But first, we got to create da mooood – Sebastian, Little Mermaid

So, today is my much anticipated photographical debut (A.K.A – The Booty Shoot).

I think I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.  I’ve just about lost the almost 30lbs I gained with Moose (but still have 20 or so to go after that). 

It was suggested to me that drinking some wine at the shoot might help to loosen me up and allow me to get more into the spirit of things.  Anyone who knows me, knows that I am extremely tightly-wound little person.  I don’t think my ass cheeks are ever unclenched.  I was that way when I was a little girl and the only thing that has changed over the years is that – thanks to the many traumatic experiences people usually go through in life – I went from being a serious, slightly sensitive little girl to the neurotic, hyper vigilant, hypochondriac I am today.

So – I guess what I’m saying is that it is probably a freaking great idea that I drink today. 

But true to form, I am even obsessing over that part just a little.  It’s timing really.  I mean, I don’t want to start drinking while I’m getting ready for the shoot, like while I’m still at home.  If I did that, I might not even make it to the shoot.  I would find myself sitting on my couch watching re-runs of the ‘Golden Girls’ on TV – crying about how I use to watch this show with my grandma (who’s dead now), smashed, and wearing a thong teddy.  Did I mention today is Sunday?  And my shoot is in the afternoon?  Yeah, that would look real good when my kid’s grandparents bring them home from church.  Besides, I’m having my hair and makeup done this morning, before I even go to the shoot.  So, think of all the places my drunk ass would have to remember to go, not to mention that I am an upstanding citizen and would find it completely unforgivable to get pulled over for something like this.  I mean, getting a DUI when you’ve been out at the club with your girls is one thing, but I just will not tolerate getting a DUI on a Sunday, while driving to a hotel room so me and several other girls can take nude photos.  I do have some principles people!

So – drinking before the shoot is a no-go.

I suppose I could take a bottle of wine and drink after I get to the shoot, while the other girls are getting their pics taken. 

Except…….I know that waiting for my turn and seeing the other women do their sessions will probably make me even more nervous…….which will then lead me to probably drinking more than I would normally…….which will then lead to me probably being more drunk.

So – yes, while I would probably end up just throwing myself naked on the bed, or on the chair, or on any other immoveable object – I would also probably end up strutting my drunk, naked ass out to my mini-van when it’s time to go home.  Not to mention that I am an upstanding citizen and would find it completely unforgiveable to get pulled over for something like this.  I mean, getting a DUI when you’ve been at a hotel room with several other girls having nude photos taken is one thing, but I just will not tolerate getting a DUI on a Sunday, while driving naked.  I do have some principles people!

Ok – so maybe drinking period for this event is a no-go.

It was also suggested to me that bringing along some inspirational music (sexy jams, not freakin Amy Grant) might also help to relax me.  Ok – so I could do a playlist of sexy music; no problem.  I could listen to it while I’m getting ready, on the way, during the shoot – the possibilities are endless.  And really, what’s the worst that could happen with that?  I might leave the house really believing that I did in fact bring Sexy Back?

So – sexy playlist it is!

Now, on to the list.

(Ok – so up front, I’m just going to put it right out there that I am that weird girl who has a video montage playing in my head every time I hear a song I like.  Judge me or not; I don’t care.)

Sexy Back (Justin Temberlake) -  (might as well start there) – This came out when I was about 25ish.  This was one of the few songs that I loved immediately the first time I heard it. 

Every time I listened to it, I would picture myself at a club.  Only, in my scenario this particular club featured a group of well-trained, hot dancers (think Pussy Cat Dolls) who come out every so often and do a choreographed dance routine for the club patrons.  I, of course, was one of the dancers.  To add more to the plot, when I would run out onto the dance floor, I would discover that among the crowd was one of my exes.  (At that time, it was this guy who had jerked me around for a few months.  He would tell me he didn’t want any kind of relationship; that he just wanted to be friends and ‘hang out’.  Except – guess what else he wanted to ‘hang out’?  He just wanted me to be his FB (F-ck Buddy) and then one day he told me that he was ready for a relationship……with some other girl.)  So, this douche would be in the crowd at my imaginary bar where I was an imaginary dancer with this imaginary dance troupe.  He wouldn’t see me right when I came out or maybe he didn’t recognize me because I looked so hot; so un-like anything I’ve ever looked like.  At this particular part in the music – right at the crescendo – I would find myself dancing right in front of him and would stare him straight in his eyes and just blow him over with my overwhelming hotness and confidence.  Of course he would recognize me and his eyes would pop out of his head.  His friends would ogle me and tell him what a fool he was – even though he already knew he was a fool.

