I’m Slowly Dying

Disclaimer: (yes, I’m well aware that I said I would stop with the disclaimer stuff … what are you, the disclaimer police?? Sorry, I’m just cranky.  It’s 6:38am and I’ve already got a kid wrapped around my leg.) I LOVE MY KIDS!!  They are funny and cute and kind and, despite my rampant failures as a mother, turning out to be amazing.

I HATE MY KIDS!!  No, really.  They are slowly killing me.  A mom a couple of weeks ago informed me that, “we’re half way through the summer!!” and I almost punched her in the face.  Repeatedly.  We’re only halfway through the fucking summer?!  It feels like I’ve been living in this wasteland for, easily, 3 years … give or take my whole life.

Will this ever end?!? I moan into my pillow every morning as the Hubs gets out of bed with a smile on his face and a spring in his step.  Bastard.  I never get more jealous of his job than in the summer.  His ability to spend 20 minutes in the car BY HIMSELF on the way to work is enough to make me seethe with rage.  I try not to think about the fact that he can eat lunch by himself, chat it up with the guys in the office and pee alone.  And then my favorite, when he comes home and says, “Did you see the such and such about the such and such and that article about the such and such?”

UM, WHAT?!  No, HONEY, I haven’t.  Tell me about the oh so fascinating real world, cause I’m living in this hell hole of “I’m bored!”, “He hit me!”, and “When is lunch?” … the last being said at 2:30.

I’m using him as a scapegoat again.  Sorry, babes!  (I never call him babes)  He really is great.  When he gets home from work, he shoes me out the door and tells me to “go relax” … I’m usually wearing a Freddy Kruger mask at this point.  Five o’clock ain’t pretty here, folks.

And I don’t know about you, but I try and try to come up with ideas to keep these lovely bundles of toothpaste-squeezable loveballs happy.  I google “activities for kids” or “things to do this summer” or “how to survive the summer” or “someone shoot me” and it seems like these women are as crazy as I am making these lists.  Everyone has to top the other … 25 No Fail Activities for Kids, 50 Boredom Busters You MUST Do, 126 Perfect, Amazeballs Summer Ideas for Kids, 1,000,000 Honest to Goodness 100% Whine-Free Things For Your Kids To Do During The Summer That They Will Thank You For When They Are 39 And Raising Their Own Kids … the last having things like “Smile in the Mirror” or “Walk 10 Steps” or “Breathe” on the list.

I think I’m going to make my own list … the I’m Slowly Dying List … Ways to Prolong Your Eventual Emotional and Spiritual Death From A Summer Full of Kids.

#1 …

Shit.  There really is no way of avoiding it.

The only thing I can think of that is saving me right now is my friends … who commiserate, counsel, and consume alcohol with me.  Thank the sweet lord for them.  And the Rainbow Loom.  Thank god for that.

Fancy Clothes

When my middle, AD, was little, he was obsessed with sweatpants, “soft pants” he would call them.  He wore nothing else.  A pair of jeans would be equivalent, for him, to wearing tuxedo pants with dried crusted starch ironed into the lining.  And I, the ever-accepting lazy ass mother that I am, pretty much allowed him to wear what he pleased.  This goes for the other two as well.  I have never been a big “pressurer” of clothes.  I mean, don’t get me wrong.  I look at those photos on Fakebook and see those adorable kids matching and wish I had the energy to fight that battle.  But it’s one of those ones I’ve let go … along with matching socks, flossing, and healthy eating.

But occasionally, and I mean OCCASIONALLY, they have to wear something nice.  It just is what it is. Whether we are going to church or the country club or wherever.  Yes, I said country club (and church too, but I’ve already covered that).  Not mine, of course.  We don’t belong – as shocking as that is.  But my dad and his wife do and they have somehow gathered up the nerve to invite us to a few events.  Trust me, I’m sure those were long, deep discussions involving booze and cigarettes, in the dark hours of the early morning, in a room with no windows … until they finally caved to my 10 year old brother’s endless begging to include us.  He and my kids have a mutual admiration society going and they will do just about anything to spend time together.  But let’s face facts.  We are a hit or miss family.  You never know what you’re gonna get.  Wild uncontrollable screaming is not uncommon.

