My children have been blessed with a mother who would allow herself to enter a seedy motel room, be put under with an anesthetic from Mexico, and have her kidney put on ice in the bathtub to be sold on the black market if it meant they could eat. However, they also have a mother who makes countless mistakes. I try really hard to be Super Mom, but I continue, daily, to fail miserably. I think with each child we get better, but unless you plan on having 100 kids, you will never be perfect. First born children aren't born Type A, they're made to be that way because we as parents fall short so deplorably they end up having to fend for themselves. My list of inadequacies far outweighs my list of attributes. That isn't to say I don't learn and grow as I go, but the debacles that have ensued due to my blunders are embarrassing, sometimes terrifying, and always humbling.
When my son was two months old, I was invited to a water park with another mom with a child several months older than mine. I was told repeatedly that he was far to young to drag to an amusement park, and that, of course, further fueled my stubborn streak, and I dug in my heels and proceeded to pack my bags. We spent the entire day there, and several things happened. My bathing suit didn't fit (shocker! Your body is weird after only two months post-partum...OK, it's weird 24 months post-partum), I had nip-slip after nip-slip, and lastly, and most horribly, I forgot to re-apply my son's sunscreen and at the tender age of 8 weeks old I had given him a sunburn that left his poor little nose shiny and red and grotesquely bacon-like. I tried to play it off on his Italian dark-skin heritage, but I don't know any Italian's who resemble Rudolph.
Another time, too recent for comfort, I rubbed his baby lotion in all over right before bed, and didn't pay the slightest bit of attention to what I was doing. My favorite show was playing downstairs and I wanted to hustle through bedtime routine to see what happened next. Well, without realizing it, I had created my own little drama. I had mistakenly rubbed BenGay all over his skin, and it turned purple and splotchy, and he screamed like a vampire in the sun. I threw him in the bathtub and spun the nozzle to turn on the shower and rinse it as quickly as possible. Apparently children under the age of 12 are not to use BenGay without the advice and direction of their pediatrician and yet I had slathered it all over the poor darling.
Sadly my myriad of mistakes doesn't end there. One time I fed him too large of a bite on which he choked, gagged and projectile vomited onto the dog's head. At another point, my son was playing in the sandbox and shoveled a whopping handful of the stuff into his mouth and swallowed. I turned my back for all of six seconds! Granted, it was to re-apply my tanning oil, but still... For three weeks after I had to diligently dig through his poop on the look-out for pinworms. It possibly was one of the worst mistakes to date.
I try to follow the book, the advice columns and the motherly wisdom of family matriarchs, but sometimes I diverge from the norm and create my own rules. When my son was at an age where he could be fed pureed food, I couldn't for the life of my get him to use a spoon, and I hate messes. So what did I do? I put the baby food in his bottle, cut the nipple tip off and fed him that way. Seems so clever, doesn't it? Well, it isn't. It was a wretched idea. It took that much longer to teach him to use utensils, and to this day at two years old, he still has trouble with silverware.
The point I'm making in revealing all these mortifying motherly blunders is this: not a single person is perfect. We as parents grow and learn right along beside our children. I was so hard on myself for so long, and now with my daughter, I allow her to suck on her binkie, and if that isn't available, sometimes matches and knives. I'm totally kidding CPS! I really am though much more lenient on myself. My kids are alive, they're healthy and most importantly they're happy. They'll never remember you dropping them in the bathtub, or forgetting them outside the changing room at Target. What they'll remember is a mom who loved them more than herself. Try and forget the mistakes, and remind yourself of the things you would do for them. That's what matters. And I promise, in as little as a few weeks time, it will be a hilarious tale, and not a shameful error. If you can't laugh at yourself, you're in for a long haul. Smile, and think about that motel room. You (WE!) are good parents. :)
Monday, March 31, 2014
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Paint the Town Red
It is a very rare occasion indeed for my husband and I to be spotted out on the town, painting it red. There is however, a blue moon now and then and sometimes the stars will align just right for us to have a night to ourselves and a baby sitter willing to watch the kids. Last night was one of those nights. We got our hands on some free tickets to a basketball game in our hometown from my brother and sister in-law, and not only were they free, they were VIP. I should've known what I was getting myself into, but I went not even knowing the basketball team's name, so it is of little surprise things went the way they did. I was allotted exactly 6 minutes and 45 seconds to get ready from the kids, so I wore jeans and a hoody and wore my hair in a messy bun, and of course I ran into everyone I have ever known. They were dressed to the nines, and I was in my dumpy "mom uniform". As usual, I was embarrassed, but I boldly carried on, not willing to let my fashion faux pas ruin my evening away from the heathens.
The VIP section was set up like a small cafe. We had a small high-top table to ourselves, with a very important "RESERVED" sign placed on it. While I was thrilled to have space to set my 700 pound purse on, what I didn't realize was that we would be on display for the entire arena, like animals at a zoo. I began to neurotically check every three seconds that my underwear was safely underneath my jeans, and every bite of food I took I was convinced was chewed and swallowed like the cud of a cow. Being VIP meant free food and free drinks also. My hubby was so excited for an alcoholic beverage he took a swig of my brother-in-law's beer accidentally, totally losing control, with nothing but the thought on his mind that he hasn't been allowed beer in public for 2 years. I was starting to realize being out with him was nearly as embarrassing as being at the grocery store with the kids.
When we arrived at our little table, he began to obsess over the fact that it was wobbly. He wasn't going to let it interfere with his good time however, and quickly balled up the paper container our popcorn was in and shoved it underneath the short leg. So handy, he is! After that little stunt, I began taking notes into my phone for this very blog, every time he did something bizarre. He caught me, so for fun, I started to pretend document something every action he took. I think it made him uncomfortable, which was nothing compared the discomfort I felt when he decided to make a scene with the bartender. He came back to our table after a "beer-run" triumphantly describing how he had told the girl who poured his beer he wasn't going to tip her, because the time before that she hadn't smiled or said thank you when he did. Little did I know, not only was he handy, my husband was a true advocate of etiquette!
