Mommy, I’m itching, change my shirt. Again.

There are too many people here, I just want to go home!

I don’t like the movies…or the toilet flushing, or the hair dryer, or the police sirens, or sound of that man’s voice, or…fill in the blank. It’s too loud!

Commence hour long tantrum.

Ah, a day in the life of my four year old son.

Before he found the words to express himself, I chalked my sweet boy’s behavior up to normal toddler antics. One moment he was happy, the next he was screaming bloody murder and running around in circles, little hands tightly covering his ears. I didn’t search for a pattern to his mood swings. My first time as a mother, it never occurred to me to even look for one. But, as he’s gotten older, and better able to communicate, I’ve found myself wondering if there is more to his spicy personality.

So, of course, like any responsible parent, I turned to the internet for answers. And, apparently typing all the right buzzwords, my hits kept returning to one thing: Sensory Processing Disorder, a disorder that affects thousands of children and their families.

Some of the information read like it had been written specifically about my son. And, after a particularly hard day, I was convinced he had SPD, if only on the low end of the spectrum. Desperate for answers, and feeling like a failure as a parent, I needed something concrete to explain it all away.

Admittedly, I’ve found myself wishing my sweet boy has something…something diagnosable…to explain away the frequent anxiety he exhibits at times. You see, I’ve dealt with anxiety and depression my entire life, and my worst fear is that I’ll pass this burden onto my children.

The thought of this tears me in two.

So, without telling my he’s just doing what kids do husband, I made an appointment with our pediatrician to try and get some answers. I wrote down everything I could think of that wasn’t normal (ha! what is normal?), left the boy at home, and went in for the diagnosis that would change everything!

I was quick to tell the doctor that I wasn’t looking for a way to change my child, but a way to change myself, and how I reacted to him. I love and accept all of him, even if at times it means I end up locking myself in the bathroom and sobbing, or yelling at him, or drinking too much wine, in an effort to cope with my perceived shortcomings as a parent.

After listening patiently to my very frustrated ramble, our pediatrician explained to me that he didn’t think anything I’d told him fell much out of the range of typical four year old behavior. After a few but-but-buts from me, we moved on to my kid’s poor sleep habits.

For the past year, I’ve fallen asleep next to him. Then, he wakes up a few hours later, finds me gone, and flips out. He gets so unnerved, unhinged, and pissed off, that it can take up to an hour to calm him down. He’s up and down, all night long, and there are stand-offs and shouting matches at three in the morning.

It’s as lovely as it sounds.

My doctor continued, “I definitely think his poor sleep is related to his behavior.”

AH-HA! I knew it! Sensory Processing Disorder interferes with sleep! I read it on the internet!

“It can. But, that’s not exactly what I mean here. Let me ask you, how do you cope with things after a poor night’s rest?”

Well, I usually yell at people, honk my horn a lot, eat too much junk, cry randomly, lose my shit, and run around my house screaming. Ohhhhhh….

We came to the conclusion, that rather than having Sensory Processing Disorder, there’s a chance he’s just a really sensitive kid who’s not getting enough sleep. In turn, he lacks the coping skills needed to deal with the everyday.

So, why can’t he sleep, then? Possibly, because of something called Sleep Onset Insomnia, or Behavioral Insomnia of Childhood. In non-medical jargon, it’s all my fault. Basically, he’s conditioned to fall asleep only when I’m beside him. I’ve become his security blanket, if you will, his pacifier, and rocking chair.

Is it possible he falls somewhere on the SPD spectrum? Yes. But, we need to find out how he handles himself with a good night’s sleep, before we go there.

He may always be a little shy around large groups of people. When he’s ten years old, I might still need to arrive early for the birthday party, before things get too loud and chaotic. And that’s OK. He is who he is!

But, I need to give him the tools to be the best that he can be, and feel the best he can feel.

So, this means one of two things: I either let him fall asleep in my bed every night, and accept the fact that I’m a co-sleeper. Or, teach him to self-soothe and fall asleep on his own.

As of now, I’m at an impasse. Part of me wants to have my bed and my sleep all to myself again. The other part of me can’t bear the thought of doing what needs to be done, to help him sleep confidently, and on his own. A heaping portion of tough love, with a side of crying it out.

Oy! This parenting stuff is such a tough balancing act.

Does he have Sensory Processing Disorder, or he is sensitive like his mama? Or, is he just flat out exhausted?

Is his dependance on me screwing him up in the long-run? Or will crying it out screw him up even more?

Isn’t it my job, as his mother, to be there for him even when it’s inconvenient for me? Or, is it my job to teach him how to better help himself?

I don’t have answers to any of this. I second-guess my parenting at least twice a day. But, I do know that no matter what, I’ll love, embrace, and proudly accept him…and put my focus on expanding my knowledge, to meet who he is.

And, that gives me just enough confidence in my parenting to sleep well at night.

I mean, as well as one can sleep with a four year old’s foot in their ass.

First things first…

We are frequent visitors to the Children’s Museum of Houston.

We’ve been going since Luca could crawl.

The place is exceptional.

Just today, on our way in, I saw that Parents Magazine had rated it the best children’s museum in the country.

And I believe it.

It’s outstanding.

