Tuesday, September 29, 2009


I've been rather remiss about my blog lately.
Truthfully, I've been having one of those "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all."
It's a far cry from my usual "If you don't have anything nice to say . . . come sit next to me" motto.
For multiple reasons, my life has dropped a big stinky one smack in my lap.
I'm a big girl. Shat doesn't bother me after three kids, dogs, cats, and The Man.
But this last pile left me wondering if I was really that crappy a parent or if I'd just had a bad start off the line.
As I've written before, Bug is having issues at school.
Not light the place on fire pyro issues or walk in wearing an arsenal issues, but issues.
We're saving the other issues for kindergarten.
No, he is having the kind of issues that make you sit back as a parent and wonder, in five short years, how you could have screwed up that badly?
Not that anything is wrong with Bug.
At least not anything that's his fault.
It's me.
And the Grim Reaper.
And me.
And some of The Man on the side. (Yes, he's the condiment parent.)
And me. (The main course)
I remember going into this parenting gig with great intentions.
They died under the onslaught of labor and drugs and having my body ripped open to bring forth life.
I remember thinking I would do everything just right.
That particular illusion crashed and burned in the middle of the night when I didn't know what to do with leaking boobs and a screaming baby.
I remember vowing I would always be there for my child.
Until alone, suffering PPD, I couldn't bear to hear my child cry any more and pondered escape.
And I understood why Bug is having the problems he's having.
He isn't the one failing.
I am.
Because of actions taken the last five years with good intent and wrong implementation.
I look to my child and realize if he's broken or damaged, I'm the one responsible.
A humbling, sobering, horrifying thought guaranteed to send me running for booze.
One The Man and my family and friends would argue with me about.
And one I will carry with me for life.
Wondering what if.
What if I had been better?
Been there more?
Been less busy?
Been more fun?
Been better?
Just . . . been.


Today is my Doodle Bug's fifth birthday.
It's hard to believe it has been five years since he and I shared a body.
It's hard to believe the baby I held is now a boy who barely fits in my lap any longer.
He is my miracle baby, a child I was given after a horrific loss, a child I wasn't sure I could carry to term.
He is his father's mini me and his buddy. He is the first to run outside to play and the last to collapse at night.
He is the first to lose his temper and the last to forgive. But he is the child who gives affection most readily.
Bug is the child least like me, but the child I love so much because he is so much like his Daddy.
Today, I will pick up cupcakes and drinks to take to his school to celebrate.
We will have a family party.
And I will watch my boy take one step closer to becoming teh man he's meant to be.
I just wish he'd slow down a bit.
Happy birthday, baby Bug.
I love you whole bunch!

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

School sucks!

Or at least it's heading that direction.
For Bug.
We're still having problems. He's trying. I know he is. But he has good days and bad days.
But we're having some issues with the teacher and the teacher's assistant.
And we're trying to make steps for a meeting with the principal and the two offenders to resolve it.
I'm trying to control the mama bear that wants to come out when I hear my son say he doesn't think they like him.
I'm trying not to clutch him to my breast and keep him home when he tells me he doesn't want to go to school.
I'm trying to make this work.
But The Man and I feel like we're not getting the same effort in return.
The TA is always gruff with us and with Bug it seems, as well. He says she's always mad at him and he doesn't enjoy being around her.
She's about to get a can of whoop ass unloaded on her.
My son has gone from excited about school to not wanting to go in a months time. While I understand that kids go through phases, this is more than a phase. There are excuses every morning. Some ridiculous. Some legit sounding.
When he has a bad day, the teacher says it in front of him, and he melts later.
He's unhappy. He's hard on himself.
We're trying everything we know to do to improve Bug's behavior.
But we're not getting any input from his teachers. What we are getting is greeted at the door with a brief summary of what he did wrong--and an occasional "he had a great day." This is bad enough, but often its said with out son right there.
This is breaking my heart. Even as the old woman I am now, I remember fondly my early teachers and my excitement for school. I still have a strong affection for those ladies who made learning fun for me.
I want that experience for my kids.
I want them to love school, adore their teachers, and be eager to go every day.
I don't want them to worry if their teacher likes them.
Because that should be something no child worries about.
Bug should be worried about the three R's.
Reading, writing (can people not spell?), and rebellion.
Which is what got us to this point.

Friday, September 18, 2009

Out of the mouths of heathens

Bug: I don't want friends at school. They take your toys and make you share!

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Brotherly love

Boo's teachers have told us its obvious our boys love each other.
They share a playground, and ever so often, the recess gods align to allow our boys to share some play time.
Bug and Boo cry out each other names and run towards each other like a bad 70's movie scene, ending in a hug and words of affection.
The teachers get a huge kick out of it.
Especially since Boo plots to find his brothers classroom after they separate, and then sits with his face pressed to the classroom window.
Or when bug runs over because his little brother has fallen and busted his lip.
What they don't realize is this is the public facade.
At home, its WWF wrestling, no holds barred, cage match craziness.
But at least they remember to behave well in public.
With witnesses.

Monday, September 14, 2009

Still waiting

This is seriously like the pregnancy that never ends.
This court case, I mean.
No, I am not preggers.
It's been over two weeks since we proposed a settlement offer, and, like so many dates, we've put out and never heard back from them.
Our lawyer says they will offer a counter offer. They have to. But they could offer a ridiculously low amount. And we can't touch base with them because we might seem desperate.
I've got news for you, honey, I've got desperate written all over me in technicolor.
Yep, that's me.
The waiting is seriously killing me, inch by inch, complete with Chinese water torture.
I've never been patient. I'm not good at waiting.
I tried to convince my babies to vacate my womb early because I couldn't stand the waiting.
When it finally comes time for me to kick the bucket, the Grim Reaper better not be late or he'll get an earful.
I don't do patient.
So I pace. And wait. And pace. And bitch. And pace. And gripe. And pace.
Why won't they just give me the money?

