Wednesday, September 17, 2014

a new floss-ify on life

I cried today.
 
Happy tears. Real, genuine, uninhibited ugly-cry happy tears.
 
The fucking pumpkin patches are going up around town. It was the greatest day of my life, I thought, as I drove Landon to his dentist appointment.
 
My mind began to swirl with thoughts of sweaters and boots and holiday parties and scarves and Santa and Christmas morning in our jammies- even though I was simultaneously sweating my balls off in the car. Yeah, it's still 100 degrees out, no I don't really have balls, but there's a light at the end of the tunnel. There's a reason to live.  I might be so hot my knuckles are perspiring, but we're gonna make it, guys.
 
Summer in Vegas is kinda like that one mom at your kid's friend's birthday party who makes you have a conversation with her, and you really want to make it stop, and to top it off, she's a close-talker. It's like, hey, this has gone on too long, I'm really uncomfortable, and I actually didn't want to be here in the first place. And in her defense, before you were engaged in conversation with her, she seemed like she might be alright, but after she pinned you down you realized she's just an aggressive soccer mom with hot breath. That's summer in Las Vegas. Go away. No one likes you. You're just too much.
 
So.
 
We get to the dentist.
 
Landon, as usual, is the most disturbingly adorable human being to ever walk the earth. He's sitting in the chair smiling and waving at me and repeatedly telling me I'm "so cute" and he loves me "so much". He's perfectly complying with everything the dental assistant asks of him and my heart is bursting with joy.
 
"You know what," I think, "I'm such a great mom. Look at my darling child. I did that. I'm awesome."
 
After the assistant adorably brushes Landon's adorable little teeth, ("that tickles my teeth!" the Squishmonster says) the dentist comes in and shakes my hand. I'm beaming so hard with pride and I'm so excited to hand over my darling son for someone new to fawn over, I feel like tiny hearts might be shooting from my eyeballs like little creepy son-obsessed love lasers. Freaking Lan. This kid. Gets me every time.
 
So I back away from the Christ-child to let the dentist do his thing. He looks up and inquires about the regularity of Landon's teeth brushing, to which I respond, "yes of cooourrrssse we thoroughly brush twice a day"... because I'm the greatest Mom who ever lived, remember? Look at this kid! He's perfection! I'm like the freaking Oprah of motherhood. I'm the best.
 
"Well, he has five cavities."
 
wait.
 
what.
 
Ok, maybe "Oprah" was a bit exaggerated.
 
Hold on, it gets worse.
 
As we are doing the kid-equivalent of the "walk of shame" through the office, while Landon is sorting through his dental goody bag, he picks up the floss, holds it straight up in the air just in case the people in the back couldn't see, and shouts a very concerned,
 
"MOMMY WHAT IS THIS."
 
It's FLOSS, Landon! Ughhhh. The dentist is all but shaking his head with disgust at me. I'm the Wendy Williams of motherhood. I'm the worst. Why does this always happen.
 
Anyway, his teeth are all getting fixed later this month, for all of you who are on hold with CPS. Put down the phone. AND the floss was in a weird circular container and it wasn't totally a floss-like floss so that's where his confusion stemmed from. Not like we floss every day anyway, but I feel like that needed to be noted.
 
On the defeated drive home, I started to really feel bad for myself. Why is it, that whenever I obtain a glimmer of confidence in myself am I pummeled with embarrassment? It doesn't seem fair.
 
Then I see a woman dressed in white jeans and a white top on the side of the road bawling. Her car is totaled. She has just crashed into a city bus. SHE has it rough today, not me.
 
I've gotta stop declaring an entire day as "bad". It's not fair. Because I know within that particular "bad day," I was woken up in the morning by my kids' kisses. They made me laugh at times. They made me very proud at times. Avery held Landon's hand all the way to the car after school and told him how much she missed him. I made productive decisions. Maybe I made someone laugh or made my own mother proud. And all that for nothing because my insanely darling son has a few magnifying-glass-level holes in his teeth?! C'mon.

It's all good. It's ALWAYS all good. It's liberating to be able to define your day/week/life based on what you choose. The good things. No more bad days! It's awesome. Today will not go down in history as the "cavity day" it will go down in history as the "Landon was an absolute angel at the dentist and omg pumpkins!" day.
 
 I totally had an epiphany today at the expense of that poor woman with the questionable fashion sense. So thanks for that. And as much as I want to point out to that woman, that she doesn't have to define today by it's calamities, I mean, seriously...  the "car is totaled worst day ever" day is fitting. She freaking hit a city bus....
 
Off to get Avery from school. Feeling autumn-y. Maybe I'll pick up a pumpkin spice latte on the way... sub water for chocolate milk for Lan, and I'll take my coffee iced please, thanks.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


Tuesday, September 16, 2014

..But is it convenient?

"...but is it convenient?"
 
