Silicone Momma

My precious...

2012-01-16T18:41:00.006-05:00

I have two new pet projects going right now. I would love to be able blame my lack of blogging on my new hobbies but alas, I can't. I'm lazy. Don't look so surprised. My first little jewel is to study marriages and the important do's and donts of both men and women. You will see these little rules in future blogs. I've been reading a lot of books and paying close attention to the relationships around me. Eh. It's a work in progress and it's keeping me and hopefully will keep you entertained.

My second little piece of treasure has become the ultimate game to me. I'm making freezer meals to accomplish 2 goals. 1. Save money. Who doesn't want to do this? I spent less than $100 dollars last paycheck to make over fifty meals. And I'm not finished! Not only do I not have to cook for the rest of the month, I have more money to shop with! YAY! 2. Eat healthier. If the food is already done, there won't be anymore fast food stops.

For this month I've made Rosemary Chicken; Fajitas; Taquitos; Teriyaki Chicken; Chicken Nuggets; Asparagus; Pot Roast; Chicken and Dumplings; Shrimp Primavera; Pizza dough; Hamburger for Pizza, Pizza Casserole, Tacos, Homemade Mac and Cheese; Lemon Pepper Chicken, Pancakes, a ton of Breakfast Burritos, etc.

The thing is that YOU can do it too! It took me 1 afternoon and the will power to make camp in the kitchen. Of course I already had a lot of seasonings and I since I know my monsters so well, I have an idea of my monthly menu already in mind when I do my shopping. For those of you wanting to start eating better (no more take out or fast food for us!) and saving money, I've compiled a list of things that should always be kept in your kitchen.

For the pantry:

-Tomato sauce and paste (use for spaghetti sauce, lasagna, etc)

-Pastas (all kinds)

-Rice (Gold brand rice is all I use. Not sure why. Maybe habit.)

-Low-Sodium Chicken Broth (I make my own but for some, it may be a great time saver to buy the cans)

-Peanut Butter (aside from a good ole' PB&J, peanut butter is an excellent source of protein and can be used to dip apples or celery in)

-Canned beans (kidney, chickpeas, cannellinis)

-Dried Bread Crumbs (I use Italian herb because it gives you more options. I use this for chicken nuggets, meatloaf, meatballs, hamburgers etc.)

-Bread (duh)

-EVOO

-Tortillas (for wraps and burritos)

-A good spice rack (preferably with herbs and spices)

-Potatoes

-Onion

In the Fridge:

-Eggs

-Butter

-Fresh Herbs

-Plain Yogurt

-Milk

-Cheeses (all kinds! Parm, Mozz, Chedder, Provolone, Swiss, etc. Cheese is another good source of calcium and can really make a dish great!)

-Lemons (ok so I go the lazy route on this one and just buy lemon juice. It's good for flavor.)

-Jams and Jellies

-Salad Fixings

-Condiments (mustard, ketchup, mayo, relish, salad dressing, bbq sauce, etc)

For your Freezer:

-Bacon

-Chicken (It's cheaper to buy a whole Chicken and cut it up however you want to make different meals but you can always buy boneless skinless breasts by themselves. I do it both ways because I prefer to eat some things with only white meat i.e. chicken nuggets)

-Ground beef (because I save so much in other areas, I only buy ground sirloin.)

-Frozen veggies

-Frozen fruit

-Peeled and deveined shrimp

-Pizza dough (try making your own. It's cheaper and tastes better)

Once you're stocked, get ready for some work. Add things together to make the dishes and freeze, Freeze, FREEZE!

Ground beef + herbs + onion + ketchup + eggs + breadcrumbs = meatloaf

Chicken + eggs + breadcrumbs + Parmesan + tomato sauce + Mozzarella = Chicken Parmesan

Eggs + fresh herbs + cheese + salad = French omelet with salad greens

Seriously, so easy. Why wouldn't you try? My grocery bill is a normal $300-400 twice a month. Not anymore!! As I get better at my freezer meals I'll post them for you to try too. Some people do extreme couponing, I do extreme cooking. And I love that I've been able to teach my mom something for once.

This ain't sweat...

2011-09-08T03:35:00.003-04:00

It's always a good day when the kids are ready for school in under 30 minutes and are even remotely nice (*gasp) to each other but it makes for a great day when you hear from the husband that you haven't spoken to in over a month even if it is only by email. All those ridiculous fears that I had were put to rest when he laid it all out in 5 little words. "I'm so proud of you." Looking back at my life, I've done a lot of things that scream "bad decision" but this man, that I am able to lovingly call MINE , knows all of my past and invited me into his future and is actually PROUD of me. He wants me to be happy and he loves me and he puts up with all of my bullshit. And yes there is a lot of bullshit. I'm definitely a handful and he's always been able to overlook my occasional, childlike bratiness (is that a word?) and does so (usually) without ever being condescending or rude.

I think I like him :)

Where did I go wrong...or right?

2011-09-01T15:00:00.005-04:00

My son. The 6 year old full of bright, shining, American boyhood that I can claim as the last to pass on our family name. Somewhere I went horribly wrong with him. Or maybe I created a genius, problem solver and perhaps I just don't understand his phenomenal critical thinking skills. My Prince Charming has never done anything half-ass. When I forgot to buy the magnifying glass that he so desperately needed to conquer tiny ants in the driveway, he took the lenses out of his $600 glasses to make one. When he got bored at the Chevy dealership, he spiced things up by driving a golf cart through the showroom window. When he finds a book that he enjoys, he scratches out the author's name and pens his own right on the cover. Charming is definitely a smart kid and thinks way outside of the box but this time, he's gone too far. Can I blame him? Look at what a good thinker his momma is! Anyway, my boy has a gift for thinking up permanent solutions to the problems in his life and when he confessed to me that every time the blanket fell off the couch it bothered him, I should've taken things much more seriously than I did.

As I laid down to watch some TV, I felt chilled and reached for my favorite, lightweight blanket that stays folded on the back of my new couch. These couches are less than 2 weeks old and are one of the largest purchases that I've ever made without consulting the Baby Daddy. The monkeys and I sat on the floor for months because this decision was weighing so hugely on me. The walls haven't even been repainted yet because of my indecisiveness. So, as I pulled the blanket down over me, it almost immediately felt not so lightweight. Apparently, Charming fixed the problem of the falling blanket that must have stressed him to the core in such a way that he was willing to risk his own childhood to "fix" it. He nailed a blanket to my brand-spanking new couch because....it kept falling down. Are you fucking kidding me?

I quit. I'm throwing in the towel covered in all the sweat and tears it took me to try and raise happy, well adjusted children until their dad comes home. I need a vacation, again. I need a sitter, someone to drink with, and a DD. Who's with me?

I would maybe only be slightly annoyed if he had tucked the blanket into the cushion or piled books on top of it but my son, the thinker, rationalized getting a hammer and nails. What the hell? I'm screwed if this is a glimpse into his teenage years.

Becca

Awkward...

2011-08-31T03:10:00.011-04:00

It's been a while since my last blog and for that I'm sorry. Not necessarily sorry for you but sorry that I've let my only healthy coping skill shrivel into a corner only to be re-hydrated by my unfortunate need of an outlet. In my best Kramer voice and exaggerated hand motion I declare "Oh, I'm stressed." I guess if you never saw that episode, you wouldn't be able to appreciate that humor.

For once though, I must say that the demons that I claim as my children have been acting the exact opposite. Okay, maybe not perfect angels but definitely not shredding my last frazzled nerve as they have in the past. They've been good little monsters.

*Let me just interrupt real quick and mention what a beautiful man that LL Cool J is :)

My romantic comedy is still on pause since my baby daddy is still gone. (For all of you that just said "Still?!?" Yes, he's still gone so don't judge me for looking at Mr. J). I'm really anxious about his homecoming. As much as I can't wait to have him back, I worry. What if I haven't lost

enough weight? What if the house isn't good enough? What if he doesn't like the way I've disciplined/dealt with monkeys? I'm terrified that he has these big expectations of us and that he'll be disappointed when he gets back. The very few people that I've expressed these insecurities to were understanding and supportive except one. And today, I've let that one person get under my skin. So, now not only do I feel insecure and paranoid regarding my marriage, I'm taking the opinion of someone that doesn't even really know me at all. And what's really stupid is that I can logically say in my head that what they say isn't important, but I can't seem to get rid of the judgmental tone that made me feel 5 years old.

