Don't Lose Sleep Over It

 Have you ever gone into your child’s room at night, long after they’ve entered dreamland, watching how sweet they are in slumber? So quiet. So peaceful. So quiet. Sleeping the sleep only children manage to achieve, making you wish that you could achieve that level of REM? No? Just me then?

For the most part, I’ve accepted all of the things that I have gained as I’ve gotten older. Wisdom. Hair that grows too fast, often in places I don’t want it. Gray hairs sneaking up on me. What haven’t I learned to deal with you ask? (Spoiler alert: It’s probably mentioned in the opening paragraph.) That’s right, it’s beautiful, uninterrupted sleep.

Children could sleep on a cot half their size with a lumpy pillow and an orphan Annie threadbare blanket and have the most amazing night’s sleep they’ve EVER had. They can sleep on a floor, in a sleeping bag, with NO pillow, and snag a blissful 8 hours of shut eye. Heck, give them a backpack for a pillow and a sweatshirt for a blanket and they can snag a full night of z’s.

Of course, these are the people who need sleep the least.

Does it anger me that the people who have the most energy, regardless of how many of their forty winks they’ve had, are the ones who can sleep effortlessly, anywhere and anytime, without a single encumbrance? Now why would you think that? What gave it away? Was it the bitterness of my words or my sarcastic tone?

I can sleep in a bed, with 3 pillows, (including my body pillow) a fan for white noise and temperature regulation, and a seasonally appropriate blanket and barely manage 6 hours. If it’s not my bladder waking me up, it’s the never ending thought processes that apparently don’t shut down during my brain’s off hours, that lead to weird stress induced dreams that leaving me wondering what the hell kind of party my brain cells have while I’m unconscious. Sometimes, I can’t fall back to sleep because I’m trying to a.) Figure out what in my life led to the psychedelic mind meld that dream I just had was or b.) What the exact level of crazy is required to check yourself into the asylum because I might just qualify if these nocturnal brain movies are any indication.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, my sad attempts at temperature regulation are an epic failure since I never seem to achieve that perfect balance. It’s too hot (throw off the blanket). But the fan is blowing on me now, so I’m cold (cover up again). But now I’m hot again and want the air from the fan (throw off the blanker). Oops, nope, too much cool air on me (throw the blanket over half my torso). Ok, better but still kinda hot (cover rest of torso but uncover feet).

Probably the worst sleep interrupter are the debilitating leg cramps that like to attack between 2:00-3:00 a.m. You know the ones. You stretch your leg out in your sleep and a muscle takes offense and instantly spasms or cramps so hard that you have to jump out of bed and run around your room whimpering, trying to get it to go away…yeah, those kind. They’re super fun and I seem to get them more now than ever.

Every once in a while I will manage the perfect temperature, quiet brain waves and a steel bladder…only to wake up with a crick in my neck from sleeping wrong. Sleeping WRONG! Sleeping, something so simple even a minutes old baby can do it, but my ancient ass can’t get the hang of it. Never mind the four plus decades we’ve had to practice. I can sleep like a baby for 7 hours but there’s a good chance that I’m going to pay for it in my back, my neck, or both. (Sometimes they like to tag team me and make me feel 30 years older than I am.)

And boy, do non-sleepers love to hear when other people can’t sleep too! Not because we’re mean, but because we want to know that we aren’t alone. Misery loves company for a reason and if the sandman is skipping our house, he damn well better be skipping others as well. We want to know that there are other exhausted schlubs out there suffering along with us.

So the next time that you’re doing a paranoid-is-he-breathing check, and you find yourself being wistful of your child’s inherent ability to ride those snooze waves all the way to slumberville, just remember: They’re not tall enough to reach your chocolate stash. It’s a small consolation prize, but it’s yours.

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The Big, Fat Liars Club

If you really want to push one of my buttons, then don’t be truthful with me. Certain past relationships have given me some emotional baggage in the form of an intense hatred of liars. Which makes sense, since we teach our kids not to lie to us, right? We are always harping on them to tell the truth.

Then we all grow up and become a member of The Big, Fat Liars Club.

It doesn’t matter if it’s a small white lie (“No, that shirt looks amazing on you!”) or a huge lie (“I did not have sexual relations with that woman.”), we are all guilty. It seems like we have swung too far to the dark side when it comes to dishonesty though and if you think I’m exaggerating (Would I do that?!) then let me give you an example.

