Hmm. The kicking you described doesn't sound like Andrew. I'll ask him about it though. Boys will be boys, you know!
Looking forward to book club . . . I'll take my margarita on the rocks, with salt please!
XOXO, Claire
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Dear Claire,
I am nursing a baby and trapped in a body that is 50 pounds overweight. You couldn't pay me to put on a bathing suit right now. Especially if I had to sit next to you. You look amazing! How do you do it?
Sitting down to read a book? I don't remember what that's like. Sounds divine. I didn't even crack open our book for next week's book club. . . XOXO, Melinda
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Dear Melinda,
I do look damn good, don't I? You'll be back to your fighting weight in no time! Although, what is your fighting weight? I've known you for 3 years, and you've been pregnant, nursing, or postpartum the entire time! But, who needs a waistline, right?
I asked Andrew about the kicking. He said it's a game he and Timmy play, and they both enjoy it. So, there's no reason for me to say anything more to him. It's just two boys having fun. Sweet of you to come to Timmy's rescue though...I was like that with my oldest child too ;-)
XOXO, Claire
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Hey Claire,
It seems like I've been pregnant, nursing, or postpartum for almost a decade . . . oh, wait, that's because I have been. It's not exactly what we'd planned. But here we are, and we certainly feel lucky for this house full of kids. Waistlines are overrated. But I'm coming for mine as soon as this baby is finished nursing! Goodbye, maternity clothes. Hello, running sneakers.
Hmmm. Not to harp, but the way Timmy tells it, Andrew's kicking him is not a fun game. At least, it's not fun for Timmy. I looked at his legs when he was in the bath tonight, and he has 4 different bruises on his shins . . . he says those are the places where Andrew kicked him.
We're encouraging Timmy to stick up for himself and let Andrew know that he doesn't like the kicking. If you could reinforce this on your end, we'd appreciate it!
Frozen, no salt!
XO, Melinda
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Hi Melinda,
You still put Timmy in the bathtub? Oh, sweetheart, I put a stop to that three years ago! Teach him some responsibility and independence and put him in the shower. He'll be better off for it. Although, I did notice Timmy's fingernails last week when I picked up Andrew from school. Maybe a bath is the only cure for dirt that deep under the nails?
Again, I don't see any reason to correct Andrew about "kicking" Timmy. Your son should take this opportunity to stick up for himself. If he doesn't like Andrew "kicking" him, let him speak up. Fighting his battles for him isn't going to make him independent. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. SMH
XO, Claire
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Claire,
I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean by Timmy's fingernails. Can you elaborate? Their class had art one day last week, so Timmy had clay under his fingernails. Is that what you mean?
I also don't understand why you're placing quotation marks around the word kicking. Are you implying Timmy is lying? Because Jackson's Mom knocked on my window at carline on Tuesday to tell me that Jackson told her that Andrew repeatedly kicks Timmy at school. Jackson told her Timmy had cried about it, while Andrew stood and laughed at him. Sounds like a classic case of bullying to me.
I can see the allure of showers. They are easier. No sore knees and aching back from leaning over a tub. No tub toys needing air drying. But Timmy and his younger brother, Kyle, look forward to their baths. It's a nice time for them to play with each other, and I try to get some laundry folded while they are in the bathtub.
We hope our kids grow up to be independent. We want them to learn to stick up for themselves. But, as parents, our job is to be their voice until they can find their own voices. Which is why I'm using my voice to defend my child from your son. SMH right back at you.
Sincerely, Melinda
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Melinda,
Let me guess . . . do you also sing to them when they're in the bathtub? You are so darling! Really, you are. How is it you have laundry to fold in the evening? I'm surprised you can't get it done when you're home all day. When my kids were young, I managed to get the laundry done during the day. Which was a challenge because I had my daily training sessions, and I played in two very competitive tennis leagues. I also pureed all of their baby food from organic fruits, vegetables, and meats. Farm to table is the only way we operate in this house.
