Things have been pretty crazy around here recently.
But I’m happy. I’m really happy.
And that is all I have to say about that.
Could it have been more perfect?
Could it?
There is NO way. My love for New Orleans, for Louisiana, for the Saints, runs deep.
Look at the number of fleur-de-lis that are residents of my house.
Last night, I sat on my couch and watched as the Saints were down.
My son played in his room and ran into the den every time I let out a shriek. “What’s going on?” he’d ask, and as I’d try to explain to him that Mommy’s-most-favorite-team-ever had done something that incited a response, he’d run back to his room, completely uninterested.
But when they won — WHEN THE SAINTS WON THE SUPER BOWL — it didn’t matter who was uninterested because I? Was ecstatic.
Am ecstatic.
As my middle sister said last night on Facebook, “I called it, the Saints are winning because I’m Cajun!”
And while it would have been wonderful, amazing, epic to be on the streets of the French Quarter, to see the sights and share hugs with strangers (if I were the touching strangers sort), last night there was no other place I’d rather be than on my couch, watching the game.
Yesterday was perfect.
REPRESENT.
WHO DAT?
So, for the first time ever, I am partaking in Mama Kat’s writing prompts, mostly because I am on a blogging roll, which I haven’t been on in some time, and also because I have been up since 6 a.m. and am feeling a little addled considering I didn’t go to bed until after 2 a.m. and woke up to a dog with the runs and a child who has decided to never brush his hair again. So today? I can totally get behind some Mama’s Losin’s it, brought to you by Mama Kat.
So here we go. Ten things I did not know, was not aware, did not have my pulse on until I became a mother. Without further ado:
1. Your spit is sanitary. To that end, suddenly eating dirt — especially off of pacifiers that have fallen on the playground floor and need to be prompty inserted into your child’s mouth lest he freaks out — is a totally acceptable behavior. In addition to sanitize, spit can be used to clean faces, rub ink off hands and to stick things back on your child.
2. Men of all ages love big boobs. After breast feeding the Noodle for 15 months, he was a constant boob grabber, especially in the grocery cart. He’d just reach out and squeeze the girls, as if they were udders and he could just milk me (which I never let him do, but the mental image is sort of funny, right? Right?). Then came the day he realized that if he shouted “BOOBS!” people would laugh. Now that he’s four, I thought we were over this boob stage, at least until his teenage years, but this morning, he curled up on me on the couch and after a few minutes of silent cuddling, he said, “Mommy? I think I am laying on your boobs.” Sigh.
3. Dogs will eat anything. No, really. Anything. Especially a poopy diaper, leftover chili and formula. And dogs will not digest these things well at all. And moms will have to clean up after both dog and child.
4. You will get used to your child jumping off of everything. And you will go used to it you will laugh when other people — strangers, grandparents, etc. — gasp as your child comes flying off the fourth stair or off a chair onto the couch.
5. You will never get used to your child running everywhere. WHY ARE YOU BEING SO LOUD? THUD THUD DEAR GOD THUD THUD THUD WHAT IS THAT THUD THUD THUD THUMP THUMP THWACK. “Mommy? Can I have a (gasp for breath) piece of cheese?”
6. Your kids will lie about you to anyone who will listen. For example: The Noodle, Tuesday at school, proudly dropped a Seriously Bad Word in front of the class. And his reasoning: “My mommy said I could cuss if it made me happy.” Um no, kid. Mommy did not.
7. Wine helps laundry go faster. It really does. It also helps headaches, long days, days where you’re missing your kid because he’s with Your Darling Ex and also Tuesdays.
8. For everytime you thought “My kids won’t do …” when you were younger, your kids will definitely do … and do it five times worse. Which is why when I carried a screaming Noodle out of daycare a while back, I felt the need to say to the mother entering the building that I was not kidnapping the child in my arms (as he was screaming, “HELP ME! LET ME GO! GAAAAAHHH!!” at the top of his lungs) before dumping him into his car seat.
