Tag Archives: parenting

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

November 17, 2015

Oh. Deer.

By Steph

When I was born, my family lived here, in rural Arkansas. Shortly after that, my Dad joined the Army and away we went. I spent around 9-10 years on Army bases, then we moved back home when I was in the 5th grade. This is important to note, in light of what I’m about to tell you.

I’m not against hunting; I’ve just never really been interested in it. There were no “youth hunts” on Army bases.

The first post-hunted deer (I’m trying to save your sensibilities here, people) I saw was in the back of my uncle’s truck, and I was about nine. I cried. I petted its nose, and whispered prayers and apologies, and wouldn’t speak to anyone the rest of the day. (I TOLD you guys, I’ve ALWAYS BEEN LIKE THIS.)

I didn’t come in contact with another deer until I was about 17. This time I was running in the dark and ran INTO the carcass of the deer, which was hanging from a tree in our yard. I feel like that’s something you really ought to mention to people. “Hey, there’s a giant dead thing with horns around back.” Or something.

Anyway. So I’m not a complete moron about guns. I like to target shoot. (I am good.) (Well, I’m okay.) (I’m not terrible, jeez!) I just don’t really even think about deer season except to tell the kids to wear orange if they go in the woods.

Well. I know that my 13-year-old hunts and fishes with his dad and grandparents at their place. Long as he’s safe, have at it, right? They know what they’re doing, my son loves it, so it’s cool.

Then last weekend I got a Very Excited call from my son–he’d shot his first deer. I was really proud of him and it was awesome to hear the story of his amazing shot and how much fun he’d had. It really was. It’s always great to see him joyous and happy. Then I hear, “You better get ready for a lot of deer meat headed your way ha ha ha.”

Ha. Ha. Ha.

To me, this meant, “I hope you have room in your freezer for a few prepackaged select cuts of deer meat.”

So I said, “Ha ha ha, well, okay, but I can’t eat it and I don’t know how to cook it, so send instructions! Ha ha ha!”

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Then I get a text as they are on their way to bring Thing 2 home.

His Gram: “A lot of meat & the head coming your way. The head needs to be hung up high in a tree. I’m sorry, he wanted to bring it home!”

Me: Oh shit.

Her: “The meat needs to soak in plain water overnight & then packaged & frozen then I will find you a couple delish recipes.”

Me: OH SHIT.

Her: *laughing her ass off* SORRY! Who knew he would get one?! HAHAHAHAHAHA *laughs forever.*

Me: Oh…shit.

So, at this point, my main concern is that my husband isn’t home, it’s dark, and there is a HEAD on its way here that I am going to have to somehow, someway, get up a tree.

To prepare for this, I put on my boots and paced, thinking furiously. I came up with zero ideas. None.

20151116_201208

Maybe because I have the wrong kind of boots?

Anyway.

They got there and my son was all, “LOOK! LOOK AT THIS! DO YOU WANT TO TOUCH HIS TONGUE?”

And I was all, “That’s so awesome pleasepleasegetitawayfromme.”

Then they were like, “So, do you have any rope?” and I was like, “OH! Good idea! Yeah! Rope!” Then I ran in the house, did a few circles chanting “rope, rope, rope” and then went back outside to do the same thing out there.

Thankfully, Thing 2’s Papa is a Good, Good Man and he found something that would work AND found a tree (not the tree by where I drink my coffee, THANK YOU SO MUCH) and he and my son hung the thing up. I basically just stood there, wringing my hands and nervous talking.

THEN comes the transfer of the meat. Thing 2’s Gram was snickering at me. SNICKERING at me! It was a loving snicker, but a snicker nonetheless.

They have a big plastic tub, presumably full of meat. When I saw it, my eyes lit up. I had visions of never opening that tub. Then she said these horrible words: “I need to take this with me.”

Shit.

We trooped into the kitchen for the big reveal. My son started pulling meat out of the sack like he was some sort of, fuck, I don’t know, a hunter I guess.

Once the sink was full of meat and my son was done shoving body parts in my face and his grandma was almost done laughing, I received my instructions for the next day. How To Package The Meat.

The following morning I was dismayed to find the deer still in the sink. There are no such creatures as Deer Fairies, in case you were wondering. I prepared myself for the job ahead.

