Maybe it was the lack of Vikings that sealed my fate....

My life is one big ongoing reality show that no one is watching and that I'm not getting paid for.

Tis the season for giving...

I have learned to keep expectations low.  Maybe, for some of you that seems like a cop out.  For me it is a survival mechanism.  Much like my comfy bed and security bound comforter...low expectations make it possible for me to survive.  Everyday brings with it really only 3 expectations.

#1 Shower.

#2 Don't kill self.

#3 Don't harm children.

Usually I only make #'s 2 and 3.  But with medication and severe ridicule from family members and friends I am bound to make all 3 at least 5 out of 7 days of the week.  Jon refers to these achievements as baby steps.  Much like his asking me to "please clear the laundry from off of the kitchen table" earlier this week was met not with it being folded but instead shuttled into our eldest daughter (who happens to be visiting her father for the Christmas holiday) bedroom.

Ummm...I put this in the win column because he left in the morning and there was clothing in the kitchen and he came home in the evening and there was....ta da....no clothing in the kitchen.  Apparently I lapsed on the part where he actually expected the clothing to get folded and ready to be put away by it's rightful owners.  Whoopsie!

As much as I give Jon a hard time for his past indiscretions I cannot seem to properly put into words how it is that he manages to stay so calm with such a deeply depressed spouse.  He leaves and I'm asleep.  He comes home and I'm asleep.

He'll poke a head in the bedroom from time to time and asks if I've eaten.  Asks if I need anything.  Asks if I want to talk.  He says that since I've tried to stand by him in his short coming's and the fact that one day he is COMPLETELY certain that I am going to have to care for him and wipe his ass (what an impressive and heartwarming picture to create in one's mind)...he says that because of this and his love for me he just keeps pushing along.

The kids try to wrap their minds around it all and even though I know they would give just about anything (well except their cell phones, computer, Nintendo DS, time with friends and possibly cable) to have their mom up and participating in the daily goings on of their life.  I live for the little moments that the clouds of depression clears and I get a glimpse of what our life used to be like all of the time.


Today and tonight was one of those glimpses into how our life used to be everyday.  Of course it wasn't a continual stream of feeling okay.  It never really is anymore.  I'll get moments when I am okay and then moments when I have to tuck away into the bedroom because the anxiety becomes so high that it literally feels as though it will grate apart my head.  Jon has learned the signs and takes over parenting if I am in the middle of doing something with the kids.

But for the most part....today was a good day.  One that defied low expectations but was made even sweeter because I really had no expectation of it at all.

I wrapped gifts and Jon cleaned.  Yes...ladies...my husband cleans.  Why I bitch?  Who the hell knows.

Later we cooked dinner together.  Some gorgeous pork tenderloin that I had been marinating with BBQ sauce, orange juice, honey and seasonings.  It's super good and makes the juiciest meat!  While Jon grilled I made both mashed potatos for dinner and potato soup for whenever.  It was the normal rhythm of a house and it felt both foreign and comfortable in the same moment.

Feeling the opportunity to keep things light and make me laugh Jon took a hair piece that we had purchased to pretty much torture Penny with and while I diced onions and got ingredients for dinner he waited for the absolute opportune second to catch me off guard and scare the piss out of me.

I was in the fridge getting butter and just as I was about the close the door I heard him scream out, "oh my god...noooo"...I peeked up just in time to see something dark and furry flying at my head.  I screamed like a little school girl.  Threw down the butter that was in my hand and flew across the kitchen while batting my aledged assailant to the ground.

Turns out the "attacker" was none other than the fake hair piece and the next sound I heard was the cackling of Jon and Hannah as they celebrated the fact that their little prank had gotten me so good.  All I could do was accept defeat and make my way to the bathroom because as with any good joke at my expense...I now had to pee.  Thankfully I didn't pee in my pants...but it was a close one...a very, very...VERY close one.

After dinner was done and cleaned up we preheated the oven for the ceremonial making of the Christmas cookies.  That was going to be all Jon and Hannah because once again the anxiousness was taking hold and it was time to excuse myself for a cooling off period.  This consist of going to the bedroom and usually sitting in the quiet.  Sometimes I have to actually go and take a shower to take my mind off the anxious thoughts.  I used to go and run or walk when I became anxious but found that it actually prolonged the anxiety.  Sucky find because for a while there it was a GREAT way to get in shape.  Figure 6 or 7 anxiety attacks a day...a month or so later I'm down close to 10lbs.

Thankfully this one was quick lived and I was back in the mix within a thirty minutes.  Just in time to torture the dogs and catch a few pics of Jon and Hannah's Christmas crowns.

So here is my gift to you my readers...a few pics to show you how our Christmas Eve was spent.

Yep ladies...he's mine...ALL mine!

Jon and our baby girl.  You'd think the crowns were her idea...NOPE...it was all him!

The great thing about being a man in a house full of girls...LOTS of kisses!

Usually she just leaves a note...this year, she means business! In case you can't read it, the cookie says "Dear Santa, I want it all.  If that isn't possible then leave the cookie and no on gets hurt.  Love, Hannah."

And because no holiday season would be complete without my dogs....

....remember...if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all because Karma is a real bitch....

Merry Christmas everyone!!

Love, Hugs and Kisses,

~JP

 

The problem with truth telling....

Before I ever thought of having kids or becoming a mother I had what I thought was a VERY wonderful idea about raising my imaginary offspring.  I told myself that I would never lie about the important stuff.  I'd never tell them that loved ones or pets don't die.  I wouldn't lead them to believe that shots won't hurt and I'd never tell them that they'd always be happy and never have their heart broken.

Simple right?  Wrong. 


The easiest of my "promise" seemed to be the shots.  From the time they were babies I'd tell them these words before shots, "big stick, bee sting, cuddles and then a prize".  It served me well for the most part.  The only time it truly backfired on me was when the girls needed to get their shots up to date for school here in Louisiana.  I inadvertently mixed up who needed what shots when I was preparing them with the whole "big stick, bee sting...." yada yada yada.  I had told Olivia she would be getting one shot and that Hannah needed three.

Olivia, while she was not overly joyed about needing any was completely over the moon with the idea of torturing her baby sister who'd have to be stuck not once, not twice but three whole times.  "That's two more than meeee"...she sing songed all through our wait time.  She'd reach over and pinch her baby sister which would send Hannah to wailing and then Olivia would say..."oh come on...that's just one stick...imagine three of those back to back", and so on and so forth.

There was two things that Olivia didn't count on and they were karma and my ability to keep the kids shot records straight.  When Olivia galantly led her little sister to the slaughter...ergh, I mean chair, she all but passed out when the nurse stuck Hannah once then released her from the seat and handed her a lolly proclaiming that she had been a "very big girl" and that she was "all done".  Those two phrases and the fact that Hannah knew the difference between her getting three and her only getting one.  She'd done the quick math and trained her eyes on her sister.  Olivia chose that exact moment to turn into a psychotic animal who first tried to run out of the building but was strong armed by Jon and then as she wailed like a banshee she attempted to hold onto the door while bracing her feet against the frame.

