Motherhood Uncensored

Note to self: This is why they invented the Internet

My husband and I smartened up for this recent visit from the in-laws and scheduled a much needed date night. And a few fancy drinks and an Irish car bomb later, we found ourselves scrambling around our bedroom for lube using an iPhone as a flash light and doing our best not to wake the baby who still sleeps in our closet.

Now my my drawers are usually overflowing with lube since many companies so generously offer up samples for me to try and write about on my sex column.

But apparently after the tragic foyer oil slick incident of 2011 caused by a nosy toddler and a not-so-toddler proof bottle of lube, I must have tossed them all.

Of course, that didn't occur to us when we were stumbling around in the dark, which we continued to do for long enough that if we didn't originally need lube, we did, in fact, desperately need it now.

So the next day, after waking up to a bathroom counter full of random massage oils, a sex candle (who knew?), and my long lost diva cup, I was determined to never find myself in such a desperate predicament. My solution: I'd stop at the grocery store after my dentist appointment to pick up a few things, including a bottle of lube.

A brilliant idea, in theory, except I quickly discovered that my store keeps them behind a locked glass cabinet, along with other dangerous items. Like ovulation kits. And pregnancy tests.

Now given the rarity of such debaucherous date nights, I could have probably just gone home, ordered all sorts of various lubes online, and saved myself the embarrassment of having to ask the young, attractive pharmacy tech to open up the glass cabinet.

Because if there's anything that says "I'm having THE SEX!" it's lube. I suppose it could also say "I have a masturbation habit!" or "I had four kids and it's like the Sahara down there!"

But I was hell bent on getting my lube, damnit, so much so that I boldly asked him if he had the key to the cabinet.

He nodded and headed my direction.

And then I sort of freaked out.

Do I pretend like I know what I want? Or do I peruse the various offerings?

Do I offset my purchase by grabbing a few ovulation kits?

Should I say something funny?

Damn, that KY tastes like crap. Blech.

Is that the biggest bottle you have?

It took me 2 days to get that one off my thighs.

What? No watermelon? Bummer.

I hear this one's great for anal!

Instead, I just grabbed the big bottle of Astroglide, mumbled something like "This one is water-based, right?" and walked quickly away, not looking back.

You never look back.

Then I headed straight for the self check-out line.

I may have willingly given one person a bit of entertainment at my expense, but hell if I was going to give that pleasure to yet another one.

{photo via}

January 19, 2047

His phone went right to voice mail so I called his house and she answered.

She always answers.

"Oh hi! It's..."

She cut me off.

"Hey! Sorry, no, he's on a trip again..."

She kept talking but I got distracted by the kids screaming in the background.

The phone beeped a few times.

"Oh God! Kids! Why do they always grab it when I'm talking on it?"

I smiled.

"Anyway, he got the gift. It's amazing. And I know he meant to..."

I know, I know. Call to say "thanks," and "how much he loved it."

"Oh I know he's busy. Just glad it arrived safely," I told her, sighing.

She must have heard.

"If it's any consolation, he couldn't put it down. He had to bat the kids away from it."

I laughed.

"Oh good, well, you know, I was just cleaning out and I found it. Thought he'd get a kick out of it."

"Well, he really..."

Kids again.

"I'm sorry, I have to run, but when he's back I'll..."

I cut her off.

"Sure thing. Just tell him I love..." 

She hung up.

My phone buzzed.

"Can't believe u saved my Rockets blanket. Mayb u'll sing me a little Stars Shining, 4 old times sake? Heh."

I texted back.

"Check your voice mail, son. Happy Birthday."

He's 5 today, 35 tomorrow. Love you, Drewboo.

The things moms have to do for time alone

After declaring 2012 as "the year of me," I promptly started training for another half marathon, scheduled a much needed hair appointment, and showered.

Four kids, people.

I would have gotten a New Year's wax but the joint is closed for renovations.

The nerve.

After checking off all the relatively fun stuff off my list (yes, the wax is so good I consider it fun), that left the not-so-fun stuff, like finding a therapist, which, by the way, is so much more awesome thanks to the Internet because hellloooo online appointment booking system so I can type my "reasons for seeking therapeutic intervention" into the small comment box in 200 characters or less and not talk to a human.

And tracking down a dentist.

I actually used to work for a dentist in high school and college, so I've never really had to find one, so when my tooth broke a couple of years ago, I made the mistake of asking Google instead of a neighbor and ended up with a huge bill for cavities I may or may not have had. 

The real victims of motherhood: Your teeth.

So I've put off going back since then, using the lack of recommendations for a new dentist as my excuse. Except I got a few from my kids' dentist and accidentally lost them.

Twice.

Now compared to the other doctor appointments women have to endure, the dentist is really quite a treat when you think about it. You don't have to weigh yourself (or pee in a cup), you get to keep your clothes on, and the metal objects being stuck in you actually belong there.