Anyway, yesterday was one of those days and surprisingly the boys were cooperative.  My only dilemma with them was that, since I only buy “fancy clothes” once a year, nothing was fitting.  (by the way, “fancy clothes” are polo shirts and plaid shorts … not business suits with ties)  So AD went in a polo shirt with basketball shorts.

Whatever.

The girl, though … holy crap.  Let’s just say this: much to my husband’s delight, I am NOT in any way, shape or form raising a girly-girl.  She’s not really a full blown tomboy either, but she treats a dress like I’m asking her to pour volcanic liquid over her body.  *And she’s not the least bit dramatic about it.

The two rules my stepmother told me for dress code for our country club visit were no tank tops and no cut-offs.  (and by the way, taking a kid to any place that has a dress code is a recipe for disaster … that’s just parenting 101, people)  What does Munch come down dressed in?  You got it.  I am fully aware that asking her to change is going to create full blown drama.  There’s no avoiding it.

I truly hate that feeling.  The knowing.  I wish I had an actual, physical shield for these moments.  They need to make one of those.  The tantrum shield … for those moments when you’re kids blow up in your face and you’d like to remain calm.  I feel those couple seconds between seeing the infraction and voicing it out loud to the child … those seconds in-between, are the story of my life.  And the decision to care or not to care.  The decision to fight or not to fight.  The decision to make a point or let it go.  This is the crux of my life right now.  And it sucks.

Because there is no right answer.  There is no wrong answer.  Just what you decide on that particular day at that particular time.  Oh, and by the way, I suck at decisions.  And then you have to follow through.  And I SUCK at follow through.  We’ve all been there – where we’ve taken something away from them and then immediately panicked and wondered why in god’s name we would do that to OURSELVES.  God knows I’ve taken away video games or TV only to break into a rapid, furious, cold sweat knowing that they’d be up my ass begging for a playmate (i.e. me) for the next two hours.

And say you’re going to take a stand. Be strong!  Be the parent!! Then according to Dr. Phil you’re supposed to remain calm.  No yelling.  No scarring them for life by saying crazy things like, “Are you an animal?  Is that what I’m dealing with now???”  The amount of times I’ve controlled myself from saying, “Are you FUCKING kidding me?” should qualify me for some kind of award.  The ‘Are You Fucking Kidding Me’ Award, perhaps?  Maybe, as your prize, you get to talk to rational sane people for an entire day.  I don’t even know what that is anymore.

So I sit in that moment.  And I drift back and forth.  And I make decisions that then require me sit in that moment again.  Over and over.  And I wonder just how much I’m screwing them up.  And, on occasion, when it gets too tough, I hide in my bathroom and pretend I’m Helen Keller.  Seriously, that girl was one lucky bitch.

*She is completely 100% dramatic about it.

Judgy

One of my least favorite personality traits is my … well … my judgyness (yes, Autocorrect, pudginess works too, but how about you go piss on yourself, huh?).  I try so hard to keep my judging at bay.  I mean, really, really hard.  How else am I supposed to be perceived as a nice person?  I remember my mom saying once, as a lunatic driver was flying down the highway, weaving in and out of traffic, on the verge of causing, easily, 6 accidents, that maybe he was in a rush to get to the hospital.  Maybe his mother was dying or his wife was giving birth.  Reality?  He was just a young punk douchebag out for a joyride (proven when we saw him exit at a strip club barreling in on two wheels), but it stuck with me anyway and I really TRY to not throw stones.  Try, obviously, being the operative word.

But seriously, people really are stupid.  And annoying.  And really annoyingly stupid.  But adorable as well … see, I’m trying.

