A Book, A Contest, And a Hell of a Sandwich

You know that saying, “Jack of all trades, master of none”? That’s me right now.

Actually, that’s a bit of a stretch.

Overwhelmed Mother of four who is dropping balls right and left, who has abandoned Weight Watchers, who hasn’t cooked a vegetable this calendar month, but is surprisingly well versed in this season’s talent on both American Idol and The Voice. Who may also have a teeny tiny simultaneous crush on Blake Shelton, Adam Levine, and Harry Connick Jr.

Well, yes, that sounds about right.

I was talking to someone recently, describing how I feel a little overextended. And by talking, I mean crying. I don’t know if it was the twitching of my eye or the dusting of confectioner’s sugar across my chin, but she hit me with some hardcore Oprah.

“You know what Oprah says. ‘You can only do three things well at one time.’”

Fucking Oprah.

I hate it when she’s right.

And she’s always fucking right.

Except for the time she laid into James Frey about A Million Little Pieces. She went too far that time.

So I thought about what three things I’m doing well in my life right now.

Eating? Yes. I’m eating semi-well, but I’m chasing two of three meals a day with chocolate. And I now need a late afternoon coffee to get me through the dark hours otherwise known as homework, baths, dinner, and bedtime. You know, the quality family hours. Also, I’ve made this ironclad contract with myself that pizza should be consumed with beer. And beer goes best with two slices of pizza + the cheese from Waldorf’s pizza.

So eating? Maybe not so well.

Sleeping? Yes, I’m sleeping. But every single morning at 4 AM, the cat pushes the bedroom door open, jumps onto the bed, climbs across my husband and begins grooming my hair and face with her long claws and her sandpaper tongue. And it fucking hurts. And her cat breath stinks. I have to envelop myself in a cocoon of covers, but I’m mildly claustrophobic, so as soon as I start panicking that I can’t breathe, I peel the covers back and BOOM! That bitch is on me again.

So sleeping? Not doing it well.

Wifely duties? I’ve been wearing flannel pajama bottoms like it’s my job. I pair them with a hideous bright blue sweatshirt with a penguin emerging from a Superman emblem on the front. It came with the entry fee to a local five mile race. It’s as comfortable as it is unflattering.

So wifely duties? Negative.

Mom stuff? I’m on top of the sorting, the washing, and the drying of the laundry. The folding? Not so much.

Would you like to have a seat?

Would you like to have a seat?

I’ve announced, “It’s breakfast for dinner!” at least four out of seven nights a week since…oh, I don’t know…Thanksgiving. We are down to one presentable pair of pants for each of my kids. And by presentable I mean I fully expect you to ignore the gaping hole in the left knee and the fact that said pants are short enough that my kid’s ankles are showing.

All things Mom? Not setting the world on fire.

Exercise schedule? I was fully prepared to run on the treadmill the other day. I noticed that the snow-blower is parked directly in the treadmill’s path on my back patio. It looks like it weighs five gazillion pounds. It’s on wheels, and I probably could have tried to move it. But that seemed like a lot of fuss, so I ditched my run and headed straight to the fridge to bust out four rectangles of chocolate. Oh, come on, it was dark chocolate.

Working out? Meh.

Breathing? Involuntary breathing is a no-brainer. Yoga-matching-my-movements-to-my-breath-breathing? I suck. I keep holding my breath in yoga class when something hurts. And don’t roll your eyes, that shit is hard. And every time my instructor tells me to be present and bring my breath to where I feel uncomfortable, I find myself wondering if that means I should blow on my left hip and then I wish I were somewhere else. Eating chocolate. Yes, dark chocolate. Jeez.

So, breathing? Don’t hold your breath.

Writing? I have so many stories. So very many stories. If you’re Facebook friends with me, you’ve probably noticed that my status updates are breaking records for number of characters used to communicate one stinking thought. And, yes, I did see M. Night Shymalan, and yes, I did lean across an unsuspecting Waldorf and scream, “You are the BEST! The BEST!” And I didn’t feel at all embarrassed except when I added, “Woohoo, go Philly!” I’ll admit, that was possibly the geekiest thing I’ve ever yelled across my oldest child at a famous movie director. But I like to think he appreciated it. Is this a blog post begging to be written? Absolutely. Add it to the list. The list right below the Costco list that is growing faster than my kids, who don’t own a pair of pants that actually fit them. Oh, but do me a solid and add “Superfruits” to that Costco list because we’re all out. Thanks.

