I’m Too Old To…

I was having lunch with a friend of mine recently. I hadn’t seen her in over a year and she is now ridiculously cute and pregnant. We were talking about her pregnancy complications, having spent some time on bed rest, and she mentioned that, because of her “advanced age” (she’s 35!) she was considered a high risk pregnancy to begin with. That got me thinking. If, at 35, a woman’s age is “advanced” where does that leave me? I’ve decided that there are certain things that I, at 42, am far too elderly to include in my activities.
1) Pregnancy. Ok, I know that women all over the world are having babies well into their 40′s. The fact is that I lack the bionic genetic mutation that makes that possible. Carrying The Baby wasn’t good for my body. I spent 4 1/2 months on bed rest and was in preeclampsia when I delivered. Not to mention, I seem incapable of giving birth to anything other than boys and if one more drop of testosterone enters this house pretty sure my testicles will drop
2) Flashing my boobs Oh, yeah. I’m not proud to admit it, but I’ve done it. The unfortunate effects of 42 years of gravitational pull and nursing three children have ensured that those days are far behind me.
3) Throwing my panties onstage. To be truthful, I never had the experience. I’ve been to so many concerts and was never really moved to drop trou and toss the undies onstage. Sadly, those days are behind me. First,it’s kind of pathetic to be doing in your 40′s and second, the band really doesn’t need to dodging such a massive ball of flying material.
4) Flirting with a cop to get out of a ticket. Again, been there, done that. At 40 it’s just pathetic and increases the likelihood of getting a ticket. I’ve found that playing the responsibility card is better. “I’m sorry officer, I thought my son was choking and I was trying to get to a place so that I could pull over quickly and do the Heimlich”.
5) Recreate the kitchen sex scene from 9 1/2 Weeks. First of all, at 40+ the floor is hard, people. It’s cold and hard and when you have three kids your ass sticks to the juice spots on the floor and you risk getting Fruity Pebbles up your hoo-hah.
6) Wear a baby doll dress, baby doll T-shirt or Daisy Dukes. No matter how nice of a body you have, unless you’re a teenager or a 20-something, you have no business wearing a baby doll dress, baby doll T-shirt or Daisy Dukes. Really. It’s just sad.

That’s my preliminary list. You can be assured that each of these has been crossed off of my “Things To Do” list…with a Sharpie! I’ll have to apologize to The Hubbin’ for crossing off #5, but really, I think he knows.


A “Gun Nut” (?) Speaks

Yesterday afternoon I was listening to a talk radio program and one of the on-air personalities made a comment that I found to be very simplistic and, at the same time, inflammatory. So,  I guess it’s time I stick my neck out there and get involved with some controversy.

First, let me say that I am neither a Democrat nor a Republican (and no, that doesn’t mean I am with the Tea Party, or any of the other smaller parties). I am simply an unaffiliated voter. So, how would I classify my political views and what has been my political influence? Well, I am the biological offspring of a Democrat and a Republican. There are two places in the world that I would consider Home: western Colorado and Portland, Oregon. Having spent most of my time in a small town I would say that I am more strongly influenced by my experiences here. And so, I would consider myself a conservative with liberal tendencies (though some of my very conservative friends might call me a liberal with conservative tendencies…either way). I prefer to vote according to the issues and what I personally feel is important, I don’t agree that any one political party or group of people know what is the best in every situation. Nor do I believe that politician’s really have the best interests of their constituency in mind.

So, back to the radio program that inspired me to forge ahead and put my beliefs out there for the world to pick apart. During this program the host and her guests or co-hosts were discussing the recent and sudden increase in suicide rates for males in their 30 and 40′s. One of the women stated (and this isn’t an exact quote as I was caught off guard by the comment), that this is what the “gun nuts” (that part would be a direct quote) don’t understand, that they just want more guns available without taking into consideration things like suicide. I find it appalling that she would make such an off hand remark. Suicide is a terrible epidemic and it is tragic that  a person gets to such a desperate point that taking their own life seems to be the only answer. But, you can’t throw suicide into the pile of arguments being used in an attempt to further gun control measures. Removing and or controlling guns won’t stop suicide, there are far to many methods by which someone can accomplish it once they’ve made that decision.

