blurry photo, but let's face it, so was most of the weekend

me: um, what is all this food doing in our room?

rob: you don't remember? You ordered room service last night.

me: I ordered all of this?! (there were like 4 entrees)

rob: yes Raven, you did. $100 worth of room service and you only ate the fries.

me: oh. oops.

me: Rob, I'm pretty sure this isn't our hotel room.

rob: well then how did we get in here?

me: I have no idea, but this isn't our room. This isn't our stuff.

rob: oh shit someone is sleeping in the bed, hurry go out!

randy: hey Raven, I really love your Target boots.

me: bitch, they are Fergilicious and if you say that to me again, I'm gonna punch you in the face.

me: (when I wake up in the morning) omg Rob what happened to your face?!

rob: what do you mean?

me: go look in the mirror.

rob: holy sh*t I think I'm going to need stitches!

randy: yeah, you should be thankful I didn't have a needle and thread with me or I would have stitched that up myself. I usually carry a set in my pocket.

me: did I wear Spanx last night?

rob: no idea. you wore some fat reducing thing.

me: oh yeah I wore them then.

me: (going through my pictures on my phone) wait, I ate a hot dog last night? omg! we were at a concert last night? Is that Elton John?!

randy: hey Raven, I like your Target boots.

me: eff off. don't you own any shirts with sleeves?

rob: this isn't Las Raven, its Las Vegas. don't kid yourself.

me: ah, how nice! you made me a drink?

rob: that's the drink you carried up from the bar.

me: oh yeah.

randy: hey raven, you have no idea how lucky you are to be here right now and not in jail.

me: what do you mean?

randy: you don't remember?? you tried to take a gun out of a cops holster.

me: what?! shut up. no I didn't.

randy: yes you did. if I wouldn't have reached over and grabbed your hand when I did, you would be sitting in a Las Vegas jail with Buster right now.

me: (so confused) when were we by a cop?

randy: seriously? our cab driver got pulled over last night.

me: what?!

me: (later on that day) omg! I have video on my phone of that cop last night! Apparently I recorded the whole thing!

rob: you recorded the cop? I'm pretty sure that's illegal.

randy: so we have tickets to Nascar tonight...

me: huh? who did you get those from?

randy: Steve.

me: Steve?!

randy: seriously? you don't remember Steve from last night?

me: no.

randy: you only hugged him fifty million times.

rob: hey Raven, do you remember trying to eat with chopsticks last night?

me: take a wild guess.

me: um, what are these marks on me?

randy: I think you got tasered by a cop last night.

brandy: the Toby Keith bar was so fun last night.

me: did I go to the Toby Keith bar?

brandy: no. you passed out at 6 pm.

me: I want to order room service

rob: no.

randy: you know when you order room service at 3 am that you are getting a Van Wilder.

randy: that girl over there said she liked your boots. I told her you got them at Target.

me: I hate you.

***********************************

Tomorrow I will be recapping the rest of our Vegas vacation along with more pictures, the story of Coco the bouncer and the amazing British-Canadian guy we met in the pool.

I don't know what it is with me, but for as long as I can remember, I've gotten pleasure out of other's torment.

It is what it is I guess and unfortunately I can't apologize. And as much as I hate to admit it, I love pulling pranks on my own flesh and blood, my two precious innocent children included. 

As some of you may have already seen on my instagram account, a few days ago I pulled the exploding pen prank on my oldest. His reaction gave me quite the lols...

I'm an equal opportunity parent, so when the chance arose for me to pull the same prank on my littlest (only three years young), you best believe I dove right in. (Even though he had been present when I pranked his older brother with the same exploding pen, I figured since he was so young, he wouldn't really remember and put two and two together.)

However, his reaction to the explosion in his face wasn't the clincher. No no, what he said afterwards was what really caught my attention...

Um.

Come again?

He has never said that word ever before.

And I knew I shouldn't have let my kids watch Spongebob!!

*you can also see that other time I terrorized my kid in a jimmy kimmel halloween prank here.