Have you ever told someone that your kid was being a jerk, only to have them look at you like you just admitted to kicking orphaned puppies? If you aren’t acting like your kid is the greatest gift from the angels above, then clearly you are a heathen who doesn’t deserve a child. The only problem with that is, well, children. Have you met them? Because I have had the pleasure of having 4 of them and I can attest, at one point or another, they were all dinks. Now, don’t get it twisted, YOU are not allowed to call my kid an A-hole. Even if they're clearly acting like one. That right is solely reserved for the two people who donated DNA to his existence. That is what we have earned for putting up with all the jerkiness that you haven’t seen them commit. The un-public displays of tantrums. The headache inducing argumentativeness that we are slightly proud of since it means that they won’t be a pushover, while simultaneously being horrified that they can’t just do what they’re told for once. The thousands and thousands (and million) of times we are told we are mean or unfair. Those are the reasons we get to be honest about our children’s tendencies towards dinkery.

The issue, however, is societal influence. That’s right. The problem with people is, well, other people. Society says that you can’t tell people how evil your child acts on Tuesdays just because they hate music class. Society says that you must be grateful for this child at all times because, well, there are people out there who can’t have children and you don’t want to somehow hurt their feelings if you come upon one in the wild. Except, shouldn’t we be more honest about how hard children are? Would it perhaps discourage these teenagers from thinking that a baby would solve all their problems if they heard the horror stories of assholery? Would moms stop taking on a lion’s share of the guilt for not being perfect if they know other moms had the same issues? Society has so many unrealistic ideals for body, beauty, wifely duties, and working status, can’t we cross off the one that says motherhood is always a blissful and perfect experience? Do you know how many times I’ve felt like a terrible mom during a moment of motherhood that was crushing my spirit? We tell ourselves, and our kids, that it’s ok to not like everyone all the time, but we don’t practice what we preach. Kids are people too, just with a height deficit and a more limited vocabulary. (We don’t hold that against them.)

Honestly, I don’t trust people who think their kid walks on water all the time. Either that kid is the SUPER rare exception to the rule or else you gave birth to a Stepford child. If you’ve never had a moment where you didn’t particularly like your kid, then I don’t trust you. You must be doing something wrong. Or perhaps you’re “Society” and expect us all to be perfect like you. In which case, I still don’t trust you. I don’t have time to be perfect. I barely have time to be myself.

I also don’t trust spouses who say that they are never upset with their significant other. Like NEVER? Never EVER? You’re telling me that you got married and lived happily ever after with nary a cross word spoken between the two of you? Because that’s not reality, that’s a Disney movie. Real life marriages can be hard, and messy, and emotional. They require work on both ends to learn how to communicate and live with another person. Maybe if we were real about how much work marriage is, people would stop getting divorced the first time their spouse left the toothpaste cap off. If you’re telling me there was never a moment where you stared at your spouse thinking, “I swear to GOD, if he chews with his mouth open just ONE more time, I’m going to shove my foot where the sun doesn’t shine!” Or “If she leaves her dirty socks NEXT to the hamper again, I’m going to scream!” then I am calling bullshit. We’re human. We are imperfect and messy and emotional. We are complicated and dramatic and crazy. And you can’t shove complicated and dramatic into a house together without expecting some sort of fireworks. Which is to say that I am more trustful of someone who’s got a  "One time I wanted to smack my spouse because…” story than one who says, “Oh no, we never go to bed angry. In fact, we are never angry with each other.”

If you’ll just take this, here is your membership card to The Big Fat Liars Club.

I guess the moral of the story here is: Don’t lie. And a secondary moral: Stop crushing yourself with guilt, you’re killing this thing called parenthood. (And if you’re not killing it, well, hopefully you’ve got a therapy fund started.)

 

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I Was Absent for the Taco Cult Induction Ceremony

I must have missed the meeting where we decided what the international comfort food would be. I do know that I wouldn’t have voted for tacos. No offense to the taco lovers out there, which apparently are legion, but they don’t even make my top 5 favorite Mexican foods. (I mean, have you tasted enchiladas?) As much as I want to be a card-carrying member of the “I Heart Tacos Club”, I just can’t. I see all the videos and memes that offer sage advice to feed your girl tacos but... I still don’t understand the appeal.

Image credit: Zazzle.com

Plus, when exactly was this meeting held? I don’t even remember seeing a notice for it. My schedule is pretty busy, but I would have made time for this, if only to make sure our mascot wasn’t a fragile shell barely holding everything together. I wonder what the final four choices were? Did we vote on this or was it decided by the one supreme food judgerer? I have to say, this just brings up way too many questions. (I believe it aso shows that my mind is an odd and scary place sometimes.)

