GNO, OMG!

We've had Snotapalooza goin' on up in my house for at least the last week.  I mean seriously, how much mucous can a nine-month-old make?  A lot. 

I was invited to a Girls' Night Out with my four fab sustas and my mother this past Friday night.  I thought I would feel guilty about leaving my sick baby with his daddy.  WRONG!  Whew!  I could not get out of the house fast enough.  It was a much-needed reprieve.

Getting all the girls in my family together usually takes the planets and stars aligning just so.  Not the case this time.  My sister-in-law seemed to pull it off with a couple of e-mails.  Literally. 

I drove one of my sustas and my mother to Raleigh to meet the other three, since we are scattered all over the great state of North Carolina.  We did not make it out of the driveway before I had to remind Mother that her ticket said "Passenger" and mine said "Pilot".  (Control issues.  Sheesh).  We made it safely--and on time, thankyouverymuch. 

All six of us piled back in the MamaMobile to head downtown to a holiday extravaganza shopping SPREE!  There were two full bars, 'cause apparently that's how they roll in Raleigh.  Just sayin'.  Shoppin' and drankin'. 

There were vendors from all over selling just about everything imaginable.  Clothes, jewelry, pottery, accesories, you name it.  I was thisclose to buying organic bamboo cloth diapers.  Looking back on it now, it must have been sleep deprivation 'cause in my right mind, I wouldn't have given it a second thought.  But we could save so much money!  Thank goodness one of my sustas restored me to sanity. 

We then headed to dinner at this awesome Lebanese restaurant downtown.  After a mild hiccup in my evening caused by one of my teenagers, I dined on an awesome seafood crepe and had some of the best hummus I've ever tasted. 

We then headed to one of the bars where my brother hangs out.  Or as my sister-in-law calls it, "loiters".  It was obvious this place was like a second home, as he has his own stool and was hanging out with an off-duty bartender.  Yikes.  Whenever I log on to Facebook, I see where he has "Checked-In" at this joint (nightly) and was thrilled when his wife "Checked-In" and tagged me as well.  Okay so I might have actually asked her to.  Multiple times.  I'm not cool enough nor do I leave the house enough to warrant checking in somewhere on the Facebook, so it was nice to get to do it, just this once. 

We then said our goodbyes and headed home.  I got in waaaaay past my bedtime and walked in to hear a still-snotty Skinky screaming.  My immediate thought was, Yessss!  He's awake!

Motherhood is in and of itself a sickness, turns out.

Ah-ha!

Shhhh . . . . . hear that?  If you listen very carefully, you can hear my light bulb flickering on; shedding light on how I got in the grips of the funk.

Did you know that it is completely normal to long for adult interaction and a life outside of the confines of motherhood?  You did!?!  Well why the hell didn't you tell me?

Awareness is a wonderful thing, and I have received a whole heap in the last two days.  I am self-aware to a fault. I can analyze myself to death.  If I've learned anything in my adult life, it's that most of my problems start and end with me.  That said, I honestly didn't see this coming.  

I have had a pretty rough go of it since I quit work over a year ago to pursue higher education in a career I adore.  There's something ingrained in me that tells me I'm useless unless I'm gainfully employed (thanks, Dad!).  I remember anxiously awaiting Riley's arrival and relaying to my husband that I was ready for the baby to get here so I could feel as though I had a purpose, because school didn't do it for me.  Surely being a new Mommy again would make me feel useful, right?  That should have been red flag number one.  Yeah, missed it.

There was a happiness study recently conducted among women that showed that women are more in love with idea of motherhood than motherhood itself.  I had a fantasy in my head and numerous expectations of how fulfilled I would be caring for a baby.  There are many, many joys to becoming a parent, don't get me wrong, but it is not my sole purpose in life.  It is perfectly okay to seek fulfillment from other sources.  Who knew?  That just doesn't align itself with my fantasy and fell short of my unreasonable expectations.  Thus me beating myself up and feeling completely guilty that caring for my baby isn't "enough" to fulfill me.  I honestly thought there was something very wrong with me for wanting anything other than my sweet, happy, adorable baby 24/7. 

I have been a Mom for over half my life--I am 35 years old.  Yikes.  Becoming a Mom at an early age has its pros and cons.  Being self-aware, I can spout off numerous mistakes I made with my oldest two children.  Some of them due to being young, naive, inexperienced, and just plain stupid at times.  After all, I had fifteen years to study my errors--that's how long it's been since my middle child was born.  When I found out I was pregnant last June, I promised myself I would not make the same mistakes with Riley.  I was not going to carry the burden of regret this time around.  At least not regret for the same mistakes.  I have set this poor child up to be my purpose, my sunshine, and my redemption.  Bless.  His.  Heart.  And mine.  However unknowingly, I brought this on myself.  There is a physiological component to this debacle too, but I can see where I set myself up for a meltdown.

Although it's still blurry, a picture of me outside of Mommy is coming into focus.  I have some idea of where to start in restoring some balance in my life.  To get me back.  Three days ago I was clueless with a solution nowhere in sight. 

Blessed awareness.  It is only in the light of awareness that I am truly humble, teachable, and ever-willing to explore new ideas. 

Good enough, for now. 

Miracle Moment

Ever have one of those days where everything seems to go in slow motion?  You know, everything  you do is a chore due to fatigue, illness, the blahs, whatever?  That's where I've been for the last nine months.

I have written posts about my funk and have recently learned that my body is playing tricks on me and it's driving me--and subsequently my family--nuts. 

I was having what is now a "normal" day.  Trying my best to be the epitome of SuperMom and get my chores done so I could end my day and wind down.  I was cleaning the kitchen after dinner and heard this coming from the living room . . . .

Trust me when I tell you, this is going on my gratitude list for today, because I have been unable to stop smiling since it happened.  Priceless.  Adorable.  And much needed. 

It is said that motherhood is a thankless job.  True dat.  In moments like this, I get all the thanks I need.

Circadian Dysrhythmia

SLEEP IS SACRED.  Period. 

It has always been no less than a religious, precious commodity to me.  My bed is my sanctuary.  I have a sleep machine, sun-blocking curtains in my bedroom, and a fan.  Ahhhh, a sanctuary indeed. 

My haven of rest has become a source of  anything but spiritual restoration as of late, as I have had quite unspiritual thoughts about what I am going to do to my spouse if he doesn't SHUT THE HELL UP WITH THAT SNORING!  Half of my thoughts have not only been unspiritual, but some of them illegal.  The man could wake the dead with all the noise he makes while sleeping.

"It's not like I do it on purpose.  I can't help the fact that I snore!"  And I can't help the fact that I can't sleep next to a damn buzz saw, now can I?   It's probably a Mommy thing, but I am a light sleeper.  Hence my wanting a bedtime divorce.  Lastnight as I tried to calm myself from my rage and drift off to sleep, I fantasized of having a house big enough that he could have his own bedroom.  On the opposite end of the house from mine.  With soundproof walls. 

It's true, he can't help it, and I know he doesn't do it intentionally. He knows he snores.  He knows it keeps me up.  Yet there's nothing done about it.  Yes, he's tried strips and sprays.  He even went to an ENT to have an eval after the sleep apnea test was negative.  After months of me telling him, "There is something anatomically and structurally wrong with you.  Normal people don't sound like that when sleeping."  I was right.  And after a surgery that has a 50/50 chance of working, it may reduce his snoring issue.  If the odds were a little better, I would have suggested it a long time ago.  Even if I had to turn tricks to finance it. 

