The Sassy Uterus

Mommy Manifesto: I don't actually know what I'm doing...

Wow, so I'm pretty sure you are not supposed to admit that.  But it's true.  It is scary that despite the child-rearing books I've read, doctors that I consulted, and various mommy classes I've taken I still feel as unprepared as I did the first time a newborn was placed in my arms.

The good news is that I'm fairly confident that I can at least wing it better now.  I know basic human requirements and I know why I make sure that they get them (well, other than the fact that it is illegal to deprive them of these needs), I do it because they deserve that and much more.  All children do. Besides  when they are acting like normal humans they are fantastic people to be around. I want them to feel loved, cherished and their talents nurtured. I wouldn't want to be treated any less.

As I've noted people always ask, upon hearing that I have five children, "How do you do it?" I don't know how. I was raised as the youngest daughter of three girls.  I was also fairly seperated in age from my sisters and didn't really have built-in family playmates. Add that to the fact that my parents weren't the social type and it's amazing I did come out as sociable and outgoing as I am.  I was pretty damn close to being a hermit(ette) had I not rebeled, which, ironically enough is what got me my first son. Sort of.

I'd love to be in a place where I could write the child-rearing book but five different humans let me know on a fairly humbling basis that each person is different and a one-size-fits-all fit is not okay when it comes to raising little people.  Each one is different. I try to make sure everyone's need for attention is met, but sometimes that requires enlisting grandparents to give one of the children the one-on-one time they deserve. Yes, Hillary, it does take a village.

But let's be clear: I don't know what each door holds in store. I know how each child generally reacts to different things and I know which ones get along with each other the best. I know their individual preferences...unless they changed them overnight (does happen). That's it.  With that fair amount of knowledge we face each day, Phil and I guiding them away from juvenile crime and them acting ungrateful about it. But that's our job.

Really that's parenthood folks: You can't always control or plan, the 'lil cutie will humble you on a weekly basis at least and you will feel like it is unending servitude at one point or another. I have months of feeling like a servant, that's when Bitchy Mommy visits.

If all I get done in a day is making sure they have one more healthy, happy day under them, I feel as if I accomplished my mommy to-do list.

And frankly, if doing this means that I don't have time for the dishes, well, oh well...I'll just make one of them. 

Morning Motherhood

I awoke a bit earlier than usual today and since Isaac was W-I-D-E awake I decided, what the hell, I'll get up too.  Waahh....that is the last thought I had before chaos kicked in.

Soon Cassidy was up and I was rethinking letting Phil sleep in (read: I'm a good wife.  A very good wife.  Maybe that's why he's considering letting me have a piece of his garage).

Once I had Isaac and Cassidy squared away with Froot Loops I figured it was safe to maybe crawl back into bed and read a bit.  Being the responsible mommy that I am, I let them know where they could find me should an emergency breakout. Rookie mistake, I should know better.

So like the sitting duck that I am, I tried to crawl back into bed except that Phil decided that today on Sesame Street he was going to be the letter, " /" in bed.  Or maybe that's the character, " / " in bed.  And he wasn't sharing.  I think that once he got a hold of most of the bed and blankies, he staked his claim and wasn't going to budge for anything. Or anyone.  To his credit, when I asked him to share some blankies he did give me the edge of the blankie and mumbled, "Heerrreee."  He's back to snoring as we speak.

Isaac came in the room before I had a chance to open my book. Then he wanted up and so I figured he might be tired still as well (naive!!! You know, it's almost like I've learned nothing in the last 14 years of parenting). No...he wasn't Sleepy but he was another dwarf--the one that they hide away  because he stinks so bad, he was Poopy!  Freakin' lovely.

So suffice it to say, I'm awake, Phil is still asleep.  I've been up for a couple hours and my back already hurts!  Awww the joys of morning motherhood.  Meh.

A Comfy Paradox

Now that my focus is on staying home and healing, I do have more time to think. Which is both a blessing and a curse. Anyway, today I realized an interesting paradox.  I was going through the Target ad and everything that appealed to me (clothing-wise) I would point out to Phil and say, "Ohhh, I like this.  Look how cozy it is," or "Wow, I totally want this, it looks completely comfy."  And he'd say, "Hmm," which means, I am listening to you but not really internalizing what you are saying. That's okay, that's the language of married people sometimes and it would probably freak me out if he suddenly had an interest for fashion...I mean, I like my roughneck hubby just the straight way he is.

