Are We There Yet?

Long road trips are a time for family members to reflect on just how much they hate long family road trips.

I could go on and on and on about our recent long road trip, but I'm willing to bet it's remarkably similar to every other family's long road trip.

Here is one sentence summing up our recent road trip:
A 10 hour road trip morphs into an ugly 12 hour adventure due to traffic, mother nature, emergency pee breaks, and one vomiting son.

Who can't relate to that, right?  Just your typical 12 hour journey to hell and back.  Woohoo! Are we there yet? Nope, only 11 more hours to go!

After miraculously surviving that experience, I prepared for my post road trip pity party.  You know what that includes, right?

You arrive home from the long road trip and immediately begin drowning in dirty laundry and unopened mail, while trying to figure out where that strange smell is coming from...What IS that smell?

Just prior to that fun experience, my sister helped me put it all in perspective.

She has three children between the ages of 2 and 7.  In addition to traffic and thunderstorms, I know her trip included emergency pee breaks, unstoppable "Are we there yet?" whining, and crying (most likely from her husband).

Upon arriving home to an obscene smell and 13 pounds of junk mail, I texted her to see if she had arrived home safely.

Here is our text message exchange:

Me:  You home yet?

Sis:  We left at 3:40 AM.  Only 4 more hours.  Got stuck in McDonalds because Ellery's fairies wouldn't come out of the bathroom.

Me:  Huh?

Sis:  Ellery's fairies wouldn't come out of bathroom stall. This is a true story!

Me:  That's hilarious!

Sis:  Yeah.  Freaking hysterical.

Sis:  Line full of peeps waiting to pee and I have a sobbing 4 year old talking about her missing fairies.  Someday this will be funny, right?

Me:  I assume the fairies finally cooperated?

Sis:  Only after I made a big deal about seeing glittery flutters on her palm.  We looked certifiable.

So, dear readers, until you find yourself hours from home in a tiny stall with a sobbing four year old who refuses to leave without her fairies, consider your road trip a complete breeze!

At least right up until you realize what's causing that smell.  Then all bets are off as you realize traffic and a vomiting son is nothing compared to the cause of that smell.

Exercise with Children

My husband is a health nut.  Well, to be fair, he's really more of an exercise advocate. He has, and I am not kidding you, only missed 2 days of exercise in over 2 years.  2 years!

He frequently sends me links to articles in hopes of encouraging me to get off my fat ass and exercise more.   The latest article "Lack of Exercise asDeadly as Smoking, Study Finds" seems to suggest that instead of just feeling guilty about not exercising, I could have been chain smoking instead.  Is there no justice?

So recently, in an effort to get him off my back show him I value his every word, I started exercising with my children.  This was a hair brain idea and you should not attempt this at home.  Seriously.  Don't do this.

First, I convinced my 11 year old to go for a run with me.  I was hoping for a slow 2 mile jog where we would watch butterflies fly by us while talking about boys, puberty, and my love for her.

Yeah, I'm a numbskull. 

Instead my daughter viewed this leisurely trot as a sprint event.  From a distance I realized my daughter resembled a gazelle.  At least, that was my impression as sweat (or was it tears?) poured into my eyes creating a blurry vision of my little girl smoothly gliding away from me.  She was graceful, fast, and focused.  It was beautiful to watch until she was so far ahead, I could no longer see her.   

She was sweet enough to circle back around to me.  

At that point, she looked puzzled as she asked, "Mom, when did you get so slow?"

I would have responded but I couldn't breathe. 

Two days later my ego was nearly healed when I decided to take my 9 year old son to the bike path.  I thought he could ride his bike while I ran behind him.  Well, that's a total joke.  No way could I keep visuals on him.  I certainly tried but my legs were no match for my son's biking speed.  I did draw stares from other runners as they passed me.  I can only assume they were overcome by the smell of blood, sweat, and tears emitting from every pore of my body. 

My son waited patiently for me and then asked, "Geeez, mom, did you take a break or something?" 

Again, I couldn't form an adequate response since I was unable to breathe.

