You Want to Ban WHAT?

We all have special causes that we support.  Things that we feel so strongly about that we send in money, or we take a pledge vowing to do something.  I took a pledge to never use the r-word and to teach my children to do the same.  I support my friend Drew and his mother and their efforts to support research to find a cure for childhood cancers.  There are hundreds of thousands of causes out there.  Most are very important and deserve more attention than they receive.  Others….not so much.

The newest “cause” sweeping the interwebs is this new effort to ban the b-word.  Nooooo, not bitch.  Bossy.  Yes, I said bossy.  Go ahead and roll your eyes and then come back to me.

According to, bossy is defined as  given to ordering people about; overly authoritative; domineering.  Sounds like my girls (and their friends, and my boys, and every other kid you come across) any day of the week.  

I get it, truly I do.  We need to empower our girls and help them to be confident and assertive.  We want them to be leaders and we want them to be strong.  We want them to succeed and achieve all the goals that they have set for themselves.

#banbossy has pulled out all the stops.  They’ve recruited Beyoncé and Jane Lynch.  Even Condoleeza Rice is on board for this.  All strong, confident, successful women.

Women I’m sure have all been called bossy a time or two and judging by their level of success, I’d be willing to bet the word fits.  You just cannot achieve all that these amazing women have achieved without ordering people about and being overly authoritative.  If you think otherwise, I’ve got three million dollars with your name on it.  All I need is your bank account number and social security number and I’ll deposit it into your account by tomorrow.

Beyoncé said it herself in this promotional video.  ”I’m not bossy. I’m the boss.”   Um….hello pot, kettle calling.   Boss (n): a person who makes decisions, exercises authority, dominates.  

How interesting.  We should not tell our girls that they are bossy (domineering), but instead they are the boss (one who dominates).  I’m no genius here, but something is a little off.

If you haven’t figured it out by now, I am not a big supporter of this cause.  It’s absolutely redonkadonk, so I thought I would put together a list of things that should be significantly more important than the drive to #banbossy.  (in no specific order)

  • Making sure my children are fed, clothed, and loved.
  • Feeding the homeless
  • Finding a cure for cancer and hundreds of other diseases.
  • Farmer Bob really needs some new work jeans.
  • Educating our kids to be respectful and kind to others.
  • The fact that I shaved my legs yesterday.
  • Atrocities around the world.
  • Will winter ever end?
  • Will my kids have math homework tonight?
  • I need to go grocery shopping.
  • Chin hair
  • Pharrell’s new album
  • Cleaning my toilets
  • Creating jobs
  • Helping those in need
  • Teaching our kids right from wrong
  • What should I cook for dinner tonight?
  • I really should call my mother today
  • Why does oil-pulling sound so gross?
  • How can these little people have so much gas?

The point is, what in the hell are we doing here?  There are so many other solutions to this *cough* problem.  Maybe we should just take a minute as parents and look in the mirror.  Our kids are our responsibility.  It is our job to teach them and to guide them.  We cannot wrap them in bubble wrap and expect them to emerge from their plastic cocoon as functioning adults.  I feel like Susan Powter “STOP the INSANITY!”

When I asked my eleven-year-old her thoughts on this, she looked at me with that look of “are you freaking kidding me?” and informed me that it’s dumb.  Her words, not mine.  She will openly admit that she is bossy and she has no problem with that.  Confidence….she has some.

So instead of trying to ban the word bossy, maybe we should focus more on instilling in our girls (and boys) the self-confidence that they need to succeed in life.  With self-confidence comes the ability to succeed.  It doesn’t matter if someone thinks you are bossy.  I bet Beyoncé would agree with that.

You Want to Ban WHAT?--You Know it Happens at Your House Too

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One Little Toy

She opened all her gifts with a smile upon her face. She was truly grateful and excited to wear the new clothes, and try on the new boots. To model the new earrings and slip into those new jammies. The pile at her feet consisted of most of the items on her list, yet I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was disappointed.

Why on earth would a child be disappointed on Christmas?  What did I do wrong?

Oh. My. God. It hit me like a ton of bricks and took the air from my lungs.

No toys. Not one. single. toy. Nothing for her to play with that came bearing her name.

Who doesn’t buy their child a toy for Christmas?

As I looked at her face, the one that appears to be older than its actual age, I held back the tears as I realized that I am the one that failed to buy their child a toy for Christmas. I am the one that forgot that my oldest child is still exactly that. A child.

In my defense, her list was limited.  In my defense, she didn’t express too much interest in toys.  In my defense…..nope.  Not this time. No excuses.

