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.
M.

Speech

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.
Enjoy.

Remiss

I have been remiss in my writing.
I know this.
But between the demands of family, return to school, work, and household remodel, I don't have five minutes to breathe, let alone to gather my thoughts and put fingers to keyboard.
Something had to give, and my writing was it.
Which is sad, because I take a great pleasure in putting my ideas down, in formatting my thoughts into something that takes the chaos of my mind and makes it seem linear and logical.
But,as a wife, a mother, a woman, I have to put myself last in life.
If I don't, things simply won't get done.
My children won't have their school supplies or clean clothes.
My cars won't have gas in them.
Appointments won't be made.
Groceries won't be bought.
The functional portion of my world would simple cease to function.
Not that The Man wouldn't try to fill in the gaps. He would. But he possesses an entirely different skills set, and stepping into my high heels would result in a topple of epic proportions.
We each have our strengths, and after almost sixteen years of marriage, we have settled into a comfortable coexistence where he does his thing, I do mine, and our lives move at a decent pace in a semi straight line.
He handles the physical part of our lives, the yard work, the remodel, the housework, the grunt work that I hate to do. He is the muscle and sweat of this marriage.
I deal with the finances, the bills, the schedule, the appointments, the schools, the doctors, the more disciplined and planned portion of our lives.
Between the two of us, there's very little we can't accomplish.
Well, except for winning an argument with Punk. That has us both bested.
So I have been remiss in taking time for myself.
Tonight, I took our Giant Schnauzer, Harvey Wallbanger, and we walked two miles without having to speak to another living soul. It was peaceful and cerebral and once of those moments where I had nothing to do but simply be.
And when we finished our trek, walking back up to the house with my children standing outside yelling "Go, Mommy!" it was a reward for my remiss behavior.
That moment was a reminder of my I have been MIA. Because sometimes, there are things in life far more important than a quiet walk or thoughtful words.

Things I want my children to remember

If I die tomorrow, I have a list of things I want my children to remember.
It's one of those running lists in my head that I add to ask something strikes me as important.
Some of the things may seem odd, but, hey, that's just the way I float. K?

I don't care if you get into wreck that you wear clean underwear. You'll crap your pants anyway, so save yourself the embarrassment--just drive carefully.

When you think you love someone enough to lose your virginity to them, realize you don't love them enough if you can't picture me handing out condoms and saying, "Have fun, kids!"

When you decide it's time to get your own place, keep in mind that four hours away will not stop me from visiting. Frequently So save me the gas money, which I could spend on something nice for you, like food, and move within a few miles of home.

When you decide to drink something alcoholic, remember that there will be a hangover the next morning. Remember that there will be me, standing over you with a hangover the next morning. Just something to think about.

Remember that some people suck ho ho's. They are cruel. Even when you love them, they are cruel, and, when they break your heart, and someone undeserving of it will, I will be there, plotting to kick their ass or planning a drive by. Mama just rolls that way.

Know that I love you like crazy cakes. Some days, I just love you plain crazy. Like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. That's me about you.

Always know that I'm proud of you, even when you fall flat on your face, because I know you'll get up and finish what you started. And I'll have band aids and kisses for boo boo's, even when it embarrasses the hell out of you.

And remember I said no. I say no in the back of your mind when you are considering making a bad choice. I scream it when you're about to do something amazingly stupid. I whisper it when you ask yourself if you love them enough. I say no.

Only a handful of times will I say yes. When it's the one. When you hold up your baby with doubt in your eyes, needing reassurance, I will say yes so softly your ears won't hear, but your heart will. And when I see the fear and sadness in your eyes, I say yes, I will be waiting, wherever, whenever, for you. Always for you. Simply yes.

Reflections

As the school year draws to a close and my kindergartener becomes a first grader, while my preschooler looks forwrad to kindergarten, I have a moment to reflect.
(I'm hiding in the bathroom so I can have five minutes of peace and quiet. If you count peace and quiet as my children banging on the door and asking what I'm doing in here.)
It's been a good year, a bumpy year, a year of highs and lows and lessons learned that I thought you might like to share with me.

1. Alvin and the Chipmunks 2: The Squeakwell is EVIL. Alvin's no gonads voice will insinuate itself into your child's head and make him give an unsuspecting girl a wedgie. And then tell his teacher Alvin told him to do it.

2. Preschool girls are way too advanced and pre pubescent boy crazy for me to allow my child to attend that school any longer. Yes, I know Boo is hot, but he's five and has medical school in his future, you shameless hussy.

