your search is over, the scary mommy is here!

Jill, over at Scary Mommy is searching for the ultimate Scary Mommy:

In honor of the new movie Motherhood, a unique movie about a real mom, I’m looking for some other Scary Mommies out there.

What is a Scary Mommy, you ask? I believe a Scary Mommy is a mother who doesn’t leave the house wearing lipstick at all times. A Scary Mommy loves her kids to death, but will admit to feeling totally overwhelmed and exhausted by the gig. A Scary Mommy doesn’t really care what other people think, and a Scary Mommy thinks that all mothers win when we admit our weaknesses. How would you describe it?  It’s up to you!

How would I describe a scary mommy? Do I think that I am a scary mommy? Well, I do have many years of practice/experience and I have been blogging about it for awhile which you can see for yourself. But here are ten of the more stellar, awesome reasons that make me in the eyes of the “good mommies of the world” a scary mommy.

1. I am a PTA reject and proud of it! I can think of better ways to support my kids education, their school and their teachers than gather twice a month at what is an hour of gossip about families that attend the school and faculty that works at the school and (maybe) an hour of PTA/school business. You won’t see me at the meetings but you count on me to help the kids with their homework, donate supplies as needed, chaperone field trips.

2. I do not take my kids grocery shopping. Of course this often means that I go shopping late at night after darling husband comes home, kids have been fed, homework completed, baths done and little ones tucked into bed but it is sooo worth it to be all alone and not in the bathroom!

3. I DO buy myself chocolately, sweet and/or salty treats just for me. Usually I pick these up while at said grocery store. I hide them too.

…oooo, this is actually fun!

4. I like my “me” time….no, I LOVE my “me” time. I selfishly guard my “me” time. It isn’t much, maybe an hour a week or every other week if I’m lucky. But I like time just for me, myself and I. In spite of what perfect parents of the world might say, I believe that this time is absolutely, positively necessary for me to be a better parent for my children.

5. I am one of those moms who actually means it when I say “no” to the kids as in “No, we are not buying you a toy/ripped jeans/dvd/Wii game.” That is unlike the mom I recently saw in Target who was in line with her darling little boy named Daniel. Mom was purchasing a Super Slayer sword-like thingy that her Daniel had asked for, begged for, screamed for after his mom told him no ten times (yes, I counted). She’s a great mom. Me, I’m the mean, scary mom who said no and ignored the frustration and tears of my Daniel.

6. I basically got pregnant and gave birth 4 times over, added 25 pounds of “mommy weight” that I did not have when I had the body my daughter Holly now has and added some gnarly, scary varicose veins to my legs that had to be surgically removed all just so I never have to wash dishes again. Don’t believe me, ask my girls!

7. I have negotiated and bartered with Bill over who would get to change the poopy diapers or pull-ups. I still do that with our grand daughter…how could something so sweet make something so foul?

8. I force my kids to clean their bathrooms.

…Quick! someone call Children’s Protective Services now!

9. After getting to hang out all week after school with friends, go to the mall, movies, etc., I say “no” to one of my teenagers when she asks if she can go out to the movies with said friends because I want to go out with her daddy and I need her to babysit her little brother.

10. Sometimes, in the wee small hours of the morning, I pretend to still be sleeping and let Bill get up and take care of an early morning issue with one of his children. And sometimes when they are all fast asleep and I find myself awake (thank you hot flashes and night sweats), I will get up and go from room to room, looking at their sweet, slumber faces and count myself the luckiest, Scary Mommy on the planet.

Are you a scary mommy too? Head on over to Scary Mommy before Friday, October 23 and tell Jill what makes you so scary.

even educated fleas do it…

…and it would follow that if they do then moms must do it too. Well, wouldn’t it? I mean, where would we all be were it not for our moms doing it? Right?

I know, I know….I have now created a visual forever burned into your mind that compels you to now stare at the sun for several hours. I’m there with you staring at that sun. But we can’t escape the fact that, yes, moms do it….moms….OMG!….moms have sex! Thank goodness for you that your mom did have sex. And here is where I first apologize to my own children but then remind them that it is a very good thing for them that their own mom did too. After all, where would I be without my amazing circus act that I am partly responsible for creating?

Okay kids, go outside and stare at the sun. Mommy is so very sorry for traumatizing you this way. Someday, I promise, you will understand…or at least be able to distract yourself from this truth…mostlikely by having sex…when you are an adult!

