Someone Needs to Publish a Puberty For Parents Handbook

Mom, we can have this conversation, but you can’t look at me. Just….look at the TV, ok?


And that was how Bug and I started the conversation about his very first kiss. Which hadn’t happened as of last night and that conversation we had where we weren’t looking at each other, but most likely has happened by the time this post is up and you’re reading it.

He informed me that he’s going to do it. He’s going to kiss his girlfriend today. He’s got a plan.

A plan?


Yes, Mom. A plan.

And really, it’s a brilliantly simple plan. After school, he’s going to take her around the building to somewhere there are no teachers (Because PDA will get me in trouble at school, Mom)….and kiss her. Simple. His brother agreed; it was a pretty good plan.

When asked if he was sure, was he really ready for this since he hadn’t been comfortable with the idea with previous girlfriends, he assured me he was. As long as he could get her around the corner where no one was at.

Because really, Mom…I just don’t want to do this with everyone watching.

So it was set. He had it all planned out. This first kiss thing should go off without a hitch. Until this morning….

Just one last question, Mom. How, exactly, do you kiss a girl?

::blink blink::

To my credit, I recovered quickly. I’m not even sure he was aware of just how big a loop he just threw me for. But all of those recovery brownie points go flying out the window in the face of what I told him. Because, really…I have no idea how to kiss a girl. And I don’t remember agonizing over how to kiss a boy, either. So I told him it would probably be a lot like kissing me, except on the lips; and that he could practice on his hand a couple of times. Oh, and don’t pucker up like a fish.

If I wasn’t so sure that once it’s started kissing becomes fairly natural, I’d really worry that I’d just completely doomed him to a kiss-less lifetime. As it is, I have to hope that it goes smoothly enough to not leave him distracted. He’s planning on doing this right before tryouts for the school baseball team today.

I’m still not sure what I was wishing him good luck on as I backed out of the driveway….the kiss, or tryouts.

A Daughter Wouldn't Have Cared

A three day weekend. Nothing to do but be lazy. Don't even need to get dressed if I don't want to.  I was soooo looking forward to that. And then...the Teenager ruined it.

We've had a long standing agreement, he and I.  He would warn me if he had friends walking in the door, and I'd make sure I was wearing a bra when they did.  After all, I'm just a little too endowed, and gravity has taken too cruel of a toll, for me to run around in front of teenage boys with no bra on. I don't recall if it was started at his suggestion or mine, but it has worked very well for us. No embarrassment for anyone.

So here I sat, being lazy, and I hear him holler at me..."Mom! Put a bra on!"

Damn. Friends are coming over.

I know that at one point, what I wanted most out of being a mom was having the house everyone loved to come to. I wanted all of their friends to be so comfortable with me that they'd all call me "Mom" and just walk in my front door.  And they do.

It is possible, though, that I didn't think this through very well. I didn't take into account that I would really, really, really want to spend a full few days with no restricting underclothes on.

Having daughters might have been easier, since I wouldn't have to worry so much about boobs and how they'd be worried about, but it would have been nowhere near as entertaining as having sons.

Is There A Class I Can Take?

I'm the mom. I'm the one responsible for making sure everyone eats right (or just eats, for that matter), has clean clothing to wear, and showers every day. Or every other day. Okay, fine. At least weekly. They're boys. Until someone prettier than I am starts holding her nose around them, they aren't caring much about how they smell.

The Teenager? Showers as often as possible. Thank you, Mouse!  Bug? Has discovered the benefits to daily showering. Gee, thanks Girls of Junior High. I think I could have waited just a bit longer for your influence to lend strength to my own.

But I digress....

Being the mom means you are the one who does all the Serious Stuff. The stuff that makes them frown and argue, stomp their feet and slam doors. The stuff that makes them look at you and roll their eyes, because how on Earth can they possibly share any genetic markers with you when you are so amazingly NOT cool? Being the mom also means you are the one responsible for making sure all the Important Stuff gets accomplished. Stuff like homework every night, birthday calls to Grandma or Uncle Bob, and picking up the week's worth of socks that have been left scattered from the living room...down the hall....in the bathroom...and finally, maybe, in their bedroom. Important Stuff like college and scholarship applications, or even just FINALLY DECIDING ONCE AND FOR ALL whether he is going to go to a college of some sort after graduation or join the military.

