55 posts tagged “mama drama”

..and then, the Oral....

oh, wait, wrong movie.

I'm getting spanked, however, in the stock bet. Thoroughly, completely, and brutally spanked. This is not mommy's hand spanking, this is go-get-the-belt spanking.  FSLR is up $30 since I predicted its demise (hell, all of the senior shareholders were selling it like hotcakes) (come to think of it, has anyone seen a run on hotcakes? Do people absolutely need hotcakes and will purchase them at any price? I'm pretty good at making them, maybe I should do that instead of stock bets...)

In other fi$cal observances, my other stuff seems to be surviving and beating the index, so that's nice. I also finally got all of my accounts talking to each other and managed to get all of them to quit sending me paper statements. You'd think its' easy but trust me, it isn't. You click "online statements" or "paperless statements" and they keep right on sending them to you, or my personal favorite, decide you're their favoritest most awesomest person and they upgrade you to the superdy-dooper-card and reissue you a new card with a new number and summarily chuck all of your billing mandates. I very much do not heart the online world of finance sometimes.

I've also eliminated my poop scoop service, for reasons I won't get into because people *like* keeping food in their stomach. Suffice it to say that one egregious act of irresponsibility on THEIR part has lost them bucks and gained me a new biweekly hobby. I no longer recommend the people I was using, in the event you want a service, and I highly recommend you talk to people who have had them for more than, say, 8 months before being convinced. Trust me.

Speaking of spankings, yours truly will be at a Burlesque show (not in it, @ it) with CC and assorted other tarted up girlies, in local celebration of the upcoming nuppage. I will be wearing a short skirt and a corset and fishnets and black boots, and I'm really debating on the accessory whip. I mean really, why stop there? I *do* have a kick @ss pair of pink handcuffs... they really should get seen :)

Also, in completely unrelated but similar yayness news, the SC got off the waiting list and into the cool after school program at his new Big! Kid! Kindergarten!, starting in September.

Maybe I should wear the pink handcuffs and fishnets and boots to the first PTA meeting...

GH commented that he appeared nowhere in my self-imposed rosary of terror for takeoff and landing, and so herein I now note that I should add that someone needs to take over being his girlfriend should I die in a fiery (or otherwise fatal) crash. Make it so. If it means getting him 3 or 4 girls to do individual things then that's fine, but he'll need a chief wife or something to ride herd on them.

Jest aside, I was listening to NPR this morning and they were talking to Richard Preston who had written a biography about one of the main Ebola Virus researchers. (Well, he wrote about quite a few things but the book is called Panic in Level 4 -- I want to buy it and I want to buy a Kindle and I think I'll be good instead -- and one of the substories is about two of the Ebola Virus researchers). Apparently once they figured out just how nasty Ebola could be, and after they started studying it in big protective suits and all that jazz, one of the researchers managed to get splashed with blood -- and via an opening in the suit got blood *in her suit*. Normally this would be very bad but what made it worse was that she had a cut on her hand.

Now, I imagine these suits are much like the dive gear I wear only moreso, so there are 'cutoffs' at your wrists and neck where you seal your hood and gloves. Much like showering in a drysuit, once you get out of containment you have to shower in your lil' space suit, and so she is spending the entire shower watching the blood rinse away from the outside of her suit, knowing full well there is blood on the *inside* of her suit, and knowing full well she has a cut on her hand from cooking dinner for her kids the night before. (After the shower she was able to remove the suit and remove the glove and discovered that none of the infected blood had made it into the glove).

The author actually spoke to the researcher in question -- yes, she's alive -- and asked her what was going through her head at that moment. She replied she was worried because she hadn't made it to the bank that day and who was going to pay the babysitter who was watching her kids? Her husband was on a business trip. Who was going to let him know what happened? Could he make it back in time? How was it going to be for the kids to grow up without a mom?

And there it hit me: although I've never been in such dire circumstances and I hardly think the turbulence of landing into Las Vegas rates, that's exactly the sort of panic and terror you get once you are responsible for someone else. You don't think about how it will feel as your bones shatter or as your organs melt or as the crash twists and mangles your body -- in most cases you're dead fairly quickly which is why the only actual death act I fear is drowning or torture -- it's the "what happens to everyone else" worries. My panic rosary is the same -- who will get all the things done that I get done, that need to be done? Obviously I'll be dead so I won't be able to worry about it *then*, so let's worry about it now, in my purported final moments.

