Stay Tuned, I swear I’ll be back

Hi Peeps.  Haven’t been bloggin much lately.  Oh wells.

Hubby is home on vacation and we are prepping for two small trips with the twins. AND I’ve been reading a lot about the craft of writing.  AND I’ve been actually writing that gosh darn novel I’ve been fiddling with for years now.

So, therefore, less time for the blogiverse.

I do have two topics on hold I’ll write about soon.  So…  stay tuned.



Validate Me!

I lay in bed last night, drifting off to sleep, and thinking about the late night online chat I’d just had with my cousin.  It left me feeling better, lighter, and, yes, validated.

Acknowledging that gave me pause.  Why is it so important, to me in particular, to have another person affirm what I already know to be true?  Why isn’t my own surety enough? And did I seek out a confidant that I knew would agree with my points of view?

So, as the Sandman carried me off to Dreamy Town, I vowed to blog on the topic in the morning.

I know that I’m not alone in this need.  That’s why Zuckerberg and Co added a “Like” button to Facebook.  That’s why there is a Comment section on our blogs.  Hell, the need for validation is why Facebook or blogging even exist.  We all need someone to hear us, and hopefully someone will say, “Hey!  Me too!”  or “Wow, good point!”  And then we’ll feel all warm and fuzzy and sane.

What struck me is that I sort of went out of my normal support circle to seek this particular validation.  Why?  Well…

Hubby isn’t much help in the validation department.  He has trouble empathizing and if it’s a situation he can’t relate to, then he’s pretty much just dismissive.  So, maybe his dismissal made me crave that thumbs up from someone even more.

Bestie is kind of close to this situation and has to be sort of Switzerland.  It is what it is, so I couldn’t turn to her for my venting session.  Same goes for Mom.  She has a vested interest in not taking sides.

So, I was on Facebook, saw my cousin was still online and opened up a chat.

My cuz, let’s call her KD (wow, my creativity in nicknames is just awe-inspiring), is not a person in my family that I’ve been particularly close to.  Not because of any ill will, but due to circumstance.  She’s quite a bit younger, grew up far away, and if one were to draw venn diagrams of our nation’s populace denoting political or social views, I don’t think she and I would end up in too many interlocking circles.  However, if we’d make similar venn diagrams and just include our family and the particular political and social views therein, I’m convinced KD and I might find ourselves the only two little Peeps in some interlocking spheres.  Yowza, that is a really verbose way of saying that.  Anyway… 

I respect KD’s intelligence and her centeredness.  That’s obviously not a word.  What I mean is KD isn’t one to go bananas.  So, laying it all out to her, and seeing her type “Good decision.”, meant a lot to me.

This gets me thinking though, did I choose to confide in her because I knew she’d give me validation?  Because I knew she’s be of a like mind.  Because when she was little, our grandparents used to comment on how much like me she was.

Why didn’t I contact Murs?  Why not D to the Ale?  Or our other crazy ridiculous pal?  These ladies have been around in my life for eons and would know enough of the background to provide good advice.  Well…  Murs has always been more “balls to the wall” and “oh hell, no, sistah!” than I’d ever be.  I knew she’d advise me to take action that I’m not ready or willing to take.  The other two?  I don’t know.  Maybe if they’d have been online, I would have bent their ears all night.  Or eyes.  We really need to come up with a 21st century techie equivalent for that idiom.

Why does it matter who gave me the affirmation I’d been craving?  Ya know, after sorting it all out in this here post, I don’t know if it really does. 

The bottom line is my tree fell in the forest and there was someone to hear, so it DID make a sound.

Who needs therapy when they can just sort it all out on Word Press?

I feel better.


My Sister Wife

Calm down, Peeps, calm down.  I am not a polygamist.  Nor will I ever be.  Probably.

Ever since HBO’s Big Love and the TLC series Sister Wives, I have been fascinated with the idea of having a wife.  Have you guys seen those shows?  They are amazing.  Haha.  Bestie and I have vastly differing opinions on the concept, so we watch it in vastly different ways.  She’s all, “Hells to the no!”  and I’m all, “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a sister wife?  Just for x y z?”

To elaborate, I imagine a sister wife would be…

Built in release valves.  Seriously, for many different pressures.

