My Child Within

Growing up with addictive parents was nothing less than challenging and every bit traumatizing. I had to grow up way too fast and missed out on a normal childhood. I’m not spontaneous and it’s difficult for me to have fun. I was stunted as a child and as an adult I’m trying to unlearn what the abusive adults in my life taught me—about life and about myself.


I’m very hard on myself. I punish and berate myself over everything. I strive for perfection. However, that’s unrealistic—no one is perfect—but I still strive. I suppose some habits are just hard to break.


I stifle my inner child. She’s always frightened and I don’t want to nurture her. She’s just too demanding. And I think I’m ashamed of her. I know I shouldn’t be. None of what happened to her was her fault. But when you are super-responsible, everything’s your fault.


The more I heal, the more I feel, and all the more anxious I become. There are days when I wonder if recovery is even worth it. Even with not knowing, I will continue to work on myself. And maybe one day I will reach in and touch, love and nurture my child within.

I found my child within today,

For many years so locked away,

Loving, embracing, needing so much,

If only I could reach in and touch.

I did not know this child of mine,

We were never acquainted at three or nine,

But today I felt the crying inside,

I'm here I shouted, come reside.

We hugged each other ever so tight,

As feelings emerged of hurt and fright.

It's okay, I sobbed, I love you so!

You are precious to me, I want you to know.

My child, my child, you are safe today,

You will not be abandoned, I'm here to stay.

We laughed, we cried, it was a discovery,

This warm, loving child is my recovery.

-Kathleen Algoe, 1989

People Too Stupid To Be Moms & Dads

What in the name of all that’s holy is wrong with people? Men AND women?

Orlando Shaw, 33 years old of Tennessee, has 22 children to approximately 14 women. The man has no job, is an ex-con, and is tens of thousands of dollars in arrears in child support.

He says he loves his children though. He proves it by showing up each and every time he’s summoned to the court house. However, the only parenting he does is via his cell phone, oh, and on the weekends, when he rotates his hockey team kids. He does have a plan though—he plays the hell out of the Tennessee lottery.

Where the hell does he get the money for his cell phone and the lottery tickets? He doesn’t have a job. The Tennessee tax payers are footing the bill for his 22 children to the tune of seven thousand dollars a month. Are they supporting him too?

 The story gets better.

 Orlando has the audacity to say he didn’t use birth control because he was young, ambitious and loved women. I call bull shit. A man who loves women doesn’t knock them up, leave them with passels of kids, then not support them.

This man loves sex. Period. He has no respect for women. He has no respect for his children or his fellow man either, because he doesn’t give a flying crap that the taxpayers are footing the bill for his illegitimate offspring. The man’s a pig.

 It’s not just Orlando who’s at fault here either. The baby mamas are just as guilty. FOURTEEN women knowingly had sex with this man without birth control and brought TWENTY-TWO innocent children into the world. That means more than one of these women had more than one child a piece with him. What the hell is wrong with them? Were they in some kind of contest? There is no way fourteen women were ignorant to this man’s past. Yet they knowingly had unprotected sex any way.

 But in the long run, it’s the innocent children who will suffer.

 This type of behavior isn’t indicative to Tennessee either. It’s a national epidemic. If I didn’t believe in the constitution, I’d demand sterilization. However, I do believe in individual rights and forcing sterilization on someone would go against everything we, as a nation, stand for.

 I don’t know what the answer is to cases like this. I only know that Orlando is a disgrace. These baby mamas are a disgrace. And my heart breaks for the children. They are growing up in broken homes. Their father is an ex-con with no job who thinks playing the lottery is a good plan. They deserve so much better. All children deserve a fair chance but when they are dealt shitty mommy-daddy cards, they don’t get a re-deal. They have to play the hand they’re dealt.

 I hope against hope kids like Orlando’s will somehow break the cycle, because I know according to statistics most end up just like him. That fills my heart with sadness. If I could take all the children with crappy moms and dads, I would. But since I can’t, I can only hope they will one day find peace and security within.

 

Happy Birthday Dalan!

Twenty years ago, I gave birth to my oldest son, Dalan. Cradling him in my arms all those years ago, I had no idea what his future held. I only knew I wanted him to be happy and his life to be complete. I vowed I would move heaven and earth, and take a bullet and a blade and I would sacrifice myself to ensure that for him.

 Like most parents, I have sacrificed over the years, without having to take a bullet. Although there have been times when I felt like I have taken a blade to my heart.

Over all, I wouldn’t change anything. Dalan has been a delight.

 He has lighted my life even during some of my darkest hours. He has made me laugh and smile when I felt like shouting or crying. He has opened my eyes and helped me see situations a bit more clearly.

 I’m extremely proud of Dalan and I love him more than the sky. I’m blessed to be his mom and I truly feel honored.

 Happy Birthday, Dalan, my little bugs. I love you.


 

If U Can’t Laugh AT Your Kids ~ Don’t Have Any

I mentioned that I took my son to a doctor’s appointment last Tuesday. This particular doctor was near a shopping center that I frequent however I only go there when I need to hit more than one store hence multi-tasking and saving gas. It just so happens that the stores I needed to hit this time were all female related: Sally’s Beauty Supply, Ulta and Cosmo Prof, although my oldest son is a shopper and LOVES Ulta because HE uses more cologne than a French whore, my youngest is NOT a shopper and prefers if I just pick up what he wants or needs, and since he’s low-maintenance and rarely wants or needs anything, he saves me a fortune, which is a good thing considering my oldest wants just about everything he lays his pretty blue eyes on.

 I digress, a little.

 Even though Austin isn’t a shopper, he did agree to accompany me on my errands. Needless to say, I was thrilled! Not only did I have someone to cart my crap around the store and to the Jeep but it also gave me one-on-one time with him. Car-time is the best time to get the low-down on his life, you know like girls and stuff—things he might be a bit reluctant to talk about at home, but in the vehicle listening to his favorite radio station, all chilled out, he’s not anticipating my stealth-like-mommy-questions and answers without any hesitation.

Again, I digress, a little.

Our first stop was Sally’s where I grabbed nail files, nail glue, false eye lashes, lash glue, a powder brush and an eyebrow wax pencil. Unlike Dalan who leaves me to my own devices so he can find his own stuff, Austin just followed me around while I grabbed my doo-dads and hickey-ma-bobs, which didn’t take very long, so it wasn’t excruciatingly painful for him.

