Confessions of a Coal Miner's Granddaughter

Dialog, Part 34

2013-03-05T10:45:00.001-05:00

J-man: Bubba and Lolli! Sittin' in a tree! K-S-S-S-I-N-G!

(Writer's note: Lolli is a little girl, in Bubba's class, on whom Bubba is crushing. He says he's going to marry her. I say I'm going to have to go talk to this little girl's mother. And have me a stiff drink.)

Me: No, that's K-*I*-S-S-I-N-G.

J-man: I SAID THAT! K-S-S-S-I-N-G.

Me: No. Sweetie. K-*I*-S-S...

J-man: Extremely frustrated. I. SAID. THAT!

Me: No, you didn't. Ksssing isn't a word. You spell kissing with an *i*.

J-man: I know that, Mama! I said *i*! K-S-S-S-I-N-G!

Me: Did you just hear yourself? There aren't three s's in kissing! Just two! And two i's!

J-man: Shaking his head in a condescending manner, much the way Neil deGrasse Tyson does to all the evolution haters. Mama. I spelled it with two i's. You didn't hear me right.

Me: I REALIZE YOU ALL THINK I'M A DAFT COW, BUT I KNOW YOU JUST SPELLED KSSSING! AND THAT DRIVES ME BATTY!

Ya'll, I'm dead serious. If you'd like to get in touch with me, I'll be in the local psych ward, trying to convince myself that ksssing spells kissing and that 2 + 2 really does equal 5.

Blue

2013-03-01T10:56:00.001-05:00

I don't take compliments well. I don't know why this is, but they just make me uncomfortable because I never know what to say. Thank you always seems, so, not enough. Usually, I'll reply with an awkward pause and then say "Thank you" with a self-deprecating explanation of why the person shouldn't have complimented me because I'm not worth it.

Nice Person: Heather! I love that necklace!

Me: Oh! insert awkward pause Thanks! insert grimace I found it on Etsy for $13. It's just plastic and gold-toned metal. From China. Nothing special.

And even though I know that was horrible, I can't help myself. I do this all the time. The other thing I do is forget to give out compliments. It's not that I don't notice your new haircut or weight loss or new dress on purpose, but I tend to live in my head. So while you are really excited about your new hair color and are hoping I'll say something about it, I'm about a million miles away, probably thinking about a book I just read or wondering if the Pope is picking his eye boogers.

Yes. I think about crap like this all the time. I wish my brain had a Pause button.

This is me. This is where I live. And I never expect compliments. Ever. When I get them, they always surprise me.

It was last Friday night at the Georgia Academic Decathlon and after running around for the fourth time, collecting score sheets and putting out little fires, I sat down to double-check that the score sheets in my hands had been completely filled out. Two high school volunteers from Berkmar High School were sitting on either side of me, waiting for the next round of decathletes to enter the holding area.

As I was engrossed in my checklist, the high school-aged girl to my left said, You have the most beautiful blue eyes. They're so blue!

I froze. I don't ever notice my eyes because they've been mine for 41 years and you don't really see something you've seen all your life. You no longer notice anything special or beautiful about something that has become a part of your existence. We humans are kind of messed up that way. Not only that, but I couldn't think of something apologetic to use in response. I sometimes feel like the Rainbow Fish and that whenever I receive a nice comment, I should share my attribute about which I've been complimented. Since I couldn't pop my eyes out of their sockets and offer one to her (Honestly, how freaky would THAT have been? Plus? She probably would have screamed.) and since apologizing for my parents' combined genetics that gave me these eyes would have made me sound like such an awful person, I said the only thing I could say after such a long, silent pause.

Thank you!

That was it. For the first time, in, EVER, I responded with just a simple thanks and a smile. I didn't apologize or ruin the compliment with my need to tear myself down. I just thanked her.

And because of her, I've noticed my eyes and how blue they really and truly are all week long. Thank you, nameless Berkmar student. You? Have made me appreciate myself just a bit more.

Niobium*

2013-02-06T00:00:00.000-05:00

I've been listening to a lot of Shawn Mullins lately. To many of you, Shawn Mullins was a one-hit-wonder, spawned in the North Georgia mountains and chasing the tails of the Indigo Girls and R.E.M. But for me, he was more than that. He was the voice of my college and 20-something years. When I was a freshman at North Georgia College, he was a senior and playing gigs at the bar across the street from our campus. I bought his cassette tape, "Everchanging World" in the college bookstore and played it until it wore out (my fellow Lewis Hall dorm mates were probably tired of listening to it). During my sophomore year, he released his first CD, "Better Days" and I still dust it off and listen to it when the mood strikes.

For the past month, Shawn's many albums have been on repeat in my car, my iPod, and in my head when I'm trying to fall asleep. I don't think it's that I'm trying to recapture 20-years-ago but rather trying to understand me 20 years ago. How 20-year-old me slowly morphed into 41-year-old me.

(I have to make an admission here. A quick aside. We all talk about our lives being "short" and "blink of an eye" is thrown around. Sometimes, though, I feel like these 41 years have taken forever to pass by.)

This song, from Shawn's album that included the one-hit "Lullaby", is one of my favorites. It's called "Twin Rocks, Oregon." Just take five minutes and listen. It's totally SFW:

The message of this song, about finding yourself, has been at the forefront of my mind for the last month. I've been aware of my mortality for longer than I can remember, but it's only since having kids (and last month's health scare) that I'm now hyper aware of my eventual end. Will my children be OK without me? Will they mourn me and be at my wake? Will they take the lessons I've taught them and teach their own children? Will the world still turn and the sun still rise and set?

Yes. Of course... I hope.

I don't know the definite answers. I'm never meant to know. But, I do know this. When I finally leave this earthly plane, my children will know that I was comfortable in my own skin. They will know that after all those years, I finally understand who I am and that I really like me. All of my experiences have led me to this point, this dot on my timeline, and I'm happy here. Loving Tyler Dobson, loving three amazing little kids that came from me, being a band nerd, standing up to an adult bully, studying physics, leaving West Virginia, wanting to write erotic fiction, chasing ghosts, all of it. I. Am. Content. And that frees me to no end.

There's a line in the song, "ain't it a blessin' to do what you want to do" that resonates, except I'm going to change it up a bit.

Ain't it a blessin' to be who you want to be?

It is. It truly is.

Today, I'm 41. When I look in the mirror, I see a tired yet beautiful woman who is ready to rock this planet for at least another half-century. And when that day comes, I'm sure I will listen to more Shawn Mullins, the voice of my youth, think of how I got there, and remember that being me is pretty fucking amazing. Ain't that a blessin'?

*For those of you who wish to know, niobium is a chemical element, symbol Nb. It's a metal that can be found in the superconducting magnets of MRI scanners. And? It's atomic weight is 41. Insert nerd smiley face here.

I'm Married To An Older Man

2013-02-04T00:00:00.000-05:00

For two whole days, I'll be married to an older man.

I have always taken this yearly, 48-hour opportunity to make jokes like, "Hey, sweetie! Where's your cane?" and "It's so nice to be the trophy wife!" as well as, "Ah, yes, stealing the kids' trust funds one birthday at a time!"