My friend…and yes, I can call her a friend because we have sweated, did plank jacks and  lost weight together… thinks enough of me to GIVE me a t-shirt out of the goodness of her heart that celebrates this truth that moms like, actually love sex…Kristen Chase of Motherhood Uncensored and  the Shredheads has this amazing column where she offers up some practical sex advice for parents because, parents do have sex even after they have kids.

It’s okay boys and girls. It’s good…very good for mommy and daddy and (trust me) it is good for you too.  I think that is the point  of the Mominatrix. We are definitely moms  and we LOVE, LOVE, LOVE being moms. But in order to be healthy, happy people, women, moms we need sex in our lives too. Kristen’s sex column and now her book, The Mominatrix’s Guide to Sex, promises to help us moms “get back what’s rightfully yours. No harsh judgments, boring commentary, or embarrassing exercises. Just a frank, funny discussion about sex after kids for new moms and seasoned veterans. From the nitty gritty on pregnancy and post-partum sex to spicing things up when the flame starts to burn out, even a chapter that’s just for the dads, the Mominatrix takes on everything you need to know or want to ask.“

So when the Mominatrix gives you a super comfy, yet sexy t-shirt and tells you to put it on and take a picture you do and you find yourself just a little bit turned on because it was the Mominatrix who asked you to do it. Since my baby-making days are long gone, I am thinking that I am one of the “seasoned veterans” that she is talking about. Thanks, Kristen.

She’s coming…she’s coming January 18, 2010 but you can pre-order now.

I can’t wait!

last minute homework on a Sunday night

As if I need further proof for why I am the number one bad mommy here in the Central Valley, I blog about the latest evidence for your examination:

It’s Sunday night. I am supposed to be at work catching babies and saving lives but I am not…again, due to low census. So here I am on a Sunday night in my cozy sweats because, at last there is a chill in the October night air. I’m enjoying a glass of merlot and going through Daniel’s backpack getting it ready for school in the morning and then I find…

Homework. Homework that was to be done over the weekend. Homework that is due first thing Monday morning.

My son, Daniel, is to be the class star of the week and in order to celebrate just how special he is, he and his family was to spend this weekend working on this project providing a few items and creating a poster that is all about Daniel. First, let it be said that I DID know about this project and I DID know that it was coming up but I…well, I forgot. Second of all I do normally go through his backpack Friday afternoon but I was distracted over a new tattoo I had just got.
…you see how I am aptly defending the case for me being the number one bad mommy here?
Lastly, as a rule, I do NOT do my children’s homework. It is their work and their work it shall be even if they “forgot” to do it and remember right before bedtime.

But sometimes even my rules are made to be broken.

It’s a good thing that I was called off from work tonight or Bill would be discovering this probably just as he and the boy were ready to head out the door to school. You got to admit I did a pretty good job on his poster. The rest this week is up to him.

school of thoughts

• Ever since Finding Nemo I always mentally run this scene from Finding Nemo in my head the morning of the first day of school.

• Yeah, I’m kind of nerdy that way.
• Looks like I am not the only one excited for Zoë’s Senior year

• She actually thought that I did this to her car!…Me!
• My hubs thought I had done it too.
• Poor girl had to drive her car to school and then work like that.
• Waaah!
• Actually she was tickled to be loved so by her friend.
• He has grown so much but Daniel still looked so small as he grudgingly walked to school this morning.

• Holly dressed up for the event wearing cute shoes and her best pajama shorts.
• The thing that convinced Daniel that he had to go back to school was the fact that Mrs. L was going to be his teacher again and that she was anxiously waiting for him to come to school.

• Looks like Mrs. L wasn’t waiting for him after all. Since she had assured me that she would be his teacher at the last IEP meeting, I hope that it was her choice to leave and not the school district pink slipping her.
• Honestly, the school dropped the ball on this one when they sent me the notice last month with Daniel’s school and class assignment. Way to stress out a room full of special needs children who don’t adapt easily to change.

