Creepo, the Demon Spider

Alright. Let's just have it out--you all razz me about it. I'll give one, just ONE blog post about it and then we're done, got it? Okay, let's talk...SPIDERS. Yes, I'm deathly afraid of them. They are the spawn of satan as far as I'm concerned. I'm told I let my fear of them ruin a lot of fun opportunities, you know like--I'll never go cave diving in the rainforest, make love in a barn, or roll around naked in fern grass. So--clearly--I'm really missing out. They have been known to keep me awake at night, because I worry if I've seen one, that it's waiting until the lights go out, to crawl into my brain and murder me...That's normal...right? And why shouldn't I think that?? A creature that has eight legs, SIX eyes, and can swim underwater, camuflauge itself, and breed isn't TERRIFYING to you people?! Who's really the lunatic here? I've had spider trauma, but don't any of you psychology minded types think you're going to heal me with that flooding mumbo jumbo. I swear on my chihuahua's grave, if you ever scare me with a spider, you WILL suffer.

Some History. Once in college when Handsome Husband was a mere age of nineteen, he thought it would be hilarious to put his pet tarantula (yes; that's a story for another blog) on his chest and chase me around his house, yelling, "Has anyone seen my spider?!" I ran for cover and growled psychotically, "If you come ANY closer to me--I'm breaking up with you. I mean it, freak!" Needless to say, he put the giant devil pet back, and was angry I called him a freak. (Well, do YOU know anyone who wears a tarantula?! Don't answer that--I don't wanna know.)

Spectacular Spider. Yeah, yeah, yeah--they're amazing, serve well our ecosystem, and kill bugs blah blah blah but they also stalk me. That's right. I swear--with Hubby as a witness, spiders seriously try to jump on my head or hang out in my pillowcase. It's like...they KNOW. And, I have a spidey-sense--as in, I know when they're around me. The worst part is, they're like, always around. I firmly believe, that they play tricks on me. Since we've moved to a new city, I can't tell you how many times I've been the butt of a spider trick. For example, once at 2 am, I had to pee but something made me turn on the light and there, sitting on the toilet, was a spider. I swear it looked up at me, shook four of it's fists and said, "Don't you people have any respect?!   If you even dare think about squishing me, I'll call for reinforcements!" So, I did what any logical person would do, and trekked down the hall to use the other toilet. Similarly, I threw out this pirate spider that was in the curtain (yes, there are spiders called pirate spiders that are jumpy and aggressive but little) and I dumped it on the doorstep. I tell you--it turned around and looked at me, then turned back around and jumped down the threshold and heaved, "GEEZE!" sadly. No joke.

Creepo, the Spider. I just know there are many stories many of you can think of, as to how I freaked out about a little tiny (but deadly) arachnid. I decided to write about it because uh...I know I have a problem but, I'd rather laugh at it than fix it. Here goes: last week I was lying on the ground enjoying play time with kids when suddenly, a giant 6-eyed, furry, nasty spider beast steps out from under the toy bin. (I am pretty sure a cotton ball blew by to suffice for a tumbleweed. Anyway, how creepy is that--hiding behind children's toys?! SHADY. Real shady. So I tried to remain calm and talk sensibly. "Get OUT of here, Spidey, or you'll meet your maker right quick!" (and yes, I did my best Texas accent, hoping to deter the creep). For a moment, Creepo hesitated but decided to hold it's ground. "Ohh, a TOUGH guy huh? Let's see how you like...THIS!" (I decided Texas wasn't working, so I switched to Jersey. The kids laughed hysterically and watched fearfully--for my mental health--wondering why their mother was engaging in a conversation with a dime-sized creature.) BAM! THWAP! I swatted It like Batman with a Jersey edge...with my Croc. "MWAMWAMWAHAHAA!! Unphased, GIANT!" it bellowed from behind the Riddler's car. Stupid worthless rubber shoes. What good are you? You're like wearing wiffle balls made out of rubber.
"Alright you--now it's time for REALS--I'm getting the broom!" It trembled, "NOOOO!!! NOT the BROOM!!" 
But just before I could slaughter it, HH (Handsome Husband) walked in and looked at me quizzically. "Hon...?" The kids informed her that "Mama was arguing with Creepo, the Spider." He shook his head and said, "I'll get it." Yeeeah--I have a rule: DON'T let HH get the damn spider. Why, you ask? Because by "get it" he means trap it in a cup, and humanely throw it outside but what actually happens, is he doesn't really try and he drops the blood sucker, it blends in with the carpet, and lies in wait again for my demise. "NO! I'm killing it and that's that!"
HH jumps in. "I won't drop it," he says. "You will drop it," I say. He drops it and it runs into the vent by MY computer. "GAA!!! I KNEW IT!" Since then, I've been hearing this little evil voice cackling to itself from the vent. It probably lives in the basement now, where it's breeding thousands of Hellion spider soliders, and developing its own Third Spider Reich, and it's only a matter of time before they ambush me.

