I’m not dead. Or ill. Or any horrible thing. On the contrary, I am very happily Christmas-ing. Which seems to be taking time away from my blogging. Which is probably as it should be, no?
I know… it’s ugly. I’m making some changes, so don’t judge. Yet. I’ve already managed to break my blog once in the past 24 hours, and my heroic-genius-enormously-patient friend, Warren, fixed it. Without making fun of me. Yet. So, for today, just go read about him. Here. And here. And if I don’t stop by your blog, just know that I’ll be back soon.
Getting kind of down to the wire on Christmas shopping… and Sarah & Jen had someone land on Momalom by Googling “gift for mother of three boys.” Obviously there’s a need for some assistance out there. And I am here to serve. I’ve compiled a list of things that might be helpful, trying to take into account a variety of tastes and budgets. The Mother of Three Boys in your life will be thrilled to find any of the following under the tree on Christmas morning.
Holiday Gift Guide for Mothers of Three Boys
Pink. Anything pink, because there is a good chance that there is nothing pink in her entire home. Bubble gum. Handcuffs. Cadillac. Use your imagination. Just get it in pink. Cost: $0.59 and up.
The Idiot’s Guide to Pokemon and Bakugan and All Those Other Stupid-Ass Trading Card Games with Weird Japanese Cartoon Characters that Elementary-School-Age Boys Love. These games make absolutely no sense to adults. Or females. Cost: paperback $16.95; e-book $9.99.
Plane Tickets. To anywhere, provided they are one-way. Cost: $87 and up, plus about $302 in airline fees.
Four-Shooter Rotating Liquor Dispenser. I know, I said I didn’t want this. But as I thought about it, I realized it was The Perfect Gift for a totally strung-out mother who has three boys running around shooting Nerf guns and farting all the time. Cost: $17.88, plus booze.
Valium Salt Lick. I stole this directly from The Kitchen Witch, because it is an awesome idea. You could also get a Junior size, guaranteed to chill those boys the hell out. If you get both this and the liquor dispenser, you might urge her to exercise caution in using both simultaneously. Cost: No idea. Maybe a little pricey. Couldn’t tell you what Valium is going for these days.
Georgia O’Keeffe Print. Let’s just say it: there are a lot of penises in her house. This might provide a little balance. And if you don’t understand this one, I’m not gonna explain it. Cost: $22.99; $129.03 framed.
Noise Cancelling Headphones. All she wants is a little peace and quiet, without the constant roar of boy-children yelling out of anger. Or joy. Or hunger. Whatever. Get her a pair of these and she’ll be able to relax no matter what’s going on. (Disclaimer: not responsible if mother fails to hear screams when boy cuts off his brother’s hand with a chainsaw.) Cost: $27.68-399.99.
Imaginary Bullet-Proof Vest. To protect her from all the imaginary bullets that the firearm-obsessed little Rambos are constantly shooting from their imaginary guns. Cost: Free.
Prostitute. For him, not her. To satisfy whatever needs he may have. Because when she goes to bed at night, all she wants to do is sleep. Trust me on this one. Cost: Varies by region. Check Craigslist for current rates in your area. I would advise you to avoid bargain-basement prices, however.
Bathroom Renovation. Toilet training one boy makes your bathroom disgusting. Toilet training two boys makes it unusable except in emergencies. Toilet training three boys results in the need for a floor-to-ceiling decontamination, and requires the use of biohazard suits to enter. Reclaim your home and gut the bathroom. Cost: I dunno. Probably at least a couple grand.
A Year’s Supply of Air Freshener. In case the renovation isn’t in your budget. Cost: $168.
So there are just a few ideas to get you started. Ho. Ho. Ho.
(Oh, and many apologies for the rampant gender stereotypes in this post. In my defense, there is a reason for most of those stereotypes. I know this for a fact.)
This post isn’t mine. I am honored today to host an anonymous post from Momalom’s Half-Drunk Challenge. I am doubly honored to host a beautiful and daring piece of writing. I don’t know who wrote it. But I commend her.
