Momma Says the F Word
Profanity, parenting, and ridiculously verbose descriptions of absolutely nothing.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Evidence that someone is growing up
So I went to Mexico in early October. When the dates were settled upon, I instantly developed 43 phobias related to my absence. I'll not bore you with the entire list. I'll just say that school pictures occurring during my absence was a big one. A big one that was fully rooted in reality.
So, yes, Big K had to handle picture day. I chose the outfits, laid them out, and gave the man eleventeen tutorials on Phook's hair. I suggested he put in a little squirt of hairspray to tame flyaways. Since we have this problem.
So the day arrived. Big K put them in their outfits. He styled the hair. And then he ran into trouble. He couldn't find the hairspray. Now all good fans of The Great Outdoors know that when you get into trouble, you let go of the rope.
Big K did not let go of the rope.
Big K grabbed the mousse.
And put it on both our kids' heads.
Additionally, my son got to school and apparently busted out a contraband man necklace he had squirreled away in his bag and decided he needed to add a piece of flair to his super-slick jam. I can only assume the teacher and the photographer were off getting high together when this went down. There is no other explanation for them thinking a mother would abide this sort of thing in the single instant during which you commemorate an entire school year.
When I got the proofs, I totally fucking hyperventilated.
And then, somehow, some way, I calmed my happy ass down and decided to order these pictures. Retakes be damned.
The hood rats are smiling like gems. They look happy as clams. Bigs is obviously delighted with his man necklace. So what if they both look greasier than Joe Pesci?
I don't know. I just decided to decide that this would be the moment that I admitted I do not control the entire universe.
And I will always have the pictures to prove it.
So there. Big W is finally growing up.
Monday, November 25, 2013
I missed a post yesterday. Way to go and shoot my NaBloPoMo greatness in the foot.
What's that? No one is reading this and I haven't even aspired to mediocre?
I guess it's OK then.
Dudes, I am cranky. It's possible this is the beginning of a seasonal funk. Sometimes I go through the motions and every seasonal task feels like a root canal. Sometimes I am the world's biggest elf. Christmas tasks loom, and they feel a little root canal-y right now. I hope I can turn the tide.
Either way, what I need to do is make a list. The only way for me to get through such a labor-intensive time is via list. I find lists motivating, because I'm just OCD enough to be possessed with a need to cross things off.
Right now I'm in a mood to dump rotten produce in the yards of people with Christmas lights up already. I feel like their sole purpose is to mock me.
Ugh. It's not even Thanksgiving yet. How can I already be wearing the cone of shame about this?
Whatevs. We're going to my 'rents for a long weekend and it will be nice to have some time with Hodie and such. My Dad will pop me some killer popcorn and my Mom will lay down an outrageous Thanksgiving meal. I just have to have the most productive day of my life tomorrow to get all my ducks in a row.
Unfortunately, I am motivated to go to the gym and squat the planet. No more. No less.
I don't know. I want to keep whining but this can't go anywhere productive.
I'm just bringin' the funk. Worse than a wet dog.
I want to get unexpectedly drunk and throw softballs at moving cars. That's what I want to do right this minute.
Instead, I'm going to tuck into a respectable Pulitzer winning novel and hopefully go tats up ASAP.
Tomorrow will bring a new outlook?
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Friday, November 22, 2013
I want to wax poetic about JFK right now. I want to tell you where I was when I heard the news of his assassination. (Unborn, but whatever, okay?)
I am not going to do that though. It would just get awkward. Just know that all day I have been mentally waxing poetic about JFK.
Oh how I love me some Kennedy.
I could probably successfully defend a dissertation I never even wrote about the findings of the Warren Commission. Yeah. That's how much time I've spent reading about assassination conspiracy theories.
So, anyhow. Fifty years.
I really miss Camelot.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Baby's 1st Haircut
So she's three.
I finally took Parkie for her first haircut. It took me even longer to take Phook, and footage of Bigs was starting to show up on the sort of shows that air at 2 a.m. to try to convince us of the existence of otherworldly fur-bearing creatures. So all in all, I think I did a little better this time.
I was still emo about it, but I didn't totally lose my shit or anything.
Besides. Parkie was a trooper. (And can I take a minute here to say that my kids are all amazing troopers? Seriously, these are some tough, hearty little madmen I am raising. They do not freak out. This summer, Bugs was subjected to a whooping cough test. Do you know how they do that? They shove a swab about 5 inches into your head. NASALLY. He did not cry. He did not move. I held his hand. And he squeezed it. That is how a Baby K handles their business. I am not shitting you. His bravery made tears roll down MY face. Seriously, my kids are troopers. And while it cost me an absurd $172 for the pleasure of obtaining this information via go-go-gadget Q-tip, we were all delighted that Bigs did not have the whoop. Most especially the health department.)
The Park Rat was getting a little (lot) scraggly on account of my emotional problems.
Cut me a little slack. This had been in a ponytail all day.
Anyhow, the child was delighted to be getting the big girl treatment and behaved like a gem. Many compliments from staff and co-patrons alike.
And here is the result. She's normally not a center-parter, but we'll let it slide.
Ok, for realz. That is just a cute little sucker. I don't care who you are. That one is cute.
And now all my sheep are shorn.
Time to pray for an accidental pregnancy.