What being the mom usually does NOT mean is that you are the one who has the privilege of making them laugh until their tummies cramp and tears are rolling down their faces. Which makes moments like that all the more special, even if they do come at your expense.

Apparently, my attempts to whistle are just awesome for those moments.

If I Had Daughters, Boobs Wouldn't Be An Issue Around Here

Apparently, my TV is not to be trusted to record anything late at night. Ever. And yes, I am totally blaming the television, since this has happened when people other than myself have been in charge of recording a movie.

Anyone remember the whole Who Needs to Look For Boobs at School When Mom is Just Going to Accidentally Record Them and Then Show Them to Us? incident a few months ago? *sigh* Go ahead. Read it again.  Be sure to swallow anything you have in your mouth, first; or have something handy to clean off the monitor with. I'll wait.......

Are you done yet?  Breathe slowly; the cramp you're suffering from laughing so hard will go away soon....

Mouse was over at our house tonight. (Side note? We love having her come over. One, it seriously motivates the Teenager to levels of housekeeping that he has never before been motivated much to. And two, she really is just an awesome girl. If I had to handpick someone for my absolutely adored son to fall in love with....it would have been her.)  We had dinner (and can I just mention that I LOVE that this girl actually EATS?) and then decided to watch a movie that we had recorded some time ago and just not gotten around to watching yet. So we all sat down, got nice and comfy on the sofas, and Coach hit "Play".....

.... and then I freaked the heck out.

Because once again, THERE WERE BOOBS AND OTHER ASSORTED NAKED BODY PARTS FLASHING ACROSS MY TV SCREEN!!

I screeched. I might even have screeched some words I don't believe anyone thought I knew. I jumped off that sofa faster than I've moved in probably almost 25 years and planted myself in front of that screen. But let's be honest here. That screen is sitting at approximately 6 feet off the ground; while my head only tops 5'4". And as wide as my bathroom mirror might daily tell me I am, I just don't cover that screen.  So of course, EVERYTHING can still be seen. And the Teenager, who conveniently has a memory like an elephant regarding certain things and so naturally remembered the last time this happened, was laughing so hard he was crying. Again. Coach was right there with him; although he DID find the remote and fast forward through to where we needed to be. And I couldn't tell which Mouse found more amusing; the laughter coming from the Teenager or my reaction to the FREAKIN' BOOBS THAT NEEDED TO GET OFF MY TV!!.

She is endlessly entertained at our house.  But at least she's entertained in a recently vacuumed environment.

Boobs---An Easy Laugh at Your Mother's Expense

When you have a teenager, there are certain awkward moments and certain conversations you expect to have. You expect to field questions about the opposite sex, and you expect to witness curiosity about the various different and same-yet-different body parts on the opposite sex. What you don't expect is to put yourself into that situation.

The parent in me has never been much of a fan of Skinemax Cinemax (despite the fact that the wild, wanton married woman in me thinks the occasional nekkid body might be fun to stumble across late at night after the kids are fast asleep--or better yet, away at a friend's house--and I'm cuddled on the sofa with with the man who owns my favorite nekkid body), and that has only gotten more pronounced the older the boys have gotten. I didn't worry too much when they were little; after all, they were in bed before me. But now that I have a Teenager, one who is frequently up later than I am....well, there is much more to be worried about.

The boys and I sat down the other night to watch a movie we had recorded to watch together. But no sooner had I pressed the "play" button...... boobs were flashing themselves on my television screen. Boobs, butts and other various (obviously airbrushed and cinematically altered) body parts.  After a noise that I'm fairly certain sounded like something out of a horror movie came screeching out of my mouth, I began frantically trying to get those images OFF. MY. SCREEN before they could become permanently etched on Bug's brain.  Nothing worked. Apparently all I was capable of doing was pausing the stupid thing. So I repeatedly told Bug to keep his eyes closed, and told the hilariously laughing Teenager to shut up and help me. Finally, FINALLY, everyone's boobs were removed from my screen.

