Posts Tagged ‘motherhood’

Miscarriages Suck.

Posted June 15, 2012 Life 12 Comments

So, some serious stuff has gone down for me recently, and the blog is about to reflect that.  And only because I’m mostly in the bag off of my most amazing sangria, do I feel that I can tell you all about it.  (I’m sure I’ll regret this later, but whatever…)

I was pregnant.  Was being the operative word here.

It was a complete surprise when we found out.  I was half “Oh holy hell, how am I going to do this again?” and half “Yay! I can haz babieeeeeeeees!”  But, after only a few short days, my momma instinct kicked in and we started happily planning.

My head was full:  We’ll make the loft into a full room.  We will have to buy new baby stuffs.  The girls will be so excited! I will make them special shirts to wear on mothers day!  We will have sleepless nights but many more happy giggles!  After a sad year of loss, there will be a birth!  I probably won’t be able to participate in the Komen 3-day as a captain, but I will go as a walker-stalker, so that’s okay.  I guess I can’t go to FitBloggin‘ either, so no point worrying about that.  But there will be so many other firsts, so it will be ok.  Everything will be okay.  Better than okay!

Yeah. That wasn’t meant to be.

We had an sonogram appointment where we didn’t see what should be seen.  The doctor said a whole lot of “blah blah blahs” and I was poked and prodded and drained of bodily fluids and told to wait.  Just, wait.  Then come back again, and get prodded again, rinse, repeat.

It was exhausting.  And annoying.  And stressful.  Really fucking stressful.

And one day, it just happened.  {You should be well warned here, it’s about to get really REAL up in here.  Those of you that are faint of heart should probably leave.}

I had a spontaneous miscarriage.  That mostly means I bled like all of my insides were coming out, and I cramped as if I were having contractions.  It was intense and scary and I was totally unprepared.  Of course it was a Saturday where my doctor was out of reach.  And they don’t make a “What to expect when you’re miscarrying” book.  {But, if they did, the first chapter would be, “This is going to hurt and be as scary as fuck” and the second would be, “Oh, by the way, this will last for weeks.”  And the publishers of the book would totally encourage you to use it as kindling when you were done with it.}

Anyway.

To make matters worse, hardly anyone close to me knew. Not about me being pregnant, and certainly not about miscarrying.  (Some are finding out right now.  My bad.)  My husband knew of course, our parents, a good friend, but that was it.  So on a day where my girls (who didn’t know at the time) were celebrating at the church picnic, I was doubled over in my bedroom.  A few hours later I had to attend the big end-of-the-year play they were in.  In the throws of intense heartache and pain, I had to pretend all was fine.  That, my friends, was horrible.

And on and on and on that went.  I had to ditch out on regularly scheduled activities, but I couldn’t bare to tell people why. When I couldn’t get into the pool on the opening day, I had to come up with some lame excuse.  The pain and cramps came and went and came back again.

Then there was the obnoxious stuff that got to me too.  The lady who took my blood (for the 4th time in a few weeks) who finally asks me “what are you here for, anyway?”  Really lady?  Did you not read the order that plainly says miscarriage?  {I should have told her they were checking for the Plague.}

Or being ushered into the doctor’s office and leaning back for the sonogram, only to be greeted with the baby-themed art hanging on the ceiling.  You’d think an OBGYN that big could at least devote one room to non-pregnant patients.  As if having to say to the receptionist why I need to come in — “I’m having a miscarriage” — isn’t bad enough.  As if having to re-tell the nurse and doctor isn’t worse.  Let’s just hit the hypersensitive lady over the head with what she isn’t gong to have while she’s in the most exposed position known to man.  Yeah.  Thanks for that.  Assholes.

Even the well-meaning people who were just living their lives got to me.  There were babies and pregnant people everywhere.  Random talks of “having more children” vs. “being done” were a new trend too.  My precious well-meaning kids kept asking for a baby sibling constantly….we’re talking screams of “Mommy, have another baby!” hurled at me every day.  All while I’m trying to say goodbye to something that was barely anything inside of me.