So, writing? On Facebook, yes. Stringing sentences together to create paragraphs containing a beginning, middle, and end? Nope.

If I think hard–really hard–about something I’m doing well right now, I can come up with one thing. And it’s three words, so it may have to count as three things.

1. Buffalo

2. Chicken

3. Sandwiches

Boom!

We’re eating them once, sometimes twice, a week. And the older boys only complain that they’re too spicy to consume every other time I make them. So, I’m killing it—half the time—with the buffalo chicken sandwiches.

Take that, Oprah.

You know who is doing three things well right now?

My husband. Yes, B&B is handling his juggling act with ease, and he has JUST as big a crush as I do on Adam, Blake, and Harry. Except he looks way hotter than I do right now. Because of the Weight Watchers fail/no vegetables consumed/eating my feelings in chocolate situation.

This summer, it will be twenty years since he, a very tall, deeply tan, alarmingly handsome boy whose name I didn’t yet know, leaned over to me and said, “I’d like to buy you a drink, but the bar just closed. Where will you be on Saturday night? I’ll make sure I’m there too.”

I haven’t been able to shake him since and, believe me, I’ve tried. If I had to list three things he is doing well as an individual, they are three things that also make us work as a unit.

1. He is the bomb diggity of all Dads. He plays with the kids. And has actual fun doing it. And he likes to help them with their homework if they have questions. The dreaded math questions are his favorites to answer. He reads to them, he bathes them, and he disciplines them. Not as well as I do, but still, he is an active participant in the raising of our children.

2. He has interests outside of mine. For instance, I find Ultimate Fighting barbaric. He cannot get enough of it. He is an adrenaline junky. I prefer predictable (read boring) routine. He needs to understand how things work. I just like to know that things are indeed working. He hates doing the dishes. Oh, wait, that’s not a good example.

3. He lets me do my thing. (My thang?) Whatever my thing is, he supports me. These days, that thing is writing. He is even supportive when I write about him.

I wrote a story about B&B and his hobbies, and I got lucky enough that it landed in a book. And I did not throw him under the bus. Not this time at least. It is surrounded by hilarious stories written by some of the funniest broads on the internet. It’s all about the men in our lives. It’s called I Just Want to Be Alone, and it’s the sequel to I Just Want to Pee Alone.

Real books. That is my thing. I’m lucky to have a husband who supports my writing, and I am so enormously grateful to Jen of People I Want to Punch in the Throat for carving out a spot for me in both of these anthologies.

I really want you to do a girl a favor and buy the new book.

I said this to my husband. I said it because it's true.

I said this to my husband. I said it because it’s true.

It’s funny. And laughter is good. It heals. It gives you laugh lines. Laugh lines are the sign of a happy person. Buy this book. Laugh. It makes me happy to make you happy. Help me help you.

I’ve teamed up with my co-authors from Pennsylvania to give away five copies of I Just Want to Be Alone for free. Meredith of The Mom of the Year, Stephanie of When Crazy Meets Exhaustion, Christine of Keeper of The Fruit Loops, and I are bound by the polar vortex nightmare that has been this PA winter. We are bound by a love of story-telling that inspires us to look at the chaos of our lives–polar vortex included–through the lens of humor. Most importantly, our stories are bound together–polar vortex not included–in the pages of this kick ass book.

Four winners will receive a copy of I Just Want to Be Alone. One especially lucky winner will receive a copy of the book and a $25 Amazon gift card. I know. Totally awesome. If contests are your thing, you can enter this contest to win the book by clicking on the Rafflecopter below. The contest ends at midnight on March 26th, 2014, and winners will be contacted via email. To enter, you must be 18 or older and live in the continental U.S.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to make dinner. Guess what we’re having?

Is Anybody Listening?

Fact: Nobody in this house listens to me.

Observation: When someone chooses not to listen to me, that someone gets hurt.

