Category Archives: life

My Un-Apology.

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I have so much to say.

So many unfinished drafts. Thoughts that are still half-formed, nonsensical blobs, because it’s Summer, and I grab my time in 10-minute increments — writing or brushing my teeth or responding to emails furiously because I know that at any moment, someone is going to head butt someone else and I will have to drop whatever I’m doing to attend to the blood-curdling wails.

Writers require time and space. I have neither of those things.

BUT.

Because I have so much to say, I make the most of what I have to work with. It’s not pretty. I yell a lot. But when you want something bad enough, you find a way to make it happen. I can’t not parent, and I can’t not write, just like I also can’t not clean the kitchen after every meal.

I’m sort of sick of apologizing.

I won’t anymore. Writing is my un-apology.

If you read my work, I hope it’s because you enjoy it and are not looking for meekness or backpedaling for being real. You won’t find that here. Women do enough of that. I DO ENOUGH OF THAT. Let’s all make a promise to each other to stop saying sorry for being true, raw, honest human beings.

Today, my true, raw, honesty is that I enrolled my 2-year-old in preschool for the Fall because I made the decision that I can be a mother and also a person who pursues her wildest dreams, all at the same time.

I realized I was hanging around waiting for someone to give me permission.

I was waiting for someone — specifically my husband — to take me by the shoulders and say “YOU NEED TO PUT OUR KIDS IN SCHOOL SO YOU CAN WRITE ESSAYS AND SELL THEM AND PAY FOR THEIR TUITION AND MAYBE ALSO GET YOUR NAILS DONE.”

But you know what? No one is going to do that. Not even Robbie Hobbs, who we all love dearly because he is hilarious and endlessly supportive.

I took myself by the shoulders, looked myself in the eye, and told myself it was time.

And you know what happened next?

I didn’t apologize.

Victory!I’m elated.

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You Can Sleep When You’re Dead: Lessons From My 6-Year-Old

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Maverick just wants to have fun.

That’s simple, right? He’s a kid — of course that’s what he wants.

I feel dumb saying this, but I’m going to say it anyway simply because I can: I have spent the past 6.5 years feeling frustrated on and off,  because I couldn’t figure this kid out. He is an enigma. If you know me personally or have followed my blog for awhile, you know what I’m talking about.

I did all the right things, and they didn’t work. I read a lot of books. I got a lot of pitying looks and comments from people who parented “easy” children. It all made me feel like something was wrong with me, or maybe something was wrong with him, or, most likely, something was wrong with my husband. I can always figure out a way to make things his fault.

At best, my son is a delightful, charming, witty, beacon of joy with a very clear, loud voice. He generally shouts, which is why I categorize his tone into “talk-shouting” and “shout-shouting,” which is not the same as the “yellisper” that I tend to do when I’m really upset.

Today I yawned, and he noticed, because he notices everything, and he talk-shouted, “MOMMY, YOU CAN SLEEP WHEN YOU’RE DEAD.”

Truth.

At the store, he shout-shouted, “OH MY GOSH, MOMMY, IT’S CHARMIN ULTRA-STRONG. WE HAVE TO GET IT. YOU KNOW HOW DADDY USES SO MUCH TOILET PAPER? THIS WILL SOLVE THE PROBLEM.”

Older ladies giggled as they wheeled their carts past us. One woman looked at me and whispered as she reached for the Kleenex, I had three of them, too. They’re adorable.

Thank you, I said. Because really, what else is there to say? They are. And this lady was still alive, after raising her three to adulthood. There is hope for me.

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I’ve written about Maverick countless times. The tantrums. The mood swings. My inability to cope. The list of my concerns was endless, just like the notes sent home by his preschool teacher. “I have a problem child,” I’ve said over and over to close friends and family. “He’s a wonderful boy … but he is so hard to parent.”

Other people’s children would follow directions without arguing. Other people’s children would happily dig holes in dirt. Meanwhile, I looked out the kitchen window to see him buckle his little brother into the Radio Flyer wagon and shove him down the driveway.

Maverick has big ideas. Maverick is an entertainer. Maverick loves to laugh.

A year or two ago, epic battles waged when I was home alone with two, and later, three children for very long, hard days. I would collapse on the couch after wrestling them into bed, feeling like an utter failure in a million different ways and wondering what the hell was wrong with my eldest child.

