Monthly Archives: April 2014

A Positive Spin on Things

Morning dawned early (as oft it does after half a bottle of wine), and Mommy needed a loud alarm clock and a hot shower to get the day rolling.  After which it was off to my little angels’ room to ever-so-cheerfully roust them from dreamland.
As you might imagine, a couple of 7-year-old boys tend to be difficult to get moving early in the morning, especially after a busy evening of Mine-Crafting and zombie killing.  So picture my utter disbelief when I walked into their cozy little hideaway to discover one of them already awake.
There he stood.  In the dark.  Bare-assed.  In nothing but a t-shirt.  Pulled up to his chin.  I’m not sure if I was more taken aback by that or the wall of shit-stench that smacked me in the face as I crossed the threshold.
Now, being mom of the year (I try not to brag), I did everything in my power not to blurt, “Did you shit yourself?”
Instead, I said something like, “Heeeeey there, Buddy.  What’s going on?”
And that’s when I saw the poop smeared all over his backside.
“I think I have a sick tummy.”
Um, yep, I think you might be right, dude, I thought to myself.  “I think so.  Let’s go into my bathroom, and I’ll help you.”  (I think that’s close to what I wanted to say.)
So during the…ahem…cleanup process, I could tell he was getting pretty distressed at his predicament.
I kept reassuring him that it was ok.  Shit happens, right?
“So you got a sick tummy before, Mommy?”
“Oh, sure, buddy.”   At some point in time, we all end up shitting our pants.  It’s all about who you have with you when you do it that really matters.
So yeah, that’s what I taught my kid today.  Everybody shits themselves.  Just when you do, make sure you do it around someone who really loves you.
Um,  so if you are planning on crapping your pants anytime soon, make sure it’s with someone you really love.  That’s the profound thought for today.
Also, parenting never gets easier.
Also, it’s sometimes ok just to throw the underwear away.

How Old Is Too Old?

This is not the question you want to hear from your 16-year-old daughter, especially when it has to do with the age of a guy she wants to date.
The question came to me by way of text, which was good because it gave me a minute or two to think.  Here’s how the conversation went:
Me:  Hey, I’m going to run by the store after work.  Do you need anything?
Daughter:  Nah.  Oh, by the way, how old is too old?
Me:  Too old for what?  Like parasailing?
Daughter:  You know, a guy?  To date…
Me: Ummm…
Daughter:  It’s not an algebra problem, Mom.  It’s not that complicated.
Me:  Math is hard?
Daughter:  Seriously!
Me:  Why?  Who do you want to date?
Daughter:  He’s really nice and lord jesus, he is FINE.
Me: Where did you meet this guy?  (thinking to myself, oh please don’t let her say ‘I found him on craigslist advertising free puppies and candy in his shag-carpeted van.’)
Daughter:  At the mall.
Me: Well, exactly how old is this guy?  (thinking to myself, oh shit he’s probably a 40-year-old ‘producer’ who’s looking for ‘actresses.’)
Daughter:  He’s older, but I really like him, and he’s not a creep.
Me: (breathing into paper bag and thinking, ohshitohshitohshit) HOW OLD?
Daughter:  He’s 20, but he’s not a creep.
Me:  I’m glad he’s not a creep, but that’s pushing the outer limits of what we’re comfortable with.  (But thinking to myself, thank all the forces of nature that he’s not a 40-year-old porn star with a greasy mustache.)
Daughter:  Dad doesn’t have to know.
Me:  I think he’s going to notice if a fully-bearded Bubba the Trucker shows up at our house.
Daughter: MOM!  He doesn’t look that old!
Me:  We would have to meet this young man.
Ok fast-forward to after the text-versation.  I spent a good 20 minutes breathing into a paper bag and trying to figure out what to say to her.  And what to say to her dad.  Because dads don’t necessarily like 20-year-old boys who want to go out with their little girls.
So here’s the thing.  Our little girl is going to be 17 this summer, and that’s not all that far away.  And here’s the other thing, we’ve raised her to be a good girl with a level head on her shoulders.  And if we are those freaked-out, hell-no-you-won’t-go parents, chances are about 110 percent that she WILL go, and we just won’t know about it.
I’m thinking my best bet is to remain cool, calm, and collected (all the while closet-breathing into my paper bag while she’s not looking).  We’ll play things by ear, but I suspect it’s time to have the next conversation with her about young-ladyness and growing up and safety and all that schtuff.
Oh and also, if anyone hurts my baby, I will kick his (or her) ass.  Now where’s my damned paper bag?