Fact: Not as the result of telepathy or voodoo, nor by my hand.

Observation: I don’t particularly like eating humble pie, but holding back the words “Well, I told you so, numb nuts,” can be just as tough.

Another Fact: I run.

Observation: It keeps me sane.

Fact: B&B runs.

Observation: This format is annoying, so I’m just going to tell the story. But first, one more fact.

Fact: Someone didn’t listen to me. And that someone is hobbling around with an injury. Related? You be the judge.

***

I run. I just do. For lots of reasons. Mostly to cope with the fact that no one listens to me and then people get hurt.

Three years ago, you non-runners may have noticed an ugly footwear trend among the running community. The Five Finger shoes. As if you didn’t already have enough reason to laugh and point at us. They really are aesthetically ridiculous. I was among the first laughing and pointing.

“Look at that fool tricked out with those ridiculous things on his feet. They aren’t sneakers, they are foot gloves! Freakishly ugly foot gloves. I know he has toes, but I don’t need to see each little piggy in all its individual glory.”

I’d done the same thing with the capri trend back in 1998.

“What exactly is she wearing? The choices are simple: shorts or pants. Please commit to one, you just cannot have it both ways.”

I was guilty in the year 2000 of laughing and pointing at Uggs as well.

“$100 for those ugly clodhoppers? Save your money. They’ll never make it beyond this season.”

I type this wearing my capri pants and Ugg boots, while choking down a slice of humble pie with a side of irony. I don’t know where my writing will take me, but I’m fairly sure it won’t land me a gig penning fashion trends.

Have you ever slipped your feet into a pair of Uggs? Sweet Jesus. It’s like walking on warm clouds.

Capris are a genius solution to the tricky bastard I call knee fat. It happens to all of us sooner or later, ladies. As luck would have it, the capri trend arrived before the invention of the shorts with the 3” inseam. Because, post childbirth, 3 inches is the exact measurement that my butt cheeks now rest, collecting perspiration, along the backs of my thighs.

Just like capris and Uggs, the benefits of those Five Finger shoes outweigh the curb appeal. So, yes, of course I bought them. And they were expensive, so luckily the humble pie that came along with them was free. I also bought a pair of racing flats, which are not nearly as ugly, but have arguably less support. Probably not, but this is my story, so I’m rubber/you’re glue. I purchased both pairs with the understanding that I would transition to my running in them slowly and gradually. An abrupt change would almost definitely result in immediate injury.

No problem. People remark to me all the time, “You’re so patient,” and, “I don’t know how you do it, I don’t have the patience,” and, “Sure, your house is a pigsty, but hey, are those Uggs you’re wearing?”

I thought I had enough patience to parent four sons AND gradually transition my running from stability shoes to barefoot.

Not So Fun Fact: I was wrong. It takes all my patience to parent the kids.

I prematurely wore my racing flats during a 5K race. And developed plantar fasciitis as a result. In exchange for my stupidity, I earned a 3 month mandatory break from running. It happened to be the exact same 3 months that the boys were on summer vacation, fueling B&B’s ongoing argument that “there is no god.” I also can’t walk around with bare feet. Ever. Even in my house. Which is actually OK because Legos underfoot hurt. Also, it fuels my argument, “the first to feel the crumbs under his feet should be the first to wield the Swiffer.” That’s not working out as well as I’d hoped.

What’s the lesson here?

Be careful what you mock or you may find yourself injured while your children are home for 90 consecutive days.

***

So, B&B runs. For lots of reasons. Most of them involve fancy concepts like resting heart rates and VVO2 max.

One day he whizzed past me in the kitchen. “I’m going to get racing flats.”

“Oooh, that’s a terrible idea. You need patience for that,” I laughed.

Never once in his life has anyone ever accused my husband of having patience. Is he resourceful? Yes. Is he relentless? Hell, yes! Patient? Never ever ever ever.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Transitioning to racing flats requires patience. I rushed into it. That’s how I developed plantar fasciitis.”

“You had plantar fasciitis?”

Do you see what I mean? NOBODY LISTENS TO ME.

