Mothers' Hideaway Blog

Don’t Take Yourself Too Seriously

2012-02-20T05:04:48Z

I’m funny.

Yup, you heard me. Yes, you may laugh.

I’m funny. I’m so funny that I make other people cry. Happy tears.

I also give them cramps. No, not those cramps. I said I was funny…not a bitch like Mother Nature. I give the laugh-so-hard-you-split-your-side type of cramps.

Wanna know a secret?

I forgot how hilarious I was and how hard I could laugh. That is, until I saw my Tittylicious Tribe this weekend. Don’t get me wrong, one of my best friends and I have the humor of twelve-year old boys and are quite proud of this (BEWBIES!!!) and quite often our one goal in life is to make the other cry whether it be for a good release to our stress or because we each think the other is that funny. In fact, I’m positive that this friend of mine should join the Tittylicious Tribe because she does have awesome BEWBIES!

Anyways, this weekend. The craziness that happened. The Tittylicious Tribe.

We’re funny and we make each other laugh. We each say something, put it on a tee, and someone will inevitably hit it out of the park. In fact, that is how we became Tittylicious. Without the tassles. Although, I may need to get us all some tassles.

I was trying to explain to Hubs why I loved being with these women so much and why each time I see them we enjoy each other’s company. I went through some of our antics, our commentaries, and our routines and then I realized the one thing that made us all work.

We don’t take ourselves too seriously.

We are us. We are what we want to be. We are smart asses or listeners. We care what others think, but yet…when we are together…we don’t give a damn what the others may say. My self esteem flies when around them because (with the exception of a few of my friends that don’t live in Chicago) I don’t think that in the eight years since I’ve moved to Chicago I’ve been able to be so much myself as I am with them.

We each have our own voice. Our own heart. Our own personas. We say stuff that no one remotely gets, but we all laugh at. We make fun of ourselves and each other, but never take it to heart. We don’t know all of the details of each others’ lives, but we know what matters.

The one thing that makes us all work and get along….

That each of us are bat shit crazy. And when you’re covered in guano there’s no way to take yourself too seriously.

So, thank you to my Tittylicious girls. I’m finding my voice again and I remember that we are funny.

And we all wear awesome jewelry

TASSLES FOR EVERYONE!

Bitch, Stole My Babysitter

2011-09-28T02:10:34Z

There are few things that we are protective of as women and mothers. We’re protective of our children, our spouses, our homes, our cars. So many of us become mama bears when any of these things are even approached by others looking to steal the love, the good, the support, the time of these items. We have no problem admitting that we’ve been known to yell, fight, or argue to make sure no one steals our prized possessions. In fact, we have been known to go bat shit crazy because well let’s face it…all of us have a sprinkle of crazy in us.

But one thing not many moms admit is saying…

“Bitch stole my babysitter.”

You heard me right. How often have you not given your babysitter’s name or information to a friend because you are scared of losing the only person that is a part of your sanity. Forget your husband, your friends, your family. No, my friends, your babysitter is a prized possession who you desperately need for that moment out of the house without a snot nosed child wiping themselves on your shoulder or leg or a scream in the background while you’re on the phone. You need that babysitter so you can take a moment just to eat dinner…peacefully…without dodging flinging ketchup and green beans…so you can have an adult conversation without refereeing a fight between siblings.

Yes, my babysitter is my prized possession and without her I’d die a long ketchup and snot covered death by suffocation.

But I need a new one. A daytime one. I need one that will be there so I can work out without my kids pulling down my gym pants. So I can do a pilates plank without 50 pound of little boys climbing onto my back. My core is strong, people, but it’s not that strong. I need one so I can go to my GYN appointments without having to hide the boys from the sight of that man with the metal duck going near their mommy’s girly bits.

Yes, I need a new one because the one problem with day time sitters is they all get jobs. Or a life. And I’m left to scour the planet (or city) for the one person that is a good sitter. I’m a babysitter snob. I will rate you, judge you, and find out if you’re good enough for my boys. I want you to be that person that my boys get excited to see, that I trust will follow the rules, and let the kids have fun but not let them be brats.

I need a replica of me. If you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty dang complicated and I’m “special” so it’s a hard find in the sea of babysitters.

