Tag Archives: children

What is the Meaning of Life?

29 Mar

blogwaterpark

I’m not sure if it was my mother’s death that prompted it, or perhaps being on the wrong side of 45, but I make no secret about that fact that I am experiencing a severe mid-life crisis.  It’s not just the fact that I am wearing powder blue eye shadow like its 1975, or that I bought a snappy little convertible Audi (red, of course) or that I have re-discovered the push up bra.  While those things are obvious (and pathetically cliché) in all seriousness,I have also found myself searching to live a more  thoughtful life.  As the mother of young children who is often tossed back and forth in a sea of banal household routines (lunches, laundry, drop off, pick up), sheer utter chaos (9pm Sunday night someone announces they need 17 egg-shaped, nut free, homemade sandwich cookies to contribute to snack tomorrow) and extreme forms of torture (ever step on a lego during a midnight bath room trip??), it is easy to reel in the years on auto pilot, doing but not seeing, acting but not feeling, living but not aware.  I’ve been making a true effort to absorb more of every thing around me, live vividly (thus the blue eyeshadow, perhaps?????) and really be thoughtful of what is happening instead of just being in robot survival mode.  Not easy, but I’m trying.

This week for spring break, my friend Sheila Castellano and I took a last-minute road trip to New Hampshire for a mini vacation. Five kids in tow, we decided to hit an indoor water park. The kids were thrilled, and we were stoked to see they served booze so we could enjoy an adult cocktail while the darlings splashed about. The day was exhausting.  4 flights of stairs up and down for the water slides, (helloooo, I’m 47 years old!) running here, running there,  swimming, jumping, following the little darlings everywhere with scarcely a time to enjoy a cocktail or the grotto like hot tub provided for adults. I’m not going to talk about how one kid almost broke a nose, or how one dropped a deuce in her swimsuit, or the other that had to be rescued by a life guard, but  I do want to share  a moment of clarity I  had, in an unlikely place.

The girls favorite part of the water park was the wave pool. Graded like a beach, every 10 minutes or so a horn would blast warning its occupants that the pool would simulate the breakers of the ocean. Pulling you in, spitting you out, back and forth, being tossed around, the girls would squeal with delight the minute the horn sounded, and run for the “shoreline”. I had just sat down after 8 or 9 consecutive trips up the stairs with an inner tube on my balanced on my head, my thighs were throbbing like jello.  I was about to order a glass of wine, when they scampered up to me, each grabbing a hand, begging me and dragging me towards the man-made shore.  I begrudgingly hauled myself up on my still shaky hamstrings, and hobbled in. The waves started and they each held on to my hand, jumping and howling with glee. As the intensity of the waves grew, we got drawn in deeper, and they clambered closer  to me, eventually climbing me like a water-logged tree trunk. One little strawberry blonde, slippery, meatball in each arm, they held on to me for dear life as we were tossed about  in water up to our shoulders.  My legs ached with the burn of 1000 stairmasters, while one of them grabbed my ponytail like the reigns of a horse, and the other dug her toes into my hipbone, as if it were a rung on the ladder of her own fleshy tree-house.  I was standing there praying for it to be over, when I remembered my promise to be more mindful. Instead of waiting out the torture, I stopped, took a deep breath and FELT what was happening. In my right arm, the little one moved in and grabbed my cheek, planting a wet kiss on me while laughing and squirming with delight.  At my left, the big one was yelling “More! More!” and was beaming the most genuine, delightful grin. They giggled and chuckled in my ear, and it was a moment of pure joy and childhood elation.  As I watched the girls in their delighted state of euphoria, a warmth spread inside of me. Like a  slow-moving wave, I felt my affection for them grow inside of me, and just for a moment life shifted into slow motion, and time stood still.  I saw them in all their innocent splendor, the joy they felt just “being”, and my love for them exploded. Something clicked and for the first time in my life I was AWARE of what unconditional love felt like. Just pure 100 percent love. Not love because you expect love back. Not love fuel by sex. Or money, or power, need, or reciprocation. Not a desire to fill a void left by my own childhood, or to make up for what I never had.  Just unfiltered love.  Not loved tinged by fear: fear of the unknown, fear of uncertainty, or mistrust, or of being alone or what is going to happen when it ends.  Genuine, unadulterated, 100 percent pure love. Don’t get me wrong, I have always loved them, but that love was over shadowed by other emotions too – at their birth there was also wonder, fear of the unknown, worry about health etc.   Even though it runs in the background,   love get swallowed up by daily activities, and  is overshadowed by responsibility.  But at that  moment  love came shining thru in the foreground, and everything else stopped.  The ache in my hip. the pull of my hair, my weariness took a back seat. Warmth, and gratitude came rushing at me as the clock stopped ticking, stars smiled at me, and something spiritual tapped in. At that moment I was grateful for every choice I had made that led me to these children. And in the middle of the White Mountain Valley of New Hampshire, in a 2nd rate water park  at 47 years old, I felt blessed and God spoke to me and said, “This my dear, is the meaning of your life”.

