Wimpy White Boy Disease - Pt 2

Many people got in contact with me after my last post regarding Wimpy White Boy Disease and I was just amazed at how many women are suffering in silence – living with an affected husband and affected sons.  I never realized before the magnitude of shame and the isolation that these women have – believing there is nothing they can do or no one they can talk to.  I found that most women didn’t even realize that WWBD is an actual condition; they just thought they’d married lazy assholes. 

In my last post – I gave the clinical diagnosis of WWBD, the symptoms and examples of the disease.  As I clearly see there is a need to provide some more education on the subject, I have included the below:

WWBD; Currently, there is not a cure and the method of treatment is largely based on the male’s age and the severity of the symptoms.  Because the patient is unable to recognize the disease in himself or any other white male, there is not a decrease in the quality of life and therefore treatment is aimed at helping the other female members of the family cope with the many difficulties of this disease.  The one exception to this is when the onset occurs at birth – where the symptoms are exclusively medical in nature – and do require medical intervention.   (This is not to be confused with other diagnoses that can afflict neonate males, such as pre-maturity; WWBD can only be diagnosed if the infant is a white male, 37-40 weeks of gestational age and does not have any other medical conditions.  *See my last post regarding this.)

Methods of treatment can include but are not limited to:

Moderate amounts of alcohol (studies have shown that wine seems to be the most effective)

Moderate amounts of chocolate

Retail therapy (accessing the afflicted males finances during this treatment has been shown to  
                        increase the success rate as much as 70%; making this method the ‘Gold Star’ of     
                        treatment options.)

Anti-depressants – although this is a tricky one that can backfire on you.   Anti-depressants affect
                               the ‘give o shit’ part of the brain and some women have reported that while they
                               did seem to notice a decrease in the give o shit of their husband’s/son’s
                               behavior, they also experienced a decrease in the give o shit for their eating 
                               habits, house cleaning, and personal hygiene.  The widely accepted theory that
                               antidepressants also decrease libido has been proven to be a myth.  Studies
                               have shown that libido begins to decrease at the time of matrimony and is
                               absent entirely during a women’s child-bearing years.

Support Groups (such as Girls Night Out) – like most support groups, this treatment is aimed at
                        bringing together people who are affected by WWBD and helping to support one        
                        another.  The greatest benefit of these groups is that usually the other types of
                        treatment are also included in these meetings.  The place and time of these
                        meetings is constantly changing – to meet the needs of its members – and typically
                        rotate through: another member’s house, the mall, a spa, and a bar.  The meetings
                        do not have to be confidential and members can associate with one another outside
                        of the meeting setting.  Members do not have one sponsor, but multiple sponsors
                        that they can access at any time.               

If left untreated, families of individuals with WWBD – most notably the mothers or wives – often develop a condition called, ‘Bitter Woman Disease’ or BWD.  This occurs in about 90% of the women.  Onset of this almost always happens when the woman has a husband and a son(s) of her own.  The period of onset is when the symptoms of this condition are the most severe.  Women usually do not considerate it appropriate for the children to know of their condition, but do heartily agree that their husbands should be present for all of it.  Ironically, the woman has no trouble recognizing that she is afflicted.

The signs to watch for in BWD include:

A continuing increase in the woman’s medication – As the severity of BWD increases, the woman increases her dosage of alcohol, chocolate, and/or antidepressants.  Eventually the woman is totally dependent upon these drugs and at very lethal levels.

Compulsive Repetitive Declaration/Inquisition (CRDI) – This actually evolves from the wife’s continued exposure to the husband’s/son(s)’ impaired memory function.  Not only does the wife have to remember most things (as she’s always had to), but if she physically is not able to do something that she remembered (like pick up a few items on her way home from work), than she also has to remember to remind her husband no less than five times that he said he would go to the store, remind him what to get at the store, and then remind him to take the list that you asked him to make so he wouldn’t forget anything.  Since the WWBD husband does not recognize that she has to do that because of his inability to, he assumes this to be an undesirable personality trait.  CRDI is most often called ‘nagging’ or ‘bitching’.  The clinical component of it is often forgotten by women themselves, and many begin to think that it is a reflection of their true nature.  CRDI also occurs in a large portion of women who do not have BWD.      

Subtle acts of coercion/retribution – The woman has learned at this point that trying to talk to her husband about how she is feeling does not work.  Mistakenly, she thinks that if she can show him how she feels, than his behavior might change.  She might withhold conversation (the silent treatment) or conveniently come home from work too late to make dinner.  Sadly because a WWBD male lacks the ability to process facial expressions, inflection of tone, or body language – he simply cannot interpret what these demonstrations mean.  And those with less severe forms of WWBD might be able to process those details, but will be incapable of attaching any kind of feeling to it – such as accountability, empathy, or remorse.  The wife will come home (late from work) and still have to make dinner.  It will be 8 o’clock before the children eat (thus setting off a whole new chain of evening un-pleasantries) and she will be unable to say anything to him about it – because she remembers that she’s not speaking to him.    

Seemingly unexplained fits of rage – The rage is first directed at the husband.  When that doesn’t produce the desired effect, the woman with BWD will take out her frustrations on items associated with her husband and that usually does produce results (although not a desired one).  These items can include: his car (in its entirety or pieces of it), his athletic equipment, his TV…..his mother.

Outright withholding of sexual intercourse (and everything associated with it) – The BWD is tired of

making up excuses as to why she doesn’t want to sleep with her husband.  Due to the ‘bitter’ nature of the disease, the woman no longer cares if she hurts her husband’s feelings and so does not tell him that she’s had uncontrollable diarrhea all day nor give in and participate; knowing that even though she will not be getting off – it will only take him exactly 1 minute and 30 seconds to do so.  The husband, who so considerately waits until his wife is done with all of her daily chores and caring of their children, (including her afflicted sons), and also seeing to his needs, will be shocked and angry when she tells him: “No, I would not like some warm dickencider (‘dick inside her’) to drink.  Nor do I want it in any other orifice of my body.  Contrary to what you think, the only thing I’m thinking when I see you stretched out on the bed naked is that it’s been a while since I washed the sheets.  And while we’re having this disclosure, you might as well know that in addition to doing everything else better than you, I can also get myself off better than you can as well.”

