Absence Makes The Ass Wipe Stronger

As I sit at home on this typical warm Texas Saturday morning, I find myself experiencing an excited anxiety which I haven’t felt in nearly a decade. No, I am not panicking over an upcoming child’s soccer game or dance recital, nor am I consumed with endless piles of laundry or dishes. This is an entirely different emotion stemming from the fact that on Monday morning, I will become one of the many mothers out there who gets up and goes to work. 

A job, you say? Why, yes! Well… sort of. An internship, to be exact, which will be the start of my career in the mental health counseling world. Yep, I’ve finally decided to teach what I know, and we all know I have a PhD in crazy. Here’s what’s shocking… I’m not at all anxious or scared about working. In all honesty, I cannot wait. I feel like a wild horse who has been corralled for eight years and is finally being let out to run freely. As I wrote that sentence, I could feel the judgmental head shakings from mothers or fathers who stay at home willingly with their kids and love every second of Dora, bedtime stories, and potty training. Well, shaking-head-folks, I envy you for the patience and dedication it takes to be a happy and fulfilled stay-at-home parent. I have attempted to master the art of the housewife and somehow managed to not ruin my children while doing so, but it has been a struggle to say the least. I’ve finally accepted the fact that I am terrible at playing make believe, don’t have the patience for Legos, and cannot for the life of me make a gingerbread house that doesn’t fall apart within five minutes.

                Some may think I sound ungrateful, but this is simply untrue. I recognize how incredibly lucky I have been to stay at home with my girls these past several years. I have witnessed every first step, every lost tooth, and wiped every ass that needed wiping. I would not trade these experiences for anything in the world (except maybe the ass wiping). However, while it has been amazing being around for everything, the downside is that I have been around for everything. No, that is not an unintentionally redundant sentence. Think about it…

                When my child skins her knee, I am there. When my child has a stomach ache, I am there. When my child needs to find a potty NOW, I find one. It is our job as parents to be there for our children and to make them feel safe and loved, but my children have now reached the point where they depend on me to guide them in resolving problems which arise in their day to day lives. While I love the fact that they trust me with every fiber of their little bodies, I also see that my being here for everything has stifled their independent thinking and behavior. My sweet little girls have been on maybe two play dates in their entire lives where I wasn’t in attendance (side note: this is not because I want to be there to watch them… this is because I only surround my children with mothers who like wine and gossip as much as I do). There has been one, yes ONE, soccer practice that did not include the presence of myself or my husband the entire hour in the beating hot sun or biting cold. Why? Because my children believe that some horrible, yellow-eyed monster is going to emerge from the ground and swallow them whole if I am not there (that, or they’re afraid of having to poop and there is no bathroom at the practice fields). This is the routine in every arena of our lives. Field trips, check. After-school pickup, check... and being late is 100% unacceptable. These kids have had a parent in attendance for every school party since pre-school, and it has now become the norm. Absence is not an option. I see other children show up at birthday parties practically pushing their parents out of the way to get to the fun. These children couldn’t care less about hanging out with Mommy, and I am envious. My children attach to me like I’m still feeding them with the boobs anytime we’re anywhere. I pry them off of me with all the strength I can muster, promising them I am not leaving, promising them that I will be there if they need to go to the bathroom, and that I will let them know if and when I go to use the bathroom myself. It is RIDICULOUS. Go live, children! Get hurt! Get in trouble! PLEASE!!

                So now you may understand why I’m feeling a mixture of anxiety and excitement about starting my job. I know that I will not be in attendance for every sneeze any longer and this makes me so happy and so scared at the same time. I have taught these children to rely on me, and now I’m teaching them to rely on themselves. I used to shudder at the thought of someone else being there to sweep up the pieces of my children’s mishaps, but I now see that the independence I am eight years late in teaching is coming back to bite me in my self-wiped ass.

                My point? I see so many battles over the stay-at-home mom vs the working mom. I have always leaned towards the stay-at-home mom for obvious reasons. Now I’m beginning to see how a little time away from the kids will not only benefit me, but will teach them to make decisions on their own, run freely at birthday parties, and always, ALWAYS, wipe their own asses.

Hateful Whores

          Growing up, I was definitely not someone who hung out with the “cool” people. And I totally understand why. I cringe when I think about some of my super-cool outfits consisting of Umbros and knee-high striped baseball socks, coupled with my equally awesome hair which was shaved bald from the ponytail down. What in the bloody hell was I thinking? Side note: Please don’t feel the need to sympathize with my naiveté. Years later, I became a cheerleader who got wasted on the weekends, and they are ALWAYS cool.

                 

           Mixed into my emotions of delusional embarrassment, I also have to laugh and be grateful for the way my mom handled my… unique?... sense of style. She was always so supportive of my ludicrous decisions, aside from the head shaving stage, which I still think was pretty dope. My mother behaved this way with all of my sisters as well, allowing us to channel our inner fashionistas and take on the criticism of middle schoolers head on. I do not in any way fault her for this open-mindedness, as I think my sisters and I all ended up just awesomely; however, I have taken a completely different stance on this issue myself when dealing with my own children.  

  

           When my twins started Kindergarten two years ago, I was beyond relieved over the fact that they would be wearing uniforms to school. Not only would it make things simpler when choosing clothes to wear in the morning, but perhaps this way there would be less snootiness at school as far as clothing was concerned. Shoes, socks, and hair bows are pretty much the only areas where these kids have the freedom to put a little bit of personality into their wardrobes. I thought this would be so simple to figure out, and that everyone would be happy with these effortless decisions I had to make regarding their accessories. Boy, was I wrong. After testing out fifty different types of socks, six different styles of shoes, and deciding that bows were just for babies, I was worn out. At first, I was getting on my girls for being so picky.  However, it didn’t take long for me to realize that the reason for the fuss was far deeper than simple comfort or preference; the problem was the little bitches at school who decided to make fun of 5 year olds for the socks they decided to wear that day.  