He works.  At his job and here.  I know he's tired and it's not exactly fair to expect him to sleep on the couch night after night.  But, he does have the annoying ability to fall asleep anytime, anywhere.  I do not.  So, it makes sense for him to sleep elsewhere, right?  To my sleep-deprived brain, it makes perfect sense. 

It makes even more sense after I rise from a fitful night of attempting to sleep and my beloved looks at me with this shit-eating grin and asks me how I slept.  I can see why women end up on death row after serving their spouses a drink with a splash of cyanide.  Sleep he will. 

In the meantime, I'm headin' to Starbucks to get a quad latte and research whether temporary insanity secondary to sleep deprivation will hold up in court.

Dear Uncle Dean,

Uncle Dean,

My dearest Uncle, I am writing to ask for your assistance.  My penance here must come to an end, as I can no longer tolerate my horrific living conditions.  I have reached the limits of my patience. 

The woman who is called “Mommy” is obviously a babbling idiot.  The drivel that comes out of her mouth when addressing me is unbearable.  I realize that I am a baby, but she is apparently retarded if she cannot see that my intellect far exceeds her own.  And please don’t get me started on the “singing” she does, as it pains me to think about.  I laugh and smile to play along, but trust me when I tell you it’s awful.  And the pictures, oh the pictures.  As much as she holds that shiny thing up to my face, with that blinding bright light, I am surprised that she gets anything else done.  The shiny thing will be destroyed, of that I can assure you.

This “Daddy” fellow is quite a character also.  He insists on dressing me in these wretched bright orange outfits, complete with a hat, and makes me watch grown men chasing a leather ball on television.  Barbaric.  And the Daddy enjoys this.  It’s sad, really.  Bless his heart.  The Daddy has also been gracious enough to share not one, but two “colds” with me, which enraged the Mommy.  I don’t know why this upset her, but I can tell you that this illness caused me not to enjoy one of my true comforts, my paci, as I couldn’t breathe through my nose.  Unacceptable. 

I heard the Mommy tell the Daddy yesterday that the television is to remain off while I am awake.  She says I get too excited when I see that wonderful box coming to life to entertain me.  The lights and the noise offer an escape from my dreary time here, and that horrible woman wants to strip me of it.  I know that in and of itself is enough to warrant my displeasure.  It gets worse.

I am allotted three meals a day, which I must admit is the highlight of my sentence here.  They insist I eat at least one green vegetable a day.  The Daddy says that this will make me “big and strong”.  Is he blind or just dumb?  I am anything but unhealthy, as I weigh as much as a small toddler.  Which brings me to my next complaint:  Have you any idea what they expect me to wear on “Halloween” (whatever the hell that is)?  A COW costume.  Now, I am acutely aware that I am chubby, a wee bit food-motivated, and have a love of milk.  But seriously, a COW?  I find it degrading and insulting at best.  It is criminal child abuse and I have contemplated calling the authorities. 

See?  Do you see what I must endure?  Pathetic.

The furry four-legged thing has it out for me.  You should see the way it looks at me.  If the Mommy is on the floor playing with me, the furry thing walks right up and sits between us.  The Daddy coddles the thing and showers it with attention.  With all the treats and toys it gets, it has the nerve to go in to my toy basket and steal my toys.  Bitch.  It is the devil incarnate.

The only sunshine in my life is the long-haired one they tell me is my sister and the tall handsome one they call my brother. This must be true, because we do share devastating good looks. She talks to me and tells me that what I am going through is nothing compared to the hell she had to endure. Ribbons, dresses, dance lessons(!!), were just a few of the things she was tortured with. They expect them to clean their rooms! The brother tells me that I will fall prey to the same fate if I don’t escape soon. Yours truly will not be cleaning anything, and I expect to be long gone before they can demand such nonsense. The sister tells me they are setting her free in less than a year. Lucky girl.

The final straw was this plaything they expect me to entertain myself with.  It’s outrageously scary.  There are savage animals strewn all over this thing and a seat that rotates so that I can’t possibly miss their horrifying faces.  Everywhere I turn there they are—staring back at me with their frightening eyes.  And what’s worse, they expect me to exert myself by turning the damn seat myself.  Can you believe that?  It’s not enough that I am virtually standing in this thing—they expect me to burn calories by turning myself also.  Sir Riley is above physical exertion.  Imbeciles.

So, I beg of you, dear Uncle, to rescue me.  The lady who calls herself “Grandma” and was put on this Earth strictly for my entertainment, keeps telling me she is making sweet potatoes for “Thanksgiving”.  I am hoping this will entice you enough to come down from your mountain and save me. 

I have it all worked out.  We can train your furry thing (the Daddy calls it “Pixel”) to change me while you’re at work.  I can handle feeding myself, and I will nap when I damn well feel like it.  Other than that, my demands are pretty straight-forward.  I insist on a toddy of brandy before bed, and not the cheap stuff.  I also enjoy Cuban cigars on occasion.  I feel I would thrive in the world of academia, so I may even be able to accompany you as you teach.  If not, Pix (see, I already have a cute nickname for your furry thing) and I can just hang out at the house until you get there in the evening.  To clear up any possible misunderstandings, I don't do housework, yardwork, or cook.  My job is to look cute and eat.  In exchange for your hospitality, I will grace you with my presence and maybe give you some decorating advice.  Which from what I gathered on my short visit to your place, you could use.  Bright red paint in the half-bath?  Was that some sort of twisted joke gone awry?  I digress.

This will work out, you’ll see.  I don’t know what crime I have committed to have to endure this, but I feel I have paid my dues.  Seven months is long enough.  I look forward to seeing you on “Thanksgiving”.  There will be one ever-thankful little boy if you will kindly take me in.  Have your people call my people to firm up the details.

Love,

Your favorite nephew,

Riley

Karmic

John's been under the weather.  He has a cold.  A common cold. 

We're about as different as two people can be, in many different areas.  When I get symptoms of an illness, I deny it until it's undeniable.  I'm feeling a little sinus pressure, must be the weather.  Fever of 104?  How did that happen?  It'll break.  I'll be fine.  Until I feel like ass, I'm not sick.  I can think my way out of it.  If I admit I'm sick then suddenly I feel sick. 

Not hubby.  If he sneezes, he settles in to the mindset that he is ill.  He moves in to this line of thinking, makes himself comfortable, and stays there.  I am highly amused by this.

My Facebook status read:  "Public Service Announcement: John has a cold. We will be accepting visitors this evening for those of you who want to come by and pay your last respects, as he is CLEARLY on his deathbed. That is all."

He asked for chicken noodle soup for dinner.  Not his favorite--but if that doesn't mean he's really sick, well then I just don't know what does.  He asked me if he had a fever.  He wanted advice as to what meds to take.  He punctuated his sentences with sniffles.  This whole dog and pony show reminds me of when Morgan and Chuck were little and would try to get out of school.  I texted his brother and parents to warn them of his inevitable demise.  Oh boy, did I have fun with this.     

"I'm glad something like me being sick ::sniff:: gives you sooooo much joy ::sniff::.", he smarted. 

Yeah, it does.  It's not the fact that he's sick, necessarily.  It's the whole production that accompanies his illness.  It's high quality entertainment. 

It's all fun and games 'til he gets the baby sick, which is unavoidable.  Then the joke's on me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Last year, we had a nest of yellow jackets under a tree.  John got stung every time he mowed the lawn.  My father suggested pouring gasoline down the hole and lighting it on fire.  Which he did.  And subsequently singed the hair off his leg.

