Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Here he comes to save the day!

It's a bird!
It's a plane!
No, it's The Man on a mission!
The Man has taken a very personal and deep interest in our youngest son, Boo's, education.
He's only three years old, but the child wants to grow up to be a dragon doctor. So we have to be prepared.
We attempted to enroll him in a three year old program at his brothers soon-to-be school, only to be declined because . . .
(Okay, stop laughing and pick yourself up. It's rude to roll on the floor and cackle like a hyena.)
So The man got to thinking. It's tough and there was smoke rolling from his ears, but I have to hand it to him, he did good. Maybe. if it works.
He thought about the fact that last year, before injury, he was making almost twice as much as he is now, and the financial information we provided had that income on it. So he called them. And asked. And we missed the cut off by a mere $4000. (Money I would have loved to have had this last year, but still . . .)
So he's been doing math. My wages, plus his new wages, and viola! We may just be there.
So he's gathering up heathens, donning his cape and tights (hot pink with little rainbows) and flying to Headstart's office to do battle for our boy.
He'll whine and cajole and plead. He'll announce that all Boo wants is knowledge and education and children he's not related to to torture--wait, scratch that. To make friends with. Yeah, that's right. And we won't mention his love of flammable things and toaster ovens.
So we're hoping that, despite earlier disappointments, come August, both of my boys will be on the playground with new friends. And we're hoping Boo will be running like Charlie Chaplin on crack right alongside his brother.
And that we don't get too many calls about what those B Boys are doing at school.

Monday, June 29, 2009


Rather than endure lay-offs, my work has instituted furlough days. You know, unpaid days I don't have to go in and that I will enjoy until I get my paycheck and then I will scream, "OH MY GOD!"
Because, rather than spread the pain out for an entire year, my work has opted to slice up quick, hard, and dirty--meaning furlough days are on whatever paycheck they occur. Period.
December is going to hurt. Two furlough days. "Sorry, kids, Santa is broke because Mommy's job instituted furlough days. Can you say welfare office, here we come?"
I'm a public servant. I don't make a lot for the amount of crap I have to endure from pissed off water customers. I have heathens who, by law, have to be fed, clothed, and cared for. And they demand the extras like heat and light and shoes.
So furlough days are going to hurt.
But I keep trying to find that damned silver lining by repeating, "At least I have a job. It doesn't pay worth shit, but at least I have a job."

Friday, June 26, 2009

A glimpse into the future

Bug (to me): Hey Babe! Why don't you get up and get me a cup of juice. Thanks Babe!

When I picked myself up off the floor, he figured out he should go get his own damned juice.

Thursday, June 25, 2009


"Boo, why did you put your friend Bear Bear in the oven?"
"Because I wanted his to be toast!"
Yep, Bear Bear, the stuffed Winnie the Pooh i have spent countless hours looking for and washing, was placed in the toaster oven and fricasseed today.
I arrived home to the desperate please of Th Man and Boo to fix him, cause, ya know, six years of veterinary medicine experience and a uterus means I can do stuff like this.
Wee--ooooo! Wee--oooo! Those are the ambulance sounds I make as I pull out my minute sewing kit and some found fabric and start to work, cutting off the damaged fur and melted internal beads to try and save Bear Bear's life.
"Damn it! I'm losing him. Someone get me the paddles! Breathe, damn you! Breathe! No bears will die on my watch today!"
I set up an emergency OR (my desk) with my three scrub nurses (Bo, Bug, and Punk.) And I fielded questions like a champ.
"Can you save him, Mommy?"
"I don't know."
"Is he fixed yet?"
"I don't know."
I don't know!"
I stitched, pulled, poked, and patched Bear Bear into the bear of Frankenstein. I have sewn until my fingers hurt and bled--all for the love of one little pyromaniac child.
And while I sewed like Bear Bear's life depended on it, I remembered why I was doing it.
I remembered Boo.
And, though now permanently crippled, I am pleased to report:
Surgery successful.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009


