Talking Naked

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The jokes about the death of sex after marriage are long running. I remember when we first got engaged a bunch of my husband’s older buddies made some quips about blow jobs being a thing of the past. He silently looked at me with one eyebrow up, asking the question without words. I shook my head. No,  no piece of paper was going to dull our sex life.

No way… and it didn’t.

Then we had kids.

Besides the effect of childbirth on my body: the stretch marks, the lovely and large scar from a cesarean section, the added weight to my caboose, there was the full exhaustion of actually having to take care of a baby. Sex happened but with less frequency. Sometimes with more urgency. It was like “sex light”. Less time, less noise, less buildup. We penciled our needs into the calendar when we could, and often we couldn’t.

On this particular night we had come home from a dinner with the extended family fairly late.. about 10 PM. My oldest fell asleep in the car and we quietly changed him and tucked him into bed. As I closed the door to the baby’s room (who was also sleeping soundly) I said to my husband, “You got 10 minutes?” He laughed and said, “You bet.”

We quickly stripped off all our clothes and jumped on the bed. Hubby was laying on top of me and for a fleeting moment, I thought we might have timed it just right for a nice evening together.

That’s when I heard my son’s little voice, “What are you guys doing?”

{OMG, this can’t be happening. Dear G-d, why don’t we have locks on our door? I felt my mortified husband suppress a giggle as he buried his head in the crook of my neck. Coward, guess I’m gonna have to handle this one myself…}

“We’re talking.”

{Talking? You couldn’t have come up with anything better than that? Jesus.}

“Talking naked?” said my 5-year-old, “That’s silly.”

“That’s us, super silly. Did you need something?”

Now I was just grasping at straws. Anything to make the most awkward moment of my life end… and fast.

“Did I leave Mr. Bear in here?” my sweet and clueless son said.

Hubby reached to our right, found Mr. Bear and threw him in the direction of our child.

“Thanks” he yelled, “Good Night.”

I breathed a sigh of relief as I thought this ordeal was finally over… but then he popped his head back in as if he’d forgotten something…

“You know…” he thought aloud, “If you really are talking naked, you’re doing it all wrong. Daddy’s still wearing socks.”

After my son was gone we both laid there on the bed for what seemed like forever… laughing so hard we couldn’t breathe… side-splitting, face hurting laughter. Sexy time was over. A non-issue, but it can become something more intimate, something hilariously real.

We ate a microwave pizza and went to sleep.

That night, it was better than sex.

Family Fight Club

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School starts in a week.

One more little week until we can get back into the groove. Seven more days until my oldest sons get back to it. Real life. Now, just in case my trusty calendar wasn’t on hand with big black X’s reminding me of the slow torturous moments ticking by with the speed of a slug, I’d still know summer was almost over. You wanna know how? Because my kids are about to kill each other.

Like… really, murder each other.

Dead.

We aren’t talking about kids with a normal streak of violence either. Normally, the boys are pretty sweet… but currently, they are OVER spending time together.

My whole job as a parent has changed drastically in the last 5 days. I’ve gone from making lunches and playing board games to being the most underpaid referee in the boxing world. I read somewhere that Mills Lane (the court Judge turned boxing referee) earned a million dollars every time he uttered the catchphrase “Let’s get it on”. A MILLION DOLLARS for one stinking sentence. After I let that sink in I realized… I’m thinking about these brotherly fights all wrong. Why is it a bad thing that they want to clean each other’s clocks? Why is it wrong that my children want to fight to the death? Maybe we could use this Lord of the Flies mentality to pay for college? Maybe these ingrates need a little Fight Club up in this bitch. Here are my money-making and energy burning ideas inspired by my children’s need for blood-letting. Hell, if cock-fighting pays then there must be money in kid fights. Right?

Sumo Suits

Have you ever seen those inflatable Sumo Suits that are worn for Halloween? What if I get a couple of those and let these boys go a couple of rounds? It’s sure to exhaust them and I can charge a ticket price to make some money on the side. Shoe money. Money for a babysitter… and a facial, or a childless trip for Hubby and I to a place that harbors American fugitives (because I’m sure kid fighting is as illegal as dog fighting). The options are endless.

Cage Match

Everyone loves a good cage match. Hubby could build it and we could just chuck those guys in there and walk away. At least we’d know where they were. Yup, cage match is a definite possibility.

