Friday, October 31, 2008

The magic is gone

After 13 years of marriage, four pregnancies, three kids, twenty pets, two mortgages, and more bills than I care to contemplate, I've realized the magic is gone from my marriage.
Yup. Poof. Gone. Dissapated. Vanished. Hit the road. Hasta la vista, baby.
Get the idea?
Why, you ask?
Last night was my husband's first night at home in three days. The kids were asleep. I was bathed, fluffed, plucked, and primped.
You figured he'd get some sort of amorous ideas, wouldn't you?
Nope. Not him. He stayed up to watch Bride of Frankenstein.
Yes, you read right. He would rather watch a horror movie, blood and guts, screaming and mayhem, than come to bed and play doctor with me.
Now, I knew when I married The Man that Halloween was his favorite time of year. I have sat through more horror movies than I care to admit, including every Halloween known to man. I have even checked the basement afterwards to assure his that not only is Michael Meyers a fictional character but there is absolutely no way he had gotten into our basement, should hell freeze over and Michael jump off the film strip.
And I only snickered a few times.
But last night was just too much.
The Man preferred to watch a movie (which could have been recorded) rather than come be with me.
Hell, I would have screamed if that was all he wanted.
So I now have to face reality. The magic is gone, leaving me trapped in a noukieless marriage with a man who will toss me over for a psychotic killer.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

That time of year

The weather is getting colder. The trees are losing their leaves. And my kids are stir crazy because it's too cold and dark too early to run outside, screaming like raving lunatics.
Plus their dad went back to work and doesn't have as much time to play.
This is The Man's favorite time of the year. He loves Halloween, dressing up, and especially, trick or treating. Scary movies are his first love, even though my yearly prank of setting up the computer with the theme music to Halloween sends him through the roof. Especially funny when he hears it in the middle of the night. Snicker.
For me, although i enjoy the cooler weather and the family activities, it's bittersweet. This is the time of year I remember everyone I have lost. On Halloween, I reminisce about them, knowing that that night they are close and I can almost touch them.
If I can just get the kids to stop devouring candy and bouncing off the walls in a sugar induce, candy corn high.
If I were a ghost, i would stay far away from my house for the next few weeks.
Seriously, many communities honor their dead during this time of year. They decorate graves, lay out favored meals, and set up shrines. The veil between the living and death is at its thinnest, and ghosts walk with the living.
To some, spooky stuff.
To me, my kids are scarier than any ghost.
So I open my house and my heart on Halloween to my lost loved ones and urge you to do the same.
Just make sure you're house is clean in case Granny shows up with the white glove inspection.
Happy Halloween!

Thursday, October 23, 2008

You know you're a mom when

You spend an hour destroying your house looking for your son's ratty pooh bear that he carries everywhere.
When you find yourself eBaying it, hoping to find replacement.
When you lift the couch to peer under it.
When you've dumped out the contents of three toys chests looking for it.
And when you are almost in tears when you see a worn white leg sticking out from under your bed and you go in to the child's room, triumphant, excited, relieved, expecting to find your child waiting anxiously, expecting to hear a gleeful, "BEAR!" cried out upon his arrival, to deliver the beloved friend and recieve a sloppy kiss.
Only to find your child has fallen asleep.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Playing favorites

I love all of my kids.
I really do.
Most days.
But I find myself looking at these three unique individuals and wondering if I'm playing favorites.
Okay, the baby is still nursing and she loves me holding her. In fact she demands my attention when I'm at home.
I love to dress her in pretty clothes and to make her bows. I love our time together and am thrilled she's so happy to be with me. (Guilty pleasure that she prefers me over her daddy!)
So is she my favorite?
Or is Boo, who has beautiful blue eyes and the conversation skills of a trained lawyer. I love that he sucks his thumb and carries around his ratty Pooh bear.
I love the monster noises he makes, the fact that he loves to help, and that he calls snuggle a "nuggle."
Would that make him my favorite?
Could it be Bug, the oldest heathen in my crew? Is he my favorite?
Do I show my favoritism by scouring the Internet for a lost woobie replacement that has to be ordered from Sweden--which I've now done twice in two years.
Or is because he gets to do everything first? Is it because he tells me fantastic stories about his day that keep me riveted, or because I never know what he will say or do next?
Do you have to have a favorite child? Or is it a favorite child at that precise moment?
I would like to think, as a favored child myself, that I am unbiased and equal with my kids.
Some days, I know I'm not.
Do we have to have a favorite child? Or is it just the child whose easiest at that moment who is labelled the favorite?

