Accessorizing

I am trying to wrap my mind around the whole idea of wearing scarves as accessories.  I just don't get it.  Who came up with the brilliant idea to put some fabric around your neck so you can pretend to be strangled every day?  Plus, that shit is usually all flowy and whatnot, so it is all free flowing and moving and, in my opinion, really really annoying.  Like dangly earrings.  I don't want that shit pulling at my earlobes every time I whip my head around because I have caught Charlie trying to hog tie her sisters again.

I have never been much for accessorizing, though.  I have one purse.  I wear the same jewelry every day (and ironically, for someone who does not wear much jewelry, 3/4 of it is stuff my husband has bought me...my wedding ring, the anniversary band, and the mother's ring.  The fourth piece is my necklace that I have for my son.)  I do have a bit of a shoe thing going on, but even then I am more likely to buy shoes for my kids than for myself.  Hell, let's face it...most days my job is lucky that I show up clothed, including pants, and looking at least a step above a hobo living behind Aldi's in the dumpster.  To try to pick out jewelry, a purse, a belt, AND shoes?  That is simply too high of an expectation for me.  Sorry not sorry.

(And sorry again for that last sentence.  I just always wanted to use it and never got the chance, so I took this one and not only embraced it, I french kissed it and dry humped its leg.)

Elizabeth always manages to look put together.  She does her hair all cute and always has a nice, classy outfit on that is appropriately accessorized. She clearly was able to figure that shit out on her own because she sure as hell got zero guidance from me with that.  I'm hoping she passes that down to her sisters too, cause otherwise people might mistake us for a band of miscreants and throw rotten tomatoes at us.  And by God, we could be COMPOSTING those tomatoes!

My hope for the little girls as adults is that when they go out in public with me, people will smile at all of us and say to themselves, "What lovely children to take their obviously senile mother on an outing!"  My inability to accessorize has its perks, because really I have set the bar so low that when I am old, people won't be like "Oh remember when she was so put together?"  Instead, they will all be like "Holy fuck, she finally went completely crazy!"  I want to be the old lady who wears her bathrobe and slippers to the gynecologist because one may as well be comfy, amiright?  I also don't want my children to have to go through mountains of accessories when they stick me in a home, on top of all of the other shit I will have accumulated and the other concerns they might have, like finding my sex toys or dead bodies in the walls.  It's really just one less thing for them to worry about.

See?  My lack of fashion sense is actually me caring deeply for my children.  And that, bitchez, is how a therapist helps reframe irrational cognitions to be more helpful.  Except it's not usually that delusional.  And honestly, that's not really an irrational thought.  And it's more a rationalization than an appropriate reframe.

Sorry not sorry.

(YESSSSS!!!!  TWICE!!!!)

Simplifying

It's Christmastime!

This is actually one of my favorite times of the year.  I distinctly remember my father bringing down all of the decorations and getting the house all gussied up; the lights all on the outside.  I remember going to get the tree and decorating it while listening to Christmas Carols.  I remember having to put the goddamned tinsel on one piece at a time, which contributed to  my totally irrational fear of tinsel and why we never ever have any in my house.  I remember the seemingly endless nights of baking Christmas cookies and nut rolls and poppy seed rolls.

It was so magical when I was a kid.  It seemed so easy.  This was before I knew that Christmas could be a stressful time.  Before I knew what it cost.  The stresses of having to deal with family members that you don't really like.  Before I knew that there were people who did not have Christmas.  Before I knew that for some people, Christmas was a symbol of how they have failed according to the American Dream of having more and more.  Hell, before I was even aware that there were people who did not celebrate Christmas...

Given that I am now working as much as I am, I was forced this year to simplify our Christmas.  I never do Christmas cards, because even before this  year I refused to send them unless I was able to write a personal note in them (which of course, I was not.)  I don't do a Christmas letter because...well, it's probably good I don't.  I am not baking much of anything.  We decorated, but I did not go crazy.  I did almost all of my shopping online this year.  Send that shit right to my door without me having to leave my house, deal with people, or put pants on?  Fuck yeah!

