Girl Scout Cookies. The Bane Of My Existence.

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You can suck it.

The Kid is a Girl Scout. She has been since she was an adorable little Daisy at 5 years old. She used to LOVE the Girl Scouts. She’s 16 now and of course, she isn’t in love like she used to be. She’s hanging in there though because she only has another year left and let’s face it…it looks good on the dreaded college resume.

It is GS cookie time. It has been for over a week but I keep forgetting. Somehow the job of selling cookies always lands on my shoulders. She used to love going door to door (with me, of course) up and down the neighborhood streets. Asking people to support her troop.

She also wanted the cheesy awards you got if you met certain goals. You know those awards that probably didn’t cost more than 50 cents to make in some third world country? Totally worth it.

When she was old enough to start selling cookies, her form would be practically full. Now? There’s so much white space you can write an entire novel on it.

Anyway, I forgot about the cookies until someone posted something on Facebook about them. So, I wrote this status on my wall:

“Aww crap. I keep forgetting it’s Girl Scout cookie time. Ugh. If anyone wants any, let me know. But you have to be within driving distance because getting them to people is a major pain in my ass and after over 10 years of this I’m kinda done. How’s that for customer service? Lol! (sssh, don’t tell our troop leader…). But I will gladly place an order for you with a smile!! xoxo”

Yeah, I know it was snarky. I know my friends are going to say I’m being mean and bitchy. Maybe I was a little rough. But I’m not kidding when I say I’m done. You don’t even need to put a fork in me to tell. It’s obvious because I have the appearance of a piece of chicken that was left out on the barby for too long.

Girl Scouts is an absolutely awesome organization. I don’t regret for one minute, the day I signed up my little angel. She has learned about respect and commitment. She has formed great friendships. She can pop up a mean tent and make chicken parmesan out of a cardboard box oven that would rival that of Martha Stewart’s.

But anyone who knows me, knows that I am not a lover of volunteering. And it pretty much takes a village to run a troop. Yes, her leader is awesome and does 99% of the work (thank you Miss K. You have literally helped raise my child, I am forever grateful to you) but I believe I have paid my dues. Both figuratively and literally.

Years of being cookie mom, running magazine drives, filling out those address books so your troop can have an extra $2 added to the account, having to be a chaperone at meetings, encampments, field trips. The f*cking permission slips for every dang thing. My hand a throbbing hot mess after writing out multiple forms in a row. I swear it takes an hour for the blood to start circulating again.

After being involved in the Girl Scouts for almost 12 years, I am tired. I will give to the poor, I will volunteer my time at the soup kitchen, I will make coffee for the parishioners at church. But please don’t ask me to sell one more god darn Girl Scout cookie. I just can’t do it anymore.

So, who wants some? We have Trefoils, Do-si-dos, Thin Mints….

The Day She Stopped Believing In Santa Claus

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This time of year inevitably brings about the curiosity from children on the cusp of what to think of Santa. You can see it in their eyes. They aren’t quite sure what to do. Their brains start to wonder how it’s possible but yet they are afraid of the answer.

This is how it went down in my house when The Kid was on that very cusp about 7 years ago:

Her: Mom, is there a Santa Claus?

Me: Yes honey, of course there is.

Her: Mom, please. I’m asking you to tell me the truth.

Me: Well, what do YOU think?

Her: Mom, just tell me. Please…or I’m screwed.

Did our 9 year old just say “screwed?” Yes, yes she did.

After DH reprimanded her for using bad language and after I stopped laughing because come on, that was funny, I needed to know what she meant. There are a few different meanings to “screwed” and although I knew she wasn’t referring to the one “screwed” that I automatically think of because I have a dirty mind, I needed clarification.

Me: What do you mean by “screwed” exactly?

Her: Well, what am I going to tell my children? How will I know if there is a Santa or not if you don’t tell me the truth?

And that’s how it happened. It is known as “the night The Kid stopped believing in Santa” around here and it saddened me. A little.

There was a part of me that was happy the facade was over. No more lying to my kid’s face. No more having this big, fat lie of a man taking credit for all of my hard work. No more trying desperately not to slip up, hoping some loud-mouthed brat on the school bus wouldn’t break her heart.

But it was sad because it was the end of her innocence. She had stopped believing in the Tooth Fairy the year before and I’m not even sure she really ever understood the whole Easter Bunny thing. I’m not even sure I understood the whole Easter Bunny thing. That right there is just plain creepy. If I saw a large, life-sized rabbit hiding eggs in my house, I’d probably stab him with a kitchen knife.

