BoyMommy's Athletic Prowess

Okay, time to lighten things up a bit.  (I apologize for being such a Debbie Downer during my last two posts.)

I am not athletic.

My brothers both ran track in high school, and Slim is still quite the runner.  I only run if there’s cake in front of me or a big dog behind me.  I tried to get into it when we were in Manhattan, but I just don’t love it.  My dad ran track and played football in high school, and my mom played field hockey and softball.  The gene skipped me.  In fact, the athletic gene saw me and made a bee line in the other direction. 

My lack of athletic prowess did not stop me from trying out for various teams in middle and high school. You know the old saying “if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again”?  For me, the rest of that phrase is “and continue to not succeed, because you suck.”

• Softball: apparently the coach wants you to catch the ball when thrown at to you, run to first base if you actually hit the ball, and pay attention when you’re in the outfield.  Guess what?  Didn’t make the team.

• Volleyball: OVER the net.  Oh.

• Cheerleading: tryouts for cheerleading were an epic showcase of awkwardness and lack of coordination.  I had team spirit, yes I did, but apparently one needs rhythm as well.  I wanted so badly to have my own pom pons and I could totally rock a ribboned, spirally-curled pony tail, but alas, I did not make the cut either time I tried out.  That’s right, the selection committee got an encore presentation as I tried out twice.  You’re welcome.

• Finally I settled on band . . . because you didn’t have to try out for that.  I brought sexy back to the high-waisted, suspendered, marching band uniform, complete with feather plume and a sassy chin strap reminiscent of old-skool orthodontia.  Again, you’re welcome.

One of these things is not like the others . . . 

Recently, I’ve decided that I want to learn how to play golf.  Mostly because I digs the preppy little outfits and what’s not to love about a sport that has cute shoes and post-game drinking? 

A few months ago I sent out a distress call to ALL the other mommies in my golf-community neighborhood.  Some of these women have more money than they know what to do with and pedigrees to match.  (A few also have what is known in our ‘hood as too much friggin’ time on their hands, and they complain about such socially responsible topics as lawn care personnel, front gate security, and where to get one’s BMW serviced.) Naturally I sent the following email:

So I have a tacky question to ask. . . . I'm making an effort to learn how to golf, and I want to look just as cute as everyone else while doing it.  I'm a bit on the "fluffy" side, so I want to know where other "fluffy" girls get cute golf skorts.  Dicks has limited selection and I have googled plus sized golf skorts, but again, there's a limited selection.  I appreciate any suggestions, and I'll be sitting here making bad food choices while I await replies.  ;)

I got several helpful responses, but to some women, mostly of the plastic/botoxed variety, “Plus size” is anything over a 10.  My idea of “fluffy” is XL and above.  Fat girls wanna golf too.  I finally found a skort online and was excited when it finally arrived in the mail.  I had ordered an 18.  (That’s right, I said it!)  I put it on to go golf with hubby one evening; it fit, but it was a little snug, which sent me into my dark place in which I think hateful thoughts about myself.  I try to wear clothes that fit and I seldom worry about what number is on the tag; I am what I am, and I just need to own it.  BUT I also have a theory: just because it zips doesn’t mean it should.  After yet another round of golf which could really only be described as "tragic," I undressed, only to discover that my skort had been mislabeled.  The outside tag said 18, but the inside tag said 14.  No wonder I couldn’t breathe.

Hubby, ever supportive, only fussed at me a few times while we were out on the course.  He was frustrated that it took me 27 shots to get to the green, which I think was a slight exaggeration.  I have a stroke counter, but it only goes up to 10.  Ten beads often does not suffice.  I’d be better off with a rosary – then I could tick off a bead every time I took a stroke AND maybe get a little help from the Big Guy.  The fact that I’m not Catholic is irrelevant.  Hubby made me skip a few holes altogether, and he reminded me how much golf balls cost when I sent three in a row straight into the water.  At least I’m consistent.

A few weeks later, after finally receiving the properly-sized fluffy golf skort, I went to play with some girlfriends.  It was difficult to maintain a sense of decorum when what I really wanted to do was go all Happy Gilmore on the course.  At one point I told my friend Laura that my handicap was so high, I really need my own placard and a special parking space for the golf cart. 

