Friday, March 14, 2014

Tripping Balls

I'm still alive.


Back in January I promised to start writing about sustainable lifestyle changes for health. I had it all worked out in my head - I was going to talk about nutrition first, since so many were focused on that at the start of the New Year.  Then sustainable activity.  And so on.

Then I was slapped in the face with the reality that keeping up with being a mother, wife, business owner, CEO of my own house all while trying to focus on my own health and fitness while maintaining a blog was, well, unsustainable.  Real life sometimes gets in the way.

I have, of course, thought about many other things I wanted to write about since then but how could I go back and write about them when I promised you something else.  So many funny or emotional topics that I've probably forgotten because I was so focused on doing what I said.  But life is not always so linear.  And frankly, shit happens.

When I can't do what I promised I would do or what I expected I would do I start to have a little anxiety.  I feel pressured to fulfill my duties and I start to have guilt over my lack of perfection.  Jesus, this again?

I was re-watching an interview from Brené Brown (Yes, I am obsessed with her) and this quote of hers hit home. "Perfectionism is not about striving for excellence or healthy striving, which I'm for. It's a cognitive behavioral process, a way of thinking and feeling that says this: If I look perfect, do it perfect, work perfect and live perfect I can avoid or minimize shame, blame and judgment."

I've lived my whole life this way and part of the reason for my blog was to work through all the feelings of inadequacy that lead to my shame and guilt and worthiness issues.  So how ridiculous that I can't write when I feel moved to write because it doesn't fit into the perfect plan I had in mind.  Craziness.

I probably will write about sustainability as it's still my go-to motto for life.  But it may not be the next blog.  I may write about a workout or marriage or my socks.  I don't know.  We'll just have to see how I'm feeling and what I need to share.  Perfect is not going to work when it comes to this blog.  Or me.


So for now I am going to share with you something else I wrote back in November for a friend, though she didn't end up using it on her own blog.  I didn't know what I would do with it as it didn't perfectly fit in with my topic of body confidence.  But you know what?  This is my life on a day to day basis.  And every part of my life factors in to my own being.  All of it.  Even the balls.

Enjoy.








This morning my day started with one son sneaking up on the other, butt first, to fart on him while he was pouring his cereal.  What followed was this conversation:

Oldest: Dude!  Why did you just fart on me??!!
Youngest:  Sorry.  It was an accident.
Oldest:  No it wasn't.
Youngest: Yes it was.
Oldest: No it wasn't.
Youngest: Yes it was.
Oldest: Dude. You don't back your butt up to someone and fart on them.
Youngest:  It's just natural.  Farts come out sometimes.  I can't help it.
Oldest:  What - do you have some kind of heat seeking butt that targets people?
Youngest:  Mmmmmaybe.

And so on.

Mind you it was not even 7am yet and I had only had coffee in my hands for about 5 minutes.

This is my life.  Every day. I'm the sole female in a house with 3 other males.  My husband and 2 sons. It is not for the faint of heart.

I knew life would be changed forever the moment I saw that little turtle on the ultrasound but I never imagined how much.  The first time I changed his poopy diaper I was distraught on how to proceed.  After all, men tell us all the time how even a graze to the old testicles can drop them to their knees, right?  So what in the hell am I supposed to do with these wrinkly crap-covered bits?  I delicately tried to wipe everything away when my husband grabbed a new wipe, violently scrubbed and said, "No.  Like this.  You gotta get up in there."

I've been up in there ever since.  Metaphorically speaking.  My entire life is so directed and influenced by these 6 balls that sometimes I truly believe I have grown a pair myself.  Not metaphorically speaking.



Back when I was in high school I used to say that I got along better with guys.  Most of my friends were guys.  Even after college and I got my first real job in a male-dominated field I was content.  Hanging with guys is so much better, I said.  Hardly any drama, I said.  I could do this forever, I said.

And then - Karma.

Hanging out with your guy friends is totally different than living with these people.  Trust.

First, the preoccupation with their genitalia astounds me.  I could not even begin to count the number of times I've had to say, "It's not a handle" in the last 13 years.  Why?  Why are we holding on to it like it's about to run off?  And I'm talking about toddlers here.  I get why they do it later but it's still not a handle.  Let it go.

I remember one morning I was quietly drinking my coffee and spending a little quality time with Matt Lauer while my preschooler sat on the couch next to me.  Out of the blue he struck up a conversation that I'll never forget.

