Author Archives: Steph

About Steph

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I like words. I suspect I would like sanity, but I really have no way of knowing. I can be reasonable, but not often.
April 12, 2016

Yes. Yes, I Really Did.

By Steph

clean orange

Believe it or not, I have done a LOT of stupid shit in my 36 years. Some of which I will never reveal.

For those of you who put up with my nonsense and sadness and bitching (thanks, guys!) I present my Top 10. Well, at least the Top 10 that I’m willing to admit.

1. Caught a catfish. Not that dumb. Held it up for pictures. Not that dumb. Jumping in the lake after it when it squirmed out of my hands? My God. Did I seriously think that I could recapture a fish, while fully clothed, with my bare hands? I guess so.

2. In my late teens, my friends and I gathered around a campfire at another friend’s house. His parents obviously had no idea that we were drinking. I had so many screwdrivers (that’s vodka and orange juice for those of you with sense enough not to drink that shit) that I was crawling on the ground because I couldn’t walk. I can’t remember if I got hungry or had to pee, but against all reason, I went into the house. I was met at the door by a horrified mother who grabbed me by the shoulders and asked if I was drunk. I, of course, said no. Then I vomited all over her feet.

3. A couple years ago, I stood on a table in my living room for over an hour, waiting on my husband to get home because I thought there was a snake peering at me from under the couch. It was a gum wrapper. No wonder the motherfucker won our staring contest.

4. In my early 20s, a friend and I were out drinking and dancing until the wee hours. When we’d had enough, we headed to an all-night breakfast place because duh. On the way out the door we noticed the shiny glass case holding mouth-watering pies. We bought a chocolate silk pie. (These are fucking delicious, like pudding and whip cream on a pie crust.) I don’t think we had a plan, but I’m pretty sure we didn’t intend to eat the entire pie in the parking lot. At 3:00 a.m. With our fingers.

5. Hit my head on open cabinet doors (that I opened), door frames, a hot pancake griddle, a post that I was leaning against, my car door, the underside of my desk, and pretty much anything stationary in my vicinity. I can’t seem to keep track of where my head is situated in relation to my body or anything else.

6. Again in my 20s, (I’m sensing a pattern here) I got separated from my designated driver and locked out of the car where I intended to sleep until he showed up. Instead, I ended up telling a police officer to go ahead and arrest me if the station had a bathroom I could use. I’m sure he appreciated me giving him permission. I did not appreciate it when they didn’t let me use the bathroom.

7. Filled an ice cube tray with water. Set it neatly in the dish drainer with the clean dishes. Walked away. Came back. No ice. Just water. (This was today.)

8. A couple weeks ago I accidentally sliced the end of my finger with a kitchen knife. I attempted to use New Skin (for the first time) to glue it shut. Turns out, a Band-Aid would’ve been a much better choice. I didn’t read the label, so of course instead of the goo intended to protect wounds, I painted callus remover all over the open cut. Acid. Callus remover is mostly acid. I cried.

9. Yesterday I washed an orange in the washing machine with the dirty laundry. Yep.

10. Last year I went to the wrong doctor’s office and sat there for an hour before asking them how much longer it would be. That’s when they told me that I did not have an appointment. I had to pay the doctor I was supposed to be seeing $150 for being a no call/no show.

I don’t know what the moral of this story is, unless it’s that brain cells are good and you should keep as many as you possibly can.

21 Comments   |  tags: , , , , | posted in Just Being Awesome, random bullshit, total chaos

March 26, 2016

No One Wants to Hear About Your Dreams

By Steph

I know, I know, but the name of this blog came from a dream, so indulge me, just a little.

I’m not doing so great right now, and my dreams are like slaps in the face.

I guess if you look at them symbolically, then they have evolved from convoluted-dream-speak to STEPHANIE, QUIT BEING A FUCKING DUMBASS AND LITERALLY SMELL THE ROSES!

We took the two youngest kids on a short trip, an hour or so away to a touristy-town, just for swimming and playing and “getting away.” (Thanks to a certain Nana and Grandma for making this happen.)