The Ty-man doesn't much appreciate this. But, that's OK. He gets back at me starting at hour 49 when I finally join him in old age and he makes jokes about "Trading you in for two twenty-year-olds."

Ahem.

Maybe this year I'll keep my mouth shut.

Happy 41st birthday to the most incredible man I've ever known! I love you and always will.

Even when you DO finally need that cane.

Dad

2013-01-30T00:00:00.000-05:00

Dad, Christmas 1995, laughing because he was in on the
"Let's have fun with Tom during Yankee Swap" joke.

Fifteen years ago today, my father died.

It's been over 5,479 days since I heard his voice, saw his animated, moving, three-dimensional face, or felt his arms around me in a bear hug.

The pain I feel has certainly lessened in these 15 years. I mean, I don't cry at the drop of a hat like I did the first couple of years, but milestones get me all choked up. My birthday, his birthday, Father's Day, you name it, I don't enjoy it. The births of my children, his grandchildren, were upsetting when I realized my father would never meet them. Any time the kids talk about "Paw-paw Tom" I get teary-eyed because they can only imagine what he was like and only have pictures to see him. It's my recollections and stories that give him substance.

At best, he's a two-dimensional figure they'll never get to fully understand.

What's worse for me, 15 years on, is that I've nearly forgotten the sound of my father's voice. If he were to suddenly reappear on this earthly plane and call out my name, I would have no idea who it could be trying to get my attention. I finally understand why people save the voice mail accounts of their loved ones. Even if it's just a couple of sentences, it's still a voice you want to hear over and over. That's why I may change my voice mail and instead of telling people to leave messages, I'll profess my undying love to each member of my family. Because knowing that these ears will never again hear my father cheer me on in life breaks my heart.

(And there I go. Crying. All over again. Like the 15 years just disappeared and he died five minutes ago. I swear, it never goes away, it's just that life gets in your face and makes you live.)

My dad was a sweet, caring, emotional, man. At the end of his life, he was a retired policeman, a 32nd-degree Mason, and veteran of the Korean War. He was kind to every person he met, very giving, quiet, and inquisitive. He was of average intelligence, not a great reader, and if you handed him a puzzle, he could solve it like nobody's business. He was a bit prescient in that he would suddenly look at you and pronounce, "I wonder how John Smith is doing? I haven't seen him in a while" and, within 24 hours, Dad would either see John Smith or see John Smith's obituary in the paper. Mom and I would get weirded out whenever this happened. Anytime he would start to ask a similar question, we would hit the deck. Which is probably why I called my parents so often while in college and after graduation. Didn't want my dad wondering what had happened to me!

My father loved science fiction and would always start conversations with, "Heather! Why do you think there are UFOs? Do you really think there's intelligent life out there? Because there's none here!" I could talk to him about almost anything and he was fond of ending our phone calls with the phrase, "May The Force be with you!" He loved dirty jokes and was convinced that "pro" wrestling was a high art form.

I have many wonderful memories of my father and I will cling to those today as I endeavor to remember him as best as my aging memory will allow. I will wear his Masonic ring, attempt to stomach some WWE, and maybe take a crack at that short story (Based on one of his out-there ideas - what if the Moon was a giant egg, laid by a huge galactic-sized bird, that hatched and the progeny proceeded to poo in our orbit? God bless the man.) he wanted me to write.

Love you, Dad! Miss you! And may The Force be with you, too!

Pitfalls

2013-01-27T00:59:00.001-05:00

One day, you invite me into your life. You tell me all your secrets, your pain, your prejudices, and fears. You show me your joy, your loves, your passion, and laughter. We realize, together, that we share a lot.

Harmony.

We share air, giggles, tears, dinners, experiences, and gripes.

Your home is my home. Mine is yours.

One day, you tell me, "Heather! The kids are at their grandparents' house! Bring Tyler! Come on over for some wine and cheese!"

And I arrive, expecting an evening of friendship, cutting loose.

Of being me.

Me is a complicated person with simple pleasures. Certain wines, stinky cheeses, no sadness, only comedy, and lots of foul language.

You greet me at the door and I enter, knowing that I can be me because it's only my friends here, friends and loved ones who get me and know me better than I can sometimes know myself.

The conversation progresses, back and forth, ebb and flow. We are all communicating. Catching up. Sharing little details.

And then, it happens.

I. Drop. The f-bomb.

It happens. I do it a lot when I'm by myself or in the company of other adults who know me and aren't bothered by it. But I never do it in front of children. Elders. Bosses. Popes.

And you. You look at me. As if I've just shot you. And you say, "HEATHER! Take that back! Shut your mouth! There's a child in the next room!"

A child, you say? But I thought your children were gone for the weekend, to their grandparents' house.

"NO!" you respond, "It's the neighbor's daughter whom we're babysitting."

You never told me there was a stranger listening in. A stranger who is also a minor. Knowing there was a child in the next room would have changed my demeanor. My stance. My language.

But you never bothered to tell me.

In the real world, this (hopefully) never happens.

In social media? It's every. fucking. day.

And this is why I unfriended someone on Facebook. Someone I love and adore. Someone who chastised me for an f-bomb I unleashed that their friends could see. Their friends that include customers and children.

Children.

The lesson I have learned in the last few days is that if ANY of you have children lurking amongst your social media life, children who could possibly see my horribly offensive f-bombs, s-bombs, mf-bombs, etc. you need to tell me. And then I will probably unfriend you, too.

Because those children and their parents aren't as social media savvy as me or you.

I can search through the rooms of your house, looking for that elusive child or elder or boss or customer for whom I need to tiptoe around.

I can't search through the friendship connections of your Facebook or Twitter or Tumblr or Blogger. That's not MY responsibility. It's YOURS.

Please learn that before you make me feel like the biggest embarrassment of your online life.

Personal Apocalypse

2012-12-20T06:49:00.000-05:00

OR

PSA #382: WHY OUR CHILDREN SHOULD WEAR HAZ-MAT SUITS UNTIL THEY'RE 34

For the last week, I have been in some righteous pain. I woke up a week ago and nearly ploughed into my dresser because my ankles and knees forgot that they're supposed to help my feet with this whole walking business. I toddered into the kids' rooms to wake them up, trying to walk like a 40-year-old rather than a 140-year-old. It's hard to act nonchalant when a whole part of your body is rebelling against you.

So, for two days, my feet and knees checked out on me. Pain, swelling, numbness, it was ridiculous. In addition to that, my elbows felt creaky, my shoulder blades felt cranky, and my hands were just revving up. I gave in and went to my doctor who promptly threw prednisone at me and demanded blood as payment in return.

By Monday, my feet and ankles were OK, but it was my right hand that had decided to form a labor union and call a strike. Have you ever tried making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with a hand that won't grip the knife? Because when you guide your hand toward said knife, the pain receptors start yammering and won't shut it? Yeah, it was tons of awesome and tons of painful. Several hours later, my doctor called, told me my inflammation levels were off the charts, and threw around words like lupus, sjogren's syndrome, autoimmune, and rheumatologist.

