Overscheduled: Adult Diapers Aren’t Just For Old People

Well, it’s official.  Our family is completely overscheduled.  Overbooked.  Overworked.  Underpaid!  Blah, blah, blah – you get the picture.  I barely have time to pee.  My latest resort?  Depends.  There’s nothing like the warm flow of urine between your legs to make you realize you suck at scheduling … and probably life.

*plus, you get the added bonus of comfort and security!!!

It doesn’t sound that bad when I spell it out.  Munch has soccer, AD has boy scouts, and Guy has boy scouts and baseball.  I mean, that really doesn’t sound completely unmanageable.  There are people that are WAAAAAY busier.  People with more kids, more activities, more anger management issues, and way more venereal diseases.  Wait, huh?

And yet …

I had a meltdown of epic proportions on Saturday that had me texting the Hubs, “I. NEED. HELP.” in as desperate a font as I could find (and I do find that fonts are definitely not desperate enough) plus had my son mention to me that a stress ball might help me … because apparently that solves all stress related problems.  Certainly throwing it at people things might help, I guess.

It’s embarrassing, really.  I should be able to handle this shit.  But I am in constant fear that I am forgetting something.  I must look at my watch 87 times a day and check my Cozi calendar 106.  As if something is just going to show up randomly, put in by some electronic douchebag who thinks I need one more thing on my schedule?  I will find you, electronic douchebag, and I WILL cut you.

I know I’m not the only one.  My friend has been putting reminders on her phone to the point that I hear it dinging every 30 seconds.  “What was that reminder for?” I ask, practically panicking for her.  “That’s a reminder that I need to put in all of my reminders for the day,” she mumbles … as she falls to the ground sobbing.  Oh wait.  That was me.

Everything must be scheduled now.  I didn’t have breakfast on the schedule this morning and I couldn’t figure out why, at 10am, I was so cranky … and by cranky I mean I threw all the dirty laundry out into the yard and lit it on fire.  Apparently I need a reminder to remind me to eat breakfast.  And don’t you worry your pretty little head.  I made up for it with 14 cupcakes.  I don’t do hunger.

My irritation level has sky rocketed as well.  I’m on a fixed timeline, people!  I can’t have grandpa with a cane crossing the street in front of me when I have to be at school in T minus 3 minutes.  Come on!!!

“Move out of the way, old Yeller!!” I scream out the window … and by “scream out the window” I mean scream in my head … all the while keeping a smile on my face because god forbid any mom appear anything but calm, cool, and collected.

The amount of curse words screeched silently in my brain on a daily basis is making me wonder if, when I’m elderly and senile, those will be the only words my brain remembers.  I’m thinking I’m not going to be a favorite at the nursing home.  Maybe I should start that apology letter now.

Seriously, I’m starting to crack.  Three days without a shower?  That’s kind of pushing it, don’t you think?  Especially when I’m hanging out with disease ridden kids it’s flu season.  I haven’t sat on my couch since last Tuesday and that was only to collapse into a 30 second melodramatic fit before having to pick up Munch from soccer.  I need to make my car a wifi hot spot because that’s not only where I get everything done, but also where I live.  Plus I do really enjoy checking Pinterest.

“Keep it together” is the new mantra I mutter from dawn til dusk in an attempt to stay calm … that and “what the FUCK is wrong with people?” – but I keep that one on the DL.  The kids have been watching me lately like I’m a ticking time bomb so I’m pretty sure that’s not working.  Anyone else fucking up their kids?  Those prisons aren’t going to fill themselves!

Anyhoo, this Saturday there is official blankness on the calendar.  Nothing.  Nada.  It’s almost disconcerting.  In fact, it IS disconcerting.  The Hubs has already started talking about what we can do that day … he will find a way to overachieve if it kills him.  I told him I’m setting a reminder on my phone for Saturday.  It will say …

Reminder: Do nothing. (But FYI, Sunday’s gonna be a shitshow)

Embracing Your Curves: A Public Service Announcement From Camila Alves McConaughey

This is Camila Alves McConaughey.

She’s married to this guy (in case you live under a rock)

Not to be confused with this Camilla …

Who’s married to this dufus …

(I know, I always get them mixed up too)

But (as usual) I digress …

I honestly love nothing more than when celebrities try to have experimental flings with us lowly commoners in an attempt to sell handbags.

Camila (the Brazilian hottie) wants to let us know that she is embracing her curves after 3 kids.

Mmmm hm!!

It’s beyond shocking … so much so that I had to swallow 12 bitter pills to deal with the pure ridiculousness of this article thought of the horrendous prejudice poor Camila must deal with on a daily basis.

