Three Is a Magic Number.

I’ve decided that 3 is to toddlers what 21 is to…older toddlers. It’s all about TURNING 3. You get to play with all kinds of dangerous shit, like Pez dispensers, lead paint, bubbles, and sidewalk chalk. The assumption must be that two-year olds can’t handle their shit around a container of bubbles. HOW RIDICULOUS. (yeah, right)

I’ve decided that once I open up that artificial eye company (all of my eyeballs will be winking, which I think will equally confuse and attract potential suitors), write a book like everyone else in the world (no one I personally know but there are a lot of fucking books floating around, aren’t there), and learn to play poker like a pro, I will then focus all of my energies on a line  made specifically for two-year olds. This line will be limited to a series of bubbles you can put your child in. Then they can safely play with anything, assuming they figure out a way to get their hands out of the bubble (they can’t).

In related news, I now understand why people use leashes on their children.

 

WHAT WON’T YOU RUIN?

Hmmm?

This is what I’d like to ask the boys and I just might, if I knew they’d answer me with something other than just repeating back what I said. Jack would stare at me and say, “Ruin.”

Yes, Jack. That’s right. RUIN. You and your brother have successfully ruined EVERY STINKING HOLIDAY I’ve had this year. EVERY ONE. Not to mention walks, as of late, and  anything that involves ME.

Mother’s Day? Sucked. I wanted to go for a walk, and that ended in a fit and tears in front of the Hallmark store downtown. Nothing beats standing in front of the ones who care to send the very best with two children adamantly refusing to go inside so their mother could pick out a charm for her new bracelet.

Wedding Anniversary? Started with me walking into a mess of butt creme smeared everywhere and filthy children in the bathroom, getting a scrub down from the hubs. Then there was the laundry that followed, as creme got on all the clean clothes too, and more fits and refusals to go into Gordy’s so I could mail a goddamn package. Then the walk home was great when Jack decided to sit down on a random sidewalk and stare at ants for ten minutes while I had to pee. And oh yes, what a great time it was carrying 30 lbs. up a hugely steep hill to protect the boys from the giant dog that tried to attack us. FUN!

I guess I can’t blame the dog on them. TAKE BACK on that part.

My birthday? That was nearly a month ago. I can’t remember anymore. I literally have no recollection of it, which tells me it probably sucked too.

My children have become the monsters that most children become when they are two years old. I foolishly thought because they are fundamentally good boys, and we are not complete losers, that this age would somehow be gentler on us. I was wrong. This age is HORRIBLE. You can’t take your kids anywhere without knowing they’re either going to throw a fit in front of the very place you want to visit, barf somewhere random, or just scream and cry for no good reason. I honestly cannot stand this age and I want it to go away right now. I WILL THROW A FIT ABOUT IT.

A few weeks ago, I tried to take the boys on a walk by myself. They wanted to take along their suitcases of Hot Wheels, and like an idiot, I gave in. Why? Because giving in is ALWAYS EASIER. I used to judge people who did that until I found myself in the same position. Everything is a battle with a two-year old, and I’m over it. So, fine. Take along the incredibly heavy suitcase filled with cars you never play with and that’ll be just great. We get four blocks from home, and simultaneously Clark decides I must carry him while they both refuse to carry their suitcases one step further.

There I was, lugging two suitcases and one screaming child in my arms, with tears streaming down my face. Some were for pain (my back still hurts) and some for just hating my life situation right now. The rest of the day periodically featured the boys saying, “Momma CRY! Momma CRY!”

Yes, Momma CRY. Momma wants to cry a lot lately. This stay-at-home shit sounds great on paper but in practice? It kind of fucking sucks right now. If I were in a position to be a selfish asshole that felt okay about ditching my kids at a daycare like everyone else in the world, I’d do it. But I just can’t. It’s against my fundamentals of parental rearing.

So I guess I’ll just suffer for the rest of my life.

GOOD TIMES!

Chicken Chili Makes Me Cry. And Other Ramblings.