I cried for the rest of that day and resisted calling 911 to report a short-of-breath panic attack at Wellesley Crest Drive.

By Tuesday, I had my appointment secured with a local rheumatologist and I had accepted my fate as one of the autoimmune masses. I kept telling myself that it would be OK. I would be OK. No one dies from lupus, my sweet, upbeat brain whispered to itself, You're going to be fine. But then that little negative bitch brain would whisper back Oh yeah? Well, plenty of people die from pneumonia and that's what's going to happen when you start suppressing that cunt of an immune system we got down there! Which is what was going on when I picked J-man up from school on Tuesday. I started talking to his teacher about what was going on with me and she looked at me with shocked eyes and rounded mouth and said...

OH MY GOD, HEATHER! YOU HAVE FIFTHS DISEASE!

She explained fifths to me as I hustled J-man to the car and on the way to the twins' school, I furiously Googled fifths disease during stop light pauses and called up images and started to do the math.

J-man - complained about headaches and tiredness two weeks ago - he wasn't finishing work at school because he said he was too tired

Miss-Miss - had two days of fever the same time my pain started - just fever, nothing else

Bubba - in the middle of my pain, his cheeks turned bright red in what we thought was an allergic reaction to some body crayons - redness remained despite repeated doses of Benadryl, making him look like the Google images of kids with fifths

Me - had two days of fever, two days of calm, then extreme joint pain and swelling with a rash on my abdomen

I added all of this up and discovered our house was most likely patient zero for a parvovirus outbreak.

Where's a veterinarian when you need one?

So, to sum up. I have gone to the rheumatologist, who agreed that it could be parvovirus, but she still took eight (ZOMG EIGHT!!!!!!) vials of blood in an effort to narrow down what's going on. My inflammation numbers were off-the-danged charts high and that concerned her. So, for right now, I'm taking pain killers and not much else. My joints are back to being stiff, swollen, tingly, and uncooperative, but so far, no major pain. I'm going to take this next week as the perfect opportunity to let the relatives raise my kids while I sleep.

And just after the new year, I'll know if my immune system is doing its job and fighting off a childhood disease that makes adults suffer or if my immune system is being a dick and attacking me for no reason.

I'll keep you all posted.

My Vote. Your Vote. Our Vote.

2012-11-07T09:59:00.000-05:00

As I sat in the polling place yesterday, I pondered this great nation of ours.

Pondered hard.

I watched an older gentleman, a veteran, feebly walk in with his cane and thick, bottle-bottom glasses. I surreptitiously magnified his ballot for him (you can do that with these really cool touch-screen voter machines - it's pretty bad-ass) so that he wouldn't have so much difficultly reading his choices. He fought for our country, for our right to stay free and choose our leaders. And here he was, participating in that most basic American right that we all take for granted that so many countries don't have, couldn't even conceive of having.

We have a tradition at our precinct that we cheer, really loud, for the first-time voters. It's cute because the 18-year-old boys get completely freaked out and embarrassed when we do it, which makes us cheer all the louder. We also gave them each an American flag bandana. We must have passed out 35 bandanas, a record for us. One girl had her mother taking her picture she was so excited. They all smiled, took their ballot cards, and quietly asked how to work the machines. And I showed each one, proud as if I had given life to them myself, how to operate the touch screen and cast their vote. I congratulated them on coming out to their first-ever election day. And made sure to let them know that every election is as important, as meaningful, as their first. Hopefully, they'll show up for those boring, off-year, local bond elections.

So many women voted yesterday. When I think that it was just in the last century that the gentler half of humanity received the right to vote in this country, I thank my lucky stars. When I think of the ten people who worked at our precinct yesterday, only one was a man. One. The rest of us are voting, empowered women. We nine ladies set up that precinct, made sure everyone who walked through those doors voted in peace, and then got those ballots to the elections office when it was all over. We ladies did that. Oh, and that one guy. Those suffragists had to go through beatings and jail and all sorts of obstacles to win us the vote and whenever I touch "Cast Your Ballot" on that touchscreen, I silently thank them. Because had they not fought, I would have been at home yesterday with no voice.

In the late nineteenth, early twentieth centuries, many states enacted poll taxes to keep blacks and poor whites away from voting. Black men were beaten and intimidated and the majority of them would not vote. Nope. Wasn't worth their lives. Yesterday, African-Americans across the country voted. How awesome is that? No one beat them up for showing up at polling places. There was one family at our precinct yesterday that stopped me while I watched them. There was an African-American father who came in with his mother and daughter. It was his daughter's first election. She was so excited that when she got her American flag bandana, she asked her father to take her picture. While she voted, her father filled out his paperwork to vote and helped his mother. You see, his mother is completely blind. After his daughter finished, she sat with her grandmother while the father voted. And finally, the grandmother voted with assistance from her son. Three generations, determined to make sure their voices count. 150 years ago, none of those three would have been allowed to vote and yesterday, there they were. It brought tears to my eyes.

We voted on November 6th. The polls opened on the east coast at 7AM (in general) and by midnight last night, we knew who our president will be for the next four years. Not two weeks from now, not two months from now, but last. night. None of us had to dodge bullets to get to our ballot boxes. We can yell and holler and scream and shake our fists about the opposing candidates and not worry about a visit from said candidate to shut us up. And once the candidate who we dislike wins, we can still sit there and bad mouth him or her because our Bill of Rights protects us.

If Governor Romney had won last night, the transfer of power in January would have happened peacefully. The president-elect and his wife would have had brunch with President Obama and his family, they would have driven to the Capitol, and Romney would have taken the Oath of Office. Shortly thereafter, President Obama would have flown to his new home. There would have been no gunfire, no fighting, no armies forcing one form of government on a people over another. It would have been peaceful, as it was when Clinton won over Bush, as it was when Reagan defeated Carter, and on back as far as our country has existed. In four years, when a Democrat or Republican takes office in replacement of Obama, that will happen. And this coming January, President Obama will take the Oath of Office and continue his job, peacefully and without strife. Last night Governor Romney conceded the election to the victor and didn't threaten to beat down the doors of the White House. He didn't mobilize his voters to take over the government. He conceded to the victor. Peacefully.

What you're all forgetting is that our country, regardless of who wins and who loses, is this incredible place where the people speak and the government listens. We choose our leaders and those leaders take their place while those who lost their elections go home to become regular citizens again. All without loss or threatening of life. This is what makes our country so great and so special. And if any of you comment that None of our votes count then realize that you are spouting a load of bullshit. Every. Single. Vote. Matters.

And when we vote, our voices speak. Finally, we are a country, a people, who has realized that the pen, the voice, is truly mightier than the sword. Be proud of that, embrace that, and keep voting. Keep speaking. And realize that that is what makes us great.

Do Purples Have More Fun?

2012-10-31T00:00:00.000-04:00

You know that old saying? Blondes have more fun. Yeah, you know that one. I was actually blonde once. It was 1999. I was suffering from clinical depression due to my father's death, kicking back Zoloft like it was Goobers, and I just decided I needed change. For me, that change came in the form of short, short, platinum blonde hair.