“Yes, dear. Don’t you remember I couldn’t run for 3 months? And I slept in that godforsaken sock in the heat of summer? It’s why I am wearing flip flops in the house right now. It’s why I always wear shoes in the house. I can’t go barefoot ever again.”

“I thought you just liked flip flops. Anyway, I’m getting the racing flats.”

“I’d like to go on record as opposing this idea. I have really high arches. You have flat feet. We are both at high risk for developing plantar fasciitis, and if I don’t have the patience to do it properly, there’s no chance you do.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“It’s an irrefutable fact, Jack.”

“Don’t call me Jack. Where did you get your information about flat feet being prone to plantar fasciitis? I’d like the source, please.”

“I don’t know. I read it somewhere. 3 years ago when I had plantar fasciitis.”

“If you can’t cite the source, maybe you made it up.”

“Why would I make it up?”

“To win this argument.”

“I am not trying to argue with you. I’m on your side.”

“It doesn’t sound like it.”

“I’m on the side of plantar fasciitis sucks, and I don’t want you to develop it. That’s your side.”

“Hmm.”

Within a few hours, he was the proud new owner of racing flats. Because nobody. listens. to. me.

And he ran in them. And he didn’t develop plantar fasciitis. I sat one morning and reflected on this. I guess I was wrong. I was actually relieved to be wrong.

I was poised to eat my self-imposed slice of humble pie when B&B limped into the kitchen. “My foot hurts.”

“Did you drop something on it?”

“No, it hurts on the bottom.”

“Did you step on a Lego?”

“No, it hurts where my arch meets my heel.”

“Ooooh. Shit.”

“What?”

“That sounds like plantar fasciitis.”

“What?”

Here we fucking go again.

“Don’t you remember? Plantar fasciitis?! I had it 3 years ago!”

“Hmm.”

And out he hobbled. And I placed the humble pie on the shelf. Just in case.

After extensive internet research, several borrowed library books, and urgent phone conversations with family members who are also health care professionals, B&B announced to me, “I have plantar fasciitis.”

I have no poker face. So I met his declaration with a mix of facial acrobatics, none of which are available to the Botox Community, who by the way are the same bitches who can pull off those shorts with a 3” inseam post-kids. Sure, I’ve got deep creases, but I corner the market on facial expressions while I simultaneously rock my capris. So there.

It’s really hard not to say, “I mother fucking done told you this would happen,” when I’m trying to show my spouse empathy. Empathy is the one where you can understand what the other person is going through because you’ve been through it yourself, right?  Also I am burdened with this thing called foresight. And in the instant that he announced his injury, I immediately had visions of days, weeks, months of surliness and an existence devoid of post-exercise endorphins punctuated by a mantra of, “there is no god.”

Thank you baby Jesus I was wrong. Not about the plantar fasciitis, about the weeks and months of surliness. B&B is a man with a plan, and his plan was a cortisone injection.

To prepare himself for the procedure, he watched YouTube videos of people receiving the cortisone injection. Have you ever heard an animal wailing and writhing in agony? No? Watch YouTube videos of people receiving cortisone injections directly into their heels. I beg you. Because that’s what I liken the human screaming to. B&B watched them throughout the week at maximum volume so I could appreciate what he’d have to endure.

It was almost as loud as the screaming in my head because this entire injury could have been avoided.

But nobody in this house listens to me.

So I run.

It doesn’t always do the trick.

Which is why I write.

And occasionally, somebody says, “Hey, you have some funny stories. Can you write one for me…and please spell out your numbers…so I can publish it in my book of funny stories?”

And that just happened! Which is not only tremendously pleasing to me, it also silences B&B’s “there is no god” argument for like 2, pardon me, two whole hours.

Cover 2500x1563

I Just Want to Be Alone. It’s true. It’s also the name of the new humor anthology containing one of my stories. It’s a funny one involving B&B. Not the one where he dresses like a witch and I pound cupcakes and fantasize about becoming obese just to get some one-on-one time with Bob Harper. A different story, but equally funny.  It’s available for pre-order now! So, now’s your chance…

Pre-order I Just Want to Be Alone. Be a pal.

Please listen to me. The book is a scream, and you need to own it.

I would hate for you not to listen.

You might just catch plantar fasciitis if you don’t.

Worth the risk? You be the judge.