Unfortunately, BWD is not widely accepted in the medical community.  This is probably due to the fact that a large majority of people in the healthcare industry are men.  Instead of giving it its proper distinction and acknowledging the causes of it, the signs and symptoms are often lumped under another medical condition.  Women are told they are nagging, passive-aggressive, frigid bitches who drink and eat too much. 

Even sadder, is that BWD eventually progresses into its final stage, known as FIA (Fuck It All).  Every case is different; no two women will experience it in the exact same way.  Although, it uniformly happens when the BWD woman acknowledges that she can no longer take care of a husband with WWBD, the way in which the responsibility is released is unique to every woman.  It could be sudden or happen over several months. 

Here are some reported ways in which BWD wives have experienced FIA:

Divorce

Moving out while WWBD husband is at work…….and taking everything in the house in the process

Moving out while WWBD husband is at work, taking everything in the house in the process…….and moving in with his best friend

Moving out while WWBD husband is at work, taking everything in the house in the process, and half of his 401 K…..and moving in with his best friend

Gluing of the penis to the stomach, while said man is sleeping (usually infidelity is involved)

Backing over the husband with a car…..a few times.  (infidelity and possibly alcohol could have been involved)

Prognosis of WWBD:

The outlook can be very good.  Even if the wife of the husband with WWBD is in the end stages of FIA, remission is still possible.  It’s important for these women to realize that IT’S NOT THEM and it’s not really their husbands’ fault either.  It’s genetic.  As soon as women accept this and focus their energy on trying to live with the disease – rather than cure it – things can improve pretty quickly.  But, understand that living with the disease is not the same thing as suffering from the disease.  Although, a WWBD wife can take care of everything in her home – that doesn’t mean that she should.  But, it also doesn’t mean that she can expect the husband to either.  It just means that from time to time everyone in the house may run out of clean clothes……for a few weeks.  (Quick Tip:  If seeing laundry piling up stresses you out, then simply don’t look at it.  Close the laundry door and don’t come in through the garage so you don’t have to see it.  Don’t worry; you’ll know when it’s absolutely necessary to wash some clothes.  Your children running around naked (more than they usually do) will be the sign to watch for.)  WARNING:  Your husband griping at you about not having any clean clothes DOES NOT count as a sign to watch for.  That is just one of the symptoms of the disease; the WWBD husband would gripe regardless.  Remember you can’t cure that; treatment is aimed at helping yourself.  So, if your husband starts griping because the laundry’s not done, simply take yourself to one of your meetings or at the very least call one of your many sponsors.  You will need to talk with her no less than one hour and it’s best to do so in a calm, relaxing place – such as the backyard, in a lawn chair, with a cocktail.    It may be necessary to stay in your calming place until the WWBD flare-up has passed.

Conclusion:

As stated before, not all Caucasian males suffer from WWBD and even those that do may have a mild form of the disease.  Sometimes, the symptoms are so mild, that wives find that the quality of their marriage is overall not affected by it.

As for my personal testimony….

Yes, my husband (and 3 out of my 3 sons) are afflicted with WWBD.  With respects to my husband, I am fortunate in many ways.  He does not have a problem with cleaning or cooking – or generally sharing in most of the responsibilities of raising our children.  He is also a very healthy individual – so I can’t even say if he would be the type to be overly dramatic about a minor ailment.  But, I do have to say that one time I got a MRSA staph infection on my face – right between my eyes- and he wouldn’t drive me to the emergency room.  He told me it was a big zit.  My mom ended up having to take me and my husband was a little shocked that my ‘zit’ almost left me blind and made me stay in the hospital for a week.  He made it up to me though by bringing my baby up to the hospital to stay with me and take care of.  (He knew just how much caring for an infant would help me to heal.)  My hubby does have a problem with multi-tasking and remembering things, but I actually happen to love organizing and planning things and being in control – so that’s not such a big deal either. 

For my sons, I’m still trying to gage the extent of their WWBD.  My baby clearly had it at birth –but sense then, hasn’t had too many flare-ups.  He’s only 11 months though, so it’s probably way too early to tell.  Now, my other 2 sons (who are almost the same age) both have it pretty severe.  Only they have completely different symptoms, so sometimes I think that is way worse.  I haven’t come up with some treatment suggestions for dealing with sons yet.  (It’s not exactly like you can just tell them, “Hey – you guys are pissing me off, so I’m going to head on down to the bar to meet with my support group.  I will finish making dinner when I get back – if I still can.”)  I think some women do that – but those are also the same women who backed over their husbands with their cars….a few times.  And since WWBD males can’t recognize it in other males, my husband doesn’t understand why they’re pissing me off.  He’ll quietly whisper to them (as I storm out of the room), “Don’t mind mom; it’s just a bad time of the month right now for her; I’ll explain it when you’re older.”

But, I’m doing something right.  Even though, my husband and 2 older sons aren’t quite sure what they did; they are pretty sure they did something.  And even though they (mainly my husband) are even more sure that what they did do was not a big deal, sooner or later I will see two small sets of eyes peeking around my bedroom door, holding homemade cards that say things like, ‘Sori  4 wat i did, mom.  i luv u.’  Now, my husband will say something like, “I’m sorry you’re having such a bad day.  Don’t worry; I’m not mad at you for taking it out on me.”

But, that’s ok; I’ve learned to immediately quit listening after the word ‘sorry’ comes out  I am almost guaranteed not to like what comes after. 

Hello.  My name is ‘S’ and my husband does have WWBD.       

My Whimpy White Boys

Yesterday........