Today’s lunch menu included chicken chili. Yippee Skippy. Aren’t I some kind of effing chef. For whatever reason, the combination of spices was SO GODDAMN STRONG today, that it literally made my children cough for nearly 45 minutes (the hubs was coughing too but he’s a grownup for chrissakes…he can handle it). It was meant to be nap time, but quickly became panicked, “HERE DRINK THIS WATER AND PLEASE DON’T DIE” time. We had a fan blasting full speed in their room, trying to push the stink of cheap Mexican food out of the apartment and into the atmosphere. It was strangely horrifying for me. I kind of wanted to burst into tears. I just felt guilty, it sucked ass seeing them struggle thanks to me, and who the hell else knows what’s going on in my head. I literally don’t have time to dissect my thoughts anymore. It’s survival of the fittest, my darlings. I’m not the only one who has shit like that, right? I honestly have no clue how people intentionally hurt their children. I feel the need for confession following a freak spice incident.

In other news, I’ve had some kind of revelation. If I were less of…myself, I’d find a filter that kept me from sharing shit that potentially makes me look like a moron. Unfortunately, that filter has been broken for many years and there are no replacement parts available for purchase. Therefore, I will tell you all that I spent at least 15 minutes the other day (while also prepping food as I’m no slouch, thank you very much) pondering the idea of chivalry. HOW MANY TIMES have I heard women bemoaning the fact that “chivalry is dead!” And blah blah blah.

Well, ladies. Chivalry is not dead. Chivalry is alive and well if you’re hot enough for it. I don’t mean that in the temperature sense. I mean that in the, “Even if you’re not that hot, wear a low cut shirt and see how door magically open for you” sense. The other day, a middle-aged short man with decent fashion-sense, offered to return my grocery cart to the cart corral simply because he could see my black bra. Maybe he was a good Christian man but probably not.

So, I’m telling you all to invest in black bras and shirts that show some boobage. No boobage? No problem. Your efforts will probably be recognized all the same.

Now it’s time to go change. I have some dusting that needs to done and I know JUST THE MAN TO DO IT.

Oh Mr. Stewart…I Still Think You’re Sexy.

Well, it’s thanks to Rod Stewart that I first learned what the word “sexy” meant. And c’mon sugar, I let people know all the time, thanks to that song. That tune, combined with Prince’s movie, Purple Rain, made quite the impression on me.

There’s no denying Rod Stewart’s LEGENDARY status, right? Maybe it’s just me but I think he’s already earned that title, without having just released a NEW album with NEW tracks (NO COVERS, thank you GOD!!!). My mom loves Rod Stewart. I love Rod Stewart. I think the gays love Rod Stewart. Pretty much, everyone loves Rod Stewart. “Maggie May”, ALONE, is reason for those affections.

I was pretty jazzed when I heard Mr. Stewart (I can’t call a legend by his first name unless he just GOES by his first name…personal rule) was coming out with a new album. I was even more jazzed when I got the opportunity for an early listen.

In short; the album is AWESOME.

I wasn’t sure if I’d think it was awesome, if I’m being honest with you. Legends don’t always release the greatest NEW albums, especially decades after their biggest hits.

This is SO not the case with “Time“, Mr. Stewart’s latest endeavor. The album was born from a burst of inspiration that came while Mr. Stewart was reviewing his life for his recent memoir. He rediscovered his voice as a songwriter and rekindled his gift for writing the honest, nerve-touching narratives that have been the cornerstone to the first three decades of his career.

“Suddenly ideas for lyrics were piling up in my head,” he says. “Next thing I knew, I had a song called ‘It’s Over’ about divorce and separation. And now I was getting up in the middle of the night and scrambling for a pen to write things down, which has never happened to me. I finished seven or eight songs very quickly and I still wasn’t done, and it became apparent that I would eventually have a whole album of material to record.”

I gave Time a listen, three times over, and fell in love with the whole damn thing. The first track, “She Makes Me Happy”, is really catchy, even if it may be slightly cliche’ and a little too rhyme-y. That aside, it’s a great summer song. “Can’t Stop Me Now” made me nostalgic with its Maggie May references and classic Rod Stewart-sound. The drums on “Beautiful Morning” are kinda awesome. And the whole album follows suit. It’s really, really good. REALLY. I will listen to this album again. And again.

