I forgot the password

Both my kids are now in school full time, from 8 am to 3 pm.

200px-Dancing_Banana

No, it’s more like

carlton-dance03

I have recently started participating in activities that I had abstained from in the past due to the pursuit of such activities being an exercise in futility.

What are they?  Oh, you know, stuff like bathing regularly and being able to hear myself think.

I have been immersed in 24/7 child care for so long that seven hours on my own feel awfully strange.

I have to keep reminding myself about tiny details, like that it’s okay to sit down to a meal without having to worry if the boys have had theirs, and that I can now pee with the door completely closed.

And locked.

That last one is still taking some getting used to.

Summer vacation 2015 felt like the long weekend from hell.  Each day was so much like the other that I felt as if we were on constant rewind.

Even my boys were bored out of their minds with so much free time.  The other kids in our neighborhood were either at camp or on vacation.  Sure, we had swimming and karate classes twice a week, but what else is there to do to fill up the many, many hours of radiant sunshine that is summer?

That’s right.  Video games.

And don’t even get me started on the fights that these games caused.

Each morning I would wake up to the sounds of screams and shouts, some excited, some plaintive, some whiny, and some of them combined with tears.  I would stumble my way to the living room like a zombie, still half asleep, the effects of not having gotten enough rest clearly showing in my puffy face.

Blogging?  What blogging?

I am an avid reader/follower of many different, wonderful blogs, and I hate when they don’t get updated for extended periods of time.

Of course, I would never do that, I prided in myself.

Which just goes to prove that it’s easy to blame the chipmunk if the nut has fallen from the tree.

Didn’t get that?  I didn’t either.  I think it’s my summer brain still doing the talking.  Or should I say typing.

But you know what I mean.

Oh, the onslaught to the parental brain that is summer vacation.

And don’t forget its evil sibling, which is the transition from late nights and lazy days to early mornings, parent teacher conferences, PTA meetings, and homework.

Shudders.

No, it’s not that we don’t want to spend time with our kids.

What ever gave you that idea?

It’s just that summer kids are bored kids.  They’re bored kids with bored friends who are so bored that they start thinking up of devilish things to un bore themselves and then they end up not bored, but also not very happy.

Like my 5 year old, who thought it would be fun to go all George of the Jungle on the long living room curtains.

Watch out for that coffee table!

He flew right into it.  On TV, little birds go round and round your head when you crash into something, but in real life, you get a big hole in your chin, where, upon impact with the coffee table, your incisors chewed through your lower lip.

You get blood that looks like a chocolate fountain coming out of your mouth, 3 hours in the ER, and seven stitches.

And you get a momma with severe heart palpitations from the stress.

And that’s not even the worst part.  You want to know what the worst part was?

The worst part was that when they were all backpacked and ready to head out the front door that first day of school, I didn’t want to let my kids go.

That’s right.  Even after this crap fest of a summer, all I wanted that day was to have my sons stay home with me.

Figure that out if you can.

I wanted to diaper them, feed them mush from a jar, and have myself be their go to person for their boo boos, their stories, their meals and their play time.

I wanted them to be my babies forever.

Damn those onion cutting ninjas!

With precious little brains left, I had no time nor energy for creative wording, so I just gave up attempting  blog posts during the summer.

And because of that, I forgot the password to my WordPress account.

Late in August, when the reprieve, AKA the first day of school, was right around the corner, I attempted to log in and failed.

Five times.

And now that I’m here, that’s all I had to say.

Hope your kids are enjoying being back in school as much as mine are!

Road trip 2015 pics, part 2

Day 5 Tuesday – Clearwater Beach

Day 6 Wednesday – Tampa/New Port Richey

Day 7 Thursday – Orlando

Rental town home

Disney

Day 8 Friday – Orlando/Clermont

Picking oranges in Clermont

Downtown Orlando

Day 9 Saturday – Drive home

Awkward toy moments

The title says it all.

These are just some of the ways my kids have left their toys lying around our house.  And yard.

Some of these situations I couldn’t believe and some were just plain funny.

There is some plastic, Made in China kind of slightly risque humor here.  If you are easily offended and rush to label everything inappropriate or haram, then please proceed no further.

If you can see humor in simple, everyday situations, then please have a look.

Ready?  On we go.

What used to be some poor stuffed animal’s tail apparently turned into this guy’s….

I believe the picture is self explanatory.

That poor Elsa doll.  Someone is obviously out to get her.

And she has armpit hair.

