The Accidental Slut Run

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Another Wednesday, another running day.

It’s been 2 weeks since I’ve gotten off my ass and started running again. I’m still not very good at it but I was actually looking forward to hitting the pavement this morning. Monday’s attempt at a run was awful. I had to run later in the day and by the time I was able to go, it was 97 degrees out and I forgot my hair tie. I turned around halfway. Mission aborted.

Today I was gonna rock it. Although It’s not easy to digest that I’m using my “me time” for something physical when I’d prefer to be watching crappy TV or reading a good book, it has to be done. I have to do something. Running it is.

Now I’m rocking a new playlist, a new pair of kicks and holding my head up high. The baby and I hit the main road outside my development with a nice breeze and the Florida sun shining in the sky as we go.

5 minutes in and I’m surprised at how good I feel… maybe my body has resigned itself to the fact that the brain is the boss here. You hear that old, tired, body? I run the show! Mind over fat! A lawn truck drives by and the occupants whistle and honk. Shit, I actually look good doing this? Me? I can’t even process that idea as Adam Levine croons in my headphones.

So this is what doing running right feels like? I make a mental note to text one of my crazy marathon friends when I get back home. She’s gonna be so proud of me. Hell, I’m so proud of me. Now I can almost feel the skip in my step. I’m not a runner, I’m a freaking supermodel. Take that, self-deprecating me!

It’s around the 11 minute mark of my 30 minute workout that the second catcall comes, this time from some old guys in a white van. What? I must look phenomenal today. Maybe it’s because of that full moon, maybe it’s because I’ve lost 5 pounds? Who knows? Who cares? Just enjoy this feeling knowing disgusting old men find you wanton. Actually, that’s a bit of a creepy thought but whatever, just keep running.

At the halfway mark I see the baby is asleep. Good baby, the perfect running buddy. I’m making a mental checklist of the things I’ll need for dinner and this time, a County garbage truck honks and waves. Okay, something is up. I look down… nope, no nipples showing, running skirt looks okay… hmmm, maybe the Rosie the Riveter look is back in. Eat that Betty Boop! I’m not usually the person who relies on the compliments of others but when you’re not afraid for your safety, a honk during a workout can feel pretty good for your self-esteem. Although… 3 honks in one day? That’s a bit over the top? I ignore that thought and continue on… almost done, 5 more minutes.

I’m almost home, basking in the glory of a really good run and some very enamored spectators when I hear another whistle… this time from a neighbor I know…

“Hey, good run?”

{taking off my headphones} Yeah, one of the best. {I’m smiling ear to ear}

“Yeah… Ummm…”

{He looks uncomfortable, why does he look so uncomfortable?}

“Your skirt is tucked into your shorts.”

That’s when I turn around to see the reason behind my popularity this morning.

My behind.

My cute little black running skirt has been tucked into the attached purple shorts for 30 minutes!

While I was running! In public! In my hometown! With my baby!

Am I surprised? Nope, not one bit.

Whatever. That was the best I felt while working out in a long while. Maybe I’ll invest in some of those little running shorts that the Olympians wear.

I’m sure to get some super honks then.

 

Confessions of a Former Sanctimommy

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Photo Credit: “Shut up, just shut up, shut up”, © 2013 Mateus Lunardi Dutra, Flickr | CC-BY | via Wylio

Are you a sanctimonious know-it-all bitch? Do you, look down your nose at the decisions other people make in regards to their children? Then you’re in the right place. Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.

I used to be just like you. When it came to parenting I thought I had all the answers and I would hand those little answers out like candy on Halloween. You want to know what the big difference was between Halloween and my parenting advice? On Halloween, you ask for candy. You head to the door of a neighbor’s house wearing your best Princess Leia costume and you say, “Trick or Treat.” When it came to me, doling out my parenting expertise… no one asked for it. That is what made me a Sanctimommy. That is what makes you a Sanctimommy. Unsolicited advice. So the first step to conversion into a normal, emphatic person and friend is to shut your pie-hole unless someone asks your opinion.

I know, easier said than done.

We all know, you have this whole “parenting thing” on lock. You’ve told us, a million times. I’m sure you think you’re being a good friend or mentor by sharing the pearls of wisdom you’ve acquired to the rest of us, but seriously, honey, it’s not nuclear fission we’re talking about here. There isn’t a correct way to do everything, for every kid. No… just stop. There isn’t.

Do I have to give you the whole “people are snowflakes” talk again? Really? Okay here it goes… people are like snowflakes, each and every one of them different and special. We all have different shapes and sizes that we come in, with different wants and needs. The way you handle your perfect kid might not work for the way I handle mine. I know your way is right, I know it, but what you don’t seem to realize is that it might not be right FOR EVERYONE ELSE and when you finally realize that, when that cartoon lightbulb above your brain activates, that is when you will shed your Santicmommy skin and become mortal. Just a mommy. A flawed but desperately trying Mom.

The birth of my 2nd child was my light-bulb. He is the polar opposite of his brother. When he took his first breath was when I realized that there was no correct system for every single person. Now, don’t get me wrong, of course, I still have opinions about parenting, strong and loud opinions. Keeping them to myself isn’t always easy, I’ll admit that, but when it comes to chucking that shit to strangers on the internet, I put my hands in my pockets and walk away. That’s what you should do girlfriend. Hands to yourself. Don’t type anything. Just go and live your perfect life, with your perfect family, and write down all the answers you obviously have, as a memoir, a how-to-parent book if you will. Then you can give it to your future daughter-in-law at her baby shower… I’m sure she’ll appreciate the parenting advice. Wouldn’t you have loved to get a book like that from the mother of your baby daddy? No?

Now do you get it? Did it sink in now?

