See Spot Stay

A weird thing happened not too long ago while I was waxing my 'stache.

What? Yeah, I have a mustache. Actually, it's not all that bad - just a fine fuzz - but I'm a dark-haired chick and so even a fine fuzz must be waxed, lest I be mistaken for Gene Shalit.

Put a fedora and glasses on me and we're practically twins.

I also have a beard. (That's a link, if you want an explanation.)

Both are kept firmly in check, thankyouverymuch. Which brings us to the initial point of this blog post: a weird thing happened not too long ago while I was waxing my 'stache.

Like I said, my mustache isn't too bad, so rather than seeing a bunch of bristly hairs it's more like a shadow. And one spot seemed to look more shadowy than the rest. You know, like the hair was thicker there or something. So I promptly waxed that crap right off my face.

Although ... hmm. I seemed to have missed a spot. The shadowy patch was still there. So I waxed over it again (ouch).

There. That should've taken care of  ... wait, what? It was still there! WTF?

With both my lip and my vanity stinging, I leaned closer to the mirror to inspect. And was shocked to see that it wasn't a hairy patch of 'stache at all ... but an age spot.

I've got an age spot, y'all. On my LIP. That I CAN'T WAX AWAY.

I actually took a photo to show you guys, but opted not to share it because I took one look and decided that a brightly-lit close-up of nostrils and giant pores is not the best way to maintain my dignity.*

*And yes, I know I haven't got much dignity left when I'm publicly declaring the presence of facial hair, but whatever.

So now, no matter how silky-smooth and hairless my upper lip is, I've got a perpetual dark spot that looks like a five o'clock shadow. Ugh.

I'd rather be mistaken for Gene Shalit than for Adolf Hitler.

Play Doh'nt

I'll say it before, and I'll say it again. Emphatically. With kind of crazy eyes.

I. Don't. Craft.

It isn't that I'm not inspired by those of you who do. It isn't that I don't have a ton of boards on Pinterest (are you following me?) devoted to cute little DIY-things that I dream of having the time, creativity, and inspiration oh yeah and skill to do. It isn't that, once in a while, I don't get a wild hair and actually try (remember the no-sew snuggle pillow debacle?).

It's just that a.) I'm not all that good at it, and b.) I despise things that make unnecessary messes. I mean ... I can barely keep up with the day-to-day messes my four little hooligans create. They generate crumbs like they were being paid for it. Like their lives depend on it. Like their very happiness is directly proportional to how much work they force me to do.

But you know how it is when your kids want something, really want something, and they look at you hopeful and smiley and stuff and you become, like, totally blind to why you didn't want them to have whatever-it-is in the first place?


In this case, it was homemade play dough. Colin has been straight-up begging me, relentlessly, ever since his class made something similar at school. And the other day I just happened to be looking at the back of my tub of cornstarch while I was standing in front of the open cabinet stuffing my face with chocolate chips straight from the bag and there was a recipe for "play clay."

I had cornstarch. I had baking soda. It looked like a relatively simple recipe. So that's how I found myself at the stove after breakfast Sunday morning, whipping up a batch, surrounded by ecstatic little boys.

Y'all? I went all out. I made them six different colors (staining my hands an unattractive shade of dirty-looking green-gray in the process, damn it). When it was done, I gave them tons of cookie cutters and the rolling pin and the meat-tenderizing mallet. And they were in heaven.

And yes. They were all naked. If you're surprised, you haven't been reading this blog long enough.

The boys were so completely occupied that I figured it was safe to go into the living room and put the baby down for a nap. They played peacefully for a quite a while, and then Colin and Coby left the table and went into Coby's bedroom.

"Did you clean up your play dough?" I hollered after them.

"Yes!" they shouted back in unison.

What I didn't realize was that by "cleaned up" they meant "put some of the crumbs in a bowl and carried them back to the bedroom even though they know better." So there I sat in blissful ignorance for at least a few more minutes ...

... until I heard Coby whining. Then coughing. Then crying. And Colin shrieking.

"Coby threw up!" he ran out to report breathlessly. "Right on the mattress!"

As if on cue, here came Coby, tears flowing. "Colin made me eat play dough," he bawled.

I went to check on the situation. Sure enough, Coby had barfed. Did I mention this was within an hour after eating breakfast? And that we'd had oatmeal? And that, of all the places he could have puked, he did it on the one mattress that was totally bare because I was washing the sheets?