9. No matter what size you are, what shape you are, your kids are in better — and faster, especially if in trouble — shape. I understand now why there are so many Leash Kids. Just sayin’.
10. You will be willing to get a power nap ANYWHERE. Four years in to my lifetime of sleep deprivation, I actually said this to a friend not an hour ago: “I considered taking a nap in the bathroom earlier … You know it’s bad if you’ll sleep where others shit.” Because? Had there been a blanket or something squirreled away? You wouldn’t be reading this, ‘cause mama’d be dozin’.
Panter daughters. Each comes with her own must-show-tongue-in-photos compulsion
I mean that in the best possible way.
That’s right, on February 3, 2009 at around 1:20 p.m. a trip to Chuck E. Cheese (Which very well may still have been called Showbiz Pizza, I don’t remember) was interrupted when Tiny Juan exploded forth from the netherregion of my (well, our) mother.
My first memory of Tiny Juan was that she had black hair and big black eyes, and I was kind of excited about actually touching the baby (although, even though I was 9 and very responsible, I think my parents may have actually chanted ‘don’t kill the baby, don’t kill the baby’ as I took her into my arms).
Then, she puked. All over me.
Thus was the beginning of a beautiful relationship between me and my youngest sister.
And now, today, she is 20. Out of those teen years. A sophomore in college. Generally adorable.
And I attribute some of that adorableness to the hand that our other sister and I had in raising her.
So, on your birthday, Tiny Juan, I want to say this: You. Are. Welcome.
You are welcome for all the things that made you such a well-rounded person.
*For tying you up with a jump rope to the big oak in our front yard and leaving you until Mom came home? You’re welcome.
* For teaching you to play Hooker, wherein we put makeup all over your face and dressed you in a vinyl skirt, toy heels and a lacy top? You’re welcome.
* For teaching you to play White Trash after Hooker got banned, wherein we kept the same outfit on you? You’re welcome.
* For letting you mindlessly read the closed captioning on television, until you got to the words “you bastard,” at which point I shamed you until you cried and then blackmailed you? You’re welcome.
* For giving you all those R.L. Stine books and watching those Goosebumps shows with you, then pretending you had a monster-face and making you cry? You’re welcome.
* For taking you to all those concerts and always making you miss Chiodos, the band you were trying to see? You’re welcome.
* For creating and performing — repeatedly — a lyrical interpretation of “Transylvania” in the car, in front of family and friends and strangers at stoplights? You’re welcome.
* For teasing you mercilessly for always being bewildered and saying, “I’m so confused …” You’re welcome.
* For taking all those pictures of you fast asleep in the front seat of the car on the way to Florida with you mouth gaped open, and then sending them to you randomly throughout the following years? You’re welcome.
* For taking you to the middle school parking lot with your manual transmissioned car, and calmly explaining to you how to drive because whenever you get nervous you freak out and start to “burn up”? You’re welcome.
* For taking you out in Athens, to various questionable establishments that inspired you to call our father and TELL ON ME? You’re welcome.
*For letting you take me to defensive driving school, tote me around Athens and take care of me when I’m sick? You’re welcome.
* For thinking you’re the coolest little sib that anyone could have, and wishing you a happy birthday on this most important day? You’re welcome.
Happy birthday, Tiny Juan.
How do you know the difference between right and wrong?
I mean, can you argue that all black is bad and all white is good? Because, at their basis, they are the combination and absence of all color.
But in the middle, you have the gray.
For years now, one of my favorite colors has been charcoal gray. I love it. I’m wearing it right now. There were years where everything I bought was gray. Not as gloomy as black, because somewhere there was a little light in it.
I’ve found the world to be an increasingly gray place, and I don’t mean that in a bad way.
I mean it in the I don’t know that I can say that things are purely evil or purely good in and of themselves.
Of course, there are evil things in this world. Child molesters do evil acts. Pat Robertson says evil things. Cops pull me over for speeding and give me evil tickets.
And there are great, wonderful, pure things in this world. Baby feet. Puppy breath. First kisses.
