Friday, September 27, 2013

The FireWife Life

While I write mostly about my experiences as a mom here, a big part of my identity is being a firewife.  Which sometimes can be rather lonely.  Not anymore! Courtesy of Facebook, I've virtually met an entire community of women, from all over the world, who are fire wives, just like me!  They are the sisters I never had.  They totally get it. We even have virtual drinking parties.  How much more awesome does it get?!

The Firefighter and our babies


As if I wasn't busy enough, I've recently taken on being an intern for the lovely Val of and I'm being featured under Meet the Firewife and the newest weekly feature The Kitchen Table, were we will discuss various issues that affect us in the fire service. 

So come pour a drink, pull up a chair and stay awhile!

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

Birthing and Balls

I had a hilarious conversation with a coworker the other day about the crazy things women say while in labor.  Birth stories are a totally normal conversation to have behind the bar, right?  I'm going blame the booze.  We all know alcohol has been the cause of oversharing since forever.

Anyway. Women, we are crazy.

Reasonably so, birthing babies ain't for wusses.

I never really shared my birth experiences here, because they sucked big, red, bubbly, baboon ass.  If a couple of near death experiences don't make you crazy, I don't know what will.  Some women are made for birthing babies.  I am not one of them, but, apparently, I am a glutton for punishment since I did it 3 times.

The beauty of these terrible experiences is that they left me with 3 amazing daughters and some really great war stories.  Which I, the queen of overshare, will now bequeath to you.

I labored for 48+ hours with Miss Chatterbox and actively pushed for 4 more.  With a near death experience thrown in the middle, just for shits and giggles.  You really don't want to know what 4 HOURS of bearing down can do to your lady bits.  No, seriously.  It's temporary, but it's really unpleasant.

Only 2 hours after having Miss Chatterbox, the nurse came in to get me up and into the bathtub. The Firefighter was on one side of me and the nurse had the other, since I was still a little unsteady from the epidural.  And as walked to the bathroom,  I looked at Mah Boo and said, "I feel sorry for you."

Looking at me like I'd lost my marbles he asked, "Why?"
"Because it really must suck ass to have balls," I replied.
He was silent for a moment as he contemplated whether it was wise to laugh or not.
"How would you know?" he said.
"Have you seen my cooter?  It's not like you could miss it.  It was the star of the show not to long ago and it feels like it's practically inside out.  Like balls sized out.  So, I think I'm as close to an authority on this subject as a woman can get without actually having real ones."

Yeah.  That's right, classy is my middle name.  Kinda like this AC/DC song.

  All together!  I've got big balls.  You've got big balls.  We've got the biggest balls of them all!


Do you have a funny birthing war story?  Let us hear it in the comments!

Thursday, September 12, 2013

Stranger Danger

Miss Chatterbox never meets a stranger.  She's friendly.  Way too friendly for this momma's comfort.

And that friendliness forces me to interact more frequently with people that I would rather not.  Like that crazy old bat two doors down, who likes to tell me things like, "Your kids are filled with the devil."  And, "How do you like being the other woman?"  Though my personal favorite is, "Your grass is filled with weeds and your tree is dead, just like your soul.  You need to make Jesus your landscaper."   

She's Cuckoo, Y'all.  Certifiable.  


Miss Chatterbox also loves to flings the door wide open for the UPS man and hold a lengthy conversation with him.  She also chooses to do this when I'm in my ancient mickey mouse nightie, with the twins flying free, and yesterdays hair and makeup because I haven't had a shower yet.  Never mind that it's almost noon.  And I have to do that awkward little arm cross where I try to cover up the fact I'm braless whilst simultaneously holding up my boobs and taking a package and signing.  Except it never works because my boobs are too big for that shit.  I know y'all know what I'm talking about.  Even if you won't admit it.  

But I digress. 

Given Miss Chatterbox's level of friendliness, I decided it was time to enact Operation Stranger Danger.  Which, if I'm honest, should actually be called, Operation Quit Putting Mommy in Awkward Situations. 