Second things second…

Don’t tweet when you’re pissed off. You won’t get your point across well, or gracefully. And isn’t there some bullshit saying about honey and vinegar and bees or catching flies or something?

Anyway, I went off on the museum folk on a platform that didn’t allow me to tell my story fully, or the least bit eloquently. I fear I just ended up sounding like some scorned chick who wanted to score some free shit on the internet.

And I don’t.

Here’s the deal.

In the museum, there’s a fabulous area designated for the young ones. It has an equally adorable name – The Tot Spot.

Luca loved it when he was little and we’ve just, in the past year, moved on to exploring the rest of the museum. Not because of the age limit (which I’m getting to), but because it was the natural progression of things. He was ready.

Today, I told him it was time we introduce Leo to his old Tot Spot stomping grounds. He was thrilled.

First we take Leo and show him, and then we go to the boats outside!

Great plan!

So, we bought our tickets and it worked out perfectly, because we couldn’t even enter the big kids’ section for another half hour because of capacity.

We headed upstairs to the TS and, as we approached, an employee was busy telling another family what I’m about to tell you.

“You may not bring your older child in here. Period. Just the one under three.”

The rule is that no child under the age of 35 months is allowed in the Tot Spot area.

Let me say, before I go on, that I totally understand this rule. I get that people don’t want a bunch of crazy six year olds running wild amongst what is an otherwise safe, nurturing, and fun experience for the under three crowd.

I don’t want that around Leo, either!

So, I get it. And, it’s completely reasonable, even if it is completely impractical for those of us parents flying solo with children of different ages.

And, to their credit, they state this very clearly. In fact, it’s plain as day, in alarmingly bright red font, on their website.

But, to my credit, I am knee-deep in kid shit and tantrums over here most of the day, so I don’t always have time to navigate to a particular section of their website, especially since I’ve been a patron long before this issue affected me.

It never even occurred to me to check on this…I’ve been there a million times.

So, back to today.

We were told Luca was not allowed in the TS, no exceptions.

But you can go look at the boats outside, with both kids.

Cue the pouring rain.

So, unless I gave my four year old a few bucks, and a time to meet me back in the parking garage, the Tot Spot was a no go.

And, we couldn’t go outside.

And, we couldn’t enjoy the older kids’ area for another half hour, although we’d already paid for it (another thing I wish they explained upon admittance).

So, being that we’d been there for all of five minutes, I asked where I could get my money back.

“Talk to admissions,” I was told.

I then, perhaps a bit vindictively, proceeded to let Kim Jong continue his epic, screaming, tantrum, right there on the bench beside the Tot Spot soup Nazi.

No Tot Spot for you!

I noticed she was on the phone much of the time, and when I finally went down to inquire about a refund, they were expecting me. This was evident by the massive eye-rolls that welcomed me from behind the desk.

I explained that I knew this wasn’t their fault, and they didn’t make this rule, but that I wanted my money back.

Then, Miss Thang came out and told me all of the other things I could take Leo to see.

“Oh, there’s a this and a that and some lake and yadda yadda,” she explained.

Yes, but can I safely let him loose on the floor to explore like I can in the Tot Spot?

Not so much.

Anyway, she stamped a big ass DENIAL on my refund request and I stormed out, mumbling something really douchey about taking this up on social media.

I KNOW.

But, I was angry.

Angry, because of my screaming kid, and also because they should have it posted, next to the other ten signs of information at the ticket counter, that kids over 35 months aren’t allowed upstairs.

Or, I don’t know, maybe tell a parent, who clearly has a baby and an older child with them, that the baby will not be able to do anything baby-like if the older kid is present. You know, before you take their money.

Or, in the very least, offer a refund in a situation like the one that occurred today.

I’m sorry you didn’t know. And I’m sorry we didn’t have room in the bad ass section for another half hour, which in toddler and dog years equals something like seven years. Oh, and since you’ve only been here for five minutes, and you come all the damn time, how about we offer you a refund OR passes to come back another day: One for the baby. One for the big boy?

Now, that, is a good way to run a business, and one that wouldn’t have left me wanting to put someone in a headlock until they cried uncle.

Will I go back to the Children’s Museum?

Of course I will.

That is, if they’ll have us after our behavior today.

After all, we did throw quite the little shit show.

Luca left looking like this…

And, me, like this…

For shame.

Finally, should you go to the Children’s Museum of Houston if given the chance?

ABSOLUTELY.

It’s a beautiful environment, and the cream of the crop of children’s museums.

Everything there is amazing, and it’s such an awesome experience for the family.

Except for those eye-rolling chicks behind the counter, of course.

Psshaw.

Update: The person I referred to as the “tot spot soup nazi” was really as nice and lovely and uncomfortable as anyone could be, when having to enforce an unpopular rule.

Another update: And, the first manager that came to the TS area? Was as nice as nice could be, and boy am I sorry he caught me on one of the three days a year I confront someone.

Those of you that know me, know I’m a bleeding heart down to my bones.

I rehab butterflies, I help hurt birdies, I cry about squirrel hit ‘n runs, I trap house flies and set them free, and I let things live under my bathtub.

Some call it crazy, and to them I say, it probably is but fuck you anyway.

But, there are two living things on this earth that fall under my Do Not Resuscitate clause. Which sounds much nicer than my original I kill those motherfuckers dead clause.