The Plague

It has descended upon our house.
It started off innocently enough. Punk had a runny nose and cough. She'd just had vaccines, so I didn't worry.
Then it moved to my oldest child, who'd also just had vaccines. Still, only slightly worried.
Then it hit Boo.
I began to realize I had an epidemic on my hands.
It floored my husband, but he's a bit of a wimp and hypochondriac. I told him to take his meds and hush.
It went back after the kids.
Meanwhile, I'm standing with a bottle of Lysol in one hand, a snot covered tissue in another, the proverbial finger in the dike (no jokes!) trying to hold back the flood.
It got me today. I give up. I'm hoping to be washed away in dreams of Calgon and Nyquil.
I'm hoping I won't have to come back from a land filled with dreamless sleep and hot baths, of steaming mugs of tea and throat lozenges.
Hell, no, I don't like being sick. But, if I'm sick, I might get a few moments of peace.
After I lock the door, put in ear plugs, and yell that The Man is on his own.

Monday, October 13, 2008

This week

This week it will be six long years since I lost my first baby.
It will be six long years since I stared hopefully at an ultrasound and waited for a heartbeat.
It will be six years since I knew my baby had died.
Six years since I had my D&C.
Time has certainly passed and I have been blessed with three happy, healthy children.
But I know this week, when I look around the dinner table, there will be that one face missing. There always is.
Sitting right next to Boo is my ghost child, telling me all about her day at school and arguing with her brothers while her baby sister watching her big eyed and admiringly.
This week, at bedtime, I will tuck in my memory of that fleeting child, pressing a kiss to her forehead and telling her "Mama loves you whole bunches, you know."
Because I still do.
Octoebr 15th is National Miscarriage Awareness Day. Strangely enough, it's also the day I lost my baby.
Please take a moment to check on those women you know how have loved and lost.

Thursday, October 9, 2008

Introducing my Toddler Terrorist

I would like you to meet my pint sized terrorist, Boo.
Boo has recently moved from sweet and happy baby to crying, scream, no spewing, feet stomping, crying hostage taker.
I am one of the two hostages.
I would like to have someone please negotiate my release. (The Man, the other hostage, can negotiate his own release. Love only goes so far, baby!)
Boo is not following any variation of the Geneva Convention or any other standards for POW treatment.
I definitely have not gotten my package from the American Red Cross. BTW, I don't want a cookie--I want hard liquor and Valiums.
Allow me to tell you about my day under my hostage taker's wee little thumb--and he pressing me down into a smooshed mama patty as we speak.
Boo rises in the morning and demands milk/juice/money while holding his grubby beloved bear. When you ask him how he slept, he puffs out the lower lip, howls "No!" and the tears begin flowing.
During breakfast, you offer cereal. No, he wants pop turds. Then when you provide a pop turd he wants cereal.
Boo walks up in your face while you are resting and growls/roars in your face.
Boo is ALWAYS hurt and ALWAYS wants a bandage.
The drink he request five seconds ago is no longer desired. You took too long. Now he wants something strange called "yellow" and nothing but yellow will do.
If Bear gets dirty, he must immediately be washed. And you must drop everything to insure eteh washing/drying cycle takes no more than five minutes or you will be tortured with "Is Bear done yet?" for however long it takes for you to hand him a wet Bear.
If you have popcorn before bedtime, prepare to share. Amend that--prepare to hand over the entire blasted bowl to your pint sized prison guard. If you get one kernel, count yourself lucky.
Brushing teeth requires screaming, coughing, tears, and trials. Maybe two teeth got clean.
I am requesting that I be freed. I am requesting that my consul do everything in their power to free my from my Baby Bin Laden.

Monday, October 6, 2008

The Mans Response

Well what can I write after reading that. I guess all I can do is Thank You for being you and not changing. You have stood by my side through thick and thin (no fat jokes)and never judged me even though you knew my faults. Thank You for being a wonderful mother that always puts her kids interest first --even if it means no sleep.But more than anything Thank You for being my wife and giving me the best 13 years of my life. I love you and cant wait to see what the rest of our lives together will bring. Happy Anniversary Baby Love The Man

Where has the time gone?

