Momma's Head Revisited

~Autobiography in Five Short Chapters~

Chapter 1

I walk down the street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I fall in.

I am lost ... I am helpless.

It isn't my fault.

It takes forever to find a way out.

Chapter 2

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I pretend I don't see it.

I fall in again.

I can't believe I am in the same place.

But it isn't my fault.

It still takes a long time to get out.

Chapter 3

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I see it is there.

I still fall in ... it's a habit.

My eyes are open.

I know where I am.

It is my fault.

I get out immediately.

Chapter 4

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I walk around it.

Chapter 5

I walk down another street.

~ Portia Nelson ~ 

(There's a Hole in My Sidewalk)

BAM..... It was a beautiful day, much like the one 7 years ago.  This time I was in the passenger seat.  I started to sweat, and feel nauseous. My intestines started to spasm. I frantically started to analyze what was going on inside of me.  What was the last thing I ate? Did I forget to do something important? Are the kids in the car with us? Is anyone else hot? Why does everyone else look so calm,? Don’t let The Hub notice. The Hub just noticed.  

“Hey hon, ya ‘aight?”  

I don’t want to answer, but I say, “Um, I am not feeling good.” 

He is so well versed in my crazy that he pinpoints immediately, “You panickin’?”  which I was. 

I realized it at that moment too.  I looked down and started to breathe and concentrate on the breathing.  I told The Hub that I couldn’t figure out why.  

He grabbed my hand and squeezed and said, “Your accident happened right over there.”  

Oh.  Oh that.  That again?!  I still have no memory of the accident, or where it happened.  The brain is funny like that.  It doesn’t give you all the information that you want, but doles out little bits of information here and there as you can handle it.

Fuck, I did not have time for this.  I am over it, I don’t need to think about it again.  But I instantly start searching my brain for that day.  Where the hell was I going?  Where the hell was I?  Goddamn-it why can’t I remember?  Did I do what she said, and make a u-turn in front of her?   

I saw my Nana that afternoon, right before I regained consciousness, she gave me a hug.  The pain was blinding, the panic of reaching for the back seat for First Born and screaming his name, the pain, blacking out, hearing people come to help.  I cried for my son again.  They asked me where he was.  I couldn’t remember.  I was scared so very, very scared.  

That’s right,  my mom. He was with my mom. A wave of relief washed over me.  I kept repeating my husbands cell #.  Please call him.  I needed him, more than anyone in the world. They told me they were going to protect me with a blanket.  They covered my head when the machines were cutting open the car.  Then they said they were going to move me.  

White hot pain, searing through my back into my hip and down my leg.  I was out again.  It was so much better being in the blackness.  It was calmer, quieter and less desperate.   I knew I needed to go back into the pain so I did.  When I opened my eyes I saw blades whizzing around.  I felt wind on my face.  The helicopter ascended. I felt better.  The men in the helicopter were telling me that they were taking me to the hospital.  They kept telling me how many minutes it would be until we got there.  Every couple of minutes the numbers got smaller.  I felt safe.  I let go - back into the darkness.  

I awoke on a table.  I wasn’t pregnant any longer.  I already miscarried a week before. The Dr. could not take my word for it and before they could do any tests, or administer any pain medication, he had to call my fertility Dr. to make sure.  Fuckers.  Fuck you.  I am lying here right in front of you, in pain. Do whatever tests necessary and get me better you cocksucker! 

Call my husband.  A nurse handed me the phone.  I heard his voice and he was trying hard not to sound panicked.  I told him to please, please be careful driving the over 70 miles it would take for him to get to me. I told him that they were taking good care of me.  Very, very good care.  I needed him more than anyone in the world.  He was on his way.  

Later they rattled off my injuries.  Fractured left clavicle, Fractured pelvic bone, Fractured pubic bone, Fractured L5, S1, Concussion.  I was laying in the hospital bed and my left leg kept sliding outward.  I could not pull it in.  I had a pain on my shoulder blade in the back.  My hand reached for the pain, it was sticky and wet.  When I looked at my hand there was blood.  When the nurse came in, I asked him to look at it.  Apparently with all my injuries they missed the small flesh wound on my shoulder.  Nothing a little gauze and steri-strips won’t fix.  

A few days later, the weekend shift and I needed the bedpan.  A nurse came in to roll me onto it.  She was miserable.  She did not know my injuries.  As she started to roll me onto my broken side, I screamed in pain and grabbed her arm as hard as I could.  She got in my face and said. “GET YOUR HAND OFF OF ME! DON’T GRAB MY ARM! I KNOW WHAT I AM DOING!”  I was shocked, and in so much pain.  I rattled off my injuries as quickly and as loudly as I could.  Another nurse quickly came in and relieved the nurse from hell.  I looked at the new nurse as I wet myself.  The anger washed over me like a scolding hot bath.  She looked at me and all I could say was “she rolled me the wrong way.”  She replied, “I am so sorry she did that to you.  She should have never spoken to you that way either.”  The kindness in her eyes and the level of her voice allowed me to let the tears come.  I hate crying in front of anyone but I was overwhelmed.  