Kids making you nutballs?  Call over SW for a bit so you can let Calgon (or Dreaming Tree Wine) take you away.  Your kids are her kids too.  Her kids are the siblings of your kids.  You know they’d be safe and loved and their needs would be met and it would be wonderful. On Big Love, Margene was often in charge of Nikki’s kids and vice versa.  How convenient!  Bestie, imagine for a minute that someone could trade off driving the kids to soccer and dance and scouts…  And you could get done what you need to get done.  See?  Bonus.

Hubby being a prick?  Call up your SW and vent away.  She could offer advice, commiserate, hold your hand, or slap your face and tell you to snap out of it.  This Sunday’s episode of Sister Wives showed just that.  Meri (Wife #1) had a come to Jesus moment with Christine (Wife #3).  Christine hasn’t been able to get over her jealousy of Kody and Robyn (Wife #4).  See, Christine was the New Wife for a zillion years and never had to see their hubby with a shiny new lady.  Okay, okay, I can hear you all grumbling over the internet.  I get that jealousy is natural, normal, & expected.  I get that for most people, seeing their spouse with another person is a deal breaker.  But, these ladies signed up for this.  Christine in particular was raising in a polygamist family.  So, like Meri told her- Get over it already (not in those exact words).  That scene struck me as amazingly helpful for all 4 wives.  To have partners in your marriage other than your husband.  To have someone who is as emotionally invested in making your family work.  We all have girlfriends or actual sisters to vent to, but our loved ones are always going to be on our sides.  Imagine having someone who wants whats best for both of you.  Because she’s in the marriage too.  Maybe I’m silly, but that just seems comforting.

And the ultimate release valve (pun totally intended) is that it’s not just on you to “get the poison out.”  Okay, that’s from another reality show (RHONJ’s Joe Gorga referred to sex with his wife as essential to release the poison.  Joe, Joe, Joe…tsk tsk tsk).  Maybe it’s just me and my Mojo issues, but my libido and Hubby’s aren’t exactly on par.  And I feel guilty about that.  I wish I could always meet his needs in that arena.  If I knew that tomorrow night is SW’s night with dear Hubs, I’d feel less guilty about putting him off tonight.  I know you all will say I’m crazy for that.  Whatevs.  This is all theoretical, Peeps.  And, in the interest of fairness, if SW was feeling less than frisky, I’d totally reciprocate on my night.  Honest.  Imagine if Hubby had more than one wife with no Mojo.  Poor Hubby.

Also, Sister Wives are handy.  Here, I reference Nikki in Big Love.  That chick could install a washing machine, sew her own clothes, and successfully infiltrate the offices of a lawyer hell bent on bringing her family down.  Homegirl’s got mad skills. Sure, she was a total sociopath, but oh yeah, she was fictional too.  Still, I’m horrible at home repairs.  It would be nice to have someone around who can fix the toilet paper holder thingie that keeps falling down.  On Sister Wives, Meri is the crafty and organizational one.  Christine is the baker, cook, homemaker one.  Janelle is the career gal. And Robyn?  I dunno.  I guess she’s the sweet and soft one.  She’s always crying and worrying about something.  Maybe that’s something that is essential for their marriage.  So, if I had a SW, I wouldn’t HAVE to be everything to everyone.  Good deal.

Imagine having someone else to help plan birthday parties and holiday celebrations or to pick out home decor with?  I’m sure a lot of you have spouses who help.  Mine isn’t exactly into those things, so all of it falls on me.  It would be nice to have someone who’d help me decide between hunter green or olive green for the throw pillows.  Sigh.

I realize that I’ve been spouting off at the mouth about all the wonderful things a SW could do for me.  I know that’s really self-centered and myopic.  That it would be hard work.  There would be quid pro quo on the household/familial duties.  That I’d have to endure the knowledge that my husband is in love with another woman or women.  That I’d bear witness to at least some PDA, and definitely to the offspring as evidence of their physical relationship.  Still, there is part of me that thinks it would be worthwhile.

What’s a monogamist to do?  Haha.


