During the summer, every mom has to find some form of entertainment for their kids.  Some do camps, some go swimming, some families vacation.  We don’t do a whole hell of a lot, as most things cost money.  And since my kids refuse to get into the Real Housewives Sagas with me (rude), I have to find alternatives.

The summer reading program at the library is a good, FREE way that I entertain my kids.  And by “entertain”, I mean take advantage of the library bribing them with useless shit in exchange for them pretending to enjoy reading during the summer months.

They have books at home- tons, actually. Though I do try and encourage reading year round, I’m afraid that my lackluster compassion for reading may be wearing off on the older ones- I truly HATE reading and believe the last book I read leisurely was Sweet Valley High. Yes, I’m a shamed.

But tell my kids that if they read ‘x’ amount of books for a free ice cream cone, a piece of cardboard with some corny saying on it that they are calling a bookmark, and bowling passes that we will likely never use- they are in!  It’s just like the crap awards the fundraiser companies dangle in front of their faces to sell plastic picture frames and wrapping paper- just more shit for me to clean up from underneath my car seats in a couple months.

So we’ve been making weekly trips to the library. Each time we’re there, the girls know the drill; drop the old books in the slot and go pick out your books FAST before Bennett loses his shit because it’s time for him to eat and take a nap- that’s pretty much the way it always is.

I take a seat (one of the kiddie midget seats that are so low if I don’t pee a little as I’m sitting it’s an accomplishment and my knees snap, crackle, and pop when I get up.)  I set the car seat with the baby on the floor and read my email or play Words With Friends on my phone.

You see, I’m not a library mom.  It wasn’t really until today that I realized there was such a thing. Oh. But there is.

One woman was alone with a very tiny baby attached to her body, she was getting baby books, assumingly reading them to her baby, an infant. Yeah, no. I don’t do that. Not until I get credit for it.

One mom calls to her son in a baby voice that makes me feel vomity where her inflection goes real high at the end of each word, “Jackson,  Honey Baby, let’s go.  Jackson,  Honey Baby, it’s time to go. Jackson, Honey Bear, mommy’s hungry. Jackson Honey Baby, let’s get going. Ah, yes, look that is wonderful, OK, Jackson, Honey Baby, let’s go now.“  She smiled the whole time.  He was school aged. And a brat that clearly needed some discipline and resented his nickname of  “Honey Baby” as much as I do.

Though my parenting methods may have changed (read: lazy and tired), I have never had it in me to be a goody two shoes mommy.  I have never talked “cutesy” in a higher octave to my kids. While other moms chat it up at school pick up, laughing, exchanging recipes, and planning play dates, I stay in my car, in my pajama pants, reading Star Magazine. I don’t save school projects.  Sometimes I don’t even buy school pictures anymore.

Who are these people and are they for real? I don’t know what’s worse, if  women are really this pathetic or if they just fake it at the library. Guess what? Your baby CAN’T read and his shit does stink.

I was a much better cook when I had only one kid to feed.  He was a super picky eater and I could just toss him a PB & J if he wouldn’t partake in what I made (which he never did) and that was that.

Grown up meals-ah- those were the days.  I could experiment with food.  If I found a recipe, I would try it.  Some were good and some were not, but we had variety.

When we got to two kids, I went with the tough love approach to dinner, you eat what we eat or you go to bed hungry. Which really meant, I’ll keep this plate of pork and green beans on the table until you decide you’re hungry enough. Dad will sneak you a PB & J sandwich later tonight and we all know that I will throw just this in the trash after you’ve gone to bed.

By time we had three kids, there were three  equally picky, yet different palates.  It became impossible to please everyone and not need a Valium with dinner.  Cue eating out- restaurants began to have a whole new lure.  It was no longer date night or a special night out.  It became a crutch, a crutch that I thoroughly enjoyed. Everyone got to pick what they wanted, there wasn’t fighting and I didn’t have to clean up.  It was dinner utopia. We did it a LOT- probably too much (definitely, too much). On the bright side, my kids are REALLY well behaved in restaurants. Not like those kids that get to eat out once every few months because they got Straight A’s on their report card- pfffft.

