January 25, 2013
This parenting stuff. Easy peasy right?
I’m so thankful for you crazy muthas. Yesterday I blogged about how I thought I had some sort of mental disturbance because I’ve been secretly freaked out about my kids dying. I really didn’t even let on to the true nature of my frightfulness because I didn’t want anyone to call the muscled guys at the mental institution and tell them to trick me into the van.
Your responses have changed my life. I’m not kidding. And so, in the spirit of the therapeutic nature of this here blog of mine, I will release my frightfulness into the blogosphere and then file this away under, “Other things they don’t tell you about or you would never have kids. Or sex.”
When I pull up at school, if big darling is not at the gate, I assume he is bleeding to death through his nose. He gets a lot of nosebleeds. I assume that they didn’t call me because they were too busy calling 911. And while I’m sitting there at the gate, they are in front of the school loading his bloodless body into an ambulance.
If middle darling is not at the gate, I assume he has been kidnapped. Yep. I immediately think that he has been lured by a sexual predator into the back of a van full of kitty cats and lollipops.
Little darling likes to sneak into my bed at night. If he doesn’t, I know it’s because he’s dead. He’s little enough that he could have all sorts of undiagnosed illnesses that I don’t know about yet. I’m pretty sure he might be diabetic. Big darling might have Marfan’s Syndrome too.
The first time I put big darling in his backwards facing car seat as a 6 lb infant and drove off, I was hysterical. I pulled over twice. Did these crazy facks actually expect me to drive without looking at him? DANGEROUS. Infants do not breathe unless you watch them breathe. Gheez! Idiots!
When middle darling was born, big darling was old enough to tell me whether he was pink or blue. They sat side by side in the backseat, and I would say this, about every five minutes. “What’s the baby doing? Is he pink? Or blue?” Thankfully big darling always reported that he was pink.
And what kinds of assholes build balconies these days? On every vacation to the beach, I would walk in the condo and rip open that big curtain to inspect the balcony. I always imagined that the construction workers were alcoholics, and some of the nuts and bolts would be faulty. Then I’d have to drag my littlest kid to the balcony to see if his head could actually squeeze through the rails. I’d have to drag all the furniture far away from the balcony, of course. My boys will quickly tell you how you can die from accidentally falling over a balcony. If they so much as got near a chair on the balcony, the others would tackle the chair toucher. Yes indeed. That’s how I raise ‘em.
Don’t even get me started on falling down onto sharp surfaces. Little darling once busted his head open, resulting in a scary ER trip with blood gushing everywhere. I was sure he was dying on the way to the hospital, so I started yelling to just run the red lights, because he was going into a coma. It never occurred to me he was just sleeping because it was past his bedtime.
Now little darling isn’t allowed to run near anything. I’m constantly screaming, “You could fall on that and die!”
Sometimes when they are playing outside they scream like they are dying. Blood curdling, hysterical screams. When I rip open the door, I am not breathing, I’m in full blown cardiac arrest, and I know full well I will see a child with his arm completely cut off and laying mangled on the ground. I have actually punished them for this before.
After I blogged yesterday, one of my friends texted me to say that in addition to the horrible visions, her intuition and instincts are so strong, that she is afraid this will make some of them come true. Several of you commented about that as well.
I am so with you there, muthas. My intuition is so strong I’m also secretly scared I’m a witch. I am right way too many times. I have had premonitions. I mean seriously, I might be controlling people with my mind.
Just in case I am, I should be directing what I need my way, right? In that case I just need enough money to stay home and take care of my kids. Don’t need to be rich or famous or any of that. I just want to be a mama. Because even though it has turned me into a crazy, frightful lunatic, apparently I’m in good company.
January 24, 2013
I’ve asked little darling how he feels no less than 400 times since Monday. And his response, each time, until today, has been, “Not so well.”
“Not so well,” in his smallish, cute, baby voice that I love so much.
“Not so well,” in his smallish, cute, baby voice that I love so much.
I’ve been a mom for 11 years. And in 11 years I’ve been to the ER three times. Once on a weekend when big darling had pneumonia. Once when little darling split his head open so badly we could see his skull membrane. And Tuesday. Courtesy of the 3 year old baby darling again.