This is getting a little bit ridiculous. I propose we meet with the kids to discuss this alleged kicking. It will give Andrew the opportunity to explain himself. And Timmy obviously needs coaxing to stick up for himself.
Who is Jackson's mother? The one who walks around slinging the fake Tory Burch bag? I'd be hesitant to believe anything her boy says. Would you really trust a woman who walks around with a flea market knock off draped over her shoulder?
Claire
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Claire,
Alleged kicking? I have a memory like an elephant, and I remember Timmy said that Andrew kicked Jackson during the first week of school. There's a pattern of violent behavior with your son. As his mother, you must acknowledge that and make every effort to put an end to it.
Melinda
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Melinda,
Make no mistake, Melinda, you have thighs like an elephant. Violent behavior? I realize you're hormones are fluctuating as rapidly as your weight. But, please, do make an effort to simmer down. . . Claire
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Claire,
Jackson's Mom said she talked to you about this at pickup. She said you blamed Andrew's kicking on his "restless leg syndrome." Is that even a disease? Sounds more like an after school special.
Maybe you should spend less time questioning the authenticity of someone's designer handbag and keep a closer eye on your daughter. Judging by the outfit she wore to the Boy Scout pinning ceremony, she'll be on the pole before she has her driver's license. Like mother like daughter, right?
It's obvious Andrew gets his mean streak from you. Your husband is a doll. How does that gentle soul of a man put up with your aggressive behavior?
Melinda
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Melinda,
My husband has his hands full . . . figuratively . . . with me in the bedroom. Unlike your poor husband. Who has his hands more than full . . . literally . . . with you.
Speaking of your husband, I heard he and Owen's Mom have been getting very friendly. If you know what I mean . . .
Claire
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Claire, That's ironic. Because I heard your husband and Owen's Dad have been getting very friendly. If you know what I mean . . . Melinda
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BOOM!
Now you've done it. Within three minutes, you're down a Facebook friend. You've lost a Twitter follower. Worst of all, she's blocked you from her Pinterest boards. All before you had the chance to pin her legendary cheese ball recipe. Looks like you're bringing yet another veggie tray to book club, girlfriend.
Wait, what's this in your inbox?
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Melinda,
We heard you outed Claire's husband. Consider yourself no longer a member of this group.
Signed, Your Ex-Book Club
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Ooof.
What subjects are taboo? Religion and politics.
And parenting.
* * *
Bethany Meyer lives in Philadelphia, PA, with her husband and their four sons. No, they will not be trying for a girl. Bethany's work has been featured on The Huffington Post. She loves writing, running, and color-coding her calendar to keep track of her kids' activities. Scratch that. She loves writing on her blog, I Love Them Most When They are Sleeping, and running. And her husband and kids.
The Husbands Who Cried Wolf-itis
By Lisa and Ashley
The Dose of Reality
Let it be known right off the
bat, we have initials that go with our full names. Lisa's are M.D. and Ashley's are R.N. You might think that being married to someone in the medical profession would come with certain benefits. Maybe we're like Albert Schweitzer and Florence Nightingale all wrapped up in one, diagnosing their aliments and caring for them with compassion during their man-colds. Surely we're consumed with keeping track of their Motrin dosing schedule and lovingly applying cool compresses to their foreheads.
You might think those things, but you would be wrong.
Because neither of us is involved in patient care on a daily basis anymore, we really enjoy functioning as private WebMDs for our friends. Our fellow moms always come to us with legitimate and normal concerns. We love to help them. But our husbands are another matter. Something about taking our marriage vows eliminated our tolerance for their whining, sniffling, and dramatic overreactions to their every ache and pain. In fact, we endlessly complain about their latest hypochondriacal maladies to each other. Daily.
Hence our conversation from last Tuesday:
Ashley: Seriously, get ready for the latest complaint from my damn husband. Keep in mind that every. Single. Word. I am about to share with you came directly from his lips.
Lisa: Oh God, I can tell this is going to be good.