Shit-piphany

You know, like an epiphany, except it occurs while you are sitting in the bathroom for an exceptionally long period of time, thus allowing you plenty of peace and quiet for thinking and contemplating the meaning of life and such.  I had a shit-piphanyyesterday.
(Hopefully everyone reading this realizes that every single human on this planet does, indeed, poop.  Otherwise, I may have just burdened you with knowledge that could possibly scar you.  If that is the case, I am sorry.)
Anyway, while I was contemplating the meaning of life, in addition to solidifying my decision to vote for either Halo or Sausage on Ink Master, I have made another even more meaningful decision.  Although there are not a lot of decisions that supersede the importance of an Ink Master vote, this one may rank right up there.  Stick with me for a minute.
See, the thing is I’ve decided to choose my family from here on out.  After all, friends are the family you choose, right?
And that means family is…
Hey, wait a minute.  Let me think.  Ok, I think I got it.  Family seems to be the group of people I was thrust upon when I was born.  However, it has become clear throughout my life that we are not compatible.  They don’t like me, as has become clear by the high level of disdain and looking-down-the-nose-ish-ness that has occurred over the years, and I have decided to put an end to everyone’s discomfort by breaking the ties that have bound us.  It seems that there is an unspoken rule that families must always remain together even if they are incompatible, and I am here to say that is not true.
Daughters don’t always have to fawn over their mothers.  Granddaughters don’t always have to agree with the culture of fear, degradation, and disapproval that has served to pave the path of acquiescence throughout the generations.  It’s time to stand up and make a name for ourselves, and I’m starting the trend.
For the sake of my daughters (and my sons), I refuse to be bullied into doing the bidding of others simply because that’s ‘the way it’s always been done.’  It’s a new day, and my kids will not be put in their place by the silent treatment.  They will not be bought with money or things.  They will not be bribed or threatened, and they will not be afraid to stand up for themselves.  And I will show them how to do that.
It’s time to clean house, my friends.  Those who bring negativity into my life will no longer be invited to participate.  I will choose my family, and my family will love me for who and what I am.  My family will love my husband and my children for who they are.

And that, my friends, is a shit-piphany.

The Tiger Has a Headache

Midway through my second glass of wine last night, I realized that I’m pretty terrible at making outlines.  I was attempting to give Jason talking points over the phone for the conversation he’s going to have with little Bob’s team of teacher’s today during their phone conference.  (There is going to be a phone conference, because I figured a conference is way better than Mommy having a brain aneurism or a stress-induced stroke, either of which was imminent yesterday.)
Also, it’s probably important to mention at this point, that by ‘second glass of wine,’ I really mean that I was measuring wine by the pint, you know, like the cool people measure beer.  That’s really the only way to do it.  Plus, it’s also better than just putting a straw in the bottle.
So somewhere along the line, while working through the talking points, I maybe (or so I’ve been told) began to make things a little personal.  And my outlining began to take a turn for the worse.  It went from ‘First’ to ‘Second’ to ‘And Point C’ and then ‘Fifth’ and then back to ‘And B,’ and I finished up with some ‘and furthermore’ sort of stuff.
All of this was right before I suggested that Jason end the conference by telling them all that I was going to buy the entire family t-shirts that say ‘Fuck Conformity.’  And I suggested that he also inform them that we were all going to wear them to the school together.  On the same day.  So there.  So flippin’ there.  Because we don’t live in a box.  We live outside the box.  And we have sit-ins.  And we believe in freedom and individuality and creativity and…
Well, you get the picture.
In the middle of the rant, I asked Jason, “Are you getting all this?  Are you writing all this down?”
And he said, “Oh yeah.”  But I could hear him wanting to laugh.  He was laughing in his head.
What he really wanted to say was, “I’m calling the crazy-van-loony-bin-people to come pick you up,” but he knew better than to say that.
Because if he said that, I would totally cancel his t-shirt order.  And then he would be the ONLY one without an ultra-cool non-conformist free-to-be-me t-shirt.  And we all know he wouldn’t want that to happen.
Also, I need some ibuprofen.