I'm usually pretty rational and if I can't be, I know I can call my blue-blooded sister wife (okay, bible thumpers, put down your wagging finger. It's a joke.) and she'll be my voice of reason but my anxiety is making my feel out of control and I really really like having control over my emotions. I think that they might be the only thing I have control over and for now, my emotions are betraying me.

I also recently learned that my youngest will be having surgery. And it's not minor. My beautiful Goose was diagnosed with Craniosynostosis. For my non-medical readers, the sutures in her skull have prematurely fused together and will have to be taken back apart and separated with spacers. Again, logically, I know I have nothing to worry about and that it is pretty common

as far as neuro-surgeries go but she's not just a patient, she's my baby. So much could go wrong. After losing two babies already, I feel like I can't emotionally afford anything else happening to my children. There goes my emotions again, running rampant when I really just need them to sit down and shut-up.

I think I just need to hide out again for awhile, recharge my batteries and reboot my main frame (What does that even mean?). But I promise that I won't be hiding out from here anymore. I like having the support of my readers and I miss it here. And guess what, I'm starting to feel better already.

Becca

North America the Beautiful

2011-07-08T01:07:00.003-04:00

I remember wishing that I could get out of this "dump". 16 years old and I had a plan. I was never gonna come back. My brilliant idea never included a job or a place to live but I had high hopes. My "plans" have always been viewed with tunnel vision meaning that getting to where I'm going didn't really matter as long as I could see myself at the finish line and everyone would be throwing flowers and telling me how great my idea was. And confetti. There was always confetti. I'm sort of a rockstar/diva in my daydreams. Little did I know that in less than a year I'd be having a child of my own and that any dreams I may have had would have to be shoved in the closet behind the family skeletons. I grew up (kinda) and I had to put others in front of myself (kinda). Eventually, I got married, had more babies and moved across the country away from the places that I swore I'd never return to.

Oh, Hawaii, yes it's beautiful and I love my house and friends. But I'm home now and not even those gorgeous Polynesian men with their beautiful skin and tattoos could make me wanna go back right now. So, unless the Cheyenne returns early or someone pays me a substantial amount of money, I'm gonna stay here and do what I do best. I case you were confused I'm the best at doing absolutely nothing. If anyone comes looking for me, I'll be at Angie's shoving my face.

Day 3285 of my captivity...

2011-06-06T04:26:00.005-04:00

My Captors are insisting on sleep deprivation as their primary source of torture. As I was barely getting into an hour of sleep, the larger one that I can only imagine is the tiny one's "muscle" demanded that I get up. To get him....wait for it....a banana. I was weak and although I was allowed a Dr. Pepper and outside rec time for "good behavior", they are definitely weighing on me. I was once again forced into manual labor. The tiny warden demanded that I work in the kitchen and clean the prison's common areas. Apparently, she was not satisfied with my work because she screams at me in her fits of rage. I try to blend in with the general population but then I realize that I am the general population.

I'm really starting to feel like I'm unravelling. Mentally and physically. My mind swirls and twirls with the same thoughts everyday. I need a serious vacation from my brain. I'm tired of being gumby-like. I don't want to be flexible and "in charge". I want another responsible party to come cook and clean for me and remind me to take my medicine and put me in bed before 2 am. Ooooh, I need my mommy. See that right there....perfect example of my deteriorating sanity. Physically, I hurt. Bad. I usually sleep on the floor or in the living room because the ungrateful little brats that I claim as my offspring take over my bed. I feel like I have fishing hooks attached from my spine to my back muscles and with every little turn, twist, or jerk, there is a fire hot shooting pain that makes me want to stab my eyeballs out just to have some sort of distraction.

But oh the joy's of motherhood. Where would I be without my little monsters. Let me apologize to my Facebook family because they've already seen these photos but let me share the beauty that came from my sexual irresponsibility.

"I hate when that happens."

2011-05-31T14:02:00.000-04:00

I watched my boy help his friend up after falling down this morning and my eyes got all misty. I couldn’t help myself; it was a biological response to the flood of hormones that surge through me at a certain time of the month. Don’t judge me. I’m a woman. "ROAR"
I was furtively wiping the wetness from my eyes when he hopped in the front seat of the car. I must have had a flashing neon sign on my forehead, blinking “Proceed with Caution, Hormonal Woman Ahead,” because he gave me a strange look and asked me what was wrong.
“Nothing,” I sniffed as I turned the key and proceeded to put the vehicle into drive.
“Something’s up. Two minutes ago you were normal and now you look like someone kicked your dog.”
How does one describe to their offspring that they were suddenly attacked with a severe case of maternal love? That watching my only son bound down the street suddenly reminded me that he was no longer the wobbly-footed toddler from many moons ago? That in watching him, I realized I was watching my future and I was suddenly overcome with a huge amount of mommy pride.
I made him. And I didn’t do a terrible job. Imagine that.
Even more mind boggling, I made him when I was just a kid myself, with no real clue to who I was and with nary an instruction book in sight.
I’m twenty-six years old and suddenly the sounds of a clock ticking out the seconds passing rings in my ears. Every day. Loudly. While other women around me hear the tick tock of their biological clock, I usually remain deaf to that noise. Three kids by the age of 25 and I don’t feel the biological imperative to bring forth life. I’ve been there, I’ve done that. I’d love more children, absolutely, unabashedly, but I have no actual desire to produce them myself. I would be equally satisfied to adopt another, as I would be to purchase one off of eBay.
The sound that haunts me every day is the knowledge that my time with my kids is ending. Their childhoods are almost over, my role as their guide to life is coming to an end way too fast. The contract is expiring. Prissy is standing on the doorstep to 9 and Prince Charming is right behind her, chasing down the days to 7 like a dog runs after a rubber ball.
One day soon, in a blink of an eye, it will just be the Goose and I, alone, waiting for the phone to ring, eager to hear from a husband or a child who has flown from the nest to soar into their own independent world. The downy feathers of childhood are quickly falling out being replaced with the colourful plumage of adulthood.
I never would have thought I’d be emotionally affected by the thought of an empty nest. Most days I stand behind my kids, eager to shove them off of a cliff. Somehow, along the way, I’ve surprised myself with this maudlin sentimentality I’ve acquired.
I never expected to enjoy being a mother. Even as I had my first child I was overcome with this horrible sense of ‘what the heck did I just do?’ But here I am, enjoying the heck out of being responsible for live young. It hangs on my very being and reminds me not to take every minute I have with my children for granted. It’s the reason I attend every sports event, volunteer to chaperone mind numbingly boring field trips, offer to have one endless sleep over after another under my roof. I don’t want to miss a moment of my kids’ childhood. But it isn’t just grief or guilt that inspires such parental involvement. Somewhere along the way I discovered I get a charge out of watching these children grow. It fuels me and I’ve grown up into the woman I finally am just as my children have grown alongside me. I found what I didn’t even know I was looking for all those years ago. My kids make me want to be better. To do more. To try harder.
Like a roller coaster ride you never want to end, I find myself wishing for more time with my kids. I am plagued with a desperate wish to slow down the sands of time just to prolong my daily involvement in their lives. I want to wring every drop of joy I can from simply being their mother because I know it will fuel me for the rest of my life.
Of course, if they turn into unemployed bums mooching off my largesse as they live on my couch when they are 30 years old I’ll likely read this and want to slap myself silly.
The mere act of having children, both accidental and planned, has turned into the greatest thing I never intended. More important to me than the fame and fortune I once dreamed of as a child myself.
For one moment, on our dead-end street, I was suddenly seized with gratitude for not having the sense to use protection all those years ago and bring forth life.
As Prince Charming stared at me like I had just grown a set of horns in the middle of my forehead, I instead chose to keep my maternal pride silent, and looked into his questioning eyes and simply told him, “I bit my tongue.”
“Oh I hate when that happens.”
Me too kid, me too.

