That's right. The title of this post, should be self-explanatory. I'm forfeiting this week and giving into the inevitable: writing on my couch watching The Labyrinth while drinking a giant Corona. No, not Pan's Labyrinth. I'm not into artistic European schtuff this night. I'm talking da shiz David Flipping Bowie and Jim Henson's hand puppets. And yes, in light of last time's post, I feel it necessary to say, it's the only beer I'm having but it's alllll mine...
(You've taken my youth but not my soul, November *fists shaking violently*!)
Monday.
SO, you know your day could have some bumps ahead when:
You awake to hearing your darling spouse shouting, "NOOO! NOO! Computers are NOT for sitting ONNN!!" But you are positive because, it's only 7:30 a.m., and a lot of good things can happen today. After all, you're going shopping and might see Kick-Ass GF and have a reason for living (because God knows after shopping at Sam's Club with all of your children, you'll need some really good ones).
9:30 a.m., fifteen minutes after hopeful ideals.
You know your day might be a little less than what was expected when:
Kick-Ass GF calls and says, "I think *Jesse's arm is falling off...I'm pretty sure we need to take her to the ER." Simultaneously, you remember that you were supposed to take in your mini-van, Lucille the Wonder Tramp to a mechanic because oh yeah, your husband ripped off the **automatic-non-automatic door from it's automatic tracks the day after Glutton's Day (Thanksgiving), and basically your askin' for a helicopter ride experience (because the doors could open on their own AT ANY TIME)...And the door's stuck MOSTLY OPEN and your children scream that "cars are not s'pposed to be WINDY!" It is also at this time, you remember that you are supposed to call your children's doctor, the social security office, fill out paperwork for a new insurance policy, and return that damned child gate that didn't work. "SHIKES!" you think, because if you even think about the things you really wanna think about, it'd be such a long line of obscenities, it'd keep you in the Confessional for a solid three days. That's not doable. That's not fun. The bottom line: Kick-Ass GF is in her own trenches and so are you. The rest of the day is...pretty crappy. I won't even TELL you about Monday night. It is summed up by this: more PHALLIC stage drama, boys smelling each other's butts, a three-year-olds' demolition to an entire kid-bible, and...I can't even write anymore.
Tuesday.
You know your week is not, definitely not, going according to any sort of plan...or hope when:
You roll out of bed (literally--"WHO THE HELL was wearing my stilettos?! They're by my bed?! OUCH!!"). Yes. My children *apparently* don't get enough "girl" in their lives, and have turned to cross-dressing. Fantastic. The first thing you do since you're already on the floor is drop to your knees. "Please Father-God," you pray, "I know this day is going to challenge...my character...my virtue...and pretty much anything I suck at but...Can you please just...help me not to completely lose my temper today when everything falls apart? And, give me something--anything to remind me to laugh?" Next thing you know, your nearly-three-year-old *apparently* has hips that gyrate (yes, that's what I said) and he's flippin' Elvis, dancing for the ten-month-old singing, "I not NAKED, but I do the naked DANCE!" You have several thoughts: first, you stare in awe that these little humans will one day be in charge of things; and they will blame you for how well they survive. Secondly, you remember--"Hot damn! I love my kids!! Thanks, God!" Then you hear the toilet flush to see Gyrate Boy running outta there with a cape on his head, clearly communicating to you that he is: a) being a "villain-girl" (hence the black cape-hair) and b) he's flushed Doc Ock down the potty.
For some reason--perhaps it's the metaphor of things going down the crapper--you recall that your appointment for Lucille the Wonder Tramp Van is in thirty minutes. "Oh my gosh--we have to leave soon! KIDS! GET DRESSED!" you shout. And just like that, the absence of all the brain cells that have been sucked out through breastfeeding, you forget. Again. No seriously--you forget in the next minute about the appointment you just remembered. "Van? What van? I have a van??
Kick-Ass GF calls. You indulge in much-needed venting and womanly comfort. Then your dear friend-with-more-kids-than-you calls. We'll call her, the ***Hope Queen GF. *Enter sentimental, comforting music.* You laugh. You cry. You lament about wifey things and wish you were better rested and more healthy, as you down your third cup of coffee and call the infant's cookies breakfast. You commiserate and form solidarity in just being a wife and a mom and a woman. You feel a deep sense of gratitude and joy that you have been given these loves like Kick-Ass GF and Hope Queen GF on this day, in this life. And all of those women in your life really are a giant part of the fellowship that God has given you to help make your heart tick (I love you the most, Sister Smarty Pants!)--"BEEP! BEEEP!!" Then there's the reality alarm. You were supposed to be the mechanic's. Ten minutes ago. "I DO have a van! SHIIIIKES!!" you actually yell this time. There are no snacks (or lunch for that matter) because you were supposed to go to Sam's this morning before the mechanics (why in the world did I think I would go??! Like, I'd just wake up and become organized or something?!).
Bottom line: you feel somewhat energized but the fact remains that you have half-dressed children with no food.
Tuesday afternoon.
You know your day has a 70% probability...of sucking when:
Okay, you haven't lost your temper. Kudos. But your dignity: yes, you've lost that. (When your infant climbed to your feet as you answered the door to The Mailman Who's Mom Was A Baker And Tied Him To A Tree To Get Work Done When He Was A Kid), and pulled your pants, A LOT down. *insert FROWNIE*. Wait--I didn't tell you that story?! Well, the high points are obvious but one day, the mail man says to me--he says, "Hi there! THREE boys? THREE boys?! I was one of three boys--"
I try to interject but saying "Four actual--" but he just keeps on going like he's knitting a sweater in his own happy little weirdy rocking chair and smiles serenely saying, "--and we were so bad that my mom--she was a Baker--would put us in these harnesses and tie us to a stake outside HAHA!" he laughs nostalgically. "Can you believe that?! We thought it was so funny." I stare for a long while. "My mom--she was a Baker" he nods reassuringly. "Oh..." I say. "Have a great day!" he smiles and walks away. Yeah. Mail Man Story tiiiiime is the shiz. Okay, that was a bunny. Like, when you are driving and suddenly you see a bunny and it's like you're with him, flopping and hopping all happily. Then you remember you're driving. Bunnies are code for "distraction." Sorry--shoot the bunny! Aaaand, I'm back.
Anyway, you are thinking of what kind of baker this mother must have been when you glance at the clock. Your heart skips several beats--you have NO van. You have to pick up your kiddo in five minutes and you'll have to walk there! GAA!! It's like a Bull Run in your home with you trying to get your kids re-dressed (because every SINGLE time you walk in the door, the first thing they do is strip down to their hero underwear, turn them backwards,"so you can see the heroes," and don capes, tearing through the house. One is dead-asleep, the other melting down that you are dressing him, and the third just wants what guys always want: boobs. "I don't have time to nurse you, buddy!" you try to reason with your ten-month-old. Currently, he doesn't speak
you've also lost several competitions for most fashionable mom--all week and it's only the second day of the week I might add. You're unshowered, braless, and wearing the type of clothing you used to make fun of your mom for wearing around the house. (Except no giant tube socks. Thank you, God--so far, no tube socks.) You finish the kitchen (score!), finish scrubbing the floor on your hands and knees, finish Magic Eraser-ing the walls of crayon (thank you, Mr. Clean; you're buff and you're bald, therefore you're just about as cool as Jason Statham because I don't recall him ever offering to clean my walls) when: you look up from your hands and knees and see, there's crayon...ALL over the glass in the patio room. To be precise, there are three patio windows, and three doors. You don't like seeing the world from this height; you decide it's overrated. Ignorance is bliss, and baby-proofing or cleaning or whatever, by being on your hands and knees is more like the truth hurting...And is for morons. You decide also, that five-feet-four-inches tall, is the New Truth and all things you really need to see are this high. This next part deserves it's OWN section. And, most of you won't believe it. But I swear, this is my life.
Tuesday night.
You know you have received the 'Your Day's Officially Crap' memo when:
You are convicted about this, until you see: a mouse. That's right. A furry little nasty vermin. Gus-Gus. You think about this; you hope it can't talk, wear little Gus-Gus clothes, or sing. By the time you've thought, it's seen you and you both, freak out. A lot. "HEEELLLLP!!!" you shriek. "But I'm not afraid of mice! Why am I yelling for help? Who's going to help me?!" But still you keep running, much to the alarm of your kids. "Mama--is a mouse chasing you?' your four-year-old asks. "Um...No. No, Mommy was just...running...?" But, you don't have time to think about this because, your five year-old comes bookin' it out of the bathroom shouting, "MOMMY! MOMMY! It's over-flowing! It's gonna drown the HOUUUUSE!!" He's practically right. The toilet's overflowing alright. It's even overflowing some fun looking stuff into the bathtub, and in the main bathroom too. "This is SO...POOPY!" you yell kicking the wall, setting a picture-perfect and shining example of all a parent can be, to your children, and send them into roaring laughter because you said, "poopy." You put the baby down and grab every towel you can find and while your shoes are being filled with cold toilet water, the door-bell rings. The mechanic was so kind and drove your van home so your kids wouldn't have to walk back to the place and then home again in the cold. He says, "Sorry but just to let you know--that van has too many problems to count!" he snorts because he's laughing so hard. But, we did get the door shut; the parts to fix it though only come in a package that is around $700. We are trying to find just the piece itself in a junk yard to help you out." (Is there a light at the end of the tunnel?) "Aaaand the motor mounts are out--all four of 'em. That's estimated at about $600, plus the heating system I fixed today, and not counting the installation of the oil pans." (At this point, you are thinking you will train your children to be a dog-sled team, and pull the littlest one the sled, with you cracking the whip because, there is NO way you can pay $2000 to fix it. You consider asking him if he has a dog sled at his Mechanic Place but instead he stares at you oddly, with your yoga pants rolled up to your knees and your shoes sopping in sewage, and the half-naked baby on your hip.) You take your keys back, thank him for shutting your van door, and making the heat work, and shut the door.
