For weeks, my daughter has been asking if she could “please make some strawberry juice out of real strawberries?” And for weeks, I have been telling her “no.” Mostly because I knew that strawberry juice would taste gross and then I’d have to deal with the drama of Strawberry Juice Gone Bad. (And I know, I could totally google a recipe, but you know, LAZY.)
“But mommy!” She’d whine. “It won’t taste gross! It will taste good! Why won’t you let me try?”
Yesterday, I decided to stop being such a Mean Mommy! And let her try to make some mofo strawberry juice.
The thing about my daughter is that she doesn’t need help doing anything because she can do everything all by herself because she’s “strong and she’s brave.” In fact, she’s SO strong and brave, that the other day she was all “dude, you have no idea how brave I am. I’m not even afraid of aliens with the big black eyes. Except for when they touch me in my dreams.”
Not afraid of Aliens with big black eyes, dudes. She most certainly can make her own damn strawberry juice!
She gathered all of the things that she would need– Strawberries, a cup, a strainer, a spoon and a paper towel– and then she went to work, squeezing the crap out of those strawberries.
She worked so hard, getting as much juice as possible, all the while with a smile on her face because her strawberry juice was going to be SO DELICIOUS! She just knew it.
When she was finished, I suggested she add some water. She did not like this suggestion. She was all “Mom! I don’t need your help! And I don’t need water! It’s strawberry juice!” I pointed out how thick the juice was and, even though she did not like it ONE BIT, she agreed to add just a little bit of water.
She was ready to taste her strawberry juice.
She took a sip.
She made a funny face. Then her funny face morphed into an Angry Face.
“I TOLD YOU WE SHOULDN’T ADD WATER! IT TASTES SO GROSS!”
There I go, ruining my kid’s lives again!
The look on her face was one of pure disappointment. She had been so sure that she was going to make the best strawberry juice anyone had ever tasted. But it wasn’t. It was so bad (thanks, Mom!) I knew what was coming next… The Tears. All of her hard work had been ruined by me and my stupid ideas! She put her head down and closed her eyes and then, it happened.
She burped.
She burped so loud!
She looked at me, then she smiled.
“Wow, mommy. My strawberry juice tastes DELICIOUS when you burp it up! I TOLD YOU, I could make strawberry juice!”
Gabby totally wins at making strawberry juice.
My Camera, I Miss It
I’ve been neglecting my camera. Not for lack of desire, but for lack of a computer that doesn’t take 8 hours to open a single photo.
A new computer is not in the budget any time soon, so I’ll figure out a way to work with this one without wanting to take a hammer to it and smash it into a million tiny pieces. Because I miss everything about being creative with my camera.
.18.
Today, my first born child became a legal adult.
I have tried to put my feelings about this milestone into words many times over the past few days, but every time I sit down to translate these feelings into words, I break down and cry. I have cried so many tears over the past few days. I want to be happy about this new phase in his life. I remember turning eighteen– it was thrilling! I want to be thrilled for my son. But, the thought that in just a few months this child of mine will be free to live the life he chooses is too much for me to process.
Earlier today my son walked into my room when I was looking at a photo album filled with his baby pictures. Tears were streaming down my face.
“Are you CRYING?” He asked.
“Yes! I am crying. I just can’t believe that my sweet little baby is eighteen years old. Why did you have to grow so fast?”
He shook his head and sighed. “Mom, that’s life. Stop crying.”
But I can’t. I just can’t stop crying.
I know these are selfish tears, but I am allowing myself to experience these emotions, to process them. I can only hope that in the very near future I can come to terms with having an adult child.
I can tell you that in spite of the tears, I feel tremendous pride for the son that I have raised. He is kind– a gentle soul. He is considerate, respectful and loving. He is slow to anger, quick to forgive. He has the best sense of humor and isn’t afraid to laugh at himself.
And man, is he good looking.
Happy 18th birthday my Nunu. You are the most wonderful son a mother could ask for. I promise I’ll stop crying. Eventually. Maybe.
Parenthood Is Gross
Can we talk about last night? Because I really need to talk about last night.
It was about 7pm and my knee was killing me. I wasn’t sure if it was from the hours I had spent earlier that day trying to not slip and kill myself in the snow or if it was from all of the dancing (and way too many times I Dropped It To The Floor) on Friday night. Whatever it was, I knew that a pain killer was in order (ha ha Party on Friday Night, Pain Killers on Sunday Afternoon. Welcome, almost 40. You are hilarious!) I took something, plopped myself on the couch and proceeded to fall asleep and drool all over everything in a matter of minutes.
