February 2009 Archives

I would really like Octomom to be Octogone. So much in fact, I refuse to put a picture of her and her surgically enhanced lips and cheeks on here. It turns out not only is she addicted to having babies, she's addicted to cosmetic procedures as well. Come on lady, how about taking up a nice hobby like jogging or cooking or body surfing in waves of razor blades. Whatever.

There's a reason why Octofreakshow wasn't physically able to have kids on her own. And when you're publicist calls you out on lies...when your publicist can't help you, c'mon. Calls Ann Curry back and says, "Yeah, that part where she said she received no government funding....not all true, she receives foodstamps and three kids are on disability."

Even better, when your own mother is on the air talking about your crazy, somethin ain't right. I mean, MY MOM and I trade crazy back and forth all the time. But who came up with the idea to set it up on camera?

The publicity "debate" between octofreakshow and her mother is the last straw for me. From the two subjects hashing it out, to the creepy Maury Povich-ish producer who came with this idea, to the rock solid publicist, I mean really, how did this all go down,
"We have a great idea, we'll rent a house for a day. No, we realize they are all about to be homeless, but they can't HAVE the place. We don't care if they have a place to live, we just want to rent a place to bank on an interview. We'll get it all on camera. Yeah, it's gonna be SUPER great publicity. You don't think she'll do it? Just tell her it's her chance to shine and everyone will see her mom is a meany. It'll generate book deals and reality shows galore. She'll do it? Super! See you on Monday."

The first network to run a show with this woman in it will be removed from my cable menu. I WILL however, watch a show where the kids have their own show in ten years. It's good to know there's freakshow moms out there like this. It makes me look like mom of the year. I've accepted the award, now, can we move on to more important news like, where's Rihanna? Can't all the media make some kind of oath to dump this media-hungry freakshow and do a follow-up in 10 years with the kids only?

It's said that we fear the unknown. But the more I learn about this lady, the more I fear. Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!!!

That's how I roll.

Today is a very special day. Today is my mom's anniversary for 20 years of sobriety. I think it might be more of a celebration for me than my mom. My mom is somewhat low-key on this issue and I suppose she embraces the A part of AA (Anonymous) to a degree. I did ask for permission to out my moms on this by the way, so go ahead and take some time to take your panties out of your wad. Geesh.

Taking someone elses accomplishments and making it all about me is apparently a talent. I am very proud of my mom for so many reasons. If you do the math, I'm in my mid-thirties...I was roughly 15 when my mom stepped on to the wagon. In the midst of my teen angst. Had I been in my mom's shoes, sobered up to find my 6'2" brat of a daughter still living with me, I'd probably have gone back to a nice drunken haze. But my mom didn't. My mom sobered up to find me, a gigantic teenager, fairly skeptical of her intentions, another daughter in college, and a husband who was spending a lot of time at the office. So, it was mom and me for a long time...before she sobered up. When mom sobered up, we were not nice. We didn't think she'd stick to it, and we were not a supportive resource that now I see on Intervention that is so necessary in her recovery. My mom did it all on her own. For twenty years.

From my perspective, again, if you do the math, I was 15. I was a snot-nosed teenaged brat, and without making my mother relive the details of the pre-sober years, let's just say I was a bit slow to welcome my mother into the world of clarity and establish a new and healthy relationship. I'm a bit slow to pick up on things, and as it turns out, really slow to let go of harbored resentment and caddy things like that.

And although I'm over the not-so-golden years of my childhood, I can't help but be reminded as I raise my kids that my mom did these things for me...except, she did it a wee bit inebriated. Sometimes I wonder, "How did she do this (i.e. potty-training, the 2's, 3's or even what my sister refers to the F*&%ing 4's) and drink?" And then, I laugh and think, "How did she do this and NOT drink?" Right?

So, a year or so ago, I decided, at the controversy of the name of this blog and all, to quit drinking myself. I've never been what I consider to be a problem-drinker. But I am a HEAVY DRINKER. And by heavy, I mean, I will out drink someone in a diet coke contest. I gulp coffee. And I ask for my drinks with no ice so that I can drink it faster and less obstacles in the way.

