Holy balls. Welcome back to school over here has meant fevers of 104.5, boycotting packed lunches, and early morning screaming about sock-on-foot placement. September, I really really don’t think I like you.
Right now I am, as my mother says, in the weeds. I mean this both literally and figuratively because while my three crazies are screaming at me from eight different directions, I have weird alien plants growing though piles of rocks and on top of concrete all over my yard. But guess what—I only have so much time and energy and since I am trying to raise the next Naked Cowboy, WWE Superstar, and mullet gymnast—ain’t nobody got time to tend to the grass. Oh well.
I think there is this assumption that as your kids get older, life gets easier. But I am not sure that logic applies when you keep adding more kids to the equation. These three at these ages, OH MY GOD HOLY SHIT WOW WOW WOW I AM NOT EVEN ON THIS PLANET MOST DAYS. And a friend of mine had her first baby recently. What a fucking time to be alive. One baby, two parents (dad home on paternity leave) and a community of well-wishers and dinner providers. People are stopping over to bring her coffee and muffins and pats on the back to support her during this big life change. A season of love. BUT WHAT ABOUT ME, GUYS?! Now, if you are using the pastries as an excuse to get a newborn baby sniff, I get it. I respect it. But, if you are bringing the muffins because you feel like she needs them—-I’m gunna need you to take your Martha Stewart ass back to your car, take a left, and another left, and then a right—-and come on down to my house because she don’t need no muffins with her one barely awake baby and daily visitors. I NEED THE MUTHA FUCKING MUFFINS. Yup, ME. Nothing brand new here—might even seem like old hat. But it’s this clusterfuck-of-three not-new kids that really feels muffin-worthy. I would like to take my time machine back to June 2013, when people were dropping off chicken parm and cupcakes and gift cards for my cute little new-mom ass and I wanna say, “NO! GO AWAY! SAVE THESE!!! Freeze these and give them to me in six years when my two year old is throwing bottles of orange juice at my face while my four year old has his ankle stuck in the street sewer drain and my six year old is yelling at me that “it’s so hard to be the oldest and you would never understand”, even though I AM the oldest, and I DO understand, and IT CAN’T BE WORSE THAN BEING A MOM OF THREE WITH NO MUFFINS!!!!!
But I mean other than that, I’m great over here. It’s great.
School is here and fall activities and holy shit there really should be some kind of pre-fall period of time where we can all adjust slowly to this shift because I feel like I have been shot out of a cannon into a world of alarm clocks and soccer games and school lunches and PTO newsletters overnight! Hopefully I will settle into the school year routine quickly, but right now I look as tired and disheveled as I feel and lemme tell ya, it ain’t good. #NOFILTER #HOTGIRLSUMMER
We are still fighting the Bizzy sleep battle HARD over here. We have the crib mattress on the floor and the sleep sack on backwards and it works sometimes and other times she manages to Houdini herself out somehow. She’s also refusing naps at the same time, conveniently, and she has A LOT of will power. What she doesn’t know, is that I do too. Yesterday we were at a screaming stand-off for a full hour before she finally gave in and fell asleep sitting up.
Score one for the home team.
And over in penis land…both boys are playing soccer this year. Rocky’s first game/practice was canceled, so he has yet to hit the field, but Rex is one practice and one game in. As expected, the enthusiasm is unmatched. Lots of fist pumping, high fives, chants, attempted huddles, etc. from the big guy. Also never a shortage of crowd eye contact and waving—gotta play for the fans. And I will tell ya, with the new haircut and the eight year old build, the kid looks like David Beckham. And I always say, #yalookgoodyaplaygood amiright?!
Anyway—our neighors had a yard sale over the weekend and Rex was blessed with my consumer gene. The kid has very literally never seen an object that he doesn’t like. I brought home two new pillows from target yesterday and he acted like it was Christmas Morning. Anyway—I held him off as long as I could before I finally gave in and let him walk over to check out the goods. I watched as he picked EVERYTHING up to check it out—a doll, a stained glass wall hanging, an old telephone—thanks to my generous neighbor and his consumer appetite I knew that if I didn’t intervene we were going to own the whole lot. I walked over and set a limit on the number of things he could take. And here is what we ended up with…
Five Boston sports pennants and a pair of my neighbor’s late mother-in-law’s gold clip-on earrings. God dammit, the kid has good taste.
Ohhhhh, I’ve got something to say. It isn’t mom specific but since this is MY kewl blog, I don’t care. See, Matt spends most of the year on top (sexually and otherwise). He doesn’t engage in a lot of the mind-numbing, dumb shit that I do—social media, reality tv—you know, all my favorite things. He reads the paper and watches the news and knows shit and I am always like, “Oh my God, my man is the reallllll dealllll”. And then every year, sure as your born—Labor day arrives and I am reminded that he is actually an even bigger waste of space than me because ladies and gents, IT’S FANTASY FOOTBALL DRAFT NIGHT.
Let’s start with the name--Fantasy Football. Guys, GUYS! It’s a FANTASY. It’s fucking PRETEND. You might as well be playing ninja turtles upstairs in your bunk beds. “You be Donatello! I’ll be Michael Angelo. Oh, and you take Rafael, he loves pizza.” Same. It’s the same thing. It’s barbies and it’s kind-of Legos and it’s not even Cops and Robbers because in that imaginary game you are moving around. Tonight you are sitting down, drinking an extra hoppy IPA, yelling out the names of men who are hotter and richer and faster than you for your silly fake team from your sad couch.
And actually, I am okay giving up a night for this weird thing. Like—sure, I’ll do dinner and baths and bed while you be a make-believe NLF coach with your pals. But ya know what I’m not down for? The eight hours of MOCK DRAFTS before the draft. That’s right. Picking fake pretend teams several times to practice for picking your REAL imaginary team. Makes me watching Bachelor in Paradise and Teen Mom pretty mature and sophisticated if you ask me.
And I would really be doing this post a disservice if I did not mention what Matt looked like heading off to his big event. After a quick shower he threw on his best athleisure--including a fresh baseball hat and a brand-new pair of white kickz. He looked like a freshman in highschool trying to impress the hot senior chicks. Or maybe he has watched one too many episodes of Hard Knocks and was trying to dress the part. Wait, that’s it. Fuck. I think he thinks he is a real coach.
