Thursday, November 8, 2012

IRL: Ass, Glass, 'N' Guns

First of all, Mom: IRL means "In Real Life." I love you. Don't ask me to explain an acronym again--then I can't make everyone think I'm all cool and witty. Second of all, let me introduce you to one of my many quirky theories: I have boiled down all action movies and especially the trailers of, to these three things: ass, glass, 'n' guns. Think about it, you've seen it, though the order might be different: first there's the person being thrown through some giant restaurant window (glass), then the Tough Hero/Hero-et (yes, I said 'Hero-et') whips out a sweet-ass gun and says some pithy line, and then there's  jammin' music with some chick takin' it off in a strip club...or stripping for some reason...Come on, you know I'm right! Anyway, I'm actually not writing about action movies because for all the amount I make fun of them, I LOVE them. They save me from reality. I think to myself, "Hell--if that guy's car just got blown up, some mobster killed his wife and shot his dog, and embezzled his money, and he's STILL avenging for a greater good, I'm gonna make it!"(...I LOVE you, Jason Statham!...If ANYONE tells him how much I mention his name in my posts, you're dead MEAT. He'll think I'm a weirdo.)

SO: now you know my theory and now we've established "IRL." I'm talkin' 'bout MY life. Our life; the life that is real and usually never without excitement of some sort as parents. In MY house, there is always some version of Ass, Glass, 'N' Guns. And that's what today's post is about! Get excited! Pay attention to my exclamation points...! Here were my plans for today:
Wake up early and shower (yay! feel fresh and glowy!)
Take the kids to the Martini Moms Group and learn about God (yay!...or at least be in the same room as other women who might challenge me into wearing a bra and real shoes...yay!)
Come back and start Christmas shopping online (shopping...makes me...kind of happy...!)
Do some lesson planning for my after-school Centers for my kids--I've got ideas startin' to spill outta my ears I'm gettin' so excited (creativity appearing where I usually lack, yay!!)
Here's what actually happened today: I awoke to five, five I tell you, different pitches of screams wailing, "MAAAAAAAM!! I NEEEED YOU, MAAAM!"
"Dad's not being fair! He's not giving me SUGAR CEREAL!!!" 
And then, my favorite: 
"HONEY--I know you're tired but the kids are kind of being loud and I need to shower."
Oh really? You need to shower because the kids are being loud, or you needed to wake me up, to tell me they're being loud?? Insert The Face because, that's how I looked for most of the morning. And something you should know about me and the morning, is that we don't get along. Should you meet me in the morning, take my advice, DON'T MEET ME IN THE MORNING. Just turn back around, and run; run for your dear life. Unless of course, you've come armed with Starbucks...or a Super Nanny.
Oh, and did I mention I and half of the household was sick as dogs...sick ones...Like the dogs in Mexico, that are lying on the side of the street? So as I'm staggering there, on the chair with wailing kids, Handsome Husband has the nerve to be all, "Hon-ee--WHY didn't you get Mike's shoes on??" So I looked him up and down with the one eye that was open and responded the only way I could, "Umm...Sorry...Are you...saying stuff? I see your lips moving...kind of. But...Why are you...talking to me?" Yeah. I'm a real GEM in the a.m. see? So this didn't make things exactly sweet for the spouses on such a day...
(I just want to mention that I completely heart writing at night. It's so quiet and comforting; I can watch whatever I want, and drink tea...and just...write. Mmmm...I love it. If only I could love the morning the way I love the night. But I don't. Mostly, I think the morning is for fools, which really means, I envy all of you Morning People. Aw Morning People; you and you're little plans and workouts and one-up that you have on the day--I truly envy you. But I'll stick to me bushes--I'm a night-bird.)