Hunger Games style for the use of the iPad

We only have one iPad. It belongs to my oldest son and sometimes, sometimes… when he’s feeling very benevolent, he allows his brother to use it. That is happening less and less as he wishes his bother lived somewhere else. I think this idea speaks for itself. A fight, for the iPad.

Kickboxing

My kids are soccer players. They play soccer all year round. I’m sure they could figure out how to easily do a roundhouse. I mean, how hard could it really be? Here you go buddy, you want to hurt your brother? Pretend his head is the ball. You’re welcome.

Princess Bride style: To the pain

If you’ve never seen The Princess Bride?? I’m sorry. You should probably go back to the rock you’ve been living under. If you have, then you know. “To the pain” leaves you wallowing in your freakish misery forever. I have a feeling both boys would be keen on this. They would love to be the victor in a task where all you get to keep are your perfect ears. Touché

Oh shit, I just realized… By writing this I’ve broken the first rule of Fight Club. “You don’t talk about Fight Club.” Damn.

 

It’s a Small World After All

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Ahh…

The epic and famous Disney World ride. When we made the pilgrimage to Disney during my childhood, I’d insist on repeating that ride on loop. My parents joked about the earworm of a song which played over and over again in their heads for the remainder of our vacation. Did I care? Nope. Not one bit. Kids are assholes like that.

Last week we took our children to the Magic Kingdom. We were in Orlando for a soccer tournament, so the theme park would be a one day event. My Husband and I had prepared ourselves for the absolute worst. Hot weather, exhaustion, a 5-month-old, 2 older children with conflicting interests and a 5 year difference in age, plus tantrums. Due to the fact that Magic Kingdom doesn’t serve alcohol, we readied ourselves like soldiers going to battle. Bad behavior would not be tolerated at any level. Even though tickets to the Disney parks now cost an insane amount of money for a family of 5, we were willing to haul ass if anyone lost their shit, including the adults. No one was going to end up like Clark W. Griswold today.

Maybe it was our attitude going in, take no prisoners, if-this-isn’t-fun-we-run attitude, that made the actual events of the day so surreal, but I’m still having a hard time believing it wasn’t a dream.

The kids were AMAZING. They were on-their-best-behavior BRILLIANT.

We actually had… wait for it, wait for it… FUN.

I know!! Family fun!! It’s like the fucking Loch Ness Monster to most parents. We walked the park, picking and choosing what we would and wouldn’t do as a unit. Many situations involved Hubby and the older boys hitting up and attraction while I fed the baby, rocked the baby, tried to keep the baby from melting. This was fine with me. Watching my sons agree, and enjoy their precious time with their father was breathtaking. “And who knows when they will ever behave this well again?” kept echoing in my subconscious. That bitch always knows how to ruin a party.

With all the new rides at Disney (completely unlike the trips of my youth), combined with the “Fast Pass” system and the insane amount of other people at the park, It’s a Small World, was never even discussed. The 3-year-old didn’t know it existed, the 9-year-old couldn’t have cared less, and me? Although it was my childhood favorite, I wasn’t about to sacrifice our fantastic vibe for a personal trip to yesteryear in 98 degree heat. That was a non-issue. As we walked past the legendary portal, I gave it a second glance. Hubby saw it in my eyes, but he knew my motives to keep on walking. They were his motives too. Harmony.

By this point in the day it was hot. Actually, hot is the understatement of the year, it was abysmal. Even as year-round Florida residents we were suffering. The baby looked a great deal more than his genetic half-Irish at this point. While looking for some shade I found the Holy Grail of the theme park… an air-conditioned, covered alcove with misting fans… HOLY SHIT!! Is this heaven? “No, it’s Iowa” quoted my inner bitch in her sarcastic tone. We’ve obviously watched Field of Dreams too often. Note to self: Don’t let the inner bitch pick movies anymore.

With my ideal spot secured, I sent the big boys along to their next ride. Our day was almost over and I was happy to have a luxurious place to feed the baby and rock him to sleep. I stood there, pushing the stroller, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. When I looked up, a woman of Asian decent had locked eyes with me from 20 feet away. She too, was pushing a stroller but with adorable, identical twins. I gestured that there was room in paradise, and she made way into my happy place with a nod of her head that sounded like thank you to my brain. We rocked our children while reading our phones, and sometimes our eyes met and we smiled. You know, that knowing mom smile? It’s the smile of being in the same boat, usually up shits creek without a paddle. I reveled in the fact that even though we couldn’t communicate verbally, we did, mom-ally.

