You're Only as Old as You Feel

We spotted a couple of cougars at the baseball game the other night, resplendent in their rhinestones and big hair, ready to bust out their best Sally O'Malley impersonation. Sean and I snickered and rolled our eyes and I told him to never let me dress like that when I'm that old. 

Then this morning, as I'm putting a butterfly pin in my hair, I think "I am too old to wear a butterfly pin in my hair. This looks ridiculous." Maybe if they made barrettes featuring calcium chews, now that would be age appropriate. The older I get, the more I repeat to myself that age is just a number, which is sometimes bullshit.

Age is just a number when it comes to have a positive outlook, bettering yourself mentally, physically and emotionally. In your personal likes and dislikes (if Granny wants to listen to Eminem, that is cool with me), in living life to it's fullest.

Age is most definitely not just a number when it comes to jeggings. Or short shorts or halter tops or nipple piercings (and I can not imagine my poor, pendulous feedbags with a piercing). Unless you are rocking it to a crowd of thousands, some things just become inappropriate at a certain age.

And some things become vital. Spanx. Primer. Bras. Kegels. The aforementioned calcium chews.

Even the vocabulary changes as you age. Valley speak was the hipster chatter* in my teenage years, now young people feel the need to abbreviate everything. It's gone from text speak (and even I'm guilty of the occasional LOL in casual correspondence) to abbreviating words while speaking. Totes adorbs. Totes adorbs? You are so lazy you can't sound out the other four syllables? That is jank. (Thank you H- for telling me about 'jank'. It let me avoid using 'bullshit' twice in one blog post).

I wonder if my mother secretly wants to punch me when I say 'dude' 400 times a day? I wonder if my daughter looks at me and thinks "You are way too old to be calling me dude."?

Maybe age really isn't a number, but a perception - what is or isn't age appropriate, what is or isn't 'too old' or 'too young'. Maybe those cougars were looking at me thinking "She really needs to loosen up."

But I stand by the part about the jeggings.

*I know 'hipster chatter' sounds ridiculous. But it was the first thing that came to mind and it made me feel like a crotchety old lady, so I'm going with it.

(By the by, apparently I inadvertently entered myself in a contest and now that I'm in it, I want to have a decent showing. If you're so inclined, head over to Circle of Moms and vote for SFC. There was a button to put on my blog, but I couldn't figure out how to do it - techno dummy that I am. You can vote once a day until May 16. If I win, I get something fabulous, like another button I can't figure out how to add. It would be more awesome if they were giving away something useful, like a canned ham. I LOVE ham.)

Henry the Pterodactyl

Henry's not a big talker. Mama. Dog. Bye Bye. Hello. Tickle tickle. Dink du, which is Henry for 'thank you'.

He prefers to point. And scream. A high pitched, ear splitting, asshole drawing up, brain bleeding SCREAM. When I encourage him to "use your words!" he looks at me like "Look, bitch. I can't say 'I'd really like for you to wind up this car and make it go for the one gazillionth time today'. I could say 'dog', but that's not really going to get it done, is it? So I'm going to scream, and if you don't respond, I will throw the car at you. And I'll aim for your face."

A very good mommy will come along and suggest that I teach him baby sign language, to cut down on the frustration - both his and mine.But that would require a) effort and b) reading and I am 1) lazy. I did try teaching him the sign for more, because much screaming takes place in the high chair, if I'm not getting food onto his plate fast enough. So I stood there making the sign and saying "More? Do you want more food?" And he sat there screaming ACK! ACK! (translation: WTF do you think I'm screaming for? Enough with your silly gestures, give me the cheese!).

Like most children, Henry saves up his very best screaming for restaurants. When taking the children out, we tend to frequent kid-friendly establishments (those that don't spit in your food just because you use 4,000 napkins and your table and the surrounding area looks like Motley Crue's hotel room after an all you can eat fried chicken and blow buffet). Even so, between Katie needing to use the bathroom every 10 minutes, and Julia jumping up and down and potentially vomiting on the table (I am so sorry, Chili's on Stratford Road), and Henry's screaming and ripping his placemat from the table and throwing everything he can get his hands on to the floor, well - dining out is not a relaxing experience. To quote my husband on a recent outing - "This is a fucking nightmare."


I remember being delighted when both girls were early talkers. On the flip side, they never shut up. Julia barely draws breath and goes seamlessly from one inane subject to the next. Katie can (and will) give you a very detailed synopsis of every Suite Life on Deck episode, including quoting dialog. They both sing (lovely voices, really. Really.) at FULL VOLUME, all the time. Even if they only know one or two lines, they will repeat those lines - over and over and over.

On second thought, scream on, my son.

10 House Rules

1. If you are going to touch your butt, wash your hands afterward.
2. Do not walk around with a bag on your head.
3. Do not eat the dog food.
4. Maximum 3 underwear changes (for no reason) in one day.
5. Just because you thought about wearing it, and then changed your mind, doesn't make it dirty.
6. Do not sleep with scissors or toe nail clippers.
7. Do not try to "make mommy's drink better" with the addition of anything.
8. Use your own toothbrush. Only in your mouth.
9. The dog's butthole is not a "button". She does not do tricks if you push it.
10. Do not wake someone up by jumping in the middle of their chest and yelling "SURPRISE!".

Worst Case Scenario

If you were sitting on your couch in the middle of the day, nursing your baby, and a crazy Hare Krishna rapist (it could happen) burst through the front door, do you know what you'd do?

I do.*

Because if there is some crazy ass scenario that puts me or my family in danger, I have imagined it. Not only have I imagined it, I have carefully deconstructed it, and worked through all the possible approaches to arrive at the best possible outcome. The best possible outcome usually involves me kicking someone in the balls or pulling some jujitsu move (I am not even sure what jujitsu is, I just like the sound of it).

Today, as I'm leaving Costco with the two littles and my mom, and Julia asks if she can ride home with grandma, I say 'sure'. Then I spend the entire ride home thinking about what I'm going to do if they have a (not very serious) wreck that I witness in my rearview mirror.

I'll pull over to the side of the road, using incredible driving skills to weave through traffic in a speedy yet not dangerous way. I'll leap from the car and start running....no, wait. I can't leave Henry in the car. I'll have to leap from the car and run around and get Henry out...no, wait. I will slide over the hood of the car to get to Henry's side. I've always wanted to do that!

So, I'll slide over the hood of the car and get Henry out of his seat. For the first time ever, he will not arch his back and try to throw his body out of the car while I struggle with the buckle. I will run, carrying him - actually, I will throw him over my shoulder and he will put his arms around my neck and hold on, he can do that! - down the side of the road to the car, where I will find them slightly shaken, but no worse for wear.

Then I remember I'm wearing sandals and silently curse my inability to run in a wedge. DAMN IT!

I am also prepared should a plane crash on our street, or it starts raining toads, or we're invaded by the Russians (a la Red Dawn - Wolverines!).

And yet, I'm not sure we have any Band-Aids.

*I envisioned this exact scenario dozens of times as I sat on the couch nursing my newborn Henry. The short answer is run like hell straight out the back door. After much reflection, and one ill advised dry run, I decided it was best to use the gate to get out of the back yard, rather than jumping the fence.