I know. You can't believe it. And you're all going to comment Pictures or that shit didn't happen! Too. Damned. Bad. I am not digging through 13 years of pictures to find one, but I can assure you they do exist. Picture me younger, 20 pounds heavier, and WAY blonder. My friend Toni said I looked like a proper German girl. But I wanted to know if it was true. Do blondes have more fun?

Not really. At least, I didn't notice any discernible difference in how I was treated by strangers or friends. I was still the nerdy, small-breasted, BRUNETTE I had always been. A brown-hair in blonde's clothing, so to speak. And, to mangle a Sean Connery-James Bond phrase, The collars and cuffs did NOT match.

From that point on, I decided if I couldn't get a tattoo (tattoo = Ty-man divorce = sad CMG with trashy Chinese characters on her back that probably translate to Fortune Cookie Whore) I would allow Wayne to play with my hair. My typical appointment with Wayne since the Blonde Incident of 1999 has tracked like this:

Wayne: What do you want me to do?
Me: I don't know. I'm bored.
Wayne: How bored?
Me: Wayne-can-have-fun bored.

And I would walk out an auburn chick with blonde streaks, or a brunette with red streaks, or just a plain old HIDE YO GRAY! chestnut.

But this fall was different. With the twins starting first grade and me being introduced to the species of human female known as Towne-Lake-SAHM-Who-Has-Too-Much-Time/Money-and-No-Talent/Life-Who-Wants-To-Run-The-Lives-Of-The-Other-Moms I freaked. out.

Enter Wayne and his magic bottle of purple from stage left.

Exit me, stage right, with the gnarliest hair I've ever had the privilege of wearing.

I could totally take the easy way out and admit that this was me screaming through a year-40 crisis. But it isn't. At 40, I finally feel comfortable in my own skin. I know who I am, what makes me tick, and you know what? I love this bitch. I'm pretty danged cool. No, this purple hair is me, announcing to the outside world that I'm different. I'm not your average room mom. I'm not your average suburbanite. I'm not every other mother you see in the grocery store. This is my inner fireworks coming out to say FECKIN' A! Check this shit out!

Now, to finally answer the question put forth by this post's title: Do Purples Have More Fun? Well, I certainly had more fun with it. I left the house with a spring in my step, knowing what was on top of my head. These purple stripes have been money well-spent and out-cooled that birthday tiara by MILES. What I can tell you is that purple hair certainly gets you noticed. As in just about everyone in the Washington, D.C. and National Harbour area digs your wig. And strange men came up to me, in Kentucky, with the Ty-man standing RIGHT NEXT TO ME, and started up random conversations. All because of the purple hair. The grocery baggers at Kroger think I'm the shiz. But guess what? I'm still the same, meek chestnut none of them would have bothered to know this past summer. Because of these purple streaks, I'm suddenly more interesting. I'm note-worthy. And that's sad. It's sad that it takes an unnatural hair color for someone to get noticed. For others to even care.

Which is why when I return to Wayne in November, I have a decision to make. Do I ditch the purple or do I keep it? I can't decide.

Help?

Memories

2012-10-29T21:39:00.000-04:00

The fifth anniversary of this humble blog passed by with nary a whisper. All the way back in August. I hadn't noticed it until now. I sat down to write a post about my purple hair (forthcoming) and realized I had passed that Holy shit, this bitch is five years old and I didn't get her a present! moment a couple of months back.

Talk about your belated birthdays.

As I age, my usual death and dismemberment anxieties get worse. Before my children, I had a list (written on purple legal pad paper, natch) of personal belongings that would be passed out among my family and friends. Now, of course, all those things would go to my children. But here's the thing.

I don't want Miss-Miss to remember me via a necklace. Bubba won't care about my scuba gear if I'm not in it, diving with him, and I'm sure J-man would prefer me over some Anne Rice first editions. I know this because I miss my father. Terribly. And the one thing that has meaning for me was a letter he wrote to me before his death. His very presence, spirit is in that letter and I miss him so very much. He taught me how to tie my shoes, was there for every marching band performance, clapped the loudest and praised the highest whenever I did right and scowled the most when I did wrong. He would be such a balm for my soul right now as I struggle to raise these three kids. And granted, it's not a struggle in the traditional sense, because I am damned lucky to be where I am, to be a stay-at-home-mom, but I struggle because I'm a perfectionist and I expect to be perfect knowing I never can be. Dad would be there to tell me to calm down. He would be the base to the acid of my thoughts that whisper poison to me everyday when I, yet again, fail to reach the high standard I stupidly set out for myself. He is the voice I'm missing from my life. Sadly, I can't really remember the sound of his voice and his face is frozen, unmoving, in my mind because his multi-dimensional self has been replaced with old family photos and one measly letter.

I want my three babies to remember me. ME. Not some random memory of me or another person's perception of me through their fuzzy memories. They need to remember me through my own words and actions. This is why I've decided to turn my blog into a book. I'm currently in the process of copying all 720 posts (now, 721) into a book that can sit on a shelf, a book full of words and pictures that will give my three bundles of joy and heartaches a full picture of who their mother is and was. I want them to truly see me.

In doing this, I'm reading posts that I haven't seen in several years. Several. Wow.

I don't write as often as I used to. I've slowed down. But I still want to write here because this is who I am. A writer.

I am a writer.

I'm finally admitting this fact in front of all of you. And it feels good.

Happy 7th Birthday Bubba and Miss-Miss!

2012-09-16T10:44:00.000-04:00

Today, my dear sweet twins turn seven. For a less-abbreviated story that is tl;dr, click here.

If you would like to actually see the newly-minted 7-year-olds in action, with a special appearance by J-man and a photobomb courtesy of Ty-man, then look no further.

Happy Birthday, sweet twins! Love you both with all my heart!

An Open Letter to, Well, Everyone

2012-08-22T12:04:00.003-04:00

I've been stewing on this for a week.

My blog has always been about me and my daily life and my weird sense of humor. Lately, this joint is more quiet than hopping, but it's nice to know I still have a place in The People's Republic of Blogistan where I can let loose.

What has been stewing in my head is all this ruckus about Representative Todd Akin.

I've never been raped. I hope to never go through that one thing that all (and, yes, I mean all) women fear. I hope and pray that my daughter will never have to heal from rape. We all fear many things, but rape is something all us girls think about, whether it's happened to us or not. It's the ultimate defilement of our freedom, our femininity, and our humanity. I walk through a parking lot, keys sticking out from in between my fingers like nasty little Wolverine claws, completely alert to my surroundings. I do this day and night. I check the back seat of my car before I get in, even if the car was locked. I look at every male stranger at the grocery store, every single one walking down the street, each man going past me as a potential rapist.

Oh, wait, you're a man? And you don't like assumptions being made about you? Oh, well then, let me just say welcome to the party because I don't appreciate being treated like a second-class citizen who should be relegated to the kitchen and laundry room while supposedly possessing the powers of a Bene Gesserit witch.