There won't be a dog-sled team made out of boys this week however, because the oldest announces that his tummy hurts and feels like "knives are inside," he's "freezing cold," and says that his throat is "giant inside." You take his temp, feel his neck all over, and peer into his throat. Sure enough, his glands are like little walnuts, he has a big fever, and his throat has blood-red little prickly dots all over. You don't know what this is. Even though you do doctor-ish things, you a) don't get paid a doctor's salary, nor b) actually have the degree. Strep? Viral infection? In any case, this night ends in many respects, even worse than the night before because Handsome Husband had to take an extra client to make ends stretch a little further. You are grateful. And, you are pissed. This is unfair that you're pissed because he is being selfless by working more. But you feel like you need a break. You wonder why all you want to do is shower...then you realize, you can't REMEMBER the last time you showered and think it might have to do with something like, last week. Euew-but-true. You look in the mirror and see: bags under your eyes, dandruff, and splotchy skin, and you conclude, "You don't look so hot, Mama." In effort to make yourself at least feel better and so maybe you won't look like a vagabond to your husband, you put on a new shirt. It feels a little better. You decide it's time to pay attention to Baby who's been stalking you for a solid fifteen-minutes. You pick him up and squeeze him and...other stuff also gets squeezed out. From his diaper. IS THERE ANY END TO THIS DEVILRY?!?!
The good: Handsome Husband gets home, exhausted but walks in holding out Chipotle to you like a steak to a tiger, so it won't attack. "I was even later because I wanted to surprise you," he says. You feel like a jerk for being pissed and thank him for thinking of you. He even makes you a margarita even though your resources are low. He gets creative and makes one out of Berry Blast Naked Juice which...is really good. And later, when you don't get to go to bed until 2:30 am because of kids, you are grateful for his love. And the leftover marg.
I've decided that, I will only put in a teaser to "Wednesday" to leave you hanging! And because it is actually stressful to even write about my last week. Plus, I don't want to stress YOU out! I at least want you to be like, "Thank GOD that wasn't my week!" Or, "Wow--that was TOTALLY my week!" That's what it's all about here at The Kids, The Cat, & The Dirty Kitchen, we aim to please. I desire to make a place that makes you feel better about how you are doing things, and laugh about how I do things. I have to, or I'll end up in a loony bin. So, I am breaking it up--tomorrow night's endeavor will be to write the rest of the week.
A lot of people might say, "After reading these, why would you think anyone would want your life??" I don't. I love my life. I love my kids and my Handsome Husband. If I didn't, I wouldn't be writing about it for your laughter; I'd be in the fetal position, banging my head against a wall instead. So, prepare for more crazy! More mice, more toilet trauma, and a new whammy: The Chic That Hit On My Husband At Mass! For REAL...
*Jesse: Name changed to protect the arm-gimpy. Not Kick-Ass GF's daughter's real name but, I had Rick Springfield in my head (I wish that I was Jesse's giiirl!) so it just came to me.
**Automatic-non-automatic door: Yeah. Our van...Hmm...where to begin...Is a precious gift from some dear dear friends that saved us by lending/giving it to us. However; it's got some quirks. Its...eccentric, really. Like that lady perhaps, that always came through your check-out line when you worked retail, and had crazy clothes pieced from ten different places and smelled funny. You can tell she may have used to be really cute but somehow life, has made her a little scattered. The door got jammed ON Thanksgiving, courtesy of Handsome Husband. (That's another post.) But, it only jammed in that, the back wouldn't shut. So, we had to pay the Mechanic Man to slam-jam it permanently shut. Ergo, only one side of our van doors open now and it's really fun throwing the baby in that corner...
***Hope Queen GF: This gal is...a beautiful soul. (And woman, but we're talking her soul right now.) She...has been through a lot. God asks a lot of her. Somehow, she still desires to give to others. She thrives on giving to others in any way she can. There was a time in my earlier youth, that I was really placed in people's lives to give them hope. Since many things we've gone through, I've needed hope. Not just the kind that wishes for brighter things. I'm talking the real stuff--the kind that perseveres through all things because at the heart, there is a faith that trusts in the absolute good and knows that God is sovereign. That is a gift to see such hope. I love her especially for bringing God to me in this way. Love you!!
* * *
Wednesday.
You know your day just might be suffering from a curse when...
You sleepily trudge down the hall to the front door to get the paper. You are hunched over. You didn't sleep since The Oldest was dehydrated last night and cried about it all night long accusingly, as though you'd stuffed his cheeks with salt tablets. You put your hand out to turn the knob, and a spider lands on it. "GAAAARF!" That's actually what you yell. This is unknown but your husband comes running to see you having a convulsive fit of sorts, and when you spit out the word, "SPIDER!" he shakes his head in disgust and walks away. "IT WAS BIG!" you shout after him. "That CAN'T be a good sign!" you try to explain. It can't, right? Who wakes up and has Creepo The Demon Spider landing on their finger?! You wonder if Handsome Husband called into the school, to tell them you're keeping the oldest home...You start having anxiety because those secretaries already think you're nuts and disorganized, and if they think you forgot to call, they'll think you're irresponsible. "Phone's for you, honey!" Handsome Husband chirps happily. You narrow your eyes to slits and he knows. "I'm SO sorry! I was supposed to call in, huh?" It's The Secretary. The Main One. Like the Lead Gremlin that has that stripe down his head so you know he's the Leader. "We are...concerned, Mrs. Langley. Why didn't you call Michael in? His teacher was worried sick." You consider your options: you can be the funny bitch you want to be and say, "FIRST of all, Grasma, it's only FIVE minutes past the bell and there is NO way that uptight broad of a teach is worried sick when there are twenty-six other students to be counting." But, since you'll probably be seeing her for a long while, you decide to be apologetic and sound responsible. Your mother would be proud. "I am so sorry to have caused any upset--he is very sick you see, and we weren't sure if he was coming or not until--" But she interrupts you because, she doesn't have time for irresponsibility. "Yes well, that's fine. I hope he feels better. Do call next time?"
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Sunday, November 25, 2012
The Mama Gets Out
Okay, I've been wanting to write about the Time I Went To A Swanky Place, Got Buzzed, Got Stuck In The Parking Garage, And Then Ended Up With Someone Else's Credit Card for a while now. But it's hard to write how funny this really is because, it's possible that what made it funny was: 1. I am not swanky, and the lovely gf that invited me is. (You know "Kick-Ass GF"? Well this one is *Swanky-Barbie-Beauty GF. 2. It also (possibly) might be funny because this bar was at the Four Seasons, downtown, and just might have been chalk full of model wanna-be's that posed every time they bent down to sip their fruity cocktails, (and were wondering what the HELL someone like me was doing in there). 3. I just might have drunk my Cosmo a little too fast, which explains why I got lost in the parking garage for twenty minutes...and had to call to ask for help...Don't judge me. There's NO judging here. 4. I don't really drink so uh...that also might be why this is so funny, in my little brain. Oh, I hear you snickering and muttering. YES, I did admit to bottomless mimosas that one weekend but other than THAT, I don't really drink. Honest. (Okay, I actually FEEL someone judging but you better NOT because, it's not my fault that by the time They *** let me out of this kid cage I'm a raving dehydrated light-weight, loopy lunatic. (Well actually, I'm sure some of that is my fault but can you just flippin' appreciate that I'm trying to write you a funny story here?! GEEZE. Some people just want it all.)
Anyway, so it's a Friday night, when all of a sudden, the Momster Madness hits me; like when you're walking in the rain and then someone drives into the gutter right next to you, and all of sudden, you realize you're soaked, freezing, lonely, and pissed off beyond all comprehension. I realized that actually, my week had been pretty crappy. I had been working really, really hard on this new form of discipline called, Give Up And Beat Your Kids Like It's 1939--NOPE NOPE, just kidding! Just kidding! NOW you're awake. Hehe...I would NEVER, no matter how insane they drive me. No, I've been revamping our discipline system. You know that feeling when you realize that what you're doing is good, but you just need to take a step back and re-vamp some things? Well, I realize this when I see that I'm so overwhelmed, I go into punishment mode. Like, "Just get OUT of my face, right now. Please" or, "STOP IT!" And then, they look at me like, "Hi. I'm...five years old...What are you...saying...?" Instead of remembering that the kids are little but they can learn to take responsibility for their actions and that their choices have consequences good and bad. When I remember this and re-vamp, I don't get all strung out and grumpy. Well, this is great. I felt way better. But teaching something--sometimes anything to little kids in which you have to repeat yourself so many times--can leave you feeling like a deranged Rain Man. And by the end of a week, Calm Cool Automated Voice Nicole was sick of giving choices and felt like saying, "NO options. NO choices. This is NOKAY!" (Don't any of you ever picture yourselves going all Chris Farley crazy and being like, "There is only ONE consequence: TO SUFFAAAA!!!"?? Maybe not...But then again, I imagine pretend scenes of extreme humor in order to save my already wonky sanity.) I'm getting off-track...but I blame on the little mouse I can't catch in our house, casting it's creep-out-the-humans-voodoo on me because I can hear it but I can't see it. UGH.
