I realized recently how amazing the women in my life are. It all started at dinner with friends, where I was told that two people wanted to be called "Overachiever" in the blog. One of them actually was Overachiever as mentioned in previous posts, the other that was bummed she hadn't received the title.
I would like to believe that you are what you surround yourself by...or at least...that is what I am telling myself, so in honor of all the amazing women I know, today everyone gets their name. I am pretty sure all of you will know who you are, and many of you will know who the other is - which is why I love you all. BabySis, aka Shammy, aka FreakishlyStrong, aka ControlFreak, aka ManicMama - all should be self explanatory, especially if you know her. She is my rock, my best friend in the universe and the only person that can tell me what I already know and don't want to hear, because she is pretty much the only person I won't brush off in denial as being an asshole. She knows my shit and I know hers, so we just tell it like it is is. I love you BabySis. Overachiever - you know who you are - but thank God for you...you remind me that I am a parent and have responsibilities and your presence in Lagree suddenly makes me work harder - which is funny because I am totally not competitive and usually don't give a shit...so thanks! Pinterest Queen - you were bummed you weren't Overachiever, but I personally think a Queen of anything is the best title ever. And honestly, if it is on Pinterest, you can do it...that's pretty friggen awesome. You are also a weight-lifting badass, but couldn't think of a good name for that. Feel free to Pinterest suggestions there. SmallButMightyMama - Only girl I know that loves her some CoorsLight over anything else in the fridge - unless there is a bottle of Captain. She's hot, she's funny and for her pint size, is one of the most fun people you will ever hang with - her smile is infectious. Oh, and she is the only person I have ever know that pulled off the official CoorsLight bikini at the White Trash Pool Party - it was epic. MaterialGirl - she owns more luxury labels than any of my other friends combined - but is not only unashamed, but one of the most generous and caring people I know - especially to her dogs. Seriously, this girl is all heart - she would give Louis to a Loser - just to make their day. OnPoint- this one was the hardest to name. She exudes confidence, character, positive energy, and the world just gravitates toward her. She is the one always chosen to be on stage, and her presence lights up a room, because her EVERYTHING is always on-point - but her dogs are punks and they poop everywhere, so she can't be called "Perfectly OnPoint". SuperPower - she's a PowerMama with two STEM degrees, freakishly strong, could pretty much kick anybody's ass, but her quiet nature keeps it all inside. She always does the math for me when I try to pay a bill, and honestly, no matter where she goes in the world, she will always come out on top. I don't know why she ever let me hang out with her, but how lucky I am that opposites attract. Cuz no shit, she is the ying to my yang 100%. SuperMom - has twin pre-teen girls and another teenage daughter, all in club sports. She works a full time job, has two side businesses and is a MASTER bow and tutu maker. I owe not going crazy while pregnant and post baby #1 to her...she's amazing. MontreLovely - one of my favorite people from one of my favorite towns, Montreal. TheFighter - seriously one of the most talented Brand women I have ever known - she can make people believe dirt and concrete are an urban Oasis, and oh ya, she almost died trying to be a mom, but kept fighting and is now an amazing mom to a gorgeous little girl. She is also a freak show athlete and got me into Lagree...I love and hate her for that. BrainBabe - seriously the smartest woman I have ever known - funny, witty, throws the meanest Derby Party on the planet and is the best damn Steeplechase and Honkey Tonk buddy you can find. TheBreeder - my oldest and one of my dearest friends - she used to use the term "Breeder" about people with lots of kids - then she had 5. She is going to HATE this name, but there is no denying - she has made some GORGEOUS kids. Yes, you know who you are, you are AMAZING and I love you forever. D - another one of my oldest friends and confidantes. She is the reason I moved to Nashville, made some of the best friends I have ever had in my life and met my Hubs. I owe a lot to her. She is gorgeous, smart, strong and just an all around incredible woman. My mom is of course at the very top of this list - but she doesn't get any new name, because Mommy is the most special name I could give her. She is the reason I am alive and thrive and honestly, she makes me want to be a better person every day. I love you Mommy. That being said, I know there are more of you...I may just have had a few too many cocktails to remember at this point. Feel free to bitch at me and I will give you a name. Actually, on second thought, maybe wait until tomorrow. Sobriety may keep me from calling you a bitch. Merry Non-Holiday to all and to all a good night.