{Slightly inappropriate side note:  I totally had a “Good Will Hunting” moment in all of this.  You know the scene where the shrink says to Will that it’s not his fault, over and over, until Will breaks down?  Well, my Mom is talking to me on the phone, and she’s all, “It’s ok to grieve, honey” and I’m all, “I know, Mom.”  And she’s all, “No, really, it’s okay.“  Am I’m all, “I know Mom.”  Until I realize I’ve hung up the phone with her, I’m realizing fully what I’ve lost even though it was so small, and I’m totally full on ugly crying.  I had to laugh (and cry some more) at the fact that I totally just lived out a scene from a movie.}

Needless to say, this has been so … tiring.  I honestly am telling you all of this because it’s just not something I can keep inside any longer.  I don’t feel like making excuses and I don’t want to tip toe around it any more.  I want it to be over.  I need to say goodbye.  I need to let it go into the universe and move on.

Of course, blogging is the best way to do that.  Duh.

So, if I’ve been MIA, or ignoring you, or not available, or just “off,” then now you know why.  I’m becoming okay.  I have worked through the stages of grief — the sixth being blogging with a glass of my excellent sangria — and have almost made it mostly intact through to the other side.  I’ve made improper jokes to mask the pain, but at least I got it all out.  And I finished the sangria.  So there.

 

Baby fix

Posted January 28, 2012 Parenting No Comments

I got my baby fix today!

He was so cute with his tiny socks that looked like Chucks, his little underarmour shirt, and his sweet rosy baby cheeks.

And I told my uterus to shut up, again.

And then I remembered the pin I found d on pintrest…

image

…and it made me proud that I raised two babies without doing any of the “bad” pictures.

Of course, I passed this info on to my mommy friend so she wouldn’t do them either.

But just between you and me, I told her to for ahead and give the baby old shoes to chew on. It will just inoculate him for all those nasty germs big kids have, right?

Blogging is hard, mkay?

Posted January 24, 2012 Mom Media 6 Comments

Oh Lord…

8 more days of posts to write.  8 more days of funny to bring.  8 more days of ideas to squeeze out of my mind.

NaBloPoMo January 2012
Really?  I don’t think this ol’ betty has got 8 more days – even if we all got together and prayed really hard.  (Not to mention that it would be really selfish of me to ask y’all to pray that I write good blog posts for 8 more days in a row when we could all be wishing for much more important things.  Like world peace.  Or for a united nation, no longer torn apart from politics.  Or the end of those really annoying radio commercials in which two people talk to each other in a “nonchalant” kind of way in order to repeatedly tell us a phone number to call.  “What number did you call, Betty?  Was it 888-your-mom?”  “Yep, 888-your-mom.”  “You said 888-your-mom, right?”  “You’ve got it, Norma!  888-your-mom!”  Yeah. That. Lets pray to end that.)

Anyway, regardless of praying, today I am low on interest and feeling burnt out.  And now, while I really do like her posts and love how she runs NaBloPoMo, Melissa had to go and have this to say…

“You’re participating in NaBloPoMo, which means you need to drag yourself to the computer whether you want to or not. I know that sitting down in front of the screen is hard, but I promise you, you’ll feel better once you do it. It’s like exercising: sometimes it hurts to pull on the shorts and sports bra, you sigh loudly as you drive to the gym, and you pretty much want to cry when you step onto the treadmill. But you feel so damn good when it’s over that you can almost forget that you need to go through this again the next day.”

…which made me want to throw my laptop at her.

I mean, for me, most of that is accurate.  Drag to the computer? Check.  Sigh loudly as I drive to the gym?  Check.  Cry on the treadmill?  Hell yes that’s a check.  Feel so damn good when it’s over that I almost forget all this pain?  Um, hells to the em effin no.  Not at the gym, and not when I’m writing.

Sure, sometimes it comes easily.  Sometimes I can laugh and write really easily and tackle that elliptical like it’s my bitch.  Hell, I can even be thankful I worked out/wrote from time to time.  But, around day 18 or so, blogging gets to be a whole different kind of beast.