And because I'm loopy and writing this going off three hours' sleep, I've created an easier way to understand my feelings on the matter, courtesy of Thundercats. (I play Liono--obviously, and this tragic woman. She's scarier than the spider.)

How I look when I see a spider:

This is how all spiders look to me (like giant hairy death beasts):
                                       

                                       
How all spiders look, to Handsome Husband:

How I look when I am trying to figure out how to kill it like a genius, without crunching it:

It doesn't always work. "No! I can't...crunch it--it's minions will DESTROY me--it's little legs will... creep me ouuuut! I...just...caaaan't!"

The look on all of your faces because you don't understand why I'm using Thundercats cartoons:

(Stop trying so hard; I already told you--THREE hours' sleep. This crap is hilarious to me right now...except this woman's face bothers me. Like I should know her but I don't so I feel kinda...bad?)

How I feel when I wield my broom to destroy the Demons of Doom:

It's true; I'm kinda nuts. But in any case, hopefully it made you feel less crazy (don't pretend you're all "normal" and "safe" and whatnot though; just wait until you have kids, stay at home, and suddenly find yourself saying words like, "hobbies", "bottom", and "potty." Then soon enough, you'll be writing about your own crazy life...I look forward to reading it.

Moral of The Story: Spiders are evil. Thundercats still kick ass even though Liono definitely had some...rather Freudian (not to mention hair) issues. But most of all: DON'T write when you're under the influence of no sleep. It gets dangerous...

Until next time!! 

                                             

                                               

                                          

                        

                                         

                                            

                                           

                                       

                                

                                       

Those Versatile Ta-Tas: An Ode To Breastfeeding Moms

First of all, let's make sure I'm clear: it's not that non-breastfeeding moms don't get a shout-out. Moms and women for that matter, get my shout-out, any-day-any-place-any-time. I am spotlighting this matter, only to throw humor on my own issues (which are usually what makes anything I say funny because my "issues" are about as numerous as half-naked chicks on the Hispanic Telemundo). Let's also be clear about my view on breastfeeding, which will either surprise you, or lull you into boredom because you already know: in general, it's the healthiest and breast thing you can do [*chuckle chuckle*] but if you can't do it or you choose not to because it ain't your thang, then the important thing is that your baby eats. Or rather, that you do your best to give your baby what he/she needs to be able to eat well. After that, you can't sit around blaming yourself or you'll go nutso. The End. 

Anyway, I just find humor in how as women, we (and by we, I mean me) are so hell-bent on comparing ourselves to everything from what we aren't enough of, and what we're too much like and I think it quadruples when we become moms. It seems that as soon as we develop some insecurities about how we're "not as good at ___ as Susie McHomemaker" we forget that we're all just people. In fact, this Baby #4 is the first child to: smile at normal things, let others hold him, sleep, eat, and play with toys instead of cry at them. I say this because, there were three and half other years of people seeing Jim and I walking around grumpily like zombies, sleep deprived and constantly exasperated that our kids didn't "do things like other kids" did. Ya know, like SLEEP. Toddler #3 still doesn't really sleep normally. My point is, as soon as people saw what "a good baby" #4 has been (because when kids have sleep abnormalities, they're 'bad'??), I've gotten the, "yeah well, you're breastfeeding because you've always done well with that" or "well, your baby sleeps" etc. Basically, I'm like "WTF?!" (what the flippin' dipping heck?! Okay, I made that up...) because, suddenly when something goes a little right, you're no longer on Team Difficult so therefore, you might not have anything to offer. Then I started having insecurities about not being able to relate to Team Difficult...Laaaame.

Doing anything for your kids can be difficult, and I have found that even the most rewarding of these are sometimes the most difficult. I personally found breastfeeding the first three times to be...awful. Yup, I have no guilt in saying that. It was awful: Baby #1 had severe acid reflux and I spent most of my time as a new already-freaked-out parent, sobbing that all he did was scream and cry and puke. Baby #2 had severe allergies to dairy, nuts, eggs, and soy so breastfeeding felt nearly impossible. By the time Baby #3 had bad colic, I was done by 3 months, packed my little breastfeeding-fantasy bags, and called it a day. Then...there was Baby #4. I decided I'd try it but if it was too much, I'd have no guilt in saying, "Peace out, suckas!" to my milk boobs and lettin' 'em dry out back to reality. It actually went...well. This was scary. What do you do when something you try really hard for, works? And, you can't really piss and moan about it and...it's kind of...great? Then it hit me: maybe breastfeeding wasn't so bad; maybe my experiences of trying to do something--that to many moms, makes you feel like a failure if you are not successful at--were what sucked versus breastfeeding. Huh. I rolled with it, I still roll with it. I have taken one day at a time and have actually made it way farther than I had planned; some super-women might chortle at my six-month mark but for me, it's like completing the Iron Man and I'm pretty flippin' proud.

