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So with my husband out of town my girlfriend and I decided to tempt fate and take our four kids total-her two boys, my two girls-to dinner.

We chose Soup Plantation. Now, if you don’t have one of these (or a Sweet Tomatoes) nearby, protest. This is the perfect place for the family to go (minus dad, since most men say they want MEAT with their meals).

You can graze along a very long salad bar.

You can sip some soup.

Kids get to make ice cream sundaes at the end of their meals.

It’s loud inside, there are no real waiters, and it doesn’t matter how messy you get or how long you sit.

So, off we headed.

Now, let me give you some background. Our oldest kids are very alike. In this I mean they have heads like bulls. They love each other a lot when they are getting along, but when they fight, fists fly.

For a while, we stopped hanging out because every single outing turned into a WWF match between my daughter and her son. And I wouldn’t admit this to just everyone, but my girl can hold her own! She’s a fighter, that tiger. If someone swings, she swings back, and while I don’t want to teach her to fight I do want her to know that being a doormat is not a good idea either.

We should have known things might go from bad to worse when we got into her car and headed off to the restaurant. From the back the name calling began. What is this with four year olds? The constant desire to :

A. Call names
B. Tattle

It’s killing me! So noonyhead and block head and turtle head filtered up to us, the ever tired moms, and we did our best to ignore it, stating, “Unless someone needs to go to the emergency room, please don’t tell us what is going on.”

This elicited a few giggles, then some punches.

In line at Soup Plantation our kids fought about who would go first. Then they took turns getting in front of one another. By the time we made it down that long walk of horrific children shame to the cash register, they were throwing punches.

Someone’s tray spilled and ranch dressing hit the floor in one congealed mess.

The manager raced over, grabbed the tray from my one free hand (the other cradled my one and a half year old, who would have taken off running across the restaurant-her new game-had I let her down).

People stared as we wrestled the two four year olds apart and herded them to our table. We separated the kids, a parent between each, and sat down to eat.

One Kid: “I want cauliflower.”
Another Kid: “Can I have more bread.”
One Kid: “Mine is better than yours.”
Other Kid: “Mom, he said his is better than mine. Well, I have more.”
Two Mothers: Rolling eyes, trying to ignore it all. Wondering, who thought this was a good idea?

We ate as quickly as we could, because that is what you do when you take kids to restaurants. You don’t so much taste your food as you do inhale it, quickly, without chewing, hoping that you beat your kid in finishing up the meal. Because if you don’t win, you are in trouble. They can get out of those seats, even when tied down with a belt, faster than you can swallow. And then they are gone.

Gone to the ice cream machine, if you are eating at Soup Plantation.

Once we finished our meal and were waiting to get dessert, the kids started shaking their heads back and forth as quickly as they possibly could. Our utterences of please don’t do that, you are making a disturbance didn’t stop them.

“Your brain is going to fall out on the table,” I uttered.

That made them pause.

We handed them wet wipes once the ice cream was gone. They wiped their hands and then began hitting each other with them.

In the meantime, we glanced around at the people in the restaurant who were trying to enjoy a good meal.

You can tell the ones that have or had kids at one point.

They are the ones with the look of pity in their eyes.

You see, they understand that you started off really just wanting to go out and have an enjoyable family meal. You wanted the kids to appreciate the fact that they were eating at a restaurant and then going to get ice cream later.

And maybe those kids that are older can appreciate this fact.

Four year olds really can’t.

They see Soup Plantation or any other restaurant as this huge entertainment park with lots of cool stuff that must be touched, felt or climbed upon.

The food, the dining out, the relaxation aspect of it is lost upon them.

Those people who have been parents, they gave us looks of pity, and we could see in their eyes the truth. You really won’t go out and enjoy a quiet, relaxing meal if you have young children.

Instead, you’ll have to break up fights, clean up spills and chase the young around the restaurant playing a game of hide and seek.

Then I realized last night, that is the joy of it all, right?

Perhaps we mothers are insane when we try to take our kids out for meals in restaurants.

But the insanity of it all really puts life into perspective.

After all, though those other diners may have been slightly annoyed by our noise and roughness, perhaps last night, once they got back, they laughed about the fact that my daughter scaled the restaurant wall in an effort to yank off a piece of the potted plant they had on display.

