Undomestic Diva

Remembering Maddie

To Maddie, Heather & Mike,

We are just a small fraction of the of thousands of people who think of you daily; who are haunted by your passing and sick with grief over what we can do to help, what can we say to make things better and why words and hugs and thoughts and prayers and walking just don't feel like enough.

We are just a tiny chunk of the love that beams proudly for a little girl whose magical eyes lit up our lives all too briefly. We miss you and hurt for you and ache because we don't know why and could never fathom the reasons anyone could give us.

I've never felt so much love and then grief for a little girl I'd only just met and for a mom and dad who I was only getting to know but all I can say is thank you because despite your unspeakable pain and torment you have taught me to be a better parent, to live in each moment and to soak it up as it happens and to keep fighting even when others would say there's no longer a reason to fight. You are truly amazing people - the three of you - and I am so lucky to know you.

Maddie, celebrating you today is only appropriate; you are still a part of our daily lives and forever will be. You are a little girl whose life was meant to be celebrated. And you've changed our lives. Thank you for that.

Happy birthday, Maddie.

Much love to you, Heather and Mike.

I went to Hotlanta and all I got was a broken ass. (I would have been happy with a t-shirt.)

There's a song by Fergie that sings "If you ain't got no money take your broke ass home." Well I ain't got no money and I have a broken ass, so I dutifully left Hotlanta where I had surprised my sister for her engagement party this past weekend for home-sweet-home, only there was nothing G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S about it if you know what I'm sayin'. And I think you do.

I don't know if a broken ass (literally - it was x-ray'd) is the sign of a great bachelorette party or a very bad one, but put me in 4" heels (albeit awesome ones), on a moving bus lined in fur (except the floor, APPARENTLY) with spilled club soda (WHO THE FUCK SPILLED THAT?) on the floor and, well, let's just say that there are now two cracks in my ass. One that's been there since birth and the other just since Friday night.

I've told you all I'm a good time. You probably thought I meant I was the life of the party... No, no. I just provide the entertainment. At my own expense. Says the girl writing this post from the false comfort of a donut pillow under her fanny.

I called my sister RV and told her the official diagnosis today and I'm pretty certain she fell out of her desk chair laughing out loud at work. To the point where she had to explain to her co-workers (Hi Mary!) and boss why she was all shits-and-giggles and unfortunately for me, that included referring to my ass hitting the flo' not in the way Flo' Rida suggests.

Picking up my younger two boys from school, I gave them a G-rated explanation of why "mommy hurts" by explaining that my butt hurt because there are bones in there (SHUT-UP) and one of them broke. My 5 year old smirks, SMIRKS, "So you broke your ass bone?" Kinda like, "just give it to me straight." Then they giggled. My 5 and 3 year old laughed at me.

FMITA. Only, don't. *winces* 

Of course Candy Ass is just having a field day with this. He has an uncanny knack for coming up with ass jokes and quips constantly about my 'broke ass' and being a 'pain in the ass' and so on and so forth. I'm trying desperately to remember his other great qualities right now so his ass can remain intact. I'm not gonna lie; it's hard. He's being kind of an ass. (Heh.)

The truth is, other than The Great Fall which everyone has made a 'crack' about, both the bachelorette (video coming soon!) and engagement parties were great successes and I was sooooo excited to get to go to Atlanta and be there for it all.

For RV

 

Of all the days you're likely to read my blog, today isn't probably one of them. You're busy. You're running errands, picking up people from the airport, getting ready for your big engagement party this weekend because - OH MY GOD - you're getting married.

You included me on the invitation to your engagement party as you always do, but there's like a bajillion (I counted) states that separate California and Georgia and well, you know I wanted to be there. If I could, I'd be there or you'd be here constantly for the next year, planning every little detail of your impending wedding from the floral arrangements on the tables (mixed-matched) to the bridesmaids dresses (elegant for Fall) to the music list (Journey is a must) and the cake tiers (don't forget the chocolate!).

Of course, that's not possible, so I do what I can by seeking out every bridal magazine in every store, accosting their pages, cutting out ideas and putting them together to send to you. You send me emails of dresses - some from websites and some with photos of you wearing them (sigh) - saying "What do you think?" and I rate them, replying back with my comments and critiques, reminding you to make sure you can sit in them and move in them and feel absolutely stunning in them.