Mostly I think, I realized that once I let go of nursing (which that term I actually despise...makes me picture myself in a milk-maid outfit) as a means to prove something versus doing what was best for myself and the baby, things got a lot less stressful. With my first babies, there was this feeling and giant constant burden of, "It's time to feed the baby again--if I don't do this, it's failing/If I don't do this right, the baby won't be healthy enough/I'll let others down/I'll let baby down". This time instead, I felt, "This is my first choice and it seems to be working. If it doesn't work, I'll know I tried and we'll offer formula. If that doesn't work, we'll take him to the doctor and test for allergies. This is about feeding my baby, not how awesome I do it. There is no hall of fame for breastfeeding just to say I did it." To coin a super-cheese but good phrase, "Do your best and forget the rest."

Enough about the serious stuff. What I really want to write about, is the funny stuff. For example, that actually, I DO think there should be a Hall of Boob Fame. Or maybe it could be called, "The Hall of Great Knockers." So for those of you Pro Booby-Feeding Beauties that will accuse me of nay-saying nursing (milk maid milk maid milk maid), I'm not. But, I am going to talk about my perspective. Here goes...,

Let's talk abouuuuut...the leakage. Oh, that dastardly leakage! One minute, you're talking to the Comcast guy, wondering what is about your Ladies that seems to be the cause of his stuttering when suddenly, you've become the human peninsula. Your boobs being the source of fluid and your torso the only dry spot surrounded by the leak. So you walk yourself to the store and buy those special little breast pads you're advised to get. And, they're just that--pads for our breast, only they appear more like shoulder pads from the 80's when you wear them or like the times you stuffed your mom's bra when you played dress-up. Should you be brave enough (or stupid) to wear the "thin fit" pads on a leaky day, do I even need to share what happens? Other leakage faux pas scenario: you're in Target (pronounced [tar-zsay]) having some quality grown-up time when suddenly, you hear a baby cry that sounds oddly like yours or you just think it sounds like yours because when you're separated from your baby (and you're nehhhh-ver separated from your baby), don't all babies sound like him? Then, enter in--leakage. "DAMN you, Ladies!" you say loudly enough for all the cute young things in the lingerie department to hear and freak them out. How would they know you've named your bazungas? And the word leakage--eww. (For those of you who are confused: often times when you've been breastfeeding, even just hearing your baby cry can make you lactate because it's your body's way of signaling and responding to supplying your baby's needs. Yes, it's beautiful; it's a nearly fail-safe system...unless you're at Target with no breastpad-shoulder-pads and you talk to your breasts.)

Moving on to..."personal space for the Ladies." You've just worked all day cleaning, taking care of kids, breastfeeding, cooking...breastfeeding and breastfeeding...And your exhausted but hopeful husband gets home. You beg like a gypsy in Florence to get a shower if he'll just watch the kids for fifteen minutes (but really it's thirty mwamwaawaaha! Poor sap!). Maybe it's a loose, comfy cotton shirt; maybe it's a secure stretchy bra but all in all, you finally place your milky burdens in comfort and hunker down for the night.  You close your eyes and feel like you're being watched. Somehow, the Ladies have made a break for it (they're so flippin' huge with all that milk in there) and are flopped out there, and they've cast a spell on your husband. "Well Ladies--it's YOUR fault for prostituting yourselves out there! I tried to keep you safe!" you whisper angrily. Then you have to explain to your husband why you talk to and have named your breasts and why you're angry. Any case here, can't help but ending interestingly.

Let's call this next topic: "I Wanna Wear A Normal Shirt/Dress/Tank Top To ___ Instead Of A Nursing One" or we could just cut to the chase and call it: "Project Normal: Fail." At least for me, I put on a normal shirt and say, "This is normal, right? This looks modest and normal." Then, in an hour when I'm still in King Soopers (which is a whole other post to write about) and haven't nursed (milk maid milk maid milk maid), suddenly I'm knocking down displays, smooshing my children in my bosom trying to get them out of the shopping cart, catching the unwarranted attention of seventeen year old bagging boys and I swear the Ladies have somehow ingested some steroids because they're like Hulk Ladies. Similarly, I have tried so many times for weddings, Mass, parties etc., to be stubborn and get away with wearing that "sort of like" a nursing dress/shirt outfit, only to be that woman who has to just whip out her milkies because her baby is screaming so loudly and kicking away any possible cover that comes near his little head. He seems to be screaming, "Don't you DARE put anything between me and my milkies! I'll kick everyone's ass in this room!" (Yes, sometimes I imagine my six-month-old sounds like Mike Dexter from Can't Hardly Wait in this scenario, okay? What's your problem?) Sometimes, I'll almost get away with breastfeeding in public during these functions discreetly, only for my 3 year old to say things like, "Mom, is that your BWEAST? Why does the milk come out of it? The baby LOVES bweast because they're so BIG!" Why haven't I learned to just wear a tarp of gortex for a top? Then, it wicks away moisture, hides bulk, and no one gets hurt...

