The Consumption

Okay, so the "consumption" is a very old-fashioned term for tuberculosis. Given the content of this post, I found it more than appropriate.

I have issues. If you have followed this blog for anytime at all, this is far from a newsflash.

It was suggested to me a long time ago that I seek therapy for obsessive-compulsive disorder. I always took it sort of light-heartedly, thinkin' that my "isms" were normal for women, particularly moms. Since I have been a mother for more of my life than I haven't, I can't really remember not being this way.

It was more recently brought to my attention that I really might need to get it checked out. For realz.

For as long as I can remember, I have had two speeds: high and off. There is no middle-ground there. I am either barreling through life like a bull in a china shop or I am asleep. Rest is a four-letter word. I honestly don't think I know how. My husband has brought this up many times over the years. I didn't pay it much attention, because after all, it wasn't his life that got out of control if my chores weren't done, it was mine.

I was talking with a friend whose spouse has OCD. She was in tears expressing her frustration in living with him. By the end of the conversation, I was in tears because I finally saw our home life through John's eyes. It was not pretty.

I have been feeling overwhelmed as of late and have tried to delegate some household chores to Chuck and John. I asked Chuck to pack his lunch for school and John to set the coffee maker for the next morning. They both did as they were asked. When I walked back in the kitchen, there were coffee grounds on the counter, bread crumbs and lettuce strewn all about. Ignore it Wendy. It is okay. Just go on doing what you're doing. So, I sit down at my computer to calmly finish the task at hand. I cannot concentrate because the bread crumbs and coffee grounds on the counter are creating noise in my head. That's the only way I know how to describe it. The noise is so loud I am unable to focus on anything else but THE BREAD CRUMBS AND THE COFFEE GROUNDS ON THE COUNTER! I could not stop myself from getting up out of my chair to clean the kitchen. Again. For at least the tenth time that day.

This is how I live my life on a daily basis. It is exhausting.

In doing research on the subject, I came across a quiz, so I took it and then had those closest to me take it too, just to compare. I am too embarrassed to tell you all my score, let's just say that when my total came up there was stuff highlighted and flashing in red 'bout how I needed "to seek professional help immediately".

Yikes.

So I did. I start behavioral therapy next week and I am scared to death. Yes, I want to learn how to relax and yes, I think it will benefit my family tremendously. But quite honestly, I don't know that I'm ready to be that "well".  My OCD has benefited me in many areas of my life. I have a work ethic like nobody's bidness and when it comes to gettin' some stuff done, and done well, I am the woman. I rock in situations like that. Multi-taskin'? Child please. My OCD is why I can beat the pants off anyone at Tetris. Little puzzle looking pieces that when fit perfectly together disappear? That's an OCD's dream.

All the women in my life have told me they can relate, but they know how to chill out, too. That's what I want. There has to be a gray area in there somewhere and I am hoping to find it.

p.s. If anyone wants to take the quiz and e-mail me their results or comment below, feel free. I'd love to get some input from other women.

Football Food

Anyone who knows me knows I enjoy bein' in the kitchen.

Football is sort of a big deal at my house. Okay, okay, so football is a huge deal at my house. Which gives me the perfect opportunity to combine two of my favorite things: football and food.

In the past twenty-four hours I have made two loaves of pumpkin bread, chicken salad, chili, sausage dip, and these cream cheese pepperoni puff thingys. And chocolate chip cookies. Oh wait, I always have chocolate chip cookies. Football or not.

Fall is my favorite time of the year. Football is my favorite sport. And cooking for me is always in season, especially baking.

My family and I have done nothing but watch football and eat. All.Day.

Football season is indeed the most wonderful time of the year.

Even if my team sucks.

Again. This year.

Groupie

Friday night Chuck and I were out and about and ran into a dear friend of mine. Upon seeing Chuck he asked, "You couldn't find any football games to go to tonight?"

"For whatever reason, he wants to hang out with me tonight", I replied.

"Well, if you were my Mom, I'd want to hang out with you too".

Yeah, that's why I love him.

Chuck and I had just picked up a new album from my favorite band. My very favorite band. Maybe it was having that old flame rekindled, but Chuck and I started reminiscing about my (and my susta's) experiences with them. You know, before all of their hard work paid off and they made it big. We were fortunate to be groupies when we were, really.