All that politeness was forgotten though, shortly after the cheerleaders arrived on the scene, twerking on court in their underwear. Where are these girls mothers, and excuse me for not clapping, I don't cheer for girls sixteen pounds thinner than me, I just don't. My husband didn't seem to share my views on the matter. For some reason, he thoroughly enjoyed their half-time strip tease. Also on the line-up for entertainment was the team mascot. He was a gigantic, furry mammal of some sort, and when he was air-humping the table beside us, I noticed his T-shirt said, "Child Abuse Is Preventable." Ok then, pedophile, whatever you say!
At our neighboring table sat two brothers my husband and I know, and they were a riot. They were loud, drunk, and hilarious. They built a tower out of their emptied beer cups, and everyone that passed either openly or covertly snapped a picture of it. While they cheered and hollered, my husband did as well, specifically for #44, a giant of a man he loudly referred to as "Big Whitey". Sadly, that actually isn't the weirdest thing he's ever uttered in public. Not even close. We won the game, though, and on our way out, we stopped and perused the souvenir shop. The goal was to buy our son a foam pointer finger, and we left with buyer's remorse and 55 dollars worth of merchandise. Apparently, even a night without them ends in presents for them.
On our way home, we received an ominous text from my mother in-law asking, simply, "Is it OK if your son doesn't get a bath tonight?" It was an hour past bedtime, and we weren't sure what that meant. We called her phone, to which we got no reply. When we arrived at the house, both kids were still up, unbathed and our son was playing with his toys. My husband's mother is far from being green in the area of child-rearing, so for her to have unsuccessfully gotten the kids in the bath and into bed, meant that my heathens were as bad as I suspected. I verbalized my shock at their behavior, and in a true grandmotherly fashion she swore it was no trouble at all, and that she loved every second of it. That's because you get to go home now, lady!
So we didn't have a night out in the way that we used to, so my husband is embarrassing and weird, and my kids didn't do what they were supposed to. I still got to leave the house, Tony got to drink some beers, we were able to hang out with the in-laws, whom we love dearly, and the kids got to play Gramma like a fiddle, who pretended not to notice and loved every minute of it. I would say the night ended as a success, and as a bonus, our team made the winning touch-down! Or is it field goal? Basket? Whatever the term, everyone was a winner that night!
The VIP section was set up like a small cafe. We had a small high-top table to ourselves, with a very important "RESERVED" sign placed on it. While I was thrilled to have space to set my 700 pound purse on, what I didn't realize was that we would be on display for the entire arena, like animals at a zoo. I began to neurotically check every three seconds that my underwear was safely underneath my jeans, and every bite of food I took I was convinced was chewed and swallowed like the cud of a cow. Being VIP meant free food and free drinks also. My hubby was so excited for an alcoholic beverage he took a swig of my brother-in-law's beer accidentally, totally losing control, with nothing but the thought on his mind that he hasn't been allowed beer in public for 2 years. I was starting to realize being out with him was nearly as embarrassing as being at the grocery store with the kids.
When we arrived at our little table, he began to obsess over the fact that it was wobbly. He wasn't going to let it interfere with his good time however, and quickly balled up the paper container our popcorn was in and shoved it underneath the short leg. So handy, he is! After that little stunt, I began taking notes into my phone for this very blog, every time he did something bizarre. He caught me, so for fun, I started to pretend document something every action he took. I think it made him uncomfortable, which was nothing compared the discomfort I felt when he decided to make a scene with the bartender. He came back to our table after a "beer-run" triumphantly describing how he had told the girl who poured his beer he wasn't going to tip her, because the time before that she hadn't smiled or said thank you when he did. Little did I know, not only was he handy, my husband was a true advocate of etiquette!
All that politeness was forgotten though, shortly after the cheerleaders arrived on the scene, twerking on court in their underwear. Where are these girls mothers, and excuse me for not clapping, I don't cheer for girls sixteen pounds thinner than me, I just don't. My husband didn't seem to share my views on the matter. For some reason, he thoroughly enjoyed their half-time strip tease. Also on the line-up for entertainment was the team mascot. He was a gigantic, furry mammal of some sort, and when he was air-humping the table beside us, I noticed his T-shirt said, "Child Abuse Is Preventable." Ok then, pedophile, whatever you say!
At our neighboring table sat two brothers my husband and I know, and they were a riot. They were loud, drunk, and hilarious. They built a tower out of their emptied beer cups, and everyone that passed either openly or covertly snapped a picture of it. While they cheered and hollered, my husband did as well, specifically for #44, a giant of a man he loudly referred to as "Big Whitey". Sadly, that actually isn't the weirdest thing he's ever uttered in public. Not even close. We won the game, though, and on our way out, we stopped and perused the souvenir shop. The goal was to buy our son a foam pointer finger, and we left with buyer's remorse and 55 dollars worth of merchandise. Apparently, even a night without them ends in presents for them.
On our way home, we received an ominous text from my mother in-law asking, simply, "Is it OK if your son doesn't get a bath tonight?" It was an hour past bedtime, and we weren't sure what that meant. We called her phone, to which we got no reply. When we arrived at the house, both kids were still up, unbathed and our son was playing with his toys. My husband's mother is far from being green in the area of child-rearing, so for her to have unsuccessfully gotten the kids in the bath and into bed, meant that my heathens were as bad as I suspected. I verbalized my shock at their behavior, and in a true grandmotherly fashion she swore it was no trouble at all, and that she loved every second of it. That's because you get to go home now, lady!
So we didn't have a night out in the way that we used to, so my husband is embarrassing and weird, and my kids didn't do what they were supposed to. I still got to leave the house, Tony got to drink some beers, we were able to hang out with the in-laws, whom we love dearly, and the kids got to play Gramma like a fiddle, who pretended not to notice and loved every minute of it. I would say the night ended as a success, and as a bonus, our team made the winning touch-down! Or is it field goal? Basket? Whatever the term, everyone was a winner that night!
