The New Life of a Former Sexpot

Sounds riveting doesn't it? Well not so much.

There once was a girl who was fun, exciting, and sexy. She liked to stay up late at night (well she used to be able to anyway), she loved adventure, traveling, eating exotic foods, doing things at the spur of the moment. She loved having wild, crazy passionate sex, and felt sexy doing so.

Well, what ever happened to that girl? She grew up, got married, had a few kids and lost her power. No it wasn't the super hero kind of power, but it was the kind of power that made her feel alive, and vibrant. And no it's not all about sex and the loss of what it used to be and mean to her. It's the loss of feeling desired, of feeling sexy and youthful. More frightening than that it's the realization that she is slowly becoming less visible to the rest of the world.

She sits back and watches. As women age, something happens, people start to perceive them differently. It seems like we lose something vital not only when we age, but when we become mothers. The perception of ourselves is forever altered, and it changes how others see us. And this doesn't seem to affect men/fathers in the same way.

Instead as men grow older they become more interesting, more attractive and therefore more appealing. Men gain, and women lose. I don't know how this occurs, but I've watched it happen time and again.

There is an interesting dynamic that takes place. When women are younger, they have all of the power, whereas, younger men do not. Very young women have this vibrancy about them, a kind of super charged sexuality that young men are drawn into and ultimately controlled (to some degree) by. And as women get older, have children, this power often shifts to their male mate.

Often after becoming a mother, we see a very large change in our sexual drives. Our energy is obviously focused elsewhere, like trying to maintain sanity, take care of everyone else around us and if there is any time left, we try to get some much needed sleep. The way we see, or imagine our bodies changes significantly, and that sexpot we used to be has faded into oblivion.

I personally miss feeling like a hot, sexy, desired woman. I am also thoroughly sick of feeling haggard, exhausted and unattractive, like I am just going through the motions much of the time when it comes to sex. I want more than a "quick after all the kids go to bed" romp in the sack, because we're just too damn tired to do anything else.

I want the passion back! I want to stomp my feet and demand that old feeling back! I want to have my husband walk trough the door and want nothing more than to rip my clothes off. I want to go to a movie and not be able to keep our hands off of each other. I want to be a super charged sexpot again, but how?

It's hard to come to terms with a new life, a new you, and let me tell you this isn't all that new. It's been a number of years, but only now is it really starting to hit home. It's the fact that age, and motherhood has changed me, the sexpot, for good. Too bad really, because I used to be way more fun.

I just want to change your freakin' diaper!!

Jesus Murphy, you'd think after literally 10,000 diaper changes over the course of 20 months, the kid would bloody well put two and two together. You come when you're called, lay down, lay still and just get the damn diaper change over with. But noooo. The little shit, full of shit, likes to take off running as soon as she gets a whiff that I am aiming to change her stinky ass. Who wants to sit in that stench anyway? Gross.

Then when I get her down on the floor, it's like trying to hold Linda Blair in place. Head thrashing, teeth bared, Jesus, her head practically spins completely around. For once I would like to get through a diaper change without sweating like a big fat man, wrestling a hog. It's like a WWE match, and I'm usually the big loser.

I guess it beats cleaning shit up off the floor, hey, there's always an up side. What would be even better, is if she'd just get potty trained already, yeah right!!

Belly Fat

I know, we're all sick of hearing about each other's fat bums, saggy boobs, and all that shit, but let me back up here and explain. First of all let me scream, I am sick to death of having belly fat. I may have always had chunky thighs and ham arms, but I could always pride myself on having a nice flat tummy, yes, even after having a couple of kids.

Well my pride is now awash. After having a third child, and doing this after 35, I find my body is in revolt (and revolting for that matter). I don't know what the hell is going on, and it seems it is not only me...there are others out there suffering this same peculiar affliction. I've spoken to them, I've met them, I've even had the opportunity to see their belly dough from time to time. I might not watch everything I put into my face, but I work pretty hard physically, and it should count for something I would think. But no. No matter how hard I work, how much I sweat, this stuff stays put.

Now, why suddenly do you ask, am I shocked by this? Well it has kind of crept up on me, found a nice waist to cling to and has made itself at home. And I hate it, I want it gone. Short of having it sucked out, I am baffled at what to do. And yes I've heard you can dramatically alter what you carry around your middle by eating clean. Well let me tell you my friends, I am a dirty girl from way back, and there is no way I am cleaning up everything I eat, or drink. I've got to have a little joy in my life, and sometimes that just means a good bottle of wine and a pizza . So I guess it might just be here to stay.

Not only does this belly fat alter how you look, it can really change the way you feel. Now more than ever I feel a bit dumpy, a bit bumpy and frankly a little old momish. Well, I am aware that I am and old mom, but fuck, do I have to see it in every mirror or window I pass by?

Today I felt this more than ever. I took my daughter to have to top of her ear pierced and we had to go to a piercing, tattoo place to have it done. Well, we walk in and I kind of get a look from the young girl behind the counter, that says, "yeah, what do you want?". Then it hit me, I look like a middle aged mom, who's lost and wandering in for directions. I wanted to roll up my pant leg and say, "look I do belong here, I've had my fair share of visits to a tattoo parlor, probably had my first one when you were still in pre-fucking-school!!". But I couldn't of course, since I was standing there with my child. So, I explained why we were there, and we got on with our business.

This exchange just makes me realize how much I have changed, how much my body has changed, and in the end how it's made people see me. I don't wish to be twenty again, with a rock hard body (okay I am lying here, I do, I do), but I do wish I could feel that kind of confidence that came with strutting around when I was that age. Now I have to be conscious of sucking in my belly fat, being called ma'am and looking like a mom nearing forty. It sucks man.

I used to think I was pretty cool. Like I rode the back of the bus, flew by the seat of my pants. Now, not so much I guess. Instead, I sit closer to the front of the bus just in case I miss my stop and the seat of my pants, well, they're much larger than they used to be, and I've realized I'm a little afraid of flying. What can you do??

Where are Max and Ruby's parents?

