These are the days that I love, love homeschooling. These. This. It happens once every 5 million years - but in these very rare instances, when all the stars align in the most glorious way. When I can breath for two seconds. And love, grateful for most. I love homeschooling.
First it starts with the weather. And there is no set perfect "love homeschooling" weather. But today is the most perfect, most quintessential day of fall. Dark. Miserably dark. Turn-the-lights-on-so-you-don't-trip dark. Misty and sometimes rainy. Leaves still on the trees. But half on the ground. And cold. It must be cold for a quintessential fall day.
I have one lamp on in the house. I figured I would take my chances tripping. And haven't so far.
The kids: One is completely naked, one is wearing a swim suit cover-up, and one is properly clothed.
Me?: Yes, yes. Still looking like Miss Hannigan
This week, I have decided to take off from the drudgery. Take a break from the brow beating. We've worked for 11 weeks without a break. So, well deserved for all. But mostly me.
I have a 3 year old, naked man figuring out a 60 piece puzzle. He won't stop talking. And I dream about yelling with the all the strength of 1000 earthquakes, "please, please SHUT UP". But I don't. I don't know when the next magical moment is going to come. And what if I squashed it, and then it never came? So I let him talk, and say "mama" 14 times in a row before he forms the rest of the sentence. And 99 out of 100 times it's something like: "mom, do you think this piece goes here?" But that 1 out of 100 times is so worth it. "mom, when you were a little boy, did you have a big scrotum?"
Murnice, hiding in the corner with all 20 Beanie Babies we got from Great Grandmother. So much imagination in the corner.
And this, all this, is why homeschooling is so great. Always together. Naked or not. Imagination growing and working. We can move slow, or we can move fast. I can look like a swamp donkey and snuggle just as effectively.
Today, I choose to ignore the pee-laden bathroom. It will still be there tomorrow. I will drink another cup of tea. I most likely will ignore lunch time and just pull our a bag of chips for the naked man and half clothed girl to fight over. And they'll feel like kings and queens eating chips for lunch. I will strive to make dinner. And if not, we'll have toast. With lucky butter. And if the stars stay aligned, I will attempt to start my fall sewing. Fall is for sewing. And re-vamping. And freshing-up and re-decorating.
Also, I broke a knife on a head of garlic. The middle of the blade snapped. My birthday knife is no more.
Take Aways
1) Attempt to look like a swamp donkey more than not
2) Eat chips only more than not
3) Be naked more than not
4) Stay away from garlic more than not
5) Don't paint your lamp in Easter egg colors, ever
Showing posts with label momship. Show all posts
Showing posts with label momship. Show all posts
Thursday, November 6, 2014
Sunday, October 19, 2014
Sex, Apparently
Sex. I am fully aware that sex is not the highlight of a marriage. But right now, it seems like it is. It's there, the holy grail of full fledged adulthood. I can see it peaking at me from dusty corners and poopy toilet lids. It hides in the grease film that engulfs my head and the toe hairs that feel the need to party. It taunts me playing catch-me-if-you-can. And because it's so close and so unachievable, I think about it ALL. DAY. LONG.
I JUST WANT TO FEEL LIKE A WOMAN. With lady bits. Who is in a relationship with somebody who thinks my lady bits are neat.
And you know, I am in this relationship with this man who knows what a spanking is. And he thinks my lady bits are pretty neat. (At least he used to. It's been so long I'm not even sure he knows what lady bits are anymore.)
We do all the right things. Write messages on pieces of paper that float around in the dustbowl aka our mole hole aka the place we call home. We even use our phones, because a picture is worth a thousand words. And sometimes words are worth as many words as you typed. We smile at each other nicely. We talk (in person) how wonderful it would be to "play that old banjo" and "eat at the clam bake" and "fox trot around the world" and "twist and shout". We talk about it all. With smiles of course.
But here's the problem.
WAILING WILLIAM IS HIS NAME, WAILING WILLIAM IS HIS GAME
For real. I have another baby. And all of that ^^^^^ is true. Without an ounce of writers exaggeration.
And so all the time that I could be spending "filling up the old urn" and "walking the bat cave" I instead spend feeding forever my first love child. (For real, he is my first love child. *sigh* *giggle* that was fun. A time when my body was a wonderland. And sleep was optional. And overrated. And sometimes, downright stupid.) And washing dishes for Big D because he's never home. And sometimes I like to show him that I love him. And homeschooling. And laundry and cleaning the pee pool that collects at the back of my toilet. Laundry. And enzyming the poop stains away. And making up things to eat, because that takes a real artist. Especially when you don't go grocery shopping. You would think that my baby weight might have dwindled. Not an ounce. Not. One. Bloody. Ounce. It's stuck. And boy, do I feel like a woman. Well, surfacely. My thighs not only touch each other. They smoosh and smack and dimple. And when I walk they do their own dance. Actually, everything does its own dance. Quite an interesting sensation . . . .bunny trailllllll .......................And I spend money. Because apparently I stress spend money. And amazon prime is secretly my lover. And poor Big D is stuck smack in the middle of it. Too tired to yell at me. And too in love with me since I washed his dishes.
It's dreadful. I sit and feed WW and then just think. Think about all the neat things I should look up to see if AP has it. Did you know that almonds are amazing? As in superfood amazing. And they make really good milk for WW. Because apparently my super power right now is making milk. But did you know that raw almonds aren't really raw. At least in the US. They have to be pasteurized. And that happens with either a steam process that cooks most of the goodness away. Or, with a chemical toxic waste fumigation bath. And so if you want almonds, simple simple almonds. With all the goodness that they're supposed to come with, you have to dig hard to make sure you're getting plain old almonds. How incredibly stupid is that. I JUST WANT A BLOODY ALMOND! Straight from the tree. Pick the damn almond and hand it over. Apparently, it can't be done. Sorry WW, you have to have half-ass milk.
So that's the trouble I get in, just by pulling out my milk bags. But I do want to tell you some good news. We (Big D and I) found a time to have our genitalia go a courting. It actually happened.
Dinner was sizzling on the stove, at the verge of being done (sausage. No pun intended. For real.) The kids were 5 minutes from the end of their movie they were watching, WW was at the very last seconds of his evening nap, and Friday Friends were to arrive at any moment. Yes, all of this was happening, and it was the most prime(al) time to reacquaint ourselves.
Does it count if you lift the lid of a garbage dumpster, peak inside at all the goodies, snatch one thing, and then leave . . . does that count as dumpster diving?
And I'll leave you to figure out what all of that means. It's not too difficult. But I will say, that's how incredibly awesome it was. (sarcasm dripping like a diarrhea explosion)
I'll end with this: there is always hope. That's my take away. And my two cents. And my best advice. And the coolest thing I could come up with to say. And what I really believe.
Because if I didn't believe that, there would be no reason at all to try again. To be and do my absolute best. And so I make the conscious choice to choose to hope.
I JUST WANT TO FEEL LIKE A WOMAN. With lady bits. Who is in a relationship with somebody who thinks my lady bits are neat.
And you know, I am in this relationship with this man who knows what a spanking is. And he thinks my lady bits are pretty neat. (At least he used to. It's been so long I'm not even sure he knows what lady bits are anymore.)
We do all the right things. Write messages on pieces of paper that float around in the dustbowl aka our mole hole aka the place we call home. We even use our phones, because a picture is worth a thousand words. And sometimes words are worth as many words as you typed. We smile at each other nicely. We talk (in person) how wonderful it would be to "play that old banjo" and "eat at the clam bake" and "fox trot around the world" and "twist and shout". We talk about it all. With smiles of course.
But here's the problem.
WAILING WILLIAM IS HIS NAME, WAILING WILLIAM IS HIS GAME
For real. I have another baby. And all of that ^^^^^ is true. Without an ounce of writers exaggeration.
And so all the time that I could be spending "filling up the old urn" and "walking the bat cave" I instead spend feeding forever my first love child. (For real, he is my first love child. *sigh* *giggle* that was fun. A time when my body was a wonderland. And sleep was optional. And overrated. And sometimes, downright stupid.) And washing dishes for Big D because he's never home. And sometimes I like to show him that I love him. And homeschooling. And laundry and cleaning the pee pool that collects at the back of my toilet. Laundry. And enzyming the poop stains away. And making up things to eat, because that takes a real artist. Especially when you don't go grocery shopping. You would think that my baby weight might have dwindled. Not an ounce. Not. One. Bloody. Ounce. It's stuck. And boy, do I feel like a woman. Well, surfacely. My thighs not only touch each other. They smoosh and smack and dimple. And when I walk they do their own dance. Actually, everything does its own dance. Quite an interesting sensation . . . .bunny trailllllll .......................And I spend money. Because apparently I stress spend money. And amazon prime is secretly my lover. And poor Big D is stuck smack in the middle of it. Too tired to yell at me. And too in love with me since I washed his dishes.
It's dreadful. I sit and feed WW and then just think. Think about all the neat things I should look up to see if AP has it. Did you know that almonds are amazing? As in superfood amazing. And they make really good milk for WW. Because apparently my super power right now is making milk. But did you know that raw almonds aren't really raw. At least in the US. They have to be pasteurized. And that happens with either a steam process that cooks most of the goodness away. Or, with a chemical toxic waste fumigation bath. And so if you want almonds, simple simple almonds. With all the goodness that they're supposed to come with, you have to dig hard to make sure you're getting plain old almonds. How incredibly stupid is that. I JUST WANT A BLOODY ALMOND! Straight from the tree. Pick the damn almond and hand it over. Apparently, it can't be done. Sorry WW, you have to have half-ass milk.
So that's the trouble I get in, just by pulling out my milk bags. But I do want to tell you some good news. We (Big D and I) found a time to have our genitalia go a courting. It actually happened.
Dinner was sizzling on the stove, at the verge of being done (sausage. No pun intended. For real.) The kids were 5 minutes from the end of their movie they were watching, WW was at the very last seconds of his evening nap, and Friday Friends were to arrive at any moment. Yes, all of this was happening, and it was the most prime(al) time to reacquaint ourselves.
Does it count if you lift the lid of a garbage dumpster, peak inside at all the goodies, snatch one thing, and then leave . . . does that count as dumpster diving?
And I'll leave you to figure out what all of that means. It's not too difficult. But I will say, that's how incredibly awesome it was. (sarcasm dripping like a diarrhea explosion)
I'll end with this: there is always hope. That's my take away. And my two cents. And my best advice. And the coolest thing I could come up with to say. And what I really believe.
Because if I didn't believe that, there would be no reason at all to try again. To be and do my absolute best. And so I make the conscious choice to choose to hope.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
Wonder No More
Oh, it's happened. The thing that parents - probably more so mothers, than fathers - expect, know, is bound to happen. Someway or another. That really awkward happening. Where you don't know how to prepare for it. Or even know how you're going to respond to it. You just hope that all the stars align and make it, the "happening", happen as smoothly as will allow.
This past weekend came straight out of heaven. The weather, that is. 80 F. With full sun. So much hope glittered that day. I was feeling needy, as usual. And Big D thought it incredibly appropriate to do his best at avoiding the fact that I needed a Dr. Pepper right then and there, on the spot.
You might be thinking I sound a little bratty at this point. But I can assure you - I was not bratty. At least in the beginning.
We stopped at the grocer after church. (Yup, went to church) Big D needed to get milk and pickles.(another long, ridiculous story) I asked him to also grab some Dr. Pepper. My tongue was drowning in saliva, just from the thought of chemicals and cancer.
Now, I don't think it's very good natured of a wife to ask . . . *real whiney voice* "did you get milk? did you get pickles? did you get Dr. Pepper?" when he gets back to the car. It's 3 items. I expect that a grown, reasonably minded-man can remember 3 things. And I should really restrain all my nagginess.
So I restrained. And it wasn't even hard for me.
I even let him eat his lunch before I brought up my Dr. Pepper. And by bringing up, it was just a simple "where did you put the Dr. Pepper?"
And the next part, is the part in the story where I roared. And displayed everything so natural and unlovely that every woman possess. I think I stomped once or twice. And made some ugly faces. Maybe some curse words thrown in for good measure. And demanded. DEMANDED, immediate action.
Even with the fine display of displeasure and urgency, Big D still thought it was appropriate to ride his bike to fetch the forgotten beverage.
And what's a girl to do? He already made up his mind. He wanted to ride his bike. He knew I was beyond rabid tiger-like. There's only so much of a fit that can be thrown over something as childish as a drink.
So I chose to trust that Big D would move his very-out-of-shape legs, very fast the few miles and mountain he needed to ride. (I'm working on trust) (that's why I didn't naggy ask at the grocer, the first time, if he had remembered everything)
Let me tell you, I really think only 7 minutes went by before he was back in the house. Puffing, red-faced and slightly miserable looking.
And I looked as pleased as a spoiled brat on Christmas - waiting for my pony to be presented.
............................................................
Um..................Yup, the "pony" was left at the stable. Because somebody forgot to bring their wallet.
And then I shut down. Because you can only get so mad before it becomes too emotionally exhausting.
I felt a little bad for Big D. . . . .butmorebadforme.
The third time, he drove. And remembered. And by the time he got back, I was so relieved. And needy. He was so pumped full of anger, frustration, and testosterone - that we agreed to take care of business. Adult style.
To set the tone: 80 degrees, sunny and bright, middle of the afternoon, windows open, both kids outside - and had been outside for awhile - playing like kings and queens.
At this point, the adult as to make a choice. Go out and tell the children to NOT come inside unless there is blood oozing from some body. Or, believe in fairy tales and all things false and movie-like and just do "it" because the chances of the kids coming inside on this incredible day - are slim to none.
We chose choice B - believe in farty-tales.
And with that choice, we then had to make another choice. Close the bedroom door, and have no warning of when child A or child B or child A and B could come barging in. Or choose to keep the bedroom door open so that we could hear the little warning pitter-patters and apply appropriate coverage.
Once again, we chose choice B. Keep door open.
I also will preface the next part with the key point, that the consummation of our marriage, plan - was indeed going to happen fast. In other words, a "quickie". Two minutes - tops.
1:27 seconds - we hear the toilet lid slam down and the faucet turned on.
For those of you that have been to our mole-hole, you know very well that the bathroom door is directly across from our bedroom door.
List of thoughts and actions that happened in the next .005683 seconds:
1) How did any child walk by our door without me seeing them
2) It must be Murnice, because she can be stealth like
3) But that slamming of the lid was definitely boyish
4) Panic from Big D
5) Hysterical giggling from me
6) Very nervous "what do we do?!" from Big D
7) "They've already seen everything, so just hold still" from me
8) Audible yell from me, "nice job kids"
And then I found out it was just Ed. I really really think an angel carried him into the house, plopped him on the toilet, and caught his pee in his own angel hands - because there is just no other explanation as to how a bumbling, chatty-Kath, trippy-slap-feeted, pigpie - almost 3 year old boy could have walked through my house (hard wood floors) past my bedroom door, and peed without a scent of a sound.
When I yelled, "nice job kids", Ed interpreted that as "come into the bedroom and take a good peaksy. And while you're at it, lets talk for awhile."
"Hey dad, why are you snuggling with mom? Can you get Murny the gum down. She wants the gum. Mom, I see your ninnies. Haha, dad - you have a big butt. Can you get the gum. It's in the garage. It's too high." etc - for another 2 minutes. Just round and round. "Gum" - meaning Big D's cross bow. . . . . (I feel like I should be a disclaimer here that says, we have never allowed our children to play or use the cross bow. Or any cross bow.)
So I finally said, "Ed, daddy wants to spend time with mama's boobies" (earlier that week, he and Murnice got into a verbal altercation over what Dad liked better - boobies or nipples. I don't think that's ever a phone call, over lunch, you expect to get from your kids. . . . . . Dad picked boobs - for the sake of the children. Don't judge what happens over here in this family. I have bizarre children)
And then he snickered a few more times about things that strike a 2-year-old as humorous, and finally left.