I ask myself this a lot. It's kinda a requirement to constantly consider this while making any decision when you are endlessly dealing with little people who want absolutely nothing to do with helping you successfully complete your daily and/or life goals. I love my kids more than Christmas (that's serious for me), but 'convenient', they are not.
 
I've gotten my car washed at the same gas station for years. Not my first choice of car washes, but it's right near my house, and in the same parking lot as my gym, so you know, convenience, because waiting in a candy and slushee-filled waiting area with a five- and a three-year- old at any other car wash is the worst thing that's ever happened in my entire life, and dropping off my car, bringing the hooligans to the gym's day care so I can work out, and coming back doesn't suck quite as bad.  
 
That said, they're not that great at their job. And I'm certain the combined IQ of all seven of the car-washing employees is 37, but I can drop it off, go work out, and come back to a sort-of cleaner vehicle and not deal with candy-tantrums. Cantrums? I love making up words SO MUCH. 
 
Anyway, on one particular day a few years back, I reluctantly handed over my car keys to a Quasimodo-esque human, and when he pulled my car through the automatic carwash, both windshield wipers snapped clean off my car because he didn't remember to put them back down after he wiped the windshield. So cute.
 
I happened to watch it happen, and demanded they replace the wipers, which I had to go pick up from an auto parts store, and I wasted a good part of my day, and they paid for them. And they suck. And whatever.
 
But, believe it or not, I STILL use that carwash. So, again, convenience wins.
 
On a side note... the topic of 'convenience' popped into my head again yesterday as I searched Amazon in hopes of finding a gender specific car seat for Landon so my kids would stop fighting over their designated unisex seats. I thought, "it would certainly be convenient to have a boy-themed seat and a girl-themed seat..."
 
Then I found this.
 
 
 
"...but is it convenient?" NO. You know what? I'm sorry, but that right there is a rapist pedophile turtle. 1% off (was it really necessary to do the whole "slashed-price" thing...) in exchange for a lifetime of horrific nightmares? What are his hands intending to hold?! Why does he look like he wants to eat my fingernails?! What is that dangling flaccid strap situation all about?! Apparently at least 30 people, according to the number of reviews, own this little-boy-tushy-bait, and I'm willing to bet those 30 seats are strapped into unmarked white vans being driven by greasy men wearing nothing but long raincoats all across the nation.
 
So watch out for that.
 
Anyway, as you may know, this new school year has afforded me two half-days to myself thanks to my kids now being in preschool and Kindergarten. Today was my first half-day of the week-- three hours to skip through Target or go to the gym without a childcare appointment or take a nap or go grocery shopping. I did every afore-mentioned thing today besides take a nap, which was the only thing I really wanted to do, and decided to drop my car at my uber-convenient car wash while I took a spin class.
 
After my class I picked up my car which they kindly parked for me and one of the employees even reminded me to hold onto my receipt because "it might rain tomorrow" and they'd be happy to clean the car for me again, it's their policy.
 
Boy, that was nice of him. I'm such an asshole. Whyyyy do I judge everyone? Yeah, he looks like a moron, but he's a thoughtful moron. Get it together, Sofia.
 
My three hours are up and it's time to pick up my son from preschool. I consider what a lovely, productive, easygoing morning I've had and feel my ever-pulsating anxiety begin to subside bit by bit while I drive down the street. Then I hear a rattling sound. Is it in the glove compartment?! No. The cupholder?? No. WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SOUND?!
 
I'm punching the dashboard and shaking my steering wheel, then go to flick my windshield wipers, in hopes that I might loosen whatever it is that is causing my present craziness, and I notice that MY WINDSHIELD WIPERS ARE GONE.
 
Just two, sad, mechanical stubs swoosh back at forth, as if literally waving "bye bye" to my sanity.
 
I picked up Landon, drive right back to my favorite car wash, ask to speak to the manager, and he comes out of the building with my wipers in hand.
 
I am livid, demanding an explanation as to why a part of my car is in his hand and not attached to my vehicle. Swear to god, his response was a shoulder shrug. I ask him if this happens all the time or if they just hate me specifically.
 
"...shrug."
 
What. I hate you so much.
 
So, the iiiiidiottttt re-attached my wipers, they work fine, but now I gotta find a new car wash.
 
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I need a nap. And a glass of wine.
 
Which conveeeeniently I do have...
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


Monday, September 15, 2014

What sets YOU off?

I am out of gas. I mean, not totally out, but pushin' it.
 
My husband and I share his company's gas card for re-fueling purposes, so when I text him where I could meet him to grab it and fill 'er up, he responds "in hell," which he thought was funny and I thought was kinda mean, so after a couple seconds of purposely not acknowledging his awkward attempt at humor, he quickly sends over a, "I'm just kidding, I love you. I'm in Summerlin. Avery's school isn't too far away, you'll be fine."
Summerlin?! Ugghh he might as well be on a different planet.
 
