A Lesson in Acoustics. Oh, and Sex Education.

It's rare I get one child all to myself; usually I have all four kiddos or some variation of the majority of them. So it was a pretty awesome discovery to realize that it was just Hosanna and I going to hear the Voices of Liberty inside the halls of the American Adventure at Epcot during our Disney vacation.

A quick note about Hosanna: she is by far my quietest child, but when she is alone with mom or dad the girl does.not.shut.up. It's like she's saved every scrap of every thought she has had since the last private conversation and unleashes it wildly without a breath or beat to spare. This is both precious and exhausting. It is hard for me to process so much input in such a short amount of time, which is why I concentrate on being an attentive listener, which is just a fancy way of describing how I let Hosanna deliver her monologue uninterrupted while maintaining eye contact and nodding to encourage her. (Parenting: nailing it.)

Our American Adventure Voices of Liberty date was no different. She chattered away, telling me all about the television show she had been watching recently. It was a reality show on TLC about a family who wanted children but had trouble having them because "the dad was missing something...or didn't have enough of something... (oh.my.lanta. MOVING ON) but then they found a doctor who found someone who had enough of what the dad was missing and the couple was able to have not only one baby but FIVE babies!" Hosanna told me alllllllll about this family as we waited for the a Capella group Voices of Liberty to sing*.

*Nerd Fact= I majored in music. Specifically, voice. So I may have been a little pumped to finally hear this renowned group sing in the space especially designed and known for it's perfect acoustics. What are acoustics? Acoustics are the way sound behaves in an enclosed space. Some acoustics will deaden sound, some will carry it. The acoustics in the dome of the American Adventure were designed so that a group of eight singers could sing patriotic songs without microphones and be heard perfectly all around. Translation: sound carries fabulously and vibrantly.

Voices of Liberty? Were dope. We sat right inside the domed shell and enjoyed every single note. Yeah, I found the girl that sings my voice part and yeah, I could have fit in her costume if I had boobs, so I'll definitely have that job someday. (I'm pretty sure that's how they cast those parts, right?) Hosanna kept leaning towards me to tell me something in between each song, but the flow was pretty steady, what with it only being a fifteen minute concert, so she never managed to get it out. She was almost bursting out of her skin as we listened to the final song, desperate to tell me the one last little thing that was on her mind.

She held it in as the last notes died and the applause began, and, to her credit waited until the applause stopped and I was wiping the tears of emotion from my eyes (because I love a Capella music and 'Murica) before blurting, "IT WAS *SPERM*, MOM. HE WAS MISSING HIS SPERM."

And the perfect acoustics of the perfect dome in the perfectly magical land that is Disney carried that sweet little message to everyone in the room.

You're welcome, Disney World.

If giggling over testicles is wrong, I can't be right.

Because anatomy is funny.

This is how you know you've chosen the proper Specialist to care for your chronically ill child.

I am at Hosanna's biannual allergy appointment. Dr. M (who totally reminds me of Eric Foreman from That 70's Show) and I have finished talking over the important issues like the cutting edge trials taking place to cure children of food allergies, how to heal her weeping skin and the resulting infections, and what new dietary and/or lifestyle changes need to be made to adjust to her current issues, when we move on to small talk.

We are discussing future plans, and Dr. M mentions retirement. I am shocked because I always forget he is 20 years older than me. He explains:

Dr M: I have to take my re-certification test next year, and at about $4,000 (and a lot of work) I can't imagine wanting to take the test again ten years later at 65 years old. So I'll probably just retire and go into missions.

Kelly: Yeah, my triathlon training partner is a PA for an orthopedic surgeon, and she had to help him get ready for his tests last year. It was super hard on her, so I can imagine how stressful it is on the testers. Or, not the testers, the-

Kelly and Dr. M (in unison): TEST-EES.

Kelly: *realizes what they just said* *thinks of testicles* *smirks* *smirk grows into grin* *realizes Dr. M is a mirror image of her own changing expressions* *are now both internally chanting, "Don't give in to the laughter, you are a GROWN UP," to no avail because they share a slight Beavis and Butthead giggle* *because they just pseudo shouted,"TESTES" and the idea of testicles is hilarious*

And that is how you know you've chosen the proper Specialist to care for your chronically ill child.

TBT - Zoology 101

Who remembers this gem? Throwing it back to 2012.


This is why we rule at Family Dinner.

Scene:  We are all noshing on penne with spinach, tomatoes, and bacon. Broccoli is served as a side dish.  The adults in the room have had trying days and are being overly bright to compensate out of consideration of everyone else in the room. Whom they love dearly. The children are all, "Mmmm, bacon." Then, this:

Hosanna:  What's the name of that animal?

Brian:  What animal?

Hosanna:  You know, it's erectile.

Kelly: *snorts Diet Coke out her nose*

Brian: (eyes twinkling) Like it's dysfunctional?

Kelly: STAHP.

Hosanna: The one where in the water it looks like a log floating.

Kelly: *giggles like a teenage boy*

Brian: What did you call it, Nan?

Hosanna:  The erectile.  Why is mom laughing so hard?

Eve:  Oh, I get it.  It's a wrecked tile.  *laughs uncontrollably* AWRECKTILE   AWRECKTILE
AWREEEEEEECKTILE!

Kelly:  Dude.  Stop.  Nan, do you mean a crocodile?

Hosanna:  The tail whips back and forth.  Erectile.

Kelly: *tears coming down her cheeks*  Do you mean reptile?

Hosanna: Um, yeah. A reptile. 

Fat Mom Brain

Did someone say, "RIVER OF CHOCOLATE?"

There are moments as a mother when you will completely lose your shizz past any level you ever thought possible. Like, kick a hole in the wall/throw gracefully toss a frying pan to the floor/screaming banshee lose your shizz. In those moments you will want nothing more than to walk away and pretend these little spawn of Satan are not yours, you have no responsibility towards them, and you are free to live in a bubble where, if someone is rude to you, or throws something at you, or ignores your instructions for the millionth time, or hits/bites/pinches his sister again, you have the freedom to just walk away without a care. Permanently.

But you can't. It's irresponsible at best and illegal at worst.

I'm sure a holier person, a Godlier person, a more grounded or centered or patient person would handle these moments better than I do. Maybe they excuse themselves from the room to "regroup" or grit their teeth and pray, "Jesus, take the wheel," as they handle the situation du jour.

But what really happens in those moments, if you are a Fat Mom (which is more of a mindset and less of a physical description, I'm learning), is that you will want to self-soothe with spoonfuls of the frosting in the refrigerator leftover from a recent birthday cake, or fistfuls of the Doritos allowed in the house because they normally don't tempt you, or entire cases of the 100-calorie snack packs you buy the kiddos as treats. (Fudge-striped miniature Keebler cookies? Why, don't mind if I do. Yes, I want all eight packs, thankyouverymuch.)

You will just want to take a fleeting moment and eat whatever you want, macros/calories be damned. Your mind will disengage from the chaos of whatever familial storm is raging, and you will take a mental tour through the pantry to see what you can cram in your mouth because you need to feel better right now.