Since Colin was the perpetrator, I made him clean it up. And when I went into the kitchen to get the paper towels, I glanced at the table for the first time since I'd left the kids playing happily - and neatly - with the play dough.

It looked like a rainbow had exploded. This photo of the table was just the tip of the iceberg; it was also scattered over the chairs and the floor, including the edge of the living room carpet. If you think about it - which I clearly didn't - anything made with baking soda and cornstarch is gonna be a little on the dry and crumbly side, especially once it's been sitting out for a half-hour or so.

And I? Am pretty sure I looked something like this:

... Only, you know, a little less like Don Knotts.*

*On second thought, who knows ... it was morning, after all.

I think I experienced a temporary blackout due to the assault on my nerves, because I don't remember much about the next few minutes. Except that there was a very clear promise that we would never, ever, EVER (with more never-evers than Taylor Swift) be making or probably even playing with store-bought play dough ever ever EVER again. Hmmmph.

I had the boys help me clean up the crumby fiasco, but it was more to teach them a lesson than to actually get it clean because their help is more like "help." You know what I mean. Like when Coby tried to empty the dustpan full of crumbs into the trash ... only he missed the trash and dumped them all over the floor instead.

Someone needs to invent play dough that doesn't crumble, stain, dry out, or cause a child to barf when his brother feeds it to him.

I'm pretty sure that's never gonna happen.

An Anniversary Letter to a 17-Year-Old Me

Dear Seventeen-Year-Old Self:

Tear yourself away from your busy social schedule of hanging out at the pool hall with your best friend for a minute, and check out that guy over there. No, not the one with the mullet ... dear God ... the other one. That tall, lanky boy with the Nike baseball cap on. See him? His name is Curtis. He's going to be your husband.

Even better? You're going to raise four sons together.

No wait, don't run away! I'm serious! Yes, he has something in his teeth, but watch him for a minute: he has an irresistible confidence about him, doesn't he? Like he doesn't even realize he's a lanky boy with something in his teeth? Yes. That confidence will serve him well later in life. And it will be one of the things you love and admire most about him when he becomes a man.

Now, about that ... this "becoming a man" thing ... keep in mind that you both have a lot of maturing to do. (I mean, you still have a smiley face poster on your wall and carry a sparkly wallet that says "Porn Star," for heaven's sake. And don't pretend you don't still sleep with your teddy bear.) You will put each other through some hell before you grow up. But you will stick together, working diligently through problems that most people would walk away from. Because you're both stubborn - but more importantly, you'll love each other from a depth that won't allow either of you to let go.

I know, this is a lot to take in, and you don't believe me right now. But trust me when I tell you that you will also experience some of the most amazing adventures of your life with this boy. You'll take an impromptu weekend camping trip that turns into a week - and only stops because your tent floods. You'll beam brighter than the Texas sun when you see him in uniform for the first time at his Air Force Basic Training graduation. You'll move to a foreign country with no idea what you're doing. You'll take in the awesome sight of Paris from the Eiffel Tower (and have one hell of a time getting home later that evening, when he accidentally pumps the car full of diesel fuel because he can't read the French gas tanks). You'll run through Heidelberg at midnight on New Year's Eve, dodging firecrackers and beer bottles. You'll experience Las Vegas as a local. And you'll know the pure, overwhelming joy of witnessing the birth of your children - not once, not twice, but four times. (Okay, so he'll do a little more witnessing and you'll do a little more pushing, but you get the point.)

Today - April 22nd, 2013 - is your thirteenth wedding anniversary, and trust me when I tell you how lucky you are. This boy will become a diamond in the rough. He will need a little polishing (and so will you, cupcake), but time and experience will take care of that, and you will hold on because you'll see the potential in each other even when you don't see your own. He'll grow into the kind of husband you have always wanted, and the kind of father every woman dreams of for her children. You'll appreciate and understand each other like no one else does. I'm not saying there won't be times when you want to wring his neck, or habits you reeeeeeeally wish he'd ditch, but you will love him - habits and all - to an unbelievable degree.

And best of all, he will feel the same way about you.

So go over there, okay? Say hello to him. Because right now he may just be a headstrong kid (and that gold chain around his neck is just a phase, thank goodness), but ultimately ... he'll be the best thing to ever happen to you.

Oh yeah, and seventeen-year-old me?

Grow your hair out. Seriously.


I'm the Neighborhood Weirdo

I was trying to find a picture of a dog pooping, but got distracted by this. You're welcome.

