Don’t Worry It’s Just a Boner.

“Don’t worry it’s just a boner.” Add that phrase to the list I thought I would never be saying, especially in the middle of the night surrounded by stuffed animals and pirate wall decals.

For the last couple of weeks the oldest of my three has been waking in the middle of the night with his little friend having a case of morning wood.

Don’t Worry It’s Just a Boner.

The first time it happened we thought it might be the stomach bug AGAIN, since he was claiming the pain was in his tummy. However, through trial and error and having a 2 am conversation with an emotional 4 year-old we discovered it was the infamous boner. I knew being the mommy of boys I would eventually come to deal with this tent popper but I didn’t know the day would come so soon.

Don’t Worry It’s Just a Boner.

Through the use of Google we figured out the best way to deal with this middle of the night visitor was a trip to the bathroom and a cold wash cloth while saying …

“Don’t Worry It’s Just a Boner.”

Fast forward a month after the first night visit of the skin avenger. The boner shows up earlier than usual, at 10 pm. Though often letting daddy handle this ordeal I figured I would help out and try calming my first baby down as my better half went in search of the superhero known as C.W. (cold washcloth). I tried my best in calming my hormonal mini-man down as C.W. entered the scene. What happened next will forever be imprinted on my mind.

To my horror, and in slow motion, as C.W. tried to rescue the Halperin family from the boner, my future kindergartener began peeing. The stream shot up into a perfect arch and onto my head. That’s right, my head. There I stood with urine dripping from my hair as my husband tried his best to contain the golden stream.

At first it was an out-of-body experience but when I realized what had actually happened I retreated to our master bathroom. As I looked at myself in the mirror and the aftermath of a golden shower, all I could do was laugh. This is motherhood.

Don’t Worry It’s Just a Boner.

Needless to say, I have learned my lesson and boners will be left up to the male parent who shares this hobby. If I find myself having to handle this situation solo, I’ll just have to tell myself, “Don’t Worry It’s Just a Boner”.

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0.0 I am Not a Runner.

As spring is in the air I see more and more runners out. My fitness magazines are filled with articles on running, how to achieve your best time, what to wear while running, what are the best running shoes and what to eat before and after running. It appears the rest of the world is running but 0.0 I am not a runner.

I am not a runner nor do I pretend to like running. However, I do have respect for runners and those who go beyond just running to completing marathons. In fact my best friend is a runner and even completed an Ironman, though I love her I do not love her hobby.

0.0 I am not a runner.

Even though my boobs may be the size of misquito bites I still hate the bouncing and tugging of my skin I feel as I scamper along the sidewalk or treadmill. While running my mind always seems to match the speed of my feet, racing with thoughts that never seem to come full circle. Did I mention I am also not a huge fan of sweating? What produces more sweat than running? I am not sure, but count me out. I also managed to find, date and marry a man that also despises the act of running. I’ve actually witnessed my husband saying the words, “If there were a hell and I was doomed to be there, it would be running on a treadmill for me.”

0.0 I am not a runner.

My thighs would probably be smaller, my stamina might be stronger if I were a runner. I would probably have one of those really awesome runner bodies but woe is me that is never meant to be.  Those triumphant selfies with marathon numbers and stats are tempting but it’s just not for me. I’d probably have more in common at dinner parties if I liked running but that is so not me.

0.0 I am not a runner.

Runners don’t get all crazy on my non-running ass, because I get where you are coming from. Runners talk about a runners high, your high just comes in a different form for me … a yogi high.

0.0 I am not a runner BUT I am a Yogi.

Yoga is my running. My high comes not in the form of my feet pounding pavement but in the lengthening of my hamstrings through a Downward Facing Dog. Or in the tightening of my shoulder blades through a Swan Dive. Or in the expansion of my chest as I concentrate on my breath as it fills my belly. Or in the stretch of my mind. Or in the spread of my toes against the mat in a Warrior stance. This high overtakes my being, renewing the person I am and bringing every feeling and thought to peace.

0.0 I am not a runner BUT I am a Yogi.

Yoga has come to be the most grounding part of my life, I take refuge in the energy and comfort it brings me. My mat is where 75% of my writing begins as my thoughts, ideas, emotions and experiences all reach clarity and align with one another. The mat to me is what the trail is to a runner. Instead of working towards a new PR number I am in pursuit of a new pose or level of difficulty. Rather than working on form I am working on my pose.

0.0 I am not a runner BUT I am a Yogi.

No need for drooling over the latest shoes when my bare feet love the slightly sticky grip of my mat. I love reading about yoga and get all warm and fuzzy when my Yoga Journal arrives in the mailbox. I look forward to my yoga classes with as much zeal as if they were vacations in a tropical utopia. I am a much better human being when I get to do my yoga.

