Tag Archive | kids

Don’t be a douchey parent (or adult), Part deux

frugalistablog don't be a douche parent

Anyone that knows me in real life, knows I’m a pretty level-headed person. I’m rational, calm and quite friendly. I don’t react impulsively and I’m usually pretty good at de-escalating conflict. Okay, McSweetie would say differently. He thinks I troll for arguments with him like it’s a sport. That’s another topic entirely.

So when I feel like going all honey badger on someone’s ass, it isn’t often. And I get the pleasure of doing it virtually via my blog. Voila. Wanna vent? Get a blog, it’s cheaper than therapy. I’ve griped before – read here.

There are two categories to this rant- parents of children in sports and adults who are in charge of children, i.e. coaches or teachers.

1) Parents of Children in Sports:

Let me address you bluntly. Your kid is not the next David Beckham or the next Buster Posey. And if they are, well, they are just going to have to learn to play with the ‘little’ players. Hearing from you that you feel the team’s downfall is due to the fact that there’s new kids on the team and it’s better to have the ‘core’ team get to focus on playing time, is absolute utter bull shit and pretty much a false reality.

Do you believe in unicorns too?

So when a new kid comes into your kid’s classroom, do you ask the principal for that new kid to be moved to a different class? Wouldn’t want that ‘core’ group to be disrupted huh? All that important synergy could go down the tubes.

Or when your hot shot kid player does go pro, will he never be traded? Never be cut from a roster and forced to play on a – heavens no- NEW team?? Oh gads, the shock! Teaching our children to adapt and learn to play with others is so… uhm…. hard. Yeah.

If you haven’t figured out already- I’m being totally sarcastic here and you need to get your head out of your ass. The real world goes like this- people come and go in groups, whether it be teams, classrooms, neighborhoods… get used to it. And there’s no “I” in TEAM or GROUP. There’s ‘I’ in DICKHEAD though. And ISLAND. Perhaps you should go to one and leave the rest of us to play nicely with each other.

2) Adults who teach and coach little kids:

Let’s see, how can I put this mildly? Don’t be an asshole. Oh wait, that wasn’t so mild was it?

Don’t yell at my kid and their teammates and tell them they lost because they are a group of losers that don’t deserve to win. They are little kids. This isn’t the Marines. I’m not paying the club $100 for my child to be degraded by a parent who thinks he’s all that because he can tell a bunch of children what to do, or he’s frustrated because they aren’t executing what you’ve been coaching to them. I know- so frustrating, kind of like, uhm, PARENTING IN GENERAL. They are kids. They are still learning. They probably won’t get it the 10th time or the 100th time. But count to ten and start again. I know- sometimes PBS can be helpful.

Not sure where you got your Coaching 101 skills but even though you aren’t getting a paycheck for this gig, you need to keep your cool. If we hold our teachers to a standard in a classroom, we should hold our coaches to a standard on the field.

Is it hard volunteering and corraling herds of cats, er little shits? Yes. Trust me- I’ve organized and run 5 talent shows at my daughter’s school. Five. Wrangling 50 plus kids who are singing the latest Miley Cyrus song or banging out chopsticks on the piano for the millionth time is damn nerve wracking. But I didn’t lose my shit. I saved that for home. If I lose my shit, it will be in front of my own kids. Not the kids I’m put to be in charge of. And most of the time I just made a gin and tonic and got in the bathtub afterwards. It does wonders. You should try it.

We teach our children to use their words. To be kind. To treat others as they want to be treated. Well parents,  it’s time to go back to preschool. You haven’t been using your words kindly or treating others how you would want to be treated.

Everyone gets a chance to play, and everyone deserves a chance to be respected. So there- off to the time out chair, parents AND coaches- you’ve been naughty.

Today I’m over at Bonbon Break- in the bedroom

Well, I’m not actually over there sitting like a miniature person in the computer screen waving at you. That would be very Willy Wonka ish, wouldn’t it?