Morgan and I were on the back deck when he comes limping back there, all "Y'all didn't HEAR that?"  From the way he was carrying on, you'dve thought we missed a bomb going off in the front yard.  With an explosion so forceful, he lost a limb. 

After he explains himself, Morgan and I laughed hysterically.  The whole sight was hilarious. 

Somewhere amidst this debacle, my sister calls and I try to coherently relay what's just happened.  It was a little difficult, as I was laughing so hard I found it hard to breathe, much less talk.  After she hears this, she asks why he would do something so "dumb". 

Because YOUR daddy told him to, I replied.

Yeah, did dad mention how that worked out for him when he tried it?

No.  What happened?

He ended up having to call the effin' FIRE DEPARTMENT!!




And just when I thought I couldn't possibly laugh any more . . . . .

Ahhhhh, goodtimes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have often wondered why humans are equipped with some of the physical and anatomical attributes we have.  The appendix , for instance, has yet to be proven useful.  It serves no purpose and can eventually lead to problems.  Why do we have it?  I dunno.  It could hold the answer to the cure for several terminal illnesses for all I know, but that has yet to be revealed.

And why do we need hair in some of the places we have it?  Like on my chin?  What evolutionary purpose could that have possibly served? 

I can now answer why I have hair on my forearms.   

Lastnight, I went to light the grill to cook dinner.  I've done this no less than a hundred times and never had any problems.  I completely forgot about the faulty regulator that has been replaced since I last used it.  I was used to lighting it with the broken one--it never allowed enough gas in to the grill. 

The good news is, the new regulator works---all too well.  The bad news is, I have no hair on my right forearm.  It was singed off from the enormous flame that came shooting out of the grill when I lit it.  Whoosh!

So, turns out, one of the purposes of hair on the arm is to protect flesh from being melted off when an idiot, like myself, tries to light a gas grill.  It's the only thing that saved my arm from second degree burns.  My hand got fried, my arm is no worse for the wear.  No need to thank me for this little nugget of invaluable information, just doin' my part to help my fellow man. 

John was nothing but empathetic and helpful--outwardly.  On the inside, I know he was laughing his ass off. 

And I would have been, too.

Untitled

She had a knack for picking the broken ones, and then had the audacity to wonder what happened when the affair blew up. If she was attracted to a man, he was irreparably unavailable somehow. She had a never-ending need for validation and reassurance and a penchant for seeking her self-worth in men. Bad boys, preferably. Then she could be the "good girl" in comparison, something she had never exactly been accused of. Her intimate relationships were a disaster. Always a disaster. 

True to form, her relationship with him was no different. To say it was complicated was an understatement. Even in her impenetrable wall of denial, even she could see that. She needed him like an alcoholic needs their next drink. It was anything but healthy.

If her affair had only lived up to the fantasies in her head, she'd be happy.  Reality and weighing risks were not exactly her strengths. He was a doctor, she was a nurse. He had kids and was divorced, so was she. On the surface it seemed logical and simple. It was anything but, for reasons she chose to ignore.  They lived in a suffocating small town where gossip was the favorite pastime.  He was currently going through an ugly fight for custody of his children. And then there was the reason for his divorce, his mistress, who lived in the same small town.  An emotional, logistical, and social nightmare--her specialty.  All of the warning signs of a relationship that would not end well were there.  Evident to everyone but her. 

She watched as he drove away and drew a ragged breath.  Yes, he was always hard to read, and getting anything out of him about what was going on in that head of his was like pulling teeth, but something was very wrong.  She could feel it.  He seemed heavy, sad, and distracted.  Weird. 

The summer's events had taken their toll.  She just wished there was something she could do.  A messy divorce complete with a messier custody battle would test anyone's wits.

He was leaving town and there was nothing to do for him but worry.  Where was he going?  What was bothering him?  Why was he being so secretive about it?  Questions that were eating at her and if she knew him at all, questions she figured would go unanswered. 

You're being ridiculous, she told herself.  Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. 

Distraction, she could use one right about now.  There was a knot in her chest and a gnawing at her gut.  She knew just what to do to silence them.  What she always did--get wasted.  It was the Fourth, after all.  A holiday, she didn't have to work, her friends were off, the perfect excuse to get knee-walking drunk.  Not that she ever needed a reason.

All of her internal bells and whistles were sounding loudly.  She had no idea how right they would prove to be. 

The Times They Are A-Changin'

It's been at least a year since we've had any social events here, for many reasons, Riley being the main one.  Scratch that.  The fact that my dog barks incessantly at company and disrupts Riley sleeping is more like it.

We had friends over for dinner Sunday night--a couple and their daughter.  We've been friends with these folks forever and it was nice to catch up.  We love their company--Mel is always a goodtime and Jason is a master of culinary arts.  Jason standing at our grill is a sight I have missed.  We started way earlier than we normally would and ended in time for the little ones to make their early bedtimes.  It was indeed different.

After working out some technical difficulties with the grill, dinner was underway and we soon sat down to eat.  In the past, our dinner conversation was about the latest band we saw live, or the band we planned to see next, or when we were gonna go to the beach together.  Should we have a New Year's Party this year?  And when's the last time you saw so-and-so?   

They have become parents of a bundle of energy and we now have Riley.  Oh my, how things have changed.  Our mealtime talk covered topics such as disciplinary issues, potty-training, and the sorry state of  public education.  And isn't that big kids' consignment sale coming up?  We reminisced about how things were "when I was a kid".  "Kids have it so much easier now!"  It reminded me of the stories my mom used to tell, "I had to walk to school.  Both ways!".  Oy.

Jason and I stupidly attempted acrobatics in the back yard with the kids.  Yeah, I'm still eating Ibuprofen . . . . Spring chicken, I am not.  Ouch.   

Our babies were looked after by one another.  Diaper changes, or saving one of them from the brink of disaster, or attending to a whine or whimper seemed to come naturally to all of us--whether it was our child or not.

I was in awe of both of their abilities as parents.  Taming busy hands and answering an inquisitive mind seemed to come as easily as breathing.  It was an amazing thing to see. 

Amidst all the changes that come with parenthood, it was comforting to see that some things are durable enough to withstand redefinition.  Yes, things are different, but the camaraderie and ease I've always felt was still there . . . . . even if we did sound (and feel) old. 

Surprise!

One of the things I have learned about myself in the past few years:  I have mad party plannin' skillz, yo.  Especially surprise parties.  Entertaining is in my blood, turns out.  My mother puts Paula Deen (ugh) and Martha Stewart to shame.  The Barefoot Contessa?  Puh-lease.  She was always throwing some sort of soiree when I was young.  She still does.  Her house looks like something straight out of Southern Living every time she puts together a dinner party.  She seriously missed her calling--she should have started her own business decades ago.  Evidently her penchant for partying has rubbed off on me.  From formal to uber casual (my favorite), if you need some social function thrown together, I'm your girl.  I wish someone would explain that to Hubby's mommy, but that's another post (coming soon to a computer near you).

Handmade invitations?  Notsomuch my thing.  I'm not great with things of the crafty variety.  Working out logistics, delegating, baking, or cooking?  I excel in those areas.

I started planning John's 40th birthday party back in June.  His birthday is Monday and all I have heard about his big 4-0 is, "Please don't go to any trouble.  I really don't want anything big."  Riiiight.  If there's one thing I know about my husband, its that there's nothing he loves more than his birthday and Christmas.  Except maybe an audience, and being the center of said audience's attention.  He loooooves to be "on stage", so I saw right through his pleas for not doing "anything big" for his birthday.  Child please.