Also, drugs. Legal ones!

However, it's not the first thing that comes to mind when you've got a free afternoon. But damnit, it's the year of me, and suddenly last Friday before the long weekend my tooth started making me feel really guilty, so much so that I had to go to the dentist at that exact moment, which isn't the easiest task since I didn't have a dentist.

And for some reason, dentists in Atlanta don't work on Friday. Even the sucky, money grubbing ones.

So instead, I sent my kids to the dentist with my husband and called to get her recommendation yet again, who, by some miracle happened to have an opening for me that day.

I might have been the first person in that office's history who was screaming "thank you!" on the phone when they offered to fit me in.

It turns out that my teeth are fine, for the most part (yay obsessive flossing habit), save the grinding which made them extra sensitive. And I found an amazing dentist who I'll be seeing for a few more visits.

Four kids, people.

But you know what that also means, right? Scheduled time alone. In a comfy chair. Maybe even asleep. With no children anywhere.

It's practically a spa day.

Who's responsible for the Beyonce' hospital debacle? We are.

When I heard that couples were blocked from seeing their babies in the NICU due to the birth of Beyonce' and Jay Z's baby girl Blue Ivy last week, I tried not to cringe, hoping that reports had been sensationalized by hasty post-partum attention seekers.

And indeed, a post on People's Celebrity Baby Blog included a statement from the hospital's executive director citing that no parents were kept from seeing their babies and that they hadn't paid some ridiculous amount of money to remodel the hospital wing.

But that's not what the New York Times had to say. According to reports from several families, cameras and windows were covered (a major security issue) and parents were lied to and separated from their babies, being told that if they left the NICU, they wouldn't be allowed back.

Whatever actually happened, it's clear that the Carters were attempting some level of privacy, which given their level of stardom is nearly impossible. The risk of other patients and hospital staff taking photos and selling them is probably high, though I would assume if discovered, those employees could be terminated for breaking confidentiality.

Unfortunately, their quest for normalcy cost parents on the same unit time with their babies.

Completely unfair. And yet, with deeper analysis, completely driven by our own culture. Perhaps even some of those same parents who were complaining.

When you and I pick up a rag mag, which by the way used to be National Enquirer and those other questionable publications that we'd roll our eyes at but now include the Peoples, US Weeklys, and the Life & Styles, we're fueling the fire.

The money we pay trickles down to the paparazzi who are paid to get the photo of Blue Ivy Carter.

Oh I'm guilty as charged, as I clamor to grab the latest of all these magazines during my mani-pedi visits and hair appointments, somehow justifying it since I'm not shelling out the $4.

I've watched E!, Access Hollywood, yes even TMZ. I've told myself that Entertainment Tonight is a more respectable.

It's Mary Hart for god sakes!

And I've read celebrity blogs, even the positive ones, flipping through slideshows of pictures of celebs, many of them with their children as they do nothing but walk to their car, push a grocery cart, and just try to go about their every day business like I do with my kids.

Just without a bunch of photographers screaming at me.

There's always been a celebrity fascination and I'm sure there always will. That will never change.

But we've gone from intrigued and curious to voracious and entitled, like we have a right to gorge on their personal business like we're eating at an Old Country Buffet.

Our admiration has turned to exploitation, and I just don't want anything to do with it, especially now that there are kids involved. 

So as we point a finger at the Carters, who clearly could have done a better job at balancing their own needs for privacy with the other patients at the hospital, let's take a look where the other finger should be aimed.

Next time I go to the hairdresser, I'll be reading something else. Maybe you should too.

Kids talk the darndest ways

I remember the first time my son said "orange," his longstanding favorite color. It wasn't really anything special, until my husband pointed out that it wasn't "aujun," the way he'd said it since he could talk.

Unlike Quinlan, who we dutifully corrected like some ridiculous parenting book told us to do so she'd speak properly and not require a private tutor and years of therapy, we just let it go.

We even committed the cardinal sin and called it that ourselves.

Oh shush, you do it too.

One of my own fondest childhood memories is recalling all the crazy shit my brother would call things; I still call helicopters "hoppo poppos," although, unfortunately, he does not.

These days, the funny words are fading fast, with Margot (and soon Bridget) keeping the dream alive, doing things "mybyself" and asking to read "The Turfin Tollboth" at bedtime.

And, like Drew, she begs us for some "beef turkey" after my monthly shopping trips to Trader Joe's.

I still correct Quinlan's "brung," "getted," and "more better," but I can't help but let the kiddisms run their course, as they always seem to do, often unnoticed.

To me they are the last bastion of my babies' childhood, the reminders that my kids are still kids, like LEGO pockmarks on my ass and crushed Cheerios under my feet on the kitchen floor, oddly comforting when I know full well it will be over soon enough. 

So beef turkey it is.

And beef turkey it always shall be.

So, tell me the funny things your kids say or used to say. Then do yourself a favor and go write them down.