Is Reptile Fornication in the Old or New Testament?

In church this morning our pastor's sermon topic was sex. Check out 1 Corinthians 7 if you would like a little light reading of your own around the breakfast table with your kiddos. He warned us at the beginning that if we were squeamish about openly discussing sex in front of our children that we should suck it up and get over ourselves because it's important. (that's totally my paraphrase right there, but I specifically remember the word 'squeamish') To that I say, if you are indeed faint of heart about this subject, just send your kids to our house, and we can explain everything!

You see, Pastor Bobby's sermon just happened to collide with another momentous event in the King-dom. Kid #1 found a box turtle in our alley last week and brought it home to be buddies with our turtle in resident, Sparky.  He excitedly told me all about his find (#1 did, not a talking reptile) and said, "it's another male just like Sparky! Go look!" As I proceeded to the courtyard to investigate the new critter, who incidentally brought our non-human eating and pooping population to an even ratio with the humans (wahhhh!!!), my hubs tried to convince the kids to name the thing Curtis. 

The instant I walked into our courtyard, I could see that Sparky and the new guy had already become acquainted (somewhat against "Curtis's" will) and were uh...working on building their little family. I returned to the house and reported that Curtis was a girl. Everyone wanted to know what made me the expert on turtle gender, and all I could say was that they were mating, and Sparky had the upper hand. Don't use the word "mating" as a euphemism unless you are hoping the extra 1.4 seconds it takes for you to say it and the kids to ask what it means will buy you enough time to change the subject. The three Kings ran out the door to witness this mating business for themselves, and the conversation went something like this:

#2: She's trying to flip Sparky over! Help him!

me: no no. He's fine. Let's just leave them alone and go inside.

#3: is he ok?

me: yup. He's having the time of his life. Can we go in now?

#1: so are they....

#3: are they what?

me: they're trying to make baby turtles. 

#2: are you SURE that's really a girl because it's eyes look just like Sparky's?

me: yup. pretty sure

#3: why are their tails stuck together like that?

You can only sweat so many bullets before they just start exploding is all I can say to you who are still reading at this point.

me: um....well...because to make a baby, the boy's penis goes inside the girl's vagina or whatever a girl turtle has, and that's currently what's going on here (all of this spewed off my tongue at the speed of light, by the way)

#2: so they're married? 

Thank you, Pastor Bobby. My children have been paying attention in church :)

#3: but what if it is a boy and those are two penises?

me: then we are about to have more issues to deal with than baby turtles. Who wants ice cream?!

In the end, Curtis was christened Shelly, and my 8 year old daughter informed me that telling her all that information was not age-appropriate. Daily now the children inspect the yard for eggs and tell everyone they can that we have married turtles who are about to have babies. Those things dang well better reproduce because if not, then I will have to explain how more often than not sex is recreational rather than procreational. Before we have that talk, I may have start drinking heavily, and then we may as well find another church altogether that condones alcoholism in mothers. Bobby, I think I have next week's sermon topic picked out for you!

My career in politics

The hubs and I awoke at 4 a.m. to catch a flight to Washington, D.C.  We staggered into the airport half awake only to learn we have a delay. So here we sit, too paranoid to fall asleep for fear we won't be able to answer truthfully when the ticket agent asks us if our bags have been left unsupervised. On the other hand, the other bleary-eyed passengers don't appear in any shape to sabotage luggage at this hour. 

Rather than sleep, I'm pondering my itenerary, which includes tours of the Capitol building, the Library of Congress, and the Kennedy Center, and am considering how similar my job as a nursery school teacher is to working in politics. My two year old charges are self-centered, needy and require constant attention. Sound familiar? They also get themselves into messes where I must be the clean up crew and smoother of ruffled feathers. While it's true the media has not investigated hitting, biting, or toy stealing on my watch, the blood-curdling screams of many a tantrum have drawn the attention of my supervisors and other teachers making sure all is well in my room. Much like a political aid or advisor, I do my my charges' dirty work all day long and redirect their speech as they engage in constant debate. And similarly to congress, my littles talk endlessly, although half of what they makes no sense at all. Above all, our government and I share the same strict policy of never negotiating with terrorists. You don't think two year olds are terrorists? Have one of your own or sit in a room with eight of them for six hours. Not only will you change your mind, but you might even vote for me based upon my vast experience if I ever run for public office!

