Category Archives: chuckles

a good laugh or two

chuckles, these are the days of my life , , , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

yay! i get to be a girl, at thirty six

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SuperMama and the Infamous SuperBoy

i have a most interesting son. he turned four in april and everyday he says or does something that makes me laugh. i love to watch him play and discover new things or work himself into a better understanding of new vocabulary with a question and answer session. he learns something new everyday and so do i.

a couple of weeks ago, i went to see a comedy show at the local casino. thanks to Facebook, i won tickets and thanks to my aunt, i had a very cute new dress to wear. i don’t style my hair everyday or put on makeup so not only did he notice that i was doing these things, but he was questioning me repeatedly:

“mommy. wasshu doonan? what’s that you hair? what that you face? mommy go bye bye??”

i told him what i was doing and that yes, i was going bye bye. then i put on the dress! oh no. strapless and short. i had on some shorts underneath for obvious reasons and i followed that all up with heels. lord love a duck. you woulda thought i was naked. he looked at me, shied away a little, touched my arm, pushed me and then said:

“mommy!! i don’t like it. take it off.”

poor SuperBoy. upset that his mama wasn’t just a mama but a hot mama leavin’ for a night out on the town. i left, enjoyed myself and as soon as i returned home, my son (who should have been asleep) repeated himself:

“mommy!! i don’t like it. take it off.”

i retired my cute outfit for the evening, washed the makeup from my face, tied my hair up and changed into my ever-so-comfortable and familiar lounge wear. i laid down next to him and he stroked my face as if he was ensuring that i had shed my hot mama persona and returned to just plain ole mama. he gave me a hug and a kiss, turned his head and fell asleep within minutes.

i will be going on vacation at the end of the month and my sweet little man has escorted my aunt and i on several shopping trips. we have been so many places lately and tried on so many clothes that he actually stops outside the door of any clothing store stating:

“i don’t want it. i don’t want it.”

my aunt and i laugh and joke with him that we are just training him to have patience and tolerance for his future. he is such a ladies’ man and so very handsome, we are certain that he will be on many more shopping trips. whether he wants to or not. i said to him:

“bubb, this is what girls do. we shop. we do other things, but we love to shop.”

he did not agree. in fact he refused my statement and shot it down with his own:

“no mommy. no clothes. no more stores. YOU NOT GIRLS.”

yes. he told me that i was not a girl. hahahahhah! isn’t that hilarious? at first i just stated that “yes” i am a girl. that didn’t work. i tried to point out that my aunt and i are both girls. we both carry purses. nope, didn’t convince him. i tried to bring in other girls that he is familiar with :

“dd (my aunt) is a girl. Shannon is a girl. she’s a mama. she’s Callie’s mama. Callie is a girl. i’m a girl. i’m your mama. i’m a girl. you’re a boy. daddy’s a boy. grandpa is a boy. Alfonso is a boy. AJ is a boy. mommy is a girl.”

“no! no! you NOT girls.”

the two of us have tried on lots of outfits and dresses. he doesn’t offer any criticism on shirts, blouses, pants or shorts. but dresses are refused. every dress that i have put on was followed immediately by his signature statement:

“mommy!! i don’t like it. take it off!”

during our shopping adventures we have also tried on many pairs of shoes. many. some tall, some short, some flat. he stands firm on his “not girls” point of view. keep in mind, that this has been going on for three weeks now. three weeks! well, just the other day we went into a shoe store, mostly women’s shoes. i tried on several pairs of heels and sandals. he just looked at me and looked away. i found the sale section (my favorite section in any store) and i pulled several boxes from the shelf. my feet are wide and some shoes require a little finesse to get them on. he sat down beside me, but found more interest in the young lady that was helping her mom picks shoes for a class reunion. i tried these on, tried those on, asked him to put them back. he complied. he bounced around screeching and giggling trying to get this near-twenty-year-olds attention. hmph!

anyway, her mom and i chatted back and forth as we tried on these and those. we both went through several pairs and then went back to the first pair. as she and i stood there in black heels, talking, her daughter said “mom, what about these?” something about that statement brought the realization to my son that yes, in fact, his mom is a girl. we continued talking and as i sat down to take the shoes off and return to my mama-style and ever-so-comfortable flip-flops, my son says:

“ok, mommy. you girls.”

he finally admitted it. it was just so sweet. he almost seemed a little perturbed, but he had been through many experiences and it seemed as if he sorted through them one by one and finally decided to submit to the asinine notion that his mother was in fact a girl. preposterous!

he held my hand from the store to the car. i placed my new shoes in the trunk, secured him in his seat, kissed his forehead and shut the door. as i navigated myself around the trunk end of the car to the driver’s seat i smiled and giggled a little knowing that my son had turned another corner. he has no true concept of the differences between boys and girls, but just then he came to understand that his mama was a girl. the jury is still out as to whether or not that’s a good thing for him. but for me, it’s great. after thirty-six years as a girl, half of that as a woman and four as a mother, i have my son’s permission to actually be a girl. yay!

this picture is not at all related to the story. it's just a great face made in complete and total opposition to my request for him to "smile".

chuckles , , , , , , , 2 Comments

required to join the arbor day foundation

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i am now, and have always been some sort of administrative assistant. i have worked in offices for my entire working career. that’s a lot of years. i know my way around an office, with my eyes closed. i am familiar with the majority of office machines and their requirements. as well, with having the hobby of making invitations, i also speak “paper”. yes, i speak paper. i have an affinity for all things related to writing including paper, pens, pencils and every tool needed to scrapbook (although, i’m not a part of that cult).

in the last few years, i have found that offices tend to “go green” due to the amount of copies and duds that take place. but even still, there are a few that remain reserved and conservative and require hard copies of everything. i have recently ended employment with one such place. and it is because of that employer that i will need to join the arbor day foundation. the number of copies i made was insane. INSANE! there were four copies required of everything. everything. there were PACKAGES of copies required for each day, each week and each month. none of those packages was less than thirty pages, sometimes up to sixty for one of them. i literally used a box of paper a week. THASSALOTTAPAPER!!

my office was not really an office. it was paper storage. solely. other than the space that my desk and i occupied, there was nothing but paper, in stacks, piles and boxes. even my desk with four drawers had two drawers full of paper. a large, four-drawer file cabinet also full. i had a book shelf on top of the file cabinet, full. and there were no less that twenty to twenty five banker’s boxes full of paper. any of the available storage anywhere in the building was completely full of banker’s boxes full of paper. just prior to leaving, i had requested an additional filing cabinet. i don’t know exactly where i was going to put it, but i needed a way to try and keep myself and my office from drowning in paper. i honestly had dreams and nightmares about filing and paper storage.

i will have to plant a tree a year for the rest of my life to make up for what i have done. i can see the way that trees look at me when i walk by and hear their leafy whispers “there she goes, the one who’s killed every tree we’ve ever known, all by herself”. if they weren’t rooted, i’m sure they’d reach out and grab me. scary stuff. yes, i’m going to have to plant trees, make amends with the tree world and if at all possible, never make another photo copy in my life.

chuckles , , , , 2 Comments

i don’t love it, i like it a lot

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i took a humanities class once and a classmate made the statement “i love blank” (it doesn’t matter what word you use instead of blank, as long as it’s not a person). she didn’t mean that she loved it but that she liked it a lot. another student in that class (born and raised in another country) was astounded and made the statement:

“americans and “love”. you guys “love” everything when in fact you don’t. you like it a lot. you over-use the word “love” and therefore it has no meaning. “love” describes your feeling for another. not how much you like chocolate cake. americans need to use vocabulary.”

i was totally floored. she was right. and i was soooooooooo guilty of this slaughtering of such a phenomenal word. it made me think. hard. i was baffled by how much i used the word “love” to describe my affinity for items of interest.

“i love strawberries.”

“i love candy.”

