Wasted Space

I attended a dear friend's baby shower a few years back. One of the things she requested of her guests was to write parenting advice down on a 3x5 index card, for those of us who had children. She handed me the card and said, motioning toward my daughter, "Just write down how to do that. Like, I want to have one of her when it's all said and done."

I without hesitation wrote the following:

"I have learned that no matter where or from whom we come, there are some things best left in the previous generation. We have much to learn and much to unlearn from our predecessors. We decide if and where the cycle stops: good, bad, or indifferent. Just know that you are this precious creatures's first experience and example of God. You will be his or her's first personification of His love."

Because that has been my experience. There are some things I was taught, that while I'm sure was grounded in logic and reasoning, did not serve me well as an emotional being. There are things I was taught that do not serve me as a female in today's society. There are things I was taught that do not serve me well spiritually.

I learned very well to avoid, to apologize for having natural desires, to put a man's needs before my own, to read between the lines, and for the love of all that is holy, to NOT talk about the pink, purple polka-dotted huge elephant in the room. To dismiss and be dismissed. To "never let 'em see you sweat" and to deny my God-given right and privilege to feel. Because at the end of the day, who cares to see and hear all of that? To minimize, conceal, and deny.

Society taught me that love is always enough, to look for the knight on the white horse, that as long as I have a partner to complete me, all would be well. The Cinderella syndrome is a ploy. The knight never existed, and I have kissed enough frogs to know that Prince Charming is a fallacy.

Nature versus nurture, that is the question. Was it my environment or society selling me a fantasy?

In writing, or expressing myself in any form for that matter, I shy away from broad, sweeping generalizations. If my experience differs from yours, if you had a childhood that could be the plot for a warm and fuzzy Hallmark movie, please accept my apologies. And please, forward me your contact info, as I have yet to meet a person who comes from such.

The good news is, as a mother of an infant, there is a clean slate. Unpainted canvas. A brand-spanking new mound of fresh, moldable clay before us. That's the bad news, too. It's exciting, exhilarating, and refreshing. It is also frightening. Very frightening, as the responsibility seems overwhelming and the task insurmountable.

This is what I have learned:

I am enough.
My feelings matter, I cannot control them, but I can absolutely control how I react to them.
Your opinion of me is none of my business.
I teach people how to treat me, by what I allow and what I reinforce.
God's love is not dependent on my self-worth, self-acceptance, or any other conditions.
I am worthy.
To say what I mean and mean what I say-there is a lot of grief born out of not doing so.
To stop apologizing. For the love, stop apologizing.

I used to apologize for taking up space. For asking a question. For not getting it right the first time. For feeling. For not knowing. For being in the way. For you not being in a good space. For sucking air.

I hope and pray I did not pass these tendencies on to my children. I have worked diligently to not pass on the defective means by which I used to navigate through life. I have been purposeful in teaching them that they matter, they are enough, and not to apologize for taking up space. My prayer is they heard me.

If you have churen, daughters in particular, do yourself and them a favor and watch this video. It stepped on my toes. I am not moving my foot, just trying to figure out why it hurts.

Annie

It is a beautiful autumn day. I am walking city streets, the warm sunshine tickling my cheeks. Thoughts of her invade my consciousness like bolts of electricity, without warning. Appropriate, as she was very lively. Kinetic.

I try my damnedest to will them away, just like every other time she decides to invade my thoughts. Especially on a day like today, when I am moaning and groaning to myself. Always just to myself. Aloud is not allowed. For then I may have to admit how selfish and ungrateful I am.

I wonder to myself what she would do in this particular life circumstance which I currently and begrudgingly reside. I don't contemplate it long because I know. She would do anything to be in my situation. Anything at all. She would grab this opportunity up and make the absolute best of it, for it beats the alternative. It is hands-down better than where she lies now. Her grave.

She and I share so many similarities. So much of our lives and stories are the same. Accomplishments, defeats, experiences. She has three beautiful babies, same as me. For all intents and purposes, she is me and I her. Except I am here, trudging the road of my existence and she does not and will not have this "opportunity" with which I have been blessed. This scares me. It also shocks me into some awareness that maybe, just maybe, I can do as she would and Just. Effin'. Do. It.

If for no other reason or motivation, and my life is full of them--people who are more precious to me than they will ever know--today I do it for her. Just for her. Because she would happily do it if she were able, and somehow her lack of choice in the matter is now my passion.

It has been said that some people have to die so that others of us may live. That is less than the salve needed to repair a soul in grief, I think. Though today it may be a fitting life lesson. Taught by her, as only she could. She helps me in death just as she did in life.

Today, I will not complain. Not even to myself. It is a luxury she does not have, so it is one I will not allow.

Just for today.

Idea(l)s

Skink and I were at a local park recently, playing in the breeze and the sunshine. It was so sunshiny as a matter of fact, I had stripped him of his pants and he toddled around in the warm spring air wearing nothing but a onesie.

As we were about to leave I noticed two little girls playing by the park entrance. They were having a blast, laughing and completely carefree. As we approached them, one of the girls came running up to me:

I'm Kesha and I'm four and I give great hugs.

Me: I'll take a hug. ::she wraps her little arms around my legs:: You do give great hugs!

How come your baby don't have no draws (drawers) on?

I was amused and refreshed at the end of our all-too-brief encounter. With her honest introduction and polite yet assertive extroversion, I found her delightful.

I wonder how my own life might be enriched if I tried doing things Kesha's way for even a day. Honest, politely assertive extroversion. A challenge to remove myself from my own world and electronic devices long enough to get to know and try to understand those around me. I realize she has age on her side. She is free of the scars of fear and disappointment. I hope she stays that way.