He's been nosing around for the last couple of weeks.  Lingering about trying to eavesdrop on my phone conversations.  Wondering aloud what his parents might do for his big day.  Additionally, his story changed.  Every time I reminded him of his insistence that no one do anything for his birthday, I got, "Well, anything anyone wants to do would be much appreciated.  I just don't want anyone to go to any trouble.  Save that for Riley.".  Uh-huh. 

Earlier this week, Kelly, author of Southern Fried Children did a post titled "Who Wants to Party?" wherein she talked about a gala she was helping put together and asked her peeps to spread the word.  So, I posted it on my Facebook and tweeted the link.  Hubby sends me a text:  "You accidentally post something on Facebook?".  Huh?  What the hell is he talking about?  I called him: 

"What are you talking about?", I asked.  I was seriously confused. 

"I don't know, there's something on your page about a party and I opened it, but then I closed it 'cause I didn't know if it was about my birthday.", he explains.  Really?  Mr. I-Don't-Want-Anyone-To-Go-To-Any-Trouble thinks there's a party?  I had to refrain from laughing out loud.  Bless.  His.  Heart.

With all the seriousness I could muster, I replied, "Honey, you've told me repeatedly how you don't want anything big for your birthday, or at least that's what I understood you to say.  Which is unusual for you, and I figure there's a reason for it, so I have respected that and not planned anything.  Now it's less than a week away and I don't have time to plan anything.  So, I would really appreciate it, for my sake, if you would just LET IT GO!  You're really starting to make me feel guilty.".  I said it calmly but firmly.  We hung up.  Brilliant!  I can be a pretty good actress when I need to be!  And then I laughed my ass off. 

His family and two besties have been in on this since late July.  His family and I did a wonderful job of leading him to believe we weren't planning some big hoopla for his birthday.  Boy, did we have him snowed.  Everything had been meticulously planned, all the deets ironed out.  All I had to do today was run one errand, get dressed, and show up.  Ahhhhh, I love it when a plan comes together.

He went to the Wake/State game today.  His buddies drove, so he was at their mercy.  I was using my susta and her husband as a cover.  I sent him a text:  "Jen just called.  They have a LivingSocial deal to Twin City Diner they wanna use tonight.  Riley and I are meeting them there around 7:30ish.  Get the boys to drop you off there after the game.".  My susta lives in High Point, but she's a coupon whore, so this is completely plausible.  And John's favorite restaurant is The Diner.  Perfect.  It was airtight.  And went off without a hitch . . . .

He didn't figure it out until he got to the restaurant.  I got him.  I got him good.  Thanks to all of you who helped me pull this off. 

 

It was a great, festive evening.  It was wonderful to be in the company of family and amazing friends.  I'm thinkin' maybe our monthly homie nights need to be reinstated.  I forgot how much fun this is!

I've Been Memed (!?!)

Kelly, author of the fabulous blog Southern Fried Children (which if you don't follow, you should) tagged me in a post to "meme" some of my past ramblings.  Keep in mind that I haven't been doing this for very long and don't have a lot to choose from.  And sadly, I don't "know" a lot of bloggers.  I'm gonna do my best.  Here goes.   ::rubs hands together::

The rules of this meme are as follows:

What this is about: To unite bloggers (from all sectors) in a joint endeavor to share lessons learned and create a bank of long but not forgotten blog posts that deserve to see the light of day again.

 

Rules:

1.  Blogger is nominated to take part

2.  Blogger publishes his/her 7 links on his/her blog – 1 link for each category.

- Your most beautiful post

– Your most popular post

– Your most controversial post

– Your most helpful post

– A post whose success surprised you

– A post you feel didn’t get the attention it deserved

– The post that you are most proud of

3.  Blogger nominates up to 5 more bloggers to take part.

4.  These bloggers publish their 7 links and nominate another 5 more bloggers

5.  And so it goes on!

6.  The site Trip Base be sharing the best posts from participating bloggers on their blog and everyday on Facebook and Twitter at #My7Links

 

My most beautiful post:  Beba* .  It was supposed to be me kvetching about how frustrating she can be.  Instead it exposed the root of my frustration, which was my love and admiration for her. 

 

My most popular post was by far I have issues . . . .  .  Apparently you people have a schtick for laughing at my "isms".  Which are numerous.

 

The post that caused the most controversy was a post entitled "Bitches and Porsches" which I subsequently deleted.  This blog is an outlet and a means of venting for me.  After I wrote that post and got it out, it served its purpose.  In the end, I'm a lover not a fighter.  I didn't want all that venom hanging around in cyberworld.  If you want to read it, email me and I'll send it to you.

 

My most helpful posts were Dirty Laundry and The D Word .  I was overwhelmed by the response I got to both--from people who were either in a similar situation or had been.  The thanks I got for writing both of those gets me all weepy.

 

The post whose success surprised me?  If the flip-flop fits .  I had no idea my fashion faux pas would be sooooo entertaining.  Bitches. 

 

The post I didn't feel got the attention it deserved was Escape .  Not because it was so beautifully written or was a profound topic--just 'cause I really wanted to know what you all were reading.  You people either don't read for pleasure or aren't reading my posts.  Either of which is unacceptable.  Ha!

 

The post I am most proud of?  Now that's a little tricky.  When I first started this blog, I obsessively checked my stats after each post.  And then it occurred to me that this was truly about me and not what everyone else thought or how many people read my rants.  The fact that writing and outward expression aren't exactly my "thing" makes me proud of all of them, to be honest.  If I have to pick a favorite, I would have to say "Beba"--as much for the subject matter as the way it was written. 

 

Nominations:

 

Kathy Clark from Workers Playtime with Kathy Clark

 

Kim Ayres from ramblings of the bearded one

 

Whew!

 

 

 

 

The D Word

My first therapy appointment was Friday.  I had all but talked myself out of the need for it.  It's amazing how self-sabotaging my psyche can be sometimes.  I relunctantly went, filled out all the necessary forms, and waited in the lobby pretending to read a book.  I felt like I was being called in to the Principal's office. 

We made our necessary introductions and I dove right in:  I confessed that I wasn't happy.  I recounted the events over the last year and a half.  All the changes in employment, relationship status, new mommy stuff.  Everything.  I tearfully told her that I was rarely in a good mood, couldn't sleep if my life depended upon it, and that I was irritable.  Always irritable.

She listened and punctuated my ramblings with suggestions and observations.  "It sounds like you're lonely.", she offered.  Lonely?  Huh?  I opened my mouth to argue the point, only to be flooded with the realization that I was, in fact, lonely.  Ugh.  I hate that word.  I have prided myself in being strong-willed and independent.  I didn't need anyone.  Ha!  What a joke . . . .

It was in that moment I had the revelation that my relationship with Riley had become extremely disproportionate.  I need him a lot more than he needs me.  Seeing as how he is seven months old and dependent upon me for everything, that's saying something.  He is the one thing in my life that is a constant source of joy.  He is my sunshine on the cloudiest of days.  He is also entirely too young to shoulder such a responsibility.  I have given my sweet baby boy the impossible task of my happiness.  My poor baby.

At the end of our session, she gave me a to-do list of things that must be accomplished before our next meeting.  I must get out of the house with a girlfriend.  I must call my in-laws to watch the baby so I can get out next week.  I must at least get my feet wet with the playgroup I just joined.  I nodded my head in agreement, though I was filled with dread inside.  New stuff.  Change.  Hadn't I had enough of that? 

