Undomestic Diva

I went to Hotlanta and all I got was a broken ass. (I would have been happy with a t-shirt.)

There's a song by Fergie that sings "If you ain't got no money take your broke ass home." Well I ain't got no money and I have a broken ass, so I dutifully left Hotlanta where I had surprised my sister for her engagement party this past weekend for home-sweet-home, only there was nothing G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S about it if you know what I'm sayin'. And I think you do.

I don't know if a broken ass (literally - it was x-ray'd) is the sign of a great bachelorette party or a very bad one, but put me in 4" heels (albeit awesome ones), on a moving bus lined in fur (except the floor, APPARENTLY) with spilled club soda (WHO THE FUCK SPILLED THAT?) on the floor and, well, let's just say that there are now two cracks in my ass. One that's been there since birth and the other just since Friday night.

I've told you all I'm a good time. You probably thought I meant I was the life of the party... No, no. I just provide the entertainment. At my own expense. Says the girl writing this post from the false comfort of a donut pillow under her fanny.

I called my sister RV and told her the official diagnosis today and I'm pretty certain she fell out of her desk chair laughing out loud at work. To the point where she had to explain to her co-workers (Hi Mary!) and boss why she was all shits-and-giggles and unfortunately for me, that included referring to my ass hitting the flo' not in the way Flo' Rida suggests.

Picking up my younger two boys from school, I gave them a G-rated explanation of why "mommy hurts" by explaining that my butt hurt because there are bones in there (SHUT-UP) and one of them broke. My 5 year old smirks, SMIRKS, "So you broke your ass bone?" Kinda like, "just give it to me straight." Then they giggled. My 5 and 3 year old laughed at me.

FMITA. Only, don't. *winces* 

Of course Candy Ass is just having a field day with this. He has an uncanny knack for coming up with ass jokes and quips constantly about my 'broke ass' and being a 'pain in the ass' and so on and so forth. I'm trying desperately to remember his other great qualities right now so his ass can remain intact. I'm not gonna lie; it's hard. He's being kind of an ass. (Heh.)

The truth is, other than The Great Fall which everyone has made a 'crack' about, both the bachelorette (video coming soon!) and engagement parties were great successes and I was sooooo excited to get to go to Atlanta and be there for it all.

Stopping the clock

"Someone played with me today and he was a girl and his name was Isabella."

That's what you told me yesterday when I picked you up from preschool. I decided immediately that you're not allowed to turn five years old today because that means you're no longer four and that just can't be. Suddenly you're figuring out that 'people' don't just exist but 'girls' and 'boys' and this color 'pink' when up until now your whole world was saturated in hues of reds, blues and greens and there were no pigtails or dresses or 'Isabellas' no matter how lovely she may be.

Sure, discovering new things and differences in people and learning about the world are good for you, but they're also indications of growing up and I just can't have that happen. My cuddly L-Dub is getting too big for my lap (though there will always be a place for you there) and doesn't want to be kissed when saying "bye" at school (opting for a high-five and a fist-bump we blow-up each time instead) and when you scored that awesome goal last weekend during your soccer game our cheers and whistles and tears of excitement flat-out embarrassed you.

Sometimes I wrestle you down to the ground and kiss you on the cheek repeatedly while you beg me to stop, furious that I'd have the audacity to smother you with my nonsense and 'smooches' when obviously, you're waaay too cool for that already. And you were still four then. What you don't know is that when you've finally given into sleep each night, I come kiss your round cheeks some more, knowing their fullness that earned you the nickname "Chunk" won't last forever. I also whisper in your ear how much I love you because I want you to hear it and know it and for it to be the last thing you hear every single night.

L-Dub, you are my cuddler, my peacemaker, my helper, my endless source of laughter, my pride and my friend. I'm certain you'll have lots of friends as you get older and meet other kids - girls even - but for now, I can't help but want to keep you to myself. Or maybe forever.

Happy Birthday. I love you, dude.

*fist bump*

Love,
Mom

It's been ONE OF THOSE weeks... and I'm grateful

It's been one of those weeks. The kind where you want to wave your white flag, shrug and drop your hands, give up and walk away SCREAMING "I quit" because oh my god, what else, what else, what else?

