But we love them. And their wrapper. Wanna see how 2 sickies entertain one another when they’re home alone at snack time?
Be warned, this is about 5 minutes of your life you will never get back. It will, however, leave you with a goofy grin on your face and a feeling of happy deep within you. If it doesn’t, you likely have a dead fish for a heart. Good luck with that.
So? Do you have the happy?
Braden is sick again and that means he’s coughing in that special way that toddlers have which makes you clench up and wait for the inevitable choking sound every.single.time. Over and over again, I listen to him gag and gasp and make the phlegmy struggling sounds for breath that keep my blood pressure just a little higher than it really ought to be.
Last night he couldn’t sleep, and was pulling out one excuse after another to climb from his bed and yell down the stairs to us. His pleas for us to turn the music on, then off again, to find his toy car, and to turn on the light were all mingled with whimpers and punctuated by cries and sometimes soft, tired moans. Every request was just code for, “I need you, please come be with me, I’m feeling poorly and I just can’t be alone tonight.” Mommy is the ultimate translator – all those words and words and words, but a Mommy can see right through them. They pour off either side of the real request like oil parting and running this way and that on the surface of turbulent water.
But this night it was not just Mommy to the rescue. Often Mommy has to be the one who answers the call, who throws her hair over her shoulder and dashes off, valiantly. Mommy is so often the one who is here, so Mommy plays the heroine. But sometimes I get to fold my cape up for a beat. I write my story, I speak from my point of view. But he cuts through my view, too.
He listened to the translation of messages Mommy could hear floating down the stairs. When Mommy came down after a visit with the little sleep fighter, he heard all the things she said about little boys who are terribly unable to fall asleep because ohhh, they are just in need of togetherness and tender closeness. Mommy, who was distraught because of deadlines and projects. Mommy, who felt torn between work commitments and life priorities.
Daddy saw the worry and frustration on her tired face, and even though he had already done the bath routine and the bedtime routine, he smiled kindly, then set his face and stood up. He dashed off to go sit with the unwitting mini-villian upstairs, who was really just a little boy making too much noise for his tiny, tired body, until he could be tricked (loved) into falling comfortably asleep. He went in search of hugs and cuddles that would be stronger and more fierce than coughs and sneezes.
He answered the needs of the boy and the needs of the Mommy, all in a single bound.
I briefly saw his brightly colored cape flap at the corner of the stairwell right before he disappeared from view and I continued to tap at the keys, only momentarily wondering who that masked man was.
I’ve had some good fun with this here website, my friends, you better believe it. Oh yes, I’ve celebrated my son’s life, I’ve talked about both fabulous and hard moments of parenting, I’ve embarrassed my husband. (Yes, embarrassing your husband is good, fun times. And hell, he makes it SO EASY. What with saying things like this. But I digress.)
And of course, I’ve talked to and met so many of you, learned about you, and built wonderful friendships.
But today I’m going to let you in on another part of having this website that enriches my life.
I am endlessly entertained by checking my web stats to see what web searches lead to this site. Now, some of them, I will admit, make me want to vomit. I’m going to spare you specifics on these, but if I could find the people who were entering them into a computure somewhere, sterilization would be in order.
With a rusty fork.
When I can get beyond the TRULY DISGUSTING AND DEPRAVED searches, there are the mild perverts. I imagine these are the kind of winners who “bump” against you “by accident” on the subway.
They land on my page by searching:
- nipple pleasure
- moms with nice racks
- naked wrestling
- mom crotchless
- nut in my mouth
- mom peeing
- slap me around
- bunchy vagina (W. T. F.)
To whomever searched “i put my mascara in my vagina” – STOP IT. STOP IT RIGHT NOW. There are things that just shouldn’t be inserted in certain areas. I THINK YOU’VE DISCOVERED ONE OF THOSE COMBINATIONS.
And whoever searched “big fat and ugly” I hate you.
But then there are the searches that just make me laugh. A few recent examples:
- i want to shave my face off
- jello farts
- bitch perfume
- im going to eat your uterus
- can you put chocolate on the head of a penis
This is really just a small sampling, and only from the past four days or so. I’m sure you can now see why this is so amusing to me.
Incidentally, my top three search terms for the past year?