Yeah, my honesty about shots wasn't going too well on this occasion.  All Jon and I could do after they were finally able to immunize her,  was to walk out shaking our heads and apologizing to every one we came in contact with in the building.  I do believe we apologized to a janitor that day and to be honest with the way our kid was screaming I think he appreciated it.

My first go around with using honesty in regards to death of a loved one was when my grandmother died and my oldest was on a Girl Scout camping trip.  It's not that Olivia hadn't dealt with death before, on the contrary actually...the poor kid had her 7th birthday postponed because my grandfather, her great grandfather, bit the proverbial dust.  Nothing like blowing out the candle on your one piece of restaurant cake while the entire family is gathered sniveling and trading stories of the dearly departed at an elongated table of a bar & grill that just happened to be conveniently located next to the funeral home.    Well that and the fact that she was actually at the nursing home visiting him with my parents when he died.  Yep, that's definitely one for the scrapbook!

While I rushed to Florida to console my mother and help with the funeral arrangements, poor Jon had to make up some kind of song and dance about where I was when she returned from camp so as to allow us both to be there to break the news to her.  From that experience I learned never to wait 5 days until I am in the same state to break news of that magnitude.  While she was upset about her great grandmothers passing she was more upset that she was not notified immediately.  Jon and I learned that Olivia was not one of those kids that dealt well with being the last to know anything.  Hell, if we run out of toilet paper you better go notify her first or else there will be an issue.  That's just her thing.  She likes to be in the loop.

On the other end of the spectrum is Hannah.  When my first min pin Aden passed away suddenly over the summer while the girls were away we made a point to tell them both.  Fearing a repeat of great grandma and the wrath of Olivia not being notified we figured that honesty when the event took place was the best policy.  With Olivia that was fine.  She took the news, was saddened and moved on.  Hannah on the other hand who had been too young to really comprehend the news of her great grandmother's death, when it occured, was a bit trickier.  She had a meltdown of unworldly proportions and we were almost deemed horrible parents for breaking the news while she was close to 600 miles away.

When we were plagued by a second pet's death less than a month later Olivia was back at home and unfortunately along with us had to bear witness to the little guy drawing his last breath.  She was heartbroken as were Jon and I but seemed to process it and deal with it fairly well considering it was her dog.  We didn't tell Hannah this time and instead saved the news for when Jon could be there with her.  She was upset, but took the news far better because she had Jon there to hold on to.

So with death and shots my plan of honesty has been doing pretty good with preparing the girls with the realities of life.  When it comes to heartbreak though, I've had a bit harder time sticking to my rule.

As the minutes and hours have turned  into days, weeks and now months of Jon and I grappling with the state of our marriage, one of the things that has weighed heavily upon my mind and heart has been my kids.  What to tell them and when.  Olivia being older and of the mentality of tell it to me now and let me process it myself I chose to be a bit more forthcoming with her.  Hannah being the baby and the one that would rather not know something until it's actual, factual and has already taken place has been pretty much left in the dark although I know she's not blind or deaf to the amount of tension and arguing that goes on between her father and I. 

Tonight though I was backed into a corner while we sat at Sonic to pick up something to eat.  Hannha had just returned from a weekend soccer tournament with Jon and I was taking her for ice cream.  While we waited for our food she began to ask questions.  I figured they would come seeing as Jon and I had a rather loud verbal exhange within minutes of him coming in the door.  It's sad that after 30+ hours apart we couldn't make it a full 30 seconds without launching into a disagreement.

The questions came quietly and timidly from the backseat.

Hannah:  Mom, are you and Dad angry at each other?

Me: (don't lie, don't lie, don't lie) Yes.

Hannah:  How is that even possible...you like, just saw each other?

Me:  (don't lie, don't get defensive, don't lie) Well Hannah ya know how sometimes you and your friends don't get along...even when you haven't seen each other in a day or two?

Hannah:  Um, yea....

Me:  (don't get defensive, be honest, don't snap at her) Well, me and your dad are like that right now...we aren't getting along....

Silence falls uncomfortably in the car and then the food comes.  I contemplate just letting the discussion go but as I look into the rearview mirror I can see tears in the corners of her eyes and I know there is more she wants to say.  Part of me wants to scream at her to just stop it and let it go, but then I have to remember that she is only 10yrs old and this very much affects her life.  Be honest, I keep reminding myself.  Be honest in 10yr old terms...don't lie.

I remember back to when I was younger, after my sister had been killed and my parents would argue so much that I thought they would never get along again, I take a deep breath focus on that feeling as probably the one that she is having at this very moment and hope for the best.

Me:  Hannah, if you have something on your mind that you want to ask me or talk about you should just put it out there.  No matter what it is, I will answer you honestly and I won't be angry...I promise.

Hannah:  (hesitant but looking very determined) Are you and Dad gonna split up?

Me:  I don't know Hannah and that's the truth.

Hannah:  Ok.  But....ummmm.....but.....

Me:  Hannah whatever it is just ask me.

Hannah:  Do you still love him?

Me:  Very much.

Hannah:  Does he love you?

Me:  Yes.

Hannah:  I don't get it.  If he loves you and you love him then why do you fight ALL of the time.

Me:  Because sometimes people that love one another have things that take place that make them so angry that it becomes difficult to just be happy loving the other person.  You want to know that the person you love is being honest with you and if you think that they aren't or know that they aren't it tends to make it very difficult to just be happy being in love.

Hannah:  Oh.  Well, hmmmm.....do you think you guys could, ya know...just work it out or something cause I'm tired of listening to you not get along and I'm sure Olivia is tired of it and well....yeah....you guys should just work it out.

I sat quiet for a really long time.  Hannah didn't even seem to notice because she was over the moon for her Oreo ice cream blast.  Then she spoke again.

Hannah:  Mom?

Me:  Yeah Han.

Hannah:  I'm sorry I asked about you and dad.

Me:  Hannah, don't apologize.  You have a right to know what is going on to a point.  I know that these things affect your life.

Hannah:  I know.  But the reason I said that I was sorry was because you looked really happy before I asked you.  Like...just sitting here you and me...you looked happy. 

Me:  Well I am happy just sitting here you and me (I let my face break into a goofy smile to get her to laugh).

Hannah:  (she chuckels at my face and then turns serious again) I know....but I think you were happy because dad wasn't here.

Me: (unable to speak)

Hannah:  It was nice to see you happy for once.

Silence became all consuming and the only thing I could hear was her scraping ice cream out of her cup and the wheels of the skating car hops.