I ask around to my mom friends. They tell me that they have a great one and they’ll let me know if she has any availability. They won’t tell me more than that. They hold their sitters close to their chests. Clinging to it as if though their sanity is dependent on their sitters flexible schedule.

I never hear from them again.

They hold their cards to their chest like a poker player holding pocket kings and scared the flop is going to give you the upper hand instead.

The sitter is busy.

The bitch won’t share her babysitter.

Too bad, because I have a really good evening sitter for her….if I don’t need the sitter myself. Yes, I’m a bitch that won’t share my babysitter either.

New Uterine Tenants

2011-09-15T05:23:23Z

“Holy shit, that poor girl,” I hear the doctor say outside the exam room door. I can’t help but chuckle. Clearly he doesn’t know I can hear him. He lightly taps on the door and walks in. I’ve never met him before. I’m here for the first time because my she-parts are malfunctioning and I am due for my yearly exam. Anytime a new doctor learns about my plethora of issues they shake their heads with amazement. He is no different.

“You’re a mess,” he announces without introduction. I like his style. His irreverence is calming in a warped way. I liked things warped.

“Yeah. Doctors see me and they cringe,” I reply not missing a beat.

“I’m not cringing,” he says as he washes his hands. “I feel sorry for you.”

“Eh. It is what it is,” I shrug. I’ve lived with this body long enough to know that there’s nothing I can do about its hate of me.

I go through my problems and concerns with him. I tell him about my raging PMS, my migraines, my cramps, my bleeding through one super tampon an hour and being left to die on the couch with my ibuprofen and heating pad.

He sits there and interrupts with questions digging for more detail.

I explain the weight in my stomach, the problems with weight consistency, the feeling of hormonal imbalance, the bleeding in the middle of my cycle for a week, the sex that is more uncomfortable than fun. I tell him everything I can think of, sure that something is wrong with me.

He tells me he thinks he knows what is going on, but with my annual pap he wants to do a biopsy and send me upstairs to have an ultrasound. He tells me to undress and he will be back to exam me.

He returns, takes the biopsy, and does the pap. We make small talk, crack jokes at my stretch marks, and how 3 weeks more of gestation from my youngest was all it took to destroy my stomach. He sits in front of me.

“You have polyps and I think you have endometriosis.” I tense up as he continues. “We will see what the ultrasound today says and then we will have you come in the office to do a saline ultrasound as well.”

He continues with more explanation about what this means, when my biopsy results will come in, and what comes next. We say our good byes and I head upstairs for my first ultrasound.

During the ultrasound I lay on the cold hard table with a sheet over my knees. I wonder what the sheet is even for since they’re seeing all my girly bits anyways. I clutch to it nevertheless. As I lay there looking at the screen making out the organs of my reproductive system and when the goes over to my ovaries I gasp, “Oh My Gosh.”

The ultrasound tech stopped, quizzical, and asked, “What do you see?”

“The cysts.” There were at least ten staring at me on the screen.

“Don’t you have PCOS, Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome?”

“Not officially, but I’ve thought that I have had it.”

“Why?” she seems doubtful. Perhaps she is concerned that I am Dr. WebMD.

“PMS problems and pain,” I answer not sure I should even be telling her this. Radiologists aren’t supposed to say anything to you at all about what they see. Then again, I saw it and there’s no denying those 10-15 black empty sacs as being anything but cysts.

“Hmmmm. I’m sending this to your doctor immediately.”

“Ok.” I have nothing more to say. I have so much to digest.

I walk home that afternoon worried, sore, and in pain because whatever is in there has been jostled around by the doctor and ultrasound. That day, I discovered I have polyps and possibly PCOS and Endometriosis. Great. It could be worse though. It could be fibroids and cancer instead.

The following day I return to my gynecologist’s office for the saline ultrasound. I’m sore from the day before and I hobble around the waiting room. Even sitting sends shooting searing pain through my pelvis. The exam begins and as they insert the saline the doctor pauses.

“I see a fibroid,” he says with almost a moan. The ultrasound tech agrees and they capture a picture.

I throw my head back in annoyance.

“Oh, there’s a second one.” Yet another picture is snapped.

Great. Then to my ovaries and at this point I close my eyes. I’ve seen these before and really don’t want to be reminded.