IMG_0017

These two just happened to be…

IMG_0019

right across from each other.

IMG_0085

Never pick on someone that’s twice your width and can easily beat you up in the toy box.

IMG_0458

I believe he’s stuck.

These guys were my patients over the weekend.

A nearly decapitated Bowser and a penguin in desperate need of a nose job.

Apparently Mario and Luigi have turned homicidal since my Nintendo days.

Bowser and Penguin paid a visit to the stuffed animal hospital and I took them into the operating room,

where my pathetic patching skills met my even more pathetic sewing skills.

But they aren’t complaining.

I’m the only doctor covered by their insurance plan.

And they told their friends about me, too.  My fame has spread amongst injured toys and their owners.

I now have a waiting room.

IMG_0459

First day of Spring break

  

This is what the Chicago area currently looks like, even though Spring officially started last week. 😒  

I think this is karma for gloating over Boston having it worse than us this winter.  

This is my living room floor. 

  

And so it begins.

By the end of the week, the room will be littered with toys and there will be no carpet to be seen.  

From my Facebook news feed. 

  

Say hello to my left foot

Spring is officially here!

*Doing a little happy dance*

School and homework are keeping me busy.  The weather is getting better and we find ourselves spending a lot more time outdoors.

I haven’t had the chance to read any of my favorite blogs or devote much time to my own.  😦

Today’s blog post is another click a pic one.  Over the weekend we visited my sister on/near the campus of the University of Illinois in Chicago.  One of the highlights of the trip to Fati aunty’s are the fantastic views you get to see along the way and while there.  Chicago is, after all, famous for its architecture and skyline.

I lived in Queens, New York before moving to Chicago when I was fourteen.  This city has its pros and cons, but New York will always be close to my heart.

If my husband were awake, he’d read this over my shoulder and say So you enjoyed the smell of sewer water and being mugged twice a week? and I would tell him to take his country ass back to Kentucky.

We’re soul mates. ❤

Seeing the Chicago skyline while cruising down one of the city’s many highways is awesome.  Being in the city always gives me a thrill.  Must be the New Yorker in me.

The visit to Fati’s turned into a sleepover for me and my kids because of how late it had gotten.

It was so lovely to see this when I happened to wake up around dawn.  It felt like the whole world was waking up with me.

At night from the balcony.

After seeing all these beautiful photos I have come to one major conclusion : I need a better camera.

I can’t wait for my classes to be over.  School is a pain in the ass.  I wanted to elaborate on the name of my blog and explain why I am so in love with views, but that will have to wait for another post.  I have a mountain of backlog of homework to do. 😥

Slow and fat

A few weeks ago, we went to see the Circus Spectacular at the Sears Center arena.

Here we have photos of elephants, elephant butts, overpriced snacks, face paintings, and cute little circus souvenirs.  That’s Kid 1 in the yellow shirt, perched on top of the camel in picture number 8.

There were no lions or bears, oh my.  In addition to the elephants and camels, there were a few tigers, including a black and white one, and some horses/ponies.

The biggest issue/concern with the circus has always been the welfare of the animals involved.  I used to be quite passionate about animal rights when I was younger.  I still am, although these days I can’t devote any time to the cause.

The company’s website claimed to be cruelty free and accommodating all the needs of their animals.

Because it was the tenth consecutive freeze your ass off Saturday and we were all suffering from various degrees of cabin fever, that was enough to convince me it was okay to go.

So we went.

I can’t say whether the company’s claim was legitimate or not.  The animals certainly didn’t look starved.  The tigers actually looked a little overweight.

As evidenced in the video, they also seemed super bored and a little whateverish.

Overall, though, all the animals were well trained and better behaved than my children.

A special mention must be made of the man who sat directly in front of me.  My four year old was not impressed with the show and sat in my lap during most of the four hours we were there.  He cried when the lights went out and when the loud noises went off.

He also kicked the seat in front of me at the rate of around one kick every two seconds.

The guy sitting there must’ve been a saint in a past life.  He didn’t turn around or complain once, not even when Kid 2, perhaps in an effort to rustle up some major drama for his mama, took his index finger and tapped the man’s shiny, closely shaved, nearly bald head three times.

I sucked in my breath at that point and braced myself for the confrontation, but miraculously there wasn’t any.

You have my respect, Mr. Guy That Was Sitting In the Seat In Front Of Me.  He had to have been the world’s most patient and understanding man.  Maybe he overheard me telling my kids don’t make me come over there or you’ll be in time out until you start college and one more word out of you, I’m calling those tigers back and telling them to have a little Indian for dinner.