If my husband ever tried to appease my hangry side with tacos, I’d think he was crazy. Of course, almost two decades, he knows me better than that so I am confident that his approach would not be the standard taco quo. My t-shirt would more than likely say “Feed me steak and tell me I’m pretty”. Or maybe chicken pot pie. That would also be acceptable. Runners up would include beef stroganoff, chicken marsala, and scalloped potatoes with ham. Hey, comfort food is subjective, right? This is what comforts me. I also have a love of homemade soups and chowders and there are half a dozen different recipes that would come in ahead of tacos.

Oh who am I kidding? The way to my heart isn’t savory, it’s sweet. I’ve always said that my favorite part of dinner is dessert. It still holds true to this day. Cake and cookies, bars and treats, and maybe even a pie, so long as it’s strawberry rhubarb. I don’t understand why the Taco Cult beat out the Cake Cult. I’m convinced it’s solely because they hadn’t had a spectacular dessert yet. You know the kind that makes you want to hurry up and eat it but slow down and savor it all at the same time? Like a decadent piece of chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. Or a chocolate chip cookie, still gooey from the oven. If I go to a potluck, my eyes are all about checking out those sweet sweets options to know if I have to save a little room or a lot.

We won’t even get int my rant about why there aren’t any cupcake drive through restaurants. Can’t you just imagine having a bad day and being able to grab half a dozen cupcake miracles without ever having to step out of your car? Listen, I’m a problem solver by nature and I truly believe this would solve most of my current issues Ok, that’s probably untrue, but it would be a delicious coping mechanism, am I right?

Unfortunately, I am also the minority in my own house regarding the taco issue. Other than my youngest son, who is much more dessert centric like me, my husband and other offspring go gaga for tacos. In fact, it DOES rate in my 15-year old’s top 3 foods. Probably my husband’s top 3 as well. It’s like they don’t even know that there are masses of much better foods out there to choose from, even though I have cooked a few dozen of these dishes over the years. I guess there's no accounting for taste, right?

Huh, for some reason that I can’t seem to explain, I have a crazy craving for some cake. I must bid you farewell and go on this most righteous cake questing journey. Until we meet again my fair folks.

 

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The Alphabet Wars

There was a generational war that started between the Millennials and Gen Z. It’s not the shoot ‘em up kind of war depicted in our history books, but apparently some type of culture war being waged on social media platforms. I say “apparently” because, as a member of Gen X, I am oblivious to this sort of petty infighting. Or maybe it’s that I am aware, I just don’t give a crap. (Yeah, probably that second one.)

The irony is that there always seems to be some sort of generational unrest. Every generation thinks that the “new kids” are completely different than their own clearly superior group. It probably started when the people born between 1901 and 1924 called themselves “The Greatest Generation”. That pretty much screwed all future generations and set them up for failure, right? I mean, if you’re already the greatest, you can only go downhill from there.

And it does seem to be true since those that followed (1928-1945) were called “The Silent Generation”. Then again, I’d be silent too having to live in the shadow of such greatness. Or maybe they were quiet because life had beaten them down so much they just didn’t see the point of raising their voice. Think about it, the average life expectancy back then was like 60. Not to mention that WWII came along and killed over 400,000 Americans.

After that came the Baby Boomers. (1946-1964) I’m guessing this generation celebrated the war a little too much, if you know what I mean. The name is pretty self-explanatory…yeah, all that post war celebrating (bow chicka wow wow) lead to a crazy amount of babies being born. Marvin Gaye didn’t have to tell this generation to get it on, they did it all by themselves.

And those babies produced during that boom? Generation X. This generation spanned through all the peace, free love and hippies (1964-1979). It’s quite possibly the best generation out there, and not just because it’s the one that I belong to. X’ers were raised on the cusp of the days of old and the technology of new, with one foot planted firmly in each world. We can remember 8 tracks and the AOL dial up sign on. We had the benefit of crazy, supervision free childhoods and new technology with fun names like Alexa and Siri.

Then the X’ers moved out and the Millennials moved in. (1980-1994) Legend has it that Millennials are the most suppressed, repressed, regressed, and depressed group that has ever lived. Well, at least in the last “millennium” that is. They will tell you tales of living through 911 and explain how the generations that lived before them have ruined the world. How they can’t afford houses and they live for work-life balance unlike their work horse predecessors.

Then came Gen Z. (I don’t know who was in charge of this, since they skipped the letter Y, but I can tell you that it definitely wasn’t someone with OCD.) Gen Z is “woke”. Apparently the rest of us sleepy generations don’t have a clue living in our classless, gender labeled, politically incorrect worlds. They were born with a smart phone in their hands and have never had the joy of using encyclopedias for information gathering. In fact, if you asked them what an encyclopedia was, they’d have to google it.

