Monday, March 31, 2008

Two years ago today

Two years ago today, still recovering from having my insides on the outside of my body, I looked into my youngest son's face for the first time.
My first thought was, "He looks like Buddha."
My second was, "And I love him more than life itself."
Strange what a good dose of drugs will do for you.
Buddha eventually just became Boo, my blue eyed charmer with his mama's temper and his daddy's mild nature--a unique combo. Its kind of like trying to decide if wet dynamite might still be explosive.
Bug is my miracle and my heart's wish. Boo is my resurrection and my love. Punk is my dearest and my baby.
Boo gave me a gift none of my other children can ever give me. My labor with bug was so difficult and I suffered from issues with breastfeeding and depression, so Bug naturally turned to his father. By the time I could mother my baby, he and I had lost valuable time.
Boo wanted me from the start. He was mine in a way no other person ever had been. He made me feel like a mother at last.
Having Boo helped my relationship with Bug bloom at last.
Whereas Bug is my live wire, Boo is my clown. He greets me with a smile each morning and is genuinely a happy child. He has the most delectable chunky thighs an pudgy hands, and his laughter makes me stop and grin.
Bug made me a mother. Boo made me want to be a mom.
Happy birthday little man. I love you and would let you rip my inside out all over again.

Sunday, March 30, 2008

Survival of the fittest

Darwin's theory on survival of the fittest didn't take children into account.
Specifically children and their birthday parties.
Admittedly, if it came down to who could forage and survive off the land longest, I would kick my kids proverbially butt. (Not that I ever would. I would certainly share my hard won roots and berries with my ungrateful heathens.)
But they put me under the table with one birthday party per child, per year.
I'm frazzled by the planning, overwhelmed by the cooking, and exhausted at its completion. While my kids are enjoying their loot, I'm picking up trash, washing dishes, and wondering when the kids will pass out, leaving me to a bottle of liquor and an unguarded birthday cake carcass.
Last night festivities had the added fun of a sick, vomiting preschooler.
Nothing like a little puke to go with my cake and ice cream.
Birthdays have always seemed just wrong to me. We celebrate the child doing nothing but aging not the mother who bore the child or the parents who've survived another year.
Birthday parties shouldn't be for the children. They don't appreciate it or understand it. They should be celebrations of the parents survival of another year, celebrations honoring yet another year closer to the completion of their parenting duties. There should be liquid libation, finger foods, and adult conversation. Not balloons, a child themed birthday cake, and toys. (At least not the kind they sell at Wal-mart)
Until the world joins me in thinking that birthday parties should celebrate the parents, I'll huddle in the corner eating the remnants of birthday cake, soaked with ice cream, wishing for a cocktail and a petit four.
Whatever in the hell those are!

Thursday, March 27, 2008

It should have been fun

I haven't bought any clothes for myself (aside from work scrubs) for years. Seriously. I know, I should be drummed out of the female portion of our race.
The last outfit I know I bought was maternity wear, and, although I could still wear it (pulled up to my armpits and lashed with a belt), I think it would be tacky.
I did the frantic dash the night before my job interview, but I don't count that as shopping. That was covering my ass. Literally and figuratively.
So today, I shopped.
It depressed me.
Not only am I still carrying enough padding that, at times, I still feel pregnant, but I'm having to dress like a professional -- a grown up.
For the past six years, my wardrobe has been scrubs. Scrubs. And more scrubs. Easy to match, comfy to wear, and cheap. I probably have a good thirty or more pair.
Not gonna do me much good in the office.
So I bought slacks and tops, a new purse and four pairs of really cute heels.
You can tell I'm excited about the heels.
If I could have pulled off heels and scrubs, I would have been a happy woman.
And I felt guilty. Do you know how much I could have bought for my husband and kids with the money I spent today?
And it's only the beginning.
I won't be able to survive on 7 or more outfits for long, even mixing and matching, which means more shopping.
It should have been decadent and fun.
Go ahead, ladies, start drumming. I'll take my walk of shame . . . in really cute heels.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Don't drink the water!