I am still, however, room mom for Alexis's class party.  Even her teacher must have known I was simplifying because all I have to bring in is hot chocolate.  Score!  However, I am also in this purging stage of my life and I  have had up in my attic for a few years now a bunch of shit I bought on clearance one year...some Christmas cups, straws, erasers, stickers, and bouncy balls.  I decided that I was going to go ahead and throw some "goody cups" together for the kids using this stuff to get it out of the house.  Yes, I am *that* parent...not only am I going to give your kid cheap Christmas shit for you to have to smuggle out of your house but I am not going to give you any chocolate or candy to steal from them to make up for it.

So I was making these goody cups, all proud of myself that I was being health conscious AND simplifying at the same time, when I caught a glimpse of an elf eraser that I had tossed into one of the cups:

Yes, this is a decapitated elf eraser, in what appears to be the red tube of death, AKA, the red snowflake cup.

So not only am I simplifying this Christmas season, I am contributing to your third grader's psychological issues via inadvertent elf decapitation.  Merry Christmas, bitchez!  May all your dreams (but not your elf-related nightmares, which are apparently super creepy...) come true!

Hacks

There is a trend that I have noticed lately of people posting these "life hacks" on various social media.  Basically, these hacks are supposed to be ways that make your life easier, but being the eternal pessimist that I am, I read them as pointing out all of the ways that you are doing life wrong.  This varies from how you cut your avocado to how you fill up your mop bucket.

Fuck that shit.  I feel inadequate enough on my own, thanks to Pinterest and the voices in my head.  I want some kind of life hack that is going to not only make people feel better but is actually going to be useful to me in my day to day life.

Thus, the idea for parenting hacks was born.

Here are my top five:

1.)  Tired of fights on rainy days between the children?  Invest in some bubble wrap.

Seriously.  That shit is so entertaining, not only for them but for you.  There is a certain satisfaction in popping those tiny bubbles and pretending that they are the heads of people you want to punch in the throat but can't cause you will totes get fired.  Plus the children can get creative with it.  Like Charlie did the other day:

Always said that Charlie was either going to be President or a serial killer...but super successful either way.  Looks like we are leaning towards serial killer.

2.)  Tired of struggling to get your toddler dressed?  Do you feel as though you have wrestled a greased pig after getting them dressed?  Do you sweat and ache after like you have just completed P90X?

Fuck clothes.  Seriously.  Most toddlers would rather be naked anyways.  Pants optional?  Why the hell not?

3.)  Pizza cutters can be your new best friend!  From trimming fondant from the bottom of cakes, to quickly cutting quesadillas, to easily removing those pesky crusts that some asshole kid told your kid were the devil...they can do everything it seems.  Including, oh...actually cutting pizza!  Because let's be honest...that pie you grabbed on the way home from work is not actually cut all the way through.  And nothing is more irritating than the pointy part of your slice ripping off because some pimple faced teenage boy was too busy staring at his coworker's butt to pay attention to actually cutting all the way through.  And if one kid's pizza slice is pointy and the other's isn't...dear sweet mother of God, the wailing and gnashing of teeth that will ensue...

4.)  Two words:  Santa Claus.  Seriously.  Even if you aren't Christian and/or don't celebrate Christmas, you need to exploit the fuck out of this dude.  When singers of yore were merrily trilling about "the most wonderful time of the year" they certainly weren't referring to the birth of their lord and savior Jesus Christ.  No, they were referring to the fact that the creepiest of traditions was about to start.  No better way to get your children to behave than to instill in them a healthy fear of stalkers.  And seriously...since Christmas shit starts coming out in stores in like August now, you  may as well milk the shit out of the Santa situation and use it to threaten them into submission.  If I am going to be forced to smell cinnamon pine cones and look at glittery ornaments and blinking lights at the same time as I am forced to see the dregs of humanity that inhabit the local Walmart on 90* days in the dog days of summer while simultaneously trying to buy the stuff needed for the school supplies list (really?  A two pocket orange folder with prongs?  THEY DON'T FUCKING EXIST!!!) I am sure as shit going to shamelessly use the idea that some old guy in a red suit is judge and jury of a kid's behavior.

