My AH-Mazing FL Trip - Part 1 (aka...the first 24hrs)

Life is crazy sometimes.  My life, well it is crazy all the time.  There are 24hrs in a day...7 days in a week and 365 days in a year...all of them, for me...for the most part are C-R-A-Z-Y!  Not "crazy busy" or "crazy hectic" but "holy shit is this really happening right now" kind of craziness.

So what is one to do when life is just coming down on ya and you need to get your bearings??  Well, if you're me...you plan a trip back home.  I had gone back and forth with the idea for awhile but then the opportunity presented itself along with free lodging and a LONG break from the new job (God bless you Louisiana and your Mardi Gras lovin self) so it was time to hit the road, literally, and make the drive down to my hometown of Clearwater, FL.

"Who packs the night before and forgets their friggin camera???"

Excuse me Sean Payton...where's my Thank You?!?

In case you've been living under a rock or in a cave or been in a coma or in a long standing depressive state with days on end spent wrapped in your comforter you may not have heard that.....THE NEW ORLEANS SAINTS ARE SUPER BOWL CHAMPIONS!

Now what you or even the most die hard Saints fan may not be aware of is that while Drew Brees was crowned MVP, it is I...yes, me...that should be getting some of that Who Dat love.  Yep.  You read that right.  While those boys in Black and Gold busted butt out on the field game after game I was also playing a very cunning and instrumental part in their journey to Super Bowl stardom. 

What was this amazing contribution you ask? 

Well...I was sleeping. 

Yep, sleeping.  Every time they hit the field for a game I would curl up, turn off the television...shut down the Facebook and slip into a Saints game day slumber.  After every snooze I would get the news that they won. 

As the wins were racked up so were my times of napping.  But then I started realizing that there were other things that I could being doing while the game was on.  So I'd run errands, talk to friends, play on the computer or find other things to occupy my time.  On those occasions....the Saints lost. 

When they play-off's came around I had a conversation with Jon and a few of my die hard Saint fan friends.  Everyone except for one of my very close girlfriends seemed to think my superstitious ritual was ridiculous and that whether I was awake or asleep would pose no bearing on the outcome.  But I decided to keep to my ritual.  Then it was the game against the Vikings.  The Saints were winning and I woke up hungry.  I made my way to the kitchen to get something to eat and meandered around the house a bit doing this or that.  The Saints began to fall behind in the score. 

It was then that Jon turned to me and said "maybe you should go lay back down".  I wanted to say "I told you so" but decided I wasn't in the mood to argue and made my way back to lay down.  I was awakened a little while later by Hannah screaming "Mom...MOM wake up...we won.  The Saints won.  They are going to the Super Bowl". 

The next thing I know Jon was making sure that I knew that I'd need to be asleep for the Super Bowl and then I started getting text and Facebook messages from my friends that knew my ritual telling me that I needed to nap on the day of the big game.  So the days ticked by and the whole city was in preparations for the Super Bowl. 

I received several invites to watch the game but turned them all down.  I even received an invite from one of my best friends who was having a birthday/Super Bowl party and I politely told her that while I wouldn't come over for the game I'd be sure to come as soon as it was over and celebrate her birthday. 

The weekend of the Pro Bowl my friend Marianne cornered me and begged for me to come to the party since it was for her birthday.  I felt torn.  While I want to make her happy, especially for her birthday, I was not going to be held responsible for the consequences should the Saints lose and I'd be awake. 

The next thing I know arrangements are being made for me to have a bed at the house of my friends that were hosting the birthday/Super Bowl party.  When the day of the game rolled around we gathered with friends out in the streets of Slidell to watch the krewe of Dionysis roll for their annual Mardi Gras parade. 

 The TPD Crew ~ Mar, Stacy & Me

 

At 4:30p I showed up with family in tow, sporting p.j.'s, fuzzy pink slippers and toting my pillow and ear plugs in order to take my ritualistic nap.

Me and my ceremonial sleepwear.  I'm pretty sure my kids hate me for wearing this in public.

The cup contains a margarita and is labeled "Sleepytime Juice".

As I walked into the party I was met with an equal number of appreciative and "what the hell is that person wearing" gazes.  I didn't care what anyone thought once I saw my crew of girls...

 

Me, Stacy, Mar, Lynne & Allison (this group is affectionately named the Wine & Nerds club)

...their greetings and hugs of appreciation for me ACTUALLY agreeing to come over and sleep through the Super Bowl was amazing.  Once I said my hello's I made my way up to Lynne's youngest daughters room and settled in to fall asleep.  The one thing I had not planned on was the DJ and the karaoke machine that would be on.  I managed to tune everything out and fall asleep for a good while but woke suddenly when a kid or a few of them slammed into a wall outside the room I was in and then I couldn't fall back to sleep with the extremely loud sound of the music from outside.

I sent a text to Jon to see what the score was and found out that the Saints were leading.  Then within the few minutes I was awake the Colts managed to take the lead.  I made a split decision and told Jon that I was gonna make a break for it and head home to my own bed.  I slipped out of the house and headed home to my comfy bed and quiet house.  As I snuggled down I got the text that the Saints had taken back the lead and then I drifted off to sleep again.

Finally, Olivia came in to say that the Saints had won and that she would really like a McFlurry.  I loaded up the car with myself, Olivia and her friend Em and took them to McDonald's before heading back to be part of the post game celebration.

When I made my way into the house you would have thought that I had been the one to score the game winning touchdown because people were hugging me and saying "thanks for sleeping".  It was hysterical.  The party went on for another few hours with singing and birthday cake for the birthday girl, Marianne and the birthday boy, Joe.  And every so often someone would walk up and hug me or just say again how much they appreciated that I slept.

Mar came up to me and told me that she had told everyone at the party that if the Saints won she would let them "motorboat" her ample bosom.  I laughed because we constantly quote "Wedding Crashers" and then asked her how many people took her up on her offer.  She said she had announced it early on in the game and in the excitement she thought everyone must have forgotten.  I then said, "well since I'm partly responsible for this win...I think I should DEFINITELY get to motorboat ya"....

What can I say except...they aren't built for speed...

...they are DEFINITELY built for comfort!