By “prepared myself” I mean “looked everywhere and found nothing in which to wrap this meat.”

I had to improvise. In my defense, I WAS NOT READY FOR A….I don’t even know what this is called. I’ve got A LOT of learning to do before the zombie apocalypse, I’ll tell you that.

Anyway. So I used three coats of plastic wrap, two of wax paper, and then wrapped it all in duct tape. Seemed legit to me.

Because he told me it was a tenderloin. I think.
Because he told me it was a tenderloin. I think.
20151109_092453
Big Fatty Thing.
Possibly a butt.
Possibly a butt.
Really Big Thing
Really Big Thing.

I really want my son to be happy, and if he likes to hunt and fish, that’s great.

But I’m making a rule RIGHT NOW that I am not ever, ever, EVER duct taping a deer’s ass again.

Ever.

35 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in Just Being Awesome, nature hates me, parenting, total chaos

August 28, 2015

I Am Not That Mom

By Steph

I am Not that Mom

I am not that mom who sits on the floor with you playing My Little Pony for hours. I am not the mom who builds entire towns on Minecraft. I have never learned to play Pokémon and I never (ever) will. I am well aware of my failure in this aspect of parenting.

I am thankful for my husband, who excels in watching cartoons and playing video games. I smile when I see him and the kids tossing a football in the yard. (In the yard. No Throwing Balls in the House. Jesus.) I laugh when they wrestle and tickle and play, play, play.

I’m just not that mom.

I was the young soon-to-be mom, scared to death but determined, so determined, to bring you into this world and love you like no other. I was the single mother of two who worked long hours and still held dance parties with just my two boys where we sang at the top of our lungs and the laughter rang as loud as the music. Before you were even born, I was the mom eating cherry cheesecake so I could see you dance. (And because cheesecake.)

When I first saw you, I knew that you would hold my heart forever. Two more times I met my new sweet babies, and two more times my heart grew to wrap around all of you. When you were a baby, I was that mom who couldn’t sleep for looking at you. 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.

I was that mom who rocked you all night, patting and bouncing and shh, shh, shhing when you cried. I was the mom who panicked over every bump and bruise. I was the mom who kissed boo boos. I was the mom who spent untold hours waiting on casts for broken bones or bandages for cut fingers. (Safety scissors, my ass.) I was the mom whose leg you were firmly wrapped around the day we toured preschools. I was the mom who went to school online in order to work from home because you needed me.

I am the mom who signs notes and checks homework and packs lunches. I’m the mom who makes the doctor’s visits and dentist appointments and parent teacher conferences. I’m the mom who hasn’t worn anything but thrift store clothes for years so that you can go to school wearing clothes that are apparently hand-sewn by the famous athletes of the world.

I’m the mom who makes stupid jokes and sings off-key and acts sillier than I am just to see you smile. I’m the mom who wouldn’t trade those smiles for the entire world.

I’m the mom who loves you so much more than I could ever explain. And the mom who tries so hard to show you that.

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

I’m the mom with chronic recurring depression. I’m the mom with generalized anxiety disorder. I’m the mom with PTSD. I’m the mom who has chronic migraines. I’m the mom with chronic pain. I’m the mom who sees more doctors than hairstylists. (Hahahahaha, I don’t even remember the last time I went to a stylist. But you have an appointment tomorrow.)

I am the mom who struggles every single day to accomplish the things that have to be done so that you can have a “normal” life. I am the mom who does your laundry even when I have to sit down to sort it. I’m the mom who makes sure the water bill gets paid so that you can shower. I’m the mom who clips your fingernails and buys you toothpaste and nags you to wear deodorant.

I’m also the mom who forgets things. Not the big stuff, like birthdays or Christmas, although there have been a few notes from the Tooth Fairy instead of cash. But I forget things that you already told me. I forget that when you were playing a video game yesterday, you scored 58 touchdowns and a free throw, and spawned…maybe a chicken? I don’t know. I forget.

But I’m also the mom who can tell in a single glance when you are upset, and who listens to you when you are sad and angry and when you are happy and excited, even if I do tend to forget your ponies’ names and LeBron’s stats and how to catch ’em all.

I’m the mom who wants to slay all your dragons and breathe fire on anyone who dares to hurt you.