It's the next best thing to being there with you and while I'm so happy you've included me in the process as much as you possibly can, it's just not the same thing as being there. So when you go to the airport today to pick up your out-of-town guests who are lucky enough to be there for you at your engagement party; to celebrate the next big step in your life and to congratulate and wish you nothing but love and luck and hope and happiness, I hope you have room in the car for me.

*grins*

I need my own cooking show

All these cooking shows on the various food channels bore the crap out of me. I mean, if you possess the skills to cook/bake/some-other-cooking-adjective-here then I'm sure these shows are super helpful with their fancy, gourmet recipes chock-full of ingredients I've never heard of, let alone own. But for the more... novice chef like myself, watching these chefs chop/dice/some-other-cutting-adjective-here is totally lost on me.

Besides, unless you're a budding chef or a 'foodie' or whatever the new hip term is for people who like to make food and eat it, watching that shit is BORING. You can't smell it, they don't even cook in real-time (ingredients into the pot to simmer and WHAM! they pull out an already simmered sauce to fit the 30 minutes time slot) and worst of all, you can't taste any of it. WHAT'S THE POINT?

I need to be entertained. Yelling BAM! at your salt doesn't do it for me. Cussing out your chefs-in-training doesn't make me belly laugh. And describing your ingredients as textures like they're wallpaper or something doesn't make me hungry.

I know, I know. Who am I to criticize world-renowned chefs when, no, I can't cook... BUT! I can start a mean kitchen fire, explode chocolate with such force it leaves holes in the ceiling and grind up a fork in the garbage disposal until it finally disintegrates.

I forgot what my point was. Oh yeah... that my meals might not always ever turn out, but at least there's some action! and drama! and often, comedy! happening in the kitchen.

Just last night I attempted to cook my husband his dream dinner... filet mignon, brocolli and the only side dish I've ever invented that didn't go horrendously wrong: ranch potatoes and I still managed to fuck that up. AND IT'S MY INVENTION FOR CHRIST'S SAKE. (Turns out I can't even mix some ranch dressing without redecorating the kitchen walls and window with half of it. Note to self: Check that lid is securely fastened before shaking vigorously.)

That's when I realized I could totally host my own cooking show... OK, more like a bloopers show... that has *some* cooking in it... Perhaps I'd call it - and just roll with me here, I'm just thinking aloud - something like "Bitch Can't Cook, Boil or Bake: How to deploy a fire extinguisher" or the more simpler, marketable "Burn, baby, burn" (patent pending). No matter what it's called, I'm CERTAIN you would all be totally entertained. If not by me, then by the firemen of course.

A normal conversation. For us.

Candy Ass and I have recently began engaging in what you young hip people call "texting" to keep in touch during the day when either he or I have something brief to say to the other that doesn't necessarily warrant interrupting a meeting or a child's tantrum for a phone call, yet are equally important bits of information that the other needs to hear or in this new-fangled case, read.

Yesterday, I had just left the grocery store (where Candy Ass had asked me to buy more Big Sticks because we were out) when this little text exchange ocurred between the two of us:

Me: Big Sticks acquired.

CA: Had one for the last 20 years... at least that's what I've been telling people.

Me: HAHAHA.........HA.

Me: Making u your dream dinner tomorrow if u behave

CA: sounds dreamy

Me: I didn't even tell u what it is

CA: Doesn't matter. If you are cooking, it's a dream come true! What will you be wearing?

Me: Probably most of the ingredients and a little powder from the fire extinguisher.

CA: HAHAHA

I really think we're getting the hang of this texting stuff. I mean, I even abbreviated using 'u' in place of 'you' when I have personal preference to spell everything out, even in the world of Twitter where abbreviations are key.

I DON'T THINK YOU'RE APPRECIATING MY SACRIFICES PEOPLE. (Or should I say 'ppl?')

Next we're going to have to try that tricky IM-ing stuff everyone has been talking about. Man, technology! WHAT WILL THEY THINK OF NEXT?

Stopping the clock

"Someone played with me today and he was a girl and his name was Isabella."

That's what you told me yesterday when I picked you up from preschool. I decided immediately that you're not allowed to turn five years old today because that means you're no longer four and that just can't be. Suddenly you're figuring out that 'people' don't just exist but 'girls' and 'boys' and this color 'pink' when up until now your whole world was saturated in hues of reds, blues and greens and there were no pigtails or dresses or 'Isabellas' no matter how lovely she may be.