Welcome to the Fat Mom's head.

In those moments you have a choice. A choice about what to feed. Do you choose to feed your emotions? They are quite demanding. They are loud. They are immediate. They are seemingly inescapable. They are also temporary. Or, do you choose to feed your body? Do you feed your goals? Do you choose to do the harder thing and suck it up, Buttercup, and don't settle for the cheap fix?

Today I compromised. I may have Augustus Gloop-ed the heck out of some junk food in my head, but I did not inhale a quart of ice cream in real life. I may have gone to McDonalds on a rest day and ordered a sugar free vanilla iced coffee, but I did not eat a Big Mac with fries. And today, I'm calling that compromise a Fat Mom Brain victory.

Now, if only I could stop screaming like a banshee.

*sigh*

Baby steps.

So You Think You Can ...

Summer break with more than one child

My three girlies and two of their friends are engaged in a riotous game of Charades. It is Hosanna's turn to act something out. She stands and starts contorting her body in a way that can only be described as a cross between a feral seizure and a person going through an exorcism. The guesses from the young audience begin flying.

"YOU'RE AN OLD LADY CHASING BEES!"

"A MONKEY TRYING TO DO A HANDSTAND?"

"SOMEONE FISHING LIKE ON A RIVER WHERE THEY THROW IT?" (I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume that meant fly fishing.)

"AN OCTOPUS! FIGHTING A SHARK! OR GETTING TICKLED! BY A SHARK!"

"YOU'RE MAKING A HUUUUUUUGE PEANUT BUTTER AND JELLY SANDWICH AND THEN WIPING IT ON YOUR BODY!" (Yep. My kid.)

"EZRA HAVING A TANTRUM?"

This is when Hosanna, fully out of breath, pauses and indignantly says, "No guys, I'm mom dancing."

Party on, Wayne. Party on, Garth.

Facebook Status: Watching Beauty and the Beast at 4:00 a.m. with a *literally* hot 104 degree four year old. Because moms party hard.

This is the third night in a row I've greeted some insane hour by doing ridiculous things (i.e. anything other than sleep at this wretched time of day). Monday morning found me googling "macronutrient calculator" at 3:30 a.m. while waiting for Esther's pukey sheets to tumble in the wash. I am now knowledgeable enough to have an entire eating plan calibrated to my weight, preferred diet, and exercise level. I rocked that plan all day Monday and Tuesday like I was metamorphic. (Ohmylanta, rocked it like a metamorphic?! Oh, geology jokes, I dig you.)

Thankfully, before I got too prideful about my superior eating plan, Ezra has been suffering a seriously high fever for a couple hours now, and I am handling the situation of yet another sleepless night with a whole wheat English muffin and peanut butter consumed about an hour ago. (Because have you ever had a tummy so hungry it hurt? I haven't eaten wheat in who knows how long and decided it was the perfect choice for my "you aren't normally awake at this time and your body is trying to manipulate you into feeding it and you will go ahead and do it because you are an American and you do not negotiate with terrorists instead you give them exactly what they want".)(That is probably seasons four through eight of 24 talking because once President Palmer left office crap went downhill fast.)

Ezra is now tucked snugly on the couch with a Tigger water bottled filled with soy milk (and has moved on to the Winnie the Pooh Heffalump movie) and I have tackled two loads of laundry and a full half an hour of Pinterest. Now that I have accomplished the important items on my to-do list I am free to blog about last night's workout.

I only have one session left with Trainer Mike. Once I finish the whole month I plan to have an assessment post all about Trainer Mike. (It will totally be a Mike vs Kemper smackdown event). Until then know that my time with Mike has been spent mostly on abs and back. This is because I do arms on Monday and legs on Wednesday and I meet with Mike on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so he tries to work other parts of my body. I'm sure he totally loves basing all his training around my workout schedule and this doesn't make me a PITA to him at all.

Last night was a whole new game for us. I missed Monday's workout (because LAUREN HAD HER BABY!!!)(pics soon!) so Mike was free to do whatever the heck he wanted. And? It was hella fun.

I ran a warm up mile on the treadmill and then met Mike. He started me on a quick ab circuit that included 30 seconds of mountain climbers (on towels), 1:30 planks, and 15 medicine ball slams (which are probably one of my most favorite things to do in the history of life). We did that circuit three times.

Then he gave me only one more circuit to do. We were going to do the whole thing three times, resting as I needed.

This is not me. But this is totally what it looked
like last night. Except there was no dog. And I was
 waaaaay sweatier. And my muscles are
slightly less defined.

We started with push ups with rows. Mike has me use the PowerBlock dumbbells for these because they help my wrists. I got in plank position (wide leg) did a push up (which felt more like a tricep push up with the positioning) then alternated a row on each side. (The PowerBlock was set at 15 pounds for each side.) I did that 10 times. We went straight into plie squats with a 25# kettlebell. I could really feel the difference all that heavy squatting has made. Those plie squats weren't a thang.

Next were regular kettlebell swings (@20#), followed by ... box jumps. This was a HUGE milestone, because I've never done box jumps in public before. (Unless you count jumping the benches at the park.) I was so nervous! I did that whole Biggest Loser pre-jump sike-out move twice before I just took a deep breath and just went for it. After my first set Mike raised the height by a few inches. It got so much easier (emotionally) the second and third round.

This *is* what I look like while working the ropes.
Like my hair is all shiny and clean and flows
behind me as you can see above. It definitely
doesn't cling to my head in a mom ponytail while
 sweat drips off the ends and onto my neck
and into my eyes. Because that would be
decidedly not hot.

We followed box jumps with the ropes. Trainer Mike does this totally cute move where he tells me to "GO!" and then pretends to look at the clock so I can do 30 seconds but really he gets distracted by the cute girl doing back extensions on the machine in front of him and makes me do 45 seconds because "you looked like you could keep going." Haha, he's such a joker.

After the ropes was a cool down move of a minute of step ups before we repeated the whole circuit twice more. I really had a blast with this workout. It was a nice break from heavy weights but also just kept going, so I never got bored. I was challenged physically by the push ups and mentally by the box jumps. After all the circuits I ran a cool down mile. Then I came home and ate carbs, so yeah, a day that finishes with a great workout and allthechickenandRICE is a good day.

Now I'm going to go tend to my sweet baby boy (who is now on his third movie of the day - Toy Story at 6:30 a.m. for those of you keeping track)(and who could really care less about my "tending" unless it's to bring him more drinks and the occasional back rub). The girlies will be getting up in another half an hour and the day "officially" begins again.

*sigh*

Is it wrong that I'm already dreaming about a nice arm workout and HIIT treadmill run tonight? Don't answer that.

Case of the Mondays: It got on my shoes but not my pillow.

Suuuuuummertiiiiime and the livin' is eeeeeasy.