Ask any generation what is wrong with the next generation and they’ll have a dozen reasons to give. They’re lazy, stupid, have no values, lacked discipline, no rules or boundaries…the list goes on and on. One thing that they won’t do, however, is accept the blame in any of it. Yep, that’s right, I said it. Every generation screws their kids up somehow. Either we over correct or under correct, but damnit, we do something that causes them to cry foul. And seek copious amounts of therapy. I’m pretty sure it’s in the “Generational Living for Dummies Handbook”. Page 37.

So back to this culture war. I’m not sure who started it. I’m not even sure why. Or what the point is. All that I know is that it wasn’t enough for Millennials and Gen Z to do battle, no….they had to drag the X’ers in too. Here we are, minding our own business just like we were trained from infancy to do, and then BAM! Suddenly two generations noticed us sitting in the corner, out of the limelight. What they failed to recognize in their zealous attempt to yank us into their twisted game of monkey in the middle, was that we really don’t give a shit about your stupid little war. We have things to do and being forced to defend ourselves is not only unfathomable to us, it would never cross our minds that we would need to. Gen X was, and is, the feral generation that fended for ourselves so long and so early on in our lives, that it’s foreign to try and accept help from anyone for anything. Yeah, we’d probably give ourselves a hernia before asking someone to help us move this couch….but believe me when I say that couch would be moved regardless.

I guess the the moral of this story is this: Yeah, you're probably screwing your kids up. (Although, to be fair, I think we can give some of the blame to whomever named them "Generation Alpha".) Just think of it this way though, you're giving them a reason to feel superior to the next generation. And that ain't nothing.

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A Decade of Witty Repartee

Recently I realized that this I had been writing this blog for a decade now. (This blog is officially older than my youngest child!) When I went back to verify the actual date that I began regaling my loyal fans with my wordplay, I realized that it was actually in January of 2013.

I missed my own decade-iversary!

In my defense, it’s not really my fault. After all, there was zero fanfare made at all. I didn’t get a parade in my honor, there were no stars named after me (or the blog!), no ridiculously ginormous sized cakes with a big number 10 on it, and not one single mayor of any city that I have ever lived in gave me a key. What the heck?

I mean, I understand not all the fanfare, or even most of the fanfare, but couldn’t I at least get a little bit? If not a parade, how about one flautist carrying a banner? Instead of a continent sized cake, how about one or two (dozen) cupcakes? Sure, the star naming may have been reaching too big but surely a cloud could be named Modern Mom Mayhem. (But you can call him by his nickname…Bob.)

I’d still like a giant key to a city though. Not for the import, just because of how cool it would be to have a huge shiny key that’s as tall as I am. To be fair, I don’t really know if that’s how keys to the city work. I am basing this solely on my imagination here which is, admittedly, fueled by Hollywood's version of Mayor-giving-keys ceremonies. (Yeah, my imagination is a fun place.) For all I know, the key to the city is just a boring old key that is easily lost. Though, that doesn’t seem like a real great idea honestly. Can you imagine having to make that call to the locksmith?

“Uh, hi, is this John’s Locksmithery? I need you to come quickly, I’m locked out of the city.”

                Ten years ago, when I started these rants, uh, I mean blog posts, who knew that it would last this long? Who knew that you’d hang in there for ten whole years? Not YOU, but you. Not single you the reader, but like collectively you, as a whole. Unless you single reader has read for all ten years. (And if that is the case, what is wrong with you? And do you want to be friends?)

(Quick left turn: That fun imagination of mine is now having a field day with a picture of a collective you as one giant, lumpy, multi-person. Think Violet in Willy Wonka but with a bunch of people rolled into one. Or like a snowball that's rolled downhill and collected peoples. It's all you can think about now, isn't it? You’re welcome.)

                When my twisted and sarcastic co-worker thought that I should share my own twisted and sarcastic sense self with the world and convinced me to start blogging, I never would have dreamed that I’d still be hacking away at the old computer keys after all this time. And honestly, I’ve only gotten more snarky and sarcastic as I’ve gotten older, so this blog has really been a gift to you, single reader. And to you, lumpy collective reader. And to all the non-single and non-lumpy readers as well. From the bottom of my cynical heart and the top of my warped sense of humor, I thank you. Without you, I’d still just be talking to myself. (Well, more often and less wild gesticulating.)

                Now if you'll excuse me, I have a sudden and inexplicable craving for cake...

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A Tsunami of Stuff

Everyone knows that spring is when you’re supposed to get the mad urge to clean your house like a maid hopped up on 4 Grande Double Shot Espressos, but I’ve never been one to follow trends. I’m sure you’re shocked, right? (You need to work on a more believable disbelief expression.)