But click on over to their holiday issue and read about a coming of age story. Yes, Emma has reached a milestone about old St. Nick.

These are those parenting moments that keep you on your toes.

Enjoy the magic while it lasts. And by magic, I mean, the lying facade of trying to be a magical fat man who spies on sleeping children.

Read here- Bonbon Break

will-santa-return

I’m thankful for vaginas. My kids are too.

So last year when we gathered around the table for Thanksgiving at my parent’s house, Owen did a tear-filled thankful sharing that made my heart burst with gladness. I wrote about it here. It’s pretty damn special.

Well, this year, I got choked up at the dinner table again, but it was my mom talking about my dad and how very grateful we are that all went well last week with his procedure. You can read about THAT here.

I was really hoping for another zinger from my Boy. You know one that REALLY pulled on the heart strings. I mean, I had already had 2 glasses of wine, so I was pretty well greased for some sappy stuff to bring me to tears.

His turn comes. He’s sitting next to me. I’m waiting in anticipation. This is going to be good, I’m thinking in my head, I’m putting this in my journal.
He says, “I’m thankful for my mom.” He touches me on the shoulder…. wait for it….. here it comes….”I’m thankful that she pooped me out.”

Hmmm. That’s not what I was expecting. What? I pooped you out? That’s the best you got?  Well?

So then Emma chimes in, “It wasn’t her butt, it was her VAGINA.”

To this, I think I groan. Loudly. And lay my head in my plate of mashed potatoes. Thank goodness, my father, who is sitting right next to Emma, is pretty much deaf. So he doesn’t hear any of this. And he’s chewing his food, so that probably drowns out some of what we are saying.

My mother let’s out a howl of laughter. James rolls his eyes, like, “who are these people?”

My father chimes in, “what’s so funny?”

To which my mother responds, “Oh nothing, we’re just having some gyno conversation.”
We continue on.

There were no more references to either bodily functions or gyno occurrences. So I had some more wine.

I’m so grateful for pooping you out Owen, and you too Emma! And more grateful you came out of my vagina like you were supposed to.

Self love. Yes, THAT kind.

Please be advised this is no pervy, whack-off post. Any of you who found this by Google or other key words, just go elsewhere. This is about parenting. If you’re looking for anything otherwise, move along.

Masturbation.

Yep. That word. It’s a doozy. What comes to mind when I hear that? That character on Family Guy, was it Master Bates from the Morning Wood Academy?  Ha ha. Insert frat humor here.

Okay. Have you had THAT talk with your kids? I’ve had that talk with my kids. But I’m talking about this talk. The other talk. You know, where you tell them that if they touch themselves they will go blind. Or their hand will shrivel up and fall off. I’m kidding! I just said that small puppies will die. Okay, seriously.

I have NOT had this talk with my kids. We’ve talked about sex and how a baby is made. Emma is pretty clear on most things between a man and a woman. I mean, you know, the basics. She’s had family life in school, she knows about STDs and drugs and alcohol. She’s got it covered.

Okay, well maybe I did have THIS talk about Master Bates with Emma. But it was not on purpose.

My children have always been, uhm, you know, precocious. They are big farters and announcers about their farts. They talk about their privates. ALL. THE. TIME. We’re pretty comfortable talking about pretty much anything.

And then, the other day, Owen asks me if it’s true that when you rub your nuts your penis gets hard. Well, I said, I don’t have that equipment so I can’t say from experience. (Yeah, I know, easy way out.) But that if at any time you want to touch your privates, it’s totally fine to do as long as you are by yourself and privately at home. And then I asked him where he heard this bit of information. And he said a kid at school said that rubbing your junk makes it hard. Lovely.
AWKWARD. So I just casually said that if he had any questions he should probably ask his father. And that if he ever feels like touching himself, it’s totally not a big deal and again, reiterate that it is to be done in seclusion. And to please not talk about it with anyone outside our family, like at school or the playground.  It’s best to just come to me or dad with questions.

