Tomorrow is another day

Today is not a good day.

Today is that day, but five years later. Five years. I can hardly believe it.

In those five years I've had two beautiful girls who would be the light of my mother's life, and she theirs. Life is not fair. Life is a bitch wrapped in not fair clothing. Today anyway.

I have a story to write, a story I said I would never write, but I feel I need to. But I don't know how to write it. Don't you hate it when bloggers say things like that? Yeah, sorry.

My dad and grandmother are coming over in an hour. My father, who divorced from my mother - or vice versa, it was her idea - a couple of years before she died. His fiance will be with him. Not that I mind that he's getting married again. But you know, it's weird today. And we didn't plan for him to come on this day in particular, it just worked out that way. Things will be slightly awkward if anyone dares bring up what day it is. My Nana will get melancholy and I will get defensive. I don't want to talk about it with them. I don't know why.

I would rather drive home and sit at her grave. It's a warm day for February, it would be nice to dress Chicky in her rain boots to visit what would undoubtedly be a muddy cemetery and let her run along the gravestones. We'd play hide and seek. We'd lay roses on her grave - one for her, one for me, and one for each of the girls. I haven't done that since there were only three roses to lay down. I owe her a visit even though I am with her every day in my mind. I would tell stories about her to my oldest girl even though I wouldn't want to bring up those memories. I would do it because I would be forced to and sometimes I need to be forced to do difficult things. Sometimes it is good for me.

I would rather today be any other day. In a short time it will be but the pain will still be there. So what's the point? I don't know.

I just needed to write it out, you know?

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In happier news, I'm over at Alpha Mom today. You should visit because I'm trying to keep you and your kids safe. Just looking out for you. You're welcome.

What do you mean, acid washed jeans aren't in style anymore?

I used to love to shop.

Back in the day my mother, sister and I would drive hours out of our way to pray at the altar of consumerism - or The Mall - all in the pursuit of fabric to cover our bodies. We'd make a whole day of it. We were warriors, Olympic athletes in the sport of competitive shopping. Endurance and stamina were key. Small waists and skinny legs helped too.

Just thinking about it now exhausts me.

These days you'd have to pay me to enter a mall to shop for myself. I'll happily shop for my girls but when it comes to purchasing clothing for myself I'll do a fly by of the women's section at Target or just wait for the clothes I already own to disintegrate off my body. Which is why my closet looks like the sales rack at the Goodwill. It takes a really special occasion to force me to enter the dressing room of someplace like Banana Republic - or the threat of public nakedness. Which ever comes first.

Maybe it's because my mom is no longer around so I don't have that familiar partner in crime to accompany me, the one who will tell me truthfully if a pair of pants does nothing for my ass. Maybe it's this new body of mine; the one that has borne two children and is more womanly, with hips and, unfortunately, thighs. I don't know how to dress it anymore. Clothes I normally wouldn't think twice about buying straight from the rack look all wrong on me now. The woman in the mirror is alien. Where is the waif I once knew? Where, dammit, where?

(Probably hiding in the closet with the moths and the ghosts of the 90's drowning her sorrow in cookies, which is how she got in this mess to begin with. Also sex. The babies didn't come from copious cookie consumption. Just a little heads up from your friends at Chick Chicky Baby.)

And the prices. Don't even get me started on the prices. It's enough to make the cheap grandmother in me run home to rub my nickels together.

I've also gotten a little... What's the word? Comfortable? Complacent? Boring. Yeah, that's it. I've gotten boring. You would fall asleep after just one look at me, if you could find me under all the drab browns and blacks I own. Which you couldn't, because that's a lot of drab.

It started when I left my corporate job for the world of dogs. There was little room for dress pants among the rows of denim in various stages of wear and tear in my closet. Pretty sweaters were pushed aside for sweatshirts and polartec and anything that required ironing was banished to the back to make way for the avalanche of t-shirts I wore day in and day out. I don't think even Stacy and Clinton would want to take me on.

(The way I worded that last sentence made me kinda hot. A What Not to Wear threesome. I bet they do it on cashmere. I know I would.

Where was I?)

