False Advertising Deserves a Nose Tweak

So I got this email about a local production of the Nutcracker ballet.

Key juicy points:
1)  It was rated on a professional level as:  just below the city's Nutcracker ballet.
2)  Tickets were only $5 a person.
3)  The show was run by a Russian.  And Russians know how to dance.

Things I planned:
1)  Fun, family, Sunday-afternoon, culturalization time - for cheap.  So if anybody pooped their pants in the middle of the performance, I wouldn't feel crazy about leaving.
2)  It was a surprise for Murnice.  Beautiful costumes and fancy ladies twirling.  What 8 year old wouldn't feel like a queen?
3)  I invited Friday Friends.  That was a surprise too.
4)  Dinner all together after the ballet.
5)  Big family smiles, as we shared the day together with good entertainment, good fellowship (I hate that word - so I used it just to annoy other people who hate that word), and good food.

The way it really went down:
1)  It really cost $8 per person.
2)  There were about 37 people there.  All parents and grandparents.
3)  I don't have words to describe the horrific-ness of the actual ballet.  But I'll try.
a.  the music was crammed through ginormous loud speakers.  I use the word "cram" because there are no other words for:  way-too-loud-with-the-tone-set-to-make-your-eardrums-bleed.
b.  we were only given two clues that we were actually watching the Nutcracker.  Clue #1 they played Nutcracker music  Clue #2  the first scene was Clara waltzing around with her nutcracker, in her see-through nighty
c.  there is nothing more possibly maddening, then to be watching a performance - of any sort - only to have to watch a bunch of snotty-nosed little kids run around in circles with no rhyme or reason.  What makes it ever worse, is when the mothers scream a little louder, clap a little harder, and bounce up and down in their seats.  (Yes, that all happened)
d.  the worst part for me, was when the Arabian dancers came out.  Grown-ups.  And they couldn't dance at all.  Not in sync for a second.  They did the same 4 moves the entire dance.  One Arabian dancer put her pants on backwards.  They tried being sexy - which only made it so much more uncomfortable.
4)  Murnice cried.  She hated every part of it.
5)  Friday Friends never showed up.  Nor have they told us why they didn't show up.  It's all very fishy.
6)  The show lasted 40 minutes.  Worst $8 ever spent in the history of spending money.
7)  The place we ended up eating at smelled of moth balls and musty car oil.  And I'm pretty sure my burger was a rotting tortoise carcass.
8)  Big D and I fought the whole time.

Do I sound like an ungrateful fleabag?

Once again I'm spit-fired, flustered at the way a simple afternoon was supposed to go.  At least I didn't almost die again.

I guess it's just more confirmation that the couch is where I belong.

On a side note, I actually got dressed to leave the house.  Big D said that I looked so lovely.  And that my breasts looked lushishly large.  (That's what happens when you put a bra on for the first time in forever)

P.S.  Does anybody else love to sniff down their own shirt to smell their musty armpits?  I am not ashamed.

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?

The Day I Almost Died - Again

I didn't write about this earlier because I'm a lazy pig.  And do nothing but sleep on the couch and ignore laundry and dishes.  And bathing myself.  (Which is actually perfect.  Because that new hair color I just got - semi permy dye - will last about 7 times as long as it would on a normal person who cares about their hygiene.)(I never said I wasn't good at getting the most bang for my buck.)

A few weeks ago the circus came to town.  In a way, it's a tad old fashion sounding, and that feels nice.  Until I think about the poor animals. And then I get mad and wish I was protesting with the other protesters.  Instead, I just sulk my way past sign holders and pretend I don't care about the poor elephants.

So Big D works down town - and knows about back alleys and secret parking spots, and all sorts of other non-family places and areas.  But he still likes to take his family there.

I'm not sure if it's because his brain doesn't work properly, or if it's because his brain doesn't work properly.  Still trying to figure it out over here - 9 years later.

The setting:
Pitch black.  Middle of the city.  Both kids with us.  Semi-full bellies.  Lots of farts.  Hidden stash of water in bottom of "diaper-bag".  Freezing.

Big D parked us in our semi-sketchy spot.  And we booked our bottoms to a more appropriate family location - the sidewalk.

And in true Big D fashion, he took us on a special off-the-grid hike.  The least beaten path, you could say.  The path where nobody else was in sight.  Because it was dark.  With no lights.

Honestly, it wasn't too bad.  We got to see all the trailers and trailers of the circus.  But then, ahead of us, a dark ominous figure appeared, and started waddling toward us.  Just one.  In the dark.

