We're Short A Girl, But We Have The Cup

Dear Choch,

I'm just not that into you.

We've been together for these 34 years, 11 months, 2 weeks and 12 days, even though I didn't know about you for the first 15 years. I thought you had something to do with the little hole just north of you until one day when I was trying to convince my mother to let me use this AMAZING BRAND NEW INVENTION called a tampon, and I pitched it to her as, "If you can get a baby out of that tiny little opening, I'd think getting a little tube of cotton up there would be a no brainer."

Her falling over and dying of laughter-induced asphyxiation was my first clue that I was missing something key. And yes, I went through two whole menstrual years before I knew you existed. Cult. Schizophrenic. You try to fair better in life.

Anyway, I figured out what the hell you were four years later soon enough, and sure, you've done great things for me. You allowed me to wring out three humans so they could breath well enough to eat all my good cookies someday, and you've single-handedly kept this guy around for the better part of 14 years. It's not like he's still here because of my mad housekeeping skillz or anything.

All I'm saying is that I get it. You're important. So is astro-physics but you don't see me sticking my hands in that gooepy hot mess, either, do you? I'm happy letting you be you, and letting me be me, and calling it a day. You're a glorified tube sock, a protein depository, and to be perfectly honest...you kind of wigg me the fuck out.

I have never been the 'I have vagina; hear me roar!' kind of women. I never felt the need to sit on a mirror to explore the source of my power and femininity. I made my father videotape the births of my children from the neighboring hospital. I got pregnant with my first kid because I couldn't find my diaphragm and figured I was digesting it. I don't care how you work...I just care that you do. The source of MY power and femininity? DSW. It's not oozey. I don't have to wax it. The worst thing anyone leaves behind in DSW is congealing white chocolate mochas. Which are still pretty fucking delicious.

But still, I decided to let you try one of those Diva Cup things. Because I am an idiot.

Our midwife had warned us that things like this would be a problem when she tried to reach my cervix and realized that holy shit you're long and had to take a running start to get her fingers all the way to the top of you. Good times, good times. I don't have the luxury of taking running starts to get weapons of mass absorption in their proper place. All I have are 10 stubby fingers that would rather dig around the insides of a rotting wildebeest carcass than try to get a plastic Barbie funnel in it's proper place. And yet, I tried. For you.

It's not degrading enough that I can put a 4.3 cm plastic shotglass in you and not feel it, oh no. You had to go and an attention whore about the whole thing. You had to keep pushing that thing back out. You had to shift it sideways. You had to make me spend every 47.28 minutes with my entire hand up in you (which seriously, I could have gone my whole life not knowing I can get a whole hand in you, thanks for that gem of an ego boost) adjusting and re-adjusting that thing while I was on vacation with my entire family AND 10 other bloggers. AT A WATERPARK. Are you trying to tell me something? Not getting enough attention? Take it up with your co-owner; that's in his job-description, not mine.

And don't for a second tell me I was doing it wrong. Want I should make a list of all the random crap I've had to stick in you over the past 22 years? I didn't think so. I'm the World's Leading Authority in the field of wedging plastic contraptions in you to keep stuff in, or out. And I'm done. I'm over you. I'm buying a Red Tent and we are spending 7-9 days of every month in it, end of story.

You have failed me for the last time.

Your Lovin',

Mr Lady

{Thanks to BlogHer for the cross-posting action}

This Is Going To Hurt Me More Than It Hurts You

When my boys were little, pre video games, pre going to the park with friends, when it was just them and me and a lifetime of time, we used to play this little game my mother played with us when we were little.  I'd take my shirt off, lay on the floor, and have them write letters on my back with their fingers.  I'd try to guess the letters, and even when I knew I always guessed wrong because there is no greater feeling in the world than outsmarting your mom.

Not only did they learn to write the alphabet really fast, but I got a little baby massage out of the deal.  Win tothefucking win, yo.