Around 11:30, I was awaken by a familiar sound of a kid puking violently in the bathroom. I jumped up, ran to the bathroom and found Ethan on the floor with his head in the toilet. Apparently, he hadn’t felt well all afternoon (my boys spend every Sunday at church with their Grandparents and uncles and church friends.) When he was finished, I asked him if he felt better and he said yes, he did.
I went back to sleep.
Not 15 minutes later, I feel a tap on my shoulder. It was Gabby.
“Mommy, my tummy hurts.”
“Do you feel like you’re going to throw up?”
“Maybe.” She replied.
I told her to go back to her bed and that if she felt like puking, to call my name while running to the toilet.
Maybe an hour later, I heard that awful sound again.
It was Gabby, puking in my bathroom.
I went in there to be with her and while I was holding her hair back, I thought “this can’t be happening. Not two kids in the same night.”
But it very much was happening because 30 minutes later, Gabby was running down the hall to puke for a second time at the same time Andrew had come into my room to tell me that Ethan was “puking all over the bedroom floor and in the closet.”
IN THE CLOSET.
Tony went into the bedroom to deal with the 13 year old who couldn’t be bothered to make it out of his room to puke in the toilet while I ran back into the bathroom to hold my daughter’s hair while she puked yet again.
When Gabby was finished, I walked to hall bathroom where Ethan had finally made his way, and questioned why he would roll over and puke in the closet instead of getting up to puke in the bathroom like his 6 year old sister.
“I didn’t feel it coming.” was his answer.
And the night only got worst from there.
Tony did his best to clean up the closet, carpet, blankets, mattress while I kept getting up with my daughter who kept puking repeatedly.
At one point, I started to cry.
For my kids. (I wish I could be sick in their place! I don’t want them to suffer!) For myself (I’m tired. Oh my GOD I’M SO TIRED! Also, why don’t I ever get the stomach flu? It’s such an easy way to lose so many pounds with zero effort!) For my husband. (He cleaned puke OUT OF A CLOSET.)
I was all “This is a nightmare. IS IT GOING TO END SOON? Because I don’t think I can take this for another minute.
But it didn’t end. It kept going until 6:20 in the morning.
I tried waking my only Non-Puking child up in the morning for school, but he begged me to let him go to school late because he couldn’t sleep all night due to the non-stop puke-fest. Normally, I would have told him “no!” But after having spent the night with virtually no sleep, the idea of being able to go back to bed and not having to drive him to school was too tempting to refuse.
I’m happy to report that my house has been Puke Free since 6:25 this morning.
I can only hope it stays that way.
This Is All Your Fault, Everyone Who Commented on the Previous Post (P.S. Thank You, Everyone Who Commented on That Post.)
Check me out. I’m writing on my blog. Because I can. Because I love to write. Because I love that I can write whatever I want, about anything I want for no reason at all. I love that I’ll be able come back and read these words in the future and I’ll be reminded of the time I sat at the computer and wrote this post because I felt like writing. Not because I wanted to sell you something or because I needed to increase my traffic or because I was building my brand.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Because there’s nothing wrong with that if that’s why you blog. To each his or her own. I truly mean that. I don’t begrudge people who do this for business reasons or to make money or to get free things. Hell, I run ads on my site. I will write a review or participate in a giveaway every once in a while. Sometimes I’ll do it because I love the product, sometimes I’ll do it to earn a little extra cash to stash away in my Secret PayPal Account (for which I can spend on things like shoes and perfume and not feel any guilt whatsoever.) But I have a separate blog for that because this blog right here? The one you’re reading now? Will always, simply be my words, my stories, my truth.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
I have read the comments that were left on my last post several times over.
So kind, so encouraging, so honest.
One comment in particular has stuck with me.
I’ve noticed how the blog has changed – in the sense it has become more serious and ‘self conscious’ in its writing style. That’s where you are going wrong, Y – you are trying to write like other bloggers, not yourself.
I’ve been reading for a long time and when I started went through ALL the archives. Stop trying to be like other people and write overly sentimental, faux meaningful stuff. Get back to YOU – a stream of consciousness that is raw in its honesty and FUNNY. That is made made you so successful in the first place and its what we love and want to read. I hope you’re not offended – that is not my intention. I have enjoyed your blog for years and support you. I understand how difficult it must be and how insecure posting must make you- FORGET IT . There’s enough ‘Oh so touching and tragic’ blogging out there. Puke. Give me old Joy Unexpected any day of the week.
