Well, I don’t know. Maybe all mommy’s are supposed to inherently know that their children’s physical for Kindergarten involves four shots, one finger prick blood drawn thingy and some tester needle stick for the four shots they are about to jab in my kids’ legs. And I had NO IDEA I’d be handed two cups and told to go “collect some urine”. Ewww.
I took the kids to their pediatrician, thinking maybe they’d get a shot, but not really considering it since I have arthritis in my hand from filling out so many forms. And I have to make 3 more stops to get the proof the schools need that my children are mine, legal citizens, and have a dentist. What the? A DENTIST!? The school needs proof that my kids have a DENTIST. The pressure. So, when we arrive at the doctor’s office, I just tell the kids we’ll be in and out in a few minutes. The doctor is just going to fill out this paper for your school.
Was I wrong! And yes I was. Whew. An HOUR LATER, and I’m talking an hour WITH THE DOCTOR, not in the waiting room, the kids had their hearing tested, their eyes tested, lungs, heart, and my son had his first, “Okay son, cough for me” test. The doctor was thorough, sat down and talked to me about whether my kids were ready to go to school versus the theory to wait another year. They are so ready per MEEEE, and the doctor. We chat some more about discipline and this and that. At the end, he mentions that the kids will need a vaccination and then high_tails it outta there. He had his jacket on and was leaving for lunch.
The poor nurse comes in and very bashfully, almost apologizing, says, “I need you to collect urine samples from them.” But with her eyes, it was more like “Please don’t hurt me.”
I look at her in disbelief. I wanted to say with big pruny lips, “Whatchoo talkin about Willis?” Instead, I bucked up, grabbed the cups and took them in one at a time. Max was easy. The kid’s got good aim. Lucy, not so much. I knew this going into it and turned on the water and got soap on my non_cup collection hand before we even started.
Then came the shots. Up to this point, the doctor, nurse and I had been spelling it out. But she brings in the tray of cocktails and the kids FUREAK out. Max starts screaming. Lucy’s up to bat first. It’s bad enough that they now know at this point that they have to get shots. When they are babies, you give them the motrin in the little syringes, they cry when they get stuck, and that’s it. They marvel at the colorful hot wheels/my little pony band aid. All is right with the world. But now they are 4. They are stronger than me, and faster than me, and they are in their little undies.
Lucy got hers first. I’ve never seen, nor felt, her fight like that. First, I had to hold her hand from the nurse so that Lucy didn’t whop her. Then, after that finger prick. I personally hate the finger prick. The nurse says, “Okay, I have to just test your skin for….” and she’s phazed out by wailing so she stopped explaining and just did it. And we’re talking the gut wrenching wailing by Lucy and now Max. He was standing in a corner trying to disappear. I’m sure it was sympathy pains and the fact that he knows he’s about to get it too. Just the anticipation was sending him over the edge. Now I get the pleasure of holding Lucy down, holding her arms over her head and LAYING on her while the, very talented, strong and coordinated nurse holds both legs so not to get kicked all while popping the lid off of each of the four needles, jabbing, setting down, picking up, popping off the next lid. Lucy got two sparkle bandaids on each thigh. Apparently, the sparkle didn’t matter at this point.
Next is Max. The nurse had to go get a new tray because there were so many needles, she had to reload. So, I hold Lucy, trying to calm her down. Then I go to get Max, and end up chasing him through the hall, while he’s running, begging me no in his UNDERWEAR. Sigh. Once the shots started, he calmed down until each stabbing. Let out a big cry, “THAT HURTS MOMMY.” And then take deep breaths with me. Again, the sparkly bandaids…not so effective this time.
At this point, I just feel like this is a therapy session. Holding your kid down while he begs you to make it stop, putting him through pain and telling him, “It’ll all be over in a minute, this is for your own good.” Jesus. Sounds like a Law & Order child abuse episode.
