Weariness

I am tired.
More to the point, my joy is exhausted, depleted, empty and pinging annoyingly at me as I push myself just one step farther.
It's the time of year, when missing my Daddy becomes a deep ache and my eyes fill with tears at the very thought.
It's the bone deep mama tired from juggling birthdays and holidays, field trips and homework without reprieve.
Just so my babies joy stays full.
It's every worry about selling a house, paying a bill, squeezing in one last chore before the day ends.
My glee is gone.
And I'm sort of okay with that.
I'm the person that is content with content.
I don't expect every day to be full of giggles and good wishes.
If it was, I'd probably run screaming from the room.
I have moments of pure bliss, mostly when the heathens are being sweet, that slide through my bones like sweet lightning, charging me for the next foray into the wild world.
But I know I'm lacking in the joy department.
But as long as my kids have sucked the very marrow from life's happiness, I'm okay with it.

Out of the mouths of heathens

Said by my duaghter to my dog.
"Move over, Harvey. Princess coming through."

Time

It seems like for some things, time races by without a care to how much you wish it would slow down.
For instance, keeping my babies, well, babies for just a few minutes more.
And there are other times when and hour feels like a year.
Monday, November 22nd will be four years since my Daddy died.
That feels like a lifetime.
Especially when I think of all he's missed.
Bug is no longer a toddler, but a bright, happy boy with a few interesting quirks. And he still loves his PeePaw.
Boo was a chubby baby when Daddy left us. Now he's a clownish, handsome boy with a mind of his own.
Punk wasn't even a thought then. And I know how much he would love my little fiesty mini me.
My babies find comfort in talking to PeePaw's start, the brightest star in the night sky. They look for it every night and are so excited to see it.
I wish I could find the same comfort is something so simple.
I am selfish. Always have been. Always will be.
I wasn't ready to let go. Still aren't. But I wasn't given any choice, so I survive.
It's the natural cycle for children to bury their parents. Doesn't make it any easier. Doesn't make it feel less like a gaping hole.
It just is.
And so am I.

Recovery

Five days and a lot of pain meds later, I've realized my mouth will never be the same.
Not only do I have stitches in my gums that resemble strange black worms, my front teeth and everything in between hurts.
How can teeth not touched hurt worse than the holes in my jaw?
It makes no sense.
Add to that the fact that I still can't eat comfortably, not even soup goes down easy, and it's a problem.
Its a problem that I have two huge bags of Halloween candy in my house and I can't even take a little nibble.
It's a problem that every time I drink something, I wince.
It's a problem that I'm upright and back at work, when all I want is to crawl into bed and pop another pain med.
This whole thing is one big, freaking problem.
And now I'm done whining.
Maybe.

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.