 The second stop was rather easy too. We got into Ulta where I went right for Pureology hairspray (I can’t find it in the professional supply stores) handed it to him to carry (because I make my kids WORK when I shop) then I went to Ulta’s bath and shower gel aisle. I use that for hand soap in my kitchen (it smells SO good!). I also like that they have a sale—buy one get one free or on this particular day, buy two get one free.

 Alas, we were done. Except for standing in line, which was long, for a Tuesday. Although we had fun talking about Politics—he’s a hardcore Conservative even at the young age of fifteen and we joked about Liberals (all innocent fun y’all)!

 After that we headed for Cosmo Prof where you need a professional license to purchase goodies, which I do have, by the way. There I got two different types of shampoo and conditioners, because I’m anal and like to switch it up, plus I hate the stuff I had just recently purchased.

I also wanted to try yet another new hairspray. I know, I know, if I could get back all the money I’ve spent on the hairspray I hate I could take a nice weekend trip! But this Paul Mitchell hairspray was in a big ass can for only eight bucks, so I just HAD to give it a shot (I reason with myself).

Then I wanted to get a new flat iron. Mine is ancient—over ten years old. And while I spent a king’s ransom on that damn thing, it just doesn’t work the way it once did, hence the reason I wanted a new one (notice I did NOT say NEED).

 I couldn’t find a two inch Hot Tools Ceramic flat iron but I did find it in an one inch size. I held it in my hand as I continued to search for one in a two inch size. Austin pulled a box off the shelf and said, “Here’s a two inch one, Mom.”

“No, that’s a curling iron, I’m looking for a flat iron,” I explained.

 “Oh my gawd! I am so not having a daughter!” He huffed as he placed the curling iron back on the shelf.

I began laughing so hard that I had to kneel down and hope that I didn’t pee my pants. “What do you mean you aren’t having a daughter?” I asked in between fits of laughter.

 “Curling irons, flat irons, all this fancy shampoo. There’s no way I could handle it. No way I’m having a daughter.” He told me shaking his head.

“Austin, the male determines the sex of the baby.”

“I don’t care. Still not having one.” He had that determined gleam in his eyes that he would get when he was four and would throw himself on the floor in a hissy-fit.

“I think you AND Dalan are both having ALL girls. You know, as payback for all the shit you put me through.”

“I’ll kill myself.”

I began giggling once again because he was so darn serious. The sales ladies in the store came over to see what was so funny and I told them what he had said and they both started laughing too.

Austin didn’t think it was too damn amusing, but hey, if you can’t laugh AT your kids, don’t have any!



 

The Daughters I Never Had

I’m not afraid of aliens or ghosts, snakes or any kind of bug. I save my fear for crazy stuff like knives in the sink that beckon me to grab them and stab someone. Or inexplicably coming down with amnesia and turning into a bag lady that lives under a bridge and my family will never know hence never find me and I’d spend the rest of my life eating left-overs from a trash can.

 Now my husband and sons believe in aliens and ghosts (and Big Foot) and they are afraid of bugs, especially spiders, which makes me the official Spider Killer of our household. Although I don’t always kill them. Sometimes I just shoo them away then I tease the hell out of my scaredy-cat-estrogen-filled males about how the spiders are gonna get them while they sleep.

 Thursday morning, my son Dalan said that he and his brother Austin had to kill Godzilla the Bug the night before. I wondered what all the ruckus was about! It sounded like they were wrestling Andre the friggin’ Giant. But since no one was screaming, and the dogs weren’t barking, I didn’t get out of bed to investigate.

 “Mum it was huge!”

 “How big was it?” I was expecting to see him measure out two feet with his hands.

 He measured an inch with his fingers.

 “You’ve got to be kidding me. It took TWO of you to kill a one inch bug?”

 “Mum, it was Godzilla the bug.”

 “I’m gonna start calling you Daylinda and Austina, the daughters I never had.”

 “Go down and look at it.” He pointed to the floor indicating he wanted me to go to the powder room downstairs. “We saved it for you.”

 “No you didn’t. You were just too scared to pick it up.” I did go down to see this bug that took two strapping young lads to kill it. At first I couldn’t find it. You would think with the name, Godzilla the Bug, I wouldn’t have had a problem. However, it was barely an inch long as it was a freaken millipede, so it was barely worth the effort of walking the stairs let alone picking up its corpse with a piece of toilet paper and tossing it into the commode. Godzilla the Bug my butt.

Then Thursday afternoon, my daughter son and his friend, Devon, helped me with some yard work. There were leaves piled up behind the shed along with some lumber and blocks. I wanted it cleared out and organized. Daylinda gingerly picked up the leaves with his fingerstips as if he was picking up poopy diapers with well-manicured fingernails.

 “What are you doing? Grab a handful and throw it in the wheel-barrel,” I said as I heaved a bunch of leaves and weeds to show him what I meant.

 “Mum there could be spiders in there.”

 “They don’t eat much, Daylinda, now come on!” I goaded him as I grabbed another handful of leaves then shouted “SNAKE!” and threw it at his friend, Devon, who jumped when the leaves landed on him. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of snakes!” He wasn’t, I just startled him. Daylinda said he wasn’t afraid of snakes, either, just those fucking spiders.

Then why in the heck wasn’t he wearing gloves? I rarely wear gloves, which is stupid on my part because I do have well-manicured fingernails, however, I don’t complain if I break a nail and I’m not afraid of spiders. 

 We did manage to get the leaves and weeds cleared out and the lumber and blocks stacked up nicely. Daylinda came through without a scratch or a spider bite.

 Me, I ended up with a damn splinter.

 Later that same day, I was doing more yard work while my husband, Daisy, was in the kitchen cooking and washing dishes.



 

Happy Birthday Austin!

Fifteen years ago today I gave birth to a seven pound five ounce baby boy. We named him Austin Bernard. Austin after…yes, you guessed it, Austin Powers, the movie, and Bernard after his paternal grandfather who had passed away only two weeks before his birth.

While I was pregnant with Austin I only slept about three hours per day—two around five o’clock in the morning until about seven, when my older son got up and then I took an hour cat nap during the afternoon. I told my husband that if his actions in my stomach were any indication of how he’d be when he was born, we were in BIG trouble.