I bet that's something that Sean Payton or Drew Brees, Jeremy Shockey or even Reggie Bush (well unless Kim Kardashian was offering up this service to the team) got to be a part of. 

But as the team made their way home and met their throngs of fans at the airport and Drew took the ceremonial "I've just won the Super Bowl, so I'm going to Disney World" trip and made the circuit of talk shows and then the "Dat Tuesday" parade took place with 800,000 attendee's it became increasingly clear that the Saints weren't gonna throw any of their love my way and are hell bent on acting as if this win was ALL them.

Hmph...those unappreciative bastards!! See if I offer up this "assistance" next season!!

I guess we will just have to wait and see how they are feeling when it's time to take the field later this year.  Maybe then Sean Payton will be calling up his secret weapon. 

I'll be waiting. 

Comforter at the ready. 

And if they come to their senses and want to acknowledge my role in this years win....my first name is spelled J-E-S-S-I-C-A and the last name is  P-E-T-T-U-S, you can find my address in the phone book and "gift's" less than $10,000 don't have to be reported to the IRS and I will take shoes in lieu of money...just sayin! 

~JP

Seriously....who buys this??

Because I am ALL about providing hard hitting informative blogs...stop laughing...I am bringing this latest sampling of my take on what's being sold in the wee hours of the night. 

You looking to get rid of that turkey neck?

Wanna pump up your booty??

Thinking of new ways to sculpt and tone your upper arms and make sure that they aren't waving good-bye when you are trying to say "hello gorgeous"???

Well fear no more my wonderful friends.  There are a gaggle of jacklegs just praying that you are asking these questions and many more about your appearance.  And they have spent gads of time and money cooking up a slew of items praying on your susceptibility to idiotic products that are thrown on your television at 3 o'clock in the morning.

Sometimes it's the promise of "quick results", other times it's the lure of that $19.99 price tag but more so I believe it is the exhaustion of your capacity to process realistic thoughts.  Yep, in the span of just 45 minutes during another one of my sleepless nights I saw not one, not two, but three asinine infomercials for products such as the Neck Slimmer, the Brazilian Butt Lift workout system and the Shake Weight.

After each one I had to think...what's the draw?  Sadly, my thought process should have been "what's the catch" but seriously...I'm exhausted and the fact that I am actually able to string together two lucid thoughts is beyond triumphant for me.  So I decided to do a little research...yep, that's me...bored to death caring about you guys, my readers.

Well with the butt sculpter, if you call within the next 5 minutes you will get a....wait for it...make sure you're seated...a pencil.  Yep.  A whole pencil. 

Really?  REALLY a whole pencil??  Holy shit...let me drop what I am doing right this minute and make sure I get in on that little piece of gravity defying technology. 

These people probably held a meeting to put together this deal and most likely went through a checklist of what would be in their "package". 

Brazilian Butt Jackleg #1:  Umm, okay...so we've got the 3 DVD's, the fat burning food plan, the booty resistance band and a tape measure.  It just feels like it's missing something don't you think?

Brazilian Butt Jackleg #2:  Gosh #1...I don't know.  All that seems like a great deal for the $59.85 price point we are shooting for.  How could we POSSIBLY make it better??

Brazilian Butt Jackleg #1:  I just feel like it needs something else (fidgets with the pencil in his hand and then makes a face as though he's had his very own Oprah "ah ha" moment)  Do you think we should throw in a pencil? 

Brazilian Butt Jackleg #2:  Wow...that is such a good question.  But what would they use it for and would we need to increase the price?

Brazilian Butt Jackleg #1:  They'd use the pencil to shove in the fat crease that is on their flabby asses to see if they have accomplished the toned butt that we have photo shopped onto the pamphlet as the "AFTER" result image.   And we won't raise the price...this pencil will be an added bonus!

---Boardroom errupts in cheers as if they have cured cancer---

Oh, and FYI it isn't even sharpened.  Probably did that for legal purposes because if you are stupid enough to purchase this product then I'd be willing to bet that you'd be stupid enough to shove a sharpened pencil near your ass!

Also, I went a step further and contacted the customer service number (because I honestly have nothing better to do at this hour) and asked if I could have a discount on my purchase because I already have my own pencil.  The customer service rep seemed flabbergasted that I would even suggest such an absurd thing.  Yeah, right...like I am the moron in this situation. 

This person is trying to tell me that their pencil is made specifically for the purpose of checking your progress.  Uh huh...so you mean to tell me that there is a corporation...somewhere...that is making pencils for the sole purpose of checking if you have a flabby ass?  Dear God, please let Chris Hanson from Dateline do an expose on this!

I finally gave up on the pencil fight and hung up on the slightly hyperventilating customer service rep whose name was Tawny and who I imagine was a stripper at one time but who injured herself with a sharpened pencil and now has to do this thankless job.

Next on my list of ridiculous items is the Neck Slimmer.  Granted you don't get a pencil with this little gem but at $19.99 it seems like a steal compared to the butt deal.  The first observation on this product other than the overwhelming urge to scream out "are you FUCKING kidding me" is that you get the added bonus of looking like you're giving a BJ with no partner on the receiving end.  Hell you could save yourself the money and do the real act and not only please your partner but also probably hopefully get the same result of a toned neck.  Plus my way offers the possibility of a full on sexual romp therfore allowing you to burn calories, killing two workouts with one effort.

You're Welcome Men of America!

Last on my list of items is the Shake Weight.  Another reasonably priced piece of ridiculousness at $19.95.  My immediate reaction to this commercial was how sexual it seems.  Maybe it's my lack of intimate moments as of late but it just looked like one huge phallic free for all!  It cemented in my mind why men should NOT be allowed to create any type of workout equipment to tone or improve the female physique, especially if it's gonna come out looking like a prop for a porno.


I don't know for sure that these items were created by a male or team of them but I have a pretty strong sneaking suspicion that there is at least one pair of nuts behind each of those items.

Well to each their own.  While I may not get the drawl that these products hold I don't have time to think about it right now because I've gotta go use my Thigh Master and wait for my Perfect Brownie's to finish baking. 

~JP

33 is looking a lot like 32 and 31 and 30....