“i love Outkast.”

what a verbal faux pas. and i have always considered myself word savvy. i can express myself well and i have a medium-sized vocabulary, but i tend to stick with “love”, and using profanity to express my levels of love. when prompted to express how much i actually love strawberries, my response used to be:

“i %&*@$#& love strawberries, like so &@$^*$# much.”

i know, poor form, right? bravo! for being crude. perhaps, a metaphor would have worked better. something like:

“i love strawberries the way babies love milk.”

still overusing the word, which is the opposite of what i am trying to accomplish. the fact of the matter is that the statement should be:

“i really like strawberries. in fact, i consider them my favorite fruit.”

it expresses my adoration and even expresses a level of comparison. yes, i think this is better. i took that class about thirteen years ago and i still struggle with not liking something a *&@%$#& lot. i need to do better. and considering that my down time is spent either reading with my son, blogging, words with friending or wordfeuding, i am really going to have to do better. yes, better BETTER! i will back that up with the following:

*right hand raised* i vow to use my vocabulary for all that it is worth. i solemnly swear to like things that should be liked and love people…only. i hereby promise to try my very hardest (and that is really hard) to eliminate profanity and the like from said vocabulary in an attempt to a) be a better parent and b) to put that broader vocabulary to use. yes, these things i will do. i’m gonna have to find my thesaurus.

chuckles, epiphanys, these are the days of my life , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 5 Comments

the house that keeps on giving

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a house is not a home. as so elegantly sung by the late luther vandross (thanks, mama, i love you for that song). it is a structure built with the intention and desire to one day be purchased and fulfill it’s destiny to actually become a home. some houses struggle their entire existence trying to become a home. i have been blessed to know many “homes” during my time. my mama’s house, my gramma’s house and my aunt’s house– no matter where they have been or will be, will always be my home(s). but i am lucky enough to have another home. it belongs to my best friend’s parents. they have been married for twenty-five years. they are both retired but have a busy social life and still manage to take care of their parents, their kids and the Three Grandkid-teers. this is a story about the home that they made, provided and shared. a home unlike any other.

in the thirty plus years that i have been a part of their family, i suspect that i have spent years at their house. i don’t know the exact number, but it’s safe to say that it would rival the actual number of hours that i spent at my own home. for as long as i can remember, the front door has been unlocked during normal operating hours. the front yard has not changed that much, and neither has the house for that matter. the only things that i can actually recall being changed affect the aesthetics of the house: the windows, the paint, several screen doors (not for pretty, but because of big headed, strong willed canines) and the decorations. it is now as it has always been — simple, warm and inviting.

the queen of the castle is meticulous. there is a method to her madness and if you don’t know it, you’ll soon find out. she likes her things “just so” and her things like it too. they are used to her and will unknowingly tattle-tell, if and when, you misplace or abuse them. she will see what you have done before you do. confess. it’s in your best interest. the king of the castle is laid back. not much bothers him that i’ve come to find. together, they manage their household seamless and flawlessly.

i grew up across the street, hence the amount of time i spent there. it’s a great house to grow up in and i have always known that. but recently, i had the opportunity to stay there for a week. the king and queen were away on travel. they provide weekly childcare for their three youngest grandchildren. with them out of town, the responsibility fell upon Nanny. the queen’s mom. but she’s eighty-four and while she can handle herself, expecting her to care for the two toddlers is outside of the comfort range. that’s where i came in. i agreed to house/baby/granny-sit in order to ensure comfort, ease of mind and a change of pace for all involved. what an adventure. so there’s Nanny, my SweetHeart Callie, her little brother the MadMan AJ and their littler cousin the PetiteSweet Emmie. not to mention, that i had with me my effervescent and energetic four-year-old SuperBoy Kenneth and me. whew. if there was ever a place to watch and care for a senior citizen, elementary schooler, preschooler, two toddlers, three dogs, a guinea pig and a betta fish.. it’s this house. thank the lord for the house on BlahBlah Street!

let’s start with a sorta-tour of the premises. the front yard is large and accommodating. there is enough play room and comfort room to watch the kids out front. through the front door is the formal living room. it’s formal. the furniture is white and there are lots of fragile breakable ceramic and glass items in there. stay out. it’s not a request, it’s an order. just don’t go in there or be in there unless it’s christmas eve and you’re with the rest of the family opening presents. moving on.. leaving the formal living room takes you to the formal dining room. again, it’s formal. stay out. unless it’s your birthday, they’re having a party for you and it’s time to blow out the candles. the formal dining room gives way to the family dining area. it’s cozy and comfortable and centrally located. from there you can go one of two ways, into the tv room or into the kitchen. there is a den, respectively known as “the tv room” and it holds one of the four televisions in the home, the fireplace and a pool table. yes, a pool table. the bestie and i used to play pool for hours. now it’s covered with plastic and serves as the queen’s craft table. uuummmm, don’t move her stuff. 😀 i don’t want you to think that she’s mean or territorial, she’s the queen. it’s her castle and she has rules and regulations. she is extremely generous and kind. it is because of the queen that the house is able to give relentlessly. technically it’s all her, and she just uses the house to share her love.

the tv room and family dinner table are right off the best room in the house… the kitchen! i love kitchens. all kitchens. they truly are the heart of the home. besides the appliances, you’re more than likely going to find Nanny in the kitchen. she cooks and bakes constantly. you will also find any and everything you could possibly want to eat. there is always cereal. probably four different kinds as well as a variety of milks to choose from. there is a fruit basket that is never empty. the most astounding part to me is that it always has apples, oranges and bananas. how awesome and healthy is that? it makes me smile just to think about it. the children will have good eating habits, even without their knowledge or effort. there are several other items that are a staple including yogurt, jell-o, popsicles, tortilla chips, a microwave meal or six, low-fat popcorn and sandwich fixins. oh, and a fifty-gallon bag of shredded cheese. again i say, how awesome is that? and what a great place to grow up in. there is now, and has always been a ‘snack drawer’. it’s what the bestie and her brother used to pick their lunch box treats from. it’s moved locations a couple of times, but it seems to multiply when your back is turned. it is never close to empty and always full of variety. more awesomeness.

just off the kitchen is the laundry room. the house (more like the queen or Nanny) processes no less than three loads of laundry a day. everything required is conveniently placed within reach. it also has a storage area full of food. yes, more food. the kitchen is full of food and the laundry room is half food, half cleaning supplies. next you’ll enter the “front bathroom”. it’s got a pink theme. always has. it also has two doors which can be confusing and/or embarrassing, depending on what you’re doing in there when the other door opens. there are four bedrooms, one of them is a part-time office. the beds are always made and every room has a ceiling fan to ensure maximum comfort. there are four televisions and a computer in the home. everyone can pretty much watch what they want and not have to fight with or disturb another.

the backyard is complete with plastic playhouse, small swing, things with wheels and a swimming pool with diving board and slide. what could be more inviting? i know! an on hand barbecue and the pool is fenced in so there’s no need to obsess about the kids falling in. the house is constantly telling you:

“you’re safe here. take a load off. you hungry? sleepy? rest. relax, i got you.”

now, if you have yet to be impressed by what i’ve described, take a trip out the back, into the garage and down the stairs. from what i remember, the garage has never held more than one car at a time. the king has his woodcutting hobby down there and of course there’s always storage, but what will catch your eye is the stock pile of food items down there. yes, more food. it’s breathtaking. i’m sure that Sam’s Club buys from her, instead of the other way around. there is so much food. but also, the consumable products: paper towels, paper plates, napkins, plastic cups, ziploc bags and the like. they make clean up with kids quicker and easier and who doesn’t love that? there’s more detergent in the garage than on the whole block. and all of these things add to the comfort of the home. they add to the ambiance and feeling that you are cared for when you’re there and you needn’t worry.

ok, so let’s zoom back in time to the beginning of last week. the king and queen left on tuesday and my aunt dropped us off on BlahBlah Street that afternoon. my son has many allergies and when we stay away, i pack my whole house. we unloaded and started our week-long working-vacation. we entered the house and immediately were harassed by the resident dog family: candy, peachy and mickey. we greeted everyone in the house and Nanny was already cooking dinner. she had promised us a chicken dinner a few weeks earlier but got held up running errands with her grandson. on the menu was fried chicken breasts, nanny-tatoes (kinda like homefries but better), green beans and chocolate covered vanilla cake. whooo hoo! it’s great to be home. my son was too excited to eat. he loves my bestie’s kids and just wanted to be outside running a muck. the rest of us ate and let the weight of the day slip away. the backyard calls to the children. they spend the majority of their time outside. however, it was a little chilly and the sprinklers came on so we corralled them and brought them inside for a movie.

the PetiteSweet, the youngest of the group leaves around dinnertime. both boys were broken hearted. she’s a people watcher and pretty quiet. but she’s quick on her toes. it looked like the two boys were getting physical and a hand came flying her direction, not only did she block it but she responded just as fast with an almost-hit-back. you go, girl! my son had instantly become enamored with her. Callie is his first love. he followed her everywhere to the point of annoyance. they all love each other though. it’s very cute to watch. dinner, movie, baths and bed. we slept in the SweetHeart’s room. she has a guinea pig, named G-force, and he is loud at night.

something about the combination of the guinea pig, the princess bed unlike my own and the realization that no one can say “i love you” louder and more clearly than if they ask you to care for their child(ren), made me not sleep that night. i was excited and a little nervous to wake the next day and have the responsibility of “the house” on my shoulders. eventually i fell asleep and when i woke up, the bestie had gone to work, the SweetHeart was already gone to school and the MadMan was still asleep. it was just Nanny, SuperBoy and i. i found Nanny in the kitchen (duh), drinking her coffee. you can’t get close to Nanny without being offered something to eat or drink, or eat. she wanted to know what i was going to eat. was it cereal? was it toast? was it chocolate covered vanilla cake? what, what was i going to eat?