Amen.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to give up my Sephora addiction any time soon, but I can promise you this: I’m going to take more deep breaths, live a vivid life and just FEEL things more often. I hope you do too.

Thanks for reading and thank you to all that repost this on facebook or share the link with friends. xoxoxox

Copyright 2013 livelaughloveliquor

A Picture = 1,000 Words

7 Dec

I figured I’d jump on the “Wordless Wednesday” band wagon.  And honestly, this says it all……

Now if only they could read.

Happy Wednesday everyone!

Thanks for stopping by!

*A special THANK YOU to my friend Heidi Burgener for the usage of the sign.

5 Easy Steps for a Happier Holiday: A Mother’s Survival Guide.

29 Nov

Does the monotony of life have you down this holiday season? Does all that black Friday shopping make you feel as if you lost your merry mojo? Are you fighting off urges to beat the crap out of the woman who took the last Leapfrog Leappad at ToysRus or flip the bird to the Salvation Army Santa outside of Target? Does it feel like your inner child a nothing but a wretched brat with a lump of coal stuck in her diaper? Holidays shmolidays, Bah humbug.  Life sucks. Fear not, my friends, happiness is but a stone’s throw away.  I too, suffered from a joy deficiency in my life this holiday season, until I discovered a few simple back-to basics principles to ramp up my fun factor and overall happiness. Now I know what you are thinking, and no, I’m not talking about re discovering  my g-spot or a super sized jug of spiced rum, (well, maybe the rum) but with the help of some everyday items and the right attitude, you too, can find sunshine,  glee, and holiday cheer.  You don’t need Dale Carnegie,  screw him.  EST sucks, and is for losers. Why pay all that money for some a-hole to tell you to find your center, blah blah blah.  I got ya covered, ladies.  Follow these 5 proven methods, and you’ll be whistling ‘Jingle Bells’ out of your sphincter in no time!

Five  Secrets to a Happier You this Holiday Season

 1.  Positive Affirmations and Gratitude:  Nothing is more powerful than a ‘can do’ attitude. Positive affirmations are the key to being in a desired situation/mindset, and which are repeated in order to impress the subconscious mind and trigger it into positive thoughts. This requires the affirmations to be repeated with passion, conviction, interest and desire. They usually start with I AM or I WILL.  We all have things we are good at right? Or maybe we WANT to a possess a particular personality trait. Affirmations are the key to true happiness with one’s self. Find value in what you do. Find something positive that defines you, and you will find happiness.  For example, I am a stay at home mom with a few pounds to lose, who rarely has time for make up and festive primping. I rarely get compliments, and my contributions to the family are never tangible. My value comes from within, and from the things I do for my children.  So, for example, after my daughter came down with a particularly vicious stomach bug just in time to ruin our Thanksgiving celebration, I needed to find the bright side of it all.  During one of about 6659 visits to the commode, she told me in the purest sincerity “Mommy, you’re a really good butt wiper”.  Wow! Now THOSE my friends, are some powerful words.  And to think I’ve sometimes doubted my butt wiping abilities!! Doubt no more.  Desperate times, call for desperate measures, and I will take what little flattery I can get and run with it. Now imagine me, upon waking, rising to the mirror, and like a phoenix from the ashes (asses?) repeating in the mirror loudly, with passion, conviction, interest, and desire that “I AM A GOOD BUTT WIPER!!!”  State it! Say it! Own it! How could you not feel happy after that? If that doesn’t warm the cockles of every mother’s heart, I sure don’t know what will. You can bet your last case of Charmin that this Thanksgiving I was thankful for being a great butt wiper.