                 

          Yes, I just referred to my children’s fellow female kindergarten peers as bitches. Sorry, not sorry. I speak the truth. Side note: None of my friends on Facebook are mothers of these bitches, so stop asking yourself if I'm talking about you. Okay, to continue... there were days when I would pick my girls up from school, and one of them would be sobbing in the car because so-and-so told her that her shoes looked stupid. Seriously? Yes, seriously. Those short but long rides home were fraught with anger, hurt feelings, confusion, and defeat. At least those were my emotions. My initial reaction was to take the common stance of “they only say these things to you because they are insecure and blah blah blah…”. While this is true, it doesn’t do much to help a tiny little girl who just wants to be accepted by her classmates.

                 

          My girls are now in second grade, and over the past two years I have developed a new theory on these spiteful little bullies at school. While the campaigns for anti-bullying are powerful and definitely a good way to help some children being harassed, I just don’t think this method works for every child. No matter what the good parents of the world do in an attempt to end the bullying at school, we never will. There will always be parents who are bullies themselves, who pass this hideous behavior onto their own spawns of Satan. That being said, my approach is not to get rid of the bullies, but to prepare my children for having to deal with them the rest of their lives. I deal with bitchy adult bullies on a daily basis, and it has taken me a LONG time to just accept the fact that those people are mean and probably suffering from a lifelong case of diarrhea which causes them to be shitty to others (see what I did there?).

                 

           So how do you prepare a 7 year old for this awful truth of meanness? I’m sure that many of you will disagree with my new method, but it seems to be working so far, so kiss it. Basically, when one of my children decides to “express herself” by wearing her hair in a way that makes me, a mother who always thinks her children are beautiful, cringe, I just tell her the truth. Now don’t freak out… I’m not saying I look at my little girl and tell her she looks like Marilyn Manson on a bad hair day. I simply have decided to PREPARE her. I tell her that I can appreciate what she is trying to do with her new hairdo, but that there are mean people at school who WILL make fun of her for it. After providing her with this information, and hoping desperately that she will fix her hair to look somewhat generationally acceptable once again, I let her make the decision on her own. If she decides to make her psychotic fashion statement, at least she will know when walking into her classroom, some little bitch is going to make fun of her for it. She is prepared for the worst.

               

           I know that it is of the utmost importance to let our children express themselves and to discover who they truly are along the way, but why is it the norm to just let them go out in the world unprepared for the backlash? We teach them to wipe their asses, wash their plates, brush their teeth… why can’t we teach them about the bitches? Maybe if we did, our little ones would be more prepared to deal with these hateful whores the rest of their lives. Because there will ALWAYS be hateful whores.

Pretty Princesses

                Seven years ago, I was a pregnant, cranky, hormonal woman on the verge of a breakdown. Today… I am no longer pregnant. As for the other aforementioned descriptors, they haven’t really changed much. A lot of people would say that this is because having a baby (or three!) changes everything. But I actually have to disagree with this statement. I think that having a baby brings about every insecurity, fear, and weakness we keep buried within ourselves our whole lives. For every woman, there are different triggers which cause us to become defensive and insecure (the same is true for men, but I really don’t want to go there). For me, it’s the fear of other people thinking that I’m annoying or simply not liking me. I constantly worry that people are tired of listening to me speak or that I’m talking about myself or my children too much. Of course, this fear usually results in a mild anxiety attack which causes me to talk ten times more than I normally would.

                Recently, I’ve begun asking myself why it is that I care so much about other people and their opinions of me. I’ve come up with what I believe is an extremely accurate explanation: WOMEN ARE BITCHES. If you get pissed that I put that in writing and talk badly about me to your friends, you are simply proving my point, so thank you! But let’s be honest here. Starting in elementary school, girls group together and make fun of other girls for things that are superficial and hurtful. Why? Does it make us feel better? No. It’s a flimsy shield used to protect ourselves from our own insecurities. But the question remains… WHY are we so insecure?

                I’ve decided to blame the Disney princesses. As young girls, we obsess over these fair maidens with perfect boobs and shiny hair, rescued by princes who are not only rolling in cash but ride horses, sing, and will literally slay a dragon in order to steal an innocent  kiss from an unconscious princess. Notice that NONE of the fairytales are centered around married life and having children. Why? Because this kind of movie would certainly not be appropriate for children. I guarantee you Belle turned into a crazy bitch once she popped out a few kids.

                As we grow up and start to realize that the fairytale is bullshit, we get pissed because that’s how we think life is supposed to be. We get angry at men for not sweeping us off of our feet while singing love songs in the woods as the forest animals dance around merrily. Truth be told, this scenario only happens if you have a gay best friend.

                At this point in time, the sane and rational thing to do would be to turn to other women for support and input, sharing war stories about husbands and children and the fact that they are ALL assholes. However, this is where women, as a species, fail epically. Instead of revealing our uncertainties and our disappointments, we act out our own Disney movies, complete with the perfect hair and boobs (thank you Victoria’s Secret). We want others to think that we are just like those princesses, floating through life without a care in the world, tending to our perfectly behaved children after spending the afternoon at the gym and simultaneously updating our boards on Pinterest. LIES!