We went back to school shopping yesterday and the conversation at the check-out went like this:

salesperson: I love that purse you have there.
Gunner: I'm a boy and I love rainbows and hearts.
salesperson: whatever makes you happy!

Salesperson is one smart chick. And of course when Gunner picked out a purse, Colt had to have one also, so for the better part of an hour, there we were, walking around the mall with my two boys swinging their little purses. I'm about 20% positive a few people gave them double takes and maybe even a stink eye here or there, but I can't tell you for sure because I'm also about 100% positive that I didn't give a shit. I wasn't looking at other people to see what their reaction was to seeing two of the most adorable boys on the planet carrying what were clearly "girl" purses.

I mean, it's such a non-issue to me that writing that top paragraph there seems like a waste of blog space. But that's just it, it's a non-issuse to me. And for now, it's a non-issue to my boys. It's how I'm trying to raise them and so far, so good. My boys have no concept of race or social status or so-called differences in others.

And the reason is because of this.

While we were sitting at the food court yesterday, there was an employee cleaning up around us, wiping down tables, etc., who happened to have down syndrome. Being the outgoing and talkative person that he is, Gunner struck up a conversation with her and at the end, asked if she could come home with him and play. It didn't matter that she couldn't exactly respond and converse with him like he is used to, all that mattered to Gunner was that she was a person and Gunner really really likes persons (his word, not mine ;) ). Not once has either of my kids ever asked me why someone looked different than them. Not once has either of them pointed out someone who was "fat, ugly, too tall, too short" or anything other than "hey mom, look at that kid over there, can I go play with him?"

Because in the words of one really smart man,
"A person's a person..." and well, the rest doesn't really matter now does it?

However I know soon, when they get out into the "real world" aka kindergarten and such, they will come home asking questions, repeating things that they have never heard spoken in our household. They will ask me why someone said something derogatory about one of their friends. They will want to know why the littlest kid in their class is always getting picked on. And I'm sure that one day, Gunner will no longer want to take his pink purse to school because he will get his feelings hurt one too many times by bullies making fun of him.

And that breaks my heart, because my boys have the sweetest soul.
They are kind, they are accepting and they just love all persons.

But that's not the real world.
I can protect them and teach them in this little bubble for a while, but inevitably they will have to experience hurt and meanness and prejudice on their own. I can only hope and pray that I have shaped them and taught them to be strong enough to handle it, to stand up to the bullies and even more important, to stand up for those being bullied.

Oh.

And in the words of another wise persons...

"Now swing that pink purse in the air, 
and wave it like you just don't care!"*

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me at an old abandoned creepy church...

When trying to find a photo to use for this post, I typed in "christian" and "religion" on pinterest and the first hundred or so images were of "Christian Louboutin" shoes and "True Religion" jeans. That's saying something...

I believe in God. I am a Christian and I strive to raise my boys to know the true faith and acceptance of Jesus Christ. I try to make it to church on Sundays, however it usually averages about once a month.

I don't believe that I am any more a Christian if I attend church every Sunday. Just as much as I don't believe I am any less a Christian if I don't. 

I cuss, I drink too much, and I do a few more things that I shouldn't mention and none of them makes me any less a child of God. None of them makes me any less a Christian.

I'm not sure where the idea came from that those who don't walk the straight and narrow are un-Christlike. Or that we are "hypo-christians." Tell me where does it state in the bible that all followers of God have to be perfect?

I have tattoos, I cuss here and there and *gasp* I had sex before wedlock. I hold grudges and I hate child molesters. HATE them. The bible says to "always forgive" but God help me, if anyone ever hurt one of my kids? There would be no forgiving on my part. Ever.

And I'm content with that. I know still without a shadow of a doubt that God will accept me into Heaven one day as His child, regardless of my un-forgiving heart. I know God doesn't judge me for my eight tattoos, even though it says in the old testament in Leviticus 19:28 "Ye shall not make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead, nor print any marks upon you; I am the Lord."

I believe within the depths of my soul that God doesn't give a shit about my tattoos.

He also doesn't love me any less because I just said the word "shit."

