Talking Shit About Milestones

I thought about it.  There's really no other way to effectively title this entry into the book of my life.  So, yes, ladies and gentlemen, we're going to talk shit about milestones.

As a mother, you savor moments in your children's lives that mark milestones... the first time they sleep through the night... the first solid food... the first tooth in... the first word... the first steps... the list goes on and on because life is filled with so many firsts -- even when they're grown.

I had a first today.  A first of epic proportions (in my mind, anyway).  A first that was so ridiculously over-the-top of any other first that I truly believe Benji really "is" the child that holds true to the cliche that "third time's the charm."

Oh yes.

He's the third.

However, it's probably more like "third strike and you're out" now that I think about it.

I should have known that life would be different with three.  You move from man on man to zone defense.  Divide and conquer.

And, while he has learned to adapt to some situations, being two, you can't really expect him to fall into line without developing some mechanism for standing out and being his own person.

And, let us not forget whom his mother is.  She is one who generally stands out (even when she doesn't want to.) So Benji, by default, has the genetic disposition to be a little off the status-quo from the get go.  Let's be frank... he needs prayers.

He's different... that Benji.  He is always ready to leave his mark...

Whether it's his food... on the floor.

His crayola artwork... on the flatscreen.

His Matchbox cars.... across your forehead.

Yes.... That Benji.  He is always ready to leave his mark.  He is a giver.  Indeed.  He is.  We are blessed.

Today, however.  Today was a different kind of gift.  Usually the unexpected gifts are the ones to truly treasure.  Everyone expects a gift on Valentine's Day or their anniversary or their birthday -- those are times when you have to buy the obligatory purchase.  I'm not into obligatory anything.  I do, however, appreciate thoughtful sentiments out of the blue.  Moreover, some of my most favorite gifts were simply because someone saw something that made them think of me... and so they had buy it... for me... because of me.  Those, those are the gifts that I treasure.  Those are the gifts that are truly from the heart.

Benji's gift, however, was from an even deeper place.

Say it with me now... I am blessed.

I had spent the morning in the playroom floor.  I had drunk a considerable amount of water, milk, tea and thus, had to "go."  We had Buzz and Woody on the tube.  We had cars everywhere.  We had snacks.  We had drinks.  He should have been set for the thirty-second pit stop I required to make a visit to the loo.

SHOULD HAVE been set.

SHOULD HAVE.

I did my business.  I walked out and sat in the chair as Moose (the Rot) was wanting to be scratched.  That's when I hear the pitter patter of little bare feet flopping on the hardwoods running from the playroom to my location.  It's truly an adorable sound.  I genuinely love to hear him run along the floor.

"Mommy.  Mommy.  Mommy."

I can see his outstretched clenched hand.  He has something in his hand he wants to give to me.  I'm fairly certain that it's the Lego car he kept taking apart for me to fix.  So, while still looking down at Moose and scratching him with my left hand, I extend my right for the Lego car.


Benji promptly deposited his gift into my hand.

It wasn't a Lego car.

Oh, it was not.

It was probably the furthest thing FROM a Lego car I could have ever even imagined.

There.

In my hand.

Benji deposited....

wait for it...

...a piece of shit.

You see, we are potty training.  He knows poop is not supposed to be in his diaper.  So he was apparently cleaning it out....

By giving it ... TO... ME!

I looked at it.

I didn't know what it was.

Then I looked at him.

He looked at me.  I think he was proud.  How delusional.

I looked at my hand.  Then, I'm pretty sure I said, "What the hell???" (quite loudly)  I looked down at the piece of crap and screamed, "No... NO NO NO NO NO NO NO POOP GOES IN THE TOILET.... NOT MOMMY'S HAND.  POOP IN THE TOILET."


I bolted up and made my way to the throne to remove the fecal matter from my hand.  


PLOP


 (nice sound effects, huh?  I have a high-quality blog.  Be thankful it's not scratch-n-sniff.)