After the ultrasound we walk into his office. He sits me down and sighs. He puts his hands to his forehead as he reexamines the ultrasound pictures.

Somberly he begins, “Ok, so we have multiple issues going on here. You have one large golf ball sized cyst on your left ovary, both ovaries are polycystic, you have possible endometriosis, there are quite a few polyps in a good portion of your uterus. And you have two large, not huge but definitely larger, fibroids in your uterus cavity.”

And that is when my personality takes over and I speak without thinking, “I guess my uterus realized I was done having kids and put out a “For Rent” sign and everyone showed up.”

He started laughing and said, “I like you. You mean business, but take the punches.”

“Yeah, but I have a mean right hook.”

My hysteroscopy is scheduled for today. I will find out if any of this is cancerous in the next few days, but my doctor says he’s almost 100% positive it’s not. We will see. I will have surgery in two weeks to evict my uterus’ new tenants and possibly my complete endometrial lining of my uterus.

Until then the “For Rent” sign remains and my tenants annoy.

This is in response to the writing prompt “An inappropriate time to laugh.”

I Need Some Jeans Men

2011-09-09T16:25:47Z

I’ve decided that I need as many men as I have jeans. I need a ~~man~~ pair of jeans for each mood. I need a ~~man~~ pair of jeans for each season. I need a ~~man~~ pair of jeans for each look.

Shoot, I’ll just say it how it is…I wear a ~~man~~ pair of jeans as an accessory.

Could you imagine how wonderful life would be? I have five pairs of jeans that each help me and each make me feel better than a fat kid in a candy store.

Speaking of fat kids, I need a Fat Jeans Man. A man that feels good to put on when I’m bloated bigger than roadkill. A man that makes me feel comfortable and beautiful even though I feel gross. A man that wants to get jiggy with it even though I’m a psychotic raging bitch. Yes, a Fat Jeans Man would be really great to have…but only one week a month. Any more than that and then I’m going to blame him for my fatness. In fact I’d probably blame him more than I’d blame my post pregnancy body.

The post pregnancy body that has me wearing Mommy Jeans. No, not high waisted, camel toeing, butt wedgying Mom Jeans. No, my friends, these are Mommy Jeans and with them I could wear a Mommy Jeans Man. Someone that I can deal with daily. Someone that made me feel cute, yet functional. Someone that doesn’t mind having spit up, snot, dirt, ketchup, or even poop or pee wiped on him. This man would take the screaming baby, the whining toddler, the attitude ridden preschooler and say “Honey, you need a break. Why don’t you go out with your friends tonight and have some fun.”

And then…my friends…I’d find me a Party Jeans Man. We’re talking low rise, in the club, worn with high hot heels, a cute sexy top, and a body that kills. Yes, he’d buy me drinks. He’d know how to dance. He’d even make my ass look good (because when you’ve got some badunkadunk you need jeans to tame that booty down!). He’ll know which places were good to go to have fun. He’d know how to have fun. Most importantly, all of my friends would love him and I’d feel sexier than a Pussy Cat Doll during a concert tour. Yes…I’d look and feel fantastic. Until the next morning, when I wake up exhausted with a headache and few recollections of what happened the night before.

No, now it’s time for me to get on my Working Jeans. It’s time to do home improvement projects, clean, paint, whatever it is that you do when parts of your home needs fixing. Then walks in my Working Jeans Man. He’s wearing nothing but his own working jeans, a six pack of abs, and a tool belt that has everything I need. Yes, my Working Jeans Man would help me get stuff done around the house, I could stand back at a distance and admire his muscles as he carries those two by fours up the stairs so he can build on to my deck in the glistening sun. Yes…I’d drool and get paint all over ~~him~~ my jeans. Then after all of that hard physical labor, all of that cardio work, all of that hammering and pounding (*wink wink*) I’d get to wear my skinny jeans.

Skinny Jeans. Jeans I was afraid to wear until recently. Jeans that suddenly when I bought a pair actually made me feel fashionable (even though my sister said it reminded her of Junior High School when I was the least fashionable. Shoot, I was just ahead of my time!). With that would come my Skinny Jeans Man and I would feel like one of the Real Housewives of Orange County because he would be like “My Gay”. He’d dress me, fashion me out, and make me look like a million dollars all the while making it look like I wasn’t trying at all. Yes, I’d be the Kourtney Kardashian Type Mom of Chicago and I’d look fabulous all the time.