0.0 I am not a runner BUT I am a Yogi.

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I Hate My In-Laws.

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I hate my in-laws because they don’t suck.

I hate my in-laws because I love them like my own family.

I hate my in-laws because they welcomed me with open arms and hearts.

I hate my in-laws because I can’t say I actually hate my in-laws.

My mother-in-law is strong willed and opinionated. She is loving and would give the shirt off her back if she thought a person to be in need. She loves her children unconditionally and loudly. She has stood by her husband through cross country moves, three babies, seven grandchildren, a lifetime of changes and forty years of marriage. I am so much like my mother-in-law that I now understand why my husband finds it so easy to deal with my “quirks”. I admire her for the mother, wife and woman she is.

My eldest sister-in-law is who I call when my children are sick. I ask her marital advice when I feel crazy because I have three kids. I admire her big heart and desire to make the world a better place by caring for others who have one way or another been left behind. I have admiration for the way she speaks her mind while keeping true to what she believes. I admire her nurturing heart and the woman she is.

My middle sister-in-law is wildly creative and a business woman who succeeds with her little boy in her arms. I admire the knack she has for living out her creative love. I have admiration for the friendships she cultivates and keeps. I find her ability to go from mommy to business thinker with such outward ease incredibly amazing. I admire her perseverance and the woman she is.

I’ve learned so much from these women. I’ve learned so much about myself from these women. I’ve learned that family is so much more than what you are born into.

Strong. Beautiful. Caring. Funny. Crazy. Loyal. I could go on, but hate is not one.

Though we may not always see eye to eye, there is always support.

Though we may not have the same skills or interests, there is always encouragement.

Though we may not have the same blood, there is always a bond.

I hate my in-laws because I don’t hate them at all. I love them the last number.

Guns Blazing During Marital Fights

 

(Guns Blazing over dirty socks left next to the bed.)

I’m blessed and embarrassed all at the same time when I think about the fights that I’ve had with my husband over the course of our marriage. Blessed and embarrassed for the same reason … they were petty.

(Guns Blazing over used tea bags left in the sink.)

Believe me when I say that after almost 7 years of marriage we have had our ups and downs. Especially when you throw in not one but three moves in 3 years and not one but three babies in three years. Factors of life throw some flames into fires that shouldn’t even be given the time of day. But marriage and life will do that, create moments in time that you felt so strongly about but look back on wondering why the hell you were so mad in the first place.

(Guns Blazing over a nap taken by one parent when the whole family had the flu.)

But back to my original point, our fights have been petty. Nothing involved has been illness, infidelity, money problems or death. We’ve been lucky. Our fights have been about chores, naps, sex, crabby attitudes, our kids or just out of lack of sleep. Though he has pushed my buttons he has never laid a hand on me. Though I’ve wanted to take a sledgehammer to his Smartphone to prove my point on “screen time” I just did my best at snarky remarks and the silent treatment. Though we’ve gone to bed mad or went into another room to cool off never have we actually shut the door on our marriage.

Marriage is tough, some are tougher than others. Marriage isn’t perfect, mine is far from it but I really lucked out.

When I envisioned marriage I didn’t think that would include an argument about doing the dishes that would get so heated I would leave the next day to just make a point. The picture below is priceless because about 45 minutes before this picture was taken we were in an all out shouting match. I couldn’t even tell you the exact details of how it started or who won but i know there were words said and tears shed on a day that was supposed to be happy. But now I look at the photos from this day and laugh because we were so pissed off at one another we couldn’t even see straight as we sat in church with our youngest two being baptized. When our twins were just a few months old my better half got so upset with me over a misunderstanding that he didn’t talk to me for almost two days, now I make fun of him for those two days. These petty fights won’t be our last. I’ll bet my marriage on it that the days and years of the future will be filled with petty fights with guns blazing which means that we will also never be short on laughter.

(Guns Blazing because you actually married someone who had the balls to say you’re wrong.)

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Shut Up and Sit Down Before I Make You.

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I’m annoyed.

Annoyed with a woman that represents a breed of women. This woman is the self proclaimed bored housewife. She is not poverty stricken. She is not abused. She is not unloved. She is not shackled to the pipes in her basement. She is just simply bored.

I’m annoyed by the way she blames her husband and children for her boredom.

I’m annoyed with the way she carries herself as the victim.

I’m annoyed with the negative words she uses to describe motherhood and marriage.