The unlucky ones that make up this list are cockroaches and mosquitoes.

The latter, I kill in self-defense.

The former, because vomit barf gross scary ewww crunchy.

Unfortunately, I live in Houston. Which is technically a swamp that some dumb-ass decided to build this city on, so there are massive amounts of each.

Building a city on rock n roll is so much cooler and less icky.

Inside our house, we’ve never had a roach problem. Sure, some manage to sneak in occasionally, but nothing worth burning the place down over.

My backyard, however, is an entirely different story.

In the giant pecan tree, that must be something like 304 years old (I tried to count the rings one day but lost interest at around 19 so this is a rough estimate of course), reside what I imagine to be one million tree roaches.

Does everyone know what a tree roach is?

Let’s review.

NO, LET’S.

Also known as a Palmetto Bug, or American Cockroach (nationalists!), they live outside, but can sneak in your house occasionally, especially during extreme conditions, such as droughts.

They are about two inches long, or twenty if seen by me.

They aren’t scared of light.

And…

And…

And…

THEY FUCKING FLY.

Anyway, I don’t see them too often. Sometimes in our garage, sometimes in the yard, and oddly enough, there is always one sitting on the outside of my garage in the same spot every. single. night.

I assume he’s like the night watchman for his clan. Or maybe they trade out, because it’s hard to be sure it’s the same one. He’s pretty standoffish, thus far refusing to let me shake any of his 200 hands.

ANYWAY, my point…

Sunday, we were all getting ready to hop in the car and meet my mom for lunch. The kids were being shits and I was in total bitch mode, so at the last minute my husband tucked his tail between his legs, unbuckled Leo from his seat, and declared he would be opting out of this super fun family outing.

After throwing a several minute long temper tantrum, my four year old consoled me, and then we were off to meet my mom, two less in tow.

Three blocks from my house, in mid-turn onto a busy street, it happened.

I saw something move quickly across my steering column, hop onto my stick shift, and then jump up onto the volume dial of my radio.

No. No. No. This isn’t happening.

But, it was.

I rubbed my eyes and shook my head, but it was still there, sitting inches from me.

THIS…

Mind you, I was operating heavy machinery complete with a toddler in it, you guys.

If you’d had the pleasure of witnessing this from the outside, you would have dialed 911 immediately and reported a serial killer rapist car-jacking in progress. Not realizing it was much, much worse.

I screamed louder than I even thought possible, froze like a statue so it wouldn’t fly at me, and nearly turned the none drive-thru CVS, into one with a drive-thru.

My car ended up sideways, blocking the entrance to the parking lot, and I jumped out.

I scanned my car quickly for some kind of weapon.

Pacifier?

Random Cheerios on the floor?

A four year old boy?

Finally, I spotted one – an empty, giant sized, Sugar-Free Redbull can.

That shit is lethal.

I began speaking in tongues and somehow managed to coax it into the cup holder, where I proceeded to smash it continuously until I was sure it was dead…and not in any pain (it’s still me, you guys).

And thankfully so, because if I’d missed, and it had escaped under a seat, someone would have had to tow my car.

I realized my back door wasn’t shut properly over night, so I am hoping this is how it got in.

But, I’m now terrified every time I get in my car. I pound on the seats, and turn the air on full blast for a few minutes (in case one blows out), before taking off.

Now, not only do my neighbors think I’m smoking meth, but my four year old has acquired an extreme phobia of roaches, adding them to his already lengthy list of extreme phobias, which includes…everything.

And, I’ve concocted this theory that they have made my garage their primary residence and they send their night watchman out to stand guard against the short blonde chick who savagely murdered their friend with an energy drink.

I picture them saying, “He just wanted to turn up the tunes. Why’d you have to go and off him like that? That’s really cold, man.”

And of course, as usual, Google hasn’t helped ease my paranoia.

I know, I KNOW.

I’m being dramatic.

It’s just a roach.

JUST A GIANT FLYING ROACH.

It is pretty crazy, though, when you think of it.

I mean, how in the world can a girl be this terrified of something so small?

And, yes, that is what she said.

I’ve never been an arsty girl, in any sense of the word.

The only ounce of creativity I’ve ever possessed is with my words. Some may call it creative shit talking.

Tomato, Tomato.

I can’t even color inside the lines. I totally sucked at it when I was little, something I was always self-conscious about.

When Luca started coloring, I decided to give it another go. And, it became clear, that at 34 years old my ability to use a crayon has not improved. At all. I still can’t stay inside the lines if you paid me.

Back to my point…

We live in a 1930′s cottage-style bungalow, which has been added onto by it’s various owners throughout the decades. A second floor was added at one point, and then the attic was expanded later, adding one more small bedroom.

It’s a hodge-podge of history, this house, and I love it.

We considered buying a new place at the first of the year, something with a little additional space for our boys to destroy. But, we decided we could make it work for at least another couple of years, if we fixed all the shit that bugged us.

A new backyard, organizing, and my brilliant, if I do say so myself, idea of creating a kids’ art/work/leave mommy alone for the love of god stop touching me for one minute space.

I decided, rather than asking someone to do it for me, like I always do, I’d take it on myself and share it with you guys YOU’RE WELCOME!