I spent my 33rd birthday getting shot in the ass by a not so attractive, even if I was into female, nurse.  My doctor exclaimed in semi physician humor that this was the "third...oh wait...2007, 2008, 2009...it is 2010 now...huh...well then scratch third and make that fourth year in a row I have seen you on or within days of your birthday?" 

Thanks for the history lesson Rain Man...that was positively shocking.

So I started my day being pronounced as having bronchitis and in need of two...not one...two, because well it's my Birthday and apparently the universe hates me...and it probably isn't nice of a patient to look at their doctor as if they are speaking a foreign language when they are "attempting" doctor patient humor...so I got two shots in the rear.  The trip wasn't all bad though.  My good friend "Plus2" was kind enough to cart my sick ass to the doctors office because sadly I couldn't turn my neck.  What is that you say?  Did you think you may have read that wrong?  Well, you didn't....by now....even if you have only been reading this blog since I started it on here and don't personally know me, you should know this one true and simple fact...IT IS PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE FOR ME TO JUST GET A NORMAL FUCKING ILLNESS!

I'm pretty sure that I had H1N1 before it was actually given a name.  Some people get a cold.  Me I end up with pneumonia, but not just that I end up with a bacterial inflamation that spreads into the joints and muscles in my chest and then begins to attack my heart.  Do you see how this works?

Yep, just a mere 9 hours into my new age and I had become arthritic and contagious.  What a fucking gift?

But my friend...my Driving Mrs. Sick Ass companion...she made me laugh.  Hell, she ALWAYS finds a way to make me laugh.  She offered to get me ice cream since I was a "good patient" but seeing as it was barely 10am I figured ice cream would be hard to come by.  Strangely enough if I had wanted an alcoholic beverage of some sort, like a daquiri per say, I could have gotten that...but ice cream?  Yeah...that wasn't gonna be happening.  I settled instead for a slushy (for my aching throat) and some breakfast so I could choke down the horse pill of an anti-biotic that he prescribed. 

Oh yes...my day was gonna be pure joy...I could just feel it.  I could feel it aching in my ass.  Yep, right there stinging and burning like acid shot into my deriere is where I could feel it.  Man, those shots, while they didn't hurt when she did them, happened to have a delayed release of pain that hit just as we were making our way out of the office and into the car.  I just kept laughing and almost crying saying "God damn....my ass, my ass is killing me".  Then I'd begin to hack because my throat was also in serious pain which would cause some hideous tickle which then led to fits of epileptic coughing. 

I paint such a pretty picture.

After I was able to recompose myself from these fits I would fall into a contstant stream of saying I'm sorry over and over again as I mentally pictured her going home and lysoling the entire interior of her car and possibly giving herself a Silkwood scrub.

Friends will tell you to get better when you are sick.  Good friends will call to check on you.  Great friends will drive you to the doctors and help you get your medicine.  Kick ass friends will do all of the above and smile at you while you hack what is sure to be some kind of bio hazard all over their vehicle.

This friend...she falls squarely in the latter.

I looked and sounded like death warmed over, but with the exception of when I had to breathe deeply, swallow, cough or attempt to move my neck I felt fantastic.


By the time we pulled back into my driveway I was exhausted from the escapade of the morning.  I made my way in to the house, scooped up Penny and then realized what a retarded idea that was seeing as I was holding food and this dog is clearly a fiend of anything that doesn't have the words dog or kibble in it.  It was like a Wimbledon match where I moved food from one hand to the other trying to keep it out of her line of snout grabbing.  Her head would dart from left to right and back in a twisted attempt to get something.  Anything.  Finally when I was down to my last bite I tore off a piece of the toast and fed it to her.  She scarfed it up and then looked at me like, "you bitch...that's ALL...that is ALL I get....oh yeah, yawn...go to sleep.  I am so taking a dump on your head when you reach the REM state".

I mean that might not be a literal translation of what was going on in her little doggy mind but I think it's a pretty good rendering.

I'd like to say that I slept well but truth be told I just kept rolling around opening my eyes every so often to make sure she wasn't positioning her butt just right to take perfect aim.  I mean I know I have been shit on in the past few years, but that was in emotional terms.  This would really stink.  And I meant that pun.

Thankfully she held her bowels.  I think she can sense the cold weather coming and figures she can't be too sure that I won't stick her boney ass out in the cold as punishment for that infraction.  She's shit on me in the past but I let it slide because she was sick or just come off her death bed.  Just deciding to dump on me because I wouldn't share my tots....well that is grounds for emotional torture of the highest degree.

I'm hopeful that with my shots and goody bag full of medicine that I will be back to fighting form in time to go get my belated Birthday drank on with my girlfriends.  I may have hit a hiccup as I turned the page from 32 to 33, but I'm not going to allow it to be a continuing trend. 

Oh and hear me now, if by some cruel twist of fate I end up sick AGAIN next year, at...on...or around my birthday, ummmm, I'm not going to the doctors.  No way.  No how.  The cycle stops here at 33.

~JP

P.S. And to ALL of my wonderful friends, readers and FB friends...thank you sooooo much for the Birthday love and well wishes.  That was one thing that made this year significantly different than the last few.

P.P.S.  To my "T" and my "D"...you are two of the three best friends that anyone could ever have...that anyone could ever have...that anyone could ever have."

Here's a little story about a fancy party dress....

Never underestimate the changing fads of teenagers.  Just when you think you may have mastered what it is that they like or possibly, foolishly, think you may have stumbled upon something that they may...do I dare say it...love...you will undoubtedly be making the drive of shame back to the store...broken hearted dress in hand from whence you purchased it.

See when you saw it there hanging ever so lovely upon it's silver rack you pictured your daughters adoring face staring back at you proclaiming how you "are the best mother ever" and "how did you know that this is the EXACT  color and type of dress that I was wishing dreaming for".  This is the trickery of motherhood.

So now just a few weeks past homecoming I accompanied my friends for that dreaded drive of shame.  Of course we had to pull back the bag and admire the dress once more.  First glances were for admiration.  Second glances were to make sure the tag was still affixed and that there had been no harm to the garment that while we loved still needed to be in pristeen condition in order to return. 