I don't work with dogs as frequently as I used to but I do have little kids who throw up on my regularly and like wiping peanut butter covered cheeks on my pants so my wardrobe hasn't changed all that much. Dog poop, baby poop - it's all the same. (No, not really.) Anyone with any fashion sense would take one look at me on any given day and immediately take pity. My fetish for baseball hats alone would be enough to induct me into the Fashion Hall of Shame, if there was such a thing.

There's isn't, right? I was just kidding about that. Don't call the fashion police on me please. I wouldn't have the bail money.

But last weekend I had a tiny, ever-so-insignificant breakdown of sorts. My husband and I were going on a rare date and I had nothing to wear. And I'm not joking about that, there was quite literally nothing. There were plenty of ten year old wool sweaters with holes in them, shirts stained with different types of body fluid, and pants that pushed my muffin top up and out for all the world to see, but nothing date worthy. When I alerted Mr. C to this he scoffed. Until I put him before my clothes and told him to pick something, anything date appropriate and I would wear it AND HE COULDN'T FIND ANYTHING EITHER.

Take that, suckah. Now hand over the credit card.

So last night I had my credit card, I had my glass of wine and I had my laptop. I was ready to shop.

Five hours and a lump on my forehead from banging my head repeatedly with my computer later and I still hadn't purchased a single thing. I even asked the folks on Twitter where I should shop.

(I love the people in the computer. Without them I wouldn't be able to wipe my own ass.)

After the wine had gone to my head I impulsively clicked on some items that didn't scare me too much and offered them my credit card number. I think I promised them a kidney too. Clothes are expensive, y'all, and I am cheap.

Now I wait for the nice FedEx man to ring my bell and hand me his my package. If it doesn't fit or flatter it will be a huge pain in the tuckus to return everything but at least I don't have to parade my thighs out into the fluorescent-lit dressing room for some 90 pound sales girl named Kimmy to evaluate my fashion choices. I hate those girls. They're so perky.

But as bad as this experience was, it is nothing compared to what I will go through to find something suitable to wear to Blogher this year. I should videotape that because it should make for some choice blog fodder. Or maybe someone will take pity on me and offer to dress me.

This might explain her God complex.

I have a bit of a potty mouth. Cursing, cussing, swearing, whatever you like to call it, I like to do it. I like to talk like a trucker. I like the feeling I get when someone who doesn't know me very well, who assumes I'm as pure as the driven snow, hears strong language come out of my mouth. It makes me chuckle.

However, I try not to swear around me kids, I really do. Harmless interjections like "Oh hell" and "Dammit" may escape my lips on a regular basis but I save the hardcore curse words for my husband. Or for the asshole who cut me off in the rotary.

But as a lapsed Catholic, my upbringing dictates that I use the Lord's name in vain often and regularly. I can't help it. It's like breathing. Spend any time in a good, God fearing Catholic's home, especially those of the old school variety, and you'll hear the God's name being used in so many interesting ways, you'd be sure Moses was going to walk through the front door and start kicking some serious ass with a stone tablet. That's how it was in my family anyway. Cursing is much more satisfying when you think lightning may strike you at any time. I may not go to church anymore, I may not believe in the teachings of Cathol, but old habits die hard. So if I'm going to hell I may as well make the infraction a good one.

I save the more colorful phrases containing the Almighty's name to myself but I'm not above a good "JESUS CHRIST" (Caps are important here. Stick with me, this is important) or "God dammit all to hell", or maybe even a "Jesus H. Christ on a popsicle stick", and I will admit that more than once a day they've snuck through my lips in front of the kids. I'm not proud. I blame my mother. Now that woman could blaspheme with the best of them when you really got her going. Or if you stayed out until 3am without calling. I'm just saying.

For the most part those phrases are pretty tame in comparison to what could come out of my mouth when Chicky pushes my buttons, which she is inclined to do on an hourly basis. So I was feeling pretty good about my restraint until my husband shared a conversation he had with her recently.

Last weekend, first thing in the morning, she came downstairs and immediately noticed that the night before her father and I had made popcorn and popcorn means movies. Which means we watched a movie and had popcorn without her. How her head didn't pop off right then and there I'll never know.

