Several weeks ago, one of my nearest and dearest friends witnessed a human being become a memory in the hearts and minds of his loved ones. This happened some two thousand miles away and far from my front door. We didn't talk directly about it. But this moment,in social networking updates of the past, has impacted me so much so that I'm writing this to you, right now.
My youngest, who is now 5 (yes, blog slacker, I know) and started his first day of kindergarten, has a morbid side to him. He talks about death regularly. Curiosity, fear, immortality, bravery - they are just small facets of these discussions. He asks me if I will still love him when I'm dead. I reassure him that my love is not something he will ever have to worry about. I explain that the love of a mommy is the strongest love ever. And it brings me to tears, every time. There's a pain associated with it that aches my core. I can, literally, feel it in my heart.
Then, another, ugly thought creeps into my soul. That person, the one who was ended, by a gunshot, that person had a mother. Maybe she was like me. Maybe she looked into the eyes of her young son and felt pangs of terror in the thought that one day - their physical bond would be severed. But hers came true. Someone, in one instant, put an end to some mommy's baby. She felt his first flutters in the womb. She cried, tears of joy, at ultrasound pictures. She helped him get ready for his first day of school. She kissed his hurties away and rushed to his room at night when he had a bad dream. She's now missing her baby. Crying at the mention of his name. Falling asleep with a shirt that still smells like him or clutching his picture in her hand. She will go the remainder of her life - wondering about what he'd be like today. Would he have kids? What would he have been?
That could be my youngest someday. Or my Stormykins. Or my Tabasco. Or my Mini-Me. Someday, it could be one of my babies that is slumped over, lifeless, on a sidewalk. And it's completely out of my control. I created these people, devote every second of my life to them, nurture them, teach them, hug them, hold them, laugh with them, watch them grow - and someone could get pissed off and take that away from me. From the world and rob one of these babies of the life they have planned. So I make it a point - every single day that I'm blessed to share life with these beautiful creatures - to be a little less angry when they dump milk on the carpet, break my possessions, interrupt my sleep, or take my last piece of candy. I wish, somehow, someway, when one person goes to take the life of another, they could, for an instant, see that person through the eyes of their mommies. I wish they could see how precious life truly is.
It makes me want to go back in time. I know - kind of a left field thought, right? Well, there was a time when I was hell bent for death. I wanted so much to end myself. Obviously, I lost that particular battle. For which I am grateful. Every single day. I want to put my hand on the shoulder of the troubled girl 20 years my junior, look into her tear filled eyes and tell her - There will come a day when you will want to live forever. I want to sit her down and tell her that one day she will value life so much that hearing of the demise of a stranger will hurt her heart. I want to explain to her that the pain she feels that drives her to this point, has an end. Those moment where death seems like a release - they will be replaced with smiles and laughter. I wish I could tell her that there will be rough spots, hurdles, pain - but those moments will be negated. The hurt will be diminished. Someday - she will look out of her backdoor, watch her baby daughter play happily with her brothers and death will be the furthest thing from her mind. Because life gets better.
Maybe that walk in the darkness, those nights of wishing there'd be no morning, maybe that experience helped me appreciate the utter beauty of life. There is no pain, no anger, no tangible thing, no emotion, no dollar bill, no NOTHING - worth taking a life for (including your own).
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Happy Smotherer's Day
In my lifetime, I've had the "joys" of two mothers. The one who birthed me and the one who raised me. Both were in my life, both taught me about the world in their own ways, both were my mom. I was adopted when I was 14 on May 14, 1992. Not many kids can say that they signed for an consented to their own adoption! Granted, I was adopted by my maternal grandparents so it wasn't much of a stretch. I won't get into all the details here because, someday, I'll want you to buy the book. LOL
Anyway - tomorrow is Mother's Day and there's always a moment of sadness in my heart as my "Mom" is an angel now. You don't realize in times of anger that someday the woman you are fighting with, yelling at, who is grounding you, telling you not to wear that lipstick, advising you not to shave your head, screaming at you to not date that guy, who is snooping through your room, reading your notes, demanding to know who you are with and where you are at all times, who refuses to buy you mini skirts and hooker heels.... you just don't see that someday, somewhere down the road - she will be a ghost and a gravestone. And you will bargain, in your mind or with her or with God, for one more fight, one more argument, one more second. You'll want those times back with every fiber of your being. So if you still have your "Smother" - hug her tightly, call her, remind her that you love her because sometimes you are a complete asshole and she will be the only one that still loves you anyway. This is my 10th Mother's Day since she has been gone. Only now - as I'm raising 4 kids - am I seeing the value of her lessons.
Once, my cousin, Chris, my friend Kristye, and I were sentenced to an afternoon of cleaning for the millionth time. Now, my "mom" collected antique furniture and had it in every room of the house. This was around 84 or 85, so if it was antique then, you can imagine what it would be now. (Some of it still resides in my home to this day) Well, she had this Berkey & Gay bedroom suite consisting of a mirrored chest of drawers, some storage thing that sat at the end of her four poster queen sized bed, in walnut. Remembering it now - it was gorgeous. "Was" is the key word here. Words don't do these pieces justice. This particular summer day we were doing time in the bowels of Tidying HELL. Of course, we wanted to be thorough. We were given the task of straightening the upstairs bedrooms while she took care of the downstairs.
Once we completed picking up toys, dirty clothes and various floor clutter we moved on to her room. We found her supply of cleansing agents including, but not limited to, Ajax powder, Brillo pads, a scrub brush, and what's cleaning if you don't use the toothbrushes of everyone in the household? You know, for fine details. We all three entered her room and went straight to work. We scrubbed and scoured for probably an hour or so. Chris, liberally spreading Ajax from one end of the room to the other. (Hey, it turned a pretty blue when it was wet! It was a fascinating substance to our young minds.) Kristye was armed with a scrub brush. In my hot little hand, I possessed a Brillo pad in all of it's steel wool glory. We took to that bedroom suite like a well oiled cleaning machine. We felt so grown up and important. I distinctly remember saying how proud she was going to be when she sees how clean we got her furniture. So you can imagine our confusion when she entered the room to put away the linens and started screaming. There was a frenzy of sobbing, screaming, flailing arms, painful swats to our behinds, furious words of anger and groundings until the end of time. Kristye was banished to her home. Chris and I were sent to opposite ends of the house. And when I say "sent" I mean she dragged us, beating our asses with every step. Suddenly, this 60 year old woman grew 5 more arms and Herculean strength. It was like she was the Incredible Hulk himself.
