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?

IRL: Ass, Glass, 'N' Guns

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

SO: now you know my theory and now we've established "IRL." I'm talkin' 'bout MY life. Our life; the life that is real and usually never without excitement of some sort as parents. In MY house, there is always some version of Ass, Glass, 'N' Guns. And that's what today's post is about! Get excited! Pay attention to my exclamation points...! Here were my plans for today:
Wake up early and shower (yay! feel fresh and glowy!)
Take the kids to the Martini Moms Group and learn about God (yay!...or at least be in the same room as other women who might challenge me into wearing a bra and real shoes...yay!)
Come back and start Christmas shopping online (shopping...makes me...kind of happy...!)
Do some lesson planning for my after-school Centers for my kids--I've got ideas startin' to spill outta my ears I'm gettin' so excited (creativity appearing where I usually lack, yay!!)

                                   ........................................................

Here's what actually happened today: I awoke to five, five I tell you, different pitches of screams wailing, "MAAAAAAAM!! I NEEEED YOU, MAAAM!"

"Dad's not being fair! He's not giving me SUGAR CEREAL!!!" 

And then, my favorite: 

"HONEY--I know you're tired but the kids are kind of being loud and I need to shower."

Oh really? You need to shower because the kids are being loud, or you needed to wake me up, to tell me they're being loud?? Insert The Face because, that's how I looked for most of the morning. And something you should know about me and the morning, is that we don't get along. Should you meet me in the morning, take my advice, DON'T MEET ME IN THE MORNING. Just turn back around, and run; run for your dear life. Unless of course, you've come armed with Starbucks...or a Super Nanny.

Oh, and did I mention I and half of the household was sick as dogs...sick ones...Like the dogs in Mexico, that are lying on the side of the street? So as I'm staggering there, on the chair with wailing kids, Handsome Husband has the nerve to be all, "Hon-ee--WHY didn't you get Mike's shoes on??" So I looked him up and down with the one eye that was open and responded the only way I could, "Umm...Sorry...Are you...saying stuff? I see your lips moving...kind of. But...Why are you...talking to me?" Yeah. I'm a real GEM in the a.m. see? So this didn't make things exactly sweet for the spouses on such a day...

(I just want to mention that I completely heart writing at night. It's so quiet and comforting; I can watch whatever I want, and drink tea...and just...write. Mmmm...I love it. If only I could love the morning the way I love the night. But I don't. Mostly, I think the morning is for fools, which really means, I envy all of you Morning People. Aw Morning People; you and you're little plans and workouts and one-up that you have on the day--I truly envy you. But I'll stick to me bushes--I'm a night-bird.)

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

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

Next thing I knew after being home and putting two crying sick kids to bed was, 1. I had fallen asleep, and 2. I had approximately FIVE (or 'fife' as my two and a half-year-old says) minutes to get my ass off the floor where it crash-landed and feel asleep, to wake up and re-dress two boys and myself, to get Dude 4 on time. "SHHHHIKES!" I yelled, which is a much better word than what I wanted to yell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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:

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!

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:

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.
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  • I never have to wonder whether or not you will always be in my life or not. I never have. Thank you for that. I never realized how many people don't have that. Thank you...

  
  I share these things because you see, I never would have asked for those things, nor would have thought I needed to hear them, or even that I could believe them but not for God knowing me so much better than myself, and sending me my Sister Smarty Pants to shower me with love and honesty that I can't reject.
  
  Thank you, Father, for real love. I'm not sure why I get to have some of it, but may I never cease to take it for granted.
  
  If you don't have a Sister, don't feel badly; just go get one. You can't afford not to have one, I tell you. I mean it--if you think you're in danger of missing this opportunity, turn to the next woman on your right, and give her a giant hug, Happy Snappy (which is a sisterly ass-slap), or buy her a drink first. Then, it won't be so weird. God doesn't give all of us "natural" sisters, but seeing as how there are more women in the world, and we live longer, He sure as heck gave us opportunity to grow some in our hearts! Go! Get a Sista! It's your homework.
  
  *I would do anything for love...but I won't do that lol...I would do A LOT of really crazy things to get a break but smoking's not one...Though climbing atop my roof with a giant jug of Cuervo even in a snow storm, is not off the docket...
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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:

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. 

