Parenting, For Realz

When I was in my early 20s, my best girlfriend was in her late 30s. She has 3 kids and had been married a couple or 6 times. I've always admired her faith in love and marriage...if not her choices in men. At that point, I was recently divorced with no kids. She would tell me about things that went on in her life and I watched how she handled her kids.

I often asked her "do they hand out crack in the delivery room so you can keep up with those kids??" I was amazed at how much she did with them, how little she slept, and how high-maintenance kids are in general.

Imagine my horror when I discovered that there are, in fact, no stimulant prescriptions handed out in the delivery room.

What I did discover, though, is that with my role of "mom" came a sense of responsibility that outweighs stuff like sleep, illness, and the general sense of "I don't wanna." There's all this unimaginable love and protectiveness and stuff. Not to mention all these stupid principles I have that make me feel guilty if I'm not a responsible parent giving my best effort to nurture good, responsible individuals.

The things that get done? Get done because they have to be done. My inconvenience? Is irrelevant.

Poopsplosions must be managed. The unending step-sibling argument storm must be weathered (seriously, do siblings ever get along??).

When Boo gets up at 3:45AM, decides it's "morning," and begins getting dressed, I must haul my happy ass out of bed & get him back to his bed. Without waking the rest of the household. Except the dog loaf. It is impossible to get out of bed without rousing the dog loaf and inciting the 120 decibel ear flapping.

Lunches must be made, homework must be done, notes to teachers must be written (and if they are to be written legibly I must write them), appointments made, chauffeuring to be done, peace maintained, medication dispensed, backpacks assembled, "whys" answered, laundry done, meals prepared, punishment doled, and snuggles stolen.

Sleep is foregone. Showers are skipped. Privacy is eliminated. Money pours out like a blast from a fire hydrant. Corporate casual must be pulled from the wrinkled heap in the laundry basket that has been waiting for a week to be put away and hopefully has not been peed on by any members of the household. Grown up TV is relegated to illicit late-night viewing. The illusion of maturity must be maintained. Swearing must be curbed. Phone calls from angry teachers and parents regarding the swearing must be dodged. Sex is relegated to clandestine secret ops only to be completed by the most elite of special forces. The good snacks must be stashed to be consumed only during ugly AM hours or while engaging in illicit late-night television viewing.

All of this for the loving gratitude of my darling children. Ahhh, listen to the sound of that gratitude...

(crickets chirping)

"I don't like these pants."
"these shoes are too tight."
"I don't want to wear socks."
"but I wanted that one."
"I don't like that food."
"you're mean."
"I don't want to go to bed."
"how come you didn't get me that one?"
"I want that."
"I want that, too."
"he's looking at me! Make him stop looking at me!"
"can't you do that instead?"
"No."
"I don't wanna."

Sigh. You're welcome guys.

I think I'm beginning to understand the reason parents push their adult children to create grandchildren. It's not because they so love the pitter patter of little grandchild feet.

No.

It's revenge.

(insert creepy pipe organ music and maniacal laughter here)

Perhaps I'm a masochist. Or just stupid.

I scheduled my routine feminine grooming maintenance for Tuesday of this week. Due to the poor coordination of my "cycle" and my paychecks, I was "a bit" past due for said maintenance.

And by a bit? I mean it was waaaaay too 1969 down there. I'm not that natural. So not. After 30 minutes with my esthetician, all was cleaned up and ready to go. And a bit chafey. Fun.

For Wednesday, I scheduled my graduation present to myself. A lovely phoenix on my right shoulder blade. Note that the bra strap you see? Is a racer-back. Without that context, the placement of the tattoo would be weird. And I would have a very fat shoulder.



As you might notice, my skin is pretty red. 2 1/2 hours of tattoo leaves one rather sore. So now I'm chafey and sore. I'm thinking perhaps I should schedule a nipple piercing or something for this afternoon just to round out the pain trifecta for the week.

In what universe was I thinking that a Brazilian and a tattoo on successive days would be a good idea? Are there restraints & ball gags in my future? Or am I just a dumbass??

