I am officially at the point in my life where going anywhere to do anything that is not accompanied by my children or husband is a secret relief.  No matter what I am doing, it seems that someone wants to take my peace and quiet away. I can’t even take a shit without several people walking in and asking nonsensical questions. If I do lock the doorknob, my toddler slips his cute little fingers under the door, giving me the two-minute warning. You know the one, “get your ass out of there or we are going to burn the house down around you.”

I recently had the pleasure of going to the gynecologist. It was time for my annual and I was excited for this anticipated quiet break.  Most women may hate going to the gynecologist, but I welcome the invasive experience because it is the only doctor’s appointment that my husband agrees the kids shouldn’t be a part of.  With three kids, a full-time job, husband, and a house sucking the life out of me, getting a 15 minute vaginal probing is a nice relaxing alternative. My last visit began rather unassuming. The waiting room was empty. It was calm. I sipped on my Starbucks and read a ridiculous article about 10 ways to make your husband happy. I scoffed softly as I read about the importance of not keeping score in marriage, and why it’s “ok” to admit you’re wrong. Amused, I was escorted back into the examination room. A pleasant nurse greeted me and began to ask the same questions you get each year at you visit. You know the questions, the ones you lie about. “How many alcoholic drinks do you consume in a week?” “How often do you do a self-breast exam? How many rocks of crack do you smoke to calm your nerves after a day of hell with your three beautiful blessings?”  I was given my trendy paper gown to slip into and laid back on the table.

It was so quiet. I closed my eyes to rest, but in walks Dr. Soft hands. We call him this because his hands are as smooth as velvet. How physically taxing could eyeing a vagina be? It’s not manual labor by any stretch.  We exchange pleasantries and he begins my breast exam. As he asks me to raise my arms above my head he begins to tell me about his kid failing math. He is in the middle of pulling my nipples like salt water taffy and I have to listen to why geometry is not his son’s strong suit. He then proceeds to tell me that he can feel all of my ribs and the lack of breast tissue. “Have you ever considered breast implants? He asks? Did he really just try to sell me a set of tits in the middle of my examination? I know my set is less than desirable, but as I tell me kids; “You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.” Plus, I don’t have eight thousand dollars to throw around on a sweet set of C’s. Believe me, I thought about it.

He continues to the main event.  As I await the cold kiss of the metal speculum he states the normal warnings. “This is going to be cold. You will feel some pressure.” Got it doc, this is not my first rodeo. As my legs are shooting a V for Victory and he is elbow deep in my uterus he naturally asks me, “Did you play sports in college?” I was taken aback to say the least. What the fuck did he just ask me? How on earth do you come up with this question in the middle of a pelvic exam? Was he asking if I played sports, or if my vagina played sports?

Was my vagina whispering to him? Was she telling him a secret? Seriously, what kind of doctor asks that in the middle of an exam? It’s not like he checking my tonsils, he has his fingers on my cervix.  I looked at him and said hesitantly, “Yes, I played soccer. Why?” He continues with, “I could tell.” What the fuck does that mean? Was my vagina communicating with him? Was she telling him all of my secrets from my college days? She did play a mean game of beer pong.  Was he some type of Vagina whisper? I should call the television network TLC and fill them in about this guy; he could have a new syndicated reality show, “The Vagina Whisperer.” I sat there in silence pondering what my vagina was trying to tell him. Seemingly my vagina was much like my mouth, unable to keep quiet. I should have known better, my nickname is the vault. I do have a hard time keeping secrets, apparently so does my vagina. The visit ended and I got dressed. That was the last time Dr. Softhands saw my flattened tits or had a conversation with my vagina.


This past weekend I attended a family gathering that we have hosted for the past nine years. We live in a small town with a R.V. park that has an annual Halloween fest. Each year will haul the trailer out to the site and drink, eat, and camp until we pass out. Four years ago it turned into a birthday party for my youngest son because it fell on his birthday. This year I was getting the kids ready for the weekend asking what they were going to be for Halloween. My daughter, Queen Elsa from Frozen, my youngest, Batman, and my oldest, Captain Underpants. If you do not know who Captain Underpants is, let me fill you in. Captain Underpants is a book series where a middle school boy creates an alter ego who is a super hero character. This character wears nothing but a red cape and a pair of tighty whitey’s.  I thought about this for a minute before I responded. “So let me get this straight, you want to walk around a trailer park full of people in a red cape and underwear?”  He plainly stated “Yes.”

The party began and the park began to fill up. I was running around making sure all the food was ready and the coolers stocked with drinks. The kids begin to pour into our site dressed as pirates, super heroes, princesses, and vampires. I turned around just in time to see my eight year old open the camper door and walk into the middle of the lot in his red cape, underwear, and sneakers. He had no shame. He looked as though he was born to do this. I couldn’t believe how brave he was. I never thought I would be so proud of my son while he was standing in the middle of a crowd beaming with pride dressed only in his underwear.