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Hustle and Flow.
The definition of a hustler is a stay-at-home-mom. We are the ultimate multi-taskers and we are bitter we don't get paid for it. Maid services, a laundress, nurses, entertainers, cooks, and teachers are all moms for hire. Society tells us it's not a job unless you clock in somewhere, so to compensate we do things like sell crafts on etsy.com. The problem is our ACTUAL job is so daunting, time consuming and HARD we get side-tracked from the hustle and become severe sufferers of ADHD. We tell everyone we've started a beaded bracelet company and when our darling angels get their hands on the kit and eat all the green beads mistaking them for M&M's we quit. The next week you'll find us advertising our beef curing business, (it's all natural!). We clip coupons, we offer to watch the kids who belong to moms who have "real" jobs, I've even cleaned apartments for the realty company my husband works for...I've become a bleach and Windex expert, I may as well make a couple bucks doing it.
I have been asked multiple times what I do all day, and worse, single women with no kids tell me they wish they could do what I do all day ie: watch their soaps and eat bonbons all day in a bath robe. While I might wear a bath robe all day, I certainly am not on a forever vacation. We are made to feel small, and we are made to feel like hard work is defined by a paycheck. Sisters, please don't buy into this myth. You are doing something no other human on Earth can do. You are a people company. You make them, and perfect them for market. Your "product", when finished, cures diseases, becomes President, runs businesses, and becomes pilots and engineers.You don't get a paycheck bi-weekly, but this is your life's work! The world literally can't go on without what we do. Not to mention the job security your career offers. Your babies will ALWAYS need their mommy. You don't have a retirement plan that ends in a time-share in Florida, but you will someday see your children have children and from what my mom tells me, there is no greater joy than grand babies.
I would never fault anyone for bettering themselves, and money makes the world go 'round, but what needs to be understood is what you do now is enough. It is more than enough. You don't need to prove anything to anyone. Your children being alive and breathing everyday are testament enough to what you do. I would never turn down extra cash, and I will continue to hustle from home, but I am doing it now because I want to, not because I feel I have to. Not because someone has made me feel like not getting paid means I'm not pulling my weight. Keep up the good work ladies! You make me proud. You are giving your children a rare blessing, and don't stop selling your baby headbands, but do it because you enjoy it, not because you feel like you need some kind of "real" job. What we do everyday is the most important career of all.
I have been asked multiple times what I do all day, and worse, single women with no kids tell me they wish they could do what I do all day ie: watch their soaps and eat bonbons all day in a bath robe. While I might wear a bath robe all day, I certainly am not on a forever vacation. We are made to feel small, and we are made to feel like hard work is defined by a paycheck. Sisters, please don't buy into this myth. You are doing something no other human on Earth can do. You are a people company. You make them, and perfect them for market. Your "product", when finished, cures diseases, becomes President, runs businesses, and becomes pilots and engineers.You don't get a paycheck bi-weekly, but this is your life's work! The world literally can't go on without what we do. Not to mention the job security your career offers. Your babies will ALWAYS need their mommy. You don't have a retirement plan that ends in a time-share in Florida, but you will someday see your children have children and from what my mom tells me, there is no greater joy than grand babies.
I would never fault anyone for bettering themselves, and money makes the world go 'round, but what needs to be understood is what you do now is enough. It is more than enough. You don't need to prove anything to anyone. Your children being alive and breathing everyday are testament enough to what you do. I would never turn down extra cash, and I will continue to hustle from home, but I am doing it now because I want to, not because I feel I have to. Not because someone has made me feel like not getting paid means I'm not pulling my weight. Keep up the good work ladies! You make me proud. You are giving your children a rare blessing, and don't stop selling your baby headbands, but do it because you enjoy it, not because you feel like you need some kind of "real" job. What we do everyday is the most important career of all.
Monday, March 24, 2014
Excuses, Excuses
People have wondered about me, not out loud of course, still wearing pajamas at 2 pm. I see the judgement in their eyes. I am here to explain myself! Every morning I am awoken by what sounds like a Middle Eastern wedding celebration. Ululation is what the sound is called and my son imitates it perfectly at the top of his voice. This starts at seven in the morning, which for me, is the end of my two hour nap, because at five I was slopping around the kitchen making bottles. I get up off the couch where I've been sleeping for the past two months, and go upstairs to get the monster from his crib. He has taken everything he had in bed with him and thrown it all over his bedroom, and I gather it and toss it haphazardly back inside. Once in the kitchen I am sous chef to his demanding breakfast expectations. He is two years old and wants French truffles in his scrambled eggs that I've collected myself. Seriously though, two eggs, two slices of cheese, scrambled to a perfect consistency, much like a cloud, and a pastel yellow color. I serve The King his feast, and empty an entire bottle of ketchup over the meal I painstakingly prepared, all but ruining it. He is happy however, and isn't crying...yet. I then make yet another bottle for what seems to be the hundredth time since midnight the night before and give it to my daughter. I use pillows to prop it up, look ma, no hands, because feeding her is boring, and so far what I have described is so stimulating, I can't bare to miss a second of it. While everyone eats I unload the dish washer from dinner the night before, and immediately fill it back up with dishes from breakfast and middle-of-the-night snacks I don't remember eating or making.
