Recital II

 We have all seen the posts about how parents "don't pay for dance" (or insert whatever sport or activity your child is involved in).  Most parents recognize that their child is not going to go pro at whatever childhood "thing" they do.  We put the kids in these activities for a variety of reasons...sometimes it is to relive your childhood through the kid (in which case, I will see them in my office shortly due to their neuroses...).  Sometimes, it is because the kid really enjoys the activity.  Sometimes it is because, goddamnit, you will not be on your phone all day long and get the fuck up and DO SOMETHING.  But whatever the reason, these posts go on and on about how they are learning all kinds of lessons about teamwork and hard work and heartbreak and successes.

But what about the parents?

I have been a dance mom since 2009.  Fifteen years in a row.  If you count my time with Elizabeth when she was in dance, that total goes up to 18 years.  I've been around, so to speak.  I own a bedazzled and have purchased butt glue and nipple petals and hair mascara and enough bobby pins that I could have probably started a retirement fund from all the recycled metal. I can put eyelashes and a full face of makeup on a sleeping child. I have sat through countless competitions, put thousands of miles on various vehicles, and have an extremely large tote of costumes in the attic as well as an entire room full of trophies.  I have videos of dances from 3/4 of my children.  I have purchased dozens of bouquets, have years of dance programs, and know the local high school's backstage area like the palm of my hand.

There is so much more to it, though.  There were lessons that I learned as a parent.

I learned that I could genuinely care for a group of other people's children like my own.  That I could get super excited for wins and commiserate with their not-so-great performances.  I learned that their successes, not only on the dance floor but in other areas of their lives, could make me burst with pride just like it was my own kid.  That their sadness and grief when life was not so good to them would be mine too.

I learned that there are terribly rude people out there.  People who will try to sneak all kinds of shit over...sitting in seats not their own at a recital.  People who will walk in front of other people when there is a dance on stage.  People who will deliberately stack a dance number to put an advanced group in a younger age group or even a lower level to increase the odds of winning.  People who will go so far as to steal parts of other studio's costumes.  People who will leave a recital early because their kid has already performed.

But I also learned that there are some really great people out there.  People who raise their children to cheer for other studios when they win.  Strangers who will stop to help when you have a child who is injured.  Strangers who will help you when you have two garment bags, a rolling duffle bag, a purse, a portable refrigerator, a huge ass mug of coffee, and a full flight of steps to carry them up.

I learned that it is ok for other women to mold my daughters.  To call them out on their bullshit when needed.  To push them.  To take them to the next level, when even I, their mother, who thinks they are perfect and capable of anything, would not have insisted on it.  That some of these role models would influence every aspect of my children's lives.  That I would cry with these role models when it was all over because it is so bittersweet and that part of our job is over.

I learned that I can arrange multiple bouquets of flowers into various vases, too.

I learned that my husband is the ultimate "girl dad", as much as that makes my teeth hurt to say.  He was a steady fixture at the dance studio until Alexis learned to drive.  I'm pretty sure most of the teachers and staff liked him better than me.  Some of the girls really looked up to him as a father figure and would talk his ear off.  He even once got conned into doing a pushup contest at a comp because he can't tell these girls no (mind you, only a few months post-surgery from a bicep tear, to boot...).

I learned that I paid for dance as much for me as for them.  Because it does take a village.  And bitchez, that village has helped me to raise some phenomenal daughters (and a granddaughter, too, because Delilah is up on that stage as well).

So to my dance family: Thank you for all the memories.  Thank you for helping me to raise my girls.

Thanks.

Tofu

So Charlie somehow convinced Charles and I to get a hamster a while back.  She was going to name him Topher and call him Toph for short, but I was joking around and was like, "You mean Tofu?" and then she couldn't stop calling him Tofu, so the name stuck.   He was a cute little fucker, but alas, as hamsters do, he up and died.  He was on his hamster wheel when we found him, so I can only assume that he died doing what he loved because that little guy ran on that thing like his little life depended on it.  Thank GOD I sprung for the nice and quiet version because otherwise it would have kept my children awake and dear sweet mother of god they are demons if they don't get enough sleep.  We apparently broke tradition with this one as it was obviously not Charlie's 18th birthday, so I'm guessing that is why we were punished with such a short time with Tofu.  Well, that and...hamsters live for like, what, all of 10 minutes?  At least this one wasn't actively plotting my death.

Charlie then decided that she wanted to buy an Aussiedoodle (a vet tech friend of mine said she  had coined the name Digeridoodle for them so that is forever what I shall refer to them as).  She saved up her money and eventually found one, of course a few hours away, so we drove to see him and of course fell in love. (And of course we get our first ever dog that gets carsick, which was super fun on the ride home.)  He is a cute little fucker besides that, and Charles refers to him as "the mop" because he goes what we call "full mop mode" and if he hasn't been groomed for a while...well, you get the idea.

Meet Chief the Digeridoodle in full mop mode, otherwise known as Chiefie McChieferson or The Mop.

Needless to say, with a face like that, Tofu was quickly relegated to a fond memory.

Or so I thought.  And let's be honest, what is my parenting besides traumatic to my children?  OF COURSE the subject of Tofu came up, in an incredibly fucked up way.  In my defense, it was completely inadvertent.  But it's what happens when you name your pet after food.  

(Charlie telling me about a woman she had seen online with really long nails on her toes.  She said that her husband had tried to grab them and the woman was all like, they aren't extensions of my toes!  Then the following conversation ensued.)

Me: Yeah, it's not like hair extensions where it's like part of your hair.  Or finger extensions.  Wait, is that even a thing?  Like you go and find nice fingers and chop them off and then slide them on?

Charlie: You can't just slide them on, Mom.  There's bones in them.

Me: Maybe it's like an egg, where you poke the hole on the top and blow all the insides out?  Or in this case, the bone out?

C: Then you see your dog chewing a "chicken bone".

Me:  That's disturbing. (In retrospect, I chose *this* moment to get disturbed?)

C: Tastes like chicken!

Me:  I was gonna say tastes like beef.

C: Everything tastes like chicken.

Me: Wait...tastes like tofu!

C: (horrified silence)

Me: (asking in oblivious) What?

Charlie:  Tofu?  Too soon, Mom.  Too soon.

Thank God that kid has my sense of humor. And as always, Venmo in my bio for future therapy needs.

Storytime

 So Charlie has persisted  in her desire to have me tell her stories.  I have some concerns about this, which I will address later, but here is the latest renditions that I came up with for her.  It started out with her asking me to tell her a story, then when I said I had no ideas, she said tell me about one with a chicken with round eyes and a few feathers (think Hei Hei from Moana).  It sorta evolved from there, and always I've included my Venmo for my children's future therapy needs. Envision this as me telling the story, but with Charlie interrupting it like they do in the movies.  Enjoy!

Once upon a time, there was a chicken with round eyes and just a few feathers.  Children were making fun of the chicken because it did not have a lot of feathers because children are dicks, so the chicken bought a coat.  The kids still made fun of it because children are dicks, so the chicken made friends with a one eyed horse, a pig with two snouts, and a rat named Harry who was anything but.

(Charlie: I don't want a therapist story.  Tell me a good story.

Me: Too many stories and you will die.

C: You don't die from being told too many stories.

Me: Yes you will. Too much of anything is bad for you.  Even too much fudge with walnuts.

C: What does fudge have to do with this?

Me:  Well, it was an example.  But too many stories will kill you.

C: MOM!

Me: Fine.  What do you want me to tell you a story about?

C: A monkey with a hat and cymbals.)

Once upon a time, there was a monkey with a little hat and cymbals and he killed children who wanted too many stories (Side note:  She did request a non-therapist story...)

(C: What happened to the bodies?) (Other side note: Should I be worried that THAT was what she chose to zoom in on?)

After the monkey killed the children, he disposed of the bodies.  The how, however, is something you don't want to know and not for children to hear.  He did not, however, dismember the bodies.

(Third side note: I also once had a dream that I was a serial killer, killing pregnant women because I wanted to see their souls when they died.  I recruited the fam to help with burying the bodies, and I got annoyed at Charles because he was dismembering the children in front of them and that is apparently super inappropriate.  AAAANNNDD I just figured out why Charlie chose to zoom in on what she did.)

The monkey did not want to dismember the bodies because he was afraid that he would end up with zombie children. and that is not good for anyone involved.  So what happens to the bodies, say you?  My guess is that they spontaneously combust. The end.