• Of course I stressed over how stressed I imagined Daniel must be and how I was certainly in the dog house in his book for telling him that Mrs. L was there waiting for him.
• Oops!
• But Daniel proved to be able to handle this abrupt change a lot more gracefully than we thought.
• My boy is growing up.
• Of course it helps when your new teacher is a very pretty, young brunette and you are a handsome little ladies’ man.
• First day of school means that my gym is packed with lots of moms finding time to workout now that the kids are back in school.
• Whatever happened to the tradition of PTA moms hanging out at Starbucks after dropping the kids off?
• I give it a couple of weeks for the mommy-crowd to thin out at the gym so hang in there gym rats.
• But since I am seriously training to run the Tiarathon in March with some of my Shredhead buds, I will still be there as I am every other day.
• It’s funny, but not in a ha-ha way that one of Abby’s teachers remembers me from when he had Holly as his student back in 2004.
• I remember him because Holly had a school girl crush on him.
• Unfortunately, as much as she liked him and his class, her grade didn’t reflect that.
• But that isn’t why he remembers me.
• He remembered me because I got upset after he made a comment to Holly about people in my family seemed to be dropping like flies.
• Given that year that my brother in law was murdered, my step-father lost his battle with prostate cancer, my younger brother died from acute liver failure and hubs’ step-mother died I guess I could try to see why he would perceive that our family “was dropping like flies” as he so casually mentioned to Holly.
• I didn’t try to see his humor then.
• But I did manage to forget it.
• I now can vaguely recall telling him what I thought about his making such a crude remark to my daughter…but only because he reminded me of that when he shared with Abby his recollection.
• Honestly, I could have gone say five more years or so without remembering that encounter with that teacher.
• Being the kind of mom that I am, the kind who is always on top of things like I am, I had to call the school this afternoon because I couldn’t remember the dismissal time.
• I called five minutes after Jodie and Daniel were dismissed from their classes.
• Oops!
• Nevertheless, we all survived the first day of school just fine here under the Big Top. In fact it was a great day…a productive day.
• I even got all of my homework done.

• I better get a gold star for getting all of my paperwork completed…especially from Abby’s teacher, Mr. M

my ghost of bad mommy past

Today I got to revisit a little bit of my bad mommy past. Normally I joke about my bad mommy-ness because it is so much more fun when I point it out than when someone else does it for me. But today I was reminded of one of my worst bad mommy moments.

Here we are on vacation in what is supposed to be one of the happiest places on Earth and yet I drove my sweet boy to tears all because I wanted him to go potty in our hotel room bathroom. I have shared, perhaps overshared the trials and tribulations of potty training this son of mine. It has been an arduous, uphill climb for the entire circus. Some of the struggle of course was related to his extreme premature birth and his developmental delays but there was much more to what is behind his fears and struggles in conquering the pooping and peeing in the potty.

Back when Daniel was just a very young preschooler, I finally had to take a gulp and swallow and put him into daycare so I could return to work full time. I managed to keep him out of any child care setting for the first 3 years of his life due to his fragile health but eventually I had to accept the fact that for this circus of mine to thrive I needed to give up the crazy commute to the Bay Area to what was my weekend part time job. The long commute was killing me and taking me away too long from my family and financially it just wasn’t providing what we needed. So I accepted a full time position only minutes from home and accepted that it was time to find daycare for my son. Just like with his sisters I searched, interviewed and investigated many options in order to find the right fit for my child. Not only did I want to find a loving, safe, professional, licensed environment, but I needed someone who would not shrink away from a feeding tube and even be willing to learn how to feed him using the g-tube. I needed someone to understand and accept that although he was 3 years old, he was in many ways so much younger. I needed someone who could respect him and take him as he was. A tall order to fill but as luck would have it I found the right caregiver for him.

I thought I did.

I trusted that I did.

I had no idea that I didn’t.

Daniel tried to tell me. True he was not too verbal at the time and could not articulate what was going on. But he did try to tell me. All I saw was what I believed to be the tantrums. Normal I thought. His sisters were pretty difficult at age three too. Why would he be any different?

His sister Holly tried to tell me too. She maintained she did not like his caregiver when she would sometimes pick him up or drop him off for me. But she complained about everything else in her life at that time. Her parents uproot her from the only place she knew as a child and teen and move miles away to a new town and a new school. What normal 17-18 year old high school student wouldn’t be angry and complaining.