I start getting them dressed, and they can’t even bend their little legs because any flex of their powerful quads hurts. UGGGH! And insert large lump in throat. I start to tear up, the nurse gives me a pep talk, I get them dressed and announce, who wants to go to the PIZZA MACHINE! The nurse and I welcome the shrieks of joy.
I called Ricardo at work and let him know about the large charge of guilt that is about to ensue on the credit card. He’s okay with that and so we go. Four hours of pizza, spicy juice (sprite, it’s a treat for them), go karting, bumper cars, and skeeball later, we cash in our stupid tickets for the trinket toys, go back to the buffet for ice cream and then to Blockbuster. I let them get whatever movie they wanted. “Oh, you EACH want a movie instead of sharing one this time, GO FOR IT, and mommy is so sorry about that shots thing again.”
Tonight, we will have their favorite dinner and a movie. They can eat it while we watch the movie. They can have whatever they want. Mommy’s so sorry.
That’s how I roll. (It’s a very rocky and unstable roll right now.)
Well, I thought I could escape this post. But it’s time. I knew it was time, when on the phone with my MOTHER, I get this conversation where she’s all in a tizzie (yes, you were Mom!) because my non_step dad and my mother got in an argument and he told her that she was wrong and how dare he because that was like tell her to shut up. Both of which don’t jive with my momma. How dare he!?
Big Sigh….”So, what’s the problem mom?”
“He says that Britney went to rehab, checked out and went and shaved her head and then got the tattoos. I SAY that Britney went and shaved her head and got the tattoos and THEN went to rehab. So, which of us is right?”
A flashback to my childhood which I’m still working out with my therapist/bartender who makes the most splendid dirty martinis and a big sigh later. Then a rush of adrenaline that indeed my MOTHER is consulting me as the stellar consultant of all things britney. She has no idea that I still wear a Swatch.
What I want to say when I catch myself talking about this constantly, it’s unavoidable is: “I don’t know, girl. Yeah, I’ll ask her what the hell she’s doing. I’ll call her tomorrow, but I”m too busy today…I’ve got to get to the gym, and then steam room it, then the kids need to return their library books. Britney knows I’m here for her…I’ll call her tomorrow, maybe send her some chocolate.”
“Mom, you’re both right. Britney indeed checked herself into rehab A, checked herself out. Went and shaved her head, tattooed it up. She had a little stint at a hotel, it was ugly. ‘Nobody wants me anymore…’ blah blah blah. And then returned to rehab,hence checking herself out, yet again.”
And Mom’s response: long pause…and then, “Well, will you call him and tell him I’M RIGHT!?”
“I’ll email him later mom, but I’ve got to get into the gym, and then steam room it, then the kids need to return their library books…”
Oh Britney, you’re encouraging dialogue within tattered relationships like no Dr. Phil ever could. Not that I’m tattered with my mom or anything, but I’m just saying, you’ve opened the door for dialogue. It’s about you and how we can fix you, but still, you’ve allowed us to focus on your problems instead of our own. So thanks for that. You just give and you give.
I personally love that the media says that she’s lost it because she shaved her head. And then…THEN SHE ACTUALLY GOT NOT ONE BUT TWO TATTOOES AND ONE OF THEM WAS ON HER BIKINI LINE WHAT WAS SHE THINKING?!
I’m guessing drugs are involved. Moreso, all those “friends and family” who are reaching out to her are really pissing her off because as we see with Anna Nicole, money and fame does freaky things to the people you’re supposed to love and trust.
First of all, tattoos aren’t just for prisoners and the NBA anymore, folks. And shaving her head is great. I look forward to her new album…..edgy, rock n roll. Go girl. Get yourself clean, and then call me!
That’s how I roll.
Is it me, or are the contestants on Deal or No Deal and their pals are all actors? Seriously, there’s not that many people in the country with such developed over exuberant roles. I think it’s a loophole in gameshow gig.