The other day it was glaringly obvious that I had failed in all my attempts to hide my judgment of others.  I was driving down a fairly narrow road near our house with the kids in the car and Munch, who is old enough to sit in the front seat now, murmured something as I veered the car a little to the left to avoid a woman standing on the edge of the road picking raspberries.  “What?,” I said.  And Munch began her tirade …

“Why was that woman standing practically IN the road?  She was eating RASPBERRIES?? *(the equivalent to dog shit, apparently)* I mean, why didn’t she GET A BOOOOWWWWLLLLLL and put them IN IT and THEN eat it??  Instead of standing RIGHT ON THE ROAD??”

The only part missing was her concluding with, “FUCKING IDIOT” which, thankfully, she did NOT say.

I found myself conjuring up my inner Mom and thinking of reasons why this idiot woman was standing in the road.  Um, maybe she was starving?  Maybe she had been kidnapped for years and had finally broken free from the constraints and was tasting, LITERALLY, her first bits of freedom?  Maybe she was blind and unaware that she was basically IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING ROAD eating raspberries.  But, as all of these scenarios seemed less and less likely, I was finding it hard to not shout AMEN! to Munch and turn the car around to bitch this woman out.  How dare she stand in the middle of the road on the verge of causing an accident!!  (notice how she’s in the middle of the road now … she wasn’t, by the way).  And gulping down raspberries like a crazed, raspberry hungry, salad obsessed, fruit junky!  (I don’t know her.  Not even a little bit.)  Jesus!!  Doesn’t she know that the road is for CARS??  MY GOD, the INSENSITIVITY and IRRESPONSIBLENESS of some people!!!

I began texting this all to the Hubs in the most indignant font I could find, when in the back seat the boys yelled, “Don’t text and drive, MOM!!”

I tossed the phone like it was a live grenade and stared at the road with my eyes bulging.

Stop judging, stop judging, stop judging … my new mantra.

The Waiting Room … let’s try this again!

There’s something that happens to a person when they sit in a doctor’s waiting room for an hour and a half.  Something … strange.  So naturally I must share with you my story … (please appear to be riveted … shit’s about to get real)

It was a beautiful sunny day as I headed to my OB appointment with hope and determination.  Walking tall and confident … feeling every bit the power of my womanhood.  Birds chirped and baby bunnies skipped along the path next to me, admiring my boldness and courage.

Ok, fine.  I was scared shitless.  I won’t tell you why I was there (I was getting an IUD put in), but let’s just say the back alley rumors I had heard from my cousin had me slightly nervous.  And by ‘slightly’ I mean that I almost chickened out 3 times in the parking lot – walking to and from my car in a scene that I’m sure looked perfectly sane to the 83 year old man parked next to me – and shuffled in at a snails pace in the hopes that a car would run me over.  Little known fact: Being hit by a car is much easier and less gruesome than having your tightly sealed cervix brutally stretched open.

The waiting room is as beautiful as you can visualize a waiting room to be.  I imagine funds from the births of my three children were poured into this new renovation and I felt like announcing, “YOU’RE WELCOME!” to everyone enjoying their luxurious surroundings.  Big screen TV’s, water coolers, a bathroom a walrus could fit into and a whole separate ginormous play area for the little ones … who, by the way, were still bugging the shit out of their parents despite that wooden box thingy with the colorful swirly wires and balls on top of it.

You can’t help but look at everyone.  It’s people watching at it’s easiest.  Everyone is held captive.  Don’t get me wrong, you have to be subtle.  I’ve found staring at people creepily makes them call security feel uncomfortable.  I mean, that’s just what I’ve heard.  I observed woman after woman, most in various stages of pregnancy, with every emotion you can imagine on their faces.  Pain, fear, disgust, frustration, bewilderment, exhaustion … and then the few weirdos that looked happy.