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What happens when you mix extensive work travel and exhaustion with an attack at your parenting? Answer - nothing good...ever.
After two weeks of travel, I am on my last leg connection in the Phoenix airport. When I land I have a message from the Pre-school Director - we shall call her P.A.B. - for Passive Aggressive....fill in your own "B" word. The message is asking whether they can give my son a banana, because he is starving and I apparently had stopped packing him enough food. Ok...let's investigate. As I sit in an airport grab-and-go place, sipping on some soup, because after 6 hours of flying in coach, I am famished, I call her back - only to be told that the feeding schedule I have specifically set up and require was no longer going to be adhered to. Apparently my kid is watching other kids eat all day, and that's a problem. I'm sorry - "No", I simply respond. And then, all hell breaks loose. Accusations start flying of me not providing my kid with proper nourishment, cuz ya, at 26-pounds at 11 months and wearing 18-24 month clothing- clearly he is withering away. I start getting super condensing about their inability to follow a simple plan, and the financials of the whole situation - and now shit has gotten heated. Next thing I know, I am standing at a window at an adjacent gate, screaming about the audacity they have to challenge my parenting, and how dare they change my very important schedule because they want to entertain my kid with food. It got ugly - and I am pretty sure most of the 6:15 pm flight from PHX to SNA heard about it.
Now, I want to make sure that I make something perfectly clear - I - in every fiber of my being, am more than greatful - in fact, I am indebted to the women that care for my children all day. They are on the front lines, and I can't even imagine what it must be like to have 10 babies in a room at once - I would go postal, seriously. This isn't about them. This is about someone attacking my parenting when I am running on 3 hours sleep and airport food. Homey don't play that.
Here's the thing, I do not think it is too much to ask to require the people you pay to care for your kids, to stick to a schedule that you have in place for a reason. I get it, it's not the same as the other kids, but that shit just ain't my problem. My son eats four times a day, two times while at school - it's his routine, and it keeps him healthy, happy and sleeping well. That's all they should worry about. Let me know he needs more food and maybe a different mix of nutrition - sure - I'm on it. Tell me I am starving my kid and you got yourself a brawl. P.A.B. and I do not speak now. We glance at each other and barely nod - we have an unspoken law of the west between us now. Could she kick my son out of school and ask us not to come back? Sure. Would I be hurt? Nope. I will go to jail any day for defending my right to know what is best for my child - I'm the Mommy bitches - rest of you be damned. Mic Drop. I am sorry to say it, because he is a perfectly good piece of cardboard, but I fucking hate Flat Stanley. For those of you that don't know, Flat Stanley is a character from a book that gets flattened for some reason (I have never read the book) and now gets the pleasure of making parent's lives a complete nightmare for two weeks.
I have decided that I am fundamentally against this project for 3 reasons - 1) Basically, since my kid isn't reminded about the assignment in school, I have to do all the work; 2) Who the hell can remember to cart around a piece of cardboard into the 10,000 things we do in our lives; and 3) Why the FUCK does my kid have homework in Preschool? Don't I at least get reprieve from this crap until Kindergarten? Honestly, I think I am most angry at myself. Why the hell did I just stress for the last hour, at 9:00 pm on a Sunday night, when my kid has not mentioned this project ONCE. Not once. The only reason we had any pictures was because I saw the damn thing on the counter and threw it in my purse. I am pissed at myself for not forcing my kid to do the work and doing it for her, because I don't want her to get a failing grade. In Preschool. That's fucking neurotic, but true. This will NOT be happening again. In the meantime, we will be talking to C.C. in the morning and walking her through the Travel Journal that she did absolutely nothing on, so that it isn't a complete surprise to her if the teacher reads stuff out of it. So ya, that happened, and so it begins. I look forward to 12 years of making sure my kid does her own shit...I got my own deadlines. Tonight we are going to discuss the first of what I can see being a series of posts about signing your kid up for public school. This epic biopic has been conveniently named "Kindergarten Round Up" because, well, that is its actual name. Yes. Yes it is. The open enrollment period for Kindergarten is called a "Round Up". WHY?!? Do you know where my mind goes? It splits between visions of Woody, Buzz and Jessie playing out western scenes from Toy Story and a huge bottle of weed killer that I need to buy to kill all the grass in my backyard. I absolutely DO NOT think of filling out paperwork to put my kid into school. But clearly that is just me, because apparently it has been called this for years.
