Gorillabuns

when did you decide

enough was enough? Specifically, when did you decide you were tired of being fat, bloated, stretched and achy? Tired of being tired and tired of having 5 sets of colorful muumuus in your closet due to being a vessel to a parasite? When did you decide was the magical age of reason for being another or someone else's mama was done, over and FINITO? Your house runneth over, your finances would never recover, your body will never respond from such a thing? Meaning - when did you decide you were done spawning? children.

Lately, Celia has had it set in her mind, I'm going to have another child. She casually bull-horned this information to everyone and anyone who would listen during our the last field trip. The mother's in attendance asked if we were done littering the free-world. I sheepishly proclaimed, "over my dead, fat body, I don't thinks so. I don't know. Whatever! Pass the chips."

Either Celia's prophetic or she's simply delusional. I'd like to think the latter. Honestly, she comes from a long line of crazy folk in my family. We're all out-of-our-minds, I tell ya!

During Rich's birthday party this past weekend, quite a few friends asked if we were done shooting forth from the fruit of our loins. My response? Pass the damn Tequila people! You are ALL OBVIOUSLY DRUNK OFF YOUR ASSES!! Nope, NADA, Never.

See, I don't like baby, babies. I don't like or love the first six months of life. Shoot me for being an incredibly horrible person but if you had TWO colicky kids screaming and not sleeping for the first year of their lives, you'd feel the same. Let's just say, it's not-so-cute and cuddly.

However, I do like them when they are Five and can tell you their interesting and sweet, intricate lies. This I can understand. This I can reason with and laugh. NOT little ones who can't tell you where it hurts and think it's funny to scream while you haven't slept in 17 months. straight.

I ask this question not because I think I'm an awesome mother (we ALL KNOW, I'm SOOOOO NOT!) who seriously thinks the world needs another Gorillabuns around to torture but I ask this question because I never consciously made the decision to be done, over and FINITO! I didn't pay attention and relish in Moira's pregnancy because I was a) too freakin' sick, b) had JUST been pregnant 11 months before Mordecai and c) I always thought I'd have another one soon. Have a butt-load of kids. Maybe this feeling is because I'm an only child and man, it's kinda a lonely place to be in life. No one to share in life's sad end and in sweet victorious moments.

There have been many hit-and-misses in the past few years of which, I never planned. With a sister-in-law trying to get pregnant with IVF, a friend who gets pregnant while drinking tap water and then subsequently, losing them due to circumstances beyond her control,  I wonder and reflect.  I consider, weigh and re-weigh my thoughts and options - this ship probably sailed, burned and has been buried way out into the yonder sea. I thoughtfully think, I'm almost 40 and why play Russian-roulette with chances and theories? I have two perfectly and seemingly healthy children.

Why play the odds? I don't gamble because I don't like to lose.

Would you?

hand's off the chillin's

I don't consider myself to be the most paranoid of mothers/human beings walking around this earth. You want a worrier with a dash of paranoia? Let me introduce you to my mother. If you have a problem nagging you in your life, let my mom worry about it for you but I'm going to have to charge you a small fee. Worrying doesn't come cheap, besides my mother worries enough about my family and I wouldn't want to tax her too much with others demands (sorry, Mom. We both know the limitless bounds of your constant fretting.)

I bring up this subject because I do have a SLIGHT problem with worrying. I have a tendency to worry about all the trash and how will it take care of itself? I worry about the what ifs of freak traffic accidents, nuclear war, illusive illnesses (I swear! I have Cancer every day) and the scenario of my husband marrying that DAMN!!! Japanese foreign exchange student who will forever be my husband's little concubine if I were to die (DAMN!!! that freaky dream I had while pregnant with Celia. I'm STILL not over this prophetic dream, 5.5 years later!)

I try not to be overly protective and worry about strange people coming in our house in the middle of the night to take my girls out of their sweet slumbering beds. IT COULD HAPPEN! This is why I double check the locks on the windows and our alarm system every hour or so. Who cares if we don't EVER open our windows. I don't find my double-checking behavior obsessive, what-so-ever! I would call this behavior - being cautious.