The bitchy blessed teen swore that it wasn't worn other than to be tried on.  We had born witness that the dress that was purchased by the mom was not the chosen one and was not worn to the dance, but still how can we predict what kind of diva dancin around with a brush in hand may or may not have taken place on late nights in her room as the dress SHOULD have been hanging in it's protective plastic bag cocoon.  We did the once over, head to toe checks for any damage and came up with the all clear sign.

We made the drive across the lake talking all the while about how it was so pretty and how wonderful it would have been.  Once we arrived the mom that had originally purchased it was terrified to go in and return it given the time that had gone by.  I didn't understand her hesitation and nor did my other friend, but being the team players that we are we took her card, the dress and the receipt in for the return.

As we made our way to the formal department we began to feel a little uneasy as if we would be sent to the department store jail for trying to return a dress.  Before we could really think too much about it we were front and center at the dress counter.  The sales girl was polite and asked if we had the receipt.  We handed it over.  She pulled the dress out of the bag and began to locate both the tags that needed to be affixed in order to return a garment.

It was at that precise moment that my eyes fell upon a small stain that I hadn't noticed when we were back at the house.  I didn't dare look to the left of me at my other friend who was doing the bulk of the talking.  Another sales person walked up and bent down to grab something from underneath the counter.  Out of the very corner of my eye I could see that my girlfriend was getting a little antsy.  I was still VERY unwilling to look over at her. 

As I began to get jittery the transaction was done and we were on our way.  As we made our way to the exit of the  store I could barely contain myself and said, "oh my God did you see that stain"?

Her eyes got as big as quarters and said, "the stain....my God did you see the rip"?

We double stepped it out of the store in hopes of not being dragged back in and thrown in the mall jail.  Just another Wednesday in the land of parents with teenage daughters.  It's glamorous and oh so exciting!

~JP

And the countdown to 10....concludes....with Part 7

Part 7: It's not the destination....it's the journey!

The beauty of motherhood is lost on those who can't seem to smell anything past the vomit that seems to get into places you never thought imaginable.  It's also lost on those who are pretty sure they would sell a kidney or lung JUST to gain a full night of uninterrupted sleep.  I was TOTALLY that person.

What am I saying....I still AM that person!  I may no longer have to sustain my children's life by feeding them from my own body, but believe me you, they are busy sucking other things out of me like sanity, my ability to retain information, my will to live at times and the capacity of my ass to reside in the lower two digit numbers.  Oh hips...where have you gone??  Oh wait...that's right, you now reside on my curvacious daughters.  Ugh!

Even with all that I've had some of my best moments being their mom.  I've also had some of my most embarrassing ones as well.

Those are the stories that Jon loves me to focus on.  He's sadistic that way.

When Hannah was approximately 3 to maybe 3 1/2 months old I had breastfed her on the couch while watching television.  It's was a leisurely Sunday afternoon and we were busy just passing the day by being completely in love with every sound and face that she was making.  It's these moments...these memories that make you want to have more children.  What happened next is what makes you think twice about motherhood and possibly how easy it may actually be to mame your spouse.

Jon:  Wow she's a little piggy.

Me:  I know.  I think this is the most she has eaten in a while.  She usually just snacks.

Jon:  I think I'd snack if I was down there too.  It'd give me more reasons to snuggle up to your boobs.

Me:  You'd have to get in line behind your infant daughter.

Jon:  Why ya gotta be so mean?

Me:  Why do YOU have to be such a pig?  I'm busy feeding your daughter and your making sexual inuendo's.

Jon:  I'm just saying...I support breastfeeding.

Me:  You're just saying that because you want me to breastfeed you.

Hannah begins to make gurgly faces as I am burping her.  It kind of looks like she's rolling her eyes at Jon's lame attempts to dig himself out of this hole but that's just my interpretation of the memory.

Finally she lets out a huge burp and follows it with a toot and then seems completely content to just sit there and check out the world.

Me:  (singing to Hannah while blowing bubbles on her tummy) I love you...mommy loves you.  Who loves you...mommy loves you.

Clearly she is digging this.

Me:  (beginning to wiggle her arms and legs in a vague dancing motion)

Jon:  You probably shouldn't do that she just ate.

Me:  I am not doing anything.  I am just moving her about.  My god she is barely moving.

Jon:  I don't think you should do that.  You always yell at me NOT to do that.  You say she'll puke.

Me:  (clearly he doesn't understand that him doing what I say and me doing what I say are two totally different things) *rolling my eyes*  Okay.

Jon walks out of the room and the coast is clear to go back to the dancing.  I proceed to move Hannah about.  She's going from slightly subdued moves to busting out her show stoppers.  I decide to end with a little airplane and a kiss....

BIG FUCKING MISTAKE

Bleeeeehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh......

Me: (gurgling sound) bay bay...

Jon: (no response...)

I can somewhat hear Jon moving around in the kitchen

Me: (gurgling sound) bay bay BAY.....

Jon:  Are you calling me?  You know that I can't hear you...speak up.

Me:  (trying desperately NOT to swallow what has been launched into my mouth by my once beloved infant daughter) bay bay...BAYYYYYY...ga ma a tow a bay b pu n ma mo....

Jon:  (sounding more than a little aggrivated)  WHAT??

Me:  (really trying not to puke while trying NOT to swallow what is being swished around in my mouth with every attempt to speak) I sa...ga ma a tow a bay b pu n ma mo......

Jon  (choirs of angels come down from heaven and sing as my husband in all his fucking brilliant retardedness who can't hear me scream from another room has now deciphered the god damn Da Vinci Code of "baby vomit speak")  I'm sorry...did you just say that you need a towel because the baby puked in your mouth?  (laughter)

Me:  BAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY......a men a...hu up n ga m a tow!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Jon:  (attempting NOT to piss himself, because clearly that could be used against him in this completely embarrassing moment of me choking back a mouthful of my own regurgiatated breastmilk) Hahahahahahahahahaha.....ok, ok....oh my god....oh my god...my sides hurt....ok, ok...here...give me the baby...here....oh my god...oh this is too funny...oh my god...here's the towel...

Stuff like that...10 years later...still funny.

I remember a time years later when Hannah was 3 years old and she learned how to use air quotes.

Correctly.

Neither of us know how she learned this.  It definitely wasn't something that we had done.  We aren't big air quote people...I mean really, who is??