Anyway, YES. I had fun. YES. I enjoyed being with my family. YES. I laughed, and ate, and swam, and sat in the hot tub, and had an entire fancy lobby all to myself with coffee already made when I woke up.

YES. I was hurting and needed SILENCE after just a short while. NO, I couldn’t carry any bags or take the stairs; shit, I had to LEAN ON A WALL just to wait for the elevator. (The only reason I didn’t sit in the floor is that my 13-year-old would’ve died from embarrassment and then who would’ve helped me up.)

YES. I freaked out a tiny bit at dinner. YES, I actually thought my server walked away while I was telling her my order. YES, I was surprised to find her still there. YES, unfortunately, I tried to explain my confusion to her and my family.

YES. It was hard, and I am paying for it now, and I’m so depressed today that I don’t even know if it was worth it. I keep thinking back…

How happy my son was in his new clothes, laughing and joking and BEING NICE TO HIS SISTER.

How happy my daughter was, laughing and joking and giddy with excitement.

How SELFLESS my husband was (and is) knowing that he would be the pool-toy, the bag carrier, the kid-chaser, the driver, and did all these things knowing he had to work the next day.

It was worth it.

That doesn’t mean I’m any less miserable today. I won’t detail my aches and pains; I will just say that as someone who basically did nothing harder than stand in an elevator as it went up and down two floors, I don’t feel like I should be in this kind of pain.

We got home late yesterday afternoon. My husband was still at work. I was SO TIRED. The 13-year-old and 7-year-old were somehow NOT tired. The 30-minute car nap that almost killed me revitalized them I guess.

So I told them I HAD to lay down and to wake me up if they needed me and I was so tired that I didn’t even go over my spiel that they usually say with me because they FREAKING KNOW, MOM!

I thought I would drowse a little, maybe just lay in bed and rest but not even sleep, or get a quick nap and be able to think again. WRONG.

The kids tried to talk to me at least 5 times in the 3 hours before their dad got home. Once (apparently) my daughter said she was hungry and I replied with, “WHAT? You want me to brush your car?” I know the kids came in my room, I know they tried to wake me up, and I know that I was NOT awake at any moment that I spoke to them.

It sounds funny when they tell me what I said, but to me it’s also terrifying. Is this some new thing that’s going to happen? Do I need to teach my daughter what to do if I won’t wake up, but spout gibberish instead?

I realize that my son is 13 and very capable of taking care of his sister for a few hours. Shit, SHE is capable of taking care of HIM for three hours.

I don’t know what that was yesterday afternoon, I don’t know why I didn’t wake up, I don’t know why I was saying weird shit, and I don’t know if it will ever happen again. I do know that I feel like a bit more of my Mom Badge was just ripped off, and that motherfucker was in tatters already.

This morning I woke up because of a combination of terrible pain and a dream. Yes, I’m going to tell you about a dream. I’m sorry. I’ll keep it short.

I saw all these HUGE, gorgeous flowers on the side of the road. So many different kinds, so many colors, growing wild even though the ground was snow covered. My arms were full of flowers and I was GLEEFUL. Then I turned to go and my heart sank because there was so much snow that my car was stuck. Back to reality.

(Y’all have NO IDEA how lucky you are that I’m not bustin’ out some Eminem right here.)

Then I had a rilllll shitty morning ending with my husband telling me “You don’t know how much that trip took out of you. Maybe your body was just so exhausted that it shut down. The kids are fine. Please take your medicine and lay down for a while.”

*He didn’t say that last sentence but I could see it on his face, so that’s what I did.*

So THEN…yes, another dream. Shut UP! The last one was super short!

This time I’m looking out my window and I see that the sun has just almost reached the perfect point where it covers the whole pool and the rock in the center where I like to lay. I am JOYFUL. I can’t wait to get down there. Then I get a text from a mom friend about our kids and I can’t reply because the buttons are weird and the letters are moving all around and then I’m frustrated and worried. Back to reality.

 I feel like my subconscious has literally “dumbed-down” my OWN DREAMS.

 

SORRY, SUBCONSCIOUS, I SEE WHAT YOU DID THERE.

 

I can’t remember ever feeling as happy as in those two dream-moments.