I needed to read that. I have been so focused on how much blogging has changed that I never stopped to consider how *I* had changed in the way that I write. It’s true that I no longer believed that My Story was worthy of an audience because my writing, this blog, just wasn’t good enough anymore. Maybe I have been over thinking things. Maybe, I’ve been trying to be something that I’m not or simply trying to hard.
I can’t tell you how many funny (to me) stories I haven’t written because I didn’t think they were “good enough” to publish here. Oh, how dumb of me– taking myself so seriously! I used to write about things like being scared of ducks and buying generic vaginal cream without a second thought.
I want to not be afraid to write like that again- to be myself here again. I think I’ll start by hitting publish on this meaningless post that will not change the world nor inspire a single person in any way, shape or form.
Ahh, feels good.
Writing It Out Loud (But Not Reading It Because Then I’d Probably Delete It.)
I’m sorry that I’ve been so inconsistent in writing here.
Every time I sit down to write, I am overcome with disappointment with what this blog has become. It used to be a place that I loved, that I was proud of. Not so much, anymore. I feel completely lost in this sea of New Blogging. I am not a brand, I do not have a “story” to sell. It’s just me, writing words, telling you stories about my life, about the family that I love. And I wonder if it’s worth writing anymore because of how much things have changed. I doubt myself. I doubt my place here. I doubt the value of the words that I type here and publish for the world to read.
I’ve been through this before. I’ve questioned not doing this anymore, but I always come back to this: This blog is important to me because it is a record of my life that I want to share with my children in the near future. I want them to know how much their words, their little lives meant to me, every day of my life. I want them to know that they made me laugh, that sometimes, they made me cry, but they always made me want to be the best human being I could possibly be.
One minute I have absolute clarity about this blog and why I continue to write here. Then, I stumble upon a conversation about SEO or traffic or Alexa ranking or “can I see your media kit?” And I’m all “What am I doing here?” again.
And so, I stay quiet.
One thing I know for sure is that I love to write. Another thing that I know is that I adore the people who read the words that I write.
I Love My Body So That My Daughter Will Learn to Love Hers.
A few months back, I had a conversation with my daughter about stretch marks. She had walked into my bedroom as I was changing. She noticed my stretch marks and she asked me about them. How did I get them? Did they hurt? I’ve been terribly ashamed of my stretch marks. I’ve written more than once about the hatred I have towards them. But I wasn’t going to tell my daughter that. What if she gets stretch marks? Do I want her to feel the way I do? Absolutely not.
I explained the marks to her. I told her they were called stretch marks. I told her I got them when I was pregnant with my children. I told her that I loved them. “These stretch marks remind me of when you and your brothers were in my belly. They remind me of how happy I was to have a little baby in my tummy. Every time I see them, I think of my little babies.”
***********
This afternoon, my daughter sat down next to me on the sofa as I worked on the laptop. She lifted up the bottom of my shirt and looked at my belly.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Just looking at the marks on your belly.” She looked up at me and smiled. “You love those marks, don’t you mommy? “Because they remind you of your little babies and how much you love us?”
She does not look at my stretch marks with disgust. She does not find them to be ugly. She views them as a symbol of my love for her and for her brothers. Where I see ugly stretch marks, my daughter sees the beauty of a mother’s love.
I can only hope that through the example that I am trying to set, my daughter will be as kind to herself and her changing body as she grows. I know that as she moves through life, she will develop insecurities along the way. But I will be here for her to help her through those difficult times. And I will do everything in my power to teach her to embrace her perceived imperfections. Because I never want my daughter to feel shame about who she is, or the body that her beautiful spirit lives in.
Push Ups. (Or, The One Where I Pretend Like it Hasn’t Been 15 Days Since the Last Time I Posted Here.)
Last night me and my husband were sitting on the couch having a conversation. It was a normal conversation about normal things that married people talk about when out of nowhere, he used the world “swagger” (in the way the kids do, I might add.) I looked at him in the way that one looks at her husband when unexpectedly uses the word “swagger.”The Middle Child overheard this part of the conversation and piped in.
“Dad, please don’t ever use that word again.” He continued. “I mean, seriously, dad. SWAGGER? How old are you?”
