Anyone still out there?

Anyone still out there? 

I needed a monster break.  So, I ditched my blog and my facebook and went and wrote elsewhere.  I don't stop writing.  Sometimes I just write for strangers instead of you guys.  

I tried to post the night before Thanksgiving, but I couldn't remember the email address to send the post to, so it has been sitting in my drafts folder.  

I'm not going to promise to post with any specific amount of regularity, but I'm going to make an effort to blog again.

Here's the Thanksgiving post:

Usually I make a list of things I'm thankful for to put up on the blog that are things besides family, friends, etc.

However, this year, I'm so overwhelmed with love for the people in my life that they are all I have room in my heart and head to think or talk about.

Tonight was hard. I thought it was hard because I was tired and the grocery store was a train wreck and Silas was cranky. But one bad, split-second fail put it all in perspective.

When we got home, I was in such a hurry and so irritable that I failed to take the normal steps I take to protect Silas from the stairs that lead to our front door.

In one horrible thud, he fell from the stairs and landed on the concrete. He was in so much pain and so afraid, and it was my fault.

I'm panicky when Silas is hurt. Michael is always the one who's level headed and keeps me calm. But this time, he wasn't here.

I'd like to say I pulled myself together and took charge of the situation, but I didn't. Instead, I fell apart and let the terror and guilt win and called my mom and cried. Then I text her after we hung up. Then when Silas threw up all over us, I called her and cried again.

She took care of us the way she always does. She knew exactly what to do, and she swooped in to help me take care of the most precious person in my world.

Maybe one day I'll be that mom for Silas. I pray that I will.

Over the past year, the beautiful people in my life have helped me hold it together when I've desperately wanted to fall apart.

Without Michael, my mom, Kaylan, Michael's mom and dad, Randi, Candice and so many others (and please don't be offended if I didn't call you by name because the list could go a mile), I cannot see how I would have possibly made it.

I'm so thankful Silas is okay and that I wasn't sitting in the bathroom floor, covered in vomit with no one to call.

I love you all so much. My family, my long time friends, and my newest friends. Thank you for taking the time to know me and for being so wonderful to me. Thank you for all your hugs, support, encouragement and patience when it would be so much easier to give up on me.

You all hold such a special place in my heart.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Adventures in trying to be more age appropriate with music

You thought I forgot you?  I could never.

In an effort to steer my kid away from a burgeoning obsession with Beyonce, I downloaded a toddler CD onto my iPod ($3.99 for 30 songs!!).  Very pleased with myself, I turned it on for Silas during Friday's commute home and have played it every time we have gotten in the car since.

Yesterday, I was trying to get my life together after we got back in the car at Target (keys, sunglasses, seat belt, etc).  All the while, he was in the backseat hollering "music! music!"

Silly me, I turned on the radio to try to buy some time and quell the incessant bleating while I dug out my phone and hooked it to all the cords and pushed all the buttons to call forth "Wheels on the Bus" because, as I previously mentioned, three days prior, Silas and I had had very similar taste in music.

His reaction to the momentary reversion to pop music brought me thisclose to deleting the toddler CD altogether. 

It became quite clear that there will be no more carefree days of crappy music in my Jeep with Silas in the backseat.  He will apparently be screaming over anything but nursery rhymes going forward.

So, basically, I've destroyed the one thing Silas and I were previously able to agree on and accidentally banned the radio from my car until he outgrows "Baa baa black sheep" or Michael breaks my phone again (I'm so not backing that CD up to iTunes).

Well, I'm a grown up. Fat lot of good it's doing me.

If ever I had any doubt in my mind that I'm a grown up, it's gone.  There are no more steps to complete.

I'm not sure what to really say except that my father is really ill, and my grandmother has aged to a point where she cannot take care of him.  So, now it falls to me.  

I live five hours away with a husband and a child and a job.  

When I got a call telling me things were bad and called and spoke to my grandmother to confirm, I made plans to take a trip home.  I didn't have the money, and it was not a good time to take off work, but there was nothing else to be done, and I couldn't leave my grandmother to suffer alone.  So, I went.

And lived 24 hours in what felt like a horror film.  My father has a mental illness.  He was off his meds.  The power went out and never came back on.  It was 90 degrees inside the house.  I didn't sleep for 40 hours straight.  Insanity ensued.  It was a helpless, lonely feeling, and I'm not sure what I accomplished except that I got my grandmother to a place where she wasn't going to be alone when I left and then hauled ass home to try to figure the rest out.

I know for sure that I will do everything in my power to have another kid.  I never want to take the chance of Silas winding up an only child or the only child left to take care of an aging parent.  I dreamed last night that I had a little girl, and I woke up feeling more at peace.   Bizarre how I once worried that he'd lose something if I had another baby.  I'd give my right arm for a sibling to bounce all this off of right now.

Keep my family in your prayers if you would.  I feel like I'm in an impossible situation and have no idea what to do.  I need all the help I can get.

P.S. Sorry this was all sad.  I'll try to do better next post.

Silas' Music Video Debut

Some of my favorite recent pictures...and Silas' music video debut.

My two nerds play x-box together

Si Hearts Bubble Baths

Si found some Valentine's Day stickers and decorated my arm (and totally made my day for sharing stickers with me - it's a big deal!)

Wal-Mart hates my dogs

'scuse me?  Wal-Mart?  WTF?

I move a lot, y'all.  To have not hailed from nomadic people, I sure do like to play make-believe that I did.

One lesson I learn quite often is that whoever is running Wal-Mart is trying to piss me off.

