The Griswold’s Thanksgiving Vacation - Day 1

Wednesday 2:30 pm.

We pick up #2 from basketball practice smelling like a rotten onion and leave town to drive 2.5 hours with a rotten onion.

2:40 pm conversation.

1:  Me and my friends talked in a British accent all night last night.
Kevin:  What?  Who did you talk to?
1:  Ummm nobody?
Kevin:  You just said you talked to someone all night?
1:  No I didn’t?
Kev:  Yes you did!  Bo Jackson?  Did you just say you talked to Bo Jackson all night?
Me:  (yelling at him like he’s a 99 year old deaf man who forgot his hearing aids) NOT BO JACKSON!  SHE SAID BRITISH ACCENT!

Dear Jesus. I just got a glimpse into our 90’s and it ain’t pretty.

3:55 pm

#3 is throwing a fit because he’s hangry. We are driving and there is nothing but fields for miles. I tell him he’ll have to wait until we find a place. He throws a bigger fit. I yell at him to suck it up because there is nowhere to stop right now. He yells back, “NO YOU SUCK IT!”.  Annnnnd there’s my daily dose of you should have never become a parent. Luckily for him he’s 2 rows back and out of reach.

4:16 pm

We see the light!  It’s a Wendy’s sign!  We stop and feed the monsters and the hangriness subsides. All is well and things are looking up.

4:42 pm

Phone call from Michelle.

We have no power at the cabin.

Just like that our 26 minutes of euphoria is gone.

Strong winds have knocked down trees and taken down power lines. We have no lights, no heat, no way to cook the 8000 pounds of food we brought and it’s 40° outside so we’re all going to freeze to death in a dark cabin. Yay.

5:17

Text from Michelle:  Help!! Jimmy is trying to start a fire with leaves & sticks from outside.

We need to make a stop.

5:26 pm

We stop at Lowe’s for flashlights and fire starters. Kevin takes 3 & 4 to the bathroom and hands me his debit card to checkout. I insert the card into the machine.

Card DECLINED.

W.T.F.

Is he writing bad checks again?  What is wrong with him?  Maybe he has a gambling problem...Or maybe he’s spending our children’s college tuition on prostitutes...Is this man begging for a divorce?  This is the account we keep our money in and it’s declined?

Me to cashier:  Uhhhhhh can we try that again?
*Inserts card*
*Says a quick prayer it goes through so my kids’ dad can go on living and their mom won’t end up in prison for life.

Then it dawns on me. I entered MY PIN number and it’s HIS debit card.

Process as credit, card accepted, crisis averted.

Toooootallllly kidding about the gambling and prostitutes.

Load 4 kids and the dog back in the van and continue on our merry way.

5:59 pm

#1 is already freaking out about not having cell service and no WiFi at the cabin. 2 wants to know how he’s going to be able to play ping pong in the dark.  3 is still throwing a fit because he didn’t get to walk the dog in Lowe’s. And 4 just asked for the 736,274th time how many more minutes until we get to the cabin because he is soooooooo cited to go to the cabin.

I’m wondering how I’m going to survive in a dark cabin with no heat and no food with 7 kids, 2 man childs and a dog.  Focus. I have Michelle. And wine. Focus on the positives here.

6:11 pm

Text from Michelle:  We have power!!!

Thank you sweet baby Jesus!

6:12 pm

Kruse’s pull up to the cabin. First time in history we have good timing.

6:16 pm

Aubree comes up from the basement and says, “So there’s this basketball game in the basement. It says if you break it you buy it and it’s $275. Lincoln just broke it.”

4 minutes. We have been here for 4 minutes.

6:17 pm

Pours first glass of wine.

7:30 pm

We unloaded, unpacked, fed the monsters again and consumed some alcohol. Things are looking up.

Midnight-ish epilogue:

The girls did some baking, the boys played and the parents talked. Then we all sat down to play a card game and #2 beat the pants off of all of us. It’s almost like the first 7 hours didn’t happen.  We’re almost like 2 normal families having a normal Thanksgiving vacation. Maybe we won’t be the Griswold’s after all.  Maybeeee.....just maybe we will have a fun, uneventful, relaxing vacation.

Nah. Definitely the alcohol talking.  But I love the false hope it gives me.

To be continued...

Bad Checks, Suspended License & A Maxi Pad

Ohhh what a night.

Where do I begin?

I guess with this text.

Yeah.  So, I'm leaving work to rush home to grab 1 & 3 to take them shopping for clothes to wear to the funeral this week.  Of course, I'm leaving work later than planned which shortens my time to get this done.  Oh, and I also have a curfew to meet because the husband has to work tonight. So, as I'm sitting in the god awful rush hour traffic - which by the way is a stupid ass name for it considering no one is rushing anywhere because we're all just sitting on the effing interstate like it's a park and ride - when I receive the above text.

I call him, make sure he is okay and there weren't any kids in the truck.  All is fine...well, except the truck, of course.  It now has a jacked up bumper that goes nicely with the chalk scratches 3 inflicted on the paint job over the summer.  He's not happy.  But it could be worse...it could be chalk scratches.

We hang up because the police finally arrive after waiting half an hour.  He just needs them to write up the report for the insurance company so he can pickup 4 from daycare and get home to take 2 and his friend to basketball practice.

Then I get this text.

Me:  Wait.  What?  The lady rear ended YOU...now YOU are getting a ticket?  For what?

Kevin:  Driving on a suspended license.

Me:  Ummm...WHAT???  You've never even had a speeding ticket.  How in the hell did your license get suspended???

Kevin:  The cop said something about 'insufficient funds' and my driver's license.  I guess it's from writing that bad check in July when I had to renew my license.

Me:  WHAAAAAT????

My crime free husband from 5 minutes ago is now driving on a suspended license AND writing bad checks!?  Who the F am I married to???

Then he explains.

It began 2 years ago.  We were out of checks.  I ordered more from Costco.  Costco effed up and transposed 2 numbers in our account number they printed on the checks.  I discovered this after I received a returned check from the bank.  I immediately called Costco and they immediately sent me new checks.  Kevin thought he got rid of all of the bad checks.  Fast forward to July.  Kevin needs to renew his license.  TODAY.  Because he always waits until the last minute for everything.  I'm at work with the checkbook.  No worries, he'll just grab a new book of checks and head to the BMV.  Except, he did NOT throw all of the bad checks away and he DID grab the wrong book of checks.

