And now, in the center ring!

After over a week of trips to the laundromat to hang with the carnies, my dryer is finally fixed.
It has been an interesting experience.
Normally, the people I saw there I would avoid like the plague--which they may very well carry.
But I found myself studying this strange subculture like a modern day Jane Goodall studied the chimps.
One Friday evening, I found myself battling for two dryers with a one toothed yokel. And watched closely by the other pack members. Of course, they were dressed in jammies, slippers, and holey shirts, and I was fresh from work in dress clothes and heels. So I didn't stick out much as I tried to avoid actually touching her, the dryer, the floor, or anything else while loading four loads on clothes into the two dryers I'd valiantly procured.
I observed laundromat mating rituals involving much loud talking about a truck rally's and barbeque's and drinking alcoholic beverages of the painfully cheap and caustic variety.
I watched men in shirts with cut off sleeves preen before women with big hair, tattoos, and in severe need of dental assistance. They were obviously initiating a mating ritual over the vibration of the washing machine and showing their physical prowess pushing the laundry cart.
I observed women in short shorts, cellulite straining out of the waist and the cut off legs, breasts dangling with no undergarment in sight, sashaying in what I'm sure is an enticing manner, making all their rolls sway in a sickeningly vertigo inducing fashion.
And there were the smaller pack members to study as well. Running around, normally barefoot, and begging for scraps of food from a nearby adult whom I assume was a parental figure. Babies were slung on hips, barefoot and clad only in diapers, dropping pacifiers to the floor, only to find it picked up and handed back with little thought to hygiene.
I could hear the sideshow music in my mind every time I dared tread into this subset of human culture.
It was an interesting foray.
I certainly learned a lot.
And I stopped and got an injection of penicillin, just in case.

Rainy Days

It has been raining for one solid week here.
It would be perfect, if I were a single, childless woman.
I'm not, but if I were single, I would be sitting in a comfy chair, sipping hot chai tea with milk and sugar, reading a good book and watching an old MGM musical.
But, I'm not, so instead I spend my time corralling stir crazy heathens and arguing with The Man because I haven't eaten anything but a Slim Fast bar all day and when i get home I'm hungry, damn it!
I love the rain. I love the way it feels on my skin, the way it sounds, the way it smells.
I hate the rain because it's keeping the heathens cooped up in their cage and they are driving me berserk.
So, Mama Nature, if you're reading this, send some sunshine my way.
If not, avert your gaze when I'm digging a couple of holes in my back yard.

Vive la difference!

When I had only boys, I wanted only boys.
Daughters were a mysterious realm of hair do's and dresses and primping and poofing I didn't want to enter.
But the Universe intervened and dropped a baby girl in my lap.
And the return line was too damn long, so I kept her.
Since then, I have been struggling to survive the needs of my daughter--or my imagined needs of my daughter--and I have noticed that girls really are different than boys.
Yes, I know the anatomy is different. Sixteen months later and I am just now able to change a diaper of hers without startling because there is no wing nut.
I'm talking about more subtle differences.
My boys are loud and rough and love bodily functions.
Punk is quieter, more watchful, and also loves bodily functions.
The boys didn't snow The Man over quite as effectively at such a young age.
Punk wants? Watch how fast The Man fetches!
Punk breastfed longer, is smaller in general, and has a much higher pitched voice than my boys did, making her Amzonian war cries much more effective as they shatter glass.
Punk also rules with a chubby iron fist, making the males in her life run for cover or run to serve, I don't know which yet.
My boys ate what they were given, when it was provided. Punk is very particular, especially about her breakfast. She expects a breakfast bar every morning. We handed her a doughnut, she looked at us like we'd lost our minds, threw it to the floor for teh rat dog, and waited for the forthcoming breakfast bar, her hands folded and her eyes glaring.
My daughter knows she is a cute little shit, and, when in public expects to be dressed nicely (watch her preen) and admired. And, somehow, she gets it.
I never realized before I had my only daughter, that boys and girls could be so vastly different.
Or maybe my perception is what is different.