Then she said it.  It was her opinion that I was depressed.  Yuck.  Just thinking of that word being used to describe me gets me all teary.  It's just so  . . . . . well, depressing.  What the hell, man?  Wasn't this supposed to be the prime of my life?  Wasn't I supposed to be filled with happiness, seeing as how I have a new bundle of joy who I am head-over-heels in love with?  What the hell is wrong with me? 

Balance.  That's what's wrong with me.  Or more specifically, lack of balance.  As of late, balance seems to be that fleeting moment that occurs as the pendulum is swinging from one extreme to the other. 

I did like I was told.  I was gone yesterday for an unprecedented four and a half hours.  It almost didn't happen.  Riley had an unexpected doctor's appointment yesterday morning and I almost cancelled my date.  His father is more than capable, I told myself.  Detach.  Baby steps.  One foot in front of the other.  I went with a girlfriend for coffee, pedis, and lunch while his father handled the appointment. Beautifully, I might add.
 

Boy, were my friend and I a sight to behold.  She just sent her only daughter to college, and I am unhealthily attached to my baby.  What a pair!  It was nice to be out and about and have some real conversation with someone who can empathize.  And it will happen again.  Soon.

I have scheduled the grandparents to come over and watch Riley so I can get out of the house one afternoon next week.  "What did you used to do for you before Riley was born?", my therapist asked.  She may as well have been asking me to explain quantum physics.  I honestly couldn't remember.  I am going to use that time next week to see if I can't piece together something that resembles me-time. 

Though wobbly, I am trying to find my identity outside of these walls.  I am looking for the me before I was "John's wife" or "Riley's mom".

Wish me luck.

Dirty Laundry

This poor woman at my insurance company drew the short straw and had to talk to the sobbing white lady today.  Bless her heart.  "Are you in danger of hurting yourself or someone else?", she asked.  I chuckled to myself.  I hadn't thought about it until she asked.  She had to ask, she said.  If I was honestly in the mindset to hurt myself or someone else, I highly doubt I would be on the phone verifying that my insurance would cover such a catastrophe.  I found this amusing and was grateful for the break from crying.  Oh, the crying.  Not just any cry--the ugly cry.  Yuck.

If I am completely honest with myself and others, which I strive to be, I must air the good and the bad.  This blog is titled "Sternly Blunt" for a reason.  I'm pretty good at both.  I am about to bluntly talk about what's really going on.  Maybe in the hopes of hearing from someone with similar experience.  Maybe to encourage someone else who is going through something similar to do what I did today.  I realize that I may be judged by some, and that's a risk I'm willing to take.

I'm not happy.  There.  I said it. 

In past posts, I have joked about and tried to make fun of myself for not having a life.  Which I don't.  I am a social creature by nature.  Riley's schedule doesn't exactly lend itself to a social life.  He naps three times a day and is bed by 8:00 every night.  Outside of necessary errands, that doesn't leave a whole lot of time to socialize.  John travels and has a life outside this house.  Morgan is a busy teenager and is never here.  Which leaves me, Riley and the dog.  All.  The.  Time. 

I realize some of my dilemma is of my own making.  Who implemented the schedule?  Um, me.  Who insisted on staying home with the baby?  Um, that would be me again.  Who could go back to school and put Riley in daycare if she chose to?  Again, me.  I don't want to do that, though.  I really want to be doing exactly what I'm doing.  I just want to be happier doing it. 

Riley is a true joy.  Really, he is.  That chubby little booger is sweet, happy, hungry (all the time) and looooooves his mama.  He is quite content to just sit and be with me.  I could eat him up.  He's also demanding, a huge time constraint, and can be rather diva-ish when he hasn't had enough rest (I have no idea where he gets that).  Whew!  Thus, the problem with being tethered to the house.  Blech.  I had heard girlfriends talk about how isolating motherhood can be, especially when caring for an infant.  After vowing to not let myself become one of "those moms", I am in fact, her.  That mom.  I have justified, rationalized, and talked myself into a corner of woeful isolation. 

I am tired of my family asking "What's wrong with you?".  I am sick of my husband talking about my "tone" when I address him.  He means well, but I swear if I hear, "Is there anything I can do to help?" one more time I'm gonna cut him.  I'm just tired of not feeling like myself. I'm ready to feel like me again, which hasn't been the case since long before Riley was born.

Baby blues?  Possibly.  Hormones?  Maybe.  Mid-life crisis?  I dunno.  But I'm gonna find out.  Pride and ego be damned, I called and made an appointment with a therapist today. 

After telling myself for months "Tomorrow will be better; it'll be different", maybe this time it really will. 

Stepford Witch

Breaking news:  I DO NOT have sunshine beamin' out of my ass at all times.  I'll give you a minute to absorb this information.  Shocking, eh?

I don't do "fake" very well.  If I'm not really feelin' something, I can't express it.  I've tried.  All of the "fake" happiness I can muster goes in to the care of my six-month-old.  Don't get me wrong, he is the source of a tremendous amount of joy for me.  He's such a good and sweet-dispositioned baby, it's hard not to want to make him smile and coo.  If that means I cheerfully sing "Three Little Fishies" for the umpteenth time, that's what I do.  Happily. 

I am a creature of habit.  A slave to a routine.  I am convinced one of the reasons Riley is such a happy baby is because I implemented a routine when he was about six weeks old.  And we stuck to it, for the most part.  Now, I'm not a complete Nazi about how we spend every minute of our day.  I am flexible.  In general though, you can pretty much set a clock by our daily activities.  The hum-drum monotony of our schedule is enough to drive the most obsessive-compulsive person insane. 

This is not a complaint.  I am grateful I get to stay at home with him and soak in everything I missed when my other two were his age.  Every new squeal, smile, laugh, and milestone is worth it.  Our routine day in and day out gets a little old.

John just came tra-la-la'ing in tonight from another business trip, gallivanting all over Louisiana.  Okay, so it's less gallivanting and more working, but try telling that to my more-than-bored psyche.  His travels elicit a tricky realm of emotions in me.  Yes, I understand it's necessary for his job.  Seeing as how his is the only income, this is important.  It's also the source of a simmering resentment and has been for some time.  Ask me where I want to be, what I want to be doing, and taking care of my son is the response you'll get.  That's the tricky part.  I don't want to be doing anything else, I just resent the fact that he goes and comes as he pleases, guilt and worry free.  And he gets a change of scenery as often as he wishes. 

For those reasons, I have no desire to throw him a effin' ticker-tape parade when he returns from his trips.  Yes, I miss his face and his helping hands when he's not here.  At the end of the day, though, it just pisses me off.  And my ability to "fake" anything resembling a happy homecoming is zapped by 7 p.m..  Gone. 

There's an expectation that I am supposed to be ever-cheerful and eager to please.  Search though I may, I have yet to find any "Perpetually Happy!" pills in the drug store.  If you find any, how 'bout let me know.  Maybe then I could sport one of those eery, plastered permagrins a-la The Stepford Wives.  Or cook a five-course gourmet meal and simultaneously starch his shirts.

All while smiling, of course . . . .

=))))))

 

Lucky Dog

We acquired Sandy, my eleven-pound Pekingese, about six years ago.  She was a scrawny pup given to Beba as a gift.  And, like most children's pets, she quickly became my responsibility.  After the vows and promises that Morgan would be her primary caregiver, it was no time at all before she was mine to take care of.  I am the only one she'll listen to and the only one she begs for love and attention.  She allows the other members of the family to live here--in her house.  She's a bitch, but we love her dearly. 