There are times when I review an album and while it isn’t music that I’m into, I can recognize it as good music all the same. This is the first time, in a long time, that I’m able to say that this isn’t only a great album, but a great album for ME.

Maybe I’m just getting older. Whatever.

 

I participated in this campaign for One2One Network. I received a free copy of the CD to facilitate my review. By posting, I am eligible for incentives. All opinions stated are my own.

Soap Operas Aren’t Dead! They’re Just Online…and a Little Bit Racier. (yes it’s possible)

Soap operas played a hardcore role in my early “mother/daughter” bank of memories. Back in the olden days, I’d pretend I was sick just so I could stay home from school and watch soap operas with my mom. Thursday nights were reserved for the nighttime soaps, which left my dad banned to the bedroom with Louis L’Amour novels and Tab. SORRY DAD

My personal love for soap operas kinda diminished right around the first time I saw Kurt Cobain trash the establishment in his flannel shirt and thermal, but nonetheless, it was a sad day when I realized that soaps like One Life to Live and All My Children were LEAVING TV???!!! It was like the end of an era. No longer could us “sick” kids and housewives escape reality for a little while to watch the crazy escapades of people in cities that sounded like cuts of meat. Never again could I see people rise from the dead just to die again. And then rise from the dead again.

I have GOOD NEWS. All My Children and One Life to Live are coming alive once again. This time they’re doing it via the internet, which allows for a bit more “adult” situations and language (you know what I’m saying here). Sadly, this means the kiddos shouldn’t be watching these shows on their “sick” days. Both shows will premiere on Hulu starting at midnight on Monday, April 29th and will also be available on Hulu+ and iTunes for on-the-go viewing. Info on the shows is available here. Just do a little clickety-clackety.

The Online Network

AMC on Hulu

OLTL on Hulu

These shows are bringing back some classic characters, adding a few new actors, and featuring guest appearances by people like Snoop Lion (the artist formerly known as Snoop Dogg–no joke). So I pretty much have to tune in just to see how that shakes out. You should too. What’s easier than tuning in whenever you want, especially with the availability of streaming services on well, everything we own?

FYI:

I am participating in a campaign from One2One Network and The Online Network. I have not received payment for this post. My participation makes me eligible for a prize drawing. All opinions stated are my own.

The Happiest Might Be a BIT of a Stretch…

I just finished reading Dr. Harvey Karp’s book, “The Happiest Baby Guide to Great Sleep.” Before I go any further, let me first say this: I do not generally read books on child-rearing of any kind. And by “generally”, I mean, I have read 50 pages of one book previous to this one. I’m old-school. My mom didn’t read Dr. Spock and I turned out relatively well, ALL THINGS CONSIDERED.

I agreed to review this book because the boys are kind of driving me nuts when it comes to bedtime. They’re twins (if you didn’t know this, well….I’d like to find the rock you’ve been sleeping under, and then sleep under it myself for the next 16 years) and they like each other about 85% of the time. This means they lay down to sleep but they don’t really sleep. They talk. Incessantly. For an hour. This would be cute if it were happening to YOU. It’s a little maddening when it’s happening to me and I wanted some advice on making bedtimes all around easier.

I like the way this book is written. The language isn’t horribly technical and Dr. Karp doesn’t treat me like an idiot. Certain points are re-iterated several times because THEY ARE IMPORTANT. I hadn’t previously made the connection between what happens during the day and how that relays to bedtime struggles. I know this should’ve been obvious but I’m a little fried. No more TV an hour before bedtime. No more rough-housing (THAT MEANS YOU, HUBS) during that same time period, and I finally have some techniques for dealing with the repeated “Mommy I want water” request once lights are out. In fact, that whole section about using poker chips (no I’m not kidding) to compromise with your child was genius and if you’ve got small children, this tip alone could change your life. (well that’s a bit of a stretch….)