I'm surprised that Jock didn't wet himself, he was laughing at me so hard.  Stupid teenage humor.

They're just boobs, Mom.
Dude, unless they're your own boobs, you don't need to be looking at them yet.   Which, of course, set Bug to laughing from the other room.

This might be one of those moments that I end up wishing on them when they have children. 

Awkward Teenage Moments....

When you parent a teenager, you discover that life is full of awkward moments. The first time you realize that you really need to start knocking on their door before you open it. The first time you go searching under the bed for stray socks and find a pillowcase or hand towel. Or how about the moment when your teenager tells you about their first more-physical-than-a-small-no-tongues-used-kiss experience?

At least all of those are awkward moments just for you and the teenager that belongs to you. Don't forget about the awkward moments that happen with your teenager's friends.

Jock was forced to endure enjoyed an afternoon at the grocery store with me today. Along our route to the shampoo aisle, where I would be forced to take out a loan just to pay for the particular brand of shampoo he insists he has to have, we passed the family planning aisle. And standing right in front of the main attraction on the family aisle was one of Jock's friends from the football team. This friend was debating the merits of one particular brand versus another with yet another teenage boy. Jock walked up behind them and greeted them in the universal teenage boy way; a slap on the shoulder and a loud "Dude!"

The boys looked up, glanced over at me, and proceeded to ignore me. Which I was totally okay with, because hello? Acknowledging what they were shopping for would have mortified them, and reminded ME that my son is plenty old enough to have been standing right beside them shopping for the same thing. So I walked myself over to the next aisle and pretended to look for the perfect shampoo while waiting for my son to join me.

But I AM giving those boys HUGE points for being responsible enough to use those family planning aids. And for having the guts confidence to be in the middle of Wally World on a Saturday afternoon three weeks before Christmas, when every last family in the community is there and word is absolutely guaranteed to get back to their mothers about what they were buying.

Post Game Pieces

After the game on Thursday, while waiting for Jock to come out of the locker room, I was standing with my sister-in-law and killing time. We're standing in the middle of a fairly large crowd of parents and teenagers, when my SIL says to me "Hey... that girl's got Jock's number on her cheek. Do you know her?"

No. No I didn't. And the immediate response from the mama in me was to wonder just who the heck was this girl who was so proudly proclaiming her support for my son? My reaction to that response won't win me any additional points in the Mom of the Year contest, at least in the Offspring Voting category. But it WAS kind of fun....

I walked right up to her, smiled, and said "Excuse me. I know you don't know me, but you've got my son's number on your cheek. And I have no idea who you are."

She smiled, blushed, and stammered "Oh.... I'm a friend of his and he asked me to wear his number!"

"And that's great, I'm glad you support him. But.... Who.Are.You?"

And then she told me her name. Which I actually recognized as someone he talks about and to frequently. I laughed, and told her I'd be sure to tell Jock that I embarrassed her. When I talked to him about it, he admitted that they're kinda crushing on each other right now, so we'll see where it goes.

She really is a cute little brunette with darling dimples when she smiles. And she's the first girl EVER who has come to watch him play. I think this one might be okay.

____________________________________

Speaking of that game on Thursday, Jock told me something else that night.

At one point in the game, there was a 15 yard dead ball personal foul penalty called on the opposing team. The defensive player had shoved himself off my boy AFTER the play while he was still on the ground. The ref saw it, and called it. It's what the ref DIDN'T see that Jock was telling me about later.

Apparently, this kid was all kinds of a wienie, and when he was shoving off Jock, he shoved his hand right through that face mask and into Jock's face. And so my son? Bit his hand.

You saw that right. He. Bit. Him.

There is a part of me that is appalled at that. I mean, you don't just go around biting people. Certainly not when you're 16 years old. But another part of me? The more competitive, don't-be-putting-your-stupid-hands-in-my-boy's-face part of me?

Thinks that if you are dumb enough to put your hand in there on purpose, you deserve the teeth marks.

Do you think that thought redeems myself from asking strange girls why they're wearing my son's number on their face?