2. Primp Before you Shop:  Crowds, crowds, everywhere. Pushing, shoving, grabbing for the last 2 dollar iPhone cover, fighting over parking spaces, it’s all too much.  You’re run down, and feeling like a holiday hag.  To make matters worse, you’re starting to realize you don’t turn heads any longer and are feeling invisible to the opposite sex. Youve gone from MILF to ZILCH. Here is a little secret from one has-been to the next, a little magic formula for some public attention: Sequins and fake eyelashes are my kryptonite against the holiday doll drums. In fact, truth be told, I can’t afford the liposuction or Botox it would take to restore me back to my glory days, so a 5 dollar pair of drug store lashes and a beat up sequin tank top from my disco nights will have to do, in order to amp up my joy factor. Nuttin’ says ‘she got her sexy back’ like showing up at Walmart with synthetic hair glued on the lids of your eyes, a push up bra, and some sequins! I promise you, you will feel like a million bucks on rollback prices when all eyes are upon you. And if all eyes are upon you the other shoppers are distracted  so you have a better chance of scoring that limited quantity obscenely large HDTV Flat screen LCD on blue light special. Joy to the world!! And if you are still not sold on eyelashes and sequins, consider this: Have you ever seen an unhappy trannie?   I didn’t think so, case closed!

3. KISSmas Carols Verses Christmas Carols: Have you ever been stuck in traffic with a car full of kids after a 6 hour stint at the mall which included waiting in line to see an inebriated fat man in a germ speckled santa suit? Cranky and jacked up on candy canes, the kids are whining for your attention in the back seat. French fries are flying, someone just nailed you in the head with a milk shake, and you KNOW there is nothing happy about a G-Damned happy meal.  Every station is playing the same lame Christmas carols over and over and the kids decide to have a contest to see who can sing along the loudest. You love them but at this point, hog tying them with mistletoe and using a Xmas ornament as a ball gag seems like a terrific idea. It’s enough to make even Mother Teresa want to spike her eggnog, and you find yourself wishing that the bar at Applebees had a drive thru. Want the answer to get the merry-making peanut gallery to STFU thus making yourself incredibly joyful? You do? GREAT! Now go get yourself a KISS album on CD. Any one will do, but my personal recommendation is “Destroyer”.  When the back seat b.s. starts up, turn off the lite fm Xmas b.s.,  insert the KISS CD and CRANK. IT. UP.  Blast out the backseat buggers and all their needless singing! Your children will be scared shitless at the surprise guitar rifts and the rockin’ tunes, and as an added bonus, you will look like a badass to passing motorist! Tap into the power of Gene Simmons this holiday season, and you are guaranteed a silent night!

4. A Touch of Elfin’ Magic :  Never, ever, underestimate the power of Elfin’ Magic (also known as Unbridled Holiday F*ckery) in your quest for a happier holiday.  Elfin’ Magic comes in many forms, and depending on your level of creativity, does not take a tremendous amount of time, money or energy to execute.  Let’s say, for example, your obnoxious, neighbor conveniently looks the other way when  his dog craps on your yard, instead of his. You’ve spoken to him about it to no avail.  An example of Elfin’ f*ckery, hypothetically speaking, of course, would be to collect a week or two’s worth of turds and let them ripen in your shed in a plastic bag. After they have had a chance to properly ferment, deposit them in a Macy’s box (NOTE: rubber gloves recommended),  careful gift wrap said turds, and leave them on his doorstep! Happy Crappy Holidays, Mr. Jones!  Or say you have a holy rolling, hypocritical, bloated, red-faced, good ole boy, perverted boss who secretly glances at your breasts, makes vomit inducing innuendos, and makes you feel like you never want to have sex ever again. Ever. He leers at you while showcasing pictures of his fat angry wife and their six sweaty children on his desk like a shrine to fidelity, meanwhile, he checks out your ass every chance he gets. A man like this is a prime candidate for Elfin Magic. A fine example would be to would be to go online and sign him up for a gift subscription for a hardcore fetish magazine and sign  it, ‘Love, Santa’.  Now sit back, and watch the holiday magic in the mailroom, once his first copy of ‘Anal Fun Magazine’ arrives just in time for Christmas! Or perhaps you are wondering what to get your sadistic old uncle that used purposely pinch your cheeks until you bruised and gave you a pair of diabetic socks for your 8th birthday? Summon up your inner elf and buy him that hot pink neon “GYM, TAN, LAUNDRY” sweatshirt and some leopard print stretchie pants! He will be the belle of the nursing home! Elfin Magic – doesn’t it just make you  smile?   (Warning, use Elfin Magic sparingly and deservingly, or you may find a lump of coal in your stocking)