I’m thinking he decided I’m not messing with that bitch.  She cray.

Here’s something they don’t teach you in lamaze

We had just come home from a trip to the local grocery store.  My husband was putting away our coats and the boys began running around in the living room.

Come on! son 1 shouted to son 2.  Let’s play! 

I don’t remember what game it was.  Just assume something terrifyingly frenzy, that involved lots of running, shouting, messing up of my already quite messy home, and raising of my blood pressure.

Son 2 replied I don’t do that.  I’m a girl.  With an emphasis on the “don’t” and the “girl”.

I sighed a terribly frustrated sigh and thought grimly This kid is going to start kindergarten soon.  It’s one thing if he marches around the house, demanding that his clothes and sippy cups be in shades of pink and purple only, and it’s another if he does the same in school.

They like to make big deals out of these kinds of things in institutions of the educational type.  When son 2 was delayed in his speech, he was analyzed by six different child psychologists, therapists, and special education teachers.  I try not to think about the conclusions they would reach and the questions they would have regarding my son’s flip flopping on his gender.

Because to me, and to his pediatrician, it isn’t a big deal.  He’s four years old.  Hardly the age where major life decisions are made.  It’s probably a phase that he’ll eventually grow out of.  And if he doesn’t, he doesn’t.  If that’s how and what he chooses to be, then that’s how and what he is.  We all know his behavior isn’t the work of the devil whispering bad things into his ear after we turn out the lights.  I doubt even that spiky tailed mofo can get past the all seeing eye that is the ADT motion sensor.

I keep telling him he’s a boy that loves to do girl stuff, because he loves to do all the boy stuff, too.  And that’s fine.  Boys can love the colors pink and purple, dolls, pretty hair, etc.  But he’s still a boy.  And I can’t check both M and F on his school forms.

I said it gently the first 10 times or so, calmly explaining to him the whole boy with the likes and dislikes of a girl concept.  He listened and said Okay.

Then came the situation mentioned at the beginning of the post.

Oh my Allah!  Omg!  Not again!  Jesus!  Jesus, Mary, Joseph, Stalin, John, Lennon, Yoko, Ono, Rinko, Star! 

That’s how I vent my frustration.  I spout nonsense.

We’ve been through this before, darling I said through clenched teeth.  You’re a boy that likes girl stuff, remember?

All I got in response was a big, Cheshire cat like grin from Son 2.  :mrgreen:

There had to be some way to get him to understand.  I thought for a while about obvious differences between the sexes.

Hair length?  No, that wouldn’t work.

Boobs?  No, I wasn’t going to start that.  The male fascination with the female chest is something they’ll have no problem figuring out once they hit puberty.  The bigger, the better is pretty much self explanatory.

I really didn’t know what to say, so I blurted out You’re not a girl because girls don’t have wee wees.

From the corner of my eye, I could see my husband raise his eyebrows and smirk.  I wanted to pinch him.  He wasn’t helping.  And why was he wearing that expression?

Because he knew what was coming up.

Often I tend to miss the obvious, like the time I thought I was reaching for the minty blue mouthwash and almost gargled with the stuff from the bottle clearly marked Windex.

My husband is a smart cookie.  He knew what was coming next.  He just sat there, arms crossed, and let me deal with what I had started.

Son 2’s eyes got big and round and Son 1 started to laugh.  Bewildered and obviously anticipating something scandalous, they asked the question that I, quite foolishly, hadn’t anticipated.

If they don’t have wee wees, what do they pee out of ?!?!

And they haven’t stopped asking it.  I tell them I will sit down and explain anatomical differences between males and females soon, when I know what to say and how to phrase it right.

It’s better than I don’t know how to tell you this boys, but I have no idea how to approach those kinds of topics with you.  Your grandparents always chose the ‘no’ option when they sent the ‘would you like your child to participate in sex ed classes’ permission slip home.  They were first generation fobs that were scandalized by such a notion because, in the old country, you found out where babies come from on your wedding night.  No sooner.

I’ve got some prep work to do on the topic before I open up my big mouth again and start an avalanche of questions.  Because kids ask a lot of questions.  Their minds and voices don’t have the confines and restrictions of the adult thought process.  And I really don’t want to say anything that might confuse the heck out of them.

I always prided myself on being the most knowledgeable on any topic that was parental, but apparently, mom and child specialist are sometimes two different things.