Ok. Love you too, BUT, what you don't know, Mr. McHusbandface, is that I, your mostly Greek wife, despite what you may think, do not live and die by Avery's school schedule, and more importantly (!), without the help from a lovely esthetician, who is very aptly and ironically now that I think of it, named Hope, I WILL grow a full, terrifying mustache and my eyebrows will start dating each other and move in together and create a unified unibrow force-to-be-reckoned-with on top of my eyes if I do not get this hairy situation dealt with every two weeks. So.
 
Like I said, no gas. I chance it, and grab Landon, throw him in the car and head over to get my face hacked down for fear of going "full Greek". If this is not dealt with today, I'm going to have to accept my new fate in life, pick up a flight to Crete, buy a really old fishing boat, smoke lumpy cigarettes and drink tiny cups of coffee all day with all my other old Greek manfriends, and I'm just not ready to do that. Not yet anyway. Give me a couple more years of that fucking unreal parking situation at Avery's school, and I might be a bit more willingly Hope-less (see what I did there) I mean, I love coffee, so.
 
Anyway, we get to the salon 187 minutes early, that's just how I roll, but now I'm in a bit of a pickle, and I have three choices. ONE) Wait in the car. But I can't  because I'm running low on gas AND it's still horrifyingly hot in Vegas so I have to keep the car on. Shit, that's out. TWO) wait outside?! Uh yeah no, I'm melting. Nope. THREE) Take my three-year-old who needs to be sleeping right now (the only time my hair removal specialist- I just made that up, she doesn't really call herself that- could take me was noon) inside the tranquil, peaceful spa and be okay with Landon's russian-techno-Lego-Youtube videos interefering with everyone's microdermabrasians.
 
Option three it is. Thankfully, I've hit the sweet spot of exhaustion with him where he's super tired, but not tired enough to turn into an insane person quite yet, so he's cool and even lets me turn the volume waaay down.
 
So he's happy. I'm sitting, waiting for the remainder of my 35,000 minutes to pass until it's my turn to nakedify my face. In my moment of quiet, I am instantly annoyed by the way the room has been set up. I wouldn't have put that bookcase THERE, I would have put it THERE. Ugh. I look down and see a stack of "free" newspapers, that aren't newspapers at all, but are in fact, spiritual wellness guides, with advice on things like how to stop yourself from over-eating .....ALLLL you gotta do is envision that you are exuding a white light from your body, and all that dark, negative fatty attitude (fatitude?!) will fade away. What's happening. Who wrote this?! I can't tell if the articles are written by Mormons or Wiccans. There's an entire spread dedicated to local healers and psychics. I'm annoyed. I read my horoscope. Now I'm even more annoyed because I don't understand what it means. WHAT THE HELL AM I READING?!
Then I find it.
 
An article entitled, "What Sets You Off?" with a little picture of it's dorky author off to the side of the headline. I come to the realization that this entire page is about not letting little things bother you while I am, presently, being annoyed by every possible thing that could ever annoy anyone simultaneously.
 
I read the first paragraph, start to think, "this dweeb might really be on to something" and start to second guess my unending judgy negativity. I read a little more... oh  my god, is my aura softening? Then:
 
YOU SEE IT?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
 
"it may annoy you for someONE... But if THEY have been speaking that way all THEIR life, THEY are more likely... because you made THEM aware of THEIR grammatical faux pas... THEIR choice..." blah blah blah
 
This, if you happen to be grammar-challenged, is an excellent display of bad grammar. The nerdy weirdo author of this bizarre article should have used "he" or "she" or "he/she" instead of "they" "their" or "them" because "someONE" is singular.
 
It's maddening.
 
So , in conclusion, the article about not letting something as small as a grammatical error disturb your chi or whatever, in fact disturbed the shit out of my chi with it's grammatical errors. It chopped my chi right in half. Fucking chopped it all up.
 
Anyway, I got through all-a-dat, and now I look like a, albeit annoyed, female once again. Just sitting here, counting the minutes til it's time to roundhouse kick a soccer mom to the face to get a parking spot with my gas-less car at Avery's school.
 
In the meantime, I think I'll see how much white light I can exude to ward off the peanut butter that's callin' my name in the pantry...
 
 


Wednesday, August 27, 2014

The (MFing) Master Cleanse

Day 1
(written on Day 2)
  too. hungry. and. miserable. to. do. anything. but. be. hungry. and. miserable.