I am taken aback by her stoic bravery to the point that I vomited a little in my mouth upon reading this article.  I mean, to be photographed like this ???  (and, yes, the top photo IS the one accompanying the article where she espouses her unconditional love for her newly begotten look … brave, I tell you, BRAVE!)  She is the epitome of true feminism in this country.  She needs a statue made in her honor (right next to Brooke Burke’s) that states “This is what a real woman looks like!” … and she needs it STAT!

So anyhoo, not to be outdone by this skinny bitch …

… in honor of Camila’s newfound honesty and je ne sais quoi (and to make you REALLY uncomfortable), I thought I’d let you know what embracing your curves after 3 kids REALLY looks like.  And, kiddos, it ain’t Camila Parker Bowles McConaughey pretty!  I’m embracing the shit out of it because … because … because …

Um, yeah, I got nothing.  But I AM DOING THIS THING!

This is crazy, this is crazy, this is crazy …

(In all seriousness, Brittany Gibbons is my hero)

I completed a triathlon this past weekend and this is the best shot these men out to destroy all womenkind’s self esteem fabulous photographers could get of me this random lady.  What dears.

*I gave her a muffin top to hide her identity*

From what I could gather, this lady is 39 years old and has 3 adorable kids (ha! yeah – we all think that, lady).  She has a blog or something or other … blah, blah, blah … I tuned her out after she told me she had 3 kids (what kind of idiot?!), but I thought it was important to keep sharing pictures of “curves” like Camila’s.  If we don’t start accepting women like Camila as attractive, what’s gonna happen to the rest of us for Christ’s sake?!  Will no one love us??  And, more importantly, how will any of us have a chance with Matthew McConaughey?!  Oh wait, he’s married … and we all know Hollywood marriages last forever.  Shit.

Anyway …

STOP THE HATE … LOVE CAMILA AND HER CURVES!!  Jeez …

Disclaimer: I am sure Camila Duchess of Cornwall McConaughey is a super nice lady and I’m sorry I referred to her as a bitch … maybe.

The Birds and The Bees … Actually, Just The Bees

Regrettably, I mentioned earlier this week that I will be participating in a triathlon this weekend. I say regrettably because now I actually have to do this thing since enough of you read my post and wished me luck. Thanks for that (still looking for sarcasm font).

Who knew, though, that a simple 45 minute training session for said race would result in a misinterpreted kidnapping, frantic nudity, screaming, and an afternoon of blissful sleep … followed by horrendous itching?

What? None of this makes sense? Please. Let me explain. I am nothing if not compelling (seriously, when will someone develop that sarcasm font?! I can’t go much longer without it.)

I decided to accompany my friend on a bike ride in a last ditch effort to train for the bike portion of the triathlon from hell. “Cramming” for a triathlon like you do, say, for a biology test, is perfectly acceptable and, more importantly, foolproof. I find preparing for things in a half-ass way usually works out fine.

So about 30 minutes into our torturous ride (note to self: half-ass does not, in fact, work out “fine”), I finally hit a down hill where I could just coast.

I know what you’re thinking, but no. This did not happen.

Something so much better!!

I am flying down the hill like Lance Armstrong (pretending to know what I’m doing from that one 4th of July bike parade at the beach, but unfortunately, not doped up on drugs) when I feel something hit my chest. I’m wearing a V neck shirt, so whatever it is, hits me directly on my skin. Hard. I scream. Loud.

I shove my hand down my shirt in an attempt to get whatever it is out. And then the fun part begins! It starts moving … whatever this thing is. Not just anywhere, though. It starts moving toward my boob. And then it’s on my precious double D’s and it’s clearly headed right for … well, it’s headed right for my goddamn nipple.

I am shrieking like a lunatic, hand still shoved down my shirt, bike weaving, as I feel myself get stung. By a bee. On my nipple.

Did you read that? Because I want you to fully understand what happened. A bee stung my nipple.

In the meantime, my friend is behind me and doesn’t realize that the screaming is coming from me. Apparently I sound like an 8 year old boy screaming in the woods whilst being kidnapped. Right before she pulls over, darts into the woods, saves the boy’s life, and becomes the national hero that she will eventually become, she realizes it’s me.

She decides I’m more important than the 8 year old non-existent boy (love you, J!!) and screams at me to pull over. We stand on the side of the path – her drowning my boob with water while I strip down. What I find interesting is that several people walked by us and didn’t say a thing. I guess this kind of thing happens all the time? I’m sure it looked perfectly normal – me exposing my breast on a public bike path while my friend splatters water all over my chest. Maybe people thought it was a wet t-shirt contest??

Anyway, long story short, after crying for a good 10 minutes and shouting out things like, “Why me?!” and “Are you fucking kidding me?!” and “What are the FUCKING chances?!” (this was my friend, by the way, screaming about how screwed she’s been with me as a training partner), we headed to the pharmacy for some heavy duty Benedryl.

