No Shortage of Chocolate Milk Here

I woke up this morning to the two little voices of #3 & #4 chatting and giggling in the hallway while I was snuggled up in bed with big dog, Theo, or as 3 now calls him, Mr. Big. Thanks to Coronavirus we have no where to rush off to today, no morning classes at the gym, no soccer games, nothing. I start to think how sweet it is to finally be able to relax, not feel the pressure of having to be at a million places at once and how I get to spend the whole day relaxing with those sweet voices outside my door.

Then I focus in on what those voices are saying.

“Moommmyyyy, there’s poop outside your door!”

*giggles*

“Mommmmmyyy, there’s a pooper in the house!”

*giggles*

“Mommmmmyyyyy, it’s really stinky out here!”

*giggles*

What. The. Actual. F. is happening outside my door? Please let those giggles be a sign of joking, not of two little boys that think poop on carpet is funny.

I get up, open my door, and am hit in the face with the most god awful smell of dog diarrhea.

They think poop on the carpet is funny.

They let the dog out and watched her poop outside my door and are now laughing about this.

I start to gag. I want to cry. And guess what y’all!  The husband is once again out of town!

Why does this shit (pun intended) always happen when he’s not here?

I tiptoe over land mines and head downstairs to find cleaning supplies.

But wait, there’s more. Pee on the living room carpet, more diarrhea in the dining room carpet. It’s overwhelming. The smell is suffocating. I want to die.

I grab plastic grocery bags, a garbage can, towels and my Norwex paste and try to figure out how I’m going to pick up piles of dog diarrhea with the consistency of potato soup. I strap a Kroger bag to my hand and just go for it. I grab a pile. The warm squishiness oozes straight through the Kroger bag onto my hand and releases a hot fresh stench of rotted boxer bowels straight up my nostrils. I fling the bag into the garbage can and my vomit follows. I’m crying, I have puke dripping from my chin and brown dog sludge on my hand. There can not be anything closer to hell on earth than what I am experiencing in this moment. I get up, scrub my hands in scorching hot water and 3 gallons of soap for a full 10 minutes and realize I have 7 more piles to get through.

Crying harder now.

I pull it together - sort of - and head back to the land mines.

My hand is still sore from trying to wrangle a horse on a leash yesterday when I attempted to take both dogs on a walk but I need to use it to scrub 48 ounces of liquid dog poo from my carpets. I get down on all fours and start scrubbing when I realize those 2 sweet voices are still chanting “there’s a pooper in the house, there’s a pooper in the house!”

I want to yell. I want to cry.  Wait, I still am crying.  I want to run away from home but can’t because we’re in isolation. Nothing is going my way.

Instead, I just keep scrubbing. And scrubbing. And scrubbing. And I start to wonder how much dog poop can a Norwex cloth actually backloc?  The cloth itself doesn’t look that dirty; however, I soon find the answer. A SHIT TON. (Another pun intended). I realize just how much when I go to the sink to rinse it out. I squeeze the cloth and it looks like a mud slide of straight up chocolate milk pouring out. Well hello again bile in the back of my throat. I use another 3 gallons of soap and scorching hot water on my sore, dry, cracked hands until my skin is almost worn completely off. Still crying.

I give up on the carpet.  It’s as good as it’s going to get for now. But I need to do something about the smell. My entire house smells like rotted dog bowels.

I’m walking room to room, searching for Lysol with 3 & 4 trailing me begging for breakfast. How in the hell can anyone have an appetite with this level of stench in the house?  I ask them what they want and 3 says, “Cereal and chocolate milk.”

NOPE.

NO CHOCOLATE MILK.

NOT HAPPENING.

They get their cereal and WHITE milk and giggle over breakfast about dog diarrhea. I lay on the couch completely depleted wondering how anyone can possibly be having a better time quarantining than me.

It’s been a long day.

It’s 10:00 am.

I need a drink.

Anything but a mudslide please.


 

Who Wants to be a Society Approved Parent Anyway?

I birthed four 10 pound babies out of my hooha.

I breastfed each one for 6 months.

I didn’t co-sleep.