Because a fat man in a red suit coming out of my flue like a raccoon who went into the wrong hole is any less creepy. The only reason I wouldn’t stab him with a kitchen knife is because he is bearing gifts. Eggs? I don’t need to elaborate.

But I digress.

I knew it was coming. I’m pretty sure she was a little apprehensive the prior year. I could sense it. I’m guessing she was afraid to say she didn’t believe anymore for fear of receiving fewer presents. Little did she know it really wouldn’t have made a difference. One of the perks of being an only child? Maybe.

Even though she doesn’t believe in Santa anymore, she believes. She believes in the magic. The love and the generosity. The giving and of course, the receiving. And now that she’s driving? The crowds and the traffic.

Santa may be a lie, but only in that there is no fat man in a red suit flying all over the world delivering toys (damn, kids are gullible). But the spirit of Santa, what he stands for, is alive and kicking.

Merry Christmas my friends. Let the spirit of Santa be within you. And if your kids hate you for lying to them for the past 9 years? Eh. They are going to probably hate you in about 4 years anyway, so get used to it.

 

The Stage of Invincibility or Welcome To the Teen Years

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I remember when The Kid was an infant and I was carrying her around in one of those convertible car seat numbers. DH and I were at this store where they sell plants. I don’t know why because my thumb is just about as green as a carrot, but there we were.

A lovely woman walked up to me and said, “Enjoy this stage because it’s the easiest.” I looked at her like she was nuts.

I was in the throe’s of midnight feedings, witching hours and projectile vomit. Not to mention the dairy factory hanging from my chest that made more milk than was demanded. There was no way in hell that she knew what she was talking about.

It turns out, she did know what she was talking about. She was totally and completely 110% correct. The terrible twos were just that. And the threes were beyond awful. I didn’t think anything could be as hard as the threes.

But alas…there was something. The Teen Years. It’s like trying to pass a rock through your rectum. It’s really hard.

I remember being a teen. I sucked. Although my teen isn’t as horrible as I was, she’s still a teen. I will put money down that even Mother Teresa wasn’t all that great when she was 16. Okay, maybe she was. Bad example.

I’m talking about the attitude. You know the one? Yeah, that. Sometimes I fear her. My kid. The kid I pushed out of my down below. The kid I gave life to. The kid who is 31 years younger than me and weighs as much as that one persistent chin hair that keeps appearing out of nowhere.

When I ask a simple question like, “did you do your homework or empty the dishwasher,” I am met by Sybil, the girl with 16 personalities. Accompanied with the ever-present eye-roll. The eye-roll that is universally understood. It says, “I hate you, you are annoying, now go away.”

On top of that, there’s the worry. It was so easy when you knew exactly where they were. Which was usually within yards of us.

There was the quiet fear of injuries from jumping on beds or if they were going to decide to play Hide & Seek when you turned your back for 2 seconds at Kohl’s. Instantly turning us moms into crazed lunatics, screaming for our children, thinking they were gone forever, when they were merely feet away, mocking us from under a clothes round.

These days there are boys (or girls), and cars, and drugs, and alcohol everywhere.  Not to mention social media. Hoping they don’t befriend some deranged stranger who may come and chop her up into little pieces behind the mall.

All these things make you worry so bad, the grays are doing double-time. The wrinkles making a map to Hell on your forehead.

There is also the very simple, scientifically proven fact that teenagers’ brains aren’t fully developed; therefore, allowing them to truly feel they are invincible. This little scientific fact lasts until a human is into their twenties. God help us.

So, what is my advice to survive this stage that is called Teen-dom?

  1. A thick skin
  2. Advil
  3. Strong vodka
  4. Enough patience to make Job (you know, that guy from the bible?) seem like a toddler
  5. Prayer

Other than all that, teens are great. You know, if you like to sit through the same episode of *Caillou 2,000 times while someone is hitting you in the face with a mallet.

Okay, so I’m exaggerating a little. Perhaps the mallet isn’t necessary.

*For those of you who are blissfully unaware of who Caillou (kie-you) is, he is an annoying and whiney little 4-year old who was created to make the lives of parents everywhere absolute hell on earth.