Youngest:  Mom, how come my penis keeps growing?
Me: It's growing?
Youngest:  Yes.  I think it's 12" long by now.
Me:  It's not 12" long.
Youngest:  I think it is, mom.
Me:  No, it's not.  I promise you.  It is not 12"
Youngest: How long is 12"?
Me: It's a foot long.
Youngest: Like a footlong hotdog?
Me: Um. Yes... It's not 12"
Youngest:  It's got to be 5 or 6" by now at least.
Me: No it's not.
Youngest: 3?
Me: You really don't need to worry about how long it is right now.
Youngest: Ok.
-
-
-
Youngest: Can I have waffles for breakfast?



So there you have it.  This is where the delusions of grandeur and the preoccupation with size starts.  At 4.



I endure daily wrestling matches where one of them inevitably receives a blow to the groin.  Sometimes it's even done on purpose.  These children of mine, bless their little hearts, thought they invented a game called "Ball Slap".  They were crushed to find that it was already a game invented by the Romans (or so I told them) called Sack Tap.  (Saccius Tappius.  Google that shit.)

Curiously enough - when one receives a hard enough blow to the balls they get nauseated and completely lose their appetite.  Who knew?  At least now I know why I've never made it to my fucking goal weight.

Unfortunately, after the nausea and subsequent ice packs I had to witness a conversation between all three of my men regarding all the different names for their parts they could come up with.  These are just a few that I can remember:

eggs & sausage
family jewels
twigs & berries
peas & carrots
seeds & stalks
junk
stuff
store
dick
sack
rod
shank
old one eye

Of course these are not new to me, but...How??  How did this become a thing?  Is it a bonding moment for card carrying testes holders?  For the life of me, I'll never understand it.

"Hold still.  I promise I can make the jump.  No, I won't land on your balls."

"Dude - don't even try to say I'm not in puberty.  I've got hair all over my balls."

"Mom, can you come look at this.  There's something wrong with my balls."

The word balls is so much a part of the vernacular in this house that I have very nearly forgotten the name for my own junk.  I live and breathe testicles.  All. Damn. Day.

I have pretty much covered just about every ball related topic that can be covered with these people.  But there is one that I'm leaving up to my old man.


I had to, sans alcohol mind you, begin my conversation about sex education with my oldest son with the sentences, "No, sex is not all about anal fisting.  And here's why."  Some middle school punk decided to inform an entire captive audience on the school bus that sex was anal fisting.  Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I'd hear my son say those words to me.  Christ, I think I was in my 30's before I knew what that was: 

Me:  So, I was two fisting my drinks last night.
Much younger friend: Yeah, you may not want to say it that way.
Me: Why?
Much younger friend: Have you heard of this new website called Urbandictionary?  Try it.

I covered anal fisting. You're covering masturbation, dad.  Peace out, mother fucker. I'm done.



I love my children.  They are my world.  And I've learned so much about boys in the last 13 years.  I've tended more wounds than I could even count.  I've broken up more fights and played with more trains that I grown woman should have to. (Seriously - trains?  What the fuck is that?  They go around once and I'm bored.)  Blood, guts, boogers, farts, spit, dirt.  This is what's included in the deluxe ball package when you purchase it.  Buyer beware.

Oh!  Package!  That's one, too.

We're in full on puberty now.  Aggression. Growth spurts. Testing of boundaries. Talking back. And the fighting.  God, the fighting. I feel like I live in a home where everyone is involved in a pissing match to prove their manliness, myself included.  I'm gonna win this one if it kills me.  And I'll be damned if I don't raise some good men.



This afternoon one of my boys didn't come home from school.  He wasn't on the bus.  Since he's walked home before without telling me I waited him out for quite awhile.  Still no kid.  I started driving around looking for him.  I searched every possible way home from the school.  The longer I couldn't find him the more panicked I got.  What if something happened to him?  What if someone took him?  My baby!

He finally called home and I got the message to pick him up.  Seems the bus was late getting back from the field trip he was on and then every single 7th grader that didn't have a phone was waiting in line to use the school phone so it took him forever for his turn. (Or so he says.  This could have been an ingenious master plan to finally convince me to buy him his first cell phone.)

I cried.  I'm not going to lie.  For almost a half hour I was terrified something had happened to my little man.  The one that thinks he's so grown up.  The one with hair on his balls.

These boys are still my babies.  They are the center of my universe.  It's almost as if I revolve around them, like they were some kind of giant circular orb type thing.  Something spherical.  And tender.  My family jewel.

I live with 6 balls.  It's my life now.  And I've learned so much about the male species from them.  Guys really are the best.  Except when they're not.  And then I have what's called *cue angels singing* Girls Night.  Where not once do we fart on another human being or talk about what we call our girl parts.

Our Kitty.  Our Vajajay.  Our Cooch.  Our Chocha.  Lady Garden.  Bean.  Beav.  Poonani.  Beefcurtain.  Muff.  Cookie.  Snatch.  Hot Pocket.  Princess Ladybits.



Yep.  Our names are better.




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