5. Booze: Dont be afraid to dive into the holiday punch bowl at the office Xmas party.  Spike the eggnog and slip santa a mickey! Seriously, when life hands you a bowl of lemons, grab the tequila and some salt. Drink up, santa’s helpers! Nothing wrong with a little tidings of Southern Comfort and joy! Happiness is just a shot glass away……..or at least until the next family photo card shoot.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Joyous Festivus, and thanks for reading! And a special big fat thank you to all who repost this on facebook, forward via email and tweet! Cheers!

Yes, those really are my kids, and no, I didn’t stage it that way.


The Lipstick Larcenist Revealed! (an answer to the poll question!)

29 Sep

Thanks to all who voted in my poll regarding the “Lipstick Larcenist'”.  (If you missed it, click HERE. ) Sadly, she struck again while seated in a dark movie theater today, fetching my tube of “Mad for Mauve” out of my purse while I was consoling the other one, who was crying over the untimely death of Simba’s father Mustafa, during the Lion King. (Thanks, Disney. I am sure there will be a sleepless night filled with night terrors staring hyenas, wildebeest stampedes, and jungle fires in my immediate future.)

Anyway, this time I was crafty enough to snap a picture of the culprit, who in addition to her lips, adorned her neck, fingers and my trousers with said grease paint.  So, without further ado, The Maybelline Marauder is none other than………….

The Little One! Delilah!

Thanks for voting!

Copyright 2011 Livelaughloveliquor. All Rights Reserved.  No reproduction in any medium without prior written consent of the author is permitted.

What’s Wrong With This Picture?

27 Sep

Can you spot what’s wrong with this picture? This is my favorite reading nook, in our foyer.

How about now? A little closer……..

See it now???? (Hint: It is not the fact that I have decorated for Halloween ridiculously early)

There is no denying it…….

BINGO! Someone got a hold of my lipstick while I was upstairs drying my hair thinking Hubs was watching them. In reality, Hubs was in his basement ‘man cave’ playing guitar thinking I was reigning over the little darlings.  The culprit decided to tickle her taste buds by gnawing on a grotesquely shaded tube of hot pink lipstick I used as a prop for an 80’s theme party we went to.  After artfully applying Avon’s ‘Fuchsia Fun’ lipstick to her tiny visage, she then titillated her palate with it, turning her teeth and gums a lovely shade of magenta.  As if that weren’t fun enough, she then decided to show her love and appreciation for various pieces of furniture by kissing them, leaving tiny pink lip prints in her wake.

I know what you’re thinking: Why didn’t I get a picture of little Miss ‘Pinky Tuskadental’?  Well, I might have thought to do so if temporary insanity had not kicked me in the head, full throttle. At the time, however, I was busy avoiding cardiac arrest and screeching at top volume for Hubs to “Get the hell up here!!!”  Hubs got the dirty job of playing dental hygenist (a 15 minute ordeal of holding a 42 pound kicker down while shoving a toothbrush back and forth in her gaping crying pie hole). While I was busy silently cursing, crying and dancing on the edge  of a nervous breakdown.  Hubs tells me I was walking in circles muttering nonsense in regards to  promising my immortal soul to a pack of heathens if only I could get the lipstick off our (pre-children) cream color down filled sofa, but I have no memory of that.  So sorry folks, no pics of the pink encrusted cavity trap.

One of the very best jewels of wisdom my good friend Robyn Abramo once told me was this:  “Eventually everything is funny in retrospect.” It’s something I carry dear with me whenever I feel like I am getting ready for take off for flying over the cuckoo’s nest. It’s something I remembered when I came down stairs to make breakfast this morning, and found the one lip print left over from this weekend’s Lipstick Lollapalooza. And I have to admit, I laughed. Hope you did too.

As always, thank you for reading!And thank you doubly for those who share my link on facebook, twitter, etc. xoxoxoxo

You can find the answer to the poll HERE

Copyright 2011 Livelaughloveliquor. All Rights Reserved.  No reproduction in any medium without prior written consent of the author is permitted.