This story was then followed by debate on which syllable to put the emphasis on in "combust".  So, moral of the story here?  Stories about bullied chickens, no OK.  Homicidal circus monkeys who have bodies they need to stash?  Acceptable.  And also, the English language is fucked up sometimes.  Still not sure about the emphasis.

Feet

 Alexis has reached the delightful age where I can be a little bit inappropriate with her and she will just laugh it off, albeit whilst stating that she was going to thoroughly discuss with her therapist in the future.

Case in point: We were driving home from dance tonight and discussing things such as driving and getting a job.  We have a deal with our kids that we will go halvsies on their first vehicles with them.  Elizabeth elected to buy the cheapest car she could, so for her we were out only about $600.

This was the beauty $600 could get you in 2014.  The toilet paper was free from, I assume, some of her peers.  In the age of coronavirus, that would probably double the car's worth.

We were discussing various places she could work, and I was sharing a little bit about a time in my life I try very hard to forget, AKA when I worked for Friendly's Ice Cream Corp.  (I even managed to work up to being a supervisor.  That's five years of my life I won't get back. I couldn't eat ice cream for years)  I was also talking about other jobs I had, and how I kinda thought a side hustle would be nice.

Then I said it.  I was like, "I wish my feet were better looking.  I would totally sell feet pics online.  My feet are disgusting though."

Alexis was horrified that I would even consider this.  I then was all like, "Do you even know WHY people have feet fetishes?  It's because the part of your brain that controls your feet is very close to the part that controls your genitals.  And some people, well, they overlap."

Then I got the brilliant idea that I should sell elbow pics.  I mean, there's gotta be a market for that, right?  If the whole remove a body part  or extra unnecessary and painful structures your body makes cakes thing doesn't work, that is totally a backup plan, right?

Alexis promptly texted her best male friend what I just said.  He was totally spot on with his response: It was along the lines of  "Mama Laura is beautiful all over."  He's my current favorite child.  The fact that I was not pregnant with him, did not birth him, and do not have to pay for him makes it all the better.

Anyways, I'm pretty sure I just solidified the whole "stay in school and get a good steady job" thing for her (and her best friend), so I call this a parenting win.  And as always, my Venmo is in my bio for her future therapy needs.

*Side note...I'm very curious as to how many times I have used the label Parenting with My Crazy?

*Second side note: From what I can count, it's 8.  Including this one.  But not all my posts have labels so I am sure there are more that could but I'm too lazy to go back and add them.

Pigs

 I have to get up ridiculously early to take Charlie to the bus stop for her school.  And by ridiculously early, I mean probably a normal working person's time but I hate mornings as much as Marjorie Taylor Greene hates being educated on, well, anything, so I better get put in a damn fine nursing home because of this.  Charlie at times will attempt to engage me in conversation and at these times I fully understand why some animals eat their young.  

She got on this kick for a few weeks about asking me to make up a story for her.  I started off strong with a story about a girl who discovered she has the power to stop time and to make changes, but unfortunately for every change she made, something horrible happened.  Like for instance, she stopped the eggs from rolling off the table when she was with her grandmother, but then her brother broke his arm because of it.  I soon realized, in my sleep deprived haze, that the caffeine had not kicked in quite enough for me to be able to write an ending for this story, so I somehow abruptly changed the story to frogs who grow thumbs and end up taking over the world.  This, however, was too fantastical for Charlie (though I maintain that should frogs ever grow opposable thumbs they would be unstoppable) so I soon settled on the Three Little Pigs.

My version.

And here it is, in it's entirety.  Enjoy.

The Three Little Pigs

Once upon a time, there were three little pigs who went out to make their way in the world.

The first little pig came upon a man selling straw, so he got a bunch at a fantastic discount and built himself a house out of straw.

The second little pig came upon a man selling sticks, so he also got a bunch at a fantastic discount and built his house out of sticks.

The third little pig, recognizing that the price of lumber was reaching uncut cocaine levels, decided to buy some bricks and built his house out of bricks.

So along came the housing inspector, and he gets to the first pig's house.  He says, "Are you MAD, man?  This house is a veritable fire hazard!  Plus, it's not very good for the environment as this thing will be a NIGHTMARE to heat in the winter and cool in the summer."

The first little pig scoffs, "Come on, man, I don't need big government coming into my home and telling me what is right for me and my future piglets. Plus, climate change is a hoax and less than 1% of people in straw houses die from fires.  This house is fine and I'm not changing anything." So off the housing inspector goes.

He soon got to the second little pig's house.  He says, "Are YOU also MAD, man?  This house has zero sound proofing.  You will be able to hear everything and anything outside of it."

The second little pig also scoffs, "Freedom of speech, man.  People should be allowed to say whatever they want, where ever they want, without repercussion or any kind of responsibility for the events that may follow their misinformation.  This house is fine and I'm not changing anything."

The housing inspector then came upon the third little pig's house.  He says, "Wise choice here, my man.  Lumber is at uncut cocaine prices, but bricks are a solid alternative.  Fire resistant AND sound proof AND good at keeping warm or cool air in as you need it." 

The third little pig goes, "Yeah, I'm not a fucking moron like my brothers.  I understand that laws and regulations exist for the greater social good and that not everything is a conspiracy to take away my rights and freedoms, which only exist because of the responsibilities that go along with them. I'm a pig, not a sheep for cripe's sake."

So of course, the Three Little Pigs could not be the Three Little Pigs without the Big Bad Wolf.  In this story, the Wolf's name just happens to be Consequences For Actions, but we will call him BBW for short.

He gets to the first pig's house and goes, "Little pig, little pig, let me in!" and the pig goes "Not by the hairs on my chinny chin chin!" BBW goes, "Oh, come on, like your punk ass could grow any hairs on your chin.  Plus, all I need to do is to light this place on fire, and you either come out or I have a lovely roasted pork dinner.  Both solid wins in my case."  So BBW lit the pig's house on fire, and, well, I'll spare you the deets but let's just say that BBW made a run to the store for some BBQ sauce.

BBW then gets to the second little pig's house and goes "Little pig, little pig, let me in!" and the pig goes "Not by the hairs on my chinny chin chin!" BBW goes, "Oh, come on, like your punk ass could grow any hairs on your chin any better than your brother."  So BBW starts to hold Black Lives Matter rallies as well as Slut Walks and March for our Lives in front of the house.  Then, when that did not work, he started to pound on the door and say "We are trying to reach you about your car's extended warranty!"  When the pig attempted to leave to move elsewhere, BBW snatched him up like white women do to pumpkin spice lattes and turned him into brunch, complete with mimosas.

BBW goes to the third pig's house.  He knocks on the door and goes, "Little pig, little pig, let me in!" and the pig goes "Not by the hairs on my chinny chin chin!"  BBW says, "Like you could grown any hairs on your chin, like your brothers" but the third little pig did not suffer from fragile masculinity so he was unperturbed by the taunting.  He went about his day, while the BBW tried everything he could to get the pig out of his house.  He even tried to go down the chimney, which really just resulted in him getting stuck and embarrassingly having to have the Fire Department come rescue him and led to some interesting "Florida Wolf" headlines.  BBW eventually gave up and left the pig be.

So the third little pig lived happily ever after to the end of his natural life.  When he died, the butcher came and made bacon out of him.

Moral of the story? Live a good life by not being an ignorant asshole, and even after death you will make people happy.

My Venmo for therapy is included in my bio.

Winning

 So because 2020 had to fuck us up the left nostril one last time on its way out, Charles's knee replacement got rescheduled to January because of the fucking pandemic.  Because of course we couldn't have it done in a year in which we had already met our deductible.  Of course.

The surgery went well for him, thankfully.  It is pretty sad that he is now walking better, even with a walker and after having a surgeon drill into his leg and shave bone down and give him a new knee and only being a few days post-op.  The doctor was all like "he should have had this done years ago, it was pretty fucked up in there with significant bone damage from them grinding" and I was all like, "yeah, I know, but insurance sucks and didn't want to do it on a 40 year old man so here we are" and then the doctor was like "well because he's a 42 year old man he is gonna swell a shit ton and probably try to over-do it because he's gonna think he's all rough and tough with his afro puff so just keep an eye on him.  Oh, but if he doesn't move the knee he's gonna fuck it up so there's that.  No pressure, though."