I grew up with Cocker Spaniels and had zero experience with other breeds.  Pekingese would not have been my breed of choice, to say the least.  They're yappy, hyper, and ultra-possessive.  After doing some research, the advice I got about house-training was something akin to "Yeah, good luck with that".  We eventually got it done, though.

On the flip side, she is one of the most loving and loyal creatures I have ever known.  She takes up with one, maybe two, members of the household and is loyal to them 'til the end.  She would spend her last breath trying to save me from a perceived threat. 

"You talkin' to me?"

Most of my homeys lovingly refer to Sandy as "Satan".  When they see her, she is in the throws of following her instincts to protect her domain, her things, her food, and me.  Mostly her.  She has a fierce case of "little dog syndrome" and is not afraid of anything . . . . except losing my affection.

When John and I started dating, it was no time at all before he was head-over-heels in love with the little bitch.  He is drawn to them.  Bitches, I mean.  I guess that speaks volumes about his love for me.  Ha!  I used to tease that Sandy was the only reason he was in the relationship.  He showers her with love, affection, toys, and treats.  She has more toys than Riley (John being the biggest one), and I dare say probably always will.  Even that's not good enough though.  Twice in the last week I have caught her sneaking toys out of Riley's toy basket.  Bitch.  She is one of two princesses in this house, and she gets treated accordingly.  By John, at least.  My mother-in-law swears she gets treated better than most kids.

I have read that canines can sense when their beloved humans are injured or ill.  They sense pregnancy as both.  She was by my side all those nights I tossed and turned or was up pacing the floors because I couldn't get comfortable enough to sleep.  Or because the baby chose 3 a.m. to treat my uterus as a Jungle Gym.  If I was up, she was up.  If I paced, she paced.  She even endured my daily two mile walks in the freezing cold, trying to coax my body into labor.  By the end of my pregnancy, she and I became inseparable.  I cried on my way to the hospital because I had to leave her behind.  And because somehow I knew things would never be the same between us.  I was right.

I treated Riley's homecoming with the utmost care where she was concerned.  We took the advice of pet experts and brought something home that smelled like him, so she could get used to it before we actually brought "the thing" home with us.  I didn't dare cross the threshold of the house for the first time carrying the baby.  I immediately dropped down on the floor to get my kisses and welcome home.  And then we introduced her to Riley.

At first she was ultra-protective of him.  At times, she wouldn't even let John near me or the baby.  It was no time at all before she was letting me know Riley needed something when he cried.  She would look at me as if to say, "You hear him, right?  Um, you gonna DO something?".  She was protective and wary of him.  She didn't dare go near him.  It's amazing what their instincts tell them. 

I try, and mostly fail, to divide my attention between the two of them.  Several times a day as I am cheerfully playing with or talking to Riley, I catch her giving me this look.  As if to say, "How could you?  I was here first".  She's killin' me.

The Princess on her Throne in the van on a road trip.

As Riley becomes more active, mobile, and vocal she is becoming more and more threatened by him.  This is evidenced by her "claiming" her things by running interference when he gets close to them.  Or by "checking" him when I put her food out.  This is when she goes up to him and butts her head against some part of his body, to let him know that this is HERS.  I guess she thinks he's taken everything else she loves, why not this too.  It breaks my heart and makes me want to "check" her at the same time. 

It's gonna be no time at all before Riley is crawling and walking and is really able to get close to the things she loves.  How is she gonna act then?  I am trying to prevent being in the position of having to entertain the thought of getting rid of her.  It would kill me, but I can't have her bein' ugly to the baby. 

In the battle of bitches, I can assure you I'm gonna win this one. 

Suggestions or similar experiences are welcome, as I am fresh out of ideas.  I hope there's a clear and simple way to fix this.  I'm afraid I will be seeking legal counsel if I threaten to get rid of John's beloved.

Escape

I have my Mother to thank for my love of reading.  Almost out of annoyance, she thrust me in to literature one summer.  Growing up in Tarboro, summers were hot, long, and boring.  My hometown is not quite the end of the world, but you can see it from there, so to say there's not a lot to do would be putting it mildly.  I remember whiiiining to her one hot July day about not having anything to do.  She shoved a book under my nose and I scoffed, "Reading?  School is out, I'm not reading".  Out of desperation, I conceded and opened the book.  By the end of that summer I read just about everything on our living room bookshelves. 

It is still one of my favorite things to do.  Particularly when I'm bored, sick, or just want to slow down.  On a cold gray morning, there's nothing like a fresh cup of coffee, a good book and a blanket.  Reading works well for me when I'm not feeling well, because I have a tendency to camp out on my pity pot when under the weather.  The diversion of someone else's life, problems, and fantasies are appreciated.  I especially love books I can completely get lost in.  The ones I pick up and am totally entangled from the first page.  The characters seem to jump out of the book and take on faces and voices of their own in my head.  I have been so enthralled in some stories that when I put them down, I have to snap myself back in to reality.  Ahhhh, brain candy.

I have always been fascinated by the power of the written word.  How transformative, liberating, or thought-provoking a good piece of literature can be.  I love when I read something that makes me think or peer in to the crevices of my being that usually stay repressed for whatever reason.  Or make me ask some not-so-pretty questions of myself.  All of that can happen by someone sitting down and putting their thoughts, dreams, or experiences down on paper.  Amazing.

I have devoured a 522 page novel in the past thirty-six hours.  Uh-huh, it was one of those.  I stayed up waaaaay past my bedtime lastnight, and though I was close to finishing, forced myself to put it away to get some rest.  I was ravenously devouring every word, hungry to find out what happens next. 

I finished it up this afternoon, and now I am sad.  It's over.  It's always bittersweet to find a good book and have it come to an end.  I can't wait to get my hands on another one.  So now, some crowd participation . . . . what good brain candy have you come across lately?  What are your favorite page-turners?  Leave me a comment and lemme know!

A Case of the Crazies

I stumbled out on to the deck Friday morning to drink my cup of coffee.  I was clinging to it as if my life depended on it.  I was trying to snap out of my sleep-deprived, medicine-induced hangover.  Riley and I had been up all night and I had taken something to help me sleep before he awoke all sickly.  I was sipping my coffee and talking myself through my necessary to-do list for the day, when I heard someone scream.  Four times.  This wasn't an excited,  I-just-won-the-lottery!-scream.  Nuh-uh.  This was a blood-curdling, horror movie shriek.  Like someone just stumbled upon a dead body.  There.  That did it.  I am awake.  Seeing as how I didn't hear sirens, I came to the familiar conclusion that the Crazy Lady was off her meds.  Again.   

The Crazy Lady earned her well-deserved nickname.  I have witnessed symptoms of her psychosis first-hand and on several occasions.  She rides up and down the streets of the neighborhood on patrol.  Looking for vampires?  Zombies?  Aliens?  I'm not sure.  This probably wouldn't be all that weird, except she hangs a towel on the driver's-side window and pulls the side of it over to peek out.  Nuts.  Then there's the conversations she has . . . with someone.  I'm pretty sure it has to be with the voices in her head, because I certainly don't see anyone accompanying her.  She likes to ride her bike around the 'hood (in a sundress--always in a sundress.  If it's twenty degrees outside, she's in a sundress . . . . and a turtleneck.) while having this dialogue.  The Wicked Witch of the West music from The Wizard of Oz always runs through my head when I see her do this.  Off.  Her.  Rocker.  It's a little unnerving, to say the least.  (She recently ran for local public office.  Fantastic.  She lost . . . . whew!).

