Skyler and Beezus

Monday morning as I lay naked in bed, I couldn’t help but notice that my long, thick hair was dangling perfectly in beautiful blonde heaps that covered my exquisitely firm and supple breasts. I was having a tender and loving conversation with my husband as he stroked my thigh that was both stretchmark and cellulite free. He was eloquently professing his undying love to me as I lay there all virginal and innocent, hanging on his every word. It went something like this,

(Marvin Gaye playing in the background)

Adoring Husband: You are the most wondrously perfect female my eyes have ever had the pleasure of seeing. Your eyes are like a sunset, both mysterious and warm, and I could stare at you forever. I’d like to make sweet love to you while the baby is crying…

That’s odd, I thought…we don’t have a baby –

THE BABY IS CRYING!

UGH! Damnitalltohell. I rolled out of bed scratching my greasy, matted ponytail with one hand while simultaneously picking crust out of my eye with the other. Of course the night my one year old decides to sleep all night, my two year old decides he’s thirsty at 3AM. Super.

And that was the situation that created the domino affect which catapulted my Monday into a series of unfortunate events.

Not only was my ass all huge and jiggley again, but the baby dumped an entire container of animal crackers on the ground. As I was headed to find the broom to sweep them up I tripped over the dog bowl and water flew across the kitchen floor.

Then, I decided to stop at the grocery store after I dropped my oldest off at school and as I unloaded the babies from the car I remembered they weren’t wearing socks or coats. This wouldn’t be so bad except that my 2 year old decided to scream, “GET ME OUTTA HERE!” throughout the store drawing attention to his bare arms and feet – which of course started the disapproving glares from much more put-together mommies with children who were not only quiet but also bathed and clothed properly.

By the time I finally got home and got the babies down for naps my phone started ringing. It was the office at the elementary school.

There isn’t enough coffee flavored vodka in the world that could’ve prepared me for what I was about to hear.

This is how I imagined the conversation going, “Mrs. Riley, this is the office at Skyler’s school calling to tell you that you’ve been selected to receive the much coveted Mother of the Year award for your outstanding example of motherhood in every aspect of life with a concentration in exceptionally healthy lunch packing and never allowing your children to listen to rap songs or use foul language.”

But instead it went like this…

Lady With Adorable Southern Accent: Mrs. Riley this is the office at Skyler’s school.

Me: Oh dear god.

Lady With Adorable Southern Accent: It’s OK, don’t panic…Skyler has something to tell you.

Me: Oh dear god.

Skyler: Mom? Remember the hard-boiled egg you packed in my lunch today? Ummm…it wasn’t hard-boiled.

Me: PLEASE TELL ME YOU DIDN’T TRY TO CRACK IT ON YOUR HEAD.

(Roaring laughter from entire office staff huddled around the phone)

Lady With Adorable Southern Accent: Don’t worry, hunnie. We all have days like this. But you might want to start marking your eggs.

Back in the Day When I Was Young (I'm Not a Kid Anymore)

Sunday morning I was out taking a leisurely stroll around the neighborhood with the boys and enjoying all the wondrous sounds that nature had to offer. In other words, the cows were mooing, the chickens were clucking and my son was whining something about how none of his friends ever have to go on walks with their moms.

As we turned the corner our conversation was interrupted by a tiny blue car barreling around the corner blasting music at a volume unfit for the Sabbath. I gathered my little ones and we waited by the side of the road as the car pulled into the driveway and parked.

“College kids,” I thought to myself, as the young passenger exited the vehicle. I knew they were college kids because they had “the look”. You know - hat tilted to the side, seven different brighter-than-life colors on the sneakers that are always untied, pants sagging below their butt cheeks…

Don’t get me wrong; I enjoy the view of a taut, young ass just as much as the next cougar. But nobody needs an up-close and eye level view of your last night’s man-panties.

Anyway, I digress…

We continued on our walk as the young man and the driver laughed and reminisced loudly and in great detail about their shenanigans from the previous evening.

“Nobody wants to hear about your booze soaked, booty shaking, panty dropping Saturday night,” I thought as I walked extra slow, straining my ears, desperate to hear…

Back when a typical day for me didn’t involve something unidentifiable stuck under my fingernail and always included a shower this might have been close to a typical Sunday morning scenario for me also. Not so much the sagging pants and untied shoelaces but definitely the friend dropping me off in a barely-undrunk haze, shouting obnoxiously across a parking lot trying to figure out who made out with who and if I remembered hanging my panties from the chandelier or putting my bra on what’s-his-name’s labra-doodle – not that that ever happened.

