I Just Want to Pee Alone

by Some Kick Ass Mom Bloggers

  We're walking off the plane, through the tube toward the terminal, crowded together like cattle. I almost feel like crying. I wish I could have just said something to him. Anything at all. You know what? I will! I am going to turn around and say something to him before some Playboy Bunny Supermodel girlfriend meets him, beautiful, and open-armed at the gate.

  A couple of business men rudely push their way past me. Well, I don't care how crowded and unpleasant this is, I am going to say something to him before I lose my chance forever. I turn around to make my move as I feel a hand (and for certain it's a hand, not a suitcase or carry-on) brush against my rear end and give it a little nudge. I turn around, and he smiles at me sheepishly and says, "Pardon me. Terribly sorry."

  He touched my ass.

  Damn . . . I knew he loved me.

  * * *

  Julianna W. Miner writes the successful humor blog Rants from Mommyland. She has also written for Babble, The Huffington Post, The Washington Times Communities, and Nickelodeon ParentsConnect.

  She has three kids, two jobs, a long-suffering husband, a dog who should be ashamed of himself and a geriatric, ill-tempered cat. In addition to blogging, she teaches at a college she couldn't have gotten into because she made bad choices in high school. She writes about how hard it is to raise kind-hearted, successful, and happy kids while constantly having to wipe things and pick up dirty socks.

  In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Penis

  By Bethany Thies

  Bad Parenting Moments

  Shortly after the birth of our fourth child, my husband and I sat down to discuss our birth control options. I was a few days shy of my six week postpartum check-up. At this appointment, after the careful poking and prodding of your barely healed nether regions, the inevitable topic of birth control comes up.

  Physician: "So, what are you currently using for birth control?"

  Me: "Besides wishes and dreams? Oh, well...I find the best method of birth control is complete abstinence. Wouldn't you agree, Doctor?"

  Physician: [uncomfortable chuckle] "Well, I'm not sure your spouse would agree. Are you interested in trying [insert name of birth control pill pharmaceutical representative just pushed over bagels]?"

  Me: "Well, I was thinking that you may just consider officially condemning my vagina as a war zone. I'd hate for anyone to be injured with all of the vaginal shrapnel."

  Physician: [mouthing vaginal shrapnel] "So, are you interested in an IUD?"

  Me: "I find it best never to owe people money. Especially family. IOU's can be so tricky."

  Physician: "I have a feeling you may not be ready to discuss any vaginal procedures."

  Me: "Hasn't my vagina done enough for my family?"

  To be blunt, that is my feeling about birth control. After four vaginal births, my vagina would like to retire. With a watch, "Thank you for your cervix and service!" plaque, and, an impromptu conference room fete thrown by my vaginal associates.

  This is why I pushed and my husband, eventually and begrudgingly, agreed to a vasectomy.

  Several grueling months of impassioned reminders (see synonym: nagging) later, the consultation with the urologist was on the books. Never had my reproductive retirement soiree seemed so near. Then, I made the mistake of inviting a Catholic Priest to dinner.

  What happens when you invite a Catholic Priest to dinner? They eat your food, drink your wine and tell your husband he can not have a vasectomy.

  It is times like these that I thank God I am not Catholic. I was pouring a glass of red when this commandment was spoken. "Catholics don't do that. You can use the rhythm method." As he said, "rhythm method," I pointed to baby number four. Any other pearls of wisdom, Father? The conversation soured as I glared at my husband over loudly chewed bites of steak. Looking at my knife, I pondered if Googling DIY vasectomy instruction would initiate any red flags or calls to the local authorities.

  My husband, not necessarily a believer in the actual tenet of no vasectomy, yet, thankful for an argument against it tried to proceed cautiously.

  Husband: "Did you hear what Father said about [ahem] the surgery?"

  Me: "I did."

  Husband: "And?"

  Me: "Are priests still unable to get married? Unless you plan on marrying him, I think you should consider keeping your appointment."

  Husband: "Honey, please put down the steak knife."