I use the kids eating time as a good twelve minutes of time to get things done....just kidding, I always waste it every single morning. I browse Facebook, make some witty comments, "like" a picture of some kid, Instagram the picture I snapped of the baby, and YouTube songs I then proceed to sing to my son. (Usually Disney) While frittering away my precious seconds of freedom, my dog's bladder explodes and she goes all over the carpet. I yell at her for not reminding me she had to pee and adding to my work load. She looks at me like, "desperate times, mom, desperate measures." SIGH. At this point my son has finished eating and is smearing ketchup all over his face, hair and chest, and the baby is crying because she spit her half-eaten bottle out five minutes ago and it leaked all over her. I go through cleaning everyone up, burping babies, changing diapers, and hosing down the high chair...blah, blah, BLAH...boring, tedious, mind-numbing. Next up on my agenda, however, spares me an entire half hour to do with as I want. Bubble Guppies. The songs are like nails on a chalkboard, but my son adores them, and will sit through the whole show, entranced. I write a few thank-you notes because I am a stickler about manners, which is ironic because my son has ZERO, finally chug some luke-warm coffee I made at 4:30 and forgot about til now, and run down to the basement to do laundry.
Doing laundry for me consists of throwing any and all colors at once into the washer, and folding cold clothes from the dryer that have been molding since 2011, becoming overwhelmed and quitting.Those with live-in maids are the only people who use their dressers and closets anyways. We live out of laundry baskets here. I wonder if I bought baskets to match everyone's respective bedroom would it be less tacky? While I'm in the basement musing over matching household items I dig around in the freezer for a roast to toss into the crock-pot. In the off chance I have visitors, they'll walk into the house, greeted by the aroma of home-cooking and will be fooled into thinking I have my sh*t together. As Bubble Guppies comes to a close, I vacuum the entire downstairs, like I do EVERY SINGLE DAY, and steam clean the linoleum. I don't live by the mantra, "sticky floors, happy kids" or whatever the heck, because E. Coli doesn't make anyone happy. My son is a vagabond and eats off said floor, so I am fastidious about it. I happen to glance at the clock on the microwave and a wave of relief rushes over me. Two words: nap time. I have been counting down the milliseconds for this moment since the literal crack of dawn! I dash around putting everyone to sleep and when the house is silent I fling myself onto the couch. The Hallelujah Chorus plays softly in my head as I drift off... As I wake from my nap, there is a knock on the door...it's 2 pm and I am still wearing pajamas....
I use the kids eating time as a good twelve minutes of time to get things done....just kidding, I always waste it every single morning. I browse Facebook, make some witty comments, "like" a picture of some kid, Instagram the picture I snapped of the baby, and YouTube songs I then proceed to sing to my son. (Usually Disney) While frittering away my precious seconds of freedom, my dog's bladder explodes and she goes all over the carpet. I yell at her for not reminding me she had to pee and adding to my work load. She looks at me like, "desperate times, mom, desperate measures." SIGH. At this point my son has finished eating and is smearing ketchup all over his face, hair and chest, and the baby is crying because she spit her half-eaten bottle out five minutes ago and it leaked all over her. I go through cleaning everyone up, burping babies, changing diapers, and hosing down the high chair...blah, blah, BLAH...boring, tedious, mind-numbing. Next up on my agenda, however, spares me an entire half hour to do with as I want. Bubble Guppies. The songs are like nails on a chalkboard, but my son adores them, and will sit through the whole show, entranced. I write a few thank-you notes because I am a stickler about manners, which is ironic because my son has ZERO, finally chug some luke-warm coffee I made at 4:30 and forgot about til now, and run down to the basement to do laundry.
Doing laundry for me consists of throwing any and all colors at once into the washer, and folding cold clothes from the dryer that have been molding since 2011, becoming overwhelmed and quitting.Those with live-in maids are the only people who use their dressers and closets anyways. We live out of laundry baskets here. I wonder if I bought baskets to match everyone's respective bedroom would it be less tacky? While I'm in the basement musing over matching household items I dig around in the freezer for a roast to toss into the crock-pot. In the off chance I have visitors, they'll walk into the house, greeted by the aroma of home-cooking and will be fooled into thinking I have my sh*t together. As Bubble Guppies comes to a close, I vacuum the entire downstairs, like I do EVERY SINGLE DAY, and steam clean the linoleum. I don't live by the mantra, "sticky floors, happy kids" or whatever the heck, because E. Coli doesn't make anyone happy. My son is a vagabond and eats off said floor, so I am fastidious about it. I happen to glance at the clock on the microwave and a wave of relief rushes over me. Two words: nap time. I have been counting down the milliseconds for this moment since the literal crack of dawn! I dash around putting everyone to sleep and when the house is silent I fling myself onto the couch. The Hallelujah Chorus plays softly in my head as I drift off... As I wake from my nap, there is a knock on the door...it's 2 pm and I am still wearing pajamas....
Sunday, March 23, 2014
Weepy Glees.
Many things inspire me. Usually my own experiences and family, but I was recently touched by several things I have seen posted on my Facebook. A friend's March of Dimes fundraiser in honor of her son being born premature, another struggling with infertility and yet another who recently had to deal with a miscarriage. I don't always make a joke of things and wrote this for a baby who never saw it's parent's faces. Here is my attempt at poetry:
You lived a lifetime, if only in my imagination.
You graduated, got married, took a job, and went on vacation.
I may not have kissed your boo-boos, I never held your hand,
but you are my songbird in Spring, my feet in warm sand.
I envisioned you having daddy's nose, and his hair color too,
and you had my chin, and your eyes would've been blue.
When I found out about you, I told your gramma and she cried,
your daddy was in shock, he almost died!
I knew I wanted you though, I had no fear,
I watched you grow daily, hands on my tummy in front of the mirror.
I wanted to teach you about life, I wanted to sing you lullabies,
But you left as soon as you came, and I ask myself why?
Was it something I did? Could I have changed things at all?
Did I wish too hard to hear you giggle, to see you crawl?
I sometimes wonder late at night what is wrong with me,
to have made you leave. Was I not a good mommy?
But I realize now, what happened is best,
you lived forever in my mind, just like the rest,
and the memories are short, and the pain is long,
but I loved you little one, and I wrote you this song.
God must have needed an angel so small,
and taking you wasn't a result of one of my flaws.