I dropped the ball.  Screwed the proverbial pooch.  I failed.

While I often look at her and see a girl who wants the responsibility of an adult, I forgot that she’s still a little girl.  A child.

While she struggles with asking to do “grown up” things, she still enjoys playing with Barbies and assembling Legos.

While I struggle with her asking to do “grown up” things, I forgot that she still enjoys playing with Barbies and assembling Legos.

I frequently catch myself wondering when these kids are going to grow up a bit.  Wishing they would stop acting so childish.  Hoping for a little bit of maturity.

What in the hell am I doing that for?

The time is coming, sooner rather than later, for grown-up behavior.  Before long there will be dances and dates, tears over a broken heart and requests for gas money.  There will be jobs (oh yes, there will be jobs) and there will be bills and there will be adult responsibilities.  There will be too many activities and not enough hours in a day.

Who looks forward to that?

Now is the time to bathe in their innocence.

To drink from their fountain of youth.

To live vicariously through their young eyes.

To savor the carefree lifestyle of being a child.

To play with all the toys.

To truly LIVE.

Because we all know that being a grown-up is severely overrated.

You Know it Happens at Your House Too: One Little Toy



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Have You Laughed Today?

We need more funny.   There are just too many negative, heart wrenching, horrible, tragic, craptastic things that really screw up a good day.  I find the best way to combat the uglies is to laugh.  Not just ha ha, but a HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA kind of laugh.  The kind of laugh that makes you lose control of your bodily functions.  Don’t say you don’t know what I’m talking about because you’ve all farted while having a good laugh.  Maybe you’ve peed.  There is always the possibility that you’ve done both at the same time.   I’m not speaking from experience, I’ve just heard stories .

In an effort to bring more laughter to my very small and minute corner of the interwebs, allow me to deliver to you some funny.  If you get through this and you don’t laugh at least once, even just a snicker or a smirk, then I will be truly be worried about you.

Have You Laughed Today?

Before we get into this too deep, you must take the pledge.  That’s right, I’m making you take a pledge.  Now repeat after me:

I <say your name here> (and I really mean say YOUR name.  SAY IT!) promise to laugh at least once during this post.  If I don’t smile or giggle even once I promise to remove the proverbial stick from my ass and read it again.  If I still don’t find it funny,  I promise not to be a spreader of internet herpes and I will just move along.  I also promise to be an ambassador of funny and will make it my goal to make one other person on this planet laugh today.  If I cannot make it happen today, I will try even harder to make it happen tomorrow.  I make this pledge and promise to myself because having a kick-ass sense of humor is so much better than being an asshole.

OK…Now that the technicalities are out of the way, let us begin.

The other night I saw a commercial for Casey’s pizza.  I swear at the end it says “penis for pizza”.  Since I possess the sense of humor of a twelve-year-old boy this makes me giggle.  I then had to ask my Facebook friends for words that make them giggle.  If you can make it through this list of words without laughing once, you may be too mature.  Try it:

Dictator, flatulence, scrotum, doodoo, poop, balls, sack, super duty, Uranus, tits, penetration, lubrication, thrust, erector, weiner, poppycock, tallywackers, vagina, jackwagon, underwear,  lake titicaca, farts, annnnnd….dooky.

I lose it at dictator, but again I am immature.

You all know that as parents/grandparents/guardians of kids (both of the human and furry varieties) we find the most random crap around the house.  I also took this to the Facebook just to see if the level of nasty around my house is equivalent to those of my friends. For those of you wondering what I meant when I said that I find “saucy underwear”, just think of a kid who over-trusted a fart.  I guarantee you will laugh at the responses to this post:


Laughing yet?  NO????  Surely you’ve laughed at least once so far???  If not keep reading because I have some pretty funny friends.


Why don’t you try this from my friend Kerry at House Talk’N.  She is determined to bring back the dickie <giggle, she said dickie>.  Watch this vlog and try not to snicker every time they say “dickie”.


If you are feeling like a terrible parent thanks to Pinterest, you can always check out this post by Nicole Leigh Shaw on Nick Mom and know that you aren’t alone.

Need help figuring out if you can be friends with the other moms?  Have them answer this short questionnaire devised by Kim on In the Powder Room (who I now know is destined to be my sister-wife)

Surely you’ve seen this video that has been all over the interwebs.  It had Farmer Bob laughing so it must be funny:

Are you laughing yet?  You better be because laughter kicks ass.