The husband (who works the graveyard shift) was so tired, having only got 6.5 hours of sleep the day before, that right after dinner he went to bed and slept right up until it was time to go to work.  (He said he was ‘making up for his lost sleep’.)

His wife – who typically got between 4-5 hrs a sleep every night – came home from work (and had to bring work home with her from the office), had to clean up after dinner was over, had to pick up what-ever mess the children had made that day, help 3 older kids with homework and their baths, take care of the baby (who had an allergic reaction to an antibiotic a few days earlier and was covered head-to-toe in hives) and put him to bed, got things ready for the next day, and then still had to do the work she had brought home.

The husband woke up went to work.

The wife would have gone to bed (and would have gotten 6 hrs of sleep) but the baby woke up, screaming bloody murder. 

The wife got up and checked on the baby.  He was hungry (due to the steroids he was taking), so the wife made him a bottle.  He finally went back to sleep.

The wife lay down again (and would have gotten about 5.5hrs of sleep) but the baby woke up again, about 45 minutes later.

The wife got up and checked on the baby.  He had a dirty diaper (diarrhea) due to the steroids, so the wife changed his diaper.  The baby also had a very bad diaper rash (from all the diarrhea) and so he screamed bloody murder again and after another 30 minutes, finally went back to sleep.

The wife lay down again, but before she could even figure out how much time she had to sleep, she heard her son, ‘A’ run into the bathroom and throw-up.

The wife got up and checked on her son.  He was standing in front of the toilet – with his pants off – puking into the toilet…..and shitting on the floor at the same time.

The child looked at his mother and said, “Hey – I didn’t get any throw up on the floor; I made it all in the toilet.”

“Ummm, that’s good”, said his mother – as she looked at the all the shit on her bathroom rug.

“I did accidentally poop in my pants though”, said the child.  “That’s why I took them off.”

“Ummm, honey”, said his mother.  “Did you know that you accidentally pooped on the floor?”

The child did not know and was surprised by this.  He told his mother not to worry; that he wasn’t going to put the old underwear back on and he would get some new ones from his drawer.

The wife told the child she was more worried about him putting on his clean underwear with poop smeared all over his butt. 

The son got into the tub while the mother folded up the rug – with his dirty clothes in it – and took them to the laundry room.  When she went back to check on her son, he was standing in the tub, filling up a cup with water and trying to toss it over his shoulder, and make it onto his butt (that he couldn’t see) and wash off the poop.  The mother helped get the child cleaned up and he finally went back to bed.

The wife lay down again, but it was just to watch some TV before her alarm went off.

The husband came home from work and asked the wife how everything went the previous night.

The wife told him everything that had occurred and how she hadn’t been to sleep yet.

The husband said, “Yeah, I know what you mean; I’m tired too.”

Wimpy White Boy Disease is a genetic condition that all (or most) Caucasian males are born with. 

Symptoms - which range from mild to extreme - include inability to multi-task, hyper-sensitized to minor medical ailments but extremely desensitized to most feelings and emotions, an abnormal, continuing attachment to one’s mother (although some research suggests that this may actually be a side-effect of the disease, rather than a symptom of it), diminished memory function (both long and short term), delusions of grandeur, varying degrees of brain damage - specifically related to ‘Common Sense’ , a strong compulsion for the fecal matter of the male bovine (bullshit), and unexplained aversions to inordinate objects – such as vacuum cleaners, mops, and toilet-bowl brushes.

The afflicted male may not present with all of these symptoms, although findings suggest that most do.  Age of onset also varies, with some showing signs at birth and others not until their teenage years.  Onset almost exclusively occurs by the time puberty is reached.

Examples of WWBD include:

A husband laying in bed all week due to a cold……will still expect his wife to have completely recovered from a C-section upon being discharged from the hospital.

A WWBD husband will expect his wife to remember every birthday on his family tree and buy gifts for said birthdays – including his mother’s  ‘Mother’s Day’ present and then expect her to spend Mother’s Day at his mother’s house…….and then not even get her a card for Mother’s Day…….or have the children make her one.  And of course, that woman’s three sons wouldn’t have been capable of remembering on their own to do that for her either.

 A son affected with WWBD will watch his mother take clothes out of the dryer, fold them, put them in a laundry basket and ask him to go put them away in his room (which after much reminding, he does).  Later – that same day – he will watch his mother give him a single piece of clean clothing (like one pair of jeans) and ask him to go put that away in his room.  That same boy will walk into his room and drop that one pair of jeans into the empty basket on his bedroom floor.  Sometimes, he just leaves it there and sometimes, he turns right around and picks it up and puts it away.  When the mother asks him why he didn’t just go directly to the dresser and put the jeans away, the WWBD affected son will say, “I thought it’s supposed to go in the ‘clean clothes’ basket first”.  The obvious common sense connection that a basket is mainly used when you have multiple items and that the main goal is to get the clothes in the drawers – not to make sure they hit several check points along the way – is lost on the WWBD child.

Sons will also find a way to move a 6ft basket-ball goal that weighs more than they do from their driveway – halfway down the street – to their friend’s house……..and then tell their mother that it’s too hard for them to operate a broom.

A wife will ask her husband to ask the Pediatrician a certain question (when he takes their son for his check-up).  He will remember to ask the question, but then can’t remember the Dr.’s answer.  If the wife becomes frustrated with this, the husband will say, “WELL GOSH, I CAN’T DO EVERYTHING AROUND HERE!  I MEAN, I HAD TO FEED THE BABY, I HAD TO GET THE BABY READY, I HAD TO TAKE THE BABY TO THE DR., I HAD TO REMEMBER ALL YOUR QUESTIONS, AND THEN BECAUSE I CAN’T REMEMBER EVERY LITTLE DETAIL OF THE ANSWER – YOU’RE JUMPING MY ASS!”  The wife will calmly point out that she does that every day when she takes the baby to daycare and that she did lay the clothes out, get the bottle ready and pack up the diaper bag for him before she left the house that morning.  She will also remind him that it was only one question that he had to remember – not several, and he didn’t forget one detail of the answer – he forgot the whole answer.  The husband will then say, “Well – the reason why I forget stuff is because I don’t bother to remember it if it isn’t important, and all the stuff you remember is the easy, non-important stuff.  (Actually, in that example you can see the diminished memory function, delusions of grandeur, and bovine fecal matter of the disease.)       

