Friday, August 18, 2017

Sticks and Stones

I've always had a thing for popping pimples and extracting blackheads. Sometimes I watch videos of strangers get decades-worth of godknowswhat slowly pried out of their pores online and it really gets me going. If I ever get so lucky to suffer a splinter wound and am consequently blessed with the opportunity to cleanly slide that shard of wood from my skin, I'm too euphoric to speak. It's a similar feeling, I'd imagine, as winning a lottery that had been building up for weeks and being the sole jackpot recipient. Or I'd bet it feels a lot like walking into the kitchen and finding all the dishes had been extracted from the sink, leaving a pristine hole where there was once a blockage of plates and macaroni-crusted utensils. I don't know what that feels like to come upon a gift such as that, but I'd bet the relief is unmatched. For now, I'll pin down my screaming, writhing daughter if I find any sort of semblance of a clogged pore upon her sweet lil cheek or patiently await for that frantic, "MOM!!!!!!! Splinter!!!!!!" and gladly take off running towards my next fix. 

But we'll get back to that. School started Monday and I just didn't feel it. Maybe it was because we are coming off a year-round school schedule and were only leaving behind three weeks of a summer break, but I really felt not much of anything. No tears, no outstretched, longing hand desperately reaching towards my precious babies as they bravely march out of my sight and into the care of not-me's. It was weird. Usually the sight of them wobbling towards the school's gate struggling to keep their little bodies upright as the new year's school supplies lend to a body composition made up of 90% backpack makes me lose it. It's so cute and sweet and sad and tragic and adorable and heart breaking/warming. But yeah, nope. Not this year. It sorta felt like any other school day. 

And maybe it's because of the we-were-just-here feeling due to the summer unbreak but also maybe it's because Landon has been so damn difficult. Maybe its because my first grader has spent the last few weeks treating me like a whisk treats an egg when it's time for breakfast. He's been mean, irritable, impatient, so fucking inconveniently and constantly hungry for everything other than vegetables. He screeeeams at me, mocks me when I try to discipline him, and says words he shouldn't use. He's going through a phase. I refuse to believe that the precious angel-baby that use to tell me he woke up each  morning simply because "he missed me too much" isn't hiding underneath the terror of a child that's living in my home right now. I know he'll get through this- but it does make my breaks from him seem a bit less like losing a limb and more like gaining some sanity. 

It came shrieking from the other room yesterday, "MOM!!!!!!!! SPLINTER!!!!!!!!" and I uttered a "fuck yeah." under my breath and took off running to find the recipient. There he was, on top of our rustic wooden coffee table, upon which he  wasn't supposed to be, clutching his rear end. "My butt!!!," Landon cries, "Mom!!! There's a huge splinter in my butt!!!" 

So I snatch him up and lie him down on his stomach in the front room on top of a half wall room divider where I would have the most light. I feel like a world class surgeon, prepping my most important patient yet. This is the moment the medical world has been waiting for. I'm going to perform the surgery ofa goddamn lifetime and people are gonna talk about it. This will be the epitome of my foreign-object removing career.

I pull his gym shorts halfway down his backside and there it is. Right in the center of his right butt cheek. About a half centimeter of wood formerly attached to my coffee table delightfully peering out, giving me the perfect micro-handle to make this my most successful removal yet. After a moment of consideration, I decide to use my most effective and trustworthy tool, the pointer finger and thumb of my unwashed right hand. This is it. I'm going in. I pinch my fingers around the top of the splinter and pull. Lan absolutely loses his shit and starts to panic so I call in my highly trained assistant to hold him down. Troy pins him by his shoulders and I go for it again. I tug at the splinter. Nothing. Another yank. Nothing. Landon is freaking out so I give it one last massive pull and out it finally came. 

Now listen carefully. I've been known to exaggerate. I embellish stories when recounting them to friends sometimes. I'm aware of this. But when I tell you this splinter was four fucking inches long, I'm telling the truth. And to someone like me- to someone with this absolutely maniacal relationship with splinter pulling- gets to relieve someone  of a four inch wooden invader- the experience is indescribable. I felt like King Arthur releasing Excalibur from the stone. I'm almost positive I heard crowds of village people cheering. I'm certain the splinter made a "SCHHHING!" sound as it slid out of his tushy. I'm not convinced I didn't immediately stomp one foot upon poor Landon's back as I reached my arm toward the sky and presented the splinter to the gods to remind of them my unearthly power and to thank them for choosing me. 

Anyway. My only regret is that I didn't keep the stick sword and make a necklace out of it. It most likely had some sort of magical powers. And I can use all the help I can get lately. 

And, as far as Landon goes. I guess I will just continue to stay patient and wait for things to get easier. But at least it's pretty apparent now. He definitely has a stick up his butt. 


Wednesday, August 9, 2017

What rhymes with "frog"? Blog!

Hi. I just read that there's a type of frog in South America called the Horned Marsupial Frog. In this species, the mom froggy carries her young not only on top of her, but her babies actually live underneath the top layer of her back and she is apparently expected to live her life like this until the tadpoles grow up and move on.

 And that's pretty much what the last week before school starts feels like. I can think of no better visual than this, honestly. After the last couple weeks of being breathed on incessantly, and so creepily stared at by my newly over-curious eight-year-old daughter while I shower (she may as well be peering through my window from a tree through a pair of binoculars) , and spending a combined thirty-seven hours marinating in kid car-farts, I feel a bit like my beloved children are actually nestled under the third or fourth layer of my epidermis. Wherever I go, they're there. Whatever water I drink, they can't live another second without putting their mouths on. If string cheese is being eaten, they're chewing it one centimeter from my ear. They're both actually staring at me right now as I type this, I mean it.