“nothing right now, Nan, i’m ok.”

she continued… for at least another fifteen minutes. finally she told me:

“you’re makin’ me nervous by not eating! you want me to fix you something? i’ll fix ya whatever ya want, you know that. what can i fix? ya want some pancakes?”

“yes, Nan, pancakes would be awesome.”

“goood. i’ll start on um right now.”

she made me a stack of pancakes everyday, for four days straight! they were almost as big as the plate and drenched in butter (i love butter). she made me a stack of four, SuperBoy a stack of two and just one for the MadMan. that’s enough pancakes to satisfy an elephant and enough butter to last for the rest of 2011. death by pancakes. but you won’t catch me complaining, honestly. it was a pleasure and a delight. we should all be so lucky as to be forced to eat fresh pancakes every morning. before i could take the last bite and walk my plate into the kitchen, everything was cleaned up. i couldn’t even tell she made anything and then she was off to do the laundry while telling me to leave my plate in the sink. amazing.

Nanny allows the kids to help her do any and everything. SweetHeart is a junior chef already. she likes to be involved in all cooking processes somewhere along the way, and she doesn’t want your help, just your guidance. she can “do it”.  Nanny let’s the kids sit on the kitchen counter next to her while she instructs them accordingly. she lets the MadMan, a two-year-old, help her with the laundry. it’s the cutest and sweetest thing. he’s standing all tippy-toe on top of the tiny dryer-lent trash can and she hands him the clothes items one-by-one. she’s so patient and easy going. unless you’re refusing breakfast. i aspire to be as sweet, gentle, caring and wonderful as she is.

the days flew by pretty easy. (note: the PetiteSweet is only at the house for a few hours in the afternoon. and she didn’t make it the rest of the week. 😦 we enjoyed our day with her though. we look forward to the next time we see her.) with two boys in the house all day there is a lot of running, screaming and hitting. occasionally spitting, immediately followed by time-out. there was also a lot of “give it, gimme it, stop it” and “mine”. but all-in-all, they are like brothers and play as well as two brothers could. inside, outside, inside, outside and inside. outside. and with them, there are no inside voices. there’s one voice for the both in and outside. and it’s LOUD. they are more entertained by classic animation including tom & jerry and scooby doo than any of the newer, more impressive, pixar created movies. they love them all, but tom & jerry genuinely makes them laugh.

on the second night i proceeded to give SuperBoy a bath, once the water started running the MadMan came around the corner faster than lightning. i think all children have super-sonic hearing. especially if they hear the sounds of something they want to be doing. my son was in the tub and i was getting a towel from under the bathroom sink. i looked up and AJ was already out of his pajama pants.

“i wanna takey baff”

dammitalltohell. now there’s two of them in there. they did pretty good, there was only a quarter of an inch of water across the bathroom floor. it reminded me of this:

we pretty much did this same thing everyday. i got to start each morning with fresh pancakes. i think it was on the third day that both boys were seated and waiting. AJ said “yummy yumma”. if it had been warmer i would have braved the swimming area with the boys. there’s a hot tub that would have held the three of us comfortably. speaking of hot tub.. did i tell you that i found a rawhide dog bone, swimming pool brush head and superman in the bottom of the hot tub. i retrieved the items and gave the superman figurine back to the MadMan only to blink and see him actually throw it and watch superman hit the surface and sink to the bottom. i left him there for a day or so. 😀 as well, i found the fabulous and rootin’est tootin’est cowboy Woody in the hose attachment point of the shop vac. i present to you, exhibit a:

exhibit a

shop vac toy torture

can you see that? here.. lemme help you.

exhibit a zoom-in

the rootin'est tootin'est cowboy

the days flew by almost effortlessly. what a fun time. it wasn’t work at all. nothing out of the ordinary. i was happy to have some time away from my home, to allow my son to have an outing, to give my aunt some personal space, but also to be taken care of by the house, Nanny and the kids. they really took care of me. i left there happier and healthier. it made me grateful for all of the wonderful people that i have in my life. from Nanny all the way down to the PetiteSweet, i am loved. my aunt makes and saves a place for me and my son in her heart and in her home. she’s a saint. my bestie’s family loves me enough to entrust me with their little angels and their sweet sweet gramma’s. i am blessed! i am truly cared for. i hope that if i am ever fortunate enough to purchase a house that i will be able to turn it into a home. a home that will provide and embrace my family and friends for generations to come. a home that can cater to the elderly, small children and a variety of pets. a house that will keep on giving.

chuckles , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

awkward bar behavior

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i don’t go out that much. not for any one reason over another, i just don’t. but occasionally i suffer a build-up of boogie and i gotta go dance. last night was one of those nights. i met up with a new found friend and after the identification scan and size-up by security i gained access to the sounds that would make me shake a tail feather. but to be honest, upon entering, i was so caught up in the behaviors of the crowd that i almost forgot to dance. people watching is an all time favorite past time, but intoxicated dancing folk of all ages is far beyond what the mind can conceive. in bad form, i spent the majority of the evening typing notes into my cell phone. my fellow boogie-r told me

“i’m going to take that phone away from you, get off facebook.”

to which i responded;

” i am not on facebook, i’m taking notes! this is waaaaaay better than facebook.”

and it was. it really was.

as i drove into the parking lot, i found myself apprehensive. i instantly felt overdressed and too old. but i parked, primped and headed for the door. my sweet friend awaiting my arrival. once i got to the door i found other gals dressed to the same tune as me. the young boys that i had seen in the parking lot were not representative of the bar/club male population as a whole. there were all ages, shapes, sizes, races and hair-dos. my mind was wishing that i had a laptop and a video camera so that this post would be complete with audio and visual and provide for you an entire experience. alas, what i have are my memories, my notes and my words.

so let’s get started. the title sums it up. awkward bar behavior. now, far be it for me to say what should and shouldn’t be done. i can only tell you what i like and don’t like and what MY definition of awkward is. everyone likes something different. everyone finds something else attractive and alluring. and then there are a few things that are across the board. i think these are some of those. they are in the order in which they came to my attention.