Last night?  Last night I boiled spaghetti noodles, baked garlic bread, and only then remembered that the hamburger meat for the sauce.........still in the freezer.......mmm hmm, still frozen.

That should demonstrate to you how very taxed my brain is.  There just is not enough brain power left to figure out where the hell they've hidden the dog food in this version of Wal-Mart.

Why?  Why is every store different?  Not just a little bit different.  Some times you people completely flip the layout.  In Garland, grocery is on the left.  So, I walked into the left side of the Wal-Mart in Wylie expecting to see tomatoes and was instead greeted by bikinis.  That's right, grocery is on the right in Wylie.  (i.e. You parked on the wrong side, hooker.)

Did I mention that the Wal-Mart in Garland did a complete remodel in the last year, and I was just beginning to be able to walk in and remember that the chips were in a really stupid place, but I could find them?  I have no clue where the chips are in Wylie.  

So, Wal-Mart, explain it to me.  Explain to me why you can't pick one layout and implement it all over the country.  Tell me why dog food can't be on aisle 26 in every Wal-Mart in the nation.  Tell me why I have to feel like a rat in a maze every time I go to another one of your stores.  

Lastly, tell me why when I finally figure out the layout of the Wal-Mart down the street from my new residence, you do a complete remodel and move the dog food again.   

Why do you hate my dogs?

I need to get out more

Nothing happened this weekend. No.thing. Almost died of boredom.

Friday night, I went to Target and bought boxed wine (white sangria - soooooo good) and sprite and raspberries so I could make the hubbs and myself "fancy" drinks in plastic cups. 

The cashier carded me with waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay more attitude than was necessary considering my age.  Then she saw my ID and apologized to me.  I wasn't sure whether to feel vindicated or insulted.

Michael was in charge of finding the evening's entertainment since I had to drive the 3 miles to Target and back.  

He picked a documentary about a juice fast.  

I swear on everything, he was watching a documentary about people going on a juice fast and losing, like, 200 pounds in 60 days.

So, I drank my fancy drink out of my plastic cup and watched this documentary and cried in all the right places and decided that I, too, wanted to go on a juice fast.

Then I woke up Saturday and went to the grocery store....

and bought cookie mix and brownie mix and everything I could find with trans fats and carbohydrates.

After I got home, Micheal and his dad hauled themselves to the casino in honor of Michael's upcoming birthday and left Silas and me to our own devices.  

We made cookies and played Chuck Trucks and colored and went outside and inside and outside and inside and watched Word World and took bubble baths and walked around like crabs and fed Silas 429,000 times until he finally went to bed.

Then I splayed out on the couch and watched back to back to back episodes of Nip/Tuck on Netflix until my eyes bled and I had nearly convinced myself I was qualified to give someone breast implants.  I could not find a willing guinea pig to test my theory.

Sunday I did more grocery shopping.  Thought again about going on a juice fast and remembered that I have no will power.  So, I bought pasta instead.

Came home to Michael watching The Tudors and Mars Attacks and briefly thought about canceling Netflix.

Instead, I pouted for a while and then wrestled the remote from him, pulled out a legal pad, and started taking notes for that patient who's going to want a boob job and a tummy tuck.

I don't want to give him a complex or anything

I know I rag on my kid all the time for being such a handful, and I worry that Silas might stumble across this blog one day and think, "now I need therapy."  So, here are some of the reasons he's awesome (yeah, J-Dub, just close the window out now, it's a Silas post):

• If I say "ouch!" or am crying, Silas says, "are okay, momma?" in his sweet, concerned toddler voice and puts a hand on my face to comfort me, and I melt inside and want to scoop him up and give him a thousand kisses - but I have to restrain myself or it ruins the moment because he's not big on PDA (public or private displays of affection) and he'll push me off of him and tell me to "go 'way" and I'll start crying all over again, but he won't care this time because I've annoyed him.

• He sings and dances incessantly.  In the car, at home, at the grocery store.  He doesn't care.  If music starts playing, he "fancy dances" (I'm not sure why I call it that, but I do, and I like it, so it stays).  If there isn't music, no problem, he'll just serenade you.  It's possible that others might find it annoying, but I will turn the radio off just to listen to it because I think it's hilarious when he sings a song and leaves out every other word and then claps for himself and says "yay!" when he's done.

• This may sound dumb, but Silas "gets" me.  He gets my sense of humor.  Other kids (and adults on occasion) don't always get that sometimes when I look and sound serious, I'm actually just messing with them.  There's nothing worse than trying to joke with a kid and ending up making them cry (or trying to be serious and causing fits of giggles).  Thankfully, Silas always knows whether it's time to laugh or run and hide.  

• He can imitate my why-are-you-talking-crazy-to-me? face (hereinafter "the face") perfectly.  When I am messing with him, I get "the face" - although I also get it when we're in an argument about whether or not it's time to go to bed or eat our dinner.  It's less cute then.

When he's not whining for an hour straight about dumb crap and making me worry that my face is going to freeze into "the face" permanently, he's really funny and smart and sweet.

Or maybe I just think he is because he's so much like me.

Oooooooooooooh, you're right, that's probably also why he whines about dumb crap so much.

Thanks for pointing that out

You know a while back when everyone was changing their Facebook profile picture to be their doppelganger?

I couldn't participate because I could not think of any celebrity or semi-celebrity or vaguely familiar person who looks like me.

Well, problem completely and totally solved because I had the following conversation the other day.

Friend: You know who you look like?

Me: Who?  Wait, this better be a compliment.

Friend: It is!

Me: Ok, who?

Friend: You remember that cartoon "Chip 'n Dale Rescue Rangers"?  