This isn't a new question, but having been subjected to several episodes of Max and Ruby over the last week, the answer is clear. They ran. They couldn't stand one more minute of their daughter's pedantic simpering and saccharine self-righteousness. The little bitch just doesn't shut up. And frankly, no parent should have to be constantly reminded of how wrong they may be doing things. They are the parents for fuck sakes! They have every right to be grumpy, hell, even screw up once in a while. But no, they have to have the high-pitched running parental commentary of a seven year old dremmelling into their brain. And really, when you have an over-functioning type-A little princess running things and constantly trying to parent her dim-witted and verbally challenged 3 year old brother, why stick around?

So, where are Max and Ruby's parents?
In Vegas, getting hammered and laid and trying to forget they have children at all.

Blowing the Lid Off This Thing!

I'm a mother, so naturally I believe in conspiracy theories. I mean, come on....there's no possible way there was a single shooter in that library annex. And, find me someone in the western world who didn't think that those first American moon landing photos looked like they were taken on a Hollywood back lot? I dare you to try to convince me that Kentucky Fried Chicken doesn't add some kind of ingredient that makes it irresistible? And really, the world is round? I wanna know who perpetuated that doozy? 

But easily, the most shocking, yet under reported and least discussed conspiracy of them all is, "The Motherhood Mood." Some one, some where (I don't want to point fingers or name names, but my investigations have led me to believe that this destructive dialog was started by someone with a penis) created a myth that really pisses me off: mothers are all deliriously happy to, first, be pregnant, then to give birth, and finally, to have our lives, our thoughts, our hopes, dreams, needs, and desires eternally altered. In short, we aren't allowed to say we're angry, disappointed, lonely, frustrated, sad, or just plain pissed. We've been robbed of our right to the honest expression of our feelings. We've been made into the Stepford Moms. 

So I'm going to shatter the conspiracy, at great personal risk (in fact, as I sit here typing, I expect the CIA or CSIS to break down the door, unplug my keyboard, and slap my hand.)

This myth is so deeply entrenched in our psyches that our greatest oppressors are ourselves, and each other. Woman against woman (and not in the porn mud wrestling pit way, either. This is worse). We find little ways to diminish each other--we judge each other by our children's progress. Come on, you've been there. When one of your sisters, or friends, or even your mother says, "Frankie's not potty trained?! Oh. Too bad! I'm so lucky! Jocelyn was completely trained  by the time she was 19 months. Oh yeah...even night-trained. She was so easy! Are you giving him stickers? Oh, well, I'm sure he'll do it someday." 

Or, we judge each other's decision to stay home or work. This can be cruel and particularly vicious. Some how, if I decide to work, I must be making the statement that my needs are more important than my kids, and that being at home isn't good enough for me, and that I think I'm more enlightened than a stay-at-home mom, thus it threatens women who decide to stay at home. Alternately, if you decide to stay at home, you must be making some comment on my commitment to my children, and how much of a better mother you are for sacrificing everything you need for your kids (and you never complain because that would undermine your position). It also must suggest that my working somehow threatens you and makes you less valuable to society. 

Or, what about, when we get together and we rake our eyes over each other to assess hairstyles, fashion, manicures, and tan lines--and that's just after we've checked out each others kids. My critical eye hasn't fallen on the mom yet! What kind of stroller do you push? What's your opinion on cloth or disposable? Do you have them in soccer, guitar, gymnastics, painting? And are you coaching or teaching any of these activities?

What's happened to us? Why do we do this to ourselves and each other? Who robbed us of our voices and why aren't we fighting to get them back? Every one else, every one else, on the planet whines, snivels, and cries about their jobs and their responsibilities--from my kindergartener to the President of the United States. But not us moms. Any expression that things aren't just 100% super-peachy-keen-super-awesome-fantastic and we're letting the world down. It's a conspiracy I tell you!

When I express my dissatisfaction with being a mother, a working mother, a working mother and wife, people are shocked and horrified. I once told my mother-in-law that while I loved my family deeply, they just weren't enough. They simply didn't complete me. She just sat there in horror looking at me as if I'd just grown a third boob. 

I want to say, without fear of reprisal (from other moms or some secret CIA agency): 

• Why don't men hear a sick child during the night? 
  
• Why does the responsibility for dentist appointments fall to me? 
  
• If I have to tell him that he needs to pick up diapers on the way home from work, I might as well just do it myself! 
  
• I'm angry that my husband can walk away from the house and our family, and not worry that things will get done and people will be taken care of. 
  
• I want to weep and pummel my husband (not necessarily in that order) when, at 3:00 AM I have to (again) tell him that no, he can't actually put the pillow cases and sheets full of  vomit straight in the washing machine, while I'm sitting with a 4 year old who's puking in a bucket (and all over me). 
• Why does gender define the household chores? It makes me crazy that vagina=cooking and cleaning toilets and penis=snow shoveling and washing the car. 
• I'm lonely and tired, and I hate that I have nothing of my own!! Nothing! 
• I can't bear being responsible for everything! The weight is too much. Sometimes I feel so heavy from everyone's expectations that I can barely move my limbs.
• I just wanna take a pee all by myself--no company, no interruptions, no fingers under the door, and no frantic knocking shouting about how bad they gotta go. Just me, my bladder, and a People magazine!

So every mom, every where, throw off the shackles of this conspiracy! It doesn't make you a BAD MOMMY to say, "Today, I was a bad mommy, and, yah know, it wasn't too bad!" Or, "Oh, just screw it! If I have to go to one more f#*&ing PTA meeting I'm going to hurt somebody." Or, "You work out, I work in, what the hell, we both work--let's get drunk!" Or better yet, "Honey, if you have kids and can manage to brush your teeth in the morning and get the little beggars to school less that 15 minutes late, you are the Martha Stewart of parenthood! Good on ya! Now go congratulate yourself with a scotch!"  

Wipe that frozen, icy Jesus-I-love-every-single-little-thing-about-my-life smile (that doesn't reach any where near your wild trapped-in-this-life eyes) off your face and let's overthrow this conspiracy. The Stepford Moms may have great hair, but girls, nice hair won't give you a tenth of the satisfaction you'll get when you tell your husband that you hate cleaning the goddamn toilets, so for the rest of your parenthood together, every Saturday he can clean those greasy receptacles and make sure the kids get lunch, 'cause you'll be at the car wash for two hours (because, that's just how long  it takes!). 

Where the hell is IT?

And no I am not talking about my groove thing...frankly I'm too damn tired from looking for my family's shit to even thing about any kind of a groove thing!! Not only am I constantly looking for other people's crap, I am losing almost anything I put down and walk away from. I am starting to think there is an evil conspiracy in my house...someone trying to make me look crazy enough to have me committed? Maybe. Wouldn't blame them of course.

