Saturday, November 6, 2010

Life Lessons #54 and #1

My son, Aiden, is a wonderful, lovely, bright, handsome PITA.  Thank God, I love him.  Here's the thing...I didn't really give any credence into what names mean and the personality that goes along with it, until Aiden.  Aiden means "fiery one" in Gaelic.  I thought rogue not a freaking fire cracker.  He has a temper that makes the Tasmanian Devil look tame.

Friday morning Aiden decided he didn't want to get dressed.  Nuh-uh.  NO how.  He read a book.  He played a game.  He even danced to a tune.  I wanted to throttle him.  So, I did what any Mom does on any given day.  I nagged: Aiden.  Get dressed.  Aiden, get dressed.  Aiden.  Dressed. Now.  GET.  FREAKIN. DRESSED. NOWWWWah!  So he grabbed some clothes.  Meanwhile, Jack and Asher were both dressed and headed to the auto.  I returned to his room to find that he was wearing shorts.  It was 40ish degrees outside.  Aiden.  Get pants on.  It's too cold. 

Aiden gave me the look that only this child can do.  It's a cross of f-you and go to hell.  He must have been a girl teenager in a previous life.  It's that kind of look.  So, he grabbed another pair of shorts.  Seething, I thought that I would teach him a lesson and let him go to school in shorts, a short sleeved shirt and shoes (with no socks).

Life lesson #54: Mom knows what the hell she's talking about.

An hour later I received a call from his teacher.  I had to bring him clothes appropriate for the weather.  I tried to explain what was going on, but she seemed to think that I am a major dumb ass of a Mom and that it wasn't appropriate to teach this type of lesson.  

Well crap.  My life lesson for my child had backfired.  Now what?  I went to school. I gave him his bag of clothes.

When Aiden got home from school he had to go through ALL of his clothes - short and long sleeved shirts, shorts and pants, underwear and socks, jackets, sweaters and hoodies.  He had to sort clothes and make a winter pile and a summer pile.  The winter pile is in his drawers and the summer pile is tucked away. 

What would have taken five minutes, to change from shorts to pants, has now taken two hours.

Life Lesson #1: Screw with Mom and you get the horns.

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

The Cat Got My Tongue

You've heard the expression, "Cat got your tongue," right?  Well, of course - because it's me, the cat really did get my tongue.

Picture Garth Algar waving his hands .... dododoodoo....dododoodoo...dododoodoo

It was in San Angelo, TX.  In January of 2008.  Mike was gone....again (we've been married twelve years and I think we've lived together for only six or seven of those years) .  We sold our house a month before he left.  It was just as the market started to show some strain.  We thought that if we sold the house, the boys (just Jack and Aiden at this time) and I would live in an apartment for six months and then when Mike returned we could pack up and leave.  It took a while to find a place to live, but when we did we found a diamond in the rough.  It was a Bungalow, probably built at the turn of the century.  It had amazing wood floors that creaked and an amazing kitchen with a butlers pantry.  My bed room had two walls of nothing but windows.  I loved it!!

At this time, I really started watching a lot of ghost shows.  I couldn't get enough.  Ghost Hunters and Paranormal State were always on my DVR. 

On this particular night, I was in bed by 1:00 am.  I read for about half an hour to forty-five minutes.  Chastising myself, I turned off the light.  I woke up to Maddie (my petite golden retriever) prancing around and whining.  I was pissed.  A quick look at the clock told me it was 2:45 am.  I hadn't slept very long and Maddie had been outside for more than three hours that day.  I let her out and I climbed back into bed.  I fell asleep and then woke up to Maddie barking.  I got up.  A quick look tells me that it's now 3:15 am.  I let her in the house.  On the way back to bed, I realize it's the witching hour.  For those of you that don't know paranormal jargon....3:00 am is when paranormal activity is at it's highest.  Thinking this and looking wearily at my closet, I started to climb into bed. 

