My Kids.... Answering Questions.... About Me

     I tend not to jump on the Mommy bandwagon for things.... but for every thing there is a season. And it's my turn to jump. There is a Facebook post that's gone viral that has you ask your child/children questions about you as their Mom while you record their answers. Naturally, these answers are chocked full of adorableness and grossly inaccurate information. So it only made sense that I interviewed my own children (the ones that can talk, that is), because they are both adorable and grossly inaccurate on most days as it is. I asked them the questions separately and was amazed by some of their answers!

     Here is the post that left me giggling, complete with my kiddos' answers:

     Without any prompting, ask your child these questions and write down EXACTLY what they say. It's a great way to find out what they really think.

1) What is something mom always says to you?

Cameron (9-years-old)- "I love you."

Taylor- (7-years-old)- "I love you."

Isaac- (2 1/2-years-old)- "Keys."

2) What makes mom happy?

C- "Not lying."

T- "When we don't lie."

I- "Wyatt (the 1-year-old) and kisses!"

3) What makes mom sad?

C- "When I lie."

T- "When someone dies."

I- "Singing 'Jesus loves me'"

(huh.)

4) How does your mom make you laugh?

C- "She tickles my armpits."

T- "She tickles me!"

I- "Music."

5) What was your mom like as a child?

C- "Good?"

T- "A good girl."

I- "Little."

6) How old is your mom?

C- "23"

T- "32"

I- "2"

(The correct answer is 33 for anyone interested!)

7) How tall is your mom?

C- "5 feet."

T- "7 inches."

I- "1."

(Well, 5'6".... if you add Cam's and Tay's answers and then subtract Isaac's, they didn't do half bad!)

8) What is her favorite thing to do?

C- "Work with people."

T- "Play with us."

I- "Grass."

9) What does your mom do when you're not around?

C- "Pray."

T- "Work."

I- "Wear make-up."

10) If your mom becomes famous, what will it be for?

C- "Singing."

T- "Singing."

I- "Swim fast in a pool."

11)  What is your mom really good at?

C- "Singing."

T- "Painting nails."

I- "Making a mess."

12) What is your mom not very good at?

C- "Building a swing set."

T- "Cutting wood."

I- "I dunno."

13) What does your mom do for a job?

C- "Sings at church."

T- "Therapy."

I- "The store."

(Hmmm.)

14) What is your mom's favorite food?

C- "Veggie pizza."

T- "Salad."

I- "All of it."

(And Isaac wins this round!)

15) What makes you proud of your mom?

C- "That she adopted us." (oh. my. gosh.... the sweetness!!)

T- "That she takes me to the doctor."

I- "Proud."

16). If your mom were a character, who would she be?

C- "Dr. Seuss."

T- "Anna from Frozen."

I- "I want to go outside."

17) What do you and your mom do together?

C- "Clean my room."

T- "Take walks."

I- "Trains."

18) How are you and your mom the same?

C- "We live together."

T- "We have the same color eyes."

I- "Trains."

19) How are you and your mom different?

C- "She has long hair and I have short hair."

T- "She has curly hair and mine is straight."

I- "I wanna go outside!!"

20) How do you know your mom loves you?

C- "Because she adopted me!"

T- "She hugs me."

I- "Kisses."

21) What does your mom like most about your dad?

C- "He's handsome."

T- "His smooches!"

I- "His computer."

22) Where is your mom's favorite place to go?

C- "Church."

T- "Tosha's house."

I- "In a tree."

23) How old was your Mom when you were born?

C- "26"

T- "27"

I- "2"

     Ok, now tell me that wasn't adorable?? Please, please, do this with your children! It's so sweet and they loved answering the questions, even the toddler! This Mommy bandwagon was officially worth the jump.

When Your Sweet Baby Turns Into a German Tyrant

            Something happens to your baby when he turns one. It may be chemical, it may be hormonal, it may be possession…. But whatever it is, it has the power to change your once precious little lamb into a general from the Third Reich.