Is a Hot Meal Too Much to Ask For?

8 Jul

“I’m sorry Mrs. ______.  She struck another little girl when they were fighting over a toy.  She is banned from Kids camp for 24 hours and if she hits again, she can not come back for the remainder of the cruise.”  The director of the child watch center on our cruise line explained to me very kindly, but firmly.

I looked down at the little one.  Her mop of strawberry blonde curls hung over down cast eyes.  Banned from kids camp, we walked back to our cabin, me scolding her as we did so.  A 2 year old version of the walk of shame. I’m super pissed because tonight is “Elegant Night” in the dining room and they are serving filet mignon with lobster tails, and we had HOPED to let them stay in camp for dinner so we could have a nice romantic meal sans our ponytail posse.  Not going happen.

“Mommy, dat not da truff”!!” (Translation: ‘Mommy, that’s not the truth’) she cries out defiantly.

“Yes, it is the truth. Don’t  lie about it.  I know the girl took your toy, I know you were angry, but we do not hit, Delilah.”

The little one is scrappy.  I know my daughter, and I know she is guilty as charged.  I’ve never seen her hit anyone unprovoked, but if you take her toy  I can promise there is going to be one Mother F–er of a throw down.  That doesn’t make me any less annoyed that our amorous dinner has now turned into a party of four.  Hubs is even more pissed, he had hoped to keep them in camp a little longer so he could get lucky in the cabin after dinner.

Fast forward two hours and all four of us are dressed in our Sunday best (it is ‘Elegant Night’, after all) and are seated at a booth style table in the center of the large dining room.  I look around and notice that all the really nice tables, the ones with a view of the sunset over the water’s horizon, are occupied by couples with out kids in tow.  We decide to each take a child, so we are sitting across from one another, which will (hopefully) prevent fights and attempts at making a mad dash out of the dining room and going AWOL.  The first thing I do as we sit down is collect the silverware, as no good thing comes from a child wielding a butter knife. Our waiter comes over.  He is tall, and strapping from some Eastern European country or maybe France.  I can’t  read fine print under his name tag which states his country of origin.  His name is Gavin and he has an accent.  He is kind of cute, actually.  He starts giving us the ‘Good evening, the menu tonight…blah blah. blah‘ speech, and out of the corner of my eye, I see the little one trying to reach for my wine glass.  She grabs Hubs soda instead and takes several large swigs.  I shoo her away and try to focus on what he is saying, which is not easy, considering his accent and that I am distracted by little miss soda swiller.

“……..order as much as you like, and when you leave, I guarantee I f*ck you like bull.”

SAY WHAAAAT?  I look up at Hubs……did he hear that? I start to blush….f*ck like bull….really? As opposed to ‘be quiet or you will wake the kids’ kind of f*cking , which is all I really know, these days. Did he really just say that? ….is that what they do in Europe?  Why would he say that ?  And is he talking to Hubs or me?  I forget about the little one and the soda momentarily and my head whips around and look at him, stunned.

“What’s wrong, you don’t want your tummy full?” he smiles at me quizzically.

I blink and it takes me a second to realize he said tummy full, not f*ck like bull.  God help me, I put on a smile, mutter, “Oh yes, that’s fine, indeed”, cast my eyes down ward, and realize it’s been so long since Hubs and I have indulged in carnal pleasures, that now everything sounds perverted.  As I sat and pondered our deprived love life, I notice Delilah with my wine glass.  She is holding it by the stem and grinding a pile of salt she dumped out onto the tablecloth.  She starts banging it.  I go to grab it, but am too late.

CRACK! “Uh-oh.”  The stem broke in her chubby little hand.  Glass is everywhere.  How it’s not in her palm, is an act of God. I pick her up, and see it’s on the table the bench of the booth, the entire table has shards of glass scattered about. We need to move, so we do, to the next table over which is unoccupied.  This is what I get for daydreaming about getting my sexy back.

Gavin, the waiter, comes back and gives the girls new placemats, and this time, plastic cups.  He takes our order, and tussles the little one’s hair.

“Are you ok, sweetheart”?  he asks her gently.

“BLECH!  She replies with the loudest burp I have ever heard from a 2 year old, but then again, not many of them slurp down a good 5 oz. of their daddy’s ginger ale in the course of 20 seconds. “I FART FROM MY MOUTH” !!  She announces proudly.  He recoils slightly before faking a smile. I apologize for her and make her say “excuse me”. He scurries away muttering something about our food will be out shortly.  Make it fast, Gavin.