And today, Coach Matt has a full roster and now we can look forward to months of discussions about lineups, injuries, and trades. I feel like I should do something equally productive and respectable to even things out--like buy a Tamagotchi egg and start raising it. I don’t know. Point is, FALL’S HERE! And while I will #ROLLTIDE, I won’t cheer for a fake team named “The Savages” whose head coach can’t remember to put the cap back on the toothpaste. That is, unless they win and we end up with money and I can go shopping--in which case, #MOCKDRAFT2020 baby!
So summer is almost over and while all the motherhood meme accounts that I usually relate to are all, “FUCK YEAHHH SEE YA KIDS, BYEEE”, I am over here feeling all kinds of sad. Because even though they are crazy and annoying and impossible and exhausting, I actually love having my kids in my possession all the time.
And getting back on a schedule sucks. Now I’m not some go-with-the-flow hippie chick, I’m not nearly that cool. I need a plan, but I like it to be MY plan. And 7:45am school ain’t my plan. I dare you to set foot in my house on a Monday morning as I try to get Rex and (dear sweet Jesus) Rocky off to school. From the moment I answer, “Yes” when asked if it’s a school day, to the moment I drop them off is complete and utter mayhem. Rex refuses breakfast, Rocky refuses underwear, both refuse to brush their teeth, and I might as well be asking them to do long-division when I tell them to put their shoes on. And by the time we are ready to leave I usually realize that Bizzy has been totally lost in the shuffle and is naked eating Nerf bullets on the top bunk. It is a cluster-fuck in the realest way. It’s a real set-up if you ask me.
And to complicate things, drop-offs and pick-ups really don’t align at this stage in life. So to avoid stopping back home for small twenty-minute increments, we end up driving aimlessly around or sitting for long periods of time in parking lots before and after school. I end up trapped inside hell-on-wheels with Rocky and Bizzy while they scream-cry about how bored they are and throw their shoes at me. Oh, and it totally screws up Bizzy’s nap, So she’s extra fun.
And try packing 180 lunches for two people who don’t eat fucking lunch food. Sandwiches? No. Fruit? Negative. Vegetables? Try again. Cheese puffs, gogurt, fruit snacks, ritz crackers, cookies, and mini muffins? Hell yeah! That’s not embarrassing for me at all in a culture that is trying to promote health and wellness in children. And all the prepackaged processed shit is actually expensive. So I look like a deadbeat and I’m broke. But it’s great. EAT UP, BOYS!
And this is where I might sound crazy but TAKE ME AS I AM—I don’t like them existing in a place where they are graded and evaluated and might feel less-than. I want them to live in a cozy little euphoria where everyone feels equal and they have an obnoxious amount of self-esteem and self-love and never feel sad or bad or let down. And before you tell me that it’s the sad, frustrating, challenging experiences in life that help people grow and enjoy the good times or whatever blahblahshit people say—the bottom line is that I WANT MY KIDS TO FEEL HAPPY AND SUCCESSFUL ONE HUNDRED PERCENT THE TIME BECAUSE THEY CAME OUT OF MY VAGINA, THAT’S ALL. OKAY ?! But like, congrats Tommy on your check-plus in reading and your “great listening skills”. Whoopieshit. Who needs that stuff anyway?! #ohrighteveryone #whatever
And don’t even get me started on friend-cliques and in-groups and out-groups in school because I am not mentally ready for it and the thought of one of my assholes feeling ‘left out’ makes me want to ugly-cry and the thought of them leaving someone else out makes me want to ugly-cry harder. And it’s all inevitable and unavoidable and I am just not ready for any of it.
But ya know what? I do love fall fashion. So, maybe I will be okay. Nevermind.
NOTE: I don’t see a therapist regularly anymore and as I re-read this I am seeing there is still a need. Don’t worry, okay? I SEE IT.
We went up to Maine last weekend to visit my grandmother and lemme tell ya, seven hours in a car with my kids is too much. “But it was worth it, right?! They had so much fun!” Nope. I do not care how much fun they had, if I have to do another car ride with Bizzy where she yells my name seventeen million times while throwing cheespuffs at me and kicking the window, I will actually die. But ya know what—I am completely lying and everything is about them and their fun and I will go again next weekend if they really want to. Guys, this is why BEING A MOTHER IS FUCKED UP.
My grandmother’s house is a little kid’s heaven. A lake, a boat, a bunch of weird chickens, golf carts that my grandmother does pop-a-wheelies with them on when I’m not looking, ice cream for breakfast, swim out floats, frogs who apparently eat bread, crab apple picking, and fishing. SO. MUCH. ACTION. I honestly had not finished unpacking the car and my grandmother had changed Bizzy into a newly purchased lady bug tutu dress and was bring her down to feed the chickens and Rex was doing donuts around the yard with my uncle on a four wheeler.
You can imagine how #celexa Sammy handles all these activities. It has taken years of Matty pep-talks for me to be okay with the golf cart, and every time they wander down to the chicken coop alone I am positive they are going to be eaten by a bear. And before you call me crazy you should know we have had some near misses over the years.
A couple of weeks ago, my grandmother had to drive Bizzy around on the golf cart because it was the only way to get her to sleep and she was climbing out of the pack n’ play. I finally went outside after her 97th lap around the house to see Bizzy very, very asleep dangling off the moving golfcart, my grandmother holding onto her by her arm yelling, “She’s out!! And to be honest, I almost fell asleep myself!” Close calls are fun.
And last year Matt and I took Rex to some lady’s property down the road who apparently was not home but had a “wonderful pond with some turtles and frogs.” Two minutes after arrival he fell into the pond onto GIANT snapping turtles. Matt had to jump him and grab him as I screamed, sure I was living out a fatal ending of “When Animals Attack”.
This visit was actually very tame, thankfully. Although Rocky did sleep on my face for an entire night and I am pretty sure he ate a fishing lure on day two. And Bizzy and Rex did leave with an unidentified skin rash that they definitely didn’t arrive with but ya know what, THAT’S LAKE LIFE, BABY! And to add to the fun, my brother and his girlfriend were there this time! So, at night instead of flipping through live tv (1998) we sipped cocktails and hammered Smartfood and played charades. And while most game contributions consisted of normal things like “Beyonce” and “Picking Blueberries” I took the liberty of making the night weird by adding “Buffalo Sex”. Try acting that one out!