I *might* have paraphrased that.  I do wish doctors talked like that though.  They'd be a lot more relatable.  I'm sure you are shocked to know that I talk to my clients like that.

So because this was a major surgery, he was supposed to stay the night to get pain meds under control, watch for blood clots, etc. (hence why it was cancelled due to COVID...they needed the beds).  The little girls, who are the product of two incredibly anxious parents, were incredibly anxious about this surgery (shocking).  They do NOT like it when either of us are gone from the house overnight, so they weren't too keen on him staying there (plus, the whole no children visiting thing...).  Luckily, we live in modern society and FaceTime exists, so he was able to talk to the girls before they had to go to bed.

Now, we always have had a bedtime routine for the children and were pretty strict about it from the get-go.  This has served our family well through the years, despite some people not agreeing or understanding why no, I am not going to force my kid to stay up until sunset in the summer when she is used to going to bed at 7:30. I'm also pretty good at evading their attempts to prolong the inevitable slumber awaiting them. This has endured for all three of them until they decided that they were too old for us to tuck into bed.  We are 2/3 of the way done with bedtime routine, Charlie still liking us to tuck her in and go through all the little rituals that have evolved over the years.

One thing that she and Charles somehow started was this "I won!" thing as they race up the stairs.  Well, I am sure you can imagine how quickly Charles would go up the stairs, considering that he needed a new fucking knee...but who actually got up there first didn't matter so much as who said "I won!" first.  And of course, there's all the trash talking that Charlie can do during various competitions with her family members, and her father gives it right back because my family argues for sport. 

 "I won!"  

"Yeah, you did, second place." 

"Did you have a worst part of the day today?" (We ask for the best and worst parts of her day.)

"Yeah, that you didn't win."

And so on and so on.  Every.Single.Night.

So the girls wanted their good nights with their father, partly because of tradition, partly because of worry.  They both had a chance to chat with him for a bit, and we were getting ready to get off of FaceTime when Charlie came running in from the other room.

"Dad! One last thing!"

"What's that?"

"I won!"

Well played, Charlie.  Well played.

Thankful

So it's that time of year where Americans symbolically gorge themselves on high carb, high sugar, and high fat foods in a celebration of a white-washed version of history that glosses over things like spreading pestilence and mass murders and straight up theft.  Though come to think of it, anti-maskers this year are spreading both pestilence AND causing mass murder of innocent people, so maybe they were going for a more accurate version of Thanksgiving this year and we didn't even know it?  If so, I'd like to point out we can teach a more accurate version of history without introducing a pandemic and killing hundreds of thousands of Americans.

Anywho, one of the ideas of Thanksgiving is that we are to be thankful for the stuff we do have, right before we run out to the stores on Black Friday to engage in unrestrained consumerism in the most American way possible...knifing each other over cheap TV's imported from foreign countries to celebrate a holiday we appropriated from the pagans to make Christianity more palatable to the unwashed masses.  So, seeing as how I already have 99% of my Christmas shopping done due to Charles finally scheduling his knee replacement (does a new knee count as his Christmas gift?  Because thanks to American health care, it won't be cheap...I'm kidding.  Well, about the gift part.  Not the cost.  Unfortunately.) I figured I'd go with the thankful thing.

So what am I thankful for?  Well, glad you asked...

I am thankful that I can laugh with my children and husband still.  Even if there's a good chance that their therapists will be hearing about it in the future.

I am thankful that I can now lift my arm up from when I broke my shoulder.  I was having to use spray deodorant and that shit SUCKS.  Not that it wasn't effective because it was...but I'm pretty sure I've put a new hole in the ozone layer AND given myself some form of lung disease from using that shit. But hey, I didn't stink.  

I am thankful for the technology that allows me to continue my job without putting my health in danger.  While I 100% miss seeing my clients in person, I also value their health and my health enough to stick to strictly telehealth at this time.  Plus I have the advantage of wearing yoga pants AND slippers to work daily.

I am thankful for my asshole dogs.  Well, Maximus isn't an asshole as much anymore since he's old (I'm not still bitter about the time he ate all of my rolls I had rising on the table...which BTW, is totally dangerous for dogs but hey, he also ate rat poison once and survived so he's pretty bad ass.  Or has a stomach of steel.)  Roman, however...total asshole.  He will bolt out that door any chance he gets and go for a jog around the block, hopefully not attacking any animal or human who crosses his path.  But...they are my assholes and great snugglers.

I am thankful for modern medicine.  I have a bevvy of fabulous doctors at my disposal...from my eye doctor, to my rheumatologist and gynecologist, to the orthopedic surgeon who will be (and has in the past) operating on my husband...we have been able to take full advantage of the great American medical system.  Has it almost bankrupted us?  Yes. Are we still alive?  Also yes.  Well, at least on the inside.  Our souls, I am making no promises about...but that likely predated all the medical issues.

I am thankful for my friends and you, my dear readers.  All 10 of you (that's including readers and friends total, in case you were wondering...) Though quite frankly, I was writing in this blog way before I let it be known that I was doing so and it was just a therapeutic then as it is now.  Now, I just have the advantage of telling myself that I am helping people by broadcasting my crazy.

I'll bet at this point you are wishing you had not wondered about what I am thankful for and just asked about my Christmas gifts.  Which, since my love language is gift giving, are all fucking awesome so really, you probably missed out there...

Adventure

 As in Choose  Your Own.

Charlie, one fine evening in this clusterfuck of a year, 2020, decided when we were having a fire out in the back yard, that we needed to have a Choose Your Own Adventure story telling time.  What then ensued cemented all of her future therapy needs and will possibly trickle down a generation or four.

Charlie: You are in a prison, trying to escape, and come to the guard.  What do you do?

Me: Kill the guard.

Charlie: Well, there's no violence in prison.

Me: Well, that's counterintuitive.

Later on in the adventure:

Charlie: You find an empty weapon, money, and bread.  What do you do?

Charles: Eat the money, grab the gun, and hide the bread.

Me: Use the bread to make bullets for the gun

Charlie: No, we can't do that.  Someone already tried that and we already lost a player.  Besides, I never told you what weapon it was.

Me: Num-chuks? Please be num-chucks.

Charles: You said the weapon was empty.

Me: They are having an existential crisis.

Charles: Yeah, they are now just numbs.

Later on in the adventure:

Charlie: You are now in the courtyard. Do you wanna fight?

Me: I am a lover, not a fighter.

Charlie: You aren't going to make it in prison (Side note: What happened to the no violence thing???)

Charles: Well, I love to fight...

Later:

Charlie: You see a police car. What do you do?

Me: Break the window and steal it.

Charlie: Well, OK, the doors were unlocked so that was unnecessary. You are driving along and see hitchhikers.  Give a ride?

Me: No hitchhikers.  They could be messed up.  And having an existential crisis.

Our poor kids.  They've never stood a chance.

Letters VI

 Dear Bitchez, 

I won't even go into the amount of tomfuckery that is 2020 because everyone already knows because we are fucking living it.  Figured I'd give (another) update on the family as it's been like a year since the last one.  What, go back to blogging during the quarantine?  That would have been a more healthful choice than wallowing in despair and alcoholic seltzers.  Or than injuring myself constantly.  More on that later...

Elizabeth graduated from college.  She is taking after her mama as I graduated with my B.S. (and yeah, those student loans were ever BS!) the May after 9/11, and with my Master's right after the economy tanked in 2008...so yeah.  Poor kid.  I told her not to take after me. She did manage to find a job at a jewelry store, with some career advancement potential should she choose.  She keeps acquiring cats, which is fine with me because I'm still not quite forty and fourth daughter Jewel had to rebel and have Delilah before then.  That's OK, though, cause Delilah remains perfect.  Her parents, though, are  headed towards the altar next year so I get to have some wedding liquor sooner rather than later (cranberry and vodka, yo!)

Alexis is definitely completely morphed into that elusive and irritable creature otherwise known as 14 year old female.  She and her father argue a lot, but for sport not the kind that gets us all in therapy.  Like, she's gonna make a great lawyer someday if she so chooses that path.  She is already on her third college credit class and generally is adjusting great to quarantine high school.  She's fabulous to talk to about current events and I really like the person she is when she's not being 14.

Charlie has started a new school this year, and is doing 110% better than when she was at her old one.  The shift in her is quite marked.  She is taking horseback riding lessons and has asked about art lessons as well, but as I live in BFE the art might not happen.  As far as I know, her body count is still 0 but I also don't ask too many questions because I don't want to spill the beans on anything during interrogation.  She says the funniest shit just off the cuff and half my Facebook posts anymore are just writing down shit she has said.  

