Do you remember what it was like as a kid the night before you were going somewhere exciting, like Disneyland (or a bible convention where all of the Cute Boys Who Loved Jesus AND making out behind the nursery would be?) You would toss and turn and look at the clock every three minutes wondering if it was time to wake up and go already?
That was me last night. Only, I wasn’t going to Disneyland in the morning. Oh no, I was going to drive my first born son to his first day of high school.
I could not stay asleep no matter how hard I tried. My mind was racing with nervous thoughts for him.
Will he find his friends? Will he sit alone at lunch? Will he got lost on the big campus?
I really have held it together quite well considering I am one of Those Moms who cry about every little milestone in their kids lives. (For instance, last night Gabby drew her first recognizable happy face. I could feel myself getting all emotional as she made two round little eyes. When she was finished, I looked at her little happy face and said “where are the ears, sweetie?” And she drew two little round ears in the right spot and I flipping lost it. “Oh my God, she drew ears, Tony. EARS!”. Seriously, I cried over the drawing of ears, people.)
I woke up a little before 5, got dressed and did an hour of work before I woke the kids up.
At 5:45 I heard Andrew walking down the hall.
“Why are you up already?”
“I couldn’t sleep, mom.”
“Are you nervous?”
“No! I’m excited. I can’t wait.”
That was comforting to me and truth be told, I was nervous enough for both of us.
I made breakfast, made lunches, made sure the boys had everything they needed, woke Gabby up, got her dressed and out the door we went.
I have always had a little tradition of taking the boys pictures with their backpacks on the first day of school. Today, I ALMOST forgot.
“Oh my God, I need to get the camera! Wait here while I get the camera!” I shouted.
There was lots of eye rollage and sighs of disgust because “MoooooOOOoM!”
I ran inside and grabbed the camera despite the boys begging and whining that I just “forget about the stupid camera.”
Normally, when I take pictures, I’ll snap a shot, look at it and make sure it came out alright. Today, I didn’t do that. I just snapped the camera and off we went.
As we were getting closer to Andrew’s school, we started to see groups of kids walking towards the building. Andrew started fidgeting in his seat. I could tell he was starting to get nervous.
“You ok?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Well, I’m starting to get a little nervous now.”
And it was in that moment that the gravity of what was happening sucker punched me in the heart and took my breath away.
I had dreamt about this moment from the first time I held that baby boy in my arms. I truly had. And here it was happening sooner than I had ever imagined. My son, the sweet little boy who used to sit on my lap and giggle uncontrollably while I made funny faces. That innocent little toddler, who once held my hand, looked up at me with the biggest smile on his face and said “I love you so much, I want to marry you mommy.” That little guy isn’t so little anymore. He’s now an awkwardly handsome dude with a man voice who rolls his eyes when I ask him to pick up his clothes off of the floor because that’s what High Schooler’s do when their moms get all up in their business and ask them to get off of their ass for TWO SECONDS to pick up their mess.
As I pulled up to the curb to let him off, I could feel the flood of emotions rising within me and I wished so badly that I could shout “FREEZE!” and make time stop if only for a minute. I just wanted to look at that boy and remember how it felt the first time I held him in my arms and compare it to how it felt to be sitting there next to him in all of his teenage glory about to let him go into the big, exciting world of high school.
I put the car in park and I asked him how he was feeling one last time before he got out of the car.
“I’m nervous, but I’ll be fine, Mom.”
“I know you will be. Have fun, baby. I love you.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
And with that, he shut the door behind him and began to walk towards the campus and into a new chapter in his life. I watched him walk away in the rear view mirror, just in case he turned around to wave goodbye.
He didn’t.
I continued to watch him as he walked further away from me and closer to his new adventure in life. Suddenly he disappeared into the sea of teenagers.
A sea of emotions washed over my body.
Panic. Excitement. Anxiety. Pride.
Then came the tears. Finally, the tears.
