The Powers of Observation Have Arrived.

Dear Diary, 

     My three year old has reached the point where her intelligence and powers of observation are ruining our lives. 

     She and I had popped in to a lab so I could have some blood tested. I was filling out some papers when the lady helping me on the other side of the counter began to talk. It was clear to me that she was a tomboy, and possibly a lesbian. She had pixie cut hair, tattoos crawling up her neck out of her scrubs, rough jargon, and a picture of a woman in a frame on her desk. This did not bother me, but I am fairly observant by nature and happened to notice these things.

    My daughter, who is a whopping 36 inches tall, could not see over the counter top. So she yhistered (this is a mix between a yell and a whisper, something that 99% of children have down to a science) to me, "MOM. I want to see that lady!" The lady said, "You can come around and see me if you want!" So my daughter took a peek around the corner and got a glance of this mysterious woman. As she came back to me, she looked up and yhistered, "IT'S NOT A LADY, MOM. IT'S A MAAAAAN." 

                       This was my face...

     Once the moment of shock had passed, I gathered my chi and replied to her, "That's not a man, silly. She just has short hair. She's smart to have short hair, because it's toooooo hot for long hair in Arizona." -***Says the girl with Rapunzel hair. I've been known to take a few risqué selfies and text them to my husband during the day because my hair is long enough to cover my breasts pectoral muscles. But that's a story for another day. 

     The next day, this same child and I were finishing up our weekly trip to the grocery store. As I was mulling over regular, low fat or no fat cottage cheese, I hear a man wheeling a large pallet of inventory to the back room behind the dairy section. This man was Hispanic, had perfectly combed over hair and was quite obviously short. I look over at my daughter, who was driving the cart. (***See Exhibit A)

          

                    ***Exhibit A. The carts that feel more like Greyhound buses. The ones where, if you aren't a perfectly excellent driver, you will get wedged into the edge of the aisle where you'll basically need a crane to pull you out of your terrible situation. 

     I watched her as she followed him with her eyes when he walked by, craning her head out the window of her fancy car(t). Then she yelled, "YOU'RE SOOO LITTLE!" 

     I wasn't sure what had happened, but I found myself both shocked and entertained all at once. I turned around as to not face the man my 3 year old human had just insulted, and I stared down the coffee creamer (I don't even drink coffee) making a face similar to this one, I'm sure of it. 

                       "Are you kidding me...?"

     So to all of those who will one day come in contact with my daughter, just know I will be working on that brain-to-mouth filter thing everyone talks about. But she is my child, so I can't make too many promises. 

Sincerely, 

Me. Embarrassed Mom. 

Pectorals.

Dear Diary, 

     As I'm sure has been discussed in previous posts, I'd like to publicly announce that I am flat chested. In a recent visit to my parents' home in Texas, my dad lovingly looked my way and said "Lauren is like a pirate's dream". All puffed up and wondering what I did to receive such a random, sweet comment from my dad, I asked what he meant. "Because you have a sunken chest", he said, as he went back to eating his breakfast. It was one of those lip pursing moments where I nodded my head and squinted my eyes simultaneously as the room erupted in laughter. Thanks a lot, Dad. 

     Because of my frequency at the gym, I've been shedding some body fat. Unfortunately, my body is not an equal-opportunity fat loser, and though already a 34AA, it still feels the need to siphon the fat from the breast area. Thanks a lot, body. 

     
     My husband bought me a gift card to Victoria's Secret for Christmas. This was my opportunity to FINALLY find a bra that fit me correctly. (I've been known to shop in the tween section for bras.) The bra fitter confirmed my suspicion: My boobs were about as small as they come and therefore she brought me all of the absolute smallest bras she could find. Thanks a lot, bra fitter. 

     In trying on my bras, one of them pushed up the little fat that is left lying on top of my pectoral muscles and made this cute little hill of boob fat on both sides of my chest. Suddenly, I felt like a real woman. I could not believe I had cleavage. Was it real? Was I seeing things? This was a game changer. I bought the bra. 

     A couple of nights later, my husband and I went on a date. I made sure to have one extra button undone on my shirt. When he would talk to me, I'd say, "Excuse me, my boobs are down here..." showcasing my cleavage to him as if I was Vanna White. It was a proud moment for this flatty. 

     
     THEN, while we were belly-to-belly in our birthday suits, he gives my non-pushed up boobs a squeeze. This squeeze was a good one. It was firm. It was longer than normal, and it was extra squeezey. With a face full of excitement he says, "You've got some muscles in there, babe! No, really! You have some good pectoral muscles!" I felt defeated. Nothing screams "sexy" like your husband discovering muscles you've worked tirelessly to build in other areas, then finding them under your already nearly non-existent boobs during a moment of intimacy. Thanks a lot, lover. 

     Anyway, I turned into The Hulk, ate everything in sight, including my husband, and he lived happily ever after...in the bottom of my belly. And my pectoral muscles continued to grow into rock solid awesomeness as my boob fat melted away. The End.

