Another Penis Story (when it’s ironic that I should be telling menopause stories at the same time)

Their father put them to bed but then the 4 year old wanted to whisper something to me.

I only want to talk to you about my pee-pee Mom, not Dada.  Just you.

Okay, so did Dada ask you something about your pee-pee.

No, but I want to talk to you, Mom.

So what is it?

I found a little ball on my pee-pee.  Let me show you.  Whips out his parts.  And grabs ahold of a testicle to show me.  What is this?

It’s a testicle Honey.  There are two of them.  All boys have them.

What is it for?

Hmmmmm, I don’t have the words that you would understand yet.  It’s part of your private parts.

Does it hold my pee until I have to go potty?

Okay sure.  That and other things.  Did you just find this today?

Yes, I play with it in my bed all the time.

There you go, another lovely episode of Little Boy is Infatuated With His Penis.  Brought to you by the old mom who has hot flashes almost every night now and says things like “Don’t hug me so hard, my bones are fragile.”

The 10 Worst and Best Things about being an older MOM of babies (and having adult children at the same time)

I saw this list on Huffington Post Today:  The 10 Worst and Best Things about Being an Old Mom.  Some of it made me laugh because I am 46 and have a 4 and a 3 year old.  But some of it is too politically correct when having toddlers as an old Mom is not nearly so CLEAN.  And some of it doesn’t quite fit my life as I also have an 18,20, and 21 year old.  Two separate families.  22 years of children or pregnancy.  15 more to go.  That makes me feel tired.  I should go lay down.

So here’s my own version of this list:

10 Worst Things:

  1.  A couple of people have asked me if the older boy is my grandchild.  First I snicker and say, “No, and he has a younger brother too.”  And sometimes “I call them a medical malfunction” or “birth control doesn’t always work” or “I’ll be one of those 65 year olds who have a surprise pregnancy.”  Most often though I snort through my nose and say “The girls won’t be having babies because they were RIGHT THERE (and gesture toward my vagina) when the boys were born.”  I am not sure if the laughter is because it’s funny or uncomfortable to talk about my vagina.
  2. Small font.  OMG, yes.  I can’t read anything without looking under my glasses and finding the perfect distance from my face.  There is also small print in video games and on cereal boxes and the boys want to know what EVERYTHING says.  Or where it was made.  I gave up and now I just make shit up.
  3. I have to take care of myself because the moms at the preschool ARE MY OLDER CHILDREN’S FRIENDS.  And when the grandparents of the preschool kids are doing the pick up I fit right in.  I also pride myself on throwing the little one over my shoulder while dragging the other out of a snowbank and dragging him to the minivan.  Then I take ALEVE when I get home and find my heating pad.  But for a good minute there I looked amazingly athletic.  I will be doing my retirement party with the little one’s high school graduation party.
  4. I went to my doctor last week because my hair is falling out and I feel like shit.  Perimenopause and two babies has thrown me into an unbalanced hormone hell.  I also can’t do all nighters with sick babies.  There are days when I have more patience, but never as much energy and so it evens out.  I can’t imagine how I stayed home with 3 little ones and now I make excuses to go to work to sleep on my office couch.
  5. I haven’t been able to sit and read a book during the day in 21 years.
  6. I haven’t been able to poop without having a conversation with someone in 21 years.
  7. I never did get to travel and party.  Now I’ll be 62, broke, broken, and want to nap.
  8. I have no retirement.
  9. I get up early with babies who want me and stay up late with teenagers/young adults who want me.
  10. I do not want to be a grandmother.  I’m tired.

Ten Best Things:

  1. I have lots of things to whine about.  And I love to whine and then laugh, which makes people think I’m cheerful but it’s more of a laugh because you don’t want to cry kind of thing.
  2. I have an excuse to not exercise.
  3. I like to send the girls out with their brothers so people will think they got pregnant in their teens.  For some reason that is funny to me.
  4. I have all the kid books memorized so I don’t actually have to read Green Eggs and Ham.  I can recite it from memory.
  5. My boys will be unique because I find the things they do hysterical, like playing with their penises, licking the table, or mispronouncing words.  I see no reason to fix any of this.  My kids can paint their nails or dye their hair blue and I just don’t care.
  6. They don’t make me younger.  They make me older.  Everything pops and snaps and sags and is gray.  But I have lost the ability to care.  I wear yoga pants and plaid shirts to pick them up.  There is a sense of freedom in that.
  7. Sympathy from other people.
  8. Gifts of alcohol from some of the sympathetic people.
  9. People don’t ask me to volunteer for things.
  10. The only way it keeps me young is that I know the names of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and I get to play with cool race tracks (which I didn’t get to do as a child) until I need help getting up from the floor.