I Am Suffering From a Big A.S.S. Problem

Note: This is not a book review

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I just finished reading a book. It’s not a book that was on my list. It’s not even a book that I ever wanted to read. It’s a book that The Kid has been trying to get me to read for months. She swore it would be the “best book ever.” It’s called “The Fault In Our Stars.”

So I read it. Mostly because she wouldn’t get off my back. Just so you know, she’s just about right. It’s not the best book I’ve ever read, but it was pretty damn good.

Anyway, for those of you who are unaware, this book is about a young girl who is dying of cancer. She is an only child.

I came to a sentence in the book where the dying child overhears her mother say to her father, “I won’t be a mom anymore.” Those 6 little words sucked the air right out of me.

I came across that line while waiting for The Kid to finish her physical therapy session. Physical therapy that she has to do twice a week until she gets the strength back in her left leg. One of only a couple of traces left from her accident.

I picked up my head to watch my only child across the room working diligently so she can go back to doing what she loves the most — irish dancing.

And I thought about that little sentence that held such power. With everything I went through the night of the accident, that never occurred to me. If we weren’t so lucky…I can’t make myself say it, so I won’t.

But we were so lucky. So incredibly lucky. I sit in disbelief some days at how lucky we were. How lucky we are.

I have been struggling with my daughter’s accident. This struggle goes against who I am. I am the type of person who gets over things easily and adjusts to change quickly. I forgive, I forget, I move on. I get over crap. I just do.

I watched in horror as my brother almost drowned when I was four. I moved with my family 12 times in as many years because my father was in the service. I was bullied and threatened when I was a young girl. I experienced the tragic loss of friends. I witnessed my child have a febrile seizure when she was 2 years old.

But this? This is a tough one. The first week was the worst. Of course. Then I seemed to be fine. I was. I was fine. And then I wasn’t…fine. Some friends told me, when it first happened, that I need to watch out for PTSD. And that I may want to see a therapist if I suspect that I am suffering from it.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? That’s ridiculous. Isn’t PTSD only for people who actually experienced something bad? I mean, I wasn’t the one hit by the car. And I didn’t actually see the accident. I wasn’t right there. So I can’t visualize it.

Except I can. I “see” it. All the time. I remember the voice of her friend who called me. The terror on the girls’ faces. I remember how frightened my child was. The blood. The ambulance. ICU. My dead cell phone. The adrenaline. I remember the details. All the little details.

I keep going over and over the “what ifs.” What if she was turned a little to the left, or a little to the right? What if she took bigger steps? Or smaller steps? What if the car hit her in a different place on her body? What if the vehicle was going faster? What if she landed differently?

Then I remember her guardian angels. That she was saved and protected. She had to have been. The car that struck her was doing 40 miles an hour. Forty. Why did she walk away from this accident with just a small head injury and minimal damage to a limb?

Was it for a reason? I believe it was. I’m sure the reason will reveal itself in time. That’s a big question that deserves an even bigger answer.

But for now, I struggle. I can’t forgive the city. I need to forgive the city. Because I love the city. I have always loved the city. And I would like to go there without that fear.

I am angry at Lorde. Even though it’s not her fault. We are the ones who purchased the tickets.  We are the ones who let them walk to meet us. I’m sorry Lorde, for this displaced anger. You are really cool. You are an awesome role model. My daughter adores you. I support her adoration for you. I even like your music.

I can’t forget that feeling of dread I had. That feeling, I fear, will never go away.

The guilt. Why wasn’t I there at that moment? If I was there, I would have stopped her from crossing the street. I would have protected her as I have for the past 16 years.

Some of my thoughts are illogical. I know this. But some of these thoughts seem to be beyond my control.

I saw a therapist last week. Because even though I really don’t think I’m suffering from PTSD, I’m suffering from something. I want to learn how to shut it out, how to deal with it in a more manageable way. To quiet my mind. To move on.

I shared with her all of my fears, my anger, the weird decisions I made, my thought processes, my guilt.

Guess what? It’s normal. All of it is normal. It’s what the professionals call Acute Stress Syndrome or Acute Stress Disorder.

I will get over it. I will stop seeing the accident when I look at my daughter. I will stop hearing her friend’s voice in my head when I close my eyes at night. I will stop worrying that every siren I hear is for her. This feeling of dread will go away. I will enjoy the city again. I will be able to hear a Lorde song without thinking of that night.