I looked at Benji.  I laughed... I sat there shaking my head trying to garner any kind of comprehension as to what had just transpired without feeling like "WHAT THE HELL"...

And..... then I went straight for the bleach.  Truthfully, there isn't much that grosses me out.  But, for some reason, at that moment, I felt the need to bleach my hand.  


We then executed a full diaper change in proper form.  


So, there ya go.  I'm talkin' shit on my blog.  Laugh among yourselves.

Never a dull moment.

It's JULY!

It's July 1.  This means that 2012 is half over.  Oh wait!  Does that make me a pessimist?  Should I have said, "We have half a year left in which to make memories"? Meh... It means that the year is half over.  You  never realize how fast time flies until you look at major landmarks like that.

A lot has happened in the last six months.
A lot has happened in the last six months that I'd like to forget.
A lot has happened in the last six months that I'd like to happen every single day.

But, it is what it is and that's where it is.

July 1.

Today my son, Josh, leaves for three weeks in Iowa.  I enter a funk of sorts because while I do tend to communicate with him when he's there -- it's never on the level that I enjoy.  He is a texter.  While I am, I appreciate and value the interpersonal communication of a verbal conversation so that I can hear sighs, pauses, laughs, smiles rather than see this...

:)

... typed out on a screen.  But, again, it is what it is.... which is why the funk starts.  I'm nearly 40...he's 13.  C'est la vie, right?

The calendar has some fun scheduled for this month.  Hopefully things will pan out.

This month my goals will be to get back on track with most of the "plans" I have that went on hold about two months ago.

Wish me luck.

Right of passage

Tonight Josh is experiencing a right of passage... he is being given the opportunity to watch The Princess Bride. I have found that this is much like The Beatles in that you either love it or hate it.  It's inconceivable to me that other people can not find the genius in this movie.

This movie is completely endearing.  From the "as you wish" to the rhyming "no more rhyming.  I mean it.  Anybody want a peanut?"  And from the iocane powder to the six fingered man.

"My name is Enigo Montoya.  You killed my father.  Prepare to die."

And from the ROUS's to the Fire Swamp...

It's genius.  I love it.

I'm surprised I didn't name one of my children Wesley.

It's 8:33 p.m...

Do you know where YOUR two year old is?

I do.  Well, not yours -- mine!

Right now he's playing in the water in his sink.

His bedtime is 7:30 p.m.

He has been in his room for OVER AN HOUR NOW.

He has been tucked in twice.  I won't go back unless there are some major blood-curdling screams echoing of blood and complete and total carnage.

I may have failed to mention that he has had ONLY twenty two minutes of a nap today...out of his usual 1.5-3 hours.

This child is going to drive me abso-friggin-loutely insane.  Albeit a short trip, but Psycho City is indeed where this gal is headed.

He's had a bath, diaper change, medicine that SHOULD knock him out, his favorite blanket, 27 binkies, Elmo jammies... he should be SET.

Don't you wish someone would give you EVERYTHING you need and just say, "Please, just sleep and feel better and I will take care of everything else."

Would you really feel compelled to crawl on the daybed to open the blinds?  Dig through your vanity drawers for your toothbrush umpteen dozen times?  Would you feel that Lightning McQueen nightlight just needed to be turned off and on 1,629 times?  Would you feel completely unsatisfied until yo'uve driven your Hot Wheels firetruck on the wall 837 times?  Or, would you grow a brain and say to yourself, "Self, you've got it so good!  Let's snooze?!"  Yeah, I'm going to vote on the last one.

Youth is wasted on the young

And so is my patience.

Party Central

It is party planning central around these parts lately.

End of school parties!  Holidays!  Block Parties!  End of season parties!  Birthday parties! Party party party!