Anything from, books, shoes, underwear, coats...the list is truly endless. Sometimes my loving family even has the audacity to call me when I've had the opportunity to escape briefly, to ask me if I've seen their shit!! And if I have, could I please, please, please let them know where it is and then remember that too. I am sort of pointing fingers here, mostly at my husband. Apparently the man can remember just about anything, except for where he puts stuff. Meaningless stuff mostly, but somehow he thinks I have this Rain man sort of thing going on when it comes to remembering asinine things, like where people put their gloves. Well at least I'm good for something, I guess.

On the other hand I can't remember where I've put anything myself, at any given moment. Be it, my now, ice cold cup of coffee, or my keys, which I only use about three thousand times a day. I misplace them...every sickening time I walk away. I am almost always completely unable to remember why I've entered a room, or why I've gone upstairs or downstairs. I am beginning to get a little worried, so you must understand my thoughts on a conspiracy here, right?

I think on average I spend at least 60% of my day looking for stuff, and I mean really earnestly looking. No wonder I can barely get anything else done around here. Well losing shit, trying to find it, and blogging are probably equal contributors to my issue. It's just that one is so much more enjoyable than the others.

Some days I just picture myself sitting cross legged in the middle of the living room. Waiting for someone, anyone, to help me find the stuff I am in search of, maybe at the same time they could help me find my sanity?

It's Been a Dry Coupla Seasons

How I miss my husband. Back in the day, way, way, back in the day, we used to be good friends, and man, did we have fun together. We'd go hiking, camping, climbing. We'd do crosswords together stretched across the living room floor, read the paper together on Saturday mornings, mix each other dirty martinis, with 7 olives each, go dancing at least once a week and drink jugs and jugs of sweet, tangy Sangria, and have crazy foreign film festivals in the bedroom, eating Chinese, Vietnamese, or German take-out on top of the blankets.  

And we had sex. Did we have sex! Mad, delicious, breathtaking sex. On the covers, under the covers, standing up, sitting down, in the shower, in the bath, the kitchen, the basement, the living room floor with the curtains open. Once, twice, and during the film festivals, sometimes five times a day. Just watching him walk, seeing his legs or back or stomach made my heart (and parts somewhat lower) clench and ache. I wanted to touch him all the time. Even doing the dishes together was sexy. The promise of wet hands and soft soapy bubbles.......

Now? Yeah. Now. Not so much. 

Now? It's been a dry coupla seasons. The closest I get to spending any of the precious time we used to have together is watching him hike a screaming preschooler to her room for a time-out, or seeing him cornered at the kitchen table doing math homework, or when he's downing a cup of scalding coffee before running the next kid to the next lesson. And film festivals? At best, it's Finding Nemo with take-out pizza, and 5 twitchy kids. I only catch a glimpse of my still sexy husband as he's carrying a load of laundry downstairs, or reading a bedtime story, or drying off some little, chubby body, that's not his own (damn, damn, double-damn! Toweling off was always one of my favorite spectator sports!) 

And as far as sex, were lucky if we get to do the silent, three-minute bump-and-grind once a month. Under the covers. In the dark. And way, way past bedtime. Now, I know what you're thinking! It's pretty shocking. I can hardly believe it myself....we're SILENT! 

Absolutely silent sex. No heaving, heavy breathing. No gasping, panting, swearing, imploring, or grunting. Just tight-lipped silence. In fact, I think we might both hold our breath the entire time (we may not get a lot of exercise, but these monthly trysts are certainly increasing my lung capacity). We bonk in fear that, 1. the kids will hear, and 2. the kids will hear and subsequently wake up and ruin what might be an adequate nights sleep! And as any sane mother knows, sleep before sex, sleep before sex!!

I just wanna throw off the shackles of motherhood (and throw the shackles on my husbands wrists). The damn kids not only took my body, took my time, and took my money, they took my groove thing!!

So, I'm going to employ a tactic I've noticed has worked very effectively for my children. When in a particularly sensitive location, like, a parent-teacher interview or the Christmas concert or a birthday party at McDonald's, for instance, I'm going to have a world-class, eardrum-shattering tantrum:

I WANT MY GROOVE THING BACK!!! IT'S JUST NOT FAIR!!!! EVERYBODY AT WORK HAS A GROOVE THING!!! I WANT ONE TOO!!! I WANT MY GROOVE THING BACK!!! I WANT IT BACK!!!! YOU SAID!!!

I'll let you know how it works for me. And if you happen to find yourself in the same locale as me when I am implementing my plan, please, for my sake, and the sake of all of us, and your future ability to get jiggy with it, join in. Our future sex lives depend upon it!

Attack of the Killer Muskrats

Aaaarrrrrgggghhhhhhhh!!!!

I know. I know! Stay-at-home parenting is the hardest, most thankless job on the planet, and stay-at-home mom's deserve the $130,000 odd dollars a year for everything they do. I know. I know! 

I have a solid 12 years of the job myself! I did it all, and often all alone.

So when I went back to work, about 8 months ago, it was purely because if I had to volunteer one more time at pre-school, go on one more play date with a mom I could barely tolerate, exchange brownie recipes one more time, or be scorned by some group of anal, twittering woman at the Mommy and Me Club, while their precious little gnats terrorized one of my kids, one more goddamn time, I was going to commit a highly dangerous and likely illegal act (I had fantasies of running around pell mell punching every single well-groomed, pasty-smiled mom right in the nose and relishing the veritable blood fountain I'd created). In other words, I went back to work to save my sanity, and prevent future jail-time.

But, here I am, at work, with crushing deadlines, a psychotic boss, and more hours of overtime than I'll be able to fit into one day, and I know that when I get home I'll still have to do the "housekeeping, cooking, laundry, driving kids around, and managing the household."

My life's a mess (Literally. I mean, you should see my dust bunnies. No. Not bunnies. These babies have graduated from dust bunnies to dust muskrats. In fact, if I don't vacuum, I sure that one of these days, one of these monsters is going to consume my 4 year old.)