If I make it to Washington today, perhaps I should take my résumé to the Capitol. I mean, I'm already doing basically the same thing but in shabby clothes and driving a mom mobile. Why wouldn't I want to upgrade my wardrobe and my ride? On second thought, there is one major difference in dealing with toddlers rather than and politicians. I am considerably bigger than my little darlings, and when they go in the wrong direction, I just pick them up and move them. I'd like to see Cassandra Butts or Jack Darin hoist President Obama over their shoulders and walk him to the playground. While you picture that, I have a plane to board. 

Some days motherhood is just stupid

If you think my title is harsh, I can only assume you aren't a mom. The rest of you who are still reading know what it's like to have your favorite chochki shattered by little hands, have an audience while you're trying to use the bathroom, or bolt out of bed at 3 am to the sounds of a child vomiting. Most likely, as a mom, you know all of the above...maybe even on the same day. See? Stupid!

Currently I have raw fingertips where I have been picking superglue off of them for two days. The reason? Kid 2's hair got tangled in a plate hanger on the wall (I don't know how or why) and the keepsake plate with kid 1's footprint became a victim of the tile floor. Now as I cleaned up the pieces, 1 was prepared to help me throw them away until he realized it was his rather than #3's plate. So we saved every last shard, and after three tubes of glue and two days of work, his footprint is recognizable once again. Mostly. Stupid! My sweet friend suggested I borrow a kid that age and remake the plate with the imposter print. No one would be the wiser. She's a genius, and this is why we're friends! 

Not only have I spent my weekend gluing my fingers together, but I'm going to be constipated until the last kid goes to college. Yes, I went there. Why? Because The second I walk into a bathroom and shut the door, a kid pops in to see what I'm doing. Apparently children have it in their heads that moms are having secret bathroom parties, and they are missing all the fun. Why doesn't anyone ever barge in on daddies on toilets? We recently replaced a broken bathroom lock, and I had high hopes of going alone for a change and perhaps completing well, you know. HAD high hopes. I used to avoid using that bathroom because I never knew when my son would walk in with half the boys in the neighborhood to ask if they could have a lemonade stand. The new lock is no help whatsoever though. The two oldest kids try to beat each other's lock-picking records all the time. The girl is up to 2 seconds flat with her thumbnail. Indoor locks-stupid! A keyed deadbolt would have been a better choice. 

I could go on about the idiotic things mothers have to deal with, but I won't because one of my angels projectile spit toothpaste on the mirror and faucet handles, and my services are needed. 

I want to leave this on a sweet note rather than a complaint though. As moms also know, our job is a blessed gift, and we wouldn't wish it away for any amount of sleep or laundry-free days. I think. I'm envisioning what a week of 8 hours sleep, no tiny socks to match, and no one screaming "Mo-om" with that whiny tattle tale voice that makes us want to run away...sorry I digress. There is nothing more beautiful than the sound of your sweet baby's voice at any age saying "Mom, you're the best mom I ever had. I love you!" We endure all the stupid stuff for unbeatable moments of pure heaven. The good time refuel us for the next round of broken plates, blue spit all over the sink, and the next go round of bathroom humiliation. Happy parenting!

You Call It a Soapbox, I Call It a PSA

We all see the pics of people who go out in public (Walmart!) in totally unpresentable attire. I see it myself way too often. Sequined, backless night club top paired with workout leggings sporting the Nike logo on the calf, accessorized with house shoes. Yep. I saw that. I've seen a girl wearing what appeared to be her baby sister's hand-me-down t shirt and cut off shorts with a pregnant belly in between the two. Luckily, her boyfriend's hands covered the majority of her bare flesh as they walked through the store looking like a set of conjoined twins.  Some people seem to lack the shame that the rest of us have about our appearances.