Thus far, I have enjoyed being an American woman in the latter 20th and early 21st centuries. I have the ability to go to the grocery store in my flip flops and shorts in the baking Georgia summer, I can wear a bathing suit on the beach and catch a few rays during a family vacation, I can talk to my husband about financial issues, political opinions, and child-rearing philosophies without getting backhanded, I can go out and find gainful employment (if I could ever write a decent resume), and heck, I can do anything except spontaneously grow a Y-chromosome.

But, and this is a pretty big BUT, when people like Rep. Todd Akin come onto the scene and make statements about "legitimate rape" and that I have such power over my body that I can shut off ovulation at the flip of the switch, I feel all those personal freedoms melt away. I feel like I'm living in a Matrix where I'm being fooled into thinking that I have freedoms when, in fact, maybe I don't. Or I do and they're about to be snatched out from under me like a magician does a table cloth. Except this really nice china grouping is about to be shattered. Because, as we all know, douchebags are everywhere and where there's one Rep. Akin, there's more of him, waiting in line to express the same uneducated, narrow-minded opinion, ready to take away my choice in what I do to my body. Much like the rapist takes away a woman's choice with whom she will share her body.

This isn't a blog post about "vote for The Other Side". This is a blog post about LEAVING ME THE FUCK ALONE. I don't ask for much. I don't ask for federal assistance or state welfare, lowering my taxes or bearing arms. This is a post about personal fucking responsibility.

If you want to make sure your children never have abortions, then teach them about safe sex, saving themselves for their spouses and that abortion will send them to Hell. But, don't presume to do the same for my children. Don't make that decision for me. Because, yes, if (God forbid) my daughter is ever raped, I will take her to the pharmacist for the morning-after pill. And if you take that choice away from me, then I will take her wherever I have to go to make sure she never has the child of someone who tried to take away her freedom. I don't intend to buy condoms for your kids, so don't you dare ever take away my freedom to know, deep down, that I, or even many of our daughters, mothers, wives, or sisters, could not mentally survive pregnancy due to rape.

I don't pass out guns on the street corner and I will only ever use a gun in the defense of me and my family. Don't you dare ever take away my ability to protect myself and my family.

I don't get up in your face with my American flag, waving it around like a cat toy, just to piss you off. Don't you dare ever take away my right to wear said flag on a t-shirt, pledge allegiance to it, or fly it proudly from my house.

I don't market my religious beliefs (or lack thereof) to anyone by knocking on doors or starting conversations about faith at inappropriate places or times. So, stop trying to convert me on my doorstep, while I'm working at a polling precinct, or when I'm trying to scrapbook and socialize at a friend's house.

I don't tell you to shut up when you're defending something that makes me physically ill or when you're showing something on TV that I disagree with. I simply change the channel or walk away. So, stop trying to shut down people when you disagree with them.

I will never tell you who to fall in love with or who you can spend the rest of your life with. Love equals happiness. Why shouldn't we want people to be happy? My sexual orientation is practiced in my bedroom with the blinds closed. Just because someone is gay doesn't mean they do the deed on public park benches or in grocery store aisles. Quit assuming that the sexual orientation of a stranger can destroy your marriage. Only you can do that.

I won't ask you, Rep. Akin, to stop running for re-election and I won't duct tape your mouth shut. I will, though, tell you that you're an asshat who needs to go back to high school-level anatomy and physiology classes and tell you that maybe, from now on, you'll think before you open your uneducated-about-the-female-body mouth. As a representative of the people of the 2nd congressional district of Missouri, you should know better. You should know that rape is something ALL women fear, viscerally, and that you don't get to trivialize it or the need for many victims of it to know they could never survive knowing a physical reminder of said rape exists in the world. Ever.

Let's take responsibility for ourselves and our children. Let's stop trying to control the lives of everyone outside the walls of our home. Let's instead take care of each other. Let's not trivialize a horrendous act in order to forward a political agenda. Instead of shouting at each other and spouting such nonsense as "MY SIDE IS BETTER THAN YOUR SIDE" why not realize that ALL sides are right, for the people defending them, and that we HAVE to compromise. Yes, COMPROMISE. It has to happen or we will fail as a society. You may not agree with what I have to say and I may dislike how you feel, but we have to meet in the middle and walk together or we're just going to stand there, butting heads, getting nowhere.

So, leave abortion alone. Leave rape victims and their subsequent choices alone. The woman who forgot to take her birth control pill and accidentally got pregnant and felt her only option was to have an abortion? Leave her alone, too. And leave alone the odd woman who may be using abortion as a form of birth control. The choices these women make don't affect you in any way. Leave all us gals alone. We can, surprisingly, take care of ourselves. We're a hardy bunch, believe it or not. If there truly is a God, It will judge us as It sees fit. That's not your job.

In Memoriam

2012-06-21T00:00:00.000-04:00

Hard to believe it's been five years. Always remembering you Puppy Monster. Much love for you, Dawg!

Dialog, Part 33

2012-05-21T00:00:00.000-04:00

Scene: Me, at the Mall of Georgia, shopping with my sorority sister Toni and her step-daughter Lulu. We're in Aerie, that American Eagle lingerie store. Like teenagers need lingerie. But, who am I to shout at the wind?

Saleslady to me and Toni: Can I help you ladies with anything?

Toni: Nope, we're just waiting on our daughter.

Saleslady: o_O *Walks off*

Toni: o_O... Did I just say that out loud?

Me: YES YOU DID! You realize that Lulu looks like you, so she thinks you're the egg donor/woman in the relationship.

Toni: So?

Me: I'M THE ONE LOOKING AT THE BOY SHORTS! That means I'm the butch.

Toni: *Grinning furiously*

Me: *Stomping off to find high heels and makeup*

Mama! I'm a Whole Handful

2012-05-11T09:32:00.001-04:00

Dear J-man,

Did you know that you were born five years ago today? It all started four days after your Bubba's and Esha's first birthdays when I stood in the kitchen, starring down the barrels of three (count 'em, three) positive pregnancy tests. I couldn't believe it, but the proof was staring me in the face. My body, my screwed-up, wtf-do-you-mean-I'm-supposed-to-ovulate? body had finally figured out this whole cycle thing all on its own and you came into being.

For those first few months, I was plenty-nauseous and annoyed by the whole affair. How the heck was I supposed to raise twin one-year-olds and keep house if all I wanted to do was lie on the couch and moan? But then? Then, you moved. And I felt you. And my heart sang.

Our doctor decided to induce our labor two weeks early since my blood pressure was elevated. I must say, I was so happy to meet you earlier than expected. The hospital called very early on Friday morning, May 11, 2007, and informed us they were ready. The pitocin was administered, my epidural was good to go, and I waited. Lucky for me, there was a Roseanne marathon showing on a local channel. As I settled in for a several-hour stretch, I shifted in bed and realized that even through the epidural, something felt different. I called the nurses' station, they checked your progress, and just three hours after the start of our journey, you were there, ready to make your entrance.

When I first saw you, I thought you a mix of your Bubba and Esha. I saw a little of my father in your face and you were just precious. At first, I didn't want to hold you too much because I didn't want to spoil you, but by the time we came home two days later, I gave in. You were too cute not to cuddle 24/7 and to this day, you're a cuddler.