We weren't permitted out of our respective rooms for the rest of the night - an eternity when you're young. We couldn't understand why we were being punished for cleaning. After all, we were just doing what we were told! Chris and I whispered under the cracks of our closed doors attempting to determine our fatal error. The next day, through giant tears, she explained what we did wrong. She told us that she still loved us. She proceeded to make us a tray of cut fruits and her famous fruit dip. I didn't think those ups and downs would vanish. In the coming years I'd grow to hate her and love her again, despise her and cherish her and miss her in overwhelming ways. She'd smother me, ask too many questions, make too many suggestions, give me unsolicited advice that I'd just rebel against, and love me unconditionally and forever.
In 2001, she was granted her wings on a hot August day in her bed. From there on out our family changed. She was our glue and for a long while we fell apart without her. But the fortitude she instilled in us came alive again and, for the most part, brought us all back together. (Once, I picked up the phone, dialed her number as I had something really important to tell her. I got so far as the disconnected number chime and recording before I remembered she was gone.) I get signs from her and am comforted with them. She comes to me in vivid dreams where she has a healthy & nourished look to her, though she rarely says a word. Most recently she gave me an indisputable sign that would make me sound like a lunatic if I explained it. She finds ways to "mother" me from her new home in Heaven. Only now have I begun to savor those signs rather than mourn them. Going on 11 years since her passing and I'm starting to find peace with it. She's still with me each and every single day. Sometimes, my daughter will look up at me and flash me a face and I could swear it was "mom". I treasure that and while part of my heart aches that she isn't sitting at this table with me, smoking like a chimney, criticizing some choice I've made, I know she lives on.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
I Can Get You A Thumb By 3 o'clock. With Polish.
Part of accepting maturity is delaying gratification. Tuesday night, I let me "T" take the wheel (that's a United States of Tara reference). I had some extra money burning a hole in my pocket. And I saw that Bath and Body Works was having a sale on hand soap and body wash. Sure, I had hand soap. But it wasn't some overpriced, over scented, migraine inducing, obnoxious aroma. It was some plain ole Dial. Ok - it was Cherry Blossom. But it didn't come out in a foam. I just (almost) finished decorating one of my bathrooms and I wanted it to look perfect. Only B&BW soaps are going to be the perfect accessory. Sure, I have body wash too. But, again, it's falls into the same category as the Dial.
So at 7:45 p.m. Mini-Me woke up from her nap and I decided to just run up really quick. I packed little Q up and headed out the door. We got to the store about 10 minutes later. We entered and my baby girl was in awe. This whole "girl" thing is still a wonder to me. I know she's 1 1/2 but it is still a very large adjustment from the 3 boys. I have a new found appreciation for girly things. Seeing her little face light up when she sees something feminine! Don't get me wrong, she has an incredible fondness for the boys' things too. But she loves purses and "lip gloss" (read: an empty tube of Chap Stick). So as we are perusing the shelves and bins, we come across this ADORABLE little compact. It was a small, bright yellow smiley face with a big red bow on it's head with a red rhinestone in the center of the bow that slid open and closed. A toothy smile drew across her face, her legs kicked in excitement. She giggled when she saw the pretty baby in the mirror. I melted. Of course, it was hers. She could put it in her little purse! Maybe it was a combination of the toxic levels of perfumed potions mixed with the bright, flashy packaging and some spritz girl chasing me around with some "Island" scent - I didn't think.
We finalized our purchase and the compact didn't leave her grasp the whole ride home. As soon as we came in - She showed her prize off to her brothers and placed it into her purse. She would pull it out every so often and smile at the baby smiling at her. Wednesday morning, I told my Heterosexual Life Partner about it. We gushed over the cuteness of a tiny girl holding a tiny mirror in her tiny hand. The compact didn't get much thought until later.
Fast Forward to 3:00 p.m. I'm clacking away at the keyboard, engulfed in work, listening to the kids play happily through the house. Mini-Me traveled back to her brothers' room, which she does often. Usually to snatch some "off limit" toy or to make The Youngest Boy cry. Soon, she started fussing. It was not a full fledged cry. More like - bitching. It sounded like she was trying to get something that was stuck and she was annoyed. I got up to investigate. I surely was not expecting the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. There she was, sitting on the bed, covered in blood. Mainly because she was shaking her hand like she was trying to get a piece of tape off of her hand. I didn't bother trying to figure out what caused it. I grabbed her and ran to the bathroom. I ordered all kids out of the bedroom until we could determine what happened.
Once in the bathroom, I had to clean her in order to find the origin of the bleeding. The Oldest went to investigate the cause. The Middle Son came in with a broken antenna from a CD player. But that didn't seem likely. I found the deep gash on the tip of Mini-Me's thumb. She had fileted the tip. And still not crying. I put pressure on it for roughly 15 minutes. The one thing that I've learned from 13 years in the pro wrestling business and 15 years raising sons - it's First Aid. I've also amassed a very thorough First Aid kit that includes suture removers and other such tools (it helps that I have a sister who works in a medical office and that Michael used to). The Oldest comes into the bathroom holding a bloody, broken compact. Enough guilt set to rival Catholicism. There weren't enough Hail Mary's to absolve me. Why on Earth didn't I think about this? Normally, I can look at an object and come up with at least 15 ways one of the kids can inflict injury on another of the kids using it. I determined that I could not control the bleed. I wrapped it in gauze and medical tape - tightly - hoping to stop the bleed. Then I put a clean sock over it and then her shirt so that she couldn't pull it off on the way to the hospital.