Lastly, let's talk about the feeling of being attached to watermelon all day that can suck out your life-giving-energy. Even though you love this lil' melon with all you've got, it's just that--you give all you've got and you feel...empty. (Pun intended.) It is a daily battle, even at six months, for my kids and I to get a schedule sometimes. The oldest will be asking every five seconds for me to read, come see his latest creation, his latest turd, or make him food, and the other little gremlins follow suit and I say, "when the baby is done eating" so many times I feel insane. There's no simple answer here, and if you've breastfed, you'll know what I mean. You can't just "unlatch" the baby because this causes stress and maybe you've been trying to get baby to latch well, but if you yell at your other kids, that's also no good. So, you sit there like a veal named Lil' Bessie, helplessly watching your children take down the empire like the Fall of Rome. It gets better, it really does, but that's not to say that it's all easy-peezy.

Sometimes, I laugh out loud when I think back to pre-kid days and I had this friend--she was a skinny little energetic mom, who smooshed her baby in a wrappie thing around her body, and taught baby to nurse whilst she did various jobs around the house. No joke. I remember being like, 'Yup; that's gonna be me.' (This is the part where some sort of pre-recorded audience of laughter ensues.) I tried that: baby couldn't breathe or latch and it turned out, my baby lacked the ability to breastfeed like a monkey in the jungle. Turned out also, that my nipples weren't all perfect and shaped like a baby-bottle either, like those pictures they send you home with at the hospital. I still see those pictures and am like, "Where do you COME FROM, Perfect Nippled Woman? What class or surgery, or  gymnastics course did I miss signing up for to nurse sideways with one hand behind my head, all smiley? Seriously--I missed out. My sister-in-law (she's one of those "Smiley Hand-Behind-The-Head- Pros"--I love you, sista--don't hate me!) always talked about how happy she felt after nursing. Like all was right with the world. Actually, the really funny thing is, with Baby #4, I do feel that way, but then it's off set by the murder I have on the brain when I see my other three gremlins having eaten after midnight--because I was busy nursing, of course--and swinging from the light fixtures (true story). So I kind of feel like a perfectly insane person--like The Riddler at the end of Batman Forever. "I'M Batman! WHAWHAHWA!"

I could go on and on about late nights, falling asleep in funny positions while nursing (milk maid milk maid milk maid), to sleep, the fact that I never lose weight while nursing and instead, get hungrier; pumping and the fact that it's called pumping, because that either sounds really dirty, or like you should be connected to a machine with cows mooing in the background--but it all comes down to this: I have no regrets. I will be very excited when I have my Ladies back as guests on the show rather than the hostesses with the mostess but, I can also tell in those (often too short) moments of stillness and perfection of looking so closely into my baby's eyes, giving him what was made just for him, that I'll miss it exactly as I should.  On the other hand, I mean, if it were up to me, I'd lactate rum instead of milk on certain nights and we could both sleep well for once...

The Picture Of Mental Health

Happy summer! Many of you have been worried about me since I've landed myself in a cast, lost my phone to a watery abyss, and had no car for human contact. Just to show you how well and sane I am staying, I am proving it by sharing some of the daily questions I get asked--because I am such an *ambitious, organized, and put-together mother! I've finally decided to put together a FAQ'S post from me to you--toodles!

Love,

Me

FAQs

"I have a hard time with bath time--trying to bathe all four of my kids feels nearly impossible!"

Then don't, you idiot. It's summer--just hose them down in the yard before-hand. If you live in an apartment, use the driveway. If you're rich, have a drain installed in your garage. I personally, pass them all off to my husband for bath time as soon as he walks in the door, and pretend I am a tenant living in the other half of the house next to a dysfunctional family. Sometimes, I even hit the wall with my fist and yell, "Can ya keep your vermits QUIET in there?! Some people wanna watch Bravo!, geeze!"

"It is so difficult to teach my young children not to run away when we're anywhere away from home (the zoo, store, parking lots etc.)! Any tips?"

Yeah--three words for you, my friend: RETRACTABLE-DOG-LEASH. Sometimes when I feel a little guilty about having my kids on a leash, I pretend they're puppies instead. "HEEL!" I shout and it's kinda like having a dog-sled team.

"Help! My significant other won't share in the cleaning duty--I thought it was 50/50!"

