My 21st Birthday vs. my 41st Birthday: a Detailed Analysis. With Photos

So yesterday was my birthday.  I’m 41-derful.  Kind of a letdown after all the festivities of my 40^th birthday. 

For instance, I have 527 “friends” on Facebook, and yet I received ONLY 113 birthday wishes yesterday.  The other 414 of you are dead to me.  

I’ve always loved my birthday, as anyone who knows me will attest.  I do my friends the courtesy of reminding them how many shopping days are left so that they can have the joy of watching me open a plethora of gifts celebrating the anniversary of the date of my birth.  What’s not to love about THAT?  I don’t get people who don’t love their birthdays – it’s an entire day that is devoted to the celebration of YOU.  If you don’t want to celebrate your birthday, can I have it?

I must admit, however, that celebrating at 41 is a little more, um, reserved than celebrating the milestone of turning 21. 

                                                      My thought process at 21:

Better get up early . . . like 11 . . . to make sure I can help pick up the keg at the Kroger.  I can do that now.  Get a keg full of Milwaukee’s Best.  Because I am 21.  I know that real grown-ups get kegs all the time because they're so much more practical than buying bottles or cans.  We are having a party at the apartment I share with 3 other girls, even though our fridge is stocked only with condiments and a tub of yogurt, and we’ve decorated with $5 unframed posters we bought at the campus bookstore.  

I’m so stoked because my brothers are coming!  I am THE coolest big sister ever.  I am going to take a photo of myself and my brother standing next to a keg of beer.  But make sure Mom doesn’t see it!  I don't want to get in trouble.

This is what telephones used to look like, kids!  I have no idea who I’m talking to, because I’m pretty sure everyone I knew was in the same room with me.  In fact, I can't even be 100% sure there was anyone else on the other end.  [I'm a few drinks in at this point, to state the obvious.]  I’m so glad I don’t have to get up for class tomorrow, but even so, I bet my hangover will be gone by around noon. 

I'm not athletic, but I bet if the Olympics had a beer pong team, I could totally be on it.  Plus I have a good teammate.  I'm gonna marry him in a few years.  

                                          My thought process at 41:

Gotta make sure I’m back from dropping the boys off at the bus stop in time to meet the Glass guy who is going to repair our window to the tune of $400.  After 3 loads of laundry, a storybook about farm animals, and an “educational” children’s television program starring weird little talking mermaid gubbie thingies, I need to remind Small that we don’t “hulk smash” things that don’t belong to us.  

Kick myself at 3:00 when I’m sitting at the bus stop waiting for Medium so we can go get his allergy shots, because, while I would have had plenty of time to make it to the doctor’s office on time if our appointment were at 3:30, I just now realize our appointment was at 3.  Oops.  Leave the doctor’s office and come home to help Large with his homework and order a nutritious pizza for their dinner.  

Spend a total of 10 minutes celebrating with my family, which includes a tiny ice cream cake that is still in the freezer next to the frozen waffles, the chicken tenders, and the Jimmie Dean sausage biscuits, a funny card from Hubby, and 3 oh-yeah-I-forgot-it’s-mom’s-birthdays from the boys.  Listen to a painful rendition of the Happy Birthday song complete with baritone accompaniment, which Large does NOT know how to play because he just brought it home today.  Wait for Hubby to return from picking up babysitter so that I can leave for preschool orientation.  

Have lovely cheesy & carbalicious mexican dinner, complete with what I hope was NOT a lice-infested sombrero and one (large) margarita.   Don't have second margartia because a) I have to drive home and b) liquor sometimes causes me to be drunk and/or to lose the contents of my stomach.  I paid good money for that mexican dinner.  Don't wanna waste it.  Hang with preschool moms as we converse about the origins of baby names and the appropriate age to start the kids in team sports.  Stop by bank so I can pay sitter.  Home by 9:15, because, well, it’s a school night.  Take 3 ibuprofin to ward off a morning headache and mentally begin preparing my to-do list for tomorrow. 

I promise I'll do a better job next year of reminding my friends how many shopping days are left, but perhaps you should just enter it in your calendar now.

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!

Teaching the Art of Laundry

I have been out of commission . . . and for good reason, but I’ll share that later. 

For now, I wish to explain my recent good fortune.  You see, I have a family of five, but heretofore I will only be laundering the clothes of four. 

Why, you ask?

Large recently went up to his room to find sweatpants to wear underneath his snow clothes, as he was anxious to get outside to frolic with his friends.  In what can ONLY be described as a moment of complete insanity, he fretted, “I don’t have any clothes because Mom doesn’t do my laundry in time!  She doesn’t take care of my clothes!  I never have pants!”

Oh, it’s on.

Never one to miss a teachable moment, I responded, “HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!  YOU CAN DO YOUR OWN LAUNDRY FROM NOW ON!” 

That’ll learn ‘im.

He currently has an overflowing basket of clean clothes on top of his bed, which he did not move out of his way in order to sleep last night, and which I am not putting away.  I handed him a giant ball of clean clothes yesterday because I was kind enough to take it out of the dryer (because I had a load of clothes to put in.)

He yelled from upstairs, “Mom!  All these clothes are wrong.  They’re all inside out!”

“Okay,” I responded, not sure where this was going . . .

“Why are they all inside out?” he asked.

“They must have been that way when you put them in, so that’s how they came out.”

Ugh.  Now he has to put them in the washer, AND the dryer, AND turn them inside out before he puts them away? 

Currently he’s googling child labor laws.

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.