Happy Memorial Day

2011-05-30T13:30:00.000-04:00

See those monkeys there? Yeah, they're mine. Even though they act like wild pigs most of the time and have made it their personal mission to make my hair fall out, they do make me proud. The photographer captured everything I wanted. Innocence, freedom, patriotism, and most importantly, pride. I Hope you feel the same great pride that I do for our country and remember all of our fallen heroes not just today but always.

Viewer discretion is advised

2011-05-03T19:34:00.007-04:00

Why do I get the feeling that I might offend people by this post? Not that I care but I would like to clarify that I'm the head honcho in a military family and I DO support the war, and I DO support our soldiers and sailors, and I DO think it's fantastical that Bin Laden is dead. On the other hand, I cope with humor and I would just like to warn my readers that what I find is funny, you might not. But I'm gonna say it anyway. So continue on, my computer friends, or forever hold your peace.

I would first like to say that it's amazing what we Americans can do when the playstation network is down. Ok ok, just kidding. I'm trying to tread lightly I swear! But seriously, what a great hiding spot. So close to the Pakistan capital, yet they swore he wasn't there. Osama probably tried to tweet and forgot to turn his location off. Or maybe he "checked-in" with Facebook. Osama Bin Laden just checked in at Big Fucking Compound. I wonder if hide and seekers are going to guage their hiding places differently. "Ok Johnny, on a scale of 1 to Osama how good was my spot?" You know if he had a student loan we would've found him Sept. 12th.

This could be an incredible monster movie in the making you know. He was dumped in the ocean. Yes, the same ocean that touches radioactive Japan.

They could've gotten this done quicker if they sent a bunch of women in. Take all American women who are within five years of menopause. Train them for a few weeks, outfit them with automatic weapons, grenades, gas masks, moisturizer with SPF15, Prozac, hormones, chocolate, and canned tuna - drop them (parachuted, preferably) across the landscape of Afghanistan, and let them do what comes naturally.
Think about it. The anger quotient alone, even when doing standard stuff like grocery shopping and paying bills, is formidable enough to make even armed men in turbans tremble. We've had our children and we would gladly suffer or die to protect them and their future. We've survived the water diet, the protein diet, the carbohydrate diet, and the grapefruit diet in gyms and saunas across America and never lost a pound We can easily survive months in the hostile terrain of Afghanistan with no food at all! We've spent years tracking down our husbands in bars, hardware stores, or sporting events...finding bin Laden in some cave or compound would have been no problem. Uniting all the warring tribes of Afghanistan in a new government? Oh, please ... we've planned the seating arrangements for in-laws and extended families at Thanksgiving dinners for years ... we understand tribal warfare. We know how to find that money and we know how to seize it ... with or without the government's help! Let us go and fight. The Taliban hates women. Imagine their terror as we crawl like ants with hot-flashes over their godforsaken terrain.
And that is all.

The Big Man...

2011-04-21T14:28:00.003-04:00

It can be tough not having him home most of the time. I like having him home. I mean, I married the man after all. But he has goals and I have goals and our family has goals and none of these goals can be met with him working close to home due to the industry he joined when he entered the work force. Haha, I called the Navy an industry.
I don’t often write about the struggles of having a husband who misses most of his kid’s daily lives because there isn’t much more to say other than it truly sucks. Both my husband and I move mountains to make sure he never misses the big events, the birthdays, the holidays, and the awards ceremonies by me photographing everything but he isn’t here for the quick and dirty of family life. He misses the doctor appointments, the parent teacher conferences. He’s not home to help fold laundry or goad the children into picking up their own dirty socks. He can’t referee when my kids morph into hormonal ultimate fighting champions intent on tearing one another limb from limb and he certainly has not changed his fair share of Goose’s dirty diapers.
We are keenly aware of just exactly what it is he is missing and how much value to it there really is. The smallest quietest moments are the ones that mean the most in life. It is those moments that spark us and see us through the burden of daily survival.
Our family does fine with out the big man under our roof. He’s trained all of us well in the art of rural survival. We can all thaw a frozen pizza or start the weed eater. Granted none of us have mastered the art of grilling a steak the way he does but then again, no one pours the milk into a bowl of dry cereal with quite as much flare as I can, so it all balances out.
When Baby daddy does make it home we tend to cocoon around him and soak up his energy for the small time he has home. In other words, I am off duty. All parental obligations other than cuddle time falls to my husband. Mostly because my children abandon me for their father. Because they are ingrates. And they forget who feeds them 99 percent of the time.
It took us a while to find our groove in his absence but somehow we manage to make it all work. Some days are easier than others and some days I am thundering in an email that he needs to GET HOME NOW BEFORE I LOSE MY MIND. Our situation isn’t ideal, nor would I recommend it for any family but it is what it is.
I’m just thankful I only have to shave my legs once a month. There is a bright side to everything.
My life isn’t hard. My husband’s life on the other hand seems unbearably cruel to me. He’s separated from the people he most loves in this world so that he can provide for us, for our family and our collective futures. He works unending hours, surrounded by other people who are in the same situations, all of them trying to cobble some sense of family together while separated from their loved ones.
And he doesn’t have the luxury of foisting household chores on two monkeys under the guise of teaching them responsibility and team work. He has to scrub his own darn toilets.
I couldn’t bear be away from my children and my husband knows this. So he works a job that provides us with enough stability to allow me to never leave my children’s side, a job that enables me to witness every second of my kid’s childhood up close and personal. He does this at great personal detriment to himself and I don’t spend enough time thanking him for that.
It’s my husband and the job he does which allows me to sit here and share with you all the daily foibles of living in the middle of butt-fark nowhereville amongst a gang of little hoodlums I call my children.
It’s my husband and the small moments we share that spark me.
And I’m forever grateful for that.
Also, I’m grateful he is far enough away he can’t strangle when I talk shit about him in my blog or buy more shoes.

Cry Me a River...

2011-04-08T17:08:00.007-04:00

Dear Mrs. Sanchez, as a military wife I feel the need to tell you that you are not the only one living paycheck to paycheck and as an American citizen I feel the need to tell you that you are full of shit. I might not have the most clear understanding of what is happening in politics and I don't pretend that I know how hard it must be for Congress to decide what is best for America as a whole. But what I do understand is that there is talk about our military not getting a paycheck. Not only will our pay be taken away but also death benefits for our service members. You told MSNBC today,“It's very difficult for me to say, ‘Hey, I can give up my paycheck,’ because the reality is, I have financial obligations that I have to meet on a month-to-month basis that doesn't make it possible for me.” You also whined about having childcare costs and two homes. I would like to point out that you are making $174,000. Just for a comparison, I have 3 children, ONE home and other financial responsibilities as well. I realize that a government shutdown would not be your fault alone but it's people like you that make me realize that politicians (like you) don't care at all about the citizens of this country. $174,000 = $83.65 pr hour (pre-tax of course) not including all the extras for lodging, food etc. And the fact that your home in California is $3 million, no wonder you need so much. Is this one of those "Do as I say not as I do" situations? You're upset that you can't pay for your homes. Some people don't have a home. You worry about childcare for your 2-year old. Some worry about how their children are going to eat. With a salary like yours, I would assume you had plenty of time to prepare for a situation like this. What makes your paycheck more important or crucial than my husbands? There are men overseas being shot at and their only concern is that their family is taken care of. So now, those men and women will not get their paycheck and if they were to die over there, they won't receive any death benefits either. So, from now on I will refer to you as "Dirty Sanchez" and I will mock you without mercy. Thank you for your time but not your idiotic remarks. Ignorance is not appreciated.

FRG...Can't believe I'm gonna say this...