One of the arguments they brought up is that there need to be checks, before a person is allowed to purchase a gun, that would identify people who are undergoing psychiatric treatment for depression (as well as other psychiatric diagnoses). The problem with this argument is that you would be allowing the government to access your private, health-related records, and impose limits on your civil liberties based on the information they find. That might seem like a perfect answer when dealing with people who are suicidal or have murderous intent, but those people can’t always be identified. And, where does this “profiling” stop? Do we allow a limit on the number of prescribed pain medications for a person who has been treated for depression? That would prevent an overdose, even if the intent doesn’t currently exist. Perhaps the government would then see fit to prohibit alcoholics from obtaining a driver’s license in an effort to reduce alcohol related automobile fatalities. What if you were diagnosed with a terminal illness? Could someone tell from your medical or psychiatric records if you were buying a weapon in order to commit suicide or simply because your grandfather had been an excellent marksman and you’d always wanted to learn to shoot as well?

I know, some of these examples seem to be ridiculous. “That would never happen,” you might chuckle to yourself, while shaking your head at my reactionary imaginings. The thing is, we never imagined that our right to bear arms would be infringed on either. Doesn’t it say, right there in the Second Amendment to our Constitution, that “the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed”?

Am I a “gun nut’? Well, I own guns. In my home there are a number of handguns and rifles. For the record, I am a responsible gun-owner. My weapons are kept in a safe so that my children can’t play with them. I do own guns that have been described as (and no, they are not created, marketed or purchased as) “assault rifles”. Do I need these guns? At this time I don’t have a need for them. I am not even a hunter (and, for the record, our right to bear arms isn’t a right to bear arms in order to hunt!). So, why do I have them? Well, I enjoy going out with my family to shoot. We are taking the opportunity to teach our children to have a healthy respect for and understanding of guns. Typically, when we go shooting, it involves several generations and/or extended family and friends getting together and bonding over a shared interest. Sometimes we shoot at targets and sometimes we just shoot the shit out of some cans. And, it’s fun!

In addition to target shooting we have guns for self-defense. While we aren’t exactly Doomsday Preppers, we are fully capable of defending our home and children at any time. If we needed to hunt for food, and I know people who fell on hard times and were only able to feed their families because of the meat they hunted themselves, we could do that as well.

So, yes, I have guns, but I don’t think of myself as a “gun nut”. I cried for days after Sandy Hook, and every time I see a picture of one of those beautiful people who’s lives were taken. But, I firmly believe that the change that needs to come in order to reduce gun violence and suicide is a change in our mental health system. We need to be able to offer more acute intervention and long-term support to people who are struggling with mental health crises. I wish that more people would focus on the mental health crisis in the world than on weapons. Guns are really just a tool, and we are instilling a false sense of security in our population by enacting restrictions on this one tool when there are so many others that will take its place. We need to get to the root of the problem: our broken mental health care system.


Pride or Punishment?

I don’t claim to have exceptional children. They aren’t well-behaved, they only stretch their vocabulary when it comes to learning prison vernacular and they don’t seem motivated to succeed (even if its only to prove me wrong).
The Middle seems to have a particular penchant for trouble-making. Yesterday I received two calls from the Dean of Students about his behavior. The first is related to a bit of black market trading that happened on the playground. Apparently, the Middle enacted a repossession clause. Any items traded from The Middle to Student A are apparently open to being repossessed if left unattended, say in Student A’s desk. The Student and teacher disagreed and he was taken in for stealing. As it turns out, the object in question wasn’t even his but had been lifted from his little brother.
The second incident happened during class. The Middle, and his classmates, were looking up word definitions in the dictionary. The boy came across the word “Penis”. I really don’t need to explain that any further do I?
While you might think that being sent to the Dean’s office twice in one day is terrible for (oh, did I mention this?) a fourth grader, that didn’t even tie the record. In the third grade he went to the office three times in one day! The last trip was because he got in trouble in the halls on the way back to class after his second trip. (You see? This is the kind of crap I’m living with!)
You can imagine my surprise this evening when I checked my email to find a letter from his math teacher announcing that not only has he been moved to the next math level but she wants to test him to see if he can move to one beyond that.
It seems he is an evil genius (and, some may say, a chip off the old block).