I think I handled that pretty well.

Moving on to a different day and Emma makes a joke about rubbing the cats balls while she was petting his belly. Technically he doesn’t have any balls, since he is neutered, which is also more fodder for discussion and jokes in this house. We like to talk in funny cat voices and talk about his missing balls. It’s a whole ‘nother story.  I said to please not molest the cat, it invades his privacy. One should only rub their own privates not anyone else’s or any animal’s for that matter. (Seriously, I need to have these conversations? WTF?) So she says, “Why on earth would anyone ever want to rub their privates?!”

Uhm. Well. Uhm. No reason.

Is what I should have said.

But instead, I start to pontificate on the benefits of self pleasure. Well, not exactly. But I said that masturbation is totally normal and nothing to be ashamed or afraid of. It is perfectly common for when you start to reach adulthood and sexual maturity to want to touch yourself only with the means of making it ‘feel good’.

Insert big shocked face from Emma here.

“Oh my gosh!! There is NO WAY that I’m just going to stick my hand down to my vagina because I WANT to! Do I just start flapping around my labias and clitoris for fun? NO!” (okay, this girl knows her parts and it kinda freaks me out every time she uses them in context!)

Me- “Well, your brother was discussing that boys at school talked about rubbing their privates and it felt good, so I was just making sure you were clear on the whole parameters on that kind of thing.”

Her- “DISGUSTING! So dad rubbed his junk when he was a teenager? Like I want to think about that!! EWWW!!! No thank you!”

Me- (Totally not trying to crack up and make her think I think this is a joke. She makes Taylor Lautner pectoral jokes all the time, now she goes all prude on me?) “Hey, that’s fine sweetie, whatever you are comfortable with. And if you have any questions, feel free to ask.” (please, please, please, don’t have any questions.)

Her- “Okay, well thank you for that mom. I’ll just go to bed now and try not to have nightmares about this sort of thing.”

Drama queen much?

So there you go. If you ever need any advice on how to talk to your kids about anything sexual, feel free to ask me. No, actually, I’m kidding. You’re on your own.

But I have said this- as much as we parents squirm and dance around this stuff- if your kids can come to YOU about it, Elle Woods finger snaps to you.

Because parenting is about being there. And then blogging about it after they walk away.

A urinal. Would you have one in your house?

You know, I really have my children to thank for many things. My loose and flacid bladder. My jiggly tummy riddled with stretch marks. My boobs that hang down to my belly button like deflated water balloons complete with their own set of stretch marks. But also, I have them to thank for so much blogging fodder, it’s ridiculous.

The Boy genius, Owen, said to me today, that what we really need in our house is a urinal. Now I always know to put ‘an’ in front of a vowel, so is it ‘an urinal’? That’s just weird and I can’t do that. So, I will say just- urinal.

Okay, he said this of course, while peeing in the toilet. Let me describe to you the situation. I’m in the kitchen getting my 12th morning cup of tea. (I jest.) I can hear him in our powder room down the hall with the door open, peeing. Like a race horse. Then I hear a no pee sound. You know, when the stream isn’t hitting the water anymore. Yeah, that’s the sound of the stream hitting the seat or the side of the bowl. You would think by now at 9 years old, he has pretty good aim. Think again.

That sound is like nails on a chalk board to me. That sound is why I have a container or Clorox wipes under the sink in the cabinet. Sure he takes a square of toilet paper and ‘wipes’ up his dribbles. Barely. I mean, it’s not like he’s thorough or anything. There’s a reason 9 year old boys aren’t in charge of cleaning homes. When he was little he would sit on the toilet. Yes, sitting. How I miss those days. He was a lot more accurate then. Now he revels in the power of standing to pee.

And then he says, “You know what we need? A urinal. Why are houses not made with them?”