You know that you're a borderline terrible mother when you have an ER routine. Each kid knows what to do, who to call and how to prepare. The Oldest loaded up Mini-Me's diaper bag and made the call to grandma, The Middle Son started cleaning the blood trail while packing his things to take to Grandma's and The Youngest Son- well, he was just grateful that it wasn't him this time as he told Mini-Me of the amenities of Children's Medical Center as we piled into the car. She just smiled and then fell asleep on the way. Fortunately, Grandma lives seconds from the hospital.
Michael met us inside as we greeted the same P.A. that handled The Youngest Son's chin and broken jaw as well as his recent "tooth thru the cheek" just weeks ago. First, he was going to stitch but once he got her cleaned up (and lidocained) he decided to cut the flap of skin and apply pressure. Unfortunately, there was no stopping the bleeding. He ordered a clotting agent which finally worked after 3 hours. Not a whimper out of my baby! The doctor looked at us and said "Her brothers are in trouble! This is one tough little girl!"
She's going to have a scar. And will NEVER, NEVER own another compact again. Ever. Even when she's like 40. Nope. No more. Seriously - What the elf was I thinking? Now, just feeling very blessed that she is okay and it was not nearly as bad as it could have been.
So at 7:45 p.m. Mini-Me woke up from her nap and I decided to just run up really quick. I packed little Q up and headed out the door. We got to the store about 10 minutes later. We entered and my baby girl was in awe. This whole "girl" thing is still a wonder to me. I know she's 1 1/2 but it is still a very large adjustment from the 3 boys. I have a new found appreciation for girly things. Seeing her little face light up when she sees something feminine! Don't get me wrong, she has an incredible fondness for the boys' things too. But she loves purses and "lip gloss" (read: an empty tube of Chap Stick). So as we are perusing the shelves and bins, we come across this ADORABLE little compact. It was a small, bright yellow smiley face with a big red bow on it's head with a red rhinestone in the center of the bow that slid open and closed. A toothy smile drew across her face, her legs kicked in excitement. She giggled when she saw the pretty baby in the mirror. I melted. Of course, it was hers. She could put it in her little purse! Maybe it was a combination of the toxic levels of perfumed potions mixed with the bright, flashy packaging and some spritz girl chasing me around with some "Island" scent - I didn't think.
We finalized our purchase and the compact didn't leave her grasp the whole ride home. As soon as we came in - She showed her prize off to her brothers and placed it into her purse. She would pull it out every so often and smile at the baby smiling at her. Wednesday morning, I told my Heterosexual Life Partner about it. We gushed over the cuteness of a tiny girl holding a tiny mirror in her tiny hand. The compact didn't get much thought until later.
Fast Forward to 3:00 p.m. I'm clacking away at the keyboard, engulfed in work, listening to the kids play happily through the house. Mini-Me traveled back to her brothers' room, which she does often. Usually to snatch some "off limit" toy or to make The Youngest Boy cry. Soon, she started fussing. It was not a full fledged cry. More like - bitching. It sounded like she was trying to get something that was stuck and she was annoyed. I got up to investigate. I surely was not expecting the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. There she was, sitting on the bed, covered in blood. Mainly because she was shaking her hand like she was trying to get a piece of tape off of her hand. I didn't bother trying to figure out what caused it. I grabbed her and ran to the bathroom. I ordered all kids out of the bedroom until we could determine what happened.
Once in the bathroom, I had to clean her in order to find the origin of the bleeding. The Oldest went to investigate the cause. The Middle Son came in with a broken antenna from a CD player. But that didn't seem likely. I found the deep gash on the tip of Mini-Me's thumb. She had fileted the tip. And still not crying. I put pressure on it for roughly 15 minutes. The one thing that I've learned from 13 years in the pro wrestling business and 15 years raising sons - it's First Aid. I've also amassed a very thorough First Aid kit that includes suture removers and other such tools (it helps that I have a sister who works in a medical office and that Michael used to). The Oldest comes into the bathroom holding a bloody, broken compact. Enough guilt set to rival Catholicism. There weren't enough Hail Mary's to absolve me. Why on Earth didn't I think about this? Normally, I can look at an object and come up with at least 15 ways one of the kids can inflict injury on another of the kids using it. I determined that I could not control the bleed. I wrapped it in gauze and medical tape - tightly - hoping to stop the bleed. Then I put a clean sock over it and then her shirt so that she couldn't pull it off on the way to the hospital.
You know that you're a borderline terrible mother when you have an ER routine. Each kid knows what to do, who to call and how to prepare. The Oldest loaded up Mini-Me's diaper bag and made the call to grandma, The Middle Son started cleaning the blood trail while packing his things to take to Grandma's and The Youngest Son- well, he was just grateful that it wasn't him this time as he told Mini-Me of the amenities of Children's Medical Center as we piled into the car. She just smiled and then fell asleep on the way. Fortunately, Grandma lives seconds from the hospital.
Michael met us inside as we greeted the same P.A. that handled The Youngest Son's chin and broken jaw as well as his recent "tooth thru the cheek" just weeks ago. First, he was going to stitch but once he got her cleaned up (and lidocained) he decided to cut the flap of skin and apply pressure. Unfortunately, there was no stopping the bleeding. He ordered a clotting agent which finally worked after 3 hours. Not a whimper out of my baby! The doctor looked at us and said "Her brothers are in trouble! This is one tough little girl!"
She's going to have a scar. And will NEVER, NEVER own another compact again. Ever. Even when she's like 40. Nope. No more. Seriously - What the elf was I thinking? Now, just feeling very blessed that she is okay and it was not nearly as bad as it could have been.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
A Little Something for the Holidays
I've been quiet, I know - Uncharacteristic of me. Sorry, I discovered Pinterest and am now an addict. Seems like I should get on a 12 Step Program but I'd rather create one with ribbons, bows, recycled newspapers and strategically placed snark.