Dear J-man, you're a sweet boy who is constantly off the hook. You talk non-stop, chase after your Bubba and Esha, and drive them crazy. You also love them unconditionally and make all of us laugh until we gasp and snort.

I love you. Happy fifth birthday little man! You are growing up too fast and before I know it, I'll have a second Ty-man running around the house. And you know what? That's going to be awesome!

Rest Well, Dear Ainsley

2012-05-10T11:19:00.001-04:00

As I get ready to celebrate the fifth birthday of my youngest child, I am struck by the death of a little girl I had never met, but watched from afar.

For three years, I was a bitter bitch. While dealing with my infertility, I would grumble about pink and blue bows on mailboxes, I would shout obscenities at the television whenever Pampers commercials came on. I didn't give a shit about Mothers' Day and I hated, with a passion, candle lighting ceremonies.

Unless you're a sorority girl, you probably have no clue as to what a candle lighting ceremony is. In college, if your frat boyfriend gave you his frat jersey or pin, you could have one of these ceremonies. You also had one if you became engaged. You would keep it a huge secret, give your closest sister a candle and your confidence. She would call for a candle lighting and everyone would gather in a circle to pass the lit candle, wondering who was the lucky sister who had a boy who had professed his love. When the sister in question blew out the candle at the appropriate time, everyone would scream and squee and hug. I had such an engagement candle lighting.

As an alumna, I witnessed "adult" candle lightings. These were for marriages, new houses, new jobs, and pregnancies. For those bitter, nasty three years, I hated pregnancy candle lightings. I would stand in the circle, quietly chanting Marriage. Let it be a marriage candle. Pleaseohpleaseohpleaseohplease. And, inevitably, the candle would be passed for a pregnancy, and I would force a smile, and hug the sister in question, and wait until after the meeting was over and I was in my car on the way home to cry and shout and weep for something I was convinced would never happen for me.

By 2004, I was still bitter and decided that we were going to adopt. We were in the beginning stages of the adoption paperwork when I attended yet another sorority alumnae meeting and watched yet another white candle make its appearance. Without even making an excuse, I practically ran to the bathroom and didn't come out until it was all over. I didn't congratulate Lisa, the sister in question, on her pregnancy (her first) and I left with a nasty scowl on my face. I vowed, right then and there, to NEVER have a sorority candle lighting when our adoption went through.

By July, 2005, Lisa had her sweet baby girl and I, ironically, was waiting for the birth of my twins. One month later, on bedrest, I read the sad news that baby Ainsley had been diagnosed with Complex I OXPHOS mitochondrial disease, a degenerative disease with no cure and no hope. Only an attempt to keep Ainsley's quality of life as high as possible.

For six years, I have quietly read Ainsley's CarePage updates. While my twins, just two months younger, jumped and skipped and developed normally, I read about Ainsley's struggles to eat, walk, sleep, and live without pain or discomfort or seizures. Many times, I wept. This morning, I opened another CarePage update only to find that Ainsley had passed after another surgery to improve her quality of life.

Ainsley now has her wings.

I never did have a candle lighting. I told my sister, Sara, that at no time would a lit candle come near me at a sorority meeting. I announced my pregnancy via email and left it at that. I didn't want to upset any other sisters who may be going through infertility and suffering the same bitterness as I had.

But today, I will have that candle lighting. I will light a candle for Ainsley and thank her for her six years and apologize for my animosity that had no place in her mother's celebration of Ainsley's existence.

If any of you would like to do so, please feel free to make a donation to the Children's Healthcare of Atlanta Foundation. CHOA helped Ainsley and her family during these last six years and without them, Ainsley would not have had a fighting chance. I also invite all of you to light a candle today for Ainsley.

Thanks for reading.

The Forest Quiet

2012-04-03T16:54:00.005-04:00

It's Spring Break and we're spending it in the quiet and still of the north Georgia mountains. I don't know if it's the slower pace, the higher altitude, or the muffins my mother-in-law makes, but I find myself drifting through the days. In a good way. There's no rush or need to be anywhere, do anything.

I. Just. Am.

A typical day finds me responding to my kids OK, but just for a minute or Mama doesn't have time right now or Can you give me a sec, sweetie? The constant ebb and flow of the busy suburban life wears me down like the coral at ocean's edge. But here, in the cool north of the 13th colony, all is quiet. Life is like that burbling creek, slipping through the smooth rocks with a cool hush.

Miss-Miss and I dipped our feet into that hush today. She and her brothers built a little dam in the creek and I calmly watched, not worrying about the dizzying passage of time or the way we hurtle through space each second. We just... were. There was no news of the outside, no FYI of the latest world tensions, or which presidential candidate is jockeying for votes. It was all flowers, breeze, and a lush, mossy carpet cushioning our feet.

For right now, we are calm on this crazy rock, just watching, without a care, as the universe goes by. And I like it.

Christmas Ornaments, Part 2

2011-12-13T00:00:00.002-05:00

My great-aunt Courtney Berkley Wheeler lived to the ripe old age of 102. She passed away in 1999 after outliving her husband, all eight of her siblings, three of her six children, and numerous other close and distant relatives. She was my favorite Berkley relative and to say she was a pistol was an understatement.

One Christmas in the early 1980s, I received this Christmas ornament in the mail:

It was, and still is, the most obnoxious, old-school satin Christmas ball. And it's pink. Pepto pink. And it was made by my great-aunt Courtney. She made all of these for her great-nieces (pink) and great-nephews (blue). Did I mention there were 67 of us greats? And she made these when she was in her 80s?

Did I mention she also raised not only six children, but also raised her grandchildren of the three children who died young due to polycystic kidney disease? The same disease that claimed her husband? Did I mention that around the time she made these 60-odd Christmas ball ornaments that she burned herself while trying to light her wood stove with gasoline? And that the only reason she passed away was she lost her sight, then her hearing, and just didn't want to exist in a world with nothing to see or hear?

Chuck Norris couldn't touch this woman.

My great-uncle Earl, Courtney's younger brother, described her in the following way in his book The Tenacious Berkeley, Berkleys:

Courtney, the beauty of the Berkley mountain, had more young men vying for her attention than birds in a cherry tree. The timber business, when the virgin timber was cut from the Berkley place, brought young men from far and near; and they all met at the Berkley place on the least provocation. One banjo player, Roy Wheeler, was handsome and determined. He and T.J. (Courtney's father) did not see eye to eye but that did not deter him. Finally, he talked Courtney into eloping. It was a rainy night and he had two horses tethered in a thicket near the house, and he waited at a designated spot until Courtney got a break and could leave the house. They rode to the railroad station in the rain and traveled to Catlettsburg, Kentucky, where they were married on September 17, 1912. It was fortunate indeed that T.J. did not apprehend them before they got away. He was lower than a snake's belly in a swamp for some time, but as usual, he accepted it and made the best of his fury without permanent damage.

When she celebrated her 100th birthday, it was a whirlwind day and I was lucky to get a quick picture with her.