I freaking love this weather so much. It has been gorgeous here in southeastern Michigan. Bright blue skies, sunshine, slight breezes, and temperatures in the 80's. It's like the weather is trying to apologize for all those subzero "you'll die if you go outside" days we suffered this winter.

You keep this up, weather, and all is forgiven.

I have been incredibly busy filling my days with as many outdoor activities as possible. Our lawn has been mowed within an inch of its life, I've swept and rearranged the patio, cleaned the patio furniture, and finally, just because it was all that was left to do, sat in the sunshine and read a book. It's been awesome.

And because usually in life you have to take the good with the bad, I've also spent a fair amount of time this week cleaning up puke and poop. Because here is a quick lesson in probability. If you have four kids and one of them gets a stomach virus, the probability of the other three catching that same virus is really high. While I've found the best way to deal with sick kiddos is to mainline iced coffee and plug them into Disney movies just soldier on and get through it, I have been tempted at times to ship them all away and let someone else deal with it. Summer camp, anyone?

That's when I came across this blog by Liesl Testwuide, along with an AMAZING letter from her kid who was away at summer camp. I WANT TO ADOPT THIS KID. He could be my long lost child.

"It got on my shoes but not my pillow."

For the full blog post, click here. 

Happy Monday, y'all!

Doctor Mario and the Super Heroes

I get a lot of emails from companies that mainly want me to hock their crap for free. I delete about 99 percent of them. I don't blog in order to sell wraps, or pills, or nutrition supplements. I blog because it's fun. I don't even pursue the possibility of this becoming a paying gig because I'm too lazy. I don't really market myself at all, and have relied mainly on word of mouth to grow the population on my little corner of the internet. (So far? Stellar plan.)

However. I received an email from a man named Dr. Mario Trucillo, the Managing Editor of a new health and wellness site called American Recall Center that I could not throw away. (Not an affiliate link, not a sponsored post.) My initial thought upon seeing an email from Dr. Mario was of course Nintendo, which encouraged me to read the first two paragraphs. After that, I then knew I was all in.

I was asked to write a post about my health hero as a part of their Who Keeps You Healthy? campaign. An entire post giving props to the people that have helped me lose and keep off one hundred pounds. What an opportunity!

I thought of all the obvious people.

These faces? Seriously.

My children, because what better motivation to be healthy than being able to stick around for most of their lives? What better motivation than making those years that I'm around be years of quality so I can be the mom who can run and play at the park, or get down on the floor to put together the Winnie the Pooh puzzle for the four thousandth time, or make up dances with the girlies after lunch? My children are definitely my Health Heroes.

still the only picture of us *not* in our lovely tri suits

Then I thought of Sarah. Most of you know Sarah as my friend/triathlon training partner. Sarah is so much more than that to me. Sarah is my family. She took me under her wings after we met in a triathlon swim class. She sacrificed her own training times in order to take me on my first road bike ride. She organized and got me through my first open water swim. She paced me during my first practice triathlon, all while letting me use her road bike. She is soooooo much faster than me, and yet she ran with me while I could barely breathe and even made stupid small talk (which she hates) during my first 10k so I could just get through it. She's gifted me in enumerable ways with equipment and other material resources that made it possible for me to enjoy one of the more expensive sports out there. And that's just our past relationship.

Currently, Sarah pushes me. Constantly. She meets me at the gym and tells me I can do just a little bit more. She encourages me and is interested in my fitness even if it's away from the sport of triathlon. (Although she is the only reason I am still swimming in that awful frigid water at Lifetime Fitness.) She's even started "lifting heavy" because Kemper is a drug I peddle to anyone who will listen. So Sarah is definitely my Health Hero.

But how can I forget Kemper? Anyone who has read this blog over the past two months knows what Kemper has done in my life. I met him in late February, weighing 168 pounds with a 37% body fat composition. He sat with me and talked about making changes in my diet because I was about to lose my mind in frustration. (You can read about that conversation here.) I often tell people that Kemper "adopted" me. He didn't try to sell me anything - training sessions, supplements, or detox plans. He just gave me the gift of his time and knowledge. He told me how to eat and he showed me how to workout. He introduced me to lifting weights (which I freaking LOVE). He took an interest in my health and I give him so much credit for my success. My last weigh in showed me at 153 pounds and 27% body fat. Those are huge results. Kemper continues to support me even though he's left my gym, and has made himself available to me if when I have questions. Kemper is my Health Hero.

But then I thought of one person who trumps everybody else.

Almost 13 years of marriage and 4 kids
Still mostly sane.
Still crazy in love.

This man right here is the reason I am able to chase after the dream of a healthy body. My husband Brian has loved me at 5'3" tall and 253 pounds. He didn't love me "in spite of" my weight. Honestly, when he looks back at pictures of the old me it's apparent that he didn't even see the weight at the time. He loves me now, at 5'3.5" tall and 153 pounds, and I know he will continue to love me whatever size the future (and my choices) may bring. My husband Brian is the sole reason that I can live the life I do. 

Brian supports my food choices even when I'm being a PITA about them it's not fun. He works to figure out how to buy certain foods even though they are more expensive choices because I feel it is important. He makes it as easy as possible for me to maintain my dietary lifestyle, asking if I have a plan about what I am going to eat if we go out or travel, and how he can help with it.

Brian also works 11-12 hour days and then comes home and does dinner clean up and bedtime with the kiddos so that I can go to the gym. On Saturday and Sunday mornings he gets up with kids because I am already at the gym. He has surprised me with money to go get new workout clothes. He budgets to be able to afford my gym membership. He never complains that there are dumbbells on our dresser, or foam rollers by our bed, or that I hang my swim cap and goggles on the bathroom door handle to dry.

He actively listens to monologues filled with details about deadlift form, protein sources, and my speedwork on the treadmill even though he cares NOTHING about any of those things. He can quote Elliott Hulse and Kemper because he always asks about what I'm learning. In short, he is my partner in everything I do - whether he actively participates with me - or not.

Brian is truly my biggest Health Hero.


So a great big, giant, fat THANK YOU to all my Health Heroes. I love you all to pieces, you are all in my heart, and I am forever grateful for all you have been and done in my life.

Five on Friday - Automatic Responses

Here are a few common situations I face in my life and the ways I automatically respond to them.


1. Scene: Entering Lifetime Fitness - Every time I enter the gym I see this sign on the glass in the lobby:

Automatic response: I think, "not these guns." *mentally flexes my biceps*


2. Scene: At least one child every.single.day. whines, "Mo-om! I can't find my ______."

Automatic response: I think, "It's up your butt and around the corner." You can take the girl away from the 80's, but you can't take the 80's from the girl.

A perm, a boombox, and throwing up peace signs? It's like the 80's puked allllll over this mess.
I think we can all agree the 80's were good to me.

3. Scene: Hears birds chirping before the sunrise.

Automatic response: I think of breastfeeding. This is mainly because the first time I consistently heard birds ring in the new day it was during the hellish period of adjusting to a newborn while bonding with the tiny life I'd created as I nourished her from my own body. Now it's almost a Pavlovian response.
(Now *you* will forever associate pre-dawn bird chirping with breastfeeding. I'm like the gift that keeps on giving.)