Its not only contaminated with prescription medications (and not the fun ones either!) but it's been infected with the pregnancy virus.
You know the one. A friend gets pregnant, then another, then another until you realize you either have to take a sip or be surrounded by enough bulging uterus's that there won't be any room for you with your friends any longer.
And my uterus is such a joiner, I'm living in terror.
It doesn't matter that I'd actually have to do something to get pregnant, I'm just as worried about immaculate conception. (Hell, it worked for the Virgin Mary. Why not me?)
Three ladies in my soon to be former office have popped preggers. While I'm thrilled for them, I'm also avoiding them like the plague. In fact, they do have the plague, one I've proven highly susceptible to. I've had it four times, in fact.
For me, it starts with nausea, vomiting, weight gain, headaches, backaches, and then a pain in the ass I'm stuck with for life.
There's no vaccine available right now. (I have another month and a half before I know is my Essure procedure is 100% effective)
My husband is a happy carrier--or he would be if I'd let him transmit the disease. (Whoa, buddy! Keep your distance!) a bottle of Lysol only goes so far, then I have to wave the baby in front of him as a reminder why distance is a good thing.
So I've been scrupulously avoiding the following: drinking the water, touching my husband, being around pregnant women (they all work at the other office!), breathing the air, and sitting on toilet seats.
I'm sure I've missed some means of transmission. But hovering above the toilet is becoming a pain in my . . .
So just remember ----

Monday, March 24, 2008

When do the "terribles" end?

Before I had children, everyone told me about the terrible two's.
No one warned me about the terrible three's, fours, and so on.
When does it end?
Bug is three and one half. Boo is just turning two. We're smack in the middle of hell with no end in sight, because we have wee little Punk bringing up the rear.
It seems like the terribles are a well kept secret that only the "in" moms know about ahead of time.
The rest of us just stumble into the secret when its too late to back out.
By the time we're discovering it, it's too darned late.
And then we're screwed.
And stuck with angry children who are trying to take over the world.
One dirty diaper at a time.

The last hurrah

It's my last week at this job.
Next week, I'll be gainfully employed elsewhere.
I find myself looking around with fondness (and a touch of residual anger) at my home away from home for six, long years.
I have lost a baby, a grandmother, and a father, deployed a husband, and birthed three babies while there.
I have held countless animals as they've breathed their last breath, hoping they took some comfort in my presence, especially if their owners could not be there. I have breathed life into precious newborns, working diligently to insure that they survived. I have treated and cared for more pets than I even could count. I have been lunged at, scratched, and bitten (only once).
And Friday I will walk away from it all.
It was my security blanket for years. And, now that I'm a mom, it's time to put it away.
Despite everything that's happened, most of my memories are pleasant. I will be able to look back fondly, and hopefully will feel comfortable visiting from time to time.
I know I will never forgive, but I also never will forget.
And, for that, I am grateful.

When a child dies
When I read about or watch stories of parents losing their children, I can only respond by looking at my three healthy babies and holding them tighter.
I remember the sorrow my miscarriage caused, and I was only eight weeks along.
I remember my terror during my pregnancy with Bug, thinking every time I bled, every time I cramped, I would lose him, too. And then that awful emergency c-section, which his heart rate spiking during each contraction, followed by concerns about his oxygen saturation.
I kept thinking, "What if I lose him?"
Although Boo and Punk's pregnancies were much less eventful, I still remember feeling that way.
Handing Boo over to the surgeon this month refreshed those feelings of absolute terror.
I know I'm not strong enough to bury my child. Hell, I barely survived my first trimester loss, and six years later, mourn that child. There's an empty place at the dining room table that could only be filled by that baby.
So when I read about these parents, I am both awestruck by their strength and humbled by them.
One of my favorite blogs , , began as an outlet for the blogger to grieve her son. She's heart wrenching and humorous (and just a tad dirty) and she makes me mourn her beautiful boy with her.
Driving through the cemetery to visit my Daddy's grave, I pass the section filled with children's graves. And I always look, wondering about those parents who've commended their child to God and will never be able to touch, smell, or talk to their baby again.
And I wonder, why not me?
Don't get me wrong. It's not a club I ever want to join. My kids should mourn me, not the other way around.
But why was I blessed (and they are a blessing--most days) with three healthy, whole children?
But then I realize maybe, through the tears and pain, these parents received a much different blessing.
They truly understand how precious life really is.
While the rest of us can only guess.