See, that's the trouble with truth telling...it brings with it a whole new line of questions.

~JP

Maybe it's time to rewrite the traditional fairytale.....

Once upon a time.....isn't that how they always suck you in?

Well this ain't no fairytale.  That's for damn sure.

Back when I was younger the only thing that I seemed to want was to be part of a two some.  A couple.  I probably should have been a twin.  That fact would have more than likely resulted in my mother going crazy faster than she actually has.

It seemed from birth I was just one of those individuals that flourished in an environment where I could be with someone else.  My mom probably fostered this by allowing me to sleep in her bed until I was a toddler.  Then while she was a single parent we almost always shared a room.  That continued until I was 11 years old and she married my step-dad.  I had my own room for a whole 7 months.  Then came my first sister and then my second sister a mere 15 months later.  I shared a room with them until I visualized smothering them both in my sleep.  My parents realized teenage-dom was upon them and I evicted myself from the co-op bedroom and out to my own space.  Sadly it was the front porch.  I mean what can you expect when you are living in a 2 bedroom house with 5 people, 2 of which are a screaming baby and toddler respectively. 

The "porch" as it was named was actually the standard Florida "sun room".  So it was completely enclosed.  The stupid part of my move was the fact that my room was the first thing that people saw and had to walk through when they came to my parents house.  Let's just say I had the cleanest teenagers room EVER!

It was also one way to insure that your teenage daughter doesn't do anything inappropriate with any boys in her bedroom.  There are times that I wish we had this same arrangement now that I have older daughters.  But then I take a stroll into their rooms and realize that if we did have that set up we could never have anyone over.  They'd never make it through the sea of crap in order to make it into the rest of the house for a visit.

But enough about my bedroom from age 12 to 14 years of age.  After the death of my sister Alicia I would go and lay in bed with my baby sister Nicolle in order to soothe her.  From the day she was born she had shared a room with both me and Alicia and then just Alicia and now she was alone.  So I'd lay with her.  Then just a few short years later I had a little one of my own to occupy my bed. 

It wasn't just sleeping either.  It was life in general.  I don't think I was ever meant to be a singleton.  At a young age I befriended a neighbor and we became the best of friends.  From the age of 3 up until 16, I don't think there is one good memory of my life that doesn't include her.  We were like two peas in a pod and I liked it just fine. 

After friendships came dating.  I always seemed to be happier when I was part of a couple.  I'm beginning to see that there is a pattern of confidence issues.  So now 12 years into the longest pairing I've had since the birth of my first child I am lost in the fact that we are taught young that every fairytale is all roses and fairies and pumpkins turning into carriages.  Outside of the mother's being audibly missing out of almost EVERY Disney story for as long as I can remember just about ever story of falling love has no mention of depression, finances, liars and heartbreak. Yeah they may start out realistic with the orphans and the working in your own home for your evil step-mother but then you are whisked away and have rodents to do your housework.  That's a step up in my books.  Not reality and yet we eat it up and ask for seconds.

Now I sit pondering the last few years of my life and as I think about the ever changing dimensions of my coupledom I wonder if my inability to stand on my own two feet and worry about what I want and what I need has possibly left me contemplating how a lifetime of being part of a two some has made it next to impossible for me to think of just myself.  Alone. 

As a mother I can never truly be alone.  Hell just trying to pee is a friggin affair.  If I don't announce it I will undoubtedly have a knock, a random walk in or an all out search and rescue mounted if I don't answer when yelled to from another room.  I'm in the bathroom.  I'm taking a piss.  LEAVE ME ALONE!  Sadly I feel I should mention that my kids are 15 and 10.  They are walking, talking, thinking, able to make toast and not burn down the house, wipe their own ass, tie their own shoes and probably do more on a computer than I ever care to know how to do...individuals.  But the second a drop of my piss hits the toilet water....they become so unbelievably needy.  It's a curse of motherhood throughout the world.  No matter what their age....from infants to adults....you go to cop a squat and they are on you like white on rice!

Every decision that I have made since my children's conception has been with them in mind.  Whether it be at the forefront or in the back of my mind, I try to keep them ever present in everything I choose to do.  Sometimes I wonder if never taking a step back and making a choice solely based on what I would like, enjoy, want or so forth has been the best mode of thinking.  Then add in the partnership of marriage and suddenly I find myself farther down the pole of priorties. 

Even when I try to make what I deem to be a semi-selfish decision I find myself second guessing it and wondering how it will affect the ones I love most.  Never once thinking about how I should be loving myself which would in turn allow me to be a better _________ (fill in the blank with title) to __________ (fill in the blank with recipient).  Yet out of selfless decisions comes pretty selfish children and at times a selfish husband.  How I have managed this...I still am not sure.  I know that I cannot control Jon's mindset or behavior, but my kids... it is the age, for the most part, but sometimes you just wonder....if Mother Teresa would have had kids...would they have been selfless saints as well??  Hmmmmmm.......

Here was my attempt at doing something just for me tonight.  I left the house to go take a walk at a local park and then decided to stop for a some chai tea on the way back to the house to warm me up.  Now I am sitting here thinking there were probably at  least 10 other things that I could've/should've done in that 45 minutes and with the $5 that I just spent.   This line of thought then leads me to going out last night with a girlfriend of mine to VooDoo Fest.  I haven't been out like this since....hmmmm....April.  The tickets were free.  Parking was free.  And yet I feel like an ass for not including my family.

It's borderline ridiculous.  Where is the pill that turns off the "over caring about every little miniscule detail of every second of my day and what I am doing with it and how it may possibly be affecting those around me"? 

Where's the fairytale about the princess that falls madly in love with her prince and then he does something ridiculously stupid and leaves her in a depressive tail spin without any dwarf's or magic fairy godmother to snap her out of it??  Where's that story?

I think I shall write it.....right after I stop feeling guilty for sitting back here on my laptop and not being out in the living room with my kids who are glued to one or another multi media device. 

~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 countdown to 10...continues...Part 3

Part 3: This is where you stop mocking me and start doing WHATEVER IT IS I ASK OF YOU!

I really hate hospitals.  But if you had to be laid up in one for a long period of time...this one was pretty damn good.  They had fabulous ice.  I'm a self professed connoisseur of crushed ice.  On my list of "best ice EVER" this place was towards the top trailing only mildly behind The Great American Cookie Company (back in it's heyday at Clearwater Mall).  Another perk was the fact that they would make me grilled cheese with bacon for like every possible meal and they never frowned at Jon for bringing in Chic-fil-A or Marble Slab ice cream.  Even when it was well after visiting hours.

