Midwestern Mommy

In that last post, ya’ll discovered that I like to “put out” for my hubby. And speaking of such “bidness”, I pulled together a few of those magic phrases that seem to bring Marc to his knees.

Ok so maybe not so much. Maybe when I say these things it makes him wince and mentally vow to never have sex with me again. Yeah, these lines don’t work so well. But I keep trying them. I’m kinda stupid and stubborn like that. But the flip side is I guess if you want to APPEAR like you want to put out, you can use these lines. And when your hubby shoots you down then you can be all, “But I thought men wanted sex. I’m just trying to be a good honey!”

So without further ado:

The mating call of this Lisa (or lines that probably won’t get you laid.)

1.) “You’re a buffet of manliness. And I’m hungry!”
2.) “Ward, I think you need to spend some time with the Beav.”
3.) “Hhhoonnneeeeyyyy. I shaved my lllleeegggssss.”
4.) “Hey. Tonight. Me and you. What do ya say? I’ll even take my socks off. (My feet are always cold so I always wear socks.)
5.) “Hhhooonnneeeyyy. I’m hhhhooorrrrnnnyy.”

I know, I know. I’m quite the seductress. How could the man possibly resist all of the sexiness that is just oozing from every pore of my body? Especially when I say things like the above phrases?

Once upon a time there was a young, handsome engineer named Marc. When Marc was in his mid-20’s, he had a sweet little condo in the Central West End with his girlfriend. (She is now a very successful brain surgeon in Texas. Yes. A brain surgeon. But that’s a post for a later date.)

One Saturday as Marc slept late, he heard a knock at the door. Figuring it was a neighbor/golfing buddy, he got out of bed, thought nothing of his appearance, and opened door. He was greeted by a nicely dressed black woman and her son.

The woman immediately began to preach to Marc about the saving grace of God and the joys of loving Jesus. Marc was in such a sleep induced haze that he just stood there for a minute. Then he realized the woman’s son was staring open-mouthed at his midsection. All of a sudden, he felt a bit of a breeze in a place a man typically doesn’t feel a breeze.

And then he realized his penis was hanging out of his boxers. He hurriedly closed the door.

Marc learned a valuable lesson that day. He learned to never open the door wearing only boxers and a t-shirt.

And I’m guessing the little boy learned a valuable lesson that day too. That penises come in different colors — colors like “white man”.

My little brother (who’s actually not so little at almost 6′ft tall and a month shy of his 30th birthday) and his long-time girlfriend got engaged last weekend. They announced it to the family at a party Friday night. I was at a mommy conference (which I will post about later). So he told me the news Saturday night as I was driving back home. I then told Seth the news. This is how that conversation went…

Me: Seth quess what? Uncle Matt and Aunt Candace are engaged!
Seth: (quizzical look)
Me: That means they will be getting married.
Seth: (stares at me blankly)
Me: Getting married means they will go to church and promise to love and take care of each other forever. Candace will probably wear a pretty white dress and there will be a big party afterwards.
Seth: Can I wear a pink dress?
Me: Uh, well… I don’t think you’d be very comfortable in a pink dress, sweets.
Seth: Well then can I wear a black dress?
Me: Well… I don’t think you’d be comfortable in ANY sort of dress. I’m thinkin’ you should wear what big boys usually wear and go with pants. But we’ll talk more about that later.

I told Marc about this conversation later on. His response? “Don’t tell me stuff like THAT!”

Last night as I was talking to my mom, she pleaded with me to stop blogging. She is scared some child molester is going to find my site, then hunt us down and kidnap our child.

Telling her I don’t include my last name or town on my blog didn’t seem to matter. She’s never seen my blog. She’s never even cruised the Internet. But yet she’s SURE someone’s going to hunt me down through my blog and harm my child. I told her that while I respect her thoughts and assured her I’m careful about what I publish, I’m not giving up my only creative outlet and, at times, my sole sanity saver.

She also said someone she’d talk to was very, very upset over a recent post. My most popular post in the history of my blog — the one regarding our little guy and what he does with his wiener. She wouldn’t tell me who but it wasn’t difficult to figure out.

So I called my brother. He expressed concern that people may think Seth is a freak. That this post might come back to haunt him in future years. For the record, Seth is a very sweet, happy, normal, irrational, little being with a serious Napoleon complex. He’s a terrier who thinks he’s the size of a St. Bernard. But really, most little boys are. And I think its adorable, entertaining and endearing. He’s his own little person full of his own thoughts and ideas. This fills me with tremendous amounts of pride because the last thing I want is to raise a child who is a lemming — someone who doesn’t ask questions or thinks for himself.

But maybe there are people out there who might read the post and think he’s on his way to becoming a sexual wierdo? We aren’t uptight about wieners at our house. I don’t want to raise a child who thinks parts of his body are shameful. But I have decided to take the post off because I don’t want to give anyone “ammunition” in a quest to tease or hurt my child. I’d rather be safe than sorry.