Surviving the Easter bunny

Well, the Easter Bunny successfully dropped off his loot and hopped away from our house in one piece this year. Meaning he avoided my kids.
(Thank goodness! I was running out of places to bury happy deliverers of chocolate, money, and gifts in my backyard. Santa took up a lot of room this year. Too many cookies, I guess. I had to crowd the Tooth Fairy a bit.)
It was an Easter Eggstravaganza all weekend. Saturday, we went to a church *gasp* egg hunt.
Sunday was the family dinner.
Each day involved family and five children under the age of four. Four were boys. Two were mine.
Get the picture?
We survived meltdowns over leaving grandma's house. Bug threw a fit because he couldn't hunt with every age group at the church egg hunt. Boo bit his cousin (again) and I've since decided that particular cousin tastes like chicken. We've endured pushing, punishments, tantrums, and sugar induced highs followed by crashing lows.
It was not a Norman Rockwell kind of Easter.
It was my own family's functional dysfunctional holiday.
Complete with ham.
And hams. My kids.
But thankfully, I have one less grave to dig this year.
My medication is keeping the worst of the nervous ticks at bay.
And now I have a two year old's birthday to look forward to (survive) this weekend.
And then I'm done for six whole months.

Friday, March 21, 2008

The pregnant man--sort of
I don't know what to think about this story.
I mean, he has the parts of a man on the outside, but he's retained his . . . her ovaries and uterus.
And now he . . . she's pregnant?
A new life is always something worth celebrating, and I do not begrudge anyone the opportunity to be a parent, but this just seems odd.
Okay, to start, the whole transgender thing perplexes me. If you want to live as a man, get rid of your female parts. And you want to be a woman, get rid of the male anatomy.
Don't keep both sexes. That makes you both male and female and surely must lead to problems.
This man has a uterus, but no external female genitalia. How can they perform yearly pap smears to insure no cancer has taken root? Does he . . . she (oh this is confusing!) see a gyno? Have a prostrate exam? Both?
Can you call a "have your cake and eat it too" kind of transgender person either sex? Or are they that strange mixture, a hermaphrodite?
And they expected the medical community not to have some qualms, some reservations about what they were doing? Whether right or wrong, doctors are only human. And tackling something this unusual and potentially dangerous is not something many doctors would feel comfortable doing.
And what about adoption? What about the millions of parent less children looking for a loving home?
I have the sinking suspicion that, although they did want a child, they wanted the publicity more.

Yes, he really did

You know those parenting moments when you are struck with horror and disgust at something your child has done, while some small voice in the back of your mind is reminding you that it's ammunition for future embarrassment attacks?
I had a doozy one of those moments yesterday.
Its miles better than the naked baby bath pictures.
It even beats the farting in church story.
Bug ate his own poop and declared that it tasted good.
While it was the consistency of strained peas, I doubt it resembled anything vegetation like.
No, I don't doubt. I know.
Because I could smell his breathe while I was changing his diaper, scouring his butt, and bleaching out his mouth.
Even typing this, I can still smell it.
Copraphagia, or feces eating, is actually common in small children, according to the medical websites I devoured while trying to reason out that my son was not a freak of nature.
He is. There's just other freaks to keep him company.
I mean really, what in the hell possessed him to do that?
And even worse, to say it tasted good?
I thought I'd raised a child with a fairly educated palate. I made the majority of his baby food, for Pete's sake! His food tasted like food, not some over processed by product dyed to look like a food's distant cousin.
I mean, I'm not a great cook, but my food tastes like food.
Not feces.
And my husband was no help. When I told him about it, he started gagging.
He wasn't even there, and he was gagging.
I had to deal with it and he was gagging.
Seems fair, huh?
All I can think is that dogs do it. To them, waste matter is a delicacy, especially if coated with a kitty litter shake and bake.
So I wonder if we should have named Bug "Rover".
Bark, bark.

The real face of motherhood

J. Lo had her babies.
Congrats to her.
Really. She should be congratulated on becoming a mom.
Then she should be kicked in the butt for putting pictures like this out there.,,20185328,00.html
That is most definitely not the real face of motherhood.
This is the "I have an entourage of fifty people who get paid to wipe butts, change diapers, handle spit up, and keep me coiffed and beautiful and glowing so, yes, motherhood is a wonderful, peaceful, serene experience" crap that new moms are confronted with and felled by.
No wonder we have such a load of mama guilt.
Its the media's fault.
Show the truth. Show what celebrity moms look like at 3am, complete with leaking breasts, baby poo in their hair, no make up and no one to help besides and equally frustrated husband. Or worse yet, a husband to turns over and goes back to sleep.
Show the mama whose yelling at their newborn to shut up because they are so tired they can't do anything else. Then show the tears that immediately follow.
Show the reality of motherhood so the rest of us know we're not alone.
I don't want it Spackled and prettied up. Motherhood is ugly. It's an in the trenches battle most days to get a shower and get dressed. It's a life of dodging baby spit up, exploding diapers, tears, heartache, and arguments. Its a lifetime of proud moments and broken hearts and every emotion in between.
Give me a realistic view of motherhood in the media.
Let me know I'm not alone.
Please don't let me be alone.

