How….

the fuck is it Christmas already!? I remember sitting on this couch typing about taking my tree down last year, and it feels like that just happened.

Yet here we are, another holiday season is swarming us all, and I am baffled at how fast it has gone by!

Christmas is always so hustly-bustly.. and it has never been a favorite of mine. I am not so much a grinch, as much of just someone who doesn’t really like it. Or enjoy it. Or really look forward to it. I found this year to be a lot more stressful than other years, too. And yet, at the same time, it was totally chill.

Who the fuck knows what is going on. Perhaps my old-person senility is setting in much sooner than I had anticipated it to.

All I know is that jolly fat man/peeping pervert is going to be shimmying his fat ass down everyones chimneys tomorrow night, and it feels surreal to me that it is already upon us.

I guess all I can do now is grab a bottle (or four) of baileys and settle in. Because the madness is upon us, whether I am ready for it or not!

I can say this, I am going to cherish the shit out of this holiday season, as I fear it is the last that we will have with that little bit of Christmas magic. My youngest is 6 now, and still believes in Santa. I love to see the glimmer in his eye when he talks about the magical things that happen this time of year. And I will play along as long as he wants me to, because once he no longer believes, I think Christmas is going lack a lot of the sparkle it has now. There is just something about a little kid who believes that makes this time of year so much more special. And I am going to hang on with both hands for as long as he will let me. My older two just stopped believing one day. I never had that talk with them, they just stopped. I never really knew what happened or why, but they are good sports and pretend for their little brother, which is so sweet to see.

I am not big on Christmas. I never have been. But I always do my best for my kids. That is who it is really for, after all, isn’t it?

One thing I am sure of without a doubt, I am very much looking forward to 2018! Lots of awesome shit is in the pipe for me and my family, and I am gonna smoke the fuck out of it. Not really, as smoking is vile and makes me quite ill. But you get my point.

Merry fucking Christmas, to you and yours!!!!

DON’T BE AN ASSHOLE —— DO NOT DRINK AND DRIVE!!!! Stay safe, for your sake, and everyone else’s.

XOXO

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Holy shit show, batman!!


Do you ever have those weeks  where you just say to yourself “what the fucking fuck is going on!?” Yep, welcome to week 1 of September 2017!!
BOOM! (that was the sound of all of the shit shows exploding all at once)

It started out as any week would…. with a Monday. This was no ordinary Monday, though, it was a holiday Monday that preceded the first day of school for my 3 kids. We went about our ordinary “back to school” business – laundry, backpacks, hair cuts, etc. And then the hour was upon us – DUN DUN DUN!!!

This year we have to drive our oldest to the high school. Fear not; the grade 9’s have their own wing… their own area with their own lockers, bathrooms, classrooms and eating area. It basically is its own self-sufficient little pond in amongst the big pond that is high school. We had explained this to our son many times, and even showed him previous to the school year starting at the “meet the teacher night” that we attended, like the good little nerds that we are. We showed him around, helped him with his locker, figured out where his classrooms were, discovered the gym and cafeteria (he was elated to see the food options now, unlike the school he had before, which only did a basic hot lunch program). He got excited about school council (it helped greatly, I’m sure, that the girl telling him about it was this tiny perky little adorable blonde girl). He was hugely excited for volleyball tryouts (again, the girls volleyball team was there to help hand out the kids schedules, and again, adorable little perky girls). Learned that his 3 best friends from junior high were all in his homeroom, and the rest of his friends were in the homeroom next door, and in a few of his options. All in all, he was happy.

So on the first day of school, he got out, I did the typical “mom thing” and took his picture in front of the school sign (I have every year since he started kindergarten) and didn’t do anything mommish or embarrassing, and sent him on his way into his new school. Then we rushed across town to drop the other two yahoo’s off.

Our middle kid, our little diabadass, our space cadet – he was fine. We had a meeting with the grade 7 staff a few days before school, as to teach them “how not to kill our son this year”. So he was fine to start, and excited to see his friends. He is low maintenance (diabetes aside) and has a “zero fucks given” mentality about most things. He’s easy (again, diabetes aside… but you can win them all).

And our little guy…. awww… my baby! He started grade 1. And he was FINE! He was excited that he got a locker this year, found his seat, sat down, and my husband and I became vapor. I still stuck around a bit, cuz fuck, he’s still a baby! I keep getting told that he isn’t (he is almost 6) but those people can fuck right off…. Regardless, he was fine. Least of my worries.

Kids came home, and everything was fine. Smiles at the dinner table, stories of the first day and reconnecting with their friends. Happy times. Mom win.

Wednesday morning hits…. I am in BLISSVILLE, as I am home alone. Kids are at school, hubby picked up a last minute overtime shift…. so I was going to get my Starbucks and go read in the peace and quiet of my house… clean the bathrooms and revel in how pissless they remain for the entire day. I had big plans, I tell ya. Then my phone dings at Starbucks, and it is my oldest —

“I don’t want to try out for volleyball this year”

BOOM. What the actual fuck. My son LOVES volleyball like fat kids love McDonalds. This is not right.

“excuse me?!” fumbling for my scalding hot coffee and trying to not spill it on myself.

“I want to spend the year getting myself acquainted with the new school”

“no” I pull no punches.. while trying to catch my breath, as it felt like I was punched in the gut.