Upstairs, outside the three bedrooms, there is a small common area to chill and watch TV. There’s a huge walk-in closet that opens up to this space. Up until now, we’ve used it to store shit.

You know, like boxes, yearbooks, picture frames, and dead bodies.

The previous owners installed an Elfa shelf system from The Container Store, a big bonus for what I want to do.

One night, after too much wine, a vision appeared to me. Much in the same way the Virgin Mary appears to people on grilled cheese sandwiches, only a little less bat-shit crazy.

I would turn the closet into a art/work space for my boys.

Perfect!

So, without further adieu (whatever the fuck that means), here’s part one of my closet to kid space renovation.

THE BEFORE:

The common area it opens up to with artwork by Thomas and Vivi Jacomini:

This is what I hope to turn this space into, and I’m one step ahead with the Elfa system already installed:

I’m still deciding what color to paint it.

And I’m going to attempt to cover the god awful floors with this:

It seems I am well on my way to success.

Things have gone incredibly smooth so far.

And, by incredibly smooth, I mean that when I attempted to change the light bulb it fell, bounced off my lip, crashed to the floor, and shattered into one million pieces.

I mean, honestly, who even needs a handyman?

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to grab an icepack for my fat lip.

I’ve always fancied myself a non-spanking kind of girl.

When it comes to parenting, that is. Wink.

Before I had kids, I was adamant I’d never use spanking as a form of discipline.

My dad went that route when I was little girl, and though I’m sure he meant well and it was all he knew, it’s impossible to erase those images…those feelings.

I want to do better.

Yes, I want my kids to respect me, but I don’t want them to fear me.

But, I’ll admit it, I have spanked Luca before, when I was pregnant with Leo.

We were walking out of a restaurant and, without a moment’s notice, he let go of my hand and began running….towards the street.

I yelled at him to stop.

And then I yelled again louder…more frantically.

But, Luca Gump didn’t listen, he kept right on running into a super busy intersection. Thankfully, it was an early Sunday morning, so most people were either in church or at home.

(My church is tacos and mimosas. PREACH!)

Anyway, I ran after him, as best a pregnant lady can run, and when I finally reached him he was standing smack dab in the middle of the street.

And then it happened.

HE LAUGHED AT ME.

So, without even thinking about it, I gave him a swift swat on the bottom.

You know the kind?

You see other mom’s do it to their kids in the checkout line at the grocery store. And you shake your head disapprovingly, your heart breaking for that poor, poor child.

You are aghast, thinking to yourself that some people shouldn’t be allowed to have kids.

This is especially true before you have kids of your own.

Because, before I had kids of my own, I was certain that would never be me. Nope, I would never be a spanker, or a swatter, or a whatever-er.

Then my kid turned three.

And he, with his sweet, innocent, nutella-stained face, climbed right up on my high horse along side me….and violently threw me off, into the muddy reality of parenting.

Splat.

So, while I still place myself firmly in the no-spanking camp, I do lose my shit from time to time, and do things I regret after I’ve found it.

Take yesterday for example…

I was grocery shopping with both boys. They were sitting side by side in one those SUV-sized car-style shopping carts. The ones that are impossible to navigate, especially through the narrow and fragile aisles of wine.

Luca was full of nervous energy, and was having a really hard time staying still. Try as he might, he just couldn’t keep his sticky little hands to himself.

He was poking his baby brother, laying on him, pushing him, and putting his big-baby-head in a headlock.

Luca, please stop, honey.

Poke.

Luca, if you want to go to soccer today you’d better leave him alone.

Push. Poke. Hit.

LUCA, CAN YOU NOT HEAR ME? LEAVE HIM ALONE NOW, OR I’M TAKING AWAY ALL YOUR DINOSAURS WHEN WE GET HOME.

Ahh, the life of a parent is pretty much identical to that of a mob boss. Threats and bribery all day long.

Then the shit hit the fan.

I was staring at the four million choices of bread, my back turned to the boys, trying to pick a super healthy one on which to spread a gallon of Nutella.

I heard Leo scream, and turned around just in time to see Luca taking a bite out of his shoulder. As I was about to go all lunatic-mom on his ass, he then proceeded to spit in his baby brother’s face. Then, just to make sure he’d inflicted an adequate amount of pain on the 23-pound human he has to share his mommy with, he pinched the shit out of him.

So, calm, cool, and collective me? She who does not spank and only uses her words?

Reached over and…..pinched Luca on the fat of his arm.

Hard enough to get his attention, but not hard enough to leave a mark…obviously.

“Owwwwww, Mommy, you pinched me!”

Well, now you know how it feels when you bully your brother.

“You are a terrible mommy!!” he shouted.

What? Say it louder, not enough people heard you!

“YOU ARE A TERRIBLE MOMMY! TERRIBLE MOMMY!”

Louder, Luca, that woman over there that’s taking four years to pick her avocados, didn’t hear you. Come on! You can do better! Louder!

Exasperated that his tactic wasn’t working, he sighed deeply.

And then came the lip quiver, followed by the tears. OH, THE TEARS!

“You made me cry!” he managed to get out, in between his dramatic sobs.

No! You made yourself cry. It is unacceptable to ever lay your hands on someone else, Luca! How many times have we been through this?