My secret suspiscion is that he bribed them in the hallway with treats but as long as I got what I was craving in the end I could give a rats ass if he was actually performing sexual favors out there.  When you're pregnant pure rational flies out the window in the face of meeting the demonic voice of satisfying whatever it is that your body wants at that precise moment only to be dissappointed 3 seconds later because now you have what you thought you wanted but your mood has changed, thus perpetuating the vicious hormonal cycle.  

Before having to be whisked off to the hospital for being in a "beautiful contracting pattern...shamefully at the completely wrong time" I was plagued by horrible cravings.  The only thing worse than my cravings was the unbelievable sickness I had.  It wasn't morning sickness.  It was 24/7 sickness.  This was NOT how I was when I was pregnant with Olivia.  I had the textbook first trimester morning sickness that would shut off at exactly 12p on the dot and once I hit the second trimester I never had issue with it again.

Not the case this time.  I would wake up nauseated and start vomitting once my feet hit the floor.  I slept with a bowl by the bed.  It was horrid.  And it didn't let up throughout the day and into the night.  Usually the last thing I did before going to bed at night was throw up.  It was magical.  Jon thought he had impregnated the exorcist.  Minus the spinning head...it was kinda true.

I would be throwing up and crying.  Then 10 seconds later I would be begging him to get me whatever it was that I was demonically craving.  It wasn't ever anything unusual.  The biggest thing was Chic-fil-A nuggets with boat loads of pollynesian sauce.  So much so that the people at our local Chic-fil-A knew him by face and would just put it into a separate bag.  Sheepishly asking, "is this enough" as if for some reason if he returned with an improper amount he may be harmed and it would be ALL their fault.  Let it never be said that those people aren't smart.

Every once in awhile he would get some zit faced punk of a teenager that would try to give him a hard time and he would be forced to say, "my wife is pregnant and if you don't give me a shit load of that sauce she may infact kill me for putting her in this state of utter misery therefore you will have blood on your hands you little fuck"...or at least that is how I imagined the speech going.  He always came home with the sauce.  Thank god.  I was too tired from throwing up to actually have to physically harm him for forgetting it.

As soon as I would start to eat I would begin to feel sick.  Again.  And then I would spend the next 30 minutes negotiating with my body in something reminiscent of the movie "The Negotiator" to just keep the food down.  I was all Kevin Spacey to my body's Samuel L. Jackson.  Finally Jon got so tired of this routine... me crying for something...getting it and taking a few bits...then crying because I was now throwing up the very thing that I had craved and begged for.  His suggestion to end this problem was instead of continuing the madness he should just take money out of his wallet and flush it down the toilet.  He said that way he wouldn't have to leave the house, drive to wherever, pick up the food, bring it home, watch me take a few bites and then have to listen to me throw it all up.  He felt it was only logic.  I did not find this funny.  He however thought it was downright brilliant and somewhat hysterical.  I punished him by making him go and get me ice cream because that is what I wanted right then.  Stupid man.

I was well into my seventh month and "morning" sickness was still a very active participant in my day.  While in the hospital the nurses tried to make me feel better saying that every pregnancy was different.  I took little comfort in that while I was heaving my guts.

Every day spent in the hospital was a roller coaster of emotions.  I felt helpless because I had another child that needed her mother.  You begin to feel torn between doing everything in your power to get the child in your belly to full term and also not neglecting the one that is already here.  I did a lot of crying.

Jon on the other hand...did a lot of juggling.  He was having his first taste of full time parenthood without someone else there to break up the stress.  He was running on all cylinders.  He'd wake up at the crack of dawn get Olivia up and off to pre-school...call and check on me see if there was any news from the night before that had occured since we talked before he had gone to sleep...then head to work...sometimes he'd sneak in to see me before he went to work...if he could break away at lunch he'd come to the hospital usually bringing me whatever I had been craving when he placed the call that he could make a stop by...then back to work...pick Olivia up from school if it wasn't a day that her father picked her up or if my mom couldn't grab her...then swing by the hospital...if Olivia was with him we would try to eat together so at least she had that interaction of family dinner, although it's not the same when monitors are going off every 5 minutes...then home for the bathtime, bedtime routine...he'd get Oliva in bed then do laundry, make lunches and call me to see how things were going since he left the hospital...if it was a night when he didn't have Olivia because whe was with her dad or staying the evening at my parents he would come back up to the hospital and stay with me for as long as the nurses would allow.  Then he'd sleep, get up and do it all over again.

I spent just over two weeks in the hospital.  Everyday I would hope this would be the day I'd get to go home.  I stopped asking after day 5.

I spent most of the time hooked up to what I have now deemed to be the 2nd most heinous drug in the child carrying and bearing experience...magnesium sulfate.  A step down from the horror that is pitocin, is this drug.  While I appreciate how it, combined with the efforts of terbutaline, stopped my contractions and kept our little peanut in the womb it brought with it horrid side effects and I felt worse being released from the hospital than I did going in to it.

The day that they released me I thought they were joking.  My day nurse came in and asked me the same question she did every day.  I had begun to hate her for taunting me.  She'd walk in, take my vitals and say, "wouldn't today be a beautiful day to go home"...I'd be all like..."yeah, that would be great"...to which she would say, "but I bet tomorrow would be even better".  What kind of fucked up mind game are you playing here sister??

But on this day when I solemnly said, "yeah that would be great" she said, "yeah I thought so too so I'll help you pack".  I was like...huh...what???  I thought I had won the lottery.  The doctor came in and declared that I had been contraction free for 3 whole days which I knew just from watching the monitors and said that I was good to be released albeit with strict precautions.  Bedrest.  I could get up to pee and could walk around a total of 30 minutes every 24 hours and no more than 10 minutes at one given time.

On the day I was discharged I was 29 weeks and 1 day.  I had to stay on bedrest until I was at least 35 weeks.  This was gonna be the longest 6 weeks of my life.  And on top of that it wouldn't be like being at the hospital.  I mean who would bring me yummy crushed ice or make me grilled cheese with bacon at the drop of a hat??

Jon tried to assure me that things would be fine.  He could handle it.  He would make sure that everything was taken care of.  There was only one small four legged problem.  And her name was Max (this is what happens when you assume the dog is a boy and let your child name it only to be advised it really is a girl and said child REFUSES to change the dogs name).

We had adopted a puppy for Olivia for her 5th birthday in June.  We had wanted a dog for awhile and now that we were in a bigger place it seemed perfect.  Knowing that a baby would be coming in the next few months we figured get the dog now, get it trained and comfortable in the house and it's surroundings so that there would be no issues when the baby arrived.

No one ever imagined that a little over a month after getting her I would be put on bedrest and although at home, I would not be able to care for her.  When I was in the hospital we had her staying at my parents house.  It was only gonna be a short term thing.  Or so we thought.

After finding out that this was gonna be a long term situation there was no way to expect my parents to keep the dog.  Foolishly I thought, they will stop the contractions and things will go back to normal.  I will go back to work and regular routine.  This was not part of the plan.  None of what was happening was part of how I had imagined things to go.

