Red Pens and Condoms.

You know how your brain tries to protect you from things you can’t handle? I think mine has been doing that without my knowledge or consent.

I’ve spent the last month dusting my living room. This may not seem like a remarkable feat, but here:

I not only dusted the shit on top of the bookshelves; I dusted the bookshelves themselves AND all the books on them. Then I rearranged the books by author and favorites.

If I made a list of all the household chores that I despise (that would be all of them) dusting would be Number One.

Now, granted, I spent some of that time sick. Migraines, arms not working, back breaking in two (not really). But seriously. I had real shit to do. Shit that actually NEEDED to be done. Like get my kids ready for school, since it STARTS TODAY.

No big deal, right? Right. Except my oldest is going to college, middle is starting 8th grade, and littlest is entering 2nd grade.

So one would think, since a) I’m freaking the fuck out and b) I love school supplies more than almost anything, that I would be prepared. Backpacks. Notebooks. Lovely, lovely pens. Highlighters.  Folders. Every year since the oldest started school, I have had these things for weeks before school started. Backpacks would be packed with carefully labeled supplies. All binders would have little pencil pouches, just in case they forgot to bring a pencil to class. Paper would be stocked inside each folder, and folders would all be a different color so they would be easy to identify in a hurry.

Ha. This year, I didn’t buy shit. I mean absolutely nothing until yesterday. The day before school. So I assume my stupid asshole of a brain purposely derailed me. Likely because I CAN’T STAND THE THOUGHT OF MY OLDEST LEAVING.

Yesterday we finally went shopping. The boys didn’t give a shit about folders or non-scratchy pens, so they went out to the car. I filled my cart with my favorite things, plus bedding and other dorm shit (sob).

I was getting more and more stressed out the longer I was in the store. The last things I needed were red pens and lunchboxes. THEY WERE COMPLETELY OUT OF RED PENS. This was almost enough to push me over the edge, but I held it together and went to find lunchboxes. Of which the entire fucking store only had two.

I couldn’t take anymore. I stood there, lunchbox in each hand, waving them in the air and cursing like a sailor. An employee saw me and I had to explain (while starting to cry) that I wasn’t cussing at him, I was cussing at life. And lunchboxes. He left, looking a little scared, and I sank to the floor. The lack of choices in lunchboxes was apparently all I could take. I sat there in the middle of the store, just sobbing, with two lunchboxes clutched to my chest.

After finally getting my shit together enough to stand up and get the hell out of there, the checkout guy asked me, “How I was doing.” ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? MY HEART IS BREAKING AND SCHOOL STARTS TOMORROW AND YOU ARE OUT OF RED PENS!

We got home and I sat down in the floor, surrounded by school supplies. This is my happy place. I do realize that my middle child is in 8th grade. I didn’t give a shit. I started filling binders and writing class names on the spines and making sure each one had a pouch of pencils and pens. This lasted approximately 3 minutes before he came out of his room and asked for his supply list and all his stuff.

Sure. YOU’LL REGRET THIS WHEN YOU DON’T HAVE COLOR-CODED BINDERS, EACH WITH THE CORRECT RATIO OF PENS TO PENCILS! I’m positive he didn’t sharpen all the pencils. You have no idea how much this hurts.

This morning we took the two youngest to their schools, then I went off with a fully loaded car and child who was not coming home with me. I maintained while we drove (except I got really lost). I was fine as we unloaded. Once again my breakdown happened at Walmart. I may not be allowed back there. This is what I found when I returned to the dorm, loaded with shampoo and soap and condoms. (YES, condoms. Shut up.)

Dorm shenanigans

These kids look like they’ve totally got it together enough to survive on their own. Also, the condoms were possibly a waste of money.

I finally left my baby (yes, the one who is a foot taller than I am). When I got to the parking garage, my car was lost. There were so many levels, I was so tired, I was crying again, my feet were on FIRE…I seriously considered just laying down and rolling until someone ran me over. Then they’d be obligated to give me a ride to my car. Wherever it was.

Do you think I subconsciously blocked out The Big Day? And the directions? Also where I left the car? I’m pretty sure I just pretended none of this was happening until it actually happened. Surely one of you has had a crying fit over lunchboxes? Scared a Walmart employee? I can’t be the ONLY one who has seriously considered rolling down the ramps in a parking garage. Right? 

 

 

 


I’m back and I’m…just like before.

I feel like an explanation is due, since I disappeared for like 500 years. (Sorry.) (HI!)

Well, some pretty awful things happened to some of the people I hold nearest and dearest, and I was very busy trying to be helpful while actually probably making things worse because that is just my nature, as you guys know. I’m pretty sure I have NEVER said the right thing at the right time. Good thing it’s the thought that counts, and that mind readers don’t exist.*

Then there’s this world we are living in and all the people in it who are just breaking my heart and then stomping on it and then maybe it gets picked back up but then it’s broken again and I just can’t understand all the HATE. It makes me feel sad and unfunny and like even trying to be funny is somehow sacrilegious.

Also, I started a new medication that turned me into a zombie, but not the flesh-eating kind. I was a much gentler and kind of a drooling zombie. It wasn’t until I quit taking it for other issues that I realized how much of myself I had lost and that was pretty scary. Especially when people were like, “Oh, but you seemed so much better, happier!” Uh, YEAH, cause LIGHTENING BUGS WERE ALL I COULD THINK ABOUT. Lightening bugs are cool, but no. Not worth it. I’d like to be a person, even if I am a seriously fucked-up one.

