I'm OKAY

nobody panic....

Thursday, July, 10, 2008

The clouds are passing. The gardening has resumed. I am alive and well. THERE. After reading over my post yesterday, I’m surprised I DIDN’T see two burly guys arrive via ambulance at my front door around lunchtime, complete with a nice fitted jacket that ties in the back, just my size. GEEZ. Needless to say, when the storm comes, it comes with a quickness. Thankfully it passes just as rapidly. Leo and I called a family meeting last night, in the middle of the living room, to address the behavioral issues that have been wreakin’ havoc in the casa. Dora wanted to start said meeting with a word of prayer. (Holy CRAP. Thanks Pentecostal gramma.) It went exactly like this:

DORA with head bowed: God is grape. God is good. Lettuce thank him for our fool. -Freddy interrupts-DORA! That’s the blessing. You don’t say that at a family meeting-UH! You say that at the table! Do you see food? We’re on the COUCH! I interrupt FREDDY , simply because I MUST hear the end, telling him that if Dora is moved to say this particular prayer before our meeting, then we’ll let her continue. Maybe she just really liked dinner.....

Dora cont: God is grape (she always starts over when interrupted) God is good. Lettuce thank him for our fool. Bow his hands we shall be fet give us now hour yummy breakfast. The end. Amen.

Whew. When the meeting finally got under way, the spawn listened intently. They took in the new rules and regulations with the zest normally reserved for replanting (for real) dead rabbits in the back yard. When we opened for questions, Freddy just wanted to make sure he was still going to get an allowance. Dora took the opportunity to tell us that she loved the family, the couches and the dog. She also said she was thankful for her quesadilla...I knew it!

A Brief Garden Report

There was MAJOR make-up gardening underway in the den of love last night. YEE HAW. I took a shower and everything. SERIOUSLY. You KNOW it’s major if there is body washing involved. I’m thinking of draping some sort of sexy see through curtainy stuff from the ceiling. Add a few candles. Remove folded laundry from the dresser and put it IN the dresser. Take out all Barbie shoes, G.I. Joe heads, balls (hummmmm), and stuffed animals. Try to turn it into more of a .......bedroom. My wheels are turning.

The sun is rising......THANK GOD!

Planting Interrupted

yes, bro, this is the funky Garden Report

Wednesday, July, 9, 2008

We threw the flag last night without saying a word. I think I mentioned in the beginning of the sexperiment that each party was allowed a "pass" night. I assumed these were for that first day/night of welcoming the friend of the month which turns me into a bitch in heels. I did not take into account those days/nights where we just didn't like each other. Keep in mind that I love Leo ALL the time, but you know the times I speak of. Those times when you would rather stick a shovel up your nostril and fall face first on broken glass than have sex. God, that sounded awful. Still true though. It doesn't help that I am in the middle of a funk. It happens from time to time, and tends to fade away within a few days, but at this moment it is still here, I am still miserable. It doesn't take much for me to throw myself into a dramatic downward spiral, imagining that I live a life of secret suffering. It makes me so incredibly tired. Take this time. I realized recently (while swimsuit shopping, which makes it even worse) lthat I can't afford a new wardrobe at the beginning of each season. I mean, I can get a few things here and there, but I don't get to fly to Paris to sit the front row at fashion shows, racking up hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of pricey, "barely there" material that tells the world, "Hey look! She must be SPECIAL!" Go figure. After that revelation, I then start thinking of every little thing in my life that isn't exactly perfect. I magnify it x 100 and there you have it, and here we are. Take that into account and you will see why last night was not sexperiment friendly. Leo was irritated with Freddy because he never wants to sleep, even when he's sleepy. He never wants to listen though we desperately want him to. He attempts to negotiate EVERYTHING including things already in his favor. It is exhausting. Leo simply wants calm. He desires to come home and be able to relax once or twice a week without a battle of wills with a 5-year-old. During daylight hours, after the storm, I get it. Last night I didn't. I tend to shift to defensive mommy stance, excusing crappy behavior with a "He/she is tired. Papa and gramma gave them WAYYY too much sugar. They're only 5/3"....catch my drift? It doesn't make for an evening of pleasant partnership when I tend to always side with the tots. So here we are. In usual form, I will think quite a bit today, sulk a while, reason with myself and basically over analyze every word that has been uttered out of Leo's mouth for the past 5 years. Why? Who knows? That's just the way I work.

Raisin' Hell in Home Depot

courtesy of yours truly

I almost killed a kid in Home Depot yesterday. On purpose. There to select my wood (HA!) for the FUH-looores-UH ( I swear, you guys have the dirtiest minds.....) that we are putting in, Freddy and Dora were doing the normal kid thing that you do when you a KID in Home Depot. You know. Pretend that you live in each of the “imaginary kitchens that my kitchen will never look like because I have living, breathing, messy, dirty people in my house” displays set up for your viewing pleasure. I believe they became separated around my personal fav, the rustic Italian model. As I attempted to corral them back to Leo and myself, Freddy peeks around the corner of a stainless steel side by side fridge. It was lovely and I was just about to compliment his fabulous taste when I caught the look in his eye of a boy disturbed. Lower lip poked out, mute, eyes cast downward, he points to his crotch. It seems that my boy couldn’t make his way out of pretend kitchen land to find me, or the loo, in time. He was embarrassed and none too happy about wearing wet shorts for any period of time. I immediately kick it into “save my baby’s pride” mode, notify Leonidas that I am exiting hardwoods, and make my way to the john. Of course Dora will not allow any of this hot action to take place without her, so she comes with. As we are walking all mushed up together(because you know that people don’t see pee pee if you’re stuck to your mother) through carpets, halfway there, we are passed by two greasy faced pre-teen little shits who seem to be lost without a tube of Oxy in one hand and a video game controller supported by a bag of Doritos in the other. I hear one of the little shits say the following:

Little Shit: YO! LOOK! THAT LITTLE KID DONE PISSED ALL OVER HISSELF!! HAHAHAHAHAHAH! (The little voice reading this in your head should be really teen mean and maniacal.)