People came to see me.  I asked friends to put my hair in a pony tail because I could not use both of my hands to reach up.  My husband was there and went with me to my first physical therapy.  I was excited because as soon as I could manage the walker they would let me go.  They handed me the walker and stood me up.  I felt the sweat forming on my lip and heard the hissing sound in my ears which brought me back down as I was passing out.  I tried again.  This time I got up.  I stood still and they explained how I was to walk.  I was not able.  My left leg felt as though it weighed 100 lbs.  I tried and tried, I moved a little bit.  I pretended it did not hurt. But my blacking out betrayed me again.  They sent me back to my room and told me that we would try again the next day.   I was beyond discouraged.  My husband was a rock.  Telling me that I would be back to normal soon.  I told him to go and be with our son, who was with my parents.  

Two days later, I did do better.  I muscled through and got my walking papers, so to speak.  Other than the nurse from hell, the nurses were amazing and helped and encouraged me immensely.  But, I wanted out of there.  I missed my son.  First Born was never without me.  He was only 2.5 years old.  I still counted him in months; 32 months old.  I rocked him to sleep every night for those 976 nights.  I left him with my mother to go get my hair cut and run a couple of errands and did not return to him until 8 days later.  I missed him more than words could express.  My heart ached for him.  

But when I saw him he was scared.  He asked me about my “Big Boo-Boos”  and what that thing was that I was using to walk.  I just remember wanting him to be ok and not be scared.  The fact that this was all affecting him so much, made me so angry.  It changed my little man.  I still see it.  It makes me so sad.   I struggled back to normalcy and eventually got there. 

I am not sure why this all came bubbling up again.  It was 7 years ago.  I have been to therapy for the anxiety it caused.  I even recently took my son to therapy for anxiety he was having that may have had something to do with this accident.   Anxiety sucks.  

I am healthy, healed and happy.  All the things I wanted after this accident almost took me away from those I love.  Those that I love more than words can express.  Maybe my brain released this panic so that I would realize that I am vulnerable and human and life is sweet.  I must learn to savor it.  Stop worrying.  Worry does nothing for anyone.  When things happen, it is not necessary to place blame, or reward.  I don’t have to pat myself on the back when things are going well, just as much as I don’t have to burden myself with guilt when things are not going well.  Just let it be.   Just be.  Be.  

I am here, I am continuing to grow, I am continuing to learn.  The feelings happen for a reason.  I can not ignore them. So I will write them out and talk about them and get them out, so they don’t have to come up again. I don’t think I have ever expressed the events and my feelings of that day in this much detail.  I have always been reluctant to talk more on it.  I don’t like to cry in front of others.  It feels good that it is out there.  I will continue to take a different path so I don’t fall in the holes in the sidewalk.  

A completely different path.... no holes. 

10 Ways Tired Kids Are Like Drunks

The Hub and I spent most of the day going from store to store looking at flooring and patio doors for an upcoming home improvement.  We took the boys.  They did not have fun.  They were bored and Little One, who is 4, was tired, cranky and wanted to be home.  This lead to an epiphany.  Being with Little One was almost an identical experience to being with a very drunk best friend or relative.  Like an Uncle, who you love and have a blast with most of the time, but when he gets drunk he is a real pain in the ass.  See if you can follow my logic.  

1. Like drunks, a tired 4 year old tends to fall down - a lot.  They just don’t have the coordination they have when they are older or less tired.  

2. They are both loud and can not modulate the sound of their voice.  We are constantly having to tell them that they are being too loud and that usually just makes them get louder.  

3. This is usually followed by inappropriate comments and gestures.  Both are notorious for making a comment or touching a part of their body that offends people around them. This unprovoked anger is usually quite hostile and embarrassing and mostly happens when in a crowd of people.   

4. Like your drunk Uncle, you have to apologize to those around you for their behavior and make excuses, like “He is going through a rough time he just lost his wooby.”  “He is usually so much better, he must be getting sick.”

5. They both tend to cry for no apparent reason and when you ask them what is wrong they bring up something that happened so long ago you don’t even know what they are referring to.  

6. Drunk Uncle and Tired 4 Year old like to repeat themselves over and over and when you try to tell them that you have heard the story before they will either revert to #5 or #3.

7. They like to have long incoherent conversations where you can not interrupt or ask questions.  Nor do you want to.  However if you are not paying attention they will call you out and again revert to #5 or #3.

8. If you are out they like to oder food that they will not eat.  If you are home they will make you make them food that they will not eat. 

9. There are desperate times when they will sometimes urinate on themselves either in an attempt to pull up their pants before they are done or when they do not get to the facilities quickly enough and start before the pants are off. 