So, I think I said a while back that I would ease myself back into blogging by sharing some of my Facebook posts with you. That is obviously not true, because I’m about to do it again. BUT THERE’S ALWAYS HOPE, RIGHT? *waves imaginary pompoms* *wishes I had some actual pompoms*

 

July 20

My husband made dinner last night AND fixed my plate.

I’m sure it had nothing to do with seeing me holding the dish soap over the food, about to liberally douse it.

He’s just really sweet. And probably doesn’t want to eat soap.

 

July 17

I told my 14yo to do the dishes before he went to bed.

He’s been awake since 10 a.m. yesterday.

 

July 7

My 7yo finally found something to keep her busy and semi-quiet.

She’s making her Christmas list.

 

June 21

I’ve reached the point of summer vacation where I’m questioning all my reasons for not sending the kids to summer camp.

I was worried about so many of the horrible things you hear about, and I said no, no, no.

Right now, I’m considering sending them into the woods to live off the land and saying, “See you in August.”

 

June 14

WHOTHAFU–

–What I yelled at the cabinet upon realizing someone had switched a can of carrots with a can of green beans so you couldn’t even SEE the damn corn.

THE CANNED FOOD IN THIS HOUSE GOES IN THE APPROPRIATE ROW GODDAMMIT.

p.s. I know this was done on purpose, and I’ve narrowed my suspects to two.

 

June 10

Me: I can’t believe how stupid this medicine is making me.

Husband: You’re sharp as a tack.

Me:…

Husband: Okay, but you’re not stupid. I’d say… “muddled.”

Me: *laughs forever*

 

June 6

I just walked into the hall closet instead of the bathroom, but caught myself before I peed on the towels.

That means the new meds are working, right?

(I’m not sure if my friend E. meant for her comment to be funny, but I found it hilarious. She said, “We can only hope.” I feel like she was sighing and shaking her head, like omg, that girl. I love it. And her.)

 

May 31

You guys know that I’m a list-maker. I have all these lists of things that I want done, and the things never get done. (Possibly because I don’t do them. Just a guess.)

About once a week I make a NEW list, with all the things from the OLD list that didn’t happen.

Of course, the things like ‘dishes’ and ‘laundry’ are recurring and infuriating, but I usually also find rants and nonsense that I have no memory of writing.

Highlights from last week’s lists:

1. Call fucking insurance.
2. Call fucking insurance AGAIN.
3. Throw up.

(I really hate phone calls.)

4. Yard sale shit.
5. Camping shit.
6. Be calm.
7. Cry.
8. Fucking gnats.
9. Move shit.
10. *something scribbled out with the words “No, fuck that” written next to it.*

 

May 15

I accidentally grabbed a sports bra instead of underwear on my way to the bathroom.

Rather than walk the 10 steps back to get actual underwear, I stared at the bra from different angles, wondering if I could make it work.

It not only worked, but there is a handy strap left free that I’m sure could be utilized for something.

Patent pending.

 

May 6

This morning I caught my cat drinking my coffee. I pushed him off the table and said a not nice thing.

I debated going to get a new cup, but I am lazy and was tired so I decided to risk it.

Also I heard somewhere that a dog’s mouth is cleaner than a human’s. Dogs and cats are both pets. This makes perfect sense.

So I took a sip of the coffee. It tasted okay until I looked over at the cat, who was diligently licking his asshole while staring right at me.

I haven’t come up with a suitable revenge, mainly because I’m not very flexible and I would never lick my asshole, even to prove a point.

 

Guys, this is silly, but I have tears in my eyes. I just basically regurgitated my fb posts into a blog post, but IT FEELS SO GOOD TO BE HERE. Thanks for being here too. xoxox

*If you happen to be a mind reader: There’s nothing to see here. Move along.


Yes. Yes, I Really Did.

clean orange

Believe it or not, I have done a LOT of stupid shit in my 36 years. Some of which I will never reveal.

For those of you who put up with my nonsense and sadness and bitching (thanks, guys!) I present my Top 10. Well, at least the Top 10 that I’m willing to admit.

1. Caught a catfish. Not that dumb. Held it up for pictures. Not that dumb. Jumping in the lake after it when it squirmed out of my hands? My God. Did I seriously think that I could recapture a fish, while fully clothed, with my bare hands? I guess so.

2. In my late teens, my friends and I gathered around a campfire at another friend’s house. His parents obviously had no idea that we were drinking. I had so many screwdrivers (that’s vodka and orange juice for those of you with sense enough not to drink that shit) that I was crawling on the ground because I couldn’t walk. I can’t remember if I got hungry or had to pee, but against all reason, I went into the house. I was met at the door by a horrified mother who grabbed me by the shoulders and asked if I was drunk. I, of course, said no. Then I vomited all over her feet.

3. A couple years ago, I stood on a table in my living room for over an hour, waiting on my husband to get home because I thought there was a snake peering at me from under the couch. It was a gum wrapper. No wonder the motherfucker won our staring contest.