                

Here are just a few of my confessions:

1.       My kids don’t eat vegetables

2.       Sometimes, I pretend to be sick on the couch so nobody will give me shit about the dishes

3.       I wear yoga pants every day of the week, and go to yoga about once every three months

4.       When I drop my kids off at school, I’m usually wearing the makeup I had on the night before that I forgot to wash off

5.       I drink coffee all day, simply because I’m not allowed to drink wine and drive

6.       My house is NEVER clean

7.       For every special occasion that requires me to dress up, I buy a new dress, keep the tags on, and return it the next day

8.       I feel guilty EVERY SECOND OF EVERY DAY that I’m not giving my children the love and support that they need to be more secure individuals than I am                                                                                                                                                                                                          

               Some of these confessions may seem silly to you, but they’re the pieces of my puzzle which cause me to worry about what opinions people have of me on a daily basis. These are the facts I feel I need to fabricate when talking to the princesses of the world in order to be accepted. Maybe it’s time that we realize those princesses are just as scared and self-doubting as we are. Something the Disney movies failed to teach us: perfect boobs and perfect hair do not necessarily equal a perfect life. I ask you to remember this as you mentally bitch slap the pretty princess next to you tomorrow in the carpool line…  

Blessed

 

                This morning, I woke up next to my husband and gently kissed him on the cheek. As I watched him sleep soundly, I crept silently out of bed and headed towards the shower. The hot water helped my brain wake up after a night of only seven and a half hours of sleep. As I shaved my legs, I started mentally planning the day ahead of me. I was feeling excited about baking the homemade organic quinoa muffins I had found on Pinterest for breakfast. I just knew the whole family would happily scarf them down before we all headed out to start our days. I then reminded myself that today was the Book Fair at the Elementary School, and made a mental note to get my order form in to the girls’ teachers when I dropped them off at school this morning. And thank goodness for that awakening shower, otherwise I might have forgotten that there was a PTO meeting at the school tonight, right after soccer practice. That reminded me, I needed to get fresh fruit to slice up for the meeting! I made a plan to do this right after Crossfit at 9:00am.  As I dried myself off, I felt extremely blessed by the busy day I was about to take part in. I just love the hectic schedules we have these days. Although it is trying at times, it is so rewarding to help my children with their homework, and to wash their little faces every night in the bathtub. The highlight of my day is reading to each of my babies before tucking them in with a goodnight kiss to end their day on a perfect note. Then of course, the night gets even better after the children are sleeping, when my husband and I sit back and reflect on how incredibly lucky we are to have our three little miracles. Watching his face light up over how much he loves his kids, his wife, and his job makes me feel so lucky to have the life with which I have been blessed. I smiled to myself as I thought about our nightly ritual of putting the kids to bed together, before retiring to our own bedroom for our one-on-one time as a happily married couple. I sighed in content and began blow drying my hair, smiling in the mirror at my oh- so- lucky self.

Things I Just Lied About

·         Waking up next to my husband and kissing him on the cheek (Not possible, as he is long gone by the time I wake up)

·         Showering

·         Seven and a half hours of sleep

·         Shaving my legs (See above bullet labeled “showering”)

·         Making or consuming homemade organic quinoa muffins

·         Ever looking on Pinterest

·         Getting any order form turned in on time

·         Being a member of the PTO

·         Taking the time to slice fresh fruit

·         Going to Crossfit

·         Loving hectic schedules

·         Using something other than a wet nap to wash my kids’ faces

·         Reading to my children every night

·         Basking in luxurious kissy goo-goo lovey-dovey moments with my husband

·         My husband’s face EVER having the ability to light up after his 12 hour work day

·         Having one-on-one time with my husband that isn’t interrupted by a stomach ache or a child who claims her sister is killing her

·         Blow drying my hair (Impossible; again, see above bullet labeled “showering”)

 

                Alright, people. When are we going to stop trying to make everyone around us believe that we are perfect? It seems nearly impossible to get through my day without hearing someone tell me how incredibly wonderful and flawless her life is. However, I’ve found that if I give these blissful friends a few glasses of Chardonnay, the truth inevitably comes out. And that truth is as follows: Parenting is hard, marriage is harder, and neither one ever gets any easier. So why do we all feel the need to prove to others that we drift flawlessly through our days, organized and happy, carefree and feeling blessed? It’s time to cut the bullshit and be real.

                Although it may appear as though I’m stereotyping my own gender, women really are the ones who are guilty of these lies. I have attended countless play dates where I arrive at the home of another mother and enter a magical wonderland of spotless floors, fresh-baked oatmeal cookies, and well-behaved, clean children. However, I cannot place the blame on all other women, as I am extremely guilty of doing this myself. I rush around thirty minutes before a play date is scheduled, Febreezing the shit out of the living room, in hopes that it will no longer smell like dog hair and children. I gather everything that needs to be stored and organized and throw it in the garage. I tell my kids to put something on that doesn’t make them look homeless, and put a piece of gum in my mouth, hoping I can pass as a woman concerned with her own personal hygiene. I close the laundry room door, because I wouldn’t want anyone to think I had fallen behind on keeping our dresser drawers fully stocked. How would my play date friend react if she knew we had been living out of the dryer for the past three days? I then take out the pre-sliced,  fresh (kind of) fruit purchased from Target that morning, and dump it onto a platter I registered for when I got married, wiping the dust off with a paper towel which may or may not have already been used as a Kleenex. I find no need to change clothes, as I have already planned on telling my friend that I just returned from the gym, validating my disheveled appearance and yoga pants which are on their third day of wear. When the doorbell chimes, I answer with a smile on my face, inviting my perfect friend and her equally perfect child into my flawlessly clean house. The only props missing from my grand door opening are white doves magically appearing from behind me, flying gracefully into the air as I welcome my guests. For now, I have succeeded in making my guests believe that this is the way I live, in a Better Homes and Gardens, picture perfect world, filled with faultless children who voluntarily help me keep the house in this unblemished condition.  