When they started to bore with that game, we upped the ante.  I'd get down to my chonies, lay on the floor and give them ball point pens or sharpies.  They'd give me tattoos.  They'd usually start with my fish and "finish" them, and then they'd go out from there.  By the end, I had a full body tattoo, I'd blown at least an hour,  if not two, and my kids had sugarplum wishes and ice cream dreams of being tattoo artists when they grow up.  Because there is no greater feeling than having your kids understand that there's something more to art than painting or sculpting, that it comes in all shapes and sizes and needle gauges.

And damn it, that shit felt awesome.  And it annoyed the holy fuck out of my husband.  Win tothemotherfucking win, yo.

Downside? Kind of hard to explain at work the next day.

So when I asked them last night to come mark and measure my back for my tattoo at BlogHer, I thought nothing at all of it.  Seems par for the course, right?  Funny how you forget that what seems like exactly just yesterday with your kids can actually be fairly close to a decade ago and they've got Pokemon cheat codes and Green Day lyrics and french grocery lists to store in their brains...they can't be bothered to remember some totally endearing childhood moments or anything.  They about died when I told them what I needed them to do. I reminded them that they used to do this all the time with me and they both looked at me like I was an insane person.  

Like they're the first or something. Pshaw.

So I bribed them.  They accepted my terms and I started to take my shirt off.  My 11 years old's eyeballs turned and began to claw their way back into his skull.  My 9 year old lept, LEPT backwards.  I said look, dudes.  You see my in my chonies all the time and they said ohmygod ewwwww mom! and I said you know what?  It's the exact same thing as a swimsuit exactly and the 11 year old said okay, I'll keep telling myself that.

{Note for Future 1of3 and 2of3: The reason it is so frightening to see me in a swimsuit or my chonies is that YOU DID THIS TO ME.  I looked like a blond Megan Fox before I opted to give you life, and you made me gain 105 pounds and they you made me gain 80 pounds, and it was totally worth it, so shut up.  Momma loves you.}

Once the measuring tapes and the ink pens and the schematics came out, they were fine.  They got right down to business and did a fantastic job making and marking all the right measurements, and then I made them take pictures of said back to send to my designer. They have never been so happy in their whole lives, partly because they got to use the big, new camera and partly because there is no greater way to humiliate their mother than taking photographs of her almost totally naked.  Because you know she's just going to plaster them all over the freaking internet.

If you need the number of a good therapist in your area, email me.  It's the least I can do.

Trying to lose some weight for summer, but don't have the right motivation?  Have my boys come take pictures of you in all your saggy-backed glory under halogen track lights.  You'll go throw up right that second and start the hardest diet and exercise routine of your life the next morning.  Or drown your sorrows in cheesecake.  Either way, win tothe win, yo.

PS: if you need a tattoo designer say, oh, for a tattoo you want to get at BlogHer, leave a comment and I'll send you his email.  You wouldn't believe how good he is.

PPS: If even one of you tells me I look hot, or you'd kill for a back like that, I will punch you square in the teeth.  I am 5'4".  And I cropped the ass out.

PPPS: Grab the badge.  Just sayin'.

I'll Be Getting Inked

I Really Should Offer A Side Of Smelling Salts With These Posts.

Sometime over the coming weeks, my husband is going to leave the house, grab a Starbucks (is TOTALLY a proper noun), head to a room where he'll take off his pants, lay on a table and let someone play with the junk under his trunk.

By "play", of course, I mean "numb, freeze, shave, slice, pull, cut, tuck, superglue and bandage up."

Since I'll be divorced within minutes of him reading that, this event probably has little bearing on me or my reproductive system, but in the event that he decides to take pity on me, I'm about to be sterilized by proxy.