Perhaps some new fluffy golf clothes would improve my game.  

Click on the ads, folks.  Mama needs some fluffy golf clothes.

Losing a Child

For days I’ve been trying to think of something clever and witty to write about, as I’m hoping to keep up with the blog a little better now that Medium and Large are at school all day.  I’m trying to get Small on a regular nap schedule – mostly because I’m anal and can’t handle it when I don’t have a schedule or a plan.  I hope to be able to write more frequently while he’s napping. 

I could write about Tuesday when we overslept until 6:58, but I still managed to get the boys up to the bus stop by 7:12.  Or I could write about purging my closet of clothes I haven’t worn in years, but which have moved from our townhouse, to Manhattan, to our temporary housing, and finally stopping here in our home.  Or I could put a humorous spin on trying to find a nerdy teenager with no social life so that I can have a babysitter at my beck and call.

The problem is that I keep thinking about Anna Donaldson and her family:

http://vienna.patch.com/articles/blue-ribbons-for-jack

The Donaldson Family, of Vienna, VA lost their 12-year-old son, Jack, in the floods we had last week.

I first heard this story from my former “boss” at JMU, who was a sorority sister to Anna Donaldson.  Then I discovered that, in the it’s-a-small-world department, my across-the-street neighbor was also a sorority sister.  My connection to this woman is six-degrees-of-Kevin-Baconish, but still, her story was brought to my awareness more than once.  Then this morning, a high school friend posted a link to Anna's blog, An Inch of Gray.  I just can’t keep quiet anymore.  So this one’s not funny.

For all the b*tching I sometimes do about mothers who don’t support each other, make other mothers feel bad about their parenting, or try to one-up each other, I must admit that in a time of tragedy, there is a bond between mothers that is almost spiritual.  And I don’t mean spiritual in the religious sense. 

I mean I hope that the heartbreak and grief I feel for this woman whom I have never met will help ease some of her burden, because it pains me to think of her suffering “alone.” 

I know she has a family, and perhaps it seems insensitive for me to imply that NO ONE, not even her husband, feels the grief as tangibly as she does.  I have a notion that collectively, mothers everywhere who are hearing her story are shouldering a bit of her heartbreak. 

When I lost my mother, I remember thinking that I truly understood where the term "broken-hearted" originated.  I literally felt an ache in my heart - a physical pain.  It struck me as surreal that people still went to the grocery store, picked up their mail, filled their cars with gas when my world had fallen apart.  I’ve always said that losing my mother has been the greatest loss of my life, and I am the first to admit that I had a difficult time dealing with my grief.  But here’s the thing: children expect to lose their parents at some point.  Hopefully it won’t be until the parent has lived a full life, but we all accept mortality as the final chapter of life. 

Parents are not emotionally equipped to lose a child.  That’s not how it’s supposed to happen.  

Ten years ago, my girlfriend, The Mormon, lost a child.  Hubby and I hadn’t started our family yet, so while I grieved with my friend, I grieved with her as a friend, not as a mother.  I hurt because my friend was hurting.  It wasn’t until I had Large that I truly understood that having a child is having a part of you live outside your body.  Your child is an appendage that’s not physically attached.  (Sometimes I feel like my kids are the middle finger . . . )

As diligent followers of this blog (hint, hint) you know that I don’t discuss politics or religion.  I believe what I believe, and I don’t need to rationalize it to anyone.  No matter what you believe (or don’t) my simple request is this: pause for just a moment today and send good “Mommy” vibes to Anna Donaldson.  Motherhood is a sorority of its own, and today our Sister needs us. 

*Anna's friend Glennon writes a blog called Momastery.  Her most recent entry, simply called "Anna," is a powerful post in which she reminds us that one doesn't stop being a Mother when your child leaves the earth.

Medium, Small, Large

And finally, my boys.  I LOVE them with every ounce of my being.  They drive me absoultely insane sometimes, but I am thankful every day for their sweet smiles.

Where Were You When the World Stopped Turning?