I love my church. The one I make it to only once a month. The church that is always happy to see me. The church where it doesn't matter what I wear. The church that doesn't care if you are gay or straight. Doesn't care if you are wearing your "Sunday best." 

All my church cares about is that you are there. 

Period.

Just that you are there.

And if you aren't there? Like me most Sundays? They are just happy to see you when you can make it. No judging goes on at my church. My church doesn't care about your political stance or how many kids you have outside of wedlock...all my church cares about is just that you are there.

My church is open and accepting and judgement free.

And I think my church is exactly how God intended it to be.

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Men are simple.

As this post is going to be.

I am my husband's girlfriend. Not just his old hag wife of 9+ years. And I have concluded that in almost twelve years of being together, there are three key ingredients to a successful relationship.

1. Feed him.
Make him a damn sandwich, and don't make him ask twice.

2. Have sex with him.
Often and don't use it as a tool.

3. Don't bitch.
Ever.

So what did we learn today?

Feed him, f*#k him and shut up.

You're welcome.

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*for the life of me I can't find the main source for this quote. if you know, please tell me*

I've seen the above quote circulating on social media lately, and right away it hit me like a ton of bricks. I've always believed that kids are a blank canvas, that we as parents write on the walls of their brain. They are born innocent, completely pure. And I also believe, to an extent, a BIG extent, that children are a reflection of their parents. 

My sister was over the other day (you know, the one with three girls under two), and as we were discussing life, and as I was trying to engage her in gossip, she cut me off like she always does and said something new, something I'd never heard her say before. "I want my kids to grow up and say they never heard me say a bad thing about anyone." 

"Well that's a stupid goal," I replied.

I mean, shouldn't your children hear you talk about how bad and evil child molesters are? Shouldn't they hear you discuss how horrible murderers are? Bad drivers? Gingers? And lastly, don't you think your kids need to know the dangers of growing up to be a raging liberal who thinks the world owes them something?

And like she always does, my sister responded with something well-versed and wise:

"It basically boils down to keeping your heart and head as toxic free as possible. And seething over bad people doesn't add to your life. Learning the negative lessons help you be a better person and then you can move on because you don't continue hating people."

I hate when others put a damper on my shallow gossiping fun.

But then later that evening, as I watched my two little boys play in the front yard, I felt such a sense of pride. Pride in knowing that my boys have no sense of superiority. Pride in the fact that when I showed Gunner a picture of two little boys, of which were different races, and said how they were brothers just like him and Colt, he didn't bat an eye or ask why they looked different, the only thing he said to me was "mommy, we need to write them a letter and tell them we want to play with them." Because to Gunner, all he saw was two little boys just like him. That he desperately wanted to play with. 

You hear a lot where people say a child's heart and soul are innocent. That children are blindly accepting. Comparing them to adults who are critical and judgmental, as if growing older naturally does that to people. I can only speak for myself, but my parents raised me to believe that everyone is equal, regardless of race, background or social status. And I have an 87 year old grandpa who I have never, not once, heard utter a bad word about someone. Whose acceptance has trickled down to his five kids, and every one of his ten grandchildren and twelve great-grandchildren. (I would also like to give huge credit to my Nonie, my angel in heaven, the matriarch of our family and the most accepting, kind person I've ever known.)

It starts at birth. It starts at home. It starts with me and it starts with you. 

No matter how hard we try to preach what is right, if our actions don't line up with our words, our kids will see right through it, and what they will take away is what they see us do. How they see us live our lives when we think they aren't looking. I can tell my kids not to curse fifty times a day, but when they hear me say "oh sh*t" on a constant basis they will think it's ok for them also. I can tell my kids to not give in to peer pressure, that they don't need to drink to have a good time, but if they see mommy and daddy throwing some back every time there is a get-together, sooner or later they will get the impression that drinking does equal a good time. Regardless of what we tell them. 

I want my kids to see me be kind. To see me hold the door open for whoever is behind me, to see me respect the elderly and to see me never differentiate between people who may not look exactly the same. I want them to witness me being accepting of everyone, no matter their race, appearance or sexual orientation. I want them to see me respond to negativity with class.

