Mama's Boy

Today one of my friends was talking about her husband.  She said to me, “well, yeah, I asked him to do that.  But, he would never.  His mom would be so mad.”  What?  Dude, you are over thirty years old, who cares what your moms thinks? And then, I got to thinking.  I mean we have all seen some guys, known some guys, and dated some guys who are just way too close to their moms.  You know what I mean.  The ones who as grown adults still need their mother’s approval for everything.  The one’s whose mothers run their entire lives, and they see nothing wrong with it.  The one’s whose mothers are still giving them lots of kisses on the lips, extra-long hugs, whatever. I had always looked at these guys, and their moms, and thought---come on, get off it.  Move on.  Grow up.  This is weird, and creepy, and gross, and I don’t feel safe.  Get some boundaries for Christ’s sake.  And then, I had Rex.

Poor Rex, and poor Rocky.  Sure to be the two biggest mama’s boys on the face of the earth if I have anything to say about it.  And oh man, whatever girls, guys, whatever---end up marrying these dudes, God bless them!  Because all the little weird things that I used to think made a mother and son too close---I eat that shit for breakfast.  And I know it.  Like, I logically know that I would hate myself, but for some reason I don’t care.  I know that (come with me into weird land for a second) if I dated one of the Rs and I was my own mother-in-law, I would want to kill me. I would actually want to punch me in the face, and then tell myself how crazy I think I am, and then I would kill me.  Twice.

Sometimes I think that I am just this weird now because they are so little.  I mean, c’mon, every mom with a two year old boy spends hours sniffing their feet, smelling their breath, and trying to open mouth kiss them. Kidding! (I have to say that). I tell myself that at some point, it won’t feel appropriate to snuggle them all day, kiss them all over their faces when I am excited, or pinch their butt cheeks when they gets out of the tub.  But then I think, when will that happen?  Like, at what point am I supposed to one day just be like---well, I’m not gunna do that anymore!

Like, Matt thinks that I should have stopped biting Rex’s fingernails when he turned, I dunno, two months old.  I catch him shooting me death stares when I do it.  Once he even brought me over the clippers and I just shrugged him off.  Doesn’t he understand that I want to eat these boys all day and this is the closest thing I can do to doing that?  And when (please don’t say yesterday) does this become inappropriate?  Like, you-really-need-to-stop-right-now kind of inappropriate? My answer to myself, NEVER. I’m his mom and I will bite his fingernails if I want to. So guess what future prom date, while you are off getting your mani pedi, 6’2 Rexxy will be getting his fingernails bit off by Mommy before the big night.  No.  It’s not true.  He will never let me.  Will he?

Maybe life just happens and gradually I will start giving them one less kiss on the face a day and then all of a sudden they will be teenagers and will barely be giving me a kiss goodnight?  NO! I can’t. I won’t.  And I can already see how weird I am going to be.  Kisses will be given before, after, and maybe even during their football games.  Before and after school and all day on weekends and on Tuesday afternoons.  I birthed these fuckers.  Whenever I want to, until the end of time, I am going to grab their huge weird heads and kiss their faces.  And maybe I will tickle them too and get them to laugh really hard.  And it will be totally uncomfortable for spectators, and they will be much larger than me (I hope) so the site of it will be really unsettling, but I don’t give a you know what.  I want them to care what I think, ask my opinion on everything, live within a single mile of me, and call me three times a day.  Some would call it excessive and unhealthy, I think it would be perfect.

So you would think that I would now have a better tolerance for all those weird mother-son relationships that skeeved me out before I had kids.  I don’t. At all.  I know, it makes no sense.  I am able to see the rest of the world through a clear(ish) lens and can recognize inappropriate behaviors.  I think I have very (ehhhh—questionable word choice) appropriate boundaries in all the other relationships in my life.  There’s just something about shooting a little boy outta your vagina.  I’m serious.  Carrying these little wackos for over nine months, pushing them out and having them placed on your chest all helpless and new as they enter the world, feeding them, bathing them, being covered in their poop and pee and everything else, and loving their faces and ears and noses and toes and gapped teeth all day long---and then being asked to slowly let go and let them be independent.  It’s too much.  It is just too much to ask.