For me, there’s something about January that makes me want to purge and organize. Is it because I’m tired of being stuck in the house, staring at the same four walls jammed with accumulated crap? Maybe. Is it because indoor chores are much more fun to accomplish when it’s 20 degrees outside? Perhaps. Is it because spring is when we run screaming out of our houses to get away from our winter fueled cabin fever? Most likely. Whatever the reason, by the end of January, I’m itching to dive into “spring” cleaning.

The problem though, is that there’s a literal tsunami of stuff in my house. If I start to think of all the rooms, closets, drawers, desks, nooks and crannies that need to be cleaned out and organized, I start to hyperventilate a little. And everyone knows that you need to hyperventilate into a paper bag so when I go into the drawer to get one, I’ll see all THAT clutter and hyperventilate twice. (Re-ventilate? Hyper hyperventilate?) If you start to do the mental math on how many spaces there are that need to be tackled, the task becomes too overwhelming. I start to lose motivation. No seriously, motivation just starts seeping out of me. It’s kinda gross if you’re sitting too close to someone actively losing motivation. Try to carry wet wipes on your person at all times just for this very situation.

Wait, where was I again?

Hyperventilating….yadda yada yadda….losing motivation….yadda yadda yadda…

Oh right.

Once I lose the motivation by making mountains out of my completely respectable molehills, it usually results in a few weeks of being too overwhelmed to even pick a place to start on before I pull myself up by my boot straps, stop my whining and get down to business. Sometimes I need bootstraps AND big girl panties to deal with severe motivation loss.

Well, this week is my bootstraps week. My big girl panties wearing, get my act together, and get organized week. That’s right folks. I’m finally pulling my head out of that awful place where the sun doesn’t shine.

So now that I have a plan in place on where to start this monumentally huge task of getting rid of all the crap that I don’t want to keep storing in my home, I need to give myself a mental pep talk. Because the reality is, there are somethings that I cannot part with for any reason. Even though I KNOW that the reasons I have for keeping it may be stupid and illogical, it doesn’t seem to affect the process.

For example: While re-arranging my youngest son’s room this past weekend, I decided to clean out his bookshelf. At nine years old now, I’m pretty sure he can find the ducky. There were a stack of old Nick Jr. books that I have had since my oldest child. These things have to be over 2 decades old now. They aren’t even culturally relevant anymore. He has no idea who “Little Bill” or “Oswald” even are, considering those were popular shows 20 years ago. These things are older than him and two of his siblings.

Yet I can’t seem to make myself get rid of them.

These are books that have been passed down through all 4 of my children. ALL FOUR. I can look at these books and remember those chubby little toddler hands turning three pages at a time, babbling nonsense as they “read” the words. Man, are you getting hit in the feels as hard as I am? Geez. I think I need a moment here. That was a pretty strong emotion. I’m not sure where that cold hearted bitch went that used to reside in my body but she didn’t seem to cry or have all these pesky feelings that I do. I really miss her. But I digress. (AGAIN? Twice in one story? Get your crap together!) Oh wait, never mind, I found her.

In the end, I put the books back on his shelf. Even though they really are kindergarten age appropriate and he’s way too old for them. My husband laughed at my reluctance to part with these orange beacons of childhoods’ past and asked if we were just going to keep them for the grandkids. That’s a good enough excuse as any, right?

Provided I can bear to part with this clutter, (Wait, is this how hoarders are born? Do I need an intervention?) I hope to be much lighter of spirit. And stuff. Mostly stuff.

Okay coach, I’m ready. Put me in the game.

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December Doldrums Strike Again

You know how sometimes you hear a quote or see something it feels like someone is seeing into your brain and capturing your thoughts? I saw a meme the other day that resonated with me. If you wondering what profound, deep, meaningful meme I may be referencing, it’s this:

Yup, it’s true. I don’t know why the days between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day seem like a big, black void, but they do. Christmas, with all its magic and splendor is over, but the bright, shiny New Year has yet to arrive in all its glory. (Though to be fair, in the Northeast it’s more of a “gray, cold and wet glory” than “shiny”.)

Exactly why do we seem to eat our way through an entire week? Are we still in the “holiday spirit”? Are we buckling under the presence of all the treats and sweets that have made their way into our homes? Did we let the beast out of the cage and can’t manage to wrest that jerk back in to shut and lock that door with triple deadbolts? Are we depressed that our house looks sad and pathetic after removing our festive garlands and lights and decorations? (Seriously, why does my home seem so lackluster now? Does this lead to more people redecorating their homes? Is there an HGTV show called “Help! My Home is Ugly without Christmas?” Uh, wait, what was my point again….)