 

Maybe we never feel that way in real life.

 

Or maybe that’s what joy feels like to “normal” people.

semicolon tat

Broken today, still here tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

18 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , | posted in Depression, Mental Illness, parenting, random bullshit, thoughts, your health is your wealth and this is why I'm poor

March 14, 2016

My Daughter, The Ferret.

By Steph

We have a ferret. If you know anything about ferrets, you know they are notorious for stealing things and hiding them. The last time we moved our bed, when we picked up the box spring we discovered a hidey-hole. The little bastard had torn open the fabric and filled the inside with all sorts of random items. Mostly red things, because for some reason our ferret hates anything red.

My daughter is 7. It’s possible that she thinks she is a ferret. Or maybe she’s just weird. It does run in the family.

She started hiding things a few years ago. This was the first thing I found where it didn’t belong:

hiding puppy

 

You can imagine my surprise when I wanted a pot and found eyeballs instead. It was traumatizing, and not just because I jumped back and fell on my ass.

 

 

This child squirrels away the strangest things, in the oddest places.

 

She’s hidden Easter eggs under my pillow. Actually, they were Easter eggs and Silly Putty eggs, which I did not discover until the next morning when I woke up with Silly Putty everywhere. There are still suspicious-looking stains on my comforter.

 

She puts acorns in the clean laundry.

 

When anything goes missing, we know who to ask. It drives my husband crazy, because two of her favorite things to hide are his hat and the TV remote.

 

She really likes sticking things in the spice rack, and when I went to take a picture of the pinecone that was there last week, I found this instead:

20160229_072047

Please excuse my dust.

 

I recently found an unmatched pair of my dirty socks, which had been filled with dozens of My Little Ponies and stuffed under her bed.

 

This cabinet is at the end of the hallway, and is one of her favorite spots to hide things:

20160229_072442

The elusive pinecone.

There is, or there was yesterday, a nearly empty bottle of water, two fake mustaches, a notepad, Christmas candy shaped like diamonds, a pinecone, bubble wrap, a jewelry box full of pennies, a flashlight, and a strip of animal-print fabric. Just the necessities.

 

Below is her diary, carefully placed in the bottom of a drawer in my bathroom.

20160229_072659

 

There is one thing we take turns hiding. She puts it in my pillowcase, under my blanket, in my underwear drawer, in my shoe, or on my shoulder.

 

I put it in the very bottom of toy boxes, up high where (presumably) she can’t reach it, and in boxes marked “yard sale.”

20160229_072221

 

The next time I find this one, no doubt when I’m least expecting it, I’ll be hiding it in the damn trashcan.

19 Comments   |  tags: , , , , | posted in parenting, small humans, total chaos

February 4, 2016

Anatomy. Questions. Honesty. Please make it stop.

By Steph

I’m not great at talking. With writing, I can backspace, delete, and edit until I get it right. My mouth unfortunately doesn’t have that feature.

When I know I’m going to have to speak to people, my mind goes through every scenario it can think of and what my responses should be. The night before any human interaction, I literally lie in bed and mentally rehearse what I should say. Then I inevitably mangle it anyway.

I think part of it is that I can’t lie. Everything I’m thinking shows clearly on my face. I can’t make my mouth form words that I don’t believe. You might be surprised at how badly blunt honesty is received. I spend a lot of time making noises and trying to look anywhere but at the person who just asked my opinion but who I know doesn’t really want it.

So it’s hard for me when I’m caught off guard. I blurt out things (true things) that I probably shouldn’t.

Lately this has been a real problem with my daughter. She just turned 7 and she’s insatiably curious. I have this intense desire to teach her to respect herself and others and to not judge and to continue to be the kind and compassionate person she already is.

But.

This fucking honesty thing. I mean, I even dodge questions about Santa.

The latest debacle involved lady parts.

Since she learned to talk, she’s referred to her vagina as her “front butt.” This has been killing me for YEARS. Every time she says it, I clamp my mouth shut. She’s our only little girl, and my husband has vehemently disagreed with my notion of providing anatomically correct names. He even told me that “a lot of people call it that.” Pfft.