So, for now I am just going to expect the worst for the three of us.  When they come home from college I will be pulling off their size 15 Jordan shoes and sniffing their nasty athlete’s foot ridden toes.  When they come over with their families on Thanksgiving I will lift up their XXL shirts and I will give them raspberries on their hairy stomachs as their wives text each other that I need therapy.  But I won’t get mad when I overhear them telling Rex and Rocky that I am whacked.  Because I am.  And because I know that even though they will never change their minds about me, some day if they have a little asshole of their own, they will be puke sniffing, face licking, nail biting, and lip kissing right along with me.

It's A Boy

When I found out I was pregnant with Rex, I ran straight to the mall.  I ended up buying a 0-3 month hot pink polka-dotted bathingsuit with an attached tutu (you know, because where else would I want to be right after giving birth than a sandy beach? Pfffff.)  and a pair of teeny, tiny, gold sparkly Mary Janes.  Her name was Ruby.  She was going to be sassy, and strong, and sparkly, and I couldn’t wait to meet her.

Fast forward to Christmas eve---16 weeks pregnant.  Matt and I couldn’t possibility wait until the 20 week scan, so we drove 40 minutes and paid $60 for an gender ultrasound.

“Can you move a little Miss, I can’t seem to see the important parts”.  “Can you stand up? Maybe drink a little and jump up and down.  We need to get this little one to move.”  “Oh! There is it!  Look at that!  It’s a boy!”  Time stopped. I looked up at the screen.  Now, for those of you that worry after the ultrasound that maybe the technician messed up and told you the wrong gender, you have never seen a penis on an ultrasound.   This was not a maybe-those-are-just-long-lips kinda thing. This was a fucking dick and balls, clear as day, staring me in the face.

If you have ever seen Tyrell Owen in the end zone (whoa, look at me, cool mom with the sports reference) that is what Matt looked like upon hearing the news.  Fist pumps. Jumping. Yelling. And then there was me---pregnant, belly exposed, feeling nauseous, sobbing.  Now, I don’t mean like kind of crying but hiding it, I mean losing-my-shit crying.  Now, of course this is insane.  I have a wonderful healthy baby inside of me.  Many women would give anything to be in this position. I get it, of course now I get it.  But I was completely unglued.

On our way home we stopped at Petco to get my sister-in-law a fish for Christmas (she was the lucky one that got me as her Secret Santa).  I was stomping around Petco, bullshit, wiping away tears while I picked out a bowl, some neon orange rocks, a weird plastic fern, and a blue beta fighting fish.

That night we surprised Matt’s family with a picture of the ultrasound at dinner.  I wrote, “It’s a Boy” on the frame.  Everyone was thrilled.  Christmas morning we did the same thing for my family except I wrote “It’s a Fucking Penis!”.  My two brothers reacted similarly to Matt.  My mom gave me big hug as I cried through a smile saying, “I’m okay, I’m okay”.

Fast forward and now I am living happily ever after with my two little penises.  And of course, I wouldn’t have it any other way.  I have actually learned that I can have it all.  I shop in the girl’s section for pants until the boys are at least 18 months old.  Nice, tight little nut huggers.  I paint Rex’s nails, and we load glitter into his dump trucks.  I put Rocky in little gold moccasins that have almost lead to divorce on a few different occasions.

I hope to have more kids, so maybe someday I will have a daughter.  But I am pretty sure only dicks come out of me, and I think I am okay with that.  But I will say, even if I give birth in the dead of winter---if it’s a girl we are leaving the hospital and heading straight to an indoor water park, and that chick is gunna rock that pink polka-dotted bathing suit like she owns the joint.

Rex Turns Three and I'm Crazy

Today is Rex’s third birthday.  I hate to say all the cliché shit, but where the hell does the time go? I mean, really.  Tell me.  Where does it go?!  Rocky turned one two weeks ago and the entire week was filled with these weird moments where I would cry for (kind of) no reason.  I’ve held it together for Rex, kinda.  Yesterday we had a joint party for both of the boys (sorry to all of you wondering if your invite got lost in the mail.  It didn’t.  I kept it real small, because that was all I could handle. I’m sorry.) and my brother, Pete, orchestrated for a police car and a fire engine to arrive half way through to surprise Rex (and me).  The trucks pulled up, sirens on, Rex sporting the biggest smile on his face for his first rescue mission, and there I was, crying.  “Samm, let me take the camera, you need to be in these family pictures!”---No, no. That’s okay.  Weird mom sobbing in front of the fire engine does not need to be documented.  Thanks though! 