Because I don't think innocence and tolerance fades with age. 

I know it doesn't. 

Let me refer back to my 87 year old grandpa.

It starts with us.

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* the last photos taken of my son and his long luscious hair

Just in case you are new here, before you go on, please read my original post, SPEECHLESS, to get exactly where I am coming from, deep, deep in my soul.

I once had a little boy, who had long spiral curl surfer-ish hair. 

It was amazing. I loved it. I cherished it.

And then my mom cut it all off when I went on vacation. I was devastated. It grew back, and then my husband chopped his bangs. To the scalp. And I was devastated once more. See, I kind of hung onto the notion that my little angel baby was "different," a little "hipster,"... maybe sorta could live on the beach in San Diego. So I kept it long. I refused to trim it. I didn't want a "normal" little boy hairstyle and I was just hanging on...however his hair didn't curl anymore, it kind of frizzed out and if I didn't brush it in the morning, he looked a little homeless.

So finally, just yesterday, after looking at him longingly from the breakfast bar, I said to myself "Raven, let your fantasies go. It was once curly, it is no more, and now it just looks like one big hot mess." And I decided right then and there, today would be the day he got his hair cut. However, it would be on my terms.

Before we headed to the hairdresser, we had a little fun with the 'do.

and then one salon photoshoot...

and what are we left with?

We are left with this.

A little boy grown-up hairstyle that makes his mommy cry.

The kind of tears only an episode of Grey's Anatomy could produce.

He's growing up. He's getting older. I can now see his neck.

And for that reason alone, I am speechless.

Speechless because my youngest little angel baby is growing up.

I'm so happy, yet I'm so sad.

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from our wedding in 2004

I've made no secret of the fact that Rob and I do not have the perfect marriage. We try hard to regularly see our counselor, whom, by the way, has made a world of difference in our relationship. To anyone who scoffs at seeing a third party to help a marriage, well, let's just say it works, from personal experience.

There are a lot of things about Rob that really chap my ass. And as much as I want to rattle them off to you now, bullet point style, I hear the words our counselor always says echoing in my ears. See, there have been many times where we started a session raging mad, and as soon as we sat down, I would start right in on "well this is why I hate him today and he did this and this and I am just so mad right now so please just let me vent" and every time, she would cut me off and make me tell her three things I love about Rob. Three things that made me want to marry him. Three things that make him a valuable partner. Three reasons he is a fabulous father. 

And it pisses. me. off. I want to tell her all the bad things he did that week. I want to tell her how horrible he is because of x y and z. But she doesn't let me just sit there and bitch about my husband. Her job is to help us come together, help us create a better relationship, and she knows that by me spewing negativity, it helps nothing. By me criticizing his every move, it doesn't rectify any situation. So as much as I want to tell you all what angers me about Rob (like the fact that he can be totally inappropriate in public at times, or how he wakes me up in the middle of night just because he can't sleep, or that he never comments on my appearance i.e. when I leave home with black hair and come back with it blonde, he doesn't say a word, I mean, really?) I will hold my tongue and keep it to myself. (He also deletes my shows from the DVR without asking me first. Makes me livid. K I'm done now.)

But the thing is, I'm sure there are a lot of things about me that piss Rob off. I can sometimes have a princess complex and expect him to bow at my feet no matter what I do, and as Dr. Phil once said, "if there is one thing in this world you do not want to do, it is to marry a 'princess'. They will f*ck you up."

Ok, so maybe he didn't say that last part but Rob sure did.

I know sometimes on here it can seem like Rob and I have the perfect marriage. We vacation together, hang out on secluded beaches during the summer together, have fun parenting our children together, but would it surprise you if I said I have actually went and paid for divorce papers? I'm not sure if I was authentically going to follow through or if I was trying to make a point (did you know it costs over $100 to get divorce papers from the courthouse? Egads!) but whatever the reason, something made me drive down there and request the papers. I can say without any hesitation today that I am so happy to be married to my husband, we did work through that particular situation and I can't forsee any circumstances in the future that would make me want to fork over the cash for those papers ever again. And lucky for me, my husband would say the same.