ANNNNDDD, the actor_family & friends, why are they always so greedy. “Hunny, 559,000 is a lot of money but WE have a chance at more.” I would like, just once for the contestant to then say, “What’s this WE shit?” And then hit the button and say, “I’m taking MY money!”
That’s how I roll.
When we were kid_free, either dating or married. I don’t know. After kids, it all jumbles together. But pre_kiddos, Ricardo raced. You betcha. He raced on the dirt track. Now, I was shocked just as much as you may be right now that Ricardo loved racing. He’s not your average NASCAR fan. But he loves it, and he’s brilliant, so I went with it. He got a car and rebuilt the engine, or whatever. Got himself a suit, cute fireproof shoes, and a helmet that is now used for our entertainment for when Max puts it on. He looks like a bobble head.
Ricardo raced for a couple of years until the kids came along and, um, well, revamped his idea of a dream. On occasion, I was his crew chief. Granted, I sucked at it. When it was just me there to help him, he was pretty much on his own should something go bad. One night it went bad. And Ricardo’s nightmare came true, he had to rely on me, the one who thinks that mechanics are magic makers. Ricardo was in a bit of a wreck. It looked horrific, but he came off to fix it, so it couldn’t have been that bad. There’s some kind of rule where if you leave the track and can make it back on before the caution is over, you can stay in the race. And that’s what he was trying to do. He got out, bent some stuff back, checked some stuff out and then got back in his car to go out and finish the race. The problem was, he had his gloves on and his helmet on and was trying to buckle a five_point harness similar to what I am now a pro at snapping together, it’s basically a children’s car seat where everything has to stack and meet precisely at the buckle. I had come down to help, and when I say help, I mean, maybe offer him some water. Unless he needed a hammer, he was on his own, because that’s the only tool I can decipher from the others. It’d be like Lassie, “Hurry girl…the hammer! Run!” Hahahah. Anyhoo, I was basically just there asking him if he was okay and did he need any water. He couldn’t get the seatbelt buckled and I was just standing there, and they were about to re_start the race. I, now, understand his frustration. But at the time, I didn’t take too kindly to his inevidible expression of emotion when he looked up at me and screamed:
“BUCKLE THE FUCKING SEATBELT!”
I was shocked. He was too, I think, but desperate, none the less. I gave him the glare. You ladies know the glare I’m talking about. If you’re married, you know it. Use it sparingly. If you’re not married, it’s something you acquire and is not to be trifled with. Own the glare. Overusing it can stifle it’s power. So, I gave him the glare and walked away. Leaving my sweet precious man to fend for himself. To my defense, I didn’t know how to buckle the seatbelt. And me trying would have really made matters worse. If I remember correctly, he didn’t get to finish the race.
Ladies, back off my man. It was his moment of rage. This is worthy of telling the story because the man is so laid back that everyone who knows him is kind of shocked when I tell it, but proud of him all the same. “Wow, you said that to her…you have gigantic cajones!” With all the adrenaline and problem_solving, he doesn’t even remember saying it. I reminded him, he apologized. He was as shocked as I was that he said it. I’m pretty sure he’s never screamed at me since that fateful day. I’ve never cast the glare since. All is right with the world.
Yet the phrase, “Buckle the fucking seatbelt!” Just rings in my head on occasion. It’s not some flashback of when my man was mean to me, but an expression that constantly rings true. I cannot believe how in this day and age that people don’t buckle their kids’ seatbelts. I just can’t believe it.
Case numero uno is my frikkin preschool teacher’s kid. That’s right. You read that correctly. When I drop my kids off, my preschool teacher’s kid who is maybe a year older, but smaller in size, so still needs to be in a car seat, not a booster, a car seat, he gets picked up by one of her friends or maybe a family member. A lady picks him up and takes him to school. First of all, her kid is a toddler and inconsistently buckled. And then she just gets him in the car and drives off. Doesn’t buckle, doesn’t check to see if he’s buckled. He never is. And there you go, two kids under the age of 6 potentially catapulting into the windshield all because you didn’t want to hear them whine about it or take the time to buckle their FUCKING SEATBELTS!???