Ten years ago today, I was just getting to know a new crop of students.  It was my 8^th year of teaching high school English; I had four sections of senior English 12 and one section of English 9.  My English 9 class was a “team” class, which means that there was a special education teacher in the classroom with me as it was an inclusion class.  Some of the students had learning difficulties ranging from ADHD to behavioral issues. 

Hubby and I lived in Alexandria, VA, a suburb of Washington, D.C., which is located about 10 miles southwest of the Pentagon.  It was a prime location for us because we were almost exactly halfway between each of our places of employment; he in McLean, VA, and I in Woodbridge, VA.  Because the D.C. suburbs span such a large area, many people in Northern Virginia hold government jobs, either in the city, or at the Pentagon, or at various military bases.  It never occurred to me that living in or around our Nation’s Capital would pose a security risk. 

Yes, it was an absolutely gorgeous day – one of those days you wish you could spend outside, but I was also filled with the excitement of beginning a new school year.  First period came and went without incident, and soon enough it was time for my freshmen to arrive.  Everything was status quo and while they were busy working on an assignment (diligently hanging on to my every educational word and obediently following my instruction . . . because this is MY version of events,) I told my team teacher that I needed to run to the copy center.

Intent on my task, I walked into the copy center and was focused on getting back to class quickly.  But then I noticed the attendant staring at the TV on the wall.  I glared at the TV when she said, “someone just flew two planes into the World Trade Center!”

My first thought was that some jackass had been flying too close and didn’t see the giant building in front of him, or that the pilot was someone who had the GED equivalent of a pilot’s license and should not have been flying in the first place, a la John Denver.  (God rest his soul.) 

“Was it an accident?” I asked, even as I tried to grasp the concept that TWO planes had crashed.  It just didn’t make any sense.

“It couldn’t have been an accident,” she replied, still staring at the news footage that was repeating images of the fireballs emanating from the buildings. 

I walked back to class, stunned.  I walked into my classroom and held my papers to my mouth, all stealth-like, like football coaches who know the Jumbo Tron is focused on them and don’t want lip-readers to figure out their next move. 

“Two planes have just crashed into the World Trade Center in New York,” I whispered. 

“My daughter is in New York,” she gasped. 

We kept the students busy at their desks while we huddled at my computer and pulled up cnn.com.  My email was already up and running (which I know is no surprise to many of my colleagues) so, using my email account, we emailed Debbie’s daughter at work in New York and anxiously waited for a reply.  Luckily, within the hour, her daughter responded and said that she was okay, but that they were evacuating and she’d be in touch as soon as possible.  Of course, we didn’t know at the time that communication would come to a stand-still as people all over the country tried to reach their loved ones. 

My department head and good friend, Lisa, stopped at every classroom and announced that we would be getting out of school early.  I remember calmly telling my students about the planes in New York and that we had recently found out the Pentagon had also been attacked.  One student, whose name I will never forget, said, “I don’t mean to be mean, but who cares?”  I thought to myself, one day when/if he matures, he’ll regret EVER saying that.

“I do,” I said.  It’s the human way to feel, I thought, but all I said was “some of your classmates may have family or friends working at the Pentagon.”  Still, though many of them were shocked, they were generally excited to be getting out of school early.  This reaction bothered me at the time, but in hindsight I realize they didn’t know how to feel.  Nothing like this had happened in my lifetime; it certainly hadn’t happened in theirs.  Once they were released, the principal came over the loud speaker and told his staff to “go home and be with your families.” 

I worried about Hubby, as I wasn’t sure if he was in his office in McLean or at a client site in the city.  Finally he emailed and said he was leaving the office in McLean and he’d meet me at home.  I drove home in stunned silence while listening to news coverage.   Traffic began to get increasingly heavier as I traveled 95 North towards home, and I noticed as traffic slowed that all the other drivers on the road had the same somber expression.   As I approached my exit I stared at thick black smoke above the trees in the direction of the Pentagon.  This is really happening, I thought. 

Raising the flag at Capon Springs, WV with P&P's sons
(an important rite of passage the year children turn
5-years-old and can understand why we respect the flag.)

Later that evening, we gathered at the home of our good friends, P & P.  What was once planned as a birthday celebration with close friends was now a group of us sitting around the TV in their kitchen, sharing stories of office evacuations and soldiers with assault rifles along the highway commute. 

