Monthly Archives: December 2014

Real Pants.

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Located at www.someecards.com. Because I don't want to get sued.

Located at http://www.someecards.com. Because I don’t want to get sued.

Yesterday, I invited some people over and I thought, you know, maybe I should put on some real pants.

A lady at the gym asked me today what I mean when I say “real” pants. “Aren’t all pants real?” she asked.

Um … no.

“Real pants” are pants that do not contain any stretchy ingredient such as lycra. They don’t have any give. They must be worn a minimum of 6 hours before they fit comfortably, and you fear washing them because they might shrink.

The final and most important characteristic of real pants is that they contain a button closure and a zipper. That is the part that can really just make life suck. I think you know what I mean.

Pajama pants, yoga pants, leggings, tights and adult-sized onesies: these all qualify as not-real pants. They also happen to be what I have been wearing as pants for the past 2 months as I ate my way through the holidays, so you can imagine my disdain today when I pulled out a pair of real pants today and couldn’t button them.

I sadly pulled my tired, old, not-real pants back on until further notice and resolved to eat less and bitch more. Because hungry people are bitchy, yes?

We’ll try the real-pants thing again in a month.

House Guest.

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Yesterday I had the pleasure of being the “House Guest” over at Housewife Plus, a blog written by a kindred spirit named Sarah. She lives in Maine, her husband builds boats, and she. is. hilarious.

Every Monday, Sarah hosts a House Guest and I was thrilled to hang out over there. She even used the word “y’all” to make me feel at home. Check it out here!

Like what you see? Don’t forget to follow her on Facebook and Twitter! She’s going to be famous one day and you’ll get to say you discovered her when. Just saying.

The Best Of Me.

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Yesterday, during an entirely-too-long road trip to Florence, MS, when Taylor Swift came on the radio and I started belting out the lyrics to “Blank Space,” I realized two things.

1. That song is not about Starbucks.

2. My children know me better than anyone else.

I’m not a shy person, but I’m admittedly prim and proper. It’s not on purpose, it’s just how I was raised — Southern and conservative. Minus the monogramming, because my mom wasn’t into it. I grew up in a church that frowns upon dancing, which means that as a 30-something adult I look like a complete idiot in my Zumba classes. I still haven’t learned how to shake my upper body, but don’t you worry, I’ll keep plugging away at it.

The side of me that my kids see is the side that belts out “YOU KNOW I LOVE THE PLAYERS, AND YOU LOVE THE GAME!” Yeah, I’m off-key, but who cares?

This is the side that makes ridiculous noises, chases them wildly around the house, hops on one foot through the kitchen and slides in socks down the hallway. Their mother is a non-makeuped, disheveled woman in mismatched lounge wear who is always teetering on the edge of insanity, but in a fun way. Unless she’s mad … which is no fun for anyone, because then she is non-makeuped woman in mismatched lounge wear who is parking asses in time out.

I have always worried that my kids get the worst of me because I seem to bumble through life in perpetual exhaustion. Tiredness is the basic truth of motherhood, right after unconditional love. It sucks the wind and the life right out of me and turns me into an impatient, rough-looking “momster” who sighs a lot.

In my non-mom life, I don’t belt out songs in front of other people unless I’ve been drinking, and I don’t dance unless I’m in Zumba. This realization disappoints me, because the side of me that doesn’t give a rat’s ass — that’s the side of me that comes out in my writing — is my best, most interesting side. That girl is a good time, and even my husband rarely sees her.

So maybe the side of me that the kids see really is my best side, even when I have been in pajamas all day, carrying a mug of cold coffee and yelling “FOR THE MILLIONTH TIME, PLEASE STOP TALKING ABOUT YOUR PENIS!”

Maybe the truth is, they don’t always get the worst of me.

Maybe they get the best of me, too.

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#prayforRobbie

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Last night at midnight my husband turned to me and said, “I’m nervous because I’ve never had sex with a 35-year-old before.”

I replied, “Don’t worry, you won’t.”

This is from someecards.com and my cousin Karen posted it on my Facebook wall. Gotta give credit where credit is due.

This is from someecards.com and my cousin Karen posted it on my Facebook wall. Gotta give credit where credit is due.

Just kidding … I didn’t say that. Even though somehow, in a series of strange events I still don’t quite understand, no one woke me up in time and I totally missed Christmas morning.

Oh yes. That. 

All the gifts wrangled, the stockings stuffed, the thought put in, and I didn’t get to see their faces when they saw it. Because I wasn’t there. Because I was asleep.

I was *ENRAGED at my husband, but not enraged enough to ban him from sex with a 35-year-old. I can’t go a year without sex. That’s just ridiculous. But you know what’s not ridiculous? The insane way that I will be wrapping presents from now on.

After I calmed down, I announced that I will henceforth be wrapping things the way Grandma wraps them. Everyone’s eyes widened with fear. Grandma uses a lot of ribbony knots and industrial-strength tape. People need help to open things from Grandma. And so it shall now be in our house, because I shall not ever miss a gift opened again. EVER.

I was freaking out over turning 35 today. I don’t know why. The fear has no logic behind it, aside from the feeling that my life is slipping by and I need to carpe all the diems before it’s too late. I’ve spent much of my life doing things that I’d rather not be doing, which is fine, but there is a time and a place for that and I like to think that at least a portion of it is behind me.

The next 35 years will be spent carpe-ing my diems in whatever way I damn well please, and loving my family, because even though I already have more than enough stories to tell, they just keep giving me more.

You can stop now, people. Seriously.