I put them on a nap schedule and kept a strict bedtime.

I read "Parenting for Dummies" front, back and sideways to be sure I was doing everything the right way.

Did I receive a trophy for any of these decisions?  Nope.

Did any of these things make me a better mom than one who chose to parent differently?  Hardly.

Are my children certified geniuses?  Far from it.

But surely there’s got to be a clear distinction between my brilliant offspring and those who took a different parenting approach.  There has to be, because society says so.  They tell you to do all the things and you'll be a better mom with smarter, more well adjusted kids.

So I did all the things.  I was obsessed with ALL.THE.THINGS.  I was determined to be the best mom with the best kids.

Fast forward 14 years into my parenting and I laugh.  (If you follow my blog, you're laughing too.) Because all the things I did didn't make my kids any better than anyone else's.

As a matter of fact, I’ve caught each one of them licking a window a time or two. One of them ate dog poop in the back yard at 9 months. Another still wakes up at least once in the middle of the night every night and he’s ELEVEN. So glad I kept those strict bedtimes. They really paid off.

I look around at co-workers, friends, and neighbors' kids and and low and behold I can’t differentiate between the vag born kids from those who were sawed out of their momma's bellies.

Crazy, right?

But there has to be some kind of distinction.  SOCIETY SAID SO.

So when I picked up my son from preschool the other day, I decided to see if I could differentiate them myself.  I was going to single out the poor neglected kids who didn't have the privilege of being breast fed. I over-looked the intellectual types because studies show breastfed babies have higher intelligence scores.  I zeroed in on the obvious kid.  The one singing at the top of his lungs with his hand down his pants scratching his butt.  The noise coming from his mouth was as if Gilbert Gottfried and a dinosaur made a love child and Dino Gottfried was singing The Wheels on the Bus as loud as possible.

I thought, "Aha! Found one!"

Nope. It was my kid.

And I have the saggy shriveled up tatas to prove he was in fact breast fed.

But how could a kid who drank liquid gold for SIX straight months act like that?!?

BECAUSE IT DOESN'T MATTER

It does not matter if you breast-fed or bottle fed.  It doesn't matter if you shot the baby out your giner or if Jason Voorhees used his very own machete to cut him out.  What matters is you're doing the best you can with the little humans God blessed you with in hopes they keep their hands out of their pants in public.

We all try our hardest to be the best mothers, to raise the best kids, to do things the "right way" but at the end of the day, there is no right or wrong way.  There is no manual to parenting.

So if you are a c-section momma, fed your baby {gasp} formula or let them sleep in your bed every night, and society makes you feel less than for it, just look around for Dino Gottfried for reassurance and remind yourself his momma is an expert in Parenting for Dummies.  You will surely find comfort in that.

Dino Gottfried, OG

How did this happen?

Since I've turned 40, I find myself asking the same question almost daily:  How did this happen? 

For example:

When you're 4, you're able to run up and down a basketball court dozens of times at full speed and not even lose your breath.  At 40 you can't even walk from your mini-van to the court without looking like a walking advertisement for COPD.  How did this happen?

When you're 6, you don't even think about shaving.  When you're 40, you get a random surprise visitor in the form of a foot-long hair growing out the side of your face when you least expect it making you wonder how long that's been there and how many people have noticed and not said anything.  How did this happen?

When you're 8, you do cartwheels for fun.  At 40, you try a cartwheel and it feels like your skin is ripping off your body while your muscles are simultaneously having seizures, causing a searing pain in every fiber of your being and leaving you with an intense all over body ache for days.  How did this happen?

When you're 10, you eat 6 large slices of pizza, a pint of ice cream and wash it down with a 2-liter of Coke and not gain an ounce.  When you're 40, you live off of lettuce and a dream and still gain 30 lbs while suffering from heartburn.  How did this happen?

When you're 12, you get tackled on the football field and still pop up without injury.  When you're 40, you get tackled by your 3 year old, fall over because you have zero core strength and even less balance, then look like a turtle on its back with your arms and legs flailing trying to build up enough momentum to flop yourself over so you can grasp onto the nearest object to haul yourself to your feet.  Gasping for breath, you ask yourself...How did this happen?