I’m to the point where I see this all the time. People driving in front of me or by me, kids STANDING UP in the car. Kids as young as three. And this is no discriminating offense, people. I’ve seen the beat up truck pull up to a convenience store with 3 adults and 7 kids, most of which were laying on the floorboard of the truck. I’ve seen that. But I’ve also seen a frikkin Lexus drive by with a carseat in the back, securely fastened with the toddler standing right next to it. It’s absurd.
Case numero dos: Today, I’m driving down the road, and there’s three kids sitting in their seats. It’s a balmy 47 degrees out, so I guess they have the windows down. The only reason I know this is because one of the kids is launching candy, I think it was red hots. He thinks it’s funny, but they are hitting my precious minivan. I’m getting more and more ticked each time he does it until the kid next to him stands up while they are driving. They all start moving in the back and I see that not one of them are buckled. However the driver is buckled. The kid continues to launch red hots at me and so I promise myself to throw my car into park and tell the guy his kids are throwing candy out the window and to BUCKLE THEIR FUCKING SEATBELTS. I assure myself that this could be a lesson to everyone involved. We approach a light, I’m wishing a green light to turn red, and that’s when the guy turns. For a moment I consider following him into the subdivision he just turned into, but instead, I floor it, and lay on the horn. The old man didn’t really care, but it scared the pants off the kids in the back, because I threw in the glare.
I feel better atleast. I am really tired of griping about this issue to Ricardo or my girl Julz. I’m sure they are too. So I resolve to tell it to the people who need to hear it. At any opportunity, that’s safe, because really, THAT would be counter productive. I resolve to tell it to them. So, if you’re rolling around Nebraska and you see a six foot woman coming at you with the glare, just tell yourself one thing: BUCKLE THE FUCKING SEATBELT! I’ll reiterate that message when I get to your window. This time, it’ll be out of desperation of your safety and mine.
Don’t give me that crap about, “Well, back in my day we didn’t have seatbelts” or “I held my babies in my lap on the way home from the hospital.” Yeah, well, we didn’t have gigantor muscles of steel, the highest rate of drowsy and drunk drivers, or mothers who have miscalculated how much zoloft to pop on the way to Johnny’s tball game. We didn’t have cell phones, sports cars for handicapped people, cigarettes and coffee holders, cd players, and mp3 players to fiddle with. It’s a new world of faster and bigger cars and unyielding distractions which makes a wreck happen faster and worse. Ricardo was right. It’s THAT important and urgent.
That’s how I roll.
I have a lot of pet pieves. Frankly, the term “pet pieve” pieves me. Why is it a pet? I digress. Most of my pieves are my own personal issues. Funny, it bugs me that other people do it, but I continue to do it without a trace of insight. However, these phrases, I catch in everyday life conversations and on the news, in interviews. I don’t do any of these because I’ve had a personal commitment ceremony with myself and the words I use.
1.When someone says “Trust Me” he or she is lying. Seriously, it’s like they are saying, “Respect me.” No sir. You have to earn respect, not demand it. And you can’t just tell someone to trust you. It’s a complete contradiction of what’s to be accomplished. By telling me to trust you, I know you’re lying or you’re just wrong. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have had to resort to such desperate simplicity.
2. To Be Honest Witcha _ This is a good chuckle. It goes along the lines of “trust me”. When you’re in the middle of a conversation, or an interview, and you say, “To be honest with you, the money doesn’t matter to me.” I smell some bullshit. In claiming in the middle of a conversation that THAT is the point of which you are asserting honesty, you are fessing up that the preceding said conversation is all not what you’ve been honest with us?
“To be honest witcha” can also be a great drinking game when watching . So, for all my college student readers have an Orange County Choppers party. I’m sure there’s a ton of you. Stay home, don’t go out and drink and drive. Stay in and start a new game: drink everytime they say “To be honest witcha” on their show. To be honest with you, they say it a lot. Every single one of them.