  1. don’t sit and stare. this is self-explanatory and to the point. don’t sit and stare. it’s creepy, it makes you look creepy and in a few more seconds you’re going to look like a registered sex offender. so, simply stated, don’t sit and stare. if you like something about someone, tell them. be a grown up and deal with the little bit of rejection and/or possibility that will come with verbal contact. sitting and staring is creepy, don’t do it.
  2. any pants/underwear/bra adjustment, at all, is not acceptable. again. very simple. we all have situations, but personal adjustments of the body are just strange. for people that are watching you, it can border on disgusting, so be wary of taking place in something so personal in so public. you don’t have to go hide, but turn towards the wall or turn down a hallway or something. don’t just stand there and move things about as if you’re not TOUCHING YOURSELF. we have eyes! we can see you.
  3. the “i work too hard for my look”. not everyone has style, but those that do flaunt it. i’m good with that. i have no problem with that. but your look, no matter how fan-tab-u-lous and wonderful shouldn’t look like it took you seventeen hours and a set of cliff’s notes to do it. be gorgeous, feel great and work it! but try to make it look a little less like work and more like you.
  4. the “where ya been giiiiiiiiirl?”. this one was particularly entertaining. it seemed to be a one-sided situation with men walking up to women, attempting to hug them and saying “where ya been giiiiiiiiirl?” most of the girls seemed to be caught off guard and their eyes were squinted with inquiry as to “hmm. do i know him? where do i know him from? how long has it been since i’ve seen him? and why is he acting like we’re bff’s who haven’t seen each other in months? hmm. weird.”
  5. the shadow dancer. you know this person. they walk up behind some unsuspecting solo dancer and proceed to dance with them without invitation or prompting. they usually tend to do this for their friends and often throw glances, winks, smirks and hi-fives in that direction. i think they deserve a throat-punch, but that’s just me. if you’re a shadow dancer, shame on you, ya freak. ask. if you get rejected, deal with it. otherwise you had better guard your throat!
  6. bikini clad 1/4 sasquatch girls. mmm hmm. that’s what i saw. beautiful young shapely girls with their make-up done “just so”. dancing upon their tiny stages with a sour look on their faces. one of them was smiling, the other looked like someone farted in her face. it wasn’t until they took a little water break that i saw they were both one-quarter sasquatch. from the knees down, both of them wore long, furry boots. wth? where is this a trend? where is this fashionable and why are they not there instead of here? funny.
  7. say it don’t spray it. inside a bar/club the music is loud. for obvious reasons. this forces people to speak loudly, bringing their outside voice inside. but, for some, projecting their voice forces them to basically shout. long story short, speak loudly, but do not fling spit on the poor person who is trying to listen to you. this is obviously not only the case in the club, but if it’s the case for you, be aware dammit! the fastest way to get your feelings hurt mid-syllable is to spit on someone. fix it.
  8. don’t wear your eighty dollar suede Calvin Kleins. you guessed it. i wore my suede Calvin Kleins. outside of the entertainment of people watching, i spent an insane amount of time keeping my toes pointed in and way from traffic and trying to be conscious of the sloppy drunk who would undoubtedly bump into me spilling their drink on me and my shoes. i could care less about the dress or my skin, considering i’m waterproof and all, but my shoes! lord love a duck, don’t touch, step-on, or spill $h!t on my shoes!
  9. mr. sit-in-the-way. this guy. placed his bar stool into the lane of foot traffic so that he can push his knee, elbow or arm into the lovely passers by. stop it. creep. the next time you try to rub against me, i’m going to donkey-kick you right in the biz-ness! i can’t do anything about you looking, but if you attempt to touch me one more time… well.. it will be your last conscious decision of the day. and i mean that. creep.
  10. shave, deodorize, and be clean. um.. yeah, it’s that simple. i don’t care if you know you’re going to sweat like a pig in heat. TAKE A SHOWER AND PUT ON DEODORANT. you will not impress anyone with your funk. this includes brushing your teeth. and for the love of pete, if you have something to shave, do it. i don’t want to hear it, just do it.
  11. do not, don’t and do not touch. i know there are a lot of people in the world considered “touchy feely” people”. i think i’m one. i don’t flinch at a hand shake, hug or kiss on the cheek. i often touch a shoulder or hand when i am talking to someone about something personal or emotional. however, the club is NOT the place to be touchy feely. at all. before you decide to reach out; answer these questions: do you know that person? are you friends? are you friends on any physical level? if the answer to any one of them is NO, don’t touch. just don’t. i know it’s tempting, but don’t. just don’t. it’s comparable to sitting and staring. for me, it’s taken as a total lack of respect for personal space. if you touch me before ever speaking to me.. your voice falls on deaf ears. you have rendered yourself useless. introduce yourself, get a feeling– a vibe and even then… don’t touch without invitation.
  12. security in mittens? since when did security start wearing mittens? not gloves, i know what gloves look like. mittens. black mittens. ??? is this a security measure? so that when mr. sit-in-the-way gets a little too zealous and he has to be escorted out that they don’t leave fingerprints? too much CSI. mittened hands are creepy in a club. go outside and throw some snowballs, weirdo.
  13. jack in the box. ok. this is just for the laugh, but i went to jack in the box on my way home. it was about fifty minutes before they closed. they are the only place open at this time in my area and it was obvious. there were at least five cars in front of and also behind me. now, i know there are a few exceptions, but come on people! this is not your first time at jack in the crack. the menu is simple. make up your drunk @$$ mind before you get to the speaker. order. pull forward. pay and get the hell outta the way. the drive-thru worker and i had one helluva hoot and holler over this. i made him laugh something fierce. a good time was had by the both of us. you get the picture. it’s a drive-thru. driiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive-thru.

and with that said, i have concluded my list of club do’s and don’ts. in the event that i should feel pressured to release the boogie again, i’m sure i’ll return with “awkward bar behavior ii”. until then: live, love and laugh. especially laugh.

chuckles, these are the days of my life , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

“the name is kenny. kenny… two hands”

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i have a son.  his name is kenneth michael.  he is named after his grandfathers.  i was huge when i was pregnant with him and while he wasn’t the biggest baby ever, he is a very large preschooler.  he is currently forty-six inches tall and a whopping forty-four pounds.  he wears big boy clothes in a size five-six, and a size thirteen shoe.  he will be four years old this coming wednesday.  and while he is black, i have recently discovered that he is living the secret life of an italian gangster. yes. an italian gangster (and, i mean “italian gangster” in the nicest way possible).

as with all children, their desire to exert their independence outweighs their actual ability to handle the responsibility.  for instance, my son tried to pour himself a glass of orange juice the other day.  good thing those eyes-in-the-back-of-my-head were open and my ninja-like mommy reflexes were on point.  as the mommy, i always feel the need to try and avoid a spill or a “situation” before it actually happens.  when i get him something to eat, drink or snack on, he wants to carry it himself.  i am usually able to convince him to let me carry the spillables while he is in charge of the non-spillables.  most of the time, this works in my favor as he is mostly interested in consuming the food/drink items.  more so than he is interested in cleaning them up.  (we’ve been down that road too many times).  when he is permitted to carry an item, i always reinforce his duty with “two hands, kenneth, two hands.”

let me explain one thing real quick.  my son’s name is kenneth.  most people in our lives call him kenny or even ken.  except me.  i almost always call him “bubba”.  or bubs, bubbalicious, or bubbe.  when i use his name, i, more often than not, refer to him as kenneth.  i associate “kenny” with my father.  that’s what everyone used to referred to him as, so i make a point to use kenneth when talking about my son.  he refers to himself as kenny.  as a matter of fact, we had a little spat over it earlier today.

me: what’s your name?

him: i kenny.

me: what’s my name?

him: you mommy.

me: what’s mommy’s name?

him: neesha.

me: what’s kenny’s name?

him: i KENNY!

me: kenny’s name is Kenneth.

him: NO! i kenny!  mooommmmmy, i kenny.

me: ok. you can be kenny if you want to, but your name is kenneth.

him: hmph. (that’s him kinda blowin’ me off.  if it was me, i would have been saying “my ass!” if it was me (just sayin’)).

all-in-all, it was pretty dern funny.  he was very adamant (and it makes the rest of the story a little sweeter).

back to my story.  whenever he walks away, i try to remind him to use “two hands”.  it wasn’t until the fourth or fifth time that i told him “use two hands”, that i realized that he didn’t actually grasp the concept of “two” hands, he just knew that he needed to hold it.  so one afternoon, we get into this same little conversation around snack time.  it went like this:

me: mama’s gonna carry it.

him: no. kenny two hands.

me: no, let mama carry it.

him: no. kenny TWO HANDS!

me: no, bubs, let mama do it.

just then, he turned his head and cut his eyes at me (i know, right?) and with all the certainty of The Godfather himself, he says in a firm tone:

“no. kenny… two hands.”

even with that explanation i cannot tell you how these four words came across to me.  the pause between “kenny” and “two hands” was so purposeful. he had certainty in his voice.  it made me giggle a little because (in my head) i instantly heard the gangster voice, the one that says “fuggeddaboutit” or maybe even “luca brasi sleeps with the fishes.” i also pictured a classic expression, like that of my favorite gangsters: robert deniro and al pacino (in just about anything), when they are nodding their head, yes, repeatedly, but you already know that the answer is NOT yes,  and you are going to be told that the answer is NO in a very firm and undeniable manner.  a manner that, if you survive, you will never, ever, EVER forget.