No?  Here’s my last offer.  If you can read this (and you MUST listen to the clip at the end) from my very dear friend Katy and you don’t at least smile…you have issues.

Now go, complete your mission and make someone else laugh.


It’s Hard Being a Kid

Oh my beautiful spawn. You are growing up so fast. Too fast if you ask me, but your dad and I, we can’t stop time. We can’t roll back the clock and keep you little forever.  Someday (sooner rather than later) you will pack up your shit and move out spread your wings and leave this nest and it is our job to make sure you are ready. Prepared. Functioning.

We can tell by your eye-rolls, door slams, and frequent foot stomps that you think that your life under this roof really sucks at times. Like really, really bad. Like oh. mah. GAWD, I don’t even know how you live here bad. I know you aren’t old enough to totally understand our methods, nor do you really care at this point, but believe us when we say that we really kinda-sorta know what we are doing when it comes to raising you. How do we know this?  Because we were you once.  Living the miserable life of a kid.

Let us take this opportunity to clarify a few things for you. Try to help you understand that in fact we are NOT total assholes (well I might be, but your dad not so much). That there is a method to this madness. That we are NOT, contrary to popular belief, the meanest parents on the planet. That in fact we do the things we do because we love you so fucking much it hurts.  That this parenting gig is a long-term, full-time job that requires (and demands) long-term results.

Let us start with allowance. Believe it or not, you get one. It may not be cash money like you want, but you get a roof over your head, food in your belly, clothes on your body. We know it pisses you off and you hate it, but you are a part of this family just like the rest of us and around here everyone contributes. No one gets a free ride. I tell my friends that ask if I give an allowance that in lieu of cash money, we allow you to live here. While I know that sounds brutal and unfair, I was not put on this planet to be your maid. Your dad and I are your parents and it is our job to teach you how to be actual grown-ups. Sitting on your ass playing video games all day while screaming for snacks isn’t going to cut it.  I have chores, your dad has chores, you have chores.  It’s how we function around here.

We know you really want that iPod touch. Earn it. Get up off your little behind and get to work. We give you plenty of opportunities to go above and beyond and earn a little cash. Do it, save it, buy it yourself. You’ll respect it more and see that a little bit of work isn’t going to kill you.

The Tooth Fairy doesn’t bring you a twenty or a fifty?  Tough shit. What have you done to earn that kind of money? You put your dirty fingers in your mouth and wiggled, completely grossing your mother out in the process.  You accomplished something that every single human on the planet has also done. <golf clap> Until your teeth are made of solid gold you will take your four quarters and be happy with it.  The Tooth Fairy, along with Santa and the Easter Bunny, are meant to add a touch of fun and whimsy to your childhood NOT to cater to your every desire.  Just enjoy it while it lasts.

That project is just too hard?  I tell you what, I will sit by you and give you some suggestions.  You want me to do it for you?  Not gonna happen.  I already went to school.  I busted my ass and passed all on my own (with some major prodding from my own parents).  Now it’s your turn.  You will survive, not without a few tears and frustrations, but you will do it.  I’ll be right here encouraging you, supporting you, loving you.

Your report card came and you earned all A’s? Congratulations, we are SO PROUD of you!!!!! What’s that? How much are we going to pay you? Hmmmm….here’s a dinner around the family table.  Oh look! I even made cookies!  If you would like financial compensation for doing what you are required to do, get a job. Here you get paid in praise and hugs. Dinners and cookies.  Enjoy your successes because you EARNED them, not because you are getting PAID for them.

I understand that your life is hard, but you know what else is hard?  Parenting is hard.  Being an adult is hard.  Having responsibility is hard.  Seeing your friends have stuff handed to them for doing nothing is hard. Working is hard.  Life is just really fucking hard.  That’s the entire point of all of this.  You can’t get by in life just waiting for someone to hand you what you want.  What you think you need.  I mean you can I suppose, but you won’t be doing it here.

I know this whole being a kid thing is mind-blowing.  That you think you already know everything there is to know about everything.  That competing with your friends is a tough gig.  That you are required to have moments filled with angst and anger toward your parents.  That damn it, at times your life just sucks rotten eggs.  Been there. Done that.

I also want you to know that we are right here.  Your dad and I.  While we may not shower you with the things you want, we will always be here to give you the things that you need.  To support you and love you unconditionally.  To reward you appropriately when we see fit.  To correct you when you need it and to have your back when it seems like no one else does.  We are here to dry your tears when someone hurts you or something goes wrong, and to celebrate with you when everything goes right.  To show you right from wrong and to correct you when you fuck up (and you will).