‘Mondays’ turned into ‘Kids Eat Free at Farley’s Night’ and ‘Tuesdays’ became ‘half price dinners at Cecil’s’.  We knew all the tricks, used all of the coupons to make it work, but it still got expensive- especially after child #4 started eating solids.

After we moved, our budget got tighter and I had no choice but to start cooking more.  After a while, my husband and I were having nightmares of kid’s go-to meals. Cooking for these needy minions, had to have more to offer than chicken strips, macaroni and cheese, and frozen pizzas.  I experimented.  Tried this casserole, blended those veggies, marinated in this special sauce- everything fell flat.  Flat, as in, flat into the trash- thereby defeating the purpose of being frugal altogether.

It got to the point where my palms started getting sweaty around 3:00 each afternoon. I knew it was coming.  Like a bill collector that I was avoiding,  I would eventually have to confront the dreaded “what’s for dinner?”

That question, to this day, haunts me.

I have always stood firm on not being a short order cook- I make ONE meal a night. But my dinner repertoire is wearing thin and I need suggestions.

Help!

What say you?

The kids are on summer break and being as needy as ever.  My husband is back from Joplin and not back to work yet.  The high temperature for the last week has not been below 95 degrees. I’ve discovered we have an ant problem and I don’t fit into any of my clothes.

All of that is enough to make me need a drink (or 6), however, it’s the cicadas that are killing me- or at least making me want to kill others.

These bugs.

They are Lucifer, himself, in bug form.  The hum starts at about 9:30am and doesn’t end until the sun goes down, at about 9pm! That’s nearly 12 hours- non-stop- and it’s loud! My husband insists that if you listen closely it sounds like a person screaming as he’s being murdered- nice, right? It is constant. Like a dentist’s drill that hasn’t stopped for the last two weeks and OHMYGOD, I’m afraid I am going to do something crazy if I have to hear them for one more second.

But, APPARENTLY, they go on for two more weeks!

Also, they are bold little fuckers. They swoop down and fly right into you- or me, as the case may be, and then I have a need to scream from heebie jeebies and immediately go shower AND I HATE showering in the middle of the day, but hello! Cicada juice!! Which is why I haven’t left the house in 5 days and keep the television on super loud.

Supposedly these bugs come out every 13 years and make people’s brains bleed (at least THAT’S what it feels like to me).  The sound has made me completely on edge (OK, more than normal) and way agitated!  I do not remember them- ever- in my life- and I’ve been  alive for a few rounds of 13 years.

You know that part in the bible with the locusts?  Yeah, well I don’t, but I’m pretty sure the end of the world is near.  I know- I make fun of the Rapture cries from the crazies, too.  I overlooked the tornadoes, floods, and earthquakes, but I’m keeping a close eye on my skin for boils.

In grade school math class, we had a game where we would work out problems on the chalk board. Two people up against each other- to see who could finish first and most accurately.  I would raise my hand and go up to the board and do my thing. One day,  Sister Frederick Marie referred to me as “chicken legs” as I was up there (yeah, it’s really a wonder that I take issue with my Catholic upbringing, huh?)

It hurt. I cried a lot and was self-conscious about my uniforms being too short and begged my mom to lower my hems so I would stand out less.

From that moment on, I didn’t volunteer anymore. Any confidence I had in my abilities in math were hushed.  She shut me down.  Even though I was good at math and knew how to do it,  I would sink into my desk and not make eye contact with her, to assure that she wouldn’t call me up to the board ever again.

That was the start of my silencing. My self doubt. My lack of confidence.

I have opinions, but when it’s not the mainstream or popular opinion, I have learned to just keep my mouth shut.  Bite my tongue, smile and nod.  I have an internal conversation with myself (that doesn’t make me sound crazy at all, does it?) and usually decide that it’s simply not worth an uprising to share my thoughts. And so I sink down and fade away. I don’t have the confidence to scream my opinion from the rafters.  I’m not good when all eyes are on me so I do my best to blend in.