But it ended up just being a nice, fat circus helper telling us we couldn't continue our walk in the current direction.  Something about the horses being crazy.  And there in the distance I could see horses whizzing in circles.  I think they were fed crack.  I guess crack horses would be more exciting to watch.

So instead of Big D taking us on a more family-friendly trip around the VERY large building, he some how scrounged up an even more highly alarming, secret passage, short cut.

A secret passage that took us right by the opening of the old aqueduct, that now houses the homeless and addicts.  And in true Big D fashion, he thought it to be the most opportune time to have a family field trip.

Dear Jesus.

Big D was holding Ed.  And Murr was in his hand.  I stood back on the platform, in case something happened "I would be able to run and get help".  Yes, I really thought this.  And then I thought, "my goodness, you're being such a cantankerous panty wad.  Go have a field trip."

Yup, so I had a field trip.  I walked to the ledge of the old aqueduct.  And it was beautiful.  Well, I could imagine it was beautiful.  It was pitch black.  You could see through the windows on the other side.  But inside the actual aqueduct, it was the black that made your eyes ache.

I listened to Big D give his presentation.  I think it lasted about 20 seconds.

And then the voice of Satan appeared.  It was incomprehensible.  And loud. And so gravely, my ears got road rash.  It was oh, so close to my face, but invisible.

I was so startled.  And so angry.  I grabbed Murr's coat, picked her off her feet.  And threw her out onto the platform, grabbed her hand.  And when I say "high-tailed it".  Just imagine that to be an understatement.

Once I got to safety, I turned around to see where Big D was.  . . . . .  Big D, still holding my son - was still standing on the ledge - and I quote - "to try to see who was talking".

The rage.  Oh the rage.
1)  I knew this was going to happen.
2)  Why would you take your family to a very well-known sketchy area?
3)  Why would you just stand there asking to be dismembered, WHILE holding your son?
4)  Was Big D dropped on his head as a baby?

 And I have nothing else to say.  Except I survived my 2nd close brush with death.  

Maybe secretly I'm a cat.  I guess technically a Fox is close enough.

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.

Bigger is Better, But Wisdom is Best

I knew it was going to happen.  Or at least I was prepared for when it did happen.

You see, one of my spiritual gifts happens to be intuition and discernment.  It's a blessing and a curse.  And maybe I'll talk more about that another time.

I became "aware" about two weeks ago.  It was a Friday night.  Friday Friend party night!!! . . . . . except I had a nervy feeling in my stomach about work the next morning.  (I run a swim lesson program)  I wasn't sure if I was just being a wench or my "feelings" were legit.

So I went exploring.  And my mind's eye came up with a picture.

In my home town there's this really neat family.  It's a pastor and his family.  And a couple of years ago they adopted 3 teenagers from the Ukraine.  Two of the kids come to swim lessons on Saturday, and one of those kids is a daredevil on the diving board.  He's good.  And fearless.  All the makings you need to be a diver.

My mind picture was of this daredevil hitting the diving board with his head.  He would need to be backboarded. And it was going to happen right at the end of swim lessons, when the whistle was blown.

I hated it.  But I prayed over it.  Asking God to please let that not happen.  But if he did, to please cover me in wisdom, as I would be the one to be making the calls.

I prayed real hard.  And I went over and over, in my head, the drill for backboarding a victim.  And nothing happened that Saturday.  And I breathed.

Fast forward to last night.  Having moved on from my nervy feelings . . . . I wasn't thinking about diving board accidents anymore.

Tuesday night is homeschool swim.  I bring Murnice and Ed for a lesson. Mother runs the program.  Sometimes I lifeguard.  Sometimes I teach a lesson.  Last night I lifeguarded.  Mother was playing with Ed in the shallow end while she chatted with me.  The whistle blew to signal the end of class.  And the divingboard made a horrific sound.

I looked up to see 3 adults rush to the divingboard.  I knew somebody had hit it.  And then saw that it had been B.B. Bobby.  He was at the edge of the pool.  Which was a good sign that he could move.  I started yelling "DID HE HIT THE BOARD" as I ran down to the deep end.

After about the fifth time of asking the question, somebody finally said "yes, he split his head".

B.B.Bobby is out of the pool at this point, bent over, blooding running down his face.  I take this all in as I grabbed the backboard and start ripping the velcro to shreds.

I'm yelling out commands, "CALL 911" and "HELP ME GET HIM ON THE BACKBOARD".

Immediately about 5 adults surrounded me and start yelling at me, "HOW DO WE HELP?"

This is funny to me.  You know how in fast moving events, its blurred?  So I wonder if what I was saying was actually making sense to bystanders?  And then I wonder if I even answered their questions?  Or if I just did it myself?