We attempted to have the dog stay with friends and family.  The only one willing to take her on such short notice was my grandmother who had a huge yard.  After transporting her down to St. Pete, about 30 minutes from us, we were called 2 days later to come and pick her up.  "She's too rowdy" was the chief complaint.  I didn't have it in me to argue that she was a puppy and didn't exactly prescribe to having to go to bed at 7pm.  It was a pointless argument.

I had only been home from the hospital 4 days before Jon declared we would have to find her a new home.  Another 4 days went by with no bites and me sneaking to take her out for pee breaks...Jon caught on and called me out.  It was the baby or the dog.  Olivia was heartbroken. Years later she would tell us that she blamed the baby for the fact that she lost her pet.

I bawled, partly because I felt like I had let the dog down and partly because I was a tightly wound ball of emotions.  A day later we took Max back to the shelter.  The lady who had handled the adoption was a complete bitch and made me feel like a speck of dirt on the sole of her shoe for returning the dog in order to preserve the health of my unborn child.

The baby wasn't here yet and it had already pissed off it's sister and offended the ASPCA.  Great.  Just fuckin great!  What next?

I was too exhausted to think what could possibly happen.  I began to stop planning anything and just looked at my life in a moment by moment turn of events.  My only goal became getting to the 35 week mark.  My only plan was what I would watch on television to pass the time and what list I would make for Jon to stock the fridge for my few precious moments of time moving about to forge for food.

35 became my new favorite number.  I had it locked in my sites and the countdown was anything but exciting...

~JP

Epic failure of the clothing kind....

Well good Monday morning to you to!  After yet another night of NOT sleeping due to ungodly snoring on my husbands part I was awoken to the lunatic gentle stirrings of another missed alarm clock wake-up. 

I lifted my very sleep deprived head and then jammed it back down on to the pillow when it was deemed that I still had a few more minutes of well deserved sleep.  Apparently, now late husband felt that I didn't need that sleep.  My husband felt that my time would be better served by finding him a t-shirt and boxers.  Ummmm....at what point did it become my responsibility to make sure that a perfectly able 33 yr old man had clothing?

We are digressing.  This is definite back sliding on the roles of our marriage.

I am not wife circa 1950's who is responsible for laying out clean undergarments for his wearing each day.  I don't run to him when I need clothes.  Not.  His.  Responsibility.  Am big girl.  Able to find my own underwear.

I instruct him where he can find said items, albeit rather rudely and sleepily.

I lay back down just as soon as I can see his needs have been met.  You're welcome.  I want to scream that at him, but I am tired!

Not but a few minutes later I am roused....yet again.  This time though, I'm not just aggitated and rude...I am pissed.

It seems our 9 soon to be 10 year old is in need of a uniform.  I have gone from moderately pissed to extremely pissed in 1 second flat. 

I have made it a routine of asking her every night before bed.....

1. Do you have a clean uniform for school?
2. Do you have anything that we need to look over or sign that has to be returned tomorrow?  

To both of these questions I usually get the normal tweenage rebuff of, "okaaaay...I got it" or "no-ah...I would have given it to you already". 

Do I physically go and check every item?

No.

Do I peel through her backpack for the seven hundreth time?

No. 

I am sorry....but at some point she has to be responsible for herself.  I think 5th grade is a GREAT jumping off point for the diving board that is life's responsibility. 

Apparently husband disagrees as he so angrily pointed out with his, "you deal with it...I can't handle it this morning". 

Really??  Seriously??

You can rebuild a cars engine but you can't deal with finding khaki bottoms and school shirt.  What the shit?

When did it become universal that wives...mothers...women, have to be the one to deal with the clothing crisises of the world??


I don't remember signing that form.  I don't remember allocating that task to myself and myself alone.  I don't remember saying..."I will take every midnight feeding and diaper change.  I will miss work for every flu, fever, cold and pre-menstrual moment that our darling daughters display.  I will make sure that clothing is readily available at their fingertips even when they hide it under beds, cram it in closets and never seem to grasp that the dirty stuff goes in the laundry hamper so I must go on an expedition daily to hunt down necessary items."

Nope...must have missed that meeting.

I must have...in all my mental undoing...been able to achieve some level of teaching responsibility because I have a teenager daughter that not only manages to get up on time with the aid of an alarm clock even when she had to stay up late to write a paper or talk to a friend over matters of great social importance but who also has clean clothing to get dressed in.  Part of this is from the fact that while I was a single mom I relied heavily upon a schedule.  She learned to respond to that level of organization and THANKFULLY it has carried over into this next facet of her growing up.

She remains fully responsible for her clothing.  She dirties it...therefore...she washes it!  I know!  Brilliance...sheer and total brilliance.

I will give it to Hannah that she has been raised in a bit less of a structured enviroment but she has had something that Olivia didn't which was a constant two parent household from conception, to birth and everyday thereafter.  You would think that would lend itself to a more concrete foundation to build upon.

Sadly this has not been the case.  I will concede that my past 3 years of in and out deep depression have made structure a bit difficult.  But where I slipped in the parental department I thought my significant other would step up and cover the bases I was missing.  That hasn't happened.  Jon has managed to keep the financial aspect of our life afloat but when it's come to maintaining a standard of parental structure...not so much.

This is not a husband bashing post.  It is merely an observation that no matter how far I fall I am still expected to pull myself together to maintain a certain standard for my children.  If the tides turned and it was Jon that began to crack and fall apart I would hope that I would find the strength to not only hold it together for myself but maintain a level of stucture for the kids. 

I wish that I could let go of the anger that this moment of Monday madness has brought upon me, but I can't.  It's just another reminder of how no matter what happens it always falls to the mother to keep it together.  I will never truly be able to step out of my role and find a way to pull myself together.  At least not while there are socks, underwear and pants to be located.

Just another notch on the belt of failure I've created in this downward dip known as depression.  Pass the prozac please! 

~JP

They have books for that you know?

When my kids were little...after the tiresome 3's (for some reason we didn't get terrible 2's...I'm thinking years 5 to present have MORE than made up for this) we would read them books that my MIL or my mother (one of the garage queen maven's) had gotten for them that went over manners and the basics of common courtesy.  There was one on biting, which I really wish I had gotten round about the breast feeding time.  Not because I'm looney enough to think that it would have worked to coax them from chomping on my nipples, but because I would have used it as a shield.  Think guillotine...but the baby would maintain her head and I would maintain my nipple.  Win, win situation.

Others were on choosing your words, sharing, hitting, kindness...etc.

After watching the MTV VMA's tonight it is clear that Kanye West is in need of those books.  The way that this 32 year old man behaved towards a 19 year old Taylor Swift was downright...well...it was fucking rude!