Punk has officially turned in a deranged spider monkey on crack.
Yep, she's a climber.
Couches, chairs, you name it. She climbs it.
We found her straddling the side of her playpen watching TV the other day.
So far, fortunately, she still hasn't master crib climbing, but I know it won't be long.
She digs her mutant monkey toes into the furniture and hauls herself up. She throws her sippie, snack, or toys up ahead of her. I think she's having her bear do reconnaissance.
She also demands that we pick her up, crying "Uh! Uh! Uh!" while waving her hand imperiously for us to grab.
And if you dare utter the word no, if it even starts to leave our mouths, she melts. Her lower lip pooches, her eyes fill with tears, and she shrieks so high pitched and loud the windows shake and the cats scurry for cover.
She loves to climb our couch and lean over it smiling at you, happy as she can be. Then she plops down so close to the edge that I'm diving to prevent her from falling, all the while, she crows with delight.
I love her new found independence, but I think she's a baby daredevil. I know she has no fear. I know she's gonna get hurt. And I know she'll cry, get up, and do it again.
And, it's times like these when I recognize myself in my daughter. It's not enough that she is a mini me. It's not enough that she has my temper. I just know I'll be watching her climb trees in a skirt or run with the boys, all the while I'm wishing she would just be a sweet little girl, not such a tomboy.
And I know how my mom must have felt.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009


You would think after I finally stopped nursing and the kids finally started sleeping through the night, I would sleep as well.
You'd be logical in thinking that.
Completely and utterly wrong, but logical.
I don't sleep.
No, I do sleep, just not long periods of time or enough to recharge my lagging batteries.
I wake up worrying, stressing, and organizing my life. I am up early most mornings running errands, going to the grocery store, or working on this blog.
I don't know how to wind down.
I used to meditate.
Now I try, and then dodge flying heathens and have my happy nirvana interrupted by the war cries of my kids.
I used to take Harvey Wallbanger (the dog, not the drink) and go for long walks. With The Man's new schedule, when I get home, I'm on parent duty
until I collapse.
I used to read, but now I fight for my book, have to read around kids in my lap, and maybe get two sentences digested before someone is screaming bloody murder about a taken toy or a cross look.
I miss the rest and the quiet and the peace I used to take for granted.
Now I'm chasing kids, cleaning, feeding, wiping arses and noses and hands and faces and anything else in my path. I'm refereeing and throwing penalty flags and running up and down the house chasing a deranged toddler on a sugar high.
I'm busy. And sleep is a luxury I cannot find time for.
So I eye my bed longingly, and then get up and chase Punk for the millionth time, ordering Boo to turn his underwear around for the eighth time that night, and telling Bug to stop stealing toys and act like a good big brother.
I'm in one of Dante's levels of hell. The one where they practice sleep deprivation. Or I'm a POW.
All I know is I want my pillow, a blankie, and my ratty silky bear and a couple of hours of quiet.
Is that so much to ask?

Monday, June 22, 2009

Sweet days of summer

My brother and his family did the unthinkable.
They took my boys to the lake.
And didn't drown them.
In fact, my sister in law said they were "perfect."
It was either the sun or the liquor, but she actually used the word "perfect" to describe my male heathens.
The boys were treated to swimming, sand castles, hot dogs, and s'mores. They were played with and pampered and made to feel very special.
I've been hearing about it for days, so i know they had a good time.
Boo did rat out his cousin, Guy. He said Guy tried to drown him. Several times. I figure it was the only quiet time they got all day.
But it was nice to know my boys could behave well for their aunt and uncle. Normally they are stealing their food and climbing their uncle like a tree. And asking, "You wanna piece of me?"
Uncle LeeBones takes it in stride. Auntie M finds them food. And the kids adore them.
And I think by boys just suckered a couple more people into the role of babysitters!
Woo hoo for me!

