To Bitch or Not To Bitch…That Is The Question.

Ok- whinefest coming up. Don’t say you weren’t warned. I am in an extremely bad mood, stressed and hungry. My mood directly correlates to the fullness (or in this case, emptiness) of my stomach.

I started school last week. Healthcare management. I have already done the older-student thing. I went back to nursing school in 2001 and got my LPN. So after 10 yrs of clinical work, I decided that I want to be the boss and get the perks for a change. I love healthcare, and don’t ever, ever want to leave it, but I need a new direction, and am really excited about getting this degree.

HOWEVER- (here comes the bitchy part)- HOW IN THE SAM HILL AM I SUPPOSED TO EXECUTE THIS? I need a job- but one that works with my schedule. When I inquired about financial assistance through the great State of Illinois, I was told that if I am a student, I have to maintain a job at least 20 hours a week before I am eligible for ANY sort of help.

REALLY??

Because I don’t understand this. If I sat on my ass all day, had 5 kids, no job, and didn’t even attempt to make something of myself or for my family- Illinois would give me all kinds of free shit. Food stamps, cash money, pay my electric bill, find churches to donate things to me, and most importantly, give me FREE FUCKING HEALTHCARE COVERAGE. I speak of these things from experience. I personally know several people who play this game. And I am not saying that some people don’t deserve this help- I myself have had medical coverage and food stamps in the past for BRIEF periods of time- BUT, I got off my ass and tried to (and succeeded in) make my situation better. I don’t understand how people make a job of filching from the government.

My beef is this-I am a single Mom of 2 kids. I am trying to make my life better. Be an example for my boys. Show them they can do anything they want, at any age. I want to earn enough money so they can go to college. I want them to be able to have the cool clothes and shoes (within reason) and take vacations (not Australia, just Six Flags would be nice). I’m willing to work to get it. But it seems that financially, it would benefit me more to not attempt to be productive, hook and sell crack all day, and have lots of babies with different baby daddies so I can make BANK.

Currently, I search my mini van for change so I have gas money, I eat Ramen Fucking Noodles so my boys can at least have the Hamburger Helper, and I can’t even remember when I paid full price for any article of clothing for myself. It pisses me off something fierce when I’m at The Walmarts (yes, I know that’s not how you say it-inside joke) and the 23 yr old meth head in front of me has her cart full of shrimp cocktail and T-bone steaks, and her 4 kids with snotty noses and dirty clothes are drinking Mountain Dew- and you guessed it, she whips out her food stamp card to pay for it. Meanwhile, I’m standing there with the cheapest, sandpaperiest toliet paper I can find, cans of chicken noodle soup and 33 cent burritos. That CHAPS MY ASS. GRRRRRRRRRRR. I work hard for my shit. I’m not afraid to work. I’ve always been told you don’t get anywhere without working for it. But Crack Ho Barbie with the pretty manicure and cute strappy sandals in front of me must be “working” in a different way than me.

So, I guess this is a plea for somebody to give me money. I’m to the point where my pride is gone. If Oprah reads this- hey, 10 thou would do it. I’m not greedy. Or some sweet old lady that hates her own family can will her stuff to me. Or hell, if it works for the girl in front of me at The Walmarts-even a Sugar Daddy would be considered. My BF would probably share me if I was bringing home some chedda, yo.

I’m gonna go make my can of condensed tomato soup now. I’m saving the Cheesy Beef Pasta for my boys.

That is all for now.

I Had A Girl……Donna Was Her Name.

My inspiration to start a blog stemmed from reading several other blogs on a regular basis. My two main influences were Moms Who Drink and Swear and Mary Tyler Mom. Two strong women, full of piss and vinegar, not afraid to air their frustrations, loves, silliness and reconciliation that comes with being a Mom. They inspire me, reassure me, and influence me in more ways than just words on paper. Mind you, I don’t know these women personally, but the insight they allow their readers into their personal lives makes me feel like they are long-lost sisters of mine.

Mary Tyler Mom (MTM) recently shared something VERY personal with her lucky readers. MTM’s 4 year old daughter, Donna, passed from this earth from cancer in 2009. Since September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month, MTM chronicled Donna’s 31 month journey from diagnosis to The End. One month was represented as one day on MTM’s blog.

Imagine this Mother, who physically lost her daughter, then rehashing it on paper to bring awareness to regular chumps like us. She sat down everyday to write the installments. This was not something she had prearranged. She took time out from her family EVERYDAY to relive the agony so she could share it with us. That fact alone astounds me.