As a mom, though, I've never been a heavy sleeper. So on occasion I've been known to crave a good sleep and pop a couple of Tylenol PM. And then on some other occasions, I've been known to sit in my hot tub with what I thought was a great glass of wine. It turns out, hey, those aren't fantastic wine glasses...they're water goblets, but whatever. So, when I realized I was having two water goblets full of wine while sitting in the hot tub, then coming in to bed and kicking back some Tylenol PM, I thought, hmmm, red flag? Maybe?

Plus, when Ricardo and I go out and have a few drinks, it's pretty rare. I don't have time to keep up a steady tolerance all day while being a mom and all. So, even just a couple of vodka tonics sends momma home with a headache (not a full blown hangover) for the next day. You need a sitter for the date as well as the day after. What's up with that?

On top of all that, I love to just take things too far. You name it, a funny joke, a harbored emotion, a delicious recipe, or the look-at-me-I-can-drink-your-lame-ass-under-the-table I will take it and run with it. Anyone who's ever hung out with me at a bar is laughing at a wonderful Leslie moment. There's some good ones out there.

But when you add it all up, I can't possibly thank my mom for giving herself back to me, or stopping a long lineage of fine Irish drinkers (read with accent), stopping the cycle, without stopping myself. So, I quit. I quit drinking. I still mention the occasional vodka fix on the blog. And I'm still on the rocks. Every mom is, right?

So, I don't drink, and I'm still hilariously fantastic when out with my pals at the bar. I did it because I just thought it would be a good idea given my family history and my psychotic tendencies to overindulge. You can have your vodka tonic, I will just soothe my emotions with some good chocolate. So far, it's working for me.

I figure this challenges my kids to come up with something else more creative to harbor resentment towards me for later on down the road. Life is crazy and hard and really really funny. I'm having the time of my life with my kids. And I hope my mom is having the time of her life with her kids too.

Please feel free to comment today and send my moms a shout out. I really am proud of her and so grateful to her for so much more than this.

But for now, that's how I roll.

Max occasionally gets to play with the kid across the street but he goes out of town a lot of weekends and so, today (Friday) when he went to see if Pal could play, he was the happiest kid in the world because pal, indeed, could play today. Yay!

Pal got a PSP for Christmas, and has brought it over the last two days he's come over. Typically, I would frown on the handheld video games for playtime, however, I was impressed with how Pal shares it and shows the kids how to play and even hands it over and lets them play.

Until today. Today, Pal has his wrestling game. And while I'm making the family a lovely hearty soup with my dress and my pearls and my apron on, and the kids play happily, I hear the following conversation:

"Dude, I can text a real wrestler! Wanna see?"

"Mom, Pal can TEXT on his PSP!!!!"

"Super."

I hear the clicking of the PSP and then I hear Lucy read it outloud, because, thank God for now, that's the only way she reads.

Very slowly and awkwardly, she reads outloud: "Eat My Dick."

And in my best Mom voice, I glide through the kitchen, look around corner and say, "What did you just say?"

The SIX-YEAR OLD kid WROTE and DIRECTED some cyber freakshow. And he knew he was in big trouble immediately. I don't know what to do. Ricardo got home and I had Pal repeat what he just wrote. With shame in his voice. I don't know what to do and am utterly speechless.

I'm pretty sure I was a potty-mouth at an early age. When I was in HIGH SCHOOL, and riding home from a CHURCH YOUTH GROUP function, my pal, Beck's mom, Miss Polly, had picked us up. I was in the back seat, and someone pulled out and almost hit us, and I yelled "SHIT!" really loud. The look from Miss Polly's eyes in the rear view mirror has left me scarred for life with guilt. I can imagine she was thinking, "Super, looks like this church stuff is really working out well." I apologized and Miss Polly accepted. I will never forget that look. But I just knew the basic bad words, to make a suggestion like that. Maybe it's because I'm a girl. Pal comes from a house full of boys.Except his mom.

And I'm guessing from the lack of response from last summer when I emailed Pal's mom and explained I'd busted the kids outside peeing on the tree - I'm guessing to call and tell on her son isn't the fix here. Holy cow. Six years old. Unbelievable.

I didn't know what to do or say so I blogged about it. After I have a talk with the kids and shower the ick off, I'll be better, I suppose. I do find joy in the fact that my kids don't know what dick means. Whew.