Ahh – I loved that song.  I loved that montage.  That was when I had just separated from my first husband and had lost all of my married/baby weight.  I was able to take care of myself and my two kids completely on my own and hadn’t felt that good about myself in a long time.  So – essentially, I was bringing ‘Sexy Back’; not just in my mind, but in my real life as well.

Buttons (PCD) – this song is also a fav of my friend, Sasha.  The scene for this song is pretty much the same one I have with Sexy Back – even more so, because the PCDs are a hot dance troupe.  And I totally look like the Nicole Scherzinger.  (Hey, it’s my fantasy.)  Sometimes with this song, instead of being part of a troupe at a club, I’m a stripper.  But not like that’s my usual profession – more like I’m there for amateur night and my friends have dared me to.   And then said ex-douche is sitting in pervert row. 

I Want Your Sex (George Michaels) – with this one, I’m a good girl.  Not good girl – like virgin good, but more like I’m unaware of how hot I really am.  (Again, MY fantasy; quit rolling your eyes.)  Some really suave – out of my league (Eric Northman from TrueBlood) guy is trying his best to convince me that even though he’s a total player, I’m the only woman he could ever want.  The man changes from time to time depending on who my celebrity crush is at the moment.

I’m kind of thinking I should write trashy romance novels or something……any way, moving on.

Feeling Love (Paula Cole) – this isn’t a really well known song; unless of course you’re a Lilith Fair fan.  It’s from the ‘City of Angels’ soundtrack and it’s the song that’s being played in the movie when Meg Ryan is taking a hot, steamy bubble bath while drinking a beer.  Nicholas Cage is in the room watching her (which she doesn’t know) and he is almost in agony with watching her.  At one point, I think he even has to turn his head; he just can’t stand it.  I didn’t have to go really too far with that one.  Sometimes I use that same scenario – only instead of an angel in my bathroom, it’s the lawn service guy who’s in the background mowing my grass and notices that he can see in my bathroom window.  If I was in a relationship, than that was the song I would use to do my imaginary strip routine for my boyfriend. 

Darling Nikki (Prince or the Foo Fighters) – either version is awesome.  This song I use in several of the above fantasies.  Instead of there being an ex-douche though, it’s always a guy that knows me but doesn’t really pay much attention to me.  So, he is completely shocked to find this straight-laced executress sliding down a poll in a G-string.  And since strippers generally don’t look at anyone in particular while they’re dancing, the guy assumes that I don’t notice him.  I don’t make eye contact to the very last part of the song where it says, “thank you for a funky time; call me up whenever you want to grind.”  Good stuff.

ET; Extra Terrestrial (Katy Perry) – this is my most recent one.  Another one that I loved right when I heard it.  This montage is almost funny; I hesitate to even write it.  But, basically it’s Halloween and I’m at a club and it’s the first time I’ve been out since losing all of my weight and having my boob job and tummy tuck (my 5 year plan).  Incredibly my hair is also down to my waist somehow.  So, it’s Halloween and since this is my first ‘hot’ Halloween in many years, I decide to dress my sexiest.  And probably because of the video for this song, I’m dressed like a sexy alien.  (Laugh if you want, but Katy Perry is every bit a totally sexy alien in that video).  So, there I am – walking through the club – and even though everyone is staring at me, I only notice this one guy sitting at a table.  He is talking to his friends and hasn’t even looked my way yet.  This guy is also one of my exes.  Only he definitely wasn’t a douche.  He was ‘the one that got away’.  I was crazy about this guy and at the time he was perfect for me.  But, we wanted different things and I knew that in the end he would break my heart and so I broke it off….and the very next guy I dated was my husband.  I wasn’t with that guy long enough for us to have any serious problems due to our differences so, when we broke up, we had essentially never had an argument, disagreement, differing of opinion, nada.  When I left, it/he was perfect.  It’s an unrequited love type thing.  So, there is Mr. Unrequited at the table with his friends when I walk right up to him.  Of course he is shocked and we both just stare at each and it’s like five years ago.  Like, we had never been apart.  I guess this is more of a romantic nature. 

Let me stop right now and say that I know in my head that had we stayed together, I would not think this way about him.  He was not my one great love or my ‘Mr. Big’.  It was just simply the fact that we did not stay together long enough for the flame to burn out.  Assuredly, it would have.  And if I had stayed with him, I wouldn’t have met my husband – who is my one great love……….anyway, moving on.