Now, the obvious question is, "What about your husband? Doesn't he help?" Well, yeeeessss. Kinda. He's a good man, and I love him, but he can't even fold a dishtowel. He burns or spills nearly everything he cooks. And it takes him roughly three hours to sweep and wash the kitchen floor, during which time, if anyone, anyone makes a move toward the kitchen he gets agitated, then he and the mop start twitching and the speckles of moisture start to fly (some from the mop, but most from his heaving jaws! Which, needless to say, creates more of a mess for me to clean up--plus it takes the rest of the day to help the kids recover from their post-traumatic mop disorder.) 

I know the debate is hot and heavy--working moms versus stay-at-home moms. Each group staunchly in their corners, defending their right to do the job they think serves them and their family best (It's the one's that try to tell me what's best for me and my family that really get my blood boiling. Not that I'm cowed! When your kids wake up Saturday morning and cry because it's not a daycare day, you feel pretty comfortable that the preachy-holier-than-thou-stay-at-home-mom-moms, or vice versa--I've been on both sides of the debate--don't have a sturdy leg to stand on). However, I don't want to wade into those waters right now (I'm too damn busy!), but sister, let me tell you. It ain't easy being a working mom either. 

Even though my brain is fried, and dinner is fried, and the vacuum will be fried (when I finally try to tackle those muskrats lurking under the furniture and behind doors), I value my ability to forge a life for myself. And really, with me as their mother, one way or another, whether I stay home with them, or work, their going to need therapy, at least this way, I'll be able to pay for it.

Just Eat and Jiggle

God, my body is so not like it used to be... before I had kids. And to think I used to bitch and complain about a dimple here and ripple there. What I would give now to have a third of the muscle tone, and the semi-smooth skin that once covered my ever growing thighs.

I used to turn around and around in the mirror just to find imperfections. Now all I have to do is quickly swing my head to look, and gravity takes over. I am suddenly able to see my back-half without even turning around.

I truly had no idea skin could hold so much loose matter together, without it dropping completely to my ankles. The little bit of muscle tone I once had is a distant memory, and believe me I never had that much. Now I can hold up the loose skin that holds my chub together and it kinda looks smooth and somewhat taut....well it's just an illusion, but whatever it takes to get me through the day.

The other morning, I got out of the shower and just for fun I thought I would see how all of my hard work is paying off, bad idea. Don't try this at home, anyone, ever. I stood there, full length image of my own naked body staring back at me, stood, feet planted, and jiggled, and jiggled...and jiggled. Holy shit, nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. It is kind of like taking a mirror and looking at your freshly, just gave birth vagina, terrifying to say the least.

What do I have to do to get this stuff to firm up, or at least slow down in fleshy-jello department?

So I've decided the only thing left for me to do is , accept this, yes accept it. In the meantime I am going to keep on eating, enjoying wine...and above all keep jiggling!!

I Was a Young Mom Once, Honest!!

Hard to believe, when I look in the mirror at the end of a long day, that I was once a young fresh-faced mom, with energy abound. Now thirteen-some-odd years later, I am a somewhat new mom again, to a third child (my lovely twenty month old daughter). Only now I have more wrinkles, more grey hair and more stretch marks than you can shake a stick at. And yes, I have less energy, less patience and I am quickly losing ground on all I thought I knew as a young mom.

I'm not sure whether it was pure naivety or just youth that got me through, virtually unscathed with my first two. Now, many years later, everything I thought I knew, I have to relearn. And I am tired, really tired.

There are days when I sit and observe new , young moms, obviously with their first child. Both well dressed, hair neatly coiffed, with their sweet sing-song voices, trailing after their lovely rosy-cheeked children. You rarely, if ever, hear them snarling at their sweet angels, to "please, bloody-well behave themselves". Instead they ask, repeat, and then go through all of , by the book steps, in order to get their child to comply with their loving request.

Then, spot the experienced moms, they are recognized from a mile away. Usually frazzled, with hair half hanging out of their onion elastic pony-tail holder. Which of course is all they could find since their wonderful babes took what was left of their good elastics, for science projects, themselves or to use as weapons against each other. The sing-song voice has turned into a hoarse shriek that could paralyze the deaf. And finally, their wardrobe consists mostly of clothes which their children are most definitely mortified by. The last, only because they have not a spare moment to replace what they have been hanging onto for years, and the thought of shopping with a small child could break even the most seasoned shoppers.

Well I am no longer a young mom, I think they now refer to us as mature mothers. Women who have been crazy enough to have a child after 35. Whether it is a first child, a third, fourth or fifth, that you have after this golden age, it is much different than parenting in your twenties.

When you are in your late thirties or in your forties, you now know what life is about, you've become slightly more selfish about your time ( what little you have). You, in other words, know what you are missing. Quiet afternoons enjoying a good book, uninterrupted. A long bath, without an audience. All of those things we took for granted before we had kids, or at least when our first batch of kids were independent enough to know when to leave us the hell alone, and before we'd decided to try this new-parent thing all over again.

Don't get me wrong, I am thrilled to be experiencing parenting from a whole new perspective, it's just that I kinda miss being that young fabulous mom, I think I was??

Say What?!

So, wanna hear a regular conversation I continue to have with people? All people. People I know but haven't seen for a while, people who are complete strangers to me, people I'm related to and have known me since before I had pubic hair? 

This isn't a topic I choose to discuss, and honestly, would rather not hear people's deeply held convictions about, but telling the cashier at Safeway or the preschool teacher or my aunt to shut the f@#* up, and mind their own damn business tends to create difficulties in my daily life--like bad service or having the dogs set on me. So I do what other good, polite Canadian girls do. I smile, nod my head, and at the soonest possible moment, I change the subject. 

So, what, you ask, is this mystery topic? Well, for anyone who has more than 2.5 kids, this is going to sound familiar, but for the rest of you, listen up, and listen good: 

"Oh. Are these all you children?! All of them. I mean, your actual children?" Now, as a point of fact they are my biological children--meaning I did squeeze them out of my body, every single one of the little termites, and I have the saggy vagina to show for it--but does it never occur to these vapid dunces that even if I'd adopted every single one of them they'd still be my actual children!

I nod my head as my eyes glaze, "Yes, they're my children. Mmmhmmm, all 5 of them." Then, it comes. The real kicker (and there's always a good chance that the next person who says this to me is going to be the kickee!), "You do know what causes it, don't you?! Tee hee hee!" 

Now, how do I adequately answer this inane question? 