She wakes to the sound of a cell phone vibrating.  Sitting up, she braces for the expected thumping, the brain squeezing pain.  She is careful to hold her head as still as she can until the pounding subsides.  Slowly opening one sticky eyelid, then the other, she surveys the room for the source of that infernal buzzing.

“Fuck.”  She passed out at his place.  Again.  She was never going to see him again.  For real this time. How did she end up here?

She shuffles over to his dresser, and finds her phone among the pocket change and beer caps and empty cigarette packs.

It’s a text from her sister.

“Where are you?  Did you tell him?  What did he say? You’re not still with him are you? Call me!”

Oh, that’s right.  They’d met at Shucker’s last night so she could tell him.  She was late.  Yes, THAT late. He’d insisted they pick up a box of tests at the CVS on the way back to his place.  Funny he wasn’t that goddamn insistent about condoms last month.

Tests.  Okay.  Focus.

She vaguely recollected peeing on a stick.  For the life of her she couldn’t recall the results, though she knew in her gut what they’d be.

Stepping gingerly, quietly around the discarded Levis and Birkenstocks and bottles of Guinness, she makes her way to his bathroom and flips the light switch.

The obviously broken and completely pointless ventilation fan starts up as the one remaining lightbulb flickers on.  Lovely, she sighs.  She can hear each heart beat through her ears, with each pound inside her cranium.  She goes to flips the switch off, but it’s too late.  She hears his grumbles and the creaking of bed springs behind her.

She looks around the bathroom as best she can without moving her head.  This would be funny, if it wasn’t happening to her.  Who am I trying to kid, she thinks, it’s ridiculously funny.  Holy Balls. She finds the little white stick with the powder blue cap sitting on top the toilet tank.

Two lines.  Double fuck.

“Hey.”  His voice comes from her left and she slowly turns her whole body to face him, the tell tale test in her hands.


“Is it?”



“My thoughts exactly.”  She squeezes past him through the doorway and back to the chaos of his bedroom.

Last night was coming back to her in dribs and drabs.  A shot or three of Jack at the bar while she waiting for him to show.  Two glasses of Cab while they made small talk and she worked up the nerve to tell him.  Then she’d gulped down his Rum & Coke when he’d “excused” himself to the bathroom and she’d been sure he wouldn’t come back.  Then… yes, then the two six packs of Guinness they’d killed while waiting for that damn pee stick to do its magic.  Neither of them wanted to go back to that bathroom and see.

“Ya know, the box says that the results might change if you let it sit too long…”  He’s come out carrying the box, shaking it and they hear that second test rattling around.

“Round two?” She stands and takes the test from him.  Looks at it.  Looks up at him, into those starry blue eyes.

“Go for it.”  He shrugs.  He puts his hand on her shoulder and she wants nothing more than to slide into his arms and forget.  She wishes there was one beer left.  Just one… keg.  She smiles.  Kidding.  Kinda.

She grimaces at that horrible grinding of the fan and closes the door behind her.  Pulls down her pink polka dotted cotton panties and sits on the commode.  See, everyone, if I had INTENDED to sleep with him, surely I would’ve chosen something else to cover my derriere.  She cracks herself up.  Yup, she nods, setting off another series of head thumps, still a bit drunk. Business as usual.

She unwraps the new test, closes her eyes, and sticks in between her legs, into the stream, getting a little on her fingers in the process.  Now I’m really pissy, she laughs to herself.

After placing the test on the sink countertop, she then finishes her business and washes her hands.

For the first time this day, she looks at her reflection.  Smudges of gray from her eyeliner and the flecks of black from her mascara make her look vaguely like Alice Cooper.  Her lips are chapped, dry.  She’s suddenly aware of how thirsty she is.  Where’s that beer when I really need it?  Now that her foundation and blush have worn off, the tallow pallor of her complexion is in full effect.  Damn, I’m sexy.  No wonder he tags and bags. Although that’s not really fair.  She’s the one that always bails.

She notes that the pee has crawled its wily way halfway across the indicator window.  Moment of truth in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1…


Then light.  She marvels that a light this bright doesn’t sting her eyes.  Wait, she thinks, my headache is gone.  Everything is gone.  She just is.

“Love.” The voice is warm on her skin, sweet and rich on her tongue, and it’s colored pink.


“Yourself.  Your life.  This new life.”