Perhaps, I suppose.

I have to share this with you, women . . . my gynecologist is HOT.

He was recommended to me by some people online. Before I moved from my one So Cal city to my other So Cal city I posted on Baby Center to find a new gynecologist. At the time I was pregnant with my second.

I got several responses about the greatness of one ob/gyn in particular, so I called him up and set an appointment when we got moved.

Before I could get in to see him, I ran into another mother in the park one day. She asked who was delivering my baby and I told her.

“Ah,” she said, and a look of lust and longing came over her face. “He’s my doctor, too. He delivered all three of mine.”

I was happy to meet someone in person who had gone to the doctor since I had never met him. “How is he?” I asked.

“Oh,” she gushed, grabbing my arm and squeezing in that I’m going to tell you a little secret way, “He is HOT.”

Now, the last thing you ever want to hear right before going in for a pelvic exam is that your future doctor, the one who will be probing, is HOT.

I don’t want a HOT OB/GYN, I thought, recoiling. I want someone old and fat and ugly as hell. Someone who looks as though he hasn’t even considered having sex for the last decade at least.

Give me a gay man, for heaven’s sake.

DON’T give me someone HOT.

Well, all the way to the appointment that day I fretted. My husband was with me, since I was pregnant and he wanted to meet the man who would be delivering our second-born. I told him what the girl had said. Then I put on some lipstick. Just because, you know. You always have to wear lipstick when you go in for a pelvic, right?

I didn’t mention to him that I had shaved extra carefully that morning. That I had tweezed the little hairs that had grown in around my belly button after the birth of my first born.

That I had changed my underwear three times, choosing the small boxer looking pair, just before leaving the house.

When my OB/GYN walked in I about fainted. Hot was not the word for him. This guy was on FIRE. Light a match and he would have exploded. I felt my face flush.

Turns out he ’s really a great guy. I’m sharing all of this with you now because I just made my yearly appointment, the first since I’ve started experiencing these bitchy hormonal menopausal symptoms.

I’m already getting nervous about the visit. While I don’t have a crush on the guy-in fact, he’s really not my type, despite how HOT he is-I certainly do get a little queasy before I have to go in.

It’s been a year though. Hopefully he has lost some hair, gained some weight, or started liking men, much to the disdain of his wife and three kids.

A girl can dream, right?

So daddy has been out of town all week.

I knew it would be tough when he told me about it. Tried to swallow it down like a bitter pill (sheeyut! that was bad!)

Prepared for weeks mentally.

Stocked up on wine.

Made plans with friends.

You see, this is the key to keeping kids out of trouble:

KEEP THEM BUSY!

Don’t believe me? Just keep your kids locked in the house for a day with nothing to do, nothing planned and pay them no attention.

Then ensure you keep the phone on your hip at all times so when they set the place on fire you can quickly dial 911.

While daddy is away, mommy pays. That’s all there is to it.

I’m so freaking tired tonight I can barely lift my wine glass, and that’s saying something!

But this is what I love. Daddy calls at 6 PM. Laughing. Friends joking in the background.

Daddy: “Whatcha doing?”

Mommy: (To kids) “GET OFF OF THE FREAKIN KITCHEN TABLE!” (To dad) “Nothing.” Bitter. Very, very bitter.

Daddy: “Oh, well, getting ready to go play golf so I wanted to check in with you.”

Mommy: “Golf, huh? You mean with grown ups?”

Daddy: “Yes.”

Mommy: “I cleaned up three poop diapers today.”

Daddy, feeling the bitterness through the phone like a cold blast of air. “Oh. Well, yeah, I should go now.”

Mommy: “FINE!”

You see, mommy can never really keep in her hostility when daddy is out of town playing golf after attending a convention or other all day workshop while surrounded by grown ups wearing big boy pants and telling adult jokes and talking about grown up things.

Mommy tries. She does, she really does.

But mommy’s tired.

So tonight, I took a break. We went out to eat (which I’ll post about in another post entirely . . . it definitely deserves its own space).

We didn’t take baths.