I didn't panic over the swine flu. I knew it wasn't something to take lightly, but I was also able to look at it rationally and just do what I could as a parent to make sure my son got better. Which, granted, wasn't much more than hydrate him, keep him away from other children (because I am a responsible parent) and keep an eye on him for 'changes.'

Thursday morning E woke up with little-to-no temperature for the first time in 6 days. I was ecstatic. Finally, he (we, really) were going to be done with this swine flu crap and move on. Just in time for Halloween and for my Dad visiting, for L-Dub's birthday party Sunday... just... YAY.

And then E said his legs hurt. Well maybe he slept on them funny and they were tingly the way a leg might feel after it has fallen asleep. A little later, they still hurt. Hmmm. A little later and he was limping. And then tiptoeing.

Shit.

I called the pediatrician's office who sent us to the emergency room. I fell apart. WHAT ELSE? WHAT NOW? Just two hours previously, I was sure he was over this. And now? What the hell?

Myalgia. Which, hopefully, not a big deal though we have to watch him for the next 24 hours to make sure it doesn't worsen.

There went his chance at attending his school Halloween party and parade. He wouldn't get to play soccer Saturday. I had to cancel L-Dub's birthday party for now. And trick-or-treating on Halloween night? I just don't know... You look a 6 year old G.I. Joe hopeful in the face and tell him he can't do it.

*

We carved pumpkins Thursday night. Business as usual. Only it wasn't usual. It was better than usual. 'Usually' it's a technicality; a hurry up and let's get this done sort of scenario. On the surface it may have looked like any other Halloween pumpkin carving evening, but this time I was just grateful to 'have' to be doing it.

Because of all the things I didn't sign up for when I became a parent, being scared has to be the most unnerving. The idea that you can't always protect your child - whether it be from an illness or a bully or from disappointment in general - is awful. The birthday party can be postponed, a missed soccer game isn't the end of the world and while missing the class Halloween party sucks when you're six, I'm just grateful I have that child to have to face and break the news to.

  You can view the rest of the photos here.

Best Money Ever Spent

For the first time ever, I paid someone MONEY! to help me clean my house. Why I feel so completely guilty or precocious over this fact, I don't know, but I broke down and paid MONEY! to have someone deep-clean my kitchen while I handled the bathrooms. (I have three boys and a guilty conscience. I couldn't make her do it.)

BEST MONEY EVER SPENT and could possibly save my marriage on many levels. At least, this is how I planned on explaining it to Candy Ass when he returned from his fishing trip after first asking him if a) he noticed how very clean his house was and, b) wouldn't he LOVE IT if it were always - OK, mostly - this clean? and, c) very good then, we've agreed that we're hiring her! At which point he'll be like, WAIT. WHA? You paid someone to clean the house? And the eyerolling shall begin. BUT THEN, then I will show him the inside of the microwave which apparently is supposed to be white, not yellow-ish. (And did you know that turning glass plate comes out of there? Huh.) And if that didn't impress him I planned on showing him that weird drawer thing below the oven (whatever that's for) and show him that while no, I've never used or even opened or understood what it's for, IT'S CLEAN TOO! Ta-daaa!

The only loophole in my fail-proof plan is the part where Candy Ass then says all logically and shit (I hate when he gets all logical on me), "OK, well let's sit down and make a new budget and see if hiring her will work." And that right there? Could be the end of our marriage - having to sit down and talk finances just so HE can have the clean house HE always wanted ME to provide. (And to my credit, I'd be providing it, technically, via a little outsourcing.) But at the cost of creating a BUDGET? Oh hail no.

So maybe I don't tell him I, er, delegated that particular duty. Maybe I just take credit for suddenly discovering and dusting the ovenhood thing?  

I know. I'm doomed. Break out the bank statements, an excel spreadsheet and a bottle of Xanax.

How do you spell suck? S-W-I-N-E F-L-U

I was standing in the hallway of the pediatrician's office waiting for my sons to be weighed before their appointment with a new doctor in the practice when I saw our normal doctor, Dr. B, pass through in between patients. His schedule was full by the time I had called today, so I agreed to see the new doctor to figure out why two of my three guys had so suddenly come down with high fevers, dry coughs and become completely lethargic.