4. Brian's new favorite video - Jim Rome on Gym Guy:

Scene: I walk in the house upon returning from the gym.

Brian's automatic response: "KELLY! Hurry and get in your protein! YOU DO NOT MAKE YOUR MUSCLES WAIT FOR PROTEIN! GET THAT PROTEIN NOOOOOOOOOW."

(Don't worry - I totally did already in the car on the way home.)


5. Scene: Jason Derulo sings "Talk Respectfully* to Me" (*how this young man should speak to a SAHM mama) while I'm driving the Ford Flex.

Automatic response: My freaking hips take over my body and I become the best dancer in the entire world. There is something truly magical about Jason telling me my "booty don't need explaining" that makes me throw all caution to the wind and let it do it's thang. YOU DO YOU, BOOTY.
(Lest you think I'm exaggerating in standard Sublurban Mama form the driver of the car next to me last night totally affirmed my effort with a gigantic smile.)

See you Monday when I share the extensive report on how I enjoyed the Reese's Peanut Butter Egg I am saving for after my LEG DAY workout Sunday morning. It will keep you on the edge of your seat. (Almost like me, barely able to be on the edge of my seat after Leg Day.) Happy Friday! Happy Easter!

Linking up with Clare at Fitting It All In.

I think the answer is, "Why *wouldn't* you wear Cookie Monster underpants?"

Subtitle = A precautionary tale of a non-scale ... victory?

Everyone needs a go-to friend for discussing their unmentionables. Me, I have Sister Wife Rose. This is mostly because not only does she have extremely passionate thoughts on the subject, she also has an Expert Opinion as a cheer leading coach. (i.e. underpants are a big deal to those who move a lot in teensy little skirts.)

Since I'm entering a new phase in my fitness journey (*snort* - for Kari) I have a fresh dilemma. Namely, what does one wear while squatting? After a solid twenty minute discussion with Rose about panty lines and other things of vital importance where Major Life Decisions were made, our conversation ended something like this:

Me and Rose being photo bombed by Brian.

Kelly: ... and all I could think while dead lifting was this, "Dude. Please don't let me be wearing my Cookie Monster underpants."

Rose: What woman in her 30's (who, let's be honest, could totally pass for her 20's - editor's note) wears Cookie Monster underpants?

Kelly: I think the answer is why *wouldn't* a woman in her 30's wear Cookie Monster underpants?

Rose: *the Rose look* (if you know Rose you totally know this look)(it communicates "you are a dumb@ss" really well)


It was with that conversation fresh in my mind that I took the kiddos to the park yesterday afternoon. The FUN Park (which changes routinely depending on the whims of my children) was only a quarter mile away and was a perfect afternoon destination. Traveling with a three year old slightly affected the overall pace of our walk (haha, that's a joke because I'm pretty sure there were snails that beat us there), but we made it and it was gorgeous out and there were a ton of families and other kids to play with and life was grand.

(I kept myself occupied by practicing box jumps onto the benches that surrounded the playscape because they were the perfect height for someone 5'3.5" who is terrified of jumping onto the boxes at the gym. I felt like a Crossfit rockstar while nailing the jumps (even landing softly - Elliott Hulse would be so proud) even though I realized after the first jump that I would have to hold on to my pants because they kept sliding down. This messed with my (admittedly awesome) form a little bit, but sometimes you have to make sacrifices in order not to, I don't know, get arrested for indecent exposure.)

It was on our return trip home that I finally had the answer to the question that up until then I only knew to be rhetorical. The question, "Why *wouldn't* you wear Cookie Monster underpants?" Ready? This is why.

Sometimes, when you are trying to hurry a three year old across a busy road before the signal changes, and you pick him up in one hand, and hold his three thousand sticks and pinecones and Special Rocks collected from your quarter mile walk in the other hand, you will quickly discover that you have no hands left to pull up your pants that are now seriously sliding down your hips in celebration of your recent weight loss.

You can't throw down the child, and if you are a mom worth your merit at all, you know you can't drop ALLTHESPECIALTHINGS collected because it will ruin your child's life for at least 15 loud minutes forever. You will try to outrun the rapid descending of your pants, knowing that there are approximately fifteen cars witnessing your Parade of the Unmentionables as they wait for the light to change. You will attempt to catch your pants around your hips with broadening your running stance while simultaneously sticking out your tush, which looks as cute as it sounds. And just in case all the drivers were missing the big show because they were distracted in their cars, your nine year old will yell, "HEY MOM! I CAN SEE YOUR COOKIE MONSTER UNDERPANTS!" just to encourage everyone to check out the situation.

Safe on the other side of the road you will gently set down your child, and calmly pull up your pants like you were totally okay with flashing the world because you are secure in your choice of underpants. You should get an Oscar. (Like, the award.) (Not Oscar the Grouch underpants.) (Though I can understand the confusion this post could cause.)

And that is why, just maybe, you *wouldn't* wear Cookie Monster underpants.

Five on Friday - If Moms Ruled the Gym

Things I would say if Moms Ruled the Gym.

1. "Honey girl, go put on a t-shirt. There is too much boobs happening to attempt that run/elliptical/burpee."

2. "Watch your mouth, young man. I may have rendered myself invisible due to my Mom Ponytail and "birthing hips", but I am right freaking next to you and I don't want to hear about your junk."

3. "You sir, are grounded from the dumbbells for one week. Maybe that will teach you not to leave them in the middle of the floor for anyone to trip over."

4. "Thank you, People That Wash and Fold the Towels, for washing and folding the towels." "Thank you, People That Clean the Toilets and Showers, for cleaning the toilets and showers. Also, for restocking the toilet paper." (Also, totally random, but I find myself wanting to get Kemper settled down with a nice girl and give him long term financial advice. Because Mom.)

5. "Look at you lift that weight/finish that run/hold that pose/show up to exercise! You are improving every day - I am so proud of you."

Also, this conversation happened this morning:

Kelly: *upon returning from an early bird workout* BABE. I totally upped my weight on shoulder press, leg press, and dead lift. I also did drop sets for chest press and row. You are in the presence of a MOTHER FREAKING CHAMPION. *flexes*

Brian: *is still waking up as he puts on his shoes for work*

Kelly: *still flexing* BABE. Look at my bicep. It's totally like a little baby bicep that is happening.

Brian: *squints*

Kelly: Can you see it?

Brian: *squints* *reaches forward to squeeze*

Kelly: Don't touch it! It will go away.


Yep. Beast Mode activated.

*Linking up with Clare at Fitting It All In*

For moms thisclose to losing their shizz. Like, literally. (A.K.A. Combing The Desert**)

Spaceballs - proof the '80s were good to us.

Reporting Live! from the front lines of the War on Poop (in pants).