My husband assured me I was doing a great job. “You’ll see,” he’d say. “He’s just like I was at that age. He’ll be fine.” But in the back of my mind I always worried, not because my husband isn’t an amazing man, but because of what he went through to get there. Do mothers know when their children are psychopaths? Was my child a psychopath? Would I recognize it in him if it were so?

And then, because I’m in a newly-released book and there are a lot of random promotional-type requests for head shots and snippets or, in this particular case, childhood photos, I went to my parent’s house. My baby pictures, which were once encased in a thick, emerald green photo album — the old kind, with sticky pages — are now tucked safely in a photo box. My mom sat on the couch as I opened the cabinet and pulled out the container.

It was heavy with memories.

For the next hour, we sifted through the faded photographs. I was a happy child, grinning in almost every single picture. Looking at 6-year-old me made me feel like I was home. Do you know that feeling? It feels like this picture looks. Like fun and carefree silliness in the warm sun with no one around to see it. That was my childhood in a nutshell.

11137113_10155648088130508_2407219665916664432_nI was lost in thought when I heard my mom say something that caught my attention.

“You laughed all the time,” she said. “Just like Maverick.”

Just like Maverick.

Just like my son. My mysterious, challenging, emotionally-charged son. The one who is too smart for even our craftiest parenting tricks. The one who at age 3 asked us if Santa Claus was real, and knowing I could never lie to him, lest he never trust anyone ever again, I took a deep breath and matter-of-factly stated that Santa is not real.

Same with the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy and every other make-believe creature, which forced me to endure years of chastising from my husband for robbing our child of a magical childhood. I don’t know what to say, people. I’m not a liar, and Maverick is a challenge. I do the best I can.

I went home replaying what my mom said: I laughed all the time, just like Maverick.

Laughing gets me through a lot.

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This week Maverick is on Spring Break, and I have spent my time really paying attention to his laughter. This worked out well for me, because in all seriousness the extra laughs saved me from having a major meltdown. I made a conscious effort to practice laughing with my child who loves to laugh. Instead of getting annoyed with his flair for drama, I made jokes about it and we both ended up giggling. No one was mad. There were no slammed doors. One afternoon we even chorused together in angst, “LIFE IS HARD!”

Because it is.

When he whined about what was for dinner, I assured him he would love it — it’s POOP CASSEROLE! His favorite! We shared knowing looks and a lot of inside jokes this week. My mom was right. Maverick loves to laugh … just like me.

If there is anything I understand, it’s humor.

And because of that, I finally understand my son.

20150408_102501 20150408_10250511129289_10155659855420508_589426995_nIf you liked this post, then you will LOVE I Still Just Want To Pee Alone! Click here to find out more!

Bitches Spelunk.

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I am the mother of three small children.

I am the only child of an ailing parent.

I am a wife, a friend, and a person.

It’s a tight space, where I live. It’s often dark. The oxygen feels low. I have to concentrate to breathe. Sometimes, the air gets squeezed out and I’m breathless.

It reminds me of the time I went spelunking in college. I’ve never been a fan of small spaces, but it sounded like a fun adventure. I could do anything at that point in my life. I was fearless, and would try anything once … which is probably why I have done a whole lot of things exactly one time.

The darkness in that cave was suffocating. I’d never been in a place so pitch-black before. I had to focus my breathing, continually reminding myself that this is fun and I will not die. When we finally burst back out into the open air, I nearly wept with relief.

That’s what this tight space feels like. It feels like spelunking.

I hate spelunking.

But.

I won’t sit down on the cold cave floor and wait for my circumstances to change. I’ll keep moving, keep bumping around and fumbling in the dark because THAT IS WHAT BITCHES DO.

Now, if you know me in real life you know that I’m not a bitch at all. I’m actually a very polite, kind person — the opposite of a bitch, actually. In this case, I am using “bitch” to mean a woman who isn’t lost in the fire, but is made from it. That’s a quote I read somewhere recently, and I love it.

Bitches don’t sit and wait to be rescued from their life. Bitches make their life awesome in spite of. Bitches take situations around the neck and OWN THEM.

I have a good life even though it is happening in a very tight, very difficult space. And I’m still breathing, even though sometimes I have to work at it.