Normally I am an emotional nightmare.  I can’t stand to see other people cry and my family teases me about being a pillar of strength in times of crisis. 

I didn’t cry for days.

I watched television footage every hour I was awake, and though my mind was spinning, I did not cry. 

Upon returning to school a couple days later, I learned that one of my senior’s mother was missing at the Pentagon.  Oscar came to school every day ... his family was one of profound faith and his father wanted his sons to maintain as much normalcy as possible.  Days passed.  Then a week.  Finally his mother was identified and they were able to lay her to rest.  I so admired his strength and perseverance, and I think of Oscar and his family often.

Then my meltdown happened.  (And it was way bigger than my normal quarterly meltdown.)  I sobbed uncontrollably and could not reign in my emotions.  I cried for Oscar.  I cried for ALL those people in New York.  I cried for first responders, and caregivers, and families who were seeking loved ones; I cried for my country and for what once was; and I prayed my president would have the strength to lead in a time of absolute crisis.  I questioned whether I wanted to start a family, even though Hubby and I had been discussing it for some time.  Is it fair to bring a child into a world where so much evil exists?  I hadn’t realized . . . I mean really realized, that EVIL is a real thing and it exists. 

I cried when I watched the news.  I cried when I saw an American flag.  I cried when I heard stories of how my country was mourning.  And though I never talk politics and I feel very strongly that each citizen is entitled to his/her opinion regardless of how anyone else feels about it, I must say that I supported my president.  Hubby and I are a bipartisan family and we vote on different issues.  But in a culture of divisiveness, I placed my faith and my respect in my president and his decisions.  (Even though I didn’t vote for him and I think Will Ferrell impressions are hilarious.  The end.)

For the past few weeks, my boys have been asking about 9/11 and we have tried to explain as best we can without being too sensationalistic or the-world-is-coming-to-an-endish.  Helping my children understand has made me realize just how much our country has changed in the past 10 years. 

To Large and Medium, airport security has always been intense.  (One of the greatest joys in life? Going through security with an infant in the baby Bjorn and carrying-on all the accoutrements that said infant will need on a flight.  You can’t wear the Bjorn through the scanner, and security personnel are not allowed to hold your infant for you.  Good times.)  To them, schools have always required photo identification for visitors and museums have always checked Mommy’s bag. 

On the flip side . . . and I have to believe SOME good can come out of this situation . . . I love seeing flags hang outside my neighbors’ homes, and though a military funeral is always tragic, there’s something beautiful about the ceremony and reverence afforded our veterans.  I feel such respect and gratitude when I see a flag-covered coffin carried by white-gloved hands.  Our boys know and sing the Star Spangled Banner.  They don’t get all the words right and their tone is at times, um, deafening, but they belt it out with pride.  And I have to say, seeing my babies remove their hats and put their hands on their little hearts gives me goose bumps EVERY time. 

God bless America, today and every day.

Will Sing For Beer!

It has been well established that I don’t get out much, so when I do, I need to make it worth my while.  Last week while my girlfriend K and I were escaping dining at a new Irish bar in town, we discovered that they host karaoke every Tuesday night.

Aw, snap.

This kid never had a
chance.  What kinda parents
name their child Mista Fingaz?

A few gals from the neighborhood gathered at the bar after we completed our home-making duties: getting the kids off the bus, entertaining them for a few hours, feeding them dinner, bathing them, reading them stories, and putting them to bed.  Now it’s time for mama to get her groove on.

We arrived at the bar and ordered our drinks, but I'm pretty sure our waiter was thinking we'd never been let out of the house before.  I ordered a beer on tap because, surprisingly enough, I’m pretty low-maintenance when it comes to my beverages.  There’s always one in the group though: she wants to know the specials and how much are the drinks and do you have cocktails.  I gently reminded her that for-the-love-o’-pete-we-are-in-a-bar, of course they have margaritas.  Later in the evening, the same waiter brought us big ole glasses of water.  This is the international signal for slow your sh*t down.