                As the children play upstairs, my mother play date begins. We each talk about our husbands and how hard they work, and how good they are to us when they come home at the end of the day. We complain about them having to travel simply because we miss them so much when they’re gone. The conversation predictably moves onto our children, and how they eat six servings of vegetables per day, all the while reciting the spelling words they were assigned at school, which are of course a grade level ahead of where our children should be. Really, it’s a burden having such intelligent children, as it seems so unfair to the other kids in class. And of course, which sport should we choose for our future Olympic athletes? I mean, they are six years old after all. It is so important to know by this age which professional sports our children are going to excel in, since they are obviously fantastic in all of them.  It’s exhausting to have such talented children, and even more so to have such loving husbands who shower us with compliments and please us in the bedroom five to six times per week. But really, at the end of the day, we’re blessed to have these as our problems. We agree on this as we bid each other farewell at the end of our play date.

Does this sound familiar to you??

Raise your hand if you’re ready to hear the truth.

 

The Truth About Children

                I am in complete agreement with most every other mother out there who feels that her children are the most important beings in her life. I would throw myself in front of a bus to save the lives of any of my children, and I have a Mother Bear instinct that kicks in when someone treats my kids poorly. Mess with my kids, and I… will… cut… you. That being said…

                Kids are shit heads. Mine are shit heads, yours are shit heads, they are ALL SHIT HEADS. Kids talk back. Kids whine. Kids only catch stomach bugs at 3:00 in the morning, and only need to go to the bathroom when you’re five minutes late getting out the door. Kids are unappreciative, lazy, and messy. Kids will make you their bitch, and still cause you to feel as if you don’t do enough for them. Kids have the ability to make you feel more guilty than you ever have in your life, and will have you doubting your parenting abilities every second of the day, from the time they’re born until… well, I’m guessing until the time you die, although I don’t have personal experience with this yet. Kids will sit happily in silence until you make a phone call, at which point they will begin screaming and crying for absolutely no reason. Kids have invisible radars within them that send a signal to their brains whenever you want to sit down and eat for five minutes. At this point, they either need to poop or they break something made of glass, which is impossible to ignore since they ALWAYS step in the glass once it’s broken. Kids will make going out to dinner the most miserable experience of your life, and will turn you into a hermit all so you can avoid taking them out in public, as they will inevitably destroy something. Kids make it impossible to have an adult conversation in a public setting, for fear that your attention is actually being focused elsewhere. And most notably in my house, kids make you drink delicious red wine in vast amounts (or pop pills… your call).

                I’m sure that none of the aforementioned scenarios come as news to most of you. But I’m going to say something that most people are too scared to say:

It’s okay to be angry about all of these things.

                It’s okay to harbor resentment towards your children for causing you to have absolutely no social life of your own. It’s okay to daydream about life pre-kids, and ask yourself what life would have been like if you had just waited one more year to become a parent. It’s okay to sit at home on the phone with your mother, in tears over your child’s inability to eat anything but Goldfish. All of these feelings are normal, NONE of them make you a selfish person, and in reality, we wouldn’t feel this way if we didn’t give everything within ourselves to our children. However, knowing that we love our children doesn’t help these awful feelings go away. So what does? I have learned over the past few years that just knowing I am not the only person going through this hell actually makes me feel better. It’s not that I want other people to suffer; rather, I just feel like less of a failure as a mother if I know that others cry themselves to sleep at night, wondering when things are going to get easier, begging to be appreciated for all of the little things I do all day that go unnoticed.

                I started an experiment with several of my friends in recent years. Instead of portraying that I am the perfect mother, I have instead embraced the fact that my children are picky and needy and drive me insane. This has resulted in many different reactions from other parents. Some laugh, as if I’m joking. Some look at me in judgment, shocked that I could admit any feelings other than love and joy when speaking of my kids. And then there are my favorite people, the ones who sigh in relief and agree with me that being a parent can really SUCK ASS. Why are we so afraid to admit this? Are we afraid that people will think we take these feelings out on our children? It’s not as if I lock my kids in the dog kennel when they’re pissing me off, although I have seriously contemplated doing this in the past. My children really have no idea that I spend so much of my time feeling trapped and guilty, resentful and inadequate. And really, they should never know I feel this way, because it is not their fault. Instead of projecting my negative feelings onto my kids, I have instead decided to confide in my family, friends, and basically any stranger on the street who will listen. Not only does this keep me from screwing my children up mentally (therapy is expensive and I’m cheap), it also helps alleviate the pain I feel deep in my chest when I start wanting to scream. When other parents converse with me about their child rearing problems, it actually turns me into a better mother. I don’t get nearly as frustrated when my kids don’t eat, and I don’t want to pull my hair out when I find crayon markings all over my white walls. Kids are kids. Kids are asshole shit heads. Don’t judge. Yours are too.

 

The Truth about Marriage

                Oh, marriage. When my husband and I first got married, we swore we would be different than every other couple out there. Why? Because we weren’t just in love, we were BEST FRIENDS!! How could anything ever go wrong? What people don’t tell you when you get married is that you will not go to bed every night loving your spouse. In fact, there are many nights you will just sit in bed with a smile on your face, contemplating the different ways you could kill your husband and get away with it. For me, this didn’t really happen until we had kids.

