Thursday, April 30, 2009

It's Just Not So Cute Any More

When you're dating and first married, things your spouse does are cute, or annoying in that oh so funny newlywed way. (The way that involves sweaty make up sex.)
After 13 years, four pregnancies, three babies, a couple of mortgages, pain and suffering, it's no longer cute. (In the "we're not having sex any time soon, you idiot!" sort of way.)
In fact, it just pisses ya off.
While I know The Man has his own list of imagined things I do that irritate him (like I could ever be annoying!) this is my b log and his list doesn't matter.
I wonder how old married couples survive without murdering their spouse.
Last night, homicide was right at the front of my mind, and the lamp I was holding over my head cost too much to replace or I'd be writing a different blog right about now.
The Man wouldn't stay on his side of the bed. At All. Roll over and get a whiff of his mouth breathing morning breath every time I tried to move.
And, because he's home all day with nothing but the heathens for stimulating conversation, he babbles at me when I get home. As if I haven't spent all day talking to people and as if I want to hear another human voice at all after my work day is finished.
And as I'm typing this, he's trying to read over my shoulder and asking if I don't like him (duh!) and if he should just leave (again--duh!)
Marriage takes its toll on the sweet innocence of courtship. Children leave stretchmarks on the fabric of their parents relationship just as surely as they left them on my stomach.
Time and tide make you less apt to jump your partner's bones after a long absence, and more likely to jump their ass about the dirty socks left on the floor.
Does it mean there is any less love? Nope. Marriage is a commitment and I've committed myself most firmly to torturing The Man until the day he dies.
Then I'll go out and find myself a young, nubile Latin lover name Pedro.
Or maybe Tom?
But that will be another blog.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009


On the blog sphere, we bloggers read other blogs, empathize and sympathize with other bloggers, and have created an online community that supports us from across the keyboard.
One of my fave blogs in the whole world,
got my attention by her witty repartee (see? big word) and her sorrow over her beloved Bug's passing. And the talk about being bendy and nip rings didn't hurt either. (Hey! I was preggers and abstinent at the time. Someone had to enjoy mattress mamboing when I couldn't!)
I held my babies closer (when they weren't smelling of poop and boy funk) and wondered if I would be as strong if it was me.
This month, I found two other blogs, one from my home state, that touched me the same way.
and have hit me where it hurts--in the mommy place. (No, not that place!)
I cannot fathom losing a child. I hope I never have to understand the pain these women are enduring. I wonder if i would be able to get out of bed and put one foot in front of the other, or whether I would finally have my date with that tree I've been threatening to drive into for years.
They are amazing and awe inspiring and humbling.
And I am sorry they have to live through this.
And I know, in my hearts, that their babies are happy and at peace.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Boys and girls

When I get home from work most nights, my husband and children are playing in the yard.
They are dirty and disgusting and having a great time.
And I'm disturbed.
Oh not by the dirt caked fingers or sweat stench that they emit.
I'm disturbed by the fact that my daughter looks like a son.
When she and I are together, she's in dresses and bows and looks like a girl.
Leave her with The Man, and she in boys clothes and covered in funk.
With me, she smells nice and clean.
With him, she smells like a dirty little boy.
And she loves it.
Both sides of her.
She is all about the pretty girl primping. But she can get down and dirty with the best of them.
And it seems like I can do nothing but hold my nose and let her go.
Well, I guess I always wanted another son.

Monday, April 27, 2009

Farmer Bug and Farmer Boo

My boys planted a garden.
Their garden has strawberry plants, peppers, tomatoes, and watermelon.
And my boys are so proud of themselves!
Every night, Bug asks me if I'll come stare adoring at their garden with him. then he takes my hand and leads me to it, expecting me to bask over tiny plants that don't do much for me.
Hell, the only thing I'll eat is the strawberries, and that's if I can pry them out of my boys grubby little hands.
But I praise them and admire the pitiful plants and listen to the stories of how they water and take care of them.
And I pray to the universe that the damned things grow because I don't want to deal with the heartbreak my little boys would surely suffer.