When I was 24 and had just popped out kid #2, a nurse wheeled a cart into my delivery room and announced that she was there to give me my tubal. My heart skipped a beat. My eyes danced. I looked at The Donor and said, "puh-leeeeze?" and he said very mature, sensible things that started with how old I was, or more importantly, wasn't, and ended with something about hell and parkas and dead bodies if the need be.  The nurse looked at us a bit sideways, then looked at her chart and then realized she'd come into the wrong room anyways.

Dream-crushing bitch.

I wanted to get my tubes tied.  I wanted that second child, and two sounded perfect to me.  I wanted to be 42 when my last child left the nest.  I wanted to never, ever have another person claw their way out of my abdomen everever again.  Turns out, I also wanted to have a little girl 5 years later, I just didn't know it at the time.  Thank god for small favours and wise husbands.

When that little girl was getting ready to be born, I told my midwife that I was having a tubal after her delivery, and to not listen to a word that highly educated, smooth-talking hot guy  said to her about it.  She agreed and we started to schedule the surgery.  And you know what that highly educated, smooth-talking jackass did?  He got into the pregnant chick's head.  He played my hormones against me.  He got on bended knee and told me how unfair it was that I had to take all the pills and get all the iud's and carry and deliver all the kids and then have some invasive surgery.  He told me how much he wanted to do this one thing for me, to thank me for his beautiful babies.  He promised me he'd schedule a vasectomy before the baby was born.

She's three years and seven months old now.

And so I scheduled the damn thing for him.

I made one appointment for him that he, within 15 minutes of having it scheduled, weaseled his way out of.  I made another appointment for him for the other day and he went, but he prefaced the whole thing by reminding me that in three weeks our insurance expires and if they don't deport our sorry American asses (I love you Canada.  You look really great in those pants) it'll be at minimum four weeks before our health coverage is reinstated.  (Yes, we go through this every year.  Price you pay for free health care if you're American, yo.)  He clarified that meant that it would be at least seven weeks before he'd be able to actually get in for the snippy-dip, and that's when I reminded him that WE STILL HAVE INSURANCE FOR THREE WEEKS and so maybe, just maybe, I know it's crazy, but maybe he could schedule the appointment for the procedure SOMETIME IN THE NEXT THREE WEEKS?

And so he went to his consultation and he scheduled his vasectomy within the next three weeks, just like I bullied him into doing, and then I cried.  In a parking lot.  Because I don't want it done.  Didn't want it done.  Something like that.

Do I want more kids?  Yup, sure do.  Do I want to have to buy a bigger car and move to a bigger house?  Nope, sure don't.  Do I want to be pregnant again?  Not even to carry the seed of the Lord, thankyouverymuch.  We decided, before we decided to go ahead with the vasectomy, that if time and situations and finances allowed, one day we would foster.  Neither of us are done raising children, just making them.  Fostering is the right choice for us, and I know that in the very deepest pit of my heart, but I still have to give away the one thing I've ever done well...making that man's children.

I stood outside in the rain with him under an awning beside a pizza joint and we shared a cigarette before we headed home after dinner.  We talked about the impending surgery and I felt the lump well up in my throat.  My eyes burned.  I didn't want to cry, not in front of him, not over this, but I couldn't help it.  I told him we had to hurry up and get this done before I changed my mind, and he asked me if I actually knew where that mind was because he was pretty sure I'd lost it.  He said, "Really, you want another baby?" and I said that I just wasn't sure if I was ready for it to be over.  That I liked having his babies, that I was good at having his babies, that it was the only thing I'd actually ever done with my life.

He said, "Well, it's not the only thing you've done" and then he snickered and then I elbowed him and then we giggled and then I realized that he was right, that we've been in the baby business for more than a decade and that we're finally able to stand under awnings and smoke cigarettes and talk to each other.  We're able to leave the house without 18 bags, go to dinner with three kids and leave with no bodily fluids spewed on anyone's clothing.  We're able to dictate the course of our relationship and our lives, and it's time to move on to becoming the next thing, to doing the next thing.

And the idea of that, of having to become something new, it scares the shit out of me.  It won't be easy.  But neither was becoming this.