Thursday, September 10, 2009


Bug is trying so hard to fit into school.
But its like being dropped in a strange country where they don't speak you language and you don't know their customs.
He has good days, great days, and not so great days.
And we're still not even going full time.
But every day, he tries so hard. And on the good days, he glows. On the not so good ones, he stares at us in confusion and melts right before our eyes.
It's heartbreaking watching him.
I alternate between pride at his efforts and the desire to scoop him up and keep him with me and safe from all outside stresses.
We know that would last about five minutes. Max.
But I never thought about how difficult it would be for him to acclimate.
I though kids just went to school and it made sense.
Like a switch that got flipped when it was time.
Bug's switch is stuck halfway between baby and big boy.
And I don't know which way I want it to go.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

The Land of nod

The Land of Nod and I have parted ways.
Not willingly.
Not happily.
Because Punk is refusing to sleep.
I have returned to the life of a mom with a newborn.
Filling up sippie cups, changing dirty diapers, walking the floors as she cries for no reason I can discern.
Last night it was midnight before she collapsed.
But she woke several times during the night, crying, "MAMA!" until I went in to check.
I'm exhausted. She was still sleeping when I left this morning.
She is cutting her last two teeth, but doesn't seem to be bothered by them.
She is going through a growth spurt, but i made sure her belly was full before bed.
She is being a royal bratling.
And that's where we are stuck.
I have let her cry. She woke up her brothers.
I have brought her to my bed, but she wants to play.
I have put her in her own bed. She shrieks worse than any banshee.
There is no happiness in our house at bedtime.
And you'd think, after three children, I'd be used to no sleep. But no, I'm spoiled. I'd like at least two hours of uninterrupted sleep a night.
I'm greedy that way.
But until Punk realizes nighttime is not any fun, I'll be walking the halls and praying to Inkin, Blinkin, and Nod nightly.
That damned Sandman better show up pretty quick too.
He'd better bring me some dreams of a sleeping, happy child.
Before I go postal.
And attach some beach.
The headline would read, "Crazed mother attacks beach: screams at sand, 'All I wanted some a few hours of sleep!'"

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Out of the mouths of heathens

Me: Bug, you need to shake all the naughties out and act right!

Bug: I've tried, but the naughties 'cided to live in my heart. Guess we're outta luck!

Thursday, September 3, 2009

I need you

"I need you," Boo whines as he reaches for me.
Most days, I simply tuck him into my lap and we snuggle until the need passes.
Some days, I have to look at him and say, "I'm right here but I can't hold you right now."
And then I have to look into his tear filled eyes, because, being only three, he doesn't understand that sometimes, other needs take precidence over his.
Such as the need my bladder has to pee before I explode.
Or the need his sister has to have her nasty diaper changed.
Or the need his brother has to be pried off the ceiling fan.
Or my need for five minutes a day of quiet.
I realized when I started this mothering gig that I would have to subvert myself to demanding wee heathens.
I realized I would possibly lose a portion of myself to the beast called motherhood.
And after a lot of thought and consideration (and five positive pregnancy tests) I went into this job willingly.
I have walked the floor with my newborns, I have sacrficed sleep and breast to satisfy them. I have held heads as they upchucked like Linda Blair, and I have slept on six inches of bed while they had the entire middle section of our California king. I have wrestled them until the laughed so hard they gasped for breath, and I have sang and danced with them until I couldn't breathe.
But some days, "I need you," can be too much.
But most days, i put aside my needs and reach for my child, reminding myself that they won't always need me, they won't always fit in my lap, and their problems won't always be so easy to solve.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009


I am about as unhip as they come.
The fact that I said unhip should give you a clue.
So when The Man told me Boo knew how to Dat, I thought he was mispronouncing a word.
After a conversation reminiscent of Abbott and Costello's "Who's on First?" skit, I finally figure out that a Dat is to slap fists.
I think.
At school, Boo was allowed to pick how he would be greeted each day based upon pictures on a wall, and, of course, being my child, he chose the one that looks like people punching each other. I'm sure he thought it actually meant he did get to punch someone, and was surprised when it didn't work out quite the way he'd imagined.
And so we have been datting (is that a word?) all weekend.
And now the baby can dat.
Everyone but me seems to understand what dat means.
But I, being a semi decent mother, hold out a fist and let him punch at mine, hoping that he will pick another greeting more in line with my own personal mentality.
Like a firm handshake.
A hearty hello.
A wave.
And not something that requires his pants to be around his knees.
Because dat? Not cool at all with this mama.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009


Punk has discovered the joys of the word, "No."
Normally said loudly and with much enthusiasm to any question, comment, or even a look she's taken offense at.
At dinner last night, her uncle tried to give her a bite, and her response, "NO!"
Ask her if she's hungry? "NO!" But she toddles towards her seat.
Walk by and stop to glance at her? "NO!"
Does she want more? "NO!"
Down? "NO!"
Left alone? "NO!"
She stopped and thought about that one.
She is proud of her favorite word and uses it to great effect for every detail of her day.
"Punk, your diaper's on fire. Would you like me to put that out?"
"No" has replaced her earlier obsession, "Mine," although we still get visits from it and its cousin, "Why?"
The Man finds it funny to hear this sweet baby voice yelling, "NO!" for no apparent reason.
So I make him try to reason with her.
You think its cute, you deal with it.
And may the gods have mercy on your soul.