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.

The Birds and the Bees

It’s time.

Our curious boys are starting to ask significant questions about babies and how they get in a mommy’s belly.

I just have a hard time wrapping my head around the need to tell an eight-year-old, who still believes in Santa, the Elf on the Shelf, and the Tooth Fairy, about the Birds and the Bees.

It used to be that they were curious about the differences between boys and girls.  Large once (at a packed movie theatre line in Manhattan, of course) reached up, touched my boob, and asked “why do you have these?”  Hubby told him, “everybody has them.  You have them.”  Large’s response?  “Not as big as Mommy’s!”  We explained that girls have them so that they can feed their babies when the time is right. 

I nursed all our kids, so eventually this all made sense to him.  Naturally, he was a little inquisitive when we brought Small home, but both Large and Medium seemed to accept the idea that Mommy was feeding the baby.  No big deal.

And as far as differences go, we have explained that when they go to a friend’s house for a sleepover and the friend has a sister, we wear pajamas, not just our skivvies, and act appropriately.  Just because we all pee with the door open around here (some of us by choice, and some of us because there is no friggin’ privacy anywhere in this house) doesn’t mean we do so in mixed company. 

Lately, however, the questions have been coming more frequently.  We want to keep those lines of communication open and we have told the boys that they should always ask us if they need an answer instead of discussing it on the bus or on the playground, etc., because Mommy and Daddy are always going to tell them the truth.

I’m afraid the time has come.  To tell them The Truth.

I’m persweaty already.

We fielded a lot of questions when I was pregnant with Small. 

• How did the baby get in your belly?  Well, when Mommy and Daddy love each other and decide they want to have a baby, the Mommy gets pregnant.

•  How come the babysitter doesn’t have a baby in her belly?  She’s not married. 

• Uncle Justin’s not married and he has a baby.  Dammit, Justin!

• How is the baby going to get out of your belly?  When the time is right, Mommy will go to the hospital and the doctor will get the baby out.

But recently we’ve been getting more detailed questions as their little brains process the logic behind all our previous answers.

• Where’s your penis?  Girls and boys are different.  Girls don’t have penises.

• Why do you have hair there?  Because I haven’t had time to get a wax.

• Do Mommy dogs have babies?  Yes

• Then how do their puppies get out of the dog's belly?  Um, they go to the Vet.

• Do you have a baby in your belly?  Nope.  Just fat.  Thanks.

• How come you don’t have a baby in your belly right now?  Our family is complete already.

• How do mommies get babies in their belly?  Remember I told you?  When mommies and daddies love each other . . .

• But don’t you always love Daddy?

Yikes.

We also discovered the other day that Large thinks the doctor gives Mommy a shot and then she gets pregnant.  Learned that one on the bus.

So I think it’s time to offer some clarification. 

Personally, I learned the details from a friend in 4^th grade.  Her parents had sat her down and explained it all and I remember thinking that her parents must have thought she was mature enough to handle it.  I went home and asked my mom, but . . . crickets.

I was in high school before my mom left Ann Landers Talks to Teenagers About Sex on my bed.  Because when you think Sex, you think middle-aged-advice-columnist Ann Landers.  She had checked it out from the library.  I read it from cover to cover in one afternoon and took it back downstairs to my mom, who returned it the next day.  We never spoke of it again.  That was my complete lesson in sex education.  

I don’t want my boys learning from some kid on the bus who doesn’t have all the facts.  And I don’t want them learning from a teacher who is required to use technical terminology deemed appropriate by the public school system.

It is OUR responsibility.  I want to treat the boys with respect and help them realize they can ask us anything.  I’ve got to put my own issues aside.  I’ve told Hubby we either need to do it together or he needs to Man up.  (Because I know if we do Rock, Paper, Scissors I’m SO gonna lose.)

Stay tuned . . . this could get interesting.

Will Sing for Beer, Part 2!

As you know, I am a VERY talented Sing-er.  So talented, in fact, that I won a karaoke contest a few weeks ago.  In case you want to read the first installment chronicling my rocket to fame, click here.  I was the only contestant and won by default, but still.  I won a $25 gift card and received strict instructions to return on Tuesday, September 27 to defend my title.

I gathered up a posse made up of a high school girlfriend, various neighbors, a PTA member, Cub Scout moms, the baseball coach’s wife, (who received a text from said coach stating that kids are "fed, bathed, and in bed."  Whatdya want, a cookie?  It's 10:45!) and the mother of Large’s former classmate.  My babysitter’s parents showed up because someone didn’t read the invitation carefully and missed the reference to "big girl panties" and "fun moms."  This proved useful later, however, as Babysitter’s Dad and I belted out a particularly stirring rendition of "Endless Love."

