I'm Old. Blah.

I am old.  I turned 35 exactly 11 days ago.  Not that I'm counting.  The first time that 35 smacked me in the face was at my semi annual dental check up.  I was 35 and 3 days old.  The hygienist hit me up with a periodontal exam. At first I giggled.  "I've never had this test before.  This must be because I'm old right?"  She giggled.  Bitch.

When I was 35 and 8 days old, I discovered a bunion on my foot.  Yes, a bunion.  The world's most disgusting.word.ever.  I can't believe I'm even admitting to it.  I convinced myself that my feet were just getting skinnier.  And the bones were protruding.  When I was 35 and 9 days old, I glared at it.  I did this instead of reading books to the children.  I didn't even feed them.   Eh.  Who can eat when your mom has a bunion anyway?  At the end of 35 and 10 days old, I realized that I will be asking Lillian to rub my bunion.  For a quarter.  A whole quarter!   I'll just call her Rusty.  For this story's sake.  And I'll give Audrey Grady a quarter too.  See, I knew I wasn't wasting my time watching National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation over. and over. and over again.  I can finally put that knowledge to good use.  Now that I'm 35.  And 11 days old.  And know that it's acceptable to ask someone to rub your bunion for a quarter.  Because they do it in the movies.

My children have sucked the life out of my boobs.  And pooped it right out.  My boobs have gone right into the Diaper Genie II.  That bitch.  Some genie you are.

There are spider veins on my thighs.  My thighs and I?  We were just starting to get along.  And spiders?  We've always gotten along!  What have I ever done to you?  But let you live in my home.  And eat my pests.  Children included.  Now?  You suck.  I'm stamping out every single one of you.  From this day forward.  You can mark it in your calendar, 35 years and 11 days old.  Bitches.  I'd be happy to have a mosquito bite me in the boob right about now.  Who needs you Mrs. Spider!

My gray hair is multiplying like our children.  I used to blame it on Sean.  He rubs his head against mine while I'm sleeping at night.  I swear that he does.  Now I blame it on the children.  And my boobs.  And the spiders.  And the fact that I'm 35 and 11 days old.

So what do I love about 35?  I love that I don't care so much about what other people think of me.  I love my family.  I love my kids.  I love my husband.  I love my job.  Even if my bosses are constantly full of shit.  Whose aren't?  I love my home.  I love my life.  And...I love my butt.  Especially since I make an ass out of myself.  Every.single.day.  But who cares?  I'm 35.  And 11 days old.

Take that 35.

And the butt that I love so much.  Okay, so maybe it's not really mine.  But it's totally awesome right?

Camp Twistypants

That first wiggly tooth.  I couldn't help but check.  Every.day.  Before a single tooth was even wiggly.  But then one wiggled.  Finally.  And I got all wiggly inside.

Lil was going to lose her first tooth.  Three weeks after it first wiggled.

Lillian began teething at three months old.  At Camp Twistypants.  An annual camping tradition, with many beloved friends, on Labor Day weekend.  I can't tell you why it's call Camp Twistypants.  I'd have to kill you.  But I can tell you, pants get twisted.  And pants come off.   Lillian was conceived there.  So it was only fitting that her first tooth would erupt in that exact same spot.  On a 370 acre Christmas tree farm.  In a tent.

The night before her tooth fell out, I tried to pull it out.  I was that excited.  And so was she.

She climbed up into the bathroom sink.  "I'll be in charge of pulling out the tooth."  Grady told us.  I put him in charge of the camera instead.  This is what we got...

A big, black ass.

No idea who this guy is.

How does he keep getting back in?

I told her to jiggle it.  Front and back.  Side to side.   I suggested she twist it.   I tried to grasp it with toilet paper.  Clean, of course.  You never know in this house.  I yanked it with tweezers.  I fed her an apple.  I roped it with dental floss.  And pulled.  I squeezed her neck.  Hey, like I said, you never know.   She got mad.  Then I sat my big, black ass down.  And gave up.

 

 

 

The tooth fell out the next day.  At school.  Lil came home with it.  In a tiny, blue treasure chest.  Taped shut.  I warned her.  Do not untape the box.  Do not show it to your brothers.  Hide it.

 

Grady begged.  "Please tell me where you're going to put it!" 

 

Lil headed up the stairs.  She turned to me and said, "Mom, he looks like he's thinking of a plan to get it!  Look at his face!"

 

Grady found it.  Separated the treasure from its' chest.  And lost it.   I found it.  Lillian hid it again.  Dempsey found it.  And took his turn losing the tooth.

 

My mom, the infamous nanny, texted me that night.

 

Nanny  And did u have her rinse several times with warm salted water?

 

Me       No, you nut ball.

 

Nanny  That is what u r supposed to do...just like I did 4 u when u were little...u nut ball.

 

Moral of the story?  Pants get twisted.  Pants fall off.  Teeth get twisted.  Teeth fall out.  And without pants and teeth...we're all a little bit nutty.  At least that's what I keep telling myself.

 

 

 

 

 

If My Butt Were on Facebook, I'd Friend It

Grady got on our scale and watched as the digital zero ran across the screen.  The instant a real number showed up, he shouts, "I WIN!"  Me?...that stupid scale...when I step on it...it reads 'BUTT.'  And I'm not winning anything.

My butt and I, we've always battled.  I battle with lots of things.  Bedtimes, pop addictions, dirty fingernails, diapering squirmy kids, paci's, and whether I should have wine or beer.  Growing up and into my twenties,  I dreamed of skinny legs and a much, much, smaller rear view.  What I got was athletic legs and ample seating.  I aspired to find that perfect pair of jeans.  The ones that gently hugged my hips and hiney, but didn't gap at the waist.  No matter what I did, I'd turn around, and it was still following me.  My butt.  And it sure as hell wasn't getting any smaller.

These days, my butt and I, we're friends.  I use it to block the stroller from racing downhill while I'm readjusting my inline skates.  I fend Finn off from the kids' dropped candy.  I shut doors with it and sit on it to watch Lillian play soccer.  When the Jungle Book's, Bare Necessities plays on Pandora , Lil makes me crawl on all fours and bounce her around on it.  "Just like the bear does to the boy," she describes.

Kids love butts.  Lil and Grady like to show me theirs.  They want me to takes pictures of it.  They shove their butts in my face (and each others), sit on one another, and ask me to wipe it.  Dempsey's races aways when he's stolen the chocolate milk out of the hands of his brother or sister.

I've comes to terms with my butt.  We try to get along.  I dress it and sometimes it dresses me.  I put on a pair of pants. It says, 'I can't breath.'  I say, 'but you look cute.'  It says, 'I'm bustin' outta here.'  I say, 'I'm not going up a size.'  It says, 'size doesn't matter.'  I say, 'screw you.'

My butt.  It powers me up hills, pushing 75 pounds of stroller and kid, sometimes with one on my back.  It climbs the stairs, piggybacking one child, with another hanging down the front.  It moves Sean to the other side of the bed when I need more space.  Literally and figuratively.  It makes noise, but I can quiet it without it talking back.  It pushes a shovel full of snow in the winter and a wheelbarrow laden with mulch in the spring.  It's always behind me and always supportive.  It never leaves me. I can always depend on it to be there.

A great butt.  It's a terrible thing to waste.

If I made you laugh today...vote for me!  One click is all it takes.