Booger Butt Nut Monkey Pickle Face

My nicknames for my children get stranger with each passing year. With my first kid, I started out with simple terms of endearment such as Piglet or pumpkin. With my second, I stepped away from the typical baby names and called her fuzzball or onion head (she's got a really round little noggin). My poor third child has the most creative nicknames yet - isn't it always the third who gets the worst of everything? In any given day I call him at least 57 different combinations of the following:

• monkey
• booger
• ball
• nut
• fur
• pickle
• butter
• butt
• chunk or chunky
• chub
• wiener
• turkey

I'd love to know what other people call their kids (or stepkids, or nieces/nephews, etc)... if only to reassure myself that I'm not crazy.

The Peculiarity of the Quarterlife Crisis

At the ripe ol’ age of 29 I find myself smack dab in the middle of a fistfight between my multiple personalities. In one corner, we have Mrs. Wannabe-June Cleaver who stays at home baking cookies, darning socks and waiting to greet Mr. Cleaver at the door with a big pot roast in one hand and a highball in the other. In the other corner, Ms. I-Refuse-To-Act-A-Day-Older-Than-19 who blares all kinds of morally offensive music once the kids leave the car, would rather spend money on Red Bulls than start a college fund, and thinks a clean pair of Chucks are part of a suitable professional wardrobe.

It’s a difficult task trying to find that balance between the new “grown up” side of me and the somewhat-irresponsible punk I always will be. Don’t get me wrong here – It’s not like I party until the wee hours while my kids are at home chugging Mountain Dew and watching South Park. But after work, I’m for damn sure halfway to the wine rack before the girls can even get their backpacks off and drop them by the front door. And I’ve at least stopped wearing my stupid graphic t-shirts from the boys department at WalMart  – to work, anyway.

Since having children, I’ve felt that I’m expected to start wearing twinsets and pleated khakis and quit working so that I can shuttle my kids to play dates and cello lessons. I don’t know why…All I know is that I’m really not the Type A mom type. I’m not the kind of mom who can bake 6 dozen cookies for the class party and volunteer for every field trip. I am the type of mom makes loud embarrassing fart noises in the middle of the store just because it makes the girls laugh hysterically. And that’s all that matters, right? I’m happy; my kids are happy…who cares that I’ve got the sense of humor, music taste and fashion sense of an adolescent. Does motherhood mean I’m expected to trade in my Jay-Z for Celine Dion; my childish Smurf socks for nude nylons; my insane dream of being one of Justin Timberlake’s backup dancers for president of the PTA?

Oh, Lord won't you buy me a Toyota Sienna

I told myself I'd never drive a *gag* minivan. I hate minivans and everything that they stand for. Not only are they visually repulsive, but purchasing one means you've officially given up whatever scrap of youth you had left after popping out a couple of kids. They are reserved for those people who insist on producing children by the litter. I promised myself I'd never drive a minivan. That is until, I saw it....

It floated into the parking lot like a gleaming space age DustBuster on 13" rims. It parked, and both side doors slid open. At this point I'm leaned almost completely out of the window of my car, unblinking and mouth agape. I was half expecting some harried-looking woman in elastic-waisted Lee's to pop out, but no. And I was totally expecting 14 Kool-Aid mouthed kids to come screaming out all at once, but no. It was a normal person with normal kids, much like myself. All three tidy looking children completely exited the vehicle without one getting crawled over or smacked in the eyeball.

Now it's all I think about whenever I'm driving any or all of my children somewhere. I really love my car (you'd think I hated it if you saw the state it's in), but it's time to give in and find something that doesn't require my three kids to pack in the backseat like little sardines... I practically need a shoehorn to get them it. And holy crap, having the kids out of arm's reach of each other would save me so much screaming into the rearview mirror.

Give me your poor, your tired, your puke-stained masses...

For quite some time now, I've read the mom-blogs published in various parenting magazines. I appreciate these women (and sometimes men) for allowing a candid peek at what their lives as parents are like. I especially like the ones who aren't afraid to admit that raising children isn't all peaches and sunshine; that at some point you will very seriously consider checking yourself into a nut house.

I guess I like to know that I'm not the only one who's not perfect. I too am guilty of some shameless parenting infractions. I've dug out the four month old Halloween candy and plopped the runts in front of SpongeBob to buy me a little extra time with whatever I'm doing. After hours of listening to one kid complain about the other hitting or kicking her, I told her to just hit back. I've underestimated the mobility of my chunky little baby boy who learned to wiggle his way out of his swing while I was taking my 30-second shower. So that's what the straps are for.

Overall I'm a good parent. I love my children unconditionally, I feed them at least two (sometimes three) semi-nutritious meals a day, and woe to anyone who dare even look at my kids wrong. But I swear, there are some days that in order to preserve my sanity I have to picture a countdown timer ticking the seconds away until they turn 18. Then one of them will come tell me I am the beautifulest mom in the whole world - puke-stained sweatpants and all - and I'll wish I could stop the clock and keep them just the way they are now.