Gorillabuns

PAARRTTYY!!@

This weekend was fraught with much celebration. Across the board in our family.  We finally celebrated Celia's 9th with much a do and many a hurt feelings because the free world wasn't invited.

Because the free world wasn't paying.

I can't believe she is nine. Didn't I just have her? My saggy scarred belly says so....

I love everything about her down to her itty bitty mole.

Funny enough, she has one in the same spot. I'm drilling her to love it. It's a beautiful thing to have. Love yourself and that mole. It works for Cindy, no? She says, "Cindy, who?"

Never mind.

We had a painting party with a princess frog as the themed painting. Part of me was QUITE SCARED that her peers would make fun of her painting choice while the other part of me was fist pumping into the air that my child is just that. A child. Full of conviction of her subject matter. Caring not what anyone else felt about what they were going to paint. She's 9 for goodness sakes! If she still like Barbies, frogs and princesses? So be it! BRING IT! Stay a child as long as possible!!!!

I feel quite proud of her joy and excitement in being a CHILD! She still loves dolls, American Girls and Monster High.

The biggest hit of the party? My friend's child's boots.

I'm FUURR REALS HERE, DANIELLE!  I/we/30 people at the party want these boots!!!

Back to my sad sack-of-shit. I feel our (the family as a whole) emotions are not exhibited closely to our vest. I'm not thinking we are doing the best job here....

I find at 43? I'm feeling more like a nine-year-old than my actual nine-year-old.. I'm having to explain myself to everyone and anyone for my decisions or my lack of conversations to placate everyone else's opinion. Because contrary to popular belief, I really hate confrontation.

At this moment? I feel quite a few want to make the decisions for me and my family. "with their best interest at heart."

I want to have this kind of conversation with my friends. [man love aside...] An honest to god conversation without all of the passive-aggressive bullshit that seems to come into play.

At times I want to be a man without the whole penis and ball shit. You know, say what you mean and mean what you say? I punch you in the arm and you punch me back and then we hug it out? Sadly, girls aren't made up that way.

Instead, we are shitty back-stabbing bitches.

and the bitches? can leave me alone.

Because I want to be nine again.

"Because I don't have time for that...."

splits

 

If you know anything about me, especially if you are the one who feigns having to "go to the bathroom" at my house but instead dig through my drawers and cabinets, you know I have an obsession with makeup. Like a three drawers full to the brim obsession times two bathrooms.  My girls have no chance to escape this disease as I see their little stashes of sparkly fare hidden about the house. 

Now, since I am an enabler and will be using the above link to save money on my search for the perfect summer lipstick, and because I really hate shopping with other people shoving their ways into my personal space, I thought I would share this money saving link to you. Because I care. Because I'm a total sharer. One would one say an over-sharer. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy a bountiful beauty booty from the money savings link above.

Awkward segue coming up next....

Mother's Day was actually a nice and peaceful day. Never mind the fact that I was on day 10 of "operation getting old as dirt," my emotions were at an all time high. **Not preggers, if you were still wondering.***

I was surprised with flowers planted in our tree planter and beautiful side walk art. I think Moira was kinda confused as to what holiday we were actually celebrating as "Happy Birthday!" was thrown into the greetings.

I've heard some moms complaining about the homemade gifts from their children as well as throwing their "love"gifts away as soon as the event is over. To these parents, guess what. Your child knows what you do and they aren't fooled. They are hurt. I've talked to a lot of my girls classmates and they've told me they don't want to try on the projects because their mom is "just going to throw it away anyway." How sad.  Your reaction and how your cherish these gifts are showing them how to give and receive. Both good or bad.  I choose to be proud of their gifts. Macaroni necklaces and all.

My favorite part of the "my mom" series was from this sentence: My Mom can do many things! I think she's best at "doing the spilts! She even know Times!"

I do have to say, I'm pretty damn good at doing the splits or "spilts" and my mother will laugh about the times comment. I still don't know them very well.  I wonder where my oldest gets her math skills from....

Speaking of my mom, we also shared a nice lunch together.