A true story; a married woman, with a daughter and two sons, was in the hospital – delivering her fourth child.  The baby was a Caucasian male and was born at 37 weeks gestation after showing some signs of distress in the womb.  This was due to a physical malady of the woman, not anything relating to the baby. 

Upon birth, the infant started showing signs of respiratory distress – but for no obvious reason.  The physicians (males) told the woman they didn’t know what was wrong with her baby and that they were taking him to the NICU.  The next few days were very upsetting as none of the Dr.’s could figure out what was wrong and how to help the little guy.  On the third day – as hope seemed to be lost – a female physician, who had just come on duty, examined the tiny baby as he struggled to breathe.  She went through his chart and all of his test results and then noticed the mother sobbing in the chair by the isolate.  The sympathetic Dr. asked the mother what was wrong. 

The mother looked at her incredulously and said, “What do you mean, ‘what’s wrong’?  My baby is sick.  For some reason, he doesn’t want to breathe on his own and no one knows why.  The Dr.’s tell me if he doesn’t improve, they might have to take drastic measures.  I just don’t get it.  I did everything I was supposed to during my pregnancy, he’s only a little early, and for some reason – that little 32- weeker in the crib next to him is doing better than he is, and she will probably go home before he does.

The physician looked surprised and asked, “What do you mean, ‘they told you he was really sick and they might have to take drastic measures’?  The only thing that is wrong with your baby is that he’s a white male and that’s not something we would correct even if we could.”  The mother just stared at her like she was bat-shit crazy and so the physician explained further.

“Your baby is suffering from WWBD – Wimpy White Boy Disease.  If conception to birth was a race and at the starting line was a black female baby, an Aisan male baby, and your son – your son would be the very last one to cross the finish line.  We’re not really sure why that is – but for some reason, white male babies seem to have more trouble than any other group.  I’ve seen Caucasian twins – boy/girl – and the girl will almost always do better than her brother starting out.  So – at 37 weeks, most babies are perfectly ready to move out of the womb – except the Wimpy White Boy.  So, what we’ve got to do is just support him and help him to breathe and let him know that he can do this on his own.  And he will.”

The woman nodded and decided to put her faith in what the physician said.  After the physician left, the woman started to notice just how true the woman’s words were.  That little 32 weeker was having daily CT scans, blood draws, and even a spinal tap.  She was in an incubator – under a bili light – with sunglasses strapped to her head and IVs and wires poking out of her everywhere.  But when someone reached in to do something else to her, she would fight back – grabbing at things and pulling things off, and she would screech.  Not cry – screech; like a harpy.  It was her war cry.  It was like she was saying, “BRING IT ON BITCHES!!!!  NEVER SURRENDER, NEVER SURRENDER!!!!”

The Wimpy White Boy, on the other hand, who was undoubtedly the fattest baby in the NICU and only had the pulse-ox monitor on him, would freak the F-out whenever a nurse took his temperature.  “OHMIGOD!.....(hyperventilate, sniff, sniff, choke, choke)……THERE’S SOMETHING IN MY BUTT; I’M GOING TO DIE!!!!”  Then after he calmed down from his traumatic event, he would be too tired to breathe or suck from a bottle so then they would turn his oxygen up and feed him through his feeding tube.

The mother, remembering what the Dr. said about doing it on his own, looked down at her son and said, “Hey – pay attention!  If you think a thermometer up your ass is the worst thing in life, you are in for a rude awakening.  There’s immunizations, stitches, broken bones, and lots of other things for you to look forward too.  Not to mention all the emotional boo-boos out here.  And what’s all this crap about not wanting to breathe or eat on your own.  I love you with all my heart – but there is no way you’re going to move back into my womb.  You’re born – you’re just going to have to accept that and move on.  You can do it.  I know you can! 

Well, wouldn’t you know it…..that Wimpy White Boy turned a corner that very next day.  He started taking his temperature like a man (or I guess a woman), kept trying to pull the nasal canula out of his nose and the first time he saw his mother’s boobs – he said, ‘To hell with this feeding tube and bottle bullshit’ and was never ‘too tired’ to eat again.   He improved very quickly……and he did get to go home before that 32-weeker.

As his parent’s carried him out of that NICU, the baby looked over at that baby girl and she looked at him and cried out, “NEVER SURRENDER!”

Aren't you a little too old?

So, some holidays/birthdays have become a tad uncomfortable in our house.  ‘T’ and I have four kids.  I have two – ‘D’ and ‘M’ – and ‘T’ has one – ‘A’.  And then he and I have one together – ‘W’ or ‘Moose’.

It’s an ‘yours, mine, and ours’ sort of thing going on.  The oldest is my daughter – who is 11 – followed by my step-son (8), my son (7 ½), and then Moose bringing up the rear at 11 months. 

Now in regards to birthdays, there seems to be a trilogy of sorts in the progression of the holidays as a child grows up.  When you are a young, birthdays are awesome!  And why wouldn’t they be - since they are usually planned according to what the child expects from the birthday.  And, as a child, you don’t even have to plan/pay for anything.  You just show up, usually eat some food, and get to take gifts home.  Even when a child attends another child’s birthday party, that child usually gets to leave with a gift bag.  It’s like having someone throw you a free wedding every couple of months.  And then double that if you have two sets of parents like my children do.  It’s no wonder why so many father-of-the-brides spend more money on their daughters’ weddings than the bride will actually spend on her first home.  I mean, your wedding can’t be less fancy than your 1^st birthday party.

