Thursday, September 29, 2011

Loving a Buggy Boy

Seven years ago, my oldest boy took his first breaths of life.
At the same time, I took my first breath in a new world.
I became his Mommy.
And I had no idea what I was getting in to.
As a general rule, I am not a kid friendly person. To me, they are just strange, mini adults and should be treated as such.
I went into my new role with the mentality.
Only to be biddy slapped senseless.
And, while I still am not kid friendly, I am more tolerant of these mini humans that now fill my world.
When I was handed my son pink and new and as confused as I was by this strange new world, I had done my research.
I knew when he should be hitting milestones, how often to feed, how to feed--I knew my shit.
Too bad I didn't know his.
Bug turned my world on its axis, and it now orbits around three little worlds that make both more and less sense with each new day.
I still do my research, but two boys --one with special needs-- and a very opinionated little girl later, it's not written as firmly in stone.
Maybe quicksand.
That I'm standing in.
Maybe drowning.
The point is I'm flexible.
I'm better able to roll with the punches, to handle a gut shot with a smile on my face.
I'm more equipped to stare down the devil himself in protection of my babies.
I remember looking at my first born and wondering how I could already know I would die for my child, I would bleed, I would cut out pieces of myself to keep him whole.
And that was all before I really knew him.
Now there is no limit to what I will do for my child. For my children.
Being a mother is an empowering thing, a primal scream trapped in my chest that fills me with the strength of a raging grizzly and the drive to protect, to save, to cling to.
And it's a whimper trapped in my throat each year, when they inch ever closer to adulthood, to standing on their own two feet, to not needing my hand to hold.
It is awe inspiring and humbling in a way non parents cannot fathom.
And it's my birthday gift from my son.
And, every year, when the clock strikes the moment of his birth, I remember that gift, and how unprepared I was for its enormity.
And how unworthy I still am.
And I whisper a thank you, low enough, just for his ears alone.
I just hope one day he understands how precious a gift he gave me and how little I have to give in return.
I would give everything I am, and still, it would never be enough.
Happy birthday, DoodleBug. I hope you rock seven years old, and I hope you know how very much you are loved.

Thursday, September 22, 2011


I've recently come to the conclusion sometimes it's just not worth the effort to speak.
People don't really listen, so busy with their own agendas that they cannot fathom mine.
People don't really care, so full of their own lives that they cannot understand mine.
So I've just decided, for now, speech is overrated.
Which is an odd conclusion for me to come to, considering my love of words, both written and spoken.
But right now, the only company I seek is that of my heathens and of myself.
I'll admit, I probably am a little depressed.
So the hell what?
I'm allowed my five minutes to pout when the world drops big steaming piles of shat on my head.
I'm allowed to tuck my head in the sand and refused to deal anymore.
Because I never stay down long, because I can't, because it's not who I am to not come up swinging.
But for now, it feels pretty damned good.
I'll deal with what needs me, with what I know will feed my soul, and tell everyone else where exactly they can go.
Because the rest of my world is just a big, blood sucking leech, draining me of any will to do anything constructive.
So here's my big screw you world. If you're not in my little sphere of people who not only take but give, you can go straight to hell, do not pass go, and you might as well kiss my arse along the way.
Those are my words to the world.