I was coming up on a jaw surgery to treat chronic migraines, worsened by TMJ, which had completely debilitated me.  Poor Hannah had gotten very used to sitting in semi quiet, semi dim rooms with mommy by this time.  We had her in Mother's Day out programs so she wasn't a complete shut in, but there were still those few hours between when the program ended and Jon came home.

She was perched on the end of our bed watching Disney Channel.  I, as usual, had my head wrapped in a towel to shield my eyes from light and an ice pack on top for good measure.  I heard her crawling to the top of the bed towards my head so I peeled back my shroud.

Hannah:  Momma?

Me:  Yeah babe.

Hannah:  Momma...when dinner is?

Me:  (slighty out of it...trying to angle head to see the clock)  Ummm.  Soon babe...daddy will be home with it in just a little bit.  Okay?

Hannah:  Tay.  Cause we need dinner is.  It's "night time".

Me:  (slightly baffled by the air quotes, I decide to press the matter)  Hannah what do you mean by "night time" (repeating the same air quotes)

Hannah:  (cocking her head to the side and squinching her eyese at me as if I am possibly the silliest person she has met in ALL her 3 years of life) Momma..."night time" is when it "dark outside"!  (she then puts her hands in fist down on her sides as if this gesture combined with the double air quotes will of course drive her point right on home)

Very true Hannah dear.  Very true indeed.  Thankfully she did a repeat performance for Jon when he got home and we both had a good laugh at how sassy she was.

Life with girls is NOT all frills, bows and pink sparkliness.  Nope...life raising Hannah so far has been a manic mixture of Sporty Spice, Power Puff Girls and Disney Channel girls that are clearly 20 playing 10 year olds who my daughter wants more than anything to mimic.

Welcome to my hell.  The water is warm...jump on in.

Hannah can be rough and tumble like the time we had gone shopping for new jeans.  She had picked out 4 that she absolutely loved and "mom I will never ask for another thing if you only buy me THESE pants".  Oh lord...go sell your lies somewhere else sweetheart...my grandmother didn't buy those lies with my mother, my mother didn't buy those lies with me and HELLO I'm not buying them from you or your sister.

Not more than 48 hours later Hannah is on our front lawn with one of her friends playing.  Another few minutes after that she is at the door crying and the friend is trying not to laugh.  Clearly something embarrassing has befallen our daughter.  Days like this make parenting so magical.  Days like this make all the moments they make you feel like a jackleg by standing in the middle of Wal-mart screaming "you're not my mommy...I wan't my mommy" because you have denied them the Pokemon card, Power Puff Girl, Barbie, Coloring book, speck of dust...whatever...and now they are going to make you pay with public humiliation and maybe, just maybe a few dicey moments in the back of a police car explaining exactly why it is the little girl is so insistent her "real" mother lives in Pennsylvania and raises horses.  Yes...your childs embarrassment at the fact that they and not you has done something to bring said embarassment...those moments are the lottery of parenthood.

Jon:  Hannah what's the matter?

Me:  Why are you crying?  Are you hurt?

Hannah:  *sniff*

Me:  Hannah...speak up...what happened?

Hannah:  (quivering lip) *sniff...sniff*

Jon:  Hannah Michel...you have until the count of 5 to tell me what is going on.  1....2....3....

Hannah:  (bawling)....*sniff*....I....was....playing....and, umm...and I thought I'd be....ummm...I...*sniff*....I thought it would....*crying*....*sniff*...umm...I thought it would be fun....to umm...(becoming quieter)...fun to be a....(barely audible)...fun to be a dog....

Me:  Huh...you thought it would be fun to be a what?  Babe...we can't hear you?  (I clearly had heard her, but I wanted to make completely sure I heard her)

Hannah:  *sniff*...I thought it would be fun to be a dog....

Jon:  Uh...huh.  And how does that factor into the crying??

Me:  Did you get hurt?

Hannah:  *sniff*...ummm...*sniff*....not exactly

Me:  Okay then what "exactly" is the problem?

Hannah: *sniff*....I RIPPED MY PANTS....(complete hysterical bawling)

Jon:  You ripped your new pants?

Hannah:  Yyyyyeeeessssssssssss....*sniff*

Me:  (completely incredulous that this is in fact the truth)  How?  How did you rip your pants?  Show me.

Hannah:  Well...I had her (pointing the unsupecting and very uncomfortable looking friend) hook the lead for the dogs to my belt loop.....and then I ran around in a circle...playing like a dog....*sniff*.....and my pants....well...they ripped.

Jon & Me:  (stiffling laughter) (unable to stiffle laughter) (about to choke as we realize we can NO longer stiffle laughter do the only thing we can possibly do which is turn our backs on our crying child in the door)

Me:  (from over my shoulder)  Have a seat on the porch Hannah and your dad and I will be out in a moment to deal with this.

We shut the front door.  High tail it back to our bedroom.  Lock ourselves in the bathroom and bust out laughing for a good 10 minutes.

We made her wear those pants until they were highwaters.  Every....single....time she came out in them we had to fight not to pee ourselves laughing at the day she decided to play dog.

These are just a few of the moments in my 10 years raising my sweet baby girl.  I'm sure there will be many more.  I record them to use as blackmail later.

As Jon and I watched her blow out the candles on her cookie cake covered in too much make-up from the make overs they were performing on one another for the sleepover we realized that all those moments have led us to this one.  All the tears, fears, laughter, joy, pride, guilt, sleeplessness and so many more have culminated in this one little girl.

Motherhood...hell parenthood is one hell of a ride.  The admission isn't free.  The side effects are permanent and the pay is...well, it sucks.  But the moments of shear madness that lead to some of the bar none, hands down most amazing memories you will ever create while sober are worth the journey.  If you haven't jumped on this train I highly recommend it.  Plus, it's kind of like a pyramid scheme...the more of you that I get to do it, the better the prizes for me.  Get to it people...make babies.  Make memories.  Make me not be the only crazy lady.

~JP

And the countdown to 10...continues...Part 4

Part 4: What’s in a name anyways?

About two weeks into my bed rest the words “stir crazy” took on a whole new meaning. I was craving contact with the outside world and sadly I had none. I began to think of the people on soap opera’s as my friends and would refer to them that way in daily conversation with Jon.