Austin was born two weeks early, but only because I told my doctor that I didn’t want to be pregnant anymore and since my doctor was the coolest doctor E-V-E-R and I hated being pregnant, she induced me on purpose. I’m sure they don’t do that anymore because insurance companies suck now-a-days.

It turned out that my prophecy was accurate and Austin was even more active after birth than he was while in my stomach. The baby didn’t sleep and he became colicky at three weeks old. I thought I was going to end up in a rubber room. There were days when I didn’t have time to get dressed and my husband would find me, in my robe, sitting in the front yard crying while Austin was in his crib—crying.

 Years went by and Austin had birthday parties and his fifth birthday invitation read: 

Austin’s five and we’re still alive 

My little ball of energy didn’t stop there. He was ten and STILL didn’t go to sleep at a decent hour. I would go into his room at eleven o’clock and he would be wide awake. I would tell him that he needed to fall asleep and he would say Mom, I’m not tired. And just as fast as he used to speed around the house, the kid would pass out. It was almost as if someone pulled his plug and trust me, there were days when I had wished he DID have a plug or at least a remote control!

Every child has qualities of his parents and Austin isn’t any different. I see his dad and me in so much of what he says and does. There are times, truth be told, when I cringe, but mostly I beam with pride.

 He’s extremely intelligent, with an above average IQ and carrying a 4.0 grade average without breaking a sweat. He’s inquisitive, creative, kind and funny. He’s also obstinate, stubborn and at times impulsive. All rolled into one, he’s a terrific kid. A son that I’m proud to call my own and one I love with all my heart.

Happy Birthday my dear Austin. The world is a much better place since I brought you into it fifteen years ago.



 

My Jail Birds

Now that my oldest son has graduated from high school and will enter college in the fall, I get a kick out of reading the journals I kept when he was younger. Like the one when he cheated on a math test in sixth grade.

Mr. H, his math teacher, called and told me that he looked up from his papers and Dalan and another student were talking so he had no choice but to give them half credit. I told Mr. H he was awfully generous because I’d have given them a big fat ZERO. Mr. H said he knew I’d say that.

I had good relationships with my son’s teachers over the years and it wasn’t because he got caught in unsavory behavior! He was actually a very good kid, and student, but it wasn’t a surprise to Mr. H when I said to give my son NO credit. The staff at our school district knew I was a parent on the side of the teachers, and righteousness, and wouldn’t do the Oh no not my baby, BS, if the facts pointed directly to my baby.

I digress.

When Dalan got home from school that afternoon, my husband and I sat him down and asked what happened in math class. You could see that Dalan all but wanted to vomit rather than tell us he cheated on that test. He stumbled over his words and didn’t keep eye contact as he told us that he had asked S for the time and Mr. H saw them and thought they were cheating.

 Who the hell asks for the TIME during a MATH test? Hopefully not my son or that would make him a stupid-cheating-liar. And I KNEW he was lying. I could tell just by looking at him! I wanted to pinch his head off. Before I did that though, I had to get him to tell me the truth as only a mother can.

“Dalan, why in the world would you ask the TIME during a MATH test?” I asked hoping he’d see how utterly stupid his lie was.

 “I wanted to see how much time I had left on the test,” he mumbled.

“It was a MATH test. It had NUMBERS. Like TIME does. Why would you do that?”

Crickets.

“Do you realize how BAD that makes you look? If Mr. H is at his desk, then looks up and sees you and S talking, he has no idea it’s about the TIME. He has no choice but to assume you’re cheating.”

 Tears were welling in my son’s eyes. Ah, I hit something. I felt badly, but I couldn’t let that sway me now. This was tough love after all. “So, again, why in the world would you ask S for the time?”

“I didn’t! We cheated. Okay!” He blurted out.

I looked at my husband, who up until that point had been very quiet. “It’s okay, Buddy. I’m glad you told us.”

“The question now is, why did you cheat? You’re so good at math, you don’t need to cheat.” I wanted to make him feel good about himself even though he had done something wrong.

“I really wasn’t cheating. I was letting S look at my answers.” Dalan tried to explain, and justify, his actions.

“Well, that’s still cheating, Dalan.” I explained, needing him to understand that not permitting someone to do their own work wasn’t really helping them.

“I didn’t do anything YOU didn’t do in school!” Dalan looked at me as he verbally threw THAT at me.

 “Oh no ya don’t. I NEVER cheated in school, Bucko,” I said as I shook my head from side to side. 

“Dad.” He looked at his father.

That one word hung in the air. My husband looked from our son to me and didn’t say anything.

So I asked, “Dad?”

“Well, in ninth grade…” My husband began.

“Oh.my.gawd,” I groaned.

“I had to do a report and I didn’t do it. I always sat in the back, ya know, because of my last name. There were shelves under the windows at Shaler, remember?” He looked at me for confirmation and I nodded my head that I did in fact remember. “Well, I looked over and on the shelves were graded reports. So I grabbed one and cut the top off and re-stapled it and put my name on it then turned it in.”

“You did WHAT!” I shrieked which made Dalan giggle. I shot BOTH of them a dagger look. Dalan for thinking it was funny and my husband for being TOO truthful at such a crucial time! Damn him!

“Well, the teacher graded them and you remember how the teachers would walk around the room handing out our graded papers.” I nodded that I did in fact remember that. “He was saying student so and so good job. Student so and so you need extra work. He got to me and said Zydel you’re gonna need an attorney.”

 “Oh.my.gawd he did not,” I gasped.

“Yep,” David was nodding his head as calm and cool as you can be.

I wanted to faint.

“See Mom. Dad cheated,” Dalan squealed, almost delighted, as he pointed to his felon father.

 “Dad STOLE!” I corrected.

 “Yeah, there’s a difference,” David said.

 “Don’t even go there,” I warned my husband. How the hell was I supposed to punish my son for cheating in school when his own father had down WORSE! I could’ve pinched my husband’s head off! I’d do that later. For now we had to be a united front while we punished our son. 

 Well, we talked to Dalan, reiterating that lying, stealing and cheating were WRONG. He had to be punished so we sent him to his room while his father and I discussed the appropriate punishment for him.

Over the next six years I never received another phone call about Dalan cheating. Either he never did or he just didn’t get caught. Considering he graduated with honors and passed his ASVAB test with flying colors, I’m inclined to believe the former.