I Just Want to Pee Alone

Holy crazy year, Batman. And it’s only March.

It feels like only a week ago that B&B hacked every branch off our Christmas tree in the middle of the family room after vowing not to water it for the full month we gave it a home.

Ironically, that’s where this story begins…

So, Christmas came and went. And B&B committed to an outside-the-box approach to removing our Christmas tree. I wrote about it, and my piece appeared on The Huffington Post in early January. A few days later, I received an email from Jen, who writes the blog People I Want to Punch in the Throat. She had read my Christmas tree horror story, liked it, and was offering me the opportunity to submit an original essay to her for an anthology she was compiling.

Jen skyrocketed to blog fame after her Elf on the Shelf post went viral in December, 2011. It resonated with me because I refuse to participate in those elf shenanigans. I view moving that elf around the house as the equivalent of playing the tooth fairy. Every night. For a solid month. And I  am a sorry-ass excuse for a tooth fairy.

Jen’s first book, Spending the Holidays with People I Want to Punch in the Throat, became an Amazon best seller and sold over 10,000 copies in its first 3 months of availability.

She is a giant in the blogosphere.

And an overall hilarious human being.

Let me see….let me see….did I want to be affiliated with Jen?

Oh, hell, yeah.

As a matter of fact, I petted the computer monitor when I read her email. Literally reached out and stroked it.

Was I at all nervous about my submission? Of course I was.

But not abundantly so. Between B&B and the boys, there is never a shortage of absurd material around which I can craft a story.

Meanwhile, I’d already been invited by Allison Tate and Lindsey Mead to participate in This is Childhood. They are two of my absolute favorites…as writers and women, and I was indeed verklempt that Lindsey had reached out to me.

Beating on my breast, Tarzan-style, I declared, in my best Oprah-shout,

“2013 will henceforth be referred to as The Year of the Collaborative Effort!”

Then, I floated about my business, patiently awaiting inspiration, both funny…for Jen…and poignant…for Lindsey.

While I was dancing on clouds, I received a text from my cousin. Her Dad, one of my favorite Uncles, had just suffered a massive heart attack, and we were instructed to prepare for the worst.

My entire family and countless friends collectively held our breath and said our prayers for a very long four days.

It was during that time that Little Sister’s husband called me. He and I are super close, but he calls me only in times of crisis. From the mall. When he needs help with Christmas, birthday, and Mother’s Day gift advice for Little Sister.

“I’m sending you a picture of two robes. Which one should I buy her?”

“I’m texting you a picture of two watches. Which one looks more like her? Please reply in the next 45 seconds because I’m holding up the line waiting for your answer. No pressure. Just hurry up.”

Little Sister’s birthday is in May, right before Mother’s Day. And Christmas had just passed. I was still sweeping up the pine needles to prove it. So, I was alarmed by his call.

He told me, “She couldn’t call you. She is a mess. We got a call from the dermatologist today. She was just diagnosed with malignant melanoma.”

“Wait…..What?”

Silence.

“What did you just say?”

He said: “Cancer. I said your sister has cancer.”

I didn’t hear too much after that. I know he kept talking. And I kept saying, “Mmm hmm. Mm hmm. OK. Mmm hmm. Sure.”

I hung up with him and eased myself down onto the sofa. There aren’t many places to hide in my house, so B&B found me there a few minutes later.

“What was that about?”

I whispered, “She has cancer. He called to tell me my sister has skin cancer.”

Two days later, we lost Uncle Bob. We had felt it coming, but the news still levelled us.

Little Sister flew herself and her stupid cancer across the country to be here for the funeral. I don’t really do church. For a litany of reasons, not the least of which is that my mind wanders, and all I think about is how-many-things-I-could-be-doing-right-now. But I listened a little bit that day. One of Little Sister’s oldest and dearest friends, whose voice is reee-diculous, sang at the church service. And my cousin gave a beautiful eulogy.

After the church stuff was over, we had a good old party in Uncle Bob’s honor. A “sure, I’ll have a cocktail in the middle of the day” kinda party. Everyone took turns telling stories about him. We celebrated his life, laughing until tears ran down our cheeks. I don’t pretend to know what happens to the human spirit after we die. But, it certainly felt like part of him was there with us that afternoon. In the anecdotes we told. In the love we shared for him. In the legacy he’s left in his children and grandchildren…and so many more whose lives he touched.