I know I could’ve kept quiet, and maybe, had he just thought it, maybe had he not said it loud enough for my little man and everyone browsing Berber to hear, I might have. But he didn’t and I have a nasty temper.

Me, Mommy the Big Ass Bitch: You should really shut your mouth or turn your volume down.

Little Shit: Who you talkin’ to, lady?

Me, MBAB: I am speaking to you. If you don’t feel the need to use manners and common sense in public, especially when you’re teasing children 5 and under, you should really make sure that their mothers are normal.

Little Shit: Yo lady. Don’t get no attitude with me. (Please note that he is saying this to his friends earlobe, not DIRECTLY to me.)

Me, MBAB: I don’t have an attitude. I am simply making sure my children know that it’s okay to not be afraid of or intimidated by little punks (I know, I know...I should’ve used a nicer word. I explained the concept of anger and losing control of one’s mouth after it was all over) like you and that sometimes they will need to help others locate their decorum. You DO understand decorum, don’t you?

Little Shit: Whatever. That is my FAVORITE non-comeback. This means that you have no idea what to say next. I have used it myself on occasion. Yesterday.

It was at this point that Freddy asked me what the kid said, probably knowing that it was about him and his pee pee pants. I told him that they were jealous that they couldn’t twirl and tap dance like Dora. Yep, I lied. I don’t feel bad about it, just in case you were wondering. I am positive that life, at some point, will inject their beautiful carefree existence with all the crap humans must deal with. By the way, Dora was THRILLED that they found her twirls to be envy-inducing.

THE GARDEN REPORT

The sexperiment continues. We were tired last night after a day spent with the in-laws. Last night WOULD have been the night, under normal conditions, when we would’ve pecked each other on the cheek, snuggled for a minute, then rolled around (NOT stuck together) until our bodies found the comfy spot on our respective sides of the bed. But it happens that I am a persistent little cuss, and forced him to participate. In the end, it was quite um....how would you say, cardio-friendly?! I’ll go with that. Cardio-friendly. Good, good times. It has been a WEEK already, as of today. Time seems to fly when you’re.....nevermind.

Taking Sexperiment to the Beach

can you plant in the sand?

Sunday, July, 6, 2008

I waited until the last minute (huge surprise) to start looking for a place to vacation this year. There were several reasons for this:

1. I procrastinate like a mutha.

2. Being married to Mr. Incredible, and he being on a superhero’s really weird and demanding schedule, I don’t always know until we are under a month till vacation time whether or not said vacation will even occur. (During summers that did not allow for away from home festivities, I have been known to turn the sandbox and accompanying backyard into a summer retreat, blindfolding the children on their way out the door in an effort to surprise them with their own stuff out back. They called me on it immediately.)

3. Summer is hot. If I book a summer house, it just means I’m going to be hot, away from home, on purpose, and I’m going to PAY somebody to allow me to do this.

4. Since we’re not loaded, we do not attempt to escape the aforementioned summer heat by jetting off to the North Pole. I don’t do mountains with shade trees simply because the drive makes me feel like I would like to have my stomach pulled out through my nostrils and placed in a Styrofoam cooler until we stop going around in those damn circles. Seriously. Can’t someone just drill a big car sized hole through the middle of those bastards and be done with it?!

5. I have to put on a swimsuit. It would be different if the world was lit via black light, ‘cause for whatever reason, I’m still presentable when I’m a nice strange shade of purple. Do not ask me how I know this. However, since most people (including the spawn) prefer to go to the beach during daylight hours with the rest of the free world, it means the planet gets to see my thighs pinched tight at the top by a nice ring of spandex. Yep. I’m sure of it. I really hate it. (I’m thinking of taking up surfing so’s I can wear one of those full body things without looking like a poser.)

6. Going back to number 3, not only do you pay to sleep in someone else’s digs while on vaca, you pay a BUTT LOAD to sleep in someone else’s digs while on vaca. I consider a resort someone else’s digs. It ain’t mine, is it? The sand is free. The sun is free. The freakin’ WATER is free. The place to lay your head for the 6 hours your children don’t force you to bake in the sun? Ex-effing-pensive. Add to that the fact that no amount of Lysol, bleach, acid, etc. can totally kill “those other people that were here before us” cooties and I am sufficiently freaked out.

That being said, we leave in 6 days. I am POSITIVE it will make for some interesting blogging. Especially gardening while on vacation...... cue.....

THE GARDEN REPORT

My planting proceeds. I am finding that it seems I spent WAY more time fighting Leo in order to sometimes NOT have sex than the actual time it takes to get it on. And we take our time......

I don’t know what changes the particulars of a sex life in a relationship, which is another reason I am forcing my husband to sleep with me for the next 95 days. Is it the familiarity that breeds the “we don’t have to do it now because you’re not going anywhere, you live here” mentality? Or the children that sap every single bit of energy you have and then some that force your once nympho-like view of the world of sex and love to skew sharply south? Maybe it’s a combination of those and countless other reasons we make up to NOT be intimate with the person we share our lives with on a daily basis. Whatever the reason, I hope this sexperiment helps me to inject a little sexual healing (it IS good for headaches) into our normal existence AFTER this is over. I mean, marriage is a partnership, and the daily rigors of this partnership can sometimes leave us exhausted, especially if you’re parenting at the same time. Why not recharge together every once in a while? Naked.