Approximately 21 seconds later, I HEARD (this time) both blessings come into the house, and tramp down the hallway.
I start whisper screaming "THEY'RE COMING!!!!!!" And I'm not sure if Big D was taking the scripture of "doing everything as unto the Lord" aka giving it your all and applying it at that moment. Or . . . . if he just didn't care. Or . . . .if there was no level of comprehension of "they're coming" ...................................
. . . . . Yup . . . . . . .and then we had 2 kids in the bedroom with us. Giggling at the-picture-is-worth-a-thousand-words, display.
Things I am grateful for:
1) The modest position we chose to consumate
2) That we don't ever have to waste another speck of a wonder, dreading the "great reveal"
3) That the children do not seem to be struggling from any forms of PTSD, OR have asked any questions
4) That Big D and I were able to not "be weird" causing confusion and tears
And now I'm going to run away, and not make eye contact with anybody for awhile.
This past weekend came straight out of heaven. The weather, that is. 80 F. With full sun. So much hope glittered that day. I was feeling needy, as usual. And Big D thought it incredibly appropriate to do his best at avoiding the fact that I needed a Dr. Pepper right then and there, on the spot.
You might be thinking I sound a little bratty at this point. But I can assure you - I was not bratty. At least in the beginning.
We stopped at the grocer after church. (Yup, went to church) Big D needed to get milk and pickles.(another long, ridiculous story) I asked him to also grab some Dr. Pepper. My tongue was drowning in saliva, just from the thought of chemicals and cancer.
Now, I don't think it's very good natured of a wife to ask . . . *real whiney voice* "did you get milk? did you get pickles? did you get Dr. Pepper?" when he gets back to the car. It's 3 items. I expect that a grown, reasonably minded-man can remember 3 things. And I should really restrain all my nagginess.
So I restrained. And it wasn't even hard for me.
I even let him eat his lunch before I brought up my Dr. Pepper. And by bringing up, it was just a simple "where did you put the Dr. Pepper?"
And the next part, is the part in the story where I roared. And displayed everything so natural and unlovely that every woman possess. I think I stomped once or twice. And made some ugly faces. Maybe some curse words thrown in for good measure. And demanded. DEMANDED, immediate action.
Even with the fine display of displeasure and urgency, Big D still thought it was appropriate to ride his bike to fetch the forgotten beverage.
And what's a girl to do? He already made up his mind. He wanted to ride his bike. He knew I was beyond rabid tiger-like. There's only so much of a fit that can be thrown over something as childish as a drink.
So I chose to trust that Big D would move his very-out-of-shape legs, very fast the few miles and mountain he needed to ride. (I'm working on trust) (that's why I didn't naggy ask at the grocer, the first time, if he had remembered everything)
Let me tell you, I really think only 7 minutes went by before he was back in the house. Puffing, red-faced and slightly miserable looking.
And I looked as pleased as a spoiled brat on Christmas - waiting for my pony to be presented.
............................................................
Um..................Yup, the "pony" was left at the stable. Because somebody forgot to bring their wallet.
And then I shut down. Because you can only get so mad before it becomes too emotionally exhausting.
I felt a little bad for Big D. . . . .butmorebadforme.
The third time, he drove. And remembered. And by the time he got back, I was so relieved. And needy. He was so pumped full of anger, frustration, and testosterone - that we agreed to take care of business. Adult style.
To set the tone: 80 degrees, sunny and bright, middle of the afternoon, windows open, both kids outside - and had been outside for awhile - playing like kings and queens.
At this point, the adult as to make a choice. Go out and tell the children to NOT come inside unless there is blood oozing from some body. Or, believe in fairy tales and all things false and movie-like and just do "it" because the chances of the kids coming inside on this incredible day - are slim to none.
We chose choice B - believe in farty-tales.
And with that choice, we then had to make another choice. Close the bedroom door, and have no warning of when child A or child B or child A and B could come barging in. Or choose to keep the bedroom door open so that we could hear the little warning pitter-patters and apply appropriate coverage.
Once again, we chose choice B. Keep door open.
I also will preface the next part with the key point, that the consummation of our marriage, plan - was indeed going to happen fast. In other words, a "quickie". Two minutes - tops.
1:27 seconds - we hear the toilet lid slam down and the faucet turned on.
For those of you that have been to our mole-hole, you know very well that the bathroom door is directly across from our bedroom door.
List of thoughts and actions that happened in the next .005683 seconds:
1) How did any child walk by our door without me seeing them
2) It must be Murnice, because she can be stealth like
3) But that slamming of the lid was definitely boyish
4) Panic from Big D
5) Hysterical giggling from me
6) Very nervous "what do we do?!" from Big D
7) "They've already seen everything, so just hold still" from me
8) Audible yell from me, "nice job kids"
And then I found out it was just Ed. I really really think an angel carried him into the house, plopped him on the toilet, and caught his pee in his own angel hands - because there is just no other explanation as to how a bumbling, chatty-Kath, trippy-slap-feeted, pigpie - almost 3 year old boy could have walked through my house (hard wood floors) past my bedroom door, and peed without a scent of a sound.
When I yelled, "nice job kids", Ed interpreted that as "come into the bedroom and take a good peaksy. And while you're at it, lets talk for awhile."
"Hey dad, why are you snuggling with mom? Can you get Murny the gum down. She wants the gum. Mom, I see your ninnies. Haha, dad - you have a big butt. Can you get the gum. It's in the garage. It's too high." etc - for another 2 minutes. Just round and round. "Gum" - meaning Big D's cross bow. . . . . (I feel like I should be a disclaimer here that says, we have never allowed our children to play or use the cross bow. Or any cross bow.)
So I finally said, "Ed, daddy wants to spend time with mama's boobies" (earlier that week, he and Murnice got into a verbal altercation over what Dad liked better - boobies or nipples. I don't think that's ever a phone call, over lunch, you expect to get from your kids. . . . . . Dad picked boobs - for the sake of the children. Don't judge what happens over here in this family. I have bizarre children)
And then he snickered a few more times about things that strike a 2-year-old as humorous, and finally left.
Approximately 21 seconds later, I HEARD (this time) both blessings come into the house, and tramp down the hallway.
I start whisper screaming "THEY'RE COMING!!!!!!" And I'm not sure if Big D was taking the scripture of "doing everything as unto the Lord" aka giving it your all and applying it at that moment. Or . . . . if he just didn't care. Or . . . .if there was no level of comprehension of "they're coming" ...................................
. . . . . Yup . . . . . . .and then we had 2 kids in the bedroom with us. Giggling at the-picture-is-worth-a-thousand-words, display.
Things I am grateful for:
1) The modest position we chose to consumate
2) That we don't ever have to waste another speck of a wonder, dreading the "great reveal"
3) That the children do not seem to be struggling from any forms of PTSD, OR have asked any questions
4) That Big D and I were able to not "be weird" causing confusion and tears
And now I'm going to run away, and not make eye contact with anybody for awhile.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
It's a Glorious Day for Sweatpants
Today is a sweatpant day. (Everyday I try to think of a reason to make it a sweatpant day - but today, it legitmately is a sweatpant day)
It's also a no shower day, no brush your teeth day, no clean your ears day, or wash your face day. At all cost, there is to be zero gussying up.
I made my decision based on this:
Mother went to Florida. And I really thought she was getting back today (Tuesday). Which affects me, because I am the picker-upper.
But wouldn't you know, I'm making dinner last night (Monday) - and I get a text (that resembles the Egyptian hieroglyphics) from Mother. Stating something along the lines that she's in Atlanta until 8:30 "boo-hoo".
And the only reason she contacted me, was to say that she had to tag her baggage, so to pick her up 1/2 later than her flight actually got in.
So . . . . Mother. If you didn't have to tag your bags, you were just assuming that I, your ride from the airport, knew your flight schedule - telepathically?
Yes, yes. That's how Mother works. She would call around 11 pm and say that she was "here and waiting, and on the lower level and where were we?"
Oh, Mother. Thank the Lord you had to tag your bags.
So what that all really meant for me - was to relay the message to Big D (who really is the airport chauffeur) And then I (lucky me!!!) had a whole extra hour to watch more RobinHood. (My latest tongue-slurping show on Netflix)
I guess to explain that more - I don't like to stay up by myself. So if Big D goes to bed, I have to scurry to make it to the bathroom first. And then of course bed first.
Big D has the. worst. bathroom manners. And it is a mood changer for sure, if I get stuck in the bathroom with him.
First, he pees for 17 minutes. Standing up. Which just makes me cringe to think about all the pee splatters splattering all over my teeth-brushing sesh.
But thee worst thing he does - is hog the entire sink when brushing his teeth.
We have a small bathroom. So when he's bent over the sink with a toothbrush down his throat (which is the entire time, full 2 minutes of teeth brushing) his large bottom sticks out so far - that anyone (large or small, male or female) is banned from entering or exiting. The entire doorway is blocked. With a large bottom.
Now that gets me real excited. Especially when I'm trying to race him to bed. Because I don't want to be the last person in bed. Because I hate closing up "shop". And sometimes I like to annoy him with mindless banter. And if he makes it to bed 0.0056878 seconds before I do - he falls asleep.
So every night it's a race. Stay up as long as I can, but get to the bathroom/bed first.
All of that to say, because Big D had to get Mother at the airport late, I had extra time to watch tv. And. I. Did.
. . . . . . . .
Finally rolling into bed around 11:30, half-way between pleasant thoughts and dreaming, I felt a very soft nudge of the bed.
So soft, that I was certain there was an intruder in our bedroom - who accidentally bumped the bed. And he was now going to have to kill me for seeing him.
I slowly rolled over, to face my fate.
It was just Murnice. Sometimes she can be more than stealth like. It's a curse for us parents.
She wanted to tell me her tummy hurt. We had a nice conversation. She didn't feel she needed the puke bowl.
But then she burped. And her eyes got real big.
The next part happened in slow motion.
She turned. I heard the splatter. I saw the silhouette of her slipping. Arms out. Hair whooshing.
And I yelled, "stay there!!!"
And she did. And puked and puked.
I started to giggle. Because there was nothing left to do.
It was midnight. The boy was in his nest - which meant he would wake up. There was a sheep-skin rug and pile of clothes on the floor. There was copious amounts of puke. And I heard the splatters. A girl is crying in the middle of our room. And Big D, 1/2 before, was complaining about how late it was then. Sleep will be limited tonight. And smelly. Praise the Lord.
In one foul swoop, Big D managed to sweep Murnice off her feet, throw her in the tub, and turn on the light. Where I observed the damage.
We had steak for dinner.
It looked like somebody had shot a cow in our bedroom.
Meat particles were everywhere. But not on my sheep-skin rug. God loves me.
And the night played out exactly the way a mother knows how it's going to play out. Big D disappeared for 30 minutes. Ed woke up. And cried. I Norwexed cow bits. We got to bed even later. With interrupted sleep of more puking. And wafts of stomach acid.
. . . . . . .
So I'm wearing sweatpants today. And I like it. And Big D is going to like it too. He may even pinch my buns. And appreciate the extra jiggle that sweatpants allow.
It's also a no shower day, no brush your teeth day, no clean your ears day, or wash your face day. At all cost, there is to be zero gussying up.
I made my decision based on this:
Mother went to Florida. And I really thought she was getting back today (Tuesday). Which affects me, because I am the picker-upper.
But wouldn't you know, I'm making dinner last night (Monday) - and I get a text (that resembles the Egyptian hieroglyphics) from Mother. Stating something along the lines that she's in Atlanta until 8:30 "boo-hoo".
And the only reason she contacted me, was to say that she had to tag her baggage, so to pick her up 1/2 later than her flight actually got in.
So . . . . Mother. If you didn't have to tag your bags, you were just assuming that I, your ride from the airport, knew your flight schedule - telepathically?
Yes, yes. That's how Mother works. She would call around 11 pm and say that she was "here and waiting, and on the lower level and where were we?"
Oh, Mother. Thank the Lord you had to tag your bags.
So what that all really meant for me - was to relay the message to Big D (who really is the airport chauffeur) And then I (lucky me!!!) had a whole extra hour to watch more RobinHood. (My latest tongue-slurping show on Netflix)
I guess to explain that more - I don't like to stay up by myself. So if Big D goes to bed, I have to scurry to make it to the bathroom first. And then of course bed first.
Big D has the. worst. bathroom manners. And it is a mood changer for sure, if I get stuck in the bathroom with him.
First, he pees for 17 minutes. Standing up. Which just makes me cringe to think about all the pee splatters splattering all over my teeth-brushing sesh.
But thee worst thing he does - is hog the entire sink when brushing his teeth.
We have a small bathroom. So when he's bent over the sink with a toothbrush down his throat (which is the entire time, full 2 minutes of teeth brushing) his large bottom sticks out so far - that anyone (large or small, male or female) is banned from entering or exiting. The entire doorway is blocked. With a large bottom.
Now that gets me real excited. Especially when I'm trying to race him to bed. Because I don't want to be the last person in bed. Because I hate closing up "shop". And sometimes I like to annoy him with mindless banter. And if he makes it to bed 0.0056878 seconds before I do - he falls asleep.
So every night it's a race. Stay up as long as I can, but get to the bathroom/bed first.
All of that to say, because Big D had to get Mother at the airport late, I had extra time to watch tv. And. I. Did.
. . . . . . . .
Finally rolling into bed around 11:30, half-way between pleasant thoughts and dreaming, I felt a very soft nudge of the bed.
So soft, that I was certain there was an intruder in our bedroom - who accidentally bumped the bed. And he was now going to have to kill me for seeing him.
I slowly rolled over, to face my fate.
It was just Murnice. Sometimes she can be more than stealth like. It's a curse for us parents.
She wanted to tell me her tummy hurt. We had a nice conversation. She didn't feel she needed the puke bowl.
But then she burped. And her eyes got real big.
The next part happened in slow motion.
She turned. I heard the splatter. I saw the silhouette of her slipping. Arms out. Hair whooshing.
And I yelled, "stay there!!!"
And she did. And puked and puked.
I started to giggle. Because there was nothing left to do.
It was midnight. The boy was in his nest - which meant he would wake up. There was a sheep-skin rug and pile of clothes on the floor. There was copious amounts of puke. And I heard the splatters. A girl is crying in the middle of our room. And Big D, 1/2 before, was complaining about how late it was then. Sleep will be limited tonight. And smelly. Praise the Lord.
In one foul swoop, Big D managed to sweep Murnice off her feet, throw her in the tub, and turn on the light. Where I observed the damage.
We had steak for dinner.
It looked like somebody had shot a cow in our bedroom.
Meat particles were everywhere. But not on my sheep-skin rug. God loves me.
And the night played out exactly the way a mother knows how it's going to play out. Big D disappeared for 30 minutes. Ed woke up. And cried. I Norwexed cow bits. We got to bed even later. With interrupted sleep of more puking. And wafts of stomach acid.
. . . . . . .
So I'm wearing sweatpants today. And I like it. And Big D is going to like it too. He may even pinch my buns. And appreciate the extra jiggle that sweatpants allow.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Why I Feed my Kids GMOs
Back when I was responsible, I got up at 6:30 am. That's what they tell SAHMs to do. Its "key" to staying on top of the day. And the demands. That's how you know you're a "good" mom. If you get up before your kids. Put clothes on that don't stand up by themselves. Or reek of musty arm pits. Clothes that say "good morning beautiful children. I am eager to begin this special day with you. And later, I'm going to do your dad. On the kitchen table." And don't forget, your first cup of tea - by yourself - it's vital to good momship. And if we're really striving for greatness, a moment in God's word, to refresh our spirits.