After bursting out laughing, I thought for a moment. He’s right. A household urinal would be really great. I mean, I wouldn’t be sitting on it. I think it would catch all the wee and there wouldn’t be any stray spray on the wall or floor. It would be handy for other male guests that come to visit. I could create a whole line of scented urinal cakes. We could have pumpkin spice, creme brulee, caramel apple.

Sure, it wouldn’t be pretty. But it’s not like a toilet is that pretty either. We are just used to it. We can get used to the urinal too.

I, personally, would love a bidet. I’ve always wanted a little sit and sprinkle on my lady bits to save time. My grandparents in Germany always had one. I would ask as a little kid when I visited, what the extra toilet is for.

So we’ll just get our home replumbed with a urinal in the downstairs bathroom, and a bidet for me upstairs.

Now I just need to find on Pinterest any powder room decorating ideas for urinals.

Speaking of urinals, don’t forget to enter my prize giveaway.

Nope, no fancy bathroom plumbing or deodorizers for prizes. But real cash! And cook books, and aprons and all kinds of things. Perfect for the holidays. You just click on the Rafflecopter link to the side. For reals. Don’t worry, your info isn’t used for anything. But I appreciate you spreading the love and sharing my blog so your friends can enter too. November 12th we’ll announce the winner.

Douchey kids and parents without a sense of humor.

I am pretty nice. I am. Ask folks. But I do bottle up my frustrations. So I’m smiling on the outside, and inside, I’m shaking my head going , ‘what the fuck?’  WHAT in THEEE FUCK are you thinking people?

Okay, here goes. Deep breath.

Do you lie to your kids? YES! We all do people. Our mom shaming craze is taking over Facebook. Woo hoo. I love a funny joke. I am the queen of self deprecation. I will dance around in a leotard wearing a turban if it makes you laugh.

But if you don’t think when I confess things I do behind my children’s backs isn’t funny- that’s okay. I guess. But I guess we won’t be friends. And that’s okay too. I mean, how do you NOT laugh at such honesty from moms?

Poor Somewhat Sane Mom got in some trouble from some ass-holey trolls who said she was a mean mom, a liar, a bitch, she needed to go grocery shopping, they felt sorry for her kids. Whatever.

Wow. All over a granola bar. A fucking granola bar. You say there are no more in the box. Eat one behind their back. No biggy. A unicorn isn’t going to drop dead somewhere people. Tinkerbell isn’t going to die because you told a fib to your kids.

Here’s a fib I tell my kids. Put your tooth under your pillow so the Tooth Fairy can come and bring you a dollar.

Yeah. That is called a LIE folks. Do you tell your kids- “put your tooth under your pillow so I can trip over random objects in the dark while you sleep and try to shove a dollar under your sleeping little melon without waking you up.” Huh, do you?

Lighten up people.

When you see a splayed out opossum on the road with it’s entrails on the concrete out like sausage and meatballs, do you say, “Wow, sucks to be that fella. Must have hurt real bad when the front end of a large moving vehicle crushed his insides and caused massive injuries and bleeding.” Huh, do you?  Or do you say, “that little opossum is sleeping with someone’s ground hamburger next to them.”

Do you see my point here?

Okay, I would also like to address the assholey little crotch fruit of other people that like to go around kicking, smacking or just spewing their little demon antics on every one.

When your kid hauls off and hits another kid, do you stay standing 10 feet away and say, “hey, let’s not hit, okay?” Or do you run on over to your uterus spawn and take his arm and say, “knock it off! Apologize or we are leaving!” Huh, do  you?

Just asking. Because I see a lot of just parenting from the sidelines. When my kids would do shitty behavior, especially around the age of when shitty behavior is rampant- translation- preschool years through elementary on through middle school…. (ha ha, I’m kidding)… I would get up in their grill and make sure they knew that I was on to them.

Are parents afraid of hurting their kid’s feelings? Are they afraid that if they blow it off in front of other parents those parents will somehow not notice the douchey behavior of the other kid?

Don’t raise a Nellie.

I don’t know.

So there you have it people. My rant on people who parent without a sense of humor and assholey uterus spawn whose parents enable their assholey-ness.

