When it comes to my kids, I have a secret. Well, actually, I have a couple.

I am ashamed to admit it, but there are a couple things that I do for my kids that are totally UNCALLED FOR.

There is no need for me to do them.  I totally realize that my kids are growing up and that I need to promote their independence.

No need to preach, I GET IT.

But still, I find myself performing some of the same tasks day in and out that I KNOW that they should be able to do by now. For example:

START THEIR APPLES-  This is stupid. But, okay, here it is. When my kids want to eat an apple they still ask me to start it for them. What I mean is, well… they want me to take the first bite for them. They  claim it is too hard.  Yes, I know they are lying through their little Chicklet-sized teeth. I  know what they really need is to “man up” and conquer the apple on their own. I know that it is clearly a toddler right of passage and that my boys are technically the “big kids on the bus.”  Shut up.

SLEEP WITH THEM – I don’t do it all the time, alright? Okay, who am I kidding? There are many a night that you will find me curled up under my (um, I mean THEIR) blue dinosaur covers waiting for sleep to engulf me while my poor husband spends the evening watching Rocky movies shivers all lonely-like and forgotten in the parent’s room.

PUT THEIR SHOES ON- Oh holy moley, people.  Don’t get all shocked on me here. Sometimes it is just easier AND FLIPPIN’ FASTER than waiting for the little monsters to accomplish it on their own. I just want to get out the door, okay? Is that too much to ask? I just want to get out the door and to work on time, or to the grocery store this year, or to the pool before night falls. Am I asking too much?

DRY & DRESS THEM – Now, in my defense, this is purely a survival technique. If I don’t dry them off and dress them immediately after they shower then we will have nothing less than screaming, wet, naked banshees streaking through the neighborhood house for the rest of the night. Boys love to be naked. And they love to scream. And to run. It is the stuff of nightmares.  I have to put the kibosh on it before all hell breaks loose. Really, it is for your protection. Not mine.

So there you have it.

Now you know.

BTW – If you want to feel even better about your parenting skills, head over to Life Starring the Kids and Me and check out her weekly blog carnival on Mommy Confessions. I love mom solidarity!

It just occurred to me tonight that I have no idea what I look like for REAL.

Ever have that problem?

Have you ever noticed that you look vastly different from one mirror (at the store for instance) to another (in the harsh light of your bedroom)?

Or is it just me?

I spent the entire weekend at Ocean City in a bathing suit and I am not entirely sure if I looked (a) hideous or (b) passable.  Just depended on the mirror I was looking into at the time.  And why is that exactly?  Does ANYONE really know?

The mirror at Kohl’s was okay.  Enough so that I plunked down hard earned cash for a skirted tankini.  A SKIRTED TANKINI.  (That is a future blog, trust me. I have fundamental issues with tankinis and skirts as swimwear. Then I went out and spent $60 on one. Hence the reason I drank the entire weekend.)

When I got home I tried it on and it looked even better somehow. Sweet.

When I put it on in Ocean City… I HAD A FLIPPIN’ HEART ATTACK.  Suddenly I was faced with impending beach lounging and I was looking at double the cellulite. Triple the thighs. I even had BACK FAT!

Five minutes later I snuck a peak at myself in the living room.  The LIVING ROOM THAT WAS MADE ENTIRELY OF MIRRORS.  (Who’s idea was that, anyway?) And well, it was only semi-horrifying.

I have no earthly idea what I really looked like.

This happens to me all the time.  I will go shopping and get a cute outfit only to find that I look like a cow when I get home.  Or I will think that I look put together when I leave the house but later in the day I find myself startled at the image reflected in the mirror.  Like, “Who put THAT on me?”

Seriously. Why. Is. This?

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Apparently I have been letting myself go.  I didn’t realize.  I mean, I guess I did but… I didn’t REALLY realize.

MR. BOB NOTICED ME TODAY.

That is how low I have sunk. MR. BOB, people!

Mr. Bob is my children’s bus driver.  He is about 700 years old.  He is mean.  He is cranky.  He yells a lot.  He is retiring to Phoenix this June.  He says he is over the whole kid thing.

So, today, like any other day, I walked my boys to the bus stop.  As they were loading on to the bus I noticed Mr. Bob waving his hands about his head.  He was looking straight at me.  He kept motioning around his head.  I just figured he had finally gone stark raving mad.

Then he YELLED out, “Fixed your hair today?”

Oh. My. God.

He was talking to me…. BECAUSE I DID MY HAIR.

“Um, yeah.  I got a new job.”

“Whoopie!!!”

Oh yes he did.  He yelled WHOOPIE.

The 700 year old mean-as-a-snake bus driver was excited for me BECAUSE I BRUSHED MY HAIR.

I have nothing else to say.

Orgasm during childbirth?

Um, no.  Just, no.

Apparently there is a film called Orgasmic Birth that makes the claim that it is possible.  The film’s producer (a woman, if you can believe that) says that a woman’s ability to feel intense physical pleasure during childbirth is “the best-kept secret”.

Well I am here to tell you that no one EVER let me in on that secret.  Thanks a lot, Mom.

My husband is a good man. He puts up with A LOT.  He and I are opposite in so many ways.

He is a detail man.  An everything-has-a-place-man. An if-you-put-things-right-back-where-you-found-them-we-wouldn’t-have-this-problem-kind-of-man. I am NOT. I try. But I am more of a free spirit when it comes to organization, especially when it comes to housework. And, of course, my husband is essentially right. (Albeit in a housework-utopian-society-kind-of-way.) But, as for me, there is always SOMETHING that comes up to thwart my efforts.

Let’s go on a journey through 10 minutes of the mess and chaos of my life shall we? One example – a pair of my running shoes that has not yet made it back into the closet. So, theoretically, I should have been able to take them off my feet and toss them into the closet. Oh, I mean, lay them gently into the designated running shoe cubby. Yeah.

So here is what happened instead. I took them off…  At that precise moment, my son yelled dramatically from the other room. I sprint over to him and find that he and his brother are pounding each other over a Light Bright design. I settle the argument and notice hundreds of Light Bright pieces all over the floor. Oh dear. (Dad won’t be amused by that.) So we make a game of it and pick them up. In the middle of that the phone rings. It is my friend reminding me it is my turn to bring snack to soccer. I run down the stairs to see if I even have something that would qualify as a snack. Nope. Put it on the list of things to do. I then notice the laundry is finished. I put a new load in and take the other out and begin folding it. Kids come running downstairs and want a drink. I get them a drink. They spill juice everywhere and I clean it up. I begin emptying the dish washer because I can’t even put the juice cups away due to the overflowing sink with dirty dishes in it. I am halfway through this task when hubby comes home.

So this is what my husband sees: Kitchen a mess. Sticky floor. Laundry strewn everywhere. Light Bright pieces not picked up. (Because they decided to dump them out again while I wasn’t looking.) And then, of course, he tripped over my shoes. Yeah, those shoes. The ones that should have been put away as soon as I took them off my feet.

And then he says…. “Jen. Why don’t you just put these away right when you take them off?”