No, I did not see it at all. Not even when it came to the point where she demanded that I potty train my soon to be 4 year old. He showed no signs of being ready and I tried to reason that with her. She countered with that if he wasn’t potty trained by his 4th birthday she would have to dismiss him from her daycare. No problem. I just began to look for another option for Daniel. As luck would have it my neighbor and dear friend decided to return to open up her own licensed daycare. Daniel LOVED Miss Kelly. Miss Kelly LOVED Daniel like one of her own preciouss children. She was the only non-family member he would reach out to hug. He was playmates with her son. This was the perfect solution. It really was. Miss Kelly was the best and remains so. Really, we all should have a Miss Kelly who loves us like Daniel’s Miss Kelly loves him.

Two years after leaving Miss Cathy’s, Daniel one day recalled his time at her daycare. It was a completely random, unexpected conversation where he recalled how Miss Cathy would make him sit on the potty and scream at him, scare him and make him cry until he would throw up. He told me this as matter of factly as he pointed out that his sister’s school was bigger than his as we were driving through the neighborhood. My grip on the steering wheel tightened until my fingers turned white. I could not believe what I had heard. I pulled the car over and crawled into the back of the car where I wrapped my arms around my beautiful son. I told him then how sorry I was that Miss Cathy yelled at him and scared him and made him cry. He smiled and hugged me back telling me that he knew that. He then added it was okay because he didn’t go there anymore, he went to Miss Kelly’s and Miss Kelly loved him. I hugged him back and agreed as I fought hard not to cry.

OH MY GOD!

I did this to my son! I put him there three days a week.

When I told my husband my girls overheard. Holly reminded me how uncomfortable she felt with that lady. Jodie told me how a classmate of hers who went there after school shared that what Daniel said was true.

I did this to my son. I put him there.

We looked into what legal recourse we had only to discover that we really didn’t have anything. If we tried to pursue it we might just stir up all that trauma for Daniel all over again. At that point it just was not worth it. Instead we chose to focus on healing our son with the hopes that the trauma inflicted was minor and that we could fade that memory for him. It seemed to work. He was safe and loved at home, at Miss Kelly’s, at his school. He was surrounded by good, loving people who loved and accepted him for who he was and is, a remarkable, amazing boy. But potty training remained a difficult challenge for us all. He tried and eventually accomplished it at home and at school. The challenge remained at other places and we have learned to cope and support him. We have been certain some of it is related to his experience at Miss Cathy’s but what was done was done. All we could do was support him, encourage him and love him.

Then came today where we spent the entire day on the road driving. Along the way he had consumed several juice boxes, a small cup of soda and nearly a liter of water and the last time he went potty was at 9 o’clock in the morning at home. I didn’t expect him to want to go during potty breaks on the drive to Anaheim but I still tried to encourage him. Not a problem, he could go once we settled in our hotel room, our home away from home for the next few days. But he wouldn’t. He refused. It was clear that he had to go but he would not. He could not. Fine, we countered, no swimming tonight until he went potty. He was okay with that. He didn’t want to go swimming he told us with teary eyes. Then we can’t go the Disneyland tom orrow until he goes potty. He didn’t want to go he countered as tears rolled down his face.  We tried hugs and reasoning to no avail. He did NOT have to go potty he maintained. But his little body twisted up like a pretzel on his bed suggested otherwise. Fatigue and frustrations got the best of me when I snapped and raised my voice to him as I insisted that he had no choice but to go potty. The dam was unleashed as he cried and told me that I scared him like Miss Cathy did.

Once again, I did this to my son.

Yes, I cried. I cried the bitter tears of a mother who realizes the pain her child carries. Pain I allowed to happen to him. Pain that I did not see as it was being inflicted on him.

I did this to my son.

There was more tears spent by everyone in that tiny hotel room until eventually, with a little gentle help from his sister while his mama sat on the bed crying her guilty tears, Daniel went potty. His painful tears turned to tears of relief and joy. He came out of the bathroom and hugged me. Together we hugged, cried, apologized and reassured eachother that everything was okay.

It was. It is.

Still I have this enormous weight of guilt.

I did this to my son. I let that woman harm him. I let tthat woman hurt him in a way that he still carries.

I like to think that I don’t hate anyone. I don’t…except her. I hate her. I don’t think that I can ever forgive her. But then again, I don’t think that I can ever forgive me either.

She hurt him. But I put him there in a place where he could be hurt. I don’t think I can ever forgive that. Most days I can easily fold it up and tuck it way in the cedar chest of my mind but today, tonight, it is hanging out in the open for all to see, the ghost of my bad mommy past.