Rocky continues to tell everyone that I have a boyfriend and his name is Jonathan and he is my darling. So last week I tried giving him a dose of his own medicine. While eating family dinner (kids eating easy mac, Matt and I eating nothing) I turned to Matt, “Hey Dad, did you hear that Rocky has a girlfriend? Her name is Barbara. She’s his darling!” “NO! MOM! WHAT?! Who is Barabara?! You are LYING!” He lost his shit.
Well, two days later I brought him to his first Speech Therapy appointment. The office was in an industrial park and immediately I could tell he was nervous. “Mom, this place looks very grown-upish. What if I don’t know how to do speech? Are you gunna stay with me? What if they tell you to leave? Are you gunna stay the WHOLE time?” I assured him I would stay and that we would be fine, and that his teacher would be amazing and he would love her and it would be great! We zigged and zagged through a few floors until we made our way to the waiting room. After ten (long) minutes of waiting a woman in her mid-sixies walked towards us with a big smile. “Hi! You must be Rocky! I’m going to be working with you. My name is Barbara!”
He couldn’t even move. Eyes VERY VERY wide—looking at her, then looking at me, then back at her, then back at me. “Mom, can I whisper somethin’ in your ear?” Oh, God. Yup. “How did you know about Barbara the other day when you didn’t even know Barbara?!”" I just smiled at him said hello to Barbara—trying to brush him off because this was too weird to explain to either party. He pulled me back down to his ear, “Can you tell her that she is NOT my darling?….DO IT.” “Okay, okay, I will in one minute, let’s get in the room first.”
Thankfully by the time we got down to the room and Rocky saw the activities lined up for him, he was distracted. I mean, what are the chances?! Fucking, Barbara?! Seriously?!!?
Anyway, she started with an assessment—flashcards basically. He was so serious, and trying so hard. It actually hurt my entire body to watch.
Then the cards progressed to sentences. I could tell we were pressing our luck at this point because he is usually good to follow directions for like ten minutes and then it’s back to, “ehhhh, let’s do my ideas now, this sucks.” Good luck Barb…
Okay, Rocky. Repeat after me, “I have a black cat.”
I don’t have a cat.
Okay. That’s fine. How about, “You have a black cat.”
Do you have a black cat?
No, I don’t.
Then who has the black cat?
No Rocky, these are pretend. You just repeat what I am saying. So, I say it, and then you say it back to me. Let’s try another one. “Sally ate a sandwich.”
Who is Sally?
Barbara put the cards away like a pro and they played a fishing game and he got a sticker and we all made it out alive. I did think he was going to pop a hemorrhoid a few times trying to keep his tongue behind his teeth while pushing the “s” sound out, but fuckin’ A he’s improving.
And I am sure you are dying to know how Rex’s camp experience went. Well, in a two week period he lost a beach towel and two water bottles, won a lip sync contest, and got his first bee sting, He reported some good days, some long days, and one day where a girl spent a lot of time asking the counselor “Do I have to sit next to him?!?! ” So basically, it was a success and Imma kill a little bitch.
Coupla days ago “The Rexster” (as he affectionately calls himself) was having a real listening malfunction. I was sitting at the kitchencounter while Bizzy was eating and I could hear Matt’s patience running out. Finally he blew. “Ya know what, boys?! GET OUT. GET OUT OF THE HOUSE!” Oh! Wow! Okay.
Rocky stormed out totally confident and content and Rex lagged behind, sobbing, wearing only a pair of camo cargo shorts that were too small to button. “Fine! (crying) I’ll leave! Fine! I’m leaving!” I followed them out the door (because anxiety) wearing sweatpants and a white pajama shirt with no bra (5pm). Immediately I was greeted with a friendly, “Hey!” by the new neighbor-dad who was on a walk with his adorable two year old daughter. “Hey! How are you?” (crossing my arms to cover my very obvious bigtoe nipples) Thankfully Matt heard me and him and Bizzy came right out and all the kids started playing on the lawn. As a family we looked very desheveled—Rocky’s face covered in ketchup, Rex shirtless with his fly wide-open, and Bizzy with her saggy diaper and no pants. Matt did he best to play it cool. “Oh man, we were just all in there relaxing watching Honey I Shrunk the Kids and then all of a sudden everyone was outside!” Rex stopped dead in his tracks. Fuck.
All of a sudden??? All of a sudden, Dad? HA! Not all of a sudden. You told me and Rocky to get out of this house and you wanted us to run away!
Rex. Let’s talk about this later.
Talk about it later? That you wanted me to leave this family? How do you think that made me feel, Dad?!
To be honest I do not know what happened after at this point because I took my bra-less boobs THE FUCK INSIDE. They stayed out there a little longer and I hid and then they came inside and as far as I can tell, everything was okay. But I can’t imagine they are gunna buddy up to us at next week’s block party. #anotheronebitesthedust
I would also like to report that Bizzy is obsessed with being like Rex and Rocky and since they are shirtless most of the time, she is now refusing to wear any upper body clothing. Oh, wait, she will wear the (already stained) Red Sox shirt that Rex got her at the same. She also continues to really fight me on the hair elastics and bows despite the very (what I would assume to be bothersome) long hair in her face all day. So, although I post a lot of cutesy pics of her, if you ever see us in real life she will very likely look like this…
Ya know what sucks? The crazy expectations that are put on moms today. They aren’t real--they are perpetuated by crazy societal bullshit, unrealistic celebrity lives, and filtered Instagram accounts. But, so often we all (I think) feel bogged down with feelings that we aren’t enough. We are expected to make healthy dinners in our pinterest-worthy kitchens right after a pilates workout. We think we need to plan trips to the zoo in between arts and crafts projects while looking effortlessly trendy and cute. We expect our post-partum closets to include bikinis and skinny jeans rather than sweatpants and hoodies. We over-accessorize birthday parties, we plan over-priced vacations, we diet, we pose for professional Holiday photos and at the end of the day, so many of us still feel like we aren’t living up to the hype.