When you're 14, you have acne but they tell you not to worry, it's just a phase, you'll outgrow it.  When you're 40, you get acne all over again but it's even worse than when you were 14.  Nobody ever tells you that.  How did this happen?

When you're 16, you're able to wear cute halter tops without a bra.  When you're 40, you not only have to wear the underwire-triple-hook-extra-support-thick-strapped bras but you also have to reach into that sexy beast of lingerie and hoist each boob into the proper position so your nipples are even and your shirt doesn't look like a googly-eyed monster when you’re walking. Seriously, how did this happen?

When you're 18, you roll out of bed, leave the house in pajama pants to run to the 711 to get a Mt. Dew and a Snickers bar for breakfast and you get hit on by every guy you see.  At 40, you spend 2 hours getting ready, use expensive skincare and even more expensive makeup, put on the nicest outfit you bought from Target (and the only outfit you’ve bought in the past decade) and still look like a dump truck.  How did this happen?

When you're 21, you're able to drink 12 beers, take 6 shots and stay up until 4 am.  When you're 40, you drink one cranberry and vodka causing immediate explosive diarrhea forcing you to leave the party by 9 pm and you still wake up with a slight hangover after 8 hours of sleep.  How did this happen?

And when you’re 40, you face all of these problems daily and repeatedly ask yourself, How did this happen?

Some Say...

Some say...

There is no better feeling than the sunshine on your face...

but I wonder, have they ever danced in the rain?

Some say...

You should go to church and worship the Lord in His house...

but I wonder, have they ever sat in the middle of a forest and had a long talk with Him instead?

Some say...

The hardest part of having a newborn is the sleepless nights...

but I wonder, have they ever rocked a baby in their arms in the still of night and felt a bond so close their heart could explode?

Some say...

The best gifts are the unexpected ones...

but I wonder, have they ever given unexpectedly to someone else?

Some say...

Best friends make you laugh harder than any one else can...

but I wonder, have they ever needed a friend to hold them while they cried?

Some say...

They hope and pray for a healthy baby...

but I wonder, have they every looked into the eyes of a child with a disability and marveled at their courage and strength?

Some say...

You should never hold a grudge...

but I wonder, do they realize there is no resentment, just the need to eliminate a toxic person for a happier you?

Some say...

Family is everything...

but I wonder, have they ever met a black sheep who formed her own tribe?

Some say...

The harder you work, the more successful you'll become...

but I wonder, do they succeed in making time for play?  

Some say...

Nothing is more freeing than forgiving someone who doesn't deserve forgiveness...

but I wonder, have they ever forgiven themselves?


While I agree with some,

I also wonder...

do they ever agree with me?

What Blog?

My answer lately when people ask how my blog is going is: What blog?  I really suck at consistency.  Which is one of the reasons I was so hesitant to start a blog in the first place.  The end of October through December just sucked the life out of me and left zero time or energy for blogging. 

Here's a quick recap on what went on during those 2.5 months:

• We had 2 out of town funerals 2 weeks in a row.
• The husband left for 2 solid weeks for work, leaving me with 4 kids, a dog, a full-time job and a million carpools.
• My boss resigned leaving me to do his job and mine until we could get his replacement hired and trained - so make that 2 full-time jobs.
• During the husband's leave and lack of boss, I became deathly ill resulting in a trip to the hospital with a severe kidney infection caused by e coli.
• We took a trip to Hocking Hills for Thanksgiving weekend (my one and only time I blogged during these 2.5 months)
• Another out of town funeral.
• 8 Christmas Parties
• Christmas itself
• And in between all of that 1.7 million basketball games, cheer competitions, soccer games, etc.

So things have been a little crazier than our normal crazy lately but I've somehow managed to keep the kids alive, the dog fed and the husband out of jail.  So that's a win in my book.  

My new year's resolution is to be more consistent with blogging.  Let's just hope this resolution lasts longer than my weight loss resolutions each year.  

I truly appreciate your support and your patience. 

Cheers to silent nights...and being a better blogger in 2020.

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.