I Swore I Would Never Say It

Technically, I suppose you could say that this is a "mommy blog", and that I'm a "mommy blogger". And I'm proud of that, as I am in the company of some of the most fabulous, inspiring, remarkable mommy bloggers ever. However, unlike the vast majority of mommy bloggers out there, I'm a blogger with older kids. My kids don't often do cute things to blog about; they commit the acts that make me remember the cute times fondly and wistfully. Being a mommy of older kids, while still emotional, often presents its own set of issues.

Forced bedtimes, for example.

During the week, it's not a big deal. Jock, being the extremely reasonable and increasingly mature young man that he is, hauls himself off to bed around 9 each night. He gets up early, and knows just how much sleep he will need to function the next day. The only reminders I have to give him at night are to get his butt back here and give his mother a kiss goodnight. Bug, while requiring a bit more persuasion, is still in bed about 9:30 each night. Weeknights are not the problem. The problem comes up on weekends, when these boys think that they can just go to bed whenever they want to. Now, being a fairly flexible mother, I generally actually let them stay up late on Fridays and Saturdays. So what's the problem?

Those nights when Coach and I would like to get a little.... um, friendly.

We're not that old, not really, but we are certainly past the point where waiting up until well after midnight to get cuddly is the best idea. So when the mood is upon us (and sadly, with our schedules, we're not often in the same mood at the same time; so it behooves us to take advantage when we are!), we really need to move a little quickly to seize the opportunities presented. We still want to be awake when we get there, ya know?

For all my outspokenness, my verbosity, my belief that when my kids ask questions I should answer them as openly and honestly as possible...... I just can't quite bring myself to tell them WHY they need to go to bed earlier than they want to on a Saturday night. Besides, at least in Jock's case, I have a sneaking suspicion that they know.

So, all of you parents out there who still have younger kids? Enjoy it. Take advantage of your opportunities now. Steal a few minutes at nap times, turn away from that movie you're watching when you put the baby to bed. But start planning now. It takes a lot of creativity to have a good reason ready when you're asked why they have to go to bed early. If you ever thought you were good under pressure, always able to have a ready answer? Teenage children will test that theory.

And more often than not? Prove you completely wrong, and leave you standing there, stammering....

Because I said so.

Just the Highlights

When asked how practice last night went, Jock replied:

Sucked. We were beat by the FRESHMEN. So....we ran. And ran. And ran. Ran, ran, ran. And the only thing that sucked worse than that was the linemen needing to push the sled for 300 yards. With the 300 pound coach on it.

Huh. Bet that line will work harder at not letting anyone through it now, though, won't they?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It occurs to me that almost all of my posts lately have been about Jock.

Just wanted to remind you all that I do still have two kids. Bug is alive and well, singing at the top of his lungs every night in the shower.

To Metallica.

His dad is so proud.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A set of my in-laws were in town last week, and left just a couple of days ago. It was great to visit with them, and the boys had an awesome time with Grandma and Grandpa.

But I'm a bit mortified.....

See, they were awesome enough to not only help us out with some groceries, but.... THEY CLEANED MY HOUSE, TOO!! (ok, so maybe it was just my living room and my kitchen.....but those are the rooms that everyone sees, so I think they count as my "house")

This means that they have:

Probably found every last Fruit Loop and Apple Jack that the boys have hidden under the stove.....

Flushed out every brave plastic soldier who has taken refuge in the bunker under my sofa......

Discovered the true color of my carpet, the way it appears without a fine (or not so fine) layer of dog hair.....

Although I think I have a couple of light bulbs out, so maybe they didn't notice so much?

Hey... a daughter-in-law can dream, right?

May God Have Mercy On My Sons If They Do This 'Cuz I Probably Won't

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

There is just something about proms that bring out the best in girls and the worst in boys, isn't there? For the girls: shopping trips with your friends for the perfect dress; getting your nails done; getting your hair done; spending hours before the dance getting ready. For the boys: making sure you have the coolest car, to show up your friends; going along with her "suggestion" to match your tux to her dress, in hopes that it softens her up; planning with great detail how many times you can grope her while convincing her it was accidental. Its all part of the game, right?