“Wait, what? Where am I?”



“You’ll know.  You have all you need.”

“I do.  I’m sure.”  The clarity washes over her as she absorbs all that light inside herself.  She feels herself, feels the cold linoleum beneath her feet, the hard porcelain of the sink as she grasps its sides.  She opens her eyes and sees those two blue lines.

He knocks on the door.  “Okay in there?”

She opens the door and smiles.  “Perfect.  We are perfect.”

Experiment #2 Stories For Sale

Natalie Goldberg writes about how she set up a poetry booth at a local carnival or fair and would sell poems for a quarter.  They were written on the spot and the subject was provided by the “customer”.

I want to try this on my blog.  Free of charge, of course.  Just as a writing exercise and an experiment. 

So, Peeps, leave a topic in the comments on Word Press or FB or if you know me personally, call or text.

I’ll post the resulting stories or poems here.

Let’s have fun.

11:11 and other signs from the universe

Peeps, I’ve been struggling lately with staying on the path of health and wellness.  I’ve just lost all motivation and been wondering how/when it will return.  Well…

Last night, after the twins went to bed, I was catching up on my shows.  Hubby and I watched Blue Bloods and then I watched Cougar Town.  I really miss Penny Can.  They need to bring back Penny Can.  At this point, it was 10:30 or so, and I had to decide whether to go to bed, or to watch Once Upon A Time.  I think I chose wisely. (Yes, this is boring.  Recounting my TV viewing.  Stay with me, Peeps.  I have a point, I swear)

Once Upon A Time is just a brilliant show.  Let’s discuss that another time though.

During a commercial break, I was feeling down.  I was feeling lazy.  I’d been watching TV for over 2 hours and had barely moved off the recliner.  I looked at my body and was thinking that maybe I really am gaining back more of the weight than I’m admitting.  I’m running out of time, I thought.  I’m going to end up like Dad.  Dead at 37.  Ya know.  Happy thoughts.

Just then I looked at the clock.  It was 11:11.

If you don’t know about 11:11, check this out: http://youtube/Rvl3kcG_Qjg

(I hope I did that link thing right.  I’m not very cool.)

Little side step here to give background about my 11:11 story…  A little over a year ago, I started noticing that I’d always check the clock at 11:11.  AM or PM.  Once I realized that, I started seeing it everywhere.  I was going on a road trip and wanted to top off my gas tank.  The total came to $11.11.  I was walking one morning and noticed a cute cottage style house a few blocks away had gone up for sale.  I always wanted a house like that and I thought, “It’s a shame we aren’t looking to buy now.”  The address was 4711.  (4+7=11, so…  1111).

Around that time I see on FB one of those survey thingies, and one of the questions is “Do you believe in 11:11?”  Hold up!!!  That’s a thing?  Really?  WTF?!?!  So I googled it.  Ever since, whenever I notice 11:11 or 2:22 or similar numbers, I ask out loud, “What is it you’re trying to tell me?”  I’ve never really gotten a strong answer.

So, back to last night…  I am all doom and gloom and I see it’s 11:11…

I was about to ask my angels, “Okay, what do you need me to know?” when a commercial for that new Disney/Pixar film Brave came on.  (I looked online to find the specific trailer I saw, but couldn’t find it.  I was going to post the link here and everything.  Like a good little Blogger. Meh.)

Anyway, the commercial opened with the line…

“If you had the chance to change your fate, would you?”

I don’t even remember the rest of the commercial.  Wow.  That was a rather bad ass intervention by my spirit guides/guardian angels/inner child.  Well played up there, well played.

And my answer is, “YES!”  I will change my fate.

So, this sounds weird, but I got a pen and wrote on the inside of my left wrist “Change Your Fate”.  I seriously think I’m going to get it permanently inked.

I felt my resolve and motivation garnering strength like when Mario gets one of those red and white polka dotted mushrooms.  Bloomp bloomp bloomp.

After finishing Once Upon A Time, I went to bed, finally.  But I was feeling tons more positive.

Here’s what I dreamt:

“Ugh, I can’t get this camera to work right…”  I really want to get a picture of the spires of an old gothic church that is part of our tour. 

