Tuesday, October 16, 2012


In honor of breast cancer awareness month, I decided to write this post about boobies or bresticles, or tatas, or whatever you call them.  I call mine thelma and louise.  To each their own.

And my preschooler is fascinated by titties.  Probably because everywhere she looks there's a shirt, poster, or picture promoting some form of knocker awareness.

Don't get me wrong.  Breast cancer is a worthy cause.  Its slogans are just bringing about some, shall we say, interesting conversations in my house.

As all you mommas know, there is no such thing as privacy when you're a parent.

Miss Chatterbox followed me into the bathroom as I was getting ready to shower one evening.   As I took off my bra she exclaimed, "MOMMA, why you take off your boobies?"

I tried to explain that I took off my bra, not my hooters.  To which she replied, "Yes you did.  They was up there and are down there now."

Good thing she's cute.

But wouldn't it be awesome if the ol' fun bags were detachable?  I could just take 'em off and leave them with The Firefighter.  He'd be a happy camper and I'd be off the hook for sexy time.   Total win win.

Think about it.  You could have different sizes for different occasions.  And if they were defective, no need for chemo and radiation, you could just replace them.  It would be totally awesome.


Miss Chatterbox has decided she would like to have some bosoms of her own.

The other day, she found a bikini that had been handed down to us from a friend, and excited proclaimed that she had "found her boobs".

Wanting to share this wonderfully awkward and hilarious parental moment, I punted it to The Firefighter with, "go tell your daddy that".  Moments later, when he walked through the door, Miss Chatterbox rushed forward and loudly asked, "Daddy!  Can I put on my boobies yet?"

I love that kid. The look on his face was PRICELESS.

When he recovered, he gave the standard daddy response of "you're not allowed to have melons until your 30.  And if you do, I don't want to know about it."

This post is dedicated to all those I've known who have fought the fight and those still fighting against breast cancer.   Save the Tatas!

PS - I used every synonym for breast I knew.  Are you impressed?  I am.

Sunday, October 14, 2012

Stupid Loves Company

Do you have those songs that remind you of a different time?  I sure do.

I was sitting here, rubbing together the 1.5 braincells my children haven't stolen, trying to think of something to write about when I heard a song on Pandora that took me back.

It's a song from the days of Napster.  But it was one of those songs you never admitted to your friends you liked.  You know, the ones you listened to only when you were alone in the car?  And if you happened to forget that CD was in the player when a friend got in the car, you'd blame your little sister.  Only, I don't have a little sister, so that didn't work out so well for me.

Aqua's Barbie Girl.  I used to LOVE that song.  What?  Come on, confess.  Secretly, you liked it too.  Oh yes, it's obnoxious.   But it's obnoxious in a catchy Gangnam Style kinda way that stays on endless mental repeat and you end up singing it out loud in the bathroom at work just to try to get.it.out.of.your.head.  You may even end up dancing in front of the mirror trying to free your brain from it's spell.

Oh, you don't do that?  Eh, that's okay.  I'm comfortable with my weirdness.


I got to reminiscing about some of the stupid stuff I've done.  And it dawned on me.  If my children, collectively, do 1/3 of the foolish things I have, I'll be white haired before I'm fifty or dead from a heart attack.   For the first time ever, I viewed my past antics with a parental eye.  

I'm so doomed. Sigh.

You see, I wasn't your normal wild child.  No sex, drugs and rock and roll for me.  Nope, I was more of a tree bashing, drag racing, 4 wheeling, balcony hopping (4 stories up), climb through two story high rafters to pull a prank, donut spinning strapped to the roof kinda girl.  

Oh yeah, then there was the time I did a chinese fire drill at a railroad crossing and got clipped by oncoming traffic coming from a LDS friend's ward dance.

Or the time I had to get 14 stitches in the forehead from a playground swing.

And that was just high school.  

College antics?  Those included things like jello wrestling, golfing wiffle balls off the roof, more tree bashing, getting banned from more than one walmart and a completely sober stint in the drunk tank....

If I'm honest, I still, occasionally, have the urge to do something stupid.  I don't follow through, of course, but that isn't because I've grown and matured.  It's because stupid doesn't like to be alone.  Stupid LOVES company.  It's not fun if there's no proof of stupid happening.  And as The Firefighter just has to be all responsible and shit, I've become boring by association.  

It's fun when it's just yourself.  When it's your kids....  I'm not sure my sanity can take it.  Can I just lock them in their room for the next thirty years?

Hope y'all have a good weekend!  If you get your wild on, think of me.  Seriously.  It's all diapers and dooky around here.  I have to live vicariously through you people.  

For your viewing pleasure, firefighters doing Gangnam Style.  

Monday, October 1, 2012


As it turns out, having 3 chillerns requires a finesse that I most certainly do not possess.  Especially since The Bun has decided to take up Miss Chatterbox's recently vacated position as Lead Household Destructicon.  More about that in a minute.

Miss Chatterbox, on the other hand, has taken up the position of Lead Household Pony.  Yep, you heard me.  Pony.  She spends all day, every day, galloping around on all fours, neighing, laying in horse like positions, and begging me to let her eat on the floor.   I may or may not be guilty of serving her "hay" and "harnessing" a laundry basket to her to expedite the cleanup process.   What?  I'm killing two birds with one stone, here!  Learn from me, People. 

Anyway, back to the Destructicon.

A Destructicon cleverly disguised as a the birthday girl.  But you can always identify one by the mess following in their wake. 

The Bun chooses the most inopportune moments to wreak havoc.  Case and point.  A couple of days ago, Squeaker treated me to a particularly juicy blowout.  While I was two hands deep in a sink bath, The Bun stealthily moved in and showed me that not only did she know how to open both the baby gate and fridge, but that she wanted to help too, and was gonna shine the cabinets for me...with butter.  

Sidenote - What is it about my kids and butter, damn it!!  That crap is hard to clean off!  Even after a bleaching, I'm pretty sure I could still use those doors as ice skates!


And it doesn't end there.  Nope.  We now play the "guess what I flushed today" game.  Daily.  Me and that plunger are tight, man.  If this motherhood thing doesn't work out, I could always get a job as a plumber.  I'd totally fit in.  I make a plumber's crack look good, baby.

What?  Don't judge, yo.  I'm only functioning now by the grace of red bulls, coffee, and the crusts off my kid's grilled cheeses.  

One of these days I'll get the hang of this whole parenting thing.  Probably around the time they go to college and move out.  

I'll leave you with the favorite blessing of cops everywhere.  May your coffee not burn your tongue and donuts not be stale. Peace. 

Introducing Squeaker

My peeps!!  I've missed you.  I hope you'll pardon the interruption. Being that I was all busy having a baby and stuff.

So without further ado, I introduce to you, as she will be known from here on out, Squeaker.

Her stats:  8 lbs 15 oz.  20.25 inches long.  Raven black hair and blue eyes.

The peaceful sleep picture... so deceptive. 

I do not get the appeal of the contortionist pose, yet every baby does it. Did you notice the diaper?   I tried y'all, I tried.

After some initial confusion about as to her maternity, this picture confirmed everything I needed to know.  Already getting her white girl ghetto on.  Ladder 101 representin' foo.  Definitely my child.  Makin' Momma proud, y'all.


Best of all, Squeaker's birth did not include a near death experience for me.  To say I'm happy about that, would be an understatement.  Yay, me!  And yay for a good anesthesiologist!

So, that about sums up my last 6 weeks, yeah?  

Nope, not even close.  Stay tuned!