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. I’m the mom who has piles of clean laundry on the couch because my arms ache so badly I can’t fold it. I’m the mom who gets overwhelmed too easily. I’m the mom who has to hide when things get to be too much. I’m that mom who cries in the bathroom when I’ve let you down.

I’m the mom who stays awake at night worrying about you. I’m the mom who wishes she could save all your hugs and all your “I love you’s” and get them back out on the days when there are no hugs, just slamming doors.

I’m the mom who loves you SO MUCH. You are the children who save my life every day. I’m the mom who is trying to be the parent you deserve, even when I’m not the one you might want.

*EDITED TO ADD: I am completely overwhelmed by the response this post has gotten. I love all you guys so much,  and even though everyone keeps saying that I’ve made them feel less alone, the truth is that YOU GUYS have made me feel less alone. Thank you all SO much for every like, comment, share, and kind thought. I’ve been trying to respond to all the comments, but as I guess y’all know, I’m sick a lot. But I have read every single one of them, and each one brings a smile to my face or a tear to my eye and sometimes both. I just wanted everyone to know how much your love and compassion for each other and your “me too” and your stories have affected me.

Love,

Steph

330 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , | posted in chronic illness, Depression, joy, kids, love, Mental Illness, parenting, small humans, thoughts

April 23, 2015

Shit My Family Says to Me, Part 98

By Steph

Yesterday was my anniversary. Neither I nor my husband remembered it until my mom told us congratulations. This is just one example of how bad my memory is. I’m telling you this because I’m about to share some comments from my smartass loving family, and I can’t remember which ones I’ve already posted. Basically, it’s two times the funny. Or a rerun and you’ll wish you had changed the channel.

Either way.

 

Shit My Family Says to Me

I think they want to drive me crazy, but it is far too late.

 

Husband: I think I confuse you sometimes. It’s like you just don’t get what I’m trying to tell you.

Me: *Argues for awhile.*

Me: Whatever, you’re confusing me.

Husband: Um. That’s what I said.

 

 

Me: *Hears something fall in the kitchen*

Thing 2: I found a great place to put the sausage.

Me: *Ignores him*

Later

Me: *sees something nasty hanging half out of the ice dispenser.*

Me: What on earth is that?

Thing 2: Oh! That frozen tube of sausage fell out and I found the perfect spot for it!

Thing 2: *Goes on his merry way*

Me: So this is a tube of sausage that has been hanging out of the freezer all day.

Husband:

Me:

Thing 1: Is no one going to address the fact that he is a dumbass?

Me: *almost wet myself laughing, try to get rid of mushy, thawed sausage, almost cut my hand off, can’t figure out what to do with it.*

Husband: Is no one going to address the fact that he gets it from her?

 

 

Thing 1: *Looking at his ACT admission ticket.* What is this on the back?

Me: Oh. Well, I ran out of paper so I had to print it on part of a book I was reviewing.

Husband: You can’t do that.

Me: Why not? It’s fine.

Thing 1: The first line is, “terrorizing the city or some such bullshit.”

Me: They don’t need to look at the back. They just need the front. Who cares?

Thing 1: *I* care! This is my future we’re talking about here!

Husband: *nods knowingly*

Me: *muttering* I was just trying to be resourceful.

Thing 1: Don’t do that!

Husband: Don’t ever do that.

 

 

Daughter: When I grow up I want to have kids but I don’t want a husband.

Me: *seeing opportunity to teach her to be a strong, independent woman* You don’t have to be married to have babies. There are special doctors you can go to who can help you have babies without a husband.

Her: Really?! Will you take me there?

Me: *Fondly* Of course I will.

Her: And then I can live with you and Daddy and you will help me take care of my babies?

Me: Uh. I guess so?

Later

Husband: So, do you want our daughter to be an unwed teenage mother who lives with us so we can raise our grandchildren?

Me:

 

 

Me: I think I’ll pick up the yard tomorrow.

Husband: I don’t think so. You’ll be hurting for days afterward.

Daughter: You can’t work outside because Daddy said so.

Me: *seeing opportunity to teach her to be a strong, independent woman* No, I can if I want to, because I am a free woman and I don’t have to do what any man says. And when you grow up, you will be the boss of yourself!