Music was, obviously, playing in the background but I didn’t tune into it until Cher’s voice started singing over and over and OVER “It’s a woman’s world!  IT’S A WOMAN’S WORLD!!” … I was picturing all the male doctors sitting around drinking Heinekens, putting together their waiting room playlist (as I’m sure they do) and laughing their cushy asses off about throwing in that song.  By the time it was over, I was actually starting to believe it really IS a woman’s world, but then Jon Secada fucked it all up by belting out “Just Another Day”.  Asshole.

At one point in my 90 minute wait, a nurse came out and asked for a woman with a name very similar to mine.  I about shit my pants.  I was getting more and more uptight about this little procedure. I desperately needed to pull myself together.  If someone didn’t get me soon, I couldn’t and wouldn’t take responsibility for the things that could happen to them while I lay undressed from the waist down with my coochy in their face.

I tripped on a love seat discreetly got up and asked the nurses how much time until I’d be seen.  Their little secretive, whispered conversation with eyes both figuratively and literally darting all over the place made me realize I’d be there for at least another hour … that or they were planning some top secret gynecological spy mission.  WONDERFUL!  My phone was on 3% so I asked if I could borrow a phone charger.  She looked at me like I’d just asked her for a meal, which, actually, I had, a minute before.  Damnit, I was hungry!!

At any rate, after awhile, you start to get a little cookoo.  Well, I guess I shouldn’t include you.  I’m sure you’re perfectly sane.  I start to feel as though I’m going to do something crazy – like stand on a chair and ask everyone to join me in a rousing rendition of Kumbaya.  Or start maniacally laughing out loud at nothing in particular and asking people if they agree.  Yes, after an hour and a half most people would be angry, but I just spent an hour and a half in a waiting room with NO kids – well, at least not mine.  I don’t know how anyone could be angry about that.  Crazy?  Yes.  Angry?  No way.

In all my quirkiness (yes, I choose to refer to it as such), I was on the verge of screaming “my water just broke!” when my name was finally called.  I’ll spare you all the details about the procedure.  Let’s just say that my cervix’s new favorite song is Christina Aguleria’s “Fighter” … damn if she didn’t belt that out as loud as she could while resisting all attempts at … infiltration.  She put up a good fight, but lost handily in the end.  Poor thing.  She never has been able to keep her mouth shut.

Shots All Around: The Joys of Coinciding Annual Check-Ups

Both of my boys have birthdays this month and you know what that means … no, no, not high fructose corn syrup overload, dreaded sleepovers where no actual sleep occurs, and outlandish gift requests that force me to redefine the word ‘delusional’ … although all of that is soooooo much fun, too.  (There’s nothing like a kid’s birthday – and subsequent party – to make you rethink every decision you’ve ever made throughout the course of your entire life.)

No.  It’s time for their annual check-ups … which, let’s face it, is all about the shots.

I’ve obviously had years of this … many in which I felt like flying them all to a third world country, exposing them to polio to make them fully understand why we’re doing this, and then saying I told you so.

“Mommy, I can’t walk.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have fought me on those shots.  Sucks to be you.”

I’m going to share with you a story from about 4 years ago … when the kids were 8, 7, and 4 … the absolute PERFECT ages to get stuck with a needle.

I have MANY, MANY times taken the three kids BY MYSELF to attempt these shitshows appointments but for some reason this particular year I got the Hubs to accompany me.   All I can think is that, at that time, with an 8, 7, and 4 year old, he wasn’t getting much (if you know what I mean) and must have been desperate.  Sadly, I’m sure he got nothing that night anyway.

So, at any rate, our main parental dilemma (out of 326 that day) was the question of whether or not to tell them where we were going.  Of course, most will say, “be honest with your children”, but the secretly smart, savvy ones (in other words, my people) say, “don’t even think about telling them until the needle is being pulled out of the drawer”.  I had always leaned towards being honest (my attempts at being the perfect mother are a source of non-stop ridicule and hilarity in our home today) and had paid dearly for it … chasing them around the house like the deranged cats they are to try to get them into the car, attempting to remain calm with all hell breaking loose, and drinking heavily that night.

