Submit to Scary Mommy again…and they featured my article yesterday. Sorry for the late share, but if you’d like to hop on over there, hear a bit about my motherhood story and some of the responses I got to people discovering I was going to be a mother of three.
My Uncle has lost his glasses.
And his house.
He can’t find his remote.
And one of his sheets is missing.
He also lost a briefcase, and he has no idea what is inside it.
But that’s okay.
This morning I used shower gel to wash my son’s hair.
Put dish soap in the coffee pot.
Ate applesauce with a fork.
Gave the daughter three t-shirts to put on and looked at her confused when she asked, “Which one do you want me to wear?”
And stood staring at the husbands car in the driveway going, “How did that get here?”
We won’t mention that he came home before I was even awake, or that I woke up with him next to me, or that I should have…I should have known he was home.
I am not losing my mind.
And we’re going to find my uncle’s glasses.
Have I ever introduced you to the Husband?
This wonderful man wanted to take me to dinner last night. Now, understand please, that we rarely get any time together anymore. His work schedule keeps him away, which has turned me slowly into the single mother again. I miss him. I miss the nights we would lie and bed and just talk.
So he offered dinner and I obviously jumped at the opportunity.
I thought, ‘Hey, let’s go get ribs.’ I mean, smothered in BBQ sauce, served with real mashed potatoes and gravy and shrimp wrapped in bacon, and half chickens and all those other wonderful choices from Adam’s Ribs.
I thought, ‘It’s gonna be a good night with the Husband.’
I got dressed, put on some nice jeans and a sexy top. I did my make-up and wore earrings.
I think my mirror was frightened. It hadn’t seen that woman in a long time.
I completely scrubbed from my mind the fact that I’m pregnant. I deleted it from memory. I purposefully choose not to think about it.
Mini Monster (of the boy variety): Why are you all dressed up?
Me: Cause Daddy and I are going on a date.
I suppose my children think we only kiss on date night. Right. That’s how I ended up pregnant.
Still in the stages where most everything that isn’t listed on the BRATT diet makes me want to puke.
Lasagna is mana from heaven.
So, I mentioned that I scrubbed the fact I was pregnant from my mind, right? Yes. Well, we get to dinner and I order the half rack with the three little bacon wrapped shrimp all covered in Adam’s signature BBQ sauce, with a side of mashed potatoes and gravy and some broccoli. Granted, I figured over half of this was coming home with me, because they are gigantic portions and I can never eat that much. I was no prepared for this:
That woman, our poor waitress, set that dish of ribs in front of me and the smell immediately set my stomach to roiling.
So, being the intelligent, educated woman I am…
I ate one of the shrimp.
I wanted a freaking shrimp.
-Insert gag at the remembrance of the shrimp.-
We immediately asked for boxes since the smell made me feel so bad and my meal, along with the Husbands, were boxed up in plastic while I scarfed on dry dinner rolls to easy my stomach and the husband figured out a hefty tip for the confused waitress.
We left, and barely made it to the car, with me apologizing like crazy, when the Husband, in classic Husband nature, said:
We collapsed into fits of laughter, unable to drive, sitting in the parking lot on date night with our entire dinner in the kiddos carseat in the back, and it was wonderful.
…and Mama’s following pretty close behind.
Our cat really is losing its shit. I mean, the thing has attacked both of my children. It’s eaten away a whole patch of skin at its neck and is like, “Let’s start on the belly next.” It spends the entire day racing through the house and sliding off my dining room table in a hood slide that would make the Dukes jealous. Not sure what’s wrong with her, but she’s one attack cat moment away from becoming a fur rug…patchy fur rug, but a rug nonetheless.
I was so stoked for this weekend. Stoked. Yes, I said…stoked. My parents were leaving for a vacation, the Husband got a three day weekend (Miracle!) and Saturday was poised to be a quiet day with just he and I doing our thing.
The kids with my Aunt.
The Uncle with his brother.
Just the Husband and I.
So whatever happened to me Friday when he got home that made me literally have an out of body experience, I’ll never know. I just punched him…in the stomach.
It wasn’t hard.
But I was mad. Like, really angry. FOR NO DAMN REASON.
I could see myself, yelling at him and his flabbergasted, confused face. I could see it, but I just. Couldn’t. Shut. Up.
Then he yelled back.