It's this sort of rampant irrational thinking that gets me wondering about the inefficiencies of the human mind, and also why are we all built with different ideas of what's important? For example, it irritates the high holy shit out of me to be late -- ME, not other people. I can smile and laugh and enjoy and be happy as long as I am not late. Everyone else can be late -- but I cannot. It weirds me out and I'm not really sure why; but it really hit me on this last trip. We're in our room getting ready and my adrenaline is hiking up because I have like 4 minutes to get ready and meet everyone at the taxi stand and Alixito is like "hey it's ok if we're like 5 minutes late" and the first thing that went through my head was (and I think I even said it) "No, it's ok if YOU'RE 5 minutes late. I can't be late."

I must be pretty hot shit, to think that the world waiting on me for 5 minutes is tragedy to be unborne.

It's very weird. I know now and knew then that yes, I could be 5 or 10 or even 15 minutes (as we ended up being) late. The show went on, the restaurant was still there, the night was still had. But like a glass thermometer with mercury, I could feel the acid rising with each minute just knowing I was *going to be late*. The rational side of my brain takes a vacation in those instances.

As I get older this is getting worse and it's not helping that the body has decided to follow the brain's pursuit. I've managed to get anxious enough that people are *noticing* when my hands go grey, I've actually started having anxiety attacks where I start thinking "Ok, if I die in my sleep, who will notice quickly enough and have the presence to tell the SC his mommy is just sleeping? Will the dogs keep him out of the room? Will he be like those kids you see on TV who call 911? In short, how badly would that f*ck him up?" Again -- totally irrational, I have no heart troubles to speak of and work out regularly (even if in turn I eat and drink regularly which seems to balance out these days -- I gained a pound in Vegas). My last time diving I had a panic attack at 90 feet and it did not help to know that I can do a 60 foot CESA-- but not 90. I haven't dove since and I'm frankly scared to, but Q has promised to go puddle-paddling with me when I do.  

The theory of evolution is that characteristics are exacerbated and attuned over time because they either do not harm or in fact help the success of the species at large (not necessarily the individual). What use, then, to have anxiety to these levels? None of those situations is fight-or-flight, I lead a fairly cushy life. I know -- I *know* -- I've laid things out such that if I were to go bonk in the night, as it were, the SC is well taken care of both fiscally and socially. There is no use for this, and I simply hate waste.  

I shouldn't have bet on the weather as yesterday it rained and rained and rained. 26 each 5 year olds plus 2 teachers plus assorted parentage plus one Woodland Park Zoo = damp goodness had by all. We ate in front of the monkeys, which was only a little odd.

Last night we celebrated P-Ade's bday at my house, complete with 28 candles on a brownie ('twas a big brownie). At any minute the fire alarm was going to go off in my house. The SC chided me for calling P-Ade old, but then agreed that he was much older than me (for the record, I'm 34 and P-Ade is 28, so I am all for him appearing older than me). That took away like 50 ma'ams right there. I think I'll go roll a 20 sided dice as a multiplier, even.

And as of today I'm just wagering things all over the place. I have a private bet with P-Ade, which is one of those win-win things because either way we're going out, and then I have a bet again with A and B and now K over... First Solar, Inc. (FSLR). It's two stage, $20 for end of June and $20 for end of July:

• A: betting July only, says end of July it will be between $230 and 240
• B: betting end of June $230.01-$240.01, end of July $210-220
• K: (K picked the stock and he's a bear) betting end of June $290, end of July $319
• and the Divine Divorcee, Minor Diety in Training picked $220-230 end of June, $190-200 end of July.

I am clearly the most bearish and intend to be, in the news FSLR's top chiefs have been selling off their shares like nobody's business. I don't care how good the pre-IPO was, you don't sell if you have any sort of confidence. I actually think it will be less than my figures. But, worst case scenario I'm out $40, best I'm up $120.

With that sort of wager on the table I think I shall keep my blackjack time in Vegas this weekend to a minimum (yes, V-land: CC is having her 'chette party and I am going to make sure the bride returns from Vegas. Tomorrow I pack my hoochie mama sandals and the corset.)

Let the games begin...