This is more how I see it:

Moms, do you remember when you had your baby, and you saw it’s smiling cooing little bald head, and then your raging hormones made you forget about all the pain the little bundle of joy just caused you?  You forgot about the fact that at least half a dozen people saw your junk all in the air doing things that really shouldn’t humanly be possible.  You forgot that you pushed a semi-alien life form outside of a tiny whole in your body that shouldn’t have allowed even the smallest bit of that baby out under normal circumstances.  You forgot how much that really flipping sucked for the next few days while you bled uncontrollably or had never-ending pain in your nethers or how you couldn’t stand without yelping or how you couldn’t even freaking poop.

Well, now…you know how that same child stayed up all night long crying and not sleeping just because it freaking could?  And how that child threw a tantrum in the middle of the grocery store when you were surrounded by what felt like hundreds of other judgy moms?  And how that same child pushed every single one of your buttons and then it said something like, “you don’t do anything for me, MOM!”

And do you remember, how at those exact moments, every single horrific ache and pain came flooding back to your memory and you were all like, “OH HELL TO THE MUTHA FRACKING NO!  I SURE AS HELL DID BIRTH YOU, AND I HAVE THE VAGINA/STRETCH MARKS/PTSD TO PROVE IT!”

Yeah, that’s how I feel about writing.  Sometimes I enjoy what I wrote.  That baby is fresh and new and smells like powder and nurses easily and has the cutest little non-poop-stained onesies to wear.  Sometimes I re-read that post and think I did a good job and that I could do that again, easy peasy.  And that my next post would come out of me like like rainbows out of a unicorn.  Beautiful, poetic.  Awesome.

Other days, writing is like birthing a small elephant.  It hurts and it’s hard and the elephant smells horrifically bad and leaves nothing but giant loads of crap in it’s wake.  And afterward, I think it would be better for everyone involved if I were to pay my cat to walk across the keyboard instead of me trying to do it all over again. Because that post was lame, poorly written, and just plain bad.

Yeah, that’s how I feel about writing.  It a nutshell.

But, just for the record, I’m hoping the next 8 days will be less elephantine, and much more rainbows and unicorns.

Fingers crossed.

 

What to write?

Posted January 23, 2012 Life, Parenting 1 Comment

Today I can’t really get a grip on what I want to write.

 

 

I could write about my total paranoia that takes over when surrounded by other moms.  (It all stems back to a horrible softball season when the “Mean Moms” shunned me.  It wasn’t pretty.  Well, let’s call a spade a spade: they were straight up bitches.  And now every time I’m in a group and no one is talking to me, I revert back to thinking that they are not only talking to me, but they are all talking about me.  Then my crazy ass kinda wants to assume the fetal position.  Or yell “Fuck YOU, you douche baguettes!” at the top of my lungs.  Both seem like a perfectly normal response.  Even if the moms are just exchanging tortilla soup recipes. Perfectly. Normal.)

Or…

I could write about how American Idol nearly set my girls up to fear me eventually walking out on them.  (“Mom, what do they mean that her parents ‘weren’t around?’”  “It means her parents couldn’t be there to parent her at the time…that they were having their own issues – drugs, or prison – or just couldn’t be good parents at the time.”  “Mom…..you’ll never leave us like that will you?”  {giant inhale of breathe as I steady myself and try not to cry a river} “No, baby, I will never, ever, ever, never leave you.  I promise.”  “Good.  Cause I’d come and say you owe me $1000 dollars if you did,” says the big one.  {At least she’s thinking about how to work her angle.}  “Ok, baby, but I’ll never leave, I promise.”  “And I’d be really really sad if you did,” says the little one while tearing up.  “I won’t go.  I promise.”  Thanks American Idol.  Fucking thanks.)

Or…

I could simply write about all how my daughter brought the globe into the bathroom with her…to read up on Djibouti while she did the doo-ty.  (Way to have educational and productive pooping, my child.  I approve.)

But..

I just can’t decide, so I’ll just leave it at that and go to sleep.  Last Minute Mommy, out!

 

Listen to your mother

Posted January 21, 2012 Mom Media 2 Comments

 

I saw a tweet the other day for a fantastic production called Listen to Your Mother.

 

These women are putting themselves out there and presenting us with what seems like, on the surface, simple stories from their lives as mothers.  They start out normally enough, but somehow along the way, they transform into the beautifully woven tales of heartbreak, and humor, and motherhood.