Sunday, April 26, 2009


I have noticed that, during my illustrious marriage, the Man and I don't fight like normal people.
We don't fight over big stuff. Well, not very often.
We fight over stupid shit
Seriously, we almost called off our engagement over whether or not a sandwich was currently at McDonald's. (It was. I won. Just a precursor of things to come.)
We don't fight about religion (not any more) or politics or how to raise the heathens.
We fight about why in God's name he didn't tell me we had only one baby wipe left in the house or the dogs were down to their last kibble when he knows I'd been at the store just that morning.
We fight over whose driving and whose riding. (In the car you dirty minded pervs!)
We fight over why he won't pick where he wants to eat when we're out, and why I always have to choose for his stomach.
And in the end, when he's finally mad, I'm laughing, because he's huffing and puffing like an asthmatic freight train and I'm on the down side of my mad.
And we've always been like this. He's a slow boil, I'm a force of nature. I'll level cities, he'll meander along taking out the stray survivor. He's mild and easy going, I'm anal and uptight.
We're exact opposites, which makes us the worst married set in the world and the best suited to each other.
We are battled hardened warriors. We are survivors of marriage for thirteen years. And we fight like cats and dogs And then I laugh like a crazed hyena sucking down nitrous oxide.
Strange how things work out that way, isn't it?

Friday, April 24, 2009


How many times a day do I hear that word?
We're in the hundreds at least.
We ask Bug is he would like us to feed him ice cream for dinner? His first answer is no, then he thinks about it and decides yes, he might like that.
Ask Boo why he's standing buck naked in the middle of the kitchen holding a sippie cup and a chocolate bar. He answers no and then tells us it's his brother's fault.
Even wee little Punk now has that word in her vocabulary. Ask he if she's tired as she falls asleep on my shoulder, leaving a drool ring on my shirt, and she'll shake her head until it lops over sideways and snores come from her puckered lips.
Ask any of my children if dinner is good? No. Said in between mouthfuls shoved in faster than a fat man at a pie eating contest.
No. No. No. no. No. No. No.
No matter how you say it, I hate it.
I found myself channeling my mother as I announced I was the parent and they would not tell me no.
To which they replied, you guessed it, no. Smart asses.
I've decided the negative response should be more complicated to say. Multi syllable with the weird little dots over several of its letters.
Just so kids can't say it easily and early on.
Why would anyone make such an unpleasant word one of the easiest words for a small child to say?
And how in god's name do I make them stop?
I can't exactly tell hem no
That would make me a hypocrite, wouldn't it?

Thursday, April 23, 2009

The great divide

We are a house divided.
Oh, not by politics, religion, or sports.
We are a house divided by which child belongs to whom.
Ask Bug, and he only loves Daddy.
Ask Boo, and he's all about the Mommy.
Ask Punk, and she flips us the baby bird.
It's been a running joke to ask our boys, "Are you Daddy's boy or Mommy's boy?"
And they are constant in their answers.
Today, The Man asked Boo if he loved his Daddy. Boo, being an honest and forthright child who loves to torture his father (that's my boy!) replied, "No, I only love Mommy."
Lest you think The Man is destitute and loveless, ask Bug the same questions, and he'll say he only loved Daddy.
We're both holding firm to our boy, and we're both eying the girl to sway her to our side. Right now, all the power in our household rests in her chubby little hands.
And she knows it.
Which is why she won't choose sides.
She's playing both sides--wisely so.
So we'll ask her a dozen or more times a day, "Are you Daddy's girl or Mommy's girl?"
And we'll lie to the other parent about the answer.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009