First one is Mother's Day.  Is there a plan here?  Absolutely not.  Should there be?  Perhaps, but there is not.  Frankly, I can't stand going out to eat on any sort of holiday.  No one wants me to cook since I'm "a mom" but there isn't a person in this house capable of cooking an entire meal on their own... well, not that I'd want to consume, anyway.  So, I suppose it's a major stretch to say that Mother's Day is a "party."  Frankly, I'm not even looking forward to it.  I'd rather just skip right over it and pretend that it doesn't even happen this year.  I refuse to plan a day that is supposed to be for and about me.  So, since I don't plan it -- it doesn't get done.  So be it.  Maybe I should go get a room at the Gaylord, eat in quiet and peace, not have to cut any small bites for anyone, not have to dodge eating utensils caked in ketchup being catapulted across the table, not having to continually wipe hands.  Think about it -- I could go to bed early, sleep in and not have to wipe a single snotty nose or change and wipe a stinky butt for an entire day.  Now THAT would be a treat!  Perhaps, I'm onto something.  Is that truly a mom's greatest wish -- a break?  Me NOT doing something for a day because it's "Mother's Day" doesn't mean that someone else in this house will pick up the slack -- it just means I'll have to bust my ass twice as hard the next day to catch up.  How in the world is that worth it?  Yeah, let's escape back to the Gaylord.

Another party on the horizon is because Joshua is turning from a tween to a bonafide teen May 28.  I always thought that would freak me out a little -- to say that I had a child that was ___teen, but it doesn't.  I have found the older my kids get, the more I like them.  Perhaps that stems from the fact that I spend a vast majority of my time with DAMIAN!

I appreciate being able to reason with children using logic rather than bribery or counting to ten so that I don't beat them to death and tell God they died.  You simply can't reason with a two year old.

But, I digress.

I sure seem to do that a lot lately.

Parties?  Oh yes, parties.

Friday the 25th of May, Drew is supposed to play in his first All Stars game.  Afterwards, he will have his end of the season team party for baseball.  He grew a lot as a player this year.  It's been fun to watch him (not that I've seen him but maybe three games since I'm typically the one chasing DAMIAN in the sand pit and carrying the dump truck), but from what I've seen, he's gotten better.  [insert grumbling under my breath here]  I don't believe I will have to do much of anything for this party so that's always nice and a definite plus!

Next one in line is Josh!  Josh is not a "party" person.  For his birthday party, he wants friends and NRH20 (a local water park).  So, that's what he gets.  He doesn't want a "party."  I don't even know if I'm crossing some kind of "coolness" barrier by calling it a party.  Regardless, he's going there.  I may rent a cabana and go for a few hours.  Lord knows I could use a tan.  Not that I'll get one in a cabana, but it beats staying home on a Saturday with DAMIAN.  Unfortunately, as luck will have it, I will probably BE the one home with him regardless.  So, Josh and 10 or so of his best buds from school will be hoopin' it up at the water park Saturday, May 26.

Sunday, the 27th will be our neighborhood block party.  That's always fun.  Lots of food.  Lots of drinking.  Typically a huge waterslide for the kids.  It's a good time.

Monday is Memorial Day and, consequently, is Josh's actual birthday and so, yes, we have to have another observance!  That's when he will get his REAL cake and presents.  It's a birthday.  Those two things are a must.  Cake and presents.

Actually, come to think about it -- as THE mom, I think I should get presents.  I mean, I AM the one that had 24 hours of forced labor with a pitocin drip!  Right?  I AM the reason he was brought into this world.

And, since I'm the ultimate supermom, I've also made the reservations for Drew's birthday in July.  One must plan ahead, you know.... especially when you're Batmom.  He is going for LaserQuest.  We shall see if Andy is able to pull that one off.  Ha!  Frankly, I will be needed to orchestrate the party/cake and there will be a little terror afoot.... he will definitely be on daddy duty that morning.

So, this month is worse that Christmastime it seems.

Yuck.

I'm going to bed... at least I can dream of the Gaylord...

On the Nines

.... what I'm doing right now...

listening to... Benji coughing in the monitor.  He is sick.

loving...  my morning workouts even though I haven't been able to go this week

thinking... about what we should do this summer

wanting... a cabin in Broken Bow to escape to.

needing... an escape, a beer, some medication and some sleep

If you're one of "them"...