And then Yesterday we were driving and Matt casually said, “So, where were you at this time three years ago? At the mall with your mom right?  Wondering if you were going into labor?....Samm?  Do you hear me?”----Sobbing.  I mean, c’mon. Get a grip.  The same thing happens to me when I walk the loop in my parents’ neighborhood that I walked right before leaving for the hospital with Rocky.  My mom and I walked it for an hour and I stopped every few feet with increasingly painful contraction before heading to the hospital to get my drugz.  Since then I have walked the same loop a few times and each time I get this crazy feeling in my stomach that makes me want to cry.  Yeah---it’s called crazy.  I guess mentally transporting yourself back to the moments right before your kids entered the world is just inherently gut wrenching?  Am I happy crying? Am I sad?  I don’t even know.  I really don’t.  Just too many feelings.  But in case you are curious, here is a list of some of the things that I feel slash worry about in this wacked out moments of emotional crazytime…

·         I need to take more videos.  I think I take an annoying amount of pictures, but not enough long videos.  What if I forget their little voices?!  Okay, tomorrow I will put out the video camera and make sure I get footage of all of my favorite words and phrases Rex says and all the silly faces Rocky makes.  That should be easy.  They usually cooperate. (eyeball emoji)

·         I don’t think I have even read Rocky a full book yet.  He is now older than one and his mother hasn’t had the time or patience to read him a full book.  He’s never going to pass that stupid fourth grade standardized testing whatever it’s called.

·         I am going to wake up one day and I am going to carry Rex for the last time.  And I am not even going to know that it’s the last time so I am not going to know to hold on extra tight and carry him until my back breaks.  I will just plop him down and never carry him again.  Actually, nevermind --new plan, I’m gunna join crossfit and get jacked and carry him forever.  Screw social norms!

·         What if Rocky feels like I am paying too much attention to Rex?  Or what if Rex feels like I am paying too much attention to Rocky?  Or what if they both secretly hate me?  No, they can’t. They don’t hate me.

·         Okay so now Rocky is one, time to start thinking about baby number 3.  I mean, not like NOW, but time to start thinking about it I guess. Oh God, but I didn’t give Rocky enough time.  I am just going to propel him into middle-child land without ever reading him a fucking book! Ok, gotta give him more time.  Or start reading books.  Something.

·         Do I spend enough time with them?  I mean, I am with them all the time but am I present during that time?  Ugh. I need to delete faceook. And Instagram.  Wait, I need to throw my phone away.  I need to be in the moment at all times with these kids and savor every second.  Shit, no, I still need my outlets or I will go insane.

·         Someday I will birth my last baby.  At some point I will celebrate my last first birthday party.  No.  That’s too sad to think about.  Shit, am I going to weird Michelle Duggard with 38 kids? Okay, fine, I will just leave that as an option.  Maybe I will have 38.  Okay, now I don’t need to feel sad today about it.

·         Am I doing this right?  I mean, they are alive, so I am doing okay right?  They know I love them right?  Like, they know HOW MUCH I love them, right?  Maybe I will tell them more.  Or maybe that’s overkill and then becomes meaningless so I should tell them less but say it louder? With more feeling?  Ugh.  I’ll google it.

…Yeah.  Let all that crazy soak in. 

 And now you are probably wondering---what the hell did I just read? This post is over the place and makes no sense.  Well that’s the point, kinda.  Rex is three and Rocky is one and mom’s (or just me) are crazy.  And milestones bring on extra crazy.  I think if you just let it all out and pretend it’s normal, it’s fine, right?  Yeah.  So raise your vodka frescas and cheers to me straight killin’ it for the past (exactly) three years.  Happy Birthday, Rex.  (…and now I’m crying again.)