- sarcastic mom
- best push up bra
Numbers 1 and 3 are completely understandable, right? Right.
And number 2? Oh, you have no idea how glorious it is for me to claim that lovely search term. You may or may not remember this post about that earlier this year. Go ahead, read it. It’s funny, and it will give you insight into this push up bra business.
Guess what, PR Asshat? You can #suckit. I might still be on the second page of hits for “best push up bra” but I think you and I both know that I still win this round. So eat me.
Of course, that post bought me top 3 ranking for both searches: “asshats who should die” and “Ultimate Assholes of The Universe.” *cough*
(please feel free to stop and confirm that I actually *am* the number one search return on Google for “Ultimate Assholes of The Universe,” it’s okay, I understand the urge to do this. go ahead. laugh. Now laugh even harder when you see I’m hits number 1 AND 2. get it out of your system)
(PS: no really, DOESN’T THAT RULE!?)
Continuing! To the person who recently searched “getting him off with your bare feet,” here’s my advice: since making him a sandwich and getting him a beer with your feet is going to be pretty hard, just go ahead and cheat and use your hands on those ones. But using your big toe to turn on the TV on Superbowl Sunday should be pretty easy. Unless you’re a fucking moron. Or, you know, you don’t have feet. In which case the search would be pointless and you’re wasting my time and yours.
Only other thing I can think of is you wanting to get him off the couch, in which case, two feet planted squarely on his back in a sudden power thrust should do the job nicely. I mean really, sometimes you just want to watch Keifer Sutherland, er, I mean 24, alone.
What? Wait, we’re not talking about putting our feet on naked wiener are we? Oh, good grief. Really? This searcher must be the alter ego of the weirdo who Googled “gross wieners on your body” the other day. Right.
Of course, the best thing for me was noticing just yesterday that a search for “wife is a bitch” landed someone on my site. Now, if that was John, we can congratulate Google for 100% Success in returning accurate hits to sites from searches.
All in all, the whacked out nutjobs out there with access to a computer are giving me a bit of free entertainment. And I like it. Thanks, ya fuckin’ head-cases. I owe ya one. Maybe I’ll even write a post one day for the person who wanted to know, “can I use the diva cup for military training” because that is IMPORTANT INFORMATION.
We purchased this year’s tree on a Sunday while John was home for a day. That night, I put the lights on it. The smell of a real Christmas tree is something I love so much that I don’t exactly know how to put it into words. The olfactory sense can trigger some of the strongest sense memories we have, and I think this smell is linked into the magic and joy that laces my memories of Christmas as a child. We never had a fake tree, so when I smelled this smell – a real pine, cedar, or fir – it meant Christmas was coming. And that meant magic, love, and light. It meant my soul would lift and float for awhile.
This year, before we bought our tree, I went in search of something I’ve had in a cabinet all year long. It is a glass spice bottle with a black plastic lid. The glass is very heavy, and the plastic is thick and sturdy. It appeals to me in some way, and so I saved it to use for something when the spice ran out. I had no idea when I put it aside that later I’d be gathering fallen needles to place inside.
Last year, I lost a baby (Davin) right at three months into the pregnancy. It was my second miscarriage of the year and, for many reasons, it throttled me in different and harder ways than had the first one (in April).
I found out on December 9th during a prenatal appointment that he had died. A D&C to remove Davin from my womb was scheduled for December 16th.
I had carried him for a week, knowing he was no longer alive. It was both maddening and oddly comforting. On the one hand, I felt insane knowing he was inside of me and he was not alive; my body was incapable of doing anything to help him. On the other hand, I got to be with him and say goodbye, come to terms with him being removed.
On December 15th, the day before the surgery, I asked John to go get a tree. I didn’t tell him, but I wanted that tree in the house with all 4 of us. That’s how it was supposed to be, and in my fractured state of being, I was going to have it that way, regardless.
When last year’s tree came into our home with all of its wonderful smelling glory my child was still inside of me. The next day, he was all the way gone. I was sedated for some time after that. When the pills ran out there was still wine and liquor. I got tipsy regularly; I ate crappy food. No matter what I ingested, I was empty.
I was empty in more ways than the one that made my uterus ache as it healed.