I carefully considered my song choices and happily took suggestions from my girls.  Some things we discovered during this process:

• I prefer male singers to female because my voice is not soprano.  I will make exceptions for Ms. Dolly Parton, of course.
• This precludes any songs by Bonnie Raitt.
• I don’t feel that the Black Eyed Peas are a logical karaoke choice.
• I am not above singing "F*** You," the dirty version, by CeeLo Green . . . although this led to an uncomfortable conversation about words I will NOT say, like any dirty word beginning with a C or any references to female nether-regions.
• "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" is ALWAYS a hit because it crosses all cultural barriers.  It's the I'd-Like-to-Buy-the-World-a-Coke of karaoke songs.  

There is a gentlemen at this establishment who also competed last time.  He fancies himself quite the crooner.  Unfortunately, for all of us, he is not. 

Let's get one thing straight.  I talk a lot about how talented I am, etc.  This is called sarcasm, folks.  It’s part of my charm.  I don’t think I could complete a sentence without using a little dash o’ sarcasm.  What I say and what I think are two different things.  For example, when I reference my womanly physique, I am WELL aware that I need to lose about 100 lbs.  (50 lbs. at the bare minimum.)  Likewise, when I describe myself as a pillar of strength in emotional situations, I am being facetious. 

So I asked my girlfriends to tell me honestly . . . “do I suck as bad as that guy?  You’d tell me, right?”

I mean, I know I am not the next American Idol.  I do not have the X Factor.  I’m more of a sing-in-the-shower kinda gal.  I can carry a tune, but I don’t want to embarrass myself too badly.  I’m not going to get up there and attempt anything by Whitney Houston, that’s fo' damn sho. 

no pride.

Meanwhile, I have decided that there’s not really a contest.  They just keep giving me $25 gift cards in hopes that I’ll bring back more paying customers as I move up the ladder to imminent stardom.

"Endless Love?"  I am willing to admit that it may have been that bad . . . 

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.

High School Reunion: Part 1

Holy Hangover, Batman!  I am officially too old to party. 

My 20^th high school reunion was this past weekend.  I know what you’re thinking . . . “but BoyMommy, you look WAY too young to have been out of high school for 20 years.”  But, alas, it is true; two decades have passed since I last walked the halls of my high school.

I dropped Small off at my brother Slim’s house, essentially so his new bride could take care of my offspring.  As is the case ANY time I try to treat myself to a night of drinking and general debauchery, the Mommy Guilt is thrown in my face; Small got stung twice by bees, so my SIL called to ask what she could do and to reassure me that all was well.  She kept apologizing, and I kept telling her that sh*t happens.  Mother of the Year . . . again!  I worried about him until that first beer kicked in.  Then I was okay.

My adventure began at the swanky digs known as the Olde Towne Inn.  It’s very fancy.  I know it’s fancy because of all the E’s. 

 The motel was not bad.  You get what you pay for, right?  I’m anxious to see the credit card bill so I can determine whether I was charged for the entire night or I was charged by the hour.  

My first task was to remove the comforter from the bed.  I usually travel with my own blanket so I don’t have to use the hotel blankets, but in my haste to escape my house get to the motel, I forgot it.  I called the front desk and asked for an extra blanket.

I did not ask for exotic truffles or fine caviar.  Just a blanket, thanks.

“Ooooh,” the front desk manager replied.  “I’m not sure I have a key to the Maid’s Closet.”

I was a little surprised that the Maid’s Closet was ensconced in such heavy security, but whatevs.

“What do you need a blanket for anyway in this kinda weather?” she asked accusingly. 

Did she think I was trying to swindle the hotel out of money and that I was harboring unaccounted-for guests? 

Incredulous, I replied, “It’s really none of your business why I am requesting an extra blanket.  I am a paying customer and my wishes come first, regardless of your personal opinion about my sleeping habits.  If you must know, I do not want your semen-encrusted bedspread anywhere near my face because I have watched one too many Dateline NBC episodes.  Furthermore, I’m afraid a black light would reveal “evidence” that would support my claim that the communal bedspread at the Olde Towne Inn has not been cleaned recently and therefore belongs nowhere near the vicinity of my face.”

Except it came out more like, “Um, I just like an extra blanket when I’m sleeping.” 

I mean no disrespect to the Olde Towne Inn, because it served its purpose . . . which was mainly be-close-to-the-bar-so-I-can-party-like-it’s-1991. 