Sometimes I wish my mom were dead.
And I wonder what kind of mom that makes me. (Yes, there are bigger questions to be asked. Like, what kind of daughter—OK, what kind of human being—would wish their mom dead? And, should someone call the authorities?*)
As a child, I feared my mom. She beat me. Sometimes with her hands. Sometimes with her silence. Most often, with her words. Stinging words that included “stupid,” “selfish,” “disappointment” and “shithead.” Words that stung, because, and I say this in all honesty and without any trace of conceit, I was a really good kid. Take my word for it. Actually, take my mom’s. Today she is happy to tell all kinds of people what a wonderful kid I was. At least that’s what she tells me she tells other people.
But here’s why I sometimes wish my mom were dead.
My dear hubby and daughter Z have never known my fearsome, cruel mom. Somewhere along the way, mom changed. There was no turning point, no crisis or epiphany. Just a gradual deterioration from a scary but strong mom into something else entirely: a bat-shit crazy mom.
Mom no longer hits. She no longer yells. At least as far as I can tell. She just says and does outrageously inappropriate things.
Like?
Like blaming me for my miscarriage six months ago. “I think maybe it happened because you are doing too much,” she said, as if my balancing work and family—something she had done—had snuffed out the life the fragile little being inside me.
Like not once in the hours, days, weeks or months following my miscarriage, stopping by or calling or dropping off food or giving me a hug and asking, “Are you OK?” despite living 8 minutes away from me.
Like never in Z’s three years of life taking her out to lunch, taking her to the playground or attending an event for her at school. Forget about babysitting—I have tried to get mom’s help a whopping three times when we couldn’t find a sitter. “Maybe you’re not paying enough,” was her response.
Like saying no when, the day Z came down with pneumonia, I asked her to pick up a prescription so I could keep my kid indoors, where it was warm, and not drag her out to the drug store in the cold. “Do you go to the store near you?” mom asked. “Oh, that’s too far away.” (8 whole minutes.)
Like falling apart over every challenge life throws at her. Whether it’s a tick on her dog. (“I can’t handle this!” she yelled at me when I suggested it was no big deal.) Or asking me to water her plants. (“I know you’re too busy, but,” sob, “I just,” sob, “don’t know,” sob, “who to turn to…”) Or a herpes scare. (“I never even had an orgasm until I was 46,” she wailed. “And now God is punishing me.”) I can’t hear her quavering voice or look at her quivering mouth, dripping nose and watery eyes without feeling disgust.
Yes, my mom has turned into a stupid, selfish shithead, and a disappointment.
And I wish my hubby and daughter didn’t have to know this. I wish that my mom were just a memory, a story I could tell them with a catch in my throat. A photograph I could share with a sigh. Because having her in our lives is killing us.
My hubby has seen the crazy—the woman who pees with the bathroom door wide open when we visit. Who cancels Thanksgiving when we tell her we’ll be there Wednesday, Thursday and Friday but not Saturday and Sunday. Who tries to commit suicide and then, the next day, insists we all go shopping. He has seen me try to reason with her, to talk to her the way he talks to his mom. He knows it can’t be done.
Still, I feel him draw away from me a bit every time mom pulls one of her stunts. As if he’s wondering how long it will be before I turn into bat-shit crazy mom. I don’t blame him.
As for Z, someday she will ask me why she sees her other grandparents, who live three-plus hours away, as much as she sees Grandma L up the road. Someday she may ask me why Grandma L doesn’t spend any time alone with her. Or why Grandma L says nasty things for waiters or postmen or neighbors to hear. Or why Grandma L is crying—again.
And I am not going to know how to answer. Because as much as I sometimes wish mom were dead, I know Z deserves a chance to love her. They deserve a chance to develop a relationship with each other on their own terms.
I guess in the end that makes me a good mom. Maybe a crazy one to hope that things will be different between Z and my mom. Just, I hope, not a bat-shit crazy mom.