4. In my early 20s, a friend and I were out drinking and dancing until the wee hours. When we’d had enough, we headed to an all-night breakfast place because duh. On the way out the door we noticed the shiny glass case holding mouth-watering pies. We bought a chocolate silk pie. (These are fucking delicious, like pudding and whip cream on a pie crust.) I don’t think we had a plan, but I’m pretty sure we didn’t intend to eat the entire pie in the parking lot. At 3:00 a.m. With our fingers.

5. Hit my head on open cabinet doors (that I opened), door frames, a hot pancake griddle, a post that I was leaning against, my car door, the underside of my desk, and pretty much anything stationary in my vicinity. I can’t seem to keep track of where my head is situated in relation to my body or anything else.

6. Again in my 20s, (I’m sensing a pattern here) I got separated from my designated driver and locked out of the car where I intended to sleep until he showed up. Instead, I ended up telling a police officer to go ahead and arrest me if the station had a bathroom I could use. I’m sure he appreciated me giving him permission. I did not appreciate it when they didn’t let me use the bathroom.

7. Filled an ice cube tray with water. Set it neatly in the dish drainer with the clean dishes. Walked away. Came back. No ice. Just water. (This was today.)

8. A couple weeks ago I accidentally sliced the end of my finger with a kitchen knife. I attempted to use New Skin (for the first time) to glue it shut. Turns out, a Band-Aid would’ve been a much better choice. I didn’t read the label, so of course instead of the goo intended to protect wounds, I painted callus remover all over the open cut. Acid. Callus remover is mostly acid. I cried.

9. Yesterday I washed an orange in the washing machine with the dirty laundry. Yep.

10. Last year I went to the wrong doctor’s office and sat there for an hour before asking them how much longer it would be. That’s when they told me that I did not have an appointment. I had to pay the doctor I was supposed to be seeing $150 for being a no call/no show.

I don’t know what the moral of this story is, unless it’s that brain cells are good and you should keep as many as you possibly can.


No One Wants to Hear About Your Dreams

I know, I know, but the name of this blog came from a dream, so indulge me, just a little.

I’m not doing so great right now, and my dreams are like slaps in the face.

I guess if you look at them symbolically, then they have evolved from convoluted-dream-speak to STEPHANIE, QUIT BEING A FUCKING DUMBASS AND LITERALLY SMELL THE ROSES!

We took the two youngest kids on a short trip, an hour or so away to a touristy-town, just for swimming and playing and “getting away.” (Thanks to a certain Nana and Grandma for making this happen.)

Anyway, YES. I had fun. YES. I enjoyed being with my family. YES. I laughed, and ate, and swam, and sat in the hot tub, and had an entire fancy lobby all to myself with coffee already made when I woke up.

YES. I was hurting and needed SILENCE after just a short while. NO, I couldn’t carry any bags or take the stairs; shit, I had to LEAN ON A WALL just to wait for the elevator. (The only reason I didn’t sit in the floor is that my 13-year-old would’ve died from embarrassment and then who would’ve helped me up.)

YES. I freaked out a tiny bit at dinner. YES, I actually thought my server walked away while I was telling her my order. YES, I was surprised to find her still there. YES, unfortunately, I tried to explain my confusion to her and my family.

YES. It was hard, and I am paying for it now, and I’m so depressed today that I don’t even know if it was worth it. I keep thinking back…

How happy my son was in his new clothes, laughing and joking and BEING NICE TO HIS SISTER.

How happy my daughter was, laughing and joking and giddy with excitement.

How SELFLESS my husband was (and is) knowing that he would be the pool-toy, the bag carrier, the kid-chaser, the driver, and did all these things knowing he had to work the next day.

It was worth it.

That doesn’t mean I’m any less miserable today. I won’t detail my aches and pains; I will just say that as someone who basically did nothing harder than stand in an elevator as it went up and down two floors, I don’t feel like I should be in this kind of pain.

We got home late yesterday afternoon. My husband was still at work. I was SO TIRED. The 13-year-old and 7-year-old were somehow NOT tired. The 30-minute car nap that almost killed me revitalized them I guess.

So I told them I HAD to lay down and to wake me up if they needed me and I was so tired that I didn’t even go over my spiel that they usually say with me because they FREAKING KNOW, MOM!

I thought I would drowse a little, maybe just lay in bed and rest but not even sleep, or get a quick nap and be able to think again. WRONG.

The kids tried to talk to me at least 5 times in the 3 hours before their dad got home. Once (apparently) my daughter said she was hungry and I replied with, “WHAT? You want me to brush your car?” I know the kids came in my room, I know they tried to wake me up, and I know that I was NOT awake at any moment that I spoke to them.

It sounds funny when they tell me what I said, but to me it’s also terrifying. Is this some new thing that’s going to happen? Do I need to teach my daughter what to do if I won’t wake up, but spout gibberish instead?

I realize that my son is 13 and very capable of taking care of his sister for a few hours. Shit, SHE is capable of taking care of HIM for three hours.

I don’t know what that was yesterday afternoon, I don’t know why I didn’t wake up, I don’t know why I was saying weird shit, and I don’t know if it will ever happen again. I do know that I feel like a bit more of my Mom Badge was just ripped off, and that motherfucker was in tatters already.

This morning I woke up because of a combination of terrible pain and a dream. Yes, I’m going to tell you about a dream. I’m sorry. I’ll keep it short.