His Own Way

I’m generally pretty amazed by some of the things The Baby comes up with. During his five and a half years on earth he’s proven to be a pretty unique person. Oh, he has his “follower” moments. Case in point, just last night he came into the house crying. He told me he needed a glass of water to take outside because he was going to need to “wash something down”. I, reluctantly quickly paused my television show to ask some very pointed questions about why he’s crying and what he’s planning to “wash down”. He cried, “The Middle swallowed the thorn off the bush & now I have to do it too”. He was pretty adamant that, “a bet is a bet”. I assured him that his brother is full of crap, not thorns, and that he had no reason to eat one himself.
Aside from things like that, though, he’s his own person. That is very clear today as he has been up since 6 am waiting for his dentist appointment. While other kids have to be dragged and drugged in order to assure proper dental hygiene. My kid was dressed and ready for his 11:00 appointment by 6:15!

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Oregonians, Beware!

Several years ago, when I was dating The Hubbin’, we took a little road trip. While the rest of the Spring Breakers headed south to tropical locations like Mexico and Florida, we took a decidedly different route and headed to Vancouver, BC.

After a brief stop-over in Portland to spend the night with family, we hit the road again. As we merged from NE Halsey onto NE Weidler a forrest green car pulled up along the passenger side and the driver began to urgently motion for me to roll down the window. My mind raced with all the possibilities that would cause the degree of urgency he was showing. I was 98.9% sure that there wasn’t a dog tied to our bumper as we hadn’t brought a dog (still, only 98.9% sure). I imagined some part of The Hubbin’s car must have fallen off and was now lying in the road. It was a relief when I rolled down the window and Oregon Dude, as he’s come to be known, waved and yelled, “Welcome to Oregon!”, before driving off. (Yeah, that’s not where we thought the story was going either!)

All these years later that one moment has stuck with me and has been passed on. To this day every time I see a car with an Oregon license plate I welcome them to Colorado–or New Mexico, Arizona, Idaho, Texas, anywhere really that I happen to be–with the same enthusiasm with which Oregon Dude welcomed us. And so, dear people, if you happen to be driving through (insert any state here, I travel for work so this could happen anywhere!) and some crazy lady, acting on behalf of (whichever state you happen to be in) just wave and keep in mind that she might just be passing on the love!


…and Now For Part 2

So, just to catch you all up on the craziness of the past few weeks…

After the dreaded call that my dad was missing things were crazy for a few days, calmed a bit, then got bat-shit crazy again. Here’s how it all shook out:

The original call came on a Saturday. The Guardì called from Dublin to tell me that my father had been reported missing. He’d gone to Liverpool, England and was due to return on Tuesday, the 19th. They confirmed that he’d been in the return flight to Dublin but nobody seemed to have seen him since then. The hospitals were contacted several times, the US Embassy was involved, I was making arrangements to get an emergency passport as mine expired two years ago. Monday I got a call from the Gaurdì. Upon entering Dublin, my father was found to not have his work permit in order and was deported to Boston. We breathed a sigh of relief, knowing, at least, that he was alive in the US somewhere. He hasn’t phoned, but that wasn’t surprising as he rarely phones & I assumed he didn’t even have our number with him since he hasn’t expected to be in the US. Friday night he showed up on my doorstep, obviously sick. And filled us in on the past few days.
While in Boston, with nothing but the clothes on his back and arriving in the middle of one of the worst winter storms all year, he withdrew the $300/day allowed by his bank card until he could book a flight back to the UK. Upon arrival he was denied entry (surprising for someone who’d JUST BEEN DEPORTED!!!!) and was going to be sent back to Boston. He refused to go to Boston because of the weather conditions & his lack of adequate clothing. He was kindly deported to Miami this time. After spending two days in Miami, he caught a Greyhound bus to western Colorado and a taxi to my doorstep.
He was noticeably sick, I’ve honestly seen more color on the recently deceased. I let him rest Saturday & took him to the ER Sunday. In a week and a half he’s had several blood transfusions, one kidney removed and is now learning the lingo of a dialysis patient. All of his assets and records are in Dublin. He has no insurance, no income and mo doctor, so we’ll have to figure some things out. But he does have a very nice room with new linen and a new bed to retire to once he leaves the hospital. Eventually he’ll look back at this time and wonder which was the worse turn of events: renal disease or living with his grand kids