10. Then the evening usually ends with Drunk Uncle or Tired 4 Yr Old, passes out.  This can happen on the way to the car, in the middle of a meal, conversation or temper tantrum.  But any way it happens you are carrying them the rest of the way.  

All of this may cause arguments and fights among those dealing with Drunk Uncle/4 Year Old.  One will want to be more strict, while another will want to placate.  One will ignore the behavior while another one will to try to hide the behavior.  The fight usually dissipates when Drunk Uncle/4Year old does or says something that is so funny everyone starts laughing uncontrollably.  

You love  Uncle and 4 Year Old no matter what.  You know them at their best and it somehow makes up for these times they are at their worst.  It doesn’t happen often enough that you are too concerned, but when it does you try to remind yourself to not get into that situation again.   Although it always makes for a great story.

What are your favorite Drunk Uncle/ Tired Toddler moments?

Ready for Summer?

Woman's one-piece bathing suit, c.1920 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I am looking forward to summer.  I will be at the beach sportin’ my one piece like a boss.  Yes, a one piece, because no matter what kind of working out I do, or how good of a shape I can get this ole body in, the one-piece is the only style I will support, or will support me. Well, I take that back, I like those long tankini two pieces that look like one pieces.  Actually they are much more convenient when having to pee.  But my bikini days ended circa 1998.  This is mostly due to my post birthing belly.  

For those of you unfamiliar, after you give birth, especially more than once, the belly has a difficult time resembling any aspect of what it looked like pre-birth.  I had 2 emergency c-sections, so therefore my belly resembles a sad balloon.  One that was deflated, stretched out and sewn back together.  My belly button is like a true button now. It gathers in and holds all of this belly matter around it and when I suck in my gut it looks like it is tethered to my spine and almost disappears into this strange, black, belly hole.  It ain’t pretty.  SO one piece or belly covering piece, is the way to go for this Momma.  

But when I start to think about bathing suits I instantly get an itchy rash.  My bra and underwear support my body more than any bathing suit ever did!  The flimsy polyester/Lycra/nylon blend that bathing suits are made of, is pointless.  There is no support, the material does not breathe and the sizing is all wrong.  ALL wrong.  I got big boobys. They need support.  When they don’t have support it is a bad situation for all involved, for me, for them and for those that are exposed to them.   No one needs to see these girls hanging over the sad balloon, giggling like jello.  They need some sense of dignity.  I have worn a bra under the suit to facilitate that dignity. Then, after getting out of the water and the rest of my suite dried off, I was left with two large circles, as if spotlights on my chest.  The indignity!  

Now there are websites that specialize in making more supportive suits, like Cyberswim and Miracle Suit and even Spanx has gotten in on the action.  But I can’t spend that kind of money on something that I wear intermittently for a season, usually covered up by shorts and/or a t-shirt!  Don’t get me wrong.  I love me some Spanx, but I wear them under a dress going to a wedding.  I can manage being uncomfortable for a period of time at an event.  But I can not manage being that uncomfortable outside, all day, in the heat, running after my kids, playing in the sand and freaking out when seaweed touches my foot in the ocean. It is just too much to take.  

I like my underwear, after searching high and low, I finally found bras that fit, support and are comfortable.  Some of my underpants have seen better days, but I have about 5 good pairs in the rotation that are acceptable.  Can’t they make a suit that fits like a bra and underwear and covers the sad balloon?  Can’t they make a suit that is functional? Can’t they make a suit that doesn’t make you want to punch the air, screaming like a banshee while trying to put it on?  

Then there is the hoo haa maintenance.  The shaving and/or waxing of the nether region.  Since the stretch marks on my thighs are like arrows pointing to my hoo haa, there is no getting around it.  And I know they have these swim “shorts” but they are either so poofy that they look like you are wearing your grandmom’s shorts or they are so tight and riding up your ass that you might as well just wear the bathing suit bottoms.  Then there are the many styles of swim skirts, non of which seem to work for my bubble butt either.   

One pieces or belly covering pieces are the way I roll. But, I have no hate for those mothers who can work the bikini.  Hell, if I had it like that, I would too.  Go for it, but do me a favor, DON’T sit at the kiddy pool next to me, and complain about the way you look!  I mean fuck you very much,  do you SEE what I am workin with?  If you think YOU look bad, what -in the name of all that is holy- do you think I look like!  Don’t sport that bikini with your perky, newly purchased boobs, that need no support, and the “insanity” abs you just spent 3 months working on and the NO cellulite, tight thighs that the Spin Class Gods have bestowed on you and utter ONE word of complaint about your body.  That is just gonna get you a bloody lip my friend.  Hell, when you look that good, show it, work it and OWN it!  When someone says ‘Wow, you look amazing!’  Say ‘THANK YOU!’ and move on.  No other explanation is needed unless they then ask what you do to look so good.  Then you can give your whole workout routine along with your latest wheat grass recipe.  But until then, just sit back and enjoy the fruits of your labor.  

