Motherhood Uncensored

It's all in the numbers

Maybe it's a suburban thing, but a day doesn't go by where I don't see people driving around with one of those "13.1" or "26.2" stickers on their car.

In theory, they don't really bother me. I've run a couple of half-marathons myself, and while I don't feel compelled to tell everyone that with a somewhat cryptic sticker on my car, I understand the pride that goes with that accomplishment.

But after seeing one that said "70.3" yesterday (which what is that exactly - a run, a bike ride, the grade you got on your freshman biology exam?), I think they're getting a little less "Yay me! I ran a really long time and may have shit my pants and walked a lot but I can now officially put this great sticker on my car!" and more like "When you were sitting around sucking down a Venti Whole Milk Caramel Macchiato, I ran a lot you lazyass."

Or maybe that's just me.

Either way, I'm officially sick of them. And really, what greater accomplishment is there than having a kid?

So I've decided to start a line of my very own, just for moms:

This week has been brought to you by the letter "H"

Here's what I've been up to this week:

*How to prevent colds in kids (the bane of my existence)

*Homeschool handwriting assistance from Lightning McQueen

*Helping a husband convince his wife to have a threesome (or not)

(I talked about it on my sex podcast too)

*How You're Using It (aka why I (and many of you) love Google Docs)

What's new with you?

Bridget - 11 months-ish (OMG she is such the 4th kid)

Coconut water - Nature's semen

A few months ago, I was at Whole Foods trying to figure out why graham crackers cost $4 when I spotted Coconut Water, the mystical beverage that I heard amazing things about (it gives you energy! kills your cold! adds a bra cup size!) and have watched, with curiosity, as women drink it, looking refreshed, happy, and very satisfied as it's going down.

So I figured, why shouldn't I reap the benefits of this tiny $3 beverage? Plus, it looks so tasty!

And so I, with much excitement, shook my bottle, ripped off the top, and slugged it.

And then I wanted to die.

I looked at the label. This couldn't be the delicious coconut water! It's sort of thick! And not very tasty!

At all.

But alas, it was indeed coconut water.

And so I decided that I'd much rather get my potassium from a banana. Hell, I'd take a banana in my ass rather than drink that shit.

Then last weekend, I was in Trader Joe's, feeling a bit vulnerable and overwhelmed by the chocolate-covered everything, wasabi peas, and hipsters with TOMS shoes and little baskets of food that I let the coconut water catch my eye, its promises of "rapid hydration" and "five times the potassium of a banana" entrancing me.

I must have thought it said "rapid orgasms" and "five times the pleasure of a banana-shaped body part" because I decided to give coconut water another chance, tossing a couple in my cart.

But not before inappropriately grilling the nice lady at the sample counter.

"So, does this still taste like, um, crap?" I asked, pointing to the bottle I shoved a couple of pigs in the blanket in my mouth.

"Pretty much," the lady replied, frankly. "Unless you chug it."

"Do you actually feel extra hydrated?" I asked her, still not believing her, then wondering what exactly being extra hydrated would feel like. I essentially just asked her if it makes you pee a lot.

Twitter has killed my social skills.

"Not really" she said. "But I already drink a lot of water."

"Sounds like I should just get the electrolyte water and call it a day," I replied, appreciating her honesty.

"Well, the mango is a little bit better," she said. "But yeah. Just go for the water."

Not willing to give up the idea of coconut water and its amazing, life-changing qualities (bladder control! perky nipples!) I grabbed a mango flavor and went on my way, popping it in my bag for my workout on Monday, anxious to see whether I'd be able to lift extra weights, or at least, not feel like I was going to die after the fourth set of abs. 

But alas, it still tasted sort of like ass. Well, mango-flavored ass.

And no, I did not feel extra hydrated, but rather like I had just sucked off a mango-flavored coconut that then did you know what in my mouth.

Yes apparently even when it comes to coconut jizz, I'm a swallower.

The I told you so list.

The older I get and the more I parent, I realize that my mom has the will power of a saint. Because there is no way in hell I will not remind my kids about the stupid, ridiculous crap they fight me about when they are older.

Begging your child for the 400th time to wipe the snot dripping out of his nose as he screams like you are trying to cut off his nose (and not wipe it) will do that to you.

Or maybe I was just the perfect child.

Ha.

Haha.

I can't really quite remember anything ridiculous that Quinlan did, though I do sometimes remind her about how horribly she used to sleep, mostly as early birth control.

Babies never sleep, so that's why you don't want to have them until you are at least 32.

I'm starting her young, as if my bad days aren't enough to make her not want to have kids.

"I want two kids," she told me the other day.

I take that as a compliment that I'm cock blocking her for a good 20 or so more years.

But Drew and Margot have both made up for what Quinlan was lacking in typical toddler and preschooler behavior.

Just look at those two

Take the time Drew just laid down right in the middle of the security line at the airport and wouldn't stop screaming.

Thank you, son, for letting me cross that off my list of parenting rites of passage. Also, if you're going to do that, make sure it's for a good reason. Like protesting pat downs or because mommy can't take her big bottle of Wodky past TSA. Not because you have to take your shoes off.

Margot is sweet as sugar pie until you piss her off, which I've yet to figure out exactly what that is -- the million dollar parenting question I imagine -- and then she just screams "no" at you, even when you're not really asking her opinion about something, all while attempting to beat you with whatever is in close proximity.

A piece of scrap paper? Not so bad. My flip flop? Dangerous business.

But really, neither of those things bother me as much as having to force my children to do regular, every day, completely harmless things.

Like blowing a nose. Or eating food.

Delicious not disgusting totally not poisoned ISWEARTOGOD food.

Or putting on a sock. A soft, clean, washed sock that will not eat your foot or cut it or make it disappear.

I PROMISE.

So, I'm keeping a list. A long "I told you so" list of crazy shit my children fought me about so that when they are chasing their own children around with a tissue or a sock or are trying to get them to eat delicious food, I can reference said list and remind them of their own insanity.

And laugh. Mightily.

That is until my smartypants children pull out a tape recorder of all the times I dropped the F-bomb and play back incriminating video of angry sippy cup spiking incident.

And then show me their blog.