Day 2
(8:33pm) 
 As I am writing this using my phone's keyboard I cannot help but to feel the weight of my phone between my hands and envision my thumbs supporting the shape of a fat, dripping cheeseburger instead of composing this little update, which, frankly, I am doing solely to keep me from pacing the kitchen (again). I keep alternating between swinging the pantry and refrigerator's doors open, and gazing longingly at all the little foodies that I am forbidden to touch for the next eight days. What exactly am I looking for?? Maybe I'm just hoping that behind one of the doors will appear a time machine that will teleport me ten days into the future. Everything looks good. Even the salsa that I'm certain expired 4 months ago. Gimme.
 Anyway, I ran three miles today. Well. I'm lying. I stopped at 2.89 miles because I swear I saw a raccoon scurry past my treadmill. Call me crazy, but when I start to hallucinate animals that are not even kind of native to this area working out in my gym, I slow down to a walk. But I did feel particularly euphoric afterwards. I'm thinking exercise may be the key to me successfully completing this cleanse this time. I've only finished one from beginning to end five years ago, I've unsuccessfully attempted this cleanse before, I think, twice.

Day 3
 (1:54pm)
No time for exercise. School starts for both my little darlings in a few days and my schedule is bursting at the seams.
Today I have been obsessed with food all day. Not in that I want to consume it necessarily, which I do in waves, but I just want to be near it and touch it and look at it and caress it and tell it I love it.
I put my son down for a nap at 12:30 then sprinted to the kitchen where I busily started to throw together a gorgeous loaf of banana bread.
As soon as that cinnamon-y vanilla-y buttery gloriousness was out of sight and into the oven (side note: I just checked on it and muttered a "holy fucking shit it's beauuuuuuutiful" to myself, closed my eyes, shut the oven door, and backed away slowwwwlllyyy because I was in severe danger of jumping in with the golden brown butter/sugar sponge and shutting myself in, burning alive with a smile on my face. "Gruesome death by carbs..." my obituary would say, "she's in a better place now"...) I started browning some ground beef in olive oil and red onion and copious amounts of garlic. I'm making my mom's lasagna, baby. It's my favorite and I can't have a bite. I am so sensitive to each ingredient's scent too. I chopped a small bunch of parsley and have never smelled anything so magnificent. If it weren't so hot outside, I'd run through a field with it and make out with it behind a tree. Anyway, I'm gonna make myself another lemonade, all this parsley talk has gotten me all hot and bothered.
 
Day 4
(12:36pm)
First day of the salt water flush for me. It's a "natural laxative" drink composed of what feels like a gallon of luke-warm water mixed with sea salt. Except I drank it cold, which I thought may make it easier, and it made me throw up. It is the worst thing that's ever happened to me, I think, and I was nauseous all morning. Anyway, I thought I might have vomited too much up for it to be effective, but boy was I wrong. It cleans you OUT. I might as well have chugged a container of drain-o if you catch my drift. Anyway, I did a spin class today, felt great and had plenty of energy. I can honestly say I'm not craving anything in particular today, and processed food just looks gross. And meat! I have no desire to eat meat, and I am a self-proclaimed carnivore. Soooo, I've lost six pounds, which is great because I gained a couple poundies in Idaho at my Mom's house where she basically propped my mouth open with a stick and poured food and alcohol down my throat for seven days. So with the extra, I started at 125, weigh 119 today.

......(6:28 pm) (STILL day 4 ... HOW?!)
- I lied. Made dinner for Troy and the kids and I lied. I'm sorry. I apparantly lied when I mentioned that I have turned up my nose to meat. I just made linguine with sweet and hot sausage and sliced fennel and onions in a velvety tomato sauce and so much parm and all sorts of other deliciousness and ... I lied. I want to bathe in that sausagey concoction and smear it all over my face while simultaneously gulping it down in a bathtub made out of chicken wings. And Troy decanted a bottle of wine right in front of me. What a DICK. And it's raining, thundering, and lightening and ALMOST COLDISH and nothing, I mean NOTHING, sounds better than meat-doused pasta and wine right now. I'd stalk and hunt and kill one of the rabbits that eats my grass with my bare teeth at the moment .  Ughhhhhhhhh x 78 x infinity!!!!


 Day 5
 (5:58pm)
 
 

 So today is the first day I'm dealing with a double dose of laxatives. The first being what I drank last night; the Smooth Move Tea, a euphemism if I've ever heard one, and the second being the salt water flush- which, drinking warm is a million times more palatable. Lesson learned. Anyway, as soon as I got the salt water down, things felt veeeerrrrrry fragile for a while below the belt. It can be assumed that I was scared to sneeze or raise my voice at the kids. I was gingerly whispering, "please don't punch your sister in the face," for fear that the force I put into being loud would push whatever was in my middle-region out, and my kids were confused at my super-odd behavior.  Either way, that weirdness ended, and I feel really good today. Not hungry, not cranky. I think I've gotten over the hump. My life has gone from "really miserable" to "just a little miserable" and I'm enjoying it heartily.

Ironic moment of the day: cashier at Walgreens complains of a headache because she hasn't eaten "aaaalll dayyyyy". HA!!