“Only four more years”. I said out loud as I cried.
Four more years and my little dude will be an adult.
That when Ethan decided to chime in.
“Are you CRYING? Oh my GOD, why are you crying, Mom?!”
“Yes, I’m crying. I’m crying so hard because that is my baby boy, Ethan. The little baby boy that made me a mother and I still remember the day he was born and I just can’t believe that in just 4 short years, he’s going to be an adult and EXCUSE ME FOR LIVING, BUT I HAVE EVERY RIGHT TO CRY ABOUT THAT.”
He shrugged his shoulders and said “Well, I just think it’s dumb that you’re crying about this.”
Nothing like the brutal honesty of a 10 year old to ruin a moment.
I was able to get a grip and turn off the tears in time to walk Ethan to his first day of 5th grade. I think that he secretly felt bad for me and understood why I was crying because as I was leaving, he said “I love you, Mom” and walked over to give me a kiss.
A kiss! From my 5th grader! In front of his friends!
He’ll never know how much I needed that kiss.
He’ll also never know that as soon as I got home, I ran inside to upload pictures I snapped of them on their way to school and that as soon as I saw them I started to cry again because OH MY GOD LOOK AT MY BOYS THEY AREN’T BABIES ANYMORE AND WAH IT HURTS MY LITTLE HURT SO BAD.
Because I never want to forget that she said this when she was “free” years old.
“I like Oprah, she’s crunchy and yummy.”
Screaming girls ruin everything.
The summer before my first born son started kindergarten was one of the most emotional times in all of my life.
I cried the entire summer. And when I say that I cried the entire summer, I mean that I literally cried the entire summer. Sometimes I’d cry a little, sometimes I’d cry uncontrollably (think Sally Fields in Steel Magnolias.)
But, every single day, I cried.
I’d start off the day fine, and then I’d think about him not being home with me every day, I’d think about holding his little hand and walking him up to the door of his classroom with people he didn’t know. I’d think about how much it would hurt to not hear his little voice talking to me all morning long. I’d think about going to run errands and only having one little boy to buckle into a car seat.
Oh, the pain!
I’d call friends and cry to them. “I just feel like I didn’t do enough with him while he was home with me and now, he’s going to go to school for the rest of his little life and I’ll never get this time back with him and WHY DIDN’T I CHERISH EVERY MINUTE?!”
The day came and it was as bad, if not worse, than I thought it would be.
As we drove to his school, I remember looking at my son sitting in the back seat. His hair was combed perfectly, his backpack sitting in his lap. I could tell by the look on his face that he was nervous, but he was trying extra hard to be a “Big Boy” and not cry.
I wanted to turn the car around and take my little man back home. I couldn’t bear the thought of not having His Sweetness at home with me all day long.
When we pulled up to the school, I forced a big smile to put him at ease.
We walked up the walkway to his classroom hand in hand as we talked about how exciting this was going to be. “You’re going to learn so many things! And make friends! And paint! And have recess!”
It’s been 9 years since that day and I remember the moment in which I had to let go of his little hand to kiss him goodbye as if it happened 5 minutes ago.
Letting go wasn’t easy.
Letting go hurt.
Fast forward to this summer—that same little kindergartner is now about to enter the world of High School.
I’ve been waiting all summer long to experience that same flood of emotions that I felt the year that he started kindergarten.
I’ve waited for the tears to start falling because my little boy is all grown up now and where did that adorable baby who used to sit on my lap and giggle at the faces I’d make go? And why have the years passed so fast? And OH MY GOD, only 4 more years until he graduates and begins a life of his own.
But the tears never came.
Then, this morning, I had to drive him to his freshman orientation.
On the way there, I asked him if he was nervous.
“No.” He answered.
Ah, teenage boys and their one word responses.
“Did you go to the bathroom before we left?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, if you need to go to the bathroom while you’re there, just raise your hand and ask someone…”
The look on his face made me stop mid sentence. He was seriously annoyed with me. Like, “Mom, I’m not a baby anymore, you don’t have to ask me if I went potty before I left the house.”
