You Can Never Have too Many Balls

There's nothing like the lingering smell of sweaty male funk to remind you that you are truly never escaping Boyland.

You would think from the title of my blog that everyday I am reminded of how outnumbered I really am. In reality, there are certain moments when unapologetic bodily functions and footballs whizzing past my head are subtly tucked in the background of my life. I go about my day, unaware of the moms at who are playing princess dress up and having tea parties, while I'm playing goalie or watching Power Ranger Super Ninja Delta Force Overdrive Samurai in Space (that's a real show right?).

But yesterday my awareness of being part of a totally different universe became abundantly clear.

A few weeks ago Bryson began playing hockey in a local Learn to Skate program. Being that Brian played it his entire life and has a unhealthy love of the NY Islanders, it's a good thing Bryson loves hockey too. I think Bri would have been heart broken if none of our boys shared his passion.

Anywho...the hockey program had a special clinic last night with players from the minor league Albany Devils team. The two players that came out were so great with the kids. These massive guys towered over a bunch of 5-12 year olds, but you could see they had the same twinkle in their eye as the kids just learning to play. They did drills, helped them with their shooting skills, and signed autographs after the session was over.

I could tell Bryson had a blast and that Brian was getting a glimpse into his future as a hockey dad.

As we stood line to have Bryson's puck and hockey stick signed a faint smell began to engulf my nostrils. As the musty scent of sweaty unwashed uniforms and equipment grew stronger, so did the realization that I had unknowingly become a part of a group of jock strap washing moms who will probably never attend a dance recital (unless Bryson joins to meet "ladies" or Tyler finds some untapped rhythm, poor thing.)

I don't understand when this happened?! It seems like I went from just having Tyler in Tae Kwon Do, then lacrosse, now Bryson's in hockey, wants to play little league in the spring, and the way Nolan eats he is well on his way to becoming a Sumo wrestler. How did this become my life?

Should I be worried when a 14 month old's head is as big as a 6 year old's?

Tyler #40

My shed and "garage" (I use that term loosely because in reality it's a makeshift indoor hockey rink) have become a place where balls of all shapes and sizes come to breed and replicate.

The only car parked in here is Nolan's

Skateboards, hockey sticks, scooters, baseball bats, helmets, and LOTS of padding...yup we have that. Whiffle balls, baseballs, T-balls, basketballs, footballs, lacrosse balls, volleyballs. You need balls, we got em!

And at any give time, if those are unavailable, a rolled up pair of socks can be substituted for all of the above. My world has morphed into something I never imagined, but I no longer envy those moms who get to quietly play Barbies or go for Mommy-daughter mani-pedis.

I don't know what my life would be like if I didn't have balls flying across my face.

Loving Life in Boyland,

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My Kids Are Trying to Put Me in Jail

 I don't know what is going on with my boys, but I do have a deeper understanding of why parents beat their children.

Do males have a "special" time during each month where the testosterone in their bodies is built up to such levels it causes them to loose all common sense? I'm convinced yesterday was that day.

Bryson came home from a sleepover with his grandfather sporting a new double bladed  Star Wars light saber. Thank goodness because if a rebellion against the empire ever broke out I wasn't sure we were fully protected.

I call the red one!

Of course Tyler, being the mature 13 year old he is, jumped at the opportunity to engage in an epic dueling battle with his brother.

Most of the time these episodes end badly. This was no different.

While in the kitchen, trying to scrub some mystery substance off the floor, I hear the muffled sounds of light sabers crashing together. Its amazing how much noise I can tune out.

Then I hear a not-so-unexpected "OW" bellow from my older son. Since it was not followed by a steady stream of more cries I figured Tyler got whacked hard, but didn't require medical attention or my motherly intervention.

I glanced over to see Ty laying on the sofa writhing a bit, but alive. Bryson quickly gave a genuine apology and followed up with the classic, "I didn't mean to...". This one phrase is the backbone of all male language.

About five minutes had passed when I saw Tyler, still on the couch, thrust a pillow square into Bryson's eyes, who fell to the floor, crying.

Have you ever had a moment when you knew the words coming from your mouth were not appropriate to say in front of children, much less to them, but once they began pouring out there was no turning back? If not, it sounds something like this:

"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!?!?"