So, off to the BMV he goes where he unknowingly writes a bad check.  A week later, we get a notice in the mail that his check was returned.  Knowing there's plenty of money in the account - and by plenty, I mean there's at least $50 to cover the $40 check - we begin to think.  Then the light bulb goes off.  I tell him to bring me his checkbook.  I check the account number and sure enough it's the wrong checkbook.

Awesomeness.

He goes straight to the BMV the next day, explains what happened, pays cash for his license and the extra fees he racked up over this fiasco, and moves on.

Moved right on to today.  Apparently the BMV took his cash but never released the suspension they put on his license.

Freaking fantastic.

The officer was kind enough to not cite him for it since he had a clean record but he told him not to drive until it was cleared up.  Then the officer tells him *wink wink* he's going back the way he came so Kevin could drive off in the opposite direction without the officer 'seeing' him.  The cop drives off, Kevin pulls into Silverlake.  He parks, he calls me to give me an update.  Suddenly, he has to go because the officer is back.  What?  He's back?  Why is he back?

HE CAME BACK TO GIVE HIM A TICKET!!!

WHAAAAAT???

He said he wasn't going to cite him but when he called it in they told him he had to.  He said they would most likely dismiss the ticket once Kevin got everything straightened out but no guarantees.  He also told him not to drive under any circumstances until he got his license reinstated.

So there sits Kevin, in the daycare parking lot, with the police behind him, calling an uber.  He had to pick up #4 from preschool and load him and his little booster seat into an Uber to bring them home because his license is suspended for writing bad checks.

FATHER.  OF.  THE.  YEAR.  YA'LL.

Meanwhile, I'm out shopping with 1 & 3 like a crazed contestant on Supermarket Sweep so they don't have to attend a funeral in their pajamas and 2 has basketball practice and no way to get there.  Kevin calls in friends for backup who graciously jump in and pick up our stranded kid while Kevin Ubers home with 4.

I finally find enough clothes to piece together a few outfits and make it home with minutes to spare before the next Uber shows up to take my outlaw husband to work.

I still have homework to do with 3, suitcases to pack for 4 kids and myself, teeth to brush, kids to put to bed and work to do.  We won't even mention the fact that 1 & 3 didn't even have dinner unless you count the Great American Cookie and Icee they each had at the mall.

I make it through homework and teeth brushing and am ready to throw their pajamas on them and rush them off to bed so I can tackle the rest of my to-do list.

Except I come across the next problem.  We are completely out of pull-ups and we have a bed wetter that could fill up Lake Erie over night.  I'm not about to go back out.  I still have suitcases to pack and work to do and honestly, I'm too freaking exhausted to make another half hour trip for pull-ups.  And it's not like my non-driving husband can bail me out.  So, I came up with the next best thing.

Yes, A MAXI PAD

My son is soundly sleeping with a maxi pad in his drawers right now.  There is no shame in my maxi-pad-mom-game because I STILL have to pack, grab a nap, get 4 kids to 4 different schools tomorrow, work half the day, round up 4 kids from 4 different schools, pick up the dog and the husband and drive 2 1/2 hours to the funeral home.  Do I care that my son may need therapy for this some day?  Nope.  Why?  Because I'll just have his dad write a bad check for it and ship him off in an Uber to see his shrink.  Because apparently that's how we do things around here.

Brenda

I'm not one to normally feel that life's not fair.  I truly believe everything happens for a reason.  I believe in God and I know deep down he has a much bigger plan, but I can't help but have the biggest feeling of LIFE'S NOT FAIR right now.

My mom's best friend Brenda passed away this morning.  Not just her best friend but her person.  These two were more like twins than friends.  Brenda's husband is a truck driver and my dad works second shift which left these two to their own devices most days.  They ran errands together, went to each other's grandchildren's school and sporting events together, and most nights had dinner together.  They raised their kids together and vacationed together.  And they shopped together...oh could those two shop!  There really isn't much they didn't do together.  While my mom has always been the 'straight forward, suck it up and move on' type, Brenda was always the 'ohhh Am, come here and give me a hug and cry it out' type.  They were a great balance the two of them.

I can hardly recall a childhood memory Brenda wasn't part of.  There are some, but the most memorable ones had her in it.

In elementary school, I remember driving around one night with her, my mom and us kids telling ghost stories.  They took us out to the scariest bridge they could find and stopped on the middle of it during the scariest part of their story.  All of a sudden her son Adam opened the sliding van door and screamed and scared the ever loving shit out of all of us.  I don't think I've ever seen her and my mom laugh so hard in my life.

In Junior High, I remember our trip to the river and the mud fight she was shocked to see me participating in because I was the girly girl that didn't like to get dirty.  She always said I was the daughter she never had because we were so similar... and she was always a second mom to me.

In High School, she chaperoned every band trip and was everyone's favorite chaperone.  I know I'm not the only one who viewed her as a second mom - most band kids did.  Everyone just loved her.

I not only have childhood memories, it's my entire life of memories.  She helped plan my wedding, held my babies as infants, came to my kids' birthday parties.  She often rode with my mom to meet us halfway to take my kids home with them for Grandma week.  My kids called her Aunt Brenda and loved her like crazy.  And she loved them.

One of my absolute favorite memories with her was our trip to NYC in 2010.  My mom, Brenda, Brenda's niece Holly and I flew to New York for a girls' trip.  We did all of the touristy things and had an absolute blast.  We were on a horse and carriage ride in Central Park when we came across some PETA members protesting the carriage rides.  They had signs and were screaming all kinds of obscenities at us for being on the ride.  Brenda, being the nervous nelly she was, got super anxious and said, "everyone, just look down, do not make eye contact, do not engage, let's just hurry up and get past these people."  She no sooner said those words when I looked up, smiled, and passed them with a big middle finger in the air.  Her jaw dropped and I got a shocked "Amber Michele Kimmet!" from her but we laughed so hard.  I always loved doing things to shock her and throw her for a loop.

I could go on all day with the fun memories we've had but the part I'll miss the most is just talking to her.  Almost every time I called my mom she was there.  My mom would automatically put the call on speaker phone and we would all just chat.  She would never end the call without saying, "I love you Am!"  One thing I'll never doubt is that she loved me.

But as much as she loved her pseudo kids and pseudo grandkids, we will never hold a flame to her actual kids and grandkids.  That woman LOVED those kids.

Adam is her first born, her pride and joy, her Nashville star.  Brenda is one of the most humble people I've ever met but she could brag all day long on this kid.  In her mind, he walked on water and could do no wrong.  She would just glow whenever she talked about him.