*Do not call the authorities. I’m not plotting my mom’s death. And, for the record, mom has been seeing a therapist for years and has been on and off medication during that time. I have tried to talk with her about our relationship, but—you can ask my hubby, the great peacemaker—it’s impossible. So thank goodness for blog opportunities like this one, because I wouldn’t DARE write any of this down in my journal.
This is the kind of week it’s been: birthday craziness. Christmas chaos. Being told my newly-minted two-year-old has a speech delay. Jeff gone until tomorrow. A very sad death in the family.
Plus some other stuff which isn’t my story to tell but which, nonetheless, has left me doubting my faith in the general rightness of the world.
It’s only Tuesday.
{shudder}
But this is also the kind of week it’s been. Big Little Wolf, at her Daily Plate of Crazy, passed along the Sugar Doll Award. For, as she put it, delightful and thought-provoking writing. Recognition from anyone is lovely. Recognition from her-the woman can write-is flattering in the first degree.
I humbly accept. Which means that I have to follow the rules. Which are that I am to compose a list of Ten Things You Don’t Know About Me. And that I am to pass the pink little Sugar Doll on to one or more deserving bloggers.
Happily, happily I pass along this bit of sweetness to the following:
- The Kitchen Witch. I get her… I just do. I am thrilled to have found her. (But actually I think she found me. Still thrilled.)
- Jen and Sarah at Momalom. There are no words. None. Except these: they are hosting a Half-Drunk Blogging Challenge this week. And you should seriously consider grabbing a bottle of Bailey’s (or Kahlua) and playing along.
- And Ali. She’s my sister. And she has an adorable blog called Ears Eyes Nose [Tail]. And how could I NOT give her a Sugar Doll?! Plus I want to see if there are ten things that I don’t know about her. I highly doubt it.
So. Look for my Ten Things soon. And some unfortunate alcohol-fueled blather. And mostly, go read the people I mentioned above. Because they all make me happy to the tips of my toes.
Even when it’s been this kind of week.
(Hey… click on the button to the right that says “Five for Ten.” I’ll explain more later. For now, just go.)
So, yes, I’ve been gone for a while. I did my best to crawl into a hole and indulge in near-terminal levels of self-pity. It didn’t work. Shockingly, and against my wishes, life continued and saved me from myself. Funny how three kids and a husband and everything else can pull you forward, even when you don’t want to be pulled.
You missed some things in the interim. Or I did. Or something. I’ll make a list because, you know. Lazy.
1) Football season. You may or may not know that I live for football season. And now my kid plays tackle football and is a stud receiver and all the other moms cringe when their kids get hit and I? I yell for blood. And I’m in first place in my NFL pool. So the fall hasn’t been a total waste.*
2) Jeff’s birthday. Jeff turned 35 earlier this month. Which means, for the next two months, he is only four years younger than I am. The first person to make a cougar joke will be permanently banned from this site. (Actually, probably not. I should be grateful for the few readers I haven’t alienated with my long and unannounced absence. Inappropriate and sexist jokes or no.)
3) Mother’s little helper. I started taking anti-depressants. Which, if you read this post, is most likely not a surprise.
4) Feline friends. We got a cat.**
5) Mother’s little helper, part deux. I got a housekeeper, which is without question the best thing that has ever happened to me. Ever.
6) Speech. Caleb is talking. Sort of. But since neither of my other kids spoke intelligibly until they were three, I’ll take what I can get from this one. Even if every other word is “buh.” And “ma” refers either to me, or means “no.” Oh, and he also says “SpongeBob” very clearly.
7) Evan’s birthday. I think I deserve congratulations for surviving five years with this kid. Five years that I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world, mind you. But one Evan year is the equivalent of 6.42 parent years. Do the math.
8) BBQ. His parents and I got Jeff a smoker this fall. Just ’cause. So now Jeff is endlessly smoking meat. Good eating, but now he almost always bears the aroma of a rack of ribs, which is not all that appealing. To me, anyway. (I have a feeling that if I wore eau de pulled pork, he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off me. Gah. Boys.)
