Adulting Done Right: 90 Year Old Woman Embarks on Epic Road Trip

Have you guys read about the 90 year old woman who was diagnosed with cancer and decided to screw it all and go on a road trip? It seems that at the dawn of her 9th decade, she found out she had none other than uterine cancer. The doctor presented her with treatment options and she thought about it for a minute, then remembered she has this awesome son who lives in an RV with his wife. And then she thought about all the things she hadn't done or seen in her 90 years on this beautiful earth and when weighed against the fun of chemotherapy, a totally awesome road trip in an RV sounded so much better than enduring poisonous IVs. So off she went with her son and daughter in law on a trip that has lasted six months and has so far included a jaunt at Disney World, a Yellowstone adventure, a Grand Canyon excursion, and a hot air balloon ride. If a 90 year old woman in a hot air balloon isn't one of the most bad ass things you have ever heard, I don't know what is.

On a side note, if you used to listen to the Adam Carolla morning show you know of a game called Rich Man Poor Man. The game was centered around things that either made you really rich or really poor. For example: Outdoor furniture. If you have outdoor furniture, you might be either really rich or really poor. Another example would be having lots of cars. If you have a lot of cars, you might either be really rich with a nice, fancy car collection, or really poor with a nice selection of junk cars scattered throughout your front yard. Having a son who lives in his RV might be a fun new category in this game.

Back to Miss Norma and her fabulous road trip adventure. I just love how she threw caution to the wind and embarked on such an epic trip rather than playing it safe and doing the thing that is simply expected. I am a play it safe kind of girl. I know this might be surprising to some (especially those who knew me back in the day), but I am actually a rule following type of gal. I like to flirt with danger, to hover just on the outskirts of the contrary. I like to bat my eyelashes at the illicit but then play hard to get right before the illicit turns illegal. I might have a few too many cocktails but I put myself to bed before the real fun begins. And things have changed even more profoundly for me now that I have two young children. My life is all, "better be in bed by 9" and "no I will not be attending that fun shindig because I can't find a babysitter" and "no, I'd better not, I am trying to be a good example". But what if being a good role model is doing exactly what Miss Norma did and just YOLO'ing the hell out of this short life? Why do we wait until we are 90 and terminally ill to hop in an RV and roll down the highway free as a friggin' bird?

Oh, right. Because...bills. And responsibility. And plain old, boring adulting.

So ride on, Miss Norma. Reading about your positive attitude in spite of enduring quite a few
wicked curve balls is a lovely reminder that we do only live once, so never stop striving to live the life you love. 

Image via Scary Mommy

A Punch in the Junk

The feeling of Saturday morning freedom had descended upon our home. I was standing in the kitchen, leisurely whisking eggs as the baby chilled out in her bouncer and the toddler multi-tasked, watching the iPad and coloring. Disney tunes filled the air, when suddenly the calm was punctuated as the toddler hopped down from the table, yelling with glee as one of her jams came through the Bose. She began wiggling around and wagging her finger in a silly dance, belting out the words with such confidence in her garbled toddler talk. I laughed and sang along with her as I chopped vegetables and made funny faces at the baby.

As the song ended it flowed into the next tune. Elton John's voice rang out and I was transported back to the 90s as I hummed along cheesily to "Can You Feel the Love Tonight". My husband walked into the room at that moment and as I turned around to watch the toddler dance, my heart broke into a thousand pieces. The toddler reached her chubby little paws up to her dad and he lifted her into a giant hug, and right there in the kitchen he began to twirl around with her in his arms. I had to turn away before I was reduced into a blubbering, sappy mess over a stupid love song about two damn cartoon lions. I squeezed the baby tightly and thought about all the times I've wanted to punch my lovely husband in the face. How many toddler poop fiascoes I have been forced to endure. I even thought about that time I had to pump in a storage closet when I was on a business trip because employers just don't consider working, breastfeeding mothers. All those times I've thought that I just might lose my mind, that this family life was not what I signed up for, that maybe I am simply not cut out for this mom business flashed before me as I realized - I am exactly where I am supposed to be. Standing here in this tiny kitchen, in our too small home with our too small salaries and our too big worries. There is no where else I can imagine standing than right here, right now with my husband and our two beautiful daughters. Life in this very second is oh so sweet.

And then, just like that, the peace is shattered and reality reappears. As the song ended and my husband gently set our toddler down, she screamed mischievously and sucker punched my husband right in the junk. Laughing like a maniac, she sprinted off yelling "I got you!" as my husband sputtered in pain and I, shaking with laughter, wiped a whole different kind of tear from my eyes

Yep. We are right where we are meant to be. 

The Day Peppa the Pig Almost Killed Me

Now that we are an official family of four, I have made a concerted effort to still give the first born some undivided "mommy and Bug" time. Overall, the toddler terrorist has accepted the newest member of our family without question. She doesn't act out in jealousy and is actually quite sweet to the baby. It is really lovely to watch and my heart grows exponentially on a daily basis. But sometimes I think back fondly on the times that she had my undivided attention, and as such I imagine that perhaps she does too. Which is how we found ourselves on a little mommy/daughter date at Peppa the friggin' Pig Live.