            How do I know this devastation to be true? Simple. I have a one-year-old. And for 364 days he was my shining joy, my prize, my little baby love. At day 365, the sweetness melted away and it was replaced by ear-piercing screams and aggression to the fullest degree. He punches, he pinches, he kicks, jabs, slaps, bites, and claws. It’s as if my baby has taken on the soul of a wild jaguar and he’s circling his prey (ME) before finally going in for the kill.

            When I go to the store, I see the stares. I see other people eyeing my bruises and noticing my scratched skin. They can’t ignore the drops of blood crusted around my previously bleeding nose nor the lump already forming on my skull where I was head-butted just minutes before. I know they wonder as they eye my husband with disdain. Little do they know that the real culprit is the angelic little cherub in the cart, chattering away and waving “bye-bye” at passersby, smiling a toothy grin and soaking up all the “Awww”s he can get. Yes. My abuser is 32” tall, has 6 teeth, and cannot walk independently.

It’s the perfect cover.

Prior to turning one, little man followed me from room to room, cooing at my feet as he investigated the floor, contents of cupboards, and whatever else happened to be within reach. His gentle exploration was always accompanied by sing-song tones and baby gurgles… the sounds that could make your ovaries ache with the sheer cuteness of it all.

And then there was his first birthday… it was the single moment, the terrifying fulcrum of change. Now, I live on pins and needles as I wrangle my little terror from room to room, him flailing and throwing himself back from my arms, me desperately trying to keep my child from requiring a cranial operation before he turns 2. If he wants up, it’s only until I pick him up and he realizes that he actually wants down. If he wants in a cupboard, it’s only to chuck its entire content across the room, followed by finger pinches in the drawer, climbing into the dishwasher, putting toy cars in the toilet, unrolling all of the toilet paper, growling at the vacuum cleaner, chewing on the computer cable, putting Cheerios down his diaper, biting the dog, pulling all things off the table via the corner of the table cloth, eating the puppy food, screaming because he’s angry, screaming because he’s tired, screaming because he’s hungry, because he’s teething, because he’s happy, or he’s itchy, or sick, or because the dog won’t play with him, or because he’s trying to make me lose my mind!

Gone are the days of watching my baby sleep peacefully in my arms. Gone are the cuddles and the precious baby coos. My child’s soothing baby chatter has taken on a harsh sound as he tries his tongue at new consonants. Now he just sounds German. Like a short, mean German baby, raising his hand to smite me down like a true tyrant. So I flinch. I flinch and I shudder when he raises his hand. I’ve learned that a finger to the eye hurts for hours, and a slap to the nose will bring me to my knees. But when I tell him “No!” in my firmest of tones, he replies with shrieks of laughter, finding my attempt at control simply hilarious.

One years old feels too young to start a disciplinary regime, but apparently my life depends on it. Desperate times call for desperate measures. But let me tell you, ladies, this little man is gooood. After he smacks me repeatedly, I put him down and give him a light tap on the hand as I muster a firm “No, no!” And then he produces the lip. That bottom portion of his mouth that causes him to look like the saddest most misunderstood baby ever to have lived. And it’s only seconds before the gut-wrenching tears stream from his horrified eyes and I’m forced to blow in his face to help him catch his breath.

How could I? Worst Mama of the Year awards flash through my mind. So, like any mother wanting to comfort her sweet little angel, I pick him up and pull him to my chest, whispering gentle shushes in his ear.

At which point he immediately stops crying and begins to giggle as he pinches my neck skin. It’s turned into some sort of twisted game and I’m forced to play because I’m the mama and the trainer of the children. It’s up to me to show him that there is a gentler way. A peaceful way. A way that doesn’t end in bloodshed (quite specifically, MINE!).

Yes. My sweet baby has turned into a German tyrant. And I love him to pieces. Here’s hoping that the Terrible Twos are a step up in the right direction.