Shit Just Got Real

There exists in the world a distinct period of time. You don’t really notice it while you’re in it, it’s more easily recognized after it has passed. In hindsight you will look back at that period and remember the carefree way with which you’d gone about your days. Maybe you’ll look back with regret at how thoroughly engrossed you were with your own life and the time that had passed since you’d last reached out to others. But, while you’re in that period of time, oblivious about what’s to come, things seem ok.
And then you get the call that your dad is missing. Not just missing now, but missing for four days. Now, your answering questions over the phone to the authorities in another country. “When did you last hear from him?” It’s been several weeks, which is normal for us. “Was he in good health?” No. I wouldn’t say he’s been in good health.
And now I wait. Thousands of miles away. With nothing to do but wonder why I didn’t reach out more frequently and if that last email was really the last words I’ll ever hear from my father.


Tráeme Una Cerveza Now, Punk!

As a parent I’ve done one thing right over the past year. Well, maybe there were…well, there was the time when…wait, no…yeah, just the one thing.
Anyway, I did one thing right. We were faced with an upheaval with regards to the kids’ school. One was going to be going to middle school, one going into the fourth grade and, after five years at the same school, we were told that our kids wouldn’t be allowed school of choice. Both boys would have to go to a new school.
Since we live very close to the local charter school we took a chance, filled out a mountain of paperwork and got The Oldest and The Middle onto the waiting list (numbers 20 and 21 respectively). A couple of months later we got the call that they were in.
Right away I was impressed with the advanced curriculum. My kids were both learning Latin and Spanish in addition to the other core classes. Having taken quite a bit of Spanish myself during college, I was excited for the chance to share this new language with them. My mind was in constant motion trying to remember what I had learned so many years ago. Not just the nouns and sentence structure, but how to conjugate verb forms.
I began to realize that there are certain words and phrases that are easily recalled and others that I struggle with. It makes me think a lot about the science of memory. Why do we remember some things so much easier than others? Is it that I learned and remembered certain things because they were so important to me at the time? Did I recognize these words as fundamental to my future survival and lock them away in a special file for easy retrieval? Or, is it because of the importance these things hold in my life now? Did I search more deeply through my files to retrieve them because they are fundamental to my survival now?
Either way, it’s troubling. The fact is, based on my current understanding of, and ability to use, the Spanish language I can order food, cocktails and find a bathroom in any Spanish-speaking nation (not only can I order a beer, wine or vodka in Spanish, it seems I’ve retained the ability to do so in sign language as well).
Even more disturbing is the fact that I can clearly instruct someone “take off all your clothes” (I’m sure there’s a story there and you can be sure I won’t be sharing it).
The fact is that all of my imagined bonding with my children over a new language isn’t shaping up the way it was supposed to. There won’t be any leisurely afternoons spent talking about our gringo family members behind their backs. No long conversations about Bless Me Última after we’ve all read it (in Spanish, of course). My kids will be just like me, using every bit of Spanish they know to order enchiladas a là diablo and una cerveza at a dive just outside of Cancún. Oh, and ordering people to take off their clothes.
That’s the whole apple & the tree thing at work (or: la manzana y el árbol)


I Can’t Be Alone In This

I have to believe that there is truth in the thought that, at some point every person feels that their lives have veered far from the path they imagined. That they look around and realize that, despite their best efforts, they seem to be failing in so many areas. Health, parenting, finances, home management, career and even hobbies and leisure activities all seem to be in a constant state of chaos. I have to believe that this is true for everyone, otherwise it means that I am in this alone.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not one of those people who seeks perfection in my life. I actually avoid perfection at all costs. If I ran into Martha Stewart on the street I would run screaming, she isn’t of the earthly realm. There is something not quite right about perfection in a person, it’s almost unholy really.  I enjoy flaws. I find beauty in marred beauty. The problem is, so many things in my life have gone beyond that. My life is chaos and spiraling dangerously out of control. There are major flaws in my self care skills, parenting, organization, spirituality, and everything impacts everything else. I’ve had so many “false starts”, in which I vow to do better, to make a change, only to fail by noon. How many times can I announce to the world that I’ve made changes? That this time I vow to succeed? Instead of The Boy Who Cried Wolf I am The Girl Who Cried Reform. It’s embarrassing, really.