2011-04-07T03:15:00.003-04:00

To know where I'm coming from you have to know where I've been. I grew up in the surface navy world. I remember as a kid thinking that the FRG (Family Readiness Group) or "Wives group" was stupid. I would watch all these women pile into a room and two things would happen. 1. Everybody would have a pity party and cry and hug a lot 2. Everyone would pretend to be supportive BFFs to everyone in the group. I was very confused because I couldn't understand why all these grown ass women would pretend to like everyone else when I knew good and well that as soon as they got home, the shit talk would flow like the Mississippi River. When Baby Daddy was aboard a submarine in Ga, I realized that I was not the favorite among the wives and I knew 110% that I was usually the topic of a very ugly conversation when the "Wives group" got together ( I can say this for sure because now that they know the real me, most of them are honest about the first impression I gave them and to this day I know that I am still in the top ten of their list of least liked wives). I can say that I understand their distrust but feel sorry for their lack of ability to get to know someone before they judge them. I never was invited or called for the FRG nor did I ever get any updates on the boat. Ever. Luckily, by the time I had my boy child I had earned the trust of a few of the wives enough to pass along messages. The boat was eventually moved to Wa. and even then I never got a single message regarding the boat that was literally across the country. Shore duty was a little easier. I had befriended many of people in Baby Daddy's division and set some of them up with my friends from back home (one of my matches even got married and now have a beautiful little girl). I knew I could call any of those guys for anything that I had ever needed. Not to mention that I was only 3 hours away from home and all my high school friends. I also had a fantastic job and met some of the most wonderful people there (ok the hospital wasn't that great but I enjoyed going to work with a whole staff of intelligent individuals that I call my friends and who I would do anything for). I love them all. Coming to Hawaii was definitely an experience. I had never left the east coast and was never more than a 3 hour drive from my old stomping grounds. But I was hopeful. I came here with my best friend and we were gonna rock the pacific ocean. But it didn't work out that way. The boat has been so demanding of baby daddy's time that I had to branch out. I met an amazing friend who has since become like family. I never felt alone with her across the street. When baby daddy left, no matter what happened she was there. The miscarriage, when my kids called 911 for me, when me and hubby were fighting over a stupid horse, when I felt lonely, my birthday; she was there for everything until the navy said it was time for her to go. I was back at square one. But I was confident that with my new little baby coming that I would be so busy that I wouldn't even notice. I was so wrong. Tonight we had an unexpected FRG meeting. I had to go. I mostly did some people watching. The women talked and hugged and laughed and shared stories and made plans. My previous thoughts about the crying and the bullshit weren't there. There was no pity party and it didn't seem like anyone was putting on a show when it came to who were friends and who are not friends. And guess what, I've never felt so isolated in my life. A few people introduced themselves to me and the wife of the guy that baby daddy trusts and respects gave me her number and genuinely told me to call if I needed anything but still, I've never made any effort to put myself out there like I do in the non-military world and I feel like I have not established any kind of place for myself among these women. I'm usually a pretty tough gal and not much brings me down but after tonight, with no one to call in my time zone and no one to share a glass of wine with and no where to go on this stupid island, I must say that I'm pretty bummed out. I was actually jealous of the women today that have made a support system for themselves. Ok, I'll just throw it out there...when the envy bug bites, he bites hard.

"Give me my BOOBY!"

2011-04-02T15:52:00.000-04:00

My happy, healthy, breastfed baby.

Why is it that some moms shield their children from other mommies that are breast feeding their babies? To avoid the questions? Because they are too lazy to explain that it's a natural, healthy way that mammals feed their young? I'll admit it, I didn't want my boy to see my friend with her boob out because I didn't want to have that conversation with him. I never kept him away from her but I also didn't make a big deal about what she was doing. But if by chance the questions were asked, I had decided to answer him truthfully and age appropriately. The questions were in fact, asked and answered.

Like my friend, I always keep myself covered when I'm nursing. Not because I think I have to but because I am more comfortable that way. I still see parents usher their kids away from me though. This especially bothered me when I saw a 9 year old playing with a slutty Bratz doll (you know with tight fitted clothing, makeup, stripper shoes, and cleavage). Her mother actually told her "Stay away from that lady". What the hell? So its not okay to educate kids that this is how babies eat? We should instead give them plastic dolls with massive breasts, wearing tight and provocative clothing, or makeup kits so they can learn that they should alter their natural appearance to look good.

A lot of people go into parenting without ever seeing a baby breastfed. Society did this. Now we have women who will see another woman nursing in public with half an inch of skin visible and she'll be upset that her children "were exposed to" such a thing. I get it. I respect it. I stay covered. But when you see your child notice a woman nursing in public, rather than admonishing the woman, take the opportunity to simply explain it to your child: Mommies make milk for their babies. Just like cats and dogs and cows (which is what I feel like most days). It's a mammal thing.

No matter how you choose to nurse (covered or not), it's a fact that you are legally protected with the right to nurse your baby wherever you're allowed to be with them. However, that doesn't stop ignorant, rude, or nosy people from making snide comments. For a lot of women, the fear of negativity is enough to scare them out of nursing in public entirely, forcing them to pump and take bottles, or even women who bring formula, despite the damage it can do to their breast milk supply. Some women actually feel obligated to feed their baby in the bathroom. Would you want your dinner served on a toilet?

The saddest part for me though is that a lot of my medical professional friends give me the hardest time about nursing. They say "Don't you hate feeling tied down?" and "You're not going to have any kind of social life." The very people that should be encouraging breastfeeding and educating the importance of it are acting just as ignorant as the parent that told her 9 year old to "stay away" from me.

Do you think this discourages me or makes me hesitant? Have a look:

Nursing my baby on the set of Hawaii 5-0

Oh Baby!

2011-03-20T17:00:00.006-04:00

Yes, this is going to be a cliche' post about the birth of my newest daughter in which I tell you how amazingly perfect she is. I don't care if you don't care because I'm gonna write about her anyway. I realize I'm late getting this out but every time I sit down, my milkaholic wants a booby. My little Goose was born on 2/23 . She was 6lbs and 1oz and 19 inches long. She is now up to a healthy (perhaps chunky) weight after dropping down to 4lbs 14oz. She was so teeny! Some respiratory issues and body temperature irregulation but that has since been resolved. Why would I call my daughter Goose? While I was pregnant, she and her twin were affectionately called Goose and Maverick. Probably not the best names for my girls especially since in the movie from which I stole the names, Goose dies. But as fate or God would have it, My Maverick was the one to leave us. We were definitely disappointed but I am beyond happy with what God has given to me. She's healthy and beautiful and perfect just like her brother and sister. Goose has an amazing alertness and big blue eyes. My life feels complete (told you this would be very cliche') with her.

Now having said all that, I have been beaten and broken , ill to the point of death, lost and alone but never have I felt such paralyzing fear as I did during my c-section. The sensations I was feeling and panic and distrust for the hospital had me in a full out anxiety attack. If I had any feeling in my legs I would've chosen flight over fight and jumped off that table. My doctors were fantastical though and gave a little Ativan and more Benadryl and I was good to go. I don't remember saying one word throughout the surgery, even to baby daddy. I was frozen in place (literally from the chest down) and I will never, ever do that again. Hope I don't frighten anyone. Hundreds of women have c-sections everyday and up until my own experience, I had never heard any complaints. My crazies were probably just showing off.

After the surgery, I had an opportunity to let go of my crazies for a while so I could fuck with my nurse (She pissed me off and in my defense, she could've had the easiest patient if she hadn't been such an asshat). In the recovery room I was able to let loose and relax but Nurse Asshat was against it. Any act of defiance on my part set her off and the glares and stares that she gave me made me laugh which pissed her off more. She said I had to sit up so I layed down, I was NPO so I ate a foot long from subway, she wouldn't let me hold my own thermometer in my mouth so I kept it above my tongue, She told me to quit moving my arm (because of my IV) so I peeled all the tape from around the IV site and made her apply new tape....every 20 minutes. I know, sometimes I can be a jerk. * Coming home seemed to be an easy transition for us. 3 kids is not anymore crazy or time consuming than having 2 kids. She's spoiled and rotten and fits right in.