And THAT is when it hit me. My baby is going to high school. He’s not a little boy anymore. He’s a young man and he’s GOING TO FREAKING HIGH SCHOOL.”
I could feel the lump forming in my throat.
I could feel the tears start to form in my eyes.
I could feel my stomach began to twist in knots.
I fought back the tears, if only to spare my son the humiliation of his mother sobbing as she walked him to the gym.
It was really hard to keep from losing it as we were walking to the gym. As we approached the door, I thought “this is it, this is the moment you used to dream about. The moment where your first born son started high school– except in your dream, you were the Hot Mom with smoking abs and not the Overweight Over emotional freak of a mother…”
And the tears became harder to fight and that lump in my throat started to hurt and I was just about to lose it when….
I noticed a bunch of cheerleader type girls lined up in two rows waiting to greet my son as he walked in the gym. I said goodbye and as he started to walk through the door, the girls started clapping and cheering and screaming. Like “OMIGOD WELCOME TO UR HIGH SCHOOLZ WE R SO HAPPY UR HERE WOOOT GO FRESHMAN!!.”
Now, if you knew my son, you’d know that he gets nervous when any sort of attention is focused on him. So, imagine the look of horror on his face when he realized he had to walk through that screaming, overly excited line of girls while every one was looking on as he made his way through the gym.
Suddenly, the sadness that I had felt in my soul as I watched my son enter a whole new chapter in his life was replaced with uncontrollable laughter—the kind of laughter that hurts, the kind of laughter that makes you cry.
I always imagined that I’d shed tears when my son started high school, I just never thought they would be tears of laughter because some dumbass thought it was a good idea to make nervous, unsure teenagers feel TOTALLY AWKWARD by having a bunch of girls clapping and cheering for them as they made their way into a gym full of people they didn’t know.
Hey, at least I can tell people that “yes, I cried when my son started high school.”
My Mom’s a Wanna Be Professional Photographer– JAZZ HANDS!
Any day now I should be getting a check in the mail for work that I did on a friend’s book. (Did you know that Joelle and Kathy> wrote a book? Yeah. You should order one.)
The check will be enough to cover most of the cost of a new camera.
A new camera!
I’ve been dreaming of a new camera for years and now, that I’ve earned my own Chunk O’Cash, I have decided that I’m going to go ahead and finally get me one.
I enjoy taking pictures of my children immensely. Some might agree the use of the word “children” is a stretch, as pretty much every picture that I take if of my daughter, HOWEVER, that is because my boys ALL CAPS HATE for me to take their pictures. That doesn’t mean that I don’t have boxes and boxes upon boxes filled with pictures of my boys when they were younger, because I do. (Notice I didn’t say “photo albums? Because oh my God, I have 14 years of pictures in boxes! And don’t tell me that I would love scrapbooking and that I should go to a creative memories party! Because, been there, done that, have the $200 kit to prove it. And my pictures are STILL in boxes.) In fact, I’m pretty sure that I have more pictures of Andrew as a baby than I do of Gabby, if you can imagine that.
While I’m 100% certain that this little dream of mine to own a good camera is going to come true, I’m still a little torn as to which camera I am going to buy.
Nikon or Canon?
I’ve heard good things about both, but I’ve also heard a lot of negative things about Nikon. And, to be honest, I’ve not heard ONE bad thing about Canon.
However, I know people who shoot with Nikon. These people take amazing photos and they also love their Nikon’s almost as much as they love their children, I think.
I know people are pretty passionate when it comes to the old “Nikon, Canon” debate, but really, all I care about is that the camera is somewhat easy to operate, that it is reliable and that it takes pretty pictures.
I’m easy like that.