Yes, it’s decided. I need as many men as I have jeans. Yet for now I’ll have to make do with training the man I already have and love. He’s my All Purpose Jeans and I’ll wear ~~him~~ them through the shreds, the dirt, and snot and slobber. They’re comfortable, they always fit, and I suppose I’ll wear ~~him~~ them for the rest of my life.

Even if he doesn’t wear a tool belt.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This post was written for Write On Edge.

We all have a relationship with jeans. They can make us feel a range of emotions, and this week we asked you to write a piece in which jeans figured prominently.

Cheryl got a little steamy with her continuing story about the widow in I’m still alive.

How did you do? Link up, but ONLY if you’ve done the prompt.

Try to read as many as you can so we can keep our community strong and growing.

Monologue of an Almost Four Year Old

2011-09-08T02:38:11Z

It’s been one of those days. You know those days where you love your children yet wonder how you’re going to survive the life sentence of parenthood? Those days where if another scream, argument, whine, or just another person climbing on you will just about throw you over the edge (Sorry Hubs, consider yourself warned for tonight)? Those days where you envision yourself on top of a cliff overlooking the Grand Canyon and the magnificent beauty and calmness of it…and then you jump.

Yeah…it’s been one of those days.

It’s also been one of those days where you wonder what the hell is going on in those little minds of those that love to torment you. They’re half your height, but have ten times your endurance. They will take you down scream, whine, and misbehaved action by action. Then it happens…you suddenly have an epiphany…

Right after your almost four year old boy spits out milk…

out your patio door…

onto your door, floor and…

your neighbor’s patio below.

You yell “What are you doing???” As if though he’ll answer.

He answers, “I’m making a lake.”

No shit, you think. You grumble in silence instead.

“Are you supposed to do this?” you finally ask as you wipe of some of the Milky Lake knowing that he’ll answer correctly.

“Nope.”

“Then why did you?” you get up to grab some paper towels to help your efforts while the eighteen month old screams and laughs from the high chair. Your almost four year old runs to play with something else. You don’t chase him and instead you begin the monologue of what went through his head.

Hey, look at that. There’s a tiny little hole between the screen door and the gate. I wonder if I can get through it, he looks at Mom to make sure she’s sufficiently distracted. Hell yeah (Yeah, my son talks like a bad ass.) she’s busy. Ok…if I do this my mom is going to go ape crazy on me. She’ll probably put me in time out. I might even lose my firetruck…again. Worth it? Not worth it? Worth it? Not worth it?

He looks at me again. This time our eyes connect and I know something is up, but he is smarter than me and wilier than me. That, and he has those big powerful brown eyes that can hide and kill. I know…I have the same pair.

Dude, it’s going to be totally worth it to see the mess. (Yeah, my son talks like a surfer, too.) He grabs his milk and chugs. I see him and am glad that he’s finally decided to drink it. I turn back to the kitchen to get some more food for them until I hear…

***SPLASH***

What the hell??? Yes, ladies and gentlemen, almost four year old boys are smarter than us. They are wilier than us. They weigh the positives and negatives of their actions and let it be known that ….

Making a huge fucking mess is worth all sorts of time outs, toys taken away, and a very very pissed off mom.

Peace out, Firetruck. See you next week.

My son in 11 years

You Got Me, Mommy.

2011-09-06T03:55:10Z

Lately I’ve been having an internal struggle with spirituality. My life has been in chaos (or at least seems that way to me) and I can never seem to get a grip on things around me. As soon as I figure it out it all starts to fall out of balance again. So when I put my son to bed last night, his words hit me like a ton of bricks.

Last night I was exhausted. I hadn’t slept well the night before (a usual as of late) and I had had a long day with the kids. My irritability had been sensed by my husband and he made a well timed exit to his Sunday night class. Which left me alone…with the boys..and a splitting headache that was about to make the Andes Fault Line look like scratch.

But that’s ok. He deserved his time away. He needed it.