And groupies, we were. I prefer the term "bandwhore" as it more aptly describes our obsessive devotion and dedication to these boys.

My sister introduced me to them by first letting me hear their music, which was catchy, but I wasn't convinced. Then I saw them live. There were two back-to-back shows that weekend and I agreed to go with her to one. Immediately after that show, I found myself signing up to go to the second. I really wanted to go but I didn't understand why. I didn't need to, I guess. I just knew I loved seeing them live.

Following these boys has led to us attending shows in three states (two of them in one weekend), standing in lines for hours to ensure our preferred spot (at the stage, of course), CD signings, talking to them after shows, pictures, and obsessively checking their tour dates. Chuck's first show was in Raleigh. He got his guitar signed and got the first string broken on one of the boy's instruments given to him after the show. That night, his aunt and I were rock stars in his eyes. He was amazed. He was starstruck by them, it was obvious. And I could relate all too well.

He had that same look on his face Friday night. One of amazement and wonder as I showed him pics of his auntie and me in a magazine, a finger pick I scored from one of the shows, told him of conversations had with them. Through our devotion to this particular band, we were exposed to many other awesome talents. His jaw dropped when I told him about his mother hosting one of the bands overnight after a local show. (It was like 10 degrees that night and they were gonna sleep in their van. We just couldn't have that, now could we?). Chuck laughed as I  told him about the band's lead making a sandwich in my kitchen at like 2 a.m.

His aunt and I also threw a house concert for another band we fell in love with while chasing these boys. In other words, we excel at bein' bandwhores. We are so good at it.

Thinking over my conversation with Chuck before I went to bed that night, the more I thought my friend was right. I am pretty damn cool (to be a mom, that is). Seeing as how most teenage boys view their mothers as being lame, out-of-touch and ignorant, if me and my sister are cool enough to be heroes in his eyes (at least for one night), I'll take it.

I think I'd wanna hang out with me too, if I were my Mom. Just sayin'.

The Descent

So, I entered hell last week when we decided to put my Skinky in daycare.

I have now plummeted to the seventh realm of said hell.

Today was his fifth day.

Day one went off without a hitch. I left him smilin' and playin' and charmin' the pants off everyone there. I got a kiss and went on my way. What the hell have I been so worried about? This is sooo going to be a breeze!

Yeah, notsomuch. By day two he figured out Mommy wasn't staying with him. By day three he had to be peeled off of me. As soon as we walked in his classroom, those chubby lil' arms were tightly wrapped around my neck and his legs had a python-like grip around my waist. I left him screaming. That same day I picked up him and his new-found cold. Ugh.

Well, what else did I expect, right? Yes, I knew my precious would pick up cooties from other kids, I just didn't expect it to be so soon. Yesterday I walk in to his classroom and notice that every kid in there is snotty. Great.

102 fever, a doctor's visit, a contagious skin rash, and a case of diaper rash the likes of which I've never seen. Fungal diaper rash, to be exact. All since Friday.

I cringed as the pediatrician asked "Is this going to be a full-time permanent kind of thing?"

I sheepishly replied, "Yes", like I was admitting to a murder, or child abuse, or sending him to a concentration camp for six hours a day.

"Is this a small or large center?" What difference does that make, I'm still like the WORST MOTHER EVER!, I thought, but I answered her.

"Well, I guess we may as well get used to this, then, huh?", she smugly replied.

No.She.Di'int. I seriously could have slapped her. For realz. Chuck was with me, thank God, so I couldn't really show my ass like I wanted to at that very moment. I don't think me callin' my husband to come bail me out of jail 'cause I attacked the bitch would have helped.

To go through so much transition in such a short period of time, Riley has been such a trooper. I obviously feel extremely guilty.

Mama, Mama. Mama, Mama! I didn't ever think he'd start calling me that. Now it gets repeated over and over and over again. Like he's looking for me or is afraid I am going to leave him. He has to know my whereabouts at all times.

'Cept now he's all snotty and it sounds more like Baba, baba. He relentlessly expresses his misery in being sick. He looks at me with those big, beautiful, feverishly-weak eyes and says "Baba!" every time I walk in a room. It's as if he's saying, "Do you see? Do you see what you're doing to me? This is all your fault!" At least that's what my head tells me anyway. He's always pitiful when he's sick, but I never really blamed myself for it the way I am now.

I realized long ago that I have given my two teenagers excuses to seek therapy as adults. I just really didn't want it to start so soon with Skinky.