I grabbed the song book and began perusing for my signature song, “9 to 5” by Ms. Dolly Parton.  In my next life I want to come back as a country singer, and specifically, I want to be Ms. Dolly Parton.  She is smart and sassy, and she’s just the kind of woman I like. 

Because I’m known to be reserved, introverted, and shy, I also belted out:

• "Rocky Top" – My girlfriend, a Kentucky native, sang with me.  I assume that as a child she sang this song every day in elementary school, right after they recited the Pledge of Allegiance.  I realize "Rocky Top" is about Tennessee, but jokes about Appalachia are always a hit.

• "Paul Revere" by the Beastie Boys – because who doesn’t want to hear a suburban white woman sing about her posse and her license to ill?  I also perform at weddings.

• "Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Screw" by Jimmy Buffet – because I’m nothing if not classy.  This is the musical number I sang when I entered the karaoke contest.  And I WON, because I’m THAT talented!  And also because I was the only one who entered.

• "Tubthumping" by Chumbawamba – We ended the evening with this catchy ditty, and we may have been getting a little silly . . . “I get knocked down, but I get up again . . . I get knocked down, but I get up AGAIN!  . . . I get knocked down, BUT I GET UP AGAIN!”

Meanwhile, one of the gentlemen sitting next to us moved in for the kill.  He began with me; I think he started with the weakest of the herd.  Alas, his “charm” was no match for my sharp tongue, and I saw free drinks in my future.

“How old are you?” I asked, and I guessed 25.  Ding, ding, ding!  “Really, you’re 25?  Do you live in your parents’ basement?”

“No, I don’t live in my parents’ basement!  I live over by ***** Elementary School.”

“That’s kinda creepy.  Is that where you stalk your prey?”

“Why are you so mean?” he asked.  And yet he kept hangin’ around.  Some people are just gluttons for punishment.

“I can’t help it,” I replied.  “And yet you’re strangely attracted to me, aren’t you.  So, what do you do?  Personally, I'm unemployed.”

“I bought my father’s business, so I own my own business.”

“Is it Microsoft?” I wondered.

“No.  It’s a painting business.”

“If it ain’t Microsoft, then I don’t give a sh*t.”  Seriously dude.  In my younger days I dated a crab fisherman, a fry cook, and a lifeguard.  You’re trying a little too hard to impress us.

I really am mean.

His friend began meandering over to our table, now that his 25-year-old business ownin’ buddy broke the ice for him.  “So how old are you?” I asked.  So polite.

He said he was 38, which made me happy since I could not POSSIBLY have given birth to someone his age, like I could the child who was now making his way around to the other side of the table. 

“Are you his dad?”  I pointed to Mr. Business Owner.

“What? No!!  We’re neighbors!” 

“Okay, okay, pipe down.  He said you’re his assistant.”  I just had to stir the pot . . .

“I’m not his assistant!  I work at Cisco.”  Or something like that.  I wasn’t really listening.  Maybe it was Costco.  No, it had something to do with technology, blah, blah, blah.

“You just sold him out!  You’re the worst wing man ever!” 

Wing Man wanted to help choose my next song, and he chose Jimmy Buffet, which is fine, but when I asked him how he felt about James Taylor he said he was "okay."  Thanks for  playing Wing Man, but that answer was INCORRECT.

And so it continued.  I tried to convince Mr. Business Owner to sing a song of my choosing, but I wouldn’t tell him which song I chose.  I promised that the song I chose was familiar and that  he’d know all the words.  Alas, he didn’t take the bait.  Good thing for him, because my song choice was “Away in the Manger.”

This is the part that will make Hubby proud:  I lifted my drink, snapped at Mr. Business Owner, and pointed to my near empty glass.  Then I waved to our waiter and announced, “this guys buyin’ me a drink.”  I said to Mr. Business Owner, “do you know what my favorite beer is?  FREE beer!”  And . . . that’s how ya gets the free drinks ladies.

We decided to call it a night, and several of us hit the restroom first.  We walked in only to discover a fellow patron, who was significantly younger than we are, barefoot and vomiting.  Our mommy instincts kicked into overdrive as K asked her repeatedly if she was okay and I brought her boyfriend into the restroom to help retrieve her.  I had noticed earlier that she and her boyfriend were doing shots, so I asked if it was her birthday, to which she replied, “no, it’s a Tuesday!”  Oh honey.  Pace yourself.  THIS is why we don’t do no-it’s-not-my-birthday-it’s-a-Tuesday shots.