Yet, there are many of you who are shocked by your fellow humans' audacity who are committing an equally, albeit immensely more subtle faux pas on a daily basis. Some of you are allowing your nose hair to protrude beyond the boundaries of the nostril. Quit it! Nose hairs are booger catchers, friends, and when you dangle your booger traps millimeters from your upper lip, along with the remnants of their catch of the day, you might as well eat the slimy little suckers. And when you hug or kiss another person, you are transferring your little green friends to the next person. It's gross! Don't share your snot!!!

I get it that hair grows all the time, and an occasional stray sneaks out no matter how well groomed you are. However, if your mustache originates from the nasal passage, you are painfully out of control. Some of you know it and just don't care. That's what I don't understand. Would you knowingly leave green stuff between your teeth or walk around with your zipper down? No? Well no one wants to see what's coming out of your beak either. Buy yourself a $3 pair of nose hair scissors and keep the snot follicles out of sight!

Thank you. That is all. 

Nailed It!

Lately I have become fascinated by the nail art on Pinterest. Wall art is great. Who wouldn't want to have an original masterpiece hanging where all who enter your home can admire its beauty? Well nail art is similar-It's like having ten tiny canvases on your hands for people to ooh and ah over any time you whip out your credit card or shake a hand. Even better than telling your house guests, "yes, it's a Picasso," is telling the cashier at the grocery store, "yep! I totally painted them myself!" At least in my mind it would be better. I neither own a masterpiece nor the ability to create stunning nail art.
My talented cousin posts her amazing creations like these

on her blog http://thenailinator.blogspot.com/, inspiring me to dress up my own blah fingertips. The problem with all the pics I see online is that I can't measure up! The clear coat smudges the design, and I have nicks before the polish ever dries. Does it ever dry?? No offense, Rach, but do you sit perfectly still all day long with your fingers spread so as not to damage your artwork? Or do you snap the pic as soon as you have them painted before the kids have a chance to need your attention? How long do they look like the photo?WHAT'S THE SECRET??? Also, I am not ambidextrous, so my right hand can never look presentable because I have to paint it with my left.

Here is another stunner The Nailinator created. I watched a tutorial on painting snowflakes and sort of came close this time although I don't want my hands to have to be too close to hers for fear mine would just shrivel up and fall off out of embarrassment: 

 I'm basically a walking disaster when it comes to nail polish, and I think whoever posted this on Pinterest might be my soul mate:

Frankly, I have a long history of nail failures. I bought a pen to create cool designs. Nope. It just bled all over my hand and the bathroom counter. Another time I was tapping a bottle of sparkly polish against my hand to mix it, and the neck broke off. Glass and silver glitter polish exploded all over the bathroom. The whole family was high on the fumes of nail polish remover for a week!
You may be wondering why I keep going to the trouble when I'm destined to make a mess and look silly. Well here goes, my name is Stephanie, and I'm a nail biter. It's true! I bite those suckers to bloody nubs sometimes, but if they are painted, I'm less likely to chomp down. Because I don't want to mess up the polish? No, because I don't want to walk around with red or blue paint chips stuck in my teeth!
I wonder if nail polish would be a biting deterrent for the Great Dane puppy we just got. I keep having to jump up and rescue various items from her teeth. I'd coat the entire interior of the house in "Cinne-man of My Dreams" (thank you OPI for your fun polish names) if it would save the furniture and kids' toys from being chewed up.
Anyway! I've forgotten what I was really going to say, and I have started nibbling on my pinky as I sit here trying to think. That means it's time to pick up the giant pup and go paint something! 

Another Episode of Raising Boys

Tonight the 5 yr old had a Christmas program at school, so being a good mom, I made him change out of holey jeans and a hand-me-down cartoon tee into nicer jeans (from the dirty pile, let's be honest) and polo shirt. I had asked big brother to pick out clothes for him while I was trying to finish another task, and bro chose a button down and a sweater vest. Seriously! Is it Easter already? The shirt and vest were purchased for kid #1, and they're practically brand new still because neither he nor #3 enjoy dressing up. I'm thinking Big thought he could torture Little by making him wear fancy duds. Yeah, he wasn't having it, and that was definitely not a battle I felt prepared to fight. Enter the polo compromise. 