Me: Oh, yeah.  What's that have to do with anything?

Friend: You look like the girl.

Awesome.

Just wait...

Mostly what I came to say is that I cannot hear one more word about how much worse 3 is than 2 because, y'all, we haven't even made it to two yet.  

When I think about it getting worse than it is now, I break out into hives and fantasize about an extended vacation that only ends when I get a phone call saying, "he's human again, it's safe to come home."

The very worst part about it was that no one believed me.  Basically, they looked at me sideways with their mouths agape when I tried to convey what a little terror he had become.  I'm pretty sure that all the people who see him on the regular thought I was being a total drama queen because, "he's such a good kid."

Lies.

You know that mom you see carrying a kicking, screaming child out of a store because said child is just done shopping and you think thank the good Lord above we got in a nap today and that isn't my child embarrassing me and making me want to cry and go to the bookstore and buy out the parenting section because clearly I SUCK at it?  

That was this mom on Sunday when Silas threw a wall-eyed fit in Garden Ridge.

But you know what?  I didn't care because there were finally witnesses: my mom (Nana) and my aunt (Auntie-Maw).

After I had ensconced him in his carseat and gotten most of the snot and slobber and tears mopped up and they had paid for all their purchases and mine and made it back to the car, there was a lot of "he never acts like that!" talk.  

Um, yes he does.  Every day, thanks.

He's just super awesome at playing perfect-angel-pretend for anyone but his dear, sweet mother.  So, you know.  I'm not crazy like you thought.  He's just been pulling the wool over your eyes.

Wait, there's more.

Yesterday, the babysitter was trying to get some things done and Silas was right there in the mix, but they weren't doing whatever it was he wanted to do, and so he turned into "YOU WILL GIVE ME YOUR UNDIVIDED ATTENTION RIGHT NOW OR I WILL DESTROY EVERYTHING I CAN REACH" crazy baby and I received a text message that said something like, "now I see what you've been going through."

All I have to say is, "I told you so."

Because I'm a bitch like that.

And vindication is sweet.

He's totally going to outgrow this, right?  Right?!  RIGHT?!?!?!

Don't even answer me.  I already know.

"Just wait until he turns three."

You can't judge a book by its taste in music

If you scrolled through my iPod, your immediate reaction would be that I'm 16 and wear a lot of glitter and probably don't know many big words.

Well, you'd be wrong.  I'm almost 30, and I gave up glitter, like, two years ago, and I know more and more big words by the day.

I'm not sure what happened to me to give me such craptastic (I love it when blogger red-squiggly-underlines the made-up words I use) taste in music.  My dad listens to classic rock, and my husband listens to music that never talks about going to clubs or cars or sneakers, and my best friend can probably sing every word to every Beatles song.  

In my defense, I've tried.  I mean really tried to like music with substance.  It's just that, with a few exceptions, my ears mostly tune it out unless there's a bass beat and stupid lyrics in play - although they're totally on board for the occasional tear-jerking country song, which is good because my iPod LOVES Kenny Chesney.

That's all good and well - I'm happy in my la-la fairy land of terrible music and have walrus-thick skin when it comes to people making fun of me for it.  

Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuut, now there is Silas, and we spend a lot of time in the car together on our new, improved longer commute.  

The first thing he says when I start the car is mu-SIC!  So, now 1.  I have to fast forward through all the words to a song in my head the instant it comes on to determine whether it's okay for parrot-baby to listen to, and  2.  he's starting to get pissy if a song comes on that does not have a bass beat and stupid lyrics and screams MU-SIC!!!  MU-SIC!!! until I change the station to a song fitting above description. 

Basically, I've ruined my son, and one day someone will scroll through his iPod and think he's a not-very-bright-glitter-wearing-16-year-old-girl.

Michael is going to be so pissed when he figures this out.

No good deed...

Remember Dave* and Cable Company*?  Remember how I conspired to go over Dave's head to the website and get my internet service cheaper?  Mmmm hmmm.  Well, Dave totally retaliated by tricking me into staying home from work on the wrong day.

Something about the sheet you print out when you sign up with a date and time doesn't really count.  What counts is the email they send you later with a completely different day and time.  

"Yeah, sucks for you that you stayed home on the wrong day.  Our next Saturday opening is in two weeks.  How does that sound?"  Super.  Waiting two more weeks to spend my Saturday sitting around all day until you decide to show up sounds freaking super awesome.  

Can you give me back that vacation day I spent for nothing?  They're precious, and I didn't want to take it to begin with, but someone is having Call of Duty withdrawals, and I was trying to be nice.  No?

How would I rate your customer service on a scale of 1-10?  (No, he really, literally asked me that) I give you a 2.  No, no.  You don't get to sound incredulous with me.  It's a 2.  I'm firm on that.  I don't care that it isn't your fault.  You haven't been much help and the fact that I've been irate for the last 30 minutes we've been on the phone together after waiting on hold for 30 minutes should be a clear sign that it is a bad time to ask me how I feel about your customer service.  So, frankly, I marked you down for stupidity.

*Names changed to protect a bunch of morons.

Ten things I learned over the three-day weekend

Things I learned over the long weekend:

1. The machines will soon be invading.  Here's my FB status from Friday: "just had 3 different machines eat my money trying to wash and vacuum my car. Text Michael that the machines are out to get me. Then a car with a transformer painted on the side rolled by...obviously I'm at chick-fil-a waiting out the impending invasion."