We decided two months before Christmas to start preparing Ezra for our No Turning Back Potty Training Tour, which was scheduled to begin December 26, 2013. The highlights of this tour included an absolute NO RETURNING TO DIAPERS UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE rule, and a solid week of staying at home. We said things like, "Hey Dude, after Christmas diapers are all gone," and "After Christmas you get to wear BIG BOY UNDERWEAR!"

The big day began with the fetal position and screaming. Once I got a hold of myself Ezra was upright and stopped screaming, "I WANT MY DIAPER" we were good to begin.

Day one was wet. Very, very wet. We set a timer and took little man to the potty every 15 minutes. I fulfilled my weekly squat quota in just under an hour between toilet time and laundry. (Note to self: Market a Potty Training Workout to better your booty. Then watch Shaun T struggle to come up with a more extreme alternative.)

Day two was slightly drier. We kept Ezra captive with wheat thins and the job of Master of the Television Remote. The older kiddos started saying things like, "Monsters University again?" but I held firm; anything to keep little man from total mutiny.

Day three we got the call that my GRANDfather died. The next day would be the viewing. It was 40 minutes away and would require we look presentable. (Insert evil suspense music.) We were still using the potty every 15 minutes and while it was drier than day one, keeping pee out of the underpants was still hit or miss.

At the funeral home Ezra stayed contained and acted appropriately in every manner. That's the new way I'm describing him borrowing people's phones to play Angry Birds and sneaking away to take pictures of my GRANDfather in his casket. Since the funeral home also had an indoor playscape (oh, you mean the four steps up to the next landing in the lobby that are the perfect height for jumping off while screeching "YEEEAAHH!" isn't really a playscape?) he worked out all the "I spent all morning cooped up at church, followed by a scenic Sunday drive to get to this building where everyone is somber and you are supposed to act reserved" ants in his pants throughout the visitation.

Me, Cassie, and my future SIL Natalia.
That's how you do family. BOOM.

We continued to take him to the bathroom every 15 minutes or so, which really helped me have time to connect with my out of state family. I had many deep, meaningful conversations that went something like, "Hey, my Only Brother in the Whole World! How are you? OHMYLANTA you got engaged last night?! And my future sister-in-law is standing right here with her gorgeous ring? Tell me all about the proposal. I want to hear every detail - oh, I need to take Ezra to the potty. I'll be right back. DON'T MOVE."

Ezra actually stayed dry until around 4:00. I put him in plastic pants as an extra measure of protection in case there were any accidents. This allowed a layer of protection and provided three surprise perks to the potty training process. First, it actually contained the mess when he finally crapped his pants that afternoon. Secondly, the plastic also held any body heat he generated from jumping up and down the stairs. This resulted in the following restroom conversation about a dozen times.

Kelly: Hey Dude, are you wet?
*Kelly and Ezra both feel his underpants. They are slightly damp all over.*
Ezra: No wet.
Kelly: I think you are right. I think it's just sweat.

(Of course, because we are efficient we developed a convenient shorthand:
Kelly: Wet?
Ezra: Just sweat.)

The final benefit of the plastic pants was the awesome rash that resulted from hours of stewing in his own tush sweat.

(#ParentingTip = if you want to experience extreme potty training, add a layer of A&D ointment to the diaper area of your child. Having effectively greased up your child, challenge him to stay seated on the toilet. Award bonus points for any horizontal dismount that may occur.)

Things were actually progressing better than I thought they could, given the circumstances. Even with his one accident, Ezra proved to be my favorite child ever when he finally pooped his pants during Brian's turn to take him to the potty.

Since Brian is a really good dad and believes a child should experience natural consequences for their actions, he required Ezra to carry the little blue bag we used to hold his poopy underpants. This bag was tiny, fragranced, and, most importantly double-knotted, so I had to agree this was a fair plan.

As we made our rounds to say goodbye (we thought it best to leave on our personal high note of crapping our pants and stealing all the cookies from the deli trays left out in the family area of the funeral home) I jokingly told everyone possible a few trusted individuals that Ezra was carrying a bag of poop. (This is because I value discretion and understand appropriate conversation topics at the viewing of a loved one.)(Also, poop is hilarious and "Boy, that Kelly, she's sure a hoot".)

This was amusing until we were on our way out the door and realized Ezra no longer had the blue bag of poop.

If you want to know the reason you end up at a funeral home quietly asking all your relatives if they've seen your bag of poop, this is it. And when no one can find it you will have to check with the kind staff, being as vague and diplomatic about the missing item as possible:

Kelly: May I check your office for my blue bag? My little boy had it and I wondered if he dropped it while he was in here stealing all the candy off your desk visiting earlier.
Funeral Home Worker: Sure, honey. Is that the one with the poop in it?
Kelly: *open and closed dumbstruck guppy mouth*
Funeral Home Worker: I'm sure it will turn up.

Thankfully you will find it stashed on the podium before your uncle gives the eulogy, and sneak out clutching it while pretending to be invisible. Unfortunately your invisibility skills are sorely in need of practice, because two different people will comment on your way out, "Oh good! You found it."

**The only thing that will run through your mind is a super inappropriate scene from SpaceBalls, and you will picture yourself as an African American man in the desert with a giant pick replying, "I ain't found (Holy Ghost edit)." Which? Almost redeems that part of your day.

Crazy or Awesome? #47

Scene: I am at the grocery store loading my bounty onto the belt for scanning. The two kiddos I brought with me are almost berserk with stress because I gave the go-ahead to choose a piece of candy. They repeatedly ask inane questions that show far too much thought about the decision to choose a confectionery treat. I finally say, "Dude, Girlies, I need like five seconds where nobody talks to me." The cashier laughs and says, "I have a friend who changed her name. One day she just decided that BAM! she would no longer answer to "Mom", and she changed her name. She wouldn't talk to any of her kids until they guessed her new name. And then, only if they could spell it correctly." Cashier leans in and whispers, "Try it, Rumpelstiltskin." *huge, exaggerated wink*

Is it crazy that I'm tempted? 

Don't answer that.

I'm pretty sure this post qualifies me as a "Lifestyle Expert".

Lifestyle Expert Profile Picture
(totally looks legit, doesn't it?)

If you've ever wondered, "Gee, I could really use some advice on how to make my own bricks and glue using average household goods," I have the post for you.

With a bit of accidental ingenuity I have discovered the secret to thinking you are concocting delicious treats, but in reality are creating weapons and adhesives.

I've found the best way to do this is to notice the bananas on your counter are past their prime, and perfect for using in banana bread. Get out your trusty banana bread recipe (any one will do) and proceed to math. Be forewarned, this is the most time consuming part of the process. If the recipe calls for three bananas, and you have eight, go ahead and decide to triple the recipe, eight is totally close enough to nine to justify tripling. Eight and nine are neighbors.