I can only assume exercise is contraindicated for my physical well-being.

To celebrate my renewed, albeit limited, interest in exercise, I took the kids out for ice cream.   

Shhhhhh.  Don't tell my exercise advocate!

Olympic Gold

I got Olympic gold. 
In fact I got several of them.  It was as easy as ordering a drink at a bar.  Mostly because my "Olympic Gold" is a drink at a bar.

Olympic fever is in the air.  Blessedly, that includes the beach bar at the resort where we stay during our summer vacation. Thus the "Olympic Gold" drink special.

Let's face it, if it weren't for the drink special, I would never get Olympic Gold.

For starters, I do not have the Olympic spirit.  As I watch an obscene amount of Olympics, I see cyclists crash their bikes, get back on, and continue racing.  I see swimmers swim and win a relay in the qualifying heat only to be excluded from swimming in the finals.  I see a footless man run a race, and I learn about countless athletes overcoming amazing stories of adversity in pursuit of Olympic gold.

On the flip side of the Olympic athlete is me.  I am a total sissy. 

If my bike crashed, I would curl up in the fetal position and cry like a baby.  I lack the Olympic spirit.  Completely. 

I also lack athleticism which is also apparently key to achieving true Olympic gold.

Excuse me, I need to take another swig of my Olympic Gold.

Mmmm.  Now where was I?

Perhaps I'm not an Olympic athlete because my mother didn't push me enough. 

While Olympians spent their childhoods perfecting their skills, my mother allowed me to sit outside and play in the dirt.  Yes, I am going to blame my mother for giving me a fun-filled childhood.  Mom, thanks a lot! 

Instead of trying to get my face on a box of Wheaties, my biggest challenge as a child was trying to hide as much junk as possible under my bed in an effort to make my room look clean.  This is no easy task and I suggest it becomes an Olympic sport.

In fact, there is an activity I want added as an Olympic event.

I would definitely make it to the Olympic trials if not go all the way to the gold.  After giving this an incredible amount of thought while sipping on my Olympic gold, I would like to recommend the following as the next Olympic sport:

Sock matching. 

That's right, people.  I could totally be a contender for gold if sock matching would ever get the respect it deserves.

I do the laundry for four people.  This means there are, at this very moment, 6,273 individual socks in my house.  I can match 6,272 within 5 minutes.  I hold on to the last sock indefinitely because I just know the second I throw it away its beloved match will be found.

Alas, there are not many 39-ish year old Olympians.  For this reason, if I want to experience Olympic greatness up close, my kids are going to have to bring home the gold.  I would like to propose the following activities be future Olympic "sports." This will up the odds of those two unambitious children being able to bring mommy home a gold:

-  Nose picking.  Gross, yes, but it's a talent.  You've got to lack all shame and be totally  committed to really digging deep.  I've got a child up to that challenge.

-  Lego scattering.  Please don't confuse this with actually building a Lego structure.  I'm talking about the ability to take a set of small Lego pieces and as quickly as possible scatter them throughout an area.  For the sake of argument, let's say the area is a house.  A bronze medalist may be able to scatter Legos to 2-3 rooms within a 20 second period, but a true champion can scatter Legos to all four corners of the house and leave a couple in the bathtub just for good measure. 

Yeah, I'm really proud of my Olympic hopefuls.

Now, please excuse me.  I'm about to get another Olympic Gold.

The Olympic "Spirit"

The Olympics inspire hope, increase patriotism, showcase incredible talent, and remind me of how absolutely un-Olympian I am.

Perhaps it's the fact that I'm breathless after carrying loads of laundry up a flight of stairs.  Maybe it's the fact that when I chase my children, they never get caught.  Or maybe it's the realization that my definition of "swimming" includes a raft and a cocktail. The sad fact is, the Olympics puts my athletic ineptness into sharper focus.

As if that's not sad enough for me, now the Olympics is calling my libido into question, too.  Why does it always come back to sex?

Read this and you'll understand what I mean:  Will You Still Medal in the Morning?