• "Yes. Yes I do know what causes it. Thanks for inquiring."
  
• "Ummm, actually, just between you and me, I've never figured it out. Why? Can you tell me? Why does it happen? Why do I have so many, and is there a way to stop having more?!"
  
• "Yes I do. Would you like me to explain it to you?"
  
• "Well, what happens is this: when sexually aroused, a man's penis engorges with blood causing an erection. When erect, a penis can enter a woman's vagina, preferably lubricated. Then through a series of thrusts and parries, often accompanied by grunting, the man ejaculates semen, a viscose liquid, which carries sperm, into his female partner. At which point....." 
  

I'm tired of this. I'm really tired of it. Whether they were all planned or all accidents, whether they have five different fathers or one father is nobodies business. I don't want to hear the political argument that it's someone's business because they pay school tax or medical premiums which support my kids, or the social argument that the world is overpopulated and I'm being reckless. Really? Really? What can you say to that? Detail the list of things that we all pay taxes for? Point out who'll be the tax payers when these nosy bastard are decrepit? Ask for a detailed account of what they own, what they drive, what they smoke, where they go and how they get there? Honestly, hypocrisy is not only sad, it's rather funny. Poor little meddling pea-brains. 

What is it about becoming a mother that makes you public property? It starts when we're pregnant. As soon as a woman is showing, everyone, Everyone, starts to touch. Poking and prodding and patting, like your a bloody loaf of bread. With the touching, comes a sense of ownership that gives these interlopers the self-proclaimed permission to counsel, advise, and just plain boss.

Now, I can grasp that in this day and age, 5 kids seems outrageous, maybe selfish, or maybe selfless, but unless we give each other the permission to invade each other's personal lives and space about everything--"Oh, are you going to eat both those cheeseburgers? or "Gee, you have tiny little breasts," pat, pat, pat or "Oh my God, you stink of B.O. do you know what deodorant is?" or "You do know you're stupid, don't you? Tee hee hee!"--people should just tuck their lower lips around their tiny little heads, and leave me, my kids, and my uncontrollable libido alone!

Or, they could be honest, and say what they're really thinking, "What are you, crazy?" At least, then, we'd agree on something!

Things I've Learned

Boy, there's a whole lot of things I've learned, somethings useful, others, not-so-much.

I've learned from some wise old women (namely our mothers), never to test for a shitty bum by sticking your index finger into the side of a squirmy child's diaper. You're liable to come out with a finger full of the good stuff. Sniff instead. It might look bad, but hey would rather have a finger covered in shit?

Never, ever brag or appear to brag about how well your sweet little muffin sleeps through the night. This will only a guarantee that they will not sleep through the night again until they are in grade 6.

Never let your children think you are too flexible, no matter the age (this includes newborns). If they even get a whiff of flexibility, they are going to make you bend. Forwards, backwards, even inside-out, and they'll get all sorts of pleasure out of it.

Try not to, for even a second, think your child is incapable of certain questionable things. They are swift, cunning little creatures, who delight in our inability to believe they are anything but perfect (come on, we've all been there, with little Tommy's mom, who says her child couldn't possibly do something like that).

Finally and most importantly (at least to my sanity these days), never test a 20 month old. Walk on egg shells if you must in order to get through the day (this is one thing that overrides the flexibility rule). Give in, feed them lollipops, Popsicles, do whatever it takes to keep the little beggar from putting you into a straight jacket before your time.

I hope this helps! If anyone has any other wonderful words of encouragement, please share. And if it is only to tell us how fabulous and stress free it is raising your children, keep it to yourself (haha).

Darlene and Gloria

"Helllou....Oh, hiya Honey. How you doin' today? Mmmm, he did? He said that? What's wrong with men? Does all that play fighting when they're young knock their damn brains around 'til they just loose inside their skull? Sometimes, they're just as thick as fence-posts! I know just how you feel. Why just yesterday, after I got back from having my nails done, Harvey said to me....Oh, my, just hang on a minute...what's that Georgie? Oh My God. I gotta go Gloria. Georgie just had a big number 2, it's kinda leaking out his diaper....oooooo, I really gotta run. He's making little poo tracks down the hall. STOP! GEORGIE!! STOP MOVING!! GEORGIE! YOU STOP RIGHT THIS MINUTE!!! I'll call you back, sweetie."

"Hi Gloria, it's just me again. Do you have a few minutes? I've got to tell you the craziest story. Yeah. Good. Grab a coffee because this may take a little bit. Mmmm, yah real cream in coffee is soooo gooood. What kind do you use? Oooooooo, Honey, I like the sound of that! Whaddya call it again? Yeah, save me the tin so I can see the label. Oh. Yeah. The poo. 

Well, anyway, after I hung up, I chased Georgie down the hall. He'd made it to our room and was trying to pull himself up on our bed. I'm going to have to wash all the sheets now, and I just did them 2 days ago, oh and our drier's on the fritz so I have to line dry 'em, and it's suppose to rain today. Goddamn! And why my side of the bed anyway? It's the farthest away from the door? 

So anyway, Honey, I dragged him off to the bathroom to change him, and he's kicking and screaming. He just hates to be changed now. Ever since he started walking he's a fiend. He twists and arches and kicks. It's awful, and when I'm frustrated it's even worse. I just want to let the little bugger sit in it, you know? Or conk him on the noggin to get him to shut up and lay still long enough for me to get the job done.

So, like I said, I drag him off to change him, and I just get him laid down and I got a clean diaper and those nice smelling Johnson's wipes....mmmhhmmm, them flushable ones. Makes it so much easier just to flush them than to think about poopy wipes sitting in the kitchen garbage. Pardon Honey? Oh yeah, me and Harvey got one of those diaper pails, but Harvey hates all that twisting, and he thinks it's just stupid to have to buy special little bags for the damn thing, so it's sitting outside the backdoor with the snow shovel, rake, and the old handle and float from the upstairs toilet we had to replace in June. That man never cleans up anything. 