Sure, discovering new things and differences in people and learning about the world are good for you, but they're also indications of growing up and I just can't have that happen. My cuddly L-Dub is getting too big for my lap (though there will always be a place for you there) and doesn't want to be kissed when saying "bye" at school (opting for a high-five and a fist-bump we blow-up each time instead) and when you scored that awesome goal last weekend during your soccer game our cheers and whistles and tears of excitement flat-out embarrassed you.

Sometimes I wrestle you down to the ground and kiss you on the cheek repeatedly while you beg me to stop, furious that I'd have the audacity to smother you with my nonsense and 'smooches' when obviously, you're waaay too cool for that already. And you were still four then. What you don't know is that when you've finally given into sleep each night, I come kiss your round cheeks some more, knowing their fullness that earned you the nickname "Chunk" won't last forever. I also whisper in your ear how much I love you because I want you to hear it and know it and for it to be the last thing you hear every single night.

L-Dub, you are my cuddler, my peacemaker, my helper, my endless source of laughter, my pride and my friend. I'm certain you'll have lots of friends as you get older and meet other kids - girls even - but for now, I can't help but want to keep you to myself. Or maybe forever.

Happy Birthday. I love you, dude.

*fist bump*

Love,
Mom

It's been ONE OF THOSE weeks... and I'm grateful

It's been one of those weeks. The kind where you want to wave your white flag, shrug and drop your hands, give up and walk away SCREAMING "I quit" because oh my god, what else, what else, what else?

I didn't panic over the swine flu. I knew it wasn't something to take lightly, but I was also able to look at it rationally and just do what I could as a parent to make sure my son got better. Which, granted, wasn't much more than hydrate him, keep him away from other children (because I am a responsible parent) and keep an eye on him for 'changes.'

Thursday morning E woke up with little-to-no temperature for the first time in 6 days. I was ecstatic. Finally, he (we, really) were going to be done with this swine flu crap and move on. Just in time for Halloween and for my Dad visiting, for L-Dub's birthday party Sunday... just... YAY.

And then E said his legs hurt. Well maybe he slept on them funny and they were tingly the way a leg might feel after it has fallen asleep. A little later, they still hurt. Hmmm. A little later and he was limping. And then tiptoeing.

Shit.

I called the pediatrician's office who sent us to the emergency room. I fell apart. WHAT ELSE? WHAT NOW? Just two hours previously, I was sure he was over this. And now? What the hell?

Myalgia. Which, hopefully, not a big deal though we have to watch him for the next 24 hours to make sure it doesn't worsen.

There went his chance at attending his school Halloween party and parade. He wouldn't get to play soccer Saturday. I had to cancel L-Dub's birthday party for now. And trick-or-treating on Halloween night? I just don't know... You look a 6 year old G.I. Joe hopeful in the face and tell him he can't do it.

*

We carved pumpkins Thursday night. Business as usual. Only it wasn't usual. It was better than usual. 'Usually' it's a technicality; a hurry up and let's get this done sort of scenario. On the surface it may have looked like any other Halloween pumpkin carving evening, but this time I was just grateful to 'have' to be doing it.

Because of all the things I didn't sign up for when I became a parent, being scared has to be the most unnerving. The idea that you can't always protect your child - whether it be from an illness or a bully or from disappointment in general - is awful. The birthday party can be postponed, a missed soccer game isn't the end of the world and while missing the class Halloween party sucks when you're six, I'm just grateful I have that child to have to face and break the news to.

  You can view the rest of the photos here.

Best Money Ever Spent

For the first time ever, I paid someone MONEY! to help me clean my house. Why I feel so completely guilty or precocious over this fact, I don't know, but I broke down and paid MONEY! to have someone deep-clean my kitchen while I handled the bathrooms. (I have three boys and a guilty conscience. I couldn't make her do it.)

BEST MONEY EVER SPENT and could possibly save my marriage on many levels. At least, this is how I planned on explaining it to Candy Ass when he returned from his fishing trip after first asking him if a) he noticed how very clean his house was and, b) wouldn't he LOVE IT if it were always - OK, mostly - this clean? and, c) very good then, we've agreed that we're hiring her! At which point he'll be like, WAIT. WHA? You paid someone to clean the house? And the eyerolling shall begin. BUT THEN, then I will show him the inside of the microwave which apparently is supposed to be white, not yellow-ish. (And did you know that turning glass plate comes out of there? Huh.) And if that didn't impress him I planned on showing him that weird drawer thing below the oven (whatever that's for) and show him that while no, I've never used or even opened or understood what it's for, IT'S CLEAN TOO! Ta-daaa!

