dear ungrateful children who call me mother,

i know it seems like i’m here to serve your every whim, but let me be the first to set the record straight.

i HAVE to take care of you. i don’t necessarily WANT to…all the time, or on weekends, or during prime time television. we all make sacrifices–get used to it.

if i don’t “meet your needs” then the state of texas will send you to live somewhere else and i will only get to visit on weekends. don’t tempt me.

but let’s clear up what the phrase “meet your needs” actually means…to me. and because i’m the oldest and the only one with a credit card and a driver’s license, my vote is the only one that counts.

you older ones text me regularly (while you’re supposed to be in class) and ask me to bring you lunch. not lunch like from taco bell, but lunch from the trendy sushi restaurant where every dish begins in the double digits. the only person who gets to spend $30 on lunch will be me. and i am smart enough to keep it from the husband. i certainly don’t need you coming home bragging to the big guy that mom brought you sushi. i can dig my own holes, thank you very much.

you also dump your laundry off in front of the washing machine as you’re flying out the door to go with your friends. in the past i’ve always put your smelly clothes in the machine, added the soap and turned it on–but no more. from now on, if you leave it there, it stays there, unwashed and molding. and here’s a question i need answering–why do your clothes smell like a boys’ locker room? you better not be going in there! boys are icky gross and usually have fungus on their feet–and on their…well, you know. do you want to get fungus? i’m just sayin.

now you little ones are no better. i do not want to wipe your butt, scratch your butt, or kiss your butt–so stop asking! i mean, your butt is smelly for obvious reasons, and why you want me to pay so much attention to it is a little unsettling. yes, e-man, i’m talking to you. i love that you love mommy, but i prefer to NOT scratch your butt. i will gladly scratch your back, but not at 2 in the morning. please stop waking me up.

i do not enjoy that you come in my room around 1am every night–to MY side of the bed, and poke me in the arm until i wake up. it’s a good way to get smacked. for all i know you’re a burglar–proceed with caution. my question is, what’s wrong with waking up your dad? why is it always me? if you want to sleep in our bed, go to the bottom, crawl under the covers, and go to sleep! see how simple that is? there’s no need to wake me up at all! climb in and shut up! no more poking. got it?

oh, you laugh middle schooler. but here’s what i have to say to you. you’re a beating. the day you turned 13 you became some other alien life force that i don’t even recognize anymore. you suck most days and your attitude is the absolute WORST! you seem to have a scowl permanently fashioned on your once pretty face and i got news for you—it ain’t attractive. i miss the girl who used to think i was the coolest mom on the planet. now i wish you would live somewhere else until you snap out of it. here’s a tip: uncross your arms and soften your ever furrowed brow and stop telling me i’m not funny. cuz i am funny and you know it.

littlest one, i adore you, you know that. but you changing your clothes 14 times a day is taking a toll on me. you tell me to pick out your outfit and then throw a fit when it’s not the one you want to wear. PICK OUT YOUR OWN CLOTHES! and stop obsessing about how your food is arranged on your plate. ps. i’m sorry your dad has messed you up. i had such high hopes for you. oh well, good luck in therapy.

aahhhhh, i feel so much better. please read this…memorize it…live it.

you’re welcome.

signed,
your loving mother

it’s happening.

my oldest daughter is about to start…..driving!

she informed me that she is now eligible to sign up for driver’s ed.

is it too late to shove her back up into my uterus?

yeah, i thought so. she’s WAY bigger than me now. that would look weird. and it would be like the world’s worst wedgie. people would stop me on the streets and shout, “oh my god, is that a person crammed up in there?”

and i would be all, “don’t pay any attention to it, i mean her, and she’ll stop screaming for help.”

and then i might end up in jail–or worse, my own reality tv show. they would call it something ridiculous like Back Where You Belong. she would be allowed to take 2 things with her on her *journey* and with my luck, she would choose her ipod and her flat iron. and then i’d never get away from that blasted hip hop music. ok, you can’t really call that music.

so anyway, putting her back where she came from seems out of the question.

plan b. i let her take driver’s ed but i don’t let her drive. that would be cruel, right? don’t tempt me, teenagers suck and seeing her unhappy might thrill me.

ok. so i let her drive but only to become my personal slave. she takes over picking up this one at ballet, dropping off that one at soccer practice, grocery shopping, errand running….wow, this is sounding better by the second.