I remember throwing my hands up in the air at one point because I couldn't even get to all the straps because there were so many people surrounded him - supporting and gauzing and evaluating.

And then he was finally on the board, properly.  Strapped.  Immobilized.  He was nauseous and dizzy.  And then there's ice.

B.B.Bob was breathing and conscious.  The ambulance was on their way.  And then I realized, Ed was missing.  I didn't see him anywhere in the mass of people.  I yelled real loud.  Three times.  "WHERE'S MY SON".

And there he was.  Wrapped in a towel, sitting.  By Murnice.  Guarded by the lovliest mom.  She shared herself.  Her time.  While others took care of her children.

And then we waited.

I kept going over check lists in my head of what needed to be done.  I not only needed to observe the happenings with B.B.Bobby, but there was paper work, and disinfecting, and kids that needed to be taken care of, and dazed parents that needed to be walked step by step through simple directions - such as how to get dressed, a pool to generally organize and lock up, cars and belongings to collect and be driven back to Mothers - since she was going on the ambulance ride, and organizing helpers to stand in the parking lot to direct the ambulance to the correct door.  Since Father wasn't answering the phone he needed to be personally got, along with warm clothes and cell phones. And phone calls to later evening funs had to be cancelled. 

I am amazed.  I am grateful to the helpfulness of all.  From sitting with smaller children to lending underwear.  Standing in the cold outdoors with just a bathing suit to guide the EMS to cleaning up the blood bath.  To covering in prayers and not leaving his side with jokes.

I was covered.  I had already prayed 2 weeks before.  Wisdom.  It was the most perfect, worst accident the pool of 30+ years has seen.

8 staples.  No headache.  Nothing broken/fractured/sprained.  Bloody and bruised, yes.  His hands are very tender and swollen.  And they are the worst of it, pain wise.

I believe with all my heart that that accident was meant for the daredevil diver.  I believe with all my heart that my prayer changed what was meant to be.  And God was gracious and so perfect.

My heart is full of Thanksgiving.

I Will Not Swallow

I named her Mother Green Toes, because that's what she is.  She's a mother to a large car load of kids.  And she does things that would put a green-thumber to shame.

I got real lucky when B.B. Chuck married her.

These are some of the things that M.G.Ts does:
1)  Cloth diapers and cloth wipes
2)  Doesn't own a chemical
3)  Researches every bloody thing there is too research, and finds the  best there is
4)  Homebirths
5)  Grinds her own flour
6)  Eats Great-Grandmother's Soggy Old Feet on a regular basis (oatmeal)
7)  Her make-up is from the holy earth
8)  Garden and cans like she's on a witch hunt for peace and love
9)  For snacks and lunch, her car load of kids eat out of the garden and bushes and trees
10) She doesn't drink soda, or eat any processed food
11) She gets all of her teeth proceedures (fillings, root canals, etc.) done without any pain killers
12) Kidding with #11
13) She only wears Birkenstocks, Dansko, and Toms
14) She never growls
15) She cooks from scratch for all of her meals
16) She has an egg lady
17) And she makes her own yogurt, that she dumps too much evaporated milk into

But she does like her fancy cheese.  And her even more fancy coffee that's naturally decaffeinated using the Swiss Water method.  (Who has ever heard of this?)(I told you M.G.T. researches everything.)

The only only thing I have ever caught M.G.T. doing/using mainstream chemical U.S.A. - would be her shampoo and conditioner.  And it's good stuff.  But that's because she researched it and found good stuff.

Anyway, so M.G.T. was a real swell hostess when I stayed with her for that extra long amount of time.  And she offered to make me breakfast on occasion.  Eggs and muffins.  Naturally I agreed.

Steamy hot pumpkin muffins and jiggly-jelloey eggs.  So perfect.

But the next thing that happened was not perfect.  It was quite confusing. 

I took an extra large bite of egg runnies and muffin crumbs, and was immediately punched in the gag reflex.  I tipped my head back, as to not spew my load across the table and into M.G.T's face.

And then I didn't know what to do.  I was a guest.  And I had a hostess.  And it is not normally appropriate to lunge from the table while making guttural heaving grunts, and race to the sink - spitting and spitting and sighing and heaving some more.  And saying things like, "ew" and "gross" and "wow".

No, that's not appropriate at all.

But that's exactly what I did.  I don't know about you, but if you ever had a rotten egg crammed in your mouth, you would do the same thing too.  There's just something about that experience that turns you all ape-like and rabid.  And you can't think. And you don't care.  But you do know that that egg needs to come out, at all reputational-ruining, feeling-hurting, never-invited-back cost.

Can you believe that M.G.T. blamed her feeding me a rotten egg, on account of her egg lady?

