Go ahead! Slap me around!

Evidently I like it.
Why, you ask?
Because I am going on a day trip that involves six hours in the car. And I'm going with The Man, whose recovering from his third hand job-okay, surgery--and the three heathens.
Yup. I'm into pain and suffering and torture.
I will be driving all six hours due the Man's current relationship with pain meds. So, if you happen to be in my neck of the woods and drive by a woman steering a mini van with one butt cheek while holding a sippie cup for a baby and threatening her two sons in the back of the van, all the while, a man sleeps in the passenger seat, a prolific amount of drool running down his chin, you'll know that's me.
Just honk, yell, "Nice Ass!" and move away
Before I turn on you.

Sweet baby girl

My baby turns one today.
Last year at this time, I was recovering from my c-section and suffering a spinal headache which made it impossible for me to open my eyes and see my newborn daughter.
I had brief glimpes of her--red faced and angry, tiny at 7lb 8 ounces. But soon enough the nausea took over and I had to return to the darkness.
One year later, I have an active, happy little girl, who, while still tiny, is a spitfire and a clown. Unlike one year ago, my daughter demands my attention and doesn't settle for eyes closed in respite.
My daughter has claimed me as her own more effectively than her brotehrs ever did. Punk will not take no for an answer, and leaves myself, her father, and her brothers standing in her wake watching a 20 pound baby drawl all over us.
She is a joy and a pain, a bully and a snuggler, a brat and an angel. She is perfect in her own way.
So today, she turns one year old, a momentous occassion in every person's life. it is thE beginning of yearly celebrations and aging, of milestones and growth.

Happy Holidays

I never really understood the holidays BH. (Before heathens)
Before, you got presents, you bought presents, and you ate and slept.
A pretty good system. Nice and simple.
Now, as a parent, I have entered Holiday Hell.
You know what I'm talking about.
Think parents biting and clawing at each other for the last Tickle Me Stupid Elmo in a fifty mile radius.
Think obsessive baking of cookies.
Think matching Christmas clothes that the heathens will never wear again.
I seriously thought I might cold cock an old lady looking at the last remote controlled dinosaur in the store.
Caught myself before it actually connected.
Scared her into letting go of the dinosaur.
(Damn that old lady could run fast.)
Seriously, I'm sick.
The Man is no better. He had to buy the oldest heathen a bicycle. Bug is four and falls over everything. Lint on the floor? You can bet he'll fall over it. The child wears size eleven shoes--he's all legs and feet. And the feet never go the same direction.
So I look at the bike and picture the injuries and trips to the emergency room.
The Man makes it worse with a few choice words, "We can pass it down to Boo!"
So not only will my oldest baby be bloody and battered, but now he's tossing my blue eyed baby boy under the wheels of a blood thirsty Huffy bent on world domination and child scarifice.
The Man is half crocked and all crazy.
I have held baby dolls and checked for cuddle factor.
I have scoured the shelves for remote control cars that were suitable for young boys.
I have weighed the pros and cons of different icings and whether glitter or glaze is better. Sprinkles or sugar crystals?
I have entered a Martha Stewart Christmas variety of hell.
All so my heathens have one of those holidays.
The ones they remember with fondness. The ones that make it look effortless and magical. the ones that, when I am ashes and dust, they will have to look back on and know their mama loved them as she killed herself trying for that perfect gift.
Love hurts.
Love kills around the holidays.
My heathens better appreciate this! They better put me in a nice home when I'm old and senile. One where a handsome young man wipes my chin and my butt with warmed, soft wipes.
I'll have earned it after all of this.
Happy holidays!

Angel

My husband saw a little girl become and angel today.
Icy roads, a truck, and no car seat are all the explanation anyone needs.
She was the same age as our boys.
The Man stopped to help. And was both blessed and cursed to forever be a part of that child's angel day.
As a person, the death of a child is horrifying.
As a parent, it is devastating. Not only because it could have been your own child, but also because you know that, but for the grace of the Divine, you might be in their shoes.
Our children are gifts.
Hold your wee ones close today.
And think about that poor mother whose arms will forever reach for that lost child.

Time flies

Time flies by on gilded wings of a thousand doves.
That promptly shit on me, my car, and the damned dog.
The silver lining? Silver plated.
The cup half full? Of congealed Pepsi that won't let go to slip to the bottom of the cup.
The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? Got there too late.
I'm feeling a bit surly for multiple reasons.

1. Three sick kids.
2. One teething baby.
3. A four year old who refuses to put on his shoes before walking outside.
4. The Man's work comp thing dragging on again.
5. Holidays.
6. My baby girl walked without me there today.