The next year, on her 101st birthday, I was actually able to sit down and talk to her. It had been years since we had seen one another* and, at this point, she was blind. I asked her Aunt Courtney, do you know who I am? and she immediately responded, eyes bright, Oh my! You're Heather! Simeon's granddaughter! We spoke at length and caught up on family gossip and our lives. I think she may have even flirted with the Ty-man.

I absolutely loved her and I love my Pepto Pink Aunt Courtney Christmas ball. It hangs on the Christmas tree in a place of honor, near the top, each and every year.

*The year before, when our picture was taken, was such a crazy, busy day that I don't think she knew whether to wind her butt or scratch her watch. She spent most of the day bewildered at the crowds. I was bewildered, too, and I was only 25.

Christmas Ornaments, Part 1

2011-12-12T00:00:00.004-05:00

In order to make it through the holidays without expending too much brain energy coming up with original blog posts, I thought it might be a good idea to document some of the cooler ornaments on our Christmas tree before the dog eats them all.

Our Christmas tree is like a book and the ornaments tell a story. They describe the funkiness of the 1970s with trippy little felt elves, my fetish with everything Opus, and the presence of our children with cute school-made ornaments they'll be embarrassed over in years to come. I don't have what I call a "Macy's Tree." My tree would never make it into an issue of Architectural Digest but it makes our family smile. One of my favorite things to do is to sit in my living room, (lights out, Christmas lights on) and look at all of the ornaments, remembering how I happened upon each and every one.

This ornament is one of my favorites:

My brother and his wife were stationed in Germany for three years and Vonda would always hit up the local Christkindlmarkt for gifts. Their last year in Germany, Vonda sent me my Jack-o-lantern scarecrow Christmas ornament. I have to admit that I'm a lover of all things Halloween. It's my favorite holiday and when I saw this ornament, I squeee'd because now, I can have a little bit of Halloween mixed in with my Christmas every year.

I'll be bringing more CMG ornaments in the days to come. Hope you enjoy them as much as we do!

Never Hang a Dead Body on Your Christmas Tree

2011-11-30T00:00:00.002-05:00

OR

THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS

You guys know about our new dog, right?

Did you know that dogs eat anything? And when I say anything I mean anything/everything/ZOMG they'll eat that?!?

I did not know this, but I do now.

Picture it. I was in my kitchen, loading up the advent calendar with treats for the kids. The house was quiet, kids were at school... and I heard a noise. It sounded sort of wet and crunchy and it was coming from behind me. I looked but there was nothing behind me that could make that noise. Huh.

So I kept working. And I kept hearing it. The sound of something being eaten. After five minutes (Nope. I'm not really bright before noon.) of looking for the source of the crunching I found Macy in the kids' playroom. At first, I thought she had discovered a powdered doughnut one of the kids may have dropped. And then I realized what was going on.

She had eaten almost all of a starfish Christmas ornament that had hung on the kids' Christmas tree. It was an actual dried starfish I purchased in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina and said starfish was painted with a snowy-white paint that had a faint glitter finish. Girlfriend had feasted on this dead animal with a FULL BOWL of food just a few feet away.

First I was all O_o. And then I was all GUH! MAAAA-AAACEEEEEE!!!!! And then I was all Where's that frakking vet's phone number?!?

Actual conversation:

Vet: Animal Hospital of Boondocks Atlanta! How may we help you?
Me: MY. DOG. JUST. ATE. A. STAAAARRRRFISH!
Vet: Um.
Me: Yeah. I know! It was an ornament on my kids' tree! AND SHE ATE IT!
Vet: A real starfish?
Me: Damn skippy.
Vet: Hold on... OK. The doctor wants to know where you got the starfish from.
Me: South Carolina.
Vet: But, is the starfish from South Carolina or was it marked "Made in China"?
Me: Nope. Nothing. Why?
Vet: Starfish from Asia can contain a toxin that can cause paralysis.
Me: No shit! Even when it's dried and several years old?
Vet: Yep.
Me: Fucking China.
Vet: You need to bring her in for an X-ray to make sure she chewed up the starfish. If there are big, sharp chunks, we'll need to operate to get those out.
Me: Uh.... What if I don't.
Vet: Just watch her for vomiting and diarrhea and then bring her in.
Me: Yeah. We'll be there in five.

The X-ray revealed that the starfish had been well-chewed and our dog had to devour four cans of sticky, wet, smelly high-fiber canned food to coat the starfish and force her to poop. A bunch.

I'm still waiting for this monster poop. You may see headlines about "Suburban Atlanta Dog and Owner Buried In Mound Of Crap."

What went through Macy's mind yesterday?

Ooooo! Yummeh star-thingy!
I LIKE this yummeh star-thingy!
Why is the tall lady yelling my name?!?
Hide under the big bed!
OH! We're going for a ride! GOODY!
Looky! I get yummeh stinky food! LOTS of yummeh stinky food!
That was fun! I need to eat more yummeh star-thingys! I get to ride in the car and eat stinky food! I LOVE MY NEW LIFE!

What have I learned? Don't hang dead bodies on the Christmas tree.

What did Macy learn? Not a damned thing.

Saying Good-bye

2011-11-26T00:00:00.004-05:00

Twenty-one years ago, my naivety was stripped away and I learned the truth of the adult world. Even at the age of 18, a legal adult and yet still an emotional kid, I thought adulthood was this magical stage when everyone's head suddenly straightened out, no one mistreated anyone else, and it was this magical point in your life when you kissed those fickle, catty teen years good-bye and became *mature*.

Twenty-one years ago I learned that not only could adults screw each other over, they could do it to those of us who were still kids.

The woman who broke my heart all those years ago, and showed me that adults could be pretty shitty, just passed away over the Thanksgiving weekend. And there's been an outpouring of grief and emotion and loss from those who knew her.

But not from me.

When I heard about her death, the events of those many years ago came flooding back with clarity and since I had accepted what had happened and moved on, I moved on again.

Then, I began to see the posts on Facebook of the people who knew her as well. And the outpouring of love was staggering. So many people called her their second mother, they recalled all the times she had helped them through rough times, how she had shown them unconditional love and support, and how they would all miss her terribly.

And I began to get upset. How come they all got this wonderful, caring, loving woman and I got the shaft? Why, due to a simple twist of fate, did this have to happen? Her daughter and I were members of the same organization and due to seniority, my name was ahead of her daughter's for a state office appointment. She changed the rules the following year and put her daughter's name ahead of mine. And I watched my years of service and all my hard work swirl down the drain. I get that she was watching out for her daughter and putting her interests first, which is what all mothers are supposed to do, but not at the expense of others who have worked just as hard for longer.

So I, too, mourned her passing this weekend, but for different reasons. They all will miss her and what she was for them. I mourn and miss what never was for me.

Why We Crate Our Kids

2011-11-21T00:00:00.001-05:00

OR

HOW WE ENDED UP WITH A DOG

What the Hell?