                Once you and your spouse become parents together, life becomes a shit storm. People say that having a baby changes everything. This is true, but what they should say is that babies are cute and shit their pants, and life with your spouse becomes more difficult than you could ever imagine. My husband and I live the typical 1950’s lifestyle where he goes to work and brings in the dough, while I stay at home and raise the children. This plan has definitely been a positive one on many notes, as I have been able to take part in every little milestone my kids have experienced, and can relay all of the information to my husband via pictures, videos, and story-telling. This is what I have always wanted to do with my life, and I wouldn’t change it for the world. However, nobody told me that in becoming a stay at home mom, part of my job description would be “husband’s bitch.” I have become a laundress, a maid, a cook (debatable), a secretary, an accountant, and a glorified prostitute over the past several years (don’t judge, you have too!)  This might be fine if I didn’t spend all day doing these same things for my kids (minus the prostitution). At the end of the day, after the kids have been put into bed and you take a look at your destroyed house, the last thing you want to do is add another person onto the list of who you do things for. But there he is, your husband, your best friend turned boss, needing his dinner, asking about his dry cleaning, inquiring about the $100 you spent at Target that day. And that’s when you start to feel defensive. How come he didn’t notice that you mopped the floor? Why can’t he see that you used coupons galore at Target and that none of the items you purchased that day were for yourself, but for everyone else in your home? Just once, why can’t you walk downstairs after tucking the kids in to find your husband holding a glass of wine for you as he encourages you to take a seat on the couch and watch your soap opera while he cleans up the dinner mess? The answer to all of these questions is the same: BECAUSE HE DOESN’T GET IT AND HE NEVER WILL. Just like you don’t understand everything he accomplished at work that day, he will never understand all of the little things you have completed yourself. I have spent so much time resenting my husband for not recognizing that the full time job of being a parent is so much more demanding than a job which you can actually leave at the end of the day. What I didn’t understand is that husbands spends an awful lot of time resenting their housewives, as they believe we sit around all day gossiping with friends and hanging out at Starbucks (yes, I do that too… it’s called multi-tasking).

                After several years of competing with my husband over who had the more difficult job, we both became emotionally exhausted. Our friendship seemed to have completely disappeared, and we couldn’t look at each other with anything other than anger and resentment in our eyes. Although we did our very best to keep our struggles away from our children’s ever-observing eyes, our unhappiness was very apparent. He believed I was too easy on our kids, and I believed he was too strict. He thought I wasted too much money on things we didn’t need, and I felt he was too controlling over every penny I spent on our family. There seemed to be literally nothing we could agree upon when it came to parenting, or the way we lived our daily lives. We spent several nights in separate bedrooms, our stubborn attitudes blinding us from each other, each of us bound and determined to be validated in our feelings and emotions. In a last ditch effort, we attended couple’s counseling, hoping to resolve our issues and come to some sort of understanding as to how we had gotten to this point. Our counselor attempted to aid us in this, but nothing seemed to help. At one point, the counselor stated “When a couple comes in for counseling, I am not worried if they are angry with one another, because that means there are still feelings involved. I do become concerned when couples are indifferent, because this means they just don’t care anymore.” My heart sank. Indifferent was exactly how I felt. All seemed hopeless.

                One night, we were lying in bed, turned away from one another, and my husband quietly said something to me that I’m sure he had said before, but I had never really taken the time to hear.

“I remember when we were the best team ever.”

 

                My gut instinct was to snap back at him and blame him for causing our relationship to crumble, but at this point it would have been pointless. I had already said all of these things to him, and I didn’t have it in me to fight anymore. Instead, I not only listened to his words, but I HEARD his words, too.

                The next several days were different than they had been in years. I found the strength within me to let go of some of my defensiveness, and tried to convince myself that my relationship with my husband did not have to be one based on competition. When he arrived home from work, instead of being angry at him for not noticing all of the chores I had completed around the house and with the kids, I asked him how his day was. This took him by surprise, as he was not used to me caring about anything other than the negativity surrounding my own life. As the days continued, his defensiveness seemed to soften as well. We actually began engaging in civil conversation. The changes in both of our attitudes seemed to make everything a little easier. I stopped resenting him for coming home late, and began sympathizing with him over having to work such long hours in order to support our family. He started making a point of mentioning things I had accomplished throughout my day, and would even encourage me to sit down and relax a little while he put his own dinner together. It seemed unfathomable just days before, but we were actually starting to become friends again.

                It is my belief that most humans are inherently selfish, and worry about themselves more so than others. We teach our children to share and to be kind to others, but at some point we forget to do this ourselves. It is amazing to me the effect that showing just a small amount of appreciation toward my husband and him doing the same for me could change things so drastically. My husband and I were literally at the point of no return a year ago, yet we have recently become the team we were in the beginning. I have realized that, just like in any sporting event my professional athlete children will compete in someday, a win is not possible without the team coming together as a whole. Don’t get me wrong… my husband still pisses me off on a daily basis, just as I do him. BUT, now that we have realized that we are not out to destroy each other, things just seem to work better.