Hey – I’m not preaching about how ‘ children’s birthday parties have become overly ridiculous’ or how we need to teach our children to be grateful for what they have….blah, blah, blah.  I’m just stating a fact; it is what it is.

Then sometime in the years after being a ‘child’ and before becoming a parent, the birthdays start to change.  It’s a subtle change, with slight altercations occurring year after year, until all of a sudden we’re 18 years old and realize it’s been 5-7 years since we had balloons on our birthday.  Now, the expectation doesn’t lessen.  People tend to think that when a young person stops wanting to celebrate their birthday at the Skating Rink that maturation is taking place and what was once important no longer is.  Bullshit.  The only things that are no longer important are piñatas and spider man cake toppers.  But the expectation  is still there……and now, the tween/teen/young adult is expecting a ridiculous pair of jeans that cost $100.00, a brand new car, and a curfew at midnight.  Then it’s a trip to Vegas (or a strip club for boys) to celebrate officially becoming a grown up…..and showing just how grown up you are by spending the better part of the night and morning puking your tequila shots up and spending every weekend thereafter in about the same fashion until your next birthday rolls around.  Now, an interesting anomaly occurs at this point.  Young men kind of get stuck in this phase.  Once they see a hooker on a pole and their reflection in a toilet bowl, they are suddenly content with life.  They have discovered their purpose on this earth.  Young ladies, on the other hand, who can see boobies anytime they want - or penises for that matter - decide that they liked it better when their parents were buying them a ridiculous pair of jeans that cost $100.00.  Unable to convince their parents to send out invitations to everyone that says, “Guess who’s turning 23!”, women lament their misery with one another and that misery happens to make its way to the ears of the 23 year old boy-man who comes up with this stroke of genius: 

BOY:   Hey, wait a minute – I want to see some boobs…..she has boobs……..hmmmm…….she wants some flowers delivered to her work…….and I have a phone and a credit card…… I GOT IT! 

And so started the evolution of wives telling their husbands that they want a nice dinner at a fancy restaurant, jewelry, and champagne for their birthdays…..and husbands telling their wives that what they want for theirs is a blowjob.      

Hey – spare me the whole, ‘that’s not what marriage should be about’, and that makes all women seem like prostitutes – exchanging material things for sex….blah, blah, blah.  I’m just stating a fact; it is what it is.

So now, the child is an adult – with children of their own.  The husband no longer gives his wife anything for her birthday or any other holiday/special occasion - except for maybe a card.  And that is because the wife quit giving the husband blow jobs right about the same time they got back from their honeymoon.  Funny how that happens.  And it wouldn’t really matter any ways because the husband’s money has to go towards the pony that his 8 year old wants and the wife is too tired from planning the horse-themed birthday party at the local equestrian club to blow her husband.  But, again, the expectation is still there.  The parent’s expect that the 100 balloons they bought will all manage to fit in the car and get to the venue without a single one popping or flying away.  They expect that all 50 people they invited will show up.  They expect that their daughter’s braided hair will stay neat for the pictures and that she won’t make a rude comment about the ugly outfit she received from her aunt. 

The trilogy is complete.

It is the same with holidays as it is birthdays.

Typically, (as parents tend to have their children within 2-5 years of one another), the children are going through this progression at about the same time, give or take a year or so.  If you’re older child no longer believes in Santa Claus – that’s ok, because your youngest is only three years behind him.  The older child will only have to suffer through a few more Christmases of getting his picture taken at the mall on Santa’s lap.  Heck, the older child might even enjoy waking up Christmas morning to see what Santa left him….and not having to buy into the whole bullshit of flying reindeer. 

It is the same with the tooth fairy……and the Easter Bunny.

Which brings me to this last holiday – Easter- and then to the fact that my oldest is almost 11 years older than my youngest. 

Now, my oldest probably knows there is no such thing as the Easter Bunny, or Santa or the tooth fairy.  I say probably because she has never outright said anything to me about it, but she’s busted me too many times on small details (the other children didn’t notice) that she just has to know.  I mean, my god – she’s in fifth grade and shaves her legs!  I refuse to believe that this child who told me the other day that they found a condom on the playground at her school does not know that her Easter basket came from Target and not some giant, bow-tie wearing, purple rabbit that poops jellybeans.  (That was my son’s description)  I can only assume that she doesn’t say anything to me about it because she doesn’t want to hurt my feelings or ruin it for her brothers…….or……and this is the most likely explanation……not have a basket on the porch come Easter morning. 

My two sons – 7 and 8 years old – still believe, but are definitely becoming suspicious.  They’ve heard rumors.  There has been a heated argument on the playground at school regarding a certain jolly, bearded man…..which led to my 7 year old stamping his foot in my kitchen, demanding that I come to his school – at recess – the next day and set the record straight.  I think my 8 year old has decided that the probability is that these entities don’t exist, but keeps waiting for his older sister to send some confirmation regarding the matter.  He doesn’t ask – she doesn’t tell – and the 7 year old has set his mind to catching Santa Claus on Christmas Eve, so he can make him go to his school – at recess – and set the record straight.  And then there’s Moose, who actually watched us assemble his toy train this past Christmas Eve, because at 7 months, he was just as surprised to see it under the tree the next morning as he was that night. 

So – back to Easter.  Trying to find stuff to put in these children’s easter baskets ranks right up there with trying to find stuff to put in their Christmas stockings.  Candy is a no-brainer.  And of course, there’s the fake grass and then the fake eggs stuffed with more candy.  But then what?  I don’t like those pre-made baskets at the store.  My kids always ooh and ah over them, but when you actually open them up, there’s not really that much in them and the toys are always cheap and crappy.  Besides, my kids (boys especially) have enough cheap crap at home.  So, I reasoned that I would give them the candy and fake eggs, and then one thing that I knew they would really like to have.  For my daughter, it was a new case for her I-Pod Touch and for the boys it was a new Wii game each of them.  I assembled the baskets after they went to bed and I have to say…….they looked so sad and so bare.  These baskets, with everything in them, probably cost me around $40.00 each……but still….. they just looked so sad.  I felt even worse for Moose.  This was his first Easter, so I did get him a small stuffed animal, but I couldn’t really give him a lot of candy.  His basket ended up with the stuffed animal, two little plastic toy figures, and two small nerf balls.  When my daughter was little, I put her basket on the porch and sprinkled jelly beans all around it, leading down the steps – out into the yard.  I put a note from the ‘Easter Bunny’ through the handle on the door.  I got up extra early and got the camera ready.  It was a major event.