I’m annoyed with the way she pushes her misery onto others in the hopes of finding miserable company. I want to yell, “SHUT UP AND SIT DOWN BEFORE I MAKE YOU!

Yes, I agree that there are downs that come along with the ups of motherhood. Yes, marriage is hard work. Yes, making your dreams come true takes a bit of elbow grease. But I’ll have to disagree that everything that is wrong in the life of a woman is the fault of her children and husband. I’ll have to disagree that happiness in a marriage is the sole responsibility of your spouse. I’ll have to disagree that motherhood closes a door to achieving your dreams.

I am annoyed that she refuses to see that she is to blame for her boredom.

I’m  annoyed that she turns her back on being an active role model for her children.

I’m annoyed with the attitude that she is quick to vomit onto others but will not take responsibility for her attitude, her legacy or her destiny.

“Could we change our attitude, we should not only see life differently, but life itself would come to be different.”
– Katherine Mansfield

I’m annoyed. So grow up or shut up.

Mommy You Be Cray-Cray.

craycray

When my first little one was a baby it was easy to be more than just a Mother. It was easy to focus on entertaining my little man when it was just he and I. Things became difficult when two other minions made their way into our world, then became even harder to be a Mommy when all three grew older. Trying to ping-pong between the interests of three while focusing on all little ones at the same time. I found myself going through the motions of a Mother rather than fulfilling the intentions as a Mom.

As I touched upon in From Mother to MomI know how to be a “mother”. I am beyond capable when it comes to changing diapers, giving baths, providing medicines, fastening child seats and all the rest of it. But am I fulfilling the roll of a mom? Because a mom does all a mother can do but does it with love. A mom gives hugs and kisses, read stories, plays, tickles, listens, holds hands, teaches and protects and so much more.

In just a month my eldest will be 5 which means that he will soon be a Kindergartener. With this milestone on the horizon the taunting question of am I a Mother or a Mom is even louder. Ringing through my head as each day passes, drawing closer to when my time with Braxton will be cut in half as he attends school every day and all day.

I am at fault for just being a mother on some days but then I know that there are days when I am the best mom. When I am broken, tired and stressed it’s hard to be a mom and not just a mother. However, I’m going to toot my horn and pat my back because I’ve been pretty successful at being a Mom lately. I’ve been rolling with the punches of life rather than punching back. I’ve been shooting from the hip rather than following the rules. I’ve thrown expectations out while hugging and caressing the chaos of my children. I’ve been so Mom-like I’ve held worms in my hands with chalk on my face and yogurt smeared on my pants. I’ve been screamed at and slapped only to look my little offender in the eyes and ask for a hug rather than screaming back or dishing out timeouts. My kids have acted up in public and pooped at the park with the diaper bag left at home, but taking a cue from Jay-Z, I brushed that dirt off my shoulders like a pimp.

Instead of my kids thinking Mommy be cray-cray because she is screaming about crumbs on the ground and Legos covering every inch of the living room, they think I’m cray-cray because I died their food green for every meal on St. Patrick’s Day. Mommy be cray-cray because she let us eat donuts. Mommy be cray-cray because she read us 15 books in one morning. Mommy be cray-cray because she played Crazy Eights five times in a row and won all five times. Mommy be cray-cray because she spent two hours building a Lego truck. Mommy be cray-cray because she lost three times in a row at “Who Shook Hook?” Mommy be cray-cray because she keeps kissing and hugging us.

So F-U Mother, this Mommy be cray-cray 🙂

Sex? I Ain’t Got Time For That.

Sex takes time. Sex makes babies. Babies take up time. Babies make sex go away … and so do all other adult responsibilities.

Scenario: I “know” a couple (husband and Wife) who have three children. Husband was away on business, Wife was alone with the 3 offspring. Husband comes home and thinks “oh-la-la”. Wife thinks “Another larger human to help me”. 24 hours after Husband gets home, he and Wife are on same page… Sexy time. While Child A is eating Cheerios, Child B is down for the count with a stomach bug and Child C is restrained in booster chair eating breakfast while being entertained by Child A, Husband and Wife break for the bedroom. Fast forward and sexy time is interrupted by Child A yelling he needs more Cheerios. The yell becomes more dramatic. The yell turns to crying over Cheerios. The crying gets closer and louder as the small human that it comes from is climbing the stairs to find Husband— no make that Daddy and Mommy. Sexy time over.

Sex? I ain’t got time for that.