Besides, it would be much cheaper for him to keep me around than to boot me out, wink face.

But we fight. There have been dishes thrown across the room and holes in the wall. I've packed up my kids and driven to my moms house at 9 at night. There have been many things we've said that we wish we could take back. Our marriage is not perfect and I challenge you to find one that is.

What I'm really trying to say is what I think we all know: Marriage is hard. But if you work through the hard, and if you put your spouse first, and if you duck under those dishes being flown at your head, you may see yourself celebrating fifty years of holy matrimony.

However, I swear to God, if Rob ever deletes another episode of the Real Housewives of Wherever without my permission, I'll be all, "what golf clubs??"

Wasn't me.

So the backstory real quick: 

Bre and I have been blog friends since last March. It started as a comment here and there, then facebook messaging, then texting, one FaceTime sesh and next thing I know, she is booking her ticket from Sacramento to come stay the weekend with me. 

Quite like myself, Bre is pretty f*ucking hilarious. (snort) And I knew I wanted to do something when I picked her up at the airport, something that conveyed exactly how I felt about our friendship. Hence, the chicken costume idea was born. 

She flew into Portland, Oregon, which is about a four hour drive from my house. I knew I wouldn't be able to take a few swigs of liquid courage since I had to turn around and drive back home, which trust me, did not sit well with me. Because despite what some may think, I can get very self-conscious, least not while walking around a public place in a freaking chicken costume. 

So yeah, I was pretty embarrassed. And it didn't even matter that my entire face was covered and no one would even know it was me (not to mention we were in Portland and no one would recognize me anyway) but still.  

Anyway, I pushed through the mortification of it all because I knew it would be amazing. Epic. And I couldn't wait to see the look on her face once she realized it was me under that beak. So I parked my car at the airport, grabbed my costume and made my way to baggage claim. 

And below are a few memorable things I heard whilst dressed as a chicken.

********************************************

From the security guard, while standing at the entrance to the airport, holding my enormous chicken head in my hands (I didn't actually put it on until right before she got off the plane):

"Well, you don't look suspicious or anything."

From many people (after I had put the costume on): 

"can I get a picture with you?"

From two little kids, VERY loudly, causing everyone in the entire baggage claim area to turn and stare: 

"oh my gosh! Mommy! It's a chicken! A chicken mommy! What is the world is a chicken doing here!?"

From two guys, about 20 years old, after they walked past, asked how I was doing, and I responded "pretty good!" (remember they couldn't see my face): 

"oh shit! It's a chick in there! That's not a dude!"

because clearly most people expected some class clown male underneath.

From another security guard: 

"this is the best thing I've seen since another guy picked up his friends in nothing but a thong bathing suit!"

Oh, and I made one little girl cry. 

And then for the finale. When Bre first came down the escalator. I saw her out of the corner of my chicken eye, I had my camera on record, ready to capture her reaction which I had been anticipating all day. I assumed she would walk right past me (thinking to herself "who is this idiot dressed as a chicken?"), look around for my face, then be confused as to where I was. I thought she would have inner dialogue with herself like "ok, so where is she? Is she late? I don't see her anywhere. There is no way she can be that person dressed as a chicken. I mean, can she? No. No way. She would never do that. But then again, would she?"

And then after looking for me in vain, she might approach me, circle around me a few times, start chuckling a little, and finally, when I couldn't take it anymore, I remove my chicken head and she busts up laughing, unable to control herself and I would have an amazing video to show you guys which would most definitely start trending on youtube. 

Except. That totally didn't happen.

It went more like this:

Bre first comes down the escalator, spots me right away (obviously), whips out her camera phone, takes a picture of me, sends it to me, walks right up to me, and says in a very matter of fact way, "so how long are you going to make me stand here before you tell me it's you."

Really?!?

That's it?! Talk about not the reaction I was expecting! I wanted something grandeur, amazing, epic, at the very least, BLOG WORTHY!

And so, I digress.