That tree sat in the living room with me. I watched those lights flash and dance through my bleary eyes. I sat here, numb, with that happy smell. Each day rolled by and I tried whenever I could to enjoy them, even if it was an altered, forced experience.
I cried a lot. I was angry and sad. A lot of days I was just nothing.
The tree was there.
At some time way past Christmas there came a point when I had to admit that the tree was dried out and needed to be taken away. I cried about that, too.
When that tree came into my house, I still had my baby inside of me. Now the tree was about to leave, and I had to keep a part of it, because somehow, it was the last thing I could hold onto about Davin. Is that crazy?
I got down on my hands and knees with that damn spice bottle and I gathered up fallen needles until it was full. Then I put it in one of my kitchen cabinets.
Only a couple of times during the year, when my heart ached the very most for Davin, I went and opened that bottle. I held it, smooth, cool and heavy, in my hand. In my fingers, it felt strong when I felt weak. I stared at the needles. I opened the bottle and smelled.
Pain and joy mingle together in that smell for me now.
Not long before we got our tree this year, I went for that bottle for the first time in quite a while. When I smelled it, I wept for my lost son. The smell was still very strong and crisp. It wrapped me up; it sang to me of both sorrow and delight. Afterwards, I felt a sort of peace.
I put the bottle out as the very first Christmas decoration in our home this year.
I will think of them both every Christmas: the baby who we thought would be born in December 08 as well as the baby who died in December 08. I don’t think I’ll ever smell that happy smell or watch those dancing lights again without a twinge of sorrow. But I believe I will always still smile at them, as well.
Pain and joy mingle together, and that is not such a bad thing to experience, or acknowledge.
It is far better than pain sitting in the heart by itself.
Elementary school lunch. Remember that? What was it like? At first I think that surely I can’t remember something from such a long time ago. I mean, if I were trying to call on a specific, dramatic memory, I’d have more confidence in my ability, but this? I’m doubting I’ll reel in anything of describable value when I cast my line into what have become the murky and age muddled waters of my memory.
Elementary school lunch wasn’t important. It was just another thing that happened every day – same place, same people. I don’t need that information anymore. It has to have been crowded out by important things, right? Surprisingly, instead of fishing a boot or an old tire out of those polluted waters, when I close my eyes I see into my mind, as if through the crystal clear waters of the Caribbean. It is almost like I am actually standing outside that cafeteria, looking in through the rectangular windows at rows and rows of tables, each one lined with chattering children.
Then suddenly, I’m not standing outside the windows anymore. In a flash, I’m inside the room where the ambient noise rises ferociously with the spark of my transition. Utensils scrape across and smack into plastic, segmented tray plates that clink against one another and slide along table tops and counters in search of final resting places. Chairs scratch the floor both meeting and departing table tops, as diners come and go. Bags, books, and other items thump and bump as they drop into waiting places, becoming items of secondary importance now that the task at hand is eating, socializing.
Above and beyond these sounds there are the types of audible events that come only from the mouths of humans: talking, laughing, yelling. The majority of this is of the child variety, mostly high-pitched, squeaky, and giggly. Most of the yelling is happy, jovial, prankish. Occasionally, there’s an angry yelp or an adult admonition. The overarching effect of the mingled, youthful voices in all of their utterances is a feeling of busyness, of pleasant fellowship and mirth.
I feel, in my mind, as if I’m standing there now. Having entered suddenly, but still separate from all of this, I stand apart from it all. I’m just taking it in with my eyes closed. But the deeper I go, the more I process. I’m allowing myself to sink into those waters and wade out to a place where eventually there’s a drop-off.
I’m going to fall right in.
It happens, and the next transition hits me with cool, hard plastic under my posterior. My legs dangle towards the floor, and I grasp a metal fork with curiously uneven tines in my right hand. The fork is poised over a pretty ugly example of fruit cocktail, slimy with syrup and unnaturally vibrant.
The cocktail isn’t half as bad as the rectangular piece of gooey mess masquerading as pizza. I know this and at the same time, I also identify with the unarguable fact that I love this disgusting mockery of a real pie, just as I indiscriminately adore the grease-laden tator tots that neighbor it in the adjoining tray segment.