I saw all these HUGE, gorgeous flowers on the side of the road. So many different kinds, so many colors, growing wild even though the ground was snow covered. My arms were full of flowers and I was GLEEFUL. Then I turned to go and my heart sank because there was so much snow that my car was stuck. Back to reality.

(Y’all have NO IDEA how lucky you are that I’m not bustin’ out some Eminem right here.)

Then I had a rilllll shitty morning ending with my husband telling me “You don’t know how much that trip took out of you. Maybe your body was just so exhausted that it shut down. The kids are fine. Please take your medicine and lay down for a while.”

*He didn’t say that last sentence but I could see it on his face, so that’s what I did.*

So THEN…yes, another dream. Shut UP! The last one was super short!

This time I’m looking out my window and I see that the sun has just almost reached the perfect point where it covers the whole pool and the rock in the center where I like to lay. I am JOYFUL. I can’t wait to get down there. Then I get a text from a mom friend about our kids and I can’t reply because the buttons are weird and the letters are moving all around and then I’m frustrated and worried. Back to reality.

 I feel like my subconscious has literally “dumbed-down” my OWN DREAMS.

 

SORRY, SUBCONSCIOUS, I SEE WHAT YOU DID THERE.

 

I can’t remember ever feeling as happy as in those two dream-moments.

 

Maybe we never feel that way in real life.

 

Or maybe that’s what joy feels like to “normal” people.

semicolon tat

Broken today, still here tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


My Daughter, The Ferret.

We have a ferret. If you know anything about ferrets, you know they are notorious for stealing things and hiding them. The last time we moved our bed, when we picked up the box spring we discovered a hidey-hole. The little bastard had torn open the fabric and filled the inside with all sorts of random items. Mostly red things, because for some reason our ferret hates anything red.

My daughter is 7. It’s possible that she thinks she is a ferret. Or maybe she’s just weird. It does run in the family.

She started hiding things a few years ago. This was the first thing I found where it didn’t belong:

hiding puppy

 

You can imagine my surprise when I wanted a pot and found eyeballs instead. It was traumatizing, and not just because I jumped back and fell on my ass.

 

 

This child squirrels away the strangest things, in the oddest places.

 

She’s hidden Easter eggs under my pillow. Actually, they were Easter eggs and Silly Putty eggs, which I did not discover until the next morning when I woke up with Silly Putty everywhere. There are still suspicious-looking stains on my comforter.

 

She puts acorns in the clean laundry.

 

When anything goes missing, we know who to ask. It drives my husband crazy, because two of her favorite things to hide are his hat and the TV remote.

 

She really likes sticking things in the spice rack, and when I went to take a picture of the pinecone that was there last week, I found this instead:

20160229_072047

Please excuse my dust.

 

I recently found an unmatched pair of my dirty socks, which had been filled with dozens of My Little Ponies and stuffed under her bed.

 

This cabinet is at the end of the hallway, and is one of her favorite spots to hide things:

20160229_072442

The elusive pinecone.

There is, or there was yesterday, a nearly empty bottle of water, two fake mustaches, a notepad, Christmas candy shaped like diamonds, a pinecone, bubble wrap, a jewelry box full of pennies, a flashlight, and a strip of animal-print fabric. Just the necessities.

 

Below is her diary, carefully placed in the bottom of a drawer in my bathroom.

20160229_072659

 

There is one thing we take turns hiding. She puts it in my pillowcase, under my blanket, in my underwear drawer, in my shoe, or on my shoulder.

 

I put it in the very bottom of toy boxes, up high where (presumably) she can’t reach it, and in boxes marked “yard sale.”

20160229_072221

 

The next time I find this one, no doubt when I’m least expecting it, I’ll be hiding it in the damn trashcan.


Anatomy. Questions. Honesty. Please make it stop.

I’m not great at talking. With writing, I can backspace, delete, and edit until I get it right. My mouth unfortunately doesn’t have that feature.

When I know I’m going to have to speak to people, my mind goes through every scenario it can think of and what my responses should be. The night before any human interaction, I literally lie in bed and mentally rehearse what I should say. Then I inevitably mangle it anyway.

I think part of it is that I can’t lie. Everything I’m thinking shows clearly on my face. I can’t make my mouth form words that I don’t believe. You might be surprised at how badly blunt honesty is received. I spend a lot of time making noises and trying to look anywhere but at the person who just asked my opinion but who I know doesn’t really want it.

So it’s hard for me when I’m caught off guard. I blurt out things (true things) that I probably shouldn’t.

Lately this has been a real problem with my daughter. She just turned 7 and she’s insatiably curious. I have this intense desire to teach her to respect herself and others and to not judge and to continue to be the kind and compassionate person she already is.

But.

This fucking honesty thing. I mean, I even dodge questions about Santa.

The latest debacle involved lady parts.

Since she learned to talk, she’s referred to her vagina as her “front butt.” This has been killing me for YEARS. Every time she says it, I clamp my mouth shut. She’s our only little girl, and my husband has vehemently disagreed with my notion of providing anatomically correct names. He even told me that “a lot of people call it that.” Pfft.

I find that hard to believe.

The other night it was just the two of us, and she announced that “everybody has two butts.” I choked back laughter laced with not a little horror.

Me: No. No they don’t.