Day 6
 (7:03pm)

Second day of the salt water flush, second day of feeling bloated. I lost six lbs by day four, gained two by day five, and am a pound down from that today. So. Five pounds in exchange for pure torture?! No thanks. Not to mention my weight can fluctuate five pounds a day anyway. Lame. Feeling discouraged. How the HELL do you manage to NOT LOSE WEIGHT on 600-800 calories a day?! Amazing. I can only assume the salt water is making me retain water. So that's out, no more of that. Spoiler alert: I won't miss it. It makes my insides feel like it's lined with bubble wrap.

Went to PF Changs with my mother in law and kids and watched my daughter annihilate lettuce wraps, sauce dripping down her chin and licking her fingertips after each bite. It's was like Chinese water torture without the water and extra Chinese. Little Avery could only finish half her California roll (she couldn't pahhhhhsibly finish it) and I very seriously contemplated swiping a crab wonton from a unsuspecting waiter's tray as he passed by, wafting the steaming dish completely level with my face while we were walking out. No one would have known. I shoulda done it.

Then we took the kids to get frozen yogurt. How much longer to I have?!?! Four days. I. Can. Do. It.

Thought of the day: While talking to a fellow mom in Avery's Kindergarten classroom I wonder, "God, I hope there's nothing in my teeth. No, there's not, Sofia, you haven't eaten food in SIX MOTHERFUCKING DAYS."

Day 7
 
(12:36pm)
I am soooooo over this, but I've made it this far, I'm going to finish it, for no other reason but to prove to myself I can do it. I'm waiting for the day when I will feel great (they say day 7 is the day...) but I only feel great in spurts-usually when I'm distracted from the ever-nagging urge to eat food. I do like feeling empty and have enjoyed not experiencing any guilt this week about over-eating or eating something I shouldn't. I'm not bloated today (skipped the salt water flush), and am back to 119 which I can live with.

Day 8
 (1:23pm)
Feel comfortable in my smallest bathing suit today. Feeling thinner.
 I made lunch for my family today, stir fry with chicken, bok choy, carrots, haricot verts, sweet basil, garlic, and noodles with some peanut and teriyaki sauces. It smelled soooo good. And let me tell ya something. Watching my kids turn up their bratty little noses to healthy delicious, food that has wasted a sliver of my life to prepare, has always annoyed me into oblivion, but when Landon begs for me to "just give him Fruity Pebblesssss" instead of the very thing in the world I want the most in that moment is maddening. Needless to say, Little Boy went down for a nap with an empty tummy. Hungry Mommy don't play. Fruit Pebbles?! I will CUT a preschooler. Try me.

 Hoping Troy takes the kids to dinner tonight. I can't go through another torturous meal prep. It's been a week of abuse. Doing this cleanse with a family to feed is SO incredibly challenging. I would imagine I could do this cleanse for a month if I were single. And jobless. And had a personal lemonade chef. And had anesthesia that didn't wear off for thirty days. But yeah, this way is hard... Two more days... Two more days...

Day 9
 (2:13pm)
Feeling really thin today. I am wearing leggings and a t-shirt because the shorts I had on earlier were falling off and my summer dresses are too loose.

 I was thinking a lot today about how lonely this cleanse has made me feel at times. I have only received a handful of positive comments in regards to this cleanse, whereas, for the most part, I have heard things like, "you're crazy" "you're going to gain all the weight back anyway" or "why would you do that to yourself" and the like. Would have been nice to have had a bit more support from my friends and family. But regardless, I am boundlessly proud of myself. This cleanse has taken a lot of self-control and discipline, and I can accredit the intense focus it has taken to get this far to no one but myself. So, go me! And, if nothing else, I have learned how being a supportive person can positively influence another. A good lesson for me to learn at a time when my daughter is starting school and will need unwavering support from me for a very long time. I need to remember how feeling unsupported in something that I felt was important for myself made me feel quite desperate at times.
I am looking very forward to eating again, eating with my family, and having a glass of wine. I am up for the challenge of keeping the weight off and taking advantage of my mind being sort of at "ground zero" in regards to food and eating until we leave for Europe in a little over a month, and hopefully long after as well. I feel good today. Only a day and a half to go. I can do it. I will do it.

Day 10 (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
 (6:41am)
Troy quote of the day: "You gotta get finished with this cleanse cz I can't keep drinking bottles of wine by myself anymore."

 Ok, Troy. Your wish is granted, I have made it to the end!!! I weighed in at 115.2 this AM! I'm drinking the lemonade drink up until dinner, then on to veggie broth for tonight. I can't waaaaiiiitttttt! I did it. I am SO proud of myself! It was so hard and there were SO many times I wanted to give up. I've lost ten pounds and can't wait to get back to a healthy diet and exercise schedule. I felt a bit too loopy and was too busy with school starting to work out the last couple days, I'm expecting to gain back half of what I lost fairly quickly, so I'm gonna enjoy the shit out of my 115. Get ready for some selfies, people.
 
SO, in short, it's been a challenging ten days, and I've come to the conclusion that my most favorite part of this cleanse was when it ended! And I'd like to never have any maple syrup ever again, thanks.