Anyway, I've just got Georgie down, and I had to lay him on a towel! There was no way I wanted poo on the bathroom carpet. We just had that replaced. So, like I said, I was just undoing the pull-tabs when he kicks me real hard, right between the boobs. Well I'm just trying to catch my breath and hold him down, 'cause he's squirming like a demon now and the diaper is half off. All this wet poo is dripping and little bits are flying everywhere. Well, I just yell at him to lay still and grab him, but he wiggles and I get a handful of the diaper. So now I have poo all over my hand, and Gloria, Honey, it was under my fingernails. Now that's just horrible. Isn't it? So I'm gagging as I get a good hold of him and lay him flat, I think I kinda scared the little bugger, 'cause he started crying. And the doorbell rings. 

Well, I hate not to answer the door, and I was expecting an Avon delivery, yeah, Honey, that Peachy Keen lipstick that Joyce has, mmmmhhmmm. I do love that color. So I quickly wipe up Georgie and run my hands under the tap. 'Course he's not completely wiped. You know that little spot right under their scrotum, where you have to move the little sack back and forth to get it real clean? It's still not clean, and I can smell that he's still kinda foul, so I put him in his crib for a bit and run to answer the door.

Well, it's not the Avon lady. It's the Jehovah's. Sweet Jesus those people show up at the worst times. Anyway, I am standing there trying to nicely get the old broad to go away, smiling and nodding. Well she's going on and on about, 'Aren't things different than when we were kids? Things are so much harder for kids nowadays. Don't you agree? Well, you know what the problem is? Do you know the culprit?' And I'm just nodding and shaking my head, sorta leaning on the door so it's closing ever-so-slowly, and she says, 'The very thing that's exposing our kids to the dangers of Satan is the.......SINternet. They call it the information super-highway. But it's only the super-highway to HELL!!!!'

And all this time, I can smell poop. I look down at my blouse and there's none there, then I look at my hands, but I got most of it off when I washed, only the stuff under my fingernails was still there. So I sniffed my hands, kinda secretly so the Jehovah lady didn't suspect anything, you know, I sorta pretended my nose was itchy, and well, they smelled more like my rose-scented soap than poop, but I figured where else could the smell be coming from. Well, the Jehovah lady is trying to get me to take that Watch Tower magazine-thingy so I can read about the evils of the Sinternet and how if I come to a church meeting on Wednesday night I can learn how to stop Satan's network.

So Georgie starts screaming now, so I tell the lady that I really gotta go get my kid, and thanks for the magazine-thingy, and I was busy Wednesday night, but thanks for the offer anyway, and I shut the door. I guess I closed it kinda quick, because it created quite a breeze and I got a strong smell of poo again. So I smelled my hands again, and they seemed okay, though I had to scrub under my nails. And I just had them done the other day! Plus, I'll have to bleach the nail brush, and who knows how many of them little bristles will fall out. I'll probably have to buy another one. Oh, yeah?....They come in lavender? Where? Where did you find a nail brush in lavender? That would go so nice with my bathroom. I can only ever find them wooden handled ones. Where? Mmmhmmmm, I shoulda known Wal-Mart would have something smart like that. I'm not even gonna bleach the old one. I'm just gonna run out and get a new lavender one.

Anyway, so I go get Georgie out of his crib, and he's good and mad. So I give him a cookie, just to hush him up and run him a bath. No way I was tryin' to wipe him anymore. I'm not risking getting kicked again, that little spot right between my boobs still hurts. Anyway, I get him undressed and in the tub, and I dump in his toys. Finally, he's quiet. But, Lord have mercy, I can still smell poo. I grab the nail brush and start scrubbing. When I'm all clean, no more poop under my nails, I take a nice long smell of my hands. Lovely. But just after my big last whiff, I catch a smell of poo again. It's starting to really make me mad now.

I'm getting to it, Gloria. Hold your panties on. 

Well, I look in the mirror to fix my hair, and whaddya know. There, right on the end of my nose, is a big old spot of dried poop. Yup. Right on the end. About the size of a pea. Stop giggling Gloria, you're getting me started. Well, I start to laugh until I remember that I musta stood there for 5 minutes listening to that Jehovah lady go on about the information super-hellway with Georgie's poop right on the end of my nose. She musta thought I was crazy. 

Well, you're right there Honey! At least it wasn't the Avon lady!   

When Motherhood was Pretty

Oh, I remember so well when motherhood was pretty. In fact, pretty is an inadequate adjective to describe the radiant beauty I felt in being a mother. I virtually shone with inner light. When I was with my children, my hair glistened, my smile glowed, and my joyous, heart-felt laugh rang like a chorus of bells. I wrapped myself in my children and we were breathtaking.

Oh, I remember well how beautiful my children were. We walked down the beach, with our jeans rolled up. We skittered up the sand as the waves broke over our feet. They giggled and squealed. My heart nearly burst of love. I would stop, overwhelmed that my heart could hold as much love as this. How could it not burst?

Oh, I remember their first violin lessons. When they held the tiny instruments in their small hands. Running their fingers carefully over the polished wood. The little start of glee I saw start in their eyes and then creep down to their lips the first time they drew the bow across the strings. Even the squeaking and squawking practice couldn't diminish their joy, or mine, in seeing them so happy.

Oh, I remember how perfect and frail my children looked when they were sick. Wrapped tight in a blanket of fleece, and my love. Flushed from fever. Their soft hair brushing warm cheeks. Crying soft, nearly silent tears. All of us. Them from the pain, and me from the pain of watching them suffer. 

Oh, I remember. I remember the transcendent, quiet beauty of being a mother. 

Then, I remember, that this all happened in my tiny little pea-brain years before I ever actually had kids. Then.....I went and had them. 

Then, oh, my hair glistened all right. It glistened from the natural oils your scalp produces when you can't spare 5 minutes in 5 days to take a shower. And that bell like laugh, was in fact, more of a going-to-snap cackle that turned my husband's hair white (it has incredible power, that laugh. I've seen it melt popsicles at the same time it creates bloodsicles of arteries).

And, oh, they were beautiful. They were gorgeous. When they were sleeping. But when they were awake, and strolling down the beach, it was a chorus of whining about damp pants and sniveling about sand between their toes. And the skittering? That was actually galloping away from me as I chased them down the beach threatening to bonk them with a conch shell.

Then, oh, ohhh, ooohhhhh that first violin lesson! When I wondered what on Earth possessed me to place a one-child-torture device in the hands of a three year old! It's like asking a pyromaniac to hold on to your matches for you. Certain disaster is sure to follow! Believe me, it's not pretty to see a harried woman chew her way through a miniature bow. Not attractive. At all. And damn, it's tough to get horse hair out of your teeth.