So, those are the songs that come to mind when I think of a sexy playlist.  There are other honorable mentions for sure:

Dirty (Christian Aguilera)

Bad Things (Jace Everett)

Feel like Making Love to You (Bad Company)

Southside (Gwen Stefani)

Ooh, Ahh (Boys to Men – yes that is hella old school, but I still find that song damn hot!)

I want to Sex You Up (Color Me Badd – while we’re going there.)

Pussy Control (Prince)

Rag Doll (Aerosmith)

Criminal (Fiona Apple)

Pour Some Sugar on Me (Def Leopard)

Hmmmm, I’m sure there’s others; they’ll come to me.

Phew, Ok – I’m definitely ready for my photo shoot now!  

Well…….maybe not quite ready, but I do know that I’m ready to go find my husband and inform him that I did, in fact, ‘Bring Sexy Back’.  J

 

     

The Day The Moose Was Born

I cannot believe that in 30 minutes my little baby will be 1 year old!

Seems like yesterday.

I had the worst pregnancy with Moose.  I don't do pregnancy well anyways, but this pregnancy was just awful!   Without giving a complete medical history of myself, the following is a list of the various ailments that plagued me for the ENTIRE nine months that I gestated the Moose.
                     
                        Hives (due to the fact I was told my baby might not have a head)
                        Severe Hypotension (low blood pressure)
                        Fainting (due to the low blood pressure)
                        Pregnancy-induced Tachycardia (high heart rate)

I guess I should explain the 'baby not having a head part'.

When I was around 17 weeks pregnant or so, I had the ole Quad Test.  Blood was taken from my arm and tested for several things, one of which was AFP (Alpha Fetal Protein).  This is the test that usually gives a woman her personal odds of her baby having Down Syndrome or some other abnormality.  I had this test with both of my other children so when they asked me if I wanted it with Moose, I looked up from the bag of Sea Salt and Vinegar Chips that I was stuffing my face with and said, "Sure - oh, and could the Dr. sign this parking permit pass for my work?  I'm trying to get the parking office to let me park closer to the entrance of my building."

So a week or so goes by and I completely forgot about the test.  I was scheduled to have my Anatomy Ultrasound (the big ultrasound) that next week, so when my Dr.'s number showed up on my phone on that particular day, I thought it was a reminder call for my next appointment.

Wrong.

Turns out that my test results came back and while I had like a one in a billion chance of the baby having Down Syndrome, I had like a 1 in 6 chance that it didn't have a head.  (Or Spina Bifida or another neural tube defect)  That is not the best news to receive as you are about to merge onto the highway at 70 mph as you drive home from work.  I became hysterical and called my husband and after five minutes of him saying, "Okay, slow down - now what happened to your head?", I was finally able to convey to him that my head was not the head in question, but our precious baby's.  To which he replied, "Where did it go?  It was there at your last ultrasound."

I must point out that my husband is one of those individuals who's thoughts run in a logical-only kind of way. He doesn't express a whole lot of emotion, except when it involves the wasting of food or money.  So, again - after five minutes of me telling him everything that the Dr. had told me - he said, "Umm, so how does that happen; that a baby wouldn't have a head?  How would that test know that exactly?"

So, I let my husband go and called my mother who gave the appropriate response.

The Dr. moved my ultrasound up to the day after the next and as it turns out, it takes exactly that long for my brain to effectively convince my body that the best way to deal with this situation is to have a ginormous allergic reaction - complete with hives.

Two days later, I sat - itching - in a room with my husband, both of our mother's, the Genetics Dr., and a poor medical student who kept offering me something to drink.  (I think so he could leave the room.)  Now, don't ask me why, but before we could have our ultrasound we had to sit down with this Dr. and go over our family histories, our medical histories, our mothers' families histories.......a lot of history.  After an hour, the Dr. then proceeds to draw us a diagram.....showing us that there is nothing on either side of our trees to explain why our baby might be missing its head.  Both family trees - all heads accounted for.

Well that was helpful; I mean, I never knew that my mother's mother had a tilted uterus before.  Good stuff to know.

Into the ultrasound room we go and as I climb into the chair thing, the Dr. starts to leave the room and says, "Ok, so the tech will do the ultrasound and then afterward, I will come in here and let you know what I see and if there is anything wrong."  Well I would hope that even I would be able to see or rather not see a head.  Does he really need to confirm that?  But, it could also be a number of other things and there is no way I was going to go through the whole ultrasound and then have the Dr. give me bad news.  I think that's pretty much word for word what I said.  He decided to stay and give me a play-by-play of what he was seeing as the ultrasound was taking place.  Good idea.