I can only save the world so many folks at a time. If you need a funny intervention or a wake-up call regarding your kid, just message me and I’ll slap some sense into you.

What got me all sporky last week- cleaning the Girl’s room.

I know. I’m a horrible mother. I let my children just have their way and leave their shit out everywhere. They don’t make their beds. They have piles and piles of crap. It’s like an episode of hoarders in their rooms. Minus the rat feces and ferrets living in an arm chair.

My friend was coming to stay with us and she was to sleep in Emma’s room. I couldn’t imagine her in there in the state it was. Let alone, you couldn’t even see the floor to put an air mattress on it for her daughter. So I was going in. We are talking, rubber gloves, Haz Mat suit, Asbestos mask, the full meal deal. It was necessary.

This is what I was faced with:

The problem was, Emma doesn’t part from her things very well. She’s sentimental. There were dolls, Polly Pockets and journals from 1st Grade. She’s in 7th Grade now people! She is also very lazy. She doesn’t put away her clothes. They are just all over the room. Not in drawers, not on hangers, not even in the dirty clothes hamper. Just …. everywhere. Sometimes, I’ll find a sock on her book case. Or a  rogue pair of underwear she tossed will be sitting on her window sill. Really.

It took me two days of just pulling stuff out of drawers, from under the bed, out of the closet, and making the choice of- toss it, or keep it. I drove to Goodwill with 8 bags of clothes and crap and 3 boxes of books and knick knacky shit.

I put the other bookcase in Owen’s room. He’s a book hoarder. That’s better than most kids, so I’m okay with that.

Once I vaccumed, washed the bed (even the dust ruffle!), put everything back together again- I felt amazed. And clean. And tired. Very tired.

I told McSweetie that I did such a good job I’m going out to buy myself a present. One guess what his reaction to that was.  Yeah, you’re right- he rolled his eyes.

So here’s the big reveal. Pretend it’s the Nate Berkus show and I’m waving my magic wand. Cue tinkly chime music-

Next on the list- my home office.

Holy crap, we are frickin’ slobs!

Yep, parents have sex. Ew, gross!

Like the Modern Family episode- the Anniversary- the kids walk in on the parents to surprise them with breakfast in bed.

They get more than they bargained for.

Luke- “It looked like they were wrestling and dad was winning.”

.
I should send the following dialog to ABC. I think they would appreciate it. My screen play is in the works.  Okay, I will try to capture every essence of the HORROR my daughter experienced during this conversation:
(Some background, my daughter is 12. She is a very mature 12. Knows the birds and bees stuff. But she still thinks sex is icky (thank GOD) and she definitely thinks the thought of her parents having sex is SUPER ICKY)

Me: You and your brother need to go to bed before 10 tonight. You guys have been staying up too late. Plus, mommy and daddy need some mommy and daddy time.

Her: What do you mean ‘mommy and daddy time’?

Me: Well, you know, it is after all, your father’s birthday. It would be nice not to watch Phineas and Ferb before we go to bed, and also get some time together. (So trying to be subtle here.)

Her: Eww!!!! WHAT???? You do not DO THAT??? Are you saying you and dad do THAT in the house??

Me: Where would you like us to do it, in the back yard?

Her: MO–om! I mean, don’t you like, DO IT when we are gone?

Me: When are you and your brother gone and we are home alone? Never. So yes, when you go to Grandma’s in a couple weeks, we’ll have some time then. But every other week, we gotta do it under the same roof as you.

Her: So, when we are home sleeping in our beds, you and dad are all, like, kissing and stuff NAKED??? What if Owen walks in?

Me: We take our chances and lock the door. (seriously, I’m grinning so hard on the inside during this convo.)

Her: Well, then I’m coming in your room at night from now on to prevent that from going on!

Me: You sure you want to do that? I mean, what if you come in at accidentally the WRONG time?