Well, fuck that. Wanna know some real shit? I drink Diet Coke for breakfast, feed my kids a healthy menu of mostly mini-muffins, pasta, and donuts (see—I almost didn’t say donuts, but it’s the fucking truth!) and am a supporter of ipad breaks for the sanity of everyone. I am happy! But, I lose my shit at least five times a day and I am working on lowering that number. I hate bathingsuit shopping and even with three kids am convinced that everyone is always wondering whether or not I am pregnant, because my jeans don’t fit quite like they used to. Where did this delusion come from that we should look kid-less after three kids? Social media messes with our heads. Everyone is on display for comparison AND we have an audience. Double wammy. I see your perfect bedroom décor, your freshly cooked meals and your perfect family beach trip. I even see your half marathon pace if I’m lucky. And I am just over here biting my toenails (yeah, I really do that sometimes) wondering how the hell I am supposed to feel like I am doing enough.
But, I also love to buy cute clothes and I have my fair share of professional family photos. I cooked a spaghetti squash once and I’ve taken my kids on a couple of plane rides. It’s complicated. I have an exercise bike and sometimes I ride it and sometimes I use it to hang my clothes. Some days I make it look easy, and some days I realize I have my daughters poop on my forearm while wiping yogurt off my windshield. I am truly happiest when I am home with my kids, but I also want to take my morning dump by myself. I spend too much money at Starbucks, I genuinely love to do crafts, and I am obsessed with M&Ms and Love Island. I wore a romper and heels last weekend like someone’s Bumble date, and today I’m tucking my fupa into my sweatshorts and I have two back-of-the-thigh ingrown hairs that just won’t quit.
Point is, I see you. I see you, and I feel you, and holy shit this is hard and I don’t feel like I am doing a good job either. But you are, and hopefully I am too.
I feel like a very crazy part of parenthood that does not get enough attention is the complete awkwardness associated with child-induced forced adult interaction. Don’t get me wrong, some of it is great. I have met some of my now very best friends as a result of my offspring--but we all know it’s true, doing the “Hi! How are you? How is Johnny liking school this year?” dance just requires more energy than I have at this stage in the game. And I think some people think that I am totally comfortable in these situations. I am not. Matt is. He’s a super confident social weirdo who navigates conversations with ease. I am secretly a big hermit crab trying to crawl back into my shell ninety-nine percent of the time, and as a result I end up overcompensating with loud talking and weird jokes and when I leave I feel like I ran a 10K while doing advanced calculus.
And kindergarten is where this shit gets real. Preschool I was able to keep my head down and limit playdates to my best friends’ kids. How convenient that my little cutie and your little cutie are besties and we can hang out and chat and eat their cheese-its while they play! Well, turns out once they are exposed to a bigger pool of potential playmates, my besties are in the backseat and I am sitting in my living room eating pretzel rods with Jimmy’s mom saying things like, “Have you noticed the pollen is really crazy this season?” I mean it’s awesome that my little whacko is having fun with his new friend but now I am on my own weird friend-date with a stranger and I didn’t even have the chance to swipe left.
And on top of the one-on-one shit, you also have PTO meetings, open-houses, school concerts, and birthday parties. OH SWEET JESUS the birthday parties. And before I get my kids dis-invited to the next million please let the record state: It’s not you, it’s me. It’s very, very ME. I just cant get comfy during these weird social gatherings where a bunch of six-year-olds jump around on blow up slides and castles in carpeted rooms and me and a group of adults I don’t know get shuffled through the rooms for two hours while I try to make small-talk and all the while I just want to fade into the neon wallpaper and call it a day. And then I eat pizza standing up while I try to stop my kid from putting a Juicebox straw up his nose while simultaneously talking to Karen about her new kitchen lights. I literally refused to tell Rex about one of these parties, just to be punched in the metaphorical dick when he jumped in the car after school super excited about the party that was in (ahem) an hour, forcing me to throw out a (very) last minute “yes” rsvp. Poor Tommy got one of Rex’s well-loved toys wrapped in Christmas paper. Lesson learned.
The good news is, drop-off-life is right around the corner for Rex. See ya later! Have fun bouncing! I’ll be online shopping in the parking lot next door sipping on a my obnoxiously-long-named latte living out my secret-introvert dreams! Too bad I still have Rocky and Bizzy. Would a playdate/birthday party stand-in-parent be weird? If not, I’m accepting applications.
And just wait until all those long hours in the bleachers together watching our kids do whatevertheactivity…who the heck is gunna wanna sit next to me now?!
Exits are wild. I am sure I have said it before, but I think I need to repeat, (DAVIDSON) EXITS ARE WILD. I watch other kids leave places and situations with their shit together and it amazes me. Like, what kind of sorcery is that mom using to get that kid to leave the <<insert any remotely fun or interesting place here>> without throwing a cosmic level meltdown? We are one of those special kinda families—when we arrive, you know it, and when we leave, you REALLY fucking know it. And it totally sucks for me because I am a real ‘Irish Goodbye’ kinda bitch. Like, ‘okayyyyy, it’s been real, but we are done so we are just gunna sneak on outta here and no one even needs to know that we’re gone’. Nope. STOMP! SCREAM! DROP TO THE FLOOR AND LICK THE DIRT. Nothing to see here, folks! Just a coupla crazies with a transition issue and an inability to stop partying. In order to get off the beach this weekend I had to carry Rocky barking and yelling while Rex stomped behind me crying, telling me it was “the worst day of his life” since we were leaving “before he got to show anyone his flounder”. Matt was left carrying all our belongings on his own which meant no hands left to carry Bizzy.
It ain’t easy bein’ Bizzy.
And do you know what time it is? Do ya? It’s time for my (dun dun dun…) end of summer anxiety to start perking up, babayyyyy! Not to be confused with my holiday anxiety, anykindofchange anxiety, event anxiety, toomuchpeopletime anxiety, post-dessert anxiety, or kidsgrowinguptoofast anxiety—no, no, those are different. Equally fun, but different. Do you want to know what it’s like to be in my head right now in these last few days of July? Cool. Here it is:
Wait, it’s already August?! Summer is basically over. I need fall clothes. Wait, no. Who cares about clothes. I shouldn’t care about clothes. But I need new sweaters. Lightweight ones. Cute ones. And shoes. I’m gunna start wearing real clothes this fall. I’m not gunna wear sweatpants everyday and I’m gunna wear jeans and blowdry my hair. It will be a whole new me. I’m gunna workout all the time too, really early in the morning. And I will probably stop eating sugar. I will definitely do all of that. Definitely in the fall and it’s almost fall because it’s almost August. Did the kids have enough fun so far this summer? Shit, did they?! Was I present and in the moment enough? I don’t think I was. I should try to catch more frogs. Maybe I should build a real wrestling arena for them in the backyard. No, that’s a very dumb idea. Maybe we should go to the beach more. We haven’t gone to the beach enough. Ugh, I think I told them they could camp out in the backyard and I still haven’t even bought a tent. I should buy a tent. Maybe I should get them a Guinea pig. No, that doesn’t even make sense. Wait, I still haven’t scheduled the kid’s dentist appointments. FUCK. This is getting negligent I need to schedule them but now when I call they are gunna be like, “Hi sucky mom, do you even care about oral hygiene?” No, it doesn’t matter I gotta call anyway. Are Rocky’s teeth too spread out?...