Alright, for those who have fogotten (and I wouldn't blame you if you had) I have been on disability since 11/1/2009.  And I have been dressing "cozy" and "comfy-ish" ever since.  No uncomfortable slacks or blouses for me.  No shoes that pinch or make my foot contort into unnatural positions--unless it is those hot black boots I have.  Those are the exception. 

Anyway, the focus has been on comfort but there's a thin line between cozy and slobby.  Like, I really think I might have shifted into the more slobby, tired mom who barely can run a brush through her hair and pull on a pair of sweats. As a sidenote, despite the impression I just made with that last sentence, those moms deserve our respect.  It isn't easy being Mommy and the only thing that might be nice to that mommy all day is a nice pair of tennis shoes.  So you really can't judge.  Unless you're judging yourself....then you can have at it.

And that's who this is about (naturally), me.  So what am I going to do? I've made a more concentrated effort to invite make-up back into my life and that has been a self-esteem booster.  I did compromise out of the sweatpants and into yoga pants which are far cuter and I would think more stylish as well.  And jeans are okay, I mean I'm really not doing anything other than resting and doing light housework. But I feel like I might be in need of a Mommy Makeover. 

But I don't want to appear on TV to do it.  No thanks, I don't need the whole world to see the "before" picture that is my present reality. 

Now excuse me, I need to find my favorite blanket and curl up on the well-worn identation on the couch that is mine.  I promise to contemplate my new me as I take a nap.

Fuzzy little terrors

Pets-Those that calm and those that scare

My third son’s birthday (Lucas) has come and passed and he wanted a guinea pig for his birthday.  Since we gave the second son, Dylan, a laptop and the oldest son, Skyler,  a puppy and a trip to indoor skydiving, I figured it was in keeping with our, “Are you freakin’ crazy?!” theme to let the little lad have his beloved guinea pig. 

Interestingly enough though, in the land of plenty, guinea pigs are scarce.  One thing I’ve always loved about where I live in the San Francisco Bay Area is that we have almost everything as far as stores and merchandise go and I rarely have to order something online.  Having lived in more out of the way, rural areas, I can fully appreciate this novelty. 

However, we must have come at the tail-end (I hate puns, so none intended) of guinea pig season or whatever because out of three huge pet shops within a 20 mile radius, only one had a guinea pig.  One lone guinea pig.  So Lucas didn’t really get to choose.  Their meeting was more like meeting your assigned dorm mate at college.  You need a guinea pig, this guinea pig needs a home, say hello to your new pet.

But Lucas, being the little love that he is, took to “Chi Chi” right away.  He immediately wanted to hold her and comfort her, telling her everything was alright (snort—she’ll figure out the real deal once she’s lived with us for awhile, haha). 

I was touched by his instant love and compassion and the way he instinctively nurtured her. And then I turned around and saw two hamsters and insanity took over. 

Both hamsters, females, are the teddy bear variety or breed or whatever.  They are tan and they are cute.  One is chubby and we call her Fluffy after Gabriel Iglesias’s term for fat. The other, more feisty one is named Moxie. 

The first few days I sat in front of their cage watching them run around and do hamster things.  It was actually a bit peaceful.  They fought sometimes and ran around like maniacs.  It seemed like the hamsters were micmicking our household! Moxie turned out to be the submissive one while Fluffy turned out to be a bossy bitch (after her owner’s own heart).

But then their cage started to stink and I had to harangue the oldest to help me clean the cage.  It was then that I realized, um, I’m scared of rodents.  It’s all fun and games when they’re behind plexiglass but once I have to (gulp) reach in and touch one I freak out a bit. OK, I freak out a lot.

Anything that requires me to reach my sensitive hand (there are like a billion nerve endings in the fingertips, no?) into the cage is too much for me already.  This isn’t good.

Now I am stuck with two hamsters I am scared of while Lucas hugs on his guinea pig and Skyler cuddles with Viva, his chiahuahua, I stare at the hamsters wondering which one will be the one to bite me first.

You know, I actually blame all of this on my daughter.  She’s been wanting one of those Zhu-Zhu  pets for awhile and she doesn’t want quietly.  She finally got one from her grandmother on a recent shopping trip and I have to admit the thing is pretty cute.  And it doesn’t appear to be able to bite.

