Tag Archives: family

Hi-ho, Hi-ho

I just had a baby. Yes. Me. The woman who said she would never have another child nor get married. I managed to (a) have another one and (b) marry the baby daddy, too (Young Gun…’member him?). I made plans and God laughed. Doesn’t He always?

Said four-month-old baby is miles away getting fed and changed by daycare ladies while I am at work squirming in a hard arss chair (which I am convinced is grinding my vagina bones into dust little by little). I have checked the daycare daily report feed about thirty times in the last two hours. I can’t even. This is not for me.

I say work is not for me but in all actuality it isn’t the working that’s not for me, it’s the being back in…hmmm…. society? Not saying SAM’s aren’t apart of society. I just wasn’t. I barely brushed my hair or cleaned my underboob (or wore a bra) while I was a temporary SAM.  Now I am thrust back into rush hour traffic, eating Pop-Tarts for lunch, and fake smiling. I have been thrown back into wearing underwear and shoes. I am subjected to professional stuff. If I was not one of those go-to-work-only-to-daydream-about-being-home kind of people before, I am today.

I mean, I could totally flip my desk over and burn up the road. I could call Young Gun and tell him I quit this $!@#. He would understand. He would say okay and freak out behind my back. I could plan my day around going to the WIC office and applying for government assistance. I could go to Starbucks and work on the next great American novel. I could be with Cookie. There could be fresh baked cookies or muffins for The Boy and The Girl when they get home from school. Dinner could be ready as soon as Young Gun hits the door. There could be forest animals flitting about and little singing dwarves dropping by. It could be….

A mess. An absolute mess. Who am I kidding? None of that would happen. There would be fresh nothing for the older kids, dinner would still be rushed, burnt and late, the only animals flitting about would be Tinkerbell and all her little flea friends. I would end up sitting at Starbucks getting fatter (and broker) by the day and writing the next FB post instead of a novel. *Sigh* As much as I don’t wanna admit it, sitting in a cubical on this vagina-bone-grinder might just be where I need to be—for now. At least until I grow up a little or win the lottery…whichever comes first (wink).

~SM

“You Sho Ilz Ugly”

There is no hard, concrete evidence as to why I have found myself on the road to feeling like Who Shot John, but the older I get the closer I get to figure it out. I suppose I could place blame solely on the children.  (Yes, let’s blame them. They can take it) Children tend to suck the life out of you in the early years. Mommy this, throw up in the middle of the night that—it is all very time-consuming. They are certainly the reason why I would look like an entire bag of struggle.

In a conversation with Young Gun, I pointed out that we are a mess collectively. He hasn’t had a haircut in almost a month and I just shaved my armpits, which was about five months overdue. I forgot to get in the shower until the clock struck twelve and collapsed in bed. At that point, a ho bath was more appealing. He forgot to hang his wet clothes and had to wear damp pants this morning. We. Are. A. Mess.

If no one else comes in to slap us around and tell us what messes we are, we must do it ourselves.  Although I must say, The Kids do a fantastic job at letting me know how–err–out of pocket I am. I mean, what is wrong with wearing red sweats, pink tennis shoes, and a green shirt? It’s clothing, right? It works for someone somewhere, why not me? I should not be comfortable with looking like a homeless elf, and he should not be subjected to wearing damp clothes in the middle of November, that’s why not.

Exhaustion plays a roll (Cookie kept us up until ohhh, say, 2 a.m.), but what about the Beyonce’s of the world looking fabulous and parenting? Plenty of people have children, manage to take showers and put on lotion. A friend got pregnant twice and ended up with 2 sets of twins—4 kids all under the age of 7. She runs her own company, cooks stuff, travels and stays pretty put together. She literally wears normal clothing and combs her hair. By those standards, she is already well above my current level. Alas, YG and I have no excuse for overgrown heads and armpits.

I used to have a schedule for self care. I read books, meditated, worked out and did a little something with my face. I dunno what happened. I cleaned up the house on Friday mornings. I got my nails done once a month and my eyebrows too. I wore heels and didn’t leave the house without at least a smack of gloss. This morning I barely managed to put lotion on my face and Chapstick on my lips (after I found it under the couch cushion)…that was the extent of the extra.

I won’t say what his issue is (cuz noneya), but before we end up with meth-face, I put in a call to my aggressive Twin. She kicks ass first and doesn’t even bother taking names. With her in charge, we will definitely get it together. This Twin, this softer, lazier side of myself, can’t get the job done. So, it is time to kick my own ass…and Young Gun’s too. At this rate we’ll end up on a special addition of My 600lb Life: Chaplipped Hairy Hoarders Edition and we can’t have that. We know better so therefore we should do better.

~SM

Feeling Replaceable

The biggest problem with loss is the feeling of being replaceable. Sure, it is nice to be the dumper or the two-week-noticer, but when you are not, it doesn’t feel so good. I got a taste of that when I was unexpectadely reminded that even though I am the mother, there is always room for one more.

It is something you think about when you have an ex anything and there are kids involved. You forget there is the potential for your off spring to bond with another adult. You ex has bonded, but you could give two shits about that particular bond (matter of fact you have often wished they got stuck together like humping dogs in the street). No. What worries you most is her (or him) glopping themselves onto your kids with fun stuff like shopping and outings and your kids sticking. After all, you are the rule setter, the drill sergeant, the taxi, the bill payer, the yeller, the spanker, the bad guy and on the tired days the ‘i don’t care’ guy. You don’t get the luxury of every other weekend fun in the sun spoil time with your children. Your spoil time and your mom time is intermingled together and it can be hard to tell the difference. To them…you are just mom…and to you…well…maybe you are not entirely replaceable but you certainly aren’t alone and it hurts.

It hurts somewhere way deep down, in a place no one can quite touch, when you think about being replaced. When your boss lays you off to replace you with someone younger and cheaper–it hurts. When your significant other breaks it off to replace you with whomever–it hurts. When your kids replace you with a girl/boyfriend, or just activities and friends in general–it hurts. But I suppose it doesn’t have to.

Looking at it behind mature lenses, we are truly irreplaceable. Someone can fill our seat momentarily, sure, but we are marvelously, wonderfully made uniquely enough so that no one person can step comfortably in our footsteps. There is only one you. There is only one me. Of course…I prefer to seethe and throw a tantrum about the potential of the Replacement, but that’s only because that feels better than being all yogi-om and mature. Realistically (here’s the mature crap again), I should know my worth and I should know my place within this world and in the hearts of those who truly love me. Why…I am smwart. I am kand. I am impowtant. Can’t take that away, no matter how much glitter and gold is thrown in the air.

~SM