3. “If I were you”…If you were me sir, you’d be so much better off. You’d be right ALL the time. You’d be happy and have fun and probably laugh a little more. Sadly, I’m probably guilty of saying this one on occasion.
4. My jab at Matt Lauer, the best example of a bad example of journalism I could ever encounter. “Can I just say” is ol Mattie’s trademark. I’m willing to go on the record and claim that this too could be a phrase you and your buddies could play onesies with. It’d be in the morning, but really, how else could you get through the morning than with three (and soon to be FOUR) hours of this guy? Granted, he did a pretty good job of letting ol Tommy Cruise show us what he’s really about. But most of the time, he’s not interviewing, he’s not asking questions. He’s telling his subjects how HE feels about things. A good journalist asks questions. So, he makes his statements by prefacing them with “Can I just say…”
“Can I just say, I prefer thongs over briefs OR boxers?”
“Can I just say, I loved your movie about horny toads?”
“Can I just say, you’re way fatter in person?”
“You know what I mean” You know What I’m saying
5. This is “literally” the worst word ever. Literally might be the most mundane and overused word of our time. Please stop interupting yourself with this word. Literally. I think I will start using the opposite out of context in place of literally. “I figuratively just gave my last dime to Macy’s one day sale. Oh wait…that was IN CONTEXT! Imagine that!
6. And my personal favorite is when people use the word fetish out of context. I cannot make this up. Recently, I was at one of my favorite take_the_kids_to hang outs. And I striked up a conversation with a lady who had a kid that was playing with my kids as well as a baby. The baby was sticking her toes in her mouth. I joked about it. I was right on, I’m sure. The mom laughed and said, “Yes, she’s got quite a toe fetish.” I got up and walked away. Because I was about to yell, “NO SHE DOESN’T AND YOU ARE NASTY YOU SEX FREAK!”
People of the world, please listen. Fetish has a few meanings, but here in the good ol USA, here’s what it always means: “Something, such as a material object or a nonsexual part of the body, that arouses sexual desire and may become necessary for sexual gratification.” So, you’re BABY does NOT indeed have a frikkin toe fetish. She just likes her toes. Geesh.
I hear fetish used out of context probably once a week, and I’m officially on a mission to make it stop.
That’s how I roll.
I thought I’d take this moment to establish what true love is. A parent’s job is never done. And I’ve found that this rings true not so much in my case but with Ricardo’s parents. Granted, their job is done. They’ve done it very well by raising wonderful boys to become great husbands and fathers. And they just keep on giving.
We got a call a few weeks ago that Ricardo’s dad, who we refer to as Bean (no one knows why, but I have my speculations) he had some time off from work. So, can the kids come stay for a week?
Uh, hold on, let me think about this…KIDSPACKYOURBAGS! YES!
Ricardo’s parents are firm believers that parents with young kids need time alone. Time for each other. They take our nephews on summer vacations each year. They’ve watched the kids before while we took our first trip away from the kids. The twins were young, about a year old, and Ricardo and I didn’t know what to do in a beautiful hotel room with no responsibilities nor obligations. Hmmm…what does one do in a beautiful hotel room with one’s spouse? Hmmm? I would like to report that we had wild passionate crazy never_ending sex. However, none of you with kids would believe me, and I cannot tell a lie. We slept. We slept like we’ve never slept before. On occasion, we’d wake up and agree that all that sleeping, maybe we should eat to sustain our energy for more sleep. And we’d go eat. Eating at a restaurant, with no kids is a vacation in itself. We ate and we slept and we missed the heck out of the kids.
