Do Me a Solid.

Mommy is tired . . .

• Of being the only one who cleans up the dog poop on the family room floor.  I know you see it.  Don't pretend you don’t.  With 3 kids, I've spent the last 10 years being the primary poop-cleaner-upper.  Help a sister out, man up, and pick up the poop!

• Of being the only one who ever carries anything upstairs.  We’ve been through this before.  A pile at the bottom of the stairs is the international signal for take-your-sh*t-upstairs.

• Of finding snack wrappers in the family room, in the couch, on the buffet, on the side table.  Walk your @ss to the trashcan.

• Of Hubby treating the dining room chair as his own personal valet.

Passive aggressive?  Yes.  Gonna land me in jail?  No.
It was a conscious decision.

• Of being the Bad Guy.  Small's new mantra?  "Mommy says no!  Daddy says yes!"  Um, this is Parenting 101 . . . Mommy says no, Daddy says NO.

• Of being responsible.  I want to go to sleep at 8:30 and let someone else worry about whether or not the kids have brushed their teeth or if they’re in their rooms watching inappropriate you tube videos on the ipad when they should be sleeping.

• Of having to take the cup out of the athletic supporter before I throw it in the washer.  Do me a solid . . . take it out yourself so I don’t have to.  It’s kinda . . . gross.

• Of flushing the boys’ toilet every morning.  Seriously?  THIS is why your bathroom smells like a high school locker room.

• Of finding those little Rainbow Loom rubber bands every-friggin-where.

 

 

• Of repeating myself.  Repeating myself.  Repeating myself.  Life would be so much simpler if my boys would just (choose one.  Or more.  I don't care anymore.)

1. Get up
2. Get dressed
3. Get their coats and shoes on
4. Focus on their homework
5. Get their uniforms on
6. Brush their teeth
7. Sit down at the table
8. Stop talking about poop, flatulence, boogers or any other bodily functions.

That is all.  Happy Monday to you.

I Hate Myself for Even Mentioning This . . .

You know how I’m always saying that we shouldn’t judge other people because we all have our sh*t and we’re all doing the best we can?

Fasten your seat belts, y’all.  I’m about to get all judgy up in here.

I realize that USA Today does not have the same prestige that CNN has, so I apologize for the complete irrelevance of this post.   I read a disturbing story last night on USAToday.com about Chris Brown and I must vent.  You will remember Chris Brown for

a     A.  his contributions to the world of music

b     B.     his philanthropic nature

c     C.     his wholesome boy-next-door image

d     D.  the fact that he beat the crap out of a girl

Apparently he’s some sort of rap “artist” who thinks he is a gift to his industry.  While I, as a suburban housewife, do not claim to be an expert on the genre, I believe with all sincerity that Jay-Z is a rap artist.  Snoop Dogg (or Lion or Hedgehog, or whatever he’s calling himself these days) is a rap artist.  Even Kanye is a rap artist, and it PAINS me to say that, because, (since I'm being judgy,) he's an idiot.  I cannot name one song by Chris Brown; the only reason I even recognize his name is because of the notoriety he gained by beating up his girlfriend and then shrugging it off as collateral damage from a passionate relationship. 

I really hate to even give him any room in my already swirly brain, but last night I read an article in which Chris Brown claims to have lost his virginity at 8 years old to a 14-year-old girl.  He claims he was sexual at an early age because he watched a lot of pornography and “it’s different” in the rural area of Virginia where he grew up.  Also, he’s so good at “it” because he’s been practicing since he was eight. 

Read the USAToday.com article here.

Here’s where I get all judgy:

• Where were the adults in his life (be they parents, aunts, uncles, responsible community members) when he and his cousins were watching porn as children?
• I grew up in the suburbs of Virginia and have traveled to many rural areas of the Commonwealth, and I can guarantee you that 8-year-olds having, um, relations is NOT the norm.
• He declines in the interview to state how many women he has enjoyed.  Why is that, Chris?  Because a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell?
• He’s a “walking art piece” and if it weren’t for the “incident” with Rihanna, he’d now be “bigger than life.”  Man, Life has certainly thrown him some curve balls, eh?

Am I the only one who feels that Chris Brown should be voted off the earth?  In the spirit of finding-the-good-in-all-of-us, I ask WHAT has he contributed to society?  He is an embarrassment to the male gender and his endless narcissism is ridiculous.  When I was eight, I was playing with Barbies, and when I was fourteen I looked like this:  

He was doing "that" at eight, with someone who was fourteen?  It's disturbing on so many levels - the perversion of it, the lack of supervision, the absence of remorse or regret, the warped psychology . . . 

Chris Brown needs to be knocked down a few pegs.  I don’t mean in a harmful way, but in a Scrooge-on-Christmas-Eve kinda way – where he could see himself as others see him and have a chance to experience a little humility.  Perhaps as he matures he’ll develop some integrity, but I’m not hopeful.  He needs to grow up.  He needs to learn what it takes to have character, how to act responsibly, especially when one has a platform such as his fame, and to treat others as they deserve to be treated.  

Meanwhile, in Suburbia, I hate myself a little bit for even writing about this.  

No thanks, CNN. I'd Rather Laugh at Stupid Sh*t.

I'm having one of those weeks where I just want to disconnect and go completely off the grid.  I try to be a responsible, educated citizen, but dude, CNN.com is such a downer.  Plus, as you may already be aware, I TURNED 40, so I figure I'm entitled to a mid-life crisis.  Haven't decided between having an affair or buying a car while Hubby is at work, but I'm leaning towards the car.  That way I don't have to shave my legs.

Anyhoo, in an attempt to cheer myself up and remember that there is GOOD in the world, I'm sharing things I find funny and/or heartwarming.  I don't own any of this, but I found it all on the world-wide internets.