* I would like to add (for all the nurses reading this that are cussing me right now) that when I actually got to my room after recovery, I was the ideal hospital patient. I changed my own sheets, never complained, got my own drinks and snacks, cleaned up after my guests and even emptied my own Foley. I rarely asked for pain meds and it was usually the nurse that would find me shaking and crying in pain at 3am that would say "You don't need to be in pain, let us help you!" So all of you that thought I was just plain mean to Nurse Asshat, trust me when I say that she had it coming.

Losing Faith

2011-02-17T15:28:00.004-05:00

Yesterday was a whirlwind of a day. My eyes still burn and my head still hurts from my hysterics. For some reason, I assume that there is a basic good that most people are born with. A type of good that is an instinct to hold doors for little old ladies and have patience with small children. I remember certain times when I've helped people out just because I could. It was never a question of "what's in it for me". Like giving that kid a dollar at the ice cream store because he was 28 cents short. He was even more pleased when I let him keep the change. Or that guy at the airport who had a skin tear. I cleaned and dressed his wound without asking for a thing. I bought a scooter for the kid on the street so he could play with the other 7 kids that already had scooters. I've given gift cards to the homeless man in Wahiawa because I didn't have cash and a bottle of water to his dog. In DC, my husband and I donated a substantial amount of money to a homeless guy so he could buy tents and blankets to keep warm. Whether that was what the money was really for, was none of our business. We just wanted to help. I like to think that I follow the "golden rule". I don't ask for anything from anybody. I do my own thing on my own time and if I happen to cross paths with someone that needs help, I give my best.

So what am I doing that is so wrong that a hundred cars can pass me while me and my 8 year old daughter have to get my stalled vehicle to the side of the road by ourselves? Did I mention I'm 9 months pregnant? Did I mention 2 of those passer-bys were base police..from MY base? Oh and the thermostat said 94 degrees. For those 3 hours and 45 min. on the side of the road with nothing but melting fruit roll-ups and no water, I lost a little faith in humanity. My boy asked why no one was stopping. I told him that those people were in a big hurry and didn't have time for us. How sad. AAA was apparently too busy too. Their time est. was 4 hours. Stranded in the heat, with my monkeys, and no one seemed to care.

So where do I go from here. If everyone else can get away with only self preservation then why do I work so hard to "treat others the way I want to be treated"? It just doesn't seem worth it. Is God just being the "bully with the magnifying glass" or is he testing me to see if I can move past this? Things just never seem to get easier. After being towed home then towed to the dealership, the contractions started. Maybe from stress. It again made me think about my children and about this new baby and I wonder, am I setting my kids up for disappointment by instilling my values in them?

Trying to Hide

2011-01-22T15:48:00.000-05:00

I’ve been feeling rather antisocial. Haven’t been liking the humans much. Considered building a bridge and taking up residence on the underside of it. I go through these spells. Normally, I’m quite possibly the most outgoing person you’ll ever meet. I’ve never seen a person who didn’t need some company.
How many life stories have I heard from store clerks while paying for purchases? Enough that I wish I’d written them down because I could have published a book or two of them by now.
But there are times, and this week has been one of them, in which I want nothing to do with the other humans. I don’t want them to talk to me, look at me, acknowledge me, or notice my existence.
There’s a simple solution to this problem: I could stay home. But then I have to deal with the most outgoing person in the world on my own, which makes me wonder if I’ve veered beyond the aid of anti-anxiety medication and need to explore the treatments for multiple personality disorder. I wonder how many people can suffer from hanging out with themselves as much as I do? Even I want to kick my own ass.
The antisocial traits started surfacing on Friday. I ran away from home for a few hours, because it's hard to be anti-social in my house when facebook keeps showing new messages from people who insisted on talking to me. Since I was running away I figured I might as well be productive; I went to the grocery store. While ~~looking for wine~~ picking out fruit, one of the employees I’ve seen a bunch of times asked if I needed help. I said I didn’t. And then we blocked the pineapples for twenty minutes while I learned things about her favorite beers and her daughter’s boobies. Any other time I would have relished such out-of-nowhere disclosure from a stranger. Friday, though, it exhausted me.
Shoppers crammed the store, which I expected on a Friday/payday afternoon. While navigating the crowds, I could feel the antisocial rage building. I figured people thought I was having a heart attack because of the number of hard, angry sighs that exploded from my head.
Instead, when I got to the cash register, the clerk said, “You always have such a good attitude and you’re so patient. I saw you several times, moving through clumps of people. When people get in your way, you just take a deep breath and move on. That’s wonderful!”
Funny. She sees me as being quite Zen when I was sending hate-rays from my eyes. Perhaps I’m not trying hard enough.
I’ve been hauling my antisocial alter ego all over the place this week, and neither of us has been too happy about it. We went to Planet Smoothie on Monday. It had been awhile since I’d been there, so I thought I’d have some peace. I wound up chatting with one of the employees. Tuesday, I went to a store, where I know no one. The owner introduced himself and conversed about if I'm enjoying living here. Again, I would normally love those. On Tuesday, I just wanted to be unacknowledged.
Wednesday, I had a plan. I was going to hit the bookstore for an orange juice and this book I’ve wanted to read for years but haven’t been able to find. Still no luck. They didn’t have my book and I didn’t buy anything, but I had conversations with six people.
This is starting to border on ridiculous.
At the second bookstore, I made a detour through the art section on the off chance that I might haven't seen one of the 945 PostSecret books. Before I could round the corner, though, a woman I have never seen before randomly started talking to me about art. No hi. No hello. No nothing. Just boom! Instant conversation about art.
I was seriously thinking I might start crying when the stranger’s blessed cell phone rang. I’m not proud of how fast I ran out of the magazine department when she answered it.
Okay, I’m a little proud, because I rarely reach speeds that high.
Anyway, by the time I got the monkeys from the bus, I was in fleet-footed sprint mode. No people! No talkie! Run! Being antisocial is really good for my cardiovascular health!
Thursday, I intended to continue my antisocial ways. There were obstacles. I watched a mom’s little one in their car while she ran the older one to class. Then I made my first appearance at Planet Smoothie since earlier this week and then the parents of another kid in Prissy's class came in. Even though we’ve never talked at school, we visited.
And you know what? I’m glad. As my friend Megan said to me today when I told her that I think the universe is trying to tell me I’m not allowed to be antisocial, “Becca– I am not the universe – but even I know you aren’t meant to be antisocial!!!”
Guess I can’t be something I’m not. And you know what? If people didn’t talk to me, approach me, confide in me, how bored would I be? I really do get a rush out of talking to strangers, getting to know them, and having a life that’s filled with such a variety of humanity. Sometimes I feel like I have more fights with people, more disagreements and tussles. I have to remind myself that this happens because I let so many people into my life. Proportionately, it’s probably no different than the number of fights, disagreements, and tussles anyone has. Would it be worth the trade-off of not having so many kerfluffles if I sequestered myself? Probably not.
Dammit. I guess I’m just going to have to accept that I’m popular. Shit. What a life I lead. Where’s that bridge, and can I take a cooler of redbull with me when I move there?

Dear Goose,

2011-01-13T18:20:00.006-05:00

We’re almost through annoying each other! You’ve been making me sick, pee, eat, barf, sleep, not sleep, and grunt like an elephant for the past 31 weeks while I’ve subjected you to my car singing, your sister, your brother, your dad, barfing and possibly one too many pizzas and bologna sandwiches. I’m also kind of sorry for poking at you so much. But seriously, I want to feeeel you constantly so I know you're alive and safe, even more I want your dad and siblings to be able to feel you in there. Apparently, I was kind of stingy with the tummy touches with Prince Charming. I really felt you last weekend in my ribs and think it was either in celebration of the Chinese food I had just eaten or in rebellion for the Chinese food I had just eaten. Either is totally possible and watching your teeny foot run across my belly was awesome. Painful, but awesome.

So you probably want to know what you're in for, right? Well, hold on for this bombshell. We are all batshit crazy. It's true. I'm sorry. Let me get these introductions out of the way:

Your Dad: He thinks he's the boss but he's not.