At first he thought I had visitors until I mentioned how one of them had come back from the dead to find out that the baby she’d had when she was dying was actually not hers. For a moment he’d thought I had begun drinking. I assured him that while it was tempting the whole point of this was to get that baby “safely” to full term…not kill it with fetal alcohol syndrome.

I finally stopped talking to him about the most recent story lines on Young and the Restless or Bold and the Beautiful and instead focused on baby names. I had nothing else to do but name this unknown sex of a child. I became obsessed with having a girl name and a boy name. Jon thought I was taking preparedness to a WHOLE new neurotic level. I didn’t care.

Deciding a girls name seemed far easier than settling on a boy name. We had it narrowed down to Bailey and Hannah. Early on in my pregnancy we had been out to dinner and there was a woman calling her little girl and her name was Hannah. The little girl came bounding round the corner with curls and these gianormous blue eyes. It stuck in my head. Jon agreed if this little bean was a girl it would be a Hannah Michel.

Finally, after all the things going NOT according to plan we had managed to check one thing off our list. It didn’t seem to matter that we had no idea what we were having, nor did we have a crib or half the stuff actually required to care for the baby…we had a name which covered at least half our chances in the sex of the child department. We took what we could get.

My only outings during this period of bed rest were to the doctors and my reward for cooking this kid was ultrasounds. Our first ultrasound after the hospital stay was when we got to know what we were having. I remember going through the water torture and thinking wouldn't it be cool if this time we could actually see something. Ya know like something other than the fluttering heart, the feet or that magnificent profile. All that was great don’t get me wrong but I’m not gonna lie to you….I wanted the money shot!

My bladders hard work was rewarded. After measuring the head, then the spine, then the femur the sonographer turned to Jon and I and asked the question that every parent to be is asked, "do you want to know the sex?" Jon's eyes lit up and for a second I had to remind him that she did not indeed ask if he had wanted to have sex. You gotta remember he had been banned from any sexual contact for the past few weeks and now he wasn't gonna get anything until I made it to 35 weeks or until after this baby made it's grand entrance. The word sex in any context made him giddy.



Once I got him back on track we both agreed that yes, we did want to know. The room seemed intensely quiet and it was like the words came out in slow motion, "congratulations...it's a boy".

I cried.

I was ecstatic. A boy. We would have one girl and one boy. Jon just sat there smiling. First he knew the baby was healthy and now a boy. It was a good day.

I was excused to pee and then we left. The whole ride home and every moment there after was spent really focusing on boy names.

A boy. We were going to have a boy. It seemed so surreal.





I immediately had to shut down Jon on his suggestions that we name this child after one of the Manning brothers. Or possibly both…hmmm??






Jon: Babe...what do you think of the name Peyton??






Me: Really, babe? Peyton?? Our last name is Pettus. You want to name our child Peyton Pettus?






Jon: ???






Me: Why don’t we just name him Pee Pee.






Jon: (clearly NOT getting it) Or how about Eli?






Me: I like Eli...but...hmm...why do those names sound familiar?






Jon: (smiling as though he may just get away with this) Yeah babe we could name the baby Peyton Eli Pettus.






Me: PEP…naaa…I don’t think so. But seriously why do I know those names?






Jon: Maybe you went to school with someone that had similar names?






Me: No, no...I remember hearing those names very recently...like on t.v. or in the paper...why do I know those names? (trying to rack my pregnancy brain)






Jon: Don't worry about it. So what do you think...Peyton Eli Pettus? Sounds good right? Rolls right off the tongue?






Me: Wait a minute. Do mean like Peyton and Eli Manning?? You seriously want to name our child after football players?






Jon: (trying not to laugh) NO! No...I just like the names. So you agree on it right?






Me: I am NOT naming my child after football players. What's next you'll suggest we name him after your favorite baseball player’s.






Jon: (looking semi intrigued…but unwilling to open his mouth)






Me: I am NOT...repeat NOT going to be the mother of little Sosa McGuire Pettus. Do you hear me??






Jon: Yeah. I hear you.






I became a fanatic about names. I had nothing else to occupy my time. I clung to anything that could possibly get me through the long and lonely hours laid up in bed or on the couch.


I refused to be one of those woman that I dealt with at work that had to consult tea leaves or tried to sneak out of the hospital without naming their child.






Honestly I had a woman tell me as she was being wheeled past my office on the way to her vehicle with newborn in hand that “indeed in the state of Florida you have up to one year from the date of delivery to name your child”…I never looked it up because well…that is just downright insane. I would not be bringing home “Baby Boy Pettus”…this baby would have a name come hell or high water!






Not only was I crazed about names. I was worried about initials. How would it look on a monogrammed towel down the road? After being concerned about that I also found myself obsessing about how a name can be shortened. For example…loved the name William…not so much in love with the name Bill or Will!






Every name I came across in books would seem okay at first but then when I ran it through my litany of criteria…was it unique, but not weird? Did it flow with our last name? Could it be shortened into something vulgar? I mean in all seriousness do you really think the first person that ever named their kid Richard thought down the road to the day their kid would be called Dick?? I think not.






Then I’d have to deal with Jon and these random kicks he would get on. For example there was the day he was on his Russian kick…






Me: I was looking in the baby books and I just don’t see any names that speak to me. How bout you?






Jon: I like Vlad.






Me: Seriously?






Jon: Or Viktor. But it has to be spelled with a "k" instead of a "c"...it's more Russian that way.






Me: You do know that WE are NOT Russian, right?? Like..our heritage is NOT in the least bit Russian? You do honestly get that right?






Jon: Why so negative?






Me: I'm not negative. I just think there should be some thought behind a child's name.






Jon: I am putting thought behind it. I just watched "The Saint" with Val Kilmer and they had all these Russian names....oooohhhh...wait...what about Ivan.






Me: No. Come on. Seriously??






Jon: Or Mikal? Yeah..yeah...I like Mikal.






Me: Like Barrishnakov?






Jon: Who?






Me: Have you been drinking?






Every name discussion ended the exact same way. Him frustrated that I wouldn’t “just consider” naming our child Skeletor Megatron Pettus and me wishing I could slit my wrist with the baby name books. It was agony.