I got meals to be made. Dishes to be done. Reports to be checked. Clothes to be washed. Children to be bathed. Books to be read. Dogs to be let out. Meetings and appointments to be made. Bills to be paid. Lessons to be researched. Workouts to be conquered. Pinterest boards to be pinned. DVR’d shows to be watched. A body that needs showering. Hair that needs drying. A face that needs painting. A bed to be slept in. Sleep to catch up on. Drop offs and pick-ups to be made on time. Dusting and vacuuming to be completed. Small human beings to be enriched and cuddled. Facebook posts to be read and updated……………. and …… sex to be had (when the above is completed to perfection).

Sex? I ain’t got time for that.

My spouse has suits to be worn. Sex to be had. Numbers to be achieved. Sex to be had. Assessments to be collected. Sex to be had. Bosses to be answered to. Sex to be had. Calls to be returned. Sex to be had. Commutes to be driven. Sex to be had. Schedules to be kept. Sex to be had. DVR’d shows to be watched. Sex to be had. A bed to be slept in. Sex to be had. Sleep to catch up on. Sex to be had. Small human beings to be enriched and cuddled. Sex to be had. Facebook posts to be read and updated. Sex to be had. Sports to be watched. Sex to be had.

Sex? He’s sorta got time for that.

According to numerous articles found on the all-knowing Google and research, couples have sex twice a week on average … Is this every week? Is a week five or seven days? What is on average? Who are these couples? Do they have children under the age of 5? Are these couples on vacation? Where do they find the time? How long is each sexy time session? What is going on here?!? Did I miss the parenting class on “Sex, I DO GOT time for that?” But then as I read more and thought longer, it all made sense. There IS time for sexy time. It’s about remembering that prior to being parental partners, Mommy and Daddy were romantic partners. 

So how does one go about moving sexy time from somewhere on the bottom of the “Honey-Do List” to the top of the “Honey-Do-Me List”?? Ain’t no mommy got time to research that, so let me do it for you. In the next installment of The Funny In Mommy, titled “I’m the new JT, Bringing Sexy (time) Back”, I’ll be sharing my findings, tips and Aha! thoughts with readers on how to bring sexy time back.

 

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In a Phase of Powerless

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In the days of having children everything is a phase. The infant phase. The night feeding phase. Sleep training phase. Potty training phase. No nap phase. No sex phase. No sleep phase. No peace and quiet phase. No time for you phase. The preschool phase. The learning how to tie your shoes phase. And so on.

Being the mother of two toddlers and a 4 year-old going, I am in a phase of powerless. A sense of powerless in an environment that I have so little control over. Being a self-proclaimed control freak, being in a place of little control is not one I find comfortable. This being said, I live my everyday in discomfort because…

I’m not in control of my children’s feelings or their reactions. I’m not in control of their wants and needs. I’m not in control of when they rise from sleep or even what they want to eat. A house basically running on raw emotion leaves little room for any type of control, rather just a time for survival.

My younger self would have chosen an unhealthy form of escape quite often in the form of a cigarette or eating too little while running too much. Now as a mommy these options are selfish. I am now left powerless while blindly learning to deal with a lack of control as a grown-up in charge of little lives. I have less than 10 seconds to pick myself up and lick my wounds if I’m having a bad day, because after all, little eyes “made of sponges” are watching me, are mimicking me, are learning from me.

Though often not being fully in control of every day situations and powerless over the feelings that run untamed through the bodies, hearts and minds of my children I am in control of how I react to this phase of powerless. Finding power in the knowledge that this world dictated by the needs, wants and raw unfiltered emotions of little ones is just another phase.  I will try my best to not yell. I will give myself a break. I will give my children a break. I will do my best to avoid my control freak tendencies and embrace the chaos that is my life. I will hug and kiss my babies more. I will laugh more while stepping over the messes of my “powerless” days. I will embrace this phase as it too will come to an end. 

One day my schedule will be free and my little ones will come to be too cool to actually “need me.” For now I will hold on, white knuckled, as this chaotic GPS of life takes me for an out of control ride to the next phase of life.

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Mommy is AnGrY and that chick is dead!

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“I AM COMING! I AM COMING! I AM COMING! I AM COMING!” This is what I found myself yelling down the stairs to my almost five year-old in response to him yelling “MOM! MOM! MOM! MOM!” as I was attempting to put clothing on my own body after putting down two stubborn two-year-olds for their nap. I mean give me a break! I was gone for literally 4 minutes and when I came down stairs he then asked me why it was taking me so long?!?

Mommy is AnGrY.

I just spent the twin’s entire nap making a baby chick out of craft items and his own house out of Legos while answering a question every 8.9 seconds.

Mommy is AnGrY.

My son won’t shut up about his chick so I can get something done. I do not want to talk about a chick made out of pompoms.