After a bath that landed more water on me, the walls, and the floor than the kids. After screams that bath time wasn’t over yet. After a story and a song to a certain very tired toddler boy. I sighed, One down, one to go.

I’m sure something in me screamed “I need a break!” or “Mommy can’t take much more!” Whatever it was, my preschooler silently understood and walked with me happily as we went through our night time routine.

“Brush my teeth. Put my jammies on. Cuddle on the couch. Watch TV. Story and song and go to bed!” he sang as we went through each step.

We brushed his teeth and as we sat in his room preparing to put his jammies on he wandered off to play with a toy. I laid out his Pull-Up, I picked out a pair of jammies, and then he said it. He said it so thoughtlessly as he played with his truck.

“Mom, you got me and put me together,” I stopped what I was doing to listen to what he said. “And took me home with you and I loved you.”

He suddenly ran to me and hugged me. He planted a wet kiss on my exhausted cheek.

“What do you mean, honey? What did I do?” I ask him trying to see where he had gained such infinite wisdom as I shuffle on his Pull-Up.

Willow Tree's Mother and Son Statue

“You chose me,” he said matter of factly as he continued to play. He said it as if though it were yesterday. I almost felt that he was remembering something I have long gone forgotten. Or I was never privy to in the first place.

“Where did I choose you?”

He paused and stopped everything. He looked off and said, “The airport.”

I giggled. Why, of course, that’s where we pick up the people we love. At least, that’s what we do here.

“What do you mean I put you together, baby?”

Without a moments hesitation he said, “You came and got me and put me all together. And I loved you!”

My eyes begin to water, but I refuse to let him see. I hurriedly put his shirt over his head and regain my composure.

“Where did I put you guys together?” I ask trying to see where he must have gotten this from. I have yet to talk to him about the birds and the bees or even that babies come from their mommies belly if you’re lucky enough to get pregnant. I put his jammie shorts on him as we finish our conversation.

“At the airport. Mommy, you got B, too. And you put him together, too. I make you happy?”

I pulled him close to me and with tears streaming down my face I said, “You make me so happy, baby. So very very happy. I love you and B so much and Mommy is very lucky to have you both.”

He pulled me away and looked at me closely.

“You got me, Mommy,” he said and with that he grabbed my hand and we watched his trains movie. Except this time…he got an extra fifteen minutes so I could cuddle him that much longer.

Wussifying

2011-08-23T03:47:17Z

Oh yes, I said it. Wussify. I’ve always wanted to make a word that sounded cool, but totally wasn’t and I’ve made it. Right there. Right now.

Wussify.

You know you’re jealous.

According to Sarapedia:

Wussify: the process of making our children spineless little gremlins that lack self control and the ability to have empathy.

I’m positive that this generation of children are headed in that direction. Similar to the generation before being the Entitlement Generation our children will be among the Wussified Generation. Long gone are the days of Generation X or even the Greatest Generation. Long gone are the days where our children are taught that yes, that sometimes you have to do something you don’t want to do. Long gone are the days where we, as parents, don’t worry about the looks and glares as we have the screaming child in Target that we are trying to discipline.

No, my friends, we have entered the world of over-sensitizing our children and worrying about their souls being taken with each scream of distress they may have. So often we are trying to avert a crisis, a screaming child, a tantrum, a yell, even their head spinning like in the Excorcist. So often we are worrying about how to make our children happy that we stop caring about how to make them human.

We are wussifying them.

I find so often we underestimate our young children. We underestimate their intelligence, their abilities, their knowledge. Yes, some people believe that their “Baby Can Read” (which is a whole schlew of nonsense since their baby can only memorize). Yes, some people believe their child is gifted. We shelter them from movies that may hurt them, we give every single one of them trophies just for being on the team, we tell them that being their best is just being present. The problem is that hardly anyone believes in teaching their young child lessons that go far beyond their ABC’s, shapes, and colors. No, they save these lessons for the tweens and teens. Lessons that could have been taught long before if only we opened our eyes to the opportunities.

They wussify.

I am a stern mother. I count to five, I do time-outs, I take away *gasp* their favorite toys. I will not hit. I’ve been known to discipline in public. Not in the “You betta get yo ass back here, boy” type of way, but more of a “You. Here. Now!” discipline. I have put my child in time out in public. Not to humiliate (no, I would never intentionally humiliate my kids…except for that one picture of them naked that I’ll show every single one of their girlfriends), but to teach them that just because we’re out in public doesn’t mean it’s “be a turd” time.

