The Sassy Uterus

Religious Encounters

When the phone rang at work last week and the caller ID read, "St. Martin de Porres" I just about soiled myself.  I was feeling pretty special until I answered the phone and the caller said, "Oh, I must have gotten the wrong number."  Well, pooh.  I was all set to ask some really important questions about the meaning of life and what to expect in the afterlife. 

Now, to me, St. Martin de Porres is a big deal.  He was a favorite saint of my Grandfather.  We have a name in common (Martin).  And of course, I was raised Catholic and really being Catholic is in your blood.  You can run, but you can't hide.  If you come from a long line of Catholics, which I do, you are Catholic.  Our local parish is all about telling us we aren't true Catholics unless we're practicing (going to Mass, going to Confession, receiving Sacraments, praying as a family, so on and so forth).  Well, I disagree, which is not the first time for me and them.  We agree to disagree a lot.  At least that is how it goes in my head.  At any rate, I can't escape Catholism because it is like being Portuguese or German or whatever.  It's in your blood.

But of course, they have policies, the Church, not the Faith, that I disagree with, some of them vehementally.  I won't list them here, but anybody who knows me, knows that I'm pretty liberal and there you have it. 

However, I feel a kinship with the saints and of course with the Virgin Mary.  And I have little religious Virgin Mary stuff around the house, not a lot, but a few.  I have five kids, I need all the help I can get.

But over Christmas, when my family and my sister's family who were staying with us (read: 9 kids in one house) one of mine and one of her's were throwing a WebKinz fish around and lo and behold, it sent my little 4" tall Mother Mary (complete with Baby Jesus in her arms) off the top of my computer desk hutch.  Again, I just about soiled myself.  Until I saw that she caught her fall by delicately placing her dead in the dustpan that was on top of the broom...which was leaning against the wall behind my computer hutch.  Now what are the odds?  Can you spell M-I-R-A-C-L-E? 

Now I may be an UN-practicing Catholic by some diocese's standards but I know a religious experience when I see one.  I also know a photo op when I see one and this was one that was golden (read: photos will sell like hotcakes on eBay...mostly to Catholics who live in other countries if you get my drift, which you probably don't, which is really your loss...if we were sitting together and I was telling you this story it would get real UN-P.C. in a hurry).  So we took lotsa pics.  Lotsa pics.  I was envisioning the line that would form out my door, across my yard, and down the sidewalk of my suburban street as people camped out (hells yes, these folks would be camping out the line was gonna be so long) as they waited for their opportunity to PAY to see the miraculous statue that saved itself.

One little problem.

On closer examination, it seemed that Mother Mary saved herself, however, baby Jesus lost a head.  Lost his poor head clear off his body.  I freaked the 'eff out y'all.  I went crazy-lady-from-the-Penecostal-church nuts, hollering and hooting and getting my brother-in-law (who was once identified as a member of a church that strictly is against statues and idolatry and all that stuff us Catholics love and justify) to search behind the desk for the head---His head.

I mean, this was bad shit for me.  It went from "Our Christmas Miracle" to "Holy Shit, what does this mean?" I mean, how bad of an UN-practicing Catholic do you gotta be to have that sort of beheading happen in your home?  My mind was spinning and reeling and I was 100% showing my ADHD as I went from:

"I must be a really bad Catholic," to "Find His head!  Find His head!" to "Wasn't the crucifixion bad enough?  Now this!" to "Is she trying to tell me I'm a selfish mother who puts herself before the children?" to "The kids...the kids did this.  They always say that video games are making our children more violent," in all about, oh, hmmm, five seconds. 

My UN-practicing Jehovah's Witness brother-in-law found the head.  My father, after wryly commenting on the irony that a fish (WebKinz fish) was responsible for the beheading, went in search of the glue. 

He came back with the head in one hand, the statue in the other, and unless he had grown a third hand out his ass and put the superglue in that paw, NO GLUE.  "Where's the glue Dad?  Huh, where's the effing glue?!"  He couldn't find it.  He didn't know why it wasn't where he last left it.  He remembers exactly where it was.  It didn't make sense.  He couldn't figure it out.  Well, I could.  It made perfect sense.  I knew exactly who had took it--that's right, the devil. 