But the majority of things in life are not just one way or the other. People who do horrendous things (allegedly) can be rehabilitated. I suppose Pat Robertson could get his jaw wired shut. Cops save lives. Babies turn into kids who kick their friends. Puppies chew up your new kicks. First kisses can lead to first heartbreaks.
If there is anything that I’ve learned in life is that sometimes you can’t determine whether something is right or wrong for another person — or yourself.
I’ve been following my gut lately. It’s made me be more muted on here, on Facebook, in real life. I’ve been in my head a lot, which is sort of like living in an expressionist painting:
Cerebellum.
But what I’m finding out is that the gray parts of the world are, in a sense, just as colorful as I could imagine them to be. And despite my stress and life drama, I am trusting my gut because a) well, it’s my gut and b) it keeps me regular (heh heh heh, get my thinly veiled poo joke? I AM CLASSY.)
I’m learning that we don’t know anything until we’ve walked a mile in someone else’s shoes. And the fact of the matter is, we can NEVER really walk a mile in someone else’s shoes. We only have our own, and they can be broken down or high arched or expensive or cheap, but they are ours and it is our job to walk in them rather than to look around, comparing your shoes, your path, with everyone else’s.
So, with that said, I’m going to keep on trotting along in my grayscale world, thinking of more poo jokes to regale you with.
Yer welcome.
Brought to you by mckmama.com
Growing up, I was NOT raised to have NO concept of time whatsoever.
That’s why I am ALWAYS on time — early, in fact — to almost everything.
I also like to do things at completely normal times.
For example, Friday night, after work, I DID NOT take The Noodle to see his grandfather — the famous Sir Winston — for the weekend. And certainly, I DID NOT angrily look at weather reports and disdainfully snort at the possibility of snow and/or ice and/or any sort of wintry mix (I love that phrase, really).
So, when it got freezing cold and slightly icy, I DID NOT look down at my German-made car which is horrible in any sort of incliment weather (Thanks for that, Germans. First you stick it to us Americans by adding cupholders directly above all things electrical, then you decide to make the car SLIDE. Danke schön.)
I definitely DID NOT drive back from Sir Winstonland at 2 a.m.
I DID NOT drive as fast as I could down I-85 to Athens.
I DID NOT notice that it seemed like the car didn’t really want to start and choose to ignore this fact.
And certainly, when Saturday morning rolled around and I got up and cranked Benzie, I DID NOT again ignore the fact that she seemed a little … less than thrilled about cranking.
And most definitely, Sunday morning, I DID NOT trot out to her and try to crank her to hear … NOTHING.
NADA. ZILCH.
I DID NOT have to do a happy dance and thank my lucky stars that a friend was able to jump me off with one of those magical jumper-offer things.
I DID NOT call my father on my way to pick up The Noodle and mention to him that I was worried my alternator was going bad.
Once in Sir Winstonland, we certainly DID NOT wait until dark, when the weather began to freeze again, to check out the battery.
Turns out, it was purchased in August 2003.
Turns out, that’s a long time to have one battery.
So, Sir Winston DID NOT have to take the battery out. And during said taking outing, the ground cable certainly DID NOT break OFF the car, requiring not just a trip to Walmart for a battery (And let’s talk about how the battery cost $90. WHAT IN THE HELL?) but also a trip to an auto parts store to purchase another ground cable.
And I DID NOT let my dad change the battery. In the ice. In the dark. While The Noodle and I watched the Grammys.
I DID NOT get on the road to Athens at 10:15.
When we were almost home, I DID NOT notice that my headlights were getting very bright and very dim. And then, wonder of wonders, the radio DID NOT begin to fade in and out, too.
I DID NOT make it home and go to bed, pretending to be Scarlett O’Hara and deciding to deal with Finicky Benzie in the morning.
So, this morning I DID NOT take The Noodle to school before looking at the battery connections.
Which is why, when I went out to my car, which WAS NOT parked directly outside The Noodle’s school, and found it DEAD, I DID NOT pitch a fit.