Ashley: That man looked at me last night and said, "I am really worried about my knee. It feels really spongy—YES HE SAID THAT VERY WORD— and loose around my kneecap." I let him know that he is over 40 now and that's going to happen. I told him to get a knee brace from Walgreens, and he'd be good to go.
Lisa: Yep. Total weekend warrior syndrome. That was good advice. Did it reassure him?
Ashley: Ha! No, not even close. He wondered if he should make an appointment with an orthopedist for a custom brace or maybe an MRI.
Lisa: Wow. Just wow.
Ashley: The best part is yet to come. The next thing he said to me was (and I quote), "I am really nervous it will just buckle, and I will need emergency knee surgery."
Lisa: Bwahahaha! Oh, Lawd! What is he, a linebacker for the NFL all of the sudden? Which orthopedist do you have on retainer? I wonder if knee buckle surgery is arthroscopic or invasive?
Ashley: I wonder if it's covered under our insurance! I assured him that I was pretty confident he was safe from a dreaded case of "the knee buckle."
Lisa: This must be the week for joint complaints in the over 40 male population.
Ashley: Oh, do tell!
Lisa: My brave little soldier of a husband has decided that he has a raging case of tennis elbow. Except, instead of taking an ibuprofen and going on with his life like a normal person, he thinks it's best to go around the house wincing and moaning every time he tries to pick something up. He has even taken to freezing in mid-motion and crying out in agony.
Ashley: Did you tell him to get a brace? Maybe our husbands can go together. Perhaps they can find a buy-one-get-one-free special or something.
Lisa: Oh, I wish it were that simple. Unfortunately, the over-exaggeration of his "pain" led our sweet, somewhat anxious son to decide that his father was gravely ill. Bobby was so concerned that he took me aside because he was worried his father had somehow contracted elbow cancer.
Ashley: Poor kid! Hey, wait a minute! Don't you have tennis elbow from time to time?
Lisa: Why, yes . . . yes I do. In fact, when I tried to commiserate with my dear husband at dinner and offer tips for dealing with it, do you know what he actually said to me?
Ashley: No, but I can't wait to find out.
Lisa: He said, "Oh, that's right. I forgot you had tennis elbow." Um, OF COURSE HE DID because I don't go around complaining about it all of the time.
Ashley: I bet he felt bad then, right?
Lisa: Oh, no! In fact, he had the nerve to say, "My case must be worse than yours. You would not be able to function with pain like this." You will be proud to know I suppressed the urge to stab him with my fork.
Ashley: Bravo, sister. You deserve a medal for that.
Don't judge us. We are caring people.
If you had to put up with the litany of complaints we do on a daily basis, you'd become hardened to their whimpers, too. After years of cases of "malaria" that turn out to be nothing more than a zit, we feel totally justified in our penchant for dismissing their illnesses outright. We have no problem assuring our husbands they won't catch rickets just because they spend all day in an office environment. We feel perfectly comfortable treating their paper cuts with a simple Band-Aid. We are also absolutely positive they won't contract scurvy because we callously refused to buy the imported crate of tangelos they wanted from Harry and David.
As a rule, we are always correct.
But . . . let's just say that hypothetically there may have been a time when each of our husbands complained of a severe cough. We might have suggested they suck on a Ricola and relax. Let's just say that they both continued to insist they were getting worse by the second and begged us to listen to their wheezy chests. Maybe we assured them they didn't have the bubonic plague and that, while colds are indeed unpleasant, they are harmless. Let's just say that after they each spent days lounging in bed, we sent them to the doctor so he would tell them to man up. It's possible that they both hypothetically came home with the official diagnosis of pneumonia.
Boy, did we learn a lesson.
No, that lesson isn't that husband coughs should be taken seriously. Have you even read a single word we've written?
The takeaway is that husbands who cry wolf-itis, only have themselves to blame when we tell them to take two aspirin and call us in the morning. Obviously.
* * *
Lisa and Ashley are the voices behind the blog, The Dose of Reality.