9) Halloween. I made Caleb an adorable lion costume. The elaborate hood had 30 yards of ribbon on it. It took three months to make. And the punk wouldn’t wear it. Not even for a few seconds to take a picture. He did, however, learn how to run up to people’s doors and yell “Candy!”***
10) Literature. I read. A lot. And I became addicted to this series. But the 3rd installment won’t be released in the US until June. Entirely unacceptable. It has, however, already been released in England. So, if you are (hypothetically speaking) my cousin and living in London and are wondering what in the world you could possibly get me for Christmas, this might work. Hypothetically.
There were some other little things. Like H1N1. (We all lived.) And ridiculous amounts of landscaping. And my ridiculous new phone with which I text my sister about 523 times a day. But in the end, I don’t think you missed much.
It’s good to be back.
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*My dad, who is a football savant, is slowly catching up with me in the pool. My life will be complete if I beat him this year.
**The hell. I was just checking to see if you were paying attention. We will never have a cat. I hate them.
***So, if you’re keeping track, Caleb’s best words now are “SpongeBob” and “candy.” It could not be more obvious that he is the third child if I tattooed a big “#3″ on his forehead.
Um, yeah. Not quite sure how to take care of the awkward reintroduction. So: hi. It’s me.
All right, then. Got that out of the way. Perhaps a trite explanation/apology will come to me later. But for now, let’s move on, shall we?
I’ve been feeling more put-together recently. Increasingly I feel like I can play the hand I’ve been dealt, thinking that I can do this. I am strong. I am capable.
I am an idiot.
No, don’t argue. I am. Consider yesterday; yesterday proves beyond doubt that this proverbial hand I’ve been dealt is perhaps short a few cards.
First, I locked my keys in my van. And, also, my spare keys. And, also, my child. You know, the one who was strapped in his carseat and is too young to be able to follow any directions besides “please go run around in circles and shriek like a madman.” That one. After an extended phone call with my sister during which we discussed breaking a van window and attempted to execute a completely inept plan involving the internet, a wire coat hanger, and Dawn dishsoap, I finally decided to call a locksmith. One hour and $35 later, we rescued a very confused Caleb from his carseat.
Then I stranded myself at a PTA meeting. (Long, long ago I may have gotten myself stranded at a bar now and again. Now it’s a PTA meeting. That speaks volumes.) Jeff got home from work early and came to the meeting to pick up the kids. He took them home in the van and left me his car. Smooth exchange. Except. I had taken my key to his car off my keyring on Saturday and, inexplicably, didn’t replace it. For the second time in six hours, I had a car but no keys. Brilliant. My husband is of the impression that I should have my key privileges revoked.
(Oh, and Heather? Thanks for the lift and for not laughing at me.)
Then I abandoned my child. Jensen had gone to a basketball-league-thingie with a friend while I went to the PTA meeting. So Jeff and I put the little kids to bed and waited for Jensen to come home. And waited. And waited. Until 9:30. (Don’t judge. We really trust his friend’s parents.) Then, I helpfully remembered that my totally groovy new smartphone that is supposed to prevent me from ever forgetting anything ever again was in my coat pocket in the closet. Jensen’s friend’s mom had been calling for an hour but I couldn’t hear my phone. More than a little embarrassing. This brings up the possibility that I should lose cell phone privileges along with the keys.
And, finally, our garage door broke. I mean, really broke. Really broke at 9:45 pm with the door jammed about halfway down. Or halfway up, I guess, if you’re an optimist but by that point in the day if anyone had said anything cheerful to me I would have probably blown them straight to hell by shooting laser beams from my eyes. Both cars were stuck in the garage and Jeff had to leave for work at 5:45 this morning and he doesn’t exactly have a job where he can sign off, so we did what any sane people would do: we took the garage door apart. At, like, 10 pm. It took a surprisingly long time. And before you say that this wasn’t really my fault, let me just point out that yesterday afternoon I noticed that it wasn’t working well. Not at all well. So, um, I probably could have prevented the nocturnal garage door disassembly. But please don’t tell Jeff.