When I was satisfied with his appearance-we had him wearing presentable clothes, smoothed his hair and wiped the crumbs off his chin- we loaded up with just enough time to run one errand, drop #2 off at gymnastics, and hunt for a seat in the crowded school cafetorium.  Now is a good time to include that I had just come in from work where we had pajama day (think preschool teacher. It's funnier if I was an investment banker, but to the other parents picking up at the grade school, any mom in her jammies at 3:30 is entertaining) and changed into jeans and actual shoes v. slippers. For some reason, this was the first time I had seen myself in a mirror all day, and I realized the messy bun I'd thrown my hair into before my 7 am shower was still right where I'd put it! We are THAT family! The mom dresses up by getting out of her pajamas, but since it's not Easter, she doesn't bother brushing her hair, and the kid is wearing pants fresh from the hamper. If my husband is reading this, he's A) completely mortified and deleting me as a Facebook friend B) printing this out to take to a marriage therapist.

So now that I've framed it out, back to the school program. The kid performing in his "clean" duds goes to car, lays on the garage floor and crawls under the car to get to his side. I lost it. Compared to some of the idiotic things I've witnessed in my raising of boys for the last decade, this is certainly small, but come on! Who DOES that?! I mean, if you're just going to belly crawl through filth, can't you do it before you get spiffed up? There's no time to change now, and since we had already scrounged in the dirty pile for nice clothes, it's not like we had a lot of options to fall back on anyway. 

God is good though. When I dropped the boy off in his class, the teacher was handing out cardboard Christmas trees for all the kids to wear. It covered his garage grime perfectly! But then I had the thought, it also would have covered cartoon screen print and holes in the knees. Oh well, I guess he can pull those out of the hamper and wear them tomorrow. 

Raising boys ain't a job for wimps

Living with boys means you never sit on a toilet in the dark. It also means searching for batteries that work will become your quest for the Holy Grail. (The old, useless variety are scattered everywhere) On the other hand, if you wish to find a Lego or a Matchbox car for any reason, you need only to close your eyes and take two steps in any direction for them to materialize right under your bare feet!
Being the mom of boys is a special role that not all mothers are called to, but those of us who are feel both blessed and driven to the brink of insanity by our little men. Trees and rooftops are extensions of their play yards, so we have to keep our eyes peeled and our prayers constant. They will swim for hours without taking a potty break, so we keep the chemicals in balance and our mouths closed in the water. Blood is a part of life, as are black eyes, ragged jeans, and the constant smell of armpit, gas, and halitosis. I assume some of these, at least the odors, will dissipate as interest in girls takes priority over hurdling fences, taking 10 second showers, and making your sister scream with your smelly emissions from whichever end may render them. Another fact of life for the boy mama is that at some point, a mom down the block will call for you to come pick up your precious child and drive him to the ER for stitches. Now the reason for having to have your son stitched back together could range anywhere from tripping over untied shoe laces (1st grade, 4 sutures on the forehead), to doing stunts over the sofa or in a swimming pool (age almost 3, 4 in the lip and age 4, 17 in the mouth and lip, respectively), to running with a metal pole to make sparks on the sidewalk and impaling self on said pole (two weeks ago, 10 sutures below knee cap). The boy in question is the reason John Frieda 4N Dark Brown is my "natural" hair color as opposed to stress-induced gray.

This was Monday when the pediatrician let him remove his own stitches with a scalpel and forceps. Doc really should have taken the sharp objects from his hands before jamming a swab in the boy's throat for a strep test because his natural response was to throw his arms up, narrowly missing cutting the doctor. That is why no mother would ever hand a scalpel to a 10 year old. Ever. You can go ahead and thank me now for not sharing the gory photos the child insisted I take at the ER for him to show his friends. I also refused to let him keep the bloody sock for show and tell.  I am however, willing to let him pick up the next hospital tab should he expose his insides to the outside ever again. 

If you are gifted by God with sons now or in the future, know that it's ok to hose them down outdoors as needed, they won't get sick from eating dog food, and if you end up in urgent care holding a bloody ice pack on your kid, you've got a friend in me. If your sweet little boy drops trow on the church's astro turf playground to relieve himself, well I've been there too, but I pretended he wasn't mine, so you're on your own. May God bless you in your role as super mom, and may He protect your wild ones with quick and tireless angels.