Then, the thought hit me like a ton of unripe avocados.

Isn’t that what I had just done to him? Indeed it was. Because, pinching your four year old totally qualifies as laying your hands on someone else…even if he did used to live in your uterus.

Sigh.

And then the regret washed over me.

When I’m rational, and in an unemotional moment, I’ll say that if you lay a hand on your child, because they have laid their hands on someone, you are a god damn hypocrite.

Bully meet Bully.

But, during those moments when I’m at a complete loss as to how to handle my kids, I have gone there.

No, I’ve never done anything terrible. I’ve certainly never pulled a come over here and bend over and I’ll give you something to cry about. But, is the quick pinch or swat on the bottom really any better?

Parenting is such a tough balancing act. I feel like I’m always walking a fine between being gentle and loving, yet still being firm enough to ensure they become compassionate, responsible, non-serial killer adults.

So, while I’m not proud of pinching my child in the middle of the produce department, I do cut myself some slack. Because, I am human, and I’m still learning everyday how to be a better parent.

Besides, I’m the first to apologize to my kid when I’ve screwed up. I think it’s crucial that our kids see that their parents mess up, too, and that no one is perfect.

Later that night Luca said to me, “Mommy, I just don’t know how to control myself sometimes!”

You know what, buddy, I don’t know how to control myself either, sometimes. But, you and I? We are good people, kiddo. And even good people make poor choices. Everyone does, and it’s totally fine, as long as we try our best to learn from them. You’re my first time being a mommy and I’m still figuring stuff out. Just like you are figuring out how to be a person in this big, confusing world. So, how about we both try to control our tempers, and use our words from now on? Deal?

Barely able to keep his eyes open any longer, he gave me a sleepy smile and mumbled, “Deal, mommy.”

I’m curious to see who breaks their end of it first.

Happy Friday!

Thanks for stopping by!

Also, if you happen to work for CPS, I am totally kidding about pinching my kid. As if!

xo

I’ve always been what they call a guy’s girl.

In high school, I felt much more at ease hanging out with the dudes.

Drinking cheap beer, and listening to gross boy jokes, always felt much less stressful than going shopping with the girls.

Part of this was surely due to the fact that I was never really into makeup, and all those other things girls are supposed to be into.

But, looking back, I’ve slowly come to realize that it had much more to do with how incredibly insecure I was, than with me actually digging beer-burps and fart jokes.

I felt unworthy to have really great girlfriends.

I’m not sure if that makes any sense. It’s never been an easy thing for me to articulate.

Back in high school, when it was just me and the guys? I never felt left out like I did with the girls.

Sadly enough, in hindsight, the male attention, the wrong kind of attention, was a huge part of that. I knew I had something to offer the boys…I knew how to make them like me. But, what did I have to offer to the girls?

If you’re thinking right about now, “Boy, that chick had some daddy issues,” you’d be correct, my friends.

Moving on…

The terribly tragic part was, for the most part, I was the one making myself feel left out. Most of it stemmed from my own issues and insecurities, that I was merely projecting onto others.

You know how it goes.

The, I’m feeling so fat today/I bet everyone thinks I look fat today thing. Or, the I’m not feeling like the funny girl today and what else could they possibly like about me shit.

We believe that other people see us through our own eyes.

In my defense, there were circumstances that made things harder for me, at an already difficult time in my adolescence.

I moved to a new city the summer before my freshman year and, culturally, it was the exact opposite of where I’d lived my entire life. And, if we’re being honest here, the girls were not all that accepting of my huge boobs, East Texas accent, and the insecure smile that was permanently plastered on my face. They were, to put it mildly, very slow to warm.

The boys offered me a slightly warmer welcome, eagerly accepting me and my above mentioned attributes. Obviously, this wasn’t because they wanted me to have the other half of their BFF necklace, or french braid my hair, but more because they wanted to….well, you know.

The popular girls did end up accepting me, finally, and I’m still great friends with some of them to this day.

But, despite the fact that I was in with the in-crowd of girls, I still felt very much alone a lot of the time. And still preferred to hang out with the guys.

I just didn’t get the beauty of a truly great female friendship, and all that it had to offer…all I had to offer.

I did some things that make me cringe today. When I think of them, I shake my head back and forth, frantic to push the memories and the guilt out of my conscious.

I kissed other girls’ boyfriends. Girls that I called my friends. I didn’t keep secrets as well as I should have. I changed my personality, like a chameleon, to fit in with whomever I was hanging out with.

I sabotaged.

To be fair, or maybe just to make myself look better to you guys, they had their way with my boyfriends, too. But, that still doesn’t make any of the things I did acceptable.

And, now I can’t get this out of my head.

Sigh. Such fucking poetry.

Anyway, where was I?

As I got older, and my confidence grew, I began to let my guard down and welcome the gift of a great girlfriend. I understood that it wasn’t about competing with my female counterparts, it was about supporting them. I figured out that those women who do try and compete with you, aren’t worth anyone’s time and energy. And, I finally stopped giving a shit if those types of people liked me or not.

I learned there are some truly wonderful women out there, who would do anything for their friends, and accept all of them, without a single ounce of  judgment.

And, bonus, I don’t even have to let any of them feel me up. They just like me…for me.

