Jiggles and Giggles

Growing up, I was never completely comfortable with who I was or how I looked. I was never particularly popular and making friends was never an easy feat for me.

Something to do with that dreaded 'foot in mouth' disease which seemed to plague me from the moment I learned how to speak.

In the beginning, I was a short, stringy haired, not quite albino-looking child who tripped over her ginormous knobby knees. I then morphed into a tall, sickly thin teen with wasp bites for breasts while rocking a spiral hair-do and teased bangs. All the while wearing home made clothing my mother lovingly made for me, instead of the designer duds everyone else in my school rocked.

Nothing says "KICK ME" quite as loudly as a paisley purple ruffled shirt you mom lovingly made for your twelfth birthday.

My nicknames ranged from 'geek', 'loser', and 'pimple's arse' to the more creative 'Skinny Minny Miller' and my personal favorite, 'Tuna Faced Tanis.'

How I wish I could relive those junior high years. They really were the high light of my life. Heh.

Like most adults, I survived those trying years and grew up and out into the fabulous supermodel mom I am today. Mostly unscathed and slightly delusional, but hey, I survived.

With time, I grew into my body and my personality. I know who I am and for the most part, I like it. As long as I don't read the shrink's assessment of my personality too often.

I'm comfortable with who I am. I even like how I look most of the time, even if I do wish that my boobs didn't fall into my arm pits every time I lay down or tickle my belly button when I run around nekkid.

(You're jealous, aren't you?)

Heck, I gave birth to three nine pound bowling balls kids and once weighed over two hundred pounds. It stands to reason I'm gonna have a little jiggle with my giggles.

(I'd like to point out somewhat passive aggressively my husband isn't as good as he once was either. Without gestating live rodents in his belly.)

Do I wish I had rock hard abs and silky smooth thighs that could crack walnuts? Absolutely, just not enough to go to the gym. I've made peace with my body and befriended each and every dimple on my arse, the stray chin hairs that keep popping up and my unusually hairy toes.







I want my children to be comfortable within their own bodies and have the inner strength to survive their own teen-aged years of angst. I want them to be able to walk through the next few years of puberty-induced hell and come out forged stronger and better than before.

They'll need that strength to survive reading my posts about them and my hooters when they get older. Heh.

I want my children to know that no matter how their bodies look when they're adults, it's alright. Which is why, I've never made a big deal of nudity around our house. (The things I do for my children. I mean, I totally garden topless just so my kids will have healthy self-esteem.)

I want them to know there is nothing bad or disgusting about a human's naked body.

Unless of course, it's that old fat person in the public pool locker room who is wriggling out of a wet and too small swim suit in the middle of the aisle and wants you to hand them a towel thereby forcing you to make eye contact with said elder and searing their nekkid arse into a permanent imprint in your mind.

Totally uncool.

It's not like I wave my nudity around my children and prance around the house in the buff while screeching to Heart. (Not often, anyways.) As they grow older, I do have some tact. But if they wander into my room or the bathroom after I have a shower, I'm not going to cover up my girly bits either.

They're too pretty to be contained. Heh.

I've talked with my kids about their bodies and my body and bodies in general, wanting them to know that as long as one is healthy and has a body that works, one is blessed. All bodies are beautiful. Except for the above mentioned locker room person. Ugh.

Sure I may have a mole here or there, or a scar, or a stretch mark, but the sum of it all makes me unique and makes me beautiful. Not supermodel, million dollar smile beautiful, but well-adjusted and not needing to wear a paper bag over my head to go shopping beautiful.

I'll take it.

But as I stood in my closet the other day, wearing nothing but my skivvies and a bra, searching through mounds of unfolded yet clean laundry (my mother would be so ashamed), my kids wandered in to ask me a question.

I slipped on my jeans and told them it was not alright to see if my dog would fit in our dutch oven and grabbed my for my shirt. I noticed my children staring at me.

They were mesmerized by my beauty. I mean, who wouldn't be? Snort.

"What? Do I stink or something?"

Fric looks at my boobs and then down to her own invisible breasts and asked if her boobs would be like mine when she's older.

"I don't know, honey. Every woman's body is different; huge or small, they're all hooters," I told her honestly as I thought of my grandma's watermelon sized boobs.

"I'm not talking about how big they will be, Mom," she told me, sounding slightly annoyed. "I meant, will my boobs hang down like yours?"

Only if you're lucky, I thought to myself as I pulled on my top. "How bout you talk to me about the state of your breasts once you've had three angry little badgers gnaw on them and suck them dry?"