You live on in my heart, and you've warmed a spot
for a brother or sister, who now have a shot.
So thank you for that, and someday I will see you,
and you'll be more beautiful than imagined, I know this is true.
God Bless the parents whose children left before they came,
who were loved so deeply, but never had a name.
I must be feeling sentimental today! I am the nostalgic Dr. Seuss. ( See, I can't do anything sappy without using a joke to deflect my embarrassment...it's a disease...ha!)
You lived a lifetime, if only in my imagination.
You graduated, got married, took a job, and went on vacation.
I may not have kissed your boo-boos, I never held your hand,
but you are my songbird in Spring, my feet in warm sand.
I envisioned you having daddy's nose, and his hair color too,
and you had my chin, and your eyes would've been blue.
When I found out about you, I told your gramma and she cried,
your daddy was in shock, he almost died!
I knew I wanted you though, I had no fear,
I watched you grow daily, hands on my tummy in front of the mirror.
I wanted to teach you about life, I wanted to sing you lullabies,
But you left as soon as you came, and I ask myself why?
Was it something I did? Could I have changed things at all?
Did I wish too hard to hear you giggle, to see you crawl?
I sometimes wonder late at night what is wrong with me,
to have made you leave. Was I not a good mommy?
But I realize now, what happened is best,
you lived forever in my mind, just like the rest,
and the memories are short, and the pain is long,
but I loved you little one, and I wrote you this song.
God must have needed an angel so small,
and taking you wasn't a result of one of my flaws.
You live on in my heart, and you've warmed a spot
for a brother or sister, who now have a shot.
So thank you for that, and someday I will see you,
and you'll be more beautiful than imagined, I know this is true.
God Bless the parents whose children left before they came,
who were loved so deeply, but never had a name.
I must be feeling sentimental today! I am the nostalgic Dr. Seuss. ( See, I can't do anything sappy without using a joke to deflect my embarrassment...it's a disease...ha!)
It's a Nice Day for a White (trash) Wedding...
I've been married now for a little less than a month, and I figure that makes me an expert on marriage and relationships now. My husband and I met at a bar, and most anything you read will tell you that is no place to meet your soul-mate, but in our defense, we weren't patrons, we were employees. It was two months before my twenty-second birthday and I was working the beer tub and selling jell-o shots off a tray, and he was bar-backing and bar-tending.That was almost four years, two residences, a dog, and two kids ago. We have been through good times and bad, and I don't mean bad times like small arguments that led to him sleeping on the couch, ( aweeeee shucks!). I mean Earth shattering, knock down, drag out fights. One time for example, we were fighting so bad we were calling each other every name in the book and Tony was standing at the front door with various knick-knacks from around the house I took pride in and was throwing them onto the front lawn. If you think the walk of shame is the morning after a one-night-stand, you're wrong. The walk of shame is gathering your dew-covered belongings up the morning after the biggest white trash fight the neighborhood has ever seen while the cul-de-sac drinks coffee and watches, while pretending to get the newspaper. We have chased each other around the house threatening impending death and one time I took a lamp and used it to smash a hole into the wall. The idea of marriage is actually quite absurd. Two people from opposite sides of the tracks move into and share a living space and everyone wipes their hands free of them and they're on their own to figure it out. You don't remember the early years of your parents relationship, because you were very young or weren't born. You wonder why you and your husband don't emulate your own parent's perfect relationship, and that's because they had white trash nights to get them to where they are now too.
I think we are all given a "honey-moon" stage to use as a reminder. When you want to give up, and move on, you can remind yourself of the early years when everything your partner did was charming, and cute. I remember thinking when I first met my husband how cool it was he used a rubber-band around his money and cards instead of a wallet. Now, of course, we argue about it, because when I steal money he can tell. I don't wrap it back up the same way he does. Another time I cleaned his entire apartment and he told me that action told him I was wife-material. Little did he know I simply have Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder (self-diagnosed, I'm a hypochondriac. Also self-diagnosed). Those memories though, get us through the speed bumps, or in our case in the highway of life, we have entire bridges that are under construction and Tony and I try to ramp them anyways, regardless of the caution signs.
Having children outside of marriage is deeply frowned upon because of obvious religious and moral reasons. I think a huge part of being told to avoid it, is because no blushing bride wants to get ready for her wedding with a toddler and a newborn in tow. Getting married after children is similar to a Barnum and Bailey act. I wanted the day we received our marriage license to be a happy memory, one I would never forget. Half of my wish came true, I won't ever forget the Probate office that housed humans with more tattoos than teeth, the blow-out Tony and I got into at the car wash that day, and both kids hollering like banshees in the backseat. To be honest, I wouldn't have it any other way. Our fights, our crazy kids, the good times and the bad, have molded us into who we are today, and while we took things slow and did things backwards, we are stronger now than we would've been without. We might still argue, but we are inexplicably on each other's team. We might think our kids are out of control, but we love them until our hearts explode, and we might be new to this marriage thing, but we certainly aren't new to sticking it out and staying together 'til death and all that...
I think we are all given a "honey-moon" stage to use as a reminder. When you want to give up, and move on, you can remind yourself of the early years when everything your partner did was charming, and cute. I remember thinking when I first met my husband how cool it was he used a rubber-band around his money and cards instead of a wallet. Now, of course, we argue about it, because when I steal money he can tell. I don't wrap it back up the same way he does. Another time I cleaned his entire apartment and he told me that action told him I was wife-material. Little did he know I simply have Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder (self-diagnosed, I'm a hypochondriac. Also self-diagnosed). Those memories though, get us through the speed bumps, or in our case in the highway of life, we have entire bridges that are under construction and Tony and I try to ramp them anyways, regardless of the caution signs.