I do not wussify.

I expect my kids to listen. I expect them to be respectful. I expect them to share with others. I want my children to have empathy, sensitivity and shoulders for others. I want them to be confident, self assured, assertive. I’m so very lucky that their personalities already allow me to have a head start on these traits, but my job as their mother is to hold them, love them, show them the beautiful world around them, and teach them that the best part of being human is being just that…human.

I’m not the best parent. I don’t have all the answers. I don’t discipline perfectly and there are moments (more than I’d like to admit) where I scream in exasperation like a tea kettle screams to be taken off the stove (yup, high pitched and annoying). Each parent can discipline how they feel best, but believe in your child, believe that they’re smart, believe that they know more than they’re letting you know, and for the love of all the chocolate in the world…

Stop wussifying!

Edited to Add: I decided to do a little more research about my beautiful word and no…I didn’t create it. The Urban Dictionary got to my word first. Damn them!

Something’s Gotta Change

2011-08-16T22:31:26Z

This week we’d like you to write about a moment in your life when you knew something had to change drastically. Really explore the moment.

She laid in bed yet again. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. Her head pounded. She fell asleep.

“Sara, wake up.”

She laid in bed. She couldn’t move. She didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t have enough energy to lift her eyelids.

“Sara, you need to get up.”

She laid in bed. She couldn’t move. She hadn’t felt normal in months. She had pneumonia in February and here it was May. She could barely function.

“Sara, you can’t just lay there.”

She laid in bed. She couldn’t move. She let a groan escape. She had missed more classes this quarter than she had her entire college career…and this was her last quarter ever (if she passed).

“Sara, it’s 7pm. It’s your birthday. I’m not going to let you sleep through it.”

She laid in bed. She couldn’t move. Her sister stood above her pulling her arm and trying to lift her out of bed. In desperation her sister called Matt, Sara’s fiancé.

“Matt is on the phone. You need to get up.”

She laid in bed. She couldn’t move. She laid the phone next to her and pressed her ear on it.

“Hello?”

She laid in bed. She couldn’t move. She forced herself to talk with a voice raspy from days of no use.

“Baby,” he said. “You need to get up. It’s your birthday! Go to dinner with your sister. Go to Outback and get a steak for some protein. You only turn 22 once”

She laid in bed. She couldn’t move. She thought about what he was saying and realized that she had to try. She looked at her sister who gingerly helped lift her up into a sitting position. She closed her eyes to stop the world from spinning.

“Okay,” she rasped. “It’s my birthday. I have to do something.” She envisioned her fiancé, thousands of miles away. She envisioned him holding her and how much his warm body would relieve her aching body. “I miss you,” she whispered with tears in her eyes.

“I miss you, too. Now go have fun, baby.”

She sighed. Her sister helped her get up, get showered, get dressed in jeans and a grey hoodie. Her sister helped her get to the restaurant, order her food, cut her steak. She only ate a quarter of it and didn’t have any more energy to lift the fork to her mouth.

“Sara, you’re sick. This isn’t normal.”

She looked at her sister with her dark circled eyes. She saw the concern in her sister’s eyes. She knew her sister was right.

“I know,” she whispered. “I’ll go to the doctor tomorrow.”

She sighed. She closed her eyes to try to relieve some of her headache’s pain. She was scared what the doctor was going to say. She knew something wasn’t right with her and whatever it was she knew it was serious. She opened her eyes and looked down at the uneaten steak that laid on the table. She lifted her gaze back to her worried sister.

“Something’s gotta change.”

False Impressions

2011-08-10T13:38:55Z

Whenever people meet me they get an impression. What type of impression you ask?

I’d like to know, too.

It seems that after I’ve spent time with someone and we’ve established some sort of relationship people will inevitably tell me the same thing…

You’re not at all how I thought you would be. I mean, I thought you’d be different.

Now, at first I was taken aback by this.

Ok, I would think. Does that mean I’m better or worse than you thought I would be?