"The Cat"

It has been brought to my attention, that there is a problem with the name of my blog because, the name is misleading. I have a confession to make...we no longer have "The Cat." (But the kids and the dirty kitchen really still exist!) Some people would like to know what happened to her. Well...Remember that really great soup we had at that BBQ this summer? HA! Just kidding--was just getting all Stephen King on y'all in the Halloween spirit of things...Okay what happened with her isn't actually all that great of a story, though a little sad. *Deep breath* her story ended like this:

Dear Smokey Cat was a good cat in Little Cat Land. She ended up becoming an outside cat, so she did all the normal things Little Outside Cats do, like run promiscuous sexalicious lives, kill and sort of eat poor little innocent birds, that are too stupid to fly away from cats, and climb high things. Mostly, our home became "Kitty Kibbles Inn: A place to lay down your fluff"and other than sleeping, she was never home. This was fine, because she belonged in Little Cat Land. One July day, Handsome Husband announced that he hadn't seen Smokey Cat for a week. It hit me; I hadn't either, and looking at her bowl full of food, I began to worry. I was thinking a fox got her if a car didn't...and I felt incredibly guilty. But what was also going on in our lives, was that through the really crummy stress of feeling overworked and smooshed in a tiny home, a little ray of light shone on this rental home in another city; a much desired city. We'll call it, Happy Wife Land because there, Wife's friends, church community (like, down the STREET!), and favorite shopping districts and restaurants (Starbucks, suckas!!) were in abundance...not to mention great schools. We applied for the home, kind of assuming we wouldn't qualify for it because the owners were seemingly super anal (like a butt...hehehe...I'm sorry that doesn't make any sense, but I was feeling immature and it sounded funny in my head). It was just too awesome of a place to pass up trying for at the very least. So, we did. Then this truly blessed thing happened: I made friends with the brokers, and they liked us so much, one day, the secretary called and said, "I hope you guys get the house! It sounds perfect for you! I totally am not letting anyone else see it today so you guys can get it!" In case she ever reads this, or her boss does, don't be mad at her! She wasn't canceling other people's showings, she was just...keeping their paperwork down by...only letting us see it that day. Anyway, we loved it so much, we went for it. The ONLY discrepancy? No pets allowed. With no exceptions. If you personally know me, you know that I tried GIVING away that damn cat so many times, it's a wonder she never developed cat Reactive Attachment Disorder. There was no one who could take her. Which brings me back to the beginning of this story.

So, it hit me eventually, that she might have been thrown in the Kitty Slammer, at the pound. I looked it up online and...am pretty sure out of like, 25 brown tabbies, I saw Smokey Cat. I was informed it would cost approximately $200 after "medical" fees and impound fees, to pick her up (if that was infact, her). And I was like, "What the hell am I thinking? That's our CAT. I can't leave her!" Then I was like, "What the hell am I thinking? We're moving and what will we do with her?? Ohhh...You damn fur-ball; you got yourself thrown into the slammer!" I was sad. I felt guilty. I felt mean...a little mean. But then, I started to feel some peace the more I looked into the pound that had her. It was clean, it tried whole-heartedly to showcase each animal each month, to be taken into a home, and was even willing to relocate animals to other shelters to get the animals into homes. It was more than I could have found for her, and I feel in my heart of hearts, it was a gift from God because we didn't have the pain or guilt of taking her there ourselves. Truly, we couldn't afford to bail her out and weren't even sure we could afford to move at that time. So it was like, "Cat...or...rental house of our dreams where we can flourish and be joy-filled and possibly gain all the things we've been praying for?"Obviously, we took the house. I really do have peace about it all; when the time is right (when our children are grown and moved out), we'll get a pet...like a starfish or something. This is the part where I show a tribute picture of said animal but uh...well the disclaimer is, this is the only picture I could find and...it was taken because I was playing a mean trick on her...I would sneak up on her when she was napping (if THIS chick can't nap in my home, no two-bit-floosey cat-nipper was gonna either!), get as close to her face as possible, preferably with a flashlight or camera, and yell, "NAWWWWF!!"...Yes, I have issues. Things like this make me happy. At least I am honest about mine--so don't go hatin' on me when you probably do weird things like...save your toenails or lick your pretzels or something (euuuew...). Here she is..."The Cat:"

And so it was, that I was called out for not actually even owning a cat anymore, which is a discrepancy upon the title of this blog. And it's true but, I'm kind of attached to this title though I shouldn't be. I will put my thinking cap on (though it's more like a sombrero than a cap...don't know why, but if my thinking cap had a look, that's what it would be--a sombrero...my head's too big for caps) and come up with something wonderful! Or...you all could just write in some suggestions in the comment section!! *hint hint*...

To Be Continued! Duh-nuh-nuhhhhh!

Jason Statham: My Muse

I'm feeling in order to move on with the positive, I need to acknowledge what's making me a Frownie. I'm already feeling like a FROWNIE, so let me just say what kind of people this week, make me a *Frownie (this is spelled correctly because a Frownie is a type of person; like a Brownie):

People who completely flake out on you.

People who say rude things carelessly and don't feel the need to say "I'm sorry" because they never think they do anything wrong.

People who tell you even though you've already paid $39.90, somehow you actually owe $65...GAAA I HATE you Wen HairCare trixiness!

People that are such critics that they just can never enjoy anything...there always has to be something "wrong" with a situation or person.

People who only talk about their kids on Facebook...HAA! JUST KIDDING--had to throw a joke in there somewhere.

...Geeze...someone throw a coupla' dark chocolate bars in this girl's direction and then...walk away...slowwwly...