Yes, those are all key to being a good mom. Personally, I didn't know this until I started reading other people's blogs.
I tried it for a while. It was nice. But it made the day longer. And quite frankly, this season that I'm in - cold, winter - calls for sleeping. As long as the children allow. I get up with the sun still. (I can't help it that the sun wants to sleep too. And doesn't get up until almost 8.)
A key component to a longer, more peaceful sleep, is to provide cereal in the cupboard and milk in the refrigerator. Murnice is becoming more independent by the day. (With much encouragement, as she likes to be served on all levels.) (She is also learning the fine lesson of serving others - her brother.)
Her getting breakfast for them both is magical. It allows for so much more peace and love to reside in my heart.
But three things have entered into the picture.
#1 I'm getting more and more skived out by GMOs.
#2 There remains only $6 left in the food budget for the next 1 1/2 weeks.
#3 We have officially run out of all cereal, that doesn't resemble and taste of rotting air and cardboard remnants.
All of this means that pure terror and havoc have replaced my once beautiful wake-up moments. These children are waking up like hibernating bears. Who is that hungry upon immediately waking up?
The heart-shattering roars of "FEED US!!!!!!" make me only want to crawl under my mattress and dig a secret passage to the neighbors house.
I try to squash their hollering, if only for a few minutes, by playing sweet games with them in bed. Like "kitten". Kittens snuggle quietly. And purr. I do get the occasional lick though.
And then the two of them see through my games. And decide together, silently, to begin the upheaval. To begin the overthrow of the peace that did once reign.
The children care nothing for any living being, besides themselves. They could care less if I was stark naked standing in the ice-box of a kitchen, while peeing my over-night load all over the floor. Just as long as I was serving them. Flipping eggs. And pouring morning juice. Putting their slippers on.
I am not allowed the luxury of throwing something on my ever-growing, hibernating bottom - without getting a tongue lashing. The screams and squawks that come from such small, selfish creatures. They send me straight to the hell-hole of insanity.
This morning I decided, there are just some things that are needed to keep the queen somewhat subdued. And it may not always be the healthiest choice. Or the choice that we feel good or proud about. But it's a season. And. Seasons. Don't. Last. Forever.
We have to weigh. What's a healthy choice for mom? For right now. For this season. And choose to be confident in our choice.
And I guess I'm choosing to be confident in a morning bowl of GMOs.
Yes, those are all key to being a good mom. Personally, I didn't know this until I started reading other people's blogs.
I tried it for a while. It was nice. But it made the day longer. And quite frankly, this season that I'm in - cold, winter - calls for sleeping. As long as the children allow. I get up with the sun still. (I can't help it that the sun wants to sleep too. And doesn't get up until almost 8.)
A key component to a longer, more peaceful sleep, is to provide cereal in the cupboard and milk in the refrigerator. Murnice is becoming more independent by the day. (With much encouragement, as she likes to be served on all levels.) (She is also learning the fine lesson of serving others - her brother.)
Her getting breakfast for them both is magical. It allows for so much more peace and love to reside in my heart.
But three things have entered into the picture.
#1 I'm getting more and more skived out by GMOs.
#2 There remains only $6 left in the food budget for the next 1 1/2 weeks.
#3 We have officially run out of all cereal, that doesn't resemble and taste of rotting air and cardboard remnants.
All of this means that pure terror and havoc have replaced my once beautiful wake-up moments. These children are waking up like hibernating bears. Who is that hungry upon immediately waking up?
The heart-shattering roars of "FEED US!!!!!!" make me only want to crawl under my mattress and dig a secret passage to the neighbors house.
I try to squash their hollering, if only for a few minutes, by playing sweet games with them in bed. Like "kitten". Kittens snuggle quietly. And purr. I do get the occasional lick though.
And then the two of them see through my games. And decide together, silently, to begin the upheaval. To begin the overthrow of the peace that did once reign.
The children care nothing for any living being, besides themselves. They could care less if I was stark naked standing in the ice-box of a kitchen, while peeing my over-night load all over the floor. Just as long as I was serving them. Flipping eggs. And pouring morning juice. Putting their slippers on.
I am not allowed the luxury of throwing something on my ever-growing, hibernating bottom - without getting a tongue lashing. The screams and squawks that come from such small, selfish creatures. They send me straight to the hell-hole of insanity.
This morning I decided, there are just some things that are needed to keep the queen somewhat subdued. And it may not always be the healthiest choice. Or the choice that we feel good or proud about. But it's a season. And. Seasons. Don't. Last. Forever.
We have to weigh. What's a healthy choice for mom? For right now. For this season. And choose to be confident in our choice.
And I guess I'm choosing to be confident in a morning bowl of GMOs.
Monday, December 9, 2013
Survival, Holy?
A question was posed to us (the congregation) at church, yesterday. Actually two questions.
1) What gets you out of bed in the morning?
2) What is your mission or goal in life?
There were a bunch of holy answers. After all, we were in church. And people try hard to be, act, and talk "holy".
"Jesus gets me out of bed"
Oh that's nice. You must be special to have Jesus personally get you up every day.
There were a few funny answers.
"Bacon"
That's a little more realistic.
And then some honest answers.
"My job - so I can survive"
Yes. That makes sense.
But what about us moms. Us, who stay home. Every liver-chewing, nightmarish day. What about us?
Jesus getting me up sounds beyond perfect. And lovely. Gentle. And soft.
Bacon would be too good to be true. Somebody cooking me bacon every morning. The smell - wafting to my ever-filled booger nose. Fatty fat fat dripping. Crunchy crumbs. Oh, the pleasure.
Even a job to go to. A reason to take a shower and brush my hair. A reason to change my underwear. The feeling of accomplishing - something . . . Getting a paycheck? Just so it can go to bills. A reason to buy new lipstick.
Do you know what gets me up in the morning?
Ed. (Shall I elaborate more?)(Yes, I think I will.)
Ed telling me (with arm motions) that he has peed "all yover" the bathroom. Right after he had a panic attack because he couldn't get his pants off as fast as he wanted to.
Yup. Is there anything more purposeful than to get wrenched out of bed to clean up a piss-ridden bathroom so the rest of the family can use the morning john?
No. No there is not.
Which leads me to the next question.
What is your mission or goal in life?
Survival.
Purely and simply - survival. Survival for the family.
And nobody can understand that answer, unless they stay at home full time, with beautiful children.
And you know what gets me really excited? When Big D doesn't like my answer of "survival". He thinks it should be nothing short of inspirational and holy. He thinks he is challenging me in a healthy way - to open my mind, and shoot for the stars.
I say, shit-balls to that. (that's how excited I am)
You see, Big D - when you walk in the door, you see the exhaustion. You see the mess. And the lack of showers. You hear the gravel in my voice. The kids clamoring for fresh new attention that smiles at them. But what you don't see is the inner-turmoil of my heart. The true messyness of being at home. The emotional struggles. The lies and lies that he whispers. The same old same old same old. Fight and reproof, fight and correction. You see none of this. Because you don't live it. And you will never understand the darkness of it all - unless you live it.
So don't sit there and criticize my mission for life. Accept my "less-than-stellar" goal. And know that that's the truth.
Jesus loves my disgusting life. My dingy wallowing world. And through the maddening fog, he showers me with a glimmer of hope, a moment of peace, and says "this is exactly where you're supposed to be".
So I work on reading the millionth-time story with inflection, and answering the question with a gentle response. And know that I am doing my absolute best at surviving.
*****************************************************************************
disclaimer
Even though I use the name "Big D", I'm not only speaking to him. But to all that feel the need to criticize, critique, judge, wrinkle your nose, offer unsightly statements meant to encourage, or blatantly think more highly of yourself/your mothering skills.
****************************************************************************
disclaimer #2
I am not saying that my job is harder than those that work and have children.
Question of the day:
What is your mission or goal in life?
1) What gets you out of bed in the morning?
2) What is your mission or goal in life?
There were a bunch of holy answers. After all, we were in church. And people try hard to be, act, and talk "holy".
"Jesus gets me out of bed"
Oh that's nice. You must be special to have Jesus personally get you up every day.
There were a few funny answers.
"Bacon"
That's a little more realistic.
And then some honest answers.
"My job - so I can survive"
Yes. That makes sense.
But what about us moms. Us, who stay home. Every liver-chewing, nightmarish day. What about us?
Jesus getting me up sounds beyond perfect. And lovely. Gentle. And soft.
Bacon would be too good to be true. Somebody cooking me bacon every morning. The smell - wafting to my ever-filled booger nose. Fatty fat fat dripping. Crunchy crumbs. Oh, the pleasure.
Even a job to go to. A reason to take a shower and brush my hair. A reason to change my underwear. The feeling of accomplishing - something . . . Getting a paycheck? Just so it can go to bills. A reason to buy new lipstick.
Do you know what gets me up in the morning?
Ed. (Shall I elaborate more?)(Yes, I think I will.)
Ed telling me (with arm motions) that he has peed "all yover" the bathroom. Right after he had a panic attack because he couldn't get his pants off as fast as he wanted to.
Yup. Is there anything more purposeful than to get wrenched out of bed to clean up a piss-ridden bathroom so the rest of the family can use the morning john?
No. No there is not.
Which leads me to the next question.
What is your mission or goal in life?
Survival.
Purely and simply - survival. Survival for the family.
And nobody can understand that answer, unless they stay at home full time, with beautiful children.
And you know what gets me really excited? When Big D doesn't like my answer of "survival". He thinks it should be nothing short of inspirational and holy. He thinks he is challenging me in a healthy way - to open my mind, and shoot for the stars.
I say, shit-balls to that. (that's how excited I am)
You see, Big D - when you walk in the door, you see the exhaustion. You see the mess. And the lack of showers. You hear the gravel in my voice. The kids clamoring for fresh new attention that smiles at them. But what you don't see is the inner-turmoil of my heart. The true messyness of being at home. The emotional struggles. The lies and lies that he whispers. The same old same old same old. Fight and reproof, fight and correction. You see none of this. Because you don't live it. And you will never understand the darkness of it all - unless you live it.
So don't sit there and criticize my mission for life. Accept my "less-than-stellar" goal. And know that that's the truth.
Jesus loves my disgusting life. My dingy wallowing world. And through the maddening fog, he showers me with a glimmer of hope, a moment of peace, and says "this is exactly where you're supposed to be".
So I work on reading the millionth-time story with inflection, and answering the question with a gentle response. And know that I am doing my absolute best at surviving.
*****************************************************************************
disclaimer
Even though I use the name "Big D", I'm not only speaking to him. But to all that feel the need to criticize, critique, judge, wrinkle your nose, offer unsightly statements meant to encourage, or blatantly think more highly of yourself/your mothering skills.
****************************************************************************
disclaimer #2
I am not saying that my job is harder than those that work and have children.
Question of the day:
What is your mission or goal in life?
Monday, November 18, 2013
Life is Never Pretty
I felt hope. I felt grateful.
And it came sweeping over me with such gentle surprise.
You see, I've been sinking. We haven't been in the best health over here for a little while. I shower once a week. Literally. I don't get dressed. Heaps of dirty and clean laundry are scattered. I think I vacuumed last in 2011. The bottom of my white porcelain sink is orangy/brown. We eat food out of boxes. A new herd of fruit flies have moved in. Big ones. Twice the size of normal ones. And they don't like my fruit fly trap.
My bathroom is ripped to shreds. It has a functioning shower and toilet. But no sink. Which means nobody washes their hands anymore. Nor do we brush our teeth.
The sheets on the bed? Thank goodness Big D hasn't brought me "down-town" in awhile. Otherwise we'd be sleeping in crunch. Because that's how much I'm sinking.
There is no dinner. There are no thoughts of dinner.
And sometimes I sleep. And sometimes I don't. It all depends on how gracious Ed is. And if the stars align in their magical pattern. And if "cozy" (his blanket) is perfectly perched upon body. And if he can find his "hole" in blue. And if pink cat is present, but not hogging his personal space. And whether or not he needs to pee or have a drink. Or a snuggle.
And that's just during the night.
The days are far worse. With so much screaming and crying.
And Murnice fights me every second. If I take two breaths, she's off and playing. Because there is nothing more fanciful, than to play when there's school to do. Elaborate and thorough games.
But today, as I was sitting, taking my daily, convulsive, diarrhea-squirt session, I felt it. I felt a wave of gratitude.
I don't know where it came from. Or why it decided to show up. Or why it thought I was worthy. But I really liked that fleeting moment. I really liked feeling hopeful.
Honestly I didn't realize I was sinking this much, until I breathed fresh.
I wouldn't mind a prayer or two.
The end.
And it came sweeping over me with such gentle surprise.
You see, I've been sinking. We haven't been in the best health over here for a little while. I shower once a week. Literally. I don't get dressed. Heaps of dirty and clean laundry are scattered. I think I vacuumed last in 2011. The bottom of my white porcelain sink is orangy/brown. We eat food out of boxes. A new herd of fruit flies have moved in. Big ones. Twice the size of normal ones. And they don't like my fruit fly trap.
My bathroom is ripped to shreds. It has a functioning shower and toilet. But no sink. Which means nobody washes their hands anymore. Nor do we brush our teeth.
The sheets on the bed? Thank goodness Big D hasn't brought me "down-town" in awhile. Otherwise we'd be sleeping in crunch. Because that's how much I'm sinking.
There is no dinner. There are no thoughts of dinner.
And sometimes I sleep. And sometimes I don't. It all depends on how gracious Ed is. And if the stars align in their magical pattern. And if "cozy" (his blanket) is perfectly perched upon body. And if he can find his "hole" in blue. And if pink cat is present, but not hogging his personal space. And whether or not he needs to pee or have a drink. Or a snuggle.
And that's just during the night.
The days are far worse. With so much screaming and crying.
And Murnice fights me every second. If I take two breaths, she's off and playing. Because there is nothing more fanciful, than to play when there's school to do. Elaborate and thorough games.
But today, as I was sitting, taking my daily, convulsive, diarrhea-squirt session, I felt it. I felt a wave of gratitude.
I don't know where it came from. Or why it decided to show up. Or why it thought I was worthy. But I really liked that fleeting moment. I really liked feeling hopeful.
Honestly I didn't realize I was sinking this much, until I breathed fresh.
I wouldn't mind a prayer or two.
The end.
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Fifteen Ways? Double-Time With an Extra "Ew"
As if trying their hand at one list wasn't enough. They had to write another list. A lady list. And I thought the man list was as stupid as pie.
The lady list is a joke. I think.
And just to make sure that I'm not cold hearted, mean spirited, and as rude as a rabid turkey, I asked Friday Friends what they thought.
Prepare yourselves. Gird your loins. . . .
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Wife
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Extra Saucy Kitty Kat.
1. Before leaving the house, tell me I sparkle like the sun and smell like the moon. And that I have the harder job
2. I don't care what time you go to bed, but when you do decide it's the right time - make sure the house is closed up in a proper manner and the kids are still breathing. Try your hardest to be thorough with this task. As it drives me completely wild when "close up time" is done haphazardly.
3. You touch me with a hair brush - I'll spank your bottom. But you can tell me that my old tired eyes have never looked more lively and lovely. And that my body is more magical than David Copperfield. And out of control, sizzily. And that if I were a steak, I would be extra well done.
4. I don't want to be caught looking at myself. So just ignore any glimpses you get of that happening, at all cost. But things that would be appropriate to say to me: a) your boobs have never looked perkier b) your buns are tighter than an over-done meat platter c) what fine chiseled legs you have . . . and other fine things of that sort.
5. Bring the tv into the bedroom. I may spend more time in bed. I may offer my body as a love offering in a more substantial manner.
6. DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT call me during the day. Send me emails. And don't ask how my day is going. If it's that bad - you will be hearing from me. If you don't hear from me, then the chances of us all being alive when you get home, are great.
7. I am offended by #7
8. Don't waste your time. Although, I do love getting into my car and seeing a full gas tank. (I can't remember the last time I had to fill the gas tank - don't be hating ladies.)
9. Yes, yes. Write me lots. But write when you're pissed at me. It's a lot more fun to keep track of that.
10. Don't waste your time. Unless I get knocked up again. And then come pull me out of the car.
11. If there was ever a time you didn't put that seat down, I would scoop all the poopy toilet water up and dump it on your bed. And then you could swim your bare buns around in sludge.
12. When I start complaining about the stupidity of some people, agree with me.
13. When we're in crowds, try your best to keep me away from people you know. I tend to say things that make everyone involved feel weird. It's best to just stash me in a small corner and to bring me drinks and food. But if it's a crowd thingy with no food or drinks, keep me home.
14. This lady is a raging lunatic.
15. This is all manly and such, but you should pray for me, more. I sometimes get real itchy to throw something. Or dump dinner down the drain.
I have no closing thoughts or comments.
The end.
I puked.
The lady list is a joke. I think.
And just to make sure that I'm not cold hearted, mean spirited, and as rude as a rabid turkey, I asked Friday Friends what they thought.
Prepare yourselves. Gird your loins. . . .
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Wife
- Hug and kiss her every morning before leaving the house.
- Go to bed at the same time she does.
- Brush her hair while complimenting her eyes and appearance.
- When she's studying herself in the mirror, tell her, "You are so beautiful."
- Evict late-night television from your bedroom.
- During mid-afternoon, call or send her an email to ask how her day's going.
- Try your hand at making breakfast on Saturday morning.
- Put gas in her car, vacuum the floor mats, and clean the windows.
- Write her a short love letter. List several ways she has blessed you this year.
- Resurrect common courtesies: Hold the car door open. Offer her your arm.
- Put the toilet seat down.
- If you hear her engaged in a tough situation, compliment the way she handled it.
- When you're together in a crowd, find a way to brag on her.
- Help her put the kids to bed.
- Pray with her every day. Every day!
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Extra Saucy Kitty Kat.
1. Before leaving the house, tell me I sparkle like the sun and smell like the moon. And that I have the harder job
2. I don't care what time you go to bed, but when you do decide it's the right time - make sure the house is closed up in a proper manner and the kids are still breathing. Try your hardest to be thorough with this task. As it drives me completely wild when "close up time" is done haphazardly.
3. You touch me with a hair brush - I'll spank your bottom. But you can tell me that my old tired eyes have never looked more lively and lovely. And that my body is more magical than David Copperfield. And out of control, sizzily. And that if I were a steak, I would be extra well done.
4. I don't want to be caught looking at myself. So just ignore any glimpses you get of that happening, at all cost. But things that would be appropriate to say to me: a) your boobs have never looked perkier b) your buns are tighter than an over-done meat platter c) what fine chiseled legs you have . . . and other fine things of that sort.
5. Bring the tv into the bedroom. I may spend more time in bed. I may offer my body as a love offering in a more substantial manner.
6. DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT call me during the day. Send me emails. And don't ask how my day is going. If it's that bad - you will be hearing from me. If you don't hear from me, then the chances of us all being alive when you get home, are great.
7. I am offended by #7
8. Don't waste your time. Although, I do love getting into my car and seeing a full gas tank. (I can't remember the last time I had to fill the gas tank - don't be hating ladies.)
9. Yes, yes. Write me lots. But write when you're pissed at me. It's a lot more fun to keep track of that.
10. Don't waste your time. Unless I get knocked up again. And then come pull me out of the car.
11. If there was ever a time you didn't put that seat down, I would scoop all the poopy toilet water up and dump it on your bed. And then you could swim your bare buns around in sludge.
12. When I start complaining about the stupidity of some people, agree with me.
13. When we're in crowds, try your best to keep me away from people you know. I tend to say things that make everyone involved feel weird. It's best to just stash me in a small corner and to bring me drinks and food. But if it's a crowd thingy with no food or drinks, keep me home.
14. This lady is a raging lunatic.
15. This is all manly and such, but you should pray for me, more. I sometimes get real itchy to throw something. Or dump dinner down the drain.
I have no closing thoughts or comments.
The end.
I puked.
Thursday, October 17, 2013
A Typical Day With Ed
My day with naughty Ed as gone like this:
6:58 am
*SCREAMING* "I want to get up" repeatedly. Loudly. With lots of "moms".
I said no. Because it wasn't quite 7. And that's the rule. And one more extra second I have to spend with Ed . . . .
I really thought he fell back asleep. There was so much quiet for the next 20 minutes. And I thought it was my lucky day. And the sleep fairy came to give me a gift. And maybe it was a Christmas miracle.
But then he started yelling again. And Witherhall-legally, I had to say yes.
And then there was much fawning over my breasts. Lately Ed has become very much in need of my breasts in order to snuggle properly. And the term he uses for a breast snuggle is "snuggle buggle". He's woken me up out of a dead sleep, on more than one occassion to ask if he could snuggle with my "boos".
Now, not to brag or anything. But my breast size gift is about on par of a 90 year old tortoise. I'm not really sure what he thinks he's snuggling with. But it's not soft. Or squishy. Or, lovely. On any level. But I do have nipples.
And then the morning screams for "he-de-ohs" (with a small roll of the tongue at the end of "he") began. I smiled nicely, and with as much love in my heart, I filled up a bowl (that was the wrong bowl) with cheerios and milk. I placed the bowl so lovingly on the table. In the wrong spot, of course.
And then more screaming. Because he wanted to be spoon fed.
Now not to be rude, but I do not think it's necessary to move from my warm spot on the couch to spoon feed a very capable child. My belief is, if you are hungry enough . . . .you can manage.
Well, that attitude really got him going. Ed grabbed his spoon, and all while roaring - he thrust his spoon in and out of his bowl with as much vim and vigor as his arm allowed. Disappointingly, only a small amount of cheerios and milk landed on the table.
In order to get a true reaction from mother, since I was ignoring the smallish, rude animal that Big D had let in while trying to leave for work . . . he put his spoon down. Picked up his bowl with both hands. And dumped his cheerios and milk - all out. Every last bit. And with a pleased as punch attitude, he put his bowl down with authority and looked at me.
That was how my day began. And THAT is why I demand Big D to yell from the closing front door, every morning - "YOU HAVE THE HARDER JOB". It fills my heart with pleasure, knowing that the father of these children know that staying home is 74 times more miserable than sitting in a boring suit-tie meeting.
I also had the privilege of holding down a flailing, kicking boy at the library. Which just sounds boringly naughty. It was. But it adds.
He also thought it was funny to reminisce about pulling "Murny's" hair at the grocer, while pooping on the pot. Followed by snickers and chuckles.
And then he asked me to sing "the big frog penis" while I put him down for his nap.
And then I find him at the table, thanking Jesus for showers.
I'm am becoming more and more horrified with this small ungrateful fleabag/screaming panther child everyday. #1 - It's kinda funny. #2 - how do I raise such a pig-headed, prideful monster that has the tenderest of hearts (sometimes still) and a sense of humor?
Take Aways
1) greet everyday with a pleadful prayer of grace.
2) and then stay home, forever.
3) I think all of my take aways are "stay home".
4) I haven't worn makeup in months. I just don't have the gumption to, with all the naughtiness in my life.
5) Today I'm wearing polka-dots and stripes. But in a really bad way.
6) I'm feeling self pity towards my lackluster closet.
7) Wah!
8) Maybe I'll have an extra glass of wine tonight.
6:58 am
*SCREAMING* "I want to get up" repeatedly. Loudly. With lots of "moms".
I said no. Because it wasn't quite 7. And that's the rule. And one more extra second I have to spend with Ed . . . .
I really thought he fell back asleep. There was so much quiet for the next 20 minutes. And I thought it was my lucky day. And the sleep fairy came to give me a gift. And maybe it was a Christmas miracle.
But then he started yelling again. And Witherhall-legally, I had to say yes.
And then there was much fawning over my breasts. Lately Ed has become very much in need of my breasts in order to snuggle properly. And the term he uses for a breast snuggle is "snuggle buggle". He's woken me up out of a dead sleep, on more than one occassion to ask if he could snuggle with my "boos".
Now, not to brag or anything. But my breast size gift is about on par of a 90 year old tortoise. I'm not really sure what he thinks he's snuggling with. But it's not soft. Or squishy. Or, lovely. On any level. But I do have nipples.
And then the morning screams for "he-de-ohs" (with a small roll of the tongue at the end of "he") began. I smiled nicely, and with as much love in my heart, I filled up a bowl (that was the wrong bowl) with cheerios and milk. I placed the bowl so lovingly on the table. In the wrong spot, of course.
And then more screaming. Because he wanted to be spoon fed.
Now not to be rude, but I do not think it's necessary to move from my warm spot on the couch to spoon feed a very capable child. My belief is, if you are hungry enough . . . .you can manage.
Well, that attitude really got him going. Ed grabbed his spoon, and all while roaring - he thrust his spoon in and out of his bowl with as much vim and vigor as his arm allowed. Disappointingly, only a small amount of cheerios and milk landed on the table.
In order to get a true reaction from mother, since I was ignoring the smallish, rude animal that Big D had let in while trying to leave for work . . . he put his spoon down. Picked up his bowl with both hands. And dumped his cheerios and milk - all out. Every last bit. And with a pleased as punch attitude, he put his bowl down with authority and looked at me.
That was how my day began. And THAT is why I demand Big D to yell from the closing front door, every morning - "YOU HAVE THE HARDER JOB". It fills my heart with pleasure, knowing that the father of these children know that staying home is 74 times more miserable than sitting in a boring suit-tie meeting.
I also had the privilege of holding down a flailing, kicking boy at the library. Which just sounds boringly naughty. It was. But it adds.
He also thought it was funny to reminisce about pulling "Murny's" hair at the grocer, while pooping on the pot. Followed by snickers and chuckles.
And then he asked me to sing "the big frog penis" while I put him down for his nap.
And then I find him at the table, thanking Jesus for showers.
I'm am becoming more and more horrified with this small ungrateful fleabag/screaming panther child everyday. #1 - It's kinda funny. #2 - how do I raise such a pig-headed, prideful monster that has the tenderest of hearts (sometimes still) and a sense of humor?
Take Aways
1) greet everyday with a pleadful prayer of grace.
2) and then stay home, forever.
3) I think all of my take aways are "stay home".
4) I haven't worn makeup in months. I just don't have the gumption to, with all the naughtiness in my life.
5) Today I'm wearing polka-dots and stripes. But in a really bad way.
6) I'm feeling self pity towards my lackluster closet.
7) Wah!
8) Maybe I'll have an extra glass of wine tonight.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Worst Aunt
I'm assuming that when normal people get the opportunity to have nieces or nephews, there is this push to be grander than all the rest. I'm assuming that normal people want to be the coolest, or the nicest. They want to be thought of, fondly. And with smiles.
But not me. I try to be as miserable as I can. I like to say horrible things that send small children screaming for their mother or father's knees.
I contributed to many non-applause worthy acts, during my travels. All of which I am pleased as punch about.
But two of my favorite, go like this:
1) I was home alone with all 6 kids. (2 of mine, and 4 of B.B. Chuck and Mother Green Toes ) And Chuck has this wooden toy house. And the house has 4 different doors on it with 4 different door bells. It comes with keys. And the kids have to pick the correct key for the correct door. Well, some dad gum kid locked the keys in one of the doors.
And while I was sitting on a different couch, fiddle-faddling around. I stuck my smallish sized pinky in the smaller sized hole that was placed in all the doors . . . And I stretched my poor pinky and could actually feel the lock on the inside of the door.
Brilliant idea! All I needed was a smaller pinky to cram down into the hole to flip the lock! (And then I would be known as the grandest aunt around. Restoring loved toys to their rightful players.)
First I grabbed Murnice's pinky. But her knuckle was too large. And then I grabbed my 5 year old niece's pinky, Mildred. Her pinky slipped in like salted butter. And she felt the lock. But dreadfully so, her pinky was too stubby to flip the lock.
But then, Mildred started screaming. And hollering. "MY PINKY!!!! HELP!! OW!! I CAN'T GET!!!!! OWWW!!"
Mildred's pinky was stuck in the wooden house. And it was just me. And 6 kids.
And I kinda got a little excited. Wondering if I should just smash the wooden house on the floor. Hopefully sending it into a million splinters and releasing poor Mildred's pinky. But Mildred's pinky was attached. . . . I thought about the chainsaw that hopefully B.B. Chuck had some where. And then I thought about poor Mildred's pinky getting the blood flow stopped up. And the swollen factor. And the screams and yelps of pain.
And then nurse mode took over pig-rat-worst-aunt mode. And I had a semi-normal thought. Lets freeze the finger with some cold water and dump a gallon of soap - and hope that something would slippy-slide out.
Well, a few more roars, and Mildred's pinky was restored to herself. And then I smiled nicely at her. And patted her head 7 times. And thanked the good Lord that no splinters, nor chainsaws were involved.
2) Something I've picked up over the years, has been to sing before a meal. Versus praying. It's lovely. It allows participation from everyone. And with singing, it allows for great amounts of energy to be released.
I thought it would be nice to share singing with B.B. Chuck's family. And since nobody had a better song to sing, - the Doxology it was. Now with the Doxology, there are some splendid opportunities to really display one's vocal ranges. And I don't know about you - but when I sing that song . . . I. can. not. help. - but to open my mouth as wide and as long as fleshly possible, flutter my eye lashes while rolling my eyes back into my head, and to belt those particular notes that are begging to reverberate off the closest cathedrals stain glassed windows. Sending them into a monumental, what used to be - of glass shards.
Yes, and I did all of that. While the poor baby, who was just laid down to sleep - so the poor mother could actually eat dinner, roared awake.
And then I paid my pittance of hiding in the darken corner with the snuffling of horror baby. So that Mother Green Toes could eat in peace, and with vigor. Just like she was planning. Before I showcased my true, great talent.
The end.
But not me. I try to be as miserable as I can. I like to say horrible things that send small children screaming for their mother or father's knees.
I contributed to many non-applause worthy acts, during my travels. All of which I am pleased as punch about.
But two of my favorite, go like this:
1) I was home alone with all 6 kids. (2 of mine, and 4 of B.B. Chuck and Mother Green Toes ) And Chuck has this wooden toy house. And the house has 4 different doors on it with 4 different door bells. It comes with keys. And the kids have to pick the correct key for the correct door. Well, some dad gum kid locked the keys in one of the doors.
And while I was sitting on a different couch, fiddle-faddling around. I stuck my smallish sized pinky in the smaller sized hole that was placed in all the doors . . . And I stretched my poor pinky and could actually feel the lock on the inside of the door.
Brilliant idea! All I needed was a smaller pinky to cram down into the hole to flip the lock! (And then I would be known as the grandest aunt around. Restoring loved toys to their rightful players.)
First I grabbed Murnice's pinky. But her knuckle was too large. And then I grabbed my 5 year old niece's pinky, Mildred. Her pinky slipped in like salted butter. And she felt the lock. But dreadfully so, her pinky was too stubby to flip the lock.
But then, Mildred started screaming. And hollering. "MY PINKY!!!! HELP!! OW!! I CAN'T GET!!!!! OWWW!!"
Mildred's pinky was stuck in the wooden house. And it was just me. And 6 kids.
And I kinda got a little excited. Wondering if I should just smash the wooden house on the floor. Hopefully sending it into a million splinters and releasing poor Mildred's pinky. But Mildred's pinky was attached. . . . I thought about the chainsaw that hopefully B.B. Chuck had some where. And then I thought about poor Mildred's pinky getting the blood flow stopped up. And the swollen factor. And the screams and yelps of pain.