Having children outside of marriage is deeply frowned upon because of obvious religious and moral reasons. I think a huge part of being told to avoid it, is because no blushing bride wants to get ready for her wedding with a toddler and a newborn in tow. Getting married after children is similar to a Barnum and Bailey act. I wanted the day we received our marriage license to be a happy memory, one I would never forget. Half of my wish came true, I won't ever forget the Probate office that housed humans with more tattoos than teeth, the blow-out Tony and I got into at the car wash that day, and both kids hollering like banshees in the backseat. To be honest, I wouldn't have it any other way. Our fights, our crazy kids, the good times and the bad, have molded us into who we are today, and while we took things slow and did things backwards, we are stronger now than we would've been without. We might still argue, but we are inexplicably on each other's team. We might think our kids are out of control, but we love them until our hearts explode, and we might be new to this marriage thing, but we certainly aren't new to sticking it out and staying together 'til death and all that...
Thursday, March 20, 2014
THE List.
I have come up with a list of various and sundry things you may want to be aware of before you have children. Some or all you may have already heard, but it doesn't hurt to reiterate. They are listed below in no certain order.
- Don't register for a 500 dollar breast pump and all the accouterments that come with. Contrary to what Breast Milk Nazi's will have you believe some women just CANNOT nurse and if that happens to be you, what are you going to do with 25 collection bottles, 14 freezer bags, pumps and nozzles and nursing bras and your "Breast Friend" two weeks later? I certainly won't purchase a used boob juice kit. Buy things as you need them.
- Baby toenail clippers are so cute and miniature, but they're still torture devices nonetheless. I have learned it is safer to just use your teeth. If you think that's gross, remind yourself where the kid came from. Spitting out their nails onto the carpet is better than cleaning out a fingertip from your clippers.
- Don't have a baby to save your relationship. A screaming newborn at 4 am will rip it to shreds. If you don't have a foundation, you're just two exhausted people forced into a small space with no sleep and a baby who won't stop crying. There is nothing more ugly than a partner who is sleeping soundly whilst you run the feeding marathon. Make the bottle, warm the bottle, feed the baby, burp her, re-swaddle her and hope she stays asleep having done the exact same thing two hours prior. You will begin to loathe everything about your partners REM cycle if you aren't getting one yourself.
- You will think you're going into labor three times before you actually do. It's a sad combination of anxiety, wishful thinking and Braxton Hicks. The nurses WILL make fun of you. Oh well.
- Roll your eyes at Gramma all you want, nothing else works on a teething baby like whiskey on the gums.
- Instead of registering for the package of 10 brightly colored, orthodontic approved binkies with cute sayings on them like "ladies man", "my mom is hot", and "fart box" or whatever, register for a Kuerig. Kid's will only take the ones they give you at the hospital anyways, and when you are stumping around the house with one eye literally closed, you won't want to wait on a whole pot to brew. You want a cup, and you want it NOW!
- After you have a baby, your teeth rot and fall out of your head. Everyone knows about stretch marks and extra baby weight, and some even know about the alopecia, but no one mentions the fact your dental health goes on a steep decline. The parasite in your womb steals all your calcium and you end up with more cavities and demineralization and worst of all, ultra sensitivity.
- If you thought girls judged you on that dress you wore out for New Year's Eve, try joining a mom's group and whipping out a bottle of formula. Women are even more petty and catty after they have kids. You lost all your weight? You didn't lose it? You vaccinate? You spank your kid? Everything is a topic of malicious conversation when you've left the room to nurse your baby. You won't find a more judgmental group of women than those with children, because now not only are they better than you, but their kids are too.
- Walking around with a rag over your shoulder is inconvenient. Just know from birth to about 6 months you will be covered in spit-up. Embrace it and wear it with pride. Why add to your already towering pile of laundry? And for the record, breast milk spit-up doesn't smell.
- Speaking of laundry, buy yourself some Dreft. You don't HAVE to use it, but if you don't your kid will break out and look like a leper. The Mom Group will discuss it at Starbucks. Trust me.
- When you have baby fever all babies are cute. Once you have a baby, yours is a special gift from God sent to Earth for all mankind to enjoy. Just remember everyone thinks that. And if you don't want other parents to hate you, keep the bragging to a minimum. Sticking their entire fist in their mouth doesn't indicate genius by any means. You kid is probably hungry. A-hole.
- The mama bear instinct is real. Rawr!
- Childproof cupboard locks are expensive. Rubber-bands work just as well and double as a homemade banjo for the musical prodigy.
- As long as it isn't terminal you will secretly love when Junior is sick. They want to cuddle, they're sweet little angels and they sleep all day.
- If you pretend you wish you had the entire jar of baby food squash all to yourself, your kid will eat it all because they love to steal anything that brings you joy.
- Before kids, you might rebuke any and all behavior that reminds you of your mother. Religion for example. After kids, you become her and who is playing Mary and Joseph in the nativity play at church? Your two heathens.
- Cosmo might try to tell you that even though you're a mother, you are an individual with a life outside of children. WRONG. Every decision, action, outfit, meal, and event you participate in will be done with your kids in mind.
- You need unlimited texting, because after kids, phone calls are a thing of the past. Phone calls are when they decide jumping off the roof is a good idea.
- Check the Sex offender registry in your area. You gotta stay creepier than the creeps! You will be shocked at the results.
- Last but not least, you know how that first shower feels after being homeless for 11 weeks? Neither do I, but I assume that feeling of euphoria can be compared to a bath, alone, in an empty and quiet bathroom. Take as many as you can.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Patience
They say patience is a virtue, and I would say I am a fairly virtuous being, but patience isn't on my resume. I recently told my husband I planned to show more when it comes to my two year old, because I lose it with him more often than I care to admit. Not a day later, he came home from work through the basement entrance to find my son and I in a heated game of Tug-O-War with a full laundry basket. The monster wanted to take the basket and dump it after I had spent a tedious hour filling it with ant clothes. It was actually my two month old daughter's basket and folding infant clothes is like doing origami with confetti. I was yelling at him to let go because surprisingly his death grip is more difficult to break than pulling Excalibur from the stone. My husband pointed out that children don't have fully developed brains and the part that controls maturity, good judgement and self-control is most likely the size of a pea. And he catches us fighting like siblings over a laundry basket. My judgement control center in my brain must also be the size of a pea, and don't ask me where it's located because if it filled the forehead area of my cranium, we know it would be more comparable to three fully ripened grapefruits.