 

 

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

dramarama

So, my daughter is super dramatic. We've gone over this before. And as much as I may protest at times, I know that I must take the heat for passing on this particular gene, because, well, I know I can be an emotional tidal wave at times. A tsu-mommy, have you. 
 
Troy, on the other hand, likes to bottle his Beer (see what I did there?). He can keep his emotional waves under wraps for a pretty good amount of time. I think I've seen him cry maayyybe five times- two of which were at the births of our children (tears of joy for both, though I feel for the first birth a couple tears of horror and fear may have been shed- he DID watch the lower half of his newlywed bride rip in half afterall...) Anyway, yeah, Troy is very straight forward. Especially during the work week, and definitely especially while he's on the job. He speaks in monotone and is very short (but super tall) on the phone. No nonsense. Sometimes he won't say "hi" or "bye". It's serious. It's particularly annoying for me because I'm all hopped up on caffeine and am extra loopy from being locked up with a couple of nutso non-adults all day so when he calls, it kinda always goes like this: 
 
Phone rings. 
Me: "HiIiiIiiiiiiiIiiii Trooooyyyyyyyyy. What's your cute little handsome face doing being all buff and strong and lifting cars and saving children from avalanchessssss...?"
Troy: "...don't forget to change the the oil in your car."
Sofia: "What did you eat for lunch I miss yyyyyoooo--" 
::click:: 
 
He's busy. I get it. I'm not mad. He actively partakes in satisfying  my neediness when he's home, so it's cool. 
 
Anyway, so, on this particular day, it's about three o'clock. Landon is still sleeping, and I turn on Avery's new favorite show on Nickelodeon in my room to keep her quiet while I take a shower. I kinda think I heard Troy come in through the garage downstairs, so I figure he could grab Landon if he stirs, though I know Avery will come and get me too. So Lan and Avery are covered. I start the shower, set my phone on the countertop so I can see it through the shower door if need be, and hop in. 
 
After a couple minutes of glorious alone-time selfishness, I notice my phone vibrating. It's Troy. A flutter of panic starts to stir in my belly because he doesn't normally call at this time for no reason. Plus- isn't he home? Is he trapped under the garage door or something? Nah, he's fine... I let it ring until my voicemail picks it up. And as soon as the ringing ended, it immediately started again- still my husband. I'm soaking wet and would rather inconvenience my four-year-old than risk the well-being of my iPhone, so I holler at Avery to pick up the phone with her dry, though probably sticky hands, and ask daddy 'what's up'. She had a very sassy conversation with him because she's now missed thirty seconds of her show ("What do you WANT Daddy? Can't she just call you back later!?"), and in the end, she reports, "Daddy really really needs your help and then he just hung up on me." 
 
"Shit," I think, "I better get out." I hurriedly rinse the remaining soap from my body and hair and turn off the water. As the constant noise from the shower head ceases, I can now hear Troy shouting my name from downstairs. 
 
"SSOOFFIIAAA!!!!! SOFIA!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! I NEED YOU!!!"
 
I grab a towel and slap it on my soaking body and run out of my bathroom and into my bedroom. I yelp a panicked, "What, Troy?!!" downstairs to my husband, and in return, I can hear his huge feet clamber up each step and toward my voice. He's sprinting. He's freaking out- I can tell by the way his disheveled running sounds as he climbs the stairs. I brace myself because I'm expecting to see a gun shot wound in between his eyes or a zombie reaching for his ankles as he turns the corner at the top of the stairs, so I'm confused when he stops in front of me, panting, and looks absolutely normal. Albeit flustered, but physically normal.
 
I beg of him to tell me what is wrong, and when he catches his breath, he looks me square in the eyes, and then squeals a pained, "WHERE is the salad dressing?! I'm STTAARRVVVIINNGGGG!" 
 
Then I laughed at him a lot.
 
And that's why I decided to pull the trigger on acting lessons for Avery shortly after this happened. With my tendency to melt down at every single Johnson&Johnson baby soap commercial and Troy's apparent inability to lead a functional life without salad dressing in it's proper place, kid's gonna need an emotional outlet.
 
Maybe we should just skip the kids' theater course and go straight to a psychiatrist on second thought... but that's probably just me being dramatic.

 

 


Monday, August 5, 2013

The Flight

Watching my children grow is the most mind-blowingly magnificent thing I've ever seen but also the most depressing, most unexplainably sad experience of my life. I pridefully celebrate the arrival of each milestone, while mourning the death and forever-ending of the last. There is no stopping it- no pausing it even. It's inevitable and it makes me sad. 

It seems like overnight my son went from toddling in baby diapers to shitting in the toilet like a man, beating his chest while exclaiming his testosterone-fueled sheer triumph at the size of his "huuuuge poops".
 