One day - probably tomorrow - I'll laugh and laugh about this.So, hey PAL - thanks for SHARING.
That's how I roll.

Just when I think a mom on the news can't shock me. Just when I think, I could probably defend this woman, give her a chance to tell her story, Octofreakshow comes out of nowhere. Whew! That lady has had me just really angry for the last few weeks.

But then, just when I think I've seen it all at the gym. And seriously, y'all. I've seen some crazy ass shit go down. That's when silhouette freakshow comes in and ruins my sacred grounds - she fizzled my steam. Oh, I KNOW YOU DIDN'T! Oh, yeah. Yeah, she did!

I'm in the steam room the other day. I go through my whole routine, get the towels down, everything all settled. Lay, down, and the steam comes on. Right after it stops steaming, some lady walks in, and thankfully, doesn't sit on me. She then goes to turn the water hose on the steamy sensory thingy to make the steam come on. I thought that was odd, since she couldn't see where she was going (my eyes had already adjusted and I have super power eyesight, so I saw her doing all this), because it was so steamy, that she would crank the steam back on. I thought all that was odd. But I didn't say anything, because it was 20 degrees out, and I spend a good chunk of my work out in the steam room "warming up". I figured I could handle it. But apparently, she turned on the water, and drenched the sensory thingy because the steam started back up and I thought it would never stop. It was so hot, I thought I should probably go get someone at courtesy services to help remove the other victims. (Another lady had come in by this time.) So, just when I figured maybe I was overreacting and try to wait it out, the steam went off. Whew. I'm gonna make it! I'm going to get my allotted 30 minutes of steam. I can do this! What the F*&%, what's that noise? I looked over, because I was next to the waterhose, and the crazy steam lady was up again about to hit the sensory thingy AGAIN! WHAT? NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!

So, I say, "Uh, you sure you want to do that?"

And crazy freakshow steam lady says all startled like, "I didn't know anyone was there!"
Before I can say, "Uh, that's because the effn steam was so thick when you got here crazy lady. Now STEP AWAY FROM THE HOSE YOU OXYGEN HATER!" Before I could say all that, she says, "What? You don't want more steam?"

That's when the other lady stepped in to my defense, "Uh, no, that's dangerous hunny. It's too much in here already."

Crazy said, "Wow. Ok." Put the hose down and walked out. I guess she thought "steam room" means continual steam. And apparently, we'd ruined her fun by wanting to BREATHE and all.

When we knew it was just the two of us, I asked the other lady that came to my defense in the moment of naked confrontation, "Did crazy just leave?"

The woman just giggled and said, "Hell yes."

I stayed for a few minutes, confused and bewildered. What the hell just happened? It was atleast 160 degrees in there. That ain't right. But still, thank God we were in there with her, to stop her. Otherwise, she'd still be in there, but not breathing.

Apparently, I was so distraught, after my workout and shower and such, I picked up the kids out of the ADVENTURE ROOM! (Those all caps were my singing voice, not my yelling voice.) And I got them each a snack. Then picked up all my stuff and we headed to the library for our next stop. But when I went to find my kids library cards, no wallet, what the, no PURSE (yelling voice) was in the car. We headed back to the gym, and there was my purse sitting, completely unscathed in the cafe.

I left, with purse in hand thinking, there's freakshows here, but not the kind that steal your purse. Thank God I go to that gym! I can think of a few others that wouldn't have had my purse so safe, nor a steamroom to defend.

That's how I roll!

You would think by now, I'd be done with bandaids. Or that the need for them would slow down. Not so much. It's not that the kids need them as much as I do. I don't know what's to a greater degree: my love for kitchen gadgets or my uncoordinatedness. I'm like Les Nessman from WKRP In Cincinatti: at any given point, I have a bandaid on.

It turns out I average an injury a week. Usually it's something like walking and talking in the gym, and I run right into the bench press bar or something. But I also cook alot. And even when I'm not cooking, I'm making something that involves a cool gadget, like this morning, my super duper Pampered Chef Apple Corer. It looks like a lovely safe tool, but if in the right hands, it apparently can be used as a weapon.