I wrote this almost exactly 3 years ago and it was so funny that I had to share it again.
Article by Anastasia Beaverhousen
Somewhere In, Ohio - A late night craving for a Peanut Butter Blossom cookie is being heralded as the hero in an early morning fire in a local duplex. Ms. Ever After mother of 3 boys, laid down on her couch to catch up on some television when she started to feel sleepy. Knowing that she had several baskets of wet clothes that needed to dry she set her cell phone alarm to wake her at 3:15 a.m. At approximately 2:45 a.m. Ms. Ever After decided to succumb to her sweet tooth in lieu of taking a nap.
"I sat down and started to doze off, ya know, and then I wanted a cookie," stated Ms. Ever After. "I got up and went to the pantry, grabbed the bag of cookies - you know, my sons and I made these cookies on Sunday and they are so good - and went back to watch Top Chef. I'm rooting for Hosea and he won the challenge! I've picked all the recent winners of reality shows - Project Runway and Bob on Survivor is my favorite." That's when she states she heard something strange coming from the wall. "That's when I heard something strange coming from the wall. It sounded like buzzing. You know, like on that Powder movie when he made that Jacob's Ladder flip the (explicative deleted) out! And I thought 'What the (explicative deleted) was what?' and then I saw black smoke and I was like 'whoa'." This is the moment where, according to the fire chief, quick thinking was the most important.
"I jumped up off the couch and check the tree lights and they were okay" she explained, "and then I realized it was coming from under the entertainment center." It was at this point where Ms. Ever After ran to her pantry and removed the fire extinguisher that she had purchased for her estranged husband as a gag gift following an April fire in a wrestling ring. "I don't think I even had time to read the instructions. I just followed my instinct and sprayed." Unfortunately, her efforts to snuff the fire would go on in vain. As the room started to fill with smoke and fire extinguisher spray it became more and more difficult to breathe. "My youngest boy, he's 2 you know, was asleep on the couch less that 4 feet away. When I couldn't get the fire to stay out I grabbed him and ran to the phone." Her two other children were asleep in bedrooms upstairs.
"I called Mike to come over since, you know, the water pump on my car is out and I had no heat and he could take the kids with him if he needed to. Since all the holiday presents were in the garage I couldn't put the kids in there." She then called 9-1-1 and rushed to get her children outside to safety. A local police officer was able to halt the flow of electricity to the fire which immediately put the fire out. Fire Department crews responded quickly and were able to determine the cause of the fire as an overloaded extension cord. "Hell, I didn't know that there was an extension cord even back there, let alone with piggybacked adapters in it." Not a mistake that this family will make again.
When interviewed, the fire chief explained that this is the time of year for Christmas lights to cause fires and they fully expected it to be the lights when they came in. Had Ms. Ever After fallen asleep the results would have been disastrous. By the time the smoke would have reached the smoke detector in the hall, it could have been too late. An hour and a half later the family was able to safely return to their home. "I'm so glad that I paid up my Renter's Insurance. I'm gonna be rich!!! This is like winning the lotto, like them guys in Piqua just did. Only mine was a fire and not worth $207,000,000.00." Total estimated damage came to roughly $100. "Now maybe I can get me some new carpet from my landlord. That'd be awesome! Shoo Wee am I glad that I wanted that cookie!"
Everyone was able to make it out of the house safely and no one was injured. Ms. Ever After probably should have been treated for smoke inhalation but instead smoked a cigarette. The most difficult situation that this family has to handle is cleaning up all of the soot and powder. When we inquired about her plans for clean up Ms. Ever After had this to say "Damn, I ain't ever gonna git that (explicative deleted) out of my (explicative deleted) carpet, clothes, hair and mouth. This (explicative deleted) sucks!"
I wrote this almost exactly 3 years ago and it was so funny that I had to share it again.
Sweet Tooth Saves Family of 4
Article by Anastasia Beaverhousen
Somewhere In, Ohio - A late night craving for a Peanut Butter Blossom cookie is being heralded as the hero in an early morning fire in a local duplex. Ms. Ever After mother of 3 boys, laid down on her couch to catch up on some television when she started to feel sleepy. Knowing that she had several baskets of wet clothes that needed to dry she set her cell phone alarm to wake her at 3:15 a.m. At approximately 2:45 a.m. Ms. Ever After decided to succumb to her sweet tooth in lieu of taking a nap.
"I sat down and started to doze off, ya know, and then I wanted a cookie," stated Ms. Ever After. "I got up and went to the pantry, grabbed the bag of cookies - you know, my sons and I made these cookies on Sunday and they are so good - and went back to watch Top Chef. I'm rooting for Hosea and he won the challenge! I've picked all the recent winners of reality shows - Project Runway and Bob on Survivor is my favorite." That's when she states she heard something strange coming from the wall. "That's when I heard something strange coming from the wall. It sounded like buzzing. You know, like on that Powder movie when he made that Jacob's Ladder flip the (explicative deleted) out! And I thought 'What the (explicative deleted) was what?' and then I saw black smoke and I was like 'whoa'." This is the moment where, according to the fire chief, quick thinking was the most important.
"I jumped up off the couch and check the tree lights and they were okay" she explained, "and then I realized it was coming from under the entertainment center." It was at this point where Ms. Ever After ran to her pantry and removed the fire extinguisher that she had purchased for her estranged husband as a gag gift following an April fire in a wrestling ring. "I don't think I even had time to read the instructions. I just followed my instinct and sprayed." Unfortunately, her efforts to snuff the fire would go on in vain. As the room started to fill with smoke and fire extinguisher spray it became more and more difficult to breathe. "My youngest boy, he's 2 you know, was asleep on the couch less that 4 feet away. When I couldn't get the fire to stay out I grabbed him and ran to the phone." Her two other children were asleep in bedrooms upstairs.