This year, I fell asleep on the couch and didn’t remember to put their baskets together until I got up to pee at 2 o’clock in the morning.  Then, I had my husband go put them on the porch.  All four of the saddest little Easter baskets I have ever seen.  After he was back in bed, I peeked out the front door to see what they looked like.  And there they sat – sitting right by the pee-soaked bedding of my daughter’s Guinea Pig that she had forgotten to bring inside the last time she cleaned its cage.  And there was my cat’s ass – sticking straight up in the air as he nosed through Moose’s basket; probably trying to decide whether or not to take a dump in the fake grass.  I shooed him away.  But, then of course I worried about him shitting in the Easter baskets all night.

The next morning, my 7 year old woke the whole house up by saying, “WHAT!  I ONLY GOT ONE THING IN MY BASKET!  CANDY DOESN’T COUNT!”  (We’re still working on getting his ADHD meds right.)

He actually wanted Moose’s Easter basket because it had ‘toys’ in it.  So, then I had to take his whole basket away for his ungratefulness.  Moose completely ignored his basket and went to go play with the dog’s water bowl instead.  My 8 year old piped up and said, “Hey, I know!  Since ‘W’ doesn’t want his basket and ‘D’ wanted toys – give him ‘W’s’ basket and then let me have the Wii game out of  ‘D’s’ basket!”  Well, then the 7 year old started protesting that – apparently he wanted both baskets – and then that led to a fight between the 7 and 8 year old.  My husband just went back to bed and I came this close to yelling, “You know what!  There is no such thing as a damn Easter Bunny!  That’s right; I’m the Easter Bunny and you can bet your cotton-tailed ass that there will be no baskets next year!”

But, of course, things died down and we went to my husband’s parents for the first round of Easter.  And wouldn’t you know it – we got all the way there and realized that we forgot the kid’s Easter baskets.  My children hunted eggs with Wal-Mart sacks.  Well, Moose didn’t really hunt eggs.  For one thing, I wouldn’t really let him go out into the yard because there were a lot of stickers (nice when you’re digging through the grass, huh) and he doesn’t really know how to walk in shoes very well yet.  I put some eggs on the sidewalk for him.  He didn’t even notice the eggs.  This baby, who can spot the back to one of my earrings from 20 feet away fails to see a hot pink egg 12 inches in front of his face.  I had to pick it up myself and show him how to put it in his Easter..ah, Wal-Mart sack.  I led him to the next egg (a real egg) and he picked it up…..and threw it right onto the ground.  Of course it cracked and he just thought that was real neat and so that’s what he did.  He picked up the eggs and smooshed them right into the sidewalk.  Not a single one made it home unscathed. 

I told my hubby, “I think he’s a little too young for this.”

But then I glance up and see my older children holding their Easter…ah, Wal-Mart sacks and complaining that they had already found all the eggs and it was too easy and now they are bored.  Oh, but guess what cures boredom?  Trying to throw your eggs at each other.  And my daughter is already back on her I-Pod touch, having already forgotten about her eggs.

I looked at my kids and said, “Are you a little too told for this?”

I might as well have told them that the world was going to end tomorrow; judging by the look of horror crossing my boys’ faces.

Hey – spare me the whole, ‘the problem is that your children are spoiled!’, and that children today do not know the true meaning of Easter……blah, blah, blah.  I’m just stating a fact; it is what it is.

And it’s just going to get worse over the next couple of years.  Moose is not even a year old yet.  He’s got many years of egg hunting ahead….and unfortunately, it looks like my other two boys do as well.  And I am going to bet my cotton-tailed ass that even when the older boys do realize who the real Easter Bunny is, as long as my youngest is still getting up bright and early to get his basket off the porch, they will be as well.  I can just imagine what I will be putting in their baskets by then.  Gas gift card?  A semester of college tuition?  Who knows? 

My 8 year old’s birthday is in April and usually falls right around Easter.   I can just see him opening that front door on Easter -the year he turns 21- as he looks to see what the Easter bunny brought him…..and then opening that front door later that night – as he heads out to go see a hooker on a pole.

 The expectation will still be there.

Happy Easter everyone!  J                    

She's got the look

The weight loss is going good; I’m down about 22lbs.  I’m about 7lbs away from my pre-pregnancy weight, but still have another 25lbs or so after that until I’m at my all-time weight loss goal.

The boudoir shoot is in 4 weeks and 2 days.  I’ve entered the planning phase.  I’ve booked a hair appointment in the coming weeks, so my color will be at its freshest and I’ve booked some spray tanning sessions.  I have tentatively set a date to get a mani and pedi and I’ve also tentatively secured a stylist for the day of the shoot.  It’s coming along nicely.

But, I have yet to decide some of the most crucial aspects of the booty shoot.  Such as……what kind of pictures do I want to take?  What do I want to wear?  What props do I want to use?

I have no freaking idea.

I’ve looked at some other boudoir portfolios online and at some magazines for some ideas, but in all honesty, I find the women in the other boudoir portfolios kind of cheesy looking and find the women in the magazines kind of unrealistic looking.  I’m pretty sure that is a cause and effect type of thing.  Other women – choosing to do a boudoir shoot – probably looked through the same magazines for inspiration and were so inspired, they thought, ‘Hey – I can look exactly like that!’  And so said is the cause of the cheesy looking photos in the portfolios.  See what I’m saying. 