This week has been something of a train wreck... and it's only Wednesday.

Although it was sprinkled with "moments", the bad FAR outweighed the good insomuch as I feel that the few and far between "good" were exactly enough to keep my claws in the wall before I fell backwards into a vat of depression ready to be consoled with tubs of Blue Bell, M&Ms, Taco Bell and white cupcakes with sprinkles.

This week has not been good.  I'm sick.  Benji is sick.  I'm running on zero sleep.  I haven't been to the gym since Monday.  I've eaten like crap and I have an incessant crick in my neck that is prohibiting me from sleeping well, moving well or feeling able to fully function.

I have no desire to regurgitate the excessive "bad" that I've experienced since Monday other than to say that if someone ever tells me to "cherish these times" with my two year old, I will cut them.

If I hear someone tell me "oooh, don't you wish they could stay this age forEVER" -- I will punch them in the throat.

If I hear anyone speak to me about how they wish they could stay home with their perfect, wonderful, well-mannered, potty-trained, speaking in full sentences, two-year-old, I may go postal and hold the entire Central Market of Southlake hostage with a six-pack of bananas and a pair of toenail clippers!

Don't get me wrong.  I love my children.  I love them.  I do.  (I think the more I say it, I'm trying to convince myself that I really do.  Is it working?  I don't know...ask me tomorrow!  No, seriously... ha ha ha... I do.)  I love them.

I do, however, HATE the age that one of them has happened to have attained.  He is a shit storm on wheels.  He is a holy terror of tantrums.  He is the epitome of the "strong willed child."  He is his father's son.  He is my punishment for anything I have ever done wrong in life.

This is for the California stops... for making fun of that girl named Keitha in 4th grade because she never brushed her hair.  This is for throwing a drink in the jerk's face at Chances when he said he was going to Denim and Diamonds because they "could dance there" when HE was actually LEADING wrong and TURNING the wrong direction.  This is for not tipping the car-hops at Sonic when I used my debit card on a drink.  Punishment, I say!

I hate two year olds.

I love my son.

I hate the age.  But only when they act like... well, my son!


He hates me.  Of this, I am convinced.

He is sick.  This exacerbates the whiney.  I don't tolerate nor do I speak "whine."  This makes for a very, very long, looooooooooooooooooong day.

Let's do a daily recap, shall we?

I contemplated waking him up knowing that his medication would have worn off about 11 last night so he was potentially feverish as he has been since Monday afternoon.  He woke up on his own around 9am.  Temperature?  100.8

And the stand-off began.  As of yesterday, he refuses to take medication from me.  I have held him down.  I have held his nose shut.  I have had Josh hold him down.  I have tried to bribe him.  I have tried everything known to man and the child will not take it.  He spit it on me.  He spit it on him.  He drooled it down his shirt.  He got it in his hair, on his hands, on the floor.

Suppositories were my next step.  It wasn't going to be pretty.

This evening at 6pm, Andy walks in the door and the little freakin' twerp takes it like it was candy.

Do you know what I said to him?

I bet you do.

It wasn't nice.

I'll leave it at that.

Ben would hardly eat today.  As such, he's constipated.  TMI? Yeah?  Well, deal with it.

He dumped an entire box of diapers, emptied the wipes.

Unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper.

Multiple times throughout the day he would have a drawer dumping spree only to turn the drawer upside down, stand on them and then proceed to reach and thus clear off anything within his grasp from whatever he could reach.  I believe he will have a minimalist approach in life.  Clutter free tabletops and counters.

He tried treating the dishwasher door as a basketball.  I'm sure the hinges are permanently warped.

Not once, but twice when changing a diaper -- his hand went into the.. crap.  I muttered f-bombs under my breath.

I picked him up to move him when he was trying to hit my dog with something and he has entered the lets-put-a-death-grip-pinch-right-on-mom's-boob stage while simultaneously clawing her neck to oblivion.