Cosmic Raspberries

Occasionally, no matter how good I have it in with the Universe, I get handed a big steaming pile of something I didn't want.
I'm human, and when it does, I yell, I scream, I curse, and I occasionally break other people's things. (I'm not breaking my own stuff. What are you thinking!)
I cry, I stress eat, and then I lay in bed with a whopper of a migraine and tummy ache.
When that's passed, I pick up my fragrant pile and walk on.
Because it's what is expected of me.
I'm the Martha Stewart of cosmic raspberries. I am adept at turning piles of shat into bouquets of wildflowers.
I believe the Universe will provide what she knows I can handle, and I just have to live up to those expectations.
So here I am, walking uphill, both ways, carrying a bouquet of wildflowers made out of shat, heathens and The Man in tow, singing The Hills are Alive while twirling in my peasant dress.
Just don't get in my way. While I try to be philosophical about the Universe crapping on me, I wouldn't be so blase about anyone else leaving their scat in my path.

Makes you wonder

Sometimes you just have to shake your head and wonder at your children.
Wonder how their minds work.
Such as, why would you ever think about putting a children's toilet seat on your head and tug it down around your neck?
Boo did it today, resulting in heart palpitations from The Man and tears from boo and it was unceremoniously pried off his head.
Imagine the 911 call.

"What is your emergency?"
"My son has a toilet seat stuck around his neck."
"Pardon me?"
"You heard me. A toilet seat."
"Okay sir. Can you drive him to the hospital?"
"One, I don't think he'll fit in his car seat with this thing around his neck, and secondly, I think after an hour of pulling on it, I'm having a heart attack. Send two ambulances. Quick!"

Then he was sent to his room so The Man could recover, and once there, he took the hinges out of the closet door and it fell on him.

"What is your emergency?"
"It's me again? The toilet seat dad."
"Is your son still stuck?"
"Not in the toilet seat. He's now under a door."
"Under a door, sir?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Is he hurt?"
"No, ma'am."
"Can you lift the door off of him?"
"Yes, I could. But I've decided to leave him under the door."
"Under the door? Why, sir?"
"Because he's bound and determined to kill himself today and I'd rather the ambulance be here before his next accident. How quickly will they be here? He'd like to get out now."

Girlfriend

I have a new beau, a new love, a new boyfriend.
And The Man doesn't even care!
He has gorgous blue eyes, a cleft chin, a great smile, stands just over three feet tall and runs like Charlie Chaplin on crack.
Yep, my Boo baby.
Last weekend, Boo declared, in a very serious and grown up tone, that i was his girlfriend.
In his mind, this involves snuggling close on the couch, petting my face, arms, and belly, and announcing our relationship to teh world.
In fact, he greets me with, "Hey there, girlfriend!" which means he's either channelling his inner woman or he's heard it somewhere.
It's cute, and the extra affection is nice. And he's so serious about it.
We have a date Friday for ice cream. I'm paying, 'cause he likes it that way. Wouldn't want me to turn into a kept woman, I'm sure.

Three years

Babies shouldn't die.
That's just a simple fact.
They should live and grow old and bury our sorry asses when we finally shuffle off this mortal coil.
Sadly enough, babies do die, and for stupid, unknown reasons.
And they leave behind grieving, horror filled parents clinging to the last fragments of their child's life like a life vest.
Why some babies, and not others?
Every mother whose lost a child has asked herself, "Why my baby? Why not hers?"
And every woman faced with a grieving mother has asked, "Why her baby?"
We suffer and strain and fight to bring a precious life into this world, a candle lit from the inside by a new light, only to watch it snuffed out.
These babies, no matter how brief their time, have left us a legacy of love and life and laughter, as well as one of tears and sorrow and pain.
They have given us gifts beyond measure.
I am lucky enough to know a survivor, a mother, a woman who walks this path on a daily basis.
Her beautiful baby, Hayden, was born on the same day as my Boo baby.
And he left us two months later.
Well, his body left us.
Boobs has since had an ornery little girl, Miss Addatude, who I'm sure has a big brother whispering in her ear daily, sharing adventures and experiences.
Sharing their mama's love.


I like to think that some days, as Boo is running around like Charlie Chaplin on crack, he has a playmate who shares his birthday and who can tell him how amazing it is to live in the stars. Who can tell Boo all about his PeePaw and all about the adventures angels have.
I'm sure Hayden is a fantastic invisible friend.
And I know, some nights, when his mom misses him more that she can bear, Hayden curls up with her in bed, running his fingers along her face and through her hair, and tells her not to cry. He's there. He's always there.
I'm sure Hayden is an amazing angel. And I'm sure, if we let ourselves, we can feel him. Perhaps only as a soft touch on our cheeks or a whisper of wind that smells like him. Or maybe just a a briefe instant of happiness.
That is Hayden's legacy to us all.