And in case you’re questioning how much sophistication I bring to the table, I give you this parting shot:

Making Friends at the Grocery Store

Dear Lady at the Grocery Store,

The following is what I SHOULD have said to you, but I was too gracious to do so in public.  So I’ll do it on the World Wide Internets instead.

I realize this is the line for 10 items or less (which should be 10 items or fewer, but that’s a whole ‘nother subject) which is why I got in this particular line.  It was not, as you may assume, to piss you off.  I have 7 items.  I have just as much a right to be here as you do.  I’m in a hurry too, because, you see, I have a screaming child.

The reason I only have ONE screaming child is because I left my other two screaming children with a neighbor in the hopes that I could run in and run out of the grocery store to get my 7 items.  Small, however, has recently started walking, which means he does NOT want to be confined to a grocery cart, no matter how short the trip may be.

Yes, I can hear him screaming.  No, I can’t make him stop.  One would think this is obvious.  “Why yes, I CAN make him stop, but I like listening to him yell at the top of his lungs simply because he likes the sound of his own extremely loud voice.  I choose not to.”  Come on.

God makes them cute so you won't
accidentally leave them somewhere.

The first time you gave me the stink-eye, I thought maybe I was letting my own mild embarrassment cloud my judgement and perhaps I was only imagining your eyes boring into my very soul.

The second time you gave me the stink-eye, I was a tad annoyed.  Staring is rude.  Perhaps I should have a conversation with YOUR mother about your lack of manners.

The third time you gave me the stink-eye, I was pissed.  You’re lucky I didn’t ram my cart into the back of your ankles.  I'm starting to feel a little anxious and persweaty.  You wouldn't like me when I'm anxious and persweaty.

I know if I let Small out of the cart he will stop screaming, but at what price?  The knowledge that in the future he can scream and automatically get his way?  The assumption that it's perfectly acceptable to scream when he's unhappy and that this behavior will be rewarded?  The feeling that we never have to do things we don't particularly want to do, like run errands?  Or worse, lying Hershey Bars and ripped People Magazines, which would all be at his eye level should I release him from the cart?  Seriously, who wants to buy torn-up Kardashians?

But, dear lady in front of me, my favorite part of this entire annoying eye exchange was when you switched to the ear plugging and dramatically held your finger to one ear because the noise emanating from my child was SO loud you couldn’t hear the cashier.  She said “cash or charge” just like every other cashier in the ever-lovin’ universe, but thanks for having her repeat it.  The “what did you say?” along with the ear-plugging and the feigned confusion – truly the highlight of your acting career.  Bravo, lady. 

I know this will be difficult for you to believe, but taking a cranky toddler to the grocery store is among my least favorite things to do.  I needed to pick up prescriptions for my other two children, however, and that necessitated the trip.  Guess what, Lady Who Was Totally Unencumbered by Little Ones, sh*t happens.  If you are a mother, (perhaps to older children,) I would hope you’d cut me some slack – you know your children were difficult at times.  Mothers, especially, should not make other mothers feel bad.  A kind smile or a knowing glance would have been much better received.

I hope you had a lovely afternoon.  That is all.

Sincerely,

BoyMommy

Our Family Beach "Vacation"

I use the term “vacation” lightly, because as any mommy knows, “vacationing” with kids is NOT relaxing.  In fact, it is the exact opposite of relaxing and it requires more work than if you had just stayed home.  I use it in the same tongue-in-cheek manner in which I used it the first week the boys were home after school ended in June.  Let me tell you something right now – MY idea of a vacation involves a lot more alcohol and a lot fewer trips through the McDonald’s drive-thru.

Hubby packed his week’s worth of necessities in one small carry-on sized suitcase.  Underwear? Check.  Swim trunks? Check.  Toothbrush? Check.  

And he was done.