I do, however, have photo evidence of what a fine establishment it is.

To Be Continued . . .

(It was Reunion Weekend and I haven’t even gotten out of the hotel yet.)

Impressing the New Babysitter

One day last week we found ourselves in need of a babysitter.  MP has babysat (sat on our babies?) before, but only with the older two, so she was understandably a little apprehensive about keeping the baby too.  Her mama and I decided it would be a good idea if they came over to visit one evening so that she could spend a little time with Small.  Honestly, I wasn’t worried because he’s such an easy baby and my theory on babysitters has always been that, in the grand scheme o’ things, as long as the kids are safe and alive when we get home, it’s been a good night.  Pretty low standards.  Just use some common sense, and it’ll all be okay.  Turns out, I shouldn’t have been worrying about MP as much as she should have been worrying about the dynamic duo made up of Large and Medium.

Where's the Warning Label
on these things?

We made arrangements for MP and her mama to come over one evening before bed time, and I figured I’d let MP give Small his bottle and snuggle with him for a while so that they could get to know one another.  Meanwhile, the older boys were sitting at the table finishing up their homework and then working on thoughtful, hand-made holiday gifts for their teachers.  MP and her mama would be doubly impressed with my well-behaved children and their propensity for giving unto others.  This is a nice family from our church, after all, and I want to perpetuate that MYTH that we are a charming, well-mannered brood of little southern gentlemen.

But then I decided to let them work with beads.

While MP and her mama sat on the couch oohing and aahing over my sweet little angel baby, Large and Medium were mere feet away, silently plotting the demise of THE MYTH.  

They have been working on making lanyards for their teachers’ ID badges.  Medium is my little artiste, so we had gone to the craft store and picked out all the necessary supplies.  I had envisioned complementary colors of the spectrum, but Medium chose bags of black & white, greens & blues, rainbow, and iridescent clear.  Not what I would have chosen, but the gifts are from the kids, so I took a deep breath and purchased the beads that would soon become a glaring eyesore of mismatched colors hanging from his teacher’s neck. 

I carefully opened each bag’s contents onto paper plates so that the boys could choose their colors easily and the beads would stay neatly confined on the kitchen table. 

Hello, my name is Medium.

It’s obvious where I’m going with this, right?  I’ve told enough stories about my Medium that you are now picturing the Tazmanian Devil dressed in a Peyton Manning jersey winding up in my kitchen.  And he’s fast.  In fact, last Sunday at church, in the time it took to sing ONE hymn, he had colored with blue crayon on the pew, the back of the pew in front of us, and the floor in our gorgeous, 200-year-old, historical place o’ worship.  (I scrubbed with a baby wipe while giving Medium the stink-eye and silently hoping that the baby Jesus would be so busy listening to everyone else’s prayers that He wouldn’t be able to hear my less-than-Christian thoughts.) 

Lo and behold, he knocked over one of the paper plates of beads.  Beads.  Everywhere. 

Tiny black and white beads jumped across my hardwood floors for what seemed like 10 minutes, and there was Medium, wide-eyed and sad-faced: “sorry.”  

In the interest of having him take responsibility for his actions, I instructed him to get out the mini-broom and the dust pan while MP’s mama looked nervously from MP to me to the kitchen to MP to the kitchen to me, and repeat, trying to decide where her services could best be offered.  Every time Medium and I tried to sweep beads into the dustpan, however, approximately three beads would make it into the dustpan and 20 would begin another jumping journey across the floor. 

Cue MP and her mama: “oh my, look at the time!”  They offered to help, but I think they sensed the quiet before the storm and recognized that they wouldn’t want to have to testify against me at my trial, so it was really just best to make a gracious exit. 

Finally I broke out the vacuum cleaner and reveled in the sound of the beads (**now sold in packs of 500!**) being sucked into the bag.  Medium “helped” by sweeping wayward beads out of every corner and crevice of the kitchen. 

So if you’re wondering about the contents of our vacuum cleaner bag, they are as follows:

• ornament hooks that I was too lazy to bend over to retrieve and so I vacuumed instead.
• That powdery stuff that is supposed to take the odor out of your carpet when the dog pees on it, (even though he JUST WENT OUT!) but really doesn’t work and is sold to Type-A consumers who are suckers for marketing which promises a clean, non-urine-stained area on which your baby can crawl.
• Black and white beads that are no longer destined to be a part of the sassy lanyard Medium is making by hand.  For his teacher.  Out of beads.