The boys are no longer infants so I skipped the sections devoted to them specifically. I do know many parents that have struggled with sleep training and I’m confident this book can help with that. I did flip through a few sections and noticed that the hubs and I used many of the same techniques suggested here. We had great success until the boys were able to talk!

What don’t I like about this book? Well, Dr. Karp doesn’t have children. Or rather, if he does, they aren’t listed on any bio I could find in the land of Internet. He’s married but no kiddos. It’s easy to be very factual about the behavior of children, but it’s another to LIVE IT DAILY. Kids don’t act according to our little playbooks of what’s expected. The boys were preemies and they walked at 15 months. My niece is not a preemie, is 18 months, and still doesn’t walk. You see what I mean? They’re people; they’re all different. The best a book can do is generalize and give you tips that work MOST OF THE TIME. I think all pediatricians should have children but that’s just me.

I couldn’t help but notice all the “star cred” listed in Dr. Karp’s bio. He’s got a laundry list of celebrities he’s worked with and I could kind of care less. That makes him no more/less legitimate for me, and I’m not sure why I need to know this information.

I could initially feel these things irritating the crap out of me, but I got over it. Honestly, I am just trying out a lot of the techniques/tips I took from the book (I can’t do everything listed because I have to make dinner too) but they seem to be working. At the very least, they’ve given me hope. I’ll report back in a few weeks and see how things are going.

Please note: I am participating in a book review campaign with One2One Network. I received this book from Harper Collins for the purposes of reviewing it. I have not received compensation. My participation in the campaign enters me into a drawing for a gift card. All opinions stated are my own.

What The F*ck is the Point?

The twins used to be these adorable little lumps that lived in my apartment. I fed them, cared for them, and did their tiny laundry, but it was easy enough to leave them with the hubs for a few hours and get away. They weren’t really PEOPLE. They were just sorta there and I learned to deal.

Yeah, fast forward a few years and my life is not MY LIFE. I used to be my priority and I’m not anymore. I used to force races into my schedule and just LEAVE to run them. I won’t be doing that so much this year. Why? Because the boys are two and they need ME. They need me HERE. Not every second but you know what? The more seconds I am here, the more I am rewarded with the fact that I am raising my own kids. That they are good boys. That my life has slowly evolved into one where I serve someone else. No one else comes before them. NO ONE. I love my hubs but if he did something that somehow jeapordized my children, he’d be out of here like yesterday’s mail. Sorry but that’s how parenthood should work. Something tells me the potential for kids to just generally suck as people is far greater when the parents are selfish assholes.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately. There are days/weeks/months/years where I just feel like this is the most draining life I never asked for. That all I do is take care of someone else and WHY CAN’T I HAVE MORE FUN FOR MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

Then I realized that “HAVING FUN FOR MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” probably should’ve stopped in my twenties. Or at least been dialed down about one million notches. (I was very selfish)

As in, living selfishly my entire life is maybe not the point of my life. Or anyone’s life. Having kids and being a GOOD parent makes it easier to transition from “Oh my god! I have a whole day free. LET’S NAP!” to “Oh my god! I am in the bathroom alone for two minutes!” I don’t have to seek out opportunities to serve. SERVING IS MY LIFE.

Is it your life? I think that’s the point. I think we’re here to care for each other. I have no clue WHY we are here but something tells me that devoting much of our life to someone other than ourselves is taking things in the right direction. If not kids, then others in need.

No, animals don’t fucking count. I am sorry BUT THEY DON’T. You might be a very nice person for spending $10K on an ANIMAL but it doesn’t count.

Maybe all this Bible reading I’ve been doing has me thinking about how I can live more like Jesus did. Jesus was a tireless advocate for the poor and needy and look where he is now. Yeah. That’s what I’m talking about.

I’m kidding. About the heaven part anyway. But it’s the truth, isn’t it? Where’s your edge? Do you have extra time, money, talents, resources, space, etc? I refuse to believe you don’t. I do and I never stop moving. Maybe it’s time to shift our focus.

