I woke up this morning with my 4-year-old tugging on my arm and whispering in my face, “Wake up Mommy.” His breath smelled like he ate garbage for dinner, an onion for dessert and gargled with toilet water. My kids are mouth breathers. He came into my bedroom in the middle of the night after having a nightmare. What does a 4-year-old have nightmares about? He couldn’t remember. Perhaps he went with Dora to save a princess and The Map gave them wrong directions. Or maybe the cops finally arrested Dora’s parents on child endangerment charges because Dora is wandering the earth without adult supervision. Regardless, he came running in my room for comfort. His sister was already there. I admit I have allowed all three of my babies to sleep in my room. I don’t advocate co-sleeping. I know experts say it can be dangerous. It also suffocates your marriage. Forget romance or even conversation for that matter. Plus, over the years I’ve had countless nights of being kicked in the face and waking up in a pool of vomit.
So, why wouldn’t I put them in a crib? I tried, but my irrational fears took over. I actually blame Nancy Grace. Her theories on missing babies scared the hell out of me. It could be the way she glares at the camera, eyes bugged out and speaks with an angry southern drawl. Either way, her stories about “Tot Moms” are more frightening than her nip slip on Dancing With the Stars.
Truthfully, I loved holding my babies in my arms as they drifted to sleep. The scent of baby powder filled the air. The whisper of each gentle breath was soothing. I cherished these moments because I knew they wouldn’t last forever. My eldest son who once liked to ‘snuggle, buggle’ rarely offers a hug. Not to mention that baby smell has been replaced with sweat and gentle reminders to wear deodorant. So, I will cherish these moments. Before you know it I will become that old lady in the grocery store telling young mothers to “Enjoy these years, it goes by fast.”
On those days when I actually wear make-up. Pretty.
My kids love this. It makes me want to rip my hair out.
On this day of worship Tom Brady’s wife wants us to pray for her husband. Forget your ailing relative, unemployed friend or the homeless guy sleeping on a bench. Tommy needs a trophy.
My prayer: Dear God, please let Giselle develop a thyroid condition and become morbidly obese. Let her wake up one morning with her nipples pointing toward her toes. May she one day have to clean a toilet with her bare hands, wash dishes and do laundry. Then, have to take a bus to work. Amen.
I will be watching the Superbowl tonight. I wasn’t invited to a party and probably wouldn’t have gone anyway. I would like watch the kickoff lounging in my living room, my hair in a ponytail and sweatpants hugging my curves. Of course they are modern sweatpants. I wouldn’t be caught dead with elastic at the ankles. I do have some sense of style. During the game, I will probably be having tea parties, playing with Batman and changing diapers. We will feast on pizza and fried food. (which is called Friday in our house)
I know some women don’t like football. I actually enjoy the game. I did not, however, enjoy last night’s award show for NFL players. After I heard one professional athlete thank “the man upstairs” for helping him catch a football I turned the channel. I can only imagine what the categories were. Best Sack? Longest Run? Hair with the least amount of dandruff? I know there wasn’t an award for most creative end zone celebration. You can body slam a man, cause a concussion and broken bones, but don’t you dare do the Macarena in the end zone. I have never understood the flag for “excessive celebration.” Did the mother of a defensive tackle email the NFL commissioner? “It hurts my son’s feelings when the other team scores and dances. It is rude and his therapist says it’s really damaging his self esteem.” I lecture my eldest when he torments my younger son for losing. However, my child is in pre-school. You would think a football player who makes millions of dollars would have developed proper coping skills by now. If a running back wants to stick out his tongue, choreograph a dance or spike a ball so be it. Just don’t point up to the sky. God has more important work than to help you or Tommy.
Demi Moore is having a mid-life crisis. At least that is what Star Magazine says and we know that is the gospel. They claim she is partying and doing drugs to hang on to her youth. She might as well wear nylons with sandals while sitting on her davenport. Nothing says you’re old like doing “whip-it’s.” My son saw this story on television and was bewildered. “What is a whip-it?” Getting high off nitrous oxide is so 1990. “This is your brain. This is your brain on drugs. Any questions?” No, I don’t think drug addiction is funny.