"I called Mike to come over since, you know, the water pump on my car is out and I had no heat and he could take the kids with him if he needed to. Since all the holiday presents were in the garage I couldn't put the kids in there." She then called 9-1-1 and rushed to get her children outside to safety. A local police officer was able to halt the flow of electricity to the fire which immediately put the fire out. Fire Department crews responded quickly and were able to determine the cause of the fire as an overloaded extension cord. "Hell, I didn't know that there was an extension cord even back there, let alone with piggybacked adapters in it." Not a mistake that this family will make again.
When interviewed, the fire chief explained that this is the time of year for Christmas lights to cause fires and they fully expected it to be the lights when they came in. Had Ms. Ever After fallen asleep the results would have been disastrous. By the time the smoke would have reached the smoke detector in the hall, it could have been too late. An hour and a half later the family was able to safely return to their home. "I'm so glad that I paid up my Renter's Insurance. I'm gonna be rich!!! This is like winning the lotto, like them guys in Piqua just did. Only mine was a fire and not worth $207,000,000.00." Total estimated damage came to roughly $100. "Now maybe I can get me some new carpet from my landlord. That'd be awesome! Shoo Wee am I glad that I wanted that cookie!"
Everyone was able to make it out of the house safely and no one was injured. Ms. Ever After probably should have been treated for smoke inhalation but instead smoked a cigarette. The most difficult situation that this family has to handle is cleaning up all of the soot and powder. When we inquired about her plans for clean up Ms. Ever After had this to say "Damn, I ain't ever gonna git that (explicative deleted) out of my (explicative deleted) carpet, clothes, hair and mouth. This (explicative deleted) sucks!"
Friday, July 29, 2011
Get The Ladder D-Von!
I've done some incredibly stupid things in my life. Once, when I was 5 or so I decided that I was going to make my 'rents laugh so hard that they'd have no choice but to commission a parade in my honor. Ever watched Dumb & Dumber? There's this scene where Lloyd (Jim Carrey) imagines that he shows up to Mary Swanson's house with her missing briefcase and in celebration & thanks her family invites him in for tea and strumpets. They are all sitting by the fireplace in oversized sweaters, cozy & warm, watching Lloyd do incredibly funny things with a lighter and a fart. They all love him. Yeah - that's kinda how I thought this would be. My aunt Joyce was in from Tennessee. My mum didn't get to see her often. So they were all sitting around the fire in the living room, looking at old photographs and talking about the good ole days. I was in the dining room rummaging through my mum's sewing box that was left on the table. Looking through her things was one of my favorite pastimes. In my adventure (In my head it was an archaeological dig) I came across this lone button. It was safely housed in a tiny, ziploc baggie. I opened the bag and took the small, red button out and the cogs started turning in my head. How can I use this little treasure to insight riotous laughter into the family in the next room? Ah - With my NOSE! The thought was that I can take this button, place it in the opening of my nostril, cover the other nostril and blow that button out so hard that it goes flying across the room. They will love me. The flaw in this glorious plan was that I breathed in really hard so that I could exhale really hard. Can you guess where the button went?
There was no laughter. Only fear, panic, some words inappropriate for a young child's ears and a disbursement of the crowd. I was scooped up into my mum's arms and placed in the car. My dad put on his jacket and got his keys. Off we went to the Emergency Room. Some time later I was prepped for surgery. The red button had made it's way into my sinus cavity and could not be reached with tweezers. We departed the hospital just in time for my Aunt to fly back to Tennessee. She died about 6 months later. I decided that I wouldn't try that again any time soon. I went on to commit some other interesting acts of stupidity - Tweezers into the electrical outlet no less than two times, feeding my friend real mud pies, washing my 'rents antique, wooden bedroom suite with Ajax, dropping my newborn sister on her ginormous head.... The list could go on!
A few years ago, Ex Douchebag & I decided to resurrect a notoriously violent wrestling promotion. He has an affinity for certain brands of hardcore wrestling - namely tables, ladders & chairs (TLC Matches). I've often feared for his life in the hundreds upon hundreds of matches I witnessed. Only once have I ever walked out of a show He was climbing a ladder when it started to sway and subsequently fell over. He got tangled in the ropes and I couldn't tell you what happened after that. I left. He went on to participate in quite a few more of these nauseating matches that terrified me to the core. The day of the show he purchased an ugly, aluminum, yellow, 6ft ladder. I watched helplessly as he climbed to the top and our friend, knocked him off. Repeatedly. This ladder bent and folded and opened and closed.... Generally, you don't want to re-use those ladders after they take that type of abuse. When Ex Douchebag & I split up and I moved out of our home I left many of his things behind, mostly his old weapons - a table, a folding chair, trashcans. He was supposed to go pick those things up. But for some reason I couldn't leave that hideous ladder behind. Not sure why, it's not like I can use the derned thing. I have zero intentions of ever using a ladder for anything at any time. If I can't stand on a chair then I don't need it.
Well - I ate my words today. This morning was going so well. I got up on time, got the kids dressed and ready, got The Middle Son to an appointment on time (a first!) and was generally in an incredible mood. Pulled into the driveway, unloaded The Middle Son & The Youngest Boy and proceeded to rouse a slumbering Mini-Me. The boys sat on the chairs on the front porch to wait. I decided to just give them my keys so they could get out of the heat. As a Public Service Announcement - I can't throw. Unless I'm REALLY angry. Throwing like a girl is an understatement. With my left hand I went to toss The Middle Son my house/car keys. And as if on purpose - my keys sailed through the blue sky right smack dab onto my roof and trailed down into the gutter.
You've got to be kidding me. Really? Landing in the bushes I can understand and even expect. Hell - landing 823 feet from the intended target would normally be the result. Not today. Today they land on the roof. I can't decide to laugh or cry. So I laughed. And then reality started to creep it's way up my spine. Oh no. How am I going to get them down? There's no chair tall enough to reach my roof. I am a towering 5'1". This cannot be really happening, right? Alan Funt is about to pop out any second and point out the multiple hidden cameras and explain how they used a superpowered magnet to set me up.... How'd they know I always keep a spare house key on my person at all times?