As I’ve said before, parenting isn’t for the weak; it’s hard work. You’ve got to be on your toes and your eyes and ears have to be in over-time. I’ve thwarted a few plans just by being overly-organized. I’m sure I’ve missed a few too, which I’ll probably hear about when they’re grown and have children of their own.

 I can only hope I’ll think their stories are funny then!

A Sex Map

I’m a mom of teenagers, but most importantly, I WAS a teenager once, so I KNOW teenagers have sex. I knew when my boys hit the teenage years I was going to have to reiterate time and time again that anytime they had sex they could create a life, therefore they would have to be extremely careful, not just because they could create a life, but also because they could get a sexually transmitted disease (Trust me, I stressed abstinence, too).

 Every time I bring it up, I get, I know Mom. But that doesn’t stop me from repeating myself. It’s just too damn important. A baby at sixteen, nineteen, or even twenty-two, when they haven’t even finished college, gotten a decent job, or gotten married, could effect their lives in ways they can’t even begin to imagine.

I’m open about sex, but I’m not sure I like this new interactive map—Where Did You Wear It—compliments of Planned Parenthood. Sex is supposed to be intimate and meaningful, but this map reads like a freaken road trip.

 I understand there are parents who don’t communicate sexual information to their children and the fact pages of the site are quite useful; I just don’t get the map. To me, it’s like making a joke about when and where you and your partner have sex. That’s not something to joke about.

 A lot of adults say that teenagers are too immature to have sex, this map proves that point. What the heck is wrong with PPH? Do they THINK sex is funny? A joke? Something to advertise? They need to wise the hell up. Give useful information but stop with the pinning of sexcapades. No one needs to KNOW that type of information unless people want to talk about it, then let them talk amongst themselves. It doesn’t need to be advertised on the internet, and especially on an interactive map.

And parents, if you can do anything for you kids, TALK WITH them, even if it makes YOU feel uncomfortable. You were a teenager once. All you need to do is remember back when YOU were that age and how you wish your parents would’ve treated you. It isn’t that difficult. Treat them like people, with dignity and respect. It goes a long way.


 

The Village Idiot Is Missing

I read a blog whose author said it takes a village to raise a child. THAT opinion is so far from my own that I clicked out, never to return. I’m of the adage that it takes a loving, supportive FAMILY to raise a child. The village is filled with quite a few... um... people and quite frankly I’d strap on cement shoes if I had them anywhere near my kids, let alone giving them advice or helping raise them. I want my children growing up with my values and beliefs and from there to form their own—NOT the villagers’. Thank you very much.

 Well, I stumbled upon another blog where the author takes her four year old and fifteen month old out and is all bent out of shape because the villagers aren’t helping her. Her four year old is rambunctious (as most four year old boys are wont to be) in restaurants, knocking over high chairs and what not, and this mother wants to know why no one will help her. She’s actually ticked! Stating that the other patrons SHOULD stop him AND pick up the items he has knocked over! Um excuse me, YOU had the child, it’s YOUR responsibility to wrangle him, NOT the villagers. If you can’t, don’t go out in public.

 Now before anyone gets in an uproar and sends me hate mail for being insensitive, let me tell you, I’m not. My youngest son, Austin, turned into the demon spawn at three weeks old. It was ten o’clock at night at my mom’s retirement party and he started crying, and he cried, and cried, and cried and he did it for a year. He also didn’t sleep straight through the night until he was almost FOUR years old! He would tell me, My eyes aren’t tired Mommy. But MINE were! Yet, I couldn’t go to sleep because I had to ensure HIS safety. It wasn’t the village’s duty, it was MINE!

 I’ll never forget going to the pediatrician and telling her about Austin and how he cried and wouldn’t sleep. She said he had colic, or at least that’s what they called it in 1997. Years ago, she said, they called it fretful baby. There wasn’t anything wrong with him. As a matter of fact, she told me, he was FINE and studies actually showed that colicky babies turned out to be type A personalities and quite successful. So she wasn’t worried about him; she was worried about my husband, my older son and me. We were stressed and if we needed anything, we could call her. What an awesome doctor! She resigned from the practice to work as an emergency room Pediatrician (I teased Austin it was HIS fault. lol.).

 Austin will be fifteen on May 31st and I’d be lying if I said the years have been easy. He can still be a handful. However, his doctor was right. He’s fine and he’s a straight A student. I’m fairly certain if he continues on his current path that he’ll also be successful.

 It was startling, because I actually had people who suggested I put Austin on Ritalin when he was younger. In all honesty, I wanted to pinch their heads off. Yes, pills would’ve calmed him down and made my life easier, but they would’ve hindered him. Austin is a very creative child who is physically AND mentally dynamic. Medication would’ve changed him. I wasn’t willing to take that chance just to get a few extra hours of sleep.

Don’t misunderstand. There are children who NEED medication because they can’t function without it. Austin was able to function with the extra patience, guidance and structure that we, his family, provided.

 I never once looked to the village or villagers to raise Austin, or his older brother, and I don’t intend to for the remaining three years of Austin’s high school years. He’s my responsibility; he’s also my pride and joy.

It deserves repeating. It doesn’t take a village. It takes supportive, loving, selfless parents—a devoted family—to raise a productive member of society. A child should never be fluffed off to the villagers. Keep him tucked under the protective wing of your family for as long as you possibly can—as most parents know, they grow up much too fast in this crazy world.

Pretend I’m Not Here!

I live with three males. Two I birthed, the other I choose to live with on purpose. The males in my household aren’t the most organized. Actually, the two I birthed are downright dreadful, to my evaluation. The chosen one isn’t that bad, but I’ll bet it’s only due to all my haranguing, nagging, yelling and threatening over the last thirty years. He’s either sick and tired of listening to me, or terrified of stepping out of line.

My sons aren’t at all fearful and I don’t think they hear a word I say. You’d think after nineteen and fourteen years they’d have picked up something, or, at the very least, have a freaken smidge of my DNA. But no, I didn’t get even remotely blessed in that area. I carried them for over eight months each (they were both early) then pushed them out of MY hoo-ha, but I didn’t get to pick even ONE freaken trait (Mother Nature needs a talkin’ to, if you ask me).

Anyway, I’ve been teaching my boys, by example, how to be organized and how to handle situations, which come naturally to me, by the way, but apparently, they’re foreign concepts to them and extremely difficult—like balancing a triangle on the top of their heads while jogging at three miles per hour on an icy surface.