The idea of a supposed “A-list” celebrity sucking off a whip cream can does make me giggle. I also find it amusing that Demi’s friends were concerned she was drinking too much Red Bull, but no red flag went up when she bought Reddi-Whip by the case.
I will admit I did a whip-it once in high school. Picture a few girls with jeans pinned at the ankles, faces speckled with acne, hair curled and cemented with Aqua Net trying to be cool. I didn’t enjoy it and decided to eat the whip cream instead. We will discuss my eating disorder at a later date. I just told my son she was doing drugs. I paced back and forth and spoke in a tone mimicking Samuel L. Jackson in the movie “Pulp Fiction.” My speech went something like this, “She was doing drugs. If you do drugs you will die. Dead. You will never see your family again. Forget having lunch at McDonalds or playing video games with your friends. You will be in the ground with bugs crawling on your face.” He was horrified. I don’t think I will be finding a crack pipe in his bedroom anytime soon. Also, thanks to Demi, I don’t think he will ever eat dessert again.
Can someone please help me understand why Donald Trump’s opinion should matter to me? Here is a man who clearly cannot choose the right hairdresser. Yet, he has the ability to choose the person to run our country? The Donald’s head looks like it was dipped in a cotton candy machine. Only the flavor is “cray.” (Oh yes peeps I’m up with the modern lingo!) I take my kids to a discount hair salon and even these girls wouldn’t jack up someone’s hair like that. Well, maybe one lady would. She is fresh out of beauty school. She is what universities call a “non-traditional student.” Translation: chick is old, but props for starting a new career. Anyway, she holds scissors like she is playing the board game Operation. Never trust a hairdresser who takes an hour to complete one cut. It is a profession that demands confidence or you end up walking out looking like Billy Ray Cyrus. (when his heart was achy, breaky and before his daughter was a whore and smoked weed) As for Donald Trump, just because he is wealthy doesn’t mean I admire him or will drink his kool-aid. O.J. Simpson was wealthy and I didn’t trust a word he said. I still think he could’ve gotten those gloves on. Ever try putting on leather gloves? It takes some tugging and wiggling. If you’re putting gloves on a toddler it takes 25 attempts before they realize each finger has its own compartment. My point is this: I will vote for whomever I want to in this presidential election. If I’m smart enough to raise three children I can choose a candidate. So keep your opinions to yourself Hollywood. Unless, you want to gush over my blog. Then, speak yo mind!
My first born is nearly a teenager. They don’t warn you about this phase in the “What to Expect” book series. They get an attitude and pubic hair overnight. Another thing happens: mom is no longer cool. At his birthday party this weekend that became abundantly clear. I had a hunch this was happening. Last summer I took my two youngest for a walk. As I pushed the double stroller a few teenagers rode past on bicycles. One of the boys whistled. I thought “yeah, I still got it.” (Cue: Pretty Woman Theme) I strutted a few steps in my New Balance sneakers. Then, I heard the other two laugh and say “Yeah, real hot.” For a moment I thought about flipping them the bird. Then, I remembered I have to act like an adult. Besides, this isn’t 1993. They probably wouldn’t know what I meant. They only speak in code: WTF, TTYL, OMG, etc. I should have texted IDLBWAA (I don’t like boys with acne anyway)
So, this year I reluctantly agreed to a sleepover. It started with a few kids, but the guest list grew to seven. Gone are the days of themes. My son didn’t want anything drawn on a cake, decorations or favors. The kids walked in, threw their bags on the ground and disappeared. They devoured the snacks and soda within an hour and wanted more. I joked that this wasn’t Walmart and my shelves were only stocked with so much. Crickets. They called things “beast” which meant they liked it. If someone called me beast I would run an extra mile on the treadmill. I suggested they watch a G Rated movie. Each child furrowed his brow and glared at me like I was Willis. I reached my breaking point around 3 a.m. I stomped downstairs and demanded they stop arguing over video-games and go to sleep. As I walked away I heard, “We’re not arguing grandma.” They erupted in laughter. Oh hell no! I confiscated their IPod’s and phones. I turned off the lights, TV and took the remote controls. Then, I hiked up my granny panties and marched upstairs. I may be old, but I win.