It’s late at night. The kids are in bed. The house is blissfully quiet. I slip into something comfortable. I sip a glass of wine. With lights down low and my eyes heavy with desire, I head into the bedroom with one thing in mind. My husband awaits me. We’ve both been anticipating this moment all day. I feel no shame about what I’m about to do. My body gives in to my deepest desires…as I unabashedly smoosh my face into my pillow and sink into an open-mouth drooling slumber.
Not long ago, I came across an article on Babble about things moms do at the end of the day to unwind. One of the more common pastimes? Porn. Are you kidding me?! Who are these moms? Aren’t they exhausted? Who has the time …
I can SO relate to this. (from cafemom.com)
Playing…leads to…stealing…leads to…screaming…leads to…pushing…leads to… refereeing…leads to…hugging…leads to…biting…leads to…crying…leads to…scolding…leads to…more crying…leads to…feeding…leads to…flinging…leads to…cleaning…leads to…bathing…leads to…splashing…leads to…whining…leads to…more crying…leads to…Googling “at-home vasectomy.”
If we don’t laugh, we’ll cry, so might as well find the funny!
It seems innocent enough on the outside…
I have to admit I’ve been a little, well, anxious lately. Try as I may to control it on my own, it’s been tough. After all, exposing your heart and soul to the elements can be a little stressful. Throw a three-year-old and one-year-old on top of that, and the other day-to-day tasks that still have to get done (laundry, cooking, cleaning, shopping, laundry, laundry, and more laundry) and it’s a little heavy on my chest.So, it was a relief last night to have a good, hearty laugh. No anxiety medication comes close to what laughter (and a good massage) can cure. Now, it probably wouldn’t have been funny if the age of my sense of humor matched my biological age. You see, I laugh at things an …
Don’t mess with a knight in plastic armor.
“Don’t move!,” my captor snarled at me in the dark, small dungeon. “Don’t even blink!”
How could I argue? Mice nipped at my heels, the walls closed in around me. And the aggressor, dressed in a knight’s helmet, wielded a sword. A sword! It stabbed at my arms, legs, and abdomen. “Your blood is dripping on the floor,” I was informed. Well, that sealed the deal. I was staying put.
“Somebody saved me!,” I screamed, but nobody came. “Be quiet!,” the masked knight ordered, finally revealing its face. A girl! A little girl! Are you serious? This half-pint was holding me hostage? “Come on, ” I argued, “Just let me go and I won’t cause any trouble.”
She stabbed me again, slicing open my arm. “Ahhh!!!” But my cries were …
In honor of my rough-and-ready husband, who showed this girl a good time on our weekend getaway, I wrote the “man poem” below to commemorate our trip.
There was a cabin
and there was a lake
there was fishing
and there was steak.
Yes, there was steak.
It was good
for goodness’ sake
we had a grill
and there was steak.
Yes, there was steak.
The view was nice
the company, great
there was beer
and there was steak.
Yes, there was steak.
If my husband remembers nothing else about our getaway, he’ll remember this. Black angus over charcoal is hard to forget. Yes, there was steak.