 My daughter, in fact, has completely bypassed her youth, emulating the mannerisms of a lady who might be starring in a Telenovela rather than attending a pre-k class. I've never seen someone so small be so dramatic and expressive. She loves to act like an adult, speak to adults, be with adults, and walk and talk like a grown-ass woman. She calls me, her Mommy, "Mom," and her Daddy, "Dad". She sneaks her bikini tops under her t-shirts so she can feel like she's wearing a bra.  It's a bit terrifying. 


I'll get back to that later, but no matter what kind of two- and four- year old, no matter how grown-up you think they may be, flying on a plane with them is the worst idea you've ever had. 

Shit, it sucks. There's no way around it's imminent suckiness. And although there's no way to make it an enjoyable experience, there is a way to make it worse- fly riiiight around nap time and keep your two year old up three hours past his bedtime the night prior. It'll be a doosy, I promise. 

I've spent the last ten days with my mommy (I, unlike my womanchild, have grown out of my too-grown-up-for-a-mommy phase) in Idaho which was a literal breath of fresh air from the muggy burning hell of a Las Vegas summer we're having. I enjoyed her help, beat her so mercilessly at Scrabble that she cried, and let my laziness levels peak at an all time high, soaking in my mommy-sister-wife vacation. Anyway, it had to come to an end, and it did. 

Troy met us for the last four days, so he was flying back home with us. It was a short flight, only about two hours, and due to the help from my husband, the quick flight, but mostly to my laziness induced coma, I didn't pack any sort of toddler distractions for the flight. I didn't really think I'd need them, and most the time, they don't work anyway. 

So there we are. In the airport, my son, an absolute ticking time bomb, and my teenage princess diva of a preschooler daughter with a swollen and mucousey eye who, in alignment with my luck, came down with her very first case of "pink eye" the night prior to the flight home. With some ibuprofen, the redness and swelling went down enough for it to be overlooked by strangers, so that was good enough for me.

 So, yeah, on the plane Landon was an absolute tornado in (but mostly out of) a seat belt. He was kicking (his dad, for the most part, who was in the row in front of us, and unable to assist me), he was screaming and jumping, he was grabbing and pulling at his sister and me. He was in a fit of exhaustion and discomfort. He was actually delirious. It was awful. 

About an hour into the abuse, I bought, from the airline attendant, the kids each a snack, hoping that satisfying his hunger might calm him. And plus each snack pack came with those little golden pilot's wing pins that they used to give us kids for free, but now come with a four dollar pack of eight goldfish and two Oreos.

The snack doesn't work. Landon is demanding Avery's cookies and is being a total dick. He's still kicking and shouting. Whereas initially I was sitting in the front-ish of the plane, I now feel like I'm in the center of the aircraft and all the passengers are seated, circling and facing me, staring and shaking their heads at my parental incapability. I'm mortified. I tried fastening the airline's stupid wing pins onto the kids' shirts as a distraction, almost impaling my never-still son through the heart as a result. Avery thought hers was cool because it resembled any kind of semblance of jewelry and she's apparently turning thirty-eight on her next birthday.

I'm on the verge of tears when the pilot announces that we are beginning to descend. Landon is clawing at me, in the aisle seat, to let him into the aisle. Big Girl Avery asks what "descends" means, and Desperate Mom lowers her voice and threateningly explains that "descends" means that anyone who is not in his seat with his seat belt on will be arrested and put in jail. 

What? It worked.

Landon was terrified, but he sat in his seat for the rest of the descent, wide eyed and fearing for his freedom. So. That. 

Anyway, we gather ourselves and head off the plane. Almost there. Just need to take a tram from the C-gates to the passenger pick up, where my sister-in-law is already waiting for us. We scurry to the back of the subway-car-like tram, and squeeze into the furthest seats because it's quite full. A woman sitting with her friend was admiring So Sooo Big Avery and said to her, "I love your pin!" referring to the winged airline pin I had fastened to her shirt and first layer of epidermis. Avery took this opportunity to engage in conversation with the much older woman, and to perhaps show off a bit, explaining, "I have a pin but I ALSO have a pink eye!" 

Woman looks at the floor, gives her friend an I'm-getting-my-tubes-tied-today sort of a look, I apologize, and she rushes out of the tram as soon as it stops, making damn sure not to touch anyone nearby who could possibly have an chance of being in our family. 

Anyway, we're home! We did it. Don't get me wrong, I still love and appreciate my kids' "phases", whether it be "the terrible twos" or the "freaking act your age fours"  but am happier to do so behind closed doors. And not on a plane. And with antibiotics.
 
 






Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Hot mama.

Because I've been missing for the last five weeks, I'll share something that happened a little while ago. 

First, it's hot. It's so hot here. It's feels like Satan, himself, has been hugging and squeezing and wringing the entire city of Las Vegas for the last month and a half. The wind feels like it has just been blasted from a hair dryer. The inside of my car feels like the absolute center of the earth's core.  It's unlivable and it's making me crazy.