I DID NOT try to wiggle cables and stare stupidly at the engine.
I DID NOT call my dad. He DID NOT listen as I finally, in a fit of rage, grabbed the battery and tried to rip it out of the car. At that point, the connections DID NOT work themselves into the right place, and I WAS NOT — battery acided up — able to drive her to a friend’s station and have the cables tightened down on the battery.
This WILL NOT — hopefully — not fix the problem.
So, the moral of the story? It is DEFINITELY NOT that sometimes, throwing a little fit and trying to break your own stuff works out for the best.
Ahem.
Brought to you by the genius of Julie at myfourboys.net
Dear Mother Nature,
Clearly, you didn’t get the memo from a few weeks ago.
I DO NOT DO SNOW.
There are lots of things I am willing to do: blazing hot weather, cool rainy weather, cold dry weather, a good-looking man. But I am not willing to do snow, or even to entertain the mere idea of snow.
Here’s the deal.
We live in GEORGIA.
Here’s what happens when the weather calls for snow in Georgia, Mother Nature. This is what you do to us.
1. “SNOW ALERT!” Sirens go off. People run outside, stare at the sky. They return indoors to grab the Snowpocalypse Guide from their Emergency Response Plans.
2. The plans read as follows: “Snow may be coming your way, Georgians. Pay no attention that it’s been 55 degrees in the Classic City all week, or that parts of the world deal with snow ALL the time. Now is the time to panic!”
3. Go to grocery store. Purchase bread, milk and beer. Rush to check out, glancing furtively at other carts to make sure that you are stocking just as many supplies as the other Georgians.
4. Rush back to car. If you see a snowflake, ignore the fact that it’s 44 degrees outside and slam on brakes. DO NOT EXCEED 15 mph, unless you are on the Interstate, at which point you need not exceed 17 mph.
5. Cry. Call home and tell them you may not make it. Look around car and see what you could burn to stay warm.
6. Make it home. Unload groceries.
7. Stay indoors, but sit near window and stare outside at sky.
8. Wait.
9. Wait.
10. See another flake. Bundle kids up. Go outside. Take 15,000 pictures. Immediately post to Facebook under “Snowstravaganza 2K10!”
11. Make chili. Drink hot chocolate. Gather flashlights in case power goes out.
12. Go to bed.
13. Wake up. Watch the Weather channel all day. Shush the kids when Local on the 8s comes on.
14. Look outside. Notice its 44 degrees still. Hope you can make it to work on Monday.
15. Eat sandwiches and invite the neighbors over to share the beer. Talk about the old days, when blizzards were a regular occurrence.
16. Pass out from beer and sandwiches. Wake up at midnight and find no snow on the ground.
17. Update Facebook status: “Blizzard over! We survived! Are y’all okay?”
18. Wait for the next round of cold water.
GAH.
Ever have so much stuff going on in your life that it makes it impossible for you to have more than seven cohesive thoughts? (Though, yes, in reality I have had numerous cohesive thoughts, they just need not be on display for you, oh interwebs)
So, instead of trying to be creative, here are a list of things I would like to have happen.
I WOULD …
like to see continued warm weather here in the ATH.
like my child to STOP HITTING THINGS WHY ARE YOU DOING THAT YOU ARE FOUR AND FOUR REALLY REALLY SUCKS.
like to drink another six-pack of Abita Mardi Gras brew before the end of March, when it becomes obsolete.
like to congratulate my SAINTS FOR MAKING IT TO THE SUPER BOWL! LE YAY!
like people to stop calling my work and yelling at me. Here’s the deal, if you don’t want to be in the police reports … DON’T GET ARRESTED. Ta da.
like for you to be patient as I am quiet here these days.
like a nap.