Sunday, June 21, 2009


Today is Father's Day.
It's a day when I miss my own Daddy so much I feel like I can't breathe, but it's also a day I recognize how fantastic a Daddy The Man is.
My Daddy was a gruff, loving man. I am the youngest of eight kids, and so, by the time he got to me, he was older, tired, and had seen it all. He once said I was his favorite child because I was the baby, the last chance he had to be a parent. And so I was special.
He loved all his children, even the ones who only deserved a boot up their ass, but he got to spend the most parenting time with my brother and I. He was stable, happily married, and enjoying the middle stage of his life. And we reaped the benefits and the heartaches.
We lost him a few years ago the day before Thanksgiving, which forever alters that holiday for my family. But we are thankful we had him for as long as we did.
The Man, who was not only silly enough to marry me but crazy enough to procreate with me, is an amazing dad. He thinks our kids are funny and beautiful and rotten and ornery and too much like me.
I watch him play cars on the floor for hours. I've stood in the window and watched as he chased children around the yard all afternoon. I've stood by as the heathens "woke him up" (*wink, wink*) by bouncing on him in bed.
I've seen him act as a teacher to our babies--walking, talking, playing, cleaning, and life lessons.
I've lain in bed, listening to him walk a crying baby during the night so I could catch a few minutes more of sleep.
I've seen him scrub walls when explosive diarrhea from a baby diaper bested him.
And I've watched him sneak our kids treats he knew I didn't want them to have just to watch their little faces light up at their first taste of ice cream.
No, he's far from perfect. I could list faults and flaws aplenty. But watching him parent, most days, I don't see the man who leaves his socks laying around, who snores loud enough to wake the dead, and who eats foods that make me turn green. I just see a dad who loves his children with a passion that defies logic.
Not a bad deal, if you ask me.
I was lucky enough to be the apple of my Daddy's eye, and now I see the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Worms and all.
Happy Daddies Day.

Friday, June 19, 2009

Hard Choices

The Man and I are considering some big changes for our family that would entail hard choices on our part. Very hard choices.
But the benefits to our family would be great.
Fourteen years ago, newly wed and full of ideals, this was not the path we had planned on walking. This was not the road I had mapped in my mind.
I knew I would be a famous radio show host, complete with a huge following, hanging on every word I uttered in my sexy, raspy voice.
I have the degree, some experience, but no one hangs on my every word. And my kids couldn't care less if my voice is sexy, just so long as I don't do all four of their names, they're happy.
But, back then, I thought I knew where I was going and where we would be right now.
It's not where we've ended up. Not even close.
We are at a point in our lives where, if we don't snatch an opportunity now, we'll never have another chance.
We're at a critical juncture.
And, as we stand at the crossroads, we have a lot of information to digest and consider. Reams of it. Oodles of info. Gobs of it. Does that give you any idea how much we're processing? Yes, as in HOLY SHIT, BATMAN!
No matter what decision we make, someone will be unhappy.
Us. Family. Friends. Our children. Someone will have a possible future removed from the big chessboard that is our life. Checkmate. End game.
The Man and I have realized that, if the cards lay out right, we have an opportunity to make a better life for our children and ourselves, but, in doing so, we may have to separate from our family for a time being.
And that is a heart wrenching choice for both of us, especially me. I have never not had my family a hop, skip, and a jump away. If I want to see my mom--I just hop in the car and drive fifteen minutes. Need a babysitter? I have family here to help. Need someone to go with The Man to euthanize a family pet? Yep, family.
I have an amazing support staff here, and that is a luxury I truly appreciate.
But, by the same token, having all of my family in one location finally means if I have to leave for a little bit, I know my mom will have support and someone to make sure she's okay until we get back.
I also know my mom will retire next year, and loves to travel (as does the rest of our family. Can you say road trip?), so distance wouldn't be such a consideration. An inconvenience, but not insurmountable.
My umbilical cord has long since been cut, but my lifeline is still super strong. (As I read this, my boys both just struck a pose showing me their "muskles".) Surviving a ill parent all during my childhood made me cleave a bit more tightly to my mother. It's okay. It's the way it is. No regrets.
The same situation made my brother separate from her. Again, no recriminations, just the facts.
But maybe, just maybe, it's my brother's time. He's lived in other states. He's had his freedom to choose for his family despite familial locations and needs. And he has his regrets. Maybe this is the Universes way of letting him heal his wounds and reconnect in a new way with Mom.
To all things there is a season. And maybe this is mine. And his. And moms.
Whether or not our plans work out the way we want. Whether or not we travel 500 miles away or five minutes, the act of considering changes my perspective on life, on my family, and on my goals.
And makes me realize just how much I have grown as a woman, a mother, and as a person.
And how many more miles I have to travel before I sleep.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Return of the Pod Heathens