Chris was her baby and she had such a soft spot for him.  He was so mischievous as a child and she loved every single minute of it.  She always told me my #3 was her #2 and I have MANY times asked myself "what would Brenda do?" when trying to figure out how to handle #3.  Fortunately, I was able to ask her myself often over the years and have lots of advice from her that I will continue to fall back on.

When Chris met Marcie, Brenda finally got the daughter she always wanted.  She loved Marcie just as much as she did her boys and always bragged on what a great mother Marcie was.  The two of them were as close as any mother and daughter could be.

With Marcie brought her first grandchild, Layken, and made Brenda even happier than I had ever seen her.  She fell head over heels the first time she met that sweet boy.  Being a grandma was her calling.

Then Coy came along, or as she called him:  Chris' karma.  She felt like she was reliving Chris being little all over again with that ornery one.  He made her laugh with all of his crazy antics he clearly inherited from his dad.

Finally her granddaughter came along, Miss Laney.  A little girl to shop for and spoil like crazy and that she did.  She loved these kids with all her heart and soul.  I loved hearing her stories about them almost as much as she liked telling them.

And of course, she loved her husband Mike.  I always loved that he called her "Bren" - you could just hear the love in his voice when he said it.  She had the patience of a saint when it came to his hectic work schedule and being on the road as a truck driver but I never once heard her complain.  She loved this man whole hardheartedly and cherished her time she had with him when he was home.

As much love as she had for everyone else, others loved her back just as much.  The woman had a heart of gold.  She would do anything for anyone.  She never said a bad thing about anyone - she was just a genuinely kind person.  She didn't necessarily light up a room when she walked in - she more so lit up each individual, one person at a time.  She would single you out, hug you, ask about your life, compliment you a hundred times, make you feel like you were the most special person in the room, then move on to the next person and make them feel just as special.  She had the kindest, most calming voice of anyone I know.  It's that voice that I keep hearing in my head today saying, "Oh, Am, don't cry for me,  I am just fine!  Don't you worry about me, you worry about those babies.  I'm right where I need to be, watching over all of you."  It's that voice that I will miss the most.  The voice of calm, the voice that oozed of love and sweetness.

I haven't been able to stop crying for the huge loss we've all experienced today.  I cry for my mom, who lost her best friend.  I cry for her husband, kids and grandkids.  I selfishly cry for myself because I am going to miss that woman soooo damned much.  But then I think, if it hurts little ole me this much, then I can't even begin to imagine what her family and friends are feeling right now.  And I cry again, for them.

I will cherish the memories I have with her and I pray her loved ones can do the same.  I know she'd want us to remember the happy times rather than cry for her but right now, sorry Brenda, it's just not possible.  We will all just miss you too much.

So today we grieve.  Tomorrow we grieve.  We will most likely grieve this loss for quite some time.  But I pray that time will heal, and we will all be able to rejoice in the fact that she's among the angels right where she's always belonged.

I hope you rest easy, Brenda.  Please watch over your loved ones in heaven until we all meet again.

I love you!

Love,

Am

Rainbow Baby

I’m going off the beaten path of funny light-hearted stories and dipping into personal territory.  This is not something I’m completely comfortable doing but when I started this blog I promised myself I’d step out of my comfort zone and discuss topics I otherwise may not have discussed.  And since today is Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance Day, I thought I'd share a not so fun fact that many do not know about me. 

Between 3 & 4, there was a 3.5. 

A pregnancy. 

And a miscarriage.   

Very close family and only a handful of my closest friends know this.  Not because I was embarrassed to talk about it.  Not because the subject is taboo.  But because I was
D E V A S T A T E D.  I couldn’t talk about it without bursting into tears and I HATE crying.  I especially hate crying in front of people.  So, I didn’t talk about it.  I told those closest to me who I talk to on the regular and that was it.

It wasn’t just a simple miscarriage either.  As if there is any such thing as a simple miscarriage.  What I mean is, it was a long, drawn out, roller coaster of emotions.  Here’s how it played out.

It was spring 2014.  The weather was getting warm and I was pasty white.  I needed some color before attempting to put on any type of summer clothes for fear of blinding people with my skin.  I decided I would hop in the tanning bed after work.  I know, I know, choosing a cancer bed is not the smartest choice but I get desperate when the sun pops out after hibernating all winter and I am suddenly suffocating in my winter clothes.  (Like I have no idea spring is going to happen and don’t have all winter to prepare.)  It just so happened the same day the sun arrived, my period did not.  Assuming it was just late but not wanting to take any chances, I decided to stop at the drugstore first and buy a pregnancy test.  You know, just to confirm and put my mind at ease.  I run into Walgreen’s and purchase a test.  When I leave, I realize I don’t want to drive all the way home just for the test to prove negative then drive all the way back to tan so I stop at the first place I see with a bathroom – McDonald’s.  I run in, pee on the stick and wait a few minutes for the single line to pop up so I can get on with my day.  But instead, that single little line brought a friend.  My jaw hit that nasty McDonald’s bathroom floor.  

My first thought was, “I can’t believe I just found out I’m pregnant in a McDonald’s bathroom.”  My very next thought was, “My husband is going to KILL me.”  The next chain of thoughts flooded my mind.  Holy shit.  I’m pregnant.  I’m going to have FOUR kids.  Who in their right mind has FOUR kids?  My husband only wanted two.  It took me five years to talk him into a third.  The third has been a colicky nightmare which further convinced him he was DONE having kids.  How in the HELL am I going to tell him I’m pregnant?!?  What am I going to do???  It’s hard to believe a 35-year-old woman who has been married for 10 years had these thoughts going through her head but there I was.  I was freaking the freak out.  

I drove home in a daze with my mind racing a million miles per hour.  I turned down my street and drove right past my house.  I can’t go home.  I can’t tell him yet.  I need advice.  I’ll stop by a friend’s house and talk it out.  I drove by 8 different friends’ houses and not one of them was home.  Reluctantly, I headed home.  I pulled in my driveway and went inside.  I don’t remember saying a whole lot to Kevin that day or evening.  I felt like a teenager trying to build up the courage to tell my parents I was pregnant.  I didn’t know how to drop this bomb on him.  So, I googled it.  The first thing that popped up were these cute little onesies that say, “I’m going to be a big brother.”  I started to feel the first little bit of excitement but that quickly washed away as I thought about telling Kevin. 

After what seemed like HOURS of pondering how I’m going to tell him, I finally just handed him my phone with the picture of the onesie on it and said, “What do you think about getting this for #3’s Easter basket?”  He looked at it, nodded, said, “sure, that’s fine” then did a double take, enlarged the picture and looked at me with the most shocked/scared/pissed off look I’ve ever seen on his face.  For unknown reasons, I started uncontrollably laughing.  He said, “Is this for real?”  I said yes.  He didn’t believe me because I’m still laughing like a lunatic.  He asked the same question about 37 more times then went radio silent for the next two days.