And I watch them and I cry, then laugh, then cry, then laugh some more.  Then, cry a lot more.  And the whole while I’m thinking, “Me Too! Me too!  I feel the exact same way too!  I’ve said “mother fucker” a thousand times!  I hate minivans too!  It breaks my heart to watch my kids fail too!”

So you can understand why, when I saw the tweet that was announcing auditions for the upcoming local version of this show, I was extremely intrigued, yet riddled with doubt.

I would love to audition!  But, am I funny/poignant/eloquent/brave enough?  Would I be able to get the thoughts in my head out into one coherent story and then relate that to an audience of people sitting in front of me?  If I can barely gulp down the fact that 3 real life people read my blog, would I be able to speak my truths in front of who knows how many more?

(And then, there are the more…um, physical issues as well.  What if I burp into the microphone?  What if I do the really ugly cry where I have snot running down my nose?  That would be so awesome.)

I just don’t know.  I wish I did.   I do know that I feel as though I never fully get out what I want to say here.  I simply don’t ever have enough time to thoroughly compose and tweak and edit a post before my eyes start to droop.  So I feel like, if I gave myself enough time, I could compose something that was pretty darn good.  Maybe.

But really, what’s the worse that could happen?  No?  Yeah, um, I get that all the time.

Maybe it’s time I follow the advise I give to my girls and just try…cause you never know unless you do, right?

 

I had one of those

Posted January 19, 2012 Parenting 7 Comments

W

hen I was pregnant with my first child, I found myself in the middle of a mall.  I was 8 months along, so you can imagine how tired and hormonal I was.  I needed a break from all the walking, so my husband left me on a bench out side of a cd store while he ran in to get something.  (Side note: it is extremely depressing that the term “cd store” probably dates me.  Stupid technology.)

I was out there, and with no stupid technology to give me an i-whatever to pass the time, I was forced to pepople watch.  The level above the level I was on was open to the floor below, so I had a good view of people walking from store to store on both levels.  Then, I caught the hunting/mating ritual of the wild teenager.  It was half enthralling, half horrifying.  All gag-inducing.

The pack of girls were primped and coiffed, just as I had done when I was that age.  (Except, they wore much shorter skirts that allowed a for a …ummm…”interesting” view from the level below.)  They giggled and and chatted as they hopped from store to store, probably drooling over a newer micro mini skirt or navel piercing or some other way to emulate the dirrrty Christina Agulara.  (Side note 2: I wonder if Xtina regrets dressing like a skank now that she has a child.  Oh no wait, she still does.  Okay then!)  And every once in a while the teens would look away from a store window and point at a cute boy on the level below, giggle some more, then keep going in the same fashion.

It made me wonder…how did my parents ever surrvied those years?  How the hell did they even allow me out of the house?  How could the parents of these girls allow them to parade around in public looking like that?!  They should be locked in their rooms! Forever!  And ever and ever and ever.

And ever.

But wait…what’s that?  There is movement behind the brush…er…escalator.  It’s a pack of wild teenage boys.  They too were dressed like idiots.  And acting like idiots.  And were also not so much at the mall to actually spend money, but instead to track the opposite sex.  They were on the level below, and had now spotted the female pack.  (Or, shall I say, the underwear of the day.)  They made the move up to the “next level.”

They followed behind – 10 to 20 feet at all times.  When the females stopped, they stopped.  When the females went into a store, so did they.  They admired the girls’ short skirts a little more.  They high fived and clapped after one of them surely said a derogatory underwear joke.

They made me wonder…how did my parents ever survive those years?  How the hell did they not kill every boy that even looked my way?  How was I not forced to wear Eskimo clothing every where I went?

And it hit me:  I had one of those growing inside of me.

Can. Not. Breathe.

My hormones couldn’t stand for it any more.  I started to freak out.  I couldn’t breathe.  My husband was no where to be found.  I needed someone to talk me off the ledge fast.  Otherwise the mall cops would be escorting me out of the place for trying to use my spit to wipe off the teen’s excessive make-up or for trying to pull up the the boys’ saggy pants.

I called (on my way-lame flip phone) my sister.