“fine”

Holy shit. What did he just say to me?! “WHAT!? drop the attitude please, sir!”

By this point, I was in my truck, dialing my husband, and flying back in the direction of the high school. Little shit wants to text me this crap, he can say it to my damned face! The face that has spent countless hours driving him to and from practices, watching every game and tournament, spent hundreds upon hundreds in volleyball camps, shoes, kneepads, clothes, bla fucking bla.

So I am literally shrieking into my truck phone, which I am sure sounded like screaming squirrel to my husband, who is blissfully working away, but still forced to listen to the ramblings of my seriously unbalanced psyche. By the time I get to the school, I am fuming mad. “fuck this… I did NOT raise a pussy ass quitter!!!” And I go marching into the school, parked in the 15 minute drop off. I give zero fucks at this point… except the fact that my “extra hot” latte is sitting in there getting all cold and shit.

I walk in, trying my best to not look like a fucking lunatic, and thank shit that I did my makeup that morning, so as to not scare the fuck out of everyone around me.

“hi!” big smile as I talk to the secretary I’ve never met before, “my son left his lunch money in the truck”, I lie, knowing she wouldn’t’ pull him out of class had I said “little fucker is trying to be a punk ass quitter and I need to strangle him!”

So he comes down the hall of his wing, sees me, and breaks down. I wasn’t glaring, I just looked up at him. Holy fuck, like, monster meltdown. I drag him outside as to not make a scene, and ask him what the fucking fuck…..

Scared. Big school. Big kids (he is 6’1″ I should point out). New teachers. New people. I get it. I’ve done it (not the 6’1″ part, thank you, genetics)! So I try to calm him down and talk some reason into his erratic thoughts. Nope. So I drag him over to the counsellor, who does a 180 and marches us right back into her offie upon seeing his face. He was not ok. We chatted a bit and then she sent me away, as to avoid a parking ticket (holy fuck, that would have just been the shit icing that day!)

He texted me later, and he was fine. Met his volleyball coach, and she is this cute little lady, not threatening at all. He was fine. Took him back to the school for his 5:30 tryout, and only 8 other boys are there. Sweet. No cuts! He had a great time. All smiles when I picked him up.

Lets skip ahead to 1am that night. My little diabadass, my low maintenance “I give zero fucks” kid pulled the children of the corn shit on me, standing at my bedside at 1am, staring at me until I awoke, barely refraining from hitting the body standing beside me.

“I have a stomach ache” ……. BOOM.

“okay, get back to bed and I will come check your blood sugars” And sure enough, they were elevated. So I plug a correction into his pump and grab him some water.

“I feel overwhelmed by junior high”…. fuck.

“uh, it is the second day of school. What could possibly be overwhelming already”

“I am nervous about finals. There is so much to learn…”

FUCK! Breathe, Jennie… don’t smother your child…..

“Okay”, breathe in and out, “lets talk about that in the morning” and I walk away, grinding my teeth, wondering if I screamed into a pillow, if I would wake anyone. Then I lay awake in bed until almost 3, because the little assbag scared me so bad standing beside me, and my adrenaline is pumping because of the bullshit he just spewed…. no sleep for the wicked, indeed.

Thursday morning…. “oh children of mine. Perhaps in the future, if you all feel like melting down and having some little freakouts, would you be so kind as to do them at a MORE APPROPRIATE HOUR!?!?!?!? Like at dinner when you are straight up asked how school is going!? MY FRICKING GAWD!!!!!” and they stared at me with open mouths, like, how dare she, why is she losing her mind!?

*insert crazy ass laugh here*

I thought I was in the clear until 3:16 on Friday when my phone went ding. I was walking into my youngest kids school, again blissfully unaware that another boom was coming.

“I don’t want to go to volleyball today”

BOOM.

mother of fucking hell……

“and why pray-tell not?” breathe in and out, Jennie….

“she made us play this game last time, and it was hard. and it took like a half an hour”

okay, here comes another ‘holy fuck, my mom is losing it’ moment……

“you have GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. YOU WILL NOT BE A QUITTER! You like volleyball. So, go like it again. Stop being a whiner when things aren’t easy, or you have to actually try. GO! TRY! Enough is enough! I am done with this. Life is going to suck for you if you don’t ever try and you give up when you feel like it isn’t going to be easy!”

“fine”

fuck my life…. he said it again…. as though the first time wasn’t enough of a warning….

“you have got to be kidding me. Attitude. Say goodbye to it, or you can say goodbye to your iPad, phone, Apple TV, xbox, life as you know it…. you will live an amish existence if you can’t get your head out of your ass and behave as though you are the kid that I RAISED!”

“ok. see you at 5:30. Love you”

Yeah, you fucking better………

“love you, too. Have fun.”

5:30……

“hey buddy how was volleyball?”

“GREAT! I had so much fun. Coach said I am doing good. I just need to practice my setting, but my serves and hitting are really good!”

I was right. I am always right. Bow to my wonder.

“well we already knew your setting needed work, you have long frozen hot dogs for fingers” this made him laugh, so I had my opening, “what is wrong buddy. Why don’t you like yourself?”

“I don’t think I am anything special or worthwhile.”

BOOM.