Wait. Don't answer that...

sigh

P.S. I am planning a follow-up to my previous post (A Requiem for My Dream). Possibly tomorrow. Not today. The feedback I've gotten has stirred my brain, but my thoughts are not yet congealed. I would prefer to wait until they are rather then dump a senseless gooey mess out there

A Requiem for My Dream

I have been giving my blog a lot of thought lately. I have been all guilt-ridden for not posting as frequently as I think I should. As frequently as I really ought to if I want people to keep reading it.

I have still been reading a few others' blogs because they bring me joy to read. I look forward to reading posts from these people. Not out of any sense of obligation, just because I like to read what they have to say.

In doing this, however, I have come to a realization about my writing. It is a realization that I've already had in other aspects of my life, but not about my writing.

This realization? Makes me rather sad.

In other areas of my life, I never had any real passion for the subject, so the realization wasn't so bad. About my writing? I am sad. For this is one thing I have always loved and have believed that it was something at which I was at least moderately adept. I have believed that with practice and hard work? I could take moderately adept to some kind of wonderful.

But practice doesn't replace ability. Practice only refines what is already there.

My realization? Is that I'm just not meant to create. I am unable to craft something from nothing.

I know this ability when I see it. I'm the daughter of a creator. I'm the wife of a creator. I'm actually the ex-wife of a creator, too. And I? Am not a creator.

What I can do? Is see what makes something a worthy creation. I know talented versus well-trained but passionless musicians when I hear them. I know good photography when I see it. I know an artist with genuine talent when I meet them. I know good when I see it. I see the qualities of their gift and their passion that allows them to create something wonderful from the depths within themselves. But I do not have these qualities within myself. When I look inside myself? I do not see those raw materials that, with inspiration, create beauty. My depths are full of feelings and mush that all turns to imitation goo when I try to do anything with them.

I had hoped that maybe I just didn't have creative musical ability or creative artistic ability or creative photographic ability or the ability to create pretty solutions to problems. I had hoped that my lack of creative gift was because I hadn't found the right "thing" yet. I don't think that's it. I think it is more a general lacking of the ability to create.

What I can do? Is tinker with something existing. I can tweak stuff to make it a little better or a little different, but I have to have something to start with. Someone else has to do the creating before I can do the tweaking.

I guess I'm a tweaker. Isn't that lovely.

So where does that leave my illustrious blog? I don't know. I'm a bit of the competitive sort, and I'm not real big on propagating mediocrity. While I never had any dreams of quitting my job & writing for a living, I still prefer to be among (or at least in the same ball park as) the best if I choose to do something.

I said I started this blog for myself, and that was mostly true. But honestly? There was a part of me that wanted my writing to blossom into something beautiful. Sadly though, while I gave it my best, it has kind of withered, like so many of the plants I've tried to nurture over the years.

Ironically, I'm going to try gardening next spring. Let's not discuss my head and its sandy location.

Please understand that I'm not fishing for anything. For the most part? I keep my self-pity fishing pole stored under my bed for occasional use on Hub when I need a little verbal stroking & he's not getting the hint. Comment as you like, but I'm not trying to incite anything. I feel as if I need to explain why I have not posted lately, as well as mourn a dream. My realization was a surprise to me & hit harder than I would've expected.

Will I continue to post? Possibly. Even probably. Writing is a compulsion for me, regardless of it's quality of content. But it has become like that friend you have. And you really want to take it to that level beyond friendship. But that friend? Has other ideas. Other loves. The friendship means to much to me to abandon completely. But I am sad that we cannot have the love affair that I had hoped for.

Just you wait...

When I was younger, say mid teens through early 20s, I had all these opinions. And they were strong opinions. Because of course with all that life experience from which I could draw, I sure knew what I was talking about.

I had political opinions. I had opinions about kids, abortion, sex, relationships, etc. Since then, I've aged.

Matured, even.

A little bit.

Kinda.

Through my experience, I've learned that a.) things are usually not that black & white and b.) I don't know shit.

