Skinned Knees and Skinny Jeans

I really think that I may well be a stuck up mom. I don’t mean in that annoying way that my children are better than everybody else’s, though of course they are, but in the manner that dictates my compulsive need to not be singularly identified as a mother.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that though I am a mother and my world revolves around my children’s wants and needs, as well as my ego being wrapped in their trials and tribulations, that’s not all I am.  I practice martial arts, ride a mountain bike recklessly over obstacles that would make most people consider their mortality, play rugby and rock climb. I’m more likely to be seen sporting a skinned knee than skinny jeans. I seriously doubt any of these other mothers do anything remotely close to the extracurricular activities which make me feel alive. 
 I’m not used to hanging out with moms and I fear that associating with other moms makes me less me; as if befriending other mothers makes me pedestrian.  I have to somehow figure out how to balance being a mom and my slightly irrational need for dangerous stimuli.  No, that’s denial at its most ridiculous.  I must figure out how to stop projecting my fears of losing myself completely in my children, because that would be easy to do, onto to what are most likely wonderfully fascinating women.  I am judging them exactly in the manner that I myself do not want to be judged- as just someone’s mother.  

Kitty litter and dog snacks

I’m not sure how it happened, but I’m a stay at home mom, though I should make an aside here- I am not a housewife. Housewives clean and contribute to the household in some significant manner. I figure I paid my dues by gestating and delivering an entire human being from my body, the least Doug can do is earn a living for our family and clean up after us. I occasionally try to do something around the house, even if that’s just taking a shower so I don’t stink when Doug gets home. I really try to delegate household chores and since Gray is your typical toddler that is too self absorbed to consider taking on a few responsibilities, I have to find others to whom I must assign certain household tasks. I have found a way to accomplish an undesirable household chore through delegation and since I haven’t figured out how to present it on Pinterest yet, I will explain it here.

 Our pets are free loaders that have done nothing to earn free room and board except to comfort and entertain us and we ask very little of them outside of requiring they don’t poop on the floor-and let’s be honest, we really even tolerate that. Cats at least go in a litter box, but really we’re just storing up their pee and poop for safe keeping until such a time that one of the family members outlasts the other in being affected by the smell. Here’s where I always win and thereby delegate the task of cleaning the cat box. Jane the Super Dog often caves before I do. Now, don’t act all disgusted, because you know it’s a load off when your dog eats the cat poop. It’s not the way I would have chosen to dispose of the cat litter, but I try not to micromanage when delegating unwanted chores. I act all put out when I catch her doing it, but quickly realize what a service she has done for the family. Jane is pulling her weight and why should I be so ungrateful as to chastise her for doing so? When she throws it up on the carpet later, Atticus gets to pitch in and clean up that mess. Again, avoiding hovering over my employees, I allow it. The modern stay at home mom cannot be expected to be all things to all people. She must delegate and insist that those around contribute to the household as well.
 Next week we will discuss letting the dog take out the bathroom trash. Ladies, you know what I’m talking about.

Butcher Paper Christmas

I had this brilliant idea to let my 2 year old son color butcher paper for wrapping paper. It’s like a sweat shop up in here. He’s sick of coloring and I’m back logged on wrapping. We started out with Christmas music and laughing, and now, 20 feet into the roll, it’s f-bombs and screw this.

Pregnant exercise

Sometimes I get up and around in the morning, fully aware of the progressive discomfort of pregnancy, and yet my mind still inadvertently begins planning the awesome workout I’m going to do full of plyos and tire flipping. Then I remember I can’t put on my own shoes so I eat a whole bag of Funyuns instead. I have an all or nothing personality. 

I was training for my first amateur mma fight when my husband and I found out I was pregnant, so my workout regiment was intense and my diet was strict. I still go to the dojo to train when I feel well enough and I still lift weights (all activities modified of coarse for being six months prego), but now I’m trying to make baby weight, not fight weight.

A mommy that’s a tomboy…

I feel compelled to begin this blog by defining what constitutes a tomboy mommy. I have been procrastinating writing this post because it requires I examine myself on a level that depletes the creative force behind writing fun things about being a tomboy and a mom. Let’s make a deal; I promise to define what it means to be a tomboy mommy through regular posts of my experiences and insights and together we’ll draw some sort of conclusion as to what what the title of this blog means. By a show of follows, who is with me?