A basketful of chocolate and faith

Do you honor the real meaning behind Easter? The whole Christian Jesus died on the cross to expunge our sins holiday? Do you attend church in your Easter best, the first time in a year?
Not me. I'm honest. I celebrate solely for the chocolate bunnies and Cadbury eggs.
I'll stand proud and admit I'm a heathen. But at least I'm an honest one.
I have no problem with Christianity. Hell, I'm even married to one of you. (Tee hee! I snuck right past you guys!) I think any religion that harms no one and brings comfort and peace is a fantastic thing.
I just hate hypocrites.
Organized religions are full of them.
If you are going to say you are a certain religion, be that religion 365 days a year. Commit to it with every fiber of your being. Attend church, dance under the moon, celebrate the Sabbath--whatever--just do it every day of the year.
Don't just be that religion at major holidays, births, and funerals.
Be true to yourself and faithful to your god.
Do that, and I'm sure you'll be much more at peace with yourself.
And I'll continue finding my salvation in the bottom of a basket of Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs.
Happy Easter!

Thursday, March 20, 2008

The thin me is not just dying to get out . . she's already dead

I hate perky, fit women. Especially those who've returned to a size two post baby and feel the need to share.
My body is only a faint echo of the body I had before children.
It's carrying around extra padding, perfect for snuggling children but terrible for the self ego. It has strategically placed stretch marks that never fade, a white roadmap of my pregnancies and weight gain and loss.
The only time my breasts are perky is when I haven't nursed and the contained milk makes them look like I'v had surgery. But the down side is the feel like balloons about to pop, and they are not filled with water.
My hair has lost most of its curl, which wouldn't be a bad thing except the curl has been replaced with frizz and fluff.
My skin is not dewey and soft. It looks tired and weary and no amount of Oil of Olay and microdermabrasion will change that.
I have bags under my eyes that could take me from here to China from the sleepless nights walkign with a baby or a sick child.
All in all, I'm a normal, average mother. A five out of a ten on a good day.
My husband tells me I'm beautiful, and so does my mother. That's about it. Sad, huh?
I don't inspire lust filled fantasies in anyone but my husband. And he's crazy from countless hours spent alone with our kids, so he doesn't really count. He pleads insanity at the drop of a hat.
I will never send a man into raptures of desire just by the crook of my finger. Hell, I can barely manage to bend a finger anymore--there's always a child clinging to it.
And I'm lucky if I have the energy to initiate sex, let alone stay awake for it.
Sleep or sex? Sleep wins, hands down. If my husband so much as breathes on me once all three kids are asleep, he'll regret it. He's lost two fingers to a sleep crazed madwoman that burrows in our bed.
So where did the young me go? You know the one. She had energy to do things, including sex, and she wore really cute shoes. Is she buried somewhere in this new, matronly me? The one who wears Crocs or tennis shoes all the time. If so, has she smothered under the weight of babies, breasts, repsonsibilities, and parenthood?
If there is a thinner, younger me trapped inside, I'm pretty sure she's dead and I just haven't found time to bury her. I hope she doesn't start stinking because I don't know when I'll have time to shower.
So where does the pre baby me end and the motherly me begin?
About three kids and thirty pounds ago.

Saturday, March 15, 2008

Marriage and children--a dangerous cocktail

Before children, my husband and I would laze in bed all day on the weekends, celebrating our childlessness by trying to make a baby. We would go antiquing, shopping, or out to the park, holding hands and talking like civilized adults.
That was three kids ago.
Now we barely manage to stay in bed six hours a night, have only parent oriented words to say to each other, and have fond memories of sex. (Or at least he does. I call it the baby making nightmare)
We are up to our elbows in baby shit, potty training, meals, bottles, doctors appointments, and day to day life as parents.
Somewhere along the way, we lost the couple. I personally think they drowned in a sea of spit up, urine soaked diapers, and tears (mine, not the kids). The only touching we do now is to shove the other parent out of bed to check on child 1,2, or 3.
So how do you get the couple you once knew to resurface when your family is now more than doubled it original size? How can romance and affection survive three children determined to drive you apart--dragging you to separate corners is a pretty good indication.
You cannot schedule romance when your children don't exist on a schedule. You can't have long meaningful conversations when all you really want is sleep and to eat a meal unmolested by greedy, begging children. You can't escape when no one is brave and stupid enough to keep all three of your heathens.
So how can a marriage survive the onset of parenthood?
Or is it doomed to sink beneath the tide of diapers, "I don't wanna's" and parental responsibility?