Anyway, today, I brought the kids with me to our local Kinko's to copy crap for a family friend. Upon entering, I was accosting by a woman, trying to assess my every need. Moira had already introduced herself as, "Hi! I'm Moira *****, Ariel, Princess, Beautiful! I hurt my thumb on a treadmill and it hurt really badly!" The woman who happened to sport a mighty fine 70's 'do, was completely enamored by my kids. So, much so, after asking their names (Yes, I stupidly, gave her their info complete with their social security numbers), she whisked Moira away on her hip, introducing her to patrons who could give a shit. With one eye permanently affixed to the side of my head, I continued trimming the massive amount of maps at hand, while praying to God, this chick who already admitted to replacing her alternator on her 'ol Lincoln the day before but the car still isn't working, would not take off with my kid. Hell, she DID admit she didn't have a car for an easy get away so, what's the problem?

The problem occurred when she said, "Hey, I think the girl's have to go to the bathroom!" Strangely enough, I never heard this demand from them. I responded with "thanks for the update." She ignored me and proceeded to take them with her to the back room while I screamed, "NO-O-O-O-O (AND YES, MY NO ECHOED THROUGHOUT THE STORE!) THEY CAN'T GO TO THE BATHROOM ON THEIR OWN!" I threw my shit to the side and ran like there was no tomorrow to the bathroom, ready to take down the overly-eager and odd Kinko's worker. I'm sure she was a very nice person who also confessed to getting married at 15 and having the first of her four children at 16 but I couldn't help to FREAK THE FUCK OUT when she darted to the bathroom with my kids. AFTER I had emphatically screamed, NO!!!

The thing is - I hate to think that this (probably) nice, VERY SAD, woman, was missing the youth of children, while I freaked thinking she was going to do something heinous to my children. While the circumstances were just plain weird, I hate feeling like everyone is out to get me and my children. I hate condemning people for probable innocent actions but WOW, who the hell takes a stranger's brood to the bathroom while they are working? at a Kinko's? I mean, I don't even want to take my own kids to the bathroom. Am I wrong? Did I overreact?

Probably, but (in the immortal words of my Mother) these days you just can't be too careful.

**never you mind that rat's nest on top of her head.**

Hell! I would loan them out if they weren't my little munchkins and I hadn't the constant, daily reminders etched onto my belly of their sweet existence.

i'm smart enough - no, wait.....

i consider myself to be a pretty smart chick. well, at the very least smart enough. to get by. i know a whole lotta shit about absolutely nothing and i would give you a run for your money on old school music trivia (don't even think about commenting about most of the craptastic post before the end; because i might have to kill you. and i don't have enough gas money to come and find you - to do the deed) but not enough to be a true expert in any given subject. yes, i've been tested, tested some more and then re-tested (say what?) let's just say; i wasn't a candidate to ride the short bus - just the plain, regular boring bus with all the average-kiddos.

i survive - just barely.

except when it comes to being a parent. when teaching and modeling/molding shoots itself into the equation, i am so inept. like, VERY inept. like, you are going to flunk life - inept.

fast forward...wait...no...rewind....30-something years ago......

my 28'ish mother sitting on the bed with a set of stiff multiplication cards in hand; drilling my stupid ass multiplication tables over and over and OVER AND OVER.....i remember this one day like it was yesterday, she was wearing a sweet tan jumper with a shiny polyester, bronze, tied blouse underneath. imagine this sweet woman with the patience of well...i don't know who....me? screaming; "we just went over this! 3 X 3 is 9! (i say this as i check the correct calculations with my handy dandy calculator) for the love of god! why aren't you getting this? are you even paying attention?"  i proceed to cry and freeze-up because we are dealing with numbers and i don't do numbers.

as you can see from my mom's reaction, i come from a long line of impatient teachers - throwing up their arms in air while screaming, "what the hell am i going to do with you? are you going to succeed in life or are you going to ride the pole to idiom?" not that we would EVER say this to our kids; we just think it - silently.

now fast forward to today. me sitting patiently (or what i think is patient) with my oldest. perusing the year in review. A-F; 1-10. her name. simple shit. while reviewing the basics, she looks at me like i've been reciting a complex set of verbs in latin complete with trying to demonstrate the first few letters of the alphabet in russian.

"what's that?"

"what do you mean what's that?"

"i don't know what you are writing in that red pen!"

well, at least you are getting the color red part right.