I try to keep this in mind when dealing with others. I try not to be too judgy of people who do not have the benefit of my experience. Or any experience really.

And while I try to keep this in mind, it doesn't stop me from rolling my eyes & thinking some judgy stuff when I'm presented with certain situations.

My stepbrother & his wife are a good example. They are 21 & are going to have a baby in a couple of months.

Now, at 32 I know what I think of 21-year-olds. Insert eye roll here. I can only imagine how those of you with a decade on me feel about me. A 51-year-old woman called me a fetus last week, so that gives me an idea.

I like my stepbrother. He's cool. A little short-sighted & thus a little lacking in the responsibility department, but he has a good heart. His wife? Not so much. Her gravitational pull is a little more than I can tolerate.

I like to imagine peas underneath her mattress whenever I find her a little too ridiculous. She doesn't work because she just doesn't want to (even before she was pregnant) and she constantly complains about not having any money. Whenever they do get money? They show up with new $400 cell phones, new jewelry, or some other unnecessary extravagance. Then she begs money off of other people to buy plane tickets to go home to visit for the holidays because they just can't get the money together on their own...

Does anyone else find it hard to restrain the "oh puh-lease...."?

But...I know what's coming.

A baby is coming. And they have no clue what that means. No clue at all.

Because no one does. That's part of the joy of becoming a parent for the first time. That "Ohhhh shit...." realization.

When you realize that you don't know what the hell you're doing, but a life depends on you doing it right. A life to which you're probably pretty attached.

I chuckle when she complains about having to get out of bed at noon. Or when she will post about how she's loafing around on the couch all day.

Someone's in for a rude awakening.

I hope that this child will give them the grow up kick in the ass I believe they need. To start thinking beyond what they want for themselves at this very moment. To realize that sometimes someone else's needs come before your own.

I know it's not my kid, it's not my relationship, & therefore, it's not my business. I disagree with many of their attitudes and choices, but I don't share my opinion with anyone because this is their journey to figure out. I just have a pretty educated guess about what's coming (based on my experience with the amazingly easy Boo) and I worry. I know what kids can do to relationships. And I know what ridiculously selfish parents can do to kids. And I worry.

Because that's what I do. And for his sake, (as well as my stepmother's, who I love dearly), I don't want to see my stepbrother fail at something as serious as marriage and parenthood. Sometimes it's really hard to stand by and watch something you're pretty sure is going to be a fiery train wreck and do nothing but pray you're wrong.

Top 10 Things I love about my job

It's been a few weeks since I've participated in Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop, so I thought I'd jump in again this week, since I'm being all posty this week.



This week I chose Prompt #5.

10 Reasons why you love your job.

1. The Paycheck that comes fairly regularly. Every week when I get my "Payday" reminder in outlook? I'm all happy that I will have the illusion that I have money again. For a few minutes.

2. My boss is not an asshat. This is important. I think he is the first non-asshat boss I've had. It really makes a difference, actually. He's actually pretty amusing, which is an extra bonus.

3. It is not the Post Office. I did 7 years hard time as a postal worker. The stereotype of "going postal"? Is there for a reason. I determined that no matter how much I hated my job, my idiot supervisors, and many of my idiot coworkers? None of them were worth jail, than you very much.

4. The internet is there. What else needs to be said? I <3 the internet. So much.

5. I have 2 monitors. Now I'm just bragging. The 2 monitor thing? Is so freaking awesome. Altho it does make my laptop at home seem woefully inadequate, what with it's single screen and all.

6. I have not slept with anyone I work with. Sleeping with coworkers has only worked out well for me once. I married that one. Previously? I ended up dealing with really immature men creating drama. And one stalker.

7. We frequently get cake. Everyone in this place is pregnant. I'm afraid to drink the water here. But all these pregnant people? Get baby showers. And baby showers mean cake. I <3 cake.

8. I have a whole file drawer full of snacks. Munchies? Are crucial to maintaining my sanity through the day. Seriously. If I don't eat regularly? I turn into psycho bitch. And no one likes that.