I sat watching with Hannah and the reaction was one of utter disgust.  Out of the mouths of babes....

Hannah:  Oh.  Oh.  Oh my god...mom, mom...MOM do you really think Taylor will win??

Me: I...

Hannah:  (unwilling to let me finish thought...have no idea where she gets this from) Mom...oh ma gawd...they are about to announce the winner!  Oh, oh ma gawd!  Do you think she will mom?  Do you??

Me:  I re.....

TV ~ Taylor Lautner announces:  "And the moon man for Best Female video goes to.....Taylor Swift."

Applause...applause...applause...Taylor Swift looking surprised in WAY too red lipstick but still beautiful.....

Hannah:  Oh, ma gawd...."why can't you see...you belong to meeeee"(daughter singing and bopping around my bed)....

....Taylor Swift begins voice breaking speech....

Hannah:  Oh ma gawd mom, mom I love this....huh...what?? 

Me:  What the hell?? (secretly proud I didn't say fuck)

...Kanye jumps on stage mumbling some shit about Beyonce and how "Single Ladies" was the best video of all time...

Hannah:  What is his problem?  Why is he being so mean?  Mom, mom...MOM it's not his turn...tell him it's NOT HIS TURN??  Is he making her cry??

Me:  (trying to calm a very pissed 9yr old) Maybe it's just a skit...maybe she is gonna rip off her dress and reveal some little frock and her and Kanye are gonna break it down country/rap style!

I am not really believing the shit that I am trying to sell.  Unfortunately, I had a daquiri earlier and this put me completely off mom guard and I really didn't think that I was gonna have to dig deep for life leasons so I had to act quickly to explain away the douchebaggery that was taking place on my television.  I watched as my very caring and passionate child turn into someone who looks as though she is ready to commandeer my Honda, book it to NY and kick some Kanye ass!

Hannah:  Mom that doesn't look like part of the show.  Mom they wouldn't let her cry if it was part of the show...would they?

Me:  (now I am not only pissed at Kanye...I have to add MTV to my shit list because they are allowing my thin skinned baby to be hurt...if anyone is gonna fuck up this kid it's gonna be me...I call dibs damnit) No hun...I don't think it is part of the show.  I think he is just a moron.

Hannah:  Well he needs to say sorry.  You would make me say sorry.

Me:  You're right Han...if your sister was uber successful and making me a butt load of money and you got up on stage and pissed on her speech I would make you apologize.

Hannah:  Yeah.  You would.  I wouldn't mean it...but you would make me say sorry.

I decided that it was best to send her to bed after that for fear of what else may come along.  I gave her cookies first to soften the lunatic blow that Kanye dealt.  After brushed teeth she padded off to bed.


It wasn't until later that we saw that Beyonce stepped up to the classiness plate and gave her moment on the award stage to Taylor Swift to finish her earlier, rudely interrupted, acceptance speech.  I'm beginning to think that before Momma Knowles taught her girls to flaunt their Destiny Child goodies and began creating that House of Dereon clothing line which would surely require one to have thick skin, she was a purveyor of the very books we read to our own girls. 

It gives me hope that some day...years from now...my kids will be famous well adjusted.  They will have gained millions in cold hard cash life lessons from books, people and situations.  I take comfort that for tonight...in this moment at least one of them has deciphered right from wrong. 

Yes, it took a television show.  Yes, it was about a musician.

But you take your victories where you can get them.  And this is one to go down in the victory column.

Of course tomorrow it will all be washed away as one kicks on the door to the bathroom as the other stands behind it screaming, "well...YOU SHOULD HAVE THOUGHT ABOUT THAT BEFORE YOU USED MY STUFF".  When I attempt to ask what the argument is about I get a unanimous, "NOTHING" or "NEVERMIND".  Then the door opens, the sound of a slap echoes down the hallway and it ends with a slammed door.

Time to bust out the damn books again.  I think instead of making them read them over again I am just gonna slap them upside the head and hope that the lessons get in there by osmosis...kind of like that bump ap for iPhones.  We'll call this the "life ap".

If anyone knows how I can get to Kanye I'd be more than willing to put him on my "life ap list".  Think of it like aversion therapy for jacklegs.

You're welcome.


Also...I am willing to add Congressman Joe Wilson (R-SC) to my list.  I think he could use some "life ap" time as well!  It's not nice to call people...especially the President of the US...a liar!  

Just one more way I'm trying to make the world better.  Eliminating negativity...one douchebag at a time!
~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

Failure is only kid deep....

So the 3 day weekend is over for you working folk.  For me...it's just a continuation...cause I no worky!  But I must say I was very proud of myself because when the alarm clock that husband clearly forgot to set didn't go off this morning to alert the hubby that he needed to go out and earn a good day's pay I was the conquering hero that got him up and out the door on time.  Yea me!!  Then I continued the fabulous streak by downing a cup of coffee and filling out FAME forms only to realize that tween left them on corner of sofa instead of putting them in backpack to tote off to school as whined about night prior when she realized we (meaning both hubbster and I were shitty parents) hadn't taken the time to lovingly fill them out the moment we received them on Friday even though school was out until today.  But whatever! 

Apparently we will be solely responsible for the downfall of her extra curricular activities and her social ranking in the cut throat society of 5th graders the world over.  God...we are SO irresponsible!

But I am not gonna take the hit for the fact that she forgot this paperwork.  I will totally take the blame for corrupting her morals or abandoning her in order to watch a weeks worth of Young & the Restless that has been stored in my DVR, but I draw the line at remembering to staple aforementioned dance team try-out form to her forehead so she doesn't forget them.  And...by the way...if I "had" stapled the form to her head...I would have been accused of child abuse, so really I did her a favor by allowing her to forget the forms. 

But outside of the form mishap, the day is going surprisingly well.  Probably has a lot to do with the good time we had on Sunday.  We took a little "daycation" (if this word hasn't been coined yet...I am totally claiming it...I have a flag and everything) to the Mississippi Gulf Coast.  It was a little gloomy but we really had fun. 

The gloom was probably a good thing seeing as my skin hasn't seen the light of day in like 3 months.  If I had been exposed to a sun drenched day I may have combusted entirely.  The girls, more so Han because Liv in her total teen angst refuses to show extreme excitement over anything, seemed suprised that we would take them to the beach.  We've lived here for over 6 years and this is our first time going to the coast to actually go to the beach for the day.


After making the little over 30 minute drive we settled on a long stretch of sandy beach in Long Beach, Mississippi.  Sure it's not the bluish green glory that we are used to from our days of living in Clearwater, Florida but who cares, we shrug off our clothes and drop our bags and towels before heading down to the water.