So, what do I do? Make another sweeping proclamation of my intent to finally get my shit together? How about this, I’ll focus on what I have succeeded in. I’ll sound the damn trumpets and strike up the band for every little success until I get my ass back on track.  So, to start (cue the applause…) I finally cleaned off the top of my desk and one shelf in my office closet. Oh, yes my friends, I now have a place for my computer to sit without the risk of fire caused by piles of papers and I could actually put something away in the closet (I could, I didn’t say that I have yet. Baby steps, my friends). I realize that it’s a far leap from controlling paperwork on my desk to controlling lifes bigger issues but I look at like a new exercise program. You have to start with the 3 pound dumbbells and work your way up to dead lifts. It’s time to get my reps in…


Striving for (Less Than) 100%

Every New Year I am amazed at the will with which the human animal is capable. Each year we take the time to reevaluate our lives and our futures and resolve to do better in the coming year. To be better in the new year. So many people make a solemn promise to lose weight, quit smoking, spend more time with their families. They promise to do whatever it takes to live happier, healthier, more productive lives. Not everyone will meet their goals, but there are those people–those amazingly dedicated people–who have such a firm resolve that they will give 100% to meet that goal. They will strive and suffer and sweat every minute of every day until they have achieved success. Those are the truly amazing people that inhabit this world that I admire.
I am not one of those people.
Oh, I had the goals. I even wrote them down (ok, I just re-recycled my 2012 list, still, they are goals). I got around to starting my New Years diet plan on the 7th. Not ideal, I admit, but I started. And, I followed a very strict meal plan. Until supper.
Not to be deterred, I began anew today. I woke up and headed out into the world full of determination. That lasted until lunch.
Now I am forced to reevaluate myself. It isn’t that I don’t want to meet that goal. It’s always at the top of my list. But, I believe that the truth is in your perception of yourself. In order to avoid a pit of pessimism I have to look at what I have accomplished this year. I made four resolutions this year. I have managed to be unwavering in two of them. That is 50%! And everyone knows that 50% + 50%= 100%. So, suck it, bitches! I’m kicking ass on my New Years resolutions.


Kickin’ it Shawshank Style

The family felon has been at it again. For those of you who aren’t familiar with Li’l Bastard, you can get acquainted with his previous crimes here. You see, Li’l Bastard is a criminal to rival all highly evolved criminals. For every road block I put up to curb his criminal ways, he finds another way around them and an all new, highly evolved crime.

Since his last incarceration, Li’l Bastard has been on a very strict probationary period. He’s been sporting the electric monitoring device, similar to Lindsay Lohan’s only worn around his neck as opposed to the ankle. And, like Lindsay Lohan, is always looking for a way around the system. He quickly learned where the loopholes in the system are (the front door, the garage door, any door leading to the front yard) and he will run over anyone to get through that loophole.

Several weeks ago we had a breakdown in the system. We replaced the system (that was the easiest and most expensive solution) only to find out that we would have to rewire the entire yard. The Hubbin’ was convinced that Li’l Bastard “won’t get out” and that he was trained to respect the boundaries. I guess, by the theory of Pavlov’s dog, we assumed he was conditioned and wouldn’t even get close to the fence. We were wrong.

It started with the trash cans. Those enticing scents, drew him near, and he found that he could get into the trash. What a party it must have been when he tipped over the first full can, and I can only guess by the confetti that was left behind in the yard. Next, it was the gates left open by the kids.  There was the narrow space under the front gate. Then jumping on the fence to bark at the joggers, walkers, bikers, cars, and birds that passed the fence. And then, because going over and under the fence became too easy, he decided to go through it. It wasn’t just that he was literally breaking his way through the fence, but there was something very Shawshank Redemption about it. When we found the whole it was around a corner, behind the bushes and splintered wood panels unseen under the bushes. The only thing missing was a RIta Hayworth poster to cover the hole.