“I can take one for you, sweetheart.”  It’s my Aunt Mary.  She and I have been travelling. 

“Thanks, but I really want one of my own.”  Just then the camera makes that whirly sound as the lens opens and the flasher dealie pops up.  “There.  Perfect.”

I snap a few pictures of the spires.  I check them on the little screen.  They are lovely, but not the shots I really want.  I decide I want a self-portrait of me, holding my lucky penny, with the church in the background.

Somehow I wrestle and wrangle the camera and the penny and I’m able to set up the pose.  I check the screen again. 

My heartbeat quickens.  I can feel it pounding in my ears. I’m momentarily dizzy, I blink to clear my vision.  I CANNOT be seeing what I’m seeing. 

Beyond my face, behind the penny, flying around that lovely gothic spiral is a winged creature.  An angel.  Its wings look almost greenish and silver in the light.

I check the sky, and see nothing.  Not even a bird.

“Aunt Mary, do you see this?”  I run over to her and trip on a cobble stone, dropping my camera.  Shit.

The camera makes a clunkier whirlier sound and shuts off.  Fuck.

The rest of the dream was basically me trying to see that picture again, to show anyone else the angel.

I hear Loopsy crying in her bedroom.  Hubby gets up and brings her into our bed.  She’s had a nightmare about a million spiders.  She cuddles in so close to me, it’s like she wants to crawl inside my skin.  I kiss the top of her head and try to fall back to sleep, to get back to the dream, to figure it all out.

Even in the middle of the night, still partially asleep, I am stunned at the amount of personal symbols in that dream.  I’ll list here, as much for myself as for explanation to you Peeps:

1. Traveling with my Aunt Mary.  Aunt Mary is 20 years older than me.  I used to tease her about that a lot growing up.  I was a little shit.  Truth is, I’ve always felt that she and I have a lot in common.  We read the same books, like the same shows and movies, we love cats. We both were the only women in our family to live alone as a single, child free person.  We both got married and had kids a bit later than we’d expected to.  We have similar anxiety and heart palpitation issues.  But besides all that she used to travel with me and Mom and Brother back in the day.  Recently we spoke about doing some sort of epic trip for my 40th and her 60th.  The sort of epic trip I dreamt about last night.  The sort of trip that is on my New Scroogy List of things to do when I get healthy.  A reminder of my motivation to reinforce the 11:11 message.

2. Visiting a new church. My Grandma Sylvia used to tell me that every time you visit a new church, you can make a wish.  I always thought that was a little too magic and almost, dare I say, sacrilege for true Catholics like my Grandma, but I did it anyway.  So, was the fact that we were at a church a message from Grandma?  Could be…

3. My lucky penny. I don’t actually have ONE lucky penny.  But it makes sense that I would’ve found one in the dream that I considered lucky.  Bestie tells me that her dad used to always pick up pennies.  That after he’d passed away, she and her mom and brothers would continue to pick up pennies and consider it a sign from him.  Once she told me that, I started finding pennies at special moments.  I am convinced it’s Ed, a man I’d never met, giving me a sign.  Or maybe he met my Dad up there in the ether and they shared the penny story and it’s my Dad showing me he’s still there.  Either way, it’s something.  Another affirmation that I need to heed this 11:11 message.

4. The mysterious picture.  Okay.  I’m a huge ghost dork.  I look at pretty much every picture for signs of a presence.  I have a ton of orb pictures, but only recently saw pictures that may really contain ghosts.  Mom and Jim went to Savannah (another destination on my New Scroogy List, btw).  They took a lot of pictures of supposed haunted houses.  One house in particular, there really are several spectral faces in the windows.  I shit you not.  Stop laughing.  I’m serious.  Damn.  Anyway, seeing the angel in the picture only proves to me that someone out there wants me to see, to hear, to believe.

5. The Angel itself (himself?  herself?  whatever). As referenced several times in my blog, my family and I have always believed in the existence of angels in our lives.  So this one is really pretty cut and dry, as far as symbols go, right?  I can still see that angel flying around that spire.  The wings were enormous, lush, but luminescent.  Like feathery fairy wings.  It was breath taking.