And as if the empty, decoration less house and post-holiday blahs aren’t sad enough, all stores are starting to advertise the exercise equipment. Nothing signals the end of a good time quite like dumbbells and treadmills. Retailers are quite literally telling us to stop feeding our fat faces and take a walk. “Hey lardo, time to drop that weight you gained shoving Christmas cookies in your mouth for the last 3 weeks before you completely clog your arteries.” It’s almost like they know that “Lose weight” is on 75% of all of our resolution lists and they’re taking advantage of our current self-loathing to make a quick buck. Those canny, evil geniuses.

Personally, it’s not just the end of Christmas that’s disappointing to me, but also the expectations of New Year’s Eve. Everyone makes big plans for celebrations on December 31 and I used to be right up there with them. It was a tradition to stuff ourselves silly, play board games, and stay up to midnight to watch the ball drop. As I get older though, my feelings are more like, “Meh. It’ll still be a new year the next day, right? I’m going to bed.” Don’t get me wrong, I’m still going to stuff myself silly and play board games and have fun, I just may or may not make it til midnight. I know I know, I’m turning into Maxine before my very eyes. Or maybe that old lady from the Steel Magnolias movie. She was sassy AND grumpy. But she told it like it was.

Outside of eating everything not nailed down during the void week, it also seems like a strange time period. Many offices are empty because of people who are using their time off. Banks and grocery stores are operating on different hours. Schools are closed so your kids are probably making you pull your hair out with all the noisy and/or annoying Christmas gifts they received. (You know, now that I think about it, it’s amazing that every parent has not turned into Ouiser yet. All the ingredients are there man, I’m telling you. Also, if you are like me, you’re just realizing that’s how they spelled her name for the movie and it’s super weird, right?)

Perhaps New Year’s Eve is a celebration for surviving the void week. Maybe that’s why everyone is so happy to see January 1 pop up on the calendar. It’s like saying, “Phew. We made it through the darkest, saddest, and strangest week of the year. Let’s have cake and cocktails.” (That would be an amazing restaurant idea. Just dessert and alcoholic beverages. Fruity umbrella drinks and pretty, frosted petit fours. Can someone make this happen? And close enough to me so that I can enjoy it? Thank you in advance.)

So for all my fellow survivors, buck up kids. We got this. And if we don’t, at the very least we can procure some cake and cocktails and pretend that we do. Happy End of December and Viva La 2023!

Parenting is an Emotional Roller Coaster

If there is anything that can get you “up in your feelings” (Hey, I can talk like a cool cat too!), it’s parenting. Good feelings, bad feelings, tired feelings….and more tired feelings. Exhausted feelings. Sleep deprived coma feelings. But enough about how much sleep you’ll never have once becoming a parent, this post is about feelings.

From day one there’s a wide variety of emotions over your child. Love for this tiny new miracle, rapture at counting their itty-bitty toes and fingers, relief that they are finally here, and utter terror because no one prepared you for this. Why did I think I knew what I was doing? I can’t take care of this incredibly small and fragile human. Where is my handy, dandy book that has every answer to every parenting question that I may ever have? Where are the experts to shadow me and make sure that I don’t screw them up? For the love of all that is holy, WHERE IS THE BUBBLE WRAP?!?!?!

Fortunately, we are mostly too tired to function during the early weeks. This anesthetizes us to the parental worries that plague us in our (brief) conscious moments and makes us reflexively care for the precious bundle of joy. By the time we realize we have been on auto pilot, we also realize, “Hey, maybe I CAN do this after all.” (You’re fooling yourself of course. We all are. None of us know what we are doing. Some of us just fake it better than others. Some of us medicate with chocolate cake and coffee. Fine, It’s me. I’m some of us.)

As they grow, learning how to walk and talk, they’ll add a wider and more complex variety of emotions to your repertoire. You’ll experience new awesome feelings like frustration!  Immense pride! Gritting your teeth while practicing deep breathing as you try to teach yourself to be calm. Mentally counting to ten when your sweetest little angel tries your patience. Fortunately, it only happens once every…. hour or so. Every day. From ages two through…. well, I’ll let you know when it finally stops over here.

Once they start school, you’ll learn to become good friends with guilt (Am I spending enough time with them? Am I feeding them enough vegetables? Should I be reading to them more? Are they ahead socially thus making their introvert parent have to mingle at boisterous gatherings? Shudder.), understand how frustration matures into fully formed exasperation, and find the value of alone time to recharge your batteries. Even if it’s just a two minute mental breakdown in the hall closet while you inhale half a package of chocolate chip cookies.

