control yourself

Went to the doctor yesterday for what seems most likely a spasmodic *bladder.

*I typed this up on my phone and it auto-corrected the word ‘bladder’ to ‘bladderwort,’ but it’s like, if technology is so smart/great, it would know to auto-correct ‘uterus’ to carnivorous plant instead, amirite?

Anyway, something about cutting out caffeine, drinking more water, and the possibility of physical therapy for my bladder. I lol’d as I rolled up my sleeve to reveal a visible indicator of my reliance on caffeine – a tattoo of its molecular structure.

Sooo yeeaaa. The upping of the water is going to have to be a thing, but can people live without their lifeblood…? My sources point to no, as I sit here typing and getting my fill.

After my appt., my smalls and I went and watched a documentary about our national parks where I literally bawled like a baby because I just feel so deeply when it comes to that sh*t.

I mean, the combination of John Muir quotes and incredible landscapes and a piano cover of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah is pretty much a guarantee that you will need to pick me up off the floor.

OH MY GOSH, MAYBE I’M DEHYDRATED FROM ALL THE CRYING.

Ok, so quit coffee and/or quit crying.

(Lolol, I’m going to die.)

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earth day 2016

Every earth day, my love of our planet and my crippling fear of other people’s garbage clash in a head-to-head battle.

It’s like, I know that plastic water bottles don’t belong all crushed up on the ground and Earth Day seems like a really good day to pick them up, but also whose mouth was on that, omg.

My germ-phobia aside, the kids and I head to our favorite park/place, armed with a garbage bag and do our thing.

We’re in a new neighborhood this Earth Day, but we certainly have a favorite park and an even more specific favorite spot in that park, so we headed off to the beach, determined to spruce it up.

On the way there, I remembered that one time a couple of weeks ago, the kids squealed “Mom, look at those gulls fighting over…a…plastic…sock thingy…?” Which was very obviously a used condom, and the gull that “won” the fight choked that thing down into its belly, and so I was pretty sure that we were going to get to the beach and I was going to chicken out, because hello.

Luckily, the beach was pretty empty of garbage today. Just a small Fritos bag and some balled up fishing line – things I could handle.

What I could not handle, was the bat crap crazy company that we had while we were there.

This woman was there with her two, off-leash, dogs. The dogs seemed very friendly and one of them brought a stick over to the kids and I. The woman yelled “OH GOD, HE WANTS YOU TO THROW THE STICK – GET OVER HERE, LUCY.”

First clue that she was insane, she named a boy Lucy.

Lucy wasn’t listening, so the kids and I tried to be helpful by walking toward her in hopes that the dog would follow.

She huffs and puffs past us, and says “C’mon, Lucy. You’ve gotta be on a leash now with all these damn kids here.” (My three kids were the only kids in sight.) “People in this neighborhood clearly don’t have enough f*cking money to get their f*cking tubes tied, but they should at least be on birth control…”

Second clue that she was insane, WHO SAYS THAT?

I basically have something to say, always. When I overheard a couple of moms last week talking about how my kids were “way too young to be at the park by themselves” and how they would “never be that kind of mother,” I walked right over to those clucking hens – because I was AT THE PARK WITH THEM – and gave them a piece of my mind.

But I was pretty speechless today.

Do you guys think the earth would understand if I dumped even more garbage on to the beach that she thinks belongs to her dogs…?

(I kid, I’m just a brat when I’m mad.)

boob jail

City living forces me into a bra way more than I ever anticipated.

In my old suburb, the kids next door would knock on our door twice a year selling whatever and so, ya know, bra. But that was really it as far as visitors. No one bothered me much and it was pretty wonderful.

SWING LOW, SWEET CHARIOTS.

The city is a different/bothersome story.

Like, maybe your neighbor’s dog ran away and so he knocks on your door at seven f*cking forty-five a.m. to ask if you’ve seen it – jump out of bed/put on a bra/open the door, the answer is no.

Or maybe the neighborhood “scrap guy” who takes kids scooters without bothering to ask, but somehow feels compelled to knock on your door asking if he can take some of the wood you have piled up in your backyard for your bonfires – take a break from the laundry/put on a bra/open the door, the answer is no.

How about the mom and kid combo that come to your door OF ALL THE DOORS, demanding to use your cell phone because she’s lost – put down the coffee/put on a bra/open the door, the answer is no.

I’m usually a pretty reasonable/friendly person, but the answer is no because ya’ll either woke me up, or are just plain shady sometimes and so it’s like, I put a bra on for this…?

they just let anyone have a blog (me)

This morning I walked to the gas station nearest my house and when I got home, sent my husband a text that was all “probably just saw a professional b-ball player because who else is that tall? also saw a dead robin.” Not because it was important and/or interesting, but sometimes I just want to tell someone stuff and when that happens, I mostly just tell him. That’s the cool thing about being married – it’s like having a built-in bff who you can say a bunch of random sh*t to and they don’t even seem phased.