I sat next to Little Sister, whose stupid cancer was an uninvited intruder in her young body. And I found myself hoping that she would be open to receive all of the positive energy and love from the people in that room. And just maybe it could knock that stupid-ass cancer right the hell out of her.

Here is what i thought…

Dear Universe,

It’s Bethany. With all due respect, this melanoma nonsense is downright horse shit. Little sister has 3 kids. And those kids need their mother. So work your magic on this piece-of-shit cancer.

Also, dear universe, if you could help me locate my funny, I’d be super duper grateful. I have that essay due. You know. To Jen.

So, F the cancer. And send the funny. Cool? Cool.

I realize it doesn’t work that way, but the yoga is really affecting my judgement recently.

I managed to pen something and send it to Jen before my carriage turned back into a pumpkin.

Little Sister flew back home, where she had a follow-up procedure and some blood work done. She called to say they’d gotten all of the cancer during her procedure.

Thank fucking God. And/or the Universe.  

Then Jen e-mailed me to say my essay had made the cut for her book.

Holy shit, right?

So, I immediately reverted back to my Oprah impression, announcing

“2013 is the Year of the Collaborative Effort!”

My sweet Interrogator proved the perfect muse for my February This is Childhood piece.

And our anthology, appropriately titled I Just Want to Pee Alone, was just published.

IJWTPA

Several of the contributors to the anthology announced its availability on Friday. When I woke up Saturday morning, I was greeted with this…

#1 Amazon Best Seller. Oh Hell Yeah

#1 Amazon Best Seller. Oh Hell Yeah

You know how it’s great to have the smallest house on the block?

You’re reading the smallest house right now. The tiniest blog in the bunch.

I am supremely lucky to have been a voice in the writing series that allowed me to express myself in a cerebral style. This is Childhood introduced me to a group of women who’ve been an invaluable support system and sounding board these past few months.

And I’m eternally grateful to Jen for the opportunity she’s given me to be a contributor to this hilarious anthology. I will always pet the computer monitor in gratitude when her name appears in my email inbox.

Buy the book. You will laugh.

Don’t believe me? Read this review.

Here’s to 2013, the year of the collaborative effort.

And, as always, F U, CANCER.

 

The Irony is Everywhere

ironyiseverywhere

“So, can I have a Facebook account?”

I look at Waldorf and immediately laugh in response to his question, “Haha! No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s illegal for you to have a Facebook account. You’re only 11 years old.”

“Oh,” he digests this information.

“And Facebook is my territory,” I add.

“Oh, don’t worry. I don’t want to read what you write,” he says with a smile.

Indeed you do not. You’d be none too pleased.

“OK, can I have a Twitter account?” he asks.

“No again.”

“Why not?”

“It’s also illegal for you to have a Twitter account at 11 years old. Plus, the internet is full of strangers. Dad and I don’t want you connecting with strangers online. It’s dangerous.”

***

I stand in the back of the school auditorium. Grinning and clapping my hands. Homa Tavangar, author of Growing Up Global, has just finished speaking to a group of girls at my kids’ school.

As the students file out of the auditorium, I head toward the stage, my copy of Growing Up Global in hand, eager to meet Homa in person. Hoping she’ll sign my book.

I’ve seen her picture and know her writing voice. She’s seen my picture and knows my writing voice as well. But this is the first time we’ve been in the same room together.

I smile broadly, and her grin mirrors mine. “It’s so nice to finally meet you in person!” we say simultaneously.

She is warm and engaging. She’ll be back at school to introduce the screening of 10×10’s Girl Rising on March 13th. We speak briefly about the film, and she signs my book.

How do I know Homa? We follow each other on Twitter. And we’ve shared a handful of emails.

Essentially, we are two strangers.

Who connected online.

It’s ironic, isn’t it?

***************

“Kenyan, did you start your science project yet?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s due in 2 weeks. Maybe now is a good time to start.”

“OK.”