The teen years bring tons more of that exasperation along with fun new emotion combos. Like annoyance love. How is it possible to be SO ANNOYED by someone that you love SO MUCH? (Oh, it’s possible honey. And your teenager is up to the challenge of showing you how.) Disgusted pride. How can socks smell THAT BAD after you’re bursting with pride that your kid played an awesome game of (sports game inserted here). (Oh my god. The stench is truly abominable. Did something die in your shoes? Are you sure? No, no, don’t bring them in the house. Just leave them on the porch. The neighbor’s porch.) And of course, the classic and time honored “exhaustipation guilt”, when you’re too tired to give a crap but usually feel guilty that you’re too tired to give a crap, which usually results in an endless loop. Thankfully, it only lasts 21 to 60 years or so.

Yup, our kids can tug at our heartstrings and dance on our last nerve. Sometimes at the same time. (That’s a talented kid there. You should be so proud of their skills!) They test us by seeing how fast we can move when we see them put something in their mouth that we know they aren’t supposed to have. They push against our boundaries, testing our patience. They make our grinch hearts grow three sizes…and then shrink again when we find out they broke that vase and lied about it. In short, parenting isn’t for the faint of heart.

But, and I’m just spit balling here, has anyone thought that newborns should come with a parent size prescription of Xanax? Asking for a friend.

 

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I Fought My Inner Child and Lost

           Today is Halloween and you know what that means. Yup, my sister has already asked me for Christmas ideas. More importantly though,  it’s the day that we let our kids live action role play as costumed candy beggars, wandering darkened streets in search of that sweet, sweet sugar high.

If you can remember back to the good old days of your misspent youth when you used to participate in this most cherished childhood ritual, then you’re probably thinking of those awful plastic masks that we had to wear. You know, the ones with the two tiny eye holes and a slit for the mouth? It used to get all slimy from our hot breath and the eye holes would never line up properly, giving you a sight range of like 28% at any given moment. Man, those were the days, weren’t they?

Now that we’re old, we have to rely on our own kids (grandkids, nieces, nephews, strange orphan children that aimlessly wander our neighborhoods on only Halloween) to live vicariously through. Sure, we may be old enough to buy our own candy now, but it doesn’t taste as good as the free stuff. In order to get that awesome Halloween variety mixture that your kids come home with, it would take at least 15 different bags of candy. Have you seen how expensive that stuff is? I’m just looking for a sweet fix, not a mortgage payment! I really feel like I didn’t appreciate those handouts as much as I should have when I was younger.

I shouldn’t have to mention that this is the time where genetics could have helped me out. Short, uh I mean vertically challenged, statures would certainly help blend in with that school age crowd. Especially since masks could hide those fine lines and wrinkles that would surely out me as too geriatric to participate in this tradition. Sure, I’d most definitely have to go to a different town in order to successfully pull this off, one of the downsides of living in a small town where everyone knows your name, but unlike small children, I have a driver’s license. (So there twerps!)

If I’m planning on stealth mode, I’d probably have to go sans children. As much as I love that smallest jerk of mine, he’d definitely rat me out at the first house.

Person: “Oh, I love your scary mask!” My kid: “That’s my mom!”

Sadly, this leads me to admit that my height detriment is not the only hole in this plan. Unless I bribed him with all of my Reese’s…….

Realistically, I know that we are supposed to graduate from trick or treating to “adult Halloween parties” where we get to dress up and alcohol is the candy substitute. But honestly, I’d rather just have the candy. While the scale is sure to betray me the following morning, at least I won’t have a hangover from over indulging in my sweets habit. Not to mention, too much candy has never given me the false confidence that I can indeed karaoke. I have never felt that sharp sting of betrayal from candy. Alcohol is all pretty lies and consequences of my actions. Sugar is just straight forward fun and unapologetic weight gain. Was it worth it? I think you know how I’d answer that.

Halloweening at those grown up parties tend to have lots of guests as well. WAY more than the handful that I’m comfortable with. We introverts try not to people if we can absolutely get away with it. Especially at this point of the year when we know that we will have to prepare for the barrage of the family parties that the holidays will bring. We like people, there’s just a limit to how long we can be exposed before melting into a human shaped puddle. That social battery of mine needs constant re-charging, usually with periods of silence and blissful alone time. As a parent, I don’t get a lot of alone-ness, but I tend to revel in it when I do manage it.