This last week, I entered the world of parents buying diapers and wipes for one child.
Boo finished potty training.
He conquered the dread overnight dry period.
And he did it before I was ready.
It was quite by accident. I forgot. He fell asleep. And I didn't take him out of undies and put him into pull ups. Figured I'd deal with the ensuing mess in the morning.
And he woke when he needed to potty, did his business, and went back to bed.
Easy smeasy.
He has taken to potty training like a fish to water. Or a fish making water, whatever analogy works!
He has astounded the Man and I with his easy success when his stubborn big brother took a year and a half to train.
My pocketbook is weeping in gratitude at having to only cover one hiney in diaper byproducts.
My heart is sad to watch my baby boy race towards the next milestone, running like Charlie Chaplin on crack.
Boo is leaving me behind, holding the memory of my blue eyed baby, while I watch my blue eyed boy conquer his small little world.
I am so proud. And I am not ready.
But he is.
Which means, in parenting lingo, "It doesn't matter if you're ready, Mom. Get your shit together and your ass in gear and try not to choke on my dust."
Ah! How sweet!

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Leaps and bounds

My baby girl can talk.
Not clearly. not always in words I would use.
But she is talking.
Loudly. Expressively. Constantly.
Punk yells at the cat as she chases him on chubby legs through the house.
She announces uh oh when she drops something.
She screams at her brothers for touching her shopping cart in the store, slapping their hands and trying to pry them off the cart.
She has entered the world wee baby monkeys never do. She is verbal. She is loud. She is proud.
She is Punk Princess Piss Pot.
Hear her roar.

Monday, April 20, 2009

The morning after

No, I'm not talking about the pill.
And I'm not talking about the actual morning after.
I'm talking about the morning you wake up and realize your husband isn't writhing in pain from yet another surgery, that he's actually smiling as he putters to the loo to take poo.
(Sorry Channeling my inner Dr. Seuss.)
I'm in my own morning after. I can almost breathe. I can almost feel the world resuming its natural orbit.
I can almost feel our lives returning to normal.
The Man is smiling and playing with the heathens and functioning.
He still can't bend the finger, which is worrisome, because the tendon was repaired. So we wait for whatever degree of functionality we're destined to have.
The surgeon told me he can't do anymore, so we're done with surgeries and sorrow and pain.
Unless he throws us a curve ball, which would really piss me off.
The Man is almost human again instead of a poor imitation of one, wandering around our house, going through the motions, living with pain.
For the first time in almost a year, I'm allowing myself a tiny ray of hope.
And praying the world doesn't crush it.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

This morning

This morning I will awake before dawn to quietly shower and dress. I will shower and brush my teeth and choose my clothes in the dark, not wanting to wake my husband until the last possible moment.
I will wake him finally to his own morning ablutions, while I stir our children and try to get them into shoes and coats.
I will let them leave the house in their jammies, something I only do on these mornings. It is a comfort to me to leave them so, like grumpy little people from a Norman Rockwell painting and know that three parts of my world are safe and well.
I will leave them with my mother, knowing she will feed them and care for them while I cannot. Knowing that they are the second safest place in the world.
I will compartmentalize my life, my emotions, and who I am. I will set aside the parts I know are handled or momentarily unimportant and I will devote myself to my husband.
It's the only time he ever gets that sort of attention from me
And, once more, I will bargain with the Universe.
"Please, let him be all right. Please let it go well. Please hold him safe until I can take over again. Please don't take him from me, from our babies. If you have to take someone, take me instead."
It's the same every time. As though I could stop him from leaving me by a trade. As though anesthetic complications could transfer to me. Leaving him whole with our children.
And I always wonder how many times my mother said a similar prayer, watching them wheel my father into surgery, knowing her children were with her parents, safe, whole, and cared for. And wondering if they would ever see their father again.
Although not major surgery, I still offer myself in trade every time. Because, although I know The Man would disagree, the world would be better with him in it. And our children would have the better parent.
And I wouldn't be alone.
This time I will add a request that this be the last surgery, the last trip, the last morning like this. That our family be allowed to stop running in circles and finally allowed to step off this treadmill we've been on and rejoin the real world.
It's well past time for us to step into the light of day, squinting and fearful, and to resume lives we left behind almost a year ago when The Man was hurt.
We have survived. We will survive. Once this surgery is over. Once he's fine and can hold our babies once more. Once the pain is behind us.
So we will step forward this morning, once more into the fray, and wait for the results, praying for good news, fearing bad.
We will do it because we have no choice.
And I will hold tight to everything and everyone I have, clenched fist and white knuckled.
Because only then do I feel confident he will come back to me.
Only then.
This morning.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Tax time