Fantastic idea, babe.
Now, I’m in tears, and he’s like, “Crap, I broke it. It’s leaking again.”
So I get a hug and I get this:
The Husband: The guys at work warned me you’d be all psychotic and stuff…with the hormones.
Me: -Pure raging anger in my voice.- What?
The rest of the weekend went off without a hitch. Everyone got to the places they were supposed to go. The Husband and I went on a Buy Maternity Clothes Date…whoopee.
He got the new Batman game, which is awesome, but that came with yet another gigantic sculpture to find room for somewhere in our tiny room. Gigantic. But it’s the Joker, so I’m not super mad, it just covers my entire jewelry box.
I don’t need jewelry, obviously.
I’m fabulous just as I am.
Yeah…we’re going to look at it that way. That works.
Everyone gets bad haircuts. It’s just a fact of life. However, it’s nothing we ever want for our kids. So I walked my daughter out of Walmart Monday with a cut that made me want to cover her head with a bandanna and run through the parking lot before anyone she knows could possibly see her.
I was embarrassed for her. I wanted to cry for her. I wanted to wring that young little girl’s neck who looked at the pixie cut on the wall and said, “Yeah, I can do that.” and then proceeded to hack at my daughter’s hair until she was left looking like a Barbie in Sid’s toy box concentration camp.
So I took her to a friend, who proceeded to hack off more in an effort to actually make it look like a cut. It’s short. I mean, shorter than I would have ever wanted it, but at least now her bangs are straight and not looking like a template for a chevron design.
This morning I’m getting her ready for school, and we washed and blew her hair dry and then I styled it. Spiky in the back and a bit in the front and she just grinned.
“I look like Katy Perry. Or Pink. Mama, I look like a Rock Star!”
And we’re okay. We’re okay…
What do you think we should call the baby?
This is how my son envisions the baby:
I mean Godzilla pretty much speaks for himself, but Princess Hairy? I was at a loss.
This came to mind, but then I found this…
It scares me that this even exists. Excuse me, while I go panic in some corner and practice saying, “It’s not real. It’s all a bad dream. It’s not real.”
There’s nothing like watching some TV show to get a rude awakening into deeper emotions. Last night, in yet another of my late-night-can’t-sleep-watch-Netflix episodes, I stumbled upon Master Chef Junior. I had no idea Ramsey was doing this show.
And let’s get it straight. I like Ramsey. He’s a sonuvabitch, and I like him.
But I didn’t like this show. I mean, here are a bunch of 8-13 year olds that can cook. And not just cook, but create edible food art on a plate. They know words like remoulade and actually know how to make it.
I didn’t even hear Ramsey yell at anyone.
I thought, holy crap, my kids are not that young compared to these guys. They’ve never even used the stove.
Am I doing something wrong?
Is this normal kid behavior?
Should they be preparing four course meals on the regular?
Where did I screw up?
We’re going to blame all this on whatever hormones are going through my body that made me instantly slip into I’m-a-bad-mom mode. I’m not a bad mom.
And my kids? My kids are better than this.
My daughter is learning the correct names of the bones in the human body. Not for school. Not for some science project. Simply because she wants to. And you know why? Because she is curious by nature. She likes to ask questions. She loves the word “why”. This is one of my most favorite things about her.
My son? Oh…he basically wrote an entire story. He didn’t necessarily write it, but he stood there and told it to me while I wrote it. It inspired a slightly more completed piece, one that I’m working on now for him. But he created a story with a beginning, middle, and end. It had a main character, a mission, plenty of pitfalls and things to spoil the main guy’s efforts, and additional characters to help him along. All of this based on his stuffed bear: Boo Bear. You know why? Because he is imaginative. It may border on complete dishonesty at times, but I love him for it. I love the way his imagination takes over.
My kids are awesome. Screw that TV show.
I’m proud of my children for who they are, not what they can do.
I’m just envious of that kid who made the chocolate lava cake. I could really get into a chocolate lava cake right about now.
Last night the children asked me why my tummy hurt so much. I tried to explain it, I did.
Me: The baby is just picky about the foods it wants right now. Some stuff doesn’t taste good or smell good right now.
Princess Asks-A-Lot: So what does the baby want?
Me: Right now? -Thinks- Bacon.
Then I come across my Tumblr this morning and see this:
They do exist.