That being said, Part 1 is all about the adventures in figuring out what the fuck you are actually supposed to do. I still don't know. I have now spoken to several parents, all of which have a slightly different opinion on how this has to go down. I have at least one over-achiever friend, yes, you know who you are, we will call her Overachiever from here on out, that was patient enough to call the school and get some more info. Unlike our daughters that are basically in competition every second of everyday, they in fact are the living definition of Frenimies, I have decided that attempting to compete with Overachiever on the mothering front is an exercise in futility - she would win. She sews costumes, hand makes invitations, is on-point with all homework assignments, and yet is still uber cool and down to earth. I should hate her, but, I just can't - and I hate that. She's awesome, and thank God for her, because she takes the time to figure out what we are supposed to be doing. As you can imagine, I am RARELY the responsible one in relationships. Shout out to you Overachiever - you are the rock. Anyway, I am thinking the confusion thing may be a strategy by school districts. Perhaps they want you confused, so you screw it up, and thus don't get your kid enrolled. Maybe that is a school overcrowding tactic. I don't know...but I want to know why the hell it has to be so hard? To me, it should be simple. Kid is of age, kid goes to school. But NO...there is paperwork, immunizations, utility bills, birth certificates, after school care lotteries, etc etc etc. IT'S MADNESS! And like you didn't already feel like an asshole parent all the time already, now they have to have you guessing whether you are going to forget some form and be shunned to the corner begging the school to let your kid get in - even though that is their zoning designated school! I can't imagine the idea of going to a selective private school and begging and praying that your kid gets in. I would give up and move to Canada. I have zero time or tolerance for that nonsense. Tonight I spent 40 minutes in an online system doing "pre-registration". I then have to figure out when to take said pre-registration work, along with all my additional proof of existence to the school to sign her up. Please note the same website that took my pre-registration, lists the dates for Round Up for LAST SCHOOL YEAR. So ya...they are fucking with us some more. Strategy. ADHD MOMENT - My husband knows that I can't listen to music with words when I am working or writing, so he was nice enough to leave the room when he felt musical just a few moments ago. But now, he is upstairs, no joke, singing LOUDLY to a Spotify playlist that I can only explain as the Seattle Karaoke Suicide Set. This is the second night in a row. I think he may actually be practicing for the next time we go to Live Band Karaoke. That isn't distracting at all Hubs. Thanks. In any case, the next step in Kindergarten Round-Up is to determine the dates that I need to physically go to the school. I will keep everyone posted. Overachiever, if you are reading this, I will be texting you for the next 4 days to find out when we need to go. Yes, I will attempt to call the school myself, but I would rather not become the black sheep quite yet - I'm saving that shit for the PTA. I had a moment of celebration the other day - it lasted 7 minutes. It was perfect, because it happened to be my 40th birthday. It was early morning, Hubs and I were getting ready, and my kids were both playing with each other in my daughter's room. Nervous at the thought, I kept yelling down the hall to check on them, making sure C.C was keeping an eye on her brother. We are forever discussing the importance of keeping choking hazards out of reach with her, since Piercey puts EVERYTHING in his mouth right now. He fancies little pieces of whatever he can find, and she has shit all over her room. A terrible combination since it's a daily occurrence to find random crap squirled away in his chubby little cheeks. That morning, I would hear the occasional shout out, but only because C.C. (unnecessarily) freaks out when Pierce stands up and falls down. However, when I would ask, I was consistently reassured that everything was fine. I had a few minutes of pure elation - it was happening - that time that all parents of multiple kids would tell me was why I needed to have two kids. "They will entertain each other" they would say. "Only children cling to you, more is easier," they would add. "Have more, they will take care of each other." they would insist. I pretty much felt they were all full of shit, but once I found out I was preggers with number two - I was pretty much banking on it for my sanity. That morning, I was silently doing the Carlton dance. So now I am all dolled up - fab dress on for my 40th birthday day at work, hair curled, make-up "on-point" as my friend Ebony would say, and I am ready to go. Suddenly, I hear a scream. "What happened?" I yell as I book it down the hall in a full sprint. I walk in to discover this... Yes...that is my son with teal marker all over his - and especially around the mouth area. Yes, that would mean he would have been sucking on a marker for at least several minutes. And no...my daughter didn't think that qualified as behavior she should stop.