The Disillusionment of Spanx

          I nearly lost my life getting into a pair of Spanx the other day. It’s true. I’d like to say it was a solitary trauma, but unfortunately there was a rematch during the removal process that I just can’t go into. As I laid there on my bed, trying to catch my breath and hold onto consciousness, I thought to myself,

         I cannot be the only one who thinks this is the stupidest thing ever invented by anyone… Ever.

            Honest to God, try as I may, I cannot think of a more ridiculous garment ever invented. And before everyone jumps on the corset band-wagon, let’s take just a moment to realize that women who wore corsets had an instant boob lift and tummy tuck, all in one piece of underwear. Yes, I recognize that they also had bruised/broken ribs and that they couldn’t eat or breathe, but there was a definite visual benefit to be had when wearing a corset.

            Now let’s look at Spanx. Even the word itself is moronic. I envision the makers of Spanx (all men, of course) sitting in their office, chairs arranged in a circle with a pair of the silly things on a table in the center of the group. All the men staring and staring until one particularly doofy gentleman called out, “Spanx! We’ll name them Spanx!” The other men spitting coffee out of their noses as they place bets on how many women would actually purchase something named

Spanx.

            Well, as it turns out, the doofy gentleman won the bet. Not only does every woman from here to Timbuktu own a pair, but we actually risk life and limb to wear something that sounds like a dominatrix tool. Unlike the corset-wearers of old, with their defined waists and ample bosoms,  Spanx-wearers end up looking like overstuffed, vertical uni-boobs from knee to neck. (I can hear the skinny girls now. All the Trish’s and the Bambi’s and the Lexi’s of the world are tweeting each other  selfies as we speak – displaying their perfect measurements and contemplating whether or not pants come in sizes smaller than 0….. P.S. Bambi, they don’t.)

However, for the rest of the ladies (the normal sized ladies on up), this is probably what you’re feeling after you’ve wrestled yourself into a pair of these suckers.

            And this is on a good day. Congratulations, you look like a stuffed sausage.

            And do we know why this is? Because when we look at ourselves in the mirror and see rolls of flab given to us by babies and too many nachos, we think to ourselves,

I wonder if there’s some kind of crazy contraption that will squish all of my insides into a long tube so that I can zip my pants instead of having to use a hair tie to secure them??

(Women who don’t understand that last comment can keep on moving ‘cause they just don’t even know how real the struggle is.) Then, not only do we actually purchase (with real, hard-earned money) a pair of these “miracle” undies, but we do a jig that can only be likened to the rain dance of the fat people as we try to get into them. We squirm, jump, suck in, pull up, tuck in, lay down, and twist ourselves into a sweaty mess, made even sweatier by the oh-so-breathable Spanx material.

            Again, the men sitting in a circle around the Spanx, calling out material options willy-nilly. “Syran wrap,” one says. “Fleece,” says another. Finally, Mr. Doofy comes to the rescue. “I know!! Nylon! Ha, these women will be so drenched after just one hour in their Spanx that they’ll lose 10 pounds and have to buy a smaller size! Ca-ching!!”

            And it’s not enough that you finally manage to get yourself into the crazy things. No, that’s just when the depression kicks in. Because, whereas you once had vivid dreams of magically turning into Marilyn Monroe when you finally weaseled your way into your garment, you now realize that you look more like this.

Great. Now your butt has moved to your upper back, and I’m guessing that your thighs have moved to your knees. Why? Because Spanx won’t make us skinny, ladies!!! They just move our fat to NEW LOCATIONS! So you can button your favorite pair of jeans, only now you need to wear a bra on your shoulder blades and go up at least two shirt sizes. Problem. Solved.

If you’re crazy enough to leave the house like this (and don’t worry, we’ve all been this crazy once or twice in our lives…. No judgment here), you’re probably wearing your nice jeans (with the hem let out to allow for your newly acquired double knees), big shirt, and two bras so that you can sweat your butt off as you paint the town red. What’s that, you say? Feeling dizzy are you? Oh, that’s just your organs encroaching on your lungs, slowly collapsing them with each inhale you take. You’ll be fine. You’ve got another three hours at least before you’ll need medical attention. Oh wait, what’s that now? You have to pee?