(Listen to me, all you young girls out there, male attention is insincere, fleeting, and NOT REAL. Repeat after me: I am better than that. I have so much more to offer.)

With age has come the wisdom that I have so much more to offer than big boobs and french kisses. And that someone can love and need me for all that I am…just as much as I love them and need them for all that they are.

I still dig hanging out with the guys. They are easy and can be way less judgmental.

And, I’m still not crazy about shopping and makeup, and all those other things women are supposed to be into. Though, I do appreciate a good mascara and great pair of shoes way more than I used to.

But, a funny thing has happened. And, by funny, I mean incredibly awesome.

At 34 years old, I have so many more girl-friends than I do guy-friends. I have this huge, amazing, awesome network of women that I love and cherish beyond measure. I’ve learned what being a true friend is all about, and I would do anything for my girls.

And, unlike high school, I’d never think of flirting with another woman’s man. But, I would kick them in the nuts if they even so much as looked my way…in that way.

Also, guess what?

My girls?

My wonderful, supportive, awesome girls…

They feel the same way about me.

And I am so fucking worthy.

I went on vacation this past weekend.

Rosemary Beach, Florida, to be exact.

My cousin has a house there.

It’s wonderful.

It rained off and on during our entire stay.

It was still wonderful!

We left poor Leo back in Houston. It’s easier, considering he’s still somewhat at the the I don’t know what the fuck is going on age.

Besides, we took Luca when he was Leo’s age, and he hated it…everything about it.

He hated the sand.

He hated the ocean.

He hated the men in Speedos.

(It’s possible I was projecting with the last one.)

Anyway, enough making myself feel better about ditching the baby and loving it, I’ll continue.

I had some serious doubts, in the days leading up to our trip, about how Luca would do on the plane. He’s sensitive to all things (which I LOVE), and, ugh, sadly enough, it never even crossed my mind that he wouldn’t completely hate it.

Way to believe in your kid, Allison.

But, the thought of Kim Jong…on a plane?

Someone hold me.

Okay, let go. Seriously. You’re grossing me out now.

So, after spending way too much money on a giant airplane bag 0′ tricks, and giving myself an ulcer from the anticipation, he ended up loving it.

Obviously.

Every single moment of it was pure bliss to him. From security, to take off, to landing…and the shitty apple juice they served him in between.

The ride was a turbulent one. So much so, that my frequent flier husband became queasy. I smiled on the outside through the non-stop bumping and shaking, and screamed at the top of my lungs on the inside.

Thank God for xanax.

Luca, on the other hand, thought playing bumper cars with the clouds was the best thing ever.

“Wheeeeeeeeeeee!” he shouted each time the plane felt like it was going to be torn apart, and ripped from the sky.

Thankfully, that was just my crazy talking again, and we arrived in the Sunshine State safely.

This was the sunshine state.

We were there with another couple, Glen and Steve (who bumped a couple of folks off my top 10 favorite people list), and their little boy. They have two more kids at home, but ditched them, the same way we ditched Leo.

All the kids had a blast together.

And the grown-ups, if I can call myself that, had an even drunker bigger blast.

The sun peaked out a few times a day, and we took full advantage.

There were some beautiful father-son moments.

Like, when my husband taught Luca how to ride a bike for the first time, with a broken chain. And the time he sent him barreling down a hill on a plasma car at full speed, head-on into a flower pot five times his size.

One thought that continuously crossed my mind while I was there, was that I wish all the anti-gay marriage morons could spend a weekend with this beautiful family.

Because, being around that kind of love, and seeing that they are no different than what some consider a traditional family? It’d pretty much be impossible to hold on to that kind of hate.

I’ve always taught Luca that families come in all different shapes and sizes. So, to him, being around a buddy who has two dads is as normal as being around a buddy who has a mom and a dad.

Because it is normal.

I’ve said it before, and *spoiler alert* I’ll say it again.

The only abnormal or unnatural thing about the gay marriage equation are the people who are against it. And, I’d almost feel sorry for them, with their small minds and tiny hearts (what a sad little world to live in), but their hatred and discrimination makes even an ounce of compassion impossible for me to feel.

The desire to kick them in the nuts comes much easier.

This vacation was the most carefree one I’ve had in a long time.

So much fun!

And, whaddya know, it taught me a few things, as well.

Like, I really need to have more faith and confidence in my kid, and go into each situation with a clean slate, not one based on any prior incidents.

I mean, if we were all judged by our past behavior, no one with stairs would ever even think of offering me a drink.

And…

Hate and discrimination are not innate characteristics. We are not born with them, they are learned.

My child, all of four years old, is wiser than most adults I know.

He doesn’t see a man with a women, a woman with a woman, or a man with a man, when he’s around other families. He sees love where there’s love, and feels goodness where there’s goodness.

Period.

I second guess my parenting at least four times a day.

Am I feeding them too much junk food?

Are they watching too much TV?

Do I yell too much?

Am I too impatient with them?

But, you know something?

When it comes down to the important things, the things that truly matter, I am so fucking proud of myself for teaching my boys what’s right.

Because, in the grand scheme of things, this is where it’s at, my friends.

Happy hump-day!

Thanks for stopping by!

xo

If marijuana is a gateway to heroin, then hand-holding and thigh-grazing is a gateway to sexual intercourse.