The alcove had open air walls. People could see inside. Moms are the most resourceful and resilient bunch to ever walk the earth. When other moms saw us, and our strollers, they knew this place was comfy and safe. In the next 45 minutes we were joined by another Asian mom, a mom in a sari, and a mom in a full traditional Berka covering all but her smiling and thankful eyes to have a cool spot for her children.

That’s when it hit me like a ton-of-bricks. As an English-speaking American, I am in the minority of the ethnic pie-chart that makes up the world. That doesn’t bother me, not one bit, but as Americans, it’s easy to forget there is a whole globe of other people out there too. Other moms. Just like me. Who only want our children to be safe and happy. I’m sure that’s what Walt Disney was trying to project with It’s a Small World back in the day. Before ticket prices were exorbitant, before lines were 7 hours long, despite wars and politics dividing people. As a kid, I KNEW THAT.

Although I didn’t get to ride the actual attraction that day, I was reminded though the connection of motherhood, it’s a small world after all.

 

Babywearing Ballet: The Ultimate Mom Brainwash

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babywearing ballet

Enough is enough.

At the time of conception your body changes. It. Just. Does. There is nothing that we can do about it. As the baby grows inside you, you grow. You grow a lot. You are now someone’s house. Nobody want’s to live in 700 Sq. Feet. Why should your baby be any different? That little sucker wants to flourish. That little sucker wants it all, and he takes it all. Your nutrients, your energy, your brain. You give it up because you already love him. Pregnancy is your first motherly act, it’s not about you anymore. It will never be about you again. This used to be okay, this used to be the norm. Mothers everywhere accepted the fact that they would never have a pre-pregnancy form after baby. Even if you are an athlete, even if you work your ass off. Things shift when you are pregnant, and some of those things are never going to find their way back to where they started.

But then it happened.

The media started flooding us with famous women who look “fabulous” after childbirth. Kate Hudson, Kourtney Kardashian … Snooki, for fucks sake…. SNOOKI!! I mean, you gotta love her drunk swagger but homegirl didn’t look too hot before she had the baby. And now here they are, all to-die-for and non-matronly looking, making the average mom (all the rest of us) feel like sub par pieces of shit. As if being the only source of everything for another human being wasn’t a daunting enough task, now we have to look great while doing it? Ugh. I’m so aggravated I could spit out my wine. But I won’t because… wine.

So now we have entered the hamsters wheel. Round and round we go… Diet. Exercise. Beauty Products. Keratin Treatments. Green drinks. Raw Juice. Vegan. Paleo. Yoga. Weight Watchers. Jenny Craig.

I’m already exhausted just thinking about it.

After the birth of my second child I took up running. It was difficult and boring all at the same time. I was never very good at it nor did I enjoy it much. I “trained” for 8 months, ran two 5k’s (okay, I’m lying, I walked most of the second one) and I stopped running as quickly as I took it up.

At the time I choose to run because I felt that “need” to get into shape. I wanted to be a MILF. I mean, who doesn’t? With the media showing us motherly beauty at every corner I just wanted to feel skinny. I wanted to feel something other than tired and old. Running was ideal for me at the time because I couldn’t afford classes, a gym membership or a babysitter. I had to do something that I could do with my son.

What I saw today knocked me into this I-fucking-give-up laden tirade.

Babywearing Ballet.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

I know some people are really into babywearing. I am not one of these people. When I wear my baby it’s because I have too, not because I want to. It’s because he’s crying and fussy. He needs to be soothed and I only have 2 damn hands (and 2 other kids).

Yes, I need to get back in shape. I know it. It’s time. I’m big, and fat, and looked better when I was pregnant. I like food and booze way too much to do nothing. And no, carrying around my 19 pound 5-month-old doesn’t count as exercise. I wish it did.

I’m just slack-jawed over babywearing ballet. If a mom has the financial means to pay for an exercise class, lets just stop now into shaming her to involve her baby. Jesus, can’t Mom just have one damn hour to herself? 60 little minutes? Just an hour where you drop the kid in the daycare at the gym to go do your thing? Now we have to strap our baby to our chest because, “G-d forbid”, we do one thing that’s just for us?