We decided to go a different route this particular year.  We said nothing.  Just got them all in the car and started driving.  I mean, yes, they were asking where we were going, but we stayed silent.  Unfortunately, our oldest has an outrageous IQ (damn smart kids) and figured it out. But, hey!, at least they were already in the car.  Of course the minute she figured it out, she loudly broadcast it throughout the car so the other two could be privy to the information while, at the top of her lungs, wailing, “why would you do this to me?!”.  The youngest, Guy, just started a high pitched screaming that deafened all of us for a good 5 minutes.  AD, thankfully, remained calm.  He merely asked if I would hold his hand.  At least I think that’s what he said.  I had to read his lips.

When we arrived, I put the Hubs in charge of Munch.  Two dramatic females forced to interact is the equivalent of 2000 dramatic females forced to interact … I wasn’t touching that with a 10 foot pole.  So I decided I’d deal with Guy, who I carried football style into the building.  We fell 3 times.  On the ground.  In the lobby of the doctor’s office.  Three times.  His flailing body no match for my abnormally, hideously weak arms.

Once all 5 of us were ushered into a room (and by ‘ushered’ I mean security took us in) and we passed all the looks of horror from other patients, the secretaries, and even the janitor … mouths hanging open with disgust and terror … we attempted to rationalize with the kids.  I know, I know … we were still stupid then.  Ten seconds in we gave up.  Mainly because, while trying to talk to Munch, Guy had flattened himself on the ground by the door and was screaming under the crack, “Somebody let me out of here!  Help me!!!!  SOMEBODY LET ME OUT OF HERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRE!”.

We got the older two done (a story in and of itself, but I’m not writing a novel here, people … although if you’ve made it this far …) and moved on to Guy.  He was held down by four of us.  FOUR.  And after screaming through the entire 2 second ordeal, while the nurses joyfully skipped out of the room, Guy yelled out, “Goodbye, SUCKERS!!!” … as if to say he really didn’t have any issues getting shots and that little dramatic show was all for fun … and how hysterical that they had all fallen for it … suckers.

I, naturally, shrank in mortification and yelled, “We didn’t teach him that word!!!”

Because, ya know, I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m a bad mom.

While this ecard has nothing to do with this post, I found it hysterical and much funnier than a giant needle.  P.S. Do not google “giant needle”.

Double D’s

Brittany Gibbons is my hero.  If you haven’t read her blog, you must.  She is funny and real, as well as drop dead gorgeous.

She recently wrote a post on her site called The Art of Bra Fitting that has officially changed my life.  Now, I knew that I wasn’t wearing the correct size bra.  I mean, when the back strap ends up around your neck by the end of the day, you’ve got the wrong size bra on … or some freaky perversion.  And since we all know I’m practically Mother Teresa, we’ll go with door #1.

My boobs have known for quite some time.  They were sweet about it at first – just sort of spilling over and saying ‘excuse me’ anytime they got out of control.  But I’ve noticed lately they’ve gotten a little hostile.  One of them viciously sprouted a black hair and the other one shouts expletives at me.  I thought they enjoyed their jiggly freedom, but I guess it’s more like riding a roller coaster without a seat belt … or bouncing on a pogo stick all day.  Ok, ok, boobies … Brittany Gibbons post to your rescue!

So I watch the video she posts on how to correctly measure your puppies.  I come up with a cup size that literally throws me off a balcony screaming … in the best possible way.  HUH??  At the time of the viewing, I’m wearing a B cup, people.  A B CUP!!  And this is saying I’m several cup sizes larger than that … and by several I mean like 20.

I forcibly grab my friend and head to the mecca of bra shopping (news to me!), Nordstrom’s.  We head straight to the dressing room and proceed to get sized there.  I am CONVINCED those measurements taken in my dark, scary bedroom are completely wrong.  When I tell the lucky woman who gets to measure my mammary glands that I am aware that my current bra doesn’t fit, she looks at me like I’ve sprouted a third boob and says, “Um, YEAH”.  Yikes!