And then nurse mode took over pig-rat-worst-aunt mode. And I had a semi-normal thought. Lets freeze the finger with some cold water and dump a gallon of soap - and hope that something would slippy-slide out.
Well, a few more roars, and Mildred's pinky was restored to herself. And then I smiled nicely at her. And patted her head 7 times. And thanked the good Lord that no splinters, nor chainsaws were involved.
2) Something I've picked up over the years, has been to sing before a meal. Versus praying. It's lovely. It allows participation from everyone. And with singing, it allows for great amounts of energy to be released.
I thought it would be nice to share singing with B.B. Chuck's family. And since nobody had a better song to sing, - the Doxology it was. Now with the Doxology, there are some splendid opportunities to really display one's vocal ranges. And I don't know about you - but when I sing that song . . . I. can. not. help. - but to open my mouth as wide and as long as fleshly possible, flutter my eye lashes while rolling my eyes back into my head, and to belt those particular notes that are begging to reverberate off the closest cathedrals stain glassed windows. Sending them into a monumental, what used to be - of glass shards.
Yes, and I did all of that. While the poor baby, who was just laid down to sleep - so the poor mother could actually eat dinner, roared awake.
And then I paid my pittance of hiding in the darken corner with the snuffling of horror baby. So that Mother Green Toes could eat in peace, and with vigor. Just like she was planning. Before I showcased my true, great talent.
The end.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Some Days are Good. Some Days are Bad. This Week has Been Awful.
I wish there was something great to say to the world. ... I guess the greatest thing there is to say is: I'm still alive. And so are the kids. Big D . . . . . barely hanging on, ready to move into his own bachey pad.
I've been having quite a difficult week. So difficult in fact, I don't even have anything sarcastic to say about it.
The awfulness kinda started on Sunday, where the kids thought it would be grand to cry all day. I liked that so much. And then Murnice grew a fever.
Monday the kids cried all day. Except I was home alone, because Big D still has a job. And I reached an all time low of screaming and yelling, but not being satisfied with the decibel being used. I wanted the yelps and roars to be louder. I don't think that's ever happened to me before. Generally, raising the voice brings some sort of relief.
Normally, I can hold everything together like a regular old adult when Big D comes home at regular time. The count down begins at 4 pm. And usually everyone survives.
But Monday night, Big D attended the stupidest event of the year. Literally.
But, on our shared calender, it said that "relief" would be here at 7pm. That's what it said. And I literally believe the calender. Because I have to put my hope in something. I need to have some sort of count down. And 7 is only 1 hour later than normal. And I thought I might be able to be a normal adult and hang on to life in an orderly fashion for one extra hour that day.
And 7 turned to 7:30, and I had all the crying and screaming I could take for 3 years piled on top of each other. And then I turned really ugly. I think black tentacles crawled out of my butt. And maybe, but I'm not sure - I turned into her.
You're probably wondering what the "stupidest event of the year" is. And I would be pleased as punch to tell you all.
Stupidest Event of the Year:
Some big wig that probably only practices missionary position, who has way too much money and has the need to flaunt, feel important, flaunt some more and a whole array of other issues that I want to talk about but won't because I want to show Big D how much of a big normal adult I am sometimes. . . . . .decides that there is no other way possible, to show his appreciation to the world that he employs, then to throw a stupid dumb butt clam bake.
Big D finally came home around 8 - just in time to put Blessing 1 and Blessing 2 to bed. And I was in such a sour mood, I thought it highly appropriate to write more about flushing babies down the toilet.
That put the icing on the cake. I was in such a wicked mood when I was done. It marinated all night, and was quite potent on Tuesday morning.
At this point Murnice was feeling better but complaining about a slight sore throat. Ed, on the other hand could not keep his fingers out of his anus. He was itching and scratching so bad, to the point where he would wake up in the middle of the night and ask for "man-unders" just so he could scratch his poor anus. I thought it was a rash at first, but nothing was helping it. In fact it was getting worse. And then Mother suggested pin worms.
Glory be.
Our day Tuesday, was just as bad as Monday. So much gnashing of teeth. Mainly from Ed. Obnoxiously more so than usual.
By the time Wednesday came around, I was emotionally spent and done. All of my grace had been used up. Empty of patience. Sweet words and kind smiles ran away days ago. And I had nothing left to give.
I managed a doctor run where I was told Murnice had strep and Ed had a staph infection.
And then I went home and held my head in my hands and waited until 3, when I promptly called Big D and told him that if he cared about the sanctity of human life . . . . now was the time to show me where he stood on that whole debate.
So today is Thursday. I've had the chance to breath 40% more than the other days. I managed a trip to Marshalls with a 79% satisfaction rate. I fed the kids chemicals and dye for lunch aka mac and cheese. And I'm growing my armpit hair out. I can almost twisty it. I have passed out 4 kisses. And even muttered the words "I love you". AND I know what we're having for dinner, and it's only 4 o'clock. Feeling almost like a queen.
Take Aways
1) Be thankful for sperm donors who have the kindness in their heart to leave their plush, quiet offices to come hold screaming blessings.
2) Run Away.
3) Consciously breathe.
4) Embrace the all time lows, it makes any other day seem glorious.
I've been having quite a difficult week. So difficult in fact, I don't even have anything sarcastic to say about it.
The awfulness kinda started on Sunday, where the kids thought it would be grand to cry all day. I liked that so much. And then Murnice grew a fever.
Monday the kids cried all day. Except I was home alone, because Big D still has a job. And I reached an all time low of screaming and yelling, but not being satisfied with the decibel being used. I wanted the yelps and roars to be louder. I don't think that's ever happened to me before. Generally, raising the voice brings some sort of relief.
Normally, I can hold everything together like a regular old adult when Big D comes home at regular time. The count down begins at 4 pm. And usually everyone survives.
But Monday night, Big D attended the stupidest event of the year. Literally.
But, on our shared calender, it said that "relief" would be here at 7pm. That's what it said. And I literally believe the calender. Because I have to put my hope in something. I need to have some sort of count down. And 7 is only 1 hour later than normal. And I thought I might be able to be a normal adult and hang on to life in an orderly fashion for one extra hour that day.
And 7 turned to 7:30, and I had all the crying and screaming I could take for 3 years piled on top of each other. And then I turned really ugly. I think black tentacles crawled out of my butt. And maybe, but I'm not sure - I turned into her.
Stupidest Event of the Year:
Some big wig that probably only practices missionary position, who has way too much money and has the need to flaunt, feel important, flaunt some more and a whole array of other issues that I want to talk about but won't because I want to show Big D how much of a big normal adult I am sometimes. . . . . .decides that there is no other way possible, to show his appreciation to the world that he employs, then to throw a stupid dumb butt clam bake.
Big D finally came home around 8 - just in time to put Blessing 1 and Blessing 2 to bed. And I was in such a sour mood, I thought it highly appropriate to write more about flushing babies down the toilet.
That put the icing on the cake. I was in such a wicked mood when I was done. It marinated all night, and was quite potent on Tuesday morning.
At this point Murnice was feeling better but complaining about a slight sore throat. Ed, on the other hand could not keep his fingers out of his anus. He was itching and scratching so bad, to the point where he would wake up in the middle of the night and ask for "man-unders" just so he could scratch his poor anus. I thought it was a rash at first, but nothing was helping it. In fact it was getting worse. And then Mother suggested pin worms.
Glory be.
Our day Tuesday, was just as bad as Monday. So much gnashing of teeth. Mainly from Ed. Obnoxiously more so than usual.
By the time Wednesday came around, I was emotionally spent and done. All of my grace had been used up. Empty of patience. Sweet words and kind smiles ran away days ago. And I had nothing left to give.
I managed a doctor run where I was told Murnice had strep and Ed had a staph infection.
And then I went home and held my head in my hands and waited until 3, when I promptly called Big D and told him that if he cared about the sanctity of human life . . . . now was the time to show me where he stood on that whole debate.
So today is Thursday. I've had the chance to breath 40% more than the other days. I managed a trip to Marshalls with a 79% satisfaction rate. I fed the kids chemicals and dye for lunch aka mac and cheese. And I'm growing my armpit hair out. I can almost twisty it. I have passed out 4 kisses. And even muttered the words "I love you". AND I know what we're having for dinner, and it's only 4 o'clock. Feeling almost like a queen.
Take Aways
1) Be thankful for sperm donors who have the kindness in their heart to leave their plush, quiet offices to come hold screaming blessings.
2) Run Away.
3) Consciously breathe.
4) Embrace the all time lows, it makes any other day seem glorious.
Monday, September 23, 2013
4 Pregnancies, 2 Births - 5
So I've kinda been ignoring this story. It's hard to write when I don't feel sad. I skimp on information, and hurry the story. And make it sound more lovely than it is.
I left off where I just found out that I was pregnant for the second time. I felt no bond. I was excited, but it was an outward excitement. My heart felt nothing. Except betrayal. I couldn't trust my body to grow a baby.
I was desperate to feel pregnant. Bloated, tired, achy, nauseous, anything. I wanted confirmation. I wanted to be pregnant. I wanted a baby.
I was in an odd emotional state. Of wanting something, desperate. But not believing, accepting.
At 5 weeks pregnant, Sister Bear had her wedding. The wedding party had to wear all white.
5 weeks pregnant was when I lost my first baby. I was a mess, just thinking about miscarrying and wearing all white. I don't look at Sister Bear's wedding pictures and think, "Sister Bear's wedding". I think - "5 weeks pregnant with a baby I never held".
I survived the wedding.
I played head games of: I think I feel a little nauseous. I think I feel bloaty. But I didn't. I felt nothing. I called my midwives and told them I just didn't feel pregnant even though I was registering as pregnant according to pee tests. I had more blood work done - and it confirmed that I was pregnant. My levels were good.
I named my fetus Ned. So when he died, I could say: "Ned is dead." And that was the way that I was handling my pregnancy. Just knowing that I wouldn't hold this baby.
I still don't know if it was intuition that this baby wasn't mine. Or if it was my nonbelief that killed Ned.
In the middle of August one weekend, I went to Pier 1 with Queen Bee. I told her I was pregnant a few weeks earlier. I ran into an old neighbor. She asked if I was pregnant. I said no.
When I got home, I used the bathroom. And was bleeding. I told Queen Bee to go home. Big D had a friend over. He got kicked out too. I like to think about how that conversation went. Big D: "So, um - my wife is losing our baby, so you need to go home." Brandon: "Um, this is weird. Good-bye." (In my head, that's how the conversation went.)
The next day was Murnice's 4th birthday. I made a tie-dye cake while wearing a big crunchy pad. Waiting for my baby to fall out. I cried all day. We went to the beach. I made 4 trips to the park bathroom. Waiting. Hoping that I wouldn't have to say good-bye to my baby in a dirty, sandy public bathroom.
Big D and I did the best we could celebrating. Celebrating life. Celebrating Murnice. Celebrating what we had been given.
We put our new 4-year-old to bed. And around 9 that night, Ned slipped out. The finalization is hardest. Because there is always hope. The devastation, rampant. And Big D is in the shadows. Again. Unwilling to mourn with me, together. Unwilling to acknowledge that this was ours.
Ned laid in the bottom of the toilet. I did not have the heart to flush our baby. And I did not have the strength to scoop him out. He was just there. And I was stuck. Feeling so guilty for not feeling brave enough to scoop him out.
Jesus was so kind. I had prayed earlier that it would be a gentle miscarriage. And it was. So peaceful, so gentle and complete.
The end.
I left off where I just found out that I was pregnant for the second time. I felt no bond. I was excited, but it was an outward excitement. My heart felt nothing. Except betrayal. I couldn't trust my body to grow a baby.
I was desperate to feel pregnant. Bloated, tired, achy, nauseous, anything. I wanted confirmation. I wanted to be pregnant. I wanted a baby.
I was in an odd emotional state. Of wanting something, desperate. But not believing, accepting.
At 5 weeks pregnant, Sister Bear had her wedding. The wedding party had to wear all white.
5 weeks pregnant was when I lost my first baby. I was a mess, just thinking about miscarrying and wearing all white. I don't look at Sister Bear's wedding pictures and think, "Sister Bear's wedding". I think - "5 weeks pregnant with a baby I never held".
I survived the wedding.
I played head games of: I think I feel a little nauseous. I think I feel bloaty. But I didn't. I felt nothing. I called my midwives and told them I just didn't feel pregnant even though I was registering as pregnant according to pee tests. I had more blood work done - and it confirmed that I was pregnant. My levels were good.
I named my fetus Ned. So when he died, I could say: "Ned is dead." And that was the way that I was handling my pregnancy. Just knowing that I wouldn't hold this baby.
I still don't know if it was intuition that this baby wasn't mine. Or if it was my nonbelief that killed Ned.
In the middle of August one weekend, I went to Pier 1 with Queen Bee. I told her I was pregnant a few weeks earlier. I ran into an old neighbor. She asked if I was pregnant. I said no.
When I got home, I used the bathroom. And was bleeding. I told Queen Bee to go home. Big D had a friend over. He got kicked out too. I like to think about how that conversation went. Big D: "So, um - my wife is losing our baby, so you need to go home." Brandon: "Um, this is weird. Good-bye." (In my head, that's how the conversation went.)
The next day was Murnice's 4th birthday. I made a tie-dye cake while wearing a big crunchy pad. Waiting for my baby to fall out. I cried all day. We went to the beach. I made 4 trips to the park bathroom. Waiting. Hoping that I wouldn't have to say good-bye to my baby in a dirty, sandy public bathroom.
Big D and I did the best we could celebrating. Celebrating life. Celebrating Murnice. Celebrating what we had been given.
We put our new 4-year-old to bed. And around 9 that night, Ned slipped out. The finalization is hardest. Because there is always hope. The devastation, rampant. And Big D is in the shadows. Again. Unwilling to mourn with me, together. Unwilling to acknowledge that this was ours.
Ned laid in the bottom of the toilet. I did not have the heart to flush our baby. And I did not have the strength to scoop him out. He was just there. And I was stuck. Feeling so guilty for not feeling brave enough to scoop him out.
Jesus was so kind. I had prayed earlier that it would be a gentle miscarriage. And it was. So peaceful, so gentle and complete.
The end.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Struggles of a Couch Lover
I'm doing this virtual bible study called: Good Morning Girls. Admitted - worst, cheesiest, run-away name ever.
But I'm doing it because . . . . um . . . . lots of reasons. My current house of worship does not have something that makes my toes sing, I don't feel like paying money to go to community bible study (cbs), I hate packing the kids up and then spending 17 hours to do something that appears and feels holy but only gets my crunchy panties in a twist and makes me feel like drinking before lunchtime.
So this seemed to be the perfect solution. They provide me with everything I need - minus the bible, binder, and actual paper to be printed on. And I can participate when I want. How I want, with no panty twisting.
After you join, you can decide if you want to do the study on your own, or with a group of people. And you can choose your own group through their forum. Facebook, email, text, instagram. Some groups actually get together face to face. I love how it is so form-able to all different lifestyles.
At first, I had my wall built up 14 cubits tall and 16 cubits wide. (That was a bible joke) Because remember, I struggle with women. But being on week 3, hearts are becoming apparent. I don't feel the need to be so guarded. And I like that a lot. I also like that I don't have to actually talk. Because talking is the worst for me. I can just write. And writing is good.
What I really wanted to talk about today, is something that I struggle with. Something that's been on my mind awhile. Something that maybe other SAHMs struggle with. Or maybe I just do. Because I'm such a wench. (Actually I'm not a wench, I just wanted to say "wench".)