I am very excited to learn more about photography and to see what I can do with a good camera. Photography has been of interest to me since the time I took photography class in junior high and learned to develop my own film. (Oh my God, one time? I got to work in The Dark Room with this really cute boy and we were alone and oh my GOD, we totally could have made out and no one would have known, well, except for Jesus and really, knowing Jesus was watching me ruined a lot of great opportunities for me to get to some bases with some boys. *waves to Jesus*) My reasons for never pursuing photography range from “too lazy” to “OMG! That camera costs HOW MUCH?!”
However, I’m not getting any younger and I realize that “holy SHIT! My life is half over and I better start doing things that I want to do before my heart goes out on me!”
I’m going to ask for a little help from you guys. If you do own a DSLR, I’d love for you to tell me how you feel about it. What you LOVE about it, what you absolutely hate about it. I don’t really want it to turn into a Nikon/Canon debate, but I would appreciate some honest feedback to help me make my choice.
Just so you know, I’m leaning towards a Canon Rebel, so if you have one, I am REALLY interested in what you have to say.
Don’t Blaugh.
I can not think of anything more annoying than when you’re taking a shower and the timer for the sprinklers go off just as you lather up and the water pressure goes from hot and hard to freezing cold and limp.
Oh! Wait! Yes I can!
When people try to come up with cute little sayings with the word (or part of the word) “blog” in it!
“I’m blogstipated!”
“Blogo’riffic!”
“Blogtastic!”
Am I the only one who finds this blonnoying? I swear, I’m not trying to be blogstrovsial, or a blitch, those cute little word manipulations do not normally bother me, but lately, I’ve been seeing them every where and I swear, if I read one more post containing a blog-word, I may consider bloverdosing to commit blogiside.
It felt good to let that out, I just hope I didn’t bloffend anyone.
Bloving on…
I haven’t thought about The Dent much, but I’m pretty sure that’s because PigHunter took the van for the weekend to go camping. For “The Record” I was dead set against it, because he used to take the Ass-tro van and that thing would come back smelling like a burnt wood and fish juice.
And I don’t like my car to smell like fiery fish juice.
I just got the cigarette smell out of the car and I just know I’m going to spend the next few weeks trying to get the smell of “camping” out (also compulsively and obsessively looking at The Dent.) and do you know why I don’t to go camping?
I’ll tell you why—because I hate the smell of burnt wood.
I know there are people who love the smell of a fire burning. My Grandparents were some of Those People.
They used to have a little house in the mountains and I’d stay there almost every weekend, because I loved staying with my grandparents. However, I hated staying there in the winter, because they constantly had a fire burning in the fireplace. The smell from a wood burning fire makes me sick. It makes me so sick that I get angry inside. No, seriously, I feel rage as I’m thinking about it because I’d be trapped in that house with that smell.
And that smell would penetrate my skin and my clothing and my hair and it didn’t matter how many showers I took, I’d still walk out of that house smelling like a fireplace. (And when I was 16, it was VERY IMPORTANT to me that my hair smelled like Heavenly Flowers and NOT like Burnt Ashes.)
I suppose I’m in the minority with my hatred of Fires. Most people I know love to get a fire going and enjoy the warmth from the fire while sipping on a cup of hot cocoa. Me? I’d rather bundle up under some blankets, crank up the heater and read a good book while still managing to smell like Heaven.
Or should I say Bleaven
Har.
No Good Deed Goes Undented.
Every time something bad happens to me or my family, which is pretty much every other day around here, someone will say something like “It’s about time your luck starts turning around!” Or “Something good is bound to happen soon! Hang in there!”
I know people mean well when they say that, they are generally hoping for good things to come my way. And, I want to believe it! I need some goodness to rain down from heaven and into my life– But, I don’t believe it. Good things are NOT headed my way and I’m just tired of trying to pretend like they are.
(Oprah’s all “You get back what you put in! Be positive! The Secret!” Rainbows! Ponies! Love! Schools in Africa!”)