No matter how much you think we suck.  No matter how hard you stomp your feet or roll your eyes at us.  No matter how loud you yell and no matter how many times you tell us that you hate us.  We will always be here.

Because damn it, we are your parents and we love you.  Hard.


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Opinions, Farts, and Fraternities. What?

You know what is hard? Being funny is hard. Entertaining people for FREE is hard. Rocks are hard. Trying to be kind to assholes is hard. Life is hard. Parenting is hard. For some, shutting their nasty pie hole is hard. Not gagging when I wipe my kids’ butt or when I brush my teeth is hard. Surviving this last week of summer vacation is hard.

You know what isn’t too difficult? Laughing. Being nice. Scrolling on by something you don’t like. Making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Pouring and drinking a glass of wine. Dancing to a great song. Wasting the day away on Facebook. Watching a Johnny Depp movie. Being nice. (This one is so easy I had to mention it twice)

My dad always told me that opinions are like assholes because everyone has one.  Most people wouldn’t sit down in a five-star restaurant and rip an earth-shattering fart because it just isn’t appropriate.  While it may hurt like hell to hold in that fart, it just isn’t done.  You clinch your cheeks and you pray that nothing escapes before you make it to a more appropriate fart-ripping venue.  Once you are in the comfort of your own gaseous bubble, you let that baby flow and you sigh in relief.

These interwebs have made us more open to farting in public.  Except we do it verbally and verbal farts are by far the worst. More disgusting than the ones that come after eating onion rings  with a side of deviled eggs.  Their smell is revolting and they have a tendency to linger for days.  They can take the most wonderful post about babies and rainbows and unicorns and turn it into a post about religion and politics and gun control.  Before you know it, that one verbal gassing has spread and it forces others to start releasing their own juices and before you know it, the entire post smells worse than a fraternity house after a two-day kegger leaving an unsuspecting house-mother in its wake.

It takes hours to clean up the mess and days to air out the house.  The house-mother can often be found in tears constantly dousing herself in Lysol wondering why in the hell she took this job.  The pay sucks and the rewards are few and far between.  Yet she stays.  She learns to breathe through her mouth and to stay locked in her room on the weekends.  She stays because she loves it.  She adores the conversations, the company, sometimes she even joins in and farts with the best of them.  When it’s right to do so.

I’m not gonna argue with you, sometimes it just feels good to fart.  It feels good to let it out and to share it with those around you.  It is refreshing and damn it, you just feel better when all is said and done.  It doesn’t mean that those around you enjoy it.  That they want to take a deep breath and inhale your aroma.  That they enjoy your gas as much as you do.   That it is the right place and right time to let one fly. Unless you ARE at a kegger, then by all means….let em rip.  Most people would never even know.

What in the hell was I talking about?  Right, opinions.  It’s normal to have them.  It’s also normal to want to share them. It’s just common courtesy to not be an asshole about it.  It’s easy to do, just squeeze your cheeks.

Opinions, Farts, and Fraternities


What is Home?

home (n): the place in which one’s domestic affections are centered.  A house, apartment, or other shelter that is the usual residence of a person, family, or household. 

According to Dorothy there’s no place like home, but what really makes a home? Is it square footage or the color of paint on the walls? The piles of laundry or the knick-knacks on the shelf? Maybe it should be home is where you change the diapers. Home is where you cook the bacon? Make the babies? Lose your shit? After spending some time away from my physical home  I came to the realization that home, contrary to its definition, is not a brick and mortar type building but more of an emotional shelter within us that we can take with us wherever we may be headed.

I packed my bags to leave the farm for a few days and head to the city. I have to be honest, I had my reservations. It wasn’t because I was leaving my cozy kitchen or the pillow on my bed, it was leaving my babies. Leaving the loves of my life. Leaving my home.  Farmer Bob is beyond a competent parent, but mama was leaving and no one can do it like mama can do it (or so we like to tell ourselves). Would they eat well? Shower? Brush their teeth? Who would wipe PITA’s butt? I knew I would miss the hugs and the smooches, the “I wuv you mama” before bed, the Dutch ovens at night…oh wait.

As I departed my plane in Chicago and headed for the exit, I saw the smiling face of my very dear friend DG waiting for me at the baggage claim. It was at that very moment that I knew I was home. Wait? How could that be? I don’t live in Chicago, I damn sure don’t live at baggage claim four. How could just that one moment, that one smile, that first of many hugs fill me with a sense of home?