We called and checked on the kids, probably too much. We actually held back as much as we could. It’s not that we don’t trust Ricardo’s parents. It’s that we love them. And although our children are beautiful and sweet and at the time, still babies. They are ours. We were used to the schedule they had us on. But to do that to someone else. People we dearly love. It’s a complete upheaval and total cluster of no sleep when diaper changing soon morphs into an art. Life with twin babies is simply physically exhausting. I can say that in hindsight. At the time, I had no idea because Ricardo and I just did it. We loved every minute of it. We still do. I’m just saying, it’s our gig. We did this to ourselves. And I always feel guilty shlepping our gig off on someone else. But not too guilty to go on the trip.
Gramma and Bean love it though. It’s a great fit. So, when I call to check in, I’m checking on the well_being of Ricardo’s parents, not so much the kids. The kids, I know are fine, if not in better hands than with us.
A little more than a year ago, Gramma and Bean stepped in to help out again while Ricardo and I took a trip out to Belize. Again, we needed some time to ourselves, but we were more on a mission for me to get some closure on my dad’s death. It worked. I cannot thank them enough for that gift to help us to go all that way for just one moment in time. A mere minutes to physically and emotionally let it go. It was an immediate wash of relief. The kids were three at the time, a little easier (no diapers) and yet on a whole new level of exhausting. I was happy to report back to Ricardo’s parents that their exhaustion and time with the kids was completely warranted by my renewed lease on life…and death.
A year later, while I’m still fulfilled from the last trip to Belize, we get the call from Ricardo’s parents that they’d like to watch the kids. Now they are four. They are easier. I’m not much of a baby person. So, I like them now at this age because they can interact with me and tell me how great Mommy is while mixing me a mean vodka tonic. Ofcourse, they can tell me how, er, ungreat I am, yet still, even with their unhappiness, it’s such a joy that they can explain it IN DETAIL and we can work the problem out. I don’t have to translate a cry. They just tell it to me. It’s a Godsend.
Still, the thought of a little vacation sounds nice. It’s an awkward feeling. I planned for this life with kids. I miss them. And yet, I’m embracing the idea of a break. I don’t need it. I haven’t hit rock bottom…YET. But I guess that’s why, because I get these moments to myself and alone time with Ricardo.
Today I went to the mall and searched endlessly for an item of which I never found. I probably looked like a lost child. As I searched, I noticed all the kid toys and fun Valentine’s the kids would probably love. I just enjoy being a parent, a mom. I think it’s taken this time away to really understand that. Either the Eagles or Don Henley said it solo, “You don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone.”
Oh, no pity here. I stayed up late last night scrapbooking. I’ve slept in. And I’ve brought a coffee tray down to the computer. I’m seizing the opportunity to do things around the house that don’t always get done with little ones around.
We considered taking a trip this time. But instead, we opted to seek adventure in the house. Without further ado, here is the to_do list while the kids are gone:
1. Paint and redecorate bathroom.
2. Clean pile in file cabinet and actually access the files for use.
3. Grocery shop at leisure.
4. Watch as many movies as we can.
5. Watch the news. (I don’t watch the news much with the kids around since Lucy asked me one time, “Mommy, what’s a suicide bomber?”)
6. Talk to, gaze at and love on Ricardo.
7. Pet the dog and maybe, if we’re all lucky, wash the dog.
9. Take long showers.
10. Cook spicy food.
11. Girls night in! Holla to all my girlzzzzzz!
That’s it folks. I just like life with my kids and my family. But for this week, I’m a kept woman. It’s the greatest Valentine’s gift ever.
That’s how I roll.
***A side note, if you will. I’m not kissing my in_law’s butts. I simply speak the truth. These people are golden good people. Trust me on this.
I woke up to a startling news report that some jackass went to a mall with a gun in Salt Lake City and killed 5 people. My immediate respoonse was, “I hope Heather is okay!”
I don’t read too many blogs. But she was my first. This girl is good. She’s raw and honest. Hillarious, and truly a great writer of our time and genre. Even the dog is captured by sheer intelligence.
I hope you’re okay, Heather.
That’s how I roll.
I find it amusing at the following conversation. Even moreso is who was involved.
