My youngest son is asleep in HIS bed.

Sound asleep.

In a Batman costume.

She was the temporarily single mom of theree boys. Not all of them were in school, yet none of them napped any longer. And it was a holiday weekend.

As she stepped into the shower on Tuesday, she couldn’t recall if she had managed to squeeze one in since her amazingly wonderul saint of a husband (because he eventually returned) had left in the dawning light of Friday morning.

She was gross.

She could remember haircuts for all the boys, a trip to Sephora with all the boys (stupid, stupid woman), baseball games, baseball practices, trips to the grocery store, hours at the pool and cleaning, but she couldn’t remember a shower.

It must not have occured (gross).

When she massaged the shampoo into her hair no suds formed. “Yeah, that’s dirty,” she thought. Another glob of shampoo and the thoughts too soon washed away as she enjoyed the warm water.

And the quiet.

And being alone.

And being clean.

CRASH! The bathroom door slams open. “Hi Mom!” Well that seven minutes of silence is over.

As she toweled off she considered the options for greeting her husband upon his return that evening. She narrowed it down to two.

1. Immediately drop to her knees and give him the best blow job of gratitude she could muster.

or

2. Greet him with a big hug and a kiss and never let on that he really could do ANYTHING as long as he never permanently left her by herself with three young boys.

She figured #2 was the smarter option, since she’d needed to maintain some leverage. But he did get some play the next morning.

********************************************

I bend to my knees in pious admiration to all of you single parents, though I won’t be including oral sex with it.

Sorry.

So Mr. Three came to work with me today due to the fact that we’re too lazy to drive just one kid to daycare if the other isn’t going his brother had a dentist appointment. As an added bribe to make up for having to spend the day in my office (turning the only place in my life that is neat into a mini-version of my home, I might add) we stopped by Micky D’s for breakfast on the way in.

Three has been really into Happy Meals lately for all the Shrek toys, so this addition to his day was greeted with cheers.

On our way down the highway, Three had Donkey, Artie and Shrek in his lap and they were all having a Three-choreographed conversation with small interludes of their recorded voices taking over. Apparently, Artie “doesn’t know anything about being a king.” Donkey likes playing “peek-a-boo” and this little-known fact was revealed about Shrek…

“I’m a hooker!”

Or so Three insists that’s what he’s saying.

And apparently real moms will take photos of their children even when they’re mad
because they don’t have a black nose like their brother the leopard.

There was quite a bit I “learned” during pregnancy that no one told me about when I was foolishly having unprotected sex trying to get pregnant.

I knew to expect some nausea. I knew my clothes would stop fitting. I even knew that my body might never return to its previous shape. I DIDN’T know I would have to stop eating brie. I DIDN’t know about the tear-inducing heartburn. I DIDN’T know about the hemorrhoids and I definitely had NO idea that someone would suggest I give myself perineal massages.

But I got over all those things.

I missed the brie–and I might have cheated on that rule a few times. The heartburn sucked, but it went away as soon as the babies were ripped from a gaping hole in my abdomen born–same with the lovely hemorrhoids. As for the “suggested” massage? Let’s just say that if I had taken the time to get THAT in touch with my body I would have been pissed since my boys decided there was no way they were entering the world that way.

Once the babies arrived I discovered there were a ton of other things folks left out of the Beauty of Motherhood myth. You know, things like getting peed and pooped on, cracked nipples, mastitis, the cult-like brainwashing sleep deprivation, the lack of libido (see sleep deprivation), the hormone swings, bleeding for weeks after the birth, and, oh yeah, the aching joints for that first month.

Again, I lived through all that fun, and now my youngest is three.

Lately I’ve discovered that no one tells you that your children begin rolling their eyes at you WAY before they become teenagers. I’ve discovered that kids don’t have just one bike–you need a new one for every few inches they grow. I’ve discovered that little league players no longer grab the equipment from a team bag. They now carry bags bigger than they are filled with equipment expensive enough for me to buy at least one pair of crocodile pumps. I’ve discovered that by fifth grade they can really stink. And, I’ve discovered that nothing I can do will convince my three year-old that he can’t wear baseball pants every day (no kidding this has been going on for two months now).

Again, I can handle these things no one bothered to tell me about.

Today I discovered yet another thing no one told me about, and while it’s not really that bad, I think it was just the straw that broke the camel’s back.

No one told me I’d be using my fingernail to scrape dried boogers off the wall as I leaned across a toilet that my boys use as a rough target for peeing.

So what is it that no one has shared with me yet about teenagers?

Wait! I’m not sure I want to know.

It would means they actaully need to GO to sleep!

The Bunny’s getting tired, and she still has baskets to fill!

Got to get to bed early so I have enough energy to meet the early morning sugar high.

Woohoo! Easter candy.

Help me!!!!!

I’ve been tagged by Queen of the Mayhem and Janet a.k.a. Wonder Mom to tell you about real moms. Honestly, these two women each hit the mark dead on with their posts. I’m not sure what I can add, but since they were nice enough to think of me I’ll give it whirl.

Real moms? You want to know the ugly truth? Our deepest, darkest secret?

We have NO shame.

Sure real moms look around the table at a work meeting and secretly want to look like the single fashionistas, but they’ll wear an outfit from Target if it means their chilren get the birthday present of their dreams or a memorable vacation.

Real moms gag at the smell of vomit, but they’ll go to the pharmacy with it in their hair when their toddler is running a fever and can’t keep anything down.

Real moms will clean toilets at a bar if it means their family has food on the table.

Real moms will exhaust themselves raising kids by themselves rather than modeling a “normal” relationship as loveless or violent.

Real moms might try to have children naturally, but they’ll love the ones they get with every fiber of their being regardless of any genetic relationship.

You can try every trick you have to put down a real mom, but it ain’t gonna phase her. When it comes to her family there isn’t anything she wouldn’t do.

You want to demean her? You want to degrade her? You want to make her invisible? You want to treat her as less than equal?

Fine. As long as you’re willing to be met with the ferocity of tiger. Because a real mom will battle to the death to protect her family and provide a safe and loving environment in which her children can grow up to be healthy and happy.

Oh, and she’ll have an army of Target clothes-wearing, toilet brush-holding, vomit spewn-haired women standing behind her to take you on. Because that’s what real moms do.

for not allowing your children to bring snacks into your bed.

I woke up with a raisin on my butt this morning!

What we parents won’t do to protect our children.

Carrying Mr. 3 downstairs last night in the midst of an inconsolable crying jag, my foot went out from underneath me as I descended the stairs. Wanting to protect him, guess what took the brunt of the fall!

As if my ass wasn’t big enough to start with, NOW I have a lump the size of a fist on my right cheek!

I think it’s too bad Shakey’s real name doesn’t begin with a “C.” I could have wooed him with some romantic story of branding myself in his honor.

On the bright side, Mr. 10 thinks it looks like a horseshoe, so maybe it’s a mark of good luck.

Guess the swimsuit cover is out this year!

Three years ago tonight I was laying on a plastic covered matress readying my nipples for a couple weeks of trauma, my boobs for a long trip south, my brain for a year (actually 18 months) of no sleep, my hormones for a roller coaster ride, my thick shiney hair for a mass exodus and my mood for a bit of a dark period.

But I didn’t care about all of that, because three years ago tonight I had a brand new baby boy.

Well and because three years ago tonight, I had drugs.

Ah the sweet sweet ignorance of a drug-induced haze!

Happy Birthday Mr. 3.