In related news, here’s some “‘Tella faces!” (that’s Nutella for you normal people)

You don’t know what it’s like, to be meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee….

Or…maybe you do. In that case, I am sorry.

What the hell am I talking about here? I’m referring to addictions. Specifically, in my case, eating disorders. If you suffer, you know there is no difference between food and alcohol, when you have a problem. One bite of a trigger food/ingredient, and there aren’t enough bites in the world. There’s the binge and purge, the binge with no purge because you can’t cleverly hide that shit in a stranger’s house, and there’s the simple act of abstaining altogether. Not just from the foods that give you problems but all foods.

I deal with all of these. The same disorder manifesting itself differently, depending on my mood. It’s been this way for a very long time. If you know me in any “real” capacity, there’s a good chance you’ve known me as someone with an active eating disorder. I was anorexic so long I just assumed I could “stay that way.” Had I not started dating my husband, I might’ve. And certainly we all know most anorexics don’t live happily ever after.

I guess that makes the hubs a lifesaver, of sorts.

Struggling to be a “normal” eater, and I will NEVER be a normal eater, I switched over (without meaning to) to the binging side of life. I’d eat “normal” foods and find I couldn’t stop. Not all foods, of course, but certain kinds. Alcohol didn’t help with these impulses and pretty soon I had gained weight and was no longer athletic. I was “curvy.” Which is okay but not very comfortable for me. Then I got pregnant, had babies, went back to the old binge and purge (anorexia doesn’t work well for well….life…) and finally got some help.

I am not cured. Hell, I’m not even sure I’m in “recovery.” But I do know I need to start being honest with this shit. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to share this with my readers but why not? If someone else out there can relate to this, that’s all I want. Before finding help, I really thought I was the only person in the world whose thoughts were constantly focused on FOOD. How to avoid it, how to puke it out, how many calories I could have for the day, blah blah blah. I went from never leaving the house, in constant fear of random food encounters to never wanting to stay home. I MIGHT MISS A MEAL OUT SOMEWHERE. I’d watch other people eat, push the plate away and be done with it. I obsessed.

I’ve binged so much that my skin has literally hurt the next day. I’ve starved myself for so long that the feeling of hunger is a mere triumph for me. A “ha!!!!” to my body, that I am in control here. I avoided social situations, lied, and I’m certain these behaviors didn’t help my already fucked-up first marriage.

I am not in control, here. I don’t “have this” under control. I am powerless to this. I don’t have a magic formula. A magic cure. Trust me, if I could do this on my own, without help and some kind of higher power, I would’ve already. I have tried so much bullshit and none of it worked because it couldn’t work. This disorder, like any addiction, is insanity. You know how many times I’ve said that “today is a new day. Today I start again.” Then I hit a certain part of the day, take that first compulsive bite, and my whole day becomes about food. It fucking sucks and I’m tired of being too proud to admit outloud that I have an eating disorder. I HAVE AN EATING DISORDER.

So, I’m trying something different here. I’m going to start sharing this with you. It won’t take over my blog but I need to be frank about my life. I have a clearly defined food plan. I need to follow it. I need to eat to live, I do not need to live to eat. I cannot eat baked goods, white sugars. white flours, fast foods, candies, and a host of other foods. Just for today. Perhaps there will come a time when something can be re-introduced but for today? No.

Remember: This is not about willpower. All the willpower in the world is not stronger than addiction. There is only one person stronger and it sure as hell isn’t me.

Thanks for sticking around to read this. In related news, I picked up the vacuum cleaner cake today for the boys’ 2nd birthday party tomorrow. It kind of rocks. Pictures later!

Puke towels, vacuum cleaners, and draw more butts.

I cleaned up puke three times in the past week. This surpassed poop by two and pee by none. I guess that makes this a good week. And did I mention I have a toothache?

Anyway, so the puke thing is getting pretty effing old pretty effing fast. Jack gets carsick and Clark had the flu, which made for some really good times spent in the basement, washing clothes, while all the old people in the building knowingly chuckled about my problems. I’m guessing they had zero sympathy. They dealt with this shit back in the olden days, where clothes were beaten by stones and women were beaten by…well. You get the idea.