We always manage to lose or leave behind something when we juggle away from home. Please, dear Lord, let this be what we forget to pack.

peanutbutter jelly time

This was a fun cleanup. I ended up hosing down the high chair…after I took Hazel out of the chair. Although I was tempted to leave her in it. The clean up would have gone much quicker but I imagine her mama wouldn’t have been happy about it.

but I am THAT mom

No, I am not that mom who will put up with her children screaming or running amuck in public places where good behavior is expected…anymore! But I am the mom who will gladly, proudly celebrate that which makes me an awesome, phenomenal woman and joining Lotus of Sarcastic Mom and other equally phenomenal, awesome women and mothers in the Bewbfest ‘09.  It was all good, clean fun as we celebrated all the glorious shapes and sizes that we are. It was all the more fun because I am the second runner-up in this year’s Bewbfest. I have to thank everyone who voted for me…repeatedly including my darling hubs (nice to know he still appreciates the girls) and my older kids. It’s nice to know that the average sized, over forty, mother of five, grandmother of one rack can stack up to the 20 and 30-something mom bloggers out there. Thank you!

Of course right about now I am imagining my mother and her fellow “bra burners”  are cringing over what might appear to be blatant objectifying of my physical self. Perhaps it is a little objectifying but I see it more as celebrating and reclaiming a little bit of our physical selves. It seems that much is measured  in our physical selves as women, particularly our breasts: what is considered to be the ideal size and shape, our sexuality, our ability and decision to nourish the children we give birth to and how well we “hold up” as we age. No wonder so many of us complain about and dislike our own bodies, including our breasts. To me, The Bewbfest and The Boob Emancipation do a little celebrating and reclaiming the right to celebrate part of our own physical womanliness. There’s nothing dirty or tasteless in that. It’s just boobs, our boobs and we are pretty damn proud of them. I don’t see that as setting us back but rather liberating us even further. Being the mother of four daughters and grandmother of the most amazing grand daughter it is a big deal that I model confidence and a little self-love in the body that God has given me for my girls.

I have to say that I owe my size and shape not only partly to great genes (thanks Mom and Dad), a pretty great bra but also to my joining that cult that is the Shredheads. Remember when I posted my pre-shredding picture at over 180 lbs? Yeah, I’d like to forget it too. But I’m glad I did post it and share the beginning of my shredding experience. I am even more grateful for the accountability, support and beginning friendships that the Shredheads has offered. Most of us have moved past Jillian’s 30 Day Shred and Bob’s Yoga finding running, weights and other forms of exercise equally challenging in our quest for fitness. The results among my fellow Shredheads has been amazing and inspiring.  For mepersonally I have seen a significant amount of weight and inches lost and currently I am just 10 lbs shy of my personal goal. I’m not going to make the mid-July, family vacation date I set for myself to achieve that goal but I have to say that I am going to be very close. I couldn’t be prouder of that achievement too. Even better, the added bonus of all of this shredding and now jogging/walking/weights/yoga is my darling hubs is now heading to the gym working with a trainer and it is beginning to show.

Looking good in jeans,that little black dress, a swimsuit, and when I am brave enough, a bikini is pretty cool. Looking great for a forty-seven year old woiman and being told so, especially by my husband and kids is wonderful. Feeling good physically and mentally, feeling strong and feeling incredibly energetic so that I can do the juggling that I do is the best of all. Yes, I am THAT kind of mom. I am doing this for me, my hubs, my kids and my grandkid. I can’t think of a better reason.

I am NOT that mom

…and I never was.

Well, okay, when Daniel was 2 or 3 and his sensory dysfunction was at its worst because he couldn’t articulate, I was that mom ignoring her kid screaming his bloody head off in a restaurant but who could hear him? His left vocal cord is paralyzed so at that age no one could hear him. Still I enjoyed the hate-filled, dirty, your-child-is-ruining-my-fine-dining-experience-here-at-Applebees looks from folks because obviously something was wrong with my child. I got it after a couple of times. Actually I got it not for the sake of those dining around me or the wait staff but for the sake of my son.