Her: YES! This one and this one! *gestures at…both butts*

I took the opportunity that presented itself, thinking “YES! FINALLY!” and calmly told her that her “front butt” was actually a vagina. She was fascinated. I was impressed with my composure.

I was not anticipating her next question.

Her: So, everybody has a…vagina and a butt?

Me: Erm. No. Boys don’t have vaginas.

Her: *wide-eyed shock* So, it’s just NOTHING? There’s just nothing there??

Me: *losing my shit* You really don’t know? Has someone told you something? You REALLY DON’T KNOW?

Her: No! Tell me! What do boys have?

Me: *wonders how pissed my husband is going to be. Can’t think of a way out of this situation.*

Me: *calm and matter-of-fact* Boys have what is called a penis.

Her: A weenis! What’s it look like?

Me: *mentally cursing myself* Uh. Well. *looking at my finger and wondering if it will suffice.*

Her: Maybe you should just draw me a picture. I’m never going to understand unless you do.

Me: I’m not drawing a picture of a penis.

Her: I’ll go get some paper.

Me: NO! Go get your father. *Before I fuck this up even more.*

Her: Yeah. He draws better than you.

Me: …

So my husband comes in, and thankfully she explained the whole conversation and all I had to do was say, “SHE ASKED!” to his raised eyebrows.

Now she’s sitting between us, with her back to me, a pad of paper in her hand, asking him to draw a picture of a “weenis.”

She can’t see me, so I hold up my index finger and waggle it around, silently asking him if we should tell her it’s like a finger. He looked at me like I was an alien. I WASN’T READY FOR THIS CONVERSATION, OKAY?

He’s all, “blah, blah, girls and boys are different, blah blah…” I already SAID all this! So we’re back to the picture. Now, because my husband is smarter than I am, he draws a boy and a girl. All I could think of was drawing a…weenis. Anyway, he explains all the differences as he’s drawing. Like, “Girls usually have narrower shoulders and a smaller waist. Boys are mostly more square shaped, like this.”

When he gets to the point, I’m behind her, frantically making hand motions and mouthing, “MAKE IT SMALL!”

This is pretty much what he drew:

 

weenis

Yes, he drew it better. Actually, the “weenis” he drew was about half that size. No, I don’t know what it means that I drew mine like this. Shut up.

 

Her: *Excited as fuck* OH! What does it do??

Me: *desperately needing this conversation to be over* IT PEES. You pee from your vagina, boys pee from their penis, and everyone poops from their butt. Which is technically called an anus. *Jesus. What is wrong with me?*

She is practically bouncing up and down, full of new knowledge. I’m telling her to NOT go announcing this at school, that these are private body parts, and some other stuff I probably shouldn’t have said.

I have no idea why I assumed that she knew boys had…different parts. I guess because when the boys were little I was a single mother, and they just knew that I was different than them. I know my middle kid found out when he came barging in the bathroom and screamed, “OH MY GOD MOM, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR WIENER?”

Unfortunately, the torment didn’t end there. Apparently that was enough for her to ponder just then, but last night she was full of new questions. I’m not willing to divulge my answers. I’m just hoping that she never does either.

 


Lost in Translation

ae78a-bunnybeepbeep

This picture makes about as much sense as the post itself.

There are some unwritten rules in the blogging/writing world. One that I continually break is not to read the comments left on sites other than my own. I can’t seem to help it. I want to know what people think.

When I Am Not That Mom was first published here, I was amazed at the response. Then Scary Mommy wanted it. Then Huffington Post. Then All4Women. I was blown away by the comments, and I read as many as I could find. Mostly they said “Thank you” or “Me too” or “Now I don’t feel so alone.” How could I just let those beautiful words languish in internet purgatory, never noticed, never acknowledged? The people that left these comments praised me, for being brave, for being vulnerable, and most often, for letting them know that they were NOT alone. But what they didn’t know was that those comments helped me, probably much more than my post helped them.

When Huffington Post shared that piece again last week, I received two emails. One in Italian (which I initially thought was French because I am Very Smart) and one in German. I had to use Google Translate to understand what was happening. I guess U.S. Huffington Post submitted the article to their Italian and German counterparts.

HOW COULD I RESIST?!

I couldn’t. When I clicked on the link, Google asked me if I wanted it translated to English. Sure. Cause I can’t fucking read Italian. Or German. Or French, for that matter.

This is where things started getting HYSTERICAL. Now, I’m no linguist, as surely you’ve realized by now, and I have no idea how accurate Google Translate is, but holy shit, my word babies were torn to pieces and put back together until I didn’t even recognize myself.

I was laughing so hard last night, I almost couldn’t breathe. I ran around the house shoving my phone in any face that would hold still and yelling, “THEY SAID I KISSED AN OX!” “OMG!” and “CHRIST ON A CRUTCH, THE WHOLE WORLD THINKS I’M A FUCKING MORON!”

Seriously, I sound like a lazy, and possibly insane, asshole.

I wonder if an Italian-speaking person read it, would it make more sense and come across the way it was meant?

Anyway. For your reading pleasure, I present to you excerpts from I Am Not That Mom, in English, Italian, and German. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have.

 

ME: I Am Not That Mom

ITALY: I Am Not One of Those Mothers

GERMANY: I’m Not a Mother

Wow, Germany, that’s a little harsh.

 

ME: I am well aware of my failure in this aspect of parenting.