So here I am, dressed in gold for a golden birthday, and Hubs and I are simultaneously potato sack holding my son while SCRUBBING his face. I sure as hell hope there is truth in the "Non-Toxic" advertising on kids art supplies. It was...awesome. And proof enough that I cannot rely on my 4.5 year old to be the keeper of her brother, like, at all, ever. So, sadly, I am back to being convinced that all those parents were full of shit. At least for now. I hold out hope that someday these two kids will become the other's keeper. In the meantime, apparently now I need to add marker pens to my list of things C.C. must keep out of reach. At this rate, we may just need to empty her room until Pierce is 5! What the fuck happened to all the hours in a day? Before we unpack that one, I guess the first most logical question we should ask is, what the fuck did we USED TO DO with all the hours in a day BC? For those of you not familiar with acronym "BC", it stands for "Before Children". You remember, it was that time in your life when "Poopies" was not a topic of conversation you regularly had on a daily basis - excusing the pun of course. It seems only fitting for the term "BC" to sound ancient because quite frankly it might as well be the Cretaceous period in my lifeline. Yes, it was only 5 years ago, but the silence and solitude that was no children seems like such a distant past, it is but a faint recollection, remembered only through the pouring over of Facebook memories searching for some sign that you once had a life. Turns out you did...it was amazing. Now don't get me wrong - I love my children, we are blessed and I wouldn't trade my time with them for the world, they are my life. BUT - sometimes I miss just doing fucking nothing, or, doing everything with your free time, It was truly free time, it was your choice. It was glorious. And I so thought I was busy back then, that I had no time. I wish Current Me could go back and bitch slap Past Me - I was a dumb ass. These days I make a good mental effort to try and wake up three days a week at 5:00 am to workout for 20 minutes. Key terms here are "try" and "three" - I have yet to 100% accomplish that weekly goal. The baby starts stirring at 5:15. On the good days when I can pacify him, I can get a short workout in. If not, or if I just need a bit more sleep because he had me up a few times overnight, I spend the rest of the day feeling like a lard - and then I eat the cupcakes someone brings into the office. Vicious circle. Then, the day begins: Breakfasts, argumentative dressing (aka: 7 minute negotiation with a 4 year old regarding cowboy boots that are a couple sizes too big), gathering of all the daily shit required, getting out the door, daycare drop-off, traffic, full workday, traffic, day care pick-up and then activities. Let's park here for a second - kid activities are a pain in the ass for the parent - why do we force our kids to do so many of them?! We are only punishing ourselves, and some of the time we have to expend so much energy to get them to focus, it isn't even worth it. And why the fuck as an adult BC, did all those childhood activities not translate into me doing something productive with my time? Like, once I got older, I should have been accustom to my afternoons and evenings being taken over by productive stuff like playing a sport, learning an instrument or taking an art class. Instead, my evenings consisted of copious amounts of alcohol, an occasional work out, dinner with friends and binge watching anything on TV that sounded interesting. I think when Hubs and I first started living together, we had like 12 different shows DVR'd. Now, I am lucky if I have the energy to watch one 30-minute episode. It really is the circle of life though; my mom carted me around town to various sports, Brownies, art classes - whatever. She sacrificed Her time just to ensure that we kids had shit to do. And now I do it for my kid. Swim lessons, gymnastics, art etc. It's what we do I guess. Once you you get home from your long ass day, your butt better be ready to rally. Bottle washing, lunch packing, clutter clean up so you don't step on something painful in the middle of the night and POOF - it's 9:30. This post alone has taken me three days to write since I am so fucking tired I pass out while typing. Activity free nights are not even remotely free. Between Costco, laundry and who knows what the hell else, your time is just GONE. And I have long since left the shame of that last load of laundry sitting in the dryer for a week - too tired to deal. Fuck it. It will get done eventually - most likely on the next laundry day when I need the basket. In any case, I miss my time, I want some back. I feel like even if it was just 30-minutes a day, I would be so much happier of a Mommy. But then on the flip side, I want to watch my kiddos grow - I can't get that time back either. Fucking exausting dilema. Yet again, another thing they should warn you about before you try for kids. At least then you can mentally prepare. Instead, we are left longing - and using the 10 minute we can stay awake to search for vacations to take without kids. One can dream.