Another couple weeks passed and we found ourselves back at the doctors. I was a day or so shy of 33 weeks. The heartbeat was strong. I hadn’t been contracting over the 4 weeks that I had been home from the hospital. Baby’s head was no longer down, so the doctor was willing to reduce my captivity but only by allowing me to be on my feet a whole 2 hours per day with no more than 30 minutes at one time. Party time.






We asked if there would be another ultrasound because he’d said he wanted to perform them every 2 weeks, which would equal a total of 3 over the 6 weeks until I made it to the magic number of 35. He said it wasn’t necessary this time but we could revisit it at the next appointment.






I celebrated my new found 30 minute freedom by taking a LONG shower when I got home from the doctors. But later I found myself craving another ultrasound. A baby shower had been planned and the nursery was taking shape. The little one was moving all the time, but I desperately wanted to see him again.










I had turned into an ultra sound addict. Here I had been sorta kinda…in my crazy mind… promised another 2 ultra sounds and now it was a “maybe”…”we’ll see”…at best. Oh hell no…I’m a mother. I know what “maybe” and “we’ll see” means…it’s code for NO, not gonna happen but I’m gonna say this BS answer and hope that you don’t throw a fit here in Target and make me look like Mommy Dearest.






I had no choice… I went straight to my dad and whined.






He worked for a hospital across the bay in Tampa and he just happened to be in the radiology department. Perfect. I began to court him with the idea of getting one of his people to do an ultra sound. Not for any diagnostic purposes. We just wanted to see him again. I couldn’t bank on a maybe…I needed a definite.






This was before the days of the 3-D ultra sound places that you could just go to and get a stunning picture of your soon to be cuddly baby. No, this was 1999 and I was at the utter mercy of the ultra sound nazi’s as I viewed it. I wasn't basing things on chance...I was taking control of this situation. So far this seemed to be the only thing, outside of choosing names, that I indeed could control. I felt drunk with power.










A week later I got my way and we were watching our little boy on the medium sized screen. We left that day with pics in hand and I became even more convinced that I needed a name. Not just any name. A great name. A name with meaning.






I went from crazed to obsessed to completely looney over picking the perfect name. I was stuck on the name Leighton for some reason. Jon was completely against it. He didn’t just dislike it…he downright hated it.










We agreed that we wanted to steer clear of any “J” names. With me being Jessica and him being Jon we didn’t want Olivia to feel left out. Especially since she didn’t share the same last name.






Next name I became obsessed with was Riley. Then Rory. Jon shot them both down. Citing too girly for Riley and "seriously what the fuck have you been smoking" I believe was the exact kiss off for Rory.






Finally one day I remembered a patient that had a little girl shortly after I started working in the birth records department. She also had a little boy and his first name was Garren. They were English and the poor kid had about six names in total, plus his last name. There was something about that name that just stuck with me.






I was hesitant to bring it up to Jon. I was running out of unique, non weird, can't be shortened into vulgar or pansy ass get your kids butt kicked on the playground kind of names.






He’d shot down every other name that I seemed to fall in love with. I tried to find it in one of the millions of baby name books that we owned but I couldn’t. I thought maybe if I casually put it in front of him and he stumbled upon it he’d bring it up to me and I’d be all “good job babe…I LOVE it”…he’d feel all proud and at last we would have a name.






It became abundantly clear that this scenario would not be occurring. So I bit the bullet and threw it out there.






Me: Hey babe?






Jon: Yeah.






Me: I found a name that I like.






Jon: Okay…what is it?






Me: (deep breath) Garren.






Jon: Hmmm…not bad.






Me: Really?? You like it?






Jon: Yeah…yeah I do.






Me: Oh my god…we just picked out our baby’s name.






Jon: Are you crying?






Me: (sniffing) No.






Jon: Are you happy that we have a name now.






Me: (trying to non chalantly wipe at my eyes and still sniffing) Yes.






Jon: Good. Now what is the middle name gonna be?






Me: (completely deflated) Crap.






Jon: How bout Peyton or Eli?






Me: (staring at him as if I can actually KILL him with my eyes)






Jon: I’ll take that as a no.










Now that we had a first name it was time to select the middle name. Really, how hard could this be? Apparently I had not closely examined how long it took us to select the first name. Stupid, stupid girl.






Immediately we were drawn to the name Alexander. Of course that flew out the window when I realized his initials would be GAP and his monogram would be GPA. Fail.






Then I thought maybe we should choose a name from the family. Jon agreed that trying to honor his father, who had passed away in 1994, was out of the question seeing as our choices would be Lester or Clinus. Epic fail.






Finally we settled on acknowledging my dad, Jesse. I was one of three girls and thus there was no one to carry on the family name. I adore my dad, especially since he is my step-dad and he came on the scene when I was at the unruly age of 11. He put up with a lot of my shit and I thought giving my son his name as a middle name would be a great way to say how much I loved and appreciated him.






We sat on the name for 2 more weeks. We had made it to 35! Another doctor’s appointment brought the blessed news that I could indeed be free of any restraints. If this little tyke wanted to come out and play they were on board. The doctor told us to enjoy our remaining time and keep him apprised of any problems. He would see me back in a two weeks if not sooner for problems or possibly in hospital for delivery.






We went over to the hospital to register and sign up for Lamaze classes. Since I wasn’t a newcomer to this rodeo we took a three night class. Kind of like the Cliff’s Notes of Labor & Delivery. We also called my parents and asked to take them out to dinner. It was time to unveil our name.






A few nights later we met at one of our favorite restaurants and with just my mom, dad and sister we spoke the baby’s name for the first time outside of our home.






Me: Well, we wanted to invite you here tonight so we could tell you that we selected a name.


Mom: That’s great. What is it?






Me: Jon do you wanna do the honors?






Jon: No, babe…it’s all you.






Me: (getting kind of misty eyed cause I’m a pregnant ball of hormonal emotions) Dad, are you listening?






Dad: Yeah. I’m listening. You wanna tell us the name for the baby?






Me: Okay…it’s Garren Jesse Pettus.