She writes with in-your-face reality, because that’s how she lived this story. She is open, honest, and beautiful. She has changed my life by allowing me to know Donna. I woke up daily in September looking forward to the day’s installment-even though I knew how the story ended. But the story hasn’t ended. That’s the most beautiful part of this. By sharing this with all of her readers, MTM has introduced her beautiful little girl to thousands of people. And those thousands of people have done what I’m doing- sharing Donna with even more people.

It’s painful, emotional and difficult at times to read. But it’s also hopeful, silly and uplifting. I cannot encourage people enough to go read this story. Even if it’s close to home- the message is the important thing. I won’t give details away, as this is not my story to tell. All I can do is poke, prod and ride your ass until you go read this. I have her blog linked on the side of my page, and also copied the direct link to Donna’s Cancer Story at the bottom here. So grab your Kleenex, and find a nice quiet corner, and go meet a wonderful, brave, wise little girl named Donna. You will be a better person for doing so.

That is all for now.

http://www.chicagonow.com/mary-tyler-mom/donnas-cancer-story-2/

There’s no such thing as being #2 with Reese………

Reese after begging me to take him to the pet store to look at the puppies.

Reese, doing what he does best. Looking absolutely adorable.

Today is Reese’s 12th birthday. Wow. My baby boy is 12. In true Reese fashion, he requested a beef stick from the gas station this morning as a gift. This came after The Grams (My Mom and Gram Baker) made him a delicious breakfast of pancakes, complete with candles. Birthday money was given, and hugs and kisses traded for a good day. Off to school we went, and of course, I said “I love you, Happy Birthday!” He hopped out for basketball open gym, and off he went. Off he went. In more ways than one.

Reese was a total, complete surprise baby. Not like, “Oh, Wow, I’m pregnant.” More like “YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME.” See, Reese and his older brother Brady are “Irish Twins.” If you don’t know what that is, it’s a Mother having babies back to back, within approximately a year’s time. Think The Duggar Family. Only I learned enough to stop at 2 kids. Brady was born on Nov 1, 1998. Reese was born Sep 29, 1999. Do the math. The boys’ Dad’s birthday is Jan 5th. So, I’m pretty sure that Reese is the result of my gift to his Dad, if you know what I mean. Imagine this-I gave birth on Nov 1. I go back to the doctor after 6 weeks, get the ok to “resume relations”, and BOOM- 4 weeks later I find out I’m knocked up again. Holy Shit. Sweet Lord and Baby Jesus. Spank my ass and call me “Charlie.” I’m breastfeeding a newborn, fighting a horrendous case of postpartum depression, dealing with a very difficult relationship with the boys’ Dad, and now, Ms. Fancy Nurse Practitioner, you wanna tell me I have ANOTHER bun in the oven? Stick a fork in me, darlin’, ’cause I AM DONE.

Reese, age 3- already a home run slugger.

“Everything happens for a reason.” How often do you hear that? All the time. I say it frequently. But at that time, I couldn’t wrap my head around what was happening. I literally lost my mind. I’m sad to say that a lot of my pregnancy with Reese was a blur. I had a 3 month old to feed in between the morning sickness that I didn’t have before, and attempt to work. So a lot of stress and juggling went into daily life. I couldn’t appreciate the milestones for my second pregnancy like I could my first.

But, the light at the end of the tunnel slowly dawned on me. I have written before about my Gram Baker. She has been a constant source of love, support and friendship in my life. Gram was born in 1915. She’s lived through EVERYTHING. Including me. And even though the thought of 2 babies frankly scared the shit out of me, I knew, I mean KNEW, that I was supposed to have these 2 boys so close together so that they could know and love Gram like I do. So they would have the chance to KNOW her. Not just have vague memories of a shrunken old lady, but to have her influence and wisdom in their lives. THIS is why I was unknowingly blessed with Reese. When I was a little girl, and my Grandpa Baker was still alive, Gram used to call him “Honey”. So, as a young impressionable toddler, I assumed his name was “Honey”, and called him “Grandpa Honey” for the longest time. When Reese was a baby, Gram called him “My Sweetheart”. So still to this day, Reese refers to himself as “Gram Baker’s Sweetheart” when he is talking about himself around her. Those 2 have such a special bond. I am forever grateful for that one night in January when a lack of protection led me to this child who KNOWS his great-grandmother the way he does.

After heavy meds for a dislocated hand-asleep on my chest. The perfect place to be.