20150317_134010~2This is a picture of my son making the most of his current situation. No, he doesn’t have a swimming pool to play in, but you know what he DOES have? A BIG PLASTIC BOX.

So darkness be damned, I will make the best of today because that’s what bitches do.

I’m going to OWN IT.

Modern Marvels.

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Last weekend, I decided to do something new — I took my 6-year-old on a run with me. This activity is considered new because I don’t run.

We took a break in the parking lot of a nearby church and I gasped for air and pondered aloud that I didn’t know what time it was. Where’s your phone? he asked. I explained that I’d purposely left it behind because I need to do a better job of distancing myself from The Thing That Eats My Time.

I love technology. Years ago, when I met my husband, I was staunchly anti-technology. I was more of a purist. I liked fresh air, sunshine, long talks, and I couldn’t afford cable. My then-boyfriend had a cell phone, and I had one too, but I don’t even remember texting him, ever, because we got charged for each one that was sent. For a girl who had $300/month rent and couldn’t afford cable … being charged by the text was a problem. So I didn’t.

I mulled this over and then had the following conversation with my son:

Me: “You know, there weren’t cell phones when I was your age.”

Son: “There WEREN’T?! What did they have? OH! Wait, I know!! The thing Thomas Edison invented?”

Me: “Yes … that.”

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At this point in my life, I have completely embraced technology in all forms. A friend asked me recently what I would rather go without for a 31 days: swearing, drinking, internet, carbs, or orgasms? I don’t really want to go 31 days without any of them, but the internet isn’t even on the table. Or drinking. So I guess I’d have to pick among the final three options.

This game sucks.

I got a wine glass in the mail last week that holds 25 ounces. TWENTY-FIVE OUNCES. I had absolutely no idea who sent it. There was no note, and I didn’t recognize the return address. Who possibly could have sent me a massive wine glass?

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Finally, I posted on social media asking who sent it. I’m sure everyone waited on the edge of their seats to find out who it was from.

I am so glad that someone much smarter than me invented social media so I could ask one question to hundreds of people at the same exact time. Who sent me this massive wine glass? And thank you! But really … tell me who sent it.

It was from my best friend.

I felt like an idiot.

An idiot who was about to drink 25 ounces of wine.

Throwback Time.

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It’s Throwback Thursday again! That special day of the week when all the awkwardness of my former life comes back to haunt me.

20150205_161832As you can see by the bushy hair, petulant attitude, and vegetarian bacon (known as “Stripples,” and yes, they are a real thing), not much has changed since 1993.

Except for the price of bread.

Advice To Underclassmen

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Straight from my high school yearbook.

Recently, I came across my high school yearbooks. There I am, in all of my overachieving glory.

My parents were lucky. I was a good kid. The stuff that got me into trouble was not drugs or teen pregnancy … it was doing things like spending my Friday night tying all of the doors in the girl’s dorm shut with ropes made of panty hose so no one could get out the next morning. I lived in a dormitory during high school, which is another story for another day, and suffice it to say that those types of activities were frowned upon.

Other things that were frowned upon:

1. Secular activities

2. Unnatural-looking makeup (I didn’t know how to make the most of my appearance until well after high school)

3. Dancing

4. General worldliness

5. Immodesty

Now, I don’t know how you feel when you think about your high school years, but my feelings can’t be felt at all due to the extreme level of cringe taking place. It wasn’t all bad, but there are a variety of reasons why I feel sick to my stomach every time I think about that time in my life. Again, another story for another day.

My Advice to Underclassmen states, “If you feel like screaming, don’t.” In the spring of 1998, the entire population of the girl’s dorm had to spend a Sunday afternoon sitting in the Chapel. I can’t remember the details, but I remember that someone had done something (it was not me) and the Girl’s Dean wanted to know who. She instructed us not to say a word while we were in there.

Not a word.

I was 18 years old, graduation was approaching, and it had been a long 4 years. I was tired of not being allowed to kiss my boyfriend or wear whatever I wanted. I was tired of hiding my good music in the ceiling of my dorm room. I was tired mostly because by this point, it was becoming very hard for me to find new ways to have fun without getting expelled.