"Daddy, why is there popcorn on the counter?"

"Because we watched a movie last night and we had popcorn while we watched it"

"What kind of movie?" Translation: If it was produced by Disney or Pixar I will unleash my wrath upon you and you will rue the day you ever dared watch a film with a CGI'd robot or cartoon fish without me.

"A musical." Okay, not really, but you explain this movie to a three year old.

"What songs were in it?" Translation: You'd better say there weren't any singing candlesticks.

"Um, there was a song about Jesus." Mr C. thought he was off the hook here. Chicky doesn't know who Jesus is. He may as well have said Cheez-its.

"That's what Mommy calls me!"

"Huh?"

"Jesus. That's what Mommy calls me. She calls me Jesus."

Mr. C was perplexed, to say the least. But it took him about three seconds to realize that my blaspheming ways had struck again and this time it hadn't gone completely unnoticed by our daughter. But what she didn't realize was that I wasn't calling her Jesus, I was cursing at her.

Jesus, Chicky, stop beating on the cat. Jesus, Chicky, stop throwing your toys. JESUS, Chicky, your sister is trying to sleep and if you wake her there will be HELL to pay.

The poor girl thinks her name is Jesus Chicky.

Some people would see this as a sign to go back to church and throw themselves at the mercy of God or at the very least change how they spoke in front of their kid. I see it as an opportunity to write a new entry in her baby book.

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To drive the point home (and to remind me that I'm not alone) SciFi Dad reminded me of this oldie but goodie:




And of course this one:
(go to about the 6:45 point)

But this one doesn't go with my shoes. No wait, this one ATE my shoes.

I'm pinch hitting over at MamaPop today, doing what I do best - ranting about dog owner's irresponsible behavior. Oh, and I do rant. I am a Ranty Ranterson.

Do join me, won't you?

Raspberry

She's lucky. I don't let just anyone spit at me.

(Let's chalk this one up to a nearly Wordless Wednesday. I'm new at this.)

And the word "NO" isn't mentioned! Not even once!

We had a tough day with Chicky today. A really tough day. Let's just say this - she's lucky she still has her tongue.

Lucky for me I have video proof that she was once cute and would do the most ridiculous things to make me happy. Instead of going out of her way to make my head explode.

She puts the hitch in my giddy up

I can be a bit of a pessimist, believing that given the chance things will almost always go wrong. But sometimes something good, really good, happens to someone who deserves it and my faith in human kind is restored... For at least five minutes.

One of those sometimes happened to a friend of mine and Boy Howdy! She deserves it. Tanis, the lovely, talented, beboob-ringed (which is way better than being bedazzled) Tanis, has adopted a beautiful little boy and I honestly can't think of a person, a whole family actually, who deserves this happiness more.

A bunch of women who are wonderful in their own right are throwing Tanis a virtual baby shower and part of it is all about getting in touch with your inner redneck. This is something I have no problem with since I grew up in redneck country myself and had my first taste of Schlitz when I was still a wee baby. Or maybe it was Pabst Blue Ribbon? I forget, maybe they should have watered it down first.

Here's my contribution:

You know you're a Redneck Mommy when:

You not only own a blaze orange vest but you also have one for your baby (and for your whole family, dogs included too. But they wouldn't pose with us. Ingrates.)

Congratulations, Tanis! All the love in the world from our redneck family to yours.

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Show off your inner redneck and give Tanis some love too. Go here. No, really. Go HERE. Don't make me get my gun.

Who would have thought it?

I was going to write a follow up rant to my last post containing stories of mothers being led away in handcuffs and threatened with legal action, and some who had the authorities called on them because they dared be sarcastic on the internet [*bangs head on keyboard*], because some people couldn't keep their big, fat noses out of other people's business.

I was going to complain about laws created to keep us safe from ourselves and words like "bubble wrap" and "Ohmyf*ckinggawdIcan'tbelievethissh*t" were going to be thrown about like the spit off my lips when telling my husband about all the aforementioned stories.