Word. Clinical teaching has taught me this: you can't make anyone do anything; you can only try to show them the truth of the situation and be patient while they figure some things out for themselves. Solution: make a giant bonfire and torch his half of the possessions in a fiery flame. This way, he'll feel like you listened to him--it was just too much for him to do his share. Well now, it doesn't exist! And, you win because the only chores left for him to do are yours. Solved!

I really need some encouragement: I am desperately trying to get my body in shape after having kids, I start seeing results, then things keep stopping me--nasty flu, tendonitis, and a fractured ankle! What should I do?"

First of all--what are you--some kind of freak? God doesn't do that to ONE person all at once, psh! I suppose if you're not lying, my best advice is: accept it's going to take time and that you just need to heal for now. Then, become one of those people that actually watches every P90X, Insanity, and Asylum infommercial available, just to torture yourself. Do this preferably while drinking from a box of wine and eating a fried-chicken salad. This is healthy, right? Look at it this way--maybe by the time you get around to being healthy enough to exercise, you can just have saved up money and can BUY yourself a new ass! That's what I call optimism!

[*Disclaimer: Okay, okay--so maybe that isn't a picture of me,  and it's actually Donna Reed...And maybe no one's actually asked me to answer anything...What's that? No--absolutely NOT--these questions are not uncannily like my own ponderings and these QUACKY answers certainly are nothing I've made up in my own head, just to laugh out loud... What kind of schmuck would publish anything but fiction with something like this?! Not me...nope. Not me.]

Well, as it turns out, my stupid appendix decided that while I am sixteen and a half weeks pregnant, this was a good time to come out and nearly rupture. The positive: we're not dead and I suppose as is the usual in writing, these life experiences always make for the best stories. Sadly, this particular post highlights my jerk-non-Christianly-streak. But don't fret new friends; there will be posts a'plenty with all of my life's little humilities. So, I'd like to start our relationship out with honesty because that's how I roll. Ergo, I am admittedly on a lot of narcotics/pain meds and will not risk trying to make more sense than this: I need to laugh (though I don't recommend trying it with two holes in your gut and one giant staple). I'm guessing you need to laugh. So, I write, you read, you laugh. BAM! Just like Emeril Lagasse. Here goes...

Ten Of The Funniest Things I Think About To Brighten My Day

The time when I was five and my mom was determined not to be found while playing hide-and-seek and instead, got stuck under the coffee table. Instead of helping her, I went to her chocolate stash, sat in front of her and ate (all) the chocolate and laughed while she tried to get out. (Don't worry, Divine Providence has deemed that I've gotten mine back MUCH worse than this injustice I caused her. For example, I have four boys under the ages of 6...The bathroom stories I can tell you alone make for a lot of suffering.) 

Once when I was ten, I was riding my bike in our ghetto-fabulous trailer court. With the wind in my tangley hair, and the sun on my chubby face, I was beginning to think, maybe this is what models feel like in all the pictures with well, wind in their hair and sun on their faces. When, I flew past a group of other 5th graders, I thought maybe, just maybe, they were smiling because they were having this model-me realization too and--that was the last thought I had for a while because I drove right into our neighbor's ghetto-shed. For the second time in my young life, I saw stars. I believe, that if I saw a chubby little kid swinging her hair whilst riding a bike in a trailer court, and crash into a shed, I'd laugh my ass off.

I picture myself in my favorite outfit in 6th grade: a mustard yellow, brown, and cobalt blue body-suit (if you don't know what a body-suit was, refer to picture), with Luigi-colored green, baggy pants. And, I laugh my ass off.

I think of the time when I first met husband in college and I told him that his name, "Jimmy" sounded like a funny name. And, for no reason at all, I would say, "Jiiiiimmy...Jimmyyyyy" in a Pee-Wee Herman growly voice, with a Pee-Wee Herman laugh, every time he was turned around. I did this for a solid month. The guy was a statue and never showed annoyance until, I yelled it in his ear in a Pee-Wee Herman voice. Then he was angry. Really angry. That still makes me laugh out loud. Especially because, I don't know who'd have the patience to marry someone who talked to them in a Pee-Wee Herman voice.

I think of the time when our oldest, Michael, was only one year old, and we had this toy-remote control that made this slipped-on-a-banana-peel-like-in-Looney-Tunes noise. One night, my husband was angrily picking up the living room because Mike wouldn't go to bed and I'd "fallen asleep". (Wow, the more I read these, the more I wonder how I got married.)Anyway, I saw Jim step on the toy remote, activate the "slip-on-banana-peel" noise and watched his legs nearly go over his head. My cover was blown when laughed out loud in hysteria and, we both laughed so hard we cried. Then, he was maaaad I had actually been awake. 