Sexperiment and Fireworks

these are NOT related

So I took a day or so off from blogging because I was feeling overwhelmed. I am still working to balance all the things that make me happy: writing, keeping healthy (I don't LOVE the gym, but I do love being healthy), mommying, gardening, etc.... it seems that I have the ability to become stuck in front of my computer screen from time to time, ignoring some of the other things in my life that need food, water, hugs and kisses. Not at an abusive level, mind you, but when I get to the point of sticking my spawn in front of a television show that features dancing furry weirdo thingys that are having a dance party inside of a robot head (sorry, Gabba Gabba), it's time to step away from the keyboard for a while. I also have this innate desire to immediately respond to every comment left on my blog, then get carried away, because they turn into small literary works themselves. So if you're reading this, first of all, let me say thank you. Secondly, I LOVE that you comment and promise to do a better job at letting you know it. Moving forward, yesterday we had friends over. I'm not sure they'll be back. We hope, but two out of three of them left with firework related burns.... no, Freddy didn't aim and fire, but thanks for thinking of him. He has complete control over his explosives. I tried to ply my burn victims with wine and beer in an effort to get them partially drunk so that would forget the fire trauma. I'll let you know how it turns out. THE GARDEN REPORT YEP. I'm still planting baby. We are developing the rules for our sexperiment as we go along, though we've had no major complications as of yet. Last night Freddy wandered downstairs as foreplay... pre-gardening was beginning, in search of his plastic cobra. I found that amusing. Leo did not. He couldn't find his SNAKE...get it? I guess it's funnier when you're naked. Anyway, then we hear Dora whimpering and it was my turn to be super parent. I climbed the steps and entered her scary glowing pink (thank you Santa for the funky Sleeping Beauty I'm sure it's a fire hazard lamp) bedroom. She was in the middle of a nice no tears cryfest. Conversation went as follows:

Me: What's wrong sweetie?

Dora: I'm sad 'cause I'm thinking about the baby bunny.

Me: I understand. I'm sorry that you're sad.

Dora: I don't want him to be in heaven. When is he gonna come back to his bones?

Me: Uhhhh. ummmmm. Hmmmm. WTF do you say!? I might have whispered "damn it" under my breath. Well sweetie, I don't think he will be coming back to his bones. He's quite happy hopping in Heaven on a carrot cloud right about now. Do you think he would really like to come back to that hole in the yard?

Dora: But he misses me mommy.

Let me interrupt myself to tell you that at this point real tears are starting to roll down her cheeks.

Dora cont.: How can I tell him that I love him when he is on the carrot cloud?

Me: When you say your prayers, tell God to give the bunny a little shout out for you. I'm sure he will be happy to tell him that you said hello.

Dora: Okay mommy, but I'm still sad. Thank you for coming to check on me.

Me: I will always check on you sweetie. Me to You: I am always humbled by my daughter thanking me for doing mommy things for her. It is simple and yet probably the greatest feeling I get on a regular basis.

THE GARDEN REPORT CONT. So, as I was saying, we are still planting. I'm stressing out already just thinking about how to keep it interesting. I know that people say sex is like ice cream, and that you don't ever get BAD ice cream, but you do know that they make Red Pepper flavored goat's milk ice cream, right? Yeah. Me neither. So toss me some ideas. Don't worry about getting too crazy. We're open, unless you are thinking of inviting farm animals or yourselves. Weirdos.

Late Night GARDENING

 ( The all caps is for you, bro. That’s me yelling so’s you know for sure that yes, I’m still doin’ it.)

Important note to in regards to gardening: In order to enjoy gardening as I should, it may be necessary to adjust hours of planting to ensure willing (and awake) partner.

 I had girl time last night with my lovely friend “Reba”(secret government name of course, the mother of Baby Reba... you followin’ me?) and had all intentions of being back in the den of love by 9-ish. Dora was staying with gramma (she finally picked up the phone after the 57th call) and Freddy is easily handled solo. Should be golden for continuation of sexperiment, wouldn’t cha think? I did. It seems I did NOT take into account the fact that it seems I have missed the sometimes adult, sometimes mature conversation that has taken a backseat to the needs of various spawn since school dismissed and separated Reba and me. Leonidas laughed when I told him I would be back at 9, obviously knowing me better than I know myself. What’s new? After the conversation and impossibly loud laughter (a.k.a. snorting) that come hand in hand with a two glass of wine dinner, I was shocked to see that it was 9:20 and I was still drinking coffee and licking the inside of my teeny tiny mini strawberry cheesecake in a shot glass dessert. In other words, I wasn’t home by 9. Another “you’re right again” point for  Leo. I have to stop here to give a shout out to our server Jessica that was rockin’ the bar at  P.F. Chang’s last night, gifting both Reba and myself  with a set of dessert shot glasses disguised as leftovers in a bag. Holla Jess! Was that wrong of her? I don’t care.

I returned home to find Leo had gone to bed, though he was still conscious. Not a bad place to start, though I think he would’ve rather had cold Mongolian Beef in a box rather than a round of gardening.I had been running late late late for my important date and the fam had to fend for themselves for dinner, but nonetheless, he welcomed me with open....um....er....arms? What a trooper.

