If Facebook Posts were REAL.

Hubby and I were chatting last night about the plethora of happy family summer photos that are making their way onto Facebook.  Sure, I could post photos of my smiling children, frolicking at the pool with their dad (on that one random evening he got home before dark and was able to join us.)  Or a photo of them playing ball in the backyard (before Medium had a full-on temper tantrum, complete with hitting, ball spiking, and name-calling.)  Or a photo of the fish we caught (after I pulled the wayward hook from a screaming Small's shorts and untangled Medium's line from his "this-pole-is-SO-STUPID-I-am-the-WORST-at-fishing-the-stupid-fish-keep-eating-my-worms" fishing pole.)

When you know people well enough, you know that what they're posting online is not the full story.  But who wants to look at pictures of messy houses, petulent children, and household chores gone awry?

What's that you say? . . .

BoyMommy's Keepin' It Real Facebook Posts, Summer 2014:


1.  Swagga Wagon

2.  Laundry

3.  baseball cards

4.  Uh oh.

5.  Gratuituous Ninja photos

6.  Healthy Eating Habits

7.  My mad Housekeeping Skillz

8.  Christmas in July.  Because I haven't put that sh*t away.

9.  My boys are SUCH good little listeners

10.  AND they're charming!

You now how all those OTHER posts on Facebook make you feel just a teensy bit envious or a tiny bit bad about yourself/your looks/your parenting/your eating habits/your social circle?  (No?  Just me?)  Well this series of real life photos should make you feel better about your own life, because if you've put all your holiday decorations away, actually have dairy products in your fridge, and had a boogerless morning, you're doing better than I am!

Buh-Bye Kids!

If you are a lucky homeowner in my 'hood who received your copy of the neighborhood magazine, you've probably read it cover to cover and hence you will have already seen the following post.  For those of you in the reading audience who do NOT live in my 'hood, I am affording you the opportunity to read this piece of literary genius, free of charge!  You're welcome.

It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year . . .

Nope, not the holidays; it’s back-to-school time.  Don’t get me wrong.  I adore my children and I am extremely fortunate that I am able to stay home with them, but sometimes I’d like to use the potty without an audience.  It’s a luxury I’m afforded only during the school year. 

Phyllis Diller famously said that “cleaning your house while your kids are still growing is like shoveling the walk before it stops snowing.”  Many of the homes in our neighborhood are immaculately decorated, spotlessly clean, and well-stocked with fancy cheeses and highly rated wines.  We’ve got juice boxes, Cheez-Its, and the “this-is-why-we-can’t-have-nice-things” speech running in a constant loop over the sound system.  My summer housekeeping skills make a college fraternity house look as sterile as an operating room.  I know my home has potential.   It would be absolutely lovely if I lived here ALONE. 

The only time our home is actually clean is while the children are at school.  After they get on the bus, I clean up the breakfast dishes, (and by dishes, I mean the paper towel where I placed their toast,) pick up a little, and try to enjoy it. . . . but only until 3:00.  Between the hours of 3:00 pm and 8:00 pm, a tornado of trailer park proportions whizzes through our home. 

One would think with all our toys and their various accoutrements, our children would be able to find SOMETHING to do, but alas, they are bored.  If I hear “what are we going to do today?” one more time, I will likely stick my head in the oven.  As a child, I remember going outside to play, riding bikes, building forts, reading books, playing with my friends, etc.  My children act as if I am their camp counselor, responsible for their every entertainment. 

We are raising a generation of citizens with “First World” Problems.  You have so many Wii games, you can’t choose just one?  You can’t get your bike out of the garage because it’s so crowded with other ride-on toys?  You get sweaty when you walk to the pool conveniently located in the neighborhood?  Your friends are at camp, so you have to play basketball in your very own driveway all by yourself?  You poor, poor thing.  I’m not sure how you find the strength to get up in the morning. 