They can’t find their phones, iPods, ear buds, car keys, shoes, favorite jeans, school papers or food! They will go to the pantry and ask if we have such and such a food item and when I say it’s in there, they will ask where and I will say, second shelf on the left near the back, and they will say, no it isn’t. I then go to the pantry, to the second shelf, on the left, near the back and pull out such and such and hand it to them. They then say, Oh, I didn’t SEE it. Well, duh, open your eyes.

 They do this shit with the refrigerator and their closet or when I ask them to get ME something, too. It’s like they aren’t even LOOKING. I swear they have a Where Is It gene. Rather than looking for something the Where Is It gene kicks in and they immediately ask, Mom, where is it? And the dumb ass that I am, I actually TELL them because I know where every single item is in this house!

They also don’t think anything is important unless it pertains to THEIR cell phones, THEIR computers, THEIR emails, THEIR…well you get the idea. KIDS! What the hell was I thinking when I decided to have TWO!

 Just kidding, I love them to pieces, but sometimes I could pinch their heads off!

Like yesterday.

 Taxes are due Tuesday. Yeah, like in four days Tuesday. I’m leaving for my parents’ house tomorrow and I won’t be home until Sunday night. Why is this a big deal, you ask? Let me tell you.

My son was in Army Boot Camp last year. He got paid and the Army, bless their hearts, did everything electronically, including his W-2. I’ve been asking, begging, ordering, and threatening my son to get me his w-2 for almost two months now.

 Alas, I still don’t have it. I have the web-site. What I don’t have is his user ID and password—he forgot them (don’t listen to your mother and write this shit down).

 I told him to contact whomever he needed to in order to GET the info. He didn’t. So, yesterday I MADE him sit down and dial the eight hundred number. He began pushing buttons then hung up and said, “See, I can’t get it.”

I wanted to pinch his head right off.

I grabbed the phone and redialed the eight hundred number and listened to the menu options. I began pressing buttons—lo and behold I got to the one that said PRESS 0 for Operator. So, I did and then I handed HIM the phone and said, “You sit there on hold and wait for an operator. When one comes on, explain that you need a new user ID and password.”

Well, he did get to talk to an operator and he did get it handled. We had to scan his Army ID and email it over to them to prove his identity. But at least my son could SEE, once again, that it can be handled if you are willing to do the WORK.

 There are just some things I can’t do for him anymore. He’s technically an ADULT and he needs to do things on his own now. Besides, what would he, or his brother, do if I wasn’t around?

GO DO IT!

Pretend I’m not here and GO DO IT!

That’s my new motto. Well, I’m going to TRY to make it my new motto.

 I know, I know! I’ve permitted them to get away with this crap. It’s MY fault.

 Or can I blame it on the monkey?



 

My Valentines

Valentine’s Day is for love and lovers, or at least that’s what Hallmark tells us (encouraging us to cough up $5 or more on a card written by someone else—ever hear of Picasa?) and it’s also right THERE, on my calendar: Valentine’s Day.

As if MY husband is going to feel guilty for not spending double the money on flowers that will die in a few days, countless bucks on candy that can add extra pounds during the time of year when a lot of people tend to gain the most weight, keep you up all friggin night or make you break out with a bazillion pimples as if you were going through puberty once again. No thanks.

If I don’t know by NOW that HE loves ME, no happy-sappy Hallmark card, dozen or more red roses or a heart-shaped box of Sarris chocolates is going to tell me.

What I DO have that tells me every day that my husband loves me is HIM, and our two beautiful sons that he and I share together. 

Dalan and Austin are MY valentines EVERY day. It’s hard to believe they are nineteen and fourteen. Dalan is graduated from high school, graduated from Army basic training and will soon be off to college. Austin is in ninth grade and has his first official girlfriend!

Last night he called me and asked, “Mom, you know how tomorrow is Valentine’s Day?”

“Yes I do.” I couldn’t help but think it must be important, he didn’t TEXT me, he CALLED me!

“I want to get Suzy something.” (Her name isn’t Suzy but he WILL get ticked if I write her REAL name! He’ll probably get ticked because I wrote this in the first place, but hell, I NEED material for this damn blog, kid.)

“What are you thinking?”

“Like a necklace or bracelet or something.”

 I couldn’t help but smile to myself; however, he’s FOURTEEN, so jewelry is a bit inappropriate at this age. Not wanting to burst his love-bubble, I said, “How about I pick you up and we go to the Hallmark store. They have all kinds of gifty things, even candy.”

Yes, I know I kinda mocked Hallmark at the beginning of this post, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like Hallmark. I like it just fine. Hallmark has great collectibles and I enjoy its movie channel—even if their cards are a bazillion dollars!

I digress.

Austin and I did go to our local Hallmark where he picked out a chocolate heart-shaped box filled with assorted chocolates and a little white bear holding a red heart. He did find a card, too (yeah I’m a sucker when it comes to my boys). It was a cutesy card, perfect for a fourteen year old. I mean really, it’s not like he’s going to marry this girl—well, he better NOT be thinking of marriage!

I told him I thought it was nice that he wanted to give his girlfriend a valentine and that his dad and I used to do that too but after almost twenty-five years of marriage, we’d rather go out to a nice dinner (which we’ll do this weekend when my husband’s not tired from working).

After we got home, I found red roses in my older son’s room. I wasn’t surprised. He’s thoughtful, having watched his dad surprise me over the years. I’m sure his girlfriend will be thrilled.

 It’s bittersweet, my boys will always be MY valentines, and I used to be theirs, but now they have their own, because mommy isn’t the center of their universe anymore. That’s okay; I get it. It means I’ve been doing my job. I’ve been raising them to be emotionally-healthy, independent, respectful young men. And if their actions now are any indication of how they’ll treat their future significant others, then I’m doing A-okay!

One day they will both be married and they will have families of their own (or at least I think they will) and the decisions will be a lot more difficult than red roses or a box of chocolates.

 But I WILL be here for them. They are my valentines but they are also my SONS and through thick and thin, rough or smooth, I’m their mom and will have their backs because they will always have my heart.


 

The Menu At My House ~ Like It Or Lump It

I’m sure I’ve mentioned, at least a dozen times or so, that I don’t like to cook. Actually, I don’t cook—at all. If it weren’t for my husband: we’d starve. Well, that’s probably a bit of an exaggeration, because I do take-out when he’s not home and I have NO qualms about going out to eat— I LOVE going to restaurants. 