We’re both still smiling at each other, and in our house that falls under the positive category. I DID however, skip the torture chamber gym this morning, simply because my ass (accompanied by various other parts)  is tired. I hope to rest up, yeah whatever, today and begin killing myself softly (with NO songs...did you get that?) in the stinky, sweaty, smelly, nasty, hot, I hate it gym tomorrow. But I’m not bitter....

THE GARDEN REPORT (sorry brother)

We are out of the hundreds. It happened so fast! It seems like only two days ago....wait a minute...

So we didn't go on a date last night. Whaddya want!? Geez people, we have two kids 5 and under (that sounds like a buffet sign at a ..a ...um ... buffet..... I'm on a roll this morning. Thank you ADHD.) Nor did  we want to cause my mother to avoid our house like so often happens after 2 days in a row with the spawn. Phone message from Dora to my mother sounds like this following two days of on purpose grandmother sitting: "Gramma. Hey GRAMAAAAHHH! GRAMMMMMA! Why you not answering you phone? Brudder and me want you to come over and to be the whale and we will be the doll fins and we will swim together on the carpet in the upstairs water that is the ocean. Then you can give us SHUUUUGGGGAR! Call us back at the green house!" That being said, I didn't ask my mom to babysit. WHEW, I am ALL wound up today!

We put the kids to bed in a timely manner, and met up in the den of love downstairs. After several false starts that were not our fault ("MAAHHHMMMAAA! Can you come check on me!? I think I need water. I think I need pee pee. I think I did not have the breakfast. I think I did not have dinner. What's for my dessert? Can we do fireworks?), we decided to garden on the bathroom counter, as I prefer planting in various places to keep it from becoming a boring garden. It was everything but. Go Leo, baby!

I am noticing an odd happening. We are already more playful with one another, with me not being the uptight sex Nazibeeatch ("No ass for you!") that I can sometimes be every day all the time always. There is no, "Will we or won't we? Will we fight about it? Will we discuss it for too long? Can I NOT have sex and we still be lovey? Can I hold sex itself like the winning card in a game of naked poker, taunting him because I'm the dealer?" There is none of that. We KNOW we're having sex, so we're just being cool... he immediately did all of the dishes after dinner as well. And wiped the counter. AND set the coffee. I think I might be on to something. Hee Hee....I have SUCH a dirty mind. ON to something.....

The Garden Report

secret government name for SEX

From this point on, every reference to the sexperiment will open with “The Garden Report”. This is code for “HEY brother!! HEY! I’m about to talk about sex with my husband and I know that this makes you want to vomit on your dog’s head so you can stop reading as soon as the spirit moves you.” It ain’t about flowers....

THE GARDEN REPORT

and the events leading up to “gardening”

Leonidas and I went on a date last night. That IS what you do before planned sex, right? I even showered. My mom, after being out of town with the dad for two weeks, was actually willing to babysit the spawn on purpose, without getting paid, for a few hours while we painted the town. Painting the town at this point in life means dinner and a movie, hopefully the ENTIRE movie with both parties still awake at the end. No one gets mad though if one happens to doze for a quick minute. We have an understanding ‘cause our kids suck our life juice. We had dinner at a cute little Italian restaurant where I devoured yet more lettuce and chicken, but with a kick arse dressing. It’s nice to mix the SBD (last time, South Beach Diet for all my new friends) up sometimes....dressing change ups have started to make me feel all wild and crazy! (Only those of you familiar with the SBD will have any freakin’ clue what I’m talkin’ about. The rest of you, welcome to my world. Sorry, it doesn’t get any better.) I’m rambling....

We saw WANTEDwith Angelina “my face is hot but my body looks like I’ve missed a couple of years on the food train” Jolie and the little dude from Atonement, James McAvoy. Oh, almost forgot Morgan Freeman. I normally tend to lean toward dramas and documentaries, not so much the shoot ‘em, blow things up genre. But I WAS on a date with Mr. Incredible, and did I mention that Angelina Jolie was in this? Again I digress....The reviews from this movie have been fairly decent, with a glowing report on a morning radio show being the deciding factor in our viewing pleasure choice. Keep in mind that living secret government lives, we like guns. The bigger the better, baby. This movie S.U.C.K.E.D. I do not care if you all see it and want to have WANTED’s baby, you will never convince me that it was worth my free ticket. What I’m trying to say here is that I didn’t like it. I MIGHT still be reeling from WALL-E love, and that’s all right. He’s worth it. God I love that robot. Moving on... we leave said movie (BOTH yawning) and proceed quietly to the driving home part of the date. The sexperiment has been the big fat elephant standing on my head the entire time, so I kick it in the butt and say something along the lines of “Honey, let’s just do it.” How romantic. As it usually goes with sex and the gym, once you get the “ball rolling” so to speak, it was worth the sweat. That’s all I’ll say about that for the moment, as I fear my brother may have continued reading on to the end. If you need more details, you just might need help that I can’t offer you. Yellow pages. Therapist. It’s time.

100 days to go!

I'm Gonna Have Sex.. lots and lots of it.

Let me start by excusing my brother from having to read any further. It’s okay dawg, I understand. You may proceed at your own risk, and I will attempt to warn you in the very beginning if and when my post switches over to the sex talk. We really need to work out a code word… until then, I’ll just blatantly let you know.  I’m starting now.