More penis stories

Little boys are so weird.  Already obsessed.  The 4 year old has begun falling asleep with his hands down his pants.  Last night when I tucked him in and rearranged his blankets just so, which meant pulling them all down and starting over, he was down there rubbing away.  I said “What are you doing?”  And he got so embarrassed.  LOL.  Poor little kid.  It’s like his own personal sleep aid.

Then this morning he was so sick.   We all are.  I let him snuggle on my lap in the recliner, with my oldest child sitting next to us.  I wasn’t dressed yet and had this thin v-next t-shirt on.  Next thing I know he’s rubbing my nipple with one finger.  “Stop with the nipple rubbing.” I said to him and the 21 year old started laughing hysterically.  I think she comes here for the hilariousness of my life.

I think the poor thing is also constipated.  For the two days I was truly down and out with the flu, I don’t think his sister made him drink anything.  So the husband was going to town for supplies this morning and I asked him to get some Fleet suppositories.

“Where can I find them?” he asked.

“In the poop section.”  I answered.  “Blue box maybe, they have orange handles.  Spelled FLEET..”  Seemed pretty clear to me.

“But where’s that?” he asked.

“With the laxatives,” answered the oldest child again.

“Where?” he asked again.

“Rite-aid?”

He looked surprised and that’s when the oldest child started laughing hysterically again.  “He thought you meant here.  You would have a Poop Section Mom.  That is so you.”

There is nothing wrong with making sure a person is regular.  Next time they ask me for some smooth move tea or want me to look at their turds to see if whole piece of whatever are normal or if I see the face of Darth Vader, I’m going to remind them that pooping is EVERYTHING.

At First I thought that Donald Trump was making me lose my hair . . .

But then I remembered that I have been this stressed out about life before and not had hair fall out in clumps.  Maybe shed more than usual, but not in clumps.

It’s been happening for 3 weeks now.  It slowed down for a while and then last night I had Child #2 look for bald spots and she found twice as many as before, but I also think she pointed out the same one three different times.  She also pointed out places it is just thinning.  And told me to change my part or it would show.  Also, some spots have stubble and are growing back, but the big bald spot that I found first, right in the front in my hairline is smooth and has no sign of hair growing back EVER.

This is when I freaked out and spent the night wondering how sparse it will get and when I should just shave it off.  Also I look terrible in hats.  And my face is not made for baldness.  I would have to tattoo hair on my bald head.  Or buy a wig.  But then I’m so clumsy and scattered it would be halfway off my head all day before I would notice.  And if I go to see my doctor, will she find the cause or will she say she has no idea.  And if they take my thyroid out will I be out of work long because my husband can’t carry us, so I’ll have to go back to work with a big bandage around my neck and tell people not to freak out.

I didn’t sleep well last night.

I called the doctor’s office this morning and they are closed.  Because it’s the one day of the year that I need them.

Another Penis story . . . Little boys love their penises.

My friend seemed to like the penis story I posted a couple of days ago, so here’s another.  I’ll create a category just for these stories so she can follow them easily.  YOU ARE WELCOME.

The littlest one who is now three was taking a bath last night.  I was cleaning the sink like a good housekeeper while he played.  Then I looked over and he had his legs really fair apart and he was yanking on his penis, stretching it out as far as it would go and it was purple and he had it under the bathtub faucet that I’d left on to let him play.

“What are you doing?” I exclaimed, as any good mom would when faced with this situation.

“I am cleaning my pee-pee.”

I think there was more to it than that.

Chores Don’t Do Themselves on Christmas

Chores don’t do themselves on Christmas

The cats still shit in the litter box and beyond.

The laundry piles up in the cracks of the couch

Dishes find their way into the bathroom

Where someone unwrapped a gift and

Threw the paper on the floor.

The dog has gone hungry since yesterday afternoon.

I don’t even know where she is.

You probably think I disappeared to play with toys

I’m in the basement sorting trash.

It is quiet down here.

Chores don’t do themselves on Christmas.

The woodbox is almost empty.

My bathroom smells like urine.

There’s long hair in the sink.

There are spiders in the skylight in the bathroom

that will drop on you as you sit.

Chores don’t do themselves for Christmas.

Now get the . . .out of my house.

 

Don’t Laugh when your Little Boy talks about his penis.

This rule has been violated in our house so many times that he now likes to put on a little comedy show about his penis.  It’s hard not to laugh when he’s in the bathtub and looks down at it and lovingly says “Why are you so cute and little.”

Today was even more difficult for his older sister when he was sitting with her on the couch and putting his hand down his pants to adjust himself.

“Sometimes my peepee sticks to my underwear and I have to move it because it’s so big.”

Her laughter taught him that he is hysterical and he wouldn’t stop and probably never will.

Twenty years from now if you’re dating a man who says something similar I am sorry.  It wasn’t me.