Okay, okay--so you get the point--all circuits fried. So when you get to this point as a parent, you need HELP. You need to get out. You need...GIRL TIME. So I sent out a "GF SOS" on Facebook. I whined. I pleaded. "I'm an easy date!" I promised. "A real girl-time hussy! I'm easy! Take me out, take me home. I'll paint toe-nails, I'll drink wine. WHATEVERJUSTHELPMEEE." Well, I got an answer back. I'll only call her *Swanky GF from now on (and you can read the footnote for this one as to why) and she had a challenge for me. "Walk the walk and get on out here!" This was a challenge...Even though Momster wanted to get out, it didn't change her unshowered homeless smell, or her unshaven legs, or the fact that she felt rather frumpy. "Where are we going?" I messaged her. "Oh, nowhere intimidating...It's a bar. Oh and bring some cash for...valet parking. And a couple of cans of canned goods. Its a charity event." I thought to myself--I can handle a bar! That sounds low key! But then I found out this "bar" was at the Four Seasons...and she was wearing a cocktail dress. A flippin' cocktail dress. NOT intimidating?! Right. I'll just squeeze my little Hispanic-sausage-self into a cocktail dress I have. From three years ago. "Walk-the-walk-walk-the-walk-walk-the-walk," I repeated to myself. If you're wondering what the big deal is, it's hard to explain. You see, sometimes when your role is the same all week everyday, and suddenly you have an opportunity to reveal another part of your super-power identity, (like who you are without kids and your home) it's scary and overwhelming. What if I've forgotten to be normal? Wait--was I ever? Can I get over this frumpy feeling? I can't even monologue in my head--I'm talking to myself and the kids are staring at me. Still staring." For these reasons, it's good to get out of course, but it's also, a Big Deal. Some moms get to stay at home and work a little. Some moms always work outside of the home; some moms always work at home. All of these bring about different socialization experiences. I'm the last of these and I have to really push myself to make time in the insane schedule, to feed my social passions because, it's easy to forget yourself in that way. It's funny because, I'm an extrovert and I have found that, I simply must talk on the phone often, to reach out and speak with others, to make that connection; it's my form of community which is energizing and motivating for me. I actually can't clean my kitchen without Kick-Ass GF on the phone with me. Sometimes, this freaks people out on the phone, when they hear my children yelling and screaming (because Normal Volume Level is set to: LOUD at all times with my kids) and I just keep talking over it non-chalantly. With obvious respect to giving my kids what they need and sometimes having to end conversations and pause A LOT, this is generally good for them to see that Mommy gets grown-up time too. But letting other people see me? In a Swanky Space?!? The thought of that made me feel like this:
But I did it; I found a dress, squeezed myself into it, and then discovered: the hairy legs. And the stomach. "Shit," I said. "This calls for some **Spanx."
So I took my little sausage-self to the only Land of Redemption I know this side of Santa Fe: Target. Target always has something. Found some tights, hair-covering ones that were still black but see-through-ish and had Spanx. Only problem was, my legs were so short for the tights that they had, so the Spanx were just as long as my dress. Barely. This proved to get me in the arse in the end (pun intended).
Luckily for me, Swanky GF is glamorously similar to me with timing, and understanding when a girl needs some Spanx. "Oh, we all have our tricks!" she said. Indeed. So after driving past the valet like, eight times (because every freaking street is a one-way down-town), I realized the inevitable, and pulled into the parking garage like a bat outta Hell. Well, it's their fault they're parked on the wrong side of the one-way. Hmph. Funnily enough, Glamorous GF and I were parking at the same time, in the same parking lot, in the same section. It's a sign if you ask me. I'm not sure of what exactly, but it's good and awesome, and wicked-genius whatever it is. So, upon entering Swanky Place at the Four Seasons, I nearly laughed out loud. "What the HELL am I doing here?" I thought. I felt like Fozzie Bear from the Muppets in The Great Muppet Caper when they go to a fancy expensive restaurant and he says, "A fancy place like this, ya think they'd have pretzels on the table." And the fact that a line from The Muppets is what I thought of first, just absolutely proves a lot of things about me; the least of which is that this was my kind of place. I have to say though, I had a lot of fun. I observed which was fun; oh, that's the most fun part, really. At the bar, even this was a psychological study in itself: the hottest chicks get served their alcohol first. For some reason, the bartender had no idea what kind of shot my GF was asking for and gave her something weird; so there I was, holding my Cosmo and some random shot that I couldn't hear the name of, because the music was louder than my kids (which is saying something). I was so intrigued by this scene, I just stood there. Two Swanky Skanky girls in ZooLander high-heels and endless Gucci attire stared me up and down and giggled. I heard one of them say in slurred-lowered voice, "Maybe she just wants to get laid?" I burst out laughing, really laughed out loud right at them. Then, I had a catty-college-girl moment. First I slammed my shot, then I said loudly to them, flashing my wedding ring, "Ladies, I've got a LIFETIME of getting laid, RIGHT here. Good LUCK!" I said and followed my friend laughing hysterically.
Swanky GF proceeded to lead me through a series of people she sort of knew, and through the sea of Seekers, whilst holding my Cosmo precariously. Actually, I've always wanted to do that, and it really was like the movies--even when the drink barely spilled, no one noticed. "Huh," I said, "that really works!" Yup. Who's a certified geek? This girl. I will say that, observing this scene really really made me the most grateful wife I've been in a long time. I always tell my husband I appreciate him. But seeing all these Love Seekers and people on the prowl, just made appreciate how holy, committed, and adoring my husband is to and of me. I didn't feel better than anyone else--I mean, I wanted everyone to experience that. I wanted to be like, "Put down your glamor and martinis and listen to me! There's SO MUCH MORE!!" But, for obvious reasons, probably no one would believe me. I mean, their lives seemed a teensier shinier and glamorous. So you know, in case you don't believe me, I'll give an example: I'll bet if even the waitress had known that earlier that day, I'd had poop under my fingernails from the baby's twelve o'clock blowout, she would not have taken my tip.
Now it gets kind of funny. So, remember that shot I slammed? There is a reason, a really very GOOD reason why Nicole don't do shots and I remembered it all too late. One moment we were talking, and the next I said giggling, "Uh...I need to EAT. Like, now." Well it was like flippin' Mardi-Gras in there so by the time the waitress came with the spring rolls, I downed them like it was my last day. As we talked, there was this couple that sat in the leather chairs next to us. We'll call them Sak's Fifth Avenue Catalogue Couple. They never spoke; they just posed like every move was to be noted and Sak's Lady wore an expression like it either hurt to be that cool, or she was perpetually smelling a deuce. Daper Sak's Dude was about ten years her senior but wore a fedora tilted way back on his bald head and seemed to be trying to say, "I'm like Dean Martin, see? Dean Martin was old...but cool...and wore his shirt open like this..." I was perplexed. I wanted to button his shirt and smoosh his hat. It was weird. As they left, Swanky GF officially turned into Savvy GF because she said, "Did you SEE Giraffe Lady?! What was with that?! And why was that guy all, Fedora Man?!" We were in hysterics for a long while but since our voices were gone and we remembered we had families to go to, we decided to leave.
We parted ways with girl-giggles and "call you soons!" and it was true; I'd be calling her soon. Like, twenty minutes later. It seemed that...I was stuck driving in circles in this parking garage. It got to the point that I considered that perhaps this was a joke, and there was a trap door, or a Star Trek portal that had beamed me up ("How'd I miss THAT?" I demanded aloud) when I'd originally parked there because, I SERIOUSLY followed the signs to no avail. I didn't want to call her and sound so stupid. But I had to. The best part about this conversation, is that I don't really know how calling helped me at all. "Hey! It's me and uh...I'm lost. In the garage." Apparently, she'd been lost too. Apparently, that shot was damn good. Right as she said, "Um, just keep turning right! And, you'll find it!" I did. I seriously did find the exit. Relief flooded me. This wasn't Twilight Zone after all! Then came, the ticket booth. First of all, I didn't park close enough to the stupid ticket slot, secondly, I couldn't find my card. At all. I found $10 and miracle of miracles, my fee was $10 but then, there was a line of two cars who were honking at me. The two girls parked in back of my little Toyota with a Pro Life! sticker had absolute daggers in their eyes as I got out (stupid car not parked close enough, remember?) and I waved a "PSH!" at them. Then I heard their laughter. Apparently (there's that word again indicating that everyone else knows something I don't), my dress lifted its bad self waaaay up and was static-y and I hadn't noticed because my Spanx looked like my dress. Yeah, awesome. Whatever. I got back in the car and called Savvy GF again, panicked. But no fear because, "Dude--I DO have your credit card! YAY!" she exclaimed. "I'll meet you off of Colfax." I think it took me another solid gall-darn twenty-minutes to get out of all of the one-ways, to Colfax. For some reason, instead of parking next to her, I chose to park with a giant landscaping of river rocks separating us. It was like a National Lampoon's movie, with each of us walking over giant rocks in our heels. She handed me the card and I was relieved. Until I saw the name, Gina Steed. Yeah, not my name. "Dude--my name isn't Gina" I said. "I know! I know!" she explained, "I just thought maybe it was a...relatives...card?" Then she lent me her phone to call the place. Then her phone died. It was one of those times where, if Life were a person, I'd pinch It's cheeks and be like, "You crazy little Life, you!"