I slept for 4 hours. I’m pretty sure that’s the longest stretch I’ve had since BK (before kids). The left double D, “Betsy”, is still pretty itchy (she briefly blew up to an F, but wasn’t able to maintain … poor thing), but very proud of herself for surviving the ordeal. Unblemished righty, “Olga”, is sick of “Betsy’s” incessant bragging and has informed me on numerous occasions that she’s planning some sort of intervention to get Betsy to shut the fuck up.

Good news? Training is done for the bike ride! NAILED IT!!

Worst Case Scenario: Triathlon Edition … And Don’t Let The Word ‘Triathlon’ Make You Think I Am Physically Fit In Any Way

In one week I’m doing another triathlon. And before you get all crazy impressed, ugly-ass pissed, or insanely jealous about the word ‘another’, I’ve only ever done one other one. So this will be my second … not my thirtieth. And they’re sprints … not those suicidal missions that the Hubs does. This is not to dismiss the dedication it takes to participate in one of these things. Because, trust me, there’s dedication. And by that, I mean maintaining the constant gnawing teeth and viciously scraping claws in the pit of my stomach worrying about whether or not I can even finish this thing, let alone not make a complete ass out of myself. Keeping those beasts in my stomach angry (as a form of motivation??) requires hardcore dedication. I wish I could say my dedication had been with the training, you know – the biking, swimming, and running, but … well, … I’m lazy at heart.

Whatever. You like me that way.

So instead of going for a run, or swimming my brains out, or biking a horrendously steep hill leading to a cliff several people have fallen off of in one last ditch effort to train for this thing, I’m going to write about it!!! Actually, I’m going to write about how I think this thing is going to go down … worst case scenario style. Does that work? Well, then don’t read it!! Jesus.

So Saturday morning … or is it Sunday? Shit. I should probably figure out what day the race is. Anyway, whatever day it is, I will have to wake up at, probably, 5am. This shouldn’t be a problem as I will have been up all night having massive stress induced diarrhea (PULLLEEASE! You’ve all had it!!). My ass should be nice and chafe for the bike ride. Fun!!  Did I mention the Hubs is doing this race as well? Oh yeah. It’s totally romantic. He finishes 5 hours ahead of me and then I cry my eyes out at the finish line we make out. Anyway, he’ll be having some kale, spinach, blueberry smoothie with a 10 pound bar bell mixed in while I shove a Reese’s Peanut Butter cup in my face … the big kind … because I’m gonna need the energy, people.

The Hubs will have everything packed and ready to go while I wander around looking for my bathing suit. Do I own one? What kind of back asswards idiot owns a bathing suit?! Oh, there it is! Fingers crossed it fits. Pretty sure I bought this one in high school.

I will then be summoned to the car by “military” Hubs … my favorite version of him. I have now peed 26.5 times and need to go once more. He is impatiently waiting. We need to pick up our friends who I conned into doing this thing with us. I am getting texts along the lines of “where are you?!” and “are you bailing?!” and “control your bladder for Christ’s sake!!”. Those are from the dog, actually, who has yet to be let out because I can’t walk away from the bathroom for more than 5 seconds.

I linger in the house for another 10 minutes in the hopes that someone will call us and tell us there’s been a death in the family … the only thing I can think of that will get me out of this thing.

No such luck.

It’s a half hour drive to the race, where I get to hear the Hubs being all happy, excited and positive. Bastard. These are the times I absolutely loathe him. I am curled in a ball in the backseat … willing myself to have a heart attack while quietly banging my foot against the seat in the hopes of breaking it.

Once we arrive and get all checked in, I will see all the women who are super young and fit and super old and fit and, in general, SUPER and FIT and stupidly SUPER FIT … while they stare back at me and try to understand. Baffled would be the main expression I see on others faces when their eyes meet mine. I keep my head down as much as I can … this ain’t a proud moment, peeps.

Race starts. Swim first. After 16 near drowning incidents, I drag myself out of the water. The volunteer team for the race has been notified of my bib number (#666) and I’m now being discreetly monitored. Someone sneaks a heart monitor onto me, but I don’t even notice … I’m eating a red velvet cupcake I hid in my transition bag.  It’s a little smushed and mangled from people stepping on my bag, but when has that ever stopped me?!

Bike ride!! Twelve and a half miles of pure SUCK!! Woohoo!!! The only thing keeping me on the bike is the pure terror that I will fall off and scrape all the Jergen’s lotioned skin off of my body (hey!  I take care of that skin!) … that and bang out all of my teeth. Good news, though! I have a helmet on, so my brain will be intact while top surgeons (or half-assed) put me through surgery after surgery to repair my disfigured body and also attempt to superglue my teeth back in.  Actually, that’s the kids.  I told them to bring Elmer’s … just in case.