I decided it was high time these kids learn how to puke in the damn toilet, like the rest of us drunks and bulimics. Clark was my first guinea pig. He grasped the concept, and dutifully sat by the toilet bowl, staring into the abyss, but deciding it was best to puke into a bath towel. Which got washed and is now being carried around with him everywhere. If we lay him down, he demands the puke towel. If he’s basically anywhere, the towel is at his side. It’s a huge bath towel, and pairs nicely with the small red washcloth he’s been toting since he was a baby. Or more of a baby, since he will ALWAYS BE MY BABY.

Are all kids obsessed with vacuum cleaners? And by obsessed, I mean, do they literally talk about them, seek them out in film, and play with them ALL THE TIME? For like a year? The twins just had a birthday and I’m sure they would’ve preferred a Dyson catalog over any of the Sesame Street shit we gave them. They will be having a SMALL party in a few weeks, complete with a cake decorated like a vacuum cleaner. I’m sure everyone will find that just adorably strange.

…and when I say “small party”, I mean it. Large parties for small children are unnecessary and frivolous. I have nothing more to say on that.

In other news, the boys are forever demanding I draw them butts on the chalk board. Big butts, small butts, monkey butts, butterfly butts. Everything has a butt and it’s up to me to conceptualize it. NO PRESSURE.

The pretentious gay man at the Antiques Emporium sucks.

Clearly the Antiques Emporium (in Eau Claire, WI…for those of you not familiar) is a front for mob activity, whores, or SOMETHING. I was last in there roughly eight years ago, and yesterday, I SAW THE SAME SHIT IN THERE. IN THE SAME SPOTS. It wasn’t familiar and haunting in that “visiting my childhood home” kind of way. It was familiar and haunting in that, “No one ever buys shit in here and yet this place stays open because they are clearly selling sex on the side” kind of way. It was like that book shop on “Portlandia.” The one that doesn’t want to sell anything.

So, the hubs wanted to stop in there (and he will hate me for saying that since he insisted that asking to visit there sounded gay…WHICH IT DOES…or doesn’t, if he’s reading this) and I was game since it involved no children. That’s always a good time! I’d attend a public execution if it didn’t involve a diaper bag and screaming children. Within five minutes of our visit, I’d already gotten yelled at by the pretentious gay man with glasses perched on the end of his nose.

I was wandering around, pretending to be mildly interested in the overpriced porcelain shit when I spied an old bobble-head perched with about a million other tiny collectibles on a display towards the back of the first floor. If you’ve been to my house, you know there’s a “small” collection of bobbles crowded together on the one shelf the twins have yet to reach. SO…that means I clearly need more. Like the one I saw yesterday. I picked it up, along with about five other weird felt dolls that were all stuck together. The dolls fell behind the counter, and I was trying to pick them up when a pretentious gay man with glasses perched at the end of his nose barked at me from behind some dusty taxidermy. “THAT IS NOT FOR SALE.”

That should’ve been clear to me, seeing as there was a complete absence of ANY KIND OF SIGNAGE STATING THAT. Then he tells me that the bobble is part of a special collection of “little things” and I WAS NOT TOUCH THEM. Then he asked if I had knocked down anything. Who, me? OF COURSE NOT! (sorry little felt people…you are forever lost) Then I apologized with the sort of tone that said, “STFU you mean gay man.” And I emphasize the gay part because I didn’t think gay antique shop owners could be such meanies.

The hubs wanted to leave right away but I’d have none of it. So we browsed awhile and I “accidentally” knocked down a few things. As we were leaving, we used the bathroom. The men’s bathroom was emitting an odor so strong that we could smell it from at least 10 feet away. After using the offending facilities, I shouted, while opening the door to leave, “YOUR BATHROOMS STINK!!!”

And because no one else is ever in that store, you know the gay man is to blame.

In other news, I think I have a cavity, I re-tore my hamstring yesterday, and everything I’ve ever liked is slowly being destroyed by my children. I need a joint the size of a cigar.