After watching a spot on NBC’s TODAY about a husband and wife that had sex for 101 days, on purpose, I ran across an article in Women’s Health describing some of the benefits of a fairly active sex life. Now, I’m not quite sure which universal force controls the amount of sex that happens in the den of love (it had only been working part time, who or whatever it may be), but I think I’ve had an epiphany. The TODAY couple stated that they had never been closer. I want to be even closer to Leonidas! There are also many health advantages for those that shag (and I ain’t talkin’ about beach dancing) often. I want to be healthy! We’re also talking about reduction of stress, headaches, all around bitchiness (that comes SO naturally for me), not to mention the 200 calories burned during a naked sweaty love session. You KNOW I’m looking for any way NOT to go to the gym at dark thirty. Another part of my wanting to do this involves my awareness that my spawn have zapped my I wanna be your sex goddess time with my man. Not on purpose, mind you, but the “tie me to the bedpost and pull, don’t tug my hair” girl has been gone for about 5 years now. It is truly difficult to feel like Angelina Jolie when you’re acting like Mrs. Edna Garrett from “The Facts of Life” all day long, snotted on t-shirt with spaghetti sauce included at no extra cost. At the end of my day, I tend to favor a bottle of wine and an early night night over sexy time with my hot honey. In an effort to right those very basic wrongs, I proposed this to Leonidas on Friday, and he seemed quite supportive of my efforts, after he came to. Imagine that. *Please note that I am doing this on my own, free will and everything. I have not been forced, pressed, convinced, bribed, threatened, etc.* This is MY idea. 101 days of sex with my husband, starting tonight. It’s legal and doesn’t cost a dime… unless you count the hot lingerie I will be purchasing around day 30.  It’s time to get my mojo back. Yeah, baby!

ADHD and Me

my wicked little friend

You can blame this one on the hormones that accompany my "this means you're not pregnant even though I don't need you to tell me that because I know it for various other reasons" friend that is visiting this week. All my LAYYYdies....you feel me? (That last line SHOULD have been read using the sing song voice in your head, so if you didn't, try again. Thank you.) I am here today to talk about my one and only flaw, which is my inability to have one single day, with one single organized thought in it. I have two reasons for writing about this. I was growing a bit tired of all of you thinking that I am perfect ALL the time, but most importantly, I needed to capture the topic in writing before a certain best friend of mine beat me to it via a blog entry based on her visit to my circus house of horrors yesterday. (Love ya GUUURRRL!) I am mildly exaggerating. VERY mildly. I was diagnosed with adult ADHD at the age of 28. This diagnosis came after several attempts to name "it" something different. There were doctors who treated my symptoms of ADHD as the main issue. By products of this, such as depression, impulsive behavior, aggression and anger were thought, by several, to be my "sickness", when in fact, they occurred as a direct result of the as of yet undiagnosed ADHD. In an attempt to combat any and all of the above mentioned issues, doctors doused me with drugs left and right, adding and subtracting like bad mathematics when yet another failed to do it's job. Antidepressants left me feeling soul-less. Instead of extreme highs or amazingly extreme lows packed with crying and long periods in bed, I felt nothing. I cannot imagine I could have continued that way for very long. I never discussed it with my parents, and I still haven't to this day. This is partially because I believe this condition, or variations of it, run in my family. Around the age of 13, I remember us driving home from Sunday lunch in order to make ready the house for my grandmother's visit later that afternoon. As we pulled into the drive, the entire family was surprised to see my grandmother crouched over on the front steps of our house, silver head bowed, sobbing into her Sunday dress . Thinking that something was terribly wrong, my mother rushed to her. I will recall her words for the rest of my life. "I thought you all were never coming back. What would I do if you never came home again?" She was 3 hours early. My brother and I had a lovely childhood, given almost anything we wished for. I know that we were both loved (and still are) deeply by my parents. The only sadness I can really recall came from my mother, and usually from the front seat of our car as my brother and I sat, not so quietly, on the drive back from church. We would cross a bridge that arched over the cemetery where my grandfather had been buried over 20 years before. I soon came to silently accept the tears that ran down my mother's cheeks each time we made that journey, though we weren't exactly sure what they meant. I now think she was weeping for the childhood that ended when her father and grandmother died in an automobile accident when she was only 13. My mother was in the car. This could also explain why my grandmother lived the rest of her life afraid that people she loved so much might never come home. This knowledge leaves me wondering if I was born unable to accomplish ordinary tasks that come so easily and naturally to others, or if I learned it (or didn't) due to the fact that the women in my childhood did not model those behaviors for me because they themselves were too busy suffering. Whatever the reason, "it" has plagued me for as long as I can remember. I didn't know how to explain the frustration, simply because it had always been the way I "worked"; I just thought everyone operated on the same level. I liken my brain to a television that is continuously on, though changing channels at a maddening pace. Sometimes I am paying attention to things that I don't even care to pay attention to, all while ignoring something or someone very important, right in front of me. I do not do it on purpose, though I sometimes come across as snobbish or unconcerned. I often interrupt others in conversation with a seemingly unrelated comment or topic, though in my mind it has relevance and should be shared immediately. I have had to learn how to think about how my actions impact not just myself, but everyone around me. Note: it is not a good idea to take credit card to MAC cosmetics counter. My organizational skills are non-existent. If I do not make a list before going to the grocery store, I may come back with two packs of vacuum cleaner bags and no milk, or peanut butter and not jelly, though they're right beside each other, and we've been out of jelly for 2 months. I know that people forget things at the grocery, or buy two of one and none of another, but this is an every time sort of deal. I have not mastered the "I know what goes in everything I cook, so I don't need a list, let's go shopping with a purpose" method. Without a list I will spend $800 on food that looks cool. Truffle butter and frozen ostrich burgers, anyone? My mother didn't raise me with "instructions" on how to do household chores. OR, maybe she did and I just missed it. I don't see a natural order in how ones house should be or look, and I can spend an entire day trying to clean one room. The majority of this surfaced when Leonidas and I (bless his big heart) first started dating. We lived together before we married, and he would "bring to my attention" the fact that, should I start trying to help clean our apartment around 11am (before kids wake up time), at 6 pm, things just looked "moved around", due to my inability to focus on anything for longer than 2 minutes. Start laundry in one room, walk to another to put away said laundry, spray Lysol on bathroom counter. Go begin another load of laundry (that I will remember and have to rewash tomorrow) then decide to clean out the pantry as I walk past... get it? He wasn't complaining, just commentating. He is a master laundry doer. My frustration at knowing I was a fairly intelligent individual (I always did well in school without ever having to study) who was incapable of completing everyday tasks finally led me to seek help from a psychiatrist. After diagnosis, I was put on Adderall for the attention deficit, Valium to lessen the aggression that resulted from the Adderall, and a couple of other drugs whose names I don't remember anymore. After starting the Adderall, I could focus SO well that I was up at 3 a.m. scrubbing the baseboards of my house with a toothbrush. I folded my underwear. One might say I became obsessive. At 5'9, I went from 170 lbs. to 109 lbs. in 5 months. I was happy to be shopping in the pre-teen section of stores for the first time in my life. I would move my food around on my plate during meals to disguise the fact that I wasn't eating it. My heart raced each time I stepped onto the scale, only to find I had dropped yet another pound. I argued and resisted every time Leonidas suggested I may need to stop taking this medicine, or at least get a 33rd opinion from a different doctor, one not so willing to dole out drugs to a walking skeleton every month for my $20 co-pay. I avoided my parents and brother, who were all, at the time, still in South Carolina. Then I cracked. One day, irritated that my toddler wouldn't sit still and my infant would not stop crying, (go figure), I put them safely in their cribs, walked to the kitchen and proceeded to remove all of my plates from the cupboards. I carried them to the enclosed patio out back and methodically smashed them into the concrete floor. I then took a pair of kitchen scissors out of the drawer, walked to the bathroom, climbed into the sink, and began cutting my hair off, bit by bit, until I felt I could breathe again. I believe that fate intervened at that point, in the form of a phone call from my father. I calmly told him what was happening, at which point he instructed me to stay put. They were four hours away, so he called my husband who was home in what seemed to be under 3 minutes. After checking on the babies, he swept up the glass, brushed my hair, and put me to bed. My parents and brother arrived not long after. I underwent a quickie intervention and unwilling detox, thanks to my husband and family. My brother took me home where he and his wife force fed me for a week, allowed me to paint, draw, write, go for walks in the woods and be silent. When he told me one day that he was afraid I was dying, I told him I was. I hope that he knows his love saved my life. A week later, my husband held my hand and brought me home. With clear eyes I looked at my children for the first time. It was at that moment I decided, that no matter what I had to deal with in regards to ADHD, I would do it drug free. I have managed this condition with humor, tears, and lots and lots of support. In a selfless gesture of love and support, my parents sold their dream home and moved to North Carolina to be with me and to help with the babies. My family has made sacrifices that I will be forever grateful, and alive, for. I make lists that I never complete, but at least I have a starting point. I still leave my coffee somewhere until it's cold, then reheat it in the microwave only to forget where I put it. I bake muffins for my children and forget they're in the oven until the tops are burnt because I forget to set the timer sometimes....like this morning. But now, instead of smashing things, I cut the tops off and add sugar free whipped cream and berries. Now, I can laugh. And I do.