"Whatever," Fric said as she rolled her eyes. Poor thing. It must be hard to be saddled with me as her momma.

As I shooed the kids out of my closet, Frac, who up to this point had wisely kept his mouth shut, whispered to his sister in a voice loud enough to be heard across the country, "Fric, did you see how Mom's tummy jiggled every time she moved? Weird!"

Yes, I want my kids to be comfortable in their own bodies. To accept what ever nature throws their way and to celebrate their own individual beauty and uniqueness.

In order to achieve this, I'm going to counsel them to avoid any state of undress in front of their own children's prying eyes.

Nothing has sucked out my self-esteem (along with my youth and vitality) quite as quickly as my honest offspring.

It's the gift they just keep on giving.

Buggers.

My Apologies, I'm Whining

I'm suffering from some form of the plague.

The kind that sucks out all your energy and replaces it with copious amounts of snot to drip out your nasal cavities.

I don't have any kleenex. And I just discovered there is no more toilet paper other than the six sheets left on the roll in the main bathroom.

I may have to resort to wiping my boogers on my sleeve or stuffing tampons up my nostrils. With my luck though, the cotton will expand and shoot out my ears, thereby pushing out what little brains I have and leaving me a lifeless, snotty zombie who drools on the couch, tugging at the string hanging from her nose.

Good times.

Please excuse me today, while I look for surfaces to wipe my mucus on. I'm thinking my husband's pillow case looks mighty soft right now.

(There may be some slight passive aggressive tendencies I don't really want to explore too deeply in that last sentence. Must stem from him being healthy and alone, while I'm slowly and painfully dying from some unknown rare disease while single handedly being responsible for the survival of his children.)

I'll be back when my snot dries up. Or when I muster enough energy to drive to the store and beg the pharmacist to supply me with decongestants and kleenex. And maybe some buttwipe.

You never know when you are going to need more than six squares after all.

That's a scenario no one wants to live through.

Feel free to entertain yourselves in the comments. Better yet, join me in my woes. Whine. Tell me your troubles. I can't be the only gal out here in blogland whining, or at least wanting to whine. Spill it. What's your beef?

Or you could just send me pictures of yourselves. Preferably clothed. But beggars can't be choosers.

Boxers or Briefs, Bozo

I once (foolishly) believed that as my children got older, parenting would become easier.

I once also believed I would grow up looking like I belonged on the cover of a Victoria Secret's catalogue and thought butterflies were a glorified public transportation system for fairies.

It's no surprise (to anyone but me) that I have been known to be wrong every now and then.

Somehow in my head, I figured that once the kids were potty trained, could speak, and learned to read and write, my life as a mom would be a figurative cake walk. I assumed my demon offspring would always eat their vegetables, brush their teeth and do their homework with little prompting from me.

Because they are older. That's what big kids do, right?

BWHAHAHAAHAHA! Foolish girl.

Somehow, I forgot to figure into the equation something about the apple not falling far from the tree and realizing these are my children I was dreaming about.

I can hear my mother's maniacal cackles in my head as the curse of "I hope one day you have children exactly like YOU!" springs to fruition.

Damn.

Turns out parenting isn't really harder, it's just different. Instead of worry about potty training, I worry whether they've flushed the toilet, changed their underwear and remembered their toothbrushes aren't just colorful plastic decorations in the the bathroom for them to gaze upon.

I still have to force feed them brussel sprouts, bribe them with candy and politely request beg them to pick up their toys.

Nope, parenting hasn't gotten any easier.

I don't know why I had hoped that as they grow they would start worshipping the ground I walk on and revere my every spoken word. Chalk it up to delusional fantasies and the moonshine I brew out in the back shed.

Still, there are times when I wish they would take me seriously and listen to the wisdom I am trying to cram down their throats impart. Sometimes I really do know best.

Like when I tell my daughter that no matter how hard she tries, her baby fine hair will never look like Jessica Simpson's and if she spends any more time trying to fix it to look like the Chicken of the Sea Queen, she will miss the bus.

Guess what? She missed the bus. And she still sported a head full of stringy fly-away hair.

My darling lovelies don't listen to a damn word I say. My husband blames this charming characteristic on my habit of sarcasm and wit. He says I screw with them so often they never know what to believe.

He could be right.

Still, what fun would a mom have if she can't make sport with her minions? Heh.

This past week, the tables turned on my husband and for once, my children (or specifically my son) completely disregarded his expertise and advice.

I am still trying to contain my glee.