My only option is to dig that unreliable ladder out of the garage and retrieve my keys from what I am sure is a slimy, filthy gutter. I'm envisioning worms, maggots and the full menu from Fear Factor in there. After I instructed The Oldest to mail my updated life insurance policy which happened to be sitting on the computer desk in the event that I fell - I headed to the garage. Bravely I got the ladder to the front of the house. I can see where it's been bent and damaged from the last time it was used. Joe Rogan is somewhere behind me telling me not to throw up. Quickly I climb one rung at a time until I reach the point of no return. I feel around and cannot locate my keys. I have to take another step. If I fall it's really going to hurt. I spy my Wonder Woman keychain, grab her feet and pull her towards me. Shockingly, it's clean in there! But I'm not going to risk standing there examining any more of it! Got down and away without injury or incident.
I won't be throwing my keys again though. Ever.
There was no laughter. Only fear, panic, some words inappropriate for a young child's ears and a disbursement of the crowd. I was scooped up into my mum's arms and placed in the car. My dad put on his jacket and got his keys. Off we went to the Emergency Room. Some time later I was prepped for surgery. The red button had made it's way into my sinus cavity and could not be reached with tweezers. We departed the hospital just in time for my Aunt to fly back to Tennessee. She died about 6 months later. I decided that I wouldn't try that again any time soon. I went on to commit some other interesting acts of stupidity - Tweezers into the electrical outlet no less than two times, feeding my friend real mud pies, washing my 'rents antique, wooden bedroom suite with Ajax, dropping my newborn sister on her ginormous head.... The list could go on!
A few years ago, Ex Douchebag & I decided to resurrect a notoriously violent wrestling promotion. He has an affinity for certain brands of hardcore wrestling - namely tables, ladders & chairs (TLC Matches). I've often feared for his life in the hundreds upon hundreds of matches I witnessed. Only once have I ever walked out of a show He was climbing a ladder when it started to sway and subsequently fell over. He got tangled in the ropes and I couldn't tell you what happened after that. I left. He went on to participate in quite a few more of these nauseating matches that terrified me to the core. The day of the show he purchased an ugly, aluminum, yellow, 6ft ladder. I watched helplessly as he climbed to the top and our friend, knocked him off. Repeatedly. This ladder bent and folded and opened and closed.... Generally, you don't want to re-use those ladders after they take that type of abuse. When Ex Douchebag & I split up and I moved out of our home I left many of his things behind, mostly his old weapons - a table, a folding chair, trashcans. He was supposed to go pick those things up. But for some reason I couldn't leave that hideous ladder behind. Not sure why, it's not like I can use the derned thing. I have zero intentions of ever using a ladder for anything at any time. If I can't stand on a chair then I don't need it.
Well - I ate my words today. This morning was going so well. I got up on time, got the kids dressed and ready, got The Middle Son to an appointment on time (a first!) and was generally in an incredible mood. Pulled into the driveway, unloaded The Middle Son & The Youngest Boy and proceeded to rouse a slumbering Mini-Me. The boys sat on the chairs on the front porch to wait. I decided to just give them my keys so they could get out of the heat. As a Public Service Announcement - I can't throw. Unless I'm REALLY angry. Throwing like a girl is an understatement. With my left hand I went to toss The Middle Son my house/car keys. And as if on purpose - my keys sailed through the blue sky right smack dab onto my roof and trailed down into the gutter.
You've got to be kidding me. Really? Landing in the bushes I can understand and even expect. Hell - landing 823 feet from the intended target would normally be the result. Not today. Today they land on the roof. I can't decide to laugh or cry. So I laughed. And then reality started to creep it's way up my spine. Oh no. How am I going to get them down? There's no chair tall enough to reach my roof. I am a towering 5'1". This cannot be really happening, right? Alan Funt is about to pop out any second and point out the multiple hidden cameras and explain how they used a superpowered magnet to set me up.... How'd they know I always keep a spare house key on my person at all times?
My only option is to dig that unreliable ladder out of the garage and retrieve my keys from what I am sure is a slimy, filthy gutter. I'm envisioning worms, maggots and the full menu from Fear Factor in there. After I instructed The Oldest to mail my updated life insurance policy which happened to be sitting on the computer desk in the event that I fell - I headed to the garage. Bravely I got the ladder to the front of the house. I can see where it's been bent and damaged from the last time it was used. Joe Rogan is somewhere behind me telling me not to throw up. Quickly I climb one rung at a time until I reach the point of no return. I feel around and cannot locate my keys. I have to take another step. If I fall it's really going to hurt. I spy my Wonder Woman keychain, grab her feet and pull her towards me. Shockingly, it's clean in there! But I'm not going to risk standing there examining any more of it! Got down and away without injury or incident.
I won't be throwing my keys again though. Ever.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
"You Didn't Say 'God Bless You'"
Sushi is my favorite food. Around my 30th birthday Ex Douchebag took me to a fabulous little sushi place and I immediately fell in love. Up to that point it was macaroni & cheese (which still holds a very dear spot in my heart). Not just any mac n cheese. Had to be Kraft. With the powdered cheese packet and a little too much milk. Mmmmmm........ heaven. Don't get me wrong - Alton Brown makes an immaculate mac & cheese. I use that for things like carry ins, potlucks or when I'm in the mood to gain 57 pounds.
When you become a parent you soon realize that eating is going to be a spectator sport. I prepare it. I plate it. I watch it fly in large quantities all over the table, floor, children's faces..... Then I clean it. Sometimes, if I am really lucky - I get to partake. I just don't have time. As I sit here with no kids and my pintos n cheese are getting cold on the table next to me.