you know what i have to do next, don’t you. i have to take her to the vet and have him put one of those tracking chips in her ear so that i know her whereabouts. i’ll tell her we’re going to get one of the dogs vaccinated and i need her help holding him down. then at the last second, the vet will shove the dog out of the way, strap down my freakishly strong teenager and zap! micro chip inserted! oh, she’ll be mad at first, call me a terrible mother, say she hates me, yada yada. she does that now! that’s called wednesday. i’ll tell her to think of it as another piercing. she’s always wanted one at the top of her ear–voila! wish granted!

and then i’ll know when she’s strayed beyond the stringent parameters i’ve set for driving. no going to the liquor store, a boy’s house (ANY boy–i don’t care if they’re related–boys are horny and they don’t mind if you share dna–those are just details to them), or dallas.

yep. i think i can let her drive under those conditions. i won’t be happy about it, but shoving her back in my uterus doesn’t sound like a european vacation either.

all i wanted was the day off.

it started out ok. it was early morning. everyone was asleep and i decided to catch up on the few episodes of oprah i’d missed. i was 10 minutes into last friday’s show when tommy came in the room and said, “wanna go to breakfast with me?”

“what do you mean? i asked.

“i mean, let’s throw on some clothes and go eat breakfast.”

“with everyone?”

“no. just us.”

i looked at the television screen and then back at tommy. a good wife would turn off the tv, put on clothes and go eat with her husband.

i hate being the good wife.

so i put my clothes on and we drove to the restaurant to eat. we ordered our food and food to go for our 4 sleeping children we’d left at home.

we had a nice time. of course i was in a hurry to get back. after i was finished eating, i pushed away my plate and gathered my things. i hadn’t meant to be so blatant about it, but i wanted to resume ‘dia de la slug’ and this was cutting into it.

i looked up and tommy was still eating. “you in a hurry?” he asked.

i put my stuff back down on the booth and said, “no. take your time.”

so he did. we talked and talked. i could tell he really wanted to engage in conversation. it had been about a week since we’d done that. after 30 minutes of catching up with each other, he asked, “you ready to go?”

so we drove back home to find all four kids lying in our bed, watching cartoons.

chaos ensued when they saw us and they jumped off the bed and yelled, “finally! our food’s here!”

from there i started the laundry, emptied the dishwasher, helped the e-man change into yet another outfit, and prepared yogurt surprise for 4 different people.

it was only 9am.

around 10, tommy handed me a sheet of paper. i looked at it and then back at him. it was some sort of menu. at the top it read, BREAKFAST OPTIONS.

i won’t type the whole menu here because my head might explode, but i’ll give you a sampling:

• 1 cup of quinoa, rinsed and drained
• 2 cups plain almond milk
• 1/4 teaspoon ground allspice
• pinch of sea salt of koser salt
• 2 medium peaches or 1-1/2 cup of frozen peaches
• 2 tablespoons of flax seed (ground)
• 2 tablespoons of chopped hazelnuts

so i looked at my beloved, somewhat confused, and said, “what’s this?”

“these are some options of what i’d like to eat every day.”

i handed him back the menu and said, “good for you.”

he pushed the menu back towards me and said, “that copy is yours.”

what the….?

“why do i need a copy? i’m not eating that. i can’t even pronounce some of the things on that menu. what the heck is a quinoa anyway?”

he seemed to be getting annoyed. “no, it’s for you so you can know what i would like for you or patricia to make me to eat.”

try not to kill him. it’s dia de la slug, remember? if you kill him then there’s more than likely going to be blood, then a huge mess and then there will be NO time whatsoever to watch oprah. try and remain calm.

he cocked his head sideways and asked, “is this ok? can you do this for me?”

be the good wife. be the good wife. be the passive aggressive martyr. oops. be the good wife.

“sure,” i managed to say behind gritted teeth and clenched fists.

and that event seemed to change the course of dia de la slug for me. it just wasn’t the same after that. i kept thinking, “when am i going to have time to run if i’m preparing alien food? where am i going to find these obviously made up ingredients? why is quaker instant oatmeal–peach flavored, no doubt–not good enough?

an hour later, the kids were yelling that they were hungry again. by now it was 11. and all i really wanted now was for dia de la slug to be over with. i trudged back in the kitchen, made queso, heated up leftover pizza, doled out numerous yogurts and cut up strawberries.

it was also the day that ethan pooped every hour. i was constantly in the bathroom with him wiping his butt. after every poop, he’d change clothes. it was exhausting.

in the afternoon, the older girls had soccer practice. it was also my turn to pick up other players. on the way, my 13 year old called me and said, “mom, i forgot i have to bring a historical fiction book to school tomorrow or i’ll get a zero.”

great.

“give me some titles of some books,” i said.