or perhaps you’ll be made an offer?  one you can’t refuse?

this time, the voice said “kenny… two hands” making me picture two hands coming together as if they were… i dunno, say, around a neck?  kinda like:

“you ain’t neva heard the story of kenny? ‘kenny… two hands’??  that’s one guy i wouldn’t mess with.  word is … you don’t wanna make him use those ‘two hands’.  ’cause if he hasta use um, well… let’s just say, you’ll be breathless”

the story telling is over, but the hands remain in the silent, yet intimidating “immachokethe$h!touttasomebody” pose.  (like this, but without bart. ha!)

with that said, we went to the local walmart and i noticed some hats sitting up top the folded pant section.  there were many hats, but one caught my eye:

as soon as i put that hat on him, i just about fell out laughing.  too funny, and it brought that voice back in my head.  “kenny.  kenny… two hands.” i had recently discovered picnik.com and i decided to have some fun:

doesn’t it look like a WANTED poster?  one of my favorites.  i can see my son rockin’ a designer three-piece tone-on-tone suit with some equally impressive and expensive shiny shoes. i laugh at the thought of him securing the neighborhood in exchange for jell-o or french fries.  keeping the cats out of the planters and the dogs off the lawns.  ensuring the senior citizen gardeners that they won’t have any trouble from the neighborhood strays “as long as [he’s] on the block.”  bahah!

anyway, let’s update the secret gangster activity with this most recent little doozy.  in the last month or so, my son has become increasingly affectionate.  he is now asking me for hugs and kisses and cannot, absolutely cannot, give me a kiss without saying “i lub yew too.” (i ❤ it).  but this new activity?  i dunno, you tell me.  he’ll give me a hug, then a kiss on the lips. he leaves his right hand on my shoulder and with his left hand, he grabs my lower jaw and turns my head (for me) to my left.  he then kisses my right cheek, turns my head to my right and kisses my left cheek.  he says “i lub yew too” as he walks away.

ya get that?  the boy is kissing me on both cheeks.  the way full blooded gangster men kiss other full blooded gangster men at family functions, gangster meetings and obviously, funerals.  ya feel me?  funny.

what does my son do when i’m not looking?  perhaps my ninja-mommy skills are not what i need for this particular preschooler.  perhaps i need to be a mommy-CIA agent: tappin’ [his] cell, and the phone in the basement.”  my little gangster will be four years old this coming week.  “they grow up so fast” doesn’t even begin to cover how much happens in these first few years.  from growing inside to living outside.  from crawling to walking, followed immediately but running.  from toothless to talking.  and even when you think you know them, you learn something new.

perhaps instead of cupcakes and thomas the train birthday gifts, i should get him a nice prosciutto, some “al dente” pasta and a couple cannolis?  i wouldn’t want him to hafta use those “two hands”… ’cause “fuggeddaboutit”, i don’t wanna hafta use my belt.  (that’s right, i said it).


chuckles , , , , , , 1 Comment

seriously, i slept through child labor

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that’s right! you read it correctly.  i seriously slept through the labor of my son.  not his birth, just the labor.  this will be the recollection and sharing of WHAT I REMEMBER regarding my son’s birth.  my version, through my eyes,  which obviously, were closed.  this is not the horrific birthing story that makes young girls cringe, men turn an about-face and leave the room or gramma’s weep where they stand.  this is the story of my son and i.  by far, one of the happiest and uplifting birthing stories i have ever heard.  yes, he was my first.  yes, i had an epidural.. ok, wait!  i’m getting ahead of myself.  i will address all of that as i tell the story.  i promise to spare you the most intimate details of the process and if at all possible i’ll keep the gory details to myself.

my son will be 4 years old in april.  he is by far the most beautiful and rewarding thing (yes, thing) that i have ever made.  i spend the latter part of most of my days in awe of him.  he is particularly handsome, i find, and just as mischievous.  he is “a boy” in every aspect of the word.  whatever you can imagine to be associated with “a boy” is certainly a part of him.  he’s rough, rugged and brawny.  he’s my joy and i love him dearly.  and here is the story of how we became…

on the morning of april 5th, 2007, i woke up much the same as i always have.  some blinking, yawning, stretching, followed by more blinking.  my body was held hostage by Swee’ Pea (that was my son’s first nickname).  i weighed a whopping blankety-blank pounds and had a belly the size of a very large watermelon.  it was scary.  i called myself a duplex.  my bladder was the size of a small walnut and bathroom trips were not only frequent but almost always bordering on emergency.  that morning was no different.  however, in the middle of the blink-yawn-stretch combo i got this very tight and tense squeezing of my add-on (the du in my plex).  i thought it was my unborn son, also stretching… with his foot in my ribs.  i shook it off and made it to the little mommy’s room with no time to spare.

the day proceeded as planned.  i had a pre-scheduled ob/gyn appointment for eleven o’clock that morning and was also in the process of making some fan-damn-tab-u-lous wedding invitations.  my bestie, danielle, picked me up to take me to the doctor.  when i got to the check-in desk, the nurse was shouting my name.  they immediately took me in to see my doctor who basically said “i was here all night last night, don’t go into labor today because i won’t be there”. um, ok?  she moved on with my little examination, including poking and pushing on my humongous belly.  she asked:

“what’s he doing?”

“nothing”, i said, “which, as you know, is very unlike him”

“what do you mean nothing? because you know, nothing could be a sign..”

“see?!?! he’s doing that right there!” (at which point that tight and tense feeling came back)

she put her hand on what i’m certain were his feet… up near my ribs, she squeezed and held her hands taut against my deformed tense belly and looked me dead in the eye;

“um, those are contractions”.

o_O  “what?  really? ok.  i didn’t realize that. uhh, what do i do?”

“nothing.  if they take your breath away, come back.  otherwise, i’ll see you next week”.

“ok”.

so, danielle and i left.  i had to go buy ribbon for those wedding invitations and that little errand was quite a hoot.  there were two senior ladies shopping together and i heard one of them say to the other, “my wooooord. look at the belly on her. i think she’s going to give birth right here in the store”.  it made danielle and i belt out in an overly rambunctious guffaw.  we looked at them and smiled and they smiled in return.  both of them looking at me with the fear that they might be involved in my son’s birth… any minute now.  it didn’t happen.. not right then, anyway.

we left the craft store and i demanded to have lunch at Cuca’s because, just like every other day during my pregnancy, i wanted spicy food.  chicken tacos, crispy, to be exact.  while eating lunch, i continued to have more contractions and a very amusing conversation with danielle and her mother about me and spicy food.  they tried to deny me hot sauce. hmph. um, bad move?  i’d say so!  i was blankety-blank pounds of currently-in-labor craving some hot sauce crazy woman.  i wanted my hot sauce and by jove, i was going to get it.

i went home, and continued on with my invitation job.  cutting, folding stuffing, gluing.  over and over again.  the day progressed and i was fine.  my aunt left to attend the local market night about 5:30 that evening.  the only person who knew about my contractions was danielle and she was sworn to homegirl secrecy.  i refused to have people calling me every few minutes to “check on” me.  or to be forced to go to the hospital only to be turned away with a “false labor” diagnosis.  i’d heard the stories and seen the tears and frustration of those women and i was determined to not be one of them.  my son was too.

about 6pm, i had one of those contractions that made me pause and say out loud “hmmm. that was different”.  i was unable to concentrate on my invitation project because sitting had now become a chore.  my tiny bladder managed to shrink even more and my visits to the bathroom were almost as frequently as my stifled breaths.  i distracted myself with phone calls.  i called a couple of people and chatted them up over the next couple of hours.  all the while, pacing, contracting and crossing my eyes in “oooomph”.  are you surprised to know that i didn’t actually KNOW that i was in labor?  i suspected so, but i was not experiencing what i thought i was supposed to be experiencing.  knew it, know it or not, i was in labor.  perhaps i didn’t pay close enough attention to the “signals” in my other bestie’s lamaze classes five years prior because lord knows i didn’t pay the $75 dollars to go to my own suggested classes.  $75 dollars? are you out of your mind?? and for what?  so you can tell me to “breeeeeeeeeeeeeathe” while there’s a whole person trying to vacate my happy place!  thanks, but i’m good.  i’ll breathe if i need to, and i’ll push when i need to.  i don’t respond well to coaching during crisis or to being told what to do (what? if anyone knows how difficult i am, it’s me).