ITALY: I am well aware that you have failed as a parent from this point of view.

Yeah, you fucked up big time. Wait, what?

 

ME: I’m just not that mom.

GERMANY: But as a mom, I am not easy.

I can’t really argue with this.

 

ME: When I first saw you, I knew that you would hold my heart forever.

ITALY: The first time I saw you, my son, I realized that I’d captured her heart forever.

I’m so confused.

 

ME: I can still feel you, so tiny, snuggled on my chest. When I see you asleep now, I still picture you curled up in footie pajamas, all wispy hair and dark lashes against perfect skin.

ITALY:  I can still hear each of you, curled up on my chest. Even today, when I look at you sleep, I imagine squatting in your swimsuit, with thinning hair, dark lashes and face immaculate.

What the…someone, please, explain this before I laugh so hard I pee my pants. Again.

Too late.

 

ME:  I was the mom who kissed boo boos.

ITALY:  I was one of those moms who kissed your ox.

Oh, Italy, you’re killing me here.

 

ME: (safety scissors, my ass.)

ITALY: (scissors with safety, a horn.)

Scissors. Useful in any language. Asses and horns, not so much.

 

ME: But most times I feel like I am also the mom who is failing.

GERMANY: But mostly I feel that I am the mom who refused.

This is hurtful, Germany. Very hurtful.

 

ME: I was that mom who rocked you all night, patting and bouncing and shh, shh, shhing when you cried.

GERMANY: I was the mom that you all night has gently rocked, patted your Po, up on the exercise ball…

I think you and I might bounce babies differently, Translator Person.

 

ME: …although there have been a few notes from the Tooth Fairy instead of cash.

ITALY: …although the Tooth Fairy, instead of giving me some money, I did deliver the message of warning.

THIS TOOTH IS NO GOOD. NEXT TIME LEAVE ONE WITH FILLINGS, OR ELSE.

XOXO,

The Tooth Fairy

 

ME: I’m also the mom who too often hurts too much to cook dinner. I’m the mom who lets you eat an unhealthy amount of macaroni and pizza rolls.

ITALY: They are also the mother who often do not want to make dinner. I am the mother who lets you eat a huge amount and unhealthy pasta and pizza.

Translation: This woman is lazy and wants you to be fat and hungry.

 

So yesterday was a good, good day, because I got to read all these wonderful comments from wonderful moms, dads, grandmas, future moms, people with no intention of having children, just so many amazingly considerate people, and then I got to laugh my ass off at this. I needed a good day.


Shit My Family Says, Kind Of.

So. I’m still feeling pretty shitty, but I’ve thought about it and I don’t want my last post of 2015 to be the angry, sad, mess that I wrote the other day.

This is going to be a “Shit My Family Says” post, but with cheating. Cheating because it’s shit I’ve already posted on my blog’s Facebook page. But maybe *gasp* you haven’t liked me on Facebook! Then, ALL THIS WILL BE BRAND NEW. Lucky, lucky you. Now go like my page.

If you have already liked my page, some of this might be new to you anyway, because Facebook has this stupid trick they call an “algorithm.” (I just gave up trying to spell that word and the red line went away. Huh.) Anyway, they want to show you what you want to see…and they guess what you want to see by what you “like” or share or comment on. So maybe THIS WILL ALL BE BRAND NEW TO YOU TOO.

And now, I present you with the Best Shit My Family Said in 2015:

And now, I change the title to the Best Shit From August to December 2015, because I am tired and I guess I post a lot.

 

The other day I was attacked by a horsefly and it bit me three times. I was seriously wounded with blood and everything. Yesterday I was looking at it to see if the swelling had gone down and my sweetly concerned son said, “Ohmygod, put that away, it’s so fat and gross!” So that’s how I found out that it is still swollen and he is a dick.”

 

I bribed my daughter when the doctor had to give her a shot.

 

6-yr-old: If you see any slime – stuff around here, don’t touch it because it’s my boogers.

She’s so considerate.

 

Husband: Sorry for being a pain in the ass.

Me: It’s okay.

Him: You always say okay. You never say, “You’re not a pain.”

Me: Yeah. Cause it’s okay.

 

6-yr-old hid a bunch of old Easter eggs in my bed. Under my pillow. Everywhere. This morning I woke up to discover that they weren’t all Easter eggs. Some of them were Silly Putty eggs. I now have silly putty all over my head. *Note: I was able to get the shit off my head, but there are still spots on my comforter that look really gross and NOT like Silly Putty if you know what I mean.

 

“I know that I have allergic reactions. I know they are sneaky. I know they can be dangerous. I know what they feel like.

But I just spent a damned HOUR absolutely CONVINCED that 6yo had brought home head lice, because my head was itching so bad.

It wasn’t until my entire body broke out with hives that I stopped giving her the side-eye.”

 

Haven't Folded laundry in so long, even my kids forgot what it was called.

 

“So, you guys know how I don’t know how to use my phone? Well. Yesterday was a Very Bad Day. I was laying in bed, just sobbing, completely losing my shit, and I hear these clicking noises. Click click click click click. I look over and find MY PHONE TAKING UNAUTHORIZED PICTURES OF ME. Unbelievable. I have like 10 pics of my red, snotty face. This thing is out to get me.”

 

6yo: Wow, that’s really melted.

Me: You have to eat ice cream cones fast.