It's a good thing my children are funny because otherwise I might drink more than I already do.

Ten months into 2020 and Charles has not had surgery (and not for lack of trying...he rolled his 4 wheeler earlier this year and did about 3K worth of damage to it.  Luckily, nothing serious to himself.  Yay?)  However...My husband was also told that the next time his surgeon operates on his knees will be to replace them.  Meaning they are so fucked up that there's no point in operating again until he decides to do this.  We knew this day was coming, but hoped he'd be closer to 50 when it did.  Maybe the messages in the cosmos got crossed and instead of waiting to be grandparents when we were over 40, we get knee replacements?  If so, that's messed up, universe.  Not cool.  His job also continues to vex him in every way possible, yet he refuses to go dig up that treasure he buried in the back yard so we can both be independently wealthy.  Though I like my job, even though I miss seeing people in person so really it's just more so he can quit his job and give his poor knees a break.  

As for me...well, I started to break myself back in August.  Just a little bit, though...only a stress fracture in my foot.  Then, because I am an overachiever in all that I do, I fell down the stairs whilst helping someone move and jacked up my arm and leg.  That was a whole fiasco...went to get X-rays, was told nothing was broken.  Got a call next day, "Oh just kidding!  You actually broke your fibula and tibia and your shoulder!"  Get an appointment with an ortho, and he goes "Just kidding!  That radiologist is smoking some serious crack because there are no breaks at all in your leg but you did break the shoulder so wear a sling for the next month.  Oh, and by the way, it's probably going to hurt for a really long time too.  And stay off that leg while you are at it cause you seriously bruised that fucker all to hell."

He didn't actually say those exact words, but that was the spirit.  Woulda been hella cool if he had though.

We also, over the course of this year, lost a neighbor, my brother, two uncles, and had to put Deogie down after a brief battle with Cushing's disease.  COVID funerals suck monkey balls, that's all I have to say about that.  Now the children are bugging me to get a cat, but no.  Roman would lose his shit because the neighbor's cat likes to torture him by walking past our window.  That cat also likes to fuck with Charles and they have a bit of a war going on where the cat comes into our yard and Charles runs it off.  I stay out of it.  Between the cat and Alexis, he's got enough to deal with without adding my crazy to the mix. Maximus, I am pretty sure, also wishes at time that he had an imaginary prescription for Xanax that he could chase with a bottle of wine like I pretend to do.  But for different reasons than me.  I think.  

Anyways, life is still crazy but now it's a new and special 2020 kind of crazy.  I don't know who the hell pulled the tag off of their mattress and enraged the powers that be, but for the love of GOD MAN STITCH THAT FUCKING THING BACK ON SO WE CAN APPEASE THE GODS WE HAVE SOMEHOW DISPLEASED!!!

Love, 

Me

Roblux

So in an effort to bond with Charlie, I have started to play Roblox with her.  My username is Gmaw1217, if anyone is interested in going on there and fucking with me.  Because let me tell you something, my kid sure doesn't have a problem doing that.  The first time I went on with her, she gave me some kind of potion to make my head get huge and then informed me there was no way to get it back.  Well, turned out that was just until you stopped playing for that day but still.  I was stressed.

So WTF is Roblux, anyways?  Well, I think it's kinda like Minecraft?  Except you can actually tell what shit is in it.  And you can't build shit.  And the people look like Lego people.  So actually nothing at all like it.  But you get to run around in your own little world or try to go through what they call obbies which I *think* are kinda like obstacle courses for your little Lego man (or woman).  Then there are simulators too but I honestly have no idea what those are.

Literally I have no idea what I am doing when I am playing this game.

Let me enlighten you on some examples of how this usually goes.  Charlie likes to play this game, Adopt Me, which is where you can choose to be a parent or a kid and try to find a family of your own.  There's literally children wandering the streets looking for a mommy or daddy, or some sort of reasonable facsimile.  That in and of itself is pretty disturbing for me.  Like, what happens if you don't find a family?

Anyways, here is some actual things that have been said and done in game play.

Me: What the...there's something flying at me!

Charlie:  It's a dragon, Mom.

Me: It looked like some kind of demon!  What kind of game are you playing here?

Charlie: People can get them as pets.

Me: I want one.

Charlie:  You can go get an egg to hatch for a pet.  It'll probably be a cat though because those are common.

Me: Wait, what?  I'm hatching a CAT from an EGG?  Someone needs a biology lesson here.

(Sure enough, I end up with a cat.)'

*Cat saying it's hungry again for the fifth time in as many minutes.

Me: Goddamn, this cat is needy.  I'm putting it away so I don't have to deal with it anymore.

(Great life lesson there, amirite?)


Me, decorating my  house:  WHY WON'T THIS CANDLE STAY STRAIGHT?  It's going to burn my house down!

Charlie:  It's not going to burn your house down.  It's too big for that shelf, that's why it keeps flipping to it's side.

Me: Right, that's exactly what one does in real life with a lit candle if it is too big for a shelf, flip it over.  Realistic much?


Me, in public with Charlie on Roblux: Ooohh, look, you can dance!

Charlie:  Mom, don't do that.

Me: There are six different dance moves to choose from!

Charlie:  Mom...just....stop.


Me:  (I took my cat to the hospital because it was sick.  Told you, needy as hell.) What the hell?  There's a demon flying at me here!  I'm leaving!  (Runs out of the building back to my house.)

Gets to my house and runs inside.

Me: Shew, I'm safe now.  Imma decorate some more.  But first I have to shower this stupid cat.

(While cat is in the shower, the demon appears, this time with hair on fire.)

Me: THERE IS LITERALLY A DEMON IN MY HOUSE.

Alexis, hating and doubting: Whatever, mom.  Let me see.  (Comes and sits on the couch with me.)

Me: Well, I ran away.  I'm going back to the village to get food. (Runs away, leaving cat in shower like the stellar parent that I am.)

Two minutes later:

ME: WHAT THE HOLY HELL!!!   THERE IS A DEMON FOLLOWING ME!

Alexis: OMG, there totally is!  That's creepy!

Demon on Roblux: Come with me (You can make these things talk to each other too.  I'm still not 100% sure how.)

Me: I'm outta here!  (Runs to the school)

Demon follows me.

I run to the camp ground.

Demon follows me.

I run to the soccer field.

Demon follows me.  Its hair is still on fire.

Demon: Come with me.

Me: HOW IS IT THAT MY PERSON ON ROBLUX NEEDS AN EXORCISM????

Turns out, this demon was actually my darling baby girl, who had changed her Lego lady into Beelzebub.  With fiery hair.  And you can teleport yourself to where your family is, which is how it kept showing up where I was.

Well played, Charlie.  Well played.

Letters V

Dear Bitchez,
I'M BAAAAAACCCKKK!!!

Took a bit of a hiatus from things here because life just got crazy.  Again.  That and I needed a break from feeling as though I have to come up with content for this blog.  I act like I post so often but goddamn even monthly was a lot.  How do people do this for a living? I mean I guess if I got paid I'd be making my ass think of shit to post....Do people even actually blog anymore?  Well, I was also the girl who french rolled her pants for a solid year after it became unfashionable, so...IDGAF. 

So let's see...where to start?  I'm now solidly in my new private practice and even hired someone.  I don't think she's figured out the level of crazy she is involved with yet so I'm hoping to kind of ease her into it.  I am still at my other place, mostly because I like my clients and my coworkers there, but also because it's currently a steady stream of income.  I'm doing well enough that I bought an expensive vacuum cleaner vs the cheap one.  But in the cheapie vacuum's defense, that fucker lasted over 14 years so yay for the Dirt Devil Jaguar?

Charles continues on his trend of being surgery free this year which is great.  We also decided that we were going to re-side, re-roof, and re-gutter our house after some crazy wind storms damaged the old, really shitty siding.  Let's just say, the roof and siding probably needed to be replaced the year before we bought the house and we just kept putting it off and putting it off because denial totally makes your problems disappear like Democratic votes in North Carolina.  Let's also say that insurance sucks monkey balls and their decision to only pay for 2 sides of the house in the old crappy siding despite there being 3 sides damaged (or, at the cost of the old crappy siding) when all four sides of the house in newer, prettier vinyl siding was only  slightly more ranks up there as a mystery of the times right along with who was Jack the Ripper and what was in the briefcase in Pulp Fiction.  The house now looks amazing but dear sweet baby Jesus having those people here working on the house was incredibly anxiety provoking for me, and therefore terrible for Charles.  We soldiered on through and have put off any additional house projects until next year because of the trauma.