9. There is a Chipotle within lunching distance. No explanation is necessary for this one.

10. I love the feeling of being just Me for 8 hours a day. No one expects me to clean up their poop, cook for them, or do their laundry.

Tales of an Asshat

So, I got some inspiration from Kristin over at Taming Insanity about being an asshat. Go read her post because it's funny. I'll wait.

...

Back?

...Helllllooo?...Hey! You were supposed to come back! Hmph.

Well fine then. I'm still going to tell the tale of my asshattery. Even if I'm talking to myself. Well, typing to myself. Oh, never mind.

So. A while back, my stepdaughter Princess had a bit of a "poo incident" as we like to call them. I discovered this when Hub emerged from the bathroom carrying her shorts and underwear with 2 fingers at a significant distance from his person.

"She didn't make it to the bathroom on time." Oh, goody. "What should I do with these?"

Burn them? Throw them in a bucket of turpentine? Take this opportunity to teach Princess how to wash her own clothes?

Sigh.

"Put them in the utility sink thingy downstairs by the washer. I'll get it later."

So, he dutifully takes the offending soiled garments downstairs & tosses them in the sink, just as I have asked him to do. Good Hub. Thank you. You have listened well.

Later on, I threw in a load of laundry. I don't remember what I washed, but it was something with which poo crusted underwear was not compatible, so I did not throw those in with the wash. I left them in the utility sink where hub had tossed them for me.

Fast forward an hour or so. I go into the laundry room to put the load in the dryer. I notice, as I step in it's cold, squishy goodness, that the rug in front of the washer is wet.

First thought? Is "damn cat peed on the rug!" I glance around the laundry room & notice that a lot of the floor is wet. Gandalf (cat) has done some impressive things in his day, but this amount of wet? Is out of even his league.

See, the floor is not just a little wet. There are puddles.

I start to panic, thinking the water heater has sprung a leak. I start running through scenarios of how I'm going to break this joyous news to Hub. And the freezing shower I'll have to take that night.

Then it occurs to me, I had just given Boo a bath & the water was plenty warm. Probably wouldn't be the case if the water heater was in the process of its explosive death throes.

Then I notice the sink. And the underwear that are now stuffed in the drain. Our washer drains into this sink. So it is kinda important that the drain remain unobstructed. Didn't occur to me when I told Hub to toss the underwear in there. Or when I started the laundry.

It's amazing how much of a mess a poo incident in a tiny pair of underwear can make when the situation is managed by an asshat like myself!

Ooops. And guess who got to mop up the laundry room? It even flooded the cat box. Yay me.

Sigh.

Cawfee Tawk

Today, I pose a question for you guys.

And I'll answer my own question, too. Just because I'm verbose like that. Plus? I don't want to post a 2 line blog. I think I'd feel like I was cheating.

Can a bad person be a good parent?

Discuss.

My answer? I don't really think so. I know you guys have all had some really diverse upbringings, so I'm terribly curious to get some opinions on this.

This came up in one of my classes recently (did I mention I'm precisely 2 weeks away from being done with my bachelors?) and the thought intrigued me.

I suppose one would need to define "bad person" before one could adequately answer the question. And even that? Is relative. What I think the criteria for "bad person" are? May be far different than what you think qualifies.

I think that a huge part of being a parent is setting an example for your kids. I am so not a "Do as I say not as I do" kind of parent. I always hated that as a kid.

I kind of have issues with hypocrisy. But that's another post.

I think if someone is a bad person, they would be setting a fundamentally bad example for their kids. I think they would be prone to making poorer parenting choices.

I think a bad person could really love their kids. I think a bad person could want the best for their kids. But if that person is fundamentally flawed in their thoughts and/or behavior? I'm not sure how that could translate into good parent.

I suppose it could be argued that said bad parent could be setting the example of what not to do. I know I learned a lot about what I didn't want my marriage to be based on my parents' relationship. So I could, perhaps, see that point. Perhaps.

I really am curious. If you disagree, I'm totally cool with that...as long as you explain yourself! Tell me...what do you think?