So, I’m kind of stumped.

Through looking at all of these on-line boudoir portfolios, I have organized them into categories though and I think I will approach this in a scientific sort of way.  Maybe that will help me make a decision.  I’m not listing all the categories below…..just a couple that I have studied thoroughly so far and have formed some observations (not opinions) about.

The, ‘I’m your fantasy come true’ photos.

These are the photos where the woman is dressed up in a costume of sorts.  You might find her wearing a fireman hat and coveralls – with the suspender straps covering her bare ta-tas.  I also saw plenty of cowboy hats and cowboy boots – strategically covering more ta-tas and hoo-has.  (Now, that one made me laugh, because my son ‘D’ often goes around dressed like that.)  And then there were army dog-tags on a chain- dangling between the pearly whites of a woman wearing nothing but a smile.

I am going to assume that these photos were meant to pay homage to a special man in these women’s lives – who probably were fireman, cowboys, and military men themselves.  Or – maybe it had always been a fantasy of one man to see his wife dressed up like a fireman.  Which, just seems a little weird to me.  I don’t think I would ever have a hankering to see my husband dressed up like a ballerina or something.  But, I think it is a safe assumption to say that these costumes represent a man or a fantasy for the women wearing them.

Now, in regards to my hubby, ‘T’…..he works on airplanes.  He wears regular clothes to work every day, so while I would be totally comfortable wearing jeans and a t-shirt for the photo shoot, I don’t think that’s necessarily sexy or worth wasting money on a spray tan for.  I supposed I could just pose sexy on the bed, holding a match box airplane……but I would have to borrow it from one of my kids, and that makes me feel…..just plain wrong.

Ok- so nix on the sexy aircraft mechanic.

The only two hobbies ‘T’ has is hunting and making his own beer.

Now – there’s a thought.  I could go with the hunting theme and either cover myself head to toe in leaves and mud…..or wear nothing and get into shooting position, hosting the rifle up on my shoulder with my eye looking down the barrel and my finger on the trigger……butt ass naked.  Hmmm.

Or – I could take a crack at the beer making theme and drag out all of his supplies and kit (which sort of looks like a portable meth lab) and drape my body over them……or I guess I can always just focus on the beer bottles and one can always do certain things with those……hmmm.

On the off chance that anyone does see my photos, I don’t want to hear comments like, “Ooh, yeah – I have a few photos that wish didn’t get taken either.  I’m mean at the time – when you’re at a party and drunk off your ass - stripping down and deep-throating a beer bottle seems like harmless fun, but with everyone having cell phones with cameras these days, you just can take the chance.  Know what I mean.”  

Next category.

The, ‘Victoria’s Secret Catalogue’ photos.

These are the photos where the women are wearing lingerie.  My favorites are when the woman is wearing lingerie from head to toe – like the whole get up.  They have the bustier with the garters attached to the fish net thigh highs over the itty bitty thong and of course the six-inch stilettos complete the ensemble.  And about half of these women can totally pull it off and the other half…should just really pull it off!  Hey – I know my body and its capabilities and in the shape it’s in right now, I just don’t see it surviving crotch-less panties.  I often wonder if these women bring someone with them when they buy lingerie and if they do – if that someone is honest.  I would hope that before I put my goods out there in $200.00 nylon – forever recorded in photography – that one of my friends would love me enough to say, “Ummmm, ‘S’…..yeah, I totally agree that red is your color…..but maybe not so much in a lace body stocking.”  But, I’m just going to shut my mouth right now because if I were to be completely honest – I’m just jealous that these women don’t really give a shit what anyone else thinks and they feel sexy and know they are sexy…..and I am just the naysayer who will be wearing a moo-moo in my photo shoot.

But, aside from that…..I do have a couple of valid points about these photos. 

If you are going to wear six-inch stilettos and pose in a bed……please realize that in whatever pose you are doing, your ‘lettos’ should either be placed flat on the bed (without much weight bearing on them) or laying flush.  Spiked heels are not meant to support much weight on a mattress and smooshed down with your foot all bent in awkwardly (so that it gives the appearance of being an amputee) does not for a sexy picture make.

If you are a tall girl (totally jealous) and so have appropriately longer feet…..please realize that wearing any kind of platform might (I said might) make your foot appear slightly bigger and if that is the case, it might not be such a good idea to allow your foot/feet to photo bomb your picture.  I say keep those puppies somewhat to the side or behind your body.

It is perfectly fine to wear head to toe, neon green lingerie…..but maybe not wear neon green eye shadow too.  Just a suggestion. 

And this last one is really just a personal preference of mine.

I, myself, like things to be symmetrical.  (And I’m not just talking about boobs).  What I mean, is like…..if the backdrop for said shoot is a red chaise lounge, heavily embroidered (think elegance and a seductive charm) than maybe said lingerie should be of the same quality.  That might not be the right time to debut the string bikini and clear platform high heels.  And…..while you’re at it – you might consider wearing very pretty, natural makeup, and very pretty, natural hair.  I don’t know about anybody else, but I want my photos to give the impression that I’m lounging around on my chaise, in my own home, and I absolutely wear this $300.00 silk chemise to bed every night and my hair just naturally looks like some man has been running his hands through it – as we make love, every night – on this same chaise lounge.

I don’t want my photos to give the impression that I’m on vacation – touring Graceland or some other historic home – and I impromptively grab my husband and say, “Hey – sneak over here with me!  I’m going to take off my bathing suit cover and you take some pictures of me with your cell phone, while I’m straddling the ‘King’s’ blue suede sofa over here.  Hurry – before anyone sees us!”

Say Cheeseeeeee!  

Every breath you take (I’ll be watching you).