If you know me, you know that I get lost in my own house. So, not one hundred feet from the exit I needed, I got lost and ended up almost making it all the way home instead of back down town. I was almost there when the security guy from the Four Seasons called and asked that I bring the card back. It hadn't even registered that I had someone else's card; I'd figured I'd pick up our card the next morning. The guard apologized profusely and explained that the waitress had somehow mixed up mine and "Gina's" cards, but the correct charges were put on them. So, I turned my Zombie-self (because Going Out Nicole's magic was gone) back around and drove myself down-town, parked in the valet parking and got my card back. Then, Savvy GF called to make sure I'd made it in one piece and we laughed hysterically about the night, in proper girlie fashion. Vowing to do it again soon. Without the credit card swapping. "I guess this means I didn't really treat you to dinner, huh?" she hooted. "Nope," I said, "If we're lucky, Gina did."
I hope this made you want to go out with an awesome fun GF, and wear clothes you don't feel comfortable in until you do feel like yourself, and embrace all of those things about you, because a GF can. I hope it makes you want to be sassy for just one time (pst--but listen, don't slam that shot, maybe), and branch out. And if I fail at making you want to do that, be grateful for GFs, and especially for the ones you love, and the life you live everyday, even if it's not Swanky, because what it is, is authentic.
Toodles dahlings!
*Note. A word about the name Swanky Barbie Beauty GF: Because I am pretty sure she and I feel the same about Barbies (we'd both probably like to feed such a false image of girl and woman-hood femininity to some understanding ravenous wolves) and while I really do believe she looks like the closest thing to a real-life Barbie (in a, "Do you even HAVE pores? kind of a way) I've ever seen, I would hate to offend her legit beauty, or her amazing authenticity and supreme intelligence, or most importantly--her genuine and womanly heart. You know who you are, and I just adore you! I hope my poetic liberties didn't offend!
**Spanx: For you skinny gals, you won't know what these are. Spanx are not really for skinny girls. They're like body-slimmers and smoothers that are similar to those of the 1950's pin-up style. I find them to be practically lingerie-like, and I love them; they smooth out undergarments. Just DON'T FORGET ABOUT STATIC CLING. And, don't buy Spanx that you are too long for your short body. You just might end up showing off your arse to some angry gangsta looking chics in a parking garage.
Anyway, so it's a Friday night, when all of a sudden, the Momster Madness hits me; like when you're walking in the rain and then someone drives into the gutter right next to you, and all of sudden, you realize you're soaked, freezing, lonely, and pissed off beyond all comprehension. I realized that actually, my week had been pretty crappy. I had been working really, really hard on this new form of discipline called, Give Up And Beat Your Kids Like It's 1939--NOPE NOPE, just kidding! Just kidding! NOW you're awake. Hehe...I would NEVER, no matter how insane they drive me. No, I've been revamping our discipline system. You know that feeling when you realize that what you're doing is good, but you just need to take a step back and re-vamp some things? Well, I realize this when I see that I'm so overwhelmed, I go into punishment mode. Like, "Just get OUT of my face, right now. Please" or, "STOP IT!" And then, they look at me like, "Hi. I'm...five years old...What are you...saying...?" Instead of remembering that the kids are little but they can learn to take responsibility for their actions and that their choices have consequences good and bad. When I remember this and re-vamp, I don't get all strung out and grumpy. Well, this is great. I felt way better. But teaching something--sometimes anything to little kids in which you have to repeat yourself so many times--can leave you feeling like a deranged Rain Man. And by the end of a week, Calm Cool Automated Voice Nicole was sick of giving choices and felt like saying, "NO options. NO choices. This is NOKAY!" (Don't any of you ever picture yourselves going all Chris Farley crazy and being like, "There is only ONE consequence: TO SUFFAAAA!!!"?? Maybe not...But then again, I imagine pretend scenes of extreme humor in order to save my already wonky sanity.) I'm getting off-track...but I blame on the little mouse I can't catch in our house, casting it's creep-out-the-humans-voodoo on me because I can hear it but I can't see it. UGH.
Okay, okay--so you get the point--all circuits fried. So when you get to this point as a parent, you need HELP. You need to get out. You need...GIRL TIME. So I sent out a "GF SOS" on Facebook. I whined. I pleaded. "I'm an easy date!" I promised. "A real girl-time hussy! I'm easy! Take me out, take me home. I'll paint toe-nails, I'll drink wine. WHATEVERJUSTHELPMEEE." Well, I got an answer back. I'll only call her *Swanky GF from now on (and you can read the footnote for this one as to why) and she had a challenge for me. "Walk the walk and get on out here!" This was a challenge...Even though Momster wanted to get out, it didn't change her unshowered homeless smell, or her unshaven legs, or the fact that she felt rather frumpy. "Where are we going?" I messaged her. "Oh, nowhere intimidating...It's a bar. Oh and bring some cash for...valet parking. And a couple of cans of canned goods. Its a charity event." I thought to myself--I can handle a bar! That sounds low key! But then I found out this "bar" was at the Four Seasons...and she was wearing a cocktail dress. A flippin' cocktail dress. NOT intimidating?! Right. I'll just squeeze my little Hispanic-sausage-self into a cocktail dress I have. From three years ago. "Walk-the-walk-walk-the-walk-walk-the-walk," I repeated to myself. If you're wondering what the big deal is, it's hard to explain. You see, sometimes when your role is the same all week everyday, and suddenly you have an opportunity to reveal another part of your super-power identity, (like who you are without kids and your home) it's scary and overwhelming. What if I've forgotten to be normal? Wait--was I ever? Can I get over this frumpy feeling? I can't even monologue in my head--I'm talking to myself and the kids are staring at me. Still staring." For these reasons, it's good to get out of course, but it's also, a Big Deal. Some moms get to stay at home and work a little. Some moms always work outside of the home; some moms always work at home. All of these bring about different socialization experiences. I'm the last of these and I have to really push myself to make time in the insane schedule, to feed my social passions because, it's easy to forget yourself in that way. It's funny because, I'm an extrovert and I have found that, I simply must talk on the phone often, to reach out and speak with others, to make that connection; it's my form of community which is energizing and motivating for me. I actually can't clean my kitchen without Kick-Ass GF on the phone with me. Sometimes, this freaks people out on the phone, when they hear my children yelling and screaming (because Normal Volume Level is set to: LOUD at all times with my kids) and I just keep talking over it non-chalantly. With obvious respect to giving my kids what they need and sometimes having to end conversations and pause A LOT, this is generally good for them to see that Mommy gets grown-up time too. But letting other people see me? In a Swanky Space?!? The thought of that made me feel like this:
But I did it; I found a dress, squeezed myself into it, and then discovered: the hairy legs. And the stomach. "Shit," I said. "This calls for some **Spanx."
So I took my little sausage-self to the only Land of Redemption I know this side of Santa Fe: Target. Target always has something. Found some tights, hair-covering ones that were still black but see-through-ish and had Spanx. Only problem was, my legs were so short for the tights that they had, so the Spanx were just as long as my dress. Barely. This proved to get me in the arse in the end (pun intended).
Luckily for me, Swanky GF is glamorously similar to me with timing, and understanding when a girl needs some Spanx. "Oh, we all have our tricks!" she said. Indeed. So after driving past the valet like, eight times (because every freaking street is a one-way down-town), I realized the inevitable, and pulled into the parking garage like a bat outta Hell. Well, it's their fault they're parked on the wrong side of the one-way. Hmph. Funnily enough, Glamorous GF and I were parking at the same time, in the same parking lot, in the same section. It's a sign if you ask me. I'm not sure of what exactly, but it's good and awesome, and wicked-genius whatever it is. So, upon entering Swanky Place at the Four Seasons, I nearly laughed out loud. "What the HELL am I doing here?" I thought. I felt like Fozzie Bear from the Muppets in The Great Muppet Caper when they go to a fancy expensive restaurant and he says, "A fancy place like this, ya think they'd have pretzels on the table." And the fact that a line from The Muppets is what I thought of first, just absolutely proves a lot of things about me; the least of which is that this was my kind of place. I have to say though, I had a lot of fun. I observed which was fun; oh, that's the most fun part, really. At the bar, even this was a psychological study in itself: the hottest chicks get served their alcohol first. For some reason, the bartender had no idea what kind of shot my GF was asking for and gave her something weird; so there I was, holding my Cosmo and some random shot that I couldn't hear the name of, because the music was louder than my kids (which is saying something). I was so intrigued by this scene, I just stood there. Two Swanky Skanky girls in ZooLander high-heels and endless Gucci attire stared me up and down and giggled. I heard one of them say in slurred-lowered voice, "Maybe she just wants to get laid?" I burst out laughing, really laughed out loud right at them. Then, I had a catty-college-girl moment. First I slammed my shot, then I said loudly to them, flashing my wedding ring, "Ladies, I've got a LIFETIME of getting laid, RIGHT here. Good LUCK!" I said and followed my friend laughing hysterically.
Swanky GF proceeded to lead me through a series of people she sort of knew, and through the sea of Seekers, whilst holding my Cosmo precariously. Actually, I've always wanted to do that, and it really was like the movies--even when the drink barely spilled, no one noticed. "Huh," I said, "that really works!" Yup. Who's a certified geek? This girl. I will say that, observing this scene really really made me the most grateful wife I've been in a long time. I always tell my husband I appreciate him. But seeing all these Love Seekers and people on the prowl, just made appreciate how holy, committed, and adoring my husband is to and of me. I didn't feel better than anyone else--I mean, I wanted everyone to experience that. I wanted to be like, "Put down your glamor and martinis and listen to me! There's SO MUCH MORE!!" But, for obvious reasons, probably no one would believe me. I mean, their lives seemed a teensier shinier and glamorous. So you know, in case you don't believe me, I'll give an example: I'll bet if even the waitress had known that earlier that day, I'd had poop under my fingernails from the baby's twelve o'clock blowout, she would not have taken my tip.