Spoiler alert - this post is not about Mommyhood per se...and more of a Diary of the Scorned type entry. This form of confessional is why I started blogging in the first place - I needed an outlet. If you don't want to hear me run through the mental hallucinations and tribulations that are my head, check back next week for more on the trials and terrors of being an aging working mom.
For the rest of you that love Misery and need some company - here we go - I think I am permanently scarred. 2017 was a rough, no, not rough, but taxing year for me. Even though I should have been rejoicing at the birth of my son, I still find myself seething from the separation from my last company. That is being nice - they laid me off while I was on maternity leave - after I spent a year trying to fit a mold of what they wanted - yes, they suck. But you know what, I need to just let that shit go. I am not even going to tell you how many books I have read trying to do that. I mean, I had trust issues before all that shit went down - now I feel like I am a Bubble Boy or something - insulating myself from everything and just living in constant terror that I am not good enough, or that I don't belong anywhere I find myself constantly questioning my abilities. Which sucks, because honestly, I want to just accept that who I am is pretty fucking great, and I belong in a place that embraces that. I am pretty lucky, I feel like I have found that place - but getting back to being scarred for life - I can't just trust that it is going to be okay and enjoy it. Why is it we feel that the bottom is always going to drop out? Why can't we just feel happy when we are? Why can't we admit our happiness and trust that the universe has it all worked out? Why do we always have to ask why?? Living in fear about what may or may not happen is no way to live. I don't want to exist like this anymore - and I am determined to take the journey to figuring out how to change it. 2018 is being coined as my 40Gold Year. I turn 40, I need to lose 40 pounds, I want to make some great money and I want to find my Shiny Zone - named in part with Tamatoa from Moana in mind - "I would rather be Shiny" - minus the fact that he is actually a bad guy and pretty much a bully in that scene, but we will forget about that and just think about the shiny, non-kill Maui parts of the song. Ok, come to think of it, maybe that is a bad example. In any case, I want to be the brightest person in the room that helps to light everyone else up. I don't want to wear fear - I want to wear glitter and sunshine and rainbows - I want to be Poppy from Trolls! Jeez, have I seen ANY adult movies lately?? I need a fucking date night. So friends, here you are with me - today is day number one of my 40Gold journey. Today's Afirmation: "I am not afraid to be who I am, embrace it and let it shine out!" With that, I hope we can all just believe in who we are, embrace it and let the world know we are proud of it. Feel free to send this to any of your friends that need a reminder that they rock for who they are (and for having you as a friend). Happy Tuesday, y'all. This Christmas Eve was spent "Santa Tracking" with our daughter. I gotta say, Christmas with a 4 year old is epic, if for no other reason than she is all about pleasing Santa. Last night was the fastest request-to-bed time ever, and all I said was "Santa won't come until you are asleep". As if programmed or controlled by remote, she froze instantly and turned and went to her room. When I said, "Wait Baby Girl, I will put you to bed," she placed her hand on my leading arm and said "No, No, Mom there isn't time for a book (there were 20 minutes left, before lights out) so you should just stay in your room and let me go to sleep." What, the what??? Who the fuck are you and what have you done with my 4GoingOn14 child? Normally at lights out I am arguing with her about what "Lights Out" means and that it doe sn't including starting a 10 minute long book, refilling her water for the 3rd time, rearranging the stuffed animals or talking about waterslides at a hotel we stayed at 5 months ago. But not tonight - no- Santa was coming, she had to go.