I've just stamped and mailed my state taxes.
My federal taxes were e-filed and that money went to repair one of the Mama-mobiles that went awry.
I used to hate taxes.
This year, I'm considering myself lucky as hell.
My deductions, plus The Man's injury, means I'm not paying out the wazoo for once.
And I'm okay with that.
So I'm humming as I mail off my state taxes.
I'm dancing as I write out the check.
And I might just give the mailman a smooch for picking it up and delivering it.
With a year of suck and blow under our belt, it's nice to feel like one section of our world isn't bending us over the table.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

New Read

I've found a new set of books to enjoy and obsess over.
They are fun, easy reads, which I need right now.
There is an HBO series, which I'm sure is very good, based upon it.
I won't pay for HBO, so I'm having to assume.
Last time I paid for HBO Samantha was boffing every man in the Big Apple, if you know what I mean.
This series helps while away the time spent watching Noggin with my kids without requiring me to completely submerge myself. It's like Whipped Cream instead of the cream in Tiramisu.
(I really want Tiramisu)
I have degrees of books that I read.

First Degree: Fun. Fluffy. Light reading. Compare them to a parfait.
Second Degree: Edgy. Interesting. A tad dirty. Comparison: Chocolate Lava Cake.
Third Degree: Timeless. Classic. Favorites. Comparison: Cheesecake.
Fourth Degree: Encompassing. Rapturous. Orgasmic. Comparison: Tiramisu.

I find its easier on my waistline to compare books to desserts. I can inhale books and not gain a pound. Whereas desserts sit on me like a bag of lard on my ass. Sad, but true.
What do you enjoy reading?

Monday, April 13, 2009

When the stars align

When the star align and the heavens open up into a serenade of heavenly music, my children will mind, cooperate, and be ideal little children.
Today was on of those days.
Desperation and a doctors appointment had me braving the world to take my children shopping with me.
I did so with trepidation and the intent to speed through shopping to prevent the inevitable fights, meltdowns, and demands my children produce.
Instead, I was accompanied by children salespeople complimented me on.
You read that right.
People COMPLIMENTED me on how well behaved my heathens were.
I only had to put the baby in the cart. the boys walked alongside the cart and didn't touch anything.
Or they walked behind me holding hands and not fighting.
Even the baby didn't succumb to a missed nap meltdown.
It has been a peaceful day of parenting complete with a few feel good moments and a healthy dose fo mama pride.
Today was one of those days that made me realize I can do this. I am doing this. And teh light at the end of teh tunnell isn't a car full of my children running e down while I plead for mercy.
At least, today it isn't.
Because tomorrow the stars will move and the heavens will snap shut like a chastity belt on a virgin.
Tomorrow the aliens that abducted my children will bring them back and I'll spend my day yelling, "Don't touch him!" "Get off him!" and "What did you do to her now?"
So,f or today, i'm going to bask in teh glow of a glass of hard liquor and a sense of a job well done.
And hopefully tomorrow The Man will be the parent on duty.
Then the return of our heathens are his problem.