Last mommyriffic post, or at least last pontificating mommyriffic post, for a bit. (I have the SC for the next 10 days straight so I am assuming that most of my posts will be SC centric, but not terribly deep).

Yesterday I got to experience what it would be like to have two children as a single parent. The SC and I had the pleasant company of a very cheerful River, for about 4 hours. I want to take pains to stress that she did not once fuss, she did not require a lot of carrying, she fed herself, had only one diaper change, and was a very happy and well-behaved tot.

I cannot imagine how anyone does it.

My mother was single for about 40 seconds post divorce (she was hot, yo!) although it took us 2 years to meet our eventual stepfather because she ascribes to the same philosophy as I do. In those ensuing two years she managed to raise two strongheaded small children -- well, my brother was small (he was still in diapers); I was 7-- without going batshit insane. My dad managed by landing my stepmom early on -- say about 6 months in -- and she helped. Tremendously.

But the real heros are the ones that I didn't experience personally, as my own family got along excessively well post-divorce. The ones where the moms and dads don't support eachother (we're talking emotionally and logistically, not fiscally) and the message is brought home that you (as the parent) are very much on your own. Q's mom was like this -- 4 kids, dad deserted them for all intents and purposes, and the youngest was 3. Full time mom, full time student, full time worker bee. I do not understand how she did it -- even if you're blessed with cherubic offspring it's a bit like herding cats.  You get one squared away foodwise then the other one decides they want that, too. You're wiping one's nose and the other one needs something else wiped. One is kinda tired and wants to chill, the other wants to race around; and this is just 2 kids-- how to deal with more kids than you have hands (like 3 or 4) stupefies me.

Which is not to say that motherhood is a chore and unenjoyable -- it is very worthwile, *if* you want it -- but it is a bit like that high-powered, high-stress, high-pay job: you pay to play. Most people intend to have small children with their significant other, never dreaming in a million years that person would leave you hanging -- or your resultant issue. I tell my friends who talk about wanting children to think long and hard about it: do you want it so badly you dream about it all the time? The good and the bad? Do you yearn to have sleepless nights, parent-teacher conferences that are not all positive, answer difficult questions? Do you understand that your childcare expenses can easily rival your mortgage payment? Do you understand that you can't plan on the fly anymore, because sitters -- good ones-- are hard to come by? Do you understand that privacy, sleeping in, and spending money on yourself can (and probably will) become a luxury? You do? Great. You're almost ready. 

Now do you understand that there is the very real possibility that you will be alone?  I have a small group of friend-friends that I see quite often and of those that are or have been married (I count 8 -- current couples count as one) I count 5 divorces. Mine's the only one with offspring. The divorce rate is 50%, folks. That means if you look around at your friends and their pseudoperfect relationships, 1 in 2 sets are due for the courthouse at some eventuality. Maybe not today, maybe not this year, but, statistically speaking, sometime. The child may be 2, or 3, or 11, or 13, or 18. Your partner may be just as involved as you are and may not be. Like Social Security and Unemployment Insurance, it's not bad to assume what's there is there but it's foolish to plan for it exclusively.

Which is all a very soapboxy, round about way to say that parenthood is hard enough as it is, but singleparenthood can be that much more difficult, and my hat's off to those who can do it with multiple children.  

The SC is *almost* a kindergartener-- he graduates in 4 weeks from 'preschooler', ceremony and all. Today I went to his school to participate in his Mother's Day Tea, in which we were served apple juice and fruit and treated to 5 or 6 standards ("How Much is That Doggie in the Window?" for example) and I am now the proud wearer of a rolled paper bead necklace and a model of his hand, holding some flowers. Motherhood does reap rewards, although more often than not it's the intangibles that you hold dear.

This Sunday is Mother's day, and I am retrieving the SC earlier than normal so we can go do breakfast and fun things. But in the meantime, I have to get crackin' on my Mother's Day cards...

Today I didn't go to work, because I had to take the SC to the doctor (school issues; we have a new plan, this too shall pass) and the pups to Doggie Camp. This is a new doggie camp and after getting lost and nearly running out of gas in the wilds of Bothell I can report that the pups are running along 5 acres and disgustingly happy. My house is dogless and childless.