It’s difficult to teach our children the healthy balance between recognizing how lucky they are while being aware that much of the world is not as fortunate.  It’s a lesson I’d do well to remember too.  I have a messy house because I have an active family of five.  I rarely have any alone time because my children enjoy hanging on me being with me.  They are bored because they are afforded so much stimulation that they need to be taught to appreciate down time. 

So while it is true that we can’t have nice things and my house is never clean, this too shall pass.  One day soon I’ll be remembering these times fondly, because I imagine it’s similar to childbirth – you don’t remember the pain, you only remember the end result.  Until then, happy brand new school year, y’all!  Here’s wishing your family academic success, friendly faces, stellar teachers, and the chance for Mommy to use the potty alone.

The Angels are Singing: it's Back to School Time!

It’s the most wonderful time of the year!  I’ve been singing it all week!  We had a great summer and I enjoyed having the boys home – I loved sleeping in late, staying in pj’s until noon, and splashing at the pool. 

But it was time.

I have neither the physical nor the mental stamina to entertain and stimulate 3 children any longer.  God bless the homeschooling mom . . . I don’t know how you protect yourself from rocking-back-and-forth smooshy brain.  I couldn’t do it.  We love each other a little more if we spend approximately 7 hours apart per day.

For those of you lamenting, “where did the summer go?”  I’ll tell you:

 

One of Mommy's FAVORITEST things to do:
take all three kids to the tire place!

• It went to the dentist
• It went to countless movies and ate many a bucket of popcorn
• It went to basketball camp
• It went to Dinosaurland in White Post, VA
• It got a new basketball hoop
• It went to the pool
• It saw a Washington Nationals game
• It baked cookies
• It saw a Baltimore Orioles game
• It got new tires for the Swagger Wagon
• It saw two Richmond Flying Squirrels games
• It built forts out of blankets and pillows
• It survived a storm that may or may not have been a tornado
• It visited Uncle Chris and Aunt Kathy and our new baby cousin, Maya
• It had eye surgery
• It went to Vacation Bible School
• It constructed Lego masterpieces
• It went to the county fair
• It paid a visit to Patient First
• It went on bike rides
• It saw the Demolition Derby and the Rodeo
• It went to a National Symphony Orchestra concert at Wolf Trap
• It went to baseball practice
• It watched The Muppets and/or Cars EVERY day
• It cleaned and purged closets
• It went to Hershey Park
• It had several sleepovers
• It went to Granny and Papa’s



It's hard work sitting in the seat while
Mommy pedals all over the 'hood.

• It went to Sesame Place

 I'm tired.  You kids enjoy gettin’ your Learn on.  Mommy’s gonna take a nap.

I Went to the County Fair and All I Won Was This Knife

I’ve often said that I was cut out to be a Boy Mommy.  If I had had a girl or two, I’m sure I would have risen to the challenge, but I think the Big Man knows what he’s doing when he blesses us with our children.  The thought of having to sit through a Barbie movie or a Tinkerbell marathon makes me cringe.  Sitting through the new Spiderman movie on a rainy day, however . . . not a bad way to spend an afternoon.

Boy Mommies, since I am busy perpetuating stereotypes, get to do things like visit the County Fair and the Demolition Derby.

My boys had never been to a Demolition Derby.  Because I grew up in a neighboring county, I am well versed in activities of the Demolition Derby / Tractor Pull / Pig Wrestling variety.  I tried to explain that a Demolition Derby is kinda like bumper cars, except with real cars and real people and engines gunnin’ and mud and bald tires and . . .

Well kids, we’re gonna watch them tear some sh*t up.

Generally I avoid rides at venues such as these.  I’m a tad concerned about putting my babies on a ride that was in pieces on a flatbed the day before and which was assembled by someone who has maybe a 7^th grade education.  My anxiety level goes through the roof as I contemplate the lack of quality control and I visually inspect every nut and bolt on a machine that is spinning my first-born around at warp speeds. 

I’m sure they check the mechanics on those things every day, right?  Right?!  With all the mud and the cords on the ground, it’s obvious that safety is paramount.  