We have done Disney on Ice. I have sat through many an animated movie. So far, I have been entertained and only slightly bored. But Peppa the Pig may have ruined all things children for me. There were a few red flags that should have warned me, but like a girl determined to marry a bad boy I ignored all the obvious signs and forged forward.

First of all, the ticket prices were seriously ridiculous. If I wanted to pay an insane amount of money for two tickets to watch pig puppets jump in pretend muddy puddles, I would have paid to attend both Democrat and Republican presidential debates. I broke the bank to sit in the nose bleed balcony seats where we practically needed binoculars to see Peppa being pushed around the stage by a covert operative dressed all in black. But I approached the event with hope, wishing in vain that perhaps the show would be worth eating canned tuna until the next payday.

As we arrived, I noticed multiple bars surrounded with adults stocking up on beer, wine and cocktails as though their hydration depended on it. That was the second red flag. "Hmm, that's strange," I thought to myself. It's rare to see alcohol served at a children's function. Two seconds into the show, I totally got it. I was regretting my decision not to indulge in libations myself. I would have given my fancy left pinkie to be swimming in a vat of vodka while pretending to be deeply engaged in the drama of Peppa the Pig for the sake of my imaginative toddler.

As I tried to keep myself from nodding off into a blissful sleep where I was anywhere but trapped in a theater enduring a story line centered around whether or not Daddy Pig would break the muddy puddle splash record, my toddler terrorist squealed in delight. I rubbed my eyes and squinted at the stage. Oh, god. Is that a talking potato? Definitely did not see that plot twist coming. And just as I thought I could not take one more second listening to a whiny pig puppet lament the fact that her dear daddy pig did not practice jumping in muddy puddles, the show concluded and I was free.

As I gleefully made my escape as quickly as I could, my toddler terrorist grabbed my hand, squeezed it and patted me on the back. She jumped in pretend muddy puddles on the walk back to the car, and I forgot the torture of the past hour as she happily chattered away. As I drove away I had to chuckle with the realization that I would do just about anything to see that little girl smile. Even endure Peppa the damn Pig.

Terror for Two, Please

I am officially now the mother of two beautifully perfect tiny terrorists. I could tell you how chaotic my life has become, how overwhelmed I often feel at the suffocating weight of responsibility that accompanies holding the lives of two little people in my sometimes seemingly incapable hands. I could also tell you how much more lovely life is with the addition of another adorable little squish I get to call my very own. And maybe I will, eventually. But for now, I'd rather regale you with a story so filled with poop you might even say I'm full of shit.

It began the day all the help went home. No more family surrounded me, making sure the laundry was folded and I was fed, the children were alive and the baby smothered in adoration. It was just me and the girls. Alone. Totally alone.

I looked at their little faces, staring at me expectantly. I looked around for an adult in the room when I realized with a jolt that the only grown up was me. I sighed with a slight hint of desperation, but, with an air of bravado as if I knew just what I was doing, I decided to pack up the kids and head to the park. No big deal, right? Easy peasy.

Sixteen thousand hours later, the diaper bag was packed, the kids were dressed, I had pants on which I deemed to be good enough, and off we went. We hadn't even made it a mile from the house when I heard the oldest tiny terrorist, yell "EWWW! MAMA, LOOK!"

Well, considering that I was driving the world's biggest car in order to fit my family, taking a peek at what was transpiring in the backseat was not necessarily an option. So, I gritted my teeth, gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead at the open road, focused solely on the destination. I would find out soon enough what type of terror awaited me in the baby's car seat.

Upon arrival, I scurried to the back of the car to investigate. There sat my cute little baby, looking at me blankly, covered in ooey gooey spit up. Yuck. Not to worry, though! Being a seasoned mom who has survived many a bio hazard terror attack, I had a change of clothes in the diaper bag. I got the baby dressed, grabbed the toddler and off we trudged to the park.

About halfway through our park experience, the baby got a little fussy. And then she got a lot fussier. Guessing that she was probably starving considering that she had just thrown up the majority of my liquid gold, I decided to go ahead and nurse her. Now, I am not at all comfortable nursing in public. With my first baby terrorist, I would retreat to a back bedroom or take the extra time to pump in order to ensure I had a bottle. This time around, I promised to tackle my fear. And what better time than the present to whip out the old hooter hider and nurse my sweet baby as my toddler played with reckless abandon on the slide.

Things began to unravel almost immediately. Just as my boob met the fresh air, the toddler ran over to the picnic table on which I was perched and demanded a snack. Okay, no problem. I reached into the diaper bag to retrieve the snacks when my dexterity failed me. I knocked over the bag, spilling all of the precious diaper bag contents onto the concrete. As I contemplated how to continue nursing while gathering all of my spilled cargo, a slight breeze rushed through the trees. How nice, I thought...until that lovely breeze lifted my nursing wrap and exposed all I had hoped to hide beneath it. And just as I thought things couldn't get any worse, I heard the unmistakable rumble of my baby's tummy get louder and louder until...