Like this one time, I thought it would be awesome to take a co-worker to a strip club for her birthday and invite other co-workers to come along too. In hindsight everyone involved should’ve known I couldn’t be trusted in this situation but they allowed it to happen anyway (I use to have REALLY irresponsible friends!). Sometime in between attempting to climb on stage and get lassoed by a black cowboy and spilling about five drinks on strangers, I somehow managed to lose like a million of my things.

When I got to work early Monday morning and did the walk of shame through the office I actually thought maybe no one noticed. But as I was sitting at my desk and having a conversation with my boss, those co-workers started pouring in and as they passed by my desk one by one, they all placed a missing item of mine from Saturday night in a little pile on my desk. First my lip gloss. Then my scarf. And then my left red Jessica Simpson stiletto heal…I don’t think it would do any good to describe the look on my boss’s face as this was happening - surely by now you get the picture.

The point is that this is the type of fun you have when you’re young and dumb and you aren’t smart enough to realize that there are other innocent lives depending on you and learning from your example. Sure, I can still pay a babysitter and go out on a Saturday night. But there will still be 3 little boys who need to be fed and clothed and cared for when I wake up on Sunday morning with a hangover the size of Kim Kardashian’s period panties.

To put it quite simply, along with childbirth comes mother-birth. You try not to lose yourself when you become a parent but the truth is it’s impossible not to. You go into the mothering tunnel as an individual but you come out the other end with another human being attached to you and their needs seem far more colossal than your own. You still want to let loose sometimes but in the back of your head is the constant reminder that someone else’s life is depending on the decisions you make, no pressure.

These are the types of things I try to remember when I’m feeling nostalgic for those more careless days when I wasn’t worried about responsibilities. And I’m not trying to say that I prefer not to have them. The responsibility of raising children grows on you kind of like a skin tag in your armpit. It’s occasionally annoying but then you realize it actually keeps you company and you can talk to it and tell it secrets that your other friends tell you but make you swear you won’t tell another person as long as you live.

I’m a wife and a mom now. Those babies may have moved from my womb to my hip but they are always permanently embedded in my soul. Yes, I often look back, longingly and lonesome for the past, reminiscent of how much fun I once had as a young adult. But I try not to look for too long. It was an exciting road I traveled to find this life that I adore but I’d hate to miss any of the fun we’re having right this very second.

Reasons Why Men Have It Easy And Women Get The Shaft

1. Housework – A woman who does housework receives the gift of having a clean house. A man who does housework gets after-hours massages and sex. No explanation of unfairness is necessary here.

2. Childcare - As you know, I’m a housewife. The kitchen is my office. And the kids are kind of my gig, I get it. There are obvious benefits to my job such as casual everyday’s, permanent ponytails and optional showers. Notice nowhere in there did I say retirement options, paid vacation or free nights and weekends.

I received a text message the other night from my husband, who was playing on his phone three feet from where our one-year-old was supposed to be sleeping. The text said, “baby up”.

Although I’m not fluent in Caveman, I assumed he was trying to tell me the baby was awake. Now, don't get me wrong. My husband works his ass off at an overly stressful job and he totally deserves to come home, unwind and not have to worry about another thing until tomorrow. But guess what? That’s the same thing I’m screaming over here in the corner! I’m not saying I shouldn’t have to get my lazy ass up and deal with the crying kid. I’m just saying that on a scale from sane to bat-shit-crazy, chances are slim I’d ever get away with sending the same text message his way.

3. Thirty Minute Bathroom Breaks – It takes me exactly1½ minutes to use the bathroom. Two if it’s Shark Week. And I have to do it with tiny, filthy little demon spawns banging on or peeking and reaching under the door like midget zombies who want to crawl up my leg and eat my brain. When my husband gets up to go it’s understood that he’ll be disappearing into the master bathroom for at least 20 minutes. And probably more like 30.

I used to wonder why men need to shit so often and why it takes them so long to do it. After all these years I’m pretty sure I have it all figured out. The truth behind why men pile wet towels on their bathroom floor and refuse to hang them up is that there’s a secret door buried under those towels that opens up when they jiggle the toilet handle. Through the door is a tunnel that leads to a freezing cold beer cellar where a super hot blonde with giant boobs in a bikini serves them a frothy mug with their name printed on it, and never speaks. She just silently massages their shoulders while they enjoy their beer and flip through 75 sports channels for the next 30 minutes. Then they come back to us when they decide we’ve become suspicious. They get away with this because nobody ever bothers them in the bathroom for fear of the fumes. Meanwhile you’ve already had to pee twice with the zombie apocalypse going down outside your bathroom door.

The next time you fake constipation to play a quiet game of Bejeweled Blitz on the pot don’t feel guilty. You totally deserve it.