Her: I wasn’t even eating it! I just sat it down here to save for later.

 

My Facebook ‘memory’ from a year ago today:

You know you’re raising your child right when you tell her “not right now” and she says, “Fine. I guess monsters will just eat your face.”

 

Last night we were playing this Head’s Up app where you hold your phone up to your forehead and people try to make you guess what’s on the screen. We’ve played it for hours, two nights in a row, and I just can’t stop loving it.

Then.

It was my turn, and my husband shouts a clue at me. “Our 20s! What we were doing in our 20s! Where we spent most of our 20s!”

My children looked at me expectantly while everything, EVERY SINGLE THING I did back in the day flashed before my eyes. I could NOT think of EVEN ONE THING that I wanted to say in front of the kids.

I’m not good under pressure. I did lots of good-person things in my 20s. I just can’t think of them when you put me on the spot like that, jerk.

The answer was “a bar.”

 

Original snack with name pc cropped

 

“I literally just said, “you’re not sleeping in my bed with a box on your head.”

What has happened to my life? I’ve turned into a foul-mouthed Dr. Seuss.”

 

“I am so screwed. I just made a new rule and my 6-YEAR-OLD daughter replied with, “Eh, you’ll forget about that by tomorrow.”

 

Today my husband told me a lot of things, as he does often. “You’re beautiful.” “You’re a great writer.” “Taking care of yourself is the only thing you *have* to do.”

My favorite?

“She reminds me of you. Wears a black leather jacket and boots and is an asshole to everyone.”

I love that man.

 

“Stats as of 9:45 a.m.

Inanimate objects screamed at/threatened: Approximately 34.

Times I’ve cried: Once

Tasks accomplished: Two, because I put both “scream” and “cry” on my to-do list.”

 

In case you’re wondering if my state of mind has improved, I just looked in my t-shirt drawer and yelled, “Fuck you, you sneaky bastards!”

 

I’m not used to people being at my house during the day.

I had just taken a bath, opened my bathroom door a crack, and said, “I hope no one is in here, cause I’m coming out and all I’ve got on is sneakers and a little bit of cheese.”

Either they didn’t hear me or I’ve found a very effective child repellent.

***I found the cheese in my shoe, if you were wondering.

 

Things my 13yo has said to me in the last 30 minutes:

Me: GET IT IN GEAR!

Him: *sitting in the floor, not dressed, banging a spring against his bed, looks up, with a completely straight face*  MOM. I’m in 5th gear.

Him: *screaming like a maniac.*

Me and everyone else: *running* What happened?! Are you okay?

Him: Oh, man, it was awful! I tried to put this tube top on the cat and–

And that’s when I walked away.

 

“Omg, my 6yo has like a hundred million presents under the tree.

You know what she’s crying about this morning?

She’s afraid that after Christmas I won’t let her have the bowl of pinecones on the table.

I could’ve saved so much money had I known the little shit just wanted seeds.”

 

6yo is playing with Barbies, all dressed up in their finery. I assume they are attending some ball, or maybe a wedding. I walk by and hear this:

Barbie #1: I never liked him. It was all part of my mission.

Barbie #2: We’ve got him now. Good job, agent.

 

Annnd, that’s all I’ve got in me right now, folks. Happy New Year. I love you guys.❤

 

 

 

 

 

 


These Dark Days.

This is not going to be a good post. A funny post. A nice post.

“Leave while you still can.” I feel like that’s from Indiana Jones or some shit.

I don’t know, I can’t even remember to put the taco seasoning in the taco soup.

That’s what broke me. I spent Thursday pretending to be okay. In vain, I suspect. No. No. You know what? I’m a goddamn professional when it comes to pretending. I probably looked like a stuck-up bitch, but I was there, and I wasn’t curled up on the floor crying.

My daughter’s Christmas party. I made it.

Then came home and was violently ill.

Friday. Sick. Panic attacks. More sick. More panic attacks. Migraine.

Saturday. Lightheaded. Headache. Everything hurt. Panic attack. I laid down, hoping to wake up and not be this fucking disaster, but I dreamed about being a bad person 20 fucking years ago. LET ME GO!

Anyway. I put a chair in the kitchen to try to make dinner. My husband and kids were having Family Game Night and I. Just. Couldn’t. Just fucking couldn’t.

So I sat in that chair and stirred, and it hurt, so I went and laid in bed until it should’ve been ready, and my son asked, all excited, “Is it done?” and I burst into tears because I remembered that I hadn’t put the seasoning in.

I’ve been crying since then, which has not helped my headache at all, surprise, surprise.

I want to see all my doctors, in the same room, and DEMAND to know why I’m taking all this medicine AND I’M STILL FUCKING BROKEN?!

I know that’s not how it works. There is no magic pill to make me all better. I know I will have good days and bad days, but I am so tired.

I’m so tired of fighting to just be “okay.”

Not “great.”

Not “a productive member of society.”

Just “alive.”

Or “out of bed.”

I’ve lowered my fucking goals and expectations about as low as they can go, and I still can’t reach them.

I did these things yesterday to make myself feel better:

Listened to music. Took a bath. Read. Colored. Played games.

But even though I spent almost an entire fucking day doing what I’m supposed to do, “practicing my coping skills,” I still feel like screaming.