Umm, well actually. That last one may not be true. I mean, that was the reason we were in the city in the first place. So, yeah. That may take some time.

September of 2014 is a chapter in my life that will always be there. But I have turned the page and am now in the chapter of healing myself. And since my therapy session, because I was given the tools to move on, I am feeling better. I just take it one step, one day at a time.

Chin Hairs, Memory Loss and a Boyfriend?

Unknown-1Just when I didn’t think there could be any way I could feel older, I found a way. Or, actually, the way found me. “What is this way so I can avoid it,” you ask? It’s called, “Your Kid Gets a Boyfriend (or Girlfriend).”

Forget the crows feet and the laugh lines. Forget the creaking bones and the pee that leaks out of you every time you move. Forget the droopy eyelids and the gray hairs. Yeah, that’s got nothing on the boyfriend thing.

I knew it was coming. We always thought she was too young to date before, but she’s 16 now. Short of locking a chastity belt to her and triple padlocking the door to her room, we knew we’d have to let go. And the time to let go has come.

Now, for those of you who have yet to go through it, let me explain a couple of things. Because quite apparently, I’m stuck in the prehistoric age. Just call me Wilma. I had to get educated. You know, learn the lingo.

First, they were a “thing.” Actually, I think they were friends and then a “thing.” The friend bit I understand. No problem. Glad they did that before they got to the 3rd stage. I said 3rd stage, not 3rd base. **shudder** Get your ears cleaned. (Yes, I know what 3rd base is, kid. I wasn’t born yesterday.)

A “thing” sounds kinda weird, but I learned that it’s better than “hooking up.” No, no. You don’t want your daughter (or son) to hook up with anyone. I’m pretty sure “hooking up” means exchanging more than just spit in the bodily fluids department. But with no commitment.

In other words, hooking up is kind of slutty behavior. So, if you are a hooker upper and are reading this, then I apologize. No, I don’t. Stop hooking up. Hooking up is hooker’ish.

But a “thing” is the stage between friendship and dating, or going out. From what I can gather a “thing” means you like each other more than friends but are not ready to start dating yet. Just to clarify, there is no hanky-panky. From what I’m told.

Dating and going out. I remember those words from my era. I mean, I don’t much remember dating itself because let’s face it, that was an eternity ago. You know, when we used rocks to open coconuts and well, rocks to do anything because that’s all we had. That and twigs.

So, why does this make me feel old? Because dang, people, it just does. I mean, my baby is growing up. She’s got a boyfriend. She’s probably going to start kissing this boyfriend. I have the feeling that this kissing is not the same as giving air kisses to her little friend Jimmy in the ball pit when she was 2. Besides, I was 16 once. Also, I’m not dead.

But, I will not be handing my old 1984 copy of “Forever” to her. She will not be learning about sex from Katherine and Michael.

No, our sex talk will go something like this…”so, once upon a time, there was this nice boy and this nice girl and they got married. The end.” Now, if that won’t scare away her new boyfriend, I don’t know what will.

I jest. He’s a very nice boy. I completely approve. Still, don’t move too fast buddy. I’ve got eyes all over town including the one in the back of my head. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Also, you two should talk on the phone. Like, the real phone. The one connected to the land. Because the one thing that would make me really, super double approve, is if you make me feel young again. So, please. Tie up the phone lines. It would make my day. 1984 style. But without “the book.”

Hormones vs. Hormones

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I woke up in a bad mood this morning. A real bad mood. Even the text to my mother was full of venom. I’m pretty sure she was praying. Thanking the good Lord that she was 639.59 miles away. Safely tucked away in the sweet plains of The South.

I don’t know why I woke up this way. I just did. It happens. So, when I told The Kid to empty the dishwasher, she replied through gritted teeth with a “PLEEEASSSE???” You know, the kind of “please” you say to your two year old when she demands a lollipop.

This was probably not the best day to get snarky on me. Peri-menopausal women are a force to be reckoned with. “Force” as in an Uzi With A Vagina. But what does she know? She’s only 16. So much to learn. Poor thing.

What was my reply? “I don’t think so, child. This is your chore. Why I feel the need to remind you to do your chore is beyond me. So no, I will NOT SAY PLEASE!”

When she was done with her chore, I told her she had an attitude and that I didn’t like it. “Mom, can I say something to you?” she asked.