Once again, feigning sleep: When I was in college, my mom was married to a crazy man that in my head to this day, I diagnose him with Douche Bag NOS (Not Otherwise Specified). He didn't want to let my sister and I hang out because we "laughed too loudly." We heard his heavy body pounding down all three levels to the basement and even though our bodies were shaking with suppressed laughter, we shut our eyes pretending to be asleep. It was dark and he shone a flashlight on our faces and said, "SWELL. You're asleep. I better not hear another PEEP!" and with that first heavy step on the stairway, he farted. Like, MAJOR big man fart. My sister and I laughed ourselves off the couch, and didn't even hear what he was yelling about all the way back up the stairs.

When my aunt was in the hospital for the birth of one her children, my sister and dad and I waited impatiently in the family waiting room. There was a playhouse that looked like a tree-house, complete with a faux-fox hole for kids to squeeze themselves into. My sister was misbehaving and my dad glared at her with daggers and said, "If you don't get back here RIGHT NOW, I'm going in there to get you MYSELF!" All I could barely see were two pig-tails furthering themselves to the back of the fox hole and heard a muffled, "You can't, you're too FAT, Daddy!" I watched in horror and awe as my dad dove toward the fox hole, lifted the entire tree house (complete with all other kids running back to their parents, like an ogre had attacked NeverLand), and pulled her out by her pig-tails. Maybe this isn't funny to you if you lived in a healthy, non-psycho-traumatic home, but think not so violent, and more just, laughing at a bad parenting moment, and a sassy-pants kid.

I'm sure he's gonna be pissed about this (though he'll say he's unashamed) but I convinced my brother when he was 10, that for his boy-scouts trip to Water World the next day, that my mother had failed to find trunks, so he'd be wearing a Boy Suit. I told him a Boy Suit (which is of COURSE, made up) was the new thing for boys, and that it was a swimsuit with boyish colors. I said, "Zachary AARON--you'd better wear it because mom spent A LOT of money on it!" I gave him my best big-sister glare. He stammered trying not to cry, "W-well, is it at least...b-blue??" I shook my head sadly, "Nope. The bow is red. The suit's black-ish-purplish." He threw his hands up. "BOW?!" He stormed up the stairs yelling, "Maaaaaam!!!!" My mom of course, was confused and handed him his trunks and he chased me all over the house yelling, "I HATE YOU!!" throwing shoes at me. 

I think of this one day in college when my two best friends and I drove all through Greeley in my white Geo Storm yelling to people on the street, "THUMBS UP! ATTENTION EVERYONE: IT'S THUMBS UP DAY!!! That's right! Get 'em up get em' up! YOU SIR--THUMBS UP!! YOU MA'AM--GET THOSE THUMBS UP!!!" It seriously made people really happy.

I think of just yesterday, when I tried talking to our Parish secretary and she came in on the part of my conversation with kids, and only heard me yelling, "MATTY! Nuts are dangerous--NEVER put them in your mouth--even if someone else gives them to you, that doesn't know that they make you sick!" Yeah; I'm special.

Moral of the Story: laugh recklessly and, there are always more things to make you laugh. Just ask.

Dear OB/Prenatal Establishment Where-From I Am Reluctantly Receiving "Care":

I don't like you. I don't know why anyone does but I definitely don't like you. I have some requests that have been gathering up for quite some time and here they are, in writing.

Requests

To the Medical Assistants: Please don't talk over and around me whilst taking my vitals, thinking I am not there. Furthermore, please refrain from having idiotic and asinine discussions,  wherein you are wrong about everything you're talking about, and when I politely give you the correct information, you stop for a moment as if, "Did you hear something?" and then continue in your ridiculous conversation. (Like, discussing that there are wolf spiders in Colorado the size of dinner plates, that are lethally poisonous...that live in large webs.)

 

(*In case anyone reads this and dares to challenge such a nerd as myself who is married to Spider-Bug-Man expert: the largest found wolf spider in Colorado was 2.5"--yuck--and they don't weave cobwebs, they live on the ground and burrow webs; and are only mildly poisonous.)

Anyway, it leaves me no choice but to be annoying and turn into the 10 year old trapped inside my brain and start just making non-sensical statements because I know you're not listening ("His underwearrrr were hardly therrrre...is your degree from way out therrrre?...I guess yer movin' me to another prego chair!" etc.).