I am a hater of antibiotics. But after Christmas little darling had a round due to a nasty ear infection. When they rechecked his ears a couple weeks ago, they were still red. He had a cold at the time and so when they suggested yet another round of antibiotics, I was hesitant. My gut told me no. I was nervous about his gut immunity (or lack thereof) in the middle of this terrible flu season. I knew if he got the flu or a stomach virus it would be bad. Well, he did, and it was. And I want to kick myself because I KNOW BETTER.
Monday he threw up like he was trying to expel a demon. The only other time I’ve seen someone throw up like that is once when Dave tried to stop taking his pain pills, or maybe he just ran out of them. Monday night he was delusional. He was talking nonsense, pointing at imaginary objects and was just so incredibly sick and lethargic. I kept thinking about the boy from school who died. I slept zero. I watched him breathe instead.
This is particularly traumatic for me, because I am sure I have some sort of disorder. I’m way too scared my kids are going to die. I’m scared, I guess, because the worst thing has happened. Someone in our home has died. And I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN. I’m scared the worst thing is going to happen again. Because if it does, I can’t survive. I shan’t. I won’t.
I know that thinking everyone is going to die is not healthy. At Christmas, I even kicked it up a notch and had visions of someone dropping my brother's baby on the stone floor. I remember a mutha once telling me that while she took a shower she had a panic attack that one of her kids would get attacked by mountain lions. I've been in the parking lot before and had visions of cars losing control and rolling over all my kids at once. I once fought with my dad for standing too close to the balcony with my firstborn. I was absolutely convinced he was going to trip or sneeze and drop him over. What is wrong with me?
Does anyone else do this? Even slightly? Can the widdas chime in here? The slightly crazed muthas? I should clarify that it doesn’t really change my actions. I still act normal. I’m just secretly scared. A lot. I know I think about it too much.
Anyway, tonight, I have a date with Netflix and a bottle of wine. GOOD LORD DO I DESERVE THIS!
January 14, 2013
Welp. The sun came out Saturday for a while. We were able to wear shorts and flip flops. The Kentucky muthas were here, and we conducted sacred patio meetings while the sun’s healing energies swirled around us. Good times, folks.
If your ears were burning, it’s because we were talking about you. If it’s a problem that affects the Sisterhood of the Sacred Women tribe, then you better believe it is important to us and we are hell bent on fixing it.
I hope that you all will report back to me that you are conducting your own sacred patio meetings in your own communities, with members of your own Sisterhood of the Sacred Women tribe. Because the world needs us. We can’t stretch ourselves too thin. This is very important work, this mutha stuff.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to pondering big darling’s latest piece of artwork, which I stumbled upon this morning. It is a beautiful drawing and next to it he’s written out the letters of his name, and next to each letter he has written some positive qualities about himself. I cannot read them without thinking about Dave. Because these are all the words I probably used to describe Dave when I first met him.
The muthas couldn’t believe how much big darling looked like Dave. They were wondering if it was okay to tell him how much he resembled his daddy? Heck, there’s no rule book here, mostly because I haven’t written one. So I quickly surmised that being like his daddy is pleasing to him. We’ve had some intimate conversations at night when we’re saying prayers and talking about our day where I have told him that having daddy’s good qualities is a blessing, and that nurturing those qualities and seeing them mature and blossom unhindered by stress and addiction would allow him to grow into the man that daddy should have been. I’ve explained that he mustn’t be afraid to be like daddy, because he has all the tools he needs to procure a different outcome.
Please Lord, let that be true. I’ll spend my last dying breath making sure it is true.
Even though I’ve been lazy and ridiculous, I had to take down my Christmas tree and decorate for Mardi Gras before the muthas arrived. Taking down the Christmas tree was as annoying as putting it up. There were several seconds when I considered dousing it with gasoline and setting it ablaze. I’m not sure how sedated I was last year when I boxed it up, because I did put it properly back into the box last year. This year, it appears that the tree grew, and the box shrunk. As I kicked it down the stairs and unsuccessfully tried to tape the box up, I screamed out how much, “I hate daddy” right in front of big darling. Then I muttered something aloud about how I was pretty sure this wasn’t what God intended for the celebration of His birthday.
The muthas have tasked me with being the girl who changes Christmas. So, no pressure there, right? But I’m pretty sure some changes are going to be made in our house. Rewriting the Holiday Season is going to require quite a few meetings of the Sisterhood of the Sacred Women tribe. So stay tuned.