Once you have correctly multiplied, employ a three year old to peel all the bananas while you gather the rest of the ingredients. Next, take a few minutes to unearth all the stringy peel leftovers that made their way into the banana bowl, and unleash the three year old to smash the ever loving daylight out of the bananas. When banana soup consistency is achieved, bribe the three year old to stop smashing with a promise he can hold the measuring spoon while you pour some lemon juice. Midway through measuring your tablespoon(s), your three year old will freak the heck out because he found some rogue banana guts still clinging to the inside of his wrist. Call upon your previously unknown skills as a hostage negotiator to convince the little terrorist dear child you will thoroughly clean his hands after you finish measuring and pouring the lemon juice.

Next, send your three year old on the world's most important mission to find the banana bread pan. Hurriedly measure and pour your oil before he can return and demand to "help" with this part. Make sure that in your haste you only measure enough oil for the original recipe, and not the tripled one. This part is crucial. If you are lucky you can add the (tripled) sugar before the completion of the bread pan mission, but unfortunately you probably selected the most competent bread pan retriever in the history of the world, so he will arrive just in time to aid in the addition of the sugar.

The sugar part is sweet. You will end up with a model of the Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes composed entirely of Domino Sugar on the kitchen table. This is mostly because for a three year old, a ten inch target from one inch away is surprisingly difficult to nail when a cupful of sugar is involved.

Get out the mixer because now the real fun begins. This is the most spiritual part of making bricks and glue. You will practice what the Apostle Paul refers to as "pray without ceasing" while the three year old mans the hand mixer "ALL BY MYSELF, MAMA". Some phrases I found helpful were, "Please Jesus, let him keep it in the bowl", and "Oh Holy Spirit, please bless this child with a steady hand and an obedient heart." Feel free to use any alternate wording you've found to be helpful.

Once your wet ingredients are mixed, get out a separate bowl in which to combine your dry goods. Do some more math. Do it again, because you remember you are tripling - or was is quadrupling? - your recipe. Glance in the garbage can and guestimate how many banana peels you see. Deduce there are a crap-ton, which roughly means you used about twelve bananas for your recipe. That means you must have quadrupled the recipe. Pat yourself on the back because math just happened and it found you smart.

Quadruple the flour. If you are a food allergy family using a vegan banana bread recipe, quadruple the what germ. Quadruple the salt, baking powder, and the baking soda. Let the three year old stir.

How *you* doin'?

Dump the wet ingredients into the dry ones. The three year old will attempt to stir them together but will quickly give up because "it's too hard". Do not be deceived into thinking he's just quitting because his sisters started watching Monsters University in the other room. Yes, he is being seduced away by Mike and Sulley, but he was accurate in his assessment that it really is too hard to stir the banana bread mixture. Like, crazy hard. Like, "Uh-Oh I Did Something Majorly Wrong Here" hard.

Release the three year old to Monsters University. Decide to bake a trial run of six muffins. For twenty two minutes you will bake banana bricks. Eight minutes after they come out of the oven you will determine that banana bricks taste horrendous. Quietly dump the batter, but not before spilling some on a few Christmas cards and some unopened mail on the counter. (Don't worry, it wasn't your card. Your card is lovely and is being displayed prominently on my kitchen wall.)

Until you discover Banana Bread Glue.

Later that evening, as you are cleaning the kitchen before bed, discover the spilled batter when you try to clear the mail so you can wipe down the counter tops. The mail will not budge. It is stuck firmly to the surface by banana bread glue, which seemingly rivals Gorilla Glue in effectiveness.


If you faithfully follow the steps above, you too can make your own bricks and glue.

(I will gladly supply the three year old.)

Happy Baking Crafting!

He only needs to pass the bar.

Ezra is three years old. He has speech and fine motor apraxia. While his language is delayed, I'm discovering that his cognitive abilities are spot on.

Also, I think I just got played.


This is how you raise a lawyer.



Ezra: Mama, I want snack.
Kelly: I want world peace.
Ezra: I want snack. I huuuuuungry.
Kelly: I want a subscription to Runner's World.
Ezra: I thirsty. I want drink.
Kelly: I want my foot to stop hurting.
Ezra: (smirks) I want puppy.
Kelly: (thinks, "That backfired.") Esther is scared of dogs, Dude.
Ezra: Me get mean dog, me throw him away and get nice dog.
Kelly: We can't throw a dog away, Dude. A dog is alive; we don't throw away living things. We take care of them. (Gives a two minute lecture on animal care to a now glazed-over three year old.)
Ezra: Yeah.
Kelly: Besides, why wouldn't we just get a nice dog first and skip the mean dog part?
Ezra: Yeah, we get a nice dog. First. For Christmas.
Kelly: Um, what?
Ezra: You say, "Get nice dog." (smirks again) I get nice dog for Christmas.


BAM! That's how you play Mom.

I find about 14 thousand of these on my iPad camera roll.
Three years old and already a whiz at Photo Booth.
Sorry if you can't handle this much awesome.

For the Sake of the Ovaries ... Please Stop

Dear You,

I'm reaching out to you as a desperate woman.

You see, I have four kiddos. I love them madly. Sometimes I want to freak out because I didn't know it was humanly possible to love so much.

Mixed in with all that love is a quiet desperation. While my children are some of the greatest joys of my life, parenting is slowly killing me. Which I'm pretty sure it's supposed to do. Parenting is about learning to sacrifice joyfully for someone else's needs. It's calmly cleaning up puke at 4:00 a.m. and soothing an irrational and scared child when really you need to be in bed because you cleaned your own puke 45 minutes prior. It's wanting "just one freaking second to think without interruption" but helping with school work while cooking dinner and tying a shoe. All that sacrifice makes you a better person. But it is hard, and I've become very familiar with the end of my rope.

I have four kiddos. I homeschool them. I have a food allergy child. I have a child with speech and fine motor apraxia. We are on our ninth month of potty training. (Shut up.) I have a six year old daughter who is on a pirate joke kick. This is an intense stage of life. We have reached capacity.

Maybe.

Probably.

But maybe probably not.

Which is why I am publicly pleading my case.

You, dearest Facebook/Instagram/Twitter parents of the world, please stop. Stop with the pictures of your babies.

Your baby in her Christmas picture, with her chubbo cheeks and unruly wisps of hair peeking out from beneath the Santa hat? Just stop.

Your tiny newborn all swaddled in fleece, showing off his first gassy smiles in the midst of peaceful slumber? C'mon on.

And you with the video? Do you know happens when I see the ten second clip of your three month old expressing their pleasures with their new-found ability to coo? Puppies wrapped in red bows shower down from rainbows and Dove chocolate grows on the boxwood hedge in my front yard. And honestly, that's too much happiness for one planet to contain.

The worst by far is this type of picture:

Do you know what happens when I view any baby from this angle? I am made acutely aware that my "baby" is now three years old and it has been a long time since I snuggled someone using only my arms. And then my ovaries explode.

Every time I see one of these adorable pictures, I want another baby of my own. To snuggle, to feed, to coo with. My kids would looooove another baby. But we are at capacity.

Maybe.

Probably.

Or maybe probably not.

So please, for the sake of my ovaries, stop. Your baby is awesome, and I just can't handle it.