Who knew?

For richer or for poorer, but not during the Colts game

Prayers for the tragedy in France.  “Peace cannot be achieved through violence, it must be attained through understanding” – Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Welcome to the newly renovated The View Through The Window.  I was getting tired of that old theme and I like to switch things up now and then.  I hope you like this new blog style as much as I do.  Now back to our regularly scheduled blog post.

He’s the good cop to your bad cop.  The fun loving parent to your disciplinarian.  The one who sneaks your kids candy during time outs.  I quote, “Daddy’s awesome and you suck.”

Point noted.

Husbands.  You gotta love em.  And because we love them, let’s start with all the things they do that make them wonderful :

-He comes home after work.

Moving on.

I’m just kidding.  We all know husbands do a lot more good than just come home from work.  Let’s add to the list.

-He comes straight home from work.

Still kidding.  Don’t get your boxers in a bunch.  The real list follows :

-He comes straight home from work to a crabby wife and hyper kids, yet still manages to remain upbeat.

-Is tired as hell but tells you to take a break.

-Knows exactly what to do when you’re angry.  When I’m mad at him, my husband starts cleaning.  He strongly believes that cleanliness is next to godliness because it prevents your wife from doing that head turning thing from the Exorcist.

-Doesn’t question the logic behind why I can be as grumpy as I want but he gets in trouble for not smiling enough.

-Worked for years at a job he hated because he felt he had to.  His hard work is what made it possible for me to stay at home with our kids.  This is the reason why I call my husband the real superman.  That and because he’s survived being married to me for so long.

-Is ever supportive, whether it’s you wanting to go back to school, starting a blog or turning off all the lights and pretending no one’s home when the neighbor’s annoying kids show up uninvited.

-Is the world’s greatest dad.  My husband has more patience than a monkey has love for bananas.  He can play make believe games with my boys for hours.  I would rather clean the house. Or watch paint dry.  Or clean the house while I watch paint dry.

-He lets you blog about him.

And since nothing and no one is perfect, here are things he does that make him so very annoying :

-You send him to the supermarket for cauliflower and he returns with lettuce.  You ask for parsley and he gets spinach.

-Half your kitchen stuff ends up where it shouldn’t be when he unloads the dishwasher.

-His version of cleaning is to dump everything in the kids’ toy box and/or the closet.

-You can always count on him to not answer his phone.

-Wouldn’t know his way around the kitchen even if it came equipped with exit signs.

-Thinks it’s okay to have a conversation with you when you’re brushing your teeth.  Or through the bathroom door.  But thou shall not interrupt viewing of football game.

-Thinks we are out of <fill in the blank> if a sixty second search for it yields nothing.

-Grins and says But I picked you when you tell him his taste sucks.

-Thinks sitting down to pee is a strange and foreign concept.

-His looking for something usually ends up with you finding it for him.

-His lack of attention to detail and failure to pick up on social cues makes you wonder if he spent his adolescent years devoid of human interaction.  When I was pregnant and mine no longer fit, my husband thought it was okay to tell my family I was wearing his underwear.

-Hogs the blanket.  Tosses and turns enough to wake the dead.  My husband’s nocturnal bed shaking (no, not that kind) once even woke him up.  He turned to me, still half asleep, and asked was there an earthquake? to which I replied no, darling, your ass was just doing its sleep aerobics thing again.

-Leaves all pantry and cabinet doors wide open.  Shutting them makes you feel like Vanna White after an exceptionally large puzzle solving on an early 90’s episode of Wheel of Fortune.  You know, before it went all touch screen.

-He lets you blog about him with the condition that you will do a similar post on wives.

Needless to say, I accepted the challenge.

I only just sort of don’t like you

It’s that time of year again.  When you get a little note in the mail from your doctor’s office telling you to pop in for your pap in.  Pap smear, that is.  I don’t know anyone that gets excited over doctor visits.  Just the thought of one gives me a low level panic attack.

I am a classic case of white coat paranoia.  I smell death everywhere in the exam room and see the grim reaper himself in a lab coat.  Okay, so I have a Chicken Little type of irrationality, but what do you see when you walk into a gynecologist’s office?  Needles and probes and some sort of steely aluminum shit in the corner that looks like an effed up version of Wall-e.  My first thought when I saw that machine was god damn, where the hell is he going to stick that?  I don’t think I have any hole in me big enough. 