So, Keely over at MannLand5 is hosting her Getting to Know You thing, which I typically read but am usually too lazy to participate in. (That’s right, y’all. I’m lazy. Yesterday? I slept until 2:30 and didn’t bother getting out of bed until after 5. And yes, there were things I could have done, should have done. But trust me. I made the right decision.) Anyway, she’s donating $.25 per person who links up to the Red Cross’ relief efforts in Haiti. So, unless you’re Pat Robertson, Rush Limbaugh or the Devil, go ahead and link up — and donate some yourself, too.
This week’s questions are ….
1. Hair color… Au naturale or not? Um, I believe it’s pretty natural these days … It’s been lighter and darker and redder and blonder but as of right now, it’s pretty much Lona Brown. Which is to say, I need to get my hair did.
2. If somebody has food in their teeth or lipstick on their teeth do you tell them? Um, yes. If you’re my friend. If you’re a random, probably not. But maybe. Depends on what sort of mood I’m in.
3. Would you rather have a million dollars or your vision of the perfect body? Um … I’m gonna go with the cash monies, because a) then I could hire a personal trainer to whip me into shape and b) all I want to do is go sit on the beach and drink coffe and write and $1M would certainly be helpful in that endeavor, wouldn’t it?
4. Favorite magazine? Um, I dunno … I don’t read a lot of magazines. Usually when I do it’s either Newsweek or Cosmo, because they have a lot in common with each other.
5. Bra style … lacey or plain? Um, I like pretty things. Pretty things that keep my pretty big things pretty well contained.
6. If you walked into Victoria’s Secret..would you most likely come out with something sexy or comfy? It would depend on who I was buying said stuff for. Just for me? Comfy. For me to wear in front of a man? Well, come on. Something pretty.
7. Do you fake and bake? Nope … I have skin damage already from my natural baking, and while I know I should sunscreen up, it’s still really hard. I love a good, old-fashioned tan. Ahhhh.
8. What’s your favorite body part on a man? First thing I notice is hands and forearms. I love a man who gives good arm.
There’s that. Now, you go link up and do your daily good deed. You know you want to.
I have a tendency to think that most people who have their own show on television are generally idiots.
Thank you, Pat Roberston, for (again) proving that theory. On his CBN show, the Reverend said that Haiti was devastated by a 7.0 earthquake becauset its collective population “made a pact with the devil.”
“Something happened a long time ago in Haiti, and people might not want to talk about it,” Robertson said. “They were under the heel of the French … and they got together and swore a pact to the devil. They said, ‘We will serve you if you’ll get us free from the French.’”
“True story,” he said. “And the devil said, ‘OK, it’s a deal.’ Ever since, they have been cursed by one thing after another.”
I don’t know why — well, I do — but this made me think of “The Devil and Daniel Webster,” a short story written by Stephen Vincent Benet.
In the story — which is based on a Washington Irving tale — a man, who is plagued with unending bad luck in the early-to-mid 19th century. sells his soul to a man, Mr. Scratch. who is really the devil. After a couple of good years, his mortgage is due, and the man gets the famous lawyer, Daniel Webster, to argue the case of his soul with the devil.
A trial takes place, and Webster — who is fighting a losing case, as their is a contract between the devil and the farmer — eventually speaks about the good things in the world, and argues that while there are wrongdoings going on by people, all over America, that something good had come from it — i.e., the separation of the country from England — and that the devil could never understand that.
The jury finds for Daniel, and the contract is broken.
Every country has a torrid past — look at ours. Every country has had tragedies, natural and by the hands of others.
To act as if something like this earthquake happened as some sort of punishment — no, thank you, Pat Robertson. How shameful, how awful of someone who has the ability to get his followers — sadly, of which there are many — to DO something to help the people of the Western hemisphere’s poorest country, to say such a heinous thing.
The people who were crushed by buildings were not doing the devil’s work. They were going to work, to school, cooking food, praying. They were fine, and then, in an instant, their world LITERALLY crumbled around them.
And for someone like Pat Robertson to say such things at a time when people are dying in streets, thirsty, lost? You, Pat Roberston, know exactly where I think you can go.
Pat Robertson does not speak for all people who identify themselves with the Christian faith. Just so’s you know.