Elizabeth, to my knowledge, continues to get through school without being a functional alcoholic or resorting to selling drugs. I like to think, though, that if she were dealing that she is smart enough to not get caught cause Mama didn't raise no fool.  She completed her internship in New York City at a high end jewelry shop and really solidified for me that my baby girl is likely not going to stay in Ohio.  Which, as much as that would suck monkey balls, means that I will get to travel to visit her.  I am sure her boyfriend would LOVE having the mother in law come to stay.

Alexis continues to barrel on towards adolescence.  She is excited for her 13th birthday, which means things like being allowed to wear makeup and sit in the front seat of the car.  She does occasionally warily emerge from the lair  bedroom to interact with us mere mortals.  She's still dancing and we still continue to root for dancing to evolve into stages vs poles.  She also got bumped up to freshman algebra because she's a fucking rockstar, but now I get to relive my freshman year of math with her.  I told her once she gets to Calculus, though, she's screwed because I only went through Pre-Calc in high school, then somehow convinced my undergrad college that I should take that AGAIN for my math credit.  Again, not a fool here.

Charlie also continues to barrel through life head first, but that's nothing new for her.  She decided to re-join the competition team this year, why, I don't know, but she did.  She is dog-obsessed and once told me "if three dogs are good, mom, five are better."  She has discovered YouTube and that her mother is incredibly mean and abusive and makes her do things like go outside to play and wear clothes without holes in them.  She also tries to get me to play Roblox with her, which is incredibly entertaining for everyone who is not me.  We really should video that shit and go viral, but I like my privacy too much.  Just trust me when I say, it's super entertaining. 

The animals are pretty much status quo, though Roman has decided that he hates all dogs not in his family so we have to work through that with him.  I blame it on spending too much time with Charles, because that man pretty much hates anyone who is not family.  The girls are trying to convince me to get a cat, but hell the fuck no because a.) Charlie's allergies, and b.) our last cat was psychotic and quite possibly plotting my death on the regular.  The chinchilla is just kinda quiet, as are the rabbits.

Oh, and Delilah is perfect as usual.  Duh.  Gigi does not get nearly enough time with her, but Gigi and her mama are both incredibly busy. 

So I guess this makes more than a tri-decadely letter.  Fucking sue me.  You'll get a house with really nice siding and that's about it.  Oh, and crippling student loan debt.  Enjoy!

Love,
Me

Vegas

So Elizabeth has recently turned 21.  It's crazy to think about, because I met Charles about a month after I turned 21, and you see how that worked out for us.  Well, pretty good for me, I'd say...but for him?  Well, message me for our address for sympathy cards.  Wait, can you do the messaging thing on Blogger?  I don't even know.  So I guess just comment below if you are so moved as to want to offer him condolences.  I'll make sure he gets them.

I had wanted to take her on a trip after graduation, because she managed to survive 18 years of living with me, mostly.  I never had a doubt that she would graduate because she's hella smart.  However, my husband decided to Popeye his arm all up and was out of work for 5 months, so that did not happen then.  Then the following year he decided to do something else to his already fucked up knees and had to get surgery on one of them too and was out for 6 weeks.  This year I pretty much threatened him with additional bodily harm should he require surgery for anything, and since he's a little scared of me he complied.  I mean, I had to be a responsible adult and postpone this trip for 2 years.  The least he could do is not injure himself anymore.  Cause you know, it's all about me, right?

Again, comment below with your sympathies...

So we finally got to do our trip, and since we had never been there, Las Vegas it was.  (My sister Alicia was included in this trip as well, as she pretty much helped me raise Elizabeth.  Elizabeth used to say when she was little that she hated going places with both of us because she thought people thought that she had two mommies.  Which is pretty funny on one hand, because we all look very alike and it is clear we are blood related somehow.  On the other hand, it is so sad that she worried about judgment about having two mommies, though back then it would have been a much bigger deal.  Totes still have a ways to go with that though.  However, don't worry; I pushed my liberal, feminist rhetoric on her enough that she learned to not engage in homophobic thought processes and decided on her own that having two mommies is A-OK.  Funny what happens when you teach your child to think for herself...)

The trip was super fun.  I gambled maybe a whole $40 the entire time I was there.  Elizabeth got to play poker, which she had been "Training" for according to her.  I played a little Black Jack, and we all did some slots.  We saw a show, walked the strip, took naps, ate great food, and did some shopping.  Oh, and went to this bar made completely of ice and drank a drink out of a glass made completely of ice.  It was Frosty the Snowman's ideal place to pick up chicks in there, but it was still pretty cool (pun not intended).  And probably something I would only do in Vegas, because it was ridiculously expensive to get into.  Never thought I'd pay to freeze my ass off...I get that for free here in Ohio.

It was amazing to see my daughter as the self possessed, hysterically funny, smart, mature young woman that she is while on this trip.  She really is a fantastic human being and if you are lucky enough to know her in real life, your life is that much better because of this.  And if you don't, you are really missing out and I want to extend you MY sympathies.  Because to be honest, I'm not sure what is worse...not knowing Elizabeth, or having to live with me. 

Asher

We have acquired a chinchilla.

Seriously.  His name is Asher, and he's pretty fucking cute.  We acquired him because my fourth daughter, Jewel, is currently pregnant with my first grandchild and they did not want the chinchilla with the baby.  I'm not 100% sure why (maybe not having the time for him?  Are they bad around babies?  Do they develop jealousy issues?  IDK...) but we ended up with him at our house.  Apparently I take in strays.  Charlie tried to tell me that since the goldfish and sucker fish died, it evened out, but I didn't buy it.  But again, I am pretty much a sucker for whatever my children want, and Jewel and that grandbaby are included, so we got him.

Side note, I keep joking that the baby, Delilah, can call me GmaL and pronounce it Jamal, but I am worried that the kid won't be able to pronounce that because it seems difficult.  Grammy kinda seems to be growing on me, but Gigi or Mimi are also appealing as well.  There's Lala, too, but I'm pretty lukewarm about it.  Honestly, that baby could call me whatever the hell she wants because if I am a sucker enough to take on an entire chinchilla and all that is involved for her mother, she's likely going to get whatever the fuck she wants, including what she calls me.

So, back to all things chinchilla.  Apparently they are pretty high maintenance.  Like they can't get wet or they will mildew.  We now own a pet with mildew potential.  Pack that away in the category of "concerns I never thought I would have about our pets."  They also get dust baths, and are restricted to a maximum of one raisin a day because anything more will fuck their bellies up.  The little guy also likes to snuggle, but at the same time wants to run and hide under the bed.

I have never related to an animal more in my life.

Well, not dust baths or mildew concerns or limits on raisin consumption.  Plus he's a whole hell of a lot cuter than I am.  If I were to pick up a raisin between my little hands (another similarity we have, for the record...) and to nibble on it all dainty-like, people would probably think I am crazier than they already do vs being absolutely adorable.

Shopping III

It has been almost 6 years since I have gone grocery shopping on a Saturday at Walmart. 

There's a reason I don't.

I remembered it today.

Let's just say, I'm shook.

I had a valid reason for doing this.  Charlie is on the Company Dance team, and they had a Halloween party on Friday night.  Because I have a huge case of (probably justified) Mom guilt going on recently due to working so fucking much between my practice I own and the group practice, I decided to forgo the usual Friday night shopping to go with her to the party.  I don't regret that decision at all.  The party was fun.  There was a buttload of sugary treats.  There were mothers I introduced to the wonders of Celeste Barber.  I danced. I did Karaoke with the girls, who are the only people on Earth who would appreciate my singing because I suck worse than people who don't do the thank you wave when you let them turn into a parking lot from a busy street.  Seriously, those people are a whole new species of human that we should probably exile to some island somewhere.  Preferable somewhere cold. Not a warm island.  Those non-waving bastards don't deserve warmth since they don't have any in their cold, non-waving souls.