My senior prom should have been the highlight of high school. I had the perfect dress. I had the lace "Madonna" gloves that matched perfectly. I had silk shoes dyed to match the dress perfectly. I had gotten my nails done. I had awesome hair, with just the perfect height and fullness.

What I didn't have was the perfect date.

I had no boyfriend around prom time, so I asked a guy friend from another school if he'd like to go with me. He was always super sweet to me, we were close friends, and he was pretty good eye candy, to boot! Since I was the one who did the asking, and since he didn't go to my school, I was the one who paid for the tickets. I paid for dinner. He just had to get his own tux, match it to my dress, and arrange transportation. He agreed, and plans were made. I was really pretty excited, and thought we'd have a better time, since we didn't have any of the relationship drama that so many of my friends had.

Ha!

Apparently, I missed the part of the planning that said that he was allowed to plan twelve different ways to get me OUT of that dress. And that he was allowed to get extremely petulant when I refused to go along with those plans. I also missed the part that said that when he stomped off pouting, I should have followed along behind him trying to convince him it was all ok with me, and that it was still a good idea to keep working on those plans. What WASN'T ok, so I found out later, was for me to stay on the dance floor, dancing with guys who were happy to continue dancing with me IN that kick-ass dress, while he went and sulked.

At least, I assumed he was sitting at the table sulking. When I went to find him, one of my friends told me that he'd left. No, not just left for the restroom. No, not just walking around, waiting for me. Gone. As in, LEFT ME STRANDED. At my senior prom.

Oh! Did I forget to mention it was only 10:30 pm?

So I called my dad to come pick me up, handed my tickets to the after-prom party to a cute little special ed couple, and was home before 11:30 pm. On the night of my senior prom.

Stupid boy. Its been almost 20 years, and I don't think I've quite forgiven him for that yet.

*I thought maybe, for a change of pace, I'd embarrass myself for a change. You know, give my poor family a break!*

One In Which I MIGHT Look Stupid

By the time I got off work on Friday, I had been on the clock for somewhere in the vicinity of ten hours. Give or take a few minutes. It had been a really long week, with what felt like very little sleep involved. And realistically? It really wasn't that much sleep. On average last week, I only got about 4 hours of sleep a night. Like I said, it had been a long week.

So I was driving down my street, thinking about the million and one things I still had to do that night before I could call it quits. I knew that there was no way I was even going to be able to LOOK at my pj's until at least midnight, let alone get out of the uncomfortable but unfortunately absolutely necessary upper torso binding device that all women wear, but those of us who have had children are forevermore unable to go without. I was not looking forward to another four to five hours in that thing, is all I'm saying.

My new next door neighbors have a rather large truck, and a long flatbed trailer that they had parked in front of our house as they were moving in a couple of weeks ago. (Stay with me here. This comes together nicely in a minute.) So when I saw the truck and trailer parked in the street as I turned the corner, I just assumed that they had been finishing up their move. As I drove down the street, there was a small group of teenage boys in front of the driveway on their skateboards. I didn't recognize them, but figured they were just using that area for some reason known only to them, and as long as they didn't move too many of the rocks from my front yard onto the sidewalk, I didn't really care. So I motioned to them that I needed to turn into that driveway, and could they please move. They all looked at me like I was off my rocker. I mean, why would I want to get into that driveway? So I said (although my windows were rolled up, so I can't be sure they heard me), "Boys, its my house, that's my driveway, and I want to put my vehicle into it." And then I made little shooing motions with my hands. One of them shrugged his shoulders, they all grabbed their boards, and they moved out of the way. I proceeded to pull around the massive truck parked in front of the house, and into the driveway.

Which is when I looked up at the house numbers. I'm not sure why I did, only that its something I seem to do on a fairly regular basis. I don't know. Maybe I'm subconsciously thinking that while I've been away, some strange "house swap" would have occurred? Regardless, I looked up at the house numbers there by the garage door.

Oh crap. This was not my house. This was not my driveway. Oh.My.Gawd.

I quickly backed out, and looked at the boys standing there laughing at me. Held my hands up in an "Oops, sorry about that" gesture, and proceeded to drive along to my own house. Two doors down. Where my own teenager met me in the garage, and didn't have a skateboard anywhere near him.