Hell, I don’t even know if I got them out of their clothes before I shoved them into bed tonight. Brush their teeth? Yea, right. I’ve had them for a week by myself. Momma’s tired. Momma doesn’t live near grandparents or uncles or aunts. When daddy’s out of town, momma does it all. She becomes supermom who wears a big red cape and flies around town with two kids under four in tow like some sort of caffeined up freak.

When daddy’s away, mommy pays.

But when daddy comes back, mommy’s gonna make up for it.

Saturday matinee, here I come.

And I won’t be taking my cell phone.

So last night I decided, since my husband was out of town, that I would check out the movie Juno.
It had gotten a lot of acclaim, and I’d had friends who raved about it.
I popped the movie in once the girls were snug in their beds as early as I could possibly get them in there (hey, he’s been out of town for days now and I’m tired!) I turned off the lights, curled up under a blanket, and sat, mesmerized, for about two hours in front of Juno.

Let me tell you, the writing was phenomenal. Diablo Cody has a way with words. If you are a writer, you know what I mean when I say that all I want out of life is to write something that flows the way that Diablo made this script flow.

The story line was fantastic and Ellen Page played this character perfectly. We’re going to be seeing a lot of her, I’m guessing, in the future. She was smart, edgy, funny and totally believable.

And the soundtrack? Great!

I won’t give away any of the movie. Let’s just say that I didn’t like Jennifer Garner’s character at first and did at the end, loved Justin Batemen’s at first and didn’t at the end, though Juno’s boyfriend was really nerdy at the beginning but totally cool at the end and I rooted for Junothe entire time.

Oh and the soundtrack rocks. I’m off to buy a copy now.

This menopausal mom gives Juno eighteen thumbs up.

I even cried at the end.

But hell, I cry at everything nowadays.

Today I will leave you with a song:

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!

Okay, let’s preface this post by making a few comments.
1. I live in Southern California.
2. Everyone in Southern California has boob jobs. I mean everyone. Even the men.
3. I was not born well endowed in the, ahem, chest department.
4. I’m menopausal, hormonal and almost 40. All of this, unfortunately, also equals that lately, at times, I’ve been feeling a little well, not so hot and, sigh, freaking OLD.

In all honestly, boobs aren’t a huge thing for me. I was born with an athletic (aka stick-like) figure. I have never been NOT able to jog, run, jump or play because my ta tas were too big. Yep, never been a problem.

Now, after having children and nursing one for 8 months, the other for not so long (will post more later on the entire nursing experience), my ta tas, thankfully, didn’t take too hard of a hit.

Look, I worried about it. Every woman who is getting ready to drop a baby and stick it on her chest will probably, at some point, worry about it.

We are human. We want to look good. ‘Nuff said.

Anyway, I was lucky. The girls stayed pretty much the way they were from the first time until the second.

Let’s also say I had children later in life, so the girls weren’t all that perky from the get go.

With all this big boobs around town I’ve been thinking, hm, briefly, minutely, should I?

I won’t. Why? Well, for one thing the pain. I don’t like pain. I’d rather be stuck inside a small closet with both girls for 8 days than go through physical pain.

Oh, well, wait, I take that back. Give me the pain.

Still, don’t want it.

Then I worry what my family will think. I know what my mom would say; she made that clear long ago when we first moved out to LA LA land.

No, the extended family. Hushed voices around the dinner table when I walk in for the first time, my new boobs entering the room well before the rest of me (Because hey, if I’m going to do it, I’m going to do it right).

I worry about my girls, though, most of all. They don’t have to know of course, though the four year old notices any pimple, bump or other unexpected and abnormal bodily feature on me the moment it appears.

What would I say to them? What kind of point would I be making if one day I woke up with huge boobs and they are blessed with my small chest?

Mommies breasts just weren’t big enough?

They were big enough to feed my girls.

They were big enough to grab the attention of my husband.

With a push up bra they are big enough to fill most shirts AND show a bit of cleavage.

So, dear readers, I won’t be going under the knife to enhance or otherwise alter the upper portion of my body.

If you have, no worries. I have nothing against breast augmentation. I write about it for a lot of companies in my other life, my working life.

I have friends who have been surgically enhanced (and not just in the breast department, either).

I’m okay with it. It’ s just not for me.

Now, a chemical peel for these damn wrinkles is another story. You’ll have to stay tuned for that one, though.