Maybe it was that I had a feeling deep inside that there was a life for me outside of this that would involve lattes, wine, and secular activities … or maybe I was just sick of sitting on the hard pew bench … but regardless of the reason, I just couldn’t take it anymore and I TOTALLY SNAPPED.

I waited until our dean turned and left the room, and I screamed the absolute loudest scream of my life … second only to the medication-free birth of Asher in 2011.

I remember her talking to me in her office later, and I swear she was trying not to laugh. Dean Griffin, I put you through a lot and I’m sorry. But I never, ever did drugs, caught anything on fire, or had sex in your dormitory.

Most of us spend our days repressing what we really want to say or do, because we are wives and mothers or simply trying to be polite members of society. Self-restraint is a virtue, and I try to set a good example for my children by being polite and gracious, even when I don’t want to be. I’ve met people who read my blog and they seem surprised to find out that I am actually a very calm, kind, polite person.

That’s because if I went around doing and saying whatever the hell I wanted, I would be a miserable person because no one would ever want to be around me … and then I wouldn’t have anything to write about.

If I were in a yearbook now, which would presumably be comprised of mothers who are frantically trying to keep it together, my advice would read: “If you feel like screaming, YOU TOTALLY SHOULD. It’s going to eventually come out, one way or another.”

My Personal Ad.

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Mom dating adIf we lived in a perfect world, there would be an online friend-matching service for busy moms who don’t have time to waste making small talk with people who bother them.

And this would be my ad.

A Short List of Shortcomings.

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One thing starting a new year will do is make you realize your shortcomings, and I have a LOT of them. So, because I’m feeling benevolent, I thought I would put them on the internet so everyone else can feel better about themselves. You’re welcome.

I asked Robbie to help me think of things I am bad at, but he just kept shouting “IT’S A TRAP!!” and refusing to answer. So … that was helpful.

Things I Am Very Bad At:

1. Dieting. I like baby carrots, freshly-squeezed juices, and cous cous. But I also like Peanut M&M’s and extra sharp cheddar cheese. I don’t know what the answer is, but I do know that my mother-in-law brought over some Chewy Chips Ahoy Birthday Frosting Filled cookies this week and I can’t be trusted to be alone with them.

2. Remembering passwords or jokes.  Some people, like my Grandpa Tillerson, have a gift for remembering a joke and delivering the punchline. I can do neither of those things. I may have a vague recollection of “a funny joke about a horse,” but that’s all I can remember … which isn’t funny. It is also not funny to really need to access your alternate Gmail account and have to jump through 679 hoops to finally get in because you can’t seem to remember the password. I hate passwords. And secret codes. And special knocks and handshakes. JUST GET TO THE POINT.  JUST SAY HELLO IN PLAIN ENGLISH. I enjoy brevity.

3. Dealing with paperwork. I have approximately 5 tall stacks of papers around my house to show as evidence that I am not the best at dealing with it. I stack it neatly, sure, but then it gets stowed away so my house can be in order. Except that my paperwork (and life in general) is so not in order.

4. Sewing. I’m just bad at it.

5. Crafting. Because basically, I hate glitter. Also, see #4.

6. Cooking meat with bones in it. I’ve never done it. No, not even once. I also can’t eat a drumstick or whatever it is you cavemen people eat. NO THANK YOU. I’ll pass.

7. Being patient with people who take too long to get to the point, like children and sometimes my husband. Just tell me what you want and I’ll tell you if I can deliver it or not. Chances are, the answer is no.

This is in no way an exhaustive list — it’s just what I felt like telling you about. So yes, that totally means I left my worst bad qualities out.

Now if you’ll excuse me, these devil cookies are calling my name.

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THE DEVIL MADE THESE.

That Was A First.

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There is something about me that attracts weirdness, I’m sure of it. Until I can figure out what it is that I’m doing wrong, I guess I’m going to continue to have things happen to me like what happened tonight — when the Pizza Hut delivery person straight up asked me how much I weigh. Oh, yes, she did.

Maybe if I tell you exactly what happened, we can all work together to make some sense out of it.

I was planning to make hamburgers and french fries for dinner, because it’s Friday night and it just felt right. Then I realized that the ground beef was frozen, so I went to Plan B which was pancakes … but we are almost out of syrup. That is when I texted Robbie to ask if he would pick up a pizza on his way home. He responded that he would have some food delivered.