“I don’t see what you see. You guys all tell me all the time how special I am, and how I should be happy with who I am and how I am, but I don’t see it. I am skinny and weak”

AH HA!!!! We have a crack in the armor!!!

“Yeah, you are skinny and weak! You grew like 4 or 6 inches in a very short period. You grew straight up SO fast!! But your growing will slow down now, and now you will fill out. It happens! Some people are built this way. And you are weak because you are lazy and only sit on your ass and play iPad. Volleyball and athletic development will help”

And he smiled. I think I have helped, but I still call for reinforcements. I call my mom, who spent her night texting him and telling him stories of me and my siblings. He has no idea about this, he just sees us now and never assumed any of us were bullied or picked or had a hard time. I called my best friend and she almost broke down and talked me down off of my “oh my god, I suck at parenting, I should have done better!” ledge. She took his phone number to text him, too. My husband spent the night and next day telling him stories of when he was small and was bullied, and how he changed it. We showed him pictures of when all of us were young and skinny and awkward as fucking hell.

My fucking god, lets hope this all helped. He has volleyball tomorrow night – cross your damned fingers that he goes in with a smile and comes out with a smile. Cuz I am not sure I can handle any more days where I feel like a gigantic failure of a parent, and wonder where I went wrong. And I don’t ever want him having any more moments where he feels like he is nothing special.

My diabadass is fine. Once we explained that finals occur AFTER you learn all of that stuff, he chilled and is back to his ‘zero fucks given’ existence. And my baby… well…. I still think he should stay home with me. But he is refusing, so whatever, I guess I am happy that he is enjoying grade 1, so far.

Holy fucking fuck… what a week. And now, once again, because of last week, my coffee is cold. Damnit.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year..

Sanctimommies, crunchy granola moms, moms without any experience in this, and in general, snarky bitches… take a seat, and then carry it far far away… this post is not for you.

Now that that is out of the way… lets discuss the topic at hand; the most wonderful time of the year. And no, I am not talking about when the crimson dressed stalker pedophile comes shimmying his fat ass down your chimney (tell me you haven’t ever thought of Santa that way? Cuz if you haven’t, you are gonna now, aren’t you!?)

I am talking about back to school!! Now, our neighbors to the south have already ditched their kiddos a few weeks back, while us Canadians have been in the trenches a little while longer. But, that is all about to end! We have ONE WEEK LEFT PEOPLE!!!

But who’s counting?

Oh wait, I fucking am!!

Now, lets make one thing clear, I love my kids. They are the light in my eye, my greatest accomplishment, my favorite little humans, bla bla bla. I do though – I adore them – those little crotch goblins make me very happy.

HOWEVER! Being in close quarters with them for months at a time…. that is so no bueno!!

My kids are smart, they are gifted, they are funny, they are kind, they are gracious, they are considerate, they are thoughtful, they are bright, they are cute, they are athletic… people, as a whole, seem to enjoy them. That being said…. they are also annoying as shit at times and get under my skin in a way that not many can. So a little space between us all may be a good idea right now. Let’s be serious – it is the ONLY option right now. For the sake of all of us, it must be done.

I miss them when they are at school, sure. And this year will be even different. My oldest is starting high school, my middle is starting junior high and my baby is starting elementary. It is a big year. Big changes. Big shift. Now they will be in two schools, two different schedules, two sports teams, two sets of administrators to get to know… its a shift in our space time continuum. But we will handle it, just as we always do.

Lots of parents get sad on the first day of school, and this year I probably will be one of them. But instead of wallowing, my husband and I are going to get pedicures and go for drinks on a patio. Yup. You heard it… pedis and cocktails! (my husband is only coming with me so I am not alone, as every pedicure I have ever had has been with my best friend, but she moved away last year… and his “cocktail” will consist of beer, and possibly tequila… lets just hope our shit-ass Alberta weather holds up for just another week and a half… hopefully longer.. so not ready for winter yet, but that is for another time)

I’m ready. It is time.

Take me back to routine. Take me back to packed lunches and little ice packs. Take me back to hugs on the way to class and hugs at pick-up (not the older two, obviously). Take me back to smiles and stories in the truck on the way home. Take me back to “best part – worst part” over dinner. Take me back to volleyball practice and games on the weekends. Take me back to quiet for a few hours a day!

I adore my fuck trophies. But god damn, do I fucking also love peace and quiet. And after 2 solid months of “mom, can I…” I am ready to be the only person asking myself for things for a few hours a day. Not that I talk to myself a lot, but truthfully, sometimes I do. Hey, sometimes its the only pleasant conversation I have all day long… hahahahaha!!!

So, parents, raise your wine bottle to the sky and repeat after me…..

….. it’s the most wonderful time of the yeeeeear…..

I’ll see you all back in the trenches next June… but for now…. Bye Felicia.

 

Closed for business…

People all around me are reproducing at an alarming rate. Just in the last 9 months, 4 new baby’s have directly entered my life, with 2 more sort of indirectly. Count it people, that is 6 babies. Six! Holy pampers, that is a lot of tiny humans.

I like a baby as much as the next person… actually, that is not true. I have never been the type to gush and goo over babies, it just isn’t in my dna. But all the power to those who do. However, with the sudden onslaught of little people entering my life, it has made me blatantly aware of one thing: I am SO happy I am all done with that part of my life!