Online, I seem to take a similar approach.  Shortly after I started rambling on the Internet, it became clear that things I wrote were being read and there would be consequences to my putting things out there.  Not all of my readers had a spite for Sarah Palin the way I did.  My liberal use of the word “retarded” did hurt some people.  I had to be smart. I had to look for new adjectives and speak less of Palin’s vagina.   I didn’t want to offend anyone so I had to be slightly guarded (slightly, this IS me- I still think Fox news is bullshit and I’m not afraid to say it.)  I guess it’s the people pleaser in me.

I don’t get bullied online, cyberbullied, or as they call them “trolls”- rude people that comment on blogs.   Others I know, do.

I’m not going to lie. For a second, I thought, why don’t I get that attention? I mean, as much as it sucks, it’s flattering, right?  Like being chased down by paparazzi, just comes with the territory.

But then I started hearing stories. The comments some of these “trolls” make are beyond humane. People seem to think that there aren’t real people behind these words.  That their criticism and harsh words won’t be felt.  When I began this, I felt like I could just spew whatever the hell I wanted to.  And it’s true, I can, but just because you can doesn’t mean you always should. And since  I already sound like my mom, if you having nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all.

Though I would crumple from cruel things they have to contend with, I envy the people that put themselves out there and take chances. They are brave and have such conviction. Truth is, if I disagree with you, you’ll probably never know it.

In general, I don’t get hurt because I don’t put myself out there. I had a blog for a year before I told anyone. Comments I make are meticulously phrased and thought out. I approach everything I say and do with extreme caution.  It’s my defense mechanism against getting hurt. And yet sometimes, I still misstep. I say too much. I say the wrong thing. Then, with regret, I beat myself up and sink back into my shell again.

My husband is leaving for a week tomorrow to help aid relief efforts for tornado victims in Joplin, MO.  For most people, this would be, eh, just another week.  For me?  I am like a 16 year old that just found out her parents were going out of town for the weekend.  I went to the store and stocked up on Purple Passion and Strawberry Hill wine already (not really, but it was a knee jerk reaction to WANT to.)

You see, we don’t get time away from each other. Ever. Like, in 15 years, I went to a conference in Chicago once for three days. That is all.

There are a lot of different reasons why. Kids. Finances. Kids. His anxiety. And then there’s the kids.

It can’t be healthy, but it’s our reality.  I wish we could afford to send him on a trip, just he and a friend.  I have it all mapped out in my head.  Philadelphia, New Jersey, New York- and eating at every diner he can find.  He would come home rested and revived and maybe quite a few pounds heavier, but he would have had fun and he would have seen how important it is to get away and just have some bonding time making memories and laughing with friends.  He would see that the world didn’t end when he wasn’t here and everything can get along just fine while he’s gone. And that’s not a bad thing.

And then, he could allow me the same kind of  getaway- you know, to restore any small bit of sanity that might being hiding in a tiny crevice of my body somewhere, drink lots of fruity drinks and talk about The Real Housewives of New Jersey and the good ole days when we didn’t have stretch marks.

But alas, such trips are not in our budget now, so I’ll settle for him going away on work, for a good cause.

I’m a firm believer in absence making the heart grow fonder especially if, in that absence, I am not having to wipe toothpaste splatter off of the bathroom mirror and pick up socks from the side of the bed each day for an entire week.

Needless to say, he is nervous. He is freaking out about being away. It’s all new to him. He’s very much a home body. He is nervous about breaking up his routine. He’s convinced the baby won’t remember him when he gets back. He’s not a fan of change. He volunteered. It sounded like a good idea until he realized the logistics and saw me doing a happy dance while I was meticulously packing his bags with my perm-a grin- true story.

I, on the other hand, did a deep cleaning of my house yesterday in preparation.  Fresh bed linens.  Scrubbed the floors.  Cleaned out my closet.  I’m not exactly sure why, but I was compelled to do these things.  He’s a messy person and I am really looking forward to living in a clean house for a week with the kids that I have trained to be crazy obsessively neat, like myself (except the 12 year old, maybe she can go to a friend’s house.)

He called his sister and asked if she could help me out while he’s gone.