Two days later, he finally spoke.  He expressed his concerns.  I’m never going to get a truck.  You will still get a truck.  We can’t all fit in my truck.  We currently can’t all fit in your car and we’re doing just fine.  We have a van.  We’ll drive that when we’re all together.  We don’t have a double stroller.  We can buy a double stroller.  Where will the baby sleep?  We will get bunk beds and two kids will share a room.  Siblings do this every day in America.  They’ll survive. 

Once he voiced all of his concerns and I guess I gave plausible answers, he took a deep breath and said, “So we’re really having a baby.”  And he smiled.  He SMILED! 

We decided to keep the news on the down low until after the first ultrasound as we did with the other three babies.  I ordered the onesie I sprung the news with.  We started making plans and figuring out how everything would work logistically.  At my first doctor’s appointment we scheduled the ultrasound at 9 weeks.  We got more excited.  I counted down the days until the appointment was finally here.  Never once did it cross my mind anything would be wrong.  I just couldn’t wait to see the baby and that tiny heartbeat and then rush home to announce it to the older kids. 

Except there wasn’t a heartbeat.  

I could tell right away.  The ultrasound technician just kept moving the wand around and not saying anything.  As the seconds ticked by, I could feel my eyes welling with tears.  Kevin looked at me confused.  I just shook my head no.  He was still confused.  What felt like hours later but was likely only minutes, if not seconds, the technician looked at me.  At this point I was full on crying.  She said, “Don’t panic yet, let me get the doctor.  It could just be too early to tell.” 

But I knew. 

She left the room and was back with the doctor within minutes.  He looked things over and said it’s possible we miscalculated, I just wasn’t as far along as we thought.  He sent me for blood work and said we would do a second round in 24 hours.  If my numbers went up that was a good sign.  If they went down, not a good sign.  Off to the lab I went, crying through the whole process.  We drove home without saying a word.  I went to our room and cried most of the night, unable to pull it together.  

The next day was a blur until it was time to get more blood work done.  I went through the process again.  The results would come back the next day.  The next day was Good Friday.  I called the doctor’s office multiple times begging for results.  Finally, the results were in. My numbers went UP!!!  

I was so excited and relieved but still terrified.  The doctor told me that’s a good sign but not to get my hopes up yet.  It could either mean I was not as far along as expected OR it could mean my body just hadn’t registered the miscarriage yet.  He said we should know for sure by the end of the weekend if it was a miscarriage – meaning my body would reject the fetus in the next day or two if it was.  If it didn’t, then we would do yet another round of blood work on Monday. 

It was a very long torturous Easter weekend.  I really couldn’t focus on anything except worrying about the baby.  Finally, Monday arrives with no sign of miscarriage.  I was elated.  This HAS to be a good sign.  I went back in for more blood work.  Tuesday afternoon they call with results. 

They want to see us in person. 

Not a good sign.  At all. 

We go back to the doctor.  He sits us down in his office and tells us my numbers dropped dramatically from Friday.  What?  How could that be?  They had gone up before…  Then he said the 2 letters I did not want to hear. 

D&C

D&C stands for dilation and curettage which is a procedure to remove tissue from the inside of the uterus.  In this case, the tissue was my baby.  I freaked out.  I told him I was not ready for that.  What if there was a chance the numbers were wrong?  What if they ended up mistakenly aborting my living baby?  Couldn’t we just wait and so more blood work in a day or two?  Just to be SURE? 

I was in denial and was convinced they were wrong.  The doctor agreed to wait and do another round of blood work in 2 days.  So, we did.  Three days later my worst fear was confirmed.  

The numbers bottomed out. 

There was still no heartbeat. 

The baby had died. 

But like my mind and my heart, my body wasn’t letting go. We had to schedule the D&C.

At this point I’m hyperventilating as the realization is finally hitting me.  They scheduled the D&C for the next day.  I don’t remember scheduling it or leaving the office or driving home.  I just remember crying for hours.  I went straight to bed and eventually cried myself to sleep.

The next day we got the kids off to school and headed to the hospital for the surgery.  I was cried out.  I had grieved the death of my baby and now was mentally preparing for a surgery.  My grief shifted to nervousness.  I wouldn’t let myself think about the baby.  I just kept telling myself I had to go in for a medical procedure and put myself in a very clinical mindset.  

We checked in and were shown to a room.  The nurse asked me to change into a hospital gown.  Then she says, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” My eyes immediately started welling with tears.  She completely wiped my clinical mentality out of my brain with those 6 words.  Now I’m thinking of the baby again.  

I try to put the thought out of my head and focus on the surgery.  I get changed, get situated in the bed and another nurse comes in to start my IV.  When she finishes, she holds my arm and repeats the same words as the first nurse with tears in her eyes.  I can’t even say thank you because I’m in tears again.  This process repeated itself with the next dozen people who walked through the door.  They were all kind and compassionate and heartfelt when they said those words – which I can appreciate now – but at the time I just wanted them to stop.  I was tired of crying.  I was tired of people feeling sorry for me.  I was tired of seeing that pity look in their eyes.  I just wanted the anesthesiologist to come in and knock me out.

But instead, another lady walks in.  I don't remember her name.  I don't remember her job title.  I just remember her sitting down and saying, "I'm so sorry for your loss.  This is going to be a very difficult conversation but since we are a Catholic hospital, we need to know if you would like your baby to be baptized."

WHAT?!?

I was NOT expecting this conversation, NOT expecting THAT question.  I burst into tears and just shook my head yes.  Then she asks what we would like done with the remains.  At this point, I.  CAN.  NOT.  EVEN.  DEAL.  She explains the hospital has a baby cemetery where they bury most of the miscarried babies but some mothers prefer to have the remains released to them to have their own private burial.  Seeing as how I was only in my first trimester we opted for the baby cemetery.  I just could not even believe I was being asked these questions and having to make these decisions.  It just made it all the more real and all the more devastating.

Finally, it was time for my surgery.  I never thought I'd welcome sedation as much I did in that moment.

The surgery went well without any complications.  As I was coming out of anesthesia and fighting through recovery (always the worst part of surgery for me) a lady walks in and hands me a seashell and a poem.  She tells me the seashell held my baby as they baptized him or her and the poem was about the grief of losing a child.

Cue an epic meltdown in drastic proportions HERE.

To date, this was obviously one of the absolute worst days of my life.