My ovaries are just for show now, and I could not be happier. I know a few people who have been really hesitant and sad about shutting that part of their life down, but me? Not even one single second thought.

Truth be told, I had an appointment to have my tubes done when I was 29. I was a divorced single mother of 2 crazy boys, and I was just done. As fate would have it, I spent the better portion of my night prior to my surgery in absolute turmoil over my recent breakup with my boyfriend (whom is now my husband, as fate is a finicky bitch sometimes!) and I slept through my alarm for my surgery and didn’t get them done. I suppose fate had other ideas, as a mere 6 months later, I was pregnant with my littlest boy. I can’t imagine life without him in it, so I guess sleeping through my alarm was some form of kismet, as I NEVER sleep through alarms.

But I knew I was done with my littlest guy. I could feel it, and honestly, I DESPISE being pregnant. I was not one of those “oh the magic! The miracle!” people, I fucking hated it. It is not that I had bad pregnancies, they were really simple and lacking any sort of drama. But, I still hated being pregnant. I think some people just do, and I am for sure leading that parade.

The day I had my littlest guy was a bit of a gong show. I had discussed having my tubes done with my doctor in my last few appointments. And because I was older (30) and in a committed relationship (the aforementioned boyfriend – our “breakup” lasted less than a month and a half, and to be honest, we never really severed all ties, and thought about each other every day, and still talked alllllll the time…. I think it was more of a pause than anything… sometimes people need a beat to breathe…) I was granted a tubal ligation. So at the hospital, I signed the papers and we had our baby. And while my husband was giving him his very first bottle ever, my baby factory was being closed for business. Not a single tear. Not a single pause. Not a single question. Just cut, clamped and cauterized, and carried on with my life.

Have I ever thought about having another? What it would be like to have a baby girl? To add to our little family? FUUUHUUUUCK no. Not even for a second. I was given 3 boys, and I am so happy with that. I am closed for business, and I feel like I am complete.

Some women see babies and they say their ovaries skip a beat. When I see babies, I think they are cute, I silently laugh to myself over the sleepless nights and poopy hell that the parents are now in for, I rub their tiny little adorable heads, and me and my ovaries celebrate with a big fat gin and tonic.

I am at peace with it. It all ended up how it was supposed to. But holy damn are there a lot of babies being born right now!! It must have been really cold last winter.

You are actually pronouncing that wrong…

As a matter of fact, “mom” is NOT pronounced “nag”… silly me, I have been saying it wrong for years!!!
When being a mom means you are perpetually nagging someone to do something, clean something, wash something, change something, check something, say something…. it gets tedious and eats away at your soul. So one day you wake up and realize that your soul looks moth eaten and you’ve spent your youth being a nag. Super.


You see all of these blogs and posts and whatnots of people glamorizing that which makes me homicidal… “the years go by so fast” “let them be little” bla bla bla. And while I am totally on board with this, and never ever ever want to wish my kids childhoods away, or wish time to go faster, I also see the flip side that none of these mommy blogs will share with you… Being a mom sometimes SUCKS!!!!

Waking up in the middle of the night for years on end, running on nothing more than caffeine and the desire to not die while looking this haggard, being covered in unidentifiable stains and liquids for the better part of your years with youngsters, teaching them to read, write, ride bikes, walk, clean themselves, clean their rooms, think for themselves, cook, clean, be responsible….. sweet baby Jesus, it is a wonder that more mothers are not walking around with straws just stuck right in the wine bottle, and sucking it back like it was our jobs.


I adore my kids. I love the shit out of my little fuck trophies…. but for real, motherhood is no fucking simple job. I feel like 90% of my day is nagging them. Not because I am a nag, but because their little ears and brains can’t process something until it has been repeated, at increasing volumes, five hundred times. Literally, five hundred. I struggle to comprehend how these tiny humans, of which have all been given awards for their intelligence at school, can’t remember, from day to day, just what is involved in being alive. Like bathing, or brushing their teeth, or changing their clothes, or doing their laundry, or in the case of my diabetic, making sure that his cgm is calibrated and he is not dead (calm your tits – I do 95% of his diabetic care, and he is only expected to do his calibrations and his 24hr injection.. I do not leave this all up to him, so don’t go getting all sanctimommy on me just yet – there will still be plenty of things I am about to say that you can pile on..k?). Day after day, these simple tasks are expected of them, and day after day, it comes as some horrific surprise to them that they have to do them.. and this is generally after I have come unglued and shrieked in their general direction. Shrieked. Because that is what I do now… remain calm until that is no longer an option, and then come unleashed on the people that I am responsible for keeping alive.


In a perfect world, my hair would still be thick, my skin would still have elastin, I wouldn’t have bags under my eyes that could accommodate a costco shopping trip, I would sleep soundly every night, wake up refreshed every day, have children that walked in nice straight lines with smiles on their freshly washed faces, they would do what is expected of them not because I freaked out but because they remembered to, birds would chirp, the sun would shine, and I would feel peaceful and serene.


