Ever heard of the Geneva Convention?

I have an appointment with the oral surgeon to get all four of my growth challenged wisdom teeth removed today.
Saying this sucks isn't vehement enough.
I'm working on the correct expression of my deep and abiding loathing, mixed with a healthy dose of terror and a need to strap myself to a chair so I don't drive to Mexico.
Maybe I should go to Mexico.
And have a few tequila shots as I consider returning to the man whose going to torture me and get paid for it.
I'm sure he's a very nice man when he's not in the office and garbed like Dr. Giggles.
Well. Maybe I'm sure. Right now, I'm fairly certain he tortures small animals in his spare time because why else would anyone do this for a living?
I don't like dentists, and dentists with a specialty behind their names? Even worse.
Instead of power hungry men with little penises who just want to play in my mouth, (kinky, huh?) I now have power hungry men with little penises who get to play in my mouth and get paid more for it.
The system is screwed.
The Man can't understand how I could have three children cut out of my body and be up the next day like it was nothing.
Hello! I got three kids out of it and you couldn't compare my uterus to anything on your body. So the sympathy factor was mine to manipulate.
You've had this done--twice--and you're busy telling me how bad it isn't.
How I should just bounce right back.
How I can't milk this for everything its worth.
Damn you.
Just watch me and see how I get my way, buddy.
So I will be lying in my bed, with cheeks like chipmunks and ice packed cheeks, moaning for pain killers and trying not to throw up (since that's what anesthetic and pain killers make me do--fun, huh?) while controlling the TV remote and watching Netflix on our computer. All the while I'm reading one of the new ten books I've ordered for my prolonged convalescence.
And since our room is completed, I an even lock the door and keep my husband and the heathens out.
There is a method to my madness.
Dr. Giggles, here I come.
May the Gods have mercy on my soul.

"You're not the fun parent"

One night, while The Man snored and I was on Heathen Patrol, Bug told me, "You're not the fun parent. Daddy is. You always make us do chores."
This was said because I'd asked him to pick up the 4000 Legos in my living room floor, his dirty clothes, and his various other toys before bed.
I know--bad mommy.
But as I stood my ground, my heart broke a little.
Nights that The Man doesn't work are fun. He takes them outside and gives them candy and plays with them. He's an overgrown child himself, so its party time at our house.
By the time I get home, its bath and homework and get ready for bed. We have a few hours in there while I try to organize our lives for the next day.
But hearing those words, I realized how different The Man and I are as aprents.
The Man is fun. He disciplines the kids, yes, but when he hears about a carnival, a movie, a parade, anything that sounds like fun, he immediately wants to go.
Whereas I immediately consider if its a school night and how the kids have been behaving and what the repercussions will be for the next day.
The Man lets our children climb trees while I get ready for a trip to the ER with broken bones.
He lets the kids have candy right before bed, or wrestles them while I'm trying to settle them into sleep.
He doesn't think about doctors appointments, dental exams, or parent teacher conferences because he knows I will. And I'll let him know when he has to show up and where.
He doesn't fill out permission slips or send money for field trips and pictures. He just schedules his day so he can hang out at the pumpkin patch and watch his boys run amock.
I'm the foundation on which our family functions. But he's the part that makes it warm. I hold us up, and he makes sure the kids have those extra scant inches needed to touch the sky.
Its an uneven parental partnership, I know. I would love to be the fun parent, but I just don't have it in me. What they find fun makes my skin crawl. While I love my kids laughter, I don't love dirty, snotty kisses and hand prints on my clothes.
So I guess Bug is right. I'm not the fun parent.
And I'm accepting that.
Slowly.
Sadly.
And with no few tears.
I admit.
I'm a fuddy duddy.