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*All of my mom friends told the story of How Harmony Missed Christmas to their spouses as a cautionary tale. Apparently a husband started a new hashtag on Twitter called #prayforRobbie. Just thinking about that made me feel much better … spread the word.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

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wpid-wp-1419472085102.jpegMerry Christmas! I’m invisible! At least … I think I am? Because, camo.

You know what? IT’S BEEN A DAMN GOOD YEAR.

It’s also been incredibly difficult in a lot of different ways that needn’t be rehashed, and I’m not sorry to see it draw to a close. But I feel really optimistic about 2015 …

Because when you’re wearing an adult-sized onesie with antlers and holding a bottle of egg nog, that’s what happens. Optimism.

I’m Doing SOMETHING Right.

I’m Doing SOMETHING Right.

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You make me happy too, Maverick. And mad. And frustrated. And slightly crazy. But the feeling that always overshadows the rest is the constant, unstoppable, NO MATTER WHAT love that I have for you. People tell me that you’re going to … Continue reading →

LALALALALALALA …

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It is now December 22 and I have not purchased one Christmassy item. Robbie did order one thing off Amazon … but that’s it. Nothing else has been done.

10849725_1565162037052276_6916118220399881664_nPulling off this year’s holiday will be my greatest mom feat to date. And you know, pretending it’s not happening — kind of like how I’m pretending Pepper isn’t screaming from her bed instead of napping right now — kind of makes it all go away.

Denial is fun!

A Perfect Storm.

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IMG_20141220_115305This must be one of those life experiences that we will one day look back on and laugh about, but right now, it sucks.

I’m now well enough to be completely and utterly mad at everyone. I’m mad that I’m sick. I’m mad at my husband for not feeding our children in a scheduled manner. I’m mad at my children for being obnoxious. I’m mad at the mess and the calendar that tells me that Christmas is 5 days away.

I’m irritated that no one else seems to be able to keep Pepper’s hair out of her eyes. I’m annoyed that no one else can tell whose underwear is whose. Is it really that hard? Maybe it is, and all this time I have been undervaluing myself as a stay-at-home mom. Maybe I AM using my degree. Maybe it IS extremely difficult to run a household and manage to keep hair ties in a toddler’s hair.

I should give myself more credit.

I’m premenstrual and coughy and so, so miserable. I’m tired of being alone in my room, but whenever I leave, I immediately get mad over something I see or hear. No one wants to be around me. I don’t want to be around me. Nothing brings out my extreme control freak tendencies like being sick right before Christmas, when I should be doing a million other things.

My husband is very tall and likes to stash random items in out-of-reach locations, where you can see them and think to yourself, “What the hell IS that?” I’ll tell you what it is. It’s a glow-in-the-dark bracelet or a plastic slinky or a $75 piece of silver. And it’s too high for you to get it down. Just acknowledge that it’s out of place and carry on.

My house is weird.

All I want for Christmas is to somehow find a way to get all the things done that need to get done, without hurting my husband, and for everyone in my house to be well. IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?!

Don’t answer that.

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The Only Time I Will Ever Reference “Frozen.”

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I don’t consider myself to be a Disney person AT ALL, except for this one time, when I ask you …

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I’m sick. Like, super sick. Robbie took me to the doctor yesterday, and as I laid on the exam table waiting for the results of my flu test, I mustered the strength to say “Wouldn’t it be about right if she came back and said it’s an untreatable virus?”

And that is exactly what happened.

I have something called “parainfluenza,” which is just as awful-feeling as the flu but it’s untreatable and lasts for half the amount of time. That’s a whole lot of good and bad rolled into one. I’ve been quarantined to my bedroom, and Robbie checks on me (with his shirt pulled over his face) and brings me food occasionally (spraying Lysol all the way down the hall).

Yesterday I was too sick to care about anything, but today I feel better enough to be royally PISSED OFF that I’m sick in the bed when there is so much to do. I realized I missed #TBT this week (read: “Throwback Thursday,” my favorite social media day of the week), in addition to Maverick’s class party which I was supposed to help with since I am co-room mom.

Let it be known that I am the worst co-room mom there ever was. If not for the real room mom, who is amazing, the kids would be royally screwed out of a party or they would all be carrying the paraflu virus right now … and in the mind of a first-grader, I’m not sure which is worse.

I also realized that today is the last day of school until after Christmas and I did not send gifts for the teachers. I have done nothing. I went on vacation, came home, and immediately went into quarantine. My house is a wreck, I’m supposed to be hosting Christmas dinner IN 6 DAYS, and no gifts have been purchased for anyone. Nary a stocking stuffer or white elephant gift.

Nothing.

It’s ironic that I’ve spent this holiday season on a virtual soapbox, telling every mom I come in contact with to just “focus on what matters” and “let the bull shit go,” and here I am 6 days from Christmas about to implode because I put everything off until the last minute and now that last minute is here and I’m stuck in the freaking bed.

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First grade art by Maverick.

Well-played, universe.

At least my Christmas tree, which took an inordinate amount of time to put up despite it’s homely appearance, hasn’t fallen over yet. Apparently this is a pretty common occurrence — has it happened to any of you? My friend Mary Lee fought the good fight with hers the other week and won, because that’s what moms do, they win Christmas. These pictures she took cheered me up.

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The fallen tree.

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At least her nails look nice.

Until I get better and can win Christmas at the very last minute, I will rest knowing that our entire family is pitching in to help. I have to admit, it’s pretty validating to see just how many people it takes to keep up with a house and three small children when the mom is incapacitated.

That’s a gift that you can’t put a price tag on.