At 5:45 p.m. there was a knock at the door, and on the other side was a delivery woman who looked about my age. Now, I have a special place in my heart for delivery people. Robbie delivered pizzas at night to supplement our income a few years ago when we were trying to follow the Dave Ramsey plan, and ever since then I have really made a point to tip well and be polite to people who deliver pizzas. It seems like it’s an easy job and it is, until your life is in danger. Think about it. Who is too preoccupied to make dinner besides busy mothers of small children?

People who are in the middle of cooking a batch of meth in their bathtub, that’s who.

It took her awhile to pull the pizzas out of the bag that keeps them hot, and she noticed the two boys standing behind me. “I have a two-year-old,” she said. I smiled as I took the boxes from her and said I’d be right back — I needed to go find a pen to sign the receipt. On my way, I scooped up Pepper because she was crying.

When I reappeared at the door with her on my hip, Delivery Woman looked surprised. “You have three?” she said. “Are there any more in there?”

“Nope, that’s it!”

“How old are they? Did you have the smaller ones back-to-back?”

“Pretty much, they’re 21 months apart.”

I thought this was the end of our conversation. Nope. She took a step toward me … and this is what followed:

Delivery Woman: How do you keep your weight down?

Me: I in no way feel my weight is “down.”

Delivery Woman: Do you work out?

Me: I mostly go to the gym because there is childcare there.

Delivery Woman: Which gym?

Me: (Told her which one, how much it costs, and what it offers.)

Delivery Woman: Are you breastfeeding that baby? I heard that burns calories.

Me: No … no. Not a breast feeder. (Starting to inch backwards to close the door.)

Delivery Woman: WELL. I need to know how you do it.

Me: (Trying to tuck the kids back into the house.) Uhhh …

Delivery Woman: HOW MUCH DO YOU WEIGH?

That is when I looked at her like this:

DSC02755As I stood in the doorway of my house with my gaggle of children and two large pizzas, the lady from Pizza Hut proceeded to ask again, “How much? About XXX?”

She guessed my exact weight within 3 pounds. I felt myself nod at her and wondered if our next door neighbors were standing on the other side of the bushes listening to our conversation. I totally would have been. This shit was weird.

As I shut the door, I heard her yell “NICE TALKING TO YOU!!!!” 

Wait.

Did I just make a new friend? Or am I just the kind of person who you meet and think “I can totally ask her how much she weighs?” Give it to me straight. Between this and the gym towel fiasco, I’m really starting to think I’m doing something wrong.

We’re Meant For Each Other.

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I have a lot of new readers!

HELLO. I LOVE YOU. YES, ALREADY. I’m sorry if that scares you, but I really believe that when you know, you know.

I just have to share a few things with you today, and I numbered them so it’s easier for you to skim over because I know you have a lot of other things you probably “should” be doing right now. But you aren’t. You’re with me instead. See? Don’t fight it … we’re meant for each other.

1. Last night, Robbie happened to mention during a conversation that he “puts banana peels down the garbage disposal sometimes.” Is this normal? Have any of you done this? I was flabbergasted.

2. My aunt gave me this sign, and I can’t decide where to hang it. I stand in my kitchen wishing for this EXACT CONCOCTION on a daily basis, but if I put it up in a visible location, will people who happen to see it (i.e. my neighbors, the pest control man, random play date moms who I haven’t decided for certain if I like or not) think I’m an unfit mother?

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3. Do I care if anyone thinks I’m an unfit mother?

4. Pepper (17 months) now hits and bites, which started this week. She sidled up behind me when I was standing in the kitchen wishing for a mocha-vodka-xanax-latte, and chomped down on the back of my thigh. The backs of my legs appear to be the most abused part of my body, because between bruises and varicose veins they are straight up blue.

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Yes. I admit it. I took a selfie of my child smacking me in the face.

5. I’m boarding an airplane in the morning ALONE to go see one of my dearest friends and I absolutely can’t wait. But also, flying makes me so nervous since I had kids. The last time I flew, I had like 3 glasses of wine. My flight leaves at 8:30 a.m. so I’m considering mimosas. That’s classy, right?

6. Do I care about being classy?

 

P.S. Make sure to “like” my Facebook page, follow me on Twitter, blah blah blah.