Did I mention what a lucky lady I am to have M.G.T. as a sister?

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

1. Hug and kiss her every morning before leaving the house.
2. Go to bed at the same time she does.
3. Brush her hair while complimenting her eyes and appearance.
4. When she's studying herself in the mirror, tell her, "You are so beautiful."
5. Evict late-night television from your bedroom.
6. During mid-afternoon, call or send her an email to ask how her day's going.
7. Try your hand at making breakfast on Saturday morning.
8. Put gas in her car, vacuum the floor mats, and clean the windows.
9. Write her a short love letter. List several ways she has blessed you this year.
10. Resurrect common courtesies: Hold the car door open. Offer her your arm.
11. Put the toilet seat down.
12. If you hear her engaged in a tough situation, compliment the way she handled it.
13. When you're together in a crowd, find a way to brag on her.
14. Help her put the kids to bed.
15. Pray with her every day. Every day!

And since I can't keep my mouth shut.  And because I'm feeling extra saucy this afternoon, here's my list to Big D.

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.

Fifteen Ways?

I got an email from Big D this morning.  It said this:

                              "Not sure who came up with these, but not even close."

And this is what followed:

Fifteen Ways to Please Your Husband

1. Write him a letter and send it to his office, or put a love note in his lunch box or his briefcase.
2. Prepare his favorite meal.
3. Arrange an evening out for just the two of you.
4. Wear his favorite dress with your hair done the way he likes it.
5. Purchase something small and frivolous for him that he won't buy himself.
6. Give him a nicely framed picture of yourself, or of you and the children, for his office.
7. Surprise him with a trip to do something he likes.
8. Put the children to bed early and prepare a candlelight dinner.
9. Do something that especially pleased him back when you were dating.
10. Pray and read the Scriptures with him daily.
11. Take walks together.
12. Keep your junk out of the garage.
13. Greet your husband warmly after work.
14. Wear his favorite negligee, or buy a new nightgown to add sizzle to your evening attire.
15. Clean out the car for him.

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.

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.

Sister Bear Finally Pops

I've been face-timing Sister Bear everyday.  Normally, I'll call her everyday - but she's a mumbler.  And she's pregnant.  So, when I face-time her, not only can I lip read her and catch every word she mutters.  But I can also look at her face and get an idea of what her day looks like.  Have I mentioned that I LOVE face-time?  It really sums up the "a picture is worth a thousand words" saying.

So last year, I made my annual trip, half way to snow bird land, in the middle of August.  But Sister Bear was a wheeny whiner and asked if I could come at the end of September this year, so I could be there for the birth of her 2nd baby.  Or at least see her new baby.

Well, said baby was stuck as an old tortoise in a balloon.  And everyday that I would face-time Sister Bear, she would look a tad more not happy.  . . . Let me back up a little more.

Sister Bear was supposed to have a homebirth with her first baby - Gills.  But things went a little differently and she ended up in the hospital.  With a full fledge hospital birth.  Induction, epidural, oxygen, and all the other things hospitals like to use on their poor unsuspecting victims.

So with THIS baby, Sister Bear was feeling the pressure of every day passing.  Every day that the baby didn't come.  Because our society is stuck in their silly made up game of "due dates".  Every day closer to another hospital birth.

And so Sister Bear's growls would accumulate.  And her temperament went quite south by the 6th day of being over her prescribed day of baby puttage out.

But I was still planning on visiting for the birth.  That was the plan.  And I was bringing Murnice and Ed.  You know, homeschool science/health lesson.

On the 8th day over due, I packed my car.  Stuck the kids in bed.  Reminded them that  I was going to wake them up offensively early - and to just keep their grumbles to themselves.

And 3 seconds before heading to bed myself, I received a phone ringle from Mother.  And she said things like:  Sister Bear is a puddle.  Sister Bear is nervous about you bringing the kids.  Sister Bear doesn't have any food in the house.  Sister Bear has been crying all day.

WHAT THE BLOODY DAD GUM???!!!  

(Remember I face-time Sister Bear every day? And not once did she let on to any of this)

So I squeezed my buns together real hard, and called Sister Bear.  And she said things like:  Are you mad at me?  My house is too little.  I don't have any food.  I don't want the kids in the house when I'm pushing a baby out.  Can you just drive the kids around the city while I'm having the baby?

That last one did it for me.  I put a kibosh to the whole trip.  I did not think it would be beneficial to anyone's smiles, to drive most of the day - to only be stuffed back in the car to drive around "the city" for an undefined time limit.  Without being fed.

So I said, "That's it.  I'm not coming. Good riddance."