“Beeeeeecky.   I’m having a panic attack.”  *hiccup* *sob* *snarf*

“I’m at the mall.  And there are teenagers.  And they are chasing each other around.  And flirting.  And dressed like prostitutes and pimps.  And they are acting like wild animals on the prowl. And, And, And….I have one of those crazy things inside me!  Right now!  It’s going to be like those girls and I’m going to panic and I can’t do it and I don’t know if I’m cut out for this and SaveMeDearGodICan’tHandleThePressure!”

Then, my sister, in her infinite wisdom and years of experience, said to me – rather calmly…

“Mandy, that is why they come out as babies.  God knows how hard it is going to be so he gives you a long time to work up to it.”

Brilliant.

The breaths started to return.  My blood pressure was returning to normal.  My husband came back and told me we would do it together.

Okay.  It’s okay.  Yes, I will have one of those in a few years.  And yes, that might suck donkey balls, but for now, I was having a beautiful baby girl.  It was okay.

Cut to today.

I’m in the coffee shop.  There is an adorable little girl at the table next to us.  She is toddling around, giggling with delight, and calling “mama!” with a happy little face.  My uterus pangs.  I feel like it was just yesterday that I was in that mall, freaking out, and so worried about what was to come.  But we have weathered the storm so far.  Each age has had its challenges, to be sure, but we have done okay.  Maybe we could consider another?

Then three teenage girls sit in the couch directly behind me.  I catch just a snippet of the conversation…

“I’m going to apply to that store when they open.  Maybe I won’t get arrested this time!  Hahaha.  What’s that called, anyway?  When you steal from your employer?”

Yeah.

So, um, Uterus?

Shut the fuck up.

We still have a long, long way to go.  It still might get a hell of a lot harder.  Uterus, instead of getting all gooey and mushy and hormonal, why don’t you follow the head’s lead: go get your ass on google and find the best and biggest and most unbreakable room lock you can find.

STAT.

I’m Free!

Posted January 14, 2012 Life, Parenting 4 Comments

 

I’m free!  I’m free!  I’m free!

I’m smack dab in the middle of a kid-free weekend and I’m loving it.  I love my babies to pieces, don’t get me wrong, but I haven’t had a full 48 hours of plain old “vacation” time with just my husband sense maybe they were babies.

I’m really not trying to rub it in, but it’s so, so amazing.  {Okay, maybe I am just a little bit.  Sorry about that.} {Well, not really sorry so much as feeling a little guilty about being a bitch.} {Well, maybe not so much feeling guilty as wishing that I could brag about it more…But I do feel bad that you aren’t on a trip right now yourself.}  {Unless you are in fact on a trip, and it involves a Caribbean beach…If that’s the case than I hate you.}

Why am I enjoying myself so much?  I’ll tell you why:

 

*   I have not had to tell anyone to stop fighting.  Or stop hitting.  Or stop crying.  Or stop name calling.  Or stop flailing.  Or stop yelling.  Or stop pouting.  Or stop anything else that is highly irritating.

*   I will not have to wake up until I feel like it.  My lazy ass will stay in bed for as long as possible – and will most likely end only because I am hungry and I want breakfast and I want someone else to make it for me.

*   I could hop from winery to winery without hearing “Moooooom, I’m bored!” Or “Moooom, I have to pee!”

*   When I got pulled over by the county Sherrif (not because I was at the aforementioned winery, but because I have a lead foot) I did not have to get the double whammy of a kid guilt trip.  {Also, no ticket!  Woohoo!}

*   I could play a game of pool without somebody taking my stick and either A) knocking out a window, B) making a hole in the wall, or C) sticking it in someone else’s eye.

*   I don’t have to drive any one anywhere unless at the end of the drive there is something in it for me.  And by something, I mean a nice adult dinner or more wine.  Not a birthday party for someone else or a sport practice.

*   I do not have to fight with anyone to go to sleep.  {Family: if this is difficult tonight, I’m so sorry.  Well, not so much sorry as……ummm, nevermind.}

*   I haven’t had to hide the free candy jar in our room from anyone.  And if I wanted to, I could eat them all for myself. And not have to share.  Myyyyyyy precious.