I was on my way to run an errand and meet a girlfriend* for coffee this afternoon, when this idiot comes barrelling down the road at lightning speed and is riding inches from my bumper.  He lays on his horn several times.  As if I can go any faster than the car in front of me will allow.  Oh naw.  Hell naw.  Somebody is figna get cut.  Today ain't the day, and I ain't the girl, asshole.  This infuriated me.  To the point that I honestly contemplated pulling over and following his punk ass to wherever it was he was in such a hurry to get to, and  . . . . . and, what?  I didn't know.  I just had an overwhelming urge to cuss somebody.  Or hurt somebody.  Bad.  Whoa.  Waitaminute.  How did I get here??  In this mental state??  Ready to cut a stranger for bein' a jerk??  And then I remembered.  No sleep in three days+sick baby+not feelin' so hot myself=loony mama. 

It has been a harrowing weekend.  Riley has been great, for the most part.  He's certainly not acting sick . . . . until naptime or bedtime.  He can't breathe through his snotty little nose, which makes falling asleep a little frustrating for him.  Then he gets overly tired and nothing will do.  Not singing, not music, playing, rocking, bouncing, his cherished swing, nothing.  My baby crying gets under my skin.  It's not just any cry, it's a certain cry.  The crying, oh the crying.  He had a stint so long this afternoon he's hoarse.  Pitiful.

My husband tries to help.  "Do you think it's ___________?", he offers. 
Um, I've already unsuccessfully attempted to fix the fifty things I thought might be the cause of his displeasure.  If I honestly had a clue as to what it was, I'd be in the process of trying to fix it, now wouldn't I?  Yeah, I'm fresh out of ideas here, pal. 

He's only trying to offer me some assistance, I know.  This line of questioning only fans the flame of my frustration and adds to my feelings of inadequacy. 

My baby's been sick, I am sick, and have had no sleep.  While contemplating all of this in the midst of my road rage this afternoon, I feel all of the frustration, fatigue, and anger rise to a peak in my chest.  Heart pounding, chest-tightening anxiety.  I haven't felt panic-y in quite a long time.  I needed a release, and quick. 

I screamed.  Screeeeeaaaamed.  Alone in my car, while driving down the road.  It felt so good I did it again.  This reminded me of Crazy Lady and then I laughed out loud.  I laughed 'til tears were streaming down my face.

From one lunatic to another:  I feel ya Crazy Lady.  I feel ya. 

*Pat, you probably saved a life today.  Or kept me from going to jail.

Proud Mama

Forgive me for using this outlet to do one of my favorite things:  brag on my churen.  Nothing too long or all that obnoxious, I hope.

First off, Chucker will be starting on his varsity soccer team as a sophomore.  We are really excited about this.  Last year while watching one of his games, I quickly learned the boy has talent.  And a following.  Of course, his family members who attended the game were cheering him on . . . . and so were a swarm of teenage girls.  "Good play, Chuckie!".  If I heard that once, I heard it at least twenty-five times.  Chuckie?  Who the hell is "Chuckie"?  After the game we were headed to the car and several girls we passed said, "Great game, Chuckie!". 

"Who's that?", I asked.

"I don't know her."  (Uh-huh.  The boy's a rock star, apparently.) 

"What's up with all these girls calling you 'Chuckie'?" 

"I don't know, they just do". 

I don't imagine he cares what they call him, as long as they call him.  I found myself in the awkward position of wanting to harm some teenagers and not embarrass my son.  I'll see if I can't do a little better this year. 

That's Chucker in the red . . .

On to Riley . . . . I decided to teach him sign language.  We started at two months.  I learned all the signs relevant to our daily routine and started incorporating them.  Every.  Day.  I felt like an idiot most of the time, as he would watch my hands and get this really confused look on his face.  We've been at it for months, with no sign of him being all that interested.  He started recognizing a few of the signs a couple of weeks ago, but wouldn't even attempt to sign them himself.  Monday, whilst eating his carrots for lunch, he started signing "milk", unprompted.  I don't dare say m-i-l-k without being ready to deliver, 'cause he gets REALLY mad.  Piglet.  Apparently, carrots were not what he wanted for lunch, and he was telling me as much.  Over and over and over again.  I was fortunate enough to capture this picture . . . .

That chubby little right hand is signing "milk"!

In other news, Beba tooootally perfected her round-off back handspring.  In the world of high school cheerleading, this is huge.   

That is all.  Now that was pretty painless, admit it!  

Rocky Top

I just got home yesterday from our anniversary trip.  John decided we should spend it in Kodak in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee.  I was in it strictly for a change of scenery.  Traveling with an infant is far from romantic or a vacation, so my expectations were low.  Our getaway far exceeded them, and I'm finding out I kinda dig the Volunteer State. 

We arrived Thursday afternoon after a four hour car ride, that I must admit, wasn't all that bad (I HATE riding in a car for long periods of time).  The ride went quickly and was pretty uneventful.  We stopped at a gas station for a potty break and I really thought we were gonna be taken hostage by some pretty mean lookin' mountain folk, but other than that it was smooth sailing.  Once we got into Tennessee, I noticed something foreign . . . people actually know and obey the rules of the road.  Slower traffic actually merges in to the right lane to allow faster cars to pass.  What the hell?  This happened over and over again.  Yeah, this is lookin' like my kind of place, for real.

That night we made our way in to Sevierville for dinner.  I had fried chicken that tasted just like my Mom's, which is no easy feat.  It was scrumptious.  We were served apple fritters as a starter.  These were big hushpuppy-looking things that tasted like apple bread and served with warm homemade apple butter.  To.  Die.  For.  We mighta accidentally ordered some to go.  Oops.

Friday morning we went shopping.  Yes, I went shopping.  There were numerous outlet malls and I am an outlet whore.  We ducked in to a burger joint to feed the baby, after I scored some great deals at my favorite stores.  In a sea of orange (everyone in Tennessee wears orange) I barely noticed this young man wearing an orange t-shirt, until he walked by me and I saw the front of it.  It was a Browns shirt.  We talked briefly and turns out Cleveland has a huge following there.  Who knew?  These people are serious about their football--it's a mainstream religion in Tennessee.  Now I'm really diggin' this state.

We made our way in to Knoxville that evening, which was about a half-hour drive from where we were staying.  The motherland.  The college football mecca.  At least for John.  I was promised ribs, so I happily complied.  If a picture is worth a thousand words, I really needn't say more . . .

Neyland Stadium

John's Disneyland--the UT Bookstore

He showed amazing restraint in the store.  He bought Riley a hat (in case y'all couldn't tell from the ridiculous number of pictures I uploaded to Facebook), Sandy a toy, and himself a t-shirt at my insistence. 

Too cute for color TV!

We then headed down to a popular restaurant on the river.  We waited for nearly an hour for a table.  This should speak volumes, as I am rarely willing to wait at all, much less forty minutes.  Keith Urban was in town and this place was busier than a one-legged man in an ass kickin' contest.  There were folks everywhere.  We were finally seated and I ordered a full rack of ribs with mac 'n cheese and slaw.  I'm glad there was no chance of running in to someone I knew, as I tore in to them like I was eating my last meal, 'cause I'm classy like that.  Dee-lish.  This meal alone justified the four hour car ride. 

It was well worth the wait . . . and me looking like a pig.