And on the 10th overly miserable day - Sister Bear had her baby.  Like she wanted.  At home.  And everything went perfect and grand.  And fast.  And a transition phase that lasted only 1 contraction.

And I still refused to go see her and wish her well.  But I do keep face-timing her.

Take Aways
1)  Never believe a word your sister says.
2)  Always overstay your visit with your brother and his family.
3)  And tell him that he doesn't have a choice.  You're staying regardless of how he feels.
4)  And then smile as large as your bottom lip will allow.
5)  And then really act like you own the place.  And forever get your large bottom in the way.

Half-Way to Snow Bird Land

I left Big D again.

That's why I haven't been writing.  I've been sitting on a different couch.  With no gumption to say anything.  Even though there are things to be said.

But this morning I've gathered my gumption.

I'm on my annual trip down south.  (Ok, it's only the second time that I've done it.  But I think two times in a row makes it annual.)

Big D gets really nervous with my driving.  He'd like to preserve the family for a bit longer, so he drove us down.  Actually, I kind of manipulated him into driving us.  I say things like:  "I'm really fine.  There is no need to drive us down.  But you can make the call, being the family protector and all".  And then he feels  guilty without me being needy and whiny.  And he takes care of his manly business and I get to be chauffeured.  And I let him chauffeur me in style.  I always wear my biggest granny panties. (There is nothing worse than having a wad of underwear stuck where you can't reach it for hours and hours)  And without fail, I choose the sweat pants that Big D has vowed to never have intercourse with me again - if I wear them.  (They're just so cozy and perfect)  And I smile gleefully.  And my butt is happy.

My favorite is when I take the kids into the restroom stops.  Big D never shows his face with us.  He pumps gas.  But I can see right through his antics.  He's horrified to be associated with us.  So he pumps and we pee.  And then when we're half way into the parking lot, he bolts from our car, straight into the rest stop - without a glance our way.  And nobody would guess for a second that he is our hired chauffeur/father of the sewer rat children/husband of this hot piece of eye candy.

For this trip, I was a real mom.  I made food for the car.  And it was 100 times better than "packing food" sounds.  Like - I imagine, smooshed, car-warm pb and jelly.  But I was way fancier than that.

I made poo-tang sandwiches in mini pita pockets.  And they rocked our world.  So so tasty.  And made our trip 3 times happier and 2 hours shorter.  The chauffeur was happy.  I packed other things too - but nothing was quite so trip-changing as those samiches. (That's how Big D says it.)

And we listened to books on tape.  And stopped in the middle of a busy busy highway in the dark, to rush Ed to the edge of death - so he could pee.

Before we knew it - (only because I packed sandwiches) we made it to B.B. Chuck's house.  And the kids ran around and screamed and squealed like banshees for an hour.  And the adults looked at each other and smiled and wished so hard that it was bed time.

And then Big D woke up a few hours later and flew back home. 

So in actuality, Big D is the one that left me.  And wouldn't you know - he's missing me.  Wishing he could catch a glimpse of this plush bottom in a pair of granny panties.

Take Aways
1)  My gumption has left.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Fight! Fight! Fight!

Big D and I haven't spoken since Sunday.

Ok, honest truth.  I like to fight. I like the honesty that comes from it.  I like the purging of all things emotional.  I like the rawness.  I like the desperation.  I like the grabbing for just the right words to fling.  Words that will either make a great point, or words that hurt, which goes back to honesty.  And I love nothing more than honesty.

Did you know that I love 100% honesty.  And despise deception?  More than one million percent?

Another thing I love about fighting:  I love the elusiveness that comes with fighting.  It's like a break from marriage.  I don't have to try.  I just, can not "care" for however long the fighting lasts.  Like, that's the time to do things that are stupid. Also, it gives me more ammunition to be mad. 

For example:  Big D has this idea that riding his bike to work is a good idea.  Well, in theory it's great.  However, a friend of ours just got hit while riding his bike on the way to work.  That story makes me a nervy wife.  But hey, you want to ride your bike to work when we're fighting?  Great idea.  Don't really care as much.

On the other hand, if we're having this great week.  Lots of naughty boom boom time.  Laughing together on the couch after the kids go to bed.  Snuggling on sunset walks - yeah, I'm going to care a lot more if you choose "risky" behavior.

So, this fighting gives me a break from holding on and caring.  As much.  (Of course I have 2 weeny whiner kids, and the thought of being a single parent makes me hurl - but . . . .)

So, when I say we haven't talked since Sunday, I mean talk like husband and wives talk.  Once we're fighting and our wall of not caring and protection goes up, we jump into these bicky banter sessions.  It's great.  It's like talking to somebody who has no emotional grip on you at all.

