You’d think I’d be happy for my son. Happy that he’s a year older, that he’s one year away from being The Teenager. He’s happy, so like any good mother, I should be happy for him.
I’m sorry to say, I’m not happy.
I’m sad.
Sad. Sad. Sad.
Sad because he’s growing too fast. I can’t handle the speed at which he’s approaching adulthood. I wasn’t prepared for the emotions that come with watching my babies grow up. No one told me it would be this hard, no one told me it would hurt this much. Why didn’t anyone warn me?
I remember the day he asked me if he could call me “mom” instead of mommy. Oh, how my heart broke into a million little pieces.
“Why do you want to call me mom? Why not mommy?”
“Because, I’m a big boy now, so I want to call you mom. Is that ok?”
I forced a smile as I replied “Of course it’s ok, mi hijo”
But it wasn’t ok. I wasn’t ready to be “Mom” yet. I wanted to be mommy for just a little longer.
Before I knew it, all of the little things I loved about being a mother, the things I had taken for granted, were being taken away from me.
I wasn’t allowed to kiss him when I dropped him off at school, nor was I allowed to hold his hand in public. Oh, and “please don’t shout out “I love you” when I walk away, Mom.”
Perhaps I knew that day would come, the day where my son would be too cool to hold my hand in public, but I chose to live in denial about it. I’d heard other mothers joking about it “Just wait until he doesn’t want to hold your hand in public anymore” they’d say, as they’d laugh. I’d laugh with them, or should I say at them. I’d think to myself “Ha! My kids will ALWAYS want to hold my hand! I’m so sorry for you, but that will NEVER happen to me.”
Boy, was I wrong.
I hate it. I hate it hate it hate it. I hate it so much I’m throwing a tatrum right now. A big, FAT tantrum. It sucks! It’s stupid! WHY DOES IT HAVE TO BE LIKE THIS? I want to be mommy again. I want to hold his hand and kiss him and scream “I LOVE YOU” at the top of my lungs whenver and wherever I feel like it and I want him to be ok with that, and not be embarrassed about it, just like The Old Days. The days where he was proud to hold my hand, where he loved my kisses on his cheeks, no matter WHO was watching.
It feels good to let it out. To cry about it, to be sad about it, to throw a full blown tantrum about it, because, what else CAN I do about it?
Accept it? Yeah. That’s what.
Sigh.
Happy Birthday to Blue Butt
Twelve years ago today I became a mother to a perfect baby boy.
Twelve years ago.
Where did the time go?
A message from The Girl
Green swirlies!!
If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you KNOW I have some wicked artistic skills.
(example #1)
(example #2)
(example #3)
(example #4)
(example #5)
I think you get the idea.
Apparently, my oldest child has inherited my gift. I just discovered one of his masterpieces whilst going through some papers he brought home from school yesterday. It’s a compelling, socially conscience piece of art that we can ALL learn a little something from.
(Click to enlarge)
The kid that passed out because of “Brian’s bad breath” makes this quite possibly the greatest piece of art I have ever seen.
*actual title
Respect… The Wave
When one stays home with her children, one learns valuable lessons that one would never have learned out in the workplace. For instance, today I learned that spinach + ham + applesauce = shit that smells like a perm.
The smell of a perm arising from the poop of Gabby’s butt has brought back a flood of memories.
Permenant wave, memories.
I was only 12 years old the first time I was allowed the honor of having my hair wrapped up in rows of curlers and doused with horrific smelling chemicals with the promise of “permanently wavy” hair.
It took hours, but when it was finished, OH MY GOD, I looked so HOT. At least I thought I did. I remember that day in vivid detail. Lucky for you, I’ll spare you most of those details, but let’s just say, when my cousin was done administering The Perm, my shit no longer stank.
I left that mobile home park thinking I was the most beautiful girl that ever lived and I could not fucking WAIT to get home and show off my perm to the neighborhood gang.
The minute we arrived back home, I went running to find The Gang so I could brag about how hot I looked and brad I did!
This is where my memory gets a little fuzzy. All I remember is one minute I’m bragging to Brandy about my perm, the next minute… STRAWBERRY FUCKING MILK IS ALL UP IN MY FRESHLY PERMED HAIR!!
I started screaming and crying because, you’re not supposed to wash your hair for 48 hours! I ran home to my mom, washed my hair and watched my dreams of PERMANENTLY WAVED HAIR go down the drain.
Ah, the memories a little baby shit can stir up.
God, I LOVED that perm, all two hours of it.
Well…
God will never give you more than you can handle.
Is that how the saying goes???
P is for paranoia?
I wrote this post on December 1, 2003.