And, oh, oh my. How frail they were when they were sick. Weak, except for their voices, bellowing in my ear, after they'd just thrown up down the back of my neck as I was bent over the toilet being sick myself. And wrapped in the fleece? Me. Strictly to protect my facial orifices from the next bout of projectile vomit sure to be aimed at my head.

Oh, I remember when motherhood was pretty. Way back, way back, at the back of my imagination. Motherhood was pretty when I was pretty damn green (inexperienced, not naseous). The beauty of motherhood kinda matches my belly--the before and after. Before kids, it was glorious. Flat, smooth and sweet. After kids, it's lumpy, creased and sad. 

Ah, the innocence of youth....mine, not my kids. 

My advice? Stick with the imagination kids. They're cute, clean, cuddly, and sweet. And they will never, ever wipe snot on your best blouse. 

THE NEXT SURVIVOR SERIES: Survivor - Motherhood

1. Six married men will be dropped on an island with one car and three kids.
2. Each for six weeks.
3. Each kid will play two sports and either take music or dance classes.
4. There is no fast food.Each man must take care of his 3 kids; keep his assigned house clean, correct all homework, and complete science projects, cook, do laundry, and pay a list of 'pretend' bills with not enough money.
5. Each man will have to budget in money for groceries each week.
6. Each man must remember the birthdays of all their friends and relatives, and send cards out on time.
7. Each man must also take each child to a doctor's appointment, a dentist appointment and a haircut appointment.
8. He must make one unscheduled and inconvenient visit per child to the Urgent Care.
9. He must also make cookies or cup cakes for a social function.
10. Each man will be responsible for decorating his own assigned house, planting flowers outside and keeping it presentable at all times.
11. The men will only have access to television when the kids are asleep and all chores are done.
12. The men must shave their legs, wear uncomfortable yet stylish shoes, keep fingernails manicured and eyebrows groomed.
13. During one of the six weeks, the men will have to endure severe abdominal cramps, back aches, and have extreme, unexplained mood swings but never once complain or slow down from other duties.
14. They must attend weekly school meetings, church, and find time at least once to spend the afternoon at the park or a similar setting.
15. They will need to read a book and then pray with the children each night and in the morning, feed them, dress them, brush their teeth and comb their hair by 7 :00 am.
16. A test will be given at the end of the six weeks, and each father will be required to know all of the following information: each child's birthday, height, weight, shoe size, clothes size and doctor's name.
17. The child's weight at birth, length, time of birth, and length of labour, each child's favorite color, middle name, favorite snack, favorite song, favorite drink, favorite toy, biggest fear and what they want to be when they grow up.
18. The kids vote them off the island based on performance. The last man wins only if ... he still has enough energy to be intimate with his spouse at a moment's notice.
19. IF the last man does win, he can play the game over and over and over again for the next 18-25 years eventually earning the right to be called Mother!

Disclaimer: OK. There are lots of Dads out there that can and do do this, but the reason this is funny for so many of us is that IT IS SO F*#*#*#*ing TRUE!

The Plan

My kids are driving me crazy, or as my darling Grandma used to say, before she'd slipped down the hall to take off her girdle, and secretly slide a mickey of Gammel Dansk out of a pair of sensible shoes at the back of her closet, "Oh! You kids! Shut up!! You're driving me to drink!!"

Now, say....I think Grandma might have been on to something. 

So, I've developed a strategy. I've decided to approach all parenting dilemmas with a three-fold plan:

One: When approached with whining pre-schoolers, or angry, angst- ridden teenagers (of which, insanely, I have both),  I will stop. That is, stop moving--a mother standing in the kitchen or laundry-room, or sitting on the toilet, is such a ubiquitous sight as to make her almost invisible. Especially if she's holding any implements coated in food remnants, filthy dirty socks turned inside-out, or as with seeming regularity in my case, mid-stream. If however, the invaders sense my presence (which I admit, may be more often than I like, them being equipped with highly developed mother-seeking radar), I'll move onto step two of the plan.

Two: After being spotted by the hordes, with the unfortunate failure of my camouflage,  I'll smile (to put them off their guard), then run. Admittedly, I'm not as fast as the little ticks, and when determined they have incredible stamina, but I hope that with the combination of the disarming smile, and the sudden movement (of which they are rather unfamiliar--sudden movements from their mother, I mean), the boogers will be unsure of what's happening, thus giving me a much needed head start. I plan to press my advantage, make a fast-break for any room with a lock, and once inside throw the bolt. Now, I haven't failed to account for the problem of having the nose-miners on one side of a door, and me, locked on the other--which most mother's have learned results in the pound-kick-pound-scream attack. So I've made a survey of all the rooms in our house with a lock, and discovered that each of those rooms also has a window. Always have an escape hatch (that's my motto). Oh, yes. Always have an escape hatch, and wear shoes. But, I sense, this tactic may be slightly flawed and prone to failure, as eventually, my Catholic guilt will force me home, where I suspect, the "Bestowers of the Stretch Marks" will be lying in wait. So, when forced to reenter my home, I will move on to step three. 

Three: Calmly and quietly, through the noise and din and renting of clothing, I'll make my way to the drink cupboard and pour myself a stiff one. Once imbibed, I will repeat the step until sufficiently lubricated as to make all complaining, whining, demanding, and shouting irrelevant (to me). At which point, I will proudly carry on the family tradition and bellow, "Oh! You kids! Shut up!! You're driving me to drink!" 

Get Your Bags and RUN!!

A couple of weeks ago I overheard a conversation (okay I was eavesdropping) between a couple of moms in the locker room. These moms must have been mid-fortyish, and seemed pretty with it from my limited standpoint. Then their conversation turned to the subject of going on vacation.

One of the women was telling the other that she was getting ready to go away somewhere warm, and her friend asked her if it was just she and her husband. To which she replied, as though she had cold water poured over her head, "of course not, we're taking the whole family. I just don't understand those people who want to be away from their kids. I personally love spending every waking, painful moment with mine" (okay I might be taking a few liberties here, but you get the tone).

I was so stunned I nearly made my eavesdropping known, but held back, due to the fact that I was hiding out in the washroom just to listen in. "Perfect Mom" then went on to say that since she and her husband "Poor Pitiful Guy" had children, they had never spent one night away from them....EVER. Are you kidding me? No dirty filthy hotel sex, EVER?? Geesh and I thought we were boring. Well, her reasoning was that if one wants to have children why would they need to be away from them? Her friend, just nodded her poor simple little head, and never challenged this notion. WOW!