Now, what happens next is simultaneous:

I chastise myself for thinking there is a boogie man in the closet, but keep an both eyes on the door.  I pull back the covers and realize that my PITA cat Devotchka is in the middle of the bed.  The left side of my body is sliding between the sheets - the left ass cheek has made contact with the mattress - my right hand is extended holding the sheets up, my left hand is trying to push the cat out of my way, my eyes are still glued to the door...when all of a sudden a fucking dark shadow comes from out of the closet and onto the bed.  I make a horrible guttural noise that sounds like a drunk banshee: wwwaaaaaooohhhhheeeehhhhhhhhh. 

I almost, ALMOST, immediately realize that it's Maddie jumping on the bed; however, the damn cat gets scared.  My motion of getting into bed is still in play, the dog jumping on the bed is in play and Devotchka is doing a massive cartoon run in thin air.  Unfortunately, my face and chest are getting the brunt of the claws.  I manage to bat her out of bed.  Where she landed, I don't know and I don't care.  The dog is bouncing on the bed ready to play.  She gets sent to her bed.  I get up, take a benadryl and look in the mirror.  Three scratches on my cheek and puncture mark on my chest and another puncture in my tongue.  Yup.  That's right.  The damn cat got my tongue.

The moral of the story: go to bed earlier, kick the cat out of the bed and don't think of the boogie coming out of the closet.

Monday, November 1, 2010

Pull My Finger

I have boys. At first, I thought that I really wanted a girl....but I've come to realize that I have the sense of humor of a twelve year old boy. I laugh at things that twelve year old boys would laugh at. For example: When people trip and fall. I laugh. It's not as if I don't care, I just can't stop laughing. I ask, in between giggles, if they're okay, but certainly they must think I'm some sort of sadist.

I don't just laugh at strangers. I laugh at my family too...

We have a foyer which has a door that connects the foyer and the living room. It's really nice. I can shut the door at night and watch movies without the kiddos getting disturbed. One day my Middle Man Aiden was showing me how fast he could run. He would run from the front door through the foyer and into the living room to the back door. He did this at least ten times. Well....on his last run he ran into the little wall, about a foot and a half in width, that connects the foyer door to the living room. I couldn't help laughing. He was sprawled out on the floor holding his head. He was crying - probably more so because I was laughing than from actual hurt. I couldn't stop. How many times had he run without hitting the wall? Or stubbing a toe?

Well...with my humor comes fun in farting. Not necessarily just me, but everyone else. I think it's funny - especially in inappropriate times. For example: when your meeting your soon to be in-laws for the first time. Right before a first kiss. You know, that kind of thing.

Well....I had made the mistake of teaching my seven and, then, five year old the art of "Pull My Finger." I thought it was funny. But it became more of a PITA (Pain in the Ass) than anything else when PMF was done at the dinner table. We had to implement a new rule that PMF was prohibited at the table. And with boys, or at least with mine, you have to be extremely specific when stating something. No PMF at the breakfast, lunch, snack and/or dinner table. No PMF around the dining room - you have to be out of the area where food is out in the open (fruits), being prepared, and made into breakfast, lunch, snack and dinner. No PMF in restaurants. No PMF in the car when someone has a snack. Food = No PMF. Any variations of food = No PMF. Randomly extending a finger and not saying PMF STILL constitutes as PMF. Whispering PMF = PMF. Giving the PMF "look" and slowly extending a finger STILL = PMF. Winking and extending a finger still = PMF. And my most recent declaration....No PMF at church!

Sunday, October 31, 2010

A Re-Read

I have had this blog for more than a year. I didn't do much, but what I did was heart-felt. My core beliefs have stayed the same, but I have changed. Grown.

I am a practicing Reiki Master. I am a Nationally Certified Massage Therapist. I am an artist. I am a mother of three wonderful boys. I am a military husband is currently deployed....again.

I love my life and I wouldn't have it any other way....EXCEPT....I would make it so that I can eat rich wonderful foods and drink amazing wines and cool beers and I would never gain weight or suffer hangovers.