Yeah, I watch my dog poop. What? throws arms up in a menacing gangsta-esque gesture*

*pretty sure the term "gangsta-esque" just negated any menace, but whatever.

Yes. You read that correctly. I'm the one standing in my yard, in plain view of whoever happens to live in/drive through the area, watching intently as my pug drops deuce on the lawn.

Trust me, it's not because I get some sort of weird pleasure out of witnessing such a scenario; if I never saw the birth of those little brown logs again, it would be fine with me. No, I do it because it's kind of a necessity.

Our yard isn't fenced in. Therefore, every time our dogs Josie and Destiny (better known as "Puggy") need to do their bidness, we have to leash them up and walk them outside. If it's cold, if it's blistering hot, if it's 2 a.m., if there's four feet of snow on the ground, it doesn't matter: they need to go, so we have to take them.

Josie usually does her thing within a minute or two. Puggy, however, is more selective - and more easily distracted. She's all, sniff sniff sniff hey! a leaf! sniff sniff sniff hey! a car! sniff sniff sniff hey! a dog barking twelve miles away!

I don't understand why, when literally the whole lawn is your toilet, you'd be choosy about which particular patch you soil. But. Puggy insists upon sniffing each blade of grass, brushing the ground with her flat face, looking for the elusive "perfect spot." Then when she finally finds the spot, she turns in circles. Like, twenty times. And Lord help us if a car decides to drive by - or a person walk by - or a leaf or a piece of trash or a stiff wind blow by - during that time, because then she will start. The process. All. Over.

If she was just out there to do one thing, her pickiness would be more tolerable. But there's number one, and there's number two. And she always, without fail, does number two first - which means I have to wait for her  AGAIN to find the perfect spot for number one.

However, there's been an interesting turn of events lately. While I normally zone out and watch a bird or the creek or something, the other day I happened to glance down at Puggy and noticed that she was pooping and peeing simultaneously. I nearly did a happy dance: it meant that I wouldn't have to wait another twenty minutes for her to find another spot! I swear the heavens opened up and sent down beams of radiant light.

But, as with any other too-good-to-be-true development, there's a catch. In order to know whether I need to wait around or whether she's done after the first go-round, I have to actually watch her poop. And I don't know if you've ever seen a pug, but they're short, and it's hard to tell. So it's not like I can just casually peer down from where I'm standing. I actually have to crane my neck downward to get an adequate view, so it's very obvious what I'm doing (and unfortunately much less obvious WHY I'm doing it). What's worse is that she tends to move and/or turn while she's pooping - so I'm visibly following her around, eyes glued to the general region of my pug's butthole. In full, embarrassing view of whoever passes by. I'm sure they're like, "OMG, is that chick watching her dog poop? So gross."

I need a fence.

Or a taller dog.

Oh, That? That's, Uh, Chocolate Chip.

The following is an actual conversation had in my house over the weekend.

Let me set the scene for you. Curtis and I are watching TV in the living room and the boys are - well, doing whatever it is the boys do when their parents are otherwise occupied. Suddenly, we hear Colin and Cameron shrieking with laughter.

Cameron: Guess what I did! I just licked poop!

Curtis: ..............

Me: Poop? From where?

Colin: The bathroom counter.

Curtis: .............. (Did I mention he gets really engrossed - or at least pretends to - in the TV?)

Me: Why is there poop on the bathroom counter?

Colin: I don't know! But Cameron licked it!

Hysterical laughter persists. I am not amused. I reluctantly haul myself off the couch to investigate the bathroom counter. Much to my relief, it's not a big smear of poop at all - more like a tiny speck, which is more than likely not even poop to begin with.

Me: Guys, that's not poop. I think that's chocolate chip. Didn't you have a cookie in here earlier?

Cameron: Yes. But then what's that? *points to faint brown smudge along the bathroom door*

Me (not so convinced any more): .... Uh, chocolate chip?

Colin: What's this one, Mommy? *points to a brownish smear on the wall*

Me: .... Uh .... chocolate ... chip?

Coby: And do you know what this is? *points to a crusty glob beside the brownish smear*

Me (squinting. This one can't pass for chocolate chip): I'm afraid ask, Coby, but what is it?

Coby (gleefully): A booger!!

Clearly I need to deep-clean.

And teach the boys to use toilet paper (and Kleenex, apparently).

... Or at least not to eat chocolate-chip cookies in the bathroom.

Dork Dynasty

Were you a dork in school?