The decision I do regret was to not go after we got back from the party and waiting until Saturday morning.  I should have just dragged my tired ass out to the store, but I had had a half-formed plan to maybe drive out to Meijer but that did not materialize due to accidentally sleeping in this morning and I had to pick the girls up from dance so I could not drive that far and be back in time. (Meijer's produce is significantly better, as is their gluten-free offerings.  Because yes, I am now *that* person who is gluten free(ish) and does not have diagnosed Celiac's.  Next I plan to slather my children in coconut oil and start using charcoal tooth powder instead of toothpaste.  Wait, fuck, I already do both things.  Hell, go ahead and judge away at my hippie ass...)

I get to the store and even before I get out of the car I am filled with regret.  People are wandering around the parking lot, in the drizzly suck that is Ohio weather in late October, like they are taking a leisurely stroll through a lovely garden park and stopping to ohh and ahh at the cute little waterfall.  Fucking move, people.   There is nothing fascinating about the cart corral at Walmart.  Plus you are in the rain and my cat like water hating tendencies are cringing on the inside for you, even as I sit in the dryness of my car.

I finally park and get into the actual store, where I am pleased to find that all the carts are sopping wet.  Luckily, this helped to moisten the bleach wipe, the ones they provide in the front of the store to wipe down the carts, that had completely dried out, so I could pretend that it might have had some kind of effect.  Then came the awkward walking past the door greeter situation.  I am never 100% sure what is expected out of me in this situation.  I mean, their job is to literally say hi to people walking into the store; however I generally hate interacting with people socially but feel pulled because this is their job and I don't want to hurt their feelings.  I usually opt for a pained smile that probably makes them all think I am some sort of weird sociopath because they usually shift a few inches away from me.  Probably in self protection.  I don't blame them.  I'd shift away from me too.

Then I get to deal with the people in the store.  Like the ones who park their carts and then wander away like four aisles, then get offended when you move it 6 inches to grab a jar of salsa.  Or the people who stand in produce and hold their cucumber in their hand, looking a little lost, until they see someone else grabbing the bag that is literally right above their head.  And don't forget the awkward getting to the end of the aisle and almost crashing into someone coming the other way.  There seriously needs to be traffic rules for Walmart on a Saturday.  Though people don't know how to work a stop sign and don't wave thank you in real traffic, so there's that.  Bastards.

I get to checkout and of course the cashier is one of those who does not turn the belt on to move your groceries forward.  Seriously, people, I just want to unpack my shit, pay, and get the hell outta dodge at this point...and as quickly as possible.  Leave the fucking belt ON so we can streamline this shit.  By the time the person in front of me has paid and is leaving, my entire cart should be unpacked so I can concentrate on putting the bags back into the cart and not be forced to make small talk or to try to avoid eye contact while you are ringing my shit up.'

I am documenting this on here so that I can remember in the future...no matter how tired you are on Friday night, you go grocery shopping.  I don't care if it is a fucking blizzard and you are dying from malaria...you don't go on Saturday morning.  Ever.  I swear, if there was ever a time when I wished my imaginary prescription for Xanax was real, it was today.  I didn't even get any wine while shopping, either.  Kroger and Giant Eagle totally have the right idea with a bar in their store.  I wonder if there is an untapped market for Ubers for grocery shoppers at these stores.  Because I'd be all over that shit, I tell you what.

Questions

I had some rare time alone with Alexis a few nights ago.  I say rare because anymore, we are so fucking busy I barely see my house and I *think* I slept in my own bed last night but I'm not 100% sure because, hey, we're busy and I haven't been home much so I vaguely remember what the interior of my house looks like...between volleyball for her, dance for both girls, doctor's appointments, me still working two jobs, and attempting to somewhat have some sort of social life and a relationship with my husband...yeah.  Busy.

We went outside and I practiced volleyball with her, strangely reminiscent when I would do so with Elizabeth.  This is also very funny as I totally suck at volleyball due to my t-rex arms and complete lack of upper body strength.  Attempts to serve the ball on my part are usually epic fails, plus the baby aspirin I take makes breathing on my skin give me a bruise, so now I have bruises up my forearms that will make people question if I am a battered woman more than they already do (I am so not, for the record.  Poor Charles.  I abuse him way more than he abuses me...)

We got to talking about a variety of topics.  She randomly got on the subject of coffins, and was shocked to discover that people are, in fact, actually buried in coffins and that this is not a Hollywood invention. (That's my honor student for you, folks.)  She then started to inquire as to why we feel the need to bury our dead, and we then discussed diseases that rotting dead bodies can carry, the fact that the beginnings of organized religion probably came around the same time as when humans started to bury the dead, and that now we not only have cremation and burial as options, but you can be created into a diamond to wear as jewelry as well as be put into a pod to nourish a tree.  (Side note:  When I initially told her that you could be made into jewelry, she was all horrified because she thought that you would just be like, wearing a dead person's body parts on a necklace like a charm.)  We then moved onto the circle of life and how it used to be that you would become one with the earth again but now I'm not so sure about that because of embalming.  I am also unsure how this will affect the zombie apocalypse, participation in which is my sole reason for wanting to be buried because I intend to fully participate.

Then somehow, we moved onto the concept of space being the new frontier and if there was life on other planets.  I had to explain the concept of a light year to her, and we discussed the idea of moving to another planet when Donald Trump destroys our current planet and how this would likely just lead to us destroying another one ASAP.  Then somehow she started to question how old our planet was, and when I told her billions of years old, she then questioned why it is only the year 2018 then.  Next came a fantastic discussion of BC/AD and how this came about, and how the current calendar was formulated.

Goddamn.  By the time we went inside because the mosquitos around here have decided that I am quite the snack and have been giving me quarter sized incredibly itchy welts so I wanted to avoid this, I was exhausted.  Not from the volleyball (though we did discuss how my t-rex arms plus big boobs meant I would never be a good volleyball player).  The conversation reminded me of ones you have with a preschooler in its randomness and the way that she listened eagerly, but it was so different too.  She actively engaged and added to the conversation and was forming her own ideas and thoughts.  She was...well, grown.

It is so hard to reconcile my little innocent girl with the woman she is becoming.  She still wants to snuggle and will let me hug her tightly for a long time, on her terms, of course, but I am well aware that those days are numbered.  I am bracing myself for the hatred and venom that will be spilled my way, and reminding myself that it is normal; that she needs to figure out who she is and to learn to think for herself.  All that so she can one day become a strong, independent woman.  It has already started in small ways...she won't say "I love you" to me when I drop her off at school, even if it is just in the car with the door still closed.  She made a joke about a log that had looked really inappropriate a few weeks ago.  She even told me today when I was complaining about an ad interrupting my video  "That means you need to get off of YouTube and do something with your life.  I heard that on a YouTube video."  I love her sense of humor and her good heart and her beauty and grace when she dances, as well as off the stage.  I am just wondering how it will be until she has questions I can't answer.  Mom, why does he want to break up with me?  Mom, why are people so mean?  Mom, why did that person have to die when they did nothing wrong?  Mom, why is there suffering and evil in the world?

Those are the questions that I don't know the answers to.  Throw as many questions about the universe at me as you like, child.  I can answer those.  I can still pretend that you are young and innocent with those.

Walking

Tonight Charles and I forced the little girls to go on a walk with us at a local park with a "nature trail."  I put nature trail in quotes because it is literally like a half mile loop through some woods, with a little creek.  Bitchez, I grew up with the Cleveland Metroparks...I can show you a goddamned nature trail, with a pretty good sized waterfall, even.  Hell, in high school we used to go into the woods at one of these trails as a cross country team and play tag.  For hours.  Well, not really, but sometimes it felt that way.  Point being, I am being indulgent to our small little town here by referring to it as a nature trail.  Maybe more like a nature footpath?

I digress.  Forcing the children to go, right.  I am literally the worst mother ever, for the record, because I made them go outside and play today.  They had to do things such as go swimming, play on the trampoline, and swing on the swingset.  I'm telling you, people, DO NOT parent like I do because activities such as these are surely screwing my children up way more than allowing them to have processed sugar and antibiotics for strep throat and watching Disney movies ever will.

It ended up being a good time. We took the dogs, Roman's first time in the woods ever, and Charlie read the story on the Storybook Trail the library puts up in the summer (NOT in the woods, mind you...It just goes around the little track around the baseball field at the park).  She was reading the book so casually, all like "NBD, Mom.  I can read words like accordion and frolic because I am so big now."  Alexis was out of her tween attitude for the moment and she and Charlie must have signed some kind of peace accord for the evening as they weren't actively plotting each other's demise while simultaneously verbally assaulting each other.  The weather was lovely and the park was empty (which it usually is.  Small town.)