Ms. Prissy Pants: This is your sister. She thinks she's the boss but she's not.

Prince Charming: Your brother. He thinks he's the boss but he's not.

And finally me....your mommy, I not only think I'm the boss, I know I'm the boss. And nothing happens under this roof without my prior approval. You get that? MY PRIOR APPROVAL. That means no dating, driving, staying up late, cell phones, computers, boys, dating, etc. unless I give my consent.

You’ll like it here. We’re pretty fun people. I make sweet birthday cakes and Dad is amazing at making stuff out of Legos. We’re all really happy you’re on your way here. Our life isn't always pretty and we definitely have our bad days but we love you and you will always have a place to come home to. I promise I’ll do my best to get you here as safely as possible. See you soon.

XOXO,

Mommy

The Other Woman...

2011-01-13T13:38:00.004-05:00

Usually, I poke fun at my husband because he makes for good blog fodder especially when he bangs his head against the wall because of something I did. And every so often I write something sappy on Father's day or our anniversary because honestly, it's cheaper and easier then going out and buying him something that he'll leave out that I'll have to pick up and bitch about. Or I might write something nice if I'm feeling especially patriotic and hey, lets face it, I don't see any of ya'll VOLUNTEERING to live on a submarine for 6 months out of the year. And that brings us to today's blog. I'm here to talk about his other woman.

Don't believe me? Ask him. Ask his friends. She's not a secret. Her name is Cheyenne and she's a needy bitch. Even more needy than me. I can tell Baby Daddy is trying to cut ties amicably but he made a commitment to her and he's a man of his word. What an idiot. She requires his attention constantly and even has her other lovers call him in the middle of the night. I hold my breath every time the phone rings and pray that it's not "The Call". And of course I beg him not to leave me cold and lonely. But I think deep down he really does love her. I guarantee she can't love him like I can and I know she doesn't give him what he needs. I wish he could/would tell her "no". He keeps telling me that it's almost over and he'll forever be with me. I'm tired of waiting and I'm starting to not believe him. Do you know what it feels like to love a man you have to share?

I can't keep giving him my best when he wastes his best on her. UGH! I could go on strike but it's not like I cook, clean, or put out anyway.

I know that it's ME that he gave a ring (that I don't wear) and his last name to but she has his mornings, his daytimes, and his weekends. I only sometimes have his nights. It seems like he's always with her. He takes her on trips to Maui and Cali and Alaska. He's made promises to take me on trips too but she always gets in the way.

He says it's important for our future. And when duty calls he's got to give his all. Well, BD, when you're done with your lady in Pearl Harbor, I hope you know that you always have a place to come home to.

Just know I want your love and your kisses. I know you've made her promises that you have to keep but we miss you.

If anyone sees him, tell him I'm doing okay and I think about him all the time. Me and the monkeys love him and need him so much. Even if it takes forever we'll still be here.

* Just for anyone that may think that I was actually talking about another women....he'd never get away with that. I would personally bang his head into the wall just to relieve his pain from the ass kicking that would be bestowed upon him. Cheyenne is the name of his Sub)

MMXI

2010-12-31T22:17:00.004-05:00

Since pushing two children out of my uterus, my new year’s celebrations have been relatively tame. It’s not as though I lost the urge to party like it’s 1999 with every subsequent pregnancy. It’s more I have no desire to try and find a sitter who would generally end up to be some punk tween with more body piercings than I have and then be forced to fork over hundreds of my husband’s hard earned dollars all for the privilege of dancing on a few speakers and blowing into a noise maker at midnight and then whispering and whimpering for an ice pack, dried toast and some facking tylenol, please, the next day.

(That is a lovely run on sentence. My 9th grade teacher would be proud.)

Instead of paying for that misery, I thought to myself, how could I do that for less? What could be better? And more painful?

Hmmm….Something that includes the children, is cheap and fun. And includes alcoholic beverages. Because it’s a new year. And there is nothing like being intoxicated when starting a new beginning (Like I need a reason to crack open the vino….)

Unfortunately, in my delicate condition, I'm unable to indulge in an alcohol frenzy for 2011. But I will be making the best of it. This little fetus of mine is gonna know what it feels like to boogie down and experience hearing loss due to obnoxious fireworks.

Shit, lets be real, I'm just gonna pretend I celebrated on east coast time and pass out at 9.

No matter what happens tonight, hope everyone is safe and happy. If anyone is interested in having a few drinks for me, 3 should do it (bottles not glasses) and make it Hennessy with a splash of redbull. Thanks.

And later tonight, while you’re still burping up little gaseous reminders of the estimated 78 cheese puffs you consumed, it might be the time to make your New Year’s resolutions.

Why make resolutions? Because you CAN be a better person. I bet you know somebody who seems to be perfect — somebody who always looks terrific; somebody who manages to devote plenty of time to both family and career; somebody whose house is spotless, whose children are well-behaved and whose dog does not smell as if it sleeps on a bed of decomposing raccoons.

You wonder how that person “does it all,” don’t you? Well, stop wondering and do something! Start right now! Get up off the sofa, put on some active sportswear, and kill that person with a crowbar!

I've learned that you have to become realistic with your resolutions. Realistically, I probably won't make a resolution other than to have this baby. It's a safe goal that has to happen one way or another. Some other great resolutions that my readers, stalkers, and otherwise friends have sent to me seem reasonable as well. Feel free to steal and manipulate these "goals" to fit your personal needs.

Just for today, I will not sit in my living room all day in my jammies. Instead, I will move my computer into the bedroom.
(I love my smart phone. This is not a problem for me KR since I never have to leave my bed except to feed the monkeys anyway)

Don't eat medicine just because it looks like candy.
(RB, sometimes the kids medicine just taste sooo good, doesn't it?)

I will not bore my boss by with the same excuse for taking leaves. I will think of some more excuses.
(Thanks, AR. Maybe I'll think of more excuses to keep my husband from fondling me)

I will try to drive closer to the speed limit.
(RK, look how responsible you are? I bet you're the DD tonight aren't you? And by DD I mean Designated Decoy.)

Assure my lawyer that I will never again show up drunk at a custody hearing.
(BQ, Why are you reading my blog? I appreciate your enjoyment of my humor but really, now I'm going to make fun of you.)

I resolve to work with neglected children -- my own.
(MT, wanna work with mine too?)

So what will your resolution be?

You're Gonna Believe and You're Gonna like it!

2010-12-08T16:54:00.005-05:00

I’m pretty sure I'm a liar. And my pants are on fire.

Not that I’ve had flames shoot out from my ass cheeks or anything but my instincts are pretty sharp. And where there is smoke (figuratively speaking) there generally is fire. Shooting out from the arse.

This is all my mother's fault.

(Here’s where we all say hello to my mother and tell her how lovely she looks today. Hi Mom!)

My mom had one firm household rule as we grew up and it neared the holiday season.
You BELIEVED in Santa Clause or the fat man didn’t come to your house.
(She also had a firm rule about not snooping and shaking any presents that were under the tree but my sister and I liked to believe that rule was flexible. As in, it only applied when my mother’s eagle eyes would catch us.)

For eleven months of every year we were a fairly typical family. We kept our skeletons tucked firmly in the back of the closet and tried to keep our secrets confined between the walls of our home. But come every December 1, my mother threw caution to the wind and barfed up some serious holiday spirit in every nook and cranny of our home.

We weren’t terribly spoiled with gifts as my parents weren't wealthy, but my mom made it happen each and every year regardless of how empty or full her bank account was that year. We were spoiled with an abundance of home baked treats, a decorated tree and enough festive decorations everywhere you looked that you could almost believe you were living in Santa’s house itself.

For those thirty days of each December, growing up, Santa was alive.

I don’t remember what age it was that I stopped believing but I do remember the look on my mother’s face when I announced to her that I was on to her game. There is no such thing as Santa. I may as well have kicked her puppy and then told her she looked fat in her jeans. It would have been kinder. She took a second to compose herself and she looked me square in the eye and reminded me, “Becca. Santa does not bring gifts to children who no longer believe in him.”

