Subtitled: Daddy’s Working Late
Sub-Subtitled: I knew there was a reason for buying wine at 7:18 this morning at the grocery store.
Apparently ‘Go play upstairs’ translates to ‘Let your brother be the Olympic figure skating judge while you dance around and wreak havoc on my stuff!’
February 26, 2010 By 3 Comments
Reconciliation
February 25, 2010 By 4 Comments
Oh, sure. It’s all fun and games until Mama spends an hour cleaning up wet baby and wet kitchen
February 23, 2010 By 3 Comments
Subtitled: If she’d quit being so damn cute I wouldn’t bother taping this crap.
See, I’m a good mom. I even waited until she left the room before I choked back some vomit
February 22, 2010 By 2 Comments
Tonight for dinner I made a splended meal:
- toasted pecan encrusted chicken
- mapled glazed sweet potato puree with caramalized onions
- steamed veggies in a light sauce
Okay, the veggies were from a steaming bag, but still. I rocked this meal. I rocked those caramelized onions. I rocked the casbah.
My daughter was kind enough to provide dessert for us as well.
Yellow cake with chocolate frosting cooked by lightbulb in her easy bake oven.
Yum?
For the record that photo was taken immediately after she finished applying the frosting. Immediately after she proceeded to lick the spreader thing, share some licks with her gross brother and sister, and double dip the entire time.
I assure you this was not taken post-chewing.
She offered me some.
I declined.
Especially after I saw a big, fat, curly hair hanging off the side.
Sorry kid, Mama’s allergic – to disgusting stuff!
Would it be totally wrong of me to break her lightbulb oven?
Sorry, kid. Mama was collecting some toys for the disabled orphans and dogs association when I accidently fell on it while rescuing a cat from a tree that I saw was sick and injured while I carried the bags of donations out to the car. I tried to repair it, but I got distracted by a sudden urge to make you cookies and brownies and cakes by the powers of a gas oven. Come inside, my darling, and while you enjoy some homemade baked goods I’ll show you the pony I picked up today on my way home from buying tickets to Princessland!
Totally believable, right!?
Mossolini may have buried the putrid corpse of liberty, but I’m digging that bad boy up!
February 18, 2010 By 6 Comments
Ladies and Gentleman, a milestone has been reached.
A wonderful, beautiful, freeing milestone.
Last night my oldest two children took showers all by themselves.
ALL.FREAKING.BY.THEMSELVES!!!!
They lathered, rinsed, and repeated without any help from me. They washed their little bodies and all their little parts as if they’d been doing it alone for years.
And it was exhilarating.
For them I don’t really care.
But, for me it was exhilarating!
Holy Crap! Two thirds of my children can wash themselves, dress themselves, zip their jackets, and handle their own poo related issues – with the exception of the occasional need to plunge a toilet – they are almost completely sorta self sufficient!
Two thirds!
I even bought real, live, big-girl underwear for the one that can’t handle her own poo related accoutrements with every intention of rectifying that forthwith! I could very will have less than 500 diapers left. To change. Ever!!!
I knew this day would come eventually. Other parents talked, hinted at its existence in hushed and reverent tones – never wholly sharing the secret, the joy of what it feels like to reach such a point. They must not want to raise the hopes of those left in the throws of toddlerism-hood for fear of the anarchy that could arise from a bunch of parents being aware that child self sufficiency is attainable – within reach – right around the damn corner!
Oh.
Will my saying that be like a jinx and actually lead to anarchy?
Oh, who freaking cares. Two-thirds of my kids are almost sorta self sufficient!!! Excuse me while I sit down for the first time in over five years.
That’s more than 1900 days, yo.
1900 days, three kids, 7 strollers, 8 bazillon diapers, and 47 thousand little tasks.
I have no intention of getting up. Ever.
Hey Kids, bring Mama a taco!
Married Phone Conversations 8 Years In
February 17, 2010 By 1 Comment
Me: I have to carry all the things with the stuff and wanted to do it tomorrow…
Him: Do you want me to look…
Me: I don’t think we have a thing.
Him: I could pick one up to go with the crayons? Eight?
Me: No, twenty-four. With the flappy top kind?
Him: Locking?
Me: No, just fitting with the fitting parts.
Him: I’m on it. I could, you know, a dolly or cart or something?
Me: No. No. No.
Him: What’s a pazcki?
*End Scene*
Doin’ the butt
February 15, 2010 By 9 Comments
*I always promised myself I’d never censor myself based on who reads my blog. With that in mind I must preface this post with a warning: This post is about sex. Dirty, nasty, grown-up sex. My father-in-law, grandfather, and step-father should stop reading now. If you choose to continue reading you relinquish any and all rights to comment now or later. I mean it. Perhaps if I just shout CLITORIS I’ll scare you away. Did it work?*
If my husband had his way we’d probably be having sex everyday.