And then after the dream, the biggest and most amazing motivation of all:

6. My daughters need me. Strikes me as hella coincidental that Loopsy woke up with a bad dream just as my dream was ending.  Like my spirit guide knocking me on the forehead, “Hello, McScroogy!”  Yeah.  Oh, just now as I’m writing this blog, Loopsy asked me if I could put on her favorite movie.  Guess what time it is?  10:10.  Weird.

So, whaddayathink, Peeps?  Do you think I’ve truly lost that last swirly pink and black marble or am I onto something here?  Not that it matters, no offense, because I believe.  I’m just curious.

My Mother’s Day plans went to poop

Quite literally.

I have made it a tradition to spend the actual day of Mother’s Day with my mom.  Just she and I.  Movies, lunch, etc…  It’s peaceful and lovely.  This year was no exception.  We saw Dark Shadows and had lunch at TGIFridays.  Easy breezy, Peeps!  The title poop hit the fan about 24 hours prior to this.

This year, I decided, “Hey, let’s make Mother’s Day Eve about me and my girls!!”

We woke up Saturday morning in the usual fashion with Lala and Loopsy crawling into bed between Hubby and me and launching into morning giggles and profound discussions about eye crusties.

“Girls!”  I exclaimed, “Let’s have a Mommy/Daughter day!”  We would get lunch, go shopping, go to the nail salon…

“Can we go to the dinosaur playground?”  Loopsy asked

“Sure thing, babycakes!”  It was going to be Epic. We’d laugh and talk and run and skip and shop and ooh and ahh and yeah!!!

A few short hours later, we were bathed and dressed.  The twins had their “fairy” braids done and I actually put on mascara and lip gloss.

As we were putting on shoes, I said to Lala, “Whew!  My belly’s starting to hurt.  I’m very very hungry!  Can’t wait to get to Chick Fil A!”

She replied that she’s hungry too and her belly hurts as well.

She continued to mention said belly ache to Hubby as he helped buckle her into her car seat.

“Scroogy,” He worried, “Lala says her belly hurts.”

“No worries, my sweet baboo, she’s just hungry.  Like I am.”  I started the car, the three of us blew Hubby a multitude of kisses, and we were off.

On the way to lunch, we passed a cemetary.  Loopsy asked me about the other “flower place” we’d visited.  The ones with the “stones in the dirt.”  I figured out she was talking about the cemetary where my Dad is buried. It was last summer.  I marvelled that she still remembered that.

“Do you miss your Daddy, Mommy?”  Loopsy pondered.  Lala was curiously quiet.

“I do miss him.  Everyday.”  I fought back the tears.  My girls are so sentimental.  They have great memories.  This day of mother/daughter bonding was starting off beautifully.

“I miss my Daddy right now,”  Loopsy continued, “But I can go home and see him soon.”  Aw…  How lucky they are!  I told her so.

“I need to eat right now, Mommy!”  Lala whined.

“Okay, baby, we’re almost there…  Hey, girls!”  I desperately changed the subject, “What should we get Gamma for Mother’s Day?”

Loopsy and I went back and forth about appropriate gifts for their grandmother.  For some reason, they almost always want to buy Gamma toys.  I suspect it’s because they know she’ll let them play with them.  Haha.

We were about to turn into the Chick Fil A parking lot when Lala blurted, “Oh no!  Ohnoohnoohno!”

“Lala?  What’s wrong?”

“I gotta pooooooooop!”

“Okay sweetie, we are almost there.  I’m waiting for the light to change.  Can you hold it?”

I check her in the rear view mirror and she is- no lie- doing lamaze breathing.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry!  Hold on.  It’ll be okay!”

“I already pooped Mommy!”

“What?  Are you sure?”  I hoped that it was just a toot she’d let escape.



I find a parking spot, and get out.  I go over to her door and I’m still not convinced she’s actually pooped.  I don’t smell a thing.

She’s crying and still Oh no-ing.  Poor kid.

I take off her shoes and unbuckle her and pick her up, help her stand just outside the car.  Sure enough, IT starts to seep and drip down her little legs an onto the blacktop.

“Oh. Oh. Oh.  Mommy I gotta go more!!”

