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.