  Although my husband is a committed Catholic, he is more committed to limits we've set as a family. He is committed to me. Besides, while God may be all around us and inside our hearts, I remain unconvinced that God has taken up residence in our pants making sure all the Holy balls are left un-snipped. I think She probably has bigger fish to fry.

  Vagina 1, Catholicism 0.

  * * *

  Bethany Thies is a mother of four, writer and rehabilitated gypsy who now calls Vermont home. She can change a diaper in 22 seconds and is the proud author of the chronic sarcasm and tom-foolery blog, Bad Parenting Moments.

  A Cougar is Born

  By Andrea

  Underachiever's Guide to Being a Domestic Goddess

  Well, believe it or not, I am about to turn 40. They say 40 is the new 30. Or is it 50 is the new 40? What about "life begins at 40?" No, I think the last time I checked, life begins at birth. I don't even know what they say these days or what any of that means. All I know is "they" have been a pain in my ass for years. "They" are the same people that said red wine is good for you, and then said red wine is bad for you, coffee is a must for good health, oh wait, coffee is terrible on your system, do take aspirin, no, don't take aspirin - and endless other contradictions. Anyhow - I'm turning 40, and damn it I'm going to embrace it - no matter what "they" say!

  So what goes along with turning 40? An excuse to celebrate. Why do we feel like we even need an excuse? I don't know - mommy guilt, maybe? It's silly, really. I think many of us with young kids hide behind that excuse because quite honestly, it takes a lot less effort to just hang out on the fluffy couch in our loungewear and fuzzy socks, hair in a ponytail, and yesterday's makeup smudged under our eyes than getting ready to go out. It's true. Everything takes effort now. So while many of us are complaining that we have no social life because we have no babysitter, or feel like these childhood days are fleeting and we should be home with our kids, we're actually thinking it's much easier to not have to apply ourselves and just stay home!

  OK now that I've said that, I realize that because I am fortunate enough to have some really adoring, wonderful, fun-loving friends, I simply cannot - not go out for my 40. This is not going to be a one-stop party and done - it's going to be dinners here and there with this group of friends, drinks with another group of friends. Yes, I plan to milk it for everything it's worth. You only turn 40 once! I'm sure a night out with my husband is on the agenda as well. Well, it had better be! Overall, I'm thinking at least a half a dozen 40 Birthday celebrations are in order. Seems only proper to mark the milestone wouldn't you say? I mean what other big milestone is there after you turn 40? Retirement? Selling your home and moving to an assisted living community in Florida? Fiftieth wedding anniversary/acceptance into Sainthood? Nope. This is it - the one big opportunity to go big while we've still "got it." I want parties and lots of them. Let's do it.

  What does this mean for me? This means I have some serious work to do to make myself look fabulous. You know, I have to give everyone the impression that I've got 40 under control and I'm not panic stricken by any means. I have to exude that "Forty and Fabulous" feeling when I'm with other ladies my age and younger. Little do they know that behind the scenes, it's more like "Forty and Frumpy." Gone are the days of no make up and still looking presentable. I can no longer get away with a quick jaunt out without a bra for fear of tripping over a boob that has been overused and overstretched by three children. I can't just "throw on" something adorable and get away with it. Nope. These days, it takes work - and lots of it to not only look feminine again, but fantastic.


  Remember going out in our roaring 20s? We took our time because we didn't have someone yelling that their butt needed wiped in another room, or that they needed a snack, or that the batteries on their Leap Pad are dead and there was an impending meltdown on the horizon. No. We put on some fun music, poured a glass of wine, took a long hot shower and enjoyed getting ready. If we ran late, it was usually because we changed our outfit five times because we either had way too many cute things to choose from, or we were suffering from PMS and didn't like the way something looked, or we weren't sure what the appropriate attire was for the party we were attending. Now, at 40, we have two outfits that look like they are in style, and one that fits if we're lucky - so we're not worried about running late because of too many chic choices. No - if we run late now, it's because we caught a glance of ourselves in the rearview mirror while starting the car and saw a rogue chin hair that we didn't manage to see while in the bathroom.