Recently, my son ‘D’ was diagnosed with Dyslexia and ADHD.  The ADHD didn’t surprise me, but the Dyslexia kind of did.  I work in Healthcare and have all my adult life, so I am familiar with most of the aspects of both of those disorders – including treatment, therapy, etc.  I’ve been all over the pros and the cons of what’s available…etc, etc.  (This is not a forum for your personal testimony regarding medication, parenting techniques, behavior modification, personal mantras, etc.) 

As for me, MYSELF, I really did not want to put ‘D’ on meds for his ADHD…..and it really had nothing to do with most of the reasons that other parents opt not to medicate their children.  HOWEVER, in regards to his Dyslexia, I knew that it would be harder to help him if we did not get his ADHD under control…..so long story short (without any unsolicited advice), I started ‘D’ on his new medication last night.

Now, typically he will take his medication in the morning before he goes to school.  I gave it to him last night because if it did have any unpleasant side effects – like upset stomach, headaches, etc – I wanted him to be at home with me so I could evaluate him and be able to warn his teacher the next day on what to expect.  I also knew that there was a possibility that it might not do anything at all….or not do anything for a week or so…..or not do what we hoped it would.  I knew all the scenarios and that this is the trial and error period.  But, the mama in me wanted to be there the first time he took it….for whatever reason.  Call me crazy.

His Dr. had told me that it would probably decrease his appetite.  This is a concern for me because ‘D’ is already a swizzle stick.  He’s 7 ½ years old and weighs 53lbs.  He could be in a Tim Burton movie.  So, the plan was to give the medicine to him either right as he’s eating or right afterward……and make sure we stuff as much food into him as possible.

Last night’s supper consisted of grilled cheese sandwiches and chicken noodle soup.  I gave him his pill as soon as we sat down to dinner.  Then, I spent the next thirty minutes trying to get a whole bowl of soup and two sandwiches down him.  The other kids are staring at me like, “Is ‘D’ going somewhere?  Is he never eating again?  Wait a minute – am I never eating again?!  Is this a race I don’t know about?”

Finally ‘D’ says to me (with a whole half of a sandwich in his mouth), “MA…..I CA EA NY ORRRR!” 

Now, ‘D’ knew why he was taking his medicine, but I didn’t tell him or any of the other kids about the possible side effects.  If ‘D’ knew about that – than as soon as that pill would have left his throat, he would have doubled over in pain, limped back to his room and spent the rest of the evening trying to convince me that the only thing that would make him feel better would be chips and chocolate milk.  And of course, the other children being envious of his new malady would have suddenly fallen ill as well and then claimed that they must also have ADHD since they all seem to be suffering the same symptoms. 

So, ‘D’ has finished his whole meal in about six minutes.  The other kids are still eating.  And ‘T’ and I are just sitting there, staring at ‘D’.

I don’t know what I was expecting.  Like I said, I work in healthcare – I’m familiar with all of this.  And yet, there I am…..waiting for a sound like the ding of a timer to suddenly come out of ‘D’ and for him to say something like, “Attention everyone.  My medicine has taken effect and now I would like to go calmly sit in a nice cozy corner and read ‘Chicken Soup for the Soul’.

Instead, everyone is distinctly uncomfortable and the atmosphere is tense.  The other kids are staring at ‘T’ and me – wondering if we’ve poisoned ‘D’ or something, ‘T’ and I are staring at ‘D’ – waiting for the second coming of Christ, and ‘D’ is staring at all of us – probably wondering if we had found out about the broken Wii remote that he had hidden in the linen closet.

Well so after a while, ‘T’ and I realize that we might as well just let everyone go play and trust that ‘D’ will come tell us if he feels ill or……focused?

So, throughout the night ‘T’ and I covertly spied on ‘D’.  While the kids were playing outside, I had ‘T’ go ‘clean out his truck’.  He reported that ‘D’ hogged the basketball and made up his own rules…..just like he always does.  When the kids came inside and hung out in their rooms, I went and ‘put some of their laundry away’.  I reported that ‘D’ kept jumping off the top bunk and pestering ‘A’……just like he always does.  At one point, ‘D’ came to me and said that everyone was being mean and not playing with him…..just like he always does.  And, while doing their bedtime routine, ‘D’ streaked through the living room and put his bare ass in ‘A’s face……again…...just like he always does.  It was just another typical night in the White house.

The only ones who acted differently were ‘T’ and me.  ‘D’ was taking his bath and I noticed that I couldn’t hear him yelling at the top of his lungs, like I always do.  I was so sure that his medicine had kicked in and he had passed out in the bathtub and was drowning – that I raced into the bathroom, knocking the baby out of the way in the process, and scared the crap out of ‘D’ who was actually lying down in the tub, rinsing the soap out of his hair.  Of course he couldn’t hear me until I was leaning over him screaming in his face, “OH GOD ‘D’, COME BACK TO ME!”

After that, the kids were certain that I had poisoned ‘D’ earlier.

So, ‘D’ and everyone else goes to bed….and I am exhausted.  I sat on the couch and told myself that it would obviously take some time before we knew how ‘D’s new medicine was going to affect him.  But, that’s ok; this isn’t a race.  But I did wonder what I would do if ‘D’ was one of those rare kids that medicine just didn’t seem to work for.  I could just see myself screaming at the principle at his school, telling her – “I KNOW HE PUT HIS BARE ASS IN BILLY SMITH’S FACE….AGAIN!  BUT, MY GOD – HE TOOK TWO VALIUMS AND A HIT OFF OF A JOINT THIS MORNING WITH BREAKFAST….WHAT MORE DO YOU PEOPLE WANT?!”

You know……that might not be such a bad idea……at least with that, I wouldn't have to worry about his appetite.  J

*As I’m sure everyone with a brain knows that the weed and valium part was a joke - at the risk of having CPS show up at my door - I would like to state for the record that I would never give my children valium or illegal drugs of any kind.  Nor am I endorsing that it is okay for anybody else to do that as well.  It is purely a joke and meant to be taking as such…..so lighten the fuck up people!