Thought so.

 

The Power Struggle is Real

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Having more than one kid has turned me into a white, maternal version of Rodney King. “Can’t we all just get along?”

These little bastards will fight over anything and everything. Then they try to play it off in the most contemptuous manner. As if they have no clue how they’ve gotten into this mess in the first place. The look on their faces is a cross between Elle Woods and Forest Gump. “Who me? What did I do? No, my brother’s face just fell on my fist.”

I’m over it.

The latest power struggle is about seating placement on the couch. It starts from the moment they wake up to the moment they go to sleep. Personally, I could care less who sits where, but these fights aren’t quiet and throughout the day I find myself hissing through clenched teeth and an angry voice, “DON’T WAKE UP THE BABY!” I can’t seem to get a handle on it and I’ve tried everything. Assigned seating, couch rules, strict monitoring of couch placement, nothing is working. They are the sneakiest little couch bandits. One minute, everything is fine, I go to the bathroom, and all hell breaks loose. I’m about one more fight away from getting rid of the couches all together. “Here you go suckers, sit on the floor.” That’ll teach ’em. Let’s be honest though, I’d be cutting off my nose to spite my own face, and ass, and circulation. I need a better plan than that.

I’m thinking of investing in a barrage of whoopee cushions and strategically placing them all along both couches. The look of complete surprise on their little argumentative faces would be priceless. Crap, that won’t work. These are boys. Fart noises are their national anthem. This is not a good idea.

Ohh, maybe I can try a shit-ton of water balloons… Haha, you wanted yummy comfort and now you’re soaking wet. But…. guess who’s going to be the one to clean up the couch, change everyone’s wet clothes and have to do an extra load of laundry? Yup, you guessed it… me. Backfire city.

OH MY G-D!!! I’ve figured it out. This idea is going to win me a Nobel Peace Prize for sure. I’m taking the cushions… ALL OF THE CUSHIONS. If you want to sit on the couch you can come to me for a cushion. You may only have one cushion at a time (this will stop all the fights over who was laying down first, who is touching whom, who’s butt is in the other brothers face, eyes, foot). This idea is parenting gold right here.

I AM THE SMARTEST PERSON IN THE WORLD!

Now I’m off to test operation cushion.

But first, I have to vacuum the couch.

I hope it doesn’t wake the baby.

Grandma and The Mighty Atom

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I’m a terrible person.

With the birth of my 3rd child, things around here got complicated. Trying to time everything just right: handle all the schedules, keep it smooth sailing for the older kids while balancing the needs of a newborn, I wanted life to be seamless. I think I’ve done a pretty good job. They are all still alive, and DCF hasn’t been to the house. *Happy Dance*

Unfortunately, I’ve let other things slide. Me time (yeah, right, what’s that), personal friendships (I’m sorry friends, I swear I’ll call soon), and the most important thing of all… the rest of my family, more specifically, my grandmother.

I am so blessed to still have my grandma in my life, on this earth and living only 30 minutes from me. She’s a 91-year-old fireball, and the only thing larger than my love for her is my respect for her. It’s been 11 years since she lost my papa (they dated since she was 14) and although I know she misses him terribly (we all do), Grandma still lives her life. Everything I need to know about love, humility, and commitment I’ve learned from GG (her nickname, as she is my kid’s Great Grandmother).

With a houseful of kids, the squeaky wheel is always the one that gets the grease, and because Grandma is in fine overall health, I hadn’t made a lot of time for her, until yesterday. Grandma came over for dinner, played with the great-grandkids, swam in the pool, and even read my blog. Yesterday was a chance at some downtime, and a real eye-opener. It’s easy to forget that my grandma was once a 37-year-old mom too, and a girl, and an adolescent, and a public school teacher. It’s simple to look at her, the way she is now, at 91, and forget that she lived a whole different life before me, before my mom, before this century. Thank God I have Grandma to remind me.

After dinner last night GG said,

“Do you have On Demand?”

{Complete shock} Sure we have On Demand, I can’t believe you even know what that is… What would you like to watch?

“Well, my friend, Moshe, is on America’s Got Talent… do you know that show?”

Of course I know that show. What are you talking about, “your friend” is on it. {Now I’m getting a bit worried… is GG losing it?}

“My old friend, Moshe, he’s the “Mighty Atom Jr.” His father was the “Mighty Atom”. He pulls a car with his teeth. I missed the show, and I’d love to see it.”

Of course, through my love of pop culture and Americana, I’d heard of “The Mighty Atom”. He was a popular (and world renown) 20th Century Strongman. Guess what? GG grew up with his kid.

Mike Greenstein, or Moshe, (as GG has known him forever) grew up with Grandma in Brooklyn. They are still friends today, talk on the phone all the time, and he’s even come to visit her in Florida. He is also a Strongman, and at 93-YEARS-OLD, pulls CARS WITH HIS TEETH. I know, take a minute and let that sink in.

His father (Joe Greenstein) used to pull cars with his hair. Grandma says he’d do it on the street for the kids to see. What? My kids are impressed if a neighbor invites them over for a barbecue… times have changed.

So we pulled up the video from America’s Got Talent so Grandma could see Moshe in all his 93-year-old, strongest-teeth-ever, car-pulling glory.

The insane part is that while watching this video, with Grandma, I could see her as a young woman again. I could see Moshe as a young man too. That strength: the bravery it takes to age, in a society which throws our elderly out the door without a glance. I’m in awe of them. All of them. Grandma has always told me she still thinks she’s 18-years-old in her mind. I can totally understand that now as I’m looking 40 in the underbelly.

I told GG that although I’ve never seen her move a 5,000-pound automobile with her teeth, her presence moves mountains.

At least, it does for me.

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.