It reminded me of summers in the past, when Alexis was a baby, and Charles and I would load her up in her little pull along thingy and hop on our bikes with Elizabeth.  We'd let her choose which way to go (which honestly, sounds more exciting than it really is in a town of less than a square mile; remember, small town?  I wasn't joking...) and would just ride all around with no real plan other than being out in the lovely weather and enjoying it.

It made me a bit sad, too, to be honest.  Elizabeth is all grown now, out doing her own thing at college.  She lives at school full time now, sharing an apartment with her boyfriend and her cousin at college.  She is an adult now, or at least a reasonable facsimile (really, aren't we all?  Does there ever come a day when you are like, yep, I am now solidly an adult?  I still haven't had that day if there is...).  We never had those times with all three girls, the lazy summer evenings when we just were together.

It is so over-said, but time does truly slip away.  Another year has gone by.  June is slipping away.  Gabe's birthday came, number 10, and I saw a rainbow that evening.  I deliberately took the entire week off, partly because the Fourth of July was on a Wednesday this year, but mostly because I was not sure how double digits was going to impact me.  I got through that day, as I always do, but now the first full week of July is gone and holy fuck, I didn't even write a blog post in June this year!  It's literally like trying to hold onto a fistful of sand...before you know it, time is just gone.

My baby boy, saying hi. 

I want to just grab my kids and hold tight.  To just freeze them where they are and to keep all of the nasty and the ugly and the flat out shit that is going down in this country today away from them.  To stop the heartache that is coming their way and the life lessons they will ultimately learn and the independence they will ultimately attain.  I just want to be free to wander with them, just a little longer, and to explore the world when it is still fresh and new and they are relatively un-jaded.

And, let's be honest, while they all still think I am at least alright. 

Killing

It turns out that my paranoia about my eventual demise at the hands of our animals or random murderers was misplaced.

Apparently it has been matricide at the hands of my darling middle child, Alexis, that I should have been worried about.

We went out to an early dinner on Mother's Day.  Early because we had 4H that evening and since my kid is the president of it, I kinda figured that she should show up even if it meant spending my Mother's Day evening in a small town hall that is horribly echo-y and causes all kinds of sensory overload in my already cranky self.  Hell, earlier that day we had driven home from Columbus as she had a dance competition and of course had to perform her solo that morning.  Guess I should not complain though as there were people who danced that afternoon/evening so my paltry 4H meeting is totally a first world problem amongst first world problems.

So, dinner.  Now when I am out and about with my family, there's a good chance that the most random topics will come up.  Like one time I ended up offering my niece a thousand bucks if she could fist bump the Pope and five thousand if she could spoon with him.  Video or it didn't happen, of course.  Then another time my nephew was talking about how he isn't into Facebook anymore so I asked him if Internet gambling and porn were more his speed.  And another time my nephew and I made a parody of Elf on the Shelf that involved the replacement elf (because the original quit due to a labor dispute with Santa) feeling up a ginormous stuffed bear and puking up his liquor like the lightweight that all elves probably are.

My family should probably not let me around my nieces and nephews unsupervised I think.

Somehow the subject of boot camp in the military came up, and Alexis asked what boot camp was.  My sister informed her that boot camp is where people in the military go to learn how to be killing machines.  Alexis, very casually, and without looking up from the picture she was coloring goes "Oh, I'm a killing machine."

Uh, the fuck?  She said it so nonplussed.  Like one would say something like "Oh yeah, I graduated from high school in 1998."  Like a statement of verifiable fact.  Apparently this is something I totally missed in my kid's life, the fact that somewhere in her 11 years of existence she has developed the ability to kill someone with her bare hands.

Mother of the YEAR, I tell you what.

So the conversation moved on, and Elizabeth is showing me this thing she got in her Ipsy bag that is like a double headed eyeliner, where one end is a regular line drawing eyeliner, and the other end is a star.  We were talking about all of the cool (?  Not so sure that look would be cool for anyone over the age of 14 on a day other than Halloween, but whatevs...) things you could do with it and Alexis said she wanted a "tattoo" of the star on her cheek.  My response was, "oh, like a teardrop tattoo?"  She again, very casually, affirmed that was in fact what she wanted.

I hope to god that she was just going along with this story for the laughs (we almost made my brother choke on his food a number of times with the discussion of her abilities to murder) but Imma be honest here...I'm a little freaked out.  I mean, the kid seriously has like no spine when she dances as evidenced by the way she can bend herself into all kinds of unnatural folds...would it really be that much of a stretch to assume that she has also along the way picked up some other talents, like the ability to break a neck with a single twist?

Maybe all of this time I have been worried about the wrong child being a serial killer.  Or perhaps this has been part of the plan all along, to keep the focus on the little one and glide along in the shadows like some sort of ballerina ninja ready to pounce should someone displease her.  I almost kind of feel like I need to start packing heat when I sleep.  Or like I need to up my meds.  Probably both.

Mother of the YEAR here, bitchez.

Drill

I have been volunteering in Charlie's classroom on Tuesdays.  Mostly because my parents always modeled the importance of being involved in your kids' schools, and by God, if  I am going to be judged based upon my children it is going to be for inappropriate parenting, not uninvolvement in their classrooms.

I like going in and working with the first graders, helping them do things such as form more coherent sentences than our commander in chief is apparently able to and differentiating between long o and short o.  Of course, Charlie gets a kick out of me being in there because I am still cool in her eyes.  All to change in the next few years, I am sure, because Alexis sure as hell is sliding into "my mom is embarrassing as fuck" territory at an alarming rate.

Most days, this is mundane and routine and I leave and drive to work, no problem.  Today was not one of those days.

The fire alarm went off.

It has been documented that I have a propensity to attract fire and apparently have magical dragon powers, minus the scales.  I've not talked yet about how meaningful fire alarms are to my family, mostly because I keep forgetting to do so, but just know that they are.  Most of the time, fire alarms are a good thing for us (minus, of course, any actual fire.  That would be bad, probably.). 

Except.

Valentine's Day, 2018.  Florida.

Those kids in Charlie's class, man.  They had no fucking clue that when that alarm went off, I was internally freaking.  Now, the teachers seemed to know that there was going to be a fire drill that day (do they tell teachers this shit in advance?  I hope so cause that would really suck to be in art class taking a cast of your arm or some shit and have to haul ass outside dragging that with you...).  But...will there forever be that lingering doubt in their minds, that there is some asshole with a gun waiting out there to pick them all off?  What about times when the alarm goes off, because some kid pulls it, or God forbid, there is a real fire?  Will there always be that doubt in the back of their minds that they are actually going to safety, or to their worst nightmare?

What the fuck?  What the actual fuck?  How are we OK with this?  How is it OK for a scenario that would (let's be honest, here, cause it's me and I am a bit crazy...) normally just be my own personal crazy running through my head be an actual, possible, real life thing?  Hell, I freak out hearing an ambulance internally, convinced that my husband and/or children are dead.  It used to be hell working next to the hospital, when life flight came by and every single time I'd panic on the inside, thinking that maybe this time Charles really lit himself on fire good, or one of the kids fell and broke their neck on the playground, or, or....

Those are not realistic thoughts.  I am fully, 100% aware of this, and dear sweet mother of God if I could control them even starting in the first place I would.  But the fact that a shooter could pull an alarm and pick off my children, and everyone else's children...this actually happened.  THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENED.

I look at those survivors from Florida.  You know, the kids that people decry as lazy.  As disconnected from actual human interaction.  As entitled, spoiled brats.  They are charging full speed ahead and making their voices heard, even as people try to discredit them as "too young".  These "too young" people have gone through hell because of the adults around them failing to act. And I have to admit, I am ashamed to be an adult right now.  We failed these kids.  We failed to recognize that perhaps an 18 year old is NOT mature enough to purchase an AR as their brain is not even fully developed until age 25.  We failed to acknowledge that domestic violence is a HUGE red flag for mass shootings.  We failed to protect the very future of this country, our most precious resources, because it is not financially wise for politicians to do so if they want to further their careers. 

We failed.  And until this country is willing to accept and acknowledge this...I fear that we will continue to fail.  And that, my friends, is a scary, scary prospect.  The stakes are too high.  For all of us.