My son is actually a loving, sweet and wonderful darling. He just happens to be cut from the same cloth as me, and we clash several times throughout the day. He, on top of all his good attributes, is stubborn, temperamental, and you guessed it, impatient. The other day he was playing with his 5,821 thousand Legos and out of no where lost it. He can't quite talk yet, but through my supreme deduction skills I learned that he NEEDED the Lego that can be attached to the Lego truck. This specific Lego has been lost to the Bermuda Triangle since August, also known as the couch, and would be more difficult to locate than a plane from Malaysia. (Too soon?) They say kids have a very short attention span, so you can imagine my shock when I learned that once a child has a whim spawned in their heads there is very little you can do to change their minds. He threw a fit for 20 minutes over that Lego.
When things reach pandemonium level, I've been told to go outside for a quick .4 second breather. The problem with that is, when you come back inside, well-rested, level headed and relaxed, you find your daughter has pooped her pants and it has seeped through her onesie onto the couch. You also find that the older one has raided his father's work desk and has thrown a 100 dollar bill into the trashcan, has shredded an unknown document (remind me to move the shredder...seriously!) and has so considerately placed dog food all throughout the entire downstairs of your house. Scout should have easy access to her food at all times, right? In moments like these, I want to be left alone to chain smoke cigarettes, drink a glass of wine and peruse my Facebook. Instead, I hike up my skirts and get to work. Being a mother isn't easy. It isn't always fun. It's dirty and annoying and gross. But you will come to find that when you've changed the diaper and fed the baby she will coo and smile at you, and even though you've seen 500 babies do the exact same face, you are convinced this one is the most special child ever to have lived. And when you clean up the tornado-induced mess your toddler created and he grabs blocks and helps you, you will be positive this one is the smartest, most helpful, and caring child to grace this Earth. There are days when I want to give up and leave town, but it truly amazes me how the smallest of things like a baby cooing happily and a toddler learning to count can melt my heart and make me toss the train ticket.
My son is actually a loving, sweet and wonderful darling. He just happens to be cut from the same cloth as me, and we clash several times throughout the day. He, on top of all his good attributes, is stubborn, temperamental, and you guessed it, impatient. The other day he was playing with his 5,821 thousand Legos and out of no where lost it. He can't quite talk yet, but through my supreme deduction skills I learned that he NEEDED the Lego that can be attached to the Lego truck. This specific Lego has been lost to the Bermuda Triangle since August, also known as the couch, and would be more difficult to locate than a plane from Malaysia. (Too soon?) They say kids have a very short attention span, so you can imagine my shock when I learned that once a child has a whim spawned in their heads there is very little you can do to change their minds. He threw a fit for 20 minutes over that Lego.
When things reach pandemonium level, I've been told to go outside for a quick .4 second breather. The problem with that is, when you come back inside, well-rested, level headed and relaxed, you find your daughter has pooped her pants and it has seeped through her onesie onto the couch. You also find that the older one has raided his father's work desk and has thrown a 100 dollar bill into the trashcan, has shredded an unknown document (remind me to move the shredder...seriously!) and has so considerately placed dog food all throughout the entire downstairs of your house. Scout should have easy access to her food at all times, right? In moments like these, I want to be left alone to chain smoke cigarettes, drink a glass of wine and peruse my Facebook. Instead, I hike up my skirts and get to work. Being a mother isn't easy. It isn't always fun. It's dirty and annoying and gross. But you will come to find that when you've changed the diaper and fed the baby she will coo and smile at you, and even though you've seen 500 babies do the exact same face, you are convinced this one is the most special child ever to have lived. And when you clean up the tornado-induced mess your toddler created and he grabs blocks and helps you, you will be positive this one is the smartest, most helpful, and caring child to grace this Earth. There are days when I want to give up and leave town, but it truly amazes me how the smallest of things like a baby cooing happily and a toddler learning to count can melt my heart and make me toss the train ticket.
Monday, March 17, 2014
Every little girl has a dream. Some little girls cut their Barbie's hair and grow up wanting to work in a salon. Some girls grew up collecting countless stuffed animals in the hopes they would one day become a veterinarian. And others still covered their little brother in band-aids and ended up becoming nurses and doctors. I too had a dream. I dreamed of growing up and having big boobs. Did you read that right? Sadly, yes. For my entire middle school career and half of my high school career I stuffed my bra. I'm talking, half the Kleenex box jammed into a bra that was three sizes too big. I even stuffed my bathing suit and hoped to God no one could tell. Synchronized swimming is not an option when you are constantly checking to make sure the gross blob of soaked tissues isn't flopping out of your bikini. I don't know why I tried so hard to be "sexy", when I clearly wasn't cut out for it.
I have always been envious of the hair knots that are held together with a pencil. The girl pulls the pencil out and cascades of shiny, soft ringlets fall around her face and she shakes it out and it then lays perfectly down her back. You know what happens when I do that? Nothing. I rip the pencil out while also ripping out several hundred hairs from my scalp, and then nothing. My hair stays in the knot! I have to reach up and untie the mess I made with the ol' number two and rake my fingers through, and what happens next is nothing short of macabre. Hair that has been practically dread-locked is flying everywhere. It is NOT sexy.