But since my name is not Cinder-fucking-ella, that is just not the case. I just wish, with every ounce of my haggard mombie being, that they could just let me stop nagging. It really is just one simple request.. I would like to stop having to nag. Yes, I could just let my lazy flag fly and let them get away with it, but that is not how I roll. I am in charge of these little shitters, and my ass will they be the kind of people that go out in to the world and have no idea how to live or survive. My children will never be surprised that they can adult, they will never use the hashtag “adulting is hard” because they won’t have their heads rammed straight up their asses like some of these little snot nosed turds that are being raised right now. I do not pat their asses and tell them that their lack of effort is good enough. I nag because I care.

Yes. You read that right. I nag because I care! And one day, while my kids are being served their McDonalds french fries by some of these other kids who’s parents didn’t believe in time outs, or punishments, or teaching them right from wrong, or let them run the show, or allowing them to parade around without rules or consequence, then I can sit back, snarf my humble pie, and maybe then I will hear birds chirping and see the sun shining and feel peaceful.

But until then, I guess I am stuck with the mom/nag gig. Ah well, I don’t fucking like birds, anyway.

Finding the me in the lonely.. 

I have been feeling lonely lately. I don’t know if it’s because the days are shorter (not actually, as they’re still 24 hours, but just so damned much darkness), or if it’s because of the time of year and thinking of people I’ve lost over the years, if it’s some bizarre festive depression-like shit, or if I’m just sad. Who fucking knows – it could be hormonal (thanks, thyroid) 

But what I do know is, I have to find me in the lonely. I know I’m in there somewhere, I just have to keep digging. 

I’ve lost some people over the years, and it continues to sting. Some of the people I’ve lost, I’ve all but forgotten about. But some will never fade into the background. And Christmas is always harder on you when you miss someone. 

But why do I feel lonely? I’m not sure. Maybe it’s not lonely; perhaps its that I am listless. I have lots of lists (thanks, type a) but I feel like I should be going somewhere, doing something, and I’m not. But what? Where? 

I have some plans for 2017 and I’m hoping it will help shed some light on my darkness. What I do know for sure is, more people will be fading into the background, and I’m okay with that. One thing I have no doubt about – some people need to go away. Some people are toxic and I need not have that sludge any longer. I don’t know why I held on for so long. Perhaps because it’s what society has said is right. 

Well fuck society. 

I will finish off this year as best as I can and will as much strength as I can garner. And then maybe, just maybe, I will be able to find the me in the lonely, and she can, once again, be set free. 

I’ve lost myself over the years. Smiling at people who don’t deserve smiles. Letting things go that deserved a fight. Allowing poor treatment when a punch was more deserving. I need to find me. And I think that will abolish the lonely. 

Maybe I’m not lonely. I think, maybe, the more likely story is, I’m lost. 

The lasts of the firsts..

Tonight is just the same as any other night. It is Sunday in November. But while today is just like any other day, it is completely different – we are about to experience yet another last of the firsts.

My youngest turns 5 tomorrow. Five. I can barely wrap my head around this. And while he has already started school (another last of the firsts, as it was the last time we had a first day of school) this birthday is hitting me harder than most have in the past. Five feels big. It feels like he is no longer my baby, but this little tiny human who has this whole life that I am no longer a part of.

He is my last baby. I am not having any more. He completed our family. He was the last time I would be on the maternity floor at a hospital. He was the last bottle made for a 2am feeding. He was the last first time rolling over. He was the last time learning to crawl. He was the last first steps. He was the last first tooth. He was the last first giggle. He was the last first night in a big bed. He was the last first time riding a bike. He was the last first lost tooth. He was the last first day of school.

He is the last of the firsts.

And I know we have a lot of firsts to go through; not only with him, but with our other 2 boys (and there are firsts coming with them, as they are 11 and 13!! those are new firsts that I am not quite prepared for!!!) it is really sad to be closing the chapter on the first firsts. The baby firsts. The tiny heads and sweet noises, and the immense pride that you can only feel when you watch your tiny human do something for the first time; something you take for granted, like smiling, laughing, talking, walking, not shitting your pants…

He is turning 5. I remember where I was at this time 5 years ago. I had just dropped my older two off for the week, as I knew I was having a C-section on Tuesday morning. My husband (then boyfriend, because we like to do things out of order, and don’t conform to what society says is right and proper, and also because I swore I would never get married again..) and I had our entire day planned, for our last day without our baby. He came home from work, we watched SportsCenter (as we always did in the mornings), I went downstairs to get some cereal and wanted sugar, but the only sugar we had was that stupid paper bag of Rogers sugar, and it was on the top shelf of the pantry. I grabbed it and it fell on me, and exploded all over the kitchen. I remember laughing hysterically as I called Trevor to come rescue me from my current sticky predicament. We laughed, I ate, and then showered. And while he was getting out of the shower, he smashed his baby toe on the edge of the tub, and busted it wide open. This maybe isn’t something normal to remember, but it comes out again in the story. Then his mother showed up, as she was planning on coming to the hospital the next day, as she had never been in the room for a grandchild being born (she wouldn’t again, as I was being cut open in surgery, but she would see him when he was only hours old, which was a first for her) and I had a sip of hot chocolate, but it didn’t taste right, so I dumped the rest out. We then piled into her car to go do my pre-reg at the hospital, as I would be there too early the next day to register. They hooked me up to the little baby heartrate ticker thing (three kids, no idea what it is actually called) and the nurse looked at me and  said “wow. you’re having quite a few contractions!” and I just laughed and told her they had been happening all weekend, but I had been getting them since August. She then told me that she wanted to do an internal to see if I was actually in labor. Trevor and his mom stepped out, only to be called back in by my shouting “as if!” as the nurse told me I was more than 4cm dilated, and would be having my son that day. This came as a shock to us all, as we didn’t have a bag packed, didn’t have anything ready, didn’t even have our truck!! We had planned on going to see Harold and Kumar, and for dinner, then planned on packing our bag that night. Beauty of having a planned C-section; there really is very little guess work. Or so we thought.

