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Every night we put Small One A and Small One B to bed and tell them, “Stay there and go to sleep.”

Every night both Small Ones get up, shout for water, or do some other very loud thing that is the exact opposite of staying there and going to sleep.

About three times a week we get this shout from Small One A’s room: “MOM! DAD! I GOT HURT!”

Husband and I look at each other quizzically. “How does she hurt herself when she’s supposed to be sleeping?” one of us will ask, and the other will sigh and stomp up to the bedroom to assess the damage.

(Ok, I admit it, I’m the stomper- not the most mature option, I know, but that’s just how I roll).

The other night I was in the office trying to get caught up on work when suddenly Small One A rushed into the room clasping her hands over her nose. “IGOTTASTICKTOERUPPERNOZ!”

“You have a stick to it in your noz?” I asked, trying to decipher.

Small One A immediately unclasped her nose and shoved it into my direct line of vision. “A STICKER!” She screeched, shaking her finger at her nose. “Up my NOSE!”

Still, I could not believe this. A sticker, up her nose? Is this even possible, I wondered, staring at her in awe. Now, if it were possible I knew my daughter would figure it out. She’s crafty that way. Still, a sticker? In the nose?

When I didn’t move quickly enough, Small One A shouted, “MOMMY! GET IT OUT!” She then began clawing at the outside of her nose as though she were being attacked by killer bees.

“Are you serious?” I asked, pulling her closely. I looked up the small black hole, through the flakes and clumps of snot and hair, and saw nothing but darkness. “I’m sorry,” I told her, shrugging. “I don’t see a thing. Maybe you just THINK you got a sticker stuck up your nose.”

She then began inhaling crazily, singing a tune with her nostrils. “It’s up there! Get it out!”

“Okay, okay! Stop sniffing,” I told her, because by this point I was afraid she was right and she might suck that sticker up even further. Once she did this with a piece of spaghetti, which she proceeded to gag out of her mouth. I did NOT want to see this happen again.

(I don’t know why stuff keeps ending up in her nose. I DO know she enjoys smelling things, so perhaps this is part of the problem).

I made her bend way back and tried to locate said sticker once more to no avail. I grabbed a tissue from the desk, held it to her nose and said, “Blow her out!”

And she did.

Yes, the sticker, which she had folded in half so that it resembled more of a cylinder than a square, flew out of her nose and onto the tissue. Both Small One A and I stared in utter shock and disbelief. Then I laughed so hard I peed myself. But just a little.

“Holy cow, Batman! You DID have a sticker ck stuck up your nose!” I ran into the living room just as any mature mom would do and shoved the tissue straight into Husband’s face. “Check this OUT! She had a freaking sticker stuck up her nose!”

“No I didn’t!” Small One A cried, fearing trouble; but the evidence was right there, surrounded by snot.

“How did you get it up there?!” I asked.

Small One A shrugged. “I was smelling it.”

I looked down at the sticker. “But this wasn’t a scratch and sniff,” I answered.

“I know.”

“Then why were you smelling the sticker?” I asked, confused.

Small One A shrugged. “Because I’d stuck it on my butt first, and I wanted to see what it smelled like.”

And with that little story, I bid you a good day!

I recall being younger, back in high school and even a bit later in college, and being terrified of appearing naked in public.

Step into a locker room and all I could feel was my heart pounding against my chest as I walked over to the bench and tried to take off my clothes and put on my workout garb without showing any part of my nakedness to the rest of the women surrounding me.

They, however, did not have this issue. By they I mean the older ones, the broads with boobs down to their knees. The ones you really didn’t want to see naked.

They let it all hang out, all over. In my space sometimes, even, and then, rather than cover up their C section scars and their sun spots and their rampant pubic hair they jiggled everything around and, gasp, spoke to me! “How are you today? Good workout?” in this self confident voice that I couldn’t believe.

I, in the meantime, attempted to cover up my private areas with my hands or towel or brush while averting direct eye contact.