Now it gets kind of funny. So, remember that shot I slammed? There is a reason, a really very GOOD reason why Nicole don't do shots and I remembered it all too late. One moment we were talking, and the next I said giggling, "Uh...I need to EAT. Like, now." Well it was like flippin' Mardi-Gras in there so by the time the waitress came with the spring rolls, I downed them like it was my last day. As we talked, there was this couple that sat in the leather chairs next to us. We'll call them Sak's Fifth Avenue Catalogue Couple. They never spoke; they just posed like every move was to be noted and Sak's Lady wore an expression like it either hurt to be that cool, or she was perpetually smelling a deuce. Daper Sak's Dude was about ten years her senior but wore a fedora tilted way back on his bald head and seemed to be trying to say, "I'm like Dean Martin, see? Dean Martin was old...but cool...and wore his shirt open like this..." I was perplexed. I wanted to button his shirt and smoosh his hat. It was weird. As they left, Swanky GF officially turned into Savvy GF because she said, "Did you SEE Giraffe Lady?! What was with that?! And why was that guy all, Fedora Man?!" We were in hysterics for a long while but since our voices were gone and we remembered we had families to go to, we decided to leave.
We parted ways with girl-giggles and "call you soons!" and it was true; I'd be calling her soon. Like, twenty minutes later. It seemed that...I was stuck driving in circles in this parking garage. It got to the point that I considered that perhaps this was a joke, and there was a trap door, or a Star Trek portal that had beamed me up ("How'd I miss THAT?" I demanded aloud) when I'd originally parked there because, I SERIOUSLY followed the signs to no avail. I didn't want to call her and sound so stupid. But I had to. The best part about this conversation, is that I don't really know how calling helped me at all. "Hey! It's me and uh...I'm lost. In the garage." Apparently, she'd been lost too. Apparently, that shot was damn good. Right as she said, "Um, just keep turning right! And, you'll find it!" I did. I seriously did find the exit. Relief flooded me. This wasn't Twilight Zone after all! Then came, the ticket booth. First of all, I didn't park close enough to the stupid ticket slot, secondly, I couldn't find my card. At all. I found $10 and miracle of miracles, my fee was $10 but then, there was a line of two cars who were honking at me. The two girls parked in back of my little Toyota with a Pro Life! sticker had absolute daggers in their eyes as I got out (stupid car not parked close enough, remember?) and I waved a "PSH!" at them. Then I heard their laughter. Apparently (there's that word again indicating that everyone else knows something I don't), my dress lifted its bad self waaaay up and was static-y and I hadn't noticed because my Spanx looked like my dress. Yeah, awesome. Whatever. I got back in the car and called Savvy GF again, panicked. But no fear because, "Dude--I DO have your credit card! YAY!" she exclaimed. "I'll meet you off of Colfax." I think it took me another solid gall-darn twenty-minutes to get out of all of the one-ways, to Colfax. For some reason, instead of parking next to her, I chose to park with a giant landscaping of river rocks separating us. It was like a National Lampoon's movie, with each of us walking over giant rocks in our heels. She handed me the card and I was relieved. Until I saw the name, Gina Steed. Yeah, not my name. "Dude--my name isn't Gina" I said. "I know! I know!" she explained, "I just thought maybe it was a...relatives...card?" Then she lent me her phone to call the place. Then her phone died. It was one of those times where, if Life were a person, I'd pinch It's cheeks and be like, "You crazy little Life, you!"
If you know me, you know that I get lost in my own house. So, not one hundred feet from the exit I needed, I got lost and ended up almost making it all the way home instead of back down town. I was almost there when the security guy from the Four Seasons called and asked that I bring the card back. It hadn't even registered that I had someone else's card; I'd figured I'd pick up our card the next morning. The guard apologized profusely and explained that the waitress had somehow mixed up mine and "Gina's" cards, but the correct charges were put on them. So, I turned my Zombie-self (because Going Out Nicole's magic was gone) back around and drove myself down-town, parked in the valet parking and got my card back. Then, Savvy GF called to make sure I'd made it in one piece and we laughed hysterically about the night, in proper girlie fashion. Vowing to do it again soon. Without the credit card swapping. "I guess this means I didn't really treat you to dinner, huh?" she hooted. "Nope," I said, "If we're lucky, Gina did."
I hope this made you want to go out with an awesome fun GF, and wear clothes you don't feel comfortable in until you do feel like yourself, and embrace all of those things about you, because a GF can. I hope it makes you want to be sassy for just one time (pst--but listen, don't slam that shot, maybe), and branch out. And if I fail at making you want to do that, be grateful for GFs, and especially for the ones you love, and the life you live everyday, even if it's not Swanky, because what it is, is authentic.
Toodles dahlings!
*Note. A word about the name Swanky Barbie Beauty GF: Because I am pretty sure she and I feel the same about Barbies (we'd both probably like to feed such a false image of girl and woman-hood femininity to some understanding ravenous wolves) and while I really do believe she looks like the closest thing to a real-life Barbie (in a, "Do you even HAVE pores? kind of a way) I've ever seen, I would hate to offend her legit beauty, or her amazing authenticity and supreme intelligence, or most importantly--her genuine and womanly heart. You know who you are, and I just adore you! I hope my poetic liberties didn't offend!
**Spanx: For you skinny gals, you won't know what these are. Spanx are not really for skinny girls. They're like body-slimmers and smoothers that are similar to those of the 1950's pin-up style. I find them to be practically lingerie-like, and I love them; they smooth out undergarments. Just DON'T FORGET ABOUT STATIC CLING. And, don't buy Spanx that you are too long for your short body. You just might end up showing off your arse to some angry gangsta looking chics in a parking garage.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
The Jungle I'm In: The Land of Boys
Of COURSE the first time I get to write in two and a half weeks is, the eve of Thanksgiving, when all of you aren't by a computer perhaps.
So i've been feeling...sick as a sick dog (I say this because, why do we assume that a dog is sick? This really bugs, so I've taken the liberties to point out that it's in fact, a sick dog I'm talking about). Anyway, I've been ill. And the one thing I want, I just can't have: sleep. Precious sleeeeep...even the word sounds...beautiful. To top it off, I'm having some weirdy dreams. Something about hundreds of tornadoes, and being stuck in a bomb shelter with a reprimanding Sergeant. Guess what I did? I laughed at him and he kicked me out of his classroom. Go figure. Even in my dreams I have Oppositional Defiance Disorder.
But I write because I can now and because well, I need to talk...about boys. Can I please, please double please, just tell you about boys because, I don't know what it's like to have girls...or to be one of those Angelic Moms that explain things so sweetly, and articulately, and appropriately regarding the...*duh-duhn-DUHHHH!* phallic stage. Yup, that's what this is about, the PHALLIC stage. Some of you might feel uncomfortable reading about this; maybe you have perfect little angel-boys...for NOW *maniacal laughter*...Or maybe it will scare you from wanting a boy. I hope not--I wouldn't trade these locos for anything. I just feel kind of crazy--yes, clinically insane most of the time with all of the testosterone in our home. Like, crazy enough to almost consider going to the store to buy every pink thing I possibly can, and inject myself with extra doses of oxytocin. Okay, are you ready? Because I'm not talking to you unless you are, and I need to talk. Here goes: Angelic Moms (and Dads) might see the phallic stage as an opportunity. But no matter how I try, all I can say is, "OH MY GOSH! Put that thing AWAY! RIGHT NOW!" It's also difficult because, most of the time, the things they are doing or saying, actually are funny. What's the balance of not shaming them, but teaching this horde to be gentlemen? I want parents to want their daughters date boys like mine...not run away in fear. And we're talking SOMEDAY...Someday far, FAR away.
So, take last night for example: Little Middle Joseph (he is the proverbial middle child) was screaming bloody murder in the bathtub because, "Michael's not letting my tee-kee (aka penis) float! He's DROWNING it!" My first thought, "Euew...Girls never try to "sink" their Ladies...Right??" and I didn't have time for a second thought because I needed to run in there to make sure no one was perpetrating. Or drowning. Even penises aren't allowed to drown on my watch. By the time I got in there (pitifully out of breath I might add because I was also holding the baby and carrying clothes), there was a new problem: Matthew was out of the bathtub, naked of course, wearing underwear on his head, dancing like a maniac. In fact, the object of the dance seemed to be to make his little wanger, wiggle. "W-What exactly are you guys doing?" I asked, (still pitifully) out of breath, trying not to sound demanding because that would make them get excited that I was upset (they're sadists, you see). "You're not mad, Mama?" the oldest asked curiously. I took a chance. "Well, when you are honest with me, I will not get as mad. When you lie, I feel very disappointed." A moment went by, and then all at once, by some unspoken Boy Phallic Gene Wonder, they all got up and Mike said, "Well we were daaaaancin'! And shaaaaakin' our bodies!" and they all naked-danced. BACKFIRE. Major fail.