                My advice to all of you married couples with children is to stop trying to win. Stop trying to be perfect all the time and right all of the time. Instead, try being real. Understand that your children are going to drive you crazy, and you are going to hate your husband at some point in time. If you’re reading this and disagree with me, I suggest you and the three other people in the universe who feel as you do, start your own little book club and talk shit about me while you consume your Pinterest inspired snacks. Have a ball. For the rest of you, I beg you to realize that we are all going through the same thing, and that every day presents you with a new challenge which you can either fight or dominate. Reach out to your friends, as they are probably going through similar battles as well. And if you’re really feeling lost, try taking a nice, hot shower. I’ve heard that can help J

The Seven Year Itch

The Seven Year Itch…

I guess you could say that my last blog entry was a bit of a parody, and obviously a little exaggerated. However, I have communicated with a number of people in the past several weeks about the taboo subject of married life, and I have to say that there is much more to discuss. I have been married for almost eight years, and happily so. My husband is my other half, my best friend, and I don’t believe that there is anyone else out there who is better suited for me. We fit. I love him. That being said…

At the risk of sounding too cliché, I’m bringing up the good old saying “men are from Mars, and women are from Venus”. While there is no way I could point out either one of these planets on a chart of the universe, I have most definitely discovered that men and women function on totally different levels. And it totally sucks.

In the beginning of every relationship, there is a certain newness which awakens the souls of the lovebirds involved. There are fluttering butterflies in the bellies. Both parties eagerly await the next conversation they will have with their “Facebook official” boyfriend/girlfriend . I was no different. When I first started dating Justin, I would persistently check to make sure my cell phone was getting sufficient service, constantly terrified I would miss a call, a text, ANYTHING from him. I was a woman obsessed. And I have to say, he was a man obsessed as well. It was perfect.

As I mentioned earlier, Justin and I just seemed to fit. We became one person emotionally and physically, never tiring of each other, never wanting to spend a single second with anyone else on the planet. It wasn’t long before we were engaged, then married, then parents. And as quickly as we went from one title to the next, we began changing into the people we swore we would never become; the people who were “old” and “boring”. He became the typical male who wasn’t available emotionally, and I became the typical housewife who always had a headache when it was time to hit the sheets. I think we both assumed this was just a natural transition, and although it didn’t make either of us happy, we rolled with it.  

In a perfect world, that’s where the story ends. Husbands keep being husbands, coming home from work ready to relax and not be bothered; wives keep being wives, eager to pawn the kids off on their husbands the minute they walk through the door. And everyone is happy. But this is not a perfect world. These routines and behaviors create a barrier, a wall, between the husband and wife who were once inseparable. Resentment rears its ugly head, and bonds are quickly shattered. Pretty soon, your best friend is also your worst enemy.

I never really believed in the so-called “seven year itch”. However, it was almost on cue. Right before our seven year anniversary, it’s as if someone snuck into my room in the middle of the night and injected me with some sort of crazy lady Viagra. Now, before you go shunning me and telling me I need to find Jesus, please let me continue. I’m not saying I wanted to go jump into bed with every guy I saw crossing the street; I just started NOTICING men again. They’re EVERYWHERE. At Target, at the gym, at the OBGYN’s office… what?? Yes, everywhere. I would catch myself staring, and then just as quickly as I noticed these cuties, I would mentally bitch slap myself… “Snap out of it, devil woman!! You’re married!”  I couldn’t figure out where this was coming from. Was it hormonal? Was it boredom at home? Or, did somebody seriously sneak into my bed and inject me with Viagra? 

About a year later, I talked to one of my good friends about my “problem”. He said something to me that definitely hit home... “Temptation is anywhere you want to find it.” At first this just made me angry. How dare he insinuate that I was purposely out there looking at other guys? What an ass face.

That same night at home with Justin, I couldn’t shake the sick feeling I had building in my stomach. I felt overwhelmingly guilty for my wandering, unfaithful eyes. I sarcastically laughed at myself as I recalled the phrase, “I’m sorry, baby. You may have my heart… But you don’t have my eyes.” I had never really lived this saying until that point in my life. I poured myself another glass of wine, attempting to drink the guilt away. Then, I decided to approach Justin, and as is typically the case when I’ve had one too many, the verbal diarrhea spewed out disobediently.

I can’t remember my exact words, and I’m sure Justin can’t either since 75% of what I was saying made absolutely no sense. I do recall him laughing a little as I flew all over the map, starting with the hot guys at the gym, followed by my suggesting an open marriage, then immediately deciding we needed to go to church more. Staying on track was not my forte that evening. However, something I did discover was that I wasn’t flying solo on this one. I’m not going to throw my husband under the bus on this one, but let’s just say that his eyes might have been wandering a little as well. And although my immediate reaction to this information was, “Tell me the bitch’s name. I’ll stab her in the heart,” I slowly started feeling a sense of relief come over me. I wasn’t alone! My husband was looking at other women too! Thank the Lord!

Stop. Did you read those last couple of sentences? Yeah, that’s probably something I shouldn’t be so excited about.

In a fictional story, this is where the author gives you a solution to the problem at hand, and all of the characters involved live happily ever after. Unfortunately, I’m leaving you filled with anticipation and probably a few unanswered questions. Why, you ask? Because, this is not fiction. This is real life. And you’re going to have to be patient just like I am, because I don’t have a solution yet. All I have is a seven year itch J 

 

                                                                                                                  

 

 

Fifty Shades of Bullshit: The Parenting Years

Okay, I know this is probably going to make some people uncomfortable, but I decided to add my own chapter to 50 Shades of Grey. Enjoy!

Fifty Shades of Bullshit: The Parenting Years

I feel a familiar burning deep, down, inside of me. I’m hot… so hot. I move a strand of dark hair out of my blue eyes as I wonder… did I remember to take my pro-biotic this morning? Why else would my stomach be feeling this way? My inner goddess reaches up and bitch slaps me. Wake up, dumbass! Just because you got no sleep last night gives you no reason to get distracted. I shake my head and get back to the task at hand.