Later that evening the Halloween festivities began. At dark we began to venture through the campsite trick or treating at each camper. The thought of how proud of him still stuck in my head.  We saw a ton of cute costumes, tiny doctors, robots, Star Wars characters, and much more. It wasn’t until I saw some of the adults in costume that I realized that there is a thin line between brave and what the hell were you thinking.

While trick or treating we came across a roughly 35-year old mom in a full onesie cheetah suite, complete with tail and ears. To say the suite hugged every curve like racecar tires on the speedway of the Daytona 500 would be an understatement. The outfit simply accompanied by a pair of clear wedge heels and whiskers. What on earth made this woman think that this was a good idea? Where were her friends when she suited up? Why didn’t someone intervene and fill her in? I’m sure her thought was sexy jungle cat, but it looked like a feline fiasco.  Onesies are not a good look, specifically due to the fact that they are in the adult clothing section at every Wal-Mart. Shame on you Wal-Mart, for making this woman think this was a good idea.

Later we ran into a bad cop in her mid-fifties. She should have been issued a citation for showing excessive cheek-age.  The scene continued with a slew of sexy vampires who made me wish I was wearing garlic deodorant and several attempts at animal costumes gone wrong. Why do people try to make animals sexy? Have you ever heard a guy tell you he thought his cat was super-hot? If so, please run. What makes you think a kitty cat would be so sexy? I’ve seen my in-laws cat eat its own shit out of the litter box.

Why do people think that they can turn any idea into a sexy Halloween costume? At 34 and a mother of three my breasts do not sit where they once did, nor do my ass cheeks.  It is my duty to keep my deflated milk jugs covered and away from the moon light on all Hallows Eve. Ass less chaps are reserved for strippers and porno films; please do not break them out on Halloween, there are no suitable excuses for that.

So with that being said, I digress. Think twice about your costume choice and get a second opinion before you trick or treat this year. Brave at eight looks a lot different from what the hell were you thinking at middle-aged.


This may sound strange, but your husband might be a genius. How do I know this you might ask? Well, my husband is so smart that he knows what I need even before I do. Let me give you a few examples…

Last week I walked in from the grocery store with my three blessings. Unbeknownst to me, I had dog crap on the bottom of my shoe, which I proceeded to track through the entire house.  I look down at my shirt and realize that I have some type of bodily fluid smeared across my clothes, the most likely culprit being my 5 year olds runny nose. I am certain everyone at Publix noticed; however they are so nice there that they didn’t even mention it.  As I carried in the last of the groceries, exhausted from my day, my loving husband in his infinite wisdom brings me a gift. Yes, a gift! He leans over and softly whispers in my ear,” I know what will make you feel better, some of this hot loving”, as he grabs my tired and beaten down butt cheek.

It was like one of those Oprah “Ah Ha” moments. The Heavens opened up, angels were singing, and the realization hit me. He was right. All I could think about all day while I was working, cooking, doing laundry, chasing and hog tying naked children, and cleaning dog crap off the floor was “Man, I got to get some of that sweet loving.” I mean, I was baffled as to how I could make it through the day without showing up at his office and throwing him down on his desk? My Mensa candidate had it right.  Seriously, ladies don’t you find yourself drooling mid-day about the delight that awaits you at home in the evening hours? Do you ask yourself, “Why can’t I get more of this?” Or “I should be paying for this, how on earth does he let me have this for free?”  I hope other women don’t find out and start beating down the door. I will have to start taking kick boxing classes on top of all the other shit I do every day just to keep my man safe from shady hoes.

Example number two. I was in the middle of making dinner the other night. Pots and pans are sizzling, and water is boiling over. I can’t find the last feaking egg that I know was in the fridge 10 minutes ago, and if you know me, the oven is smoking. I’ve got one kid jumping from one couch cushion to the next. Then, my daughter comes out of her room wearing a skirt, no shirt, socks, and a pair of Cinderella’s dress up heels, or what we affectionately call “stripper shoes”. I ask her “why no shirt?” She dramatically tells me “the boys don’t have to wear shirts, so I don’t either”. I gently explain to her that nice girls cover their nipples, because “you aren’t supposed to give it away for free.”  Next thing I know I hear a terrifying scream and several f-bombs coming from the bathroom. I run in and see my three year old coved in poop, head to toe. As I peered in on this fiasco I see my husband throw up his hands and say, “I’m out”. At that moment in time my Einstein of a husband knew that I wanted to drop everything that I was doing at that minute and Lysol wipe the crap off of my three year old. The feces was not only on the bottom his feet, his hands, legs, butt, and back, but he had somehow managed to get poop under the toilet seat. When I asked my husband, owner and C.E.O. of The Brain Trust how he knew I wanted to take care of that situation, he so eloquently told me,” Honey, I know how you like the bathroom to be clean so I knew you would want to do this”. As I stood there washing the doo doo off my hands I realized, this man is a fucking Genius.