Sincerely, 

Me. Flatty McGee.

Mary Floppins.

Dear Diary, 

     A few months ago, I decided to take charge of my health by doing more vigorous workouts at a local gym. Unfortunately, longer hours at the gym equals more exposure to the naked elderly. WHY, you ask? HOW, you ask? (Now don't get me wrong, I love me some old people. But naked old people...that is a different story altogether.)Two words: Water. Zumba.  

     I'm not sure what it is about old age that makes one feel liberated in every sense. They can quite honestly say (or yell) whatever they want to in public and people just "ooh" and "aah" as if those feisty silver slickers are cute little newborn babies. They can fart while they walk and not even care about the crop-dusted victims. (Stone. Cold.) They can drive like drunk teenagers and somehow come out unscathed. They can get their hair done to look like a cute, fluffy cotton candy topper and get praised by their entire Jazzercize crew for the new do. 

CLASSY.

And the most important of all: they feel like walking around stark naked in a gym locker room is completely acceptable. Now, I'm a mature adult here. I don't really care that much if one desires to flaunt their birthday suit (I mean, when you got it, you got it.) It doesn't mean I WANT to see them naked, but I can definitely get over the fact. No big deal. However, this is not one old, fluffy, pasty, feisty, crop-dusting woman we are talking about. When I walk into the locker room after a nasty long workout, it's as if someone has popped the cork off of the old lady naked bubbly and all the old lady bubbles are spilling out. There are naked Golden Girls lined up at the lockers in absolutely no hurry to dress themselves. They are hauling (soft, pizza-doughy) buns to the bathroom stalls and stepping out of the shower. Curse you, Water Zumba. Curse. Youuuu. They are dripping their wetness all over the place while they roll their suitcases all around with their dry clothes inside. It is a full blown naked elderly soggy-bottom slow motion truffle shuffle traffic jam in about 800 square feet of space. 

The most frightening part of this whole thing is that there is no solution. Water Zumba falls smack dab in the middle of just about the only hours in my day I can exercise. Let's all have a moment of silence. 

Sincerely, 

Me. The Nakedphobic.

Zippity Doo Da.

Dear Diary, 

     A few days ago, I was helping my son zip up his pajamas. They are old and hideous, but absolutely his favorite. We chopped off the bottoms and the sleeves (bye bye high waters) and naturally, he looks like a pirate when he wears them, but hey. YOLO. He came up to me, having already put on his underwear, and got excited to zip up his jammies by himself from the very bottom to the very top. Only problem was, he didn't get far before he zipped his wiener up. My eyes grew to the size of golf balls and I gasped at an ungodly decibel. Excuse the language, but this is how it went for a second.

     My husband quickly rounded the corner and asked what was wrong. Then he looked nice & smug as the realization set in. He said, "Son, it's happened to me before. Hurts, doesn't it" and went back to what he was doing. 

     My poor little man cried as I went back and forth from a sad face accompanied with an "awwww" to a laugh that I failed miserably to cover up with feelings of sympathy (I could obviously not relate to this feeling of pain). I told him to be sure that he closes his private part into his undies nice and cozy and then "shuts the doors" to the "wee wee pocket" (it's been called a wee wee pocket for quite some time now. I'm not the mother that uses technical terms, people. Sue me.) My husband and I could no longer control our laughter at that point. I can only imagine how confused our poor four year old was. Here he was, in pain, and his parents are laughing. I feel terrible. I feel even worse that I had zero control over it. 

     The next morning, I saw him fiddling with himself while eating breakfast. I said, "Hey. Don't play with your wiener at the table." Immediately,I stopped,looked up,  and thought about all the weird things I have said as a mother. Behind me, my two kids were having a conversation. It went like this: 

Two year old daughter: "Hey. Member last time you zip up your BUTT?" He-he-he. (Yes, she did a very exaggerated fake laugh at the end. Facetious little creatures, those females.)

Four year old victim of wiener zip: "NO! I didn't zip up my butt. I zip up my wee wee." 

     Life is tough. I'm glad he doesn't yet realize that having his wiener zipped up into his favorite European cut-off jams is amongst the smaller problems he'll face in his lifetime. 

Sincerely, 

Me. The Laugher.

Mortified Mom.