Friday, April 10, 2009

Eggs, candy, and all that jazz

Come Sunday morning, my kids will wake to find a chocolate crazed bunny has invaded our home, left baskets, and speed hopped to the next kid on his list.
They will go to grandma's house and find a bevy of colorful plastic eggs filled with candy yummies just waiting to be hunted.
They will have colored their Sponge bob eggs to take to grandmas for consumption.
And The Mn will be running around on a sugar high right with them while I try to convince Punk to wear her pretty hat for one minute so I can snap a picture.
Its strange how your holidays morph once you have children.
Its strange to think five years ago I had never worried about the Easter bunny making a visit.
And now I prep and slave and worry for five minutes of pleasure in the morning and worn out kids that night.
Happy Easter.
May your family be blessed with a year of joy and light and love. And may the Divine, whoever that is for you, bless and keep you.
Blessed be.

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Breaking the habit

Boo is a thumb sucker.
He has been since birth.
I don't have too much of a problem with it.
But I know my ped is gearing up to argue me into making Boo stop.
I've read the articles. I know about dental issues, speech problems, etc.
I don't care.
I sucked my thumb as a child and stopped.
At least I think I did.
Boo will stop as school and friends and age take over.
With all our family has endured this past year, taking away a comfort measure isn't something I am prepared to do.
If it was a paci, okay. I can take away a piece of plastic.
I can't take away his thumb.
So I can either wait it out, knowing it will end, or adjusting to the fact when he graduates from Harvard his thumb will be in his mouth moments before he gives his valedictory address.
Or I can fight him and make it something bad and make us all miserable.
I think I'll wait.
And I think, as he ages, he'll stop on his own.
I may be paying for braces later as a result, but my child will have his comfort for a bit longer.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Baby and beauty

Punk is a good looking kid.
She is my daughter after all.
I appreciate the compliments when we go out.
I am polite. I say thank you.
Sunday, we went out and we got mobbed. Not like scary celebrity mobbed, but still enough to make Punk cling like a spider monkey and me to think about popping a couple of dentures out.
I don't know why people feel they can touch a strangers child.
My daughter does not like her hair petted, her cheek pinched, her toes touched, her earrings pinched, or her nose tapped.
When a baby is burying her head in her mother's shoulder and said motehr is nicely trying to walk past you, do not grab my baby's hand to hold me in place. I do bite and I have not been vaccinated.
And when I am in the store and you are a grown man with no children or wife in sight, do not stop and yell about how "damned bee-oo-tiful" my baby is and follow it with another "damn!" You're lucky I didn't slap your pedophile ass into next week, then follow Lorena Bobbitt's example, buddy.
I can admire other people's children without stepping into their space. I can tell you you baby is lovely without touching.
I know the germs out there. I don't want them, and I don't want to pass them on to you. Nor will I announce that your child is beautiful in such as way it makes you want to call the police and have me listed as a sex offender.
There are limits.
There is personal spaces.
And I am reclaiming mine.
And my kids. The Man can claim his own.
Hands off me and mine, and we'll get along fine. You touch, you may pull back a stub next time, buddy.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

House of phlegm and snot

My daughter and I are sick.
We're finally on the road to recovery, but its a long ass road and we're both a-dragging.
Started last week with Punk getting goopy eyes. Her face was puffy, so I start thinking sinuses. So we begin treating. She's been fussy and restless, not sleepy and irritable, but no evidence of infection.
Thursday, I began running a fever. Took whet i had with me--3 pamprin--it was that or baby teething tabs--and suffered. By that night, i had full on body aches, sore throat, and sinus headache.
I didn't go to work Friday.
I have been popping NyQuil like candy, shoving the Netti pot up my nose half a dozen times a day, and Vick's on everyone in sight. The Chihuahua didn't appreciate it, but I was half awake and half drugged and, for the record, he does not have a snotty nose.
I am upright, bitchy, and not feeling much better.
Add to that The Man went to the dentist today and is walking around talking through a mouthful of gauze, and I'm real peach to be around.
I am tired of being sick. I am tired of sick kids. I want to put my house in a bubble until spring finally arrives and we can just move on without fear of what contagion lays in wait to ambush us.