But then again, doctors know more about your body than you do.  They also have their own unique way of relating the news to you. I ask my cardiologist what’s up with my heart and he’ll say well, you have paroxysmal supra ventricular tachycardia and/or quite possibly idiopathic ventricular tachycardia and I’ll open up my eyes big and wide, lie through my teeth, and say oh, yeah, of course! okay, that makes total sense now!, even more effing confused than before I asked the question and mentally ticking off the way I’d like things to be done at my funeral.  Dear Mr.John Hopkins, you need a crash course in how to explain non deadly afflictions in less deadly sounding terminology.

These cats look very much like I do during and after said scenario.

YyghrKHwhoop_de_doo_cat

As bad as it is, a cardiologist visit is nothing compared to an appointment with the gynecologist.  Having someone who looks like my grandfather tell me to lay back and spread my legs is disconcerting, to say the least.  They also seem very suspicious of my efforts at losing the baby weight over there.  It might have something to do with the fact that the baby starts kindergarten next year.

The question of so are you going to have more kids? is inevitable and I can’t answer Gee, I don’t even know when the next time I’m going to take a piss isI’m guessing it’ll be when you ask me to do it in a cup, but neither one of us knows for sure, right?  They of all people should know that kids don’t ask for an invite.  They just show up, as did my youngest, and leave you wondering where did you come from?!  I’ve had my uterus securely under lock, key, and alarm system since then.  Only god can hack that code.

Speaking of which, good god,  doctors love to judge you.  The way they ask how many partners have you had, with steely gaze fixed, makes you squirm and wonder if even that man who tried to feel you up in the crowded elevator counts, with the afterthought of damn, that was eight years, two kids, and some pounds ago.  If I gave him the offer today he would probably refuse.

The biggest bummer of all is that most medical professionals look more like Dr.Phil than Derek Shepherd.

dr_phil_bversus tumblr_static_derek-shepherd-photo

Then there’s the trust issue.  He’ll assure you he’s gentle when his speculum wielding leaves you requesting a fucking epidural, but if at the same time he tells you you have esophageal hepatitis type F aortic kidney disease with inflamed pulmonary hardening of the abdominal cavity, you’ll believe him.  I bet half the people reading this thought that shit was real.

Don’t let this post take away from all the good doctors do, though.  Don’t think that.  You know what I’m talking about.  That sneaky little thought that if a doctor did any real work, he’d be called a nurse.  That kind of thinking is not nice.  Sure, he might only pop in for five minutes, but those five minutes are enough for someone with years of medical experience and if he was any better at what he did, he’d fix whatever was wrong with you with a twitch of his mouth and only the halo over his head as a light source.  Unless he graduated from shadymedschool.com, in which case I’d fly my ass right outta there.  Doctors do 95 percent of the good in this world, if you don’t count the one that performed Dick Cheney’s heart transplant.  That mofo should’ve known better.

Coming up next, The Doctor’s Version : A Rebuttal.  Spoiler ahead : Includes pissed off as hell MD’s who claim they are unfairly blamed for all medical problems of every fucking patient we come across.  Might also include diagnosis of put down the Fritos and get on treadmill for smart ass female patient

Disclaimer : That was a joke and I don’t promise any future posts on a doctor’s version of the shit he has to endure at the hands of whiny patients when he just tells them stuff for their own effing good.  I mean, where would I find someone like that?

Cat pics courtesy of https://catmacros.wordpress.com/tag/biting-sarcasm/.   McDreamy pic courtesy of my dreams.  Dr.Phil pic courtesy of just pick any effing place, he’s all over the internet anyway.

Motherhood. 24 hour service.

All mothers, or all parents rather, know that the time gap between one oh, shit! moment and the next is small.  There’s that golden five minutes when everything is right in your world and the rock of now freaking what?! hasn’t shattered the glass of homework is done, dinner is ready, house is habitable, and the kids are mostly clean.  Yes, when you’re a mother to two little boys, one of them prone to fits of extreme hyperactivity, that is your utopia.  It’s a step up from the game of limbo I was playing when both my boys were under the age of three and how low can you go was anyone’s guess.  That point was crossed when the washing machine crapped out at the same time as my breast pump.  Begging God to grant you just one effing onesie that’s clean, just one! while you rummage through the pile of baby clothes like a homeless bag lady with her udders full to bursting wouldn’t rank very high on anyone’s Nielsen box.