The ultrasound starts and I could barely look at the screen.  Luckily, Moose was in the most perfect position  for the Dr.  He was curled over in a ball - showing every little detail of his beautiful, perfect spine.  And attached to that beautiful, perfect spine was the most beautiful, perfect head I had ever seen.

The baby is perfect.

Everyone was so happy and so relieved that no one even asked what gender the baby was.  The tech almost even forgot to look for it.

Now, I need to point out that I had 3 kids; a daughter, a son, and a step-son.  So - two boys.  I will not even apologize for hoping that this one as a girl.  Anyone who knows my sons totally understands.  I had gone to the ER when I was around 15 weeks pregnant due to some stomach pain I was having.  The ER Dr.  gave me a quick ultrasound just to make sure the baby was doing ok and after begging him for ten minutes, he looked at my baby's junk and said, "Yep, it's a Girl; I see the 'hamburger'."  I had been beyond thrilled, crying tears of joy.  My husband's reaction was to say, "Why did he say hamburger?  I've never heard it called that.  Wouldn't taco have been more accurate; I mean, I've heard it called that before."  He also said that he didn't believe the ER Dr.  My husband told me that this baby was going to be a boy and he wouldn't believe otherwise until my OB-GYN told him so.

He cursed me.

Flash forward to that day in that ultrasound room and when the tech said, "Oh - I almost forgot, do you want to know the sex?", I said, "Sure - oh, and can I sit up a little bit; my blood pressure is a little too low and I'm feeling faint."

She said, "Here we are."  I look up and all I see is this big baby penis on the ultrasound screen.  I totally forgot that I should be beyond grateful that my baby didn't lose its head and was - instead - beyond shocked that it had grown a penis instead.

Everyone is laughing and crying (tears of happiness and relief) and congratulating me and my hubby and my reaction was, "How did he grow a penis?  He didn't have one a couple of weeks ago?  Does that happen very often?"  I just refused to believe that I was going to have 3! boys.  I was in such disbelief that for weeks afterward, I was convinced that my baby was actually a hermaphrodite -which accounted for the 'hamburger' that I swore had been there.

My Dr. determined or rather declared that since the baby was structurally fine, than my placenta must not be and that I should have monthly ultrasounds to make sure that he was growing appropriately.

That turned out not to be a problem, as Moose grew so well that eventually he was measuring a week or more ahead.  He became, 'the big guy' instead of 'the little man' and finally became, 'The Moose'.  I knew the Dr.'s were even taking note because at my very last ultrasound (before he was born), the Dr. actually checked my C-Section scar just to make sure 'it was holding up'.

About ten days out from my scheduled C-Section, I started having contractions.  They would start and stop, start and stop.  And they were really painful.  I decided that at my next Dr.'s appointment I would ask my Dr. about it.  That Monday, I lay back on the exam table and before I could ask her if she thought it was contractions that were causing my pain, she dispelled that by telling me that my uterus was in danger of erupting and I needed to go straight to the hospital.  I frantically started calling everyone including my husband who had actually just went to sleep.  (He works graveyard.)  So, after five minutes of me calling him over and over again, he finally answers the phone and then proceeds to say, "Huh.....oh......yeah, I'm awake.....ok, well call me if they keep you.....night."  I had to call him back again and spend five more minutes making sure he really was awake and reminding him to make arrangements for the dogs.  After which, I hung up with him and a short while later, my mother-in-law called me and said, "'T' called me - now, what's wrong with your dogs?"

Exactly 1.5 hours later - from the time I walked into my Dr.'s appointment - I was laying in a hospital bed, my whole family was crowded into the tiny triage area and my Dr. was gowned and masked.  We were excited, anxious, and..........still waiting on my husband to arrive.

He finally strolls in and leisurely begins to put our bags down and hug various family members.  My Dr. is standing in the doorway to the triage room - tapping her bootie-covered foot.  It's time to go.

Exactly 2 hours later - from the time I walked into my Dr.'s appointment - 'The Moose' came into this world.  May 2, 2011.  Ironically, the Moose was not a moose at all; weighing 6lbs. 13oz and only 20 inches long.  My smallest baby by far.  We decided to call him Moose any ways.  His birth turned out to be just as troublesome as my pregnancy.  He ended up with PPHN (look it up) and had to spend a week in the NICU.  Moose ended up coming home on me and my husband's 2nd wedding anniversary.

I cannot believe that was a year ago.
I cannot believe how lucky and blessed I am that he did in fact have a head.
I cannot believe I ever thought he was a hermaphrodite.
I cannot believe I thought I wanted a girl.

But mainly - even with him being my fourth child - I cannot believe how much I love that little Moose.

Happy Birthday Baby Boy!    




  


 

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