When it comes to my period, I sort of feel like Forrest Gump sitting in front of a box of chocolates. Wild anticipation–because I just don’t know what I’m going to get.
It could be the boring nougat filled milk chocolate type of period where the cramps are meh and really nothing more than a slight annoyance, or the absolute dumpster fire that is the mystery orange-filled dark chocolate that reminds you to never ever trust anything ever again because the world is cruel and you might never recover.
Currently, I’m the latter. A feeling my children did not at all understand as I grunted and pointed toward the washer and dryer, because shit needed to get done and I was in no shape to do it myself. The only thing worse than doing laundry is having to do the same load of laundry again because you didn’t move it from the washer to the dryer fast enough to avoid mildew. But that’s not the point. The point is, I felt like my vagina was going to fall off if I moved, and they didn’t understand.
Not only are they a little young to fully grasp the science behind a woman’s menstrual cycle and all it entails, but even if they were, they still wouldn’t really get it. Yeah, sure, dudes know it hurts because we tell them it does, but they will never know what it’s like because they don’t have the parts.
If there’s one thing I refuse to do, it’s to raise men who don’t sympathize with women. I’ll be damned if I teach them everything they need to know in life, and still have them go “ewwwww” whenever a women mentions the word “tampon”.
DO YOU KNOW WHAT’S GROSS? TESTICLES. TESTICLES ARE FLOPPY WRINKLY SACKS THAT HANG BEHIND YOUR PENIS AND GET STUCK TO YOUR LEGS LIKE OLD BOLOGNA WHEN IT GETS HOT. DON’T TALK TO ME ABOUT GROSS.
I’m trying to avoid ever having to yell that at them. I totally would, but I’d prefer them to hear the words “period” and “cramps” and comprehend to either stay the fuck away, not be a douche about it, or bring chocolate. Maybe all of the above. How, though? How to make that happen when they will never be able to experience the delight and joy of even a single period cramp?
By putting it into terms they CAN understand.
It’s like your body suddenly morphs into a chunk filled water balloon that is being beaten with nail-covered bats by an army of fire ants.
Imagine going on an episode of Jackass and then having the entire cast and crew kick your parts for a week straight. It’s like that.
You know the stomach-bursting scene from Space Balls? Yeah. That’s what it feels like.
It’s like going to a buffet full of food you know is going to give you violent diarrhea, but you’ve already paid your entire life savings and have to get your money’s worth so you eat it all anyway.
It’s trying to function like a normal human being while feeling like someone is using all of your dangy parts as a punching bag. Stairs are the funnest part.
It’s a feeling in between that one you get right before you shit yourself, and the one before you puke. Only it never goes away.
It’s like having a cannonball covered in needles sitting in the lower part of your stomach. Oh, and it’s on fire.
It’s the constant, unrelenting sensation of not being able to trust a fart.
The fear that with any sneeze, cough, or hiccup, you could accidentally drench yourself in blood.
Like your center of gravity has been yanked down to your asshole area, and it’s so heavy that you think your bits could actually fall off.
It would feel like stubbing your pinky toe on a coffee table, but only if you had 4,512 pinky toes.
My boys will never understand the full period experience, but at least they’ll know if it’s bad enough to be compared to ANY of the above, they should just do the laundry and shut up about it.
Staring back at a photo I took of me and my oldest at a restaurant over the weekend, I noticed something off. At 10 years old, his head is almost as big as mine. And I have a big head.
Thank the stars in the sky I’m a tall lady, because if he were already as tall as me, I just might lose it- because I’m already teetering at the edge with this kid. I know it’s the stereotypical “mom” thing to say- but he is growing way too fast, and I’m gonna need him to stop.
It’s a train that’s been out of control for a very long time. The big head realization may just be the caboose. And it’s on fucking fire.