Friday, March 14, 2008

What I deserve (Otherwise known as my rich fantasy life)

Every day, I roll out of bed and not only have to face three small people demanding food and attention, I have to face myself in the mirror.
I don't know which is scarier.
Wait. Definitely the kids, although I am a close second.
Some mornings I even roll over to find my husband in the bed. Now that's scary.
I hate it when I wake up to find he's spooning my Latin lover, Pedro. (I'm kidding. Pedro's climbing out the window when my dear husband is climbing into bed. It's nice that they schedule their times that way. Smooches, honey!)
I have curly hair. Which means, first thing in the morning, I resemble a lopsided, drunk poodle. After its been rolled a few times. In the mud. And gravel.
And I'm expected to function.
I'm expected to feed children, nurse babies, handle diapers, get ready for work, and be functional with no caffinated assistance.
It's simply too much to ask.
I should be allowed to loll in bed decidently, with a maidservant to bring my coffee and to lay out my attire for the day. My bath should be freshly drawn, lightly steaming and smelling of exotic oils and shimmering with frothy bubbles. my breakfast should be made and awaiting my arrival.
Someone else should wade through baby poo and messy breakfasts, so I can descend majestically, recieving non sticky kisses and eating my meal in sublime silence.
Instead I have demands for milk and breakfast. I am nursing a baby while trying to apply mascara. My husband is trying to tell me about his night at work. And then he's kicking me out of the bathroom for his morning constitutional, which is guarranteed to clear my sinuses as it sends me racing frantically for the door and the fresh air outside. (Which this morning smelled slightly of skunk but was still far preferable)
Evidentally no one else understands that I require these decidant treatments. No, not require. I have earned them. I demand them. I will have them.
In my next life.
Or just my overactive imagination.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Boys vs. girls

Parenting a girl is a lot different than being a mother to my two boys.
There's the obvious differences in anatomy to consider. The boys spray like faucets, and Punk has only projectile pooped on me once. Of course, it was on my arm, shirt, and hair, but still, my husband has been hosed by the boys on several occassions.
There's the clothing difference. Jeans and a t-shirt and boys are set. But everyone expects little girls to be dressed to the baby nines. Minus the high heels because I just can't find a pair that small.
Then there's the hair. Boys=buzz at our house. But Punk's hair needs that extra something, barrettes, ribbons, a tiara.
But the biggest different is just that she's, well, she's different. My boys seemed so much more vibrant and energetic, while she seems more subdued and watchful. She's even trying her infant baby wiles on her father, testing out the smiles and squeals that will one day break hearts, I'm sure.
Before Punk, I wondered how different a girl could be.
Okay, I panicked about how different a girl could be.
Now I know that the differences are real and not just skin deep and slathered in cosmetics.
They are real, and frightening, and we haven't even reached puberty yet.
Oh boy! Er, girl?

I am a genius!

When you're broke, you have to improvise. This
is a poor baby's Wubbanub!

Just shove the bamboo sticks under my nails already!

I'm raising three future professional torturers.
None of my kids want me to sleep.
Punk has been up every two hours for the past two days, loudly and vehemently demanding the booby juice. And at three a.m. like clockwork, it's playtime in her world.
I've tried ignoring her, but I've begun having waking nightmares about my baby crawling out of her cradle and coming over to me yelling, "Feed me, Seymour!" (Little Shop of Horrors reference for you who don't like campy musicals.)
Add to that mix, my boys, who haven't been eating their suppers, waking up at four a.m. demanding breakfast, milk, and an attorney to prosecute me for civil rights violations and there is no sleep to be had.
They're wearing me down. I'm getting twitchy. I startle at strange noises, and with three kids there are a lot of strange noises.
I'm willing to talk.
I'll tell you anything.
Just make it stop!

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

I haven't killed him . . . yet

Bug is feeling like a big boy.
He's expanding his vocabulary.
And he's ticking me off.
He says the following at least a hundred times a day:
  • "I don't want to."
  • "I don't like you."
  • "You need to calm down."
  • "No!"
  • "You stop it!"
  • "I don't like you." (Have I mentioend this one already? It's a personal favorite of mine.)
  • "You go to the corner."
  • "I'm mad."