Trevor left in a mad rush, as I was taken upstairs and prepped for surgery. I stood in the hallway, pacing while waiting for my nurse, and made a bunch of phonecalls to tell my family and closest friends that our son was coming a day early. It ended up being kind of awesome, though, as my older 2 were both born on the 7th, and now, so would my third. We lived 20 minutes away from the hospital, and he had to pack all of our stuff, and rush back. He got there just as I was being wheeled out of the room ( he would have been there sooner, to you know, support and calm me down, but he stopped for pepsi… ahem) and within a half an hour, our baby was there, in our arms, and smack dab in the middle of our hearts. The 3 days we spent in the hospital was filled with its own drama and bs, none of which needs to be recalled or revisited.. except Trevor’s aforementioned toe, which reaked havoc the whole time we were there, as the nurses weren’t able to give him a bandaid, because HE wasn’t a patient. His toe bled for the whole week. Note to self: beware toe damage – that shit bleeds forever!

And now, here I sit, remembering his tiny perfect head, his beautiful little baby lips, his tiny little noises, and how much my heart exploded when I got to hold him the first time.

The last time I held my baby for the first time. The last time I brought a new baby home from the hospital. The last time I spent hours trying to figure out how to make his formula, work the bottle warmer and the bottle sterilizer (so much was supposed to be done that last night! haha) The last time we would have a brand new baby at home for the first time. The last time we got to show off our new baby.

The last of the firsts. I know there are lots of other firsts, but this chapter is officially closed. He is going to be 5. To some, that may not seem like a big deal, but to me, it is.

My last baby.

 

I am back, bitches!

I have taken some time to chill, organize my life, and see how things feel. And what I can say right now is… things feel great! We are happy in our new house – it fits us very well and everyone is loving our new space.

Don’t get me wrong, the move itself was a slice of flaming hell. We had help. We arranged ahead of time for people to come help with the heavy cumbersome shit. I pack the house and clean after it is emptied, so the husband moves the shit. Seems fair. Except this time, help didn’t come. Bunch of hosers just didn’t show up. So who did the brunt of the heavy lifting? That would be us. At one point, my head was pinned between the wall and the couch, and I was not pleased. I know there are other people we could have called, but I have a very good reason for not doing so, which is why I am not bitching too heavily about moving our shit ourselves. Am I selfless? Did I want to give people their time with their families? Did I want to avoid being an inconvenience? NO! I don’t want those people calling us to move their shit. HAHA! Totally selfish, hence only being slightly annoyed.

Moving on…. We are settled and everyone is enjoying their respective spots in school.

Biggest little is thriving in grade 8 and just starting another year of volleyball. He is so good at that game, it is crazy. And it doesn’t hurt that he is very close to being 6 feet tall. Loser. I make him sit down when I give him shit, now. Nobody will take a 5’3″ person seriously when they hover 5-6 inches above them. He is a giant. He has a big heart. But at times I still question every choice I have ever made with him, due to the moron-adolescent big-ass attitude. Just have to remember it happens to the best of us and hope tomorrow is better. But as I remind myself all the time – it could be worse! He truly is a great kid and watching him become this beanpole with a vision for his life is kind of flooring me!

Middle-little (also known as the diabetic) is kicking ass this year. November 9th will be his 1 year diaversary, and he has got such a good grasp of it, our last appointment was mostly just sitting around and bullshitting with his nurses.. they didn’t even want to see his food log. He has grown (physically and emotionally) with this disease and we are blown away every day with how well he has adapted. He is in grade 6 and doing amazeballs with school and with his stupid busted ass pancreas. But he is so much more than just a diabetic kid. He is so funny and silly, and is going to earn a living with his amazing drawing and attention to detail. Just you wait and see….

Little-little!! Aww, here is where the changes are undeniable. My baby started kindergarten this year. Not only is it weird that he isn’t home two days a week, but he comes home and talks about this life that we aren’t a part of, and that has never happened before. It is tearing my heart apart a bit, but he is doing really well, so that helps. He attended his first bday party without us today, which is another change. Sigh… My baby. Seriously freaked out by this new development!

My husband!! Seriously… gush gush gush. I love the ever loving shit out of that man! Him appearing in my life was random, and a total miracle. My heart was obliterated before him, and now it is put back together in the most perfect way. He did a course at work this week, and walked away with a 98% which is amazing for someone who despises school, tests, speaking in front of people, has adhd, etc. And now this man, this amazing human that I get to share my life with, is a certified heavy equipment operator, and is certified to train people to not only run the equipment, but to also train other people to train people. In summation, he is a heavy equipment badass, and I am stupid proud of him! Plus, he is total sex on a stick, so there’s that, too.