The water is so hot… My hands are moving slowly in a circular motion, gently caressing the fine China I thought was so important to register for when I got married. I take my warm, wet hands out of the sink and start the dishwasher. I’m feeling antsy… When will he be home? I long for my Fifty… I need him, now. I try not to think about it as I hand dry the China with a dish towel, but desire overwhelms me as I think about the Avocado Egg Rolls he’s supposed to bring me from BJ’s. Oh, my. I hope he remembers the dipping sauce.

Suddenly, I hear a scream… Alarm takes over my emotions instantly, but I take a swig of my $10 Target wine and the panic subsides. I hesitantly yell down the hallway.

“Whoever just made the other one cry, STOP IT! I don’t care who is right or who is wrong. Just STOP!” Silence. Such lovely, but terrifying silence. I figure that if someone had a broken bone, the crying would not have ended so quickly. Sighing, I walk through the Great Room, and begin picking up the Princess panties and t-shirts strewn haphazardly throughout the area. I feel a momentary twinge of anger towards Mrs. Jones for quitting, but who could blame her? I hold back a sob as I remember her last day with us, as she grabbed a shit-filled diaper and launched it across the living room. Her parting words to me still feel like a slap in the face.

“Bitch, I did NOT sign up for this shit! Change your own damn diapers and feed your own piece of shit children. I am OUT of here!”

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a key turning in the door. Excited, I run to greet my Fifty. He opens the door and walks in, looking at me with his dark, grey eyes. What is that expression? What is he thinking? I can tell something is seriously wrong as the smile he gives me doesn’t quite touch his eyes.

“Christian, what’s wrong?” I ask, panicked. Christian looks me in the eyes, then shifts his glance down at the floor, guiltily.

“I forgot the dipping sauce,” he answers me. Oh, my. This information takes a moment to set in. And I realize, I’m angry. I stare at my Fifty, my stupid, scatterbrained Fifty. What a moron. Who wants to eat Avocado Rolls without the dipping sauce? What a complete asshole.

The children are all finally asleep. I crawl into bed, exhausted, and happily let my head hit the soft pillow awaiting me. I have been dreaming of this all day…

Christian walks into the bedroom. He’s wearing no shirt, and those tight, light colored jeans with the rip in the knee. I shake my head at him. How many times do I have to tell this man that faded jeans went out of style when AC Slater stopped wearing them on Saved By The Bell? Before I can even state my opinion, I look up and see his burning expression. Oh, shit. Is it Wednesday? Sex day. Damn it.

“Mrs. Grey. I think you have seriously misbehaved today.” His grey eyes darken, and he moves towards me, closer, and I can feel the heat coming off of his body as he slowly climbs into the bed.

“Me? You’re the one who forgot the dipping sauce, ass face.” I shake my head, still irritated. Christian ignores my comment and slides under the sheets next to me. He grabs the back of my ponytail and kisses me, hard.

“I think I would like you in the shower,” he says to me, eyes burning. I look up at him.

“Christian, can we just do it in the bed? I’m so tired,” I answer. I look up at him longingly, hoping that he’ll agree to just make it a quickie.

“No, seriously. Have you even showered today?” Christian has a look of disgust on his face as he pulls a Cheerio out of my hair. I casually lift my arm and take a whiff of my armpit. Good, not great.

“Look, Christian.” I sigh at him, then shrug. “Beggars can’t be choosers. You can have me unshowered, or you can’t have me at all.” Christian looks at me and sighs back, weighing his options.

“Fine,” he growls angrily at me and takes off his dreaded jeans. It is clear that my lack of a shower has not resulted in the lack of a huge boner. What a pervert. Christian grabs me and tries to roll me over on top of him, but I fight with everything I have to stay on the bottom. If I’m doing this, it’s going to be on my terms, and he’s going to just have to deal with it. After a silent struggle, Christian finally gives up and climbs on top of me. Oh, thank God. No foreplay. That will get me to bed five minutes quicker than I had anticipated. I close my eyes and wait for him to begin.

“Oh, baby. You look so hot… You feel so good.” I roll my eyes and try not to laugh at him. What kind of weirdo thinks that a C-section scar and saggy nursed upon boobs are hot? But I refrain from saying anything. Talking will just prolong this experience. Suddenly, I feel something against my body; cold, hard, rubbery… Oh my. “Yeah, baby,” Christian whispers. “I saw you bought us a new toy. I’m so glad you’re getting back into things again.” New toy? I didn’t buy a new toy. I open my eyes, suddenly nervous as to what he’s referring.

“Christian!” I exclaim.”That’s a teething ring. Damn it, I just finished the dishes, and now you give me something else to clean?! What the hell??” Christian looks at the small teething ring and gives me his shy smile. I roll my eyes at him as he tosses the teething ring off of the bed. He climbs back on top of me and continues his familiar rhythm.

“Oh, baby. You feel so good! Oh, Ana!” I let him keep talking as I silently lie under him, closing my eyes again. Damn it. I forgot to make my grocery list. Okay, I know we need eggs. Milk, butter, bread, fruit squeezers, apples. “Yes, Ana!” Shells and Cheese, chicken nuggets, diapers. “YES!” Oh, he’s done. Awesome. Christian kisses me softly on the cheek and climbs off of me, ripping a loud fart as he makes his way to the bathroom. I tilt my head to the side and wonder how long he had been holding that one in.

I’m just drifting off to sleep as Christian climbs back into bed with me. He turns on the TV and begins watching some stupid show on PBS. This will definitely make it easier for me to sleep. I put my hand on his leg, knowing that I can touch him now without the dreaded sex effect. My Fifty. My dumbass, forgetful, faded jeans Fifty. I’m still so pissed he forgot the dipping sauce.