I also have what some call a "five-head"...in other words, my forehead towers over my eyebrows. My mother affectionately deems it extra space for extra brains. I used to hate it. In fact, I used to hate a lot of things about myself. (Is this a lesson on positive body image?? SIIIGHHH....) I didn't feel the subject had been beaten to death quite enough. Truly though, instead of focusing on the fact I am not the sexy girl; I don't walk into a room and Pour Some Sugar On Me by Def Leppard starts playing as I move in slow motion to the bar. I embrace what I am instead. Smart, a good mother, funny. Ok, and I'm actually pretty cute.
Rather than focus on what I'm not, I have started focusing on what I am and because of it, I am a much happier person. I may not have Herbal Essence commercial-worthy hair, but I also don't have to worry about losing a boob due to a particularly violent cannon ball.I have learned to laugh at myself. And you can too. ( ...Did she mean laugh at ourselves so that this ends in a way that seems to have taught a valuable lesson on loving oneself, or did she mean we can laugh at her?) Take it how you want, but I hope for both.
I have always been envious of the hair knots that are held together with a pencil. The girl pulls the pencil out and cascades of shiny, soft ringlets fall around her face and she shakes it out and it then lays perfectly down her back. You know what happens when I do that? Nothing. I rip the pencil out while also ripping out several hundred hairs from my scalp, and then nothing. My hair stays in the knot! I have to reach up and untie the mess I made with the ol' number two and rake my fingers through, and what happens next is nothing short of macabre. Hair that has been practically dread-locked is flying everywhere. It is NOT sexy.
I also have what some call a "five-head"...in other words, my forehead towers over my eyebrows. My mother affectionately deems it extra space for extra brains. I used to hate it. In fact, I used to hate a lot of things about myself. (Is this a lesson on positive body image?? SIIIGHHH....) I didn't feel the subject had been beaten to death quite enough. Truly though, instead of focusing on the fact I am not the sexy girl; I don't walk into a room and Pour Some Sugar On Me by Def Leppard starts playing as I move in slow motion to the bar. I embrace what I am instead. Smart, a good mother, funny. Ok, and I'm actually pretty cute.
Rather than focus on what I'm not, I have started focusing on what I am and because of it, I am a much happier person. I may not have Herbal Essence commercial-worthy hair, but I also don't have to worry about losing a boob due to a particularly violent cannon ball.I have learned to laugh at myself. And you can too. ( ...Did she mean laugh at ourselves so that this ends in a way that seems to have taught a valuable lesson on loving oneself, or did she mean we can laugh at her?) Take it how you want, but I hope for both.
My main issue with starting a blog is that blogging is essentially the assumption that anyone gives a sh*t what you have to say, and that's embarrassing to openly assume that people want to know what you think. I'm just a 25 year old, semi-humorous, stay-at-home-mom of two with too much time on my hands and a penchant for social media. I have always tried too hard to be gut-splitting hilarious, and the second someone humors me with a chuckle, I take things too far. And now look at me, I'm writing a blog! I looked online "how to start a blog", and from what I read, you are to write about your passions, provide entertainment and perhaps, sometimes even advice. For the most part my passion is being a mother, but it is neither entertaining nor do I have advice for you. Scrubbing the floor and changing diapers isn't exactly an edge-of-your-seat, nail biting topic, and as far as advice goes, I hardly know what I am doing. So, it would seem that I will be documenting the mundane and taking poetic licenses for entertainment purposes only.
I have been accused of using extreme hyperbole in my story telling, which isn't a fair accusation at all. When your two year old arbitrarily uses ravioli covered in meat sauce for target practice against the white kitchen wall, maybe it wasn't LITERALLY 5 gallons worth of sauce splattered all over the floors, walls and kitchen window, but since I am the one cleaning it up, it certainly feels that way. And since I prefer creative writing, to the more rigid form of journalism, I will be writing about how I FEEL, and certain factual details may or may not be forgotten and/or exaggerated. For example, when I refer to my kids as "heathens", I don't mean it derogatorily. I just mean to say they annoy me incessantly even though I love them so much I would carve out my own heart for them. (Hyperbole...I can't even use Vi-sine in my eyeballs, much less cut my beating heart out.)
I have a lot more to learn as far as blogging goes, and we are all going to have to accept the fact that I've been given a free forum to spout off my opinions. I now have a proverbial soap box, and as long as my kids take daily naps, I will be using it from now on. I have read this over so many times looking for grammar errors, that I am starting to sweat, I don't know at all if I have used the correct MLA format, (is that still a thing?), and I may have gotten slightly redundant here and there, but for a rook, I gotta say, it ain't bad. Until next time? My kids are both awake now and demanding I pay attention to them by screaming bloody murder. (Not hyperbole, although how fitting my piece ends with a quip about the children rising from their nap....)
I have been accused of using extreme hyperbole in my story telling, which isn't a fair accusation at all. When your two year old arbitrarily uses ravioli covered in meat sauce for target practice against the white kitchen wall, maybe it wasn't LITERALLY 5 gallons worth of sauce splattered all over the floors, walls and kitchen window, but since I am the one cleaning it up, it certainly feels that way. And since I prefer creative writing, to the more rigid form of journalism, I will be writing about how I FEEL, and certain factual details may or may not be forgotten and/or exaggerated. For example, when I refer to my kids as "heathens", I don't mean it derogatorily. I just mean to say they annoy me incessantly even though I love them so much I would carve out my own heart for them. (Hyperbole...I can't even use Vi-sine in my eyeballs, much less cut my beating heart out.)
I have a lot more to learn as far as blogging goes, and we are all going to have to accept the fact that I've been given a free forum to spout off my opinions. I now have a proverbial soap box, and as long as my kids take daily naps, I will be using it from now on. I have read this over so many times looking for grammar errors, that I am starting to sweat, I don't know at all if I have used the correct MLA format, (is that still a thing?), and I may have gotten slightly redundant here and there, but for a rook, I gotta say, it ain't bad. Until next time? My kids are both awake now and demanding I pay attention to them by screaming bloody murder. (Not hyperbole, although how fitting my piece ends with a quip about the children rising from their nap....)
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