You're All on HIGH ALERT

I know as a professing Christian I'm supposed to be filled with grace and mercy. However, as we are suffering day five of the most violent stomach bug I have experienced (with my sweet six year old getting the worst of it) I send out this as a warning to whomever spread this virus our way and to the virus invading our lives:

I don't know who you are. I don't know what you want. If you are looking for ransom, I can tell you I don't have money. But what I do have are a very particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. If you let my daughter go now, that'll be the end of it. I will not look for you, I will not pursue you. But if you don't, I will look for you, I will find you, and I will kill you.

Are you scared yet? Good.

Oh, and Happy week before Thanksgiving, y'all. I hope it's a blessed time filled with being thankful that you are not throwing up. ;-)

The early worm breaks her foot falling into the sunken living room because it's too.dang.early to remember the layout of her house.

This is my "Dude, seriously?" face

Motherhood is about making sacrifices. I think a good 75% of those sacrifices involve a sleep offering.

I find that when I need some extra time I'm most productive when I wake up before the rest of the family. Sometimes I plan lessons, sometimes I do food prep, and sometimes I surf Pinterest blog. At ten years on the job, I'm pretty familiar with the sounds of birds chirping in the rising of the sun while I catch up on chores.

Sunday morning was no exception.

I set my alarm for 5:30 a.m. with the expectation that I would blog a bit, go for a run, and then get ready with my family before it was time to leave for church. It all started according to plan. Then ... children.

We have a rule in our house. No getting out of bed before 7:00 a.m. It's one of the hard and fast rules we employ. Sure, there are exceptions (ain't nobody want to clean up a pee bed because it wasn't time yet to leave your bedroom and use the bathroom) but this rule remains largely unbroken. Until the kiddos are old enough to tell time, we manage this with nightlights set to timers. Every day at 7:00 a.m. a sweet little timer switches on the nightlight, signalling that it is okay to roam freely about.

I'm a huge proponent of the solitary crack of dawn start to my day, but really hate an o'dark thirty house party comprised of prepubescent guests. This "stay in your room until 7:00" plan really works for us. Well, until *someone* plays with the timer and *completely on accident* sets it for 5:45 a.m. the same day I set my alarm to go off an hour and a half early to get some work done.

So on Sunday morning as I was finally settling into my writing groove and heard the stomp-clomp-stomp of children hoofing it down the hallway accompanied by the excited cry of, "OUR LIGHT WENT ON!" I was like:

Duuuuuuuude.
No.
Way.

Maybe I stomped-clomped-stomped to the hall and cried, "WHHHHHHHHHY IS YOUR LIGHT ON?" (Because I knew everyone else was still asleep and was certainly doing my best to maintain a peaceful atmosphere for those still blessed with slumber.) "NO WAAAAAY IS IT TIME TO GET UP. GET BACK IN BED."

*Enter mass chaos*

Okay, I get it. Routine clearly dictates that when the lights come on it's game on for milk or apple juice and snuggles on the couch. And here I was, freaking out like a banshee because OHMYLANTA I WOKE UP EARLY TO GET WORK DONE AND I CAN'T GIIIIIIIIIIIVE ANYMORE HERE. (Top 5 Parenting Moment, for sure.)

This is when Brian rescued me, promising to snuggle with Ezra and Esther until it was time to get up. I left them all in the bedroom, equally thankful and pissed that Brian was going to be of service. Because while of course I'd rather be tangled up in a heap of cozy quilts and darling kiddos, snoozing an extra hour or two, I had important crap to do. (Are you hearing my Martyr Violin Concerto playing in the background?)

I stomp-clomp-stomped my way down the hallway and through the kitchen, promptly forgot we have a sunken living room, and plunged almost to my death. (Okay, that was a bit dramatic.) The truth is I stumbled fantastically down one step, pulling a kitchen chair with me to break my fall. (The kitchen chair did nothing but provide a laudable and resounding soundtrack to my spill, BTW.) I ended up on the floor, not that hurt, still a little pissed, and almost laughed because of course that just happened.

I went over to the computer and worked for an hour, thinking if I hurried I could get in a short run before I needed to be back home to do our morning routine. I tried to stand and sat back down. It.hurt.so.freaking.badly. I was at Urgent Care in less than an hour.

Guess who treated me? Remember the doctor I saw in February with the worst flu in the history of the world? I wrote about it in a post called "Um, YEAH, I totally meant my ovaries". You can read it by clicking here. I was reunited with Dr. P.

He totally didn't remember me, which both irritated me and relieved me. I had the same reaction to him as I did last time; namely, I felt like an inferior idiot who had to prove that I was really hurt. And totally not just looking for drugs like last time, you know.

Dr. P :*storms in and mumbles a question*
Kelly: *in my head, "Dude, what's with all the storming?"*
Dr. P : *stares blankly at me*
Kelly: *realizes he asked me something* Um ... what?
Dr. P : ... You hurt your foot?
Kelly: *immediately defensive because I am a smart, capable woman and not a hypochondriac which is of course what his question implies, right?* Yes, my right foot. I can't bear any weight on it.
Dr. P: *starts to probe my foot*
Kelly: *starts to panic, because I'm suddenly sure I'm just overreacting even though I can't walk and he's going to prove it with his magic doctor fingers* Also, my foot feels really hot to the touch.
*because I read once that serious injuries feel hot to the touch**and then I remember the nurse has been making me ice it while I've been at Urgent Care so I clumsily speak again*
Kelly: Except it doesn't feel hot now, because, you know, the ice. *Smoooooooth*
Dr. P: We have to do an X-ray. *leaves the room*

At this point Brian calls me and we arrange for him to bring Ezra to me so he and the girlies can go to church. I go get my X-rays done.

X-ray Tech: Could you be pregnant?
Kelly: Nope. No way. Not a chance. Just finished up my period. (Good thing I mentioned that.)(Now I feel I need to redeem myself) It's a good thing I hurt my right leg because it's the leg I chose to shave yesterday. So, that's like a gift to me and you. (Ohmylanta, really, Kel?)
X-ray Tech: *has the decency to at least laugh* I always tease my daughter because she takes such good care to shave her legs but always forgets to shave her toes. *looks pointedly at my very hairy big toe*
Kelly: *she did not just call me out on my toe hair* ....
X-ray Tech: Don't worry, it's a sign of good circulation.

I do have really good circulation.

While I was waiting for Dr. P to read my x-rays, Brian brought Ezra to my room. This is how I discovered Dr. P's kryptonite.

Dr. P is totally uncomfortable with little children. (Or, at least, children who appear out of the blue.)

I may have used this to gain the upper hand in our relationship.