Once you’re finally back home, dehydrated and in need of an aspirator, you can finally get those dang Spanx off! Or can you? Because short of the Jaws of Life, those puppies aren’t coming off without taking some flesh with them. But at that point, you won’t even care. You just need to pee and breathe and eat and take your back-bra off, for the love of Moses!

So, you do what every panicked woman does in a moment like this. You reach for the scissors and literally cut yourself out of the precious Spanx that you’d dreamed would change your life.

But they did, didn’t they? You are walking away from this experience wiser thanyou once were. You are more accepting of your body. You are more willing to reconsider your exercise plan that perhaps was growing dusty next to the ab-roller you’d purchased that night you housed the entire gallon of ice cream before realizing it was gone. You do this so you never, ever have to go through the disillusionment of  Spanx again.

EVER.

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Birthday Eve

            May 12, 2014…. There I was, 216 months pregnant. Big and hormonal, sweaty and not giving any craps about anything, holding one baby on my hip and another in my gut, looking like the red-neck woman’s pregnant best friend. Even my toddler couldn’t believe I was still pregnant. He was supposed to have been here days ago, months really, if you take into account the size of my watermelon-esque mid-section. He wasn’t supposed to wait this long, get this big! How in the world is this even going to happen tomorrow? I mean, he has to be the size of an NFL linebacker by now. And, I don’t know much about labor and all, but I’m pretty sure linebackers don’t come out all that gracefully.

            I’m 100% terrified, to be honest. I’m one half terrified of him coming out, and the other half terrified that he’ll stay in…. Scratch that. Maybe it’s more like 40/60. Either way, there’s some serious fear going on. I keep crying. And then I puke a little. And then I double over for 45 -90 seconds, and then I cry some more. I haven’t slept in days.

          Literally. I mean, I have not slept. Here’s hoping the fourth night’s a charm? Although, I don’t see that happening with all cramping and puking and contracting and crying going on.

            But the doctor said we’re headed towards a c-section if this baby refuses to come on his own. For some reason, he just won’t drop. She’s worried about the cord. I’m worried about the cord. But the only thing I know to do is to walk. Well, waddle. I’m going to waddle a trench down my driveway if it’s the last thing I do. And since I think I’m dying, it very well may be the last thing I do.

            Waddle down the drive. Waddle up the drive. (Quick pee break while near the house.) Waddle down the drive. Waddle up the drive. (Another pee break. Rest ankles for a minute while I contract.) Waddle down the drive. Waddle up the drive. (Pee. I almost made it to the toilet, too. Wipe every sweaty inch of my body with a paper towel.) Waddle down the drive. Waddle half-way up the drive. Collapse in the drive. Contract for a minute. Roll around for a while because I’ve fallen and cannot get up. Cry. Decide I will deliver the baby at home, in the drive. Decide I don’t want the neighbors to see my vagina. Roll some more. A gust of wind and fairies help me up. Waddle up the drive. (Pee….dang. Not even close.) Decide to stay indoors where it’s safe.

            It was finally time to sleep. I was amazed that my husband could snore so loudly on a night like tonight. Didn’t he know that I was expecting any second? Wasn’t he worried at all? I laid awake, gripping my stop watch, fearing that if I let the contractions get too close together, we’d never make it to Pittsburgh in time. What if something went wrong on the drive down? Oh, no…. (this is where things started getting gross, so I’ll spare you the details, but apparently a woman’s body “rids itself of all things when baby is on his way”). I finished ridding and then took a shower to rid myself of the ridding remnants. And there was husband, still sawing logs with his chainsaw snout. But 3:30 a.m. was go time, and go we did.

            May 13, 2014…..I continued to rid myself the entire way to the hospital and throughout the endless hours of labor that followed. Since I had already been in labor for the three previous days, complete with regular contractions and all, I was basically a pro. I did my breaths, I spread my legs for every Tom, Dick, and Harry wearing a doctor’s coat, and I prayed for him to drop. But that’s when his heartbeat went away. And everything seemed to fade a bit. The pain grew small and the doctor’s grew quieter as the heartbeat in my ears thudded louder and louder.