When I told him what I had just done (and no, I have no idea why I told him that, only that it was obviously in the front of my mind when he asked how my day had gone; and NO, Coach still does not know this happened. Why on earth would I want to give that man any more reason to consider me the comic relief in his life??), he started laughing. Hysterically. And then gave me what is probably a brilliant piece of advice.

Um, Mom? You might want to start getting some sleep sometime soon.

Yeah. Maybe. That, or we could just move. You know... two doors down. Since I already know how to find THAT house.

I Think It Might Be Time To Come Out

I am about to admit something shameful to you all. Very, very shameful. Something so embarrassing that I wouldn't admit it to people who have to see me every day. Something so awful that I'm hesitant to even mention it here. However, it has to be said. For once it's out, I'll be able to get help. Hopefully.

My name is Sports Mama, and I'm technologically challenged. (Actually, the word bandied about my office today was "technotard". I'm not sure I like that.)

I want to play with my blogger template. I want to change it, make it more "me". (When I figure out exactly what that is, I'll clue the rest of you in, never fear.) And while there are tons of places out there that can help me change the basic template, I can't really find anything to help me do what I want to do. I've seen some of your blogs, and there are things that I would totally steal if I had a clue how to do it. (And yes, now that you ask, it makes perfect sense to broadcast my deficiencies here for all to see rather than send you a discreet email directly!)

I want to put my blogroll on a separate, linked page. Same for my amazing blingage. Basically, I want to clean it up a bit. Which, in and of itself is a strange phenomenon as I am opposed on so many levels to anything that resembles housecleaning. (I kid! Please, no phone calls to the Department of Child Services! My house IS clean, I swear!)

People.... I am tired of being boring. And cluttered. Oh.... and I want to know how to embed a poll inside of a post and not on the side bar. ;) I have a VERY IMPORTANT question I would love your opinions on.

So I'm on my knees. Begging. (And believe me, while you might want to take a minute and giggle over that image, as its just about as amusing as me in my hooker boots on the baseball field the other night, It.Is.NOT.Comfortable. Either physically or figuratively.) If you know of some way to help me, please feel free to throw the suggestions at me.

Although, I will ask for slow, easy pitches, as I am not as athletically inclined as my children and there is a very high likelihood that I will somehow drop them. Also, me and directions? Not such good friends. I can get lost in a circle, so you really need to make it easy. I would suggest explaining it to me like you would a child, but I somehow think my kids might know more than I do. And I will NEVER admit that to them. Tips the power scales, don'tcha know?

Unless, of course, you all are just completely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, insanely happy with my little slice of bloggy land just the way it is. But c'mon.... I've been to your places often, ladies. And you make more changes to your "appearances" than a teenage girl does getting ready for her first date. And since it is my greatest wish in life right now to be part of the "popular" blogging crowd... hehehe... I need to get with the times. Follow along. Get a face lift.

Oh. One more thing. At some point, I'm also going to design my own award to start handing out. Its an idea I've had in my little brain for some time now, and I'm just dying to use it.

Assuming, of course, that I can ever figure out how.

*sigh*

Not A Contact Sport? Yeah, Right!

Do you see Jock's eye over there in that (inexcusably bad, I know I know... sorry, crappy cell phone camera) picture? And this picture actually shows it looking better than it did. Imagine the white part more of a total dark pink, some bruising beginning under there, and know that the bright red mark looks more like rug burn. Then you'll have a better visual.

And no, before any of you smarty pants out there ask, it was not a result of discovering his texting totals!

That, my friends, is a volleyball injury. Yeah, you heard me. Volleyball. This child, who is seriously poetry in motion on the football field, somehow FAILED TO DUCK when he saw the ball coming at his face yesterday. Coach was only *marginally* less embarrassed for him when it was explained that they weren't actually playing volleyball, but rather kickball--using a volleyball.

We expect injuries on the football field. Heck, depending on how they happened we even brag about them. We can just about determine how well his baseball season will go based on how many times he gets pegged while at bat, or the road rash from sliding into stolen bases. (*side note... Jock actually set a league record last year..... he got hit at least once in every game of the season. Dubious honor, to be sure!)