I was going to complain about how we as a society could not be trusted to do what was right for our children, to know when to do something and when not to do something, to be able to go out in public and not be fearful that someone would judge how we parented and would then call the police on us and have our children taken away.

I was going to say, will say, that I have left my children in the car and gone no more than 15 feet away from them. I could count those times on a couple of fingers. They were in plain view, with the doors locked. My oldest could see me, did see me, and waved and made faces at me. Could that have gotten me arrested? In some states it could have. I have also left my sleeping children in the safety of their rooms and gone down the driveway to my mailbox. I have had short conversations with my neighbors while the kids were sleeping too. Does this make me a bad mother? Do we now have to be touching our children at all times for fear of persecution? It's like a bad game of Tag. I've got gools, you can't hurt me./Look, I'm touching my children. I'm a good parent!

(whoops, may have ranted a little there.)

I respect each of the comments that were made on that last post. I respect that, for many of you, leaving your kids in the car for any reason is not an option. I would also hope that many would respect the other commenters who thought things through before leaving their children to return a shopping cart and decided that in that situation their children were safe and there would be no harm in leaving them for five seconds.

And you did, at least on this blog.

Maybe you read the words left here by others and shook your head and disagreed, but you kept it to yourself. There were no arguments, no name calling or finger pointing. Most of the comments were very respectful. I thank you for that.

And that is the point of this post.

I thank you for the civility. I was not asking for advice in that post - even though I put myself into the hypothetical situation, it could have been anyone I just happened to use myself as the example - and most gave their opinions and didn't try to force assvice down my throat. You proved that people can have differing opinions and it doesn't have to devolve into name calling.

You've proved thoughtful debate could be had on the internet.

Give yourself a pat on the back.

Is it ever safe to leave your kids in the car?

Here's the scenario: You've got two kids, both in car seats and one has to be carried. You need to run to the convenience store for a gallon of milk, or the cash machine, or the dry cleaner - each of these tasks taking, maybe, 3 minutes tops to get in, get what you need and get out.

Each of these tasks have their own hassles when dealing with little ones - you need to tell your preschooler repeatedly that no, they can't have a candy bar; you have to juggle awkward dry cleaning on hangers with their large plastic coverings while trying to keep the plastic out of your baby's mouth and trying not to drop the baby or the dry cleaning.

You park in front and can clearly see the car from the window.

Maybe the weather is crummy. Maybe it's not.

Here's the question: Do you leave your kids inside the car with the doors locked while you run inside? Or do you unbuckle everyone and march them inside for what could amount to a 60 second errand? And what is your decision based on? Location, weather, age of the children, or other factors?

I'm genuinely interested in what you have to say on this. Discuss.

Do you see what I see?

I closely monitor what Chicky watches on television. If she watches commercial television chances are she's watching it with me. What can I say? We like Ellen. We are fools for the dancing.

It's important to me to be with her when she's bombarded with images of Barbies and sugary fruit snacks but it's also important for me to police the type of shows she's watching for mainly selfish reasons. Children's television is relatively harmless and some is downright entertaining for everyone in the family - like Yo Gabba Gabba, for instance - but some children's television just bugs me. Yeah, it's great that my kid is learning bits of Spanish from Dora but WHY DOES SHE HAVE TO YELL! EVERYTHING THAT COMES OUT OF HER MOUTH IS SOOO ANNOYING! AND SHE REPEATS THINGS! OVER! AND OVER! AND OVER! AND OVER!!!!

It's exhausting.

But I'm not perfect (yeah, we've kinda established that huh?), sometimes I turn on the television and go attend to other things and let the TV babysit while the baby is squalling. Last week we had one of those days and imagine my surprise, nay, horror when I walked into the living room with a cranky teething baby in my arms and saw this on the TV (sorry for the small picture):



Tell me you see what I see, please? Don't make me spell it out. Sure, there's two holes where there should be one, but the damn thing even has pubes.

I think the creator of that show is having a good laugh at our expense. After the shock wore off, I had a really good laugh too.

January ROFLs

It's time for the ROFLs! Time to tickle those funny bones - which is infinitely better than bumping your funny bone because that hurts like a sunufabeech.