"Today, I'm wearing the underwear you hate.  And I'm going full on bangs.  Also, I bought 7 more pairs of shoes."  "Well, I'm going bowling tonight after work.  And then tomorrow I'm swimming in the lake before the sun comes out.  A mile straight out, and then a mile back to the shore.  All by myself.  Also, for lunch I'm going to be eating 3 garbage plates."

So, that's how our conversations go.  And have been going since the beginning of Monday.

One last thing I love about fighting.  I love becoming friends again. I love when Big D comes home from work and, legitimately is happy to see me.  And snuggles extra hard.  And watches Grey's Anatomy with me.  And drinks wine with me.  And tells me that I'm the most magical mother and cooker this side of Lake Ontario.  And I really love it when he gets desperate to have THIS hot biscuit for dinner.

Also, I came up with a new word.  Wankfaggler.  I have a meaning for it that I will not share.  But I would love some new suggestions . . .

Take Aways
1)  Give me a fight any day.
2)  The reason I don't mind fighting, is because I've been doing this married thing for awhile now.  And I know that marriage is purely a very hilly ride.  It's a long ride down the hill, and a long ride back up the hill.  And a very short visit at the top of the hill.  But it's a cycle.  You'll always go down.  And you'll always come back up.  There are enjoyable parts all along the way.  And therefore, fights do not make me nervy.

Allow Me to Take Care of That for You

I am a bit of an extremist. A bit of an all-or-nothing type of lady.  It's like, give me whole beard or nothing.  Go big - or don't show your face. And don't try to grow a beard if you have awful facial hair.  . . . .. Moving on . . . .. .  Or, I'd rather have the fullest bowl of soup or no soup at all.  Or, bring me to orgasm or don't even think about it.  Or, sing as loud as you can with as much vigor allowed, or don't sing at all.

Also I like to make "points".  Even if it ruins my life.  One of these points that I shamelessly love to prove - is of Big D's complete unawareness of leaving his junk laying around.  And there is nothing more aggravating than seeing a grown man's junk laying around.

Big D carries junk around in plastic grocer bags.(EW!) (Clearly, a pet peeve)  And one time, he dropped his bag that he emptied, on our shoe pile.  The pile that sits right next to our front door.  The pile that is directly in my visionary line while sitting on my couch. And to make a point, I left that awful bag there.  Waiting to see how long it would sit there. 

Now I know that you probably think that I'm nuts.  And need immediate prayer for my prideful heart.  But you also must look at it from a quizzical heart perspective.  How unobservant is he?  How long will he push the bag aside to grab his shoes?  I am proud to say, that it stayed there a full year.

One full year I stared at that bag, while I sat on my couch.  Wondering, how you can ignore an awful, white, crunchy, plastic bag - laying on your shoes?

I wish I could remember how the white bag left it's year long stay.  I feel like horns and a marching band should have announced it's departure.  But it was completely non-monumental - hence why I can't remember.

One of my favorite things to do with Big D's junk laying around, is to wing it into the yard.  But there are rules that I follow in order to keep me in check and appropriate - otherwise I would operate as a loose cannon.
Rule #1  Make sure item has been in sight for at least a week.
Rule #2  Make sure item is in a spot that makes life miserable (ie plastic bag laying on shoe pile, gross old college stein sitting on counter in the way of doing anything productive, etc.)
Rule #3  Announcing my displeasure and desire for junk to be put out of sight.
Rule #4  Allowing a reasonable amount of time to relocate, said junk.  (ie 3-7 minutes)

And then I throw.  And I throw with great pleasure.  I wing things as far as  I can.  And I love even more when there's 3 feet of snow.  Legitamately, I am airing Big D's dirty junk.  And all the neighbors can see his junk rolling in the yard.  Or half buried in a snow bank.

When we lived in apartments (on the 3rd floor) . . .   that added an extra level of pleasure.  Not only would I fling as hard as I could, but then there would be this moment of silence, where the junk would be flying.  And in that moment of silence, my joy would exponentiate in greatness.  I would imagine the explosion crash - that usually ended up being a muffled thud . . .  I would fantasize about all the people who had watched me from their large windows that faced our balcony.  And I would get quite giddy when it came time for Big D to come home.

Also, another thing that I'm really good at.  Starting projects that I've asked Big D to do or help me with.  Usually when I start them by myself - it's in a great rage.  And I become very full of energy and strength.  Which actually means that I'm destroying something and making the project 7.0087 times longer.

Like one time I destroyed the whole front garden with a pickax.  Big D loved me a million for doing that.

And for everything else I've destroyed and or have given flying lessons too.