I don't think I was a dork. At least, not of the getting-picked-on-for-extreme-dorkiness variety. (Although I may just be completely oblivious. Several people I went to school with do read my blog, so if y'all know me from way back, chime in if I'm wrong!)

Despite being genetically cursed endowed with frizzy hair, small boobs, a huge gap in my teeth, freckles, cankles, and eyebrows that, when left un-waxed, look like two caterpillars mating on my forehead, I don't remember getting teased for anything. (At least not to my face.) I never lacked for friends. In high school, I wasn't involved in sports (trust me: I wouldn't have been an asset to any sort of team) but I was elected to the Student Council and was nominated for Homecoming and Courtwarming royalty three times (and won twice). I wasn't one of the preppy chicks, but nobody seemed to overtly dislike me. I had friends from all tiers of the social hierarchy. Overall, my dork-factor was relatively low - or at least at a level that didn't scar me for life.

Sometimes I wonder if my kids are going to be dorks. We all want people to like our kids, you know? I dream of my sons being handsome, athletic, tidy, outgoing, with good grades and tons of friends, inclusive of everyone, well-liked, smart, reliable, kind-hearted, civic-minded, socially responsible, well-rounded and pretty much every other positive adjective you can think of.

But ... yeah. How often does that happen outside of, like, romance novels?

My kids are little now, so it's hard to tell what they're going to be like later on in school. But considering that I have one who is obsessed with computers and science, one who constantly eats paper, and one who's a country boy at heart ... I'm not sure their odds of non-dorkiness are that good. The jury's still out on the baby, but he'll probably be as weird as the rest of them.

Maybe they'll get lucky, though, and genes will kick in. After all, just take a look at their awesome parents as children:

Yes, that is a "Ren and Stimpy" t-shirt.

... Uh-oh.

They're doomed.

PS - Thanks from the bottom of my heart for all the comments and support on my last post. You all gave me so much help, and so much to think about! Which is why I looooooove you (in a totally non-creepy way of course). You know I'll keep y'all posted!

The Most Puzzling Puzzle in the History of Puzzles

So I'm trying to write this important post, and I don't even know where to begin.

I mean ... what do you say when you're told your son may be autistic?

I guess the first thing I thought was, "Oh. I guess that explains it."

I know I have like ten million sons (okay, just the four, but still) and you're probably wondering which one I'm referring to. Surprisingly, it's not my paper-eating five-year-old. (I know y'all were thinking, "It's got to be Cameron.") But no: I'm talking about Colin. My oldest. My almost-eight-year-old.

Many of you have been with me for a long time and know how Colin is. He's wonderful, first and foremost. "Bright" doesn't even cover it - the kid is sharp as a tack. At age four, we had him tested for giftedness, and he scored in the 99th percentile in several different areas. When he was in Kindergarten, he came home discouraged because the librarian wouldn't let him research "harlequin ichthyosis" on the computer (that's a congenital skin disorder, if - like me - you had no idea). He taught me where the cervical spine is located, and what shoulder dystocia is, and likened the stems of his cluster of grapes to the alveoli inside the lungs. These days, his interests have shifted to computer-related things, and he manipulates code like nobody's business.

But in school? He's floundering. In fact, he recently scored below grade level on one of the standardized tests - because, his teacher said, he is literally unable to pay attention for long enough to follow directions. Like, she'd read the questions out loud and the kids were supposed to mark the answer and wait for the next question; but Colin, off in la-la-land, had already filled in like the next six boxes, before the question had even been read - hence the score. There's something every day. It's the same maddening cycle we've been dealing with since he started school (see here and here), and though it ebbs and flows a little bit, it seems to have gotten worse this year. He's never had problems making friends, but his teacher tells Curtis and I that kids are starting to not want to be paired up with Colin for team projects because they know he'll just zone out and not do his part.

And I don't want any of this for him.

A few weeks ago we had a meeting with his regular classroom teacher, his gifted teacher, his principal, and the school psychologist to discuss what we could do to help him. We went in prepared to hear the inevitable, "We think he has ADD, blah blah blah." But then, Asperger's Syndrome - an autism spectrum disorder - was brought up. And a couple of the puzzle pieces went sliding into place.