crowded beach (Photo credit: notarim)

Ok now that that is out of the way, let’s get back the anticipation of summer and the shore. I am ready.  I will wear a bathing suit, I won’t love the way I look or feel in it, but I will enjoy the beach non the less...... Wait a minute, I haven’t enjoyed the beach since before First Born was born!  It is a constant worry and stress filled marathon that usually ends with someone me crying.  SO not only do I hate the way I look and feel out in the sweltering sun and hot sand, I am also trying to keep my two children properly covered in sunscreen while making sure they are, fed, watered and within eye sight amongst the 500 other people with whom we are sharing the beach.   Summer? I am looking forward to this?  OK how many months until winter?  

Lessons from Momma's Childhood

Lesson number one, my mom does not like when you rough up her kids.  

“What did she do to you?!”

“Huh?”

“Mrs. Brown, just called.  She said that Shannon told her, something happened to you in school last week.  What did Ms. ______ do to you?”

“Oh, I was talking and sitting on my knees and so Ms. ________ tied me to my chair.”

Flames were coming out of my mother’s ears and eyes.  I don’t think she said anything else, but her mouth was trying to form words.  I did not know what was wrong.  I didn’t tell her about getting in trouble in school because I did not want her to get mad at me.  When getting in trouble at school there was never a question that my parents would be angry with me.  It was the 70s.  I went to Catholic school.  There were no conferences to discuss the behavior.  There were no lesson plans, IEPs or rubrics set up to handle difficult emotional problems or difficulties.  There was punishment.  Physical, mental and emotional punishment, and that was before you got home.  

There was the third grade teacher, Sister Maureen, who cut my friend’s hair because she forgot her barrette and her hair was hanging in her eyes.  Sr. Maureen would also use ammonia to clean her desk and blackboards every day.  It is a wonder, as we were inhaling those fumes, that we learned anything.  I watched Sr. Maureen smack many a third grade boy around. There was Ms. Farrell and Ms. McCardle in forth grade who chastised me because I asked if girls could try out for the football team.   They took me out into the hall and both told me that I was a “loud mouth, brat ... always was, and always will be.”  

There was Sr. Saint Eileen, the principal, who made sure that the lunch room, and recess stayed segregated.  Boys on one side, girls on the other.   There was no playing together in the school yard/parking lot.  Girls were given jump ropes, the boys were given balls and a much, much larger section of the parking lot to play in.  

There was that one priest who you NEVER went to confession to.  Kids always walked out of that box crying. He yelled at one of my friends telling her that she was bad and may go to hell, because her mother did not take her to Church that past Sunday.   I went to him once. He told me that if I forgot to tell him a sin, he would know and God would be angry.  I was 7.  Lesson learned, and then rejected! 

In first grade, we had a teacher named Ms. _________.  She was young.  I remember, having on my newly pressed uniform and walking into St. Alice Elementary.  I was noticeably tinier than my classmates.  Actually there were about 4 of us who were really small,  Megan, Jennifer, Debbie and Anthony.  Of them I was the shortest.  The first week or so of school there was one boy who cried almost every day.  There was no comfort given to him.  He was told to be quiet and allowed to be teased by the other students. 

Being so small I had a tough time seeing over the desk.  I often had to scoot up on my knees so that I could write.  I was also a talker.  I LOVED social interaction.  I talked to anyone and everyone who would listen.  Who am I kidding, I wouldn’t even care if anyone was listening.  (hence, my blog) One person who was kind enough to always listen to me was my first friend Shannon.  She was much taller than me and it was an established fact that she was very smart.  She did not get in trouble and was loved by all the teachers. 

On this particular day, Ms. _______ was a bit more agitated than usual.  She kept telling me to “Sit like a lady!” and “Keep your mouth shut!”  I guess I didn’t heed her advise, because the next thing I know she was pulling my desk up next to her desk in front of the class.  Little did she know, this was not a punishment, as I loved being the center of attention.  I scooted my knees under my bum and since she was the only person next to me, I continued to talk to her and ask a myriad of questions.  I looked to the back of the room where my friend Shannon sat and she was visibly distraught.  Her eyes were pleading with me to stop talking.  Some of the boys were laughing, so I continued to annoy Ms. _________.  

When, what I thought was Ms.___________ slowly starting to come around and act silly, was really Ms._________ slowly starting to have a nervous breakdown.  She was screaming and yelling like a lunatic.  I started to laugh because I thought it was funny to see how her chest and neck started to turn red and that redness slowly moved up to cover her whole face.  