Well, we overcame and found glue (eventually) and the head is back on the body and I still feel like I need to repent everytime I tell this story, but being that I'm just a heathen in some Church's eyes (I'm staring out the corner of my eyes towards the church due Southwest of my home), that will have to be done at home.

This is why, y'all, you are NOT supposed to have religious renderings in your very human home where very clumsy things can happen.   Sorry baby Jesus.  My brother-in-law (same one that found the head) thought my "Baby Jesus" rantings were quite funny, in a "Ricky Bobby Talladega Nights" sort of way.  Haa...haaa.  Whatever.  The head is back on the body now. 

Just beautiful....

My mother's side of the family tree has been shaken quite a bit lately with the illness of my uncle and a rather serious health incident with my grandmother, all within two weeks time.  Quite frankly, trips to the ICU at Stanford and later to the ER at the local hospital have have me feeling like the shit has been kicked out of me.

I am trying to pace myself.  Take it one day at a time.  One hospital at a time.  And most of all, I'm trying to make sure I get enough sleep.  And as far as sleep is concerned, I'm doing good.  It's the waking-up that is a bit more trying.

This morning I had all five of my kids in my face, albeit at seperate times, thank God.  First it started with one boy-child who shall remain nameless for the sake of his pride.  He didn't even wait for my eyes to open before launching into his monologue, "So, uh, mom.  Are you awake?  Listen, I think I slept kinda deep last night.  You know how I was sleeping on the couch?  Yeah, well, I must have slept deep because I think I pee'd on the couch."  NOW, my eyes are open as well as my mouth, "You better clean it up and clean it up the right way."  Sad, but all children in my household, over the age of 4 know how to clean up their nighttime wees.  I am only one woman and I have to contend with five children who all at some time in their life, past or present, has experienced night-time incontinence.  For one particular child, that lasted for eight years.  So yeah, they had to learn how to clean up after themselves.

So as that name-withheld child goes to work cleaning up what may have been his wee-wee from the night before, the next boy child comes in and does this to my face (My eyes are closed again):

"Mom.  Mom.  Mom.  Hey.  Mom.  Hey mom.  Can I have a chocolate-chip muffin mom?  Mom?  Mom?  MOM?!"

The response is a lot more white-trash that I intended but I think I answered him with, "Fine, shit, please get out of my face.  I'm exhausted."  But wait, there's more.  As that child runs out of the room, the baby who WAS sleeping next to me starts to wake up.  Beautiful.

Next is Cassidy, who is telling me she is giving me a pet.  And for some reason, in order for her to give me that pet, she has to clear off the top of a chest by the doorway and set up her castle, little doll people, little car for little doll people, and in so doing, take everything that was up there (clean clothes, etc) and throw them on the floor.  The baby is entirely awake now.

But I'm an optimist.  A really, really tired optimist so I close my eyes again, hoping for just five more minutes.  Just five.  It's a Saturday, so I can get five right?

Wrrrroooonnnnggg!  Skyler, who I am convinced must have been waiting outside my doorway, waiting for the exact moment my eyes closed, enters and starts his barrage, "Mom, listen, I'm really sorry about yesterday.  I know I acted like an ass."  He likes to slip in PG-13 swear words now, I can't imagine why.  "And I know I should have been more sensitive about your Grandma having what may have been a stroke.  And I know it was rough on you to see her in the ER like that.  So I feel really bad.  Can you plug me back in now?" 

He's speaking of his internet cord, which got yanked from the modem last night after I lost it over his sheer selfishness and teenage boy attitude.  Listen, I'd love to have a better way to say this, but he did act like a complete ass and he did so, of course, at a time when I was most vulnerable and open for pain. Sooooo, "No, I"m not plugging you back in."  And he gets all exasperated on me, "Mom, why?  Why?  I told you I feel bad.  Why?"  And I just repeat, "I'm not plugging your internet in."  "God Mom why?  Please, c'mon, I promise I'll be better."  "Still no Skyler," I respond.  And him, being the wheeler and dealer that he is, decides it is time for a counter-offer, "Well, can I play WOW on Dad's computer then?"  Yeah, sure, I'm going to deny you internet access and ground you from YOUR computer so I can undermine my OWNSELF and let you play on your father's computer.  I may be asleep but I'm not drunk, at least not yet.  Only kidding....  So he gets denied once again and he exits my room in true pissed off-teenage boy fashion.  Whatever, don't let the door hit you in the ass.