Saturday we had a chance to visit with family.  We spent the rest of the day at the hotel in the pool or napping.  Most of the time it seems John and I are more roommates than husband and wife, so it was nice to slow down and spend some time together.  Awesome. 

I have visited Tennessee a few times and have always found the people to be super friendly.  Riley was oohed and aahed over everywhere we went.  Everyone was nice and helpful.  On a previous trip to Tennessee, I stopped at a gas station to use the facilities and ask for directions.  Upon walking in the store, the man at the register said hello and asked how "mama 'n 'em" were doing.  I immediately looked over my shoulder to see who he was talking to, as I knew he didn't know my "mama 'n 'em".  I was surprised by it and found it ridiculously charming.  By the end of my stay I had grown accustomed to answering, "Just fine.  Thanks for askin'".  How can you not love a place like that?

Yesterday, we decided to come home by way of Boone, so we could check out my brother-in-law's new digs.  The quickest route was closed due to construction, so we detoured through some beautiful countryside.  Our detour took us north to Virginia, back in to Tennessee, and finally in to North Carolina.  Lush green trees, winding roads, and breath-taking views of the mountains made the thirty extra minutes more than tolerable.  The digs were nice too.  He has a gorgeous rustic condo with a stellar view . . . . that I will be visiting again.  Soon.  I'm sorta taking it upon myself to make this my winter vacation home.

I called him a whore.  Several times.

This little escapade was well worth my efforts and made me feel slightly guilty for bitchin' in the first place.  I mean, any state that is the subject of a John Denver song has to be a goodtime, right? 

Absolutely.

Letting Go

As a teenager, I remember desperately seeking two things:  freedom and the trust of my parents (specifically my mother).  Would I have honored that trust?  Maybe.  Okay, probably not.  But I would have appreciated the opportunity.

My folks have five children.  By the time I reached my adolescence, they'd been through this three times already.  Scratch that, two times already.  We are nominating my eldest sister for sainthood, as she never did anything wrong.  But apparently my other two older siblings made up for her angelic teenhood.  When my turn came, Mom's proverbial hold was tighter 'n Grandma's girdle.  It didn't work (love you, Mom!).  This would be when my tendency to rebel began.  The tighter her grip, the more I was determined to do exactly what I wanted.  I still have quite a rebellious streak and I'm almost thirty-five.

Recalling this all too well, I have changed my approach with Beba.  Now, she's not me (thank God), and to date, she's been a typical teen.  She's not exactly a saint, but she's not a hellion either.  She is well-prepared for adulthood.  She can cook, do her laundry, manage her checkbook, is employable and has proven her leadership skills in school and beyond.  There's one life skill that still eludes her and consequently drives me insane:  time management.  Whew!  In general, the clock revolves around her, not the other way around.  She has her own time zone.  PDT:  Princess Diva Time.  Everything I have done to help her learn this essential key to life has not helped.  Revoking privileges hasn't worked:  the car, the phone, her time.  It's gotten worse.  I refuse to micromanage her every move.  She's almost eighteen.  She's going to have to learn this one the hard way. 

A very wise person once told me that as a mother, my job is to give my children two things: roots and wings.  So, I have loosened the reins.  She has a social outing and a commitment early the next morning?  She decides if she goes, how long to stay and when to be up to meet her obligations.  Errands to run before work?  She decides how to prioritize and manage them so she can get to work on time.  As I type this, she is snoozing away and is 'posed to be at practice (have fun runnin' all those laps, dearheart).  She decides.  And she faces the consequences of her decisions.  Like a big girl. 

My refusal to attempt to control her makes my mother vibrate out of her skin.  And my husband.  Some of my girlfriends, too.  I doubt this strategy is in any of the numerous parenting books available, and I'm not exactly holding my breath for a "Mother of the Year" nomination.  But the way I see it, better for her to learn this now, even if she has to trip and fall.  I'd rather her fall now, while I am still here to pick her up, dust her off, and  lovingly reinforce the life lessons that cause her to stumble.  Before too long, I'm not going to be there to catch her . . . .

I have spent a lot of time and energy preparing her for her adulthood. Notsomuch me. I have a girlfriend whose sweet-n-precious is leaving for college soon, and I am taking notes (I'm watchin' you, Shercee).  Next year this time, we will be dropping Morgan off at college.  If I fall off the face of the planet, please come by to check on me.  You'll be able to find me in a corner in the fetal position, rocking.  Just remind me to be a big girl. 

Getaway = GET AWAY!

John and I are I am preparing to go out of town.  He asked me a few weeks ago where I'd like to go for our anniversary trip.  He suggested Hilton Head.  Not no, but hell no.  I suggested somewhere mountainous.  Higher elevation=less heat, FTW.  My life has been a blur for the last three days in simply getting ready to get ready to go out of town. Ohmygoodness.  Here's my to-do list for the last three days (no shit):

• Monday:  shopping.  Four different stores.  94 degrees was the high Monday.  With a baby.  Need I say more?  Making arrangements for the teenager in our absence*.  Various other random to-do's:  call to the insurance agent, making appointments, schedule Sandy for grooming and boarding.  Ironing.  Laundry.  The usual. 
• Tuesday:  aaaaahhh, the day of appointments, with my poor Skinky in tow (he was a trooper though).  Morgan had her first GYN visit at 8:30, followed by a root canal at the endodontist at 10:00 (True story.  Welcome to womanhood, sweetheart!).  I also had the task of nursing Beba back to health and checking on her at least every 20 minutes 'cause they gave her Vikes for pain.  Side note:  did you know that North Carolina ranks in the top 10 for highest incidence of two of the most common STD's in the U.S.? If that don't make ya proud . . . it's amazing what a girl can learn from her gyno. Maybe we should invest in billboards advertising this information at the state lines to welcome visitors . . . . . .
• Wednesday:  more shopping.  Blech.  Laundry, 'cause at my house it's a DAILY occurrence.  Get the mama-mobile inspected and tags renewed ('cause my husband is a champ at waitin' 'til the LAST EFFIN' MINUTE!), blow up the baby float (which required a trip to the gas station, long story), more ironing, resolving more Beba issues, packing . . . .

Oh my, the packing.  Gone are the days when we could just throw some shit in the car and take off.  Now we have to take everything but the kitchen sink to leave overnight.  We're gonna be gone for three entire sleeps.  Holyshit.  It's notosmuch the quantity of stuff, it's the little things:  the owl teething blanket (that Riley loves), dish washing soap, hand soap (yes, I travel with hand soap.  Don't judge me.), the Pack 'N Play, toys (including bubbles for the car ride), blankets, and the pallet of baby food.  (He started solids last week and the kid is a Hoover.  Four ounces of baby food at every feeding.  Piglet.).  And I haven't even begun packing personal items.  Like, I dunno, clothes and shampoo and stuff. 

At this point, John has invested a phone call and some clicking to this trip.  He's just getting home and he left at 8:00 this morning.  THIS would be why it's easier to just stay home . . . . 

I was able to squeeze in a little fun.  I sent my sustas a text they're going to spend the next month wishing they'd never read ('cause I'm a good sister like that) and played Tetris on Facebook like I was gonna claim a million dollar prize.  But all in all, I need a vacation from my vacation and we haven't even left the driveway . . . . I am certainly lookin' forward to makin' this trip worth my effort. ;) 

*To my Winston peeps:  if you wanna ride by the house, just to see what's goin' on, it wouldn't hurt my feelings in the slightest . . . . just sayin'.