Run! I thought I was exhausted BEFORE the race. Guess what! I’m dead on my feet. In fact, I no longer feel my feet. Do I have feet? I am doing my best not to crawl.  Run?  Hell! I’ll be thrilled if I can walk!!

I WILL run across the finish line, though (with the DJ cuing up “Clumsy” by Fergie … an ode to my speed and grace, or Damien Rice’s “The Blower’s Daughter” as an ironic tribute to the train wreck that I am) … even if it means puking up my Reese’s infused cupcake right as they take the finish line photo … in fact, right onto the Hubs, who has showered, dressed, received his award and penned a novel about his experience. He tries not to be mad that I got some vomit on the 200 page leather bound self-help book he’s written… bastard already got through the drafting and editing phases!

As I sit down to read “Adventures in Triathlons: How to Survive Your Partner’s Untrainability and Overall Laziness” I remind myself for the one billionth time that I will NEVER SIGN UP FOR A RACE AGAIN.

Crap. This may actually have been BEST case scenario.

They’re Gonna Be Ok

Well, it’s been a little while and I hope that, on Tuesday morning, wherever you are, you are enjoying a nice hot cup of coffee and listening to some semblance of silence … at least kid-free-silence.  There really is nothing better.  Unless you have a donut with you … then you’ve hit the jackpot.

My kids are headed back to school in 2 days.  And I’m pretty sure there’s nothing that makes me more clinically bi-polar than the first day of school.  The relief, the joy, the freedom … it’s a rush.  The endless (7) hours ahead of me to do as I please.  No more tripping over bored adolescents or hearing the theme song to a particularly addictive 80’s TV show (Have mercy!) or eavesdropping in on unmonitored chaos in the basement muttering “I don’t even want to know what they are doing” or literally and figuratively cleaning up spilled milk.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

But the other half?  Well, the other half sucks balls.  The fear, the worry, the anxiety … paralyzing at times.  Are they going to be ok?  Are they???  (That’s not a rhetorical question!!  I need a 3 page essay on whether or not you think my kids are ok!!) I stopped reading the news years ago because of this reason.  Let me tell you – if you read the news, they most certainly are NOT going to be ok.  They will be bullied, harassed, and teased.  They will be taught poorly and not given the right skills to succeed.  They will be held at gunpoint and scared and scarred for life.  They will face depression and thoughts of suicide from social media.  And of course I could go on and on … but I don’t want you to have too much fun reading this!

In no way am I minimizing these horrible things that have happened – because they have happened and I want to take every one of those kids and put them in a protective bubble and nurture and care for them until their wounds are healed, but our kids are going to be ok.  They really are.  Ok, I may have pulled that out of my butt crack (where all of my most fabulous ideas have originated), but I’m going with it.

They are resilient and strong and smarter than we realize.  And maybe I’m just saying all this to make myself feel better (as I bite my nails to the quick worrying about all three of mine), but I’ve had some fabulous school years with these kids and some pretty horrific ones and you know what?  They’re ok. They floated down rivers, swam in oceans, hiked mountains, went to camps, hung out with their friends … and they smiled and laughed hysterically this summer.  (Don’t let me fool you – they also screamed, cried, melted down, told me they hated me and barfed up cotton candy)

Do they have their struggles?  Um, yes … in spades.  But you know what?  They’re ok.  I worry more about them than is possibly necessary.  And I have to remind myself, before going into some sort of crazy mom-induced coma from my excessive worrying, that they are ok and are going to be ok.  I love them.  Their father loves them.  Their family loves them.  If nothing else, they are loved.  Do I want more for them than that?  Of course.  But I’ve spent so many years waiting for the other shoe to drop that I forgot to really look and see that they are ok.

Your kids are going to be ok.

Now you do realize that since I’ve written this, this WILL be the the worst year ever for my kids (I never lose my lust for negativity!) and I will post something in June saying how I was completely full of shit and all blog posts from the “former, delusional” me will be printed out and burned in a raging bonfire (we can all roast marshmallows!!!), but for right now, the only way I can live is to assume they will be ok.  The alternative is daunting and scary as all hell and if I lived like that I’d never let the kids leave the house … and if you I think I’m screwing up the kids now, that would REALLY do it.

(Disclaimer:  I don’t know your kids.  I have no idea if they are going to be ok.  They may, in fact, not be.  I pull stuff out of my butt crack all the time and pass it off as “advice” … in fact, to be honest, MY kids are not ok.  But I pretend they are so I can tell people I’m a good mother.  I’m secretly only adequate – and even that’s a stretch.)