The previous night I was at the high school for a seminar. It was about drug awareness. Three kids from our town came to speak about their drug and alcohol addictions. A child professional got up and spoke for a bit. One of the things he said is to listen to your child. Never dismiss her.

Usually when I am in this type of foul mood, I would say something really stupid and completely against what all child development people would recommend saying. They would not only cringe at my reaction, but would probably have my kid in some kind of therapy for the next 20 years.

When I am in this mood, it would sound something like this: “no, you can’t say anything because whatever you say right now will not help you. Now go upstairs and get ready for school.” But I didn’t. I stopped and I thought before I spoke. I know, this is a shocker. My mouth is usually louder and faster than my brain.

“Yes, you may.” I nearly had a heart attack at my own reaction. “Mom, why is it every time YOU’RE in a bad mood, we have to suffer?” I looked around for DH. So sure he was hiding in the shadows with a $20 bill.

I was rendered speechless. This is the second “attack” I’ve had from my family in a week. I use the word “attack” loosely. It was more like an awakening. The first time, when we were in the car going somewhere, it was what I like to refer to as a “come to Jesus” meeting. Except I’m the only one who didn’t get the memo. “We think you are going through menopause and we don’t like it. You’ve kind of been mean lately.”

They were as nice as they could be about it. But I sit here thinking about these occurrences. Yes, I have been pretty bitchy around here. Not always. I’m not one of those raging lunatics who should probably be committed. But I have my moments. Perhaps a little more than less lately.

And I know why. Sure, hormones play a part in it. I was born hormonal. You should have seen me as a teen. Think Regan without the complete head turn. Damned as I tried, I could only get my head to go 3/4 of the way around.

I haven’t been taking care of myself as well as I should. I stopped exercising. Exercise plays a huge part in feeling good. It’s got something to do with endorphins. Endorphins are your best friend. But I digress.

Whatever the reason, it’s not a good enough one to treat the people you love the most in this world the worst. No, I seem to save my best mood for everyone else. Friends, strangers, people who I try too hard with.

So, in my eye-opening last two weeks, I’ve decided that I need to lighten up on the closest people to me — my family. I can still be great to my friends. Kind to strangers. Civil to everyone else.

I’m going to save my good energy for my people. The people who, even though I act like Sybil at times, still love me back and never give up on me. Even in my peri-menopausal semi-crazed rage.

With that being said, we are still allowed to get upset with our children when they don’t listen. When they don’t do what we ask them to do. Perhaps I don’t need to spit blood, but I can be a little exasperated. And I’ll try to keep the Regan to a minimum. I promise.

The Birds and The Bees As Told By Katherine & Michael

It’s safe to say that I grew up with a fairly unconventional mother. Sure, she was young. 21 when she had me. That was still the generation when women were getting married out of high school and popping out babies pretty much as they were saying “I do.”

So, she wasn’t the only young mother on the block. Still, when I think of all my friends’ mothers, mine was pretty much one of a kind. You can take that either way. There is no right or wrong answer by the way.

She was very much unlike her own mother who was a complete kook. You know, making shit up like “you only get three orgasms in your lifetime, so be careful how you use them.”

Doing things like sniffing the crotch of her only daughter’s underwear to see if she could detect the scent of semen (this coming from a woman who only had 3 orgasms in her lifetime? How she could differentiate between semen and hollandaise sauce is beyond me).

Running into an old friend at a wake and yelling out across the room, “HEY AGNES, I HAVEN’T SEEN YOU SINCE OUR TWATS WERE FACING EACH OTHER IN THE DELIVERY ROOM!!”

Ok, so that last one was a little reminiscent of something my mother would do. And she once told me someone died in my childhood bedroom. But other than that, nothing alike. Just had to get that in. Maybe one day I’ll tell you other reasons why I not only believe this, but know this. It’s a good story.

At the age of 10, my mother turned to me. In front of my entire family. In the living room. On a commercial break. During the “The Waltons.” And said, “please make sure you come tell me when you are ready for sex and I’ll get you on birth control.”

Say what and come again? I’m 10, mom. Please. Now if you don’t mind I would like to finish brushing Barbie’s hair. She’s getting ready for the ball. Ken is taking her (umm, to the ball, not uh..well, you know). Ooh, I think I get it now. Sorry, a little slow on the uptake.

Fast forward 4 years. I was in a conversation with a group of girls in the locker room at school. They were talking about blow jobs. “Oh yeah, gag me with a spoon!” I replied. Completely not letting on that I had no idea what they were talking about.