I wonder if she’ll swap me pets.

I'm on disability now. (Woo-hoo for fibromyalgia.) And while I do love lounging on the couch in my pajamas, I don't love getting hit in the head mid-catnap by blocks thrown by an 18-month-old.

Just to give you an accurate picture of this kid's throwing/pitching/whatever ability, I have a little story to tell:

This past weekend he was having a blast running around in the backyard, chasing dogs, shouting with little kid wild abandon and generally just having a good 'ol time.  After a bit, he becomes silent and his noise is replaced with the sound of something hitting the Sun-room's walls.

Outside I go to investigate and there be my little boy pitching those wretched red lava rocks (we inherited these ugly rocks at this house, they are everywhere and they must go) at the Sun-room walls. I admonish him with a firm, "No-no!" as if that's ever worked before and go back inside.

Surprisingly he does stop throwing rocks at the Sun-room and all is peaceful for about five minutes. Then the doorbell rings. Oh great. Like we need company right now. The kitchen's a disaster and I dare not enter the dining area until Haz-Mat gives the "all-clear."

Phil answers the door because I avoid all sudden social contact. It's awkward and Itry to avoid any potentially awkward encounter.

It's our next-door neighbor who, as it turns out, is having a party in his backyard with real-live guests who don't enjoy getting pelted by rocks.  So let's do a quick summary: Our almost 3-feet-tall toddler was pitching rocks over a 6-feet-tall fence. And not only was he clearing the fence, he had so much momentum that the rock continued into their backyard and stopped only when it hit someone.

So....imagine how that feels at close range. And with a block. Disability and staying home with five kids do not mix well.  However, I do have to appreciate the kid's desire to rid the backyard of those rocks.

My Bossy Shadow

With the start of this new school year I had high, high hopes on getting just a wee bit of time to myself. My plan was to drop the kids off at school, come home, plug Isaac into the television with a Barney DVD on continuous play and have a few hours to myself until it was time to leave for work.

Isaac has other plans.  Shit, the kid damn near has a five-year-outcome graph on me. He would prefer me to cuddle him on the couch whilst Barney watching. He finds that the blanket alone lacks some warmth. He isn't concerned about last night's dinner plates on the table or the fact that my bookshelf is probably covered in 10 inches of dust due to neglect.  Nope, he likes things a certain way-his way. And if I don't comply, he'll follow me around the house screaming.

Okay, let's re-cap: I can't relax or have quiet time (sans Barney, that is) *AND* I can't clean house either. Marvelous, what's next on your itinerary Sir Isaac?

It's been all work and no play for me and the hubby for more than a few months now.  I can't remember the last time I was able to read uninterrupted--it is hard to follow a sentence with screaming happening in some part of your house. It's just not a natural reaction to screaming.  It probably goes back to our primal roots: Young one of mine screaming = time to kill saber tooth cat.

But there are not any saber tooth cats running around in my house.  But I'm pretty sure that if there were, I wouldn't be able to hear it. 

I have also not been able to approach a creative project of any kind without a child or two climbing all over me, another asking me a question and then getting pissed when his/her sibling interrupted him/her, in EONS.  Okay, just an EON.

So a couple of things have happened here:
1-I've gone nearly deaf.
2-Interestingly enough, despite #1 above, I am hearing them scream, yell and nag even when they are not with me.

Listen people, this can't be good.  I am at work.  All my co-workers are in their rooms, no patients are in the lobby, no one else in the front office.  The phone isn't even ringing.  I'll be working away, completely zen-ed out on some spreadsheet-ish project and I'll hear, "Mom. Mom." and I'll snap out of it and think, "Shit, did I just hear that at work?"

It is a twisted thing because I only hear the nagging chorus of child voices when I am *actually* in a place (both physically and mentally) where I can get into the "flow" of things and well, be in a zen-like state.

So meditation is out, as long as my kids' voices are in.  The last thing I need is hearing what I at first believe to be the voice of God calling me, "Mom."  I would seriously collapse under that pressure. 

Atta Boy

My husband is the cable guy.  Not *the* cable guy as in Larry.  But the cable guy as in Comcast.  He goes into, under and above houses installing cable television, phone, video, etc. He works hard, he is good-looking. People appreciate his hard work and honesty.  He gets tips: money, bottles of wine, cookies, a cold soda on a hot day, etc.  Occassionally, he has women customers.  Not a problem.