You know, I’ve tried to remain positive in the face of all the negativity in my life. I’ve tried to keep a sense of humor about it all. “Bulging disks! HILARIOUS!” “Uninsured motorist? HAHAHA!”
But yesterday was the last straw. Yesterday was the day that I cried uncontrollably while shaking my fists at God.
(My Dad’s all “This is not God’s fault. This is your fault for turning your back on God. If you would repent and re-commit your life, things would start looking up for you! Why do you keep running from God?)
Truthfully, I’m not angry at God. I don’t blame God for my problems, but there’s something very liberating about lifting your fists towards the heaven and screaming “Whyyyyyyyy?”
Yesterday, I was out doing some grocery shopping for The Annual PigHunter/Sons camping trip. As I was out and about, I decided to stop at the gas station and fill the tank up with gas so Tony wouldn’t have to do it early in the morning. (Filling up the gas tank is almost as thoughtful as giving an unexpected blowjob around here!) I pulled into the gas station and opened the car door carefully, as there was a stone pillar type thing a few inches away.
I got out of the car, and reached in to get my purse. As I was taking my wallet out, I heard the voice of a man directly behind me.
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
I jumped and turned to see who was behind me and why there were all up in my personal space and when I did, I hit the car door with my enormous ass and BAM! It hit the stone pillar.
I was afraid to look. We just bought this car. We just fucking bought this car.
“What do you want?” I snapped at the man.
“well, me and my girlfriend and my little girl just ran out of gas and I swear, we’re not homeless or anything, we just ran out of gas and I have no money and is there any way you can help us?”
I looked over and saw his girlfriend and daughter sitting in the car and while my first reaction was to say “SCREW YOU” because seriously, dude, you just made me dent my brand new used van door and I hate you so much. But then, I thought about all of the things that have happened to me in the past few months and what if I had run out of gas and didn’t have any money to put more in? How could I NOT help?
I told him I didn’t have any cash, but I’d go inside and get him $10 with my debit card.
Before I walked away to go inside, I looked at the damage to my door.
It was bad. A huge dent AND a gnarly scratch.
I held it together while I went into pay for a strangers gas, but I did tell the cashier what had just happened.
“Why did you help?” she asked. “You shouldn’t have done that. There are scammers out there.”
“I know.” I said, as I tried to hold the tears back. The tears for MY VAN DOOR. “I know, but what if it wasn’t a scam? I would hate for that to ever happen to me, so I wanted to help.”
“Well, bless you.” She said. “It’s going to come back to you 10 fold.”
(My Inner Bitch is all “HA! Sure it is! Remember that really nice thing you did for your friend last month, because you love her so much and now she’s not speaking to you?! 10 FOLD MY ASS, lady!”)
As soon as I got back to my car, I lost it. I saw the dent and I just lost it.
I know! It’s just a DENT.
“At least you’re alive! I mean, at least that man wasn’t a psycho killer who came up and stabbed you in the liver! YOU STILL HAVE YOUR LIVER! It’s a dent, dude!”
But that dent represents all of the bad luck that I’ve had these past few months. I look at that dent (because you know I can’t stop looking at the dent, right?) and I get so angry. I was trying to help a stranger out and really, I didn’t want anything in return, except for maybe THE DOOR OF MY USED NEW CAR TO NOT GET JACKED UP.
Is that too much to ask?
Apparently, the answer is yes, it is too much to ask because well, there’s a dent in my car door.
Tony was mad when he first saw it “Oh well, it’s your car and if you want to drive around in a car with dents on it, then that’s your problem.”
Because, you know, I did it on purpose.
He quickly realized he was being a bit of a jerk and so he hugged me and told me it was an accident and that we’d have it fixed. Which, no we won’t. I can’t justify fixing a dent in my car when he’s driving around without air conditioning in his car.
I don’t know, it sounds pretty stupid now that I’m typing it out. (Wahhh, I did something nice for someone and I got a dent in my car in return.) But when I first started writing this, it just felt VERY Serious.