My mother also said extended family members have read the site and have been offended in the past. Especially by a post where I said something about coming from “German Catholic farmers who were dangerously fertile.” That phrase was meant to be funny. But it is also true.

My ancestors were Germans and Catholics. My mom’s one of six children - six single births! My dad is one of 10 children– 10 single births! Both grandmothers had NO problems getting pregnant in their 40’s. My mom said she got pregnant pretty easily too. Uh, HELLO. To me, that means these people were very fertile. Its not like there’ s anything wrong with being fertile. There’s nothing wrong with not being “dangerously fertile” either. It is what it is.

In the same post I’d mentioned that my hubby’s side of the family is full of overachievers. And that I was worried they’d realize I’d dumbed down the gene pool. This was not a slight on the part of my grandparents, aunts or uncles. It was me poking fun of me. I do that from time to time.

I love all of my aunts, uncles and cousins (well, except for one uncle. My cousin Linlee knows what I mean there.) I have a tremendous amount of respect for them. I’m also proud to know such resilient, strong, generous, hard-working, intelligent people.

I never set out to be hurt anyone’s feelings. I don’t write something I wouldn’t say to another person’s face. But I do stand by what I write. What I write is my perspective. And I’m not going to apologize for how I view life.

If anyone ever has a problem with what I write, they need to let ME know. I don’t expect everyone to agree with me or like me. And its ok if you don’t. I promise if you express your opinions in a polite way, I won’t get pissy. I can still like and respect you.

So there’s this “thing” about being a mom that really icks me out. I always know its coming at SOME POINT. And I dread it. You can tell by the title what I’m talking about can’t you?

Wednesday morning, our little guy’s perky Gymboree instructor chirped, “Remember to use the hand sanitizer gel. There’s a nasty stomach virus going around.”

She wasn’t kidding.

That virus came a’ callin’ about 6 p.m. that night. Did I mention I have a huge puking phobia? Did I mention it is one of the reasons I waited awhile to have a child? Because I knew at some point there would be barf. And I’m what you’d call a sympathy barfer. My stomach used to roll at the mere sight of the word “vomit”. I couldn’t watch ER. Someone was ALWAYS upchucking. I was scared of labor. Not so much for the pain. But because I heard sometimes you throw up. I know, I know. What a wussy!

But what “they” say is right. It IS different when it is your own child. And over time, you become somewhat desensitized to the sight and sounds at least. But the smell? Not so much.

And really, when your sweet, onery little child is worshiping the porcelain god, you can’t help but feel so badly for them. They feel so awful and don’t understand what’s happening. The only thing you can do is pat his or her back and say, “It happens sweetie. Sometimes, even big kids have to throw up. Its ok.”

And then I feel thankful that although my little man is sick today, he’ll probably be better tomorrow, if not, a day later. He’s an active, healthy kid. He’ll get over this. There are children out there with much bigger monsters to battle. And for them, I pray.

Seth, sometimes also known as “Miss Daisy” has been sporting the St. Louis accent as of late. For those of you not familiar with this accent is sounds like this:

“I took (highway) one-farty-one to (highway) sixty-far to the star near War-shington University. I got some new farks, a can of carn and some tar-let paper. After that, I warshed my car and took (highway) farty-far back home.

For those in need of a translator… “I took highway 141 to highway 44 to the store near Washington University. I got some new forks, a can of corn, and some toilet paper. After that, I washed my car and took highway 64 back home.”

Marc grew up 90 minutes west of St. Louis. I grew up an hour away in Illinois. We don’t have this accent. (Although there seems to be a fair about of people where I grew up that like to say, “warsh” and “tar-let”). I think Seth must have picked up more at his children’s day out than I realized.

Last night I played Bunco with some neighborhood chickies. My next-door neighbor Patty invited me to join the group a few days ago. I’d been looking forward to meeting some of the neighborhood ladies but I was a bit worried. Will they like me? Will I say something completely stupid and inappropriate and make them think I’m a social retard? Because if there’s anything I do extremely well, its that.

When faced with a big group of people and given that whole, “tell us your name and something about yourself” request, I will often say something like, “Hi. I’m Lisa. I have four great loves in my life — my hubby, my little boy, Target and Russell Stovers. Most days I love them all equally. But some days, Target and Russell win hands-down.” This doesn’t always go over so well. So I was a bit hesitant to open my mouth. I didn’t know them well and I didn’t want to offend anyone. But I soon learned I had nothing to worry about.

I immediately liked all of these women. They were lively, quick and sassy. They had such an easy rapport with each other. My stomache is sore from laughing so hard. And when they joked about drinking beer by 3 p.m. some days because “DAMN these kids are driving me crazy”, I knew these were my kinda women. They aren’t going to judge me if they see me sitting on a bench near the cul-de-sac at noon with a wine cooler looking completely shell shocked while my child screams at his imaginary friend. They aren’t going to think me a horrible person if I confess how much I would love to sometimes put a little shock collar on my child to make him STOP TALKING FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY. Because they have likely thought this same thing.

I think I’ve found my “home”.