We finally left the hospital.  We grieved our lost baby.  We tried to move on.

I always think about what it would've been like to have that 3.5.  Would it have been a girl or a boy?  Was there something wrong with the baby and that's why God chose to take him or her back?  Is it something I did wrong?  I don't know the answers to these questions but I do believe some day I will.  I believe I will get to meet my baby on the other side when it's my time.

In the meantime, I can't help but realize, if God had not called that baby home, we would not have our #4.  And I can not even imagine life without that little guy.

It was just a few short months after my miscarriage when we found out we were expecting #4.  Our rainbow baby.  Although he'll never replace the baby we lost, he was definitely what we needed to help us through that dark time.  He was indeed a godsend.

I also can't help but think about all of the other mothers out there that have gone through this same difficult situation.  Or worse situations...being further along, having a stillborn baby or losing a child.  I think of the mothers that were never blessed with a rainbow baby.  The ones who have to deal with infertility, multiple miscarriages or infant loss.  My heart breaks for these mommas because I only know a slight portion of what they're going through and just that little slice of pain is something I don't wish upon my worst enemy.

If you're the praying type, please send one or two up for the 1 in 4 moms that has had to endure pregnancy & infant loss.  It's definitely not a club any woman wants to be part of and anyone who has been through this could surely use the extra prayers.

Sorry I Yelled

Dear kids,

I'm sorry I yelled.  But in my defense, ya'll got me so stressed it's the only outlet I have before I spontaneously combust from holding it all in.

I know you're tired and cranky.  I am too.  So when I ask you to pick up your Hot Wheels for the 76th time and you continue to dance around clucking like a chicken, I lose my shit.  Then when you melt into a puddle of snot because I yelled, I step over you and your Hot Wheels and move on to the next mess cause momma ain't got time for this.

I have daycare pickup, cheer carpool, football carpool, carpool for carpools.  You want a last minute ride to a friend's house?  Sure, load up the kru, what's another trip.  You forgot you needed supplies for a project due tomorrow?  Kroger, here we come.  Last minute practice changes?  Why not, sounds great.

I've got to lunches to pack that I'll throw most of away after school tomorrow.  I have 10 minutes of homework that will sure as shit take 4 HOURS.  I have dinner to cook that you will refuse to even try because it has green stuff in it - which will then be followed by a gourmet 5 course meal of your choosing of Easy Mac, a hot dog, chicken nuggets, yogurt and cereal in which you'll consume a cumulative 6.5 bites of before it joins the majority of your packed lunch in the trash.

I have hours of laundry to fold and put away so you can yank it all out of your drawer tomorrow and throw it all over your room while looking for the stained up too small shirt that you'll insist on wearing to make sure everyone thinks your mom never does laundry or buys you new clothes.  Then when I yell at you to clean your messy room, you will pick up all of those clean clothes from your floor and toss them right back into the dirty clothes hamper.  Hence, the never ending laundry and my need to yell.  Again.

I have 12 blankets to pick up and fold from all corners of this house.  Not because it's freezing in here but because #3's favorite hobby is getting every blanket out and dragging it through the house and dropping it where he feels the urge then going back for the next blanket.

I have Halloween costumes to pickup from every surface because #4 wants to be Captain Underpants when he gets home from preschool, has to eat dinner as a Ninja Turtle, insists on putting on his football uniform because that's what #2 is wearing for practice, then has to gear up in his police uniform to head out to patrol the backyard in his police vehicle.

The yard.  Oh the yard.  It's a never ending job picking up construction vehicles and returning them to the sandbox.  Gathering random socks from around the trampoline.  Rounding up 43 basketballs, footballs, kickballs.  Watering my dead plants out of principle, not that I actually think they have a chance in hell of ever coming back to life. 

I have sand to sweep from the floors and to scrub from the bathtub after the ring that is left from bathing dirty little boys.  There's urine to mop up around the toilets - because again, boys.

I have permission slips to sign, money to be handed over, fundraisers to solicit.

There's kind of a lot going on.

So, at the end of the day, when I ask you to pickup your Hot Wheels, please do not cluck at me.  Just pick up the damn cars and put them away.  Because believe it or not, I don't like to yell.  It does not spark joy within me.  It actually leaves a huge weight of mom guilt on my shoulders that never really goes away.  It may shift from my shoulders to my mind at night so I have plenty of things to overthink and worry about as I lay in bed instead of resting my overly tired mind.  It infringes on my allotted 6 hours of sleep that I so desperately need before waking up to do this all over again.  By morning, it will shift back to my shoulders for me to carry around all day again because no amount of worrying and overthinking seems to ever make it go away.

I'm sorry I yell.  I really am.  I will try harder tomorrow but no promises can be made.  I know you'll be super shocked to hear this, but I'm not a perfect mom.  It's hard to tell from the forgotten show-and-tell days to the unsuccessful Pinterest-worthy school projects - but it's the truth.  I try my best, I really do.  But many times my best doesn't feel it's good enough.  Not because you make me feel that way, but because I feel nothing will ever be good enough for the perfectly imperfect little humans your dad and I have created.  I will forever want to do more.  To be more.

But as much as I yell AT you sometimes, remember I'm yelling FOR you most times.  Yelling on the sidelines, proud of that tackle.  Yelling encouragement when you try out for the sport you're not the best at but willing to try anyway.  Yelling I'm proud of you for receiving the best grades you're capable of achieving.  Yelling you're beautiful, you're smart, you're kind because that's what you need to hear the most.  Those yells by far outweigh the frustrated, tired, cranky yells.

So, at the end of the day, please don't remember the times I yelled.  Please remember the carpool karaoke of Old Town Road on repeat because that's your favorite song - and because you were forced to participate in 2 hours of carpool because your siblings have places to be.  Please remember your belly being full, your clothes that smell like Tide, and the overflowing bottomless toy box.  Please remember me running through the house as you chase me with a sword and clapping for you as you perform imaginary tackles on the living room carpet in your football gear.  Please remember the silly songs we make up and sing as we scrub the dirt from behind your ears and sand from your hair.

Most of all, remember I LOVE YOU.

I'm proudly yelling

I  L O V E  Y O U 

Please, just remember that yell.

Love,

Mom

P.S. Actual proof of the dirt ring left in my tub.  It’s no joke.

Big Bro Hero

#4 is obsessed with #2. He wants to do everything #2 does. He imitates him, dresses like him, loves all of the same sports he loves.  He’s his #1 fan on and off the field. 

He brings his helmet to his games - I think he’s hoping they’ll need an extra player and put him in.  He watches him, studies his plays, imitates his walk and carries his helmet just like 2 does. 