Then, this past week the four-year-old drew a straight (ish) line down a piece of paper and said, "Mama--this is my tee-kee. Isn't it big?" It's true; the picture was of a big line. So I sighed and said, "Yes...that is big."But, then he ran right outside into our yard, where our sweet eighty-something neighbor was doing yardwork. "Michael! Michael! Look! Mommy said my tee-kee is biiig!" Before I could run out there (holding the baby and laundry again), it was too late. "Oh! Are you talking to me? What's a...a 'tee-kee'?" she asked sweetly. Pooor sap. "Oh--it's a penis!" the oldest said loudly and proudly. I cringed like a coward behind my curtains. (Of course the four-year-old didn't bring the paper with him which would've helped explain the situation; at least it wouldn't have sounded so damn dirty.) Needless to say, it is doubtful, highly doubtful I'll be asked over for tea with my little Penis Freaks. Oh and I'm not done! Are you hangin' in there? TALK TO ME--just nod a little and I'll feel the read-along in my writer's heart. Let's talk about...the weird things they ask me about "it." I hear things like, "Mama; why does it tickle when I squeeze it? I don't like that it swings around when I wear shorts...Why can't I look at it when I'm at school?" Or my personal fave, "...When I suck in my tummy like this, I push a button, and make my tee-kee tickle!" Most of their time-out time or consequences are actually because they take things way too far and get down-right inappropriate and everything is either about "poop" or "penises." Mike actually told me, "Mom, you're poop-tacular. Is that ina-poop-riate or what? HAHAHA!" Where does this even COME FROM, I ask you?! You might not believe it, but we run a very Christian home, and talk about boundaries all the time...Clearly, that's all sinkin' in real well. Now, don't get all, "She's blowin' this out of proportion, and getting all upset about something natural" on me, NO judging. I am well versed in rejoicing in the beauty of God's creating our bodies as good. But let's be real--they're not talking Theology of the Body, they just want to talk about their privates, and apparently, squeeze them. I think I could've handled this gracefully with one or even two boys going through this, but THREE?! Even the littlest one just discovered that it makes him laugh to squeeze himself when I'm changing him. I'm like, "NO! Et tu, Brute?!"
So friends, if I get together with you and am just a little extra needy, or extra desperate to be in your womanly presence, don't be alarmed or weirded out--it's that I need to drink in your estrogen, like an Amish girl chuggin' down a marg for the first time with both hands. Stat.
Anyone wanna take me out for a drink? Like now?
So i've been feeling...sick as a sick dog (I say this because, why do we assume that a dog is sick? This really bugs, so I've taken the liberties to point out that it's in fact, a sick dog I'm talking about). Anyway, I've been ill. And the one thing I want, I just can't have: sleep. Precious sleeeeep...even the word sounds...beautiful. To top it off, I'm having some weirdy dreams. Something about hundreds of tornadoes, and being stuck in a bomb shelter with a reprimanding Sergeant. Guess what I did? I laughed at him and he kicked me out of his classroom. Go figure. Even in my dreams I have Oppositional Defiance Disorder.
But I write because I can now and because well, I need to talk...about boys. Can I please, please double please, just tell you about boys because, I don't know what it's like to have girls...or to be one of those Angelic Moms that explain things so sweetly, and articulately, and appropriately regarding the...*duh-duhn-DUHHHH!* phallic stage. Yup, that's what this is about, the PHALLIC stage. Some of you might feel uncomfortable reading about this; maybe you have perfect little angel-boys...for NOW *maniacal laughter*...Or maybe it will scare you from wanting a boy. I hope not--I wouldn't trade these locos for anything. I just feel kind of crazy--yes, clinically insane most of the time with all of the testosterone in our home. Like, crazy enough to almost consider going to the store to buy every pink thing I possibly can, and inject myself with extra doses of oxytocin. Okay, are you ready? Because I'm not talking to you unless you are, and I need to talk. Here goes: Angelic Moms (and Dads) might see the phallic stage as an opportunity. But no matter how I try, all I can say is, "OH MY GOSH! Put that thing AWAY! RIGHT NOW!" It's also difficult because, most of the time, the things they are doing or saying, actually are funny. What's the balance of not shaming them, but teaching this horde to be gentlemen? I want parents to want their daughters date boys like mine...not run away in fear. And we're talking SOMEDAY...Someday far, FAR away.
So, take last night for example: Little Middle Joseph (he is the proverbial middle child) was screaming bloody murder in the bathtub because, "Michael's not letting my tee-kee (aka penis) float! He's DROWNING it!" My first thought, "Euew...Girls never try to "sink" their Ladies...Right??" and I didn't have time for a second thought because I needed to run in there to make sure no one was perpetrating. Or drowning. Even penises aren't allowed to drown on my watch. By the time I got in there (pitifully out of breath I might add because I was also holding the baby and carrying clothes), there was a new problem: Matthew was out of the bathtub, naked of course, wearing underwear on his head, dancing like a maniac. In fact, the object of the dance seemed to be to make his little wanger, wiggle. "W-What exactly are you guys doing?" I asked, (still pitifully) out of breath, trying not to sound demanding because that would make them get excited that I was upset (they're sadists, you see). "You're not mad, Mama?" the oldest asked curiously. I took a chance. "Well, when you are honest with me, I will not get as mad. When you lie, I feel very disappointed." A moment went by, and then all at once, by some unspoken Boy Phallic Gene Wonder, they all got up and Mike said, "Well we were daaaaancin'! And shaaaaakin' our bodies!" and they all naked-danced. BACKFIRE. Major fail.
Then, this past week the four-year-old drew a straight (ish) line down a piece of paper and said, "Mama--this is my tee-kee. Isn't it big?" It's true; the picture was of a big line. So I sighed and said, "Yes...that is big."But, then he ran right outside into our yard, where our sweet eighty-something neighbor was doing yardwork. "Michael! Michael! Look! Mommy said my tee-kee is biiig!" Before I could run out there (holding the baby and laundry again), it was too late. "Oh! Are you talking to me? What's a...a 'tee-kee'?" she asked sweetly. Pooor sap. "Oh--it's a penis!" the oldest said loudly and proudly. I cringed like a coward behind my curtains. (Of course the four-year-old didn't bring the paper with him which would've helped explain the situation; at least it wouldn't have sounded so damn dirty.) Needless to say, it is doubtful, highly doubtful I'll be asked over for tea with my little Penis Freaks. Oh and I'm not done! Are you hangin' in there? TALK TO ME--just nod a little and I'll feel the read-along in my writer's heart. Let's talk about...the weird things they ask me about "it." I hear things like, "Mama; why does it tickle when I squeeze it? I don't like that it swings around when I wear shorts...Why can't I look at it when I'm at school?" Or my personal fave, "...When I suck in my tummy like this, I push a button, and make my tee-kee tickle!" Most of their time-out time or consequences are actually because they take things way too far and get down-right inappropriate and everything is either about "poop" or "penises." Mike actually told me, "Mom, you're poop-tacular. Is that ina-poop-riate or what? HAHAHA!" Where does this even COME FROM, I ask you?! You might not believe it, but we run a very Christian home, and talk about boundaries all the time...Clearly, that's all sinkin' in real well. Now, don't get all, "She's blowin' this out of proportion, and getting all upset about something natural" on me, NO judging. I am well versed in rejoicing in the beauty of God's creating our bodies as good. But let's be real--they're not talking Theology of the Body, they just want to talk about their privates, and apparently, squeeze them. I think I could've handled this gracefully with one or even two boys going through this, but THREE?! Even the littlest one just discovered that it makes him laugh to squeeze himself when I'm changing him. I'm like, "NO! Et tu, Brute?!"
So friends, if I get together with you and am just a little extra needy, or extra desperate to be in your womanly presence, don't be alarmed or weirded out--it's that I need to drink in your estrogen, like an Amish girl chuggin' down a marg for the first time with both hands. Stat.
Anyone wanna take me out for a drink? Like now?
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!!)
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 and...it's not less difficult and actually it's not even better yet but...it 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:
*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 and...it's not less difficult and actually it's not even better yet but...it 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!
Thursday, October 25, 2012
One For The Sisters
So tonight I write to you...very exhausted. Very depleted of energy and really just emptied of giving much at all. And that blows major ass because, I love giving. Giving though, admittedly does tend to cause some emptiness sometimes. We're told that you have to be one of those types, you know--that are "aware" and "insightful" of these things...Except that it actually has more to do with having the resources to do something about being drained and needing fuel, than actually just realizing it. Husband is a psychotherapist. He realizes a whole hell of a lot...Similarly, I'm a parent so, I know every emotion that comes and goes in this home.
We are the air traffic controllers of emotion in this home.
(But even those guys get to take the helicopters down for the night.
...Where's my fricken 30 minute break??...Hell, I start SMOKING so I can have one*...)
Gaa! I'm so tired, I'm getting off topic, ruining my own profoundness...If there was any to be had. My point is, what do we do when we realize we're lacking and needy? I think there is a certain amount of peace that comes with this acceptance, that you're drained, and suddenly it's okay that it is so. I wanna say all those right things like, "Take breaks! Go on dates! Get a sitter! Take YOU-time!" because those things are true and necessary, and worth fighting for. But...sometimes, you're too tired to even fight for that because...life is beautiful but life can also be...hard.
I've been given some beautiful opportunities to learn with great humility, that sometimes, you can't have not only what you want but what you need. I later came to find out, what I thought I needed, I really didn't. Because the thing I really needed in those dire situations wasn't a thing, it was trust and blind faith. And I'm talking, bare-bones here, that I was asking for, like food, education, a friend, or just even a nursing bra for crying out loud. I remember specifically not less than a year ago, being so very pregnant and to tired to function. I prayed in a way that I do when I'm feel hopeless...it's in a way that there are no words or even thoughts, just all of my heart poured out, bleeding there for Him to feel. "Hope through others...Hope through others." That wasn't comforting at first. "That's fantastic," I thought, "rely on people; us people who can't commit to anything." How wrong I was to doubt love of others! It was through others that our family was fed, my kids had care at times, and I had goods from the store for even my hospital stay. Though it might have been less than I could have imagined in times before such hardship, having this help when we did was like cool heavenly rain after a drought. Such abundance...God knew what we needed, even when we didn't.