Request #2: During ultrasounds, please don't set me up with some nurse that chomps on bubble gum the whole time, while digging around, giving me an exam, and then during the very first picture of my baby says, "Wellll...it looks like all is well except for...this schmutz right here behind the baby." SCHMUTZ?!  "No need to panic--could be mass; could be another baby *shrug*." Or, upon the second-sixth ultrasounds, set me up with a beautiful, snooty young woman who hates kids, and has no patience for pregnant woman, with kids. She might say things while becoming exasperated , like, "AH! Your baby is caddy-wampus--" CADDYWAMPUS?! Is this a medical term for a golf-laden-platypus?! "--and simply refuses to move where I can see him." She might also say other memorable one-liners like, "*sigh of anger* This baby is out to GET me today! I was going to have an extra hour to pay my bills, look online etc., but now I guess I'll be here with you..."  She then may proceed to become so upset that my unborn baby won't move because he is "caddywampus", that she will begin to use her sonogram tool to jab at various places on my stomach, thinking that this will jar him. I just might have felt like a piece of meat getting tenderized. I might have said, "Um, I know it seems like fluff to you but it's MY fat and stomach...and it hurts..." She may also try to assure me when measurements come back slightly abnormal by saying, "Now, I'm not a doctor--" SHOCKING! "--but my Spidey-Sense is telling me that everything is a-okay!" [insert thumbs up and bouncing ponytail with fake enthusiastic head-nod]. Perfect! I'm assured by a woman who's confidence is embedded in her inner Spider-Man, that my baby hasn't already suffered Shaken Baby Syndrome by her stomach-abusive shenanigans. 
So, my dear highly-rated,ridiculously expensive establishment: would it be too much, to request that she receive some sort of socialization classes? Anger Management? Or perhaps, have her superiors administer some sort of questionnaire that asks questions like: "I am annoyed by unborn babies that don't cooperate with the rest of my schedule" or, "situations that are not in my control really make me feel psychotic" etc. If she checks "yes" on say, ANY of them, maybe she can be redirected to something like...another job? Just a request.


Request #3: Please educate your staff on important things like, not making diagnosis that sound definitive, when come to find out, they were not qualified to do so. For example, Gum Chomper Nurse, after giving me a five second exam, declaring that my cervix is "too short" and rushing me into a panic that the baby will drop out into existence, at any time. Throwin' around terms like "bed rest" and "pre-term labor;" it's...unsettling and just might nearly throw me into cardiac arrest...which probably would bring about pre-term labor...


Request #4: Finally, I know this may be harsh but--please hire a secretary who can actually see...and hear...and use a computer? It would be so helpful when I'm having cramps and trying to explain my medical symptoms several times because "stomach cramps" sounded the same as "wallup clamps" (??) and my saying I thought it might be due to "severe dehydration" somehow translates into "severe deridation" (which isn't even a word). Yes; it could be helpful because then the doctor won't call me, thinking I'm a lunatic, clearly suffering from some cortisol-amped episode of psychosis. 

Actually...if you really want my request...Can you just shut the place down and turn it into a day spa?


Sincerely And In-Debted To You,
Me

On Being Glamorous

Since I have realized how wonderfully glamorous I have [not] become, I decided it was time to make some of you stay at homer's feel better. Much better. The following are positive reframes of some possible situations that might cause you to--GASP!--lose your glamor swing. It's entirely possible I've suffered all of them; it's entirely possible I won't even write about half of them. 

Scenario: No shower in more than three days (this could include but is not limited to: visible dandruff, enough grease to oil the TinMan--'Oil can!'--and/or oily skin and leftover makeup), no clean clothes and you've gotta go to the grocery store, a playdate, or some other place where people will in fact remember you, and will in fact report you to Social Services for "poor hygiene" or "malodorous scent", or "disheveled appearance." 


Solution: First, take a look at your nearly homeless-looking-self and say, "I may as well black out a tooth but dang it, this is gonna WORK!" The key here is to think creatively. Take a blow-dryer and heck--blow off the dandruff! (This actually works...not that I've tried it.) Wash your face all except for your eyes and reapply a little makeup--yup, just keep plowin' through that old mascara. Feel extra glam in extra makeup--you just might get hit on (bonus!) by one of those guys that is always cleaning out the port-a-potty at the park, right when your 4 year old needs it. No clean undies? Psh--no problem! Either borrow your husband's (clean) briefs or if this isn't possible, consider yourself as daring as the Kardashians, and go commando! Worried that you smell, "less than fresh"? NO worries--this can be taken care of by any of the following: whilst applying Desitin on your kiddo, rub a little on your wrists--it's all anyone will be able to smell; or going the glam route--spray some cologne from your hubby's stash--just say "it rubbed off during our rendesvous this morning *wink wink*!" And heck, that's why the make up is heavier, and your hair's a mess! (because of course, in your glamorous life, you and your spouse have time, energy, and space to have something like a rendesvous).

Scenario: You almost make it out the door. I said "almost" on purpose. Well, now that you're all ready to walk out the door with the kids and five different bags for any situation in-tow, you can handle ANYTHING, but wait! You sat down to put on your boots and--you've sat in an UWP (Unidentified Wet Puddle...and yes, there is such thing as a "dried puddle"--the kind that have already long dried before you realized there was a puddle). You go to check for a clean pair of pants--NOTHIN'. 