At this rate, imma be in therapy behind this whole daycare thing long before he will. I passed overwhelmed about 72 hours ago. I am OVA it. Done.

Bless my heart. And his. We will survive, I guess.

Interested Buyer

So, I inherited some new (to me) furniture, which meant I had to sell my old living room suit. My vote was to put it out on the street to be picked up by whomever, but my husband suggested we try to sell it.

Sell it I did. I posted it on craigslist and got quite a few interested folk within minutes. The chaise lounge and ottoman sold within 24 hours, the couch took a lil' longer.

My phone rang at about 8:00 last night, and the caller ID showed an out of state cell phone. Weird. I hesitantly answered . . .

Hello?!?

You have a red couch.

Yes, I do.

It's for sale on craigslist and it's red. Very, very red.

Yes it is. It also has red pillows to go with it.

It just gets better and redder by the minute, now doesn't it?

The caller goes on to explain that he has a girlfriend interested in the red couch and could she and he come check it out, say tomorrow after school? I say sure and agree to text him my address, which I did. After thinking it over, I also sent him a text saying that they were more than welcome to come see it that night.

There are a great many affordable couches in this town; it's kind of overwhelming. It might help if you texted over a few additional photos.

Oh you're good! When my hubby gets back with his spiffy phone, I will do just that!

Perfect! =)

After my phone conversation and now our electronic dialogue, I decided to have a lil' fun. What the hell? I was bored:

I have freshly made taco soup (that's pretty spectacular if I say so myself) and homemade chocolate chip cookies if that helps. Just sayin'.

Oh! Well, I can come! She cannot, but I'll act on her behalf.

Come on!

I'll be there in about 10 minutes.

I totally thought he was joking. He was not. Ten minutes later I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Interested Buyer. And I do mean pleasure.

Would you like some cookies?, I ask.

::eyes rolling back in head::  Ab.So.Lutely.

This is the point at which he became my BFF. We had milk and cookies, inspected and discussed the couch,  talked about the aforementioned girlfriend, and a whole host of other things. About ten minutes in, I really didn't care whether or not I sold the couch. Which I did, by the way.

A new BFF from craigslist. Who knew?

Mommy Hell

If there is such a place, I qualify. I have qualified long before now.

The latest reason? A word I have dreaded since my youngest was born: daycare.

I cannot continue this post without saying that stay-at-home moms rock. Shitty diapers, teaching, feeding, blessed naps, baths, temper tantrums at just the ideal times--the list is endless. Not to mention the isolation. All of that on top of managing and running a household: cleaning, cooking, shopping. Amazing.

I was ecstatic at the idea of staying home with Skinky, as I did not have the opportunity with Morgan or Chuck. I have long known that whatever fiber women possess to do all of that and be completely happy and fulfilled I do not have. It has been just recently that I have accepted it.

Truth is, it damn-near killed me. Literally.

So his father and I have been mulling over the decision to put him in daycare. My husband has been hounded and nagged. We must find some consistent childcare. It simply has to happen. I can't keep doing this! And it does have to happen. For many reasons. The most pressing being my effin' sanity.

Countless hours of research, talking to other moms, phone calls, more phone calls, appointments, and tours have led to Riley's full-time enrollment at a daycare. He starts Wednesday. Ugh.

With all of my bitchin', I should be excited. Relieved even, right? Wrong. Somehow all this means is that I have failed and I am just throwing my child away to be looked after by strangers. My goodness, I have been moping around acting as if I am sending him to juvie. I feel selfish and inadequate for "not havin' what it takes".

Riley could use some socialization and I know it will all work out. It will, right?

I sure hope so. I am having to draw off others' experience here. They all tell me it gets better.

Furthering my insanity is not an option, so I must take this leap of faith. 'Cause after all, if Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy; this I know to be true.

Y'all say a lil' prayer for me Wednesday mornin'. Oh my.

My Day? Made.

A couple of weeks ago I was at a local merchant standing in line to check out. There was an older gentleman in front of me loading his purchases into his cart at a snail's pace. He turned to smile at me as he was gathering his things. For the love of God, could you please hurry up?! I thought.

He was dressed to a tee and very well groomed. Hair just so, mustache finely trimmed, big blue eyes. You could tell at some point in his life he was a bit of a ladies' man. Admittedly, I just wanted him out of my way; I was running late to a date with my Mom. He finished his business and headed out of the store.