She opened her bottom drawer.  She took out a rope and some duck tape.  She picked me up by the underarms and slammed my butt down in the seat.  She then proceeded to tie my legs, waist and arms to the desk.  She then topped it off with tape over my mouth.  I was still laughing.  I thought it was amusing until I looked at many of the other children in the class.   They were terrified, and I started to get a little scared myself.   My thoughts went to my mother.  I wanted my mommy.  But then I realized that I must have done something terribly wrong for the teacher to be this mad.  This taught me the lesson that I should just take the punishment and forget about it.  Which is what I did.  

Then my mother got a phone call from Shannon’s mother.  After I told mother what happened, she did not get mad at me.  She sat me down and told me that if something happens at school that I should tell her about it.  She was mad, but not at me.

Within a few weeks, we got a substitute, for the rest of the year.  I don’t remember the nun’s name, but I do remember that when we asked where Ms._________ was, she told us that Ms. _____________ was horse back riding and got trampled by the horse, and she wasn’t coming back.    

I don’t think that there was a horse accident.  But myself and many of my fellow classmates were given the first lesson in Catholic guilt.  Most of us did not like this teacher, I know, in my head I imagined many ways that she would be hurt.  I never pictured a horse, but I did feel awful that my thoughts made her get hurt.  I think this went through many of the 6 and 7 year old minds that day.  ‘Ask and ye shall receive.‘ 

I found out years later, that my mother was the “horse.”  She told me that she went to the principal, at the time, Sister Mary Austin, who was a great woman, and told her in no uncertain terms that if she didn’t get rid of Ms. ___________ my mom would. Apparently, Sr. agreed with my mother and fired Ms. _____________.

Again, ‘Ask and ye shall receive.’ 

More likely, Karma’s a bitch...... and don’t mess with a lioness’s cubs!  

Valentine for the Romantically Challenged.

When growing up in the working-class suburbs of Philadelphia, I was never really wooed or romanced.   The guys I grew up with and dated were a blast to hang out with, could make everyone laugh, but romance was not on their radar.  Part of the problem might have been that we girls, did not take romantic gestures well.  If one of the guys we hung out with gave me flowers, I probably would have responded with “Whattiya goin to a funeral?” It was a good defense mechanism, because vulnerability was not a good thing to show, since it could then be exploited.  

After getting together with my husband, that changed.  We were a little older and wiser.  He was not sappy sweet, but was and still is - what I consider - romantic.  The Hub has shown me romance many ways over the years.

A time that stands out is one particular romantic get away.  This was before kids and before marriage. We took the train to a romantic B&B in Mystic, Connecticut. We had a beautiful room with a private bathroom and a fireplace.  We went out to dinner at a quaint 250 year old building.  We shared a delicious candlelit dinner.  After dinner we walked downstairs to the restaurant's Pub.  It was one of the coziest pubs you could ever walk into.  It was small with low, beamed ceilings and the large fireplace kept it very warm.  We sat at one of the rickety old table and chairs and had a few pints. We talked for a bit, but I wanted to get back to the room so that we could get out early the next day and see some sights.  I was so uptight then, and possibly still am to an extent, totally.  I have to work on that.  We get so few times together that I need to just let loose and not worry so much.  But NOT TOO MUCH, cause I can’t handle myself (as seen here.)  Anyway,  If I could go back to that little pub with The Hub and sit for 3 more hours I would.  

We went back to the room and I decided that I was going to take a bath in the neat, claw foot tub.  There was no question that we were having sex that night, because, well we were not married and did not have any kids.  So while I was taking a bath, The Hub (who wasn’t technically ‘The Hub,’ yet) started a fire, opened and continued to drink a bottle of wine.  

After my bath, I put on something slinky. As I opened the bathroom door, my eyes started to tear.  No, I was not overcome with emotion.  I stepped into the room to barely see The Hub, looking suave, sitting next to the fireplace with a drink in his hand.  He was smiling with a come hither look.  He was also as lit at the fireplace.  He had turned the lights off but I could still see the smoke hovering around the wainscoting of the room.  

My calm response was “What the fuck, dude? Is the flue open?”  He looked at me and said, “Well yea, of course the flue is open. Whattiya think I’m an idiot?”  Coughing, I ran to the fireplace and said,  “If the flue is open, something is wrong.”  Then he started getting pissed.  His romantic plans had been ruined by my nagging need to breathe oxygen.  I was getting nervous and he was annoyed that I was not sufficiently wooed. He was trying to stifle his choking, as I reached into the fireplace and pushed the iron bar that opened the flu.  It was like a vacuum the way the smoke was sucked out of that room.  I turned on the lights to see if there was smoke damage to the beautiful canopy bed or the antique furniture.  It was all good.  But to be safe, we started to open the windows to make sure we could maximize the clearing of the room.  