January 11, 2013
Uncle. UNCLE! UNNNNNNCLE!!!! Isn’t that the stupid word you scream to call off your torturers? Good Lord. I could not possibly be more sick of myself. I mean, for exactly how long can one be a ridiculous, lazy, whining asshole? Who is this person? And who shall I alert regarding this apparent body snatching?
I was once full of bad-assery. Quick-witted and courageous. A couger. Er, no that’s not right. I don’t want you guys getting any ideas here. No indeed. I was a leopard. Never met a leopard print I didn’t love. Hell, I’m just any old animal that runs fast (presently away from men) and is bossy and also a bitch and sort of queenly in the jungle. I was all ‘dat.
And now I’m a tree sloth. Or a drunken snail.
I’ve taken so many vitamins and supplements over the past week that I may have burned a hole in my stomach somewhere. Undaunted, I’m still wallowing in pills. Let’s see, two of these, a couple of these, gag, swallow, yuck!
I threw in the towel on my holiday diet weeks ago. The cookies are gone, the pies have been eaten. We’re back to brown rice and veggies and clean meat.
But it is dark as muthafacker outside, and I can’t stand it. I can’t spin the sun. If I were a single person, I would have gotten in my car and driven fast down a highway until I ran into the sun. Then I would have gotten out of the car, laid down on the hood, and just soaked up every drop.
Today I googled full spectrum lighting and treatment for Seasonal Affective Disorder. I couldn’t decide what to order on account of the brain snatching . Feeling confused and desperate, I scooped up little darling and bolted for the car during a tornado watch and a torrential downpour, and we headed for the hardware store. I didn’t see anything that said “full spectrum” so I bought the brightest natural light lumens I could find. I came home and lined up the lamps with no lamp shades on them and tried to pretend I was in Hawaii while I cleaned the kitchen. Little darling thinks I’ve gone mad. “What is dat?” he asked with his squinted eyes.
It’s mommy trying not to lose her shit during winter.
I suppose I should offer a disclaimer here. Because some of you will think I’m teetering on the edge of madness. The truth is my tolerance is zero. I’m a highly energetic person. So when I’m even slightly off my game, I loathe it. I’m having one of those stupid Oprah “Aha” moments right now this very minute. Because I know full well I need to allow myself time to be a slacker loser, and I should embrace it willingly without a bunch of blinding lamps everywhere. But I’m not in favor of this dormancy period. I don’t like being cooped up in the house. I don’t like cold and rain and fog and dark skies. I’m not really British. It’s just a fun way to talk. Gheez.
I finally started taking down the Christmas tree today. There’s an obligatory ornament holding a photo of Dave which I put high up, so as to inflict the minimal amount of torture during the festive season. When I took it down today, I looked at him and it was as if I had no fucking clue who he was. “God, who is this person?” I shouted silently to myself. I can’t believe you did this! I can’t believe this is our life! How did this happen?! And more importantly, who the fuck are you?!
Beware of those body snatchers! And keep your lights on, madpeople.
January 9, 2013
Alternate title: gray skies are assholes.
I’ve decided that I’m a sunflower. And when the sun won’t shine, I’m that sunflower with the beautiful, giant bloom that insists on bending sullenly towards the ground. The kind of sunflower that really ticks you off when you finally decide to snip it and bring it in for your pretty vase. Because with such a crooked neck, the flower is just an asshole. So determined it is to be downcast, that it tips the vase over and spills the water everywhere. The beautiful asshole flower. No sun, no smile. The Sun gods are taunting me.
I should really move to Mexico during January and February. Right after I get a job. And find new schools for my kids there.
I’ve tried to embrace the winter months. Yeah. Fuck that. I read on some zen website that we should try to approach the winter months differently. We should embrace the dark, quiet time and accept the natural inclination to go within for quiet reflection. That sounds ok to me. I know how to pull that down comforter over me just so…and go within. I do it every night. But who the heck is going to wash my clothes, shop for food, cook dinner and clean up after these darlings every day while I’m somewhere within?