Mommy is  AnGrY.

There is smoothie smeared all over the ottoman. I’ll have to clean it before it begins to smell sour.

Mommy is  AnGrY.

My son just asked me to make a snack for his chick and when I said “No” he threw himself onto the table as if it was the end of the world.

Mommy is AnGrY.

The twins are fighting over 12 inches of space in our home (that is obviously bigger than 12 inches).

Mommy is AnGrY.

My son just asked me to play hide and seek with his chick while I am folding three loads of laundry.

Mommy is AnGrY.

We own around 73 Hot Wheels. Travis favors two out of the 73. Hailey just took those two off the couch and ran screaming from Travis as he broke down in an all out screaming-crying fit.

Mommy is AnGrY.

Travis in his Hot Wheels rage just ripped off the beak of the chick. That chick is dead. Braxton is beyond comforting. I am hot gluing the beak back on.

Mommy is AnGrY.

As the kids are eating dinner they are pretending to be chicks by making this obnoxious tweeting sound that is piercing through my brain.

Mommy is AnGrY.

After dinner Braxton picked on Travis by not letting him sit in a certain chair. Travis ripped the head off the chick. The chick is dead, I am hot gluing the head back on to the chick body.

Mommy is AnGrY.

I am eating dinner. Travis is standing by the toaster crying tears because even though he just ate dinner he wants a waffle. Hailey just spilled milk on the ground. I am making a waffle.

Mommy is AnGrY.

Hailey has seen the waffle and even though she doesn’t like waffles she is now crying for one too. She will not let me put it into the toaster. She is eating a FROZEN frozen waffle.

Mommy is AnGrY.

It is 5:57 pm. Travis just ripped the head and feet off the chick. That chick is dead.

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I am Not a Sex Kitten.

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I hesitated prior to posting this out of fear of being alone in my feelings.

I am not a sex kitten.

Using the word sexy to describe myself would be in the form of either sarcasm or a joke.

Unfortunately I am made to feel like a misfit because I am not sexy. Made to feel like a failure because I cannot sport visible garters and thigh highs. I am not one who can fill out a corset in all the right places. I’d look a fool in leather pants and high heels. I do not sleep in lace and silk but rather cotton and granny panties.

I am reminded again and again of my failure at being a sex symbol from Celebrity Apprentice to American Horror Story to comedies such as This is Where I Leave You  to thrillers like Gone Girl. The big boobs, silky hair and long legs found on the screen will not be found here. I am on the verge of feeling sorry for my husband as he sits next to me in my robe and flannel pants with my hair piled on top of my head.

Don’t give me that crap about “it’s the way you carry yourself” … the clear difference I am talking about is when I am walking into a store in my jeans, sweater, pony tail and furry boots with Kleenex and snacks billowing out of my pockets as three little ones bicker about me and I run into a woman with a dewy glow, a deep red pout, lashes full and dark with a butt outlined in the latest skinny jean and a waist emphasized by a body hugging and clickity-clackiting on high heels as she saunters down the aisles. Take a guess on who a man will take a second look at. I’m referring to the scenes in our favorite television shows and movies where the fit and trim wife and mother of 4 greets her husband in a nightie when he gets home from work and he slams her on the kitchen counter for a quickie before the kids get home from soccer practice. WTF? I’m lucky if I can have dinner on the kitchen counter and sippy cups off the ground and a smile on my face when my poor sex-kitten deprived husband walks through the door.

I envy the women who are able to post sexy selfie after sexy selfie. I wish I had that look of pin-up girl and not the girl next door. The ladies who look amazing in the light of their cars as they snap a selfie post-workout or holding their Starbuck’s purchase. I wish they could teach me. The last time I took a remotely provocative picture I was 21 and in college probably a half a keg deep at 3 am wearing less clothing than Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.  To get a better sense of what it actually took to take a “sexy selfie” I did a little investigating. What I found turned my girl next door frown upside down as I laughed and gasped at the images and tips that danced across my Smartphone screen. If you are a fellow “girl next door” rather than a “rap video dancer”please Google “sexy selfie”  and click Images for a good laugh. My feelings of failure were quickly diminished because though I may not be sleeping in the nude with perky big boobs and an ass that women envy, my picture will not be found in this line up of TMI and sexiness gone wrong.

I also find comfort in knowing that at the young age of 31 I still have plenty of time to conquer the “sexy selfie”, maybe take a pole dancing class or two, possibly go an extra step of getting in front of the camera by doing a mommy boudoir shoot and (once the kids are in school) greet my husband at the door in a nightie with a steak and baked potato with the kitchen counter clean for more than eating off of.