And so, Li’l Bastard is back on parole. The yard has been rewired, electric collar has brand new batteries and the neighborhood can rest easy again.


Karma’s a Bitch With a Needle

We all go through phases in our lives and I’ve been through my fair share. There was the new wave/punk phase, the “experiment with everything my parents hate” phase, the “This is FlyBoy and I LUV him” phase (which coincidentally occurred in the height of the “experiment with everything my parents hate” phase).

Not all phases are of our choosing. The “poodle permanent, oval plastic frame glasses and braces” phase was definitely NOT my choice (though I did cap it off with the Madonna inspired neon ankle socks & fingerless lace gloves).

Right now I am in a phase that I didn’t choose. Oh, sure, I played a part, I admit that I can’t keep my opinions to myself. Particularly when I: 1.) am asked, and 2.) am paying the mortgage, doing most of the laundry, cooking , grocery shopping and managing the schedules of 4 out of 5 members of the household. And so, I now find myself firmly entrenched in the “You’re the worst mother in the world” phase of my life.

It isn’t a phase that one actively seeks out. No mother aspires to reach that status. You just kind of fall in to it. And once you do, it’s a bitch to get out of it.

The “You’re the worst mother in the world” phase is a bit of a catch-22. You can’t get into it if you don’t really care about your kids, but it’s so hard to get out of it because you care about your kids. I could easily get out of this phase by just deciding that I don’t give a shit anymore. Believe me, I’ve thought about it. I’ve run through the scenarios and here’s how I see that playing out: I tell my kids that I don’t give a shit anymore. “I don’t give a shit if you clean your room, use shampoo in your hair, flush the toilet or do your homework.” They, in turn, grow up to be lazy, smelly, under employed idiots–though arguably the most dedicated video game players known to mankind–who can’t keep a roommate or job because of their slovenly ways. At some point, they are going to need rent, or bail, money (again due to said slovenly ways). They are going to swear to pay it back, or work it off, and because I know better, I’ll have to say “No”. And at that point, I’ll once again enter the “You’re the worst mother in the world” phase.

So, here I am stuck in this phase while it plays out. Which brings me to Karma. And the needle. You see, my precious, darling children–the ones who talk back, indignantly break rules, and try to tattle to my husband when I punish them–had a little surprise after school today. Oh, yes, my friends, it is flu shot season. And I admit I took a very sick and perverse pleasure this year in hauling my brood to the flu shot clinic.
don’t judge, I’m not in the mood. EVER


The Realization of (a Part of) a Dream

First the good news: 30 minutes ago I received my first e-mail contact from an actual literary agent. I have to tell you, this is an agent that’s been on my short list of ideal agents for several years. Some names have dropped off the list and new ones have been added over the years, but this agent is one that I can remember being on my dream list since I made the decision to pursue my writing dreams.

For those of you who may not be writers, I should tell you that, second only to being accepted for publication, the thing aspiring writers dream of most is getting “the call” (or e-mail) from a literary agent. That dream isn’t one that comes to fruition for many. It takes years of hard work and to have in hand a highly polished and brilliantly written story. That’s just the beginning, though. As you send your manuscript out to the agent you’ve so carefully chosen, the one person who, among all other agents in the natural world, you have chosen to pin all of your hopes and dreams on, you become a pawn to the forces in the universe. Did you put enough postage on the envelope? Address it properly? If your manuscript does manage to survive the trials of the USPS, or email, did it arrive during the submission period? Does the first reader like it? Does the agent even like it? If they do like it, is your manuscript so unique and timely that they want to represent it or have they just signed four other authors with similar manuscripts? So many factors conspire against an aspiring writer receiving that contact from a literary agent that it often seems an impossibility that such a small thing as a call or e-mail will ever happen. Many writers give up, frustrated with the odds of ever succeeding.

I’ve never given up, though. I haven’t always written as regularly as I should, I have too many projects which aren’t yet polished and ready for submission. But I also knew that I wouldn’t ever give up and that it would happen for me (yeah, I have confidence in my writing, hell yeah, I do!). And, after all these years, I have an e-mail in my inbox from an agent. One of the agents on my weathered, dog-eared list of dream agents. It was an amazing feeling to open my e-mail and see that name, so familiar, waiting for me. (You writers out there know what I am talking about!)