“Mommy, look at this man” Darla, my 4 year old says pointing to a picture on her placemat. “Do you think he has a worm” ?  The placemat has drawings of little fish and scuba divers.

“A worm? Like to bait the fish with? Maybe sweetie,” I reply.

“NO MOMMY”  Not a worm to catch a fish.  A worm between his legs.  Like boys have….remember when Owen (a younger playmate) had his diaper changed?  I saw his worm. ”

Oh God….THAT worm.  I look at Hubs, kick him under the table.  Let him take this one.  Speechless, he opens his mouth, blinks a few times, and shuts it again, like a fish out of water.  I can see he is not going to be much help.

” Your appetizers are here.” Gavin swoops down on us with two dishes balanced in his hands. “Escargot for you sir, and for Mrs, shrimp cocktail.”  I am just about to say thank you when the big one looks at Gavin and says, “Do you have a worm”?

Hubs’s  eyes are in rapid  fire blink mode and his face is ashen.  My jaw drops and seems stuck.  Gavin, unaware of the inner workings of a precocious 4 year olds mind set, doesn’t miss a beat.

‘No, my little dear, they are not worms, they are escargot, like snails ‘ he says smiling, and glides away.  Thank God for language barriers.

As I start to give a brief (but hopefully discreet) lesson on anatomy,  I can tell she is tuning me out.  She has her crayon in her hand, and is drawing.  Fine with me, as long as she is quiet and maybe she will forget about worms.

Hubs looks up at me, and shakes his head in bewilderment.  “We are going to have our hands full”  he mouths across the table to me.  He is smiling but his eyes look frightened.  “GOING TO”?  I think….how about we DO have our hands full?  Between the strawberry blond protegé of George Forman and a 4 year old that channels, Dr.Ruth, I’d say we are skeeee-rewd (Translation: Screwed).  But I smile at hubs anyway, also shaking my head.  He laughs back, and mouths “I love you” and for a moment we forget the girls are there and it feels like we are on our romantic date after all.  We raise our wine glasses and toast.  I can’t wait for my lobster….I’ve been waiting for this all trip.  Succulent and sweet, drowning in butter and piping hot…mmm…..heaven!  Not something we eat at home – what a rare treat.  Tonight is our big night after all, even with the girls here.  Maybe the evening wont be a wash after all.

“ALLLLL DONE!!!!”  the big one announces loudly and proudly as she holds up the placemat she was working on so intently.  As she does, her hand flies up and knocks over Hub’s ice water.  A full icy 10 oz. glass all over his crotch.  Can you say, cocks on the rock? Now, this may be something enjoyed by certain fetish groups, perhaps, but I can assure you, my poor Hubs’s  face contorted in sheer agony and brutal shock.  He leaps up in pain.  You’ve heard of great balls a fire, right?  Well, this the opposite effect….snow balls, so to speak. The poor bastard was soaked in ice water down to his skivvies.  “Jesus Christ!” he yells, a dark spot in the center of his pants.  His poor “worm’ must be an icicle by now.  So much for my chances of getting lucky.

“Sorry Daddy.”  Darla nonchalantly says to him, as if nothing is wrong.  Hubs is standing there swatting ice cubes off his junk, and trying unsuccessfully to soak up the excess with a cloth napkin.  He contemplates going back to get changed, but that will take 25 minutes and the lobster and steak will be here any moment.  God knows we eat enough cold meals at home, on vacation, we want the real deal, even if it means eating it with your balls on ice.  He settles down and puts his napkin over the iceberg that was once his flamethrower, muttering under his breath.  I catch the words “God dammit” and “should have sent them to kids camp”, but not much else. I look up and notice that Darla is still holding up her placemat proudly for display.

Mommy,” she says impatiently, “Did you SEE my DRAWINGS?”

I look up and discover she drew ‘worm’ penises on all the male characters on the placemats.  W…..T…..F ? My perverted, ponytailed Picasso grins at me proudly.  “Now they all have worms”.  OH my sweet Lord…..”That’s great,” I reply, quickly reaching over and turning the paper face down,  “Now draw me a flower on this side” I nervously glance around and force a smile,  hoping no one else saw her obscene attempt at artistry.