The Man had a bad day yesterday.
He was tired. The kids were wild.
It was one of those days where I arrived home with my side arm drawn and ready to shoot.
Boo painted my kitchen floor and himself with hooker red nail polish.
Boo and Bug stripped Bug's bed and refused to remake it.
I got home at dinner time and all hell broke loose.
First and foremost, I addressed my war painted preschooler. And when he lied to me, I saw a red that had nothing to do with my nail polish.
Evidently, I hit the scary Mommy face. Because when I had both my boys in front of me and I ordered them to make Bug's bed before they would get their dinner of bread and water.
They were hungry. The bread was only a day old. They were motivated.
And evidently they figured out I meant business, because, without my prompting, Bug began drying and putting up dishes and Boo took care of the dirty clothes and helped his brother.
While I stood back in shock.
They also showered themselves (I turned on the water) and did a good job.
I scared the Pod heathens into a well timed visit.
I'm gonna try it again tonight!

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

The Famous Mr. Ed!

Or Boo, as the case may be.
For the first time in my parenting career, long and illustrious as it has been, I have a foot stopper.
"Hey, Boo! Would you pick up your toys?"
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
"You only want to pick up four toys? There are forty out--try again, buddy!"
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
He's an interesting negotiator.
I thoroughly expect to hear, "Now, Mommy!" fall out of his mouth, followed by a nicker.
It's bad enough Punk is now doing it. But she's little and I might be able to curb hers more easily.
I pray to the gods!
But Boo? Now there's the rub. How do I solve a problem like Boo's foot stampin' temper tantrum oh-not-so-good-time?
I've tried reason. Yes, I know, with my kid? I was wasting enough hot air to fill the Hindeburg.
I've tried laughter. He wasn't amused.
I've stamped my feet. It hurt like hell.
I've done time outs, early bed times, etc. All to no avail.
He still stamps his feet like a mad pony.
I'm about to have him shoed.
And then, if he doesn't straighten up, I may take him out back and deal with him like a lame horse.
Wait a minute. He'd probably come back and I'd be the one put down.
And he'd be stamping his feet and whistling all the while.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Potty Training--Girl Style

I've never actually potty trained any child before.
The Man tackled Boo and Bug's potty training with only a little assistance from me. He was home. He had time. He succeeded.
As I've written before, Punk has begun expressing interest in the bathroom activities the rest of the family participates in.
She knows where the potty is. She sits beautifully (buck nekkid) on her potty, and waits for applause FOR DOING ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!
Well, she IS *ahem* a princess.
This morning, noting her pretty dry diaper, I stripped her down and plopped her on the potty, sitting on my throne across from her and waiting.
The boys came in and tried to talk to her, getting a shrill cry that had them scurrying from the room.
I stared adoringly into my daughters eyes, all the while stealing surreptitious peaks to see if she had done anything.
When all of a sudden, Punk got this very odd look on her face and I heard the sweet sound of liquid hitting plastic.
I jumped up, screamed, "YOU PEE PEED IN THE POTTY YOU BRILLIANT WONDERFUL GIRL! NOBEL PRIZE! HERE WE COME! MY CHILD IS A GENIUS! AND I AM A GENIUS FOR HAVING YOU!"Okay, maybe I didn't scream it quite that way, but that was the basic gist.
Meanwhile, Punk looked shocked and a bit suspicious as we wiped and diapered and fussed and oohed and ahh'd.
I think she has an inkling that she just lost a good deal by tinkling in her toilet!
Score one for Mommy!