5.)  You know how when you get sick, those pesky children still expect things like meals, immunizations, and a free and appropriate public education?  And you know how you are just about dying and your mom isn't around to tuck you in and pour medicine down your throat?  And you know, just know, that one goddamned day of rest will make you feel so much better?

TV.

Yes, it rots your kid's brain.  Yes, it is totally bad parenting to expect the television to babysit.  Yes, the shows are annoying as hell but have the equivalent effect of a powerful drug.  You need to get better to be able to parent.  Use the fucking boob tube, ignore the children for a day, and heal.

These, bitchez...these are REAL life hacks.  You're welcome.

Sleep

I don't know if the fucking of our clocks that is DST is continuing, if Charlie has tripped too much acid at preschool (see below) or if she is secretly in training for special ops and is practicing sleep deprivation to see how she functions...but Charlie has recently decided that sleeping in her own bed is a path straight to hell.  So this mean she now joins us.  In bed.  Every night.

Not cool.

The fuck?  What are they doing in preschool nowadays?

I am not sure if out of my  9 10 readers (Hi, Mason!) there is anyone who practices attachment parenting.  If you are one, you might want to stop reading.  Or continue reading so you can judge me on my parenting practices.  Really, I'm cool either way.  I am not one of those parents.  Mostly because of the fact that I need my sleep.  And you don't get much when you have a child in bed with you.

As I have learned the past few weeks.

Charlie is practicing her cage fighting she had perfected in the womb in her sleep.  In my bed.  On me.  I go to bed with visions of waking in the morning well rested.  I wake instead with a lovely pattern of bruises up my left side because she has beat the shit out of me in her sleep.  She also tends to make this high pitched whining noise that is surely to summon the hounds of hell to come and steal my soul.  Or for Alexis to come climb into bed with us as well, which has happened a few times.  Poor deprived middle child; she never got to sleep with me.  Of course, she also would yell from her bed for me to come get her out of it until she was well over four....completely different animal there, Alexis is.  Elizabeth also used to like to sleep with me, but she didn't beat on me.  She just wanted to sleep "on your chest, Mommy" and would then jam my chin up to an unnatural angle as she snuggled in.  With her, I spent half the night going from my twin bed to the trundle she slept in under it; lather, rinse, and repeat.

We currently have a California King bed.  One would not think that a 40 lb child could take up so much room in it.  She usually has about 3/4 of the bed.  Then when Alexis comes in, she takes up about another third of the bed.  I'm pretty sure that is over a whole bed, but I'm too sleep deprived to figure it up.

I don't function well in the mornings.  One thing Charles learned quickly about me, aside from the whole laundry thing and my general insanity, was that I need sleep.  I am not blessed, like some of my siblings, with the ability to get by on just 5 hours.  I need a good 8-9 hours, and that is when I am not depressed.  I am pretty sure that I am non-functional enough in the mornings that if I ever had to sign an important contract first thing, I could get out of it if I want to by some kind of insanity plea.

So waking up every morning, feeling as though I have done battle throughout the night?  Yeah, it's made life super fun lately.  So much that the above picture actually kinda makes sense to me.

The logical answer to this?  Leave a pillow and a blanket and she can sleep on the floor, right?  Yeah.  It took me two weeks to think of this.  My initial thought was to try to invent injectable coffee.  Then I realized there was another name for this.  Cocaine.

I think I need to add money for when Mommy was sleep deprived to the kids' therapy funds.

DST

Of all of the myriad of ways that have been developed to torture parents, Daylight Savings Time has to be the worst.

I mean, that is not really a big revelation to anyone who has, works with, or knows someone with children.  Seriously, who thinks of this shit?  Let's go for 6 months on one time schedule, and then suddenly decide to move time back or forth an hour, and then pretend that life is going to go on like normal.  When in reality, you just slapped society with the equivalent of a toddler who has been given a bottle of vodka with coke and heroin mixed into it.