Ok, I cannot lie. I am a little surprised.
I'm not surprised that gorgeous, young, physically fit athletes are having sex in the Olympic Village.  Nah, that's not surprising.  Have you seen these olympians? Sex between consenting, athletic, beautiful people happens all the time in my imagination, in the Olympic Village, and in works of fiction.

This is what surprises me: "At the 2000 Sydney Games, 70,000 condoms wasn't enough, prompting a second order of 20,000 and a new standing order of 100,000 condoms per Olympics."

Only 100,000 condoms?
Yeah, that's right.  Olympic Village needs more condoms.

Do the math.

There are more than 10,000 athletes at the London Olympics.
The Olympics last 16 days.
That's 10 condoms per athlete with less less than 1 condom per day per athlete.

Maybe I've been watching men's swimming and diving events too long, but I think they better order more condoms.  Any sexually frustrated housewife can tell you, the men's swim teams need their own supply of condoms.  Just one look at those wet, buff bodies and you will agree I need to stop watching every men's swim event.  I wish I could say I'm just showing my patriotism, but I didn't see a single skeet competition.  Not one.

Seriously, have you seen them swim?  Strong, hard bodies swimmers.  Seriously, I need to watch other events.  Somehow I don't think it should be men's gymnastics or men's track.

Ironically enough, I'm writing this while my husband watches woman's volleyball.

Sigh.

I am no Olympian.  A statement that shocks no one, I know.

The Institute of Mothers

The other day I needed ten minutes of that elusive thing called "peace and quiet."
I told both children they could have ten more minutes of electronics which in our house means playing Wii or some other mind numbing handheld electronic device.

My son looked at me and proclaimed, "The Institute of Mothers would not approve of this, Mom, but I am very happy!"

The Institute of Mothers?

Crap, where did I put that membership card? Certainly, I am not worthy enough to be part of any sort of elite motherhood society.

I honestly don't know where he comes up with this stuff, but my son clearly believes there is a panel of mothers who are out to squelch all fun for all children. A group of mothers who force their children to eat green vegetables at every meal while denying their children any dessert or fun.

The IOM (Institute of Mothers) would not approve of a number of my parenting indiscretions. In fact, there are a host of things my kids could rat me out for so instead I'm going to out myself.

Here are just a few of my unapproved IOM practices:

- My son occasionally has the longest fingernails in the history of little boys. My daughter would, too, but she is a nail biter.

- My children's closet is the "go to" spot when I ask them to clean up their messy bedrooms, and I am OK with this! I hate messy floors, but closets have doors that I can shut. Out of sight, out of mind.

- My children get dessert nearly every day of their life. You try to deny them dessert and see how it goes.

- My son thinks "making your bed" means making sure all pillows and blankets are on the bed but not necessarily in any sort of organized, tidy way. His bed is made, if there are no pillows or blankets on the floor.

- My children do not bathe every day. On days they do bathe, they don't always use soap. I don't always make them re-shower. If they don't smell, I'm cool with it.

- I have served dinners that do not contain a vegetable or fruit product.

- I use mind-numbing electronic toys to bribe my son into doing an array of necessary tasks. If he can remember to put on clothes, for example, he may get electronics time later in the day. In our house, we discourage nudity.

- I use the brain cell sucking electronic toys to allow me time to do necessary things that I cannot always do if my children are around. You know, things like breathing and peeing. That's correct. I use electronic toys as a babysitter. This is something I vowed to never do. Of course, that was pre-kids. I didn't know any better.

- I sent invitations to my kids' birthday parties this year via text message. No cutesy invitations are ever generated in my home!

The Institute of Mothers will no doubt be contacting me.
I'm sure my membership will be revoked!

2012 Olympic's Opening Ceremony

Good luck, London!

All eyes will be on you. I also think most brains behind those eyes will be thinking, "It's a tough act to follow."