It really did.
Looking forward to “A.J.”
My life B.J (Before Judy) was pretty normal.
Well, as normal as ones life can be with three kids and 2 bulging disks, anyway.
If I wanted to hop in my van to go grab a caramel macchiato from Starbucks, well then I’d freaking hop in my van and head on over to Starbucks.
If I wanted to sit outside in the grass to watch my kids play while sipping on an iced green tea, well, I’d grab that iced green tea and plop my ass on the grass.
Oh, how I miss those days.
Now, if I want to grab a cup of coffee at Starbucks, I have to look both ways before crossing the street to get into my van. And I have to RUN! And when I get back, I have to make sure “she’s” no where in site and then I have to run again to hurry back inside the house where I lock the door quickly behind me.
Now, I must do my laundry before 6 am, or wait until late at night so that there’s no chance of Judy “walking her dog” around the block and WHOOPS! Right up onto my front door step.
I’m all jumpy and irrational any time I have to go out front and trust me, I have GOOD REASON to be this way.
This morning, I had exactly 10 minutes before I needed to be on a conference call (omg! Am a work at home mom!) so I thought I’d strip the bed and throw my sheets in the laundry real quick. I figured it was safe, because it was already over 100 degrees outside and surely, Judy wouldn’t walk her dog in the 100+ heat, right?
Haaaaaaaa!
I opened the front door, bed sheets in hand and about halfway to the garage, I heard what sounded EXACTLY like a Crazy Old Lady walking a dog.
Oh Shit! Can not talk to her. Phone call in 10 minutes. AHHHHHH!
I ran into the garage as fast as one can run with 2 bulging disks and dirty sheets in hand and peeked through the garage window.
Oh my God! Judy!
I darted for the side door, which leads to the backyard. Just as I was about to quietly close it behind me, I caught a glimpse of Judy walking across the grass towards the front door.
Oh SHIT again! Did she see me? And if she did, is she going to start chasing after me?
She obviously didn’t see me, because she started knocking on the front door. “Helloooooooo”
Oh shit, yet again!
The boys were inside and what if they answered the door and were all “Yeah, she’s here, let me get her!”
I was going to pound on their window and start shouting things like “do not answer the dooorrrr!!” But then, I remembered Judy was just a few feet away and would hear me if I began shouting through the window.
AHHHHHHHH, WHY DID I EVER TALK TO YOU, YOU FREAK OF A NEIGHBOR?!
So, I ran through the back yard, to the sliding glass window. I threw it open and ran down the hall, where my children were watching The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, completely oblivious to little old lady pounding on the front door (and the fact that their mother had been hiding from said crazy person in the back yard.)
“Mom, why are you out of breath?”
“Yeah, and why are you sweating?”
Ohhhhhh… haha, that. Um, well, I was hiding from Judy again.
I’m sure their “Respect” for me as a mother and a human being went up about 10 notches right then and there.
My mom, she’s great. She hides from old people. You should hang out with her sometime.
(Because this isn’t the first time I’ve ran away/hid from Judy. Last Saturday, Tony saw her coming up the street while he was washing the van and calmly told me to “go inside.” And because I knew exactly why he was telling me to go inside, I jumped up off of the porch and RAN inside.)
(Where I then proceeded to take a picture of her standing by my van, just in case I ever need it as EVIDENCE for that restraining order.)
She’s all “Oh, hi, I’m just innocently walking my dog not at all LOOKING FOR YOUR WIFE WHO I PLAN ON COUNSELING REGARDING BUYING OR RENTING BECAUSE IT IS MY BUSINESS AND JUST WHERE IN THE HELL IS THAT PUSSY OF A WOMAN HIDING AT?!”
(Ok, not really, but that’s kind of what I imagine is going through her precious little head as she’s standing there waiting for me to SHOW MY FACE.)