The past week has been a mad rush of trying to get all my school work done and handed in on time.  The feeling of thank everything that’s holy, the semester’s over had barely registered when I saw my first grader get off the bus and walk towards home.  He paused to fiddle with something the neighbor across the street had put up in his yard and that’s when we both heard it.  The extremely loud, nasal voice of our neighbor, demanding that my son keep his hands off whatever it was he was fiddling with for fear of it breaking and him hurting himself.  The man was shouting so obnoxiously, at the top of his lungs, that I and the other kids walking home from the bus stop could clearly hear every word.

My son stared in the direction of the voice for a minute, stunned.  Then he turned and slowly walked towards me, shock, hurt, and humiliation written all over his face.  I felt those emotions myself, along with guilt.  Not the kind of guilt you feel when you’re perusing Wikipedia articles while ignoring their please donate requests, but the kind of guilt you feel when you know you’ve failed someone.

My seven year old is a sweet little guy with an over the top zest for the funner things in life and an inability to keep his hands to himself.  He’s the typical boy, just extremely overactive.  He’s fried chicken, cooked extra spicy. If something in his vicinity is just standing there, minding its own business, he has to get his Facebook on and poke it.  Often that something is his little brother.

He’s a curly haired cutie that neither listens to nor fears anyone.  Being the first occupant of my womb entitled him to certain freebies in the minds of his grandchild starved grandparents, both maternal and paternal.  Before we knew it, he was spoiled to the point of no return.  He’s got an attention span of a full sixty seconds and a proclivity for bouncing off walls, sometimes literally, and getting himself into trouble, usually of the type that requires bandaging.  He is the road runner to my coyote in the  Sisyphus like trials that are the mothering of a child with a mind of his own.112699-15951

That’s not to say he’s mean or hurtful.  Far from it.  He’s the Macaulay Culkin of Home Alone, not the Macaulay Culkin of The Good Son.  If he knew what he was doing would bother our neighbor, he would never have done it.  He’s well aware that he’s only allowed to make his parents miserable.

While standing at our door watching him walk over to me, I remembered another shouting my son had received from the same man, earlier on in the month, for not stopping to look right and left before crossing the street.  I had let that pass at the time due to it seemingly coming from a genuine concern for my son’s well being, but in light of the most recent screamathon, I felt like the world’s biggest dumb fuck of a mom for doing so.  If I hadn’t let the man think it was okay for him to raise his voice at my son the first time, he wouldn’t have dared to do it for the second.

Along with the guilt came the confusion of what exactly to do about the situation.  My mama bear instincts were raring to go ape shit on the guy, but were held in check by the fact that on both occasions, my kid was being careless.  And even though the man was loud and vile, the end result was that my son was safer due to his actions .  It was a tough few minutes of mental and emotional wrangling, but in the end I decided that, even it was for his safety, no one could talk to my child in a way that made him feel and look the way he did when he slowly walked towards me from the driveway across the street.  No kid’s safety should have to come at the expense of his self esteem.

I dialed the number for the neighbor and spoke to his extremely polite and really mature for his age eight year old, who rides the same bus and was witness to what had happened.  He calmly explained to me that his dad was too harsh and that when his dad shouts like that, it scares him, too, which made me think the man’s fuse seemed to be only slightly longer than that of the incredible Hulk’s.  The boy said not to worry and that he would send his father over to talk to me as soon as he returned home.

I hate confrontation.  I’m a five foot zero inch shorty, but my brain forgets that little detail when it’s trying to put out the fire in my she’s pissed off as hell quadrant.  I can’t say I wasn’t scared of meeting the man.   I was actually hoping he would show up after six o’clock and then he’d be my husband’s problem.  But I remembered the way I felt earlier, when I saw my son’s reaction, and that decided it for me. I had had enough of feeling like I had failed him.  Whether I wanted to or not, I would don my warrior mom, she bear out to protect her cub, this bitch means child protective business outfit and confront that bastard.  Which I did.  I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I got the point across, with double the prize money awarded because I did it without…wait for it…raising my voice.

This whole ordeal, and some of the other dear god, what the eff scenarios I’ve been through in the seven years I’ve been a parent, have taught me that being a mom or a dad is challenging.  Very challenging.  It’s the test of your life, without the option of open book or open notes. You’re expected to have all the answers when half the time you don’t even know what the fuck the question is.  Your job comes with the requirement that mommy will make it all better, even on occasions when mommy’s ready to shit her pants.  But it’s worth it in the end, when your children go off to college and become the state’s problem.  Just kidding.  It’s really all worth it just to hear those sweet little guys call you their momma.