So - being in the work world, it's easy to feel like you're doing things for God. You're generally around people all day long. Doing things for people all day long. You have this sense that you're helping and giving and sacrificing. And the opportunity to share God's love is prevalent. The opportunity is ALWAYS in your face.
When I was off my couch working in hospitals, going to school, massaging, etc - I was always in prayer. Seeking direction and blessings. I was able to do hard, gross things - in the name of "love". And it felt good. And rewarding. And I felt like I was accomplishing things for the kingdom of God. And earning extra jewels for my crown. (That's an inside joke - the jewels part)
But now I live on my couch. Unable to leave it for more than 17 seconds before the world falls apart. I do nothing but break up fights, and hold hands to help poop come out better, and make 8 year olds repeat every word they say like an 8 year old, instead of like a baby, and fight and fight and fight over concepts that were learned 4 years ago, and sing Pippi Longstocking songs that I don't know the words to, except "squish squish". I wash dishes with food rotted on and drink tea with backwash in it, because Ed needs his daily tea almost as badly as I need my daily tea. And my new chore is cleaning pee off the back of the toilet 34 times a day, because somebody doesn't understand the dire importance of holding their peener down while urinating.
I feel worn out and disgusting most moments of everyday. I do not feel close to God. Nor do I feel that I'm doing anything for the kingdom. But I know this feeling is a lie. This job is just more trying for me than my other jobs. I can't leave this job. Not for a second. I'm tired. I'm not EVER doing anything new or fresh. The fights I broke up yesterday, are the same today, the same song, the same dirty dish, the same pee dribble.
But because my life and days feel so monotonous, I wanted to know if there was something else that I was supposed to be doing Something a little more exciting. Some other way to be giving, honoring. I wanted to know if I was missing the boat. I feel so lazy - just sitting on my couch, holding hands.
He said, "I want you to know me".
As great as it was to hear his voice so fast, that's not the answer I was looking for, or expecting.
You see, "doing" makes us feel worthy. Because we still hold on to this belief that we have to earn God's love. And acceptance.
And above all else, he merely wants our heart. Our attention, to be part of our day. Not our acts or services. He wants to be friends. And he wants to share his love with us. Because he thinks we're that great.
The end. Minus the part where I say - I don't need any comments from anyone that says something stupid like: being a mom is the most giving, hardest job there is. And other things on that same note.
Take Aways
1) When we don't feel like we're doing anything, maybe it's a sign that it's a new season. And relationships need to be renewed.
2) A book that has been blowing my mind. lately. It has a wah wah write up that makes it sound like only women with bleached coiffed hair in their 50s should read it. But not so. Ladies who wear 3 day old rotten underwear can read it too. And like it.
3) While typing up "number 2", Ed took such a big swig of tea, that he erupted into choking coughs, which spewed tea everywhere. School books. Couch. Clothes. Carpet. Nay Nay. Computer. I drink black tea. My heart is leaping for joy at the moment.
But I'm doing it because . . . . um . . . . lots of reasons. My current house of worship does not have something that makes my toes sing, I don't feel like paying money to go to community bible study (cbs), I hate packing the kids up and then spending 17 hours to do something that appears and feels holy but only gets my crunchy panties in a twist and makes me feel like drinking before lunchtime.
So this seemed to be the perfect solution. They provide me with everything I need - minus the bible, binder, and actual paper to be printed on. And I can participate when I want. How I want, with no panty twisting.
After you join, you can decide if you want to do the study on your own, or with a group of people. And you can choose your own group through their forum. Facebook, email, text, instagram. Some groups actually get together face to face. I love how it is so form-able to all different lifestyles.
At first, I had my wall built up 14 cubits tall and 16 cubits wide. (That was a bible joke) Because remember, I struggle with women. But being on week 3, hearts are becoming apparent. I don't feel the need to be so guarded. And I like that a lot. I also like that I don't have to actually talk. Because talking is the worst for me. I can just write. And writing is good.
What I really wanted to talk about today, is something that I struggle with. Something that's been on my mind awhile. Something that maybe other SAHMs struggle with. Or maybe I just do. Because I'm such a wench. (Actually I'm not a wench, I just wanted to say "wench".)
So - being in the work world, it's easy to feel like you're doing things for God. You're generally around people all day long. Doing things for people all day long. You have this sense that you're helping and giving and sacrificing. And the opportunity to share God's love is prevalent. The opportunity is ALWAYS in your face.
When I was off my couch working in hospitals, going to school, massaging, etc - I was always in prayer. Seeking direction and blessings. I was able to do hard, gross things - in the name of "love". And it felt good. And rewarding. And I felt like I was accomplishing things for the kingdom of God. And earning extra jewels for my crown. (That's an inside joke - the jewels part)
But now I live on my couch. Unable to leave it for more than 17 seconds before the world falls apart. I do nothing but break up fights, and hold hands to help poop come out better, and make 8 year olds repeat every word they say like an 8 year old, instead of like a baby, and fight and fight and fight over concepts that were learned 4 years ago, and sing Pippi Longstocking songs that I don't know the words to, except "squish squish". I wash dishes with food rotted on and drink tea with backwash in it, because Ed needs his daily tea almost as badly as I need my daily tea. And my new chore is cleaning pee off the back of the toilet 34 times a day, because somebody doesn't understand the dire importance of holding their peener down while urinating.
I feel worn out and disgusting most moments of everyday. I do not feel close to God. Nor do I feel that I'm doing anything for the kingdom. But I know this feeling is a lie. This job is just more trying for me than my other jobs. I can't leave this job. Not for a second. I'm tired. I'm not EVER doing anything new or fresh. The fights I broke up yesterday, are the same today, the same song, the same dirty dish, the same pee dribble.
But because my life and days feel so monotonous, I wanted to know if there was something else that I was supposed to be doing Something a little more exciting. Some other way to be giving, honoring. I wanted to know if I was missing the boat. I feel so lazy - just sitting on my couch, holding hands.
He said, "I want you to know me".
As great as it was to hear his voice so fast, that's not the answer I was looking for, or expecting.
You see, "doing" makes us feel worthy. Because we still hold on to this belief that we have to earn God's love. And acceptance.
And above all else, he merely wants our heart. Our attention, to be part of our day. Not our acts or services. He wants to be friends. And he wants to share his love with us. Because he thinks we're that great.
The end. Minus the part where I say - I don't need any comments from anyone that says something stupid like: being a mom is the most giving, hardest job there is. And other things on that same note.
Take Aways
1) When we don't feel like we're doing anything, maybe it's a sign that it's a new season. And relationships need to be renewed.
2) A book that has been blowing my mind. lately. It has a wah wah write up that makes it sound like only women with bleached coiffed hair in their 50s should read it. But not so. Ladies who wear 3 day old rotten underwear can read it too. And like it.
3) While typing up "number 2", Ed took such a big swig of tea, that he erupted into choking coughs, which spewed tea everywhere. School books. Couch. Clothes. Carpet. Nay Nay. Computer. I drink black tea. My heart is leaping for joy at the moment.
Monday, September 16, 2013
The Day I Almost Died
I almost died.
I probably almost die all the time, but most of those times I'm completely unaware. This time, I was very aware.
It started out with a miscommunication problem. Or, a-not-reading-correctly moment. Which ever you choose..The main point is, it was not my mistake.
Our plan was to make a trip to visit Iss and her husband. And watch the horse races. And gamble away our 3 pennies. I don't believe in gambling. But Big D does, and when he gambles, I cross all my toes and fingers and hope for luckiness.
But when we got to Iss's house, and looked up our next day's frivolities - we were crushed to find out that "somebody" had misread the calendar. *ahem ahem* And there would be no gambling. Which lead to tears.
And then there was this extra time that needed to be filled. And what better way to enjoy friends and the beautiful end of summer than to go to a state park?
Sounds lovely. The idea was pitched to me like this: "So, it looks like it will be a great day to head to the park, if that sounds nice to you guys. We could pack a picnic. They have some fun little playgrounds. Even a zip line. And then a little hike if you want to."
Oh my, so low key. And manageable.
(Silly me to think such things.. . . )
We had a beautiful lunch. Perfect sunny warm and crisp air. Perfect combination of poo poo and J with plain salty chips and dilly picks - that Ed ate most of. Which made us sad.
And then the kids and the not kids had a grand time on the zip lines. And we made theories and hypothesises of which zip line was longer and which zip line was faster. And all sorts of silly conversations that made us feel smart.
And then the world blurred, while I was kidnapped and wisked away to the hiking location. I really am not sure what happened. But then, we were "there". And there were a lot of happy people. And families. And picnickers. And backpacks. And hiking shoes. And I felt very nervous, because: a) I don't hike b) the thought of hiking makes my tummy hurt c) when my tummy hurts, I get diarrhea explosions d) there are no bathrooms on hikes and e) I wasn't wearing a backpack.
I was also led to believe that this particular hike was "short" and "easy". That we would get to a "certain spot" and then turn around and come back.
And the hike began. It began with a flight of metal stairs that went straight down. Straight down the side of a mountain. Like your old grandmother's stairs that go down into the basement. Steep and narrow, and practically on top of each other. Like, you have to walk down with your feet sideways. Because there's no room for a full foot facing forward.
Welcome to hiking. And death.
And then it went from bad to worser. At least with the stairs there was a railing to hold on to.
Not so much with the rest of the hike.
The entire hike was on the ledge of a mountain. The foot path was a whopping yard wide. To the right was mountain that went straight up. To the left was mountain that went straight down.
Did I mention we had the beautiful children with us?
Did I also mention that the place (aka footpath) was over crowded with every troll, mountaineer, billy goat gruff, and lunatic that thought it was a good idea to go hiking on the ledge of a mountain that day as well?
Now, I'm not scared of heights. However, something physically happens to me when I'm up high. (I think it's because my buns are so used to being smooshed on the couch, in a "low" position.) I get really dizzy and my legs shake in a non-queen like manner.
Being shaky and dizzy is not a good mixture for ledge walking. Or for any type of walking.
I kept looking and judging the other troll mother's faces. Trying to get a good read of enjoyment or exhaustion. Or pure horror. And every other troll looked as pleased as punch that they chose such a death defying activity for the day. Which made me even more grumpy. I could not identify with anyone. I couldn't make "eyes" or share in knowing, sympathetic head nods. Or even lip crumples.
And then, after I had given up hope for ever finding the "certain spot" to turn around - the trail ended. It was over. And I renewed my secret oath of never going on a hike ever again, for real. And signed it with my own blood. And thanked Jesus that I didn't dive over the side of the mountain head first. And also thanked Jesus that neither kid bolted over the side of the mountain.
Take Aways
1) The Foxtrot belongs on her couch.
2) I do not like thinking about my scraping by. Therefore, I shall not think about it.
3) Big D thought the hike was grand. That's because he has no sense of parental protection.
4) Which makes me really excited.
5) The pickles were nice.
The end.
I probably almost die all the time, but most of those times I'm completely unaware. This time, I was very aware.
It started out with a miscommunication problem. Or, a-not-reading-correctly moment. Which ever you choose..The main point is, it was not my mistake.
Our plan was to make a trip to visit Iss and her husband. And watch the horse races. And gamble away our 3 pennies. I don't believe in gambling. But Big D does, and when he gambles, I cross all my toes and fingers and hope for luckiness.
But when we got to Iss's house, and looked up our next day's frivolities - we were crushed to find out that "somebody" had misread the calendar. *ahem ahem* And there would be no gambling. Which lead to tears.
And then there was this extra time that needed to be filled. And what better way to enjoy friends and the beautiful end of summer than to go to a state park?
Sounds lovely. The idea was pitched to me like this: "So, it looks like it will be a great day to head to the park, if that sounds nice to you guys. We could pack a picnic. They have some fun little playgrounds. Even a zip line. And then a little hike if you want to."
Oh my, so low key. And manageable.
(Silly me to think such things.. . . )
We had a beautiful lunch. Perfect sunny warm and crisp air. Perfect combination of poo poo and J with plain salty chips and dilly picks - that Ed ate most of. Which made us sad.
And then the kids and the not kids had a grand time on the zip lines. And we made theories and hypothesises of which zip line was longer and which zip line was faster. And all sorts of silly conversations that made us feel smart.
And then the world blurred, while I was kidnapped and wisked away to the hiking location. I really am not sure what happened. But then, we were "there". And there were a lot of happy people. And families. And picnickers. And backpacks. And hiking shoes. And I felt very nervous, because: a) I don't hike b) the thought of hiking makes my tummy hurt c) when my tummy hurts, I get diarrhea explosions d) there are no bathrooms on hikes and e) I wasn't wearing a backpack.
I was also led to believe that this particular hike was "short" and "easy". That we would get to a "certain spot" and then turn around and come back.
And the hike began. It began with a flight of metal stairs that went straight down. Straight down the side of a mountain. Like your old grandmother's stairs that go down into the basement. Steep and narrow, and practically on top of each other. Like, you have to walk down with your feet sideways. Because there's no room for a full foot facing forward.
Welcome to hiking. And death.
And then it went from bad to worser. At least with the stairs there was a railing to hold on to.
Not so much with the rest of the hike.
The entire hike was on the ledge of a mountain. The foot path was a whopping yard wide. To the right was mountain that went straight up. To the left was mountain that went straight down.
Did I mention we had the beautiful children with us?
Did I also mention that the place (aka footpath) was over crowded with every troll, mountaineer, billy goat gruff, and lunatic that thought it was a good idea to go hiking on the ledge of a mountain that day as well?
Now, I'm not scared of heights. However, something physically happens to me when I'm up high. (I think it's because my buns are so used to being smooshed on the couch, in a "low" position.) I get really dizzy and my legs shake in a non-queen like manner.
Being shaky and dizzy is not a good mixture for ledge walking. Or for any type of walking.
I kept looking and judging the other troll mother's faces. Trying to get a good read of enjoyment or exhaustion. Or pure horror. And every other troll looked as pleased as punch that they chose such a death defying activity for the day. Which made me even more grumpy. I could not identify with anyone. I couldn't make "eyes" or share in knowing, sympathetic head nods. Or even lip crumples.
And then, after I had given up hope for ever finding the "certain spot" to turn around - the trail ended. It was over. And I renewed my secret oath of never going on a hike ever again, for real. And signed it with my own blood. And thanked Jesus that I didn't dive over the side of the mountain head first. And also thanked Jesus that neither kid bolted over the side of the mountain.
Take Aways
1) The Foxtrot belongs on her couch.
2) I do not like thinking about my scraping by. Therefore, I shall not think about it.
3) Big D thought the hike was grand. That's because he has no sense of parental protection.
4) Which makes me really excited.
5) The pickles were nice.
The end.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
The Worst Night And Why I Hate Being A Lady
Dear Diary,
Being a woman is very difficult for me. I'm not completely upset with being a woman, I like having boobs (as stretched and pancaked as they are) But I have an extra amount of dysfunction when it comes to relating to woman.
I'll start by listing all the things I love about women.
1) I love their bodies. All shapes, all sizes. How they carry themselves. How they accentuate. How they compensate.
2) I love their comfort. Through looks. Through food. Through snuggles.
3) I love their ability to be honest, when asked.
4) I love their vulnerability.
5) I love their hope.
6) And I love that they were created, because life, the world, was incomplete without her.
"Given the way creation unfolds, how it builds to ever higher and higher works of art, can there be any doubt that Eve is the crown of creation? Not an afterthought. Not a nice addition like an ornament on a tree. She is God's final touch.....She fills a place in the world nothing and no once else can fill. . . . . . The whole vast world is incomplete without (you) . . . ."
(An excerpt from Captivating. One of my favorite books)
And now I will list why being a woman is mind numbing and awful for me.