Letters III

Bitchez,

Time for our yearly Christmas letter!  Well, not really yearly, but there's not a term for 3 times in 5 years.  Like, tri-half-decadely?  IDK.  I make shit up half the time, so let's just go with that for now and accept the fact that I can't be counted on to consistently write a Christmas letter.  It's tough work maintaining this crazy, I tell you what.  I can't be expected to maintain my crazy AND a yearly letter AND to publish it on this blog.  One has to prioritize, you know.

Speaking of priorities...Charles finally decided that he should maybe make his health a priority and went to go get his knees looked at.  Of course, they are pretty fucked up and he desperately needs a knee replacement, but quality of life means nothing to insurance companies so they keep shelling out for bandaids for the amputation here and keep doing more minor surgeries.  In this case, it was repairing a torn meniscus (he likes to do that to his knees for funsies, I think...he had the other one done a few years ago) and cleaning up what little cartilage remains in his knee.  The surgeon told me that the knee wasn't as bad as he expected, which considering that the knee he DIDN'T operate on is bone on bone probably isn't saying much.  But, we at least got to work out the disability insurance we are paying for again this year, though for not quite as long as last year's surgery.  He has been informed that this is not a trend that needs to continue into 2018, but no one ever fucking listens to me around here based upon the number of clothes that make it thisclose to being inside the laundry hamper vs on the floor.  Other than that, he is enjoying being employed by a place that prides itself on increasing the level of desperation and despair in its employees eyes exponentially year by year whilst simultaneously wrecking his physical health and forcing him to dream of someday being a kept man.

I am continuing at the private practice, and have started up my own here in town because God forbid I should ever have things like free time or relaxation or reduced stress.  I continue to try to run, not because I enjoy being lapped by the power walkers (which, let's be honest, probably would happen) but because if I don't, I tend to get incredibly cranky and turn to unhealthy coping mechanisms and a dark sense of humor in times of stress...wait, that happens anyways...so why do I run again...?  I also participated in the Minimalism Game again this month and was again shocked by the amount of crap I threw away or donated, this time mainly from the little girls' rooms where they were hoarding miscellaneous puzzle pieces and random plastic pieces of various playsets like their very lives depended on it.

Elizabeth continues to do well at school.  She has moved into an apartment with her boyfriend and cousin and two cats, who are now my grandkitties and I am enjoying being a grandma to because she better not fucking make me a human grandma before I am 40, goddammit.  Plus I haven't thought of a cute name for the kid to call me because I'll be damned if I'm going by Grandma.  My grandchild will be a bevy of originality and awesomeness, naturally, and my name should reflect this.  So I'm not ready to be a grandmother based solely on my lack of an original name.  Of course, there's the whole she needs to finish college first thing too...but I would hope that given that she pretty much went to college with me, that would be a no-brainer.  She also continues to work for the private practice I am at, doing their social media stuff, and everyone loves her to pieces because I somehow have not fucked her up so much she is unable to be a productive member of society.

Alexis continues to dance and I continue to shell out extraordinary amounts of money for this.  She is starting to run into the whole school activities vs dance thing, and I will tell you what, she certainly did not learn stress management from me!  She decided to NOT do Student Council this year because she felt that she could not give it the proper amount of attention between 4H, dance, and band, plus maintaining her good grades.  High five me, parenting WIN with her not picking up on my unnatural and unhealthy Superwoman complex!  She also is continuing to barrel full speed towards adolescence and I'm continuing to hoard my imaginary Xanax to get through it as my anxious to please baby is starting to get some serious sass here.  Imagine that, a child of mine being sassy?  Must get that from her father.

Charlie is dominating first grade academics like the boss that she is and has not only continued her acro classes, but is also doing cheer.  She wants to do swim as well, but I am having a hard time finding classes for her around here that aren't filled up by the members and I refuse to pay $300 for a rec membership to *maybe* get first dibs at swim classes that I will have to pay extra for anyways.  She's already doing better than me in that department as she can tolerate, you know, actually getting into the water, and isn't that what parenting is all about?  Your children having better than you?  Well, she can sure as shit save herself from drowning and that is more than I can say for me (well, at least when I am trying to get out of swimming in gym as a freshman in high school...).

The animals are maintaining.  We had to say good bye to Gunner as he had bitten someone despite all of the training we had put him through.  Charles and Elizabeth had contemplated getting me another puppy, but honestly, I don't have the time to put into one right now with both practices and I am going to be semi-responsible and put the kibosh on that.  We had briefly thought Deogie had cancer, but when we got the lump removed the biopsy, much to the vet's surprise (and Dr. Google, at least according to the pictures...) it was benign.  He at one point did figure out how to get around the cone of shame to lick at his stitches, so he had to get a bigger cone, and it was really hard to not laugh at him as he continually misjudged the size of the cone and ran into shit.  I'm probably going to hell for this, but the little shit did it to himself by being too smart for his britches and getting around the (smaller) first cone.

Seriously, the cone is literally the size of his torso...

Maximus and Toby continue to do well, as do the various fish we have upstairs.  I'm still not convinced that the sucker fish is not going to murder us in his sleep one day as he is still unnamed and probably has an angry blog somewhere blasting the inherent unfairness of being a sucker fish, but I guess if it happens it will be well documented and I can say from the grave "I told you so."

Anyways, looking forward to a future where maybe my husband won't be going under the knife again and I will be only working one job, and not being a grandmother until I have an appropriately creative yet meaningful moniker.  I'm hoping for 1, maybe 2/3 in 2018.  Goals, amirite bitchez?

Merry Christmas!

Laura, Charles, Elizabeth, Alexis, and Charlie

Fundraising II

This came home today:

Fifty-two glossy, shiny pages of crap strategically arranged to look way better than it is.  Kinda like a lot of bills that come through Congress.  Or a porn star.

The time of year that all parents dread: Fundraising time.  

Of course, Charlie came home all excited about possibly winning this watch thing that looks like a Fitbit.  She only needs to sell 50 items to do this, probably bringing in for the company about $5,000 and earning the school about 28 cents.  She only wants this thing because she asked for a Fitbit for Christmas because that was what Alexis wants and I was all like "The fuck you will get a Fitbit, you get frustrated when you can't get your hair in a ponytail and you throw the ponytail holder across the room.  I sure as shit ain't giving you a hundred dollar electronic for you to get pissed at and to chuck across the room.  That shit will break something maybe."  It was totally in a loving, maternal way with no cussing, of course, but that was totally the gist.

Seriously, bitchez.  We need to band together and STOP this madness.  I once raised the question of why this fundraiser was still going on and was told that it was a big money maker for the school.  Let's fucking strike here until there is a fundraiser that involves alcohol and an evening away from my children.  I'd totally drink with some of my kids' teachers.  They seem cool as fuck.  I'm only down for a strike, though, if it involves some song and dance numbers, a la Newsies.  I always thought knickers and a newsboy hat looked fun.  But only with suspenders.  Naturally.

I digress.  Let's get a fundraiser that I can get behind, that doesn't involve extortion of money from my family and friends in exchange for lead-based crap from China and miniature rolls/sheets of wrapping paper.  

Or-and this is a super novel idea here, so bear with me-

We could just fucking fund schools appropriately in the first place.

I so don't want the people caring for my demented ass in my elderly years to have to have attended schools that get "extra" stuff that is actually so essential funded based upon who could sell the most 3 oz tins of chocolate covered pretzels for $25.  I don't want the future of this country to depend on who busts their ass the most to get that extra $500 for some new library books or playground equipment.  And I don't want teachers to have to dip into their own pockets to give my children a rich educational experience because God knows they are underpaid and if they quit I have to then try to educate my children myself and we may as well just nuke the country because that is as horrible an idea as forcing said children to sell a bunch of shit to their family and friends, who will then demand the same from these children when they are adults, thus perpetuating an endless cycle of being indebted to the next generation to buy this shit instead of having the elderly generation just paying for their education in the first place in agreement that the youngin's will not push their wheelchairs out on the ice when they are unable to care for themselves.  

If this country is truly the land of opportunity, ALL children would be able to have the same experiences and benefit from the talent and dedication of the educators charged with shaping the future.  Things are not this way; however, so we fundraise.  Can't we at least have a fundraiser that adults actually enjoy?  Or, better yet:

Let me write a fucking check, without the exchange of plastic shit and junk food vacuum sealed in plastic.  Consider it a down payment towards the people I am going to depend on, later in life, to make sure that my martini is shaken, not stirred.