I was scared when I wrote it because those were all signs that I was pregnant, and I wasn’t trying to “be” pregnant. BUT, as it turned out, I was pregnant. (Stupid ass “rhythm method”)
Now, let me take that list and revise it for today
My boobs hurt.
I’m tired.
I’m naseous.
I gag everytime I brush my teeth.
Oh… and I’m late.
And scared. Very scared.
Now, every single one of the things on that list can be explained away.
Boobs hurt? Of course they do! They’re being sucked on, bit on, scratched, straight up abused on a daily basis.
Tired? Well, who wouldn’t be? I’m the mother of THREE children. THREE OF THEM. Two of them are in sports, one of them happens to be an INFANT. DUH!
Naseous? When you don’t get to eat your first meal until the baby decides to take a nap (which lately, has been, almost never) it’s understandable if you start feeling naseuated, right? TELL ME I’M RIGHT!
Late? Not a big deal, because I’m breastfeeding and when one is breastfeeding, one’s cycle is affected and it’s normal to skip periods. I think. So I heard. I SWEAR I READ THAT SOMEWHERE.
Did I say I could explain away every one of those symptoms?
I lied. Because there is one that can NOT be explained away because the ONLY time it has ever happened to be is when I was The “P” word.
I GAG EVERYTIME I BRUSH MY TEETH.
But maybe that has something to do with tittymilk, right?
Please tell me that has something to do with the fact I produce tittymilk. Or maybe it’s because I rarely have time to brush my teeth these days, so when I do, the back of my throat is like “WHA?”
That could totally be it.
I find it hard to believe, with all of the “wardin’ off of the cock” that’s been going on since Gabby was born, I could actually be “The P Word”. Seriously. This just has to be a case of my mind and body messing with me. And I do mean HAS TO BE, because, if it’s not, “Someone” is going to be B-U-S-T-E-D. (And when I say busted, I mean BANNED FROM MY VAGINA FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE)
I can only hope it’s just “a phase”
I’ve recieved several concerned emails over the past few days, the emails basically contain the following questions.
“Hi, Y. Where are you? Why haven’t you been updating your blog?”
Well, because…
Basically, my daughter has decided to cease taking naps during the day. She’ll fall asleep when I nurse her, but as soon as I lay her down and walk out of the room? That happens. And what does “that” have to do with me not blogging? Well, the only time I feel ok with sitting at this computer is when she’s sleeping. Because they’re only little once and I refuse to sit in front of this stupid thing while that beautiful little girl is awake and we could be having fun together.
HOWEVER. I look forward to her nap time, so I can check my email (only after I scrub the house clean, of course!), read blogs, pay bills (No! SERIOUSLY! I’m in LOVE with online banking) etc. But she’s just decided she’s SO over naps.
“Close your eyes and go back to sleep!” I say to her.
“Are you talkin to me?” She says.
“I KNOW YOU AINT TALKIN’ TO ME! You’re trippin, woman. I LAUGH at naps!”
Then I cry a little, pick her up, dry my tears and proceed to “our spot” on the living room floor where we giggle and pass gas together.
So, there you have it. “The Reason.”
Sad
I had started to write a post explaining the reason why I haven’t posted lately (I didn’t want people worrying about me, thinking I had drowned in all of the rain!) I found it to be quite hilarious, because it involves really funny pictures of my not so funny daughter, but as I was finishing the post up, there was a knock on my door…
A neighbor of mine, who happens to be a friend of mine, who happens to have a son the same age as my oldest son, who happens to have been one year younger than I am stopped breathing this morning and died.
Now, I can’t stop crying and I don’t feel right posting something that makes me laugh, because I don’t feel like laughing anymore.
(I’ve saved the post/explanation for another day…)
Super size, the left one only, please
I thought I’d take some pictures of my Heavy Metal Hair just for all y’all. And I thought I’d try to be really funny and I’d pose all ‘heavy metal’ like. I dubbed the photo shoot “Give the people what they want and then some”
Oh, I’m gonna give it to you, alright.
And them some.
Uneven some.
But FIRST… let’s go back in blogstory, shall we? (SHUTUP, MELLY!)
I’m going to show you a picture I posted a few weeks ago.
I was trying to demonstrate how my left tit outgrew my right tit overnight. I know that some of you thought I made that up just to be funny. Didn’t you? ADMIT IT!
Ok, now, let me show you the picture I took a few minutes ago and you tell me if you think I’m a liar now.
(“Why did you spray paint your face, woman?” you might ask. Because I CAN if I want to.)
Honestly, I KNEW one was bigger than the other, but honestly, I didn’t think it was THAT noticeable. Anyway…
I was only able to take one picture that shows what the HMH looks like, but it doesn’t do it justice. Sorry.
Once again, it’s all about my boobs.