1) I can not handle all the crying. Sobbing. Whimpering. Snuffling. That occurs. And I'm not talking about legitimate crying. Because there is such a thing.
2) I can not handle the fakeness, the putting on aires. The wanting to be liked and accepted by all. The need to lie in order to not hurt feelings, to keep up reputations, to answer a question the way you think the other person wants the question answered. Not wanting to appear less than holy.
3) I can not handle the blatant inseccurities. The nonacceptance of who women are. Not knowing what type of love they deserve. And the inability to act like a lady.
I feel I relate better with men. But as you know, married women don't like their husbands hanging out with a lady girl. Which has left me to flounder in search of lady girl friends, since that's the appropriate thing to do. The socially acceptable thing. (Blah and gag)
. . . . . . .
Which has led me to try new things.
I walked into a death trap last night.
I would have rather gone to 3 baby showers and 1 mother daughter banquet. (Which is saying a lot - if you know me.)
Now I'm not dissing lady groups. A lot of lady girls benefit from such events. But put me in one of those *ahem* situations, and I get a little desperate with A LOT of excited. Nothing makes me start searching for excuses of some sort, to disappear. Or a weapon of deadly force to end the agony of my poor, nonlady girl self.
I will say, I was lead blindly into the death trap. And as soon as I walked in - to the intimate sized room with a large conference table, round robined with ladies . . . .I gagged. And if I were smart enough, I would have just excused myself right then and there announcing my diarrhea condition.
But I had hope. And I was feeling hopeful. And I wanted to extend myself in hope. That maybe. Maybe there would be something grand. I do want more connection. More intimacy with the lady types, since this is my lot in life. Being a lady, that is.
I will not go into details. But my night consisted of hearing and watching A LOT of sobbing and wiping of tears. Doodling on paper with colored pencils. Praying which included touching. A lot of touching. And sighing. And giggles. And more giggles. And more crying. And more touching. And tissue grabbing.
I do want to say again, nothing wrong with any of that. It just happens to be the part of ladyness that I get very nervous about. (I use the word nervous, lightly.)
Take Aways
1) If you know yourself well and thoroughly, stay away from things that make you hurl dinner chunks.
2) God knows the personality you have, be free in who you are.
3) Don't fit to the form of who you're not.
4) Because that's what somebody says you're suppose to do.
5) Ed likes to spit, so it all runs down his tum tum. And then he smears it into his belly button.
Being a woman is very difficult for me. I'm not completely upset with being a woman, I like having boobs (as stretched and pancaked as they are) But I have an extra amount of dysfunction when it comes to relating to woman.
I'll start by listing all the things I love about women.
1) I love their bodies. All shapes, all sizes. How they carry themselves. How they accentuate. How they compensate.
2) I love their comfort. Through looks. Through food. Through snuggles.
3) I love their ability to be honest, when asked.
4) I love their vulnerability.
5) I love their hope.
6) And I love that they were created, because life, the world, was incomplete without her.
"Given the way creation unfolds, how it builds to ever higher and higher works of art, can there be any doubt that Eve is the crown of creation? Not an afterthought. Not a nice addition like an ornament on a tree. She is God's final touch.....She fills a place in the world nothing and no once else can fill. . . . . . The whole vast world is incomplete without (you) . . . ."
(An excerpt from Captivating. One of my favorite books)
And now I will list why being a woman is mind numbing and awful for me.
1) I can not handle all the crying. Sobbing. Whimpering. Snuffling. That occurs. And I'm not talking about legitimate crying. Because there is such a thing.
2) I can not handle the fakeness, the putting on aires. The wanting to be liked and accepted by all. The need to lie in order to not hurt feelings, to keep up reputations, to answer a question the way you think the other person wants the question answered. Not wanting to appear less than holy.
3) I can not handle the blatant inseccurities. The nonacceptance of who women are. Not knowing what type of love they deserve. And the inability to act like a lady.
I feel I relate better with men. But as you know, married women don't like their husbands hanging out with a lady girl. Which has left me to flounder in search of lady girl friends, since that's the appropriate thing to do. The socially acceptable thing. (Blah and gag)
. . . . . . .
Which has led me to try new things.
I walked into a death trap last night.
I would have rather gone to 3 baby showers and 1 mother daughter banquet. (Which is saying a lot - if you know me.)
Now I'm not dissing lady groups. A lot of lady girls benefit from such events. But put me in one of those *ahem* situations, and I get a little desperate with A LOT of excited. Nothing makes me start searching for excuses of some sort, to disappear. Or a weapon of deadly force to end the agony of my poor, nonlady girl self.
I will say, I was lead blindly into the death trap. And as soon as I walked in - to the intimate sized room with a large conference table, round robined with ladies . . . .I gagged. And if I were smart enough, I would have just excused myself right then and there announcing my diarrhea condition.
But I had hope. And I was feeling hopeful. And I wanted to extend myself in hope. That maybe. Maybe there would be something grand. I do want more connection. More intimacy with the lady types, since this is my lot in life. Being a lady, that is.
I will not go into details. But my night consisted of hearing and watching A LOT of sobbing and wiping of tears. Doodling on paper with colored pencils. Praying which included touching. A lot of touching. And sighing. And giggles. And more giggles. And more crying. And more touching. And tissue grabbing.
I do want to say again, nothing wrong with any of that. It just happens to be the part of ladyness that I get very nervous about. (I use the word nervous, lightly.)
Take Aways
1) If you know yourself well and thoroughly, stay away from things that make you hurl dinner chunks.
2) God knows the personality you have, be free in who you are.
3) Don't fit to the form of who you're not.
4) Because that's what somebody says you're suppose to do.
5) Ed likes to spit, so it all runs down his tum tum. And then he smears it into his belly button.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
List of Gratefulness/Things I Love - But Only For Today
Things that I love love love - or possibly don't love, but am grateful for.
1) A story to tell that hopefully brings something good to others. (I was lying in bed last night and realized that it's going to be a never ending story - mainly because I'm writing every blue-dog detail of 5ish years.)
2) Ed saying to Murnice, "Murny, you wanna make babies?" - Meaning, draw babies. Um, I fell in love with him 31 pounds more.
3) Sister Bear calling me at quarter of eleven last night to ask what my message was that I gave B.B. Bobby. (Seriously!) The message I gave to Bobby was, "tell S.B. 11 o'clock at the beach". And Bobby couldn't remember that? And then S.B. has to call me when I'm fast asleep? I guess at this point you're all thinking, "don't answer the phone." But I have to keep my phone 3 inches from my head at night because I've had just enough late calls that have to do with spousal fights and cockroaches and smashed Tupperware and tinker on the edge of having to call the SWAT team in to diffuse.
4) Ed has been telling Big D for a few weeks now that he loves him. It's very sweet. But Ed hasn't shared his love with anybody else, and being the person who pushed him out of my vagina - I feel I should be the first that he loves. Out of pure devotion. But yesterday, when I was scrounging in the fridge, Ed saw a whole bowl of hard boiled eggs. And he told me he loved me. a) I am thrilled he finally found it in his heart to utter those words to me. b) I am horrified that the only reason he loves me is because I boiled some eggs for him.
5) Getting a text from S.B. saying that she was going to McDicks. (for coffee). Um . . . "mcdicks" cracks me up. Or maybe I'm over tired from less than important phone calls in the middle of the night. Yes, quarter of eleven is the middle of the night.
6) Ed obsessed with his "nest" in our bedroom. Ok, so Ed has been sleeping in our bed for weeks now. And it's so sweet and not snugly with very little sleep. Big D gets very hateful over this topic. And I'm getting grumpier night by night. So I ended up making a "nest" on the floor by our bed that he is, can we say - in love with. I made it so when he woke up in the middle of the night he could come to his nest. But his nest is the only place he's sleeping. And for quite a few nights in a row, it has greatly impinged on Big D's and my very adult time that was supposed to go down.
7) Finding some "workout" clothes at TJMAXX that I can stomach wearing. AKA - Big D hates them. I say they are "workout" clothes because I found them in the workout section. I legitimately will feel like a queen wearing them. You may find me wearing workyouty clothes every once in awhile. But you will NEVER find me wearing sneaks. EVER. Or if i do, it will be a very hidden and private affair.
8) Watching B.B. Wensleydale twirly grow into man. He recently became a believer, and his maturity has just blown me to the moon. And possibly the stars. I'm so excited to see what this next year has for him.
9) I recently became privy to some very disheartening/angering/appalling/shocking/wear-my-boxing-mitts, information. And I want nothing more than to yell it from the roof tops. Shedding light where the darkness is. Bringing truth to the deceived. Letting the world know what's happening to a blind eye. So I prayed about it. Asking God what I was supposed to do with this information. And he IMMEDIATELY said, "use it for good". Not fully sure what that means, but I'll do my best. P.S. have I ever mentioned how much I love getting an answer, not to mention an immediate answer from God?
Take Aways
1) I think there are 13 more things I want to chat about - but I must get ready for the leachy beach.
2) I'm not quite sure why I'm in such a grateful mood this morning.
3) Also I said a blessing over Big D has he walked out the door to work. He got really weirded out. And left real fast.
4) Can you believe today is Thursday?!
5) Now that's good news. I love Fridays best.
1) A story to tell that hopefully brings something good to others. (I was lying in bed last night and realized that it's going to be a never ending story - mainly because I'm writing every blue-dog detail of 5ish years.)
2) Ed saying to Murnice, "Murny, you wanna make babies?" - Meaning, draw babies. Um, I fell in love with him 31 pounds more.
3) Sister Bear calling me at quarter of eleven last night to ask what my message was that I gave B.B. Bobby. (Seriously!) The message I gave to Bobby was, "tell S.B. 11 o'clock at the beach". And Bobby couldn't remember that? And then S.B. has to call me when I'm fast asleep? I guess at this point you're all thinking, "don't answer the phone." But I have to keep my phone 3 inches from my head at night because I've had just enough late calls that have to do with spousal fights and cockroaches and smashed Tupperware and tinker on the edge of having to call the SWAT team in to diffuse.
4) Ed has been telling Big D for a few weeks now that he loves him. It's very sweet. But Ed hasn't shared his love with anybody else, and being the person who pushed him out of my vagina - I feel I should be the first that he loves. Out of pure devotion. But yesterday, when I was scrounging in the fridge, Ed saw a whole bowl of hard boiled eggs. And he told me he loved me. a) I am thrilled he finally found it in his heart to utter those words to me. b) I am horrified that the only reason he loves me is because I boiled some eggs for him.
5) Getting a text from S.B. saying that she was going to McDicks. (for coffee). Um . . . "mcdicks" cracks me up. Or maybe I'm over tired from less than important phone calls in the middle of the night. Yes, quarter of eleven is the middle of the night.
6) Ed obsessed with his "nest" in our bedroom. Ok, so Ed has been sleeping in our bed for weeks now. And it's so sweet and not snugly with very little sleep. Big D gets very hateful over this topic. And I'm getting grumpier night by night. So I ended up making a "nest" on the floor by our bed that he is, can we say - in love with. I made it so when he woke up in the middle of the night he could come to his nest. But his nest is the only place he's sleeping. And for quite a few nights in a row, it has greatly impinged on Big D's and my very adult time that was supposed to go down.
7) Finding some "workout" clothes at TJMAXX that I can stomach wearing. AKA - Big D hates them. I say they are "workout" clothes because I found them in the workout section. I legitimately will feel like a queen wearing them. You may find me wearing workyouty clothes every once in awhile. But you will NEVER find me wearing sneaks. EVER. Or if i do, it will be a very hidden and private affair.
8) Watching B.B. Wensleydale twirly grow into man. He recently became a believer, and his maturity has just blown me to the moon. And possibly the stars. I'm so excited to see what this next year has for him.
9) I recently became privy to some very disheartening/angering/appalling/shocking/wear-my-boxing-mitts, information. And I want nothing more than to yell it from the roof tops. Shedding light where the darkness is. Bringing truth to the deceived. Letting the world know what's happening to a blind eye. So I prayed about it. Asking God what I was supposed to do with this information. And he IMMEDIATELY said, "use it for good". Not fully sure what that means, but I'll do my best. P.S. have I ever mentioned how much I love getting an answer, not to mention an immediate answer from God?
Take Aways
1) I think there are 13 more things I want to chat about - but I must get ready for the leachy beach.
2) I'm not quite sure why I'm in such a grateful mood this morning.
3) Also I said a blessing over Big D has he walked out the door to work. He got really weirded out. And left real fast.
4) Can you believe today is Thursday?!
5) Now that's good news. I love Fridays best.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
4 Pregnancies, 2 Births - 2
This is not my favorite thing - going back and remembering. Trying to gather all the small parts that have made up this big part of our life. Because there are so many small parts. I wished I had journaled it all then.
With the birth of Murnice, I knew that I wanted to pursue something in the more natural field of medicine. I thought a good place to start was becoming a doula. It was a simple weekend class, read a few books - and that qualified you to attend births. Which I wanted to do. I wanted to be part of the magic that happens when babies enter the world.
I liked the class. Abhorred the instructor. And never finished the course to qualify becoming a doula. Ok, the honest truth is - I didn't think I was good enough/knew what I was doing. (which goes back to my lie that I'm not good enough) And I did abhor the instructor, which didn't help with me feeling supported in pursuing.
So then I decided that I was going to go to massage therapy school. Murnice was 18 months when I started. I loved, loved, loved, massage therapy. I loved my classes. I loved my classmates. I loved the consistency and schedule. And I loved that I was at the top of my class. I met some really great people. And I became in the know of the body and how to naturally treat. I loved learning. And I started learning about how to naturally treat infertility. I felt like a queen.
A couple of things I remember about my infertility and going to massage school.
1) My closest friend at school had a miscarriage (years ago) when the baby was 3 months. She was so lovely to me during this time in my life.
2) I decided to try infertility treatment at a clinic (which I'll write about more in a bit) but for those of you who have taken Clomid - (and for those of you who have NOT taken Clomid) know that the vaginal area smells worse than 7 rotting fish carcases. And when you smell that special, and you're naked on a massage table - you feel pretty self conscious. Not to mention, hyped up on all sorts of hormonal highs and lows. . . . . I was treated so lovely and gently.
3) In the back of my head, or you could say - in my mind's eye - I felt that at graduation I would be pregnant. It was just a feeling I had.
With infertility, you must be baby free after trying to conceive for one full year before you are named "infertile". After trying for almost two years to conceive I decided I wanted to give drugs a try. Because I firmly believe that God is not always just going to hand over what's wanted. Sometimes you have to work hard. Sometimes you have to open yourself up to new ideas. God has given us a brain. And God has guided the brain to create medicine. I remember not wanting to do the meds, but that want of a baby was bigger.
The clinic was awful. But that was my own perception. I walked in with an almost 3 year old. And there was a lot of hate and anger and judgment given to me through eyes. I felt awful parading my 3 year old around and wanting another baby.
I remember having to go to the clinic it seemed like every other day. Getting blood drawn, checking levels, checking viable eggs. I remember freaking out about taking Clomid - the possibility of having multiples. And not wanting that. To the point where if the choice was multiples or none, I was choosing none. The medical team decided that I should take only half of the recommended dose. I remember wigging out with having so much blood drawn. And crying a lot. I remember the nurse who was a Christmas Angel who was so sweet to me, and used the baby needle. And I literally didn't feel a thing. And I thought she was magic. I remember when it was time to have my eggs checked, there was only a male doctor to do it. And he was so rough and insensitive, physically and emotionally. I am angry that I allowed somebody to treat me the way he did without standing up for myself - physically and emotionally. I am angry that Big D just stood there watching what was happening. But I think he was in as much shock as I was. I never went back. And I didn't get pregnant.
That's all I'm writing today.