As the cashier was ringing me up she says, "Oh shoot! I forgot to give him his receipt." I told her I would give it to him on my way out, as I didn't think I'd have a problem catching up with him.

Sure enough, he was slowly loading his car. "Sir, the cashier forgot to give you your receipt", and I handed it to him. He smiled. I took his cane out of his cart and offered to take his cart back in the store.

"Are you this nice to everyone?", he asked. I winked at him and replied, "Well, I was raised right, but I'm only this nice to the good-looking ones." At this point he was grinnin' like a Cheshire cat.

By this time he had slyly slipped his arm around my waist. "You see that convertible behind me?" I nodded yes. "Why don't you just go ahead and get in, I'm taking you home with me, sweetie."

Now I was grinnin' from ear to ear. I wished him a good day and hurried to meet my Mom, smiling the entire way.

Sometimes it pays to slow down. Sometimes it pays big. I have no idea if I did anything for his mood, but he sure made my day.

Beba Revisited

Maybe it's because we dropped her off at college three weeks ago. Maybe it's because I made myself not call her for the first week. A whole damn week. Maybe it's because I have found myself wondering how we got here so quickly. I swear she just started middle school like last week.

Wondering Is she eating? Is she getting enough rest? Did I do this right, I mean, she is prepared to be on her own, right? How is she managing time? And a plethora of other worries . . .

Maybe it's because she's realizing a childhood dream of mine; she is a UNCW cheerleader, after all. (Yes, I am the mother of a collegiate cheerleader. And yes, I will sign autographs.)

Or maybe it's as simple as she's my daughter and I am extremely proud of her and all of her accomplishments. Whatever the reason, I thought it appropriate to revisit an old post. I can't say it any better now that I did then. I love you Beba . . . . .



I remember fondly the day my daughter was born.  It was the first time I ever experienced love at first sight.  She was perfect . . . . in every way.

She slept through the night at two weeks of age.  She had the sweetest disposition I have ever known.  She was just so . . . . easy.  I was shocked at how naturally I bonded with her, how I instinctively knew exactly what to do and what she needed (I was seventeen).  She did everything early:  crawled, walked, talked.  She was reading before she started kindergarten.  It was apparent very early on that the world was her oyster.  She could do anything she put her mind to . . . . and do it well.  With an ease and grace that made me proud, oh so proud . . . and envious.

She matured quickly.  She has always been wise beyond her years.  A leader.  A non-conformist.  Wicked smart, funny, intuitive, with a grounded down-to-earth approach to everything she does.  I have seen her intimidate grown men . . . . more than once.  Yes, it's fun to watch, it's also challenging as hell to rear such a creature.

Aware of this, I have always been very intentional and purposeful in my dealings with her.  She was raised to be independent:  she could do her own laundry and cook a simple meal at ten years of age.  She could stay at home alone at an age that most would consider neglectful.  She was just always so responsible.  We have always had an honest and candid relationship.  I knew the first time she kissed a boy, when she started her period, when she was offered illicit substances, etc..  She knows my past, my mistakes, my regrets, and my accomplishments.  We talk about everything. 

The fact that she is so smart and does not "demand" anything has proven to be a challenge in her adolescence.  Half the time I am stuck deciding whether to shake her or kiss her.  Sadly, I don't instinctively know what she needs any more.  I just know what I want for her, and luckily, it aligns with what she wants for herself.  This young lady has the world at her feet and fails to recognize that what she has goin' on is nothing short of effin' magic.  She has so many opportunities and so much potential.  It thrills me and makes me want to strangle her at the same time.  I often wonder if she sees what I see:  that she is brilliant, gorgeous, talented, driven, and can literally be any thing she wants to be.  She has accomplished more this school year than most people do in their high school careers.  And she makes it seem effortless.

I do know this:  when she crosses the threshold of this house, she will have been raised.  She knows right from wrong.  She knows that bad decisions come with bad consequences and vice versa.  She knows that she can soar or plummet, it's her choice.  And she knows that she will always have a place to call home--no matter what.

And I hope she knows and feels this:  that she always has been and always will be my first true love.



*When Morgan was little she called her dolls "bebas" because she couldn't say "babies".  I, in turn, started calling her "Beba" and it stuck.  She will forever be known as "Beba" in my family.