Saturday, January 23, 2010


The Man and I are insane.
Certifiably so.
Starting when the weather warms, we will be building onto our house.
We will not be hiring people to build on.
We will be doing it ourselves in true Tim Taylor fashion.
Grunt, grunt.
Now, my husband and I are not exactly novices. He was a brick/stone/whatever mason for years, and I'm a construction brat.
Meaning, I know how to hang sheetrock and which end of a hammer to hold up when I throw it at my husband. Which I'm sure I will do at least once with great gusto.
Basically, in laymans terms, we will have a nice new addition a to our home to increase property value while we're divying it up in the divorce brought on by this particular project.
My neighbors will be treated to the sight of me reaming my husband for some boneheaded move out in our yard as he concentrates on ignoring me with all his might.
They already know to expect a show. Twice, about eight months pregnant, I have lost my temper with our Giant Schnauzer and they have been greeted with the sight of me sitting on my dog, holding his head, and yelling curses at him.
They just laugh about it now.
So I figure we might as well make it good entertainment as we build a new bedroom and our marriage deconstructs.
And I figure they'll come out to talk to our kids as they are hanging from a beam, either nailed there by their father in an attempt to keep them out of trouble or dangling off of it because the days not complete without a parental caridac arrest.
I'm think about selling tickets to my circus freak of a life.
It should be worth a few bucks to watch a family deconstruct in a fashion Roseanne only dared dream of.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Slipping through my fingers

YEsterday reminded me of a song from "Mamma Mia" where Donna is lamenting how fast her daughter grew up and how the precious moments slipped through her finger.
While my baby girl isn't running off to get married this week, I know it won't be long, and yesterday was a bittersweet reminder.
Punk will be starting school next week.
Yes, she is two years old. Yes, she is young. She'll be entering a program designed for munchkins like her.
And, yes, my heart is breaking.
While I am thrilled for her, I am saddened that the baby I held for the first time only two short years ago is finding her independence and leaving me behind, holding onto a memory of baby smells.
While I know she will do well and learn, I know I will have to pry my fingers from her chubby hand to allow her to walk freely.
I know I will have to loosen my apron strings a little bit for her first real foray into the real world.
And I'm so sad.
And so proud.
And so close to tears just thinking about it, typing is a trick today.
Punk is my baby. The last. The child who is still attached to me via our umbilical bond.
So I will cry and smile and laugh and weep as I help her ready for her first day of big girl school.
And when I walk away, I will be blinded by tears and memories of my sweet baby girl.
And I will start gearing myself up for her wedding.
Because I now understand how fast time moves when you simply want to to freeze.
Slipping through my fingers all the time.