4. Flatulence – Since we're already on the subject of poop, let’s talk briefly about gas. When men are gassy they let that shit rumble without apology. If you’re awoken at 3AM by fumes that could peel the paint off the walls you’re expected to deal with it because (and I quote) “It’s just natural.” But why aren’t we allowed the same privilege? If I dare to let a sweet and subtle little womanly puff of air pass by in the middle of the night while I’m in the deepest stages of REM, not only will my husband wake me up to tell me about it, but he also feels like it’s appropriate dinner conversation - especially while in public. According to him girls don’t fart or poop. He won’t even acknowledge the fact that I have an anus.

5. Body Hair – There are no preconceived notions that a man should remove his body hair and pretend that it doesn’t exist. So why am I pouring hot wax on my face and suffering third degree razor burns in my crotch? Your husband can spend his entire life closely resembling a yeti, yet you’re one nipple whisker away from total damnation and eternal reminders of why you're gross.

6. Scratching in Public – There is nothing politically incorrect about a man engaged in an intense game of pocket pool in public places. On the other hand, it’s going to take a bottlebrush to relieve an innocent womanly discomfort. This is where they came up with the term “an itch too deep to scratch”. There is no masterful pinch-n-roll technique to relieve a lady itch. Unfair doesn’t even cover it.

7. Penis Envy - This is a huge one (no totally inappropriate pun intended). Not only is a man born with a permanent tug toy attached to his body, he can pee standing up, which is so many degrees of unfair it’s not even funny. I’m remembering all the times I had to wait in a never-ending line to use an outhouse while the only inconvenience a man ever has to face is pulling over so he can hop out and relieve himself on the tire. Don’t even get me started on toilet paper. Or road-head for that matter.



There are so many more that I'm leaving out. Not because I can't think of them but because my house is a mess, I haven't started dinner and it's been exactly five days since I've washed my hair. Since these are all considered "pink" jobs in my house, I had better get started before my spawns wake up from nap time or my husband returns unexpectedly from work and sees that I've accomplished nothing today.

What are some of your favorites? Let's put off doing our chores for a little longer while we discuss them together in the comments section.

P.S. I'll be damned if I'm taking out the trash!

A Letter of Gratitude to My Favorite One-Stop Shop:

With Valentine's Day fast approaching I wanted to take a moment to compose a letter of gratitude to one of my greatest loves - Wal-Mart. Thanks for making every trip to the grocery store more interesting...

To All My Favorite People of Wal-Mart:

Thank you!!

Thank you, greeter at the entrance for always pointing out that my baby is barefoot. Perhaps you could volunteer to follow us around and pick his socks up out of the aisle every 14 seconds when he pulls them off and throws them.

Thank you, old toothless man who insists on offering my children candy. Every mother’s dream is for her kids to learn that strangers have the BEST candy.

Thank you, other mom with quiet children who managed to put on make up before you arrived. I suppose you also fed them something healthy for breakfast and they’re wearing socks and shoes. Show off.

Thank you, lady in produce with the extra long, curly fingernails for that silent reminder of why it’s always good to wash thoroughly before you eat!

Thank you, young lady at the deli with a mustache. Without you I would surely forget that we’re out of razors.

Thank you, janitor for holding back your look of disgust when you discover that it’s us again at the end of the Hansel and Gretel trail of fruit snacks and goldfish.

Thank you, lady stocking shelves for lying about how you loved every single day of raising your babies. Next I suppose you’ll tell me you’re also quite fond of root canals and yeast infections.

Thank you, lady in check out lane 14. It’s awesome when you excitedly point out that I just bought two bags of chocolate covered pretzels yesterday. I suppose next you’ll remind me it’s been 28 days since I last purchased tampons.

Thank you, old lady in the parking lot for taking off with my cart before I was able to load my econo-sized box of condoms into the car and also for forcing me to run through two rows of cars to retrieve them from you. Despite the fact that I look homeless, I’m really just a stay at home mom and I REALLY don’t need any more kids.

Reasons Why I'm Better Off Raising Boys

I've been accused of a lot of things in my lifetime but being a lady was never one of them. So it stands to reason that there has always been a silent sigh of relief at the phrase, “It’s a boy!”

Well, ok, in my last pregnancy the ultrasound tech never actually said, “It’s a boy!” I believe her exact words were, “It’s either a boy, or your daughter has a very long clitoris…” As if she already knew that I was the type of mother who shouldn’t be allowed to have daughters. And it’s true. I kick ass at raising boys but on a girl my parenting tactics would be about as effective as dollar store condoms.