We had a whirlwind of a day- as I was getting ready to take my all-natural Xanax (yoga class) I get a text from my insanely cranky husband that someone is coming to look at the house. He's been especially difficult this week. Like a mixture of Veruca Salt and the other impatient one that turns into a giant blueberry … but also actually mostly the sassy little guy that watches too much TV. Oh and, yes, our house is on the market, I'll explain later.

Well. Wait. Lemme rewind. As I was getting ready to take my liquid Xanax (coffee) first thing in the morning, Landon walked downstairs, hair disheveled, with the most genuine, adorable smile on his face. He looked so sweet. Like a sleepy little angel boy. I thought he was preparing to tell me he dreamt about how pretty I was all night long and couldn't wait one more second to see my beautiful face. But, nope, he just rubbed his fist into his eye as he morning voiced, "mom, I peed the bed." To which I responded, "...then why the hell do you look so happy about it?!" And he genuinely didn't know. The emotion was so eerily mismatched to the situation, honestly I think he might be a sociopath, idk. Anyway, that's when I got the text about showing the house. And that's when my apparent Spidey sense kicked in and I could then clearly see every speck of dust as it wafted by. Needless to say fifteen minutes later I was sweating and laundering and scrubbing a fucking mattress and shoving piles of new school supplies into closets.

So I had to miss my class. Then it was time to disappear with the kids as soon as everything was tidied because Landon is a rapper in a music video and his Legos are hundred dollar bills, and he loves to constantly make it rain. So off we went to a play gym that they'd been begging to go to for months. Rest assured, it's the absolute worst… but I had to prep my classes for the night so I obliged. We arrive, pay too much, and within five minutes Avery gets hurt. I'm coddling and doing the mom thing. Then another five minutes go by and Landon gets a fat, bloody lip because HE KNEED HIMSELF IN THE FACE. More mom things. He appears twelve more times to drink water/stare into my soul, and another few minutes later Avery comes and plops down next to me and tells me she's "bored" to which I respond she'd better march right back into that colorful wall-padded booger asylum before I make her sleep outside for a week. She stormed off and, get this, promptly went down the slide with theeee most aggressive frown I've ever seen. Have you ever seen someone frown while going down a slide? Lemme tell ya, it's the most ridiculous thing you've ever seen. She even had her arms crossed. What a fool.

Anyway, all they really want to do is zip me open and wear me as their own personal mom suit. I mean, I guess it's endearing, but good lawd sometimes I need space to think about how I'm going to articulate to a room full of adults that they can't depend on anyone for happiness, fulfillment, or to bring their dirty plates to the sink for them, ya know?  

After a few hours of dealing with all-a-dat I got the okay to return home. By the time we get back, I have approximately negative thirteen seconds to rest before leaving to teach back-to-back yoga classes, but I'm frankly looking forward to the seven minute quiet drive to the gym. And on my way out, I walk past the kids who are sitting quietly. I'm a bit jarred to see them sitting on the floor looking so peaceful, so I am compelled to ask, "What are you guys doing?," and my angelface daughter says, "Oh, we were playing 'family'. But now we're taking a break... Sometimes we just need breaks when we play 'family'."

Oh, honey. Yes. Sometimes we do. Sometimes we really, really do.

In conclusion, to all the weighed down South American frog-moms out there in the rainforest or whatever- hang in there. Your kids aren't the only ones getting under your skin. And to all the North American soccer moms waiting patiently for school to begin, there's always Summer Break Xanax (actual Xanax).

Monday, August 7, 2017

oh. hey.

It's been some time since my last post, but don't worry! I've continued to excel in being a painfully stereotypical suburban mom. So much so, in fact, that my stereotypicalities seem to be on steroids (stereo-oids?) -that's right, not only do I still have a thriving collection of yoga pants as obvi expected, now I FUCKING TEACH IT. 

Yes, me, the one who lies about her age, drinks enough wine to offend a Lannister, and occasionally tells her precious children "YOU'RE SUFFOCATING MEEEE" is now coming up on her one year anniversary of quoting the god damn Buddha to a room full of entirely mentally capable adults. It should be illegal.

But I love it. Holy shit, spending eight (plus) years of having an identity solely linked to tiny narcissistic diaper-fillers is often maddening. And before I lose some of you, let it be known that I am grateful to have been a stay at home mom for as long as I have. I get it, I really do- while my husband was onslaught with endlessly frustrating work calls, I got to go braless most of the day. Granted, he did too- but you get the point. I got to experience every first word, step, and milestone and to imply that that's been anything other than magical would be a lie, I mean it. But! There's a lot of time that passes between all the Hallmark moments too. And its not always some dramatic bodily function-themed catastrophe that interrupts the stardust and rainbows. Sometimes it’s just straight up mundane and lonely. Sometimes it felt like my creativity and personality were bit by bit being folded up into the laundry or being obliterated into the garbage disposal alongside untouched dinners. So, now, to be able to balance all of that with something challenging and wonderfully terrifying has made me a better mother and I certainly don't feel so smothered. Not to mention the practice of yoga itself is basically ancient natural Xanax so… that. Oh and I actually have an arsenal of real live adult friends too. It's the best.

In other news, my kids have since lengthened in limb and sass alike and are currently producing more laugh-with-you than laugh-at-you moments which causes me so much joy it borders upon making me violent. My daughter especially. I just have no idea where she got such a charmingly self-deprecating sense of humor. There's literally no one I know that is immediately related to her who is a female and who's name starts with an 'S' and ends with an "ofia" that she reminds me of. I'll be forever stumped.

 Aaaanyway, I've apparently been convinced to start blogging again so stay tuned! Bye!