I have NEVER encountered a kid that went to bed on first request in my life - it was unbelievable. Santa brings the FORCE!!! For a second I thought my kid was Steppford or something. Come to think of it, that Elf on the Shelf is pretty much a bad ass too. What power these mythical creatures have over our children - its friggen awesome! I mean, if "Santa Says" it... they BLINDLY agree. Why the hell can't there be a Santa for every month of the year?! Us parents could drop the mic and go get our toes done. It would be glorious. What pains me though is that we are the (SPOILER ALERT) Santa, and the damn Elf. We make up the friggen rules; rules that are basically ignored by our children when we put them out. But a creepy ass stuffed doll, sitting on shelf... unadulterated obedience. And yes, I think the Elf is fucking creepy. Evoking a spirit onto any doll is just asking for trouble. Has no one ever watched a horror movie? I prefer not to poke the paranormal hive, thank you. There will be NO ELF on these shelves...no sir. In any case, I love Santa. Santa is my homeboy. Anybody who can get my kid to simple just DO, even if for only a month, or a week, or hell, a single night - is down with me. And I love the idea of wonder. The excitement in a kid's eye when they see their brownies had been eaten (gonna need an extra 20 minutes on the treadmill for that shit) and the eruption of screaming when they see all their presents - its friggen awesome. I hope I can pull this shit off for a couple more years - that would be my idea of a Christmas Miracle! It reminds me that we all could use a little Wonder in our lives. Santa - if you are listening - a winning lottery ticket would be key next year - thanks. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night. No joke...my dog must be mentally retarded. I wish I could sugar coat it because he is the most loving, caring, sweet, 70 lb lap dog you have ever met...but, if I am being honest, he is dumb as rocks. To add to it, I think he is trying to commit suicide. By eating pacifiers. I believe he is trying to exit the world in some sort of symbolic tragic final scene illustrating his plight since children came along and shattered his golden only-child existence. It's quite dramatic - and totally fitting to be my dog. Cuz there would be no way I could ever end up with Lassie. No no...I get the Lenny of dogs. As I write this, my sister is rushing my loving, stupid, idiot of a dog to the emergency room, because we think he may have eaten another pacifier - and when I say another, I mean, if he did, this would be his 4th. He must be so bat shit crazy as to think he is a cat that has nine lives. He is a Catahoula after all. He does jump over things like a cat. He likes to lay on your lap and glare at you like a cat. He for sure must think he's a cat. But he's not - he's just a dog with parents that he thinks, love to dish out tens of thousands of dollars to surgically remove pacifiers from his stomach. Because we have. And continue to. Because we love his stupid ass. But it may honestly bankrupt us. JackJack (aptly named after the multi-psychotic baby from the Incredibles that is super cute one moment then turns into the devil that destroys shit the next) has been diagnosed with Pica - an obsessive compulsive mental disorder, usually found in humans, that causes them to eat weird shit like paint chips or soap or cigarette ashes. My dog apparently has an obsession with rubbery plastic - or exactly the rubbery plastic found in Soothie brand pacifiers. It's so bad that when we had #2, we banned them from the house - just as a preventative measure. It seemed to work - until it didn't. The first time he ate one of these apparent tasty morsels, it cost us $6,000 to remove. The second time, we caught it early, and were able to medically force him to puke it up for a bargain price of $450. The third time - he must have buried one in the dirt for over a year, because #1 hadn't used them in over 12 months, and yet somehow, he found it and ate it. That was the big one. That one cost a grand total of $11,372 to remove - complete with emergency care, emergency surgery, emergency after care, etc. etc.- all in different locations of course- while Hubs was traveling and I was at home alone with a baby. Ya. It was awesome. I swore that if he ever ate another pacifier, I would have to let him die, because I couldn't afford another $12k out of pocket to get it out of him. That I would just respect his wishes to die and let him go. Please note, my dog is not allowed to get pet insurance because he is a "known offender" - no company will insure him. But I love my dog, I love my dog. Friggen JackJack!! This time, while we are in Tulsa for Thanksgiving, my sister is staying at our house and watching the dog. She knew the dog's history, but in a moment of distraction left a Soothie that her son uses, unattended. Minutes later it was gone. Nowhere to be found. Frantically she called me, hysterically crying. She fears the dog ate the Soothie. I, calm as can be since this isn't my first rodeo, ask a series