Me…. I don’t really have a lot to report (at the moment) but shit is changing. My horizon is beginning to look a lot more pink, and the dark clouds are way behind me now. I have a few tricks up my sleeve… lets just say, what is coming next will be revolutionary in my life.

Like I said…. I’m back, bitches. But the me that is back isn’t the me you knew from before… I put myself back together differently this time.

*mic drop*

Diabetes life – More than needles and blood


Let me preface this with: my son has diabetes. It is new to us, but I am already very well versed in it, and don’t take lightly to BS being said about it. 

Now… 

When my son was diagnosed, other than losing my grandmother, it was the worst day of my life. My little boy, who was so funny and outgoing, and so full of life, would be thrown onto a new path and forced into a life he didn’t want. Heart. Shattered. 

But not only was he thrust into this life, we all were. His parents. His siblings. His friends (and their parents). His grandparents. His aunts and uncles. His teachers. His future girlfriends/wife. His future classmates. His future employers. People he has never met before are already impacted by this. 

Would we change our path if we could? No question about it!! But alas, his pancreas is gonna be a useless piece of shit forever now, so this is where we live. And this is where we deal. 

I keep saying “we”, as this is one hell of a team effort. My husband and I do the brunt of the work, but no one – NO ONE – does as much as our son! I’ll touch on that more in a bit. 

My husband and I are the ones who plan all of his meals, his snacks, his injection points; determine his carb to insulin ratios, how much long-lasting insulin to give; who hound him to drink lots of water; who make sure he gets lots of sleep and exercise; who deal with the random highs and sporadic lows. We are his first line of defense. 

Our other two boys help a lot. They help to put his lunches together, help to organize our pantry (which is a finely tuned machine on its own, with all of the food in it stacked in clear order, with the carb count written on top in sharpie) Our 4 year old hugs our DiaBadAss every time he has needles. And we play a game at mealtimes to see who can guess the closest to his blood sugar. It helps us all learn how he acts at different levels, and it helps him to learn how he feels at different levels. Plus, making it like a game takes some of the blah out of it. 

Here’s a “day in the life of” to show that we may make it look easy, but that is only because I am borderline OCD and am slightly Type A, and we work well together as a team. It doesn’t look easy because it is easy! Do not ever for a second think this is easy. We just deal a lot better than most:

On a regular (school) day, my son wakes up around 7:10, does the normal morning stuff and comes for breakfast. There, instead of sitting down and eating like most people are accustomed, he washes his hands, gets his kits and sits at the table. He then takes a strip out and gets his meter ready. Then he takes his lancing device, and patiently blows a small hole into his sensitive finger tip. He gently squeezes, wipes that drop off, and squeezes out a fresh drop, which he then gently places onto his ready test strip. While waiting for that number to appear, which will dictate the dose of fast-acting insulin he will have at that meal, he wipes his finger clean and gets his insulin pens out. Once the number comes up, we then begin determining the carb count for his breakfast, and using the blood sugar we just learned, and using his carb to insulin ratio for breakfast (and it’s different for all 3 meals in the day – something we had to painstakingly determine through trial and error) we figure out how much NovoRapid he will be taking. He then dials 2 units, shoots it into the lid, then dials in how many units he needs for breakfast (usually 4 units). Then he sticks that tiny needle into his tiny belly, and counts to 10, while the life-preserving smelly as hell insulin shoots into his non-existent fat (he has to pinch skin to create “fat” to inject into). Then once that needle is done, he gets his long-acting insulin ready to go. This one isn’t based on carbs, it’s an insulin he only takes once a day, and it lasts 24 hours (so they say). He primes this the same way, but through trial and error and what seems like a constant change in need, he takes the dose that we have determined is his “basal” need for the day. (It started out as 7 when he was first diagnosed, but over the course of 9 months, it’s increased to 14. That’s not to say it won’t decrease once school starts again, as being at school, he’s more active, but for now, it’s 14). He picks another spot on his poor needle torn belly, and sticks yet another needle into his pinched flesh. And only then, can he begin to eat his breakfast. Then we pack his lunch and snacks for the day, all the while counting his carbs, and writing everything down in his food log (including blood sugar tests and how much of each insulin he takes). Snack time rolls around at school, and he tests, texts me his number, and we determine if he can eat the snack was packed, or needs to replace it with a “free snack”(which we also pack, just in case), which is what he has when he is “out of range”. Lunchtime, and he pulls out everything we have marked as “lunch” in his lunchbox (so he knows what is snack and lunch, as it is exactly calculated), tests his blood get again, texts us the number, and we, recalling the carbs we packed for him and what his ratio is, tell him how many of his NovoRapid to take. Then he goes through the whole ordeal with priming and ramming himself with a needle, this time in the presence of his classmates and friends. The same is repeated for his afternoon snack, as well as his test when he gets home from school. Once dinner comes, we have already calculated his dinner carbs (after usually taking the packaging out of the garbage over and over, because we have forgotten the carbs, because that’s just what diabetes parents do!) and he goes through the whole situation again. 2-3 hours after dinner, he tests again, and if he is out of range/high, he takes correction insulin and grabs a bedtime snack (generally something free – he likes Whisps and cucumbers) and goes to bed.. And that’s when I take over. I test him around 10:30-11:00, and if he has correction insulin, again at 12:00. And every night, I wake up at 3:00 in the morning and check him. So on a typical night, I check him twice when he is sleeping. The nights he has insulin, I check 3-4 times. And the nights he is low and needs juice (which he drinks in his sleep)? I check him 5 times. With lows while sleeping, diabetics run the risk of slipping into a coma, and never waking up. While there is air in my lungs, that will not happen to my son. His life means more to me than 15 minutes of sleep. Then we wake up the next day, and round and round we go again. 