It was February, in Mystic, Connecticut and really, really cold. The room temp dropped quickly.  The slinky lingerie came off quickly and I was under the covers with sweat pants, a sweat shirt, a hat and gloves.  There was no sex. His romantic gesture was foiled. The Hub was pissed. He refused to even admit it was cold in the room.  He continued to sit in the chair by the fireplace and polish off that bottle and possibly another.  Somehow in his mind, this was my fault.  I, on the other hand, was not mad. OK, maybe a little mad but I was more mad that he was mad.   

I do remember laying in that bed, as the smoke billowed out of the windows, thinking how nice it was to have someone in my life that actually wanted to be romantic with me.  I remember smiling and trying not to laugh, until the next day when we both laughed quite a bit. 

I was really uptight back then.  I still need to work on that but I think if the scenario played out now, we would have started laughing even before I opened the flu. Then we would have definitely had sex - if we weren’t too tired.The Hub has my heart.  We laugh a lot and he still shows me romance in so many ways:    

When we are talking and he will mindlessly play with my hair. 

When he makes sure the garage light is on, if I am coming home in the dark.  

When he starts my car on cold mornings so that it is warm when I get in.  

When he knows that I am upset, before I do and checks me with a “Yo, ya aight?”  

When we are driving together and he reaches for my hand.  

When he envelopes me in a huge bear hug and we both simultaneously take deep breaths.  

When he says, “You look pretty!”  even when I am not feeling pretty.  

When I am sick and he says, “Wow, you look like shit!, why don’t I take the boys out for the day and you get some rest?”   

When he asks me not to kiss him, because I may start “the launch sequence.”

When we watch a movie and he asks me to pause it several times to tell him what is going on.

When he asks my opinion about work issues.   

When he eats a meal that I make and sits back and says, “Good God, woman! That was  awesome!” 

When we quote movies together.

When he reads my writing. 

When he compliments me on how much I read. 

When he says, “You are such a good Mommy.”

There are countless ways The Hub is a romantic.  There are countless ways I am thankful for him. I am truly grateful for my romantic husband, who shows me love, every day.   So this post ends on the sappy side, and I am not going to respond  with a snarky, cocky comment.  But if you have one, feel free!  

Happy Valentine’s Day. 

Teach Your Children Well

This blog seems to be all over the place, but I think I bring it together in the end. Just be patient.  (You will all be happy to know that I am looking into taking some refresher writing courses!)

I have been kicking around this blog topic of the how society views girls and women for 2 months now, when I just recently came across this post.  It broke my heart.  If you did not watch the video, it is sad tale of a young girl who made some poor choices, came across some very disturbed and mean people and she suffered tremendously.  The saddest part is that after she made this video - a plea for help - she took her own life.  

Kids should not be defined by the mistakes they make. Unfortunately, In this day and age, those mistakes stick around for a lot longer due to social media. Digital images are out there, forever.   I have said many times, that I am so thankful that there was no such thing as social media when I was a teen.  It honestly, would have ruined me.  I can not imagine having to relive my past bad choices over and over.  

I am a mother of boys.  Being a woman, I want to raise boys that respect and view girls as their equal.  There are definite differences in boys and girls, and those differences should be acknowledged, respected but not the constant focus.  

Being a girl was not easy.  It was a constant oxymoron, wanting to be thought of as cool and cute, tough and sweet,  hot and fun to hang out with.   Being overly concerned about  appearance and impression.  Wanting to know what others (mostly boys) thought.   Am I pretty? Do they like me?  What can I do to make them like me?  What do boys want? Who can I trust?

In my awkward pre teen years I was not so attractive.  I was off-the-charts short, painfully scrawny and had a big, honkin’ Roman nose. I really wanted to hang out with the guys.  They just seemed to have more fun and laugh a lot more than the girls did.  I acted like one of the guys so that I would fit in.  I cursed like them, I played like them, I tried to be as tough as them. I wanted them to treat me like they treated their guy friends. I wanted them to like me.  Which, as adolescence hit, turned into wanting them to LIKE me. 

I remember feeling alone and extremely self conscious. I also felt very sexual but so conflicted. It is something that girls are trained not to talk about or think about.  Little known fact #1: when girls go through puberty and after, we are just as sexually charged as boys of the same age.  

Society allows boys to constantly be thinking about and wanting sex.  Girls, physically, are going through the same things but are not allowed to show it in any way.  The girls who do, are labeled, and that label does not come off.  I remember thinking how important my reputation was.  Again, worrying about what others thought. Not only my reputation as someone who was not a tramp, but as someone who was fun.  Reputations really stick to girls. 

There is no doubt that girls with bad reputations did have it rough. They were strung along by guys, picked on by girls and ostracized by both.  But it was just an superficial image of who they were.  It was not the whole picture.  

It was the typical double standard. Boys could want sex, get sex and dog many girlfriends at one time.  Girls could not.  Period.  If we did, we had to hide it.  We had to be stealthy.  Make sure they guy would not talk. Only tell the closest of girlfriends.  This is where we found out that girls really had a tough time keeping things to themselves.  We kept any and all sexually related questions/confusions/conflicts to ourselves.  I am not sure much has changed since I was a girl.  