I say the same for tonight.
I have had the utter blessing of having one of those conversations with someone you love that you don't think you want, don't expect to have, and then can't believe your blessings when you do. I didn't know I was feeling so lonely and down about not knowing where I'm supposed to be, how to be the best mom when kids are demanding and there's sick, sick, sick people out there trying to KILL our kids, how to be the "best me", or WHY THE HELL there's never any EFFING parking spaces in the KINDERGARTEN line...It's KINDERGARTEN! ... I didn't realize I have felt really emotionally beat up by this stay at home job I'm told is Rewarding and Priceless. And I certainly didn't realize, all the good things I am (allegedly) doing.
I gotta tell ya, I don't like false compliments; I don't like such flattery because it's not authentic, and I can tell when a woman flatters me to foster her own insecurities. I also don't like knowing when I've made other women uncomfortable because they are surprised that I have talents or maybe something they don't. It's a weird thing to not like, but I know that feeling...For some reason, I apparently don't "look" like someone you'd expect certain talents from...like singing, dancing, writing, and being creative are not for short, Hispanic, obnoxious chubbsters or something...? So I tend to make women uncomfortable when I turn out to be this honest, loud, really relentless little tamale. Anyway, let it be said, compliments make me uncomfortable because usually, they are not really all that genuine or thought-out. Until tonight, I didn't realize how desperately, what I actually needed was to just be loved by someone real, who really knows my heart. (Yes of COURSE Husband loves me and knows my heart...but God gave us sister-hood for a reason.)
My sister (we'll call her Sister Smarty Pants) ...is awesome. We've been through...a lot together let's just say. She is one of THE most real, most genuine, and most willingly honest people I know...in the world. We don't necessarily see eye to eye all the time because...we're both pretty opinionated but...there is a love and respect that could only be grown from a lot of loving toil. Tonight, she asked if I was okay. I said, I thought I was okay but then, realized (ding-ding-ding the magic word of this post...not by my choice! I hate that word right now but I'll use my exclamation rule to make it more positive...!) I am strugglin'. I edited a lot because, it's Sister-Private but the following, I will share, Sister Smarty Pants had this to say:
especially to them.
We are the air traffic controllers of emotion in this home.
(But even those guys get to take the helicopters down for the night.
...Where's my fricken 30 minute break??...Hell, I start SMOKING so I can have one*...)
Gaa! I'm so tired, I'm getting off topic, ruining my own profoundness...If there was any to be had. My point is, what do we do when we realize we're lacking and needy? I think there is a certain amount of peace that comes with this acceptance, that you're drained, and suddenly it's okay that it is so. I wanna say all those right things like, "Take breaks! Go on dates! Get a sitter! Take YOU-time!" because those things are true and necessary, and worth fighting for. But...sometimes, you're too tired to even fight for that because...life is beautiful but life can also be...hard.
I've been given some beautiful opportunities to learn with great humility, that sometimes, you can't have not only what you want but what you need. I later came to find out, what I thought I needed, I really didn't. Because the thing I really needed in those dire situations wasn't a thing, it was trust and blind faith. And I'm talking, bare-bones here, that I was asking for, like food, education, a friend, or just even a nursing bra for crying out loud. I remember specifically not less than a year ago, being so very pregnant and to tired to function. I prayed in a way that I do when I'm feel hopeless...it's in a way that there are no words or even thoughts, just all of my heart poured out, bleeding there for Him to feel. "Hope through others...Hope through others." That wasn't comforting at first. "That's fantastic," I thought, "rely on people; us people who can't commit to anything." How wrong I was to doubt love of others! It was through others that our family was fed, my kids had care at times, and I had goods from the store for even my hospital stay. Though it might have been less than I could have imagined in times before such hardship, having this help when we did was like cool heavenly rain after a drought. Such abundance...God knew what we needed, even when we didn't.
I say the same for tonight.
I have had the utter blessing of having one of those conversations with someone you love that you don't think you want, don't expect to have, and then can't believe your blessings when you do. I didn't know I was feeling so lonely and down about not knowing where I'm supposed to be, how to be the best mom when kids are demanding and there's sick, sick, sick people out there trying to KILL our kids, how to be the "best me", or WHY THE HELL there's never any EFFING parking spaces in the KINDERGARTEN line...It's KINDERGARTEN! ... I didn't realize I have felt really emotionally beat up by this stay at home job I'm told is Rewarding and Priceless. And I certainly didn't realize, all the good things I am (allegedly) doing.
I gotta tell ya, I don't like false compliments; I don't like such flattery because it's not authentic, and I can tell when a woman flatters me to foster her own insecurities. I also don't like knowing when I've made other women uncomfortable because they are surprised that I have talents or maybe something they don't. It's a weird thing to not like, but I know that feeling...For some reason, I apparently don't "look" like someone you'd expect certain talents from...like singing, dancing, writing, and being creative are not for short, Hispanic, obnoxious chubbsters or something...? So I tend to make women uncomfortable when I turn out to be this honest, loud, really relentless little tamale. Anyway, let it be said, compliments make me uncomfortable because usually, they are not really all that genuine or thought-out. Until tonight, I didn't realize how desperately, what I actually needed was to just be loved by someone real, who really knows my heart. (Yes of COURSE Husband loves me and knows my heart...but God gave us sister-hood for a reason.)
My sister (we'll call her Sister Smarty Pants) ...is awesome. We've been through...a lot together let's just say. She is one of THE most real, most genuine, and most willingly honest people I know...in the world. We don't necessarily see eye to eye all the time because...we're both pretty opinionated but...there is a love and respect that could only be grown from a lot of loving toil. Tonight, she asked if I was okay. I said, I thought I was okay but then, realized (ding-ding-ding the magic word of this post...not by my choice! I hate that word right now but I'll use my exclamation rule to make it more positive...!) I am strugglin'. I edited a lot because, it's Sister-Private but the following, I will share, Sister Smarty Pants had this to say:
Your kids see you as a never ending fountain of gifts and capability. unfortunately, they are entitled and selfish because they're babies, but that's mendable.
You've built for them in 5 years what we never had in 20 years of parenting from mom and dad (and they were young and we forgive them, but it's true).
I just wish you could see how wonderful you are,
especially to them.
I think once you realize what you do right, the things that you need to work on will have the ability to fall into place.
It's hard to find things that work
but your kids are beautiful and wonderful even when they are little shits.
You're a wonderful mother.
You always were, even to me. And you are beautiful. Your advice is loving and thoughtful. You really want to KNOW the people in your life.
I will always need you.
You deserve to hear these things... all of them because they're true.
- Just stop being so hard on yourself. You don't have to be perfect to be amazing. You are amazing. You do so many things with more love, devotion, and true grace than you realize. You're a great person, a beautiful woman with so much to offer the world. The only thing stopping you is not believing you deserve it.
- So I'm telling you. You deserve wonderful things in your life. You deserve loving, smart, capable, available friends. You deserve love and respect. You have beautiful, smart, mind blowing things to say. You are wise and photogenic and have lovely hair.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Well, here I am. I made it through the day...And truthfully, somewhere between picking up or dropping off a kid and having to wake the baby for the third time or something like that, I really wondered what I'd look at the end of the day...if I'd made it.
* * *
(I just checked to see what I look like...It's not pretty but also not as super bad as I thought it might be. For example: Damnage*: I think my hormones changed (again) an hour ago and now I practically have a mustachio and eyebrows similar to that of Frita Kahlo's.
Consolation: my skin looks great. Damnage: my hair didn't get blow-dryed and it's cold, so it frizzed out. Majorly. Like the wig that Normal Bates used to put on to pretend to be his mom in Psycho. I'm not posting any pictures; it just simply hits too darn close to home. Google your own darn pictures of her wig and laugh all you want. I'm preserving the little dignity I can, here. Consolation: Um...My hair was...washed (emphatic nodding) and...I used...sulfate free shampoo...That smells really good...?
You know, I'm going to stop pretending: I finally have some time to myself and I hate to say it, but nothing truly eventful happened in this day. Now I'm hearing in my head all those Miracle Mouths being all, "What?! But every DAY is a miracle!" Yes; that's true. I also believe that every Mass is Heaven on Earth but there is also life-reality in that because, thinking of every single thing so profoundly has to be funny at some point (at least in my life). And speaking of THAT, this makes me think that almost every time we are at Mass, it is always MY kids that are walking out of the bathroom completely naked saying, "Come and CLEAN MY TUSHIEEEE!!" Or it's MY kids that are throwing tantrums so big, I've already been asked not thrice but FOUR times if my son has seizures...Or why my second son (Faux-Seizure-Child) has to shake his head emphatically, psychotically in back and forth, right after Communion. (NO, he does not have seizures or is autistic so stop even thinking to ask.) He's just crazy is all. Plus, he's seriously jiggling his brains around when he does this, so I'm guessing he's slushing things around in there too *shrug*. So mostly, my day was normal like that, and probably not much different to yours then.