Monday, April 6, 2009

Another surgery

The Man has to have one more surgery on his hand.
The fourth, in case you've lost count.
He's in pain and its necessary.
But this injury never ends.
It will be with us, in one form or another, all our lives.
When our daughter walks down the aisle.
When Our son hands us our first grandchild.
When our boy reaches out to shake his father's hand for the first time as an adult.
It will always be with us.
That will be the hand I hold when the end is there--be it his or mine.
That is the hand I reach for at night.
That is the hand that dries my tears, Wipes my babies noses, and steadies our baby as she walks.
That hand.
This accident.
One split second changed the face of our family's future.
We will always have a tacit reminder of the moment a man's carelessness cost The Man his fingers.
I can't looks at it without seeing the accident in my mind, and without being grateful.
Yes, the injury has marred our family. But one minute earlier, and I would be alone.
With my children.
No husband. No father. No partner.
No pain in my ass.
Just alone.
So I will pull on my big girl panties and put on a brave face once more. I will watch them wheel my husband into surgery and hold my breath until I'm with him again. I will hold tight to his connection to me and I will not let go.
I will not be alone.

Friday, April 3, 2009

Scan me! $3 off!

I have become a coupon whore.
Time and tides have forced me to bargain shop for food to feed my demanding, hungry brood.
I scour teh papers, magazines, and the internet for deals. I salivate at coupons more than $1 off.
I drive to different stores lookign for the best deal.
As I stood in Reasors with my wad of coupons, people gave me a wide birth.
I brag to The Man about how much I saved (today I got ten percent more groceries for free!) I frequent websites like:
Admittedly, it has savedme money of things like diapers. The Huggies $5 off coupons I found tehre resulted in 600+ diapers purchased to covered my Punk princess' butt.
I have gotten toothpaste for 25 cents.
And entrees for free.
And I'm hooked. It's a drug. I can't seem to stop myself.
I get a happy moment every time I see teh before and after prices.
I think I'm in love with teh coupon scanner.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

The Perils of Parenting

I'm not going to debate TV watching for children.
I've read the studies. I know what experts say.
I also known that when my kids are watching TV I can finally wash my body and hair--3 minutes flat--without interruption. Maybe.
I won't tell you how much my boys have loved Spongebob Squarepants or how we can sing the Goofy Goober song from start to finish.
Or that my daughter loves a dancing syphilis afflicted crimson penis on Yo Gabba Gabba.

My kids love Noggin and Sesame Street and Monsters Inc. We even have a DVD player in the car. TV has taught my children interesting tidbits of information, such as that monsters are cool and a guinea pig, a duckling, and turtle can fly around the world rescuing animals.
For me, the perils of parenting are pitfalls aplenty (like my alliteration?) and I will choose to allow my kids a few moments of guilty, TV induced pleasure as children.
And if Punk likes to watch and dancing dildo, I'll deal with it.
Her father? Well, now that's another matter entirely. Him, we pick up off the floor everytime Yo Gabba Gabba comes on.
Honey! It's dancing dildo, prancing penis time!
Wait, he might take that as an invite for adult fun.
Never mind!

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Where am I?

Somewhere in the midst of peeing on sticks, birth, breastfeeding, diapers, feeding, potty training, and parenting, I lost myself.
Before heathens, I would relax in bed and read a book for fun.
Now, I try to sleep. Do laundry. I try to catch up. I plan kid activities.
I work. I worry. I make appointments. I plan meals. I stress.
My life revolves around getting things done, and in the process, I've plowed right over the girl I used to be.
I wonder if, when life slows down and balances itself back nicely on the tightrope, she'll find me again. Maybe I didn't turn her into a smear on the asphalt--maybe she's just taking the scenic route.
Maybe she has time to stop and smell the flowers and listen to the birds and to breathe.
While I'm barrelling down the highway with three kids strapped into their seats and a DVD of Spongebob blaring in the background.
I miss me. I look into the mirror and I don't recognize the woman looking back at me. My kids call her mom. The Man says she's married to him. But she feels a species apart from the girl I used to be.