Now for the bad news: The e-mail was just a thank you for the heads up I’d given them that their Twitter account was hacked and sending me messages with nefarious looking links.

Oh yeah, imagine my short-lived excitement when I saw that the literary agency was sending me direct messages on Twitter. Momentary bliss!


3 Keys to Happiness

While on vacation with my family I discovered that the keys to happiness boils down to 3 things. See if you can find the 3 not so cleverly placed items that are located in the photo:

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Easing back into it

It hasn’t been any surprise to me that I’ve been neglecting my blog. What is a surprise is that the last time I blogged anything was in June. I could have sworn it was way earlier in the year. Like February! So, needless to say, I’m already feeling pretty full of myself and like I suck only half as bad as I thought 5 minutes ago.

Now here I am, filled with all these ridiculous New Years resolutions that I come up with EVERY year (would have been so easy to just cut, paste & repost last years goals!). One of those resolutions is to make some kind of damn effort do a better job in keeping up with my blog. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not deluded enough to think that I possess some magical information and its my obligation to share my insight with the world. I know that most of what I have to say is shit. What is important is that I have an outlet to purge this shit from my soul. To infect the world, if you will. Because some of the stuff that happens in a girls life is just too twisted and bizarre for her to keep to herself.

So… a quick run-down of my year: went to a very, very dark place (kind of like a quick trip to hell only without the warmth), saw the light & went towards it, trained for and ran a 5k (a different and shorter trip to hell) with The Middle, welcomed two new victims into our extended family (a boy and a girl) who, I’m pretty sure are already checking their contracts for an escape clause, had a squatter stationed in my extra bedroom for a few months before he decided that free room & board isn’t such a great deal when said room seems to be located within a sanctuary for wild rabid monkeys.

After surviving 2011, what could 2012 possibly throw at me? Oh, well, yeah, there’s that whole end of the world theory, but that isn’t until December!

Lets do this….


We May Be in Need of a Pediatric Dentist


Pooping in the Potty: An 8 Part Series

I realized very early on that potty training was the single-most exasperating task when dealing with toddlers. With The Oldest I was relentless. “Do you need to use the potty?”, ”Did you use the potty?”, “Why won’t you use the fucking potty?” I seemed to believe that the only way I could prove my worth as a mother was to have this mammal potty trained at the earliest possible moment. It seems that, by societal standards, if your child isn’t potty trained before their off the breast you’ve failed as a mother and your child is viewed as an imbecile (maybe that’s why so many mothers breast feed until their child goes to Kindergarten?). With this child I was acutely in tune to every noise, action, or lack of either, that would signal that he was about to evacuate some orifice in his body. It got to the point that every time I called out, “what are you do-ing?” the poor child answered with, “I’m not poo-ping!”

The Middle was drastically easier. That child sees what his older brother is doing or has accomplished and instinctively sets out to best him. I kid you not, this child potty trained himself!

And now, with The Oldest, I’ve had a completely different experience. You see, I’m older, I tire more easily, and I just don’t have the drive for perfection that I started with. Once The Baby figured out how to pee in the pot (and its been pretty hit-or-miss about how consistently he actually uses it) I kind of took a less compelling route to total potty independence. He has underwear in his drawer, but let’s be honest, the Pull-Ups are so damned convenient and easier to deal with when I forget to make him potty. On top of that, this kid is a little more worldly than the others. When I asked him why he wouldn’t poop in the potty, he explained, very seriously, that “I’m just not ready.”   When I pressed him further, “Well, when are you going to start pooping in the potty?” he lovingly cupped my faced in his tiny little pudgy hands and very patiently said, “when I’m ready.” So, not needing to make any more work for myself, I let it go. When a kids not ready, a kids not ready, right? Why push the matter?

Today, apparently, he was ready. He rushed into the kitchen where I was putting away groceries and said, “Mama, I have to poop!” Now, I know he’s new at this, and it’ll take some time to develop his skill and figure out how everything works, but so far, that one turd, which I’m sure is just a regular sized turd, has required 8 trips to the bathroom, each of which produced a single pellet. Making this one poop an eight part series.