Allow Me To Introduce….My Breakfast

Today I had breakfast in bed. It’s not my birthday. I did not bestow upon my husband any “unusual” favors in the wee hours before a.m. inside our den of love. It was just morning. So imagine my surprise when I heard the fridge open, packages rattling, microwave humming, and all of the beautiful noises that go along with “I don’t have to make my South Beach Diet spinach and eggs today!!! Hot damn!” Big Papa’s in the kitchen…..

Not wanting to spoil the surprise, I waited. I mean, I know that I am completely awesome. I know this because not long ago, I completely sucked. My mommying was tolerable, but the wife part, you know….not so much. HOWEVAH, since I came to the decision that my life has been beautiful for such a long time and I had just needed to take my dumb ass bitch goggles off, I’ve been pulling my weight around this place. Dinner and all. This is why I assumed I deserved this blessed breakfast in bed. Add to that the fact that I just finished a school year with 90 crazy children that I love, only to jump back into full time SAHM duty, without a day off in between for eating bon bons while sitting on my just tanned ass, a 3 hour mani/pedi, a massage with Sven, and 2 bottles of rare red wine with my 100 famous friends. ( You ALL know that’s what teachers AND SAHM’s do, right!?? Bite me.) I could not WAIT! So what if it was made with the same shit that’s been in our fridge for a week. Who CARES!? I ain’t cookin’ it! I snuggled back into the pillow that was still damp with my drool, dreaming up the nice words I would shower upon Leonidas as he hands me my gilded breakfast tray laden with morning presents. Then he walks out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Him. Leonidas. Out of the BATHROOM. Huh? Wha…. He does recon in the kitchen after hearing the same ruckus, only to duck back in a moment later. He wasn’t splattered with blood, and there was no dead body to bury in the backyard Mr. and Mrs. Smith style, so I assumed that we knew the person creating the kitchen noise. He is smiling. He tells me to lie down and close my eyes. Now keep in mind, those words, coming from his mouth, can never be bad, but this time was a little different. And it was daytime. Early. You pervs…..Geez.