And let's not talk about the effects on the children...

All of that bullshit that the nebulous "they" talk about regarding sleep hygiene, bedtime routines, and basically taking enough Xanax to get through bath time...all of that goes flying out the window twice a year.  We are fucking with children's internal clocks here, people.  There is no other explanation than the fact that someone, somewhere, wants to punish you for having sex and having procreated.

I am actually starting to wonder about the timing of elections and DST.  Again, the nebulous "they" seem to have an agenda for world domination going on here.  Mind control through sleep deprivation, doncha know?

I'd be concerned about my apparent increasing paranoia, but I am too busy mourning the loss of the sun while I eat my dinner and attempt to wrangle confused children into bed at what society says is the appropriate hour, but what their bodies are rebelling against in a more fierce fashion than Simon Cowell rebels against country music and owls.

Which are, coincidentally, nocturnal.  SEE WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT HERE???

Economics

E:  I need money for a field trip.

Me:  What field trip?  When?  Where is the permission slip?  Where are you going?

E:  Jesus.  I just need $20 to listen to some guy talk about cancer.  It's not like I'm going to buy cocaine with it.  I don't even know what the going rate for cocaine is.

Me:  Well, you are asking for money for a trip that I know nothing about.  Yes, I am gonna question you.  And $20 won't buy you coke.  Maybe crack.

E:  Is there a difference?

Me:  Well, crack is cheaper coke.  Like the Great Value brand of cocaine.

E:  Hey...you buy Great Value stuff all the time...

Me:  If I bought cocaine it would likely be crack.  That's just good economics there.

Eeebbollaaa

I have had numerous firsts that have surprised me in my adult life.  I  have nearly been sideswiped by an angry shopper over Thanksgiving dinnerware.  I have had my hopes and dreams dashed by a can of tomato soup.

I also just recently had another first, one that I never imagined that I would have in my lifetime.

I got screened for Ebola at the local hospital.

It was intense, let me tell you.  I was not even allowed to walk into the ER without first answering a series of questions.  I was questioned on my past travels.  I was questioned about what flights I have taken and when.  I was questioned if I ever had any association with known Ebola sufferers.  I then got a special "No Ebola club" sticker.  I can't even get my fucking picture taken for the "No Cavity Club" at the dentist...

All I have to say is, they are lucky I was walking into the ER for work.  Cause otherwise I would have totally fucked with them and answered yes to all of the questions just to see what would have happened.  I personally envision some kind of set up like you see in ET, with all the tents and the people in the white suits and the shriveled, sickly alien and a young, cute, and innocent Drew Barrymore.

I wonder if the CDC would get mad if I asked them if I could phone home...?

I would make a really lousy Ebola patient I think.  I would be so bored, so I would be way tempted to do shit like lift the white suit up and touch their scrubs underneath just so I could have someone in isolation with me.  We could pass time by making origami out of the masks we are forced to wear and by playing catch with balloons made from the gloves.  It's all gonna get incinerated anyways, so we may as well use the supplies in the room, amiright?

(This is where, if I had more than 9 people who read my blog, I would get flamed for making fun of a serious disease such as Ebola.  People are suffering, don't you know?  It's a government conspiracy!  My first response is...you have to laugh or you will cry.  My second response?

Credit goes to weknowmemes.com)

If I am going to hell, which I surely am...it is not going to be for poking fun at a disease.  I know at least that much.

Boxes

In my basement, amongst all of the other shit that ends up down there due to not having a garage and having a house that is set up in a more awkward fashion than a teenage boy trying to cop his first feel, there are three Rubbermaid containers.  One is almost completely full; one is partially full, and one does not have very much in it.

These are the boxes in which I put a variety of things from each of the girls.  Report cards.  Mother's Day cards.  Art from the art show.  Newspaper clippings in which they are featured.  Significant school projects.