So maybe to offset so much charged negativity, as a bonus, I'll write about people who make me what I call, Happy Dappy:

Sisters who wear your bra on their head, to prove that it's giant enough to...wear your bra on their head...And who are willing to spend an entire weekend with you and share what they have, even when they're down to their last Hansen's soda.

Sisters who drive a long long way (all the way from a City Above The Clouds!) with their moms and baby to see your kids, even though their baby (and mom??) is fussy (mwamwahahaha... JUST kidding mom--you weren't "fussy" at all). And actually the baby wasn't fussy, just not feeling well, but it was funnier to say they were fussy. It's creative writing, okay?

Sisters who work really hard even though they feel their jobs can be slow-going...and secretly want to call their boyfriends names that rhyme like Hotty-Totty-Scotty...

Friends who come visit you just to see you or call you and laugh with you, and can know you well enough to know you're just being morbidly darkly humorous when you say, "there's been a beating...can you bring some yellow caution tape and a get-away car??" versus asking if they need to call the police.

Husbands that take hours off to take care of you even though they know it means they have to make up the hours later to afford what is needed...and that they too now will want to hit your children with a frying pan.

People who created ANY movie with Jason Statham in it...I'm totally jealous, entertained, and excited at the same time: if he weren't kinda buff, he'd just be a bald guy who was okay at acting BUT, he has a Cockney accent AND is buff, AND is bald, and always has a gun lol. What does a mama need to do to be that cool? Us chicks don't get to be recognizably hard-core cool like that, unless we can kick ass in a tight pleather Kate Beckinsale onesie (whilst murdering imaginary vampires and yes fellas, I am SO sorry to have be the one to tell you this, but she's not really murdering vampires), or...just be like Queen Latifah. I wish I was like Queen Latifah. A lot would have to change for me to be Queen Latifah. And what exactly does it mean to be hard-core, anyway? I mean, I know what I think it can mean. I think just being a woman in general is pretty hard-core... Gentlemen, I know what you're thinking, "Hey--why only women? What watching kids, shopping, and working is hardcore? I do that!" Yeah well, what you don't know, is that underneath a "normal" interaction at the store, or the pick-up line at school, lies a WHOLE other Hard-core Woman World. It's sink or swim. Survival of the fittest. Do or die.

Let me just put it out there, that as a woman, we really can't win either way in most situations. Fashion for example: it's all set up to make mostly women happy but instead, it makes us miserable! We want what we can't have and because it's always changing, we're never able to keep up or keep secure for long should we depend on the world in a moment of weakness (damn you again, Wen Haircare! You've broken my heart! *insert FROWNIE*). I love clothes. I love shopping; it really does make me happy...I love looking good. But it's true for most women "out there" (we'll say 'out there' because any woman reading this blog, is obviously and indubitably sharp as a whip, beautiful inside and out, and surely confident--so you know, we're just gossiping about 'the others'), that fashion is either to make other women want to be like us, or show that we can be like those other cool women. I hate that. I don't think there's anything wrong of course, with desiring to look beautiful (enhancing what we were given) but it gets ugly dude! One time, I was trying on a sweater dress and for once, admiring myself in the mirror (this was uh...before children...I said, "once" see? Like "once upon a time"?) and this chick in back of me waiting for the mirror smirked and said, "Hm. It's a little tight, isn't it?" WHAT?! Just being mean to be mean. I guy would never walk up to another guy in the changing room and be like, "Dude...that belt?...*head shakes disapprovingly*".

I guess losing my figure in these past pregnancies has forced me to embrace some things: that I have to be patient with myself to accept where I am at, but not settle for it either, and continue to move forward to be a healthy me I was created to be. And, that I desire to be seen for my own beauty, regardless of the tag. I think if I continue to be genuine and honest (and God knows, He keeps me honest), I won't lose that, even when I shed this cocoon and become Brooklyn Decker...BAHAHAHA--were you paying attention? Psych! JUST joking. I hate Brooklyn Decker. That name sounds like a sandwich but if she were a sandwich, she'd be a tasteless, tiny one with no bread because for one, she doesn't wear many clothes, and for two, she is too skinny to be a good sandwich full of comforting carbs, and for three, she'd be one of those "fat-free mayo" kind of sandwiches...eeuuww. At that point, what's the point? Just go for a wrap, which isn't a sandwich at all.

Anyway, that concludes my list and made for a nice random rant about fashion...how did all that come from talking about Jason Statham? See--he IS an intriguing guy, inspiring blogs, even! Okay until next time friends--toodles!

*Frownie [frow-nee]: An attitude that is sad, pouty, and somewhat angry. Using this context, when a person being a Frownie frowns, the frown can then be called "a frownie" because it's deeper than the action of a frown, it's like a "THUMBS DOWN" and a frown, and a statement. If you don't know about "THUMBS DOWN", you haven't read enough of my blogs and should get on that promptly.