of questions designed to assess the situation. I have been through this so many times I could qualify as a fucking triage nurse. After getting the answers I needed to devise a treatment plan, I advise her to go immediately to the emergency vet for a medically induced vomiting. The time elapsed from the missing pacifier to that moment was only 30 minutes so a violent puking should expel the pacifier if it was in there. I tell her this, because, despite what I might have said the last time, I will continue to save my retarded dog, because I love the fool. He was, hell, he is, my first child. He has sure as hell cost me more than any of my human kids, so I will be damned if I am going to let him kill himself. I would miss him too damn much. I love my dog, I love my dog. Fucking JackJack!! Just as I was finishing this, I got a call from my sister - the pacifier was indeed found in his stomach, and luckily was caught soon enough to puke up - the cost for this round is still unknown. But this scene is all too familiar to me. I now have 4 of these specimans in my hope chest, along with my human children's artwork and pictures. At the end of the day, our dogs are our children too. Often, they come first, or third, or whatever their birth order, you love them, and would do anything to keep them alive, just as you would any of your children. And just like your children, you love the dumb ones just as much, maybe in some sick way, a little more, because, well, they need it. And when all is said and done, you love your dog, you love your dog...Forever JackJack.
Once upon a time there was a cute little couple that lived in Nashville. Every winter they would travel to both California and Oklahoma to visit their families for the Christmas and New Year’s holidays. They would spend days packing for the different climates, end up with huge bags full of unnecessary clothing items, shoes, etc. They would bitch about being delayed in airports and dealing with the craze of holiday travelers they encountered. They would peacefully sit at a bar and watch with laughter all the stupid hacks that would travel with children – swearing that would NEVER be them…ever. And then they would arrive at their destination with a simple carry on and single suitcase. They lived happ-RECORD SCREETCH – ya, that shit is OVER. These days those lovely travel times are a distant memory. I chuckle when I think about how annoyed I was with holiday travel, how much of a burden it seemed. If only my today self could go back and throw a dirty diaper at my previous self and shout “Enjoy this fucking time, Bitch – it’s gonna be hell in a few years”. In reality – today self is the bitch, most likely because she hasn’t slept in 5 years and has to travel with kids. As I write this, I am sitting in a "seat" that must have been engineered with three-year old child measurement specs, because there is more legroom in the trunk of a Miata than there is in this fucking thing. I am in what would be a third row, if there was a row at all. But there is no row, no no, the rest of the minivan is chock full with a ton shit that is required to fucking travel with two kids. My kids have it good, they get the cozy second row. Hubs and his brother have it best, they can leisurely drive up front with cushy ass seats, radio and all the conveniences of home. I, on the other hand, tighten my motion sickness bands to keep myself from puking from the TERRIBLE body roll that happens in the back of a car with too long of a wheelbase. Now, if you don’t have kids, just stop reading because there is no fucking way you could ever comprehend what goes into traveling with rugrats. It’s unbelievable. In fact, my brother-in-law had the audacity to say “Wow, you have more stuff in that room than I have in the whole house”. I almost fucking drop-kicked him. You’re right asshole, get off your Captain Obvious ass and help us move this shit! In case you haven’t had to do this yet, here are a couple thoughts on your packing list. Please note this is not exhaustive, but just some things to remember.
Stock it with beer on one tap, and vodka tonic on the other. That way whichever parent isn’t driving and has to take care of the kids in the back can get good and buzzed. Because my last piece of advice is this – when traveling with kids, pack your adult beverage of choice and some Xanax - it is literally the only way you will survive. Don't feel guilty, just realize that a Happy Mom means a Happy Family. It's ok...you are awesome for even attempting to travel with kids. If you succeed, you are a fucking Rock Star. And I never met a single Rock Star that didn't have booze and happy pills. Case closed.
Happy Holidays and best wishes to all of you that, like me, are REQUIRED to travel. I salute you - remember you are awesome - and I'll see you at the hotel bar at 10:00 pm begging the attendant to just give you a cup of ice because you brought your own beverage. Happy Trails. |
AuthorFoul mouthed, outspoken and pretty much an eternal realist. Archives
May 2020
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