But one thing I didn't get was that some chicks actually, brace yourself, live in porn-land. Like they really expect my poor, tired husband to be standing at their front door saying in a skizzy voice, "I'm here to give you the 'deluxe package.'" Really. And they are disappointed when he just comes in and fiddles with their TVs instead of their double D's.  When all he's trying to do is make sure he meets the time frames of all the calls pitched at him all willy-nilly and in a manner that gets him home sometime before midnight.

At the end of the service call, when hubby announces what the service charge will be, undaunted by a thus far lackluster visit, they ask if there is something they can do to avoid the bill. Sigh....Really?  I mean, it's only $100 or so...and when they scheduled the appointment they must have known.  

Hubby thinks that by telling me these things it is making our relationship healthy.  That he is showing that he's being truthful, noble, a stand-up good guy and wonderful husband.  He is all of these things, but I know that he's only sharing because he wants that ever-elusive "Atta Boy" for doing the right thing.  So there you go hubby, ATTA BOY.

Now that being said, I think it is important to note that the va-jay-jay (or any other oriface)that's being used to pay for the cable bill, is the same va-jay-jay that's keeping the electricity on, or the water from being shut off. It may even be paying the property tax. That's pretty gross.

So definitely, hubby, ATTA BOY for doing the right thing and not bringing home some nastiness. I believe that's why I married you. :o)

Where'd the funny go?

Dear Readers I've been a bad, bad blogger.  

Actually, I've been a compromised blogger.  Over the last month there have been three deaths in our family.  Three.  And not at the same time either.  It was spread out over a full month.  And the dog ran away.  But she came back.  But in the meantime I had to deal with a psycho beast owner of the rescue organization I got her from.  And her rantings at me -while I was already in full mental-mode due to coping with the deaths of family members- nearly led me to being submerged in the bathtub with a mixed cocktail in one hand and a razor in the other.

But since I can NEVER get time alone in the bathroom, I was, OF COURSE, interrupted by a child who fell down, got hurt and needed my attention, thus fully ripping me out of my pseudo-psychotic episode. I can't believe that I don't even get enough time to commit suicide.  That fact alone is crazier than the act itself! 

I'm probably of more use being alive.  I mean, who else will clean out the food dish for the dog after the baby has mixed her food with her water thereby creating a mush of doggie food hell.  She doesn't deserve that---after all she is my miracle dog--my whole Catholic family was praying to all the possible saints for her return: St. Anthony for lost things, St. Francis since he's the saint of animals, and St. Jude for impossible causes/situations.  That last saint my mom thought of on her own and prayed to on my behalf.  And look...three saints and my furbaby came back. So I clean her bowl.  It's the least I could do. She's also been bathed a thousand times and I'm thinking she should be baptised.  

On the bright side, my friend Julie took me out to dinner (her treat!) because she just couldn't stand having me go through so much shit at once.  It's amazing what a greasy bacon cheeseburger and conversing with a friend can do for your mental state.

Shortly after that, it was the Toby Keith concert where I got to fall back into my old comfy country ways. Poor Phil, he'd never seen so many cowboy hats, cans of chew, and American flags.  There were beer bottles, beer cups, chew cans, cigarette butts, and drunk cowboys (and drunk cowgirls too) for DAYS. And it raised my spirits.  Pictures of me and my friends at the concert can be found at my Facebook profile.

So this is what I advise for the crazy, icky bad times that we all have to go through at times:

1-Pray, preferably to Saints because this is what they do! Their job is your prayers.  And I would suggest praying to a couple saints, then they get to work together and I think they like that....which leads me to #2.

2-Seek comfort in friends and family. Especially if those friends and family will indulge your urge for moderate drinking and greasy food.

3-Bathing is a good idea, but best to keep sharp objects away.  I guess that means using Nair for awhile.

4-Give yourself time and above all else, know that this too shall pass. 

And all we can do is hope that whatever it does pass into is somehow better or more nice than what we currently experiencing. Otherwise you will need a double dose of #'s 1-3 above.

P.S. Rest in peace Grandpa Marcel, Grandma Catherine and Uncle Glenn. We love you still. Say hello to the saints for us.