"Hey Dr. B," I stopped him. "Do I get my kids the H1N1 vaccine or just the regular flu shot this year? I can't decide - I've heard so many arguments for and against it."

"Normally, I wouldn't push the vaccines, but this year, I'd say get it if you can find it. We're having a really hard time getting a hold of either the shot or mist."

It was settled. I trust Dr. B. He, like me, raised three boys and will tell me what the American Academy of Pediatrics would recommend and what he, as a father, would personally do in any given situation and then let me decide.

*

I was expecting that strep throat may have reared its ugly head once again and wasn't the least bit surprised when the new doctor said she wanted to do a strep culture to check for it. But when she also suggested that my oldest might have the Swine Flu, my heart screeched to a halt.

Say wha? Swine flu?

Then the new doctor said she could test for it but wasn't going to because she "couldn't treat him for it if he had it anyway" because he wasn't considered an at-risk patient.

Um.

"Shouldn't I know whether he has it or not?" I asked. "Shouldn't his school know whether he has it?"

"We can do the test if you want but it's not a pleasant test..."

Oh, so now I'm the bad mother for putting my son through a possibly unnecessary test to see if he has the Swine Flu. THAT THEY WON'T TREAT.

I thought the whole scary/weird/unnerving thing about the Swine Flu was the fact it's KILLING children (and young adults) who are seemingly HEALTHY as opposed to the regular, seasonal flu that, in most cases, usually affects the elderly and unhealthy. But you won't treat my child?

He tested positive. Positive for H1N1. Positive for strep throat.

*LOUD SIGH* 

So I asked her, when do I worry then, since you won't treat him? He's had a temperature of 103 for four days now and it doesn't come down with Motrin and Tylenol in his system. When does he "qualify" for medication? Her answer baffled me: "Well, the CDC says not to medicate an otherwise healthy child with Tamiflu until he requires hospitalization." And that would be WHEN? "When he starts having difficulty breathing or can't hold liquids any longer."

!%$#@!*!?

I just don't get that. I don't think my son should have to require being hospitalized before being given medication. Why should it get to that point?

As much as I just want to karate chop, junk punch and rip out the beating heart of our healthcare system right now and feed it to the CEOs of major health insurance companies, I really need to just focus my energy on my boys right now.

Lucky for them. 

And also on notifying an elementary school and a holy rollin' preschool tomorrow without panicking the shit out of them... *winces*

My laptop caught the clap

(Should the clap be capitalized like as in The Clap? Should I worry about this, really, when my laptop is so overwhelmed with viruses and worms and other disgusting unwelcomed parasites that I attempt to log-in and it screams at me: ACCESS DENIED!? Probably not. But I still worry, debate and go back-and-forth as to whether The Clap should be capitalized or not. Priorities.)

So really, I don't know that I even have to write this post now that I just went all DOTM (Diarrhea of the Mouth) on you in that first paragraph pretty much explaining my whole dilemma and why I'm now blogging from the strange confines of my boys' laptop where, yes, the keys are in all the same places EXCEPT THEY'RE NOT and god, there's a whole lotta backspacing going on - more than I'm comfortable with - and if all laptops could just put the gotdamn 'delete' button in the same spot and make it the same size I'm almost certain the world would be a more peaceful place.

(And yes, I had to disclose that I was blogging from another laptop because I was pretty sure you could tell something was different about this post than all the others and I really didn't want to hold anything back from you.)

The real bummer is I was, like, halfway done, probably thisclose - at least - with my Maui video that I was planning on forcing you to watch and then BLAM! I get all these warnings and errors and then my computer starts squealing at me like a dying hamster and it all got blurry and cold and dark after that. (That might have been the weather I'm describing - it's been foggy lately and we're expecting rain, but it also might have been the experience of laptop flatlining right before my eyes. I can't remember which.)  That's pretty much the extent of my technical expertise - where I look at the black screen BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEPing and shrug and yell to Candy Ass, "MY COMPUTER IS BROKEN... FIX IT!" And he immediately says, "What did you download? I told you not to download shit." And I say, "But I didn't download ANYTHING. I swear!" And so on and so forth.