I was about to open my mouth to argue when it finally dawned on me what she was saying.
Translation: “Kid, if you ruin this for anyone else I will make it my mission to ensure you never see so much as a lump of coal in your stocking for the rest of your days.”

From that day on, Santa continues to live. And dammit, I believe. I never did ruin it.

Then I had children. I’ve fed Santa’s reindeer and there is always a plate of cookies and a glass of room temperature milk left out for the big guy himself.

My children have never questioned the veracity of Santa and I have taken great pains to ensure I’m not ever put in the same position I once put my mother in. Santa simply exists, dammit. Over the past few years there may have been some speculation but I was always able to channel my mother and strongly insist Santa only exists if you believe in him and then run for a dark corner to evade any further Christmas related questioning.

But my girl, she’s 8. And she attends school with a bunch of delinquents. (My apologies to any towns people reading this. I’m not talking about your child. I swear. I’m talking about the other town kids.) And those delinquents are running around the school looking for Santa believers so they can herd them into small dark corners and pelt them with candy canes while ruining their childhood dreams.

Prissy and I were driving home from a somewhere and somehow, the subject of Santa was broached.

“Mom, some of the kids in my class say their parents have told them Santa doesn’t exist any more and they don’t get any presents from him under their tree.”

I went still. And the look on my mother’s face flashed before my eyes in the rear view mirror.

“Oh? Well what do they get under their tree? No presents at all then?”

“Oh no, they still get presents. But things like cash and gift cards. Just nothing from Santa.”

“Well, you know what I always tell you. Santa only exists to the people who believe in him. So only the believers get presents from him. So I’m pretty sure as long as you still believe, he’ll still keep you on his list.”
I’m dropping hints like raindrops in a hurricane.
I was pretty proud of myself for a moment, thinking I’d satisfactorily solved the Santa problem. Sometimes I impress even myself with my own parental naivety.
Prissy was silent for a moment but she still looked puzzled. I was doing my best to keep my eyes on the road and pretend like her childhood dreams weren’t about to evaporate in the middle of our car with the scent of day old fast food clinging in the air.
“But Mom. I still believe.”
“I know you do honey. And I’m pretty darn sure Santa knows you still believe in his magic too.”
“I mean, I still believe, but Mom, when does Santa stop bringing presents?”
“Stop? Well, he doesn’t. He brings them for as long as there are people who believe in the magic of the season.” At this point now, I’m running through all the Santa trivia 25 years of watching holiday movies has imparted on me. It was almost as though I could feel the ice cracking beneath my shoes.
“What age did he stop bringing you presents Mom?”

“What? Santa’s stopped bringing me presents?” I cried out in great disbelief. Because I am an Academy Award winning actress. It says so on the resume I wrote in my head.

“Very funny. I never see any Santa presents under the tree for you. Or for Dad.”

“Well, your father is a nincompoop who doesn’t believe in the miracle of St. Nick. Never has. He’s a bit of a grinch, I’m afraid,” I mock whispered to her like it was some giant secret. As though 7 years of her watching my husband roll his eyes at the mentions of Christmas, Santa or elves weren’t big enough clues.
“Yes, but you believe. And still, no presents for you.” She was staring holes through my soul at this point, I swear. I’d like to point out that in moments like this, I really, really appreciate my oblivious little boy. I knew what she was driving at. She was like a poorly trained reporter, trying to steer me into dropping the sound bite she wanted, straight into her lap. I could feel her yank on my maternal ropes and the pressure to not screw up this parental moment was enormous. Which is stupid, because dammit, I don’t lie to my kids. Ever. Except apparently, when it comes to f*cking Santa Clause.

“It’s just, I don’t want to wake up one morning and find no presents under my tree from Santa Clause even though I still really believe in him, Mom.” Suddenly, she had puppy dog eyes. Damn, this kid is good.
“That won’t happen, Prissy. I promise.” I mean, not as long as I’m alive anyways.
“Because there would be nothing sadder than when I move out into my very own apartment and am living all by myself, and I wake up on Christmas morning only to find no presents under the tree.” My child and her first world problems. Sheesh.
It was time for a new tactic. Shame. “Well, Christmas isn’t about presents you know. It’s about giving and the spirit of love and family and Jesus Christ and whatever else the bible says.”
She eyed me steadily, and I could tell she was getting slightly irritated by my persistent avoidance technique. “All right, Mom. But since you aren’t getting gifts from Santa any more that must mean he doesn’t deliver to adults, even if they are believers.” (No, honey, that’s just because your father is cheap, I wanted to clarify.) “So what age will I be too grown up for Santa?”
And there it was. The long and short of it. All that cramming candy canes into tight spots and making me dance over a bed of hot coals for what amounts to one simple question.
I looked at her and I remembered my mother all those years ago.
“I’m pretty sure kid, that Santa will come see you until you are at least 18. Maybe even longer. He can’t visit the adults who believe in him because then he wouldn’t have time to deliver to the children who believe in him. So we adults, well, we take one for the team. But Santa only comes to children who believe in him and stop asking their mothers a bunch of irritating questions while she’s trying to drive. Are we done?”

Translation: “Listen kid, as long as you keep your big trap shut and don’t ruin this for your little brother you’ll keep getting loot under the tree. But you breathe one syllable of this conversation to any child who still believes in Santa and I will personally beat you senseless with a stocking filled with coal. Are you picking up what I’m putting down?”

Prissy looked at me shrewdly and for a moment, I thought she may declare the fat man dead. Instead, she looked right into my eyes and declared, “No worries Mom. I believe in Santa.”
Just as I exhaled a huge sigh of relief that this conversation was finally over and never to be repeated ever again and was reaching to turn on the radio, my lovely daughter leaned forward and whispered,
“Just so he knows, a new wii game would be really cool for Christmas morning. And I’ve been a very good girl this year."
Thank God she never asked about the damn tooth fairy.

16 Steps

2010-11-06T01:29:00.004-04:00

Do you ever feel like you are outside of yourself? Like you were going through the motions, but not totally there? I've been having a few days like that lately. I didn’t sleep well last night, Prissy was up at various times through the night, my husband is MIA, and I feel like I’m getting a cold. Great. just what I need. A cough is what is going to sentence me to time in Tripler. Trust me, it's a prison. Plus it’s been rainy, windy, overcast and generally depressing outside for the majority of the last week. And a moment to myself these days is rare to come by. I think that intentionally waking up early before the kids does not, or at least should not, constitute as alone time.

Ummm, Hawaii, I'm gonna need you to perk up. And don't give me that "it's the rainy season" excuse. I pay for your overpriced gas and loaves of bread without any complaining. Can I get one ray of freaking sun shining in my window? Please? Oh my goodness, I've personified a freaking island and I'm begging.

"Come on, Becca, get it together..."

Additionally, I think the chaos of the of the past few weeks is catching up to me. I'm tired and I'm cranky. And I would like to borrow my husband from the military for longer than a few weeks.

I think what pisses me off the most is that every night I climb the 16 stairs up to our room and dread the moment where I have to crawl into an empty bed, remembering that I am alone. Isolated. I shiver all through the night. I have pains and aches and I'm terrified that I won't be able to wake up in the morning. I would hate for my kids to find me like that. And then it'll happen, I'll drift off to sleep only to wake up reaching for him to warm me up and comfort me and ask if I'm ok. But it seems he's never there anymore. Always gone. Always working. So I get up and go down the 16 steps that it takes to get to the livingroom. Turn on the TV and spend the night tossing and turning and checking the clock.

But I promised that as long as he's my military husband, I'd be his military wife. So, I'm gonna march the "Infamous 16" and crawl into my cold, lonely bed now and hope he knows how much we love and miss him.

And yes, I count and curse every step.

Failure to Obey...

2010-10-02T21:05:00.006-04:00

My husband has one rule about my blogging our life.

Keep him off the internet.

Today, like every other day, I’m doing what I so often do. I’m disobeying him.