If we could allow girls -from a young age- to stop concentrating on what others think of them and start them focusing on what they think of themselves.  Just being pretty or likable or fuckable is not and should never be, enough.  But for so many it is.  

We are taught to think that attractive “female” attributes, in all forms, whether it’s being pretty, or polite, or submissive, or accommodating, or passive, or sweet, or innocent, are the primary things women should attain in life.  We are taught that our own hopes, dreams, fears and passions are secondary to what others think of us.  

We are told:

Don’t be a bitch (which usually means, Don’t speak your mind.)  

Don’t be pushy. 

Don’t tell people what you really feel.  

Never step on anyones toes.  

Always be helpful. 

Don’t hurt anyone’s feelings. 

Don’t be aggressive. 

Be sweet. 

Be kind.  

Be nurturing.

Put others ahead of yourself. 

Don’t be too smart.

   

It is exhausting. Especially when any these demands are not in your nature.  As females we were not put on this earth only to be of service.   As advanced as society gets this still seems to be an underlying standard.  Women’s lives, our very existence, is put aside so that men and society can shape us into some sort of ideal.  This is an unattainable version of: part Virgin Mary, part super model, part porn star, part girl next door.  

Back to raising boys.  One thing that I try to teach them is to be as respectful of their own bodies as we teach girls to be.  It is often joked about for a teenage boy to be locked in the bathroom for hours doing “god knows what.”  But you would never hear of someone joking the same way about a girl.  It is disrespectful to the boy.  It is an invasion of his privacy.  It also makes him believe that there is nothing sacred or private when it comes to his sexuality.  Which may lead him to show the same disrespect to all sexual encounters. 

We expect young men always to be after sex and admonish young women who show any interest in it, at all.  There has to be a balance.  There is no need to assume that every young man constantly wants sex just as there is no need to assume every young woman abhors it.  We are all sexual beings.  There has to be a healthy respect for physical and emotional needs and boundaries.  One must not outweigh the other.  

My boys are young, but I want them to be able to trust The Hub and I to be able to talk to us about anything.  First Born has already approached us about things he has heard on the bus.  (mostly vulgar names for body parts.) I was very proud that, although he was reluctant at first, when he realized that he would not be in trouble for talking to us about it, he was very open and honest about what he was hearing and the questions he had.  

The pre teen and teen years scare me.  I am not looking forward to heartbreaks and angst. But throughout it all, I want my boys to make the best choices about those they allow into their inner circle and those that they don’t.   I want them to surround themselves with those that make them happy, and allow them to fully be themselves, even when they don’t know who “themselves” are yet. And I want my boys to do the same in return.  I also want them to view girls and boys in the same light.  I don’t want them to put unrealistic expectations on girls, or think of them as a separate class.

Back to that poor young girl Amanda Todd, from the begining of this piece.  She needed people to stand with her.  She needed boys and girls, who knew what it felt like to be scared and to have made bad choices, to have her back.  If those that are on the fringe, bound together, maybe less bad choices would be made.  Maybe there wouldn’t be a need for young girls to crave and do anything for attention and love.  

Maybe if we as a society did not expect the worst of boys and men, but held them to a higher standard, they would not do the things that - not only - ruin other’s lives, but also ruin their own.  Maybe if we as a society did not make girls feel, less than, because they are not living up to some ideal, they would not do things that - not only - ruin other’s lives but also ruin their own.  Maybe.  I could be wrong, but I think it is worth a try.   

What are we having? Momma with a side of crazy!

“How are you making them?”

This question almost pissed me off as much as when he said, 2 days prior, “Can you pick me up a potato when you are out?” 

I cook.  I actually, really enjoy cooking and I am good at it.  I am no great chef, I am not some culinary wizard, but I can cook a damn good meal and have everything finish at the same time.   The Hub, he can cook also.  He cooks a pretty good breakfast.  He has cooked dinners, and they are good. He is not so good at having everything done at the same time, but he just needs some practice.  

I prepare all the meals for my family.  Breakfast is usually very easy, and requires, at the most, a toaster and/or a pan for waffles, eggs, precooked sausage, pancakes, french toast or cereal.  I prepare breakfast for the kids.  The Hub is usually long gone when the kids are having breakfast.   The only thing left from him is his dirty breakfast pan and dishes.  Lunch is very easy since it is just me and Little One.  Little One LOVES noodle soup, pb&j and bologna and cheese, easy stuff.  He used to be so much more difficult only because he had a food sensitivity to rice and oats.... I know!  But for the first 2.5 years of his life if he had anything with rice or oats in them he would projectile vomit, while having diarrhea at the same time and then sleep for an hour.  It was scary and an extremely rare problem known as FPIES.  (Food Protein Induced Enterocolitis Syndrome) But that is a whole other blog.