Although I have never shied away from taking the whole circus act out to dinner at all ages and stages when we could afford it, I realized that there is truth to the wisdom of Solomon that for everything there is a season and a time. When Daniel was a toddler who just could not deal with being confined in a high chair assaulted by the cacophony of loud voices, clanging cutlery, music that was not his choice or volume and this weird textured, smelly stuff they call food that people put in their mouths, I accepted the fact that this was not the time for him to enjoy the experience of eating out at a casual dining establishment. I was a little disappointed because it meant that I couldn’t then get out of the kitchen to sit down with my family at a restaurant but how enjoyable was it really when my son was stressed out to the point of mental and emotional anguish? Really? I am not that mom that can dig into my chicken fajitas platter, suck down my iced tea, engage in conversation with the hubs and ignore my screaming child. It clearly isn’t enjoyable for him so how the heck can it be a pleasant experience for me, nevermind anyone else around our table?

But like all seasons in our children’s lives, that time was very brief. I soon  figured out how to keep Daniel happily distracted from the sensory assaults that is a casual dining establishment…thank you Hot Wheels, iTouch apps and Nintendo!…and he was mature enough to understand the expectations of how one should behave when dining with the family circus in a restaurant and eventually he gave up tube feedings to discover that the kids’ menus rock. When we can afford it, we do take the entire circus act out to a casual; dining place near you. Consider yourself warned.

So what has brought this on? Of course a recent dining experience but also a recent post by Lindsay over at Suburban Turmoil. Lindsay shared recently that she is that mom and her defense for it. I have to admit that I wanted to join the flurry of comments and wisdom being shared as a result of that post. Obviously I had my 2¢ to share but then I stopped myself. I like Lindsay and I enjoy her writing. We may differ on some things when it comes to parenting but the girl is my kind of mama. But I stopped myself also after my own dining experience last Tuesday with Daniel, Jodie, Holly and her daughter, Hazel. Hazey-Face is a very active, rambunctious and, sometimes, loud toddler. While we were enjoying our “family dining experience” at the local Chili’s, I couldn’t help notice the evil, angry looks from a diner two tables away from us. The 50-something lady seemed displeased that Hazel was there in her high chair banging her spoon on the table and loudly demanding her share of her mommy’s dinner. It was obvious that my darling, but loud, grand daughter was ruining her dining experience. She wasn’t crying, screaming or shrieking but she was loud…in a loud restaurant. Holly, who arrived at the restaurant before her brother, sister and myself, told me that the matron had been shooting dirty looks her way since she and Hazel were seated in our booth. Why? Who knows? Who really cares either? I mean it was a family style, loud, restaurant. It wasn’t the quaint, hole in the wall, dark bistro where soft, cool jazz is playing. Hazel’s antics actually were drowned out by the cacophony of activity around us. I think the lady was just pissed because she was obviously a baby and she was in the restaurant. Clearly children like her should not be seen nor heard in that lady’s opinion. I came to this conclusion as she and her dining companion got up to leave at the close of their meal. The gentleman smiled at us as he walked by. The lady, she glared as I looked up and made direct eye contact with her as I smiled in her direction.

Whatever! I mean at least I dressed up a little but then again, anything is dressing up compared to pajama pants isn’t it?

I may not be that mom but I guess I am that grandmom and for that I am glad that I stayed out of the discussion over at Lindsay’s blog.

things to tell the great grandkids when 90 years of age

Someday when she is ninety years old she will regale the grandkids and the great-grandkids and maybe the great-great grandkids with tales of how she swam in the Mediterranean Sea in her underwear because she forgot her swimsuit.

What? You thought I was going to share a picture of that? Please! What kind of bad mama do you think I am? Oh yeah…

the kind that someday when she is ninety will tell her great grandkids and maybe great-great grandkids how she used to have this crazy old-fashioned thing called a blog on the Internet and she made lots of friends whom she didn’t always meet face to face but who got together with her and decided to show off their BEWBS.Crazy, I know. But their crazy great grandmother was already a grandmother when she shared a picture of her “girls”…in a tasteful way…on the interwebs all to celebrate motherhood, womanhood and what God has given us as mothers and women… an amazing rack to render our mates speechless and to provide for our babies. Of course the great grandkids will roll their eyes, sneak a glance at their parents as if to say, “I can’t believe you brought me here to my crazy great grandma’s house!” and then oh so innocently ask me, “GG, what is the internet?”

Vote for #4, the only grandmother and actually who just might, with your help, have a chance to win. As I write this, I am actually in 3rd place. Crazy, I know. Still the “girls” are vote-worthy. Vote now! Vote for #4!

BEWB Fest ‘09

I have been told that #4 is pretty hawt. It’s all because of the shredding, baby! Go vote for them.

Yes, my kids are mortified. My day is made.