Photo by our beautiful friend Kristi at Necessary Indulgences

Photo by our beautiful friend Kristi at Necessary Indulgences

Friendship does that to you. Being enveloped by those who know you and are still willing to be seen in a public place with you. Seeing the joy in their eyes as you talk about your kids and realizing that it isn’t because they are thinking about their own littles, it’s because they truly love yours as their own. Never enduring the awkward silence because there are more words than there is time. The tears as you leave because even though you miss your own family, there just wasn’t enough time.

Home Sweet Home

Home Sweet Home

Home is so much more than the physical attributes of a house. Home is in a hotel room in downtown Chicago discussing important things such as potato chips and cake balls. It’s in the hotel bar where no matter which way you turn there is a friendly hug waiting to swallow you up. It’s a quaint apartment filled with baby gear, hummus, and hot rollers. It’s sitting around a table in a busy restaurant trying to catch just a few minutes with every smiling face. It’s laughs and hugs. Jokes and stories.  Home is being with those that you love, no matter where that may be.




See more amazing pics from the book signing in Chicago over at Necessary Indulgences, then buy the book here!

What Do We Do Until?

As I read the news (AKA my Facebook and Twitter feeds) over the last couple of days, all I could think about was this:


Seriously F-U-C-Ked.

Until we have the desire to change.

Until we have to desire to care.

Until my friend Keesha can tell her son that the color of his skin doesn’t matter.  That he can walk down the street and be seen as a BOY, not a brown boy.

Until I can confidently tell my daughters that society doesn’t really give two shits about what size they wear.

Until my bestie can take her bi-racial children out in public and someone doesn’t ask her “what are they?”.  They are children you tool.

Until we actually care about a cause before a tragedy happens.  Not just after.

Until my friend Bliss can get the insurance coverage she needs in order to help her Autistic son get the therapies that he needs to succeed instead of a constant stream of “we don’t cover that, it’s not necessary”.

Until we can take our kids out to the park or to the movie or to the grocery store and don’t have to constantly worry about who is lurking in dark corners.


Until we can use our words to help each other instead of to constantly attack/belittle/discourage each other.

Until my friend Courtney can tell her kids that their dad is going to be just fine.  That they’ve found a cure for cancer.

Until our nightly news actually contains more positive news stories than negative.

Until it isn’t about white/black/hispanic/asian/gay/straight/purple polka dots, but instead it’s about us as human beings.

Until those that work “for the people”, actually do work “for the people”.

Until my nephew can get the life saving medicines that he needs without a battle with the insurance company, because contrary to what they may believe it actually won’t be better if he is no longer with us.

Until we stop fighting against each other and instead we work with each other to make a difference. To encourage change.

Until us mothers can put down our mops, toilet brushes, and baby wipes and quit fighting over who is a better mother and just be. Well, just be mothers, friends, supportive and encouraging.

Until our kids can go to school and not worry about what Snotty Sally or Jackass Joseph are going to say (or do) to them during the day.

Until our news feeds are no longer filled with Amber Alerts and posters of missing adults.   Abused animals and murder suspects.  Bombings  and shootings.



 What Do We Do Until?





Dear Google,

Let me blow the dust around in here and see if I can make this work.  I know it’s been a while and I really have no one to blame but myself.  Well, I have others to blame but really does pointing fingers at others really help?  Actually it does, but I always try to take those moments in which someone really pisses me off and use it to my advantage.  To use it for a learning experience.  To tell those people to suck my nose holes and come back bigger and badder.  So let’s do it.  Let’s write again, because it just feels good.

It really sucks when you love to write and you have this amazing (to yourself) blog, and you let other people rain on your parade and suck the life out of everything you have busted your ass to build.  I’ve been trying to figure out why in the hell I can’t write words.  Why can I not take the thoughts in my head and put them on this cyber paper for people to read?  Why have I become so gun-shy? What in the fuck am I so damn worried about?

It’s hard in this “business” (can you classify a hobby in which you make no money doing a ‘business’?) to not let people get to you.  You get an idea and you start to write and BOOM, you see someone else just wrote a post on that exact same topic.    You see a friend bust their ass to create something fabulous and before you know it you see it elsewhere with their watermark removed and some other asshole taking the credit for work they didn’t do.  Everywhere you look there is someone being a douchebag.  This constantly lingers in the back of your mind as you question every single word that you write.  Asking yourself if this word or that word will bring out the trolls.  Wondering if you will be under fire for writing what you want to write on your blog that you aren’t forcing anyone to read.