I find that hard to believe.

The other night it was just the two of us, and she announced that “everybody has two butts.” I choked back laughter laced with not a little horror.

Me: No. No they don’t.

Her: YES! This one and this one! *gestures at…both butts*

I took the opportunity that presented itself, thinking “YES! FINALLY!” and calmly told her that her “front butt” was actually a vagina. She was fascinated. I was impressed with my composure.

I was not anticipating her next question.

Her: So, everybody has a…vagina and a butt?

Me: Erm. No. Boys don’t have vaginas.

Her: *wide-eyed shock* So, it’s just NOTHING? There’s just nothing there??

Me: *losing my shit* You really don’t know? Has someone told you something? You REALLY DON’T KNOW?

Her: No! Tell me! What do boys have?

Me: *wonders how pissed my husband is going to be. Can’t think of a way out of this situation.*

Me: *calm and matter-of-fact* Boys have what is called a penis.

Her: A weenis! What’s it look like?

Me: *mentally cursing myself* Uh. Well. *looking at my finger and wondering if it will suffice.*

Her: Maybe you should just draw me a picture. I’m never going to understand unless you do.

Me: I’m not drawing a picture of a penis.

Her: I’ll go get some paper.

Me: NO! Go get your father. *Before I fuck this up even more.*

Her: Yeah. He draws better than you.

Me: …

So my husband comes in, and thankfully she explained the whole conversation and all I had to do was say, “SHE ASKED!” to his raised eyebrows.

Now she’s sitting between us, with her back to me, a pad of paper in her hand, asking him to draw a picture of a “weenis.”

She can’t see me, so I hold up my index finger and waggle it around, silently asking him if we should tell her it’s like a finger. He looked at me like I was an alien. I WASN’T READY FOR THIS CONVERSATION, OKAY?

He’s all, “blah, blah, girls and boys are different, blah blah…” I already SAID all this! So we’re back to the picture. Now, because my husband is smarter than I am, he draws a boy and a girl. All I could think of was drawing a…weenis. Anyway, he explains all the differences as he’s drawing. Like, “Girls usually have narrower shoulders and a smaller waist. Boys are mostly more square shaped, like this.”

When he gets to the point, I’m behind her, frantically making hand motions and mouthing, “MAKE IT SMALL!”

This is pretty much what he drew:

 

weenis

Yes, he drew it better. Actually, the “weenis” he drew was about half that size. No, I don’t know what it means that I drew mine like this. Shut up.

 

Her: *Excited as fuck* OH! What does it do??

Me: *desperately needing this conversation to be over* IT PEES. You pee from your vagina, boys pee from their penis, and everyone poops from their butt. Which is technically called an anus. *Jesus. What is wrong with me?*

She is practically bouncing up and down, full of new knowledge. I’m telling her to NOT go announcing this at school, that these are private body parts, and some other stuff I probably shouldn’t have said.

I have no idea why I assumed that she knew boys had…different parts. I guess because when the boys were little I was a single mother, and they just knew that I was different than them. I know my middle kid found out when he came barging in the bathroom and screamed, “OH MY GOD MOM, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR WIENER?”

Unfortunately, the torment didn’t end there. Apparently that was enough for her to ponder just then, but last night she was full of new questions. I’m not willing to divulge my answers. I’m just hoping that she never does either.

 

54 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in parenting, shit my family says, small humans, total chaos

January 18, 2016

Lost in Translation

By Steph
ae78a-bunnybeepbeep

This picture makes about as much sense as the post itself.

There are some unwritten rules in the blogging/writing world. One that I continually break is not to read the comments left on sites other than my own. I can’t seem to help it. I want to know what people think.

When I Am Not That Mom was first published here, I was amazed at the response. Then Scary Mommy wanted it. Then Huffington Post. Then All4Women. I was blown away by the comments, and I read as many as I could find. Mostly they said “Thank you” or “Me too” or “Now I don’t feel so alone.” How could I just let those beautiful words languish in internet purgatory, never noticed, never acknowledged? The people that left these comments praised me, for being brave, for being vulnerable, and most often, for letting them know that they were NOT alone. But what they didn’t know was that those comments helped me, probably much more than my post helped them.