Solution: Don't stress! Put on that PBS cartoon you've been denying the kids (I mean  because you never fail to plan all-day activities so as to avoid them watching any of that evil television!..This should conjure up an image of a fire-and-brimstone preacher at the pulpit somewhere on the Bible Belt) and walk yourself to the bathroom. Once again, whip out your trusty blow-dryer. The clothes' dryer is more thorough--true, but you don't have time for thorough; you just need your soggy underwear (if you wearing them) and pants to be dry enough to not look and feel like you've wet yourself pre-Depends Diaper stage. "I can do this! I can do this!" you tell yourself in the mirror, as your children laugh hysterically at their Mommy (since the show will be done by the time you actually can start fixing yourself.) "Why are you blowing air on your tushy?" they ask in between erupting giggles. "Well," you say as you regain your glam flair (you recall yourself in those times you wanted to audition to be an actress or a stand-up comedian and channel your drama Chi), "sometimes tushies get reeeeally cold and think that they live in the Arctic, where there's always snow! So, I have to remind my tushy that it lives in Colorado, where it's not so cold bahahaha!" 

Was this joke...funny? Hell no! But, take in these times with young kids because, all you have to really do to make them laugh is: say something inappropriate like "tush" or "butt" or "poop"; say something in an inappropriate context; or say anything inappropriate. Especially if it rhymes. This won't last, so make yourself feel like Seinfeld and do whatever it takes to make them laugh, and make yourself feel completely normal.

Scenario: You get to the grocery store, you prepare the kids with "Good boys/girls get ___ when they have good behavior at the store" etc., you get the stupid carts with the car attached that drives like a blimp (yes, I compare it to a blimp on purpose because blimps aren't supposed to drive, and apparently, neither are the giant pieces of crap they give you at the store), and head in there with all the gusto you can muster. The kids are falling out of the cart, screaming "BEEP! BEEEP!" because as they explain "These horns don't work!", and in the check-out line, they swing from a fantastic pendulum of trying to make out with one another by licking tongues ("...Just like our friends who got married at that church!") and then ending it by punching each other in the face right there, in there little no-horned car-cart. 

Solution: It's ALL about the reframe, remember? So, be PROUD! Maybe someone recorded the whole ordeal with their Smart Phone, will post it on YouTube and you'll be RICH! So what if you feel like you look like Zach Galifianakis with your gut hanging out of your too-short, stained shirt and bad grease-ball hair? You've MADE IT OUT, Mama, and whether its Hellish or not, you will make it back home! You've OVERCOME, just like Mel Gibson in Braveheart (not the part where he's tortured and murdered...). You are probably funnier, savvier, and pleasantly more crazy because of it. Now, go home, throw the kids in one room and safely lock it (and laugh manically to yourself like the evil Stepmother) so you can really take a shower. If you can't, then spritz water on your face and call it good. 
Then dear friends, go write about it.

Peace OUT!

Synopsis

The Kids: all sick with an evil bug, forcing bodily fluids out in practically every orifice. The bathroom looks (and smells) like a battlegrounds in the worst way; I don't know how much longer it will hold. Reinforcements needed but it is unlikely none brave enough will come.

The Cat:  still fluffy and smelling of Men's Care Dove bodywash. She eyes me suspiciously, awaiting the growing madness to pounce upon her the more I, her ill-brained master, is kept indoors to tend to the natives.

The Kitchen: in fact dirty except for--lo!--one space between the sink and the window, there it is still unscathed and shiny. Yet as I approach ye spot, all virgin clean I am deceived--Alas! I have been tricked by the gods (said with a fist shaking in the air but actually saying other words than what might be made-for-TV; like in those 1950's movies when Hercules was actually in Italian but dubbed over by some golly-gee American voices)! It is only "shiny" because a clear coating of Pedialyte has oozed and dried over this falsely cleaned spot. Sadly (and sickly), I slough into the living room to retreat. Unfortunately, the natives spot me and attack with a hungry fierceness I had not perceived from the battlegrounds (bathroom)! "FOOOD! HUNNNGRY!! My TUMMMMY!" they shout like midget zombies. I wonder how much time I'll have before their poisened devilries take effect (one has a diaper the size of a human head, and is sitting on my neck). I close my eyes..."it's going to be okay...it's going to be okay..." The last thing I remember is hysterical laughter from the diaper-monger who hears my desperate attempts at coping and finds them utterly hilarious. "MWAMWAHAA!!" he laughs over me, as giant drool spiddles down onto my hair. "You crazy nuts, Mommy" he laughs. "Yes, yes I am, " say I.
Sitting up, I breathe through my mouth only and hug the natives tightly, poop neck (me), Giant-Dump-Diaper McGee, Drooly McFooly, and Major Trouble, and kiss them. Then I repeat this again. If this is what parenthood's about, then I'd hate to overcome all the insanity, only to fail in forgetting what's most important: to love and be loved.