Tomorrow will be my thirteenth wedding anniversary.
Okay, our thirteenth wedding anniversary. (But aren't anniversaries, just like weddings, all about the bride/wife? I thought so!)
Thirteen years ago, I was busy trying to not run to Mexico as the pre wedding jitters took hold. I mean, I was nineteen years old, in college, and getting married? What was I thinking? I remember thinking I was going to puke all over my wedding gown, that much I remember distinctly.
Luckily, I wasn't thinking too hard.
I didn't run. I didn't blow chunks on myself or The Soon To Be Husband.
I stood there, in front of God and our selected family and friends, swearing to love and honor him--not obey. If I'd promised to obey, I'd have broken that vow within the first five minutes.
I don't remember the ceremony. I went into shock, and all I remember is taking a few steps and then being hugged in congratulations. (The ceremony was videotaped, so I know I didn't promise to obey. Covered my bases there.)
Thirteen years, four pregnancies, three kids later, I have to say I'm not sure what I would do without The Man. Some days, I think I'd like to try for five minutes, an hour tops, but when the kids started fussing, I know I'd want him back super fast.
And I might just miss himself myself.
Might being the formative word.
The Man has seen me at my best and worst--and he thinks I'm beautiful and hot.
And he likes to buy me things. When I let him.
And he cooks and cleans and cares for kids.
Admittedly, he does do things that drive me to distraction and thoughts of homicide, like leaving his socks laying around and not putting the cap on the toothpaste.
He waits until I'm soaking a bubble bath to have to use the restroom.
He occasionally rolls over in the middle of the night and breathes on me.
He eats Chex cereal with vinegar. Hell, he eats anything with vinegar.
He loves sports. Which means he's a sick puppy. Really sick. And he plays fantasy football. He needs therapy. Serious therapy.
But The Man is a great daddy, which is very sexy to the little wifey. Especially when he takes thE heathens outside for hours on end and I can relax and read without ear plugs.
My mom thinks he's a wonderful son in law (He has her fooled!).
He works hard to provide for his growing brood. (No fat jokes there!)
And he makes me laugh.
You know what I mean. Whether its a fun laugh in bed, a bust a gut laugh at something else, or a smile because of something he's said that didn't come out quite right, he makes me laugh.
He and my kids are one of the few things that can bring a laugh to my lips.
And that is worth all the dirty socks, flatulence, morning breath in the world.
It is not worth the sports. That is still too much for any sane woman to bear.
I'm working on that.
A girl's gotta have a project.
Smooches baby!

Sunday, October 5, 2008

Musical Mayhem

With my first child, I scoured the web for appropriate lullabies and burn countless mix CD's to make sure he not only had a love of music, but that his brain developed too.
Bug does have a love of music. He also has a tin ear. Just like his Daddy.
his favorite lullaby? Loggins and Messina's "House on Pooh Corner."
We sing it obsessively. Even now, it's playing. Bug just ran over, "Yelled it's my song," and is trying to get him brother to sing it.
For Boo, I was tired. I admit it. I went for musical theater. Specifically Rogers and Hammerstein. "South Pacific."
I told you I was tired.
My middle child has the song "Blood Mary' s his very own. Only it's changed to "Stinky (insert his name) is the boy I love."
Poor child hates it. Probably gonna have a large therapy bill later on, but he's the middle child, so I expected that anyway.
Punk sent me straight for pop culture. Great White T's "Delilah."
I put Punk's first name in place of Delilah, can't remember half of the words, and sing "woo wooo" more often than the song calls for, but the baby is happy.
The Man sings to the kids as well, off key and without remembering the words, but he sings. From their father, my children have learned to sing "Rise up! Gather round! Rock this place to the ground. Give it up! Go for broke! Watch the night go up in smoke!"
Yup, he's raising baby head bangers in platform shoes and wearing make up. He's hoping for the next Gene Simmons (minus the freaky tongue) or AC/DC.
Needless o say, my husband's taste in music leaves a lot to be desired.
A lot.
So what do you sing to your kids?
Or what song was sung to you that is burned forever in your memory?
Wanna share? Post it here or on and
This post was written for Parent Bloggers Network as an entry for a contest sponsored by Bush’s Beans.

Thursday, October 2, 2008

Pimpin' Pretty

When you walk into a clothing store, make a pit stop by the girls section. Specifically, stop in front of the section of underthings for little girls.
And marvel at the sequined, sparkly push up bras and thongs designed for girls who have nothing to push and who should still be wearing Disney princess panties.
I don't know about you, but my first foray into the world of over the shoulder boulder holders involved little triangles of a soft fabric basically designed to keep the teeny nips from standing out when it got a little nipply or cold.
As an eight year old, I didn't have anything to push up, and certainly didn't need a piece of floss between the cheeks of my childish bottom.
Doctors have found an increase in infections in women who wear thong underwear, so the brilliant idea of manufacturers? To place young, maturing girls in in clothes that can cause grown women infections? Brilliant!
Not to mention the apparent increase in child related sexual attacks, no doubt exacerbated by an increasingly promiscuous manufacturing industry and a consumer culture that appears determined that every child should dress like Brittany Spears. In other words, like a mini prostitute.
Why should our daughters be forced to grow up in a society so sexualized that they are forced to be women before they ever have a chance to be little girls?
Why should our daughters have the breast buds pushed into constricting, physically inappropriate bras designed to titillate when the should be playing with dolls and having slumber parties?
Why can't our little girls just be little girls instead of being forced into an ideal that makes them mimic grown women?
I personally think it is because the manufacturers of these undergarments are men who either have secret pedophillic leanings or have never had daughters of their own.
Our daughters are here for us to cherish, to protect, and to raise into responsible adults. They are not here to shake anything, to push up anything, or to have their cheeks separated by a piece of string.
My daughter will have appropriate undergarments, and she will understand that, while Pimpin' Pretty Paula down the street has glitter, rhinestones, floss, and support, her mama loves her enough to realize that she will be grown up all too soon. Her mama loves her enough to make her stay a little girl a while longer, because all too soon, she'll be missing her childhood and wishing for a chance to wear Disney princess panties once more.