Monday, June 15, 2009


I've packed up my beloved breast pumps for a woman interested in buying one.
It's almost like giving up a child.
My first pump got me through a baby I was determined to nurse. He had other ideas. I pumped for a year solid.
It loyally chugged along through child two, keeping pace with his prodigious appetite, milking me for every ounce of liquid gold it could.
For child three, I bought a back up pump for work. I was tired of schlepping my primary one everywhere. Together, we not only fed my baby, but generated enough milk to donate for other sick babies.
They have been loyal workhorses, dedicating to feeding my children ad easing my mind with every suck whoosh that extracted nourishment from my body.
And while I resented them at three in the morning, I was grateful when I left for work and knew my child would be fed.
But packing them up for possible purchase has brought some feelings to the surface I have to face.
My children have never reached their 18 month birthday without me being hugely pregnant or having a newborn in my arms. Punk is approaching 18 months, and my body is responding in the only fashion it knows.
It wants a baby.
My mind says no. My body has been made unusable. The shop it closed. I have cobwebs and dust bunnies in my womb. It's a no fly zone.
My heart is standing firm.
It wants that soft bundle of new baby. It craves the smell and the feel and the weight of a newborn. It aches for the babies who are running around our house like Charlie Chaplin on crack.
My heart yearns for my babies to be small again. It wants to feel them nestled to my breast, tiny fists laying flat upon my chest. It wants the nuzzles of a hungry mouth searching for food.
Because it knows our body has moved on before my heart was ready.
The Man is eager to be rid of baby things--nursing pillows, activities centers, playpens. I could cling to them like a life vest.
Which they are to me.
They soothe my poor heart into believing maybe we're not done. Maybe my body will turn on my mind and let my heart have the baby she craves.
It's holding out hope for a miracle that won't come.
And so I weep a bit as I pack up my pumps, silently thanking them for their valiant service and remembering the feel of my body moving to feed another.
Hopefully they will serve another mother just as well.

Friday, June 12, 2009


Punk has become a nudist.
The diaper comes off at the drop of a hat, and The Man and I are left facing and chasing a naked baby around the house.
Or my personal favorite: go in to check on her during a nap or at night. She's butt up in the air and you've got an eyeful of oh my God!
I'm not a prude. My boys both love to be naked. After baths, Boo traditionally streaks through the house in a triumphant ode to free willy.
We've told the boy to be careful. He might put his eye out with that thing.
But there has to be a point where it ceases to be cute and its just becomes a problem.
Punk hit it this week when she grabbed a handful of poop and had a party.
I happened to be on the phone with The Man and he was puking a bit in his mouth while cleaning her up.
Better him than me.
Punk flashes in dresses, shirts, pants, skirts--you name it--she's gonna drop trou (think Janice Dickenson) and earn her some beads.
the Man is afraid for the future.
I'm thinking we could save a lot of money by having a child nudist colony.
But I'm sure there is law somewhere that prohibits it.
At least if we're caught.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Small things