When Huffington Post shared that piece again last week, I received two emails. One in Italian (which I initially thought was French because I am Very Smart) and one in German. I had to use Google Translate to understand what was happening. I guess U.S. Huffington Post submitted the article to their Italian and German counterparts.

HOW COULD I RESIST?!

I couldn’t. When I clicked on the link, Google asked me if I wanted it translated to English. Sure. Cause I can’t fucking read Italian. Or German. Or French, for that matter.

This is where things started getting HYSTERICAL. Now, I’m no linguist, as surely you’ve realized by now, and I have no idea how accurate Google Translate is, but holy shit, my word babies were torn to pieces and put back together until I didn’t even recognize myself.

I was laughing so hard last night, I almost couldn’t breathe. I ran around the house shoving my phone in any face that would hold still and yelling, “THEY SAID I KISSED AN OX!” “OMG!” and “CHRIST ON A CRUTCH, THE WHOLE WORLD THINKS I’M A FUCKING MORON!”

Seriously, I sound like a lazy, and possibly insane, asshole.

I wonder if an Italian-speaking person read it, would it make more sense and come across the way it was meant?

Anyway. For your reading pleasure, I present to you excerpts from I Am Not That Mom, in English, Italian, and German. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have.

 

ME: I Am Not That Mom

ITALY: I Am Not One of Those Mothers

GERMANY: I’m Not a Mother

Wow, Germany, that’s a little harsh.

 

ME: I am well aware of my failure in this aspect of parenting.

ITALY: I am well aware that you have failed as a parent from this point of view.

Yeah, you fucked up big time. Wait, what?

 

ME: I’m just not that mom.

GERMANY: But as a mom, I am not easy.

I can’t really argue with this.

 

ME: When I first saw you, I knew that you would hold my heart forever.

ITALY: The first time I saw you, my son, I realized that I’d captured her heart forever.

I’m so confused.

 

ME: I can still feel you, so tiny, snuggled on my chest. When I see you asleep now, I still picture you curled up in footie pajamas, all wispy hair and dark lashes against perfect skin.

ITALY:  I can still hear each of you, curled up on my chest. Even today, when I look at you sleep, I imagine squatting in your swimsuit, with thinning hair, dark lashes and face immaculate.

What the…someone, please, explain this before I laugh so hard I pee my pants. Again.

Too late.

 

ME:  I was the mom who kissed boo boos.

ITALY:  I was one of those moms who kissed your ox.

Oh, Italy, you’re killing me here.

 

ME: (safety scissors, my ass.)

ITALY: (scissors with safety, a horn.)

Scissors. Useful in any language. Asses and horns, not so much.

 

ME: But most times I feel like I am also the mom who is failing.

GERMANY: But mostly I feel that I am the mom who refused.

This is hurtful, Germany. Very hurtful.

 

ME: I was that mom who rocked you all night, patting and bouncing and shh, shh, shhing when you cried.

GERMANY: I was the mom that you all night has gently rocked, patted your Po, up on the exercise ball…

I think you and I might bounce babies differently, Translator Person.

 

ME: …although there have been a few notes from the Tooth Fairy instead of cash.

ITALY: …although the Tooth Fairy, instead of giving me some money, I did deliver the message of warning.

THIS TOOTH IS NO GOOD. NEXT TIME LEAVE ONE WITH FILLINGS, OR ELSE.

XOXO,

The Tooth Fairy

 

ME: I’m also the mom who too often hurts too much to cook dinner. I’m the mom who lets you eat an unhealthy amount of macaroni and pizza rolls.

ITALY: They are also the mother who often do not want to make dinner. I am the mother who lets you eat a huge amount and unhealthy pasta and pizza.

Translation: This woman is lazy and wants you to be fat and hungry.

 

So yesterday was a good, good day, because I got to read all these wonderful comments from wonderful moms, dads, grandmas, future moms, people with no intention of having children, just so many amazingly considerate people, and then I got to laugh my ass off at this. I needed a good day.

❤

38 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , | posted in Blogging, Mental Illness, parenting, random bullshit