It's really weird. I vacuumed, and there was no one to bark at the vacuum. I worked out and didn't feel like I was neglecting anyone (yes, 2nd time today -- the SC and I stopped for ice cream, I had guilt). I showered and no one messed up my bed by jumping up and down on it. I set food out on the counter and it...stayed there.

This will mark the first time in a long time the house has been person and pup free, if only for a weekend. The thermostat will get shut off and the curtains closed, I suppose. Again: really weird.

In a good way.

Today I worked from home, because I needed to get work done and the SC's teachers needed a break. He has since discovered that School of Mom is tougher than his normal school. He has baked bread, done 2 loads of laundry, done 'work packets' (e.g., letter and word tracing and writing -- there were 12), and had 2 each 1/2 hour lego intervals, plus an hour nap. Thanks to cruddy weather recess was miniature golf, in the house.

Why the bread? I can make good STURDY white bread, the kind you can soak up a bunch of custard with and make a rockin' french toast; but the puffy, fluffy white french bread of heretofore store bought reality has evaded me. In my quest to make everything from scratch I am re-attempting this. I must say, thus far the results look good: loaves are rising happily, things smell right and have the right texture. I'm waiting for the oven to get hot enough to finally bake said loaves.

This also breeds the question of what to do: in a scant 2 hours I will be childless, workless, and I've already worked out for the day. And I will have access to homemade fresh french bread. And a case of wine that arrived today (thank you, Desert Wind Winery; thank you, Alixito, whose man-attraction necessitated me finding out about the membership in the first place). I think I'm skipping dinner, to be on the safe side. I do have all that chicken soup, though...

PS -- the bread recipe is from Smitten Kitchen, Rustic White Bread. I have tried 3 of her recipes so far and I am indeed smitten with the products of her kitchen. P-Ade and the SC and I tried the Ratatouille and it was very good.

I'll let you know on the bread.

Last night I was setting up a movie for the SC, cooking dinner, and P-Ade called (Welcome back from C-land!). About four seconds into the conversation the SC made way to 'ride' Kumster, ala a horse. I told him not to do that, turn my head for 4 seconds to figure out what button to push on the remote, and turn back to see him astride Kumster.

So I had to kinda hang up on P-Ade.

The SC's excuse? He was wanting to ride a Ton Ton. In his latest Star Wars glut, he has taken to assuming Kumster, who is wooly and grey and white, is a Ton Ton. I took away all of his Star Wars gear. (Keep in mind, the "no you can't ride Kumster, it hurts her" discussion has been several times daily for the last week or so).

Today I found him putting rice under the sofa because he, quote, didn't like the black bits, end of quote. (Wild rice). This is the kid who eats clams like they're going out of style and asks for 2nds of broccoli. I made him a deal: he eats all of his rice (instead of half) and he gets to vacuum under the sofa. He is currently eating the rice, and commenting on how unhappy he is with the rice. The chicken and broccoli that were served with it, of course, are a distant gastronomic memory.

I am evil.

It's well known that the most variably defined words in the English language are the smaller ones. The word "set", for example, takes up several pages in the OED. Think about it: to set the table, everything's set, I want the whole set, she set that down, set this up, he won the set, set for a spell (in colloquial southern), etc.

It should come as no surprise, then, that Security -- and its inverse, eg., INsecurity -- has a variety of derivatives.

What does security mean to you? Does it mean knowledge of everything around you, or things around you fitting into neat parameters? Does it have a negative connotation or a positive one? Does it mean safety? If I told you you were secure, would you take it as a compliment or an insult?

What does insecurity mean to you? Does it mean uncertainty? Does it mean lack of data, or things not fitting the way you need them to? Does it have a negative connotation or a positive one? Does it mean danger? If I told you you were insecure, would you take it as a compliment or an insult?

This blog serves as a repository for those things I tend to feel insecure about: motherhood, management, personal relationships. I don't care how much you think you have your shit together -- and yes, I do think I have mine quite together, thanks -- there is bound to be one or more areas of your life that you wonder if you could control more to your satisfaction. Everyone deals with it in a different way: self-effacing, accusatory, burying it deep, venting it into cyberspace, psychotherapy, self-help books, or old-fashioned ignoring.  I choose to be self-effacing and recognize where I am weak. But not for one instant do I mistake that for knowledge or even passable security.