Take Aways
1)  I secretly love when Big D doesn't take care of his things.
2)  Yes, I make Big D nervy.
3)  He didn't marry me because I was a safe choice.
4)  He has verbalized to me (numerous times) his enjoyment in my unpredictability.
5)  I feel no sorrow or remorse for being unpredictable.
6)  I love to throw.  Especially when I shouldn't be throwing "it".

The End.

4 Pregnancies, 2 Births - 4

It was a Saturday.  Sunny and perfect and cozy.  We were sitting on the couch together.  Happy.  I got up to use the bathroom.  And my baby came out.  No warning.  And because I'd never had a miscarriage.  Or thought about a miscarriage.  Nor did anybody ever really talk about miscarriage.   I was in shock.  So much blood.  And chunks and chunks.  I remember being emotionally removed.  Nothing can prepare you for the feeling of having something that you've created, die.  And then empty out in the toilet.  The disrespect for human life, with no other choice.  I pulled chunk after chunk out of the toilet.  Not sure what chunk was my baby.  I stuck all of it in a bag, and then in the freezer.  Desiring to put it in the ground at some point.

I don't remember anything else about that day.

The next day was my massage school graduation.  The two things I didn't tell you:  1) my graduation was pushed 3 weeks later than it was supposed to be.  So yes, I was pregnant when I was supposed to graduate. 2)  For weeks leading up to my graduation (possibly even a few months) I had the feeling that I would not be attending my graduation.  But had no idea why..

I contacted my classmates Saturday night to let them know that I would not be at graduation on Sunday.  They were so sweet to me.  During graduation they called so I could listen to the ceremony.

Over the next few days I spent a lot of time studying.  I had to take the LMT boards in a few weeks.

 I went to work like normal - pool job.  That was weird.

I also had to get a bunch of blood work done.  Make sure all of the baby came out.  That was neat.  They handed me grieving pamphlets and told me about circle groups.  Asked if I was ok.  It's weird to have that question asked so close to losing someone.  They should wait a month or two before asking.

 I didn't really tell anybody what happened.  Just went on with life.  Felt sad on and off.  I wanted to talk about it with Big D, but he didn't want to talk about it at all.  That made me mad.

On a happy note, I was so relieved that I could get pregnant.  Now the challenge was just going to be, growing a baby.

Friends kept getting pregnant.  And due dates would come around. Reminding me that I didn't have a due date anymore.

Early that spring, a job opportunity opened up.  A director position for a pool at a fancy golfy club.  I applied and looked fancy.  Interviewed twice. And they offered me the assistant position.  I declined after a smooshing dinner.  It was a crap offer and they were trying to wrap it up in pretty bows.  The awesome part was, the new director who was smooshing me, butt dialed me after I declined her offer.   I called her back and she answered, and was horrified when she realized it was me.  (That actually didn't sound as incredibly awkward as it actually was when it went down)

The beginning of July I got pregnant again.  But I had been burned.  And once you have a miscarriage, you don't look at any pregnancy with such simplicity.

As excited as I was, I just couldn't connect or bond with the thought of me being pregnant.

And I'm done for right now.  While writing this blog - I also multi-tasked by chasing Ed back to bed for the past 35 minutes.  I know that sounded cute, because I used the word "chase".  But it was not cute.  And now I am livid.  And hot.  And beyond fuming.  And Big D is at work - working late.

So many blessings tonight.

Weekend Catch Up - Labor Day

Yeah, I've been slack in writing.  The problem being:  Sister Bear is in town.  And I've been spending probably, too much time with her.

Sister Bear is 37 weeks, great with child.  She also is starting a photography biznazz.  She wanted to use me and the rest of us, the Witherhalls to play around with different poses and backgrounds.  Things of that nature.  Things to broaden her portfolio.

So, she thought it would be neat to try a more "intimate" shoot.  Which included Big D and myself.

First she picked out all these clothes that were a) either plastered to my bottom.  Or, b) falling off of me in a boner-inducing way.

Then she chauffeured us in Mother's minivan out to the edge of civility.  Where we found my father hiding in the tall grass spying on a rabid raccoon covered in flies, but still alive

 Rabid raccoon and intimacy.  I was completely overjoyed.  For multiple reasons 1)  I was half dressed, and we drove to the precise location of where my father was.  2)  There was a rabid raccoon meandering about with flies.  3)  We could not see rabid raccoon approaching because of tall grass.  4)  We had to listen for rustling and watch for grass movement.  4)  I could not run in the clothes I was wearing.  5)  There were no rocks to throw when rabid raccoon with flies, appeared.

I guess the title of that photo shoot - if it had a name, would be called:  Lips and Buns.  It was not my favorite moment in time. Big D is still giggling and trying to keep his "manhood" under wraps.