Dr. P: *storms in the room* Well, you have a br-- *sees Ezra, looks confused*
Kelly: *waits patiently*
Dr. P: - a broken bone spur in your heel. We don't usually see this. It's an odd break.
Ezra: Doctor, husodhteeeefnkalfkalfkalkveeeee?
*Ezra has apraxia, and while he is getting so much better with his speech, there are times even I can't decipher what he is saying*
Dr. P: *looks desperately at me* Uuuuuummm, what, Buuuuuudy?
Ezra: DOCTOR,  hisodihfiosteeeeendslfidsoifoveeeee?
Dr. P: *giggles nervously, stares at me pleadingly* Um ... I'm not sure ....
Kelly: *that's right, ME! TO! THE! RESCUE!* He has apraxia. He's asking where the t.v. is, because they usually put us in a room with the t.v.
Dr. P: Oh. Down the hall, Buddy.

In the end, I have a broken bone spur in my heel. Sarah has doctor privileges at the treatment center where I was seen, so she pulled my x-rays and is just as confused as everyone else as to how this happened. I have been told to follow the RICE plan (Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation) and to see how it feels in about a week. By then I should be able to walk on it. After I can walk I can return to biking and elliptical, but no running for about 6 weeks. No Turkey Trot this year :(

Yep. Toenails painted circa August 2013. In the background? The offending step down into the living room.

Pouty sad face.

I declined pain meds at Urgent Care because I obviously wasn't thinking clearly. I sensibly chose the next best option:

740 calories of Tim Horton's goodness.
That works out to about 1 smile per calorie. Oh Happy Day.

So much crap on the refrigerator.
Iced Capp.

Timmy Ho's for pain management.

I think I just won health care.

Sex Education Level: Shart

The most needed item on your baby gift registry?
A sense of humor.
(Alternate caption: child saying, "No mama, I don't
want to pose like this. I insist you take a different
pic of me with my arms crossed like a gangster.")

I love my kids. They are a tremendous source of hilarity and joy throughout my day. My kids are awesome.

However. 

Sometimes being a mom is pretty crappy. Literally. It's literally crappy. I want the millions of teens who make up the MTV Teen Mom demographic to know just how crappy it can be before they continue the trend where a fifteen year old mom-to-be gets fame and notoriety and not, I don't know, a giant reality check. (It's been my experience that the giant reality check usually occurs at 3:00 a.m. with the realization that not only have you received zero hours of sleep so far, you won't have any other opportunity for at least another day.)(Also, there is usually puke involved.)(Which we call "yammy.")(As in, "Dude, the baby just totally yammied* all over your back.")(*a verb and a noun, apparently.)

I think we are in desperate need of a new campaign to fight against teen pregnancy. This is mostly because I don't even know if there is a current campaign. The general mentality seems to be "For the love of God, if you are a teen who happens to find herself pregnant, hurry up and at least get a Twitter account, because if you play it right there could be a book deal," and that is just not a whole lot of incentive to keep your pants on/be a bit more diligent about birth control.

"Like this, Mom. Totally gangster.
It's important people see you take me out in public with
 my pockets hanging out and a giant stain on my knee.
Also, both a toilet and a toilet paper dispenser? Pottery Barn
Kids is going to seek you out to stage their
next catalog."

So I came up with an idea.

Expose the masses to real parents. Real children. Real life situations. Let each parent make their own commercial, each with their own tagline. It should totally speak for itself.

Here is the ad for my campaign, "It Only Takes One Sperm".

A gorgeous mama of four children, let's call her Kelly, takes her brood to the public library. She watches her two youngest get out every.single.puppet in the metro Detroit area (seriously, opening the puppet drawer is like watching clowns tumble out of a Volkswagen* Beetle).(I don't mean to name drop, but there are clown passengers that include the puppet versions of Elmo, The Hungry Caterpillar, and a three foot tall Barney.)

(*my whole entire life I've been calling it "Voltswagen." Thanks, Spellcheck*, for the realization that my whole life I've been living a lie.)(*Also? Irony is spelling "spellcheck" incorrectly. Deal with it.)

It was not long before Kelly noticed a peculiar odor in the air. Some creative sniffing led her to the rear end of her darling three year old who no, isn't potty trained yet and you shoosh your mouth about it. After ripping a flailing toddler away from the mountain of his best friends (cue child yelling, "NO!!!!! PLAY WITH ELMO! PLAY WITH POOH! PLAY WITH BARNEY!") she struggles to carry the wriggling mass of boy to the public bathroom, where she can only pray will exist a changing table that supports the vast mass and length of a three year old.

Because 'Murica, the restroom sports a clean and functional changing table, complete with a fully stocked changing pad pocket. (Just kidding. That's called wishful thinking.) What Kelly finds is a changing table six inches too short for her darling child, with loose hinges requiring she balance on one leg, using the other to brace the table against the bulk slight weight of her son. This results in a flamingo like stance, if the flamingo had to bend at the knee and jut out her pelvis in order to achieve just the right angle and pressure needed to bolster the table and generate a steady surface. #Physics.

A teenager joins Kelly and her son in the restroom. She is using the restroom to leisurely wash her hands, because maybe with her disposable teenage income she bought a bagel and a coffee at the library cafe and casually ate her breakfast without any threat of heartburn because for her, smear cream cheese/chew was an "and" situation and not the "or" experience a breakfast with toddlers provides.

The teenager watches as Kelly changes the child. Mom is a magician, displaying mind-bending feats of skill and athleticism as she speedily conquers the task at hand. She is an entertainer, singing songs and playing games. This is simultaneously the peak of her mommy ability, her strongest suit, and her ultimate demise.

The teenager looks on as what was a sweet bonding moment turns to crap. Literal fecal matter. Because what undoubtedly happens next is that our Flamingo Mom, balancing on one leg in order to brace the unsteady changing table, her pelvis grinding the plastic edge like Miley on Robin, is in the worst possible position for self-defense. The muscles used to produce the peals of laughter at mom's hilarity engaged during this diaper change are the same muscles used in the force behind an expulsion of flatulence (i.e. some kiddos that laugh fart at the same time). If lucky enough, one might discover with that expulsion of flatulence the child had a bit more in the tank (i.e some kiddos that fart poop at the same time). Shart = pent up gas with an extra gift. Mom will discover this perched directly in the line of fire, while a horrified audience observes.

In my commercial this is where the camera cuts from the loving domestic scene of a giggling child getting a fresh nappy to slow motion. The following shots are shown in sequence:

1. Giggling baby begins to laugh harder, tensing in anticipation.

2. Mom's eyes widen because she is an oracle who knows what the next .5 seconds has in store.

3. The too-late parental cry of "NOOOOO" as the child does a fluffy* and she is sprayed from below with a fine mist of residual waste.

It is Parenting Level: Shart Shower.

In my commercial this is where the camera cuts from a poop-sprayed mom to the horrified teenager watching from in the mirror over the sink. The defeated poop-covered mom will meet her eyes in the reflection and say, "It only takes one sperm."

Thank you, God, for the scarf trend that allows for creative draping and bit of dignity as I leave the library in defeated shame. Also, smelling like roses.

So take heed girls. A shart shower is only one sperm away. #itonlytakesonesperm



(*Does a fluffy = In our house, farts are called "fluffy's". I totally don't know why. Imagine how delighted our children were to discover that the neighbors got a new dog and named her Fluffy. This was hilarious for days.)