Here's the picture I didn't post just so I could recycle the story on my blog:

I'm a car emblazoned with a Transformer, and I made Michelle laugh hysterically at a traffic light

2. The children in my life are exceedingly adorable and imaginative.  Obviously, I didn't just learn this.  It was merely reinforced with the campaign they led to battle monsters under my bed.  It reminded me of being a kid and how completely awesome it was to make believe.  (Also, it allowed me to unpack three boxes without having to stop to put straws in juice boxes or pick Cheez-Its up off the carpet, or mediate disputes over whose turn it was to play with insert stupid plastic toy here or stand outside in the blazing sun watching children examine bugs and leaves and flowers).

3. I literally do not care what I look like in a swimsuit anymore.  It's covering the essentials?  It's good to go.  If you don't like my cellulite-y legs, feel free to avert your eyes and appreciate the fact that I have the common courtesy to cover my stretch marks.  I see this disaster area every day and have straight-up come to terms with the fact that there is no swimsuit on earth that can ever hope to cover up the damage done by the pregnancies and the cookies and the beer and the deep-fried ev-er-y-thing.  However, it's 9,842 degrees in the Metroplex, and I'm not avoiding the pool all summer because you may not care for how I look in a tankini. 

4. Speaking of swimming - tackling it with a toddler is a lot of hauling a bunch of crap to the pool, blowing up flotation devices, putting on sunscreen, and wedging chunky legs into swim diapers and swim trunks.  Then splashing about for five minutes prior to hearing "I'm all done" in a voice that means "get me out of here right this second, or toddlergeddon will be upon you."  Then, there's the removing of the swim diaper and swim trunks, the redressing of the slippery toddler, the deflating of the flotation devices and the hauling of the toddler and all our crap back to the car.

5. Hot juice boxes are gross and not at all refreshing.  I know that because I forgot the cooler, Silas' playpen, and a sippy cup all at the same time and was thirsty from the trauma and snatched a juice box out of the box I'd left laying in the back of the Jeep only to discover I'd just added to my list of mistakes for the day.  At least I remembered the sunscreen.

6. Sitting on your couch watching the NYC fireworks show is not as pathetic and sad as you might think.  I have no mosquito bites.  I didn't spend an hour and a half in traffic trying to get home.  And my kid wasn't up past his bedtime and was therefore not kicking the daylights out of me and screaming the house down when I tucked him in.

7. It will likely take a year for us to be fully moved this time.  I'm not patient enough to be working at this speed.  Although, every, single box we've moved has already been unpacked.  All eight of them.

8. If you call Cable Company* and talk to Dave*, he will lie straight to your ear and tell you that WiFi costs $50 a month and continue to insist that is the price even when you argue that it's lunacy and that you just had WiFi through the same company two months ago, and did they start powering the internet with Premium Unleaded in your absence?  So, you have to be smart enough to just hang up on Dave and go to the website because it will tell you that WiFi actually costs $30 a month - much like you tried to tell Dave.  (Are you trying to personally pocket my extra $20 a month, Dave?  I do not take kindly to thieves)

9.  If you go long enough without a refrigerator, you will miss things like shopping for groceries and preparing home cooked meals - even if you are in the running for laziest woman on earth.

10. I'm capable of being early to work when I do not know how long the drive actually takes - as I think it takes two hours to drive every route I've not previously driven.  It never does.

*names changed to protect a bunch of morons

P.S.  Happy (belated) Fourth of July.  It was a weird one at my house, but I wouldn't want to wake up to my weirdness in any other country on earth.  Thanks to all the brave men and woman who have fought to defend my right to use my time writing my silly stories and complaining about stupid stuff.  I live a charmed life because of the  sacrifices made by you and your families.  Please don't think I ever forget that or that I will ever cease to love and appreciate each one of you.

I just checked, and I'm still smarter than my kid. Whew.

I've taken to testing my kid to make sure that I am, in fact, still in charge and still smarter than him.

Me: Silas, let's go take a bath.

Silas: No!

Me: Stunned.  You like to take baths, Silas...

Silas: No!

Me: You don't like to take baths?

Silas: No!

Me: Oh, well, fair enough.  Do you still like to go outside?

Silas: No! thinks a beat. Mommy, outside!  Bicycle.  Outside.

That's what I thought, dude.  Keep being a little bratty, brat, brat, and I'll keep tricking you into telling me you no longer like to do the things I don't feel like doing in the 428 degree heat.

Check. and. Mate.

Fish and Visitors Stink After Three Days

If you've had more than an elevator-conversation with me recently, you know I'm so excited about moving I'd almost trade my iPhone if that's what it took.  No, I'm totally lying.  I'd sooner part with Silas.  He yells a lot anyway (gah! I'm just kidding. Stop looking at me like that).  But I'd totally resort to flat-ironing my hair or ironing my clothes or being on time every day for a week or something.

Grateful as I am to have had a place to live these last two months - I'll just say what we've all been thinking for two weeks: everyone is done with this situation.  It's very much time for us all to return to our regularly scheduled programs and start the healing process.

It's no one person's fault, and I'm not pointing fingers.  It's just the way life is.  

People who genuinely like each other try to cohabitate after they're grown and end up wanting to kill each other.  

Borrowing money from your family/friends or trying to live with them are the two quickest ways to find yourself celebrating your birthday alone for two years while everyone is on a time out.

But, you know, lesson finally learned this time.  Next time I find myself quasi-homeless, I'm totally going to move into my Jeep (I've got that same syndrome you get the week you get your iPhone where you're blinded by its awesomeness and can think of nothing else to talk about and annoy the isht out of everyone who's had theirs forever, only it's the Jeep version.  I'm sure I'll come down off of it soon.  Or I won't.  Whatever.  It's awesome!!!)