My nomination for this month defies explanation - you just need to read it to believe it. And if all her award nominations (for other, less prestigious awards than the ROFLs, of course) are any indication you have read this particular post. EVERYONE reads Redneck Mommy, right?

Yep, thought so.

Congratulations to this month's nominees!

Sayre Smiles awarded Absolutely Bananas

Oh, The Joys awarded Sweatpants Mom

Vodka Mom awarded Bern This

Cool Zebras awarded Rimarama

Miss Grace and Zoe awarded Swistle

Fairly Odd Mother awarded Redneck Mommy

Mary Murtz got all crazy, broke the rules and awarded The Blogess, Cake Wrecks, Mom-O-Matic, and Where's My Cape. (Wow, just wow.)

Mom 101 awarded Sundry Morning

Patois awarded Confessions of a Coal Miner's Granddaughter

Magpie Musing awarded Stimeyland

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The ROFLs are brought to you, with sweat, tears and a lot of eskimo kisses, by your friends at Oh, the Joys and Chicky Chicky Baby. As always, if you want to know the rules (the rules, the RULES) GO HERE.

The gall!

So, my husband had to have emergency surgery this weekend to have his, and I quote his surgeon here, "Very Angry" gallbladder removed. That sucked.

What also sucked was sitting at home all day after hearing he was being driven to the emergency room (he was over an hour away at his grandfather's funeral. yeah), waiting for more updates while I played nursemaid to my children and unable to go be with him because of said nursemaiding.

Then, after waiting for six or seven hours, finally being able to go sit with him in the ER - where he was lying on a bed IN THE HALLWAY ALL FREAKING DAY - I then had to run back home to nurse my baby to sleep because she still won't take a bottle. (That just kinda sucked. I'd say a suck-factor of 3)

Oh, but then after going back to the hospital and waiting until after midnight to hear how his surgery went (Doctor vs. Angry Gallbladder. Doctor was victorious. Also, slightly full of himself because gallbladder was very, very angry. Grrrr.) I returned home, sent an email canceling our Super Bowl party for that Sunday, and then wearily climbed into bed only to have CC wake me up two hours later and then keep me up for two more hours because she was ready to PAH-TAY! Wheee! (Suck, suck, suckage. Suck-factor = 7)

And the suck went on - two overtired children who won't sleep, trying to visit husband in hospital but children were cranky due to overtiredness so that didn't work, begging children to sleep so mommy could just get a little rest before daddy came home and failing hard, husband not receiving all the care he needed because I wasn't there to remind nurses and doctors that, hello - you promised him more antibiotics and didn't give him any, and did I mention that my children wouldn't sleep which means I didn't sleep, which also means I've been working off of negative sleep? (suck-factor = reaching critical mass)

Also? We were told he can't lift anything more than 10 pounds for at least two weeks. That means no lifting the baby. *banging head on table* SUUUU-UUUUCK. (this suck-factor goes to 11)

But all that doesn't matter (much) because he's home and he's well and also more than slightly hopped up on Percocet. He lost one (very angry) gallbladder and gained a few more scars. He's alternately resting a lot and spending too much time working remotely. This weekend is slowly becoming just one more bad dream.

However.

Husband of mine? If you think for one minute that what would have been a relatively routine out patient procedure if you wouldn't have let the pain go on for so long is going to get you off the hook for taking care of the kids where you can or even picking up your damn dishes, you are sorely mistaken. They didn't remove your hands, bub. So if you are under the impression that I am going to follow along after you, picking up things in your wake... Let's just say your former gallbladder isn't the only thing that will be very, VERY angry. M'kay?

Now stop bogarting the Percs.

Save your ice pick, I'll show you what a real crazy chick uses

Remember that scene in Basic Instinct when Sharon Stone chops up the ice for her drink with that ice pick and you knew then she was a few blocks short of an igloo and maybe, if he were smart, Michael Douglas should stay away from the crazy bitch but he doesn't because he was going through that phase where he would bang any psycho broad in a 5o mile radius?

Maybe if she had a bigger ice pick she wouldn't have killed those people. Allegedly.