Maturity and Butt Plates

This is a cry for help. I am surrounded and my brain has finally been cracked. My thought process has been infiltrated by MALES. My children have finally succumbed to sleep/quiet time. The rainy, gloomy atmosphere coupled with me forcing them into loud, wild physical activity such as running, jumping, rolling, etc. for an hour until  that they could physically NOT GO ON. They had intentions of lasting forever, but their go on was more of a  Rose and Jack when it gets cold type of go on.

never let go

Rather than clean up the disaster area of a house that I thoroughly cleaned yesterday, I came to my dark room to nurse a splitting headache. Then…I sneezed. I reached over to my nightstand instinctively because even after 7 years of marriage, I still have 21 years of life with my family to rely on. Growing up, we had  tissues EVERYWHERE thanks my brother’s allergies. If there was a flat surface, either tissue boxes or mail would be there.

Not so with my husband. Apparently tissues should only live on the back of toilets, a foot from rolls of tissue. This ran through my mind as my hand whiffed over where a tissue box should be. Instead of thinking, “I’ll go get a box and put it here next to a coordinated, decorated trash can that I saw on Pinterest”, my first instinct was to roll over and wipe my nose all over his freshly washed pillowcase in protest.

Where on EARTH did that thought come from? The pit of Hell, is where. It was a BOY THOUGHT. The thought that crossed my firstborn’s mind yesterday when he circled the house at full speed to avoid the tissue in my hand and doubled back to then wipe his nose on my sleeve. (The same sleeve that was 4 inches from the tissue.)

It’s getting bad, I tell you.

On Saturday my husband ran errands and found himself in a store with decorative items on clearance…aka The Gauntlet. Feeling sweet, he bought me a few things for the house, to include a ‘catch all dish’ for keys, etc. so I would know if little hands took them. He found one in the shape of a peach and proudly brought it home.

butt plate

Do you see a peach?

I’ve smiled and been the brave mom through many things. I have accepted many gifts gracefully, to include sweatshirt snot wipes. My friends, I FAILED.

I looked at it, walked toward my husband and asked, “Why did you buy me a butt plate?”

I’ve lost all decorum. I live with a 3:1 male:female ratio. All I can see is a butt. While my man smiled and admitted similarity, he protests that it is a nice, fruit dish. I should just drop it and be mature about it. I CAN’T.

“Babe, have you seen my  keys?”  “Last I saw they were in the butt.”  I giggled.

Worse, I can put that shaped plate over my booty and it works as armor. In the shower I got the brilliant idea to put the thing on my head. As my husband watched television he looked over at me stifling a snort with that thing on my head. “Are you a butt-head?”, he asked? ” It’s an A-Hat!”I said, exploding into laughter.

It’s bad, Y’all. I should be above this. I am bastion of formality, cleanliness, femininity and culture in this home. When Mom falls, the war is lost. Who will take me seriously or listen to my thoughts on spiritual matters if they know I see a rear when others see fruit? (Worst Magic Eye EVER!)


The sad thing is, I’m not alone. A glorious mother I know (who is one of my favorite people ever) who has two daughters and a son informs me I’m not alone. I texted her the picture last night and asked her what she saw. She replied, ” A boot-ay”.

Pray for me, people. They are winning.


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