This past week my husband was on a screwy night-shift, so my sons and I fended for ourselves for dinner. It wasn’t THAT bad. I had cupcakes and hard boiled eggs Monday night and Tuesday evening my parents stopped down for my son’s Basketball game and took us out to dinner afterward.

 Wednesday evening after I picked Austin up from Basketball practice I asked him, “Did you eat dinner?”

He said, “No, dad wasn’t home.”

I rolled my eyes, but he couldn’t see that because it was dark in the vehicle. “Austin, you’re FOURTEEN not FOUR. When we get home, make some soup.”

I didn’t have a problem waiting on them hand and foot when they were little—but seriously…he’s fourteen now and can pop a can of soup in the microwave, slap some meat on two pieces of bread, or even throw a small pizza in the oven.

I might not like to cook, but I certainly know HOW and I DID pass that on to my boys so that they COULD fend for themselves and be independent. Hearing Austin’s answer, however, makes me think I didn’t do a bang up job.

This weekend, my husband was home and thankfully we’re back on schedule. He makes breakfast on the weekends, which is a nice treat because I don’t eat breakfast during the week. Heck, I barely eat lunch because it’s a pain in my ass to even slap meat on two slices of bread.

 This morning my husband showed me a small whole chicken and asked, “How’s this for dinner tonight?”

“Didn’t we just have that last weekend?” I wanted to slap myself as soon as I said it. I have NO right questioning WHAT he wants to cook even if it’s poop on a stick!

“No, that was two weeks ago. But hey, just feel free to order from the menu.”

“What’s that number?”

Austin being within ear shot of the conversation chimed in, “It’s one eight hundred screw you.” He’s his father’s son alright.

“How about like it or lump it,”  David said.

We all got a good laugh and I’m glad my husband isn’t touchy when I don’t have a filter on my mouth. 

Oh and we’re having green beans instead of corn. David said there’s a shortage on the latter. I was a bit upset because we haven’t had corn in like... ONE day! 




 

Birthdays Should Be A Big Deal

I came across a blog where a woman wrote, My husband says making birthdays a big deal gives children a misguided sense of entitlement. I was only about half-way through the post, but I stopped reading and clicked out. That sentence conjured memories from my own childhood and it only hardened my resolve that EVERYONE’S day of birth should be celebrated with zeal.

As I’ve mentioned, my parents divorced when I was nine. Prior to my dad leaving, I had a fairly functional childhood with a nice home, food, decent clothes, pets, and even birthday parties. Not the kind of parties a lot of parents give their kids today, but parties where many family members came over to eat homemade cake and sing Happy Birthday. Those days of celebrating were diminished by dysfunctional adults who selfishly thought NOT making my birthday a big deal would somehow save them time and money, never giving thought to what it would cost MY self-esteem.

I got to the point where I didn’t even want my birthday acknowledged because I didn’t feel I deserved it. When someone, like my dad for instance, gave me a gift and wished me Happy Birthday, I was ecstatic, but I suppressed those spontaneous emotions due to all the years of feeling unworthy. I was less-than and how dare I expect anyone wish ME happiness on MY own day!

After years of therapy, I began to see what damage had been done to my psyche and I embarked on my self-healing journey. It was difficult, because for years, I ignored my birthday or if someone brought it up, I would say, thanks, but it’s no big deal. NO BIG DEAL! Can YOU imagine YOUR child saying that to YOU? It saddens me when I think of it today.

It took me until my B-I-G 4-0 to finally realize I AM worthy. That I am important and I deserve for people—my family and friends, to not only acknowledge the day I was born, but exalt it! Ever since, and it’s been six years now, I accept, acknowledge,  and celebrate the day of my birth.

Please don’t misunderstand, I don’t EXPECT gifts, because the best gift I could ever receive is the love and support of my family and friends (however, I will be honest, I do LIKE presents!).

When I read that mother say that the father of her children doesn’t think birthdays should be a big deal, I felt my stomach lurch and my heart skip a beat. How could a MOM ever NOT make a big deal of the day she brought her child into this world? How could any MOM listen to a man’s delusional thought process that by celebrating the day your child was born it will somehow make him feel entitled?

 I understand there are families that don’t want to shower their children with tons of gifts. I get it. What’s wrong with hugs and kisses, a cake and a song? It just makes me feel very sad. Sad for THAT family and what those children will be missing because their father has a misguided moral compass and sad that their mother won’t stick up for them. I’ve always made my sons’ birthdays special, and of course, my husband helped, but had he not, well, let’s just say he wouldn’t have been able to stop ME from fussing over MY children.

When they wake up I happily shout, Happy Birthday, and I hug and kiss them. I attach helium balloons to our mail box so everyone that drives by our house knows there is someone inside who is celebrating the day they were born! When my boys were little, we had parties, but now that they are teenagers, we take them to a birthday dinner, restaurant of their choice, and spend QUALITY time with them. Then we come home and sing Happy Birthday to a homemade cake. Most times we are accompanied by other members of our family—Aunts, Uncles, Cousins and/or Grandparents.

My actions toward my sons’ birthdays does NOT give them a misguided sense of entitlement. It does, however, make them FEEL special, and rightfully so. EVERYONE should feel special on the day of their birth!

So, please, even if you don’t buy a gift or give out balloons…be sure to acknowledge the birthdays of those you love and care about. Let them know with a phone call, a card, a text or a big hug and a Happy Birthday, so they are aware that YOU believe the day of their birth truly is a blessing!

Silly Adult - Brains Are For Kids

 My Baby Bunnies

In the summer of 2008, my dog, Kommit, a darling mischievous Boxer, found a bunny nest in the middle of our backyard. I saw her sniffing and pawing at the ground and when I went to investigate her curiosity, I found three tiny bunnies nestled in a hole in the ground. The bunnies couldn’t have been but a few days old, because their eyes weren’t even open and they barely had any fur. Needless to say, every morning at potty-time, Kommit made a bee-line for that nest.

I placed a few of my son’s orange miniature football cones around the nest so I would know ahead of time when she got near it, and when she got even remotely close to the cones, I warned her with a “No” and she would meander to another part of the yard.

