Tag Archives: kids

“Stay with me, my blood”

Have you ever felt like holding yourself together is all you’re capable of? I’ve been holding myself tightly, arms crossed over my always-sick stomach. What if I let go and I just…crumble? Fall to my knees, sob, and just howl my anguish. I’m afraid that if I let go of this fucking pain, it will destroy me. I won’t get back up. So I don’t let go. I try not to think. I push my thoughts aside however I can. Of course I’ve cried, probably a million times. But something about this pain, these tears, feels different. This pain tastes like eating hot coals, one after the other, until I burn up from the inside out.

You know that game we surely all played as kids, where we pretended the floor was lava? That’s what my mind is like these days. I’m balanced on the tiniest of throw-pillow islands with boiling, steaming red grief surrounding me. I’m burned no matter which way I turn, and so I stay on this pillow, stuck, raw and blistered.

I keep picturing myself like this:

I sit in a lawn chair in the middle of my house while strangers wander around talking quietly and judging my things. Someone asks, “How much for this chair that caught your daughter when she fell asleep standing up after claiming she wasn’t tired?” And I say, “That chair is not for sale STOP TOUCHING MY MEMORIES I’ll take $50 for the pair.” And so it goes until my home this house is empty except for me and the past.

The guilt is eating me alive. At the same time, I’m screaming in my head that this isn’t my fault. The irony: My mental and physical illnesses are destroying my life and there’s nothing I can do about it because I’m mentally and physically ill.


Red Pens and Condoms.

You know how your brain tries to protect you from things you can’t handle? I think mine has been doing that without my knowledge or consent.

I’ve spent the last month dusting my living room. This may not seem like a remarkable feat, but here:

I not only dusted the shit on top of the bookshelves; I dusted the bookshelves themselves AND all the books on them. Then I rearranged the books by author and favorites.

If I made a list of all the household chores that I despise (that would be all of them) dusting would be Number One.

Now, granted, I spent some of that time sick. Migraines, arms not working, back breaking in two (not really). But seriously. I had real shit to do. Shit that actually NEEDED to be done. Like get my kids ready for school, since it STARTS TODAY.

No big deal, right? Right. Except my oldest is going to college, middle is starting 8th grade, and littlest is entering 2nd grade.

So one would think, since a) I’m freaking the fuck out and b) I love school supplies more than almost anything, that I would be prepared. Backpacks. Notebooks. Lovely, lovely pens. Highlighters.  Folders. Every year since the oldest started school, I have had these things for weeks before school started. Backpacks would be packed with carefully labeled supplies. All binders would have little pencil pouches, just in case they forgot to bring a pencil to class. Paper would be stocked inside each folder, and folders would all be a different color so they would be easy to identify in a hurry.

Ha. This year, I didn’t buy shit. I mean absolutely nothing until yesterday. The day before school. So I assume my stupid asshole of a brain purposely derailed me. Likely because I CAN’T STAND THE THOUGHT OF MY OLDEST LEAVING.

Yesterday we finally went shopping. The boys didn’t give a shit about folders or non-scratchy pens, so they went out to the car. I filled my cart with my favorite things, plus bedding and other dorm shit (sob).

I was getting more and more stressed out the longer I was in the store. The last things I needed were red pens and lunchboxes. THEY WERE COMPLETELY OUT OF RED PENS. This was almost enough to push me over the edge, but I held it together and went to find lunchboxes. Of which the entire fucking store only had two.

I couldn’t take anymore. I stood there, lunchbox in each hand, waving them in the air and cursing like a sailor. An employee saw me and I had to explain (while starting to cry) that I wasn’t cussing at him, I was cussing at life. And lunchboxes. He left, looking a little scared, and I sank to the floor. The lack of choices in lunchboxes was apparently all I could take. I sat there in the middle of the store, just sobbing, with two lunchboxes clutched to my chest.

After finally getting my shit together enough to stand up and get the hell out of there, the checkout guy asked me, “How I was doing.” ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? MY HEART IS BREAKING AND SCHOOL STARTS TOMORROW AND YOU ARE OUT OF RED PENS!

We got home and I sat down in the floor, surrounded by school supplies. This is my happy place. I do realize that my middle child is in 8th grade. I didn’t give a shit. I started filling binders and writing class names on the spines and making sure each one had a pouch of pencils and pens. This lasted approximately 3 minutes before he came out of his room and asked for his supply list and all his stuff.

Sure. YOU’LL REGRET THIS WHEN YOU DON’T HAVE COLOR-CODED BINDERS, EACH WITH THE CORRECT RATIO OF PENS TO PENCILS! I’m positive he didn’t sharpen all the pencils. You have no idea how much this hurts.

This morning we took the two youngest to their schools, then I went off with a fully loaded car and child who was not coming home with me. I maintained while we drove (except I got really lost). I was fine as we unloaded. Once again my breakdown happened at Walmart. I may not be allowed back there. This is what I found when I returned to the dorm, loaded with shampoo and soap and condoms. (YES, condoms. Shut up.)

Dorm shenanigans

These kids look like they’ve totally got it together enough to survive on their own. Also, the condoms were possibly a waste of money.

I finally left my baby (yes, the one who is a foot taller than I am). When I got to the parking garage, my car was lost. There were so many levels, I was so tired, I was crying again, my feet were on FIRE…I seriously considered just laying down and rolling until someone ran me over. Then they’d be obligated to give me a ride to my car. Wherever it was.

Do you think I subconsciously blocked out The Big Day? And the directions? Also where I left the car? I’m pretty sure I just pretended none of this was happening until it actually happened. Surely one of you has had a crying fit over lunchboxes? Scared a Walmart employee? I can’t be the ONLY one who has seriously considered rolling down the ramps in a parking garage. Right? 

 

 

 


No One Wants to Hear About Your Dreams

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


My Daughter, The Ferret.

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.


Anatomy. Questions. Honesty. Please make it stop.

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.

 


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