I’m not gonna hide my feelings about the last post I wrote.  It was hilarious.  The funniest thing I have written in quite a while and it felt so GOOD to write it.   I have no shame in saying that because damn it, if you can’t find boobs funny you need to remove the stick from your ass.  That post was rocking along, great comments, great page views, not one person voiced their irritation with my use of the words boobs, tits, fun bags, mammaries, rack, hooters, and other terms of endearment that we use for our breasteses.  Then I got an email from Google themselves telling me that I had seventy-two hours to either edit the “sexually explicit” post or delete it all together or they would pull all advertisements from my site.  I felt like I had taken a kick right to the gut.  I hadn’t realized that I was writing erotica, I thought I was writing about motherhood.  What in the frickety-frack was going on?

I vented to some friends and tried to understand.  I immediately shut down.  The words stopped, the desire to write stopped, a little bit of my passion was stripped.  I’m not normally one to take shit like this so seriously, but this one really got to me.  Maybe it was a misunderstanding. Maybe it was a mistake.  I was hurt and I was insulted. Then it hit me, Google is just being an asshole.  Then the anger set in.

Dear Google,

I wanted to write you a quick note to thank you for taking the time to really read my site before deeming it inappropriate for your ad network.   I work really hard to make sure that my site is as sexually explicit as a blog written by a mother of five young kids can be. I would like to apologize if the word ‘boobs’ is just too much for you to handle, but if I’m being honest I think there are many other topics I could have breached that could have been incredibly more offensive.  

You see, I work really hard to write content that is appropriate for my readers.  Things that they can relate to.  Things that make them laugh/cry/scream/shake their head in agreement.  Seeing as ninety-five percent of my readers are women/mothers/grandmothers/aunts, we all have boobies.  Most of us have already lamented and accepted their tube-sock appearance and have come to grips with the fact that our mammaries will never be as spectacular as they once were.   I pride myself on the fact that I am not afraid to write the things that others may be embarrassed to talk about.  If I can help make one person feel better about themselves, or to know that they aren’t alone on this crazy road we call parenthood, then I am doing exactly what I set out to do when I started this blog.  

Your promise of removing your ads from my site did not scare me, it made me angry. Not because I was going to miss out on those pennies a day that I made from allowing you to put your quality ads in my sidebars, but because you attempted to bully me into changing my words to fit your idea of appropriate material.  It was quite clear to me that you didn’t take the time to really read my words.  That you didn’t take five minutes to see what my site is about and to read the comments and see that not a single person was offended.  That you missed out on a really good laugh.  

I don’t give two shits about your ads.  You have the ability to choose and you chose to remove yourself from my site.  No big whoop. What I do care about is that I have let you affect my writing.  That I allowed you to infiltrate my thoughts and make me question everything that I have ever written.  That despite the undying love and support that I am fortunate enough to see every. fucking. day from my readers, I have let you enter the recesses of my brain and shut off all confidence that I had in my abilities.  No more Google.  NO. MORE.  I will not let you win because I KNOW in my heart that I am capable.  That I am just flat-out fucking amazing.

It is amazing to me that you are so quick to judge.  That of all the sites on the interwebs, you jumped on one word.  A word that ninety-nine percent of people do not find even remotely offensive.  I can only hope that in the future, you would take the time to actually read a few posts from time to time.  That you wouldn’t judge a post based on one word in the title (BOOBS).  That you would not attempt to bully someone into censoring their own words, on their own site, in which they allow YOU to place ads on.  Censorship is so last century.

Thank you for giving me a couple of weeks to realize how fabulous I am.  For helping me to realize that I don’t have to succumb to the corporate greed.  That I am in control of what I think, what I write, what I promote.  That it is OK to just be me.  I actually needed it. 

You just can't argue with Ben

You just can’t argue with Ben



Hello? It’s My Girls I’m Looking For

Do your boobs hang low, do they wobble to and fro?
Can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow?
Can you throw them over your shoulder like a Continental soldier?
Do your boobs. Hang. Low.
~Credit:  The middle school playground

Let’s cut to the chase.  Boobs are what I’m talking about today.  Just typing the word is funny.  Boobs.  Breasts. Titties.  Funbags. Mammaries.  Bewbies.  Jugs.  Hooters.  Tatas.  They have many names, but there is something about the word boobs that makes me giggle.  Yes, at times I have the sense of humor of a twelve year old boy, but you have to admit that it’s funny.  BOOBS.  You know what isn’t funny?  The shape of my boobs post helping-my-children-survive-their-first-year-of-life and serving as the Dairy Queen.  It is not a pretty picture.  NOT. PRETTY.