I know there’s a very good chance that I’m being unfair to Judy and that she’s really a precious old woman who has a good heart and perhaps a few thousand dollars that she’s just waiting to transfer into my bank account to help me buy a house because she’s not a crazy stalker at all, but an Angel Unaware who has been sent to heaven to show me that God is real and he loves me and wants me to live the American Dream. But, seriously, I doubt it. So, I really need to have a “conversation” with her and let her know that we really don’t need any help making any decisions about buying/renting a house because its’ a personal decision and NONE OF HER FUCKING BUSINESS.
But Bless yer little heart, Judy. Bless yer FREAKING little heart.
And I swear to The Bobs, she is walking up the driveway as I am typing this.
Would you think I’m asshole if I filed a restraining order against a little old lady?
Because I’m being stalked by a little old lady and I’m a leeeetle scared.
A couple weeks ago, I was outside cleaning the inside of my van. A little old lady who was walking a cute little dog stopped in front of the driveway to make small talk with me.
“It sure is hot!” She said in her sweet little old lady voice.
“Oh, it is.” I replied.
I could tell that she wasn’t going to leave any time soon by the way she placed her foot on the curb. Were I a body language expert, I would have said that move right there meant “I have no where to go or anyone to talk to, I think I’ll stay here for a while!”
She started asking me questions and since I don’t like to be rude to old people, I was answering her questions.
She asked how long we had lived here and that’s when I told her that “oh, haha! This isn’t our house! We’re just staying here with my parents until we find a place!”
I regret telling her that more than you’ll ever know.
I don’t know why, but I always assume Old Person= Harmless.
I forget that Old People used to be Young People and could have been and possibly still are fucking crazy.
All of a sudden, our friendly little conversation about “the weather” turned into a 2 hour lecture about how I should “sit down and communicate my feelings with my mother” and how I should “consider looking into first time homebuyer programs instead of renting again” and how people “borrowed money from her and never paid her back.”
I wanted to get away from her, but she kept talking and talking and talking and at one point, I didn’t even hear her words anymore because I was too busy searching for the right words to MAKE HER SHUTUP AND GO AWAY.
I can’t remember exactly how I was finally able to get away from her, but I did and I was glad.
Later on that evening, the family was getting ready to leave for basketball practice. The kids piled up in the van and we waited for PigHunter to go get his wallet (that he forgets every single time we get in the car to leave somewhere. AH!) As I was sitting there, I saw Little Old Lady walking down the street.
Oh shit!. I panicked a little because, well, the car was parked in the street and she would see me and probably want to talk again.
Because I am really smart, I turned around to act as if I talking about something very important with my kids.
“Boys, there’s a lady coming down the street who I do NOT want to talk to. I’m pretending like I’m talking to you so that I don’t have to look her way!”
“Um, mom, she’s walking towards the van.”
“I know, DO NOT LOOK AT HER. STOP LOOKING AT HER.”
I could see the looks on their faces and they told me that something very bad was about to happen.
*BANG BANG BANG*
Holy Mother of Old People. That crazy old hag was banging on my window.
I rolled down the window and acted surprised to see her.
Apparently, she had been “thinking” about our conversation earlier and had come to the conclusion that I needed her to help me decide whether I should buy a house or rent a house. She also had decided that I needed her to tell me what I should say to my mother so that our living arrangement didn’t ruin our relationship.
She told me she was going to look into programs for first time home buyers and that she was going to pray for us.
You’re probably thinking “that’s so sweet and kind and also innocent!”
But, it’s not any of those things, because the lady is ceraaaaazy.
Two days later, she started banging on the door at 8 am while screaming “HELLO? HEELLOOOOOOOOO?” Yvoooooonne?”
My mom answered and was like “Hi, who are you?”
And she said these exact words. “I’m Judy, I’m trying to help Y decide if she should buy or rent a house.”
She then proceeded to ask my mom for my phone number and because my mother doesn’t like me very much, she gave it to her.
A few minutes later, my phone rang and it was Judy!