See, there have always been a few quirks about Colin. One, he didn't sleep through the night until he was four years old (seriously. It's no wonder I'm half-crazy). Two, he doesn't get dizzy - like ever. Three, he despises the feeling of tags on his skin and insists that every tag be cut out of every piece of clothing. Four, he walks on his tiptoes almost all the time unless he's wearing shoes. And on separate occasions, I have researched all these things just out of curiosity. And on all counts, the search results have always mentioned autism. But I brushed that off because I was ignorant. When I heard the word "autism" I was guilty of thinking about someone who was unable to function for themselves, and my child was the total opposite of that - right?


But that doesn't mean I wasn't wrong.

Autism spectrum disorders are just that: on a spectrum. Which means that, while there are people with autism who can barely function, there are those on the other end of the scale that just have a few "symptoms" to deal with.

The psychologist gave Curtis and I an extensive questionnaire to fill out, and one to his teacher. Based on the results, he is "Very Likely" to have Asperger's. We've got to take him to an independent psychologist to get an official diagnosis, but as of right now, that's what it seems to be leaning toward.

So now we have to figure out what to do ... how to address this ... how to help our son. And just when I think I'm comfortable with that - with the fact that he might possibly fall onto the autism spectrum - I read articles like this which basically talk about how gifted children are so often misdiagnosed as autistic or ADHD. And any confidence I had built up just sort of crumbles.

Why can't this crap be easy? Any words of wisdom for a fellow (ridiculously clueless) parent?

Jamaican Me Crazy

"I have a confession," Curtis said over the phone.

My stomach kind of felt weird for a minute. I mean, the word "confession" doesn't usually come attached to something positive. Not to mention that whatever it was seemed to be important enough to call me in Jamaica ... at the rate of two dollars per minute (OMGWTFBBQ!).

I was hoping it was a good kind of confession. Something like, "I spent too much on a fabulous diamond ring for our anniversary," or, "I haven't actually been doing the housework myself ... I hired a maid."

" ... What is it, honey?" I asked in what I hoped was a supportive tone.

There was a slight pause. (Two dollars PER MINUTE!!) Then, finally: "I couldn't handle it. I took the kids out of school and we're driving down to my mom's so I can have some help."

I have to admit, I was relieved. Because for a hot second, it had seemed like he was out-mom'ing me. When I'd talked to him the first couple of times, he was all, "I got the kids ready for school and we were sitting in the parking lot waiting for the doors to open," and, "We cleaned out the van - it's spotless," and, "I took the boys and the dogs to the park." And I was like, "WTF?" because those are things I typically only dream of doing as I drag everyone to school in my pajamas and drive right past the park with the kids looking longingly out the window.

"They cooperated so well the first few days," he said. "But once the novelty wore off, all hell broke loose. They're bickering and messing stuff up and I just need some help."

For the first time, like, ever I was kind of glad my kids were doing all that. Welcome to my life, I thought. But I didn't say that because I didn't want to be an asshole. So I just told him that he'd made a wise decision and to be careful on the four-hour drive to his mom's and hung up because OMG, two dollars a minute!

The feeling of vindication was pretty much worth it.

We stayed at the Grand Palladium and it was AMAZING and GORGEOUS, and if you want to see pictures of it you can click on the link and see the ones on their website. Because I guarantee that at least a few of you are still in pajamas with stuff crusted all over them and you're way behind on like everything you're supposed to be doing today and you'd give your right boob for a vacation to Jamaica but for the moment you've got to deal with a toddler with an attitude problem - trust me, I've been there - and seeing someone's vacation pictures might just push you over the edge. Not to mention that sometimes it's kinda boring.

So I'll just give you a little photo synopsis, with no beautiful psychotic-jealousy-inducing pics included:

... Which typically leads to, you know, this:

For the record, I almost never drink and in fact have not even been tipsy in nearly three years.

... Until last week. What? I've been saving up.

And because it was Jamaica, I snapped this photo of a Rasta for your viewing pleasure:

Yeah, mon.

I kind of wish I was that skinny.

Since my friend Denni lives in Missouri (and not awesome Iowa like me), that's where we flew into. And at like two o'clock in the morning, after a sixteen-hour travel day, I dragged my tired behind and my bulging suitcase into my mom's house, where Curtis and the kids had stayed the night before. And within an hour, Curtis had to catch his flight for a business trip to Virginia, officially returning me to not only my Mommy duties, but to single-Mommy status for a few days.

So the next day, with two and a half hours of sleep under my belt, four kids, two dogs, about a gazillion suitcases (into which Curtis had literally dumped the contents of the boys' drawers), and a piss-poor attitude, I set out on the four-hour drive back home. It rained. The baby cried. The boys whined. And somehow, between Missouri and Iowa, the nagging cough and runny nose I'd been brushing off for the past day developed into a full-blown cold and a 102-degree fever. I blame the climate change, or maybe the travel - but whatever it was, it sucked.