Today's Lesson....Don't Be A Bitch (or Ass)

Today's Lesson (for me and everyone):

Be nice.  Just be nice.  It isn't that hard and it could make the difference between sending someone into a nervous breakdown or bolstering them up just a little when they need it the most.  It doesn't cost much...sure, you'll have to put aside your calloused world-weary ways and sometimes that is difficult skin to shed but it is really, really worth it.  And you know, it's funny....when you choose to care, to respond in a heart-centered manner--no, not mushy, just genuine and caring--you end up actually taking care of yourself as well. 

Comfort becomes something that happens in your life.  No longer the razor-edged reality that tells you that the only thing that matters is how much money you make and what you can buy with it.  Instead there's a cushion.  Think of your favorite chair, or spot on the couch.  Think of who or what you like to snuggle up with.  That emotion, that feeling of, "Awwww," can happen in those moments when you suspend judgment and opt for compassion.  Like maybe, just maybe, the meaning of life is to take care of one another.   That includes you--both in the giving and the receiving.

So yeah, don't be an ass.  Just take that extra second to realize that when this game of life is all over, wouldn't you rather be proud of your actions and how you treated people than shrink in embarrassment?  Don't judge others who are different, who make different choices or make mistakes you believe you are above making.  Just don't.  It's mean....and really....don't we have enough meanness in this world?

Take care y'all, because we all need to.

Moms Gone Witchy

Unless you have been living way, way off the grid, you have noticed a shift in pop culture when it comes to motherhood.  It is very trendy now to claim you are a "bad mother" or "slacker mom." Moms everywhere are owning up to their true feelings about motherhood, which is obviously healthy.  But true to the trajectory of human behavior, this trend is offered an inch and it takes a mile. 

Since I read a lot and am active in many mommy communities, I have wondered from where this movement can be traced.  It seems to have appeared out of nowhere.  I sometimes wonder if it is the offspring of the "Desperate Housewives" plague. 

We now are being influenced to be shitty parents from pop culture, as T.V. shows like The Real Housewives (of NY & NJ) and In the Motherhood air, and books are published such as Ayelet Waldman's Bad Mother or the compilation, titled True Mom Confessions.  The various authors and producers will try and convince you that what they are doing is supporting women and helping them escape self-criticism driven by the belief that they should be perfect.  In fact, you could even say that they are being feminists.  Or not.

I have to say that their motives are less noble and more about striking when the iron is hot and cashing in.  MojoMom.com wrote an article on her blog about this, "Is the True Mom Confessions trend already over the top?"  In her introduction she tells of an article in the Wall Street Journal, "Bad Parents and Proud of It: Moms and a Dad Confess."   A mother interviewed for the article stated that when her child first starting walking she would push him/her over because she believed it was too soon, that crawling had to come first.  She admits to having a "sort of nasty thrill," at knocking her own infant child over.

Okay...what?  I mean really, what brew are you drinkin' that has you so 'effed up in the head that pushing your own child down is fun?  I'm all for mothers being honest, one look at my blog will tell you that.  And I'll be the first person to tell you that you had better find some humor in the chaos of parenting or you will be hanging from a rope tied to the rafters by the preschool years.  Or be entirely too attached to that glass of wine you have at dinner...and lunch...and before breakfast.  So, yeah, you better pace yourself and find some refreshment along the way because this parenting job is one long bitch of a marathon.  Laughter makes for a good refresher.

But being a bitch to your own children isn't funny.  It's isn't a cute, "Oh you're soooo bad," type of thing.  It borderlines on abuse. 

We all have our flaws.  We all have moments of wanting to jump in our car and start driving really fast and far, far away from our familes.  Normal stuff.  Sometimes funny stuff.  It all depends on whether you tried to run away only to find your car had a flat.  That would be funny. 

But constantly making children stand behind you when it comes to personal priorities is not something that you should ever be proud of.  Being a mean 'ol bitch to your children will just ensure that someday when you need a nursing home, they will accidentally put your ass on a bus to Florida.  With no identification card on you to be found.  Frankly, I'd rather treat my children as I would like to be treated.  Or least try to.

That's the difference: You try, you fail.  Okay, you're forgiven.  Confessions are only a true confession if you feel guilty and want to do better.  But don't ask me to forgive your shortcomings if you are the one that chopped yourself off at the knees.  At least now though, you'll have to look your children in the eye.