Also, the least flattering moment, was when Sister Bear was doing a close-up.  And these were her precise words:  "ew!  your mustache is growing.  Relax your face!"

*AHEM*  Did that really just happen?   You just said my mustache is growing?  I mean, I know I have blonde fuzzies, but is it really that noticeable/horrific?  And then you want me to completely relax my face after saying something like that to me?

That was great.  I guess I'll just blame it on the pregnancy hormones.

Other highlights include:
1)  Having quite a few more photo shoots.  Including trespassing.  A lot.  Sister Bear is so talented.
2)  Fighting with Big D most of the weekend.
3)  Having an important man at church ask how I was.  And I told him that we were fighting.  And he felt nervous.  Maybe because I had crazy eyes.  And asked us to lunch.  And it was magical.
4)  Started a bible study called:  Good Morning Girls.  Not the best name.  But I'm trying . . . .
5)  Celebrated Murnice's birthday for the 3rd? time.  She wanted spaghetti and balls.  (she doesn't call them balls - just me) And I spent all day making a cauldron of sauce and balls - and she didn't really like it.  It's a good thing I like her.
6)  Going to a wedding.  Where Sister Bear lost it.  And Big D was in the wedding.  So it was me, with 3 wittle kids and a very pregnant hormonal emotional lady that I was in charge of.  It got REALLY exciting for about 58 minutes.
7)  Big D and I are still sleeping in the same bed = miracle.


The raccoon is no longer with us.  It happened to be in the road when Mother was driving.  One account said she ran and backed over it 5 times.  Another account said 7.  She enjoys wilderness hit and runs.  I think she likes to use it as her hand/eye coordination practice.

The end.

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.

4 Pregnancies, 2 Births - 3

Back to doom and gloom . . .

On a side note - I would like to acknowledge the ladies who have written comments to my posts.  Thank you. It means a lot to me, sharing a part of your story.  And your past hurt.

Back to massage school . . .

While in school I started reading a lot of John Eldredge books.  It actually started when I walked into a Christian bookstore with no direction but to buy one book.  I let my heart lead, and it took me to this book.
It was a great beginning of healing.  Not so much with my infertility - but more a healing of being a woman, and breaking barriers of who I thought and what I thought about myself.

And sometime during this time, I can't remember if it was while reading this book, or after - but I was reading 1 Samuel chapter 1.  Now I know that this was Hannah's story.  But promise #2 came.  Verse 17:  . . . go in peace:  and the God of Israel grant thee thy petition that thou hast asked of him . . . verse 20 . . . Hannah had conceived, that she bare a son, and called his name Samuel, saying, because I have asked him of the Lord.

Through reading this, I knew that I was going to have a son. It was as if God walked down and said, "this is for you - I'm talking about you."

Also a key part of our story was what we were praying.  Both Big D and I want, truly want God's will.  And even though I knew I would have a son, I didn't know where or how he would come to us. Meaning, I didn't know if I was going to conceive or if we would adopt.  My heart wanted to conceive. . . . . .  We would pray, "God, if it's your will, we would like to have a baby.  But if its not what you want for us, then we're ok with that too." It was the most wishy washy whiney prayer ever.  More on that later.

Every month I would go beserk with pregnancy tests.  I really should have bought stock . . . any person who has struggled/struggles with infertility knows what I'm talking about.

Days before my period was supposed to arrive, I just needed to take a test.  I needed to emotionally prepare myself.  I needed to know as soon as possible, to expect my period, versus hanging on to a few late days thinking there was a possibility. Because after getting 24 periods back to back, you believe that they will always come.  But you always hope that maybe one day . . .   And every month, there is hope.  Small as it may be, there's always hope.  And after every failed pregnancy test and first period day, it seems there is no air left to breath.  And you wonder how much longer, how many more periods until there isn't one.

I understand that was the most confusing paragraph known to man-kind. And that kind of sums up how it actually is - emotionally.  It's hope and dread and despair and maybe all wrapped into one.

Period number 29 was due.  I took my too early test - which came back negative.  But by the 5th week of being period free I thought I might need to take another test.

I remember I had to work my lifeguard job that day.  I was out of tests, so I left to go to work a little early - giving myself enough time to pick up some more tests at the drugstore.  I took the test, in a very secluded bathroom.  After a few minutes a very faint line appeared.  I almost had to convince myself that there was a line.

I don't remember how I felt at work.  I don't remember telling Big D that I was pregnant.

But I do remember the next day.  I woke up feeling so free.  So queenish.  Thinking, "this is it.  This is where my story of infertility ends".  So happy.

And that's all I'm going to write today.