I am from aluminum swing sets that were never truly installed correctly and one leg lifted off of the ground with each swoop of the swing. I am from above ground swimming pools. I am from Raggedy Ann and Andy, View Master and Silly Putty. I am from two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun. I am from CB radios and Instant Poloroid cameras.

I am from watching The Brady Bunch, Battle of the Network Stars and Three’s Company on a 19 inch black and white television with rabbit ears enveloped in aluminum foil long before remote controls. I am from sneaking to watch Saturday Night Live and Benny Hill after 10pm. I am from listening to K-Tel records on my Holly Hobbie record player with a penny taped to the stylus so the records wouldn’t skip.

I am from linoleum floors, from clear, plastic runners to protect the shag carpeting in hues of gold. I am from a kitchen adorned with country blue geese on glasses, dishes, and the cookie jar. I am from walls covered in faded wallpaper with orange, black, and brown flowers as big as my head and a wooden spoon and fork the size of a 12 year old child hanging on the wall. I am from the smell of my mom’s Lauren perfume, hamburgers fried in onion grease and cigarette smoke.

I am from honeysuckle vine that grew on the fence near the old rusted galvanized pool we kept in the driveway during summers. I am from the bees that were attracted to the sweet smell of its nectar.

I am from French Toast and cereal for dinner. I am from family Barbeques and drunken fights that ensued. I am from Laura and Dale and Helen and Kay. I am from Dedert and Biship and Smith.

I am from a short life expectancy. I am from alcoholism and heart disease. I am from depression.

I am from try your best, but you can always do better. I am from you’re grounded. I am from don’t judge anyone unless you’ve walked a mile in their shoes.

I am from Protestant to Catholic and Catholic to Evangelist. I am from Sunday School and singing songs and making crafts to First Communion and memorizing long prayers to speaking in tongues in huge auditoriums. I am from followers. I am from wanting to please and believe, I am from longing for spirituality. I am from doubters. I am from be kind to others and live the best life that you can.

I’m from Missouri. I am from Germany, England, France. I am native to America. I am from traditional Thanksgiving turkey and lumpy mashed potatoes and always chocolate pie.

From spending the night at my Aunt’s and deciding to try and shave my legs for the first time while there and filing the tub with blood from the gash. From wrapping my leg in bandages and then watching Endless Love on her cable television. From watching my baby brother die to watching my baby sister sleep.

I am from a huge green photo album inscribed “To Tena, Happy 5th Birthday. Love, Gram” in my mom’s cabinet. I am from yellowed photos glued onto the paper sheets with ink pen descriptions in my mom’s handwriting of events that made me who I am today.

This is a writing exercise going around the Internet. I’ve seen so many done and they are all so intriguing to read. I hope I did it justice. If you would like to join in, let me know you did, so I can take a peek at where you’re from.

It’s not a big secret that I am still not back at my fighting weight since the baby. I have felt really torn with how to get back to a weight that I am happy with. Of course, if I do anything, I want it to be safe, for him, since I am still nursing. Also, I feel silly worrying about such superficial crap when I have this little dude progressing so fast and changing before my eyes. But, I can’t lie, I hate having to get dressed in real outside-of-my-house-presentable clothes that are not sweats and t-shirts.

As with past babies, I’ve learned that nursing is a way my body holds on to extra weight.  I don’t know if I’m doing something wrong or if it’s physiological.

Sure, I eat. Sometimes, I eat junk, but the majority of the time, I eat well.

I don’t go to the gym. I don’t run on the elliptical everyday, but I do try to get in a half an hour a few times a week. I don’t lay around and watch soaps all day. I’m active, I don’t have much of a choice.

But none of these small adjustments have made a change in my body. So, I have tried my hand at more aggressive steps.

A few months ago, I attempted to start running. I was doing well until  a pain in my heel sidelined me.  I self diagnosed it as heel spur/plantar fasciitis (thanks to Dr. Google.) I taped up my foot. I did special stretches. I rested it for a few days. Nothing relieved the pain. It felt like it had been put through a meat grinder.  The pain started in my heel and vibrated into my ankle. The pain has not gone away in months. It still hurts, but I have learned to deal with the discomfort. Running, however, just isn’t happening anymore.

Last week, I decided to come at it from the diet perspective- I tried out the Atkins Diet. I stuck with mostly lean and white meats and vegetables. Judge if you will, but I felt it was a pretty healthy way to eat and didn’t think it could hurt. I lost five lbs, but I got very fainty after day 5 and my milk production slowed to a crawl by day 6. Soooo, I hurried and shoved some carbs in my face so I could make the baby happy and promptly gained back the 5 lbs.

I think I’ve given up, at least for now, trying to get to that elusive weight. It just doesn’t seem to be working. The baby is at a great stage and I want to be able to enjoy and not be so damned focused on my waistband being too tight. He’s fun and sweet and so cute and he’s becoming more animated and crazy every day and I think I’m just going to enjoy him for now. And maybe a cookie.

I have problems. Real substantial issues that I have to deal with. They aren’t things I share openly, but they weigh down on me, heavily.  They keep me awake at night. They change my complexion of the world on most days. My mind is always running a mile a minute with what if’s and worry.

So when I rant and rave and cry about my inability to make hard boiled eggs correctly without the shell coming off with half of the white, making the egg look like a mutilated, misshapen golf ball even though I followed tried and true directions, explicitly, it’s more than just the egg. That was just my breaking point.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s frustrating as hell that I can successfully bake a 3 layer cake from scratch, make a to-die-for pie crust, and prepare a homemade pasta dinner for 30 people, but I cannot master the hard boiled egg. What’s even more disheartening is that my Mother in law can make them in her sleep.

Bygones.

Sometimes the little things just add up and crack you. Making you appear ungrateful, superficial, and just a big, spoiled, whiny bitch. I am not any of that (OK, maybe I’m a bitch). But mostly, I am a person that is burdened with real problems and hurdles to overcome. I am a person with a lot on my mind, trying to make everything right and feeling like a failure in the process.  The little things chip away at my being able to handle anything- one at a time.

I keep waiting for the tide to turn, for things to start looking up, for some resolution. It just feels like good news doesn’t come my way any more. It makes going through the obligatory motions of life that much harder. And it’s not at all about a hard boiled egg.

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.