Her: OHMYGOSH!!!! YOU’re right!! I’m never coming in your room again. Oh, I’m going to throw up.

Me: Seriously, sweetie. It’s no big deal. We had to make you and your brother at some point. Just think, each of your grandparents did too. And THEY have 3 kids each.

Her: OH MY GOD!!! SCRUB MY BRAIN SCRUB MY BRAIN!!!! WHY did you SAY THAT??? Now I can’t help but think…… oh….. EWWWWW!!!

Me: <giggling> I’m so glad we had this talk sweetie.

Her: I’m going to go scrub my eyes and watch kitten videos on YouTube. I might vomit first.

Me: You do that honey. Just remember, bedtime is 9:30.

Her: <No words just the hugest eye roll EVER.>

 

My kids are funny- Part Deux

Does me saying Part Deux in the title remind you of that Charlie Sheen movie? Yeah, me too. I should wear a head band or something.

In this installment of, ‘my kids are funnier than your kids’, cuz face it, they are. I have tried to put on paper (okay computer) what conversations have happened recently. There’s really too many to mention. They are THAT funny. But I will try to keep up. If anything, this is like an entry into their baby book for their grandparent’s sake. I understand if it doesn’t really interest you. Yes, YOU- perfectly nice stranger that takes the time to read my ramblings. Okay-

Having a conversation about Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes with my kids: (because who doesn’t do this?? I mean, come on.)

Owen in defense of the guy he only knows from the Mission Impossible movies- “that’s not nice to divorce someone. Why would she divorce him. He’s in cool movies.”

Me- “Well sweetie, he  believes in aliens and he’s a little bit of a weirdo. He was probably very controlling of her and not very nice.”

Emma (using the opportunity to incorporate aliens in the conversation) “Quick grab the tin foil, the aliens are calling. Do as I say woman.”

Me- “let me guess, this is your impression of Tom Cruise being demanding to Katie Holmes?”

Emma- “Yep”

***

Emma tonight- “It’s probably a party with beer pong, strippers and tequila shots” (her describing a night of debauchery my husband was unable to attend with his guy friends)

Me startled and feigning dismay “How on earth do you know about all those things my dear??”

Emma- “I only learned it all from you!”

SNAP! <<cough Well I NEVER!! cough, cough>>

***

Owen at tuck in- “Mom, do you ever fart in the toilet?”

Me- “Uhm, all the time, that’s where you do your business.” (Who DOESN”T fart in the toilet?)

Owen- “Yeah, but farting in a toilet echos like farting in a bowl.”

Me- “That’s because it is a bowl dear. Not a bowl like in the kitchen, but a big ceramic bowl of water in the bathroom.”

pauses

Me- “How would you know what it sounds like to fart in a bowl?”

Owen- “After eating chips once, when the bowl was empty, I sat on it and farted.”

Ba da bump. Thank you. Thank you. Thankyouverymuch.

Tune in next week when Owen yells, “Hey BEYOTCH, get in here” to the dog when she’s outside barking at the neighbors.

I’ll take extra cheese with that ham please.

The difference between sons and daughters.

Ha! Answer- HUGE!

Yeah, DUH!  I figure since my son’s birthday is coming up and I wrote a blog post about my daughter’s birthday, I should give him the same credit. Although, he is the second child and sometimes you just forget to do stuff for the next kid, like baby books, home movies, that sort of thing. The five second rule comes in to play a whole lot more. You don’t sweat the little stuff like you obsessed over the first time.

So, my story begins- I was about 16 weeks pregnant with my second child. I didn’t know yet if it was a boy or a girl. I kinda wanted it to be a girl. My daughter was 2 1/2, we had a houseful of girl things, I figured, I know girls. I’m a girl,  I can do girls. What do I do with a boy? Will I want to play with him? When he gets older, how am I going to deal with penis questions? (let me tell you now- I am always dealing with penis and testicle questions.) What if he’s hyper, what if he likes guns and wants to be an Ultimate Fighting Champion when he grows up? What is he going to wear? Boys clothes sure as heck aren’t as cute as girl’s clothes.  These were the thoughts that were spinning around and around in my head. Very shallow, but reasonable thoughts.