*   Nothing “Nick” or “Disney” has graced our hotel TV.  Playoff Football and Channing Tatum movies ftw!  {Okay, I only got away with the Channing Tatum movie because the husband was in the shower.  But, I’ll take it anyway.  Any. Day.}

*  I have pressed the buttons in the elevator.  Yes, I’m a big dork, and I like to do this, but my kids always do it for me, and now I get to press them myself!.  Whatever.  I like to press buttons.

 

Anyway, I think you get the point.

Mama is free for a bit and having fun!!!!

Can I get an AMEN!?!

Can I get a high five!!?

Can I get a woot woot!?!

Ahhhh, alright, I’ve bragged enough.  Time to go get 14 hours of sleep.

 

{Um, one more thing…could someone please just do me one little favor?  Tell my little buggers I love them and miss them and kiss ‘em on the head from Mommy.}

Peace out, suckas!

 

Bedtime Shmedtime

Posted January 12, 2012 Life, Parenting 5 Comments

I had a really long meeting that didn’t get me home until after 9.  When I arrived my brood was all upstairs – a good sign, hopefully, that they were winding down and almost ready for bed.  Not quite though, as Alvin and the Chipmunks 2 was wrapping up in my bedroom.  {Thank the lord I didn’t have to endure all of that a second time around.}

It gets to be just before 10, which, if I’m being honest, isn’t really all that late for my kids (we are all some serious night owls) but still – time for the party to end.  I had a long day, my back hurts and I’m a bit cranky.

{It’s way late, I’m exhausted, and this show has to get the hell on the road.  Mama needs her alone time, and stat.}

Only problem…the kids are pretty much (almost literally) jumping off the walls.

*Bounce* *Bounce* *Bounce*

“Okay, stop bouncing.  It’s too late for that kind of craziness,” I say with a smile.

*Bounce* *Bounce* “Okay Mom! Just one more!” they retort.

*Bounce* *Bounce*

{For the love of God, stop bouncing}

“Okay guys, that’s enough,” I say with more force.  “Go brush your teeth.”

*Bounce*  “Okay Mom!  We’ll go now!”  *Bounce*

They then finally crawl off the bed and go brush.

Back in so little time that I’m quite sure the majority of their teeth are probably still yellow and diseased, I decide its fine, and to just get on with it instead of picking this battle.  {They are only baby teeth anyway, right?  Eff ‘em!}

The dog, at this point, gives the stuffed animal he’s playing with a lobotomy.  Stuffing liberation!  Sara decides to give him a new stuffed animal to play with – which happens to be Riley’s old stuffed animal.  {Seriously, dog? Way to help out.}

“MoooooOOOoooOOoommmm….that’s my stuffed animal!”

“No it’s not, you gave it to me.”

“No, I didn’t!”

“Yes, you did!”

“Noooo, I didn’t!”

“Yes.  You actually did!”

{For real?  I could give a rats ass who did or didn’t, just, for the love of my sanity, get in the freaking bed.}

“Okay, well it doesn’t relaly matter anymore, does it?  He’s already chewing on it.  So, let just all get in bed.”

At that point, Sara tells Riley that the dog is cuter than her.

{Oh. My. Gosh.}

After a stern talkin’ to, about how that’s rude and not even true to Sara, I turn to tell Riley how it’s obviously not true and she should roll it off.

“She called me uglyyyyyyyy,” Ri sobs.

I sit her on my lap and say, “No, she didn’t.  She said the dog was cuter.  That’s like saying your favorite blanket is softer than your favorite stuffed animal.  Even if it is true – which it isn’t – we still aren’t saying your stuffed animal is as hard as a rock.”

{Did that even make sense?  Who the hell knows at this point.  She seems placated, so lets just go ahead and run with it.}

Then a barage of questions hits me in rapid fire:

“When are you and I going to dinner tomorrow?” “Wow long will it take?”  “What are Dad and I going to do for dinner?”  “What are we going to do after we get home from school?”  “When will we leave?”  And on. And on. And on.

{I get that you guys are really excited for your private dates with us tomorrow – so am I!  Really.  But right now, if you don’t go the fuck to sleep, I might implode and tomorrow will never come.}

“Okay guys, it’s time for bed.  I know your excited, but we’ll discuss all of this tomorrow, okay?”