I grab the box of wipes I keep in the car.  Empty.  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

I find a box of Kleenex and start wiping her legs, but the drips keep coming.  I’m gonna have to strip her right here outside of this fine fast food establishment.  In full view of other families.  Oy vey.

I pull off her cutie patootie leopard print skirt and her Dora the Explorer big girl panties.  Luckily there’s an old ziplock bag in the car- remnants of a car snack of the past.  I shove the soiled clothes inside, finish wiping her off and put the baggy along with all the dirty Kleenex into that damn empty wipes container.

I sit back on my heels and sigh.  How am I going to do this?  Clearly, she still has to go.  No way she can make it back home.  I’m going to have to take a half naked child into this place.  Holey moses.

I ask Lala to hang out one sec while I get Loopsy out of the car and she shouts/cries, “Mommy!  Everyone can see my tushy!!”  *sigh*  Poor kid.  I put her back in the car and instruct her not to touch the soiled car seat if she could help it.

I get Loopsy out, instruct her to hold onto my pants pocket, I hoist Lala onto my hip and pull her shirt down to cover her little butt cheeks and we make our way inside.  I am simultaneously soothing Lala and assuring her that no one can she her nakedness and explaining to Loopsy why she cannot go play in the playroom.  And no.  We are not getting ice cream.

Inside the ladies room, I am relieved to find the big handicapped/diaper changing stall empty.  After depositing Lala on the potty, I start getting wet paper towels to clean her up and shoving dry paper towels into my purse to use to cover the soiled car seat on the way home.

Loopsy, in the meantime, is singing and dancing and enjoying the sound of her voice echoing off the bathroom walls.  This pisses her sister off to no end.

“Mommy!!  Loopsy is dancing while I’m pooping!”

I wasn’t aware that was a problem, but still I said, “Loopsy.  Take it down a notch, please.  Your sister is having a bad day.”

Lala is still whimpering.  She’s embarrassed and really not a happy kid.

“It’s okay, Lala.  EVERYBODY poops!”

I hear a lady in the next stall giggle and I silently hope SHE gets explosive diarrhea.

“No laughing!”  Lala cries.

“It’s okay baby, I promise.  No big deal.  We’ll get you home and cleaned up and the car seat will get cleaned up and it will be A-OK.”

“Turn around Mommy, no looking at my poop!”  She demands that Loopsy and I stand facing the stall door so we don’t see her go.  I take the opportunity to call Hubby and ask him to get a bath ready.  We’re on our way home.  Plans have changed.

Soon she is done, she is wiped down as best as I can, and we head out of the stalls to wash hands.

An older lady comes in and takes one look at that tiny naked hiney and gives me a knowing smile.

“Accident.”  I confirm.

She smiles at Lala and says, “That happens to the best of us, Sweetie.”

Something about the lady’s demeanor gets through to my darling girl.  “Don’t look at my tushy, heehee”  she says, wiggling her hips.  She’s gone from mortified to adorable in 2.2 seconds.

The lady explains that she has two girls too, but now they are all grown up and she has grandsons now.

She smiles at me and says, “Happy Mother’s Day.”

I say it right back, with a truly grateful smile.

My little Lala smiles as she is carried out on my hip, her shirt pulled down to cover her up, and back to the car.  Motherhood challenge- accomplished!

For my Mommy

Hi.  Don’t know if you read my blog.  I know your hubby does.  So…  hee hee.  I’m suddenly very nervous thinking about you reading my writing.

I read something on pinterest or Facebook that I wanted to share.  It said, “The only thing better than having you for a mom, is my children having you for a grandma.”  They love you so much, Gamma.  And so do I.  For so many reasons.

I love you because you raised Brother and I pretty much on your own.  I know you and Dad loved one another, but I also know that he wasn’t the most dependable or trustworthy or present fella.  I can’t imagine going through the heartbreak of divorce while putting on a happy face and working with the man that had hurt you to create such a loving and solid co-parenting situation.  Brother and I never felt broken.  We owe that to you.  Thank you.

Thank you for working so hard to provide a nice home in a good neighborhood and food and clothes and just… stuff.  You were doing the work of two parents and you did an amazing job.  Well, at least I turned out pretty good.  Just kidding, Brother.