After the game today, I captured this picture of him. Sitting back, taking it all in, pretending to be part of the team.  

But today of all days, he absolutely should want to be like his brother. 

#2 had a pick 6 which ended up winning the game for his team. He intercepted a pass and ran it down for a 30+ yard touchdown. It was his first touchdown of his life as he normally plays linebacker and doesn’t even touch the ball. To say we are proud is an understatement. It actually took everything I had to hold back the ugly tears. 

Just. So. Proud. 

He’s come a long way this season and I’m so proud of the hard work and dedication he has put in. He encourages his teammates and helps up the opposing team after tackles. He pushes himself at practices and gives it his all in every game. He spends hours outside of practice playing football in the backyard, practicing his kicking, sprinting, doing sit-ups and pushups...anything he can to get better. He literally eats, breathes and sleeps football.

He has the best coaches and the best teammates. They look out for one another, encourage each other and truly care for one another.  His coaches not only push him to his limits but constantly look out for his safety and well-being.  I’m not only proud of him but proud to be part of such a great organization. 

I don’t know what his future holds but I know I’m excited to see where it takes him. I will be with him every step of the way cheering louder than any other fan - and probably ugly crying from time to time. 

He told me after the game today that this was the best day of his life. I have to admit, this day ranks right up there for me too, kiddo.

Help

I saw this meme and it spoke to my soul:

Also Me:

You need to borrow an egg?  Absolutely!  Here, take the whole dozen.  Actually, they probably aren't that fresh.  Let me just run to the farm and get some straight from the chicken's butt.  I'll take your kids with me too that way you can have an hour or two to yourself.  Oh, and if you ever need a kidney, I'm your girl.

Why is it always so hard to ask for help?  I don't think twice to lend a hand to someone else but I'd rather cut off my own hand than to ask someone to help me.  (I’m sure every one of my friends reading this is nodding their head right now.)  

Am I too independent?  Too stubborn?  Maybe a little of both?  

Don't get me wrong, I need all the help I can get most times, but it's rare I will ask for it - or even take you up on it if you offer.  And when I do, I feel like I need to pay the person back, whether it be in cash or a return favor.  I don’t necessarily think this is a fault per se.  I like being independent and I LOVE doing things for others without getting anything in return.  I just wish every once in awhile I could ask for a favor without being so cringey.  

Anyone else have this problem?  If you don't want to answer that's fine.  Really, I don't want to put you out.  Totally okay if you can't.  Are you mad at me?  

My Girl

This girl.

The actual girl, not the dog.  The dog is clearly good for nothing.

The HUMAN girl.

She never ceases to amaze me.

She walked in after a 7 hour school day and 2 hours of cheer practice to see me fighting with her brother over homework. She didn’t even stop to drop her backpack. She walked straight in and said, “Do you want me to help him?  I can help him.”  She jumped right in and calmly and patiently explained his homework to him in a way that I could not.  She allowed me to step away and take a much needed breath.  She calmed both of us in a matter of seconds.

SHE DIDN’T EVEN TAKE OFF HER BACKPACK

Not many kids would do this.  Especially teenagers.  They're normally so self absorbed with a cell phone stuck in their face they don't even realize help is needed.  But this one is special.  While I'm sure she would have preferred to go straight to her room with her cell phone stuck in her face, she didn't.  She stepped in the middle of a screaming match and took over.  As amazing as this is, this isn't a one time thing for her.  This is her norm.  And I admit, I take it for granted.  Take HER for granted.  Often.  But nights like this it stops me in my tracks and makes me realize how truly blessed I am.

I know she doesn't realize how much I love her and I appreciate her.  In fact, she often accuses me of having a favorite child and it's never her. I explain to her mothers do not have favorites, we really don't like any of our children most days. 😉  But I do have my favorite parts of each child.

And this girl has so many favorite parts.

She is my first born. My #1.  The child numerous doctors and specialists told me I’d never conceive. The baby they said I would never carry full term yet arrived 10 days past her due date. The infant that was to be born so early and weigh so little that she’d never survive, came barreling out at 9 lbs 10 oz. She was a miracle from the beginning and has been gracing me with miracles ever since.

She's my fashion adviser, a second mother to her brothers, my shopping partner.  She's the kid who always does what I ask the first time and without complaining...well, most of the time.  She can calm her brothers down in a way no one else can.  She makes me laugh with her quirky sense of humor and goofy antics.  She tries new things and when she succeeds, she's humble - when she fails, she does so with grace.

She's kind.  She's Beautiful.  She's my best friend.

Is she perfect?  Of course not.  No one is.  But she's perfect to me.

I know she’s only a freshman in high school but I’m already completely panicking over her leaving for college. I mean, she was just in kindergarten yesterday - or so it seems.  In the meantime, I'm going to relish in her presence and soak in all the time I have with my baby girl.  I will do so with my eyes wide open because last time I blinked she somehow ended up in high school.

I pray she continues to make good choices, remains kind and always comes to me when she needs someone to talk to or a shoulder to cry on.

And I pray she continues to help her brother with his homework.

F National Dog Day

Meet Dixie.  

She's our 2 year old boxer.  Our #5.  She looked so sweet sleeping on her dog bed last night I just had to take this picture.  I'm pretty sure I even said to Kevin, "Look at our sweet baby girl, isn't she the best?"

She laid on this bed for hours last night as we ate dinner, watched TV, folded laundry.  Not once did she need to go outside.  We let her out to potty before we went to bed like usual.  We put her in the little boys' room to sleep and shut the door.  As long as she is confined to a room, she doesn't have accidents in the house at night.  If she gets out, she goes straight to our brand new family room carpet and does her thing.  We don't know why she does this, we don't know how to get her to stop, we only know in order to prevent this, we just need to close the door to whatever room she's sleeping in at night.  Pretty simple, right?

Right.  Until one of the kids gets up in the middle of the night to pee and forgets to shut the door.

Then you wake up to a text message like this at 6:04 on a Monday morning:

And by poop, she meant massive, explosive, something-died-in-our-house-smelling, trailing-to-earth's-end-and-back diarrhea.  

Diarrhea with the consistency of the ice cream machine at The Golden Corral.  Diarrhea with the smell of a port-a-potty with a dead raccoon that's been floating in turd punch while sitting in the basking heat for 72 straight days...on blacktop...in the dead of summer.

And I mean it's everywhere.

EVERYWHERE.  

In the boys' room.

All over the upstairs hallway.

Down the stairs.

Multiple places all over the family room.

The formal dining room.

