of Ori and men...

Bras make Ori very angry.
He has figured out the shirt but the bra still illudes him.
He just keeps staring at it, my shirt lifted over his head crying "nah, nah, nah, nah!" and shaking his head - because that's how he says no and voices his disapproval.
My giggling only seems to heighten his anger...
Ori's tug-of-war with my shirt and anger with the unyielding bra has made me realize that men have a life long battle with gaining access to boobies...
They're always right there... and there is always something keeping them from getting them.
And then someone giggling at them when they fail.

We interupt our regularly scheduled program...

because I did my Sunday Outtakes post on Friday,
because I just had to share,
because I was bursting.

So instead I give you:

The Day the Zoloft Failed: pictures and commentary



Ori stole a piece of pizza off a tray when I wasn't looking. It was very cute, and so is his new pointing thing.


It took 15 minutes to convince Teijah to sit with the other children to have pizza and cake. He wanted to play instead. the last 7 of those 15 minutes were spent with me going to get him and then holding him in my lap until he got over it. No he didn't get a haircut, and yes, it was during this rucus that Ori stole the pizza.


Rowan E. hung out with A., her bestie from school. Yes, I realize the boys are in dire need of a spray tan... I don't know why they are so white.


Teijah "drove" a monster truck. After a few minutes he started to cry, despite his love of monster trucks. Apparently he's not a fan of hydrolics.

I lost each of the children at least 5 times, and regretted not bringing the stroller and losing my "free refills" cup. Oh yeah, and going, and bringing all the children.


I was thrilled to walk out of Chuck E. Cheese's and into a much colder, grayer day - but not as thrilled as I was to be home.


I watched Twilight {not my picture, duh.} and tried to recover from Chuck E. Cheese's aka Mommy Hell.


The boys..


.. played with the caulk gun, and I tried to get a picture of the children by the tree. Unfortunately Teijah is so white he causes a glare. *lol* so none of them were very good.


It also came to my attention that perhaps, I too am in need of a spray tan... and that until I'm done breast feeding my boobs really are going to absolutely encompass.. everything. *ugh* Soon they will take over... and I'll be some walking, talking, 5 foot 1 and three quarters, boob monster. *sighs*

Stupid Apple...

Crap.
That's right I said it.
Their are many "joys" of having little girls. There are the raw, unbridled emotions and the meltdowns that are a direct result of said emotions, the struggle to balance a sense of modesty while still teaching them to love, and be comfortable with their own bodies, the constant worrying about when the right time to buy the riffle um...
Then there are all the questions about all the uncomfortable topics, all the icky things that go on that you have to find someway to put in a happy, excited way, so your little girl doesn't start loathing the fact that she was born with indoor plumbing.
And then there are the things you don't plan for... or the things that I don't plan for like the sudden uncomfortableness to talk about certain topics.
Topics that were previously explained in great detail when she was obviously much to little to understand.
Topics that now seem taboo and too grown up for a little girl, my little girl, even though it's painfully obvious that her girlie hormones are starting to destroy her work their magic.
The questions come though she's not quite sure what she's getting at, but I'm smart enough to know eventually it will come to "IT": the mechanics questions. The ones I don't want to answer. My own knowledge of such things destroyed my outlook on life and also resulted in my brother inheriting all my George Micheal tapes... ew... he was singing about that!?! Thanks so much backyard neighbor boy, I could have gone on without that knowledge for years... so nice for you to enlighten me when I was five. Jerk. Misinformation by the way. Seriously, for an embarrassing amount of years I felt dirty and was worried that one day when I was big enough to get my period I'd be pregnant because we "played doctor" with our clothes on. Thanks to the only vaguely informative sex ed classes in elementary school I also thought I'd only get my period one day a month ... you know because they just say once a month... and they really don't get into the whole ovulation/fertilization thing.
Colour me embarrassed...
Moving on..
So the questions come.
3 year old Rowan E.{who wanted to have 10 babies btw}:
"Mom how does the baby come out?"
"Babies come out of your junk."
"Not out of MY junk!"
So I find a very unoffensive pencil drawing on the internet, I show her, she cries, I wasn't kidding, she never wants to have babies.
Recently the questions have been more egocentric, like she's trying to figure out her place, or figure "something" out but hasn't quite figured out the right questions to ask or what "it" is.
Things like:
"Why is my dad my dad but Hilary is the boys dad?"
"Because, I had you with your dad, and I had the boys with Hilary, duh"
What? I never claimed to be wholesome.
The newest and scariest question, scary because it's so close to the things I don't want to talk about:
"If you and my dad weren't married, than how did you have me?"
Thanks so much for that bags of worms sister dear.
Ah! Help! Seriously.
I realize I could have just answered by saying;
"You don't have to be married to have babies, but you should be married. And done with college. And 30."
And honestly I probably did at the time, but this question is so scary because of the "how"... it's so close to the actual question that I panicked. Normally such states of panic lead to ranting in Hilary's direction {he tends to pretend to listen} about how they should totally make age appropriate books on this subject matter, to save poor mommies like me the hassle of figuring out what is okay to say. Sometimes I go on to say that I would go ahead and write them myself, but of course I would feel "weird" attempting to be the authority on how to talk to children about sexuality and such.
So then I find myself at the library, and it hits me. "DUH... the library has books."
Yes, I'm a genius.
So if the library has books, maybe, just maybe they'll have something similar to what I want, something that will aid me in talking to my daughter who is on the cusp of pubescence about all things related to her girl parts; without having to look her in the eye. Much.
So I peruse the children's non-fiction section. Of course, I don't bother to ask the librarian for help or use the digital card catalog. Oh, the scandal. I eventually find the shelf dedicated to this taboo topic and look through the titles with the discomfort of the first time I had to buy my own tampons.
I giggle out loud at my silly anxiety and start skimming through the books
" I can do this I used to talk like a sailor, I'm comfortable speaking about all things genitalia related. In mixed company. Crudely even. This is going to be a breeze. I can do this!"
And then my mouth drops open.
"Holy descriptive diagram"
"Why don't they just put a big blinking sign that says 'Put penis here'!?"
Oops! My inner monologue totally became screaming rhetoric. In the children's section. So of course I look around quickly, praying no one heard me. I sigh and keep looking through the books each one worse than the one before it. I think that maybe there isn't anything here for me. Stupid library. Then I come across a book that looks kind of cartoon-y and has a bit of humor, which works for me, humor is my coping mechanism. So before I even get through half of the book I decide that it is definitely the one.