With the birth of Murnice, I knew that I wanted to pursue something in the more natural field of medicine. I thought a good place to start was becoming a doula. It was a simple weekend class, read a few books - and that qualified you to attend births. Which I wanted to do. I wanted to be part of the magic that happens when babies enter the world.
I liked the class. Abhorred the instructor. And never finished the course to qualify becoming a doula. Ok, the honest truth is - I didn't think I was good enough/knew what I was doing. (which goes back to my lie that I'm not good enough) And I did abhor the instructor, which didn't help with me feeling supported in pursuing.
So then I decided that I was going to go to massage therapy school. Murnice was 18 months when I started. I loved, loved, loved, massage therapy. I loved my classes. I loved my classmates. I loved the consistency and schedule. And I loved that I was at the top of my class. I met some really great people. And I became in the know of the body and how to naturally treat. I loved learning. And I started learning about how to naturally treat infertility. I felt like a queen.
A couple of things I remember about my infertility and going to massage school.
1) My closest friend at school had a miscarriage (years ago) when the baby was 3 months. She was so lovely to me during this time in my life.
2) I decided to try infertility treatment at a clinic (which I'll write about more in a bit) but for those of you who have taken Clomid - (and for those of you who have NOT taken Clomid) know that the vaginal area smells worse than 7 rotting fish carcases. And when you smell that special, and you're naked on a massage table - you feel pretty self conscious. Not to mention, hyped up on all sorts of hormonal highs and lows. . . . . I was treated so lovely and gently.
3) In the back of my head, or you could say - in my mind's eye - I felt that at graduation I would be pregnant. It was just a feeling I had.
With infertility, you must be baby free after trying to conceive for one full year before you are named "infertile". After trying for almost two years to conceive I decided I wanted to give drugs a try. Because I firmly believe that God is not always just going to hand over what's wanted. Sometimes you have to work hard. Sometimes you have to open yourself up to new ideas. God has given us a brain. And God has guided the brain to create medicine. I remember not wanting to do the meds, but that want of a baby was bigger.
The clinic was awful. But that was my own perception. I walked in with an almost 3 year old. And there was a lot of hate and anger and judgment given to me through eyes. I felt awful parading my 3 year old around and wanting another baby.
I remember having to go to the clinic it seemed like every other day. Getting blood drawn, checking levels, checking viable eggs. I remember freaking out about taking Clomid - the possibility of having multiples. And not wanting that. To the point where if the choice was multiples or none, I was choosing none. The medical team decided that I should take only half of the recommended dose. I remember wigging out with having so much blood drawn. And crying a lot. I remember the nurse who was a Christmas Angel who was so sweet to me, and used the baby needle. And I literally didn't feel a thing. And I thought she was magic. I remember when it was time to have my eggs checked, there was only a male doctor to do it. And he was so rough and insensitive, physically and emotionally. I am angry that I allowed somebody to treat me the way he did without standing up for myself - physically and emotionally. I am angry that Big D just stood there watching what was happening. But I think he was in as much shock as I was. I never went back. And I didn't get pregnant.
That's all I'm writing today.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
4 Pregnancies, 2 Births - 1
I'm going to do this. I'm going to write about my journey of infertility and miscarriage. I've never written down the whole story. And I need too. Time has healed some and I feel brave enough to share about Big D's and my very personal story.
I also hope that you will share your story. When you feel brave enough. Because what I've found, is that so many women have and are bathed in infertility and miscarriage. This is a part of who we are. But we women hold it too close. And the new mama's don't know that we have a history. And the cycle continues. Are we ashamed? Or in grief? Whatever the case, we have turned it into this taboo topic.
I hate that nobody talks about the very realness of infertility and miscarriage. I hate that we get asked, "how many kids do you want?" And we except to have what we want. I hate that people are rude enough and ask very personal questions that revolve around you and your partner's sex life.
Anyway, here's our story:
When I got pregnant with Murnice, it was a "whwhwhoooooaaaaa" thing. I don't like to say a "whoops". Anyway, the point of that whole statement is that I got pregnant very easily. On the first explosion inside my lady bits.
I promptly got an IUD after giving birth. And I don't regret that decision. After exactly a year, I had it removed because I felt emotionally stable enough to have another baby. I assumed I would be pregnant within a month.
Within "that" month - (I'm not sure if it was the following Sunday, or 3 Sundays later) I was up front shaking my money maker (kidding, just dancing) and God said to me, "I'll give you a baby at the right time". And I said, "yeah that's neat God, but now is the right time." And he chuckled and snortled. And I went on dancing.
That was my first promise. It was August 2006.
From that first promise to Ed, time has become very jumbled in my head. I don't have a timeline, just a general idea.
The next two years were filled with a lot of frustrations and anger. It was really easy to question the IUD, wondering if that was the culprit. I just needed something to blame at that time. It was awful whenever friends or family announced that they were having ANOTHER baby. I felt I needed this personal warning that Billy and Susie were going to start trying to have a baby. I needed to emotionally prepare myself that there was going to be a baby announcement sometime in the future. It was the absolute WORST being taken off guard with a baby announcement. And I would have to force a smile out and say something nice. When in reality I hated their very being, and would cry for a million hours after I was alone.
I remember Big D and I didn't make too much of a fuss over actual intercourse. I never got crazy about temperature or secretions, or feelings of love, or any of that stuff that can make infertile couples hate sex. We bunnified when we wanted and how we wanted. Although we did start using a pH friendly lube that wouldn't kill Big D's baby makers.
And that's all I'm going to write today.
I also hope that you will share your story. When you feel brave enough. Because what I've found, is that so many women have and are bathed in infertility and miscarriage. This is a part of who we are. But we women hold it too close. And the new mama's don't know that we have a history. And the cycle continues. Are we ashamed? Or in grief? Whatever the case, we have turned it into this taboo topic.
I hate that nobody talks about the very realness of infertility and miscarriage. I hate that we get asked, "how many kids do you want?" And we except to have what we want. I hate that people are rude enough and ask very personal questions that revolve around you and your partner's sex life.
Anyway, here's our story:
When I got pregnant with Murnice, it was a "whwhwhoooooaaaaa" thing. I don't like to say a "whoops". Anyway, the point of that whole statement is that I got pregnant very easily. On the first explosion inside my lady bits.
I promptly got an IUD after giving birth. And I don't regret that decision. After exactly a year, I had it removed because I felt emotionally stable enough to have another baby. I assumed I would be pregnant within a month.
Within "that" month - (I'm not sure if it was the following Sunday, or 3 Sundays later) I was up front shaking my money maker (kidding, just dancing) and God said to me, "I'll give you a baby at the right time". And I said, "yeah that's neat God, but now is the right time." And he chuckled and snortled. And I went on dancing.
That was my first promise. It was August 2006.
From that first promise to Ed, time has become very jumbled in my head. I don't have a timeline, just a general idea.
The next two years were filled with a lot of frustrations and anger. It was really easy to question the IUD, wondering if that was the culprit. I just needed something to blame at that time. It was awful whenever friends or family announced that they were having ANOTHER baby. I felt I needed this personal warning that Billy and Susie were going to start trying to have a baby. I needed to emotionally prepare myself that there was going to be a baby announcement sometime in the future. It was the absolute WORST being taken off guard with a baby announcement. And I would have to force a smile out and say something nice. When in reality I hated their very being, and would cry for a million hours after I was alone.
I remember Big D and I didn't make too much of a fuss over actual intercourse. I never got crazy about temperature or secretions, or feelings of love, or any of that stuff that can make infertile couples hate sex. We bunnified when we wanted and how we wanted. Although we did start using a pH friendly lube that wouldn't kill Big D's baby makers.
And that's all I'm going to write today.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Just Call Me the Poop Cleaner
I started writing this post a few weeks ago when I was at Mothers - and am just now finishing it up. What I'm trying to say, this is old news.
****************************************************************************
I finally made it to the local creamery this week. It was much anticipated - and when things are much anticipated, they taste 31 times better.
A friend and I sat on a table and watched Ed play with the trucks. And then we watched him poop. (he was wearing a pull-up) And we cheered him on, it being the 4th day of no poo. And we were so thankful that he wasn't wearing his man-unders. Win win for everyone.
We were finally done licking and chatting, and I decided it was time to go - put Ed to bed since it was dusk.
Now, my friend and I drove separately, and she scurried off - not having a child to drag behind her and such. But I had a child to drag behind me. And so began the process.
In my prideful heart, I decided that I was going to have much more success with having Ed obey and come to me when I called to him that it was time to go. (When we went to get ice cream a few days prior, Big D did not have much success with looking like he was in charge)
So, I authoritatively called Ed to me - and we all know that pride goeth before a fall . . . . which ended up with me chasing him around like a typical woodchuck brat. Eventually I grabbed his hand and began the long march to the car which also entailed a tongue lashing.
But my tongue lashing was interrupted when I happened to glance down.
Just to help with the visual - Ed was wearing these shoes and pants.
****************************************************************************
I finally made it to the local creamery this week. It was much anticipated - and when things are much anticipated, they taste 31 times better.
A friend and I sat on a table and watched Ed play with the trucks. And then we watched him poop. (he was wearing a pull-up) And we cheered him on, it being the 4th day of no poo. And we were so thankful that he wasn't wearing his man-unders. Win win for everyone.
We were finally done licking and chatting, and I decided it was time to go - put Ed to bed since it was dusk.
Now, my friend and I drove separately, and she scurried off - not having a child to drag behind her and such. But I had a child to drag behind me. And so began the process.
In my prideful heart, I decided that I was going to have much more success with having Ed obey and come to me when I called to him that it was time to go. (When we went to get ice cream a few days prior, Big D did not have much success with looking like he was in charge)
So, I authoritatively called Ed to me - and we all know that pride goeth before a fall . . . . which ended up with me chasing him around like a typical woodchuck brat. Eventually I grabbed his hand and began the long march to the car which also entailed a tongue lashing.
But my tongue lashing was interrupted when I happened to glance down.
Just to help with the visual - Ed was wearing these shoes and pants.
And when I glanced down, I was startled to see a brown glob, the size of a doughnut hole just sitting nicely on top of his shoe. Upon further investigation and smell, I discovered that it was a shit bomb.
All in about 3.0487 seconds I went through an array of emotions. Horror, helplessness, hysteria, disgust, and gumption. I looked up in just enough time to see my friend's tail lights turn on as she sped away. And realized that I had to go into no-man's-land by myself, with whatever tools I had in my car.
I'm outside, which is a good thing. But there is no bathroom to hide the unpleasantries of what's going to happen next, which is a bad thing. This ice cream shop is a business after all. And the only thing I can do to help save all the other guests stomachs, is to open a car door and try to hide behind it.
The problem being:
1) Ed thought it was now a game of peek-a-boo.
2) I was not hidden from all the new guests driving in, since we were in the fielded parking lot.
I ended up finding a few half-dried wipe-ups, a bag, and diaper in the car. For you parents out there, you know how pleasant and lovely it is to take a pair of pants off that is filled with poop. The sort-of gross mess turns into a full-fledged mud slide. It's one of those things where it gets worse before it gets better. And by worse, I mean stooping to the lowest level of humility and humanity.
As I peeled his pants down, it was as if I was in the middle of a boulder avalanche. Except they were poop boulders. Flying and splattering. And then I had to make the awful moral decision of using my few dried out wipe-ups to clean up the poop pies in the grass where lots of customers park and walk, or use them on Ed who needed to get into my car to get home.
I hate making grown-up decisions. Especially poopy decisions.
I poopied-scooped the parking lot and then smeared and smeared Ed's butt with my 2 remaining dried wipe-ups. Not a corner remained white. I reduced, reused, and recycled those wipes. Al Gore would have been proud.
It was awful. Poop was everywhere. Including up to my elbows and under my fingernails. And Ed was laughing and still playing peek-a-boo. And I then had to pack up all that poop and put it into my car. And pray that the cops weren't called on me. And cross my fingers that I found all the BM boulders. And keep my eyes down to not make eye contact.
And I slithered into my car where I grumbled and roared all the way home. Because this WAS going to be a night where I didn't have to give Ed a bath. . . . . And all because he bomb shot himself . . . .
I think I was grumpier about the bath giving then the poop cleaning.
Take Aways
1) Always make sure that you have diapers, wet wipes, and bags if you go ANYWHERE with children.
2) Never expect to not have to do something. Because it is inevitable that you'll have to do it anyway.
3) Also, carry elbow-high rubber gloves with your diaper supplies.
4) And maybe a privacy curtain.
5) A power washer?
6) Or, just leave the babies at home.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Queen Day
Reasons I feel like a queen today.
1) I'm washing my laundry with this. And I couldn't feel a smidge fancier.
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Read all about my soap nuts here. But only if you're super interested in feeling like a queen. Oh, may I add - 1 lb equates to 300-400 washes. Who's the money saver now???!!!!! (sorry, I said that with a really snarky attitude and wild hands) (I think that was aimed towards Big D)
2) I just placed an order for a million different fragrances. Because I make my own candles. And if I were annoyingly fancy, I would have ordered essential oil (like I did in the past) - but that jizznizzle is too expensive for my taste. I'll just stick with my soy wax and feel fancy as I burn my brain cells with the highly toxic man-made chemicals known as fragrance oil. PS. If you think you might need a candle, you should let me know. Also, if you have extra salsa jars or tea tins - you should give them to me.
3) I made a zucchini boat for dinner last night. The reason I feel fancy and queenish? Um, because it was called a "boat". Here's the recipe. And, my my my my my goodliness. Just picture a drooly chin. Because that's probably what will happen to you. *A few side notes 1) I hate that there is no picture for the boat. 2) I was the one that gave the recipe the 5 stars. 3) If you like savory comfort food slash somewhat healthy - then grab a bib.
4) I went on a very fancy date with Queen Bee. It was a quick after-dinner for me, before-dinner for her drinky. And we chatted heart to hearts. And maybe squealed one-too-many times. Have I mentioned how good Queen is for my moral? Have I mentioned that everyone should have a friend like Queeny? She scoots around in her fancy car. Squealing into small parking spaces. And I feel like I'm in a different world.
Reasons that I don't feel like a queen today.
1) Finding a leg hair growing on my back. Blunt and sharp and thick. It was awful.
Take Aways
1) Make queen days a priority.
2) Always and continuously check your back for things that don't belong.
1) I'm washing my laundry with this. And I couldn't feel a smidge fancier.
2) I just placed an order for a million different fragrances. Because I make my own candles. And if I were annoyingly fancy, I would have ordered essential oil (like I did in the past) - but that jizznizzle is too expensive for my taste. I'll just stick with my soy wax and feel fancy as I burn my brain cells with the highly toxic man-made chemicals known as fragrance oil. PS. If you think you might need a candle, you should let me know. Also, if you have extra salsa jars or tea tins - you should give them to me.
3) I made a zucchini boat for dinner last night. The reason I feel fancy and queenish? Um, because it was called a "boat". Here's the recipe. And, my my my my my goodliness. Just picture a drooly chin. Because that's probably what will happen to you. *A few side notes 1) I hate that there is no picture for the boat. 2) I was the one that gave the recipe the 5 stars. 3) If you like savory comfort food slash somewhat healthy - then grab a bib.
4) I went on a very fancy date with Queen Bee. It was a quick after-dinner for me, before-dinner for her drinky. And we chatted heart to hearts. And maybe squealed one-too-many times. Have I mentioned how good Queen is for my moral? Have I mentioned that everyone should have a friend like Queeny? She scoots around in her fancy car. Squealing into small parking spaces. And I feel like I'm in a different world.
Reasons that I don't feel like a queen today.
1) Finding a leg hair growing on my back. Blunt and sharp and thick. It was awful.
Take Aways
1) Make queen days a priority.
2) Always and continuously check your back for things that don't belong.
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