Thanks for choosing my step fathers wisely.  Bob was only in our lives briefly.  But his impact is still evident everyday- even if its just the mere fact that I stopped saying “ain’t” and calling water “wudder”.  He’s another angel up there on our side and I feel his love and support all the time.  And Jim’s not so bad either.  (wink-wink)  I know he’s reading this.  Haha.  He and I didn’t always get along, but we do now.  And he’s a really great Pop-pop.  The girls adore him.  So do I.

Thanks for your support and your faith and trust when I went away to Salisbury.  Just looking at my girls, I can’t imagine the strength it took you to actually drive away from campus that sunny August day.

Thank you for not freaking out when I came home from college and mentioned, oh so casually, that I was sleeping with my boyfriend.  Haha.  I’ll need you to hold my hand when Lala and Loopsy drop those bombshells on me. Bring wine.

That reminds me!  Thank you for holding my hand when I was in labor.  For continuing to hold my hand and keeping me still when I had my epidural.  And thank you for calmly but firmly passing my hand off to Hubby when it was time to go to the ER.  He doesn’t do well with pain or blood.  He would’ve missed it all if you hadn’t let go.

Gah…  I’m typing this through tears, and snot is dripping down my face.  I could go on and on and on for all that I’m grateful to you for.  For all the reasons I love you.

But I’ll stop here.  Gotta save SOMETHING for next year’s Mother’s Day blog entry!

I love you bigger than the moon.

Happy Mother’s Day, June

June was Hubby’s Mom, my Mother-in-law, Lala’s & Loopsy’s Granny.  Or Gramma or Mom-mom or Nana…

We never got the chance to find out what the twins would call her because June’s Cancer took her from us about a month and a half before they were born. Just typing those words fills my eyes with tears and my heart with lead.

Everyone was excited we were pregnant.  Everyone was thrilled we were having twins.  No one was as excited or thrilled as June.  She made a collage announcing that she was going to have Two Granddaughters and she hung it on her apartment door.  She started collecting bibs and blankets and other baby gear.  She bought us a pack-n-play.  She was on Cloud 9.  Then her illness took over.

She had just about every Cancer under the sun.  The pain was excruciating, so she was put on pain patches.  Yes, those pain patches you see on those Law Help commercials.  June, always a little quirky, truly lost her marbles on those patches.  I’ll never forget trying to help Hubby convince her she needed to go to the hospital, that something was wrong and she needed help.

“Mom?” I’d said, “Let’s go to the ER.  On the way, you can hold my belly and wait for the girls to kick.”

She looked at me as if she’d never met me and just kept twisting a lock of her hair around her finger until it was tight then pulling that hair right out. When Hubs or I would take a step towards her, she’d start screaming and waving her arms.  She eventually backed herself into the corner of her dining room.

“Go ahead and sit down, Scroogy.”  Hubby’d said, “We’re gonna have to call an ambulance to help get her out of here.”

After she was weaned off the patches, she got better for a while.  She and I would sit in her dimly lit room and complain about our nausea and back pain.  I always conceded that she had me beat in those departments.  She was almost back to normal.  The “old bag” as she used to refer to herself.

Once I was on bed rest, I was unable to visit her and she was too sick to visit me.  Her health went steeply downhill. And even though Hubby tried to shield me from the worst of it, the evidence of her condition was obvious in his eyes.  Soon hospice was called in.  Then she was moved to a hospice center.

On December 30, 2007, Hubby was at Stella Maris visiting his mom.  His sisters and his aunt had finally made it to MD.  They had all come to say goodbye. It was late, probably about 10:30 or 11:00 and I started to feel quivery, shaky, and I knew.  Less than an hour later, Hubby called me with the news.  June was gone.  He held her as she took her last breath.  There was a harpist in the room, he’d said.  It was peaceful.

June, I know you’re here.  I feel you all the time.  I know it was you that the girls would giggle at when they were teeny babies.  I know it’s you that helps me keep my balance on the stairs.  I hope you recognize that goofy twinkle in Loopsy’s eye as your own.  She looks so very much like you.  I hope you see how crafty and inventive Lala is and know she got that from you too.  I hope you know how much your son loves and misses you.  You did a good job there, June.  I owe you so much.

Happy Mother’s Day, June.  Love you.