A Simple Act

I know not to go to Sam's Club on a Saturday. Especially on a Pay Day weekend. However, I was almost out of diapers and being out of diapers totally outweighs any hesitation to go to Sam's. I should have known that it was going to be a trying time. The kids have tapped into crazy kiddo energy. They didn't listen. They ran around like clowns running around a mini-car. They hemmed and hawed. They touched every single item that is offered at the warehouse - and y'all know, there's a lot of stuff. They whined. They moaned. Then, the baby having sensed that the others were ganging up on me, started wailing. I just wanted to get out of there.

The line I picked was the sslllllooooooowest line in all of Augusta. I swear. I kept my patience, but jeez-louise do you really need to tell the customer every single penny they saved, what they saved it on and what is going on sale next week? Really? Do you not sense a Momma-gonna-go crazy? Seriously, not now and not today.

It was our turn!! Yay! Of course, Grabby-Mcgraberson had to grab the ATM/CC machine and knock it off the mount. Then the next door lady cashier felt it was her right to verbally reprimand me and my child for breaking the machine. I think it was the tick in my eye and lip that made her physically back away.

Finally, we're in the car.  I don't know if it's old age or the cargo I'm carrying, but other drivers really scare me. I got stopped at a turn light that takes forever. The kids are trying to out talk one another, my tick is turning into a head twitch and the baby is starting to whimper-cry again. The drivers coming into the on coming lane are vicious. Swerving, zigging and zagging - just to be the first person at the next red light.

In front of me is an older truck. It is beat up, but just recently bought - I know because there was a sign taped on to the rear window that says "Applied for tags on...." The fella has his arm outstretched and nuzzled into his side is his girl. I thought to myself - young love, new love. And then the baby's whimpering turns into a half cry - half scream. Seriously? Right now? I turn my attention back to the truck and I think: Was I ever that young to have a leisurely drive in honey's armpit? I look back at my kids. Boogers are running down the baby's nose into his mouth. The other are trying to increase their volume so that everyone in the State of Georgia can hear them. Almost home, I think to myself. Almost home.

My attention turns towards the truck again and the young woman is looking out her window. The fella leans down and kisses his girl on top of her head. It was a gentle and tender show of his affection.

I felt my angst leave. My vision didn't turn into technicolor nor did the birds come out and sing, but I did feel a lift. My paradigm had shifted. It's love. The simple act of showing love made me realize that that's what it is all about...

And then the baby screamed bloody murder and my bubble popped. Hhahahhaa.

My Birthday 2009

So....Seriously, I am not usually a whiny person; however, yesterday was an extremely eventful Birthday.....and here's what happened.

Jack, my six year old had a fever the night before. I decided to keep him home from school "just in case." My mom, who is visiting, was to go with me to my ultrasound and find out the gender of the kiddo in my tummy. She ended up staying at home - Thank God. I took Aiden to Moms Day Out. I ended up running late for my appointment.

Everything looks great. It's a boy! I'm not too sad....I was hoping for a little girl, but honestly, I am not sure how to "handle" a girl. Boys...I got it far. So anyway....the utrasound tech did the ultrasound and had me down in the computer as another lady. Okay, so I got moved and did a second ultrasound. This took about 45 minutes. After she was done, I had to wait around for the doctor. It took him about a half an hour. Man oh man. I had to got potty and I was starting to get sick (I hadn't eaten for a couple of hours and didn't bring a snack.) I got up and went to look for the doctor. We found each other in the hallway. I headed back and got a third ultrasound. The bright side is....I have lots of pictures of the kiddo and his "man parts." :)

I ran out of the doctors office and zoomed across town to pick up Aiden. It was already 1:30. I was five minutes early, yay! Well, yay! until I got a letter saying that a little girl in the class had been sent home with lice. Well shit! I haven't had to deal with lice, but I guess now is better than in two weeks when my mom is gone.