Two times on a very special day.
I’d be naked all the time, having quickies in the morning, and would be proud of my rug-burned knees.
Me?
I’m ready for a king size bed just to ensure some extra space and less of a chance of being knocked around by a late night bulge.
I’m busy and tired and full of a million excuses as to why sex is at the bottom of my priority list. Three kids do not work well to enhance, increase, or create a sexually driven mama. Being forced to take a statistics class as part of a PhD is the definition of a sex drive killer. There’s the fact that as soon as I sit or lay every animal in the house decides to take up residence in and around my personal bubble. And, I jiggle in places that make sex look more like an awkwardly bad porno than an intimate encounter between two people. Add that to the white cotton granny panties that fill my drawer and even the masturbation fairy would say Um, I think I’ll pass.
So, in comes Mominatrix.
Oh, look. One of my writing networks is featuring a cleaver and funny book for the month of February that promises to help moms like me get a little more randy in the sack. Sure! I’ll sign up to review it. It can’t hurt, right!?
Yes, yes it can.
I’m not what most would consider a prude ( I did have nude photos taken for our first wedding anniversary!), but I tensed and clenched muscles while reading that I didn’t know I had!
Butt Beads!?
Anal Plugs!?
No fucking way. Period.
That just insured that my backdoor is locked and dead-bolted.
Maybe all this stuff is normal. Maybe everybody does it. But, I’m pretty sure that if Hubby came at me with some sort of ass toy and wanted to play the Pirate and the Wench for something new and exciting, you’d see this fat girl suddenly able to run a four-minute mile.
But, since I’m a team player and wanted to come away with at least a little bit of a new perspective, I decided to let Hubby in on some of my new found knowledge. He does read this blog afterall…
page 193: like I’d ever turn that remote over to you. Um, no.
page 181: That’s bound to break a hip!
page 184: I’m game if I can get a story line or two.
page 191: What!? What!?
page 196: My underwear is for me and I prefer it that way.
page 201: We did that already and it did nothing but limit my ability to have a career in politics!
page 208-214: No. Moving on…
page 217: If I’m grooming mine you’re grooming yours!
page WFT: What the hell is a ben-wa ball anyway!?
I suppose I could just become a lesbian for a night. Or finally take on that sister-wife. Maybe I just need to be in control for a bit.
Either way, if you’ll excuse me. I’m off to buy some lube and handcuffs.
And maybe something leather…
After all I’m nothing if not a control freak…
This post is part of the Silicon Valley Moms Book Club featuring The Mominatrix Guide To Sex by Kristen Chase. I received a free copy of the book as part of the book club and monthly discussion.
Things I learned while staying in a hotel room last night because I was too lazy to drive home after a dinner party only to get back up uber-early and drive back for a morning class
February 11, 2010 By 6 Comments
- Water in hotel sinks tastes funny. It tastes like a toilet smells when it flushes. Just weird.
- And your teeth never quite feel clean afterwards.
- It is entirely possible to pack the Sponge Bob toothpaste and completely forget the mascara.
- I will pay upwards of $6 for a tube of mascara at the closest possible store because, lord knows, you can’t go to a dinner party without enhanced lashes.
- Queen size beds are for thin people and newlyweds. King is the way to go, baby!
- The purple and pink stripes I purposely had put in my hair last week don’t look very cool in the florescent bathroom light, but look freaking awesome under dinner party mood lighting.
- Yes, I dyed my hair pink and purple. I’m living on the edge – or at least outside minivan zone.
- Beds that don’t smell like Cheerios just don’t smell right.
- Adjoining rooms are a little freaky when you’re pretty sure the adjoin with they pervy looking guy and his tattoo-eye-browed wife you noticed roaming the halls.
- It is completely impossible for me to do a number 2 anywhere but home. Thanks for passing down that weird trait, mom.
- When the sleep timer on the remote is broken it is impossible to take advantage of your new found freedom to fall asleep to the TV with no spousal bitching.
- Being away from my family sucks. Except when it is for surgery cause then there’s drugs involved and nobody gives a crap about anything. Plus somebody is paid to help you pee.
- Seriously, why does the water taste funny?
- I could have squeezed more words in the title but didn’t want to overdue it.
- When I did have the color put in my hair they told me it was called a peek-a-boo. When I informed my husband that I got a peek-a-boo he thought it was some saucy way of waxing my lady business.
- The previous point has nothing to do with the hotel. I just felt like sharing.
- Goodbye.
Marriage Therapy: Part 2
February 7, 2010 By 4 Comments
Since our first round of marriage therapy was so successful in bringing us closer together we decided to give it another go.
This time with music.
Karaoke actually.
I’m sorry.
Mostly to Pat Benetar.
But, still…
sorry.