My children constantly remind me that it's not the big stuff I do that matters.
Don't get me wrong. They love big stuff. Big EXPENSIVE stuff. They would not turn down any large noisy toy. Ever.
But they enjoy small things that we take for granted.
Bug loves to blow dandelion seeds.
Boo loves to watch The stars come out at night.
Punk loves a piece of paper rubbed on the floor.
Free root beer floats? They're there.
Popcorn and a video? Those are my spuds on the couch.
A childrens pool on a hot afternoon? Splish, splash baby!
Homemade ice cream sundaes? Oh yeah.
Growing up makes you forget the simple joy of things we loved as children. Wishing upon stars, splashing in puddles, dancing in the rain.
Snowball fights and forts used to provide hours of entertainment. Now its just a reminder of cold bones and the sniffles.
Having children reminds us how to be young, even as our joint creaks and our backs ache.
They remind us to dance without inhibition and to sing into our hairbrush. They remind us how much fun a soap bubble beard is or how nice it is to chase bubbles on a windy day.
And they remind us how to laugh--deep, hard, belly laughs that shake our bodies and bring tears to our eyes.
Yes, they cause gray hairs, worry lines and ulcers.
Yes, they bankrupt us and steal away the middle section of our lives by needing rides to sports games, activities, friends house, by needing us at teacher conferences and field trips.
Yes, they demand a lot.
But what they give back?

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Mama Love

Punk has a righteous case of Mama Love.
In other words, I'm her Favorite pet.
She's going to love me, cuddle me, pet me and keep me. And I think she's named me George.
Punk doesn't want Daddy or Grandma or the drunk man walking down the street. She wants me. Obsessively.
She screams when I leave the room.
She cries when I'm not holding her.
She escapes her pen to waddle into the bathroom to share some quality mother-daughter time with me.
In the middle of the night, she won't go to her dad. She'll cry and fight and scurry back to my side of the bed.
She doesn't want her brothers touching me. She war cries them so effectively they leave a wet trail as they scurry away.
She is Punkin Butted Baby: Warrior Princess. See her armor plated diaper?
Truthfully, I'm a wee bit flattered. She is the first of the heathens not to roll me for their father. That drives The Man berseark, which is fun for me, but the whole "clinging to mommy like a crazed spider monkey" routine? Not so cute.
But I'm also tired and have a massive headache from being cuddled and yelled at and mauled and loved and snuggled quite so effectively.
I don't know how to break her of this strange dependence.
I don't know if I should.
What if it causes her to have anxiety issues and abandonment issue later on because MOMMY DIDN'T LOVE HER ENOUGH TO LET ME HEADBUTT HER 1800 TIMES IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT WHILE WE WATCHED "THE NANNY"!
Really. I worry about my kids therapy bills enough later on without having to add this into the mix.
I don't know what to do. Yeah, shocker I know. But I'm confused.
How do I change Miss codependent to Miss Independent without hard assing her right into a shrink's chair?

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

The Children's Hour

On nights when The Man works, my kids and I have our children's hour.
Normally it consists of sippie cups of milk and old cartoons--Warner brothers and Droopy--or a movie I know they will like.
They tell me about their day and narrate their actions for me.
Punk clings to me with tightly clenched chubby fists and a determined smirk.
Boo dances around the house and tattles on his siblings.
And Bug watches me. Occasionally running at me to hug me with a painful ferocity.
They miss me during the day. And they miss their daddy at night.
Our hour is never quiet or still.
It's always loud and ruckus and crazy.
But it's time I get with the heathens, just being, with few demands and fewer things I have to do around the house.
And it's precious.

Monday, June 8, 2009

Saketine Sock It To Me

I am having to bid a sad farewell to my other Chihuahua, Saketini Sock it To Me, after four years of faithful companionship.
Saki has been a joyous, happy dog, loving my kids and myself with the abandon only found in mentally challenged rodent type dogs.
Saki was challenged from birth. A week after his arrival on this earth, his litter mate decided to maim him with a toenail to the eye, which became infected, and resulted in a malformed jaw and face. His was a face only a mother, canine and human, could love.
Saki's tongue always hung out to one side and he could only see you out of one eye.
Despite that, he was determined to be a happy little ankle biter.
He wrestled with my kids, bobbing and weaving to avoid being crushed.
He happily waited for my heathens to throw their dinners on the floor. Our dining room floor was always spotless thanks to him.
And he soothed my heart as I faced the end of my Tequila dog's life.
While pregnant with Punk, Saki began having seizures. They weren't often, nor severe.
Yesterday, he began seizing at 6pm, and despite multiple doses of anti seizure meds, continually seized throughout the night.
I held him and watched the light of awareness leave him this morning around 3m. That many seizures took too hard a toll on his five pound body. though his spirit was willing, he just didn't have the reserves left to fight.
This will be the first pet The Man has held while they passed. And I know Saki will find some comfort in having him there, and i know my rat dog will understand my absence.
I said my goodbye last night during a brief lucid period. He knows how cherished he was. And I know he will be at peace.
According to Bug, he will be joining Pee-paw, Tequila, and the zoo's polar bear in the stars. He'll have pretty good company, I'm sure.
Blessed be, Saki.