And when I got home, the house - which Curtis had proclaimed over the phone to be "not that messy" - looked kind of like a roving band of monkeys had ransacked it. I mean, check out these pictures of the top of the freezer and the kitchen table:

I sincerely hope that was chocolate. 

At least the laundry piled in the basket was clean. And the dishes filling the dishwasher were clean. And the sheets in the washer were ... mildewing because he had forgotten to put them in the dryer.

But whatever. Curtis tried, and he did a great job (he even blogged!), and I'm so thankful for him. It is so not easy being a mom.

Especially when you're a dad.

The Babbling Bachelor

So, this is Curtis, and as most of you may know Rita is on vacation right now. However, due to travel warnings she and her bff Denni cancelled their trip two days before departure....but that's okay because they re-booked for Montego Bay, Jamaica. Therefore, I am writing a guest blog to try and ....(hold on Coby lost the staff to his "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle" and is having a meltdown).....Where was I? Oh yeah, so, I am trying to guest blog and really get a feel for what my amazing wife goes through on the daily. I will warn you now I am NOT a writer and my punctuation leaves a lot to be desired but I will give it my best shot.

My adventure started on Saturday when we took Rita to meet her friend Denni. To tell you the truth I was scared to death! I mean, Rita is the backbone of this house and family. I go to work, come home and help out around the house very little... Don't shoot at me ladies, I am just being honest.  Anyway, day one started off pretty normal, I came home and convinced the boys that they were tired and napped for about an hour. At about....(holy cow the baby stinks!!!)... At about 5pm I decided to try to figure out what to make for supper. Me, "Boys do you want some Ramen Noodles?" Boys, "No" so I said, "how about some pizza? I can throw some Pizza in the oven." again a unanimous "no". I stopped and thought about it for  a second and said, "How about some of Daddy's homemade Chicken Pot Pie?" and finally I got an excited "Yes" (Knowing that they have never had nor will they ever have "Daddy's homemade" anything)......Thank you Marie Calendar! I sneaked the package of CPP, that Rita stashed for me, out of the freezer; threw them in the microwave and BAM! it was like Emerill stopped by and the boys loved it! I called Rita to tell her of my success and she stopped me mid-sentence and said, "You put Pot Pies in the Microwave?" I paused for a moment because this sounded like one of those trick questions that we husbands often hear like 'do these jeans make me look... enter negative connotations that we don't say here?' or 'Do you like my hair this way?' So, I scrambled for the box and there it was, my saving grace, microwave instructions on the box! Thank you again Marie Calendar! Crisis averted, I could prove that I wasn't going to poison the kids on the first night.  Since then, I have stuck to the list that Rita provided for me, and you know what, it sure makes things flow around here. We are like a well oiled machine! The kids have been dressed and early for school every morning...yes I know it's only Tuesday but hey give a guy a break... They have even had their hair fixed! I have fed everyone, even the animals, every meal that is required to survive and even watered the kids and dogs occasionally.  We have, however, been out to eat three times in three days and that is because I have found that eating somewhere besides home equals no dishes. I spend an hour or so per day picking up clutter, but only in the front part of the house because that's what someone would see should they stop by to check on us men. Rita asked me, before she left, to clean the toilets at least once because the apparently the boys aren't good at aiming, either that or they aren't aiming at the toilet. Anyway, I showed them how to sit down and pee...Problem solved! No toilet cleaning for this SAHD....boooyahh! So, the bottom line is, I am no where near as good as Rita when it comes to this stuff. I have found myself having to shout, hide, ignore, and give in when I shouldn't;  It's like the boys are plotting a hostile takeover sometimes and Rita is going to find me bound and gagged in the closet when she gets home. But you know what? I wouldn't change it for anything! I have had the opportunity to "hang out" with my dudes!With that being said, I would like to give a shout out to all of the moms out there, not just the ones of the SAH variety, but all moms. You have no idea how important you are to the family unit! You are often under-appriciated, under-paid, under-scrutiny, and under-concerned with your own well-being! I am glad Rita took the opportunity to do something for herself for a change and you all should try to find some small way to do something just for you! Just because YOU wanted to! If we are in the same state, I will keep your kids too.....Just be sure and make me a list before you go.

Rita's SAHD,



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