I know, I know. I've never said it out loud, but I'm a cat person. This does not mean that I shun all dogs and ignore them outright. If your dog is cute and not actively trying to separate my arm from my body, I will pet and love on said dog until it's time for me to leave. And then, I will go home and thank God that all I have to do is scoop a litter box and not walk in the freezing rain to watch my dog take a dump. Oh, and? SLOBBER! Ick. And that whole "incessantly licking one's genitalia" just escapes me.

But then, there's Macy:

Macy showed up unannounced at our kids' school and after spending a day in their class, it was discovered she had a microchip and 24 hours later, her family picked her up. And then 24 hours after that, the wife called to say that the husband wouldn't let her keep the dog.

Hrm.

We decided to take her in because she was already housebroken, up-to-date on all her shots, and the best part? She sat in a room full of little kids for six hours and never once growled or tried to bite at anyone.

After one day with her, I had decided that no matter what, we would keep her forever because of what I saw and discovered. She made it from Dallas, GA to Acworth/Kennesaw, about 16 miles, with no tears or scrapes on her pads. She didn't walk there, she was dropped off. When she was discovered, she had no collar, yet when she was turned over to us, she had a well-used collar on her neck. When Ty-man took her out to our fenced-in backyard to run and play, she cowered off to the side of our house when he took off the leash.

This dog was neglected by her previous family and purposefully dumped.

Supposedly, when these people adopted her in February, the rescue organization stated that her previous owners had abused her. And it's obvious that that was the case because when I hollered at the boys yesterday to come to dinner or suffer the wrath of Mama, she slunk out of the sunroom, ears back, as if she were mentally preparing herself for a beating.

What. The?

This dog doesn't bark. I've heard her whine in her sleep and whine at Andy. She hasn't once messed in the house even through the trauma of being passed off to strangers. She follows us everywhere, walks down the sidewalk like a pro, and rolls over on her back after wagging her butt because she's so happy to see you after a whole five-minutes of not seeing you.

Why? Why in the damned world are people so mean and nasty? I don't get it. She's the most awesome dog I've ever met and I'm not being biased here. I mean, I'm already biased for cats. I should be all She's OK but my Andy rocks your face off! And yet I'm not, because she's awesome.

But the best thing about having Macy as a member of our family? She ignores her crate, but the kids don't.

I think I'll turn their bedrooms into clothes closets and just buy them each a crate.

My name is Heather and I'm a dog-lover.

Wow. It's Really Dusty Around Here.

2011-11-15T00:00:00.001-05:00

August 17th. That was the date of my last post.

Is anyone even subscribed to this damned feed any more?

*Wiping off the cobwebs*

Who. The. HELL? Picked out this pattern? Oh, yeah. Me.

For the last year, I've been a mama who has been trying to take care of myself physically. When my doctor put me back on my insulin-controlling meds last year, I knew that I also had to start exercising. And run I did. I've logged quite a few miles and become intimately acquainted with a 4-mile bike trail that kicks my running rear end. I've also been lifting weights and Zumba-ing all over most of Woodstock. I'm not saying I'm at the gym hours upon hours every day, but just that 30 to 60 minutes each morning slays me.

Physically, I'm at the top of my game.

Mentally, I'm the equivalent of that dead toad Ty-man peeled off the driveway yesterday morning.

But, hey, my insulin is again my bitch.

Dear Pancreas,
Suck it.
Love, Me

(BTW, if this post makes no sense? It's because Ty-man turned on Thor. How is a girl like me supposed to write a sensible post when a boy like Chris Hemsworth is bulging all over my TV screen? *Sigh*)

I miss the old snarky, writing me. I'll drive the kids to school and think Oh! Oh! I've got to write this down. Or I'll be at the grocery store and I'm all DANG! My head is so FUNNEH! By the time I'm home, the funny has frittered away to nothing. I look out at my blogging friends and think, She's traveling the country, he's working on his stand-up comedy, he's collecting money for charity, she's educating the masses about being an American Muslim, he's helped create this awesome magazine and they're all writing.

And I'm here. Watching re-runs of Big Bang Theory and thinking about writing.

So, I'll write. I've got a book of writing prompts and I've got stupid things that I think are funny and if any of you are still out there, I'll write for you. If you're all gone, well, that's OK too. I'll write it anyway.

Reboot of my brain in 3... 2...

Pretty

2011-08-17T00:00:00.001-04:00

There's a lot of ugly shit going on in the world. What's new, right? But with the realization that my kids are growing up way too fast being the cherry on top of this crap sundae, I decided that I need to share these photos from our recent family beach vacation with you. They make me smile, chill, and relax, and I hope you do the same.

(OK. That last one wasn't taken on our vacation but rather yesterday before we left for the first day of kindergarten and the first day of the last year of pre-k. Lord help us.)

End... and Begin

2011-08-16T00:00:00.001-04:00

For five years and eleven months, I've been schlepping my kids in and out of car seats.

I HATE car seats. I know they're designed to keep my kids safe and that's all they're meant to be, but seriously? I have cussed my way through many days of travel with these things. Last summer, the kids finally gained enough strength in their hands to clip themselves into the seats, but they never mastered getting themselves out. And all summer long I have effed and bs'ed my way through numerous errands.

The kids start school today (twins are in kindergarten - O.M.G!!!) at the same Montessori school, but with two new teachers and said teachers are keen on all the kids being as independent as possible. This means no more mama unstrapping kids; they need to be able to do it themselves.

On Sunday evening, Ty-man switched out the old car seats for the new booster seats and set the blasted, evil, hated car seats on the curb for landfill fodder.* As I stood outside and watched a stage of my kids' lives end, I talked to Neighbor Jodi.

Jodi: Aren't you going to take a picture of those?
Me: Hell, no!
Jodi: But this is an event! They're not little kids anymore! They're growing up!
Me: Jodi, I hate those fucking seats. I'm not going to cry over three pieces of kid equipment that gave me nightmares for five damned years!

And then she berated me and made me take a picture.

So, I took the friggin' picture.

I'm not sad the car seats are gone. I'm ecstatic. What I'm sad about is that my daughter wanted her hair much shorter for the beginning of school. I'm sad that my twins are just a year away from elementary school. I'm sad that J-man is almost two years younger than the twins but is just as mature as they are.

I'm sad that sooner rather than later my weekend morning cuddles will stop, that the hugs and kisses will slowly disappear, and that the unsolicited I love yous will quiet.

The car seats? Pfffft. Please. I hope they find a new home, protect some sweet kids, and continue to get cussed at every day by tired, harried parents.

I just wish I could keep all the great parts of my kids being this age and never see them go.

* SERIOUSLY! Why can't I sell my damned car seats?!? I hate this litigious society we live in. I should be able to have the damned seats inspected, certified that they're still doing their job of confining little humans, uncomfortably, in a minivan, and sell the damned things for 50 bucks a pop. INSTEAD, I have to set them out for the garbage man, only to catch some random woman in a pickup truck picking them up FOR FREE from MY CURB WITHOUT EVEN ASKING!!! Bitter? Yeah, just a bit. I told her she better not sue us for taking property THAT WASN'T HERS! OK. Fine. I'll let it go now.