with that said, my aunt returned from the market night with cinnamon roasted almonds in hand.  yum!  they were my request upon her leaving.  she retired to her room and began her cool down session for the evening.  at 9 o’clock, ON THE DOT, i experienced that contraction that “took my breath away”.  it was the kind of out-of-breath that you would get if you were to chase a runaway mugger fifteen blocks after he’d stolen an old lady’s purse.  the kind of out-of-breath that comes from “running with the bulls” in spain or playing world cup soccer.  needless to say, it was intense.  i was standing next to the bed, on my curled up toes, with the bedspread gripped in my hand.  my back was arched, my jaw clenched and eyes my completely crossed.  when that meanie of  an introductory contraction passed, i tried to sit down again.  why?  i don’t know.  i ask myself that question to this day.  but i tried, and when i started to bend at the waist, i felt that familiar tension and stood back up again.  i paced around my room and counted the minutes.  five minutes later, ooomph.  breathe.  five minutes later, oomph.  breathe.  and then… (oh lord, i can feel it now) at 9:15pm on april 5th, 2007, the contraction came that took the cake!  it stole the show.   i think it brought a tear to my eye.  i was still standing and when it passed, i hobbled, as quickly as a duplex on feet can move.  i went to alert my aunt but she was in the shower.  i opened her bedroom door and stepped inside, trying to call out to her.  when that contraction passed i was able to belt out;

“DD. (that’s what i call her)DD? um… i think”

“what? what?”

“um, i think we need to go to the oooooooooooooommmph”

“oh! OH! oh! oooooooooh”

“oooooooooooooooooooo”

“oh! ok! ok!”

“well! whatever we do, you need to get out of the shower!”

“ok, ok”

i went back to my room and had the grand idea to change clothes.  again you ask, why?  i don’t know.  and i even put on socks.  i hate socks.  have you ever seen a pregnant woman, in active labor, try to change her clothes?  it ain’t pretty.  i saw it, so did the mirror and we are in total agreement.  after successfully changing, i realized that i had not seen my aunt, for minutes.  several of them.  i proceeded down the hallway, one hand holding my add-on and the other propping me up against the wall.  oooomph!  i started down the hallway, calling out to her.  she didn’t answer.  i kept walking and calling out and still nothing.  when i got to the end of the hallway, the front door was open.  she flew in, went into the kitchen and then blew past with a trash bag in hand.  a trash bag? what?  you got it!  she was water-proofing the backseat of the “Jesus 300” (that’s her chrysler with a strategically placed “Jesus” adornment).

i don’t know if i remembered “the bag”.  i vaguely remember my aunt asking me about my purse, my keys and my phone.. i think.  i mostly remember “oooomph”.  i struggled to the car and tried to fold myself inside.  i remember having one foot on her headrest and the other on the rear passenger window glass.  i don’t know how many miles it is from my house to the hospital but it was entirely too many.

from here on out, this story is undoubtedly from my point of view only and missing a lot.  we pulled into the emergency room ambulance parking spot, only to be harassed by security “um, ma’am, you can’t park here”.  my aunt was running to get a wheelchair and yelling back “she’s in labor!”  my guess is that he didn’t like or want to accept that answer so this man opens the rear door of the aforementioned “Jesus 300” and says to me

“young lady, can you walk, because she can’t park here”.

cover your children’s ears…

“what the *&^% did he just say?  what?  are you #%!&%(* serious??  i’m in *&^%$#@ labor here, @$$#*!3. no, i can’t &^$(@)# walk, and no, she’s not going to move the %&*#(#& car until i get out!”

ahem.  you can uncover their ears now.  into the wheelchair i go, docked me on the curb, moved the car, rushed me in and under the peering eyes of the emergency room wait line another contraction hit me.  this one was earth shattering.  i think i got chills over my whole body and my ever-so-popular “oooomph” had now turned into a very low, very gutteral “uuuuuuhhhuuuuuuuuughhhh”.  i was whirred past the sickly people, past some nurses, and into a very cramped closet-like office.  someone asking me questions.

“do you have your medical card?”

“what? uuuuuugh”

” how about your i.d.?”

“what? uuuuuugh”

“do you know your medical record number?”

“six three seven floor blue blight blue uuuuuuuuhhh”

“ok. i’ll check with your family and we’ll see if they have you wallet and we’ll go from there”

i think my aunt came with the purse, the wallet, the medical i.d. card, but i don’t really know.  somewhere along the way, the bitchiest nurse ever comes up behind me and says to the other nurse:

“you call ob?what’s going on?”

now, you oughta already know that i had nothing nice to say, but what ran through my head was “bitch! what? do you see me? i’m in labor stoooooooooopid!”, but what came out was “oooomph.  uuuuuuuuuuuuugh”.  she responded to my obvious torture with;

“you girls always come in here thinking you’re in labor and you’re not, we’ll take you upstairs and find out FOR SURE”.

again… in my head i said “you mother-*%^&@#, i’m in labor, it’s *&%(#&% obvious to everyone but your stoopid @$$, now shut the %$&* up and get me to someone who can help me!!!  bioooootch!”.  what acrually came out was “uuugh”.

upstairs, into another closet-like room, but now on a hospital bed.  out of my clothes and donning an open-backed not at all flattering, simple hospital gown.  nurse in, nurse out.  nurse in, nurse out.  my aunt was on her phone “uh huh, well she’s in labor right now”.  um, hello?  could you be quiet?  i’m in uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh over here!  someone kept asking me “have they checked you yet?”  i did not know what they were referring to, but after having been checked (this is one of those details you don’t need), i wished i’d said “yes, they have”.

one lovely nurse said to me “you don’t look so good, you’re really hurting, i’m going to give you something for your pain” and she disappeared.  she came back later, gave me and i.v. and “something for my pain”.

zzzzzzzzzz

seriously.  it knocked me out.  except for those contractions.  and once the “something for my pain” stepped in, who knows how far apart the contractions were.  i’m sure someone did, but it was most definitely not me.  picture this if you will; me  sportin’ that death-to-sexy hospital gown, on a hospital bed in a room the same size as the bed, with a vulcan death grip on the bars and my toes curled under… sleeping.  until “uuuuuuuuuuugh!”.. and that’s what happened for the next twenty minutes or more.  the next thing i knew i had peed myself.  peed? you say.  nope, my water broke and they had me on the move.  this is where it really gets fuzzy.  i’m asleep, i’m having contractions and i’m dreaming…. dreaming about eating… eating the cinnamon roasted almonds that my aunt brought me from market night that were left behind in my nightstand because labor makes you forget about food cravings, or shaved armpits or pretty much anything.  i’d been moved to a humongous room that was very bright, but i didn’t REALLY care, because i was asleep.  until i had a contraction.  somewhere between the uuughs and the lights i realized that i had to pee!  and bad!  my small walnut sized bladder had been crushed to the size of half a peanut.  i felt like i had needed to pee for a month.  what follows is the conversation that ensued between me and my nurse:

“i have to pee.”

“no, you don’t, it’s the baby pushing down”

“no. i have to pee.”

“no, you don’t. it’s just the baby pushing down.”

“no! i have to pee!!! and really bad!”

“ok. here. sit on this bedpan, you can’t be walkin’ around”

“what? serious? no. i want to go to the bathroom.”

“nope.  if you’re going to pee, it’s going to be right here”

“ok”

i swear i sat there for an hour.  i don’t know the real length of time.  i cried and begged and pleaded to be allowed to walk and to use the restroom at my leisure.  i was denied.  and i was also right back to zzzzzz.  somewhere along the way the bedpan was removed.  i don’t know if it was used or not. removed by request or not.

so, i’m still sleeping in between contractions.  i have a room full of people around, including, my aunt, my two best girl friends, my son’s father, his best friend and his friend’s girlfriend and my nurse. i’m uuuugh.  i’m asleep.  somewhere along the way i got an epidural.  you would think that i would remember a huge needle to the spine right in the middle of my tattoo, right?  um, nope.  not me.  zzzzz.  and this is the rest of what i remember:

“it’s time for you to push”

“what? shhhh.”