From the maid

This may or may not be directed to a particular husband who I adore beyond all logic or reason but who may or may not be driving me absolutely batty with one particular obnoxious  habit he has.  I've done some quiet research and learned that this may or may not be applicable to the husband/boyfriend/girlfriend/wife/fiance you adore beyond all logic and reason too.  So, here goes.

Can anyone tell me what is wrong with this picture:

That thing on the right?  That's our dirty clothes basket.  That crumpled-up heap next to it that looks like a dirty shirt casually discarded on the floor?  It is a dirty shirt casually discarded on the floor.  RIGHT NEXT TO THE BASKET.

What's not pictured are the dirty socks which were also casually discarded on the floor for the maid to take care of upon her arrival.

Except we don't have a maid.  So, that left me to pick up your mother flipping dirty clothes off the floor.  You notice how that basket is half-full of Silas' clothes and my clothes?  That's because I dress and undress the both of us every day and apparently have substantially better aim than you.

Just swing your arm a few inches to the right and DROP IT IN THE EFFING BASKET that I have conveniently placed there for just such an occasion.  If you don't, you're going to stop magically finding clean clothes in the drawers every morning because the maid is going to go on strike.

..............................................................

Although, that husband who I adore beyond all logic and reason did have to spend two days dealing with car salesmen and being all charming and awesome and negotiator-y to get me this:

Hi, I'm Michelle's new Jeep that her husband helped her get, and she loves me almost as much as she loves her husband, and she VERY MUCH appreciates him for his help and for giving up his sleep on Friday and his entire Saturday to get me because I exude awesomeness and make her smile every time she sees me - much like her husband.

I suppose I should have just picked up the shirt and the socks and kept my mouth shut and known that my husband makes up for his annoying habits with huge bursts of awesomeness and that I'm making a mountain out of a molehill.  But then I wouldn't be me, now would I?


P.S. I love you, husband.

Silas is recalcitrant (i.e. vocab word of the day)

Vocabulary word of the day: 

recalcitrant - resisting authority or control; not obedient or compliant; refractory; hard to deal with, manage or operate

Who knew there was such a perfect way to sum up my son in one word?  

When you look that word up in the dictionary, it should just say "Silas" and have a video clip of him ignoring everything a ask/tell/plead/demand/beg he do in the two hours between us arriving home and bed time every, single night.

Most people have told me that their first born was an obedient angel and that it was their second born who was recalcitrant.  I suppose that means that that little girl in Heaven was born with all the compliance and obedience and manageability and took it on up to Heaven with her, and that her little brother arrived on the scene as the second born with a determination to break mommy's will.

Seriously, though, I wouldn't change him for anything.  Although he sometimes makes me nuts, I love that he's strong-willed and independent with a mind of his own and not afraid to fight for what he wants.  Reminds me of someone else I know.

My secret

I've been keeping a secret from most of you because I'm a wussy/sissy/pansy who is afraid of being judged by her failures.  

But after last night, I don't feel like I'm going to fail at this.  As a matter of fact, I feel positively revitalized.  It's like I've been living in a lifeless shell formerly known as Michelle for the last five years and have finally busted out.  

During the shell years, I've tried to figure out where that fire I used to have went.  Where was that vivacious, confident, live-life-to-the-fullest and try to never have regrets girl?  

What I finally realized is that I suffocated her.  I didn't suffocate her when I quit law school or when I never went back.  I suffocated her when I let those two facts define me.  I looked in the mirror and all I saw was failure branded on my forehead.  

Working in a law firm constantly reminded me that I had failed.  No matter how many times people complimented my work as a paralegal, I still felt like a failure because being a paralegal means working for people who actually finished school and passed the bar and made something more of themselves.  

Every time someone else left the ranks of the support staff to trot off to law school, it reminded me I had failed.  I beat myself up about it so much that I could not see anything positive about myself.  I started taking all of my flaws and magnifying them until all that was left of me in my mind was the negative.

As it turns out I am not a failure so much as I am much more in tune with myself than I realized.  Because?  I don't want to be a lawyer.  

All this time I've had alone with myself since my husband's schedule has gone all whackadoo has forced me to deal with me after Silas goes to bed.  There's no one else to distract me from myself.  

Therefore, I had to face down that demon - because there is nothing more miserable than being alone 24/7 with a miserable husk of a woman.  

What I remembered is that never in my life have I not put up a fierce battle for something I really wanted.  If I had really wanted to go back to law school, I would not have let anything stand in my way.  Period.  I make things happen when I put my mind to them.  But what I've done since I walked out of that law school for the last time swearing I would return in the fall is make excuse after excuse and create obstacle after obstacle to ensure that I would never go back.  

When I finally admitted to myself that I never should have gone to law school in the first place, I stopped hating myself.  Like, instantly.  But I still wasn't satisfied with the level of education I have attained or content to stay put in my current profession forever (sorry to all the people who I work with and love if you don't relish the idea of me leaving some day!!!  although I very much do want to stay put for the time being -and I plan to continue to give 120% effort :))

So, I started researching graduate schools and the GRE and buying study books for the GRE and flash cards and such.  

Last night after Silas fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinally went to sleep (boy did he absolutely have no desire to sleep), I got lost in learning vocabulary words and practicing techniques for taking the GRE, and it felt fantastic.  It felt like  being myself again.  It felt like I had something to look forward to that is going to be mine-all-mine but also benefit my family.

So, now out with my plan to keep this secret from you unless I got accepted to graduate school.  Because - I remembered I'm pretty smart, and I'm very much capable of hard work, and I very much have the ability to get into graduate school, and I'm going to embrace that unless I'm proven wrong - and then we'll have a whole new set of bitter/angry/tearful posts to wade through.