Like any mom, having your first baby hit the double-digits is a big slap in the face. “HOW AM I OLD ENOUGH FOR THIS?” First they’re ten, and then they’re in high school, and then they’re driving, and then they’re moving out to go to college and from there it’s a landslide to marriage and babies, and before you know it, you’re chugging miralax because you’re old, and constipated, and your grandchildren think you’re full of shit. And you probably are. Because you’r ancient.
If only my kid hitting the big 1-0 was the first smack into reality that he is closer to being an adult than he is a baby, but no. It’s just one more thing in a long line of repeated bitch slaps.
The kid has already been kicking my ass when we watch Jeopardy (which he insists on watching so he can laugh hysterically as he “wrecks” the contestants). He’s been wearing deodorant for two years now because he wreaks. All the shit people warned me about when it comes to boys “eating you out of house and home” that sounded a bit laughable I already know to be true, as I watch this boy inhale his 5th snack between coming home from school and having dinner…. and when he’s done with dinner, he asks to have whatever I have on my plate, because clearly dinner is a race and he has to win.
He is acing things in 5th grade that I don’t remember ever even learning in high school, let alone elementary. I can’t help him with his math homework. DON’T EVEN ASK ME.
We SHARE CLOTHES. I steal his shirts all the time. Shit, sometimes I even say I’m buying him a shirt when really it’s just for me, but I can more easily get away with buying new clothes if I say it’s for the kids.
Most of the time, I don’t even need to Google for the answers to weird, random, off-the-wall questions because he has the answers rattling around in his enormous dome, and even when I Google anyway just to be the asshole fact checker so that I can laugh in his face about being wrong- HE’S NOT. HE’S RIGHT. HOW DOES HE DO IT?
How is this kid so smart? How is he so grown? How does he eat so much? How does he already smell so bad?
It is in these moments of fleeting childhood where I have to grasp on to the last bits that remain. He still believes in Santa (HOW? I DON’T KNOW). He still loves to cuddle, and be tickled (even though he is NOT ticklish). He still throws the occasional enormous baby temper tantrum. He’s not interested in any kind of romantical things.
But the best proof that my baby is still my innocent, derp-brained little bundle of joy came unexpectedly. Like an early Christmas gift that dropped into my lap. THE HEAVENS SMILED UPON ME THAT DAY!
Amidst a conversation about some extended family, an uncle named “Richard” was mentioned. It’s not the first time he was mentioned, but the eldest child has selective hearing like a mofo. Practicing for his married years, I’m sure–already ahead of the curve just like everything else he does.
I made a little joke about “Good ol’ Uncle Dick” (not saying this person is, in fact, a Dick- but I just love the nickname because it’s real, and because I’m immature).
He stops us mid conversation, and the following exchange occurs:
10 yo: Wait… people actually have that name?
Me: What? Dick?
10 yo: Yeah…. that. That’s a real name?
Me: Yes. It’s a nickname for Richard…
A look of bewilderment and sudden understanding washes over his face. I wasn’t ready for this, y’all. I. wasn’t. ready.
10 yo: Ohhh… so… Dick’s Sporting Goods is a real sport store?
Me: …. yes…. what did you think it was?
10 yo: A penis sports store.
A what now?
10 yo: (obviously realizing he’s made a horrible mistake) I dunno, I just thought… they had a section in the back with penis trampolines.
THE FUCK IS A PENIS TRAMPOLINE?
I don’t think we’ll EVER know what the hell was going through his mind, because he couldn’t stop laughing enough to tell me, but I do know one thing: He’s certainly no grown-up. And now, suddenly, it’s not his belief on Santa that comforts me. It’s thanks to his weird, misguided belief in penis trampolines that I don’t feel so bad.
Some might refer to it as “seasonal depression”- but I just call it a funk. I’M IN A FUNK, Y’ALL. It’s crept into every little nook and cranny of my life and doesn’t seem to want to leave.