Single Parent

Okay, I have a little bit of time as a single parent under my belt again since The Man's return to gainful employment
I don't think the heathens are enjoying it as much as they thought they would.
I'm not the fun parent. I freely admit it. I'm the scheduler parent--I schedule appointments and activities and events and things to do. I like a tight run ship (See honey? Navy reference!) and clean and well mannered heathens.
Not that I get those things, but damn it, I try!
I know my kids miss the wild freedom and Daddy days--playing with rocks in the driveway, covering themselves with mud, and eating lollipops they share with the dogs.
I see the longing in their eyes as they inch towards the door and freedom when they think I'm not looking.
Truthfully? I'm only slightly less anal about my kids days than Kate Gosselin. I just don't care about the housework. I think that's the big difference. And I don't have that weird hair.
I know kids need free time. got the memo along with the stretch marks. But I need structure. I thrive on structure. Ask The Man. I can't fly by the seat of my panties (Hm mm. Did I wear them today?) --I must have planned events and end times.
So the heathens will have to adjust.
Or they will mutiny.
Knowing my kids, just call me Captain Bligh.
But I did see the relief in their eyes when they saw The Man in our bed this morning. Bug practically booted me out the door this morning with a "Have a nice day!"
He even locked the door behind me.
I think I'm offended.
But I'll know for sure when I go home and they won't let me in. Then I'll really be up a creek without a paddle.

Friday, June 5, 2009

Relay For Life

Tonight, my boys, The Man, and I will be participating in Relay for Life, the American Cancer Societies way of walking for cancer research.
I personally think its just a way to get me off my fat ass and moving.
But maybe that's just me.
My wonderful sister in law, henceforth known as Tantie Ta-ta, is a breast cancer survivor.
I've told the boys they are walking in honor of their aunt's knockers.
(She's cringing and speed dialing me as she reads this, ya know!)
Seriously though. Cancer is some scary shit. It doesn't discriminate. It can strike a newborn and an older person, a woman or a man, black, white, and every blessed spotted one of us in between. It can kill, maim, or make you violently ill.
It's a pervasive, ugly bastard of a disease and we need to wipe it out.
So find your local Relay for Life. Donate. Put on your walking shoes and walk with me, sweating like pig and swearing very step of the way. I haven't told my sister in law, but I promised a group of guys I met on the street if they would donate to them, she'd flash them every time she passes them.
I'm sure she'll take it for the team.
And I'm sure she'll find a way to involve me in the flashing.
Get out and do something!
And remember you might have an aunt whose knockers need your support.

Thursday, June 4, 2009


It's quiet tonight.
The Man is at work.
The heathens and I have had kettle corn and watched a movie. I have listened to their chatter and laughter and cries of sibling induced outrage while still marveling at how quiet our home is tonight.
I have listened to soft baby snores and mumbled excerpts from childish dreams as I tuck blankets closer to my babies.
I have sat in out living room, the TV on, the house settling in with its night time noises, and still felt the quiet pressing down on me.
I have lain in my bed, hand pressed to his pillow, and waited to hear his familiar sleep sounds, some pleasant and comforting, some not so attractive, but his just the same.
I never realized how much noise The Man makes simply by being.
I've never known how much noise he made even when he was silent.
I wonder if he feels the same silence when I am gone, as though something essential has been removed from our little world.
After a year, it feels strange to truly be alone with my children and my thoughts. I keep expecting him to be there, to be in my space and annoying me by doing nothing more than being.
He excels at annoying me by merely breathing.
And now, with the house devoid of his heavy steps and not so soft snores, I find that I almost miss it.
Not him. It.
The noise. The presence. the extra something a house filled with a whole family engenders.
Maybe the cliche is right. Maybe absence does make the heart grow fonder.
Or maybe I'm just used to having someone to fight with taller than 4 feet.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009