Then I started to just smile and say, “Really? I get that a lot.” Depending on how close we had gotten or how many drinks they had earlier I may also have said, “Why? What makes me different?” and almost every time I would get something similar to this answer…

You look different than you act. Oh no…no no… don’t worry….it’s a good thing.

Now, I hope this means that I look like a bitchy pretty girl straight out of Mean Girls and I actually end up being the ugly super sweet, nice, and nerdy friend, but I’m really not sure. It could just as easily mean I’m ugly super sweet, nice, and nerdy girl and end up being a bitchy one depending on who I’m talking to at the moment.

All of this has left me with social anxieties. I mean, clearly I’m not what people expect when they see me, but if no one will give me a straight answer and tell me what they think when they see me then maybe I could fix it. Then again, would “fixing it” be changing who I am and people need to just deal with the anomaly that I am? Yes, in the perfect world I would think so, but it is isn’t the perfect world and we all have our issues. Clearly, I have many, many issues.

Which leads me to my current nerves being on edge about my first upcoming blog conference, Bloggy Bootcamp Chicago with the SITS Girls. Here will be 125 other bloggers that may know me and my deep dark secrets from reading my blog or my twitter feed. They will meet me with ideas and expectations and perhaps be dissappointed or confused or, even worse, disgusted? What if they just don’t like me and find that super annoying laugh, well, super annoying?

Yes, my friends, I am feeling growing anxieties and nervousness about a group of “online” people that I may or may not ever see again in my life. I think I’m more nervous now than I was when I met Hubs parents, because at least then I knew the only opinion that mattered was my husband’s.

Now, though, (insert melodramatic music and the movie preview guy’s voice)…

…friendships may be created or destroyed.

When Something Crawled Up and Died

2011-08-09T21:09:02Z

CLANG!

“Fireman…stop it. I’m almost done,” I say as I sift through Target’s belts. I’m searching for a wide brown belt that will go perfectly with that new orange and red dress I have sitting in my cart’s basket.

“Mooooom, it’s bells. Listen!”

“Not right now.”

CLING!

B starts to laugh at his brother’s antics.

CLANG! CLING!

“Fireman. Seriously, knock it off. I’m almost done.”

Fits of laughter from both boys. I sigh. What does a woman have to do to find a freaking belt that’s not $20! I just want something for me to tuck my extra belly under. I’m not being difficult. I notice an old man working at the store rearranging the clearance jewelry. I bet the “bells” are pretty annoying to him.

CLANG!

“Mom, don’t you hear the bells?”

“Yes, I hear it. I don’t think they’re meant to be bells, baby. Please stop.”

CLING!

“Ok, stop now. No more.”

CLANG!

“Fireman!”

“Ok, Mom.”

CLA….

I give him the look. You know, the look from Mom that can send chills up every kid’s spine? The open your eyes a little wider and stare them down because you’re the grown up look. The you better knock that crap off or you’re going to lose a hand look. The don’t make me lose my cool in the middle of Target look. The if you so much as embarrass me in front of all these people you’re going to have “a reckoning” look.

Yes, my friends. I gave him that look because well…I was getting frustrated.

That is until I got the look from the old man rearranging the clearance jewelry. He turned and I smiled and then….then he gave me the look as he shook his head in disapproval.

Yes, my friends I got the look because well…he was a stupid old man that had nothing better to do than cast judgement.

If you don’t know, I’m not a huge fan of the “three’s” and I may or may not have tempted it to suck my big toe. However, Fireman is MY three and suddenly Mama Bear came out and I wanted to tell Fireman to take all of those clangity clinging metal belts and whip them around like he was lassoing cattle and make sure that he hit every single metal rack within earshot of Old McGrumperPants.

I began envisioning different ways that I could go up to Old FartDonald and rip him a new one.

I wanted to say, “If you could stop clenching your ass cheeks for long enough, I’m sure whatever crawled up there would like to crawl out before it dies.” Or “I’m so sorry that you’re stuck organizing the clearance jewelry that the preteens are going to just throw around anyways. Here…..let me give them a head start!” Or more realistically, “For heaven’s sake, he’s a little boy! The belt department in Target is not the most entertaining place to be.”

Instead, I walked away without a belt and without lecturing Fireman for that last, very loud, CLANG!