At least according to the state of Tennessee, whose Governor recently signed a bill forbidding Local Education Agencies (LEA’s), those required to implement Family Life Instruction (sex ed), from mentioning so called gateway sexual activities. Senate Bill 3310 was signed to strengthen an already existing abstinence-only bill.

So, what does the state of Tennessee consider a gateway sexual activity? Glad you asked. According to the fine print of the bill, it includes, but is not limited to, the touching of buttocks, breasts, and genitals, all deemed  “gateway body parts,” along with thigh grazing and, basically, any other part of the body. So in addition to putting the kibosh on contraception talk, the bill forbids educators from discussing “any gateway sexual activity or health message that encourages students to experiment with non-coital sexual activity.”

Non-coital sexual activity refers to, in teen-speak: first base, second base, third base, oral sex, and all that jazz.

The problem with this bill, and there are many in my opinion, is that the language is so vague that it also, without explicit mention, forbids an LEA (which includes schools, and services like Planned Parenthood) to discuss things such as hand-holding and kissing.

I’m sorry, but what?

Please excuse me for a moment while I pick my jaw up off the ground and gather my composure. 

When did we decide to teach our children that these acts are shameful? When, instead, we should be teaching them that sex, and all that comes with it, can be a wonderful thing, when done willingly, responsibly, and age appropriately, of course.

Simply avoiding anything and everything that’s remotely sexual in nature, certainly won’t magically remove the innate urge that we, as human beings, have to engage in these acts. In fact, I almost want my kids to know there are ways, other than intercourse, to satisfy their normal urges and curiosities.

I’ll never forget the first time I kissed a boy, and the funny feeling in my stomach that accompanied it. It felt good, and I liked it, even if I wasn’t exactly sure what it was. But, I didn’t go out and lose my virginity the next day, that didn’t happen until many, many years later. And when it did, I was safe about it, because I’d been educated to be safe.

In keeping with the drug analogy spirit of the bill (can one OD on sex?), I plan on approaching the drug talk with my boys, much the same way I do the sex talk.

For example, I will not sit my child down and tell him that all drugs will kill him dead in an instant. Because they won’t. And, if I approached it that way, I fear that the second my child tries pot at a party, and doesn’t keel over dead, he may think, “Hmmm, if my mom was lying about marijuana, then maybe she was lying about heroin and meth, too! So, it’s no big deal if I experiment with those, as well.”

I was never told kissing or hand-holding was bad, but I was taught the enormity of sexual intercourse, and all the consequences that come with it.

My point is, that these types of talks shouldn’t be an all or nothing approach. Let’s give our kids some credit, tell them the truth, and openly guide them through a very confusing time.

Do I want my teenagers to experiment with drugs and sex? No. But, ultimately, it’s their body and their choice. And it’s my job to arm them with information, rather than ignore it, to help keep them safe in whatever they decide.

My car has been in the shop for over a week.

My dealership hooked me up with a brand new loaner, to taxi my kids around, and make beer-runs.

They called me yesterday to let me know my car was all fixed up and ready to go.

Oh yay! Any chance I could just pick it up tomorrow? I have a million things to do today and also I need to swipe my husband’s American Express, unless you take hugs, high-fives, or ass-grabs as forms of payment.

My awesome dealership dude, Phillip, assured me this was not a problem, and told me to pick it up whenever I could.

Phillip is a trusting one.

Then I got hungry.

Then I had the hungry-girl idea to swing through Taco Cabana and pick up some tacos to shove down my throat.

Then the cashier told me that my tacos needed a little more time being tacoed, and asked me to pull-up some and wait.

After shouting, EXTRA PICO PLEASE, I nodded and pulled up three feet.

Pulling up should technically be much less risky than pulling out. Only, turns out, it’s not.

All of a sudden, I had a lady in a red sedan, on my bumper, threatening me with her scowl to pull forward…so she could get out. She had somewhere very important to be. Taco delivery? Probably.

So, I pulled up as far as I could without mowing down the margarita-sipping patrons, who were enjoying themselves on the patio.

Red sedan lady still couldn’t squeeze through, so her scowl became more scowley.

Fearing she would shank me with a stale tortilla chip, I knew I had to act fast.

Simple, I’ll just veer to the left a little, and pull up along side the hedges…OF DEATH.

I expected some leaves to lightly brush the front bumper. But, other than that, finding an unobtrusive spot to continue glaring into my rear-view mirror, wondering how it takes this fucking long to shove some beans and cheese into a tortilla and fold it, would be easy.

It went exactly like that.

And by exactly like that, I mean nothing like that.

When I steered the new car that was not mine to the right, I heard the worst sound ever.

After I came to my senses, and realized they weren’t slaughtering cows in the kitchen and turning them into fajitas, I knew I’d hit something bigger than a leaf.

Looking down through the window, I saw huge, thick branches, peaking out through the hedges…mocking me and my taco craving.

What the fuck kind of hedge has a god damn tree trunk inside of it? No big deal. I’m sure that noise was simply the branches of the death-hedge breaking. I’ll check it out when I get home. I’m sure nothing happened to the brand new car that’s not mine.

When I pulled up to my house, I brushed the chip crumbs and random pieces of fajita off my lap, and jumped out of the car.