I run over to McDonalds. I am starving and barely holding off the queezies. Run home. Jack looks horrible. His temp has spiked to 102F. I'm running out of Tylenol Cold. I ran over to Target, sans kiddos, and talk to the Pharmacist. BTW, the lady Pharmacist at Target at Mullens Crossings is awesome! Anywho...I told her what was going on and she told me that Lice Rid or whatever the name is of the lice remover is a Catagory C. That means that it is linked with birth defects. Well crap. So we decide that the best way to avoid any infestation is to shave Aidens head and wash everything he was wearing, to include his back pack and car seat cover, in hot, bleachy water.

I get home and convince Aiden that bald is awesome and promise him a candy! We move outside and shave the kiddos hair. He looks pretty good, if I do say so myself. It's a serious buzz cut. Never mind the fact that there are a couple, a couple mind you, strands of hair that are an inch longer than the others. :D

Everything is looking good. My mom and I are in the kitchen making homemade chicken soup. The best medicine for a cold. We are just about to put everything on the table when Jack jumps off of the couch - his sick bed- and starts vomitting on the living room floor. He got ten good ones in before we could get the garbage can to him. Well, double shit. We clean him, the floor, the pillows, the blankets and his stuffed dog named "Clifford" (he's a yellow lab not a big red dog). Whew. It could have been worse. I think.

Dinner is going well. Both kiddos ate soup and are going to get ready for bed. My mom and I are sitting at the table taking it easy when my little one let in the dog. Our neighbor dog came in too. She had some leaves stuck to her rear and I got up to remove them. Only, I found out too late the leaves are attached by dog crap. Triple shit!!!!

By the time EVERYTHING settled down it was midnightish. Actually closer to one in the morning.

I could say it was one of the most horrible birthdays ever; HOWEVER, I know that I am having healthy a little boy, Jack is not sick anymore and Aiden does not have lice.

It was just a long, looong day. Thanks for the well wishes - that's probably what saved me from a bad birthday.


The Story of Asher and Me here is the story of me and my little one, Asher.

I got pregant in October. The days and nights were finally cooling off. We had just gotten "settled" into our new routines. The boys were in their schools and I was getting ready to go through all of our boxes... Christmas, know all the crap that you accumulate over the years. We found out, in the same week, that Mike was going to a school in MD for two months and then to Iraq for four months and that I was pregnant. We can do this, we thought. Four months? Easy Peasy. Mike came home for Christmas break and I bled a little. We went to the hospital. They determinded that I was still pregnant and we would have to wait and see....

Mike left for Iraq on the 28th of December 08. Nothing to it. The kiddos and I slipped into our own routine. I ended up taking the 16 week blood screening test. I was already seeing a geneticist - I'm old and volumptuous. I ended up with an elevated screening for downs syndrome. They wanted me to have an amniocentesis. I shot it down. No way. No how. I had done it before with Jack and I wasn't going to put myself or the kiddo in that kind of stress without Mike being here. We did numerous ultrasounds and everything looked fine. Easy Peasy.

Then Mike came home. I had an ultrasound scheduled with a new geneticist. My regular geneticist had retired. This was Mike's first ultrasound. I saw the doctor for fifteen minutes, tops. Within those fifteen minutes she had said c-section five times. The baby was too big. He was going to have to come out with a c-section. If I was a first time mom I would have been scared. However, it just absolutely pissed me off. People in Georgia don't have big babies? I thought that this lady was cut happy.

To make her happy I was monitoring my glucose level four times a day. We did this for a month and a half. I was not gestational diabetic. And then when I hit thirty-six weeks she informed me that I was gestational diabetic and wanted me to take glyburide. I had two weeks to give her my decision if I wanted amniocentisis - so that she could induce labor. HOLY CRAPOLY. The more she talked the more irate I became. First this lady wants to cut me open, then she wants me to take a category C pharmaceutical drug and finally she wants to stick my belly with a needle the size of my forearm. She is smoking crack!!! All of this just because she thinks that I have a big baby. Jack was 8 lbs 13 oz and Aiden was 8 lbs 6 oz. I have big babies.