Lisa is a 40-something mother, wife, and in her previous life, she was a practicing physician in Internal Medicine. These days the only doctoring she does is diagnosing her kids with "don't want to go to bed-itis" and assuring her husband that man-colds are not fatal.
Ashley is a mostly-stay-at-home mom, wife, and an occasional nurse (turns out she would rather just play a nurse on TV). At this point, she stands a better chance of creating world peace than keeping her house clean and organized.
Lisa and Ashley feel that if it takes a village, shouldn't that village be honest and hold each other up, rather than knock each other down by pretending we are perfect? At The Dose of Reality, you will get that kind of truth, because they believe strongly in telling it like it is, like it really is.
The Mom-Chauffeur
By Kristen
Life On Peanut Layne
I'm not sure when it happened that I morphed from a mom to a chauffeur. I know those of you with small children are thinking, "Wait, so you mean not only did I get fat and permanently ruin my vagina pushing their giant heads out of my loins, but I have to drive them around too?" Driving kids around is probably one of my least favorite aspects of parenthood. If I had known that I was going to spend three quarters of my adult life trapped inside of a grungy minivan that smells of rotten french fries and assholes (don't ask), I may have thought twice about having five kids.
I'm not a patient person. I have a little thing called road rage. Nothing makes me happier than driving up and down a one lane road at 20 mph with multiple four way stops. People are morons. I don't understand why it's so difficult to gauge who has the right of way? Was there a Cliff's Notes version of the DMV test I wasn't aware of, because I actually read the stupid manual from cover to cover which outlined the order of traffic at a four way stop in great detail. I have flipped many a birds at these four way stops.
Driving the same route every single day has turned me into a drone. Verizon could clone me and make robot mommies with built in GPS systems. It's true. I could drive these routes in my sleep. Sometimes I get to my destination and don't even remember driving there. And no I swear I don't drink. I wouldn't be so angry all the time if I were drunk. The best is when you have to make an extra trip because your middle schooler has Thursday detention agai
n because she gave her PE teacher some sass about not wanting to ruin her make up so she didn't dress down. Who's freaking child is this I ask? I swear her mom (me) doesn't even know how to apply make up and looks like the grim reaper who lives in one pair of stretched out yoga pants with the butt so stretched out that it looks like I crapped my pants and just left it in there to stew.
So anyways, you find yourself sitting in the carpool line of shame with all the other parents of delinquent children who also have detention and you see your daughter come out with a new friend. You take a deep breath and hope she isn't going to ask you to drive this little darling home. No such luck. As they approach the van, you notice this girl has more grey hair than you do because she dyed it that way on purpose! You quickly reach for your phone to do a Google search to make sure there aren't any new Portland gangs for 13-year-old girls who are purposely trying to look 40, but you don't see anything. Then you hear the dreaded question, "Can you give Ashley a ride home?" You want to scream, "HELL NO" but you don't want to look like the rude selfish asshole that you really are, so you begrudgingly say, "I guess so." Of course her friend lives 15 minutes away in the opposite direction of where you're going and you nearly get sideswiped while playing chicken with oncoming traffic, while almost wiping out the pedestrian that you can't see darting across the crosswalk.
You barely manage to pull into her driveway with your heart beating out of your chest because you just drove in rush hour traffic and the only directions you got from this child were, "Oh yeah, you're going to turn up ahead" as she goes back to smacking her gum and chatting with your daughter in the backseat. Fuck me. As she climbs out of your van, not only does she not properly shut the door all the way so you have to get out and re-close it, but you don't even get a thank you. You memorize her house number so you can come back and kick her parents square in the taco for not teaching their kid any manners.
You fight rush hour traffic home almost getting a couple of red light tickets thanks to Portland's awesome red light cameras they have all over the city, pull into your driveway just in time for the empty gas light button to ding on your dashboard. You kick off your shoes and set down your keys when your teenage son calls out, "Hey mom, can you give me a ride to Jordan's?"
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