CAN YOU SEE HOW I GO CRAZY IN HERE?!
And you thought you were fucked up. You’re welcome.
I was in the big target bathroom stall with all three kids the other day, something I try hard to avoid but always ends up happening. See, there is something about the mom version of me and bathrooms. They always bring out a very strange, very brainless side of me. First, I changed Bizzy on the pull-down changing table, where she kicked and screamed and tried to alligator roll off while simultaneously licking the half-eaten 8am lollipop that Rex found in the backseat of the van and had given to her on the way in the store. Rex was a quick, uneventful piss, thankfully. Then Rocky’s turn. Always rolling the dice with him--he likes to get fully nude much of the time, sometimes forgets to aim, whatever. But again, success. Amazing. Now my turn. The minute I pull my pants down and sit all hell breaks loose. They know I am at a disadvantage. This is their power play. Rex starts to bang loudly on the toilet paper dispenser like a drum and Bizzy hits the deck, army crawling under the partition to the next stall. “Rex! Get Bizzy!” #thatswhatshesaid “MOM!!!!! AHHHHH! MOMMMMM!!!!” Now Rocky is screaming. “There is pee on my leg!!! It’s dripping!!!” Poor little bastard didn’t shake it out and sure enough, big stream of pee running down his leg. I grab the toilet paper and notice that Rex is in fact not getting Bizzy, but is undoing the lock on the door to expose me to the rest of the bathroom. Fuck. Moving quickly. I roll the toilet paper in a ball, wipe all the pee off of Rocky’s leg and without thinking, youuuuuuuu guessed it (because believe it or not I have done something oddly similar before) I wiped myself with THAT SAME toilet paper, I pulled my pants up, grabbed Rocky, exited the stall just as Rex was opening it up, scooped Bizzy from the (thankfully empty) stall next to me, quickly washed our hands, and headed to the fuckmeintheass aisle because I had just wiped my son’s piss all over my very own mom vagina. GIVE IT UP FOR 2019, BABY!
Something else worthy of noting is that Rex is developing the people-pleasing, kinda-butt-kissing schtick lately. I don’t know who he gets this from, but I will say it’s probably from one of his parents and it’s not me. So, I don’t know. A couple days ago him and Rocky were swimming with my brother and his girlfriend (Oh, hey Mar!) and they started playing a little game with the boys about their favorite stuff (favorite food, favorite show, favorite color, etc.) Then they asked the ultimate, “Guys, what is your favorite thing. Like, one thing in the universe that is your ultimate favorite, what is it?” Of course, Rocky said farts or buttholes or something and then Mr. Profound stepped up to the plate. “Well, my favorite thing of all time is Dr. Luther King, because he made the world more peaceful.” Now, listen, that is fucking AMAZING, right?! Hell yeah for fucking DOCTOR LUTHER KING (#martinoptional), obviously I am proud as shit for that answer but like ehhhhhhhh is that really your favorite thing, pal, or are you trying to earn a few notches on the old I’M A GREAT GUY belt? Kinda like when Matty arrives home from work and my grandmother is over and he goes right upstairs, doesn’t even change out of his work clothes, comes down with two baskets full of laundry and just starts folding it for all to see. Like, he is an amazing teammate around the house but typically he at least takes off his Cole Haans before folding. Pffff, men are weird.
Apparently each section of Beverly has free morning camp for elementary school aged kids. You can imagine my excitement when I found out. The perfect scenaro for both Mr. Social and myself! We talked about it last Sunday night, woke up excited about it on Monday morning, packed a backpack, and walked right through the woods to the camp. To be fair, “camp” is a strong word. More like a bunch of ten year olds who need very little supervision or direction playing dodge-ball, some younger kids (Rex knew a few) trading pokemon cards (we didn’t bring ours), and a couple gum-chewing high school dudes sitting at a picnic table flossing their teeth with gimp. Still, for my social bigfoot, this is a dream. And because it’s basically in my backyard, I can check on him as soon as my CBD wears off. Perfection.
Well, when it was time for me to leave Rex was not feelin’ it. “Uhhhh, Mom I don’t think I am going to stay here.” DAMN IT! I have very vivid memories of anxiety associated with organized childhood activities—or any activities without my mom really. Six foot Sammy had to swim in the six year old lane at eleven year old swim practice because it was closest to where my mom was sitting. I had to have a special teacher chaperone check on me multiple times a day and night during the sixth grade overnight field trip, and I sat sobbing on the curb at the University of New Hampshire the morning after I was dropped off, calling my mom and begging her to come and get me. Guys, I was eighteen. Separation anxiety is my jam. So, when I saw Rex feeling unsure and nervous, I was not pushing. I told him it was no problem, and we could go home.
Before we turned to leave, he goes, “It’s good that we are leaving Mom, because without my family here with me, what if something bad happens??” A little girl from his Kindergarten class heard him. “Something bad?! Like, if you got TAKEN?!” He thinks for a second and laughs. “Taken?!! No, Sydney. That would never happen. What do you think people just drive around with an extra booster seat??” He continued to laugh at the very thought as we walked home. So, even though he got a case of the weird-camp jitters, it seems I did not pass down the crazy, worst-case-scenario. total nutjob anxiety gene that I carry so proudly. Big, big win.
So here we are, spending lots of summer quality time together and driving each other nuts. I spend so much of the day saying things I didn’t think I would ever have to say. “Don’t put your mouth on that leaf, you just peed on it!”, “That pool noodle is not going to fit in your butthole.”, “Those worms will suffocate in that beer can and no I don’t think they eat shredded cheese.” Sometimes I feel like I am living in a weird cartoon (Bevis and Butthead, probably) and I find my self pulling my hair out half of the time and laughing hysterically the other half. It’s just me policing very weird envelope-pushing behavior all day long.