A friend of mine gave me a children’s book called “Love You Forever” about a mom so devoted to her baby boy and all his phases of growing up. She would tuck him in each night, she would watch him sleep. And then when he was a grown up she climbed in through his window and watched him sleep. Which is really weird. Then when she was an old lady, he watched her sleep and carried her when she couldn’t walk. And it goes to show you how much a mama loves her boy and vice versa. I thought it was a little creepy with the whole sleep watching part and I thought, “I’m never going to be one of THOSE moms that clings to her son.”

<<SNORT>> Yeah right. Fast forward 9 years from then- no girl is going to be good enough for MY boy!! No girl. Okay, settle down. I’m kidding. But I totally get the mother/son connection. My boy is a mama’s boy for sure. And he IS my favorite. I mean, okay, not really!! He’s just, well, he’s easy to love. So I joke about him being my favorite.*

In those early months of pregnancy, I read in a magazine that if your pee was tinged green you were having a boy. If it’s yellow, you’re having a girl. Of course, I was always inspecting my pee color those early weeks. And it was, well, pee color. I guess, I mean, sort of guess it was kinda greenish. It depended on when I took my vitamin, how much water I had been drinking. It was really hard to determine. Also, I heard that if you crave meats you are having a boy. I totally craved sweet baked goods when I was pregnant with Emma. And strawberries. I ate strawberries all the time. With Owen’s pregnancy, I craved vodka. What does THAT tell you?? I craved lots of seafood. I wanted shrimp and prawns all the time. And steak. So yes, I guess I did crave meat.

We had names picked out for if it was a girl or if it was a boy. Nothing written in stone. We just had ideas. I sure as heck had more options if it was a girl. I loved all kinds of girl names. Not that James agreed with me on most of them. Like, Cher or Genevieve, or Violetta. Something awesome of course! I kind of wanted Charlotte or Olivia. I thought that would go well with Emma. He didn’t want any part of that. Too old fashioned he said. I wanted Margaret or Kathleen. Again, too old fashioned. GEEZE, what did he want- Beyonce?? So we kind of, sort of, chose Sarah. But for the boy, we were leaning towards Henry. Love the name Henry. Yes, it was old fashioned, but we both agreed on it. Then low and behold his Great Aunt one day said if it’s named Henry, she’s calling him Hank. Well, stop the presses, because I’m not having a kid going by the name of Hank! Hank is a name for an old man wearing a wife beater shirt guzzling a Pabst Blue Ribbon in his lawn chair. No offense, I just had this image of what a Hank looked like, and it was NOT my son. So then it just came to us- If it’s a boy, it needs to be Owen, which is James’ middle name and his grandfather’s name on his dad’s side. And you don’t get Hank out of Owen. So Owen it would be. Or Sarah. We weren’t sure yet.

We went to the ultrasound at 20 weeks and found out we had a healthy baby. Brain, heart, all the good stuff- looking fine. And yep, a penis. There it was. The fifth appendage. They told us we were having a boy and I thought, well, okey dokey, a boy it is. Hmm, not sure how I feel about it. I wasn’t disappointed. And I wasn’t over the moon. I was just sort of, content. Yeah, content. Now I WAS convinced I was peeing green.

So the day Owen was born was very different, of course, than the day Emma was born. All birth stories are unique. With Emma, I had the perfect epidural after excruciating labor. With Owen, I experienced labor the way it was intended.  It ebbed and flowed and I got through it. I got the epidural but had to start pushing before it actually kicked in. He was coming hard and fast down the pike. They kept telling me it should be working and I shouldn’t feel a thing. Well, tell that to my burning vagina! I felt everything! I would find out later that the epidural worked perfectly if I was having leg surgery on my right side. Thirty minutes after I pushed out the placenta, I couldn’t feel my whole right leg. Gee thanks Dr. Anesthesiologist! Asshat.