“i don’t have the sheet of paper.”

“then how are we going to get the right book?”

“i’ll call a friend.”

good. because i could feel the blood seeping out of my eyes.

i dropped off the girls at soccer, drove home, picked up my 8th grader and then we headed to the bookstore. i refused to go inside. i hadn’t showered or bothered washing my face or my hair. i handed her my credit card and told her to hurry. 15 minutes later she came back to the car without a book.

“what happened?”

“there were like no books left. like every other kid from my school were like in there.”

side note: middle schoolers say “like” way too much.

so i told her to call the other barnes and noble. she did. no go. i told her to try borders. no luck. we drove back home and she got on the phone and was able to find the book she needed. it was at the downtown barnes and noble. it was also time to pick up the girls from soccer. so we raced downtown. i circled the block while she ran inside and then my 14 year old called and said, “mom, where are you? practice is over.” i didn’t mean to, but i yelled, “hold your god damn horses–we’ll be there in a minute!” she said, “ok, mom, sorry..” and before she could say anything else, i hung up the phone.

these people and their needs. i was so over it.

finally, after dropping off the girls that didn’t belong to me at their houses (which came after going thru the drive thru at sonic for milkshakes and also picking up dinner for my family from the mexican restaurant) we pulled in my driveway. it was 6pm.

dia de la slug hadn’t exactly turned out the way i’d planned.

ethan was whining from not having a nap. he followed me around the house crying. harley was complaining that she was starving and she wasn’t thrilled with what i’d brought home for her to eat. tommy entered the room then and said, “what’s going on?” both kids turned on me then. they whined, cried and complained to him. (this is where it gets good) he looked at me and said, “why don’t you give them what they need. YOU’RE THEIR MOTHER and it seems like their needs are not being met.”

i swear to god i had to literally will my body not to thrust forward at him, thus punching him in his ward cleaver like face.

“I BEG YOUR PARDON!?!? THEIR NEEDS ARE NOT BEING MET? WHICH ONES? WOULD THAT BE THE ONE WHERE I WIPE ETHAN’S BUTT 3 TIMES BECAUSE HE INSISTS I’M NOT GETTING ALL THE POOP OFF? OR WOULD IT BE THE ONE WHERE HE SCREAMS AT ME BECAUSE I CAN’T PULL THAT THIRD PAIR OF PANTS OVER THE OTHER TWO HE’S ALREADY WEARING? OR WOULD IT BE THE ONE WHERE I PREPARE EVERY FOOD ITEM IN THE HOUSE AND IT STILL ISN’T GOOD ENOUGH? WOULD IT BE…”

he waves his hands in front of my face and cuts me off saying, “alright, i get it.”

but i was on a roll. “tommy, you have no idea what all i do or have done–just today. sometimes i feel so unappreciated.”

“so do i,” he snapped.

well, i’d just about heard it all.

but i didn’t want to fight with him. i wanted to punch him, but i didn’t want to fight with him.

so I apologized and left the room before i changed my mind and kicked his ass. oh, you laugh, but i could have. i had my mojo working overtime.

i went in the kitchen, poured a tall glass of red wine, and went in the bathroom and turned on the water in the tub. ethan ran in the room, peeled off his clothes and said, “we can play my toys in the bathtub.” so we did.

all i wanted was the day off.

oh well, i’ll try again next sunday.

ok, first of all, i can’t be held responsible for the title of today’s post. last night when i was going to bed, i came up with it and thought it was brilliant. and no, i wasn’t drunk OR on drugs. i can’t explain it, but for some reason i thought this was the most clever title ever. EVER.

i wanted to get up and at least write it down, but my body wouldn’t follow. i was insanely exhausted. so as i drifted off to sleep, i repeated the title over a hundred times in my mind so that i wouldn’t forget it in the morning. when i woke up, i reached in my memory bank in search of the “greatest title ever” and this is what my brain spit out.

so, “greatest title ever?” no. not feeling it. i’m not even sure what it means. but i felt it necessary to post it anyway since my brain worked so hard to keep it in queue. i think there’s something wrong with me. i know i say that a lot, but i’m serious this time. is this a new development? probably not. maybe i was hungry for chicken nuggets when i went to bed?