I packed for myself and the rest of the family, which was a 4 day venture.  I had to wash and dry all of our clothes so that I’d have plenty from which to choose.  (I have a propensity to spill on my “shelf,” so I always travel with a LOT of white shirts.)  Then I had to bring the giant you-could-fit-a-body-in-there-if-you-had-to suitcase upstairs from the basement. 

I had a list, complete with little boxes to check off because, well, have you MET me? . . .

 

This year, as an added treat, my entire family shared a house at the beach.  It was my dad; my brother Slim and his wife; my brother The Redneck (who did not bring any of his ex-wives, hehe,) and his three children; and my family of five.  Collectively, we traveled from Northern Virginia, West Virginia, and South Carolina.

For those of you who are confused already, the important information to glean from this cast o’ characters is that there was only ONE mommy on duty.  ONE. 

The following is an abbreviated list of the mommy tasks for which I was responsible.  (In all fairness, no one asked me to or made me be the mommy, but I've discovered that "Motherhood" is a reflex that you can’t turn off.)

The Parrot Heads called.
They're looking for
their mascot.

• make sure that six children wear sunscreen.
• make sure that six children shower/bathe after leaving the beach, wash their hair, and use actual soap AND shampoo.
• make sure everyone remembers to wear underwear (this mostly just applies to my Medium, and possibly my dad on one occasion.)
• make sure no one sleeps with the tv on all night.
• make sure all bike riders are wearing helmets.
• remind the children that if a car hits you on the Beach Rd. at 35 miles an hour because you weren’t paying attention, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.  (Your mother, however, MIGHT blame me. . . )
• wash 13 beach towels.  Repeat.
• make children pay me a quarter for every time they utter the words “I’m bored.”  I'm pretty sure this is how we're going to fund their college education.
• make sure no one gets overly tired or overly hungry so we can avoid a meltdown bigger than my a$$ in a swimsuit.
• concede that Mommy made a huge mistake by insisting that the sand isn’t that hot and that we could climb the largest sand dune on the east coast in our bare feet. . . at noon, on a sunny day, in August.  Oops.
• take Small outside the restaurant to burn energy so that the only dinner he ruins is mine.
• keep my introverted brother, Slim, from having a massive head explosion once he is exposed to the chaos that defines my everyday life.
• try to convince The Redneck that unless you’re Jimmy Buffet, you need not be fixin’ to wear that Hawaiian shirt.
• make sure that when a group leaves the house, the same number of children who left is the same number of children who return.
• talk Hubby down from the ledge after he tells Medium, who is dying of thirst, (I know this because of the incessant repetition of “I’m sooooo thirsty” and the dramatic collapse into the sand.  I’m quite perceptive,) that “you’ll never drink water again.  No more water for you!  Ever!”  The short-tempered apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, folks.
• make sure that, while it is common practice to pee in the ocean, (oh stop it, you know you do it too,) that one does not poop in the ocean.  For that, we walk back to the house.
• make sure no one drowns.  At least not on my watch.
• wash swimsuits for those attendees who packed only one swimsuit for 7 days at the beach.
• make sure no one in our party looks directly at my dad’s legs lest they risk blindness, since his gams clearly haven’t seen the sun since the last time he was in the Outer Banks in 1975.  This is also known as the last time I wore a bikini.
• make sure that Small’s ingestion of sand is minimal, even though his daytime diet consists mostly of sand-covered apple slices, sand-covered grapes, sand-covered goldfish, and a sand-covered sippy.

At one point I wiped out in a giant wave, and I crashed directly into my 69-year-old father.  Once I made sure he was still standing, breathing, and had a normal pulse, the only thing I could think of to say was “that’s a whole lotta woman comin’ atcha, isn’t it, Dad?”

We had a great time, but I am so glad to be home.  I had about all the family togetherness I can stand.

Yep, he dressed himself.
You gotta pick your battles.

High School Reunion: part 2

I debated what I was going to wear to my reunion and even went out and bought a new outfit, but in the end, Hubby said, “why don’t you just wear that hippie dress you like so much.”  It’s cotton, it’s casual, and it’s comfortable, so I agreed.  He kept reminding me that I didn’t need to get dressed up all fancy-like; “you’re going to a bar.  In Manassas.”  Granted, Manassas is not a thriving metropolis like New York City or Los Angeles, and indeed, our reunion was not at The Palm, but still. 

