think, “Holy shit, dear lord, please don’t let me fall off this ball.” Gravity beat out my prayers.

Then she had us lunging with one leg, while the other leg was on the ball. I don’t think anyone appreciates how difficult it is for me to walk on flat land. Trying to exercise with this crazy ball under my foot just wasn’t working. But everyone else looked like they were born with this ball attached to the bottom of their feet. Assholes.

That’s when we started with the floor work.

If I thought standing on the ball was hard, I quickly changed my tune because push ups were harder. And planking, and sit-ups. At one point I believe my entire body had just burst into flames. At the time it was a welcome idea. If I was on fire I would surely have an excuse to get out of this class.

But I didn’t fucking quit.

I was embarrassed and awkward, fat and panting, but I had done it. I had completed 30 minutes of torture. That ball is my Thunderdome.

I decided to skip the gym today, because it hurt to use the bathroom this morning.


I’ll be back.

But first, can you help me get up from this chair?


Photo Credit: “Wonder Lust”, © 2010 Sean Davis, Flickr | CC-BY-ND | via Wylio

Dear Wonder Woman,

I recently read an article about your ridiculous amazing story here. While I’m very interested in your situation, I’d also like to take a ride in your invisible plane after you read this letter. So call me, we’ll do lunch.

Since you already have 13 children, I understand this ain’t your first rodeo. You’ve probably seen everything when it comes to child rearing. But now you’re 65, There was a huge difference in my parenting ability between the birth of my first kid (10 years ago) to the birth of my last kid (one year ago), and I’m not even 40 yet. I’m pretty close though, and I’m fucking tired.

I’m tired because of lack of sleep. I’m tired of little people who need things from me all the time, I’m tired of cleaning up sick and pee on toilets. I’m tired of cooking and cleaning and questions (Jesus Christ the questions).

That being said, I’d assume you are monumentally more tired than I am. But you’re going to have 4 babies, along with the 13 you all ready have. Don’t you think that’s a bit much, even for a Wonder Woman like yourself? I’m sure if I used your magic, truth evoking lasso to produce your most honest thoughts, you’d say, “Holy shit, what have I done? This might not have been an awesome idea.”

Here’s the thing, it’s not that I think a 65-year-old woman wouldn’t make a great mother. I’m just wondering why, at 65 years old, someone would procure donor eggs, and donor sperm, to have more children? And where would you find a doctor who is willing to support this endeavor?

When I decided I was done having babies, it wasn’t a decision I weighed lightly. I still struggle with the fact that I love having babies, and would have had many more given unlimited monetary resources and the assurance that they would all be born healthy, even though I’m considered “advanced maternal age”. But you? You are beyond that. Way beyond… and I cannot, for the life of me, understand why anyone would want to become a parent again at 65.

I hope you have lined up some help to wash your cape.

You’re gonna need it.

Hugs and Kisses,


P.S. I’m completely serious about flying in your plane. I’ll even wash it when we’re done.


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We all know kids need to take naps. I’m sure there’s scientific data around the interweb somewhere, but I have 3 kids so I’m not really into the whole giving-a-shit-about-finding-scientific-data right now. We know kids need to take naps because you can watch them turn from Dr. Jeckel to Mr. Dick in about 5 seconds flat when they are tired. Now, I love a bit of excitement in my life as much as the next gal, but I don’t feel reliving the Exorcist everyday at 3 o’clock is something I can live with.

So, my 4-year-old takes an afternoon nap. And all was right with the universe.

Until recently.

I’m finding motherhood to be a give and take between the best and healthiest options for my children, and the things I need to do to stay sane up in this bitch.

Some examples:

My kids eat healthy food but by industry standards, probably watch too much TV.

My oldest has an extensive after school schedule: sports, religious education, piano lessons… but when he’s not eating or doing homework he plays Minecraft like it’s his job – they really should pay him.

I’m sure I drink too much wine, but it’s my thing. It keeps me sane in a house full of madness…. And Mommy needs her thing.

But now… now, a recent study has been published in Archives of Disease in Childhood and has found that children who nap during the day after the age of 2 often suffer from poorer sleep quality later in life.

What in the actual fuck?

Let me get this straight, the coveted afternoon nap, the thing that keeps my household in harmonious symmetry, might be detrimental to my child in the future?

I call bullshit. You know what will be detrimental to his future? His personality when he doesnt’ get an afternoon nap. Because that shit is not gonna fly around here. Listen close, genius scientists, I’m not giving up nap time, not until you pry it from my cold, unmanicured, overtired hands. You have taken my hopes for a thin waist, my dreams of a brain that can remember more than 2 things at a time, but the nap? No. Not now. Never.

Right now, we need nap time. We need it like we need air, so maybe I’ll apologize in 20 years when he has problems sleeping, but right now? I’m not ending the nap, anytime soon.