Oh shit. Literally. Everywhere. I had used my spare outfit on the great spit up caper, and now I was shit on and shit out of luck. Well, it's time to go, I mused. I yelled over to the toddler as I gathered up my things in an attempt to leave the park with my dignity in tact and my head held high. And just as I thought that perhaps I was going to be able to do that, I heard my toddler holler from high atop the tallest slide on the playground...

"MAMA! I POOPED!"

And that was how I officially became the mother of two.

How to Structure a Marital Dispute in Six Simple Steps

Earlier this month, the husband and I celebrated our six-year wedding anniversary. Six years! Celebration is kind of an ambitious word for what we actually did. We spent most of the day doing what we always do - whatever the toddler terrorist wants - and then went to the fancy pants movie theater in Del Mar where I could park my giant pregnant behind in a comfy recliner, kick up my swollen ankles and order ice cream in the privacy of a dark theater without fear of judgment. Sexy, I know.

I wasn't really sure what to write about to honor six years of this married union. I could talk about his cute dimples or how proud I am of the life we have built together, but hey. I'm not one for the sap. He'd think I had been kidnapped and replaced by a sweet spouse who spouts platitudes. So, as I was cooking dinner one night and feeling irritable, I thought about how in six years we have learned to structure our arguments into six simple steps. What a coincidence! When spending a lifetime together, couples fall into a comfortable routine that can be oh so predictable. In our case, we have created our own Fight Club rule book to which we strictly adhere. Here is the structure of a good Greene domestic dispute:

1. The Spark
Like any good display of pyrotechnics, it has to begin with a spark. A flash. A bang. In our case, it often begins with some innocuous comment. Something innocent with no implication of malice, yet somehow, after a day of toddler tantrums, workplace weariness and overall exhaustion it becomes the spark that ignites a colorful display of unholy matrimony.
"Hey honey, I stopped by the store and got your butter..."
"MY BUTTER? Why is it MY butter? Do you not eat butter? Are you calling me fat? I'll show you YOUR butter..."

2. The Backpedal
Inevitably, once the the fuse has been lit, trying to avoid an explosion is futile. However, in desperate times, one must at least try to diffuse the volatile situation. Damage control goes into full effect. Stammering and stumbling backward, hands held up in surrender, the backpedaling begins.
"N-n-no, I didn't mean YOUR butter, I meant OUR butter! Come on babe, you're beautiful, I love you, um, I think I left something out in my truck...I think the tiny terrorist needs me..."And with the the grace of a roadrunner chased by the coyote, a sign is held up that simply reads Uh Oh and with a poof of dust and a sound strikingly similar to a meep meep! He's gone.

3. The Slow Simmer 
Like a teapot beginning to steam, the slow simmer begins. It starts with a simple how dare he. The brain then begins to reach into the dusty files stored in the back office of the memory, stashed away only to be brought out simply for occasions such as these. The time he left his socks on the floor? What a jerk! Or how about that annoying habit he has of always leaving his clothes in the dryer so I end up folding them?! Grrrr. And how about the way he stares at me blankly while I babble on about my feelings on [insert any topic here]? Oh man. The water is now boiling, and the kettle begins to whistle shrilly.

4. The Game On
As this step implies, the heavyweights are ready to throw down. Get your ringside seating, a couple of beers and some popcorn because this is going to get interesting. You might have to get out your toddler to adult dictionary translator, however, because we are going to be arguing in sickeningly sweet voices, hushed tones and code words since we don't want the toddler to know she is witnessing a Vegas-worthy clash of titans. Hello, we're not animals. It's an epic battle of the sexes disguised as a United Nations negotiation, punctuated every so often by a silly face made at the toddler terrorist or a pause between rounds to serve the toddler dinner or tie a shoe.

5. The Insult to Injury
There comes a point in every argument where someone starts to laugh. It's usually me, as I have made an outlandish statement so obnoxious that even I can't take myself seriously. This is a dangerously deceiving moment because my worthy opponent takes this as a prime opportunity to lower the gloves, towel off the sweat and innocently say, "I don't even know what you are so upset about, anyway!"
Really? Because I literally just spent the entire last hour outlining exactly why I was mad. I was even kind enough to illustrate his shortcomings with diagrams, examples, evidence and exuberant hand gestures. So, just like that, the bell rings for round 2 and it's time to place bets on which spouse is going to receive the proverbial knockout punch.

6. The White Flag of Surrender
And then, the beauty of marriage emerges. Both fighters retire to their corner of the couch, exhausted and over it. We settle on some mind-numbing television show and without even noticing, I eventually wiggle my cold toes under his leg to keep warm and he affectionately puts his hand on my knee and just like that, wedded bliss.

Until next time.