I won't go into great detail because, well, it would turn into a gritch fest of monumental proportions and not make me feel one bit better. And it won't fix anything.
My kids will have to get better on their own. if not,the Giant pain in my ass Schnauzer has dug a couple of good sized holes that I can use. (I'm joking! Harvey would have to dig the holes a bit deeper to suit my needs)
The baby girl's teeth will come in on their own or we'll invest in baby dentures.
The four year old will learn his lesson walking barefoot in the snow while I trudge along, waiting for a neighbor to call DHS on me for child abuse.
I didn't expect the WC case to speed along. I wasn't born yesterday, and my wrinkles and gray hairs (growing from my chin) attest to that. But still, it's been six months and we're still plodding along and getting nowhere fast.
The holidays are just a pain in my ass. Three kids. Limited funds. Blah.
And my baby walked today and I wasn't there to see it. She saved that milestone for her daddy, not me, and I missed the entire freaking deal.
So I'm little grumpy, testy, bitchy, and volatile. And did I mention hostile?
I'm looking for that damned leprechaun. He'll give me the sticking gold once I'm done with him.

Tis the season

This Christmas will be the first time in years I won't be pregnant or have a newborn.
It seems strange to realize my childbearing days are done, and with the approach of the 33rd (*gasp*) birthday, bittersweet.
Last year at this time, we were without electricity in our house due to the mother of all ice storms. For 5 days, we kept warm using our gas stove and layering the boys up in have a dozen items of clothing.
I was a mammoth of pregnancy discomforts, sending The Man and I to the hospital at least once with nasty Braxton hicks contractions. We went for other baby related fun and games--Punk was a bit of an attention whore even in the womb. She loved to go see the nurses at the hospital and by the time we were there for the real deal, it was old news.
Last year was our first season of sorrow, brought on by the loss of Daddy the year before at Thanksgiving. The first Christmas we were both numb and fearful, trying to overcompensate for the loss and the absence of a loved one.
And my birthday is approaching, which is a dark day. I loathe my birthday. Growing older is not something I want to celebrate. On that auspicious day, all I want is a large Pepsi, a good book, and silence. Not so much to ask. But the concept evades The Man and the wee little heathens. They look for any excuse to celebrate and have cake. Seriously! They would celebrate the fourth Tuesday after Cousin Vinny played on TBS for the 80th time if they could.
So, although I want nothing more than to crawl into my bed and not move until next year, I will continue to pull on my big girl panties (granny style) and put one foot in front of the other. I will continue to smile at my children and snarl at my husband (why change a good thing now).
I, like Gloria Gaynor, will survive.
And next year will be better.
Next year, my family will keep all their body parts.
Next year, my season of sorrow will come and I will face it once more.
Next year, I will finally schedule my trip to some deserted mecca on my boirthday and not tell my family where I am going.
Next year.

Be thankful

It's that time of year again.
The winds have turned cold. We're waiting for the first snow of the year. Frozen turkey bowling balls have appeared in the stores once more. We're inundated with sale ads and Black Friday ads and commercials for hugely impractical toys.
We also see those images of perfect Thanksgivings.
You know the ones.
The TV shows a four year old dressed in a sweater and tie, sitting perfectly at the table and using his knife and fork with a prowess Emily Post would praise. Beside him, in an antique wooden high chair is his sister, dressed in spotless taffeta and lace and not a speck of food has missed her mouth.
Grandma and Grandpa, aunts and uncles, all sit around the table as mom brings in a perfectly brown, perfectly garnished turkey. After the perfunctory peck on the cheek from her husband and the adoring gaze she casts at him, he prepares to carve.
That's what the TV shows.
My life looks more like this.
Punk is sitting a high chair, her hands, face, hair, and surrounding covered in a film of stuffing, potatoes, cranberries, and drool.
Boo is sitting at the table, clad only in a pull up (saves on laundry) shovelling in devilled eggs like they are the last layings of the last chicken on earth.
Bug is sitting in a chair, probably in his underwear, picking out one piece of food and studying it like a specimen under a microscope before declaring it's "Yucky."
The Man is trying to inhale food between talking sports with my brother, whose walking by sneaking additional bites.
My nephew will be on his third plate before we've each filled our first plate.
I'll be repeatedly asking, in a more high pitched and shrill voice, for the kids to eat their dinner with their forks and to "Act like they have some manners and belong to the human race!" There will be no adoring glances, just reminders that "These are your children, too, you know!"
My sister in law will be picking the skin off the turkey or the oysters from the stuffing while plotting a post holiday shopping trip, complete with diagrams.
And my mom will sit there with a bemused smile on ehr face, watching the chaos and enjoying it.
And somewhere, probably near the ham, the memory of my Daddy will sit, laughing at us, urging the boys to be louder and messier and sneaking Punk little bits of food.
While I'm celebrating my not so Walton's Thanksgiving, I hope you have a day blessed with joy and love and plenty of good food.
Just remember, it's not about the perfection of the day and the Polaroid moments, its about the smiles, the laughter, and the love. Perfection is highly over rated and the leading cause of ulcers in mothers around the holidays.