I am continually amazed how much I take for granted the relationships in my life in which exists the comfort of understanding. You know, that silent empathy and deep knowledge of one another.

This one ingredient I so highly value seems to be my motive for taking liberties that I should not. Knowing someway somehow our friendship can will withstand almost anything. Making the kinship life-proof, it is that intimate connection with one another that endures lapses in time, events, and circumstances. That we-seem-to-pick-up-right-where-we-left-off feeling.

I value these people in my life immensely, and the very quality that sustains these relationships seems to be the paradoxical reason I do not relentlessly express my gratitude for them.

I find that oddly reassuring.

I hope that I am able to increase my understanding of others in my life rather than taking advantage of theirs'. I'll just add it to the ever-growing list of things I need to work on.

You understand, of course.

The Ghost of Teenagers Past

I have learned a lot during my journey as a mother. I got a crash-course in parenting when Morgan became a teenager. Oh.My. She was a tricky one, but for the most part was way more saintly than me in my teenage years. She was still abducted by aliens and replaced by a sarcastic, "it's not my fault!" procrastinating clone. They brought her back, eventually. Damn aliens.

There is one thing that sticks out when I reflect back on her early teens: giving her keys to a car changed her personality.

I don't know when this tendency starts in parenting, but I am guilty of it. The tendency to assume one child is going to follow in the other's footsteps exactly. Particularly where there is a sense of freedom involved.

I have written before about my mom's strategy by the time I hit my eye-rollin', talkin'-back, rebellious phase. Her strategy didn't work. At all. So my approach with my two teens has been different. They have my trust until they give me a reason not to trust them. I at least give them the opportunity to meet my reasonable expectations. In general, it has worked out. There are mistakes made, by them and by me, but we all learn from them.

So, Chucker got his license about a month ago, and after a cluster of car issues, he now has some wheels. And I have been assuming the worst of him ever since. Strictly based on my experience with his sister. John is equally as guilty. I cannot tell you how many times he has let "You just got Morganed" fall out of his mouth in the last couple of weeks. That's right, Morgan's legacy is such that she has become a verb in our household. When there is manipulation of people, time, money, "well, see what had happened was", etc. that's when you've been "Morganed".

My mother assumed that I would do everything that my older two siblings tried as teenagers. I get it. We recognize our shortcomings as parents and we learn from them. And that's fine, but my experience with "cookie-cutter" parenting has never been positive. Don't get me wrong, I believe there are some developmental phases which few humans can escape. There are going to be similarities in certain aspects, but what works for one isn't necessarily going to work for another. Just because Morgan was a logistical nightmare doesn't necessarily mean that Chucker's fate has already been written in that area. Matter of fact, his pendulum swings in the opposite direction. He's punctual to a fault. Morgan hasn't seen punctual in almost a decade. Maybe ever. I dunno.

Maybe I'm giving us (parents) a bad rap here. Maybe it's human nature. John had zero experience as a parent when we got married. He automatically assumed the worst of Beba because of his teenage experience. Mind you when he was 16 Reagan was president, gas was 89 cents a gallon, and Teddy Ruxpin was the best-selling toy. Yet somehow Morgan was supposed to be held to the same standards he was charged with living up to.  As I type this, I can see how senseless that sounds. In the moment, though, all of that escapes me as my anxiety level increases exponentially knowing that I am getting "Morganed" by either of my churen.

Becoming aware of this tendency has given me pause to stop and breathe. Both of my teenagers are good kids. They're different as night and day, though. So for now I'm strappin' myself in for this roller coaster ride that is gonna be Chucker with a car. That's inevitable. He's a teenager with a sense of freedom and independence. Whether it's the "Afterburn" or the "Kiddie Coaster" is yet to be determined.

Have I mentioned how much I love roller coasters?

Wonders Never Cease

My son, the middle one, that is, got a new toy today. He's been wanting one for months and his wait is now over. He bought a banjo. Because the guitar "just isn't challenging enough for me anymore". Twerp.

This is verbatim a snippet of a phone conversation between me and a friend of mine a couple weeks ago:

Hello?

What you doing?

Listening to Chuck pick out a James Taylor song on the guitar that he's heard all of about two times.

@#$%!! (expletive). Tell him I said I hate him.

I know that all mothers are amazed by their children's abilities. I get it.

I am truly baffled by mine.

He had that  damn banjo home for all of a couple of hours and had already learned a song. By ear, of course. BY EAR. Looks like the banjo won't be as much of a challenge as he originally thought.

As I am lying on the couch fllipin' through pages on Pinterest, I hear the chords to a very familiar song. I smiled to myself. That is effin' amazing. My next thought was, That is effin' disgusting. 

Try as I might, I will never possess his ear for music. Or my daughter's artistic ability and eye for fashion. Ever. I should be happy for them, right? Proud even. Well screw that. I am proud of them and I do admire them for their abilities. I am also envious.

Okay, okay, I'm outright jealous. There. I said it.

My susta and I have names for people who possess things we want. We call them "whores" (lovingly, of course). Seein' as how that's not really appropriate when referring to my churen, I am open to suggestions.

p.s. It is impossible to play the banjo quietly, turns out. There is no escaping the TWANG of that thing anywhere in the house. Even if I shut him up in a room with all doors closed and retreat to my bedroom with the noise machine on, for instance. Nu-uh. Still.Doesn't.Work.
                ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So, did you get a text from your susta tonight?

'Bout what?

Your diddy?

Um, no. What's up?

He took a Zumba class tonight.

Shutyourmouth!

::hysterical laughter::

On the topic of wonders never ceasing, any of you who know my father will automatically see the wonder humor in this. Yeah, you're welcome. I kindly thanked my sister for the material and got off the phone. I could not wait to tell John.

And all of y'all.

Oops.

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.

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.