I’m begining to twitch.  My husband hands me his leftover wine, which is probably the best timed life preserver, ever.

Ri comes over for a hug.  Still upset about the stuffed animal

“Mommmmmm, I want to give you another kiss.”  This, after 15 kisses already.

{No. More. Flippin. Kisses.}

*Kiss* “I love you Riley, and your kisses are like hugs from heaven, but you have GOT to go to bed now.”

*Whiny cry*

{Head smack.}

I climb over onto the bed and kiss her one more time, then….

“Mom, you didn’t give me as many kisses as you did to her.”

{Holy mother of God…}

*Smooch*  “Love you, baby.”

{Look at the clock…it’s 11!?!  WTF?!}

After coming to grips with the fact that I just lost an hour of my life, I read some Harry Potter, as per our usual.  Well, I think it was Harry Potter, but I kind of blacked out in a fit of overwhelmed annoyance that it could have easily been the HOA newsletter.  Either way, I slowly started hearing the sounds of heavier breathing.  My husband’s.  Ri’s.  And after a brief “read more!” from Sara, she finally conks out too.

{Yoohoo!!!  They’re asleep!  Now I finally get me time!  Here I come dvr!  Here I come twitter!  Here I….oh, no….wait a second….no, no, not now…..emmmm…effffffer………….

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.}

 

 

The Golden Retriever of my dreams

Posted January 9, 2012 Life 2 Comments

 

When I was a little lass of 5 or so, our family had a beautiful Golden Retriever named Ginger.  She was my best friend.  I thought she was my personal playmate.  I have distinct memories of dressing up in my most awesome solid gold dancer outfit (don’t be jealous) and riding her around the house as if she were a magestic horse.  She would try to buck me off and I would hold on for my life and get rewarded with a free ride to the kitchen.  It was the stuff of dreams.

 

This is Ginger. Well, not really, but this is what I remember her looking like.

 

Then, one horrible night, I remember hearing a loud crash outside of our house.

The door to the gate was left open.

Ginger was hit by a mac truck.

The only mac truck to ever go down Maple Leaf Drive.

Poor, poor, Ginger.

I’ve told many people about her.  It was a big story from my childhood.  The one thing that really stood out in my early years.  I told my husband all about it too.  One day he was talking to my Mom about it and told her how I said I rode the dog around the house.

Mom says, “No she didn’t.  Ginger was a little old mutt.”

Say whaaaaaaa?

 

This is not Ginger either, but this is probably much closer to the actual Ginger.

 

“Ginger was a dumb dog.  She wandered out of the back yard and into the street.”

Um, okay, just crush my childhood memories, mom.  I can take a dagger to the heart.  Really.

Apparently, there wasn’t even a mac truck involved.  Probably not even a pick-up truck.

Yeah.

See, the thing is, I have a really crappy memory.  Obviously.  All the memories I have of me in elementary school or younger come from photographs or what I’m told.  Maybe it was all the “fun” I had as a younger me.  Or maybe I get it naturally – I won’t throw anyone under the bus, but not everyone I love in my lineage has the best history of retention.

And it’s definitely not getting any better as I get older.  My brain has turned to swiss cheesy mush.  The other day, as we were running out the door I told the girls what they could buy for lunch that day.  We got in the car to take the 4 minute car trip and before we even get out of the neighborhood, I couldn’t remember for the life of me what I said.

“Wow Mom. Wow.” says Sara.  Riley is all like “Really? You can’t remember already?”

I know, right?  But, then at that exact moment I knew exactly where to place the blame for this sieve-like memory of mine.

Them.

The kids.

My children stole the last few remnants I had rattling around in my head.

(Shhh.  We are going to glaze over the fact that when I’ve had this issue All. My. Life.  And just run with the idea that this is simply the worse case of Mommy brain, ever.)

So there.  It’s there fault.  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

But, I’m sure if you ask me again about it tomorrow, I’ll have no freaking clue.

 

Bullheadedness

Posted January 5, 2012 Parenting 7 Comments

 

I go back and forth with my daughter often on how she isn’t always right about everything. Once a day, at a minimum I’d say.