So, I check out. I pat myself on the back, I am a good parent. I'm doing what I should even if it makes me uncomfortable, even if I don't think she's ready or too young. I will do this, and I will make sure that while I read the book that I speak matter of factly, & be uber nonchalant so she thinks it's no big deal and is comfortable talking about these kind of things with me. I am super mom.

Then I get home and read the whole book. Everything seems good enough... until I get to the part that says "places penis in vagina" or something to that effect. Seriously, do I have to tell her that... really!?!? I really thought "special kind of touching adults do" was enough explanation on the mechanics for a six year old. I cringe, I sigh, I get over it. If it has to be done I'll do it. I certainly don't want a 9 year old boy fresh out of his first session of sex ed to misinform her the way I was. So I keep reading. Apparently the book also thinks that kids should know the definition of masturbation. Oh book, why must you torment me so? I find resolve in myself once again. These things are important. I want her to talk to me about things like this when they come up and she's old enough for me to worry about it. I have to do this.

So I put the book in my closet. That was a week ago.
Yes. I am a sissy.
But really it's more than that.
Reading that book... well it's like eve eating from the tree of knowledge - Once we go there there is no going back. That tiny bit of knowledge is going to put my baby girl on a whole different level. I won't go as far as saying that she will lose her innocence... but she kind of will. I can't imagine her hearing the word sex with out giggling, or cringing, or making some comment about how it is gross. I most certainly will have to be very careful not to speak so openly in front of her, as her blinders, her naivety will be gone. One conversation... the apple, and my little girl will be part of the grown up world with no way to go back to that happy garden of ignorance.
can you blame me for stalling?
Stupid apple.

Of pancakes and Funbags...

So if you follow me on twitter you know that my pancake making this morning led me to thinking about the future state of my boobs. I suppose giggling would be a better way to put it. Either way, the point of the matter is that after years of glorious, spectacular service the girls feel they have been abused {oddly by their purpose.. but whatever} and they aren't going to take it anymore. They will be saggy, lack substance, and need good push-up/cross back/ front snap bras... and of course only the best will do... otherwise they will {of course} look like I breast fed 3 kids {2 of them over a year} because they hate me.
And you know what? That's fine with me dear beastestes. I hate you too.
I can wait for you to shrink down to the B cup that I haven't seen since 5th grade.
Don't get me wrong. You were fun once... I guess, you were spectacular, so much so that I was okay with the fact you choked me when I laid down. We had a great run. And I'm thrilled that I used to flash people, go bra-less, and celebrate you and your bounty as much as possible when you were still amazing. But now? Not so much.
Now I think big boobs are just gross... you have indeed over stayed your welcome... swelling to the size and hardness of large cantaloupes, leaking all over my bed, dripping on my feet... spraying the baby in the eye {okay, okay, that was pretty funny} but I digress.
And I fantasize about the time when I'll be able to "tape" you down to my chest.. and see my feet... the marvelous era of the pancake boobs.