            “I need you to flip, now,” said the nurse to a woman who hasn’t been able to roll over independently for at least two months. My husband, my nurse, and my momentous girth got me flipped in a colossal team effort. An effort we exerted every 15 minutes or so, each time we lost the heartbeat. We did this for hours. I couldn’t see straight anymore. Baby wouldn’t drop anymore. And the doctor’s couldn’t wait anymore. It was time.

            Thirty-minutes later, despite my horrible experience in the OR (something I don’t even want to allow myself to re-tell, just in case there are any pregnant mamas-to-be out there), he was here. Wyatt Patrick Costa had finally arrived. The poor little man had been twisted inside of me to the point that his head was stuck and unable to move down. I would still be pregnant to this day had my doctor not made that hard call for me.

            He was so big….so long! He looked like he needed a good steak. But since all I had to offer was milk, he settled for a liquid diet.

            I was so sick afterwards that I couldn’t hold him, couldn’t experience his skin on mine or take in his tiny little features or plant kisses on his long fingers. I’ve always felt sad - cheated that I missed out on the best moment of my life.

            But today, on the eve of my son’s first birthday, I realize that I didn’t miss out on the best moment of my life. Because every day with him is my new best moment. I constantly caress his soft skin as he’s cuddled up against my chest. And I admire those big, beautiful, brown eyes and memorize the heartwarming tone of his laughter day in and day out. And I have planted no less than a million kisses on those long fingers, tiny toes, and every other kissable inch of his perfect little frame. His conception was a miracle, his delivery was a miracle, and his smile reminds me that today is a miracle.

            I love you, Wyatt, with all my heart. Thank you for giving me a new best moment each and every day.

Let Me Tell Ya 'Bout The Birds And The Bees

     "Mommy, what is sex?"

     I don't know about you, but when I envisioned this question making it's way to our house, I didn't anticipate the words Mommy and sex to be in the same question! Seven years old has to be too early for this, right? Although, it's not like I live with my head in the sand. I knew the time was drawing near when someone in my house would pop the inevitable sex question.... I had just hoped it would be once they were done with bed wetting and all.
     But ready or not, the question was out there with nary a warning or hint of its coming. There I stood, innocently pushing the baby in his swing - Taylor on the swing next to us and Cameron playing in the dirt at our feet. And there it was. "Mommy, what is sex?" Taylor's Minnie Mouse voice echoed out. I think that even the baby choked on his thumb at that moment. Cameron's head popped up and he immediately stood to attention, quickly forgetting whatever muddy contraption he'd been constructing just moments before.
     I gasped out a few Ums and Hmmms and Wells.... enough to write a book on How NOT to answer the sex question to your children. Finally, I created a sentence.

     "So, where did you hear that word, Taylor?"
     "All the kids at school say it."
     Stupid public school with its stupid sex-talking first graders....
     "And..... um, what do they kids at school say about it?"
     "They say that people do sex all the time."
     Phew.... if she's still calling it "doing sex", she can't know that much, right?
     "And what else do they say about it?"
     "Um.... they say that you have to take your clothes off."
     Sweet Jesus.
   
     This is where Cameron, in all of his third grade knowledge, piped in.

     "Nah-uh, Taylor. You don't have to take all your clothes off, just your pants."
     Taylor looked at him with annoyance and back to me, the Queen of great answers.
     "Mom, you don't really have to take your pants off to do sex, do you?"
     Ok. Moment of truth. Tell my young children the anatomically-correct version of sex or.... make up a crazy story about people doing sex with their pants on and babies magically appearing in cribs 9 months later.
     "So here's the thing.... people.... adults.... when they're married.... they want to have babies, you see? And when they want to have babies, they do a thing called sex."
   