Candy Ass hasn't given me the official diagnosis yet but if I had to apply all my technical training and knowledge I'm pretty sure my laptop has caught (been infected with?) the clap/The Clap and GAWD it could not have come at a worse time. But then again, if it weren't for bad luck? I'd have no luck at all.

God I miss Maui.

A letter to the Wearers of Clothes in this house

Dear Wearers of Clothes in this house,

Perhaps it’s time I clarified the apparently unobvious rules of laundry in this house you live in so that you and I can remain on good terms and well-laundered without any confusion or pesky static cling:

1.       I will not collect laundry from every single room of the house. Yet? I find dirty laundry in every single room of the house. When your soccer jersey isn’t clean in time for this week’s game, maybe you should consider this. PUT YOUR DIRTY LAUNDRY IN THE DIRTY LAUNDRY PILE.

2.       The way I receive your socks is the way I will wash, dry and return them to you. In other words, deliver me your wadded up, halfway inside out sock, and that’s exactly how I will put it through the washer and then the dryer and then back into your drawer. IT IS NOT MY JOB TO UN-WAD YOUR NASTY DIRTY SOCKS BEFORE WASHING.

3.       Speaking of socks, I also will not collect them from the insides of shoes or cleats or cowboy boots, from under or behind the couch nor constantly buy you new ones when you can’t find any because they’re scattered like stanky shrapnel in every square inch of our home. SOCKS DO NOT GROW ON TREES. TECHNICALLY THE COTTON GROWS ON BUSHES. BUT NEVER MIND THAT. I’M NOT MADE OF MONEY AND WILL NOT BUY YOU ANYMORE SOCKS THIS YEAR AND MY LAUNDERING SKILLS + BLEACH ONLY GOES SO FAR.

4.       Also, socks are not for fun. Because laundry is not fun. So no, you may not get out another pair of socks to go “ice skating” down the hallway because it’s “swippewy.” YOU ARE LIMITED TO ONE PAIR OF SOCKS PER DAY AND GOD HELP YOU IF I SEE YOU WEARING THEM OUTSIDE.

5.       It is not my job to extract your underwear from within your pants/shorts/bottom halves. I especially do not need to see your underwear/pants combo arrive in the laundry area inside out, crotch side out thankyouverymuch. KINDLY REMOVE YOUR UNDERWEAR FROM YOUR PANTS/SHORTS/BOTTOM HALVES BEFORE PLACING IN THE LAUNDRY PILE. (What’s a laundry pile, you ask? See #1)

6.       Just like your socks, I wash the rest of your clothes As Is. Meaning, As they come, Is how I wash them. You left your wallet with your social security card in your pants pocket? Not my fault. Your chapstick survived the wash but ruined the entire load of laundry by leaving greasy spots all over everyone’s clothes when it melted in the dryer? Not my fault. You left a paper towel or tissue in your pocket? TOTALLY YOUR FAULT NOW COME CLEAN IT UP. You left your felt tip pen in your pocket and it decorated all the clothes AND the dryer? TOTALLY YOUR FAULT NOW COME CLEAN IT UP. Forgot to empty the change from your pockets? Nice. BUT WOULD IT KILL YOU TO ACCIDENTALLY LEAVE A $20 EVERY NOW AND THEN? CHRIST.

7.       Because I’m kind enough to do your laundry for free (Yes, you heard me correctly. There’s a reason you have to pay a Cleaner’s to touch your stanky ass clothes – clean laundry is a service not a right), know that in return you must be willing to deal with the floset. [definition: floor + closet; a closet on the floor] It’s a small miracle that you have clean underwear, socks and clothes (most days) so asking me to actually fold and put them all away is just being a little greedy, don’t you think? THE DRYER WORKS BETTER THAN IRONING – DON’T LISTEN TO THE CONSERVATIONISTS.

Now I am certain if everyone in the house follows these 7 tips for laundry success! (felt we needed an exclamation point there!) then I just KNOW we will all be a much happier and better smelling family in no time at all.