  Why is it the car mirror shows every single lip and chin hair long and dark as can be yet there was no sign of it ten minutes ago in the bathroom? Now, if we don't have tweezers in the car, we've got to run back inside and take care of business . . . which will probably mean three more curveballs to set us back another 10 minutes.

  But let's back up a bit. Ok, so we have plans to go out. Right? Now, we have to figure out all of the things we have to do to look like we've got 40 by the family jewels. What does this entail? This involves starting with the shower. Not just any shower. The kind of shower where an emergency, code red level of maintenance must occur. Shampooing, conditioning with serious hair repair, exfoliating, shaving, scrubbing, buffing, and rinsing is happening and you are just getting warmed up. Now we need body butter, moisturizer, and smoothing lotions with a touch of spray to smell pretty. On to the face work. Whatever you do - don't look in one of those magnifying mirrors from Brookstone. You'll never make it out of the house. It's like a horror show when you see all of the renegade hairs on your face, clogged pores filled with old make up from when you last went out two years ago, and dark circles under your eyes that you mistake for makeup and try to remove with make up remover pads only to find they are not actually removable. So we've tweezed, snipped, and shaped eyebrows, lips, face, and neck - we can't forget the neck now that we're 40! We've patted on tinted moisturizer, under eye cream, primer, and bronzer. Hopefully, we've now covered up all signs that we haven't slept in eight years and that we never took care of our skin in our 20s and 30s. Hopefully our skin tone looks like we are well-hydrated even though we've starved ourselves for days to get rid of the sodium bloated look on our faces from staying up late watching bad TV and eating too many salty snacks. Mmmmm . . . salty snacks. Where was I? Yes. Makeup. Now apply lip plumper, primer, liner, and gloss to cover up our dry cracked lips and draw attention away from our double chins. Apply, or try to remember how to apply a nice base of eye shadow in a neutral color so it doesn't appear we are trying too hard, yet still get the pop we are all hoping for in our eye makeup. Apply a nice coat of liner that doesn't resemble Tammy Faye Baker and enough coats of mascara to show we do care enough to apply some, but don't want to look like a tarantula.

  On to hair. You know - that stuff that keeps your head warm that you tie up in a bun most days to stay out of your way . . . and the stuff that you cover up with a hat when you have to go to the pick up line at your kids' school to appear stylish while covering up the fact that you haven't showered in days. Yes, we'll need to work at the hair a little bit more than usual. Apply an anti-frizz product, volumizer, and smoother all while flipping upside down to ensure body and lift - take a mascara wand to cover the stray grays if you didn't have time to color, and work those jiggly arms while blowing it dry. Throw a few curls via curling iron, hot rollers, flat iron - whatever suits you. Tease up the back a little - but be careful not to over do it because you do not want the Amy Winehouse/Adele/ Flo the Progressive Girl type of pouf-bouffant look. Not attractive at any age.

  OK, so shower, lube oil and filter - check. Makeup application - check. Hair styled and shiny - check. Time to put on that one outfit we have that works - or that new outfit that we went and bought just for tonight. Before we put those lovely clothes on though, we have to get the holy trinity of intimate wear . . . you know - Spanx, Booblifters or Boobsmashers (Minimizer Bra or Miracle Bra - depends on how things are shaping up in that department), and control top panty hose. If we were lucky, and planned right, some of these might be combined together like a Spanx-topped pair of stockings or some other type of similar torture device. Anyhow - suck it up, squeeze in, suck it in, smash it, lift it, separate it - do what we have to do. No one said beauty is painless.

  Got all of our contraptions fastened? Good. Put on the outfit. Ahh, look how nice everything looks! Now, add some sparkly, dangly earrings that draw attention away from the crow's feet near our eyes and we are almost done! Got a fun little purse that just barely holds the iPhone, keys, lip-gloss and money? Check. Shoes that our swollen feet barely fit into? Check. Now walk. Umm . . . no - try and walk upright so as not to look like we are in excruciating pain. Yes. That's better. We're ready to go.