I gave up after that and decided it was time to just face the chaos.  We worked our way through the day, he earned himself two hours of internet by being compliant and helpful.  But I still do worry about him.

Tonight, as I was giving Isaac his bath I smelled a pretty smell.  I do a sensory check...is it the Baby Shampoo?  Nope.  Is it Dr. Bronner's Mild Baby Soap?  Nope, although it does smell good.  Was it the Salonpas wintergreen-y smelling patches I had on my lower back earlier?  Definitely not.  And I knew it couldn't be the clorox wipes Phil had just used on the bathroom floor prior to Isaac's bath.  I write it up to just a combination of smells.

But then when I was dressing Isaac after his bath, I smelled it again.  It smelled like my perfume.  And I love that smell.  But why was I smelling it?  Cassidy was already in bed asleep and she is usually the culprit for all make-up and perfume-related misdemeanors in this house.

Skyler walks up to me and it is strong.  S-T-R-O-N-G.  So I have to ask, "Why am I smelling my perfume?"

He answers, "Oh, 'cause I was wondering what it smelled like so I sprayed it on my arm."  Okaayyyy.  Then he says, "Now I'm kinda mad because I really smell like it and now I know it isn't cologne."  Well, duh.  I asked him, "How could you think it was cologne?"  He said, "It looked like cologne." 

"Skylerrrr," I say, "It says Beautiful on the bottle."  "Oh, " he says, "I did not see that."  Beautiful.

Family Makeover

I think we need a makeover and like I've stated before, I am oh-so-good at the makeover part, but not on being consistent with the new pattern I've started.  I'm an innovator, a starter, an idea-person.  The part where I have to actually implement changes on a day-to-day basis and in an (ugh) consistent manner---well I fail miserably at that. I can be spectacular the first two days.   Then I get distracted.  Damn shiny ideas..always my downfall.

But the kids haven't lifted a finger today, nor have I, and this house could use all the help it could get.  Baby Isaac is exempt, of course, being that he's 9-months-old.  Luckkkyyyy.

I wonder if I should enlist the help of an organizational guru.  Or maybe even a life coach.  Are there even life coaches who specialize in families with five kids whose mother's eyes are too big for her actual time schedule? 

I tried to rouse the kids to action.  My motivational speech consisted of, "ugh..this house needs picking up.  We should do that.  Like, now"  They agreed.  And then Sky went back to his game, Dylan went to watch TV, Cassidy started playing quietly (crazy, I know--she is right to think that if she lays low she won't be recruited), and Lucas started beating up pillows on the couch.  Oh, and I started blogging.

Really, being the *one* adult on Saturdays (Phil works, boohoo) to get five little people all in order...well, it's a bit like herding cats.  So I sorta give up and decide that this part of the weekend is the part when we chill.  Later, when I have my reinforcer (yay Phil!) I will get everyone lined up and ready to act (or clean).

We are definitely not organized like that family of 18 kids in Arkansas...the Duggars.  And whereas I love them and think highly of them, they make me feel like mommy crap everytime I see their kids all lined up, with no dirt smudges or stains on their clothes, ala Sound of Music.  I can't even compete and I only have five. 

You know, strangely, I'm having a deja vu...I've probably blogged about this before.  Well, that's what you get when you give an ADHD woman a blog.  Some things get repeated.

At any rate, they are all good kids who respond especially well to rewards for completing their chores.  Especially monetary rewards.  They won't take debit yet, so that is part of the hurdle we have to jump. They actually want cash and that takes (ugh) planning on my part.

I need a Supernanny, but not *the* Supernanny.  She scares me.  Totally wigs me out, like tadpoles and chicks with mullets.  Or a chick tadpole with a mullet.  Acckkk! 

I bet if I told myself that a girl tadpole with a mullet was going to get me if I didn't organize the house and kids, it would get done.  Maybe?