Anything I ask him to do, he tells me he doesn't want to. If his butt was on fire and I offered to put it out, he'd tell me to stop that.

He doesn't like anything. He's like that commercial with th mother and daughter in the grocery store. You know the one. She tells her mother she doesn't like anything, until she falls silent when faced with Pedialyte.

Bug would hate the Pedialyte.

No one told me motherhood would be like this.

I would never have had sex. Ever.

Who am I to play God?


Baby shots suck.

No, I'm not talking about drink shots. (With three kids, I could use a few of those!) I'm talking about the pediatrician given baby shots, complete with large needle jabbing into chubby baby thigh.

Punk got her first vaccines yesterday. And she was pissed. Red faced, screaming, flailing and kicking good old fashioned mad.
After going through this with both boys, you think it would be old hat.

Nah. New territory.

I worried all night about allergic reactions, autism, and the fate of the world as a whole because I had vaccinated my child. (Mother guilt, you know. As if the four thousand other things I may do wrong weren't enough!) I have done the research and I have a great pediatrician, but the fear is still there.

I'm making decisions now that will affect my children their entire lives.

Who am I to play God?

Monday, March 10, 2008

Amazing what 8 full hours can do for a girl

Punk slept.
And I don't mean the "three hour then I'm hungry" kind of sleep.
I mean the hard core eight hour stretch kind of sleep.
At 2 1/2 months old.
Much sooner than her brothers. She's a prodegy, that girl of mine!
So I almost feel human, and I definitely feel hopeful that we're starting a new sleep habit that involves actually sleeping.
I realized that each of my children's newborn stages would have made great torture periods for anyone wanting any info. For the promise of any uninterrupted sleep, I would have told them secrets. (Never mind that I don't have any!)
I would not have made a good soldier because I can't survive without my eight hours of shut eye. And that's just the time I need since becoming a mom. Before I needed 10-12 hours of uninterrupted bliss. I can function on less, but, believe me, its not a pretty picture.
So here's to Punk! May the long reign of sleep filled night continue!

Saturday, March 8, 2008

The price of a broken heart

If you've never been hated by your child, you've never been a parent.”-- Bette Davis
I guess I earned my parenting stripes yesterday. Too bad they are the kind of stripes that came from an emotional flogging.
Bug has told me loudly, emphatically, and rather often that he doesn't like me.
And he has broken my heart.
I never thought, in my entire parenting career, that anything could hurt so much. I could feel the break, could feel the blood spewing from my lacerated heart as I stared at my 3 1/2 year old son.
I couldn't believe it.
How could he say that to me? I mean, I could understand saying that to his father, but to me? We had shared a body, a blood supply, a life.
I wanted him so badly before I ever knew him.
I went through emotional and physical hell to bring him healthy and whole into this world.
After my miscarriage, he was my miracle, my reason to get out of bed every morning.
And he doesn't like me.
Intellectually, I understand he says it just for the reaction.
Emotionally, it hurts like hell. It's a near fatal wound every time he utters those words. Most days, I talk to him, or put him in the corner. I stand there, trying not to cry.
Yesterday, I just walked away.
It hurt too much to stand there and look at that little face, knowing that some small part of him meant it.
I lay in my bed, listening to my husband talking with Bug, explaining that Bug had hurt me. The child was remorseful, declaring that he loved me and like me and missed me.
But you can't take back the words.
Just like I can't take back all the times I said them to my own mother and a child. I always thoought it was because she was my mom. She was uncool, and strict, and not me.
She was my mother. Which made it okay to say those words to her. Hell, it made it a requirement.
But I've evidentally become her, only a lot less patient and a lot mouthier. But my heart is out for the world to see, and right now, its a bloody, stinking mess.
Because my first born baby doesn't like me.
And I'm slowly bleeding to death from the wound.
Inflicted by a pissed off three and a half year old.

Terrible, horrible, very bad day

Today has been one of those days as a parent when you catch yourself sympathizing with other parents who have committed infanticide.
Needless to say, its been a terrible, horrible, very bad day.
My oldest son, Bug, has in one day performed the following horrendous acts:

1. Attempted to murder his younger brother at least four times by strangulation.
2. Attempted to maim said brother half a dozen times with a closeline to the neck (Wrestling move, not the thing you hang laundry out to dry on)
3. Told his parents what he will and will not be doing.
4. Declared that he doesn't like us and would like to run away.
5. Attempted to burn down the house by shoving a whole container of baby wipes one by one through the heating vent.
And that's just the things we know about. I'm sure there are countless other diabolical acts that we are totally oblivious to. That's okay. The ones we know about are more than enough.
In this case, I'm totally fine with ignorance. It is bliss, you know.
Son #2, Boo, has spent the entire day whining and making certain we knew every time Bug even breathed on him, let alone touched him. And post surgery (Two days ago), his new favorite word is "no". Said loudly and for everything, including "Would you like us to put out the fire on your leg?"
The only child who has been good is Punk, and I find myself eyeing her suspiciously, waiting for the inner demon to emerge and rip my head off. Experience has told me it will happen, and soon, because she is the third child. It will probably be a demon wearing cute pink baby legs ( and grinnign toothlessly, but it will still be a demon.
We have reasoned, we have punished, we have talked until we are blue in the face. They will give us no quarter. They will not surrender. And they will not be ignored.
We've tried. They follow us. And they've hidden our car keys.
They are smart little demons.
Complete with cute little horns.
And pitchforks.
Truthfully, I'm at the end of my parenting wits. Nothing we've tried makes any difference. They just blissfully continue on their destructive way, looting, pillaging, burning.
Just like the happy little heathens they are.
If this is what our future generation looks like, I volunteer for the Mars mission.
I'm sure they'll find me there eventually.

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

I need a Catholic priest and some Holy Water

My brother in law and siste rin law are going through some rough times with a child, and guess whose there to help-- the SUPER GRANDPARENTS!
They have effectively butted their overly long noses into a business which had nothing to do with them.
And, as if that wasn't bad enough, they are giving parenting advice.
Excuse me? But do you even speak to one of your sons? And how hard are you working on alienating the other?
They are the worst examples of parents ever. Really. They are in textbooks. Look under bad parenting, and you'll see my in laws.
They've never even seen my two youngest children, and haven't seen Bug since he was a year old. But they claim to love them. From a distance, thankfully.
Wonderful examples of grandparent and parents that they are, their family can't stand to be around them. Mention a visit and watch how fast we all make for the door. And it gets dirty, the biting, scratching, and hair pulling. None of us want to be trapped with them.
But they announce loudly and frequently what great parents they are.
But I guess you can imagine yourself to be anything you want, and if you wish and believe hard enough, Tinkerbell might just live. Clap really hard everyone!
And I'm the bloody King of Siam.
My in laws are just plain evil. Complete with horns and a pitch fork. They even have the members cards to prove it.
So I'm calling for a priest and a gallon, no a truckload, of Holy Water.
"Satan! Be gone!"
Damn. They're still here. Well, on to the next idea.
Sulfuric acid and a deep hole in the woods.

What if?

Tomorrow is the day my baby Boo has surgery.
Tonight I'm franitcally running around trying to organize three different bags for three different kids. Bug will be staying the night tomorrow with his grandma, so he needs clothes and such. Punk will be with grandma during the surgery, but come home afterwards, but she still has to have all the baby bells and whistles (diapers, cream, plugs) and frozen breastmilk. An iceburg's worth. Just in case.
Boo has to have his hospital bag, with diapers, books, toys, and the important items, such as his favorite blanket, a new stuffed sheep bought just for this occassion, and his woobie.
I feel like I'm planning the invasion of Normandy.
And getting caught with my pants down.
I think its just Mommy panic. I know he'll be fine, but there's that nasty little voice whispering "what if?" in the back of my mind. Someone's kid has to have complications. What if its mine?
How will I hand my blue eyed baby over to a stranger (albeit a nurse) and entrust his well being to people I don't know? What if something happens and I'm not there? If I'm with him, he'll be fine. I know he'll be fine if I'm there because I won't allow him to be anything but fine. I'll breathe for him. I'll make his heart beat. I will hold onto him with every fiber of my being until he's safely through surgery and back in my arms.
I'm his Mommy, and I can do that.
But because of stupid hospital regulations, I have to give my child into someone else's care. And for an hour and a half, I'll be waiting on word that he's fine and I can hold him again.
I never thought my arms would feel empty again, but I'm afraid for a time tomorrow, they will.
And all I'll be thinking is "what if?".
What if I'm not there?

I'm such a girl!