Anyway, after I had some coffee and tylenol-sinus and ibuprofen, I deducted that, I was sick. Too sick to go to Martini Moms and definitely too sick to function. I called my Kick-Ass GF* to tell her I wasn't going. She was bummed. She probably thought I was bailing because she knows I think it's like Martini Moms who are all trendy, and know everyone, and smell like goodness rather than humble chicks that all slightly smell of baby food, breast-milk, and poop. I wanted to tell her, "Dude, I swear--if you saw my bra-less get-up in this nasty t-shirt and sweats and smelled me, you'd know how sick I was." But instead, I was too sick to say anything and said something barely inteligible, like, "Bye!" Lame, I know. Hopefully, the Mart Moms threw one back for me and prayed I'd feel better. I never even told you about the first time I went to the group, did I?! Shoot! Ah well, more material for another post. 

So going back to how the day actually went: I barely made it to taking Second Dude to pre-school. I in fact, had resigned myself not to take him because Dudes 3 and 4 were sick and desperately needed naps...and I felt like poooooo-poooooo. So I was responsible and called the pre-school, and the mom that walks him into the building. However, upon hearing me call the school and the mom who walks him into the building, he melted down. This was too much for me. I stopped him before he melted himself down into a cheese enchilada and told him he was going to flipping school. I slapped myself a few times (which did NOT help), put on a bra and a shirt that didn't have boogers on it (not mine--I promise). Then I called everyone back and was all, "PSYCH! I AM that flakey Hispanic Mama With All The Kids that just decided actually, her son IS NOT sick and am asking for something from you!" So with the baby in his diaper and a Hard-Rock Cafe t-shirt, and Dude 3 in no shoes, we left to school. Mom-Who-Walks-Dude-2-In wanted to chat and don't get me wrong, I really wanted to chat but, I felt like pooooo-pooooo. So we chatted anyway. Why don't people believe me when I say I'm sick? Do I not LOOK ill? Do I give off some vibe like, "Yes, I am sick but I STILL REALLY REALLY want you to dump on me!"?? So like any fast girl, I made a move: I asked her on a play date. It just made sense: she wants to talk. She needs a break. She has kids. I have kids. Go on a DATE. Nothing too serious; I wasn't like, trying to get a promise ring or anything. But apparently**, I move too fast and I freaked her out--she only wanted to vent right there in the parking lot, and let me watch her kid while she took my kid in to the school. Yeah well, I'm not all about those kind of one-talk-stand type of relationships, okay? I'm one of those committed types that's all, "Let's DO this thing and get this  movin' forward!" So what does a girl need to do to catch a break and get some commitment, or not get dumped on, for crying out loud?! Sheesh...

Next thing I knew after being home and putting two crying sick kids to bed was, 1. I had fallen asleep, and 2. I had approximately FIVE (or 'fife' as my two and a half-year-old says) minutes to get my ass off the floor where it crash-landed and feel asleep, to wake up and re-dress two boys and myself, to get Dude 4 on time. "SHHHHIKES!" I yelled, which is a much better word than what I wanted to yell.
I pulled into Car Line which ISN'T REALLY "Car Line" because well, um let's see...THERE IS NO LINE. It's just all the parents parking any way they can, not making room for other parents, so they can get their kid first. Then, there's the teachers on duty that think suddenly they are like, Traffic Directors, because they have a whistle and a shiny glow-in-the-dark-colored sash. "USE THE CROSSWALK!" they shout at me as I stumble across the street not using the crosswalk. I keep walking, pretending I don't see or hear them. As I get Dude 4, he says, "Mama...I think I'm gonna diarrhea now." I just stop him and stare at him for a long time. Sometimes in these moments, I can't believe that life will keep existing and I experiment to see, if I just am still long enough, if someone will walk in and be like, "PSYCH! You really aren't THIS busy, overwhelmed, sick, and overstretched...WITH a diarrhea kid!" So I do what any bad-ish parent would do and say, "I am so sorry buddy, but you'll have to wait until home" and dash him back across the street illegally...Where we are whistled at by Teacher McWhistley Pants. "EXCUSE me--you MUST use the crosswalk!" See, this is why I have authority issues. WHO whistles at people?! Did I LOOK like one of the Von Trap children? "I'm sorry," I apologize, trying to be genuine, "but all of my kids are waiting in that van--" I point, hoping she'll see she's being a MAJOR douche bag to me, "--and the crosswalk is too far away." I try to explain that as an adult, I am fully capable of crossing a street without a crosswalk, and that my child is not in danger. So in a dramatic swoop, she grabs my arm and Dude 4's arm, and swifts us across the street, stopping a van, to prove she's got some Traffic Power and had I walked Dude 4, we would've been hit. Luckily, I was too sick to argue. In healthier days, I just may have yanked that little whistle out of her hand and thrown it in the street. But my anger issues...we'll address that some other day. And I KNOW, I KNOW--she was just trying to do her job; and it IS important to use safety--always. Sometimes though, you know, it comes down to either leaving your kids alone to follow the "law" or bending the law to be safer for your kids. Bleh.