Dinner.  Dinner is the one thing that I love to cook and serve.  It is also the one meal that causes me the most angst and frustration. One major problem I have is during the prep of dinner, I usually have First Born, Little One and Dog, up my ass.  

They want snacks.... “No, I am making dinner.”  

They want drinks, “Fine, but only water or milk.”  

They want me to put in another dvd, “Just watch what you are watching now!” 

Little One needs me to wipe him.  “You are getting to be a big boy and you need to do that yourself.  WASH YOUR HANDS!”  

I tend to get into a zone when cooking.  I like the challenge of doing as much prep work so that when the actual cooking starts, I can jump right in.  I also love crock pot meals.  They are usually very tasty and I love that they cook all day and make the house smell good. I make a damn good pot roast in the crock pot.  I usually make the pot roast without potatoes because the boys don’t like potatoes.  I pour the pot roast over egg noodles.  That way I can leave some noodles plain and the boys will eat them that way.

The Hub has repeatedly asked why I do it this way, and I explain it to him.... every time.  Mind you, he loves the pot roast, just wants it with potatoes.  I have thrown potatoes in there before, just for him. But we rarely have potatoes in the house.  We haven’t had pot roast in some time because we were trying to get away from red meat.  But since then, I have found some good organic, grass fed beef, that I will cook on occasion.  I prepped the pot roast early one Sunday morning. I chopped the veggies, crush the garlic, mix the tomato soup, Worcestershire sauce and mustard, then brown the meat before I put it in the pot.    The Hub was right there in the kitchen with me.  He asks, “Do we have any potatoes?”  It took all I could not to stab him with a fork.  “Nope,” I said.  Then as the day went on and the yummy smells of the pot roast wafted throughout the house, I had to run out to a wellness seminar that my friend was doing.  It was going to be gone for about an hour.  As I was leaving, The Hub says, “Can you pick me up a potato while you are out?”   My response was calm, cool and collected....“WHAT?  Seriously, you want me to go buy you a fucking potato?  I am making it with noodles!”   

“What is wrong with getting me a potato?  I don’t want you to do anything with it. I will nuke it and put the pot roast over it.  What is the big deal?”, he answered with all the exasperation of my 9 year old.  

I hated him so much right then.  I seriously wanted to gouge out his eye balls.  What the fuck do I cook for?  No one appreciates it.  My sons act as if I am poisoning them.  Their reactions to new foods is comical.  First Born always hated tying new food.  Little One will eat anything you put in front of him, unless First Born is around. Then he usually takes his cues from his older brother.  My husband likes my cooking.  But it always pisses me off when he adds salt before even tasting it, or how he always has to have bread. And God forbid I make a meal without meat!  

When I got home... with a potato.... he was sitting on the couch in front of the big screen that my extremely generous, parents got us for Christmas.  He hardly ever watched TV, before this Christmas.  Now I come home, the house is a mess, and he is watching TV.  As much as I love the new TV, I hate it!  As I was getting dinner ready,  he started to say something about not being hungry.  The look I gave him advised him otherwise.  And yes, the mo-fo microwaved the potato and put his pot roast over it.  Whatthefuckever!  

A few days later, we were talking on the phone while he was at work.  We were trying to coordinate a dinner time, when I told him that we were having pork chops.  “How are you making them?” He asked.   I did not like this question.  I was going to bread them and bake them, but seriously did not want to tell him that. I felt he lost all privileges to know how I was going to make them.  Especially if he had another suggestion as to how he wanted them prepared.  He then said, “Can’t you just sauté them in a pan with a little oil?”  Why, yes.  Yes I can, if you want to eat the most bland, un-flavorful,non tasting, pork chop ever.  He then informed me that he did not want it breaded.  But breaded is the only way the boys will eat them.  When we sat at dinner that night, and I handed him the pork chop that I made for him, not breaded. It was not good.  I tried some recipe on allrecipes that seemed good, but it wasn’t.   I was about to jump on him like a spider monkey if he asked for a breaded one.  He sensed this.  He did not ask.  

I don’t know, maybe it is just me.  But if someone was making my meals for me, on an almost daily basis, I would not suggest ways to cook it.  I would say Thank You.  Thank you for preparing my dinner, with love and care.  Thank you for picking out the things that all of us like, so that we can sit together and eat.  Thank you for taking the time and effort to consider what would make EVERYONE at the Friggin table happy.  Thank you for not being selfish and only preparing foods you like.  Thank you for considering the nutritional value of our meals.  THANK YOU! 

So the next time someone prepares you a meal. Just say, Thank You.  And if you have suggestions for how to improve the meal, try them out on your own.  Especially if you are dealing with a crazy wife who has only so much patience to go around.  

Crazy Wife + Meal Preparations = "Thank You".