My due date was Tuesday, Sep 28, 1999. Nothing. No contractions, no mucus plug, no nothing. I already had a weekly Dr appt on Wednesday, the day after. Baby Daddy and I got up early, left Brady with his grandparents, loaded up the car “just in case”, and headed 30 miles away for the appt. We had found some money that morning that we didn’t know we had, and decided to make a day of it. We went to Denny’s, ate breakfast, bought a homeless guy some eggs and coffee, and decided that it was going to be a good day. Off we waddled to the Dr, who of course, poked, prodded and basically violated me 17 different ways before saying, “Looks like you are 3 1/2 cm dilated, wanna have the baby today?” “YES!!!!!” I screamed. She told us to check in the hospital around 1230pm. It was mid morning, so we had some time to kill. We went to a department store, walked around, and Baby Daddy bought me a necklace in honor of this special day. (He wasn’t always or still currently an asshole, but we did have some rough years)- The time got close, so we headed back to the hospital to get this show on the road. We checked in, then decided to call everybody and let them know what was going on. While Baby Daddy was making the calls, I was ensconced in the L/D bed, watching Days of Our Lives on TV while they started my pitocin drip. 130pm. Nothing happened for a bit, so at 2pm they jacked the dose of medication up. MOTHER FUCKER. Shit happened right quick and in a hurry after that. It snowed me. Seriously, it’s all a vague blur. I remember screaming for the anesthesia, and it seemed like every damn person who walked in the room and was NOT the anesthesiologist (his name was Ed) kept saying  “He’s on his way, just a few minutes.” BULLSHIT. Ed finally strolls in after what seemed like 38 years later, and gets me ready for the epidural. As I’m moving up to sit on the edge of the bed, my water broke with such fury and vengeance that I literally felt the amniotic sac rip apart inside me. Like “Alien”. That was excruciating. After I got done sobbing and screaming, Ed and his sadistic med student (who I believe I called Dickhead) decided to give me the epidural injection RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF A GOD DAMN CONTRACTION. Nice work, assholes. Needless to say, it was unsuccessful. So, we got to do it again. How fucking fun. By this time, my pain is so intense and crazy fast, I’ve pissed off every poor nurse and aide who came in the room. I do know for a fact that I pulled the blood pressure cuff off my arm (I hate those things anyway) and told one nurse that if she put it back on me, I would wrap it around her fucking neck. (I did apologize to her after everything was done). So the happy meds FINALLY kick in, and not 10 minutes later, I sense that feeling that I have to poop, but know it’s time to push. Mind you, I had already gone through the miracle of birth less than year before, so I did know what I was talking about. I told the nurse I had to push. Said, “Oh, no, honey, we haven’t even checked you yet. It’s not time yet.” Again, BULLSHIT. I told her- no, for real, I need to push and need to push NOW. She checked me, and her eyes got as big as dinner plates. “Oh, well, dear, just don’t bear down and we will get the doctor.” There was a mad scramble, and I remember looking up as the door opened the same time my legs were being pushed into stirrups. The doctor comes barreling in, the nurses are quickly trying to get the Doc in a gown, and I’m screaming and yelling and crying that I have to push. So, I pushed. Twice. And- Abracadabra- the baby was here. Oh, Sweet Relief.

Sweet Relief quickly turned to panic, however, because my new Knucklehead was not breathing. Seems his first gulp of air was all the remaining amniotic fluid, and the poor guy got choked. It was very quiet in the delivery room. Of course, I can’t see what’s happening behind me where the bassinet was, but Baby Daddy was all up in the middle of the situation. He was stretching across, holding my hand while the placenta was coming out fast and furious, but trying to figure out what was going on with Peanut. Not one single staff member told us anything. Then all of a sudden, we heard a “Meow”. Baby mewling. Then crying, then screaming. Oh, Praise The Lord. Turns out that they had to bag and tube him to get him going with the whole breathing thing. They pronounced him ok, swaddled him, then finally handed him to me after what seemed like years. In reality, labor took me exactly 2 hours and 51 minutes. Shit on a shingle, that was intense.

Reese's Dad's wedding. In a tux. He's hot. He's grouchy. He's so damn handsome.

So that’s how my little devil got here. And WHY he’s here. For a reason. To bless us all with his wit, his heart, his compassion, his smart-assyness, his tantrums, his meltdowns, his laugh, and his beautiful smile. This little man, who is learning his own path, his own way, and what kind of person he is. Off he goes. Whether I want him to or not. Momma loves you, Reese. You’ll always be my baby, no matter what.

Reese after IL State sectional champs game- His homerun ball.

That is all for now.

My Knucklehead.

There Ain’t No Such Thing, Darlin’…….