But c'mon..... VOLLEYBALL???

To add insult to injury.... the death blow was dealt by a GIRL.

One theory says Jock was being chivalrous. He was making that girl feel good about herself by giving her the opportunity to claim she took one of the boys down in gym class.

Coach's theory is she's obviously some hot little thing, and Jock had completely lost all brain function long before the ball hit his face.

Judging by the blushing Jock was doing when he had to explain all of this to us last night....... Coach is probably right.

But shhh... don't tell him that or there'll be no living with him for a while.

Well... at least until the Redskins lose *again* this Sunday! :)

It Was An Adventure!

Ok, so we're on Day 4 now without being able to see. Can I tell you again just how much this sucks?

However, today we actually had to go somewhere. Which meant that I had to make an effort to appear somewhat normal. Now, I have of course showered over the last few days, even though I have not ventured out of my house. But (and for those men out there that might be reading this, if you'd like to skip this part, feel free. I won't be offended. I'll let you know in big bold letters when its safe to join the party again!)..... I haven't shaved.

Oh, the armpits were safe enough. Those are close enough to my eyes that I felt reasonably confident that I could safely handle a razor there. However, my legs are not that close to my eyes. In fact, for as short as I am, they are actually surprisingly quite far away from my eyes. Even when I'm bent in half as far as I can possibly go. So, feeling like I had used up my allotment of insane actions on Wednesday, I didn't think taking a sharp blade to my legs was necessarily something I should do. Fortunately, I wasn't going anywhere, and having survived two pregnancies with me, Coach had previously been exposed to my less-than-smooth lower limbs. But, as I said earlier, we had to go somewhere today that required me to put a bit of effort into my appearance. So, I shaved my legs.

Now, for those of you who might be "visually impaired" out there, you understand how challenging it is to shower when you can't see, anyway. I mean, you spend the entire time hoping you've grabbed the right bottle. Face cleanser instead of shaving gel. Shampoo instead of conditioner, and then conditioner instead of shampoo. Conditioner instead of body wash. And... I know at least the men out there will appreciate this one... your own razor and not his. Now, try to attack something with a reasonably sharp blade that is at least a couple of feet beyond where you can see clearly. I'm sure you can understand my dilemma. But I'm happy to report that I accomplished it with no bloodshed. (Ok boys... you can join back in now.)

Once I got out of the shower, I had to manage to put myself together, with the end result actually looking like myself. By sitting on the bathroom counter and placing my face not more than two inches from the mirror, I was able to get my makeup on. And, aside from the still slight puffiness of the right eye, it looked ok. I decided it might not be a good idea to try to blow dry my hair with my glasses on, since I generally do that with my head upside down anyway. Well, I even managed to do that ok. So then I popped my glasses on my face, remembered to get dressed, and pronounced myself fit for public observation. Off we went!

Now, I must admit something to you all here. I'm a bit of a control freak (I know... shocking!), so it always unnerves me somewhat to let Coach drive when we go anywhere. Normally I can handle it. Today it was a bit of a challenge. Being a passenger in a car when you can't see much further than the hood is kinda scary. I had no idea! And apparently the antibiotics have made my eyes a *touch* sensitive to sunlight. I couldn't open them without pain. And if I could get them open, I got instantly dizzy from the attempt to focus a mostly blurry image going 60 mph. *sigh* I finally decided that laying back and closing my eyes was the best way to go. That seemed to be the only way we'd get to our destination in one piece, without my constantly throwing my arm out and whacking Coach as I tried to balance myself.

Turns out I was pretty dead on in my prediction of trampling small children at the pizza parlor. I simply couldn't see them as they ran around my feet. And if Coach or one of the boys wandered more than a few feet from me, I completely lost them. I really just tried to stay in one place. It seemed safer that way. For everyone else. You understand.