What did they mean, talking to me while I was naked?

Then I had a baby.

I went through my ob/gyn appointments naked.

I lay out on the c section table naked, a group of doctors and nurses watching. I was even asked if I could allow an intern to participate in my second c section! I was hopped up on a morphine drip, arms strapped down, everything exposed under the bright white lights of an operating room. What was I going to say? “No, this really isn’t a good time for me?”

Then there were the enemas because, of course, I couldn’t ‘let one fly’ as my mother liked to say.

And the shavings.

And the catheter.

There was the breastfeeding, of course, and the problems associated with it, which constituted inviting in yet another stranger to wrestle my milkless boob into the baby’s mouth. Nothing like having some stranger twist and turn your boob as though it is a glob of playdough.

There were all of this stuff where, you know, I was naked as a jaybird in front of all of the world.

At some point, I stopped being nervous about it. I stopped thinking, as I stepped out of my panties, “Please let me have shaved today!”

I stopped worrying that my breasts weren’t as perky as they used to be. That my belly wasn’t as fit. I stopped thinking about that damn C section scar.

This morning I went to the gym. I stepped out of my bathing suit with pride. I didn’t hide anything. This is a mom’s body! I thought with pride. I have battle scars! I have survived!

While I was pulling on my shorts, my chest still exposed for all the world to see, a young twenty-something bombshell walked up and, of course, put her stuff right down next to mine. Her augmented breasts were perched high on her chest, her stomach was as flat as a board. They could have developed Barbie after her measurements.

She stripped right there in front of me, tossing aside her clothes as though she were sorting her wash. Then she turned my way, forgetting (or not!) that she was completely nude.

I lifted my hand to shield my post-baby breasts. She smiled a blindingly white smile and said, “Good morning! Did you have a great workout today?”

My oldest daughter has taken to calling names.

It goes something like this. “Come clean your room and we can go to the park.”

“I don’t want to clean my room, nooneyhead.”

Now, don’t ask me where she got that particular name (I’m guessing school) but for some reason it has stuck.

Hi. Nice to meet you. I’m mom, also known as Nooneyhead (at least four times a day, stated under breath and, sometimes, when she is very angry, at the top of her lungs right before she slams her door shut).

At first I ignored it. Isn’t that what they say? Ignore some things. Choose your battles. This is a strong willed girl. We have a lot of battles. Every day. Every hour of every day sometimes.

I chose to ignore this one because I had enough warfare on my plate.

Then it became to the point of ridiculousness so we started a reward system. Kind words=a quarter. A quarter times four or so equals a special prize at the store: new book, new doll, lollipop, depending upon what my pocketbook could take that day.

Yet the name calling persists.

Yesterday she had a temper tantrum. Her: “OKAY NOONEYHEAD!”

Door: SLAM!

Menopausal Mom (under breath, of course): “I know you are but what am I?”

Then I laughed. Laughed and laughed and laughed.

I know what you are thinking: How juvenile of you to say that, even if it was under your breath!

If that was your response then you must not have children, or at least children who are very, shall we say, spirited.

I know, too, that this response borders on the immature. What was that saying anyway? Seventh grade, 1980ish, feathered hair and blue glitter eyeshadow?

I probably wore leg warmers the last time I said that.

Shouldn’t Menopausal Mom know better?

I guess not.

It’s tough to raise kids. Let me tell you, they go from being cute and wriggly and pink to being defiant and difficult pretty quickly.

I wouldn’t trade any of it. Nor would I trade my girls. I love their little personalities, no matter how difficult they get to be.

Still, though, sometimes when punishments, rewards and ignoring doesn’t work I just feel like there must be something else out there to try.

And that, I suppose, is when I will have to resort to muttering really immature comments under my breath.

(Go on. Try it. I know you want to!)

Here’s a little ditty I found on you tube that those of us going through the change can relate to . . . and laugh about!

WARNING: You may just want to try this yourself!