Her: *excitedly* DADDY! Mommy says she’s a free woman and she doesn’t have to do what you say!

Husband: What? Oh, okay. Pick up the yard then. You want to weedeat too? Or do you want to load the old washing machine into the trailer? Since you’re a free woman?

Me: Um. No thanks.

Later

Her: Will you get me some more milk?

Me: Go ask your dad.

Her: *excitedly* He said you are free to get me some milk yourself.

Me: Shit.

 

 

Reasons That I Should Be Supervised At All Times

1.  I wrote a bunch of stuff with a black ink pen, then went to see my psychiatrist. She suggested increasing my meds. I did not realize until I got home that I had ink tattoos all over my cheek, chin, and neck.

 

2. *Home alone, untangling cords*

Me: *screams* I will fucking kill you!

 

3. *Home alone, cleaning up bits of deodorant out of the carpet*

Me: *cries out to universe* WHY? WHY?

 

4. *Uses visual aids to demonstrate the Monkey Kingdom movie*

Me: It was so disturbing. All these long, floppy nipples and monkey penises everywhere! They all had them!

Husband: Yes. All monkeys have nipples and penises.

Me: Well, I don’t think it was appropriate for kindergarteners. They should’ve shown the one about tigers.

Husband: Did any of the kids say anything?

Me:

Husband: So there were hundreds of 6-year-olds and you were the only one concerned with monkey parts?

Me:  I think maybe that one little monkey pervert jerking it at the zoo must’ve scarred me badly.

 

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

July 3, 2014

There’s No Mom of the Year Here

By Steph
crazyyetwise.wordpress.com

crazyyetwise.wordpress.com

I posted yesterday about Summertime Depression.  I didn’t particularly want to post it, but I feel like as a mom (or dad) these days we are always supposed to be “on.”

We are supposed to enroll our children in activities and then make sure we get them there.  We are supposed to make them study and play sports and play an instrument.  They should know which fork to use and how to give a speech or at least do a backflip.

Frankly, I’m pretty impressed with myself when my kids have clean clothes and I remember that they need haircuts.

Does that mean I’m a bad mom?  I don’t think so, but I’m no expert.  Right now I’m in a fog of depression and I can’t decide if my cat is really this big of an asshole or, if I was in better spirits would I not mind that my back is clawed up the way it hasn’t been since that one ever.

I think that my kids know that I love them, even on my worst days.  I know my kids have food to eat and clothes to wear and more gadgets and gizmos than I have myself.

Do we go to “activities” four times a week?  No.  Do I feel guilty about that?  Sometimes.  Sometimes I just think they have extra time to be kids.

I can’t, mentally or physically, be the PTA Super Mom.  I don’t like to play with Legos or Barbies.  I’m a terrible cook. (Also, I suck at juicing.)  But I will bake a cake on my kid’s birthday, and if I don’t have decorations I can make them, and if someone is sick or sad then I can stay up cleaning puke and rubbing backs for days.

I don’t know if I’m trying to justify my lackadaisical parenting to myself or to you or if I’m really trying to justify it at all.

I think I’m trying to explain that I posted my Mommy Depression post yesterday because I am SURE, positively, absolutely sure that there are other moms out there who feel the same way.  And I don’t know why it is so frowned upon to admit it.

Today I am not the best mom I can be.  I am better than I was yesterday.  Tomorrow I hope to be better than I am today.  But I’m not ashamed of the fact that I’m not “on” every minute of every day.  Being a mom (or dad) doesn’t magically imbue you with super powers.  I don’t have endless patience and sometimes I’m cranky.

Being a mom doesn’t take away the problems, mental or physical, that you had before, and sometimes it even awakens ones you didn’t know you had.

I think being a good mom (or dad) means just trying, every day.  Trying to love yourself and make sure your kids know that you love them.  I know that my kids know that they are my world, even on days when I’m sick or sad.  I know that my kids know that I will be there for them no matter what and they can talk to me.

I hope that I’m showing them by example how to be a decent person, even if I do struggle with depression and physical limitations.  I hope that I am showing them how to laugh and enjoy life, whether it is through or around the pain.

I’m trying.  Every day.

47 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in parenting, random bullshit, small humans, thoughts, your health is your wealth and this is why I'm poor

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