The other day, Julz’s sister_in_law was in labor. This was very exciting because Julz would be a first time Auntie! And I love it when someone goes into labor because then I reflect on all the funnies and interesting things that happened to MEEEE when I was in labor. It’s the last thing that happens that really matters about you. For nine months, you get to talk about yourself and all the fabulous miracles that are happening to you, and then, just like that…poof. All anyone cares about is those darn kids.
So, I like to reflect back to me. Like the fact that I’m pretty sure, in hindsight that the epidural wore off and I birthed TWO babies au_naturale. I’ve polled the greater population, and it turns out, when I explain my experience, that the effn nurse who told me, “oh, hunny, the epidural only covers so much down, once the babies drop down to a certain point, you’ll just feel it.” Not so with any other woman I’ve ever talked with. I went into labor at 4:30p.m. and got an epidural at a 3. At about 5 a.m., I started to feel the contractions at about an 8. I think the epidural either came out, or wore off. Sigh. I am such a bad ass. Let’s just take this moment to absorb that: two babies….an hour and a half apart….over six pounds each. I need a stiff drink just reflecting on that. And I’m currently writing with one hand because I’m hi_fiving myself.
Enough about me, let’s talk about the distant relative of a friend having a baby and how that affects me. Okay, so, Julz is so dedicated that she still shows up at the gym, but brings her phone with her to work out, awaiting the call. We work out, and we get our stuff and go shower. Now before all you freaks out there are envisioning a scene from Porky’s where all the hot chicks shower together, let me interrupt your freakness for just one minute and explain, there there are shower stalls, with curtains. Julz and I are close, but not THAT close. We do, however, get in the stalls next to each other so that we can continue our very important conversations while showering.
The phone rings. She’d strategically placed the phone outside the shower next to her towel and she was GETTING THE CALL!!!! WE HAVE A BABY! So, the phone rings, and Julz jumps out to get it. Meanwhile I’m turning off my shower and towelling off with my ten towels. And the conversation on the other end must have just been the funniest thing ever. Here’s what I heard:
Julz, butt_naked and soaking wet (with dried off ear) “Hello?”…”Hi Dad…no, I’m at the gym, in the shower, I’m butt_naked with shampoo in my hair, so there better be a baby”
I’d stepped over to her shower to turn it off so she could hear better.
Julz: “Thanks Leslie…..no, that’s Leslie…yeah, we’re in the shower. So, no baby yet huh? More small talk and then, “Okay, I better let you go. Bye”
Her poor father. Wasn’t it emotional enough that his son was about to be a father, but then to call and find out your daughter is showering with some chick she met online? Sigh. There’s just no explaining it….
That’s how I roll.
Just when I was getting so excited to get the kids in school with glee in anticipation of things like the smell of new school supplies and how I was going to slip a cute note or something in their lunches, I get this packet in the mail. For the love of all that is educated, this is ridiculous. Filing taxes is less exhausting than what they sent me to fill out. I’ve got to get an optometrist, get their hearing screened, get a physical, figure out their dental and shot records. And that’s just the yellow forms.
All of this simply reminds me that I am not of age nor decent level of maturity to have school_aged children. Granted, I’m in my thirties. So, maybe I’m of age, but alas, not so much with maturity. My thrill of excitement for school starting soon turned to anxiety as I looked at all the forms. Seriously, this is crazy, y’all:
That’s for just one kid. Just the front sides of all forms. One packet. I haven’t stopped crying long enough to open the other packet.
What, what? A DIVORCE DECREE AND CUSTODY AGREEMENT!? C’mon. Give us a chance to stress out from going to school, woops, I mean, sending our kids to school…give us that chance of grave stress on the marriage in which would cause a divorce. Geesh.
I’m pretty sure taking the SAT, GRE, and filling out the application for college was less pressure than this.
I’m off to a good therapist to save my marriage so that I can scratch atleast one of these docs from my check list. Does anyone know one that specializes in test anxiety and who serves martinis?
That’s how I roll.