Worry

I find it amazing that, as a mother, I don't worry about my kids the same way.
I don't worry about Bug the same was as I do Boo or Punk.
I will never have to worry about eiether of my boys getting pregnant, for example.
But, thanks to Boo's way with the girls and Bug's telling me "I'm cute and all the ladies like me" I do worry about them getting some woman pregnant before they are through with medical school.
I never worry about Boo making friends, but its a daily concern with Bug.
I never worry about Bug's academics.
I never worry about Boo's social skills.
I never worry about Punk failing to take over the world.
I do worry about Bug's adaptive skills and about him being lonely.
I do worry Boo will lose his temper and go Hulk on someone.
And I do worry that Punk will turn her considerable charm and determination to trhe dark side and we all will suffer under her baby Ugg boots.
I never knew, when pregnant and miserable and ready for my babies to just be born already, that I could worry so much about three little people who take up so much room in my life.
I worry about the sniffles, a cough, "is that a wheeze I hear?", about teeth and toes and tongues and torsos and everything that makes my heathens what they are.
I worry about their bright little minds being challenged enough.
I worry if I'm putting too much pressure on them to succeed early in life.
Or if I'm putting too little.
I worry about their little souls feeling enriched and empowered by something bigger than they are.
I worry when they talk to PeePaw's star that they don't really remember who PeePaw is.
In short, I worry.
I go through my day with only a fraction of my mind on my job and myself, and even smaller fraction on The Man (because after today's practical joke, he doesn't want me thinking about him too much). My mind is always on my kids.
It's no wonder I feeling like I'm losing it most days.
It's in three different bodies, in three different schools, worrying about three little people each day.
Just call me Sybil.

Endings

This month is about endings for us. And, yes, The Man is still alive. So are the heathens.
We are close to finishing our house addition with minimal bloodshed and I haven't burst into tears. Yet.
My marriage has survived.
Sort of.
I've threatened The Man with death and bodily harm--until he gave in and gave me something I wanted in the room.
No, not that, ye pervs!
I would get upset and he would gvie me the shower I wanted, the closet organizer or ceiling fan I liked. Something little to remind me that there was progress, however slow it might seem.
Ten years ago, we bought our fist home. We only lived in it for two, and its been a rental since, but this month we are selling it and saying goodbye to the last remnant of our PH (pre-heathen) days.
It's bittersweet. While I glad not to have to worry about it, I remember how excited we were to have it. I had my first positive pregnancy test there and lost my baby there. I graduated from college there.
It's a piece of our past, a slice of our marital pie, and saying goodbye is both a relief and a sadness.
That is, until I get to move into the addition and I take the sale check to the bank.
Then I'm doing Lionel Ritchie "Dancing in the Streets," baby!

Fifteen

Fifteen years ago today, I stood before the Universe and our fmaily and friends and pledged myself to one man for the rest of my life.
I was nineteen, in luuuuvvvv (notice the difference?), and remarkably stupid.
I had no idea what roads we would travel or how hard it is to be married to one person, to wake up to them to have to stay in the same room when you're so mad spitting nails is easy.
I didn't think about the fact that, as a shy, retiring, naive girl of nineteen, that I still had a lot of growing up to do.
I just wanted.
And I had to have.
Now, a decade and a half later, I am more methodical in my decisions. Looking back on my choice then, I wonder if I would have made the same one. Would I have still become The Man's Mrs?
Yes, I know I would.
Marriage is a choice made based upon emotional longing and hormones, with a good dose of lust mixed in.
Staying married in a choice made upon affection, shared experiences, and emotion that defies all words and logic.
He infuriates me. He enrages me. He confuses me. And he grounds me.
As a Type A personality married to a procrastinator extraordinaire, we are a match made in some bizarre mad scientists nightmare.
But we fit. In some strange way, we make sense even when the rest of the world doesn't see it.
There is a spark there, a magic that is uniquely ours, and when that magic is strong, we are able to move mountains.
If we hadn't married, I wouldn't have known what it felt like to laugh so hard that I almost wet my pants, because that's what he does. He makes me laugh like no other.
I wouldn't have had someone to grieve with me when we miscarried our first child, someone who knew a part of the bone deep sorrow I felt at that loss.
I wouldn't have my baby heathens, precious and terrible, beautiful and awe inspiring. And I would not have seen that expression on my husband's face when he held each one for the first time.
Who would have held me when my dear daddy passed away and my world turned sideways and mourned the loss of that wonderful man with me?
Does The Man annoy me? Oh, gods yes! Do I plot his demise on almost a daily basis? Yeppers.
But after fifteen years, if I haven't killed him yet for one of his boneheaded mistakes, then odds are he'll live to be a forgetful old man whose main job is to drive me batty in our Geritol years.
And I'm okay with that.
Most days.
Because we still fit.
And after fifteen years, that says a lot.

(While I will not say I love you because that's just too mushy and sweet for my taste--damn it! It burns! -- I will say my life would be boring and empty without you in it. And I have never liked to be bored. Happy anniversary, babe!)