"i'm writing an A FOR GOD'S SAKES!!!  and 1 COMES BEFORE 2!"

"i simply don't know what you mean."

"well, you know what i mean when i'm counting to five when you are in trouble! you mean to tell me you can't count to five?"

"uumm... no."

me? grinding my teeth. wondering where we are failing here. how am i going to afford the "special" tutoring she's obviously going to need in the not-so-near future.

"you mean to tell me you don't know how to count to 10? or your abc's?"

"no?"

"for god's sakes! i was almost reading at your age! you don't know how to count to 10?"

i sit in my uncomfortable seat for what seems a span of five minutes. realizing - i'm not sure which is worse - her in an expensive private pre-k program learning absolutely nothing or me home-schooling them teaching absolutely nothing.

i go with me. homeschooling. at least i can say it wasn't all my fault when she's 16 and can't read. or can't count to 20. or tie her shoes. it was the school's fault.

i'll take responsibility for the attitude and anxiety issues she'll have from the end result.

anyone have any suggestions? on teaching - not personality/anxiety problems.

the house of funk and ill

it's official, everyone is sick with a horrible gastronomic distress du jour. while i'm slightly thrilled about losing 5lbs during this tango; i'm not sure my tender bung hole-e-o will ever be the same.  i guess it was the symphony in motion of dual projectory vomit from the little munchkins yesterday morning that finally broke my immune system down.

rich left town for a couple of days today. my good-bye kiss to him was to hug the toilet instead of him. ah, good times. good times.

if you never hear from me again, you know why. my care was left in the hands of a 3 and 4 year old. enough said.

my little sweet nugget

in the beginning, b.k. (before kids) i had a strong stomach. i could handle observing a 7:30am colonoscopy, cheerfully walk out of the procedure room, proceed to heartily eating a bagel loaded with cream cheese all without the fear of upchucking from my morning experience. my senses knew no bounds of disgust and shame.

when i became pregnant with celia - well actually, before i knew i was pregnant with celia - my snoot became VERY aware of the off-putting smell of banana candy. the smell of coffee sent me into orbit and fajitas? well, i wanted to vomit every time i smelled the burning flesh-like smell. come to think of it, i still do. hate the smell of burnt flesh and fajitas.

when i became pregnant with moira, i simply stopped living life as we know it and handed over the changing of celia's poop diapers all together. rich was tired of me vomiting in mouth during each exercise so, he agreed to take over this funky chore. nothing says, sexy mama, when the hurl sound is echoing throughout the house.

in short, through two pregnancies my olfactory senses have stayed uber hyper-aware and they don't seem to want to revert back to the b.k. way of living life.

fast forward on to the present. we happen to be the lucky household on the block to "play" at being in the later stages of potty-training moira. i have found poop is ALWAYS (wait, the one kid i potty trained. so, yes, this DOES make me an expert, even though nocturnal issues still exist) the last thing to be trained to commandeer the toilet - actually, this might be a stubborn streak in my kids and their need to control their 'business.'  yes, the females in this family have MAJOR control issues.

man! can i EVER stay on track?

anyway, the other evening, rich and i were relishing in our 2.5 hours without kids. as we sat down in our bed to watch a very entertaining episode of "it's always sunny in philadelphia" (which happens to be my most favorite show of the last year. RUN!! don't walk to your nearest netflix to watch the back episodes) on our hospital t.v. set-up, rich got up to go to the bathroom. when he returned, he found a strange, sweet, little nugget nesting between our line of division.

mister picked up the little surprise and marveled in it's wonder of nesting in our bed, "honey, have the kids been eating chocolate in our bed again?"

"umm, no. we don't have any chocolate in the house."

the procession of bringing the nugget to his nose, released a yowl! 

first you should know, i feed moira these because of her awesome ability to poop like a rabbit. one could see why this snack could quite possibly be mistaken for a poop surprise. needless to say, the nugget was not a substance that one should be rolling around in your hand for close inspection.

me? my reaction was that of ambivalence. i rolled over in bed and proceeded to act deaf, dumb and blind to the possibility of sleeping in poop. i didn't dare pull back the covers to see what other gifts hid in waiting.

suddenly,  i am cured of my aversion to poop.

or i am just lazy.

and i have yet to check to see if something else lies in wait.

or maybe, i just don't give a shit anymore.