  Don't panic throughout the night if you start getting sharp, gas-like pains in your abdomen. That's just the Spanx causing the belly region extreme discomfort. Once we get home and take those contraptions off, we'll eventually get all of that air out and experience some relief. For now, just be happy knowing that it's doing its job - we may even feel like we have enough gas built up to send us sailing through the air back to our homes, but we'll look spectacular while we're suffering. Here's another thing to keep in mind . . . every other girl at the table went through something very similar to get out of the house for this little get together so they aren't going to notice any imperfections, because they are too worried about their own appearance to even care.

  So if you're a cougar-in-waiting, or just turned 40, or 40 and then some - let's make a deal to embrace our beauty and have fun with it. We're all in this thing together - and unless we have a team of beauty and style experts following us around, we are all going to have to deal with putting a little work into looking spectacular. And why not? You only turn 40 once. Raaaawr.

  On second thought, I'm thinking one party is enough. I'm already exhausted.

  * * *

  Andrea is one of the leading experts in the field of mediocrity in Domestic Engineering. With minimal awards won for her blog entitled The Underachiever's Guide to Being a Domestic Goddess, she has proven that not only does she not have a knack for writing, but she falls short in many other categories in life as well. She currently works in her family's engineering business, is a mother of three funny little boys, and wife to Mark - her knight in shining armor. They live in the Lakes Region of New Hampshire where their days are filled with giggles, Legos, and an endless supply of Greek food. When she is not pretending to work, begrudgingly cleaning up urine from in and around the toilet, or dutifully cooking for an army, she gives her extra time to two local charities that provide clothing and personal hygiene supplies to underprivileged children. Her favorite mottos are "Be Grateful for What You Have, Be Mindful of Those Who Don't" and "Don't Sh*t Where You Eat." Favorite movies include Moonstruck, My Big Fat Greek Wedding, and Sixteen Candles. Her hobbies included but are not limited to: sleeping, eating, laughing, and eating some more. She'd like to say she is an up and coming author on the New York Times Bestseller's List, but that would simply be untrue.

  The Poop Diaries

  By Amy Bozza

  My Real Life

  When my daughter was born, in 2001, the hospital nursery filled out a chart that they called "The Stool and Wetness Chart." I continued this crappy chart at home for three months...but I'm getting ahead of myself. The nurses filled it out while she was with them, and they had us complete the chart while she was hanging out in my room, and I made sure that every single bodily function was well-documented.

  You can imagine the horror...not only is every new mom asked to breastfee
d, (and if you aren't doing it right, be prepared to have your breasts manhandled by every single hospital employee), hold the baby's head correctly so as not to, you know, kill it, not drop him or her (again, to avoid imminent murder of which every new mom is afraid), change the baby, bathe the baby, learn what each cry means, but also keep a poop diary?! Well of course I did...

  When they sent us home, my normal controlling, anal nature had me continuing to fill in the chart. After three hours of being home with the new baby, my controlling nature combined with my out of control hormones took it a step further and I created an Excel spreadsheet to continue to document her habits. I attended every doctor appointment, print out in hand, to prove to the doctor (and convince myself) that, not only was my daughter doing exactly what her brilliant little self was supposed to do, but that I was a fully responsible mother who could definitely be trusted with the life of another.

  This all went just fine until she was around three months old. My charts started to show a strange trend. My perfect daughter was only pooping once a week, and always on a Friday. This was not perfect. This was not normal. How could this be? I had been doing everything right and something was wrong. I started to panic, and did the worst thing possible: hit the internet. I know better, but I couldn't help myself, and after reading up on digestive issues in infants, I arrived at her three month check-up, spreadsheets and internet articles in hand, ready to hear the worst.

  The doctor palpated her stomach, tickled her, listened to her bowels, looked her in the eyes and said, "You're a little weird, aren't you?"

  Um...weird? What kind of ass calls a baby "weird" in front of the new mother? I gave him "the eye" (which I had been practicing throughout my pregnancy, because all mothers have to master "the eye") and said, "Excuse me?"