And it was totally worth it.

See'em all on Flickr.

Reason 872 Why I Should Never Have Told Him I Have a Blog

In an attempt to discreetly pen this post without coming off as a ho-bag, I sat with The Donor the other night, bouncing some ideas I had for it off of him.  He listened for a while, and then put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Honey, I think you've just crossed the line."  I said, "I know, I know, I just don't know how to blog this properly" and he replied, "No, honey, with me.  You just crossed MY line."

My husband has a line.  I finally crossed it.  It did not feel awesome.

So, yeah, I'm just going to giggle in this guy's general direction today and leave it at that.


If that was too vague for you, my husband says GOOD and Drop It Already and That's My WIFE You're Talking About, and I say click here.

Handled Delicately

My sister in law and I have a deal.  She handles the drug talks and I handle the sex talks with all four of our kids.  Why?  Because she, um, well, did the drugs and I did, um, err, everything else*.

So when the phone rang six years ago and she was dry heaving into the line because my nephew had "an accident" the night before, I was totally ready to field that call.  I knew exactly what I wanted to say to him, I wasn't nervous about it, I was ready.  He was 11, it was time.   It was my job, my part of the bargain, and I was prepared.   Turns out, he wasn't, and his step-father eventually had to handle it.

But isn't it funny how when it's not your kid, it's just no big deal.

And now I have entered the dangerously deep waters of blogging, where there are things I am not at liberty to discuss anymore.  All this time, my kids experiences have also been my experiences.  Their stories are my stories.  Our lives have been intertwined the way children's and parent's lives are supposed to be.  But now I have this kid who is just about 11 years old, and his life is just that.  HIS.  Some things are just not mine to share anymore.

Unless, of course, it involves the laundry, which is my job.  Then he's just screwed.

He was asleep on the couch when I came down the other day.  When he woke, I casually asked why and he casually replied that he'd had an accident.  I nonchalantly reminded him that I peed in his dad's bed once when we were dating, that it happens to the best of us, and we both had a good laugh over the whole thing.  As I walked into the kitchen I mumbled over my shoulder, "Don't worry, dude; I'll have your sheets washed before you get ho...."

And that's about when I started dry heaving.

After all, he will be turning 11 soon.  He is getting zits.  He does smell like the bottom of a horse's foot.  It's time, right?  Not right.  Not time for my baby, nuh uh.  So, I'm grinding the coffee beans thinking, "Oh god, what do I DO here?  Do I go look?  Do I even know what I'm looking for?  Do I ask him?  Do I smell his sheets?  ARGH."  While the coffee got to brewing he came in the kitchen for a glass of water, and I, not brave enough to risk the mental image that would be burned into my brain for eternity, put on my therapy grin and just asked him.

"So, are you sure it was pee?"


"Dude, you're almost 11.  It could not be pee.  Your cousin thought it was pee the first time, too."


"So, you're certain that it's pee?"


I asked his father to check things out for me, because yeah, eww.  Also, no.  Either I forgot to check back in with his father or his father forgot to check in the first place, but after a few hours spent in astonishingly impressive denial I had to go do some laundry downstairs.  Whatever, I grab the basket and I get almost all the way down when I see sheets all over the floor.

This cannot still be happening.  God save me from this, please.  PLEASE.

I gave God the length of time it took me to switch loads, but little did I know that God can hold a grudge for a really long time.  The sheets remained crumpled on the floor, and I was left to view the carnage.  Alone.

I lifted, with a lightsaber.  I poked, with a shoe.  I sniffed, from a distance.  I looked, through one squinted eye.  Friends, the jury is still out.  I just don't know what exactly I was looking for, you know?  And I am more than happy to call it peepee and get on with my fake plastic life anyway.  Now pass the Reader's Digest and let's get on with it.

Not entirely true.  I'm kind of a prude, actually.  Don't tell anyone.