I think it’s safe to say that we all have periods in our lives, be they short or prolonged, where nothing seems to be going right. Or when it does, life has a good chuckle by smacking it right back into your face and telling you “Nope, stay down.” We also all know what it feels like to be in this slumpy funk, and to know that other people have it far worse, so you sort of feel like a total assbag for even feeling bad in the first place, which just makes you feel worse because you can’t change how you feel. WHEW. THAT WAS A LOT OF FEELS. Are you still following? I think you are.
For me, personally, this funk has me stuck. With my career. With where I want to go. I can’t seem to move. I’m always aiming for the next step, reaching for the next level, and for a few months now, I’ve been unable to get anywhere. It’s a horrible feeling– knowing where you want to go, but feeling like you can’t get there. Like nothing is working in your favor. Like all of your hard work is basically for nothing. It’s negative, and it’s not productive, but I realize it’s also natural to feel this way when you’ve hit a wall.
Could I try to hide my frustration and disappointment from my kids? I COULD… but my face won’t. It’s impossible. Not to mention the fact that I don’t mind them knowing about my struggles to some degree. I don’t need nor do I want them to think that I’m perfect. I don’t want them striving for perfection because they think their parents are. They need to know that I have struggles, and that I can make it through them, and their lives are going to have them, too.
I don’t want to sit here and preach to you about how things will get better. Just keep trying, keep your head up, keep plugging away. YOU KNOW ALL OF THESE THINGS. There’s no point in me cramming it down your throat if your eyeballs deep in life’s bullshit, so I won’t do it. But I do want to share something with you that my 8 year old said, because it hit me at just the right time, in just the right away.
My boys know all about my jobs, my triumphs, and my struggles, and they are very aware it’s been a rough time for me lately. The eight year old was questioning me on some things related to it and asked when I’d be, essentially, taking it to the next level. When I’d have enough followers/readers/viewers/fans to be attending events and things of that ilk. I responded with something along the lines of “I dunno… maybe soon… maybe never.” and with the most exasperated tone, he says “Don’t say things like that! Good things won’t happen when you don’t speak the good things!”
A) HOLY SHIT
B) HE’S RIGHT
C) WHEN DID HE GET SO SMART?
I fully believe that bitching can be good for the soul, and bottling it up is destructive to yourself– but negativity breeds negativity, y’all. When you speak too much negative, you think negative, and you feel negative. There is power in positive thinking, and positive speaking, and maybe, just maybe, while it’s good to be realistic, I should also try to be more optimistic every now and then.
It’s so weird when our spawn are more adult than we are.
Of course, this is the same kid who claimed he couldn’t eat salmon because it gives you “salmon-ella, DUH”- so his judgment may not always be 100% reliable, but I think he’s correct this time.
My family likes to do a lot of different activities together, but one of our favorites is to get in our pajamas, plop down on the couch, and watch TV together at the end of a long day. Problem is there isn’t a ton of TV out there which we all enjoy equally. Someone is always grinning, and someone is always just barely bearing it.
As much as I love cartoons, there are only so many I can watch. Finally, my kids are getting old enough to enjoy NON-animated programs, so the struggle went from finding something enjoyable, to finding something appropriate AND enjoyable for everyone.
That’s what’s always been so great about Netflix for us. As much as they offer just for adults, and just for kids, they offer a ton for both to enjoy together as well. Score!
From Fuller House, to A Series of Unfortunate Events- we’ve found a ton of stuff we can veg out with.
When it comes to my favorite season, though, things always tend to get a little more complicated. HALLOWEEN! THE MOST MAGICAL SPOOKY TIME OF THE YEAR! I always want to share in the frights with my kids without landing them in my bed until their teens and causing them to need more therapy than I’m sure having me as a mom has already caused. They love creepy, scary stuff– but I have to be the responsible adult and draw the line. Man, it sucks.
That’s why I’m SO EXCITED that Stranger Things Season 2 will be streaming on Netflix on October 27th- JUST in time for Halloween! It’s the perfect mix of nostalgia, friendship, creeps, mysteries, and scares. Adult enough to keep my spook-itch satisfied, and mild enough to make sure the kids sleep in their own beds for the rest of forever. Well… we’ll see. I hear this season is going to be darker and spookier than the first- so I may have some company in bed that isn’t my snoring husband… but I think it’s a fair trade.