There were chaise lounges with umbrellas for rent, but we're cheap so when we found one that looked completely dilapidated and without a red "for rental" sign, we decided that this sad little Charlie Brown Christmas tree of a chaise was perfect for us to park our gear.  Before we could be chased down by the chaise nazi's we hauled tush for the water.

With the way the weather looked the girls thought the water might be cold.  They don't seem to realize that the Gulf tends to always be balmy like that area of the pool that your little cousin tends to piss in and then swim quickly away from.  My immediate anxiety approached at the fact that here you can't see beneath the waters surface at all.  Not even at the shoreline.  Don't get me wrong...I love to swim.  It's probably my most favorite outdoor activity.  What I don't like is the scarey world that I imagine lays lurking just underneath the surface.  It's not even a fear of big things like sharks.  It's the way the sand is all squishy.  It creeps me out.  I don't know why but it erks me beyond belief.  I'm a consistency girl....squishy things...I no likey!  So within moments of crashing through the whitecapped surf I was clinging to Jon in hopes of using him to hold me up until we were deep enough where my feet would no longer touch the sand.

Immediately Jon was laughing hysterically at me.  He kept saying he didn't understand what my problem was because he had never seen me act like this.  I tried to think of the times that we may have possibly been to the beach together and I was coming up blank.  He came out with our trip to Mexico.  I was like...uh, of course I didn't act like this in Mexico.  I was drunk when we were in Mexico.  Tequila trumps fear of squishy sand!  God...what a jackleg!  Jaws could have come and drug me under and I wouldn't have given a flying shit because I was wasted.

So each time I squealed he would erupt in a fit of laughter.

Jon: Babe why are you squealing like that?

Me: Ewwww....cause I don't like the sand.

Jon: Seriously?

Me: Yeah.  Seriously.

Jon: Okay you can't lean on me like that I am gonna drown. (head begins to slide under surface as waves crash around us)

Me: Stop moving away from me. (grasping at his neck like a drowning woman)

Jon: Girls.  GIRLS...look at your mom, she's freaking out because she doesn't like the sand. Hahahahahaha.....

Hannah: Mom.  Seriously?  You're scared of the water?

Me: No I am not scared of the water.  I like the water.  I don't however, like the sand.  It's squishy.  I don't like squishy.

Hannah:  So does this freak you out. (brushes by me with her hand to mimic a fish)

Me: No...but stop doing it anyways.

Hannah: Really???  (brushes a foot by me)

Me: Hannah, I mean it stop.

Olivia: What about this?  (comes at me from the other direction brushing lightly against me under the water)

Me:  I mean it.  Stop it.  Both of you.

Jon: (still laughing and clearly not helping)

Me: (seriously pissed off...gets up and makes my way out of the water braving squishy sand and secretly hating family)

I sit gingerly on the Charlie Brown Christmas tree of a chaise and start drying off.  I'm mid sand brush off when the chaise nazi comes to ask, "do you plan on renting that".  Still out of breath from my quick jaunt out of the gulf I am not in the mood to come up with a witty quip to answer this completely ridiculous question so I instead nod my head no and start to move our stuff.  Unfortunately, it is so friggin windy that I am unable to actually lay out our beach blanket in a neat fashion and instead end up sitting on a crumpled up clothes pile looking situation. 

About 20 minutes later husband and both kids come trailing out of the water.  Both children have been stung by something in the water.  I look up at the sky and know that God has punished both of my  children for being spiteful to my sand fear and I silently promise to give to one of those charities that keeps calling my house as a sign of appreciation.

After tending to their little welts and assessing that they are not jellyfish stings therefore negating the personal humiliation that would have come with their parents peeing on them and being thankful that I didn't have to make my bladder perform on command we decide to pack up and head on down the coast.  This decision came with a pout fest from Han who had her heart set on renting a jet ski.  I was like...ummm, I don't think so...those freaks want $45 for 1/2hr and they can't promise flying fish like when we were in Mexico...no thank you!  She didn't see that as a draw back and continued her cry fest for a good 15 minutes. 

We began driving as she continued pouting.  A sign in the distance that boasted a "Hurricane Katrina Clearance Sale" definitely got our curiosity peaked.  The fact that they sold fudge was all Jon needed to make a u-turn and pull in for a look see.  Hannah found a new thing to whine about with hermit crabs.  She hung by the tank while the rest of us spent time looking around the store.  There wasn't really anything special about the touristy shop and nothing that had anything to do with the storm, which was fine by me especially since I think I am definitely among the masses of people that would love to wipe the images seared into my memory about the days, weeks, months and years now following the aftermath.

Bumming around like tourist can make one pretty hungry.  Liv had a request of chicken fingers.  Big shocker there.  We saw a Hooters in the distance and since Jon was soley responsible for planning this day I felt it only fitting that he should get his favorite chicken wings (and it met the chicken finger request) as a reward.  Han launched another whine fest and all I could think was "I NEED A DRINK"! 

Once inside she calmed down when she realized that she liked the chicken.  Well hallefrickinlujah!  Wouldn't want to put the little princess out or anything.  Ugh...kids!  Once the moping was done then came the questions.

Hannah: I don't get why they call this place Hooters.

Me: (trying desperately to NOT have to have this conversation) So do you want chicken wings or chicken fingers?

Hannah: No really, like, umm....like why do they call it Hooters?

Me: Do you want mozzarella sticks?  Or maybe a salad?  You want a salad?

Hannah:  Okay, like..umm, like there is an owl on the menu and, but...umm...what does that have to do with chicken?

Me: Daddy asked if you want to try the cajun seasoning, do you want to try it?

Hannah:  So why do the o's look so funny on the menu?

Me:  Huh?  It's really loud in here...did you say something?  Where is the waitress?  I need a drink.

Hannah:  Ummm, mom...so why DO they call it Hooters?  And why are all the girls in the pictures in bathing suits or tight shirts?

Me: OMG...where is the waitress??  I REALLY need a drink?

Hannah:  Are you gonna get alcohol?  I don't think you should do that.

Me:  Jon you want to explain to your daughter why the place is called Hooters?  Do you want to help me out here?

Jon:  So do you want to get 20 or 50 wings?

Me:  You're NOT helping me.

Jon:  What?? What am I doing?

Hannah:  Mom that drink looks like a smoothie.  Can I have some?  Are you gonna tell me what Hooters means?

Olivia: Can I have your lime?

Me: Seriously.  Jon...help me out here. 

Jon:  What?  What do you need?

Hannah:  Does that drink have alcohol in it?  Cause you just gave Olivia the lime.  Why didn't you give me the lime?  If it's got alcohol in it you shouldn't have given Olivia the lime.  If it doesn't have alcohol in it then why can't I have half the lime.  I want a lime.

Me: Seriously...Jon...help me out here (slurping longily on the straw...wishing that the alcohol would be infused directly into my veins)...JON!