Okay, today it was proven to me exactly how much of a girl I am.
I had a flat tire.
For the past twelve years, all of my automotive calamaties gave been handled with a tearful call to my big, strong man of a husband.
Who was home with the kids this time and told me I was on my own. (Thanks, babe!)
So I'm standing on the side of the road, staring stupidly at a jack. Does anyone know who the idiot who designed those things were? It's like a puzzle box and I'm too blasted dumb to open it.
So I'm standing on the side of the road, staring at the jack, crying because I'm a college educated woman who can't change a tire. They don't teach you things like that in Freshman Comp.
Most people just drove by. They averted their eyes or grinned sheepishly, but they just kept driving.
Only one man stopped to help me. And when I both apologized and thanked him, he simply said any man who wouldn't stop to help a woman in trouble wasn't a real man. I felt like Scarlett O'Hara--I do rely on the kindness of strangers.
Thank the gods for good samaritans.
Without him, I would still be standing on the side of the road, sobbing over a jack and a blown out tire.

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

Okay, my kids haven't been cute lately.
Physically, they are adorable. But they haven't been cute.
They've been beligerant, stubborn, tempermental, and unreasonable.
And that's just been within the last five minutes.
I have spent more time in the past few days yelling, "Bug, let your brother up right now!" or "Boo, stopping biting your brother!" and my personal favorite "What is the matter with you two!"
They are trying to kill each other and destroy our house. And they fight like girls, pulling hair and biting. Wait a minute. Let me rephrase that. They don't fight like girls, because I would never pull anyone's hair. I'd just cold cock them. Very simple and throrough. (I tried it with my mother in law, but didn't hit her quite hard enough. If only I'd known what was to come, she'd still be flat on her back twelve years later.)
And I don't want to know how anyone tastes. That's very Donner party-esque. Even on a frozen mountain top, I think I'd have to opt for the vegetarian entre. (I'm sorry, that piece of Mrs. Jones thigh looks very tasty, but how about something with a little less saturated fat?)
I didn't expect this much fighting for years. I thought they'd be at least approaching puberty. And then I thought it would be their Daddy's problem, with me being a small, dainty woman and all. I imagined him handling all the testosterone driven battles, right along with explaining the birds and the bees and why they should not have sex until they are at least fifty and married. (It will fall off if you use it too much, son!)
Nope. No such luck. Instead, I'm pulling my toddler off my preschooler and vice versa. And getting bruised and battered and bitten to boot.
I think this summer, I'm just going to create a mud pit, strip them down, and let them have at it. It would be a lot less damaging to everyone involved, especially me.
At least I could make some money selling tickets.

His Daddy will be so proud!

And he's got the legs to pull it off, too!

Sunday, March 2, 2008

Just call me Martha Stewart, Baby!

I am not a crafty kind of mama.
Anything other than going to the store and replacing it is too much for me. Sends me into a fit of hyperventilation and huddling in the corner. Really. Complete with rocking and low, gutteral moans.
But I've fallen in love with Babylegs, these adorable leg warmers for babies. ( but at $12 pair, they're a bit too pricey for my white trailer trash pocket book.
So I took a deep breath and did the unthinkable. I made them myself.
I promise.
I have proof.

Not too shabby, huh? I'm feeling rather proud of myself because I MADE TWO PAIR!
So now Punk's chunky baby legs are protected from the cold and looking stylish to boot.
I am such a cool mom.
No, really.

Saturday, March 1, 2008

Where do I go from here?

"Where do we go from here?
Where do we go, from here?
The battle's done
and we kind of won
So we sound our victory cheer!
Where do we go from here?
Why is the path unclear?
When we know home is near?
Understand we'll go hand in hand
But we'll walk alone in fear.
Tell me!
Where do we go from here?
When does "The End" appear?
When do the trumpets cheer?
the curtain closes
On a kiss, god knows
We can tell the end is near
Where do we go from here?"
(All of you fellow Buffy the Vampire Slayer fans should get the reference and be singing along!)
My current job has been my life for such a long time, imagining myself without it leaves me feeling a bit hollow.
I have cried, laughed, and shared so much with my co-workers that they are less friends and more family. (And not the you only see every few years at reunions kind of family, but the type that you know you can turn to when life drops a big old steamy one in your lap.)
So I'll keep tugging slowly on that Band Aid, prolonging the inevitable. And when the time comes, I won't say goodbye. I'll leave the building just like every other day, because saying goodbye will hurt too much.
I'll save my tears for the drive home, when I'll be bobbing and weaving dangerously on the roads. (I'll try to give fair warning before that day arrives so everyone else can stay off the roads except for that nice policeman who'll surely pull me over and give me a ticket.)
On that day, I'll pull off the last sticky remnants of that Band Aid, exposing my wound for the world to see.
And, with time, I'll heal.
But I'll always bear the scar.