 After about a week of this, when my husband and I were on our patio chatting– not paying any attention to the dogs, although Hayley, our older Boxer never bothered with the nest, we heard a high pitched squeal and when we looked toward the sound, we saw that Kommit had pulled a baby bunny out of the nest! We ran to the bunny, now squirming on the ground—Kommit had taken off like a bat out of hell in the opposite direction–she knew she had done something wrong! I picked up the little bunny and to my untrained eyes, it appeared okay, so I gently placed it back in its nest with its siblings.

 When I inspected the nest the next morning, to my utter regret, I found a dead bunny. I felt so sad, but what could I do? My dog was a rabbit killer, but she wouldn’t understand. My husband took the little bunny corpse and buried it beneath a tree. Now we only had two baby bunnies, but boy were they getting cute. Their naked little bodies had grown some gray fur and their ears were so tiny! They were black and lay close to their little heads and they felt like velvet.

 Every morning I would check on my two little tenants. I pulled back the dried grass that their mother had covered them with the night before and when I touched them, they bounced! They were like little Mexican jumping beans. Not only did I touch them, but I picked them up, too. I just couldn’t help myself–they were just too precious not to hold and pet. (It’s a fallacy that the mother rabbit will abandon her babies if she smells humans on them, by the way.) I also watched for the mother rabbit. Every night after dusk, she would hop to the nest and sit on it to feed her babies. There’s something magical about watching nature in action.

 During Operation Baby Bunny, I saw my niece, Miranda, who was four years old, and told her about our little visitors. “Miranda, we have baby bunnies in our back yard!” I excitedly told her in my best Aunt Pammy voice. 

“You do?” she asked with wide curious brown eyes.

 “Yes! And guess what?” My attempt at dragging out suspense always works on four year olds. “They bounce when I touch them!”

 “Aunt Pammy,” she said as she rolled her awe-inspiring brown eyes, “they’re practicing hopping.” Her tone informed me that ALL adults should know something THAT elementary.

 

It's Too Heavy

Children are very literal and they’re so full of animation and innocence. I’d love to bottle up those uncontaminated emotions and sell them. Wouldn’t Earth be a wonderful place if everyone could experience kindness and enthusiasm?

 When my oldest son was about two and a half years old I told him, “We have to run some errands.”

 He told me, “But I want to pway.”

 “I know. And as soon as we pick up Daddy’s truck, you can come home and play,” I explained.

 He looked at me with reservation in his big blue eyes then asked, “Isn’t that berry hebby?”

 At first I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. What was heavy? Then it hit me (the thought, not the truck)! The TRUCK was heavy and I just said we were PICKING IT UP!

“We’re not going to PICK UP Daddy’s truck. We’re going to GET it and DRIVE it home.” I clarified to my innocent little boy. That seemed to make much more sense to him, because he tucked his little German Shepherd stuffed animal under his arm, then followed me to our other vehicle.

He was perfectly content with getting the truck and DRIVING it home, but didn’t want to pick up that heavy thing!


 

Huge Dose Of Mom Guilt

I’m not a procrastinator, nor am I lazy, however, with Christmas then New Year’s…well let’s just say that my so-called normal routine went to the way-side and my dry-cleaning sat, stuffed in a bag on my laundry room floor. Now, you’re probably thinking, What’s the big deal?

 Well, the big deal is, my youngest woke me this morning at quarter after six, asking me for his dress clothes.

 I stumbled out of bed, got wrapped in my electric blanket wire and almost fell onto the floor, as I mumbled, “In my closet.” Fortunately Austin was standing there and caught me before I landed on the floor. “Why do you need them?” I asked him, because I was worried he had told me the night before and I had forgotten, which was totally out of character for me.

“We’re dressing up for the Basketball game today,” he explained, and as my sons often do, left out WHEN he found out he was dressing up and WHEN he had informed ME of this little plan.

“Help guide me to my closet so I don’t fall,” I told him. Fibromyalgia and early morning rising without proper muscle manipulation don’t mesh. My kids get this and thankfully are quite helpful. He took hold of the backs of my arms and followed me to my walk—in closet and stood by me as I found the garment bag with his dress clothes. Only problem…his white dress shirt was NOT in the garment bag. It was stuffed in my dry-cleaning bag. And THAT was on the floor in my laundry room! “Oh shit,” I cussed.

“What?”

 “Your dress shirt is a wrinkled mess! The only other one is this short-sleeved one.”

“That’s okay. I need a tie.”

 “You can’t wear a tie with this one because we don’t have one that matches it!” I began to panic, and when I do that, my voice tends to raise a few decibles. I blame this on my passion and in this situation my passion was my kid whose request I wanted to fill! “Can you wear a plain long sleeve shirt?” My brain was trying to kick into gear and come up with a solution.

“No, Mom, a DRESS shirt and tie.” I could hear the disappointment in the tone of his voice.

“Why am I only hearing about this NOW?” My frustration was growing by the second because I knew he was disappointed and I didn’t have a solution!

“Because they texted me last night, but I fell asleep and only read it this morning.”

“Shit!” I think that’s my favorite cuss word when I can’t think of anything else to say. “Well, you can’t wear your brother’s or your dad’s shirts because they would be huge on you.” Another plan shot to shit.

“I’ll just wear this,” he took the bluish-striped shirt and went to his room to dress.

 He came out of his room in his short-sleeved bluish-striped shirt, black dress pants and shoes and looked so handsome, and I told him so, I also added, “Have a great day, but be careful, those shoes will be slippy if there’s any ice!” The hyper-vigilance reared its ugly head once again—don’t think I’ll be slaying THAT dragon anytime soon!

“You too!” He yelled running out the door.

About twenty minutes later I get a text:

Austin: I look stupid 
Me: Why? 
Austin: Because I don’t have a tie 
Me: What should I do? 
Austin: Nothing, you can’t do anything about it 
Me: I have a black tie but that won’t look right. 
Austin: I honestly look stupid 
Me: Because of a tie?? 
Austin: And the shirt 
Me: Do you want a different shirt? 
Austin: I cant really change in school
 Me: In the bathroom. 
Austin: Too late…see ya later 
Me: I’m sorry. I love you. 

So, here I sit thinking about how my laziness, and yes that’s EXACTLY what it was, has made my kid FEEL stupid! If I had taken the time and dropped the dry-cleaning off at the cleaners, THIS never would’ve happened. I’m feeling a HUGE dose of guilt right now. And rightfully so. It’s MY fault. Yes, it was sprung on me at the last minute, BUT had I been prepared, my kid would have his white dress shirt and tie, just like all the other kids, and he wouldn’t be feeling stupid.