Why is it that my four year old wants all this junk food suddenly?

And why is it that I find myself day after day giving her coins for good behavior and enticing her to save enough to purchase some of this junk!?

What happened to a year ago, when I could bribe her with a new toy, a new book, or just some special time with mom?

I hate teaching her that good behavior and working hard is associated with anything monetary and I really hate it if that monetary thing has a huge caloric and sugar count.

Ah, but I’ve fallen into a rut. A sugar rut, that is. I can’t seem to climb my way out of this high fattening bowl.

What will change it? Tonight we are working toward eating out at a restaurant. Oh, but wait, first, yesterday, I promised her a coin if she could do a good job this morning. No tantrums. Get ready for school. Be a good girl.

With those coins, she asked if she could have a Slurpee.

Now, this was after the kicking and screaming episode of Sunday, so I obliged.

No treats on Monday. If you are a good girl and earn enough coins you can buy a slurpee on Tuesday.

Now I’m stuck.

I have to change my way of thinking here or the dentist will be our best friend.

I’m becoming the mom I promised myself I would not become.

I may just have to move to the country, away from all 7-11s and ice cream shops.

Oh hell, who am I kidding? One slurpee versus and entire tantrum free day? Seems worth the trade off. We’ll deal with the sugar issues down the road, when she’s twenty five and can hold a valid conversation.

For now, 7-11, here we come!

I have to tell you, I have a spirited child.

I’ve heard of these kids before. I was one, in fact, always in trouble for “getting into stuff.”

I’m being paid back. Big time.

This kid, I love her to death, but she taunts me terribly. Yesterday as I dragged her, kicking and screaming to time out, she was laughing.

Oh, I should mention that I was the one kicking and screaming.

Now, we aren’t a beating family. I got the wooden spoon, the fly swatter, the hand a few times, as  a child.

Once my mom chased me around the house to spank me, slipped and fell, and I thought she might need to get to the doctor’s immediately.

Think that stuck in my head forever? Yes.

Think it calmed me down? Absolutely not.

Oh no, this spirited four year old of mine, she got this naturally.

Yet I just can’t stomach spanking.

So I do what all good mothers do. I run away from the situation. Sometimes with a big fat glass of wine in my hands.

Last night I laced up my tennis shoes and told my husband I was heading out for a walk. I poured my Cabarnet in a coffee mug so the neighbors wouldn’t call me white trash. Then I went outside.

I told my husband I’d be gone a while.

“I’m not sure I’m ever coming back,” I explained, pulling on a sweatshirt. “In fact,” I said, “I’m pretty sure that I’m not.”

With that, I slammed our front door, just like any other mature 38 year old woman would do.

In the bedroom down the hallway the young child screamed. And she screamed. And she screamed some more.

I’m sure the neighbor’s think that we are beating her.

I didn’t take a walk. I didn’t even drink my big fat glass of wine.

Instead, I sat on the front lawn and cried, because this is what menopausal middle aged women do: They cry when they get pissed.

Otherwise they may get into their cars, drive down the street, and plow through a row of mailboxes.

They might grab everything that is breakable in the house, including those things that they really, really love, and listen to them shatter as they hit the floor.

They may take a few shots of tequila, get naked, and dance in the living room regardless of who is looking (and despite the fact that no matter how many damn crunches you do you still have that stupid $%#ing pouch where the doctor carved into your gut to get your beloved kid out so she could torment you for the rest of your ever lasting life).

Doesn’t she get how much I went through to have her?

Doesn’t she see the scar? Or the look of horror on my face when she says, “Hey mom, are you having another baby?” as she presses her little fingers into the flesh of my big fat belly?

Doesn’t she know, deep down, how much I am in love with her, despite her behavior, or the fact that she screams, “I don’t love you then!” as she slams her bedroom door, shutting me out.

Oh, if only she knew.

And when she does, way down the road, I can only hope this one thing: That she is blessed with a beautifully high maintenance daughter that runs her ragged until she has to lace up those shoes and head outside.

When she calls me and tells me just how difficult that little girl of hers is, I will not laugh. I promise. I will not laugh. I will say, in a calm voice, “It will all work out. She will love you one day. When you’re old.”