Btw. I asked her how she knew it was me right away, and she deadpanned

"Because who ELSE would be crazy enough to dress up in a chicken suit at the airport."

Oh.

Yeah.

I graduated from a private Christian school. There were thirteen kids in my graduating class. I wasn't always so sheltered, as I attended public school up until my parents forced me to transfer halfway through tenth grade. But that is neither here nor there, and I wouldn't want to say anything that would taint y'alls image of me. (snort!) 

Life at private school was...interesting. I got in trouble for many things, a few of them being, in no particular order: wearing more then one earring in each ear, using the office phone to make my tanning appointments, wearing a skirt that was .87643 inches too short per dress code, hot tubbing with the opposite sex (no, we didn't have a hot tub on premises, they found out by a note I passed under the table), highlighting my hair, making out in the art closet and one very, very unfortunate incident with a *Redbook magazine. 

See, what happened was at lunch time, a few girls piled into my candy apple red Ford Probe and someone picked up a Redbook magazine that was laying on the dash. That someone then proceeded to read out loud an article on "what sexual favor men love most and how to do it right." Turns out a certain prude in attendance was highly offended by said article, and when we returned back to school from lunch, she went and told on us.

The girl who read the article out loud was called to the principals office, and because the magazine belonged to me, I was also in trouble. I will never forget, sitting there in front of the principal, trying in vain not to bust out laughing as my accomplice burst into tears. And then, oh and then we were forced to apologize to the entire school for permitting something so sinful to take place. Into a microphone, at Wednesday's chapel service. Try not laughing at that one.

Oh yes, and then there was that one time, when me and the supposed "bad boy" of our school made out for hours on end downstairs at my grandparents house. I left the room and assumed he was following me, until I looked back and saw through the open crack of the door, there he was, kneeling at the edge of the bed, on his knees, hands clasped, in which I can only conclude he was asking God for forgiveness. To this day, the question that haunts me is, was I that bad? Or was I that good?

I could not make this shit up if I tried. 

Now I know what you are thinking. That my experience at private school and the tight restrictions is what made me the rebellious crazy person I was for the first part of my early twenties. But remember, I got sent there in the first place because I was a rebellious crazy person. So, mom and dad, looks like your private school money was well spent. How you like them apples?

Besides. Some of the worst (read best) people I know came from that school.

*The Redbook in question was my moms.

**Hell yes I memorized that article.

Kauai circa March of this year. See you again in three weeks baby.

If the age old question can you really have it all ever applied, I would say never more so than when it comes to marriage and babies. The inspiration behind this post comes from Jenni's blog, where she wrote about exactly this topic. And it got me thinking. Marriage and babies, babies and marriage. Yes, I have both, but the good Lord up in heaven knows I have no idea when it comes to managing both well.

So I'm not here to tell you how to "have it all." Because I fail at that every single day. I'm here to tell you my experience, my journey, and my struggles. I'm also pretty sure this post will go off on many different tangents, so stay with me if you can.

I've been married for eight point five years. I always said I would wait two years before having babies. Two years seemed perfect to me: enough time to have sexy alone time with the hubs, get to know each other more, live in newlywed bliss before adding the granted stress of tiny human beings to care for. Two years somehow turned into four years, and on March 1st, 2008 (only three hours short of being a leap year baby) Gunner James Smith came into our lives. Trust me, no matter what they say, adding a baby to the mix changes things. Drastically. 

Exactly two years and two weeks later, Colt Daniel Le Smith arrived. Two boys. Our family of four was complete. We can dance into oblivion. Unicorns! Rainbows! Except not exactly. Don't get me wrong, when it comes to my kids? I am in love. I am over the moon to be a full-time mom to them. I think it's one of the most important jobs in the world (post on this to come later this week) but when it comes to juggling a husband and kids? Successfully? I still have yet to figure that one out. 