She does some measuring and says she’s bringing back bras for me to try on.  I stand in the dressing room shirtless, yelling boob jokes out to my friend in the room across from me.  Honestly, she never knows what kind of crazy shit will come out of my mouth … her laughter is more the kind you would experience while watching a schizophrenic do just about anything.  I always note a sense of fear in her giggle 🙂

In comes my Nordstrom bra fitter with a bra for me to “test”.  I throw it on and can’t believe my eyes.  OH!  This is what a bra is supposed to look like, feel like, and BE like.  She checks me out … makes sure I did the boob swoop, or whatever, correctly and says, yes, this is the proper size.  I ask her what that size is and restrain from pissing my pants.  I do, however, scream it in question … “I’m WHAT?!”  The random lady in the next dressing room busts up laughing.

I kind of feel like Gwyneth Paltrow’s character in Shakespeare in Love when she wakes up (we’ll leave out the part of what she had just done … wink, wink) and her nurse says, “it’s a new day” and she replies, “it’s a new WORLD”.

It is Day One of my new “support system” and let’s just say, my boobies are baking me a cake.  They may even throw a party in my honor.  Who knew?!

So get your skinny asses to Nordstrom’s or Brittany’s site!  You can thank me later 🙂

P.S. If you would like to know what cup size I went up to (from a B) just read the title of this post.  I know, I know … MIND. BLOWN.

39 Things I’ve Learned in My 38.99999 Years

No, seriously – I would never make you read 39 things.  I’ll try to keep it to 10 since my birthday is fast approaching and I’ve got to enjoy this last day of being 38.  I’ll keep the other 29 to myself … they mostly involve my va-jay-jay, bowel functions and bodily fluids.  You’re welcome.

1. Bounty is truly the “quicker picker upper”

2. There is only one right way to fold a towel.  Sorry.

3. Boob sweat is a bona fide ‘thing’ and needs to be addressed by society … and medical professionals.

4. You can most definitely kill a song by listening to it 47 times in a row.

5. The most important thing you should be is a goofball.  Everything else falls way second.

6. When you think it’s all gonna go to shit, it will be fine; and when you think it’ll be fine, it will all go to shit.  It’s just basic physics.

7. Oddly enough – and to your never ending confusion – your husband loves you.

8. You will never, ever, ever, ever, EVER, EVER, E…V…E….R be happy with your body.  Stop looking at it and move on.  (Please learn this one, I’m begging you!!  … I’m talking to myself here)

9. Despite all the ways you were crazy and insane during their infancy and toddlerhood (don’t even TRY to pretend you don’t remember), your kids are really, truly the best.  And you are damn lucky.

10. Housework sucks.  It should demand very little of your time.  And when it does, add music … preferably ear piercingly loud and obnoxious.

11.  You’re never too old to start something new.  Whether it be drinking margaritas, writing a blog, or learning the Cupid Shuffle.

12. A Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup is a miracle.  Treat it as such.

13. Never underestimate the power of curling up with your dog on the couch … with an accompanying cup of coffee and a 10 pound bar of chocolate.

14. There will never be enough time.  Period.

15. There is a fine balance between helping someone and being codependent … just like there is a fine balance between being healthy and being insane.

16. The human body produces some pretty disgusting shit (pun intended) … always have baby wipes on hand.  And Purell.

17. Never make a list of 17 things you’ve learned over the course of your life.  People will be bored by #6 and subsequently move on to a much better blog that actually makes them laugh.

Yes, I went over!  Are you surprised?  I am a wealth of information that cannot be shut up.  Deal with it.

All joking aside, never make a list like this.  It’s wildly depressing how little you’ve learned so far in your life.

Good news?  You’re only midway through it.  Bad news?  You have no idea of the accuracy of that statement.  I’d better start learning some crap … today!  There must be one about cupcakes, right?