     I looked at them to see if this was enough to answer their questions, to see if I really had to go on or not. They stared back at me with confused eyes, eager for clarification.
     Rats.
   
     "Um, ok. And when the mom and dad have sex, that's how the mom gets pregnant and can have a baby. Do you get it?"
     "Mom," Taylor interjected. "Do they take their pants off?"
     Good grief.
     "Yes. They do take their pants off."
     "But not their underwear, right, Mom?" Cameron added with utter certainty that he was correct.
     "Actually, they do have to take their underwear off.... it's just how it has to work."
     Both kids stared at me with mouths hanging open, disgust creeping into their eyes.
     "But Mom.... you had a baby," Taylor said in shock.
     Oh no. Ooohhhh no.
     She literally whispered the next question, I kid you not.
     "Mom, did you take your underwear off with Daddy???"
   
     I could see now that our relationship was forever going to be changed. No matter which way I played this, she was right. I DID have a baby. Her beloved Daddy and I had done sex... pantless... in the very house where she rests her head at night. And every single time our bedroom door will close from this point forward, she will assume we are doing sex all over again.
     I started to feel very warm. And uncomfortable. Warm and uncomfortable.
   
     "Um, that's how it works. If you want to have a baby, you have to take your underwear off. I don't make the rules, it's just how it has to happen."
     "Do you have to take your shirts off, too?" I felt like Cameron was staring at me like I was no longer the Mother he'd grown to know and love.
     "Well.... sometimes. You don't have to, but sometimes people do take their shirts off."
   
     Taylor literally laughed out loud. She offered no explanation, just cracked up for a good 30 seconds.

     "What's so funny?" Cameron asked.
     Choking back hysterics, Taylor responded, "I was just thinking how funny Mom would look with a shirt on but no pants!"
     Cameron joined the laughter instantly.
     Hey, now! Am I seriously getting body-shamed by my 7- and 9-year-olds??
     "Guys, come on. Be serious here, would ya?"
   
     They took a moment to compose themselves while I continued to push Wyatt in his swing. I watched him with envy as he enjoyed the spring breeze without a care in the world - no one demanding answers from him or picturing him half-naked. He's a lucky little guy.

     "Is sex the same thing as humping?" Cameron asked.
     Oh my GOSH, it's hot out here! What are we doing, breaking the heat record for the month of May already??
     "Uh, yeah.... same basic concept. But please never say that word again. Ever. It's inappropriate and... just.... don't."
     "Do you get a baby every time you do sex?" Taylor questioned.
     "No. Then we would be China."
     "Then why do people do sex, since they won't always get a baby?"
     I can't even do this....
     "Um.... practice. They practice making babies."
     "Does it feel good?"
     And it just got 10% hotter. She is just on a roll today, isn't she?!? Deep breath, Mama, deep  breath.
     "Sometimes...."
     "Does it feel like when you have to sneeze and it finally comes out? Because that feels good, but when I can't sneeze, it doesn't feel good and I hate that."
     "YES! That's exactly right! Good way to think about it."
     Yes. I did allow my child to compare sex to sneezing.... I had had enough truth-telling for one day!
     
     A silence settled over us. My panic started to subside, the May weather seemed to take on a more refreshing temperature, and I no longer felt the need to pop a Xanax.

     "So, will I do sex someday, Mommy?"
     OH MY GOSH! HEART ATTACK!!! Someone please call for a medic.... I thought we were dooonnne!
     "One day you will get married and you and your husband will want to have babies.... then and only then will you.... do sex. OK??"
     Taylor looked at me with big eyes. I think she realized she'd hit a nerve. So she nodded her agreement and then went back to swinging.
     Cameron, who had remained silent (probably fearful of giving more wrong answers) ended the conversation with this beautiful gem....

     "Mom, I don't want to have kids when I grow up. So that means I don't have to do sex, right?"
     "Cameron, that's exactly right."
     He beamed happily at the praise.
     "Good... because I look really stupid without my pants on."

     Bless these children..... Bless them.