“I just want to talk with you about a few options that I found for you, call me back as soon as you can!”
I didn’t call her back because, oh my God, who are you, old lady? And why are you all up in my bidness?
Well, Judy doesn’t like to be ignored.
The next day, she was at the front door shouting my name again. And when no one answered, she started banging on my bedroom window.
Hold me. Hide me. Tell me it’s going to be ok.
She’s stopped by the house numerous times when I’m not home and the word on the street is that she’s pretty fucking pissed off that I’m not returning her phone calls.
I’ve thought about calling her back, but my “gut” tells me that would be a bad idea, because Judy is crazy and calling her back would be “encouraging the crazy.”
I know that I’m going to have to talk to her eventually and tell her something like “hey, thanks for trying to help, that’s so nice of you, but we’ll figure this thing out on our own.”
I’m just afraid that Judy won’t be very happy when I tell her that and that she’ll beat me to death with her dog walking stick with a sweet little smile on her face while she’s doing it.
So, until I summon the courage, I’ll continue to sleep with the window locked and seriously think about filing that restraining order.
A real life conversation that just happened (that I thought would be funnier if written in paint.)
If she ever tells me I’m getting on her “nervous” I have the perfect comeback.
“Oh yeah? Well you’re making my disk bulge, so WE’RE EVEN!”
FREE!
When you ask my daughter when her birthday is, she’ll hold 3 fingers up proudly in the air and say “It’s August fuh-lurd!”
And when you ask her how old she’ll be on August 3rd, she’ll hold those three fingers up in the air again and say “FREE!”
So, today, when she woke up, I kissed her on her cheek and asked her if she knew what day it was today.
“It’s Saturday!” she said very matter of fact-ly.
“No, it’s not Saturday. It’s August third.”
Her eyes lit up and she smiled the kind of smiled from ear to ear.
“It’s August Fuh-lurd?” She said in her sweet, high pitched voice.
“Yes! It’s August 3rd! And what is August 3rd, Gabby?”
“It’s my birfday! I’m FREE!”
And we hugged while she giggled uncontrollably.
I cried, because that tiny little baby that weighed 8 pounds and 5 ounces, who took 24 hours to make her way down the birth canal and out of my pachina, that little baby who had so much hair on her head that it looked like she was sporting a bad wig, that little baby who had her daddy’s lips and her mommy’s temper. That little baby who erased every fear that I had about my ability to mother a daughter. Well, she’s not a baby anymore.
She’s a little girl.
A little girl who must carry a purse every where she goes or THE WORLD WILL COME TO AN END.
A little girl who is obsessed with all things pink and “TuTu”
A little girl who has ruined every single lipstick that I own because she has to twist them all the way up to get enough on to make her look like a “pwetty pwincess”
A little girl has discovered the “art” of talking back. “Mommy, I WILL go, can you just give me a break?”
A little girl who can count to 15 and sing her ABC’s.
A little girl who will hug me when I’m sad and ask me if she can get me a glass of water to make me feel better.
A little girl who just last week told me to relax and “save the drama for yo’ mama.”
(Trust me, she knows all about The Drama.)
A little girl who has stolen my heart in every possible way with her kind heart, her sense of humor and her understanding of the fact that Farting is Funny.
A little girl who is old enough to understand that “mommy loves her” but not quite old enough to comprehend just how deep my love for her runs and how her presence in my life has forever changed me in ways that wonderful and good.
And the same goes for her Daddy and her Big Brubbers. ALL of our lives are richer and sweeter for having her in it.
Happy Third Birthday, Gabriella Mercedes.
I love you, I needed you and you better believe that I’m keeping track of how many lipsticks you’ve destroyed and when you’re old enough to get a job, YOU OWE ME BIG TIME.
(I know, I over did it with the pictures. But, it’s her Birthday and I figured if ever there were an occasion to go all “MommyBlogger” on your ass, this was it.)