So for all my fellow adults who will be trekking the streets with their costumed miscreant tonight, getting ALL of the steps and NONE of the Snickers, I feel your pain. Know that your cold comfort is the solidarity of all the other sad, reminiscent adults trudging out in this chilly fall weather. (Shout out to my fellow East Coast-ers.) On the bright side, I’m sure that there’s a reason a Milky Way bar won’t make it through quality control’s candy check later tonight, right? (Wink , wink)

 

 

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Random Thoughts That Keep Me Up at Night

             I’ve never been one of those people who can go to bed at night and be asleep in 4.6 seconds. My style is more like “contemplate every single thing you haven’t had time to think about during the day because you were too busy”. Here is some of the stupid stuff that runs around my brain when I can’t fall asleep right away.

What is the point of FaceBook hacking? Can someone explain this to me? I could understand if it was only rich and famous people getting hacked but Norma Smith from Idaho, a 67 year old pinochle playing grandmother? What does she have to offer? Are you just dying to get her family recipe for tuna noddle casserole?

FaceBook hacking became so common that they now offer 2 factor authentication. (For those of you not in the technology know, that means there are 2 different methods of verifying it’s really you, usually a cell phone number or another email address.) I have to assume that the 2 factor authentication is successful since I’ve gotten a few text messages from someone trying to hack my FaceBook. The good thing about this is that now I can be aware of when someone is trying to hack me instead of being blissfully unaware like I was previously. It’s a real boost to the self-esteem to know that someone thinks that I’m important enough to hack.

The bigger question is, why FaceBook? I mean, I’m not trying to encourage hacking in any way but is FaceBook the best use of those skills? Think Matthew Broderick in “War Games” level hacking. Make it something super epic and insist that someone cool portray you in the movie they’ll make about it. Like Ryan Reynolds. (I mean, is there anything that man can’t do?)

You know another thing that chaps my ass? These idiot men who cheat on their smoking hot wives. The latest scandal involves Adam Levine. If you don’t know who that is, you have been living under a rock, or maybe you just have a rare form of amnesia that affects forgetting pop music icons. So this lead singer of Maroon 5 is married to a Super model. They have 2 kids and she’s currently incubating the third. (Yeah, awesome time for this type of scandal to surface, right?) Who the hell cheats on their SUPER MODEL wife? And if he would cheat on a woman who looks like that, I’m sure the rest of us average Janes should probably just pack it in right now.

And for those that would argue that sending a bunch of flirty texts or “just a kiss” isn’t cheating, I call bullshit. The intention is there. Are you telling me that if any one of these flirty women didn’t give the green light to jump her bones that he would draw a hard moral line there? Yeah, I don’t see it. What kills me is that I don’t even think he’s that good looking. Granted, beauty is in the eye of the beholder and all that but seriously, all I can see is an ex-high school nerd who found success and let it go to his head. (A super model for God’s sake.) I don’t know, I just don’t get it.

Here’s another brain blaster. Do you know those stupid “One gotta go” posts that you see on social media? Usually it’s a series of photos of things and you have to choose for one thing to go. Like out of 4 desserts: apple pie, chocolate cake, cheesecake, and chocolate chip cookies. Why do I have to get rid of one? Who is making me do this? What if I want all 4 desserts? What happens then? What happens if I want to have my cake and eat it too? (har de har har)

I’ve come to the conclusion that the only purpose of these posts is to sow dissension. Because you know that most people have really strong feelings about everything and they feel the need to ram their opinions down your throat, you know, because that will change your mind to match theirs. So what will start as a debate on which season is the worst has the potential to devolve into an ugly fight with name calling and slinging insults. (And yes, I will be grabbing the popcorn to watch things get real. I’m only human you know. Plus I enjoy free entertainment.)

I just realized that there are so many things that I think of at night and that this blog could turn into a novel. So I will wrap it up with this one last thought: Why can’t women’s sizing be the same as men’s sizing? Why can they walk into a store and buy a pair of jeans that are tailored specifically to their leg length and waist width and women have to choose a pair using a single number? And that number is not going to fit the same depending on what store you go to either. A size 10 is different at JC Penney as it is in Old Navy. What kind of creepy psychological torturer came up with women’s sizing? Do we not have length and width the same as men? You’d think, considering that women have multiple curvy areas, that they would have been more interested in making sure that women’s clothing was more accurate. Of course, these are probably the same people who design bras and those are a never ending delight to wear as well. (She said with heavy sarcasm.)

For those of you who share my talent for thinking of inane thoughts while you are trying to fall asleep, feel free to share some of the best, funniest, or most absurd ones. (I’d really be interested in knowing that I’m not the only one having Jack Handey’s deep thoughts in the twilight hours.) Until I invent a cure for sleeping blissfully like a baby (or a man), I guess I’ll just keep these midnight ponderings.

 

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