But let me start with something I think is supremely important when it comes to this subject. And that is priority. Not only is it biblical, but every good therapist around will tell you that your spouse comes before your kids. Our counselor in particular said it was absolutely crucial for Rob and I to put each other first, and our kids second. And this? I have had a very hard time with. In my little mind, I tend to think that the kids come first, always. But with this thinking? Puts my husband on the back burner. When it was him to begin with that made our family happen. Because the truth is, by putting my husband first, I am setting an example for our kids, and showing them what a loving relationship looks like. Kids need to see their parents loving each other. Kids need to feel the security of their parents being there for them, and therefore, being a solid unit. I asked our marriage counselor one time if it damaged our children to see us fighting in front of them. Her answer surprised me, when she said "no. They need to see you guys have conflict and then see you resolve that conflict in a loving way, so they can learn how real relationships work." 

And here's this: Rob comes home from working all day and immediately turns his attention on me. He will walk in the door and walk straight past the kids, go to me and hug, kiss, touch, etc. I would (and sometimes still do) get so mad him, and be all, "really? You walk past your own kids and don't even say anything to them? Don't even acknowledge them? What is wrong with you?" when what he is doing is exactly what it takes to have a successful marriage with kids. He is putting me first. Rob has always said to me that I come first, his kids come second. And my jerk reaction is to get angry, and go right into asking him stupid idiotic questions like "if Gunner and I were both dangling over a cliff and you could only save one of us, who would it be? Huh? Huh? Would you save him or me? You better say him!" (For the record, he would save our son.)

But here's the thing. Rob may come in the house after work and bypass the kids to head straight to me, but after that? His immediate second move is to pick up his boys, hug and kiss them and tell them both how much he missed them. And then to play with them for the next few hours before bedtime. I have never, not once, witnessed a time where his kids needed and or wanted him and he wasn't there. Rob is a sucker for his boys. Rob lives and breathes for his boys. He would die in a heartbeat for his boys. 

But he would also die in a heartbeat for me. And this is where I can admit I can be a total bitch at times. With complete honesty, I can say I have neglected Rob. He puts me first yet I put the kids first. Rob constantly wants to be touching me (earmuffs mom and dad!), he constantly wants to be around me, messing with me, grabbing my butt and other parts (ahem!) and I get SO ANNOYED and tell him to just back off but gosh damn, I should be thankful that after almost eleven years and twenty pounds gained, my husband still wants me fierce! I've talked to enough people to realize that what I have in a husband is pretty rare. Because if he can love his kids half as much as he loves me? Well then. His kids are pretty damn lucky.

Don't get me wrong. My husband isn't perfect. He can piss me off with the best of them. Like when he criticizes the way I cut up onions, or when he says I'm being lazy for not getting up and working out (ok that one may be true) or when he uses my expensive hair conditioner as body soap (insert super angry face here!) but when you look at it as a whole, and consider the "war versus battle" thing, I'm pretty sure I'm coming out ahead. 

Because my husband puts me first. And in turn, my kids benefit tremendously. And it has taken me a while (and a few hundred dollars worth of counseling sessions) to figure this one out. 

Now if we want to talk about what babies do to a sex life?

That is a completely different post for another day.

A couple weeks ago, I did one of those wildy popular "if you really knew me" posts. So one night, as I was sipping on a vodka soda watching Big Brother, I thought to myself, "self, you should do one of those posts, but about Rob."

Genius, I thought to myself.

I look over at Rob, give him my best come hither eyes, and say, "hey Rob, what is something people would know if they really knew you?"

His immediate response?

"Raven, I'm not playing your stupid blogging game."

me: "it's not a stupid game. Please, just answer the question."

No.

Seriously? Why not?

No.

Fine then. If you're gonna be like that, I'll do it myself. And so I did. I sent out a mass text message to those who really know him well, i.e. my sisters, mom, and his closest nephew, asking them "what would people know if they really knew Rob?"

Below are their answers (which are pretty accurate) along with a few peppered in from yours truly. 

If you really knew my husband...

* you would know that he's a hard worker. If he lost his business today, he would be out tomorrow making money somehow. Laziness is definitely not an option for him.

* if he's your friend, he will do anything for you. Anything.

* he is a very good son-in-law. (thanks mom)

* he is passionate about his boys. 