It was something you do when you get your hair done, right? Except it didn’t feel like it was something you do when you get your hair done.

So, I asked my mom when I got home. After all, I wasn’t afraid to. She said I could talk to her about anything. “Hey mom, what’s a blow job?”

“Oh honey. I have something I’ve been saving for you,” was her reply. She left the kitchen only to come back holding a book a few moments later. Oh great, she was going to give me a reading assignment.

This was back in the day when I would scan the pages of “Black Beauty” and brag about how great the book was. When I say “scan” I mean wave it in front of my face like one of those Japanese fans they hand out in church on a hot day.

What was this book she wanted me to so desperately read? “Forever” by Judy Blume. I heard of Judy Blume. She was that children’s writer. What the hell was she giving me a kid’s book for? “Here, read this. Come to me with any questions you have.”

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So I read it. Cover to cover in less than a week. I did not scan it. I did not use it as a fan. I did not pass Go. I did not collect $200. I read it. The whole damn thing.

Well, hello teen porn. How do you do? This was nothing like the time I walked over the highway to Carrie Hoadley’s house on a Thursday afternoon to watch the XXX movie we found in her dad’s closet. That scared me so bad, I was certain I would die childless.

Judy Blume? This was different. It just was. Probably because I didn’t visually see anything that permanently scarred the insides of my eyeballs.

So, that was pretty much my sex talk. I’m sure mom told me about fallopian tubes and periods and how babies grew. But I don’t remember. All that comes back to me when I think about the mother/daughter all-important coming-of-age discussion is Katherine.

Rock on Katherine. That does not mean I give permission for The Kid to ever act out in this way before she’s, what? 29? Pfft. That’s silly. I am very hip after all. And totally contemporary. 28 would be completely acceptable.

 

The Epidemic of Mother Guilt

It's a conspiracy
It’s a conspiracy

We moms talk about guilt. Every single mother I know suffers or has suffered from it. In one form or another. Whether they had a single episode or have experienced chronic guilt. It happens to us all. It’s pretty much an epidemic. I mean, seriously. Every time a bout of it flares up, we should be quarantined.

We feed off of each other. “Oh my god, little Johnny wet his bed last night. It’s totally my fault. I yelled at him two Wednesday’s ago because he tried to feed his goldfish the meatball sandwich I was saving for my husband’s late night snack. I scarred him for life. I’m the worst mother EVER!”

“Oh, don’t feel bad, let me tell you what I did…” As if it’s a competition. My guilt is worse than your guilt. And the winner is…umm, I hate to break it to you, but we’re all winners.

I have the habit of labeling my forehead with a big “L” as in LOSER with my forefinger and thumb. Like I’m twelve or stuck in 1985 or something. “I’m such a loser mom. I’m totally getting Mother of the Year.” I mean, how many of these damn awards are there? How can we ALL be recipients of the most prestigious award known to mothers? Apparently, it’s possible.

Mother guilt causes sleepless nights, crying jags, severe regret. We take away their phones, tell them they can’t go to a party they’ve been dying to go to, ground them for a month, take the car away, send them to their rooms without supper, put their favorite doll up on a shelf. All because they broke a rule.

But they broke the rule. Not us. So, why do we have to suffer? Why do we feel bad?

Remember when our parents would punish us and they would say, “this hurts me more than it hurts you?” And we would give them the stink eye because we couldn’t believe they totally just said that. I mean, if that’s the truth, then just don’t punish us, right?

And then we would get punished for giving them the stink eye. But I digress.

Well, now the torch has been passed. And we finally, finally, finally get it. They were telling the truth. It does hurt us more than it hurts them. Because they freaking get over it. For us, it lingers. Like when you eat enough garlic to raise the dead. Seeping out of your every pore. Except sometimes way longer.

We feel bad because we love them unconditionally. We love our little crotch fruit with every fiber of our being. Let’s face it, the feeling isn’t likewise. Sure they love us. That goes without saying. But when we die, they will get over it. Eventually. That’s the way it should be. Dang, I’m digressing again. Sorry.

So, should we stop the Mother Guilt? Yes, we should. Will we? No, we won’t. Because we can’t dammit. We just can’t. Like I said, it’s an epidemic. It can’t be stopped. And our children will always do something to piss us off. It’s a vicious circle. With no way off. So, enjoy the ride. And I’ll be sure to pass along my crown to you.