“excuse me, it’s time for you to push”

“what? i’m sleeping” (i swear to you that i was sleeping so so good, i knew it and i gave the nurse hell for trying to wake me up)

“do you want to see your baby? it’s time for you to push”

“you are really getting on my nerves”

the nurse asked my son’s father “can you talk to her?  because she’s kinda out of it”.  so he tried to persuade me awake with “babe” and “honey” and eventually had to get ghetto and snap his fingers in my face and say

“HEY! you’re at the hospital, remember?  we’re going to have a baby, remember?  so, can you push?”

“ooooooooooooooooooooh yeah.  you guys are just rude though.  i was sleeping so good. but i’ll push, ok?  can i sit up?  because i can’t push from here”.

they raised the bed, locked my feet into place and took their positions by my side.  the nurse coached me on the pushing process and then said “we’re gonna practice push from 1 to 10”.  wtf?  you woke me up to practice?  yes.  so we practice pushed, one to ten and then the real madness started.  i pushed for reals (yes, for reals)!  we counted from one to ten and then i was allowed to take my deep breath.  we started the next push, but this time i only got to six (this part is gonna knock your socks off).  my nurse told me:

“stop pushing.”

“what?”

“stoooop pushing, the umbilical cord is wrapped around his throat, i need to get a doctor”, and she walked towards the door…

“ok, but i don’t know if i can, this is bad timing” (that coulda been just a thought only, i don’t know if it came out or not).

the nurse  actually left the room.  my friends and family were pacing and staring at me.  shannon even said “you make it look so easy” (she had one of those birthing stories that makes people cringe and run the opposite direction).  i don’t know if she said it right then or hours before.  all of the memories are fuzzy and mixed with sleep and dreams of almonds.  the nurse returned, slightly exasperated and said “he’s in two emergency c-sections he can’t make it”.  i don’t know if it was right then, before then, or just after then, but everyone suddenly started clapping.  clapping, you say? mmm hmm, clapping.

“what are you clapping for?”

“he’s out”

“who’s out?”

“kenneth is out” (that’s my son’s name)

“he’s out of where?”

“he’s out of YOU”

and just like that, without my help my son gave birth to himself.  i think at that time, the doctor came in and said “hey, looks like you don’t need me”.  they did something to this and that, cut the cord, took my son to the other side of the room and i think the entire room and all it’s inhabitants sighed a collective sigh of relief.  he was born.  it was over.  i was no longer pregnant, but a mother, and i had slept my way through the first act.  friends and family were dismissed with love (it was after 3am) and i started my life as a mother.

you’ll never catch me complaining about being pregnant or giving birth.  the fact of the matter is that neither of those experiences warranted a complaint.  of course, i gained weight, fell in and out of hormonal tornadoes and ate like a fully developed two-ton elephant.  all expectancies of the expecting.  there were some concerns here and there, but with time they all diminished.  my labor was problem-free, minus the coma i was in and the umbilical cord around the neck fiasco, but even that didn’t stop my son from coming into the world.  he was just about 40 weeks to the day.  at 2:51 in the morning he brought my entire world to it’s knees.  he was 8 pounds, 7 ounces and twenty-one inches long.  he had 2 inch long slick black hair on his head, peach fuzz all over his body and 2 dimples.  his legs were sooooo long and i was finally able to see the feet that had been lodged in my right rib.  he was perfect!  SCORE!!!

see? it was an amazing story and you didn’t hear dilated, effaced, episiotomy or lactating.  you’re welcome!  believe it or not, it’s all true.  for the rest of that day, and the next, i was introduced to my son and 94,267,294,571 things to do for him, with him, near him and around him.  i learned a few things, cried about a few things, signed a buncha things and prayed for a lot of things.  i was now a mother and there was only one thing on my mind: those almonds in my nightstand drawer.

chuckles , , , 3 Comments

my birthday is on tuesday

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birthdays are often bittersweet.  aging isn’t always a party.  during our youth, we couldn’t wait to invite people over, show off our gifts, share our sweet tooth and have an overall celebration in honor of ourselves (and our mothers).  as we get older, these celebrations tend to take place less often and they are sometimes not at all.  for some, birthdays are a reminder of age.  perhaps an age that they don’t want to be.  an age they don’t want to turn.  and for some, no matter what the age bracket may be, we celebrate it and we do it out loud.  i am one such person.

for me, birthdays are like personal “key to the city” days.  where i am honored and cherished.  adored by all.  main streets through town are closed for a parade.  children are kept home from school and everyone eats free at the local cafe.  i am the queen, it is my day and i do everything shy of wearing a floor length ball gown, diamond studded tiara and carry a magic wand.  i love my birthday today, just as i have all of the years before.  age ain’t nothin’ but a number for me and i don’t even care what the number is.

this year, my birthday lands on a tuesday.  i know, right?  even typing “on a tuesday” has a definite sense of “let down” to it.  this is hilarious.  in my world, february eighth (um, my birthday) is a national holiday.  there’s no school, no work, no mail and no banks.  bills aren’t due, fat and calories are free and everyone is allowed a second piece of cake (to celebrate with me, no matter where they are).  normally, i want to shout it out.  radio air time, billboards, bus stops and skywriters.  but this year? .. this year it lands on a tuesday.  who shouts out “my birthday is on tuesday”?  try it.  i bet you’ll hear crickets, a brief silence and then an very distinct “ooooh” as if you’d said “i got a mosquito bite on my eyelid”.  both statements hold about the same amount of enthusiasm.

there seems to be an unspoken rule where birthdays are concerned.  naturally, any and all parties worth their weight in after-party guilt would fall on a friday or saturday.  where birthdays are concerned, the after-party guilt is welcomed, before the weekend, and even at the end of the weekend, when the laundry should be the task at hand.  mondays are even popular for celebrating employee birthdays or perhaps sharing birthday coffee or birthday lunch with the “birthday haver” of the weekend before.

where does that leave tuesday and wednesday in the birthday having rotation?  out in the cold, i tell ya!  out. in. the. cold.  even wednesday can become a birthday party a-lister when the party is due to start early.  especially since wednesday is affectionately known as “hump day”.  and that’s just short for “the weekend is on the horizon”.  if your birthday falls on wednesday you can celebrate the weekend after and be as popular as the friday birthdays, provided you leave early and get to where you’re going before the real friday birthdays crash the scene.

but tuesday?  poor tuesday.  tuesday is the birthday outcast.  as the second day of the week it screams “show me your productivity” not “where are we going tonight?”  when you share with others that your birthday “is on tuesday”, you’ll get one of two responses.  it will either be an astoundingly soft and monotone “ooooh” or my personal favorite “well, what day does it fall on next year?”  as if to say that your birthday this year is kinda watered down.  it may as well have already past.  you’ll be granted a birthday, in concentrate, next time around.

this year i plan to party big.  and naturally, with my birthday landing on a tuesday i felt the need to overcompensate with a weekend in las vegas.  per birthday party etiquette, i will celebrate the weekend before so as not to confuse my watered down birthday with those full fledged “i’m having a birthday, on a friday, and i’m in vegas, oh yeah, what happens here stays here” folk.  i was tempted to go all out and buy myself a tiara and a wand, to take my birthday vision to the next level (hmmm, it’s still possible). however, i am certain that if i shout my mouth off about having a birthday, i will undoubtedly be asked “when is it?! is it today?!” upon which time i will reply, sadly and with certain audible disappointment, “nooo, it’s on tuuuuesday”.

i said this in passing conversation the other night and my friend and i got such a laugh.  i can picture the tfss-birthdays (that’s thursday/friday/saturday/sunday birthdays) doing an about-face and walking away with attitude, bashing me and my watered down tuesday-birthday.  similar to the way the bachelor party passes the bachelorettes but are quickly denied the checking off of their “kiss a total stranger” scavenger hunt list.  i asked “do you think i should say anything or just keep my birthday to myself?” he said “keep it to yourself unless you want sympathy”.  we both chuckled.

so, my birthday is on a tuesday.  and i’m going to celebrate in las vegas like it’s the last friday of the last month of all time.  i’m going to shout it from the rooftops, taxis and elevator cabs.  tuesday or not, i’m going to celebrate and tohellifidonttry to party like a rock star!  i’m going to party like it’s 1999.  i am going to have a party in my name, and the rest of las vegas just might get invited.  and when my beloved birthday minions inquire about the actual day of my glorious birth, it will be no secret that it was “on friday”, of course.  😉