I have stuff from Elizabeth when she was in daycare.  Class pictures from Alexis's preschool years.  The first time Charlie wrote her name all by  herself.

Let's face it here...I am not going to scrapbook these memories.  I tried it once and then immediately drank a bottle of wine.  I would much rather crochet the day away or create hair bows my children will never wear than scrapbook.  I also really suck at keeping baby books.  Do they even really do those anymore?  Charlie's might have like the first page filled out.  That is like some sort of cruel motherhood torturing device...let's give you a cute book that you have to write down shit your baby does because you will TOTALLY have time for that.  Fuck. That.  At least the wine consumption you can do while holding the child.  Ever try to write something with a child on your lap?  Or try to scrapbook?  Too many sharp objects and too much glue to do with a kid around.  At least with making the clips, if they touch the hot glue gun they'll learn.  And if they don't...well, you have bigger fish to fry my friend.

I am really trying to avoid thinking about the box that is almost full.  Elizabeth will be leaving soon.  And not just to go visit her father.  Like, leaving and being legally responsible for herself and having to manage her money and cook her own meals and take care of herself if she gets sick leaving.  Like having to manage her time and make her own curfew leaving.

She is an amazing kid.  Despite my best efforts to totally fuck her up, she is just amazing.  Her little sisters look up to her with so much awe (and totally call her out when she is being a turd).  That box that is full...that is a short lifetime of memories there.  Of growth, and learning, and accomplishments.

Some day  her sisters' will have full boxes too.  And I will know that it is time to let them go.  And I just have to hope that they remember touching that hot glue gun, and all of the other lessons that come along with that short lifetime.  Eighteen years does not seem long enough to prepare them for a lifetime.  And yet, somehow we do.

Better

I'm feeling marginally better now.

I was able to get shit done today.  The weather is gorgeous so I took to the outdoors to paint.  I painted the front porch.  The back steps.  The picnic table.  Most of the trim around the windows (until I ran out of paint.  Plus my ladder wasn't tall enough.  And despite Charlie's mad spider monkey skills, there is no easy way to reach the top of the second story windows without a tall enough ladder.   Cause I ain't about to be hanging out of a window with a bed sheet tied around my waist and a bed frame or some such craziness.  Though I will admit that the thought crossed my mind...Charles did come home to find me on the roof of the entryway to the basement so really not too far of a stretch...)  I then came inside and started to paint the living room.  I chose the wall with the big window on it, mostly so I can get my curtains hanging back up because by God, I want to be able to parade around naked in my living room without being the peep show for the whole neighborhood.  At least the free peep show.  Perhaps if there was a $5 cover charge...

.

 Ignore all of the crap on the couch.  Normally it would be hanging up, but I had to take the hooks down to paint.  Eh, who am I kidding?  That couch will still look like that even after I hang the hooks back up because it apparently takes way too much effort to hook a book bag on a hook...

I did miss going to see a friend who was in the state, but that was because my van is an asshole and decided to need new brakes.  Not like they were metal on metal or anything.  Next thing you know the fucker is going to demand gasoline because it is SO NEEDY like my children who demand things like food and immunizations and absolutely refuse to get gainfully employed.  Slackers.

Basically, I got my to-do list done today (that is now on my iPhone vs my desktop; gotta love technology).  Very different from last weekend when I was dying.

Granted, my fingers are as swollen and stiff as can be.  I am sure I will be sore as hell tomorrow from all of the squatting and bending over and reaching from the painting.  My house is currently in shambles from moving shit around so I can paint coupled with my children's complete inability to put anything away, ever.

But I got shit done.  And I was able to spend time with the two little girls, at least (Elizabeth of course wants nothing to do with me as I am the devil.)  We spent a fair amount of time outside.  Alexis played on the trampoline and helped me paint while Charlie napped.  Charlie then woke up and did whatever secret op stuff the government has her doing currently, then came out to play with Alexis. (She can't tell me or she'd have to kill me.  And I'm pretty sure she carries a shank strapped to her ankle so I'm not pushing the issue.)  They actually got along for once so I am assuming the mission went well...(so I definitely decided to make a blog post tonight so I'd have record of this.)  It was a good day.