Oh, yeah, and my head -- it's a target -- for EVERYTHING he can pick up.

He emptied out the contents of the entire shelving unit in the playroom... anything with small parts -- dumped.

Then, they were projectiles.

This is in a matter of minutes, friends.

THIS is why it was imperative I found a summer preschool program for him -- I simply would not survive this summer without one.  Without a summer program, I would require some sort of intervention, a plethora of anti-depressants and copious amounts of liquor.  You see, finding a suitable preschool program for summertime is not only necessary for him, it's going to save me thousands in therapy (or possibly a criminal defense attorney) in the long run.

The truly sad part is that you probably think I'm joking.

Early this afternoon, I visited a preschool that had been recommended by a friend.  It's not near the house.  It is 20-25 minutes away, in fact.  I was, however, well prepared to make the drive three days a week.  Unfortunately, I was informed when I walked in that in order to sign him up for summer, he had to be registered for fall, too!  Um.. well, no one TOLD me that on the phone!

I left somewhat disgusted.  Nearly in tears.

On the way home, I pulled over and simply put my head on the steering wheel and just gave it all to God.  I was seriously at my wit's end.  I was at the last thread of my miserable rope.  I was hanging on by dental floss.  I had exhausted nearly all means and the tears just flowed.  I was giving up and realized just what a truly shitty summer I was about to be in for.  And, I totally ended that sentence with a preposition -- deal with it!

Like I said, don't get me wrong -- I love this little terror -- but sometimes, you just need someone to cut you some friggin slack.

So, driving home, I passed by Southlake Christian Preschool.  It's right outside my neighborhood.  It's not open yet but they now have a sign up that says "OPEN JUNE FIRST!  They have a SUMMER ONLY program!  They are accepting kids FOR SUMMER!

I was elated.  I picked up a registration packet.  I would have filled it out right then and gave it to her but it was noon, he was tired (I was hoping hungry but that proved to not be the case).  While we tried to talk for just a few about everything, he tried to run away down the hall.  I had to scoop him up.  He proceeded to slap me in the face.  Not once, not twice but repeatedly.  So, I set him on the ground.  He refused to cooperate.  I know she was used to this behavior but, as a mother, having your child strike you -- in the face -- in public -- really made me feel like a giant LOSER!

Thanks, Benji, ya little TROLL!  Grrrrr...


Tonight, he wouldn't eat dinner.  He just wanted to throw it.  Pizza.

He ate about a cup of blueberries, however.


Josh had a rain-out game reschedule for tonight so that meant, you guessed it, it's ME... with Benji... for the evening, too.

Bathtime, he wouldn't leave his butt alone.  That was weird.  I'm thinking it was the constipation.  Who has to continually tell their kid to leave their butt alone?  His goal for bathtime?  Empty the bath -- onto the floor and rug.  Good times... good times.

Did I mention --  I HATE THIS AGE?

I let him play with Drew after his bath.

He was nice to him.

It was 8:20 and I told them both time for bed -- I was done.  He grabbed a truck.  I had his blanket and his truck.  He hit me in the temple with the truck.  I took the truck and threw it against the wall.  I hope it broke.
I hate that truck.

My head hurts.

Today sucked.

I decided I deserved a beer.

Did I mention I was sick?

Yeah, I can't taste the flippin' thing!!!

Is that not the icing on the cake?!

Oooh... I said cake...

So much for my beer.  I'm going to go eat a Reeces peanut butter cup...or twelve.

I hate today... and if someone tries to give me some Mary freakin Poppins silver-lining bullshit story about how every day is a gift blah blah blah... they can suck it.  Because today sucked!

If I were in their world, then you know what, it would be different.  But this is my little shit storm today... and today sucked.  Period.  Go drink a beer for me and tell me how wonderful it is.  I hope you bump your head on the freezer door pulling your head out and that you get a crick in your neck.... and then step on a Lego in the dark!

:)