Who doesn't remember the Opening Ceremony at the 2008 Beijing Olympics?
The performance cost an estimated $100 million dollars to produce and lasted four hours. An astounding 15,000 "volunteers" performed in the Beijing Opening Ceremony. The ceremony was amazingly stunning. I'm amazed by it still, and it was 4 years ago. This from someone who can't remember what she did yesterday and sometimes gets in her car and forgets where she is going. The performance was unforgettable eye candy.

How in the world do you follow that act?
Poor London.

I'm reminded of children's mind numbing talent shows. Twenty minutes into the talent show a beautifully dressed 5 year old child approaches a piano and plays the most amazing Mozart piece. All performers prior to the pianist are immediately forgotten as the prodigy plays flawlessly. Immediately afterward, my own child a child in a stained t-shirt walks on stage with a tin can and a wooden spoon. The audience smiles politely as the child bangs on the can. Suddenly that average tin can performance sounds like nails on chalkboard having had the grave misfortune of following China the brilliant pianist.

I'm not saying London is going to offer us a tin can and wooden spoon performance (You aren't, are you, London?). I just think London has a really tough act to follow. But who doesn't love an underdog?

Of course, the Opening Ceremony isn't just a glorified talent show with fireworks and drama. No, it's much more than that.

It's about reminding Americans how absolutely stupid we are about geography.
Since the countries are introduced in alphabetical order, the U.S.A fans must stay glued to televisions until nearly the end. In the process, we learn there are countries we've never heard of before. Countries like Swaziland, Timor Leste, and Mauritania (Is it just me, or does Mauritania sound like an umbrella drink with a dash of Mary Jane?). Not only are there countries we couldn't find if given a world map, there are also people who actually live in those countries including Olympians. How about that?!

Yes, Americans can learn a lot during the Opening Ceremony as we wait anxiously to see our Team U.S.A approach in their outsourced uniforms made in China. (What were you thinking, Ralph Lauren?)

Geez, China gets a gold medal in Opening Ceremonies and uniform making, AND the Olympics haven't even started!

Good luck, London. We are rooting for your success!

Dear Gynecologist

Dear Gynecologist,

Don't you think this annual exam would go better for both of us if you bought me a drink first?

I remember being around 12 or 13 years old when I read an article in "Sixteen" magazine about annual gynecological exams. The memory of that article is burned into my brain. The article stated that women need to go to a gynecologist when they turn 18 OR when they become sexually active. That's when I vowed to remain a virgin for all of my natural life.

The article described in great detail what a gynecological exam entails. I COULD NOT BELIEVE what I was reading. Why in the world would any doctor venture into that cavernous space and root around?! Why were women not rioting in the streets over such a violation?! Why didn't anyone ever tell me about this?! I was simply disgusted and shocked!

Of course the 12 year old female brain is different from the 39-ish year old female brain. At least now I understand the medical benefits of a pap smear, and I know the doctor isn't just digging for lost treasures. By the way, where did I put my keys?

Despite my understanding of the need to endure such a humbling experience, I still remain curious as to proper etiquette. For example, if I were expecting house guests I would want to perhaps mow the front yard and certainly vacuum the living room. I understand the innate desire to to trim the bush before introducing your vajayjay to a gynecologist, but why do I also feel the need to shave my legs and paint my toenails?

Now, if I have the courtesy to tidy my yard, couldn't the doctor do me the courtesy of not making small talk while shoving cold metal objects into my fruit cellar? (Yes, I have a nearly endless supply of euphemisms for the word vagina.)

It's very difficult for me to talk about my summer vacation plans while there is seemingly a fist and a curling iron-like device knocking on my cervix. Hello? Please let me retreat to my happy zone where I image this entire experience is part of a bizarre dream sequence.

Men, I know you have the prostate exam to complain about, but two fingers and a cough is a fun night on the town compared to stirrups, metal objects, a blanket made by Brawny the quicker picker upper, and a side table filled with strange, cold metal objects. Top it off with a chatty gynecologist and you have an appointment from hell.

So, Dr. Gynecologist, I'll shave my legs, tidy up my living room, and prepare for our "visit", but could you pretend to be a deaf, mute physician who is not the least bit interested in my travel plans?

Thank you,
A 13 year old at heart