Trying to Make Amends (or: This Will Be Used Against Me Someday)

A few months ago some crazy, apocalyptic-type shit went down in my life. As a result of that, I was hesitant to speak, much less blog about anything.  The result of that is that I failed to blog about the birthday of my wonderful son, The Oldest.

Ten years ago a little creature showed up who rattled my world. Suddenly, I was somebody’s mother, and it actually felt different. I’d been sure that motherhood would never change me, and then I found that the very core of my existence had been flipped on its axis. I found that I could give completely, could think first of another and that I could survive with only 30 minutes of sleep at a time for weeks!

In ten years he has brought me some of my highest moments, as well as my most crushing defeats (why the hell is potty training such a nightmare?). There have been times when I’ve hurt so bad for him. It’s true, he doesn’t fit neatly into many molds and that doesn’t go unnoticed by other kids–and adults–who can be so mean and dismissive. And I want to scream at them, with pride and rage, “Don’t you see that’s what makes him so goddamn unique you single-dimensional fuck!”

He makes me laugh with his witty insight and goofy sense of humor. He challenges me  with his stubborn nature. He warms my heart when he cuddles me. And I love that boy.

The Oldest’s birthday falls near Memorial Day weekend (fittingly!). This year, school was still in session during his birthday for the first time. It was the last day of school, but it still counts!  The fourth grade field trip was also scheduled for the last day of school. I went with his class on a trip to Ouray, CO. The entire fourth grade class went on a tour of an old silver mine, had a picnic lunch, and then went swimming at the Ouray Hot Springs Pool.

Beautiful Ouray, CO…  

At the mine  

The Oldest with his mining hat   

Here is our charming tour guide on the mine tour (proof that some people really should work underground. Deep, deep underground) 

 

The birthday finished up two days later with an official birthday party, group viewing of Kung Fu Panda 2 with a few friends, and a sleep-over (if you look really close you might be able to see all nine bodies…) I think the thing that he most appreciated was the fact that the entire 4th grade class was able to share in his 10th birthday. “Well, son, I planned it that way just for you!” And if he doesn’t believe that, you can bet that this late post will someday be used against me. Along with all the others!

 

 

 

 

 

 


A Wonderful Dead End


Why Doesn’t Anyone Take Ca$h Anymore?

There are so many cyclical events in my life–and they all seem to involve the almighty dollar. Either I’m shelling out the cash or involved in some scheme to reel it in on behalf of some entity. Right now, we are in the middle of Little League season. Since Day 1 of practice I’ve had my eye keenly tuned to the group of parents in the stands, huddled together against the bipolar Colorado spring weather (tanning one day then ass freezing cold the next). I’ve been waiting for the day she would make herself known. You know who I mean: the Team Mom. The over-eager, ultra-organized, Delegator-type who has over-the-top ideas about all the great things we, as parents, should accomplish for our team. Not only does she have all of these crazy-assed schemes ideas, but she comes with charts and graphs about who has been assigned to do what, and when it’s to be done. Every day we went to practice, and every day she didn’t rear her head. Then I realized maybe, in order to throw off the parents who were avoiding the Team Mom/Delegator they had enlisted a Team Dad. And so, I waited.  No dad. No team snack lists. No overly decorated four-wheeler tractor/parade float plans. Could it be? No fund-raising? No parental responsibility (beyond delivering the players to the game and yelling at the umpire, of course)?

Don’t get me wrong, I know that all of these activities my kids are involved in require funding. I just don’t understand why so many people think its easier to bake two dozen damn cupcakes and take my kids out to peddle them at the feet of all the un-registered offenders  in town than to just hand over the cash.

And then, four games into the season, just when I thought we were home free, Coach announces that he has a list of dates that our team has to help run the concession stand and we have to send three parent volunteers–and for the record, they use the word volunteer incorrectly, they are actually referring to parent draftees–to work for 2 1/2 hours. So there I am, in a group of parents and facing the coach, what else could I do? I picked the first night and sent The Hubbin’ off  to sling soda and snacks for an evening. So, don’t ever let it be said that I won’t do my part and sacrifice for the kids.


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