This is how it goes with me.  I am at the mercy of what my body decides to do.  If it is going to be nice, then great!  Shit gets done.  If it decides to be an asshole...then I'm dying.  I would swear I was bipolar if I knew that I didn't get the wonderful benefits of being manic like not needing much sleep.  Perhaps my body is bipolar.  Can one diagnose one's body with a mental illness but not oneself?   And if that is the case, can I then involuntarily commit my body to a really nice mental institution?  Preferably one with a gourmet chef and a private whirlpool....

Body

I currently hate my body.

Not in the "OMG I am so fat and society hates me!" (though I am not going to deny there is some of that going on as well...)  It is more in the whole Sjogren's Disease is taking over my body kind of way.

Charlie was recently so nice as to share a stomach bug with me.  Sweet, huh?  It was a 24 hour deal for her.  And for my mother-in-law, with whom she also shared.  It took me twice as long to recover.  Hell, I am still not fully recovered but I am pretending that I am because if I don't I will just break down and cry.  Again.

I hate my body.

I hate complaining about my body.  But by God, I almost never do so I am going to do so now before I lose my fucking mind.

I hate that the medications that I take to keep my immune system from attacking my body are the same ones that lower my immune system so that I can't fight off illnesses as effectively.

I hate the judgement that I get from my boss every time that I call off because I am fucking sick.  Again.  Getting points, and possibly written up.  Again.

I hate that I now have to, at the ripe old age of 33, get FMLA papers filled out for a health condition.

I hate that I go into work when I shouldn't, that I push myself beyond what I should, and pay the price later, because that judgement does not just come from her but from others around me and people think I am whining when I describe the throbbing joint pain.  The unrelenting fatigue.  The stomach that occasionally will decide to throw a fit and rebel against everything that I eat, even in the absence of micro-organisms that cause this.  The not being able to eat much gluten because it makes it that much worse.  And do you know how many things have gluten in them?   The irritated, dry eyes that never really feel like the sand comes out of them.  The dry mouth that makes the three hours I am at the jail for work, where I am not allowed to have anything to drink to relieve it, sometimes a unique hell of its own (aside from the whole, hey I am locked in the jail at the mercy of the officers to let me out thing.) The dry skin, and, ahem, other areas.  The tingling and numbness and coldness that comes with Reynaud's, that is secondary to the Sjogren's.  The fear of getting a blood clot, again, related to a condition secondary to Sjogren's.  The very real fear that no matter how well I take care of my teeth, that some day I might lose them.  The very real fear that the next time I go back to the rheumatologist, this is going to be the time she tells me I have Rheumatoid Arthritis.  Or Lupus.  Or some other kind of autoimmune disease, because let's just see how many I can acquire because I apparently have nothing more to do than to add to my list of diagnoses and medications...

The very real fear that some day I might die like my father did,  drowning in the fluids from the lungs.  I joke about my cat-like fear of water; it is quite ironic that this could realistically be the way I died some day.

I hate the fact that to complicate all of this, I am now having some problems with my reproductive system and am losing, at certain times of the month, the equivalent of two+ pints of blood over the course of a week (and yes, I am able to quantify this.  Diva Cup)  Totally helpful for the fatigue.  Oh, and the calling off sick thing because I have had to leave work because I was bleeding so much that the front and back of my pants were soaked through.

TMI?  Probably.  But I am describing that to describe the hell that it has been to be me lately.  I don't want my children to remember me as being sick. Or my employer.  Or anyone. I don't want to be sick.  I did not ask for my body to turn on itself.  For my uterus to decide to turn the crimson tide into the crimson tsunami.  For my life to be run by physical limitations that only I can feel.

I want to go back to the time where I could abuse my body and know it would spring back.  Where I had unlimited, boundless energy.  Hell, I want to go back two months ago when things were somewhat under control.

I can wish in one hand and shit in another.  Wonder what will fill first?