After our 3rd son was born, my husband and I decided our family had reached maximum capacity and there would be no Riley baby #4. I’ve learned that it’s human nature for other parents to falsely assume that a couple’s reproductive wishes are up for discussion because I’m frequently being asked ridiculous questions such as, “But don’t you want to try for a girl?”

My answer to that question is generally along the lines of, “Are you high?”

As it is, I never even tried for the boys. They just sort of showed up one day...I guess I’m just fertile like that.

As a favor to any of you who may have found discomfort with my decision to keep things "strictly dickly" around here, I’ve compiled the following list:

Reasons Why I’m Better Off Raising Boys

1. Fashionably Challenged – I think we’ve already touched upon my improper use of leggings. Believe me, people, it doesn’t stop there. I’ve also been known to wear visors! No female deserves me as an example of what’s fashionably acceptable.
2. Can a Brotha Get a Table Dance? – I have countless video footage of my two-year-old son dancing on the table in a diaper. The thought of a topless little girl doing the same thing is somehow less amusing.
3. The Princess and the Pee – My neighbors already turn a blind eye to the fact that my kids use the backyard as a toilet. I’m not sure they’d be thrilled about a tiny girl copping a squat and relieving herself off the back porch.
4. Shame Shame – Or complete lack thereof. I’ve been known to belch the entire alphabet. In Spanish. I can’t imagine this is an appropriate subject matter for Dora the Explorer.
5. Learning Curve – I once told my son that he should never put money near his mouth because you never know if at some point a stripper picked up that bill with her butt cheeks. If I had a daughter I imagine she’d take this lesson as an invitation to try it herself.
6. Deep Pockets – Have you ever tried prying something out of a toddler’s nostril? My kids don’t need another orifice to shove their Skittles into.

So as you can now plainly see, it’s better for everyone that I stick to raising boys. But don’t worry. If I ever start to feel a longing for a little girl, I’m totally not above dressing one of the boys in pink and having a tea party with his GI Joe’s.

A For Effort

Anyone who’s spent a little time with me knows I have a heaping handful of gorgeous sisters. I am not the pretty sister. I’m certainly not the skinny sister. You know which sister I am? I’m the funny one. I know, I know. Why don’t you just brand “I have cankles” into my flesh, right?

At every year’s beginning, in true American fashion, I dream up a list of things that I will do differently. These things - these “resolutions” - are supposed to make me a better person. I’m going to get in better shape. I’m going to be a better mother. I’m going to quit drinking in day light hours. Seriously? New year’s resolutions are Satan’s way of making us feel like total assholes!

We are told unrelentingly to aspire to perfection. The media confuses us with their contradictory information. One day they tell us some gimmick is our only hope of staying healthy - the next it causes cancer. The celebrity A-List reminds us all that we’re not thin enough or pretty enough. Our lips are not pouty enough and our boobs are not perky enough. Our skin isn’t tan enough, our legs aren’t thin enough and our banks accounts aren’t fat enough.

They coach us to quit being negative, to focus on the things we like about ourselves. That’s right, they say, take a long hard look at yourself… Well you know what? There’s nothing long or hard about the way I look. Pretty much short and soft is what I see in the mirror. And I’m officially giving up! You know what would be really crazy? If we all stopped this ridiculous quest for perfection and just learn to love ourselves as we really are. There. I said it. It’s an effing joke (and yes, Mom, effing IS a word. Look in the dictionary somewhere between effacement and effort.)!

Speaking of effort, aren’t we all trying our hardest as it is? So you’ve fed your kids pizza for breakfast for the 4th time already this month. Wasn’t there pineapple on it? Sounds like fruit salad to me. So you woke up on Thursday morning and realized you haven’t showered since Sunday. Don’t you know we’re in a drought? “Green” is so hip-hop-right-now!

My kids are a hot ass mess. Look who their shining example is? The bananas in my fruit bowl are no longer yellow, my babies haven’t worn anything but pajamas for at least 5 days and I insist on wearing leggings as pants even though every fashionable bone in my body knows its wrong. But you know what I’m really good at? Telling my husband how hot he is. And cleaning pee off of toilet seats. And giving sugar to my less fortunate neighbor who always seems to be out.

So maybe I’m not the pretty sister and maybe some days I crack the wine a little early. Maybe my toddler knows how to use “damnit” properly in a sentence. Maybe sometimes I bribe my kids with fruit snacks so I can update my Facebook status. I’m striving every day to be the type of person I want them to grow up to be. I’m probably still going to silently judge you because you didn’t breastfeed and because you let your kids eats foods made with red dye. I’m not perfect and neither are you.

Whatdya say we learn to be ok with that?