Just then, the Calvary arrives in the form of Gavin, with our meals.  “Here you go. Chicken fingers for you girls,”  he says placing their plates in front of them, unknowingly laying the food on a bed of Crayola cocks..  “And for you both, the Filet and Lobster. Enjoy.”  He sets our plates down, and Hubs and I look up and smile at each other once again, happy and grateful to have such a good meal in front of us.  It’s steaming hot and smells so delicious.  He whispers, “This looks great, Chrissie, enjoy it”.  I smile and say “You too!” and then, just as I am about to sink my fork into my mouth- watering lobster tail, the last words I want to hear come flying out of my 2 year old potty trainers mouth:

“I hafta go poopy”. (No translation required, you’ve all heard that one)

Of course she does.  I drop my fork, and shuffle her back to the 10 minute walk to the nearest bathroom, hoping she doesn’t crap herself along the way.

After a stressful bathroom session which included constant reminders for her not to touch anything, a serious death threat if she went near the used tampon hanging out of the trash, and her whipping open the stall door when it was my turn to tinkle so everyone could see my urination skills are up to par, we return back to the table 23 minutes later.  My lobster is cold and the butter congealed.  The filet mignon looks greasy.  Hubs is shivering, as result of the air conditioner being turned to high, coupled with the ice crystals now forming on his testicles.  The big one got down off the seat and is dancing in the aisle to ‘Mac the Knife’ playing over head.  I’m not hungry anymore. Admitting defeat, and now fully forgoing any thoughts of romance, I ask Gavin to wrap the little ones dinner.  I stuff a piece of bread in my mouth, chug the wine, and we head out.  Poor Hubs is using the take out bag to shield his ‘ballsicles’ from curious stares.  He is walking bowlegged so he literally doesn’t get his cheeks chapped.

The girls on the other hand, are laughing and dancing all the way back to the cabin. Which is exactly what I’d expect of them.

Click HERE to see video from that night in the dining room. Note that Hubs is pissed off looking and that the Little One has attitude. And please don’t forget to “like” my page!

Thank You for reading! And thank you for being so patient for another blog post – I admit to being a victim of the lazy days of summer. I appreciate all the emails and messages sent to me asking me when I was going to post, and I really appreciate all the support and love y’all have shown me! I am extremely lucky to have the most awesome readers who ‘get’ that parenthood isn’t always a bed of roses, and who keep me motivated, forward my blog to friends, tweet it, and repost it on facebook.  THANK YOU! xoxoxox

A SPECIAL SHOUT OUT TO  MICHELLE THOMPSON WHO IS I AM DEDICATING THIS BLOG ENTRY TOO! THIS ONE IS FOR YOU, MICHELLE, THANK YOU FOR REMINDING ME TO WRITE IT, MAY ALL YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE IN THE COMING YEAR. XOXOXO

Edited by Annette Garkowski

Two Teens, Two Tots, Two Tylenol, Two Shots!

15 Jun

“Oh man, I feel sorry for you”

“There goes early retirement….”

“What made you do THAT?”

“Built in babysitters?…..SWEET!”

“You guys are either midlife crisis-ing or just plain nuts”

These are several of the actual responses Hubs and I have gotten from people (often strangers) who find out we have raised two teenagers in addition to the two little ponytailed princesses we currently are shepherding through life.  I understand the surprise reaction, and realize that we are a bit of an oddity.  I also comprehend the natural curiosity that comes after the initial reaction, and time and time again, the very next thing that comes out of someones mouth is “So, whats it like having two different generations of kids under one roof? “

Before I answer that, let me give you the back story.  My son Ryan and Hubs’ daughter Kristin were both sweet little elementary school puppies when we met and married.  They were tender and fun, still young enough to be eager to please, but old enough to get themselves dressed and be responsible for homework, etc.  We did not consider having any more children as we enjoyed the freedom of being newlyweds madly in love with two great, somewhat independent kids to make a blended family just right.  We had no interest in adding to our family, and I was notorious for coming out with a “take my uterous….please”  jokes.  We traveled, had family outings, adventures and road trips together just the four of us, which was perfect.  We worked hard to give them the sense of family they had lacked in our previous marriages.  It was all good, until the kids started getting older, more distracted and less interested in doing things as the four musketeers.  It was sad for us, a period of mourning really, when they ceased to be excited about the trips we had planned, or the parties we were throwing.  We really enjoyed parenting, loved our kids to pieces, and once they hit puberty and became autonomous we turned the tide and decided it *might* be nice to have one more.  Several miscarriages and various forms of infertility treatments later, our lovely Darla (age 4) came along, and her sister Delilah (age 2) soon followed, thus the massive age difference in our children, and the beginning of ‘his, mine and ours.’