Yesterday was one of those "If you can eat it and drive at the same time you'd better do it" days. There were so many things to do that I didn't have time. The final task of the day was to pick the boys up from Vacation Bible School. The kids are so excited to be participating in it and are very enthusiastic about telling me about what they have learned. So last night at 11ish I decided to toss a can of tuna in a bowl (I generally do not eat animals - I make exceptions for evolutionary mishaps such as poultry. Those things have wings they should fly if they don't want to be eaten). To spice it up I toss in a dash of mayo, some sour cream, some oregano & basil and a scoshe of relish for color. I plop down on the couch with my bowl, some wheat thins (the Kroger brand because I'm poor) and my little girl. I share a few bites with Mini-me and she is satisfied with snagging a cracker.
Middle Son and Youngest Boy take this quiet time to tell me what they have learned in this evenings lesson. They made little cross necklaces with colored beads. Each bead color has a meaning and Middle Son is explaining each one to me. Finally he gets to the last ones - hearts. He proceeds to clarify that these were just ones he added just because he liked them. At this point he is now very, very close to me. I have my bowl resting in my hands in front of me so that I can actively listen to what he is telling me. As the words "I Heart Jesus" are passing through his lips a sneeze is passing from his nose. Into. My. Bowl. I scream while watching as his spittle particles are traveling at a high rate of speed right smack dab into my dinner. Part of me is laughing. Part of me is ticked. But all I can do is look at my food in horror. And disgust. And slight contemplation as to whether or not I am going to take another bite. So I yell "YOU JUST 'I HEART JESUS'd" INTO MY DINNER!"
He says, with the most innocent eyes, "You didn't say 'God Bless You" so now you owe me $10."
When you become a parent you soon realize that eating is going to be a spectator sport. I prepare it. I plate it. I watch it fly in large quantities all over the table, floor, children's faces..... Then I clean it. Sometimes, if I am really lucky - I get to partake. I just don't have time. As I sit here with no kids and my pintos n cheese are getting cold on the table next to me.
Yesterday was one of those "If you can eat it and drive at the same time you'd better do it" days. There were so many things to do that I didn't have time. The final task of the day was to pick the boys up from Vacation Bible School. The kids are so excited to be participating in it and are very enthusiastic about telling me about what they have learned. So last night at 11ish I decided to toss a can of tuna in a bowl (I generally do not eat animals - I make exceptions for evolutionary mishaps such as poultry. Those things have wings they should fly if they don't want to be eaten). To spice it up I toss in a dash of mayo, some sour cream, some oregano & basil and a scoshe of relish for color. I plop down on the couch with my bowl, some wheat thins (the Kroger brand because I'm poor) and my little girl. I share a few bites with Mini-me and she is satisfied with snagging a cracker.
Middle Son and Youngest Boy take this quiet time to tell me what they have learned in this evenings lesson. They made little cross necklaces with colored beads. Each bead color has a meaning and Middle Son is explaining each one to me. Finally he gets to the last ones - hearts. He proceeds to clarify that these were just ones he added just because he liked them. At this point he is now very, very close to me. I have my bowl resting in my hands in front of me so that I can actively listen to what he is telling me. As the words "I Heart Jesus" are passing through his lips a sneeze is passing from his nose. Into. My. Bowl. I scream while watching as his spittle particles are traveling at a high rate of speed right smack dab into my dinner. Part of me is laughing. Part of me is ticked. But all I can do is look at my food in horror. And disgust. And slight contemplation as to whether or not I am going to take another bite. So I yell "YOU JUST 'I HEART JESUS'd" INTO MY DINNER!"
He says, with the most innocent eyes, "You didn't say 'God Bless You" so now you owe me $10."
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Could you Google the number for Poison Control?
As a mother of 3 boys you expect to have to call Poison Control center at least once. Me? Well - my first experience with the1-800-222-1222 was in 1998 when my, then 2 year old, son decided to SUPER GLUE HIS MOUTH SHUT. Normally this wouldn't be a complaint. I was just concerned that he may have to have his stomach pumped or need some kind of IV Fluids. (Cut me a break, I was 20). For your future reference, Super Glue is non-toxic. It takes hours to get hardened super glue out of the teeth of a 2 year old boy, you know, in case it comes up on Jeopardy.
Yesterday started like many do. Mini-Me & I rolled reluctantly out of my smarshmellow soft bed and moseyed down the hall to the living room. Her diaper was excessively full so I took it off and sat her bare behinded onto the floor. Youngest Boy then asked for some breakfast as he and Middle Son were already up and at em viciously fighting over Wii privileges. I proceeded to make a pot of coffee, Youngest Boy's breakfast and sent a particularly snide email to my ex (who went from being a doll to being a complete and total jackhole in a matter of minutes - we will never speak again) all of which took about, I dunno, 12 minutes or less. Mini-Me crawls over to find me and I start to smell the smell of something really smelly. She has pooed a trail from the television to my desk. Roughly 8 feet of my living room is a giant skid mark of 10 month old infant droppings. Greeeeeat. I pick her up, grab a towel, half-assedly wipe up the ooze and make my way to the bathroom. I inform the boys not to answer the door or the phone as I will be showering with the Mini Me since I am now also covered in yuck.
10 minutes later we are squeaky clean! Youngest Boy and Middle Son are continuing their brutal video game argument in their bedroom. I place Mini-Me in their room with them so that I can now mop my living room. Again, I am praising God for hardwood floors! 20 minutes later I have completed the mopping. I think that now I will indulge in that pot of coffee. The night before was so incredibly hard. I smoked a cigarette for the first time since December 2, 2009 and got my drunk on. (Yes, what he did was that bad. If it's possible for a shattered heart to break even more it's been accomplished in my rib cage) I needed to just brush the weekend off and add it to the list of things I've survived in my lifetime. No sooner do I get the fat free french vanilla creamer poured when I hear Middle Son skipping down the hall to tell me that Mini-Me has gotten into the paint.