And ya know what’s not helping the cause? I have the sense of humor of a fourteen-year-old boy. Gimme all the butt-slaps and fart jokes. I’m honestly counting down the days until it is appropriate to hit then with a jerk-off joke or a classic Triple H SUCK IT when they are little older. Who’s the #COOLMOM now?!
And quickly—how cool is Sophie Turner? She’s the coolest of life, right? Followed currently by Megan Rapinoe and always Miley. And if you aren’t here for The Hills: New Beginnings, I am breaking up with you.
So, we are bullfrogging people now. Every couple days we head on down to the old swamp with some nets and now my whole car smells bad and all three kids have permanently stained swamp feet. We don’t even bring shoes anymore because why fight, and while Rex started off dipping his net in from the edge, he now is chest deep within the first ten minutes. We all, but definitely Rex, probably have a flesh eating parasite disease or some kind of muck fungus. But, SUMMER YA’LL!
But yeah, it’s fun so far. The boys fight ALL DAY. Physically, mostly, which is great. Kicking, punching, ball throwing, spitting! Spitting feels so insane. And I definitely don’t handle it right because I think I have read that I am supposed to stay chill and speak calmly to them and instead I go full Amber Portwood on their asses and my head spins around and I yell long idiotic sentences just proving that exactly NO ONE in our house can keep their shit together. I actually primed myself some books last week—“How to Talk so your Kids will Listen and Listen so your Kids will Talk” (personally only gunna read the first half of that one) and “The Explosive Child”. I am really optimistic that if I log some quiet book time all my problems will be solved. Pffffff.
One particularly great day for us was last week. It was eighty-five degrees and a friend of mine and I packed up our combined five children (Bizz got left behind) and drove over an hour to a Zoo in Maine that is attached to an amusement park. Rex punched Rocky in the back of the head the entire ride and Rocky almost choked himself with a metallic birthday necklace, twice. And once we arrived the kids were 1% about the zebras and tigers and feeding the deer…
…and 99% about the germ-infested burlap sack three bump slide and the metal “Fun House” with the revolving exit. At one point even a carny said to me, “I have given your son two warnings so now its up to you!” “Hey, fuck off pal, I’ve got a few chapters left of my new book before I even stand a chance!”
And of course once we got home from our six hour round trip adventure Rex hit me with, “Mom, can we go frogging?” “No, not right now buddy. We just did a whole day at the zoo! It’s time to relax a little.” Fists clenched, yelling, crying, shadow boxing, finding a plastic cup and ripping it to shreds and throwing the pieces everywhere. “THIS IS THE WORST DAY EVER!!!!!” Ohhhhhh snap, NO HE DIDN’T. You little mother effing piece of spoiled shit I just sweat through my clothes for hours carrying your scared sorry ass through the haunted house, digging through my wallet for quarters so you could feed the ducks, and I even squeezed my butt on the damn squeaking kids carnie-coaster so you wouldn’t be afraid and THIS IS HOW YOU TREAT ME?!?!?!?!? I love him though, he’s fucking great.
Also, what’s the protocol when your kid whips his dick out in front of new friends on your watch? #askingforafriend
Last night Matt told me very seriously that he wishes he could use a taser on the boys. I am not sure I disagree.
It was after we took them out to dinner and they each cried seven times. Rex yelled “What the hell?!” and Rocky spilled two chocolate milks, took his shoes off, and ran directly into a busy street during our post-dinner parking lot races. But honestly, who parents Rocky and thinks parking lot races on a main road are a good idea?! I told Matt that was his bad.
Rex is behind the eight ball on a lot of shit, but when it comes to emotional sensitivity and articulation of his feelings, the kid is Lebron James. Lately he’s been getting a little embarrassed, and we are paying the price. Rewind to last week when my dude got a (very small) splinter on our deck in the middle of a playdate. We rushed inside for a not-so-quick extraction filled with tears and screams and “No! No! Don’t!”s. When we got back outside my friend was confused. “Where were you??” “Oh, ya know, just a little splinter drama!” I mistakenly thought it was back to business as usual until I caught Rex’s eye. “Mom. Can you please come with me in the basement for a minute?” Fuck.
"Sit next to me please, Mom.” I follow. “So you walk out and say SPLINTER DRAMA in front of my friends?! You just say, SPLINTER DRAMA, HUH?!?! How do you think that makes me feel? How would you like that?!” Uhhhhhh. I folded. He was right. I was reprimanded for ten minutes and apologized. Boy did he feel good.
And then last night at the restaurant (with Matt’s best friend also at the table—who gets a BIG kick out of Rex’s crazy) Rex started to cry about sharing his ipad (shut up) with Rocky. Matt started to give him a little tough love, “Rex, come on, You are six, stop crying and pull it together!” Well, big man did NOT wanna be called out on his crying. “Oh yeah, DAD?!?! You wanna tell everyone that I am crying?! (Sobbing) How about I tell everyone that you pooped your pants that day on the way to work?! How about THAT?!!" Poor Poopypant was speechless. Another point for the offspring.
Then after we finally got all three to bed and took a breath, we heard a huge thud followed by a blood curdling scream and found Bizzy on the floor of her room after propelling herself out of the crib. I got really scared and cried because I thought she might have a brain bleed. But don’t worry, she doesn’t. She’s fine and normal and still looks like a Hanson brother. And she’s already slapped me in the face three times this morning and it’s not even 8am. Reflexes and sass still fully in tact.
And for everyone looking for an update on my chest acne (no one)—it is still there and in a real winning turn of events has now spread to my face. I actually have no idea what is happening. But I did just order some new facial razors that the gals are raving about. I guess it’s acceptable for us girls to shave our faces now and I am here for it. Oh, and you can consider this a formal request for suggestions on how to shave the back of my thighs…and actually my inner thighs, now that I think about it. I don’t understand these women who look hairless and smooth. I lather up with shaving cream and shave up and down and in and out with very little regard for my own safety and I am still left with large patches of thick black hair that catch me by surprise in very inopportune moments. And ya gotta love that pool moment where ya notice the one thick black lower belly hair just staring you in the face. AMIRIGHT?! I don’t get it. Whatever, I give up.