--- S I L E N C E ---






Me: (looking nervously at Jon and trying not to cry)






Jon: (looking at me trying to figure out why the hell I’m gonna cry)






Olivia: I have to pee.






Me: Is anyone going to say ANYTHING about the name of this baby?






Olivia: I like it. I have to pee.






Me: Ok. Is anyone else that hasn’t heard this name for the past two weeks gonna say anything about the name of this baby?






Olivia: I really have to pee.






Me: Yeah. I heard ya. Cole (my baby sister) I’ll give you $1 if you take her.






My sister thankfully escorts my cross legged child to the restroom and I attempt to not kill my parents with the steak knife resting in front of me.






Me: Okay. (becoming slightly shrill) One more time…is ANYONE…preferably the SOMEONE whose name is being used…going to comment on the name of the baby?






Dad: You only get called by your middle name when you are in trouble. This kid is gonna hate me.






UGH….this whole name shit sucks.






We left dinner and that night while we laid in bed I finally did cry. I was hurt. I wanted so badly to honor my dad, but strangely…he did have a point. I couldn’t bare to go back to the name selection game. We were now rounding into the 36 week mark and I was convinced this kid was coming at any second.






Jon agreed that whether it was used just as a name on the birth certificate or to scold the child when he acted out of turn, we knew what it meant to us in our hearts. So Garren Jesse Pettus was this baby’s name. I placed my hands on my overgrown belly and felt a kick. I concluded that the baby agreed and it wasn’t a topic of discussion again.






Now all that was left to do was get him here so we could meet him face to face…how hard could that be...





~JP

And the waffle's...shall set the truth free

If you are the parent of two or more children...you must already know that one of  your most prevalent questions of the day will be, undoubtedly, "you like me more...right?"

Sometimes its thrown out casually as you drive down the road..."mom, please tell her I'm your favorite".

Other times it is while they are slapping and trying to get each other into a headlock in the house...."MOM....SAY I AM YOU'RE FAVORITE...SERIOUSLY...MOM SHE'S TURNING BLUE, SAY I'M YOUR FAVORITE AND I'LL LET HER LIVE.  WELL FOR TODAY AT LEAST".  Sad when you realize that I have two girls.    I swear they would take any boy down in a heartbeat IF and only if it meant I would exclaim that they are indeed my favorite.

It doesn't matter what the circumstances are you must, must, MUST resist the urge to answer this question at all cost.  Instead saying things like, "I love you both equally"..."you both have special qualities that the other doesn't have and that makes you each hold a special place in my heart".

No matter how drunk you are or how pissed you may be for any of the following offenses....
A) vomiting in your mouth when they were an infant
B) pissing in their $30 pair of sparkly shoes that they HAD TO HAVE in order to complete the princess costume for Halloween
C) being told as you sit in the carpool line to drop them off that today was the day that they were responisble for the class snack
D) that they need a song selection (and if it could include sheet music that would be super great) for school the next day and OH YEAH it's already 11pm
....you cannot and I do repeat CAN NOT smile at them and say "have I told you lately that I love your sister best!"

As a parent you must ALWAYS remain neutral.  You are Switzerland!  You are not partial to one or the other.

No matter how much you'd love to stoop down and hug on the one that didn't make you cry over the fact that once again you had failed to provide them with the correct amount of __________(fill in the blank) it was that they needed so desperately bad that they had to come and interrupt you from watching Lifetime or a weeks worth of soap opera's from the DVR...or worse...interrupting the first sex you've had IN MONTHS....and profess to them that they are indeed your absolute favorite.  At that given moment at least.

Nope ya can't do it.  However you can listen to them profess it themselves over the most ridiculous items.

Olivia:  Waaafffflessss!  I love waffles!

Hannah:  Yeah...I know...I love'em to...that's why I got them.

Olivia:  Mmmmm....I'm gonna have waffles for breakfast!

Hannah:  Ahhh...no-ah you're not.  They are mine.  Like...ALL MINE!

Olivia:  Seriously??

Hannah: Yep, those are mine.  Not yours.

Olivia:  Really?

Hannah:  Yep.  All mine.  Mom bought them for me.

Olivia:  But I want waffles for breakfast.

Hannah:  Sucks to be you.

Olivia:  I'm gonna ask mom if I can have some waffles.

Hannah:  Don't bother.  She said at the store that they are only for me.  Meaning....they are mine.  Not yours. 

Olivia:  ???

Hannah:  Yep, she bought me waffles.  Just for me.  That means she loves me best.

Teenager walks off in huff...best friend in tow.  Soon to be 10yr old smiles as if she's just been given $1M.

Hmmmm...somewhere between grocery freezer case and my freezer "Leggo my Eggo" turned into "Bitch step off...these frozen breakfast circles mean mom loves me best". 

It's a profound moment.

Word to other multi-child households...choose your breakfast wisely...you never know what message it will send.

~JP

My husband the racist....who knew??

The big scandal in our household this week is the fact that my husband has been accused of being a racist. 

Really? 

Huh.  Didn't see that coming.

Apparently because he turned down buying candy being sold by a clients son because he didn't have cash on him at the time and the child then got rude it was spun that the reason Jon didn't buy anything was because the child was black. 

Ummm....seriously?  My husband would buy chocolate covered anything from anyone if he's got the coin.  Skin color doesn't matter when there is candy involved.  Skin color doesn't matter at all for this family but truly nothing will come between us and our snack foods. 

I'm pretty sure if Hitler himself showed up with some chocolate bars for his school fundraiser and my husband had cash on him...he would seriously buy the candy.  I mean, we may feel guilty later for supporting him, but seriously...that fucking candy rocks!

He was really hurt by the accusation.  I tried to be supportive, but I was more concerned over the fact that there was an opportunity for some Worlds Famous chocolate bars and I missed out.  Seriously, I totally would have made a run to the ATM and stopped by the dealership to make the cash for candy exchange.


We totally support chocolate.  Hell we live minutes away from the Chocolate City and it's jackleg of a mayor, Ray Nagin.  Let us stop the madness of throwing around baseless accusations and instead focus on the real issues at hand...like how the hell do I track down someone selling that damn candy?  Focus people...focus.  Matters of critical chocolate consumption are at hand...your cooperation will be GREATLY appreciated.

~JP