Now we start the vocabulary word of the day.  If you already know these words - I don't care because my vocabulary is not as awesome as I thought it was, and I have to learn them.  Just indulge me. 

Vocabulary word of the day:

Execrable - utterly detestable; abominable; abhorrent.

Ex. sentence: The movie Borat is execrable. (Randi and I hate it even if a gazillion other people love it - and we're usually pretty cool and down to watch all manner of stupid guy movies.  Therefore, I dub it execrable).

Look at me failing at life again

Generally, my first inclination when I'm freaking out about something is to call my husband and make him talk me off the ledge.  But he wouldn't answer the phone this morning when I discovered - purely through an act of God - that I was 30 minutes late for a court appearance for a speeding ticket I got 17 days ago.  The Court is a good 30 minutes away with no traffic.

Therefore, I was forced to stop crying (y'all it's an every day thing at this point), put on my big girl pants, and figure it all out on my own.  

According to the two attorneys who sit across the hall from me, I'm currently in contempt of court for failure to appear.  Sweet.

I'm now very much looking forward to being yelled at by a Judge in three hours.  By that I mean, being yelled at is better than God not intervening and me realizing I missed this court date tomorrow and having a warrant out for my arrest.  (silver lining)

How's your day going?

Can someone give me permission to go home now?

OMG.  Michael traumatized me via movie again.  Since it was Father's Day yesterday and he's a pretty excellent father to our child, I didn't feel I could tell him "no" when he requested I watch Devil with him last night.  But hello?  Nothing scarier than a movie about being trapped on an elevator with the devil on a murderous rampage.

Wait, no, I'm wrong.  What's scarier is when you have nightmares all night about getting murdered on an elevator yourself after watching Devil and then you go to work the next morning and get trapped on the effing elevator.  

It was only for a few minutes, but I was literally shaking and short of breath with tears rolling down my face by the time I walked off the elevator and into my office.  

I escaped that death cage just in time to run down the hall and pretend I had my isht together enough to have a conference call with one of the partners at my firm.  

True story.  Shouldn't someone give me the rest of the day off now?

Some advice for the sleep-deprived

If you've stopped sleeping (I don't know because your husband's schedule is all whack and your brain doesn't give a flip how tired you are because he isn't home and could walk in the door any second so it must wait for him to be home to sleep, for example)?

Write everything down.  Write everything down.  Write everything down.  

Or you will forget something.  

And it will be an important work deadline.  

And you will cry in your newest boss' office.  

Because you've blown the deadline by an entire day.  

Then you will spend several hours worrying that your newest boss probably thinks you're a drama queen.  

But you probably wouldn't have cried like that if you were sleeping.  

Then again, you are a drama queen and may well have cried no matter how well-rested you were.

Probably better he knows early.  

But start writing everything down anyway.

Being a grownup is lame

I'm pretty sure I've completed whatever step it is we're on now (five?  I forget), but I'm not sure how I feel about it.

Today, I wrote my mom an entire email (with a grin plastered across my face as I tap-tap-tapped on the keyboard) about how supremely happy I am with the changes in my car insurance.  I felt a swelling of joy at what a great deal I'd gotten on fantastic coverage for our vehicles.  

It was akin to the feeling I once got when I bought a pair of adorable, strappy Calvin Klein stilettos (that I've worn exactly two times) for about $60 cheaper than a friend of mine.  We fell in love with them on the same day (in different colors), but I waited a couple of weeks to buy them (and they still cost more than you should spend on shoes you wear twice in 7 years) and so got them on clearance. 

So, basically,  all the energy I used to spend shopping for bargains on cute shoes, I now spend haggling with insurance agents.  

So, I'm calling this another step toward becoming a grownup, but I'm starting to wonder why it is I even want to be a grownup.  Turns out it's making me really boring.   

Maybe I should dye my hair purple again to shake things up.

The top ten things I say daily

Here are the top ten things I say daily as a mom.  I imagine they will look quite familiar to you if you are a parent.

10. Don't touch that! (wherein "that" is usually some disease-ridden thing you are desperate to pick up off the ground)

09. Put that down!(wherein "that" is some sharp object just waiting for an opportunity to stab you or me but something you should absolutely not have in your tiny hand)

08. Get that out of your mouth! (wherein "that" is the thing I didn't want you to touch in the first place, but you ignored me, and now you've either got a choking hazard or cooties in your mouth)

07. Please sit still! (because I really need to get you dressed or put your shoes on or clip your nails or change your diaper)

06. Stop running in the house! (because you're going to bust your head open, and we're both going to cry, and I'm going to spend my night in the ER and give them even more of my hard-earned money because you want to run full-out through the house and slip on that truck I keep telling you to pick up and land squarely on the corner of the coffee table)

05. Can you take one more bite for mommy? (because you only want to eat Goldfish and Teddy Grahams and cheese....that's it.  Those are the things you'll willingly eat.  Everything else is a dual at ten paces)

04. Let's go! (because you are the most easily distracted person on earth.  It's "bye bye! bye bye!" all the time until we needed to be in the car twenty minutes ago at which point the guy across the street cutting the grass is the most fascinating thing you've ever seen, and now I have  you, my purse, your bag,  a sippy cup and my keys in my hands...even though you're fully mobile now, and I don't have four arms)

03. What do you want?! (because although you know an astounding amount of words, you prefer to whine or scream or repeat one word over and over at increasing decibels when you want something.  "Blanket!  Blan-KET! BLAAAAAAAANKET!  But you have two blankets in your hands, and I have no idea what it is you're getting at!  What do you want?!)