The only loophole in my fail-proof plan is the part where Candy Ass then says all logically and shit (I hate when he gets all logical on me), "OK, well let's sit down and make a new budget and see if hiring her will work." And that right there? Could be the end of our marriage - having to sit down and talk finances just so HE can have the clean house HE always wanted ME to provide. (And to my credit, I'd be providing it, technically, via a little outsourcing.) But at the cost of creating a BUDGET? Oh hail no.

So maybe I don't tell him I, er, delegated that particular duty. Maybe I just take credit for suddenly discovering and dusting the ovenhood thing?  

I know. I'm doomed. Break out the bank statements, an excel spreadsheet and a bottle of Xanax.

How do you spell suck? S-W-I-N-E F-L-U

I was standing in the hallway of the pediatrician's office waiting for my sons to be weighed before their appointment with a new doctor in the practice when I saw our normal doctor, Dr. B, pass through in between patients. His schedule was full by the time I had called today, so I agreed to see the new doctor to figure out why two of my three guys had so suddenly come down with high fevers, dry coughs and become completely lethargic.

"Hey Dr. B," I stopped him. "Do I get my kids the H1N1 vaccine or just the regular flu shot this year? I can't decide - I've heard so many arguments for and against it."

"Normally, I wouldn't push the vaccines, but this year, I'd say get it if you can find it. We're having a really hard time getting a hold of either the shot or mist."

It was settled. I trust Dr. B. He, like me, raised three boys and will tell me what the American Academy of Pediatrics would recommend and what he, as a father, would personally do in any given situation and then let me decide.

*

I was expecting that strep throat may have reared its ugly head once again and wasn't the least bit surprised when the new doctor said she wanted to do a strep culture to check for it. But when she also suggested that my oldest might have the Swine Flu, my heart screeched to a halt.

Say wha? Swine flu?

Then the new doctor said she could test for it but wasn't going to because she "couldn't treat him for it if he had it anyway" because he wasn't considered an at-risk patient.

Um.

"Shouldn't I know whether he has it or not?" I asked. "Shouldn't his school know whether he has it?"

"We can do the test if you want but it's not a pleasant test..."

Oh, so now I'm the bad mother for putting my son through a possibly unnecessary test to see if he has the Swine Flu. THAT THEY WON'T TREAT.

I thought the whole scary/weird/unnerving thing about the Swine Flu was the fact it's KILLING children (and young adults) who are seemingly HEALTHY as opposed to the regular, seasonal flu that, in most cases, usually affects the elderly and unhealthy. But you won't treat my child?

He tested positive. Positive for H1N1. Positive for strep throat.

*LOUD SIGH* 

So I asked her, when do I worry then, since you won't treat him? He's had a temperature of 103 for four days now and it doesn't come down with Motrin and Tylenol in his system. When does he "qualify" for medication? Her answer baffled me: "Well, the CDC says not to medicate an otherwise healthy child with Tamiflu until he requires hospitalization." And that would be WHEN? "When he starts having difficulty breathing or can't hold liquids any longer."

!%$#@!*!?

I just don't get that. I don't think my son should have to require being hospitalized before being given medication. Why should it get to that point?

As much as I just want to karate chop, junk punch and rip out the beating heart of our healthcare system right now and feed it to the CEOs of major health insurance companies, I really need to just focus my energy on my boys right now.

Lucky for them. 

And also on notifying an elementary school and a holy rollin' preschool tomorrow without panicking the shit out of them... *winces*

You are HERE

I don't care about blog stats; I don't check how many people come to my site regularly nor do I try to boost my page views using any particular clever strategies... as evidenced by my lack of posting consistently or even coherently lately. But every once in a while it's sort of fun, if not completely disturbing, to take a look at what people googled to get to my blog.

Some of the latest and greatest (and very troubling):

• moms with anxiety

• athletic cup

• "only shares certain information" friend

• starbucks saved my life vomit

• still take my meds ppd

• big breast horror movies

• combustible chocolate

• design my own mossy oak swimsuits

• explore uranus

• do tanning beds do anything bad to your ovaries

• fat people tanning beds

• get ready your candy ass is next

• good beaver

• fuck you anxiety

• hotel fagina

• imaginary things you see

• jeep booth fancy water fountains

• mommy's fucking the football team [WHA?]

• regional pronunciation of scallop

• wife hasn't slept with me for 5 weeks

• onion bootays

• where to buy hypercolor t-shirts

A psychologist would have a field day with this list. And my dermatologist.