Dear Diary, 


     Yesterday, I was happily sunbathing in the backyard while my kids splashed in the water of our kiddie pool. I had Pandora Radio playing the Disney station, lunch for the kids on their picnic table, and overall I was in a state of total relaxation. Even though my legs weren't neatly shaved and I hadn't showered in a few days, I thought, "Eh. No one will see me back here in the privacy of my own backyard, right?" So I got even cozier and hiked up the bottoms of my bikini so that my hips would get a tan as well. Earlier that day, I had even contemplated wearing a thong so that my booty would see some sunshine. (But that would've had to be done when the kids weren't present, thankyouverymuch.) As I had settled in to my comfy lawn chair, sunglasses on, eyes closed, music playing...I heard an unfamiliar voice. "Hello?", he said. My eyes shot open, my eyebrows shot upwards, I pulled my sunglasses up to my forehead, and saw a twenty-something-year-old male in a bright green polo. Suddenly, I remembered. My pest control man was here to service the house. How did I forget? "Oh, CRAP!", I yelled, "Hold on!" as I jumped out of that chair faster than a rocketship to space. I'm certain I should've pulled a muscle with how quickly I leaped out of that chair and I can only imagine the view he got of me pulling pieces of my swim suit down so that I no longer had a man-made wedgie while hustling to the back door. I am fairly certain I looked like this guy: 

     And while I was mortified, I guarantee he laughed all the way to his next appointment when he finished. I'm still trying to process that whole episode.

Sincerely, 

Me. Mortified Mom. 

Come Fly With Me.

Dear Diary, 

      Flying with kids is a full-blown, patience-testing ordeal aside from anything else I've ever done with them. Because of the ages of my kids, we must lug around two very heavy, awkward, bulky car seats to strap them into while we drive around our final destination. Thankfully, my husband is a burly man who has no problem jimmy rigging his suitcase by putting his arms through each handle, wearing it like a backpack. Simultaneously, he has a car seat on each arm. My two little minions each have their own rolling suit cases, which is always a recipe for "ooh's", "aw's" and smiles (thankfully). Since the car seats are not carry on items, we have to check them in. And wouldn't you know it, the line was stretched from Arizona to Idaho and just the sight of it made my eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. 

     Surprisingly, the line moved quickly. As we hit each switchback (yes, I just compared waiting in line at the airport to hiking a mountain or waiting for a Disneyland ride), my son would look up at me with a face full of panic, hand on his crotch in a pinching manner and loudly proclaim, "Mom! I have to go poooottttyyy!" Mind you, I asked him right when we walked into the airport if he needed to go. The answer was a resounding NO. Go figure. This little guy needs to work on his lies. 

     
     While he was desperately trying to pinch his wiener through his denim, my daughter came up to me with her suitcase and said, "It's too heavy!" My husband now has his body covered in car seats and luggage, my son is whining that he has to pee "like, yesterday", and now I'm stuck with double bags and a line full of people. All I could do was laugh. 

     We finally made it to the counter and the printer broke as the airline employee was in the process of printing our boarding passes. Eventually, it worked itself out and we were on our way to the gate. 

     The flight was set to leave at 6:40 PM. The ticket-checker asked people to line up, only to tell them to sit back down ten minutes later because the plane at our gate was indeed not the plane we were going to take. That particular plane needed to head to another gate. Our flight crew was still in the air and it would be at least another 30 minutes until their arrival. Well, an hour and a half later, we finally boarded. Seat belts on and cleared for take off, we thought we were finally free of waiting. Our plane began to smell like smoke and as inappropriate as it was, I sang a rendition of Alicia Key's Girl on Fire by singing, "This plane is on fie-yerrrrr". Another half hour later, we were cleared a second time for take off. Two and a half hours later, we tried to land at the airport of our final destination and the fog was too thick for the pilot to see anything. He pulled back on the throttle and up we went, yet again. We circled around, hit some turbulence and landed a vicious landing at 1 o'clock AM. My kids were awake the entire flight. It was a flight to remember, and I honestly thought we might die, but we made it. It also might be the last time I take a late night flight with two young kids. Thank heavens for jelly beans and strange people. They kept my kids entertained. 

Sincerely, 

Me. 

Entering a New Era.

Dear Diary, 

I am beginning to think there is a shift happening around this joint. My newly turned 2  & 4 year olds have been acting peculiar. For one, they are finally starting to get along. (Can I get a hallelujah!?) And for two, there have been odd songs and sightings going on. 

Last week, I attended a party at a friend's house. This party had quite a few kids in attendance. The kids happily played in my friend's backyard, where many Roly Polies abounded. Somehow, my 4 year old got a hold of a paper cup, filled it with soil, a tuft of grass (sorry for the bald spot on your lawn, Susan) and about 10 roly-polies. It sat on our kitchen countertop for a day or two while I tried to convince my little man to set them free in our grass. He would have none of it. 

That evening, I was scrubbing away at a dish, when all of the sudden I see this Roly Poly (a.k.a. "Skiddy Bug" as my 2 year old calls them) cruising across the edge of my sink. Puzzled, I had my eyeballs trace his route backwards and found that the cup had been knocked over and there were some escapees. Simultaneously, from over the countertop, I heard my son singing "Old Mac Donald had a poop, E-I-E-I-O" and giggling while my daughter laughed along with him. I have only heard stories of the Bugs & Poop stage. I believe I have arrived. 

I peeked inside that cup a day later and found a few of them were dead, so I took matters into my own hands and set them free at the disapproval of my son. Rest in peace, Skiddy Bugs. I am sure you were only the first of many more to come. 

Sincerely, 

Me.