02.  What's that smell? (it's you.  You pooped, and it was a terrible time for you to do so.  I just changed your diaper or we're in the car 30 minutes from our destination or in public and you're totally terrified of those changing tables or you should have been asleep two hours ago, but you have been throwing all your bedding and your sippy out onto the floor every ten minutes and now I'm ignoring you and so you present the piece de resistance.  Poop.  "Change it.  You have to get me out of bed and change it.  Now.  I win.  You lose.  As usual.")

01. I love you (because you're awesome and really amazing in all your mischievous, adorable, patience-testing, perfection and I have no idea what exactly the point was to my life before there was you.)

Potty Chairs and Training Pants

What's going on in my world?  This:

I bought it over a week ago, which was a stress-loaded task in itself.  I was completely overwhelmed with all the potty chair options and am loathe to part with anymore of my money than I absolutely have to.  So, I came home with the cheapest option. 

Since then, I've come up with 900 excuses why it should sit, untouched, in the bathroom rather than be put to use.

Like, he's not even two and we're about to move again and his babysitter's about to go on vacation and Michael's schedule is all whack and I already feel like there's too much on my plate and I'M SO DREADING THIS TASK.  

That's the real reason.  I have a habit of just not doing anything I think I'm going to fail at doing.  Potty-training?  Seems like the hardest thing ever and a super easy way to add to my momFAIL list.

I had been successfully thwarting all suggestions that he was ready to start potty training.  He seemed to buck me every time I made a half-ass, lame attempt to get him to use the toilet, and I would say, "he isn't ready"and everyone would nod and agree and leave me alone.  It was all going so well.

Well, then the little traitor went and refused to potty in a swim diaper this weekend.  He told his Nana: "Diaper.  Potty."  and my mom said, "Um, no.  If you know you need to potty, you need to go to the big boy potty."  and you know what?  He freaking did it.  He pottied in the big boy potty for her.  

So, then we had to make a trip to Target, and now we own these too:

We seem to have all the necessary equipment and a child who is capable of using a big boy potty, and I know it's unacceptable to expect him to just wear diapers for the rest of his days. 

So, all we need now is a mommy brave enough to face this task with confidence and come out victorious.  

Volunteers?

This would be my sports double standard

Really, I'm happy for you that the Mavs won.  Truly.  But I don't care about basketball.  Just like I didn't care about baseball.  And I was told then to "suck it up and jump on the bandwagon."  I did as instructed, and are the Rangers the World Series champs?  That'd be a no.

So, no more with the bugging me to watch basketball or get on bandwagons I don't want to be on.  Just let me do interesting things while you watch your games and lose your minds.

It's bad enough that I have to sit and listen to two grown men argue (I literally thought there might be fisticuffs at one point) (don't you love the word fisticuffs) over the better strategy to win the game without the constant nagging to participate in the lunacy.  

NO ONE WHO MATTERS CAN HEAR YOU.  I'm the only one who can hear you, and I think you both sound ridiculous.  And stop yelling profanities at the TV every time someone misses a 3.  My baby can hear them.  And quit giving me that look for being on potty-mouth patrol.  You take him out in public and let him embarrass you with his foul mouth and then get back to me with that look.

I'm going to sit here and be normal. You sit over there and be insane all by yourself.  

Until the fall...When there's football...Then we'll all be crazy...Because we will all be on that bandwagon, and we will like it. 

My pint-sized Jekyl and Hyde

My kid keeps life interesting, that's for sure.  

We decided he's going through his terrible twos early after I got an email saying they could start at 18 months and he has turned into a pint-sized Jekyl and Hyde.

He's trouble, and he's so stinking cute, and knows the exact moment to turn on the charm.

This morning, he threw a big, ugly fit and kicked the daylights out of me while I changed his diaper and wriggled free of me after I got his pants on and ran all over the house while I was grinding my teeth and trying to get a shirt over his head.  

About the minute I was getting ready to give up and leave him in the care of our two dogs and go about my day (just kidding....mostly), he flipped the script and went all, "Hi mommy!  Shoes on.  Bye bye.  I loooooooooove you.  Carseat?"

Well played, little man.  Well played.

Silas throws a screaming fit for a million miles and finally succumbs to that nap he was fighting

Silas drags all of his bedding onto the cold, tile floor and finally stops screaming for the first time since we got home (that's my concealer that found its way into the dryer on his pillow - the concealer that usually lives in my makeup bag...hmmm)

Silas does his own hair with water from the dog dish and is then confined to that chair while I finish making dinner

Posting the unposted

I write a lot of drafts and don't share them.  Mostly, it's the even bitchier side of me (you didn't know?) having "Dear Diary" moments.  So, if anyone can figure out my password when I die, they'll have some half-finished ramblings (and some totally finished ones) for some light beach reading.