It makes a great walking apple. My mom made them for me. Stand by for Mom On The Rocks Recipe. Go get a pen. I'll wait.
Core an apple, put peanut butter in the middle. Hand it to your kid. They can walk around and eat it. Preferrably outside. I like to mix a little honey into the peanut butter first, and then put it in the apple. Yummy!

But the poor corer hasn't gotten much use seeing as how my kids front teeth are on the brink of falling out. Eating a whole apple with loose teeth or no teeth, is not functional, nor fun. So, I've been slicing them with my Pampered Chef Apple Wedger.
So fantastic. However, it was before my coffee, and I'm not sure what I was thinking, but I cut an apple in half for the kids to share at breakfast.
"Hmmmm, this needs peanut butter on it somewhere." I thought. "And it needs to be cored, immediately!"

I still can't figure out why I wanted to core instead of wedge. Still, coring a half of an apple is much more different than coring a whole apple. And so, as I held the apple in my hand to core, I was just about to think, "Maybe this isn't a good idea." And that's when I cored my thumb. Just a little chunk. Really, I'm getting used to it. Still, I'm a bleeder, I went through several bandaids. And even a few days later, when the bleeding is done, it's in an awkward place and necessitates 3 or 4 bandaids a day.

Sometimes I take pictures of the injury of the week and send it to Ricardo. My guess is he doesn't even flinch. Maybe, if it's cool enough, he shows it to his buddies at the office. Sometimes he calls to make sure it's not as bad as the picture may suggest. Like this one.

This is just a really sharp cut between my thumb and finger. This sucker took a while to heal and hurt. As you can see, I'm a bleeder! Good circulation, I suppose. So, I did walk over to the neighbor who is a nurse and checked to see if I needed to see a doctor. She laughed at my coolness.

"Do you want to come in and I can dress that wound?"

"Nah, I'm pretty used to it. I'm a pro. Just wanted to check on this one. It seems deeper than the others."

"This happens a lot?"

"Yep."

"Maybe you should cut back on your knife use."

"Or buy more bandaids. Hahahahahahah! Ha....ha.....heh....., oh,nevermind."

So, it occurred to me today while grocery shopping, I thought it would be fun to get bandaids for the kids, maybe Spiderman for Max and Hello Kitty for Lucy. But then, what would I use? I sighed, put them back and started looking at the regular Band-aids assessing the need for them in our house. There just wasn't a box big enough. So, I checked out, went to Sam's and officially buy Chicken, Peanut Butter, Dog Food and now Band Aids in bulk.

It's just how I roll.

Lucy and Max ( but mostly Lucy) have been stalling at bedtime with desperate interest in our childhoods.
"Okay, kiss me goodnight and go to bed."

"Will you tell me just threeeee things about when you were a kid like me."

"Fine, uh, I liked to roller skate, I was really tall, and I went to bed when I was told to or I was beaten until I was unconscious. Now go to bed before my childhood gives me ideas."

"Just twooooo more things, Mommy..."

"BED!"

I like telling them about when we grew up. Just not at bedtime. We're working on it.

So, when I sent the kids to bed on inauguration night, ten minutes later, President and First Lady were having their first dance to Beyonce singing "At Last". I called the kids back down, told them to hurry and we watched it together.

They were facinated. No one can sing like Etta James, but Beyonce certainly did it justice. I told the kids that song was Mommy and Daddy's first dance when we got married.
"Mommy why did you marry Daddy?" The dance was over, and I assumed she was stalling, but I figure this was a great opportunity to start training Lucy on what to look for. I'll trump her stalling card with my Deep-Thoughts-By-Mommy card. I thought quick. There's so many reasons. She listened intently to the whole reason:

"Because he's generous, thoughtful. He leads by his actions, not his words. Because he makes me laugh hysterically several times a day - everyday. Because he makes me feel safe just by being with him, even when it's scary. And because he makes chocolate frosting from scratch for dessert and serves it to me in a bowl like pudding. That's why I married Daddy."

"I hope I marry someone like Daddy!"

"Me too sweetie. Me too." Hallmark moment hug, and then, "NOW GET TO BED!"

Happy Valentine's Day, y'all.
That's how I roll!

I miss the days of 3-year-old mentality. So, last night, we watched Julz(Holla!)'s Gwyn (3) and Olivia (5). It's hard to think they are that young because it seems like they've been in our lives forever.