The Tiger’s Tail

When you choose to pull the tiger’s tail, you sort of take your life into your own hands.  Ok, well maybe not your life, but let hyperbole work for just a moment.  Picture disastrous consequences—like gnashing teeth and growling and the spreading of rabies…or worse.
What’s worse than rabies, you ask?  Well, let me tell you.  It’s a mama who’s hell-bent on crushing your kneecaps with a whiffle bat (because that’s how we roll out here in the ‘burbs).  It’s a cyclone of fury all wrapped up in one little red SU, rolling right up the hill…just ready to take your ass out.  That’s what it is.
Oh yeah.  Have I had some wine?  Maybe.  Have I been provoked?  Hell, yeah.
You see, here’s the thing.  I’m pretty protective of my little cubs, and when someone comes knocking at my door telling me that one of my sweet little innocent furballs of love has turned all juvenile delinquent, I start to question things.  I start to wonder if maybe certain people aren’t stretching things just a bit, and that’s when mama tiger starts to stretch her claws.
Oh and it’s probably helpful to know that mama tiger is also a horribly hopeless reclusive troll.  So, when said accusers start using the telephone to corner the reclusive troll-like tiger, the troll-like tiger naturally retreats further into her cave, using the only means of defense at her disposal—curse words and, well, sharp objects.  (I’ve said ‘fuck’ a LOT during the last 24 hours, but honestly it’s because I’ve been cornered, and anyone in their right fucking mind knows not to corner an introvert, because who knows what you’re fucking gonna get, right?  Right.)
Anyway, so my kid (we’ll call him Bob for the sake of anonymity) has been apparently creating a helluva mess at school.  Apparently, they don’t teach this class in the advanced education classes at the university, because NO ONE, and I mean NOT. ONE. SINGLE. PERSON. knows what to do with him.
Here’s the deal.  He’s seven…as in seven years old.  And he wiggles.  GASP!  (I know…what the everloving fuck, right?  A 7-year-old boy that wiggles?  Say it’s not so!)  Well, apparently, that means he doesn’t pay attention, and we need to give him more drugs to calm him down.  Awesomesauce.  I love educators.
Any-hoo, I digress.  He also tends to get pissed off at kids when they make fun of him.  (Crazy, no?  I mean, I would totally sit there and take it, but you know, that’s just me.)  I would get mad at those little shits, too.  So it’s a little difficult for me to reinforce the socially correct “think sheets” that we have to do in the evenings after he’s gotten angry with the kids who’ve made fun of him.   “Well, son, maybe next time we should tell them to go fuck themselves instead of punching them?  Remember, we want to use our words…not our hands.”  Yay, think sheets!
But Mommy isn’t angry.  It’s more like Mommy feels backed into a corner, because when mommy gets four freaking phone calls in a single day from different educators, all of them wanting to increase her kid’s meds or talk about her kid’s issues or discuss her kid’s behavior problems, what happens?  And what if Mommy is a freaking introverted tiger who is now feeling quite backed into a corner?
Back off my kid, Lee’s Summit.  He’s a 7-year-old boy.  He’s happy.  He’s well-adjusted.  And he happens to wiggle a little.  Oh yeah, and math is freaking hard.
Ok, I feel better now.  I’m taking the kids for ice cream tomorrow.  Hallelujah.  Holy shit.