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!

:)

Goodbye To You

I remember as a kiddo, looking through catalogs that would arrive in the mail that sold novelty t-shirts. One had "the more I know men, the more I love my dog." You know, I always thought that was a strange thing to say... until I grew up... learned about men... and became a pet owner. I totally "get" it now.

Dogs are our constant companions. They are the only source of unconditional love you'll ever receive. In my home, we have three constant companions -- Lola, my Boston; Moose, Andy's baby Huey and Sadie, Josh's rescue. Tomorrow, I have the grim task of taking Josh's dog to be put down.

I've noticed over the last few weeks that she's been needing to be let outside more and more and that it was taking her longer and longer to evacuate her bladder... which is really sad when it was raining. She was having to be let out 2-3 times a night so I was constantly up all the time for her. It wasn't as bad as having a newborn because it was just up, pee, close the door, back to sleep.... but it was still inconvenient!

Regardless, I took her to the vet where it was discovered that she has many bladder stones. So many, in fact, that she would require surgery. $1200 surgery. And, after spending that chunk of change, they can't guarantee or even give good odds that this condition will not reoccur. We figure she was probably a year old when we got her so that puts her at about 7-8 years old. That seems to be par for the course for dogs in my life. At first discussion, Andy said he would do it. However, with the odds not in her favor, I just can't -- in good conscious -- pay that for an 8 year old dog. Which then, in turn, makes me struggle with how can you put a price tag on their love? I liken this feeling to the June Cleaver version of the Grim Reaper. I look all pretty and smiley but I'm an agent of death. I feel like I'm the one marching down the Green Mile with her and inside, it's killing me. I'm a lover, not a killer.

I think that we as humans learn a great deal when we are also caretakers for our four-legged family members. Josh has learned responsibility, love, affection, devotion, loyalty all through the teachings of a little 22 pound dog we rescued 7 or so years ago from the Forney Road Shelter.

I still remember that day I brought her home. We'd attended the Fort Worth Home and Garden show at the Convention Center. There were all sorts of rescue groups present with adoptable pets. There was one little dog that was the cutest! So, that next day, I decided that I was going to get her. I hopped in the car and headed to the shelter where she was but when I got there I realized just how barky she was... turned around and saw this brown dog curled up in the little plastic bin they'd given her for a bed... her pillow was a towel. I took a knee by the cage and talked to her through the fence. She slowly raised her head as if she realized that someone was actually there to see her. She looked like she'd given up until she realized I was there. It was an instant bond.

I'll be honest, I feel like she knows that she was saved by us... just as she helped us be saved from our grief of losing two other dogs so very close together.

So, when I saw her, I was sold. She was adorable, peaceful and very sweet. I picked Josh up from school and showed him his new dog. We chose to name her Sadie.

Call me crazy, but I like most animals more than people. Their only motivators are food and affection. What a life! And boy does this dog love affection. She shows her happiness, in fact, daily -- via her tail. Having had Boston Terriers for a while now, I'm not used to having a dog with a tail. Sadie has a tail. You will always know that she's glad to see you... because it thumps, thumps, thumps wherever she is. She is such a happy dog. She resembles a fox.... reddish coat, white feet, white tip on her tail...

Although Lola is "my" dog, Sadie follows me everywhere -- even the bathroom and for nothing more than to set her face on my knee to be pet. Lola won't leave her warm spot for affection, but Sadie would -- and does. Sadie, in fact, would be the first to give up a juicy bone to just receive some affection. She is a lover, for sure. She won't offer up kisses to me, but she will nuzzle. She craves love and appreciates anything and everything you will dish out to her.

Her bed of choice? Two big blankets atop a recliner.

She's a stealthy food stealin' ninja dog.

She can clear the kitchen island -- yes, the dog has springs in her butt.

Benji calls her "Izzy."

He pulls her tail and she doesn't bite, snap, growl or even snarl. She's gentle.

She has the biggest, heart-melting, trusting auburn eyes... they're just beautiful... and I'm going to betray them tomorrow.

No matter how hard it is... I know I'm doing the right thing but that doesn't make it easy.

Please lift up an extra prayer for my boys tonight and tomorrow as they process their grief from losing their little lady.

Strolls down memory lane...

I was playing some tunes tonight on YouTube while working on a few things on the computer and chatting with some of my besties on Facebook...

I posted song after song and my friend, Shannon, kept "liking" each post. So, finally I asked her if she was actually listening to them or just "liking" them. She said, "Yes!" She was listening to Eddie Money "Baby Hold Onto Me." He puts on a great show. I love his voice.

So, then she posted a song on my wall. "Come On Eileen" by Dexy's Midnight Runners. I still have to look up the lyrics to that song. You just can't understand that guy. You'll be singing along and then you're like, "What the heck did he just say?"

She reminded me how we used to push the sectional against the wall at my mom's house to open up a dance floor for us to perform. We would put on 33's (if you don't know what that is, you just need to quit reading my blog now because we likely will have nothing in common, plus, you're making me feel old so piss off!) and wear socks and slide around on the linoleum floors. We were hot stuff. Let me tell ya!

That got me thinking what ELSE we used to dance to.

This:

This is so freakin' bad. It's superbad. It's embarrassing to watch -- but I did. I guess it was morbidly fascinating how excruciatingly pathetic it is now. Seriously, I just cringe.

I think if you get kicked off So You Think You Can Dance, they should duct tape you to a chair and make you watch seasons of this over and over... leave you with a parting gift of some Nair, a gift certificate for a perm and some silky spandex pants. Woo hoo!

I recall one specific time while at my maternal grandmothers in Mesquite, my sister and I were watching Solid Gold. I remember, too, with acute clarity the dancer whom my sister most admired. She was this beautiful waify black woman with hair like Crystal Gayle. She was built like a ballerina. My sister wanted to be her. That evening she wore this ridiculously small gold stretchy leotard. I was telling my Meme -- that's what we called her you see, "Meme"-- that my sister wanted to be a Solid Gold dancer -- JUST LIKE HER! (picture me here pointing to the television)

"A Solid Gold Dancer?" she exclaimed.

Without a second thought she spewed forth unsolicited advice (which she was always known to do.) She proceeded to tell us that in order to be a Solid Gold dancer, one must shave your entire genital area to wear their costumes.

Yes, I was ten year old and my grandmother was talking to my sister and I about shaving our crotches.

It was distinctly the most bizarre conversation now that I think I ever had with her... or either of my grandmothers for that matter. I mean, they're GRANDMOTHERS for goodness' sake. They're supposed to talk about baking cookies... being nice to puppies... bacon grease... making good grades... how to cook... perhaps about how they walked four miles to school up hill in the snow both ways -- not shaving pubic hair!

All I can think of now is that I had to have only been about nine or maybe ten years old -- tops! I'm not even sure that a ten year old girl -- even being the conducive genius that I was -- could contemplate the true understanding of what that entire conversation actually entailed. I mean, I know I hadn't even entered PRE-puberty, let alone been under the full understanding of what grooming rigors that would entail later in life.

I think just the shock of it all then and there shot down my dreams of being a Solid Gold dancer. And, to this day, you can thank my grandmother for the fact that I did not become one. For you see, at ten years old, I was scarred for life.

Solid Gold. Grandmothers. Crotch shaving. What an odd trail of thought I leave you with tonight.