Mostly right now, I'm just...grateful. Grateful for being married to this devoted man; grateful to have a roof over our heads that heats the people in it; grateful for the snow...Yes, even the snow. It's funny because, the snow stresses me out. It means that I'll be dressing kids for half and hour, just to send them outside for five minutes. It means mud in the house. It means kids crying in shock and horror that they can't understand why they can't feel their hands and fingers when they've been eating snow with them. It means it's pointless to shave my legs because I'll just keep getting goose bumps and the hair'll grow back right then and there. It means...more work. And yet, it's just so...beautiful. I'm grateful for its beauty and that we are given something so beautiful just because we live here. I love that it falls so silently and yet fills up sometimes feet, of space. Kind of like, proof that beautiful things grow even in silence. (Like Love and Truth and also, people.) Ugly things can too (like zits in baaad places or mean people's thoughts), but this kind of silent beauty overpowers all the bad kind.
And this part I have to whisper, I'm also *procrastinating*...It's just that...It's so far from here to the sink to brush my teeth...and then my face will get wet and I'll be cold. Then that'll force me into washing my face and thinking of all of that makes me tired. (God, I'm lazy.) The other ugly truth is, I'm writing to all of you, to *distract myself* (more secret whispering! I'm just FULL of mystery tonight!) from eating frozen yogurt. Yup. I have a problem. It's called, I-Eat-My-Emotions. And by that, I mean my emotions are like the love-child of Joan Rivers and Richard Simmons. First of all, eww, and second of all, that's pretty accurate. This isn't like, when those "people" say, "Oh, I SUCK at Math!" and then proceed to explain the concept of imaginary numbers to me. Or those women that say, "I'm baaad with self-discipline" but then can cut themselves off and are like feigning, "I'm SO full!" This is like, I have to trick myself into thinking I'm full because dudes, I could seriously eat myself into a coma. I've conquered it before, and I'll get there again. It's all about discipline, and mentality, and all that jazz. It's always about hitting that "rock bottom" where suddenly things don't fit and you've walked by a mirror and have about had a heart attack because you thought a fat man was hiding in the bathroom and chasing you instead of a reflection...Not that that's...ever happened to me...And then it's time to do something. I hate to say it, but pregnancy totally messes with us Overeaters, as does nursing. It's not all, "Oh wow! Now I"m burning extra calories, losing weight, and feeling great!" Instead it's like, "SUHWEET! Now I can eat FIVE HUNDRED more calories mwamwamwahaha!" *insert maniacal fat-man voice laughter*. I tell you, these past few years have been a seriously humble walk and it's hard to realize I've completely lost my figure. But...I think that while I struggle a lot with this issue right now, I really know I'll overcome it. It won't necessarily be easier but for sure, it'll get better (see how I connected the two...posts?...No??...Oh... (And by the way...I know frozen yogurt isn't all that unhealthy...it's not that. It's the STUFF I want to put ON the frozen yogurt...You know, like bananas and pistachios...and fudge and chocolate chips...Yeah. I have to stop typing about it. DRINK WATER, NOW, Nicole. NOW.)
Alright alright...let's talk about..."Mom's Groups." I'm terrified of them. They too, stress me out. I'm joining one tomorrow and I feel like it will look like this:
* * *
(I just checked to see what I look like...It's not pretty but also not as super bad as I thought it might be. For example: Damnage*: I think my hormones changed (again) an hour ago and now I practically have a mustachio and eyebrows similar to that of Frita Kahlo's.
Consolation: my skin looks great. Damnage: my hair didn't get blow-dryed and it's cold, so it frizzed out. Majorly. Like the wig that Normal Bates used to put on to pretend to be his mom in Psycho. I'm not posting any pictures; it just simply hits too darn close to home. Google your own darn pictures of her wig and laugh all you want. I'm preserving the little dignity I can, here. Consolation: Um...My hair was...washed (emphatic nodding) and...I used...sulfate free shampoo...That smells really good...?
You know, I'm going to stop pretending: I finally have some time to myself and I hate to say it, but nothing truly eventful happened in this day. Now I'm hearing in my head all those Miracle Mouths being all, "What?! But every DAY is a miracle!" Yes; that's true. I also believe that every Mass is Heaven on Earth but there is also life-reality in that because, thinking of every single thing so profoundly has to be funny at some point (at least in my life). And speaking of THAT, this makes me think that almost every time we are at Mass, it is always MY kids that are walking out of the bathroom completely naked saying, "Come and CLEAN MY TUSHIEEEE!!" Or it's MY kids that are throwing tantrums so big, I've already been asked not thrice but FOUR times if my son has seizures...Or why my second son (Faux-Seizure-Child) has to shake his head emphatically, psychotically in back and forth, right after Communion. (NO, he does not have seizures or is autistic so stop even thinking to ask.) He's just crazy is all. Plus, he's seriously jiggling his brains around when he does this, so I'm guessing he's slushing things around in there too *shrug*. So mostly, my day was normal like that, and probably not much different to yours then.
Mostly right now, I'm just...grateful. Grateful for being married to this devoted man; grateful to have a roof over our heads that heats the people in it; grateful for the snow...Yes, even the snow. It's funny because, the snow stresses me out. It means that I'll be dressing kids for half and hour, just to send them outside for five minutes. It means mud in the house. It means kids crying in shock and horror that they can't understand why they can't feel their hands and fingers when they've been eating snow with them. It means it's pointless to shave my legs because I'll just keep getting goose bumps and the hair'll grow back right then and there. It means...more work. And yet, it's just so...beautiful. I'm grateful for its beauty and that we are given something so beautiful just because we live here. I love that it falls so silently and yet fills up sometimes feet, of space. Kind of like, proof that beautiful things grow even in silence. (Like Love and Truth and also, people.) Ugly things can too (like zits in baaad places or mean people's thoughts), but this kind of silent beauty overpowers all the bad kind.
And this part I have to whisper, I'm also *procrastinating*...It's just that...It's so far from here to the sink to brush my teeth...and then my face will get wet and I'll be cold. Then that'll force me into washing my face and thinking of all of that makes me tired. (God, I'm lazy.) The other ugly truth is, I'm writing to all of you, to *distract myself* (more secret whispering! I'm just FULL of mystery tonight!) from eating frozen yogurt. Yup. I have a problem. It's called, I-Eat-My-Emotions. And by that, I mean my emotions are like the love-child of Joan Rivers and Richard Simmons. First of all, eww, and second of all, that's pretty accurate. This isn't like, when those "people" say, "Oh, I SUCK at Math!" and then proceed to explain the concept of imaginary numbers to me. Or those women that say, "I'm baaad with self-discipline" but then can cut themselves off and are like feigning, "I'm SO full!" This is like, I have to trick myself into thinking I'm full because dudes, I could seriously eat myself into a coma. I've conquered it before, and I'll get there again. It's all about discipline, and mentality, and all that jazz. It's always about hitting that "rock bottom" where suddenly things don't fit and you've walked by a mirror and have about had a heart attack because you thought a fat man was hiding in the bathroom and chasing you instead of a reflection...Not that that's...ever happened to me...And then it's time to do something. I hate to say it, but pregnancy totally messes with us Overeaters, as does nursing. It's not all, "Oh wow! Now I"m burning extra calories, losing weight, and feeling great!" Instead it's like, "SUHWEET! Now I can eat FIVE HUNDRED more calories mwamwamwahaha!" *insert maniacal fat-man voice laughter*. I tell you, these past few years have been a seriously humble walk and it's hard to realize I've completely lost my figure. But...I think that while I struggle a lot with this issue right now, I really know I'll overcome it. It won't necessarily be easier but for sure, it'll get better (see how I connected the two...posts?...No??...Oh... (And by the way...I know frozen yogurt isn't all that unhealthy...it's not that. It's the STUFF I want to put ON the frozen yogurt...You know, like bananas and pistachios...and fudge and chocolate chips...Yeah. I have to stop typing about it. DRINK WATER, NOW, Nicole. NOW.)
Alright alright...let's talk about..."Mom's Groups." I'm terrified of them. They too, stress me out. I'm joining one tomorrow and I feel like it will look like this:
And I'll look like this:
And my kids will be like this:
It could happen. It might happen. The worst part is, the preparation. I'm trying to talk myself into washing myself an outfit for tomorrow so I can look "normal" instead of, you know, wearing granny-capris and a t-shirt but then the rebel in me says, "You shouldn't have to wash a fancy outfit to feel you fit in!" But then the logical part of me is like, "Reality check: Self, if I didn't have to be you, I'd be embarrassed by your schlubiness**. WEAR a cute damn outfit." Okay, okay. I'll wash one. But...there's spiders in the basement...where the washer and dryer are...FINE. I'll go but, if I get caught in a web by Creepo and his Minions, it's alll on YOU, my friends.
Lastly, I just want to end this by sharing with you all that, when you search for pictures under, "kids misbehaving", you get this:
Apparently, my sound was turned way up and also apparently, when you go the the national geographic-type website, there's actual elephant sounds you can hear while they're uh...pro-creating. It was so loud it woke up Husband. He looked all around frantically (as if there was some burglar breaking through the window, trumpeting like a humping elephant) and slurred, "Wawawahaat's going on?!?" I turned it down quickly and said, "Oh honey, it's just two elephants humpin' it up. Go back to bed." He looked right at me with his not-really-awake-eyes and nodded and said, "Wow. They were reeeeally doin', it huh?" and went right back to snoring. Nice. And with that, I bid you adieu!
Love, Hugs, & Other (healthy) Drugs...you know, like VITAMINS.
*Damnage: yes; I meant it as "damn-age" get it? See? I really can be funny but though it was just NOT funny and that I couldn't spell.
**Schlubiness: derives from "schlub" which is a made-up word from my husband or possibly his East Coast family meaning slobby in the worst way. I, am often a Schlub.
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