I have to say, everything I've learned about parenting, love and compassion has come from my mother.  She's always been my greatest champion and thinks I'm neat.  I couldn't ask for a better mother/father as she is the one who had to fulfill both jobs on her own.  It has always been us against the world. and yes, we've kicked ass and reported them to the authorities many times throughout our life together.

I only hope I make her proud.

I hope I am a role model to my girls and they feel the same way about me. That I am a loving and compassionate mother. That I am their greatest champion and that they too know they are so freaking neat. 

 

 

 

birdy

Today is Celia's ninth birthday.

Nine years ago I was wondering if she was going to be a boy or a girl. 

Upon learning she was a girl, I loudly exclaimed, "YEA! a girl who I can put in pig tails and tutus."

The tutu stage lasted a nano-second and all I have left is the pigtails. and my beautiful sunshine.

I'm truly lucky and blessed to have her as my child even if the road is sometimes soul-crushingly hard. Not because of her personally but due to all of the growing up stuff that comes with being a nine-year-old. 

Her anxiety, her dyscalculia and her sensitive nature.  In the end I know she will be a stronger person because internally, she is such a strong person. 

I love you beautiful girl.  You make my heart full of love, promise and strength.

love, 

mommy

hot mess

I feel like a hot mess pretty much 24/7 these days. More mess than hot, for sure.

Sadly, I wear my heart on my sleeve, ready for the microscopic dissection of your words. Even if I don't ask for your opinion. So if you would? Please don't give it. Thank you.

Memories and reality are blurred - crashing into a combustible union. A picture of your newborn sends me into a three hour cry-fest because I'm both jealous and happy for you.  Blue nail polish has been stained onto my memory. A by-product of hope and grief.  The color blue is not welcome in my house be it in wrapping paper, pictures interpreted from memory or because the sky might be blue that day.

I'm blue. Blue Bayou. Blue balled to an extinct that I can't move forward. Today.

One would think that after three years, I would be better adjusted to this time and reality but alas, folks, I am not. So please don't give me your words of advice on how to be better than I am. I am not.

The past year has been reality less blurred. If I could give a clinical definition to grief I would say the first two years after death of a loved one is that of being a marionette.  One going through the motions with others pulling your strings. After that time the real discovery/recovery/mourning occurs.

Sadly I wish I could choose one date to base all of my anxiety upon but I can't. Do I choose the ever changing Good Friday, Easter or the 10th or 12th for final mourning.  I'm envious of others when they have one day to pinpoint their thoughts and grief on. I can't because I'm too confused to figure out which date is more meaningful in my personal dictionary. 

 If I have to really choose, the date would be April 10th. Where my son went from full-fledged reality to full-fledged memory.

His body a fleeting memory at best. A memory that you still have to answer questions from your children about purple faces and lifeless body, errant empty nebulizer bags left on your living floor from emergency workers, UPS delivery men at your front door during frantic CPR and the creepy, nightmare inducing keening sounds of parents filling the room.

Out of the mouths of babes. So real and so true.

"Why?"

"I still don't understand? I was a little girl when this happened."

"Why can't you have another baby?"

"I really want another baby in our house."

"Why exactly did God let him die?" 

and more. SO.MUCH.MORE.

This is my reality three years later. 

Yeah, God? I have some major mother-fucking big beef with you. You better be ready to give me a good answer. 

I am waiting.

Your answer better be good.

 

traveling gnomes

Did you know last week was spring break? Well our family figured this tidbit out at the last minute. Upon such discovery we hightailed our unplanned asses to the land of shopping and friends.  Onto the big "D." Dallas that is for you northerners.

We brought along Bertram to make sure we were on track with the Amazing Race challenges. Just so you can be rest assured, we made it to the next round of our travels because we like to fly by the seat of our baggy pants. Planning? PeeSHAW!!! Planning is for you crazy type A's out there. We are type L's. L would be for lazy. planning.

Where we were eventually eliminated because of our long stay at the American Girl store 

and because we brought along a shit-ton of dolls with us for every adventure. These damn dolls really impeded our progress.

In the end, Celia, Moira, Rich, moi, Bertram, Carissa, Felicity, Kanani and the newest addition,  Mc Kenna, partied our asses off in true spring break style. We even sent a postcard to ourselves to remind us of our revelry.