On the way home, I decide that tonight's centers will be: eating pizza, wearing pajamas, and watching a movie. And this includes, stopping at Starbucks for me because, it's going to be a lonnng night. The FOURTH night in fact, that Hard Working Handsome Husband is gone until late o'clock. My Dude 2 informs me, "Those are not real centers, Mama." I subdue him by reminding him of words like "pizza" and "movie." Dude 4 moans, "I simply cannot eat pizza, Mama...I simply must POOP." Oddly, the more ill he gets, the more British he sounds. Never figured that one out... Once at home, Dude 4 stinks UP the bathroom for like, thirty minutes. And then...I don't really understand it still but, one minute I was getting the movie ready, starting to pre-heat the oven for pizza, and the next minute, the kids are shouting, "MAAAM!! Gabe has POOOP and it's EVERYYYWHERRRE!!" Gabe is the Babe. Gabe the Babe, and yeah. Poop. Was. Everywhere. I found him by following his lil' poop trail from the living room to the kitchen, on into the reading room. Then, I swooped him up and turned myself right into Poop Mama because apparently and please read my foot-note on 'apparently', the kid must've been saving his fiber burst for DAYS because, well let's just say he'd been saving it for days. It was the kind that wasn't in one spot--it was like, distributed evenly all OVER the house...So below, I've put together the progression of our night. 

Here's the Ass (don't worry--it's a cute little clothed one this time--sorry it's sideways):

The Glass (but you can't tell because first, the glass actually FELL while I was finding poop, and when I opened the oven to put in pizza, the dinner from the night BEFORE, fell out of the oven--don't ask--and actually covered the glass):

The Gun: the part of the preview where they show an injustice enraging the Hero/Hero-et, causing him the need to avenge (usually his wife dies). In this case, my pizza was murdered:

So I got tough--I avenged. I pulled out the big guns:

Then I shamelessly and with no guilt, let everyone eat pizza in the living room in their PJ's, and let them watch Mirror Mirror. Twice. 

So there you have it; my real-life version of Ass, Glass, 'N' Guns. Please, tell me your version. I NEED to know I'm not the only one...

*I've decided to call one of my close friends, Kick-Ass girlfriend because, I love how genuine she is. She's tough in her own way, being willing to talk to me through kids screaming on both sides of the phone and putting herself out in the fray over and over again, simply because ministry is what is in her heart. Even putting herself out there, when people might not be receptive. She has an athlete's way of dealing with things. That's kick-ass. Though she wouldn't think that of herself and it would probably embarrass her a bit to hear me say those things. So that's my way of sending a loving shout-out. 

**Apparently: You might be wondering why I say this word so much. It's on purpose. It's my way of saying, that by "apparently", I mean that the whole rest of the world knew something and somehow, I didn't get the memo. You know, as in, "Apparently, most people don't throw their shoulders and necks out after the first time back to Zumba in two years...Apparently, most people aren't so stupid as to think they can whip their heads and ribs around like they're fifty pounds lighter without reason..."

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!