Monday, January 11, 2010

When it rains

I damned near drown.
My oldest boy, whom has been the subject of many a blog, is still a rotten, poorly behaved heathen who got sent home from school today because HE REFUSED TO WASH HIS HANDS>.
I don't know who I am more angry at--him or his first year teacher who decided this was an appropriate battle.
Okay, Bug was being a jerk about not washing his hands and shouldn't have run away from the teacher. Got it. Working on it, along with the 8,000 other issues we have with him right now. If he hasn't just shat and forgot to wash his hands, I truly don't care right now. There's my line.
But, when the situation began to deteriorate, he did as he was told. When he felt the urge to run, he asked to go to the safe place (in this case, the principals office) and was told no. BY THE DAMNED TEACHER WHO KNEW THE RULES FOR HANDLING BUG!
Then the teacher didn't implement the three tiers of people we have to deal with him when he gets like this--in classroom, out of classroom, and principal--she called us.
So I took off work, trooped down there, and got him. When he had less than an hour of his day left.
And talked with the principal, who had heard nothing and wasn't happy at all.
All because she was being a hand washing Nazi.
My child is far from innocent and far from perfect, but a little dirt in his food to save the ensuing meltdown? Am I the only one who says who cares if he washes his hands that one time?
And child two--oh, my beloved Boo--has entered a lovely defiant, screaming stage, complete with crumpling onto the floor and fake tears.
And he's practicing his excuses.
Ask him to clean up his room? He's too tired or it's too hard.
Ask him to make his bed? He's too little.
Ask him to do anything? He has an excuse.
And if he doesn't, he throws himself on the floor and screams.
People who don't understand why a parents sometimes needs to spank their child should just stay the hell away from me. Today, and probably in the days to come.
Especially after my mom tells me I did that. Exactly once.
There are times when a bare hand on a child's backside is the wake up call both parent and child need in order to reorganize their world.
Do I believe in beating my children? Some days.
Have I ever done it? No.
Do they routinely beat me, emotionally and physically?
Every damned day.
With a damned big switch.
My arse is raw and bleeding, I can't sit down, and the only thing I've learned?
It's time to take back control of my life as a parent.
I will have their respect.
Will I have their fear? No. Fear is not respect.
But I am determined to stop being their whipping post.
Children need firm boundaries. For children who can live within those without an occasional reminder, kudos to their parents for birthing a perfect damned child and get the hell out of my face before I whip your arse.
For those children, like mine, who have pushed boundaries since conception, I will speak for those parents when I say enough is enough.
I'm taking back my arse, my house, my life, and my children.
And I'm doing it cowboy style.
So giddeeyap partners.
It's rodeo time.
And I'm breaking my broncos.
And three.
And then I'll deal with the hand washing Nazi.

Friday, January 8, 2010

Mommy and the monster

My home has succumbed to the demands of a new kind of monster.
The two year old girl kind.
Punk wants nothing to do with Daddy.
She will run from him, evade him, and yell at him when he tries to pick her up or take her hand.
She only wants, you guessed it, Mommy.
Which is nice. And which sucks ho ho's.
I work all day.
By the time I get home, I have a couple of hours with the heathens before its bed time.
Some nights, I'm exhausted and all I want to do is rest.
Not be mauled by an over zealous toddler with plans on Mommy domination.
I am coherent enough to realize these days are fleeting and few, and in the blink of any eye, I will look back and regret hiding in the bathroom just to get five minutes of peace.
I know that childhood passes in the blink of an eye.
I know all of that.
And I still find myself seeking closets to hide in, ways to get just a few minutes of quiet without a child digging her mutant monkey toes into my body.
I throw The Man into the pit and let them have him on more nightS than not.
He enjoys it.
Or that's what I tell myself when I hear his screams for mercy.
But our daughter will have none of him, and so she's a tricky girl.
Her I have a tough time running from.
Because she stalks me.
In dress up high heels, footie pajamas, thumb in mouth and wild Medusa hair, she stalks me, a lion cub watching her prey.
And when she pounces, I have no recourse.
I'm that dumb damned wildebeast. Stupid. Caught. Devoured.
By a two year old bent on Mommy domination.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

The Temper Monster

We have a Temper Monster living in our house.
it's not a cute, fluffy monster like on Sesame Street.
It's not even iconic like Godzilla.
It's just a pain in my ass.
The TM throws tantrums, runs away, yells and screams until I want to pull his hair out.
The TM convinces my normally sweet children to act in a manner that reminds me of Jack Nicholson in his younger, crazier days.
Or Hannibal Lecter. So far, we have had no cannibalism. So far.
I don't have three children and a child like husband.
I have four children and a child like husband.
And The TM takes up a good amount of my time.
So I'm putting him on warning.
"TM, henceforth you will stop telling my children all sorts of rotten ways to behave, speak, and think. They are normally good kids, and you are making them horrible. I won't have it anymore. I am hereby declaring war. I am done pandering to your bad manners, your naughty ways, and your efforts to destroy our family. From this day on, I'm going to be going Rambo on your arse. This is the only warning you will be given. Get out or face the consequences."
Game on, buddy.
And the TM just flipped oatmeal at me.