A Close Call

Okay, lemme set the scene.  We are at my parent’s house—Rex, Rocky, my mom, Riley (the 12 year old “mother’s helper” magician who I used to babysit for) and I.  My mom had the day off and took the boys for me.  She enlisted Riley for some extra backup.  So went to therapy (because, duh), hung out with a friend, ran some errands, and arrive at her house at around 2:30pm to hang out for a bit before bringing them home.  A few rescue missions, incarcerations in pretend jail (my mother’s closet) and laps around with the oversized toy recycling truck later, it’s time for me to pack up the crazies and head home.

Rex immediately breaks out in full toddler tantrum hell when I tell him it’s time to leave.  Whatever, I’ll grab Rocky and deal with my eldest assface in a minute.  Rocky??  Rockkkkkky??  I can hear his little footsteps in the bathroom a few feet away.  Then I go to open the door.  What the?  NO. Nope. What? NO!

I am hoping I can describe this correctly.  Basically there is a double vanity directly to the left when you walk in the bathroom.   First thing on the vanity, all the way to the left, are four stacked drawers.  This little motherfucker has closed the bathroom door, and then opened the top vanity drawer, creating an FBI grade booby-trap and making it absolutely impossible for me to open the bathroom door more than a quarter of an inch.

“Mom! Grab me something thin like a knife or something to stick in here and try to push this drawer back!”  I am remaining kind of calm.  I will figure this out.  A knife, cake server, fork, and spatula later, I am beginning to have a panic attack.  He can sense it, and is now screaming.

Each minute feels like twenty and I start sweating.  He is scared, and alone, and he is surely going to die.  He’s going to climb onto the toilet, swan dive off, and break his neck.  He is going to try to eat one of those stupid rubber bath letters and choke.  He is going to turn the tub on and burn himself with scalding hot water.  “Play it Cool Mom” or “Laid Back Mom” wouldn’t have taken the mental trip to crazytown so quickly, but hi, it’s me.  Even pumped fulla celexa this is still one of those worst case scenario moments that will haunt me for at least a decade.

I continue to open and shut the door slightly as I try to maneuver more weird objects inside to help me (#thatswhatshesaid).  My mom calls my dad, general contracting extraordinaire ( and I can hear her talking to him calmly--- “yeah, we tried that. Yup. I don’t know.”  Now I am screaming “TELL HIM TO COME HOME NOW!” Riley tries to occupy Rex but I can hear him nervously yell at her “No, Riley! My mom is scared, she needs me!” I’m too panic stricken to even appreciate his cuteness.  I am just barking at him to give me space.

What the hell will my dad even do when he gets here?  Saw the door open? Well that won’t be traumatizing at all for Rocky.  And what are the changes that Mr. Danger himself won’t try to grab the saw and be left with three fingers? Oh, God.  He’s gunna be the fingerless guy.  Whatever, my dad will figure it out.  In the meantime, I need to calm Rocky down so he isn’t scared for like tracing his fucked-up-ness back to this moment thirty years from now.

I lay down and I can see his little feet running back and forth in the crack under the door.  I try to sound really calm.  “Hi, Rock. It’s okay. You’re okay.  Mommy is right here.  Rock, close the drawer.  See the drawer?  Shut the drawer, Rock.”  I can feel my mom and Riley rolling their eyes and silently calling me crazy.  I mean, Rex has had a few scholarship moments, but Davidson boy numero dos is showing no signs of brilliance.  Although his athletic future could be promising, the kid has a questionable IQ at best.  Up until today his biggest academic achievement is answering “woof, woof” when I ask him what the dog says.  “Come on, Rocky.  It’s ok.  Shut the drawer. Shut the drawer.”


Holy shit did I just hear the door shut? I quickly turned the doorknob.  I’m in! FUCKING SECRET GENIUS!

As I hold him he calms down but keeps his little head on my shoulder for five minutes---something he hasn’t been still enough to do since he was a newborn.  After a few minutes he seems fine and I pack them up and head home.  Both boys seem completely unscathed.

My mom called me a few minutes after I left to check on me.  My dad texted me a few hours later.  I tried to explain the scenario to Matt and he kind of just laughed.  I think he thinks it’s cool that Rocky is a raging lunatic.

I am going to try hard not to go down a rabbit hole of what-ifs that leave me unable to leave Rocky again.  But I am also heading straight to pinterest to search “bathrooms without vanities or doors” to come up with some modern, new-age ideas for my mom’s house.  She’s gunna love it.