3. Boys on sports teams will try anything to stop a runner from reaching base, including but not limited to: pushing, tripping, and blocking.

4. Said boys on sports teams will trash talk any foe who comes near them.

5. Teachers who love your child will delight in sharing his embarrassing moments with other teachers, including the next years teacher and telling them "Look what you'll have in your class next year."

6. Kindergarteners can get detention. At least twelve times in the school year. Maybe more, but twelve was our capstone. Just one detention shy of a baker's dozen. And you will be embarrassed each time you have to send back the signed form.

These are just a few of my academic lessons this year, taught to me by my children, who have enjoyed schooling me more than I would like to admit.

I'm upping my meds in prepation for next year.

Mamas

I have a pretty good mama.
She's a pain in my tail some days, (smooch!) but I know if I needed something, she would drop everything to get it done.
I know she loves me and my kids with a passion that defies all logic. I'm pretty sure she's kind of fond of The Man, too.
She's one of those moms, not June Cleaver, not Roseanne, but a meet in the middle, real mom who made sure we always had what we needed and a good portion of what we wanted.
She's a pretty good role model for motherhood.
I, on the other hand, fall into the Roseanne spectrum.
Despite my good upbrining, I'm loud and crass and sarcastic.
I threaten to hang my kids out of the window by their toes in a move reminiscent of Michael Jackson and Blanket.
According to my children, I work their fingers to the bone and never let them rest or play.
I make them eat their veggies because I want them to get sick.
I make them go to bed at night because I don't want them to be happy.
I dress them warmly because I'm cold.
Basically motherhood is all about me.
But anyone who knows me knows there is no surprise there.
I am no Mother Theresa.
I do have wire coat hangers, although I have never had the opportunity to chase my children around the house shrieking that fact.
As Mother's Day approaches, I find myself reflecting on mothering styles.
There is the selfless, self sacrificing mother. I personally think her kids will never leave the nest and she'll be supporting them until she's dead and buried, but that's just me.
There's the militant mom. Watch out for a child with access to an arsenal.
There's the fluffy, sweet mom. Let's just say road kill.
And then there's mom's like me. Kind of a mix. I'm Nurse Cratchette when they are sick, determined to will them better (Or scare them well, either way it works). I'm a cheerleader (who wants to steroid test and see birth certificates for the opposing team! No six year old is that good at baseball AND that big, damn it!) And I'm the mama whose pushing her kids out of the nest with trembling hands and thre realization that once they are out, they won't come back.
Am I a great mom? Nope. I freely admit that.
And I a good mama? Some days. Not on the three days weekend alone with my kids.
Am I a devoted mom? Hell yes.
Am I a loving mom? Gods yes.
Amd I a mom? With every fiber of my being, yes.
Happy mother days to all moms, mine included, whose styles might be different, whose kids may be shopping around for a nursing home, but whose hearts are full of love and laughter.

The power of words

I love words--written words, spoken words, words are the love of my life.
I revel in the way they feel on my tongue, the way they express my thoughts and feelings, the way people react to them.
I even love the word . . .word. To your mother.
I don't think about my words too carefully before they fall out of my mouth, either landing with a splat at my feet or soaring to the heavens on a particularly brilliant day. And, yes, I do have those days.
For example, comparing an epiphany to a flaming orgasm last week had my coworkers busting their proverbial guts in laughter.
(I'm waiting on the sexual harassment complaint to arrive later this week, BTW.)
Or discussing with my brother and sister in law that I enjoy low fat salami in front of my mother.
(She was so proud of that college education at that moment.)
Anyhow . . .
I find myself lately facing a quandary. While I love words, I find that when thinking about writing them, the words spiraling my in mind become log jammed somewhere between my mind, my mouth, and my fingers and nothing spews forth.
My Old Faithful has become an Old Fizzle.
And while I realized that, in my old age, I might be good for fewer and fewer literary epiphanies, I didn't think it would happen in my thirties.
So my love affair with words is becoming distinctly one sided as, for the moment, I find that they don't love me back.
I am hoping to jump start our relationship once more, to renew it over a weekend of faithful contact, of devoted attention, of loving caresses.
I'm hoping to remind my words what they'll be missing if they stray.
And what is that exactly?
A woman who loves them passionately, blindly.
A woman whose verbal filters are mostly switched off and who will say almost anything without hesitation and without liquid libations assistance.
A woman who, when she dies, hope the afterlife is a enormous library with comfy reading chairs and hot tea at all times.
I am a word slut.
Come and take me baby!