I thought I'd pull some of my favorite lines from my unpublished posts and put them here:

1. Today I am a camel and receipt of the "bitchy email of the day" officially broke my effing back
2. Never you mind about what I'm on. Just enjoy the mild euphoria until I turn back into one of those emo kids on South Park.
3. So, overall, I've made the right choices even if they seem stupid separately (and sometimes collectively).  
4. Michael is totally threatening to wax one of my eyebrows off because he saw it on Tosh.0 and has decided it would be hilarious.
5. I recall thinking I would not survive on three separate occasions between 2 a.m. Saturday morning and 11:30 p.m. Saturday night (just because you arrive home from the sleepover by noon the next day does not mean you have survived it - take my word for it). 
6. Sometimes I steal french fries from Silas.  And chicken nuggets.  What? It's not like he's ever in the history of ever cleaned his plate.
7. People who travel to other countries and come back and tell me how typically-American I am until their "European-ness" (or whatever) wears off annoy the $hit out of me.  
8. Plus, my son loves to dance, and there happened to be a Dance, Dance Revolution game that I happened to walk by 100 times until it caught his eye, and he climbed up, and I took pictures of him.
9. How terrible a human being am I that I'm a little glad Silas had a rough couple of weeks because we now hear a lot of "mommy!  mommy!" around our house?  
10. Whatevs.  I don't feel like being slapped today, so I'm leaving the pity party.  You're welcome to stay if you've got crap going on and want to wallow in it for a while, but we don't have money for beer or tequila, so it's a pretty lame party.

 

Michelle, why do you vent on your blog all. the. time.?

Yeah, I threw a tantrum the other day.  What of it?  I needed to vent.

I played nice with the general public yesterday, but this morning was another cluster-flip, so I'm not even going to ask if we can be friends again because I may forget my manners (and general vow to do better at life) and yell profanities if you happen to cut me off in traffic later this afternoon.  So, perhaps we can try again next week.

There was a Michelle once upon a time who was very meek and unassertive and afraid of her own shadow and wouldn't raise her voice at anyone (I swear.  You can totally call people and verify it).  But you know that scene in Enough with Jennifer Lopez where she breaks into the guys house and learns the layout in the dark and beats the crap out of him because she just can't take anymore of being a victim?  Yes, the mental equivalent of that happened to me somewhere around the age of 16 or 17, and I never looked back. 

And I hear complaints about my temper and how loud I am in general and have been called a b*tch more than once, but you know what you will never see?  You will never see me on the news being led away in handcuffs for driving my car through a fast food restaurant's plate glass window because they got my order wrong for the four-millionth time in a row and that was just not the day to forget to put cheese on my burger.  

So, you know, there's something to be said for venting your frustration on the regular. 

For working moms

This is my working-mom tirade.  It's my small way of giving back to the working-mom community by saying what you may have wanted to say for years.  (I stayed at home with little Silas for all of two months, and I know it's no picnic, but I can't write for you if you're a stay at home mom because I don't live that life.  But I'm sure with some editing, this can also apply to you if you need to forward it to someone who's making you lose your ever-loving mind.)

Yesterday?  I got the kid and myself dressed, I dropped the kid off at the babysitter, I fought traffic to work, I worked all day, I fought traffic back home, I picked up the kid, I let the dogs out, I cleaned the kitchen, I made dinner, I cleaned dinner off the floor and off the kid, I cleaned the kitchen again, I let the dogs out, I bathed the kid, I reasoned with the kid to to go to bed, I did laundry, I worked on what I didn't finish at work, I recorded the Mavs game and made sure to record overtime so that the husband could watch it when he got home, I refilled the kid's sippy, I worked some more, I refilled the kid's sippy and changed his diaper, I worked some more, I let the dogs out and fell into bed exhausted.

My day job is stressful.  Not rocket science, but there is someone needing something all the time.  It's a lot like being at home only it carries the stress of "if I lose my shit here, I can't pay the rent next month."

There is never enough money to cover everything, and God-forbid we have an emergency.  (Like last month when there were several trips to the ER at $100 a pop).

My neck has so many knots that sometimes I can't turn my head to the side.  I'm keeping whoever manufactures off-brand ibuprofen in business.  I'm in constant physical pain from the stress.

There are not really many points in my life where I'm doing the equivalent of lounging by the pool and sipping a margarita.  I've got stuff going on almost all the time.  If it's quiet in the physical world, it's still a whirlwind in my head.

My point?  Am I moody? for sure.  Can I be bitchy?  at times.  Am I crazy?  it's possible.  But I. have. reasons.  

So, I'm very sorry if I'm not meeting your needs in whatever capacity it is I'm supposed to be meeting them for whatever our relationship is, but I'm doing the very best I can.  So, get off my back.  Immediately.  

Because if you are the next person to make me cry or cause the veins in my forehead to bulge, I'm going to blow straight through those flashing yellow caution lights and go straight to red.

Ya dig?

A letter to Silas

Dear Silas,

Could you kindly stop beating on the bathroom door and crying pitifully when mommy goes in there and closes the door?  It's not like I've fallen into Narnia just because there is a door separating us.  It's not a secret portal.  I haven't escaped.  And I always make sure that there is another adult to terrorize lest you try to burn the house down or do cartwheels off the couch.  So, you can totally continue to do toddler things while I take a five minute shower.  I'm not even going to shave my legs.  Honest.

Also, seeing as you didn't start sleeping through the night until you were nine months old, it'd be great if you'd go back to doing that.  I love you too, but pleading for me to get you out of bed at 3 a.m. only serves to make us argue, and you don't seem to be big on logic right now.  So, mostly, you're just making me feel crazy for trying to reason with you.  I'm working on the whole patience thing, but I'm just going to be honest with you and let you know that I'm not even trying between the hours of midnight and 7 a.m.  Therefore, I cannot be held responsible for any tantrums that occur between those hours due to your insistence that I get out of bed.

Lastly, it's sweet that you like to share, but stop asking me for cheese and then giving it directly to the dogs.  You see, I'd just stop giving you cheese, but I have that mommy-fear that you aren't eating enough.  Denying you food when you actually ask for it just isn't an option.  So, just eat the cheese.  

I ask all of this with a big please, and you know the only response to that in our house is "O-kay!" since you're the one who made that rule.

Love, 

Mom