His doctors appointments are in a city 4 hours away. And we go every 3-6 months. (Every 3 right now). We are at the drugstore getting supplies every week and a half (his supplies take up over half of my previous liquor cabinet – how I drink less now, I’ll never know!) The pharmacists know us. The diabetic team know us by our first names (including our non-D kids). We do training with teachers at school, and several of them have our cell phone numbers saved in their phones. Our family and friends have been given crash courses on testing, needles, carb counting, radios, how to inject his glucagon for the emergencies in which he goes into a coma and can not eat his fast acting sugar. 

We have done more math in the last 9 months than I have in years. And you know what? He’s worth every tear, effort, sleepless night and frustration. 

There are a lot of misconceptions about diabetes, and I’ll touch on that another time… But what you need to take from this is: it’s hard. Every damned day is hard. It’s hard for us, but it’s the hardest for our son. Regardless of what we do or how much we put into this, it is only happening to our son. This is his life, we are just helping him learn how to make it be best possible. And I will continue to do so as long as he wants and needs me to. 

Period. 

Mom rant…

Excuse me for a second while I pull my soapbox up, dust it off, and climb on this bad boy….¬† I can’t scroll through IG or FB or any of these obnoxious social media sites that are now a part of our daily lives, without seeing this one meme that makes me want to punch myself in the ovaries and scream like a velociraptor.

Feast your eyes on this load of steaming you-know-what….

excuse-the-mess-kids-making-memories

 

WELL! I guess someone needs to break the bad news to my kids that they are going to be growing up sans memories! What a shitty way for my kids to have to live – with a clean house!! How dare I!?

Seriously, though. I feel like this is just a bullshit saying that people can spout off to keep themselves from feeling guilty that their home looks like an episode of Hoarders. “Oh it’s okay that I have rodents feasting on the remnants of last weeks dinner – look how happy my kids are!” Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart.Oh and ps. GROSS.

Or there is this one….. which just basically sends a shot of pure rage down my spine and causes even more dinosaur-esque howls.

 

il_570xN.426485661_pfgj

Let me see if I can put this in the most delicate term I can muster, given how irritating I find this abhorrent saying…. *clears throat*

FUCK-ETH OFF-ETH! There… I added an “eth” to make it sound Shakespearean, cuz I’m classy like that.

So you are telling me that because people don’t stick to my floor, my kitchen is not covered in piles of dirty dishes and papers, and my laundry is all caught up, that somehow makes me a crap mother!? Go find a donut, and make love to the hole in the center… (again, trying to be classy.. if that doesn’t do it for you, try this… go fuck a donut!)

I have been in every situation that a mother can find themselves in. I have been a stay-at-home mom, I have been a working mom, I have been a single mom, I have been a single mom with two jobs, I have had 1 kid, 2 kids, and now 3 kids. ALL BOYS! And you know what? There has never been a situation in my life where anyone would feel compelled to call an exterminator due to my housekeeping inadequacies. I have been so busy that I didn’t get to bed at night until it was almost time to get up again. And you know what? My kitchen stayed clean, my boys stayed clean, my laundry was always done and nobody stuck to my floor!

And in spite of all of this, I am still a good mom. My kids are happy and healthy and we are all doing very well! I am just not a lazy shit. When something needs to be done, I do it. I don’t wait until it is in such disarray that it would be simpler to set it ablaze and start over.

But do you know what else I have done that helps greatly with the cleanliness of my home? I MAKE MY KIDS CLEAN UP THEIR MESSES!! Is that not the most insanely genius thing you have ever heard? Teaching your kids to be something other than a slob? What madness!! I know, this may sound like some weird form of sorcery, but it’s true. My kids, whom I may have mentioned before are all males, clean up their own mess. Their rooms get cleaned every night. The basement/xbox area is cleaned every night before bed. Their laundry is done once a week (by them, including folding and putting away). They help load and unload the dishwasher. It is quite simple – teach them to be respectful and tidy, and your house won’t look like a bomb filled with clothes, toys and shit has gone off every single day.

Messes do not equate to happy kids. Sticky shit on your floor does not make you a good mom. Happy kids are happy kids, regardless of how clean or messy their environment looks like. Good moms are the ones who love and cherish their kids, do right by them, teach them right from wrong, and make sure they have the very best chance in life to become the very best version of themselves. Being a revolting pig or having 20 loads of laundry laying around does not make you a good parent. Being a good parent makes you a good parent. Sorry, but it’s time that someone had to blow this shit wide open.

You want to have happy kids and be a good mom? Go do it! And stop spreading the lies and bullshit around, and stop pretending that the giant mess and sticky shit in your kitchen is a good thing. It’s not. Hoarders. They have a show for a reason.. and it is not for inspirational purposes.