While sorting through the mountain of laundry whilst cheerily whistling and singing a peppy tune cussing like a sailor in heat, I noticed my lovely son had only deposited one pair of undies in more than ten days worth of dirty laundry.

Checking and rechecking the piles, I tried to block out the mental image of the fungus growing around my son's man bits and wondering how the hell to approach such a sensitive topic such as bottom drawer hygiene with a pubescent boy who refuses to even tell me if he needs toothpaste.

Fack it, I thought. I'm not paid enough to deal with this bomb. I chickened out and called my husband Boo. Let him deal with it. It's the least he can do since I take care of everything else.

Boo was as sensitive and tactful as I had hoped he would be, once I handed the phone over to my son to speak with his father. I could hear the bellowing echo through the phone lines half way across the house.

Good job Boo. Scare the poor kid into changing his shorts. Just so he can crap into them from fear. Thanks for the help. Arsehole.

Wandering back into the kitchen, I overheard my son's pitiful excuse for his lazy hygienic ways. Apparently, he's not wearing the right type of underwear. All the cool kids wear boxers and my poor son has been consigned to loserdom by wearing tighty-whiteys.







Tighty-whiteys with cartoon characters on them, no less. Oh, for shame. It seems my son has been towel-whipped and teased in the locker room a time or two for his Spidey shorts and now has taken it upon himself to just go commando.

Ugh.

My son wants to wear boxers like all the other boys. But instead of telling me this he has just been making skid marks in his pants. Man I love being a mom.

Handing the phone over to me with a puppy dog look on his face, Frac went to go pull on some gonch while I was left to talk with his father about the pleasantries of raising children. At this point, raising monkeys has to be easier, I teased Boo.

"I'll just buy him some boxers and be done with it," I cheerfully (and stupidly) told my man.

Wrong thing to say to the man who loves his shiny gold bikini briefs. (How's that for a mental image of my man?)

"NO. Boxer's ride up when you play sports. He'll get a wedgie and pinch his nuts. Boxer's aren't practical at his age. I explained this to him and he'll just have to deal with it." Boo was adamant.







Not sporting a wiener myself, I didn't really see the big deal. "How 'bout a compromise? After all, I bought Fric a bunch of bra's that she doesn't need because of self-esteem issues. I'll just buy the boy a few pair of boxers and tell him to wear them on days he doesn't have gym or soccer."

"Doesn't matter. He plays at recess and at home. His package will get bit. Best stick with the briefs if you want grandbabies," Boo commanded.

Since I'm always one to listen to my husband, I did what any good mother and wife would do. I went out and bought a couple pairs of new undies for my boy with the explicit instructions not to wear them if he is going to play sports.

You would have thought I hung the moon. It was official. I was the world's greatest mom and definitely Frac's favorite parent.

(Neener, neener Boo!)

And with that, ended the great underwear debate. Or so I thought.

Until my son played his usual Tuesday game of soccer.

I couldn't help but notice he wasn't really running that hard or that fast and he was kinda standing around. He was a decidedly poor mid-fielder, making very little contribution to his struggling team.

No matter how loud I kept yelling for him to "MOVE IT!" "DEFENSE!" "GO TO THE OUTSIDE!" "COVER YOUR MAN!" my son kinda just waddled around the field.

Getting more frustrated I yelled a bit louder. And with more frequency. Because ten year old boys totally dig when their momma's do that.

Frac, getting tired of trying to tune me out while not really move about on the field, finally had enough and stopped to face me and yell, "STOP PESTERING ME MOM!"

I, of course, am the picture of maturity and retorted, "I WOULD IF YOU WOULD STOP ACTING LIKE YOU HAD A PIANO TIED TO YOUR ARSE!"

Just then I noticed what he was doing.

He was digging his underwear out of his ass crack where it kept riding up when ever he ran.

Just like his dad said it would.

Heh.







For the rest of the game, Frac spent more time digging buried treasure out of his nether regions than he did chasing the ball. He's such a great soccer player.

Riding back home that night, I looked at Frac in the rear view mirror and asked him if perhaps his dad was right about boxer shorts.

"Maybe," he mumbled while trying to pretend I was invisible.

"Well, I guess you learned something tonight, right?" I said, thinking this was the opportune time to drive home the fact that sometimes parents really do know what they are yapping about.

"Ya, I guess," he grumbled.

Feeling like pushing my luck the point home, I asked, "And what is it you learned?"

"Next time, I'm calling Justin and riding with him. His mom isn't near as loud or annoying as you are out on the field."

Well, at least something was learned that night.

Sigh.