EV-ER-Y-WHERE.

So this is how Kevin and I started our Monday morning.  By scrubbing mounds of dog sharts out of our carpet.

And now I see it's National Dog Day and we are supposed to celebrate her?  Nope.  Not gonna do it.  Not while I still have the dead raccoon smell ingrained in my nostrils and feel like the smell is seeping from my pores.  Not when I've ruined a perfectly good pair of pajamas with dog shit smears.  Not when my hand is still sore from scrubbing brown, runny, mush stains from my brand new carpet.  

She's being punished today - not celebrated.

She's being punished by living in her air conditioned house, with her dog bowl full of food and water, sleeping on her cushy ass dog bed that's most likely more comfortable than my own.  

And when I walk past her tonight on my carpet and step in damp spots in my socks and cuss she will sigh and roll her eyes because she can and there's not a damn thing I can do about it.  She's basically going to raise her paw and give me a big ole f-u.  

And the kids will most likely be following behind me with a dog treats.

1st Day of School

4 kids 4 different schools this year. 

4 different modes of transportation.  

4 different pickup times.  4 different arrival times.

2 parents doomed for exhaustion.

Let the school year begin...

#1: Freshman. Still doesn’t know what she wants to be when she grows up. Still 100% Daddy’s girl. Still my BFF. But still a teenager that gets annoyed with us and annoys us at times too. She’s going into High School excited and confident.  I pray she stays that way. 

#2:  6th grade. Wants to be rich and famous when he grows up but doesn’t want to work for it. Possible options are YouTuber or Fortnite Champion. 😒 Was a total nervous wreck this morning but will never admit it. Wouldn’t hug his mom back and would only fist bump his dad. Almost missed the bus. I hope it’s all uphill from here. 

#3:  1st grade.  Wants to be a Police Officer when he grows up. He was excited to ride the bus again and couldn’t wait to get to school.  Not too cool yet for momma selfies or hugs.❤️ I pray he behaves better at school than at home and is kind to his teacher and friends. 

#4:  Pre-K.  He also wants to be a Police Officer when he grows up. It’s not really his first day but he had to have a backpack and lunch box like the big kids and had to have his picture taken too. He was sad he couldn’t ride the bus with #3 and can’t wait to go to the big kid school next year. I, on the other hand, would like to freeze him. 

I hope and pray they all have a safe and successful school year. I pray they make good choices, do their best and are kind to everyone. And I pray that homework time doesn’t drive us all to the brink of insanity. Amen. 

How To Meet Mom Friends

I hear from so many moms how hard it is to make mom friends.  I agree, it can be.  But it doesn’t have to be.  I’m no expert in this area but I’ve put together a quick list of ways I suggest making mom friends.  I understand this list may not be for everyone.  But if you’re a train wreck mother looking for her tribe, you may find this helpful.

1. Smear some ketchup on your butt.  Walk by.  Drop something.  Bend over in front of her to pick it up.  If she doesn’t tell you there’s something on your butt – total girl code fail.  Move along.  You don’t want to be friends with her.
2. When in public, if your child isn’t listening, threaten to stab him in the eyeball with a Capri sun straw.  If the other moms gasp in horror, these are not your people.
3. Crack open a White Claw at your son’s football practice.  Offer one to the mom next to you.  If she gives you a judgy look and says no, do not befriend her.  If she accepts, cheers!  Drink up - then share an uber.
4. Next time you lose your shit on your kids at the grocery store, do a quick sweep of the produce section.  If you see a mom shaking her head at you, push your overly large awkward stupid ass car cart in the opposite direction while mentally giving her the finger. If she sighs in exhaustion and looks at you sympathetic, she gets it.  Make friends.  Be exhausted together.
5. If you see a mom out with her children and her hair is perfect and makeup is flawless – don’t be judgy.  Give her the benefit of the doubt.  Ask her how she pulls that shit off.  If she says, “Oh, I always look like this.” Then either 1.  She’s lying – and you don’t want to be friends with a liar.  Or 2.  She’s not human.  Run away before she snatches you up and hauls you off in her UFO.  If she says, “I finally took my first shower of the week and had an extra 10 minutes to get ready before picking them up from preschool.” Exchange numbers.
6. Go to a PTA meeting.  Just go.  Sit silently and watch.  They’ll sort themselves out.  You’ll see.
7. When your son drops his drawers to his ankles and pisses in the middle of the park, make friends with the mom that laughs and says “boys will be boys” not the one who repulsively shields her child’s eyes while making a face that looks like she just ate spam from the can.  You don’t need that kind of negativity in your life.
8. Host a party.  Invite a few potential mom friends.  Don’t tell them it’s a test – make sure you use the word ‘party’.  Offer them a drink.  If they say tea and it’s after 5:00 pm, light your couch on fire to evacuate them from your house.  If they say tea-quila, you’ve found your soulmate.
9. Go to your child’s high school orientation.  Stay for the Q & A.  If a mom asks what classes their child should take if they aspire to be a bio chemical nuclear engineering lawyering doctoring CFO of the universe do not even make eye contact.  These people are so out of your league.  If they ask what classes their child should take to become an organizer at Bath & Body Works, not only will you get along but your children will be fast friends.  It's a win/win.
10. And my last bit of humble but solid advice is start a blog.  If they follow you, like your posts and pretend you’re funny and your parenting is normal THEY ARE FRIENDS FOR LIFE.

The Motley Kru: “Perfect Parents Exist They Just Don’t Have Kids Y...

The Motley Kru: “Perfect Parents Exist They Just Don’t Have Kids Y...: I saw this quote on Facebook today and it really hit home.   “Perfect Parents Exist They Just Don’t Have Kids Yet” Lawd ain’t that...

“Perfect Parents Exist They Just Don’t Have Kids Yet”

I saw this quote on Facebook today and it really hit home. 

“Perfect Parents Exist They Just Don’t Have Kids Yet”

Lawd ain’t that the truth.  I had this whole parenting thing completely figured out before I had kids. It was going to be a joyous experience.  I was going to parent using the perfect blend of love and discipline.  No yelling, spanking or cussing necessary – I mean, why give birth to these little angels if you’re just going to yell at them all the time?  I was going to stay at home and raise them because I couldn’t bear to imagine pulling myself away from my imaginary children for one little second.  And why have kids if you’re just going to hand them off to someone else to raise?  Who does that?  Well, apparently people who need money and like to eat and not live on the streets.  Those people.  My future children were going to have a routine and we were going to stick with it every day because routines are good for kids - my Parenting for Dummies handbook said so.  I memorized that book and read every parenting book and magazine I could get my hands on because it was bible.  I high-lighted, took notes, cross-referenced information – I was ready.  Bring on the babies!