Yes, because I don’t know how I’ll get by for a week without someone peeing on the toilet seat and farting on the couch while watching the History Channel.

I used to do things more consistently… you know, clean my house, shower, write.  These days- all bets are off.  If my house doesn’t smell like ass and the sink is not full of dirty dishes, that’ll just have to do.  In lieu of a shower, I’ll wash my hair in the sink, put on some deodorant and clean clothes and voila (OH COME ON, tell me you don’t do that!)  As for the writing, not much comes to me.  FOCUS!  I cannot focus on anything, much less, one thing and lay it all out in a cohesive way that makes sense outside of my head.

So here is what it’s like in my head (my head uses bullet points):

• It’s the end of the school year.  The school has a 9 months to do all of the things they need to do.  So why is it, that they try to fit in so many performances, meetings, benefits, and field trips into the last two weeks? Don’t they know I have a DVR that’s really backed up?
• My daughter sang at her Year End Assembly.  It was a large crowd and a difficult song (the song was my fault-the theme of the year was “Being a Hero” and I suggested Mariah Carey’s Hero- oops.)  She was quite nervous and didn’t practice at all.  The first minute was rough.  She picked it up a little toward the end- if you’re curious…
• http://youtu.be/OCx1s4jV5Lk
• This was our first year at this school and during that same performance, the band played Lady Gaga’s Poker Face.  This may sound weird, but I got choked up.  You see, we left a school that most people didn’t allow their kids to even LISTEN to Lady Gaga and I’m kind of a pop culture whore and I just felt like I was in the right place, finally.
• I recently learned that you are not supposed to use two spaces after periods on the computer, why didn’t anyone tell me this?  Also, I’ve also recently realized that it’s a habit that I will never break.
• It took everything out of me to get through this weekend with my kids home for the 3-day weekend, so summer starting in 3 days… should be GREAT fun.
• I get spam comments.  I don’t delete them. I’m too entertained by the broken English.  I imagine Borat saying them…like this one: I was more than happy to search out this net-site.I wished to thanks to your time for this glorious learn!! I definitely having fun with every little little bit of it and I’ve you bookmarked to take a look at new stuff you weblog post.
  

• Bennett hates cereal. And today he also hated Peas by spitting them all over me and my white shirt (I know, white shirt+peas+6 month old baby=stupid mom with dirty shirt). He apparently didn’t get the memo that we like to eat in this house

Is it conceivable that  any attention span I had left my body with the placenta?  Because that happened!  I seriously am counting the days until I can stop breastfeeding and take some medication to help me focus.  And Xanax.

I’m an enabler, apparently.  I like to think that it started as just a “pick your battles” kind of thing.

My husband has anxiety.  He’s a worrier.   He assumes the worst case scenario – always. I am the opposite.  If I don’t get a call from the police, I’ll assume your fine.   For the first few years, it was really tough.  I was a very independent person and never had to answer to anyone, really.

After a few head to head battles, I gave in.  I started carrying a cell phone everywhere (this was back when not every human carried one) so he could reach me.   He called me too much.  He always played it off as a what’s going on kind of call.  But I could tell, it was him keeping dibs on me.   He would always ask where I planned to go at the beginning of each day.

It wasn’t a trust factor.  It was a safety factor. He has irrational fears of car accidents and abductions and us bursting into a fiery ball. If the weather had a chance of being sketchy, he wouldn’t want me to leave the house.  If I would be driving long distances, I could see his anxiety rising.  More than a few times, he’d hear of an accident on a highway, and call me to make sure that we weren’t the car involved.

These calls changed me.  I began to feel like I was on a clock, being tracked.  I ‘d race to get home before he knew I was gone or to beat him home.  I would lie about going to a closer destination just to calm his fears and shut him up.   I didn’t like the person I was becoming.  Constantly stressed and concealing everything other than a daytime trip to the grocery store a block away.  I felt like his puppet.

It’s been a long process that has included numerous counselors for us and Xanax for me. His control has lessened.  His irrational fears have gotten better since we have moved to a safer town.  I, however, am the problem now.  I feel stuck in this pattern.  And now, I’m afraid to test the waters.