Things that make me happy:

1.  The guy that dances to his iPod in public
Because, why the hell not?  I want to live my life this happily.

2.

3.  This article that my friend shared on Facebook.  How you react in situations such as this says more about YOU than it does about the "bad guy."  You never know what other people are going through.

4.  Liz Lemon might be my soul mate:

5.  Health class woulda been a lot more fun if I had added my own captions.

6.  Usually I don't like to divert attention to blogs other than my own, but I'm sorry, The Bloggess is friggin' hysterical.

7.  Speaking of poultry . . .

8. Live, from her mini-van, it's the Jeannie Tate Show!  Ten and two, woohoo!

9.  Oh, to be the substitue teacher.  This whole class is gonna feel.  my.  wrath.

10.  I'll be right back.  Gotta go tape Bill Murray to my mirror . . .

I. am. 40!

I’ve never understood the grown-up aversion to birthdays, other than the fact that you indeed get OLDER with each one.

I friggin’ LOVE my birthday.  Always have.  An entire day that is designated for ME, my awesomeness, and the very fact that I was brought into this world?  Yes, please.

I am 40.  

FORTY.  

Four zero.  

You know those adults who “hate” their birthdays and all the attention?  I call bullsh*t.  I don’t even bother pretending I don’t like the attention – just ask ANYONE WHO HAS EVER KNOWN ME.  Bring it on.  I will concede that I detest the restaurant-birthday-sing-along, mostly because I used to wait tables and I know how annoying it is to sing Happy Birthday, or some "clever" version thereof, to some jackass in a sombrero.  Now, if you want to hand me the mike and hand me a playlist of obscure 80’s country songs, I’m yer gal.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9YfvBbxE1vU

I think this is going to be the year I stop trying to be thinner than I am.  I figure if I live to be 80 years old, I will have spent half my life trying to fit into single-digit sized jeans. 

F*ck it.  I’m fat, people.  I am curvy, I have a beer gut (that I’ve worked really hard for, thank you,) I have stretch marks from bearing three healthy boys (who now drive me bat-sh*t crazy,) I have boobs that enter a room 15 minutes before the rest of me does, and I have two chins.  

I like pizza and beer and donuts.  They taste good. 

You know what?  I’m tired.  My kids love me; they love snuggling up to me on the couch because I’m “soft.”  Hubby likes to watch tv with his head in my lap because it’s comfy.  I try to exercise periodically and eat my veggies and drink plenty of water, but it’s been FORTY years . . . I just don’t think I’m meant to be any different than what I am. 

So there ya have it.  You may have surmised (because of the drunk-sailor vocabulary) that I’ve had a couple of these:

 It’s my birthday, yo.  Cheers!  

The Summer of ER Visits

Lest you think I’ve been building my portfolio for the Mom of the Year contest, here’s what’s REALLY been happening in the BoyMommy household.

I had hoped that when Large broke his foot during the first week of summer “vacation” that that would be our only trip to Patient First. 

You know where this is headed, right?

We were heading to the car after a lovely afternoon at the movies and an early dinner.  (Truth be told, we were heading home because my boys were acting like spider monkeys who have been trapped in a cardboard box, so I told them I had had enough and we were going home and going straight to bed.  At 6:30.)  Small was running down the sidewalk at a local shopping center and apparently got a little overzealous.  As soon as I said, “slow down, Chief!” he fell head first into the leg of a metal bench. 

So much for early bed time and an early glass of wine.

I am generally pretty calm in situations that require emergency services, but as any mom will tell you, head injuries, no matter how minor, are often accompanied by a lot of blood.  Picture Carrie.  Spending the night on Elm Street.  With the guy from the Saw movies. 

Small sat up with a stunned look on his face, and within seconds he began to cry.  His head was bleeding profusely, so I picked him up and instructed Medium and Large to run ahead; there was a little mom & pop restaurant near where we had parked, so I told them to get ice and napkins.  All the while they were frantically asking me for reassurance that Small would be okay. 

Any other time they’re beating the crap out of each other, banging each others’ heads into the wall, and daring each other to see how far they can jump from the top bunk bed, but I guess the sight of blood makes them feel all lovey-dovey.

I hauled @ss over to the Patient First, praying that no one would recognize the Swagger Wagon and judge my erraticer than usual driving.  The staff took us back to the room immediately, and they began cleaning him up.  At this point he had blood all down his face, in his hair, and on his clothes.  He was a trooper, and it pained me to watch him flex his feet and toes back and forth, back and forth, in order to calm himself in lieu of crying. 

You can always tell how serious the injury is by judging the reaction you get from the nurses, so I knew that Small’s wound was deeper than I had thought originally.  The doctor came in to assess it . . .  and promptly sent us to the Emergency Room at the hospital. 

The hospital staff was great (shout out to Inova Loudoun, woot-woot!) but I was a little worried when the representative from “Family Life" came to chat. 

Always calm when faced with tension, I blurted “Oh my god!  You’re here to make sure I’m not an unfit mother!”  She reassured me that she was only there to make sure Small was comfortable and that I didn't have any questions, but then she asked if we’d been to the ER before. 

Again with the verbal vomit:  “Yes!  A year ago when he split his lip open and he had to have stitches and we had to have the plastic surgeon and he was so brave!” 

“These things happen,” she chuckled.  “He’s three years old.” 

Whew.  

Ten stitches later, he’s healing nicely, and I’m trying to repeat her mantra that “these things happen,” especially when you have boys.  Just for safe measure, when Small stands on the coffee table pretending to be a caped crusader, I remind him that “if we go back to the ER again, they’re not gonna let you come home with me!”