And saw this…

Obviously.

When my husband got home from work, I forced alcohol on him and told him the news.

So, I think I’ll just tell them I have no idea what happened…that someone must have side-swiped it! When it was parked out front! That’s it!

After his eyeballs finished shooting daggers of shame through me, he asked me how old I was, and told me I had to tell the truth.

I crossed my arms and stomped away loudly.

Marrying someone super honest is probably awesome when it comes to stuff like banging hookers in Vegas on accident, but not so much when you wreck a loaner car from the dealership.

But, I took his stupid mature advice anyway.

I walked into the dealership today, with my big-girl panties on, and told them the truth.

I fucked up their car. The tacos were responsible. Everyone was fine. No one was hurt.

But, the god damn hedge didn’t have insurance.

Oh, internet.

YOU.

You’ve given me many things I don’t know how I lived without for so long.

Including fun, support, weirdness, a new job, passion, the giggles, the sads, so many really great friends, and a hell of a lot else.

To you, I am grateful for a whole new world.

And, though I’ll never be able to quit you, there are some things that you’ve given me that I would totally re-gift.

Or stomp up and down on, and then light on fire.

BECAUSE OH THE JUDGEMENT!

It has got to stop.

And, yet, HA!

Obviously, it won’t.

I just…just cannot understand, for the life of me, why so many make something out of nothing at all…about everything.

Which? By the way, is so much worse than making love out of nothing at all.

And I know just where to touch you…
And I know just what to prove.
I know when to pull you closer…
And I know when to let you loose.

(I cry every god damn time with that song.)

Anyway…

I don’t give a shit what you do with your life, as long as it’s not mean-spirited, and doesn’t hurt anyone else.

FOR EXAMPLE (obviously)….

The way other people parent their kids.

First off, and I’ll say this as nicely as possible, but that’s some nerve people have, thinking that sort of thing is any of their fucking business.

Now, personally, maybe miraculously, I’ve pretty much avoided any direct condemnation or judgement in regards to my parenting skills, though I’m sure things have been said behind my back (and to them, I offer a flick on the tip of their nose…if I can reach it).

Miraculous, indeed, that I’ve yet to experience the wrath of the know-it-alls, considering I’m a somewhat vocal about the 400 hours of television my kids watch. Or, the fact that I chose not to breastfeed my children and have the nerve to say that, in my case, breast was not best.

Though I’ve escaped it, I have witnessed the bullying (because, let’s be honest, that’s what it is) of many others for how they choose to raise their kids.

And, my god, if anything gets my 100% cotton, on-clearance, Target granny panties in a motherfucking bunch…it’s shit like that.

I don’t care if you nurse your toddler until his graduate program, let your kids cry it out, or co-sleep until they are driving.

Because as long as they are loved, and they know it, guess what?

BRAVO TO YOU!

We are all just trying to get through our days the best we know how.

And, really, if you have the time to chastise other people for their parenting choices, then maybe, possibly, you are neglecting yours so….na-na na-na boo-boo.

Also…

I don’t care what you read.

Lately, I’ve seen more than one rant about people reading 50 Shades of Grey.

And, while I respect peoples choice not to like it, I don’t respect it when they belittle someone for liking it.

I wasn’t crazy about it. I bought it and never finished it, only making it through the first half (skipping ahead to certain pages, of course), but I never picked it back up. Which, has more to do with the fact that my attention span is that of a June Bug, than anything else, I suppose.

The number one criticism is that the writing blows.

People are AGHAST!

Look, if it doesn’t float you boat or tickle your brain where it wants to be tickled, fine, whatever, no big deal! But, not everyone wants to read The History of the World, Parts I and II, when they get thirty minutes to unwind. Sometimes people, like me, want to turn their brains off and just…chill the fuck out.

When I read US Weekly or People, I know it’s not the most eloquent of publications, but that’s the point. My brain is tired of functioning at a high(ish) capacity all day long, so sometimes I like reading how Angelina Jolie is just like me and omg she even swipes her own Black American Express card through the swipe thingie at the store and shit sometimes.

Others have decided that all 50 Shades readers must have a dried up…umm…sex life.

And to this I say, or maybe some people just like to read and watch stuff about sex….because they LIKE TO READ AND WATCH STUFF ABOUT SEX.

Because we are human beings.

I can remember, when I was a young, setting the channel back button to quickly return to Nickelodeon…while I was watching Real Sex…in case my mom walked in.

The sex? We are wired to like it.

A lovely friend on Twitter said something I loved…paraphrasing here… “There is nothing feminist about bashing what another women kinks on.”

CO-SIGNED.

This shouting to the ground at everyone from a top our high horses is so mysterious to me, and so god damn negative! Gross.

Sigh. I could go on, because there are a million more it’s none of your fucking business discussions (hello, gay marriage!), both serious (like parenting choices), and trivial (like the 50 shades shit-show),

But, I’ll just end with this:

It’s so totally awesome, and valuable, to have an opinion (and discuss it with others)!

It’s so totally not awesome, and invaluable, to piss all over the opinions of others simply because their way doesn’t work for you.

Now, I’ll go ahead and climb down from my own very pretty high horse…

Thanks for stopping by…

xo