Hannah:  So can I have a sip?  Can you get another lime?  I really want a lime too.

Jon:  What?  What??

Hannah:  Mom are you listening to me...is there alcohol in there?  Can you get another lime?  I really, really, REALLY want a lime...mom...mom.  Mom??  Mother are you listening to me??

Me:  Hooter's are boobs!  There are no other limes.  (flagging down waitress) I'm gonna need another shot of rum in this drink ASAP!

After dinner it was time to head home.  The skies were turning dark with night and more rain approaching.  We drove along the coast line before making our way back inland.  Olivia announced that she REALLY needed to use the restroom so Jon found a gas station.

We all piled out of the vehicle and made our way into the gas station.  Both girls were doing the pee pee dance so Jon scoped out the mens bathroom which was just a single room with a door much like the ladies room.  I ushered Han in there and Liv took the ladies room.  Jon and I were on door duty.  Seconds turned to minutes and then the smell came.

I didn't know which child was responsible but was mildly impressed by the fact that either of them could create that much of a stink, so to speak.  I knocked on the ladies room door and asked Liv if she was okay, because I needed to pee.  She opened the door and I made my way in.  My daughter...in all her brillance, couldn't figure out how to get the paper towel dispenser to work.  I stiffled laughter as I used the bathroom.  Right in my line of sight was what looked like a femine product dispenser but on closer inspection was actually a condom dispenser.  This time I couldn't hold back the laughs as I realized she was following my gaze.

Olivia:  What does that say?

Me: Ummm...I think it says erotic. (trying to maintain calm...I've just survived explaining Hooters to my 9 1/2 year old and now I'm face to face with condoms with my 15 year old...waitress...waitress...where the fuck is a drink when you DEFINITELY need one)

Olivia:  Does erotic mean what I think it means??

Me:  Yes.  Yes it does.  (I don't really know what her mind has decided it should mean, but anything will be better than what I have to make up and deliver at this moment)

Both of us erupt in laughter at the shear embarassment of the situation.  As we make our way out of the bathroom Jon looks puzzled about what could be so funny about being in a bathroom together.  I just shake my head, unwilling to revisit the conversation.

Pulling out of the gas station witty banter ensues between Jon and I.

Jon:  Man that light only lasted about 3 seconds long.

Me: Hmm...must be a man.

Jon:  Oh you're funny.

Me:  I know.

Back at home the rain is coming down in buckets and we are cozied up on the couch watching a DVD and I am sipping on Firefly Sweet Tea vodka.  If you haven't tried it...run out right now...right this very instance and buy it!  It is soooooooooooo good.  I honestly thought that between the beach, a little sun (between the gloomy clouds) and the fact that I had actually been up early on Sunday would find me able to fall asleep but it was a no go.

Monday came around and of course I slept way beyond the original wake up call of 11am that Jon attempted to enforce.  He let me sleep in.  I really must try not to be horrible to this man because more times than not he gives in and lets me sleep without major bitching sessions.  Yeah, like that is gonna happen.

When I ginally did make it out of bed we sat and watched DVD's.  Then it was time to clean.  I HATE cleaning.  I helped Jon gather up some laundry to be washed and found myself exhausted.  Not really, it was more like adult ADD...I just can't stay focused when it comes to cleaning.  Jon asked if I wanted to take the kitchen or the bedroom.  I picked bedroom.  It meant I could hide out and use my laptop.  Seriously...I had MAJOR farming to do on facebook, so the cleaning was just gonna have to wait.  It's all about priorities people. 

Two hours later...and my farm had been plowed, planted and expanded I realized that I had absolutely nothing, in the way of cleaning, to show for my time cloistered in the bedroom.  Quick thinking and feeling slightly buzzed from the 1 1/2 drinks I had consumed during my "cleaning" time made me realize that I had only one option.  I went out and made a deal with the husband.  I totally prostituted myself out.  I figured trading sex for a pass on cleaning was a win win situation for all.  Well everyone except our house and our laundry.  I did however make sure my kids and the husband had clean clothes for the next day before making the deal, which I think is really responsible on my part.  It's called being a good wife and mother.  You're welcome family!

Thankfully my husband still finds me wildly attractive and was totally on board with my offer.  I'll spare you all the intimate details save for the fact that once it was all said and done I found myself quoting a Disney movie to commentate just how good it was.  So sad...so very, very sad.  The only thing that eclipses using a line from the Incredibles to describe a passionate exchange is the time that Jon and I had a night out by ourselves after Hannah was born and we drove for 30 minutes listening and singing along with the CD for Bear in the Big Blue House.  The worse part of that moment was when we realized we were listening and singing along was when we wouldn't turn it off until we could play our favorite song "Otter Love".  Ah huh..."otter love...just can't get enough of that otter love"...oh yeah...mood setter.

The long weekend ended on a great note for us and I even got a full 6 1/2 hours of sleep.  Thank you liquor and post coital bliss!!  Must have been really good because the hubby forgot to set the alarm.  I don't know how I was the one to wake up unassisted, but I did. 

After the debacle with "letting" Hannah forget her FAME forms I was hell bent on being a better mother to the other kid.  I made sure I asked if she had all her stuff for the impending school day.  She just looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language.  Apparently the cup of coffee I made her hadn't seeped into her brain yet.  For those that wonder why I not only allow my child to drink coffee but I actually make it for her...well it comes down to the pure and simple fact that she's 15 and about 1/4 of inch shorter than me.  I'm hoping that plying her with mass amounts of caffeine will stunt her growth thus allowing me to still be able to say to her "watch it little girl...I'm your mother and I'm bigger than you"...if I don't stunt her now...I will lose that....FOREVER.  Probably should have thought of this before mating with a guy that was well over 6 foot at age 16.  Ugh...I suck at thinking ahead!

As we made our way out to the car to head to the school Olivia announced that she had made a mixed CD for the morning drives to school. 

Me: What is that?

Olivia:  A mixed CD.

Me:  Hmmm...okay...why?

Olivia:  Well cause your music kinda sucks.

Another failure and it wasn't even 8:30am. Apparently I can't manage to make sure my kids take forms to school or pick out appropriate music to play while carting their asses everywhere and anywhere.  Just when I thought I had accomplished something and started to make strides towards becoming a better person I am brought back down to the reality of my inability to do the simplest of things.  Thanks kids...thanks so much for making mommy want to curl up in the fetal position and cry while watching mass amounts of Lifetime "Not Without My Daughter Who is a Street-walking Drug Dealing Baby Stealer" movie which is the only thing that makes me realize I haven't sunk to the depths of hell....yet.

But I can't go into coma mode...I have to clean.  Apparently sexual favors can only buy you a day off from domestic servitude *sigh*....if only I still had the body of a 20 year old...I'd never have to clean again!  Thanks again kids...for totally fucking up my life!

~JP