Post Partum Depression: My Delightful Journey Through Hell, Part Two

Okay, I lied. It's definitely been months since my last blog. Do you have kids? Okay, then you understand!

So, I guess it's time to finish the story...

The piece of paper my dad handed me had the name "Erin Silvertooth, Psychiatrist" written across the top along with a phone number. My dad hadn't really seemed in the right kind of mood to provide me with any more details of this mystery woman, but I certainly wasn't going to question him at this point in time. An appointment was made for the following day.

I sat in Dr. Silvertooth's soothing waiting room, listening to the what I'm pretty sure was the same Enya type music that's played when you go get a massage. I anxiously picked at my fingernails and tried to figure out how I was going to explain to her everything that was going on in my head, without sounding like a terrible mother. The door opened and Dr. Silvertooth appeared. She was much younger than I expected, and looked like a girl who I absolutely hated in high school. I attempted to push that thought aside and NOT get mad at her for sleeping with my boyfriend.

We sat down in her dark office and had the basic introductory conversation, exchanging names, me thanking her for agreeing to see me on such short notice, her thanking me for agreeing to come in for help. Then there was silence. I looked at her, wondering if I was supposed to just start talking, or if she was going to initiate it. But then she pulled out her notepad, got her pen ready, and said "So Ginnie, why don't you tell me what's been going on." And with that, all formalities were tossed aside, and I burst into tears.

It all came pouring out. Everything. I guess one of the lessons future psychiatrists learn in Medical School is to never make a facial expression of surprise or judgement when listening to a patient. No matter what I said, Dr. Silvertooth kept the same calm, understanding look on her face. This couldn't have been easy when I was explaining to her that during my pregnancy, I had wished I were pregnant with cats, because I knew how to take care of cats. Before I knew it, I was telling her things that I had been too ashamed to even think about. I told her about the time when Justin came in to say goodbye on his way to work early one morning, and I pretended to be non-responsive. He was shaking me, turning lights on, saying my name loudly in hopes that it would wake me up. To this day, I still don't really know why I did this. Maybe I wanted him to think I was dead so he wouldn't have to go to work. Maybe I just wanted attention from him. Maybe I was so reluctant to be around my babies, I would stop at nothing to get Justin to take care of them instead of me having to. Whatever the reason, it didn't matter that day in Dr. Silvertooth's office. She just listened and took notes.

At the end of our session, Dr. Silvertooth put down her notes and looked straight into my puffy, tear stained eyes. I waited for her to tell me it was time to put me in the looney bin. Instead, what she said surprised me. "Ginnie," she said. "You have been going through these problems, and nobody has known to tell you that what you're suffering from is not insanity, but Post-Partum Depression. I am so sorry that you've gone all these months without feeling like you had anyone to talk to. You poor thing." I sat quietly, looking blankly at the pastel colored wall across from me, tooka a deep breath, and the waterworks started all over again. I don't know if I was crying because I was sad or scared or what, but I do remember feeling a sense of relief... finally, I could stop feeling guilty and hopefully start feeling better.

Dr. Silvertooth decided to put me on Lexapro, an anti-depressent that would also help with my anxiety. Although I had never been one to go for the pills, Dr. Silvertooth explained to me that without pills, the only other option would be to see a psychologist, who could help target where my anxiety and depression were coming from, and I could perhaps get better with some deep breathing exercises. Hmmmm... okay, pass the pills, please!

The first couple of weeks on the Lexapro, I didn't really notice a difference, and I thought I was doomed to be stuck in a world of dark clouds the rest of my life. Why wasn't it working? I almost gave up. But then, slowly, about a month after I started the medication, I saw the sun through the clouds. I'm not even exaggerating. It was as if something in my brain snapped back into place. I could think again. I could laugh again. I was ME again. And I loved it...

I'm not going to give you every detail of what happened in the following months. Let's just say that I suddenly believed again that life was worth living. I didn't want to fall asleep and never wake up. I didn't want to sit in my room and cry. I actually LIKED my husband again! And oh, those babies. I finally really, REALLY loved my babies. I became the mom who laughed over hiccups and burps, and couldn't get enough of their funny facial expressions. I talked about poops and crawling and rolling over and different methods for getting little ones to eat their pureed green beans. Now don't get me wrong... I definitely still had my moments where I wanted to scream because Ashton wouldn't sleep, or cry because Graysen got more attention that day than Ashton did. The great thing about the medication was that it didn't numb me from all emotion... it just helped get me back to who I was before this mess.

I'm sure there are some of you reading this who have very negative opinions of me, not only as a mother, but possibly as a person in general. I understand the fear of pills and being drugged up and "loopy", and I don't blame you for turning your nose up at me or my choices. You obviously haven't been through this yourself. But I also know there are some of you who are going through (or have already gone through) this same thing, and have felt like you were alone. YOU are the people I'm trying to reach. YOU are the ones who don't have to go through this hell without any help. I'm not saying that Lexapro is the answer, or any other pill for that matter. But I do know that when I was at my lowest, I wanted to be done. Done with life. Done with everything. And I just want to tell you that IT CAN GET BETTER. Okay, that sounded really corny and I swear nobody is paying me to advertise for them :)

Time to go for now. Hattie's waking up, and Ash and Gracie are getting impatient waiting to play on my computer. So, until next time... okay, I need a catch phrase. I'm thinking "Stay sane!" has a nice ring to it.

Stay sane!