The door opens slowly, and I peek because I can’t help it. Freddy the five-year-old creeps in silent ninja style, wearing his little white drawstring pajama pants that I love so much (I think it’s because they’re spotted with black and white TVs) and a smile. He is carrying a single white plate. “I made you breakfast, mommy! I did it all by myself! I didn’t have the fish sticks and chocolate sauce with cheese like the last time I made it, but I think this will be okay for your south diet on the beach.” My heart freakin’ melted. In my life I have never had a sweeter breakfast than that mini whole wheat bagel sprinkled with 2% cheese and a ripped off corner of Canadian bacon with the fingerprints still on it. He even nuked it for a perfect 20 seconds. I swear to God, Wolfgang Puck couldn’t have done it better….

Rain Rain Go Away

in a minute....

There was a storm at our house last night. No, that isn’t code for family squabble or mommy erupting at spawn. There was thunder, lightning, water from clouds... the whole business. See, I like a storm, especially when I’m inside and there are no tornadoes or flying rabbit parts involved. I like night storms. I thought I always had. Until last night. I put the kiddos to bed a little later than usual, partly out of my desire to NOT unfold myself from my husbands lap, and also because they were being normal and I like them more that way. Anyway, as usual, I digress. Approximately 3 minutes after tucking said wee ones in, the house was rocked by thunder and some really cool blue lightning. The sound of sheets of rain washing the house soon followed. I turned the last of the lights off in order to enjoy the display for a moment, as I find peace in nature doing what she does so well. The rolling thunder was soon overtaken by the sounds of whimpering from the staircase. Dora was crying. Dora was afraid. I walked over to find her huddled on the stairs, blankie of life wrapped around her head. I picked her up and she twisted her arms and legs around me in a grip that would rival an anaconda’s. Asking her what was wrong (yes, I knew, but I like to allow her to communicate her feelings), she told me, with tears streaming down her face, that the thunder “scared her ears.” She doesn’t like loud noises of any kind, and I found myself wishing I had put her to bed 20 minutes earlier. But had I done that, I would’ve missed the chance to walk her over to the big bay window in the “diamond room” and dance with her to the sounds of the storm. I would’ve missed the chance to tell her the story of raindrops and what life there is in their arrival. Most importantly, I wouldn’t have been able to explain to her, that when I was a small girl afraid of storms, I would pretend to be a blue fairy with see-through wings, and that my house was a giant but delicate flower that protected me from all that raged outside.

I am happy that I remembered. It seems that all we go through in our journey to “here” is what is needed so desperately from others (sometimes family, sometimes not) in order to make this life ride a little less bumpy.

My Life (this weekend) in Pictures

I decided to haul my camerrrAH around with me just to see what I might find. This is what found me:

This is my cat....she doesn’t KNOW that she’s a cat, and I’m not tellin’ her. She assumes royal bloodline, and I roll with it. I would like to be her in my next life.

This is my cat watching Dora at the window. Dora thinks she’s rockin’ royal blood too...except....

this princess does windows.

While Freddy has the chosen the “this should’ve been trash, but us kids are gonna keep this box for dress-up and torture until you die, mama” box for a nice game of “Sniper in the Trees in Our Front Yard, Look Out Neighbors.”

Leondias gives me his super secret sign for “I love you baby you are the best damn wife in the whole world, and MOTHER?!? These kids couldn’t have a better mother. Your mom’s shoulda named you Teresa.” I then gave him my super secret sign for thank you, but you can’t see it in this picture....for those of you worried that this salute was done in front of the Fredster, his head was buried in the blanket, so BACK OFF! :)

It took Dora only 25 seconds to perfect this librarian hooker make-up job after she ganked my purse without my knowing it. That would be mascara on her forehead.

After taking a “girl’s shower” with mommy, Dora decides to coat her face with shaving cream and shave her “gear” (cute baby word for beard). I supervised. No replies necessary from anti-girlshower crazies OR pervs, as I will not so kindly tell you to mind your own business and shove it up your ass....if I’m feeling generous. Thank you.

This is me, taking a picture of them, on a merry-go-round. I don’t DO merry-go-rounds, as I would promptly yak up my Starbucks skinny vanilla latte extra hot all over my shoes. No round and round. EVAH!

This was my weekend. Please enjoy. (That’s me channelling my inner Top Chef, doncha know?)

Kid Funnies

My week has been full of crap. I stepped in cat s@#t this morning, while I still had only 1/2 an eye open. There is nothing more vomit inducing for me than the squish of something between my toes. Heck, it could be chocolate and money, but if it squishes, between my toes, NASTY. Hopefully that didn't dictate the tone of my day. I'm thinkin' all positive right now to try to coax the universe to come back over on my side. I'll keep you posted. For today, a couple of funnies from my chilluns:

Dora: "Mommy! Look at dat funny lady. Da one with the yellow hair on her big head! Over DERE! Her car doesn't have a lid on it!!!! How does she close it?” Insert mommy guffaw here. It was a convertible in case you didn’t get it., and she DID have a big head.