(In my defense, I was smart enough to make sure the word ‘obey’ appeared exactly no where in our wedding vows. I am many things, but obedient isn’t one of them.)

I want the world to see the man I married and to know how absolutely proud I am that I chose him. Errr....I meant he chose me.

And I want everyone to know how ridiculously grateful I am that he has kept me.

If one doesn’t take into consideration that I’m female and thereby batshit crazy one week out of every month, I am a relatively stable and normal person.

Heh. I don’t care what the shrink says. I’m well-adjusted.

My husband likes to point out to me (usually when he’s been drinking and feeling particularly brave) that if I had been born any earlier in history, I would have likely spent much of my time locked up in a sanitorium, eating bugs out of my hair and talking with my invisible friends.

I like to point out to him that this crazy women is fairly bendy and if he’d like to make use of this talent he ought to keep his flapping yapper shut.

So I can get a little nutty. Things could be worse for my husband. I could be nutty, unpliant, rigid and look like the back end of an ape. He should be counting his blessings. Crazies are good for the soul. Plus, they are natural laxatives. Ask my husband. He throws a shit fit about something I did on a regular basis.

Heh.

I love you.

Thank you for being my Baby Daddy.

My Boy and Girl

2010-10-01T13:37:00.005-04:00

I started the day by making sure my offspring was clean:

"Prince Charming, please clean the syrup off of your hands and NOT by wiping them on your jammie pants."

"I already did!" Holding up sparkling clean hands.

"And what exactly did you clean them with because you haven't moved."

"My tongue!!!!"

Well then, the child has mastered the cat bath. It’s a proud day for us all. He also taught me today that “basset” is French for “wee elephant”? I did not know this. And I can't necessarily check his facts since I do not know French.

This is a kid who, when he’s told it’s time to hit the sack, walks to the paper bag on my desk, grins at me, smacks it and laughs, “There! I hit the sack!”

This is a kid who’s holding a big-ass grudge against "Beep" for that oil spill.

I shit you not. That’s my kid. That’s how he rolls.

Oh, how I bask in the glow of having raised this shining example of American boyhood. You better believe it.

He told me why he threw such a fit last week too.

“Because I said I was going to start being good tomorrow.”

The behavior of a toddler at times with the logic and debating skills of a Harvard Law student.

That's my boy and I love him.

My Prissy on the other hand is a whole other headache, Prissy's birthday is a little more than 2 weeks away. Which means in 16 days, the true test of my fortitude as a mother will be upon us. The event that proves just how much I love her and, consequently, how awesome I am.

That’s right. It’s birthday party time. Have mercy on this family.I swore I would be "That Mom". When it came to food, parties, toys (although I’m starting to look a little too hard for a Zhu Zhu pet, even though I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking for), clothes, you name it. And I’ve done well spoiling the little brat. While watching the “Supernanny” marathon on Sunday with Prissy – yes, we watch “Supernanny” together and no, I don’t hesitate to say, “See that kid? Don’t do that.” – there was an uptight dad who was on the verge of ruining his relationship with his 13-year-old daughter over her hair color. That’s the parent I won’t be. I told Prissy right then and there that really, I don’t care what she does to her hair. Because really. It’s hair. But as long as things go my way, she can have the world.

And yet, I have turned into Birthday Party Monster. She's my monster of choice and I’m choosing to embrace her.

So, if I'm hiding out for a while. Please understand, it's not you. It's me.

I would be freaking out more, probably, if I hadn’t taken a look at my Ativan prescription last night and realized that it says, “Take one pill twice a day, or every six hours as needed for anxiety.”

I’ve only been taking it when needed. Somehow I missed that little note about getting to take an extra. If ever there was a time to discover I’m under-medicated, it was today.

If it's a battle he's after...

2010-09-23T01:02:00.006-04:00

In a few months my husband and I will have been married 6 years. What’s more amazing than the fact I have managed to keep a man legally bound to me that long is the fact we’ve been living together for 7.

If you had told me Baby Daddy was my future husband back then, I’d have likely kicked you in the shins. He's so damn hard headed about the silliest things. Life, she has a sense of humor in a dark and twisted way. It’s not like I’m complicated, it’s just I’m rather indecisive and I happen to change my mind a lot.*

*Like the time I told him not to bother buying me an expensive wedding ring because I would probably never wear it. And then a week later I desperately needed a specific 1 carat, princess cut diamond engagement band then insisted on not one but TWO wedding band so it would be symmetrical. After banging his head against the wall multiple times, he dragged me to the jewelery store where I happily picked out the perfect set. Two months after the ceremony, he noticed I wasn’t wearing my wedding ring. Yes, I had changed my mind and decided I was right the first time and wasn't going to wear the rings he bought for me. Let’s just say he banged his head against the wall again. In my defense, they hurt my little finger and I have since compromised by wearing one wedding band. When I tell you I want mayo on my sandwich, this is just means I want mayo on my sandwich right now. It doesn’t mean I’m signing a life time contract of wanting mayo on every single sandwich I will ever eat from now to till the end of time.

My husband, he bangs his head on a lot of walls. But the one thing I can never, ever fault him for is the effort he puts in to keeping me happy. He’s constantly trying to keep up with my whims. He, in fact, spoils me even if he misunderstands me half the time. Somehow, through time and a lot of hard work (on Baby Daddy’s part, I’m the lazy one in this union) we made careful choices to slowly figure each other out. And that means him learning that when I make up my mind about something, it's better to let it go because next week I'll head to the other side of the spectrum.

He’s sweet, if not a wee misguided. I’ll keep him though.

That brings me to our latest debate. I want a horse. Not just any horse but I need Dusty, the 28", 200lb miniature pony that is literally within my reach. He’s clearly forgotten who he’s legally bound to. Either that or he’s wishing he married someone more sophisticated that doesn't want a farm animal living in her house. After explaining to him that a small cost output in a family pet purchase would lead to a much larger cost savings and general satisfaction on both parties end, he turned into Hitler. I don't like it when he's Hitler. Or maybe a better looking Atilla the Hun. Whatever, he was being a mean and evil dictator. Clearly, he's forgotten that it's MY castle that he lives in.

Sadly, it became all too obvious after listening to my husband laugh until he was on the verge of crying, that I haven’t been paying attention to him the past 7 years either. Because if I thought I could convince the man I love that buying a farm animal is a good idea, I am more delusional than he is in his efforts to step-ford wife me.

He thinks I'm gonna break...but I'm not giving in this time. Dusty is mine I tell you.

Meet Dusty...

2010-09-22T16:07:00.006-04:00

For me to think that Cancun was in Canada seems reasonable considering that I neither live in Cancun or Canada but it's pretty defeating to find out that Washington D.C. is really in Maryland. I thought the "District of Columbia" indicated that it wasn't apart of any state but it's own entity. Well, Va isn't a state either. It's a commonwealth. I'm confused. But I'm a big believer in "never let 'em see you sweat" so I rolled with it. Apparently, Baby Daddy was amused by my geography skills so to change the subject I asked for a mini-horse. Is that too much to ask? They're legal you know. Again he laughed at me. In the same condescending way he laughed at me for wanting a midget dolphin and a dog that could bartend.

I found a little mini-horse for sale right here in Hawaii. I don't know which island but those are minor details in the scheme of things.

His name in Dusty. I included his stats below. He's only $3,900. That's not bad considering how much I spend on clothes annually. (Not that I would cut back just making a comparison.)

Dusty: Honolulu, Hawaii 96822
Breed: Miniature
Sex: Stallion
Color: Buckskin
Birth Date: Jan 1, 1998
Height: 0.0 hh (28")
Weight: 200.0 lbs
Registry: amha
Reg. #: a98564
Markings: star

AND the owner is willing to "donate him to a 501(c)3 non-profit" whatever that means. Dusty would be a great addition to our family. I'm still contemplating where I could get a saddle big enough for me but small enough for him. And I need to figure out how to potty train him (since he will be an inside horse) and use the neighbors yards for his business. Google, I love you. Thank you for sending me to Dusty's site. Hope no one buys him. I'm waiting for Baby Daddy to go on deployment.