Hello?  It's My Boobs I'm Looking For

Let’s reminisce for a second.  I know you girls are with me on this.  Remember when you could leave the house without a bra on and your perky little mammaries were right up where they belonged?  Remember the days when you didn’t have to pick those bad boys up just to wipe the pool of sweat out from underneath in order to prevent chafing?  Remember the days of looking in the mirror and thinking to yourself, damn I have a spectacular rack?

Five kids later I’m left looking in the mirror and wondering what in the HELL has happened here.  Now instead of a couple of fabulous melons,  I’m left with a couple of shriveled up deflated balloons left over from a birthday party that occurred in 2002.  I used to think  that the old vagina really took a beating from pushing out five watermelon-sized nuggets.  Not true my friends.  Not even close.  The boobies are the ones that have suffered the most dramatic long-term effects from years of misuse/overuse. These poor girls have taken on an entirely new identity and their own spot on the couch.  Sorry vagina, you no longer get all my sympathies.

Do you sit around and say things like damn, I think I dunked my floppy butterfly in my coffee this morning.  No, you wonder how in the hell could you possibly be lactating?  You aren’t lactating you dumbass,  your tits ended up in your coffee as you sat on the couch reading an article on your laptop.   We don’t brag to our girlfriends that we actually went out without pants and no one even noticed our vagina whipping in the wind.  No, we know we are living on the edge if we have to run a forgotten lunch up to the school and we don’t even put on a bra first.  Will they see those nippies peaking out if they look to see what kind of shoes I’m wearing?

When we lay down in bed at night do we have to scooch our vagina out of our butt crack because it flopped right on over and set up camp?  No, we have to dig our bewbies out of our armpits just to avoid any major night-time nippie tweaks.  When you can’t find your pillow at night, do you bend over and rest your head on the pink taco?  No, you  pull one of those milk duds right on up and lay your head on it.  It may be the old flat hard kinda smelly kind you keep tucked away in the linen closet in case of emergency, but with some well placed deodorant and a little fluffing it would get you by for a night.

Do your kids walk up to you and use your chooch-a-roni for punching bags?  No, they walk up and try to go three rounds with the twins.  At this point they are down on a three-year-old level and bear a similar shape to a punching bag, so you might as well let the little bugger get in a workout.  The tube socks are flexible and if you do it right it could entertain them while you get some laundry folded or the dishes put away.  Not to mention  it really teaches them some dexterity and helps with speech development as they stand there and repeatedly say PUNCH, PUNCH, PUNCH as they are working out.  Gives an entire new meaning to the word “funbags”.

When was the last time you looked at your va-jay-jay in the mirror and thought where in the hell did that hair come from?  Unless you are twelve, it’s probably been a while.  Now what about your boobs?  Be honest here ladies, you know you have been giving the girls their monthly fondle (you DO perform a monthly fondle don’t you?) and you suddenly scream out, WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?  Then you realize that where there is one, there is two.  HOLY SHIT, there is THREE!  What do I do now?   Pluck the bastards?  Braid them? Leave them alone?  Are they like grey hairs and if you pull them out three more appear?  AM I TURNING INTO A SASQUATCH?

So to my dear boobs. cans. jugs. hooters. punching funbags.  chesticles.:   I am sorry for the years of neglect.  I’m sorry for taking you for granted and not always offering you the support you need.  You have accomplished so much and I have been unfair in giving all the credit to your southern neighbor. You have worked hard and the years have not been good to you, so from here on out I promise to lift you up when you are feeling down.  I promise not to diminish the impressiveness of your  work resume and I will quit comparing you to the cavernous being that was once my vag.  I will try to erase the memories of your youth and perkiness and embrace your now floppy and elongated appearance.  Together we have done amazing things, so please quit hanging your head.  Chin up butter cups, we have some good years left in us.

Oh, one last thing.  Could you do me just one more favor and go ahead and cancel the rest of your trip to the southern hemisphere?  If you could make that happen, that would be simply fab.  mmmmmmkay?

I would be remiss if I didn’t thank some of my best girls for the inspiration for this piece.  Once again you are a reminder that we are never, EVER alone in our thoughts and feelings.  I would be curled up in the fetal position ashamed of my saggy titties if it wasn’t for you.  I LOVE YOU.


A Day in the Life of a Working Dad

Today I offer you a guest post from my friend James Hudyma, creative genius behind Dads Round Table and all around nice guy.  His Twitter bio is as follows: Dad. Husband. Teacher. Minivan. Some hair. Some gut. Strong coffee. Guitars. Songwriter. EduDad. Dads Round Table.  I think he may have left off a few things.  Words like:  Talented.  Supportive.  Funny.  