“What are you going to invent?” I ask. “Something you need in your everyday life that we don’t have?”

“Yes.”

“OK. So what do you need that we don’t have?”

He considers my question. “A pool. So I can swim.”

“Hmm. Not really an invention.”

“A TV in my room?” he suggests.

I shake my head, “This isn’t a wish list, Kenyan. It’s problem solving. Identifying a need and coming up with a solution.”

His eyes light up, “Well, I forget to take my medicine sometimes. Maybe I’ll invent something to help me remember.”

“Good thinking.”

“And I forget to floss,” he continues.

“OK.”

“Hey! Maybe I’ll build a super toothbrush holder that can hold my medicine on one side and my floss on the other side! Because I always remember to brush my teeth!”

“Bingo! Get to it!”

“I’m going to call it The Remind-O-Tron.”

“It’s catchy, Kenyan. And how can you forget the Remind-O-Tron, right?”

***
Ding.

I look down at my phone to read the text I’ve just received. It’s from a Mom from school. A friend.

“Hey, the Kenyan told me he left his science experiment at home. Want me to come pick it up?”

SON OF A BITCH.

“No. Thank you for offering. I’ll bring it to him.”

I text B&B,

“The Kenyan left The Remind-O-Tron at home.”

“Oh no. You mean he FORGOT The Remind-O-Tron?”

“Yes. That’s what I mean.”

And no. The irony is not lost on me.

*******************

In my sternest voice, I tell them, “Boys, we are at the dinner table. Haven’t I made it clear that the place to talk about pee and poop and butts and penises is in the bathroom? Please stop the potty talk at the dinner table.”

“Sorry, Mom,” comes the chorus from around the table.

“Can I just say one thing?” the Interrogator asks earnestly.

“Yes, Interrogator. You may.”

“FART!!!!!!”

The entire table, B&B included, erupts in laughter. The Interrogator breaks into his 6 year old smile. The one with the adorable dimples and the gap where his two front teeth used to be. Unable to help himself, and thrilled with his brothers’ laughter, he throws his head back and yells again, “FFFFFFAAAAAAARRRRRRRTTTTTT!”

***

“So boys, Mommy has something very exciting to tell you!”

The Interrogator and the Verb look up at me from across the dinner table. We’re not eating yet. They are too busy scratching the table up with their Lego figurines, who are engaged in battle.

“Did you get us a new Lego set?” the Verb asks in his husky voice.

“Did you get us our own iPad’s?” the Interrogator inquires.

“No. And no. You know how Mommy writes stories sometimes?”

“I thought that was email,” chimes the little one.

“I thought that was texting,” says the big one.

“It’s not email. Or texting. Well, sometimes it is. But Mommy likes to write stories.”

“About us?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“Do you make me a red power ranger in your stories?” the Verb wonders.

“Am I Captain America in your stories?” the Interrogator demands.

“No. And no. They’re just funny stories. Anyway, Mommy wrote a story and it’s going to be published in a real book!”

“What’s the name of your book, Mom?”

“The title is I Just Want to Pee Alone.”

The Interrogator heaves with laughter and slaps his palm against the table, scattering the Legos. The Verb laughs that laugh B&B loves the most. The one where he sounds just like Snoopy from Charlie Brown.

“Ha hahahahahahaha! Ahhhhh hahahahahahahaha!”

“You did potty talk at the dinner table, Mom. Pee is potty talk. No dessert for you.”

“Ah hahahahahaha!”

The irony is indeed everywhere.

But I’m too excited to care. Jen of People I Want to Punch in the Throat has compiled an anthology of hilarious stories by female bloggers, and I’m thrilled that I’m among them.

What did I write about? Well, you’ll just have to buy it and read for yourself.

I Just Want to Pee Alone

Don’t you too? Available this spring.

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Our This is Childhood Series continues with Tracy of Sellabitmum talking about how different age 7 has looked on two of her three daughters. Tracy is a Minnesota Mom whose blog is one of my favorites. Her pictures are stunning, and her reflections on age 7 moved me to tears. Please read her here.

This is Childhood, ages 8, 9, and 10 continues for the next three weeks when the talented Amanda MageeDenise Ullem, and Lindsey Mead take on those years.