* he likes his home to look like a model home. (thanks again mom, for bringing up a very sensitive subject between us. Talk about a bone of contention. Btw, it never looks like a model home.)

* he has a very dry sense of humor (hence why I slept with him married him)

* he drinks Coors Light and Crown Royal religiously. I have never seen him order anything else while out at a bar. Ever. 

* he draws epic pictionary drawings. And by epic, I mean one time his word to draw was "chin." And his game partner couldn't guess it. That's how "epic" his drawing was. Chin!!

* he doesn't care much for pro sports but lives and breathes for college sports. In his own words, "pro athletes are spoiled rotten babies. You guys make over 10 million a year so quit whining."

* he hates when girls wear tons of makeup. When I asked what he thought about that he said, "Raven, don't ask stupid questions when you already know the answer."

* his dream girl is (in his exact words) "any gal with a tight ass, sweet t*ts, good body and over the age of 24." I would comment on this but I don't think I need to. Side eye.

* when I asked him what he thought about my blogging, he said he "didn't like it." He said I spend too much time on the computer and that "work comes first, play comes later." When I told him that I partly think of blogging as work because I make a little bit of money, he replied "oh yay, you made enough this month that maybe we can all go out and eat at McDonalds."

* did I mention he has a very dry sense of humor?

And finally, just like last time, I turned to my sister Boobie, who knows me very well and knows my husband almost just as well. 

Sorry about the blur-out above. I am pretty much an open book here but that is definitely not something any of ya'll need, or want, to see. 

The naked coyote story deserves it's own post.

And you can read how he almost made out with my sister HERE.

If you really knew me...

you would know that my Christmas decorations are still up. Right now I am staring at Mary, Joseph and little Baby Jesus. They currently reside on top of the wine fridge...

you would know that someone eating with their mouth open is the ultimate of disgusting to me. I try really hard to be a polite person, but that? I cannot deal. I will take food away from my kids if they can't eat with their mouth closed.

you would know that I am not a hugging person. I don't like it. However, I don't slight anyone who tries to give me one. Like I said, I try to be polite.

you would know that I love parties and big crowds. 

you would know that I love to eat and drive. Seriously, if I go through a drive-thru? I tear into my food before I leave the parking lot, so I can eat it while driving before I get home. 

you would know that my husband and I do not have a perfect marriage (or anything that resembles that) but we are always trying... (oh snap, I just got serious...)

on that note, I take nudie pics for my hubs and make photo books for him. I think he keeps them in his truck. And if you really knew me, you have probably seen those pictures...

If you really knew me...

you would know that I almost always laugh in awkward situations. 

you would know that I don't cry. except during Grey's Anatomy. and sad country songs. and sometimes episodes of Dr. Phil.

you would know that my "don't give a crap" attitude is for real. I really don't.

you would also know that I take anxiety meds daily. how's that for ironic?

you would know that as much as I declare my love for Britney Spears, I think she's totally got a few screws loose and most definitely do not idolize her.

you would know that I texted my sister Boobie and asked for her help. If anyone knows me the best, it's her.

Soo...........

"I'm sorry that people are so jealous of me...but I can't help it that I'm so popular."

A definition of "snob" I found recently was this:

a person who believes himself or herself an expert or connoisseur in a given field and is condescending toward or disdainful of those who hold other opinions or have different tastes regarding this field.

The "field" we are talking about today is that of blogging. As I'm sure many of you know, blogging can be a wonderful thing. You can find other bloggers with similar interests as your own, you can get feedback, you can laugh, connect, be entertained, and if you're an emotional type of person, you may actually find yourself crying over at someones neck of the virtual woods. You can see a blog friend turn into a real life friend (ahem) and you can feel like you are a "part" of something. It's true when they say that blogging is a community, a comradeship, a stomping ground for us all who have something to say.

But just like every other group of girls that get together, there are bound to be cliques, the cool crowd, the mean girls...

or in this arena

The Blog Snobs.

dun dun dun

In my never to be humble opinion, there are a few things that qualify someone as a blog snob. In no particular order...