America (barely) lasted another year and so did I. Yay for both of us. Fourth of July week and I don’t know where June went. AM I RIGHT?!
Some of my personal June takeaways : rain is annoying, three kids all day seven days a week is a root canal, turning thirty-five is really old even when your favorite musician is Justin Bieber, and Back East Mediterranean Grill in Beverly, MA is like ALL that currently matters. #chickenshawarma
Rocky and I both had strep recently which was really fun. I had to bribe him with a trip to the cemetery to get him to go to the doctors. Right when the doctor came in she was greeted with, “Do you know where I get to go after this?!!” You can imagine her surprise when he told her. I didn’t even bother trying to explain. The whole ride there he just kept asking, “Mom, when we get there can you tell me who I’m steppin’ on?…and then when I walk around, can you tell me who else I am steppin’ on?” and while we were there “….Mom, do they have teeth under there? Can they hear me? Can we pretend I’m dead.” DUDE IS A FREAK.
Bizzy continues to be annoyed by me and responds to basically everything I suggest with an emphatic, “NO!”. But she also calls herself “Bibby” and insists on wearing this doll sweater around the house so like, she’s not as cool as she thinks she is.
Oh, I went to my second NKOTB concert this weekend. The first was with my two babysitters and my dad when I was like seven. I was covered in buttons in the last row and even though my nipples were hard for Joey Mac and his topless hat, I was asleep after like the fifth song. This weekend I was still covered in buttons, but with a serious seat upgrade and a solid buzz to keep me awake.
And lemme tell ya, those guys still know how to get down. No one has told them that they actually aren’t really heart throbs NOW—so the night was filled with A LOT of fifty-year-old dick thrusting and ball grabbing, but I was there for it. Low budget, beer-bellied, happy, grateful old bastards up there fucking OWNING the joint. It was magical, really. Donnie even appeared in the crowd like ten feet from me to give us all a big pump up speech…
“People used to think you all were a bunch of dumb little girls! NOW LOOK AT YOU! Doctors! Teachers! Lawyers! Mothers! Look at you!” YEAH, DONNIE! Look at me!!! YOU HELPED ME TO BECOME AN EX-LAWYER MOTHER!!!! IT WAS YOU, DON!! WHAT A SUCCESS STORY I AM!! What a fucking weird, awesome, night.
Back on the motherhood front, the boys have taken an extra sharp turn down Spoiled Brat Lane recently with lots of “give me more”s and “that’s not fair”s. Matt and I are working hard to reel their shit in. I have started setting more limits, providing less rewards for expected behavior, and saying “no” more. Matt has been taking a different approach. Last week he took our poor Braun Strowman action figure (WWE) out into the driveway and smashed him to pieces with a hammer to prove a point. And a few days later I stumbled upon his Youtube search history…
Guys. ST. JUDES!! Between weird Ryan and his parents opening toys and boxing fights he is having the boys watch videos of sick kids to make them behave!!! Not sure they are old enough for this to have the intended impact but ya gotta love Matty for trying.
And I think sunscreen is giving me chest acne. I mean, I think it’s the sunscreen. I know I have chest acne. BUT IT’S FINE, I FEEL GREAT.
And thanks to the girl who told me to write something because she was bored of me being quiet. YA PRESSURED ME INTO IT!
Getting Rocky to do anything these days is an extreme challenge. No matter what we are doing, something inevitably doesn't go his way and he takes a straight shot into the stratosphere and goes truly crazy. I am talking screaming, kicking, yelling, stomping, crying. Some things that have set him off this week include but are definitely not limited to his goggles being foggy, his fruit loops not looping onto a straw the right way, his sock seams being too close to his toes, his banana not being "banana-y enough", my eyes being green and not blue, and bizzy's sticky fingers. And Rex wants a three-ringed circus and ten friends over everyday and Bizzy is smacking me in the face. I can not stress this enough in this moment---I AM OVERWHELMED AND FEELING CRAZY. I am fighting a losing battle all day, everyday
And back to Rocky—he just keeps getting weirder. These days, when he gets really mad he does this crazy Grinch face and stomps his feet and yells at me in a really mean voice, "OKAY, YOU BARCODE!" or "I'm not listening to you anymore, BARCODE!"
And the other day in the car he pipes up from the back seat, "Mom! When we get home can I watch something on TV with big muscle guys? With their shirts off?" ....uhhh, what? "Like, girlfriend and boyfriend stuff. With their shirts off." What? Why? "Mom! I don't know why, okay? But I just love that stuff!" Ehhhhh kayyyy.
And for my favorite mom moment of the week, when I felt really proud of the job I am doing and the kids I am raising---we were at the playground after school with a few kids from Rex's class and they were playing tag.
Rex and another boy wanted one of the adorable little girls to be "it" but she didn't really want to participate, so she was standing by her mom. I was trying to make sure Bizzy didn't die as she was hanging from a monkey bar swinging and screaming at me whenever I tried to touch her when heard Rex yelling to the little girl, "Come on!! You can't get me!! Come get me!! Come and smell my balls!"
I'll just leave that right there. Just to make you all feel better than me. You're welcome.
Sometimes I feel like I am on a rollercoaster and I can't stop it and I can't get off and I am not sure if I love it or hate it but it just keeps going and sometimes I throw my hands up and sometimes I scream and sometimes I cry but ultimately it's great. It is great, right? Anyone else feel like that? HOLY SHIT.
Anyway, I am tired. Today was mismatch day for Rex at school so he threw on two different knee-high striped socks and shorts and a pajama shirt and a tie-dye shirt and two different shoes. Rocky thought it looked really cool he wanted to do the same. Except, he is Rocky. So, the socks were too bunchy and the shirt smelled like grass and one shoe was too tight and his band aid kept falling off— it was a full on fuckshowscreamfest leaving for school.
But he’s not always throwing a fit, don’t worry. Sometimes he likes to relax, and he is OBSESSED with being “cozy”. His new favorite cozy spot is snuggled very comfortably right on top of the bark of this tree, where he gets bird shit all over my $148 blanket that I saw on Keeping Up with the Kardashians.