moving on. i know many of you have been wondering where i’ve been (mostly because of the oodles of harassing emails that all begin with WTF?) and i’ll tell ya–i’ve been busy. you know tommy and i escaped for an anniversary weekend sans the kids. i learned a lot on the trip. i learned that i really like tommy. i learned that away from the kids we have fun, we get along, and i enjoy his company immensely. (shocking, i know) even when we’re by ourselves his farts aren’t nearly as noxious–and his shuffling feet, his slurping and gulping and his obsessive throat clearing don’t have me plotting his untimely and accidental (wink, wink) death. the common denominator in all these scenarios? the kids. or rather, lack of kids. it seems that having the kids around and my noticing that i do most all the work has me resenting him–and therefore not appreciating all his little quirks/eccentricities/annoying habits. (we’ve only been home one day and my left eye has already begun twitching uncontrollably–the feet shuffling has GOT to stop!) when it was just the two of us it was easy to let go the fact that when the clock strikes a certain hour, his ability to function (other than his thumb fashioned on the channel up and down button on the remote control) turns to something that would make a coma patient appear mobile. in fact, it was downright adorable.

but we’re not alone at the beach anymore. and no, his letting me know how tired he is from his long day of returning emails and talking on the phone doesn’t make me feel sorry for him. it makes me want to run over him with my car. on accident, of course.

god love him. i just think it’s a man thing. and if you’re one of those lucky few who has a helpful husband, do not comment here. no one wants to hear how great he is with the kids or how he does most of the work–or even some of the work. odds are you’re lying because such a man doesn’t exist. well, except that i personally know two. and one of them is my little brother. he makes all other dads look bad. i mean REALLY bad. when i’m around him and i see how he is with my nephew it makes me want to punch tommy in the face–just once, really hard. i think i would feel so much better if i could do that.

but wait. i meant for this post to be about how much i appreciate tommy and how much fun we had on our trip. oops, i guess i got off on a little tangent there. so as i was saying, tommy’s awesome and we had fun. there. i said it.

on saturday i got a pedicure from this spa down the street from our house. i’d never been there and wanted to try it out. the actual pedicure was just so-so (actually it sucked–it was the worst pedicure ever) but what i enjoyed was the girl who *performed* the service. she told the most fascinating, heart breaking story i’d ever heard. i think i’m even going to write about it. it’s a sad story–probably the saddest, jaw dropping tale of a young woman’s life EVER on the planet, but somehow also a testament to the tenacity of the human spirit. the problem with me writing her story is that normally i write funny. and this ain’t no funny story. so if i do it, i may have to inject humor–like maybe the story takes place in a town where nobody wears pants. pants are not worn because zippers and elastic waistbands have been outlawed or haven’t been invented yet. it’s rough–definitely a work in progress, but you get the point. it’s a fucking sad story and it needs fart jokes or vagina talk. i’ll let you know what i decide. i may scrap the whole idea and just tell you the story here. one thing is for sure– i’ll never forget cindy as long as i live. i’ve thought about her every day since i met her.

and that’s about all i got for now. oh, there’s more don’t you worry. but i have to go. my real life is calling.

last night before we went to sleep…

tommy: how’d you get the kids to sleep so fast?

me: isn’t it obvious?

tommy: what?

me: i’m the better parent

tommy: (laughing) so is that your strategy?…to be the better parent?

me: it’s working isn’t it?

tommy: (still laughing) good night, butthole

me: good night yourself, ass face

and then he literally starts snoring. i kid you not, he fell asleep in like 15 seconds. see how good i am at putting people to sleep? it happens when i’m not even trying.

tommy and i left town saturday morning for jackson, mississippi for our friend, cathy’s 40th birthday party. it was going to be a short trip–leave saturday, come home sunday. the drive averages out to be about 6 hours–5 and 1/2 if i’m driving–7 if tommy’s driving. the difference is he likes to stop every hour or every 60 miles, whichever comes first. i am like a nazi when it comes to road trips–basically, everyone straps on a depends undergarment, is instructed to grab a bag of beef jerky and a bottle of water and is warned not to complain or you ride on the hood. this trip was kid free, so threatening tommy to tow the line or suffer the consequences seemed harmful to my well being (not to mention the last time i tried to strap him to the hood of the car for asking for the millionth time, “are we almost there?” i threw out my back–so i try and refrain from hoisting him over my shoulder whenever possible).

about an hour into the drive, we saw this station wagon pulled over on the side of the highway. it had a u-haul trailer hooked up to it that had lost a tire along the way. the people were standing outside the car sort of scratching their heads. i imagined they were wondering what the hell happened. i turned to tommy and said, “why don’t they just unhitch that trailer and have a wrecker come tow it away? that’s what i would do.”

he said, in his very tommy sort of way, “what if that’s their valuables and they don’t want to just abandon them on the side of the road?”

pfft. “what valuables? it’s a 4 foot by 5 foot trailer. what could they have in there that’s so valuable?–their kids?” and then i added, “if i was traveling along and had my kids in the back in a u-haul trailer and it blew a tire, i might see that as my opportunity to ditch them. it would be HOURS before they realized they were no longer attached to mom’s car. by then i could be half way to california.”

tommy laughed, “you would not.”