You now what drives me bat-shit crazy? People who want the world to think that life is wonderful, their kids are darling, amazing angels, their spouses cater to their every whim, and unicorns shit rainbows in their backyard. I saw a Facebook status yesterday that made me throw up in my mouth a little bit. The gist of it was that this Mom hadn’t made a necessary purchase for herself because “I’ve been putting it off because I never put myself first.” GAG.

OK. Let me explain. I am all for a positive attitude. Sometimes, bullshitting myself is the only way I can get through the day. “It will be fine, homework will get done with minimal stress, I can figure out how to pay for groceries, I won’t run out of gas on Main Street.”- BUT, I also live in the real world, where Reese throws his football pads across the driveway when he’s pissed about homework, groceries may consist of PB&J sandwiches, and I run out of gas, not on Main Street, but 7 miles out of town. (True story.) I don’t believe in putting up a front, and creating the illusion that all is right in my world. I have a great life. It’s topsy-turvy, twisty, up and down, left and right. Which is perfect for me. Normal is boring. And God Forbid- I ever get boring.

So I guess I can’t fathom why on earth people put up such a facade. EVERYONE knows that kids cause good AND bad emotions. Spouses, too. Along with bosses, school, family in general and friends. This is the human relationship. If everybody loved everybody all the time, we’d all constantly be in a real-life version of Invasion Of The Body Snatchers. Everyone would dress the same, act the same, eat the same things, say the same things all the time and live happily ever after. While some will think that this is wonderful, would generate world peace, and lead to the end of all wars- I don’t. How boring. I, for one, am so grateful that I have a large (and I mean LARGE) range of emotions. I love the fact that I get mad. You know why? Because then when I am not mad, I feel like I can appreciate being happy even more. I feel blessed to be able to wallow in a good cry-so when that light at the end of tunnel appears, I can respect and learn from what I had to go through to be able to see it. I love to make mistakes (maybe not in the moment) so I can teach myself something in the end. I’m glad that my boys piss me off, because it makes me hug them harder and tell them that I love them in spite of them acting like assholes.

I’m not a dweller. If shit happens, I try to deal with it the best I can, and move on. I REFUSE to get stuck  living in the past. Life sucks sometimes. I bitch about it, attend to it, and get over it. I don’t hold many grudges. Every person on earth has horrible, traumatic things that happen to them. Some deal with it, some don’t. I have learned that for me personally, the best way to handle things is to let it run its course. If I’m upset, I NEED to vent it out. I can’t hold it in. If I get my say, and get it out of my system, I’m over it. I just want to be heard. Right or wrong, I want acknowledged that I have feelings. So yes, I yell and scream, I get on FB and post stupid shit, and generally have a temper tantrum. And in 20 min, I can be over and done with it.

Sad, sad Dora.

Right this second, I’m looking at my dog, Dora. She’s such a sweet girl-so lovey, so good, and so good-natured. The boys are her best friends. Every morning, she wallers around on them, telling them “Get up and pet me! Play with me! Love me!” And they do. Her tail wags, she’s spritely, and just a happy girl in general. But when the boys start getting their school bags and shoes on, she gets sad. We load up in the car, and she watches with the most forlorn face from the window. I come back from taking them to school, and she is a totally different dog. She is currently sprawled on the living room floor, eyes open, laying on her side, looking like the most pitiful thing ever. She is sad they are gone. I get that. But come afternoon, when 3pm rolls around (and believe me, she KNOWS when it’s time) and I go pick them up and bring them home, she’s so damn happy to see them. She jumps and spins circles and licks their faces and grabs her rope to play. She forgets how miserable she was all day while they were gone. SHE GETS OVER IT. But since she’s a dog, and she can’t help how she feels, she allows herself to be sad while they are not here. So I imagine the joy she feels when they come barreling through the door is 10 times greater.

Poor girl.......

I guess the overall point I’m making is that while it drives me bonkers to hear about “perfect” lives, it also makes me sad. That people are so overly concerned with the presentation of their existence to others is more important to them than actually LIVING life. If your FB status reads, “I ran 24 miles this morning before breakfast!!”- I say good for you. I admire your ambition and determination. I am frankly jealous because there is no way in HELL I am doing that. But if your next status reads “After I came home from my 24 mile run this morning, I discovered my kid smeared jelly on the walls and my dog pooped on my bed”- I will relate sooooooooooo much more to your life. If it’s all “My fab hubby made me another 7 course dinner and gave me a foot rub like he does everyday”- I don’t get it. “My hubby BURNT me a 7 course dinner for our anniversary and gave me a 30 second back rub, but it’s the thought that counts”- this I understand.