The boys adore their rotten little sister.
In fact, the boys worship her in an "I'm scare she's gonna snap and come after me oh isn't she cute" kind of way.
Boo especially.
When I'm wrestling her into a fresh diaper, Boo is there with diaper cream and a reminder that "Sissy is a pretty Princess, Mama."
When I'm getting sippie cups, Boo will take Punks and declare, "It's for the Princess."
When punk is dressed up and dolled up for a night on the town . . .er, a trip to the grocery store, Boo declares, "Come look at the pretty Princess. Isn't she bea-u-ti-mus!"
While I think its cute, I'm almost a wee bit irritated that the Princess seems to out rank the Queen. (and not in a Freddie Mercury or drag queen way!)
I don't get any special treatment from the men in my life. I do occasionally get told I'm hamd-sum, which results in the lecture, "girls are pretty, boys are handsome."
I don't know where I lost control of my menfolk. I mean, I knew The Man would toss me over for our daughter--I was okay with that--but my boys? Now that hurts!
I have sacrificed body and soul for those rotten little monsters and this is how they repay me?
Okay, is it me or was that line just very "Mommy Dearest" in a "no wire coats hangers" way?
All I can tell you is I'm determined to reclaim my throne.
Even if it is in the bathroom.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Looking back

Every now an again, I enjoy looking back and waxing poetic.
Most people look back around the first of the year. Not me. That would be common and trite, both things I strive to avoid like the piggy pox.
So I'm looking back now.
As anyone in a five mile radius of me knows, this year has been a rough one.
I had my third baby, my Punkin' Butt, started a new job, watched my boys discover whole new worlds of dangerous and daring and demented play, and have lived with the damaged goods that is my husband.
I have euthanized my beloved Tequila (the dog, not the liquor), supported The Man through surgeries, lost jobs, and a boatload of smelly ten day old crap.
And I've found out that I'm a lot stronger than I ever realized.
Really! You don't believe me? okay. Here's proof.
I've stood at my husband's bedside right after the accident and made tacky hand jokes until he laughed so hard he cried. And I smiled while doing it, because that was what he needed.
I have watched him being wheeled into surgery four times and held firm that he was coming back to me an the heathens.
I have juggled three kids and work and appointments and care giving, albeit with a lot of help from my amazing Mama and smashing sister in law.
I have figured out how to pay bills when wages have been severely cut.
I have enrolled my oldest boy in school, loosening the apron strings just enough for him to take his first step into the real world.
I have cheered as my middle child potty trained, a task undertaken by The Man with determined vigor.
I have held little hands while Punk learned to walk and to run and to find freedom away from my arms.
I found a strength in myself that I'd only seen glimmers of before this last year.
I have learned about sacrifice and sanity and selflessness. I have also learned how to be selfish to maintain my sanity.
I have screamed and cried and raged, and I have went to the grocery store with red eyes because we were out of milk.
I have learned why "I Am Woman, Hear me Roar" is so true.
While i wouldn't relive this year for anything, I wouldn't trade it either.
Because it kicked my ass out of the last remnants of childhood and firmly into adulthood. And, while my ass hurts and my body is weary, I know that is where I am supposed to be.

Monday, June 1, 2009

Out of the mouths of heathens


Bug: He peed on me! Mama! Bubby peed on me! How dis-gussing! Do something!

Me: Try staying out of the line of fire next time.

Bug: I can't, Mama. You should see that thing shoot!