WHY? WHY DO I FEEL LIKE THIS? WHY NOW? WHY CAN’T I JUST…STOP? STOP BEING THIS FRAGILE, CRUMBLING, SHELL OF A PERSON?

Today, I hate myself. Again.

Maybe I will tomorrow too.

Either way, I’ll fucking be here to find out.

semicolon tat

My story isn’t over.

 

 


Oh. Deer.

When I was born, my family lived here, in rural Arkansas. Shortly after that, my Dad joined the Army and away we went. I spent around 9-10 years on Army bases, then we moved back home when I was in the 5th grade. This is important to note, in light of what I’m about to tell you.

I’m not against hunting; I’ve just never really been interested in it. There were no “youth hunts” on Army bases.

The first post-hunted deer (I’m trying to save your sensibilities here, people) I saw was in the back of my uncle’s truck, and I was about nine. I cried. I petted its nose, and whispered prayers and apologies, and wouldn’t speak to anyone the rest of the day. (I TOLD you guys, I’ve ALWAYS BEEN LIKE THIS.)

I didn’t come in contact with another deer until I was about 17. This time I was running in the dark and ran INTO the carcass of the deer, which was hanging from a tree in our yard. I feel like that’s something you really ought to mention to people. “Hey, there’s a giant dead thing with horns around back.” Or something.

Anyway. So I’m not a complete moron about guns. I like to target shoot. (I am good.) (Well, I’m okay.) (I’m not terrible, jeez!) I just don’t really even think about deer season except to tell the kids to wear orange if they go in the woods.

Well. I know that my 13-year-old hunts and fishes with his dad and grandparents at their place. Long as he’s safe, have at it, right? They know what they’re doing, my son loves it, so it’s cool.

Then last weekend I got a Very Excited call from my son–he’d shot his first deer. I was really proud of him and it was awesome to hear the story of his amazing shot and how much fun he’d had. It really was. It’s always a great to see him joyous and happy. Then I hear, “You better get ready for a lot of deer meat headed your way ha ha ha.”

Ha. Ha. Ha.

To me, this meant, “I hope you have room in your freezer for a few prepackaged select cuts of deer meat.”

So I said, “Ha ha ha, well, okay, but I can’t eat it and I don’t know how to cook it, so send instructions! Ha ha ha!”

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Then I get a text as they are on their way to bring Thing 2 home.

His Gram: “A lot of meat & the head coming your way. The head needs to be hung up high in a tree. I’m sorry, he wanted to bring it home!”

Me: Oh shit.

Her: “The meat needs to soak in plain water overnight & then packaged & frozen then I will find you a couple delish recipes.”

Me: OH SHIT.

Her: *laughing her ass off* SORRY! Who knew he would get one?! HAHAHAHAHAHA *laughs forever.*

Me: Oh…shit.

So, at this point, my main concern is that my husband isn’t home, it’s dark, and there is a HEAD on its way here that I am going to have to somehow, someway, get up a tree.

To prepare for this, I put on my boots and paced, thinking furiously. I came up with zero ideas. None.

20151116_201208

Maybe because I have the wrong kind of boots?

Anyway.

They got there and my son was all, “LOOK! LOOK AT THIS! DO YOU WANT TO TOUCH HIS TONGUE?”

And I was all, “That’s so awesome pleasepleasegetitawayfromme.”

Then they were like, “So, do you have any rope?” and I was like, “OH! Good idea! Yeah! Rope!” Then I ran in the house, did a few circles chanting “rope, rope, rope” and then went back outside to do the same thing out there.

Thankfully, Thing 2’s Papa is a Good, Good Man and he found something that would work AND found a tree (not the tree by where I drink my coffee, THANK YOU SO MUCH) and he and my son hung the thing up. I basically just stood there, wringing my hands and nervous talking.

THEN comes the transfer of the meat. Thing 2’s Gram was snickering at me. SNICKERING at me! It was a loving snicker, but a snicker nonetheless.

They have a big plastic tub, presumably full of meat. When I saw it, my eyes lit up. I had visions of never opening that tub. Then she said these horrible words: “I need to take this with me.”

Shit.

We trooped into the kitchen for the big reveal. My son started pulling meat out of the sack like he was some sort of, fuck, I don’t know, a hunter I guess.

Once the sink was full of meat and my son was done shoving body parts in my face and his grandma was almost done laughing, I received my instructions for the next day. How To Package The Meat.

The following morning I was dismayed to find the deer still in the sink. There are no such creatures as Deer Fairies, in case you were wondering. I prepared myself for the job ahead.

By “prepared myself” I mean “looked everywhere and found nothing in which to wrap this meat.”

I had to improvise. In my defense, I WAS NOT READY FOR A….I don’t even know what this is called. I’ve got A LOT of learning to do before the zombie apocalypse, I’ll tell you that.

Anyway. So I used three coats of plastic wrap, two of wax paper, and then wrapped it all in duct tape. Seemed legit to me.

Because he told me it was a tenderloin. I think.
Because he told me it was a tenderloin. I think.
20151109_092453
Big Fatty Thing.
Possibly a butt.
Possibly a butt.
Really Big Thing
Really Big Thing.

I really want my son to be happy, and if he likes to hunt and fish, that’s great.

But I’m making a rule RIGHT NOW that I am not ever, ever, EVER duct taping a deer’s ass again.

Ever.


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