Wednesday, November 7, 2012

A Recap: Life, Humility, and My Laughter Disease

So...I've been like, "gone" and I apologize--here I am all, "please, please read my blog so I can make something out of it!" *insert whiney voice* and then I go and ditch out on y'all for a full week. Well, it's been nuts in Niki Land, so writing just had to wait. But look! Now I have like, THREE new things to post to make up for it (!!). And now, for some news. Please pray for my grandpa; in very Hallmark Channel-like fashion, he thought he was doing really well health-wise, and was told that actually he needed a biopsy, and actually, he is in stage four of a serious and terminal kidney disease...My heart is breaking but...I have faith that, God knows his body, and his health, and his life's timing in ways so deep, and loving, and true that I don't, so...I trust God. Yet of course, I am praying to be able to help in any way that I can because, I am pretty sure that their doctor is slightly mentally retarded...No joke--he kept telling my grandpa, "This disease mostly affects Mexican males" and my grandpa was like, "Um, I'm not Mexican.* (Come to find out, there is no single race this affects; it's KIDNEYS and like, EVERYONE has kidneys...not just Mexicans...So please--pray for him to somehow have some healing physically and if not, that he may live healthily for a time longer as he desires, and that we can be what we need to be for he and my grandma.

*Not that there's anything wrong with being Mexican! Mostly my family is apparently Spanish from Spain, with a boat-load (hardy-har-har) of French...but then there's the whole Spaniards colonizing the Mexicans you know, and invading their land, and sleeping with their women (those bastards! And for no reason at all, you must say 'bastard' with a Brooklyn accent because it sounds so much more hard-core). So...I'm probably just as Mexican...but for bloodlines' sake and doctors, and health records, we're Spanish. Don't hold it against me. Please.


I've been told that as a writer no matter how amateur, you should never take back what you said. However, as a person which I am--that just feels like a sorry-ass excuse for never apologizing and saying you were wrong. So here goes: I was wrong. Things can get easier...and better.

I am right, that many many things worth fighting, and dying, and living for, are not meant to get easier but get better. I had this pointed out to me and I have been thinking of it for the past week since I 'published' my last post...I was thinking just today when I went to exhaustedly buckle my older two boys (who are still five and four-years-old) and they were like, "Mom--we can do it ourselves, remember??" No--I didn't remember. When did that happen?! "AWESOME," I said. And, I meant it. I was again shown that things can get easier when this old-wound-but-not-scar-yet-wound-near-and-dear-to-my-heart bled a little as I missed a dear friend's not less difficult and actually it's not even better yet is getting easier to give her to God. I also see, how when my husband and I talk about where we were just one year ago, how complicated and hard everything constantly was and, (you know, everything I wrote about in one of my last posts ironically) how by simply being blessed with a home where our boys can spread out, a city that's a bit safer, and a school where they can be challenged (and get the HELL outta my hair) at, and a place where my dear friends are only a short drive away--has increased the joy of our living ten-fold. And, that says something about it being a bit easier, doesn't it? I have to admit it--it's true. Some things do get easier...and better. I think what I was trying to point out and I hope I did, is that if we're looking for a place in our lives when things will "finally calm down" or we'll "finally be able to enjoy each other", we may miss the journey altogether. And, often, the things that get better, we have to work really hard for.
Moral of the Story: Should you get to a place where things are "easier", don't forget how hard you worked, and don't stop striving to remain humble in the rewards you reap. Humility* is, what keeps us ourselves; it is what keeps us authentic and allows others to see who we really are. It's the only way Jesus can truly be let in fully. (That's a GOOD thing.)

*A Word On Humility: I am referring to meaning what may be better put as "humbleness", not to be confused with the act of being humiliated, like embarrassed. But God knows, we parents also get plenty of that. An example of how this word can apply to both in one situation: We're at Sam's the Economy Wonder Store and, I've put a giant pack of Oreos in the basket, for Halloween. Number One says, "Mama--these are NOT healthy--why are we getting them?"Number Two, aka Tweedle Dum, wanting to contribute says, "Yes Mama--aren't they why you're tummy hasn't settled down yet?" And of COURSE Number Three chimes in, repeating loudly what the other two just said. "DON'T even think about spouting YOUR high ideas!" I sternly say to the 9-month-old. Obviously, the lovely little skinny girl next to us in her lovely little skinny jeans and skinny smile think this is all hilarious, and gives me an up-and-down-and-all-around look-over. Perfect. That's both being humiliated and being kept humble:

Moral Of The Story: No matter how great you think you might be, there's always some Pure Heart out there to give you a dose of reality. So...either embrace it or do what I do (which is always sound advice): say, "SCREW YOU, HUMILTY!" and while you're ranting, step right into a UWP. If you don't know what a UWP is, read my post titled, On Being Glamorous. I'm SURE you know what it is. I promise you do.