I look up and now I’m taking in a sea of faces at my level. Instantly I’m overcome with emotions that blast me almost simultaneously: wonder, excitement, insecurity, awkwardness, need, desire, invincibility.
This is youth, glorious youth. I have more than just miles to go; there’s a path stretched out in front of me to what seems infinity. All I can see is shining horizon and I know that forever is just over the hill up ahead, a sparkling, unknowable treasure of eternal proportions.
For a moment the sounds disappear. For just a heartbeat every smell of sickeningly delicious grease puddled over cheap cheese on soggy crust is undetectable. The cool, slick cardboard milk carton under the curled fingers of my left hand disappears. All the children move in slow motion.
I feel like a time-traveler in my own mind, and for just that one moment, there’s a distinct and deep pain that knifes through me, witnessing this slice of my past, this irrelevant little reenactment of an any-day sometime so long ago in my life.
I want to stand up and scream, “We are all here again! Back here again! Have we made mistakes!? Let’s do better this time!”
But then it all rushes back in with its loud busyness, its irreversible hurrying of children forward into their fates. For a moment, I feel defeated, and then I blink my eyes, and it all swirls away in the same way that bath water flows down the drain – pulling away both the bright, gleaming bubbles and the dirty scum that once clung to you, in the same smooth motion.
As I open my eyes in the here and now, I reflect on that moment at the end, that painful longing to hit the “restart” button. But I’m here, for better or worse, and it’s okay if I can’t change the things my momentarily enlightened “little” self so worried about for that brief spell inside my mind. She forgot for a beat that out here on the other end, I’m not too shabby, and even all of the mistakes and occasional bad decisions have had a hand in making me who I am today. No regrets.
Well, I do kind of wish she had grabbed one of those tater tots and slammed it. This lagging metabolism is a bitch. *wink*
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On a quiet, December night she thinks of him, and the memory of a possibility lost is another layer of coldness that presses in, needing to be held off with blankets and distractions.
She is secretly timid, quiet, and lonesome. Her long tresses are convenient because she can hide behind them if she wants to, when the need for cover arises.
Her hair can’t shield her from my voyeurism. I can see past the layers of distraction she throws up around her; a true rendering of her personality plays out visibly in the moments when she believes that no one is watching her.
I am always watching.
The true feelings she secrets away in the depths of her being, what fools call “deep in the heart,” I am aware of, as keenly aware of them as the casual observer is aware of the color of her eyes, or the curve of her hips.
Even now, her unconscious actions betray her true thoughts. They are evident in every facial expression between beats, the little flurries of movement from her hands, and the way she lightly bites her lower lip for a split second before a strained smile replaces the temporary slip. Each of these things speaks.
The messages are indiscernible to most, the language indecipherable. I, however, am aware and fluent.
In this moment she is lost, alone, unsure. She is yearning, needing.
No one else knows her as I do. There is not another soul who can truly understand what she feels. Surface rules do not apply to the reality of her emotions. One must dig much deeper to nick the hidden, vulnerable secret.
She is easy for me to understand. All that she is can be unlocked with ease.
Of course, I have a bit of an advantage over the rest.
I am her.
The blankets are never thick enough.
So, I’ve been quite brilliantly not writing near as often as I used to here for some time now. I’m perfecting this art I like to call “Ignore Your Blog Until It Dies.” I think I’m doing a *really* good job. Only, I keep popping back into frame and, you know, it’s because I love you. And because I like to run my proverbial mouth write. Also, a little bit because of how good you look in those jeans, and that you’re kind of slutty. But mostly the thing about how I like to write. Yeah.
I used to post something every day – and while I’m not interested in pushing myself to a “per day” schedule anymore, I do want to get back to writing more often. And because she’s awesome like that, Leslie (aka Mrs. Flinger) has been thinking of this whole “let’s get back to writing” thing, only she actually wants it to be GOOD WRITING (oh, shit) and after several email brainstorming sessions with a group of amazing women (I think someone added my name to the email list by accident, but I wasn’t going to rat myself out) there’s a little movement, or community, going.
So I’m jumping in. I’m going to take the challenges and post my shitty drafts in answer to them here for you to look at and laugh while you point and say, “this shit is supposed to be good writing? BAHAHAHAHA.”
Of course, instead of just being a turd, you could join the network and get your ass in gear, too.