I get a hold of the military doctors and get assigned to this absolutely ornery old fella. We get a long famously. I enjoy his candor and he loves to see how far he can push. He asks me, "Why are you here? You don't listen to me." And I reply, "Oh, but I do listen to you. I just don't do what you say." That kind of relationship. :) I end up taking NST (non-stress tests twice a week). Nothing major. But then I start swelling. Really, really swelling. He looks at me and says that all kidding aside he thinks that I may be developing pre-eclympsia. I need to get the baby out. I take his advice. I understand that what he is saying isn't something to be dismissed as smoking crack. :) However, with the military system he won't be delivering my baby. I have to go back to the cut happy crack smoker. I went to her office, with egg on my face, and found out she is out of the state with a family emergency.

On Monday, the 6th of July, I get in contact with my family and make arrangements for them to come as soon as possible. Then Mike and I have our neighbors watch the kiddos while we go talk to the doc on call at the hospital that is delivering my baby. We talk to a very sweet military doctor that has reviewed my files. I go through the speil and we talk. He wants to admit me that night. No can do. I have two kiddos at home. Who is going to watch them? We compromise on the next night. Then he wants to induce. We compromise on that one as well. We strip my membranes. I promise to come in and we use Cervidil. We waited fourteen hours. Then start the Petocin drip. My water finally breaks and 2:00 pm on Wednesday. Labor stinks. I finally was fully dilated around 10:00 pm we pushed and pushed but nothing happened. Nothing. The doctors, Mike and I had a pow wow around 2:15 am on thursday. I am freaking tired. They think that the cord is wrapped around his head. Every time there is a contraction his heart rate drops. Needless to say I didn't hesistate. Get him out. I wanted my trial of labor. I got it. Something could be wrong. I live in a day and age when we have the capability of not loosing so many women and children to the process of labor that I didn't feel it necessary to "push" (lol) my luck any further.

Asher was born at 3:27 am on Thursday, July 9th. He had the cord wrapped around his head twice and his shoulder once. He was 9 lbs and 5 oz. 22 1/2 inches long.

Three weeks later, today, he weighs 10 lbs 9oz and is 23 inches long.

I love cantankerous, old men

I love old men. Men with spunk. The men who wouldn't have dreamed of crying at twenty or thirty, but now cry when they think of their lives and their fading memories. Men who lived through WWII, Korea and so on.

I loved my grandpa. He was THE cantankerous old man. He used to get into fights over perceived slights. He's what was used to be called a Hot Head and now it's just called an Old Shit. He died a couple of years ago.

One of my favorite memories....

I lived in Albuquerque, NM while I attended UNM. Sometimes the college life would get too hectic. Just... too much. I would retreat to my grandparents house for the weekend. I would call and ask if I could come over and they would never say no. I would sit with them and listen their stories and then go out for burger and fries at Lotaburger. Late at night I would stay in the kitchen smoking mine or Nana's cig's, drink iced tea and watch AMC. That was my get away. grandpa had a hate relationship with people that walked their dogs. They used to let their dogs poop in his yard. He would run out and yell at them. He really did have a lovely yard with native grasses and Aspens. One day he asked me to come over and help him install a dog repeller. It was a motion sensored alarm that would emit a loud pitch that only dogs could hear. It was to keep them off his yard. My job was to dig the hole for the post and he was attaching the sensor to a 2x4 and installing the batteries. I was still digging when I heard a horrible sound. Oh MY God, it freaking hurt. I called over to him and asked if he had turned it on. He said yes and I yelled for him to turn it off. He did and then turned the switch back on. It freaking hurt. So I yelled for him to turn it off. He gave me a look and then read the instructions. He told me that "only a certain percent of people can...." and then he turned it on again!!!

"Turn the damn thing off!" I yelled.

"You can really hear that?" he asked.

"YES!! I can!" I replied.

"Huh...." he kind of shrugged and then said "How about now?" and turned it on again.


"What? I just wanted to see if you could really hear it."

"I promise you, I can hear it."

He did it about four more times. Intermittently, of course. He just had to be sure that I could really hear the damn thing. That was my grandpa for you. Hard as a rock to be a Marine in WWII and soft enough to let me crash at his house when I needed to get away.