While playing the rhyming game, Dora introduces the word deep. “Deep, sleep, meep, leap, fleep, beep, steep, peep....peep...peep....Hey mommy! You’re my peep!” Whaa....”Why, what does that mean, darling Dora?” (I’m thinkin’ my little bird has gone all hip on me.) “It means dat you’re a marshmellowwwy pink rabbit wid weally long ears and a giant head that I’m gonna bite off during the next Easter time!! I’ll put you in my basket! Heeeheeeheee! I make me laugh, mommy peep!” Note: She is wicked. I do NOT have a big head, and I will be steering clear of the Easter basket of death. (Re: Rabbit in my Kitchen, in case you missed the bunny saga!)

The last part of today’s rant is a “WHAT WHAT!” I would like to shout out to my hubby Leonidas. Dude, you’re a fantastic daddy (with other amazing attributes, wink wink). The things you let these kids do to you.....

Worth every second.....

Lost My Little Girl

I Need a Drink

Ok. So before we panic, I found her. This should be painfully obvious, because had I not, you would be seeing this particular fat chick I know (me, dummy) on the evening news right about now, ripping out my hair and pulling a vocal cord left and right. My 5 year old son, who, from this point on, and due to his secret government job, will be known as "Freddy", has soccer practice every Friday around 6. I say "around" simply because parents of 5 year olds are incapable of being on time, in a designated place, at the same time. Freddy plays for a church team, at a church we do not attend. In this particular league, all kids get game time, and learn the importance of teamwork. They also give them a little "God-lesson" which I'm hoping will counteract all the damage my liberal ass does during the week. At the practice field, there is a slide/play area for the children who regularly attend this church, and those (like mine) whose parents are attempting to squash their own guilt by involving their babies in church-centered activities. Even better, this "slide" is shaped like Noah's Ark. I don't know if this is intentional. I had assumed, since I am so good at it, that it was on purpose. I mean, it IS a church. Even better than that, on top of said play area, are two swingy bars that seem to be hanging from what looks like a cross. I am not being blasphemous. I do fear God, as I was raised Pentecostal, South Carolina-style, meaning I don't really have a choice in the matter. Before you all freak, I haven't been to a camp meeting on purpose in close to 15 years. So, to look up during soccer practice, and see my baby swinging from the cross had already put me in a state of something close to panic. I was watching Freddy practice and "Dora" (her nom de jour), play on the boat of the Lord at the same time. This is not an easy task, except that I am gifted with what my husband refers to as "lizard eyes", enabling me to see things that normal people cannot. When Freddy takes one to the head, I busy myself with coddling for a moment, looking away from the ark. Damn it. It was the end of practice, which calls for a round of parents vs. children, or what I like to call, "fat, lazy moms and dads making themselves feel better by cheating in a game of soccer against 5-year-olds." Great fun. I ask Freddy to fetch Dora from the ark, so that she could piggyback during this romp. He promptly returns and informs me that she is no where to be found. Being an unaccomplished hide-n-seek player, who promptly gives out her whereabouts if you ask, I knew she wasn't doing this on purpose. Suddenly, in my demented, twisted, watch too much "The First 48" brain, I envisioned all of the things that had just happened to her in the last 30 seconds while I wasn't looking. I charge, drill-sergeant style, up to the ark, screaming "Dora!" "Dora!" Freddy is trailing behind me. Every male I see is one step away from pulling out his privates and molesting children in front of all of North Carolina (this is no laughing matter, I'm just trying to explain the panic that has turned these soccer dads, in my mind, into the next dude with a "Sick Sex Offender" sign in his front yard). I begin to walk toward the bathrooms, when I hear, "Mommy! Mommy! I went pee pee! I pee peed in the paaahhhhtttyyy!!!" Yeah for Dora!" After puking in my mouth, I grabbed Dora, squeezed her until she pulled my nose to make me stop, and told her three things: 1. NEVER, NEVER, NEVER go anywhere without mommy knowing where you are. 2. Mommy isn't angry with her, just scared because I would shrivel and die without her in my face on a minute by minute basis. 3. Way to go, girl! You pee peed in the paaahhhhhtttty!!!!

Rabbit Parts

So there was so much wind and stormy stuff outside last night, that I totally expected to find dead rabbit parts hanging from my trees this morning. Seriously.

Let me set this up for you. I had enjoyed two glasses of wine, and was comfortably passing out on my fluffy couch watching “Top Chef”, because I can’t cook. It was the best of times. So you can imagine my horror when hell came knocking via some big ass thunder and lightening! I am, admittedly, a chickenshit when it comes to storms. I have no control over them, and they have all control over me. That makes me very uncomfortable. I mean, seriously, what do you do when the sky comes at you with ice bullets and flying cows at speeds of 3,000 mph!? Hide in a COAT CLOSET?!?! It holds coats. Coats. They don’t really “do” basements in this part of North Carolina, which is a topic for another time, so if you live here, you are left to sit, glassy-eyed, staring at the meteorologist who is now wetting herself because she finally got the call at 12am that it is “her turn” to tell us all in “living room land” that the end is near. I bet that station has a basement…..

In proper form, I poured another glass of wine, listened as my husband sucked his nose cartilage up into his head (as he had fallen asleep long ago), and waited for little Miss Sunshine to tell me it was time to grab my sleeping children, throw them like sacks of potatoes over my drunk ass shoulder, and hide in the coat closet.

Thankfully that moment never arrived. When I came to, a.k.a., woke up, I was relieved to note all walls were standing, and there were no airplanes lodged in my ceiling. My husband and children woke up soon after. I found it almost amusing when my angelic three-year-old walked over to the window, peeked out to find the sunshine, then turned her sweet little head to me stating, “Mommy, it wained! It wained! That was weally quiet wain. Yeah for the flowwahs!”

Took the words right outta my mouth, little bird. Yeah for the flowwahs!