I know this too shall pass. But right now, this morning— this day, I suck.

When Austin comes home from school, we’ll talk, I’ll apologize, he’ll forgive me and it will be okay. But right now, I suck.

 I did learn my lesson though. I will NOT be lazy or procrastinate again. It’s not my MO and I don’t intend to do it again!

Lesson learned!


 

I Gender-Branded A Beanie Baby!

I was reading my friend Ron’s blog and he shared a video of a little girl, Riley, who was ticked off about companies who try to trick the girls into buying pink stuff!

Riley thinks that girls should be allowed to buy Superheroes and boys should be allowed to buy pink Princess toys. You need to watch the video, it’s absolutely priceless the way she expresses herself!

Stereotyping and gender-branding toys are common practice for toy manufacturers. If you look in the toy aisles all you see is PINK princess apparel. Where is the Warrior Princess with a sword and shield? Where is the Superhero with neutral colors, or goodness forbid, PINK? Instead of black, red or blue? Why is pink the color for girls and blue the color for boys? Why do we, as a society, accept these as the norm?

And why did I fall into the trap when my own son was four?

About fifteen years ago, I was buying a Beanie Baby, Chocolate, The Moose, for my then two year old niece, Danica. He was a cute moose with dark brown fur and flopping orange antlers. Dalan, who was four at the time, liked him, too, but grabbed Pegasus, a light-blue horse with a white main and tail and multi-colored wings, and said, “I want her.”

Totally NOT thinking, I blurted out, “That’s for girls, why don’t you pick a different one.”

He held onto that blue horse and said, “You’re buying Danica a moose, and that’s for boys.”

I stopped dead in my tracks and stared at my son with my mouth agape, but NOTHING came out, because HE was RIGHT! My gosh, I had gender-branded a freaken Beanie Baby to my child! And I didn’t even realize it until HE pointed it out to me!

 I had NO idea WHY I even said what I said, it just popped out of my mouth. What the hell was wrong with me? Where DID that thought even come from? If he had asked for a doll, I would’ve purchased him one. It was a HORSE! A pretty blue horse with rainbow-colored wings—but still, a horse, and I said it was for GIRLS! I needed my damn head examined!

After mentally berating myself, I said, “You’re right. ALL toys are for boys AND girls. Put the horse on the counter with the moose.”

After that incident, I NEVER gender-branded another toy... AGAIN!

Riley IS four and my son WAS four. Is there a connection with THAT particular age? Are they smarter at four than say… I was at thirty-one? Are we tainted as adults? After years and years of media and marketing brainwashing do we fall into the trap of pink, kitchens and dolls are for girls and blue, legos and guns are for boys?

I would like to believe that 21st century parents have evolved and will purchase whatever toy their child likes (not EVERY toy, just the TYPE!). It would just be nice if marketing representatives would get with the program and stop trying to trick us into purchasing what they THINK our children want, rather than what each individual child actually wants!

 Not every girl wants to be pink and frilly and not every boy wants to build stuff and pretend to blow it up.

 

How To Traumatize Your Kids At Christmas

I had some last minute gifts to grab, as usual. I’m not complaining, it’s what I do, just an FYI, for those of you who don’t know me too well. I showered, primped and grabbed a coffee, but it was decaf, as I’ve been having major palpitations lately and after seeing my doctor on Monday, discovered I have a heart murmur, so I need to schedule an echocardiogram along with my gynie doctor, dentist and mammogram—sheesh, I better get on the ball!

I digress.

No caffeine for me because that shit revs the hell out of my already racing heart and I don’t want it to explode. Not a good idea this time of year with so much going on and all. So I shopped with what energy my body could naturally muster, which wasn’t a whole lot, let me tell you. And I’ll have to disguise and wrap gifts using the same energy method. What? Oh, yes, I said DISGUISE gifts. That’s what I do. I need SOME fun now that my kids don’t believe in the old fat dude.

I mean seriously, what’s the use in wrapping, say, a video game, when your kid specifically asked for a video game, and he sees the box under the tree? He’ll know before he even opens the damn box! So, what is a mother to do? She is to hide it in a BIGGER odd-shaped box! That’s what.

 My kids are so onto me though that they don’t even bother shaking gifts anymore. I stuff boxes with newspaper and marbles so they have NO clue what’s inside until they actually rip the paper off and OPEN the box. Because I’ve been known to put their gifts in other boxes, like a box that once contained a set of hot rollers, or an empty Splenda box (I buy in bulk).

Last year, we got my then 13 year old a cell phone, which he wasn’t supposed to get until he was 16, but we broke our own rule (story for another day) so that really helped with the surprise. I added another line to my cell phone plan for him and bought him a phone, plus got a new free phone for my line, so my son saw MY new phone. When he opened HIS phone he actually thought it was MY cell phone BOX and was like, Just great Mom, what’s in here? When he saw the phone, he STILL wasn’t sure it was real and said, Why did you give me your old phone? I told him, Austin it’s YOURS. It’s NEW! It took a few seconds for it to sink in! I'm so glad I had that on video! It was freaken priceless! Although my husband says I’m mean and I traumatize them. I say it’s fun as hell and they’re fine. And anyway, they’re MY kids, so they already need therapy.

 This year, there is NO way I can disguise the one box for my youngest, so I’m going to type him little “hints” which I’ll place in little boxes and wrap. The first “hint” will be under the tree and it will tell him, in riddle form, where the next “hint” is. He will have to decipher the riddles of each “hint” in order to find his gift, which will be wrapped in a final “hiding spot”.

I did this with the weight set we purchased my oldest a few years back. It was too big to wrap, and if my husband had “built”  it, my son would've seen it before Christmas, so we left it in the bed of the truck and the riddle hints lead him to it. It worked out great, especially since it wasn't a bitter cold December! Lucky kid— traumatized my ass.

When I was a kid, I had to walk 20 miles UP a hill BOTH ways to and from school in twenty inches of snow with NO boots or mittens…and that’s when my kids tune me out.

So, yeah, I have to tease them. It’s called payback.

Hope you have FUN tricking wrapping and disguising gifts and traumatizing teasing your kids!