Before Ex Douchebag's incredibly dastardly misdeeds occurred I was painting my 34 square foot bathroom "Red Geranium". I'm going to paint the trim black, add some brushed nickel fixtures, lay some black & white checked flooring, decorative light switch covers and hang my vintage concert posters - Janis, The Doors, Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline and Nirvana with my vinyl copies of Men Without Hats, Heart and The Village People. Music is the theme. Red seemed fitting. I didn't realize it was going to take 804 coats of this paint to cover the Pepto Pink that was previously on the walls. So this process has taken no less than 4 days and I'm still not even close to done.
I race down the hall to find my beautiful little girl happily splashing around in blood red paint that is quickly flowing from the overturned can. Apparently I hadn't sealed the lid completely and someone left the bathroom door open. In the 8 seconds it takes her to get from the boys' room to the bathroom doorway she'd managed to pull over the container. (Yes, nominate me for Mother of the Year!) Immediately I pick her up and call for The Oldest to help. I'm not sure which to do first. Toss her into the tub or stop the river of paint from taking over the hardwood floor hallway. Ultimately, it was neither. I asked The Oldest to get his camera. After he took the picture I put her into the tub - diaper & all and start hosing her off. That's when I realize there is a small amount of paint on her mouth. The Oldest comes into the bathroom to keep an eye on Mini - Me while I am scooping up handfuls of paint and pouring them back into the can. Mini-Me is screaming now and paint is seeping into the tiles, under the transition strip, beneath the trim and into the grains of the wood. The Oldest extracts a once again sparkling clean baby girl from the tub and whisks her off to the living room so that I can begin scrubbing.
"Hey [Oldest]" I call from my Cinderella position on the bathroom floor. He says, in a most annoyed voice - "Yes mother". "Could you Google the number for Poison Control?". There I am on my hands and knees scrubbing red paint from the floor dialing Poison Control. I look like Lizzie Bordon (had she really axed her parents). I'm still not even fully dried from my shower of 30 minutes ago. Mark, the RN on the other end of the phone assures me that Mini-Mewill be just fine. She may toss her cookies but she does not need a trip to the ER. I'm relieved. And I need a clone. Or 2. Or 4 - 1 to follow around each kid.
Yesterday started like many do. Mini-Me & I rolled reluctantly out of my smarshmellow soft bed and moseyed down the hall to the living room. Her diaper was excessively full so I took it off and sat her bare behinded onto the floor. Youngest Boy then asked for some breakfast as he and Middle Son were already up and at em viciously fighting over Wii privileges. I proceeded to make a pot of coffee, Youngest Boy's breakfast and sent a particularly snide email to my ex (who went from being a doll to being a complete and total jackhole in a matter of minutes - we will never speak again) all of which took about, I dunno, 12 minutes or less. Mini-Me crawls over to find me and I start to smell the smell of something really smelly. She has pooed a trail from the television to my desk. Roughly 8 feet of my living room is a giant skid mark of 10 month old infant droppings. Greeeeeat. I pick her up, grab a towel, half-assedly wipe up the ooze and make my way to the bathroom. I inform the boys not to answer the door or the phone as I will be showering with the Mini Me since I am now also covered in yuck.
10 minutes later we are squeaky clean! Youngest Boy and Middle Son are continuing their brutal video game argument in their bedroom. I place Mini-Me in their room with them so that I can now mop my living room. Again, I am praising God for hardwood floors! 20 minutes later I have completed the mopping. I think that now I will indulge in that pot of coffee. The night before was so incredibly hard. I smoked a cigarette for the first time since December 2, 2009 and got my drunk on. (Yes, what he did was that bad. If it's possible for a shattered heart to break even more it's been accomplished in my rib cage) I needed to just brush the weekend off and add it to the list of things I've survived in my lifetime. No sooner do I get the fat free french vanilla creamer poured when I hear Middle Son skipping down the hall to tell me that Mini-Me has gotten into the paint.
Before Ex Douchebag's incredibly dastardly misdeeds occurred I was painting my 34 square foot bathroom "Red Geranium". I'm going to paint the trim black, add some brushed nickel fixtures, lay some black & white checked flooring, decorative light switch covers and hang my vintage concert posters - Janis, The Doors, Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline and Nirvana with my vinyl copies of Men Without Hats, Heart and The Village People. Music is the theme. Red seemed fitting. I didn't realize it was going to take 804 coats of this paint to cover the Pepto Pink that was previously on the walls. So this process has taken no less than 4 days and I'm still not even close to done.
I race down the hall to find my beautiful little girl happily splashing around in blood red paint that is quickly flowing from the overturned can. Apparently I hadn't sealed the lid completely and someone left the bathroom door open. In the 8 seconds it takes her to get from the boys' room to the bathroom doorway she'd managed to pull over the container. (Yes, nominate me for Mother of the Year!) Immediately I pick her up and call for The Oldest to help. I'm not sure which to do first. Toss her into the tub or stop the river of paint from taking over the hardwood floor hallway. Ultimately, it was neither. I asked The Oldest to get his camera. After he took the picture I put her into the tub - diaper & all and start hosing her off. That's when I realize there is a small amount of paint on her mouth. The Oldest comes into the bathroom to keep an eye on Mini - Me while I am scooping up handfuls of paint and pouring them back into the can. Mini-Me is screaming now and paint is seeping into the tiles, under the transition strip, beneath the trim and into the grains of the wood. The Oldest extracts a once again sparkling clean baby girl from the tub and whisks her off to the living room so that I can begin scrubbing.
"Hey [Oldest]" I call from my Cinderella position on the bathroom floor. He says, in a most annoyed voice - "Yes mother". "Could you Google the number for Poison Control?". There I am on my hands and knees scrubbing red paint from the floor dialing Poison Control. I look like Lizzie Bordon (had she really axed her parents). I'm still not even fully dried from my shower of 30 minutes ago. Mark, the RN on the other end of the phone assures me that Mini-Mewill be just fine. She may toss her cookies but she does not need a trip to the ER. I'm relieved. And I need a clone. Or 2. Or 4 - 1 to follow around each kid.
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