Well let me tell you my friends I both NEED and WANT time away from my offspring. In fact when the chance arises I am giddy, tingly with excitement. I usually have an upset stomach and diarrhea due to the thrill, a few days prior to my launch.

I remember one year a friend and I had gone away, we decided to leave the night before our original planned departure, instead of leaving early the next morning. Well, we didn't arrive until very late, after midnight in fact. We grabbed out bags out of the car, checked into our room, and proceeded to crawl into our very own queen-sized beds, mowing down chips watching crap on t.v., giggling like we'd never been alone before. There is just something about the way that kind of freedom from your children, and your life makes you feel.

I cherish those times; when I can be a girl again, a fun, silly, sleeping late, staying up later kind of girl. We need those times away with friends and ourselves, to reconnect with who we once were. It feels good to know I can do this, that my loved ones support me doing it.

I love sitting cross legged on a bed reading trashy magazines, putting on make-up and acting as though I am a teenager again It feels bloody good to take care of just me for a few days here and there. To forget that someone needs something from me, and I can sit back and do nothing for a change.

Maybe there really are those "Perfect Moms" out there who never need or want time for themselves, away from their families, sadly, no, gladly I am not one of them. I look forward to the next parcel of time where I get to "pack my bags and run"!!

Reinventing Jane

We all know somewhere somehow, after becoming a mom you lose something. Parts of the "old" you become increasingly less visible. Till one day your standing in a store or in your own closet wondering how the hell you got here in the first place. You're not just a mom, a headless entity that does things, finds things, cooks, and cleans for other people (although it feels like it some days), you're still there. Deep down, in the dark recesses you are still the same girl you once were. Maybe not with the same body, hair, skin and all that crap, but you know who you were.

You're still you, but it is like someone took you apart, put the pieces of you into a jar, shook it up, dumped it all back out, reassembled the pieces, but somehow didn't quite manage to get it right. Kind of like the image of Humpty Dumpty being put back together by soldiers and horses, not pretty. And it certainly not like the adage, "it's you, only better".

Today this hit me....hard. I stopped at the mall to see if I could find something, anything to put on my not so perfect body. Something that would put that little spring back into my step, yeah whatever. I recently heard a talk about how women tend not to know their style "age" especially after having children.

It starts out with you in your twenties. You still aren't sure how to make the transition from a teen dresser to a young woman...well sadly that confusion, sticks like cellulite for many of us. Next you find yourself struggling to create some kind of image that fits who you thought you were, but now that you've kind of figured it out, you've aged ten years and you are on the fashion/identity hamster wheel from hell!! Fuck!!

Now I walk into stores with young, and I mean young girls giving you advice, or just trying to humour so you get the hell out of their hair, and stop shopping in their stores. Help I am stuck! Either I go straight for granny-ville, or back to my twenties, which just isn't cool. I don't know how to picture myself looking stylish and hip without looking like a cougar on the hunt. More often than not I end up leaning towards comfortable clothing that is more like lounge wear. I want to look hip, sophisticated, but lack the know how and frankly the confidence much of the time.

Ah, the joys of growing up and older, becoming a mom, and losing yourself. Why doesn't this transition come with some kind of hand book. There are "how to's" on everything from sex, to computers, to raising children. Why hasn't anyone told us how to tuck little bits of ourselves away so we can take them out later to find that they had aged beautifully like fine wine?

Remember stumbling through the awkwardness of our teens, wishing we could just grow up and become confident women? Oh ,how time plays us for fools. Here we are back at the starting block once again, only we have wrinkles, stretch marks, grey hair, saggy boobs and bums to go with it. Shopping used to be a joy now it's a chore, for the most part. Looking endlessly at racks of jeans and accessories makes my head spin, when it used to make me dizzy with excitement.

Well, I can't very well walk around naked, without putting everyone into therapy. Instead I have to put on my sweetest smile, drag my lumpy bum to the store, to put up with the sympathetic, cynical looks I get from the sales girls and reinvent myself yet again.

Can't write.....too tired.....zzzzzzz

I wanted to write about the frightening disconnection we parents have with our intuition. The teeth-chattering, knee-knocking fear we feel if we don't validate our parenting decisions, thoughts, feelings, bumblings, and triumphs with an expert. It could be our parents, or friends, or siblings, but mostly we don't feel secure unless we validate our choices with the Oprah's and Dr. Phils and Dr. Spocks. 

Sad. 

Millions of years of parenting evolution, so we can trust the talking heads. Maybe it's just me, but mostly, I can't help seeing their bulging eyes and listening to their stern warnings without imagining them surrounded by Wizard of Oz-type green fire. I just know, one day, some one's little dog is going to run out of Oprah's audience, pull back a curtain, and there will be a sad, chubby, lonely little man pulling her strings.

Just creeps me out.

So, yup, I was going to write a doozy of a post. With references, links, erudite dialog, jaw-dropping insights, and spectacular grammar. 

But, too tired. My four year old spent a sick Saturday night draining my will to live. If they were casting for a new zombie flick, possibly entitled, Day of the Sleepless Dead, I'd get the lead roll. There'd be no contest.  

Must go. Fingers tired. Eyes drooping. Drool pooling.......

"Motorbike"

(The Mother's version of Handlebars)



I can go to work on a motorbike, on a motorbike yah, on a motorbike, and I can wear my jeans with no underwear, no underwear, no underwear, and I can veto plans with my evil glare, my evil glare, yah, my evil glare. I can change the time with my microwave, with my microwave, with my microwave, yah and I can take out stains with my pampers wipes with my pampers wipes, yah with my pampers wipes. I can cook a meal with no vegetables, with no vegetables, no vegetables. I can read a book for one thousand times, for one thousand times, for one thousand times and I can still get looks from the grocery guy, from the grocery guy, yah from the grocery guy. I can handle pain without alcohol, without alcohol, without alcohol and I can make a lunch in ten seconds flat, in ten seconds flat, yah ten seconds flat. I can break stereotypes with my attitude with my attitude yah, with my attitude and I can go to work on a motorbike, a motorbike, yah on a motorbike.