It’s really freaking annoying, actually. The girl is as stubborn as the day is long. She could be disproved emphatically, yet will still never, ever, admit to it. Or, for that matter, even admit that there is a possibility that she may be wrong. It’s infuriating, to say the least.

Me: “Hey look, that cloud looks like a whale.”

Her: “No it doesn’t.”

Me: “Um, okay. It does to me.”

Her: “Your wrong. It’s a dolphin.”

 

Me: “The days are getting longer now!”

Her: “No they aren’t.”

Me: “Yeah, they actually are since it’s winter solstice.”

Her: “Yeah, but it’s still dark right now, so that’s what counts to me, so I don’t think it’s longer.”

 

Me: “The practice starts at 4.”

Her: “No it doesn’t.”

Me: “Yeah, it does, it’s on the calendar.”

Her: “But it usually starts at 5, and Jenny told me it starts at 5.”

Me: “Okay, but they sent me a paper that said it starts at 4 today.”

Her: “But it doesn’t start at 4. It starts at 5. You’re wrong.”

 

Me: “The sky is blue.”

Her: “It’s not at all blue. It’s actually sky blue.”

 

Grrrrrraaaaaahhhhhh!!

You get the point, right? Pretty much: I say something, she disagrees, then I’m left wanting to scream into pillows because she is only 9 and I know that I have a long, long, long, looooooong ways to go before I can finally start being right again. (My Mom wasn’t “right” until I was about 20 or so. So sorry, Mom. I get it now. Thanks for not punching me in the face. I really appreciate that.)

Anyway, tonight we were helping her younger sister do a presentation on a folktale. Last night, after reading a few similar ones, we picked an African one about an elephant to help her with. The only probably was that some of the stories were blending together and we wanted to make sure the younger sister had her facts straight.

 

This is the Elephant. Do you see banana leaves?

 

Cut to older sister, “the story she choose ended with the elephant wrapping it’s trunk in banana leaves.”

I say, “No, it didn’t. That was the other elephant one.”

“Yes, it did.”

“No it didn’t.”

“No, Mom, it was this one.”

“No, Sara, it wasn’t.”

“Yes. It was.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t.”

“You’re wrong. It was.”

“OMG, Sara. Do you think that there’s a chance you could be wrong?”

“No. It was this one.”

“Okay!” (Something is slammed onto the counter, or my hands fly up in the air, or possibly both.) “You’re totally right. I’m totally wrong. Even though I was the one sitting at the computer, reading the story to you all and looking at it the whole time, I have no idea what I’m talking about. It ended with the banana leaves. You win.”

(My husband, at this point, interjects and reminds me how much I hate it when I give in this way. I want to do this in the heat of the moment, but later I regret it. It does nothing to make me feel better, and it lets her get away with bullheadedness and no lesson.)

“Okay, no, I take it back. You’re wrong Sara. And I’m going to pull it up right now and show you that you’re wrong. And when I do show you – that you’re wrong – you’re going to owe me an apology and going to have to admit that you are, in fact, sometimes wrong, and not right all the time.”

(All of that last bit was totally said through gritted teeth and with minimal breathing. Also: I have no idea how I did it with out cussing. Or, I did cuss, but at the time I was in such a blindingly hot rage of fury that I blacked out those parts. That sounds more likely.)

Then I slap open the laptop,

pull up the story,

zoom to the end….

 

Mother. Fucker.

 

“Um.

Yeah.

So,

you’re right.

He put banana leaves on his trunk.”

 

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I KNEW IT! DIDN’T I TELL YOU?! I KNEW IT WAS THIS STORY! I KNEW I WAS RIGHT!”

 

*Okay, God.

I hear you.

Thanks for the lesson.

Right now.

Great timing.

Really.

Thanks.

So flippin’ much.*

 

Instead of cursing to the heavens, I say, “Yep, I owe you an apology – and I will show you how it’s done. Sara: You were completely right and I was completely wrong. I am more than willing to sit here and swallow my pride and admit my mistake.”

“Hahahahaha….You’re totally in pain, Mom.”

You have no idea kid, no freaking idea at all.

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