A common side effect of having non-traditional relationships or ways of dealing with life events is that people frequently don't believe you (not in a bad way, in a "oh you'll find out it isn't that way") when you tell them how you deal with things. It's not condescending or patronizing, but it can be ever so frustrating when you're trying to convey social importances.

I've dealt with this most of my life. My parents divorced when I was 7 and remarried when I was 9 ish (to other people) and remained friends. Now, I know it because I lived there (both houses-- switched every 1/2week) and because they continued to do things like take group vacations -- after my brother and I were in college and not attending said vacations. They've worked on each other's houses and when they split used a joint attorney. I modeled my own divorce after theirs, except we didn't even use an attorney. I did all the paperwork, provided it to X for review, he said I was being far too generous and changed a few things, and that was that. The only bone of contention was (and to some degree, remains to this day) the division of DVD's. Look, I really wanted the Matrix.

When I started dating, I adamantly stated that I would be keeping the SC away from any prospective boyfriends until I was sure of things. Dear friends who didn't understand the concept of amicable divorce (although a couple really tried, and I think most, at this point, have finally understood -- 2 years later) really rolled their eyes at this. How practical was that? To put your social life in a completely separate arena?

Very. I think Q saw the SC on maybe 3 occasions, the earliest on was 8 months in to the relationship, and if you asked the SC who Q was he would very earnestly tell you Q is the guy who brings dog treats. When I broke up with Q I didn't have to worry about any emotional trauma to SC (just me) and it made it much easier. It is a bit unfair, because male Just-Friends stand a better chance of exposure to the SC than boyfriends. Why? Because Just-Friends stick around longer. You still see them and there isn't that weird "oh, are we friends" vibe. I often wonder if I'd still see Q if it wasn't for Kumster and Thumper, but I don't have to worry about that with Just-Friends. (McGuyver belongs to CC and is defined as Family, and so I *really* don't have to worry about that).

The bottom line is that the SC is smart enough to figure out if mommy is emotionally involved with someone then that person stands to be around for a while and he can be, too. While I can gamble up oneside and down the other with my own heart, doing that with a kids' heart is cruel and pointless.

There is some fallout to this. When you have one person in a relationship having adamantly closed off an entire portion of her life to the other person, it can create angst (e.g., TG and his incessant whining to meet the SC. Buh-bye, TG), or it can create awkwardness (Oh, you haven't met her kid yet? Then it's not serious.) Suddenly how far you've let a person go within your life defines the gravity of your situation, and in some ways the social standing of that person in your aerie, which is unsatisfactory, to me. The needs of the many dictate that you have a convenient tag or method of defining this person and when you put weird parameters on it they can't plug it into their algorithms. Since everyone has a different defining algorithm, this gets hairy and so you either find yourself allowing them to run their own program or spending a lot of time doing code-review with them.

Even outside of the SC, there are things that I like that seem odd to others, I think. I like my space. I like my mommy/worker bee/girlfriend/daughter-FREE time. I get about one night every 2 weeks where I can do whatever I want and however I want. GH was listening to me gleefully plan that night out (Ok, so I'll give myself a pedicure and then...) and asking me why I was planning? Because it's the one time I get to plan for *me*.

I like the idea that my house is MINE. I pay the mortgage, I do the upkeep (or contract it out), I clean it, I have the equity, I will (eventually, in about 20-25 years) sell it. I can paint the bathroom walls brown and the bedroom walls tennis ball yellow-green and the only person who really and truly has to be ok with it is me. I can adopt a second dog and the only person who has to be ok with it is me (well, and to some degree the SC, but that was kind of a given). I can have a huge garage sale and buy a 1967 Mustang project car and while I suspect many in my life would be VERY ok with it, the only one that has to be is me.

The prospect of having to go back to joint fiscal considerations and joint living terms with anybody (same sex or opposite, friend or lover) just really doesn't sound all that appealing-- from either perspective. I'm horribly neatnick in some ways and disorganized in others, and I have specific ideas about toilet paper and silverware and vacuuming frequency and pillow order. I am getting my proverbial milk for free, why would I buy a cow and have to deal with cow patties?

This does *not* mean I don't care, and deeply, for the milk provider, as it were. It does not mean that I don't like spending time with him and it does not mean I consider him a temporary resident in my life. I just think that, for me, it's just as important to respect the wants of the one as the wants of the few.