The Firefighter and I have often explained to her that we don't talk to everyone. We don't get in cars with people we don't know.  We don't let people touch us in our private spots.  

But clearly I wasn't getting through to her.  So I amped it up a little.  I bought books like these.

I even got a video.

It went well.  She seemed to understand and not be frightened at the same time.  Which was my goal.  So I breathed a sigh of relief and went on about my business.  

A couple of days later, though Miss Chatterbox is fully potty trained and independent in the bathroom most of the time, she called me for help cleaning up.  No biggie.  She's a preschooler.  It happens. 

Later that day, we went to the grocery store and while checking out, Miss Chatterbox starts chatting up the cashier.  I am just about to swipe my debit card when I hear, "Momma touched me in my private parts."

Y'all!  I don't think I've ever been so mortified in all my life.  Or so I thought. 

With my face as red as the spaghetti sauce I was buying, I quickly explained that Miss Chatterbox, like all preschoolers, sometimes needed help cleaning up after pottying and that we just had had the stranger danger discussion.  

When we get in the car, I explained that we don't tell everybody those kind of things.  She smiled and nodded and said, "Ok, Momma." 

We get through the next store, and are at the checkout when I hear, "Momma touched me in my no no  parts all the time, but we are not supposed to talk about it."  

OMFG.  Mortified doesn't even begin to describe it.  I am so sure my picture is on some Mothering Wall of Shame in a Target backroom somewhere.  Seriously.  I just wanted to melt into the ground and disappear.  AND this little gem is on the heels of an EPIC tantrum Jellybean threw last week in Target, that involved eagle screeches so loud, management came to see what was wrong...but that's a post for another day. 

What's the most embarrassing thing your kids have ever done?  

Wednesday, September 11, 2013


I don't often use my blog as a sounding board for my opinions.  I tend to stick to the glitter farting fluffy bunnies of life.  But I have opinions, strong ones, that are frequently unpopular.  This post is about one of them.

September 11, 2001.  It sucked ass.  Complete and total ass suckage.  There is no way around it.  And we all know this.   Thousands of souls, who can never be replaced died.  If that doesn't suck ass, I don't know what does.

However, in the 12 years since, we have grown, and learned many hard lessons as a society as a direct result of that day.  History is only doomed to repeat itself if we don't learn from it.  And we haven't forgotten.  It lives on indelibly etched in the minds of all Americans alive that day.  In the same way that Pearl Harbor can't be forgotten by those that lived it.

The experience and feelings and emotions of such a tragedy is not something that can be transmitted to the next generation.  Only when a generation experiences a massive tragedy of there own can they then personally relate to tragedies of years past.

I also believe that the heroes that died that day and as a result of that day (in war and otherwise), did so readily, that we may continue to live the American life as we know it.  This sacrifice commands respect.  A respect I will willingly give every year in the form of a moment of silence.

Of course I understand that everyone grieves differently.

But, I don't believe that memorials, endless replaying of footage and broadcasts, the "what were you doing that day" game, or conspiracy theory discussions are useful, helpful, or healthy.  And, dare I say it?  I think they are unnecessarily dramatic.

At what point do we allow the dead to rest in peace, and allow the survivors to heal?  How long will we parade widows around and ring bells and, and, and?  What do we gain from this?  Do we learn anything new or helpful or useful?

I think this day is particularly hard for first responders.   Even more so for those with PTSD.  EVEN MORE so for those who lived it first hand.  Those who were there when it all was happening do not need a memorial to remember it.  They don't need endless footage on TV.  They don't need to be forced to memorials while on duty.  They see it happening in their own brains every.single.time they close their eyes.  The reels they run in their minds would never be approved for TV viewing.

The way I see it, we are harming those who helped us the most.

Can we let the dead rest in peace, paying our respects in a simpler manner?  I think so.