So whats it like?  Let me break down a few real life scenarios :

1. Bath Crayons are the Enemy:  In an attempt to promote a happy bath time, I invested in a set of easy-scrub bath crayons so the girls would be distracted coloring while I attend to the fight-inducing process of washing/rinsing hair.  This worked like a charm, until the teens, who were often not on speaking terms, realized they could use them to slander one another.  I realized the crayons weren’t so easy to scrub when I had to remove  “Ryan is a Turd” off the bathroom tile, followed by “Kristin smells like turds.”  Thus began the ban on bath crayons for the little ones.

2. Built in babysitters don’t do diapers:  When coming from a 1 hour 10 minute trip to Shoprite, I noticed there was a used diaper flung sloppily in the front yard.  Upon approach, it became clear this was a full-out ‘code brown’ left to ripen in the afternoon sun.  WTF?  Who left the diaper on the grass, and why?  I walked in the house to find my two-year old running around naked and proud, like the founding member of her own little nudist colony.  Upon inquiry, I discover that neither teen wanted to change the diaper, so they flipped a coin to divvy up the job.  One donned a rubber glove to remove it while the other manned the garden hose to water the poor baby’s butt crack down.  Generation gap, generation crap.  Teenage teamwork at it’s finest.

3. ABC blocks are a bad idea:  Seems like a great aide for teaching, right?  Yeah, we thought so too.  Which is why we bought the big 12-inch foam ones, and used them to build walls, houses, etc. and write words.  It worked GREAT until I was hosting a playdate and our guests walked into the family room with the blocks stacked 7 foot tall in two neat rows spelling ‘F-U-C-K Y-O-U’ and ‘E-A-T S-H-I-T’.  Try explaining that to the neighborhood busybody.

4. Water guns become weapons of mass destruction. The girls were given supersoakers by a well-meaning (clueless) relative who obviously didn’t understand that they were too little to even hold them, none the less pull the trigger.  The girls loss was the teens gain, as they were in the midst of yet another fight where neither was talking to the other.  When one got on the other’s nerves, he/she would shoot roughly 6 gallons of water at the other, as if she/he were a cat they were trying to train from jumping on the counter tops. This occurred indoors, of course.  The girls (and my furniture, knick knacks, artwork, etc) were often caught in the crossfire.  On the bright side, it cured them from the fear of rinsing their hair in the bath tub I spoke of earlier.

5. Kids really do say the darndest thing.  Did you know that Caillou is a ‘bald whiney asshole’ (pronounced, ‘ATH-hole, mind you)’ ??  Neither did my daughter’s preschool class, until she announced it with vigor, after hearing her big brother mutter it to her older sister.

6. Unsolicited advice is never good.  I will never forget the day after the little one was born, when the more naive, but bossy know it all teen called a family meeting.  The purpose of such meeting was to ‘suggest’ (demand) Hubs get a vasectomy, as said teen did not feel any more children was in our best interest because we really were ‘too old’.  When we snickered, she suggested castration, and by the way, I should really stop nursing before my boobs sag.  I wish I was kidding.

These are just a few of the ‘adventures’ that have occurred in our home as a result of our multi- generational family.  The teens both flew the nest earlier this year, each moving on to start their own lives.  One to college, the other to do some healing and live with her biological mom for the first time in 9 years. We miss them both, despite the shenanigans and outright fuckery (pardon my French) that occurred.  Sometimes I am even tempted to write ‘Hubs is a turd’ on the bathroom tile, just for old times sake, but I know it won’t make me miss them less.  All I can do is wait 10 years or so and hope for grandchildren so we can start the cycle over again.  This time it will be Darla and Lilah stealthily spelling out curse words with giant foam blocks, and the teens who will have to explain to their child’s preschool teacher why Barbie called Ken a ‘total dickhead’ during creative playtime.

And that, my friend is the circle of life! Pass the tequila!

Thanks for reading! And for keeping me motivated to write!

Edited by Annette Garkowski

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