This totally reminds me of the
nuggets we just got at the
McDonald's drive-thru . . .
Next we can go to the Beef Barn
to see where burgers come from.

It costs the equivalent of $4 to ride these death traps, although I’m not convinced the vendors realize we’re on to their scheme.  You see, I have a college education.  When I purchase 40 tickets for $40 and it then costs me 4 tickets to ride, that’s $4. 

I’ve got good smarts.

Unfortunately, because it costs 4-friggin-dollars to ride and I have 3 children plus the neighbor kid who want to ride, MY children will not be going to college.  We just blew their tuition on the Ferris Wheel.  Sorry kids . . . hope it was all you thought it would be.

Because the Fair is a family environment and your safety is their primary concern, your 10-year-old can win a pocket knife if he wins one of the various games.  Giant Styrofoam-stuffed teddy bear?  No thanks, I’ll take the buck knife. 

Exhibit A:

Pay no attention to his wonky eye.  Surgery is scheduled for August 10, and if it’s not successful, I’m sure he can find a job in the carnival arts.

Embarrassing Myself at the Swimmin' Hole

I believe I may have mentioned, once or twice, that I struggle with my weight.  I am a Lifetime Member of Weight Watchers, and I have decided that this means I will spend the duration of my lifetime watching my weight.  Watching it go up, probably.

I also believe I have outlined my feelings about wearing a swimsuit in public.  I despise it, and I happen to live in a neighborhood FULL of Beautiful People.  But my children love the pool and hanging out with their friends, and I don’t want to punish them because of my own insecurities, so I suck it up, suck it in, and head to the pool.  

A few days ago, I took them to the pool for an evening swim, figuring they’d splash around, tire themselves out, come home and get a bath, and go to bed.  It was all part of my master plan to watch Real Housewives of New Jersey in peace after they were asleep and perhaps enjoy a glass or three of wine get them some exercise and help them burn some of their boy energy in a healthy manner.  This is the first summer where I feel like I can sit within the confines of the baby pool and keep an eye on the older two in the big pool without fear of them drowning. . . not so much because of their swimming skills, but because they can reach the bottom of the pool with their feet. 

I took Small over to the baby pool because he exhausts me in the big pool.  He has NO fear of water, which is nice, except when he takes off at a sprint and jumps into the pool 5 feet from where I’m waiting for him with my arms outstretched.  

Upon closing the gate, I noticed my friend M’s Hubby was sitting on the side of the baby pool watching their youngest splash around.  Hmmmm . . . I thought.  I’ll walk gracefully over to M’s Hubby and engage him in polite and sophisticated conversation, perhaps about the upcoming presidential election or Lindsey Lohan’s most recent run-in with The Law. 

  

As I approached the baby pool, I was watching Small, who had jumped in right at the 1 foot mark.  That’s 12 inches, or approximately the size of one step on a stairwell.

Do you know what’s NOT approximately the size of one step on a stairwell?  The 1 foot, 10 inch section of the pool where M’s Hubby was sitting, and where I decided to step into the pool. 

I stepped into the pool as if I were stepping off a cliff like Wile E. Coyote in a Roadrunner clip.  Meep-meep.

I fell in, lost my balance, and landed on my *ss, no doubt making a splash big enough to cause a tsunami at the beach-entry end of the pool.  I imagine babies were flying into their parents’ arms as if they had been catapulted.  M’s Hubby was struck mute with a look of shock/horror and open-mouthed awe at the acrobatics he had just witnessed.

I picked myself up and sat on the edge of the pool next to him, and of course my swimsuit made that uber-flattering slushy-squishy sound as my wet suit met the wet pavement.  Super.

“You know,” I said, “you’d think I’d be embarrassed, but the fact is, this kind of stuff happens to me so often, all I can do is shrug my shoulders and wait for the next time I commit some act of self-humiliation.”

It wasn’t awkward at all . . .