So, I was scared as hell about feeling everything since I felt nothing with Emma’s birth.  You bloody well can bet I wanted to be numb for this one too. Well, I think I pushed maybe three times and out he came. Apparently, I push babies out easily. Despite their head circumference being the size of a bowling ball. What does THAT say about my hoo ha? Wait, don’t answer that.

Because I was more concerned with myself and the BURNGING RING OF FIRE sensation that just ripped through me when Owen came out, that when they placed him on me all warm and slimy, I remember thinking, “I did it!”. I didn’t feel that incredible connection to the universe like when Emma was born. I wasn’t as panicked about his well-being since he wasn’t in any fetal distress like she had been. Maybe because I was thinking more practically after having done it before. He had a full head of hair when he came out.  He looked like a surfer – kinda tan and with bleach blond hair. He nursed immediately. What a boob guy. He wouldn’t let go. The hoo ha survived, and latching on happened like it should have. And then, I fell in love with the little peanut. More like the little ham hock. He was 8 pounds, 11 ounces and I swear 23 inches, but the nurse said 22, but I SAW the tape measure. She totally short-changed him. But whatever. I know.

He cried, but didn’t fuss. If he was hungry- he cried. But honestly, if you held him, he was happy. Emma fussed. Sorry dear- you were a cranky pants sometimes. Oh and the colic! He never had that. He slept better, cried less and was just kinda chill. Maybe he was a surfer? I do remember him surfing across my spleen sometimes, or my cervix. He used to karate chop straight down the birth canal those last few weeks he was gestating in the womb. Holy fallopian tubes he would kick the wind out of me- from the inside!

Owen is a very typical child. He whines, he pouts, he doesn’t always do as he’s told. But 9 out of 10 times, he’s really good. He is always thanking me for doing things for him, taking him places, feeding him. He’s the most grateful child I know. He’s a goody two-shoes like me. Totally keeps track of any swearing or yelling by any family member. He really hates yelling. He likes things quiet. He loves to snuggle. And he loves James Bond and Harry Potter and drinks cups of tea with me. Really? What more could a mom ask for?

I can totally trust him. Emma is the story knitter. She can knit a story into a sweater like nobody’s business. How many times when she was in preschool I had to clarify to the teachers what was going on in our family. Whether she had said her dad broke his leg, which he didn’t, but she wanted the pastor (she went to a Christian preschool at our church) to pray for him so she decided to make up a story. Or when her teacher asked me how Disneyland was, and I told her that we hadn’t been to Disneyland. And she said that Emma had told the class that her Grandpa drove the family down to Disneyland in his RV. Well, Grandpa doesn’t have an RV and we didn’t go to Disneyland at all that year. So you get the idea.

I can look Owen square in the eye and he will tell me exactly what happened. If he got in trouble at school (this has happened twice in his whole elementary career) he immediately came to me with the note from his teacher. Guilty. He hates guilt. So he faces it head on.

The difference with boys and girls is clearly attitude. Emma throws me attitude like a logger at a Highland games. Just pitches it up to fall hard on me, Owen doesn’t do that. You don’t have to walk on egg shells around him. Emma is Miss Moody. Happy and easy-going one minute, in tears and hating the world the next. Typical hormonal pre-teen FEMALE. (*If you’re reading this ever in the future Emma, I think you’re awesome and the best daughter ever. Don’t hate me.)

Well, I could brag on and on about my amazing children, but I will spare you. My point is, despite my feelings while I was pregnant and anticipating a boy, wondering how to love it, how it will love me- I can’t imagine it any other way.  Two girls would absolutely kill me! Oh dear heavens, the estrogen would put us over the edge!! At least with Emma as the first born.  She is so Alpha that I can’t imagine another female between her and I.  Owen balances our family beautifully.

He really is my golden boy.

I pop out some damn cute kids, huge head and all.