Not sure if he feels the same way, but whatever.

So I’ll bet that when he called me later to talk about some of my other text messages (house stuff), he wasn’t even surprised by my 5 minute, unrelated, epiphany/spiel about how I’m basically like a cat.

“…ugh, I think I’m having an anti-social day, that’s all. I’m just…I’m like a cat…! OH MY GOSH, I’M LIKE A CAT. Like, when I have a day where I just want to hide behind the couch and hiss, you have to accept that.”

I dunno, guys.

star wars/life lessons

I spent all of last night consoling my oldest kid who couldn’t stop crying and didn’t want to sleep, because falling asleep meant that today would get here faster.

Today, the day that her next door bff moved away.

All three of my smalls had been dreading this day, but my oldest is undoubtedly having the toughest time with the whole thing. And like the mom/empath that I am, I’ve sucked up all of her emotions and spit them out in the form of sobbing alongside her. (I’m emotional for my own mom-ish reasons too, of course – like that my super shy son actually has someone who he’ll go outside and talk to, and that having such a good friend so nearby made their transition into a new house a piece of cake, and that he’s just a really cool kid).

And I dunno if you know this about us, but we’re those weirdos who get suuuuper attached to people and are absolutely rotten at goodbyes.

She compared their loss to Star Wars (of course), how “Red Squadron would lose a pilot, but the rest of the pilots had to keep fighting,” saying “like, we can be sad, but it’s kinda weird because we still have to just keep doing our normal stuff like we’re not sad.”

And she’s kinda right – I mean, he didn’t get shot down by Darth Vader, thankfully – but life certainly will be different. They’ll have to take the highway to each other’s houses rather than their usual belly slides down the shared-property line hill. Hanging out will have to be scheduled and planned, rather than as spontaneous as a daily knock at the back door and hours of riding their scooters around the lake and sitting in his apple tree before coming inside for board games and watching Star Wars (duh).

They’ve all made each other keepsakes (framed pictures, friendship bracelets, drawings) and have multiple ways of keeping in touch, so tonight when his U-haul was loaded and hugs were given, she asked me through teary-eyes if I think that they’ll really be friends forever.

I gave an emphatic “yes,” because it will not be said of me that my lack of faith [in friendship] is disturbing.

like lichen, only weirder

“…this honestly sucks. The juniors section is full of hi-low tank tops and short skirts, but it’s like – I’m 32 years old. And the misses/women’s depts. are full of khaki capri pants and flowery blouses. KHAKI CAPRI PANTS, NATE. Think about my life and tell me if you ever see me wearing those. Honestly, the best shirts are in the men’s section, but then I’m all ‘Oh, I really want this Star Wars t-shirt, but it doesn’t fit right because I’m not a f*cking rectangle’…”

“Geez, ok. So did you get anything?”

“Yea. Ripped jeans. From the Juniors section. Thanks, btw.”

He gives me the Kohl’s cash from his b-ball shoes purchase, I give him a pms-inspired earful of my thoughts on clothing choices – symbiotic relationship x infinity. (I kid, I’m probably the worst wife.)

baby steps

My husband is a helicopter parent.

Not in the traditional sense of the word, as he is rarely hovering around the kids himself – but more in the “just don’t do anything ever because you might get hurt and then I’ll blame your mom,” sort of way.

Ok, I added the “blame your mom” part, but only because it’s so true.
(And he knows I love him anyway.)

It’s possible that I’ve been pegged as a helicopter parent by those that know us best, but I can assure you that I hover by default; attempting to avoid blame for things that I couldn’t possibly control without bubble-wrap, duct tape, and a really convincing argument for staying put forever.

That kind of talking/thinking clearly has affect on the kids, so lately we’ve been really mindful about what is said/not said in an effort to curb some of that anxiety and timidity that they have, e.g. refusing to ride bikes without training wheels.

I dunno if they’ll ever do the bike thing (sorry not sorry, husband), but my oldest daughter has recently taken to YouTube and fallen down the rabbit hole of “CRAZY/INSANE scooter tricks #2016 YEA!”

So I’m whipping up dinner in the kitchen yesterday, when one of the kids’ friends knocks at the back door, dragging my oldest daughter’s scooter with her. I answer the door and she calmly tells me that my daughter was at the end of the sidewalk bleeding, and hands me the scooter that has blood all over it – soaked into the foamy handlebars, dripping down the rest of the frame, even down to the tires.

I dunno how a person measures progress when it comes to their anxiety, but I can tell that I’m moving forward because I felt a tiny twinge of pride before I felt any sort of panic – wondering what “CRAZY/INSANE” trick she suddenly felt brave enough to try.

Turns out that she just collided with another friend and had a bloody nose and a fat lip. And I dunno how you measure progress when it comes to your kid’s anxiety either, but when I met her on the sidewalk, she wasn’t completely beside herself about a bloody nose like she usually is, she was just laughing and going on about how weird her lip felt, so I think she’s moving forward, too.