Fast forward 14 years and 4 kids later to yesterday.  

My day started out unusually smooth.  The 3 boys were dressed, teeth brushed, breakfast eaten, and we were actually a few minutes early picking up #2’s friend who I had to drop off for Middle School Camp.  We no sooner drop off #2 & his friend and #4 has his first meltdown of the day.  He could not and would not understand why a 4-year-old couldn’t go to Middle School Camp.  He screamed and kicked and threw a fit the whole way to Summer Camp.  (Remember that stay at home mom thing I planned?  Well, didn’t happen.  This is where I drop my angels every day so I can work full-time.) 

We arrive at Summer Camp.  As I’m dragging the fit throwing 4-year-old who is acting like a 2-year-old from my van, #3 keeps saying, “Why does my swim back look different?  Why Mom?  Why does it look different?” to which I snap, “It’s not different – it’s the same red bag you’ve used every single day this summer for camp.  What do you mean it’s different?”  He points to it and says, “Look at it.  It’s different.”  I stop.  Look at the bag.  Sure as shit it’s a different red bag.  Son of a biscuit making mother trucker.  I open the bag.  Good news: it has a beach towel in it.  Bad news: no swim suit.  Also bad news:  summer camp is an hour round-trip in the opposite direction of where I work.  But it’s okay.  It’s fine.  I’m sure today is field trip day, not swim day.  Riggghhht.  Counselors confirm it is in fact swim day.  I tell #3 I will get his swim suit and bring it back.  I pry #4 off a pole he’s clinging to and carry him surfboard style kicking to his room.  (Remember how I didn’t want to pull myself away from my kids to go to work?  Yeah, I couldn’t get out of that room fast enough.)

I run out the door and jump in my van to begin my hour-long swim suit recovery trip when a light bulb goes off.  Well, actually it was a huge lit up red K to be exact.  I run in to Kmart, find an ugly ass but clearance priced #3 sized pair of swim trunks, throw my $7.48 at the cashier, snatch up her sharpie, write his name on his drawers and 3 minutes later I’m chucking those trunks through the door at Summer Camp and off to work I go. 

Work.  Ahhhh work.  It’s the only calm, sane part of my day.  It’s my refuge from my chaotic home life. It’s my break from the madness I created within the four walls of my home.  Many days it’s the only adult interaction I get.  I love work.

But alas, 8 hours later, it comes to an end and the real work begins again.

Back to Summer Camp. I arrive and head to the trampoline park to pick up #3.  I tell him to get his shoes so we can get #4 and go.  He can’t find his shoes.  He says they’re in the duck pin bowling area.  We trek over to the bowling alley and after searching under every bench and table we find them under the last one.  As he’s putting his shoes on, I ask him if he had fun bowling today.  He says, “Our group didn’t get to bowl.”  Ummm, okay, then why are your shoes in the bowling alley?  He has no idea.  Why would he?  I don’t even care at this point because we have his shoes and 674 more things to do.  Off to pick up the infamous incorrect red bag.  I look in the bin, it’s not there.  I ask him where it is.  He says he doesn’t know.  We walk all the way back to the trampoline park and ask some counselors.  One doesn’t know.  One says she thinks it’s in the gymnastics room.  Another counselor agrees.  Great, it’s on the other side of the building.  Before I turn to go, yet another counselor says, “Wait, did he just pull a red bag from that locker?”  Sure enough, #3 found his bag.  Kind of scary that he’s got his shit together more than the counselors but again, don’t care at this point because we have a bag. 

We finally head over to get #4.  He’s ironically playing with Lincoln logs and is in the beginning stages of a massive tower.  Because I did not sit down and wait 30 minutes for him to finish said tower, we got the wrath of 4 the whole way home…and the entire night if we’re being honest.  The kid was relentless with his screaming.  It went on through cooking dinner, eating dinner, cleaning up
dinner...off and on through the hour long football carpool trip…through his bath and into bed.  Still screaming.  HOURS of screaming.  By this point, my head is pounding.  I can’t get the kid to bed soon enough. 

Remember that cute little routine thing I planned out in my heavenly pre-parenting days?  Yeah, not so much.  I try.  I do.  I give them baths, brush their teeth, read them a book or 12 every night.  But then it’s supposed to be bedtime.  Ohhhh but not for my precious little love nugget #4.  The minute the door closes it begins.  He asks for another hug, needs to get up for a drink, needs me to tuck him in again, asks how many more sleeps until he gets to go to grandmas, gets up to pee, needs tucked in again, forgets to tell me that he farted in the pool that day, needs to poop, needs me to wipe his butt, needs me to tuck him back in for the 4^th time, calls me in to tell me his pajamas itch and his blanket smells like ham…

I. Can’t. Deal. Any. More.

Blame it on the full moon, blame it on the husband being gone for over a week, blame my lack of alcohol consumption, blame it on the HOURS of screaming I had to endure…blame it on what you will, but my patience was SHOT.  I had enough.  My thin little thread snapped.  Momma lost her shit.  Obviously I’m not proud of said shit being lost but it happened.  My house sounded like an episode of Jerry Springer live.  I screamed so loud I thought my head would explode.  It didn't - but I kind of wanted it to.  Did it help acting like a raging lunatic?  Yes and no.  After his crying switched over from I'm being an asshole and crying for no reason to an I'm terrified of my psycho ass mother whimper he finally fell asleep. Did it make me feel better?  The part where he fell asleep - hells yes. But the rest?  Absolutely not. I felt like a horrible human and an even worse mother.  I was nothing
like the mom I had planned to become before I had my litter of children.  I was beating myself up over this pretty hard when I started thinking about allll the times I didn’t flip the f out when I most certainly had probable cause but kept my cool. These moments by far outweigh the crazy ones so that’s a parenting win in my book. And the good news is...heeeee’s baaaaack!  The hubs is back - finally!  So I can put the crazy away for another nerves-are-shot kind of day and maybe learn to like my kids again. 

I will end this with a ginormous shout out to all the single parents out there. This is me a measly 8 days of doing this on my own. I’m absolutely out of my mind stressed out and I’m tapping out for a bit since the hubs is home. But you guys, you single parents who are either widowed by death or widowed by dead beat parenting, you guys are my HEROES. I do not know how you do it but I have the upmost respect for each and every one of you.  I just want to say you are AMAZING, keep doing what you’re doing and don’t beat yourself up because the only ones who can do it better are the perfect parents who haven’t had kids yet.