Him vs. Me

Teenagers. They are full of Anguish, Hormones and Attitude. AHA. Except it ain’t so satisfying.

“Empty the dishwasher,” says me. “Okay mommmmmm, I will!!! You like already told me like 12 times!” Exactly.

“Hey, there must be a nice place in your room to put your shoes,” says him. “Hee-hee. Dad, you’re so funny!”

It’s 10pm on a school night. I really want her to go to bed because it was getting late. “Are you done with your homework yet?” I ask. “Geez, mom. NO! I’m trying, all right?? I have to finish THISSSSS!!!!” I think I actually saw her head spin on her shoulders.

“Umm, love bug? Maybe you should go take a shower and get ready for bed now?” says him. “Okay, dad. I think I may not wash my hair tonight so I can get to sleep early.” Hmm. Why didn’t I think of that? And I swear I actually heard her eyelashes flutter.

What’s up with that?

Who spent…okay so I wasn’t in labor for an eternity like some women. But still. She passed through my lady parts and ripped all kinds of shit. And it hurt. But who gave her life? Okay, so I couldn’t have done it without the sperm part. But I nourished her and carried her and got fat for her.

Who feeds her chicken soup when she has a cold and holds her hair when she’s puking? Who helped her bathe after her accident when she could hardly move? Who does she go to for girl advice? Or when she needs a shoulder to cry on?

Me. That’s who. So, she’s a little snappish. So what. She’s just like me. Full of hormones and attitude. I’ll take her like this. She may be daddy’s girl, but she’s my girl too. And really, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Okay, maybe a little less of the head spinning…

 

Yellow Back Seats

keep-calm-and-pee-your-pants-4I want to apologize for not really being around. Besides my little Jeter post the other day, I’ve been out of commission. I’m not sure most of you know what happened. I talked about it on my Facebook page but I know not all of you follow me there.

The Kid was struck by a car a couple of weeks ago. She’s okay now. We had a scary night in ICU where I lost 20 years off my life, but she is a miracle really and is doing really, really great. So, now it’s back to normal. It’s good to be back.

I was reminded of a story from a very good friend of mine. This friend has been in my life since 1979. Probably the one person, besides my family, who I have known the longest.

As you know, I was supposed to be on the Dr. Oz show. I commented on my Facebook page about how I was going to pee my pants because I was so nervous. This has nothing to do with anything about what I am going to talk about, but since when do I not get off topic at least once during a post?

I never made it to the Dr. Oz show because the accident happened the night before. I know, tough decision. The Kid or Dr. Oz. Hmm. I mean I was in the city anyway. I’m kidding people.

So, getting back to my pee story from my youth. I have several pee stories but this one is particularly funny.

I was about 15 years old. I was hanging out with my oldest friend when her mom offered to take us to the local high school parking lot to let us practice driving. Yes, we were underage and without a permit but I think because of statute of limitations or something, all involved are protected.

My dear, oldest friend was a terrible driver (sorry J, but you did fail your driver’s test, remember? Was it twice? Hmm?). I was in the back seat, J and her mother were in front. Driving with J was like being on one of those bucking bronco guys set on the highest setting. I was being thrown all over the backseat (yes, this was also before seat belts were a big deal. And yes, I’m that old).

I tried so hard to hold it in, but I just couldn’t. I never laughed so hard. Okay, so that’s a lie. I have laughed as hard and peed too. Because I have a problem. And the problem has gotten worse since I bore my child because we all know what children do to our bodies.

Anyway, I let it out. All of it. All over the vinyl seat. But I didn’t worry. I knew it would dry up nice since it was vinyl. No one would notice. Except it was my turn to drive. When I got out and J’s mom climbed into the backseat so me and Jen could be up front, she saw it.

And gave out an, “Oh Mo! Not again!” Yes, again. I had done this before on her dining room chair, in her yard, on the floor. My friend J has this ability to make me laugh hard. Even now I have to strap on a Depends if I’m going to see her. Her laugh alone makes me lose it.

So yes, I have a problem. And I have many, many more stories just like that one. So please. If you are going to plan on being funny and making me laugh, just warn me ahead of time so I’m prepared. I should probably just start carrying around a diaper bag. Should I have it monogramed?

As far as my friend J is concerned? I hope you all have a J in your life. J’s are awesome. Love you girl.