I tried. I tried my best not to go off on him. But his blatant attempt to hurt his brother was out of line. Ty quickly raised his hands in the "What did I do?" formation, which just pissed me off more.

 

I sent him to his room and tried to calm myself down before I went on my verbal tirade.

I lectured that kid for 5 minutes straight about being more mature, not purposefully hurting his brother, all while trying to defend my out-of-character language. I took away his use of electronics for the rest of the day and closed by saying, "Grow up".

Yes, I am one big parenting cliche.

I dropped the baby on Brian's lap downstairs and told him I was taking a shower. I went into our bathroom and looked in the mirror to brush my teeth. Staring back at me was a giant green salad leaf next to a massive black peppercorn stuck right on top of my two front teeth.

No wonder these kids don't take me seriously.

Fast forward a few hours later. I'm making dinner, which I was already irritated by because I almost served raw chicken. Brian, Ty and Bryson are kicking, jumping, and tackling each other like a freakin UFC match when I hear the sound of Nolan's little head hit a table and a loud cry.

THAT. IS. IT.

I grabbed a toy golf club that was in Nolan's hand a chucked it down the stairs. Not only are the kids acting a fool, but their father is the damn ringleader!

I've had it with these boys! I take Nolan (who is OK) to my room and shut the door. Brian follows to make sure the baby is alright, and apologizes profusely for getting carried away.

I just don't understand why they have to be SO goddamn destructive! They are always either breaking something or hurting each other.

I finished dinner and we all sat and ate. In silence. The only words said were "Wow mom dinner is so good" and "Yea honey this is the best you've EVER made."

Damn kiss-ups.

After dinner I sat with Nolan so he could finish eating. Bryson comes over and says, "Here mom let me take that for you", clearing away my plate and silverware. The kid is good.

A few minutes later the kids are in the living room playing this game "1 2 3, Ninja!" I could hear Tyler's pubescent/manly laughs, Bryson's non-stop giggles, and Nolan loving every minute of their shenanigans.

I couldn't help but crack a smile.

It's amazing how love for your kids can prevent you from committing a felony.

Have you ever said something crazy because of your kids?

SMH in Boyland,

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Why I'm All Up in Brandi Glanville's Va-jay-jay

Brandi Glanville & Kim Richards, cat fight!

I just came off a 10 day binge of boy overload. Between Christmas, play dates, my 2 brothers visiting, and Bryson's 6th birthday... I'm spent. It's no wonder that my day started off with waking up late, Tyler missing the bus, and having to frantically get Bryson back to catch his. And my husband wonders why I drown myself in inane reality TV like the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills the second my house is quiet.

I'm not the first, or the last woman to admit to a reality show addiction. I think the Bachelor is trite, the Real World saga is so contrived, and I have no interest in watching a bunch of nutcases "out smart" each other on some tropical island.

But fabulously bitchy women in designer shoes with MAY-JA attitude...sign me up!

I know it seems hypocritical, but hear me out. It's not that I would ever indulge or tolerate the behavior exhibited by these women. I also know that most, if not all of it, is well produced and scripted for shock value.

Somehow that does not prompt me to change the channel.

The other night I found myself sucked into a 5 HOUR marathon of RHOBH. I've only done this once before, and it felt equally as shameful. But after a long day of family activities and catering to the needs of 4 boys, momma needs to pour a glass of wine and judge Kim Richard's ill-fated co-habitation with her sketchy boyfriend and the emotional roller coaster that Taylor Armstrong seems to continuously ride.

I feel this inescapable desire to watch the predetermined drama unfold. Even if it means watching so many episodes I wake up drooling on my remote.

I shouldn't care that Brandi "trucker mouth" Glanville just had a quickie Vegas wedding but somehow her ridiculous antics allow me to be grateful for an "ordinary" life.

I know there are SO many better uses for my time. I could be doing laundry, mopping floors, or scrubbing the lingering smell of vomit that my 17 year old brother left on my carpet.

F-that, bring on the petty bitchfest.

What is your guilty pleasure?

Escaping Reality in Boyland,

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