Okay, okay...I'm trying to win your reading loyalty back...I'm not trying to be exhausted and boring and notice that this laptop is burning off my damn legs...So here's my last one for ya: I've been trying to figure out, why when I get into trouble all my life (because I have a history of getting into trouble), I laugh. Hysterically. Like, "Call a drill sergeant and a psychiatrist--this girl needs an ass-whipping...and then some serious help." I have figured out recently to my dismay, the answer: it's my defense mechanism. You know, so instead of dealing with the crime, I laugh my ass off. Wanna know HOW, just how, I figured it out? Oh, you're gonna LOVE it--how else do we see the best and worst of ourselves?--my four-year-old kid. He has my Laugh-At-Authority-Figures Disease. Yup. Grand. Just flipping grand. Here I am, spouting to my friends how I am determined *fist on counter*! not to let my children grow up with an entitled sense of the world and here is my son, who somehow must've heard me ONE TIME when I laughed at some bicycle cop behind his back (well, are YOU intimidated of a "cop" wearing little linen-esque white shorts with a Lance Armstrong helmet peddling while you run faster than he can bike saying, "STOP IN THE NAME OF THE LAW!"? I'm laughing right now, that throws me into a chair so much) or God-forbid, my husband, when he's scolded me about something and I've laughed.
 I really have a problem. But, the thing with laughter and with this Laughter Defense Mechanism Disease is, like all other types of laughter, it's pretty infectious and...hard to stop. Don't worry my noble friends, Psychologist Husband and Mostly-Intuitive-Me will nip it in the bud. (And I've decided I completely hate that expression--why isn't it 'rip it out by it's roots?' or something? It just screams some kind of thing some snooty know-it-all southern belle mom is saying to her best friend, who is bewailing her rowdy teens, while pouring sweet tea, "Well Lurlin, those girls a yers are just gittin' too unlady like...Best nip it in the bud now!" and not knowing that her own teenagers are actually totally humping their brains out. It's the kind of saying that just sets you up for failure. Like naming your child Jesus.* I mean REALLY, how many Jesus' do you know that turned out like Jesus?! Anyway, I'm getting off topic).
We really are working on figuring out how the heck to deal with the quirks and temperaments of four little, rambunctious, precocious angel/demon/boys. Even though I have confidence in us to conquer this unchartered territory, I get overwhelmed and mostly, PISSED OFF.  It still makes me feel, well, in a way that only The Face can describe. Remember? This one:

And let's not EVEN get started at all those other suggestions I hear from those angelic moms with lots of boys that can just "hug it out" or hold hands. I tried that, REALLY FREAKING tried that and next thing you know, hugging became squeezing, which became suffocating...Hand holding just ended in slapping and while incredibly a true psychological intrigue to watch, did NOT work. And therein my first sentence after The Face, is what I think I have discovered, the catalyst to be: those moms I know, are seriously angelic. They would NEVER say so; that's why they are angelic. Well...I'm not. I really, really wanna be but...I'm the mom that tries so hard to guard her potty mouth, then at the really pivotal moment when the kids are listening, is like "Damn it ALL to HELL!" and then successfully succeeds at having to explain the concept of damning...and Hell...I'm the mom who can be so flipping patient through awful stuff (like a diarrhea explosion in the car for example) only to be pushed over the Crazy Edge by Pops Cereal getting tossed across the living room...Then Momster comes out and is yelling in demon voice, "WHAAAT THE HELLLL?!" And, we're back to Hell. I think, those moms I know though, still lose their temper but seem to maintain this reserve of unending, unconditional patience and love, and have this desire to not let anything bother them...and it takes a LOT to unnerve them. And, it seems that they just..came prepackaged with such a reserve! I WANT THAT! Can I buy some of that from the QVC? I'm not sure really, why God would have failed to leave that outta me...Maybe He got busy you know--one minute He was making me, preparing Himself, "And now: for her patience and tolerance threshold!" and the next minute, "WHAT?! Muhammad Ali's RETIRING?! I didn't plan that!" BAM. Patience shot. And yes; if  you're one of those learn-ed types, you'll notice the reference to my possible year of birth but please...Don't look it up. It'll make me make The Face. 

So that's it; what I've been up to and what I've been thinking about...Oh and, bee-tee-dub: bottomless mimosas are DA BOMB. Especially on a Sunday...morning...After Zumba...Especially also, when you think you've been counting how many you've had and before you know it, you're dancing in the bathroom stall and can't remember the last time you had so much fun--if ever--dancing in a bathroom...I'm just sayin'....Do the mimosas *serious head nod of affirmation*. 

*Um...If you're name is Jesus and you ARE in fact, like Jesus--I truly apologize for misjudging. And, I'd like you to send me your picture with a full bio of your life stats, complete with any miracle you might consider showing me, please? Thanks! Pax!
Peace out!

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