My daughter had a field trip two hours away this week.  When I got the field trip form, my stomach sank.   Two hours- in a bus- unsupervised by us- he still has a hard time letting other people drive our kids places!  And what if it turned out to be a stormy day?  This certainly would not go well.

She was so excited about this trip.  I swallowed my concern, filled out the form, and ate tums for the next month while I plotted how exactly I would be able to pull it off- keeping it from him.

She had to be at school early that day so they could start the drive- fifteen minutes before he would get home from working the night shift.   I was a ball of nerves,   I drove her to school and got back before he did.   I encouraged him to go to sleep so he wouldn’t notice she wasn’t there.  He did. It was like a dysfunctional choreographed dance.

My plan worked, but at what cost?  It shaved off about 2 years of my life in stress.

She came home and enthusiastically shared all of her pictures and stories from the day and he didn’t seemed phased.  I told him how I conveniently withheld any details from him and explained what it took out of me.  He acted like I was nuts.

Why do I constantly feel like I need to be this barrier from him and any unnecessary stress in his life.  To take on all of the kids’ problems and  issues, swallow them down until I figure out a way to solve them. Then show him the pretty picture at the end.  It’s tiring.  I need to stop.

I attended a wedding this weekend.  There were lots of tears.

I don’t get emotional at weddings.

The tears were in my closet as I was getting dressed to leave.  My go-to leggings and oversized T-shirt wouldn’t cut it today no matter how much makeup I put on.

This dress didn’t zip.  That one made me look too wide. The one that I ended up wearing showed waaay too much boob (and arms and width).  I ended up wearing a cardigan over the dress.  Chicken!

These days, there’s no getting around it.  I’m simply unhappy with my body right now.

Ironically, today is the day that I have a picture of me posted online in a swimsuit.  I am a part of the Curvy Girl Guide’s Project Real- Swimsuit Confidence Movement.  I cannot be a chicken today.

I’m torn about the whole thing.  I’m so proud to be a part of something so amazing, liberating and helping women realize that they are NORMAL even though they don’t look like a magazine cover.

However, I feel like a fraud.   I don’t have the confidence.  I’m trying.  It’s a journey.  I can see the beauty in every single other woman, but the person in the mirror has so many flaws, so much work to do.

I look at the picture and part of me wants to put 100 disclaimers in the footnotes… I am nursing, I had a baby six months ago, isn’t at her optimal weight, a 10 year old took this picture and that adds 30 lbs.  But I couldn’t.  I knew I shouldn’t.  That’s not the point.  The point is that this is me.  This is many women.

Whether it’s me for the next six months or if this is the size I will be from now on- this is me.  I can’t hide from it.  I can’t hide from pictures.  I can’t hide from life.

My life has been laced with self doubt lately.

Not surprisingly, seeing as how my days are filled with sticking my finger down a baby’s diaper and hoping my finger doesn’t have poop on it, breastfeeding, folding laundry and trying to find where the hell that smell is coming from, I tend to wonder what my worth is.

I wonder if I’ll ever leave the house again for reasons other than carpool, groceries and the occasional school concert.   Will I ever have a reason to wear anything other than sweats again? Will I ever have a conversation with another adult that doesn’t pertain to teachers or what percentile my baby’s weight falls?

Anyone you thought you were before you had kids, gets muddled with this selfless person trying to remember the last time you showered and keep kids fed.  It’s a very humbling journey that has you questioning your whole existence.

It’s all sort of a Deja Vu to me.  I was here four years ago.   My baby was delightful and it filled my heart to watch her grow and flourish.  On one hand, I felt so lucky to have that chance.  I didn’t have a babysitter telling me that her first tooth broke through.  I got to make the call to others when she took her first steps.  I had the memories with her and didn’t have to hear about them secondhand.

But on the other hand,  I felt like I lost any identity I had.  My life wasn’t about me anymore.  I watched kid movies.  I shopped for kid’s clothes.  Even the food I bought, was stuff that they would eat.