 That said, we've been spending our time in the pool, which has, thanks to it's surrounding convention oven-like atmosphere, been feeling a lot more like a sauna than a pool,  but is still the only appropriate way to make it through the summer here. Unless you want to coop up a four- and two- year old inside canned air conditioning all day, and in that case, I'd rather sit in a heated frying pan. Which is, as a matter of fact, exactly what it feels like outside. It's making us all bananas... foster. Bananas foster, you know, the dessert that's blasted with a blow torch at the end? Yeah, that's it. We're all irritable. Even our indigestion-prone dog has been taking out his frustration on me by throwing up more frequently. So that's nice.

Anyway, it was a sunny inside-of-a-toaster kind of an afternoon about a three weeks ago, and my kids were, of course, swimming for hours. They had spent the whole day dunking each other; my two year old, Landon, gulping big gulps of pool water in fairly regular intervals as a result. And as ehhhhveryone knows, this makes a little tummy like his a tumultuous war zone. I knew this. So when I attempted to distract my over-swimmed VERY newly potty trained son with a bowl heaping with loads of fresh, refreshing watermelon to defer the incessant sibling fighting, I should have known better. Looking back on my incredibly dumb decision, I wonder if I may have been suffering early onset heat stroke at the time I made that particular choice.
 
So, the kids are over it at this point. They want inside. They're tired and want to watch a show to unwind from the eighteen hours they just spent in the pool.

I take off Landon's swim trunks and lay them over a patio chair, because I know they'll dry in 3.4 seconds. My little boy is naked. He runs to our completely carpeted upstairs while I strip Avery of her wet bathing suit. And upon my entrance to the house, I hear a squeaky, scared, and definitely guilty, "oh no, mama, poooooop!!" from upstairs. 

This is where I stop and collect myself because I know what I've done to this kid and I know what's in store for me. I've pumped him, all day, with a double dose of toddler laxatives, and I'm about to pay for it dearly.

Then I'm off. I sprint upstairs, and right in the doorway of my daughter's room ( was that intentional, Landon?) is a pile of diarrhea like no one has ever seen before. It was almost like a cartoon; all the gruesome scene was missing was a couple of squiggly lines signifying a repulsive stench and a swarm of black flies hovering above. 

I grab the nearest roll of paper towels and a plastic bag. Nauseated, I line my hand with each towel, scoop up handfuls of the warm-to-the-touch mess, and plop them into the ill-fated bag until the bulk is removed.  I'm gagging. I'm spraying and scrubbing so much carpet cleaner into the carpet that the tips of my fingers are being eaten away by the harsh chemicals. I stand up to heave and gag one more time before I need to sprint downstairs to grab another roll of paper towels, then I depart. Profusely sweating, I reach the final step of our carpeted staircase, stomach turning, then,
SMACK! 

I've just forcefully immersed my entire bare foot into an enormous pile of my asshole dog's vomit. 

I stand there for a while. I look at my hands, fingernails stuffed with my son's feces, the insides of each toe coated in canine puke. I start to cry. I look up to the heavens and offer a VERY dramatic "whhyyyy?" (I do this a lot), then collected myself and limped and hopped to the sink to rid myself of my son's and dog's guts. 

After another hour of scrubbing and sanitizing and vacuuming while satisfying my kids' never-ending requests for Goldfish (NO MORE WATERMELON) and shows and drinks all while breaking up fights and offering countless hugs to soften hurt feelings, my husband returns home from work. I smile and say hi, purposely not hinting at the shit storm that just swept through his seemingly calm home. I make dinner, bathe the kids, check Instagram a billion times hoping to find that someone is having a worse day than I am at the moment (#sorrynotsorry #everyonedoesit), pour myself a taaaall glass of vodka, then bathe, prepare, and all but drop-kick the kids to bed, wash and put away the dishes, wipe down the stove and counter tops, finish the laundry, don't update my blog, then go.. the fuck... to bed.

Being a stay-at-home mom is such a blessing blah blah blah but sometimes it's really fucking hard and never-ending, and no one knows, no matter how many vaguely panicked Facebook statuses she's posting, just how insane things can get behind closed doors for any particular mom. Because maybe her kid bites or hits uncontrollably or has tantrums til he's 9 or never sleeps or maybe half the house is emptying their insides all over the floor and mommy is elbow deep in unthinkable putridness, but she doesn't want to seem ungrateful (you don't have to "go to work", remember? Be thankful!) or unput-together or incapable in front of her spouse, children, friends, or the world so she chooses to smile instead. 
 
Aaaaand that's why moms are the best.

We've got a long stressful hotttttttttttt summer still ahead of us, but I guess I could take the pressure off a bit by passing up the fresh fruit aisle at the store for a couple more months for a start. Might be a good idea.

On another note, it really is amazing how much shit you go through when your kids are little.
 
 Literally.