If there is any moral lesson here (hahahahaha- me giving moral lessons!!!)- I just feel sorry for people who don’t, won’t or can’t experience life. That the need to be SuperMom, Martha Stewart and A Stepford Wife all supersede your own emotions, thoughts, feelings and desires. It’s ok to be pissed. Or sad. Or distressed. That’s what makes you human. And I understand those emotions way more than I understand “My 3-year-old just recited the Declaration of Independence! My 7-year-old washed, dried and folded 5 loads of laundry by herself! My husband brought me home diamonds! My clothes all fit and my hair is perfectly coiffed when I take the kids to school at 7am!!” all day, every day.

That is all for now.

The Cast Of Characters- Part 1

Most of the people who will be reading my ramblings are familiar with me, my family, and the shenanigans we find ourselves in. But, for anyone who is new to my circle of chaos, I would like to introduce you to the players in my circus of life.

Brady is my first-born son. He is 12, a 7th grader, football player, baseball player, drummer, comedian, and all around generally likeable kid. He is NOT perfect. (I am not one of those parents who thinks the sun rises out of her kid’s ass) He makes me laugh, cry, scream, giggle, roll my eyes, and clap my hands. He is a smart-ass of caliber proportions, and a prankster who should have his own MTV show. His way of talking and expressing things can make you believe anything. ANYTHING. So much that we sometimes have the argument of what is “funny” and what is “cruel” when joking. He really doesn’t mean things harshly, because he is just a happy, comfortable-in-his-own-skin kind of kid. He has no shame. If he feels like dancing and singing down the aisle at WalMart, he will bust into the Moonwalk and serenade the shoppers with his rendition of “Smooth Criminal”- regardless of what anyone thinks. Actually, he’s a Ham, and prefers to be the center of attention. And he’s good at it. He has natural quick wit, and says the funniest shit. On purpose. To get a response. And it works.

Ironically, when he was born, Brady was the colicky-cry-all-the-time-make-mama-scream-with-frustration baby. He needed attention, even then. He fussed constantly, never slept, took a month to get the hang of breastfeeding, and generally made me lose all hope that I would ever be able to shower in under 2 hours. Now, he’s the easy kid. He’s tough, determined, and can think quick on his feet to take care of himself. Oh, don’t misunderstand- he will play me like a fiddle to get something he wants- but when faced with personal challenges, he can do just fine on his own. Things come easy to Brady. He’s good at whatever he tries (not the best) but he knows how to make things work for his benefit, and will pursue with his whole heart the things he enjoys. He’s a joy to be around, 85% of the time.

And, now, Ladies and Gents- let me introduce you to Reese. Reese is 11, in 6th grade and MUCH different from his brother. Oh, yes, he’s a football player, member of the State Finalist baseball team and sports guy, too- but anymore, that’s about where the similarities end. My boy Reese is emotional. (LOL-looking at that tiny sentence seems like such an understatement to me. I literally just chuckled when I re-read that.) Reese loves hard, plays hard, gets mad hard, laughs hard, cries hard, throws things VERY hard, and hugs hard. Reese is not an “alphabet soup” kid (a bunch of medical diagnosis letters i.e. ADD, PD, etc…) but he does have slight anger and emotional issues. He has made leaps and bounds with this over the past year, though, and if I cross my fingers and knock on wood, I think we MAY be past to worst of it. Reese has a HUGE heart. He can be so loving, considerate, thoughtful and caring.  He is very fierce and protective of his emotions. He can put up a wall faster than Forrest Gump can run. When he hurts, he hurts deep and long.

So imagine my little man-child Reese, getting frustrated over homework (meltdown), getting bored and whiny (major meltdown), and thinking that ANYTHING his brother does or gets is unfair (nuclear meltdown). It’s totally extreme with Reese. When it’s good, it’s wonderful. We cook together, play computer together, watch movies together, laugh and hug and kiss. (At home, in private, where his friends can’t see). When it’s bad, it’s B.A.D.  We yell, we say hurtful things, we throw stuff, we cry, we get angry and we both need time-outs. That’s the one way Reese deals with hard shit. He throws up that wall, and needs time to himself. Which is fine. Because I need one too, sometimes. This kid makes my heart full. Such strong emotions for this whirlwind of a person. Amazing.

So- those are obviously the 2 main characters in my life. And when I say characters, I mean CHARACTERS.  Future posts will feature these 2 prominently, so here is your background info on my Knucklehead and Chucklehead- used interchangeably. More on the rest of the players soon.

That is all for now.