Slowly, I began to find myself again through writing.  I remembered who I was and that I had opinions and liked to eat things other than Chicken McNuggets and wear cute clothes. It was a rebirth of me.  I met people that were going through similar transitions and started having dreams of doing something that wasn’t domestic.  I was feeling like I had something to offer again, like I was contributing. I felt like an adult.

Then, I got pregnant.  I was thrust back into it not being about me.

I see myself falling into that rut again.  The mommy rut- pull my hair back, make sure everyone’s teeth are brushed,  and figure out what to make for dinner.   Lather, rinse, repeat.  It can become a thoughtless, mundane routine that you get to a point where you don’t appreciate it.

I am beginning to wonder again where I fit in.  What do I have to offer to the world?  Will I ever feel like a productive person again? Will I ever have more to look forward to than a trip to Walgreen’s to pick up a prescription for the peace and quiet?

Since my kids started public school this year, I have made a lot of comparisons between our experience in Private vs. Public: the curriculum, the teachers, the friends they keep.  All in all, I have been very satisfied and think it was absolutely the best decision for us.  However, there is one instance where the public school wins HANDS DOWN- the bus system.

I want to open mouth kiss whoever invented the whole school bus idea.  For a mom of 5 who likes to wear pajama pants and be barefoot in a world where gas is $4.00 a gallon, it’s brilliant.

I went to public school for Kindergarten and first grade.  It was the only time I rode a bus.  It was the 70’s and kids still had to get exercise and actually walk to a bus stop.  I walked, by myself, each day about a quarter mile down the block to the corner- fair to say that my mom wasn’t too over-protective.  She was busy listening to her Bread albums and watching Ryan’s Hope.

I’ve learned that bus drivers have a lot to do with your experience.

The only thing I remember remotely about my bus is the time that it had snowed 5 inches and I trekked down to the bus stop and waited and waited.   About 20 minutes after the bus should have picked me up, a nice old couple took pity on me and pulled along side me in their car, “honey, school was canceled.”

I headed home with my frozen tears.  A car slowly kept pace with me, while a man in the driver’s seat called out to me something that was muffled by my hat and scarf.  I picked up my speed, certain that I was going to be chopped up in little frozen pieces, yelling whatever was the 1977’s version of  “Stranger Danger” repetitively- probably something I learned on an ABC After School Special that scared the shit out of me.   I rushed into my house, crying to my mom that someone was trying to steal me, just when my Uncle entered to ask why I wouldn’t let him drive me home in the snow.

Anyway.  Hopefully my kids’ bus experience isn’t quite as traumatic as mine.

My daughter’s bus driver is the sweetest woman named Rosie who sometimes has her hair in rollers.  She stops and waits for my daughter whether she’s there or not.  She waves me off everyday from the window as soon as she takes her seat.  She runs current event contests in the morning and gives away $5 McDonald’s gift cards.  She even noticed my husband’s uniform as he was coming home one morning and made him a magnet with his badge on it.   We lucked out with her.

My son’s driver, is a different story.

The bus picks him up at 6:30 AM when it’s usually still dark and I am in a cabana somewhere drinking Tequila Sunrises while Zach Braff gives me a pedicure (yes, that’s my dreamland.)  His bus driver is a woman that smokes about 18 packs of unfiltered cigarettes a day and wears frayed cut-off jeans and a doo-rag.  Gabe says the bus often smells like pot (of course, I asked how he KNEW what that smelled like and the conversation ended with me rambling on about how I’m on to him and I know all about huffing and bath salts.)

She drives mock 5  and when he gets dropped off, it’s as close to a drop and roll as I’ve ever seen, she kinda slows down.  In the morning, if he’s not standing exactly where he should be at the precise moment she turns the bend near our house- he is out of luck and MY ASS needs to wake up and bring him to school!

My kids go to three different schools within the district.  The kids that are in the high school and middle school take the bus (I do drive my girls that are in elementary- it was my compromise to my husband’s alternative of locking them in a closet until they are 18- see: overprotective.)  So, I get out of a little of driving, anyway, at least.  The crazy bus driver is a small price to pay for an hour more of sleep.