Bizzy has started hitting so that's cute. She hits other kids her age when they come to play and she hits me in the face when she doesn't get her way. And then I yell at her and tell her it's not nice and she keeps her face directly in line with mine but moves her eyeballs as far as far as she can to the left for the most extreme side-eye I have ever been witness to. Feeling like the teen years are gunna be sweet.
Rocky just had his bday and Rex's is in two weeks. We had a little family get together and the boys got boxing gear. Matt was letting them full-on battle while he refereed the fight and made bell noises. Thankfully I was so annoying yelling "Stop! LISTEN TO THE DINGS! No more punching! Did you hear the DINGS?!" that Matt quickly broke it up.
Rocky also got some (requested) "boy barbies". One of them was a construction worker, complete with a tool belt, reflective vest, hard hat, and face mask so he doesn't breathe in any of that drywall debris while he is doing all his work.
Rex found it at the bottom of the toy bin and looked up at me with his mouth open and eyes wide."Mom.Do you KNOW what this is?! Football players wear it to keep their balls in!!!"
The boys' new favorite game in the car is "Raise your hand". You know, "Raise your hand if...." whatever. Thrilling, I know. Well yesterday we were playing and it was Rex's turn.
"Okay, raise your hand if you have yellow teeth!"
(No one does anything)
"Mom! DO IT!!"
Just in case you were wondering why I have such high self-esteem.
Anyway, we have been staying with my parents for a week now and it's been really great because the majority of the day Rocky is just trying to get me to leave. He wakes up in the morning screaming at me because my mom is at work, he doesn't listen to anything I say because "it's not my house" and everyone is on a strictly chocolate milk, white chocolate chips, and cheese stick diet because "that's what we eat Gigi's!!!!!!!" At this point no one has shit in like four days.
The bruins are in the playoffs which is so cool guys because I am a huge Boston sports nut. Matt let Rex stay up for the first quarter of the last game that started at 8pm. He said it didn't matter that it was so late because Rex was SO excited to watch the game and he didn't want to let him down. Well Rex watched the puck drop and then wandered into the other room and watched the Bachelorette (DVR'd) with my mom and I. #TEAMCONNOR #MOMILIKETHEBOXGUY
Rex is playing baseball now which is cool but also kinda dumb because baseball is excruciatingly boring. He gets fired up to wear the gear but is making sand castles in the infield shortly into the first inning. But don’t worry, he is full Rex D when those three outs come and it's time to run back into the dug out. That’s his big moment, baby! After being on Jupiter for the entire inning, kicking dirt and catching butterflies, he is full intensity for that run back in. "LET'S GOOOO!!!!!!!!!" fist pumping, red-faced, and completely and truly insane. And after the game when he waits in line and gets his big league chew at the snack stand?! Might as well be MVP.
Of course seeing Rex all baseballed out made Rocky want “his own thing to do with kids he doesn’t know.” He picked gymnastics and quit after a week “because it wasn’t gymnasticsy enough.”
Nailed the handstand though.
I am in moving hell. Have you heard me say that before? Because, this will be my fourth move in the last six years. Three babies, four moves, six years. I am cooked. So hopefully this next stop is our last, because despite the fact that Matt had weird high school sex in my new basement with his sneakers on, I am DETERMINED to settle in and make it our happy home. I CAN NOT MOVE AGAIN. You heard it here first,
I also get kinda crazy during the moving process. I hate being in limbo so managing my anxiety requires a lot of unnecessary forward movement. Oh, you think I should pack all my stuff up and move it all on moving day with one big, efficient trip? Well instead I am going to make seven thousand tiny trips over the next few weeks where I obsess about wall-hanging placement and shoe storage, OKAY?! It’s what works for me, so back off.
And this move, I am getting rid of shit. I am usually a little slow to let things go but this go around I am like, GET IT OUT! ALL OF IT! I DON’T WANT ANY OF IT! And then last night I started to cry because I realized I have thrown-out/sold/donated a HEAVY majority of the kid’s toys. Like, instead of lightening the load I now need to go shopping, because they are toyless.
And I did go to the mall on Friday, but it was to get second and third holes pierced in my ears. Because, that’s what you do when you are crazy. You get overwhelmed with your three kids and your move and your house renovation and to cope you say, “Fuck it. I’m gunna go have some weird mall employee put more holes in my thirty-five year old earlobes because a cool (younger) blogger did and it looked DOPE and I’m a kewl mom so bye.” I’m pretty sure one is already infected.
Anyway.,..we went to New Hampshire with some friends (Britt) the afternoon before Easter, and stayed over and did Easter morning together. Ya know, because “it will be wicked easy, and kids will have so much fun.” Well, kids did have so much fun.
But even one night away with kids requires seventy-two bags of shit and $165 worth of food per family. The afternoon was great—the kids played outside, did some drawing, and watched “weird videos” on Youtube together. Luckily Matt found our boys before the other kids did as they yelled “Look! We are girls!” from the bathroom while discovering how to do a Mangina.
Bedtime was okay, they only escaped their beds and had to be put back in twenty-seven times. And Easter morning started promptly at 4:30am, when Rex woke up and saw the eggs and then woke all his friends and told them about the eggs, and then Matt barged in and told them all that Rex was dreaming and it was middle of the night and the rabbit hadn’t come yet. And then Rex cried and asked Matt if he really thought Rex would lie in front of all his friends. So then Matt had to come clean and then it was game on. They found and opened (exactly) 200 eggs and their baskets in approximately eight minute and then ate 6/24ths of the donuts we brought, Britt bronzed up a mini ham, my boys swam in the rain, and I forgot to serve the fruit salad. By 9:45am we had basically been up and awake for a days worth of activities and were on the road headed home. The rest of the day is a blur and I am still very very tired.
I am so tired that I have been starting nightly dance parties right after dinner as an attempt to wear everyone out and get them to bed sooner. Rex has been perfecting his tough-guy face / fast-feet combo while Bizzy scales the outside of the staircase, and Rocky spends the majority of the time in the bathroom soaking rolls of toilet paper and rubbing them on himself because it “makes him look sweaty”. We also continue to be HEAVY on the wrestling, in case you were wondering. “The Rexster” is currently weighing in at seventy-three pounds. Guys, he is five. He is SEVENTY-THREE POUNDS. His feet are almost a size 4. And don’t ask me if I still bite his toenails, because I will lie. See ya!