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teaching tanisha tenacity

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i’m certain that if you’re a breathing person over the age of seven, you have heard the phrase “terrible twos”. this statement, obviously refers to the year after the glorious first year of life, of one’s offspring. the first year, filled with well, firsts. first smile, first tooth, first full night’s sleep. first word, first step, first haircut. but ask any parent, and they will assuredly tell you that on the three hundred sixty sixth day of that child’s life, something switches. a button is pushed or a seal is broken. whatever the case may be, the child becomes an unceasing broken record repeating everything you have tried to instill.  mostly it’s “no”, “don’t”, “stop” and “mine”. all words that we as parents say to our darlings in hopes to correct an action that is most likely on its way to certifiable disaster. no matter the foresight and all-be-it good intention of the ‘rents, the kid knows only that he is being deterred from whatever they may be doing and THAT obviously is an error on our part. and so we are corrected.

the terrible twos segue into what i have always referred to as “the tumultuous threes”.  if two is the age of discovery, three has got to be the age of testing limitations.  all limitations.  their limitations, your limitations, the weight limits of small furniture.  the number of grapes they can shove into their cute little mouths.  or perhaps how far up their button nose they can shove an artificial pea-sized foam cranberry (that’s a real life example, and it was waaay up there).  every limit within their understanding can and will be tried, repeatedly.  three-year olds are exhausting.  they are talkative, energetic, clever little people.  they are often smarty panted little know-it-all versions of oneself.  my son is exactly that.  (you’re shocked, right?)  he thinks he can slide anything by me by saying “ooooh kay?” at the end.  and he doesn’t forget a thing!  his faultless memory is the inspiration for the following:

“if we all approached our life with the passion, tenacity and determination of a three-year old, some $h!t might get done. happy friday and cheers!”

reflect on the quotes you’ve heard over time about children.  while always entertaining and predominantly truthful, they usually refer to the sweetness and innocence encompassed in the impish smile of a child.  most intriguing to me is “out of the mouth’s of babes”.  children have no sensors.  no inner monologue.  they aren’t politically correct or censored.  they are pure souls.  unadulterated and “live on the line” at all times.

for christmas i bought my son a battery operated mechanical train set.  like the good american consumer i am, i woke up in the night and pulled the ump-teen molded plastic pieces from their box.  for 35 minutes i toiled to get all of the numerically ordered pieces in some other order.  an order unknown to me and not well explained in the instructions.  i had skipped christmas the two years prior (yes, i’m a scrooge, but it was mainly ’cause i didn’t have the budget).  but this year, i really wanted to give my son something to remember.  a running, functioning train set oughta do the trick!  christmas morning arrived and my little conductor was not at all interested in varying from his usual routine.  i almost had to bribe him to get him to come down the hallway and see his surprise.  he soon figured it out and his eyes and face lit up!  i done good.  SCORE!

now, with that said, what on earth would posses me to buy something that could and would easily fill the empty square inches of floor space that we share?  who knows.  but, we manage.  for the first few days following christmas, the train had to be taken apart, relocated and put back together in varying rooms of the house.  BAH!  curses!  lucky for us, our aunt and roommate, purchased a snazzy black-friday-flat-screen-tv (uh huh, that’s a brand — lookitup!) for our very large, hardly inhabited tv room.  i had train videos and was able to convince my little conductor to relocate the train, the track and its accompanying stuffs into this much larger area. again, SCORE! train relocated, no one walking over or tripping on it and everyone was happy.  was.

for whatever reason, one random morning my little conductor woke up demanding and insisting that the train and it’s 8,756 parts (i exaggerate, there might be 25) be relocated to the bedroom, once again.  we haggled like a chintzy customer and seasoned salesperson at the swap meet.  i explained repeatedly that we were getting dressed to leave for the day and IF in fact this mom-gineer should decide to relocate the train it would be LATER, after we’ve returned from work and childcare.  still an unsatisfactory answer for the conductor, but one he had to accept anyway.

the day proceeded.  upon returning home from work and childcare, and having breached the threshold of our home my son, without missing a beat says “mommy? thomas train in bedroom?”.  wtf?  serious?  how on earth did he remember that?  i know, i know.. he’s young, he doesn’t have a lot on his plate, he doesn’t have account names, numbers and passwords to store, but how how how did he remember it at that exact moment?  coincidentally, he does the same thing every morning.  no matter what it is that he went to bed with (a train, a car, or a book and tag jr) the night before, he’s going to wake up like frankenstein and look for that exact item.  amazing.  again i say; “if we all approached our life with the passion, tenacity and determination of a three-year old, some $h!t might get done.”

where does that tenacity go?  why does a child, who has nowhere to go, nowhere to be and nothing to do, wake up with the dawn and own the type of outlook and determination that we, as adults, struggle to find?  why can’t we wake up and instantly remember everything we need to accomplish for the day and actually attempt to check those items off our list?

it is these questions that lead me to believe (actually, just affirm) that children possess the purest soul.  within them is an undying need and desire to see, hear and absorb all they come in contact with.  they are hopeful, loving and unconditional.  they are resilient and persevering and they don’t have to put forth an ounce of effort into any one of those things. they are free from despair and disappointment.

i for one believe that as we get older, the wind gets released from our sails.  most of us come into the world with nothing more than an imaginary timer stating “ding! you’re done”.  suddenly (and sometimes, not so much) we are thrust into the world with nothing but our looks.  as infants we are dependent and defenseless.  while simultaneously caring for and loving us, providing for our every need, our families are also forced to show us that they cannot always be there for us.  that they cannot cater to our every whim.  as we mature into toddler-hood and preschool-ism we are guided towards the acceptable and responsible behaviors.  we are introduced to birthdays, parties and holidays.  our parents, our guardians, our loved ones tell us stories about teeth stealing fairies, egg laying rabbits and jolly gift giving fat men.  and we believe.  we haven’t any reason not to.  our minds and our hearts are open.  it is here, i believe, in the hearts and minds of children that hope and optimism procreate uncontrollably.  the constant dreaming and fantasizing breeds like rabbits in their souls and spills out everywhere they walk and talk.  they glow from the inside with determination!

aging is inevitable.  we all age, whether we want to or not.  whether we politely accept it for what it is or attempt to fool the hands of time.  some of us are lucky enough to “grow old gracefully”, while others appear to literally wither and dissipate.  everything around us affects this delicate process.  from our specific genetic combination to all things consumed or exposed to; from birth until the day we die.  no amount of pills, waters, creams, lotions, injections or carvings can keep you from it.

don’t get me wrong, it ain’t all bad.  we grow into our skins, our bodies, our souls.  we grow into our voice, our spirit and our love.  we learn and we teach.  with age comes maturity, wisdom and hopefully peace of mind and soul.  and with this same age comes “real life” and “reality”.  two phrases that could make grown folk cry!  wind is released from our sail when we discover that the tooth fairy is really gramma’s spare change, rabbits don’t lay eggs and that santa claus and toys ‘r us are somehow in kahoots.  with every reality, a dream is crushed.  it’s not as much fun to hunt colored eggs when you find out that your auntie em bought them, boiled them, colored them and hid them in the plants.

i discussed this topic with a few friends.  one such friend stated that he, in fact, did not agree with me “at all”.  he said he considered himself to be “a big kid”.  well, that’s all fine and dandy, but i can guarantee that what he is referring to is not at all what i am referring to.  children stand in the face of adversity without fear.  they challenge everything and accept nothing at face value. they do not take no for an answer.  their drive and determination is as necessary as breathing and just as automated.  they do not have to think about being tenacious.  they just are.  ever tried to swerve a child’s attention from one thing to another?  it’ll work with an infant and even some toddlers.  but once you hit preschool… it’s over.  they do what they want.  what fulfills them.  and they don’t forget!

when i grow up, i want to be a child.  i want to see the world through rose-tinted glasses.  i want to be tenacious and not have it exhaust me.  i want to have the memory and passion of a terribly-two-turned-tumultuous-three-year-old.  understand me.  i don’t want to be young-er, naive or child-ish.  i want to possess some of their qualities.  their most admirable qualities.  i want to have their unadulterated sense of self.  their overwhelming forgiveness.  their pure love.  tenacious tanisha?  i think i like it.