They are at a great age where I don't have to chase them around to make sure they aren't licking the Farley the Wonderdog hair off the floor, or sticking their fingers in the electrical outlets, stuff like that. All four of them get together and truly play well together. They finished dinner and went up to play, I was washing dishes when I heard Gwyn crying. So, I ran over to the stairs, and see Gwyn 3 steps down from the top. My kids are looking at me like, "WE SO DIDN'T DO THIS MOM, WE SWEAR!" She'd fallen down the stairs. Just a few steps. SHE WAS FINE. Thankfully, she'd stopped the fall with her left cheek. It wasn't that bad, but still, I scooped her up, and got her our Nemo Ice Pack, and she cuddled me while I finished the dishes.

I said, "Gwyn, tell me what happened."

She's so sweet, and she's just 3, so she still has the dialect of Elmer Fudd, but the voice of a singing angel, "Well, I was walking on the stairs VEWY CAWEFUWEEE..."

Good point Gwyn. I could tell this wasn't her first tumble down the stairs. I miss the 3 year old perspective. Not enough to have another though. I'll just borrow Gwyn next week for another insightful conversation.

That's how I roll.

We tell the truth around here. Sort of. It all started when people in our families started dying and we had to attend a lot of funerals when the kids were 2 and 3-years old. What do we tell them? We tell them the truth. We keep it simple. Answer any questions as honestly as we know how. Sometimes we have to go back and re-tell the truth. Like the time when one of the kids asked where the treasure box at the pulpit was? Wait for it....death, funerals, treasure box (coffin). We set them straight, don't worry.

So, when the kids wanted to go see Marley & Me with us and we told them no. We told them it's PG-13 and they are 6, and Marley eventually dies, and it's very sad and we're not wasting the $6 a piece for that emotional disturbance for them. We just prefer to waste the $9 a piece on ourselves for the same said emotional rollercoaster. Something like that. They were good with our answer and went to a more appropriate movie with Gramma and Bean-Bean. We were shocked to find 4 and 5 year olds in the theater - and they reacted just as I'd suspected. We'll deal with the just the death of Farley the Wonder Dog. That's all I can handle.

So today, I took the kids to their school book fair. First of all, I'm a sucker for books. If the kids ask if they can get a book, what the hell am I supposed to say,
"No way kid. Reading is soooo overrated." or "Why can't you just re-read your board books that you gnawed on back when you were teething?"

They ask, and we go. I think they enjoyed walking around and looking at all the new, crisp, fresh books more than picking one out. All organized, and perty. It's like vacation or something. I just let them walk and enjoy it and giggled at their excitement, "Look mom! A HOTEL FOR DOGS BOOK!"

"Great, you want to get it?"

"Nah, just wanted to show you."

"Mom, LOOK! WORLD RECORDS!!!"

"Awesome, Lucy! Do you want to get it?"

"Nah." And she put it back on the shelf and scurried on to another

Then Max, my usually quieter kid, very exhuberant and very loudly said,
"MOM LOOK, MARLEY AND ME BOOK!" Slight pause, thinking it through to see if he wanted it and then, "BUT I'M NOT GOING TO GET IT BECAUSE HE DIES AT THE END."

I nodded and then panicked at the sudden silence upon Max's announcement. I looked around to see if I needed to do any damage control with other kids. There was one kid, a little bigger than Max, puzzled, dismayed. But then he found a SpiderMan comic book and forgot that his dreams of Marley the Dog had been shattered. No one kicked me out or cast any judging glares as if to say, "YOU TOLD EVERYONE HE DIES!?"

I was prepared to soothe some kid with, "Hey, all dogs go to heaven!" But I didn't need to. There was just a long pause among the crowd, and then back to shopping. Thank God for A.D.D.-appropriate aged kids.

Max settled on 101 Things You Didn't Know About Animals. So, I've been getting a lot of this: "Did you know that Bald Eagles are not actually bald?"

"Max, please go brush your teeth."

"Or that Polar Bears have black skin? Or that a Boa Constrictor can eat a Deer? Or that..."

Ahhh, Reading, it's a whole new world to these kids. Watching them discover that is so fun. Even if they ruin the end for others.

That's how I roll.