Love,

Mom

 

P.S. Sorry you don't have any clean socks today. But I had to get a new blog post up. It's been a few days. xoxo - Mom

This is my post.

It's been four days. FOUR DAYS. And the flu has been cruel to my boys. Unrelenting. Thank god for Mario Kart, popsicles from Grandma, mass quantities of Motrin and Tylenol, ice water, favorite blankets, bean bag chairs and Netflix.

(And while I hate to see them so miserably sick, I have to say that their need for some old fashioned cuddling has definitely been nice.)

The Salsa Making Beaver

Really, I'm at a loss for words. So... cue the video, James.

(And yes, I fully admit that making you watch this video of my kids at their weirdest just being them is the equivalent of inviting you over to my house for dinner and then making you watch old slides in the living room of my childhood. And if you feel like complaining about that, to you I'd just like to say, don't be an ungrateful houseguest, asshole.)

At some point, I realize my kids talking about their imaginary animals goes from harmless to a little weird to downright embarrassing like, yo, Megan, you might want ixnay how much you alktay about your idskay. But it hasn't reached that point yet, right?

RIGHT?

Twitter is to tourettes what benadryl is to allergies*

*Don't hate me for that title. TONGUE-IN-CHEEK people, learn it.

I know I've been blogging about my kids a lot lately which is sort of odd because I don't normally blog about them often... just lately they've been all up in my grill and provided plenty of fodder and just like that wham! bam! you can call me a mommyblogger if you dare, but I'm pretty sure the number of times I drop the F word in its many contexts excludes me from that fine group of women.

I have no point to this other than to warn you that this is yet another post pertaining to my kids... kinda sorta where "about my kids" = the nightmare that is Back to School Night.

The actual meeting the teacher and getting to see the classroom part isn't all that bad, really. It's that godforsaken 20 minute assembly beforehand where the principal gets up and tells you in her best monotone voice (think Ben Stein) how enthusiastic she is about this school year, how test scores are up and how much she loves us parents even though I can't get the bitch to return my phone calls when I have a concern.

If her speech isn't enough to make me itch and want to stand up in the middle of the room of at least a few hundred attentive parents and walk out because I NEEEEEEDED TO, the lethal combination of women's competing perfume (literally - war of the roses. And in some cases, war of the grass or compost piles it smells like) and eau de charcoal from the menfolk could have been killing me slowly. Like black mold.

Where the fuck is Larry H. Parker when you really need that bastard?

Candy Ass points out after that I could *possibly* have a mild form of tourettes because I feel the absolute need to make snarky comments OUT LOUD every time they run through my head (read: constantly). Thankfully, I feel like Twitter has alleviated much of this embarrassment on his part since now rather blurting out everything I'm thinking, I twitter most of it and *only* blurt out some of it. Progress, right?

In between my eye rolling, I survey the other parents who are happily waving at each other from across the auditorium, who are clapping and even w00ting for certain teachers when they are introduced and who flock together before and after the assembly to cackle like hens. I will never fit in with them. This, actually gives me some relief. 

Later, women wearing aprons (why aprons? no one is cooking. I don't see a gotdamn cookie in this place) will accost me about joining and getting! involved! in! the! PTA! and fuck, I may have been guilted into the position of team mom when it came to soccer this year, BUT DO NOT TAKE ME FOR A FOOL LADIES, I will not be PTAing it up ever. EVER. Here's my $5 for the PTA fundraiser, now leave me alone. 

:::

The tangent where I get all pissy:

Did I mention our PTA's fundraising goal for the Jog-A-Thon this year? You know, at a time when people are losing their homes to foreclosure, banks are closing their doors, unemployment is at its highest and the economy is struggling? Oh, our school thinks $50,000 would be great. 

$50,000

Don't EVEN get me started on where that money went last year. 'Cause I couldn't tell you. I had to buy/donate $200 worth of ink cartridges so my son's Kindergarten class could print homework. The only field trip he had was the one where they *walked* to a grocery store *across the street* to take a tour. You know, so when they grow up to bag groceries, they're well informed. 

(I told you not to get me started.)