Often I will have friends ask me if they should have a third child. If they haven’t heard the story of my third at this point I fill them in. The Christmas holiday of 2009 was crazy. It was my daughters first Christmas. She was adorable, 10 months old, and my son a super excited almost three year old big boy. To say I played a demanding role in my family would be an understatement. Everyone comes to me with their issues and complaints. They are often disappointed due to the fact that I give them a sarcastic comment and shove them along their way. But this year I decided to go to my family physician and tell him about my woes. I was burned out, overwhelmed and on top of that training for a half marathon. He offered me a short term solution of “Happy Pills.” I wasn’t convinced, but I filled the prescription and went on my way. December was blissful. I was calm, relaxed, and had my head above water. My husband and I had been discussing our family and we had one boy and one girl. We were all set. I called the OBGYN to schedule an apt. for a tubal ligation. My kids were well behaved at all family functions and I felt like a rock star mom and wife. We made it through the holiday unscathed. I kept thinking to myself “This Bitch has it going on!” By January I decided to stop taking the “Happy Pills”. They seemed to be detrimental in the bedroom, and I ain’t having none of that. I started planning my daughter first birthday. It was a blast. The whole family got together. Later that month my husband and I had a date night. We hit up Outback. It was so nice to be out and away from it all. When the bartender asked, “ 2 for 1?” I exclaimed “YES!” It wasn’t really a question was it? I am away from my kids. Looking hot, all dressed up and ready to go. I will never forget this night. We ate, drank, and got home and “went downtown” if you know what I mean.  January led to February and life was flying by at a mile a minute. Work, kids, life was crazy. I had my OBGYN apt the week of Valentine’s Day. How romantic, “May I check your cervix?” Another question that I deem rhetorical, much like 2 for 1 drink’s.  Same old routine; pee in this cup. Sit in this room. Get naked, put on this paper towel gown and try not to look awkward while lying back with your ankle’s by your ears.  I began to explain to my doctor that I was done having children and ready to have a tubal. At that point the nurse came in a looked at the doctor. I looked at them both and he said one word, “Congratulations!”.  I replied, “What? Congratulations on what?” I thought to myself did I win a free pap smear? He continued, “Congratulations, you’re pregnant.” I sat there stunned and sedated, much like deer caught in the sightline of the hunter. Frozen.  Pregnant? No. But yes. It was true. I now had to take this information home to my husband. It went over like a fart in Church. I’m pretty sure at one point he said no. I began to cry, and cry I did for about three months. That skinny Bitch that had it all together was fading away. I began to realize that I would have two children in diapers. WTF. But I digress. The third blessing arrived in October. I never got to run that half marathon, and my life is constantly crazy. I did run like a Cheetah six weeks after he was born to finally get that tubal. So in response to, “Should I have a third child?” I say “Do whatever you want; I have too much shit to do then to sit here and listen to your problems.”

As a mother of three young children, this question pops into my mind on a daily basis. “Why do my children hate me?”  How can my sweet beautiful curly haired five year old turn into Dr. Jeckel in less than 30 seconds? Why does she think I am trying to kill her when I put her socks and shoes on in the morning before school? Why does she think the morning routine is a diabolical plan?


You wake up before dawn to wake them with a good morning song and it is almost a guarantee that one of the three will be in a bad mood. My favorite is when one wakes up with a contagious attitude. My daughter threw herself to the ground when I gave her socks and shoes; mind you the shoes were not filled with venomous jungle snakes, just regular pink sparkly sketchers.


Not five minutes later my youngest son is throwing muffins at my oldest telling him he is a smelly butthead.  I plead with them daily to at least take turns being assholes, but to no avail. We can’t go five minutes without a fight, a tantrum, or a physical altercation. I sometimes ponder selling tickets to the event; it’s like fight club for toddlers.


Why do they hate me? Is it because I cook, clean, wipes their asses? I beg of you to fill me in. Do I not give enough hugs? I am know to be a bit stingy in the hug department.  Is it the dripping sarcasm as I check homework? Please…fill me in. I won’t make it through their high school years if I have to be an on call referee between these three miniature angry trolls. Don’t get me wrong. I will always love them, but for the love of all things holy, tell me why you hate me! Explain why at four years old you refuse to learn to wipe your own ass? I don’t ask you to help me out when I’m done in the bathroom. “Mom, I’m done…..Come wipe my BUTT!”


Seriously, leave me the hell alone.  You would think that three small people with the same DNA would be able to find one common bond, but no. The only commonality is that they hate each other and conspire and plan their attacks on me.  I bet they fall asleep each night thinking about the ways they will torture me the next day. “Let’s pee all around the toilet and never make it in the bowl. No, I did that yesterday. I know… I’ll get up and yell and scream like I’m on fire because I don’t feel like getting dressed. No, wait I did that yesterday as well. Come on guys, I know we can find a new way piss her off until she sees red. Wait, I got it. We will all sit quietly until five minutes before dinner and then explode in a massive fight the second Dad walks in and start tearing up the house so he will ask Mom what she has been doing all day! Yes, that will do it.” So until I figure out why my children want me to run away, I will find joy in hiding in my bathroom for 7 minute breaks pretending to poop so I can have a few seconds of peace.