Then we decided to do grocery shopping today instead of tomorrow. I say "we", but everyone out there knows that it was really Coach's decision, right? I mean, tomorrow is football. Should have been a no-brainer. Duh. Anyhow..... we had both boys with us. This was amusing on so many levels for them. Poor Bug got stuck leading me to the restroom at one point, and letting me hold on to his arm so I didn't lose him. At nine years old, he feels he's outgrown holding my hand, so this was probably quite painfully embarrassing for him. And then later, when Bug had to go again (folks, our grocery store trips generally turn into all day events. They last several hours. I really couldn't tell you why.) Coach gave Jock the option of going with him to make sure we didn't lose him, or staying with me. Jock, thinking he was getting the better end of the deal, opted to stay with me. Ha! After my umpteenth request to read to me what was on the shelves we were passing, I think he would have preferred to be chasing Bug.

We did eventually get through the obstacle course... I mean, the grocery store.... and headed home. By this time, the sun was going down, so it didn't hurt my poor little eyes. After unloading the truck, it was off to spend the evening with Coach's brother and his children. I think I might have mentioned them before... two sets of twins? Loads of fun on a good day, an awesome challenge on a day like today. Chasing after two year old boys when you can't see them at a distance OR up close as they are tiny, little grasshoppers is always fun. Really. I recommend it to everyone. And for giggles, throw in some newly developed mud puddles in the back yard. Total joy.

For the two year olds. Not so much for the 34-year-old-blind-as-a-bat auntie.

*sigh* But they're in bed now, and I made brownie bite cookies.

I just might survive until Monday morning, when I can finally put my contacts back in.

Embarrassing Moments in Life

Oh yeah. I have a few. And that's only if I start counting since I got married!

I've called my sons' friends by the wrong names. I've burped in public. I've bent over or crouched down and ripped the seat or inseams of my pants more than once. Today -- which is what got me thinking along this vein-- I actually fell onto my backside at my office. (My briefcase, which I will swear weighs more than Bug does, was hanging on my shoulder. I crouched down to pick something up, and the stupid thing pulled me backwards. Yes, it was highly amusing to my office manager, who witnessed the whole thing, but the rest of you can stop laughing now!)

But I'd have to say that my most embarrassing moment happened when Coach and I were fairly newly married, and I was eight months pregnant with Jock. To properly appreciate this story, you have to understand what I looked like when I was that far along. Quite simply, I was as big as a freakin' barn. I have virtually no torso. No, really. There is maybe 6-8 inches or so (I'm really bad with guesstimates!) between my bust line and my hips. I'm also pretty short. Only 5'4". And that baby was HUGE. When he was born he was over eight pounds and was 21 1/2 inches long! That was almost TWO FEET of baby in an area that simply wasn't *quite* big enough to comfortably hold him. (Side note: Bug was almost as big, but by that time I had learned my lesson, so this embarrassing incident has not happened again!)

So there I was. Very pregnant. And it was the middle of the night. Now, if you've ever been pregnant, or been around many pregnant women, you will totally understand why I was up at 3 AM headed for the bathroom. Ahh... I see the lights going on out across the blogosphere.... you all know where this is headed, don't you? Yep, I had to go to the bathroom. Normally, this is not a cause for concern, even if I did have to go every thirty minutes. Normally, I could feel very comfortable that my bathroom trip was going to be uneventful. Calm, peaceful, and a huge relief. Not so this particular evening.

Coach had apparently gotten up at some point before me and used the restroom. The only partially reasonable excuse I can make for that man, even now--15 years later, is that we hadn't been married a year yet so he wasn't fully trained. I have to believe that, because the alternative is that he was just being cruel and had been hoping and planning for something like this for some time. And really, if I want to continue to love this man I have to believe that he would never be that mean. (No, I don't want anyone to try to convince me otherwise, thank you very much.) Yeah... you all know where I'm headed here. The stupid man left the seat up.

And I didn't see that until after I sat down. Fell in. Folded practically in half. And found my hugely pregnant self.... STUCK. In the toilet. Wedged so tightly that I could hardly even wiggle.

If you've ever fallen in, you know how cold that toilet water is, too. So yes. I screamed. And squealed. Loudly. And what did Coach do when he finally woke up and came charging to my rescue?

Stood in the doorway. Laughing like a lunatic. Until tears were rolling down his face. Clutching his stomach. He did finally manage to pull me out, at which point I darn near punched him in his nose.

Good thing I love that man.