“oh yes i would buddy boy. BUT! if i had my handbag collection in the back of the u-haul trailer i would wait all day on the side of the road for someone to fix it. no siree. you wouldn’t catch ME leaving my purses to fend for themselves. what if they were absconded by thieves with no appreciation for marc jacobs or fendi.”

tommy sat silently for a moment and then said, “you know you’ll never get that mother of the year award if you keep saying things like that.”

i waved him off. “that ship sailed a long time ago. i have a better chance of getting eaten by a shark. oh wait. shark attacks are more and more prevalent these days. why, just a few weeks ago ryan seacrest was attacked by one.

tommy looked at me, his eyes widening. “is that true?”

“well, sort of. it was a baby sand shark and it bit his little toe. i don’t even think it broke the skin. technically though?–shark attack.”

tommy rolled his eyes and said, “you’re unbelievable.”

“i know. ooh. scratch the shark attack scenario. i have a better chance of getting struck by lightening in our front yard than of winning a mother of the year award.”

tommy chimed in, “do you remember a few years ago when lightening struck our house?”

i did not remember this. “was i there?”

“yes, we all were. it happened in the middle of the night.”

“so basically, i have been struck by lightening and technically our house is IN our front yard. you know what this means don’t you?”

tommy looks confused. “what?”

“i’m totally going to win a mother of the year award!”

he REALLY starts to laugh now and says, “don’t hold your breath.”

he was right. who was i kidding. “i won’t,” i conceded. “wait. can you die from holding your breath?”

“yes, ding dong, it’s called suffocating.”

“i thought you needed a pillow for that–or a plastic bag.”

“nope. i think if you hold your breath long enough you will die.”

i was dumbfounded. why are we not teaching our children–AND the children of the world the dangers of holding your breath. i made a mental note to send an email to the surgeon general about maybe heading up a special task force to help educate the public on the dangers of holding one’s breath. outrageous. and right under our noses. well, the good news is, now that we know, we can stop it before someone gets killed. i just hope we’re not too late.

a little while later we see an suv with 2 hot pink deer stickers on the back. i’ve seen these before but never pink. and never 2 on one vehicle. i think it means they hunt or something like that. i said to tommy, “look at those stickers. i wonder if the pink deer head signifies a woman hunter.”

tommy quickly added, “2 women hunters. maybe they’re lesbians.”

i shook my head. “man, can you imagine a worse place to be if you’re a lesbian. it’s a wonder the good folks of mississippi haven’t strung them up by now.”

tommy said, “worse than a lesbian hunter in mississippi would be a NON hunting lesbian–who is also black.”

“and a liberal.”

“and worships the devil.”

“and burns the american flag on a regular basis.”

“who is also a vegetarian.”

“and jewish.”

“who just had an abortion.”

i think we about covered it all. so, the person who has it the worst in mississippi is a black, jewish, flag burning, devil worshipping, peta loving, liberal lefty, non-meat eating lesbian who just had an abortion. does such a woman exist? she sounds so exotic, no? i started thinking: where COULD this person live? i settled on canada. they’ll let about ANYONE live there.

a little while later we pulled over and tommy took over driving. it wasn’t long before we passed a highway patrolman going almost 90. i wanted to warn tommy but it was too late. the cop already had his lights on and was quickly approaching. tommy seemed to think he was going after someone else and i was like, “dude, it’s you.”

we pulled over and waited as the officer handed tommy a citation for going 86 in a 60. and all i could think was, “i’m soooo glad it wasn’t me.”

we got back on the road and tommy was now cruising along at 58 mph. something had to be done. according to my calculations we really needed to be nearing 90 the whole way to get there on my schedule. i demanded he pull over and let me drive. after balking a little he did as he was told. i patted him on the back and said, “don’t sulk. maybe i’ll get pulled over too and then we could have matching tickets. then you would realize i’m not perfect. i’m human just like everybody else–only a tad better.” silence. “you DO think i’m perfect right?”

without looking at me tommy said, “nope.”

“almost perfect?”

“not even close.”

hmm. well, miss not-even-close-to-perfect didn’t get caught speeding and had us there in record time.

now where’d i leave that damn mother of the year award? oh right. i was told i shouldn’t hold my breath. aww. tommy really does care.