After that I went to bed. Because I was tired. Also, because I didn’t want to give myself any more chances to screw up. Perhaps I am not quite as put together as I like to think. Or maybe some cosmic forces got together and made the day blow up in my face, in order to give me something to blog about. Who knows.
We’re going to be down to two kids. In a stunning turn of events, Jensen has announced that he’s moving out. Running away, to be precise.
He might seem a little young for independent living, but he’ll probably be better off. Living conditions around here have deteriorated to the point where he is expected to– get this– clean his room. Outrageous. Abusive, even. Thus, he announced yesterday morning that he is leaving. I calmly asked if I should get him a suitcase to pack up his stuff.
He nearly panicked, thinking I was serious. Fortunately he managed to pull together his kick-assingest eight-year-old tough look and agreed to the suitcase. And he lowered his voice as much as he could (to, like, an alto) and put on some pouty James Dean lips and said, “But I’m only taking my radio, my lamp, and the Wii.” (Please note: his radio is a boombox circa 1983 which has a double tapedeck and a broken CD player and is roughly the size of a Toyota Prius. Kid needs some parachute pants and a big piece of scrap cardboard, and maybe he can breakdance to earn some coin on the street.)
“Underwear?” I asked.
Unequivocal No. “But I will take the tv. And the DVD player. And lots of PG-13 movies.” (That’s another of his grievances; he doesn’t get to watch all the PG-13 movies he wants to. Other Kids’ parents let them watch anything they want. His life is truly awful. Damn those Other Kids for enticing my child to run away.)
“And be sure to pack me lots of Gatorade and granola bars.” (Another injustice: not enough Gatorade. The Other Kids get to drink it all the time.)
With this he apparently began to question the wisdom of his plan. “I’ll live beside the house, I guess. I’ll need the electricity to watch movies…. But I’m never coming in the house.”
“…except at night. I’ll come in at night to steal food. When you’re asleep. You’ll never see me.”
“Except when you guys go to restaurants. I’ll come with you. But I’ll only get in the van. Not in the house.”
Kid has a knack for planning. What could possibly go wrong? He’s not even gone yet, and I miss him already.
At approximately 8:05 am yesterday the crying began. From that point forward someone was in tears* until 8:00 pm**. The silver lining here is that we have been able to define a new law of pediatric behavior. This has been a shockingly productive sisterly visit. (Seriously, we really should be world-famous scientists.)
Law of Rotational Crying: When there are three or more children in a room at one time, one child, and only one child, will be crying. When the crying child ceases crying, another child shall commence crying within three minutes and twenty-three seconds. Probability of said crying increases in the presence of fevers in excess of 100 degrees Fahrenheit, electronic toys, weather conditions prohibitive of outdoor play, empty stomachs, and parents. Parental tolerance of said crying increases in the presence of earplugs and decreases in the absence of gin.
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*Miraculously none of the crying was committed by adults.
**The crying only stopped at 8pm because the babies fell asleep. But they cried about being put into bed.
Ali here. I’ve just received a long-term sub position from Teresa to post on her blog.
Guess what happens when your sister is diagnosed with an auto-immune disease? You get to see her twice in a month. One must always look for the silver lining. For five days I will be spending my days doing what I always do…except I’m doing it at my sister’s house. This makes changing diapers ever so much more fun. Really.
While we are not wearing matching clothing (yet) we have gone so far as to name our week together. Solidarity Week. I don’t think we are going to make t-shirts. We are, however, going to make Halloween costumes. (True.)
Hey, we just came up with a really good joke:
Q: What could be more fun than having two toddlers in the house at the same time?
A: Giving one of the toddlers a fever of 103 degrees and having them “share” sippy cups.
Are we making you jealous yet? More to come as our very exciting time together continues.
P.S. Happy 41st Anniversary, Mom and Dad. That’s a really long time considering you’ve had me for 33 of them, but, then again, you’ve had Teresa for almost 40 of them. Yikes. Solidarity.