Today’s Challenge? Embarrassing story.
And you know, I am having a little bit of difficulty coming up with a topic because I never have embarrassing things happen to me, and I never do embarrassing things. I have a hard time even understanding what this whole “being embarrassed” thing is like. I am poised, confident, and graceful. Whether by luck, chance, or higher power, I am immune to awkward situations. All of the stories of my life are calm, without incident, and there is truly a spirit of class and dignity that surrounds all that is moi.
Also, pigs fly out of my butt and there’s a unicorn eating rainbow striped cotton candy on my back lawn, right next to the leprechaun who is counting out all the gold he’s going to leave on my front step later today. Now, excuse me, because it’s time for me to go climb on the back of my friendly, neighborhood dragon and go for our regularly scheduled flying playdate with Peter Pan and Mary Poppins.
I am having trouble because I’ve already written here about all the most embarrassing topics that come to mind immediately. Like when my mother announced that I’d started my period in front of our male, European house guests.
Who do you tell? If you’re like me, you tell your mother. And you don’t enjoy it. But you get it over with, and then you expect it to go away.
You don’t expect to be washing the dishes after dinner, minding your own business, and have your mother practically float into the room on her Mommy Pride and gush about it to the two MALE, European house guests sitting at the kitchen table.
They speak very little English, but you quickly see that they have perfected that Creepy Guy Look Of Knowing And Thinking Ew Things, because they are aiming it right at you. Picture it, right now. If your skin didn’t crawl, you don’t know what I’m talking about.
She CLEARLY hated me. I was SURE of it.
I just wanted to DIE.
Or the story of my first pit hairs. Yeah.
I remember when I first started getting armpit hair.
I was mortified.
My mom? Was excited.
I was sitting on her bed, with my hands behind my head, all chilled out, leaning back. I can remember her noticing the armpit hair and pointing it out, smiling and gesturing. The expression on my face had to have been one of complete and total terror. She, on the other hand, was dangerously close to suggesting we should have a parade for my pit hair.
I could see myself on the lead Pit Hair Parade! float, my arms strapped up and to the sides. Large spotlights would aim at my pits and flower adorned arrows would be positioned to point right at the tiny hairs there, in case people were not aware that LOTUS.HAS.PIT.HAIR.NOW!!!
I slapped my arms down, and tried to change the subject, while mentally willing with all my might that time would just stop. Maybe God really did exist and I could pray to him right now to erase this?
Because it was embarrassing.
Or maybe you’ll remember when I talked about how I made sure that John would truly fall madly in love with me, one day becoming my husband. I had a foolproof plan, really. All you dating ladies should try this out on your man.
John told me that when we were first dating, he had an interesting experience. He was visiting me at my apartment in Winston-Salem, NC. We had been hanging out, laughing, having fun, etc. He had to pee. He got up… walked down the hallway, and went into the bathroom. Closing the door, he turned around, and lifted the toilet seat.
And witnessed a large, brown floater.
Sexy or what?
And you’re probably thinking that I *forgot* to flush. Ah, foolish one. Everyone knows that Surprise Shit is the way to a man’s heart. It’s either that or food. Or blowjobs. Or something. Clearly I’m an expert.
When it comes right down to it, a great many of my embarrassing situations don’t really stand out because they are the majority of the strands that weave the I’m A Dumbass Idiot tapestry of my life. It all just blends together to create the badass that is Loter.
So what if I’ve puked on the side of the highway in my underpants? Big deal if I drove a car up past the parking space and actually right into the wall of a building once? No problem if I leave my wallet at home when I go shopping, hold bows up to my crotch in department stores, lose my car in parking lots, say horribly stupid things to people in practically any social situation, walk into doors and fences, or melt my food processor in my oven because I was too lazy to clean it and instead shoved it in there so I wouldn’t have to look at it anymore and then forgot and preheated the oven for dinner while it was still inside, like a completely idiotic assface? So what if I write long, run-on sentences just because I like the way they sound in my head and think you should, too?
So what? I am still awesome.
And I’d love to delude myself talk about that in detail, but I really have to go now. I need to put on my magical, vanilla-scented Invisibility Suit and take my pet dinosaur for a walk down our gold-paved street.