So I wore my hippie dress – a blue strapless maxi dress.  It was a good choice because, as my mother used to say, it covered a multitude of sins.  I tried it WITH spanx and without.  The thing is, my Spanx must have shrunk in the wash because I had a helluva time getting those suckers on.  There was a lot of pulling and stuffing and maneuvering and persweating.  All kindsa sexy.  I’ll pause for that image to sink in . . .

I did my hair and applied makeup.  And by did my hair, I mean washed it and dried it and broke out the curling iron, all on the same day.  I had showered, all by myself, without anyone barging in to ask if I can turn on the tv or reach the cereal or “smell this.”  Finally I was on my way.

We had a great turnout at the reunion, although we were not able to get in touch with everyone with whom we graduated, and many people were simply unable to attend. Everyone seemed so much more laid back. 

SO very laid back.

At one point, someone (who shall remain nameless, but you know who you are) broke the cardinal rule and asked me the dreaded “When are you due?”

Ugh.

My response?  “You bitch!  I’m not pregnant!  I’m fat!  You KNOW better than to ask that question!” 

Rest assured, this exchange was all very good-natured and laid back.

She was SO apologetic and embarrassed, and I kept saying things like

“clearly my Spanx is NOT working!”

and

“I’m drinking beer!  Of course, I AM drinking for two, you know.”

Later, in the restroom, I looked at myself in the mirror and declared, “ I DO look pregnant!  I look four months pregnant!  Why didn’t anybody tell me I look pregnant in this dress!  It’s a beer baby!  It’s not a real baby!” 

See how gracefully and tactfully I handle a little embarrassment? 

Seriously, I am well aware that I need to lose a few 50 pounds and I have been open about my struggles.  But just to clarify:

THIS is me pregnant:

THIS is me fat: 

You see the difference, right?  Please, tell me you see the difference!

Other highlights of my evening:

• I apparently told the dentist ALL about my root canal.

• I told the CPA, whom I have known since elementary school, to be sure to tell his mom that she was “the BEST substitute teacher EVER!  She read us James and the Giant Peach!” So cool.

• I reminded the Wrestling Coach, the CPA, and the Dentist about a time years ago that we ran into each other at a bar in Richmond, which prompted a discussion on all the different places we had peed in the bar.  Just so you know, I only peed in the restroom.  It was the Men’s room, but still.

• I was reassured by my girlfriend that yes, my high school boyfriend is INDEED pining away for me and considers me the one that got away, and that he does this while happily married with a wife and beautiful daughter.  I THINK there may have been some sarcasm infused in this conversation.

• I felt up the Barber.  I couldn’t help myself.  His boobs pecs are bigger than mine.

• I reminded the Nurse all about the time we ran into each other at the Gynecologist's office, when she politely excused herself from my exam.  Um, thanks for that.

• I told the Clemson grad her hair is just as big now as it was then.  So tactful.

• While talking to my girlfriends, with whom I have frequent contact, I told them, “I see you b*tches all the time.  I’m going to mingle.”  It's a wonder I have any friends at all.

• I came this close to asking the woman in the bathroom stall next to me, (thinking it was my girlfriend,) to help me pull up my Spanx.  It was NOT her.  That could have been embarrassing.

• I put my name tag all over the Employees Must Wash Hands sign so that it instead said BoyMommy Must Wash Hands.  Apparently I thought this was HILARIOUS.

• Curious as to how they manage to keep all their patrons straight when a roomful of people is ordering drinks,  I asked the waitress if they used special code names, and was mine “b*tch in the blue dress.”

• I put my business card (free on Vista Print!) in everyone’s cleavage and/or breast pocket at the end of the night in hopes of promoting my blog.   

• I also reminded people to click on my ads on the blog because that’s how I make some money.  I’ve made six bucks so far!  I’m gonna have to open up an off-shore bank account.

• I made a friend re-take a photo because "my arm looks like a thigh!"  Unfortunately, when he re-took it, my response was, "now it looks like a whole leg." 

I guess my arms get fat when I'm four months pregnant with a beer baby.