Who else is amped for the return of Stranger Things? What spooky things do you watch with your kids?? If Stranger Things is a bit intense, might I suggest the Goosebumps movie, and/or A Series of Unfortunate Events?
Perfect for the little ones who want to watch something creepy, but don’t want to be scared out of a good night’s sleep! And there’s the ALWAYS perfect, ALWAYS classic no matter what time of year: The Nightmare Before Christmas. All of the above are on Netflix right now!
Rules of Entry:
You know that old saying “Once in a blue moon”? Does it ever leave you wondering “how can it be once in a blue moon if there’s literally never a blue moon?” Logic would lead you to the conclusion that once in a blue moon isn’t just rare, it NEVER happens. That, for me, is alone time with my husband. When the kids are upstairs drooling on their pillows doesn’t count. I mean REAL alone time. Time they can’t come waltzing into the room to tell me their sock fell off.
REAL. BONAFIDE. ALONE TIME.
When’s the last time you had it? I can remember the exact day, though the details are a bit fuzzy, because it’s been that long. We’re lame, cheap homebodies. We don’t like hiring babysitters. We kinda prefer to hang out at home.
I know. It’s sad. We should make time for ourselves more. I KNOW. YOU DON’T NEED TO TELL ME. But it’s tough to make the plans and take the time when you’re not used to it, so honestly, the only real “us” time we get is when the fates work in our favor. And wouldn’t you know it– fate was on our side yesterday.
The kids had to go to school, the husband did not have to go to work– which left us by our lonesome, not just for a measly hour or two, but all. day. long. 8am – 2:45pm. That’s a hefty chunk of time!
There was so much we could do in that time without crotchfruit tugging on our sleeves. We could finally go see an R rated movie in the theater and not only get two bites of popcorn because they ate it all before the damn previews. We could have gone to one of the fancier restaurants we’ve always wanted to go to but haven’t been able to because they aren’t “kid friendly” or we don’t want to hear them whine about there being nothing to eat, or pay the cost for an adult plate for a picky 8 year old. We could go shopping and MAYBE not buy the kids anything for once. We could even touch each other’s butts like the olden days, but not quite with such reckless abandon because NO MORE KIDS.
As far as I could see, the options were endless. We could do any of those things, or even a combination of a few of them, and still have time to spare. It wasn’t until I was doing my makeup to go into the world, not as “Holden and Parker’s Mom”, but as JENNY that a feeling washed over me. A familiar, yet unsettling one. I couldn’t put my finger on it at first. It frittered away in the back of my mind until I walked down the stairs to tell Thomas I was ready to go and he said “We need to stop by the grocery store for a few things.”
HA HA. RESPONSIBILITY. That was the feeling pirouetting in the back of my brain. Creeping up on me like someone from high school I try to avoid upon seeing them in public. On a day we could do anything, the last thing I wanted to do was succumb to responsibility. That is my EVERY day! NOT today!
I fought it to the best of my ability, but where did I find myself an hour later? In the damn checkout line glaring at the sticker next to the credit card reader that read “anyone on or before this date in 1996 can buy alcohol.”
Responsibility has aged me more than children.
The “Are You Ready to Have Kids?” Checklist of Doom goo.gl/fb/DTPJ1A
If anyone asks how I died, you can just go ahead and tell them "she was lured in by free pie in exchange for listening to 2nd graders screech Thanksgiving songs for 30 minutes"
Half-Assed Jingler Syndrome goo.gl/fb/McWfBy
@ItsEvieClaire Booze and tears
I'm not saying this is the perfect #Christmas gift for all the parents in your life, but.... okay, yeah I am. That's exactly what I'm saying. Truths from the bowels of parenthood! amazon.com/Kids-Are-Turds…
@Gofashiondeals All of that and more. Good times. Gooooood times