Me and my Momz - Mommy Thuggin Fo LIFE

I think 2Pac said it best when he said "Thug - Fo Life". Except, I like to think that being a mommy is it's own gang. Mommy-Thuggin if you know what I mean.

This week, my friend was devastated by an abrupt breakup and was truly heartbroken. And her mom made a 5-hour drive to come sleep with her daughter, cook for her, and get her ass out of bed and make her go to work. I thought, wow, what a nice mom! And then I tried to remember what my mom said or did for me when I got dumped. I got a little bitter, and then I realized, I never gave her the chance, I'm sure. I dont' think I gave anyone a chance, I tried to hide it for a few days. And once the large lump of dumpness and heartbreak that now seems trivial and stupid, but at the time was just devastating and so dramatic, once that lump allowed me to talk without wailing in pain and unending doubt of all human kindness, I'm sure I mentioned to my mom in passing in a phone conversation that indeed, me and dude were no longer. I'm fairly certain I put off a really cool (with cracking voice) tough girl front and simply said something like, "Well Mom, it turns out, he's an asshole." And that was that.

And then I met Ricardo. And I had the twins. And my mom swooped in and saved the day. That woman flew in on her broom, and took care of everything but the babies, including me. Out of exhaustion and shock, I never even noticed what she did for us...until she left. Suddenly there was weird stuff going on like, laundry piling up, and dishes in the sink, and no food delivered to me while I sat on my LaZboy throne and nursed babies.
Again, today, I thought of just a few months back, when Carrie was so sick, I called my mom, asked her to take the kids while I spent days and hours with my friend. "Hey Mom, I'm coming in to town to see my pal, not you. Can you watch the kids?" And she did it. No questions asked. Not once did I get a phone call in the middle of my visits with Carrie, "Honey, the kids are driving me mad. I know I'm supposed to love them and stuff, but really, why did you teach them to kickbox anyways?" She really saved the day and if any super hero in the world can buy some time, it's my mom. She gave me time with my friend to say goodbye.
When Carrie passed away, again, it was my mom who just made stuff happen. She stayed up, met my friends at the door, had beds made for each of us. Magically my dress was ironed, and she knew just when to give me my space at the funeral and when to grab my hand.
I can only hope my daughter lets me save the day a little better than I let my mom in the past. But I see now, as a mom, any chance you get to not necessarily fix it for your kids, but just ease the pain and help any other way, is an opportunity to express your love for your kids.
So, I'm proud of my friend's mom for coming in to just be with her daughter. I really think she saved her. My friend's heart will heal now. Not because her mom made everything better. But because now my friend knows how much she is loved, and really what true love is all about. But moreso, I'm proud of my friend, for knowing that sometimes, even when you don't know it, and no matter how old you are, you just need your mom.

That's how I roll.

The only mistake this kid made, was that he didn't look over his shoulder before hittin the bong.

In case you're still watching the Super Bowl, let me fill you in. Michael Phelps was photographed smoking weed from a bong. I've seen the photo, and I'm pretty naive, so I don't know for sure, but shouldn't there be smoke in the bongy part?

I personally think the kid should be allowed to let loose. Yes, it's illegal. But who is to say that it wasn't in a country where pot is legal? Maybe he was in that park in Zurich. Ever think of that?

As a mom, I know his mom was devastated to see this picture. It just looks awful. However, I don't think Phelps smoking weed is half as disturbing as the punk ass bitch who took the picture and then sold it. I think it should be law that before you get your thousands of dollars for selling out your pal, if you're going to be the biggest loser of all time and do something something like this, and then be rewarded with money, your name should be published. "Here is a picture of Michael Phelps, and here is the name and address of the guy who took it and made money off if it."

I think if this happens to my kid after he breaks all of Phelps records, I'll be sure to publish a statement that says, "My son eff'd up. He'll pay the consequences. And here's the name of the buddy who took the picture and sold it: XYZ Smith."

Phelpsy, you go ahead and relax a bit. You earned those medals, and you earned getting up on that stand. Then the media made a bigger pedastle, put you on it, and then let one low life jackass loser come in and help the media knock you off the very pedastle they put you on. I hope when you said in your statement that it would not happen again, that what you meant is, that guy won't be invited to anymore parties.

That's how I roll.