We see posts all the time about working moms and stay at home moms, so I thought why not try to get the point of view from a working dad.  I knew James was (is) a teacher so I asked him to write something for me as a dad that not only works hard to provide for his family, but works even harder to be involved with his kids.  I was fortunate enough to receive a quick, affirmative response from James and I danced a little jig when this arrived in my email.  I want to thank him profusely for taking the time to write this for me, and I hope you enjoy this little glimpse into the life of a Modern Working Dad.

A Typical Day in the Life of a Modern Working Dad

One of my favorite books is Life of Pi by Yann Martel.  Featured in the book are two very different renditions of the same experience.  One has a tiger. One is more realistic.  In the spirit of this book I am going to tell two tales about A Typical Day in the Life of a Modern Working  Dad.  One is blog life.  One is more realistic.

Ebbs and Flows of Joy and Pain: A Modern Working Dad

Saying good-bye to my children each morning is a dagger in my heart.  As I give them one last hug and kiss I bask in their love and look lovingly into their eyes and I tell them with all my heart they are my reason for living.

As I drive to work my mind lingers on the beautiful faces of my children and I shake my fist at a world where both parents must work.  When I arrive in the parking lot I meditate quietly to clear my mind and focus on how these hours away from my family are financially necessary.

My eyes often wander to my desk where portraits of my family greet me; I smile externally but inside my heart is alight with a bittersweet glow.  Bitter because I pine to be with them at that moment but sweet because they bring me so much joy.


I could go on but I’m starting to make myself sick.  I love my kids.  I would die for my kids but the art and poetry these bloggers paint their feelings with only makes me feel like a horrible failure as a parent.  Whenever I think of my kids it makes me feel happy but I don’t think about them all the time.  That would be weird.   Right?

Next is more realistic story.



It takes forever to get out the door because my wife has to give the kids one more last-hug-and-kiss and then one more last-hug-and-Dancing with Daddykiss.  We tell them we love them and to have a great day.  When we finally leave for work I feel no guilt about leaving the kids in the care of our nanny.  Why would I?  My wife, also a teacher, is guilt ridden even though she was raised by a working mom.  Why is that?

The Commute to Work

On days my wife and I take separate vehicles I just crank the music and rock out until I get to school.  On days we drive together we’ll talk until I drop her off at her school and then the rockin’ begins.  We always talk about the kids.  Mostly we worry.

The Work Day

I teach.  When I see my family pictures on my desk it makes me smile.

The Commute Home

Loud music until I get home or until I pick my wife up from her school.  We talk about the kids.  Mostly we worry.

Afterschool Activities



I take the kids to their activities.  We sing songs and talk on the way there.   When the activity begins I watch a bit and play on my phone a bit.  The parent not on a phone judges us.  I feel guilty and play on my phone a little less.  On the way home there is more
singing and talking.

Whoever isn’t with me is with mom.   We really believe one on one time is important so even though it would be more efficient, we book our children’s activities on different days.

Family Dinner

My wife cooks with the assistance of whichever kid is home with her.  We always eat dinner together.  It’s a time to connect, practice manners, and talk about our day.  I do the dishes with whichever kid was out with me.  After all is said and done we go outside to play.  If the weather is bad we head downstairs to play.

Bedtime Routine

Bath.  Read books and do homework.  Snack.  Brush teeth.  Tuck in.  We alternate kids so if I tuck in my son tonight, I’ll tuck in my daughter tomorrow night.  I tell stories.  My wife sings songs.

The Kids are Asleep

This is the only time I get to myself.  If I’m going to go out with friends, this is when I go.  If my wife and I take time for each other, whether that time is at home or on a date, this is when we take it. Most nights:

My wife reads.  I write articles for Dads Round Table.  We go to bed.  We talk about the kids. Mostly we worry.


Most of my struggles as a working dad are the same as any other parent.  As far as balancing work and home, I will leave you with this:

I’m a dad.  I do my very best to be the best dad I can be.  I’m a teacher.  I do my very best to be the best teacher I can be.  Finding a balance between the two can be difficult but I’ve found I’m happiest when I prioritize family first.  My kids get more of me than my career and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I want thank James from the bottom of my sweet little heart for writing this for me.  It is so nice to not only get the view from a dad, but to have a little help here on the old blog.  Be sure to follow James on his website, on Twitter, Facebook, and YouTube