I do have some mom friends that are in STELLAR shape. Amazing, beautiful, mind-blowing shape. They exercise and have a huge amount of discipline and time to look this way, but none of them are 5 months post-pregnancy. Their kids are school aged and they use that time to their advantage. I could be like that in 3 years. {wishful thinking}

I’m troubled that the “bring-along-your-baby” fitness trend is the ultimate mom brainwash. Why would you pay $100 a month if it doesn’t include childcare? I won’t. I refuse. It’s batshitcrazy. We are told we need to look fit and young but we can’t have anytime to get it done on our own. “Here you go, look like a million bucks with a $20 budget.” That, my friends, is impossible. These famous new moms look like a million bucks because that’s what the going cost of beauty is nowadays.

I know what I can get for $20.

Tacos. I can get tacos.

7 Childhood Movies That Motherhood Changed For Me

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Although I was born in the mid 70’s, I was a child of the 80’s. If you watched MTV because they had music videos, understand locker jokes from You Can’t Do That on Television, and had a Trapper Keeper… I know you feel me. Legit, child of the 80’s, feels.

Having kids changes everything.

EVERYTHING!!

I had green hair in high school and wore 14 hole combat boots. Now?? I bake. Cookies, pies, brownies… you name it, I bake it. Betty “Fucking” Crocker ain’t got nothing on me, but I guess I’ve lost substantial street credit. Undoubtedly, motherhood changed me; changed my values, my habits, and my patterns. However, it also changed the way I view things. I noticed this substantial change recently as I watched some movies that were favorites in my youth; but now invoked totally different emotional responses from me. Here are my Top 7…

1. The Karate Kid

As a kid: I couldn’t imagine anything more fantastic than having an older man, whom I wasn’t related to, help me and teach me about karate.

As a mom: I would never let my sons hang out, ALONE, with an old, single man whom they are not related to. Are you kidding me? And why is he giving Daniel expensive gifts? A car? Jesus, that’s a red flag right there.

2. Stand By Me

As a kid: Besides the fact that River Phoenix was completely hot, the idea of an adventure, sans adults, with my friends was a hell yes.

As a mom: Holy shit. These kids could have gotten killed about 20 times in this movie. If not by the evil and disturbed Kiefer Sutherland character, then the train, or the junkyard dog, or the gun, or just wild animals, or if Teddy went mental. This whole movie was just 2 hours of an anxiety laden discontent. I’m still working through this one in therapy.

3. Beaches

As a kid: I loved Bette Midler. I loved the music. I loved daydreaming that I, too, would one day be on Broadway as a big star.

As a mom: The Barbara Hershey character dies. End of. {sob, sob, sob} I could never watch a second of this movie while pregnant. Not. One. Second.

4. Adventures in Babysitting

As a kid: Babysitting, hot guys from college, road trip with that funny and annoying Darryl kid, getting to catch your cheating, slimy ex-boyfriend. This movie had everything.

As a mom: This is the stuff that nightmares are made of. This is the reason I never leave the house childless {shiver}.

5. The Breakfast Club

As a kid: This movie was cutting edge. It was real, it was raw, it was AWESOME. We didn’t have cable so I watched this one with the horrible TV dialogue edits… “Hot beef injection” was changed to “Hot wild affection” and I didn’t even care. I had this one memorized. Word. For. Word. Actually I think I still know this movie by heart, yet I walk into the bathroom and can’t remember what I went there for.

As a mom: Why don’t schools offer shop classes anymore? Holy crap, I hope my gifted child isn’t so concerned with achieving, that he tries to hurt himself (with a flare gun). I can’t believe they smoked weed in the library. We never did anything like that. {cough, cough}.  John Bender is still totally hot. At least that hasn’t changed.

6. Back to the Future

As a kid: Doc Brown? The eccentric inventor was every kid’s dream as a BFF. Micheal J Fox was at the height of his popularity as Marty McFly. Even my mom swooned over him. Time travel, the DeLorean… an amazing cinematic superstar. I loved Back to the Future.

As a mom: Again with the old man/teenage boy thing. What was up with the 80’s? And the idea that my child would get to witness my high school self? Omigod, please no.

7. The Goonies

As a kid: The Goonies had it all! Adventure, romance, friendship. I mean, for Christ’s sake, they went on a TREASURE HUNT in underground caves. The Goonies was the tits.

As a mom: Where the FUCK did their parents think they were? I mean, really? By the time Chunk called the cops hadn’t there been an Amber Alert issued already? And instead the sheriff thinks he’s lying because he’s an eternal storyteller? And don’t think The Boy Who Cried Wolf reference was lost on me. Cave kissing? Being chased by the Fratellis and stuck in a freezer with a dead body? I. Just. Can’t.