I’d love to call it a day today. And it’s only 9:18 a.m. But on my agenda today is to finally take down my Christmas tree, and box it up so it’s not full of roaches next year. My house looks like a winter storm swept through it. There are 400 coats and jackets sitting on the bench by the front door. I need to find a new pediatrician for the darlings due to an insurance change. Middle darling needs tubes in his ears again too. I have bills to pay and supper to cook and a yard to clean up. Right after I clean up from breakfast. And bathe. The saltwater pump on the pool is on the fritz. One of my exterior stair rails was rotten so I had it replaced. Now I have to paint it before it gets rotten again. So, while I’d love to go within with these lovely zen people, I’m just not sure how to make it happen while I’m simultaneously out here doing all this stuff.
Plus, I don’t even like looking at what’s within. That’s so 2012. That’s the stuff I smash down and ignore and occasionally slap the shit out of when it begins to pester me too much. I’ve looked within a lot. I probably spent the last year and a half looking within. Ain’t nothing in there I care to see. I’ve examined it, turned it this way and that, flipped it over and done it again for good measure. Done. Next.
So what are people like me supposed to do now? Besides looking down with a big ‘faire la moue’ as they used to say in French when we were little.
Grey skies are assholes.
January 5, 2013
Greetings madpeople. I’m returning from my longest blogging absence ever. Did you happen to notice? Gah, just throw a girl a crumb and say yes, ok? I’ve been very busy, being very curmudgeonly. It’s not easy being so surly and ill tempered. So bah humbug to you! Blech!
See, I’m still not back to normal. When you fall from higher up, the recovery is a bit of a challenge. This has been a great lesson this Holiday season. And please, when you read “Holiday Season” do it with a sarcastic and loathsome inflection, as I intended it.
I can’t put my finger on any one thing that has caused my descent into the abyss. Rather, I think it’s been many different things. We started December with a toddler at little darling’s school dying. A hit so close to home. I already live in fear of people dying. The Angel of Death has already visited my home. This is something that many of you fear from afar. You know it must be horrible….but until there is an untimely and overly traumatic death in your home, well, it’s impossible for you to have the appropriate level of fear. Kind of like how you really don’t know what having a baby is truly like until you have one. Words just don’t suffice. The anxiety started to get the best of me.
A couple weeks after the death at school, the Newton shootings occurred. Hysteria breeds hysteria. I watched nearly zero of the coverage so as not to alert my kids to the true horribleness of the planet, but being plugged in to the internet was enough of a reality dose to keep me off kilter. I can only repeat that I hate humans even more than I already did. And let me be clear, it’s not just the shooter I loathe. It’s many other people who proved to me how utterly insane they are just by talking. I’m so fucking sick of stupid.
I felt myself spiraling downhill. I felt the anxiety swelling up. I kept telling myself to get a grip. It was harder. Christmas was looming and I was going to have to deal with it like this.
Going into Christmas on a high note would have been difficult enough. Going into Christmas off kilter and with a wicked case of PMS to boot = disastrous.
So much healing has occurred over the past year. I guess I got cocky. When I go back and read what I wrote in the beginning of January 2012, I’m blown away. Completely blown away. I’m so thankful for the gift of time. But I’m still angry. I’m angry that I will have to deal with this forever. I’m angry that I can’t make it go away. I’m angry that all it takes is the slightest teeniest tiny gap in the fabric of my life for the grief ninja to slip in and bust my chops. I can’t go from Point A to Point B without this baggage. I try to advance in line without the bag…but the ninja will not be outsmarted. “Miss, you forgot your bag!” he calls out. Damnit! Fucking ball and chain. GO AWAY!!!
I gave up even trying on Christmas Day. I stayed in bed and cried. I can’t even believe I did that to my kids, but I did. I got up with them, they opened presents, and then I went to bed and cried for hours like a stupid sissy. The next day a pile of my favorite high school muthas gathered for drinks and merriment. I didn’t even go. I couldn’t even imagine laughing and cutting loose. I was having a hard enough time just not crying.
Over the last few days, I’ve read a lot of what I blogged early last year. My first thought was that I am definitely a schizophrenic, and my second thought was slight regret for publishing the shenanigans. But as I near the half million mark, I can be proud that apparently it was good enough to attract readers, and more importantly, I know I’ve helped a shitload of people to learn to carry their own bags. Your kind words have inspired me too.
Peace, love and blessings to you all for 2013. .
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