Apparently, the idea that he is too old to use a word like “swagger” hurt my husband just a little bit. So, he started talking about all of the things that he used to be able to do, things like “100 push ups.. NO PROBLEM!”
The oldest child said something about Dad “wanting to relive his Glory Days.” which prompted my husband to blurt out “GLORY DAYS? What are you talking about? I can do 50 right now and not even sweat it!”
I instantly felt weak in my vagina for him because no he can not. He was going to lose so hard at push ups. But I had to be the supportive wife because this was definitely an Us against Them situation. Us being the Old, Nerdy Parents. Them being The Superior Teenagers who suddenly think of their parents as Old and Nerdy.
“You can do it, babe!” I shouted as I watched him assume the push up position on the floor.
He got down on the ground and BAM! He was doing push ups. But, like, LIGHTENING FAST push ups. I can’t even explain it except that maybe his (ego)adrenalin was pumping super hard and he couldn’t help himself.
Me: OMG, you’re going to fast, slow down!
Ethan: I bet that what you looked like on your wedding night, Dad!
Me: OH MY GOD DID YOU JUST HEAR YOUR SON? ETHANMICHAEL!
Andrew: HA HA HA HA. High Five, brother!
By the 12th push up, PigHunter started to slow down. Big time.
Me: Keep going! Don’t give up!
Ethan: Look at you, already slowing down. Just admit it, you can’t do 50!
Andrew: Listen to how hard he’s breathing.
PigHunter: breathing super hard while counting out loud and trying not to pass out from pain.
He got to 40 and I was ready to be all “IN YOUR FACE, TEENAGERS!” But then, at 47, he just gave up. He hit the floor and said “I can’t do it.”
He got up slowly while I said things like “you basically did it! You were only 3 away!” and the boys said things like “FAIL!”
While PigHunter picked himself up off the floor and tried to catch his breath, we laughed so hard that I may have “leaked a little” because, you know, OLD LADY. And as we laughed (and I leaked) I thought to myself, “I love this family of mine so much.” And also “I hope my Andrew- who is going to be 18 in March- never moves out because I never want him to NOT be here to make me laugh every single day” But that’s a story for another day.
The boys teased Tony for the next 10 minutes “You’re going to regret that in the morning, Dad.” Ethan said. “I already do. My arms are KILLING ME.” Such a good sport, such a good dad, that PigHunter.
I’m pretty sure my husband is never going to use the word “swagger” again.
As Fast As She Wants
When G was writing her letter to Santa, I asked her if she wanted a new bike.
“You’ve grown so much, you should ask Santa for a bigger bike!” She looked up at me and said “But Mommy, I don’t even know how to ride my little bike without training wheels yet. I’ll ask Santa for a new bike when I learn how to do that!”
I was overcome with guilt.
I taught both of her brothers to ride sans training wheels when they were just 4 years old. It’s not that I haven’t tried to teach her- I have. But teaching G how to ride a bike was a completely different experience. I told myself “She’s just not ready.” The truth was, I lost patience and gave up.
I promised myself that I would teach her how to ride her bike after Christmas.
On Tuesday afternoon, I was inside the house, cleaning up the kitchen. My phone rang– it was Tony. “Come outside, your daughter is learning how to ride her bike without her training wheels.”
I grabbed my camera and ran outside.
I saw my beautiful little girl, in all of her princess glory, sitting on her princess pink bike with the biggest smile on her princess face.
“I’m not scared to learn anymore, Mommy!” She said. “Aren’t you proud of me?”
I watched as she pedaled and wobbled from side to side while screaming “hold me, Daddy! I don’t want to fall!” I watched as my husband ran alongside of her, holding her bike with his hand because he didn’t want her to fall.
I watched as my husband let go of her bike, but stayed close by. I watched as my daughter pedaled all by herself, without realizing she was riding her bike without being held up. I watched as she realized it and as she screamed with joy. “I’M DOING IT ALL BY MYSELF! WEEEEE!”
I watched as my husband ran behind her, letting go at times, holding her tightly at times. And I started to cry, because I was proud of my daughter, but also because I was witnessing what being a parent is all about right before my eyes. Learning when to let go, when to hold them tight and always being there to help them up when they fall.
Two days ago, my daughter couldn’t ride her bike without training wheels. Today, she can ride as fast as she wants.
Looks like she’ll be getting that bigger bike very soon.