Motherhood isn’t just what you do… it’s what you are.

You sleep it. You eat it. You breathe it. You own it.

It can’t be turned off or toned down.

I wonder if At the Movies was different for Gene Siskel after he had children.

 

 

 

When Plan B Saved My A

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With the Supreme Court’s Hobby Lobby ruling hanging in the air the easiest thing for those of us who’ve already had children is to turn a blind eye. Change the channel, ignore the newspapers, pretend Mother Jones doesn’t exist. I’ve just been sitting in a corner humming Fancy when it comes to the whole thing. But, like I’ve explained to my 3-year-old, just sitting here with my eyes closed doesn’t mean you can’t see me. You can see me, and I look like a freak with my eyes closed in a crowded room.

The biggest problem I’ve been having is that while I might not agree with the ruling, I am a law-abiding citizen and I support the American Justice System and the Supreme Court. I will support what they have decided. And although it doesn’t effect me personally anymore it effects women everywhere.

So the big picture is… what are we going to do about it? How are we (a collective group of women) going to make sure that no one ever has to deal with an unwanted pregnancy because of cost?

Yeah I said it. The two words that people dread grouping together. Unwanted Pregnancy. There are so many factors that establish whether you are ready for motherhood and they go well beyond just financial reasons. I couldn’t imagine having to carry a child that was a product of rape. I couldn’t imagine having to endure 9 months of anything I didn’t want. And lets not forget that after 9 months you have a real, live, baby.Yeah, that. They show you a video at the hospital and you’re off. Welcome to motherhood, you better pick this up quick.

Having kids was the greatest joy and the biggest hardship I’ve ever faced wrapped into one adorable package of blue velvet. But there was a time when I couldn’t even imagine becoming a mother again. And that’s when Plan B saved my A.

My second son was 6 weeks old. I was happy and lucky and walking around in that new baby haze that can only be described as foggy. Trying to set a schedule, trying to get some sleep, trying to stay sane. My boys were 5 years apart and Hubby’s work wasn’t going so well. Shit had gotten really, real… and I was surprised and ecstatic that we were able to hold it together while lots of the creature comforts were falling apart.

I had just gotten the go ahead from my Doctor to resume all physical activity. I was ready for some closeness with my man again. I was ready for intimacy. Yup, super ready. That’s when something happened that I’d never before experienced… one broken condom was all it took and I was sure this mistake, this accident, would result in a pregnancy.

To say I freaked out would be putting it mildly.

I lost my shit.

The idea of another baby rocked me to my very core. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know if I’d ever be ready for a third child but I sure-as-shit I wasn’t ready for Irish twins. How would I manage? What effect would another baby have on my current children, one of whom was still a newborn himself. What if it wasn’t just one baby? Actual twins? Or (dare I even think it… more)? That night I stayed up on the internet, pouring over my options. There was only one option, Plan B.

This wasn’t an abortion. I have no clue if I was actually ovulating at the time. I didn’t do an ovulation test. This was a precaution. A precaution like using a condom. And that precaution had already failed me.

In the past I’d always known when conception had occurred. I’d had 2 children and a miscarriage in between. My body had never failed me in the “knowing” department. It’s been my personal experience that the love and bond I felt with my unborn child was what made me a mommy long before they were born. It was my intent to have them, to love them to raise them that made the whole experience real. That intent was what made them a baby. My baby. This was not yet a baby. It was not yet a member of my family or a voice that laughs or cries or sings. But the idea alone, Irish twins, children 9 months apart was real. The chance was there.

The next day I packed up my newborn and my 5-year-old and headed off to a national drug store chain. As I walked up to the pharmacist and requested Plan B I tried to use telepathy and speak to him. “I can’t do this. Not now. Do you hear me? It’s too soon. I’m fucked if I’m pregnant. I’m barely holding it together right now. Please don’t judge me. Please don’t shame me.” He gave me a knowing smile as he stared at my matted hair, my eyes framed by sleep deprivation, my shirt stained with a mixture of peanut butter and formula, and rang me up.

That was the most important $50 I ever spent.

Three years later I gave birth to my last child and I couldn’t be happier with my decision. I was just lucky I had the $50.

My only advice to women in childbearing age is to vote.

And not work for Hobby Lobby.